alwayschoppedtaco - Tumblr blog

alwayschoppedtaco · 4 months

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Sweet Like Grenadine

Daniel Ricciardo x Reader

Masterlist

If you celebrate Christmas, merry Christmas! If not, this is actually not Christmas themed at all, so happy Monday!

Summary: You love weddings. However, you don’t love being stuck by yourself at a wedding, a plus one to a boyfriend who’s too busy for you. Enter Daniel Ricciardo, your knight in shining armor.

a/n: thought of this concept and couldn’t get Danny out of my head. He’s soooo guy you flirt with at a wedding and will probably never see again coded

Warnings: alcohol/intoxication, mild sexual content (heavy makeout? idrk how to tag this stuff), one (1) shitty boyfriend

The table in front of you is draped with a heavy white tablecloth. At the center is a large bouquet of flowers, the number 19 stuck haphazardly in the middle of it. Not last, but certainly low on the list. You can’t blame them- you barely know the bride and groom.

You’re only here because your boyfriend is a groomsman. A plus one. You love weddings, so of course you’d agreed, but you hadn’t really considered how lonely an event like this could be. The only person you really know has been busy all day. You can’t complain, won’t complain, you know that’s why he’s here, but…

You’re sitting at a table full of strangers. It’s not exactly fun. There’s still hours left of this. Dinner hasn’t even been served, there’s still speeches and cake and dancing and honestly, you’re already exhausted. You need a drink, but the bar isn’t open yet. You need to take off your heels, but you’re pretty sure that would be frowned upon. You need to talk to your boyfriend.

He’s busy, though. He told you as much when you found him between the ceremony and the reception. There’s a pang in your chest still at the way he brushed you off, the way he told you he didn’t have time to chat. You get it, you really do. You’re not going to get upset about it.

The seat to your left has been empty since you sat down, but someone collapses into it, letting out a heavy sigh. You turn to look, hoping for some sort of familiar face or at least a friendly one, and you’re met with-

“Hi. ‘M Daniel,” he says, sticking his hand out to shake yours.

The thing is, Daniel is a familiar face, but not for any of the reasons you’d hoped for. You know Daniel because your boyfriend is obsessed with Formula 1. You try to keep up so you can take part in his conversations, but it’s never really been your thing. But you know enough to know Daniel Ricciardo.

“Yeah, I… I know,” you say, before you slap your hand over your mouth. “Shit! I’m sorry. That’s weird. S’just- my boyfriend’s a huge fan-“

You swear his face drops slightly, but he plasters that grin right back on before he says, “and you’re not a fan?”

“I’m not not a fan,” you say. “He’s just the bigger fan. Of the two of us.”

Daniel nods. You finally shake his hand. He never stops looking at you, never stops smiling. You tell him your name, and he repeats it back to you, his accented version making you smile.

“Well, is he here? I’d love to meet the bigger of the two fans,” he says. “We talking, like, box fan, industrial blower, air boat fan? How big?”

You laugh, his hand squeezing yours as you lean over the table. He’s laughing, too, then, before he lets go of your hand. You want to crawl out of your skin, want to run and hide in the bathroom, because you’re definitely making a fool of yourself, but-

“Oh, he’s busy,” you say, waving your hand in the air dismissively. “He’s one of the groomsmen, got a lot on his plate. I don’t wanna bug him. He’s the one with the sunglasses on,” you say, pointing at him at the head table.

Daniel looks where you point and quirks his brow. “Guy like that has a girl like you and you’re the one worried about bugging him?”

You stare at him with wide eyes. He collapses into a fit of laughter again, and you follow suit. You don’t know what else to do. Then he nudges your knee with his, under the table, and juts his chin towards the bar.

“D’you want a drink?” He asks.

“The bar isn’t open yet,” you say.

“So?”

“So, how are you going to get a drink?”

He shakes his head and purses his lips. “Oh, sweetheart, you just watch and learn. What’re you having?”

You shrug. “A soda, I guess. I’m the designated driver for at least three of the groomsmen.”

Daniel sighs heavily. “You poor thing. You keep making me feel worse and worse for you. Alright, I’ll get you something.”

He strides his way up to the bar, which has a very obvious “Closed” sign on the countertop. There’s a single bartender behind it, and he’s cleaning glasses. You watch with entertainment as Daniel leans on the counter, exuding confidence and charm. The bartender shakes his head. Daniel counters. The man behind the bar shrugs and nods. Then he steps through a door for just a moment. When he returns, he has two drinks in his hands- one that’s obviously a beer, and one that’s bright pink. Daniel smiles, thanks the man, and walks the cups back to you.

He sets it down in front of you with a flourish before he takes a seat.

“I told you, I’m DD,” you remind him.

He nods, taking a sip of his beer before he says, “Shirley Temple.”

“Oh my god,” you say, a grin washing over your face. You pick up the cup and take a sip, sighing at the sweet taste of ginger ale and grenadine. “How did you know?”

“Everyone loves a good Shirley,” he says, elbowing you lightly. “And you can’t drink just plain soda at a wedding.”

They announce dinner shortly after that, and the waiters start bringing plates out. You’re starving, having been up early to help with last minute wedding things at your boyfriend’s request. You hadn’t had time to eat lunch. You chat with Daniel through the meal. The two of you talk about the food, about the wedding, about the decor. There are other people at the table, but they’re all incredibly boring in comparison. Daniel, on the other hand, could hold your attention forever, probably.

You sneak glances at your boyfriend, surrounded by his friends at the head table. He’d promised to sneak away as soon as he got a chance. He hasn’t even looked your way. You're trying to ignore the hurt deep in your chest. Daniel is sneaking glances at you sneaking glances at the bridal party. You’re trying to ignore that, too.

“How long have you two been dating?” Daniel asks.

“About 6 months,” you say with a smile.

It feels forced. Frankly, the last thing you want to talk about right now is your boyfriend. They’re clearing the last plates. He’s at his table, three beers in by your count, not a care in the world. He promised. Daniel opens his mouth, likely to ask another question about your boyfriend, but you speak first.

“So wait, are you here for the bride or the groom?” You ask.

“The bride,” Daniel says , a soft smile on his face. “An old family friend. I’m representing the Ricciardos.”

You smile. “That’s sweet.”

Before he can say anything in response, someone is tapping on a microphone. It’s time for the speeches. You know your boyfriend isn’t making one, which is good. He’s not exactly the best public speaker, especially when he’s been drinking. You and Daniel settle in to listen.

He sneaks away between the maid of honor and the best man, patting the back of your hand and whispering about being right back. He returns a few moments later, another beer and a Shirley Temple in his hands. You smile gratefully at him, and he waves you off. Then the next speech is starting, and you’re rolling your eyes at the way the best man talks about marriage like it’s some awful idea.

“He knows this is a wedding, yeah?” Daniel asks out of the side of his mouth, leaning towards you.

You shrug. “That one started drinking at 9am. I’m not sure he even knows what year it is right now.”

Daniel starts laughing, then. Luckily, the rest of the crowd does too- apparently, the best man has just made an extremely funny joke. Daniel is only looking at you, though, and you can’t help but laugh just because of the look on his face.

When the first dances are over and the music starts, you sink low into your seat. Your boyfriend has still not made an appearance. He definitely knows where you’re sitting, he had told you so earlier. You’re sure he’s busy, but you’d looked away for too long, talking to Daniel, and now he’s disappeared from the head table. You scan the crowd, hoping to see his face. All the while, you can feel Daniel watching you.

“We could go dance,” he suggests.

You sink lower in your seat. “I don’t really like dancing.”

That’s a lie. You love dancing, especially at weddings. You love the cheesy songs they always play, you love the atmosphere, you love watching the bride and groom have fun and getting to be a part of it. But you know how it would look if you went out on the dance floor with Daniel, and your boyfriend definitely won’t be joining you. As frustrated as you may be with your him, you don’t want to cause drama at someone else’s best day of their lives.

“I think I might try and find him,” you say, picking up your drink.

Daniel nods. “Want me to come with you?”

You look around at the rest of the table and find it empty. You shake your head and lean towards him, close enough that you almost knock your foreheads. Nobody’s watching the two of you or trying to listen anyways, but it’s more fun this way.

“He promised he’d find me before dinner,” you whisper conspiratorially. “That obviously didn’t happen. So I’m not bringing you to him as a reward for bad behavior.”

Daniel sits back in his chair and smiles at you, one brow raised. “Atta girl!”

You stand up from your chair and hope he can’t tell that your face has grown hot from that comment alone.

Even if you can’t find your boyfriend, it’s probably best that you get some space from Daniel. Through the last hour or so of your conversation, you’ve been catching yourself leaning towards him and then reminding yourself that you have a boyfriend. It’s just that he’s being so nice, and that you’re feeling so down about the whole thing. He’s comforting, which is fine. But it can’t be more than that.

You find your boyfriend at one of the bars, leaning on the counter and talking loudly with one of the other groomsmen. He’s drunk already- he should really slow down if he wants to last the night. You walk over to him, forcing a soft smile onto your face. You can’t confront him now, not in front of his friend and all the people waiting for drinks.

“Hey, babe,” you say, tapping his shoulder lightly as you walk up.

He turns. You wait for him to smile at you, but it never comes. Your stomach sinks.

“Hey,” he says, nonchalantly. “D’you need something?”

Your palms feel clammy. “Oh, no, I’m good! Just… wanted to say hi. S’been a bit.”

He nods. “Yeah. I told you I’d be busy tonight.”

His friend just stands there and listens. Your skin feels hot, and your eyes begin to sting.

“I know,” you say. “I’m not trying to bug you, I just- I was just walking by. Just. Yeah. That’s all. I’ll leave you to it.”

“I’ll come find you in a bit, baby,” he promises.

You don’t bother believing him this time.

Daniel doesn’t comment on your red eyes or the tear tracks on your cheeks when you return to the table. He just squeezes your arm and disappears for a moment, then comes back with yet another Shirley Temple. You don’t know whether to laugh or to cry, so you just take a sip of the drink instead.

“You don’t have to sit here with me,” you say to Daniel. “I’m definitely pulling down the mood.”

“Are you joking?” He says. “You’re the best thing at this party.”

You laugh, then, because the statement is so ridiculous that you can’t help it. He sounds so serious, and when you turn to look at him there’s no hint of teasing on his face. He just elbows your arm lightly again.

“Come on, we don’t have to dance but we’re not sitting here all night,” he says. “Let’s go wander.”

He stands from the table and tugs at your chair. You give in and stand up too, taking your drink from the table. You follow him as he weaves through the throngs of people. You like wandering. Wandering is a perfectly sensible thing to do with the guy you just met. At the wedding your boyfriend is a groomsman at. What else are you supposed to do, anyways?

He leads you past the dance floor, which you try not to look at forlornly. There are large glass doors at the back of the hall. He swings one open, holding it for you, waving you through with a flourish of his hand. Outside, it’s lit up with string lights. There’s a wide rolling lawn of grass, with fire pits and chairs spread out everywhere. There are lawn games, too- beanbags and horseshoes and a giant version of Jenga.

You can burn a lot of time out here. You barely even notice when Daniel slips his hand around your wrist to gently pull you with him. You should feel guilty about it. Your boyfriend is somewhere inside. But that same boyfriend has also been ignoring you all night. Daniel is just being friendly. You follow him to one of the fire pits with a smile on your face.

You and Daniel are nearly two hours into wandering when someone calls your name. You look up from where you’ve been staring at the beanbag board, trying to line up your throw just right. You’d been on the verge of winning for the first time. For an Australian, Daniel is surprisingly good at American lawn games. Frustratingly good, even.

It’s your boyfriend, calling you from the doorway of the reception hall. You sigh and drop the beanbag onto the ground near your feet. Two of the other groomsmen are hanging off of him, looking worse for the wear. One of them has something down the front of his shirt- you pray it’s not vomit.

“I think that’s my cue,” you say, nodding towards the building.

“You could always put them in a cab and hope they figure it out on their own.” Daniel says. You give him a skeptical look. “Kidding, kidding.”

“It’s tempting,” you admit.

Daniel bends over and picks up your heels from where they lay in the grass. You’d kicked them off as soon as you stepped into the soft grass outside. You slip the shoes back on and wince. Then you stick your hand out to him, palm open.

“Well, it was lovely to meet you,” you say, as he shakes your hand once more. “Thanks for not leaving me all alone.”

Daniel laughs. “I will be your ‘I-know-nobody-at-this-event-‘ partner anytime you want, sweetheart. Just give me a call. I’ll be there.”

You know what he’s trying to do. The opportunity is right there in front of you. He’s telling you to give him a call- this is where you ask for his number. But you have a boyfriend. You can justify hanging out with him, especially considering you had nothing else to do, but asking for his number feels a step too far.

You smile softly and drop his hand. “Goodnight, Daniel.”

You turn and make your way towards your boyfriend. He’s already complaining before you’re even within ten feet of him, about how he’s tired and he looked everywhere for you and how could you disappear like that? You apologize, just to quiet him down. You usher the three men inside before you turn to look at Daniel one more time.

He’s standing there, watching you, a sad smile on his face.

“Who was that guy?” Your boyfriend asks later, from the passenger seat of the car.

You look at him, at his eyes. The light is gone- he’s blacked out, there’s no way he’ll remember this tomorrow.

“Daniel Ricciardo,” you say.

It’s a testament to how drunk he is that he doesn’t even react.

You get all three guys into bed, including your boyfriend. You lay down next to him, as much as you don’t want to. There’s not really anywhere else to sleep in the little hotel room, and you’re not sleeping on the floor. When you close your eyes, you can’t fall asleep, plagued by thoughts of if you’d made the right choice, unable to erase Daniel’s sad smile from your memory.

…..

You love weddings. You remind yourself of that over and over again as you pin a dress in place for the hundredth time that day. Your best friend Natalie is a bridesmaid, it’s her sister who’s getting married, and you’re here to help in any way you can. So far, that’s included safety pinning, making a run for alcohol, checking on the floral delivery, checking to make sure the groomsmen are where they’re supposed to be, and comforting a bridesmaid who was crying in the bathroom. Her boyfriend had broken up with her the night before.

“Men are shit,” you’d told her in commiseration.

By the time the ceremony rolls around, you’re relieved to have a chance to sit down. You check on the bridesmaids one last time and head into the church. The pews are packed with people, so you find a spot near the back and sit down. You sigh in relief.

The music starts playing, and you finally take a chance to look around. The pews are decorated with flowers, there’s bright light streaming through the large windows. The groom waits up front, eyes already watering. You love weddings. You say it like a mantra in your head.

As the procession starts, you scan the crowd. You know more people at this wedding, having been friends with the family for a while. You’ll at least have some company at your table. You spot a couple friends from high school, a cousin you’ve met a few times, some mutual friends who you’ll definitely have to catch up with later. And then, in the third row on the groom’s side, you see dark curly hair that looks terrifyingly familiar.

It can’t be him. That would be absolutely insane. There’s absolutely no way Daniel Ricciardo is attending a second wedding in the US, for a couple who are no more famous than the previous wedding you’d seen him at. It would make absolutely no sense. And yet, you can’t stop staring at the back of this man’s head, the slope of his shoulders beneath his dark suit. You remember that wedding, months ago, resting your hand on his shoulder for balance as you took off your heels. He’d joked about having to cut you off, holding your Shirley Temple in his hand.

When the bridal procession begins playing, everyone stands. You keep your eyes on him. He turns, and your heart skips a beat in your chest. It’s Daniel. It’s impossible, it’s irrational, but it is him. You’d recognize him anywhere.

You force yourself to look away, to turn towards the bride. She looks beautiful, perfect, the picture of elegance. The flowers in her hands, the ones you’d checked on that morning, are perfect too. You breathe a sigh of relief. She really should’ve hired a wedding coordinator. Maybe you should be a wedding coordinator.

When you go to sit back down, you sneak a glance at Daniel. He’s looking over his shoulder at you, eyes wide. You meet his gaze and your cheeks feel hot. That wide, bright grin breaks out across his face. You grin right back.

When the ceremony is over, and they’re officially Mr and Mrs, the whole wedding disperses out onto the lawn of the church. There are shuttles to take you to the reception, but everyone seems content to mingle outside in the fresh air. You’re one of the first ones out, but you’re quickly swept up in the crowd. You search for Daniel in every face that passes. You find Natalie first, though.

“Nat,” you say frantically. “Does your sister know Daniel Ricciardo?”

Her brow furrowed for a second. “What?”

“Danny Ricciardo,” you repeat, keeping your voice low. “The F1 driver. He’s here.”

“Oh,” Natalie says, brows raising. “Yeah, he’s like, friends with her fiancé- oh, her husband! Shit, I forgot that you watch that stuff- or, you… did? I can probably try and introduce you-“

“No, we- we’ve met.” You admit. She’s the first person you’re telling about this. “At that wedding like 6 months ago.”

She tilts her head at you. Her eyes go wide. She says your name in a bewildered tone.

“Are you telling me that the mystery wedding man, who you definitely should’ve dumped your boyfriend for, was fucking Danny Ricciardo?”

“Keep it down!” You shush her.

“Oh my god,” she says, a conspiratorial smirk crossing over her face. “And he’s here.”

Someone calls your name. You know that voice- it’s haunted you since you left that wedding. You turn over your shoulder as Natalie grabs your wrist and lets out a squeak.

“Danny,” you breathe, like a sigh of relief. “Hi.”

He strides up to you, handsome as ever, grinning so widely it looks like it hurts. “This is fucking insane.”

An elderly aunt glares at him. He makes an apologetic face before turning back to you and shrugging. He steps into your space, so close you can smell his cologne. He’s staring down at you through his lashes. The look in his eyes is so soft and warm that you think you’re melting.

“The bride is my best friend’s sister,” you explain, gesturing at Natalie. “This is Natalie.”

“I’m friends with the groom,” he says, reaches his hand out and shakes Natalie’s hand. “I’m Danny, nice to meet you.”

She nods, and suddenly you’re very afraid. Natalie doesn’t have much of a filter, especially in high pressure situations. Especially when she’s been forced to be prim and proper all morning.

“You must really like American weddings,” she says, and you wince. “I hear this is your second one in 6 months.”

Daniel smirks, raises his eyebrows at you. “Huh. Wonder what else you’ve heard about me.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but you shove her shoulder. “Nat, aren’t you supposed to be taking family pictures?”

She’s so busy staring at Daniel she almost doesn’t hear you. Then her eyes go wide. She swears loudly, earning a glare from the same aunt. Then she drops your wrist and takes off through the crowd.

You turn towards Daniel. “Sorry about her.”

He shakes his head. “No need. She seems sweet.”

You smile. “She is.”

“Makes sense, since she’s friends with you,” he says. “The sweetest of them all.”

You laugh, shove at his shoulder lightly. “Shut up.”

Behind him, people are starting to get on the shuttles. He’s leaning towards you, eyes still lit up.

“I honestly can’t believe this,” he says.

“Neither can I,” you admit. “It’s.. it’s really good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you,” he echoes. “Feels like a sign, doesn’t it?”

You open your mouth to agree, to tell him what you’ve been thinking the past 6 months, but Natalie is calling your name. You and Daniel both turn to look at her, and the look on her face tells you she’s so sorry. You sigh and shrug.

“I have to go,” you tell him. “That bridal party is a mess.”

“Worse than the last one?” He asks.

“No,” you say. “And I don’t have to drive any of them home, so that’s a bonus. But I think I’ll be billing them for wedding coordinator expenses after this. Or at the very least, drinking enough at the open bar to make up for it.”

Daniel laughs. “Atta girl. Should I save you a seat on the shuttle?”

You let out a puff of air. “I’m riding over with the bridal party.”

His face falls in disappointment. “Okay. Find me when you get there, yeah? I’ll have a Shirley Temple waiting for you.”

You nod. “Make it a Dirty Shirley, would you?”

He nods eagerly and squeezes your arm.

You don’t actually make it into the reception until nearly an hour later. There’s an emergency with a groomsman’s tux, and the girl who was broken up with the night before is crying again. Nothing that can’t be fixed with safety pins and tequila, but it still takes time. You check your name on the seating chart, sigh at the sight of the name next to yours, the seat that will stay empty. You find Daniel’s seat, too, a few tables over from yours. You head there first.

Daniel is sitting, a beer in hand and a very watery Shirley Temple on the table in front of him. He’s chatting with the man sitting next to him, who looks a bit starstruck. He perks up when he sees you, reaching for your drink. You take it happily and have a sip, tasting ginger ale, grenadine, and vodka, too.

“The ice is a bit melted,” he says with a sigh. “But good news! Ian here has offered to switch seats with you.”

Ian is looking between you and Daniel, eyes wide. You’re sure he did offer, likely after Daniel had told him the whole crazy story, or at least enough to convince him. You watched him charm bartenders at the last wedding- he has a way with words. Ian starts to stand up.

“That’s really not necessary.” You say, and Daniel’s face falls. “There’s an empty seat at my table.”

He lifts his brows, grinning again. His brown eyes stare deep into your own. He stands up without waiting another moment, handing you your drink and holding his own.

“Ian, nice meeting you,” he says. “I’ll still get you those paddock passes,” he promises, and you bite back a laugh. “See ya ‘round, mate.”

He follows you to your table. There’s a setting with your name on a little card, and the empty setting next to it with another name on it. You grab that card and crumple it in your hand, shoving it into your purse. He quirks a brow but sits down anyways as you greet the others at your table- cousins of the bride and friends who you’ve met a few times.

“So. How’ve things been?” You ask, and he launches into a story that has you listening with every bone in your body.

Somehow, the two of you make it all the way through dinner and speeches and the first dance before the subject of your boyfriend even comes up. You wonder if he’s been waiting to broach it. You’ve been waiting for the right moment.

He nods towards the dance floor. “You have to promise me you’ll dance to at least one song tonight.”

You blink and shrug. “Easy. I love dancing.”

He stares at you. There’s the beginnings of another wide grin on his face.

“That is not what you said last time.”

“I lied,” you admit. “Because my boyfriend hated dancing.”

Daniel nods. “Hated. Past tense?”

“He’s not dead,” you deadpan, making him laugh. “But he’s also not my boyfriend anymore.”

Daniel’s foot nudges against yours under the table. “No?”

“No,” you say with a shrug.

Daniel nods. “Pretty girl like you, you must’ve moved on pretty quick,” he says.

His tone is light, teasing. He’s testing the waters. You shake your head and pretend you don’t see the way his shoulders sag in relief.

“I’ve sworn off dating,” you tell him. Your tone is teasing, too. “After he left me on my own at a wedding, I decided men are shit.”

You’re taunting him now. The conversation has gone from feeling each other out, from digging for information, to circling each other like sharks in the after. Your heart is beating steady in your chest. His eyes are locked on yours.

“You poor thing,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Let me prove you wrong?”

The tension crackles in the air. His knee nudges against yours and you swear you’re going to combust. You down the rest of your drink in one gulp, set the glass down, and reach for his suit jacket. You run your finger down the lapel, then back up, adjusting his collar.

“I swore off men,” you repeat, leaning forwards, keeping your voice low. “But this feels like a sign, doesn’t it? Like the universe sent me back to you.”

He nods. He reaches up, captures your wrist in his hand and holds it against his chest.

“So maybe you should go get me another drink,” you suggest. “And I’ll meet you on the dance floor.”

You lean even closer, then, close enough to press your lips to his cheek. Then you stand up and walk away towards where people are beginning to gather, to where the music is loudest. You don’t turn back to see if he’s watching. You already know he is.

…..

You have a fleeting thought, later, that maybe you should’ve switched to a drink with less sugar in it at some point in the night. The grenadine feels like it’s stuck to your tongue. Danny doesn’t seem to mind the taste, though.

He’s got you up against the wall in a back hallway of the reception venue. You back is pressed to the cool surface, your arms around his neck, his hands on your hips. His lips are on yours, and he’s kissing you deeply, like he’ll never get enough. You’re feeling the same.

His knee slots between your legs, and you’re a goner. His hand slips from your hip and cups your ass, hauling you closer with ease, tilting your hips away from the wall and into his. You break away for air, gasping for it, and he moves his lips to your neck. It feels heavenly, trapped between him at the wall, his hands all over you, his lips trailing lower and lower. He reaches up and brushes the thin strap of your dress off one of your shoulders. You shove your hands under his suit jacket and press them against his toned abdomen through his shirt. He lets out a groan, the noise vibrating against your neck. You throw your head back and laugh between gasps.

You wonder if he’d have his way with you right there. You wonder if you’d let him.

There are footsteps, then, clicking their way down the hall. You scramble to push him away as someone rounds the corner, but you know it’s painfully obvious. You turn your head, already feeling mortified, and come face to face with Natalie.

“Oh, thank god,” both you and your best friend say at the same time.

Daniel pulls away and looks between the two of you. You can’t look at him for more than a few seconds. His lips are red and puffy, his eyes half lidded. You distantly wonder if there’s beard burn on your face, if your lips are just as red. Then you start to wonder how his scruff might feel on other parts of you.

“I didn’t know where you’d gone,” Natalie says, laughing. “I heard noises, I thought…”

“I’m fine,” you tell her, and she nods in agreement.

“I’ll say,” she teases.

“Nat!” You hiss.

“You’d better take good care of her, Ricciardo,” he says, and your face grows hot all over again. “I don’t care how famous you are, I’ll fuck you up anyways.”

“Nat!” You hiss again.

“I will,” Danny promises, squeezing your hip and nodding. “I’m on a mission. Trying to prove not all men are shit.”

“Good luck,” Natalie says drily. But when she walks away, she’s smiling.

He turns back to you, and this time he places both his hands on the wall on either side of your head. You look up at him, licking your lips. You still taste the Shirley Temple, and you can taste him, too, now. He groans softly and closes his eyes. It’s nice to know you’re having an effect on him, too, nice to know you’re not the only one feeling worked up. You reach up and tug on the lapels of his jacket. You brush your lips against his jaw.

“We should have one more drink,” you tell him, humming happily. “And then you should take me to your hotel.”

He swallows. You press a kiss to the center of his throat.

“I’ve never heard a better plan in my whole life.” He says.

…..

At every wedding you go to afterwards, you order the same drink. Well, really, Danny orders them for you. You’ve thought a couple times about asking for wine or seltzer or even beer. You think it might break his heart, though. It’s a tradition now, and the pink sugary concoction will always taste like that very first night. Like bare feet in the grass, the thud of beanbags against wooden boards. Like Daniel’s laugh in the middle of the best man’s speech. Like you, alone at a table, and Daniel collapsing into the seat next to you, his hand extended to shake yours.

The same hand that’s wrapped up with yours now, resting on his knee. You never want to let go. You’re pretty sure he’d be okay with that.

Taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams

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alwayschoppedtaco · 4 months

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SPIDYBABY MASTERLIST

♧ sensitive topic

♤ angst

♡ flufl

Kylian Mbappé:

Not Important ♤

You get jealous at the new PSG intern and how much she's trying to get the attention of your boyfriend, but he makes sure you know he's all yours.

Be quiet, please ♡

Kylian got a little too drunk and decided to share some information he isn't supposed to.

Now you be quiet, please ♡

After the events of last night, Fayza chooses to make Kylian pay for his words.

She | part I

You can't put the pieces of a broken plate back together and expect it to be alright.

She | part II

A long talk and a match can be the start to a change between Kylian and you.

Tea Party ♤♡

All it takes for you to fix your problems is a tea party.

Gold Digger ♤

A lost item at the airport and a miscommunication can be the end of your relationship.

Gold Digger | Part Two ♤

A broken plate can't be fixed.

Gold Digger | Part Three (Ending) ♡

Feeling fearful and insecure about the future after a downfall is what kept you away.

Stressed ♤

When he's stressed and worried about work, that's the only thing on his mind.

I do... do I? ♤♡

The stress of planning a wedding makes you re-think everything.

Flowers ♡

Who would have thought some flowers can make that much drama.

Blubs:

ONE

PEDRI:

New Streets ♡

Trying to find your way into the streets of Barcelona by yourself for the first time is harder than you expected.

Family Night ♡

Homemade pizza and a uno game are the perfect combination if you want to meet your in laws.

Begin Again | Part one ♤

Secrets can't be held forever. Specifically, not the one you keep from him.

Begin Again | Part Two ♤

After your son was born, your friend made you realize how much you were wrong for hiding him from Pedro.

Begin Again | Part Three ♤

Back to the start to fix the broken pieces just to find that you can get what you always dreamed.

Begin Again | Part Four ♤

It's all about the hating, the loving and the healing... but in that order?

Begin Again | Part Five ♡

I've been spending the last few months thinking all love ever does is break, burn, and end, but when I look at you shining eyes, I watch it Begin Again.

B.A - Extra (one shot) ♡

Pedri takes Polo to a Father-Son day with the team.

Party Killer ♧

A girls' night gone wrong while your boyfriend is away.

Pedri the type ♡

A compilation of the type of boyfriend I think Pedri would be.

Baecation ♡

Your boyfriend family loves the way your relationship is, always taking care of each other.

The Tour (part II of Baecation) ♡

A glimpse of the little moment you share with your boyfriend while on Tour.

Golden Child ♤

You're Pablo's older sister. Even tho you don't have a good relationship, you help him during his injury and find yourself getting involved with Pedri.

Golden Child | Part Two ♤

Your brother finds out about your relationship with his best friend, while everyone learns the truth about your family..

Golden Child | Part Three ♡

As your relationship with Pedro progresses, the relationship you have with your brother is in a limbo.

Bad Kind of Butterflies ♤

Pedri let the insecurities of his friend become his own. Ruining his own relationship and friendship.

Blubs:

ONE

TWO

GAVI

Gavi the type ♡

A compilation of the type of boyfriend I think Gavi would be.

Our song ♡

Gavi surprise you after your win at the vmas.

Last updated: 11/02

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alwayschoppedtaco · 4 months

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Sleepless in Monaco (Charles Leclerc x Reader) royal!AU

Hi! This is my first F1 fic so I hope you guys enjoy. I worked really hard on this and am pretty proud of it!

Warnings: Swearing, implications of sex, insomnia, nightmares, death, parents in the military, and any others I missed

Word Count: 10.4k

Disclaimer: I know nothing of how the monarchy works. Take my words about the inner monarchy with a grain of salt. I took the British monarchy and twisted it to fit my needs for this work of fiction, so all of this is highly unrealistic. For example, an heir cannot abdicate before the monarch’s death, but for the sake of this fic, in Monaco, they can. No other country has as strict coronations for their monarchs as Britain does, and even there it’s usually months after a monarch is dead, but I wanted to speed things up!

Also, all of these people are exactly that- their own person and I am simply using their names and faces for a story.

Enjoy!

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alwayschoppedtaco · 4 months

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Dog Days - Max Verstappen x reader - Part one

Dog Days Part one:

Max Verstappen x female!reader

Word count: 4k

Warnings: Christian Horner, swearing, sexual innuendos

Summary: Every moment Max spent with you was hell and he thought the same, so when a dog is rescued from the track and both of you want to keep it the pair of you have to stomach one another. Whoever the dog runs to at the end of the season gets to keep him and maybe a stray dog won’t be the only thing coming home with you when the season is over.

Max Verstappen was the bane of your existence. Ever since you’d begun to work for Red Bull it was like he was out to make every single day feel like hell. You thought he was a whiney, annoying brat who got everything he asked for. How anyone in Formula One liked him was beyond you but then again the vast majority of them like Max had rich families that were able to hand everything to their children at the snap of a finger.

You worked in the social media department for Red Bull and for the last few years you’d been sent out with the team to run their Instagram account. You wouldn’t change your job for the world. You basically got to travel the world whilst you followed some of the most loved men in the world and you were lucky enough to call some of them your friends. Even though your job was to always film the Red Bull cars and keep up with Max and Sergio all the time you got to know a few of the lads such as Daniel, Lando, Charles and the one Max despised the most, Lewis Hamilton.

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alwayschoppedtaco · 4 months

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it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70’s music,

word count: 12.9k

You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink

auds here… hi hi hi!!! you’ve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows i’ve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll 🌟🤎🤠💋 this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long i’d lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking

It’s later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the “let’s get you even drunker than you are” headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. You’re balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.

“Another voddy Red Bull!” You’re slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another one—but right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, it’s caught.

Charles, your cocktail’s knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because you’ve never not known before—Charles has been your best friend since you were five.

Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but he’s tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, it’s my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your vision’s too cloudy to see him and your mind’s too bogged to remember any of this. You’d already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.

A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesn’t anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.

I’ll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still can’t wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.

Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charles’ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. It’s gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?

More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeee—

The bartender’s eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to look—so Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.

Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy you’ve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again.

—

Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.

You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. “What’d you just call me?”

“Snoopy,” he says simply. He’s beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. “Or, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?”

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Hasn’t been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.”

“Tête de noeud.” Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.

Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, today’s just for the family—and you, but you’re basically family.

“How is Paris?” Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.

“It’s fine.”

“Oh really?” He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.

“I got an offer for a higher position,” you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. “If you must know.”

“Oh? Let me know how that goes.” He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charles’ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.

You’re seated at your usual spot—in-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthur—when the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.

He sits beside you. “I need to talk to you.” Then, quieter, “Private.”

You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. They’re equally aloof. “Wh—now?” He nods.

You end up talking in the kitchen. He’s sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. He’s tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isn’t frantic—he’s scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.

“Tell me,” you press. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”

“The—my—the iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.”

When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and about—blue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.

Don’t drown, he’d warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.

You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.

You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.

But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. “Shit?” It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. “Um, sorry. What are we—” But your question is cut short by Pascale’s voice, cutting through the tension like it’s wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.

—

Charles can’t wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isn’t that surprising given he’s up two hours late. But the amount—the sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.

All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: “F1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.” Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: “Naughty Driver? Charles Leclerc’s iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.” And then of course Page Six, who doesn’t miss a beat—

Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shit—no. No way. It’s almost (it should be) silly, the way he’s reading vigorously over the reports like he’s a fan, but he’s anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, it’s got to be the Daily Mail.

He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phone’s full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. It’s the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charles’ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.

It’s unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. It’s unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. That’s why you were hugging.

There’s another one of you playing Scrabble in his bed—he’s not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. He’s not in it, and he’s pretty sure the fans don’t know his house this well. Already his brain’s doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his team’s frantic messages.

Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the others—from his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how “actually, we’re not dating, we just fuck constantly” might hold up for the fans.

—

You’re twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across Hervé and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?

Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what you’re doing here—you snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now you’re in a meeting for it.

Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.

No, you want to tell preteen Charles—this is. You’re older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today it’s Pascale going solo. It’s been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, she’s used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too.

“How long?” Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.

“Mum—”

“Answer the question.” She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. “Both of you.”

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. “…waiting for this all my life!”

You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascale’s face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.

Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesn’t take it—she’s already droning on and on about how long she’s waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits won’t help you. You don’t even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You don’t know how it’ll come across, anyway.

Ninety minutes later, you’re in Arthur’s bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you don’t find anything too gross. He’s on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.

The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. It’s cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. “Why not just tell her the truth?”

You’d also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascale’s heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommy’s boy.

“I can’t, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is steady and unwavering.

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

You fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, then turn in the seat. “What?”

“Pretend you’re dating.”

“Arthur,” you say seriously. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe they’d actually bank on this as an actual plan.

“You guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.”

“It’s just paddock appearences. You’re not pretending for millions of people,” Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to you—you catch it one-handed. “You’re pretending for Mum.”

“Sure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?”

“Ughhh. You’re acting like it’s impossible.” Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. “Like you two aren’t fucking every other w—”

“—oh, my God!” Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. “Wh—I’m—language, Arthur!”

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

“I didn’t. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,” Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. “I mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so… intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.”

You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charles’ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. He’s always had a knack for schemes—he never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charles’ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. It’s a bit childish, but he gets the job done.

“Do it for… let’s say a month. Tell Mum you’ve been dating a while—Christmas isn’t that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. D’accord?”

You both nod, hyperfocused.

“During race weekends, be all over each other—shouldn’t be hard—especially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldn’t worry.”

“No, wait—I mean.” You shrug. “People—tifosi—they know I’m Charles’ friend. They’re going to be all over the fact that we’re apparently dating.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll use palatable density,” Charles says, nodding.

You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.

“You mean plausible deniability.” Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder.

“Right, ouais, that.” He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” You sigh. “I’m totally okay with this. Just worried it’s going to have unintended consequences.”

Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how it’ll be over and you two can say something like we decided we’re better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charles’ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if you’re willing to do it yourselves.

You wedge yourself into Charles’ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. “Did Fred say anything?”

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.”

“You think this thing’s going to be okay from a professional standpoint?” You look up and toward him; he’s already gazing at you, eyes soft. “I’m worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Y—”

“Don’t be.” He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. “Bitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry about”—he takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together loosely—“is your acting skills.”

“God, you’re right.” You sigh, looking out the window. “How am I going to pretend I can stand you?” Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.

—

You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charles’—though you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flat’s address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. He’s there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loud—The Kooks—like his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like he’s still in middle school and not in Formula One.

“Save your eardrums,” you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him.

“How’s uni?”

“Shit,” you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. “Obviously. How’s the Ferrari?”

“Amazing.” He smiles. “Obviously. How’d you know I was in? Mum told you?”

“Ouais. She’s running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?” You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.

Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your head—it’s not that deep, you tell him. It’s just—I had a bad date before I left and it’s put me in the worst mood.

Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs.

You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “He was just weird. Nothing.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You shy, Snoops?”

Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. You’d never talked with Charles about boys or flings before—maybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you don’t know why, either.

“You can tell me.”

“The—when we—I had to fake,” you say cuttingly. “You know.”

He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I don’t, actually. Something unnamed trills through you—through your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? It’s, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.

Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you don’t even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end you’re well exhausted and retired to the couch again.

His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. “You really had to fake it?”

“Yeah.” You pout. “Can never—um, finish, I dunno.” Your inhibition’s gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.

“Maybe because it was too casual.” His voice hardens.

“So you’re saying I should…” You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. “Sleep with somebody I know?” You’ve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.

His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s half-sure you didn’t.

“I am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.”

“You’re a good friend,” you say, volume low.

Five minutes later you’ve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw.

He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. He’s smiling. So wet for me. He’s got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and you’re clenching around him—

Come on, he’s saying. Insisting. You’re trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper.

He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then he’s fucking them into you and you’re leaking around them.

Yes, yeah, Charles—you’re gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.

So needy, and you’re chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. He’s calling you baby and you’re closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah?

You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you don’t feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. It’s Charles.

“Are we going to do that again?” You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.

“Only if you want. Whatever you want,” he says. He’d do anything for you. He’d do whatever you wanted.

“I do, I do want.” And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.

—

Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But you’re not there—clad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, you’re walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.

“Lamb chops?” You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.

“I was thinking more seafood.”

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

“Good idea. Think I’ll go for those. Hey, are you sure you’re on board with fake-dating my brother?”

You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadn’t brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the works—he’d been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that he’s asking so suddenly.

“I meaaan…” You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. “It’s only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are you—do you—sorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.”

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

“It’s—yes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this won’t hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know, it’s… bitter with the sweet. And who’s getting hurt… like the fans?” You laugh a little. “They’ll live, won’t they?”

“Like you.” He pauses. “Like Charles.”

—

Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.

“We need to talk.”

“Could this possibly be about the news of your brand new ‘girlfriend’ over last week? Where is she, by the way?”

“With Lorenzo. Listen, here’s the thing. Mum thinks we’re dating, and I don’t know how to tell her we’re not—so I won’t.”

“Lie to your mum, go ahead.” Pierre crosses his arms and hums.

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.”

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

“Ouais.”

“Should be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.”

Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We don’t kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we ‘are not dating,’ so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time he’s just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jaw—never your lips.

“You don’t kiss?” Pierre’s genuinely shocked. “Putain, you’re a hero. How does that even work?”

“We just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.” He shrugs. “It’s always been that way.”

“So how about her birthday?”

“She doesn’t…” Charlex exhales tightly. “Remember.”

“Charles,” you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. “Oh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?”

“Sprint racing,” Pierre says, an easy lie.

Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. “International tariffs.”

—

Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after that’s been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, you’ve been told, was your drink of choice.

“Headache’s better,” you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. “Mum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.”

“Did you snog anyone?” Charles is always teasing.

“God, I wish.” You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.”

A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. “You mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?” He snorts.

“You’re such a prick!” You scream into your pillow, laughing. “I already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.”

He smiles to himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you have fun?” You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.

“Bit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?”

—

“Nervous?”

“I mean, fuck, yeah.” You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. “Pascale’s waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.” You wince. “Can you even imagine Charles and me? It’s just—I dunno—it’s weird.”

“It isn’t,” she says, laughing. “Not really. It makes sense. Plus, aren’t you on the whole arrangement?” You envision her air quotes.

“Yeah, but”—you slip your sandals on—“it’s on and off, and that’s not dating. It’s sex. Two different things.”

“Is it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, aren’t y—”

“Okay, input no longer needed,” you laugh. “Bye, Gi. I’ll text you later.”

You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. “You look like the sky.”

“Thanks, man.” A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Sure.”

“Prick.” You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice you’re looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. “I think I’m going to be replacing you.”

“Dream on. On y va?”

You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walk—the fans clearly dig it, because everyone’s yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.

“Did you forget we’re supposed to be dating?” He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling.

“I didn’t think,” you say, still smiling falsely, “that you’d put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.”

“Smile, honey,” he teases. “I see at least five cameras at us right now.”

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

“I totally deserved to win last week’s game. You’re just a sore loser.”

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charles’—someone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has.

They handshake and he waves at you politely. “Whole paddock’s buzzing with news of you dating,” he says, smiling. “It’s a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charles’ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How did—well, if you don’t mind me asking, where’d it all happen?”

“Oh,” you say, laughing. “Yeah, Monaco.”

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charles’ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. “He means”—you say, coughing and nodding—“we went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and that’s where he asked me out.” You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.

“Definitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?” He grins. “I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!”

You’re smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then you’re (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock.

You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. “Um? Texas?! What’s up with the backstories?”

“It slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.”

“You’re so f—” You try to scold him, but can’t, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. “Texas, really?”

“Sorry,” he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and it’s warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.

Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. You’re given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who haven’t been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who you’d previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.

“Ciao, ciao.” They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. “Is everything okay?”

“The car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.” David punches his arm, playful. “You finally got her!”

“Oh.”

“It’s just… I remember all the times she would show up and you’d tell me about how much you liked her… I don’t know, it’s perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!”

“Oh, si. I’ve just been, you know…” He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where you’re talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and you’re smiling while talking. He wonders what you’re so passionate about. When you’re caught in fits of happiness and passion, you’re extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips can’t stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe it’s France, maybe it’s crossword puzzles, slim chance it’s your job—whatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks it’s beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love.

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

There are banners, Italian flags, and Charles’ face on every other wall. He’s done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, you’re hoping). You’ve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because you’ve been told the nightlife is bleak and you’d rather save that energy for the next race.

Lando picked out the restaurant—he’s “on a massive Yelp high” trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. He’s tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurant’s name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wine—a whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.

You’re in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. You’re content with the white noise.

Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoes—oh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoes—Joris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isn’t anyone paying attention to Lando’s cat. It’s funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.

Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charles’ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, he’s even able to get a dig in against Lando’s affinity for cats.

“No more wine, m’kay?” He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours.

“Oh, but it was so good, though.” You mope, but nod in agreement. “I could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.”

“Sure did that a lot with beer.” You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space you’re given. “You sleepy?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine,” you respond, smiling. “Now shut up. I need to know what happened to Lando’s cat.”

Lewis leaves first, claiming he’s into this whole “sleeping at 9PM” thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. It’s you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and you’re good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.

How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. They’re actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lando,” you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, “but Charles and I probably didn’t do your fanfiction kink justice.”

“Ignoring the emasculation.” He says, turning beet red. “What’d you do, then? Wasn’t it hard?”

“It was hard, but it’s like that.” Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to it’s like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. “We just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.”

“Yeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,” you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.

“In all seriousness, though—how are you two okay with this? I know I’d be second guessing my feelings every second.”

You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, “We’re both comfortable with each other, I think.”

“Yeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.” You’re looking at Lando when you say that. You don’t know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charles’ eyes.

You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when you’re out the door, back into the chilly night air. It’s then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.

“It’ll be fun, guys.” Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. “I heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.”

“It sounds very fun,” you say, smiling, “but I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.”

“Wh—no, I’m not going, either.” You raise an eyebrow at Charles. “Serious! I wasn’t in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Lando’s car and we’ll take mine.”

“Alright,” Lando whistles. “Suit yourselves, agoraphobes.”

“Joke’s on you”—Charles smiles, smug—“I don’t know what that means.”

“Not the dig you think it is, Charles,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Night, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!”

“Should be saying that to you guys,” quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.

The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy you’ve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God can’t stand the low seats anymore.

“You want dessert?” He asks when he’s rounded the car and settled into his seat. “Gelato, a cone, biscotti…”

“No, no,” you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. It’s easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. “I’m good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?”

“Sure.” He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. “How was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. “Wasn’t too tough, I hope.”

Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. “It was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?” He smiles, nodding, and you continue. “Yeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know it’s fake.”

He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. “About?”

“You.”

—

The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind you—he’s scored less than half of your points thus far—but you’re on a mission, like your competitive self always is when you’re put in a position to be able to win.

You’re two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. “That’s not allowed!” You say, petulant.

“This is a practice session,” Charles says gently, nearing you. “Mate, none of us are actual players.”

You wipe sweat off your forehead. “Right. Désolée. I’m just—I’m in the zone.”

“Ouais, I get it. Relax, m’kay? We got this.”

You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip.

Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ball’s out. You throw your hands up in question.

“Okay, what? That was clearly a point!”

“Snoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,” Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.

“What are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!” You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.

“How about…” He suggests quietly. “We let them win? You did win the last”—he pauses to count—“five sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with the—”

You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. “Fucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.”

Charles thinks he’s in the clear and he’s managed to extinguish your flames of frustration—that is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and Hervé, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. “Five euros.”

He splutters. “Five? Wh—non, non! I was trying to calm you down.”

“You were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,” you say playfully.

“Saluuut,” Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. “Quoi de neuf?”

“Charles has five euros for the jar.” The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascale’s out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).

Arthur’s joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and Hervé, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you don’t call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.

“You heard Snoopy. Five euros. We’ll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.” You high five. “At this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.”

“He’s going to race,” you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. “What race driver is going to open a restaurant?”

—

You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. You’ve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.

“Yuki’s volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,” Pierre tells you and Charles, across him.

Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.

They’re like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.

So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldn’t be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.

“If it’s too much trouble, feel no need to… you know.”

“Nonsense.” Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where he’d even acquired it, you’re clueless). “Yukino would be happy to.”

The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. They’re in the backseat offering bits of conversation.

“Oh, mate, we should totally play tennis while we’re here.” Pierre sighs. “Didn’t you guys play before?”

“Mmm, yeah,” you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. “At the country club. Doubles always, otherwise I’d knock Charles out of the park.”

“Hey, I won a couple times!” He protests weakly. “Like… twice.”

You laugh out loud. “Anyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.”

“I had to calm her down twice a set,” Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. “Still do.”

“You know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,” you say cuttingly, “I swear I’d be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.”

—

Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of it—this is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before they’re all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.

It’s also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is you’ve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.

“Do we have to kiss?” You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you can’t help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you haven’t gotten laid in weeks.

“If you don’t want to—”

“I do.” You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. “No! I mean I don’t mind. If it sells the thing.”

“D’accord, then we will.” He smiles. “That okay?”

“Sure. First kiss,” you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.

“First.” He looks away.

You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.

You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.

“Put me down, loser!”

Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. “Charles! You’re such a cunt.” You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.

You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see you—by the entrance—and it happens faster than your mind can muster. He’s leaning in, you’re reaching up, and your mouths slot together. It’s—and it feels crazy to say it, but—

It’s perfect. It’s lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like they’re familiar and yours and like maybe this is all you’ve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you can’t help but keep him tethered to you always. It’s strange and it’s not platonic—you’re mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.

You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like you’re sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. There’s massive uproar and you’re in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, which—that’s—it’s winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throat’s dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than it’d been at the start of the year, so there’s a lot to celebrate.

And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years you’ve spent abstaining from the kissing. He’s just finished interviews. He’s only just changed into his polo, and now he’s tugging it off again, feverish.

This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one light’s been switched on and he’s hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. He’s kissing you—kissing you stupid, almost. Like he’s waited forever to taste your lips and now he’ll starve if he’s away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or don’t, don’t—so everyone knows I’m yours.

He presses your chest against the wall so your back’s turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt.

“S’ big,” you’re saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.

“Barely even in,” he whispers. “Slow down, baby, come on, take it.”

Your toes curl. You’re high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. “I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until he’s bottomed out and you’re tiptoeing from the overwhelm.

“I feel you,” you’re whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasn’t even fully removed. “I feel you there,” you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.

His cock’s bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and it’s getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.

I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quickly—you don’t usually cum so early, he’s always making you wait for it—pussy squeezing around him.

Jesus, already? He’s groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. He’s fucking you harder, faster. It’s so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, you’re bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and you’re even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.

You’re half-sure someone can hear, but it doesn’t even phase you. Harder, deeper— and you’re collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense it’s on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.

“I never even”—you pant, tired—“got to say congratulations.”

“That was more than enough.”

—

Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. He’s boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person who’s up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday.

He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (“I hope you’re not driving closed-eyed,” you’d warned.)

Even if he could, anyway, he’d rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of it—the buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances.

And you—in the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when you’re in the passenger seat.

The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. There’s bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchen—visible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.

Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because it’s 70’s music playing, which is what he’s fond of for family gatherings like these. It’s My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.

Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, he’s not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace.

You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.

He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. “Ciao, zia,” he says, voice buoyant, happy. “You came here to see me, no?”

All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. “No,” she says. “Sono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.”

His eyes widen. “She’s—” He pauses. He debates telling Eden you’re not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.

He shouldn’t, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. “Ah, she’s over there, zia. Con mamma.” He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. “Beautiful, yes?”

“Molto,” she says proudly. “You marry her?”

Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charles’ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because it’s a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, she’s at home. So he indulges a bit more.

“Si, we’re engaged. But—it’s a secret, zia.” He grins. “Non dire a nessuno. Okay?”

“Sei fidanzato?!” She claps once, excited. “Ay, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?” And she’s wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.

—

“How is my son?” Pascale’s voice is teasing. She sighs happily. “For years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.”

“Oui, sure is,” you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. “We’re—he’s okay. We’re great. In love.”

“Oh, in love,” she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. “Saluuut.”

“Mmm, good to see you, too.” You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. “How’s wedding planning?”

“Think we’ll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?”

“No,” you say, mulling over it. “Sure, a bit. But just don’t make it a whole thing, you’re golden.”

“I see.” He sighs fondly. “You know, many a conversation we’ve had right here at this counter. About anything.”

—

You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charles’ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, Hervé a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.

“Lorenzo!” You stomp your foot. “Stop stealing! That is my apple.”

“You mean the Leclercs’ apple.” He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: “How was school?”

“Shit, as usual.” You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. “Pascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.”

“Did Papa?”

“Obviously not. He fist bumped me.” You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. “Anyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch… got driven here by Charlotte’s mum.”

“Charlotte?” Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: “Mmm. Cha-r-lotte.”

“What’s up with Charlotte?” Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.

“I think she likes Charles, a little.” You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not your—or nobody’s, really. Just Charles. Yeah.

“What? Bull!” You narrow your eyes. “Says who?”

“Why do you care?”

“Wh—I don’t!” You squeak, caught. “Just… I think I’d know, Lorenzo.” You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. “So—says who?”

“I saw her leering at him during his birthday party.”

“You’re wrong,” you say, but you don’t really know who you’re convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.

“Mon dieu, you’re snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,” he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. “I talked to her during the party, too.”

“Weirdo,” you tease, allowing him to take a few more. “About Charles, yes?

“No, about her brand new dress.”

“You’re the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.”

“She told me…” He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. “She told me she ‘finds Charles cute.’” Air quotes, shrug. “But that they ‘probably won’t’ date.”

“Huh. Did, um. Did she say why?” You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You don’t know why you’re so fidgety—you aren’t nervous, you don’t think.

“Because…” he says, chewing to allow for a pause. “She said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, he’s already following you around like some puppy.”

—

You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.

You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. “Hey. Ça va?”

“Fine,” you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?”

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “Around… 2013.”

“Ouais. And… and it disappeared after that,” you say. “Right?”

“You said it did,” she says. “A year later. When we were sixteen.”

“Right.” You think. Seventeen onwards—you’d never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. “Okay. It’s nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.”

“Oui, let’s eat.” The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charles’ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.

—

When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage “bitter with the sweet.” Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name you’d heard on the stereo.

Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when he’s interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. It’s a hot day and you’re especially doubled down on by the fact that he’s finished ninth.

You’d been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).

Pascale also called—Charles first, and when he didn’t check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.

“I’m glad you’re there,” she says. “God knows he needs you.”

You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.

“I’m such a big fan. I stalk Charles’ Insta like, all the time, and it’s crazy how you guys are dating.” A teenaged girl laughs nervously. “Where’d it happen?”

“Texas!” He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.

“He’s kidding,” you interject. “It’s just—it just happened, really.”

How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. It’s always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echo—the echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itself’s been there all along.

With Charles, it’s out of the question. You love him. He’s your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.

How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The love’s always been there and it’ll never go away.

It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away he’s stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.

You’re creepily observant; you’ve been told this many times before. What people don’t know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because there’s never an answer.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. “Did I hurt you?”

Then you realize. In the matters of love, every question—every single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.

“Of course not,” you say. And you smile.

—

You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. They’re still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.

Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means you’re going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.

Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His hand’s gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.

The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canada—long, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her “favorite pair”—you maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.

You’d been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.

But he makes it better. You’re still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.

And then you’re quiet.

The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like you’re supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. You’re closer now. But this shouldn’t feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions before—what’s different?

He’s so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.

Funnily enough, it’s then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.

“Shit—sorry,” you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.

“No, don’t—” He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I do.”

“So kiss me,” you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion.

“I don’t want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,” he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. “An AlphaTauri stock room.” He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.

“Charles,” you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. “You’re acting like you and I haven’t kissed before.”

“This is different.” He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what he’s implying until the implication’s hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer he’ll kiss you anyway.

It’s a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you can’t; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.

“H…” you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, “How different?”

He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.

The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you it’s okay to, and it’s only then—only then—that Charles’ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.

It’s a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlos’ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. You’re open to it—the win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeks’ break. So your original itinerary is Portugal—beaches, coasts, food—but the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because you’re in New York City.

—

Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. “This is one hell of a wedding shower,” you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. “I thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?”

“Yeah, well… why not here, right? It’s beautiful.” He gestures to the skyline, smiling. “Plus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love it.” You beam. “I can’t believe it, either. When’s the final date?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latter’s childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. “What a wedding shower!”

“Don’t flatter me, dipshit,” Lorenzo jokes.

“It’s a lovely one.” Lorenzo thanks him. “An amazing shower. You know, it’s a total golden shower!”

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper don’t ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please don’t embarrass me or your brother.

For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the music—Desafinado now—is amazing. “I could see myself here,” you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. He’s half-distracted.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. “Very.”

You part ways at some point—Pascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.

You’re halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attention—Charles’ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. “Ciao, Eden!”

“Ciao, bella.” She smiles. “Flight was long.”

“Oh, yeah. New York’s far. I might work here someday. I’ll hear results in around two weeks, but I’m hoping for London instead.” You slow your speech.

“When will you two wed?”

“Wed?” Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. “Oh, Eden—zia—no, no! We’re just friends.”

“My Charles told me you two are to be married.” You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.

Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You can’t help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. “Oh, did he, zia?”

“Si, he did.”

“Well, we’re just going to let it happen, then. You’re invited. Front row.” You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.

It’s announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascale’s friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70’s music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.

When Ain’t No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the song—not even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.

You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. It’s semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gaye’s, Charles takes Tammi Terrell’s. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend you’re performing.

His hand’s in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It works—you laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.

The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breather—then the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. “That’s going into the RSVPs!” He says, accent unmistakably American.

“Does he know we’re not the couple here?” You ask.

Do we know we’re not the couple? Charles asks himself.

The night escalates as the “oldies” leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. You’re all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.

“I feel young again,” Matthew says, liberated by Tito’s vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.

“You��re twenty-five, calm down,” you joke. “Dodged that bullet.” You’re poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. “Anyway, you three be careful. No driving.”

“Jesus, but really—I haven’t been this drunk since you”—he points at you, laughing—“turned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?”

“Oh, God. Y’know, same.” You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. “I remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.”

“I remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,” he jeers.

“Heartbreak? Were you—were you with anyone?” You ask, confused.

It happens before anyone can stop it. “No, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzo—merci!”

Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giada’s voice.

You open and close your mouth. “Ch—wait, he—what?”

“I—let’s talk here,” Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. “When… we were at Amber… and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twice—just twice. And you didn’t, um. Remember a thing.”

You’re unsure. “In Amber?” You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We… I don’t—I mean, I understand why you don’t remember. We kissed that night.”

“So that’s… Charles… You didn’t tell me.” Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. “Why didn’t you say it at the time?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He can’t give you one. He doesn’t want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so he’ll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.

“Charles.” But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. “Look at me.”

“I was scared.” His eyes gravitate to yours.

“Of?”

“It felt stupid, is all. That you didn’t remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you weren’t. I didn’t—it didn’t—sorry.” He laughs, stutters. “I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything because we didn’t have feelings for each other.” He pauses. “Then.”

“Well,” you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. “How about now?”

“Now?”

“I love you, now. I mean, isn’t that all this is? Loving? Even if? De—despite of?”

And this—God. This is how it feels. He’s looking at you and you’re telling him you love him because you do, and finally he’s been over with reassurance.

You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like you’re a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.

This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. He’s yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if you’re the last two people on Earth. He’s yours, so foolishly in love with you.

Even far from home, you’re both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us again—it’ll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, we’re here. It’s never over.

Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.

So even if you’re taller, in high heels and a yellow dress—and Charles is broader, in a suit and tie—Lorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well.

“So what now?” You ask. Again with the questions. In your defense—it begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the making—layer after layer after layer—of course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. What’ll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?!

But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. You’ve grown. You’ve done it. You’re here. “We’ll figure it out.” He smiles. “We deserve this kind of ending, don’t you think?”

—

“He has my name.” A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. “That one.”

“And who’s the dog?” Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. He’s cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card they’re staring at.

“The name’s right there. They’re best friends.”

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

“Oui.” She smiles. “Charlie and Snoopy.”

–

read an omitted scene here :)

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alwayschoppedtaco · 4 months

Text

after all this time; s.v.

so i got that ask about young seb, and i ran with it, for like, 16 pages. I wanted to explore the relationship with seb through all the years over his whole career, from before he was in F1, all the way up to Aston Martin. I just think it's so sweet that Seb and Hanna have known each other for so long, and I couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to be his childhood sweetheart. anyway - if you'd like more young seb, lmk! I'll be back to king!seb next. - peyton

There it was.

That tap on the shoulder.

She huffed, turning around to face the dorky blonde kid with an overly-toothy grin and a pension for pushing her buttons far too easily, though she supposed she was to blame for that last part. Shoving a lock of her hair over her ear, she narrowed her eyes at one Sebastian Vettel. The boy spoke quickly and awkwardly, his gestures were flailing and wild. The spirit was certainly there, just perhaps too much sometimes.

He always pestered her during their math class. She sat in front of him, he’d study the back of her head and the colors of her hair, the touch of skin that was visible above her shirt collar, how her hand rarely shot up to answer any questions in this class. This was her worst subject. She excelled at everything else in school - I mean, everything - but the magic language of math escaped her entirely.

For Sebastian, it was practically second nature. The math and the physics and science came easily, he knew engineering was something he could do for a career if he wanted. Where she’d sit with her head in her hands, he’d be scribbling the answers with ease. Yet even though he knew she was bad at math, and she knew he was fabulous at it, he would ask her for help. Week in, week out, he’d tap her on the shoulder and ask her for help on a problem.

To which she’d glare at him, glance down at the paper, and speak up, “Sebastian, you know how to do it. I know you do. Stop asking.”

He’d feign cluelessness, “I don’t, I don’t! I need your help, seriously!”

Both of them would know of the ploy of the other, but not quite the whole story.

She knew that he was plenty capable of doing his homework without her help.

But she didn’t know that he was flirting. That he adored her and practically lived for her attention.

He knew that she wasn’t good at math, that she, in no way, could beat him in the subject.

But he didn’t know that she looked forward to the class. To being near him and that his attention made her flustered.

This instance today was no exception to the norm.

She turned around and stared down at the problem on the sheet, number 4. Some terribly complex word problem where the text blurred together in a muddy puddle of black shapes that just swam in front of her eyes. She blinked at it, hoping that the longer she looked, the more clear it would become. Maybe the answer would just magically jump off the page and reveal itself to her. But of course, it never did.

“Um..” She shifted in her seat, taking a shaky breath as she attempted some form of effort. Sebastian’s eyes flitted over her. He started at her finger, which was running over the words, moving up along her arm, to her silver necklace that hung against her chest, how the lettering of her initials rose and fell with each breath, up to her tongue which stuck out from between her lips as she concentrated.

She was really trying, and my goodness, was she cute!

“Well, here’s the…” She went on to collect bits of information from the problem, Sebastian knew she had no idea what she was doing but he liked that she was trying.

Was she trying for him? He liked to think she was.

A few minutes passed and they got nowhere.

“I’m useless, Sebastian, you know that.” She whines.

Oh, how sweet she is!

“You’re not useless. Thank you for trying, at least.” He notes the genuine disappointment on her face, she’s never one to want to let others down, and she doesn’t like to fail.

She scoffs. “Don’t thank me. I did nothing. You always ask, and I--”

“I always ask, and you always help, even if you know you can’t do it.”

“Well, I can do--”

"I didn't mean--"

"I know, Sebastian."

There's a pause, the din of the classroom fading into white noise as he admires her. A god-given gift of courage is bestowed upon him, and he speaks up, the words surprising even him.

“You’re lovely, you know that?”

A chuckle. “Even if I’m quite abysmal at math?”

“Especially if you’re quite abysmal at math.”

“You--”

Another bolt of courage hits him out of nowhere.

His chair gives a light screech as he shoots up from his seat, leaning forward on his elbows, his forearms flat against the wood desk. She gasps quietly as he places a quick and awfully clumsy kiss on her mouth (that’s generous, he nearly misses half of her lips) before returning to his previous position.

His face is as red as hers.

Her mouth is still open in shock as she sees him stare down at the now creased paper on his desk as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. He peaks up at her after a moment and finds her still watching him.

Both start to smile after a moment, lost in this mystical haze his frantic movement had created.

“Were you planning on doing that?” She clears her throat to disguise her smittenness.

Sebastian is not so skilled in hiding his. “I’ve thought about it.”

“For how long?”

“Someday I’ll tell you.”

She laughs. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He looked ridiculous with his hair smashed under his cap like that, little sprigs of his blond unruly curls escaped through small gaps, sticking out at odd angles. He couldn’t care less though.

He had made it.

He had fucking made it to Formula One.

(His mother would kill him if he heard him swear like that, sorry mom)

He swallowed, fumbling with his lanyard that hung around his neck, lifting it to the pillars that had some little machine to scan his I-D. He had hurt his right index finger in a crash at Spa earlier in the year, and it was still bandaged lightly. It stung sometimes when he turned it the wrong way, and the small movement to twist his hand had sent a small twinge through his digit.

She waits patiently behind him, her heart beating out of her chest, her pride swelling out and over the whole space of them. She's undeniably excited for him.

“Here.” She chuckles quietly, taking the little clip of plastic from him and turning it the right way so the code is read by the machine and they are let in.

She sees the tremble in his hands even though he’s disguising it well.

“Thank you.” He answers, walking through the gate and waiting for her on the other side for a moment. Turning his palm upwards, he grabs her hand and grips it tightly. The paddock is bustling with personnel and drivers and team bosses and it’s a lot - it’s the traveling circus, after all. Men wave their hands around wildly, gesturing with expressions of exasperation, having heated conversations with other intimidating men who looked like they’d push you off a high cliff if you disappointed them.

His grip tightens.

“Sebastian.” She only says his name gently, calling his attention to his iron handle on her, to which he loosens with an apology. He pushes his nerves away as best he can.

Still both teenagers, this is all a bit much. Her university studies could surely wait - thank goodness she didn’t have any exams today - and joining Sebastian for his very first day in the world of Formula One was far more interesting. He had asked her tentatively to be his shadow for the weekend he was testing and she had agreed with no hesitation. I mean, the two had been attached at the hip since first connecting in school. Sebastian was usually the one trailing after her like a lost puppy, eagerly pawing for her affection and tugging her into bone-crushing hugs whenever he felt like it. Today she was doing the trailing, but happily so.

She loved racing and being in the paddock like this, with all these big names and fancy sponsors and pretty people, well...it was a dream come true. Yet it was better than a dream because the love of her life was there too.

He fiddled with the buttons on the front of his shirt, occasionally adjusting the cap on his head as they walked towards the BMW team building. He already knew he would have media responsibilities to take care of today - being an F1 driver didn’t mean just driving, there were other jobs - and that he would have to smile and pose for cameras, that he wouldn’t be able to have her with him for every second.

The doors slide open to the room where team members and the pit crew sit around square tables, papers and data splayed out and marked up by red pencils and black pens. He is greeted with open arms, and he’s reminded again of what he’s doing and what he’s accomplished. Every time he’s feeling a bit lost - whether that’s lost in the excitement or lost in confusion - he turns back to her, finding her gaze fixed on him, her telepathic communication reminding him how capable and talented he is, that through every second, every lap, every misstep or failure, she’ll be there.

He couldn't do this without her.

“Hello, Sebastian.” He starts.

Wait, who’s this? Oh, this is some commentator? A journalist?

Ah, it's Ted Kravitz.

“Welcome to Formula One. You certainly have the benefit of youth on your side, um, how old are you?”

Sebastian glances to the side where she’s standing, arms crossed and smiling proudly. “I’m nineteen years old.”

He continues, “Obviously I’m not that old for F1, but, yeah, I’m looking forward to my time here.”

He sways on the front steps, maintaining that amicable toothy grin as he answers the questions. He talks about his tests, how many laps he’s done, already rattling off oddly specific numbers and points and kilometers driven, impressing the hell out of everyone who hears him.

It’s so clear he’s special. That maybe he was just there for a single test, but it wouldn’t be the last time he showed up in the paddock. His reputation already seemed to precede him.

The man named Ted continued. “And just tell us about your finger, you, you had an accident in Spa, didn’t you, a while ago?”

Sebastian gives a wry smile, one almost too mature for his age as he looks down at his hand. “It’s the right index finger, and the very top is still broken.”

Her eyes slide down to his finger, admiring the long spindles. She forgets what he's saying and finds her mind wandering. Her infatuation with his hands started early, but she won’t talk about it now.

He speaks again. “Last week we had those two races at the Nurburgring, and I won both, so...it shouldn’t be a problem.”

She bites her lip and smiles at the ground.

Ever the boy with the clever response, aren’t you, Sebastian Vettel?

This can’t be happening--

This IS happening--

He’s--

He’s winning, he’s fucking WINNING --

He’s winning a grand prix RIGHT NOW--

Her eyes are glued to the screen, hand halfway covering her trembling lips as she watches his car fly around the track.

He's leading, he's in first. She can't believe it.

It had been a fluke for her to show up here in Monza. She had hopped last-minute on a red-eye flight, barely managing to snag a shitty middle seat next to a snoring old man who was constantly encroaching on her space. With eyes nearly closed, she had taken a deep breath and waited for the plane to land in Italy.

Anything for her boy.

It wasn’t like the nasty rain made things much better, but my gosh, was Sebastian magic in the wet. She watched in awe as he drove masterfully, driving with skill far beyond his years, trampling the field that included several legends with startling ease. It was a work of art.

She always said he was special, though.

And she was right.

He bounded across the raised platform that led to the podium, sweaty hair mashed under his red cap, his navy suit clinging to his small frame as he raised his single finger in what would become his signature move. She pushed up on her tiptoes as she stood way down below, head craned back as she watched him, awestruck.

“Is this the best moment of your life? This win?”

He spoke before he thought about it. “You obviously weren’t there when I lost my virginity.” He steps back a bit and grins happily at his rather inappropriate comment, wondering with a tad bit of smugness how his lovely girlfriend is going to react to his revelation on live television.

The reporter shakes his head a little with a pleased sputter, opening his mouth before closing it again, quickly looking for words to fill the dead air. “That’s--”

“---insane that you said that on TV. Sebastian!” She exclaims.

“I won! Aren’t you going to congratulate me!” He’s laughing, far too high on adrenalin to care about anything else. The light drizzle is still falling around them, they’re standing outside his tiny motorhome, one that’s tucked away in the paddock. He’s waving his trophy around in his hand, eyes bright and wide.

“Yes, I will congratulate you a million times over, I’ve already congratulated you quite a few times, but just---”

“You don’t want me to say things like that?”

“I don’t want you talking about us...you know...having sex--” Her face heats up. “--on television. My parents are probably watching, they’ll probably be calling me to talk about it, they don’t even know we’re…”

“Mine don’t either.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” She stares up to the sky, shutting her eyes and letting the light rain dust her face in sparkles.

She then laughs.

Sebastian briefly thinks she’s mad at him. It wasn’t the smartest thing to say, no, but there’s no taking it back now. What would he say? That it was a lie? It wasn’t.

It really was the best day of his life. A cold night alone in his parents house had turned into The Night. The one night. He had watched her undress underneath him, her collarbones sprouting like wings under her skin, the blush that spread all over her like the pollen of the prettiest flower. He engulfed him, her warm arms and warm open legs bringing him home in an obscene display of perfection, bathing him in a love he never knew.

Their inexperience seemed entirely unimportant. She had feared that in being open like this, that in baring everything both literally and figuratively, she would have been found unsightly, but he had nothing but obsessive love for her. He knew, from that moment on, he would worship the ground she walked on, he would grovel like a dog at the foot of her throne, he would beg like his entire life depended on her lifting his chin and placing a kiss on his mouth.

Her moans and gaping mouth signaled to him the heavy divineness that rested deep in her soul, that everything she would every say to him was scripture, he’d read her like his bible, he’d eat her alive from the inside out to absorb everything about her because she was everything--

In all this poetry was this infatuated and otherworldly act of fucking. Of slamming his hips against hers and pushing so deep into her that he was secretly hoping she’d break open and reveal to him all her secrets. Of swirling her mounds in his mouth and feeling the subtle vibrations of her living body move underneath him as she let loose the most beautiful sounds. They were a moving painting, a coalescence of blood and bone connected in the most intimate way.

And yes, it was the best day of his life.

“Are you mad? I’m sorry.”

She opens her mouth and sticks her tongue out, catching some of the water. Her mascara is just starting to smear.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Do you really think that was the best day of your life?” She lowers her head, stepping forward till she’s right up against him.

A nod. “I’ve been thinking about it since the day I first kissed you.”

“You really have a habit of saying stupid things when the camera’s on, don’t you?” Sebastian Vettel’s pregnant wife grumbled at him, frowning over the rim of the lukewarm coffee cup she raised to her lips as they stood in their kitchen.

He scratched his scalp, fingers running through his tangled locks.

“What are you talking about?”

“It doesn’t take too long to get the job done?” She puts her cup down and makes air quotes around the whole sentence. She’s talking about the comment he made in a press conference a few days ago. A journalist had poked fun at the group sitting in front of the microphones, asking them if they felt ready to be fathers considering the majority of those present already had children.

Sebastian, ever the cheeky piece of shit, spoke up first, licking his lips in anticipation of the clever bullet he had waiting in the barrel to be fired. He had grinned at the chuckles that followed his joke.

“Ah.” He says in realization. “It was funny! Don’t you think?” He chuckles, walking up to her and so that he’s perpendicular to her side, his tummy pressed against her hip. He places his hand on her growing bump, making swirling motions in various shapes.

“Well, I can’t decide if it’s more of a dig at you or me…” She muses, giving him a vicious side-eye. She’s up to something.

“What do you mean?” He’s confused.

“You said that it doesn’t take too long to get the job done. The job being…” A pause, and she smirks at him, reading his investigatory expression, “finishing. Cumming. So if you cum quick that’s--”

“Alright, honey--”

“That means you can’t last. That whatever I’m doing makes you--”

“Alright!!” He exclaims, attempting to turn his face towards him for a kiss so that he can shut her up, but she veers away, pulling her neck back. She continues.

“So really what you were saying is that--”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Let me finish--”

“I make sure you do.” A smirk.

She doesn’t have time for his jokes. “Shut up.”

“Come on…” He chuckles, resorting to placing his warm mouth on her neck, feeling her sigh heavily against him.

“I guess I’ll have to take it as a compliment.”

“I think you should.” He begins to slowly turn her body so that she’s facing him, hands sneaking under her loose clothing. She’s not that far along, but the bump is still plenty visible. He’s over the moon about the new arrival - no, ‘over the moon’ didn’t even come close to encompassing his feelings about it. He was practically vibrating out of his own skin and he had been since the moment she placed the positive pregnancy test on the table in front of him.

Every time he thought about it, the blood went straight below his belt. Made a fucking beeline to his dick. Just like now.

Another maneuver and her back is against the counter, Sebastian’s attached his mouth to hers, groaning quietly at the bitter taste of coffee on her tongue. She runs her hands along his taut shoulders, thumbs running up the ridges of his neck. She’s still sleepy, but has plenty of energy to give his chest a rough smack when he unceremoniously hauls her up onto the counter and spreads her legs.

“It’s 8 in the fucking morning. Watch it.” She grumbles again, letting him push her head to the side as he lathers her throat in kisses.

“You’re carrying precious cargo, I know.” He’s rubbing his hands along the tops of her thighs, squeezing and pinching.

“Are you saying I’m fat?”

He pulls back, immediately worried he said the wrong thing. But she’s grinning dumbly at him, clearly smug at the sudden fear she injected into him.

He stutters, trying to find the right words.

“You know that saying, that idiom, or whatever, the Dutch one? The tongue twister or something that says ‘fucking in the kitchen, but don’t pay for it’?” She grabs him by the chin, keeping his wandering mouth at bay so that he’ll actually listen to her, not just hear her.

“Uh...yes, I know what you’re talking about.”

She motions to the kitchen around them.

“We’re in the kitchen.”

“We are.”

“We’re going to fuck.”

“Crass, but yes.”

“You’re one to call it crass, with the things you’ve said to me, Mr. 'I’m going to shove my dick so far in you that my cum will spill out your mouth'.”

“I never said that.” He’s a bad liar. “You did say that. Like, two weeks ago.”

“That can’t be true.”

“And last, you’re not paying for it.”

“It sounds like I’m paying for it with all your jokes.”

The two smile at each other like idiots.

He pushes up her shirt and rubs at her belly again, her skin warm against his palms.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” She asks quietly, seeing his gaze and his gentle movements.

He gives a little laugh. “I want to put another baby in you.”

She’s silent, eyebrows furrowed. She blinks at him in confusion. “You know simultaneously so much and so little about the female body.”

“Can’t we just try?”

“I’m already pregnant, Sebastian. You can’t get me more pregnant.” She knows he’s being ridiculous, but this is more ridiculous than normal.

“You’ll never know if we don’t try.”

She stares at him. “Alright, it’s not free anymore. The fee is $5.”

“Are you really going to make me pay to fuck my own wife?”

“$10.”

Both are laughing too much now, and Sebastian lunges forward, capturing her giggles in his mouth and moving his hands around to her lower back to push her spread legs forward, shoving her against his crotch. She ropes her arms around his neck, hopelessly in love with this ridiculous man in front of her.

She’s fucking obsessed. She couldn’t be more obsessed with him.

(Oh, and he doesn’t end up paying.)

“You’re what?” She stands with arms crossed firmly over her front, staring up at the clown master himself, Mattia Binotto. Leader of the fucking circus of a team, Ferrari.

“He’s not performing. He’s lost his confidence, and we think it would be better for both of us to end the partnership.”

Partnership. What a fucking lie of a word. It was never a partnership. Maybe for the years with Kimi there was something of the sort, but the second Charles joined the team, Sebastian had been doomed. The team dropped him like a toddler tossing their old toy in the garbage, leaving it to rot and decay while they played with their new gadget.

After all Sebastian had given-- After everything he had done, the hours spent with mechanics, the dedication, the utter joy with which he carried the seal of the Prancing Horse, the selfless passion to support everyone else even in the midst of what felt like a constant freefall into failure...it had meant nothing to them.

She couldn’t believe it.

“His confidence? How could he have confidence if you don’t support him?” She bites out, glaring at him. They stand on the steps outside the Ferrari motorhome. He’s wearing those stupid glasses that are so round and cartoonish that they look like someone drew them on his face with a marker while he was sleeping.

“I don’t think you have the authority to comment on his racing career.” He tries to say it nicely, placing a hand out to attempt to corral her towards the room inside so that no media will catch a whiff of their argument.

She wants to punch him in the gut for that comment but she too is trying to keep calm. “I’m his wife, I know him best. He’s given so many years, and what, he’s just too old now?”

“You see the way he races. He’s not the same.”

Gee, I wonder why.... She frowns. “Then help him.”

It’s a simple fucking solution - okay, it’s not entirely simple, but it’s common sense. Athletes can’t survive alone, they need support, need people to care. And Sebastian doesn’t have that. The care Ferrari purports to have for him is surface-level, entirely a facade that the team shoddily maintains in order to keep up their image. But it’s fading, and the public is seeing it.

“He needs to help us first.”

Her entire world grinds to a halt at the words just spoken. Her brain cells seem to dissolve and crash into one another, bursting on impact as they attempt to understand the sheer stupidity and gross ignorance of that singular sentence. She shakes her head as she genuinely tries to wrap her head around it, mouth hung open in anger and confusion and all the frustration and vicious cruelty and defiance and just the fucking need for her husband to be happier than this spills over and out through every cavity of her body as she speaks.

Her voice is beyond threatening, beyond angry, and it has an impact.

“You’re fucking vile for treating him like this.” She speaks lowly. Very, very slowly. Her eyes bore into the man’s head, she’s wishing she were Superman so she could laser beam his head to ashes. She doesn’t care who hears what she says. The second his contract is up, she’ll be glad.

“We were--” Britta’s voice cuts through the tension. Sebastian is following behind her, he had been talking with Antti about something, but he turns to see his wife conversing with his boss. He reads her face, how her nostrils flare, her jaw tight with teeth gritted. She’s angry about something.

“Is everything alright?” He asks, concern crossing his features.

Mattia looks from his fallen champion to the woman in front of him. He decides it’s better he doesn’t speak anymore, he’s already pushed his luck with the both of them. Sebastian is certainly more outwardly compliant with them, even though it’s obvious the German is seething. His wife, on the other hand, has a fucking loud mouth, and is honestly a danger to the team. He knows some conversation will need to be had with her when Sebastian’s contract ends - they don’t want her openly bashing Ferrari on the front page of every news site.

Turning on his heel, he gives a nod to Sebastian and not even glancing at her. He sweeps inside, leaving her on the stairs. She’s wondering how easily she’ll be able to dump his body in the Monaco harbor later this evening. (It can’t be that hard, can it? I mean, he’s tall but she’ll figure it out.)

Arms crossed, she watches Sebastian approach her. He tugs at her wrists to free her arms, raising his hands to cup her face, eyes flitting all over her to search for what’s going on. Britta glances with worry at Antti, both taking a few steps back to offer some semblance of privacy.

She swats his hands away, “Don’t do that.”

He’s hurt. “What did he say to you?”

“This team, Sebastian. I can’t believe what they’ve put you through…” She throws her hands up, letting them smack down on her thighs.

“It’s not your job to defend me.” He says gently. He steps up close to her, pressing a hard kiss to her forehead. She closes her eyes at the sensation, lifting her hands to place her palms on his chest. She feels him breathing, and it’s soothing.

“It is, though.” She’s quiet.

He kisses her again, smiling to himself.

“You are my fierce protector.” He says to her. “You always have been.”

“Maybe to a fault.” It makes her sad to think that anything she might have said has impacted his career. That her opinions and snarky comments may have been a negative for this in the long run.

“There’s a reason I like to call you angel.” Brushing a strand of hair out of her face, she raises her tired eyes to meet his.

“And why’s that?” She asks.

“Because you’re my guardian angel.”

“You can’t tell anyone!” She exclaims at Mick, the young German’s face is lit up in happiness as he leans forward over the tabletop.

“Another? Number four?”

“I work fast.” Sebastian cracks his ridiculous joke, patting his wife’s knee as the two are sat with Mick and his girlfriend at a nice restaurant in Switzerland.

“Really, don’t tell anyone. We just found out. Only you and our families know.” She places her hand on top of Sebastian’s, taking a deep breath and looking back at him. They already had three rambunctious kids drawing on the walls in their house and just, you know, doing kid things and making a mess. And now? Number four was on its way. Unannounced, unplanned. A surprise. A good one, but still unplanned.

With so many little ones around, alone time was hard to come by - but (bad joke incoming) it wasn’t hard for Sebastian to cum. (i’m sorry) They had gotten frisky with each other at the right time of the month for her, and not soon after she could read the telltale signs that this was another pregnancy. He was just as excitable and animated the fourth time as he was the first, wrapping her up in tight hugs and insisting she rest and put her feet up from that moment on.

“Well, congratulations.” Mick says genially, smiling at them. “Do you want a boy or a girl?”

“Sebastian wants another girl, I want a boy.”

“Girls are more fun.”

“You weren’t saying that when Matilda drew with her markers all over your shirts. She ruined, like, at least five of them.” She teases, giving him a playful poke in the side.

He jerks away, bending awkwardly to avoid her jabs. Laughing, he swats at her hands. Even all these years later, after all this time, they still act like lovesick high-schoolers together.

Mick can’t help but grin warmly. He’s always admired their relationship. He’s admired Sebastian for so many obvious reasons, but he’s grown to deeply appreciate and value his friendship with Mrs. Vettel. She’s been around the block many a time with Seb that she’s got a story or two to share with him when he needs it.

“Will you stop at four?” Mick’s girlfriend speaks up, lightly gripping the stem of her wine glass.

“Well--”

“Not if I can help it.” Sebastian jokes again.

“Easy for you to say when you’re not the one who has to carry them for nine months in your body.” She fights the urge to smack her husband again. She knows he’s just having a good time. They have no plans. Never have with kids. The first one wasn’t even planned. It was just to have them. With him. That was the only requirement. She didn’t want to have babies with any other man in the world, and she has held to that.

His kids were his world, and they had been a light through all he had endured at Ferrari. Even with Aston Martin, things were still rocky, but they were on an upward trajectory. His valuable experience and infinite wisdom and passion were all positives that the UK team needed. He was cared for, protected, and looked after, and that helped her sleep at night. It helped her sleep soundly when she had finally managed to get her kids to bed and she found herself alone in the dark house wishing he was next to her.

That was the one question that number four posed. How much longer was he going to leave her for weeks on end with the kids? Was he really going to miss more time with them? He had more money than he could ever need. He didn’t need to keep racing, even though he loved it. She wanted him happy, and she knew that racing made him happy. There was give and take in the relationship, they both knew that full well. But Sebastian felt like he had taken legions more than he had given, and that she had sacrificed an inordinate amount of time and effort and opportunities all for him. And he knew that if he told her that she’d tell him it was worth it, that for him it all was fucking worth it. He just didn’t know what the future held, but then again, neither did she. They would cross that bridge when they got there.

He was thinking about it still when they sat on their couch later that night. The kids were sprawled in their laps, she was leaning her head on his shoulder. Matilda and Emily were bickering about which race car they each wanted (they always fought over the purple one), while Michael was seeing how long he could hang his head over the edge of the cushion before too much blood rushed to his cranium. Sebastian had one hand on his son’s stomach to keep an eye on him.

“Seeing Mick and his girlfriend today reminded me of us when we were younger.” He says off-handedly, glancing out the window at the light rain hitting the glass panes.

“You say that like we’re old.” She chuckles.

Sebastian mirrors her laugh. “I remember sitting behind you in math class.”

“Gosh, I hated that class.” She nudges her nose against his shoulder, smiling. “I was so bad at it.”

“You were bad.”

“Hey! Watch it, mister. I wasn't that bad.”

Matilda turns to her mom suddenly and tells her that Emily won’t share the plastic toy car. Their mother sighs and tells them they’re old enough to know how to take turns. Sebastian says the purple car is slow. They should pick a faster one. This time his wife doesn’t hold back the urge to smack him.

“I always asked you for help on the homework.” He says.

“You always knew what to do though, and yet you still asked for my help.”

“You were just so cute and I was too shy to talk to you. It was how I thought I could flirt with you.”

“And the only way I knew how to flirt with you was through insults.”

“You still do that.” Sebastian stares down at her. She’s raised her head and is looking up at him.

“Yeah, well, you’re still here. So, I’d say it worked.” She grins.

He holds up a finger in question. “Well, I flirted first, so I’d say that my plan worked. Not yours.”

“This isn’t a competition.”

“Of course it is. You know it is.” He runs his tongue along his top lip.

“Okay, maybe it is. But I still win.”

“I don’t--” He starts, but she cuts him off.

“You know, you never did tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“After you kissed me that first time, I asked you how long you had thought about doing it. You told me you’d tell me someday. It’s been decades, Sebastian, and you've never told me.”

She’s surprised that no strong look of surprise or realization crosses his face. That’s because he already knows the answer. He’s never forgotten it.

“I did say that, yes.”

“So, are you gonna tell me?”

“I had thought about kissing you for two hundred and thirty-one days.”

She’s silent. Her brain can’t quite process it. She opens her mouth to speak before shutting it. It takes a moment before she can respond.

“231 days? That’s--”

“Once I fell for you, I never stopped thinking about you. Once you sat down next to me and introduced yourself, I was convinced I had found a living angel. Like you had come into my life for a purpose, and that I would be an idiot to let you go.”

She finds tears pooling in her eyes.

“I counted the days to remind myself that time was passing. That I didn’t have forever to tell you how I felt.” He chuckles, tapping his fingers on his baby boy’s tummy. “The more days passed, the more afraid I got that you would leave, the more times I would stand in front of the mirror and give myself little pep talks to help me feel brave enough to talk to you. And one day it just stuck. I saw you on that two hundred and thirty-first day and all this courage flooded through me. I knew I had to tell you. Or show you.”

Now the kids are asking why their mother is crying, because Sebastian is pressing kiss after kiss on her forehead, gently reassuring her with his movements that he loves her and that she’s the best thing in his life. Not the trophies, the wins, the fame. Her.

“Would you have done it sooner if you had to do it all over again?” She asks quietly.

He hesitates, thinking. “No. If I hadn’t waited, I wouldn’t have known how much I loved you.”

“We were kids, how could you know you loved me?”

“I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help but love you. I don’t know how not to. I don’t know how I spent those days waiting. But I did it for a reason. It taught me to need you. To need you beyond a simple attraction. It was real. And painful. But that’s what love is.”

The tears fall.

No human being has ever stood so close to her soul as he has.

They were made for loving each other.

After all these years, they’d still choose each other, in a million lifetimes, in a million universes.

Each other.

Always.

311 notes · View notes

alwayschoppedtaco · 4 months

Text

Chapter Sixteen

“we have never heard the devil’s side of the story, seeing as god wrote the book”

word count: 5.8k

warnings: mentions of sexual harassment, explicit language, drinking, motorsport accidents, mentions of sex, mention of sex, mentions of death, mature themes

if it’s not obvious, italics are flashbacks

Sam had always found any seat in a racing car to be uncomfortable. Not only because the car literally wasn’t built for the female bone structure of the pelvis, but because it was cramped and stiff. That opinion never changed in all her years of racing— it was one of the few consistencies in all actuality. She managed to get used to it, eventually forgetting about her discomfort during the race because of the focus or adrenaline, making the only time she really complained about it when she was sitting in the car not racing.

But as she sat in her chassis while her team wheeled her to the sixth grid position in Mexico City, she wasn’t as bothered with her uncomfortable seat as normal. To be honest, it hadn’t even crossed her mind. Because all she could think about was the events of Austin and how it had followed her all the way down to Mexico, which spiraled into how it would likely follow her for the rest of her career, whether it be short-lived or long and successful.

She tried everything to focus on the race because as always, she knew once the lights went out, there couldn't be a trace of anything in her mind besides what was happening on the track in front of her.

The sounds nearby were muffled by the thick carbon fiber of her helmet. Thumps here and there, an occasional scrape, the while she recognized as a wheel gun, and the constant hum of activity. Sam kept her eyes locked on the various, colorful buttons of her steering wheel, her fingers tracing over a few out of habit. From her peripherals, she could see her team scrambling around the car once it stopped moving, mechanics running in and out of her vision, but Sam didn’t react. She just sat there, letting her mind wander back to the events a few days ago while she still had time:

It was two o'clock in the morning and Sam was sitting at her hotel room desk slumped over an impressively large pile of papers. A half-drank cup of coffee lay nearby, its once steamy contents now cold and discarded. Her phone was lighting up periodically, with messages from friends and family, news article publications, and social media notifications of tagged posts. There was not an ounce of organization among the semblance of chaos— a good representation of her mind if you were to ask her.

It was Tuesday, nearly twenty-four hours after getting her second strike. She’d spent the night, more appropriately the last few hours of the morning, in Molly and Mick’s room doing what they thought was sleeping, when in reality, she was wide awake marinating in her mess of thoughts. What felt like hundreds of calls were ignored and even more text messages. She’d joined a virtual meeting with Guenther and the FIA, as they broke down the situation from their perspective. She was given a chance to defend herself and explain, which she did clearly and concisely without any expletives or raised voices, but as she expected, they didn’t change their mind— she knew it wasn’t worth putting up too big of a fight because if Monaco taught her anything, it’s that they weren’t going to change their minds regardless.

After she’d made sure Daniel was gone, Sam made her way back to her own room to decompress. At least, that’s what she had hoped to do. Her mind was moving faster than her car on the straights, and in her opinion, sitting still only made it worse. So while keeping herself locked away in her room, an arm’s distance from having to face her problems, she busied herself. Checkout wasn’t for another day, but she packed her bags and tidied up. But once there was no pillow out of place or speck of dust on any surface, she was out of ideas. On a normal day, she’d go for an excessively long run, drowning out her thoughts with loud bass thrumming through her headphones and punishing herself by ignoring the pain screaming from the muscles in her legs. But that meant going out and seeing people, potentially getting recognized, and she wasn’t going to risk it.

So she tried the other end of the spectrum. She tried to sleep it off. But every time she closed her eyes, images of the night flashed through her mind. The man’s hands on her— under her skirt and around her neck. The overwhelming feeling of helplessness at the fight unfolding in front of her. The unbridled rage in Daniel’s eyes. The ear-piercing sirens echoing through the back of the cold, dingy police car.

And if it wasn’t that night, it was whatever lay in wait in the future. The end of her career. Living through the humiliation again. The look on her friends’ faces when they find out she’s been keeping things from them— lying to them. The look on Daniel’s face when he discovers the truth. The potential stories that could run about it. Humiliating the people closest to her just because of their association with her. Nobody batting an eye in her direction as she screamed and pleaded at the top of her lungs out into a crowd of people for anybody to listen.

So sleeping was out of the question.

She tried reading, movies, music, and games on her phone, but nothing held her attention long enough to distract her.

Every thought, idea, circumstance, or warning running through her head was fighting for her complete attention. She’d done nothing all day after the meeting, but she felt as exhausted as she did after some races. The only thing she could think of to get her thoughts in order was to write them down.

So that’s what she did.

She took her notebook normally used for her track and driving notes during sessions early in the weekend, and just started writing.

There were crumpled pieces of discarded paper strewn across the desk, scribbles, and notes surrounding scraps left and right. And after five hours of only the sound of the scratching of her scribbling pen against paper, she’d not only written pages and pages of ramblings containing journal-like entries, potential plans if the worst-case scenario did come true, or statements she could make to the public next weekend, Sam had managed to write four letters.

One to Molly.

One to Mick.

One to George.

One to Daniel.

They varied in length, but one common thing among them was that on the front of the envelopes which she’d found in her bag, aside from their names, she’d written the same thing:

For when it happens

She’d written each of her friends a letter to open if she ever got her third and final strike. Depending on who it was to, the letters contained all the information she’d been withholding from her friends. Not only that, in the time she spent writing, she’d devised a detailed personal plan of action if she were to get her third strike, and each of the letters briefed her friends on any parts of the plan she felt like sharing with them, which wasn’t many. So the result? A contingency plan, of sorts.

She prayed she never had to leave the letters with her friends. But a small, once quiet voice in the back of her head was telling her it was inevitable. Every ounce of Sam wanted to prove that voice wrong, but she wasn’t sure it was possible.

It was odd. Sam had never before doubted herself to this degree, her dedication and ruthless sense of purpose was something she prided herself in. Like she told everyone during the all-team press conference in Bahrain, “if there was something she wanted, she would stop at nothing to get it.”

But something about this was different; something had shifted. This was a completely new and unique situation. Sam was riddled with doubt, a new feeling for her, and she didn’t know what to do with it right now.

The one thing she did know? What would need to happen if all her doubts proved correct?

It would be hard when the time came— if it came. No, when it came. But for now, one last time, Sam wanted to indulge in all that this life had to offer before she began preparing herself and her friends for the potential hazards of her career. Just one more time, even if it made her the most selfish person on the planet.

She snapped out of it when she felt and heard somebody knocking on her helmet. Sam lifted her visor and looked up to see Molly.

“Remember, keep tight into turn 3 and stay out of trouble on lap one. Race hard, I’ll see you in seventy-one.”

Sam nodded, reaching up to do their pre-race ritual handshake, and then closed her visor once Molly was gone. But before she could turn her attention back to her steering wheel, Sam was met with the orange car lined up on the grid next to her, which had been hidden by the figure of her best friend. And despite the dwindling minutes until the five lights would go out, Sam found herself letting her mind wander far off, back to Wednesday night:

“Sam,” Daniel huffed out in relief, “god I’m so glad to see you.” He immediately walked forward and embraced her in a hug. Sam slowly lifted her arms and returned the gesture, letting herself lean into Daniel’s warm, tall frame.

“Hi,” she whispered defeatedly into his chest.

The hug lasted maybe thirty seconds, but Sam wished she could stay in Daniel’s arms forever. Because the way all of her worries melted away while she was with him— the simple comfort he was able to offer her with just the soft rumble of his voice and gentlest of touches— it offered instant relief that she wasn’t sure she wanted to get rid of any time soon.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call or anything. I just needed time to lay low and get the situation under control. I wanted to, but I was still freaking out a bit and—”

Daniel interrupted her by cradling the back of her head and pulling her into him yet again.

“You don’t need to explain yourself or apologize. I’m just happy you’re here,” he whispered the last bit before Sam felt him press his lips gently to the top of her head.

“Thanks, Daniel.” She beamed up at him and his honey-brown eyes. The sweet smile on his face gave her an escape from her own mind, and the thought crossed her mind: how had she gone through this before without him?

“How’s your hand?” Sam asked, standing up straight and pulling his hand from its resting place in her back, and bringing it between them so she could take a look at it.

Daniel shrugged. “Not bad. A bit sore but I’ll manage.”

He watched as she brought his hand up closer to her face, inspecting the purple bruises and small tears in his skin. It was odd to see her so worried about him, and then think beach to how much she used to spit venom in his direction earlier in the season. Change had always made Daniel feel the slightest bit uncertain, but he had never been more certain in anything than he is about the girl standing in front of him.

He broke the silence. “So I’m assuming you don’t want to talk about what happened?”

She shook her head, “if that’s alright with you…”

He gave her another warm smile, “of course it’s alright. Do you wanna watch a movie or something? Might help take your mind off of it.”

She pondered for a moment, Daniel begging to know what was going on in her head, but finally replied with a drop of her shoulders, “Can I just lay with you for a bit?”

She felt a bit guilty, coming here to spend time with him, asking to lay next to him, when she'd gone out of her way to purposely avoid doing this exact thing early Monday morning after the ordeal. But simultaneously putting all of her worries to rest and making them so much worse, Daniel smiled with a small nod.

“Do you trust me?” Daniel asked out of the blue.

“No,” Sam said plainly. But then her solemn face lifted ever-so-slightly so the corner of her mouth turned upward, “But I can make an exception this time.”

Daniel’s small smile turned into his toothy grin as he wasted no time. He turned and yanked the comforter off the hotel bed, tossing a pillow at Sam, before grabbing her free hand and dragging her out of the door, into the elevator and up to the top floor, before heading toward a staircase and through the door to the roof labeled ‘off limits’.

Sam didn’t question anything, she just moved her feet and let herself get swept away in whatever Daniel had planned because she knew that whatever it was, would take her mind off of things while still honoring her simple request just to be with him.

“How did you manage to enter into a 'no-entry' zone?” Sam smiled as she watched Daniel lay the comforter out on the hard ground of the roof before he took a seat and looked over at her, the same grin on his face beckoning her over.

She walked over and took a seat next to him, trying not to blush at just how adorable he looked sitting there, waiting for her. Once she was beside him, she handed him the pillow, and he put it down between the two of them, resting his head on the half closest to him.

“I have my ways,” he replied to her, lifting his arm up and creating space for her to lay down.

But instead of putting her head on the empty side of the pillow, Sam went ahead and cozied up under Daniel’s shoulder, laying her head on his chest and reaching around to wrap his arm back around her as she hugged his torso. It took Daniel by surprise, how comfortable she looked and felt doing it. But it also made him realize how difficult she must be taking all of this to simply drop her walls and melt into him like that. Looking past the fact it meant she was struggling, Daniel was enjoying every moment of this soft, docile Sam.

“Well whatever they are, keep it up. I like being alone with you.” The way she said it so softly, as if she was finally coming up for air, just solidified Daniel’s thoughts. From that point on, he made it his goal to keep her— them— like this, not her drowning, but he wanted her to be comfortable; he wanted Sam to be relaxed and open like this all the time. So he didn’t disrupt whatever she was obviously thinking about in the silence of the night, their only company the millions of stars in the sky, and pulled her closer to him.

Minutes passed, Daniel focusing on running his fingers lightly through Sam’s hair making sure not to hit any snags, and Sam was getting to know the steady thumping of Daniel’s heart.

The sky shifted from navy to black, and the city lights of downtown Austin brightened. The stars shimmered, making their presence known and offering company to the two hopelessly in love people laying down below, that were clueless to the reality that existed within each other's arms.

But then, Sam spoke up.

“How have you lasted this long?”

He dropped his chin to try and get a look at her, “What do you mean?”

She shrugged her free shoulder, her voice slightly muffled due to her cheek resting against Daniel’s chest. “I’ve been in F1 for less than a season and some days I already think about disappearing off the face of the earth and spending the rest of my life hiding in some random small town…” she turned to look up at him from where she lay.

“Does it ever get better?”

He took a moment before answering, looking in her eyes for the answer to his question of whether or not he should tell her the truth or tell her what he’d want to hear if he were in her shoes.

He landed on the ambiguous in-between. “I’m not sure, I’ll tell you if I ever find out,” his eyes still lingered on her, trying his best to sort through all the emotions they held bottled up. Sam had never been good at hiding how she felt on her face, and Daniel could tell she was trying to act like she wasn’t as bothered as he knew she was.

There was more silence. The two drivers were lost in their own thoughts, filing through cabinets, folders, and notepads tucked away in the deepest corners of their minds. The tension was comfortable, but Sam couldn’t help but yet again, think out loud.

“Maine,” she said surely.

“What?” Daniel had absolutely no idea where a state had become relevant, but he let her go on.

Sam’s eyes stayed locked on the stars as she spoke quietly, “I would go to Maine; If I ever wanted to disappear,” she clarified. “Specifically this little town called Kennebunkport. We had to do a project on paper towns in middle school, but I misunderstood the assignment and chose it because I thought the name sounded like a planet from Star Wars. I think about it sometimes, and all I remember is that it’s got great beaches, lobster fishing, a historic street car collection, and a lone lighthouse just like in the old movies. But the best part is that the population is barely over 3,000. Nobody would ever think to look there, especially not for me.”

“Well now I do,” Daniel laughed, and though he couldn’t see her, he knew Sam was rolling her eyes because next came a whack at his chest. He laughed, and propped himself up on his forearms, doing his best not to move her around too much. “Why wouldn’t you go up to your place in Colorado? It’s secluded, and not to mention you seemed really happy there.”

She sat up from her place on his chest, “It’s too sentimental. There’s just— I’d be surrounded by a portion of my past I haven’t turned to face alone yet. If I was to go there… I don’t know, I— I just feel like I’d be too alone, forced to live with myself…”

Daniel quirked his eyebrow at her. “Yeah, that’s the whole point of falling off the face of the earth, right?”

She took a moment to process what he’d said in comparison to what she’d been thinking. “I mean, I don’t want to be stuck with myself and be pressured to feel like I need to work on my mental health or fix whatever it is that people are convinced is wrong with me internally. I’d want to immerse myself in something quaint, where nobody knows me, and nobody asks too many questions. As if I was starting over, not going back to somewhere I’m already someone.”

Sam could tell Daniel was trying to make sense of her answer, or at least try his best to understand it from her perspective. Yet before he could think too hard about it, Sam’s curiosity got the best of her.

“What about you? Where would you go?”

It took Daniel no time to answer, and to be honest, his lack of hesitation worried Sam just the slightest for a few different reasons. “Probably home. Back to Perth. The farm. Spend time disconnected from life surrounded by family. Mum, Dad, my sister, my niece, and nephew. Because if I was running from something, I’d want comfort and reassurance from the people I love most that everything is going to be alright.”

There was another beat of silence between the two before Sam spoke up, trying her hardest not to let a laugh escape during a heavier conversation. Ultimately, she failed, “So the exact opposite of what I said.”

Daniel chuckled too, confirming her observation. “The exact opposite of what you said.”

The two laughed together, Daniel reaching over and wrapping his arms around Sam and pulling her back toward the ground. She let out a yelp of surprise and continued laughing as Daniel chaotically peppered kisses all over her face while she was squirming to get free. Their laughs echoed from the roof of the tall building, and the only ones in range to listen were nothing more than balls of flaming gas in the sky, billions of lightyears away— who did they have to tell?

But as always, Sam had to ruin everything. Because the number one thing on her mind, the thing she had come to terms with under the stars that night, was that Daniel Ricciardo was too good for her and he always would be; she didn’t deserve him or his love, and she never would.

Eventually, the kiss attack died down and Daniel rolled off the top of Sam. They turned on their sides to face one another. All Daniel could think about were the feelings he felt for Sam, and how real they were. All the warmth and happiness flowing through him, creating a neural pathway directly to the corners of his lips, the opacity of color in his cheeks, or the horsepower of his heart.

The next thing he knew, his mouth was moving faster than his brain. “Do you want to come to LA with me for a few days? I know it’s last minute but some of my good friends invited me to their Halloween party and I think it'd be fun. Plus it might help take your mind off of everything. They’ll keep everything on the down-low. They’re pretty private themselves, but I get if you don’t want to—“

She interrupted him, “No, I want to. It sounds fun. I don’t have a costume, but I think I can figure something out at the last minute.”

He sat up all the way and waved his hand to signify it was no big deal, “Worst comes to worst, you could always go as a racing driver and just keep your helmet on all night, for the anonymity and stuff.”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh at his joke, “I think I’ll manage. Besides, if you say they’ll keep it quiet, I trust you.”

Her gaze softened as she said the genuine statement, but Daniel smirked and quirked an eyebrow, “I thought you said you didn’t trust me?”

She smiled and teased him right back, “Like I said, you’re the exception.”

��Radio check, Sam.”

Sam was yanked out of her thoughts by Floyd’s voice coming through her earpiece.

“Yeah, copy.” She replied casually, not with her usual pre-race excitement.

“Alright, t-minus 2 minutes until lights out. Hang tight.”

She sat patiently, but still as antsy as ever to get the race going, especially in hopes to drown out the thoughts in her head with g-forces, loud engines, and steady vibrations.

In hopes of keeping her mind distracted, Sam began triple checking her harnesses, the strap below her helmet, the velcro of her gloves, and anything else she could get her hands on from where she sat. Mechanics, officials, engineers, and staff from every team were running around doing their final checks on their drivers’ cars. It was hectic, but thankfully, she was isolated from it all in the claustrophobic comfort of her chassis; she wasn’t sure if she could handle any more chaos this weekend. But only seconds later, once she ran out of things to occupy herself with, as she suspected, her mind drifted off:

When it came time for media day on the Thursday after she landed in Mexico from LA, Sam could barely think about facing the cameras for the first time without getting nauseous. She knew she needed to walk out there and own what had happened, but with her future hanging over her head as menacingly as the Sword of Damocles, she found it hard to be as confident and careless as she usually was. So she took a deep breath, grabbed her driver's pass from Molly, and then opened the car door.

And every one of her worst nightmares came true when she was bombarded with cameras within seconds of walking into the paddock. Journalists, TV stations, and fans all flocked in her direction far more than usual. A few accredited outlets tried to pull her aside for comments, but she just plastered on a smile and kept moving.

The chaos only increased when she got far enough through the turnstiles for everyone to see the back of her hoodie.

Call my lawyer

(1800kissmya**)

When she’d been in Los Angeles with Daniel, under the guise of hoodies, hats, and sunglasses, he’d pointed it out to her at a novelty shop and joked she should wear it into the paddock once they got to Mexico. Sam immediately loved the idea and knew it’d be a fun way to take her power back, even if only slightly. It occurred to her the FIA might see it as a challenge to their authority or out of line, but she knew a simple sweatshirt wasn’t enough for a strike.

Of course, Daniel knew Sam was struggling with the backlash of her arrest, but he was oblivious to just how much, seeing as he still didn’t know the full story about the clause in her contract. So while they were away, he did his best to take her mind off of things, while still keeping a low profile.

And as Sam got ready for her press conference with George, she couldn’t help but miss that carefree, naive feeling of spending time in LA away from the drama with Daniel. She was reminiscing on the time they spent together and the fun things they did, overlooking the guilt she buried deep in her gut and focusing on the escape it offered by reminding her there are allowed to be good days among the bad.

But wasting no time, the official in charge of the press conference knocked the wind out of her at full speed right out of the gate:

“Sam, a bit of an altercation last weekend in Austin during your personal celebrations led to your arrest. Care to comment?”

She shrugged, trying to show how much thought she’d put into her response and trying to make an example of how much the media was blowing the incident out of proportion.

“What a majority of publications are choosing to leave out is that I was defending myself after I was sexually harassed and assaulted by a man. I’m not sure why that’s not the story in the headlines. The charges were dropped against me, finalized against the man, and the Travis County sheriff's department has apologized multiple times for the mistake. I’ve forgiven them, and that’s all I care to say on the issue.”

“Alright, moving on.”

But that’s the one thing Sam couldn’t seem to do: move on.

“About time to get a move on. Systems check,” Flloyd chimed in from the garage one more time.

Sam ran through the motions simply out of muscle memory, her full focus still not present.

“Delta 3 positive?”

“Check,” Sam replied after making sure the corresponding settings were in place.

“Power steering disengaged and standing by?”

“Check.”

“Starting strat C, keep Alpha 2 engaged”

“Copy.”

“You’re all set Sam, let’s show them how it’s done”

She mumbled a thanks and looked up to the clock towering over the start-finish line. The anticipation was building, and it was time to get focused. One minute left. Her eyes closed and she inhaled, that familiar anxiety which was building in her stomach like every race before gave her flashbacks to feeling it out of the car on Thursday night:

“Sam! Thank god!” George gasped as he opened his Mexico City hotel room to see Sam standing there He hadn’t heard from her since Austin, and couldn't pull her aside for a chat before or after their press conference together.

“Can I come in?”

He practically yanked her inside and into a hug, which Sam quietly and reluctantly returned. What she came to do was not something she had seen herself doing, ever. It made her nauseous. The anxiety crept up her throat and tightened its cold hands around her throat. She took deep breaths, trying to relax and stave off an anxiety attack.

“Is everything alright? You ran off so quick today, and I just, I’ve been so worried about you. You gave me a real scare back there and—”

“George,” she cut him off. He stopped talking and looked up at her, innocence in his eyes— innocence Sam knew she was about to dull.

“I’m fine, well, I’m managing,” she corrected. “But I’m not here to talk about what happened in Austin.”

He looked confused, and it killed Sam knowing she was going be blindsiding him with this, but she knew she had to do it. George stood there, waiting for her to go on. She hesitated, contemplating if she should back out or not, but that same small voice that had been whispering to her recently told her she had no other choice.

“George, do you still have feelings for me?”

The question was whispered, and the fear in Sam’s voice was evident. Both answers scared her. If he said no, then she had been wrong and had completely embarrassed herself. If he said yes… the implications were obvious.

Instantaneously, his cluelessness faded and morphed into surprise, followed by guilt.

“Sam—” His tone revealed to her that her assumptions had been correct. All the small details she’d noticed over the past few months, but especially since she and Daniel got back from Colorado, hadn’t been her thinking too far into things. She’d been right, and for once it fucking hurt to admit it.

“You can’t,” she said flatly.

“I know but it’s not that simple. I can’t help—”

“No, George. You can't.”

He looked at her as if his world had been ripped out from under him. Hopeless. Confused. Lost.

And Sam didn’t know why, which only made this more difficult.

Yes, they had a history but that was before the incident that saw to her leaving F2. And since they’d become friends again, she had displayed no romantic interest in him whatsoever. Plus, he was one of the only few people who knew about her and Daniel, which should have made her strictly-friends-intention clear.

George looked incredibly distraught, and what came out of his mouth next, only twisted the knife even deeper.

“Sam, I love you. And I’m sorry. But I don’t think I ever stopped.” He sat down at the foot of his bed, momentarily dropping his head into his hands. George was smart, he knew he shouldn’t have let himself slide back into this predicament in the first place. But he couldn’t help it. He was disappointed in himself and at what he knew this could possibly mean for them, but that didn’t mean he felt any less strongly about her.

She was shocked; she didn’t think it was that intense, only just fleeting feelings. For the sake of herself, and George, she tried to keep a neutral expression on her face. Her eyes closed momentarily, as she took a breath in and out, before opening them and looking at the ceiling trying to formulate a response to his surprise proclamation of love.

All she could come up with?

“You can’t, George.”

The pit of guilt in her stomach tripled in size.

He looked up at Sam, hands clasped in front of him and eyes pleading with her. For what? She didn't know. Did he expect her to drop everything and get back together with him? Drop what he’d done to her in the past? Drop Daniel?

No, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

“If we’re going to be teammates, you need to get past this. Do what you need to do to figure this out. You need to be able to look at me and see a teammate. A friend. A competitor. But nothing more than that. Because I love you too George, just not in the same way you love me. And I’m sorry…” she trailed off, trying not to let a tear fall at how crushed George looked sitting across from her. There was no doubt in either of their minds that she was serious, especially because how straight to the point she got. But then she took a moment to internalize everything, and strangely enough, a small laugh came out.

“But I’m not. Not really,” she shook her head slightly, not caring if it came off too harsh because realization hit her at a million miles an hour. Tears brewed in her eyes, as the relief and the guilt of everything she’d come to terms with over the past week and a half came pouring out. “Because—”

“Because you’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

He finished for her, saying it so matter-of-factly that Sam wondered if it was obvious.

A lone tear managed to escape, but it barely made it past Sam’s nose before she’d wiped it away.

“Yeah. I think so.”

Sam snapped out of it just in time, because before she knew it, the first red light turned on.

She decided that she was going to channel all of her pent-up emotions into a decent drive. Use it all to motivate her.

The second light.

A part of her knew that letting everything that had happened since Austin hold so much power over her was dangerous.

The third light.

Then again, look what she did for a living. She wasn’t one to be obsessed with the consequences of danger.

The fourth light.

She knew she needed to be cautious. She was walking on thin ice. There had to be a way to find common ground between the two ideals.

The final light.

She decided it would be better to let the universe decide. Because at least that meant it was out of her hands. What was meant to be, will be. And if the world was against her, there wouldn’t be much she could do about it. She would put up a fight, there’s no doubt. But is it really a fight if it’s one woman against the world?

Lights out and away she goes.

But in the end, all that pent-up emotion wasn’t enough. Because for the first time since before summer break, Samantha Thompson and her number 66 HAAS placed out of the points.

And to make matters worse, it wasn’t even close.

P16 the race after a podium.

How could it possibly get any worse?

Well, I’m so glad you asked.

get notified when a chapter posts!

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alwayschoppedtaco · 4 months

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Neymarsangel's Masterlist 🤍

I write for Footballers and Formula 1 drivers, requests are open 🤍

Last Updated: 30/07/2023

Smut - ✨

Fluff - ❤️

Angst - 🔥

Series - 📚

Football: ⚽️

Neymar Jr:

Thick-skinned 🔥❤️

Tissues ❤️

Ballgowns and Galas ❤️

Mason Mount:

Secrets ❤️

Martin Ødegaard:

North London Forever ❤️

Joao Felix:

Pushover ✨

There's no place like home ✨

Philippe Coutinho:

Training Sessions 🔥

Nick Pope:

Winter Nights ❤️

Formula 1: 🏎

Mick Schumacher:

Rivals with benefits: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four📚

Lewis Hamilton:

Sleepless nights ✨

Pink and Blue ✨

Charles Leclerc:

Best friend's brother , Part Two❤️🔥

Pit Lane ❤️

Car Troubles ❤️🔥

Just an Incident ❤️🔥

Max Verstappen:

Two Worlds Collided ❤️🔥

Lando Norris:

Sweet Little Lies ❤️

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alwayschoppedtaco · 4 months

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🐺 ― ODE TO THE DOGS OF WAR | MASTERLIST

summ. The Devil of Monté Carlo steps foot into your parlour to strike a deal, and against your better judgement— you accept his offer. (or: the one where the gangster falls for the pretty baker.) pairing. f!baker!reader x mafia!charles leclerc rating. general audience, swearing, gang violence, gun violence, blood, death. Specific warnings in respective chapters. genre. mafia!AU, friends-to-lovers, drama, action, romance tag. #ode to the dogs of war #ff: dogs of war *

Follow my library account @meteor-trails for updates!

AO3 Shortcut | PINBOARD

0. PROLOGUE

1. WELCOME TO THE CIRCU(IT)S!

2. THE WOLVES’ CARNIVAL

3. MAN O' WAR

• chapters without context / memes! • missing scenes! • fan edits! • fan art! • readers submit their bakers!

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alwayschoppedtaco · 4 months

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✨MASTERLIST✨

*side note, this might be my all time favourite gif lol

Formula 1:

DECEMBER PROMPT CHALLENGE MASTERLIST

Daniel Ricciardo (N.03)

One-Shots:

Team (Daniel x PO Reader, 6.1K words)

Max Verstappen (N.33/N.01)

Viper (8/? Part Series, Max x Fem!Driver Reader)

Part 1 (15.9K words)

Part 2 (11.5K words)

Part 3 (11.0K words)

Park 4 (13.3K words)

Part 5 (13.8K words)

Part 6 (13.7K words)

Part 7 (15.5K words)

Part 8 (12.0K words)

Part 9 (14.3K words)

One-Shots:

Coming soon :)

Formula 1 General one shots

Bananas in Pyjamas (2022 F1 Grid x Driver Reader, 1.1K words)

I'll continue to update the list as I post more content!

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alwayschoppedtaco · 4 months

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Welcome to The Grid !

Hi im diana, she/her. im just your friendly neighbourhood f1 and football fanatic! im super cool about my passion for my sports boys and their team. come chat with me anytime !! ⚽️🏎️

Favourite Teams: Manchester United, Scuderia Ferrari

request : If you have any request or suggestions, send them to me. I will answer them as soon as I have time !! ◡̈ I'm not a writer so I'm sorry in advance if I cant do your request.

VAR (rules): i do not write nsfw content. However, i may interact with blogs who post such content. I believe that each of us are responsible for what we read and our actions online.

🤍 this is a safe space to be in love with men who drive fast cars in odd-shaped circles and men who chase after a ball for 90+ mins.

click “keep reading” to access the full masterlist!

The Starting XI

Player Profiles (Instagram edits)

f1 drivers

series

The Pitbox Crew Series [ongoing]

(yngasly x f1drivers)

Part 1 - The Pitbox Crew

Part 2 - The Enstone Life

Part 3 - Mischief Managed

Part 4 - Land of Pizza and Pasta

Part 5 - Upside Down, Inside Out

Part 6 - Better Together

Part 7 - Power, Beauty and Soul

Part 8 - Ferrari Charm

Part 9 - Maple Syrup & Surprises

one shots

f1 drivers

mick schumacher - she shoots and she scores !

george russell - you had me at football

charles leclerc - off season antics

mick schumacher - gorgeous

footballers

mason mount - tis the season

alejandro garnacho - comeback kid

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*・

Media Day! (Photoshop Edits)

charles leclerc & nyck devries

williams ‘22 boys

alphatauri ‘22 boys

mick schumacher

charles leclerc

bianca bustamante

dogs of war

dow: the baker

dow: the white knight

alex albon

logan sargeant

oscar piastri

max verstappen

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*・

The Hall of Fame (art)

F1 x Cars (Series)

Team Ferrari

Team Williams

Lily + Alex

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*・

The Team (statistics/ fun facts)

f1 drivers

George Russell

footballers

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*・

Yellow Card (ramblings)

f1 silly season

danny, mick, seb, nicky

cha cha

bahrain gp 23

ferrari, mclaren and mercedes fans

esteban x randy

aus gp 23

Cars: Live Action

King George

monaco race suit

football silly season

MUN vs LIV

odds and ends

pinterest name aesthetic

f1 core challenge

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*・

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alwayschoppedtaco · 4 months

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typical male // pato o’ ward

summary: pato is nothing if not a simp for his girlfriend, the most wonderful woman on the planet, in his eyes. or, all the little moments that made pato o' ward feel like the luckiest man on earth

pairing: pato o ward x female! reader

warnings: smut scene, inappropriate use of a mclaren, fucking on the hood of said mclaren, pato is a simp and cannot go five minutes during the act without telling her how pretty she is. weddings and talk of. pato is the boyfriend we all deserve, a game of giant jenga played at a wedding reception (and may end a few friendships)

Tell me lawyer what to do, I think I'm falling in love with you

(..)

All I want is a little reaction, just enough to tip the scales. I'm just using my female attraction, on a typical male, on a typical male

the garage smelled like grease and pennzoil, the hood of pato's mclaren popped open and a bluetooth speaker in the corner blasting a playlist of blues-inspired rock and roll from the seventies and eighties. ac/dc. guns n roses. the usual.

pato didn’t mean to stop and stare, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself, leaning against the doorframe, eyes trained on his lovers ass, barely covered by her grease stained cutoff shorts.

she took his breath away.

"hey, beautiful." pato hummed, slipping his arms around her waist, gently kissing her neck.

"pato, i'm covered in grease, wearing the rattiest shorts i own and i'm not wearing a bra." y/n laughed, lacing her fingers with his. "i feel like a trainwreck."

"but you look incredible, love." pato insisted, peppering her face with kisses. his embrace was warm and comforting, a reassuring presence in her life.

pato made her feel complete, like she was the only girl in the world.

"and you know what no bra means." the driver hummed in between kisses. "easy. access."

"at least let me close the hood first." she giggled under his kiss, slamming the hood of the electric blue sports car down and wiping the grease off her hands as pato slipped his hands up her shirt, gently playing with her nipples. she moaned under his touch, heat growing between her thighs.

"lean down over the hood, mamas." pato hummed. "wanna see your beautiful body."

the hood of the car was cold against her skin, shirt still pushed up over her breats, making her jump in surprise. behind her, pato laughed, gently tracing the linework carnation tattooed on her back, just above the hem of her denim shorts.

"you okay, pretty girl?"

"your car is freezing, jesus!"

"sorry, corazon. we can head inside if you want?"

y/n snorted, resting her head on her folded arms as she looked back at her lover. "you and i both know that we aren't going to make it back to the bedroom."

pato laughed, playfully smacking her ass before pressing himself against her, fingers fumbling with buttons. "god, baby, i need you. i need you all the time, yeah, you looked so fucking sexy bent over my car like that."

"you need a new fan belt, by the way." she moaned, unable to speak as her boyfriend slid her shorts down her legs, revealing her lacy fuchsia panties. "yours is cracking."

"i love it when you talk dirty to me." pato laughed, half moaning as he undid his belt. "but i'm more concerned with taking care of my pretty girl than my car."

"mhm, spank me, papi." y/n joked, shaking her ass in pato's direction. she loved that she could goof around with him, that pato didn't take himself too seriously in the heat of the moment.

"do you have a good grip on the car?" pato asked softly, running his soft hands up and down her spine, giving her full body shivers. "i don't want you to get hurt or anything."

"baby, i'm fine. honestly, i'm shocked we haven't fucked on your car before." she giggled, reaching back to hold pato's hand. "you know that if anything feels off, i'll tell you."

pato gently let go of her hand, reassuringly tracing circles on her thigh as he used his other hand to tease his cock up and down her entrance, making sure that she was ready to take him.

he slipped in gently, listening and watching for any sign of discomfort before y/n reached once again for his hand, signaling that it was okay for him to start to move.

pato's pace was relentless as she moaned underneath him, whining his name as she squeezed his fingers.

"yes, pato! fuck, just like that."

"that's it, corazon. you're doing so well for me, yeah? so beautiful. so fucking beautiful and i wish you could see yourself the way that i see you every fucking day."

the room was dark, the mirrorball hanging from the ceiling refracting the party lights against the wall. the music was loud, the singing bad as y/n and cate, callum illotts girlfriend, took to the stage, singing a duet of ‘the best’ by tina turner.

“i know that look.” alex palou laughs, clapping pato on the shoulders as he stares at his fellow testing drivers awestruck expression, the stars in his eyes as he watched his girlfriend butcher tina turners greatest hit.

felix rosenvquist snorts, looking over at alex “has he told you that he’s spent the last hour debating whether it not he should ask y/n to marry him tonight?”

“marriage?” alex snorted “dude, you’re still so young, why tie yourself down like that?”

“what if I want to be tied down? i love her and I want to spend my life with her” pato said matter-of-factly, pulling a small velvet box out of his khakis

“we aren’t going to stop you, but that perfect moment isn’t just going to present itself.” felix shrugged. “you have to make the moment yourself.”

back onstage, the song was ending, cate and y/n collapsing into laughter fuelled by adrenaline and sugar. the light refracted off her skin, making her glow like some kind of neon goddess in the nightlight.

“before I get off this stage, there’s something I want to say before I lose my nerve!” y/n shouted, lifting her cocktail glass into the air. “patricio o ward is the love of my life! he’s the reason I look forward to getting up in the morning, the driving force behind what I do. he’s my biggest supporter, and the best lover, but moreover, he’s my best friend.”

the room started cheering. felix nudged pato in the arm, the mexican driver getting to his feet with a smile and waving to the room as if he was the queen of england. y/n beckoned him closer to the stage, and pato began to wonder if this was the perfect moment.

the moment he would pop the question.

“patricio, my love, my light, my smile. my best friend.” she smiled, lacing her fingers with his. she’d have got down on her knees to ask, full proposal classic, but with the crowd in this room, it would turn into a sex joke. “will you do me the honor of being my husband? will you marry me?”

pato just laughed, opening the ring box in his hand. “i was about to ask you the exact same thing.”

they both laughed, wrapping their arms around each other on stage, in front of the whole indycar grid as pato kissed her softly.

“is that a yes?”

“you first, tough guy.”

“yes, of course I’ll marry you, pretty girl.”

iii

“you look so fucking hot right now.” pato whistled as his fiancée stepped out of the dressing room, fabric of the wedding dress swishing around her legs as she walked.

they do say not to let your husband see you in your dress before the ceremony, but seeing as y/n was technically the one that proposed, they said to hell with all the regular wedding superstitions.

"you've said that about every dress so far." she giggled, twirling to look at herself in the mirror.

it turns out that the lovesick male is also very unhelpful when narrowing down which dress to buy, as the specimen thinks that every dress is equally as hot.

the dress was simple, white fabric hugging all her curves, with a scooping v-neckline. she loved the way it looked, but wondered if it might be perhaps a little . . . pedestrian. but she didn't even want a big wedding, she was happy with a quiet family affair in cancun.

pato shook his head. "this is different, babe. this dress is the one."

"you don't think it's too basic?" y/n worried, swishing the fabric around once more as she stared at her reflection.

"i think it's beautiful, corazon. you are beautiful." he wrapped his arms around her waist. "i'd marry you if you were wearing ripped jeans and a grease-stained tears for fears shirt."

"good to know. when we have our vow renewal maybe i'll wear a leather skirt."

"vow renewal?" pato laughs, kissing her softly. "we haven't even said them the first time yet."

"i can't wait until we do." y/n sighs, leaning back into his arms. "i love you."

"love you more, pretty girl." pato grins widely, kissing her cheek. "so, how do you feel about the dress?"

"this is the one."

iv.

"pato watch out!" y/n laughed, watching her now-husband remove one of the large jenga blocks from the tower set up in the middle of the reception hall.

pato had stayed true to his word when he promised that it would be a small wedding, only family and close friends allowed to join them in the serene jungle of cancun.

in lieu of a guest book, the o'ward's had bought a massive handmade jenga set, and each of the guests had written a message for the happy couple on one of the wooden blocks now towering into the trees and the stars above.

"relax, honey, it's not going to fall." pato chuckled, using both hands to maneuver the wooden block. "elba, get me the step ladder!"

shaking her head, pato's sister brought over the small two-step ladder that the wedding guests had been using to play the life-sized game.

or, larger than life sized.

"patricio, if you fall, i swear to god." y/n half warned as she held the ladder in place, the glow of happiness and surreality on her face as she tried to comprehend that she was now married to her best friend in the entire world.

pato rested the jenga block on the top of the wobbly tower, straightening it and attempting to stabilize it without knocking the whole thing over. stasified with the structure's strength, pato let out a breath and descended the ladder, moving to stand next to his wife.

he thought she looked so beautiful in the soft, led lighting. the jungle clearing was right on the water, lit up by christmas lights stung between the trees and plugged into a generator. y/n had a hibiscus flower pinned behind her ear, and a small smudge of mascara on her cheek.

that didn't matter. she still took his breath away, made his knees go weak when she smiled.

even after marriage, he was still al lovesick fool.

felix was up next in the massive jenga game, pulling out a block from the middle that he could barely reach, getting alex to hold the step ladder in place as he ascended to the top of the dangerously rickety tower.

"i don't like the looks of that." y/n hummed, resting her head against pato's chest. "if those jenga blocks crush anybody at our reception-"

"they won't, don't worry about it." pato murmured, kissing her forehead softly. "i'm so happy we did this."

"me too."

"the tower's coming down!" alex shouted, pushing felix out of the way and into the water as the jenga blocks fell down.

in the opposite direction of the lake.

"what the fuck was that for?" felix shouted, surfacing in the turqoise waters as he began to doggy paddle back to shore.

"sorry." alex laughed. "i thought it was going to fall on you."

still laughing, y/n turned to pato, kissing him softly. "i love you."

"love you more, pretty girl. way, way more."

TAGS:

@oconso @libraryofloveletters @magnummagnussen @sidcrosbyspuck @scuderiamh @scuderiasundays @cl16version @unluckyhoneybee

311 notes · View notes

alwayschoppedtaco · 4 months

Text

DELICATE✰ CHARLES LECLERC.

v. i gave my blood, sweat and tears for this

— the one where both of you have given everything to be where you are.

warnings: misogyny, sexual harassment, this is how monaco went btw i accept no criticism. barely proofread, sorry. 3.7k words (+ article, podcast excerpts)

masterlist ✢ next

'Have we let y/n y/ln get away with way too much?'

By Alan Gomez

Yes folks, it might be our own fault, we have created a monster in the form y/n y/ln. Mediocre actress at best and with an even worse personality, if the latest events are any indication.

But how could we let this happen? Come on, we're smarter than this!

The thing is, y/n brainwashed us into believing that her doe-eyed, no-brain characters were actually her. Don't beat yourselves up over this too much, even I was a victim of those pretty eyes. But now that the blindfold has fallen, we have come to realize we have let y/n get away with everything!

You might know y/n from Supercut, the romantic comedy that took the world by storm in 2019, where she starred alongside Aidan Kim and it lead to these two becoming one of the general public’s most cherished couples. At least until two months ago, when their breakup was announced via Inside Out. Although there haven’t been any official statements, given the circumstances, we believe it was the actress who broke it off with Kim.

→ Aidan Kim and friends at Cannes Film Festival

→ Y/N supports alleged boyfriend at charity football match

But whether she’s dating a new guy now or not, why do we keep letting her do whatever she wants?

How did she actually brainwash us into thinking she’s anything close to an “it girl”? After Supercut, all she’s done is the absolute bare minimum to keep people talking about her, it’s all RomComs and no effort. I didn’t want to be that person, and you have to believe me on this, but Aidan Kim made her.

Let’s remember Aidan built his career from the ground as a member of Star-5 the early 2010’s boyband that split in 2018. He was the ‘someone’ in the relationship. How can people even compare having the hit song “Round and Round” in your résumé to being in Scream (Netflix) and The Mist (again, Netflix)?

Aidan made us like her and the writers of Parisian Valentine, The Hating Game and Last Night In Love, did her a HUGE favor by consolidating her as the “Queen of RomComs” by what standard? Well, don’t ask me.

The truth is, we accepted y/n into our hearts and homes, thanks to Aidan Kim and an unbelievable amount of luck, and we haven’t held her accountable for anything ever.

Here’s what I’m talking about, if you’re still wondering what the point of this article is, click on every link to be taken to the whole context, you’ll thank me later:

❍Y/N yells at paparazzi to leave her alone as she walks around Beverly Hills with Victoria Presley.

❍ Y/N praises Taylor Swift while tearing down several male artists for writing songs about their personal experiences.

❍ Y/N says in interview with ELLE that not every movie has to be “profound”.

And just for fun:

❍ A collection of Y/N’s disastrous looks.

It’s time we realize y/n y/ln is talentless, has a horrible personality and feigns innocence she certainly doesn’t have. You will NOT continue to take advantage of us, y/n! It’s all over for you, so I’m glad you’re dropping your pathetic career to become a WAG. #Y/NIsOverParty.

↺ FROM ❛WE WATCH❜ PODCAST

Paul Byrnes: Can y/n really do another role now, after all she’s known for are romantic comedies?

Anna Sanchez: well, I really liked her in The Mist, she did great as character in a horror it was—

Paul Byrnes: No one cares about The Mist, Anna, just you.

Anna Sanchez: all I’m saying is she’s a good actress, she can do other things. That was your question, Paul.

Paul Byrnes: Well, in my opinion she can't and that's it.

↺ FROM ❛IT TALK❜ PODCAST

Greg Zane: Let's talk y/n y/ln and her fashion choices now that she's an F1 WAG. What do we think?

Riley Green: She's a what now? How long has it been since she broke up with Aidan Kim?

Martha Vincent: I think she's looking great, I just wish she'd let go of the ugly caps.

Riley Green: No seriously, how long did she stay single?

Greg Zane: I agree Martha, but caps are big in Formula 1, nothing we can do about that. I'm wondering if she'll go for a more glamorous look in Monaco.

Riley Green: guys? hello?

Martha Vincent: Oh Riley, we're not talking about her love life, let it go.

↺ FROM ❛HOLLYWOOD VIBES❜ PODCAST

Pauline Oscar: [cont.] I'm just so curious about the reason of their breakup, why hasn't anyone said anything?! It must be juicy.

Brenda Yim: I feel like it's bad for one of them, most likely y/n. Hello, can anyone offer one of their friends some money? Just like old times!

Pauline Oscar: [laughs] Definitely! We need to know! Can it get any worse than the fact that she's already with another guy? What's his name? Charles Le what? She soooo cheated.

liked by charles_leclerc, vicpresley, mati.bassi, carlossainz55 and others.

ynfreesia UM THE LIKES?

xxynbaby it's "monaco" of course

aidanluvs you don't even have the decency to pretend like you're alone? fuck you

ynredstar i cannot defend you if you pull this shit girl

mati.bassi great view for breakfast with my best girl!💕

ynredstar oh ynredstar nevermind thanks mati ↳ feels4aidan don't be so gullible she's obviously covering up for them

THE COMMENTS FOR THIS POST ARE DISABLED.

May 27th, Montecarlo, Monaco.

THERE are tears in your eyes, and despite your best efforts not to let them run down your cheeks, it's futile. The worst part is that you're the one doing this to yourself. There's zero need to read 'articles' from pseudo journalists on how a man gave you your career and how you're tossing it into the trash for another. Not to mention the cascade of curses you received for a picture on instagram, where everyone thought you were with the other man.

Has your life really come to this? People don't talk about you unless a guy is involved? You loathe it. Your career was never about Aidan, and it's not about Charles now. Who only makes things worse every time he shows up and yet you can't manage to bring it up to him.

It's embarrassing. You don't want to walk up to him during whatever free time he has in a hectic weekend, and ask him if it really doesn't annoy him everything the press has made up about the two of you, or if he's really that unbothered by being paired up with you in the wildest scenarios, and tell him that he can shut them down whenever he feels like it (you wish he would already), and let him know you won't mind whatever he says about not being involved with you.

But no, Mr. Leclerc is busy giving unclear answers at interviews and liking your instagram posts, as if this isn't already a wildfire.

You put down your phone and pick it back up almost immediately, Vic's ringtone fills your hotel room and you wipe away your tears before answering her FaceTime request.

"Were you crying?" it's the first thing she says, moving her sunglasses to the top of her head. There's a lot of noise in the background and you can barely make the words out, but she comes so close to the phone that all you can see is the tip of her nose. "Why were you crying?"

"It's nothing, Vic. What's up?" you sigh, rubbing your eyes only makes things worse but you don't want to worry about that now.

"I just got to Monaco, babe," the phone is at a safe distance from her nostrils again and you can see around her, the airport where you landed a few days ago. "I'm with my parents," she rolls her eyes, lowering her voice. "But if you could get me into the Ferrari Suite I can hang out with you tomorrow!"

They allowed you one guest and the spot has already been taken by Mati, so there really isn't much you can do in terms of getting her into the Ferrari Suite. "Well, let me see what I can do, okay?"

"Okay," she sounds unsure, you know Vic enough to be sure she expected a different answer. "I mean my parents have Lounge privileges but it's more fun to be with you."

Had she said something about coming to Monaco you might have been able to do something, but as far as you were concerned she planned to stay in France all week, enjoying Cannes and mingling.

"I'll do my best Vic, but you know how they are," you exhale heavily, "Plus it's a crazy-ass weekend."

"Isn't it always?" she's yawning now, "We can meet for dinner later and you can tell me what's up alright? Being with my parents is so boring."

You shake your head, "Be nice, they just want to hang out with you. I'll call you after Quali," you check the clock on top of the nightstand, it's 10 am. You have to get ready for FP3, which you don't care about attending or not but Stuart Schaffer asked to see you, so you haven't got much of a choice.

"Sure babes, love you." Vic pulls her sunglasses down again and blows a kiss to the screen.

"Love you too," it's your turn to yawn as you tap the hang up button.

You look at the special edition Ferrari cap you received as a gift yesterday on top of your suitcase and immediately discard the idea of wearing it. No caps. And then the wave of disgust invades you, are you seriously going to do what some random man said on a podcast you came across by accident?

The answer is yes, unfortunately.

─────────

You would rip your leg off if you could, at least it would mean you’d be able to get out of this chair and away from Stuart. But his palm resting on top of your knee feels like a death grip and you’re frankly afraid to move in case it goes further up.

Mati decided to skip FP3 and you’re really hoping she’ll be on time for Quali because you have no one else to talk to, Stuart is just parading you around again and keeping you way too close for comfort because he’s in a great mood since both Ferraris maintained their top spots and things are looking hopeful for Qualifying.

You know it’s your chance to ask if you can bring Victoria around tomorrow, and you know the answer will be yes, but you don’t. You don’t want to ask things from this man, he’s the type to never forget a debt.

You barely catch a glimpse of Carlos and Charles as they walk by on the way to their debrief and Charles waves at you quickly, with a single-dimpled smile. He’s wearing the same cap you refused to put on.

“I’m going to call my friend,” you blurt out once Charles is out of sight, finally moving your leg back to make Stuart’s hand drop. “She had the worst hangover, I have to check up on her.”

“Oh, you girls get wild in Monaco,” Stuart cackles as you sprint away from him, actually resisting the urge to wipe your knee clean.

"Hey y/n!" Mati's voice can barely be heard above the EDM playing wherever she is. "What's up?"

"Where are you?" you whine, looking back inside the Suite. "Help."

"What's wrong?" you picture her frowning as she tries to walk away from the noise helplessly.

You feel guilty for worrying her so you sigh. "Nothing, I just hate being here. Are you coming here for Qualifying?"

"Yep," she pops the 'p' and laughs. "Listen, why don't we have lunch here at the yacht and then go back for Quali?"

"Yes!" once again you look over your shoulder to where the Elix men are laughing at their own jokes and patting each other's backs. “I’m on my way, okay?”

“I’ll be right here, also don’t scare me like that again, please.”

“Sorry,” you chuckle, embarrassed. Maybe you’re a bit dramatic at times, but it’s really all good-natured. “See you in a minute.”

You turn to the door of the Suite, giving a short jump back when you open it at the same time as someone else.

“Oh, god,” you sigh, stepping inside as Charles moves out of the way to let you in. “Thanks.”

“Sorry I scared you,” he smiles, closing the door again once you’re fully in. Charles is once again holding a closed Elix can, tapping his fingers on the side.

You eye it suspiciously, wondering if the thing has really grown on him. After all, one of the first things he told you was how much it disgusted him.

“It’s alright. I thought you were in your debrief?” You grab a can of Elix yourself, looking good in front of the sponsors cannot hurt.

“It was a short one. Keep doing what you’re doing kind of thing,”

“Right. Well, good for both of you,” you look around for Carlos but he’s nowhere to be seen. “Would it jinx it to say ‘good luck’ for later?”

You know many sportspeople take their jinxes and rituals way seriously, and you don’t want to be the one to blame if something goes wrong for the local star.

Charles considers this for a second and then shakes his head no. “Wish me luck,” he smiles.

“Good luck, Charles.” You beam back at him, enjoying—despite yourself—the way his eyes burn into yours.

─────────

You’re back at the Suite with Mati 10 minutes before Qualifying starts. The tension that had seeped out of your body in the form of laughter and loud singing with Mati is already making its way back to your back and jaw. You’re not ready to be around the Elix people again, but you must. However, first, you make Matilde promise she won’t leave your side.

Stuart Schaffer is already patting the empty seat next to him when you make your way through the refreshment tables. You smile at him, a muscle in your cheek falters as you walk past him on your way to the balcony, to catch both Ferraris leaving the garage.

“Oh don’t drink that,” you whisper when you see Mati walk your way, two cans of Gold Elix in her hands. “Don’t.”

Matilde snorts, “You’re literally the ambassador of this thing, and you don’t like it?”

“SHHH!”

“Fine, but those guys are looking at us so we have to at least sip it.”

You groan, opening the one she offers you and then taking a huge gulp. “Yum,” you mock.

Mati laughs again before her face goes sour with the taste. “Oh my God,”

“Warned you,” yet you take another sip. You think that if it grew on Charles it might grow on you, but you don’t really see it happening.

Q1 and Q2 go by smoothly, at least for Ferrari and you’re on the edge of your seat for Q3. This is the race you’ve been more excited for, but it’s not like you’ve attended many others. Still, Monaco just hits different.

The end of Q3 almost gives you a heart attack, although you also blame your almost empty Elix. You didn’t even notice how much you drank, but the thing that really gets your heart jumping out of your chest is Victoria’s ringtone.

Begrudgingly, you turn away from the track. She has texted you a thousand times, without exaggerating, since Quali started and you know it’s because she’s bored out of her mind at the Lounge with her parents. But you’re starting to find this genuinely entertaining and you are bothered by the distraction.

“I told you I’d call you after Quali, Vic,” you singsong, looking up at the screens inside the Suite.

“Well Quali is almost over, no one cares about the last three minutes.”

You do, Max Verstappen is in first place, then Charles and Checo in P3. You’re crossing your fingers for Charles to manage to get above both Red Bulls. And for Carlos to squeeze in there too.

You don’t say anything else, too enthralled by the battle on the screen.

“Y/n?” Vic raises her voice, “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes Vic, what is it?”

“We’re going to be at Ferrari together tomorrow, right?”

You wince, glad she chose a phone call instead of FaceTime this time around. You haven’t asked and you don’t intend to. Vic still has VIP Lounge access, she’ll be fine.

“They said no, Vic.” You lie, your eyes scanning the screen, it’s the last lap before they get the checkered flag out. “I’m sorry.”

“What? Why? Did you tell them I can give them publicity? I have one million followers!”

“Monaco is different from Miami,” you explain gently, “But you’ll still be at the VIP, you have a great view.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she’s beyond annoyed now, as it happens every time things don’t go her way. You can’t blame her, but you also think it will be good for her to spend some time with her parents, whom she refuses to visit although they live in Malibu and pay her mortgage. “We’re still up for dinner though, right?”

“Yep! I’ll meet you at your hotel.”

“Okay see you then, babes.”

By the time your eyes return to the screen, Charles is in P1, Carlos in P3 and the Ferrari Suite is exploding in cheers.

YOU’RE up painfully early the next day. Vic and you went back to your respective hotel way past three am and you’re exhausted, but at least you had enough self-control to avoid today’s hangover.

Nevertheless, the morning goes by in a blur between breakfast with Elix people, calls with Mildred and Walter, your manager, and two casting agents that tell you that no, you don’t need to go for an in-person casting, you’re not getting the role.

By the time you get to the Suite you have a headache and the knot on your throat is progressively getting harder to swallow. You only make things worse by rage-reading tweets with your #IsOver hashtag.

People claim, with more force every day, that Aidan gave you everything and you are starting to regret ever meeting him.

You have worked your ass off for years, taking on small roles, commercials, stock-photo deals. Learning scripts and going to castings and taking classes, you have been criticized and rejected for more things than just “not fitting the role”.

You have given everything you are and everything you have, and people assure what you got in return you owe it all to some man.

“Hola y/n!” Carlos is the first one to get back to the Suite and you wish he would rub off some of his good mood on you. “How are you today?”

“Hi Carlos, I’m alright and you?”

“You definitely look it,” he says, semi-sarcastically. “Something on your mind?”

The knot is back in your throat so you shake your head no. “And yours?”

“Nada de nada.” he smiles. You’re still growing on each other, but this is the most comfortable you’ve been while sharing the same space.

Charles arrives while Carlos, Mati (who is hungover from her party at the yachts) and you are comparing workout playlists. Wearing what now seems to be like his comfort cap, and a pair of ugly ripped jeans, he smiles brightly at the three of you.

You’re happy to see both Ferrari boys so smiley after the past couple races. Miami especially. And you hope they’ll do well; but you’re particularly scared for Charles, and whatever it is that made him unlucky in his hometown, you don’t want this day to end on a sour note.

You spend about an hour talking to them about anything, your movies, their races, Mati's tour with Romeo and Juliet. Music, hobbies and quirks, Charles and Carlos have an opinion on everything and they are actually quite fun to be around. Then, a Ferrari Team member comes to get them for the Drivers Parade so you wave them goodbye, wishing them a smooth race.

"You're not going to wish me luck, y/n?" Charles asks, the smirk on his face is one you identify as mischievous, and it makes a small wave of anxiety run down your back.

Mati stops the bottle of water halfway through her mouth to ogle at the two of you, and the palpable tension that has installed itself in the space.

"Good luck, Charles," the smile you return falters in one corner, but Charles doesn't seem to mind as he adjusts his cap and says thank you before leaving behind Carlos.

Mati has forgotten about her need to hydrate and is staring at you with both eyebrows raised. "I thought you were not doing that?" she gestures with her head towards the door through which both drivers vanished.

"I'm not doing anything," you reply, defensively. "He's being—"

"y/n, you could cut the tension there for a minute," Mati finally takes a swig of water and you wait for her to continue talking. "Like I said, I don't recommend it but... you're free to do whatever you want." she isn't unkind while wording that last part, but it still stings you with annoyance.

"Thanks, Mati." you bite the inside of your cheek, leaning back into the sofa.

─────────

The Ferrari Suite explodes in cheers once the checkered flag is out. After a frankly insane race with rain, crashes and too-long pit stops, both Ferraris have crossed the finish line, and most importantly Charles has finally managed to get rid of his Monaco curse. His enlarged picture appears on every screen with P1 right in the middle. Carlos is P4, but the points are extremely important in the long run, so people celebrate nevertheless.

Before you know it, Mati and you are being dragged down to the track for the podium celebrations. You're buzzing with excitement, holding Matilde's hand as you run to one side, where the mechanics can't crush you as they jump up and down.

Even above the general screams of happiness, you can hear talks of 'Charles deserves this so much', 'It was about time' and 'His hard work is finally paying off at home'.

At least someone's blood, sweat and tears are valued.

YOU are probably not living down the Charles dating allegations this weekend. Which is not your fault, honestly, had they enlarged the picture, it would have shown Mati just as excited for Ferrari as you were. She's Italian, and she bleeds for Ferrari.

But right now, surprisingly, you're not overwhelmed with whatever it is they're saying on Twitter. Although it took Mati snatching your phone away and tossing it in her own purse before sitting you down to retouch your makeup for the celebration party.

Victoria is joining you too, because a 'the more the merrier' applies to any sort of party happening in a Monaco club, especially if it is for the unofficial prince.

It is the first time in three months you let go of your worries, even if it is for the shortest amount of time as you dance with Victoria and Mati and drink anything you please and whoop every time the DJ mentions Charles and Carlos.

You're happy to be with your friends, away from Elix and celebrating two people who can become something more than coworkers to you. Although through the night you see them on a few occasions, Carlos waves at you as he passes by a few times only stopping in the third time to let you congratulate him with a quick hug that's more of a shoulder squeeze than anything.

Charles is obviously harder to approach, and to be fair, it's not like you're even trying. He's surrounded by his hometown friends and by anyone who wants to have his attention for a minute, for a picture or a dance or to buy him a drink.

It's past three am when Victoria is beyond buzzed and you're starting to feel exhausted so you decide it's time to leave. Mati has found someone to take home so she's been gone for around forty minutes, minding her business.

"Come on, let's go," you are grabbing Victoria by the wrist as her ankle twists. "We've both had enough," you laugh, Victoria joins your laughter as you snake through the crowd of people pumping fists in the air, some of them point and wave at you and you smile back at them politely.

You hear your name being passed around a few times, but you focus on finding the exit while keeping Victoria by your side, who has started to whine about not wanting to leave.

Once you break into the outside, you take a breath of fresh air, the coolness makes your skin rise in goosebumps and you shiver, letting go of Victoria to lift the hair on the back of your neck.

"It's too early!" Victoria complains once again, her eyes are glassy and she's just as sweaty.

"It's not, plus you're drunk, we should leave," your ears still feel drowned in the sound of music. “My feet are killing me.”

The exit opens again, and a couple stumbles out laughing and they tell Vic and you goodbye in drunken French. Before the door shuts again, Charles is out on the street too.

"I heard you were leaving," he says in what you're sure it's a too loud voice. But your ears have barely stopped ringing, so you can't blame him. "Are you two okay?" he eyes Victoria, who is starting to lean down on her knees to soothe her dizziness.

"Oh we're alright, we've just partied enough," you smile at him. Charles is rosy, bright-eyed and sweaty. Is it corny to describe someone as painfully handsome?

"I didn't get to congratulate you," you add, trying to keep your attention on Charles while being aware that Victoria might start retching at any given moment. "You did amazing."

Victoria straightens immediately, her glassy stare focusing on Charles. "You're such a good driver, Charles, for real."

"Thank you," Charles nods awkwardly a few times as Victoria pokes him with her left index finger. "And thank you y/n."

"Come on, Vic," you chuckle, keeping her hand away from Charles. "Seriously though, I'm happy for you."

Charles smiles again, running a hand through his hair. "Thank you, really. I'm sorry I didn't see you earlier," he points behind him, to the club.

"It's your party, you can't be everywhere,"

Vic is yawning loudly, and you roll your eyes, amused. "We better get going."

"y/n, when are you flying to Spain?" Charles blurts out, the moment you turn to lead Vic down the street.

"I'm not sure, Wednesday probably?"

"You know, I can still show you a place or two in Monaco. If you want." He sinks his left hand in the front pocket of his dark jeans, and you wonder where the mischievous aura from what seems like ages ago went.

You pause, letting Vic put her whole weight on your shoulder as she finally gives up to the exhaustion. "Um well..."

The same tension that appeared at the Ferrari Suite is back, and the more you hesitate, the thicker it becomes.

Victoria pulls you down with her as she throws her head back, yawning again. Charles is just in time to hold you back up, his other arm pulling Vic back to a standing position.

"Only if you want," he says, he is far too close now and you can smell the mix of alcohol and cologne on him.

And maybe it's the alcohol in your own system, and you'll regret this once you sober up and realize that you told Matilde several times this is exactly what you were not going to do, but you say yes.

─── team principal radio: ❝thank you for reading! I hope you've enjoyed this chapter. I want to say thank you to everyone who interacts with this series, it means a lot to me to know that you're enjoying it!♡❞

✰ paddock club members: @majx00

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