iamred-iamyellow

[iamred-iamyellow]

the scent of your cologne - s.l

disclaimer - alchohol, nepotism, swearing, idk agony

sypnosis - Sophia can't seem to get enough of that cologne, even if it belonged to the only racer she didn't understand nor like.

an - i wrote this after my lungs gave out during volleyball, and i was on the floor dreaming of sophia while my teammates thought i died

f1!sophia x f1!reader

song of the day- cologne - beabadoobee

Sophia stumbled into the room, her muscles screaming out, trying to pull down more air into her lungs, burning. 

Sophia clutched her chest, her fingers clumsily grabbing handfuls of fabric and her nails digging into her skin, desperate to blunt the pain. the pulsating beat of whatever song the owner of whosoever dorm she was in chose pummeling into her head, only ever so muted by the door she clumsily slammed behind her.  she collapsed, her knees buckling as she slumped onto the couch. its scent drifted between the smell of old beer, takeout, and the unfortunate fate of too many dirty bodies. something, that, if Sophia could, would have made her ram right out of the room and never look back on this damned city. 

damn it.

damn the party, damn the influence of alcohol for taking her friends away, and damn her bruised ribs. 

after lara came out, she dragged sophia everywhere, insisting on “finding the one for her”. Now, she was likely somewhere in a bathroom, heavily making out with another woman, and completely forgetting that sophia was here, very much injured. 

her eyes grew heavy, her breathing settling to a steady rhythm, her arms slowly slumping to her sides, her nails scratching against the couches coarse fabric. 

the door clicked open, and the booming music rushed back, spindling every one of her nerves. 

“you okay sophs?”

the signature drawled out accent brought Sophia back to reality. yn leaned against the doorway, her eyes trained on Sophia. Dressed in her usual attire, a pair of grey pants, hung dangerously loose around yn’s hips, and a black t-shirt, one that leave anyone and everyone wanting to see what was underneath. if that wasn't enough, then maybe it was...

the cologne. 

A velvety breath, with a smoky tinge, overtoning a seemingly sweet rose-like rinse, seeping under Sophia’s skin, rendering Sophia a mindless woman. one that haunted Sophia from the moment they had met, a perfume that she couldn't help but breathe in like a drug-

“leave.” she managed out, a shiver passing through her spine, crawling up to her head, buzzing and electric. as yn stepped closer, she could almost see the helmet she always so confidently latches on her hip from their races, the tattoo on her collarbone, peeking through whenever she makes a sharp turn, the tires screeching and the audience screaming. 

the cologne became stronger, invading Sophia’s sense of smell until she could discern nothing else. nothing else but yn's hips, swaying as she stepped closer and closer, oh so wrapped delicately by her clothes.

“why should I?” yn drawled out, the cocky grin she always plastered on her face. Sophia couldn’t look at her, couldn’t breathe, without wanting to scratch that damn smirk off, without wanting to smash something into her face that will finally make her shut up, something like her lips-

“because I don’t want you wasting that cologne you bought with your daddy’s money on my poor people's lungs.”

with that final sentence, Yn’s grin widened, revealing a set of whitened sharp canines,  and she stepped forward, shutting the door behind her.  the way she walked pissed Sophia off to no end. how she took steps like it was a miracle to look at her. her arrogant sneer, how she tilted her head to look down at whomever, and how her shirt snatched just a bit tighter around her figure for a second, leaving Sophia wondering how hard it would be to take it off her-

what? 

no.

“why are you here anyways?” Sophia leaned back, grimacing as she rested her head onto the headrest of the couch. even as she closed her eyes, she could feel Yn’s eyes following her every move, could almost visualize the predatory glint in her eyes and self-righteous tilt in her head. she should have felt nervous underneath yn’s hawk-like stare. Instead, she felt a strange sense of pride. 

that yn was looking at her.

that none of yn’s fans could keep her like Sophia did. 

“you should be doing beer kegs with your best rich bud megan.” she sneered, opening one of her eyes to scrutinize yn. she saw, with a satisfaction, the clench in yn’s jaw, the smirk she held faltering slightly at the rich she so pettily added, and the intensity behind yn’s eyes.

she couldn’t help but cock her head, her eyes drawn to the broad shoulders, the breath she held. she couldn’t help but trail her eyes downwards, down the muscles so perfectly toned, and to..

Yn was holding an ice pack.

“wha-”

yn cut her off with a scoff, her face growing ever so faintly red.

It must be from the alcohol. Sophia assured herself, her eyes flickering from the ice pack and to yn’s somehow…embarrassed expression.

but, yn had legendary alcohol tolerance-everyone knew that. so, what else would have incited yn to do this? should she even care? should she instead be focusing on the fact that THE yn ln is red? 

“I can literally almost hear you plotting the reason why I’m helping you.” yn mumbled underneath her breath, her usual cocky smirk now lost to her downcast gaze and clenched fists. the strange soft undertone to her tone stirring something unfamiliar in sophia. 

Sophia could feel the edges of her lips begin to twitch upwards, and she had to physically hold herself back from teasing the absolute hell out of yn. she opened her mouth slightly, excitement rushing through her. 

but, just as she was about to release hell on yn, the clumsy fumbling of yn’s fingers and the strange nervousness in yn’s expression stopped her. 

yn never fidgeted.

“what are you doing?” sophia murmured, her voice softened and nothing like the tone they usually shared. gone were the snappy and well-crafted insults they threw. her mind wandered off to create reasons, overthinking as instinct. she furrowed her brows, the dim lighting of the room casting a shadow on yn’s face, not allowing sophia the ability to search her expression for what she was thinking. the once booming party behind them now fading into a softened bass, it’s low beat thrumming through the room and sophia’s head.

“don’t act like I’m doing you a favor sophs.” yn grumbled, her voice raspy with annoyance, and the ice pack she held so delicately now scrunched up in her vice grip.

“I’m just making sure that you feel how it’s like to be treated by something that came from a…better environment.”

Sophia scoffed, the decade of pure resentment burrowing itself back into her chest, comfortable. how like yn to insult her on her lower class background again. the origin of their long heated rivalry came from yn’s pointed glances and venom-filled voice whenever she spoke of “sophia laforteza’s unfortunate beginnings.” she still remembered the pitiful stares, the poignant remarks, all from the uber-rich, and all lathering sophia into a state of pure loathing of the upper class she crawled and teared to join. 

she could see yn’s cock her head slightly, the way she did whenever her words hit their mark. yn’s tongue swiped over her carnivorous teeth, the movement quick, and common for whenever yn savoured the pain her words had caused. each move, purposeful, done to hurt others. The way yn studied Sophia, lazy satisfaction, like a predator who’s already won, sent shivers down her spine. 

“the only good thing about the hell you came from is that it gave you so much fraud money from your daddy's corrupt business.” she spat, leaning forward as the dim light caught the murderous glint in her eyes. the darkness retreated, the single overhead light shining a small glow over sophia’s white-knuckled fists, clenched angrily by her sides. she saw the way yn flickered her gaze to her flexed muscles, how, for even a split second, she could see the arrogance in yn’s eyes mix with something…else. 

“be careful with your words sophs.” the intolerable nickname rolled off yn’s tongue, dripping with cockiness and oily affection. all of her teeth white, sharp, and perfectly predatory underneath the small dim of a light. . yn’s oh so broad shoulders rolled back, stretching and so posture-perfect in a way that only old money could earn. 

“that corrupt business is the backbone of formula one.” 

sophia grimaced as yn took another step closer, the room closing in, also as if conspiring with yn to destroy sophia’s mind. everything felt too close, too personal. too real. the quiet rustle of yn’s designer clothes,. her loose pants, loosely hanging around her hips, interrupting sophia’s train of thought whenever she made the mistake of looking.  she opened her mouth, another string of insults about to part, preparing to distance herself from yn, to hurt her so much she’d leave. before she could do so, the pain in her rib, sharp and heavy, crashed her back to earth. 

she bit back a cry, her previously clenched fingers going to brush against the sensitive area. she shut her eyes tightly for a second, wincing as the pads of her fingers shakily pressed down, testing the waters. as expected, each movement incited another sharp burst of pain that hit her like a tow truck, each small, sharp inhale parting the muscles in her ribs like a wilting flower. 

she opened her eyes again, her gaze half-lidded as she glared at yn, daring her to continue her onslaught of insults. 

yn’s eyes trailed over sophia, leaving her vulnerable and undressed under her gaze. the inhales she managed to salvage became even more difficult, and sophia found herself growing more and more nervous. she couldn’t pinpoint why it was just so hard for her to breathe in. this was always the thing with yn’s stares. sharp, narrow, and only thing that both made sophia an insignificant chess piece and the center of the universe. this was the look yn used whenever she saw her reflecting on her races and negotiations. unforgiving, and so quick to anger at every small, unseeable mistake. 

“just give me the ice pack.” she mumbled, averting her gaze, the pads of her fingers still gently trailing over the fabric over her bruise.

“wait.” yn hesitated, her eyes going from their cold, calculating gaze to something that sophia couldn’t word. an almost soft expression, trailing down to watch sophia’s shaky fingers over her bruise.

“I want to see it.”

sophia scowled. all previous nervousness, any previous vulnerability she ever could have had vanished in a breath. the effect yn had on her, the ever so complex and vulnerable effect, shattered in a second. 

“how like you, to demand of me.” she sneered, her shaky fingers suddenly swiping downwards to steady Sophia as she stood up in a rush. she ignored the tearing pain pleading for her to sit down, adrenaline pushing her forward as she took a furious step towards yn. the shadows between the two only darkened, but yn’s face was lit a bit more, revealing her cold eyes that followed each and every of sophia’s moves. she saw yn’s eyes briefly flicker to her shoulders, tightening as her weight adjusted to her injured side, then trailing down to watch Sophia’s ever so trembling hand. 

“I hope that you can get this through that thick, gold-adorned skull of yours…” sophia jammed her finger at yn’s chest, leaning in as she sneered, her voice dangerously low. she had never been as close to yn as she had been at this very moment, close enough to see the small scar slit through yn’s eyebrow, that her friends gossiped to be from a car accident when yn was a kid, to see her sun-kissed skin, warm like caramel. 

 It took every muscle in sophia not to look too closely at the warm, golden flecks in yn’s otherwise inhospital gaze, to not breathe in cologne, its subtle notes of rose humming, caressing the burn in her lungs. 

daddy’s money. she reminded herself, flaring up with anger again as she glared into yn’s eyes. the warm flecks sophia glimpsed disappearing underneath yn’s mask of snobbery, an ocean of haughtiness. with each second that passed, she could see visions of yn’s victory celebrations, each shot she downed costing an entire month for sophia’s family. she could see the tinted windows of every penthouse yn bought “for the fun”, yn’s  opaque, gold-rinsed reflection taunting her.  she needed to keep this simple, pure hatred, not another complex, emotion-filled relationship. 

“you don’t get to tell me what to do.” 

sophia expected yn to scoff. for something to flash on her face, for her to become angry at suddenly not having her command. she expected the famous temper of yn ln, the boarding-school spoiled attitude that she’s watched race engineers become leashed to. she expected yn’s cologne to evaporate, and for her to be left, alone. 

but instead, she was met with the gentle touch of yn’s hand, guiding her back to the couch, tenderly holding her arm as she steadied her injured side.

“before you get more mad,” yn mumbled, her voice soft, pliant. Sophia’s mind was tangled, the contrast in yn’s behavior holding so much power over her. “megan’s cooler than a rich bud.” 

Sophia snorted, the sound leaving her before she could stop it. yn’s face scrunched up in hurt, a childlike-expression that made Sophia’s chest squeeze. 

“what? She's funny and really good at driving." The venomous tone in yn’s voice was gone, now carrying a note of confusion, of genuine hurt. 

“everyone’s good at driving in f1 yn.”

“Yeah, but not everyone can be funny!”

“This is stupid.”

yn’s weak protests, all passionate on defending megan fall away to an easy, unpracticed laugh. Despite herself, Sophia found herself leaning in, like a sunflower drinking in vibrance. something about yn’s giggles was…strange. real. nothing like the snobbish, egoistic personality she was known for in f1. it was strangely low, a quiet chuckle that reminded Sophia of the one time she had seen this personality before. 

it had been a charity event at a hospital, one covered with cameras bit more secretive than the other events. she had went into yn’s room, to grab a cup of water for her teammate, when she saw her. 

yn, by herself with a girl, raising her high in the air, her eyes sparkling with joy. the girl was in a white hospital gown, the fabric contrasting the girl’s face, flushed with excitement. “again!” the girl squealed, leaning against yn for support, her voice high, sweet like sugar. yn’s face broke into one of such earnest joy that Sophia couldn’t stop herself from clutching her chest in agony. 

She stood, frozen at the doorway, as YN gently set the girl down and knelt to her eye level, signing her jersey with painstaking care. She asked her gently about her dreams, held her close as the girl rambled on about cars and winning championships. She tickled the girl, laughing breathlessly along with her, readjusting her iv drip while pretending she didn’t see it, tugging her close like she was the greatest treasure. Yn’s face scrunched up in concentration, listening to each of the girl's words like it was her purpose in the world. 

When the girl brought out a packet of markers, fisting each clumsily, stumbling across in her path, Sophia was sure that yn was going to refuse. If there was one main thing that yn took caution in, more than anything, it was her face. the one thing that media training denied anyone access too. even when yn was a child, she was on television. If not for her billionaire father, then for her face. each feature carved like marble. 

during races, while other drivers drew lines across their faces, signals of enthusiasm, yn’s face remained clear. nothing but her pristine, sharp features, a symbol that yn didn’t need any motivation to win.

but now, yn just kneeled down, closed her eyes, and allowed wobbly hands to draw masterpieces over her face. flimsy flowers and smiley faces, drawings of cars scattered across her temple and cheek. here yn was, choosing a child's happiness over her reputation. over million dollar deals. 

at that moment, the rose in yn’s cologne was the only thing keeping Sophia standing. 

Then, the child noticed her, and pointed one small finger at her. her big, doe-eyes, enlightened at the idea of another f1 friend.  

Sophia ran right at that moment, before yn could follow the child’s gaze, so innocently directed towards Sophia. her feet clashed against the sterile hospital floor, her breathing ragged, desperate to get away from this yn, desperate to forget what she’s just seen, to still see yn as another of the careless, inhuman wealthy.

“you’re way too close.” Sophia protested quietly, her voice falling weak to yn’s giggles.  It was true, yn was close, close enough for Sophia to see every one of yn’s sharp, concise features, reduced to nothing under a fit of quiet snickers. Yet, even as she objected, she didn’t want yn to leave. didn’t want this softened version of the monster she built in her mind to disappear, to vanish after this moment. Sophia wondered when this version of yn came out most, what switch in yn’s head caused this beautiful girl to arrive. 

Most of all, Sophia wondered what it would be like to see this everyday. to be able to trace yn’s features in a fit of laughter like right now, to wipe the tears of joy from her eyes, to press her fingers against the scar in yn’s eyebrow, to hear her childhood stories before formula had turned her into nothing but ambition and trophies.

“you should leave.”

yn finally stopped giggling, her hand grabbing scruffs of Sophia’s shirt to steady herself. 

“what? I didn’t hear you.” she whispered breathlessly, her eyes finally opening, meeting Sophia’s. Sophia hesitated. Should she repeat herself, and tell yn she’s too close? tell yn to leave? that this-this was something she never wanted to see? 

she opened her mouth, taking in a small breath, her chest clenching not from pain anymore but from the way yn looked up at her, her usual sharp catty eyes dilated, soft. the way she fisted her hand around Sophia’s shirt, clutching it like a child with their mother. Even though her position looked uncomfortable, her knees against the hardwood floor, yn didn’t move one bit. Only waited expectantly, for whatever Sophia offered, as if this moment would last as long as they wanted it to. 

“nothing.”

[iamred-iamyellow]

excuse me for stating the obvious but like. james gunn outright calling superman an immigrant and doubling down on it when he got backlash (because he IS an immigrant, that's the point of superman) + the in-movie dialogue of "aren't you going to read me my rights?" "you're an extraterrestrial, son. you haven't got any rights to read." + the violence of his arrest and how they torture and mistreat him unapologetically, all under the guise of "protecting america", in a film releasing during the onslaught of violent ICE kidnappings and abuse... yeah it's really no wonder right-wing knobheads are crying about this being woke. they're being forced to look directly at the reasons one of the most well-known and beloved heroes of all time would not be on their side. and that's only ONE of the reasons this movie covers

[iamred-iamyellow]

Nico Rosberg turning the Spa race delay into a yaoi powerpoint presentation about his and Lewis’ childhood together. Likely place for him to be

[iamred-iamyellow]

P7 is Lewis's worst finish at Spa since he's been in F1. If he has a special scoring streak at Hungary and Zandvoort please keep it to yourself. We do NOT need to know

[iamred-iamyellow]

“it’s circus work.” not to me. not if it’s my monkeys.

[iamred-iamyellow]

accepting that you’re objectively weird & owning it is infinitely better than being constantly desperate to appear normal to people who don’t even matter to you

[iamred-iamyellow]

"Johnny loves space, Johnny loves women"

he's so real. talk your shit king

[iamred-iamyellow]

[iamred-iamyellow]

idk if you write wag x reader or you only do poly but i'm shooting my shot so hear me out...i'm thinking pride month. i'm thinking lily zneimer with a fem reader. i'm thinking shyness and mutual pining. please i beg.

ivy— lily zneimer

blurbs

lily zneimer x !fem reader

in which yn relives her biggest accomplishment in life— loving lily. and maybe all this recollection will bring lily back into her life.

(a/n) : to all my girls, gays and theys— i am so sorry if this breaks your heart. it broke mine writing it but i got inspired by one of my favorite gays (frank) and this is one of my all time favorite songs and writing using it as inspiration was so enjoyable to me. love you all.

poly george carmen story will be up later tonight!

pls pls listen to ivy while reading. i beg of you.

—

—

“I thought that I was dreamin’ when you said you love me” 🌿

It happened on a Friday night in November, in the makeshift fort of bedsheets and textbooks they’d built in Lily’s childhood bedroom—half a physics problem set between them and the soft hum of Bon Iver playing through a laptop speaker. The air smelled like cinnamon tea and the barely-washed hoodie Lily always wore when she was nervous about exams. You were lying on your stomach, half-asleep on a page of handwritten notes, your legs tangled with hers under the blanket. Neither of you had said anything for a while, just passing Lily’s highlighter back and forth like a secret. Lily had been quiet for longer than usual. You felt her eyes on you, her fingers toying with the edge of your sleeve.

“YN,” she said, her voice barely a breath. “Can I… can I tell you something?”

You rolled onto your side to look at her, cheeks pink from the warmth under the blanket or maybe from something deeper. “Yeah, of course.”

Lily blinked slowly. Her lashes fluttered like she was battling with herself, like the words were too big for her mouth.

“I—” She stopped. Then let out a nervous laugh. “Okay. Don’t laugh, okay?”

“I’d never laugh at you,” you whispered, and it was the truth. You wouldn’t. Not with your heart already halfway in her hands.

Lily looked down at where your fingers brushed, then finally met your eyes. “I think I love you. No—no, I do. I love you.”

Time stopped in that little room. The heater clanked. The highlighter rolled off the bed. Your heart tried to climb out of your chest. You sat up a little, letting the silence stretch just enough to make her squirm before you smiled—small, crooked, aching.

“You think?”

“I know,” Lily mumbled, immediately burying her face in the crook of your shoulder. “Oh my God. I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

You laughed into her hair, holding her close, the both of you wrapped in that moment like you were the only two people on the planet. “I love you too, Lil.”

She peeked up, her eyes wide and glassy with something unsaid. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, pressing your forehead to hers. “So much it scares me.”

Her hand found yours under the blanket. Fingers laced. A tiny kiss on your collarbone—featherlight, a question more than a statement. You let your fingers trace her jaw, the curve of her smile, the hollow of her throat where her pulse raced faster than yours. It didn’t go further than that—just limbs tangled, soft laughter in the dark, and the quiet safety of knowing someone saw you completely and still stayed. That was the first night you ever heard her say it. You’d hear it a thousand more times. But never quite like that. Never when it felt that pure.

—

“The start of nothin’— I had no chance to prepare— I couldn’t see you comin’” 🌿

You met her in sophomore chemistry, fourth period, the day your school switched up everyone’s schedules for no reason anyone could understand. You’d walked in late, still clutching a granola bar and a crumpled excuse note from the office, and there she was—Lily—in your usual seat, bent over her notebook, chewing the end of her pen and looking completely out of place and exactly like she belonged.

“Uh—sorry,” you mumbled, gesturing vaguely toward the chair.

She looked up. Big blue eyes. Hair tucked behind one ear. Her lips parted like she’d been caught mid-thought. “Oh. Sorry—! I didn’t know someone sat here. I can move.”

“No, it’s okay,” you said too fast. “You can—yeah. Stay.”

So you sat next to her instead. Close. Not close enough to be weird, but close enough to feel the heat of her arm when she leaned over to read the board. Your skin buzzed where it nearly brushed hers. You didn’t hear a single word the teacher said.

For the next forty minutes, you fidgeted with your pencil and snuck glances at her whenever she wasn’t looking. She took notes like it was a test, all neat and underlined and color-coded. She smelled like citrus shampoo. She bit her lip when she was thinking. You were already doomed.

Halfway through the class, the teacher assigned lab partners. You both froze when your names were called together. You looked at her; she looked at you. A small, nervous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“I’m Lily,” she said, once your stools were tucked in at the lab bench.

“I’m YN.”

Her smile widened. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Silence. You picked at the edge of the lab sheet while she tried to find the goggles that didn’t fog up. Every time your fingers touched while setting up the experiment—just a tap, just a brush—it felt like a firework in your chest. And maybe she felt it too, because she kept biting her lip and glancing at you like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. You laughed when she poured too much iodine into the flask and stained her fingers, and she turned pink and smiled at you like it was the nicest sound she’d ever heard. It was small, barely anything, but by the end of class you both lingered at the lab station, not ready to leave. Everyone else had already packed up. Your backpack stayed zipped.

“You’re really smart,” you said, as she double-checked her notes. “I mean, like. The way you take notes. And stuff.”

Lily turned to you, flushed again, but grinning. “Thanks. I think you’re… cool.”

“Cool?”

“Like. You said I could keep the seat. That was… cool.”

You both laughed. And then the bell rang. And just before she turned to go, she said it in the softest voice, like she didn’t want to take up too much space in your life yet—

“Do you maybe wanna study together sometime? For the quiz next week?”

You blinked. “Yeah. I’d—yeah. Definitely.”

“Okay,” she said, and smiled again—shy and glowing. “Cool.”

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no thunderclap, no spotlight, no instant thunderbolt. But somehow, when she left the room, your world felt different. Lighter. Quieter. Like something had gently clicked into place. You hadn’t even touched her hand. But you already knew. You were going to fall in love with her.

—

“Ooh, I could hate you now. It’s quite alright to hate me now.” 🌿

It was raining the day she told you. The kind of rain that sticks to your clothes and makes everything feel heavier than it already is. You should’ve known something was wrong. Lily had texted ‘can we talk?’ earlier in the day, and your stomach had dropped before you even read the rest. She only said that when she couldn’t hold something in anymore.

You met in the parking lot behind the engineering building, the same place you used to kiss between classes when no one was around, where you used to trade energy drinks and kiss half-laughing with the scent of motor oil and asphalt on your hands. Now she stood in front of you, arms crossed tightly over her chest, soaked hair sticking to her cheeks. Her eyes wouldn’t meet yours. She looked like she hadn’t slept. You said her name once—soft, like maybe that would be enough to undo whatever she was about to say. But it wasn’t.

“I don’t know how to say this,” Lily said, her voice cracking halfway through. “But I need to. And I—I don’t want to lie to you. Not anymore.”

You waited. Your heart was already halfway out of your body.

“I think I’m in love with someone else,” she whispered.

You blinked. For a second, you couldn’t even understand the words. You thought maybe you heard her wrong.

She kept going. “With Oscar. I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You couldn’t breathe. You took a step back, and she reached out instinctively, like she could take it back just by touching you. “No—don’t. Don’t do that.”

“I didn’t plan it, YN,” she said quickly. “It wasn’t like that. We were just talking—just talking—and I don’t know how it happened, but it did, and I tried to push it down, I did, but I can’t lie to you anymore.”

Your voice was shaking when you finally found it. “How long?”

“Three months,” she said, barely audible.

You laughed—sharp and bitter. “Jesus.”

“I never stopped loving you,” she rushed. “I swear to God, I didn’t. I still do. I think I always will.”

“Then why?” you snapped, louder than you meant to, your hands clenched at your sides. “Why are you doing this if you still love me?”

“Because it’s not the same anymore,” she said, crying now. “It’s not fair to you. I can’t keep pretending I’m not thinking about someone else, and you don’t deserve that. I would never do this if I didn’t have to.”

“You don’t have to,” you said. “You’re choosing to.”

Lily broke down then, her knees folding slightly like she could barely hold herself up. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m such a fucking coward.”

And you stood there, rain soaking through your hoodie, watching the girl you built your life around crumble in front of you, and all you could think was God, I wish I could hate her.

“I could hate you,” you said, the words escaping before you even knew they were forming. “I probably should.”

She looked up at you, eyes red, mouth trembling. “You can. You should. I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I won’t,” you said, even though you wanted to. “Because I know you meant it. All of it. Before him.”

“I did.”

You nodded, chewing on the inside of your cheek to keep from breaking. “Then go.”

“YN…”

“No. Just—go.”

She hesitated. Like maybe she thought you’d stop her. Like maybe you’d reach out and say it one more time—don’t choose him. But you didn’t. Because some part of you knew she already had. So she left. And you stood in the rain long after she was gone. Soaking. Shaking. Trying to hate her. Failing. Because even now—especially now—you still loved her.

—

“When we both know that deep down, The feeling still deep down is good” 🌿

You see her for the first time in years on a screen. She’s in the background of a paddock interview, tucked under an umbrella with Oscar, laughing at something you’ll never hear. She looks a little older—so do you—but her smile is the same. That smile that used to light up your whole damn world before it broke you. You pause the video. Your finger hovers over the play button. You can’t bring yourself to press it again.

You thought you’d buried her, that girl from chemistry class with ink-stained fingers and nervous eyes. But she lives under your skin still, pressed into the quietest corners of your memories—your firsts, your almosts, your if-onlys. You don’t miss her in the way that keeps you up at night anymore. Not like it used to. But sometimes, on slow days, you catch yourself smiling at nothing—at the ghost of her. At the echo of a joke only the two of you ever laughed at.

You wonder if she thinks of you when it rains. If she remembers how you used to run through thunderstorms barefoot. If she still has that old hoodie of yours she said she’d never give back. You wonder if she’s still in love with you, just a little. Because you know you are. Not in the way you once were. But in a way that still feels good.

—

She doesn’t talk about you much anymore. Not to Oscar. Not to anyone. But you still live in her. Some nights, when the hotel rooms are too cold and Oscar’s away at press dinners, Lily lies on her back and watches the ceiling and thinks of you. Of the girl she loved before she even knew what loving someone meant. She tells herself it was another life. But she still remembers the way your laugh used to shake your shoulders.

She still wears the ring you gave her on a chain around her neck. Oscar thinks it’s from her mother. She’s never corrected him. She loves Oscar. She does. But some part of her heart still beats to the rhythm of your name. It doesn’t ache like it used to. It just… lives there. Sometimes, she drafts messages to you in her Notes app. Just to say I saw your name today, or Do you still make your tea too sweet?

She never sends them. But she doesn’t delete them either. You were her first real thing. Her truest thing. The one that shaped everything that came after. And no matter how much time stretches between you, the truth remains. The feeling is still there. Quiet. Tucked deep down. But good. Always good.

—

“If I could see through walls, I could see you're faking” 🌿

It had been months since you’d last seen her. Not since the parking lot. Not since the rain-soaked goodbye. Not since you told her to go, even though you never meant it. You’d tried your best to stop looking for her. You changed your walking routes, dropped the engineering elective she was still in, stopped going to that café near the mechanical lab where you always used to study together. You buried her in quiet routines and busy days, and most of the time it worked. Until it didn’t. You saw her on a Wednesday. Late afternoon, on the steps outside the main library, where the sun hit just right and made everyone look a little more golden than they really were.

Lily was standing in a small circle of people—laughing. Or at least, she looked like she was. But you knew her. You knew the real version of that smile—the one she used when she was belly-laughing on the floor of her bedroom, hair messy, cheeks flushed. The smile that unfolded slow and shy whenever she saw you across a room. This wasn’t that. This was the smile she gave when she was tired of being asked if she was okay. The one that pulled just a little too tight at the corners, that never reached her eyes. You knew that smile. You used to press your fingers to her jaw and whisper, “You don’t have to fake it with me.”

But you weren’t hers anymore. You didn’t get to say things like that. You stood at the bottom of the stairs, textbooks clutched to your chest, frozen in place while she laughed at something someone said—then turned slightly, like she felt you watching. Your eyes met. And for one second, just one, everything fell away. The noise, the students rushing past, the heat of the concrete through your sneakers. It was just her. And you. And everything you weren’t saying. She didn’t wave. You didn’t smile. But her laughter stopped. And in her silence, you heard everything. You turned away first.

Not out of anger. Not out of spite. But because you knew that if you didn’t, you’d walk to her and say her name and touch her arm and ask, “Are you okay?”

And she would lie. Because she always did when she was trying to protect you. And you would forgive her. Because you always did. Because even now, you still loved her. You walked away without looking back. But if walls were made of glass—if time and hurt and pride weren’t in the way—you would’ve stayed long enough to say—

“I see you, Lily. Even when you think I can’t.”

—

“If you could see my thoughts, You would see our faces” 🌿

Some days, you get through it without thinking of her at all. You go to class. You laugh with your friends. You remember to water the plant on your windowsill. You start to believe, maybe, that the ache is behind you. But then there are the in-betweens. The slow elevator ride. The quiet walk home after sunset. The click of a pen during a lecture. The taste of spearmint gum. And suddenly, there she is.

If Lily could see your thoughts in those moments—if she could press her hand to your temple and look inside—you know exactly what she’d find. She’d see your faces. Not just the two of you now, older and distant and hurting—but you as you were. Two girls in matching sweatpants at 2 a.m., trying not to wake your roommates with your laughter. Two girls kissing under a stairwell after acing a physics midterm. Two girls falling asleep on each other’s shoulders in the library, highlighters still in hand. She’d see the version of her you still carry… Smiling into your hoodie. Crying into your collarbone. Whispering “I love you” for the first time, voice trembling like it might break if she said it too loud. She’s in everything. Still. Quietly, softly. Like background noise your brain doesn’t know how to mute.

You wonder if it’s the same for her. If Oscar ever catches her staring too long at a wall. If he asks what she’s thinking and she lies, says nothing. Because what would she say?

“I was thinking about a girl I once loved so deeply I forgot what it meant to be alone. I was thinking about how I left her. And how some part of me never came back from that.”

But you’ll never know. So you keep it to yourself. You carry her in your thoughts—hidden, sacred. A collection of moments no one else gets to touch. And if she ever looked closely, if she ever really saw you again, maybe she’d recognize the pieces of herself still stitched into the way you smile at your coffee, the way you tilt your head when you read, the way you love. Maybe she’d know…You’re still there. In here. Always.

—

“We didn't give a fuck back then—I ain't a kid no more.—We'll never be those kids again” 🌿

It hits you while you’re walking past the old gas station near the edge of campus—the one with the flickering sign and the vending machine that never worked but still somehow stole your quarters every time. You’re not even sure why you’re here. You’d taken the long way home, just trying to kill time, just trying to stop thinking about her. But then you see the curb. The cracked pavement. The exact spot where you and Lily sat that night—sophomore year—so loud and alive and impossibly young.

You remember it perfectly. It was just past midnight, early spring, jackets zipped up over pajamas. You’d snuck out of your dorms and walked to that gas station just to buy slushees and sour candy and pretend you were living in a movie. You’d climbed onto the curb, your knees bumping hers, faces sticky from sugar and laughter, and you’d talked about nothing. About everything. You were seventeen. Maybe eighteen. In love in a way that felt endless.

You didn’t care about the future then. Didn’t think about careers or timelines or who you’d be when it all stopped feeling easy. You didn’t even care if anyone saw you holding hands under the fluorescent lights. You just were. Together. Whole.

“We should get matching tattoos,” Lily had said through a mouthful of watermelon sour strips. “Like dumb ones. Frogs or something.”

You’d laughed so hard your Slurpee spilled on your shoes.

“Why frogs?”

“Because frogs are underrated.”

“You’re such a weirdo.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” you’d whispered. And she’d kissed you, just like that, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Now you’re standing in the same place, older, quieter, bones heavier with all the growing up you didn’t ask for. And she’s not beside you. She hasn’t been for a long time. There’s no sugar on your tongue. No stolen kisses under flickering lights. Just the ache of knowing you can never go back. You’re not those girls anymore. You pay bills. You answer emails. You smile politely when people mention her name like it doesn’t gut you. You scroll past headlines that say Oscar Piastri’s girlfriend spotted in Monaco paddock and pretend your chest doesn’t tighten.

You miss her. But more than that, you miss you. The version of yourself who laughed too loud and believed love was enough. The version who sat on that curb and didn’t give a fuck. You ain’t a kid no more. You know too much now. And no matter how vividly you remember it, no matter how fiercely you want it back—you’ll never be those kids again.

—

“Everything sucked back then—We were friends” 🌿

It was the middle of junior year, and everything sucked. Your grades were slipping. Your parents were fighting again. You’d stopped showing up to half your classes because even the act of getting out of bed felt like climbing Everest. The world felt too loud, too sharp, and you were walking through it like your skin didn’t fit right anymore. You didn’t know how to explain it to anyone. Except Lily. You hadn’t kissed her yet. You hadn’t even told her you liked her like that. You were still just friends—in the loosest, messiest, most beautiful sense of the word. But she knew. She always did.

She’d show up outside your house with iced coffee and no questions. She’d drag you into her car and blast music you hated just to make you roll your eyes. She’d sit with you in silence for hours, her pinky brushing yours on the armrest like she knew how badly you needed to be touched without being asked. One night, when the world felt particularly cruel, you finally cracked.

You were sitting in her room, lights low, curled up under the blanket she kept for you. You weren’t crying. Not visibly. But you must’ve looked broken in some way because she turned off the movie you’d barely been watching and scooted closer.

“Hey,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You’re allowed to say you’re hurting.”

You shook your head, eyes fixed on a thread unraveling on the sleeve of your hoodie.

“I mean it,” she said, voice stronger now. “Everything is horrible. School. Home. All of it. You’re not crazy for feeling like it’s too much.”

Your chest cracked open just a little at that. The smallest breath of air getting through.

And then—softly, so gently—you said, “I feel like I’m disappearing.”

Lily didn’t speak for a moment. She just reached for your hand and laced her fingers through yours like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re right here. With me. I see you.”

You didn’t realize how badly you needed to hear that until you were already crying—quiet, slow tears that leaked down your cheeks and soaked into her sweatshirt. She held you for hours. Said nothing else. Just kept her arms around you like her body was the only home you needed. And that night, as you drifted to sleep to the sound of her breathing, you thought— Everything sucks. But she doesn’t. She’s the one thing that doesn’t. You were just friends. But she already felt like the closest thing to love you’d ever known.

—

“In the halls of your hotel— Arm around my shoulder— so I could tell— How much I meant to you—meant it sincere back then—We had time to kill back then” 🌿

You don’t remember the name of the hotel. It was just one of those small, chain brand ones on the side of the highway—the kind with stale carpeting and vending machines that only took exact change. You were there for some high school engineering competition, wearing matching t-shirts and badge lanyards, sleep deprived and running on pure sugar and the rush of being somewhere new. It wasn’t anything special. But it’s one of the only memories that still comes to you clear and full, like it happened yesterday instead of years ago.

You and Lily had just come back from the closing ceremony—giddy and exhausted, her arm slung around your shoulder as you wandered the hallway, pretending you didn’t know how to get to your room just so you could stay close. Her hair still smelled like that citrus shampoo she always used, her hand warm against the curve of your neck. But that night, everything in you ached. You paused under the dim wall light near the elevator, her arm still resting comfortably around you, and it was then—you remember it so clearly—that she leaned her head against yours, just for a second.

And she said, voice low, almost sheepish. “You make everything feel easier, you know that?”

Your heart stumbled.

“I do?” you asked, like it was a joke, even though your throat was already closing with the weight of what that meant.

“Yeah,” Lily said, quieter now. “I just… I feel better when you’re around. Like nothing else exists but us.”

She was shy back then, even more than you. But that night, she wasn’t hiding. Not behind sarcasm, not behind jokes or nervous laughter. She meant it. Every word. And you could tell. That’s what made it different. Not the hotel or the hallway or the soft humming of an ice machine behind you. But the way she held you without needing a reason. The way she said you made her feel okay, like that was the most obvious truth in the world. You both knew it then—maybe not in full, but enough to carry the weight of what was coming. You had no plans, no pressure. Just time to kill and hearts too full to understand yet what they held.

You’d stay up until 3 a.m. that night, legs tangled on the scratchy hotel comforter, watching videos on her phone and whispering dreams into the dark. And in the morning, she’d braid your hair with shaky fingers before the awards ceremony and pretend it didn’t mean anything. But it did. You both knew it did.

Now, years later, you find yourself standing outside a different hotel. The kind she stays in now—sleek, international, impersonal. She’s probably upstairs somewhere, curled beside someone else, a life away from vending machines and fluorescent lights. But your shoulder still remembers the weight of her arm. And your heart still remembers the way she looked at you like you were the only thing that felt real. You had time back then. And now? Now you just have the memory.

—

“I broke your heart last week—You'll probably feel better by the weekend” 🌿

It had only been five days. Five days since Lily stood in front of you in the rain and told you she loved someone else. Five days since she watched the way your chest caved in on itself, your mouth set in a silence that sounded louder than anything she’d ever heard. Five days since you told her to go. And she did. She hasn’t stopped thinking about you since.

She lies next to Oscar now, in a hotel bed with too many pillows and none of your warmth. He’s asleep—peaceful, content in a way she can’t seem to reach. The room is quiet, but her head is screaming. Your name echoing through every thought like an ache she knows she brought on herself. She stares at the ceiling, her phone dimmed on the nightstand beside her. She hasn’t blocked you, but she hasn’t opened your messages either. She’s too afraid of what she’ll find. Too afraid of finding nothing at all.

“I broke your heart last week,” she whispers to no one. To herself.

She tries to soften it in her mind—You’ll probably feel better by the weekend. Like that makes it okay. Like it was just a paper cut. Like you hadn’t built a life around her hands. She tries to imagine you now, curled up in that worn hoodie you used to fight over, face buried in a pillow. Angry, probably. But you’ll be okay. You always were better at moving on than she was. Weren’t you?

She turns over, restless. Oscar shifts beside her, mutters something in his sleep. She closes her eyes and tries to pretend it’s enough—that this is the love that makes sense now. That the life she’s stepped into is one she didn’t have to destroy something beautiful to reach. But when she dreams, it’s you she sees. Not the heartbreak. Not the crying. But you—grinning in the hallway of that old hotel, braiding each others hair in early morning, whispering into her neck when she used to wake up from nightmares.

She broke your heart last week. She told herself you’d feel better by the weekend. But the truth? She doesn’t think either of you will feel better for a long, long time.

—

“All the things I didn't mean to say—I didn't mean to do —There were things you didn't need to say — Did you mean to? Mean to?” 🌿

You weren’t supposed to see her that day. But the campus bookstore is small, and the universe is cruel, and there she was—Lily—halfway down the aisle, running her fingers along a row of overpriced mechanical pencils.

You froze, book in hand. You should’ve turned around. Should’ve left. Should’ve pretended not to see her. But she looked up before you had the chance. Her eyes widened. And then dropped. And then she nodded once. Just enough to be polite. Just enough to be nothing. You couldn’t help it—you walked up to her, heart racing, some part of you still desperate for something more than silence. More than the way she left.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey,” she replied, voice too soft to touch. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You swallowed. “I come here all the time.”

“Oh.”

Silence. And then you said it—the thing you hadn’t meant to say, not like this, not here.

“I still don’t understand how you did it.”

Lily blinked. “Did what?”

“Left. Just like that. Like we were nothing.”

She winced, but you were already in it, already unraveling.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” you added, instantly ashamed, voice trembling. “I just… I think I needed to.”

Lily looked at you like you were holding her heart in your hands again. Like she wasn’t sure whether to beg for it back or let you crush it.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said. “I didn’t mean for it to go that way.”

“But it did.” You laughed, sharp and shaking. “And then you said all those things like they didn’t mean anything. Like I’d be fine. Like you were doing me a favor.”

Lily looked away. “You didn’t need me to say I loved him.”

“No,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But you did.”

And it hangs there. Between you. The one sentence that still tears open your chest every time you think about it.

“Did you mean to?” you ask, almost pleading. “Did you mean to say it like that? Mean to leave like that? Like I was just some phase you grew out of?”

She looks at you then. Eyes glassy. Tired. Honest.

“No,” she says. “I didn’t mean to. Any of it.”

And you believe her. God, that’s the worst part. You believe her. But belief doesn’t undo damage. And regret doesn’t undo goodbye. You both stand there for a moment longer, drowning in the words you never meant to say. The ones that still haunt you. The ones you wish you could take back, or at least soften. Then she nods again. One last time. And walks away. And you stay. In the middle of a bookstore. Holding a book you’ll never read. With a heart full of echoes and the awful knowledge that some things can’t be undone. Even when you didn’t mean to.

—

”I've been dreamin' of you, dreamin' of you —I've been dreamin' of you, dreamin' of you— I've been dreamin', dreamin'” 🌿

The train station in Milan is buzzing, but your head isn’t really here. You’ve just wrapped a four-day project with an Italian motorsport tech firm—long days, longer nights, cold coffee and hotter tempers—and now you’re sitting on a worn bench beneath the departure board, your laptop half-zipped in your bag, earbuds in, not playing anything. You’re tired. Not just physically. Soul-tired.

And maybe that’s why you let your thoughts drift the way they do, the way they always seem to when you’re somewhere new, somewhere far away from home. You think of her. Of Lily.

It’s been years now. Time has been both cruel and kind. You’ve built a life that isn’t defined by her anymore. You’re successful. Focused. A little lonelier than you care to admit. You don’t cry over her name like you used to. But you still dream of her.

Still catch glimpses of her in crowds. Still find her smile on strangers. Still feel her voice in the back of your head when you’re looking out the window of a train or walking through a city where no one knows your name. You’ve been dreaming of her lately. More than usual. That soft kind of dreaming—not always painful, but always real. You wake up with her name in your mouth and the shape of her hand still ghosting your palm.

So maybe that’s why, when you hear it—

“YN?”

—your first thought isn’t That’s impossible. Of course. You look up slowly. And there she is. Lily.

Standing a few feet away in the middle of the station, suitcase by her side, hair longer than it used to be but tied in the same half-messy bun she always wore when she was tired. Her eyes are wide, stunned. Like she doesn’t trust what she’s seeing either. You blink, heart catching in your throat.

“Am I dreaming?” you ask, barely a whisper.

She exhales—shaky, like she might cry. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

And for a moment, neither of you moves. You just stand there, frozen in the middle of the station, a thousand people rushing past but none of them mattering. Just her. Just you. You rise slowly, walking toward her like you might scare her off if you move too fast. She doesn’t step back. Her eyes are glassy now.

“I haven’t seen you in—”

“Three years,” she says, too quickly. “I know.”

Your chest twists.

You want to ask her how she’s been. Where she’s going. Who she’s become. But none of it feels right. None of it feels big enough for this. Instead, you say, “I’ve been dreaming of you.”

Lily’s lip trembles. Her hand tightens on her suitcase handle. “I know,” she says softly. “Me too.”

You don’t say I still love you. You don’t say Come back. But you both know. It’s in the way she looks at you like she never stopped. It’s in the way your body feels like it remembers her shape just standing near her. It’s in the breath you take, for the first time in months, that doesn’t feel heavy. You don’t know what happens next. Maybe this is just a moment. A final one. A soft goodbye dressed like a miracle. Or maybe it’s something more. But either way— You were dreaming. And for once, the dream came true.

—

The coffee shop is tucked away down a quiet side street near the station, small and warm and dimly lit—exactly the kind of place you would’ve brought her to back then, when you were younger and still believed the right setting could fix a broken conversation.

You sit across from her at a little table by the window. Your fingers cradle a ceramic mug that’s far too hot, but you don’t let go. It feels surreal. To be here. With her.

Lily hasn’t changed much. Her hair’s a little longer, her voice a little steadier. But the way she looks at you? That hasn’t changed at all. It still softens at the edges. Still makes your chest feel like it’s been cracked open just enough to let the past back in.

You’re both quiet at first. Sipping. Fidgeting. Letting the moment stretch.

Then she says, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

You nod, throat tight. “Me neither.”

She smiles, but it’s not happy. It’s sad, in that way that only old love can be. “I kept dreaming it, though. I’d see your face in crowds. Hear your laugh in someone else’s.”

“I’ve been dreaming of you too,” you say, not bothering to lie. What would be the point now?

Lily looks down, fingers running along the rim of her cup. “I thought you hated me.”

You exhale through your nose. “Sometimes I tried to. I thought it would help.”

“Did it?”

“No.”

She doesn’t apologize. And maybe she doesn’t have to. Because it’s not just about the leaving anymore. It’s about the way you both kept carrying each other in silence.

“I loved you so much,” she says suddenly. Like it burst out of her before she could stop it. “More than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

You look at her, and the air shifts. Your hands are still shaking. “You left.”

“I know,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve forgiven myself for it.”

You want to ask why. Why she chose him. Why she didn’t fight harder for what you had. But deep down, you know the answer won’t heal anything. And the truth is—you didn’t fight either. Not really. You let her go. You told her to. There’s a pause. A long one. She’s looking out the window now, watching the world pass by like it didn’t break you both.

And then—quietly—you ask, “Are you happy?”

She takes a long time to answer. “Sometimes.”

It sits heavy between you.

You nod. “Me too.”

You don’t know what this is. If it’s closure. If it’s something new. If it’s just a moment you’ll carry for the rest of your life like a warm scar. But when you walk out of the cafe, side by side under a soft drizzle, you feel lighter than you have in years. Not fixed. Not whole. But softer. And when her hand brushes yours—accidentally, maybe not—you don’t move away. Some things don’t come back. But some things never really left.

—

[iamred-iamyellow]

Ollie's going so fast because he needs to get back to the karting track to beat his new rival asap

[iamred-iamyellow]

sky germany might be an on fire garbage bin, but every time they show sophie kumpen they mention that she used to absolutely wipe the floor with christian horner in karting and i respect them for it

[iamred-iamyellow]

okay highkey pissed at spa's insta because they made a post for "women of the paddock" and it was literally wags and celebrities and shit. the caption was "glamour. grit. drive. meet the women at the #spagp paddock."

this is how wag culture actually makes things so much worse for the women who are actually putting the hard work in to make real contributions to the sport. it's so disrespectful to the women who actually had to break down barriers in the sport. wags/celebs are NOT women in f1. they are women at f1. the true women in f1 are working hard to help to the sport. they could've talked about laura mueller, hannah schmitz, susie wolff, f1a (but they're not competing this week so maybe not), amelia lewis, the female mechanics in many teams, and so much more women that have truly helped the sport, not just wags who gain traction via association.

spa got a lot of complaints on their insta (RIGHTFULLY SO) and took down the posts, allegedly apologizing to a gossip page (i think it was a gossip page?) on insta.

this just pisses me off because wag culture has been taking over sports, and especially in f1, women have had a harder time getting recognition in such a male-dominated field and subject to stereotypes (grid girls, saying laura mueller is hooking up w esteban, disgusting things like that). as a girl aspiring to become an f1 engineer, it's so frustrating and disheartening. and you're telling me that some models somehow outweigh/outshine the women putting in the work?

[iamred-iamyellow]

[iamred-iamyellow]

[iamred-iamyellow]

F1!buddie AU

⊹₊ eyes on me 🏎️

[iamred-iamyellow]

BATTING MY EYELASHES

౨ৎ PINK LIKE SUKI ౨ৎ

AFTER being abruptly cut from F1, Logan Sargeant takes an LA vacation to cheer himself up. He meets you, a fellow driver that truly understands the pressure of the performance. But what he doesn’t know is the type of driving you do.

wc: 3.7k

pairing: logan sargeant x fem!streetracer!reader

warnings: swearing, logan kind of finds out where you live oops, kind of angsty?

authors note: wassup bullet !!! this has been in the works for MONTHS so I hope y'all enjoy it <3

How you ended up at a bar on race night was beyond you. Sure, you raced illegally, but you weren’t fucking stupid. 

You tapped your nails on the cold countertop as the bored bartender stared at you. 

“Uhmm,” You hummed to yourself. “I’ll just take a classic Red Bull.” 

A man sitting next to you eyed the drink as you received it, a small breath of air escaping his lips. He must’ve been sitting there for a while considering he had no drink in his hand and not a single bartender asked to take his order. Yikes. How many hours has he spent in here?

“Long day?” You asked him. 

He let out a short laugh before correcting you, “Long year.” 

He ran a hand through his dirty blond hair for a moment, a couple of cute bracelets catching your eye in the process. One in particular was filled with blue heart beads and letters that spelled out the name ‘Logan’. 

You took a sip of your energy drink, hoping it would hype you up for the drive. You knew it would keep you up all night, but it didn’t matter because nothing was more exhilarating than that damn car. The man next to you, presumably named Logan, was able to flag down a bartender and order himself a water, even under the bar’s busy conditions. 

“Not a drinker?” You questioned. 

“I gave up alcohol for my job, so as of now not really.” 

You cocked a brow, “Oh really? What's your job?” 

“I used to be a race car driver,” He admitted. “I know I know it sounds fake-“ 

You cut him off, “Used to?” 

He paused his rambling to gather his thoughts, not expecting your curiosity. “Well, yeah I was dropped like a month ago.” 

Dropped? You couldn’t imagine giving up driving, let alone being cut by a crew you thought you were close with. That sounds like a hellish nightmare. 

“Fuck that’s awful,” You shook your head. “I’m a driver too. I can only imagine what that was like.” 

His eyebrows raised in complete stun, “You’re a driver too?” 

You nodded nonchalantly and took a sip of your drink. 

“Really? What class?” He asked with a certain twinkle in his eyes. Either the light reflection in here was crazy or he truly loved racing. 

You smiled, “Japanese Drift—the best kind.” 

He tsked, “I don’t know about that.”

“Oh yeah?” You teased, crossing your arms. “Name a better series.” 

“Formula One,” He stated confidently with a smirk, resulting in your laughter.

“That’s incredibly pretentious,” You said, continuing to giggle. 

“Pretentious or not, the guys on your drink:” He tapped your Red Bull can. “Drive it.” 

You took a good look at the design, investigating the faces of the two men he was talking about. You looked back up at Logan, “I’m going to be honest, I don’t know who these people are.” 

His jaw practically dropped to the floor. 

“Checo Perez… Max Verstappen?” 

“I’m sorry, it doesn’t ring a bell…” You mumbled, holding in a small amount of laughter. 

“Oh my god,” He said with widened eyes, raised eyebrows, and a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m half offended, half refreshed.” 

“I hope that’s a good thing,” You laughed. 

“I hope so too,” He smiled back at you. 

Shit, were you starting to like the lonely bar guy? 

“You know…” You trailed off. “I’ve got a race tonight if you wanna come watch?” 

“Oh, really?” His brow raised. “I had no idea anything was being hosted this week.” 

“You’d be surprised,” You smiled, picking at the tab on your drink. “There’s always someone racing.” 

He laughed, “Tell me about it.” 

“C’mon,” you nodded towards the door of the bar, signaling him to follow you. 

You could spot your car from anywhere. A pretty pink-wrapped Mazda Miata. You tried your best to find a Honda S2000 when you decided to try your hand at street racing, but any discontinued car from Tokyo Drift was way out of your budget. 

You told him to follow your car down the road to the race before hopping in and igniting the engine. He’s in a Porsche 911. Who the fuck was this guy? 

Pulling up to a secluded LA street it looked like you just stepped onto the set of Gone in 60 Seconds. About a dozen or more cars lined the road with people gawking at the mods each driver made personally.

"There's my girl," a man shouted, wandering up to you just as you stepped out of your car. "Thought you were gonna be late."

"You know me better than that," You teased with a head tilt.

The Porsche parked beside you eliciting a low whistle from your friend, "You pick up a stray?"

"A date maybe," Logan corrected, stepping out of the driver's seat and walking around to the other side of the car to meet you two.

A faint smile tugged on the corners of your lips as he swung his keys and leaned against the hood. Shit, was he this tall at the bar?

Your friend held out his hand as a greeting, "I'm Luke. You've got one hell of a car there. Take any bets on it?"

"Logan. And uh—no, I don't really gamble..." He trailed off, finally taking in where he was. Luke's got a 1965 gt350 Shelby, there's a Toyota Mark 2 across from him, and he swore he saw a Ferrari down towards the finish line.

"Great going, Logan. Incredible judgement flirting with a woman you just met and following her to an illegal street race," He thought to himself.

Sure, he was once a Floridian teenager who's done some crazy shit on the road, but he was never crazy enough to end up around a street race. He didn't hate it. In fact, he would much rather spend his nights here then with another PR team, but that was beyond the point.

What if someone saw him here? His F1 career is already over, now what? Indy? MotoGP? If it gets out that Logan was at an illegal street race his Super License could get suspended or god forbid revoked.

He pulled the hood on his black sweater over his head, tightening the drawstrings a little to keep his face as shielded as he could.

In the meantime, you were grabbing your black driving gloves and checking the car's suspension, ensuring everything was in perfect shape.

You dusted your hands off and closed your driver's seat door, "Any wise words from the man himself?"

Logan laughed a little, a soft sigh following after, "Just… be safe."

"I always am."

He nodded, "I'll see you at the finish line, yeah?"

Too bad he wouldn't stay to see you win.

-

You got out of the car full of smiles and laughter, looking around for Logan to be waiting for you.

He wasn't.

You parked your car in the same spot you had when you got here, a phantom of Logan's car still sitting next to you.

You ripped off your gloves while shaking your head, trying to stop the disappointment or anger or whatever the fuck you felt right now from spilling out.

"He gone?" Luke asked, sprinting up to you.

"Yep," you muttered, throwing your gear into your car.

"Hey,” Luke said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “He was just some fuckin guy," He shrugged. "His loss."

You looked up at him with a blank stare, "You'd trash your loyalty to me just to drive a singular mile in his Porsche."

He pointed at you with a teasing smile, "And don't you forget it."

You lips formed into a pout, leading Luke to groan and wrap his arms around your body, "C'mon don't be sad, you just met him."

"You're right, you're right," You nodded, a few tears slipping out as you hugged him back.

“What a fucking douche,” You muttered under your breath.

He held onto the sides of your arms, "A massive asshole." He kissed the top of your head and continued, "I've gotta get home but call me first thing tomorrow, alright?"

You nodded and he wandered back to his car. You watched as he pulled out of the lot before being pulled out of your thoughts.

“Hey!” Someone shouted to you from across the lot. “You coming or what?”

It was a post race ritual for P1 to buy the rest of the drivers a cheap bottle of champagne. Seems backwards considering you won the race, but your earnings were 300 bucks and the rest of the drivers walked away with nothing. So, if you were unfortunate enough to find company in any of your competition—you’ll be sharing a shitty drink with them at 2am.

God, why did this guy have to ruin your night? You were supposed to drive, make some quick cash, and hang out with a group of people you adored—but no.

“I’m gonna head home,” You shouted back to her.

She threw her hands up, “Then who’s gonna pay for our booze?”

“You’ll figure it out!”

-

-2 Months Later-

Every race weekend Logan’s hands fucking twitched. His calendar was still linked to race weekend and his alarms practically gave him F1 induced shell shock.

He groaned, hearing the melodic singing of his phone threaten him with another day. He shoved a pillow over the back of his head after hitting what he thought was the stop button, only for it to go off again in a few minutes due to a miss click on snooze.

Out of pure reflex he yanked his phone off his bed and chucked it at his door, hearing its crack on the hardwood floors of his bedroom.

“Fuck,” He whispered to himself, finally sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes. His head hurt, his dirty blonde hair was disheveled, and he hadn’t shaved since he got cut from Williams.

He ran a hand over his face and wobbled out of bed, plaid pajama pants loosely tied around his waist and a white shirt not hiding the fact that even without a job, he was still pretty lean.

He made himself a cup of coffee before retreating back to his room and picking up his now cracked phone.

Kyle

you sure you wanna do this?

Logan

yeah i’m sure

Kyle

if this shit gets out you’re never coming back

please be safe

-

A ring from your doorbell caught you off guard as you sipped some wine and scrolled through your phone.

You hopped up and strolled your way over to the front of your house, phone still in hand.

Fuck this.

The tall American stood on your step, dirty blonde tresses dripping from the LA rain.

“Hi,” he murmured, completely drenched.

You crossed your arms, "How'd you find me?"

He shrugged, "I know people"

"That's concerning."

"Let me in and I'll tell you all about it.”

You sighed deeply, "What d'you want, Logan?"

"I wanna fucking drive, Y/n" He put his hands in his hair, his vocal tone almost resembling manic laughter. The harsh drizzle added to the sight unfolding in front of you. "I am sick of being cut from team after team for not being a good enough pity project. I wanna be in a car without rules, without a boss, without people being on my ass all day," He rambled.

"God you're like a sad dog," You sighed, opening up the door wide enough for him to step in. "Just come inside."

He reluctantly brought himself inside, slipping his shoes off at the door, and creating a puddle.

”So…” You closed the door before spinning around to face him. “You ditch me out of nowhere, stalk me for months, and then show up at my house begging for a job?” You asked with furrowed brows. “I knew Florida men were crazy but I didn’t know they were this batshit fucking insane.”

He sighed and stepped closer, reaching a hand out, “Listen, I know how it sounds I really do-“

“Do you… Logan? Because I don’t think you do.”

His voice raised as he pointed at you, “You know what I’m feeling better than anyone,” He paused. “I can’t keep watching someone else live my dream—I won’t do it anymore.” He shook his head.

He sighed, “I’ve got the car for it. I’ve got the money. I just want you to help me.”

Your arms were still crossed, and despite your intense thinking, a blank stare was plastered on your face, “It’s gonna be way fuckin different than F1.”

His brows raised, “You googled me?”

“Don’t look surprised,” You crossed your arms.

“I am,” He said with an almost soft smile. The first one you've seen from him all night. “Figured you’d want nothing to do with me.”

“I don’t,” You stood your ground before your eyes trailed down to the floor. “And you’re getting my tiles fucking wet.”

”Got any spare clothes?”

You groaned, “Bathroom’s to the right, I’ll be back with whatever I have.”

-

"Who's is this?" Logan asked with a curious look on his face, pulling at the hem of the white t-shirt.

"None of your business," You said firmly. "And it's on fucking backwards."

"Tag says Luke," He pulled the shirt off with a swift motion and fuck was he fit.

You tried your best to keep your eyes from wandering, "How'd you ever drive a F1 car when you can't even put your clothes on right?"

He laughed, "One time Lando couldn't even get his shirt on, you should be thankful you didn't run into him instead."

He paused, a smile fading into a bit of bitterness from reminiscing about his past career.

"Lando...?" You asked, taking a seat on your couch.

His mouth gaped, a smile tugging on both corners of his lips, "Jesus Christ I can't believe you sometimes," He laughed. "How're you a driver that doesn't know this kind of shit?"

You quirked a brow and joked, "Are you really asking me how I didn't know you were famous?"

"Don't be an ass," He tsked, causing you to laugh.

There was a bit of comfortable silence in the air before he asked his next question.

"So... Will you help me?"

You hummed, "No." You grabbed your glass of wine off the coffee table and headed towards the kitchen.

He held his arms up, "No? I thought we were having a nice time?" He said, following your steps.

"We are having a nice time," You nodded, dumping the few sips of alcohol you had left into the sink to prepare for bed—a normal routine for your house as if it were a business. "I'm still not doing you a favor. I don't even know you."

"You knew me well enough to let me into your house,” He tilted his head to the right. "Use some guy’s clothes."

"Just because I think you’re cute doesn’t mean I’m gonna hand over my wins. More drivers means more competition and less money for me. If you want to be a street racer you do that shit yourself.” 

His jaw clenched before he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, “You know what, fair enough.” 

You pressed your hands back onto your kitchen counter, “I hope you don’t take this personally because I like you, Logan. You’re a great driver and what happened to you is fucking shitty, but I can’t help you with this.” You shook your head, “Besides, there's not really anything for me to teach you anyways. You’re an F1 driver. Use that to your advantage. You wanna know the roads? Drive them yourself to find the fastest lines. You’re a smart man, you can figure it out.”

“Yeah,” He nodded with a deep inhale. “At least you believe in me.”

“I do,” You said firmly, nodding along. 

“You can crash on my couch if you need to,” You offered, turning off the kitchen and living room lights. “But I’m going to bed.” 

“Night,” He mumbled.

“Goodnight, Logan.” 

Of course, he was gone when you woke up. 

-

Now, seeing Logan  at your next race wasn’t a shock. But seeing him chatting with Luke? That certainly was. Luke wasn’t exactly a fan of new drivers, especially not ones you had a complicated history with. He’s still holds a grudge against a boy that crashed into your kart on purpose over ten years ago.

You swung your keys on your finger for a second before clutching them in the palm of your hand and deciding to make your way over to their cars. 

“Hey,” You shout to the two men before standing in front of them. “Why are you here?” You asked Logan directly. He wasn’t near his usual Porsche but a Nissan 180SX.

“Racing?” He questioned. “You know why I am.”

“No,” You shook your head and folded your arms across your chest. “Racing with me.”

He chuckled, “It’s not all about you,” He joked. “I had to give this one his clothes back,” He nodded towards Luke who smiled and waved. 

Your brows raised, “Oh so you just follow everyone like a creep? Here I was thinking I was special.” 

“You said to do this on my own,” He gestured at the lot of street cars. “Here I am making you proud.” 

You sighed dramatically, “I guess,” You teased. 

Logan opened his driver’s seat car door and leaned an arm on top of it, “You know it's good to see you.” 

You laughed, “You say that as if you didn’t come here on purpose.”

“Touche.” 

His words lingered in the air as you stared at him. 

“It’s good to see you too,” You nodded. “Chasing your dreams or whatever. Even if it’s nothing compared to F1.”

“This is better than F1 ever was,” He shook his head. “Because you want me here more than the people in my own garage pretended they did.” 

“You really can’t go two seconds without saying something sad can you?” You said, trying to lighten the mood. 

He laughed, “Yeah that's about all I do these days.” 

You rolled your eyes jokingly, “Just get in the car and drive.” 

-

Wet races were your favorites. No driver in any series could have a neutral take on the rain, you either excelled or completely loathed the thought of getting your tires soaked. 

“I think I’m getting flashbacks,” Logan shouted out his window as his car rolled up at the start next to yours. 

“Huh?” You yelled back causing him to laugh and hang his head down for a moment. His left wrist was hanging over the top of the wheel and his right hand was clutching the stick. 

“You’ll just have to google my rookie races.” 

You laughed, “If you were that bad you’re gonna be out of a few hundred bucks here.” 

He shrugged, "That's pocket change.” 

“Oh fuck you,” You teased, flipping him off and turning your attention to your front mirror. 

“Alright,” said the starter upfront. “To the cones and back.” She pointed down the road, about a fourth mile out from the starting line. 

You revved your engine and took off after the honk that signaled the race. Your cars were pretty much equal on the straight, the nose of his Nissan barely inching in front of you before yours swapped with him, putting you back in the lead. As you raced towards what he’d call a hairpin your foot pushed the pedal as hard as it could into the floor, shifting gears and pulling ahead of him. When you reached the edge you swung the car into a 180, tires squeaking from a combination of the drifting and rain. He followed closely behind you, practically kissing your bumper before pulling into his own lane, not faltering in speed. 

That little move impressed you, but it wasn’t enough to catch you off guard and slip up. You could see the finish line from your windshield. Everyone was off to two sides of the street, eyes glued to the two incoming cars that sped their way down towards them. 

By just a few inches, you crossed the line victorious. You threw one hand off the wheel and shouted, doing a few victory donuts in the open space you entered from. The two of you pulled your vehicles off to separate sides and he immediately got out to congratulate you. 

“If I knew I was gonna lose, maybe I wouldn't have bet so much money,” He said with a  smile as you panted and leaned against your car door. 

“I’m a veteran Logs, you should’ve seen it coming," You taunted jokingly.

He nodded in agreement, “Yeah I definitely should've." 

You held your hand out, silently already asking him for the cash he promised. 

He rolled his eyes playfully, reached into his pocket to pull out 3 hundred dollar bills, and placed them in your palm. 

“Wow, it looks kind of sad when it's just this," You frowned.

“What did you expect?” He asked with a chuckle. “A giant stack? A gold bar?” 

You laughed, “From you? Yes.” 

“You know for someone who didn’t want me here you really seem to be enjoying my company right now.” 

You looked him in the eye, “I never said I didn’t want you here. I said I wasn’t gonna teach you. There is very much a difference.” 

“There is?” He questioned. 

You nodded, “Mhm. The first part of me wants you here because she likes you for you and the second part is a competitor that’s still holding a grudge from that stunt you pulled a few months ago.”

He tsked, “I’m never gonna live that down, huh?” 

You chuckled, “Never.” 

A comfortable silence filled with fondness lingered in the air before he finally piped up, “So… I heard the winners supply the alcohol. You gonna buy me a drink or what?” 

You laughed, “You asking me out on a date?”

He smirked and leaned against the hood of his car, “Maybe.” 

“Well if it’s a date then maybe I’lll buy you a drink,” You said, leaving how the night will end up to him. 

“Then it's a date,” He smiled. 

“Then I will.”

tagging; @1800-love-me, @lovinglylina, @theonottsbxtch, @cleopatrick-123

[iamred-iamyellow]

okok too much florida slander in that fic bestie 😔 ur tearing my people up 💔

SORRY GIRL IT WAS LOWK UNINTENTIONAL 😔 my fingers just slipped while i was typing