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internetgremlin-writes · 1 year

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Flat Spin [Chapter Nine]

Summary/Prompt: 1. A spin in which an aircraft descends in tight circles whilst remaining almost horizontal 2. A state of agitation or panic [informal] As the only female driver on the grid, you’re fighting a constant need to prove yourself, however sometimes the line between accepting help and hand-outs is more blurred than you think

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr x Female Reader

Word Count: 6,100

Warnings: Sexual references, general Chapter 8 Aftermath content

Previous chapters: ONE || TWO || THREE || FOUR || FIVE || SIX || SEVEN || EIGHT

Newton's third law is that every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

The following hangover lasted for two days.

The next morning, you thought you were dead. Or at least you did for the thirty seconds you got to sit in that odd, floaty feeling you get when you wake up with a hangover, right up until the point where a quiet “Cariño,” brought your attention to the side of the bed where you met the soft brown of Carlos’ eyes as he waved a croissant under your nose.

You groaned loudly as your stomach flipped and a wave of nausea crashed over you with such force you physically shuddered.

“Get that thing away from me now,” you managed to groan against the pillow. Carlos must have managed to understand the muffled garble because the rich, buttery send drifted away.

“Good morning,”

“No,”

“What?”

“Just…” you stopped to swallow down another wave, Carlos’ peppy attitude grating on you intensely. You couldn’t finish the sentence. “‘M going to lie on the floor now,” you rolled out of bed and army-crawled into the bathroom where the cool slates were all but calling your name in the balmy morning.

You got a whole five minutes of peace before he was grinning over you again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your Monaco winner,” you squinted at him and caught the lens of his camera flash as the sunlight caught the polished glass. You made a certain hand gesture in his direction that made him make a gleeful noise.

“I think I’m dying,” You heaved yourself over the toilet bowl and felt his presence come mortifyingly closer before his hand landed warm on your back. For the first time, it occurred to you what you were wearing - after a second of sifting through your swimming mind you realised it was a T-shirt, much bigger than anything you owned. “It feels like my soul is being ripped from my body,” You coughed, felt your mouth water and weakly tried to push Carlos away when you realised there was no escaping your imminent fate.

“So dramatic,” he tutted, but his tone was softer, his touch careful and he stayed far too close for comfort as your body tried to expel whatever alcohol was remaining in your stomach. Suddenly you were small again, fragile. Something he could so easily break should he choose to.

“Says the person who kept feeding me champagne,” you moaned, the word like acid on your lips, and you felt your stomach heave again at the mention of it.

“Come on, you’re okay,” Carlos’ encouraging hands were lost on you, he was trying to get you to stand, but the thought of standing made your head spin and you flopped back onto the floor, pushing your forehead harder against the tiles as you waited for the feeling to pass again, swallowing furiously and breathing deeply through your nose. “Oh Cariño,” he seemed to realise that there was no amount of enticing he could do to get you off the floor right then. “Can I help?”

“Please,” you were so hungover tears were pricking your eyes. “I just need a shower,”

You were semi-correct. One cold shower and a bottle of electrolyte-spiked water later you’d made it downstairs to the lobby, lolling your seat in the breakfast lounge with sunglasses firmly in place. But you were sat up, opposite Carlos, and picking at the display of bland, carby foods he’d fetched for you.

Carlos, who’d started the day annoyingly bright, seemed to have finally felt his hangover arrive. He’d lost a bit of colour from his cheeks and had also gone from trying to wolf down the buffet he’d raided for himself, to nudging the bits of ham curling around the edge of his plate with his fork. You’d have had more sympathy for him except for the fact that it was largely his fault you were in such a state.

You were about to open your mouth to tell him off for complaining that he, too, wasn’t feeling so good when the other half of his bad influence dragged a chair around the table that was clearly meant for two, and down plopped Charles, fully accessorised with a large pair of Ray-Bans.

“Lando is not coming for breakfast,” that didn’t surprise you, the younger Briton rarely drank and even he’d been roped into the chaos of last night. “He’s not in good shape,”

“Surprised you’re here,” you mumbled. Charles shrugged, and made a vague gesture that said ‘me too’. “D’you know where Seb and Mick are?” If the group of twenty-something-year-old athletes had taken such a battering, you dreaded to think what had happened to poor Seb.

“Flew back to Switzerland earlier,” Charles told you, swiping a pastry from your untouched plate as payment. You took another gingival sip of the black coffee you were cradling, not even bothering to protest the blatant thievery.

“Where’s my phone?” You patted your pockets, knowing full well your phone wouldn’t be there. You hadn’t looked at it all morning, in fact, you weren’t even sure it had survived Jimmy’z and made it back to the hotel. “Oh god,” the words were small and defeated, accompanied by your head falling into your hands. You knew that if your phone were missing, it would have to stay missing for at least another day; there was no way you could stomach going on the hunt for it in the state you were currently in.

“Upstairs, I put it on the charger,” Carlos didn’t even look up from his eggs, but you nudged his foot under the table and felt him respond with gentle pressure against your ankle.

“Thanks,”

Charles stood in a dreamlike fashion shortly after, hardly remembering to bid the pair of you goodbye as you watched him drift unsteadily back to the elevators. The rest of the morning was spent back in your room. The Champagne remainders were untouched, but Carlos made a good effort at finishing off the French treats that came with the celebratory hamper as you curled against him, your eyes unfocused on the mindless, trashy TV you were both pretending to watch.

The afternoon followed with an hour of lazy head, Carlos so settled between your thighs you’d thought he’d fallen asleep there. You came quietly against his mouth, rocking your hips to match his languid pace, your fingers tightening in his hair. The endorphin rush that spread through your body, too, was slow. It gently made its way through your nervous system, clearing your head and healing you so blissfully that you barely noticed him kissing his way back up your stomach until you were cuddled against his chest. Carlos held you tightly as you slept off the last of the hangover together.

“I hate this bit,” his calf-like eyes were focused on you again. He had that devastatingly handsome look on his face, the one he had in interviews when he’d just missed out on a pole, or a podium, or a few hundredths of a second to Charles.

“It’s just over a week,” You promised. He shrugged.

“Always feels like longer these days,” You felt yourself melt against him at his words. The advantage to Carlos’ private jet sponsorship was the equally private lounge access he got before his flight; at least this time you could say a proper goodbye. You pecked his lips for what felt like the thousandth time that day. You wanted to tell yourself it was just the hangover and the adrenaline crash that was making you feel clingy, but you knew deep down something had changed. You just weren’t sure what - or how - just yet.

At least it was a night flight home. You slept from the moment you found your seat until you were set to land, and that was only because a steward gently touched your shoulder and informed you so. Your dad picked you up at the airport and you slept once more, the whole car journey home. You were way too big for him to do so, but somehow you remembered briefly waking up to the feeling of him lifting you out of the car and placing you into bed. For a moment you were the eight-year-old girl who’d won her first-ever karting race, a gruelling, wet affair that had taken everything out of your tiny body and that night too you’d slept all the way home and right through your dad carrying you to bed. You’d clutched that trophy so hard you woke up the next morning with it still in your hand.

This time around there wasn’t a trophy in your hand the next morning. There was the dull ache of the final stages of recovery headache and an equally dull, gnawing hunger that seemed to be coming from somewhere much deeper than your stomach.

*****

“Finally,” was the first word to pass Andrea’s lips as you made your way downstairs for breakfast. You weren’t sure if she was referencing the monumental lie-in you’d had or the fact that you’d cancelled the celebratory brunch you were supposed to have yesterday morning before their flight home. You figured she meant both.

“I told you not to expect her yesterday,” Your dad sent you a wry smile from across the breakfast table and slid you a mimosa. Your stomach twisted, but it was weak and you wanted to make it up to your mum for standing them up yesterday. She’d had a busy morning; a spread filled with pancakes, waffles, even french toast, with a whole tray of bacon, eggs and sausages.

“Bloody hell mum, were you expecting The Queen?” You joked at the sheer volume of food, not that you were complaining as your dad piled your plate high, the day of barely eating finally catching up to you.

“Just my little champion,” You smiled appreciatively, not even bothering to correct her terminology. A single win wasn’t a championship, but this one sure as hell felt like it. Either way, you weren’t going to complain when you had a “sim and gym” day with Katie and were going to need all the energy you could muster to survive that. The other downside to having a rugby player as your coach, she got some kind of sick kick out of forcing you to do the most gruelling workouts on the days when you needed it the least.

Fortunately, your parents lived within an hour from Silverstone, so you took advantage of the slow lunch before getting changed into your team colours and packing your laptop and a gym bag for later. The green seemed to shine a little brighter that morning. You couldn’t help but admire the way your new Ray Bans seemed to complement your polo perfectly.

You hadn’t expected an honour guard, but the welcome you got when you walked into the Aston Martin headquarters was oddly quiet. The receptionist barely lifted her head as you scanned in, and you made it all the way to your office completely unbothered, which, you thought, must have been the first time that had ever happened to you.

You popped one of those little pods into your coffee machine and contemplated snapping a picture to send to Carlos. The man was a borderline coffee snob and with Ferrari being so deeply Italian, they seemed to have professional barristers on every corner endorsing the habit. He’d scoff at whatever you had in your hand whenever you saw each other in the paddock and you knew his reaction would be the same towards your little coffee machine. Could you really complain though, given how many of their exquisite drinks you’d had for free in the last few weeks?

Your thought process was interrupted by a knock on the door. A young man in a polo shirt that was at least two sizes too big and a name badge pinned on an angle you had to tilt your head to read was hovering in the door. You could tell by the blue of the badge that he was an intern.

“Hi,” you volunteered it became apparent he wasn’t going to offer words.

“Oh, um, hi,”

“What’s up? Did Katie send you?” You could see the poor boy physically wracking his brains trying to remember if he’d met a Katie yet.

“Uhm, no I can’t remember her name - sorry - but, there’s a- like a meeting, soon?” He paused to check his watch “In twenty minutes. Whole team in the… the big conference room,”

Why they had sent an intern to tell you rather than Katie, or even an email, was lost on you.

“Thanks,” The intern moved as if he was going to rock back on his heels to leave, and then changed his mind, swaying forwards again.

“Congrats on Monaco, by the way!” He almost shouted, making you flinch a little and the champagne-induced throb in your head threatened to return for a moment. “My little sister - she loves you. And - I mean I do too - not like that! But you’re really cool,”

He’d gone an impressive shade of pink, but the sentiment warmed your heart.

“That’s very sweet of you guys! Hang on,” you leaned over and grabbed a sticky note from your desk. “What’s your name? And your cubicle number?” He hastily told you his name was Luke, and gave you the location of his desk in the intern pen.

“Cool, thank you. I’ll get something for your sister sent over there,” He nodded and retreated in a rush of thank yous. There were always boxes of merch in your office, so it didn’t take you a minute to put together a little gift bag with a couple of your driver cards, a mini helmet model and a couple of caps, all signed for Luke and his sister along with a few other Aston Martin branded bits you had lying around. You stuck the note with Luke’s number on the top of the bag, grabbed your coffee and made your way out.

The intern pen was on the way to the meeting rooms, so you slipped the bag under his desk on your way down, thankful that the rest of the interns also seemed to be out running errands. You’d been caught before in there and when one intern gets a sniff of their hero, you tended to get stuck in a mob it would take you at least an hour to extract yourself from.

The sheer size of the big conference room always surprised you. Four long tables made a square, with projectors on all four sides of the room and space for a speaker to stand at one end with a platform and a microphone. You very rarely had to go in here, meetings involving you were usually smaller affairs, or they were much larger and much more informal whole-team briefings.

You were one of the first to arrive, despite the fact that the meeting was due to start in two minutes. Fortunately, Seb was already there and almost instinctively you found yourself sliding into the empty seat beside him. Despite your mother’s incredible brunch spread that morning, you still found yourself a little disappointed that there wasn’t a snack in sight.

“Do you know what this is all about?” You whispered to Seb, the room so imposing you felt like a child in a school assembly hall, unable to raise your voice despite several other conversations happening around you. A steady trickle of people were making their way in, several of whom you didn’t recognise, others you were more familiar with. Your whole pit wall team was present, as well as Katie and Britta, John the social media admin and even Mike, who sat close to the podium with the microphone.

Seb shook his head, curls following the movement with a gentle bounce of defeat. You made a non-commital noise of acceptance. “How was yesterday?” The question was accompanied by an elbow in your side and eyes shining with mischief.

“How was yours?” You instantly reflected the question, but Seb stopped you with a clear look of ‘I asked you first’. “It was rough,” you admitted, trying hard not to recall the gory details of the morning in Monaco, but even so there was a small, proud smile fighting to make its way onto your face.

“I nearly missed my flight,” He admitted with a wry smile. You wanted to push for more details, but something Charles had said at the hotel breakfast distracted you.

“Wait, you went back to Switzerland - how are you here?”

“Supposed to still be there,” he sent a look in the direction of Mike that screamed Red Bull sulk for a second, eyebrows drawn in and an impressive pout. “I was only told about this last night. I had to fly in this morning,”

You were about to press further when Mike stood up and cleared his throat, effectively commanding the full attention of the whole room. Silence fell so suddenly it was as if a mute button had been pressed.

“Right, well thank you all for coming. I think we all know why we’re here,” You did not like the pointed look he sent in the direction of you and Sebastian, especially considering you very much did not know why you were there. You sent a desperate look towards Katie, hating the feeling of being caught out. She wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“First of all, congratulations where it’s due. First and third for the team is an outstanding effort,” there was a round of rather stilted applause, you and Seb standing out as you both launched into much more enthusiastic clapping, which you quickly ceased. Mike was fiddling with the projector. You took the opportunity to lean towards Seb.

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t going to be positive?”

“Y/N, where do you want to start?” Mike’s direct address snapped your attention right back to the front.

“Um…” Under his steely gaze, you had nothing to say.

“Let’s give you some options, how about that?” The tone of his voice made it clear that that was not a question he was waiting for you to answer. “How about assaulting a marshall? Or marching into the Haas garage? Acting as if you’re the only one in charge of the decision-making? Breaking into the Red Bull hospitality!? Or perhaps your concerning relationships with other drivers? To name a few,”

Oh.

“‘Oh’ indeed,”

“Sorry-” Sebastian interrupted, the attention of the room immediately gravitating towards him.

“You’re not innocent either, Vettel,” Mike’s tone was icy as he spat the German’s surname. You felt Seb shift beside you and knew immediately that he was switching from the gentle, bee-loving neo-hippie mentor back into the petulant driver who rose to world-dominating fame. A fantastic scowl graced his features, clearly offended at being interrupted in such a manner.

“What assault?” The ‘W’ came out like a ‘V’ when he was cross.

“We’ll start there, then,” Mike snapped. He threw a letter down and watched it slide along the elongated desk to where you stopped it. You didn’t need to open it because there was a copy of the contents being projected on all four sides of the room. An official FIA statement.

A fine of 20,000 euros is to be paid by the driver of car number 15 (Y/N Y/L/N) alongside a requested formal apology for the physical assault of a pit lane marshal during the second red flag event of the 2022 Formula One Monaco Grand Prix. The driver of car number 15 (Y/N Y/L/N) shall receive 1 point on their Superlicence for unsportsmanlike behaviour.

It wasn’t the money that felt like you’d just been kicked in the chest.

“Unsportsmanlike?” Your voice was smaller than you would have liked. “But I didn’t assault him,” you sounded like a child, and it was clear in Mike’s expression he wasn’t interested in your side of the argument.

“What did you do then, Y/N?”

“I-” You took a nervous sip of coffee. This was going to be a long meeting and you were not going to cry at the first accusation. “I was running to the Haas garage to find out about Mick. He grabbed me and stopped me,”

“And then what?”

“I…wriggled,” it sounded ridiculous when you said it out loud.

“So you got into a physical altercation with a pit lane marshall?”

“I didn’t hit him or anything! I just got away from him,”

“Y/N, I don’t want to hear it.” You knew better than to argue back. “Which brings me to my next point.” The image changed slightly, and two more letters were sent down the desk.

A fine of 5,000 euros each is to be paid by the driver of car number 5 (Sebastian Vettel) and the driver of car number 15 (Y/N Y/L/N) for the illegal entry into a competitive garage (HAAS Formula One Team) during racing hours in the second red flag event of the 2022 Formula One Monaco Grand Prix.

“Oh come on!” Sebastian spoke from beside you where he was reading his copy of the statement.

Mike was staring right at the two of you with an exasperated fury that made you want to disappear. You weren’t one for getting in trouble at school, but you could easily imagine this was the way teachers looked at naughty children. It didn’t sit well in your chest.

“Sebastian, you illegally entered their garage! Please argue that,”

“It was very clear we were both only there for the concern of our friend,” Seb spat the word at Mike like it was venomous. “Y/N couldn’t tell you a single detail of that garage, she was in a state,”

That was true, the only memory you had of the Haas garage was the stony-faced man in the white shirt who told you Mick was alive and the feeling of the world splitting apart beneath your feet.

“And you want the FIA to believe that?” Mike ran a hand through his short, grey hair and for the first time, you noticed the bags under his eyes. You wondered how long he’d known he was going to have to handle this.

“Sportsmanlike behaviour?” Sebastian scoffed. “Clearly not,”

Mike had had enough of the conversation.

“You’re not to argue the fines,” he sent a pointed look in Seb’s direction. “You’re both to pay in full out of your personal accounts, you’re both to write formal apologies. And you’re never going to display such immature, unprofessional behaviour again. This goes against everything we stand for as a team and you’re both going to make a very public rectification, understood?”

You nodded, your focus suddenly extremely limited to the square of the desk in front of you, unable to look up and meet the eyes of anyone in the room. Your face was burning, your vision was swimming and you knew you had never been so embarrassed in your life. You could feel Sebastian beside you, almost quivering with rage and his hands balled into tight fists in the periphery of your vision. Unlike you, his whole body was tense, on high alert and ready to fight.

“You’re also extremely lucky that Christian is a very reasonable man and isn’t pressing charges for your little stunt in the Red Bull swimming pool. How stupid could you possibly be thinking that was a good idea?” You sank further into your seat, what had appeared nothing more than a hilarious prank at the time suddenly was thrown into harsh, bleak contrast as you realised just how dangerous your idea had been. Although it had been your idea, John was rounded on for his turn of telling off. You didn’t even feel like the pressure had been taken away from you, as you watched the beloved members of your team that you had slowly grown closer and closer to being reprimanded on your behalf. The guilt was eating you alive.

“A team apology has already been issued to Red Bull. I don’t want to hear another word about this now-” Mike interrupted at least three of you who had spoken up over the stunt at once. “John, you stick to your team’s ideas only from now on and Y/N and Sebastian - you’ll be having separate PR briefings because you know Drive to Survive will be all over this,” Mike paused to rub his temples.

A break was suggested, and half the room stood to go and locate coffee. Mike took two paracetamol and you couldn’t help but think he had the right idea, however, you felt like you were glued to your seat. Katie was still refusing to meet your gaze and with Seb and Britta murmuring over an iPad in rapid-fire German, you suddenly felt very small and very alone. You were almost willing for Mike to hurry up and continue the onslaught because at least it gave you something to focus on.

After the break, you moved on from fines to receiving a very public lecture about your attitude towards tyres. Apparently arguing with your strategist over broadcasted radio is not something well endorsed by Aston Martin, regardless of who’s opinion was right.

“You have one job, Y/N,” Mike snapped. “Just the one! Drive the fucking car. The idea of it being a team sport is that we sort the rest,”

That was enough to tip you from embarrassment to anger.

“I drove that ‘fucking car’ to first place! And had you boxed me to inters I would have driven that fucking car right into a fucking wall. I argued because I was right,”

“You weren’t right, you were lucky!”

“I’m the driver, if anyone knows the tyres it’s me,”

“You’re barely out of your rookie season. You respect the strategy we give you,”

“Not when it’s wrong! I listened to you in Imola and-”

“Enough! Y/N that is enough!” Mike was red in the face, and his hands slammed down right in front of you so that he was towering over your seated frame as he shouted. “Maybe your friends at Ferrari can call their shots but you are not contracted for your opinion and we do not want to hear it. Need I remind you Lawrence’s son is waiting for your seat,”

“How dare you talk to her like that,” Sebastian’s voice was so controlled it screamed danger.

“Be quiet, Sebastian,” Britta’s hand landed on his arm. Seb dropped whatever he was about to say, but it couldn’t break the intense stare you were stuck in with Mike himself.

“And as if that wasn’t enough damage-”

Mike stepped away from you, clicking on a few slides further where a collection of images made your stomach sink.

“Schumacher is young, he’s popular and he’s already formed a close alliance with Sebastian. We chose to ignore whatever your relationship with him may be. Your personal life should be none of our business,”

You knew what was coming next. One of the pictures on the screen was of you wrapping your entire body around Mick right as he’d stepped out of the safety car, his head buried in your neck and Sebastian closing in on you. The second image was taken shortly after; you were gripping each other’s forearms with your heads pressed together. To an outsider who didn’t know the depth of your bond, it was obviously intimate. The third photo was at the end of the race when you’d jumped into Carlos’ arms and he’d held your legs. You hadn’t noticed at the time but here, caught in HD, the way his fingers splayed across your bum was not friendly, nor was the way he was looking at you in total awe. The quality of the final photo dropped off significantly, but the evidence was so much worse.

A grainy picture that was taken in the dark of Jimmy’z. Carlos’ hips pressed so close to yours there wasn’t a spec of space, his hand in your hair and the other on your hip, pulling you impossibly closer. His nose was at the juncture of your neck and lips millimetres from your skin. You were no better, eyes closed and lips parted in clear bliss, a hand gripping his bicep for dear life and the other fisted in the front of his shirt, clearly encouraging him into you.

“For fuck’s sake, Y/N,” Katie’s voice was quiet enough that few people would have heard her. The disappointment in her tone echoed in the pang in your chest.

“It’s not what it looks like-”

“Shut up, Y/N,” Mike snapped. “You have done enough for a lifetime in less than 24 hours. I don’t want to hear another word from you,”

“But I’m not dating Mick, it’s not-”

“ENOUGH! The adults are talking now,”

That stung. The tears that had been intermittently welling in your eyes finally spilt over as you swallowed the lump in your throat. You made an exaggerated gesture of running both hands across your face in frustration to remove the evidence, although you knew it was obvious he’d finally made you cry, and in front of the whole team no less.

The PR team were suddenly speaking up, discussing how much they’d offered the magazine companies that had hold of the paparazzi photos to keep their silence. Mike had sat down and for the first time, there was an efficient, business-like feel to the meeting rather than a public humiliation.

Within the next half an hour several cover-up stories had been prepared and were ready to be released if - and when - the rumours started. You weren’t consulted on a single one, despite it being your personal life under the microscope. Katie was the only person sticking up for you, and you had a strong sense that you were not going to be received well if you tried to offer anything. You didn’t understand the full scope of what the PR team were suggesting, too many business-like words and complicated, contractual terms for simple things that you were simply too overwhelmed to be handling right then. From what you understood they’d be saying you’d broken up with Mick and Carlos was nothing more than a drunk moment.

Agreements were starting to be murmured and there was a restlessness you could feel spreading amongst the whole meeting. Mike announced the dismissal and people were nodding and iPads were being packed away. You didn’t dare move. Seb was the second person out of the door, his expression nothing short of stormy.

Mike spotted that you were still rooted to your seat amongst the steadily growing flow of people leaving.

“I want your apology done and published tomorrow. Pay the second the FIA contact you. Keep your head down, you do nothing between now and Baku but train and I swear to god Y/N, you pull another stunt like this again and you’re out, I don’t care how talented you are,”

You held Mike’s gaze, something childish in you refusing to acknowledge him further than a swift nod. You tried not to look too much like you were scampering out of the meeting room with your tail between your legs, but you knew it was obvious.

Sebastian was in your office.

“Looking for these?” He held up your car keys, which were exactly what you were looking for. There was nothing in the world that could stop you from immediately getting out of the Silverstone complex as quickly as possible. You nodded, fully aware that your chin was wobbling as you fought off a fresh wave of tears.

“Good. Come on,”

He marched ahead of you through the building, out into the car park and unlocked your car, opening the passenger door for you with an expectant look. He didn’t say a word as he climbed into the driver’s seat, and pulled out of the complex with impressive speed.

“Cry now,” He said. You didn’t need much encouragement.

He drove in silence for ten minutes, whilst you tried to cry as quietly as you could. There was something big building in your chest and it was hurting the more you tried to control yourself. Seb pulled off the main road into a leafy, sheltered run-off that was totally uninhabited. He parked, rounded back over to your side and without a single word pulled you up and into his arms.

He held you tight and allowed you to finally let out the broken sob that sent you spiralling into a full-blown panic attack.

“Sorry-” you choked out but Seb immediately cut you off with a firm ‘no’. He didn’t try and talk you through it or get you to stop, instead letting you work your way through the way your body was attempting to rip itself in two until you somehow found your own breathing rhythm and your chest stopped squeezing and the sobs settled to a gentle stream of tears. He just held you, firm and fast against his chest and let you figure it all out yourself.

“You need to cry,” He told you when you tried to apologise again, the both of you now sat on the floor in the late May sunshine. “You’ll feel better. But not in there,”

“Oh my god, Seb-” the wave of dread that had temporarily pulled back crashed over you once more, and you immediately curled towards your senior, his arm opening and pulling you into his shoulder as if it was second nature.

“I know,”

“My career is over,” you moaned, a fresh stab of pain shooting through you. “Lance has been waiting for me to fuck up for years,”

“They are not going to sack the winner of Monaco,”

“But-”

“Look,” Seb handed you a stack of papers you hadn’t noticed he was carrying.

“What is this?”

“I printed them off last night. I thought we might need them,” Each sheet was a photocopy of a news article, each about a scandal involving an F1 driver. Seb himself and the Multi-21 incident was on the first page, there were several other on-track episodes, but what mattered most to you at that moment was the list of after-party allegations. From wild parties to sex scandals, the list of drivers with gossip surrounding them was ridiculous. Seb plucked the bottom paper from your hands. It was several screenshots of ‘news’ from Monaco two nights ago. Lewis in the club bathrooms, Checo allegedly cheating on his wife, Lando had been caught kissing that girl he was talking about, Charles had a very public fight with Charlotte, and Mick had been seen walking a girl home.

“Scandals are part of the job,” was all he said. “How many of these do you remember, Y/N?” You flicked through the pages again.

“Maybe three?”

“Exactly my point. It all dies the second they see something more interesting to talk about,”

“But it’s different, they already don’t take me seriously because I’m a girl, and now they all think I’m fucking half the grid and have evidence,” The image from the club flashed across your mind again. You had a feeling Mike had only put up a select sampling.

“I know,” Seb pondered “I don’t have the answers for that one,”

“Thank you,” you hoped he knew how much you meant it. “I think you’re the only person who can make this feel like it isn’t the end of the world,”

“Do you know how many times Christian told me off in front of the whole team?”

“No?”

“Enough that I just used to laugh when he tried,” You gave a wet giggle at that. “Do you want to go to McDonald’s?”

“I always want to go to Maccies,” you agreed, allowing Seb to once again drive as you pulled out of the quiet spot and rejoined the main road to find the nearest food source.

“One day, we will laugh about this,” He handed you the prized milkshake from the drive-thru window.

“I can’t believe he actually called me a diva over tyres,” Seb managed to grin around his veggie burger.

“Yes. But you need to know, Y/N, the way he spoke to you was completely unacceptable,”

A few of Mike’s choicer phrases bounced around your head.

“No jokes about that, okay? I’m going to do something - or say something - I don’t know what yet,”

“You don’t have to,”

“I’m your mentor. And you’re my friend. I’m not letting anyone talk to you like that and get away with it, do you understand me?”

“Yes, but shouldn’t I say something? Feminism and sticking up for myself and all that?”

“I think experience is more important here. And keeping you out of any more trouble,”

“Thanks, Grandpa,”

“Hey, enough of that!” he nudged your elbow, and the pair of you dissolved into emotionally drained giggles over your shitty burgers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Liked this? Check out more of my work here: MASTERLIST

Helloo, long time no see!

As per standard Iggy behaviour, I vanished for a few months but I'm back! Uni is finished, I can finally breathe and I have three months until I start my job in which priority #1 is finish Flat Spin so I hope you're all ready for an onslaught of writing >:)

I've missed being here so much and I'm so excited to pick up this story again. Hopefully, we can all remember the 2022 season lol. As always, this is a work of fiction based on real life but nothing more. I'm sure Mike is actually a lovely person and a great team principal, I just needed him to be like this for The Plot! (also can we talk about Aston Martin this season? Suddenly I'm not feeling like this fic is totally delusional hehe)

Anyway, so happy to be back. So excited for the next few months!

Lots and lots of love, Iggy

Taglist: @imreallylosingit @serialkillertbh @sticksdoesart @piceous21 @whosays75 @xscorpioxmoon @j-brielmalfoy @22yuki @teapartydreams @guccicloudz @valkyrie418 @nochillnel

@ruledchaos @isabellabrodar @ccloaned @ihearttheoriginals @ferrarifwendvale @bradfordbantams @bobohumyonlyboo @zoobabystation @formulacads @f1-incorrect-s @alicekepley @thembeforethea

(taglist is too big for one post so 2nd half are tagged with a link post don't panic!)

#flat spin #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz #formula one #f1 #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz junior #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz jr #sebastian vettel #mick schumacher #aston martin #fanfic #fanfiction

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internetgremlin-writes · 2 years

Text

Flat Spin [Chapter Eight]

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr x Female Reader

Word Count: 10.5k. I will apologise for nothing

Warnings: Mayhem. Crashes, bad memories, Y/N being a stresshead. Monaco afterparties and associated behaviour (drinking, sex, celebrations). We love to see it!

Previous Parts: One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven

You felt like the air had been punched out of your lungs.

You couldn't breathe, let alone speak. Crashes were one thing, and both you and Mick had had your fair share of nasty ones over the years, but seeing his car literally torn in half was something else. You couldn't get the image of it, back half discarded and front half buried in the barrier, out of your mind. It was like it was painted on the inside of your visor, an unyielding reminder you couldn’t see past.

Radio silence had never been so loud as you cruised back to the pit lane on autopilot, your entire body numb. Your team were swarming you, undoing buckles and helping you out of the car but it was like you weren’t even there. The second your feet hit the ground you were off sprinting to the Haas garage.

Several marshalls tried to stop you; it was an unspoken rule that drivers were not allowed on garage visits and especially not during red flags, but no way would that stop you. You rather violently cursed out a marshall who'd grabbed your shoulders just meters away from your destination. The white and red of the Haas garage was in view and you could see the wreckage on their screens in the garage. The poor marshall had no choice but to let you go when you twisted hard, worming your way out of his grip and scooting past.

You'd grabbed the first person you saw, demanding any and all information they had. The poor mechanic was young and clearly low ranking. He had barely stuttered out an explanation for his not knowing when a hand landed on your shoulder and you turned to be met with a grim-looking, heavy-breathing Sebastian, eyes locked on the mechanic in front of you.

Faced with a four-time world champion, the boy paled and disappeared into the back of the garage with the promise of help.

“Seb, I can't-” you could feel your breathing threatening to spiral out of control. Your chest was squeezing, the pain becoming more and more blinding with every passing minute.

“I know,” was his only response, but his hand didn't relax on your shoulder. You didn't even care what it looked like, two panicking Aston Martin drivers harassing the Haas team. There would be publicity hell to pay but you didn't care. There was a crane on the screen and marshalls on the track were starting to clear the debris around the main body of the car. Someone in a white buttoned shirt appeared from the depths of the garage, the pale-faced mechanic you'd stopped scampering behind him.

He turned to where you and Seb stood, sticking out like sore thumbs in your deep green suits. His gaze was cold and unimpressed.

“He's out. Radio was broken,”

“So?” You found yourself demanding before you could stop.

“So,” you didn't care for the man's hostile tone. “He is on his way back in the medical car. The two of you can kindly leave now,” you sent a bitter look at the man, turning on your heel and stalking to the end of the pit lane where the medical tent was situated, Sebastian hot on your heels.

“He's okay, Y/N,”

“We don't know that,”

“But he's not-”

“Don't.” flashes of another accident, one from several years ago in Spa ran through your mind. You'd been told Anthoine was okay too, at first. No one needed reminding of how that had ended.

You sat on the floor outside the medical tent, blatantly ignoring the cameras surrounding you. You knew at least one of them was Netflix, partly because they weren’t subtle about how they thrived on the drama and partly because you weren't stupid enough to not recognise the boom mic hanging over your and Sebastian's heads. The pair of you sat in a resolute, mutual silence, refusing to give them a fraction of your mind.

The hum of the engine preceded the entrance of the medical car that had you leaping to your feet. The door opened and low and behold Mick stepped out onto his own two feet. You didn't give him chance to prepare himself, a strangled sob ripping from you as you ran at him and threw yourself into his arms.

Mick took a step back but easily caught you, wrapping his arms around your back and squeezing you tight. You felt Seb, one arm circling you and pulling both you and Mick close to him. That only made you cry harder because the moment of suspension when your little trio had become a duo was deeply sickening.

“Hey, I'm okay,” you were taking shaky breaths, fighting to regain control as followed Mick into the medical tent. They tried to stop you but Seb must have given the medics a death glare because they stepped aside and allowed the three of you in without question.

“I drove right past you. The car’s in pieces,”

“You know they always look worse than they are,” Seb tried to calm you as you were handed a cup of water. You'd stopped crying as Mick was given a quick once over and permission to return to his team. “The cars are built to break so we don’t,”

The three of you walked slowly back up the pitlane to the garages. There were still big screens with the red flag notice everywhere so you weren't feeling particularly rushed to be getting back in the car. Not much else needed to be said. Mick was sandwiched between you, the warmth of him close enough to help you settle.

“Sorry,” you managed. “You know I hate crashes. Ever since…” you trailed off but the feeling of Mick wrapping an arm around your shoulders and squeezing you was enough. It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that you’d been the first car to avoid the carnage at Spa. That you’d seen the awful, awful mess firsthand.

“At least I didn’t end up in the pool,” it was typical of Mick to make you laugh. You headbutted his shoulder gently and the three of you resumed the normal conversation, which was, of course, complaining about intermediate tyres until you reached the Haas garage. You gave Mick another tight hug and Seb clapped him firmly on the back before the two of you made your back to Aston Martin.

“Is Mick okay?”

You hadn’t even registered Carlos walking straight towards you until he spoke. He was searching your face, eyes wide and concerned as he ran a hand through wild hair. You nodded, and he let out a heavy breath, stepping forward into your space. Seb raised an eyebrow at you and gestured that he was heading back to the garage, leaving you alone with the Spaniard. You tried to ignore the way your hands were still shaking as the pair of you stood together in the middle of the pit lane. It was a hive of activity with mechanics running every which way, drivers trying to entertain themselves up and down the lane and cars guarded by umbrellas. Several drivers stopped to ask you about Mick on their way to the Haas garage to find out for themselves.

Carlos watched you in that quiet way he had about him when he was witnessing someone else processing. You’d moved back, so the pair of you were leaning against a wall as you observed the flurry around you.

“Are you okay? You’re pale,” Carlos’ hand twitched as if he wanted to touch your cheek, but thought better of himself as a Sky cameraman passed by you, the lens obviously pointed at the pair of you as he did so.

“Yeah - sorry,” You shook your head and pushed forwards, bouncing on the balls of your feet a few times to force your blood to keep moving. “Bad crashes always get me, ever since-”

“I know,”

“Mick’s one of my best friends. He’s like family, fuck he’s closer than some of my family. For a second I thought I’d lost him,” Your voice quavered for a moment, your mind betraying you by dragging you through the alternative outcome of the accident. One where Mick didn’t come back in the medical car. Carlos instinctively moved in front of you, it looked like you were having a simple conversation, but realistically he was shielding you from the prying cameras for a minute.

“Deep breaths, Y/N,” you did as he said, fighting the sting in your eyes as you tried to compose yourself for what felt like the millionth time that weekend. His voice lowered, head dropping down for only you to hear. “Come back to me,” you allowed yourself half a second to press your forehead against his chest, before pulling away and snapping yourself back into reality.

“Right, I have a race to be leading,”

“You’re in P1?”

“Oh nice, try not to sound so surprised,” you snarked back at his shocked expression as the two of you began to amble towards your respective garages.

“I thought it was a Red Bull,”

“She’s green,” you pointed at the very distinct livery of the car parked at the front of the procession, ready to lead out of the pitlane if there ever was a green flag. Carlos shook his head.

“Too many lapped cars here,” you could agree with that.

“Hello guys,” Charles joined you, he looked pained.

“Hi mate,” Carlos greeted his teammate with a clap on the shoulder.

“Mattia said to me to find you,” he ran a hand through his short hair, green eyes searching for something along the row of parked cars. “Meeting before the restart,”

“Oooh, have they added plans J-through-X for you?” It was common knowledge that Ferrari’s strategy was questionable at best and accompanied by an intricate, lettered system that no one else could even try to decipher. Charles didn’t look like he found that as funny as Carlos did.

“Only Plan B: to beat you,” Carlos added, then left you with a wink and a wicked smile as the two boys made their way to the bright red garage.

With twenty minutes confirmed until the race was due to restart you were met with a strained-looking Katie.

“I have been looking everywhere for you!”

“I was just outside,” you tried to justify, a little confused as to why Katie thought you were lost when you’d had a camera following you for the last half hour at least.

“Seb said….” she trailed off with a noise of annoyance that meant she realised she’d fallen for whatever Seb had told her you’d been doing. “Come on, I’m not letting you throw this away,”

“I’m not throwing anything away!” You protested lightly, nevertheless following her to the back of the garage to run through some re-focusing exercises and a shortened version of your warm-up routine so that by the time they were finally calling for drivers to get back in their cars you felt sharp and ready to go.

They’d swapped you onto a new set of medium tyres, with word that due to all the delays the race was to be cut short. Within moments of being on the track, it was confirmed that you only had twenty minutes plus one lap remaining of racing.

“What about points?”

“Awarding full points,” there was a spark of hope in your chest. The mediums were doing a nice job, you were putting in some quick lap times and pulling away from the pack. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, defend with everything you have and bring it home,”

You didn’t even bother radioing a reply back. You had never been so focused in a race in your entire life, there was a car hot on your tail and you were driving every lap like it was qualifying, pushing for perfect speed whilst simultaneously planting your car square in the middle, doggedly blocking every overtake attempt made on you. Even with the medium compound, you were struggling to pull more than a second away from the car in second who was sitting on your rear ring just waiting for you to screw up.

It was the most exhausting drive you’d ever given, but when the message came in that you were on the final lap you thought of nothing else but to floor it. You wanted your fastest lap bonus point. The car felt alive beneath you, the tyres finally warm and responsive, the track dry enough to demand from it what you wanted. The car behind you leapt forward, but you finally broke the DRS link as you pulled away.

“Okay Y/N, just keep it together kid, keep it together. You’re about to win Monaco,” you were shaking, body spent from the exertion and adrenaline as you pushed and pushed and refused to let up. As you rounded the final corner you knew you were crying, but you didn’t care.

You’d only taken two other wins in your career, both from the previous season. Your maiden had been in Hungary, and a second lucky one had come for you in Mexico after the two cars battling for P1 and 2 wiped themselves out in front of you. Not that either didn’t mean everything to you, but taking a win on an archaic track, one of the most iconic and famous venues on the Formula One calendar was something else, especially after fighting tooth and nail for it. As if you’d done it hundreds of times before, you crossed the line and passed under the chequered flag.

“Y/N Y/LN, you’ve just won Monaco!”

There was nothing else you could do. The only response you could manage was a broken sob through the radio as you slowed the car for a celebratory lap. You couldn’t see a thing anymore, entirely relying on muscle memory as you guided the car through the streets one-handed. The other shakily stuck up in the air in an attempted wave at the crowds you could hear roaring for you, at you, with you: in reality, you didn’t care.

“Oh my god. Oh. my. God,” you could hear your engineer chuckling at you, various voices you couldn’t all assign names to hopping on to congratulate you. “That was mega. Thank you, everyone, thank you!”

“What a drive! You defended like a lion,”

“A lioness!” You corrected before a fresh wave of emotion whacked you in the chest and you had to drive into Parc Ferme in choked-up silence.

You wanted to wait until the cars in second and third pulled in before you got out, but you found yourself unable to get out of the car immediately. Your entire body felt numb and alight at the same time. You were shaking hard as you disconnected your helmet and neck support, the headrest and the steering wheel. There was a gentle stream of drivers from the non-podium positions trickling past you, patting you on the head and grasping your hands as you stood up.

Taking a deep breath you finally forced yourself to rise, standing victorious atop the ‘Green Red Bull’. Hands thrust up into the air, head tilted back, eyes screwed shut you allowed yourself to soak in the moment as the crowd erupted for you once more. The second you’d put the fixings back in the car you ran directly at the barrier with a scream. In the middle of the Aston Martin team that was waiting to celebrate you was your dad, eyes shining and face wet in silent tear tracks.

“Dad!” You threw yourself at him, a hundred hands fisted in your suit and pulling you over the barrier, but it was your father’s arms around your neck, holding you close.

“That’s my girl!” He gripped either side of your helmet which you were yet to take off. “The tyre call? Pure genius. I’m so proud of you,” You were crying again, but so was he, and your mum who was sobbing beside you so hard she couldn’t even acknowledge you. Katie, your engineers and mechanics were all screaming at you, faces alight and wild. The first win of the season always felt good.

“I love you,” you told him.

“Love you too, go get 'em, kid,” you nodded, the team helping you safely back on the correct side of the barrier. You felt like you were eight years old again, having won your first ever race and you knew that nothing in the world would ever feel like that again. Winning Monaco felt very similar. You finally managed to rip your helmet off, taking a deep breath and unashamedly dragging your baklava across your wet eyes. That was when you took a long, hard look at the cars parked in P2 and P3.

55 and 5. With your number 15 right in the middle.

Seb caught your eye first. His eyes were shining, hair wild. He looked younger than you’d seen him in a long, long time. You couldn’t contain yourself as he squeezed you tightly, the pair of you jumping on the spot like over-excited teenagers.

“Simply magical. Maybe I will name this car, too, after all,” was all he said, and then with a nod over your shoulder and a complicated gesture that meant ‘I’ll see you in the cool down room’ he retreated to where the FIA officials were beginning to weigh the stream of drivers trickling through.

Standing behind you was Carlos.

He was watching you with an expression you didn’t recognise. You couldn’t make sense of your thoughts.

So you ran at him, full speed.

You connected with his body at force, making him stumble back as his strong arms flew to your legs, steadying you as he picked you up with ease.

It only lasted a second before you were placed carefully back on the floor. Friendly to an outsider, but the lingering touch on your hip screamed otherwise. The way he was looking at you, making you feel like you’d just crossed the line all over again screamed otherwise.

“Congratulations,” he mumbled into your neck, so close you had to ignore the way you could feel the brush of his lips against your skin. You squealed because fuck it, you’d just won Monaco and you were allowed to squeal and cry and react however you wanted and the added layer of Carlos to all of it was enough to formally tip you into overdrive. You could feel him laughing warmly beneath you as you stepped back. There are races where you play your wins cool, where you shrug it off and go “Yeah, easy mate, one of the boys, no problem,” and then… well then there’s Monaco.

Your whole body felt like it was thrumming with energy, which you decided to use as the blaming device for the way you couldn’t stop waving and jumping and hugging anyone who came near you. You found yourself pacing around the cool-down room, unable to sit down as you constantly readjusted the Pirelli cap with the intricately stitched 1st on the side until Seb finally placed his hands on your shoulders and fixed it on your head.

“Leave it alone now,”

“Alright Dad,” His eyes shone with something that you hoped was pride. God, you really did love Seb. It would hit you sometimes like that, he’d do nothing much at all and you’d find yourself choking up in the emotion and admiration you held for the man you were so privileged as to call your mentor and teammate. He tipped the peak of his cap at you playfully and your attention returned to the large screen behind him that was playing the race highlights.

You hadn’t realised at the time just how close Carlos had been to overtaking you after the restart. The Ferrari had not only been within DRS range, but lunging at you lap after lap after lap, just searching for an overtake gap that wasn’t there.

“Bloody hell Carlos, I had no idea you were so close,” He shrugged. You’d seen Carlos come second a couple of times. He was still waiting on his maiden win and ever since Monza in 2020 there was always a look of mild disappointment when he stood on the second or third step. Every driver’s dream was to win, of course, it was, but ever since he’d joined Ferrari there seemed to be something that bit more tragically desperate about Carlos’ podium finishes. But right then, well, he was looking at you like the entire universe was in your eyes. There wasn’t an ounce of jealousy, disappointment or anything even fractionally less than positive in him.

He shrugged, and you had to resist the urge to bump him with your hip.

“If I’m coming second to anyone, I want it to be you,” he said quietly. You could feel yourself blushing, the tone of his voice clearly giving away the secondary meaning in his words and you could only pray that it hadn’t been picked up well on the broadcast. Seb, however, clearly did not miss the memo because he took a long drink of his water bottle, eyes trained on Carlos in a way that gave you flashbacks to a much younger Sebastian staring down Mark Webber after he’d thrashed his teammate on track. Your face was on fire as you decided it was best not to look at either of them, instead staring intently at the TV screen.

“Your overcut worked,” Carlos tried to change the subject as footage of one of Sebastian’s pitstops was being shown. Luckily, deep down there was still a little egomaniac in Seb that loved to be stroked and you could see the giveaway eyebrow raise that said he was interested in what Carlos had to say.

“I just took advantage of the slow stops,” He pointed out. You hadn’t realised that both Charles’ Ferrari and one of the Red Bulls had suffered fumbled stops. Seb had also pulled off some spectacular overtakes on three cars to fight his way to the top and capitalised on a technical issue with Max’s car. He’d done far more than take advantage, but whilst he loved being complimented, Seb would never say anything himself.

Thankfully, stewards were buzzing around the room and before you’d found something else broadcast-appropriate to say to two of the most important people in your life at one of the defining moments of your career, you were being sent out to the podium.

It felt like a dream.

Not in the way people normally say things like that feel like a dream. Not, like, happy clouds and rainbows and magical moments. It felt like a dream because the sound of the crowd was deafening, yet it was like you were wearing ear defenders; the noise a little muffled and warped. Walking across to take your place on the top step was the same: like walking in a dream where your legs aren’t yours and they seem to work slower than your mind is willing them to. It felt like a dream in the way everything was too bright and detailed, but not bright or detailed enough all at once. It felt like a dream when a princess shook your hand and your skin felt like rubber and you didn’t remember what the touch of another human was supposed to feel like. It felt like a dream how you wanted to remember every precious second and already it was feeling like a fuzzy memory, fading right in front of you.

The popping of champagne corks was the moment when you’re swimming and you come up for air. The moment when you break the surface tension of the water and suddenly everything clicks back into place. You can see the clock on the wall and the lane ropes beside you, you can hear the radio echoing around the chamber-like walls alongside instructors shouting and children playing. You can hear the old lady two rows across breathing steadily and the athlete next to you splash heavily as they dive in.

Just like that, you’re back in the room.

You could have sworn you’d memorised every face in the crowd. You’d waved to your parents and Mick who was standing right at the front, beaming at you even though he was holding an ice pack under his shirt. You could see Katie and your engineer clinging onto each other, and Mike beaming up at you.

And then you submerged back into the water.

If water was Ferrari champagne and submerged was Sebastian tipping his bottle directly over your head. If submerged was Carlos attacking you with a vicious foaming.

You shrieked, high and happy and completely content as you matched them, popping your bottle and hitting both with an aggressive spray before rounding on the poor apprentice who’d thought being sent up for the Constructor’s Trophy was an honour and not a rinsing. When the fanfare had stopped and the bubbles had settled the three of you looked like sticky drowned rats. You stood on the top step, suits squelching together for a soggy, smiley photo. You turned, forming a triad as the bottles were clinked together. Seb lifted his to his mouth immediately. You were about to follow suit when Carlos presented you instead with his bottle, a wicked grin on his face.

“More in here,” he told you, gesturing for you to hand him yours in return. Already drunk off the pure sensation you allowed him to come closer, gently lifting his bottle and placing it to your lips, holding it in place as you took a long gulp. Victory, if anyone was wondering, tastes sweet and acrid and warm. His eyes darkened as he continued to hold the bottle for you, watching the way you stuttered for a second before meeting his eyes and taking on the challenge to continue to down the very un-downable champagne when he made it clear he wasn’t letting you go. Your hands came up to wrap around the neck of a bottle in a display that your mother would call positively uncouth. Carlos looked physically pained as he let go, lifting the dregs of your bottle to his mouth and taking a much smaller drink than you had.

When you let the bottle down, messily, with champagne spilling over the corners of your mouth and splashing down your chin with a wet grin, Carlos was staring at you shamelessly. You sent him a subtle wink as you leant forward, reclaiming the bottle with a “1” on its neck and returning his “2”.

Carlos followed you back into the green room, so close behind that it was only too easy for him to bend down and whisper into your ear.

“Your hotel room number. Send it to me,”

The nod of your head was so subtle not even a journalist could have spotted it.

*****

“So lemme get this straight,” Katie folded her arms, watching you with one hip popped out and a falsely interested expression as you spoke. “I just fucking - fucking won Monaco, and instead of getting a head start on partying like all the other teams I have to do more press?”

“Shall we stop pretending like we’ve never attended a podium press conference before?” She asked you lightly, her good nature and familiarity with post-celebratory alcohol poisoning from her rugby days giving her an edge of patience not many would have with a complaining driver. She tried to adjust your cap, but you dodged away. “You’re soaking wet, are you sure you don’t want to change first?”

“‘M never taking this off,” you mumbled, not entirely sure if you were talking about your race suit or the winner’s cap on your head. Your suit was already becoming uncomfortable, it was somewhere between wet and dry, the heat of your body making the fabric warm and very, very sticky. It wasn’t pleasant in the slightest but you’d just won Monaco and there was no way you could be conned out of the magical suit, half a bottle of champagne influenced or not.

“Never work with kids or animals,” she muttered to herself, grinning as she handed you a water bottle and watched you pull a face of disgust when you realised it wasn’t, in fact, more champagne. “They should add athletes to that,”

“You’re an athlete!” You complained.

“My point exactly,” She grinned at you. Katie wasn’t an unattractive person, but there were hints about her that were just so… rugby. Like the way she was so much taller than you, and wider too. She was nearly all muscle, strong and sturdy. She had a plain face, with a broad nose and strong jaw and eyes like steel. Like the way when she grinned, you could see the gap in her molars where a tooth had been knocked loose. Or if she turned her head in the right light there was a small, silver scar behind her ear: “A walking reminder of why you never trust a girl with false nails,”. Or now, when she was grinning at you in a way that said “I’m going to get you completely and utterly shitfaced tonight, but not if I get there first,”

You liked Katie a lot. It was moments like these when you were reminded that behind the hardass manager, there was an old friend of yours who put up with an awful lot of your shit on a daily basis.

“C’mon you, time to go see some journos,” You groaned playfully as you scooped up the water bottle and followed Katie dutifully out of your driver’s room and down the paddock back to the conference hall.

Both Carlos and Sebastian had the good grace to change out of their sweaty, sticky race suits. You took your place between them, a lopsided grin hitched on your face and not a care in the world. The press conference was the best one you’d ever done, although maybe that was because the crowd were nothing more than a blurry haze and nothing they could say was able to so much as wobble your foundations.

It was almost too easy to smile and bask in their congratulations. Let them call you things like a genius for your tyre call. Even the more mocking comments, particularly keen to reference your adamant refusal of intermediate tyres felt no more than a friendly jab.

The hour dragged by painfully slowly despite all the attention on you and you found yourself working hard to not let your head loll to one side and let the sweet buzz running through your veins carry you into a much-needed nap. Instead, you found yourself hauled off for yet another round of photos before you were finally released from duties. You knew there should be a debrief, but it had been swapped for team photos and promises that it could be done later for once.

“Where are we meeting?” Someone shouted out, you couldn’t figure out who. Several more (albeit smaller) bottles of champagne had been produced from the depths of Aston Martin hospitality for the photos, resulting in a fresh soaking of you and several more drinks.

“Y/N?” Mike was looking at you expectantly.

“Hm?” You asked, not quite following.

“Winner’s pick. Where do you want to go for the after-party?” You shrugged, far too hazy to consider organising anyone.

“I don’t know, just meet at the hotel,” you told them, Katie collecting your car keys and the two of you departed from the rapidly dissipating group.

Most of the traffic had cleared by the time you’d packed yourselves into the ridiculously tiny sports car and made it out onto the roads. You were grateful that your parents (or at least your dad) knew the order of events well enough to not want anything to do with you until late tomorrow afternoon. From the gentle sway of the passenger seat, you managed to type out a few messages: thanks to friends, family and fans contacting you over the win, your room number to Carlos and invites to the team meeting point to several carefully selected gatecrashers.

*****

You slid into your hotel room to a pleasant surprise. Yet another large bottle of champagne was placed on your bed and, on your desk, a large gift basket filled with chocolates and small bottles of French liquors you didn’t recognise. The card attached was with warm congratulations from the hotel staff. You decided there was nothing wrong with continuing your pre-drinks party alone, plucking one of the glasses off the side to pour out some champagne and popping a chocolate into your mouth as you did so.

You were midway through stripping off your race suit, down to your fireproofs and trying to balance finding the music channel on the TV with turning on the intricate shower system when the long-anticipated knock on your door made you jump before a dumb giggle escaped you.

Carlos was on the other side, yet another bottle of champagne in hand. He took up your space so easily as he stepped inside that it felt only natural he was there. He cast a sweeping look over the room, eyes lingering shamelessly on your skin-tight fireproof top for a split second.

“You started the party without me?”

“I didn’t know you were gonna bring more champagne,” you defended as he poured himself a glass from the currently open bottle, clinking it against yours. “I also didn’t know what time you were coming,”

“I didn’t know you already have admirers,” he countered with ease. He was still wearing the polo shirt he’d been in for the press conference. “What’s your plan, then, mi ganadora?”

“El plan,” you snorted quietly. “No, um, I was gonna have a shower and get changed and then everyone is meeting in the lobby in like an hour?”

Carlos nodded thoughtfully, his steady gaze never leaving you. You only noticed then the bag he’d dropped on the floor beside his feet.

“Go on then, Cariño, have your shower,”

You cocked your head at him, surprised at his response, to say the least. Carlos gestured towards the bathroom where the noise of the shower already running was gently emitting from. You stared him down as you took another drink from your glass, before placing it on the desk and taking yourself off into the bathroom.

You thought about locking the door, but a small voice in your head told you to leave it.

The warm water was immediately soothing, your whole body relaxing the second you were under the stream. The adrenaline from the win finally felt like it was wearing off and you allowed yourself to sit in the moment under the scalding hot water and feel everything as you gently started to scrub the champagne out of your hair and off your skin. Carlos must have found the music channel on the television, you could hear it playing faintly through the door. The steam opened your lungs as you tilted your head back, allowing it to carry you back to several hours ago as you relieved everything that’d just happened. Trying to memorise and freeze in place the way everyone important to you had looked when you’d clambered out of the car, how the podium felt, and how the celebrations had gone so perfectly.

You yelped when hands landed on your waist.

“Woah, hey, I’m sorry to startle you,” Carlos was right by your ear, his voice a low rumble that felt like it had been transplanted directly into your brain. His hair was already becoming damp; you could feel the ends of it tickling your cheek.

You relaxed against his chest instantly, the way he was so broad and warm and solid behind you was like a drug. You didn’t know for how long or how badly you’d been craving this latest hit until you’d gotten it and now you were euphoric before the high had even kicked in. His hands gently worked up and down the length of your body, helping you to finish washing before you turned in his arms and returned the favour. He let you soap him up without comment or complaint about how long (or reverently) you spent on his back and chest as if you were trying to memorise the planes of his muscles and the places where he was softer. When you reached up to start on his hair he caught your wrist with ease, ducking away with a free giggle.

“Not my hair,” you raised an eyebrow at him, a smirk creeping onto your face.

“Did not have you down as the fussy about their hair type,”

“I already washed it,” he was still holding your wrists, your body pulled so close to his that you didn’t know if the heat radiating around you was from the shower or him. All humour evaporated from the situation as you met each other’s gaze and you both registered the position you’d put yourselves in.

Carlos’ chest was heaving as he watched you with dark, honest eyes. His skin was glistening under the water, making him look unreal beside you and you had to take a moment to remind yourself that he was really there and it was you he’d chosen to seek out.

“Carlos,” your voice was barely more than a whisper. He swallowed, stepping forward so your chests were touching, his face impossibly close.

“Do you want your reward now?”

“Hm?” He was nosing along the slope of your neck, his hot breath distracting your already clouded mind.

“You won, Y/N, let me congratulate you,” he’d let go of your wrists. One hand came to cup your chin, tilting your head slightly so he could press a kiss on the point of your jaw, as if he needed to make his intentions abundantly clear. You were gripping helplessly to his arm, already putty in his hands at such a simple gesture.

You couldn’t manage much more of a response than a high-pitched sigh and a subtle nod of your head, giving over completely to him.

He didn’t give you time to blink before you were pressed back against the wall, Carlos all over you in every way. He was kissing you feverishly, his hands everywhere, you responding but gripping to him like he was the only thing grounding you.

“I have thought about this for hours,” he admitted between heavy kisses “Since I saw you get out of that car,” You were trembling against him.

“Carlos please,”

“So good,” he told you, his mouth dropping down to your collarbones, and then lower to your breasts. “Asking so nicely,”

“Oh my god,” You didn’t even have it in you to be embarrassed about how turned on you were, your thighs tensing and legs trembling before he’d even really done anything.

And, as if it wasn’t enough, Carlos Sainz sank down onto his knees right in front of you.

He devoured you, giving you no time for pause or adjustment as his mouth went straight to where you wanted him most. Your hands flew to his hair, small fists preying for him to ground you in any way he could. And Carlos, well he knew how to keep a promise. He was determined, working in calculated and precise motions that had you keening and crying with every stroke of his perfect tongue. Two fingers slotted their way inside of you, motioning and beckoning you to come ever closer to him. His other hand held you in place, the large expanse of his palm pushing your pelvis back and holding you still. He was looking up at you like there was no place on earth he'd rather be, moaning filthily against you to make a real show of how much he enjoyed what he was doing.

You couldn’t stop it if you’d tried. The orgasm hit you hard and fast and heavy, rushing over you without so much of a warning. Your legs nearly gave way as you violently shook against him, head dropped back against the cool tiles as you called his name over and over.

Carlos relaxed against you as you slumped, peppering gentle kisses along the tops of your thighs, mixed through with soft words of praise for you. Or at least you could assume it was praise, several things he said were in Spanish. His arms were like a cradle scooping you up with ease as he rose back to your level, breathless but pleased with himself nonetheless. You reached for the back of his neck, pulling him towards you in a desperate kiss.

“I need you,” you mumbled against his mouth, hand reaching down to grasp him and finding yourself pleasantly surprised at how hard he was. “Now,” he chuckled against your lips.

“Always in a hurry,”

He helped you out of the shower, picking you up like you weighed next to nothing and walking the pair of you back to the bed. He dropped you down so your head hit the pillows, before crawling on top of you and making his way up your body reverently. Every time he looked at you, it was like he was seeing you for the first time. It set something off in you that felt electric and wonderful all at once.

“I know,” he whispered, responding to the way you were shifting your hips against him as he took his time making his way up you. “So good. No more waiting,”

Carlos was true to his word, kissing you ferociously and sliding into you all at once, eliciting a gasp that melted into a moan from you, leaving you scrabbling along his back. It was like he could read your mind, the way he instinctively knew and could give you exactly what you needed. There was no room for talking as a large hand wrapped around your bare upper thigh and hooked it over his hip, allowing you to draw him even closer into you as he began to pick up the pace into a perfect rhythm.

You didn’t think you’d ever get over the way Carlos felt inside of you, the way he could move so gentle and so smooth, yet at the same time be working you up to a pace that had your eyes rolling into the back of your head as everything else in the world but the two of you just melted away into the distance. He pinned your hands above your head, able to hold both of your wrists in just one hand with ease. You whimpered at the onslaught of sensation.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Carlos whispered, his face so close that the raw heat of the moment was broken by a lightning strike of intimacy. “Let me give it to you, Cariño. All for you,”

You were so worked up from the moment in the shower, and now, with Carlos towering over you but still promising to take absolute care of you it was enough to have you clenching and crying as you came for the second time, his grip on you tightening as he cursed through the sensation and forced himself to keep moving as your hips worked up to match him. His head was buried in your neck, his breath hot on your skin as he muttered strings of Spanish against you.

“Can you do more?” It was an innocent enough question, but the feeling of him still waiting for his own release had you nodding through your quietening cries and struggling to break free, gripping his face as you pulled him into a deep kiss. You could feel him begin to move again, already sloppier and less controlled until it was Carlos shuddering and sweating and you following after him once more, until the pair of you were collapsed on the bed, chests heaving but with satisfied smiles.

“That was good,” you hummed quietly. Your head was on Carlos’ chest, listening to his heart slowing back to its usual steady rhythm that you found so soothing.

“Oh! Only good?” He teased, earning a weak slap against his abs.

“You know what I mean,”

“I know,” He gathered you in his arms, rolling you and poking you until you shrieked and started to wiggle away.

“Ew, Carlos! You didn’t put a towel down, my bed’s soaking!” He’d rolled you right into the spot you’d been in just moments before - both bodies having stepped straight out of the shower and into bed had left a significant wet patch in your bed. Carlos was scooping you back up and settling you directly on top of him so you weren’t touching the sheets before you could complain further.

“It doesn’t matter,”

“And why would that be?”

“Because,” he paused for effect, wide eyes shining and soft smile making him look almost - almost - innocent as he spoke, “You'll come back with me, to my room, no?”

*****

“You’re late,”

There was a whole group in the lobby, but it was Daniel who spoke, the usual broad grin stretched across his face like a Cheshire Cat as he looked between you and Carlos, who had just stepped out of the elevator together. A quick scan around and a head count told you that you were the last two of the party to arrive.

“What was it they say about being fashionably late?” You tried to play off what had obviously just happened, but Seb’s keen gaze was trained on you, and judging by Danny’s comment he wasn’t the only one who had an idea of why exactly you’d been late.

“So, Y/N, what’s the plan?” Mike asked. It was rare team principles joined for after parties, but when it’s Monaco and both of your drivers for what is normally a midfield team find themselves sharing a podium - well needs must. You could feel the smirk creeping onto your face as you regarded the crowd - Aston Martin staff made up the bulk of the party. The drivers included were yourself and Seb, Mick, Carlos, Daniel and Lando.

“Well, that’s actually where you come in, Mr Ricciardo. I need your help,” always up for trouble, Daniel was never one to disappoint. His face nearly split in half, eyes positively dancing and body actually dancing as he struggled to contain his energy.

“At your service,” he added, addictive laugh and mock salute to join.

Twenty minutes later and your plan was in full swing.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Mick whispered from somewhere behind you in the dark stairwell you were currently being led up, Daniel in front claiming something about Honey Badgers not needing torches.

“Absolutely not,”

“How much did you drink before you came up with this one?” Seb asked. He was trying to go for a weary parent tone, but his clear excitement gave him away.

“Oh, I don’t know… since 2011?”

“Et voila,” Daniel pushed a fire door open, allowing the group of drivers and a small handful of the Aston Martin party back out into fresh air.

“Lando, have you got it?” He fumbled for a second before handing you the folded square of fabric. “Go stand the other end, John,” you instructed the social media admin, who moved silently in the direction given. You kicked your shoes off, padding silently in the opposite direction. You could hear John quietly directing everyone else to get behind him and the shuffling of several people not used to being quiet trying to do exactly that.

“Ready?” Daniel’s voice floated from somewhere off to the right, his Australian accent distinctive. You called across, waiting for John and the others to confirm.

“Go!” That was John.

Daniel responded immediately, the floodlights blinding for a second as they threw the dark balcony into perfect light. Refusing to give yourself the time to adjust you continued to stare in the direction where you knew John was filming, stretching your arms wide so the Union Jack flag rose behind you like garish wings on a giant bird. With the flag flying, you took a deep breath, squeezing your toes and launching yourself with all your might as you pushed off the ground and fought every instinct in your body as you tucked yourself tight into a somersault.

You hit the water with a hard splash, the flag falling from your grip as you held your breath, using the over bright lighting to re-orient yourself in the water so you’d resurface directly into John’s camera. You bobbed up, perfectly timed with a wide grin on your face.

“Well, myth busted everyone. The Red Bull pool isn’t filled with Red Bull!”

“And cut!” The moment John stopped recording and called cut the balcony erupted.

Carlos helped you out of the water and handed you the towel you’d told him to bring, an impressed look on his face to which you responded with an exaggerated wink and a demand for the real party to begin.

You changed into your dry clothes - the ones Carlos had also been carrying - behind the currently deserted bar whilst Mick and Seb were distributing champagne bottles to the group, because after all if you’d managed to infiltrate Red Bull you should at least go the whole nine yards and have a drink on enemy territory.

The two previous pool divers were sat with their feet in the water, sharing a bottle of champagne. Lando, Carlos and Mick were absorbed in conversation on the sofas that were primarily used for PR videos. A few of the Aston Martin staff were milling about, most of the others that had joined you had gone back out to find their coworkers and John had gone to find wifi so that he could edit and post the video everywhere.

You decided to join the ex-Red Bull drivers and lowered yourself onto a dry spot of the poolside.

“So, am I part of your elusive club, yet?” Daniel laughed, hearty and loud as he handed you his bottle to drink from.

“But so much yet to learn, young grasshopper,” he told you, the wise expression offset by him already breaking character.

“Your Miyagi is off,” Seb told Daniel without so much as a sideways glance. He was watching the way the crimson bulls painted on the tiles at the bottom of the pool rippled as Daniel kicked his legs in the water.

“Alright,” back to thick Australian for a second, then breaking into Texan “Well ma’am, the night is young, how may we keep ya company?”

“What even was that?” you snorted as he tipped an invisible cowboy hat at you, before breaking into his signature laugh. Carlos looked over his shoulder for the source of the noise, his gaze finding you for a moment and raising his eyebrows in a silent question that you answered easily with a nod. You could feel Seb’s eyes on you again and chose to ignore him.

“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought any further than here,”

“Oh! Max is at Jimmy’z,” Daniel was looking at his phone where the message had just beeped through. “He said we’re welcome to join,”

“What’s Jimmy’z?”

“What is Jimmy’z!?” Daniel held his hand to his chest, shouting in mock horror.

“Wait, who doesn’t know about Jimmy’z?” Lando was calling from the other side of the pool.

“Y/N!”

“No!” You rolled your eyes at the way the younger McLaren driver mirrored his partner’s reaction. “You wound me, Y/N,”

“Can someone please be normal and just tell me what this place is?” You rolled your eyes playfully.

“Seriously though do you just like, not go out?”

“Lando!”

“I’m just asking!”

“Lando, I swear-”

“Okay!” He retreated with his palms up in surrender, although you thought it likely had more to do with Carlos who tugged on the collar of his shirt and made him yelp than your tone.

“It’s just a nightclub,” Daniel provided “It’s killer, we go all the time,” you assumed that by ‘we’ he meant the drivers that called Monaco home. You were feeling loose enough for a bit of an adventure, so you shrugged with another mouthful of the champagne that was tasting slowly better the more you drank it.

“Let’s go to Jimmy’z then,”

So then it was a scramble to collect shoes and belongings and leave the Red Bull rooftop precisely as you found it before trying to get twenty drunk people to stumble back down the dark stairwell and spill out into the paddock. You had no idea how anyone managed to communicate over the babble of noise. Aston Martin people were peeling off from the core group of drivers rapidly, whilst Lando and Daniel argued loudly over a map on someone’s phone. Seb, Mick and yourself were hanging back, brazenly continuing to drink as you decided to use your winner’s rights to take no further responsibility for the rest of the night.

You couldn’t have said how long the walk was, but even after all the rain, the clear spring air was warm and almost balmy. Some sweet talking to a bouncer courtesy of Daniel and you found yourselves being ushered through a side door that was claimed to be the “VIP entrance”.

Something about Jimmy’z reminded you of your brief stint at university, where you managed one term before your racing schedule made it impossible and you were forced to drop out and instead complete your engineering degree through Aston Martin’s apprenticeships scheme. You’d only been clubbing to one place there and you had no idea why but Jimmy’z was taking you aggressively back. It wasn’t the sticky carpets that had tested positive for chlamydia, nor the sickly smell of late teenage body spray and cheap spirits nor (as far as you could tell) was it everyone taking their tops off to the Baywatch theme song. Maybe it was the multicoloured lights and the way everyone seemed to be having the most fun of their lives.

Your group, which had shrunk significantly on the journey over, made their way to the bar where champagne was replaced by spirit mixers and questionable shots, everyone clamouring to buy you something with a slap on the back. There were strangers you didn’t know shoving phones in your face but for once you were too happy to mind. Then it was a paper trail of linked hands onto the dance floor.

“Daniel! Daniel!” Someone was shouting off to your left over the thumping bass. The circling lasers and rainbow lights flashing in your eyes meant you were mainly dancing with your eyes closed, but you turned your head blearily to focus on the incessant calling for Daniel. Half expecting to see a crazed fan, you were pleasantly surprised to see one Max Verstappen, blue eyes shining and dimples on full display. He was wearing the same white shirt you always saw him in whenever he was out, a few too many buttons undone to expose the pale expanse of the top of his chest.

Daniel grinned, wide and welcoming as Max slammed into his side, arms wrapping around his friend in glee.

“You came!”

“Hey Maxy,” Daniel’s voice was fond and if you hadn’t been next to him you wouldn’t have heard it. “Good shout coming here,” The Dutchman smiled wider if that was even possible.

“Thanks for letting us crash!” You shouted, trying to hide the smug grin from knowing this was only the second Red Bull event you’d crashed today. A sweeping glance around the club with half a sharp mind was enough to notice that nearly half of the population were in the team’s polos. Max finally detached himself from Daniel and pulled you into an albeit shorter hug.

“Congratulations, Y/N,” Even when he was shouting over the music he still had a slight lisp in his accent. Despite him being less than a year older, it made him appear younger, and more innocent. You liked Max, not particularly close simply for not being in the same circle, but he was always kind to you when you crossed paths. There was a sweetness to him not enough people knew of, you thought.

“Thanks!”

“No, really. You deserved it,” You clutched his hand and squeezed warmly.

“You drove great too. I’m sorry about the technical issues,” He shrugged and waved them off. Giddy on something, clearly.

“Have you seen Checo!?” He was half turned to Daniel again, but your whole group’s attention was still on him. Daniel shook his head at Max, leaning close to follow his direction. Max swayed a little as he pointed to the outskirts of the dancefloor, where Checo was dancing aggressively by himself, one of his shoes in his hand. “He’s so drunk mate!”

“Didn’t he just have a baby?” Lando cut in, concern lacing his tone. He didn’t drink as much as the rest of you and was mildly more sober. Max shrugged, clearly bored of the conversation he’d started.

“There’s Charles!” The other half of Ferrari was indeed making his way forward, the beautiful Charlotte by his side.

It could have been minutes or hours you spent in Jimmy’z, honestly, you weren’t aware. All the sounds sounded the same, and with someone pressing another drink into your hand, you were fuzzy enough to not notice the transitions. Daniel had disappeared off with Max to locate some old Red Bull friends. Carlos and Lando had gone with Charles for a bit, leaving Seb and Mick packed close together with you. At some point Carlos had returned with a flushed, grinning Lando trailing behind him babbling about the girl he’d just kissed.

A familiar thumping beat caught your attention.

“Carlos!” You turned to grab the Spaniard, who looked at you startled. “Dance with me, now!” Mick raised his eyebrows at you in a poorly timed sultry wiggle, but you ignored him. Your alcohol-soaked one-track mind was on a mission and there was nothing that could stop you as you pulled Carlos back into the middle of the dance floor from where you’d previously been working the periphery.

“Why?”

“It’s my song!” You were grinning widely, newfound confidence pulling him closer to you as the opening lines to Nelly Furtado’s Maneater rang out. A slow smirk of understanding washed across his handsome face as he understood why you were suddenly so demanding.

It started innocent, Carlos indulging you as you wiggled your hips out of time and tilted your head back as you soaked in the moment of invincibility. You were powerful, untouchable. You’d beaten 19 men at their own game on hallowed grounds. You were the Maneater.

Carlos didn’t dance. You knew that, but it was fun to bother him nonetheless. Your hands went from your poor and likely very unsexy moves to looped around his neck. He found your hips to match, strong grip pulling you far closer than appropriate for coworkers. He encouraged you to keep moving, his nose running from your ear, down the side of your neck and ending near where your collarbones met, on display thanks to the low-cut top you’d chosen. What was worse was the way he slowly made his way back up the hollow of your neck until he was hovering right over your lips. He had a hold of your head, tilting you backwards so just as you were about to boil over and give into him, you couldn’t quite reach. It didn’t help that the more your hips moved in a rhythm you were fast becoming familiar with, he was pressed so close to you that you could feel him hardening in his jeans. It made your mouth water, and all thoughts of anything sensible completely wiped from your mind.

The song ended with his lips behind your ear in a promise of so many things you wanted and so many things you really shouldn’t be taking right then.

The music morphed back into melded drum and bass you didn’t know. Carlos’ cologne in your nose was almost sobering, enough to make you come back to yourself.

“I’m starving,” You told him, mouth on his ear under the excuse of him not being able to hear you otherwise. He shook his head at you, not understanding and eyes dark with lust. “Hungry! I’m hungry,”

You took his hand and led him back out to where Seb, Mick and Lando were starting to slump against the wall. If you were sober enough to care, you’d hope that they’d at least assume your sweaty and flushed face was simply due to the volume of bodies packed into the dark space.

“Lando!” He looked up from where he was showing Mick something on his phone. With a tilt of your head he nodded and lead the remaining five of you back out onto the streets of Monaco. You found yourself gluping, drinking in the cool air to help steady your spinning mind. “Oh official Monaco tour guide,” you clasped your hands together as if you were praying.

“What, me?” Lando looked mildly alarmed. You nodded at him, wide eyed and desperate.

“Please tell me where the nearest chippy is,”

“Chippy?” Mick looked confused.

“All I want is a plate of chips and gravy,” Lando snorted.

“This is Monaco,”

“I refuse to believe there isn’t a fish and chip shop here. So please, please, direct me to the nearest fast food place that’s open. I’m willing to settle for French Fries,” you pulled a face.

Walking was a little blurry, but you found yourself leaning between the arms of Seb and Mick as the three of you struggled to walk three abreast down the narrow streets, giggling to yourselves.

“Can you believe we did it?” Seb hummed happily. “Mick you need points!” He chuckled.

“I’m just happy to be here,” you leant your head on his shoulder.

“Me too,”

Your memories cut in and out after that. You remembered the five of you huddled up in a questionable kebab shop, you guarding your plate of chips against Lando’s prying fingers and watching stupid videos on his phone. You remembered Carlos being the only person you allowed to steal from you. You remembered Lando peeling off to go home. You didn’t remember Seb and Mick leaving you, but you were aware of being pushed against a wall in a dark alley, Carlos’ warm lips all over you and lighting a fire in your belly with a mumble of not being able to wait any longer. You remembered stumbling into his hotel room as he predicted, too drunk and silly to do anything other than make out and clumsily help each other undress.

You remembered his arms warped tight around you as you lay on his bare chest.

You remembered never feeling as happy and as contented as you did that night. Not even the winning, but spending the night with the people who meant the most in the world to you, aside from family itself. The little found family you’d build in the sport you’d made your home.

You’d never want anything more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hello bambinos

READ CHAPTER NINE HERE!

If you liked this check out my masterlist here

Hopefully judging by the length of this you now see why it took so long to update. Hope you all aren't too mad at me for cutting off the last chapter where I did, hopefully this one makes up for it.

Super double extra triple bonus points if anyone knows the student club Y/N thinks Jimmy'z reminds her of.

Um what else to say? Singapore was a mess how are we all coping? Oh and this is the first post using the dreaded content labels so let's see how this goes engagement wise. I'm hoping everyone has seen enough of my warnings to know to allow mature content for this fic or go to my AO3

Anyway, as always feedback is HUGELY appreciated and I love hearing your opinions on the smallest of things!! Love you all, wishing you all a fabulous week/month

OH AND I have a big announcement coming soon... so keep your eyes peeled for that

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