#Top Helmet Brands

[pucksandpower]

Changing the Game

platonic!Fernando Alonso x mentee!Reader

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: motorsport can be cruel, especially for young women aspiring to make it to Formula 1, but when Fernando notices a driver who deserves more than the unjust cards fate handed her, he decides to do something about it … and your life will never be the same

The roar of engines fills the air, blending with the faint scent of gasoline that clings to the paddock like a memory. Fernando walks through the chaos of the Formula 3 circuit, hands in his pockets, sunglasses firmly in place.

His presence is a subtle disruption, not loud, but noticeable. Drivers and engineers glance his way, some nodding in respect, others too focused on their tasks to do more than acknowledge him with a brief flicker of recognition.

He’s been watching the race, the sun high overhead, a burning reminder that summer has a way of dragging things out. Yet, time has felt elastic today, stretched out by the tension of the track and the surprising twist that caught his attention.

A young driver — no, more than just young — barely seventeen, the only female on the grid, had sliced through the competition with precision and ferocity. Her car, marked by the number on the side, had danced on the edge of control, flirting with danger at every turn but never losing its rhythm. When the chequered flag waved, she’d crossed the line in a solid third, inches from second, and not far from the top spot.

He’d seen talent before, of course. It’s part of his world, spotting it, nurturing it, sometimes crushing it under the weight of competition. But something about you caught his eye. There’s a sharpness in your driving, a clarity of purpose that’s rare. He wonders where you’ve been hiding.

As the cars pull into the pit lane, the usual bustle takes over. Engineers swarm around their drivers, debriefs start, and helmets are tugged off with a mix of relief and frustration. Fernando watches from a distance, scanning the crowd until he finds you. You’re standing by your car, tugging at your gloves with a sharp motion, frustration etched in the tightness of your jaw. There’s a fleeting moment where you pull off your helmet, shaking out your hair, and Fernando notices the absence of something.

Sponsors.

Your race suit is practically bare. The car too, minimal branding, the kind that signals a driver struggling to make ends meet rather than one who’s just claimed a podium finish. He frowns, tilting his head slightly as he watches you. It doesn’t make sense. A driver that good should be swimming in offers, drowning in endorsements.

He catches the eye of a paddock official nearby, someone he’s vaguely familiar with — one of those types who always seem to know more than they let on. Fernando strides over, casual but direct. The official straightens up, clearly surprised to have Fernando Alonso approaching.

“Who’s the girl?” Fernando asks, nodding in your direction, though he doesn’t really need to. You’re the only one who fits the description.

The official glances your way, then back at Fernando. “Y/N Y/L/N. She’s been turning heads all season.”

“Not enough, apparently.” Fernando gestures vaguely at your race suit, his tone making it clear he’s talking about the lack of sponsorship. “What’s going on there?”

The official hesitates, glancing around as if to make sure no one’s listening. He lowers his voice slightly, a conspiratorial tone creeping in. “She’s good, real good. But, you know … she’s a girl.”

Fernando’s eyebrows shoot up, a sharp flash of irritation sparking in his eyes. “So?”

“So,” the official continues, shifting his weight uncomfortably, “sponsors and academies, they’re … cautious. Not sure if she’s got the staying power. And you know how it is, they’re more willing to take a risk on a kid who fits the mold.”

“The mold,” Fernando repeats, his voice flat, incredulous. He lets out a breath, shaking his head slightly. It’s 2019, and this is still happening. It shouldn’t surprise him, but somehow, it does.

His gaze returns to you, still standing by your car, now deep in conversation with your race engineer. There’s a fierceness in the way you talk, the way you move your hands as if trying to will the universe to bend to your will. Fernando recognizes that fire — it’s the same one he’s carried in himself for years.

But there’s more than just frustration in your eyes. There’s something else — determination, maybe, but tinged with something darker, something that’s been carved out of too many disappointments. He knows that look too. It’s the one you get when you’re tired of proving yourself over and over, and yet, you keep doing it because there’s no other choice.

Fernando’s decision is made in an instant. He doesn’t overthink it; he never has. That’s not his style. He approaches you with the same casual confidence that’s defined his career, weaving through the bustle of the paddock until he’s close enough to catch the tail end of your conversation.

“... could’ve pushed harder into turn four,” you’re saying to your engineer, frustration coloring your voice. “But the grip just wasn’t there.”

Your engineer nods, making a note on his tablet, but before he can respond, Fernando steps into the space between you.

“Grip’s one thing,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise around you, “but timing’s everything.”

You turn, eyes widening just a fraction as you realize who’s standing there. Fernando catches the flicker of surprise that you quickly mask with a polite, if guarded, smile.

“Fernando Alonso,” you say, your voice a careful mix of respect and curiosity.

“In the flesh,” he replies, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He glances at your car, then back at you. “Nice drive today.”

“Thanks.” The word comes out clipped, like you’re not entirely sure what to make of him yet. He can tell you’re used to being judged, sized up and dismissed by those who think they know better. But Fernando’s not here to judge.

“Third place,” he continues, as if he’s thinking out loud. “But you had the pace for second.”

Your eyebrows lift slightly, and for the first time, a hint of a real smile breaks through. “Yeah, I did. But things don’t always go as planned.”

“No,” he agrees, “they don’t. But you’ve got talent. Real talent.”

You study him for a moment, your expression shifting from guarded to something more open, more curious. “Thanks,” you say again, but this time it’s softer, more genuine.

There’s a pause, the noise of the paddock fading slightly as you both stand there, sizing each other up. Fernando knows this is the moment where most people would make some kind of offer — advice, mentorship, maybe even a contract. But he’s never been one to do things by the book.

Instead, he tilts his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. “Do you like ice cream?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. “What?”

“Ice cream,” he repeats, his tone light, almost teasing. “Do you like it?”

“Uh … yeah?” You sound more confused than anything, but there’s a hint of amusement creeping into your voice.

“Great,” Fernando says, as if that settles everything. He steps back, gesturing for you to follow him. “Let’s go get some. My treat.”

You stare at him for a moment, clearly trying to figure out if he’s serious. But when you see that he is, a slow smile spreads across your face, and you can’t help but laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Okay,” you say, still laughing a little as you start to walk beside him. “Why not?”

And just like that, the tension that had been hanging over the paddock seems to dissipate, replaced by something lighter, something that feels almost like hope.

***

The ice cream shop is a short walk from the circuit, tucked into a corner of the small town that’s hosting the weekend’s race. It’s the kind of place Fernando imagines has been around for decades, unchanged except for maybe a new coat of paint every few years. The neon sign in the window buzzes faintly, its pink light reflecting off the glass as he pushes the door open, holding it for you as you follow him inside.

The cool air is a welcome relief from the heat outside, carrying with it the sweet, unmistakable scent of sugar and cream. The shop is quiet, just a couple of kids sitting by the window, licking at cones that seem far too big for them. Behind the counter, a bored-looking teenager perks up as the door chimes, her gaze sharpening as she recognizes Fernando.

“Can I help you?” She asks, her voice brightening as she tries to act casual, though it’s clear she’s a little starstruck.

Fernando nods toward you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Ladies first.”

You hesitate for a moment, then step up to the counter, glancing at the array of ice cream flavors displayed behind the glass. The choices are written in chalk on a board above, but your eyes are immediately drawn to the rich, golden brown of the dulce de leche. You point to it, giving the girl behind the counter a quick smile.

“Two scoops of that, please,” you say, and then, after a beat, “with as many toppings as will fit.”

Fernando raises an eyebrow, amused as he watches you. The girl behind the counter doesn’t question it, scooping generous portions of the creamy ice cream into a cup before moving over to the toppings bar. You lean over the counter slightly, studying the options with a critical eye before making your selections — caramel drizzle, chocolate chips, a handful of crushed cookies, a sprinkle of nuts, and a final flourish of whipped cream on top.

When the girl hands you the cup, it’s practically overflowing, a masterpiece of indulgence that’s almost as impressive as your driving. You turn to Fernando, already reaching for your wallet.

“I can pay for mine,” you say quickly, but Fernando waves you off, already pulling out his own wallet.

“It’s on me,” he insists, his tone making it clear there’s no room for argument.

You open your mouth to protest, but the look he gives you stops you in your tracks. There’s something gentle in his eyes, an unexpected warmth that makes you pause. You let out a small sigh, putting your wallet away as you give in.

“Fine,” you mutter, though there’s no real annoyance in your voice. “But I’m getting you back for this.”

Fernando chuckles as he orders a simple vanilla cone for himself. “We’ll see about that.”

Once he’s paid, the two of you find a small table near the back of the shop, away from the kids and the counter. It’s quiet, almost private, with the hum of the freezers and the distant chatter of the other customers filling the silence. You sit across from him, carefully balancing your cup of ice cream as you take your first bite.

The first taste of dulce de leche is heavenly, the caramel sweetness melting on your tongue as the toppings add layers of texture and flavor. For a moment, it’s easy to forget about everything else — the race, the frustration, the uncertainty of it all. There’s just the ice cream, the coolness of it on your tongue, and the rare sensation of simply enjoying something without a care.

Fernando watches you with a faint smile, his own ice cream barely touched as he leans back in his chair. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence, letting you savor the moment before he finally speaks.

“So,” he says, breaking the quiet, “tell me about your situation.”

You glance up at him, the spoon pausing halfway to your mouth. There’s something in his tone, something gentle but probing, that tells you this isn’t just small talk. You lower the spoon, setting the cup down on the table as you consider how to respond.

“It’s … complicated,” you begin, though that word hardly covers it. You let out a small sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly as you lean back in your chair. “I mean, I’m doing everything I can on the track. My results speak for themselves, right? But it’s like … it’s like none of that matters.”

Fernando nods, encouraging you to continue. There’s no judgment in his eyes, just a quiet understanding, and that makes it easier to keep talking.

“Every race, I’m out there giving it everything I’ve got,” you say, your voice growing more animated as you go on. “I’m right up there with the best of them — sometimes even better. But then I look around, and I see these other drivers, guys who are barely scraping into the points, and they’ve got major sponsors backing them. They’re signed to F1 teams’ academies, they’ve got a clear path to the top. And me? I’ve got nothing. No sponsors, no academy, no security.”

You pick up your spoon again, stirring your ice cream absentmindedly as your frustration bubbles to the surface. “It’s not like I haven’t tried. My team’s tried too, but no one wants to take the risk on me. They all say the same thing — ‘You’re good, but we’re just not sure if you’re what we’re looking for.’ Which is just code for ‘You’re a girl, and we’re not willing to bet on you.’”

Fernando doesn’t interrupt, letting you vent. He’s heard stories like this before, but it never gets any easier to listen to. The sport has its issues, and while things have improved over the years, the barriers you’re facing are still all too real.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you shake your head. “It’s so frustrating, you know? I’m out there proving myself every single weekend, but it’s like I have to work twice as hard just to get noticed, and even then, it’s not enough. My parents — they believe in me, but they’re practically killing themselves to keep me racing. They had to take a second mortgage on the house just to get me into F3 this season. And every time I don’t get a sponsor, every time another academy passes on me, it’s like … it’s like I’m letting them down.”

Your voice cracks slightly at the end, and you quickly take another bite of ice cream, as if that can somehow keep your emotions in check. But Fernando sees the way your hand trembles just a little, the way your eyes have lost some of their fire, replaced by a weary resignation.

“It shouldn’t be this hard,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “I know the sport is tough, but it feels like I’m fighting a battle that’s rigged from the start.”

Fernando takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “It’s not fair,” he says, his voice steady, grounding. “You’re right, it shouldn’t be this hard. But sometimes, the fight isn’t just about winning on the track. It’s about changing the game entirely.”

You look at him, your eyes narrowing slightly as you try to gauge what he means by that. There’s something in his tone, something determined and unyielding, that makes you believe he understands more than he’s letting on.

“Changing the game?” You repeat, the words feeling heavy in your mouth.

Fernando nods, leaning forward slightly. “Yeah. Look, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. But if anyone can do it, it’s you. You’ve got the talent, you’ve got the drive, and you’ve got something most people don’t — resilience. You’re still here, still fighting, even when the odds are against you. That says a lot.”

You bite your lip, absorbing his words. There’s a part of you that wants to believe him, that wants to hold on to that hope, but there’s also a part that’s tired — so tired of fighting an uphill battle, of always having to prove yourself over and over again.

“I just don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “What if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough?”

Fernando’s gaze softens, and for a moment, he sees a reflection of his younger self in you, back when he was first starting out, hungry and determined but unsure of how far he could really go. The difference is, he had the backing, the opportunities that you’ve been denied.

“You are enough,” he says, his tone firm, leaving no room for doubt. “The problem isn’t with you. It’s with the system, with the people who are too scared to see things differently. But that doesn’t mean you stop. You keep pushing, keep showing them what they’re missing. And if they can’t see it, then we’ll make them see it.”

You blink, surprised by the intensity in his voice. There’s a conviction there that’s hard to ignore, a belief in you that you’ve been struggling to find in yourself.

“We?” You ask, your voice tinged with cautious hope.

Fernando smiles, a small, determined curve of his lips. “We. You’re not alone in this. I’ve been where you are, in a different way, but I know what it’s like to have to fight for everything. And I know what it’s like to have someone in your corner who believes in you.”

You stare at him, processing his words, the implications of what he’s offering. There’s a warmth in your chest, a spark of something that feels dangerously close to hope.

“So what now?” You ask, your voice steadier.

Fernando leans back in his chair, his gaze never leaving yours as he takes a thoughtful bite of his ice cream. There's a moment of silence, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between you, before he finally speaks, his voice calm but resolute.

"Now?" He sets his cone down on the table, his expression sharpening with purpose. "I make some calls."

***

It’s been a few weeks since that day at the ice cream shop, and Fernando hasn’t been able to shake the conversation from his mind. He’s been in the sport long enough to know how things work, but hearing it from you, seeing how the system has worn you down despite your undeniable talent, it struck a nerve. It’s been a whirlwind of phone calls, favors cashed in, and quiet meetings behind closed doors. But now, standing at the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport, Fernando knows it’s all been worth it.

You come into view, wheeling your carry-on behind you, your eyes scanning the crowd until they land on him. A look of surprise crosses your face, quickly replaced by a hesitant smile as you make your way over.

“Hey,” you greet him, a mix of confusion and curiosity in your voice as you pull your suitcase to a stop beside him. “So … what’s this all about?”

Fernando just grins, taking the handle of your suitcase from you with a casualness that leaves no room for argument. “You’ll see,” he says, cryptic as ever. “Come on, the car’s this way.”

You follow him out to the parking garage, throwing him sideways glances, clearly trying to piece together what he’s up to. Fernando’s only response is an amused smile as he opens the door for you, waiting until you’re settled in the passenger seat before loading your luggage in the trunk.

As he pulls out of the airport and merges onto the highway, the silence between you is comfortable but charged with anticipation. You keep glancing over at him, your curiosity growing with every mile.

“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going, are you?” You finally ask, your tone hovering between teasing and exasperation.

Fernando chuckles, shaking his head. “Nope.”

You sigh, leaning back in your seat, but there’s a glimmer of excitement in your eyes that wasn’t there before. “I’m trusting you, you know,” you say, half-joking, half-serious.

“And you won’t regret it,” he promises, the confidence in his voice almost contagious.

The drive is longer than you expected, taking you out of London and into the countryside. The scenery shifts from the urban sprawl to green fields and quaint villages, the roads becoming narrower and winding as they head deeper into the heart of England. It’s not until Fernando takes a turn down a private road, leading to a sleek, modern complex surrounded by high fences, that you begin to piece it together.

“This can’t be …” you start, your voice trailing off as the full realization hits you. “Is this-”

“Mercedes HQ,” Fernando confirms with a grin as he pulls up to the security gate. He rolls down the window, exchanging a few words with the guard, who quickly waves them through.

You’re silent as he drives into the parking lot, your eyes wide as you take in the sight of the Mercedes-AMG F1 Factory. It’s one thing to see it on TV or in photos, but to be here, in person, is something else entirely. Fernando parks the car and turns to you, catching the look on your face.

“Nervous?” He asks, though he already knows the answer.

“A little,” you admit, swallowing hard as you unbuckle your seatbelt. “Okay, a lot.”

He chuckles, getting out of the car and coming around to your side to open the door for you. “Don’t be. You belong here.”

You hesitate, still processing everything, before nodding and stepping out of the car. Fernando grabs your suitcase from the trunk, but you barely notice, too busy taking in your surroundings as he leads you toward the entrance.

The interior of the building is just as impressive as the outside — modern, sleek, and buzzing with energy. Everywhere you look, there are people in team gear, some hurrying between offices, others deep in conversation. And then, as if the situation couldn’t get more surreal, Lewis Hamilton appears in the lobby, flanked by Toto Wolff.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you stop dead in your tracks. Fernando pauses beside you, a knowing smile on his face as he watches your reaction.

“Fernando,” Lewis greets, his smile widening when he sees you standing next to him. “And you must be the young driver I’ve been hearing so much about.”

You manage a nod, but words seem to have escaped you entirely. It’s not every day that you come face-to-face with a five-time world champion and the team principal of the most successful F1 team of the modern era.

Lewis chuckles at your speechlessness, his demeanor as relaxed and approachable as ever. “Don’t worry, we don’t bite,” he says, extending his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

You shake his hand, your own grip slightly shaky. “I … It’s an honor,” you stammer, your voice finally finding its way back to you.

Toto steps forward next, offering his hand as well. “Welcome to Brackley,” he says, his tone warm but with the same underlying intensity that’s made him such a formidable figure in the sport. “Fernando’s told us a lot about you.”

You glance over at Fernando, a mix of gratitude and disbelief in your eyes. This is so far beyond anything you could have imagined when you first got his call.

Lewis gestures for you to follow him down a hallway, with Toto and Fernando close behind. “When Fernando reached out to me,” Lewis begins, his tone casual but sincere, “and told me about your situation, I knew we had to do something. Talent like yours shouldn’t be held back by anything, least of all by something as ridiculous as a lack of sponsorship.”

You’re still reeling from the fact that Lewis Hamilton knows who you are, let alone that he’s gone out of his way to help you. “I … I don’t even know what to say,” you admit, your voice soft with emotion.

“Don’t worry about that just yet,” Toto says from behind you, his tone light. “Let’s get you settled in first.”

You follow them through the labyrinth of hallways, trying to absorb everything at once. Fernando stays close, a steady presence as you make your way deeper into the facility. There’s a sense of purpose in the air, a kind of quiet determination that’s palpable even as people move around with the calm efficiency of a well-oiled machine.

Eventually, Lewis stops outside a conference room, holding the door open for you to enter first. You step inside, the space cool and sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the meticulously kept grounds outside. A large table dominates the center of the room, and as you approach, you notice a folder sitting at one end, the Mercedes logo embossed on the cover.

You hover near the table, not daring to sit until someone tells you to. Fernando catches your hesitation, nudging you gently in the direction of a chair. “Go on,” he says softly. “This is for you.”

You sink into the chair, your heart pounding as you look at the folder in front of you. Lewis and Toto take seats across from you, with Fernando settling in beside you. The atmosphere in the room shifts slightly, becoming more formal but no less supportive.

Toto reaches for the folder, sliding it across the table to you. “This,” he begins, his voice calm and measured, “is an offer to join the Mercedes Junior Team.”

You blink, sure you must have misheard him. “The … Mercedes Junior Team?”

Lewis smiles, nodding. “We believe in your potential,” he says simply. “And we want to give you the opportunity to develop that potential to the fullest.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the folder, your mind racing. This is it. This is the chance you’ve been fighting for, the one you never thought would come, at least not like this. You open the folder, your eyes scanning the first few lines of the contract inside. It’s all real — your name, the terms, everything.

“We know it’s a big decision,” Toto continues, his gaze steady on you. “Take your time to go through everything, ask any questions you have. But know that we’re serious about this. We want you on our team.”

You’re overwhelmed, the weight of the moment pressing down on you, but it’s a good kind of pressure, the kind that comes from knowing you’re on the verge of something life-changing. You look up at Fernando, who’s been watching you quietly, and there’s a look of pride in his eyes that makes your chest tighten.

“I don’t … I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis leans forward slightly, his expression gentle but serious. “Start by believing that you deserve this,” he says. “Because you do. And we’re here to help you every step of the way.”

There’s a long silence as you let his words sink in, your fingers tracing the edge of the folder. This is everything you’ve been working toward, everything you’ve sacrificed for, and now that it’s here in front of you, it feels almost too good to be true.

But as you look around the table — at Lewis, Toto, and Fernando — you realize that this isn’t just a dream. It’s real. They’re offering you a future, a chance to prove yourself at the highest level, and they believe in you enough to make it happen.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself before meeting their gazes again. “I … I don’t know how to thank you,” you say, your voice thick with emotion.

“There’s no need for thanks,” Toto says with a small smile. “Just show us what you can do.”

Fernando places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his voice low and encouraging. “You’ve already done the hard part. Now, it’s just time to make it official.”

You nod, the weight of the contract in your hands feeling lighter now. “I’m ready,” you say, your voice steadying with newfound resolve.

Lewis grins. “Welcome to the team.”

***

The months following your signing with Mercedes have been a whirlwind. Every day brings something new — testing, meetings, media obligations, training sessions — but through it all, Fernando remains a constant presence. He’s there for every debrief, every important conversation, and when he’s not by your side, he’s only a phone call away. The mentorship he offers is invaluable, not just because of his experience but because of his belief in you.

Today, though, feels different. The season is winding down, and you’ve been expecting a bit of a lull, maybe even some time to catch your breath. But when Fernando calls you to meet him at a quiet café on the outskirts of town, there’s a certain energy in his voice that you can’t quite place.

You arrive at the café to find Fernando already seated at a table near the window, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head and a cup of coffee in front of him. He looks up as you approach, a small, almost secretive smile playing on his lips.

“Morning,” you greet him, sliding into the seat opposite. “You’re up to something, I can tell.”

Fernando chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee before setting the cup down. “Maybe I am,” he says, his tone teasing but warm. “How are you feeling about next season?”

The question catches you off guard. “Next season? I mean, I haven’t really thought that far ahead yet. There’s still so much to do now.”

He nods, leaning back in his chair as he studies you, a hint of something more serious in his gaze. “Well, it’s time to start thinking about it,” he says, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket and sliding it across the table to you.

You raise an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued as you reach for the envelope. “What’s this?”

“Open it,” Fernando encourages, his eyes never leaving yours.

You do as he says, your fingers careful as you tear open the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of paper, neatly folded. You unfold it slowly, your eyes scanning the top of the page.

Carlin Motorsport — Formula 2 Contract Offer.

Your breath catches, and you look up at Fernando, disbelief written all over your face. “Is this … real?”

“Very real,” he confirms, his smile widening. “They want you for next season. Full-time seat, competitive car, the whole package.”

You’re speechless for a moment, the weight of the offer sinking in. Carlin is one of the top teams in Formula 2, a proven stepping stone to Formula 1, and they want you. It’s everything you’ve been working toward, but the reality of it is almost overwhelming.

“This is …” you start, your voice trailing off as you try to find the right words. “I don’t even know what to say.”

He reaches across the table, placing his hand over yours, his expression softening. “You’ve earned this,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “You’ve worked hard, proven yourself, and now it’s time to take the next step.”

You nod, still trying to wrap your head around it all. “But how? I mean, why would they choose me over anyone else? There are so many talented drivers out there …”

Fernando squeezes your hand, drawing your attention back to him. “Because you’re one of the best,” he says simply. “They see it, just like I do. And they know you’re going places.”

You take a deep breath, the reality of it finally starting to settle in. “Carlin … Formula 2 … It’s really happening.”

“It is,” Fernando confirms with a smile. “And you’re ready for it.”

There’s a long pause as you sit there, the contract still in your hands. Fernando watches you carefully, his gaze thoughtful. Then, as if sensing that there’s something more to discuss, he leans in slightly, lowering his voice.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” he says, his tone shifting to something more serious.

You look up, your heart skipping a beat at the sudden change in his demeanor. “What is it?”

He hesitates for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I’m planning to return to Formula 1 in 2021.”

The news hits you like a bolt of lightning, your eyes widening in shock. “You’re … coming back? To F1?”

Fernando nods, his expression unreadable. “Yes. I’ve been in talks with a few teams, and it looks like everything is lining up for a comeback.”

You’re stunned, your mind racing to catch up with what he’s just said. Fernando Alonso, returning to Formula 1 … it’s huge, and the implications of it start to sink in. “That’s incredible,” you say, a mix of excitement and apprehension in your voice. “But what does that mean for … us? For everything we’ve been working on?”

He’s silent for a moment, his gaze intense as he considers your question. “It means that while I’ll still be around to support you, I won’t be able to be as hands-on as I’ve been. I won’t be able to be your full-time manager anymore.”

The words hit you hard, and you feel a pang of anxiety start to creep in. Fernando’s been your rock, the one who’s guided you through every step of this journey, and the thought of losing that constant presence is unsettling.

“But,” he continues, his tone reassuring, “I’m not leaving you in the lurch. I’ve already started talking to some people, and I’m going to make sure you get a manager who’s the best of the best. Someone who knows the sport inside and out, who can give you everything you need to succeed.”

You nod slowly, trying to process everything he’s telling you. It’s a lot to take in— the offer from Carlin, Fernando’s return to F1, the changes that will come with it — but there’s a part of you that understands. This is the nature of the sport, constantly evolving, constantly moving forward.

“I’m happy for you,” you finally say, your voice sincere. “Really, I am. You deserve to be back in F1, where you belong.”

Fernando smiles, a genuine warmth in his eyes. “Thank you. And you deserve to be in F2, racing at the front, showing everyone what you’re capable of.”

There’s a pause, the weight of the moment settling over both of you. Then, Fernando’s smile turns a bit more mischievous as he leans back in his chair.

“But don’t think this means I’m going to go easy on you,” he says, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I’ll still be watching, making sure you’re giving it your all.”

You laugh, the tension breaking slightly at his words. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

He nods, satisfied, before finishing off his coffee. “Good. Because the hard work isn’t over yet. If anything, it’s just beginning.”

You take a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of determination settling over you. Fernando’s right — this is just the beginning. The road ahead will be challenging, but you’re ready for it. And with his support, even if it’s from a distance, you know you can handle whatever comes your way.

“Thank you,” you say again, your voice full of gratitude. “For everything.”

Fernando just smiles, standing up from the table and offering you his hand. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a lot to prepare for.”

You take his hand, rising from your seat, and together you leave the café, the future stretching out before you, full of possibilities.

***

The hum of the F2 paddock is a mix of nerves and excitement, a constant undercurrent of energy that seems to electrify the air. It’s the first race of the season, and you can feel it. The mechanics are moving with purpose, checking and double-checking every detail of the car. Engineers are glued to their screens, analyzing data with furrowed brows. And you, in the midst of it all, are the picture of focus — calm on the outside but with a fire in your eyes that tells Fernando you’re ready for this.

He stands a few feet away, leaning casually against the garage wall, but his eyes are on you. Always on you. He’s seen you grow over these past months, watched as you’ve taken every challenge head-on, and now, as you prepare for your first F2 race, he can’t help but feel a surge of pride.

Yuki Tsunoda, your teammate, walks over, helmet in hand. He’s grinning, but there’s a trace of awe in his expression as he glances between you and Fernando. “I still can’t believe it,” Yuki says, shaking his head slightly. “Fernando Alonso, here in our garage, supporting you. It’s surreal.”

You chuckle, giving Yuki a playful nudge with your elbow. “Believe it. He’s stuck with me now.”

Fernando smirks, pushing off the wall and walking over to the two of you. “Yuki, how are you feeling about today?” He asks, his tone friendly but professional.

Yuki straightens up, clearly wanting to impress. “I’m ready. I’ve been looking forward to this all off-season. Just want to get out there and race.”

“Good,” Fernando nods, his eyes sharp as he assesses Yuki. “Remember, the first race sets the tone. Keep your head down, focus on your own performance, and the results will come.”

Yuki nods, absorbing the advice. “And you?” He asks, turning back to you. “First F2 race … How are you feeling?”

You shrug, but there’s a determined glint in your eyes. “Excited. Nervous. Ready. All of it.”

Fernando can’t help but smile at that. He’s seen that look in countless drivers — right before they go on to do something special. “You’ve got this,” he says, his voice low but full of conviction. “Just do what you do best.”

You give him a small, appreciative smile before turning back to the car, where the final preparations are being made. Fernando watches you for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the day. This is a big moment, not just for you, but for him too. He’s invested so much in you, not just as a driver but as a person, and now he’s about to see the fruits of that labor on one of the biggest stages.

Yuki eventually heads back to his side of the garage, leaving you and Fernando in a comfortable silence. He steps closer to you, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Remember, it’s just another race. Don’t let the pressure get to you. You’ve done this a hundred times before.”

You nod, your expression set with determination. “I know. I just need to stay focused.”

“Exactly,” Fernando agrees, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “And remember, I’m here. You’re not doing this alone.”

There’s a brief moment of silence between you, the noise of the paddock fading slightly as you take in his words. It’s a reassurance, a reminder that no matter what happens out there, you have someone in your corner who believes in you completely.

The minutes tick by, and soon it’s time for the drivers to head to the grid. The mechanics push your car out of the garage, and you follow, helmet in hand, Fernando right by your side. As you walk, he gives you last-minute reminders, his tone calm but firm, designed to keep you centered.

“Trust your instincts,” he says. “You know the car, you know the track. Let the race come to you.”

You nod, absorbing every word as you approach your car on the grid. The other teams and drivers are milling about, final checks being made before the start. Fernando stands with you by the car, watching as you put on your helmet and climb into the cockpit. There’s a buzz of activity all around, but for a moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you.

He leans in close, his voice carrying over the sound of the grid. “Remember why you’re here. Show them what you’re made of.”

You glance up at him, your visor reflecting the intense determination in your eyes. “I will.”

And with that, the crew steps back, and it’s just you in the car, the engine roaring to life around you. Fernando takes a few steps back, watching as you complete the formation lap. His heart pounds in his chest, a mix of nerves and anticipation. He’s been in this position countless times, but it’s different when it’s someone you’ve invested so much in.

As the cars line up on the grid, the tension mounts. Fernando’s eyes never leave your car, his mind running through every possible scenario. He knows how unpredictable these races can be, how one small mistake can change everything. But he also knows that you’re ready. He’s seen it in your training, in your focus, in the way you’ve handled every challenge thrown at you.

The lights go out, and the roar of engines fills the air. The race is on, and Fernando’s eyes are locked on the screen, watching as you navigate the chaos of the first few corners. It’s a tight pack, cars jostling for position, but you hold your ground, staying calm and composed even as the pressure builds.

Fernando barely breathes as the laps tick by, his focus entirely on you. There are moments where his heart leaps into his throat — close calls, tight overtakes — but you handle them all with the skill and precision of a seasoned driver. You’re pushing, but not too hard, balancing aggression with caution in a way that impresses even him.

Midway through the race, you find yourself in a battle for position with one of the more experienced drivers. Fernando can see the tension in your driving, the way you’re pushing the car to its limits. But he also sees the intelligence in your approach, the way you’re sizing up your opponent, waiting for the right moment.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, his eyes glued to the screen as you make your move. It’s a daring pass, squeezing through a gap that’s barely there, but you make it stick. Fernando lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re doing it,” he whispers to himself, pride swelling in his chest.

The race continues, the intensity never letting up. There are moments of sheer brilliance, and moments where Fernando’s nerves are stretched to their limits, but through it all, you remain unshaken. Every lap, every corner, you’re proving exactly why you belong here, why Carlin chose you, and why Fernando believes in you so much.

As the race nears its end, you find yourself in a strong position, battling for a spot on the podium. Fernando’s heart pounds in his chest, his hands clenched into fists as he watches the final laps unfold. It’s a nail-biter, the cars ahead of you just within reach, and he can see you pushing, giving it everything you’ve got.

“Come on, come on,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving the screen. “You’ve got this.”

The final lap is a blur of speed and adrenaline, but you’re right there, closing in on the car ahead. Fernando can feel the tension in the air, the entire Carlin garage on edge as they watch you make your move. It’s a daring overtake, one that requires absolute precision, but you nail it, sliding into third place just before the final corner.

Fernando’s heart leaps as you cross the finish line, securing a podium in your very first F2 race. The garage erupts in cheers, but he’s already moving, heading out to meet you as you bring the car back to the pits.

When you climb out of the car, the smile on your face is all he needs to see. You did it. You proved yourself, and in a big way. Fernando is the first to reach you, pulling you into a tight hug, his voice full of pride.

“You were incredible out there,” he says, his words muffled slightly by the cheers around you. “Absolutely incredible.”

You pull back, your eyes shining with excitement. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He shakes his head, his smile wide. “You did this. You took everything you’ve learned and you made it happen. This is just the beginning.”

Yuki comes over, grinning from ear to ear as he claps you on the back. “Third place in your first race? You’re making the rest of us look bad!”

You laugh, the tension of the race finally melting away as you share the moment with your teammate and mentor. But even as you celebrate, Fernando’s mind is already thinking ahead, planning for the future. This is just the first step, and he knows there are many more to come. But for now, he’s content to stand here with you, knowing that you’ve just taken a huge leap forward in your career.

As the celebrations continue around you, Fernando steps back, watching you with a mixture of pride and anticipation. He’s seen something special in you from the start, and today, you proved him right. But he knows this is just the beginning, and he can’t wait to see where this journey takes you

***

Fernando sits at the head of a sleek conference table in a high-rise office overlooking a bustling cityscape. The room is all glass and steel, exuding an air of professionalism and success. It’s the kind of setting where big decisions are made, the kind of setting where lives are changed. He glances at his watch — just a few minutes before you’re supposed to arrive.

To his left is a man in his late forties, dressed in a sharp suit that screams old money and prestige. This is Carlos Mendes, a veteran in the world of motorsport management. Carlos has a reputation for being ruthless when it comes to getting his clients the best deals.

He’s represented world champions, negotiated multimillion-dollar contracts, and navigated the treacherous waters of sponsorships with the skill of a seasoned general. Fernando had carefully chosen Carlos, knowing that you would need someone who could not only protect your interests but also push for the best opportunities.

On Fernando’s right is Sophie Duclair, a high-powered talent agent whose client list reads like a who’s who of global sports and entertainment icons. Sophie, with her sleek bob and impeccably tailored outfit, is known for her ability to secure top-tier endorsement deals that go beyond the traditional boundaries of sports.

Luxury brands, fashion houses, and even Hollywood producers trust her judgment implicitly. She’s the one who can take your rising star and catapult it into a whole different stratosphere.

The door to the conference room opens, and you walk in, dressed casually but with an unmistakable air of confidence. It’s clear you’ve grown more comfortable in these kinds of environments, but there’s still a trace of curiosity in your eyes as you take in the room and the people seated at the table.

“Good to see you,” Fernando says, rising to greet you with a warm smile. He motions to the empty chair next to him. “Take a seat. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

You sit down, glancing at Carlos and Sophie with polite curiosity. Fernando leans back in his chair, folding his hands on the table. “Let me introduce you to Carlos Mendes,” he says, gesturing to the man on his left. “Carlos is one of the top managers in the business. He’s going to help guide your career from here on out, making sure you get the best opportunities on and off the track.”

Carlos nods, his expression serious but welcoming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says in a deep, authoritative voice. “Fernando has told me a lot about you, and I’ve been following your progress. You’ve got a bright future ahead, and I’m here to make sure you reach your full potential.”

You smile, a mix of gratitude and anticipation in your eyes. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Fernando continues, turning to Sophie. “And this is Sophie Duclair, one of the best talent agents in the industry. Sophie has a knack for securing deals that align perfectly with her clients’ personal brands. She’s here to help you navigate the world of endorsements and partnerships.”

Sophie smiles, her demeanor warm yet professional. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she says, her voice smooth and confident. “I’ve been keeping an eye on your rise in F2, and I have to say, the opportunities are endless. There are brands out there who are going to want to associate themselves with your story, your talent, and your image.”

You nod, clearly intrigued but still processing the magnitude of what’s happening. Fernando notices the slight furrow in your brow and steps in to guide the conversation.

“Here’s the thing,” Fernando begins, his tone serious but encouraging. “You’ve been fighting against the odds, and that’s what’s made your story so compelling. A lot of people might have seen your gender as an obstacle, but we’re turning it into an asset. You’ve already proven you belong in F2, and with the right guidance, we’re going to show the world that you’re not just a great driver — you’re a game-changer.”

Carlos leans forward slightly, his eyes focused on you. “Exactly. The motorsport world is evolving, and brands want to be associated with that evolution. They want to be seen as forward-thinking, inclusive, and ahead of the curve. You’re in a unique position to offer them that opportunity.”

Sophie picks up the thread seamlessly. “But it’s not just about slapping a logo on your car or your race suit. It’s about aligning with brands that resonate with who you are and where you want to go. That’s where I come in. I’ve been in talks with several companies that are very interested in working with you.”

You look at Fernando, and he gives you an encouraging nod, urging you to speak your mind. “It sounds … amazing,” you begin, your voice steady but thoughtful. “But I want to make sure that whatever deals we make, they’re the right ones. I don’t want to just be a face on an ad — I want to represent something real.”

Carlos smiles, clearly impressed by your maturity. “That’s the right approach. And that’s exactly why we’re here — to make sure that every move we make is strategic and meaningful. You’ve got the talent and the story, and now it’s about building the brand that reflects that.”

Sophie leans back in her chair, crossing her legs as she regards you with a calculating but friendly gaze. “We’ve already secured two deals that I think you’re going to be very happy with,” she says, a hint of excitement in her voice. “The first is with Cartier. They’re looking to expand their presence in the sports world, and they see you as the perfect ambassador for their brand — strong, elegant, and determined.”

Your eyes widen slightly, clearly surprised. “Cartier?” You echo, the name alone carrying a weight of prestige and luxury.

Sophie nods, smiling at your reaction. “That’s right. They want to work with you on a campaign that’s going to be centered around breaking barriers and redefining what it means to be successful. It’s not just about jewelry — it’s about the story you tell when you wear it.”

Fernando watches as you process this, seeing the mix of excitement and caution in your expression. He knows how big this is, and he also knows how important it is for you to feel comfortable with every step of this journey.

“And the second deal?” You ask, your voice steady but tinged with curiosity.

Sophie’s smile widens. “That would be with Chanel. They’re launching a new line of sportswear, and they want you to be the face of it. It’s a bold move for them, branching out into a market that’s traditionally been dominated by other brands. But they believe in you, and they believe that you can help them make a statement.”

You lean back in your chair, clearly taking a moment to absorb the magnitude of what’s being offered. Fernando can see the wheels turning in your mind, the careful consideration you’re giving to each opportunity.

“I … I didn’t expect anything like this,” you admit, looking around the table. “It’s incredible, but it’s also a lot to take in.”

Carlos nods, his expression understanding. “It is. But you’re not in this alone. We’re here to guide you, to make sure that every decision you make is the right one for you and your career.”

Fernando leans forward slightly, his voice low and reassuring. “You’ve worked hard to get here. You deserve these opportunities. But like Carlos said, we’re going to make sure that every step you take is the right one. We’re not rushing into anything. We’re building something that’s going to last.”

You look at him, and he can see the trust in your eyes. It’s a trust he’s earned over the months, through every piece of advice, every word of encouragement, every push to make you better. And now, as you sit here on the brink of something huge, he feels a deep sense of pride.

“These are just the first steps,” Sophie says, her tone confident and poised. “There’s so much more we can do. But it’s all going to be on your terms. You’re in control of your image, your brand. We’re just here to help you shape it.”

You take a deep breath, your gaze sweeping over the table, taking in the faces of the people who are now part of your team. “I want to do this right,” you say finally, your voice strong. “I want to be someone people can look up to, someone who represents more than just winning races.”

Fernando smiles, feeling a swell of pride at your words. “And that’s exactly what you’re going to do. We’re just getting started.”

The meeting continues, the conversation shifting to the details of the contracts, the timelines for the campaigns, and the strategies for maximizing your visibility. Throughout it all, Fernando watches you closely, noting the way you handle the discussions with a mix of humility and confidence. It’s clear you’re taking everything in, asking the right questions, making sure you understand every aspect of what’s being presented.

By the time the meeting wraps up, there’s a palpable sense of excitement in the room. The deals with Cartier and Chanel are just the beginning, and everyone knows it. There are more opportunities on the horizon, more doors that are about to open. But for now, it’s about taking the first steps, setting the foundation for what’s to come.

As you rise to leave, Fernando walks you to the door, Carlos and Sophie following close behind. “We’ll be in touch with the final details,” Sophie says, her tone professional but warm. “I’m excited to see where this journey takes us.”

Carlos nods in agreement. “You’ve got a bright future ahead. Let’s make the most of it.”

You thank them both, turning to Fernando with a smile that holds a mix of gratitude and determination. "I couldn’t have done this without you," you say softly.

Fernando shakes his head, his smile reflecting the pride he feels. "You’ve earned every bit of this. Now, let's show the world what you’re capable of."

***

The sun dips low over the suburban skyline, casting a warm golden hue over the backyard where laughter mingles with the clinking of glasses and the low hum of conversation. String lights hang from the trees, swaying gently in the evening breeze, and the faint scent of barbecue lingers in the air. You’re surrounded by familiar faces — family, childhood friends, and the newer ones you’ve made in F2. The mix of old and new feels right, like the pieces of your life are finally coming together.

Fernando stands near the edge of the crowd, leaning casually against a tree as he watches you. He’s been here for hours, blending in with the celebration, though he’s always slightly apart, his presence comforting but never overbearing. He’s wearing one of those half-smiles, the kind that makes it hard to tell if he’s deep in thought or just quietly enjoying the moment.

You catch his eye, and he raises his glass — a silent toast that you return with a small grin before getting pulled back into a conversation with one of your childhood friends. They’re reminiscing about old times, laughing about things that seem so far removed from the high-speed world you now inhabit. It’s nice, grounding even, to remember that you had a life before all of this — a simpler one where the biggest concern was which video game to play after school.

As the night wears on, the crowd begins to thin. Your parents are still mingling, clearly proud of the party they’ve thrown. Your mom’s voice carries across the yard as she gushes to someone about how happy she is that you’ve managed to pay off the second mortgage. It was a weight that they never let you see, but you knew it was there, and being able to lift it was one of the proudest moments you’ve had since stepping into a race car.

Fernando, ever observant, notices the moment your shoulders relax as you hear your mom’s words. He takes a small step forward, knowing that the night is winding down, and he’s been waiting for just the right moment.

Eventually, as the last of your friends hug you goodbye and head out, you find yourself standing near the fire pit, the glow from the dying embers illuminating your face. Fernando approaches, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.

“Enjoying your birthday?” He asks, his voice low and warm, like the crackling fire beside you.

You nod, a content smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Yeah, it’s been really great. I didn’t expect so many people to show up.”

“People care about you,” Fernando says simply. “You’ve made quite an impact.”

You shrug, clearly a little shy about the praise. “I’m just glad to have a night to relax with everyone. It’s been a whirlwind.”

Fernando’s smile deepens. He knows how hard you’ve worked, how much you’ve sacrificed, and how rare these moments of peace are for you. “You deserve it. You’ve earned it.”

There’s a beat of silence, comfortable and familiar, before Fernando clears his throat. “I, uh, have something for you.”

You turn to look at him, your brow furrowing slightly. “Fernando, you didn’t have to get me anything. You’ve already done so much.”

“I know,” he says, his tone a little softer now, as if he’s stepping into more vulnerable territory. “But I wanted to.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small box, wrapped in simple but elegant paper. You hesitate for a moment, then take it from his hands, the weight of it feeling heavier than it should.

Curiosity piques as you carefully unwrap the paper and open the box. Inside is a delicate necklace, the pendant a tiny, intricate race helmet studded with a single diamond where the visor would be. It’s not overly flashy, but it’s beautiful and unmistakably meaningful.

You stare at it, speechless, before looking up at Fernando, your eyes wide with surprise and something deeper — something like awe. “Fernando … this is …”

He cuts you off with a gentle shake of his head. “You don’t have to say anything. I just … wanted you to have something that reminds you of where you’re headed. You’ve got a bright future, and I wanted to give you something to keep close as you chase it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away, focusing on the necklace instead. You’re not sure what to say — how do you thank someone for something that goes beyond just a gift?

Fernando steps closer, his voice lowering as he continues, “I’ve come to see you as … well, like a daughter, I suppose. Watching you grow, seeing how far you’ve come, it’s been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I just wanted to show you how much you mean to me.”

Your heart swells with emotion, and before you can stop yourself, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, pressing your face into his chest. The necklace is still clutched in your hand, but all you can focus on is the steady beat of Fernando’s heart against your ear.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice muffled but sincere. “For everything.”

Fernando’s arms come around you, holding you close in a way that’s both protective and comforting. “You don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. That’s all the thanks I need.”

You stay like that for a moment longer, taking in the warmth and security of the embrace, before finally pulling back. You look up at Fernando, and there’s a connection between you now that goes beyond mentor and protégé — it’s something familial, something lasting.

He gestures to the necklace, a small smile playing on his lips. “Do you want some help putting that on?”

You nod, unable to find the words, and hand it to him. He carefully fastens it around your neck, his fingers steady and sure, and when he’s done, you reach up to touch the pendant, feeling its cool metal against your skin.

“Perfect,” Fernando says, stepping back to admire it. “Just like you.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re too kind.”

“No,” he replies, his voice firm but gentle. “Just honest.”

As the fire continues to crackle beside you, the night wrapping around you both like a blanket, you realize that this birthday, this moment, will be one you remember for the rest of your life. Not because of the party or the people, but because of the man standing beside you — the one who believed in you when no one else did, who gave you the push you needed to keep going.

And as you walk back towards the house, the pendant resting against your chest, you know that no matter what happens in the future, you’ll always have this — this connection, this bond, this family you’ve found in the most unexpected place.

***

The noise is deafening as you cross the finish line, but it’s the silence that follows in your mind that makes it real. The world blurs around you; the roar of the engine fades, the cheers from the grandstands become a distant echo. It’s just you and the knowledge that you’ve done it. The chequered flag waves in the distance, a confirmation that you’ve won the F2 championship.

In your rookie season.

The last lap plays on a loop in your mind: the battle with your teammate, the wheel-to-wheel tension that stretched until the final corner, the moment you finally saw a gap and took it. The entire year has been leading up to this, every race, every struggle, every doubt. And now, you’re here. A champion.

The car slows as you pull into the pit lane, your hands shaking on the steering wheel. The radio crackles with voices — your engineer shouting congratulations, the team cheering, but there’s only one voice you really want to hear.

“You did it,” Fernando comes through, calm but with a hint of emotion that he rarely shows. “I knew you could do it.”

A smile breaks across your face, one that you couldn’t suppress even if you tried. “We did it,” you correct him, because it’s true. You’ve always been a team, even when he wasn’t on the track with you.

As you roll into the Carlin garage, the world around you explodes into celebration. Mechanics, engineers, and team members swarm the car, cheering and clapping as they pull you out of the cockpit. You’re immediately wrapped in a dozen hugs, people shouting your name, lifting you off the ground in their excitement.

But even in the chaos, you’re searching for him. And when you finally spot Fernando standing just outside the crowd, his expression is one of pure pride. He doesn’t rush in to join the others, instead, he stays back, letting you have your moment. That’s Fernando, always understanding, always knowing exactly what you need.

You finally push through the throng of well-wishers and make your way over to him. For a moment, the two of you just look at each other, and in that look, there’s a thousand words unspoken.

“Not bad for a rookie,” he finally says, his smile widening.

You laugh, still breathless from the race. “Not bad at all.”

He pulls you into a hug, and this time, you don’t hold back. You cling to him, letting the emotion of the moment wash over you. “Thank you,” you whisper, and you know he understands. This victory is as much his as it is yours.

When you pull back, you see someone else approaching from the corner of your eye. It’s Toto Wolff, towering and imposing as always, but there’s a warmth in his expression that’s almost fatherly. Next to him, Williams Racing team principal Jost Capito, stands with a smile that’s equally as proud.

“Toto?” You ask, surprised. It’s not every day he shows up in the F2 paddock, let alone after a race.

He steps forward, offering his hand. “Congratulations,” he says, his voice steady. “That was an incredible race.”

You shake his hand, still trying to process the fact that he’s here. “Thank you,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jost steps forward, nodding in agreement. “You’ve had an outstanding season. You’ve shown everyone what you’re capable of.”

There’s something in their tone, something that makes your heart race with more than just post-race adrenaline. Fernando catches your eye, giving you a slight nod, as if to say, this is it.

Toto exchanges a look with Jost before continuing, “We’ve been following your progress closely, and we believe you’re ready for the next step.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The next step. It’s what every F2 driver dreams of, but it’s never guaranteed, not even with a championship under your belt. “The next step?” You echo, almost afraid to hope.

Jost steps in, his smile widening. “We want you to race for Williams in Formula 1 next season.”

For a moment, the world stops. You blink, trying to process the words, to make sure you heard him right. Formula 1. They want you to race in F1.

“Next season?” You manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Toto nods, his expression serious but encouraging. “Yes. We’ve been in discussions with Williams, and we believe you’re the perfect fit for their team. You’ve proven that you can handle the pressure, and now it’s time to see what you can do on the biggest stage.”

You feel like you’re floating, like this is a dream that you might wake up from at any moment. You turn to Fernando, searching his face for confirmation that this is real. He’s smiling, but there’s a look in his eyes that tells you he’s known about this for a while. He’s always known.

“You’ll be racing in F1,” Fernando says, his voice steady. “You deserve it.”

It’s then that the full weight of what’s happening hits you. F1. The pinnacle of motorsport. And not just racing in F1, but racing alongside the very best in the world. You’ll be on the grid with drivers you’ve looked up to your entire life. Drivers like Lewis Hamilton. And …

Your eyes widen as the realization dawns. Fernando is making his comeback next year. He’s going to be on that grid, too.

“I’ll be racing … with you,” you say, the words barely escaping your lips.

Fernando’s smile is knowing, almost amused. “Yes, you will.”

The thought is almost overwhelming. Not only will you be in F1, but you’ll be competing alongside Fernando, the man who has been your mentor, your guide, your biggest supporter. The man who helped you get to this very moment.

You shake your head, still trying to process it all. “I don’t know what to say.”

Toto places a hand on your shoulder, his grip reassuring. “You don’t need to say anything. Just be ready to show the world what you’re capable of. We’ll handle the rest.”

Jost nods in agreement. “We believe in you. You’ve already proven that you can handle anything that comes your way.”

You glance back at Fernando, and the pride in his eyes is unmistakable. This has been his goal all along — to get you to the top, to see you succeed where so many doubted you could. And now, here you are, about to step into the world of F1.

“I’ll be ready,” you say, your voice stronger now, filled with the determination that’s carried you this far.

Fernando nods, satisfied. “I know you will.”

As Toto and Jost step away to discuss the finer details with the Carlin team, you stand there with Fernando, the enormity of what just happened settling in.

“You knew this was coming, didn’t you?” You ask, giving him a sideways glance.

Fernando shrugs, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “I had a feeling. But it was always up to you to make it happen.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He grins. “And you’re an F1 driver now. Better get used to it.”

The two of you stand there for a moment longer, taking in the victory, the announcement, the future that’s unfolding right before your eyes. It’s been a long road, full of challenges and doubts, but you’ve made it. And now, you’re about to step onto the biggest stage in motorsport, with Fernando right there alongside you.

As you look out at the garage, the Carlin team still buzzing with excitement, you can’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. For the team, for the journey, and most of all, for Fernando — the man who believed in you when no one else did, and who continues to believe in you now.

“Thank you, Fernando,” you say quietly, but with all the sincerity you can muster. “For everything.”

He simply nods, his expression softening. “You’ve earned it.”

And as you stand there, the future stretching out before you, one thing is certain: this is just the beginning.

***

The winter sun hangs low in the sky as you walk along the rocky path that leads to Fernando’s private track in northern Spain. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine trees and the distant murmur of the sea. It’s a world away from the chaos of the paddock, a place where the outside noise fades, leaving only the hum of your thoughts and the weight of what’s to come. The off-season is supposed to be a time to rest, to recharge, but this year, it’s different. There’s no time to lose — not with your first Formula 1 season looming on the horizon.

Fernando walks beside you, his stride as confident and unhurried as ever. His presence is steadying, a reminder that you’re not alone on this journey. He’s been here before, countless times, and now he’s passing on everything he knows to you. This winter isn’t just about physical training; it’s about mastering the mental side of the sport — the side that can make or break a career in F1.

He stops at the edge of the track, the silence between you stretching out as you both take in the view. The asphalt is cold and unyielding, winding through the landscape like a dark ribbon, a challenge waiting to be conquered.

“You know the driving part,” Fernando says, breaking the silence. His voice is calm, measured, but there’s an intensity to it that commands attention. “You’ve proven that you can handle the car, the speed, the competition. But F1 is more than just driving. It’s a mental game. It’s about being the predator, not the prey.”

You nod, knowing he’s right. The physical demands of F1 are immense, but the mental demands are even greater. The pressure, the mind games, the need to be perfect in a sport where perfection is almost impossible — it’s all part of what makes F1 the pinnacle of motorsport.

“Today, we start with the basics,” Fernando continues, his gaze fixed on the track. “How to be a track terror.”

A track terror. The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. To be feared on the track, to have your competitors second-guessing themselves before they even line up on the grid — that’s what Fernando is talking about. It’s not just about being fast; it’s about being relentless, unyielding, the kind of driver who forces others into mistakes.

“You don’t have to be the fastest in every session,” Fernando explains, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You just have to make them think you are. Get in their heads. Make them question their own pace, their own decisions.”

He starts to walk along the edge of the track, and you follow, listening closely. “Every driver has a breaking point,” he says. “You need to learn how to find it. Sometimes it’s in their driving — how they react under pressure, how they handle wheel-to-wheel combat. Sometimes it’s off the track — in how they deal with the media, how they cope with setbacks. Your job is to figure out what that breaking point is and use it.”

You absorb his words, understanding that this is the difference between good drivers and great ones. It’s not just about talent; it’s about psychology, about knowing how to manipulate a situation to your advantage.

“And once you find that breaking point?” You ask, wanting to hear it from him.

Fernando stops and turns to face you, his eyes sharp, calculating. “You exploit it,” he says simply. “You push them until they crack. But you have to be smart about it. There’s a fine line between pushing them to the edge and pushing yourself over it.”

His words are blunt, but you know there’s truth in them. F1 isn’t just a sport, it’s a battle, a war of wills as much as it is a test of speed.

“Take the first corner,” Fernando says, pointing to the sharp turn at the end of the straight. “It’s where a lot of races are won or lost. You need to establish yourself early. Show them that you’re not afraid to fight for position, but also that you’re in control. That’s key — being aggressive, but controlled.”

You nod, envisioning the scenarios he’s describing. You’ve raced at high levels before, but F1 is different. The stakes are higher, the margins narrower. There’s no room for error, but there’s also no room for hesitation.

“How do you know when to cross the line?” You ask, thinking back to the times when Fernando has pushed the limits, often to the point where others questioned his tactics.

He gives a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You learn,” he says. “Sometimes by making mistakes. But the key is to learn from them quickly. You have to know when to back off and when to push harder. It’s about balance, about knowing your own limits as much as theirs.”

He pauses, his gaze locking with yours. “And sometimes, you have to cross the line. But when you do, you do it with intent, and you don’t get caught. You make sure it looks like a mistake, something that just happened in the heat of the moment. And you never apologize for it.”

There’s a chill in the air, but you barely notice it, your mind focused on every word. This is what you’ve needed, what you’ve been missing. The edge that will set you apart in a field of the best drivers in the world.

“What about mind games?” You ask, curious to know more about how to handle the psychological warfare that comes with F1.

Fernando chuckles, a sound that’s both amused and knowing. “Mind games are everything,” he says. “They start long before you even get in the car. It’s about how you carry yourself, how you interact with the other drivers, with the media. You have to control the narrative, make them think what you want them to think.”

He starts walking again, this time towards the small building at the edge of the track where the team usually sets up. “The media is a powerful tool,” he continues. “You can use them to your advantage, but you have to be careful. Give them just enough to create doubt in your competitors’ minds, but not enough to give anything away.”

You think back to the countless press conferences you’ve watched, where drivers like Fernando have used their words as weapons, creating stories that unsettle their rivals. It’s a game within a game, and you’re starting to see how deep it goes.

“Never let them see you sweat,” Fernando adds, his tone more serious now. “Even when things aren’t going your way, you have to project confidence. Make them think you have everything under control, even when you don’t. And when they stumble, when they show weakness, you pounce.”

The building looms ahead, the door slightly ajar. Fernando pushes it open, revealing a small, sparsely furnished room with a table, a few chairs, and a whiteboard covered in notes and diagrams. It’s a war room, a place where strategies are formed, where victories are planned.

Fernando gestures for you to sit, and you do, feeling the weight of what’s to come. He takes a seat across from you, his expression now all business.

“Let’s talk about racecraft,” he says, leaning forward. “You need to understand that F1 isn’t just about speed. It’s about strategy, about thinking two, three steps ahead of everyone else. You need to know when to attack and when to hold back, when to take risks and when to play it safe.”

He starts sketching out scenarios on the whiteboard, explaining different race strategies, how to read your competitors, how to manage your tires, your fuel, your energy. It’s a crash course in F1 tactics, and you absorb every detail, knowing that this knowledge could be the difference between winning and losing.

“You’ll have a team behind you,” Fernando says, his eyes never leaving the board as he continues to write. “But you’re the one in the car. You’re the one who has to make the decisions in real-time. Trust your instincts, but also trust your preparation. The more you know, the better equipped you’ll be to handle whatever comes your way.”

He turns back to you, his expression serious. “And remember, F1 is a long game. It’s not just about one race, or even one season. It’s about building a career, about consistently performing at a high level. You have to pace yourself, know when to push and when to hold back. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

You nod, the enormity of what he’s saying sinking in. This isn’t just about your rookie season; it’s about laying the foundation for a long and successful career. And with Fernando guiding you, you know you’re in the best possible hands.

The session goes on, the hours slipping away as you discuss everything from race strategies to media tactics, from how to handle pressure to how to deal with setbacks. Fernando doesn’t sugarcoat anything; he tells you the harsh realities of the sport, the challenges you’ll face, the sacrifices you’ll have to make. But he also gives you the tools to overcome them, to not just survive in F1, but to thrive.

By the time the sun starts to set, casting long shadows across the track, you feel a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. It’s been an intense day, but you know it’s exactly what you needed. Fernando has pushed you, challenged you, but he’s also given you the confidence to believe that you belong in this world, that you can succeed.

As you walk back towards the main house, the sky now a deep orange, Fernando falls into step beside you. There’s a comfortable silence between you, the kind that comes from a shared understanding, a mutual respect that has grown over time.

After a while, Fernando breaks the silence with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know,” he begins, his tone light but with a glint of mischief in his eyes, “I’ve been called many things in my career. Champion, legend … war criminal.”

You look at him, caught between a laugh and a raised eyebrow. “War criminal?”

He chuckles, shrugging casually. “Not literally, of course. But some of my tactics, let’s say, weren’t always appreciated by everyone. I was willing to do whatever it took to win — sometimes crossing lines that others wouldn’t dare touch.”

You smile, catching on to his meaning. “And you think I’m ready to follow in your footsteps?”

Fernando’s smirk widens. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. F1 isn’t a game for the faint-hearted. It’s for those who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty when it counts. Just remember … there’s no shame in doing what it takes to survive. And thrive.”

His words hang in the cool evening air, and as you both continue walking, you feel a sense of resolve settle within you. Fernando must notice it too because he gives you a sideways glance, the glint still in his eyes. “Just don’t forget who taught you all this when they start throwing accusations your way.”

***

The Bahrain night sky looms overhead, blanketing the circuit in a velvety darkness punctuated by the glaring lights of the paddock. The roar of engines rumbles through the air as teams buzz with last-minute preparations. Mechanics scramble, engineers analyze data, and drivers slip into their zones. The first race of the season carries a unique kind of tension, a palpable energy that’s almost electric. But amidst all the chaos, Fernando moves with calm confidence as he weaves through the pit lane, eyes scanning for one person.

He finds you standing by the Williams garage, helmet in hand, gaze fixed on the distant horizon as if trying to absorb the magnitude of the moment. It’s your first F1 race, and the weight of it all is evident in the slight furrow of your brow, the focused set of your jaw.

Fernando walks up to you, placing a hand on your shoulder, drawing you out of your thoughts. “Hey,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise like a sharp blade. “Nervous?”

You turn to face him, a mix of emotions swirling in your eyes — excitement, determination, and yes, a hint of nerves. “A little,” you admit. “It’s different from F2. Bigger.”

Fernando nods, understanding all too well. “It is bigger. The stakes are higher, the pressure’s heavier. But you’ve got this.”

You nod, though your grip on the helmet tightens. “I know. I just need to keep my head in the right place.”

Fernando’s eyes narrow, the glint of the night’s floodlights reflecting in them as he leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “Remember what we talked about in Spain. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to win. You’re here to make them regret ever doubting you.”

A smile tugs at the corner of your lips as his words sink in. This is the Fernando you’ve come to know so well — the ruthless competitor who sees racing as a battlefield, where only the most cunning and unrelenting survive. He’s drilled that mentality into you, reminding you time and time again that the track is no place for mercy.

“You’re not just a driver,” he continues, his tone growing more intense. “You’re a track terror. Make them fear you. Take every opportunity, even if it means forcing them into a mistake. Be aggressive. Be relentless. And if they try to intimidate you-”

“I intimidate them back,” you finish for him, the determination in your voice now matching his.

Fernando’s lips curl into a smirk, clearly pleased. “Exactly. Make them question if they even belong out there with you.”

As he speaks, Nicholas Latifi, your teammate, walks by on his way to his side of the garage. His steps falter when he overhears the tail end of Fernando’s words.

“… If you see an opening, take it. Don’t give them a second to breathe. Push them out of their comfort zone, and when they’re scrambling, that’s when you strike. Hard.”

Latifi’s eyes widen in alarm as he processes what Fernando is saying. He hesitates, clearly debating whether he should approach or back away slowly. Ultimately, he chooses the latter, retreating with a hurried, nervous glance over his shoulder.

You notice Latifi’s reaction and can’t help but laugh. “I think you might’ve scared him off.”

Fernando chuckles, a low, almost devious sound. “Good. Less competition for you.” Then, with a more serious edge, he adds, “He’s not your concern. You’re here for the big players. And don’t forget, every race is an opportunity to show them what you’re made of. Especially the ones who think you don’t deserve to be here.”

You nod, the nerves from earlier replaced by a rising sense of purpose. Fernando’s words have a way of lighting a fire inside you, a fire that burns hotter with every passing second. The crowd noise, the hum of engines, the flashing lights — all of it fades away until there’s only the track and the promise of what lies ahead.

Fernando steps back, giving you space but keeping his gaze locked on yours. “Tonight, you’re going to prove that you’re not just another rookie. You’re a force to be reckoned with. And you’re going to do it with style.”

You smirk, the corners of your mouth curving upward as confidence surges through you. “With style?”

“Absolutely,” Fernando replies, his own smirk widening. “Remember, there’s a fine line between genius and insanity on the track. And you’re going to walk it like it’s a tightrope.”

You slip your helmet on, the visor clicking into place as Fernando’s words echo in your mind. The world outside may be chaotic, but inside your helmet, it’s a sanctuary — a place where you can focus, where every piece of advice, every lesson Fernando has drilled into you, comes together.

He watches you for a moment, pride evident in his eyes. He’s seen your growth, your transformation from a talented driver into something much more formidable. He knows you’re ready for this.

“Now go out there,” he says, voice clear and commanding, “and make them remember your name.”

With a final nod, you turn towards your car, the sleek Williams machine waiting for you. The pit crew is already in position, and the clock is ticking down. But before you step in, Fernando adds one last thing.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he says, catching your attention. You look back at him, and there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Terrorize everyone out there … except me.”

You laugh, the sound muffled by your helmet, but the sentiment is clear. “No promises.”

Fernando grins, crossing his arms as he watches you settle into the cockpit. The familiar sounds of the car coming to life fill the air, and the anticipation builds. The lights above the pit lane begin their countdown, and you take a deep breath, centering yourself for what’s to come.

As you drive out onto the track for the formation lap, Fernando steps back, his eyes following your car as it weaves between the other machines, each one a potential target, each one a stepping stone towards the top. He knows you’re ready, knows that tonight is just the beginning of what promises to be an incredible journey.

He’s proud of you, not just as a driver, but as the competitor you’ve become under his guidance. And as you line up on the grid, the lights glowing red above, Fernando’s final words echo in your mind.

Make them remember your name.

The lights go out, and the race begins.

***

The Bahrain circuit is still buzzing with energy even after the race has ended. The floodlights cast a bright, artificial glow over the paddock as drivers, engineers, and media personnel move about, some celebrating, others reflecting on the night’s events. The humid night air is thick with the scent of burning rubber and engine exhaust, a familiar and oddly comforting smell to those who live and breathe motorsport.

Fernando stands in the media pen, his eyes fixed on you as you field questions from a group of eager reporters. He’s barely listening to the reporter in front of him, who’s rattling off questions about his own race. He finished just outside the points, but it doesn’t bother him much. Tonight, his focus isn’t on his own performance but on yours.

You’re animated, your eyes bright, still riding the adrenaline high from the race. You finished ninth — an impressive debut for any rookie, especially in a Williams. Fernando watches as you handle the questions with ease, a slight smile playing on his lips. The way you stand, the way you speak, there’s a confidence there that wasn’t present when he first met you. He sees in you a reflection of his younger self, and it fills him with a quiet pride.

“Fernando,” the reporter in front of him says, trying to regain his attention. “Can you tell us about your strategy today?”

Fernando barely hears the question, his attention still on you. You’re laughing at something a reporter just asked, and he catches a glimpse of that mischievous glint in your eyes — the same one he’s seen countless times in his own reflection. He can tell you’re about to say something memorable, and he doesn’t want to miss it.

“Fernando?” the reporter prompts again, sounding slightly annoyed now.

“Hmm?” Fernando finally acknowledges the reporter, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. “What was that?”

“Your strategy today — what was the thinking behind it?”

“Strategy? Oh, yes, the strategy,” Fernando replies absentmindedly, waving his hand dismissively. “You know, just the usual. Push when you can, hold back when you must.” His answers are automatic, but his mind is elsewhere.

The reporter blinks, clearly unimpressed with the vague response, but before he can ask a follow-up question, Fernando’s attention is fully captured by what you’re saying.

A journalist standing in front of you, wearing a press lanyard and holding a recorder close to your face, asks, “Can you walk us through that incredible overtake on Sebastian Vettel? It looked like you had no fear going up against a four-time world champion.”

You smile, a knowing look in your eyes, and then you glance over at Fernando.

“I knew he would hit the brakes,” you say, loud enough for him to hear. You pause for dramatic effect, and then with a wink in Fernando’s direction, you continue, “Because he has a wife and three kids waiting for him at home.”

The words hang in the air for a moment before the reporters around you burst into laughter. The reference to Fernando’s famous quip about Michael Schumacher years ago is unmistakable, and it’s clear that the media eats it up. But more importantly, Fernando hears it, and his chest swells with pride.

The reporter in front of Fernando raises an eyebrow, curious now about what’s just been said. “Looks like she’s learned a thing or two from you,” he comments.

Fernando finally turns to the reporter, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Yes, she has. More than she knows.”

He watches as you continue the interview, your demeanor composed, yet playful. The way you handle the press is impressive — calm, confident, but with just the right amount of charm to keep them on your side. You’re not just a racer; you’re a showman, someone who understands that Formula 1 is as much about performance off the track as it is on it.

Fernando catches snippets of your conversation, listening as you describe the overtake in more detail. “Seb’s a great driver, no doubt about it. But in that moment, I knew I had him. I could see it in his body language. He was playing it safe, so I took my chance.”

“And what was going through your mind when you made the move?” Another journalist asks.

You pause for a moment, considering the question. Then, with a smirk, you say, “I was thinking, ‘What would Fernando do?’ And then I went for it.”

Fernando chuckles to himself, shaking his head slightly. He can’t help but feel a surge of pride. Not because you’ve imitated him, but because you’ve made the decision to be bold, to take risks, and to trust your instincts. That’s what separates the good drivers from the great ones — the willingness to seize the moment, to act decisively.

You finish up your interview, the reporters gradually dispersing to chase down other drivers. Fernando finally gives his full attention to the reporter in front of him, who’s still trying to get something meaningful out of him.

“Fernando, about your race …” the reporter begins again.

But Fernando is already moving, stepping around the man with a polite but firm nod. “Excuse me,” he says, cutting the interview short. There’s someone far more important he needs to talk to right now.

He strides over to you, your helmet now tucked under your arm as you chat casually with one of the team engineers. You spot him approaching and flash him a smile.

“Hey,” you say as he reaches you. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I did,” Fernando replies, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. “You’ve got quite the sense of humor.”

“Learned from the best,” you quip, giving him a playful nudge.

Fernando laughs, shaking his head. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually use that line, but I’m glad you did. The media loves a good story, and you just gave them one.”

You shrug, your smile widening. “Figured I’d give them something to talk about. Plus, it’s not every day you get to pass a guy like Seb.”

“And you did it with style,” Fernando adds, his voice filled with admiration. “You handled yourself perfectly out there, both on track and with the press. You’re making your mark.”

The engineer standing next to you clears his throat, clearly not wanting to interrupt but feeling the need to acknowledge Fernando’s presence. “Great job out there today,” he says, offering a handshake.

“Thanks,” Fernando replies, shaking the man’s hand. “But today’s all about her,” he adds, nodding in your direction.

The engineer nods in agreement before excusing himself, leaving you and Fernando alone in the now quieter part of the paddock. The sounds of celebration and interviews still echo in the background, but here, in this moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you.

“You know,” Fernando says after a beat, “I’ve never been prouder.”

You look at him, surprised by the raw emotion in his voice. “Really?”

“Really,” he confirms. “Seeing you out there today … it reminded me why I fell in love with racing in the first place. The passion, the drive, the thrill of the fight. You have all of that, and more.”

Your smile softens, touched by his words. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You did it because you’re a damn good driver,” Fernando corrects, though there’s a warmth in his tone. “But I’m glad I could be a part of your journey.”

You both stand there for a moment, the enormity of what you’ve achieved settling in. Ninth place in your first race is no small feat, especially in a car that everyone had written off as uncompetitive. But you’ve proven them wrong, and you’ve done it in a way that’s uniquely your own.

“Next time, though,” Fernando says, a teasing lilt in his voice, “let’s aim for top five.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No pressure, right?”

“Never,” he replies with a grin. “Just a challenge.”

***

Fernando leans casually against the side of the Alpine motorhome, arms crossed, eyes scanning the paddock. The next season’s first race is in a few days, and the energy around the circuit is electric, buzzing with the anticipation of new beginnings. He’s just finished an interview, the usual media rounds, when he spots you approaching, your new Mercedes gear a stark contrast to the sea of blues and pinks around you.

“Ah, there you are,” Fernando greets with a grin as you draw closer. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

You tilt your head slightly, curious. “Who?”

Fernando pushes off the motorhome, beckoning you to follow as he leads you around to the back, where a young reserve driver is checking his phone, leaning casually against the wall. The kid looks up as you approach, his expression polite, maybe a touch reserved, but there’s an unmistakable spark of intelligence in his eyes.

“Oscar,” Fernando calls out, “this is her.”

Oscar Piastri straightens up, tucking his phone into his pocket. “Nice to meet you,” he says, extending a hand with a shy but confident smile. He’s calm, almost too calm for someone his age, but there’s a warmth there, something genuine. You can’t help but notice how composed he is, how his eyes seem to study you without making you feel scrutinized.

You shake his hand, offering a cool smile in return. “Likewise. I’ve heard good things.”

Oscar chuckles softly, scratching the back of his head. “Hopefully, I can live up to them.”

The three of you chat for a while, exchanging pleasantries about the upcoming season, racing, the usual stuff. Oscar is polite, measured in his responses, but there’s a softness to him that you hadn’t expected. It’s like he’s quietly confident, but without the brashness that usually comes with it. Fernando watches the interaction closely, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he notes the way your demeanor shifts ever so slightly around Oscar — more guarded, maybe, but intrigued.

Eventually, Oscar glances at his watch and excuses himself, mentioning something about a debrief he needs to attend. You nod, maintaining your composed exterior, and watch him walk back towards the Alpine motorhome before turning to Fernando.

“Polite cat vibes,” you murmur almost to yourself, a hint of amusement in your voice. Fernando raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

“What was that?” He asks, although there’s a knowing look in his eyes. He’s been around long enough to pick up on these things.

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s a lightness in your expression that wasn’t there before. “I said, polite cat vibes. You know, like when a cat is super well-behaved, but you just know there’s something more going on behind those eyes?”

Fernando laughs, a genuine, hearty sound that makes a few heads turn in your direction. “So, you think Oscar is a cat?”

“Well, not literally,” you reply, grinning. “It’s just … he’s got this thing, you know? Like he’s really nice, but you can tell he’s got claws if he needs them. And he’s so … calm. I just want to pinch his cheeks and cuddle him.”

Fernando’s laugh turns into a full-blown chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re smitten, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” you say, feigning nonchalance as you fold your arms across your chest. “But it’s just … he’s different. Not in a bad way, just-”

“Different,” Fernando finishes for you, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, I get it. But don’t let that cloud your judgment on track.”

You shoot him a look. “Please. I’m not a rookie, and besides, I’m at Mercedes now. I’ve got bigger things to focus on than cute cats.”

Fernando smiles, but there’s a serious undertone to his next words. “Just remember, this is Formula 1. There’s no room for distractions, no matter how polite or cute they might be.”

You nod, understanding the weight behind his words, but there’s still a twinkle in your eye as you glance back in the direction Oscar disappeared. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

“Good,” Fernando replies, clapping you on the back. “Because I’m not going to let you slack off, not even for a second.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” you retort, smirking. There’s a comfortable silence that falls between the two of you, the kind that only comes from mutual respect and understanding.

But Fernando can’t resist one last jab. “Don’t go soft on him, okay? I’ve got my eye on you.”

You roll your eyes again but with a fond smile. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Of course,” Fernando grins. “It’s part of my charm.”

You laugh, the sound bright and clear in the busy paddock, and Fernando can’t help but feel a swell of pride. You’ve come so far, and he’s been there every step of the way, watching you grow not just as a driver but as a person. There’s a part of him that’s protective, sure, but there’s also a part that’s thrilled to see you standing on your own two feet, ready to take on whatever comes your wa— even if it’s an Australian polite cat.

“Let’s get out of here,” Fernando says finally, leading the way back to the Mercedes motorhome. “We’ve got a race to win this weekend, and I don’t want any distractions.”

You follow him, but there’s a spring in your step that wasn’t there before, and Fernando notices. He doesn’t say anything, though, just smiles to himself. You’re going to be just fine, he thinks, more than fine.

As you walk together, side by side, you can’t help but glance back once more, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Maybe, just maybe, this season is going to be full of surprises. And Fernando? Well, he’s ready for whatever comes next, as long as you are too.

***

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the vineyard where the ceremony is taking place. Rows of chairs are lined up neatly on the manicured lawn, all facing a simple yet elegant archway draped in white fabric and adorned with soft blush roses. The air is filled with the quiet murmur of guests settling in, the occasional laugh breaking through the serene atmosphere.

Fernando adjusts his tie, glancing around with a mixture of pride and disbelief. How did they get here? It seems like only yesterday he was meeting you for the first time, a determined young driver who refused to be underestimated. Now, here you are, standing at the altar, poised to marry the man you’ve chosen to spend your life with.

Fernando is seated in the front row, just to the left of the aisle, with Mark Webber by his side. The two exchange knowing smiles as the ceremony begins, each lost in their own thoughts. Mark has watched Oscar grow from a promising young talent into a man of integrity and strength, much like Fernando has done with you. There’s a quiet understanding between them, a mutual respect that goes beyond words.

As the officiant begins to speak, Fernando leans over slightly, catching Mark’s eye. “I guess this makes us in-laws,” he whispers, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Mark chuckles softly, nodding. “Seems like it. Didn’t see this coming back when we were racing, did we?”

“Not at all,” Fernando replies with a smile, glancing back at the altar where you and Oscar stand, hand-in-hand. “But I’m glad it did.”

The vows are simple, heartfelt, and deeply personal. Oscar goes first, his voice steady but filled with emotion.

“From the moment I met you,” Oscar begins, his eyes locked on yours, “I knew you were different. You challenged me, inspired me, and made me want to be a better person. In a world that often felt overwhelming, you were my calm, my constant. Today, I promise to stand by your side, through every victory and every defeat. I promise to support your dreams as if they were my own, to lift you up when you’re down, and to love you unconditionally, now and forever.”

There’s a brief pause, the weight of his words hanging in the air. You squeeze his hand, your heart swelling with the depth of his sincerity. When it’s your turn, you take a deep breath, steadying yourself.

“Oscar,” you begin, your voice clear and strong, “You were the unexpected surprise in my life, the calm in my storm. From the moment we met, I knew you were special. You’ve been my partner on and off the track, my biggest supporter, and my best friend. Today, I promise to cherish every moment we have together, to grow with you, and to always be there for you, no matter what. I promise to love you with all that I am, and all that I will ever be. You are my heart, my soul, and my everything.”

Fernando feels a lump in his throat as you finish. He’s never been one to get emotional, but today, sitting here, listening to you pour your heart out, he can’t help but feel a surge of pride and love. He remembers the teenage girl who had to fight for every opportunity, the young woman who never gave up, and now, the bride standing before him, ready to take on the next chapter of her life.

The officiant speaks again, guiding you and Oscar through the final steps of the ceremony. When it’s time for the rings, Mark reaches into his pocket, retrieving Oscar’s band with a small, proud smile. Fernando does the same for you, his hands steady as he hands over the ring you will soon place on Oscar’s finger.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” you both say, sliding the rings onto each other’s fingers. The moment is profound, sealing your commitment not just in words, but in action.

“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant finally announces, and there’s a collective sigh of happiness from the gathered crowd as Oscar leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both tender and full of promise.

Applause erupts, and as you and Oscar turn to face your family and friends, hands still entwined, Fernando catches your eye. There’s something unspoken between you, a bond that goes beyond blood, beyond words. You smile at him, and he nods in return, his chest swelling with emotion.

The ceremony concludes, and guests begin to make their way to the reception area, where a beautifully decorated marquee awaits. The air is filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses as everyone mingles, basking in the joy of the occasion.

The second dance is a traditional one with your father. You sway gently in his arms as he whispers words of wisdom, of pride, and of love. The moment is touching, a reminder of the family that has always stood behind you, even when the road was hard.

When the song ends, you hug your father tightly, thanking him for everything. But as the music transitions into something new, you catch Fernando’s eye across the room. There’s a moment of hesitation, but then you make your way towards him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Nando,” you say softly as you reach him, “would you join me for a dance?”

For a brief moment, Fernando is taken aback. He’s always seen you as a strong, independent force — someone who has always forged their own path. But in this moment, he realizes just how much you’ve come to mean to him, how deeply intertwined your lives have become.

“Are you sure?” He asks, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

You nod, your eyes shining with emotion. “You’ve been like a father to me. I couldn’t imagine today without sharing this moment with you.”

Fernando swallows hard, nodding as he takes your hand. The two of you move to the center of the dance floor, the music soft and slow. As you begin to dance, there’s a sense of calm that settles over you both, a quiet understanding that needs no words.

“I’ve watched you grow,” Fernando says after a few moments, his voice low so only you can hear, “into one of the best drivers I’ve ever known, but more than that … into an incredible person. I’m so proud of you, more than I can ever say.”

Tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them back, smiling up at him. “Thank you. For everything. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“You would’ve found your way,” he replies, his tone firm. “You always had it in you. I just gave you a little push.”

“A little?” You tease, and he laughs, the sound filled with warmth.

As the song comes to an end, Fernando pulls you into a tight hug, his hand resting protectively on the back of your head. “Remember, I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

“I know,” you whisper, your voice choked with emotion. “And I’ll always be here for you too.”

***

The antiseptic scent of the hospital hits Fernando the moment he steps into the delivery wing, mingling with the distant beeps of monitors and the hushed whispers of medical staff. It’s a familiar environment, yet so foreign to him. He’s used to the adrenaline rush of the pit lane, the roar of engines, the calculated chaos of racing — but this, this is something entirely different. He’s been in countless high-pressure situations, but none have ever felt like this.

As he makes his way down the hallway, his heart beats just a little faster than usual, his mind racing with thoughts of you, of Oscar, and of the tiny new life that’s just come into the world. When he reaches the door of your room, he hesitates for the briefest of moments, his hand hovering over the door handle.

It’s not that he’s nervous — Fernando Alonso doesn’t get nervous — but there’s something about this moment that feels monumental, like the start of a new chapter in a book he didn’t even realize he was writing.

He pushes the door open slowly, stepping into the room with a soft smile. The room is bathed in a warm, gentle light, far removed from the harsh brightness of the hallway. It���s quiet, peaceful, with only the faint hum of machinery and the soft breaths of the newborn breaking the silence.

You’re lying in the bed, looking tired but radiant, with a tiny bundle cradled in your arms. Oscar is beside you, his hand resting protectively on your shoulder, his eyes filled with awe and love. When you see Fernando, your face lights up, and despite the exhaustion etched into your features, there’s a warmth in your smile that makes his heart swell.

“Fernando,” you say softly, your voice hoarse but filled with joy. “Come meet him.”

He steps closer, his eyes drawn to the small figure in your arms. The baby is tiny, impossibly so, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, with a tuft of dark hair peeking out. Fernando’s breath catches in his throat as he looks down at the baby, his heart pounding in a way that’s both unfamiliar and entirely overwhelming.

“He’s perfect,” Fernando murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar grins, nodding in agreement. “We think so too.”

You shift slightly, holding the baby out toward Fernando. “Would you like to hold him?”

For a moment, Fernando hesitates. He’s held championship trophies, gripped the steering wheel at speeds that would make others blanch, but this? This is different. This is fragile, delicate, something that requires a gentleness he’s not sure he possesses. But when he sees the trust in your eyes, he nods, carefully taking the baby into his arms.

The weight is nothing — featherlight, almost — but it’s enough to make his hands tremble just the slightest bit. He cradles the baby close, his eyes wide as he studies the tiny features: the small nose, the delicate eyelids, the impossibly small fingers curled into little fists. The baby stirs slightly, his mouth opening in a silent yawn before settling back into a peaceful sleep.

“What’s his name?” Fernando asks, his voice thick with emotion.

You exchange a glance with Oscar before looking back at Fernando, your smile widening. “His name is Theodore,” you say softly, “Theodore Fernando Piastri.”

Fernando’s breath catches, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. For a moment, he’s speechless, his mind struggling to process what he’s just heard.

“Fernando?” He repeats, his voice barely audible.

You nod, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “We wanted to honor you. You’ve been like a father to me, and now … now you’re going to be a part of his life too. It just felt right.”

Fernando stares at you, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride, love, and something else — something deeper, something he’s never quite felt before. He looks down at Theodore, his namesake, and for the first time in a long while, he feels his eyes prick with tears.

“You … you didn’t have to do that,” he says, his voice choked with emotion.

“But we wanted to,” Oscar says, his voice firm but kind. “You’ve done so much for us, for Y/N. It’s our way of saying thank you.”

Fernando swallows hard, nodding as he blinks back the tears threatening to spill over. He’s always prided himself on his control, on his ability to keep his emotions in check, but this — this is something else entirely. This is a depth of feeling he wasn’t prepared for.

“Thank you,” he finally says, his voice thick. “It means … it means more to me than you can ever know.”

He looks back down at Theodore, his heart full to bursting. The baby stirs again, his tiny fingers twitching, and Fernando smiles, the tears finally spilling over as he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Grandpa Nando,” you say suddenly, your voice filled with affection. “That’s what we’re going to call you. How do you feel about that?”

Fernando lets out a laugh, the sound watery and full of joy. “I think I can get used to that,” he says, his voice trembling with emotion. “Grandpa Nando. I like it.”

You smile at him, your eyes soft with affection. “I’m glad. You’ve been a father figure to me, and now … now you get to be a grandfather to him.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence, the weight of the moment settling over all of you. Fernando can’t stop staring at Theodore, can’t stop marveling at the tiny life in his arms. He’s held many titles in his life — champion, driver, mentor — but this, this feels different. This feels like the most important role he’s ever played.

As he stands there, cradling the tiny life in his arms, he feels a sense of peace settle over him. This is where he’s meant to be, here with you, with Oscar, with Theodore. He’s not just a mentor anymore; he’s family. And that, more than anything, is the greatest victory he’s ever achieved.

Finally, after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, Fernando carefully hands Theodore back to you, his heart heavy with emotion. You take your son into your arms, holding him close as you smile up at Fernando, your eyes filled with gratitude.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “For everything. For being there for me, for guiding me, for … for being a part of our lives.”

Fernando shakes his head, a small, tearful smile on his lips. “No, thank you. You’ve given me more than I ever could have imagined. You — you and Oscar, and now Theodore — you’re my family. And there’s nothing more important to me than that.”

You reach out, taking his hand in yours, and for a moment, the two of you just stand there, connected by something deeper than words, deeper than racing, deeper than anything Fernando has ever known.

This is what it means to be family, he realizes. This is what it means to love, to care, to be there for each other, no matter what. And as he stands there, his heart full to bursting, he knows that this, more than any championship, more than any victory on the track, is what truly matters.

This is his greatest achievement.

[windsorhelmets]

Full Face Motorcycle Helmets Serving as a top helmets brand in India is not easy enough. It faces competition in the industry and is under constant pressure to bring innovations to its products. However, in the emerging dynamic world, accept customers’ feedback with much confidence and positivity, and bring improvements accordingly. 

[lunaekalenda]

biker!suguru who looks pretty intimidating with that big helmet that covers his face, but will take advantage of red lights to make the children in the cars around him laugh. moving his hands, changing his seat, lying on the motorcycle; anything works when he sees them smiling and waving at him when the traffic starts again.

biker!suguru who's full of tattoos under all the riding clothes. they're tiny, like fine stickers on his body, but you could spend whole afternoons finding each one of them, and he'll gladly tell you what do they mean.

biker!suguru who refuses to let you get off the bike by yourself. if he opens the car door for you and offers a hand so you can comfortably get off, why wouldn't he do the same on the bike?

biker!suguru who accompanies you to buy clothes and equipment for riding. he has been on it for years and he knows the best brands, the best options and the more secure ones. he'll make sure to pay for them, even if they're expensive, as long as you're comfortable and protected from any injury.

biker!suguru who takes you everywhere. you have a meeting? he takes the bike. you're craving your favorite ice cream at night? you'll go quicker in the bike. why would you go walking if he loves to take you anywhere?

biker!suguru who's not bothered by the rain at all. he would ride anyway, with drops falling on his visor and sticking to his exposed neck. he would even unzip his riding jacket and let the rain wet his t-shirt. it makes him feel alive. (and later, sick.)

biker!suguru who doesn't like you sitting by yourself so makes it impossible for you, moving the bike and going back and forth, laughing and receiving your little slaps on his shoulders until you let him sit you (or he lets you sit)

biker!suguru who holds your hand when driving straight, taking it between his gloved fingers, cutely caressing and taking it to his helmet as if he was kissing it.

biker!suguru who helps you to put and take off the helmet the first times you ride, being his smile the last thing you see when closing your eyes to put it on and being his lips pressed on yours the first thing you feel when taking it off.

biker!suguru who doesn't doubt to show you how to ride when you ask him. he takes you on a couple lessons outside, quietly and calmly ordering you what to do. he trusts you enough to backpack you (but you don't trust your freshly aquired habilities with such a man behind)

biker!suguru who never arrives from a ride late. he'll always find you awake, and he doesn't want to let you go to sleep alone. he'll always make it safely on time.

biker!suguru who loves to mess with you, while riding and once done. he'll take your visor up, he'll put your hands inside his t-shirt, he'll give little taps on top of your helmet.

biker!suguru who craves shoulder massages on sunday afternoons after all the week riding and working. you'll gladly give him some, and he'll make sure to payback with cuddles (or rides.)

biker!suguru who lets all the kids try his helmet while he waits for you to exit work/uni. you'll just find the most random situations while getting closer to your boyfriend, such as a kid having trouble with the helmet's weight or another one unable to see due to puting it wrong.

biker!suguru who looks so good unzipping his riding suit and taking off the helmet you can only think of seein that exact image every evening of your life

part one here ✨

[the-secret-formulaone]

prompt: you and max have been secretly together for years. neither the fans or the media have a clue. what happens when you and max are neck and neck for the drivers championship and you get the unexpected news that you’re pregnant?

pairing: max verstappen x ferrari! reader

word count: ~7.6k

warnings: 18+, cursing, mentions of sex but no real smut, mentions of miscarriage, some mention of blood

a/n: hello, i'm brand new at writing fanfic for f1. i've had this idea for a while and it was eating at me so i hope you enjoy. i thought it would be cool to have it be like a normal fic with a bit of that social!au content that the fandom loves.

this is pt.1 of how everything is going down and then the next and final part will be what happens after, her pregnancy and what reader does this time around. along with some fan social media mayhem.

id love to hear your thoughts!

enjoy!

LAS VEGAS, USA | NOV 2024

The nausea settling in the pit of your stomach is unbearable, it gets worse with each lap you complete. You're confident you can push through and finish the race without throwing up in your helmet, until the track begins doubling and tripling.

You haven’t felt this dizzy since you crashed in Spa three years ago due to rain. There were no stakes then as you were having a bad race weekend and started P7. Today you’re P1 and the gap between you and Max is getting shorter as you slow to try and compensate for the nausea and dizziness.

You hear your team in your ear, asking you if the car's giving you trouble since there’s no apparent reason for you to be slowing down at this point. Especially with ten laps to go.

“The car is fine,” you say through gritted teeth, trying to relax your abdomen to keep the nausea at bay.

“Then what’s the matter? Are you okay?” Riccardo, your race engineer, asks. His tone is stern yet concerned.

“Yeah, I’m perfectly fine. My head feels like it’s spinning is all.” You're nonchalant but deep inside you’re panicking. This race means so much to you and your team. Now is not the time to get sick.

“Can you finish the race?” His filtered voice asks through the radio.

“Yes, I’m finishing the bloody race,” you curse, pressing on the gas pedal and tightening the hold on the steering wheel.

“If you continue feeling this way, box immediately,” he orders, not wanting to risk the safety of his driver, “By the way Max is 2 seconds behind you.”

“Fucking hell.” After all the work to create a 10 second gap Max is catching up because your body decided to get sick.

There’s rage building inside of you, keeping Max away is the most difficult part of racing. It took pure skill to keep him at a distance, he’s only catching up because you’re slowing. You're letting yourself down.

It’s been a battle of pole positions and fastest laps for you two. The championship is within your reach, threatening to break Max’s two year streak. It's why Max is giving everything he has to get ahead of you. If he wins this race he’ll be on top once more.

Another bout of nausea takes over your body, shivers running down your spine. Why are you nauseous and dizzy? You were hydrated before the race, the temperature in the car is warm as always but it’s cool outside, unlike Singapore, and you felt perfectly fine earlier.

It’s most likely karma for teasing Max this morning and leaving him with a raging hard on.

You notice Max in your peripheral vision. He’s ready to attack and regain P1. You accelerate and block him as best you can but nearing the turn you miscalculate giving Max the perfect opportunity to pass you.

He settles right in front of you, mocking how he got ahead so easily. If you didn’t love him and felt the bile coming up your throat you would’ve cursed at him. You were famously known for insulting the men driving the other cars.

At this point, you weren’t driving straight and your race engineer, Riccardo was telling you to pit and pull out of the race.

“I promise you I’m good enough to finish the race,” you say after a moment to swallow the bile coming up. You'd rather die than DNF'ing with a handful of laps to go.

“Norris is catching up. Let’s finish this race quickly so you can get checked.”

You’re glad you created a gap at the beginning of the race, otherwise Lando and Charles, your teammate, would’ve caught up already.

You see Lando trying to overtake you but you surprisingly block him and go as fast as you can. It’s not your best work and the FIA will have something to say about it but you make do.

Finally, down the final straight you press on the gas and cross the finish line. You finish the race out of pure muscle memory since you can’t rely on your distorted vision. Ignoring the celebratory cheers, you pull up on the spot marked #2. No one says anything about the askew parking job.

Your hands are clumsy, pulling out the steering wheel and standing. One of your teammates is right there giving you the hand you clearly need as you sway and almost fall straight out of the car.

Max is none the wiser, calmly getting out the RB and running over to his team who congratulate and scream his name. In his head, you lost control of your car, giving him a way to pass you. That's how F1 works.

You pull on your helmet and all the straps fast, the Ferrari team member helping you when he sees your urgency. As soon as you pull off your balaclava you bend over and empty the contents of your stomach.

Privacy be damned.

It’s not pretty. You’ve been holding this in for 20 laps and it’s not going to stop any time soon. The cameras focus on you as you push away the Ferrari team and finish throwing up. Ready hands catch you and you’re sat on a wheel chair as they roll you over to the medics. You close your eyes and throw your head back, everything around you spinning.

The murmurs of the crowd and the media cause Max to notice. He catches sight of you being wheeled away into the back. He takes a tentative step towards you, itching to be by your side but remembers the agreement you made to keep your relationship a secret.

Sometimes he hates how stubborn you are. At this point, the world should know you two are together, married even. Yet he understands your hesitancy with how cruel the media and the fans can be.

Max stays rooted on the spot, watchful eyes and dozens of lenses noticing every movement. Lando gets close to Max trying to avoid the cameras.

“What happened?” Lando asks referring to you.

“No idea, mate,” Max says, staring intently at the door you were just rolled through. A sleuth of Ferrari members following.

“She wasn't driving straight,” Lando shakes his head. He knew something was off when he caught up to her. “It was so unpredictable it made it harder on me to battle it.”

Max didn’t think much when he pulled up behind you but he did think it was strange how easy it was to overtake you. You always give him the hardest time.

He remembers this morning when you were in bed kissing him, touching him, teasing him. You were so cheeky, his length in your hand as you sweet talked him. 'Convincing' him to throw the race. Not like he’d ever do it. You were simply having your fun with him.

There wasn’t any sign of sickness then. It’s not like you spun out during the race either. You had been flawless out on the track until you weren’t.

“I'm going to check on her,” Max tells Lando, motioning with his head and wondering what exactly is wrong with his wife.

"Just wait," Lando stops him with a hand on his chest. They notice Charles in the Ferrari garage, heading to the back where they have you. "If you go, it'll stir up rumors."

Max tenses his jaw and looks away. With a roll of his eyes he turns to get weighed. He doesn't like it but Lando is right. He doesn't give a damn about his reputation only yours and the promise he made you.

f1_news tweeted: Ferrari’s Princess is transferred to hospital after race. It was heard through their radio she was having severe motion sickness, giving Max Verstappen the lead. Not many details are known as of this moment. More updates coming soon!

comments:

user2: hope she’s doing okay! she needs to come back to kick max's ass and take the championship from him 😮‍💨

user3: bet max is celebrating

-> user4: he looked very concerned when he saw her in the wheelchair

-> user14: who wouldn’t, she looked like death 💀

user4: did ya'll notice max disappear after the ceremony?

-> user5: lol he was making sure his favorite rival was okay 🤣

-> user101: no point in staying if he can’t rub it in her face 🤐

user6: our ferrari princess 👸 looked out of it. not sure how she made it out the car

user7: the podium felt so empty without her in it 😓

-> user8: did you notice max kept looking at the spot she was supposed to be as if expecting her to suddenly appear

-> user9: she’s like his best friend and his enemy wrapped in one. can’t live with her, can't live without her

-> user10: i swear he’s in love with her. 🗣️ it’s not normal the way he looks at her

-> user11: please, she’s married. you guys need to stop being delusional and stop shipping her with every guy on the grid

-> user10: not every guy, just max and maybe charles… -> user76: let's take a moment to appreciate charles immediately asking about her and leaving the track to see how she was. it's a win for us predestined x princess shippers

In the hospital, they quickly take you into a private room. The nurses retake your vitals and give you a shot to help with the nausea. A doctor comes in relatively quickly, asking you an array of questions to help him figure out why you got sick.

"The nurse should be in quickly to draw blood. I'm not too worried about this being anything other than a virus but we just want to make sure you're all good before leaving."

"Thank you, doc," you respond, lying back on the bed. They've given you one of the flimsiest hospital gowns in existence but you've gotta admit it's more comfortable than your race suit.

It's awfully lonely in the hospital room but it gives you time to relax and wind down. Fred and Riccardo were extremely concerned for your well being- not related at all to the fact you're on the run to win the championship-forcing you to go into the hospital.

Their stressed energy, the ambulance ride and then the nurses fussing over you was overwhelming. It would've made your nausea worse had it not been for the shot.

You're snoozing off when the door opens and your husband walks in. Max has a backpack slung over his shoulder with a set of clothes for you, along with your phone and other personal belongings you left at the paddock. He hurries over to you, dropping the bag and wrapping his arms around you.

"I was so worried, schatje," Max says in your ear, kissing your temple. The softness of his hoodie and the familiar scent he carries is comforting.

"I'm okay. You should keep your distance though, doc says I have a virus," you tell him, slightly pushing him away.

He’s stubborn as he keeps hold of your hand. "I don't care if I get sick. We've got two weeks until the next race, plenty of time for me to get better." Max sits on the chair next to your bed, asking you what happened during today’s race and listening to every word you say.

"What did they do for podium?" You later ask curiously, turning on your side to get more comfortable. Max props his head on his hand as he leans on your bed, getting closer to you despite your protests.

"Riccardo was there to accept it," Max tells you, kissing the back of your hand. He had been really worried. A part of him kept checking his surroundings for any sign of you.

It’s days like today where he wishes your relationship wasn’t secret. Max wants to express how worried he was about his girlfriend wife. He wanted to say ‘fuck you’ to all protocol and go after you.

He understands your reluctance and the need for privacy in your personal life. He knows what it’s like to have his privacy invaded and Max agrees that good things have come out of keeping your relationship a secret but you’ve also had to miss out on others. One day, you’ll have to come clean to the public to be able to live your life to the fullest.

The doctor returns before he can vocalize this. He knocks on the door as he steps into the room, a tablet in his hands. “Results have come back. Would you like the gentleman to step out or is it okay if he stays?”

“He’s my husband,” you tell the doctor.

You're used to people not recognizing you outside of Formula One but Max is more known than you. You wait for the doctor to react at the sight of Max, except there’s not an ounce of recognition in his face. Good, or else, you’d have to rely on his patient-doctor confidentiality.

“Let’s get into it then. Lab’s show dehydration which is normal for the state you came in like. In addition, to the fact, you had just finished a physically demanding race. Surprisingly they also showed that your quantitative hCG levels are high meaning—"

“I’m pregnant?” You pan, shocked. Max's hand tightens around yours. Last year's endeavors left you with enough knowledge to know what that term means.

“Yes, you are pregnant,” he nods.

Max instantly turns towards you in complete shock. There’s part of him that’s happy but then there’s another that’s concerned. Personally, he’d love to have a child but it would mean you would have to sacrifice the championship.

You stare at the doctor with parted lips and furrowed brows, “That’s impossible. I have an IUD.” This couldn't be happening at a worse time.

“All methods of contraception have a percentage of failure,” the doctor sighs. “Your pregnancy explains today's sudden dizziness and nausea.”

“Do you know how far along she is?” Max asks, holding your hand tightly to show his support.

“We would need an ultrasound for that but based on her last menstrual period it can’t be more than 6 weeks.”

“Six weeks,” you breath out. You could only hear your pounding heart and the air coming in and out of your mouth. God, you've been training and driving the whole time. For fucks sake, just two weeks ago you had been celebrating your win with lots of alcohol.

You hardly hear the doctor excuse himself, leaving you and Max alone. Tears brim your eyes at the cruelty of the universe. You have in your hands the two things you want most in life. A shot at the championship and the opportunity to become a mother.

Max sits on the bed, wiping away your tears. He doesn’t say much, at a loss of words. There’s not much he can say to make this better but he thumbs away your tears and pulls you into a hug.

You fist his shirt in your hands, crying onto his shoulder, “This is not fair.”

“I know, schatje.” Max is at a loss. He understands the conflicting feelings you have. It’s no easy thing especially after everything you and Max went through.

“I can’t go through this again,” you sob, remembering the painful memories of the previous year.

United Arab Emirates | Nov 2022

The last race of the season has come quickly, deeming Max the World Champion for the second time running. He’s at the top of the podium as the Dutch national anthem plays. You look up at him from the third position, smiling at him proudly.

You’re frustrated that you weren’t able to catch up to him but you’re confident your time will come. Every year you’ve spent in the grid you’ve been able to rise through the ranks and get great contracts.

Mercedes took a chance on you this year and you’ve made them proud. It was a challenge against Ferrari and Red Bull but as the only woman you’d say you did brilliant.

You’re going to miss this next year but a break is due. After years of hard training and dedicating everything to your career you’ve decided to focus on your personal life.

It’s been nearly a year since you’ve married Max and the conversation surrounding children becomes more constant. It's a nagging sensation in the back of your head. A longing you can't stop.

Feeling at peace with your performance, you decided to take this next year to become a mother. You’re young so in two years you’re sure you can come back stronger than ever and give Max a run for his money.

As the ceremony comes to an end, the party begins and the champagne bottles are brought out. “Don’t run,” Max laughs, spraying the frothy liquid in your direction.

You fight back, shaking the bottle and spraying some at Max and Charles. They gang up on you as Charles blocks your way and they both spray you. That will keep the fans making edits for months to come, the implication of the action clear.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Charles yells over the cheers when you aim the spray at his mouth.

Getting off the stage and into a private room, Max takes off his hat and pulls you in by the waist to press his sweet tasting lips against yours. You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. “Congrats two-time world champion.”

“Thank you, schatje,” Max responds, brushing back the hair sticking to your forehead.

“Get a room you two,” Charles huffs, knowing you forgot he was there.

“Sorry,” you say with a blush.

“I’m not,” Max laughs, stealing another kiss.

Outside, reporters of all kind were waiting to interview all three of you. They want Max’s celebratory words and you and Charles’ disappointment and regret. They live for the heartfelt promises you'll make for next season.

“Over here!” A reporter calls you, handing you a microphone. “What’s the plan for next year? Are you renewing with Mercedes or is there another team making offers?”

“I come with sad news,” you pout at the camera, “I won’t be on the grid next year.”

The reporter stares wide-eyed at you. This is the first time you've said those words out loud. “Could you share with us why?”

You nod at his question, fixing your hat as you speak the words you rehearsed many times before. “Since I was young I was prioritizing racing and getting into Formula One. I love how far I’ve come but I want to take a step back and enjoy my personal life for a little while. As you know, I got married a year ago and I want to enjoy that newlywed life. I will be back though,” you say with a smile and a wink at the camera.

“Is there a chance you’ll tell us who the lucky guy is?” The reporter questions, not really expecting you to answer. That the one thing you won't disclose.

You laugh, shaking your head at him, “No chance. I like to keep my personal life private.”

“Worth a shot," the reporter laughs with you. "Thank you for your time and we hope to see you soon!”

youtube upload: The Grid's Princess QUITS

thumbnail 📸: Toto Wolff looking angry and yelling at a Mercedes staff member. Lewis Hamilton with an arm around an upset looking reader.

comments:

user25: our queen is leaving? 😫 user30: who is going to keep the boys in check -> user5: i bet that’s why she’s taking a break, it’s not easy keeping charles and max under control user6: aren’t we curious as to who this mystery husband is? 👀 -> user17: i bet it’s either someone old or a billionaire, or both, i mean did you see the rock on her finger? -> user 46: oh they must be loaded to win over the grid's princess -> user96: i'm sorry but until i see proof of this man i will continue to set her up with charles user59: please, use a more dramatic title user48: i'm ready to fight 🤺 whoever made her stop racing. she's the only reason i watch them go in circles. who else is going to learn french to curse out charles properly? user55: *sigh* guess it’s time to rewatch all of the edits of her and max on repeat until she returns user104: let’s make a game. take a shot every time max and charles mention her next season.

Monaco | March 2023

When you temporarily retired, you thought you'd become pregnant in a matter of weeks. That is not the case.

Movies make it seem so easy to become pregnant, when in reality, it’s a challenge. It took nearly four months and multiple doctor visits for you to become with child.

The Winter break was spent tangled in sheets, keeping warm in each others embrace. Max was insatiable and so were you. Any chance you had you’d be dragging him somewhere private, his hands pulling at your underwear to tug them off...or to the side.

Max's voice would be in your ear as he spoke of how good you take him. He'd encourage you with words he'd never otherwise use. His cologne would intoxicate you, putting you in a trance.

His hold was firm and steady, making you shake and arch against him. His length sinking into you until you came with his name on your lips and his seed inside you.

Then, it finally happened. A positive pregnancy test in your bathroom counter. The alarm rang loudly, making you and Max share a nervous glance.

“You look,” you say with a shaky voice and shakier hands. Your period was late, followed by your tender breasts and the morning sickness. You fear your body was making it up because you wanted it so much.

“Before that,” Max says, cupping your face, “Don’t be disappointed if it’s negative. We’re just getting started and we have a whole year to try, yeah?”

You place your hands over his and nod with a small smile. Max presses a kiss to your forehead before he picks up the home test.

Max erupts in a smile, nodding and showing you the word positive. You scream, falling into his arms. He spins you around, kissing all over your face.

You and Max are over the moon, giddily waiting for every appointment with your doctor. Every ultrasound was recorded along with the babies heart beat.

Max is ecstatic. He's been wanting to have a family with you since he realized you were the one. He thought it wouldn't happen for a long time but then you revealed you wanted it too and soon despite your career.

It took a long conversation to figure out how to go about it with both of your careers being at their peak but you came to an agreement. He was ready be a father and you were ready to be a mother, even if it meant putting your career in pause.

Your desire to bring a child into the world was greater than giving the championship another shot. Whenever you're ready to return to F1, he'll take a step back and support you.

Max planned a dinner with the whole family where you told them you were expecting. Plans to decorate the nursery littered your coffee table and your internet browser history was filled with shop links with cute clothes and baby items.

Weeks later, it happened. Something felt wrong, off.

“Maxie,” you breathe heavily, feeling wet between your legs. Cramps littering your lower abdomen.

“What's wrong?” Max sits up in bed, sensing your distressed state. His gaze fixes on the red stain forming on the white sheets.

“I’m scared,” you cry, afraid to move or do anything. Cramps squeezing your insides like a bad period.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m here,” Max reassures you, “Let’s go to the bathroom, yeah? I’ll call the doctor.”

A quick trip to the ER confirmed it. You miscarried.

You couldn’t look at Max that night, hugging yourself tightly as he drove home. You ignored all the glances he threw your way, shiying away from the hand that reached out for you.

All that happiness you felt drained out of you, leaving complete sadness behind.

Max was sad about the baby but he was more focused on you and the toll it took on you. It was always a possibility. The doctor spoke about what to expect on the first trimester and this was one of the things he mentioned. You both chose to ignore it at the time.

Max kept most of the lights off in the apartment. Remembering the bags with baby stuff from your online shopping. He kept the spare bedroom closed, where you were planning how to arrange it and paint it to transform it into the nursery.

He’s never seen you this devastated. After years of knowing you and dating you he never had the chance to see you at your lowest. It breaks his fucking heart.

Max holds you that night while you're in pain and bleeding. He rocks you as you cry, tears spilling from his eyes too as all that new hope is crushed.

You need him. Max is all you have at the moment because while he goes to race on the weekends and clear his head, you stay home with the weight of losing a baby.

Zandvoort | August 2023

With medical clearance and a couple of months to heal mentally. You and Max got to trying again.

You aren’t quitters and again you both desperately want a child. There's lots of sex, more than before. Something reignited in the relationship, like when the relationship began. Nothing could keep you away from Max back then.

He would fuck you wherever he could. Often times risking being seen. It was a moment where neither of you cared about being caught or being exposed to the whole world.

The Two-Time World Champion and the Grid’s Princess. Happily Married and Horny for Each Other.

The second time you found out you were pregnant was in Zandvoort, Max’s home race. You weren’t traveling as much trying to give your body rest and hopefully encourage it to take but this was a special track for Max so you tagged along.

Similar symptoms were arising so you waited to arrive at Zandvoort to take the test with Max. You were once again in the bathroom, sitting on the counter. He was between your legs, his head on your chest, waiting for the four minutes to be over.

“If it’s negative?” You asked, your fingers in his hair, scratching at his scalp to relax him.

“Then we try again and again and again,” he says cheekily, grabbing onto your thighs and kissing you.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you,” you giggle, pulling at his roots to make him groan.

“Perhaps but I’m not the one yelling out my name,” he smirks, recalling the other night when he had you with your legs up on his shoulders as he entered you slow and deep. If he closes his eyes he can hear your whiny moans begging for him to tip you over the edge.

“Poor Checo had to call the front desk and fill in a complaint,” you giggle, hiding your face from Max with your hands.

“It’s not my fault I didn’t see his text,” Max shrugs, not having a care in the world.

He was in his suite with his wife, having fun and trying to conceive. It’s not his fault he was making you feel so good you felt the need to scream his name and it’s not his fault Checo’s bedroom was right next to yours. Blame the Red Bull team for reserving two suites right next to each other.

The triggering alarm sounds, making your heart race. This time you grab the test, deciphering what the faint lines mean. You ran out of the good pregnancy tests and you were too lazy to go out and get new ones.

“It’s positive!” You squeal, showing the home test to Max.

Max’s eyes widen, “We did it!”

“I'm so happy,” you tear up from joy, hugging Max’s shoulders. Nothing is stopping him tomorrow on the track. He’s going to ride this high as long as possible.

Max grabs your thighs, forcing you to wrap your legs around him. He carries you over to the bed, kissing your lips, your neck, your chest.

Max was going to make you scream out his name again.

There was little celebration. You and Max kept the news to yourselves for a while longer. You took every precaution on the book. You stopped traveling with Max afraid it was one of the causes of your first miscarriage. You took care of your diet, you did minimal exercise, took every prenatal vitamin you could find but much like the first time, it happened again.

This time you felt so defeated, like something was wrong with you. Like maybe you weren’t meant to bring a child into the world or become a mother.

Max found you on the balcony one night after it happened. It was freezing outside so he got a blanket and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“‘I'm sorry,” you sniffle, not meeting his eyes. Your tears were cold against your cheeks.

“For what?” Max asks, watching you carefully. Your eyes red rimmed and nose runny.

“There’s something wrong with me and I can’t give us a baby,” you cry softly, wiping away at your tears.

You feel so ashamed and embarrassed. Having a baby shouldn’t be this fucking hard. You’ve done so much in life and this simple thing you can’t do. Something your body was designed to do.

“Hey, no. You know what the doctor said. There’s nothing wrong with you and there’s so many other ways we can have children together,” Max chides you, pulling his chair closer and grabbing your shoulders so you look at him.

“If there’s nothing wrong with me why does it keep happening?” You ask as your eyes well with more tears. They haven’t stopped in a good ten minutes.

“It’s not our time yet.” It’s the only thing Max can say. He doesn’t have all the answers in the world but there is one thing he’s sure of. “I love you no matter what.”

“I don’t want to go through this again.” Your bottom lip wobbles as you speak. The words getting caught on your throat.

It’s not like you don’t want children because you desperately do but you can’t go through another disappointment. More pain and more blood. More false hope.

“You don’t have to,” Max tells you, comforting you the best way he can. He picks you up, settling you on his lap as he wraps his arms around you. He kisses your head, coming up with words to make you feel better.

He doesn’t want a child if the process is going to cause you so much suffering. It’s hard seeing you like this when he’s used to seeing you be this independent strong woman, who broke barriers in a field of men.

He’s discovering a new side to you deep into your relationship. He loves you but it’s shocking to see you be this vulnerable when a lot of times you love to handle things on your own. In a way, he’s happy he’s able to be here with you and help you.

Monza | November 2023

In Formula One rumors spread like wildfire. Within the teams and its members and riders the reason for your break didn’t remain a secret for long.

It didn’t stop certain teams from reaching out and persuading you into joining them. As far as they know you’re not pregnant yet and you did promise to return one day.

As the only woman in the grid you pull in lots of sponsors and the media and fans love you. Having you on a team is a win all around, considering you also bring in trophies.

Ferrari is a big team showing their interest in you. They’ve sent your manager multiple invitations for you to come and visit Ferrari Headquarters. No strings attached just a simple tour and meeting.

It’s tempting. Driving for Ferrari is every F1 racers dream and to be invited to test out their car and talk business is an honor.

You went quietly to the meeting, undecided if it’s the choice you want to make. Mercedes awaits your return whenever you’re ready, having led them to victory many times alongside Lewis.

Oh, Toto Wolff has you in his sight constantly. If he knew you were at Monza he’d probably fly down and get you out. You’re one of his biggest assets yet.

“There's our princess,” Charles greets you, running up to you and giving you a big hug.

He missed having you around. The fans never let him forget of all the good times, constantly tagging him on instagram and twitter.

“Hey Charles,” you laugh as he sways you from side to side.

“I missed you,” he says as he guides you over to the garage.

“Missed me kicking your ass?” You quip, playfully pushing him.

“Please, competing against Max on my own is exhausting. Too much responsibility,” Charles admits.

“He’s having the time of his life.” Max has the most fun when there are challenges and Charles has proven to be a worthy one. Insults and all. He loves getting a rise out of him.

The Ferrari team sets you up with a bright red race suit, giving you a visual of what your future has in store.

The feel of the baclavla is familiar around your head and the weight of the helmet comforting. It’s been a year since you last wore the uniform and it feels like home.

You step into the car, slidding in the steering wheel. The crew gives you the signal to pull out and you do with a push on the gas.

The rumble of the engine is exhilarating as is the blend of colors around you. It comes back so naturally, knowing when to push the car when to break. Learning this car is easy, like it’s made for you.

It has the potential to be a winner, to help you achieve the goal of becoming world champion.

“Ready to join Scuderia Ferrari?” Frederic Vasseif asks you once you get out of the car. There’s a smugness to him. He knows you enjoyed it and you’re itching for more.

“I don’t know. Carlos seems to be doing really well,” you try to play it cool, taking off your helmet and baclavla to shake off your hair.

“He’s good but you’re the greatest,” Fred says, giving you a knowing look.

“If I accept it’s because I want to win the Championship,” you negotiate. Charles is the first driver and it makes sense he stays there since he’s been with the team longer but you will not sacrifice yourself for him.

“We wouldn’t have it any other way,” Fred agrees, extending his hand to shake yours.

“The predestined and the princess?” Charles smiles, wrapping an arm around you.

You smile and bite your lip, “It’s time to take down Max Verstappen.”

No wonder the fans think there’s a long standing rivalry between you and Max. You talk a lot about taking him down and winning the championship. With the trust you two have he bites back with words of his own. It makes for quite a show. They’re going to lose it once it’s revealed you’re joining Ferrari.

Your joy returning home is palpable. Max notices it the moment you walk into your shared home in Monaco. The cats notice it too as they weave between your legs asking to be pet.

"Hi, love," Max greets you, placing his hands on your hips and kissing you. You wrap your arms your his neck loosely, smiling into the kiss.

He doesn't let you go when the kiss breaks, his thumbs caressing your back. You smile at him, a hand on his face, as your fingers brush over his stubble. He leans into it. “How did it go?”

“It's top secret," you say cheekily.

"Really?" Max follows along amusedly, "You can't even tell your dear husband Max Emilian?"

It's been an inside joke since you started dating that the person you're dating is Max Emilian and not Max Verstappen. Helps keep things separated to a certain degree but mostly it's funny.

"Well, if it's Max Emilian asking I can tell him that I've just signed with Ferrari and that Max Verstappen will have some serious competition next year," you tell him as your smile widens.

“Congratulations!" Max exclaims, hugging you tightly. You laugh is music in his ears. From the moment you stepped in he knew something changed. You were laughing and smiling like a weight was lifted off your shoulders.

“I’m a Ferrari girl now and I’m going to take that title from you,” she boasts, playfully pushing him.

“That’s a big statement,” he says, playfully caging her in his arms. Max adores that her competitive streak is back, it's one of the things he fell in love with when you began dating.

Being married means being there in the bad and the good, in sickness and in health. He'll be by your side through it all but he'd rather have you be happy and competitive than depressed and anxious.

“What you think I can’t do it?” You laugh when he tries tickling you. Your this close to elbowing him if he doesn't stop.

Finally letting up, he cups your face and looks into your eyes as he says, “If there’s someone who is going to do it, it’s you. You're my girl after all.”

f1 posted on instagram: The Princess is back and in red. Everyone bow down. 📸: Reader wearing a Ferrari race suit posing in front of the new Ferrari SF-23. Comments: user8: holy shit she’s back

user95: this was not on my bingo card, but it was in my dreams every night since she left -> user57: like a wise woman once said in rome; this is what dreams are made of

user72: guess she had enough of that married life and is back to wreck these boys

user14: i might actually fucking cry. our queen is back and in ferrari red -> user98: red is definitely her color. -> user67: you know who's color it is too? charles... ->user53: you know who likes charles? max... ->user17: i can't with you 💀

user67: i want to see max squirm with both charles and her against him -> user55: please if anything it’ll turn him on -> user45: hell even i'm turned on

user88: wait does this mean she can’t curse at charles anymore? -> user68: don't worry, the second charles gets in her way it's coming. don't you remember that one time she almost crashed with lewis and she let him have it? -> user 90: i've never seen lewis be that fast outside of a car

user12: i’ve got my editing program ready, i’ll get all the edits. max x princess, predestined x princess, max x charles, i got them all -> user56: i'm not picky, i'll help -> user02: you should do one where she's walking in like in those wwe fights with the dramatic music

Monaco | Nov 2024

The conversation about the pregnancy is kept on pause. You and Max wait till you're back home in Monaco to continue it. It's fresh in your minds though as you try and make sense of he timing of it all.

There's only two more races to the season, you are so close to the end. You wish you hadn't found out till much later, they do say ignorance is bliss.

You're filled with fear and uncertainty. What if this pregnancy ends up like the rest? What if you give up the championship for something that might not even happen? But what if you chose the championship and give up a viable pregnancy?

The morning after arriving at Monaco you're in the kitchen with your laptop in front of you as you schedule an appointment with your doctor. The cup of coffee you made earlier is now cold as you could barely drink it with so many thoughts in your head.

You cover your face with your hands, groaning at the headache forming so early in the day.

Max finds you like that and he knows it's time to talk. He comes up behind you, pressing a kiss and resting his chin on your shoulder as he hugs you from behind.

"What's on your mind, schatje?"

You take a deep breath, focusing on him to try and gather your thoughts, "I don't know what to do, Maxie. What do I do?"

"I can't tell you what to do. I can tell you that I want to have a baby with you but I don’t want you to go through all that pain again or feel pressured that you need to do this for me. I love you and I want you to be happy. If it's choosing your career I'm here for you. If it's starting a family I'm here as well," Max says as he hugs you tighter until you relax against him.

You shake your head, lacing your fingers with his as they lie on your midsection. "It's the fact that the first two didn't end well and it was such a horrible experience. If I knew for a fact I was going to give birth to this baby I would drop the championship in a heartbeat."

"I'm happy with whatever you choose. Even if you decide that carrying a baby isn't for you. Later on we can try surrogacy or adoption."

It's 2024 and there are tons of options out there in the case you want to become parents. It doesn't have to be one way or no way. Plus, they are young and have their lives ahead of them.

"Really? You couldn’t be like one of the awful men who insist women need to have a baby? You’re making this hard on me," you lightly joke, bringing his hand to your lips to kiss it.

Max laughs along with you. He knows you've made a decision even if you haven't realized. He's only there to guide you. “You already made a decision, schatje.”

Your eyes return to your laptop where the appointment with the specialty clinic is displayed. “I need to give this pregnancy a chance. I mean think about it. I've raced, I've drank alcohol and it's still here. It happened against all odds, Maxie. What if it’s a sign? That the timing is right,” you say, recalling the conversation you had with him a year ago. “I just hate I need to withdraw from the rest of the races.”

Max made a decision that same moment, “I’ll pull out from the races too.” It feels shitty that because you're a woman you have to pull out the races for your safety and the baby's while he continues on like nothing has happened.

“What? That’s insane Max,” you exclaim, staring at him bewildered.

“It’s only fair. You have to do it to have OUR baby, why do you have to be the only one who quits?”

You laugh and shake your head, placing your hands on his chest, “You’re not doing that, Max. This is F1 and it’s ruthless which is why you’re so good at it. Besides, with last Sunday's race you're already ahead of me and there's no chance the others are catching up with two races to go. The title is yours," you reassure him, kissing the corner of his mouth, “It’s not my time to be a world champion yet and maybe it never will. I have to accept that."

Max scoffs, poking his tongue on his cheek, “No, you will be. Once you have this baby you’re coming back even if I have to give away my seat in Red Bull.”

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you hum, looking into his eyes.

“You beat me on your rookie year,” he reminds you.

Back when you started in F1 and neither you or Max were on the top you had friendly battles in the midst of the races. It wasn't for podium but it kept the fans entertained and recruiters eyes on you both. Max beat you most times but there was one day you beat him on a wet race which is unheard of.

“Once!”

“Once was enough!” He insists. Max fell in love with your competitive side, it didn't matter if you beat him or not. That day when you approached him with that big smile and malicious intent in your eyes he was done for.

“How will we handle the media?” He steers the conversation a different place. He's not sure how much longer he can keep the relationship a secret with a baby on the way.

“Same as always. They can’t know about us yet, Maxie. They will throw your name on the ground and say horrible things.”

If the media finds out that you're pregnant with Max's baby they will say it's sabotage cause he felt threatened that you were going to take the title from him. They don't care for details.

“I don’t know how much longer we can keep this a secret,” he confesses, trying to reason with you.

“Not long okay? After the baby comes,” you promise him. After the baby comes you will tell the world everything.

F1_news tweeted: The Grid's Princess is withdrawing from the rest of the races this season due to her health. Not much is known yet. Carlos Sainz to take over her seat.

comments:

user56: not again please -> user97: i'm in tears -> user57: alexa play 'see you again' by charlie puth

user64: i hope she's doing okay and is able to return next year. she was so close on getting the championship

user76: i love the queen but i'm happy to get charlos back again! -> user34: it's very bitter sweet isn't it? -> user57: i wonder if she'll be back with ferrari next year? -> user45: well her contract is for two years so if she's okay when the next season starts i don't see why not -> user08: contracts mean nothing in F1 user04: get ready to witness a pouty max -> user 87: these next few races will be a piece of cake and he hates it -> user72: i love lando and charles but there's no way they are going to give him a hard time

user46: this is the end of the princess, who is going to want her back? -> user 43: get the fuck out of here you hater -> user345: who asked for your opinion?

F1_fanpage: The Grid's princess seen walking out of a clinic specialized in complicated pregnancies. 📸

user45: holy shit, it all makes fucking sense she’s pregnant -> user58: i didn't want to say anything but dizzy and nausea? it’s textbook pregnancy

user67: our queen is having a prince(ss) -> user176: who is the fucking dad? -> user404: he needs to be a part of F1 for her to still be around when she should be home resting

user47: she's glowing

user68: not her audibly rooting for carlos on the latest race -> user99: well it is only temporary and it's not like they kicked her out. she left because she had to -> user55: we love a supportive queen either way

user88: did ya'll see her interacting with max and charles after the race? they were so careful with her. it makes so much sense! -> user44: i'm hyperventilating we got a max hug! -> user 67: better yet we got a charles hug! -> user12: opening up my editing program as we speak

Part 2 Coming Soon

The world is aware you're now pregnant. You got a job working for the F1 social media and interview team during your pregnancy. Rumors keep spreading about who your husband and baby daddy is. Fans keep shipping you with Max and Charles. Max might just explode if he doesn’t tell everyone, but will he?

[aamircoeur]

kissing, i hope they caught us ー Ken Sato.

wherein ken sato finds himself waiting for the calls of his fuck buddy.

SMUT, read at your own risk. one-shot. female reader, UNEDITED.

"same time, uh, tomorrow?" ken said from behind you. you slipped into your blouse and turned to him, who was currently topless and fastening his belt, his hair pointed in all directions.

"tomorrow? we just fucked, ken." you laughed light-heartedly. "i'm a busy woman."

kenji looked at you while he sat at the edge of his bed, rubbing his shoulder. "n-next week?" he offered.

you sighed and smiled at him. finishing the top button of your blouse, you walked towards him and grabbed your purse from his nightstand. "i'll call you." you said, kissing his cheek as goodbye.

ー

liar, kenji said to himself. it has been well over two weeks since your last interaction, and he has been anxious to meet you again, to feel you. to touch you, to have you on your kneesー god damn it.

sighing deeply, he ran his hands through his jet-black hair and slouched on his couch. he had his phone on his couch with his tabs revealing your, [name] [surname], japan's hottest supermodel, social media accounts. he had his television opened and has been playing various movies over the past hours, but he seemed to pay no mind to them with how often he was refreshing your accounts for the hope of any updates of your whereabouts.

shit, he even stooped to a new low, stalking multiple fan accounts of yours on twitter to see if they had any clue. the opened laptop in front of him was stuck to his direct messages with you, revealing how he replied a thumbs up to your message saying, "thank u for tn ;)".

he felt stupid. should he have been more open? maybe he should've responded differently. who even responds to a girl with a thumbs up? real mature, kenji.

he was anxious, bouncing his leg as he kept sighing over and over. why weren't you messaging him? he was the ken sato. did he kiss you too hard? did he fuck you too roughly?

leaning back into the couch, he ran his hand once more for the nth time this evening. he was overthinking. he couldn't have all these thoughts with the upcoming tournament that he's been looking forward to for the past two months. but lately, all he seemed to think about was how good it felt to be inside you.

sighing again, ken had his phone in his hands and went back to refreshing your account. to his absolute surprise, you had a new post on instagram, uploaded sixteen seconds ago. it was an image of you with a bra that fit you so perfectly, baggy jeans that rested on your hips, and underwear that seemed to grip on your waist with the brand's name on the garter.

the baseball player stared at his phone with a blank face before knitting his eyebrows together and groaning, adjusting his pants with the sudden uncomfortable feeling. this is bad.

—

"my scan tells me that your blood circulation has been increased at a certain area—"

"i did not need a scan, mina!" ken gritted, frustrated. "i'll be back late!" he shouted as a way to drown out whatever mina said next as he shut the front door on his way out. ken walked towards his motorcycle, fitting into his black helmet before quickly driving to a nearby bar.

upon arriving, kenji took off his helmet and gave it to the valet parker, with along with his keys and some cash. "take care of her, alright?" ken said, referring to the bike. the valet nodded. kenji held the sunglasses that he hung on the front of his shirt and put it on before walking towards the entrance.

seeing the long line behind the stanchion, kenji smirked and walked towards the bouncer who blocked him from coming inside with his arm. "name?"

ken raised an eyebrow and lowered his sunglasses. "sato." he said. the bouncer gaped and got his arm out of the way and opening the doors for him instead, apologizing for not recognizing him earlier.

ken was met with beaming lights within the darkness of the place, the air smelling of alcohol and the loud sound of the song that the dj played bouncing off the walls. ken took a deep breath in and sighed, and after a few steps in he was immediately accommodated by a blonde hostess, handing him a glass of champagne before latching on to his arm as she giggled and guided him to an empty table.

it was already past midnight and ken surprised himself by not drinking to his limits this time. there were women holding on to both of his arms, some handing him fruits while one held the bottle for his drink. he was also accompanied by strangers that seemed to need a breather. "hey, pretty, care to get me another glass?" kenji said to the brunette on his left with a sly smile.

the brunette giggled and pulled down her skirt before standing up "sure thing, ken." she smiled.

"there's no need for that, sweetie." he heard someone say from behind them. almost immediately, ken sato turned his head and his eyes widened at the sight of you. fuck. it was you. "hey, kenji. what brings you here?" you smiled and walked around the couch and made your way towards him. everyone at the table stood up and walked towards another unoccupied table, knowing the protocol.

"[n-name]?" ken stuttered, his hand running through the side of his hair as he fixed his posture. you giggled at him and took the brunette's former seat, taking the almost-empty tall glass of champagne that he held and sipped on it. "what, what're you doin' here?" he slurred, tipsy.

"oh, nothing. just here with some friends." you smiled and placed the glass to his lips, making sure that it was the same spot that you drank from. taking a deep breath, ken leaned into the glass and sipped, some slipping from the corners of his mouth. you placed the glass down to the table and wiped the trail of champagne on his chin. kenji only stared at you. flustered, you looked down at his hands and held it. "i missed you, kenji." you said.

kenji stared at you. he forgot how beautiful you were. how could he ever forget that?

kenji held your hand and interlocked your fingers. "yeah, well, you didn't seem to wanna let me know that little fact of yours over the last two weeks." he said, his cheeks reddening as he avoided eye contact.

you laughed at his shyness and held on to his hand tighter. "'m sorry, baby." you smiled and leaned in to his ear. "but, i can let you know just how much i missed you, baby." you whispered. "my place?"

—

it has been yet another two weeks since your last night together. kenji was one week into the tournament that he has been preparing for and he has been busy as ever. coach shimura has confiscated their cellphones to give the yomiuri giants their well-needed concentration on their trainings and game days.

after a weekend long of back-to-back games, coach shimura has finally given back the players their phones to reward them of their zero losses so far. upon unlocking it, kenji was met with multiple messages from you, telling him how much you miss him, telling him how good he looked in the field, letting him know of what you did while thinking of him . . .

he was flushed after reading everything, and in between messages he also received missed calls from you, and one voicemail.

"baby, can you call me back? it's so lonely in my mansion."

taglist: @boomboom-tanjiro2019 @ttulipwritezz

[tumble-tv]

There’s word (very strong and big word) that Donald Trump is going to start mass deportations on Tuesday, January 21, 2025.

He wants any immigrants, no matter how long they have been a citizen of the USA, to be deported either out of the country as a whole or into what are basically concentration camps. They’re starting in Chicago, Illinois. The US Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has started raiding homes and families in California. Here’s some information.

When it comes to spotting an ICE agent, look for these:

Weirdly neat/well kept hair (shaved heads, side parts, military burs for men; low buns, high ponytails, close cropped bobs for women)

Oversized jacket (long and bulky outerwear makes it easier to hide tools/equipment without being suspicious)

Both hands in pockets

Many undercover agents/cops buy cheap plain clothes off the racks so they aren’t seen in their own clothes. This can make their outfit seem awkward

Sweatshirts with the hood up

Sports apparel (warm up jacket, sweats, etc) with non-sports clothes (jeans, cargo shorts)

Cargo pants/shorts (usually full of items like their badge, flashlight, taser, pepper spray, backup handcuffs, zip ties)

Military or hiking style boots, sometimes chunky sneakers (extra points if none of it matches anything in their outfit)

Outline of a gun in their pants/shirt (easy to see when bending, leaning, or raising arms) (NO NOT SAY ANYTHING)

Overly friendly

Overly inquisitive

“How old are you” and “what do you know about this happening” are both red flags, along with generally odd and personal questions

Don’t fit in

Mismatched pairs in public spaces (usually cops do these things in pairs. They don’t talk to each other or acknowledge each other much, if at all)

DO NOT SAY ANYTHING UNTIL YOU ARE 100% SURE

YOUR BEST BET IS NOT TO SAY ANYTHING UNTIL THE SUSPECT STARTS ACTING OFF AND GETTING PUSHY

COPS ARE NOT OBLIGATED TO TELL YOU THAT THEY ARE UNDERCOVER

COPS CAN AND WILL LIE TO YOU

SCREAM “LA MIGRA” AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS

For protesting:

N95 masks

Respirator/gas mask if you have access to one

Water water water water water (I hate to say it, but disposable one use bottles are best here. If it comes to it, you need to be able to drop and run.)

Snacks

Eyedrops (teargas is a bitch)

Goggles (I bring my old snowboarding goggles)

If you are wearing a t-shirt or have exposed skin, put on fake tattoos. If you are brought into something and they say you were there, showing a picture of you with the tattoos, show them where that tattoo would be and how there’s nothing there. How would you get rid of a giant flower on your forearm in 2 days anyways?

Hide your hair. I tuck my hair into my beanie since it’s short. If you have longer hair, try to do the same or tuck it into your shirt.

Power bank

Chargers

Helmet. Any is fine, my personal choice is a skating helmet since they’re rounder and can take more damage

Hand sanitizer

Gloves (either to keep your hands warm or simple nitrile exam gloves, both work)

Bandanas. Somebody might need one for their face or hair, maybe you need to get dirt off somebody’s face, maybe somebody got injured. They’re great for anything and everything

Cash (try to stick to cash, your card can be tracked)

Medications if you take them. If you get arrested or happen to somehow be away for longer than expected after the protest, it’s always good to have emergency meds

FIRST AID ALL THE FIRST AID (Tourniquet, Quikclot, chest seal, trauma shears, gauze, bandages, duct tape, and all the usual stuff you’d have in there)

Good shoes

Spare socks. Trust me.

As much covering clothing as you can handle. Plain jeans, plain hoodie, plain t-shirt, keep yourself as anonymous as possible

Photocopy of your ID

Sunscreen

Make sure your clothes have pockets

Do not wear contact lenses. If tear gas is used, that will make everything so much worse. Wear your glasses or go blind.

If you use mobility aids, cover defining features. Logos, brand names, colors, stickers, all of it. Take some old plain t-shirt and tie it around your wheelchair’s backrest. Wrap your wheelchair frame in cling wrap, then duct tape, or plain black self adhering medical tape. Cover stickers on your cane or crutches the same way. Electric chair? You have a little more work, but you can do it. Same idea. Walker? Same thing. Cover. It. All.

If you are bringing a bag, make sure that bag is as plain as possible. No pins. No patches. No keychains.

Scarf if you have one

Write a reliable phone number (of someone who is not at the protest with you) on your body. On the off chance you get arrested, that is your emergency contact.

Pocket knife.

Pepper spray/mace

Anything you can throw. Soup for my family.

IF YOU CAN, LEAVE YOUR PHONE AT HOME

IF YOU HAVE TO TAKE IT WITH YOU FOR WHATEVER REASON, TURN OFF LOCATION SERVICES ON ALL APPS AND TURN OFF BIOMETRICS (FACE ID AND FINGERPRINT) SO YOU CAN ONLY UNLOCK YOUR PHONE WITH YOUR PASSWORD

MAKE SURE SOMEBODY KNOWS GENERALLY WHERE YOU ARE

I do not want to scare anybody, but this is what life is right now. That man does not care how long you have been a citizen of this country. If you are not white, cisgender, heterosexual, Christian, and male, you are seen as less than by men in power. You are not less than. You are a threat to them, and they are scared. Keep it that way.

Here's the link to my post on what to bring in terms of first aid.

If you cannot attend protests, that’s fine. Do what’s best for you. Simply reposting information helps.

[zayneshottestgal]

Sylus dating a girly badass🐦‍⬛

Having a similar darker clothing style

Tries to suddenly match with you. If he sees you’re a fan of a certain brand/designer he will buy a few items that also suit his taste. If you point out how he didn’t seem to own pieces from that designer before and accuse him of copying you , he’ll tease and ask if you own the brand and can control who can wear it . he of course also buys you all the pieces you want from new drops and tells his henchman to keep a look out on any vintage pieces you’ve been struggling to find.

He thinks obvious matching outfits are too cheesy but also still has the desire to have that obvious sign that the two of you are together when out in public . Matching jewelry seems to do the trick. Matching rings and necklaces. If you have lots of ear piercing , and tattoos and tease him about the lack of his own . He would consider letting you pierce his ears. Tattoos he said he would think about ( he forgets).

“That designer you like is having a show here soon , is their space in your work schedule to go?”

“ do I think that jacket is too similar to your other one? I don’t see anything wrong with having a jacket that detailed if you think you don’t have enough clothes to go with it , we’ll go buy more”

“I left a gift on the desk in your suite consider wearing it tonight”

Having a detailed beauty regime

Most nights Sylus leaves you alone during your night routine but some nights he gets curious….. (*cough* clingy) . He seems like the type to have a effective but small skin care routine so your pamper nights look a little foreign to him

He teases you for it , calling you a true princess, a beauty rocket scientist , a professional beauty queen anything that flusters you and gets on your nerves . But honestly he’s happy to see you taking such detailed care of yourself and that you can still have your relaxing nights even at the n109 base.

He makes sure to keep all your things stocked and take notice of your preferences , which scents you like for soaps, which lotions you prefer to use , What goals you have for your skincare etc. he’ll read up on the methods you use and their benefits ( ex.dry brushing and milk baths) . He doesn’t want to ask and bother you but still wants to be informed.

If you suggest certain methods and products to add to his routine he will consider them sincerely. 9/10 he will implement them ,the 1/10 is if the method takes to much time or he just doesn’t like the product . But he trust your judgment full heartily and even comes to you for advice .

If you try to pamper him one day he will try to resist it but not for long . He thinks he should be the only one to spoil you but since you really wish to return the favor he cannot say no to you. I think he would be quite relaxed during the whole process, he doesn’t get to sit back and truly relax often ,so he’ll take advantage of it. He’ll try to thank you in a special way after especially since he has so much “extra” energy now.

“Is the beauty queen almost done with her routine?our flight in the morning is quite early.”

“Someone’s skin feels extra soft today ,any spare tips for a guy like me”

“What does this do? Hmm…that’s certainly interesting,they sell other varieties of this too right, do you only like this one ?”

Driving a motorcycle and having a sports car

Sylus likes that you also have a motorcycle it makes you more comfortable when riding on his . He also appreciates that if a deal goes bad you can drive the both of you home if he’s unable . He still keeps a helmet at his place so you don’t have to consistently take yours from off your bike just to ride on his. He makes sure your helmet is the highest quality and that your bike is in top shape .

If you have a sports car that you like driving around Sylus would have his men clear the roads in the east side of the N109 zone so that you could drive as fast as you wanted without traffic . He wouldn’t mind sitting in the passenger as you had your fun. He loved that you had that thrilling and adventurous side of you. He was proud that he had the resources to fuel that passion.

When you guys are parked for dates he has mephisto watch over your car . He never bothered doing that for his own car he didn’t care much if it got stolen/damaged he could buy another. But he knew your car meant a lot to you and was protective over it . “Your baby” as you call it. If it ever broke down and needed new parts he had the mechanic and new parts at the house within the next hour . He would not track you or have mephisto follow you around , all he ask is that you text him when you get home especially on those stormy nights . If you are leaving late at night to go back to linkon he insists on driving you himself just to make sure you get home safe . He’ll have one of his men follow you guys so that he can get home. The peace of mind is more then worth the trip.

“no one will steal your baby sweetie I have my men watching over it relax and enjoy the meal”

“ the mechanic said the new part was a perfect fit and that they can have it done within in an hour”

“No eating in the car because it makes a mess ? Sweetheart we’ve made worst messes in this car then just ketchup, I’ll hire a cleaner”

Caring for mephisto and the twins

You’ve grown to like mephisto and he seems to be warming up to you as well. Since he’s a mechanical bird you can’t really give him treats like you would a regular bird. But you still kiss the top of his head when he lands next to you and you thank him for watching over you when sylus can’t do it . Sylus will never admit but he is a bit jealous of his little crow . He made mephisto a custom bird stand for when he’s at your house so that he doesn’t have to perch on any old available surface . Sometimes mephisto lets you put bows on him. When he returns to Sylus to report to him ,Sylus slightly laughs at the bird with the big pink bow . “You’ve gone soft mephisto “ ( he’s projecting).

As for the twins sometimes when you’re back home at linkon or out on vacation with Sylus you bring them back souvenirs. They always appreciate them . They’ve gotten into the habit of waiting at the door when they know you and sylus are on your way home from the airport. You always hand them their gifts right away.

When you’re at sylus house and he’s busy with whatever ,you usually play with the twins. If they ever need any advice from a women’sperspective they always go to you . Even if they don’t need a women’s perspective just another perspective in general and it’s something they might be too shy to ask sylus they go to you. They truly see you as another leader and respect you just as much as sylus.

“ if I didn’t know any better I would think the twins were your henchmen”

“What were you and the boys talking about earlier, it’s a secret? Alright then”

“You want to take the twins AND mephisto with us on vacation. I guess since there’s room on the jet but don’t run back to me when they get you off track to see all the places you wanna go too”

(A.N) longest post I’ve written for love and Deepspace and it’s for sylus lol . I’ll make one for zayne too it’s wrong to abandon one husband for another . Let me know if you enjoyed it in the comments and what I can improve on . Thank you for reading .

-do not repost , translate my work (copy into A.I ) on to other websites . Please and thank you

[eggsistential-breakdown]

Team Tulpar!!!!!

Highly self indulgent silly Mouthwashing Superhero AU

Led by the esteemed Captain Cosmos, superhero conglomerate Pony Express's Team Tulpar's latest mission is to guard a top-secret mega-important warehouse in the deep recesses of space against raiders and ne'er-do-wells for one year, until Pony Express's client can install a more permanent solution.

Unfortunately, a mysterious accident destroys their only way home and grievously injures their captain. Team Tuplar finds themselves stranded on a faraway asteroid, with only battered pieces of their ship and their all-important super-forbidden warehouse charge to sustain them.

God is not watching.

Notes below the cut, not set in stone:

Pony Express

Known for its cheap and widely available distribution of superhero teams

Common option for emergency time-sensitive threats to capital or goods

Less common option for actual life-threatening emergencies

Superhero teams function pretty much just as security details for hire

Allows a little more individualization than canon Pony Express because of superhero branding

Hence the slightly personalized horseshoe logos and outfits (also for fun)

Going under because of the widespread adoption of automated comprehensive security systems

Dragonbreath's security system just broke down and they're hiring Team Tulpar to safeguard their wares until the Earth shipment of replacement and upgraded parts can arrive in one year

Curly

Gave him a bunch of powers that would be cool in space but ultimately useless against the crash

Edna Mode disapproves of capes for being impractical and dangerous so he's getting one

Debated briefly keeping Curly as his name because it's technically space related but I think it would be a bit too morbid to use as a space related superhero name in universe

Insists his team calls him Curly even on missions

Dissatisfied with his role as a glorified mall cop

Anya

Legally, spacefaring superhero teams need a healer

Legally, Anya cannot be classified as a healer

Pony Express was pretty much the only superhero company willing to take her

Still studying for med school

Her healing powers boil down to keeping you from getting worse and offloading stress on your body in hopes that it can heal you

As long as she's around things at least won't get worse :)

Which is how she's able to keep Curly alive after the incident

May or may not be using her powers to stall her own pregnancy

Definitely the glue holding everything together in canon so wanted to emphasize her importance in keeping everything from going to shit

I'm the iffiest on her superhero name ngl

She can call herself a doctor she deserves it

Tried to throw stripes in her design to reference her canon turtleneck

Daisuke

Useless ray of goddamn sunshine

Basically a very bright flashlight

If he focuses very hard he can create lasers

Can cast movies for entertainment but only as well as he can remember/imagine them

First in his family to have powers, parents pressured him to join a superhero team

Parents also got him a slightly fancier uniform hence the golden accents

Couldn't imagine him without the shirt so he's keeping the shirt

Incorporated a little Swansea yellow

Also wanted him to have a visor to be cool he gets a visor

Swansea

Assigned mentor to Daisuke

Registered his name back in college. Claims it's too much of a hassle to change it now

Keeps shields/helmet/armor? up for the entire time from when the crash happened to when Daisuke dies

He shows the most arm in canon so you bet your ass he's showing the most arm here as well

My friends suggested this name

Wanted him to still get to wield a big-ass axe

Jingleballs

Crashed the ship into the warehouse with Curly in it while Anya, Swansea, and Daisuke were double-checking the warehouse

Wearing a little half cape in part to mimic Curly, in part to try and give him a similar silhouette as his canon short sleeves

Powers pretty much just hurting people and taking from them

When strealing powers, can only use them at 20-40% of the capacity of the power's true owner

"Borrowed" Curly's powers a lot when they were younger under the pretense of Curly should experience gravity for uhh reasons

Had the phrase "there's something 'off' about this guy" when creating his name, also kind of a play on "first 'off'icer", also turning other powers off

Wears the mask and hood up when he wants to obscure his face. Usually happens outside of missions

Misc

Warehouse sits on an asteroid because it's cheap

The crash happens right after a raid, Jimmy accuses Curly of collaborating with raiders

A little less certain that no one will find them, but the crash destroys the location beacon of the warehouse and knocks the asteroid slightly off course

Team Tulpar's ship is a lot smaller, there's no cargo hold

It's also currently partially wedged inside the warehouse and stuck in place with sealing foam

Space is essentially split between the ship with food/medical supplies and the warehouse (mouthwash)

Less of a clear division of roles other than Anya as healer and Curly as leader

I like color coding characters

Had this rattling around in my head for five days please take this

[arkhammaid]

— ˚₊‧⁺˖ THE LIGHTNING ON TRACK | THE LIVERY LAUNCH

fandom. formula one & mcu

about. the stark racing f1 team launches their livery

content warnings. written in 3rd person/lowercase, written + smau, not edited/proofread

word count. 0.8k + smau parts

notes. the main arc begins!!

y/n doesn't do nervous. not as l/n, not as stark- it's simply not in her nature. yet when the lights dimm and the audience starts to grow silent, her heart was up hear throat and she tried to dry her sweaty palms on her race suit.

"there is no need for that", muttered her teammate right behind her and she almost jumped. she glared at him, but he just grinned and gave her two thumbs up.

"don't do that, it makes you look old." he immediately put them down and she snorted.

"alright, you two, are you ready?" a stark employee, more specifically a stark racing employee, ushered them across the backstage all the way beneath it, ready to push them to the big event.

the car launch. the livery reveal. the introduction of stark to formula one, probably the most anticipated event of the year. unlike the other teams, they've been teasing the public for several weeks now, nothing concrete. speculations were all over social media, no one was even sure what main color stark racing would have, something the marketing team was very proud of.

now they would not only reveal the car, which would dominate the season (because- who are they kidding? they definitely will) but also the branding and race suits, and officially appear as drivers in one place.

the music started to play, the room darkened and the lightshow started. but y/n couldn't see anything of it happen. instead she was guided to the platform, which would bring her on stage, and put her helmet on.

a whole minute they would have to wait, a pre-recorded speech entertaining the guests and viewers all around the world, until she and kevin would appear in total darkness.

and they did. the platform brought them up silently, the room blacked out completely, until the lights behind them flashed on, shining on their backs.

the whole thing could be described as dramatic, over the top, but it fit. it fit the name, her father, herself. to show up with a bang.

"introducing... our drivers. y/n l/n-stark, number 95 and kevin magnussen, number 20! a round of applause everyone!" thunderous applause filled the giant room, people started to shout, when they finally took of their helmets.

with a grin, y/n spread her arms, raising her head and then her helmet over it. she stood proud and tall, all stark.

an assistant rushed to the stage, taking their helmets, to allow them complete freedom during their part of the reveal. y/n immediately took over, as it had been planned.

"welcome everyone, to the official launch of stark racing formula one team! i'm honored to introduce to you not only the car itself, but also the team." with a wide grin, she turned to kevin, who nodded to her.

"i'm sure you've all waited for him, our team principal, four-times worldchampion... sebastian vettel!" the room thundered again, cameras flashed, when seb walked on stage to stand between the two drivers. he waved to the crowd and bowed with a laugh, when they wouldn't stop cheering.

"thank you, thank you. wow, what a welcome! i'm very happy to be here, it has been a few years... but now we're back- and i'm thankful for the oppurtunity i've received. y/n, kevin... to a good season. to our fans, we all thank you for your support you've already showed, it's been incredible so far!"

"it's a special occasion, for all of us. and we have something very special for you", y/n winked, while slowly walking backwards, until she stood right in front of the gigantic screen, lightly knocking with her knuckle on it. a ripple animation waved across the screen and the room dimmed again. hushes were heard, when the sound of whirring filled the room, carried by the speakers.

another platform was brought up, the car. hidden by dark, silky fabric, it stood in the middle of the stage, ready to be revealed.

"ladies and gentlemen... the first car completely engineered by stark, for the stark racing formula one team... welcoming to the world, the SR-1!"

with that, kevin and y/n slowly began to lift the fabrig from the car, revealing a blinding white livery. lines of chrome streamlined it, the name stark proudly stood on the sides of it.

"it's mine, by the way", y/n joked and pointed on the number 95, after the crowd calmed.

"har, har", kevin drily replied, but he couldn't hide his grin.

"welcome, everyone... to the future!"

YNSTARK

liked by tonystark, charles_leclerc, mickschumacher and 7'973'331 others

ynstark happy valentine in white ;)

user what a perfect way to end valentine

user MOMMY, SORRY, MOMMY-

lancestroll The launch was incredible 👏

tonystark This is my daugher!

⤷ ynstark this is my dad <3

peterstark ew, your face on my dash....

⤷ ynstark i will block you

⤷ peterstark i will tell pepper

⤷ ynstark *blocked*

user white is such a good color on her??

user i just fell on my knees in the middle of the street

sebastianvettel You're incredible, I'm excited for our future!

⤷ ynstark STOP you're making me cry 😭

⤷ ynstark @/charles_leclerc look at this, your grid father loves me more than you

⤷ charles_leclerc That's not true! You better take it back!!

zendaya what a beauty 🤩

⤷ ynstark no, you!!

user we got the arm spread and the wink, now i'm waiting for the iconic peace sign

user white stark era, white stark era, WHITE STARK ERA!!!

user the bitchfighting with her actual brother and her grid brother is EVERYTHING to me

⤷ user oh my god you're right, charles and y/n are grid!siblings...

⤷ user IM WAITING FOR DAD SEB, YOU HEAR ME I'M WAITING

starkracing Our future champion!

⤷ ynstark hehehe

user red bull has been oddly silent

⤷ user they're all trying to stop christian from committing a crime

⤷ user or drying his never ending tears

⤷ user LMAO I CAN NOT

user half of the grid in the likes... i fear y/n is becoming the it girl fr

user these comments are a goldmine

taglist. @lilypadlover , @adorablezhui , @peqch-pie , @keyz-writes , @obsidianjewel , @aimixx , @themercyverse , @lem-hhn , @akiraquote , @kiiyoooo , @nichmeddar , @nothingfuninthislife , @minkyungseokie , @fionaschicken , @lyrasconstellation , @spideybv28 , @keii134 , @starssfall , @tpwkstiles, @fangirl-dot-com , @nichmeddar , @lady-laura-speaks , @nikfigueiredo , @hinamesgigantica , @brakingboundaries , @almostjollypizza , @yoremins , @raizelchrysanderoctavius , @celesteblack08 , @watermelon-sugars-things , @lighttsoutlewis , @radiantdanvers , @vellicora, @sterredem , @hiireadstuff , @jolixtreesunn , @mypage-myfandoms , @nelly187 @greeneyesandsunshine , @fulla02 , @welovediaaxx , @whyamireadingthis , @67-angelofthelordme-67 , @blueberry64857959 , @winchesterwife27 , @six-call , @skywalker1dream , @mellowarcadefun , @cherry-piee , @peterholland04 , @motorsportloverf1 , @renarots , @msbyjackal , @woozarts , @leclucklerc , @yl90

crossed off tags mean i can't tag you!

DO YOU WANT TO JOIN THE SERIES TAGLIST? please leave a comment on this post or send a non anonymous ask!

ARKHAM MAID 2024

[miguelhugger2099]

The Best Thing

Summary: Miguel O’Hara, star Quarter back of the Nueva York Spiders, lives lavishly with all he could want. What he didn’t want is a little girl popping up at his doorstep claiming to be his daughter. The Game Plan AU. Next>>> Football Player!Miguel x Ballet Teacher!Reader, Gabriella is Miguel’s daughter, No warnings Art: On the right: ethiobirds on tumblr! Left: rusticfurnace on twt A/N: First chapter! DC: for myself and for my fwiends on discord :3c

Star Quarterback of the Nueva York Spiders, Miguel O’Hara was proud of his ability and status. He had a loyal and passionate fanbase, women lining up for a date and money that could last lifetimes. It was hard work, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. To be in top shape, he started his mornings exactly the same. He woke up at 6:00 am, takes a shower at 6:05. Breakfast with his usual protein smoothie at 6:30 and then a quick morning workout until he headed to his next football game in the playoffs. On the field, his team destroys the other one, winning in a landslide. Miguel tries to make the final win by running across the field, passing his teammates and curving past the enemy team that has been tackled. The cold December air nips at him as he rushes across the green landscape, his chest burning since he’s pushing his body to its limits.He spots one of his friends in front of him, Peter B. Parker with his hands up, running towards the goalpost as well. Miguel ignores it, speeding up to make a touchdown all by himself and taking that win proudly. The crowd roars in cheers, fans jumping up and down and waving the red and blue Nueva York Spiders flag. Miguel smiles, eyes scanning the sea of people and he breathes in the air–all of it fueling his pride. He takes off his helmet, sweating running down the sides of his face, his hair sticking to his skin. He bathes in the adoration of thousands of people, the cheers of his name while his team walks away to the locker room and leaving Miguel be. After a few days, Miguel throws a New Year party. Models, his teammates and other friends of his attend his penthouse. Miguel meets with his new fling, a pretty black haired model. He stops her before she leaves, his hands helping her put on her fur coat. “I have to catch the last flight they have to Paris. The shoot started early and my agent isn’t one to be messed with, you know that.” She turns around to face Miguel, her hands resting on his chest. “I’ll miss you.” Miguel takes one of her hands off his chest to kiss her knuckles. “I don’t want you to miss me too much so I got a little something for you.” Dana gasps, her surprise evident. “Close your eyes.” Miguel whispers and she does as he says, smiling to herself. Meanwhile, Miguel takes a step into his walk-in closet, shelves filled to the brim with the same Chanel jewelry but different names labeled under each one. He mumbles her name to himself, searching through the alphabetical order of various different women’s names. He plucks hers off the shelf and returns back in front of Dana. “Open your eyes.” He whispers and lifts the bag up to her. Dana gasps again, grabbing it and lifting it closer to see the brand name. “Oh my God! Channel!” She squeals. Miguel’s smile tightens. “Or Chanel.” He corrects her. Dana lifts herself up to kiss him and Miguel returns it with his hand on her cheek. “I’ll see you, Mikey.” She brushes her lips over his before slipping from his arms and waving him off with her fingers. Miguel rests his hand on her lower back, teasingly running down to rest on her ass. “See you.” He says smoothly and opens the door for her, watching her leave down the hallway. The party continues without a hitch but just a bit before midnight, He sees Peter walking towards the door. “Woah, Parker. Where’re you going?” Miguel stops Peter before he exits his penthouse. Peter pauses and his shoulder sinks slightly before turning to face Miguel. “Is it past your bedtime?” Peter sighs again, knowing what other bullshit Miguel might say. “It’s New Year’s Eve. I wanna see my wife, kiss my kid.” Surprisingly, Miguel takes out his hand for a shake. “Alright. Thanks for coming. Happy New Year” Peter stares at his hand for a moment before taking it. “Happy New Year. See you at practice.” He says while the shake turns into a quick hug. Peter feels a hand shove itself into his coat pocket and Miguel takes out Peter’s wallet with a loud laugh. Peter rolls his eyes. “Mig, give it back. Seriously.”

Miguel opens the wallet, peeking through the credit cards and dollar bills. “I’m trying to find Peter’s man card but it looks like MJ already took it from him.” He laughs and slaps the leather wallet back in Peter’s hand. “Lighten up, Parker. Live a little.” Peter shoves it back in his coat pocket. “This isn’t living, Mig.” He frowns and leaves the penthouse, the air between the two friends being a little tense. His other teammates beside him laugh, muttering how it was funny and to not think about it, patting him on the back. Miguel turns to the celebration. “Who’s ready to party?!” Miguel shouts, the attendees cheering and clinking their champagne glasses, welcoming him back to the crowd. Far into the end of the night, Miguel shoves the rest of his friends out his door after the party had ended. Their protests fall on deaf ears as it finally turns quiet once the door shuts. He sighs and looks down at his bulldog Santos barking. He breaks into a smile. “Santos, I haven't seen you all night, papa.” Miguel rests on one knee to pet the sides of Santos’ head. “You want a treat?” He hums, grinning as the dog pants and barks once more. Miguel jumps towards the kitchen and grabs a football shaped cookie and pretends to duck and swerve around Santos like he would on the field. “Come on, Santos! Defenders are coming around!” Santos runs to the other side of the living room, barking as Miguel shouts out. “He throws!” The cookie is thrown and Santos jumps up, devouring it in three bites. “And touchdown! They’re going crazy!” He mimics the cheers of the crowd with a laugh but it slowly dies down as he realizes there’s no sound. No cheers and no one else in the room. Just him. He sits down on his couch with an exhausted sigh.

The next morning, he decides to rest before heading into practice later in the afternoon. Santos is beside him on the couch, Miguel aggressively patting his body. “Now for our favorite part of the day–the new special on Miguel O’Hara.” He smiles and scratches his legs on the coffee table in front of him, Santos grunting and resting his head on his front paws. Miguel clicks the remote control for his TV to turn on on the sports channel. It opens with high praise calling Miguel the king on the field and acknowledging his agility. Then, it moves to an interview–an exclusive–of Miguel’s passion for the game. He smiles through it all, admiring himself and the answer he gave. “Beyond that field, nothing else matters.” The host shrugs. “If nothing else matters, why does that championship ring elude O’Hara?” Taking a jab at the fact that the Nueva York Spiders somehow managed to slip up just before the championships. Miguel’s demeanor changes to annoyed, turning up the volume as the host continues to critique the man. “Some of the experts say, he’s too selfish when it comes to–” Miguel speeds up the broadcast, making the host sound high pitched and squeaky until he pauses. “Time is ticking, Mig. Ticking on your career.” Miguel shuts off the channel, throwing his remote to the other couch. “Blah, blah, blah! Whatever!” In the middle of whining to himself, he gets a call from the lobby. He rests his arm on the back of the couch. “What?” He grunts. The caller is one of the doormen, Larry. “Mr. O’Hara, I have a visitor here at the reception. A Gabriella Monroe here, sir.” Miguel racks his brain for a face to the name but he comes up short. “I don’t know any Gabriellas.” “It’s a young lady.” He says, almosting invitingly. This catches Miguel’s attention. “Is she cute?” “Oh, yeah. Very.” Miguel becomes excited, anticipating for another woman on his roster. “Well, don’t make her wait. Send her up.” Before Larry can respond, Miguel hangs up the phone. Back at the lobby, Larry chuckles to himself. After a few minutes, the doorbell rings. He hums to himself and swerves his way to the door and opens it. He brushes his hair back, his elbow leaning on the doorframe. “Hello.” He purrs. He looks left and right. No one is there. Thinking it’s some prank, he shrugs and lifts himself off the doorframe. “Goodbye.” He mutters, but as he shuts the door, a tiny and squeaky voice pitches in. “Hey!” Miguel finally looks down and he sees a little girl holding a doll and a pink tote bag–a pink suitcase behind her. She smiles up at him, her teeth a little crooked and her dark wavy hair resting a little over her shoulders–a pink headband at the top of her head.

Miguel’s smile drops to disgust, visibly disappointed. “I don’t want any girl scout cookies, kid.” He kneels down to her level and flexes his bicep. “I gotta stay healthy and strong. Indestructible. Just try and hit me.” The little girl's smile drops as well, her bushy eyebrows furrowing into one of confusion. Still, Miguel urges her on. “C’mon! Try.” Gabriella shrugs, balling up one of her hands into a fist and punching his chest. Miguel laughs, her attempt feeling like a tickle. He imitates her punch. “That’s cute. Real cute. Bye.” He chuckles and closes the door. He tries to walk away from it but the doorbell rings again. His playful act dies out and he storms back to open the door–the little girl staring up at him through her eyelashes, a frown on her face. “Look, I don’t know what you’re selling, kid but I have a hundred right here.” He pulls out two hundred dollars from his pocket and shows it to her but she shakes her head. “I don’t want any money.” She murmurs. “I want–” Miguel stuffs the money back in his pocket, seeming like he finally knows what’s up as he cuts her off. “I know, I know what you want.” She perks up. “An autograph from Miguel O’Hara! Everyone wants them–babies, ladies. You’ll sell it but I'll give it to you for free–just for you– because that’s just how I am. Generous, aren't I?” He chuckles. “Be right back.” He enters back inside but she scurries inside with him after seeing Santos inside. The small bulldog huffs as he sits a little away from the door. She drops her stuff to the floor and kneels down to pet him all over, Santos reciprocates her energy, shaking his body happily. “You have a bulldog! Hey, there baby!” She squeals, Santos licking her chin and neck to show his appreciation. Miguel hurries up to her, shaking his hands as he awkwardly tries to stop her. “Woah, woah, easy, niña. He might attack you, he’s vicious.” He mutters with irritation. She only giggles. “Yeah, with kisses.” Miguels drops his irritation, now bothered by the fact that this child is alone. “You can’t just run into a strangers’ home, kid. There’s weirdos in this world. Didn’t your mom ever teach you that?” The little girl gets up from the ground with her head down, a little ashamed. “Yeah…” She mumbles, looking up at him guilty.

“Where is she?” Miguel asks. “On an airplane.” “An airplane? Then who are you here with?” “My father.” She crosses her hands neatly in front of her. “Then get him because he’s probably running around looking for you. She shakes her head. “He’s not looking for me.” Miguel sighs. “How do you know that?” “Because, he’s looking at me.” Miguel squints in confusion, a soft mumbled ‘wha..?’ “Hi. We’ve never met before. You were married to my mom Tempest, Tempest Monroe?” She speaks meekly, unsure–maybe even a little afraid. “My name is Gabriella. Gabriella Monroe.” Gabriella approaches with a weary smile, her head trying to look up at him. Miguel slowly connects the dots. Connecting into something that makes his heart drop when she speaks next. “I’m your daughter.”

A/N: the first three chapters will follow exactly how the movie goes and from then i'll take bits and pieces from it so it can slide into a miguel x reader :) also,,,,, no fanart of miguel as a football player, sad. taglist <3: @maiyart @aphinthestars @byjessicalotufo @mochi73 @peachey-pie @beezusvreeland @scorpihoooe @having-a-time @slut4oscarissac23 @iamperson12280

[splatsvilles-fashionista]

Ranking the promotional inklings/octolings by how much I like their outfits: Splatoon 2

Note: Since I saw some people asking about it in the last one, the names I'll be using are from the official trailers/directs, they tend to pretty consistently use the same in-game names for each promo kid.

Surume

King Flip Mesh - White King Tank - Mint Dakroniks

Starting off with the classic black/white + colorful shoes style.

This one has a fun sporty vibe to it.

Also kind of a tomboyish look, and that's always fun.

5/5 It's simple but it just works really well.

Cuttlefrsh

Squidfin Hook Cans - Black V-Neck Tee - Yellow-Mesh Sneakers

A simple, primarily black outfit accented with the yellow of the shoes and gloves.

I don't like this particular shoe model very much, but they work really well in the context of this outfit.

It all comes together to form an outfit that is basic, but still sleek and active.

4/5 I can only really dock points for the shoes but I think this is a really cohesive fit with a lot of personality.

Kensaki

Half-Rim Glasses - Hula Punk Shirt - Piranha Moccasins

Primarily neutral tones with some matching red-orange accents on the shoes and shirt, alongside ink-colored glasses.

Like a lot of them this is a simple outfit, but it's always stood out as one of the ones with the most character to me.

This also serves as our introduction to the Annaki brand, and I think it's a very good one.

5/5 There's a lot of personal bias here, but I think this is one of the strongest outfits in the series.

Kelpshot

Hockey Helmet - Inkopolis Squaps Jersey - Canary Trainers

Looking at this outfit from the top it is mostly just a hockey uniform... until you get to the green-and-yellow sneakers.

The shoes really are a wild swerve in the context of the rest of the outfit, and in this instance it's not a I swerve I think works or does anything interesting. They're just kind of mismatched.

I also think this outfit in particular is very ink color dependent. It looks good in this render, but if you've got something like pink or orange ink I think it just becomes way too messy.

2/5 The idea is there but it just doesn't cross the finish line.

Splashley

Bucket Hat - Matcha Down Jacket - Black Dakroniks

This outfit is going for matching, neutral headwear and shoes alongside a more ostentatious centerpiece with the bright yellow jacket.

I'm not personally all that huge on the way this outfit is put together. There's nothing wrong with it, the neutral colors do work with the bold yellows, but to me the matching shoes and hat makes the entire thing feel very boxy and compartmentalized.

Also, while it's very desaturated the Bucket hat does still change to match your ink color, which could throw off the intended balance here.

3/5 It's... fine. It's fine, but I think it could have been more. Maybe with some glasses instead of the hat?

Yari

Takoroka Visor - Takoroka Windcrusher - Neon Delta Straps

Another outfit built around a big centerpiece, in this case the Windcrusher, with headwear and shoes picked to match.

Honestly a very well-put together 'fit that manages to carry the multicolored motif of the Windcrusher through to the shoes and the hat even as their black elements clash with it.

I've only really got nitpicks and personal complaints here. I don't like this particular shoe model, and I think they could have done something more interesting than the visor, but that's really it.

4/5 This one's too baseline competent for me to rank it any lower, even if I wish it was just a bit bolder as a whole.

Kou

Knitted Hat - Shirt with Blue Hoodie - Smoky Wingtips

This one is interesting, because it is largely kind of a hodgepodge mix of primary color items and a cap that changes ink color.

...And yet I think it works really well, and to me a lot of it comes down to the dress shoes. They're so much fancier than the rest of the stuff she's wearing that it changes how the entire ensemble reads.

To me, this is peak "wear something comfy" fashion. It's got the vibe of just throwing together what you've got that's clean, except you've got this one expensive article of clothing you love and want to show off, and I think it is very charming.

5/5 Not all outfits need to be carefully coordinated to be perfect.

Tof-U

Painter's Mask - Pink Easy-Stripe Shirt - Hunting Boots

So this one is just weird, mixing large outdoor boots, a gas mask, and a fairly ordinary striped shirt.

And I do think the weirdness is the point here. This is the kind of outfit that inherently says a lot about the person wearing it, and so what you get out of it is largely dependent on your read of that person.

And to me, what this 'fit leaves to the imagination is what makes it worthwhile, especially alongside the done-up hairstyle. Someone specifically chose to wear this combination.

3/5 It is quite frankly a mess, but it has just enough specificity that it doesn't just feel like someone chose their outfit at random.

The Octolings

(They don't have any official names)

Black FishFry Bandana - Octoking HK Jersey - Red Powe Stripes

Oh hello, neutral headwear and top with more colorful shoes, you're back!

Except a bit more elaborate than usual, as the jersey's got a lot more going on than the usual single solid T-shirts they usually go for, and it works really well with the paisley pattern of the bandana.

That said this is another case of me not liking the shoes, as I've always found the Power Stripes too big and bulky for my liking.

4/5 Girl if you'd just picked better shoes it would have been perfect. You were so close

Squidlife Headphones - Red Cuttlegear LS - Suede Gray Lace-Ups

A very simple outfit with neutral headwear and shoes surrounding a more colorful shirt.

*Points* Look everyone, it's ProChara! Except not really, because he'd pick more interesting shoes than the ones on display here.

I'll be real. This one is just kind of boring to me. The shirt is the centerpiece of this outfit but it's just too simple to justify such plain headwear/shoes.

2/5 It's honestly baseline FINE but it screams "I am not confident enough in my sense of style to actually try and coordinate an outfit"

[windsorhelmets]

Why is Windsor the top helmet brand in India?

Windsor, the top helmets brand in India, has left behind all competitive forces in terms of quality products offered and the level of customer retention and loyalty obtained significantly by simply offering our safety products on online portals. Buying helmets online in India may not be preferred by some as they would be entangled within their thoughts concerning the quality of material offered within the best price range without any fraudulent practices involved. But our platform has cleared all people’s misconceptions about offering the same quality products as mentioned on the site with the safest payment transaction mode.

Does this helmet’s inner padding are removable and washable?

Yes, the helmets offered by us have smooth and removable padding, which can be washed when the need arises. Once removed and washed, Padding can be placed back into the helmet with accuracy. The motorcycle helmets give a cushion to the head, which would prevent the face and upper region from preventing severe accidents with the least injury. Inner linings are removable to be washed.

Serving as a top helmets brand in India is not easy enough. It faces competition in the industry and is under constant pressure to bring innovations within its products in the emerging dynamic world, accept customers’ feedback with much confidence and positivity, and bring improvements accordingly. 

In this helmet, do we have a protective shield? 

The helmets offered by us, be it full-faced or half-faced all these helmets are inculcated and built with the material that fights against ultraviolet rays, which could probably cause much damage to the exposed skin, that’s why helmet not only acts as a shield against injuries but also against the ultraviolet rays. 

Excess to ultraviolet rays is quite harmful and risky, so people strive for those products that remain uv free with almost zero harmful effects and considerations. 

Can the helmets be returned and replaced?

Yes, the helmet is replaceable if it gets distorted in the way of delivery from our side and even comes with a flexible option to return the same and get their money back if they don’t wish to buy any other safety product in replace of it.

Does it fit in Activa 3G storage?

 The helmets manufactured and supplied by us are made in different sizes and shapes, fulfilling the varying preferences of the audience concerned. And even the helmets manufactured by us aren’t of such huge sizes that it becomes difficult to carry and store. Due to perfect size and shape, these helmets can easily fit in any space, covering less coverage region.

Moreover, suppose the customer wishes to get a larger size in terms of helmets. In that case, they can contact us or leave a message with a special order to manufacture such a product that would be considered as early as possible. All the requirements would be fulfilled within less time and maximum effort and accuracy.

 Do our helmets have an ISI mark?

All the safety products produced and delivered by us are certified and safe to use. The safety standards so laid down by the standard authority, ISI(Indian Standard Institution), which is established to bring orderly growth within an industry and maintain the consistency in terms of efficiency offered through products, are all followed at the time of manufacturing and thus are marked safe by the supreme authority in terms of protection, efficiency, resistibility and sustenance.

Do these helmets fit women? 

The motorcycle helmets offered on our online platform cater to the needs of men only and women as well. As the economy grows, women are gaining much more prominence as they have excelled in every field, so women are not left behind in different sizes. Shape helmets are made available with a good and soft cushion that ultimately acts as their safety guard in case of accidents if any. As the top helmet brand in India, we leave no consumer segment untouched, as we aim at providing safety products to save millions of valuable lives.

Wrapping up- 

As the top helmet brand in India, we regale every customer’s needs and requirements and develop perfectly furnished protective guards.

[papaya-queen]

So high school – Ollie Bearman x Y/N

An Ollie Bearman x reader One shot inspired by the song So High School by Taylor Swift.

Wordcount: 1710

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Truth, dare, spin bottles

It was way past midnight, and all the teenagers were sat in a circle playing truth or dare. Some were drivers, others were friends from school. The bottle was spinning in the center, everyone wanted to see where it would land. After a few seconds, the bottle slowed down in front of Ollie. He swallowed hard, he knew Paul or Kimi would try to embarrass him. Paul smirked:

“So, Ollie, truth or dare?”  He had in mind something, he wanted to make things move.

Ollie took some time to choose. Truth was way too risky; Paul and Kimi knew too much to play safe with those questions. He concluded on dare. Paul eyed Kimi and smiled, that was not a good sign.

“Kiss the most attractive person in the room”

Ollie wanted to kill him. Silence filled the room: everyone was observing Ollie’s moves. His eyes were wandering around the room, until they found hers. Y/N, sitting opposite him. Their gaze met, a question in the boy’s eyes. She nodded, understanding the silent message he tried to communicate. He walked over to her, stood next to his best friend, placing his hand on her cheek, their lips only centimeters apart. She looked at him as he closed the gap between them. All their friends were screaming, laughing; Paul and Kimi high fived each other, proud of their plan. Ollie and Y/N were in their little bubble; they knew the kiss was going to haunt them for a long time but that didn’t stop them. A crimson red blush flashed across their cheeks as they parted from the kiss. Ollie went back to his seat and Y/N sat back on her chair.

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You know how to ball (race fast cars)

Y/n was on the edge of her seat, crossing fingers hoping that Ollie would finally overtake Isack. It was the last lap, Ollie still had pretty fresh tires and was only 0.4 seconds behind the race leader. He attacked in a turn, diving in the interior.  He passed Isack, he was leading the race. He pushed the car to it limits, assuring that the French wouldn’t overtake him before the end. He finally crossed the finish line as the winner, he was screaming on the radio and Y/N was screaming in the Prema garage. She ran to the barricade with all the engineers, tears streaming down her face. Her best friend had just parked his car behind the P1 sign, he was jumping out of the car, lifting his fist in the air celebrating like all his racing idols before him. He ran to her, pulling her over the barricade and hugging her. Y/N escaped for a few seconds, placing her hands on each side of Ollie’s helmet, resting her forehead against it.

“I’m so proud of you, Ollie”

He tried to respond but the helmet blocked the sound. He hugged her again before someone told Ollie to head to the podium. As he stood on the top step, he was glowing. Looking like a prince, he couldn’t be prouder when the British anthem started playing. Y/N was clapping for him, watching him do the champagne pop with stars in her eyes. When he got back to the Prema garage after all his media duties, Y/N tugged him in a big hug without the helmet, the crowd and the throttle.

“You were amazing Ollie!”

“It’s because you were here, my lucky charm”

They started to pack their things and headed to the hotel, a brand-new winning trophy with them.

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I know Aristotle (engineering)

Oh, she was stressed. What if she tripped on her foot? Or stutter during her speech? She was thinking of all the worst-case scenarios that could happen. The president of the university called her name, Y/N stoop up carefully, watching her step to the big scene. She was handed her diploma and a mic to do her speech.

“Hi! I’m Y/N. I’m now a mechanical engineer. Valedictorian even better. I want to thank my family and my best friend because they were the one who taught the little girl I once was about science, cars, motors. They supported me in my studies in this male dominated field. If there’s any little girls here today, I have one advice for you: dream big! Discover things! Try science, physics, chemistry, economics, anything! Never let anyone tell you that you can’t do something! If you want, you can!

Applause filled the room as she walked out of the stage. After the ceremony, Y/N went to see her family and Ollie who attended it.

“You were amazing, sweetie!” said her mom, hugging her the second she saw her.

“Yeah, your speech was brilliant” added Ollie, holding his best friend close just after.

“Thank you so much!” Her smile was growing more and more as she hugged all her family.

“Y/N, I have a surprise for you.” Ollie said. Y/N looked at him and everyone, they all seemed to have that knowing smile that made you feel out of an inside joke.

“Wait…what?” She grabbed the phone Ollie handed to her and started reading:

Welcome to the PREMA team Y/N Y/L/N…

“Ollie! You didn’t just get me a job!”

“Of course I did! I knew you always wanted to work there so I asked if they needed someone.”

“There is no way they actually said yes!”

“Turns out they needed someone in the F2 team for the end of the season, so you start next week!”

“I love you so much Ollie” She jumped in his arms, lacing hers around his neck. Ollie grabbed her waist to turn her in the air.

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You knew what you wanted and boy you got her.

He hated this. That thing between her and Zak. Ever since Y/N started to work in paddock in the middle of the season, Zak started talking more and more to her. It started rather friendly; Ollie and she went to eat to some stand in the paddock in Spa rather than in garage with the Prema team. Zak just asked Ollie to introduce him to his friend. But now he was openly flirting with Y/N and Ollie couldn’t be madder. Everyone knew Y/N was out of reach. She was Ollie’s. Ollie’s what? God knows, everyone thought they were dating, they said they were best friend, but Ollie was definitely in love with her. As he walked through the paddock on this Thursday afternoon, he was determined to get a talk with Zak. He found him only a few minutes after his arrival, in front of the Prema garage. If he was here, it was probably for Y/N and that realization messed up a little Ollie’s mind. He grabbed him by the arm and got him away from the entrance.

“Oy Ollie, how are you?” He asked, surprise could be felt in his voice.

“Don’t play that game with me now Zak! God what are you doing?!” Ollie was mad. Eyes killing Zak with a simple gaze.

“What are you talking about mate, I don’t understand…” Zak was panicking a little. He tried to look around for someone that would help him but all the sudden, the entire paddock was empty.

“I’m talking about Y/N! Why would you go around and start flirting with her, you bloody idiot! You know that she’s not for you. She’s not for anyone! She’s my girl, my best friend and my crush. You don’t get to flirt with her like that!”

“Mate, I really didn’t know, you never told me, and no one warned me” Zak, clearly panicking, kept looking behind Ollie but the boy was too heated to notice it.

“Of course you didn’t know! Maybe open your fucking eyes and see, I love her since the beginning, it’s painfully obvious and I know it! So now you’re going to stop that shit you’re doing and step back a little, is it clear Sullivan?” Ollie pinched the bridge of his nose, fed up with the guy.

“Ollie…”

Oh

Oh

That’s what Zak was looking at.

Y/N, standing right behind him, in front of the garage.

Y/n, who heard what he just said.

Y/N, who just learned her best friend was in love with her.

Ollis wanted to disappear right now. Out of all the possible scenarios he imagined for his confession, he never thought of that. So unromantic, rushed, not planned. Zak used the bit of time that the two lovebirds spend at looking at each other to escape. Ollie faced Y/N completely, looking at her like a child who just did a mistake.

“Y/N…I…” He was cut short; he didn’t even know what he wanted to say in the first place.

“You love me?” She seemed so calm saying this, as if there wasn’t a tornado of thought in her head.

“Yes…” He confessed, there was not point in denying it, she heard him say it.

“But since when?” She stepped forward, placing her hand on Ollie’s cheek, trying to meet his eyes.

“Since we were 14…” He lifted his gaze from his shoes to Y/N’s face. She was smiling.

Smiling.

“I’m so sorry, I just ruined 7 years of friendship. I’ll understand if you don’t want to be best friend after that…”

“Ollie…” She cut him again

Y/N got on her tippy toes and pressed her lips against Ollie’s.

Oh

Oh

Ollie melt into the kiss, arms lacing around the girl’s waist. It was tender, simple, romantic. Their lips were slightly touching. Sparks and butterfly were flying in Ollie’s stomach. His heart was racing but he was pretty sure he could hear Y/N heartbeat that was as fast as his. She pulled away first, her hands still on Ollie’s cheek:

“I’m in love with you since we were 14 too”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I mean, it was so obvious, I’m pretty sure everyone knew”

“So, we’re both oblivious idiots?”

“Yes, love, we’re both oblivious idiots”

He kissed her again, bending down to her level. Still all tender and cute, like the teenagers they were. He picked her up in his arm, like a princess, as he walked them back to the garage. What a start for the weekend.

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Hi guys! Hoped you liked the fic. I might do a part 2 if you’re interested. Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated.

Bye Bye Babes!

[daycourtofficial]

Falling in Love on the Fourth Floor - Part 8

Summary: Out of an act of desperation, you move in with a guy you kind of know who happens to have a really hot brother who lives next door.

Author’s note: this is ridiculous and incredibly self-indulgent but I don’t care I had so much fun writing this. This is the iconic karaoke chapter and I’m so excited 😌

(Masterlist)

Azriel drove the two of you through town, his motorcycle moving through traffic with ease. Your hold on him continues until he eventually pulls into a parking lot, stopping right in front of a small restaurant nestled beside an Insomnia Cookies store. You were quite impressed with how well you handled the ride - you had kept your gasps and nerves to a minimum.

Until you realized you had to get off the bike.

“Uhhh,” you say, looking at the ground as if the two or three feet away from the asphalt was a ravine.

He chuckles, sensing your hesitation.

“Hold onto my shoulders and just slide off.”

You breathe deeply, preparing yourself for the worst case scenario - either falling off the bike or death. You’re not entirely sure which is preferable.

You follow Azriel’s advice, your hands bracing your weight on his shoulders, sliding off with relative ease. You put your hands up in the air, jumping around at how proud you are of not dying. Azriel just chuckles, shaking his head as he mounts the bike, helping you pull off your helmet.

You two go in, and you look around to see only a one other couple at a table, eating what can only be described as the most delectable smelling sandwiches you’ve ever encountered. You spend a moment looking at the massive menu trying to figure out what sandwich you want. Azriel waits on you, and when you nod to him that you’re ready, he steps forward to the counter.

“Can I get a 12 inch triple meat and a 12 inch meatball sub, and whatever she’s having,” he says, motioning for you to tell him what you want.

You’re a bit surprised, and you desperately want to crack a joke about a 12 inch triple meat, but you bite your tongue, asking for a philly cheese steak instead.

Azriel pays, and you thank him as you two find a table.

“So… 12 inch triple meat, huh?”

Azriel snorts, “it’s Cassian’s go to.”

“What’s on it?”

“I’m pretty certain they just shove a bunch of different kinds of meat on bread, layer a bunch of cheese on top, and warm it up.”

“Hmmm,” you hum, “very on brand for him.”

The guy who took your order brings you your sandwiches in little baskets, one sandwich packed away in a bag.

Cassian’s triple meat, no doubt.

“How’d you like being my backpack?” Azriel asks, biting his sandwich, half of it coming out of the end.

“Excuse me?” You ask, taking a bite of your own, trying to keep the contents inside of the sandwich as you eat.

“My backpack. You were riding on my back, like a backpack.”

“Oh,” you push some hair behind your ear, “It uh wasn’t too bad, it was actually fun when I got used to it.”

“Yeah? Would you ride with me again?”

His eyes sparkle a bit at you, whether that was from the sunlight peaking through the window or if that was just Azriel, you’re not sure.

“Yeah, I think I would. When I was a kid I always wanted to ride a motorcycle,” you say, smiling. “How did you end up driving one?” You ask, not taking your eyes off of him

He hums, thinking about how to respond. “I always wanted to ride one, too. Then after the incident with my hands,” he holds up his gloved hands as if making a point, “after I relearned how to use my hands, all I could think about for years was riding. During my physical therapies, whenever it was getting hard or frustrating, I imagined myself older, being able to grip the handles, feel the wind on me.”

You just smile at him, unsure what to say, hoping your smile comes across as friendly as you tell him, “I just thought it looked cool.”

A smile breaks across his face, a beautiful laugh coming from him.

“It does look cool,” he replies, bunching up the paper from his sandwich once he finishes, throwing it into the basket.

“Rhys actually bought me the bike.”

Your eyes move from the paper to his face, and a somber look overtakes him.

“When we were kids he told me after those therapies that he’d buy me a bike once we were old enough.”

He shakes his head, the memories of all the times Rhys said those words to him coming in and out of his thoughts.

“I never expected him to follow through on it. But he did. He bought me the bike as a graduation gift.”

You were about to ask how an 18 year old could afford that, but Azriel beats you to it.

“Rhys’s dad is somewhat in the picture. If Rhys does things for him, mostly making appearances at family functions, he gets extra money.”

“His dad does pay our rent, and Rhys has a credit and debit card from his dad, but he also needed his dad to sign on for the bike.”

“Your brothers must really love you,” you say, reaching your hand out to cover his.

He looks up at you, hazel eyes peering into your own and he smiles, “yeah, yeah they do.”

-

You walk into the gym that Cassian and Azriel work at. It was quite large and it looked incredibly pristine. It’s full of people working out, seemingly everyone in town was spending their Saturday afternoon sweating the week off.

Azriel pulls out his phone, shooting a text to Cassian about his sandwich. The two of you chat idly about the gym, and Azriel tells you a bit about the guy who does the scheduling when you catch a glimpse of long hair in a half messy bun on the top of his head.

You see Cassian’s head come from a corner and he makes his way to you two, his grin getting bigger as he sees you next to his brother.

“How’d your date go last night?” He asks, not mentioning Az’s spare helmet in your hand or how if he blew out a breath you’d be touching his brother.

Azriel glares at Cassian over you, but you tell him, “uh, terribly, actually. He was a douche.”

Cassian grabs his lunch from Azriel, thanking him.

“That’s too bad.”

And yet, Cassian wouldn’t stop smiling at you. You go to ask him more, but he tells you, “I gotta go - I only have a few minutes to eat. Thanks,” he tells you, and before you realize what’s happening, he’s grabbing your head giving you a kiss on the forehead, doing the same to Azriel.

The two of you stand there confused as Cassian walks away, over his shoulder yelling, “do NOT forget about karaoke tonight!”

-

You stepped into your living room, to find Rhys, Mor, and Az lounging on your couches, not adhering to the bar’s theme. Rita’s did themed karaoke nights once a month and this month’s theme was cowboys.

Naturally you pulled out your Barbie costume from last Halloween, and are now looking at your non-costumed friends gobsmacked.

“Why is no one else dressed up?” You ask incredulously, as all three of them look towards you. Rhys and Mor start laughing, but Azriel lets his eyes graze up and down your body, his gaze making you wonder if you’re even wearing clothes right now.

Mor smiles at you, “we don’t follow the theme - Cassian does though.”

You huff, crossing your arms, “he made it seem like all of you dressed up!”

Rhys’s eyes dance with amusement as he tells you, “because he wanted you to dress up too.”

As if you summoned him, Cassian comes out wearing black leather pants, no shirt, a matching vest, and a cowboy hat. He looks at you, smiling wide. “You look great!” He tells you, clapping you on the shoulder as he walks past you. “Uber’s here.”

You don’t have time to turn around and change as your group is herded out the door and down the elevator. It hadn’t occurred to you to question how the five of you would fit into an uber until you got down to the curb, Mor bolting for the passenger seat as the guys get into the car.

“You can just sit on someone’s lap,” Mor tells you flippantly, before placing a finger on her nose telling you, “nose goes.”

Az, Rhys, and Cass get into the backseat, and Cass pats his lap for you, raising his eyebrows at you.

“Ew,” you tell him, clambering to get in on Az’s side. “I don’t trust you, Cass.”

You drape your legs over Rhys’s lap, your feet landing in Cassian’s hands as you get situated on Az’s lap. You shoot him a look, wanting to know if this is okay, but he’s talking to the uber driver.

You pull up your phone, typing a note into your notes app, showing it to him once he’s finished with whatever he was telling the driver.

Is this okay?

You show it to him as Cassian and Rhys are watching the end of a rugby game on Cassian’s phone on the other end of the backseat. Az reaches for your phone, his fingers gently brushing against yours as he grabs your phone. You watch him type, his fingers dancing across your keyboard, their scarred skin providing a texture you want to touch.

It’s more than fine.

He had replied, and you’re about to respond when he grabs your phone again, typing out:

Just like the way you look in that costume.

He hands you your phone back, smiling as a blush floods your cheeks. He puts his arms around your torso, holding you in place, and one of his hands gently holds onto your hips, securing you to him.

Sitting mostly in Azriel’s lap, you spend the car ride holding onto him, leaning your head into his neck for support while you talk to Cassian, who keeps threatening to tickle your feet. You tell him you get spazzy when tickled, which would give Rhys a free knee to the face.

“Please don’t, Cass. I’d like to keep my face intact for tonight.”

“Yeah because Feyre’s meeting us at Rita’s and he wants to look good,” Mor replies from the front seat, drawing out the last word.

Rhys rolls his eyes, but you do notice him unlock his phone to the messages between him and your friend, the last one asking her to let him know when she got there.

The five of you arrive to Rita’s, a bar located on the edge of campus, just close enough to be packed full of other students.

Mor leads the group in, with Rhys saying, “Feyre’s on her way.” The blonde leads your group to a large round booth in the corner, all of you piling in. Mor sits on your right as you maneuver your way in, Azriel right beside you.

Cassian sits on the edge, likely so he can get up and go sing without being too much of a hindrance. Rhys doesn’t sit down, heading to the bar to grab drinks for everyone instead.

And perhaps keep an eye on the door for a certain brunette.

The four of you sit in the booth, Cassian being uncharacteristically quiet as he waits for Rhysand to bring him his traditional shot before performing.

You nudge Az, getting him to turn his attention to his brother.

“You okay, Cass?”

Cassian shrugs him off, “I just want my shots. You know I prefer being a bit buzzed before going up there.”

You reach in front of Azriel, squeezing Cassian’s forearm, “you’re going to be great!”

Cassian softly smiles at you, his hand covering yours in a gentle squeeze, “thanks, sweetheart.”

Cassian did seem in better spirits, opting to pick up a conversation with Mor about the best shots to drink before karaoke.

You turn to Az, the two of you closer than necessary in the booth, but you can’t bring yourself to scoot away.

“So, Barbie huh?” He asks, his fingers touching the pink pleather fabric on your shoulder.

You’re confused for a moment, before realizing what he’s talking about. “Oh, yeah. Mor wanted us to go as different Barbies from the movie for Halloween - she was rollerskating Barbie, I was cowgirl Barbie, and Feyre was the pink gingham dress Barbie.”

He rests his arm on the booth behind you, and you stay as still as possible so you won’t scare him off as he asks, “no Kens?”

You laugh, “no Kens, unfortunately.”

His smile is on the verge of cracking his face in half as he says, “maybe this Halloween you’ll have some Kens.”

Before you can reply, Rhysand comes back with a tray of shots and Feyre behind him, wearing a very cute black mini dress.

“Traitor!” You shout at her, as she scooches in next to Mor.

“Rhys told me we didn’t actually dress up,” she defends, holding her hands up. Your eyes shoot to violet ones, their gaze full of mischief. Rhys smiles at you, and your jaw drops, “and you didn’t think to extend the same courtesy to me?”

Rhys’s grin grows feral, “I thought surely with all the texting you and Azriel have been doing, he would have told you.”

You turn, smacking him on the shoulder as he chuckles. “Okay, okay, I should have told you, but you were so excited about it, how could I rip that from you?”

You scoff, “I look like an idiot.”

“A cute idiot.”

Your blush doesn’t go unnoticed by everyone at the table, as Mor pokes her nose in. “I think it’s only fair if next time we come out Azzy and Rhys adhere to the theme.”

Your eyes light up, pointing to Mor, “oh oh oh, I like that idea!”

Rhys turns to cousin, “and why am I involved in this?”

“It only seems fair. You told Feyre that we don’t dress up, so you should have told her as well.”

Azriel butts in, “well Feyre could have told her too.”

Feyre motions her hand over her throat, trying to stop Azriel from speaking further.

“It’s decided then,” Mor says, “the three of you adhere to the theme for next month’s karaoke.”

You pick up your glass and clink it to Mor’s, solidifying the deal. Everyone else is groaning, slumping back in their seats, but this agreement causes Cassian to become invigorated. He’s buzzing with excitement, and at least three shots of vodka, as one of the bartenders walks up to the mic and says, “next up for karaoke - everyone’s favorite - Cassian!”

Cassian gets up, all of you wishing him luck as Mor places a sloppy kiss on his cheek. He prances up to the stage as the scattered applause dies out. The opening notes to Shania Twain’s “Man I Feel Like a Woman” come through the speakers. Cassian lifts his head to the mic to sing, “let’s go, girls”, then turns back around away from the mic. He begins swaying his hips in time with the beat, the leather pants he’s wearing making his ass and his legs look phenomenal. His vest rises a bit as he raises his arms, and you can see the bottom of the tattoo he had gotten during your drunk escapades.

“Are we sure Cassian’s not a stripper?” You ask the table, but Mor shushes you so she can watch the show.

You turn to Azriel, leaning in close to him to whisper, “Do you know how to whistle?”

Your whole body is warm as he leans close to your ear, whispering, “Yes, why?”

You miss the look Rhys gives the two of you, huddled together impossibly close in the large expansive booth.

“I want to whistle, but I don’t know how. Can you do it?”

He obliges your request, rolling his eyes as he wolf whistles at Cassian, who beams at the attention.

You giggle, whispering to Azriel, “his stage name should be 12 inch triple meat.”

You two giggle at the joke before turning your attention back to the stage. Cassian makes it through the first chorus, and he is not receiving his dues. No one is paying any attention to him, and you’re about to ask if there’s anything you guys can do, when Mor grabs your and Feyre’s arms, pulling you out to the little dance floor in front of the stage.

You guys start singing and dancing with him, hips swaying with the music. You guys are singing to each other, smiles plastered on your faces.

You’re lost in the moment when you feel Cassian’s warm hand wrap around your wrist dragging you up on the stage. He has his other hand on Mor, so you quickly grab Feyre’s wrist, all three of you assisting him with the vocals on the “oh, oh, oh”.

It was ridiculous - the four of you on this tiny stage, everyone at Rita’s not caring as you all danced and sang, the three of you providing backing vocals for Cassian.

Three of the most important people in your life singing to Shania Twain.

It was ridiculous. It was everything.

The song ends, and you can hear Rhys and Azriel clapping enthusiastically as the four of you head back to your table.

You slide back into Azriel’s side, his smile making everything inside of you burn for more of it. You spend the rest of the night drinking as Rhys and Cassian regale you all with stories of karaoke nights of the past, the unspoken words hanging between them, but not making their way into the discussion.

The past nights of singing were nowhere near as fun as tonight was.

[knightlycowboy]

The Concession - Din Djarin x f!Reader

gif from @rebeljyn 's gifset here

Din Djarin falls in love. Whoops.

The Savior / The Concession / The Choice (END)

AO3 Link

TAGS: S2 Din Djarin, "Who Did This to You?", P in V, Unprotected Sex w/o consequences because who likes those, m!Masturbation, Fluff, Pining, touch-starved!Din, helmet-less!Din, soft!Din, protective!Din, Grogu bein a sweet shit.

WARNINGS: Star Wars cursing/slang which I know annoys some people lmao, abusive shopkeepers.

A/N: "Shit" is Star Wars canon (thank you, Andor); Din is a groaner (Chapter 5 of TBOBF); & Din is a bit of a poet (thanks pledge to Bo-Katan in Chapter 23); I have cited my sources LOL.

"No," the Mandalorian snaps. "No droids." 

A gloved hand flies to his holster and the rusty pit droids screech to a halt, beeping nervously.

Leaning against the frame of the Razor Crest, at the top of the boarding ramp, you roll your eyes at Din Djarin's back. His distaste for droids had been made clear to you the first time he'd stopped for parts.

Those droids had been considerably less polite about Din’s preference, and he had taken too much pleasure in enforcing it.

"Listen, buddy, they're my refueling dr-"

"Then I'll take my business elsewhere."

The attendant sighs loudly, glaring at the Mandalorian. The skinny, maroon male with a fin-shaped head rises from his chair behind his workshop desk. He walks toward a shaking pit droid and grabs the refueler.

"It'll cost you extra," the attendant's eye-stalks narrow at the bounty hunter.

Din comes to an agreement with the disgruntled worker, sullenly agreeing to a slightly higher rate.

As the Mandalorian keeps watch over his ship, your footsteps clang down the steep ramp, and you sidle up to him, saying, "We need some things. Ration packs are gone. And - don't tell him -" your voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, "But I think Grogu deserves a treat." 

"He would agree with you.” Din’s elbow brushes your shoulder, and he realizes he’d leaned closer as you spoke.

You continue, “And you need something to relax.” 

At that, Din’s helmet turns. “I do not.” 

“You’re even more impatient than usual. You’re on an anti-droid campaign; the last time we stopped, you threatened to yank out one’s navigator circuits just for bumping your foot.” You look up at him, raising a teasing eyebrow. 

The Mandalorian goes as still as one of those droids he had deactivated. His intimidating, T-shaped slit brands into your vision. Behind it, you know he’s boring holes into your face. 

“Alright. Nothing for you, then.”

Your shoulders drop when you turn away from him, almost relieved to be out from underneath his piercing, hidden gaze. 

The Mandalorian had paid you a few days before, and this was your first real opportunity to spend your own money. You can’t stop smiling, even as you place the kid in his white pod and stuff your pocket with your credits. Grogu is as excited as you are - giggling in his quiet way.

As you pass the statue of Din Djarin, he extends a closed fist. Obediently, you hold out your hand. The tan-hide fingers of his gloves open and credits fall, clinking. You look up questioningly at him.

“For the food. Your wages are not meant to be spent on communal necessities.”

 Your lips curve into a lopsided, sweet smile that Din immediately commits to memory, and you nod.

Turning to Grogu, his fuzzy ears perked and eyes wide, you ask, “Ready, kid?”

***

The marketplace is huge. Stretching the length of the entire square, it’s busy for a planet this remote, but the size increases the options. 

Grogu floats along beside you, and you keep one hand on the lip of the pod, just to be safe. The responsibility of the kid is the greatest charge you’ve ever been given, in more ways than one. Grogu often holds your hand or squeaks to get your attention to point at something glowing or stinky or flashing. His outright affection is a lamp to your lonely heart. 

After visiting several vendors, you’ve resupplied what was necessary (with credits left over), and now you move on to something for Grogu. You’d be buying that with your own wages. Din could say whatever he liked, but what else do you have to spend your money on except the cute baby?

You walk past a booth advertising repair supplies, but when you realize it’s for clothing repair, something clicks in your brain. Grogu’s ears flop forward with your sudden stop. Your eyes run over the objects, and you select some, a smile splitting your face. You hope he will be pleased.

Several minutes later, Grogu makes a bah! sound, pointing at a live amphibian display. You’re pretty sure it’s a pet vendor, but the look on the kid’s face tells you he won’t take no for an answer. And maybe you should parent him - tell him no - but that’s Din’s job, not yours. 

“Hi. How much for the frog eggs?” You politely ask the vendor, digging in your pocket for credits.

The bug-eyed lady tells you in a language you don’t speak, but she holds up three short tentacles on her hand. She pushes six eggs toward you, which you gratefully take and set in Grogu’s pod. 

When you try to hand her the credits, she’s pushed out of the way by someone behind her. A man with a smushed nose yells in the same language the lady had spoken, and points away, clearly telling her to leave. 

You watch warily, and once the woman has gone, the man turns to you. 

“My apologies. The price is one credit per egg,” he simpers at you. 

Disliking the hike in price, you move to return half of the eggs, but he protests, “Once the item has left my possession, they must be paid for.” 

“But I can give them back to you,” you assert. “I’m not paying that much for frog eggs.” 

His smushed nose twitches up like a feral Loth-wolf, “Yes, you are.”

"I'm not." You set three eggs back on the counter. 

The man seizes your wrists, holding you in place. The crowded market is loud, but your indignant cry and the vendor's screamed accusation of theft cause several people to stop and watch. 

You try to twist out of his hold, but his scaly skin tears at yours. The snarling vendor suddenly ceases making noise, and he releases your wrists to clutch at his throat. Shocked, your head snaps to the child.

Grogu has one little, three-fingered hand raised and curled. 

“No!” You gasp, slamming the button on Grogu’s pod to close it. Far, far too many eyes watch. 

The vendor, choking and sputtering, recovers quickly and lunges at you across the table. His hands grip your upper arms, but you wrench out of his hold. Hoping to draw all attention to yourself, you punch the vendor with all your might. The vendor stumbles.

“Never seen someone pretend to choke over three credits,” your lie is an incredibly lame one, but you hope it’s enough for passersby.

He clutches his jaw; his spat insult is garbled, and he begins to inch around the long table, trying to get a better shot at you.

You turn and walk away with as even a pace as you can manage. Running would make his accusation true. The crowd swallows the two of you up well, and you lengthen your stride.

 But the vendor is regaining his volume. Nervously, you check over your shoulder. You jolt when Grogu’s pod bumps into your hip, then zooms away.

“No,” you yell again, grasping for the white vessel, but it comes to a hovering stop in front of a tall, silver man.

“Thank the Maker,” you sigh with relief. “We have to go.”

Din immediately notices the red ring of heat around your wrists and along your knuckles. He strides toward you. The closer he gets, the safer you feel - his protective aura slowly engulfing you.  

Din grabs your forearm and examines your wrist. There’s a raw quality to your skin where the man’s abrasive hands had clamped down and twisted. After a moment, his face locks onto yours.

“Show me who did this."

Cold, calm, his words are a promise.

Confused by his reaction, and still so used to answering when asked a direct question, you wince over your shoulder. Din finally seems to hear the vendor shouting in the distance as he searches the crowd for a ‘thief’ and her ‘dangerous pet’. Din abruptly straightens and steps past you.

Running after him, you reach for his gloved hand, fingers sliding home. “Din, please; we need to go.” 

The familiar contact makes him stop and turn to look at you. He says nothing, so you use the opportunity to explain.

“The ki- I made a scene, and it would be best if everyone forgot about it. A Mandalorian publicly roughing up the very same shopkeeper would give them more reason to gossip.” 

Din Djarin frowns the longer you speak. He knows you’re right. The kid is far more important than his sudden anger. He nods curtly.

The man’s vicious insults about your likely occupation and parentage echo down the street and make Din’s lip curl. But for the sake of the child, he manages to turn back toward the Razor Crest. It’s only when he passes Grogu’s stationary pod that he realizes he’s still holding your hand, fingers loosely intertwined. 

He gently flexes his hand, letting go.

____________________________________

As the Razor Crest speeds away from the planet, you smile. Vacuous and bone-chillingly cold, space is the worst. For most of your life, the inhospitable conditions had been worsened by your constant transport in the dark hold of some Creator-forsaken vessel.

But the cabin of the Mandalorian’s ship is warm and full of life, occupied by the kid's excited babbling and your semi-nervous laughter.

The kid waves his stubby arms in the Mandalorian’s lap as the Razor Crest dips and rises through a relatively calm asteroid field. Expertly maneuvering the expanse, Din Djarin has little motivation to do so except the smiles on his passengers’ faces. If you ask, he’ll tell you it’s a shortcut to the next system, which is only mostly untrue.

It’s been three months since Din collected the bounty on your former master. During that time, the Mandalorian had found one of the kid’s kind. A Jedi who could’ve taken Grogu, she declined the task. She told the bounty hunter of a place, a Seeing Stone, where Grogu could reach out for a Jedi master himself. 

Though a week has passed since learning of the Stone, Din had yet to bring Grogu to it, instead taking a couple of jobs. The stoic Mandalorian won’t admit, especially to himself, that he’s reluctant to let the child go. 

Reaching a lull in the slow-moving asteroids, Din draws the thruster back to stationary level, then looks down, his helmet nearly touching his breastplate, at the child still waving his short arms. Din turns his silver face to you questioningly.

Before he can speak, you joke, "I don’t want to learn to fly out here, if that's what you're about to ask.”

He shrugs with acceptance. Your eyebrows pinch in surprise, wondering if he’s playing along or serious.

“Okay, kid. We're done here,” he tenderly lifts Grogu and passes him to you. 

Grogu makes a protesting sound and hides one of his hands inside his robe.

“Big, mean Mandalorian is no fun,” you mutter to the child teasingly. Grogu coos in agreement.

Din shakes his head and swivels back to the control panel, flipping switches and entering data. The kid catches your attention, triumphantly showcasing a small metal sphere from his robe. You press your lips together and wink, silently promising you won’t tell. 

The Mandalorian’s gloved fingers run over his ship’s control panel like he’s conducting the Coruscant Orchestra, and then, suddenly, his right hand freezes in mid-air as he reaches for the thruster. 

“Grogu,” Din growls, spinning in his chair.

You laugh openly, “He’s a toddler, Din. You can’t close your eyes for a second.”

The Mandalorian rises, his bulk taking up the entirety of the cabin. He gently wrestles the ball from Grogu's fingers.

Long, soft ears droop, and massive, black eyes turn glassy. 

“Oh, look what you've done,” you croon, looking up at Din with an expression mirroring the kid’s.

Though he doesn't move, you can somehow see when Din’s annoyance is overruled by something stronger. Then the Mandalorian’s wide shoulders slowly rise and fall, a long-suffering sigh leaving his body.

“You are both menaces,” the Mandalorian accuses. He extends his hand, palm upward, “Grogu. Take it.” 

You hold your breath, allowing the child to focus on using his power. Grogu closes his eyes. The metal ball wiggles in the concave of Din’s large palm, then zooms to Grogu’s tiny hand.

Din makes a fist in excitement, “Great job, kid.”

Beaming at the Mandalorian, even more enthralled with him than the magic child in your lap, you wish you could see his proud smile.

Noticing your expression, Din's chin swivels to the side, clearly questioning. 

"Nothing. It's just that - it’s good to see you like this.” You shrug, trying to minimize your staring. “I know you’ve been stressed.”

The silent moment draws out as he assesses your observation. Still standing, the Mandalorian’s right hand hesitantly rises to whisper across the left side of your jaw. The gloved softness of his thumb caresses your cheekbone for an instant and a lifetime.

Din drops his hand like it weighs as much as a rancor. He turns around and sits back in his pilot's chair. Silver armor reflects the red and yellow lights around the cabin as he finishes his navigational procedures. 

Cheeks aflame, you duck your face down into the kid. 

___________________________________

“‘Occasional repairs,’’' you quote at the Mandalorian. “Every karking week there’s a new hole in this poor ship.” 

On the other side of the wing, busy soldering panels together, the Mandalorian's head snaps up. Unmoving, his expressionless mask simply stares at you. You bite your lip to prevent a grin and continue replacing bolts.

The beskar helmet remains for a while longer, hiding Din’s thoughts. He imagines what you’d look like if he put you on your knees and made you pay for your jokes. If he wiped that pretty smirk off your face. He feels a stirring in his flight suit, so he wrenches his mind away. 

The act the two of you committed in that field has not been repeated. His dedication to his helmet - to his creed - is paramount. And you tempt him too much. 

For the second time in the past year, Din has accidentally grown attached to someone - first the kid and now you. But with you, it’s a danger of a different kind.

Din had hoped that he just needed to get it out of his system. Get you out of his system. He had won that mock fight in the field, but he had yielded to his desire for you. 

Instead of feeling sated, Din feels hungrier as the days go by. Useless information, such as the number of sonic showers you've taken, clogs his mind. He would be ashamed of his counting, but he's too battle-weary to care. He does not count how many times he's taken advantage of the privacy of his bunk, remembering your eager face, your receptive body underneath him. 

All that armor wasn't worth a damn thing.

It’s easier for you. As inexperienced as Din but with your self-esteem already in the sarlacc pit, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine he'd had his fill of you and… well, that was that. Though you dream of it nearly every night, waking up to the strange feeling of both gaining and losing something.

Of course, the Mandalorian still needed you to care for the kid or help him replace several wing panels when he inevitably damaged them, as you were currently doing. 

At dusk, white trees sway behind you in the biting wind. This planet is rather cold, and Grogu, asleep inside the Razor Crest, doesn’t join you for the lovely, young Gornt dinner that Din had hunted. The two of you butcher it in silence and place it on the makeshift spit.

You then plop onto a log and snuggle down into your clothes, shivering. Though the items Din had given you months earlier are sturdy and warm, some of the chill of the night manages to seep through. You cross your arms, rubbing them.

Din vanishes from the other side of the fire - the smoky, dark air impenetrable. Squinting, you try to spot his reflective armor, but it works against you in this instance, easily blending him into the flickering, dim light.

A heavy material suddenly falls onto your shoulders, and you jump.

"Oh!" 

The Mandalorian stands directly behind you, the thick cloak he was trying to give you still partially in his hand. 

"I was focused on trying to see you through the smoke. I didn't think you'd be there." You clutch the brown garment tight around you and softly smile up at him, "Thank you."

Din nods, the clinking sound of metal audible as he returns to his log across the firelight. Your mouth gapes for a moment when you realize that the material around your shoulders is his torn cape.

"Do you not get cold?"

"I do." 

"Why not wear one yourself then?" You lift part of the cloak in indication.

"Mandalorians are taught to withstand uncomfortable circumstances. As a foundling, I frequently exercised in far less temperate weather." 

"A foundling?" You query, your eyebrow raising.

The Mandalorian leans back and shifts his legs apart to better distribute his weight.

"My youth was upended by war. When my village was destroyed, I was found by a Mandalorian."

"The name is quite literal, then?" 

"My people are quite literal," Din crosses his arms and his commanding presence is distracting.

He looks so big sitting on the log, his legs open, back straight, and arms folded. 

"We have similar beginnings," you swallow, trying to ignore the burning inside that has nothing to do with the fire.

"I was a little more fortunate in who found me," Din states. He leans forward to finally adjust the rod holding your dinner.

You lose your gaze in the flaming light, remembering.  

“I still can’t believe how much things have changed,” you murmur. 

Din Djarin can’t either. He has a life-altering decision to make, and a child to let go of, and both thoughts weigh on him like a karking Mudhorn. Din sighs internally at his unintended choice of simile.

Your eyes stray upward to the navy sky, breathing deeply. The frigid air burns your lungs, but you only draw more in, relishing your freedom to do so.

"You did not deserve that life," Din’s rough, mechanical voice answers over the sound of the crackling fire. 

You frown, "No one does." 

Running with the Mandalorian was a great way to stay ahead of the slavers. Paid employment, constant movement, and no one besides Din knowing your name - it was too good to be true.

Dropping your head from the sky, you level the Mandalorian with the most heartfelt gaze you can manage, "Thank you. I would've never had the courage to run without you."

Unable to see his reaction, you feel the distance most acutely. It isn't just flame and metal that divides you.

"I-" Din starts, but you cut him off.

"But mostly it's thanks to Grogu," you grin, trying to lighten the mood.

The helmet bobs as though he's amused, then Din sighs dramatically. 

"I need to separate you two."

"I love him," you giggle, remembering a moment a few days earlier when he had picked up a very dignified, sentient species of frog and tried to eat it. "He is such an agent of chaos." You laugh into your cloak-covered hand. 

Grateful that you can't see the fervent emotion glimmering in his brown eyes, Din studies you. Your fond smile is lit by the glowing fire and the cold winds blow redness into your cheeks and nose. You’re secure in his cloak, and it makes his chest ache.

"Shit," he breathes. The hiss through his modulator doesn't pick up the word well, to his relief. 

It's not a surprise if you do truly love the kid. He is adorable and you've been with him every waking moment for three months, but the word you've just introduced is jarring to Din.

Talking about Grogu brings the dangers you all face to the forefront of your mind. Your smile falls.

"Will you continue to teach me to fight?" You don't immediately register the sudden rigidity of Din's posture, so you press on, "It’s upsetting to me that I'm better with a blaster than with the skills I was taught and trained in by my family." 

The Mandalorian is relieved. You've given him an excuse to say no.

"I cannot teach you the methods of your people." 

“That’s alright; anything would be appreciated.” 

Din shifts his thigh on the log, agitated, and you struggle to fill the silence, “You don’t have to, of course.”

Then, as the silence lengthens, and you watch his helmet glint as he looks away, you realize what he must be so uncomfortable about. 

“Oh. I am not asking we repeat that. I’m sorry,” you raise a hand to chest height as if you’re trying to physically defend yourself from the awkwardness. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“I know.” 

“I- Din, really I only meant the…” you grimace and clamp your lips together, unable to bear the tension. Standing, you insist, “I swear to you, I never expected more.”

Forgetting to return his cape, you unconsciously hold it closer as you retreat into the Razor Crest. 

The Mandalorian does not watch you walk away. His conflicted eyes remain trained on the crackling fire. Sparring with you brings every heart tug, every little attraction he has to you to the surface, and that's too frustrating to manage while IMPs track him and he deals with letting go of Grogu. 

But Din knows he really should continue to teach you. It’s in your best interest, as well as Grogu’s. His hangup is entirely selfish, and Din is not a selfish man. 

***

Hours later, when the sun has started to rise once more on this short-cycle planet, the Mandalorian finds his brown cape hung on the door to the refresher. He jerks it off its resting place, and goes to tuck it back around himself, when he notices that something is wrong.

Frozen, the Mandalorian stares at the brown, rough material in his hand. There are no holes in it anymore, only stitches. 

_________________________________________

Combined with the sound of intentionally-loud footsteps, Din places Grogu - who had jumped between the two of you all night - on the edge of your cot, allowing the child to wake you up. Din strides to his weapons cache.

You yawn, then snicker at Grogu’s delighted face as he babbles what must be his version of Good Morning. 

“Morning, kid.” You pet his ear and he begins to purr.

“You should stop babying him,” the Mandalorian doesn’t look at you as he searches among the weapons.

“Why? He’s a baby.” 

Din shuts the doors to his stash. “He is fifty years old."

“He's what?” 

Din shrugs and inclines his head in humor. You stare incredulously at the middle-aged child who rotates his little head between you and his father. 

“His species is unknown, but they age differently than we do.” 

“Uh, yeah. Fifty?” 

Din’s modulator makes a rasping sound. It could’ve been a small laugh, but you’re not sure. 

“Is fifty so terrible?”

Something in Din’s voice makes you look up at him. He casually leans against the hull. 

Unsure if you should have the gumption to even ask, you stutter, “A-are you also fifty?” 

The beskar mask does not move as the man behind it debates his reply. He decides on honesty.

“No,” Din states. He clasps one hand over the other in front of him, adding, “But I will reach that number in less than a decade.” 

You make a small, accepting gesture as you had subconsciously placed him around his early forties anyway. In any case, it doesn’t matter to you. He is the Mandalorian who (somewhat inadvertently at first, you’ll admit) saved you. Even without that gratitude, you would feel an attraction to him. He was strong and kind and protective. Ruthless, sure, but only when necessary.

Din pushes off the wall, “You didn’t ask why I woke you.” 

“Oh.” It hadn’t occurred to you, so used to being woken up - far more rudely or violently - each morning for the prior two decades. “Alright, why did you wake me?”

He reaches behind his back, unhooking an item, and holds out the fighting stick he had used in that skirmish between the two of you. 

“I will teach you what I can.” 

***

Din Djarin is careful not to touch you, even through his gloves. He doesn’t trust himself anymore. Instead, he instructs you in tactics. After clocking your strategy in less than three moves, Din is worried about your future opponents doing the same. 

“You dislike giving ground, but there will be times you’ll have to. It’s how you will outmaneuver them,” the Mandalorian stands, hands folded, his knee cocked, as he speaks. 

“How do you know that?” You ask in response to his first statement. 

Din clenches his jaw at the memory so very close to other memories, and answers you in a contained voice, “You were not subtle.” 

You smile, abashed. “See, that is why I asked you. I’m far too inexperienced.”

Din closes his eyes in frustration.

You continue nervously, thinking about how hesitant he had been to agree to this, “My master took me to many fights, and you’re the best I’ve ever seen. I value your opinion.”

Din is used to compliments. Those whom he returned quarries to often praised him for his work. But your praise is one he actually wants, and something throbs in his chest. Then he grows irritated with his rampant, immature yearning for you. 

Din speaks harshly, “This is for the protection of the child. You are his guardian when I am not nearby.”

Locked onto that T-shaped, black slit, your eyes flicker a little at his callous, impatient pronouncement, but you nod. 

“Of course. For the kid.”

__________________________________

Unhappy to be removed from where he had curled up on his father’s pilot seat, Grogu had insisted upon sleeping in the cockpit with his little metal ball. You had assured the Mandalorian that you didn’t mind staying in the passenger chair for the night. The cushions were comfortable enough, and it made the child happy. 

An hour after Grogu had begun purring in his sleep, you’re brought to consciousness by a deeper, labored sound. Bolting to your feet, worried about the Mandalorian below, you descend the ladder. 

The door to the Mandalorian’s bunk had not fully closed, apparently jamming on some loose junk part that Grogu must’ve picked up. There is no light on in the enclosed space, so you cannot see him. But you can hear the way he mutters your name once, rough and agitated. You can hear the sound of material jerking and his rasping, vocoded grunts. 

Your throat tightens and your breathing stops. Eyes wide, you slowly back up, terrified for him to find you in this way. A molten weight in your stomach wants you to push open the door and take care of him, but after the manner in which he spoke to you the entire afternoon, and the obvious way he tries to forget about that day in the field, you can’t. You can’t even fathom why he would be uttering your name. It’s too confusing.

Dazed, you return to the cockpit and try to block him out. Sleep does not come to save you for far too long, and when it does, it provides you no escape from the Mandalorian.

__________________________________

Din’s tortured use of your name had kept you awake far into the night. When you groggily open your eyes the next morning, you know you won’t be able to let this go. You must talk to him. Bravery is a muscle you’re trying to flex anyway, so you might as well try it on the scariest thing you can think of: an angry Din Djarin. 

While Grogu plays with a ship part you pretend to have never seen, one Din had pried out of the receiving slot of his bunk door this morning, you and he traipse down the boarding ramp, intending to save the rest of the Gornt meat for traveling. 

Absolutely guessing at how you’ll begin this conversation, you decide you’ll just hope for the best. 

“I- I heard you last night.” It’s barely more than a whisper.

The Mandalorian stops dead in his tracks and you stumble, trying not to run into him. He turns on you, a solid wall of muscle and metal, but says nothing. You swallow and force what shred of courage you have to the front. 

“I heard you say my name. You don’t have to do that alone. I can help you,” your final words are almost inaudible.

The Mandalorian provides food, shelter, and companionship. Ignorant to any kind of normal relationship, friendly or greater, you want to show your gratitude. And if that was how you could help him, all the better.

Your inner self, the one that’s been unthawing since the day your master was frozen in carbonite, wants Din in a far more genuine manner. You want him. His compassion and honor, his fatherly love for Grogu, his non-pitying care for you, and his primal confidence have you in danger of becoming a hopeless devotee.

“Help me,” he reiterates, his tone worryingly neutral.

“Passage for assistance,” you try to ease the tension slightly with another old quote of his. “I can still assist you. It’s repayment for your aid.”

Even as you say it, you feel the depth of the lie. You want Din for yourself.

He’s silent. At his side, the fingers on his right hand fidget. The broad bounty hunter leans over you. As he tilts his head, the cold sun glints off his armor. 

Din’s voice is as sharp as his vibroblade but twice as lethal, “You are no longer a slave - do not make me say that again. This is not a business transaction.” 

Not a business transaction? While technically a rejection, his clarification makes you dizzy. Your breath comes out shakily, fogging in the chill air. 

“Okay. What if that’s not my real reason for asking?”

That does it. Stunned, the Mandalorian might as well be a statue made of beskar. Din had found it easy to believe you allowed him to touch you because you felt in his debt, and he hated it. Made him feel as slimy as a Hutt.

“Tell me.” 

Din watches your facial expressions run the gamut and he knows that whatever you’re about to say is the truth. 

“I care about you.” Will you ever stop whispering? “For you, not just what you’ve done for me,” your second greatest act of bravery this morning is touching his cold chestplate. You swallow as you look up into that blank face. 

Din doesn't move. Doesn't think he can move, but then his body responds before his mind does. Soft leather brushes your cheekbones as he takes your face in his large hands. He tilts his cold helmet to your forehead, and you instinctively close your eyes, sighing in relief. This was not what you were expecting when you followed him out here.

You can't hear the first thing he says, but it sounds like dank farrik. You laugh quietly in his hands.

"You are a menace,” he mutters a little louder, the modulator somehow enhancing the timbre of his voice. “You and the kid.”

Grinning, you open your eyes as he lifts his helmet from your skin. “Don’t bring him into this,” you joke. 

Din’s thumb ghosts across your lips and you shiver. The Mandalorian is calm. This is inevitable now. He need not fight himself any longer. He grasps your wrist and brings it upward. Gently guiding your fingers underneath the edge of his helmet, Din presses them to his lips.

Utterly shocked at this new gift, you gasp. A scratchy cloth wraps around the bottom of his chin, but above it, his soft, scruffy facial hair and plump lips make your skin tingle. Nerves jumble in your lower stomach. He presses another kiss before slowly lowering your hand.

You tell him disbelievingly, "I thought there was no way -” 

“What you thought was wrong.” 

Your heat signature rises at the sincerity in his voice. Din tilts his head, watching your reaction to him. He lets his covered fingers drift over your lips again, then he drags them down the column of your throat and past your exposed collarbone, enjoying your whimper. Your pupils are dilated.

“You want me now, don’t you?” He asks, his voice hoarse. 

You nod, whispering past your suddenly dry mouth, “Yes.” 

The Mandalorian crouches for a split second, hefting you into his arms with no effort. Your legs automatically wrap around his middle, arms around his neck. His hands clasp underneath your thighs as he strides up the loading ramp as though every second he delayed was one wasted. 

Din lays you out on his bunk and hits the button for the door without looking at it. He does not turn on the light. In the tiny, black room, you can hear him divesting himself of his flight suit and armor. It makes your heart throw itself against your chest. You sit up and struggle out of your own clothes, wanting nothing between you and him.

“Will I ever get to kiss you?” You ask timidly.

Din answers you immediately. His rough palms bracket your face, then he reverently pushes his lips into yours. His facial hair brushes against your skin and you weakly moan into his mouth, parting your lips for more. The Mandalorian groans, as well, enraptured by this new sensation. 

Din wraps a muscled arm around your waist, crushing you to him in the small space. His warm, broad chest forces yours to mold around him. Your hands gently drag along his torso, mapping him. He shudders underneath your fingers.

His lips break like waves around yours. You could be floating above the bed and it would feel no different. He kisses you like it’s what he needs to survive; his occasional noises of desperation stake your heart and dampen your thighs.

“Need to touch you everywhere,” Din’s real, untampered voice knots your stomach. 

“You can do whatever you want,” you breathlessly repeat the unspoken affirmation you’d given him the first time. 

He chuckles, and you shiver again, drunk with lust. Din lowers you back onto the hard bed, settling over you.

His hot mouth surprises the sensitive skin of your breast. Din moans, involuntarily you think, as he tastes you there, gently pulling and sucking. You jerk, pressing up into him with a cry. Who knew that could feel so good?

His big hands flow down your sides, pressing into you, exploring, and you get a burst of understanding. This man is starved.

Your hands comb into his hair, and while you wonder what its color is, you’re choked up to find that it’s soft and wavy. Din groans loudly when your fingers rub on his scalp. He seems invigorated by it as he growls and returns to your lips with a fever. His tongue demands you allow him inside, but there is no resistance on your end. 

Suddenly, Din breaks the kiss with a wet pop of his lips. He vanishes from above you, but then two large hands slide up your thighs. He pushes them apart and your breath hitches. 

“You trust me?” The Mandalorian knows the answer, he just wants to hear it.

Nodding dumbly in the dark, you realize he can’t see you and squeak, “Yes.”

He shifts down and presses a row of kisses up your inner thigh. His nose brushes your coarse hair, and your breathing breaks a second time. 

Din flattens his tongue and licks the spot he already knows you like. You jolt and his arms wrest around your thighs, holding you in place for him. You whimper as he buries his face in your folds, shocking your system. Your hands return to his hair, and his chest swells as he quickly shoves you toward your end. His nose continually nudges your bundle of nerves and each time it feels like you’re hurtling through hyperspace.

Your back arches when he traps your clit between his lips, and he responds with another obscene noise. This time, the vibration of his deep voice rips your orgasm from your marrow. Crying out his name, you quake, chest heaving through the waves of euphoria. 

Too overwhelmed by all his options, Din moves back to your mouth, breathing heavily himself, “Incredible.” 

He licks into you again, his hand cradling your face to allow him deeper. Taking advantage of his position, you wrap your legs around his trim waist, pulling him down. His hips cant toward you, and you feel his length fall onto your abdomen. You hadn’t forgotten how big he was, but the heft of it makes your body tremble. 

The Mandalorian could be a patient man, but this would never be one of those moments. Din fists himself, rubbing once along your soaked seam. He pushes forward, steadily feeding his cock into your tight, forgiving heat. Din grunts several times, overstimulated. 

“You don’t know what you’ve done, mesh’la,” he gruffly murmurs, his naked voice still so shocking to hear.

You have no idea what he means, and you file it away for later study. Solely focused on how he feels halfway inside you, you clutch at the back of his thick thighs, encouraging him. But then he snaps his hips, driving himself to the hilt.

“Din, oh,” you sharply gasp. 

He grinds his pubic bone into your mound, stimulating you; his chin tilts up, proud, when you shudder. The Mandalorian grabs one of your hands and brings it to where he’s joined with you.

“You feel that?” Din’s voice is weighty, meaningful.

“Mhm,” you sigh, your fingers leaving his hand to explore his dark curls. He’s right. The deviant way his thick member disappears inside you is intoxicating.

He languidly draws himself out, letting you experience every ridge and vein, pulsing with your filthy sounds. He re-enters you just as intentionally, and when he’s given you everything, he leans down and drags you into a kiss. A kiss that means something to him. His tongue surges through your mouth in a single stroke before his full lips pull on yours, one hand gripping the back of your neck.

He lets you go, trailing his mouth down your throat, obsessed with the taste and the feel of you on his skin.

Din returns to your lips, his forearms framing your head. His fingers twist in your hair, and he begins to pump faster. His length strokes along a spot that makes your eyes flutter in the pitch blackness. Your nails carefully rake at his toned back, drawing a strangled moan from him as he shoves himself inside again and again. Losing a measure of self-control, he thrusts hard, placing a palm on the back wall for stability. 

Your hands finally, finally, reach up for his face, expecting at any moment that he’ll stop you. His lips are parted as he pants in exertion, his facial hair fluttering with his breath. Din’s cheekbones are round and high; his nose is angular and fitting. 

“I knew you were handsome,” you praise, the words fluctuating in cadence with his pounding strokes. “Wouldn’t have mattered.”

He scoffs, barely conscious of what you’re saying. His forehead drops to yours again, and he can’t believe the life he’d known had unraveled so drastically. In under a year, Din had gained a child and this. 

“Turn over,” he orders.

Of course, you obey without hesitation.

His calloused fingers slide around your hips, pulling them upward. With your chest still pressed into the bunk, you moan when he slowly re-inserts himself. He nearly chokes when your body draws him in; the angle and drenched grip of you makes him shake his head in disbelief. 

“You okay?” He rumbles. 

Your chin scrapes on the metal bed as you nod, “Please move.” 

He clasps an arm around your middle, hunching forward. His scruff and lips tickle the top of your spine as he begins to rut into you. It’s already too much - Din grunting, his chest hair scratching your upper back, his muscled arms holding you in place as he fills you over and over. You begin to clench around him again, crying out harshly in a rush of pleasure. Your legs shake, giving out underneath you.

The Mandalorian’s large hand splays across your breast, and he pulls you backward onto your knees alone, welding you to his perspiring chest. As his length plunges up into you, his lips brush your ear. He’s whispering something, but you can't understand the words.

Then, Din exhales with a groan and rolls several long, pulsing strokes, burying his come as deep as he can with a final, gravel-filled grunt.

***

In the dark, there’s only the sound of two people fighting for breath. Din has leaned against the cool wall; he tugs you to him. You sit somewhat beside him, your legs tangled together. Your head rests on his heaving shoulder, and every now and then, you feel the press of his lips in your hair. He laughs once, quietly.

“What is it?” 

“Your life is not the only one that has changed.” 

Blinking rapidly, your heart glows with warmth. Yours had changed the most. This Mandalorian had come into your non-existence and given you everything. Courage, freedom, responsibility, love. 

“I know you like to fight, but this is one I’ll win,” you laugh softly. 

___________________________________

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