#f1 crossposting

[userm4x]

Daniel Ricciardo after winning the 2018 Chinese Grand Prix

[ceruleanwind]

Won't Last Long

Sebmark | Explicit | 2.8k | Read on AO3

Most Formula One drivers do, they say. In interviews and press conferences, it’s not uncommon to hear a driver confess to wetting themselves during a race. Even the likes of Michael Schumacher, arguably the greatest driver to ever drive, have done it. Right now, Seb’s heavily considering the option of joining the vast ranks of drivers who have wet themselves during a race. Or: Seb gets desperate during a race and makes it out of the car only to be ambushed on his way to the bathroom.

Sebastian Vettel’s self-control has always been . . . iffy, at the very least.

While of course intelligent under the surface, he’s been known to be a bit brash at times, the words coming out of his mouth oftentimes snarky and just a little dumb. He’s never been one to shy away from what he wants; if Seb wants it, he won’t give up until he gets it. It’s safe to say, then, that keeping himself at bay is difficult sometimes.

No matter how bad his self-control might be, though, Seb has never peed himself in his car. Ever.

Most Formula One drivers do, they say. In interviews and press conferences, it’s not uncommon to hear a driver confess to wetting themselves during a race. Even the likes of Michael Schumacher, arguably the greatest driver to ever drive, have done it.

That’s what Seb reminds himself in his head, over and over, teeth clenched so hard he worries they might break, as he floors it in his car and tries to shakily steer through the last few laps of this race. He has to pee, and he has to pee bad. Seb isn’t sure what it is—he’d made sure to use the bathroom before getting in the car, but he did drink a lot of water beforehand and—well, no matter. He’s tensing nearly every muscle in his body, resisting the urge to twist and press his thighs together to relieve some of the ache on his bladder. Seb’s practically bursting with it, and right now he’s heavily considering the option of joining the vast ranks of drivers who have wet themselves during a race.

It would be wrong, Seb tells himself, taking a deep breath in and letting it out in a frustrated groan as he drives along a straight. He wouldn’t leave the mechanics with that mess, and he certainly wouldn’t want to climb out of the car with a half-soaked race suit and expose his accident to the world. That would just be humiliating.

One more lap now.

Climbing out of the car will be a different story, Seb thinks. It’s hard to hold it now, when he’s practically rendered immobile by his car, but—Seb shudders as he imagines it—he’ll have to climb out of it, push his knees to his chest to get out, then jump out onto the track, jostling his bladder even further, and what if he loses control then? He’ll be standing out on the track beside his parked car, hundreds of cameras on him, and he’ll be wetting himself in front of the entire world. Seb winces, bottom lip caught between his teeth under his balaclava, as he realises just how dire this situation is.

Half a lap, he yells at himself in his head, then a quarter lap. He’s gripping the steering wheel so tight that he’s amazed it’s not crumpling in his hands. The final straight now—Seb sees the chequered flag waving out in front of him, even hears the thrilled cheers from the crowd over the scream of his car’s engine. His overwhelming urge to pee ebbs for just a moment once he crosses the finish line, winning yet again, shouting over the radio in victory.

During the cooldown lap, the adrenaline runs through Seb’s veins like liquid gold. As he navigates the twists and turns of the track, though, his seatbelt digs into his overfilled bladder, making him wince yet again, hissing through his teeth. He tries to squirm, shy away from the seatbelt stretched tight across his lower stomach, but to no avail; he pants as he struggles to keep himself under control, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily.

Seb turns into parc fermé and breathes a soft sigh of relief. He’s so close to the bathroom, now—he nearly wants to moan at how good he knows it’ll feel to let it all go and relieve the ache. He parks his car, kills the engine, and immediately fumbles to get the seatbelt undone, twisting free from the restraints. It hurts to bend his knees to his chest to get out of the car—he nearly has to hold his breath as he does it—but it’s surprisingly manageable once Seb has his feet on asphalt, stretched to his full height. Seb’s growing increasingly desperate by the second, however, so after exchanging handshakes and hugs with Jenson and Lewis, who finished second and third, he makes a beeline indoors, seeking out the relief he’s been craving.

Much to Seb’s absolute horror, when he finally reaches the door of the nearest single-stall bathroom, it is decidedly locked. Seb jiggles the handle, growing desperate, still holding his helmet in one arm. “Shit,” he whispers, a frustrated whine emitting from the back of his throat. He’ll have to go to the other bathroom, then, the one that’s nearly on the other side of the goddamn building.

Seb takes a deep breath, twists to press his free hand between his thighs for a moment, sets his helmet onto the floor, then takes off for the other bathroom, quick on his feet as he traverses the corridors. He can’t be late to his own podium ceremony, either—that would be just as embarrassing as what he was trying to avoid here in the first place.

“Seb?” A voice sounds from behind him—a very low, a very annoying, and a very Aussie voice. Seb turns slowly, mortified to see his teammate standing at the junction of two hallways, dark eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “The hell are you doing, mate? Didn’t you just win?”

Seriously, Seb doesn’t think a worse person could have found him in this state. Mark’s still angry with him over the majority of last year’s season, after all, and the feeling is certainly mutual. He moves to glare, opens his mouth to tell Mark to fuck off, or something of a similar nature, but a sudden pang of desperation hits Seb’s bladder and all that comes out is a pathetic little squeak. Heat rushes to his cheeks and he manages to form words despite his internal battle. “I—I was just, ah, you know,” Seb says, gesturing wildly in hopes that Mark understands.

He doesn’t. Mark merely raises an eyebrow.

Shame burns Seb’s cheeks. He’s itching to just take off again, find the bathroom before the podium ceremony starts without him, but now he’s stuck struggling to explain himself. “The, uh, bathroom,” he forces out, twisting to cross his thighs over one another. “The other one was locked.”

“Mate,” Mark says, stepping towards Seb with that patronising little smile on his handsome face, “you’re not making it all the way to the other one in time. What if that one’s locked, anyway?”

Shit. Seb hadn’t thought that far ahead. He squeezes his eyes shut, emitting another frustrated groan. It’s clear that he’s running out of options. “What am I—” he tries, only to be cut off by a short burst of liquid heat escaping his cock, quickly soaking into the thin fabric of his boxers. He gasps, bringing one hand down to squeeze his cock, a shiver wracking his body. “What am I supposed to do then?” Seb’s question sounds a lot more whiny and desperate than he intended.

Mark steps closer, gets one hand around Seb’s bicep, and roughly tugs him down a secluded, dead-ended section of hallway. Seb gasps again, yanks his arm away from Mark, and presses his hand between his thighs, his bladder throbbing at the pressure.

“Stop, I—I can’t—” Seb whimpers, his twitching muscles threatening to give out again. He squeezes desperately at his cock, cheeks burning with embarrassment because Mark is here and looking at him when he’s like this. “I don’t—I don’t know what to—” Panicked, Seb’s gaze flits up to meet Mark’s, and his stomach twists at what he sees. Mark’s eyes look dark and hungry, as if he wants to see this scene unfold before him.

“Do you really think you can make it?” Mark asks, his tone just condescending enough to boil Seb’s blood a little. He steps closer to Seb, towering over him, crowding him against the wall. If anyone stumbled upon them like this, they’d certainly have some explaining to do.

Tears gather in Seb’s pretty blue eyes. His hope of making it to a bathroom rapidly deteriorates and it becomes clear to him what he’ll be made to do. “No,” he chokes out. “I can’t, but—” he gasps again when his twitching cock releases another hot wash of pee out into his clothes, and this time, he feels it run down his thigh before soaking into his fireproofs. He looks anywhere except for at Mark, his plush bottom lip caught tightly between his teeth.

“Seb,” Mark says, his voice uncharacteristically low and firm, prompting Seb to look up at him, eyes wet with tears. “Wouldn’t it feel so nice to let go, hmm?”

Seb’s lips part as he considers the thought. He doesn’t have much of a choice, anyway; it’s either piss his pants right here in front of his teammate, or piss his pants in front of potentially a lot more watching eyes. Mark is right, as much as Seb doesn’t want to admit it—it would feel awfully nice to let go, feel the warmth spread over the fabric. Slowly, Seb pulls his hand out from between his thighs, and Mark takes it into one of his—Seb lets him keep it there. That hot tingling feeling spreads out from Seb’s core into each of his limbs, coiling warm and needy right in Seb’s cock, and he’s close, he’s so close.

With a choked little sob, Seb squeezes his eyes shut and relaxes, letting it come. A thin, hot stream trickles down over his cock before soaking through his boxers and running down his thighs. Seb pants, chest heaving as he wills himself to relax further, let it all out, and that’s when his body finally seems to get the message.

His eyes fly open and he gasps at the downright dizzying, full-body rush that rips through him in an instant as his bladder lets go completely, emptying itself into his clothes. It all feels so hot and wet and delicious as that liquid heat floods his crotch and the wet patch on his race suit blooms bigger and bigger. He can feel it everywhere; hot piss runs down his thighs and pools at his ass and even seeps up into the thin fireproof undershirt he’s wearing underneath.

Seb lets out a drawn-out moan at the surprising relief of it all, squirming with a long, high whimper. He’s peeing so hard he can just about hear the hiss of it against his boxers, spilling out into his clothes and thoroughly soaking his lower half. If his race suit was just a touch lighter, he thinks, it would be a lot prettier to look at, but unfortunately dark navy blue leaves a lot up to the imagination. It still feels fantastic, though, the hot wet rush, and with each movement Seb makes, the wet fabric of his boxers drags over his oversensitive cock and makes his back arch.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Mark murmurs as he watches Seb wet himself. He looks so pretty like this, Mark thinks, with his flushed cheeks and bitten lips and his long eyelashes clumped together with unshed tears. He brings his free hand, the one not holding one of Seb’s, to Seb’s front, gently cupping his still-pissing cock through his clothes. The warmth of it is nearly dizzying, washing continuously over the thick fabric of Seb’s race suit.

Seb jolts at Mark’s touch, instinctively trying to pull away, but he’s rather trapped between Mark and the wall and he just lets it happen with a defeated whine. He’s embarrassed, beyond humiliated to have Mark watching him while he’s doing this, not to mention touching his cock while he’s still pissing. “Mark,” he tries to protest, but it comes out as a moan just as Mark squeezes his cock, the drag of the wet fabric against it making his legs feel like jelly.

He just keeps peeing, too, all rushing out of him in an endless torrent of bliss. Hot pee continues spilling down his thighs, completely soaking the seat of his race suit. Slowly bringing his eyes up to meet Mark’s, Seb lets his hips move a little, beginning a slow, filthy grind forward against Mark’s warm palm. His breaths quicken, becoming shorter and needier as the flow tapers off and his cock rapidly hardens in wake of the overwhelming relief.

“F—fuck,” Seb curses under his breath as his hips twitch forward of their own accord, his cock positively throbbing at the delicious friction. He squeezes Mark’s hand tightly, fisting at the fabric on Mark’s bicep with his other hand for some leverage. This is dirty and he knows it—he’s soaked practically from waist to toe and rutting into his teammate’s hand like he’s a fucking animal in heat—but he can’t force himself to hate it no matter what he does.

Mark leans closer, his lips grazing the soft stubble on the side of Seb’s jaw. He sucks a bruise into the skin there, grinning into it when Seb whines and bucks into Mark’s palm. Pulling back to take a good look at Seb’s wrecked face, Mark smiles and murmurs, “Depraved little thing, aren’t you, Sebi? Getting off on not being able to control yourself?”

Seb hisses and moans in response, panting as he feels himself draw closer and closer to an orgasm. “You—” his fingertips dig into Mark’s arm as his grinding becomes more desperate, his hips stuttering with it— “you liked watching it, fuck off.” He tries to glare at Mark, tries to arrange his eyebrows into some semblance of a scowl, but Mark gives his cock another little squeeze and he can’t help but toss his head back, letting it thump against the wall as he chases his own pleasure.

“I did,” Mark says, chuckling all low and rumbly, bringing their tangled hands up to pin Seb’s hand to the wall. “You’re a lot less annoying when you’re pissing yourself in front of me, sweetheart.”

Seb’s too lost in his own pleasure to form words anymore. He’s panting and moaning, unabashed and whorish, as he grinds his soaked, aching cock up against Mark’s palm. The unmistakable hot coil of his orgasm builds and tightens, sending hot waves of delicious pleasure spreading throughout his muscles, before snapping, making his back arch against the wall yet again as he comes in his clothes with a gasping cry. Slick ropes of his come spurt out against his wet cockhead, the sticky warmth adding to the overwhelming friction.

As Seb comes down from his high, his exhausted bladder gives no resistance against the last few spurts of pee Seb lets out, straight into his dripping wet clothes. He gives one last soft moan, chest heaving as he recovers from it all.

“Fucking Christ,” Mark mutters in a whisper, utterly incredulous at what he just witnessed. With his dry hand, he lets go of Seb’s hand before gently brushing away the tears that had spilled out onto his blood-hot cheeks. Seb looks utterly ruined, and he’ll have to go out in front of the world and pretend like this never happened in a matter of moments.

“Fuck,” Seb whines, peeling his eyes open, his legs threatening to give out with how much they’re shaking. He lets himself float dazedly over cloud nine for another few seconds before he stiffens and straightens up against the wall. “Fuck. Fuck. The podium,” he says, voice cracking on the last word. “I have to—”

Mark wipes his wet hand on a section of dry fabric just above Seb’s waist, then guides Seb out from where he’s pressed against the wall, his hand resting on the small of Seb’s back. “Come on,” he urges. “We’ll have time to clean up. If the bathroom isn’t locked, that is.” He flashes a devilish grin at Seb, realising he may just be a little sick in the head for enjoying every second of this.

Seb curses under his breath and swats Mark’s shoulder, sticking his bitten bottom lip out in a pout. His cheeks still burn with embarrassment, but the knowledge that Mark liked watching him mitigates his shame a little. “You dick,” he whines, forcing his shaky legs to carry him down the corridor side by side with Mark.

“Ah-ah, Sebi. Was just being objective.”

Right, Seb thinks, letting out an exasperated scoff. He totally had that planned from the beginning.

[shivsdownstairsneighbour]

If you live in F1 TikTok, you know who the Smooth Operator is. I literally howled when a Smooth Operator TikTok popped around and it was my dearest Stewy Hosseini.

I am constantly being blessed by this fandom.

[fandomchaosposts]

!!!!!!!! Finnick may have died and I'm still weeping for him (rest in peace you'll have a place in my heart next to the Sakhir gp) but Peeta is alive, my ship is cannon and Russell is 4rth 😭😭

[theloveliestembrace]

Let it happen. | CL

Charles Leclerc/Reader

f1 masterlist

crossposted to ao3

Summary: The five times you meet Charles Leclerc. (The four times it doesn’t work out, the one time it might,)

Warnings: Non-explicit (but definitely inappropriate) teacher-student relationship

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Reincarnation au

W/C: 2.7k

-

A/N: What’s good people, I’m back again. This fic was very cinematic in my head (it still is), so I hope the writing captures that. Enjoy~

-

The first time you meet Charles Leclerc, he’s a barista at the coffeehouse down the road from your interning job. It’s a brief stint in the industry as you wait for a university acceptance letter, so you don’t expect to stay for long. 

He’s sweet, beaming at you from over the counter nearly everyday, remembering your order before you’ve even asked for his name. 

“Charles,” he says, sweetly accented, “my name is Charles Leclerc.” 

That day, the flowing script of your name on the takeaway cup is accompanied with a ‘have dinner with me?’ and a smiley face. You picture him, eyebrows scrunched and eyes squinted in concentration, trying to write neatly on the curved surface, and smile. 

As it turns out, Charles Leclerc is also waiting for a university acceptance letter, to a prestigious place in the United Kingdom for the study of Liberal Arts. He laughs awkwardly as he confesses, “My English is not so good yet, so I am worried they won’t find me so elegant.” 

You bat it off as nonsense, pulling him in for a chaste kiss, whispering sincerely against his lips. “They’ll be foolish not to accept you, cheri.”

He’s a sweet relief from the bustle of your internship, where you’re surrounded by presumptuous old men and women who expect their coffee orders and bottles of perrier on their desk before eight. Your work in the fashion industry is not as glamorous a job as made out in the novels. The twelve centimeter heels you’re forced into daily pinch at your toes, and all your coworkers are size-zero hyenas, vying for a position. It takes all your energy to keep up. 

Just the sight of him, though, waving cheerily in the morning as you run in for coffee pickup, hands in his pockets as he waits for you to get off work, the soft kisses when he walks you home. It’s easy to get lost in this, lost in him , fingers slotted between yours and a glass of wine shared between interlocked fingers.  It’s a romance out of a metropolitan chick flick, something about finding love in the middle of modern day bustle, finding quiet in the loud city. 

Everything falls apart when you get your acceptance letter. You haven’t talked about the inexorability of the end, not really. Sometimes Charles will bring it up half-heartedly, and so will you, but the inertia to dealing with your very real future is too great, and you both end up kissing on Charles’ sofa instead of facing the truth. 

It culminates in one big fight, your fingernails pressed to draw blood, Charles bracing himself against the wall to prevent himself from losing his temper. 

And it goes like every other fight in the movies, things like i was always going to go anyway and why don’t you just fucking go then, if you have nothing to stay for , and don’t hold me back just because you don’t have the certainty of getting into your course, Charles spinning around and saying i already got in, i’m hesitating because of you and the pressure in your chest growing so large it’s all you can do to stop your tears from running. 

The movies lied to you. This is the part where Charles apologises and you hug and make up and you stay for each other. That’s the love story. 

Instead, you say, go then, if staying for me burdens you so . And he goes, your apartment door slamming behind him. 

You spend days wallowing in self-pity, avoiding the coffeehouse, running through the motions, thinking about the last ten months of your life, and make the decision when your hand reaches for a coffee cup that isn’t there. 

You’ll stay, for Charles, because you love him, even if it isn’t like the movies. Because it isn’t like the movies, and you’ll love him even when the post-credits have rolled. 

It is this that makes you run to the coffeehouse the next morning, forgoing an umbrella in your haste, soaking your blouse straight through. You yank the door open, waiting for the head of curls at the counter to look up so you can beg for a chance. Just one.

Instead, the older lady who owns the place, looks up and smiles sadly at you. “I’m sorry, kid. He flew off to the UK yesterday, he said you never called.” 

And again, this doesn’t happen in the movies. The main character doesn’t step back out into the rain alone, heels soaked against the pavement, nor do they spend the next week waiting for the love of their life to call. 

You hit reply on the acceptance email, and change your number to a local one when you land in America. 

Somewhere on another continent, a call doesn’t get connected.

-

On the sixteenth of October, the people of Monaco are blessed with an announcement. A prince is born, the news reports. 

Charles, they named him. Charles Leclerc. 

In another ward down the hallway, another woman gives birth to a girl. The royal family hasn’t realised it yet, but down the hallway, is their future pr manager. 

Your first day on the job is fraught with just about every roadblock you could face. 

At four in the morning, one of your neighbour’s ridiculous scented candles tips over and sets enough things on fire to trip the fire alarm. Management ushers every single person in the vicinity out of the apartment building, where you stand shivering in your bathrobe. 

A few hours later, your coffee machine breaks down before your espresso even finishes running. 

Then, five minutes after you leave the apartment to catch your Uber, your heel breaks, so you’re forced to change your shoes and foot the late arrival fee on your car. 

When you finally find the meeting room fifteen minutes after you were supposed to reach, you're very much on the verge of tears. 

You’re met with a frowning Charles Leclerc, whose expression instantly evaporates into fondness when he recognises who’s at the door. He stands to bring you into a hug, as if you’d been friends since you were children. (You had been, of course, but you didn’t forget that he was a literal prince. Hugs are not commonplace.)

It’s an odd feeling, standing in front of the boy you’d known from birth, tasked with covering up his scandals and manufacturing relationships to keep him in the public eye.

It’s even odder to fall in love with him all over again, especially while you’re both poring over staged Instagram posts of him and Monaco’s richest bachelorettes. But Charles is so— good, easy to fall in love with, like those princes from storybooks. He laughs at exactly the right moments, cracks jokes that have you gasping for breath, charms you so thoroughly it’s almost embarrassing. 

It falls into place like poetry, too many moments without supervision, secret smiles over the table, quiet mornings in the palace, hidden in his room. You pick up the closeness of your youth near flawlessly. Falling in love has never been this easy. 

(It’ll never be this easy again.)

The end comes knocking in the form of his mother. Marriage. You almost choke on the enormity of it, caught in the noose of your own stupidity. Because that is your job, isn’t it? The prince is almost thirty, you are almost thirty, and this has always been the final point, of your job, of his scripted relationships. 

You don’t even fight, which is kind of the worst part. A choice is presented to Charles, and he chooses.

It’s a special kind of cruelty, to stay. To sit with the photographers and videographers and event crew and wedding planner, poring over fabrics and angles, as if it’s your fucking honour to plan what’s set to be the greatest union in Monaco for the next decade. 

You were wrong. The worst part is standing at the fringes, in your blue dress, watching the love of your life slide a ring onto another finger and speak the vows that were meant for youyouyou . The worst part is knowing the photos will be beautiful, because you planned them yourself. 

The worst part is knowing there is no universe where he chooses you.  

-

Your new French Literature professor is… really fucking hot. You’re not just saying this because he’s a decade older than you, or because he’s at least three decades younger than the guy who used to teach the class. He’s just, objectively of course, a really attractive man. 

The way his accent rolls off his tongue when he says “Charles, my name is Charles Leclerc.” definitely doesn’t help. In your periphery, you see the girl seated next to you furiously typing on her phone, with caps and exclamation marks and sweating emojis. You can’t even blame her. 

And it’s almost criminally obvious, the way he looks at you, eyes darting to your open polo, the way he lingers on the syllables of your name when he calls on you to answer in class. 

It’s subtle enough to not warrant any accusations of misconduct, but not subtle enough to avoid the envious stares of the girls (and boys) in your class. You’re unbothered, of course, given that he hasn’t actually made a move, but also the fact that he wears his wedding ring all the time.

And if you start wearing tighter shirts and shorter skirts to class, just to see his breath hitch when you uncross your legs just so, well that’s nobody’s business but your own. 

It’s almost cliche, the way your little game unfolds. You make sure to book the latest possible consultation slots with him, in a cute ensemble and flawless makeup, toting a copy of Les Miserables as if you’re actually struggling with the material. 

It’s fun, to rile him up, watch his tongue slide against his lower lip as he looks at you from across the desk. You don’t typically make a habit of seducing professors, especially the married ones, but you figure it’ll probably make a great story for your grandkids, or something. He holds out much longer than you thought, so much so that the illusion of needing aid in your best subject starts to grate on you. Still, the sight of his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves, or the line of his throat when he sips water during lectures keeps you hooked. 

When he finally bends you over his desk, you’re almost disappointed that the game has ended. The imprint of his wedding ring stays on your waist for days. Your friend tuts nervously when you return back late, murmurs something about morals and regretting your decisions and something else you tune out. 

Un brin de folie egaye la vie, right? Some madness will brighten your life. You continue ignoring her.

It’s only after months of your routine that you can form the all-important question, perched on his lap in his (locked) office, “Why cheat on your wife?” And the room is instantly suffused with silence. You expect him to tell you to get out or something of the sort, but instead he hums thoughtfully, shifting you further onto his thighs. 

He’s silent for a few seconds, running fingers through your hair, “Why do we do anything?” You snort at the obvious deflection, raising an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. 

“On n’aime que ce qu’on possède pas tout entier. Proust says we love only what we do not have entirely.” You giggle a little at that, “you love me because you cannot have me?” He sighs against your cheek, “something like that, yes.”

In the end, it ends much cleaner than affairs like this tend to. You graduate top of the class, watch Charles and his beautiful wife at the ceremony, and laugh a little meanly at how oblivious her smile is. How he watches you, still, as you give the valedictorian speech, the smirk on his face as you thank your professors with false fervour. 

And then, one last time for the road, in the handicap bathroom where the bustle of the hall isn’t quite muted, breaths mingling hot in the stale air. A kiss, almost chaste, and you leave. 

Your grandkids howl with laughter at the story, nearly seventy years down the road. You smile, think about green eyes and rolled up sleeves. Another life, maybe. 

-

You’re still not used to the wag lifestyle. It’s one thing to be recognised in Monaco, another to be Il Predestinato’s girlfriend. It’s almost obscene, the red that greets you down every hallway, the way you bite your tongue and watch the team fuck him over every weekend. The way the crowds chant his name; Charles, they scream, Charles Leclerc. 

It’s not like you haven’t earned a place in the paddock. You’ve done the work, the pr activities, the carefully curated soft launches, the jet lag, the helmet kisses and the careful, careful styling. You’ll always be silent and pretty, always smiling and skinny and happy for him, existing to prove something. 

The point is, it isn’t that you don’t love Charles anymore. It isn’t that he’s neglectful and distant (he is), or that you’re unhappy with the constant scrutiny and ever changing time zones (you are). You can swallow these things, breathe deep and let it settle. 

Mangia questa minestra o saltar questa finestra; eat the soup or jump out of the window. Accept things for what they are, don’t hurt over things that cannot be changed. 

And it really does feel like nothing will ever change, watching the man you love turn into a beating husk, consumed with his want. A championship, a victory, draped in enough red to drown you both, a hundred years of history. Nothing will change, you will always be the girlfriend, the girl in-the-pictures. You can feel the shadow of Charles’ name as heavily as he feels Ferrari’s. That will never change.    

The championship is a hollow victory, when it comes. You and Charles have devolved across the year into a state of a perpetual tense silence, intercut only with the curl of his fingers around your waist when the cameras come flashing, and drawn out, passive aggressive conversations.

You begin to fly out less and less, blame it on the job you pretend to hate for Charles’ sake. Slowly, you learn to be on your own, find your way around loneliness, spaces within yourself previously occupied with your boyfriend. You toss about the idea of him cheating on you while you miss his races, and find the thought less impossible and less painful each time. 

By the time you see him again in Abu Dhabi, the Monacan flag wrapped around his shoulders, fingers pointed to the sky, you only feel affection for the man you would’ve given everything up for a year ago. The knowledge squeezes painfully in your chest. 

You reach for him in the cooldown room, wince at how unfamiliar his hands are to you now, look him in the eyes, “It’s been over for a long time, hasn’t it, cheri?” Tears rise unbidden within you when he nods, eyes wet. You clasp his hands tighter, relish the feeling of his fingers against yours one more time, “I want you to remember the best parts of us,” you sniffle lightly, attempt a smile, “not the end. I want you to remember that I am always proud of you.”

The room is quiet. He leans against your shoulder, for a moment you are both twenty-one again, guileless. The enormity of what you are losing has settled in your bones. 

The soup is unassuming on the table. You choose the free fall from the window. 

-

The new doctor is cute, in a puppyish sort of way. Charles watches the way you interact with all your new coworkers, smiling and shaking hands, the way you laugh at a joke Max just made. 

You come up in front of him, and falter, tilting your head like a startled animal. “Have we met?” The deja vu hits him so hard his head spins, shaking his head at your question anyway. 

He kisses your outstretched hand, soft under his lips, revels briefly in your furious blushing. His mother likes to tell him; doctors only date other doctors. He intends to test the theory.

“My name is Charles,” he says, “Charles Leclerc.”

[agmmon]

started as a sketch and ended in a post only for him! i got into f1 relatively recently and he immediately caught my attention, he is an incredible person 💛 ((crossposted on ig: @/agmontinit))

[salutethesargeant]

A Mess It Grows - LS18, OP81

Pairing: Lance Stroll x Oscar Piastri (Maplescotch)

Summary: Following Lando's win at Miami, an insecure Oscar heads to his hotel room to regress. One of his boyfriends follows suit to comfort him the only way they know how.

Warnings: Angst, fluff, kink themes (petplay/animal play), sfw intimacy, hurt/comfort, mentions of polyamory, use of pet names

A/N: Crosspost of my fic from my ao3 (inlovingmemory) and also my first fic here. Maplescotch is such an underrated ship and one of the few I would actually die for. (Mainly bc I'm a sucker for ships only I care about) Enjoy.

The checkered flag waved as crowds clad in orange and black began their frantic frenzy. 8 seconds ahead of the 3-times World Champion, for several laps. The rows upon rows of fans under the Florida sun were livid at the sight. Could it really be? A car the color of papaya-orange crossed the finish line for the first time since 2021. But an Australian wasn't the winner. Not this time.

No, that Australian was at Toro Rosso now. AlphaTauri. RB. Whatever they were called, it wasn't Red Bull or McLaren. He was stuck situated behind a Sauber and would likely be his same, bitter, old self after the race.

Yet, there was one Australian today who got the shorter end of that stick. One younger, yet dressed in the same ol' familiar orange and black. Bright, exhausting orange like his car. The one cameras paid no focus on: Oscar Piastri. Driver for McLaren, Alpine survivor, and 2 seasons into F1. Drove his car off for podium place until Carlos collided his Ferrari into the papaya boy. 

Front wing damage. No penalty. Late leaving the pit stop from repairs. Forcibly having to settle for 13th place with no points. Losing his place late in the race while Lando was having the time of his life.

Oh yes, Lando. Lando Norris.

There's not much the Aussie could say about the Brit. They were teammates, they were competitors. Nothing more, nothing less than that. They got along, admittedly, only because Oscar knew they had to.

Being at Alpine years ago, he witnessed the opposite firsthand. His long-term boyfriend, Esteban Ocon, had been the subject of several cutthroat backtalk and altercations involving fellow Frenchman Pierre Gasly. Sly remarks full of snark and internal gossip with mean looks, or full on fights in private. It would get nasty, almost catfight-ish. All Oscar could do was sit back and watch like a child of divorce, until he'd have to later comfort and ice Ocon's bruises.

The Aussie knew any teammate relationship could turn sour like theirs at any time. No matter how long or how deep their bond went, a budding rose always came to grow thorns. He's seen the contempt boil and bubble, masked behind the Frenchmens' PR-fueled, artificial smiles for social media. Pierre's faux-friendliness on and off-camera had targeted him too, coming from someone who desperately wanted to lure the young driver in despite knowing Esteban's warnings. Even the most enticing of snakes prepped their fangs.

But Lando wasn't like that.

Atleast, that's what Oscar hoped. Since switching his colors from Alpine's sugary, teeth-rotting, cotton candy-esque light blue and pink to a more vivid orange, the relationship between the two Anglophones had since been short of amiable. Sure, maybe they weren't constantly at eachother's throats - and maybe Oscar should've been grateful for that - but they weren't the best of friends either. Or friends at all. An air of stillness had settled between them since they first met in the same garage over a year ago, growing like a thick fog. 

McLaren and F1's social media could paint the papaya pair like two peas in an overwhelmingly positive pod as much as they wanted, but all it did was make them look good. Good. Marketable. Two young drivers ready to take on the whole grid, overwhelmingly clad in black and orange. A World Champion-in-the-making and a former rookie who seemingly locked together like two puzzle pieces. Landoscar, the fans called it. Soulmates, everyone viewed it.

If it were that easy, maybe Oscar would already be attached to the hip of the Brit. Maybe Lando - for how much he flaunted his shamelessly hedonistic lifestyle as if it were his sole personality trait and thought inside that hollow head of his - would atleast make the effort to include and invite him to stuff once in a while. It's not like Oscar was begging to go to his teammate's pretentious parties across Europe, full of high-class randoms several leagues above him. Full of people he didn't know nor could care less about him or his relationships. Instead, Oscar usually kept quiet, only bothering to smile and make small talk when McLaren needed them to. Even when the cameras weren't rolling, it was never like he asked the Brit time and time again to be besties, although sometimes he wish he did. 

Lando wouldn't have to pretend to reach out to him after their social media shoots, pretending to be interested in him and his life. The Aussie knew deep down his teammate, for how dull he proudly was, was playing the same games he was, tricking the media and inadvertently, Oscar aswell. People already thought they were the "bestest" of teammates compared to the other, far more infamous pairs on the grid. The thought made Oscar shiver.

Even his boyfriends, despite the bias against them, were never the subject of tabloids as much as the Brit was. If anything, his two lovers being disliked helped keep their relationship out of the spotlight - yet it only made the vipers of paparazzi focus solely on Lando and Oscar. Labeled as 'friends', an 'ideal couple,' despite the younger man already having special people (who were also on the grid) in his life. But God help him for actually thinking journalists payed attention to what was true.

Maybe he wouldn't be constantly compared to Lando - more than he already was - if they actually were good friends like the news said. Oscar was just a former rookie in the eyes of his team and the media, but Lando was a proven, soon-to-be World Champion. Every step he took, praise followed like a trail of gold. His own red carpet. Even the cameras were too bright, Oscar was almost blinded despite how far he was shoved out their view.

In regards to the times where he, or perhaps where McLaren allowed him to, shone, he was restricted to playing 2nd. Times where he could've helped the team gain points were never considered when they focused on his tanner teammate to earn another podium. Oscar would have to stick towards the back end of the race, feeling too insecure to look at his manager in the eye in the garage. A disgustingly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he'd grown familiar with. And as he predicted, this strategy (or lack thereof) happened again today.

Except Lando was a race winner now.

-

The heat of the Miami sun rested upon Oscar's back as he begrudgingly exited the cockpit, his fireproofs and suit on fire as he ripped off his helmet. What a horrible race that was, just his luck to go from top 4 to being the loser in a challenge with Carlos. The Spaniard seemed to collide with him, giving him damage to his front wing as he'd end up losing his place. Sure, he was able to get back in the race and set the fastest lap so he'd gain something out of it, even if it was to just end up behind an Alpine and out of points territory. But it didn't really mean anything when he had his race ruined and McLaren couldn't care less about him. 

From where he currently was in the garage, God Save The King blared in the distance, like a thought he couldn't truly escape. If he were a little more patriotic, he'd find it nauseating. But even if he wasn't, it still was. Everywhere he went, it seemed to remind him that he'd never be good enough. He'd never be like him in their eyes, only a liability. Feeling sick again, Oscar ran and tried finding the nearest bathroom, far from the McLaren garage. Far from the podium. He couldn't bear to deal with the strategists and members of the team crowding his way right now. 

It was his day. Lando's day. It always was.

Stood proud on the podium were the same three that usually stood there: a McLaren, a Red Bull, and a Ferrari. A Brit, a Dutchman. and a Monegasque. The sun's golden glare made them looked blessed, like a trio of angels. Oscar couldn't bother to look from behind his back, ignoring the barrage and sea of voices and lights blinding and deafening him if he did. But they weren't for him, not all of them. It didn't matter. The spotlight was focused on something - rather, someone - else, and he needed to leave. Fast and unbothered. His hotel couldn't have been that far from the track, especially when he was sure some of the other drivers were headed their way there also after the race ended. 

Especially the two he knew, who he shared a room with. Who he always shared hotel rooms with, discretely under the guise of being a "group of best friends." Whatever people thought, Oscar needed them. Particularly in this moment, when his head began to feel too heavy for him to support himself. When he needed to be away from the masses and fall into a special sort of headspace only they knew about, behind closed doors. Those special, intimate moments. 

After having to do some careful finding in the garage and stripping of his fireproofs, Oscar grabbed his phone and immediately went to his contacts. He's changed enough out of his race suit and back to regular McLaren merch that he could sneak back out to the paddock. In such a fast amount of time too, seeing how the rest of the papaya crew was still too focused on throwing Lando around. Then again, Oscar was rushing in a hurry and practically gone ghost once he situated his cap.

Most of the drivers on the grid stayed at the same hotel for certain races, their team executives booking them months in advance. They were never usually that far from the track or paddock either, for the teams convienence. Such was the case for Miami, where Oscar currently padded open the resort's luxerious doors in an urgent manner. Did McLaren need him right now? Probably, if Lando's win got boring to rub in. Would Oscar head back to attend? Nope.

As the Aussie went to dial the number labelled, "Lancey," in a strike of coincidence, life decided to serve itself to him for once. Meeting eye to eye with the Canadian again off track, the taller male's expression went from one of surprise to worry. The concern seemed to rub off the younger man, as evident by how Lance was able to pick up on it quickly.

"Osc, what are ya' doing here? Shouldn't you be at McLaren's garage?"

Nothing. No response. All he received was a big, brown-eyed stare from his dark brown eyes into his. Lance's worry seemed to grow tenfold at his boyfriend's out-of-character silence. Something must've been really wrong, his race must've gone pretty bad. Lance knew his wasn't great either, but Oscar handled his more deeply.

The Canadian looked down with his own dark eyes, reflecting a vulnerable Oscar in them like a mirror. His voice almost cracked, bringing a hand to grip his tightly as he pulled them towards the elevator. Oscar wasn't even aware that the button for their floor was clicked, and soon they were off.

"I'll- I'll need to phone Esteban as soon as possible, tell him he needs to come back immediately. He's—" Lance's voice trembled, as if he had something stuck in his throat. This ride was taking too long, goosebumps forming on skin from pure nervousness.

Seemingly noticing, Oscar rubbed his head of fluffy peanut-brown hair against his side. He looked up into the eyes of his boyfriend, and felt the Canadian's nerves rapidly calm down. Realizing what kind of care Oscar needed now, the taller man spoke again, this time much more clearly.

"Esteban, right. Este is uhm, busy with Fernando right now. He'll be back soon, hopefully with some food. But I might need him to come quicker, especially since you're going into err—" Oscar pawed at Lance's sweater, cutting his train of thought off again. Feeling concerned yet a little more relaxed now, he laughed. Their elevator had reached their floor. Lance heard Oscar whine a little at how hard he gripped the Aussie's hand while walking over to their room door.

"Pupspace." A smile bright as the morning sun spread on his features. Oscar's followed as he laid put on the velvet floor, restlessly pawing at his feet.

He would've preferred if he had brought a leash to Aston Martin's garage, or perhaps if Esteban did to Alpine's. It would've made his job a lot easier, yet it's not like he could've predicted Oscar would regress this soon. Or this severe. Or Nando potentially finding it on accident. That would've been one hell of an embarrassing talk.

After some fumbling with the lock of the hotel door and Lance's strangely large quantity of keys, the door finally let loose. The Montrealer squatted down near the Australian, exchanging a gentle glance and offering his hand to help him back up to his feet, although only to walk him inside. Oscar's weight felt like a bag of thick rice, needing all of Lance's support to be carried inside as if he couldn't use his legs anymore. Granted, that was because he couldn't. He wasn't "grown" enough to do so currently. 

The lights of their hotel room were turned down low, a nice warm orange coating everything. Enough time had passed that the Miami sun had begun to set, its luminous colors bleeding through the large glass windows and fine curtains as it dipped into the horizon. The sight almost made Lance sleepy, almost falling into a drowsy state before realizing he was carrying someone much sleepier already.

Setting Oscar aside on the nearest couch, he kept his head up as the Aussie looked at him with pleading eyes. Wanting warmth and attention now that they were behind closed doors, he whined again, in a higher pitch than last time. Lance couldn't help but chuckle, hands on his hips as he returned some sass.

"Alright alrighty, Butterscotch. I'm trying to be fast for ya, but you're asking quite a lot!" The mahogany of the Canadian's lively eyes reflected back onto Oscar's, who couldn't help his cheeks grow pink like bushes of roses. The younger man watched from his place, sat on the couch, as Lance looked around their temporary living space for a few moments. Almost urgently so.

When finished, he had a familiar leather collar wrapped in his hands. Oscar's eyes went wide at the sight. Unable to keep his excitement down, he reached his thin paws out in a 'grabby' motion and yelped. Yip yapping away. Another laugh escaped Lance, who rested a rough hand on Oscar's shoulder. "Who knew Esteban and I had such a needy, impatient puppy..."

"But I shouldn't mock you this much, especially when ya need this more than me right now." Despite his outward manner and physique compared to the Aussie, the Quebecker's hands were quite gentle as he began wrapping the accessory around his partner's neck. Oscar, of course, stayed still and soaked in the attention like a sponge. Feeling the black and orange-accented leather lock into place and hearing his name tag (which simply read: "OP31, replies to 'Oscar' or 'Butterscotch.' If found, return to Stroll or Ocon.") jingle, he finally relaxed. The bad thoughts from earlier were beginning to drain out.

Not bothering to change either of them out of their team merch, Lance pulled his pet into his grip with one arm. Oscar fell immediately into his chest, pawing at it before circling around to settle himself down more comfortably. Lance gazed down, petting the fluffy caramel-brown hair between his fingers as he pressed a kiss on the Australian's nose bridge.

"You're a good boy, Osc. A good pup." Lance paused, looking away from the chocolately love in Oscar's eyes to his own fingers. Fidgeting and flicking them around, he felt a certain paw mess with it. Lance felt a familiar pair of eyes look back up at him again.

"I'm just— sorry. Sorry for you. I just feel bad that, well, ya know. Lando, Carlos, or whoever, ruined your race today."

A high pitched whimper followed in agreement as the younger man laid his head against the chest of Canadian, opting to lay against the armrest as he waited for their other partner to come home. Oscar took in his partner's scent as he laid on his side, curled up in his arms. Faintly smelling like maple with hints of pecan pie. A cold Autumn breeze over the warmth of a thick cotton scarf.

"It wasn't your fault. I know your mind will tell you otherwise, but I won't. I know, I know..."

Oscar was more than upset about the earlier drama and results, but wouldn't be lying if he admitted that he couldn't care anymore. Fortunately fleeting away, then gone in the wind. Was almost like a near memory that he since brushed off once returning home.

Home where he could unwind, where he could be his true self. Where he could no longer worry about the race or any sort of grid drama. A home where he could be with physically, no matter where he went. Melbourne, Suzuka, Shanghai, Miami...

He was safe at home. Safe, secure, and warm. Home meant comfort, but it also meant security. Private, yet seeked fun. Home never judged him for letting his walls down, or anything else really. Home made him feel seen. Feel loved. Acknowledged.

Lance was home, Oscar's home. Nothing could change that. Nothing would. He wore dark green, but loving him was red.

And so were both of their cheeks currently, mutually flushed as they pressed against eachother. Lance wasn't sleeping, no, but he was surely entertaining himself as he watched Oscar try not to. Yet a peck to the cheek helped his senses kick in, as he giggled and licked at the Montrealer's face.

Smiles were exchanged once more, Lance couldn't help but keep playing with the silk of Oscar's hair. The younger man melted to the touch, rubbing against him in an attempt for more petting. His collar seemed to be a bit too tight for his skin, causing a noticeable red mark around his neck. He had his hands available, but seemed to prefer Lance's help.

"I just wish they came to some sense, ya know? Carlos, I mean. I— I don't understand him."

The Quebecker stood up, causing the reaction of his little spoon to do the same. Oscar fell to the floor. Knobby knees against the velvet carpet as he stayed on his fours. Lance stood to stretch, leaning down to pet the Aussie as he walked towards his temporary water bowl. Tapping the side twice, Oscar skittered across obediently. Lance's train of thought continued again as he leaned against the wall, watching Oscar lap up his water.

"There's always gonna be those types of people on the grid, the ones that want you gone. I've been through it, so has Esteban. Even Lewis." 

Oscar stayed put on the floor, sitting crissed-cross with his two front hands infront. Water ran from his face down his chin. A noticeable stain now soaking the collar of his papaya-orange polo. He turned his head to the side at Lance's words, whining an octave louder. Brown eyes staring.

"I know what it's like to constantly be compared to your teammate too. You— You have to survive with it in this sport, unfortunately."

Lance adjusted his posture, squatting on the floor before standing up on his knees. Unlike Oscar, he wobbled, only stabilizing himself with a hand behind him on the floor. He pat at his thigh, whistling as he locked eye contact with the Australian, before bringing him in a tight embrace.

"You don't deserve any of this, Butterscotch. None of this. I'm sorry."

The Canadian's grip seemed to fasten against Oscar's skinnier body like a death grip. As if he didn't want to let him go, or let him breathe. Oscar rested his head the broad of Lance's shoulder, hands splayed on his lover's back. He didn't know where else to leave them.

He felt Lance's hands curl into the caramel of his hair, like milkweed silk between his rough fingers. Oscar closed his eyes, huffing before shaking slightly. His breath stuttering as his chest heaved, feeling like the weight of several stones. Was he crying? He can't remember the last time he did that, especially over a race. Over Lando. Over Carlos. Over everything and anything. Lance hugged him tightly, shushing him as he felt cold tears stain his sweater.

A nearby phone on the coffee table began to ring. Lance's phone. Must've been Esteban. 

They let it play, ignoring the ringtone repeating before it eventually ended. They didn't need to move for the world, to wait for others. All Lance needed to do was pay attention to his puppy. His pet. His lover. His Oscie. 

It was his night. Oscar's night. It always was.

Atleast to Lance. Esteban too, but only one of them was present. That's all that mattered. Oscar had people that cared, spotlight or not. Race winner or not. Unruined race or not.

Before he knew it, the Australian felt lightheaded. And light. His sopping eyes opened once again as streams littered his face, his blurry vision turning around to notice he wasn't on the floor anymore. Lance was carrying him in his arms, bridal style now. It made Oscar feel small. Vulnerable. Safe. Too deep into headspace and his own insecurities to feel anything but like a puppy. 

Looking up, the younger man was met with dark brown eyes meeting his gaze. The Canadian nodded, allowing Oscar to use his sweater to wipe his tears. He pressed a kiss to the bridge of Oscar's nose again, before laying him in the marble of their hotel room's bathtub. His soft yet coarse hands made quick work of the leather collar around the Aussie's neck, rubbing the slight red it left behind. 

Mercy coated Lance's eyes, as he sighed yet still gave a gentle smile. His cheeks lightly budding pink like a bush of hibiscuses. Oscar turned his nose up, smiling back in a toothy grin that went up the corners of his face. Face redder than salmon roe. Lance gripped his delicate hands, bringing them to his lips for a kiss. His skin was soft like the rest of him, yet he smelled his strongest here. Like oranges and vanilla. 

Lance leaned against the tub, slowly taking off each of his dear's garments. Maybe Oscar had his hands available, but he was too deep into headspace to speak — let alone strip himself. The toffee of his eyes stayed locked onto the Quebecker, purring as he went limp. Even if Oscar could take care of himself, Lance knew he needed him now. And now was all that mattered.

At the final piece of clothing, Oscar's boxers, Lance paused. His hands moved up the pale of the Australian's body to cup his cheeks, moving his thumbs against them in a soothing motion. Lance looked down at him, gentle, serene. Oscar let him do anything, and he was glad he trusted him that much. Like a puppy to its owner. A vulnerable animal to its caretaker. He pressed one final kiss to his soft, pink lips. He tasted like sorbet, Lance's favorite.

They locked eyes once more before Lance's train of thought continued. His faint voice finding itself again.

"Let's— Let's get you cleaned up, Scotchie."

[wolff-cub]

nestor | 26 | t-guy (he/him)

hey i'm nestor, returning to tumblr after 10 years of being away to post about formula 1 brainrot, writing, and other various film/music/art-related interests i have.

primarily a cs55 fan (both our dads were rally racers whoa crazy) and vb77 fan but there isn't really a driver or a team on the grid i dislike. variety is the spice of life and i would love to talk about this stupid sport with anyone.

i write sympathy is a knife over on ao3 and which i'll be crossposting here soon. i also draw comics/fanart and table at quite a few comic cons, and am currently making some f1 keychains :)

let's get yapping!

-----

insta | ao3 | last.fm | letterboxd | etsy (coming soon!)

[ef-1]

Why do you keep breaching contianment, your stuff is always cross posted on reddit and twitter. You are my fav F1 influencer 😂🫶🏾

bb breaching containment is not getting crossposted on reddit or twitter, it's that one time I accidentally got Daniel in hot water 😍

[puzzlebean]

The question is will I finish enough fics to hit 150000 words on ao3 this year. I feel like I might because I have several nearly finished wips and some things I still need to crosspost and I'm already at 130000-ish words.

There's 3 FTH fics I think I will get done before the end of the year. There's a Lestappen kinkmeme prompt that's halfway done and already over 5k. There's two Logax fics. There's a 4433 fic that's like a quarter done. There's stuff I posted on Tumblr in November for a few fandoms that hasn't made it's way to ao3 yet. And I feel like I still have several unposted fics from when I was writing the Roll The Dice challenge fics. (This has also reminded me to make a Roll The Dice with F1 stuff for next year)

Plus after today I will be done with class and I will also hopefully hear whether I get the internship position or not. Which means I will hopefully have enough time until the end of the year to write and also have time before the internship starts to still get writing done. Fingers crossed.

[userm4x]

Daniel Ricciardo and Kylie Minogue via Red Bull Racing's Instagram story

[ceruleanwind]

Lowkey rebranding from being an F1 account to becoming a hockey account 🤍

💬 FIND ME! Discord, AO3

About me:

My name's Jack (yes that's my real name. yes it's slightly unfortunate)

19

📍 Vancouver, BC 🇨🇦

I'm currently in my second year of mechanical engineering studies at university, specialising in materials science

Hockey:

The Canucks, Devils, and Wild are my main teams 🔥 (lock the freak in.)

I (obviously) love Quinn and Jack Hughes (thinly veiled insanity) as well as Kirill Kaprizov (my actual wifey)

Certified bankrupt after buying tickets/merch this season

I occasionally also play rec hockey at my local rink (I'm a defenceman. Yup. One at a time ladies 💋)

Hobbies:

Writing

Weightlifting

Rock climbing

Racquet sports

Hiking

Spending boatloads of money on hockey merch

I write, by the way!

If there is a freak, I will match it and surpass it

Certified ****** and *** enjoyer

I sometimes remember to crosspost my fics on here. Find them under my fic tag #my fics

✉️ Inbox always open for new friends and yappers!

[solaireverie]

"all my flowers grew back as thorns" ☾ ✧ ₊ ݁ ⊹ ˖

「 ✦ masterlist / ao3 ✦ 」

requests: closed [ guidelines: please read before requesting ♡ ]

about me ₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧

「 ✦ solaire ✦ 」 — nineteen. any pronouns. queer. multicultural, multilingual, multiracial.

part-time french brit, amongst other things. full-time menace. aries + esfj + eldest child. neurodivergent. reader, writer, poet, artist. unapologetic swiftie. anime enjoyer. delusion incarnate.

formula 1: red bull racing and mercedes amg f1, courtesy of my family. lh44, sv5, mv1, cl16, nr6, op81. brocedes, sewis, lestappen, simi, martian.

football: fc barcelona apologist. visca barça i visca catalunya. messi, ter stegen, pedri, julián álvarez, aitana bonmatí. pedrigavi truther.

directory ☾ 𖤓 ⊹˚.

coming soon: tbd

request count: two

tags: talk / writing / edits, web weaving, gifs, etc / asks / requests / recs

taglist: @scenesofobx @vellicora @boiohboii @julesbabey @flannelforthetoads @misartymis @c-losur3

↳ if you'd like to be added just let me know 🫶

© solaireverie 2024 | do not repost / crosspost / distribute my content without my explicit permission

[aston-axo]

Crosspost here because I have more followers. For transparency, it's sadly not for an F1 fic alas

Are any of my followers fluent in Russian? If you are, would you be willing to translate a few short things (like under 30 words) for a chapter of a fic of mine?

I'm happy to credit you for helping in the notes of the work ^^

[vro0m]

"What happened is a real scandal."

Here is a homemade, not so great translation of that VERY STRAIGHTFORWARD Toto interview that I mentioned yesterday.

I’ll put most of it under a cut because it’s long.

Please note that all comments are from the journalist himself and that he is indeed an asshole.

(Source : Le Matin Dimanche, 20.11.22)

Last year, your team felt like they were the victim of a terrible injustice. How can one bounce back from such a situation?

(In perfect French.) Oof, it's a difficult question. (He pauses.) The only way to come back from it is to remember that, after all, it's only sport... The world isn't at stake! But of course, all of us, in the team, we give everything and we all believe in the... "stopwatch's honesty". In Abu Dhabi, the stopwatch wasn't honest. The one who was the fastest (note : Lewis Hamilton) didn't win because of... (Another pause.) Well, the word "mistake" wouldn't be appropriate to describe what happened. It's rather a real scandal. But the worst thing... Was that the entire world, the other teams, the media, everyone decided that that's how it is, and that what had happened, after all, wasn't particularly unacceptable.

What if it was you who had won the title that way?

I think we would have been a lot more humble. We would without a doubt have said that the race gods were on our side that day, but that we understood that it was hard to accept for Red Bull. Whereas last year, on the contrary, the Red Bull people didn't say anything like that. They partied like for a real title won in normal conditions. Frankly, it made our loss even more difficult to digest.

Could such a situation happen again someday?

I don't think so. The situation is much better now, the decisions are taken with more transparency. Everything that has happened around the cost cap affair (note : in which Red Bull has been condemned last month for breaching the budget) showed that the federation now admits its mistakes. Look at what happened with Gasly in Suzuka, the situation has been analysed immediately and the problem corrected (note : when Pierre Gasly found himself on track facing a crane under the Suzuka rain, reminiscent of the accident that caused the death of Jules Bianchi in 2014). Formula 1 needs honest and transparent policemen, and I think it's now the case. I don't believe that what happened in Abu Dhabi could happen again.

Why?

Because that day, several dysfunctions lined up : what the race director did was nonsense, and right after, we filed an appeal with the stewards. They, that night, should have corrected the injustice, that's what they are here for. But, pardon my French, they didn't have the balls to correct the mistake, or to at least send the affair in front of an appeal court. Everyone wanted a champion right away and they decided to confirm the result of the race. Even if it was unfair, and they knew it was.

Do you still think about it?

Always. Every day.

You're leading a 1500 person team. It must sometimes create very difficult challenges...

No, frankly, I don't find my job difficult. I'm at ease, in my comfort zone! Well, there's always decisions to make but that's nothing. You know, in my life, I've known such delicate situations, in my childhood in particular, that this doesn't do anything to me. (Note : his dad suffered from brain cancer and died during his son's teenage years.) This sport, I feel so good in it that I feel no pressure. Of course, being behind the others, like this year, annoys me. But it's a... Let's say positive annoyance. Wanting to beat them excites me.

During the qualifications and the races, when the cameras show you in the garage, you seem impassive. What are you thinking about?

Yes, well, sometimes I react in ways I'm not proud of. (He smiles. He's alluding to the 2021 Saudi Arabian GP, during which he broke his headset in anger.) I try to stay calm and focused. I perceive everything happening around me. It's to stay lucid, to try to manage the best way I can. It's a little bit like a plane pilot : if one panics, one does a bad job. And when I lose my cool, it's when I feel an injustice. When I threw my headset in Jeddah, it was when Verstappen braked right in the middle of the straight and Lewis hit him. I thought our championship chances were lost.

You have a busy life between your Monaco apartment, your Oxford house, your wife who is leading a Formula E team, and your 5 year old son. With next year's 24 grand prix, how will you manage all these lives?

It might look complicated as far as travelling goes, yes. But I have a very stable family situation. My marriage is fantastic, it could not have been better, our organisation is perfect. Monaco is our base, that's where I have my office, where Jack goes to school, where a lady takes care of him when we're gone. But when we're there, we take care of him. As far as personal life goes, I feel on top! At the moment (note : the interview took place in Mexico) Susie and the little one are in Oxford, because there's a school holiday in Monaco. Once I go home, his grandparents will take him camping. He loves it. In the meantime, Susie and I will go to Lisbon for one of our sponsors. Then we will go back to Oxford to get Jack on Sunday and we will be back in Monaco for school. It's our life. We've always done it like this, it runs smoothly.

What regrets do you have?

Oh, a lot! (He laughs.) I could have taken better decisions sometimes in this or that race, details like that. My biggest regret is that my first marriage didn't work. Because happiness for me is spending time with my family. You know, we spend a lot of days together. When I go to a grand prix, it's minimal service. I leave on Thursday and I'm back Sunday night (note : in private jets, it's faster !). The rest of the time, I'm available for my family.

This year, after 8 titles, you will probably end up third in the constructor standings. It must be difficult...

It's a rather complicated situation. (He thinks.) After that much success, it's normal we felt a drop in enthusiasm in our team. Imagine if you celebrated Christmas 8 times a year rather than once. The eighth time, you probably won't be as excited as the first (note : admitting Christmas excites you in the first place). What motivates me, as I said, is precisely trying to get back to winning.

Why didn't it work this year?

We lost because we didn't predict the consequences of the regulation changes that happened this winter correctly (note : with the return of the ground effect). We didn't see the porpoising (note : the bouncing) coming, neither in the wind tunnel, nor in the simulations. It surprised us. For me, it was difficult to see our engineers not understanding what was happening. But to get back on top, the whole team is even more motivated now than during our successful years. Winning in F1, it's only about mastering the laws of physics, there's no mystique in it!

What do you think of the whimsical outfits worn by your driver, Lewis Hamilton ? Do you also sometimes allow yourself some fashion whims?

Mmmh, I have to tell you what happened this summer. (He smiles.) I was in Los Angeles to visit my eldest son, who studies there. That evening, I was in a restaurant with a shirt given to me by Daniel Ricciardo, with a rather fancy design – I love his clothing line. The Mercedes photograph was there, he's an artist. He gave me Oakley glasses, 80's style, took a picture of me and posted it on our Instagram account. Susie called me immediately to tell me I looked like an idiot, that I looked like Borat... All this to say I need to accept that I am a certain age, and so I cannot wear just anything I want like Lewis does! But I try to stay young, at least in my head. And I put hydrating creams on my face, it's an advice from Lewis. I do what he tells me to...

What does Lewis represent for the Mercedes team?

Lewis has an immense place in our team. More than that : he's an integral part of it. And he's going to stay for a long time, believe me. Formula 1 is his life... And we will get that eighth title together!

[shirtgate]

SCHULOTT [2020] — The Great War