#f1 rpf (i guess)

[ronniespeterson]

honey, take my picture - sebastian vettel x reader

A/N: Hi! Making shaky steps back into the world of F1 RPF for the first time in a few years! Hope you enjoy and requests are open!

you're a photographer who is brought in by the aston martin team to chronicle their first season with sebastian vettel

you know a bit about f1 and are aware of who he is, of course

you go to the first race in bahrain and are introduced to the whole team

and finally you meet seb

and he's completely charming, of course

you can't help have a bit of a crush on him, but you know you have to be professional and objective

and so you power through it and take some of the best photographs of your life that weekend

they start to appear on AM's social media and everyone is praising you

the photos are even brought up in an interview with seb at the portuguese grand prix

where he says "y/n is an incredibly talented photographer and artist, she definitely makes me look my best"

you're super flattered by it but also don't think anything of it

despite your ongoing crush on seb

you can't tell if you're imagining things

but seb's always close to you during race briefings and team meetings

he always seems to be sitting next to you

or he's near you

he's happy to pose for hundreds of photos for you and nobody else

when he makes the podium at azerbaijan you're over the moon for him

you've got your camera out snapping away during the celebrations at the podium and in the garage

eventually, you're dragged out celebrating with everyone

and you find yourself in the quietest corner of the bar with seb

"not really your scene either?"

"i've seen pictures from your red bull days, seb, i know you can party with the best of them"

"i've grown up a lot since then. wanna get out of here?"

"sure"

you and seb wander back towards the hotel you're both staying in, through the lamplit streets of baku

you stop and look over the caspian sea, the lights of the skyscrapers glittering

you turn to look at seb and find he's looking at you

and then he's kissing you

slowly and gently and nervously

you respond after a second and kiss him back

arms around his neck

"i think i know what the real prize was today" he murmurs between kisses

the two of you eventually make it back to the hotel

and you wake up next to him in his room the next morning, happier than you've ever been before

[motof1bfs]

open the image for better quality bc tumblr isss annoying me ^^ - 🏍

[imeriayapping]

Okay so here a list of all my fic ideas, please send ask's if you want to know more abt them! Some are fully written, some are just ideas, some have elaborate plot already and some i thought of just today lol

Secretly married loscar

Sailor Logan and syren oscar

Loscar where logan is helmet artist

Merlin au with reincarnations

Body swap soulmate au

Colton x logan university au

Colton x logan just vibing in f1 paddock and choosing to ne a bit silly

Lando + loscar where he falls in love bc logan is very attentive and it makes him pay attention

Loscar with soulmarks that get visible when they are touched by the soul

Loscar university au where logan is in frat house but oscar doesn't know that

A fic baced on Logan's "It's like we can't get away from eachother"

F1 driver logan x MotoGP rider oscar

Logan getting transparent with time

Brocedes parenting Logan

Brocedes and tattoos

[fabbyf1]

Use Your Hands (And My Spare Time)

“You want GP to sit in a chair and... what? Watch me fuck you?” 

“Yes,” Charles replied grumpily. 

“And you want him to talk me through it like I’m on a hot lap?” 

“Yes!” Charles said, a little less grumpy and more relieved.

"You want Gianpiero Lambiase to tell me how to fuck you,” Max clarified.

OR: The GP Fic™

Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen/Gianpiero Lambiase | 15k | Read on AO3

Part III of lestappen + guest series.

[complementaryhalves]

okay but has anyone written about lando fingering oscar with the pole ring still on???? i need it. for.... science. please?

[alpinelogy]

I wrote this like two or three days ago but was just too shy to post it but fuck it we ball

Sargebon fans I wrote a thing

But Logan does not ask for that. Logan does not ask for that because he does not know how, and does not think he can ask for it. That would be too much. He was always told he is a bit too much. And even if not directly, there are only so few people who never looked at him like he was too much.

sargebon, rated m, 3.1k words

[c2-eh]

strayed red strings on ao3

hanahaki disease series, charles leclerc/carlos sainz jr, 24.7k, completed. posted in 2022, edited in 2024

part 1 - you made flowers grow in my lungs; charles' pov, 12.1k, M

Charles' eyes water from the force of his coughing and gagging. He tried to supress it, but to no avail. His throat was hurting so, so much. If Charles were to explain the pain, he’d say it felt as if somone put embers in it. Hot, scratching and burning his throat. His hands were clutching the sink of his bathroom, while he tried to breathe through his nose. This was getting harder each day and he hasn’t even reached the last stage. Or: Charles has Hanahaki disease and tries to deal with it without telling Carlos.

part 2 - a bouquet of unsaid i love yous; post hanahaki, carlos' pov, 12.6k, E

Carlos loved flowers, always found them beautiful when he was younger. He was the kind of guy to buy flowers for his mom, sisters or his significant other just to see a smile blossom on their faces the same way those flowers did. It probably came from the times when he was a little kid – growing up, he usually saw his father giving flowers to his mom, whether it was on some special occasion, or it was just ordinary day and he wanted to show his love to her. However, Carlos hates flowers now.

[wisteriagoesvroom]

promptfill for @clearlyclairesblog!

P.s. I don’t know if this is the direction you wanted, but here is what I ran with…

++

Mercado lestappen Rated G for general audience vibes (and a bit of angst) Minor mentions of drinking 1.2k words (Also readable on ao3)

The supermarket is playing a mariachi cover of a radio song that Charles doesn’t know the name of, nor does he particularly care to. In the last year since he’s been to Central America he’s been racing in what the newspapers would call “beautifully”, “at a level that hasn’t been seen in over seven years” — and if the Twittersphere is also to be believed, “b for big slay”. But apparently it still, still! isn’t enough to beat the number one two nights ago at the Autódromo.

Charles swats away the thoughts. This is not time to dwell on the bad race. He is here to try and forget the bad race. He rubs his eyes and holds a bottle of what he thinks is tequila, the words abstract on the amber bottle. The lights are too bright in here, and the aisles too colourful. Driving on the track suits Charles because he can expend his energy hyper focused on what he needs to do, where he needs to go. It gives his anxiety a channel of relief, where high octane and being rabbit-quick serves a glorious purpose.

Here, in the real world, sometimes he is not so sure.

There are too many soda options that could go with the bottle that he's holding. (It behooves him, a son of Monaco, to at least have some kind of chaser. To keep this nominally classy, to make this self-pity show not entirely pathetic. Even Charles when sad has standards. Maybe grapefruit jarritos would make a good accompaniment for tequila and depression?)

Andrea would probably kill him, but whatever. There’s a reason Charles left the whole team at the hotel, wandered off with a cap and big hoodie in search of quiet time. Besides, abstinence from indulgence, in all its forms still hasn’t gotten Charles any further in the standings compared to last year. So he deserves a little boozy soda, non?

Of course, to add insult to injury, Max Verstappen’s face stares at him from a can of Red Bull. And of course Charles can’t help but laugh. Of all the endorsements in the world, of all the people to see now, it is the cause of his despair, Satan on hot wheels himself who deigns to make an appearance to haunt him in the Fresko.

That is what breaks him. It starts as a giggle, ends with his face buried in his hands, and Charles wonders what the world would make of him having un petit meltdown in the middle of a suburban supermarket.

“What the hell?”

The voice knocks him right off kilter. He would know that voice anywhere. No, it could not be.

But when Charles looks up, there he is. His rival, in the flesh. Equally in a cap and dark hoodie, holding a loaf of bread and a six-pack of Corona under one arm.

“Is that bread?” Charles says. He doesn’t know what to say, really. They do not share much off the track, him and Max. They live in the same city, but don’t cross paths. They are born sixteen days apart, but besides racing have almost nothing in common. They carted together for over a decade, fought in F1 together for almost another more and somehow Max has over quadruple the WCs and Charles has nothing to show for it except a couple of podiums, and maybe a lot of shame. (He tries not to think too much about the shame.)

Max, to his credit, doesn’t seem particularly ruffled about any of this. These days, Max has mellowed out, grown from defensive boy to assertive man, relaxed in his shoulders, laughs a little more easily. In contrast Charles finds himself trying not to sink into his car, to tell himself to smile more genuinely for the cameras that are now starting to feel more and more like a burden rather than anything fun, because years of expectation and being told you’re a winner, and for it to never be true, can gnaw at your self-esteem like that.

Slightly further down the aisle from him, Max tilts his head. “I was hungry.”

“That’s fair.”

“And thirsty.”

“Me too.”

Charles doesn’t miss the way Max’s eyes flick down to the shopping basket and back up.

“That bad, huh?”

That bad? Charles fumes to himself. Max doesn’t know what it’s like, he couldn’t possibly imagine what it’s like, to always be second, to aim for something and fight for it so hard, only for it to still fall out of reach—

“You raced really well.” Max says, factually. As if the sky were blue, as if the supermarket did not at all intellectually or spiritually affect his cognitive functions like it already has thrown Charles for a loop. Max pronounces his assessment as if it were an absolute, which is Max’s power, you see. To take destiny by it’s teeth and force it to heel.

“Evidently, what I did was not enough.” Charles says.

“You took every line that was needed.”

“I did.”

“Your tyre management has been the best I’ve ever seen it.”

“Thanks. But you were better.”

“Yes. I’m not going to apologise for that. You know well, how it is.”

Charles laughs, low, a little bitter. Yes, he does know well, how it is. “The rest of us are mice. Scrambling around the ankles of an elephant.”

Max, for his part, seems to chew on this. Shifting the bread a little higher in the crook of his elbow, eyes glancing but not really looking at the cans in the aisle. The music plays on for a few moments in the background, a cheery tune with lots of fast strumming. It’s a minor miracle that they’ve not been spotted, but this late at night, it seems the only person around is the disinterested cashier who is filing her nails at the checkout.

Somewhere in the distance the cashier coughs. Max taps the side of his thigh with his index finger, once, twice. Neither of them seems to know what to say.

Finally, Max yanks a Red Bull can off the shelf, closes the distance, and drops it right into Charles’s basket. This close, Charles can see the proud tilt of Max’s chin, the brown flecks in the other man’s eyes.

“A chaser.” Max says. Both of them aware of the double meaning. The drinks, their history.

Charles swallows. So fine, maybe it because it’s 2am, or maybe it’s the desperation. Here, face to face with Max, away from the cameras and the rest of the world, they can slow their strange dance, and Charles is able to say what he has really wanted to say. He wills it into his mind with more iron and fury than he truly feels.

“I will beat you one day, you know.”

His blood swims with it. He wills it to settle, to become familiar with the feeling, asserting himself in this way, speaking what he really means.

In turn, Max smiles. Genuine, this time, crinkling to the corner of his eyes. The rare ones he grants to the rest of the competitors on the couch after a good race, when he’s come off the track with fantastic pace. The one he has when he waves to his nephews.

Max doesn’t back off at all. He leans even closer. (Charles could count every lash. Tucks it away somewhere secret, somewhere with sharp edges that he can’t look too closely at, yet.)

“Absolutely, Charles.” Max says, all conspiratorial. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

[ctimenefic]

George's damp bright eyes in Saudi are giving me such selkie feelings:

Ten year old Alex finding a funny stretch of cloth on a Norfolk beach holiday and taking it home. His parents are fighting, but the cloth is warm and somehow loving when he wraps it over his shoulders like a cape. A week later a tiny George shows up at the karting track, his whole heart in his eyes

George doesn't go looking for his pelt, even when he stays round at Alex's, because the salt scrape itch of missing it is almost soothed by Alex's skin on his when their arms brush and their ankles tangle, and he can't give that up, not yet.

It takes him years to realise it wasn't on purpose. George asks Alex at fifteen "But when are you going to marry me" and he aches at Alex's forced laughter. He starts giving Alex books of folktales, and hoping.

Alex doesn't open them. He doesn't want to know. (He knows.)

It folds, the pelt. Soft and smooth and small enough to squeeze into a suitcase. When he's called up to Red Bull he sleeps with it under his pillow and it calms his dreams. It smells like the sea, and samphire.

Just a few more races. Just until things settle down. Just until he has a seat again, until the car improves, until the points add up-

Toto can't understand the look in George's eyes, dead and blank and far away and still somehow the worst he's ever been, when he tells him not to let it get to him. To grow a thicker skin.

The inland races hurt the most, when George can't get an hour away to soak up seawater. Every driver loves Monaco, but he loves it the most. The desert's not so bad, though. He's used to feeling like he's wading through sand.

Then George shows up at Alex's door, practically on his knees. Barely coherent, but Alex hears "I need it." And Alex shushes him, and kisses him, and fucks him so sweetly, and still doesn't give it back. The salt of George's tears on his face is almost enough.

Alex doesn't dare swim in the sea now. There's too many things that hate him there.

[gokartkid]

max/daniel ageswap (daniel the rbr rookie with max the multiple wdc)

The Australian anthem is playing tinnily across the speakers and Daniel feels like he’ll never stop smiling.

He keeps trying to close his mouth, breathe in and look serious, but every time he stops focussing his mouth splits open again, muscles in his cheek pulling up and up. His hair is drenched with sweat and champagne, a sweet salty flavour on his tongue. 

His arms are crossed behind his back and he keeps leaning forward onto his toes, cracking the knuckles of his fingers. There’s so much energy inside of him that’s itching to burst, he can’t control it.

He tips his head back to stare at the sky, closes his eyes against the ferocious blue, white hot sun on his face. People are cheering beneath him, hands reaching up and up towards the sky. He cracks his eyes and looks down, searching in the crowd. 

Max is already looking up at him, smiling. 

There’s something certain, and soft in his gaze; pride, says Daniel’s brain. His shoulders are broad and strong where he’s standing, feet shoulder-width apart, one hand curled over the barricade. 

He hadn’t finished the race - a mechanical issue - there are headphones around his neck from where he’d been plugged into team radio. He doesn’t look as upset as Daniel thought he would be. 

He mouths something at Daniel and he squints, brain whirring by too fast to interpret the movement of his mouth, his lips. 

“Congratulations,” he finally sees, Max leaning forward, “you deserve it.”

“Thank you,” Daniel doesn’t know how to encompass the largeness of the feeling inside him as he says it, mouthing the words, “thank you.”

He might cry, or laugh. Maybe both. Fuck.

When he hefts the trophy into the air, pumping the other fist to cheers from the Red Bull team— and equally from Toro Rosso standing beside them, the team that had been his first home — he feels like he can’t breathe enough to fill all the space in his chest, punches at the skin above his heart. 

Daniel Ricciardo, Formula 1 race winner, his first year in a top team. This is what it’s all been for. 

Max pulls him into a hug once they’re sequestered away from the cameras— all of the post-race kerfuffle taken care of. Daniel leans his forehead into his shoulder, doesn’t care if it crosses boundaries; he feels like if there’s ever been an opportunity for him to step across the careful, unspoken line in the sand, it's now.

Max’s hand is a large, warm pressure against his back, his shoulder blade where he’s rubbing up and down. Daniel breathes shakily into his fireproofs.

“Sorry you didn’t finish,” Daniel says, breathlessly looking up.

“It’s alright,” Max shrugs, smiles, “I’ve won lots.”

I’ll win more, is what Daniel hears.

He’s never quite gotten over his hero-worship crush on Max. Watching him as he was racing in the feeder series, the Red Bull champion, pumping his fists in the air after every win, accolades stacking at his feet. Knowing, not egotistically, just knowing, that they would be teammates one day. That they had to be teammates one day. 

Crush feels like too high-school of a word to describe what he feels about Max. Or maybe it’s just right, crush, the squeezing muscle right behind his heart. 

He wants to kiss him. Max’s wide mouth, smiling now, hair still tousled from his helmet, cheeks flushed. He wants to kiss him more than anything— the adrenaline in his body almost pushing him too— if there’s ever been a moment to its now.

Daniel leans forward and pushes his face into the warm curve of Max’s neck, hugs him hard, as if the pressure of his arms would be enough to get this feeling out of him. 

Max holds him.

“Where will you put it,” Daniel hears him say, the buzz of his voice right next to his ear.

“What?”

“The trophy,” Max says, patiently. Daniel can hear him smiling.

Daniel pulls himself back to look at it where he’d set it down on the ground, trophy glinting in the dim lighting. 

“I dunno,” he says, frowning, “probably in the cabinet where I have like, other ones. Obviously this ones bigger though so.”

He shrugs.

Max’s mouth pulls up in one corner, eyes crinkling in the way they do when he’s about to make a stupid joke. Daniel can tell.

“Well,” he says, draws it out, “they do say the bigger the trophy—“

He breaks off laughing, can’t even make it through the delivery. Daniel laughs too, honking, and feels like some kind of dam breaks in his chest, stomach-hurting-bending-over laughter from an objectively bad joke. He can just see Max bent over through his squinting gaze, his hair falling unruly over his forehead, hands braced on his knees, fingers clenched in navy blue material. 

The sound of the outside world is muffled, and it’s just their laughter echoing around the space for now, bouncing off of scaffolding and concrete and spare tyres. 

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Daniel says finally, wheezes it out, “the bigger the trophy? Really?”

“Hey,” Max shrugs, has to pull a hand down his face to try stop himself from laughing any more, “you laughed.”

“I did laugh,” Daniel concedes. He always does. 

[effervescentdragon]

For the prompt game:

'Dont i have the right to know? + pairing of your choice 👀

this is, subjectively, the worst thing i've ever written. <3

The news breaks in the paddock first.

Maybe it doesn't, though. Maybe it breaks in gossip magazines, or trash tabloids, or whatever else people read. Charles doesn't know because it's not for him to know. He has people to deal with those things. People to tell him what's being said, what's happening, what he needs to know and what he needs to pretend not to know.

"Did you see the news about Seb?" Carlos says, and Charles' heart speeds up because the Mercedes seat is open still, and - "- didn't think he was the type," Carlos continues, and Charles didn't hear what - "was gonna be Rosberg, or Jenson."

"What?" Charles says, because he didn't hear, but then Silvia storms into the room and goes straight for Charles.

"Did you know about this?" she asks, and he doesn't like the gleam in her eye.

"About what?" Charles repeats, pissed off now because nobody is telling him anything, except it's something about Seb, and he doesn't -

"The divorce," Silvia says, finally, with a little cruel twist to her mouth and Charles doesn't remember anything except stammering a weak and truthful "No" and then being pulled into a meeting on how to deal with the press and the questions and many things that Charles can't remember, because his brain is on a loop of divorce-divorce-Seb is getting a divorce.

-

Everybody is talking about it and Charles isn't thinking about it.

"Had no idea," he says to Alex. "We don't talk that much," he repeats to both Max and Lando. "I don't know why," he rolls his eyes at Carlos and George. "I'd tell you if I knew," he lies to Piere, and then goes to stand by himself on the truck before the race.

He waves at the fans and ignores everything until there's a bump at his hip. He looks down and it's Lewis, waving the same way Charles is, his eyes on the crowd.

"You didn't know," he says with a fake smile, and Charles forces himself not to react.

"No," is all Charles can say, shaking his head a little. "Haven't heard from him in a while."

Lewis hums. "Makes sense," he says, chuckling a little, and then Valtteri comes over an Charles wants to shake Lewis because, how the fuck does it make sense? It fucking doesn't, none of this makes sense and it's not - Charles doens't - how could -

The race, Charles thinks. The race first, everything else second. Racing first. Always.

Charles is a racing driver first. Always.

-

He misses the podium for a breath.

He doese everything right, answers the questions, gives feedback, it's all fine, it's all alright, he's handling it all well, another missed podium, another shit race, another question, another thing to deal with, it's fine, it's all good -

-he slams the door in Andrea's face.

"I'm fine!" he yells, and he'll apologize, he just needs a fucking moment alone.

The floor is hard under his thighs but he can't drag himself to the couch yet. It's fine. He taps on the phone screen next to him. Andrea must have given it to him. Charles doesn't remember.

He scrolls for too long and sends the message before he can calm down.

didnt i have the right to know??

He's not expecting a response. He isn't. He's trained himself out of that a long while ago.

The phone lights up.

I didn't know how to tell you.

No apology. No nothing. Charles scoffs, his hands shaking.

oh i dont know, maybe when u were fucking me in sicily last

or fucking me in monaco

or when i was fucking you in switserland

at any point then would be ok

There's sweat running down his face. His overalls are too heavy. He also needs to pee.

He leans back onto the door, staring at the screen. There's a lot of notifications, but it can all wait.

This can't.

I'm sorry about your race. You deserved a podium.

He stares at the screen incredulously.

fuck you seb

i deserved to know

He mutters a curse in Italian as he grabs for the water bottle and drinks some more. He doesn't have much more time.

He isn't expecting an answer. He isn't. There is no point expecting anything from Seb. Never was.

I know.

There's nothing left to say. Charles should get up and change and open the door for Andrea and Joris and whoever else is waiting for him. There's nothing else Seb will say.

Charles should get up and leave his phone.

Charles should block Sebastian Vettel's number and never talk to him again.

The phone lights up.

I can tell you in England? That's where I'm moving, for a while.

Charles should do a lot of things that he doesn't.

-

"-and get my phone," Charles shouts, halfway through the door.

Andrea sighs fondly and leans down, picking up Charles' phone from the floor.

It's unlocked. Andrea doesn't want to look, but his eyes are faster than his fingers and he catches the last two messages before the screen goes black.

i'll come between two headers

I am counting on it ;-)

[celientjeee]

So.. I just opened google docs..

I don't know what happened really, but my brain needed a distraction and there it was. It's only like 500 words so far, but I have more in me.

The question is... Do you guys want a lil Sargebon fic about this weekend?

[sargebutton]

own me, i’ll let you play the role

logan/lance | F/F | Rated E

written with @colors-of-feeling

tags: vampires, meet cute more like meet freak, unreliable narrator

[leversainz]

i can’t be the one to write gax size kink porn but i need it

[randomartblogowo]

Day 912 of voting magnussen ☺️

[skitskatdacat63]

Together <3