#hypersoft week one

[hypersoft-fest]

Finally, week one prompts are out!

From August 1st to 10th, your prompts are:

Historical/Regency Novel Magical Realism

Your bonus challenges are, this time, a trope and a palette:

TROPE: Enemies to Lovers PALETTE: #FACAD7 #4BC6B9 #92374AD #6A7FDB #FFE787

If you have any questions, you can shooot us an ask or you can join our DISCORD SERVER. Also, you can check out our PINTEREST BOARD for inspiration.

[chaoticnandovibes]

Nostalgia (LandOscar)

My fic submission for @hypersoft-fest week one with this amazing book cover created by @rubywingsracing!! Enjoy 🧡

Fic summary below the break:

Shoved harshly to his knees before the King with his arms bound behind his back, Oscar keeps his head down low, his hair causing a short brown curtain to obscure his face from the man who now holds his fate in the palm of his hand...

[your-ace-cousin-clover]

"From the beginning I knew my destination, and I chose my route accordingly. But am I working toward an extreme of joy, or of pain? Will I achieve a minimum, or a maximum?"

Early concept paintings for "The Story of Your Life" starring Sergio Perez and Max Verstappen.

___

For @hypersoft-fest week 2: science-fiction

[racingliners]

Feeling so truly grateful for f1blr and my little corner of it and my beloved moots this evening 💚

[alpinelogy]

The Anatomy of a Formula One Car - first three editions

@hypersoft-fest week 6: Covers without Characters challenge. Inspired by textbooks

Closeups under the cut

[princemick]

@hypersoft-fest week 3: Detective stories + modern book cover

Multi-21 by Christian Horner

In the world of Formula One, honesty, team relationships and working together is a first priority for many. For others winning means everything. When one day two of the best race, fight and argue it ends without a crash but a mystery of betrayal follows the drivers. Will they find out why and how it happened, will a solution be found and will they ever meet again?

[shovson]

@hypersoft-fest week 3: detective stories

IT TAKES TWO

After an impromptu race briefing in Shov's hotel room, Jenson and Bono are woken up by a loud banging on the hotel door in the dead of night.  They open the door and discover an equally anxious Rubens and Riki that meet them with odd and worrying news.  Almost the entire paddock is missing. Engineers. Drivers. Team principals. Team heads. Car designers. Gone. With only twelve hours until the race begins and the press catches on, the surviving pairs must investigate the whereabouts of every missing person in order to ensure they're found safe and alive.  With Jenson and Rubens leading the charge, Riki and Bono hope to help push their drivers in the right direction before time runs out. Every second counts. As the four dig deeper into the mystery, they uncover a web of crimes and corruption behind the motorsport they exist in and begin to answer the question: in Formula One, who really wins?

[milflewis]

@hypersoft-fest week 2: cowboy romance & sci-fi

Lewis Hamilton/Sebastian Vettel, 1k, stuck together

FADE IN:

INT. CANTINA – OUTER RIM – NIGHT  

WE OPEN on a cantina, on the planet, SELVERA, known for around the solar year brutal storms and endless oceans. The structure is precarious, built on wooden stilts in the middle of the sea. The walls shake and shudder with the waves.

The air is thick with saltwater and spice smoke. The room is dimly lit. Most of the tables are occupied.

The door flies open, banging the wall, and SEBASTIAN (20), smiling, steps in. His boots leave wet footprints as he walks up to the bar. Not even his scuffed hat could keep the rain off his face.

SEBASTIAN

Hearthbrew. Thank you.

JENSON (29), flashy, laughs from across the room. His blond hair is cut close to his skull.

JENSON

You even old enough to smell that, mate?

A few laugh around the room. Most don’t bother looking up from their drinks.

SEBASTIAN

We friends, mate?

JENSON

Hmm, don’t think so. I’d ask if you’d like to be but teenagers aren’t really our speed.

SEBASTIAN

(laughing)

I’m twenty!

LEWIS (24), steady, leans back in his chair. His arm brushes against JENSON’s. There is a long white scar curling around his left eye and down his cheek.

LEWIS

Jense. Leave him be.

JENSON settles, tipping SEBASTIAN a wink. The blasters on their hips are military grade. This does not escape SEBASTIAN’s notice. Nor do the matching prancing horse matches sewn on the upper arms of their damp coats.

SEBASTIAN takes his drink. It already begins to warm his fingers. He knows that horse. The entire galaxy knows that animal.

CUT TO:

INT. CANTINA - TIMESKIP – THREE HOURS

It is noticeably emptier. The storm is still raging outside. SEBASTIAN has finished his drink, and two others, along with a bowl of stew. He heads for the door.

JENSON

(waving a pack of battered cards)

Care for a game, mate?

SEBASTIAN turns back around. LEWIS says nothing, watching. The rings on his hands gleam with every flash of lightning.

SEBASTIAN

Just one.

JENSON

Of course, wouldn’t want you to miss your bedtime, now, would we?

LEWIS rolls his eyes, smiling. SEBASTIAN wonders what his laugh sounds like.

CUT TO:

EXT. SPACEPORT – BRAXIS – DUSK – FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

BRAXIS is a near barren planet, with rocky mountains and a surface burnt by long ago warfare. The local spaceport is an overcrowded sprawling complex, every terminal full with loading vessels and starships. Because of its position on the nebulous border between the INNER and OUTER RIM, it is commonly used by smugglers.

Alarms break through the night, followed quickly by shouting and yelling. Patrols of armed guards are seen running through the streets as a fire in the distance grows steadily. The dark sky stretches on.

CUT TO:

INT. SPACEPORT STORAGE ROOM – BRAXIS – DUSK

LEWIS, worn, frustrated, sits slumped on the floor, back to the wall. There is no longer a patch on the sleeve of his jacket. SEBASTIAN, older, frantic, is crouched by the door’s terminal, tapping at the screen.

SEBASTIAN

Fucking hate – what ever happened to normal locks, for the life of me, I don’t know –

LEWIS opens his eyes. He says nothing.

The terminal sparks warningly. SEBASTIAN flinches away and sighs. He sprawls against the opposite wall, needing a break. Silence hangs between them.

SEBASTIAN

I saw you out there, before – um. I saw you. You’re still flying that old ship of yours?

LEWIS

(shrugs)

BONO is reliable.

He does not need to say the words: unlike you.

SEBASTIAN

Yeah. Honestly, I didn’t expect to ever see you again. Let alone on Braxis of all places. Thought you were done with this life?

LEWIS

I was, yeah. I am. Still wanted though, aren’t I? Can’t do places that ask too many questions, or even ones that ask just the one. BONO needed some repairs that I had to dock her for, so. Here I am.

SEBASTIAN

Here you are.

LEWIS

No, just, no. Don’t start.

SEBASTIAN

I didn’t even say –

LEWIS

Don’t even try that – you know – just. Stop. I’m fine, okay? I am doing fine. I just want to be left alone, okay, so. Stop.

LEWIS sets his jaw. SEBASTIAN doesn’t let himself look away this time. He wants to bring up JENSON, who never would’ve left LEWIS alone. He also knows it would mean LEWIS would be lost to him forever.

SEBASTIAN

(soft)

I understand that, I do. And I didn’t mean to – I don’t mean to drag you back into anything. I, uh, I’d say ‘I promise’ but that’d require you trusting me and. Yeah. I know. I’m, I’m just sorry, Lewis. I’m sorry.

LEWIS’s eyes are dark.

LEWIS

(tired)

I know.

SEBASTIAN fidgets with the ends of his sleeves.

SEBASTIAN

You know, I’m thinking of maybe getting out of the game too.

LEWIS has an incredulous look on his face. He exaggerates looking around their cramped situation, alarms muffled but audible still ringing outside.

SEBASTIAN

I said I’m thinking about it!

LEWIS

Right. You’d be bored shitless, man.

SEBASTIAN

I would not.

LEWIS

I’d give you a month. Two max.

SEBASTIAN kicks LEWIS lightly in the foot.

SEBASTIAN

I’d give myself at least seven. It takes a while to set up a farm, you know.

LEWIS bursts out laughing. SEBASTIAN’s fingers are all warm and itchy. He feels fifteen years younger.

LEWIS

A farm?

SEBASTIAN

Well, I’ll need something to do, wouldn’t I? And I like animals.

LEWIS

 Mhmm, sure.

SEBASTIAN

I do!

The terminal hums suddenly, blinking green, and the door unlatches. LEWIS and SEBASTIAN sit very still, listening for the alarms outside that have fallen silent. They are left watching each other watch each other.

LEWIS

(getting to his feet)

See you around.

SEBASTIAN has never had to be the one watching LEWIS leave before.

SEBASTIAN

I miss you.

It isn’t a lie. It also isn’t fair. LEWIS lets SEBASTIAN get away with it. He always does.

LEWIS

Let me know how that farm of yours turn out. If you want.

SEBASTIAN

I will.

[sacharowan]

Daylight

Mark has never liked Monaco. Still, Jenson was very insistent. Mark does not want to be a suitor for the Prince Regent Charles Leclerc. In fact, he wants nothing to do with the country at all - there's something rotten going on here and Mark wants no part of it. Trouble finds him anyway. Charles could do without this whole entertaining and finding a husband thing. He doesn't need it, he doesn't want it and he has bigger problems to deal with, like the assassination plot brewing under the surface. It's kill or be killed and Charles really would rather not. However, this option is too good to refuse. marchal regency au that's supposed to be romance but somehow got involved with regicide. idk either

written for the @hypersoft-fest week 1: historical fiction

ao3

6.6k

Mark knows what Monaco’s like, knows the money that lines these walls is as tainted as the family, but beauty obscures it from the public eye. Look at the Crown Prince, Leclerc. In Mark’s eyes, the most beautiful jewel in the whole Palace, and the most dangerous.

He’s not one to believe in rumours or stories but he does know that this place hides more than a few skeletons. Nothing that beautiful can ever be all that good.

Leclerc is undeniably gorgeous though, a shimmering beauty among all this ostentatious wealth, and apparently looking for a husband. According to Monegasque traditions, he's far too old (and probably far too pretty) to remain single and rule the country by himself. The council want him to find a husband, another pocket to have his hands in, more for the Principality. More, more, more, it's all these European royals want.

Again, Mark knows how this works. He’s been around long enough: it’s the same situation Seb had, albeit with a larger country and a smaller fortune. Jenson was easy for Seb. Mark isn’t like that. He won’t be like that for the Prince.

"Lord Mark Webber," Mark sweeps into a low bow in front of the throne, blinded briefly by the sparkles of the stones in Leclerc's crown. The Prince fits in wonderfully amongst the priceless gems. Mark may not like it but he knows how to play along, how to perform the theatrics they're all really watching for. It's a performance and he's sure Leclerc is easy enough to fool. "A pleasure to meet you, your Majesty."

It’s not intended as a snub (at least not fully) when Mark pulls away before the Prince can extend his hand for him to kiss. Again: not easy. He won’t make the same mistakes Jenson made. He is not blindly loyal and he will not promise anything to this man, with words or with a kiss. Mark knows better than that.

There are many people who are easily blinded by Monaco’s wealth; Mark Webber is not one of them. Charles could've figured this out himself, but Seb's mischievous whispering next to him pointed it out before. "Look at the way he scans the room, watching everything." Charles has never dug deep into the history between Mark and Seb - he knows there's wounds deep enough to still sting, things not to be touched - but the easy read Seb still has on Mark after years of distance suggests something more than friendship.

"Is he paranoid?" Charles asks, even though he knows the answer. Mark isn't paranoid but he is wary, especially of things dressed up in pretty parcels. The way he greeted Charles was enough to discern that. Seb is smart enough to figure out what exactly Charles means by that question anyway.

"No. Cautious though. He doesn't trust Monaco - never has," Seb adds flippantly, "and he doesn't trust you."

That much is obvious to Charles – the way Mark pulled away from him suggested anything but trust, distaste even. Charles rests his head on his hand, still studying Mark. He’s very interesting. “No surprises there then.”

“There’s no surprises with Mark. Ever.” Jenson now joins in, pressing a kiss to his husband’s cheek. Charles remembers their wedding, grand and glorious and beautiful. The love between them is plain for anyone to see and Charles can only hope he has something even close to that level of devotion. “He’s good though. Safe, comfortable, loyal.” That’s the important bit for Jenson to emphasise, “Whatever you want to call it, Charles.”

Charles appreciates his friends’ attempts to at least try and convince him to take this whole husband search seriously, but he hasn’t quite managed it yet. It’s unnecessary in his eyes, this tradition that he must be married to run the country effectively. He’s been Crown Prince (even before he took over), and Prince Regent for at least half of that time. If he didn’t know what he was doing by now, Monaco would’ve been in ruins, up in flames several years ago when Seb left for the last time. As it currently stands, they’re in the best place they’ve ever been in. Due to no one’s influence but Charles’. “’Safe’.” What does Jenson mean by that?

“He’d be good for the country, the council would like him.” Jenson pauses and seems to consider his next words carefully. “He’d be good for you, I think, Charles.”

Charles doesn’t respond. If the goal is to appease the council – to appease him, he doesn’t care if whoever he chooses is good for him. He is not the defining factor in this equation (no matter that it’s his life and his crown and his country): all he needs to do is please the council. “Charles?” Seb’s voice breaks through his thoughts, “you okay, sweetheart?”

“Fine.” He is fine, it’s not a lie. For now. Because he – Mattia, the King, as Charles is supposed to call him – isn’t here, Seb is here and he’s missed him so much, and this situation happening right now is in his control. “I’m going to talk to Mark.”

A hush falls over the ballroom as Prince Regent Charles Leclerc descends from his dais at the head of the room. All eyes on him now, all of them watching him – the man who holds all the cards and none of the power.

Their eyes are all glued to Leclerc, Mark’s included. He can’t look away, magnetised by this enigma approaching him. Oh shit. Mark has to talk to him. Leclerc wants to talk to him? This is Seb’s fault, he’s pretty sure. He flicks his eyes back over to the dais where Seb is sitting and grinning smugly, Jenson shaking his head lovingly beside him. Yeah, this is Seb’s fault.

Mark doesn’t get a chance to speak first. “You called me ‘your majesty’.”

“Is that not what you are?” What is Leclerc getting at here? What has Mark done?

“I’m not the King, Lord Webber.” As is often the case, Mark flinches at the address. He hates the title. Not good enough for a King or a Prince and too much to remain a Knight. It’s a cruel reminder.

“You are the acting King, your Highness.”

“Don’t let Mattia hear you say that.” Leclerc laughs finally, the distaste showing for the current monarch shining through – something they have in common then. “C’mon, you’re Seb’s friend, aren’t you Mark?” He shivers at his name coming off Charles’ lips – he wants to hear it more often, “Call me Charles.”

“I don’t think that would be appropriate, your High—”

“Charles.” Charles insists, grinning wolfishly, “It’s perfectly appropriate if I say it is. If I am the ‘acting King’ as you said.” God, there’s something about Charles that Mark can’t quite figure out but it’s enticing, magnetising. Screw him, he’s curious now. The exact opposite of what he came here expecting (he was dragged here, he didn’t have any expectations, just that Jenson said it’d be fun – Mark’s idea of fun has always been starkly different from Jenson’s).

“Well then, Charles, to what do I owe the pleasure?” What is going on here? Mark doesn’t understand.

“I was just here to wish you a good time. I hope you enjoy the pleasures of Monaco and I hope you find what you’re looking for.” With that cryptic message – what the fuck did Seb tell him – Charles turns back to the party, addressing the swathes of people, “I hope you all enjoy your time here.”

Mark watches Charles slink out of the ballroom to the sounds of rapturous applause. Maybe there is more to discover here than the money.

Charles has known for a very long time that Mattia sees him as a threat. It’s been obvious from the beginning, from the coup he formed, from the way he installed Charles as his second in command in hopes of swaying him to his cause. It hasn’t worked, because Charles is nothing if not loyal and he would never be loyal to the biggest traitor this country has seen. “I know.” He cuts off Jenson’s frantic rambling with a raised palm, “Seb knows too. He’s been trying to do this for years, trying to find any excuse to get rid of me save for outright assassination. He couldn’t deal with the fall out of that.” Charles laughs meanly, “Mattia wants power, as long as I hold the status I do, he will not have it. This marriage is a farce – he wants rid of me and marrying me off to Lewis or Pierre would do that cleanly.”

Seb suddenly stands up, beginning to pace the room. “I didn’t realise it’d gotten worse.” Seb sounds guilty and Charles immediately feels bad. It’s not Seb’s fault – it’s anything but Seb’s fault. “I should’ve been here, I should’ve stayed, I should’ve—”

“Seb.” He freezes his pacing, looking at Charles wide-eyed, as if terrified that he’d do something to him. It’s an expression he’s not seen for so many years, since Mattia first took charge and ousted Seb. How could Charles hurt Seb? God, it’s been too long. “It’s not your fault. It could not be your fault. Honestly, the shit that Mattia wants to do to me, fine, I can deal with it. I am in a safe place because I have my status. He would have just killed you.”

They never spoke about this part, the wounds too raw for Seb still. “What?” Jenson gasps, rushing to embrace his husband. “Seb—what?”

Charles says simply, “You got him out just in time.” A week later, Charles knew Mattia had the ingredients for his plan and he knew that they’d got Seb to safety just in time. After all, killing the King of his own country is a lot worse than just dispatching of a ward. Seb wasn’t at risk anymore, so Mattia has turned his materials on Charles.

“And now he wants to marry you off? So you leave?” Jenson asks incredulously and Charles is reminded that not everyone experienced a power struggle at the age of seven and has been living with the consequences ever since.

“He needs to marry me to a royal, a prince or a king so I leave. Anyone lower ranking would be outstripped by my own rank and I would stay.”

“Shit.” He looks pensive for a moment, “How many options do we have then?”

Charles sighs, “Not many.”

“Mark.” One word from Seb, still cradled in Jenson’s arms. Charles has a feeling that Jenson is going to be keeping a very close eye on his husband while they’re still in Monaco. “He’s low ranking, barely a lord at that.”

“You said he doesn’t trust me.”

“No, but he would. And he’s loyal. We trust him.” Not a surprise from Jenson, but that must mean a lot coming from Seb, considering the history between him and Mark.

“There’s another option.” When both Jenson’s and Charles’ eyes are on him, Seb grins broadly, “How do we kill a king?”

There’s something rotten here, Mark can tell. He’s never been particularly trusting, especially of the glamour and beauty of places like this, but there’s so many things that are just screaming wrong wrong wrong at him. He doesn’t feel safe here and those words from Charles have just helped further unsettle him.

Mark has never liked Monaco. Sure, it’s pretty, and the weather’s good, and there’s an abundance of wealth (in most places). But there’s something off about it.

For Mark, it started properly when Seb came back, from his supposed mentoring of the Crown Prince of Monaco. Charles. Truthfully, Mark has never blamed Charles for what happened to Seb when he was in Monaco. It was like being in a lion’s den, both Charles and Seb competing with each other for favour from the king. Something Charles had already due to his position, something Seb believed he was owed for putting his life on hold to do this.

The King was the next problem. Mattia Binotto was a slippery man; no one knew where he came from, only that he suddenly held all of the power in Monaco and that the previous King had left control of the country in Mattia’s hands. Mark didn’t know Jean Todt very well, he only met the man once, but it doesn’t seem like something he’d do. It’s too much power for one man, let alone someone so unknown like Mattia.

Lazily, Mark swirls around the remaining dregs of ginger beer in his glass and loosens his collar slightly. The rooms are lavish, comfortable and opulent. It’s nice. It’d be nicer still if Mark could get his brain to stop racing.

Suddenly, Mark jolts upright, the liquid remaining in his glass sloshing slightly, “Webber isn’t good enough.” This isn’t a conversation Mark should be overhearing. What the fuck does that mean?

He has half a mind to go and confront whoever it is, get them to explain what they mean by him not being good enough, but something stops him. Good enough for what? For Charles? He already knew that. For his title? Yeah, well, he didn’t want it in the first place. For Monaco? Good, he never liked the place anyway. “We need to move on with it or the King’ll just go for plan B.”

Yeah, this definitely isn’t a conversation he should be overhearing. “He can’t just kill the Prince!” The first voice exclaims. Mark stifles a gasp. What the fuck is going on in Monaco? Killing the Prince? Killing Charles?

“We’re running out of time! Mattia wants results and we either need to get him married or dead. I don’t think he cares either way anymore.”

Mark needs to talk to Charles.

Dancing has never been one of Charles’ favourite things. In fact, he hates it. There is nothing more annoying (except maybe Mattia when he’s in a mood) than pretending he cares long enough to swirl around a dance floor with some hopeful suitor. Charles is not a princess: he does not want to be treated like one.

“Charles!” Lewis, at least, is a breath of fresh air. Someone familiar, someone sensible enough (and besotted with someone else) to not slip into the nets of charm that Charles and Monaco both cast.

“Lewis! Nice to see you.” It’s a familiar dance, the same steps and patterns that were drilled into Charles across years. Lewis is good at dancing anyway, so Charles won’t look too bad – Lewis won’t let him, because if there’s anything Lewis cares about, it’s his image.

“How’s it going then, man, the search for a husband?” He rolls his eyes at the words. Charles is pleased to see that Lewis is taking this as seriously as Charles is. That is to say, not at all. It’s reassuring.

Charles breaks out into a grin, “not at all well, thankfully.” Well, he isn’t necessarily thankful, considering Mattia is going to try and kill him, but he really would rather not get married. “There’s no one ‘suitable’ enough apparently. Except you maybe.” Charles flutters his eyelashes at Lewis playfully, a teasing flirt that is familiar enough between them by now.

“Aw, Charles.” Lewis pulls one hand off Charles’ waist to clutch his pearl necklace dramatically, “I would love to marry you! If only…” Lewis trails off, looking wistful. Yeah, Charles has heard his difficulties with Max Verstappen. Reciprocated affection but distance and politics have forced them apart. Now Lewis is supposedly looking for a ‘real’ match (and having about as good luck as Charles is) and Max is stewing in a castle in the Netherlands. However, considering the majesty, the immovable nature of King Lewis Hamilton of the United Kingdom, Charles has no doubts that it’ll work out for them one day.

“It’ll work out.” He does believe it, the question is whether Lewis ever will.

“Yeah, thanks man.” Lewis definitely doesn’t believe it.

The song ends and Charles pulls away, patting Lewis on the shoulder gently. Now that he’s danced, he should be allowed to disappear back up to his seat and pretend to watch the suitors falling over themselves to prove something to him.

“Your Highness! Charles!” There’s only one person here who would have both the confidence to call out to him in the middle of a crowded ballroom and to refer to him as both ‘your highness’ and Charles.

“Mark.” He plasters a fake(-ish; he can’t deny he’s pleased to see that Mark is still here) smile on his face.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance?” From the look on Mark’s face, it looks like he wants to do anything other than dance but there’s also a steely determination lurking there.

Charles is interested. “You may.” If Mark insists on calling him whatever honorific he feels like, Charles is going to be as much of a princely asshole as possible, because it’s funny.

The music starts up again and they begin to dance, Mark well practiced and graceful as he twirls Charles across the floor. “Your council wants to kill you.”

Charles’ face remains impassive, not at all the reaction Mark expected. Surely no one expects their own assassination. “Oh. Who did you find out from? I didn’t think Seb would tell you directly.”

“Seb knows?” Mark can’t help but exclaim. Why the hell does Seb know about the political state of Monaco? He’s not been a part of them for years.

“Seb was the first target.” Charles isn’t sure why he’s telling Mark this, but if he’s figured this out himself, he might as well know the rest.

“What.”

Charles giggles softly and it’d be cute if they weren’t talking about his possible assassination. No, Mark cannot be getting distracted by that right now. Or at all. He is not here to become another one of the suitors. “Mattia doesn’t like not having all the power. Seb was a threat. I am still a threat,” Mark has no fucking clue what to say, so he doesn’t. “There are two options. I either get married – to someone with enough status to take me out of Monaco. Or he kills me. Poison is very effective and very undetectable if you know what you’re doing.”

This place is worse than he thought. “And you think he does?”

“I know he does,” Charles scoffs, “You get better with experience. Do you really think the great Jean Todt died of natural causes?” He asks mockingly. “It’d be as easy to kill me too. I expect it.”

Oh. Oh shit. Mark has a strange and sudden urge to protect Charles, to bundle him up and take him away to keep him safe. God, he’s losing it. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” He shakes his head, “Thank you for the dance, Mark.”

It’s the first time in a while Charles has seen Mattia actually acting as king, sitting in the gilded throne and wearing (attempting to at least) the royal attire. It looks wrong. It looks better on Charles. “Webber isn’t a fit. Choose someone else.” He snaps dismissively, not even looking at Charles as he waves a hand.

Charles promised himself he wouldn’t get angry about this. But there is something so grating about Mattia, he can’t help it. “You said this was my choice. I want Mark.”

“He’s not good enough for you. A Lord? It’s pathetic and it’s lowly and you’re worth more than that. I want better for you, Charles, that’s all. You deserve better.” Ten, even five, years ago, Charles would’ve been much more susceptible to Mattia’s manipulation.

He repeats, “I want Mark.”

“I don’t care.” Mattia snaps, “He is not good enough for you.” Not high ranking enough to take Charles away is what he means. “Sainz, Gasly, even Hamilton is a better option than Mark Webber. He is not worth you.”

Charles knows what he wants, he has always known what he wants and he’s always known how to get it. However, the unfortunate reality of the situation is that he needs a chaperone with him to his meetings with his chosen suitor. He needs a high-ranking chaperone. “There are other people who will do this for me if you won’t.” Maybe he’ll get some answers from one of them if he forces Seb to chaperone his meetings with Mark. Also, it’d be funny as fuck.

“Find someone else then, I don’t care.” Mattia snarls, and when Charles turns his back to leave, “I thought you were better than this.”

And so did I, once, Charles thinks, slamming the heavy door as he leaves.

Mark has no fucking clue how to feel. First of all, Charles tells him that he already knows about the King’s desire to get rid of him. And also Seb was the first target? Mattia wanted to kill Seb? Jesus, there’s more chaos going on here than he could ever anticipate.

He doesn’t know whether he wants to run or to stay to protect Charles. Because frankly, the Prince’s lack of self-preservation is worrying. He doubts that Jenson or Seb would let anything happen to Charles but surely they’re not around all the time? Surely there’s always a risk that Mattia will get tired of waiting for Charles to get married and just… get rid of him. It sounds crude when he puts it like that, but it’s the reality. Mark wants to be there for Charles.

“Lord Webber?” A knock on his chamber door snaps him out of his thoughts, “The Prince has requested your presence.”

What the fuck. Has Mark fucked up? Is this because he told Charles that Mattia wants to kill him? It’s probably bad that an outsider knows. “Yeah—” His voice sounds strained, he coughs, “One second, please.” To gather his thoughts and to make himself look at least a little bit presentable. Mark isn’t sure when he started caring about what Charles thinks about him, but he thinks it was somewhere between him asking Mark to call him by his name and revealing that he knew about the assassination plot.

He’s led out to the gardens. It’s beautiful, the flowers blooming in the early May sunshine, colour and light everywhere Mark looks. Charles is standing there, underneath an archway covered in flowers (Mark wants something like that at his wedding, he thinks, if Charles looks so pretty silhouetted against the flowers, beauty among beauty). “Mark!” Charles sounds so genuinely delighted to see him that maybe Mark isn’t heading towards his own execution then.

“Hi Mark.” Ah. Seb’s here too. He was so – embarrassingly – focused on Charles that he didn’t notice him.

“Hello, Charles, Seb.” He hopes his distaste doesn’t sound too apparent when he addresses Seb. From the cocky raised eyebrow Seb gives him, he failed miserably. “What’s this about?” Because if it’s not to discuss the whole murder plot, Mark has no idea why he’s here.

“I’m chaperoning the two of you. To begin your courtship.” If Mark had a drink, he would’ve sprayed it all over Seb.

Charles speaks before he can, “If that’s okay, Mark.” It’s so soft, as if Charles genuinely believes that Mark – that anyone – is capable of rejecting him. Mark is not a strong man against the puppy-eyed expression on Charles’ face.

“Of course.”

They stroll aimlessly for a while, Seb following a few steps behind, reading some journal or something. Out of earshot, thankfully, because Mark really doesn’t think he’d be able to look him in the eyes ever again if Seb was privy to the beginning of Mark courting someone. Every so often there’s a sharp curse and he looks back to see that Seb’s walked into a tree or tripped over again. It’s a little bit funny. “I’m sorry if my… bluntness about the assassination was rude, Charles.” Mark says earnestly.

“It was not, do not worry.” Charles turns to look at him, “I appreciate your concern, but this is the reality of this country under Mattia’s rule. I do not know how to solve this yet, but this courtship will be of much help, I hope.”

“I will help as much as I can.” That was definitely more than he meant to say. So much for remaining uninvolved.

Neither of them speak after that. Mark doesn’t think he’s overstepped necessarily, but he doesn’t understand this country. He doesn’t understand Charles, or how much he cares about him, or why he’s even still here. Most people would have run as soon as they discovered a plot to kill a leader: most people don’t want to get caught up in that. Then again, Mark has never been most people.

They walk around the lake, the blue water rippling and lapping lazily against the shore. “Look!” Charles exclaims suddenly, crouching down at the edge of the water. Mark, alarmed, drops down beside him.

He follows Charles’ finger to where it’s pointing. A tiny baby frog is poking its little head out of the water, barely visible because of how small it is. “Oh.” He says uselessly. What does that even mean? What is he supposed to say when he sees a baby frog? It’s very cute, admittedly.

“It’s so cute!” Charles is the cute one here, Mark thinks.

And then all of a sudden, Seb’s stumbling behind them, and Charles falls into the water. Mark jumps, “Seb? What the fuck?” What the fuck just happened? How the hell did—Seb is grinning. Oh this was on purpose then. If this is part of the assassination attempt, Mark will kill Sebastian. It’s a long time coming anyway.

“You can rescue him now.” Seb says smugly, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Little fucker.

Still, Mark reaches out to Charles, pulling him upright. He’s shivering. “Charles? Are you okay?” Concerned, Mark asks.

“Cold.” His teeth chatter. No matter the weather, the water really isn’t warm. He pulls Charles out of the water – he’s soaked to the bone.

There’s no hesitation when Mark undoes his cloak, wrapping it around Charles tightly. He doesn’t want to make this easier for Mattia at all, and Charles getting sick will only benefit him. “Here, sweetheart,” He glares at Seb again; this is his fault. “C’mon we need to get you warm.”

He all but drags Charles back to the Palace, not caring if anyone sees them. His first priority is Charles. “Not a great first date then.” Charles laughs weakly, still shivering slightly.

“Not sure hypothermia is on the list of expected courting gifts.” Mark jokes back, smiling. He cannot understand why Charles is still available, he’s so perfect. Or maybe he’s just like this for Mark. He can’t help the small possessive part of him that warms at that.

“Thank you Mark.” They’re outside Charles’ chambers now, somewhere Mark really isn’t allowed to go. Not without bringing scandal to both of their doorsteps and Charles really doesn’t need more on his plate.

“Of course.” He meant it when he said he’d do anything for Charles. Okay, he didn’t say it quite like that, but that’s how Mark meant it.

Charles presses a soft kiss to his cheek and disappears inside the room.

For the next week, Mark doesn’t see Charles. He cancelled all of his official appearances after the lake incident and Mark can’t help but worry slightly. What if Charles has got hypothermia? What if Mattia has got to him? Fucking hell, he’s in so deep now.

“Mark!” Seb’s annoyingly chirpy voice calls out to him in the corridor. The last person Mark wants to see is Seb, considering the shit he did. “Mark! Wait!”

“What Seb?” He snaps and okay, maybe that was a little harsh considering the way Seb’s face falls, but god, he’s really not forgiven him yet. For the lake incident or for before (although he doubts he ever will for that).

“Charles wants to talk to you.” Oh. “Will you come now?” He nods before he can stop himself – the prospect of seeing Charles is too much to ignore. He’s obsessed now, wow.

He’s led to a meeting room of sorts, fancy tapestries adorning the wall. And a portrait in the centre of the room. “It’s the last one.” Charles says, “Mattia had all pictures of Jean destroyed when he took power.” If Mark needed another reason to hate Mattia Binotto, he’s just been given it. It’s not enough for him to want to kill Charles (and Seb), to kill the previous king, he has to attempt to erase all evidence of him even existing. Fucking bastard.

“So,” Seb claps his hands from where he’s seated himself on one side of the table, “How do we feel about killing the King?”

Mark wishes he was sitting down before Seb said that. “What?”

“An eye for an eye or something.” Jenson says. “He wants to kill Charles.” Yeah that is a problem but Mark thought— “He doesn’t think you’re good enough for Charles. Or, he knows you don’t have enough power to get Charles out of Monaco. Which means you’d both stay. Which means you’d both take power. It’s a lot harder to kill two leaders than one anyway.”

God, he’s in over his head isn’t he? Mark sighs, “The solution is to kill Mattia? Will that even work?”

“He doesn’t expect it from me,” Charles smirks nastily, “He underestimates me and overestimates his power. I’m the Regent, no one cares about Mattia and no one will miss him.”

“And you have a plan?”

“Of course.” Seb rolls his eyes.

Mark doesn’t like it at all. The plan is risky and potentially fatal for all of them but especially Charles. Unfortunately, it is undeniably the best solution. They will get Mattia this way. Mark’s issue is the potential collateral damage. And the risk of getting caught, but he’ll take the fall for Charles if it comes down to it.

They enact the plan on Sunday, the start of the final week of Charles’ search. Not that Charles is searching very much anymore: he doesn’t want anyone (or so he says) and he’s got Mark as a backup. He’s got Mark now anyway: he won’t be going anywhere, he thinks, when this is all over. He was a guard for Seb once, even when he didn’t particularly care for him anymore: he has no doubts he’d be so much better for Charles, considering he actually likes him. It’s nothing more than that no matter what Seb thinks.

“Your Highness!” The first shout rings out halfway through the first course. Okay, here we go. Charles is slumped forwards in his seat, head lolling. Look, Mark knows that he agreed to this plan, that poisoning Charles as well as Mattia would make it look much less like a targeted attempt, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. In fact, he wants to get Charles out of here now, wrap him up and keep him safe away from all this chaos. Mark has long since accepted his love for Charles, and the knowledge that it’ll never be reciprocated. Charles only involved him in this because it’s convenient. No other reason at all.

There’s so much fussing around Charles that no one notices when the same happens to Mattia. It’s glaringly obvious to Mark that no one will miss Mattia – he is not and has never been the king, no matter how he tries to delude himself. Which is fortunate really, because the man is dead where he sits.

Both men – one man and one body – are swiftly whisked off to the medical wing to the shocked gasps of the guests. No doubt they will be gone within the day. No one wants to stay at a murder scene. The council will dismiss them soon, or Seb will. From the looks of where Seb is standing at the head of the table, it’ll be him. He still has some sway here after his wardship – he was loved, he is loved in a way Mark will always crave – and the people look to him now for guidance. “It is best if you all leave tonight, it is not safe here if someone tried to kill our King. We can only pray for Charles’ health and recovery from this evil action.” Seb is very convincing.

Three weeks. Mark spends three weeks sitting at Charles’ bedside, waiting for some sign of improvement, something that shows he’ll wake up from this hell they’ve put him through. He’s been shivering for weeks, like the lake but worse, so much worse this time. Mark can’t fix it, no matter how much he wants to.

They shouldn’t have done it like this. They shouldn’t have risked Charles. Anyone but Charles – Mark should’ve been the one to take the fall. But he can’t fix it now, all he can do is wait and hope and pray.

He holds his hand. It’s all he can do, so Mark holds his hand. It’s so cold, like it was at the lake, but this time Mark can’t do anything about it. He has never felt so powerless, so fucking useless. Not even when Seb promoted him to his guard and then his lover and then a Lord, only to throw him away when he was no longer of use.

If Mark can’t save the one person he loves, what use is he at all?

Charles jolts awake. It’s dark all around him, the last dying end of a candle burnt to a stub flickering and threatening to go out. Where the fuck is he? What happened?

“Charles?” He can’t help it: he jumps. After spending however long it was trapped in the silence of his own head, freezing cold and powerless to fix it, the sound of someone’s voice is startling. “Sweetheart, you’re awake?”

Oh, it’s Mark. It’s Mark! Why is Mark here? Not that he minds, Charles has long since known he loves him – three weeks in your own head gives you some realisations. He tries to speak, tries to answer Mark’s question but all that comes out is a pained whine. Useless.

“Shh, sweetheart, take your time. It’s been three weeks, you’re still recovering.” Mark soothes. Three weeks? He’s been out of it for three weeks? “Mattia is dead, if that’s what you’re wondering about. We succeeded.”

Thank fucking god, Charles is free. But he still can’t fucking speak. “I—” The sentence dies in his throat before it even starts.

“We gave you too much poison, I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Since when did Mark start calling him sweetheart? Charles doesn’t deserve this level of affection after all he’s put Mark through, dragging him into this plan. “It’s our fault, my fault, that you’re here.” There’s nothing Charles can do to reassure him except squeeze his hand tightly. He doesn’t know when that happened either, but he relishes in it. If this is all he gets of Mark, he’ll take it.

It’s a long and slow recovery. Honestly, Charles can barely call it a recovery. His muscles were shot after three weeks in bed. The one benefit of relearning how to move properly was Mark holding his hands. Now, he feels a little like a baby deer when he walks, Mark alongside him to keep him safe.

And then there’s the speech issue.

Charles can’t fucking talk. It’s his coronation and he can’t even talk. This wasn’t supposed to happen, there weren’t supposed to be any side effects for him. He stutters out a couple of words occasionally, mainly to curse Mark out whenever he beats him at chess, but making a speech as the newly crowned King? It’s not happening. “They’re not going to hold it against you, Charles,” Mark reassures him, or tries to. Charles doesn’t believe him, “They already love you.”

Maybe not now, but they will, in the future, talk about the King who was so weak he couldn’t even address his country. He feels useless. Mark kisses him on the forehead. He’s got more affectionate since the poison issue and Charles loves it. If he could fucking speak, he’d ask Mark to marry him, he thinks. It might be moving a little fast, considering they’ve only technically been on one date, but there’s a certain bond you form with someone who you committed murder with. Besides, if he’s the King, he can do whatever he wants.

There’s so many people watching them as Mark leads Charles up the aisle to where the priest is standing. As Charles’ personal guard – and more now, but the public don’t know that – he has every right to be here, a support against the tide of criticism Charles expects to face. Except he won’t, Mark knows that much, because these people love him more than they loved anyone else before and Charles is theirs. He’s not Mark’s in any way that matters, no matter how much he’d like him to be.

Charles trembles slightly under the weight of the bejewelled crown on his head, still not quite recovered from the poison. It had been a fight (mainly consisting of Charles alternating between glaring at him and using that same puppy-eyed expression that melted him the first time) but ultimately Mark had conceded to allow Charles to be crowned: the country had been without a decent King for far too long. Mark keeps one hand gripping gently on his waist to support him. Just in case.

It’s quicker than he expected, the priest seeming to rush the ceremony if only so Charles can return to resting. He wears the crown, standing in front of his subjects. They are here for Charles – everyone is here for Charles – and Mark is just a little bit possessive. Charles is not his, Charles will never be his but he wants.

It’s unexpected when it happens. Charles wasn’t even planning on it, not now and not ever, but the moment was too perfect. They’re sat on his balcony, overlooking the garden and the lake, the late summer sunset spilling light over everything. It’s peaceful.

Mark is bathed in golden light, looking like the most precious jewel Charles has ever seen. He wants to kiss him. “Will you marry me?” He’s not even looking at Mark when he asks, just gazing out across Monaco, across towards the open sea.

He snaps his eyes over to look at Charles, wide-eyed and shocked, “What?” Charles doesn’t say anything, still resolutely looking away from Mark. He doesn’t want to see his rejection. “Charles, please look at me.” Never mind, so much for that plan. He can’t deny Mark anything, “Will you ask me again?”

“Will you marry me, Mark?” He slips a small box out of his pocket, placing it onto Mark’s leg.

He’s speechless. Charles is going to get rejected, he can tell, he can feel it— “Yes.” Gasps Mark, pulling Charles onto his lap, “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” He punctuates each word with a kiss to some part of Charles’ face, peppering kisses everywhere.

How the hell did Charles think he could live without this? “I love you.”

“I love you too, my darling.” Mark’s. Charles is Mark’s.

They’ll get married properly one day, in front of the people, but for now their friends line the avenue of the garden leading towards the archway Mark saw Charles under on their very first date (their only date honestly), and it’s good. “Charles.” He starts, “I still don’t know what I’m doing here, how I ended up here but I know I was supposed to. I was always supposed to be by your side and be yours. I want to be yours. I have never loved someone like I love you and I never will.” It’s almost like he’s swearing fealty, something he did on Charles’ coronation, promising his loyalty to his husband forever.

“Mine,” Charles whispers softly, “I did not expect to find anyone. Ever, and truthfully I did not want to. I had no choice in the matter, it seems because you are here and I am here and I have never been happier than when I am with you.” He pauses, Mark can see the little tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes, “I want to be yours, forever and for as long as we have.”

[hypersoft-fest]

The F1blr Hypersoft Collab Fest (Hypersoft Fest for short) is an event by @f1blrcreatorsfest feat. @formulaonekinkmememeant, focusing on the visual artists of F1blr and with the objective to encourage writer and artist collaboration.

The theme is romance books and movies: we challenge you to make a book cover or a movie poster, and then we challenge the authors to write something about it.

Every week we will give you the themes, plus little bonus challenges.

If you have doubts on what to make, you can check our inspiration pinterest board.

You can sign up for the event HERE - this is useful for us to get a rough estimate of who is participating, and to eventually match up artists and writers. Of course, you can participate even if you don't sign up.

When? August 1st - September 26th + the entire month of October for eventual late submissions.

Artists: you can participate with any kind of media you prefer - fanart, graphics art, photo edits, photo manipulations, graphic design.

Writers: once the covers are out, you can choose one (or, potentially, be randomly matched up with an artist) and write something about it.

You can write:

- A book or movie blurb

- An excerpt from the book, one shot or multi chapter

- An extract from the movie script

- Fake reviews

- A whole novella (if you're brave enough)

The rules are few but simple:

Only F1 drivers, past and present. This means no other racing series, no WAGs, no celebrity pairings.

Ship and let ship.

Absolutely no hate towards your fellow creatives, both artists and writers.

[your-ace-cousin-clover]

"To meet a beautiful woman is one thing, but to meet your best friend in the most beautiful of women is something entirely apart."

Lady Perez right before matrimony

@hypersoft-fest week 4: Genderbend Regency

[racingliners]

@hypersoft-fest Week 8: Any prompt (Romcom)

George/Lewis - Royalty AU & Arranged Marriage, 5k, no warnings apply

Hypersoft Publications are delighted to present an excerpt from RL Aston's upcoming modern royalty romance novel, set for publication in Spring 2025 - Forces

“Father you can’t do this!” George had gotten up from the settee and taken a few steps forward before he realised it was pointless. When the King had left the room it would have taken an earthquake to change his mind.

He thought that being the youngest Prince meant he would have more time, he thought that both his siblings being married meant he’d be spared the pressure to marry, he thought… well clearly what George thought didn’t matter to anyone but himself, and maybe his private secretary Marcus.

“I mean…” Alex, a fellow Prince in the Thai royal family, ran a hand down his face and let out a long sigh once George had finished updating his friend on the latest and frankly terrifying development in his life.

On one of the most beautiful Saturday’s of the year at the end of April they were taking part in a charity polo match at Blenheim Palace. George and Alex were taking advantage of both being on the same team and there being a break in play to take shelter in one of the canvas tents, so George could have his minor breakdown in relative privacy.

“It doesn’t sound like an arranged marriage-”

“What else would you call it then?!” George exclaimed abruptly, failing his arms wide as he spoke. It was a wonder he’d managed to hold on to his polo mallet.

“Careful George,” Alex cast a cautious look at his friend. “You’ll either hurt someone or yourself with that thing.”

“Well,” George scoffed. “I’m about to have a husband who’ll take care of everything for me so who gives a fu-” Strangely, and thankfully, George was holding his mallet at the hammer end. And right as he swung his arm holding the mallet wide, a figure walked into the tent and yelled loudly when the end of the handle smacked into their nose.

Alex was on the scene almost immediately, first checking to see if the person’s nose was broken and secondly hurriedly looking around for a first aid kit. George meanwhile was completely frozen into place as his mind went into overdrive with recalling all of the guests at the polo match, and who would be the absolute worst case scenario to break their nose. All George could see was a masculine frame, dark skinned hands and fine braids tied in a ponytail.

“Ah… fuck,” The man winced as he removed his hands from his face, revealing himself to be Sir Lewis Hamilton, the eldest son of the Duke and Duchess of Northamptonshire. He’d been fairly high up the worst case scenario list mainly because George didn’t know him all that well. They’d said hello at the odd gala, discussed a speech here and there, nothing more.

“I am… so sorry I-”

Lewis looked up at George with dark brown eyes that didn’t exactly look pleased, once again causing George’s brain to freeze.

“Is it broken?” George said instead of an apology.

“No I don’t think so,” Lewis however did dab at the blood slowly coming out of his nose and grimaced right as Alex returned with a first aid kit. George hadn’t even noticed that he’d left.

“I have loads of brothers and sisters,” Alex said with a shy laugh, waving his hands around in Lewis’ direction. “I’ve dealt with nosebleeds my whole life, this is nothing.” There was something about Alex’s flippancy for the whole situation, as if sons of Dukes walked into tents where Princes were swinging about polo mallets all the time, that seemed to relax both Lewis and George while Alex patched Lewis up. “There, good as new… though maybe take it easy for the rest of the day just in case.” He cast a cautious look over Lewis before closing the first aid kit with a firm click.

“Thank you.” Lewis gave Alex a small nod before glancing over at George, who had been absolutely no help despite very much being the cause of the problem. “And sorry for disturbing you, Your Highness… I’m clearly in the wrong tent.” Before George could string together an appropriate apology in his head, Lewis had left the tent almost as quickly as he’d arrived.

George immediately dropped his polo mallet and flopped down into the nearest chair. He buried his head in his hands and had to fight the urge to claw his fingers into his scalp. First the fact that he was only six days away from meeting the first of the three potential husbands his parents had picked out for him, now he’d almost broken the nose of a very well respected member of society. George silently hoped for his sake that he never saw Lewis Hamilton ever again, he’d probably turn as red as his polo shirt.

Alex, ever the wonderful friend, gently patted George on the back in his moment of need.

“Just don’t hit any of the horses as well, I can’t help you with that.”

George looked up, and hoped for a split second that Alex would get hit by a stray bolt of lightning.

“Fuck you.”

It had been obvious from the moment George woke up that the palace staff had been in overdrive since at least 6am. At breakfast he could see clusters of people walking briskly up and down the corridors and stairwells that led to the palace kitchen. The first of George’s potential husbands would be arriving for afternoon tea at exactly 3pm, and from the second he’d finished his last bite of toast his parents had been hovering over and around him like incessant bees.

Remember to smile George, remember your etiquette George, be charming George. No don’t wear the green tie it’s goo garish, the ice blue one brings out your eyes. Stop frowning George. Your hair is too curly today George, it needs to be more slicked back.

By 11am he wanted to lock himself in the nearest cupboard for all eternity.

“I’m sorry about all of this,” Marcus said with a long sigh at lunch. Chef had made leek and potato soup and George could barely stomach looking at it. “But today might not be as terrible as you think.”

“Am I not at least allowed to know who I’m meeting today?” George looked out the window of his state apartment that had a wonderful view of The Mall. It was yet another gorgeous Spring day with a bright blue sky. The leaves in the trees were undisturbed by any breeze and the tourist crowd in front of the palace gates was slightly larger than usual – probably due to the good weather.

“Sadly not, your parents want it to be a surprise.”

George scoffed and slouched in his chair just to prove a point even though his parents weren’t there to see it. “Do they think we’re going to have some miraculous love at first sight sort of thing?”

“Probably.” Marcus said dryly, and finished the last bite of his dinner roll. “You should eat, I’m certainly not doing any of this on an empty stomach.”

George finally turned away from the window and looked down at the plate in front of him. Next to his bread roll was a small pat of garlic butter, instead of plain. Chef always knew how much George liked it. With a small smile, George sat up and slowly ate his soup that was thankfully still warm.

At ten to three he was changed into his slate grey three piece suit with a pale blue tie fastened in a Windsor knot, and walked behind his parents to the courtyard entrance where mystery future husband number one (as Alex had decided to call him) would be arriving by car any second. Already George’s hands felt clammy and his shirt collar too tight, but he took in a deep breath and buried his discomfort as far down as he could. If his parents wanted the handsome, charming Prince to be on show then that was exactly who they would get.

Once George was stood just behind and adjacent to his parents he quickly glanced over at Marcus out of the corner of his eye, and saw his secretary looking back at him with a reassuring smile.

George would be fine, he’d eventually realised after lunch. He’d been to countless state dinners, charity galas and banquets, over the course of his life. This afternoon tea would probably last an hour at most. If anything George was starting to worry about his mystery suitor, and if he knew exactly what he was about to walk in to.

Through one of the windows George saw a black Mercedes enter the courtyard and he stood a little bit straighter while Andrew, the palace’s Chief of Staff, went outside to greet him. All George heard was the sound of a door opening and a mumbling of voices. The heavy wooden door and stone palace walls were too thick for any distinct sound to pass through.

“Sir Lewis Hamilton, Your Majesty.” Andrew announced when he walked back through the door. George blinked rapidly, certain that he’d misheard and that someone else was three paces behind Andrew. But then Lewis, Sir Lewis, walked in wearing a pale grey suit with a lavender jacquard waistcoat and matching tie, with one of his staff following close behind him. The man, who wore glasses and had short, dark hair that was grey at the temples, shared a quick look and small nod with Marcus. The private secretaries of the British upper class did all know each other to some degree after all.

“Thank you for inviting me to the palace Your Majesty.” Lewis said to George’s father with a warm, bright smile, as if this was just another day for him. George on the other hand could feel beads of sweat forming at his temple and on the back of his neck. He felt warm all over, and that his shirt collar was about to strangle him at any moment. Though the ground swallowing him whole without any warning would have been much more preferable.

“Thank you so much for coming.” His mother’s gentle hand on George’s shoulder somewhat pulled him back into the present.

“I’m afraid my wife and I have a rather busy schedule today, but Prince George will be joining you for tea.”

Lewis looked over at George, his eyes all warm and dark brown and… had a small twinge of concern within them.

“Please just call me George.” The words rapidly flew out of his mouth before Lewis could bow say ‘Your Highness’.

“George.” Lewis said softly, and even with a small smile. George was starting to wonder if the polo match last week had just been a bizarre fever dream. It was almost like the mallet incident had been completely forgotten about. Or, much more likely, Sir Lewis Hamilton was an utterly fantastic actor and his talents were wasted on the aristocracy. “It’s an honour to meet you properly at last.”

George’s mother quickly cleared her throat. George should have instigated a handshake by now.

“The pleasure’s mine,” He jutted his right hand out, and every single muscle in his arm was tense as he watched Lewis’ hand glide into his. The handshake was firm, but warm. All George could think about was how soft Lewis’ skin was beneath his fingers. “I…”

“Tea is being served on the West Terrace, perhaps afterwards George can take you on a tour of the gardens…” The soft tones of The Queen’s voice caused Lewis to drop George’s hand and fall in step with her as she, George’s father, Andrew, Lewis and the man George assumed to be his secretary all left the foyer while George’s feet remained glued to the stone floor.

“We’ll be just a minute.” Marcus said to Andrew quietly, the look on his face was enough for the two of them to be left alone. George had told Marcus about the incident with Lewis and the polo mallet in a blind panic while they were in the car on their way back to the palace. Marcus had just reassured him that so long as Lewis didn’t need to go to hospital then it would all be a simple mishap that would be forgotten about in a few weeks.

Once George and Marcus were alone in the foyer, George allowed himself one whole second to breathe before speaking with a rather freeing sense of clarity.

“I’m flinging myself off the nearest balcony.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.” George nodded to himself and took a firm step towards the courtyard.

“No- George,” The sternness in Marcus’ voice was what managed to stop George in his tracks, and he slowly turned round. “You are going to be yourself, and see this through.”

“You say that as if you’ve had a hand in all of this.” George looked at his personal secretary of just over 18 months with a heavy frown.

Marcus rolled his eyes and tucked his folio under his arm so he could quickly fix George’s tie.

“I wasn’t going to let your parents marry you off to the first eligible man they saw you know.”

George let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“If anything, you can use this as an opportunity to properly apologise for being such an idiot.”

George couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle, it was better than crying or being distressed about the strange scenario he found himself in. And after catching his breath and giving himself the smallest of peptalks, he walked alongside Marcus over to the West terrace.

“My apologies,” George flashed a perfectly charming smile at his parents. “I couldn’t decide if I needed my sunglasses, it’s so bright today.” He turned to Lewis who was stood with his hands clasped behind his back. A round table had been set out on the stone terrace with two chairs sat opposite each other. While no cakes or scones were in sight, it had been draped with a crisp white table cloth and had the palace’s finest tableware in front of each chair with the afternoon sun glinting off the silver cutlery. “Has someone asked what tea you’d like?” George asked Lewis, remembering to be the attentive host.

“Green please, if that’s possible.”

“Certainly, I’ll inform the kitchen.” Andrew said and almost immediately disappeared inside. George’s parents, plus Marcus and Lewis’ secretary followed suit, leaving George and Lewis alone. The air remained still with no hint of a breeze, and in the distance George could hear the sound of birds tweeting in the trees. It was quite perfect.

“You’re welcome to sit down, any chair you like.”

Lewis opted for the chair closest to him, and quietly sat down. George quickly did the same.

“I um…” He didn’t know where to begin. The apology for almost breaking Lewis’ nose, or revealing to Lewis why he was really at the palace. “I have to apologise for what happened at the polo match at Blenheim Palace last week,” He curled his hands into fists under the table so he could maintain eye contact with Lewis.

“It was my own fault,” Lewis briefly bit down on his bottom lip. “I should have knocked… well you can’t knock on a tent but you know what I mean.” He added with a shy laugh. “I wanted to introduce myself to you somewhere quiet before all of this.” He vaguely waved a hand around in the air, gesturing to the palace and grounds around him.

George once again found himself dumfounded in Sir Lewis Hamilton’s presence without a single word coming out of his mouth. “You know?! About…” He spluttered before trailing off in disbelief.

“Well, in the sense that Bono and I put two and two together. Especially when you were all your father talked about when he sought me out last week.” Lewis paused as one of the doors opened and their afternoon tea was brought out. George’s parents must have insisted on the china, white patterned with blush pink. It was the same set used at Cara’s wedding breakfast.

“Thank you Matt.” George said with a smile to the palace’s Head Butler.

“You’re welcome Your Highness, Sir Hamilton.” He bowed slightly, and quickly left.

The scones, tiny lemon tarts, macarons and finger sandwiches would all have been made fresh, as by the looks of things was the small dishes of strawberry and apricot jam.

“Go ahead, please,” George waved a hand at the table. “You do not need to start eating when I do.”

Lewis snickered, and poured himself tea. George watched the pale green liquid flow seamlessly from the spout of the teapot to the teacup, and waited until Lewis had set the pot back down before speaking again.

“And if you need anything else please just ask.” George reached for his own teapot, which would likely be filled with steaming Earl Grey, and filled his cup before adding a splash of milk.

“So, is this were we get to know each other?” Lewis first examined the contents of the tea stand, and then quickly glanced over at George.

Most of what George knew about Lewis came from passing comments and snippets of news articles. He had interests in fashion and music, and was apparently quite the skilled pianist. And as for George, most of his life had the tendency to get splashed across the front pages. Everyone knew his secrets moments after George had discovered them.

They talked about the weather, and the food in front of them. Lewis said with a small blush in his cheeks that he hoped George’s parents weren’t secretly watching from a window on the first floor. And while George didn’t say it out loud, he didn’t put it past them. It was a shame really, if George’s parents weren’t the King and Queen of the United Kingdom, he would probably get on with them quite well.

“If you’d figured out that my parents are only interested in marrying me off…” George shook his head and sighed once he’d finished his first sandwich. He was grateful at least that he hadn’t been the one to drop the bombshell right on Lewis’ head. “I’m very surprised you still came here.”

Lewis leaned back in his chair, and glanced over his shoulder at the perfectly manicured lawn that was once again set to host many a garden party this Summer. One of them had likely been earmarked for George to attend with his new boyfriend, whoever he turned out to be.

“I might not be royalty, but I’m still nobility.” Lewis spoke with the air of the son of a Duke. The Larbalestier’s had been gifted the peerage of Northamptonshire over a century ago, and it had caused quite a stir at the time when Lewis’ father married into the family. But their reputation within society was spotless. Lewis had earned his Knighthood through his various charity work, both through sports and the arts to give children from disadvantaged and ethnic minority backgrounds a chance that no one else would.

“In an ideal world, at least according to my father,” Lewis continued. “I would have gotten married myself a long time ago.” There had been rumours of Lewis being involved with a German socialite just over ten years ago, and even louder speculation of a rather messy break up that followed three years later. “At least this way… maybe we both get some kind of say in how this will all play out.”

George bit down on his lip and looked down at his empty plate while his leg started to bounce nervously.

“We hardly know each other.” George’s voice came out breathless, like the air was being squeezed out of his lungs.

“From what I’ve heard, you seem like a very good man.”

George had to fight himself not to scoff in reply. Whoever Lewis’ source was, it probably wasn’t Alex.

“You’re clearly very brave if you’re willing to jump head first into The Royal Family.” George gulped and reached out for a sandwich, ham and mustard by the looks of it, and immediately let it fall onto his plate with a small thud.

“Like I said,” Lewis paused to bring his teacup to his lips. “I’m nobility already, I know exactly what I’d be getting myself in for.”

George could see it all now, the headlines, the news features, the questions, jokes about who would propose to who… it sounded like hell. As if the spotlight on him wasn’t bright enough. It was part of the reason why George had never gone out of his way to find someone, he was too terrified at what that kind of pressure would do to someone from the outside. That they might end up resenting George forever for something he had no way of controlling.

“Why me?”

“I’ve heard you speak a lot about how you wish your family would do more, not just with charity work but… real lasting action. That was what you said in your speech at the COP summit last year right?”

George slowly nodded. He had no idea Lewis had been in attendance, let alone had found George’s opening speech so interesting that he’d chosen to remember it.

“Well, maybe together we can.”

Lewis had clearly been thinking about the practicalities of the potential arrangement a lot longer than George had. Marriages in the Royal Family were never just for love, it was about spectacle and image and simply just doing what was expected. And while credit where credit was due this iteration of the monarchy had been free from scandal, but to some they weren’t very interesting either. George could immediately see his parents plans now, host a big Royal wedding while making themselves look relevant to society at the same time. Quite the power move.

“Believe me when I say that I’ve spent a long time this past week thinking about this.” Lewis said firmly. “And I like to think that… if any shit hit the fan I would have my husband there to support me, and vice versa.”

“Yes… yes of course you would.” George said quietly, with every ounce of sincerity he could muster. While he still wasn’t particularly keen on the idea, he still like to think himself as capable of being kind to the poor soul who ended up marrying him.

He let out a long shaky breath, and ate his second sandwich in two bites. Very undignified behaviour for such a handsome young Prince.

“I still feel like I have to apologise for you ending up being involved in all of this.” George said once he’d taken a large gulp of his tea. Lewis just looked down at the crumbs on his plate and let out a small hum.

“As I said, my parents want me to be engaged within a year since they’re… rather desperate for me to not be single any longer. And it’s not that I don’t want a family someday, because I do,” As Lewis looked up at George, he could see a small flicker of warmth in his eyes. “I just want to have some choice over who I spend the rest of my life with.”

“And you feel like this is you having a choice.” George scoffed, and picked up a macaron without looking and ate it in one bite.

“I could have just about gotten out of this if I wanted. You would be amazed at the number of dinners Bono has managed to get me out of.” Lewis said with a small shake of the head. “Sorry, I’m supposed to call him Peter in such a formal setting, but he hates it.”

It was strange. It was almost like Lewis was giving George advise on how to say hello to Bono when they met for the first time. As if all of this was going to go somewhere.

“But, if I’m not to your taste then-”

“Oh no!” George exclaimed so loudly his knee accidentally hit the bottom of the table and caused everything to move a couple of millimetres. “Your complete honesty is… so refreshing. You’ve no idea.” Lewis was also unbearably handsome. Well-groomed stubble that looked stylish, not scruffy. Flawless skin that glowed in the sunshine, and deep brown eyes that despite everything were so warm, and kind. George told himself not to think about how well fitted Lewis’ suit was to his frame. “I just… this has all been sprung on me quite suddenly.”

“Ah,” Lewis nodded, a knowing look on his face. Silence fell over the table and a soft breeze briefly brushed over George’s skin. It seemed to help reset his brain as he let out a small sigh.

“I know it was my mother’s suggestion, but if you would like to see the gardens I’d be happy to give you a tour. We can come back to this afterwards.”

Lewis smiled, and it briefly turned into a grin. “I’d like that.”

George called for Matt, who he knew would be waiting just inside to cater to any of Lewis’ and George’s whims, and he asked for the tea stands to be covered while George and Lewis walked round the palace gardens. Matt gave a small nod of his head, and said of course, adding that the rose garden had looked particularly lovely this morning.

Lewis gestured for George to lead the way, and George waited so he and Lewis could walk side by side down the long path towards the rose garden.

“Now we can have some actual privacy.” Already George’s shoulders felt ten times lighter as he ran a hand through his hair to loosen some of the gel. It was such a small thing, but already he felt so much more like himself. “We can compare notes on our parents scheming if you’d like?”

Lewis’ snort quickly turned into a bright laugh, his eyes even crinkled at the corners.

“What’s your favourite film?” Lewis asked instead. And truth be told it did feel better doing the getting to know you questions like this, completely away from prying eyes. They exchanged films, songs, and their shared belief at just how absurd their lives really were by the time they’d reached the wrought iron gate that led to the rose garden.

George pulled the gate open and gestured for Lewis to go first. He stopped a few paces in to look around, and let out a small wonderous sigh. If George had been asked what his favourite part of the palace grounds was, he gave the gardens as a generic answer. But very few people knew that the rose garden was actually his favourite. He frequently took breakfast here in the Summer, and sometimes just liked to sit and read a book while time passed around him.

“The rose garden was my Grandfather’s first wedding anniversary present to my Grandmother,” George explained as he and Lewis began their slow walk round. It was set out in an oval with a small stone fountain in the middle that you could just about sit of the edge of without falling in. “My Grandma loved roses, so my Grandfather had this built for her.”

“What? Just like that?” Lewis said with a snap of his fingers. George immediately noticed the delicate tattoos inked onto his skin before humming in reply. “Wow,” Lewis’ eyes briefly widened. “He must have really loved her.”

“Yeah… yes they loved each other very much.” George said quietly, his eyes trained on the ultra-fine gravel that crunched beneath the soles of his black leather shoes. When he finally looked up upon realising that Lewis hadn’t said anything, George saw him paused in front of a bush of bright yellow roses in full bloom. Lewis delicately ran his index finger along the edge of one of the petals before leaning down to inhale its scent. “I wish I could tell you all the different varieties we have, but botany was never my strong suit.” Like many of the previous royals, George had studied politics at university before his quick stint in the air force.

“What do you like to do in your spare time?” Lewis asked, looked back up at George with his head slightly tilted to the side. “What do you do when you’re just George?”

George coughed out a small laugh. “As tragic as it sounds, I don’t get to be ‘just George’ very often.”

“But when you do…” Lewis asked again, clearly not wanting to let the point go. George let out a long sigh and let his shoulders sink down a couple of centimetres. He hated talking about his interests to other people in case he sounded dreadfully boring.

“I like photography, I’m not very good at it but I enjoy it. On a quiet day our head chef lets me into the kitchen and he teaches me a new recipe. It’s a wonder I haven’t chopped all my fingers off by now, but Riki’s very patient.” George’s cheeks flushed red as he glanced down at the ground and let out a nervous laugh. Lewis just stayed smiling at him. “What about you? What do you do when you’re… just Lewis?”

Lewis talked at great length about music, but also fashion. How he’d helped designed the suit he was currently wearing amongst others. That he loved it as a creative outlet while also giving himself some control over his identity, and that he only dressed for himself and not the approval of others. It sounded so freeing. In the past George had often heard whispers at galas over people gushing over what the son of the Duke of Northamptonshire was wearing, sometimes George had managed to catch a glimpse of him, and other’s he was left feeling disappointed when he didn’t.

They found themselves halfway round the rose garden before either of them had really noticed.

“You do have a say in this you know.” Lewis said with a raised eyebrow, turning the conversation back to the whole marriage fiasco. George wasn’t so sure. The only thing he knew was that he really didn’t want to go through this again, and meet whoever else his parents had lined up for him. Would they be as understanding as Lews was? As thoughtful? George assumed not.

And maybe it all felt very easy, choosing Lewis after being with him for barely an hour. Like he was once again doing exactly once his parents were telling him to do. But there was something in the immediate comfort George felt from being around Lewis that he didn’t want to let go of. It was a kind of safety he’d only ever felt with Alex or Marcus.

“A part of me hoped when I was thinking about all of this last night,” When he had been tossing and turning in bed, more accurately. “That… so long as I’m getting married as my parents want, I will as you say, have some input in how it all happens.” George knew he wouldn’t get left alone completely. His first public appearance with his new partner would probably be at Wimbledon. The Trooping of the Colour was both too soon and far too formal for George to suddenly show up out of the blue with a boyfriend. Not a soul would care about the parade at that point. And the engagement would be planned to within an inch of its life.

But George was starting to hope that if he did pick Lewis, then maybe he would at the very least get a friend out of it all. And most importantly he seemed to be fully aware of what he was doing.

“You’re really sure about all of this?” George asked Lewis firmly, looking right into his eyes to get a read on his frame of mind.

“Of all the options I have… this is the best one. Believe me.”

George admired his determination. If Lewis was going to become a Prince he was going to need it. Lewis seemed to have it in spades, as he was the only to hold his hand out for George to shake, like he was offering a deal.

“Will you marry me?” He said not completely sarcastically.

George let himself throw his head back and laugh so much his shoulders shook. The rose garden had played host to both Benjy’s and Cara’s engagement announcements, chances were it would be the venue for George’s too. He could see it all now flashing before him in his mind. Their first formal appearance together, the engagement announcement next Autumn, how probably in two years’ time to the day George would be waiting for Lewis at the end of the aisle in Westminster Abbey with his new title on his shoulders and Lewis walking towards him, and all the state visits that would follow for the rest of their lives. And, as Lewis had said, all the good they could do together.

George pressed his lips together and nodded, before clasping Lewis’ hand with his.

“I will.”

[alpinelogy]

@hypersoft-fest week 2: sci-fi star trek au, collab with @testarossa

Lieutenant George Rusell dreamed of the stars. Ever since he was a child, he wanted to lose himself in their light, chart courses to distant galaxies and fly off to worlds unknown. His head has always been beyond the clouds, above the stratosphere, drifting through the far reaches of space. Ensign Alex Albon dreamed of fantastic planets. As a child, his imagination ran wild, drawing worlds with lilac rivers and fifteen moons, grasslands as wide and deep as oceans, plants that could talk and stones that would sing. He studied for hours, memorizing the flora and fauna of Earth and Vulcan and every planet in the federation, and still his mind wondered at the mysteries to be found on new planets. Alex and George both enlisted in Starfleet to travel the galaxy, but the realities of life on a starship didn’t quite measure up to their dazzling expectations. George was scheduled at the helm for beta shift, a time during which both he and the universe were endlessly sleepy and nothing interesting ever happened. Alex’s attempts to grow moss for water filtration were both slow and fruitless, the results of his experiments muddy and disappointing. Then of course, there was the food: replicated, bland, and often chalkier than expected.  Charting unknown depths of the galaxy wasn’t all it was cracked up to be – until the two join the landing team to the mysterious planet AMG-Zeta. There, the two discovered a life form that would alter the course of their lives, and the course of the universe. Read on for an excerpt from Astral Connection, coming this fall from Hypersoft Press.

George has volunteered for every away mission for which he’s qualified since they have entered deep space, and some of the ones he isn’t. For any trip that was dangerous enough to require a pilot, they sent Lewis, and for all the rest, George stayed on the Mercedes, fulfilling his regular rotation at the helm. It did not take a rocket scientist to keep a starship in steady orbit, so George was stuck onboard, trying not to fall asleep on the bridge, while teams of scientists and security officers and half the regular bridge crew got to explore all manner of planets.

Until today. 

Not only would George join the away team for this mission, but he would pilot the shuttle. The atmosphere around AMG-Zeta, while safe to breathe, was prone to sudden electromagnetic storms and near-constant rain that made beaming directly to the surface inadvisable. 

He was practically bouncing in his seat as he went through the final departure checks. “Are we all buckled in?” he asked, glancing back at the other members of the landing party.

One of the scientists – Adam, he thinks, or maybe Alan –gave him an amused look. “Can we stop for snacks on the way?” Alan asked.

George grinned. “Right, I’m taking that as a yes,” he said, pressing the button to radio the bridge. “Mercedes, this is Shuttle One confirming we’re clear for departure.”

“You are clear, Shuttle One,” came the staticky reply. “Enjoy your trip.”

“That we will,” George said, as he pressed the release button on the locks and allowed the shuttle to drift into open space. 

Despite the thick clouds, navigating to the surface was easy, and the landing quite smooth. George followed the rest of the team down the ramp and took his first steps onto an actual planet in months, into an oppressive mist that instantly coated their space suits. Even the miserable weather couldn’t quite dampen George’s spirits.

At least, not for the first five minutes. The team divided into smaller groups, a few of them traveling to the west to investigate the species of animals native to the planet. According to the briefing, most of the planet’s fauna were varied species of slugs. Not the most interesting subjects, in his opinion, so George stayed behind with Alan, who was on his knees on the mossy ground, his face inches away from a silvery, bell-shaped flower.

“Are you sure you should be that close?” George asked, peering down at the plant. It looked mostly harmless, but even on his very first away mission, George knew better than to trust an innocent appearance.

Alan consulted his tricorder, then looked back to the plant, then at the tricorder again. “Yeah, I think it’s fine,” he said, glancing back at George. “Hey, mind your feet.”

George looked down, then shifted his feet. He’d crumpled one of the bell-shaped flowers beneath his left foot. “Oh bollocks,” he muttered. 

Alan shot him a look, shuffling around on his knees to run his tricorder over the damaged blooms. “We’d better hope this isn’t a butterfly effect situation,” he said. “Oh, that’s odd.”

Alan’s eyes drifted slowly upward, fixed on something around George’s knees. 

“What is it?” George crouched to get a look at whatever it was Alan was looking at, then promptly sneezed as a shimmering powder blew into his face. “What is that?”

“I have no idea,” Alan said softly, studying his tricorder again. 

And here George had thought Alan was some sort of expert botanist.

It’s Alex.

What?

My name. It’s Alex. And I am a botanist, but I can’t claim to be an expert on the properties of previously undiscovered alien flora, now can I?

George blinked. The air still shimmered faintly, the pollen clinging to the heavy mist permeating the air. “Alan,” he said experimentally, earning an exasperated glare from his research partner.

“I just told you it’s Alex,” he said.

“No,” George said, staring at the plant in dawning horror. So much for AMG-Zeta being a boring little planet. “You just thought that. But I heard you.”

“That’s impossible,” Alex said, his voice faint. “Wait, okay. What am I thinking?”

George, having exactly zero telepathic experience until a minute ago, had no idea how to go about reading someone’s thoughts. He looked at Alex, focusing on his – rather handsome, really – face, watching as he broke out into a teasing grin.

You think I’m handsome?

“Oh bollocks,” George repeated, so startled by hearing Alex’s thoughts in his own head that he fell back on his ass. He probably launched even more plant spores or whatever they were into the atmosphere, and now he’d be stuck with the entire crew of the Mercedes hearing his every passing thought.

“Hey, none of that,” Alex said aloud, his voice low and soothing. “I’m an expert botanist, remember?” George nodded silently, watching as Alex clipped the plant near the roots, secured it in a vessel, and tucked the entire thing into his supply kit. “We’ll just take this back to the ship, and I’ll find a way to synthesize an antidote.” Alex looked back up at George, that smile back on his lips. “Who knows, maybe it’ll wear off in a few hours.” Or maybe it won’t, and we’ll be stuck like this forever. Could come in handy sometimes, a bit like a superpower.

You can’t be serious.

I rarely am. Alex’s smile turned wry. Looks like we’re going to learn a whole lot about each other, George.

[lewishamiltonplscallmemynumberis]

"I want a hypersoft plush" so true, so true. It's companion cube coloured but circular.

omg!!!! actually my boyfriend earlier this week was looking online to see if he could find any plush pirelli tires because he thought id like one but unfortunately they do not exist :( can we start a kickstarter to make plush pirelli tires in all colors and forms

[shovson]

@hypersoft-fest week 8: any prompt (romcom) + rarepair (shovson)

Way Too Close, Jenson Button/Andrew Shovlin, Rated 14A

Bono recounts the timeline of Jenson and Shov's relationship, one which they both believe to be a secret away from everyone. Neither of them have realized that Bono has figured it out and that they have incidentally made him a third wheel and watcher to their antics.

[grandpxnews-blog]

Pirelli’s tyre choice for first four races

New Post has been published on https://grandpx.news/pirellis-tyre-choice-for-first-four-races/

Pirelli’s tyre choice for first four races

Formula One’s tyre maker Pirelli has announced its tyre choices for the first four races of the 2019 season, presenting them in their new designation of hard, medium and soft.

From the next season, Pirelli and the teams will stop using names like super hard or hypersoft and instead, the compounds have been named C1 to C5. C1 is the hardest compound and C5 is the softest.

Pirelli has also reduced the number of tyres range from seven to five. They have dropped the old hard tyre and the 2018 new entry superhard since they both were never used in the current season.

In the season’s first race at Australia, the teams have a choice to use C2, C3 and C4. The Bahrain Grand Prix will have the hardest compound C1 along with C2 and C3.

To make sense of the above, read the offering as hard, medium and soft.

In the Shanghai race, teams get to choose from C2, C3 and C4. Last year, Pirelli had skipped supersoft and used only the medium, soft and ultrasoft. But it has changed the offering this time.

For the Azerbaijan GP, the Italian tyre maker has offered the same as Shanghai race.

The announcement was made on Monday since the teams have to make their choices by the deadline. The European races have an 8-week deadline while the flyaway races have a 14-week deadline.

The tyre choices of the Canadian GP will mostly happen by February.

A few weeks ago, Pirelli was confirmed at the tyre supplier for Formula 1 until 2023. This marks a big win for the tyre maker who has been the only tyre maker for the premier series since 2011.