#not just because they are very good drivers

[hoolaand]

Max Verstappen

Yapper gf + listener bf

Max has a habit of listening to you rant. Sometimes you are mad at FIA, sometimes how overpriced makeup is and maybe once in a while at yourself. He just sits back and keenly listens to you with a hand to your waist, while pulling you close to him.

Max thinks it's cute how you scrunch your nose while ranting, and make various expressions. Sometimes you go on talking for hours and he listens and agrees on whatever you say because he's a good boyfriend alright.

Max gossips with you for hours, listening to what you have to say. Whether it's about other drivers and wags, recent matches, your co workers. He listens to it all and responds back with this opinion and thoughts aligning to yours and if it doesn't, he makes sure to align them with yours.

Max is very soft with you. Only with you. He tucks stranded hairs behind your ear when you both talk under the moonlight on the deck of his private yacht. He listens to you speak before his race, listens to your words of encouragement probably with more attention than the words of the strategist. He listens and caresses your cheek after sex when you speak in soft whispers.

Max is one of the only people who never get tired of your yapping sessions. He never gets embarrassed of it either not even during F1 75, when Jack Whitehall called him out on live TV commenting 'Nothing stops Max Verstappen from being a good boyfriend' when he was shown on the big screen listening and talking to his girlfriend. You blushed realising other people had caught onto that but Max was rather proud.

[cheriladycl01]

Hey! Could you write a fic where female reader is an older driver (maybe debuted around the same time as Seb) and just little scenarios of her being a mother figure towards the drivers. Maybe mix of SMAU and written story (if you do that) xxx 😊 big thx

MUM! - Grid x OlderDriver! Reader

Plot: Everyone needs their grid mum, and that’s everyone!

F1 was you’re life.

Not in a oh I love watching the races every week and going to one race a year. No, you were convinced there was fuel in your veins.

You drove for about 16 years in F1 being the first female driver to win a race. You debuted at the same time as Sebastian Vettel, you guys were bestfriends and didn't let racing affect that friendship. And that's all it ever remained. Every bone in your body loved Seb, he was quite literally your platonic soulmate. When you first met, your now husband, he'd become fast friends with Seb and never questioned your friendship with him and never tried to involve himself too much to the point it felt forced and thats why you knew he was the one.

When you left F1, you left the same year that Seb did, it felt right leaving the same year he did and you discussed it with him. For you it was because you wanted to focus on family. You were 17 when you first got into F1 and now 33 years old and you wanted to settle down with your husband and expand the family. Which apparently wasn't as much as a struggle as you thought it would be as you'd gotten pregnant 5 months after retirement. Giving birth in 2023 and now being pregnant again in 2025.

But F1 and half the drivers you grew up with didn't want you to leave the sport. So when Sky Sports reached out you knew you had to go.

But with the growing amount of Rookies you seem to have adopted children as well as having had them as well.

Sebastian Vettel

y/user

Liked by sebastianvettel and others

y/user: 25 years of friendship! Happy Birthday to the Grid Dad from the Grid Mum! 🫶🏼

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sebastianvettel: woah, I wish I looked this cool now! Look at that haircut 🫨

-> y/user: a diva once, a diva always

fan1: OMG MOTHER AND FATHER!!

You and your husband always made sure to vist Seb for his birthday, it was like an annual gathering that was held where you both were able to have a massive catch up without being near anything to do with racing.

"Happy birthday!" you crashed him handing him his huge bag of gifts before you went to his wife who you'd become very close to and hugging her handing over a cheeky bottle of wine for the both of you to share.

Your husband stood with Seb while you and Hanna went into the kitchen to unpack the food that you'd got for Seb's birthday dinner.

"Thank you for coming" Seb smiles pulling you into a hug, sighing against you.

"I havent missed one in 25 years, even when i had Tonsillitis i still got here. Wasn't much fun for you guys, but you all had a great time" you grin at the memory making him laugh. He could still see you, wrapped up in a bundle of blankets on his sofa with a box of tissues and a honey and lemon tea.

"Mmmmm good times" he laughs, pulling out of the hug and helping you and Hanna dish up.

"What are you doing?" Hanna cries seeing him doing work.

"Huh?" he asks confused.

"It's your birthday, go sit! Keep out other guests entertained and enjoy yourself!" Hanna exclaims, forcing him out the kitchen where he went to sit with your husband.

Your husband and Seb actually did lots of what you and Hanna called 'guy things' together. They'd go on fishing trips while you and Hanna would go to Italy or Spain and soak up the sun. Or they'd play games while you and Hanna went shopping.

Your husband also found joy in travelling with you and your kids adored seeing their Uncle Seb who despite it being his birthday always had to have something for his favrioute kids.

However, another child always seemed to lurk their way into these parties, that being yours and Seb's first adopted child, Lance Stroll.

You and Seb had been officially made mum and dad of the grid. It started off with Lance being taken under his wing and you just sort of joined in with that.

Lance Stroll

Lance was one of your favrioute people, you could sit with him in a comfortable silence and didn't feel like you needed it to be forced. He was also incredibly funny when he wanted to be.

One time, you'd been talking to him off of camera and he's accidentally called you mom. You'd bursted out laughing before querying him wondering if he really did see you as a mother figure.

"Yeah and what?" he asked and you stopped shocked.

After that it was just sort of known that you and Seb had taken on the roll of parents to all the little drivers across the grid.

You would always make sure to make time for Lance as he always would make the time for you. You werent keen on his dad, as he always gave you strange stare that made you feel like he hated you, no matter how many times Lance told you to 'just ignore it'.

"Lance, that overtake today was incredible!" You praise and he nods in thanks.

“Im glad I managed to get us in the points after Fernando’s crash” he offers and you nod. He’d got himself P6 which was a good score considering how the rest of the season had been going.

“Mmmm you’re leading the Aston Team now” you exclaim happy at the fact.

“Thanks Y/N, you’re always there for me” he says making eye contact with you.

“Can’t get rid of me Lance, I’m your mother” you tease and he laughs looking down.

Charles Leclerc

y/user

Liked by charles_leclerc, lewishamilton and others

y/user: Interviewed my first son today. He asked for a hug :) always such a pleasure interviewing him and getting time to talk. Oh and then theres Lewis ...

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charles_leclerc: Ahhh thank you, ma mère adoptive! You should come see Leo your Grandson!

-> y/user: I have a grandson?! I'm so old!

fan1: argh she's so cute with everyone! We all knew she's be such a good mother (real mother)

-> y/user: I'll have you know I've been a real mother since 2018 when Charles joined the grid.

-> fan1: omg she replies!!!!!

lewishamilton: i'm not ignoring her i swear...

Charles and you first met in 2017. He was very nervous when he came up to you, asking you how you felt you're race had went. You later found out he had a whole script to say to you after your race that you'd started from pole. Little did he know that Lewis was going to turn into you on lap 3 and crash you out for the rest of the race.

"Well, i didn't finish so not great kid" you chuckle at his nervous expression where he'd finally realised what he'd said.

“I erm, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that” he blurts out and you can only laugh at him.

“I know I know. I’m just teasing you” you say placing a light hand in his shoulder trying to ease his nerves.

“You know you’ll be racing with us soon” you grin at him knowing he’s signed for Seb’s old team.

“Yes, I’m excited … and nervous. You’re all so great” he compliments looking down and you sigh.

“I bet you’re gonna be big. Like world champion big. I can see it now. Charles Leclerc WORLD CHAMPION” you say raising your hands in a jazzy manner.

“That should be you. You should have hand a championship but it’s HIS fault” he directs looking at the screen following Lewis in your P1.

“How are you so calm and not angry at him?” He presses and you just laugh.

“I used to get very angry when I first started and I was young. But you learn that you being upset gets you nowhere. I learn from my mistakes, I don’t let them have a hold over me” you explain to him. Knowing that you were a much calmer and level headed driver than you used to be.

“Do you think I’ll ever be as good as him?” He asks tone softer than it was before.

“I think anyone can be as good as him, given the circumstances. I’ve know Lewis for years and he’s where he is now because of how committed he is. He works and trains harder than anyone I know. He’s got an incredible team behind him and a car to match, when all of that falls into play you’ve got yourself a winner. He’s one of the greats and will be remembered by everyone” you offer and Charles nods, now seeing the current leader of the championship in a new light. He’d always looked up to him, but now he just seems like a hard worker and Charles wanted to be that.

Lewis Hamilton

Lewis by far was not one of your grid kids, being a similar age to you and having started your careers in the same year you’d know him for an incredibly long time.

Which means you knew his tendency to be a little … childish. And by a little you mean a lot.

Too put it bluntly Lewis is a massive brat.

He doesn’t act angry when races don’t go his way, he’ll pout and be all salty looking like a puppy whose just had his biscuits taken away from him.

He’d been know to throw caps at his teammates when they said something bad about him and would often try play the victim card. You’d know him for so long that you knew the games he played like the back of your hand.

“Lewis!” You chide the man whose currently slumped over on the drivers room. You were both on the podium. Max having taken the win.

“What! He’s taken my win from me!” He points at the empty seat where Max should be.

“That’s racing! You’ll get him next week, this week things didn’t go your way and that’s okay. So stop sulking and put that gorgeous smile on your face” You command sick of him moping when he’s still up on the podium. He looks up to see your famous mum look, and nods on instinct feeling like it’s his mum scolding him when he was a child.

“You’re scarily good at that look Yano? Ever think of having your own?” He asks and you roll your eyes.

“Yeah, but I gotta retire first” you smile and he nods.

“We’ll get out of here then, less competition for me” he grins and you shake your head laughing.

That’s the Lewis you knew.

Jamie Chadwick and Bernie Collins

y/user

Liked by bernie.collins.1, jamiechadwick

y/yser: COMMENTATING WITH MY DAUGHTERS!!! Look at how beautiful they are!!! So proud of Jamie for last weekend in Indy Car as well, as a ex-female driver I hope to see her in F1 in the future!

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Jamie and Bernie were a recent development in the F1 World. You couldn’t be more pleased that women were taking more of an interest in the sport than they historically had.

Not only as viewers but working there. You now saw so many female engineers and mechanics. And it made you so happy that women were comfy within the sport.

When Bernie came onto the scene you immedielty took the younger lady under your wing, almost becoming a mentor. But the mum side would slip out at times when people managed to pick up on it.

"Bernie did you put cream on? It awfully sunny and they haven't given you an umbrella!" you exclaimed one day, going into your back and taking out the aerosol can of sunscreen you'd brought with you incase anyone was in need.

"No i was a little rushed this morning leaving! I didn't realise how early they wanted us at the track" she sighed and you offer her the can showing her you can spray it in her cheeks. She closed her eyes letting you spray it on before you wipe it in.

"Don't wanna get greasy hands before you hold your mic hun" you smile at her as she opens her eyes thank you for the coverage.

It was very similar to Jamie, who was much younger but also whenever the girl came to the f1 track would find her way to you.

But the moment you really saw it was when you went to her Indy Car race. Her parents werent able to attend and you had the weekend free so of course you and you're husband came down for the show.

And you couldnt be prouder of her. You were one of the first people there to congratulate her on her amazing race, pulling her into a huge sweaty hug.

"I'm so proud of you darling! You did so well!" you smile kissing the side of her head pulling her in for a second hug.

"Thanks mum" she chuckles with a shake of her head before heading off with her team.

George Russell

y/user

Liked by georgerussell63, carmenmmundt and others

y/user: My son drove me and his girlfriend to work today! Recommended 10/10!

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georgerussell63: yeah you're welcome. Might need you to come to parents evening soon. Professor Wolff isn't happy with me or Kimi!

-> y/user: @ susie_wolff get your husband in check! lol

->susie_wolff: will get on this now, not our sons, not on our watch

-> georgerussell63: thanks mum number 2

kimi.antonelli: Mr Wolff is very scary. PS can i have some help with my homework?

George was one you always watched out for. Being a British driver you felt like you had to mentor him. Which is exactly what you did. The minute he came into Williams despite his awful first year, you knew he was something worth your time and knowledge. So you helped him out, gave him small pointers on the track and he got his first points in F1. The car got better as the year went on and he was driving with more ambition.

George had a special place in his heart for you after all you'd helped him do in his career. He was one of the saddest when you annouced your retiremeant. You had to actually to take him out to dinner and explain to him privately that you were leaving even before it got out in the media.

"So what's this treat of a meal for? Not my birthday!" he says digging into the Carbonara that was in front of him.

"Well, next years going to be a little different in the races!" you start to explain not picking up your own knife and fork, wanting to concentrate on getting everything out in the open.

"What, OMG are you changing teams?" he asks in shock.

"No, i'm retiring" you say and he chokes on the pasta making you look up in shock. He also looked shocked too.

"W-what? No you cant be!" he says looking at you. You were his favrioute person on the grid. He always came to you whenever he had a bad race or an issue with Max, which you always treated as if they were siblings in an argument.

"I'm sorry, but it's my time and i want to be with my husband and ... i wanna start a family" you smile softly looking at him.

"Were you're family. Here racing!" he demands a sour upset sort of look on his face.

"George ... i love you all. But i need to do this. For me, okay. I'll still come and visit. Think i've got a free paddock pass for life ..." you joke.

"But ..." he starts but you just smile.

"Come on, lets not spoil a good meal" you say, tapping his hand.

"You better come visit" he mutters looking up at you with a smile.

"Does that mean i'll get to be a cool Uncle?" he grins and you laugh with a nod.

"Oh absolutely"

Kimi Antonelli

Kimi Antonelli wasn't who you expected for Mercedes to replace a 7 time world champion. However, he was for sure the right choice. You saw him as this timid young teenager who was still going through school.

When he'd started in 2025, you were at every race as a commentator or guest. You loved travelling and being with the calendar as it went through the year and being in their to see the wins and talk to your old friends.

But Kimi was interesting. 2025 had brought many rookies who were in a very different age bracket from you. Which meant of course they all flocked to you like sheep.

Kimi was a special case where you met his mum in his F1 debut when he crashed. His mum was incredibly worried and you consoled her as much as you could until Kimi came to meet the both of you.

After that moment she trusted you with her son. You would go with him from the hotel to the track and you'd sit in the Mercedes hospitality with him.

"I don't get this, what does it mean?" he asks you about a question on his English homework that he didn't really understand. This was a typical race weekend now, between practices and interviews you were hauled up with papers both of you having what you called mocktails. It was literally just fancy water with lemons and limes and an umbrella in it but you and Kimi always found it funny ordering them.

"Well, its asking you how the poem makes you feel... its about emotion in literature" you then translate it into Italian, and he nods a thoughtful face appearing across his features before. He writes his answer out in english before showing it to you and you smile.

"I recon if you werent half the driver you are, you'd be a poet!" you grin and he frowns lightly knocking your shoulder.

"No! Shush!" he cries before laughing with you.

"Good thing I'm a good driver then!" he jokes and smiles taking some water.

Isack Hadjar

y/user

Instagram Story Caption: He destroyed the car, but got a hug from me!!!

Yuki Tsunoda

Instagram Story Caption: Mine and @ nicolepiastri child!

Lando Norris

Instagram Story Caption: MY SON WON!!!!!

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[ari-ana-bel-la]

We need Carlos being comforted by daughter reader after the Canadian gp qualifying 🥺🥺

My Little Sunshine

The Montreal air was thick with frustration and disappointment as Carlos climbed out of the car. The helmet came off with a sharp, practiced yank, his brows furrowed beneath damp curls. P17. Seventeenth. It might as well have been last.

He took a breath—deep, controlled, as his engineer approached with a tablet, numbers and deltas and sector times lighting up the screen. Carlos barely looked at it.

“I don't want to see it,” he muttered.

The engineer blinked. “Okay. Debrief at 4:30?”

Carlos just nodded. His hands went to his hips as he stared at the car, painted in Williams blue and white. He was grateful for the opportunity, truly. But today, everything just hurt. The tires hadn’t hooked up. The wind was unpredictable. And traffic during his final push lap ruined what little momentum he had.

He turned away from the car and walked toward the back of the garage, head low, pretending not to hear the murmurs of the media gathering just outside the barrier.

From behind the coffee counter, one of the mechanics—Jules—watched him quietly. “Tough one,” he whispered to his colleague. “Hope he’s okay.”

Carlos heard none of it. His mind buzzed with frustration, replaying every turn, every tenth he’d lost. He dropped onto a padded bench, elbows on knees, staring at the concrete floor.

And then—

“Papá?”

The small, familiar voice came from just outside the back of the garage, where a gentle breeze blew through the open flap.

Carlos looked up.

There she was—Yn, his little sunshine. Six years old, her dark curls bouncing in the breeze, a pair of oversized Williams headphones over her ears and a lanyard with her paddock pass swinging against her tiny chest. She held something behind her back, her smile as radiant as ever.

Carlos tried to smile, but it was tight. “Hola, mi vida.”

Yn stepped closer, lowering her voice in the way kids do when they think they’re in a serious moment. “Are you sad?”

Carlos sighed and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees again. “A little bit, sí.”

Yn tilted her head. “Did your car break?”

“No,” he said softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “The car was okay. But Papá didn’t do a good job in qualifying.”

“You didn’t win?”

He shook his head. “Not even close.”

Yn seemed to think for a moment. Then, with both hands, she brought the hidden treasure from behind her back—a handful of white wildflowers. Daisies, messy and imperfect, with a few tiny green stems still clinging to them.

“I picked these for you!” she said brightly, holding them up to him. “Because you're the bestest driver. And I love you even when you don't win.”

Carlos blinked.

His heart squeezed so tightly in his chest he could barely breathe. Slowly, he took the flowers, cradling them gently in his calloused palms. They were a little wilted, a little crooked—but beautiful. Perfect.

“You picked these for me?” he asked, voice cracking just a little.

Yn nodded proudly. “By the fence! I had to be very careful because there were bees.”

He chuckled softly, the sound like sunlight after a storm. “Gracias, mi corazón. They’re beautiful.”

She smiled, and he scooped her up without another word, pulling her into his lap and holding her close. Yn giggled as he kissed both her cheeks, over and over.

“Mwah! Mwah! Mwah! Ay, you’re going to have too many kisses!”

“Nooo!” she squealed, giggling louder. “Not too many!”

Carlos’s arms wrapped tightly around her, burying his face into her shoulder. The scent of sun-warmed skin and strawberry shampoo hit him like comfort itself. His breath slowed. The ache in his chest lessened.

“You always know how to make Papá feel better, don’t you?” he murmured.

“I’m your special girl,” she said, with that proud little tilt of her chin that she definitely got from her mother.

He smiled against her shoulder. “Sí, you are. My special, perfect girl.”

Rebecca appeared a moment later, walking around the side of the hospitality tent. She looked elegant and calm, but her expression softened when she saw Carlos holding Yn so tightly.

“She saw you walking back looking all gloomy,” she said gently. “Told me she had a job to do.”

Carlos met his wife’s eyes and gave her a grateful nod. “She did more than a job. She saved me.”

Rebecca came over and sat beside them, reaching out to smooth Yn’s curls as Carlos continued to cradle their daughter.

“I know today wasn’t easy,” Rebecca said softly, her gaze on him. “But it’s just one qualifying. You always bounce back.”

“I know.” Carlos exhaled, leaning his head against hers. “It just… it gets to you sometimes. All the work, and then it goes wrong in a second. And you start to think—maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re not good enough anymore.”

Rebecca’s hand gripped his knee. “Hey. Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m being honest.”

“And I love you for that,” she said. “But don’t forget who you are, Carlos. You’re a fighter. You always have been. And this little girl?” She pointed to Yn, who was now playing with Carlos’s fingers. “She thinks you’re a superhero.”

Carlos smiled as Yn traced his palm, her small fingers exploring each line.

“I want to drive fast one day too,” Yn said suddenly. “Like you.”

“Really?” Carlos raised a brow, amused. “You want to be a racing driver?”

“Yes! But I want pink on my car,” she added seriously.

Carlos laughed, a full, warm sound. “We’ll make sure it’s the fastest pink car on the track, then.”

Behind them, a few team members had wandered over, watching quietly. There was something about the moment—Carlos’s smile returning, Yn’s happy chatter, Rebecca’s calm presence—that made the air feel lighter in the garage.

Jules turned to another mechanic and whispered, “Look at him. He needed that.”

The other man smiled. “Kid’s got superpowers.”

Back on the bench, Carlos stood up with Yn in his arms and looked at the white flowers again, still held tightly in his hand.

“Where should I put them?” he asked.

“Maybe in your room!” Yn said. “So you can see them before the race and feel happy.”

“That’s a very good idea.”

Rebecca stood as well, brushing dust off her pants. “Come on, I’ll help you get a little vase for them.”

They walked back toward the hospitality suite, Carlos holding Yn like she weighed nothing, her arms around his neck. She rested her head on his shoulder, and he could feel the soft rhythm of her breath against his collarbone.

“Papá?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re not allowed to be sad anymore.”

He smiled. “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh. Because I love you always, even if you're last. But I know you won’t be last, because you're amazing.”

Carlos kissed the top of her head. “You’re too good for me.”

“Nooo,” she said, snuggling in closer. “You’re my Papá.”

Later that afternoon, after the flowers were safely in a cup on his nightstand and Yn had gone off with Rebecca for a snack, Carlos returned to the garage for the debrief.

As he walked in, everyone looked up—expecting maybe the same low-energy version of him from earlier. But he was different now. His eyes were brighter. Shoulders relaxed. The white flowers were tucked gently into his water bottle like a makeshift vase.

“Better?” his engineer asked with a careful smile.

Carlos glanced at the flowers, then at his teammates.

“Much better,” he said. “I’ve got my lucky charm with me now.”

The team laughed, and the tension lifted like clouds parting after a storm.

As they settled into the meeting, someone whispered from the back, “We should give Yn a team radio. Bet she'd motivate him better than we do.”

And as Carlos sat down, fingers brushing the petals once more, he thought—

No matter what happens tomorrow, I’ve already won where it counts.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-♡○♡

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

MICHELLE PFEIFFER- J. TODD

day fourteen of the june bug masterlist

pairing: older! mechanic! jason x innocent! fem reader

word count: 1.6k

summary: your car starts acting funny in the middle of nowhere, with no cell service or tow trucks in sight. you do the only thing you can do- wave now the nearest truck and pray for the best. luckily, your prayers are answered, because the man helping you turns out to be jason todd, a mechanic whose pretty... good with his hands.

warnings: SMUT! smuttiest of the smut, heavy praise kink, pet names, not manipulation per say (maybe a little but its jason todd who cares he can do whatever he wants to me) - but a power imbalance? (reader really has to rely on jason), daddy kink, finger sucking, degration/ heavy dumbification, manhandling and huge size kink

i was rlly horny when i wrote this lol. but im proud and happy with it :)

 “and everythings easier way out west, wholly mad and half undressed, i love the way it always feels to miss you. i tell all my friends everything you do, a sick obsession that i still try to prove- and but it's no good, cause who am i without you?”- michelle pfeiffer, ethel cain 

This was probably one of the worst things that could be happening at this very moment.

And of course, it had happened to you.

Here, all alone- in the hot summer heat, your tire gone flat. On the hottest day of the year, barely a tree for shade and your car already low on gas- you realized you had hit a new all time low.

Tears spilled out from the corners of your eyes, the humid wind brushing them away as you stepped out of the car- pulled off on the side of the road.

You had a spare tire- but you didn't know how to put it back on.

Needless to say, you could try.

There was no cell service out here to call for any means of help, as you were in the deep country, surrounded by hay bales and brush.

Your lower lip quivered, and you braced a hand on the car, as if your touch could magically fix the issue. You had to be a big girl, and figure this out yourself, you told yourself- but god you just wanted to sob more than anything.

Then- as if God himself had heard your call- a truck came up over the bend- leaving a trail of dust in its wake. All you could think to do was stand on your tippy toes, trying to get the driver's attention as you waved.

Please. Please stop.

And he slowed.

You could just make out his figure, tall and large, built of solid muscle. He looked strong. He could lift the tire, knowing damn well you couldn't by yourself.

His truck engine sputtered to a halt as he parked behind you, and you were so relieved you started to cry again. He stepped out, streaks of grey in his darkened hair, tattoos snaking around biceps that were the size of your head.

He was old enough to be your father. But his eyes were so pretty, all warm and coaxing as he approached you, as if you were a startled dog.

“Hey sweetheart what's going on?”

His gaze instantly dropped when he got close enough to see the tears staining your cheeks, rushing to place a hand to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Awh little fawn don't cry. Shh, shh it's alright. What's going on? Why are you here all by yourself?” he asked softly, as you tried to pull yourself together.

“I was just driving and I just- my car-”

”Hey, hey calm down. It's okay. I promise.” he smiled and you nodded, wiping your fresh tears.

“I got a flat tire and I don't know how to put on the new one. And it's too heavy for me to grab and I just-”

You sighed, trailing off, kicking the ground.

“Well you’re in luck, fawn, I happen to be a mechanic. M’ Jason. Jason Todd.” he rubbed your arms in a soothing motion, forcing you to look up at him, staring into his intoxicating blue eyes.

“I’m Y/N. Thank you, so, so much Mr. Todd.”

“Oh god don't call me that. You make me sound old. I don't need reminders.” he teased, making you giggle.

“There's that pretty smile. See? It's alright fawn. Let me just get your spare, okay?”

You nodded, stepping aside to let him do his thing. He was so large he seemed to tower over your little camino, lifting the tire with ease from the trunk. You watched in awe as he hoisted it up onto his shoulder as if it weighed nothing.

A drip of sweat trickled down his bicep, tracing the ink on his skin and you caught yourself ogling like a cartoon character. You wouldn't be surprised if little hearts fluttered around your head, and you trailed behind him as if he was a fresh pie through an open window.

Stranger danger was a foreign concept today, but honestly, you didn't like to think about that danger.

Everyone was nice, at least you liked to think so. And Jason was super nice.

Stopping to help you fix your car? He just seemed to be the nicest man in the whole wide world.

A cluck of his tongue and a sigh broke you from your lovesick trance, and you peered over his shoulder as he crouched, examining the tire with a shake of his head. “Is everything okay Jason?”

He sighed. “M’afraid not fawn. This tire is no good either.”

“Oh! Well…what's wrong with it?” you asked timidly, trying to get a better look. He blocked your view from the commotion though, sweeping you up with his syrupy voice and southern charm.

“Nothin you need to worry your pretty lil head about darlin. But, I dont think it's safe to drive on. Do you wanna come with me to my shop and we can grab a new one and come back?” he asked, empathy rolling off him in waves you were swept up in.

Why couldn't you trust him? He was nurturing, wanting only the best for you. Plus, wasn't it dangerous for a little girl like you to be out here all alone?

You would be safe with Jason, he was a nice old man who probably just wanted to keep you hydrated and out of the sun- and any bad onlookers who would lure you in their trap.

There was no question to be asked, no second guessing.

You felt yourself nodding, happy and eager for him to lead you, a large hand on your lower back, all warm through the thin fabric of your little white dress.

“Good girl. No more tears, okay? I got you sweetheart.”

·•—–٠✤٠—–•· ·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

“Look at you, pretty lil thing. All those pretty tears.” Jason cooed above you, pounding into your tight cunt so hard you started to see stars.

All that could be heard was his sweet praises and gentle coos, mixed with the sound of skin slapping and your short gasps, and gentle moans. You couldn't help the tears from falling again as he splayed you out on a workbench, dragging you to the edge and splitting you in two.

He was so big and thick you couldn't think straight, and with the pace he was setting- it was as if he had no sign of stopping. You felt his thumb brush away the salty tears as you hiccuped, moaning as he slipped his fingers in your mouth.

You instantly sucked them, pacifying yourself as a means of grounding.

“Atta girl. Daddys gotcha.”

You clenched around him at the name he gave himself, and he chuckled lowly. “Oh you like that, don't you fawn? You like when Daddy takes care of you? Makes things all better, cause you're too lil to figure it out yourself?”

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed as he thrusted even harder, balls slapping your ass as the bench banged against the wall, making the tools above you jolt.

He had you wrapped around his finger.

That was the plan all along of course. He was always keen to help a stranger, but you? He knew he couldn't leave you, just quite yet.

So yes, he had told you there was an issue when there truly wasn't- but could you blame him? How else was he supposed to take care of you the way you so desperately deserved?

Jason could tell as soon as he saw the quiver of your lip and the anxious fidgeting with the hem of your dress that you had needed this- needed him for a while. And he was more than happy to oblige to your needs.

He watched as your legs started to quiver from pleasure, like a little newborn fawns. His little deer.

A thin line of spit trailed his fingers as he pulled them away, letting your whines and moans get louder. You clawed at his biceps, gripping them tight as his pace refused to falter.

Daddy daddy ohhh- Was all you could muster out, and he wanted to keep it that way.

“Yeahhh sweetheart just like that. Grippin me so tight- s’like you were made for me hm? You needed someone to take care of you baby? To split this lil cunt in half like she deserves?”

You nodded absentmindedly as you let the pleasure wash over you- holding onto him as if he were your savour.

He was- your savior. And he’d be damned if he’d let you forget it.

“Gonna cum please daddy can I-”

“Can you? Oh look at you, using your manners without me even reminding you. You’re such a good girl baby, go ahead n cream around this cock lil fawn.”

You cried, wails bouncing off the walls- sounding like sweet music to his ears, as if it was coming from his old radio in the corner he’d whistle a tune to while he worked.

But your sounds were much, much better. So sweet and delicate- your face all contorted in pleasure, nose scrunched, eyes clenched shut as you let go around him.

All he could do was coo at you, his sweet little girl, planting soft kisses to your face. You were so soft and gentle to him on the ride over, thanking him endlessly, clenching your thighs as he dared to slip a hand down to rest on your thigh.

Swooning over him, like a love sick puppy.

He didn't miss the way you stared at him when you thought he wasn't looking. And maybe it was wrong, for him wanting to corrupt such a sweet angel like you, so innocent and eager to do right by him for a simple gesture of kindness.

But he couldn't help himself.

And this? Peering down at the bulge in your stomach from where his cock rearranged your insides?

This was payment, and then some. 

[charles-leclerc-official]

Waiting for more info, but be serious if he were looking to leave the last place he's going is Red Bull.

[kingofthecotas]

more like a relapse | ao3

aka the bmw sex fic (e) | 3.2k

inspired by this post and its tags everyone say thank u @certainstarfishllama

——

In Valentino’s defence, he’d told them it was too much. 

——

They unveil the car in Jerez with him there, and they’ve done a good job, he has to admit: deep midnight blue, and only the trim, the wheel spokes, the threads of the interior, carry his yellow. The art of subtlety seems to have been lost, however, when it came to stencilling his number over the rear doors. A horrible reminder of his age, more than his racing.

Whatever. It’s a good-looking car. 

They’d insisted, all of them, BMW and WRT and MotoGP, now that he’s as close to a BMW factory driver as he can get. They’d insisted, and he may be Valentino Rossi but even he is not always able to escape the demands on his time, attention, and commercial indulgence. 

He saves his gripes for Uccio, both of them hiding in the blessed privacy of his motorhome with cups of the only decent coffee to be found at the circuit.

“It’s, ah, ostentatious,” he says over his second espresso. It’s mostly a complaint. Partly a boast. 

“It could have been yellow,” Uccio retorts. “I suppose they have to make sure that whoever wins it actually wants it.”

“Yes, probably.” A sip. “Who do you think will?”

Uccio lets out a snort. “The way he is going? Márquez, probably.”

And—oh. Valentino hadn’t even—well, he’s considering it now: Marc settling into the leather seat, framed in yellow, Vale’s yellow, victorious and satisfied; his big hands curled around the wheel, yellow stitching beneath his palms—

Uccio snaps his fingers. Valentino blinks. 

“Don’t,” his friend warns. “He only ever wanted to fuck you, and then fuck you over. Both of which he managed, by the way.” 

“Mm.” And Marc had been very good at fucking him. Just a little too good at fucking him over, too. 

——

Marc doesn’t get pole in Jerez.

It’s a good lap by Fabio. Even Marc thinks so, from the crinkle in the corner of his eyes; he’s always known Fabio is better than what his bike allows him to be.

Marc doesn’t get pole in Le Mans, and it—Vale looks sideways at that one, but Fabio is at home, on form, on a bike that seems to be coming to him, and again, it was a good fucking lap. 

Silverstone makes it three, and Valentino shouldn’t care this much, he shouldn’t, and Pecco has been complaining constantly about the fucking front end, and he has to take it seriously now because Diggia is saying the same. He shouldn’t care this much, but it chafes.

He doesn’t mention it to Uccio. It wouldn’t be the first time he accused Marc of doing something on purpose.

——

They give him the keys in Mugello for a couple of media laps, and it’s too easy to slip them into his pocket afterwards, solid and warm through his shorts. Suzi is laughing—good, he likes Suzi—swiping hair away from her face and the cameras follow that instead of the quick movement of his hand. The producer has another set, will be able to drive it back to its spot in the paddock; he might even get away with it, which sends a mischievous thrill up his spine. If not—ah, well, an easy mistake to make. He’s sure he will be forgiven. 

——

Pecco gets pole on Saturday; his first of the year, impossibly, and not entirely unexpected, but it rubs something raw in Vale when Marc pulls in behind the second-place board. It’s ridiculous, this hurt that’s pistoning in his chest, but it’s there all the same, so. Nothing to do but muscle through it, Márquez-style, and pretend it isn’t entirely self-inflicted. 

Catching Marc in the midday light, between motorhome shadows, is a little too easy, and Marc waits for him. He waits, head tilted with that terrible arrogance as he waits for Valentino to speak.

There was a time Marc made him nothing but angry. Not so much, anymore: time and age and a different kind of heat that curls his chest into a breathless knot. 

“You are slipping, eh?” He tries for familiar, light, teasing. Familiarity breeds contempt, however, because Marc snorts, dangerous like a bull. 

“Perhaps you do not believe in Pecco as much as you pretend to.” Straight for the jugular, then. 

“Ah.” Vale manages to laugh. “It is the bike, we both know this. He likes it here. Maybe you will even let him win tomorrow.”

“Let,” Marc echoes, an old Spanish slant to the words that Vale had thought he’d lost. “I do not let anybody win.” And that really was the problem, in the end. 

“No,” Vale agrees. The car keys burn like a brand in his pocket. “You might let someone else get pole, though.” 

And Marc smiles, flat. Ivory blade on a knife edge. “Why would I do that?” 

He looks good in red; it deepens the tan in his skin, and teases his eyes into something a little less black. Es tu color, Valentino doesn’t say. He does shrug though, unbothered, and flash a lazy smile before turning his back. 

Marc’s gaze scorches into him every step he takes. 

——

Marc does not let Pecco win. It’s close, though, closer than Qatar, but that’s no consolation when second place is second place, and five points is five points. Perhaps it’s a good thing Vale won’t be in Assen, a country and a twenty-four-hour race away.

Just like Saturday, Vale has no trouble finding Marc, this time in the seldom-trespassed space between the garages and the service road that passes under the track on the run to Arrabbiata. The producer had left the car here on Thursday, on display, not far from the motorhomes.

“See, I said,” Marc says—initiating now, and Vale wonders when they got here, how they got here, “I said I do not let anybody win.”

“Just pole position, then.”

Marc shrugs, self-assured again and easy with it. “No points for pole.”

“Ah, but look.” Vale reaches into his pocket, finds what he’s been carrying since Thursday afternoon. “At the end of the year, you would get a car.” He dangles the keys between two fingers, noting the hypnotic way Marc’s gaze follows it.

“I have enough cars.”

“Maybe you would like a test drive?”

“No.” But Marc is closer than when they started talking, a step or so; Vale catalogues it greedily. That, and the most words they’ve exchanged in a decade. 

“I am a professional racing driver, you know. Might be fun.” 

Head angled, and another step forward. He has Marc on a string here, and Marc has him too. Neither of them could turn and leave if they tried. “What, you are giving me a sales pitch?”

“If you want.” And Vale wants. He wants.

“Show me, then.” Haughty, like he’s doing Valentino a favour. 

So Vale does, beckoning with a hand outstretched, letting Marc follow him around the corner to the car, already unlocked. The blue seems darker now, less vibrant next to Marc’s red as he opens the driver’s door and slips in, every movement a carefully calculated execution of muscle and sinew. Aim, set, fire. 

Marc traces a finger over the neon yellow stitching on the seat, the leather steering wheel. “Tasteful.”

“I didn’t design it.”

“No?” Marc says. “You would have had more yellow?”

“Maybe,” Vale says, horribly delighted at this strange game they’ve found themselves playing; Marc leans across the driver’s seat, one leg pulled up to his chest, to inspect the gearstick.  

Vale wants him so badly his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth. Marc knows this, of course he does, so he lets his other leg hang out of the open door, smooth skin paler than usual in the dark, shorts riding up his thigh. 

Silence. Valentino waits. 

“How does it drive?” Marc says eventually, just a glance over his shoulder.  

Vale lets himself smile. 

——

Valentino knows Mugello well enough, a second, third, fourth home, and the roads around it are second nature. He’s a lazy driver too, left hand on the wheel, right elbow on the centre console, taking the curves in the road easy. 

“This is how you drive your racecars?” Marc asks, almost this side of mean, and Vale pushes down a gear just to make the engine growl, just so Marc’s sharp cut of teeth slides into something more satisfied. 

He had allowed himself to imagine, sometimes, Marc in a passenger seat beside him. If not for the gearstick being something for his right hand to hold—well, Marc looks at him with those almost-black eyes that shouldn’t carry as much feeling as they do—and normally they don’t, not if Marc doesn’t want them to. Vale’s fingers twitch. 

One swing of the wheel, and they’re on a dirt road that leads to nowhere, too fast, tyres crunching loose stone as he pulls to a sharp stop. 

Marc huffs out a sharp laugh. “I thought we were driving.” And before Valentino can fire back, he’s out of the door, cool air ballooning into the space where he had been. He’s getting better at doing that, taking Vale by surprise, as if he’s practised the willing twenty-one-year-old out of himself.

His lip curls, despite himself, and Vale can’t decide if it’s humour or scorn, so he presses the ignition into silence and opens his own door, praying that the evening breeze brings some sense with it.

It doesn’t. Marc has slipped into the backseat, door wide open, inspecting something that doesn’t seem as important as catching Valentino’s eye in the rearview mirror, and it hasn’t been so long spent apart that they don’t understand each other in their silences—no amount of time would be long enough, Vale thinks, for that—so he’s pulled on a string out of his seat, drifting, marionette, around the front of the car and to the open rear door, his own number a dull shadow. Marc shuffles further in; Vale braces himself on the doorframe, a familiar heat simmering low in his stomach. 

It’s been a long time, ten bloody years of dug-in trench warfare between now and the last time they meant this. Not so long that Vale isn’t already half-hard. Not so long that Marc has to do anything more than tilt his head in invitation, and Valentino crawls into the backseat.

“Very graceful,” he mutters, a protective wall of self-deprecation, but Marc’s answering laugh isn’t mean—or Vale doesn’t think so, at least. It’s been a long time.

One hand finds itself on Marc’s ankle, his leg crooked just so. The other lands on the inside of his smooth thigh, gentle thumb drawing a circle. 

Marc swallows; his throat clicks, loud in the silence. Those same dark eyes, now carefully shuttered, wait for Vale to make his next move, and at least if it’s away then his shields are up. No perceived sunk cost. 

How like Marc to shrink into his own defences now, like he can’t—like he doesn’t know—

“Yes?” Valentino asks, unable to get anything more coherent out, but Jesus Christ, it’s important.

“Yes,” Marc hisses, headstrong and demanding and everything Vale taught himself to hate. Wanting, too: a crack in the shield wall, so he presses his advantage, sliding one hand under Ducati-red armour just to feel Marc’s skin again. 

Trainers shaken off, rolled somewhere beneath the front seat, Vale tries to keep hold of Marc—a desperate greedy thing, really, and one he can’t explain to himself; his free hand struggles with the button on his shorts, and then pulling them down without bumping his head against the glass roof. Marc, leopard-lithe, has no such problems, his own shorts kicked free and discarded. Shirts, too, a black-and-red pool of them to be distilled apart later, a reversible reaction. 

Marc gets there first, counter-strike, and gets his whole hand around Valentino’s dick, hot through his boxers. He’s hard too, beneath his red underwear. Superstitious idiot. Vale makes a noise he hasn’t for years, arousal cut through with ungainly humour. 

As if that was a personal challenge—and it probably was—Marc slips the same hand, right hand, past Vale’s waistband, light enough to tease down the length of him but unbearably scorching, so it seems only fair to return the favour. Marc is heavy in his palm when Vale works it free, and he shudders, sliding further down until he’s beneath Vale’s chest.

It’s uncomfortable, even on the wide seats, and Vale has to readjust, then shift again, before realising, “I don’t have any—”

“Side door compartment,” Marc says, and smirks. Jesus. Vale had cameras in this car on Thursday. 

Valentino could decide he’s been engineered here, manoeuvred to Marc’s whims instead of the other way around. He decides he’s enjoying it. Decides that Marc wanted this too. 

He reaches past Marc’s head as directed, muscle-stretch burning his shoulders, and pinches a packet between two fingers, imagines Marc carrying them around with him, slipping them into the car when no one was looking. He nearly slices the pad of his thumb on the sharp foil edge trying to get the lube on his fingers. 

“Easier in a bed,” he says, mostly to see if Marc will laugh again, and he does, bright and loud, shifting so Vale can get between his legs.

He does, pushing a finger in, leaning down close to Marc as he does, feeling more than hearing the hitched breath, and presses in, reining himself back because—careful, careful. Marc is squirming now, demanding more, but Marc is never careful, not with himself. 

“Come on,” hissed somewhere in Vale’s neck, fang-sharp.

“So impatient,” Vale purrs, and it is a purr despite the desperate want clawing at his throat. 

“You have been—fuck.” Marc throws his head back, skin taut in his jaw. Still got it, then. “You have been staring at me since Jerez.”

Maybe. Maybe Vale had been staring for longer than that, and Jerez was when Marc began to look back. 

Second finger in, and gentle is an effort now, but age has taught Vale that some things are worth the wait. 

Another short breath. Marc tilts his head up, catching Vale’s earring with his teeth. Vale wonders for a moment if he might rip it out, but Marc moans hot against his earlobe instead. Ten minutes ago, Vale would have chalked that little victory towards his total. Now, the giddy triumph is a silver thread drawing him in closer, closer. Third finger. 

Marc whines this time, releasing the earring with a final tug, his hands reaching down until they find the back of Valentino’s bent legs—what are they doing, Vale wonders hysterically, crouched and tangled in the backseat of a car like a couple of teenagers. If teenagers’ knees protested when they did this, that is. 

“Please,” Marc pants when Vale twists his fingers, spreading just to be sure. “It’s—I can—”

“Yeah—yeah.” 

“Vale—”

“Yes,” Vale soothes, and pulls his hand away to wrap it around his dick. A long time, since Marc has said his name like that, since he’s been inside Marc like this. 

One smooth movement, and he groans through it, Marc’s satisfied noise catching behind his teeth. Then he twitches, a breath before Vale gets all the way in, and clenches—Vale has to throw one hand out to brace himself, hits the window with a dull thud that makes them both jump. His fingers leave an unmistakably sweaty mark.

“Ah—shit,” Marc says, and laughs without restraint. Vale watches, motionless, warmed to the very root of him. 

Then he moves. 

Marc gasps, his eyes going wide, mouth open in a way Valentino hasn’t seen in a long time—normally so tight, jaw set, cheeks stiff unless he has to smile, but this—

This is all Vale’s. 

One knee slips towards the edge of the seat when he tries to drive in further, a swoop that sends him closer to Marc’s slack mouth, only their breath between them. He finds purchase somewhere in the footwell and when he readjusts, slants his hips up, he swallows Marc’s filthy answering moan down his own throat. 

Hands clutch him, only hesitating for a second before settling just where Valentino likes them, back of his ribcage, big and warm against his skin. Tip of a nail pressed into the divot of his spine. 

Vale follows the pressure, curls his torso down, cobra-like, thrusts again. Marc pants scalding against him, and everything in Valentino’s awareness is Marc, Marc, Marc: skin, breath, their bodies. 

It’s easy to forget, like this. When they’re like this. 

Everything is hot with Marc, scorching, a cacophony of red and orange and the heat of him against Vale’s skin, around his cock. They’ll burn out, though, they always do, and not with a gentle fizzle, not in embers. Supernovas. Heat death.

Not for the first time, Vale wishes—

But they are. They are. They couldn’t be anybody else. 

Marc tilts his hips, breath coming ragged now, and Vale meets him there, their rhythm broken, frantic; white-knuckling, both of them searching for leverage to push impossibly closer. 

“Marc,” is all he can say, “Marc—” and he’s lost every other word in every language he knows. 

Marc gasps, forces out, “Fuck—Vale—” before he buries his face in the crook of Valentino’s elbow as he comes, and that’s all Vale needs to follow him, arms shaking, pelvis twitching. 

He pants hard and ugly through his mouth. Stares. Lucidity is an unwelcome companion, everything cool and sticky now, the breeze brushing his bare legs like gentle fingers. Marc turns his head, loose, sated, but closed away again, guarded, as Vale pulls out. 

The thing with Marc is—he’s excellent at evaluating the danger after the crash. It’s how he is, riding past the limit to find it, looking back to pinpoint where he could have avoided it all, if he’d been a little more careful. If he hadn’t charged headfirst towards the highside. 

“Sorry,” Marc says, then before Valentino’s stomach can truly start churning, “You will have to pay for someone to deep clean it, I think.”

The fucking car. “Or you could make sure that you win it.” 

“It is, ah, growing on me.” 

“Oh, yes?” Vale asks, light, as if it matters nothing. Inconsequential. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“It will remind you of me, a little bit.”

“Of this?” And Marc’s smile is impish; Vale can’t help but give him one back.

This—this is what he hates about Marc: how good they are together, and what a wrench it is when they inevitably end. Because they can’t—they don’t work. 

“We should…” Valentino sighs through his nose; reluctance tugs at his tongue. “We should get this back, I think.” He goes to reach for his shorts, the keys; stopped by a tentative hand on his wrist.

Marc’s eyes glint, sparks of the dashboard lights. “This is still your car, no? For now?

“It is,” Vale agrees, slow. Understanding is swift, when it’s Marc looking at him like that. “Ah, well, I suppose they will not miss it for a while longer.” 

A flash of teeth. In the dark, inching down his palm, Marc’s fingers lace with his.

[phoebeegreen3]

Capri Persson (F1) ⸺ 07. ALONE AT HOME

🏎 SUMMARY: What if the best driver of recent years isn't actually him? What if the best driver is actually hiding something else? Would he still be the best? Or just a simple fraud? 📓 GENRE: secret identity / rivals to lovers / he felt first, she felt harder / soulmates / slow burn 📧 WORD COUNT: 2500 📬 PARTS: book one (two parts) / CP9, book two (one part) 🏁TAGLIST: @heyyurl @dreadity @moonchouus @wierdflowerpower @anunstablefangirl @deaddumblbumble @a-bbles (let me know in the comments if you want to be part) 🏆 CAPRIPERSSON.MASTERLIST

Faenza, Italy. April, 2023

Sometimes, when everything falls silent and it's just me and my presence in an empty house with nothing else to do, I wonder if this is what they call happiness, or if I'm just confused. When I come back after spending several weeks in different hotels in different cities, it seems like everything has changed—but the only thing that changes is you.

Sometimes I wonder if this only happens to me, or if the other drivers go through the same thing. Maybe it's something collective, maybe it happens to everyone in general, but I'll never know because I never talked about it with anyone. Not even with Jean or Mick.

There were quite a few free days between Australia and Azerbaijan. Days that reminded me there was a world outside of racing and the championship. Days when I secluded myself in my house in Faenza, a nearly medieval town in Italy, close to the team's headquarters, close to Imola, but far—very far—from home, from Sweden.

For many years I got used to that distance, that feeling of not knowing which place you could call home, beyond all the meaning and mystique behind it. If I was speaking of home in a poetic and meaningful way, then my home was on a machine going 300km per hour. My home was in that single-seater, no matter the model. My home was in the frenzy of speed, in the feeling of power, in the adrenaline captured by euphoria. But I couldn't sleep in a single-seater. So I had to find a place that could physically feel like home, even if it couldn't really be home because I couldn't be too far in case they needed me. So I moved to Faenza at Franz's request as soon as I signed the contract with AlphaTauri, just as I had when I was in F2 and F3, but my mother had never been able to stay close.

The stories you hear when you enter the sport vary, and although there are often drivers who had the opportunity to start from a good position, there are others who had to sacrifice everything. Hamilton is one of them, but he's not the first and certainly won't be the last. And when you're born into a middle-class family, with a deaf-mute and practically single mother in Sweden, there's no chance that something like what was happening to me could actually happen. I had no chances, and yet my mother insisted on giving me wings to believe in it.

The way I chose motorsport was quite trivial, since I always had that subtle curiosity for cars as a child—something the other girls my age barely understood. My mother nurtured that curiosity until she put me in a go-kart, and she never stopped. But I was far from the little girl who first got into a kart, and far from my mother too.

So as the days between races stretched out, my ability for retrospection stalked me from a corner of the living room. Everything came to my mind easily. Everything made me question the kind of life I was living, and my question was whether it felt this way for everyone, or if it was just me, lost in my own mind while waiting for the next race.

I was going through the chaotic and terrifying 20s. And even though I had a secured racing seat this season and enough money to live even if I didn't, there were other aspects of my life that haunted me during this process.

I could fill this time by avoiding everything that scared me about the part of my life that wasn't related to racing—the part that was about reading as many books as possible, about visiting every place in the world, or figuring my life out before turning thirty. I was terrified just thinking about it, because probably the only thing I had done during these 23 years of life was focus on building Capri Persson into an exceptional driver—someone nobody knew the truth about. Outside of that, I knew absolutely nothing about the world.

Being a mystery had spared me from thousands of things in life. Jean worked for me and the team, my masseur, my engineers, the whole crew—those were people who were there for work, not because I had to socialize with them. And besides Mick... I didn't really have friends. And with him, we could barely stay in touch because our lives were so different.

So those free days between races could be pure torture or just ordinary days where I avoided locking myself in with my thoughts at all costs.

When it rained, it was worse. Much worse.

My house in Faenza was almost as old as the city itself and had a large yard surrounding it. It was a real country house, and I hoped to have a small farm someday. I liked how cozy it felt with its old stone exterior and tile roof. I also loved how Italian it was—a typical house lost in time, with large classic windows and ivy covering much of the exterior walls. But when it rained, there wasn't much to do, so I trained to avoid every one of my thoughts. Although it was never enough.

Was this really a life? Race, train, race, train, repeat. I did nothing but that. I had nothing but that.

Jean sent me the schedule for the photo session Nyck and I would have for a campaign before the Miami GP, and that was as exciting as my week would get. Every interaction with the real world ended there.

There was something else I used to do between races, something I stopped doing after last season's finale. When I came home between training and catching up with things, I used to work on an old car that, according to my mother, had belonged to my father. Since she thought it was junk, I brought it with me to Faenza during my first Formula One season. I'd been trying to fix it ever since in my spare time, but after Abu Dhabi I closed the garage and hadn't opened it since.

So I didn't hesitate to dive into my thoughts and the few hobbies I had to fill those days when I couldn't make elaborate or extended plans.

Until I got a call from Mick.

"Mick?" I asked as I answered the call.

"Hey, Capri. I'm not bothering you, am I?" he asked, and I sat on the living room couch, watching the rain hit the windows.

"No, not at all. It's a horrible day in Faenza, can't really do much," I told him.

"I see... I haven't been able to talk to you since the party. What did you think of it?" he asked enthusiastically, and I settled into the seat.

"Fine, I guess," I stretched my answer.

"You guess?"

"I don't remember, I think I drank too much."

"Oh," he sighed regretfully. "I shouldn't have left you alone there."

"No, no, no," I shook my head immediately. "Don't say that, I had a great time."

"You don't even remember, don't lie to me."

"Well, you're right about that. But I have the feeling it wasn't bad at all."

"The feeling, huh?" Mick replied in a playful tone, and I frowned, confused. I didn't understand where this was going. Mick doesn't usually call—Mick texts. And besides, Mick and I hadn't talked like this in a while. "Okay... so could you tell me why Max Verstappen keeps asking me about you?"

"Shit," I muttered, bringing a hand to my mouth in surprise. The week I'd spent at home after Australia had made me completely forget everything that had happened at the party, and like a bucket of cold water, the memory of his lips on mine caught me off guard—and then his eyes. God, he really had beautiful eyes.

"What happened?"

"What did he say happened?" I asked immediately, cursing myself. How could I have forgotten?

"So something did happen?!" Mick exclaimed, surprised.

"What did he tell you, Mick?" I insisted, desperate.

"I asked first," he replied, scolding me, and I tried to remember.

"Nothing happened."

"I had no idea you could seem interesting to someone by doing nothing," I could tell he air-quoted the word, smiling amusedly.

"Did he say I seemed interesting?" I asked quickly.

"He said you said some hurtful things, but that you seemed nice."

"He said I seemed nice?"

"Do you have bad reception? You're repeating everything I'm saying," he laughed. "I don't know what you told him..."

"You don't want to know."

"Ohhh, now I do want to know what you told the world champion," he replied playfully, and I sighed, forcing myself to remember exactly what I had said.

"I don't remember all the details, but maybe... maybe I went too far with the criticism."

"Are you serious?" he asked, confused.

"I was drunk. What did you expect me to do?"

"Did you confess something? Did you talk about Capri?" he asked now, worried, and I stopped breathing for a second. What if I had said something like that and didn't remember? Oh, god. "Hello?"

"No, not that I remember. But..."

"But?" he insisted, impatient, and I stood up to pace nervously.

"But I told Max what I really thought. I told him the truth—I don't think he won Abu Dhabi."

"But he did win Abu Dhabi," he reminded me.

"I would have, if I hadn't crashed in the last corner, Mick. And you know it better than anyone. If I hadn't failed, I'd be world champion. Champion. Do you understand that? I was excellent the entire season..." I sighed, standing still, watching the rain fall through the window and remembering that race. "I told him that and I also said something about Abu Dhabi 2021..."

"No, you didn't," he mumbled.

"Yes, and... then I apologized and that was it. Nothing else... happened," I concluded, thinking about the addictive taste of his lips. I couldn't believe I was doing this. I wasn't going to deny it—he was almost as good at kissing as he was at driving—but he was still Max, even if I wanted to separate a casual kiss from the rest of my life.

But Mick said Max told him he found me interesting. Capri or América?

"Well, I think he liked being insulted by your words because he invited you to go skiing in Chamonix with me and the rest this weekend," he added.

"Skiing? Mick, I don't know how to ski."

"You still don't know how to ski? Aren't you supposed to be good at everything?"

"Not skiing, I assure you."

"Well, you learn fast, so it won't be a problem. What do you think?" he asked, and I wanted to say no. I didn't know how to ski, I didn't want to see Max after what happened, and even less now that he found me "interesting." Everyone would be there, no... I wasn't supposed to be there skiing.

"I don't know, Mick. I have a lot to do this week."

"Things more interesting than skiing with friends in France?" he asked, amused, and when I didn't answer, he sighed in frustration. "Fine, the offer's on the table. I would've liked you to come, we haven't spent time together in a while and Laila won't stop talking about how she wants to see you more often. Let me know if you change your mind, it'll be three days and two nights. Hope to see you—and if not... we'll talk," he said, fully aware that maybe what I needed to do wasn't something I wanted, but something I had to do for work. He knew what he was doing, but it wasn't going to work on me.

"We'll talk later. Good luck in Chamonix."

"Goodbye," he replied, and I hung up.

I couldn't lock myself in the home gym until the end of my days or until the next race. I couldn't pretend my personal life didn't happen alongside my professional one. I knew no one other than Jean, Mick, Franz, the team, and my mother. But I wasn't sure that skiing with drivers I worked with—but pretended I didn't—was a good idea. I wanted to convince myself fairly, but a part of me knew that as soon as I got to Chamonix I'd want to leave, because I wouldn't feel comfortable there, because I was meant to follow the path my life had taken, because if the Azerbaijan GP came and I didn't win, I'd blame myself for choosing to learn to ski in France that weekend instead of staying to train and study the track from the workshop.

And I was so sick of that perspective on my life. Because... I deeply loved what I did, I loved devoting my entire life to what I loved most—but socially, I knew there was a part of my life I hadn't developed, and I didn't know if it would be too late to develop it once I had to retire from motorsport.

There I was again. Sitting at the edge of the couch in front of the window, watching the rain fall, thinking about how life passed by while I tried to figure out what to do with it.

When you can't take it anymore, you get up and lock yourself in the gym past your living room until you're exhausted, shower, eat dinner, and sleep until the next day. It was a routine I had gotten used to. I could go months without seeing absolutely anyone, without speaking to anyone, completely in my own world. I had discovered the art of planting and keeping my own garden, which I tried to maintain like juggling on a moving single-seater—it was pretty hard to keep up while traveling all the time, but the strawberries never failed me, and that lifted my spirits.

I also liked walking through most of Faenza, it was a great pastime. I liked hiking, so if I had the chance, I'd find a place to go and disappear. If the activity didn't require talking or more than one person, it was perfect for me. That, and visiting the simulator at the team's offices or driving at the Faenza track. If there were no GPs, that would be my routine for the rest of my life. And I thought it would be for the rest of the week until I had the photo shoot with Nyck for a campaign—but it was Friday morning, and someone had rung the gate bell.

"Yes?" I asked, frowning. Only Jean, my mother, and my trainer knew where I lived. No one else. And all three were supposed to be at home, living their lives.

"Can you open up? We're running late."

I went pale when I heard her voice. I didn't remember us having anything scheduled today, so I paused a moment to see if it came back to me.

"Do we have something today?" I asked.

"Open up and we'll talk. I'm in my car," she said, and I pressed the button on the wall that allowed me to open the gates for vehicles. I closed them as soon as I heard Jean's car in the driveway and went out immediately.

Jean was getting out of the car, dressed very casually.

"Pack your bags. I'm not missing the chance to ski in France, and neither are you."

🚥PREVIOUS: 06. I KNOW HOW IT FEELS LIKE

🏁NEXT: 08. YOU CAME

[gotwcird]

nadim shrugs. "i think it's a shame that more people don't realize it, but i'll be selfish and have you to myself then." and that's a truth he's not afraid to admit to. thinks that people are crazy for not seeing what he sees, but is glad too because then only he has bambi. can already feel that itching of possession that he doesn't want to show, but knows. "more very good kisses for me too." his grin grows, teasing and warm, looks at her and her alone. feels like she's the only person in the world right now. the only one that matters. "a whole weekend? now that's dangerous information you just offered up." knows he's going heavy on the flirting now, but can't help it. wants to ravage her, almost unapologetically. nadim only snaps back to reality when bambi starts to stand up, helping her up as much as possible. "of course. we can always come back here, have another not-casual date." figures they'll want to do something else for more dates, but isn't opposed to making another stop here.

when they're both stood, he takes her hand and guides her out, throwing the bag of their finished food away as they exit the park. tugs her close as they walk towards the car — takes all the time and yet no time at all for them to find their way back to his car. again, it should be a real indicator to how much he wants her because he almost pushes her against the car, in the middle of the london sidewalk, but he stops himself. instead, he opens the door for her and ushers her in before making his way to the driver's seat. "lets hope i find a good spot to park again."

"i-- will endeavour to be..catchable." she nudges his shoulder gently, seeks a little more contact. she prays he won't mind it, who she is when she's not caught up in the rush of this. but then again, he knows her, enough that the fear softens a little bit. "you might be the only person who's ever thought of me as sweet--" or hot-- for that matter. she knows she can be a little eccentric, talk a little too much, or not enough when the moment stuns her to silence. the way he looks at her though, makes her more curious about what he sees-- makes her believe it a little too. "very good at kissing?" she murmurs softly, an easy wide smile on her lips. "oh-- you--" she nods once, twice, her mind spinning. "i want to go, but i don't want to leave." she glances at the water, at the last dredges of sunlight. she almost wishes she'd taken a picture of him like that, lit up by the london sun looking at her like she was--something. "we can go back--tempest is...out for the weekend so--" the insinuation is heavy, but at this point she's beyond making excuses for how much she wants to kiss him, how much--she wants to touch. "it was really pretty. a very cute not-casual, casual date." she gives him a wide, easy smile and reluctantly gets to her feet. "thank you for showing me your spot."

[lewisinho]

kinda insane how people still cite ‘british bias’ in relation to lewis, like how blind do you have to be to completely ignore the abuse thrown his way all these years from the british press, the remarks and digs made by sky journos, their fucking incessant need to prop up the next big british white boy in motorsport so can they finally support ‘one of their own’, jeez keep peddling your agendas but please do not go there

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

I'm sorry but James Vowles criticising how Red Bull has treated their drivers in the past, only to go and then treat Logan far worse while pulling the exact same shit Red Bull did, ie the exact behaviour he criticised and called them out for, is so freaking infuriating like the sheer hypocrisy -

[redbean-nom]

din djarin, age 10: clone wars refugee child

boba fett, age 11: in federal prison for destroying an entire venator while trying to kill mace windu

[alianoralacanta]

As someone who went to the Hungarian Grand Prix in 2018, my first advice would be: Drink lots of water. Seriously. I forgot to drink enough and ended up leaving in an ambulance on around lap 40. It can get very hot at Budapest and the sun does not take prisoners. (The best solution is to bring a 500 ml empty bottle to the track - filled ones are against the track rules or were back in 2018 - then use the taps on the sides of the bathrooms to fill them up with free drinking water). If you function best with regular food, medication or anything else like that, set reminders if necessary to get them regularly. Hungary has some good food stalls; I have particularly good memories of the waffle stand (which has savoury options as well as sweet) and the langós van. Many of the food options are at the end of the pit straight nearest the pit entry (which one has to walk past to get to General Admission if using the main entrance). Hungary often has a surprisingly full schedule. Take it easy and walk everywhere. Don't pressure yourself to do everything. The Porsche Supercup is when most people tend to go for the food vendors., so expect extra queues then (and in times when nothing is on the track). Re-apply sunscreen at least every 2 hours. Also make sure to bring some from home if you are light-skinned and do no know Budapest well, because finding SPF 50 sunscreen/sunblock (as opposed to the SPF 15 popular among locals) is not a straightforward venture. Good sources of shade: the trees at Turn 10 and parts of the entertainment complex behind the main grandstands. If you have a general admission ticket, Turn 12 is a good place to watch the racing, but be warned that people are in the habit of standing up on the early laps of the race despite instructions not to do so, and that part is quite flat. You may want to watch the start of the race from somewhere like Turn 10 (where you'll also have shade from the trees). If there's the slightest prospect of rain, bring a towel. You can sit or lie on it and you'll stay a bit drier when the thunderstorm comes. I have vivid memories of Q2 in 2018, when there was a huge, brief thunderstorm. Everyone else in Turn 12 scurried for the beer tent, while I stayed put and got a good up-close view of drivers being challenged to their utmost. Layers are good. You can take them off if feeling hot or put them on if it's about to rain. The marshals, in my experience, have a good sense of humour. Follow their instructions and you may get to enjoy watching some of that humour. The brochure looks pricey but is worth it. It's just about thick enough to be a makeshift pillow if it's dry, the photos are good, and the time I went, I had a memorable moment sharing the story about then-F3 driver Tatiana Calderon with a child who up to then hadn't really understood why motorsport could be interesting. The fans I met at Hungary were friendly and enjoyed talking to fellow fans about their passion. Finally: have lots of fun!

hi guys! i'm going to the hungarian grand prix this year and i was wondering if anyone had any tips? thank you in advance!

[rickybaby]

Genuine question as I am curious — I know it’s pretty obvious with his expressions/ body language that Daniel seemed shy/insecure(?) about having his braces, but has he ever outright said anything about feeling that way with them? Just out of curiosity as I am new around here!

“I feel very different in terms of looks. Fortunately, experience also bought me better looks. I’m not really too fond of showing people photos of me when I was younger”

[skitskatdacat63]

2009 Singapore Grand Prix - Fernando Alonso

[25points]

theyre going to kill my goat 💔

[buildoblivion]

four to doomsday is a funny serial because it’s objectively kinda dull but it’s so SO good at showing us what makes fivey and his friends tick