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[bigricc]

Hate To See Your Heartbreak

from a universe I haven't written yet. i think its what we all wanna do for Dan rn🫶

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Dan looks up when he hears a knock at his driver's room door. It was a rare moment alone while Blake ran to get Dan's pain medicine from the pharmacy and his media team had left him to rest. 

"Hey," you say shyly from your place against the door frame. Dan's eyes are glassy. He's finally changed out of his race suit and back into his clothes. His face is tired, a cruel ghost of disappointment haunting the depths of the endlessness of his brown eyes. 

"Oh, shit." He says instead of a greeting.

It makes you bark out an unexpected laugh. You deserve that much. "Sorry, I--I mean--hi." You wave him off with a small smile and nod towards his wrapped forearm. 

"I'm sorry about your wrist." 

"S'not your fault. Occupational hazard, I guess." He tries to joke but your expression doesn't give him anything. You just watch him with sad eyes. "It was hit Oscar or--"

"Hit the wall. I heard your interview. You did the right thing." 

Daniel hums in vague agreement before he eyes you up and down. He swallows hard and you fidget uncomfortably under his gaze.

"What're you..." he trails off, glancing at the Alpha Tauri team space just behind you. You shift on your feet to look behind you, too before turning back to Dan. You hate saying it but you know you have to. This isn't about you and you try to remind yourself of that as you take a breath.

"I came to see you." His eye contact is intense, as it always is. It makes you feel weird and you can't hold it through your whole short sentence. It's like he's trying to find your soul through your eyes and connect with that part of you. The innermost part. His sincerity always frightened you and now especially as you finally give him a peak of the cards in your you've held close to your chest. You can tell he doesn't expect the words to come out of your mouth. It's not liek you can blame him, not when you've kept a ten foot pile of excuses between you two. 

"Really?" He asks and you laugh under your breath; half amused, half humbled. 

You make yourself meet his eyes as you nod. His face has gains a little elasticity, like you showing up unannounced to check on him had distracted him from the pulsing ache in his wrist.  

"Yeah, I wanted to make sure you were okay." You shrug to try and make it seem nonchalant but Daniel shoulders have relaxed a little. Like he's put his defenses down. 

"...I'm okay." 

"Good." You nod and glance to your shoes to just give yourself a reprieve from his unwavering stare. "I'm glad. It was scary." You gulp and hope he doesn't notice. He doesn't say anything back.

"I don't wanna bother you. I just wanted to ch--" 

"You're not bothering me." He blinks at you like he's still processing what's happening right now. 

"Oh." You hadn't really thought this far. "Um..." you shift your weight between your feet and look around his small driver's room as if it'll give you something to say. 

Dan just keeps blinking at you. It makes you feel weird and you cross your arms over your chest just to do something with your hands.  He's looking at you like he can't believe you're real.

"Daniel," you clear your throat. 

"Hmm?" He blinks a few more times, this time in quick succession. He rolls his lips into his mouth as if to keep himself quiet. 

"You're kinda freaking me out," you say softly with a laugh and he cracks a smile.

"Sorry. Sorry." More blinks and he looks down at his arm. "Sorry, I just--I never--I wasn't expecting you. You've never...come in here with me before." 

You swallow the lump in your throat that his admission gives you. Though you'd been up front about wanting to keep what's between you completely private--which Dan had always agreed with--it brings a sharp pinch in your chest when you realize he's noticed the length you've been going to avoid any kind of public association to him. 

"Yeah." You admit with an embarrassed shrug. Dan seems to regret saying it immediately because his eyes drop down to his lap again and he shakes his head to himself. "But I am really glad you're okay." You tell him, conjuring every ounce of sincerity you can find in your crusty, tired heart to push it all into the energy of the room so he could feel it. Your eyes grow glassy and you swallow hard again--this time because you're trying not to cry. 

"It was scary," Dan echoes your earlier and you nod vigorously in agreement. The urge to do it hits you before you actually go for it. There's a moment of contemplation but you give into the desire and close the gap between you with a few steps, purposefully approaching his right side so you can avoid his sling. Slowly and taking great care to not put any pressure against the arm cradled to his chest, you wrap your arms around him.

 It takes a moment for him to reciprocate, his arm tugging you closer as it settles around your waist. He squeezes you, nestling his head into your chest and squeezes you to get you to hold him closer. 

As scared as you are to hurt him, you can’t hide the relief that overwhelms you as you hug him tighter. You stay like that a while. Eyes closed, holding each other. You’re not even aware you’re sniffling til Blake appears in the doorway with a surprised “oh!” and quickly ducks out to give you some privacy.

“I should go,” you smile pathetically, squeezing him once more. When you pull away, your eyes are red and your face is bleary. “I’m really glad you’re okay,” you tell him again, holding his shoulders before you step away. 

“Hey,” Dan says before you can even reach the door. You turn, fighting a wobble in your lip at how small he looks, hunched over as if in defeat. 

“Yeah?” you prod when he just stares at you, not saying anything more. He takes a deep breath before he starts again.  

“Stay with me tonight. Please.” 

It’s not a question. His eyes plead with a desperation you know he’s too proud to voice. You’d never stayed the night. Never let him fall asleep in your hotel room. Sleeping with a man in your bed never came easy to you but something in you wants to try. Wants to make make some piece of this better for him. He needs you. 

The pause in between his request and your answer is longer than is socially appropriate but Daniel doesn’t rush you. Just sits and waits patiently, eyes still pleading. 

“Okay,” you say and it doesn’t sound completely sure but you nod and Daniel accepts it. He stands, coming over to wrap you in another one armed hug. It’s the first time you think his smile actually does anything to his eyes. 

“Okay,” he repeats, nodding contently with a smile still tugging at his lips as he speaks. “Do you wanna meet me back at the hotel? We’re leaving soon.” 

“Sure,” you say, starting to pull away from him. His arm stays on your back, holding you against him for a moment longer. 

“Thank you.” he says it quieter than you’d ever known him to be able to speak. Vulnerable. You don’t answer. Even though you want to make things better for him, you’re still not sure what to say. You’d have to take this one step at a time. Get through tonight and deal with the rest tomorrow morning. 

“I’ll text you.” He tells you when he finally lets you go. Blake appears in the door frame and you greet him politely as you step around. “See you,” Dan leans around his manager to catch your eyes. 

“See you soon,” you parrot back before heading back to the VIP hospitality suite. 

  ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

You don’t even have time to knock on the door before Dan swings it open. He grins at you, looking a bit more like his old self. He’s in a bathrobe but his hair is dry. 

“Hiya,” he beams and steps aside to let you in. 

“Watching through the peephole?” you tease, elbowing him playfully and he laughs like normal. It makes you smile. 

“I was just about to shower.” he says, suddenly a little shy scratching at the back of his neck. 

“Do you have something to wrap your cast?” You ask, dropping your overnight bag at the foot of the bed and turning to face him. He leads you into the bathroom where a large, clear plastic bag waits on the counter. 

You get to work immediately, turning on the shower water and grabbing extra towels. 

“Will you…” Dan doesn’t finish, instead watches you set up for his shower with careful eyes. You’d never showered together before. Well, not with the sole intent to bathe. You nod slowly, unsure. Dan smiles in return. His free hand unties the robe and lets it fall to the floor. “Wrap me, baby.” he jokes.

You roll your eyes and grab the plastic, fitting it over the temporary cast and tucking a significant amount into the opening by his elbow. “Try to keep it out of the water, if you can. I wrapped it pretty well but if it gets wet, it’ll start to reek.” You wrinkle your nose, looking up at him. He mirrors you with scrunch of his own nose.

Despite being one hand down, Daniel still tries to help you out of your clothes. It’s mostly pulling and tugging at the fabric impatiently until you can shrug it off and put more of your skin on display. He abandons trying to help you in favor of letting his fingertips trial all over you., leaving goosebumps in their wake. Whichever part you of your body expose next, he follows. His hand is rough in the nicest way against the softness of your belly, your back and your sides. Dan dips his head to drop a kiss to your neck when you’re down to just your underwear. 

“Go ahead, I’ll be right there.” you nudge him toward the open shower door as steam pours out the room. He hesitates, like he thinks you might make a run for it. You encourage him with a playful gesture to go on. He finally steps inside, the glass door shuts behind him and instantly clouds with steam. 

Dan makes a window through the steam with his palm so he can still see you. You laugh with a shake of your head as you step out of your panties. Daniel whistles through the glass as you turn to enter. The satisfied look on his face makes your face heat.

“Move over,” you tell him gently, maneuvering the two of you so that you’re side by side with his good arm towards the water stream. You help him wet his hair, batting away his hand when he reaches for his soap or shampoo. You just shake your head at him, humming contently when he drops his hand back to your waist and lets you take over. 

His body is starting to sag. Run out of adrenaline and pure determination, his body succumbs to exhaustion with each delicious scratch of your finger nails against his scalp. You bath him, rinse him and guide him out of the shower. You help him dry off, careful not to untie the bag around his cast until he’s dry enough. You stay in your towel as you gently rub moisturizer and lotion into his skin, keeping a tender pressure to work against tired muscles. He’s barely conscious when you pull him into a pair of clean boxers and pull the covers back so he can crawl in. 

As Dan gets into bed, he's looking at you different. Granted, half asleep—but different. You know it's because you’ve never shown him this side of you before. This tenderness. Hell, you haven’t seen it in yourself in a long time. The urge to take care of someone the way you just had isn’t something you imagined you’d be doing any time soon. But here you are. And here he is, looking at you like you’ve changed everything. 

You ignore it and get yourself ready for bed instead. 

It’s not til you turn off the light and crawl in beside him that you realize he was up and waiting for you. He reaches for you, trying to spoon against you but you can feel his cast on your hip. Worried you’ll knock it, you reposition yourself so you can lay with your head against his chest and his cast free. 

In complete silence and darkness, the both of you think about how you’ve never laid like this before. 

  ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

You’re not sure when you dozed off but you kind of can’t believe you did. You’ve drifted slightly from Daniel, waking up with your torso pointed opposite him with your legs between his. He’s still snoozing soundly when you wake up. Your phone tells you its the very early hours of the morning. It takes you a moment to gather your bearings. Not only had you actually fallen asleep, but you’d slept well. 

The autopilot in your brain reaches for the edge of the covers, ready to throw them off and make a run for it. You've never stayed the night. Everything inside you told you that this should fell wrong. You're too different, you shouldn't fit together so well. But you do. You’re annoyingly aware of how well you fit together and how easily, too.

You shift uncomfortably with the realization which makes Daniel stir. Freezing in your place, you hope he’ll just adjust under the covers and go back to sleep. But he doesn’t.

He reaches for you, hand locking around your arm and pulling you closer with an impressive display of strength for so early in the morning. His hand smooths up your side and under the t-shirt you wore to bed. His palm is warm against your skin and so hypnotic, he could lull you back to sleep with just the gentle motion.

“G’morning,” he yawns, tucking himself further into you. He nuzzles his nose into the crown of your hair. You can feel him smile against you. “You’re here.” he hums. But he doesn’t say it like he thought you’d leave. No. He says it like he's proud of you. Like he's always knew you were meant find your way there, somehow. Someway.

  ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

[bigricc]

you, me and the baby makes three

chicaenfuga

Liked by anasainzdec and 4,058 others

chicaenfuga Babymoon 🌘

carlossainzoficial Llévalo a casa inmediatamente

landonorris Hoping to make a twin?!😳

↪️ carlandomamacita LANDO THATS NOT--

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herbavore444

Liked by nicholashamilton and 1,043,987 others

herbavore444 Home wherever these two are👨‍👩‍👦

naomischiff 😍😍😍😍😍

lewishamilton Always yours baby

ainee.ville

Liked by chloestroll and 2,054 others

ainee.ville If he spills, he dies

lancestroll I didn't

scottyjames31 Even without her face you can tell she's a cutie

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la_sirena

Liked by pierregasly and 10,305 others

la_sirena Predestined to be loved by you❤️‍🔥

arthurleclerc Monsieur Giggles

charlesleclerc My love

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drugstorecowboy

Liked by kristenanniebell and 7,035 others

drugstorecowboy Rootin'est Tootin'est

joshallen 🤠

danielricciardo In the 🩸

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[bigricc]

i am on my knees for young daniel

I wrote this for this ask a long time ago...forgot about it and then just found it now🫥 hope you like it, sorry it took so long🤪🩷

It was his mother who brought it up. She came out grinning so wide that you realized exactly where your boyfriend had gotten his signature smile. He must have recognized the book in her hands because he was moaning and groaning instantly. He used the arm that was wrapped around your shoulders to pull you flush against his chest so he could hide behind his face behind both of his hands.

“Mum, no.” he whined right in your ear. You laughed delightedly at Grace, it wasn’t often you got to see her as cheeky as her son and her husband. As much as she’d swear up and down that Dan was all Joe, the grin your boyfriend inherited from her told you a completely different story. “Should’ve burnt that when I had the chance.” he groans, shoving his face into your neck.

“Really should have.” Grace agreed evilly and it made the three of you laugh. She patted the spot next to her, motioning you over and you eagerly pushed off from Dan to the move beside her. Now across from you, Daniel huffed annoyedly, flopping down dramatically against his parents sofa so he was completely horizontal. It was a rare trip that the two of you had come into the city, rather than having his family come out to him. With his nephew starting school and his sister back to work, it made the most sense to bring yourselves to them for a mid-week catch up. You’d just left his sisters, bellies full of Grace’s chicken cutlet and shooed out by Michelle as Joe suggested one more glass of red to his son.

The patriarch of the family hadn’t lasted much longer and was left to snooze in his arm chair in the other room. Though you’d only had the one glass at dinner, Dan wanted to drive home and you’d been enjoying killing time with Grace while he sobered up.

“This is the day before he left for Italy,” Grace pointed to a photo of Dan with his arms looped around his childhood best friends. You’d met all of them and shook with quiet laughter as Grace noted who’d finally grown into their ears. The young boys in the photo smile wide but there’s a distinct sadness behind each one of their eyes. You’d seen it now and again, when Dan was saying his goodbyes after being home for Christmas break. It had always been easy to recognize in others what you knew so well in yourself.

“Morning he left,” Grace pointed to a picture on the next page of Daniel sleepily smiling at the airport. There’s an undoubtable excitement in his face but his face is blotchy from crying and your heart hurts for the young boy your boyfriend used to be. Far from home, trying to navigate the fierce competition and homesickness at such a young age. You lifted your head to pout empathetically over at Dan, who played it off with a scoff and roll of his eyes.

Grace turns the page and you have to stop yourself from ‘aw’-ing. The spread of pages is full of late 2000s selfies of Dan. You’d watched Jersey Shore growing up, hooted with laughter at sleepovers as they ran chaos over Italy for a singular season. Dan had looked like was plopped right into the Snooki lifestyle. The Y2K glasses he clearly felt too cool in. The rounded puff of curly hair he hadn't quite embraced yet. The crooked teeth smile that Daniel from today would be cringing at instantly.

In all truth, he looked identical. His features had lost the soft boyish curves as he grew into manhood but he was always distinctly recognizable. He still looked that young when he was deep in sleep. He was a feather light sleeper, any movement in the bed likely to wake him, so you didn't get to see it very often. But when you did, you savored it. All his walls down, gentle and languid vulnerability wrapping him up in its arms.

“C’mon, mum, if your goal is grandchildren, don't bring up the ugly duckling genetics!” He scoffed.

It earned an instant offended gasp from both of you. Grace’s hand went up to clutch at the gold chili pepper necklace that always hung from her neck.

“I'll have you know,” she began with narrowed, begrudging eyes. “Everyone used to say you looked just like me.” For a moment, her eyes glaze over and it's clear that Daniel’s blaze attempt to shift the focus from his own insecurity has hurt his mum’s feelings. “You were such a beautiful baby…” she sighed quietly, almost to herself. She flips back to the front of the book when Daniel's just a wee tot.

“Yeah, Dan. You've had the same face since you were three!” You huffed, gingerly taking the boom and flipping it to show him the famous photo of him on the trike. “You've always been good looking, just accept it babe!” you rolled your eyes and placed the book back between you and Grace. Had she not been in the room, you’d remind Daniel just how many times you’ve shown your devote appreciation for his face–nose in particular.

Dan took a deep breath and sat up. He scrubbed a hand over his face and turns to his mum.

“I'm sorry, mumma. I didn't mean it. You're beautiful and you gave me the best life. You know I'm proud to be your son.” He batted his thick eyelashes, inherited from the woman beside you, for good measure. His mother melted instantly, she could never stay mad at him, much to the annoyance of his sister.

Tears prick Grace’s eyes again but this time the hurt was replaced with a familiar proud look. She shifted the book into your lap so she could stand to hug her son. They kiss each other’s cheeks proudly and share a find look.

“Couldn't get a girl like that with an ugly mug,” she reminded her son with a nod towards you and Daniel cackles.

“True,” you chorus with him accidentally and I makes you all giggle.

“Grace! Darling? Grace!” Joe called suddenly from the other room.

Grace pulled away from her son and rolled her eyes.

“Probably forgot where he put the bloody remote,” she groaned and trudged toward the sound of her husband's voice.

Daniel turned to find your eyebrow arched at him in suspicion. He raises in silent question. You close the scrapbook in your lap and place it on the coffee table.

“You know I hate hearing you talk about yourself that way, baby.” You sighed as you closed the gap between you. Though sometimes his braggadocious persona was obnoxious, the confidence he excused with it got you hot and bothered. You hated when he struggled to see what you (and the entirety of his Instagram following) saw. “If only I could jog your memory,” you pour pathetically, all part of an act you knew he was too weak to resist. Your hand reached up to trace the silhouette of his nose.

Daniel grabbed your wrist before you could pull away. You looked at him, amused and questioning. He cleared his throat and tried to adjust the crotch of his jeans with his free hand.

“I think I'm ready to go.” He cleared his throat.

“Really? Feel okay? Feel sober?” You tease, letting your other hand smooth down his stomach.

“You're gonna feel something here in a minute,” he puffed under his breath and you laughed.

“That's such a bad line,” you snorted, breaking character momentary.

“Well, I'm not exactly thinking with my head right now.” He groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. You hum sympathetically, bordering on patronizing.

“Okay, baby,” you relented, dropping your hand to squeeze over his crotch with a warm, firm hand. “Let's go say goodbye to your parents and we can go home.”

“I can't make it forty minutes back home, love. I'm afraid it's their driveway or–”

“No!” you interrupted, with an annoyed laugh. “We'll find a parking lot or something along the way. Now go say goodbye before your dick overrides your brain like a sex robot.”

“Ooh, I could be into that. You know as a role–”

“Daniel!” You groaned, pushing him toward his parents.

[bigricc]

babe sweet angel my livvy girl tell me allll about how baby daddy Carlos gets down 🤭🤭

for u honeybb, i would write anything🫡

**this is smut. nsfw content, do not interact if you are not 18+

more nsfw profiles / masterlist

again, my writing may not be for everyone. I also am worried I think about carlos a lot differently than people are hoping soooooo....i rly hope the carlitos girlies like it!

I. Buttering up: How does he flirt? Is he flirty and upfront or more laid back? Is he good at keeping his hands to himself? 

He’s a very classy guy. He has no desire to be the loudest in the crowd or draw too much attention to himself. He feels the same about flirting. He’d rather live up to his nickname, Smooth Operator, and subtly and suavely get your attention. He's also decidedly against PDA with a few minor exceptions depending on the occasion. But when you’re alone, he’s all over you. He’s also very romantic, a man who doesn’t just buy you roses or light a few candles because he thinks that’s what he should do. He genuinely enjoys it and can riff off of the classic romantic gestures to make them perfectly tailored to you. But mostly because he’s so private and quite protective, PDA is at a very discrete minimum. 

II. Getting to Business: How does he proposition you/how is sex initiated?

Again, he’ll lead with romance. A deep kiss that takes your breath away. Tender and lingering touches once you’re behind closed doors. He’ll lead you to the base of the bed, kissing your neck and hands running over the skin, bunching up the bottom of your top. Carlos is also pretty controlled. He tends to have a pretty good cap on whatever emotions are just bubbling underneath, so he’s not exactly ripping you out of the party to take out in the back alley. It’s much less saucy and provocative. But once you know him, know his mannerisms and expressions, he can still light a fire in the pit of your belly by simply making eye contact with you over the ring of his glass. The mask he wears is neutral, perfectly acceptable for the public occasion but you know what he’s thinking. You can practically see it spelled out on his forehead. You’ll do your best to convince him to head home early.   

III. Libido: Is it high or more sporadic? Would he consider himself a sexual person? Does he need any help in that department? Does he like a bit of help in that department (feeling/sucking him soft to erect)? 

He could go all day but finds that a waste of an entire day. He’s young and athletic, so he benefits from his strength and stamina. He definitely would not consider himself a sexual person though you would be first to argue that he certainly fucks like one. Sexuality would be so private for him, and he would need to feel comfortable as well, so one-night stands have been mostly infrequent before you. 

IV. Unfiltered Turn-Ons: tame AND nasty.

Tame: Red dresses. High heels. Dangly earrings. Low-cut tops. When you touch his bicep when you laugh, even years into the relationship.  Watching you dance. When his cooking makes you moan. Watching you lean over to take a golf shot and you purposefully wiggle your bum because you can feel his eyes on you. Short golf skirts and those little white socks with sneakers. Nails scratching against his scalp. Red nails. Drinking beer. Whenever you hide behind him or use him for protection. 

Nasty: When you open your mouth and stick out your tongue at him to show him you’ve swallowed all he gave you. You sprawled on the bed with your hair fanned out behind you, covered in a mist of sweat with a tied, satisfied smile. When he starts taking you harder from behind so you have to reach back and hold on to him. You walking into the bedroom, completely naked when he’s on a zoom meeting. When he hits just the right spot and you let out some sort of exclamation. 

V. Self-stimulation: how does he turn himself on alone/when you’re not there? If you’re long distance, what is his ideal way to get off (with or without you)?

Generally, his imagination. Maybe a sex video off the internet if he’s looking for a release to relieve stress more than sexual frustration. Would never and does not ask about nudes, and happily accepts photos if you’re willing to share (videos feel risker to him for some reason) but he’s also good with just his photographic memory and detailed oriented nature take over when the mood strikes. Facetime sex is also an option but he has to be wined and dined, so to speak. He doesn’t want you to just answer completely bare or in the shower. He wants you to make some sort of effort, maybe a lovely dress or one of his shirts and colour coordinated panties. Something that shows him you’ve been looking forward to the call as much as he has. 

VI. Foreplay: does he partake? Does he believe oral is foreplay?

Doesn’t believe oral is foreplay. If you wanted, he’d happily go down on you and expect nothing in return. Sometimes, you’ll even offer or reach to thank him–still dazed from your orgasm and he’ll stop you. “If only we had all day, cariño.” he’ll smile softly before he kisses you deeply and gets out of bed. He’s easily convinced for another full round in the shower but he’ll start to get antsy if you keep him beyond that. Doing something whilst you’re winding down in the evening isn’t sworn off by any means and wine can make his hands wander. But he needs to at least feel like he’s done more with his day than just you. 

VII. Rhythm: hard or soft, deep or varied, tender or rough, hurried or savouring, how does he sound along with it?

Because he is so genuinely romantic, typically soft to deep thrust with a tender and savouring rhythm. Relatively quiet during sex, not because he’s not feeling it or is embarrassed. He’s just always so much in his head and sex can be quite emotional for him. Lots of shallow breathing and gentle groans. 

VIII. How He Likes It: His favourite position, the position he feels best in, how willing to try new things or switch it up, does he like to watch where you connect? Watch you in the mirror? Are his eyes on the ass or titties bouncing? 

He’s a missionary guy with some variation: legs folded to your chest, held down so you're folded in half or propped up against his shoulders. Maybe with you sideways beneath him while he’s still poised on top of you. Mostly he’s focused on eye contact or watching you react to what you’re giving him. Feels best in doggie and sometimes fully can’t concentrate on thrusting when you start circling your hips and throwing it back.  

IX. Location, location, location: where do you usually do it, where is the craziest place you’ve done it? His favourite place you boinked?  A place he wants to but hasn’t yet?

Obviously, being so private, it’s in the comfort and safety of whatever bedroom you find yourselves staying in that week. The craziest place you’ve done it is a golf course. One of the very few times you’ve let him drag you to the course and he pretends like you aren’t half asleep ranting about groundwater pollution and the loss of habitat on the way there. But he likes seeing you in the little outfit and the way you cling to him since you’re so out of your own element. It’s also one of the rare times he’s gone without his usual golf entourage and you’ve fully been planning since he convinced you to go to take full advantage. He’s not really much for you topping so you considered it another reason for the special occasion when you come across hole number 11 that’s shaded in shrubs and trees. The golf cart squeaked the whole time and Carlos almost ruined his own orgasm thinking someone else’s cart was starting to crest over the hill but you did it. Uncomfortably finishing the rest of course with wet panties and him starting to drip down your leg. It seemed to spark a frenzy in him though, he was behind you coaching you through every swing though normally he throws you into the deep and gleefully watches you struggle as he’s perched on the cart. It’s one memory he and his imagination rely on heavily when he’s away. 

X. Kinky: Is he? How kinky? Wildest fantasy? What's a fantasy you’ve already achieved for him? Anything he’s really not into?

Not particularly kinky, more about each individual experience than wanting to recreate or dedicate certain experiences every time. Solidifies the belief that “vanilla” doesn’t have to mean boring. He’s just a partner who values a connection that feels the same and based in emotions. Sex is an expression of love for him.

XI. Bedroom aids: does he like toys? What toys do you use? What does he use or want to use? Any additional accoutrements? Possibly a sex swing?

He’s down to use a vibrator during sex if that’s something you’re into. He’s not really that kind of devious where he’ll suggest it or just pull it out in the moment and evaluate your reaction. He’s rational enough not to see it as a competitor and he knows you rely on it when he’s gone. So he does his best to work in tandem though when things get to the nitty gritty, sometimes he can struggle to multitask so either you need to take over and put the vibrator to the spot that feels right or he’ll toss it across the bed, and focus on one thing at a time.

XII. Pleasure reciprocation: What does he do just for you (something you like but he doesn’t? Something that just drives you crazy?)? Does he know exactly how to give it to you? How’s his head game? How often is he willing to go down on you? How’s communication in the bedroom? What part of your body does he make the biggest show of desiring?

You give head fairly equally and he will try anything you ask him to. Degradation was particularly hard for him. He’d start out good, calling you names and taunting you with his dick but after a certain point, he couldn’t hold up the act anymore. “I can’t do it, amor. It feels wrong, I can’t do it. “ He panted heavily in your ear after his thrusts came to a halt.  But ultimately, he’s good with head. Understands the need for variation and strong suction. Also, once he observed just how, uh, helpful his nose could be…he really stepped up his game in a whole new way. 

XII. Bonus: Random dirty thing he does. 

Though he’s not particularly loud in the bedroom, he does indulge in dirty talk but in his native Spanish. If you’re not a fluent speaker, he tries to use it as motivation to get you to learn. When you ask what he’d just purred so sultrily in your ear, he tuts disapprovingly. “Tienes que seguir estudiando, mi amor.” He’ll stay in Spanish the entire time, sometimes even letting his native tongue bleed into whatever you’re doing after. Even acts like Spanish just feels /so/ much better on his tongue, he can’t help the stays with it. 

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if this doesn’t make sense thats actually my brand and how this is supposed to work, no? (smut, 18+ only interactions please) 

Keep reading

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scottyjames31: MOOKi giveaway in NYC …

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where do we go now? (pg10)

warnings/tags: one sided romance, angst, reader being the bad guy, hurt with no comfort, leclerc!reader, established relationship, charlotte&charles mention

word count: 2.7k

a/n: gracie abrams made me write this yup. her new song was so good and i just felt so compelled to write something. it's sad though, and honestly kind of short? i just felt like it was right to end it where i did. let me know what you think.

Maybe you weren’t meant to be lovers.

 Your hand wipes at sticky cheeks, a poor attempt at hiding guilt that was plastered all over your face. Hell, even your breathing betrays you with the way it shakes at every inhale and wheezes at every exhale. Facing the truth was hard but facing Pierre is even harder. Looking the other dead in the eye and admitting to the last year of your relationship being fraudulent was hard. 

Navigating the dainty line between lovers and friends was something that both you and Pierre seem to walk like a tightrope for most of your lives. Eventually, the two of you found yourselves plunged into the deep end. It’s what your parents expected the two of you to do— fall in love.

You’re chewing the inside of your cheek dwelling on the memories behind you. A lifetime of friendship shattered in under a year because you did what everyone expected of the two of you but not what felt right to you. He’s waiting for you to speak, the silence that hangs in the air kills both of you. 

The words are stuck in your throat as if your body is refusing to let you speak what your heart feels. People pleasing was always your biggest flaw– clearly. You’d rather be walked on a hundred times over if it meant you saved heartbreak and disappointment for the ones around you. Maybe it’s just who you became after everything. After Jules. After your father. After Anthonie. You’d take the bullet if it meant the others would live free of burden and pain. A bleeding heart, that’s what they call you. 

Nothing broke you more than seeing Pierre’s worried expression over your distress and silence. “Mon amour…” his hand reaches out to rest on your shoulder in an attempt of comfort. His grip only tightens at the sight of your knitted brows and sound of your whimper to hide your tears. Lying to Pierre was so much easier no matter the pain it caused you. If you could choose, you’d change every wrong feeling you ever felt about the two of you. 

You waited and waited until the feeling never came. Every kiss was a lie, every fleeting touch burnt your skin as if you were never supposed to come in contact that way. The two of you were so starkly different from when you were shy, awkward teens. Starkly different from the first kiss you shared after a shit race as teens. Starkly different from the first time together. After his promotion to Formula 1, you found your feelings for him mature into ones of respect. You confused respect and admiration for love. You listened to the whispers of your peers, of your families. Falling in love is never calculated nor is it ever planned and yet? Your whole relationship was just that. 

Eyes glossy and nose plugged, a sniffle as your bloodshot gaze meets his. The noises still can’t come out, your confession stuck between whimpers and sobs. You wipe your nose on your sleeve and your boyfriend sighs, turning away to grab you some tissues or something close enough instead of your sleeve. Would he still care for you like this once he knew the truth?

Your first kiss was with Pierre during a round of seven minutes in heaven with all of your friends. The kiss was awkward with the two of you simply pressing your lips together and not knowing what to do next. Fourteen years old and inexperienced— it was magical for you despite the fact. Eventually, the two of you found your pacing before pretending nothing happened to all of your friends. Feelings that bubbled in the pit of your stomach lay dormant by years gone by. You wouldn’t have to face them again until he won the GP2 Series when you were eighteen. 

One too many drinks and you found yourself in his arms once again.  Soft, gentle kisses shared nervously between the two of you. This was the second time the line of friends and lovers blurred even further; his lips covering more area than just her lips this time paired with tender love bites. Scents of sweat and fresh rain hung in the air that night, the distinct mix branding itself into your brain. 

You remember never having felt that close to someone before, so connected. Your eyes traced every little detail in Pierre’s face in that moment; memories filled with each dimple, each freckle, the messy hair and drowsy eyes. A ghost of his touch still lingered on your skin from that night, the soft graze of his rough hands on your cheek. Maybe that was the first and the only time you could truly say you felt love for Pierre in more than just a platonic way. You’d later learn that you only loved the way he made you feel. Not the man himself. 

Distance makes the heart grow fonder, that’s what they always say. In some ways you found it to be true, other times it felt like you finally had a break from overthinking each movement with him. After that first time, the distance was hard. Separated by a blooming single seater career for him and university for you, the feelings shared between the two of you faded. Studying pre-med left almost no time to attend races or cheer on your twin brother and his best friend. You were an enigma to the paddock during races, the missing sister. 

Now? A medical school drop out who’s inner monologue was nothing short of a roast of every one of your abilities. All of your brothers were so extraordinary… and you found yourself rather ordinary, even with the mysterious reputation you carry around their workplace. Of course, the whole clan of brothers try their hardest to not let you feel that way— but you were simply just their shadow. Pierre often went out of his way to make you feel special, it’s something you cherished about him. Though, it’s that exact trait that got you into this mess in the first place. He made you feel special, you felt as if the next logical step was to act on these feelings. 

The daze of memories is broken by a chaste kiss to your temple, hands guiding you to walk with Pierre to the bedroom. Most would be endeared by the attempts to take care of you but lately it just frustrates you. He’s speaking soft, loving words of French into your ears and looking hopeful as if he could whisper and kiss the pain away. It was obvious that he couldn’t, but you let him try anyway.

Plush lips to your hand, trailing up your clothed arm before he settles his chin on your shoulder as he sits behind you. “I love you.” You could almost see him smiling as he said it, feeling the grin grow on his lips and flush over his cheeks. Before speaking, you swallow as if it was supposed to aid you in getting the fucking words out.

“I know.” That’s all you’re able to say. You can’t bring yourself to say it back. 

“You’re such a brat…” He laughs it off as if it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said to him. 

“Can we just go to bed?” Your voice is quiet, still shaking from the aftershocks of your tears. 

His laugh dies off, smile falters. “Y-yeah.”

As expected, Pierre falls asleep before you do. Motionless, you lay with one of his arms draping over your hip with a hand resting on your stomach. Both of your legs are tangled with each other, though you feel anything but comfort. Guilt eats at you with each minute you keep the lie going but every time you think about it your mind pauses. There’s a buffering period, almost as an invisible clock floating above your head counting down to when you should be drifting off instead of overthinking your issues. Somehow, the clock never seems to hit zero and you spend half the night wide awake in his arms. 

The circles under your eyes grow darker with each hour you dwell on your situation. Eventually you find yourself wiggling out of his grasp as gently as you could without waking him. It’s nearly four in the morning and you know you’d be waking her up— but you also knew that no one would listen without judgement quite like she would. You close the bathroom door before turning on the lights so they don’t spill out into your bedroom and disturb Pierre. Besides, you couldn’t bear for him to hear this conversation. 

“Oui, allo?” A sleepy voice answered on the other side of the phone. You felt bad for potentially waking her, but despite the fact she was no longer dating your brother you couldn’t help but think of her as the only family you could trust with this sort of conversation. 

“Cha…”  Your voice wobbles, the tears you thought you cleared up hours ago rushing back in an instant. 

“Ça va?”  Sheets rustle in the background, hearing a sigh and a yawn fall from her lips. You definitely woke her up. Charlotte instantly knew the voice on the other end without looking at her phone— and she knew that you needed her. 

A breath before you speak, “No, I’m really not doing well…” Charlotte lets out a tsk noise at your confession, upset that you felt that way but flattered that despite everything you still trusted her. “I need… I need to say something and I need no judgement.”

“Oui, you know I have no place to judge you as you have no place to judge me. We’ve made that clear, no?” The younger is referring to a promise the two of you made in the beginning of her and Charles’ relationship. With each word, she was sounding more alert in between her yawns. Charlotte knew you were serious by not only your tone but… the time you were calling. 

“How did you know you were in love?” It sounds like a question that a daughter would ask their mother despite the fact you were two years Charlotte’s senior. The line is silent on both ends, nothing but the two of you breathing filling the air. There is a part of you that still wonders if she still loved your brother, though the other part of you thinks the silence answers your question. 

A sniffle from you before breaking the silence, “How did you… how did you know when to end it?” There’s guilt for asking the question, knowing that the wound was still fresh for both your brother and Charlotte… but you had to know. Charlotte clears her throat and sighs before answering you, the question weighing on her shoulders and dragging her down the longer she hesitated. 

“You never expect the honeymoon phase to last forever, I think that’s obvious…” She speaks with a half-hearted laugh, “But, you shouldn’t settle for contentment… There should be excitement when you see each other after a long time. You shouldn’t overthink how you are around them, you should feel comfortable and safe. When it all falls flat, I think that’s when you know.”

“What… what if it’s always been flat?” Guilt now consumes your body whole, limbs shaking and your lip wobbles in time to match. You’ve never come this close to confessing your doubts before. It always felt like it would be wrong, that you’d ruin any dynamic that your family had with the Gasly’s if you admitted to your faults. How selfish of you to think your brother would throw away an equally long friendship because you were the bad guy. 

“Pardon?” The surprise in her voice made the image of her blinking rapidly vivid in your mind. Of course there was confusion– you played the loving girlfriend well, studying romantic comedies and asking friends on how you were supposed to act. The feelings for Pierre that you craved so desperately just never came and they never will.

“My relationship has always been flat.” You state it this time, a full confession. A weight wasn’t lifted off your chest, relieving you of your torment and guilt like you thought it would by saying it out loud. It didn’t cure the problem, but fuck if it didn’t make you feel better for the moment. 

“I don’t understand–”

“–I’m just a really good actor.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know.”

The conversation between the two of you seems to continue on until Pierre stirs in his sleep. As she promised, Charlotte had no judgments. Her advice came at the price of promising her that you will follow it, repeating the fact of how it’s just going to keep hurting both of you. You know she is speaking the truth, you knew that’s what you were going to get when you dialed her number. Tender as the girl can be, she also carries her words with pride and wisdom. She will never tell you advice that she wouldn’t follow herself. 

Hands grip the edge of the sink with white knuckles, eyebrows furrow as you tremble and attempt to compose yourself. Blinking back tears, your breath remains unstable until you find yourself breaking down again. You finally confessed to it. You confessed to your lie and the relief was short-lived. Saying it out loud was supposed to fix everything, calling Charlotte was supposed to fix and reassure you. 

Air burned in your lungs as you tried to muffle your cries, kneeling down to rest on the floor. Processing that you were the bad guy after all was never easy and it fucking hurt. Stories and warnings are always told to you as children and as teenagers to not let anyone break your heart– but no one ever considers the situation where you break someone’s heart. It feels like an oxymoron for the highly emotional, empathetic person to be the bad guy. How can someone who feels too much act like they feel nothing at all? The door opens and you seem to be deaf to anything else but your own tears. Lights from the bathroom spill out into the bedroom and illuminate Pierre so his shadow could be seen extended far behind him. 

There was no time to process the fact that Pierre had you in his arms on the floor and cradling you. Everything was a blur, skin flushed bright red and eyes watery. Your nose feels clogged and stuffy, body shaking from head to toe as sobs erupted from you. It’s like the two of you found yourself at the beginning of the night all over again. He wanted to fix the situation and all of your wounds and doubts, he tries so hard but nothing seems to work. 

“I’m a bad person…” The words are slurred between sobs and muffled into his bare chest. Pierre’s hand steadily holds the back of your head, hushing you softly. He’s never seen you like this before, the backstage persona finally breaking into the front stage facade you worked so hard to build up for years. “... Please don’t try to say I’m not…” 

The two of you were doomed, you’ve almost hammered the final nail in the coffin for your relationship. Pierre was too good for you. You didn’t deserve the way he holds you until your tears seem to slow, you didn’t deserve the way he whispers into your hair with gentle kisses. You didn’t deserve the way he loves you with his whole self and you could barely give him a sliver. 

“I don’t think I’m in love with you.” The words physically pain you to say, exhaustion taking over your whole body that rested in his arms. This time, it’s his silence that kills you and it’s you waiting for an answer. His grip grows tighter as he takes a breath and you wonder if he overheard your conversation with Charlotte. God, you hope he didn’t hear your conversation. Before you could stop yourself and process the racing thoughts in your mind, you begin to ramble. “I’ve wanted to love you the way you’ve loved me… Trust me, I’ve tried… I’ve tried so fucking hard. I did what our parents wanted, I tried to love you. I tried to date you and I tried to be the perfect girlfriend and have the perfect relationship–”

“Well then… where do we go now?” It was a simple question without a simple answer.

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carousel-- c.sainz

paring: carlos sainz x reader word count: 670 a/n: dad!carlos

They installed a permanent carousel downtown a few months ago, just a couple blocks away from your house, right in the middle of the park you took your daughter to play in. She’s been bugging you since it got installed to go for a ride, but they don’t take card and you always forget about it when you’re getting ready to leave the house with her. 

You remembered last week, though, and after paying and waiting in line for fifteen minutes with an impatient toddler, she got too scared to ride it. Another fifteen minutes later you were able to convince her to sit with you in one of the carriage benches, but she was completely horrified at the idea of riding on one of the horses. 

She woke you up early Saturday morning, jumped into the bed and tackled you awake. You got up and made breakfast–actually made it, didn’t just give her a bowl of cereal and popped a bagel in the toaster for yourself–while you waited for Carlos to get back from the gym. 

“¿dónde papi?” She asked, for the millionth time since you put a plate of pancakes in front of her. He’ll be home soon, you told her again and again until he was actually home, walking into the kitchen with his gym bag still slung over his shoulder, empty water bottle in his hand. He kissed the top of your daughter’s head, stole a piece of fruit from her plate and got a pint-sixed scolding, patted Piñon’s head, kissed you on his way to the bedroom. “Morning,” he spoke against your lips. 

“Morning.” You say. “Want to come to the park with us?”

“Oh, my goodness!” He gasps, dramatically, makes your little girl giggle around her fork. “The park!? Is this true, nena?”

“Si!” She giggles. “We bring Piñon.”

“Well then,” He turns back to you with a smile. “How could I miss it?”

– –

“Mami, we go on the ride?” She asks, tugging on your hand as soon as her eyes land on the colorful carousel.  You consider telling her you don’t have the money, but you know Carlos does, know he won’t pick up on it until it’s too late. 

“I don’t know, nena.” You told her, “You had no fun last time.”

“No, Mami!” She whines, “I be good.” 

You play with Piñon in the park, the three of you, for over an hour before she’s back on it again, asking to ride it and promising that she isn’t going to have a meltdown. You give in, because you’ve been working on picking your battles and in the grand scheme of things, another trip around the carousel seated on the benches isn’t going to be the end of the world. 

Carlos stays with the dog, watches from behind the barricade, and you wait in line with your daughter. Predictably, she refuses to get on. Nena, por favor, you plead with her, but she isn’t budging. “You want to go with Papi?” You can literally see the lightbulb go off in her head before she nods. 

You should’ve known–she’s been a daddy’s girl since before she was born. You swap places with him and watch on with Piñon, watch Carlos hoist your little girl up onto one of the horses, strap the belt around her little body and stand next to her. He takes a picture of her, one you know you’ll be grateful for when you see it, her cheesy smile making him laugh at his phone screen. 

They really are the best of friends, you never could have convinced her to get on the actual ride, but you doubt Carlos even had to ask. They giggle like they’re both little kids the entire time, Carlos winks at you once and the next time around the both blow you kisses. 

“Did you have fun?” You asked when they got off, while your daughter scratched the dogs ears. 

“Super fun.” She said, smiled, absolutely beamed up at Carlos. Only him, only her father, only her hero.

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Daniel arriving at the Colbert show

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@.danielricciardo hello

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!!Blaketent!!

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getting danny ric high for the first time hands down

I’M RUSTY!!!!!! I HOPE ITS NOT SHIT!!! 

“Let’s have a go,” Dan says suddenly from beside you. Your neck almost cracks with how fast you whip your head to look at him. There’s a joint burning in your right hand, one you’d been indulging in while the rest of Dan’s friends played what you can only assume is the fifteenth round of beer pong. Dan wandered out to check on you as you’d been gone for quite a while. 

You’re a bit of a shy smoker, at least in the company of him and his people. You knew what kind of repercussions athletes could face for a positive drug test or any affiliation to THC. You didn’t want to be a risk for Dan, even with him on a break. Daniel, who appreciated your discretion and curtesy, he didn’t want you to feel like you had to hide parts of yourself from him. 

His hand is already reaching for the filtered end before your intoxicated mind can full process what’s happening. His eyes meet yours, deep and warm and endless. Maybe its the weed, maybe it's the fantastical adventure of his luxury life in Malibu while all your responsibilities are so far away. But your stomach burns the same way it did when he took that baby step closer to you nearly six months ago in that bar. 

So maybe Dan’s not all that prepared. He’s smoked cigarettes before–too many attempts at impressing Italian girls. He expects it to be much of the same, and it sort of is. That uncomfortable sensation that reaches from the back of his throat down to his lungs. Except, it’s worse than he remembers. His eyes turn so quickly from hazey and adoring to panicked and bloodshot. You take the joint from him before he can burn himself with the cherry, hunched over and trying to stop hacking. 

You can’t hide your laugh but the warm palm of your hand on his back shows that you really do care.

“Here,” you offer him the half empty Fanta bottle beside you. He looks at you like you’re crazy, eyes redder and face nearly purple. “It’ll coat your throat better than water, c’mon.” You nudge it towards him and he relents, trying to swallow down a sip as he represses his cough. 

Soon enough, you’re right and it does the trick. His irises are swimming in a sea of pink and brimming with tears. He dopily smiles at you, like the hacking fit never happened. 

You’re both nearly flat on the floor of his balcony in a fit of laughter before either of you can say anything. 

You have to steady your breathing enough to try and hit the joint again, before it burns away completely. He’s still giggling gleefully beside you as you inhale, watching you with equal parts drunken adoration and impressed. 

There’s a part that feels necessary to show off so you do a little French in hale just to blow his mind a little. He rewards you with a resounding laugh, his loud cackle that echoes out into the beach louder than his coughing. 

“Let me try again,” he says after a beat and you snort. Dan gets a pointed look from you, one he sheepishly (and easily) sidesteps your hesitation with a bashful smile and the batting of his thick–still wet– eyelashes. 

He’s got you wrapped around his finger. 

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Somehow, you’ve managed to wrangle back inside. He’s practically deadweight, letting you pull and jostle him around as he laughs in passive delight. Everything’s just so funny–more than usual for Dan. Blake sends him into giggles before he’s even close and when Blake guess exactly what the two of you have been up to, Daniel descends even further into maniacal laughter. So then, everyone in the room know exactly what you’ve been doing. 

With help from Scotty, you get him onto his sofa. His reflexes aren’t as fast as he’s used to and you’re ten steps away to the kitchen before his arm can even swipe to pull you on top of him. 

You think he’s asleep when you come back with his water bottle refilled. Something you’ve sorely misread and he scares the living daylights out of you by suddenly breaking out into song two seconds after you’ve sat down next to him. 

It’s a Hank Williams song, you’re pretty sure since you’re the one who showed him it. Though it’s hard to tell because the lyrics are nearly incomprehensible and the tune is beyond off key. 

He cracks one eye open at you, paying no acknowledgement to the heavy, cool metal of his water bottle you placed in his lap. You laugh at him, tenderly sweeping stray, uncoiling curls from his face. When the soft skin of your hand meets his face, his eye closes in relaxation. The moment lingers as your hand does on his skin…only to break the moment he roars back into some obnoxious song. It makes you jump yet again, especially with his booming, annoying voice right in your ear. Your hand pulls away from his face in reaction and he immediately frowns. Without interrupting what you can assume is now Vanilla Ice, his long fingers snatch your wrist and press your palm back into his face. 

When you don’t soothe your fingers over his skin like you were, his peels a singular eye open again. Song still booming, he sends the best expectant look a cyclops could muster till you laugh and oblige. 

Wrapped. Around. His. Finger.

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Daniel Ricciardo partying with friends in Los Angeles. 28.1.23 (x)

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someone teach him how to park

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you gotta move, or move on- c.leclerc

love is so short, forgetting is so long pairing: charles leclerc x female reader word count: 5.5k warnings: angsty slay

You were seventeen when your parents picked up your entire life and moved to the tiniest, most congested country they could have possibly chosen. You’d vacationed there, spent your summers there for years, and you’re the first to admit it’s beautiful. Paris is beautiful, too. Home is beautiful in a way Monte Carlo will never be because home belongs to you. 

You’re a transplant in Monaco; a foreign organism who doesn't know the streets, the places, the people. You weren’t done with school, you had a whole year left. Why couldn’t your parents hold off for twelve months? Wait until you were in University and could stay where you belonged, let you choose your own path? You had to get familiar with a new city and a new school, new friends, new teachers. 

That’s where you met him, sort of. Through school, not at school. He was friends with your friends, but you’d never seen him at school before. A driver, Formula 3, they told you. It meant nothing to you considering you’d never followed racing, and weren’t going to start now. He’s really good, you didn’t care, not really. You were with your new friends, and he was there, rarely, occasionally, always a big deal when he showed up. 

Then, he was doing something else, somewhere else, and winning all of the time. He’s going to get promoted, everyone was always saying, always watching his races on their phones and on their laptops and on their televisions. You were riding along with your friends–his friends–to all of these European races. You’lldo anything for a vacation when you’re a teenager. You picked up on the obvious things pretty quickly, learned more about the intricate details in the grandstands; while you wouldn’t call yourself invested, you weren’t comatose while watching the races, either. 

You think that’s what he liked about you, what sparked the interest in the first place. Half of the girls your age at home were throwing themselves at him, trying to land him before he made it big. That’s what they always tell you about athletes, you have to get in before they really make it or else you won’t ever mean anything to them, they want you to prove your loyalty to them. You think he saw you, all passive and unbothered by race results–good or bad–and it intrigued him. It’s the only plausible explanation in your head, because he had his pick of the litter and you’ve never considered yourself the smartest, the prettiest, the best at anything, really. He could have had the best, but he chose you. 

It started off with these weird glances, ones where you’d catch each other’s eyes all of the fucking time. It was always so awkward, like you’d caught each other doing something wrong. Your eyes would dart away to another friend, to the sky, to your shoelaces, and your stomach would get all tangled in itself. You always felt like apologizing, like when two people are trying to move out of each other’s way and they both step to the same side; an awkward smile and a muted apology and then you think about it for the rest of the day because the whole thing was so mortifying. 

Then it was conversations, ones you’d never had before and always about nothing important. The two of you were friend-adjacent, at best, but now you were always lingering at the back of the group. Ending up sitting in the restaurant booth for a beat longer than everyone else, waiting for the other to fill their plate before finding a place to sit. You’d talk about school, about your plans for the future, about missing Paris and he’d talk about racing, about his dreams, about missing Monaco. You live here, you’d always say to him. 

Barely, he’d always reply, the better I get the less time I have. 

At some point the group meetings became one-on-one. A restaurant you’d never heard of, one he swore had the best food in the entire world. A coffee shop you wanted to try, one he knew nothing about because he didn’t drink coffee. He didn’t tell you that until you were ordering and you felt foolish, but then he ordered a hot tea and you sat at a little table and talked some more about nothing. You took him to Paris once during Fashion Week, because you had a family friend who had a show. You showed him around and even though he’d been a million times, he let you because he liked the way you talked. Alwayssaid there was something sweet about your voice. Like candy, he said, after you pointed out the bus stop you sat at every day before school as a child, after you asked him why he was smiling like an idiot. That’s when you realized you had a crush on him– in Paris by the old bus stop. 

“We’re not dating,” the two of you told friends for two months, even though the only thing that made the statement true was the lack of a label. You were doing everything people who date do. Suddenly, they were asking, and you were smiling and blushing and gushing all the details of just how he’d asked you to make it official. 

You got into a fight in May, because he heard from one of your friends you were going to University in Monaco. It hurt that he heard it from someone that wasn’t you but it hurt more that you were staying. You haven’t shut up about going back to Paris since I met you, he said, over the phone because he was away at a race. Why aren’t you going to Paris? You felt like a Gilmore girl, a Jess and Rory original. 

“You live here”, you said, like always. 

“Barely,” he replied, like always. 

That was precisely it, though. If he could barely make it back to his home, how could you ever expect him to have time to come see you in yours? 

You ended up going back to Paris, reluctant that he’d be able to fulfill his promises to come see you. When you packed your boxes of things into the trunk of your car, part of you knew it was just the beginning of the end. The rest of you pretended it wasn’t, carried on with red eyes to Monaco and weekend studying done on trains following him around for two trips around the sun. 

You’ve always prided yourself on being realistic, it’s what you thought helped draw him to you in the first place. But, you were coming to learn he needed optimism, the undying and unrelenting kind that you were never going to be capable of providing. You weren’t the kind of person that could watch him drive for shit and pretend he didn’t. You drove for shit, you would tell him, only if it was true and then he’d get all passive aggressive and close doors with more force than necessary and sigh dramatically every five minutes. You weren’t a villain about it, you were still his biggest cheerleader, next race you’ve got it, I know you’re better than this, but you were honest. You’d always be honest, and it was dragging him down. 

He’d be better off, you thought, if he could have his choice again and find someone who was coded in a way that built him up instead of tearing him down. If you were smarter, prettier, better at all of it, you think you could be what he needs, that you’d be able to adapt and change the way you thought for him. You weren’t those things, though, you were just you. 

So calls became short, time zones felt greater, and he never did come see you in Paris. You lost touch with your friends in Monaco, a year, unsurprisingly, does little to form life-long friendships. He kept in touch with them, was always so much better at relationships than you were. Charles would talk about them all of the time, about how much they were helping him, how good they could make him feel. It always made you sad, knowing you were never going to be enough. 

I feel like I barely know you anymore, you said once, on the phone, in the middle of the night because it was the only time you got calls from him anymore. He’s in America, racing with Sauber now and you haven’t been to a single race outside of Monaco. 

I can’t wait for your wedding, one of his friends, an old, once upon a time friend of yours said sometime that weekend. I bet he proposes, soon. You knew he wouldn’t, knew you were treading dangerously close to the extinction line. Your relationship was teetering on a cliff and waiting for a gust of wind, a breath of fresh air, a cold–hearted shove to push you over the edge and into a fiery explosion of doom, death, all other bad things. You dragged out the end of the call, worried the earlier admission would make it your last for a while. I wish you were here, you said and he didn’t reiterate the sentiment. 

You never remembered Paris as being so cloudy, so chilled, so rainy. All of the colors felt gray and muted and you just wanted to be with him, wherever he was. The U.S, China, Monaco. He was everywhere but with you, and you were furious and depressed and bratty and selfish about it. Home is a person, as cheesy as it is true, you’d come to learn. 

If you knew this is how it would have gone, you never would have conceded, you would have gone to school in Monaco and everything would be perfect. If you knew, you would have learned everything there was to know about Formula 3 all those years ago. You would have studied it like your life depended on it and would’ve become a fan girl and he never would have found you relevant or interesting and all of this could have been avoided. You didn’t do any of those things, though because you never could have known you were going to fall in love. Allgrandiose and emotional and comfortable. You never could have predicted you’d be counting sheep to spend time with him. You never could have known, never could have prepared. 

You tried to fix it, you did. Some things just aren’t repairable. You called more often, you tried to get more time off work and blew all your money traveling. When you were together, it was so good. It was never hard to share space with him, to occupy the same air. That was the easiest part. That was why it was worth trying to fix, all the conversations about nothing and everything, about your dreams and his dreams, about the future neither of you fully believed you’d share. It was lovely in the chaos and it was pure in the silence. 

We have to be at rock bottom, you told him, teary eyed on the sofa of a hotel suite on a Monday morning. You were packing your bags, you back to France, him to the next race. You just started crying, out of nowhere, while you were folding your underwear. He laughed at first, but you didn’t stop crying. The thought of going back to being apart was one you couldn’t grapple with, refused to come to terms with because it was so bad when you were away. A shredded heart apart, a mended wound together. The pain of it was becoming unbearable. 

You moved back to Monaco. It felt like the only thing left to do, a last resort. All those times he told you he was barely there, he wasn’t lying. He was away from Monaco the same as he was away from Paris. “You love me,” you teased him over Facetime, cooking dinner, making horrible jokes, trying with all your might to make it all better. 

“I love you,” he said, rehearsed and bored and unamused. Reminded, maybe, by your words that he was supposed to love you. Every word for the rest of the night feels like checking the expiration date on a bottle of something you don’t remember buying and can’t identify. 

Winter break, he was back home for the holidays, to see his family, to see you. You didn’t want to do it then, but it felt like the only option. “I’ve had enough,” you said to him, among a million other things. 

“I understand,” he told you, and you knew it was really over because he didn’t try to fight for you, to convince you otherwise. If he had tried, you would have let him, would have caved, you know it. 

“We can still be friends,” you offered, a concession prize because being with him really was that great. It was all the complicated long-distance relationship dynamics that killed what you had, what you still have. 

“I don’t want to be friends.” 

You cried, he cried, and when you went to his apartment three days later to pack up the things you had there, you found a little velvet box on the top shelf of the closet. Curiosity killed the cat, and you opened it, instantly regretted it, memorized the diamond ring inside, closed it and returned it to it’s original spot and never told another person. You should have said no, but you would’ve said yes. 

There won’t be too many drunk calls, you hoped, from either of you. A clean breakup. You figured it wouldn’t be long before he moved on, before you saw on social media that he was walking the paddock with a girl who could give him everything he needed, everything you couldn’t. You thought it would make you happy, to see him happy and fulfilled and with a partner that was better suited to him. 

She looks just like you. Your sister texted you at the beginning of the next season. He was a hot shot now, the promised prince who would be bringing Ferrari to glory again. He was also walking through the paddock with another girl. 

Il Predestinato, the predestined. You wondered if it held any truth. Wondering if the universe had it all planned out, if every single thing that has ever happened to him, including you, was all a part of some master plan. If it is, the universe is sick, you think. 

He looks happy, good for him. You replied, cried for four hours, soaked shirt and sheets and pillowcase. You could have kept going if you had any tears left to give, but you used them all up scrolling through social media, doom spiraling until you found out who she was, found her twitter, found her Instagram, scrolled to the bottom of her tagged photos, learned the name of her sister and what color dress she’d worn in Italy with her teenage boyfriend. You needed to know all of it, because he was your teenage boyfriend before long before he ever belonged to her.

You never thought of Monaco as a small town, but, now that you’re expecting to find a ghost around every corner, to spot his car on every street, the fucking country has never felt smaller. You’re claustrophobic here, everything reminds you of him, his picture is everywhere. Formula One is everywhere. Your friends, the ones you’d reconnected with since moving back, they were his friends first. 

They act like nothing’s changed, like they’ve chosen your side when they clearly haven’t. You wonder how long they all knew about his new girl, how long they’ve been together, how long it took him to move on. You expected it to be quick, but God, it’s barely been a few months and he’s already comfortable enough subjecting her to the media circus. 

You try to go out, to drown your sorrows with the girls who aren’t really your friends. The nightlife is always bustling here, but every club feels empty without him there. Everyshot needs a partner and every fruity drink needs him stealing sips and refusing to admit he likes it. Your friends try to cheer you up, and guys try to hit on you, but you feel like a shell of a person. Justfloating around without purpose. Floating, waiting, hoping it’s all a nightmare. 

You don’t run into him, thank God. You run into Pascale and Arthur, though, which is arguably so, so much worse. It’s just on the street, they’re heading to the grocery store, one of them tells you. You’re walking to nowhere, from nowhere. Pascale hugs you and you think you might burst into tears. We miss you, she says, and it fuels the jealous ball of guilt in your soul for another day. 

I miss you guys, too, you said, and meant it. You wondered if any of them knew about the ring. Charles was never one to keep a secret, he was historically terrible at it, it was endearing. Arthur was almost hard to look at, the same eyes, the same voice. Identical laughs, all nervous and short, the same face, practically. “How’s Lorenzo?” You asked, because you couldn’t ask about Charles. 

You walked home, passed his building and wished you were dead so any trace of your relationship could be buried with you. You tried to pretend you didn’t know the cracks on the sidewalk, that you didn’t have each and every one memorized from walking the same steps so many times. 

Home is just as haunting as the streets are. He’d helped you pick out the apartment, went to look at this one with you and said he’d never forgive you if you didn’t lock it in. You ate pizza on the living room floor, before you had any furniture at all, before you even had an internet connection. Sauce dripped from your slice onto the floor and he hurriedly grabbed a napkin to wipe it off the wood floors. You can’t afford to lose your deposit, idiot, he told you, smiled like a goofball and wiped the sauce on your face. 

The whole place sings of him, the walls have heard his favorite songs played over, and over, and over again. He picked that paint color, helped you put it on the wall and raced to see who could finish their side first. You deleted his playlist from your phone, along with all the pictures and the videos, but the memories still linger, stunt your healing and stick into your life like a stubborn splinter. 

You buy out your lease the next week, move back to Paris and stay with a friend until you can get a place of your own. It’s good for you, the best, being away from a place that was never really yours. It allows you to pick up the pieces and move forward, to not spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been, what might have fixed things. 

Paris gives you clarity, makes it impossible to be angry at him because it wasn’t anyone’s fault. There’s nothing anyone could have done, the universe itself never would have been able to intervene. It was just young love, all poetic and film-inspiring and heartbreak song-inducing. Innocent and infuriating and codependent and convoluted. Your first heartbreak, the first real, gut-wrenching experience with losing a love, it’s always like this. The movies and the songs proved that. You just didn’t experience that loss until you were in your early twenties. Distance allows you to recognize that. Having the same aching pain settled so deep in your chest would have been unbearable if you were any younger. You were lucky, as sick and twisted as it felt.

He swears to God he saw you during the podium in Monza. A flash of your hair, your eyes, he blinks and it’s gone, you’re gone. A figment of his imagination, he tries to convince himself he’s seeing things in the chaos of winning Ferrari’s home race, but, he can’t shake it, the feeling that you’re here. 

You’d come to a race at Monza, a million years ago, 2016. It was a sprint race and he retired. It’s okay, all of his friends told him. All of them except you. You didn’t say anything, just smiled and gave him the same awkward hug you always did. “What did you think about the race?” He asked you.

“It was whatever.” You’d shrugged. “Shit for you, I suppose.” It was right there. That’s the moment he pinpointed, the exact second he decided he wanted to know you better, that he needed to prove himself to you, show you just how interesting his life could be. He always figured he would tell your kids the story one day, that he’d mention it in his wedding vows and get a spattering of laughs from the guests. 

That was the last time you were in Monza together. That’s why he was seeing you in the crowd, he was projecting, surely. He asks his brother, his mother, if they saw you. They give him strange looks and ask him if he’s okay because, why would you be here? 

You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t be here, he keeps telling himself. He half expects to find you in his drivers room, or lingering by the coffee machine in hospitality. You’ve never even been inside the Ferrari motorhomes, but, he thinks you’d look so familiar in there, like he wouldn’t bat an eye seeing you. 

His mind races, and he feels like a teenager again. Like no time at all has passed and you and he are painfully in love and it’s stupid and young and lovely.  “What’s going on in your head?” His girlfriend asks him, playing with his hair like you used to. 

“Nobody.” He says, slips up unconsciously, because he doesn’t want to start an argument. 

“Nobody?” She says, that incessant whine in her voice that drives him up a wall. He sighs, because she’s gearing up for a fight. He wonders if it’s too late to crash his car into the barrier, pull a few dozen G’s and have an excuse for perfectly teeing her up. 

He runs into you at a Christmas party that winter. It’s the anniversary of the end of you two and he wonders if you remember as vividly as he does. One year without each other, a date he never thought he’d remember. A date he never thought would come. 

You’ve got a guy with you, who just told the worst joke he’s heard in a while. You laugh, because you’re sweet, but he knows you don’t think it’s funny–knows your laugh too well, worked hard to hear it for too many years. 

He watches the two of you, studies you, wonders if he looks as foolish with his new girlfriend as you look with your new boyfriend. It’s painfully obvious, he thinks, how unhappy you are, how ungenuine you appear. That’s not your smile, not your drink, not your favorite pair of heels. 

“Hi,” he says when he finds you in the kitchen of the house party, alone. “It’s good to see you,” A lie. He’d almost turned around and walked right back out the door when he saw you. You, with someone who wasn’t him. 

“Yeah, you too,” you said, also a lie. He knows you, whether you like it or not. 

“So, new guy, huh?” Awkward. So fucking awkward. You nod. “Nice.” He sips his drink. 

“Are you seeing anyone?” You asked, and he thought there was no way you didn’t know. No way you’d gone unalerted to your doppelganger walking the grid. Surely, someone told you. Your sister, likely, maybe a friend. 

“Uh,” he scratches the back of his neck because his hands don’t feel like they belong to him. He doesn’t know where to put them. “Yeah,” he nods. “Yeah.” She’s nothing like you, he wants to say. Wonders if it would do more harm or good, if you’d read his words as an admission that you are irreplaceable or if you’d see them as an insult. 

“Great.” You say, smile, and it might be genuine. He’s startled that he can’t read it precisely, forced to confront the notion that he doesn’t know you like he once did. Beat after beat of silence, tense and awkward and strange. He was more comfortable when you were breaking up with him than he is right now. “Do you hate me?” You finally spoke, and his heart broke a little. It broke a lot, but, your heart isn’t his to break anymore. That’s what he keeps telling himself, anyway. 

It hurts to say your name, the air rips its way out of his lungs and through his vocal cords and gets caught in the back of his throat, again on the tip of his tongue. “I could never hate you.” He wishes he could. He’s tried, time and time again to hate you, to loathe you for existing. You tore him into a million tiny pieces and sprinkled them in every corner of the earth, hid them in the deepest nooks and the tightest crannies. Destroyed some, just for the hell of it. Then, you sent him on his way, handed him a bottle of glue, a good luck in the form of we can still be friends and expected him to be fine. 

He knew–was able to recognize now–that he was far from perfect. Far, far from it. He was distant and pushed you away and was a complete ass, but fuck, he loved you more than he knew. You hurt him more than anyone would ever know. 

There are few things as sobering as returning an engagement ring to the jeweler. It’s a sympathetic look he’ll never forget, and even then he knew he couldn’t blame you, that the blame lied solely on him for fucking it all up. His mom cried when he told her, called him an idiot in three languages, told him he needed to fix it, that you were worth it. I know, Mama, he told her, I know, but I can’t fix this. 

He broke up with your twin a few weeks later because no matter how hard he tried, there was no replicating you. He wondered how long it would be before word got to you, if you’d even care when it did. 

He hated being home, now. Monaco was a nightmare, you were all over his place, all over the most important years of his life. Your smell could be erased from the sheets with a few washes, but the grease stain you left on the corner of the couch? The one you cried about and apolgized for everytime you saw it? There’s no getting rid of it. 

He cleaned out his closet a couple weeks ago, after all these years. Your name was written in pink marker on the wall, behind a bunch of shoe boxes. You were here, 2017, it read, and he spent thirty minutes going over it with a Magic Eraser only for it to be just as vibrant as before. 

There was one time, before he broke up with his girlfriend, where he caught himself just before saying your name into her shoulder. The first syllable slipped and he had to pretend it was a nonsensical shuddered breath. He’s fallen into more of a monthly rotation since then, keeps them around until it becomes glaringly apparent they’ll never fill the shoes you left behind. Flavors of the month. It works well enough, distracts him well enough. 

The more removed he becomes from you, the cloudier the memories become. Clarity, people tell him he needs it, but, the haze distracts him just the same. He can forget you for a while, live his life without looking for you in everyone who tries to buy him a drink. Distractions come in the form of driving, of friends, of family. In the form of a girl who looks nothing like you, who speaks nothing like you, who acts nothing like you. It won’t last, he knows it won’t but he can’t find you anywhere in her and it’s refreshing. 

This is so weird, I totally get if you say no, she texted him late one night. But, do you want to go to a wedding with me in a couple weeks? He should say no, he thinks. Committing to a wedding in a couple weeks is committing to being interested in a couple weeks and he can’t guarantee that. It’s commitment he can’t make and that’s if you disregard all the implications of going with someone to a wedding. It’s like the first rule of dating, you don’t go to a wedding together if you don’t see things lasting. 

It’s too romantic, there’s too much love flying around. He’ll be catching side eyes all night from her, longing glances that make everything weird. The bouquet toss will be taken just a little too seriously for two people who are casually dating. 

It’s too weird, right? She says after a few long minutes of radio silence. 

No, not weird. He replies. Sounds like a good time.

That’s how he ends up there, believe it or not. The sickest fucking coincidence in the world, he thinks, standing in front of this intricate sign. It bore your name, your fiance’s name, written in delicate script. 

There’s no way, he thinks. There is no fucking way. “How do you know them, again?” He asks the girl on his arm. 

“My mom is friends with the Groom’s mom. We grew up together.” She says, smiley and lovely and perfectly dressed. There is no fucking way this is his reality. He has to be dreaming, stuck in a nightmare, surely. Even the universe isn’t this fucked up. 

This isn’t the wedding you always talked about wanting, the one you daydreamed about when you were feeling particularly in love. It’s not the one he planned on giving you. There’s so many people here, it’s not like you. I want something intimate, you told him once. I want to love everyone there. You never would have had a family friend’s plus-one in attendance. 

“Hey,” She says, flashes him a flask in her purse. “You wanna do a shot?”

God, you have no idea. “Yeah.” 

You’ll cry when you see me, you told him. If you don’t, I’ll turn around and do it again. He thinks about that when you’re standing with your dad at the top of the aisle, beaming, glowing. Your dress is the most you thing he’s ever seen–fits you right in every spot, classy and spunky and traditional and fun all at the same time. He looks to the end of the long aisle, to your groom. He’s smiling, has his hands crossed behind his back and laughs, no tears. 

He tries not to stare, because he doesn’t want to catch your eye, to catch your father’s eye, but it’s so hard when you look like that. “She looks so beautiful,” His date leans into him and whispers, doesn’t look at him. A good thing she doesn’t, too, because his eyes are bloodshot. 

“Yeah,” He says, blinks away a tear. 

You’re giddy at the reception. The bar serves two cocktails–his and hers mixed drinks. His date drinks yours, and he steals a sip and it’s fruity and sweet. “Can I have another shot?” He asks, and she subtly slides her flask to him under the table. 

His eyes can’t stop finding you, watching you all dopey and smiley while you hug everyone and talk with grand expressions. You’re making the rounds, and he slips away before you and your new husband make it to his table. 

Your sister catches him by the bathrooms. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know.” He says, chuckles at his shit luck because there’s nothing else he can do.

“No, Charles.” She says it firmer this time, like he’s in trouble, which–understandable. “Why are you, here?”

“My, uh.” He twists the ring on his pinky. “The girl I’m seeing, I’m her plus-one.”

She looks nervous, your sister, like she’s fraternizing with the enemy and at any given moment someone is going to catch her and take her head. “Has she seen you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You can’t be here.” She’s practically whispering, grabbing his arm and pulling him behind a corner. 

“You’re telling me.” He laughs, because he’s about to cry at the wedding of the girl he thought he was going to marry. He’s going to cry at your wedding, just like you always said he would. 

“I mean it. You need to leave.”

He cocks his head, she’s not serious. She’s just being a good sister. “Come on, don’t you–”

“Charles.” She says it soft, cracked and sad. There is so much unsaid. “Leave.”

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He doesn’t know how he’s going to explain this one away, but, he has the walk from the bathrooms to the reception hall to figure it out. “Yeah, I’ll go.”

And he does–go. He goes, and wonders for the rest of his life what would’ve happened if he stayed.