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itsgodepi · 30 days

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If I lose my mind | Ch. 9

Series summary: When life has given you more than enough lemons and you cannot figure out how to make a lemonade, the only way to make it work is to get rid of the whole basket. But was it neccesary to send you to a whole different dimension for that? A juicer would have done the job, really. Or, one day you go to sleep as a normal person and the next you wake up as a Formula One driver. You've never been a fan but isn't it like, one of the most exclusive sports? Pairing: CL16, LH44, CS55, DR3 x fem!reader Chapter: Previous | Next Word Count: 2.7k Also on AO3

You recognize his laugh now. Not the one recorded by the nosy photographers or the overstepping interviewers, but the real one. The way he leans his head to the side and his eyes turn into beautiful crescent moons. Those low chuckles as well, so carefree and sweet, resounding in your head and bringing you back to the hundreds of videos saved in your camera roll, the ones you have been watching for nights on end since you found that phone.

It is difficult to decipher if the goosebumps raising in your skin come from the happiness the mere sound induces inside you, or the fear of realizing how deep you have been dragged into this nightmare.

After landing in Belgium, Daniel’s first instinct had been to send you a message, an invite out for dinner which he admitted was long overdue. Two months had already gone by since you fainted in Austria —or better said, the day you woke up surrounded by a whole Formula 1 team in an unknow place—, two months since he fought with Nick in the middle of the track and promised to ‘talk later’. Two months.

Safe to say you were surprised enough to ignore the hundreds of messages higher on the chat. It’s better to take in this kind of news one by one.

“My friend said the steak tartare was amazing, you should have a look at it” Daniel offers when you lower your eyes to the menu, skimming over the dishes as if that could help you ignore the tingling on your stomach

Pursing your lips, you finally focus your gaze on the words written before you. “I don’t know if…” you begin to show your doubts about the raw dish, trying to locate it on the menu among the rest of unrecognizable food names.

Daniel can see the exact second you find it.

“Don’t you dare look at the price,” the driver threatens when your eyes widen at the quantity, eyebrows furrowed as you wonder if the meat is wrapped in gold or something “You’re not paying again, I’m telling you!”

“What do you mean again?” you ask through a chuckle, scanning the rest of the menu for a more reasonable option. After all, it is always Daniel who passes you gummies and other unhealthy treats under Nick’s nose when you are on the track, and not the other way around. It would have been impossible anyway, it’s only recently that you have acquired some form of payment.

Daniel calls for the waiter after a shake of his head, a smirk falling of his lips “Yeah, sure, I’ll let you play dumb now... gave them my card already, so no use in sneaking to the bathroom and paying behind my back”

To be fair, although you doubt you could have invited Daniel to more than a sip of coffee in the short time you’ve know him —you absolutely do not have the kind of money needed to invite a Formula One driver out, that’s become obvious, those kinds of antics do ring a bell or two.

After all, you may have picked them up from the best at that type of tricks: your father.

On your time away from home, you have found yourself holding onto the little pieces of your family which have so easily become a part of your personality over the years. Your father’s silent gestures of love, your mother’s caring nature, and honestly, being unable to talk to them had taken a toll on you. Probably, that is why you had melt into a poodle of tears when you heard your dad’s voice on the phone.

“¿A ti te parece normal estar dos meses sin llamar a tus padres? (Does it seem normal to you to go two months without calling your parents?) "

Even hearing his scoldings felt like the most precious moment of your life.

Charles had come crashing into the room as soon as he heard your cries, kneeling beside you on the floor thinking you might have hurt yourself with how fast you had run away to your room. His concerned look rapidly turning into one of confusion when you firmly held his hand and whispered between sobs “It’s my dad!”

The discovery of this new device had not only opened a channel of communication with your family, which had both been a blessing and a curse, but also brough an infinity of unanswered questions. Although the first few minutes of your conversation had been centered around your mother’s question about your wellbeing and if you had been eating well, it had not taken long until that precious moment was broken. After checking that you had been doing alright and apologizing for not talking to them, your father could not hold it any longer and started gushing about the amazing few races you had had before the break.

A reality check so sudden that it takes your breath away.

Their happiness and eagerness to congratulate you on the highest place of your career, managed to sober you up completely. You heart sinking with every compliment they threw at you, their desire to see you climb up in the sport, to see you win one day. “It will come” your mother says, as if any of this was real. As if they were real.

When you finally found your voice again, you had cut the conversation short with promises to call them soon —even if the mere thought of it made you nauseous.

This encounter only renewed your desire to break free from what had become you own personal prison, and that device was a new key for your escape. While the phone you had been carrying since the start of this journey only had a couple numbers from the team members saved on it, this one was filled to the brim with messages, photos,... a whole life encased in such a small object. Your life?

And somehow a main character in a large part of them was the man in front of you.

“You sure you don’t want to taste it?” Daniel queries with a half-smile, having clearly caught the way your eyes followed the delicious looking cake as the waiter placed it on the table

The colors rise to your cheeks in shyness, looking to the side while you jokingly sigh “Daniel, I won’t fit in the car if I keep eating...”

“You’ll drive mine then” he quickly resolves, taking a huge piece of the treat and offering the spoon to you. Honestly, you had swapped the list of amazingly sounding desserts for a simple tea because you felt too full to even think of eating anything else, but a spoonful of cake can’t hurt, right? “Have to wear the McLaren suit though”

Although you do it unconsciously, the look you give Daniel over the mouthful of cake, tells him everything he needs to know regarding your opinion on the bright orange race suit. The driver lets out a loud laugh, putting on his disbelieving facade as if that hadn’t been his intention in the first place.

“So nice hearing you criticize my team’s color, really, I don’t know why we stopped having lunch together. Yeah, not a clue...” Daniel scoffs, digging into his plate to drown his fabricated sorrows. So dramatic.

“I didn’t even talk!” you quip back to his amusement, just now having managed to get through the enormous bite of cake. Daniel only response is a disapproving shake of his head, and you let him have this one as you stir your tea. You are more interested in the second part of his grumbles “Why did we stop though?”

“Don’t know... I guess with the whole start of the season, new team and everything” Daniel relays with a frown, gesturing to the air as if to explain that life had gotten in between what seemed to be a tradition the two of you had. “And also, that fucking diet...” the driver snickers with a roll of his eyes, having thrown that last jab as joke to lighten up the mood after such serious turn of the conversation.

However, a soon as your eyes meet, he knows it’s been a misstep —even if it is just a coincidence that what he thinks is your how dare you say that? look is more of a what diet are you talking about? Look.

“Sorry, ‘shouldn't have said that” Daniel apologizes straight away, leaning back into his seat with a sigh and the last piece of the cake. The time it takes him to munch on the treat is enough for him to debate whether or not he should make his opinion on such an important cmatter. Finally, he opts for a more conservative approach “It’s just... you already know what I think about it. Nick too”

The mention of your Formula One trainer’s name makes all the alarms go off in your head, more so when the last time you saw them together, they were having a pretty heated conversation in the middle of a Grand Prix “Is that why you fought with Nick?”

You try to appear outwardly calm about the situation, swirling what’s left of your tea as if your hands weren’t trembling in anticipation. This is it, at last, some real information. Not some meaningless clues which do nothing but mess with your poorly constructed theories.

Your grandmother’s necklace burns against your chest, the feeling grounding you against all the thoughts brimming on your head. After all, the piece of jewelry is still the only fragment of an ever-distant reality, one you have kept safe and close to your heart ever since you found. You rest your hand over the pendant, sensing the heat even through the fabric of your blouse, as you wait for the response.

He brushes a hand over his curls, looking everywhere but at you. “Yeah, kind of... I mean,” he accepts, clicking his tongue and taking in a big breath, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say it plain and clear. Daniel takes a second to reorganize his thoughts, straightening up in his chair and leaning his arms over the table in deep thought. However, when you think he’s managed to make up his mind and talk, the only words that come out his lips are “Look, we shouldn't talk about this now”

A frown instantly forms on your expression at the premise, jaw set as you prepare yourself to most likely yell at Daniel everything that’s been on your mind thorough your time trapped here —whatever here means. You were finally going to clear one of the millions of unknowns surrounding this dream or whatever this is, and the man has the audacity to want to leave this incredibly important conversation for later. Oh, hell no.

“No, listen” Daniel tries to settle your worries, having perfectly recognized the signs of what was about to come for him, from the slight closing of you hand over the table to the uncredulous grin lightly lifting the side of your lips “We’ll talk in the ride back to the track. C’mon, I’ll drive you”

The soft sound of the radio fills the silence on the way out of the parking, a ballad which does absolutely not fit the speed at what your mind is running. Daniel can probably feel the weight of your stare, trying to let him have some space since it seems to be a sensitive topic for him, but so eager to learn what transpired between the two of them.

The driver decides to preface his explanation with a “Don't get mad at me, okay?”, a strained smile pulling at his lips. For starters, that sentence does sound familiar. “I know I should stay out of it, and I think... well, no, I know! I know you’ve been really stressed out lately, that everything’s different now and all of that. I mean, they won't shut up about the fucking ‘second year in F1’ or whatever”

Daniel tries to check your reaction out of the corner of his eye, his thoughts, although disorganized, always careful of your feelings. Yet, you can only regard him with a confused look.

“What I’m trying to say is... I think you’ve been pushing yourself too hard” the driver lets out, the words flowing out of him like they have been weighting him for too long. His urge to explain his intentions straight away, showing how much of a push back he was expecting from your part "Again, I’m not trying to start an argument, I’m just worried about you! I’ve seen you training, seen that diet... this is not good for you”

You’ve kept your eyes in the road in front thorough the conversation, taking in how concerned he has been about you. You had never seen this side of Daniel, he has always seen friendly and eager to help whenever you needed, but nothing had ever seen this deep. Still, you don’t understand what any of this has to do with his fight with Nick.

“I understand that...” you acknowledge his worries, making a mental note to check everything he said later. In the time you had spent following this professional motorsport driver schedule, none of it had seemed as harsh to you as he had mentioned. Maybe something changed? Why though? “So, Nick and you talked about that? Is that it?”

“Well, yes, Nick and I kind of had a... disagreement, yeah, we can call it that. About this new training plan you had going on. We had already talked about it like, back in Canada, and obviously nothing came out of it. But after Austria...” Daniel lets a second go while he enters the road, a harder grip on the steering wheel than needed. “Listen, I know we haven’t talked about it at all, I don’t know if you and Nick did?”

You almost want to laugh at the supposition, your trainer had shut down any attempts of talking about it the day after the incident, so you had eventually given up “No, nothing”

“I didn’t want to pressure you into talking about it but... We got really scared that day. I went to celebrate your qualy and, suddenly, you started panicking and freaking out! I didn’t know what to do, and then you fell unconscious. Do you remember any of it?” the driver wonders, his voice showcasing the whirlwind of emotions he went through despite the fact that he might be giving you a diluted version of what went down. You can only nod at him, the memories fresh on your mind “When they took you to the hospital, I thought, they for sure won’t let her race tomorrow, right? And then I see you on the track, all dressed up again, I couldn’t believe it...”

“Didn’t Nick say he sent you a text?” you try to fill in, fingers fiddling with your own phone. Two months might have passed, but the images of that day keep replaying in your mind every single night.

Daniel clicks his tongue in disbelief, eyes still focused on the road “Yes, he sent me two fucking lines saying the doctor discharged you, that you were fine and that’s literally it. You can take my phone and see it for yourself! I kept blowing up his phone but that’s the only thing he would say: exhaustion, she’s alright”

That would explain the way Daniel approached you in Austria, how furious he had been with Nick after the secrecy with which the incident had been treated. The first thing he asked you that day was if you were alright, after the pre-race activities had finished and as away from the public as he could knowing you were in the middle of a Grand Prix. That is why he pounced at Nick when he mentioned the exhaustion diagnosis, fed up with the discourse. The distrust he had in your trainer’s statement clear in his words.

Yet another thread to be pulled.

Author's note: Hey, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. It's been a while! My masters is clearly kicking my ass and I didn't have a single second to write, but here it is. Thank you all so much for reading, any kind of interaction is greatly appreciated!

Taglist: @purplephantomwolf @raye2000 @yuiiimd @drezzerk33 @leclercdream @homie0sapien @minkyungseokie @carlossainzwho @rewmuslupin @kyuupidwrites @raevyng @lazybot @gills-lounge @hiraethrhapsody @jjkclub @darleneslane @therealcap @aespie

#daniel ricciardo x reader #carlos sainz x reader #charles leclerc x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 x you #formula one x reader #formula one x you #f1 imagine

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itsgodepi · 4 months

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If I lose my mind | Ch. 8

“Your things arrived a few days ago, the... uh, what’s it called in English? The portier?” Charles questions with furrowed brows, repeating the French word once again, much slower and carefully, so you can have a fair try at guessing its meaning

It takes you a second to give a meaning to what he is trying to say, “Is it like the one that manages the building, kind of?”, the exact word he refers to not coming to mind no matter how much you try. Your mental dictionary is running a bit low after everything went down today.

“Yeah, that’s it” he smiles at you over his shoulder, leading you out of the elevator and into a small corridor. The suitcase’s wheels clattering across the black tiles, following your path to one of the apartments’ doors, number 7 “What, you know French now?”

“No, no, I wish” you laugh, shaking your head at the possibility that you would ever understand any other word in that language “It just sounds similar to the word in Spanish, portero”

Charles opens the door before answering, a sight that leaves you open-mouthed being discovered before you. You do not know in what to focus first, if the sight of the tall buildings and the port drawn out in the floor to ceiling windows or the expensive looking furniture that decorates the rest of the room “Well, you’ve come to the best place to learn”

Because yes, you have in fact encountered the perfect opportunity to learn the language. After all you'll be living in Monaco for at least ten days before going back to the crazy life of a Formula One driver. That is enough time to grasp a bit of French or drive yourself crazy, we’ll see which one of the two comes first.

Your morning had started with a chain of events that leaned more towards the second option. You had woken up in the late morning, the warmth of the soft bedsheets and the darkness provided by the thick curtains almost fooling you into believing you had finally escaped this bizarre dream, that you were back home, and your alarm was pushing you out of bed for your practices. There would be an awful day ahead of you, but at least a real one.

But that hope was short lived.

Instead of your alarm, that ringing noise turns out to be coming from the hotel’s phone, a man on the other line animatedly informing you that this is your wakeup call and to have a great day when you pick it up. Apparently, Nick had been the one to request the service, sceptic that you would make it in time to the airport without him nagging you about it. The exact same reason why he had prepared for a car to be waiting outside for you at least an hour before, just in case.

Charles and Carlos are already waiting when you arrive to Budapest’s airport, inside a very expensive looking waiting room that hosts only the few people travelling alongside you. Yeah, it seems like flying private actually means flying private, with all the special commodities that brings. However, it also means that the first time you hear what country you are heading to is when you are strapped down to your seat and about to take off. Monaco seems alright, doesn’t it?

“He called me like, right before FP2, back in France, because a couple of suitcases had arrived for me.” Charles continues recounting the events of last Friday, inviting you in and taking the heavy bag that you insisted on carrying from you “I wasn’t expecting anything, so I almost turned them all away, all your luggage for the break! Seriously, you have to text me or something next time you send your things over...”

Mindlessly, you give in to his nagging and apologise for not warning him beforehand “Sorry, my mind’s been all over the place lately”, even if you have no idea what those things he is complaining about are or what that implication for a next time actually means. It is easier this way.

Charles seems to perfectly understand what you are saying, the confession about the hardships you have been facing holding a deeper meaning for him than you could ever fathom “I know, it’s okay”, but he does not even know half of what you are going through

After weeks upon weeks of waking up alone in a cold and unfamiliar hotel room —what little belongings you have pushed to a corner and some clothes thrown over a chair—, it is not surprising that the sight of Charles Leclerc sleepily going through the kitchen’s cabinets makes you feel all warm inside. The man is wearing a white baggy shirt and blue shorts, his hair a mess and lips pursed in concentration.

He turns around as soon as he hears you padding through the corridor, a grin slowly taking over his expression “Good morning! Did you sleep well? I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“No no, it’s alright, I’ve been up for a while” you calm him down, walking up to the countertop and awkwardly leaning on it. Unlike him, you are already dressed up and pretty clear-headed, you never know what your mind is going to put you through in this new day. Your room is pretty far apart from the kitchen and his room too, there is no way you could have heard him with how huge huge his apartment is “And you? How did you sleep?”

“Great, it always feels nice being back home” Charles prepares the rest of the breakfast while you chat away, inviting you to sit on one of the highchairs at the other side of the countertop when you do so much as try to help him fix the dishes. He somehow knows exactly what to prepare for you, his plate and yours starkly different and yet he is not doubting a single one of his choices, as if he had done it a thousand times.

“So, what do you want to do today? I have to make a few calls but, after that, I’m all ready to go” the man explains, finally pouring himself a cup of coffee and coming to sit beside you. In response you can only give a shrug of your shoulders while you munch on the toast Charles so carefully prepared, you have no idea what is there to visit in Monaco. Thankfully, Charles has given the trip some though —well, he was bringing you to his literal hometown, how could he not?—, and in a second has your day all planned out.

The conferences take longer than expected, the driver coming to apologise over and over again when he has to shut himself off into his improvised office for another ‘final’ call. That is how the hours keep ticking by and you end up also having lunch at his apartment. “This is the last one, I promise” he swears after you both get up from the table, the leftover of two delicious dishes which appeared out of thin air, still in front of you.

You are not upset about it, not that much at least, you can understand this is his job and he needs to be on top of all these interviews and meetings —you only got a couple emails to respond and a call from Nick, but you guess this is what being in a team like Ferrari really is. Nonetheless, it does not mean it doesn’t annoy you a bit, you really had been looking forward to all the activities he had been talking to you about. Charles managed to distract you easily enough though, got you some Netflix, games and food so it all would pass in the blink of an eye.

“Oh, sixteen? That’s yours?!” you gasp, a bounce added to your step as you approach the red Formula One car placed at the entrance of the new room. The centre of your attention in a space filled with cars from every single year and brand you could ever imagine, the mirrors on the sides and covering the ceilings giving you all of the perspective of the machine.

“Of course it is, you didn’t know it was here?” Charles lets out a chuckle at your outburst, a grin now permanent on his lips as he follows you. The visit to the Prince of Monaco’s Car Collection had been worth it just for the look on your face, the fact that they kindly closed it for the two of you only adding an increased value to your reaction “They have the Alfa Romeo too”

Although you could discover what the Alfa Romeo thing meant if you moved your gaze a little bit to the left, you seemingly prefer to overlook that piece of information instead, completely entranced by the car in front of you “It looks so different...”

Possibly because everything around you is, indeed, different. After all, this is the first time you have had the opportunity to take step back and see the small details, away from the stress of the garage or the screams shaking the stands. That kind of atmosphere though, is irreplicable, the wave of emotions that fill your body as soon as you set foot into the circuit. Real or not, that is something you haven’t been able to get out of your head since this madness started.

You are unbelievable, seriously, after only two days of the break you are somehow already missing the track? Who could have told you that a month ago Wait, a month-?

“Does it? They have been making a lot of changes in the regulations lately, maybe...” Charles mumbles by your side, eyes ever so carefully looking over the car, and leaning over one of the signs on the ground, a half-smile pulling at his lips when he reads it “Oh, true, it’s the SF90! Oh my God, this one... Honestly, it wasn’t that bad of a year, I won a couple races too, but the car had so many problems. When it wasn’t the new tyres, it was the balance, then the understeering was awful at some point as well... It was just impossible to beat the Mercedes”

To finish off his explanation, Charles dismissively points with a tilt of his head to one of the Formula One cars sitting farther down the room, a Mercedes from who knows what year. Whatever, it illustrates his story just fine. Besides, this movement also allows for him to catch a peek of you from the corner of his eye, a big grin on your lips that you try to cover with a raised hand “Wait, are you laughing at me?”

“No! Of course not, I was just-” you splutter, looking up at him like a deer caught in headlights “It’s ‘cause you were, how do you say it? Like really into it? Contrated? I don’t know, I’m sorry!”

“No, no, I’m not telling you anything anymore! Go on, I’ll be quiet” Charles declares, not hearing you and acting so very much offended that you would be making fun of him. To better show his point, he starts stepping back and rises his arms to put some space between the two of you.

That is when you cannot hold you giggles anymore, the fact that he is trying to even avoid your eyes while you follow him “No, don’t say that, I promise I won’t laugh” you swear, taking a hold of his arm to stop him from walking away from you “C’mon, you’re the best tour guide!”

And maybe Charles takes that praise as a challenge, green eyes shining and cheeks full with a smile which he can’t supress no matter how hard he tries. Throughout the next few days, the Monegasque shows you the most beautiful spots of the city that saw him grow up —albeit on an intermittent basis, as he recounts the numerous trips he’s had to go on since he was a child—, a city that he adores and misses like no other. From the more touristic sites, the timetables of which he knows from A to Z and to which he has prepared private visits for each one of them, to the places that have a special place in his heart.

All of this without letting you pay a single dime, getting rejected each time you do so much as try to get your purse out, the little money you have gathered in your time in here resting inside without any prospects of ever getting spent.

It is a shame that when you are heading to one of the spots Charles has been looking forward to the most, you are caught red-handed. At first it is not as worrisome, a French fan approaches Charles for a photo and you politely step out of the way to let them take it, which catches the attention of a nearby couple that take this opportunity to ask you for a selfie —yeah, it still feels strange, even inside a dream. Maybe the husband talks a bit louder than needed about how surprised he is to see you here, or how happy he gets the moment Charles comes over to you, but after a couple of minutes you are being mobbed by half the people in Monaco. Flashes, screams and hands flying everywhere.

“It’s been a while since I last had to be rescued by the police...” Charles signs once he finally plops down on the sofa, changed into comfier clothes and the TV remote on his hand

You silently sort out the food on the small coffee table, still trying to wrap your head around what just happened, nerves tingling with the range of emotions this all brought up. It is not fear, that is something you seem to have somewhat become numb to, but something deeper. That is not something that had happened to you before, people are usually behind barriers on Grand Prixes, or they have someone better to pay attention to. This had felt truly overwhelming, suffocating even.

And yet, there it is, your lifeline. Again.

Charles’ hand comes to caress your hair after you spend a second too long in silence, hands tracing your strands as he brushes them away from your face, hand finally descending down to your neck and lightly massaging it. He had done something similar in the middle of that chaos, his hand on your arm, shoulder or back drawing tiny circles on your skin, a permanent hold that was supposed to prevent you from getting separated, but which had done so much more. “That smells great” the man whispers, leaning forward since you had chosen to knee in front of the couch.

The frown you didn’t feel forming relaxes as you look back at him, the thoughts previously swarming your head now vanished “Mm, yeah, it’s really tasty”

“What?! You’ve been stealing food while I was changing?” the Monegasque rightly accuses, disbelief painting his features

“You were taking so long!”

Charles seems to also know his way around the restaurants of Monaco, the stack of takeout you thought was way too much for two people ends up disappearing within minutes, the great amount of food you consumed leaving you to lazily lay on the couch, bellies full and watching TV after a night that had to be cut short.

The show you are watching is entertaining, you will give Charles that one, you have already gone through two and a half episodes and you can’t wait to see what happens next. It would have been even more amazing to not start it on season 3 though. It is true that Charles had started his offer to play it with a “Do you want to continue watching whatever-the-name-of-the-series-is?” and you had seen him scrolling all the way to the fourth episode of that same season without saying a word as well, but you had got accustomed to brush off things like this, like every other information from this reality that you don’t understand.

You nod and carry on with your ‘life’, that has been your modus operandi since the beginning, why change?

Thankfully, Charles gives you small explanations in the form of funny comments on every other scene, and although you don’t understand some of them, you laugh them off like anybody would do if he was looking at them the same way he does with you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you question at some point of the night, eyes fixed on the screen as if that could hide any of the unrecognizable feelings boiling within you

A chuckle slips out of his lips before he can begin answering, not fazed even slightly by your claim “You’re still so obsessed with the theme song...” Charles also meets your gaze straight on the moment you finally gather the courage to do so, not shying away from the way your big eyes stare at him “It’s cute”

A confession that catches you off-guard and to which your response is to smile and carry on, snuggling under a blanket which has made you slip that much closer to Charles. Summer nights in Monaco are cold.

About halfway into your vacation, Charles presents you with a different type of plan for the day “I’m going out with my mother and Arthur in a couple of hours... do you maybe want to come?” the way his green eyes look up at you in expectation betray his previous show of confidence, his gaze lowering to the toasts he is preparing.

The invite makes you stop in your track, hand half-way in the air with a piece of fruit you had tried to steal from one of the dishes. Honestly, from all the challenges you had expected this universe to throw at you today, not once would you have imagined that having lunch with Charles Lecler’s mom would be one of them, that’s for sure.

“Oh, your mother knows I’m here?” it is the stupidest question you could make, you are aware of it, but this seems so out of the blue —yes, you have apparently reached the point where jumping into a Formula One car feels more ordinary than whatever this is. But it’s because, like, you aren’t this close, are you? Yes, you flew with him, you are spending the break in his apartment, he has prepared your breakfast every single day, but-

“That you are staying here? Yeah, of course she knows” Charles answers, matter of fact, as if it was no big deal “But it’s okay, I know you get nervous with things like these, I can tell her you have a meeting or something”

Perhaps if the man had not been so understanding and given you such an easy way out, you would have accepted the outing, what is the worst that could have happened? That his mom was a wonderful person who had spent hours baking a typical pastry to gift you? If you had not felt bad enough this morning when declining Charles’ offer, now you sure were feeling like the worst person to ever walk on earth. Safe to say you almost tear up when you read the note she left you on the box: Enjoy your stay, my dear. I hope we’ll see each other soon. More so when his sons reveals he had to help her write it in English.

You miss your family that much more now, if that was possible.

Unfortunately, you do not encounter any other opportunity to meet Charles’ mother, the days flowing past you faster than you could have imagined. Charles has surprised you with organized trips to other cities near Monaco, from both Italy and France, every new sight he shows you more breathtaking than the last. The fact that this man, a Formula One driver for Ferrari nothing less, is swimming in money, taking the sweet little activities you had thought about to a whole other level.

Nonetheless, spending a bit more also becomes a need when you are trying to keep a low profile, neither of you want a repeat of what happened in Montecarlo —for more reasons than because it is dangerous. Which means that booking private terraces to watch the view is sometimes required, other times you get a tour through a closed section of the museum solely because they recognized him, or you, which is still something you are struggling to come to terms with, but you can’t complain.

Tonight, to properly finish off your stay in the country, Charles has invited you out to a fancy restaurant. It is built in the outskirts of Monaco, a place where the waves of the ocean are louder than the noises of the city. You get seated in open space that overlooks the sea, the quiet and elegant atmosphere of the place captivating you. You are thankful to whoever had prepared those suitcases which arrived at the apartment before you even knew you were visiting, because the black satin dress that was waiting for you inside one of them, is the perfect fit for the occasion.

The hunt for the perfect outfit had also brought a discovery that you couldn’t quite believe yet. Inside a white jewellery box that you had been carrying since the beginning and that you had not cared to open until today, you had found one of the most important pieces you ever owned, one you had been missing dearly: your grandmother’s favourite necklace. It had been a gift given to you many years ago, your grandmother’s promises of how it would make your wishes come true and protect you still echoing in your ears. Upon its discovery, you heart had skipped several beats, your hand snatching it from the box faster than you could think about it to bring it close to your chest, a place where it now proudly rested and that it would not ever leave again.

The only piece of a reality which appears evermore distant and unreachable each passing day.

The dinner is spent chatting away and tasting delicious dishes that you cannot pronounce the name of, your knight in shining armour —in this case, a navy-blue suit that fits him like a glove— saving you time and time again from embarrassing yourself trying. That gesture in itself being a blessing in disguise. It is fascinating watching Charles talk in French, sounding ever so charming speaking words you do not understand, his voice and demeanour changing when talking in his mother tongue. You have not learned a word in French, but if the hours you have spent staring at Charles talking counted, you would have the highest level.

That is some of the nonsense you keep thinking about in the way back to the apartment, your body comfortably relaxing back into the passenger seat of his Ferrari while the city lights keep flowing by your sides. The Monegasque takes his hand off the gearstick after reaching a red light, resting it atop your knee and gently squeezing it when you don’t peel your eyes off the window.

“Sleepy?” he queries in a soft voice, amused.

You shake your head in response, the “No” slipping from your lips too low to even hear it yourself. Your hand reflexively comes down to wrap around his in reassurance, an act which only manages to further confirm his suspicions.

Charles walks to your side to help you out of the car, the excuse of being sleepy —although the expensive wine and your high heels are playing a big role in your clumsy walk— useful enough for you to hold onto his arm in the way up to his apartment. The silence is nice too, calming despite the fact that it is hiding so many thoughts behind.

“So, did you have fun?” Charles is the first one to speak once you reach the parting point, even if it is only the middle of his living room and there is still time tomorrow before he takes you to the airport, it feels more important than that

“Yeah, I did, a lot. Thank you, Charles, for everything” you respond, the words coming straight from your heart, you are grateful for not only the material part of this vacation, but for how comfortable he has made you feel in this unknown reality. The man has truly made of your trip to Monaco an unforgettable experience, a memory that you will forever cherish. You hope he understand that.

Although he tries to downplay it, say how much of a good time he has had thanks to you and all of that, you are quick to shush him, repeating your thanks and not accepting any of the justifications he’s give. And he somehow lets you get away with it, that easily, a fond smile pulling at his lips while he looks down at you “Okay, okay... I’m just happy you are here, honestly”

Charles word’s startle you, your heart speeding to a hundred miles per hour in just a second. The man ignites this inexplicable feeling inside of you, one so familiar and foreign at the same time, slowly building inside of you, a warmth that threatens to overcome you at any second if you let it. This silence and closeness not helping you in the slightest.

Paired with these thoughts come other less comforting ones, a more logical part that warns you that you have been letting this go on for too long. You let your hold on Charles’s arm fall, instinctively taking a step back. This is too much, the wine must have been playing with your head, you have let this go on for over time and-

However, Charles doesn’t seem to agree with any of the thoughts boiling in your head, his hand following the movements of yours and catching it halfway, his fingers intertwining with yours. Not ready to let you go just yet. He can see the gears turning at full force inside your mind as well, hopes the gesture will stop you from overthinking it all and focus solely on this.

For you though, that train of thought isn’t as easy to reach, even less so when his touch has set your nerves alight. “Oh, yeah, me too! Well-, I mean, I’m happy to be here. The first day I thought I wouldn’t even see you in all ten days, but it’s been great ever since, I promise!” the tension of the moment is too much to handle, and it forces the first stupidity that comes to your mind out to break it

Charles tilts his head to the side, taking some extra time to process what you said “What?”

Sadly, instead of simply waiting for him to interpret your babbling, your big mouth keeps on talking “You were working, I completely understand! I mean, you’re in Ferrari, of course... I just got nervous at first, that’s all”

“Oh” the Monegasque simply says, his face void of any emotion as he watches you freaking out thinking you’ve upset him. You and your stupid brain that keeps making up excuses for a joke you had told to ease the tension, you should start thinking twice about it. The wine has also loosed up your tongue.

At some point Charles decides it is time to have some mercy on you and stop your monologue, a big grin making his eyes crinkle before he is using his hold on your hand to bring you in for a big hug — what a nice way to ask you to shut up.

“Seriously, this is driving me crazy...” he confesses with a giggle, tightening his arms around your body as you deflate in his hold, letting go of all the nerves that had so suddenly preyed on you “You know what happened? I prepared everything, arranged some visits and talked to some people, everything! And I thought: I’ll push all the meetings I have to Monday and Tuesday, so they won’t bother us at all, she’ll probably sleep until, like 2 p. m.” Charles narrates the plan he had so carefully drawn up for your visit, making a pause to lean back and see your reaction to all that happened behind the scenes before you came to the country “Well, turns out that someone, even after driving for 70 whole laps in Hungary and having not slept at all during the flight, just decided to wake up at 8 in the morning! Who does that?”

The belly laugh that escapes you is loud, cheeks hurting from the big smile that has managed to take over your face throughout Charles’ story, his expressions and gestures depicting how much it had surprised him to see you walking down the hall that morning. All dressed up and ready for the day, if you may add.

“Why do you think I took you to the Prince’s Car Collection that day? I thought, since she’s been pestering me for months about it, maybe that’ll make her forget she’s been locked away all morning”

“Aw, that’s so nice!” you compliment him, elongating the syllables and swaying him from side to side to further support your words, your hands still resting on his chest and his having claimed their place at your sides. You do not remember ever talking about the collection, but that is something that does not matter right now "You've been a great tour guide"

“I really am nice” Charles affirms with a smirk, like he cannot believe you didn't find that out earlier, and you can only nod at him in agreement. He has been nothing but amazing in the time you have known each other, you’ll give him that. "I don't know about the tour guide part though, you've been only laughing at me..."

You playfully hit his chest, smiles turning to giggles that give way to a comfortable silence, a moment to relax. Happiness is spilling out of every single pore of your skin as you look at each other with a silly grin on your lips, eyes analysing every feature of the other’s face and committing it to memory as if they were about to vanish in time. A strong hold on each other just in case.

You can see Charles debating wether to break the silence or not, a soft frown set in between his eyebrows while his eyes search for a sign in yours. His lips are pursed, the words that had been stuck in his mind for a while now about to finally be pronounced. However, a strange music beats him to it.

It promptly steals your attention from him, moment broken. Your head turns to the sound, recognizing where it seems to be coming from... your bedroom?

As if hypnotised, you step away from Charles, the Monegasque letting you go from his hold without putting up much of a fight —although he desperately wants to. Something inside of you pulling you towards the sound. The steps you take to the room seem endless, the heels clicking on the hardwood following your path and the noise getting louder, but when you open the door it all happens so fast. You somehow know exactly where it is coming from, hands digging with urgency inside the backpack you had taken to airport 10 days ago. Having come to kneel on the ground, you pull out a cloth bag and lay it out beside you, the realization that it is the same one Nick left for you in Hungary’s hotel and you had not even opened, being too vague for you to fully grasp it.

The music is louder now, your ears ringing with the stupid rhythm when you finally decide to empty all of its contents out on the floor for easier access. You find a lip balm, earphones, some papers and buried under all of it: a phone.

Another one. A phone you had never seen, the one Nick gave you at the start of this madness still secure in your bag. Where did it come from? Nick had said the bag contained the stuff you left behind at the track, but you sure as hell did not leave this.

You watch your hand stretching towards the device in slow motion, your mind pushing you forward but getting no response in return. The screen is upside down, the case vibrating against the floor and joining the cacophony of sounds that has been bouncing off your ears, a feeling of being underwater so awfully recognizable that you get dizzy just thinking about the last time you endured its consequences. The necklace burning in your chest.

What is this phone? Who is calling?

Your fingers tingle at the touch, the device turning in your hold ever so slowly to reveal the caller screen. At the top, written in big bold letters reads the contact's name you have been longing to see for so long:

DAD

A due reminder that none of this is real.

Author's note: Omg, this is so long, I got carried the fuck away with this one. As you have probably noticed it is not even proofread, if I keep it in my drafts any longer I'll keep adding to it. It ended up being as a kind of Charles' one shot thing so I hope you all enjoyed it. As always, any kind of interaction is greatly appreciated, thank you all so much for reading!

Also happy New Year to everyone!! This was supposed to be my Christmas present to all of you but it just kept going out of control.

If anybody is missing from the taglist, please send me a message! I've had some problems with tumblr lately so I'm really sorry if I didn't tag you.

#charles leclerc x reader #carlos sainz x reader #daniel ricciardo x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 x you #formula one x reader #formula one x you #f1 imagine

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itsgodepi · 5 months

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Hii can i please be added to the taglist for ‘If I lose my mind’?

Of course hon!! I'm so happy you're enjoying it 💚🥺

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itsgodepi · 5 months

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If I lose my mind | Ch. 7

You do win a few positions in the French Grand Prix, after hours of driving in circles under the scorching sun. Two to be exact, from a P15 to a P13. It is true that being thirtieth does not grant you any points and of course not a trophy, you will have to wait a bit more to acquire those milestones in your career, but it is not like anybody cares much about that either. The most important thing, as you have come to understand after talking to the team, is that you have yet again managed to beat your teammate. That detail is sometimes even more valuable for your career than a couple points —although the team would really appreciate a couple of them.

It was an easy feat for that week’s race anyway. Mick ran straight into the gravel on lap 23, his car ramming with such force into the barriers that it no longer looks like a Formula One car when it is towed back to the garage. He was pushing the limit, that is for sure, trying his best to surpass another driver named Ocon while also controlling his pace for the long race still ahead... until he wasn’t.

It is scary to witness, the way his car reaches its limits and goes crazy, the steering wheel spinning out of control while Mick can do nothing but pray that the crash won’t be fatal, that he won’t get hurt. It is even scarier to think that you are putting yourself in that position for the third week in a row now, clueless about what is happening or if this is even the real world, but still allowing a group of unknown people to play dress up with you and strap you down into that car again and again.

“Hey, where are you going? To the briefing?” Carlos flags you down in your walk through the main street of the paddock, his voice loud in the almost empty space. It is still too early for the photographers and guests to be roaming around, gift shops and restaurants completely deserted save for the workers preparing for the worst day of the weekend. It is nice to see, honestly.

The scenery has undergone a big change, the huge terraces and open-air spaces of the French paddock long forgotten and replaced with cosier restaurants in preparation for the harsh weather forecast for Hungary’s Grand Prix. Your subconscious is clearly working overtime to fool you into believing this is reality.

Carlos, Charles and another man are seated in one of the few tables set outside the Ferrari motorhome, relaxing with some coffee and snacks. “Yeah? Are you not?” you respond with furrowed eyebrows, your speed faltering since you see them making no effort to rush their meal and get to a driver’s meeting that started ten minutes ago.

Instead, Carlos beckons you with a gesture of his hand, a cheeky grin pulling at his lips when he simply tells you to “Come over for a second”.

A request that you confusedly fulfill with a last look at your watch.

The driver stretches a hand out to you when you near the group, leaning back into his chair as he looks up at your approaching figure. By sheer instinct, you hold your arm towards the driver as well, placing your hand in his open one when you are close enough to do so. Carlos’ smile grows the littlest bit at that, his fingers closing around yours to get you to walk that much closer to his seat.

An interaction that does not pass unnoticed by the rest of the table.

“You don’t have this meeting or...?” you repeat your question, gaze flying to where the building you were running to hides, and then back to the crinkling eyes of the Ferrari driver.

The pair lets the unknown man at the table fill you in “It’s delayed until nine, they sent an email a while ago”, his Spanish accent shining through his words. He must be Carlos’ guest, the absence of any Ferrari merch making him stand out in the middle of the red decoration and the two team drivers. No pass is hanging from his neck though, he might indeed be part of the team. “Didn’t Nick tell you?”

Oh, and he knows Nick too?

“Seriously? No, he didn’t...” you murmur, taking your phone out from your pocket with your free hand and looking through your unread messages, can’t believe you have literally run across the paddock for a meeting that won’t start for another half an hour at least “I was meeting him there.”

Before you can start sulking, Carlos steals your attention with a squeeze of your hand “Well, then you have nothing to do, right?”, standing up from his chair to lend it to you before you can get an answer out. The Spanish driver uses his hold on your hand to direct you down onto the seat —much like he had done just a week ago, you are glad to at least know his name this time—, looking down at you with an accomplished expression when he succeeds “I’m going to go get you something. You didn’t have breakfast, did you?”

Carlos only lets go of your hand and disappears inside the motorhome when you confirm his suspicions, you have not eaten anything yet, and honestly were not planning to. The nerves won’t let you keep anything down in days like these, your diet consisting of some water and what little fruit you can munch on to not faint in the middle of the road, but you don’t have the heart to tell him that.

The situation is another déjà vu from some time ago, when a certain Ferrari driver approached you in your first ever visit to the Paddock with a delicious surprise and a similar question. This time though, he can do nothing but sit back and watch while his teammate fills the small table with treats for you. The other man at the table shaking his head at the Spanish’s antics, a smile hidden under his hand, you would not even be able to eat all of this if you had spent days in a hunger strike.

Carlos pulls up an extra chair from a nearby table and encourages you to dive in, taking his probably cold coffee from in front of you to finish what was left in it.

You put your phone down then, finally concluding with a sigh “I’ve got nothing from Nick... and now he isn’t answering”, and picking up one of the most manageable foods of your improvised breakfast in the meantime: a tiny bowl of fruit salad.

Charles lets out a chuckle at that, swirling the contents of his paper cup “Like you would have seen it anyway, I’m still waiting for an answer about the plane tickets, just saying...”

“Mate, I sent her a good luck text back in France, and did you get a response to it?” Carlos joins in on his friend's complaints, making a dramatic pause and answering his own question on the same beat “Yeah, me neither”

Maybe you would have felt called out or exposed that these two were discussing your private conversations —or lack of thereof— out here in the open and in front of a stranger, but that’d be if you had any idea of what the hell they were talking about. What messages? Did you give them your number at some point and don’t remember it? Well, Nick and the media coordinator have been the only ones blowing up your phone since you received the device anyway.

“I don’ know what you’re talking about” you mumble, shrugging your shoulders as they continue airing instances where you have ignored their texts and you follow on with your task, the fruit tastes really good actually.

After a while, Carlos tap his foot on your crossed legs to gain back your attention, when he finally notices you have grown quiet during their tirade, and offers you a smile

“C’mon don’t get mad, we’re just joking” Charles consoles you as well —unnecessarily so, since the only emotion you are experiencing is confusion— “It’s because we’re flying private a bit later, and I don’t want you getting home before I do”

Home? What is he talking about? And why does he have to arrive first? Seriously, you are missing too much information

“You should fly with us, I’m sure the rest won’t mind” Carlos chimes in, stealing a piece of the chocolate crêpe in your plate. A plate that you push to his side of the table right after, cutting him a couple more pieces so he can help you finish it up.

Through a mouthful of the sweet dessert, you question the obvious “The rest?”. Completely disregarding all the other important questions crowding your mind, a skill you have developed after weeks of not understanding anything the people around you talk about.

As your answer, you have the three men on the table spewing names on the go, confirming the presence of at least six other people on the plane. The unknown Spanish man seems to also be included in the passengers’ list.

You don’t mind flying with them, honestly. You have somehow grown accustomed to taking a plane every other week, which means this won’t be much of a change. This way you’ll have at least someone to talk to on the journey to whichever country is next on the schedule, Nick always falls asleep a second after taking off.

The “private” part is the most confusing one, you and Nick have been taking normal flights to every Grand Prix. Guess your subconscious has decided to step up its game. You’ll follow the script anyway; at the end of the day, you are just trying to find the end of this abnormally long dream.

You agree to their proposal with a shrug of your shoulders, stuffing your face with the last bit of a second crêpe that you cannot believe you’ve finished. It feels nice to tone down that sinking feeling you have in your stomach on Sundays.

Charles could not be happier with your decision, something he lets you know as soon as you get on the way to the drivers briefing. Carlos and the other man have taken the lead, walking in front of the two of you and chatting about an interview they will be recording later in the day. And they do it in Spanish, which feels so refreshing to hear after weeks of being surrounded by people talking every other language.

While you are trying to discretely listen in on their conversation, Charles lightly nudges you with his shoulder in an attempt to get you out of your thoughts. He easily succeeds, has you looking up at him over the lid of your cup of hot chocolate —yes, you are still trying to finish Carlos’ impromptu breakfast— in the next beat.

“I’m really looking forward for the break” his voice is low, the corners of his lips tilted up into a beautiful smile that he can’t seem to be able to get rid of. His green eyes are shinning with pure joy, focused only on you and the way you slowly match his grin.

“Are you?” you do not know exactly what he means or why is he looking at you like that but feel compelled go along with it.

The Ferrari driver peels his eyes from you to look at the path in front of him, his cheeks still full with that big smile as he crosses his arms over his chest and gives you another playful push “It’s going to be great, I promise”

The briefing is exhausting, as always. The drivers have had a lot of issues during the Free Practices and Qualifying, which means it takes you half an hour more to break free from the meeting. The Ferrari teammates remain quiet by your side, they managed to lock themselves into the second and third place of the starting grid, so its preferable to keep a low profile and listen. Lewis is one of the most vocal ones, in his seventh place right behind Alonso, and this other Sebastian Vettel guy too —another surname that rings so many alarms in your head—, but his criticism of the traffic during his fast lap is much more justified. He got knocked down to P18.

You are happy with your P13, the same position you ended up in on the French GP and two positions in front of Mick, so you have simply been trying not to fall asleep in the middle of it all.

All the drivers are walking out of the room, chatting about their schedules and the final result of their complaints, when a certain McLaren driver comes up to awaken you from your slumber. Daniel suddenly drops his arm over your shoulders while you are sleepily trailing behind Nick, bringing you close to his body while he balances the two of you from one side to the other, a chuckle slipping past his lips at your startled expression.

“Gonna let me invite you out for lunch?” Daniel offers, making you match his pace as Nick leads you both down the corridor.

“Huh? Why?” comes as your instant response, understandably so when you have not exchanged more than a couple of words after he had that fight with Nick on the Austrian Grand Prix. His words about having to talk to you later are still bouncing off your ears.

Daniel has not approached you for that important conversation ever since, has not mentioned that horrible day when you woke up in the garage with him not once, and now he wants to go have lunch with you? It doesn’t seem right.

“What do you mean why?” the man frowns, having not expected any kind of push back from your part. Daniel decides to come to a stop before exiting the building, letting go of you so you can better talk face to face “Just because? I mean, it’s been so long since we last went out... Do you not want to? That’s okay too”

Daniel’s voice makes something shift inside of you, a strange weight setting over your chest at hearing his dejected tone. It is a wave of unfamiliar thoughts and feelings that swarm your mind, inexplicable ones, that are quickly growing into a awful headache.

It is not something you expected either, the way someone that seems so happy and over the top on his interviews, would deflate just because you are cautious about spending time with him. But you didn't imagine feeling sick to your stomach from watching him like that.

“No, I-” you start speaking, more out of sheer need to wipe that sad frown from his face than anything else, still not sure of what is making you feel so distressed “Yeah, of course I want to, it’s just that I literally ate half the Ferrari buffet, and I really can’t have anything before the race because I get sick and... you know?” you explain, almost stumbling over your words and probably speaking in the thickest accent he has ever heard with how fast you try to go over your excuses

Daniel expression faintly lifts at your nervous reaction and he shakes his head “Don’t worry about it, we can go any other time! I was-… it’s just that things have been a bit strange since Austria, so I wanted to make sure everything’s alright. You can talk to me whenever you need, you know that, right?”

And although you nod almost immediately in confirmation, trying to look confident and willing to do so, this is another conversation that will make the rounds on your mind for nights on end. For now, it is the first thing on your head from the second you step inside the car, to the moment you leave the paddock that same afternoon.

Although there are even more waiting to happen.

Nick has decided it is finally time to inform you about the start of the holidays —most probably that break Charles had mentioned—, no race no nothing for a month. No seeing Daniel for that meal you promised him either, or even a bye-bye to him or any of the drivers. And Nick not only has the audacity to dump all that new information on you after accompanying you to your hotel room, but he also leaves you completely alone after reminding you of your next schedule in England, which is actually 15 days away. Fifteen days where he won't be with you.

What does he mean goodbye? What are you supposed to do now?

Next chapter

___

Author's note: Hi! It's been way too long since I last posted, hasn't it? Seriously, uni is killing me. Hope you all liked the chapter!! I've been rereading all your comments a million times to get some motivation, so thanks for the help hahahha. I'm already missing F1.

Thank you so much for reading!!

#f1 x reader #f1 fic #carlos sainz x reader #charles leclerc x reader #daniel ricciardo x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #formula one x reader #formula one x you #f1 x you #f1 imagine

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itsgodepi · 6 months

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Hi! Just found your blog today and I’m thoroughly enjoying “if I lose my mind”! You’re doing a great job!

If you have a tag list, can I please be added? Thank you so much in advance and have a great week! ❤️✨

Hi love! Thank you so much for the compliments, seriously you got me smiling like an idiot hahahhaha

Of course I'll add you!! Hope you continue enjoying the fic and have a amazing week as well 🥺💚

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itsgodepi · 6 months

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If I lose my mind | Ch. 6

It is stupid really, the little things you do to reassure yourself that this is not the reality. You found an article the second or third day in France whose headline read something like How to tell if you’re dreaming: 5 steps (with pictures) —yes, it’s from wikiHow, so what? Your mind is playing tricks on you so you won’t believe the important sources—, and you have been following it like a ritual ever since.

For example, it says to always check your environment for distortions, that appearances can be deceiving in the dream world. And although it talks about your house being different from what you remember or objects looking strange, being in a completely different country from where to sleep in seems to fit that description just fine.

Another step had been to test your strength and abilities, if you can fly or lift extremely heavy objects, you are clearly not awake. You are not ready to admit the number of times you have tried jumping off the hotel bed and levitating without success, but you would say driving a Formula One car is quite a remarkable skill to learn overnight.

The one stage you had not been able to get past had been to consider other people around you and analyze whether their presence made sense or not. From the beginning you have been surrounded by strangers, Nick and what he calls the team, journalists and other drivers. This combined with the fact that you have not been able to contact your family or friends yet, has made this step the trickiest one to overcome, nobody during these past few days being able to really tip you off.

That is until you saw the fucking Fernado Alonso strolling into the drivers’ briefing like it was nobody’s business.

You had never been too interested in Formula One, the races and everything surrounding the sport honestly bored you, but that was one thing and not recognizing Fernando Alonso when he is literally sitting in front of you was a completely different one. Your father would kill you if that had been the case, how could you not recognize the Spanish driver who you had spent countless afternoons seeing your dad and uncles cheering for when you were a child? It made no sense. So, although he now wore a different team’s shirt —the characteristic blue clothes you remember, nowhere to be seen— and had shorter hair, you were 100% sure of who he was.

The man’s presence alone managing to convince you once and for all that this was not real.

That is why, now that you are back in the paddock, jumpsuit zipped almost all the way up and a smile on your lips for the camera, you feel somewhat calm. You have made it through a third practice and the qualifying session in one piece, all ready and prepared to fulfill your media duties in front of more strangers like this is an everyday thing. No recollection of the hours you’ve been seated in that deathtrap of a car fighting for P15, not a single memory of the other car whose lap you supposedly impeded, no nothing.

It is not a good result, you are aware of that, but you are hoping to win a few positions in the race tomorrow and maybe the first points of your career. Well, that is what you are advised to tell the interviewers at least, how the car is working great under these conditions or something like that. You cannot remember half of the script at this point, but you had done well enough when you were under the spotlight.

Thankfully, Saturday’s activities have finally come to an end, only a couple social media videos left to record and you will be on your way back to the hotel in no time. The garage is almost empty at this hour, a few mechanics hanging around, taking a last look at the car and organizing everything they need for tomorrow’s race. Nothing compared to the first time you stepped inside building.

The media coordinator is running late, the whole filming crew is. They were supposed to be in the garage before you even finished the media conference, taking some shots of the car and speeding off the process so you could have some rest before tomorrow’s race. And yet, here you are, trying your best not to doze off in one of those uncomfortable highchairs near the screens while Nick tries to sort things out. He had instantly gone in her search when you arrived, muttering something under his breath as he stormed out of the garage.

It is not like more than ten minutes have passed really, but the jumpsuit and fitted clothes you wear underneath are killing you. You should have changed without permission, get onto some nice clean clothes before they came back. What is the worst that can happen? A person made up by your imagination is going to come and scold you?

“Oh, you’re still here!” a soft voice wakes you up from your thoughts, your eyes tiredly trailing through the garage to see where it is coming from.

Must be someone from the team coming to see what the mechanics are doing, the men still fixing things here and there when half of the pack has already gone back home to rest for the biggest even of the weekend. You would feel bad for them were they not literal products of your imagination.

However, after fighting with your sleepy brain for a bit, you realize that you recognize that voice, your gaze searching with renewed energy for the man in question. What is Charles doing here?

You find the driver walking into the garage through the pitlane’s door, his red jumpsuit still hanging from his hips and his hair a mess. His tired smile is contagious, your own coming to play on your lips as he nears your seat. You try to pick up the things you had hazardously thrown in the chair next to yours, thinking he might want to take a seat after the long round of interviews he must gone through, but you soon understand he has a very different idea in his mind.

Before you can even react or greet him with more than a simple “Hi”, the man is pulling you into a big hug, his arms wrapping around your waist as his face comes to hide on the crook of your neck. Charles lets his full weight rest on your body, your highchair giving him the perfect opportunity to do so as he stands between your legs, like he cannot keep himself upright any longer. “Haven’t seen you all day...” Charles sighs into your shoulder, squeezing your body tighter as if he was letting go of all the accumulated stress, slowly relaxing his hold after a few seconds.

Confusion paints your features, your arms awkwardly resting over his shoulders while you try to figure out what the hell is he doing.

It is strange, the sense of familiarity that his touch brings you, the way he molds himself to your body as his thumbs draws circles on your lower back making you feel so at peace. You try to push all those feelings down with a frown, patting him on the back and trying to squirm out of his hold.

The man seems to not be ready to let go off you though, simply relaxing himself in your arms like this is not literally the third time you have ever seen each other. Charles has been nice to you in the few encounters you have had and all, but that does not make this sudden invasion of your personal space any less weird. And it is not like you are alone either, the mechanics moving around the two of you like this is no big deal, not a second glance at the situation you got yourself into.

“Com'è andata la giornata?” Charles whispers after a while, voice muffled by the collar of your top since he refuses to break the hug.

What did he say? Did he just... speak in a whole different language? It is bad enough that you are dreaming in English..., this is getting ridiculous. Are you just going crazy in your sleep or something?

“Hm?” you confusedly answer, both to gain some more time to make sense of what he asked about and to leave room for him to repeat the question. Maybe you didn’t hear him right? Yeah, that must be it.

Charles chuckles onto your skin “Troppo stanca per rispondere?”, the soft graze of his breath over your skin making you shiver, hairs standing on end.

What is he doing? Treating you like you are best friends or something when you are not even acquaintances in the first place, and while he keeps talking to you in a language you do not understand, mind you.

The man finally puts some space between the two of you after the total lack of response, his face emerging from your neck so you can be face to face. Nonetheless, his hands still come to claim a place on each side of you, leaning into your personal space without a care in the world around you. You can’t even get off the chair because he is in the way!

There is a silly smile playing on his lips while all this thoughts bubble in your mind, his head tilting to the side as he continues “Or have you already given up on Monza?”

“I guess I have” you manage to respond after the initial shock, the high-pitched tone of your voice betraying your nerves and giving away just how unsure you are of what exactly he is talking about. You make a mental note to look up what this Monza thing means in case he brings it up at some point, or maybe you should simply run away from him if he is going to pulls something like this again.

“It was too soon anyway,” Charles shakes his head, regarding you with such a soft look that you almost forget he is a stranger, his actions confusing you even further “You’re putting too much pressure on yourself, there’s no rush... We can practice over the break, just study a bit more and we’ll see how it goes”

And since you are completely lost in the conversation, you decide to give a simple “Okay” as your response.

You have mixed feelings about the interaction, the bittersweet taste it left behind coming to hunt you when you spot him the next day. Of course you were going to see him, he is a driver and today is race day, but that does not make it any better. You have felt so alone this past week, missing your loved ones locked away within the four walls of the hotel room, that although his proximity had been completely unwarranted and unwanted when he first hugged you, something inside you started missing his warmth as soon as he stepped away.

Images of yours and Charles conversation keep playing over and over in your mind as you walk through the rows of Formula One cars, back into your race suit while you get through the mass of mechanics and cameras filling the road. The car is already formed up on the grid —yes, you have incorporated some F1 concepts into your vocabulary after all the research—, the prerace activities having finished a while ago and the worse part of the day looming over you.

Charles is standing at the front, in that area separated from the rest of the road by white barriers, talking with a taller man that you do not remember ever seeing before. The big logo on his chest gives you some clues though, the two bulls facing each other painted on his race suit giving away which team he drives for. A Red Bull driver.

It is nice to finally understand the whole color coordination stuff between the car and your clothes, courtesy of the hours you have spent behind the screen researching about the sport. There are ten teams with two drivers competing for each one of them, some of their logos easily recognizable while others —like the one engraved on your shirt for example— are impossible to remember. Don’t know half the driver’s names yet still, only had time to search for mister Carlos Sainz’s whole biography after what happened in the drivers briefing. He is also Spanish, a fact that heavily surprises you, either your mind has made this person up or your father talked about him enough that his presence in the sport has stuck in your subconscious.

You decide not to walk towards the two men when you enter the area, not because of what transpired yesterday between you and Charles or out of shyness, but due to the strange behavior he has been exhibiting since this morning. Not only him, but all the other drivers you had previously met as well. While they all had been overly familiar and playful with you during Saturday’s meeting, they seemed to be avoiding you throughout both the prerace activities and now the ceremony.

Everyone except for Lewis.

When you had come out onto the track for the first time that day, made to walk alongside your teammate, Mick, to one of the vintage cars that would be taking you on a lap around the circuit, you had felt fairly uncomfortable. Mick had not uttered a single word to you outside of the meetings and interviews, only ever greeting you when there were cameras around and even then, it was easy to see how forced it was. It is not like Mick was being hostile or rude towards you, his comments about you always polite and short, it felt more like he was indifferent. The driver preferred to keep you at an arm's length if possible. However, even that indifference felt like a slap to the face when you were surrounded by strangers pushing cameras into your space.

So, although Lewis had his own army of microphones and videographers at his back when he came over to greet you, in your eyes the man looked like your own personal saviour.

Who could blame you for the way you gravitated towards him later on in the private area? Away from your teammate and those other drivers that had not dared to send more than a tight smile your way when your eyes accidentally met. On the other hand, Lewis had always been welcoming, a source of calmness that managed to make you forget about everything happening around you even if just for a second.

“I wanted to stay back for a few days, go to a show in Cannes, but then I’d have to fly straight to Hungary...” Lewis complains, arms crossed over his chest as he walks you to your designated spots on the road

“I can’t wait to leave, honestly” you confess with a chuckle, surprising yourself with the way you are treating the matter of flying from one country to another every week with such apparent normalcy. Well, amid all this chaos, with twenty Formula one cars at your backs and thousands of people watching from the grandstands, taking a flight is one of the most normal things you have experienced so far.

Lewis lips stretch into a big smile at your outburst of sincerity, his dark eyes crinkling at the sides “I see you didn’t like France at all”

“It’s not that...” you try to justify yourself; it is not like you had seen much of the country in this past week either, your schedule tight enough as it is to try and also squeeze some sightseeing in there.

Would Nick have allowed it anyway? The man had kept you on a short leash since day one, only granting you some alone time at night and even then, he knew exactly where to find you. The happiness with which Lewis recounts his trips around France and recommends a few places to visit before you leave on Tuesday, makes you miss that newfound freedom you had experienced during your external practices in Spain, the taste of that amazing adult life they had been promising you since before you started the university.

Truly, not everything in this new stage of your life had been as incredible as they had portrayed it, those liberties came with harsh responsibilities that you were clearly not handling well. Are you seriously whining about not having time to walk through the beautiful streets of this French city when you would be incapable of travelling here on your own in the first place? You are only ‘here’ because you are living through the longest and weirdest dream you have ever had, this city does not exist, the floor you are standing on is not real and you have most probably made up all that information you have gathered in those sleepless nights.

And last, but clearly not least, the realization that for some reason overwhelms you the most and marks the rest of the ceremony: Lewis is not real either.

Next chapter

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Author's note: it's so nice seeing you're enjoying the fic, I hope you liked this chapter as well. Thank you all so much for reading!!

#f1 fic #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #carlos sainz x reader #charles leclerc x reader #daniel ricciardo x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x you #formula one x you #f1 imagine

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itsgodepi · 7 months

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If I lose my mind | Ch. 5

Reading your own Wikipedia page is quite a strange experience. Paragraph after paragraph of your life written on the internet for everybody to see, from the day you were born all the way to this very moment.

You do not know if the fact that none of it is true is for better or worse.

Some parts are accurate, information about your hometown, date of birth, relatives' names and... that’s about it really. According to this biography, not only have you been the runner-up for a Formula 3 championship, but you are also a Formula 2 champion, which is good you guess, for someone that did not even know those kinds of competitions existed. As of two hours ago, Formula One was the only championship with those kinds of cars you had ever heard about, but there are so many. Too many actually. In a section of your page named ‘junior racing career’ —which is in itself a crazy sentence to read—, it even says something about karting’s championships and an academy thing, concepts you are not sure if you want to understand.

Oh, and the most important part, you are a Formula 1 driver, a statement endlessly repeated throughout the text. They even claim this to be your second year on the motorsport, ‘not a rookie anymore’ they say, as if yesterday’s race was not the first one you have ever watched from start to finish.

Still, if being pushed into a Formula One car and a whole Wikipedia page was not enough of a confirmation, you can find a million articles online that certify your participation in the sport. Webs filled with photos of you with the cars, dressed in full gear and with that stupid blue helmet, the situation getting worse and worse with every tap of your finger.

How is any of this possible?

The rabbit hole that seems to be your ‘life’ keeps you awake night after night, new information slapping you in the face every two minutes while you try to navigate what appears to be a Formula One driver’s normal schedule. Nick makes sure of that last part at least.

The first step on that agenda had been to fly out of Austria, a place you cannot comprehend how you had arrived to when you were in Spain just yesterday. It is not like you were having the best time of your life there, finishing the third month of your external internship in a city you thought was already too far away from home, but this change looks a bit excessive. The possibility of being in a completely different country had seemed so absurd at first, when a list called Austrian GP came up as one of the top results in your research, and yet with a simple look to the navigation app, your worst nightmare had been confirmed. From your trip to the airport, to the arrival to another country, France, and to a new hotel, Nick walking you through every step of the process and only leaving you alone once you are back in the hotel room.

The next few days follow a similar dynamic, mornings spent trailing behind Nick without a clue of what happens around you and long nights glued to the phone, the date for the next GP —or whatever they call it— getting closer and closer.

You are not ready to repeat last Sunday’s events, an engine failure had saved you from the inevitable end, but you might not be so lucky next time. There is no way you are stepping into that car again, that is for sure, and even less so when you have not figured out what brought you here in the first place.

Although you had drowned yourself in information about your supposed life the first nights in France, the need to discover what was happening to you had quickly managed to overpower that curiosity. From the moment Nick knocks on your door early on the morning to the hours you lay awake on bed looking for anything that could explain this madness, you spend every second of the day looking for an explanation.

A kidnapping had been the most credible theory from day one, the way you had woken up to all those screams and the men surrounding you, how Nick had come into your hotel room that morning and pushed you to drive with no regard for your safety. It made sense. However, the articles posted all over the internet told a very different story. There is too much information about you, some posts even dating back to when you were a child, photos and videos that cannot be simply edited and uploaded to make you believe you have gone crazy. You have driven a Formula One car on an official race, for crying out loud, that is not something anybody can orchestrate.

To be honest, the whole Formula One thing had knocked down quite a few of your guesses. What could someone gain from making you, a nobody, believe they are a motorsport driver?

In fact, the only theory that could easily explain everything that had happened to you in the past few days is that: none of this is real. A dream. You can vividly remember dozing off on your bed, that sensation of falling down and then suddenly waking up in that unfamiliar place. It could be the reason why you had blacked out when the car exited the garage, why everyone knew you, and could also explain the existence of all those false stories on the internet.

You had made all of this up.

That had indeed been one of your first assumptions, or at least had been an easy way for your mind to let go of all the worries in such an unnerving situation. If this was not real, there was nothing to stress about, no danger in sight. Your alarm will go off any moment now and you will be one day closer to ending this internship and going back home. Tomorrow will be a new day.

Despite this, as time goes by, it becomes harder and harder to hold onto this happy thought.

Stepping foot into the new track is a breaking point. It is Friday, five days have gone by and nothing has changed, the countdown to the next race weighting down on your mind as you walk through what Nick had called the paddock. It is that strange street again, the one lined by those colorful buildings but in a completely different country —another clue that this was indeed not real, you were clearly lacking imagination to be recycling sceneries like this.

They had brough you here yesterday as well, for a tour around the track that had set your nerves alight. Thankfully, you had done nothing but wander around the circuit for a while, be surrounded by a couple cameras, have a meeting with the engineers and go back to the hotel for another sleepless night.

Maybe you should sleep more —which sounds quite contradictory when you are supposedly already dreaming— because, when the events of last Sunday start repeating themselves, you do not even have the strength to push back. Nick manages once again to lure you into the white building and prepare you for what he calls practice, but the reality is that just the sight of that Formula One car on the garage makes you heart drop to the pit of your stomach.

“Don’t worry about times,” a man who has been following you all day says “Let’s see if everything feels good first and we’ll talk things over for FP2”.

A lot of changes had been made to the car since Austria, that is what all the meetings had been about. You had silently sat down through all of them, nodding along to the engineers’ words as if you understood any of it.

Now that you are seated in the car, blue helmet and jumpsuit on, you can only wish that whatever broke the car in Austria has not been fixed. That the engine won’t even start, and you will have to retire again. It is hard enough to listen to the rest of the cars exiting their own garages, their engines revving like they might explode.

How they have managed to put you on the spot yet again, that you do not understand. And it is not only a one-time thing, but they easily make you jump in the car later the day for a second practice.

When you are finally helped out of the car the second time, body uncontrollably trembling and a static sound filling your ears, you feel an unusual sense of calmness. The whole ride had felt like such a clear sign that none of this is real, it can’t be. Both practices had gone by in the blink of an eye, just like it had happened in Austria, a fade to black and you are back where you started. You do not even remember seeing other cars on the road or how you got back to the garage. Nothing. The only proof that you had driven around for hours being the fatigue consuming your body, something that backs the dreaming theory up so perfectly.

They say you have done great though, so that is something.

Nevertheless, it feels nice to be back on normal clothes, like there is less of a target on your back for the cameras and other strangers, but it is still difficult to keep a low profile when you are walking through the paddock with the team’s merchandising. Nick is guiding you out to the last meeting of the day, after you have fulfilled all the media duties and team reunions that have kept you on the track since your arrival this morning. He says this driver’s briefing thing should not last long, that it is quite late already, and they are probably thinking more about going back home than anything.

The meeting is on another building, one you had not even noticed in your two days here, Nick leading you inside and up some stairs until you find the meeting room. When he opens the door, you realize there is already people seated inside, the sound of their mixed talks now filling the long corridor. You recognize some of them, not from the team meetings but from Austria, other drivers.

The room is furnished as a classroom, a projector on the right wall and the rest of the space filled with rows of chairs. There are not many people in it yet, Nick had said it would be better to get there early before people start crowding the entrance and now you understood why. Your gaze instantly zeroes in on Lewis, a tiny smile pulling at your lips while Nick guides you to some seats, deciding to leave your things with him and go say hello. You have not seen him since Austria, after you had spent the entire pre-race ceremony talking to him, and now that you have kind of ruled out the possibility that he is a kidnapper, you have realized that maybe he was just being nice.

Yet, before you can take more than two steps away from Nick, you feel someone pulling at your hand. You come to a sudden stop, looking back to see a man seated in the row in front of you and Nick’s seat regarding you with a huge grin on his lips. He has dark hair and big brown eyes that seem to be staring into your soul.

“Oh c’mon, you’re not even going to say hello because I didn’t get you cookies last week?” the man chuckles, tilting his head as he looks up at you like he cannot believe what you were about to do “Isn’t that too much?”

Even though his tone is light and jokey, you cannot help but frown at him. Why would you greet him when you don’t know him in the first place? And why is he holding your hand?

Instead of letting go when you stand there in silence, too stunned to react to his words, he decides to pull you down into the seat next to his “Didn’t Charles get you some? You are being greedy at this point” he jokes once you are seated, not a word leaving your lips.

Oh, Charles, you remember him from Austria as well. Actually, he was wearing the same exact red shirt as this man, a detail that the abrupt start of the conversation had left you blind to. The Ferrari logo in both his chest and cap are even more of a telltale of who he must be. Charles’ teammate.

“They were nice...” you respond, crossing your legs and relaxing back on the chair now that you have gathered your bearings. It is true, you had been munching on those cookies throughout the race after your disqualification, Nick bringing them over to you as a treat to distract you.

The man shakes his head in disbelief, smile widening as he assures you “I'll get you a full basket next time, don’t worry”

The promise genuinely makes you smile, he seems nice.

“How’s the car doing?” the man queries, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks around

You can almost feel the media training kicking in, pre-made phrases hanging off the tip of your tongue, they have been putting a microphone in your face and asking you about it all morning. Nonetheless, you manage to push it all down, it finally feels like you are having a normal conversation after this stressful week, you are not about to parrot the engineers' words for the millionth time “Well, it hasn’t caught fire yet...”

The man seems to like that answer, letting out a giggle and a “That’s an improvement” while he nods in understanding. There is a moment of silence that follows, his eyes set on your face as if he was waiting for something that does not come. Is he expecting a more in-depth response or something? Yet, before you can decide on what to do, he finally wills himself to say what he has been thinking ever since you entered the room “So... are you feeling better?”

The question catches you off guard at first, the conversation taking a more serious turn than you had expected —or wanted. Should you say you are great, just to shut down the topic entirely? The room is filling up with people by the second and it is not like you are about to open your heart to a total stranger. Or are you supposed to give the same response Nick had made you repeat over and over again in front of the journalists? ‘I’m perfectly fine now, it was pure exhaustion’.

“I’m-” you start saying, mind not really having decided on what lie to tell, when someone pats your head.

You rise your head to look behind you, both to see who it is and to get away from their touch —what is with this people taking such liberties?—, the man by your side doing the same. Standing tall behind your row of chairs is none other than the man you have spent day and nights thinking about: Daniel.

“Ready for the two hours briefing?” he sighs with a raised eyebrow, his hand traveling down to your shoulder when you turn your body around to talk to him. This is the first time you have seen the man out of that bright orange jumpsuit, now sporting a shirt of the same color instead, logos drawn all over it. He is still wearing that matching cap though.

“So dramatic...” the man seated by your side snickers, the previous chat seemingly forgotten “We should do a twenty-four-hour briefing just for you”

“Mate,” Daniel says with a half-smile, pointing at you with a tilt of his head “she wasn’t here last year”

That must mean something you do not understand because it is all the man in red needs to groan out loud, his face falling in defeat at the prospect of having to sit through such a long meeting. On the other hand, you can only sit there with your eyebrows furrowed, Nick had assured you would be out of here in no time. And of course you were not here last year, or ever, you have not- but your inner monologue gets suddenly interrupted by the one phrase you have been telling yourself all day: none of this is real, you’re dreaming.

“What? No, she was driving here last year” another voice joins the conversation, his statement sharp and direct. You lean your body forward to see who it is, he has taken a seat on the other side of the man in red and his body is blocking the stranger’s face, eyes widening when you recognize him. Charles.

“It was still Mazepin in France, he almost crashed into Kimi remember?” Daniel corrects him with a side grin “She started after the break in... was it Silverstone?”

Daniel looks at you for confirmation on this one, the other two men also lowering their gaze to yours, waiting. You are so overwhelmed though, it feels so strange, the fact that they are talking so categorically about things that have not ever happened. What is Mazepin? Kimi? And Silverstone? What break? The pressure of the situation getting to you in the worst possible moment.

So you end up doing what you do best, nod along to whatever the other person says even though you do not understand anything. That is what you have done to the engineers, to the media, to Nick and now to these three men before the start of a briefing that you won’t understand a word of either.

Afterall, none of this matter, this is only a dream, right?

Next Chapter

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Author's note: Thanks a lot for all the hearts, comments and everything! I'm so happy you're liking the fic

Taglist: @purplephantomwolf @raye2000 @yuiiimd @drezzerk33 @leclercdream @homie0sapien @minkyungseokie @carlossainzwho @rewmuslupin

#formula one x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fic #lewis hamilton x reader #daniel ricciardo x reader #charles leclerc x reader #carlos sainz x reader #f1 x you #formula one x you #carlos sainz x you #charles leclerc x you #lewis hamilton x you #daniel ricciardo x you

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itsgodepi · 7 months

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Can I be added to the taglist of your story? The if I lose my mind one?

Yes, of course! So glad you're enjoying it 💚

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itsgodepi · 7 months

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If I lose my mind | Ch. 4

“And that is the sound of your Grand Prix ending before you’d even formed up on the grid. That is such disappointment”

The commentators' words bounce off your ears like a cacophony, the images of your car coming to a stop on the grass being shown on the screen for the third time in a row since you arrived at the garage. There you are again, jumping out of a Formula One car that has just begun blowing smoke, hand over your heart like that would stop it from breaking out of your ribcage.

How on earth had you been persuaded to sit down on that car yet again, remains a mystery. Nick had come to retrieve you after an hour-long ceremony, hand on your back as he hurried you out and towards the two lines of Formula One cars. Nobody had seemed to be on as much of a rush as him, the rest taking a walk to wherever they had come from while you both were almost sprinting through the road.

You had not even been able to say goodbye to this Lewis guy, who you had been stuck like a lost puppy for the whole ceremony. He had seemed so comfortable there, in the middle of all those people screaming and taking photos of him while he moved around the place with a constant smile on his lips. A natural. You, on the other hand, could only follow his steps as your eyes jumped from one place to another, completely dazed by the situation.

Lewis had not batted an eye at your antics though, had instead kept the conversation going until the presentation started and managed to sneak a few comments and smiles during the show, keeping you calm.

Other people from the private zone had seemed to recognize you as well, greeting you with nice words and wishing you good luck all around. Some of them wore a jumpsuit akin to yours, like the group of men you and Lewis had been talking to, while others were simply dressed in formal clothes. The fact that all their jumpsuits had matched the Formula One cars parked behind you was a clear hint of what would soon start, why would you all be lined up on a red carpet on the middle of this road otherwise? But you were way too nervous to see that.

Yeah, let’s blame the nerves and not the man in that orange jumpsuit who you had been stealing glances at the whole time.

You had expected him to greet you in a similar manner to that of Nick this morning —literally crossing every single boundary that exist between strangers—, but that man had instead chosen to completely ignore you. Well, he had greeted both you and Lewis when you first approached the group, making light conversation with everyone there. But after that, silence. Like nothing had happened the day before, and you being there in the middle of a road surrounded by strangers was a normal thing.

It had reached the point where you wondered if you were mistaking him. It is not like you were in the best state of mind yesterday, to really pay attention to anything other than the clear nervous breakdown you were having either. And he might have been dressed a bit different as well, a bit more rundown and sweatier than now, that’s for sure. Even his hair is now neatly under a matching cap rather than in that mess of curls you saw then. Yet, you would never forget the fear in his eyes as you cried your heart out, or the way he had held you with such care before you lost consciousness.

It has to be him.

The man himself comes to confirm your suspicions later on, when the event comes to an end. He finally appears when Nick and you are nearing the first row of Formula One cars “Okay, don’t be mad” he starts, sliding to your right side and swiftly matching your pace to look at you properly “Just want to know if you’re feeling alright, that’s all”

It takes you a second to realize that he is in fact talking to you, the different conversations around mixing in as you try to navigate the crowd. However, Nick instantly picks up his words “I sent you a message already, doctor said it was the exhaustion”

Nick’s quickness catches off guard, a frown setting on your face when you only manage to nod in confirmation at the other man’s questioning gaze. It is what Nick said in the car earlier today.

The man’s expression sours at that explanation, eyes showing clear as day that he does not agree with any of it. “Yeah, sure, that’s why she was freaking out too, right?” he scoffs, sarcasm and pure irritation dripping out of his words.

Nick does not react to any it though “She’s been good all morning...”, voice calm and collected, as if he had already been expecting some pushback.

The man in orange can only laugh at that, hands coming up to fix the collar of his suit while he shakes his head in disbelief “You and I know she shouldn’t-”

Although his tone was calmer this time, that statement had seemed to be the last straw for Nick, who came to a sudden stop before the man could even finish talking. “Daniel, we’re not talking about this in front of everyone. It’s done”

Now that you are back in the garage, seated with a pair of huge headphones on your ears and surrounded by strangers, you realize that maybe that had been the perfect opportunity for you to step your foot down and stop this nonsense. What better time to demand an explanation that when you were literally in the scene of the crime? Standing between the only two people you had seen before fainting yesterday, the same ones who were now fighting about your condition like you were not even there. They knew something, they had to. The look of uncertainty Daniel had given you before ending the conversation and walking away said as much, his words “We’ll talk later” etched on your brain.

And still, you could not force yourself to act on it.

The race had restarted a couple minutes ago, as shown by every single television on the garage, each one giving a different perspective of the circuit and cars. A Formula One race you would have been participating in if your car hadn’t broken down, which sounds crazy in itself, but your surname being in that list of drivers on the side is what is ticking you off the most. OUT.

Oh, and there it is, you are being shown on screen yet again. This time in an incredible close-up where you look like you have been run over by a truck, hair sticking in every which direction and sweat making your cheeks shine.

When you arrived at the garage, they had suggested for you to sit inside to cool down and relax, that they will call you latter on for the meeting. An offer you had politely refused. You had already committed that mistake once this morning, so no more closed off rooms for you, it is best to be out on the open where you can see everything. However, that also meant everyone could see you. You attracted way more attention that you had expected, your face being plastered in the screens at every possible opportunity while they talked about how unfortunate your exit had been and how attentive you were now watching the race. You had even felt bad about leaving the race at first, the dejected looks, pats on the back and half-hugs from the people in the garage making you almost forget how close to a mental breakdown you were mere minutes ago.

A ball of mixed feelings that follow you throughout the rest of the day, the random strangers appearing out of thin air to comfort you not making any of it much easier to handle. You are completely exhausted, mentally and physically, brain a mush of incoherent thoughts that do nothing but weight you down. No matter how much you think about it, you cannot figure out what is your place in all of this.

Do you even want to find out? It seems much easier to assume that all of this has been a complex dream made up by your overworked brain and that you will wake up in a minute. Just one more minute.

The meeting after the race is calmer, the same people from this morning seated around a table plus a new face, a blond man with the same white jumpsuit as you and who politely smiles when he enters. You do not understand much of what it is said in there, but manage to repeat a diluted version of it at the following round of interviews anyways.

Yeah, interviews... At this point, it’s better not to ask question you will not get answers to.

It is one in the morning when Nick finally walks you back to the hotel, the mechanical sounds of the door unlocking bringing back some of that anxiety you had felt earlier in the day.

“I’ll come pick you up at... eleven,” Nick informs from the corridor, rummaging through that huge bag of his while you lean on the door “I left some food in the fridge, and... here’s your phone”

You mouth forms an ‘O’ at the sight, body acting faster than your mind as you quickly take the device from his hold. Finally, there it is, your way out. You hold it close to your chest, nodding at Nick’s plans for tomorrow without really listening to any of it, your internal screams of joy too loud to focus on things you do not care about.

If everything goes alright, you won’t be here tomorrow.

There is a spring to your step and a smile tugging at your lips when you approach the floor-to-ceiling windows of the room, door locked and phone secure on your hand. It easily switches on, a numeric keypad appearing and disappearing on the screen before you can stress about not having the password.

The caller app is the first thing you open, fingers pressing your mother’s number at lightspeed, tears springing to your eyes from the sheer anticipation while you hold the phone to your ear. One tone, two tones and three until it sends you to the voicemail. You look at the screen in shock, it is true that it’s quite late but...

You silence yourself, forcing yourself to focus before your emotions can get a hold of your thoughts. Instead hanging up the call to type your father’s number. One tone, two tones,…

The tears finally race down your cheeks when you hear the call getting through, “Papá? (Dad?)” a string of voice making its way out your lips.

However, there is no response from the other side of the line, only some distant noise. “Papá, soy yo (Dad, it’s me)” and when an answer finally comes through, the words and the other person’s voice are unrecognizable.

You take a look at the lighted up screen, reading over and over the number you have called, pulling it back to your ear when you are sure you have not made a mistake. It is his number, who is this person? But when you go to ask about it, they have already hung up the call.

What is happening?

You call your mother again, then your father, continuously alternating between the two only numbers you have ever memorized, sobs racking your body when none of them answer. The opportunity to scape gradually disappearing in front of your eyes.

When a message comes saying you cannot reach your father’s number sounds, your body gives out. Hand holding onto the glass for any possible support as you slowly fall down to a seated position on the ground, tears rolling down your face while you listen to the robotic voice.

The night welcomes your sadness like no other, gaze fixed on the darkness outside, vision blurry and teeth gnawing at your lips as you try to hold in your whimpers. You lock your arms around yourself, nails digging into your forearms like that would distract your brain from the emptiness that is consuming you whole.

This does not make sense. You have tried to log into your accounts, from your social media apps to your email, anything that could get you in touch with your friends and family, anyone that could help you. Yet, the same message comes up again and again: the password or username you entered doesn't match our records. Please try again.

The desperation prompts a stupid idea to surge on your mind, an exhausted sigh slipping through your lips while you type your name on the browser, as if some missing report from the police would suddenly pop up. And although you had prepared yourself for some webs with totally unrelated information to appear, what you did not prepare for was to find pages upon pages about yourself.

There are photos and videos of you, a ton of articles talking about the ‘disastrous start of the race’ which have your face plastered all over them. Of course you had noticed the cameras all around and up into your personal space, but you had figured it would be something to be kept private, not that they would be put all over the internet, a literal Google search away.

Still, there are so many images… You cannot even recognize yourself in half of them. What is all of this?

Lower on the search appears your name, written in big bold letters and paired with more photos that you do not remember ever taking, the subtitle reading:

Professional motorsports racing driver.

Next chapter

___

Author's note: Thanks for reading! I hope you're enjoying the fic 💚

Taglist: @purplephantomwolf @raye2000 @yuiiimd @drezzerk33 @leclercdream @homie0sapien

#formula one x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fic #carlos sainz x reader #charles leclerc x reader #daniel ricciardo x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x you #formula one x you #charles leclerc x you #carlos sainz x you #daniel ricciardo x you #lewis hamilton x you

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itsgodepi · 7 months

Note

can i be added if i lose my mind taglist?

Yup! Thanks for the interest 💚

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itsgodepi · 7 months

Text

If I lose my mind | Ch. 3

The fact that you are playing some kind of reaction game with tennis balls right next to a Formula One car, does nothing but further consolidate the theory that this is not real. You must be dreaming. Why would you find yourself in this situation otherwise? It does not make sense.

Not only had he made you change clothes yet again, dressing you up in a strange white jumpsuit filled with even more logos —your surname and country’s flag somehow branded on its hip—, he had also paraded you around the place for what felt like an hour. Cameras had followed you through it all, this time with no intention of recording from the sidelines but instead walking right in front of you as you tried to navigate the crowded place.

“Feeling alright?” Nick queries when you fail to pick the third ball in a row, his eyes scanning your figure as if you were about to drop dead right that second “We can sit down if you need to”

“No, no, it’s okay” you reassure him, willing your mind to concentrate on the game despite the way your mind is running “Let’s try again”

Nick shakes his head in disbelief, stealing one last glance at you before he looks at something behind your back. “Don’t worry, it’s time anyway. I’ll go pick up everything so you can prepare” and with that, he is gone.

Leaving you alone, like he already knows you won’t dare to run away.

He returns with his hands full not much later, one of the objects catching your attention straight away, a light blue helmet that you remember well. The helmet from yesterday, the one that man dressed in the bright orange jumpsuit had freed you from.

Nick silently helps you with everything he brought: from a pair of earphones to a strange white piece of fabric that resembles a ski mask, and finally the helmet. When you hold it in your hands, the weight and smooth texture makes a familiar feeling arise from inside of you, a sudden streak of excitement that travels like thunders through your body.

“Do I have to?” you whisper, head lowered and eyes fixed on the helmet as you try to shake that feeling., flashbacks from yesterday coming instead to play on your mind.

Nick can only laugh at that, his eyebrows furrowing “What do you mean? Of course you have to!”

And although that mocking response irks you, you don’t fight it. Your brain is so overworked with theories that you are not even fully conscious of what you do or why exactly you keep listening to him. You cannot fathom what could they possibly have prepared for you.

The helmet is easy to slide on, the new barrier drowning the noises coming from the garage even more than the headphones had. It does feel a little claustrophobic though, with the way it presses your cheeks up and restricts your field of vision. Nick places something on your shoulders while you try to get used to it, some clicks sounding at your sides before he gives your helmet a pat and guides you over to the white Formula One car. There, he exchanges a few words with the people surrounding the machine, the one closest to you turning his head to send a thumbs up your way. Nick steps aside then, letting you free access to the car.

Confused, you look up at him, a hand coming up to slide the visor of the helmet up so he can see your eyes. Are you missing something? What does he want you to do to the car? See it? You have already been ogling it from the side for half an hour.

When you take a second too long thinking, he stretches a hand out towards the car, as if inviting you to get inside. But you are quick to decline this offer “Oh, no thank you”, raising your voice a little and taking a step back to further prove your point.

Is this-? Are they expecting you to drive it or something? These people are crazy.

Nick’s grin is playful “Sure, whatever you say”, his eyes rolling at your refusal, reaching a hand out for you to hold onto as he invites you once again to step into the car.

“What for? I don’t want to” you dismiss him again, harsher this time, as cross your arms over your chest to strengthen your stance.

You have been trailing after him like a lost puppy all day, no questions asked. It is about time you stand your ground. Are they not satisfied with having you dressed like an idiot in the middle of a place you do not know? All while cameras film your every move like this is the Hunger Games.

“C’mon, we are late, stop playing games…” Nick tries again, his voice way firmer than before.

The argument attracts a lot more attention than you would have liked, the eyes of all the men previously working on the car, now set on you. Everyone seems to be as confused as Nick, low murmurs being shared around the garage as they give you strange looks. That is the case for Nick as well, like he hadn’t thought you rebelling against him was ever an option, like this is just routinary. And when you finally take the time to mull it over, you understand why this change on your attitude may be sudden. The reunion, the clothes, the helmet… It was all preparation.

How have you been so stupid?

The stare contest is only broken by the yell of a man that echoes through the garage. “Why are you still here?! Get in the car already!” he almost orders, a deep frown set on his face. You remember him, he was in the first meeting, seated right at the head of the table.

That angry tone sets everyone around you into motion, Nick’s hand finding the back of your shoulder and pushing you to get in the car. And you want to step your foot down, get his hands off you and run away from this madness. But it all goes so fast.

As soon as you get seated on the car, hands start flying all around you. They screw in the steering wheel, connect some things and help you tightening down the straps of a belt that straps you down to the seat. No way out. You look up at Nick, silently asking for help —as if he was not one of them—, eyes slowly filling up with tears.

What are you supposed to do now? There are so many people around, there is no way you are getting away from this.

While you try to make sense of this situation, even more things start happening around you. The rest of the men —they must mechanics or something— start stepping away from the car, uncovering the wheels and giving space to a man in front of you. He walks backwards outside the garage, his face turning from side to side while holding a hand up for you to wait until he deems it safe.

Still, nothing prepares you for the switch you feel inside of you when the man signals for you to come forward.

From the force with which you grip the steering wheel to the way your foot falls on the pedal, everything feels instinctive. Even the low rumbling of the car coming to life under your body feels strangely familiar and comforting. A second nature. The machine manages to roll out of the garage without trouble, as if you had been doing this your whole life and you were not terrified about what is to come. There is only one possible outcome, and it does not look good for you.

Thankfully —or maybe not so much—, your brain seems to shut down once the car passes through the garage door, the fear consuming your thoughts to such a point that you seem to go over the path in the blink of an eye. One minute you are giving one last look at Nick and the next you are being helped out of the car. The men in white had come to surround the car, one of them giving you a thumbs up and a pat to the helmet that had instantly filled you with relief. It is done, finished. You have not run into a wall, nothing bad has happened.

And, although the fact that you seem to know exactly how to control a Formula One car should by itself have sent you into panic mode, that will instead be a problem for future you to resolve.

Yet, as it seems to be a recurrent theme by now, that happiness is short and sweet. When you are helped out of that awful deathtrap of a car, your eyes are finally able to get an image of the place you have so stupidly driven to. Even though the road had been limited by tall, wired fences the whole way, it is only now that you are able to see the thousands of people seated behind them. You can only look at them in utter shock, vision still restricted by this awful helmet that doesn’t let your breath properly, as you try to wrap your head around what could be happening here and why have you been thrusted in the middle of it.

Some look back at you, their smiles widening as they hold up different flags and banners for you to see, but their attention is promptly stolen by something —or someone— behind you, cheers getting impossibly louder. You follow their gaze instinctively, brows furrowed because what more could possibly be happening.

Well, what is happening is that another Formula One car has arrived. What the hell. Your gaze uselessly follows the car, its navy blue paint a complete contrast to the white of your car —why you would even call it yours is beside the point. Not only that, but as the people on the road move aside to let the machine pass, you feel the fear that has been bubbling inside you for hours on end now, reach a new peak. The image of at least 10 other Formula One cars lined up is finally discovered before your eyes.

The dots connect way too slowly as your eyes fly from one car to another, heart pumping blood on your ears like it is about to burst out of your chest. Had that lap been a simple warm up, a stupid way to get the cars in place for an actual race?

It is a miracle that you manage to stand upright and follow one of the men dressed in white despite the way your legs are locking up. Breath heavy as if you had run a marathon. In hopes of calming yourself down, you reach up to take off the helmet and that stupid mask, both objects being held close to your chest as if someone was going to come and steal them.

With this newfound freedom you try to gather your bearings for the nth time today. But, how can you, when your field of vision is filled with freaking Formula One cars of every color imaginable? Your chest can only tighten in fear of what is to come.

The man guides you through the mass of people gathered around the cars, a couple of them sending smiles and words of encouragement your way as if you wanted to do anything other than scream your way out of this place. Everyone is just bubbling with an energy that your body cannot match, the mix of screams and cheers sending you further down into an anxiety attack instead. You feel like a puppet, the strings pulling you around this unknown place while people record your every move with one of the hundred cameras flashing all around.

This has to be a nightmare, there is no other explanation. It cannot be the real word. How and why would you be here if it was?

Someone does steal both your helmet and mask before you are brought to a separated part of the road, the asphalt covered with a red carpet to kind of mark a VIP area. For some reason, he flies the scene after that, leaving you completely alone in the middle of a road surrounded by a million cameras and strangers dressed from head to toe in one single color like this is a fucking film.

The loneliness does not last long though, as you are yet again approached by another stranger and that recurrent phrase. “Congrats on P10!” a man dressed in a black jumpsuit comes to stand next to you, a smile being drawn on his lips as soon as your eyes meet “It’s your highest position yet, right?”

Seriously, do you seem that approachable when you are freaking out or do these people just lack emotional intelligence?

His question catches you off guard as much as the fact that he also talks to you in English, your brain scrambling to find a response that you do not have —because, well, it is your fist position ever, if that counts. You decide to mimic his grin instead, a curt nod as your answer since it looks more like an affirmation than a question.

“Feeling nervous?” he queries right after, scrunching his nose as if he could feel the nerves running like thunders under your skin.

For that you do have an answer: “A lot…”, but the reasoning behind it greatly differs from what he must be thinking about.

Strangely enough, the sweet chuckle that he lets out brings a real smile to your lips, and even more so the calming words and praises that follow. That he knows you will do well, everything will turn out alright, while he confidently assures you that you will be taking some points home today. He is sure of it. The men from the meeting had said something similar, their ‘don’t be greedy’ has stayed at the back of your mind ever since.

“You already know this but, be careful, the start is pure chaos when you are on the middle of the grid” he advices you as well, looking back at the line of Formula One cars like he can see it unfolding before his eyes.

But why is he being so nice? Who is he? Talking to you with such care while you cannot get a single word out, too freaked out to react to any of this information. Your eyes slip down on their own to the hip of his jumpsuit, the letters showing despite the fact that he is not wearing it zipped up completely like you do, but rather with the top part wrapped around his waist. There you find what probably is the United Kingdom flag —yeah, he does sound English— and what must be his name: Lewis.

“Anyway, better not to talk about it. Let’s go!” the man proposes at last, pointing with a tilt of his head to the men gathered a few meters away.

Even though any sane person in your situation would have turned down the offer and run away from all these strangers, you cannot help but follow him. The fear of being left alone in an unknown place is somehow overpowering your desire of escaping. Where would you run to anyway? With which money? And if you call the police, what would you tell them? Would you even be able to understand what they say? It is not like you had been able to read a single town sign on the way here.

Still, when you finally focus your gaze on the group of men ahead, you wonder if all this is just an extremely well-prepared hidden camera show. Because not more than a few meters away, in that group you are walking towards is the man that has been flashing through your mind all day long.

The man from yesterday, the person who held you in his arms as everything faded around you, in that exact same bright orange outfit.

Next chapter

___

Author's note: From now on the updates will take a bit longer since this is what I had already written, so you'll have to be patient with me hahaha. Thanks for all the nice comments and interactions!

Taglist: @purplephantomwolf @raye2000 @yuiiimd @drezzerk33 @leclercdream

#formula one x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fic #carlos sainz x reader #charles leclerc x reader #daniel ricciardo x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x you #formula one x you

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itsgodepi · 8 months

Text

If I lose my mind | Ch. 2

“Oh, you’re up? C’mon get dressed, we have a meeting with the engineers in like ten minutes” the stranger singsongs, throwing the door open and carelessly stepping inside.

The man does not spare you a second glance, instead making a beeline for the tall window that cover the entire wall at your right to throw the curtains open. Your hand flies up to cover your eyes, the new source of light not only blinding you but also revealing too much information for you to process. What is this room? Not your bedroom, that’s clear, you sure as hell do not have a kitchen in front of the bed for starters. And what is that huge balcony? Where are you?

However, you are missing a key question: you are late for what?

“I…I don’t-” you try to get his attention, arms coming around yourself for protection since your voice is not cooperating.

He interrupts you almost instantly, ignoring your complaints as he takes a look down to his phone “Be ready in five, I have to make a call”, and with that said, he is out the door.

The silence he leaves behind is chilling, your mind working at lightspeed while your body remains there, standing alone in the middle of an unknown place, petrified. You can only hear him outside, his steps and words filtering though the paper-thin walls —and only then does your brain register he is and has been talking in English all this time.

You look around, completely overwhelmed by the situation. What are you supposed to do now, jump out the window? Because there is no way you are going to do what he is saying, right? You do not even know who he is or where you are, this is crazy!

A look around the room further confirms your suspicions, this is a hotel room. Those bland colors, decoration to fit everyone’s taste and a neon pink suitcase pushed into a corner that you run to dig through with such fervor that you almost tear the zipper out. But there is nothing that could help you anywhere. Maybe you could throw one of the heels at him and pray that it causes a concussion or something, but that could potentially get you into a lot more trouble.

A couple of knocks halt your investigation, the same mechanical noises sounding again as the door slowly opens. You make a split-second decision to hide in the bathroom, door closing way too loudly for him not to notice.

“We really have to hurry, the car is waiting for us” the man sighs in frustration. You hear some ruffling around the room and before you can figure out what he is doing, he is walking towards the bathroom’s door “Hey, open up, you left your clothes outside”

Considering your chances of escaping any other way are non-existent —you have locked yourself in the worst possible room for an impromptu breakout plan—, you decide to lower your head and listen to him. What else could happen? The situation is bad enough already, you should at least change out of this pyjama.

Taking the knob in your hand and placing a foot close to the door to prevent it from completely opening, you comply with his request. Through the small gap appears a stack of neatly prepared clothes that you quickly snatch before closing it again. The outfit is nothing special, a pair of jeans and a shirt that looks exactly like the one that man is wearing. The fabric is white and of a strange but flowy material, logos of different brands plastered all over it. The biggest one painted right on its center, letters drawn in a dark red color: HAAS.

Advertising clothes? Weird.

You make quick work of getting yourself dressed, stepping out of the room before the man can call for you again. He guides you out the room and through the corridors in silence, glancing every now and then at his phone, until you arrive to the car he had talked about. The driver does not even look back when you get seated, only speeds off as soon as both doors are closed.

On the ride, the atmosphere is tense. Nobody says a word, the only sound filling the space being that of the car’s radio, and even that is worrying you. They are speaking so fast and in such a strange language that it is impossible to understand any of it. Is that why the driver had not talked? Is he a foreigner, like the guy seated by your side? What have you gotten yourself into?

“Sorry, I’ve been so stressed all morning... didn't even ask if you are feeling alright after yesterday” the man breaks the silence, letting go of his phone for the first time all morning.

So, all of that did happen, you did faint in the arms of some stranger dressed in a weird orange jumpsuit. It is nice to have some confirmation, but what the hell...

He rummages through the backpack in the middle seat while waiting for an answer that is so painfully obvious. No, you are not feeling alright, you have been literally kidnapped, is he that delusional or just plain stupid? But you decide it's better to remain silent.

In the meantime, he manages to take out two plastic cards with neck straps attached to them, and holds one of them on your direction as he puts his on. Something instantly catches your attention: not only is your face printed on it, but your name and surnames are written just beneath it. What is this? Why do they have this picture of you? You cannot remember ever taking this photo.

But you do not dare ask it out loud, voice now stuck on your throat as you dwell on what this means to your situation. They must have been following you, they know exactly who you are.

“The doctor said everything was fine, that it must have been the rush of emotions and the exhaustion, so you don’t have to worry” he explains once the silence stretches for a beat too long, waiting a second for it to sink in and gather some courage to continue his monologue “Look, I know you don’t like discussing these things on Sundays, but...”

And although you would have loved to snap at him and tell him that he would not know what you want or do not want to talk about —who the fuck does he think he is?—, it is not you who interrupts him. The arrival to your supposed destination had gone unnoticed by both of you until a woman starts knocking on the car’s window, the scoldings about your lateness filtering even through the thick glass.

Oh, his name is Nick?

The pair seem to be associated —a conclusion that you draw solely because they are wearing that ugly advertising shirt you are now sporting too— or they at least know each other enough for the man to shoot straight out from the car as soon as he hears her. You do so as well, for some reason, but they come over to guide you around before you can question your decision any further.

The place they have taken you to is rather strange, an enclosed area with colorful buildings that look more like tall campers than actual constructions. The people crowding the street are bubbling with energy, running from one place to another, talking and eating. Some of them are carrying cameras and microphones, big ones, like those you see in TV and... they are pointing them at you? In fact, when you look around to confirm your suspicions, you note that you have attracted more than the attention of the cameras, there is so much people looking at you.

Even though you try to avoid everybody’s gazes, too worried about who they might be and what they could do, a man standing further down the street manages to catch your eyes. He waves at you, his lips being drawn into a smile as he notices you have seen him. He is dressed in a red shirt with a bunch of logos —these people sure are big on advertising clothes— and a matching cap, a similar outfit to the man he had been talking to. Oh, and now he is... walking towards you? What? Who is he? But most importantly, should you like, say something? It is not like your kidnappers, or whoever they are, are any more trustworthy than a random man on the street, but maybe-

Yet, before you can decide on anything, he has already arrived.

“Hey, did you eat? You didn’t, right?” the man in red asks —in English again, mind you, although he seems to have a different accent—, and answers his own question in the same breath.

You shake your head in response anyway, it is true, the last thing you ate was yesterday’s lunch, had been too sad to even make yourself a sandwich that night. But it does not feel like your stomach would accept anything either.

His smile widens at the confirmation, dimples peeking out as he reveals what he had been hiding behind his back. On his palm rests a package of cookies wrapped in transparent plastic and a pretty bow. “They made these again! You liked them so much last time, so I brought you some” the man’s voice has turned light with happiness, the look on his green eyes signaling just how proud he is to have gotten them for you, but what does he mean by last time?

Frowning, you peel your eyes off the treat, looking up to the pair by your side for permission. This all seems so strange. “Of course, go ahead” Nick quickly responds, looking rather confused “You can eat whatever you want, I thought you’d be too nervous for food”. And you are, but this man is looking sweetly that it feels impossible to refuse his gift.

You swiftly pick up the bag, holding it close to your chest as a “Thanks” slides out of your lips.

“Uhm, sorry, the meeting is about to start, we have to go” the woman beside you reminds, as Nicks checks his phone for the nth time this morning “Good luck today, Charles! Be safe”

Oh, Charles? That may explain the accent, it sure isn’t an English name.

“Yeah, I’m running late as well” Charles murmurs, taking a look back to where he came from. You follow his gaze to see a man dressed in a similar red shirt, arms crossed over his chest as he waits by the door of another building. Charles seems to nod at him after the man in red makes some signals and points at his watch. “Thank you, and good luck to you too! I know you’ll do great so” he looks back at you this time, shrugging his shoulders as a grin plays on his lips, like it is a done deal.

But what exactly are you supposed to do great at? What is all this good luck for? The man’s arm quickly comes to rest on top of your shoulders before you can dwell on Charles’ words too long, steering you towards one of the buildings while your mind is boiling with questions.

A glass door gives way to a long corridor full of doors, voices and mechanical noises echoing off the walls. The inside is fully painted in white with various red details lining the walls, which awfully remind you of the place you had woken up in yesterday. The only difference is that now you can recognize that red logo drawn all over the walls: HAAS. The same one resting atop your abdomen. You look down at your shirt to confirm it, eyebrows furrowing as you try to decipher what this is supposed to mean.

The source of all that noise seems to be a bigger room that opens at the end of the hallway, one that you do not get the opportunity to take a peek at because the man smoothly ushers you into one of the firsts rooms before you can snoop around much. The door opens to reveal a group of men seated around a table, the group casually greeting you and resuming their conversation a second later. The conversation seems to be all about cars? Something about their engines, the degradation, strategies and stuff you cannot understand, the discussion continuing as one of them points at statistics on a screen. Is that an F1 car?

“We are starting really far ahead today, congratulations on P10! I didn’t get to talk to you yesterday so… I hope you are feeling better and just” one of them says, his eyes lifting from the papers on the table to look straight at you with a big smile “Don’t be greedy, ok? Keep the position, we need the points” The rest of the men seem to agree with that piece of advice, erupting in laughs as they dedicate each other knowing glances.

On the other hand, you remain silent, trying to figure out what he could possibly be talking about. P what? What is P?

The meeting does not last much, a thousand of technical words are thrown around without care and a pile of numbers is presented to you all, but you do not manage to grasp what anything of it means. However, the final phrase stays on your mind, a wish that they all share: “Let’s have a great race”. And that word is what starts turning the gears in your head.

That and the fucking Formula One car that you come face to face with when Nick leads you further down the corridor. A “What the hell?” rolling out of your tongue almost unconsciously, eyes glued to the machine before you are pushed into yet another room.

Next chapter

___

Author's note: Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you so much for the nice comments and interactions.

Taglist: @purplephantomwolf @raye2000 @yuiiimd@drezzerk33

#formula one x reader #f1 x reader #carlos sainz x reader #charles leclerc x reader #daniel ricciardo x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x you #formula one x you #f1 fic

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itsgodepi · 8 months

Note

Hey! I just read the first chapter of If I Lose Myself and I was wondering gif you do a taglist, if I can be added?

Sure, I'll be adding you! 💚

0 notes

itsgodepi · 8 months

Note

are you doing a taglist? if so i would LOVE to be put on it for “if i lose my mind”! thank you hon 🫶

Yeah, of course! I'm glad you liked it, I'll update it soon 💚🥺

Also thank you for the idea hahahha I'm still getting used to the whole tumblr thing

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itsgodepi · 8 months

Text

If I lose my mind | Ch. 1

There is not a word to describe the overwhelming sense of anguish that invades your body as soon as you lay down on bed. The tears keep burning their way down your cheeks, unrelenting ever since you first stepped into the apartment. You blindly reach up for a pillow, hugging it close to your chest as if that could calm the emptiness consuming your heart. Even breathing is getting more and more difficult, the air not reaching your lungs as you keep sobbing uncontrollably.

“No puedo más (I can't do this anymore)" you cry into the pillow, voice rough with sadness. Curling in on yourself as you close your eyes, the pressure that has been building up inside your chest getting to a point that is unbearable. Your fingers digging into the pillow with such force they hurt, while sobs keep your whole body.

There is no saying how many hours pass by until you finally fall asleep, cheeks sticky with tears and lips bitten raw. Finally, a moment of rest after this nightmare of a year, a streak of sleepless night broken by sheer exhaustion.

Although you can feel yourself letting go of your consciousness, the fire in your heart does nothing but grow. Your breath picks up the pace mere seconds later as well, seemingly following the rhythm of your heart, which has started beating like it will break out of your ribcage any minute now. You try to calm yourself down, mind floating in a strange limbo that you cannot escape. What is happening? Why can’t you open your eyes? You can feel them moving behind your eyelids, trembling from the effort. Actually, you belatedly notice, it is your whole body that is shaking with tremors. You attempt turning around or moving in whichever way you can, desperately trying to get out of this half-conscious state. Still, that plan quickly backfires, every single muscle on your body is tensed up and locked on position, it hurts to even think of stretching them.

Suddenly, a bright light starts shining with such force that you can feel it heating your face. Although your first guess is that you have slept through the whole night and the sun is finally coming to save from this awful dream, as its power keeps increasing, you realize how wrong you are. It feels like a spotlight is being pointed right at your face, the brightness so powerful that your eyes are burning even though they are closed. You seek protection under your hands, your pillow, anything, but your body is still refusing to obey your orders.

The sounds at the back of your mind start gaining prominence as you fight to wake up. It had started as a beeping noise, but as your anxiety grows, you realize there is something else. Screams, claps, music,…

And then, it all comes crashing.

Your eyes forcefully open at once, blinded by sunlight and moving side to side in complete distress. There are voices and noises coming from all directions, but it is impossible for you to understand anything, the sounds echoing as if you were trapped under water. You try to move around and feel your surroundings, where is the bed? Where am I? However, before you can do as much as stretch your hand forward, something collides with your body in full force. The impact makes you lose your balance, the realization that you are actually standing up being too vague for your still woozy brain to process. A pair of arms come to envelop your body, keeping you upright and even lifting you up in the air at some point.

The words have become clearer now that you are regaining consciousness. “That was amazing!” “A fucking P10, oh my god” “You were flying out there” the screams accompanied with irregular bangs that keep bouncing off your head.

What is happening?

Head filled with the worst ever case scenarios and fear flowing through your body like thunders, you break down. There is no use in standing around and politely asking who the fuck are they and how have they entered your house. Your mind is running wild with possibilities. So, with your voice coming straight from your heart and those awful feelings taking control over your body, you start screaming and trashing around like a mad woman. Feet kicking everything and everyone that dare coming close to you.

Unexpectedly, you are released without having to put much of a fight. The sudden lack of support leaving you to fall down to your knees, legs too numb to do anything to stop it. That seems to not only surprise you, but also those around you, the yelling dying down after that. Now the only thing filling your ears is the erratic beating of your heart and the distant music. The tears do accompany you yet again, feelings swarming your mind with such force that you feel out of breath. That fight or flight mode you were hopping would save you is promptly drowned by them, a nervous attack building inside your chest so powerfully that it leaves you frozen in place.

“Hey, calm down, it's okay” someone shushes you, a pair of hands coming to rest on top of your shoulders with such care that you do not notice them at first, too focused on trying to even out your breath. It is only when your head is suddenly pulled forward, that a panicked gasp breaks out of your lips, hands flying up to grasp at your head that feels like it is being pulled out of your body.

But instead, what you feel is the rough scratching of fabric over your cheek and something that bumps into your nose. What-?

That awful sensation of being underwater is instantly relieved when whatever had been covering your head slides right off it. You first thought is that someone must have put some sort of fabric over your head to restrict your vision, that this people have broken into your house and tried to get you out of the way, but when you see a light blue helmet being taken from you, you can only stare at it open mouthed.

Your field of vision has finally been cleared up, and for better or for worse, your surroundings have also been discovered before you. The helmet is the center of it all, being held by a man dressed in a weird bright orange jumpsuit that would stand out anywhere but even more so in this situation. Who is he? His worried-filled eyes are making you feel so uncomfortable that you cannot hold his gaze for more than a second, it is like they are trying to dig into your mind and fix whatever is scaring you right this second, but how can he when he is the main culprit?

Well, not only him, but there is also a group of at least 20 men surrounding you, all of their eyes set on your trembling form. Your anxiety increases by the second, gaze flying everywhere as the sound of your heartbeat rings on your ears. You cannot recognize this place or anyone for that matter, where are you? This is not your bedroom. What happened?

The man in front of you claims your attention once again, his hand reaching up for your arm as his lips move without making a single noise. You want to stop him, back away and put some space between the two of you until you figure out who the fuck he is. And yet, you remain completely still, your body pulling you down like dead weight. Even the muscles on your chest seem to have been locked in place, the air stuck on your throat as your mouth gapes open. His hand comes up to cradle your face when he notices, the heat of it comforting even though his expression is filled with concern. He talks and talks, the words not registering on your woozy mind since you cannot concentrate in anything but how heavy your eyelids feel.

The man quickly catches those signs, his eyebrows furrowing as he tries to shake you out of it. He also seems to call for help, because yet another face pops into view, their expressions matching. But it is too late.

That is the last thing you see before once again falling into the darkness.

A sigh passes by through your parted lips, body melting into the soft bed sheets. It feels a bit too hot under the covers, the fabric sticking to your skin uncomfortably as you sleepily move around.

Stretching your muscles feels wonderful after hours of uninterrupted sleep. The sun seems to still be down, the room drowned in complete darkness as you turn on your side to get a better hold of the pillow. Your alarm has also not rung yet which means that there is still some time to laze around.

However, before you can get a hold of that precious sleep you have been chasing, a few knocks on the door come to wake you up.

With a groan, you sit yourself on the middle of the bed, hands covering your face as you try to keep yourself upright. Who could be outside? It is not like you have invited someone over and forgot, right? God knows you are not in the best condition for a visit right now, did you even put your pyjamas on last night? Cannot remember.... You have not ordered anything lately either.

Rather than giving up at the lack of response, the person outside starts banging harder on the door, the noise fully waking you up. You decide to get out of bed and attend whatever is so urgent, body screaming in disapproval as you drag yourself out of it.

Maybe you should have noticed something was strange the second your foot stepped down into the carpeted floor, or when you knock your knee on something that definitely was not there before, but the visitor does not let your mind wander too far. The knocked ceases before you can reach the door, instead there is a strange mechanic sound and a couple of beeps followed by the door opening on its own.

“Hey, are you awake? I wanted to let you sleep in a bit more but-” comes a man’s voice, one you have never heard in your whole live and that freezes you in place. Yet, that is not even the most surprising thing, he is somehow talking in English for some reason.

The man has the audacity to take a peek inside the room, his eyes searching in the shadows while you are freaking out. You recognize that face, the memories come crashing as soon as his gaze meets yours and he smiles. He was there in your dream, when you fainted, dressed in white like the rest of the men surrounding you. What the hell is happening?

Was that… real?

Next chapter

#f1 fic #formula one x reader #f1 x reader #f1 x you #carlos sainz x reader #charles leclerc x reader #daniel ricciardo x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 imagine

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