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bunny-jpeg · 5 months ago

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secret tattoo (vol. 4)

lewis hamilton

tags: smut/pwp, tattoos, rivals au, driver!reader, (former) lewis fangirl!reader, age gap (20s/30s), missionary position, lovers/friends/rivals, pull-out method, 2k words

max edition // charles edition // lando edition // toto edition

you made a face when you saw lewis cross the paddock at the start of the 2025 season. dressed in his new ferrari gear. you didn't want to admit that he looked good in red.

maybe it was because he dressed like the red flag he was. he was all smiles and waves as the press wanted the first look at the new ferrari driver. when he spoke, he sounded confident, but when he caught a glimpse of you. his expression shifted, but quickly he was smiles once more for the camera.

but you tried not to feel jealous after all, you learned long ago. to never meet your heroes.

you and lewis were friendly when you were a rookie. he took a liking to you. he once fondly said that you brought a new life into the sport and he couldn't wait to see what you could accomplish. under his praise you felt warmed like a plant in the sun. there was magnetic energy to him that drew you in.

when you were successful, he cheered you on. slaps on the back and handshakes. bright smiles and cheers over (non-alcoholic) drinks. there was a companionship. he was also the first person you spoke to after your boyfriend back home couldn't take the distance and left. you trusted lewis.

and then he took your ferrari seat. you sat dumbfounded, the only words you could hear were, ferrari isn't a place for a woman. and that lewis would be a better fit for the team. while you still had a seat on the grid with williams. a dream was shattered, and by someone you trusted.

"i'm going to beat you and i'm going to beat that stupid fucking team." you snapped at lewis, "fuck you, fuck ferrari. i hope this season is your worst." before you stomped off, your ears burned and eventually you cried in your car.

thus started one of the more intense rivalries in the last couple of years. it overshadowed anyone else. you and lewis, friends turned enemies. butted heads over every little thing.

photos of you two arguing in the paddock. him pointing to the screen while you wagged your finger at him. you both locked in a heated debate until your team principals came to break it up.

when you lost momentum at the canadian grand prix, lewis simply smiled at you and said, "keep up, or get out." and you wondered, for a brief moment, if it was possible to get away with murder in canada.

you replied, looking him dead in the eyes as you replied, "i hope you never hear your national anthem at the podium ever again."

he smiled, it wasn't a press smile. it was the reassuring smile that he gave you when you two were closer. he said, "with the way things are going. they might be playing it when i get the championship."

rivalries turned up the heat, and heat led to passion. and after a night during the summer break in monaco. you ended up in lewis' apartment. months of bitterness came to a head. and while it wasn't a shock to either one of you.

it was a shock when he got you out of your jeans and saw ink on your skin. it wasn't a shock to see a driver's number on a driver's skin. but to see his number on your skin was something else. a small inked '44' on your thigh. somewhere that he knew many didn't see.

"what is-"

"i meant to get it covered up." you crossed your arms under him. you diverted your gaze and felt hot embarrassment. you sighed, "i was a fan of yours, lewis... before we were friends... before we were this."

he placed his hand over the tattoo and said, "i guess i am really on your mind all the time." he leaned in, "i guess even my rivals think about me every day."

you shifted, "hamilton. either you fuck me or call me a cab." you still felt embarrassed.

lewis smiled and leaned in, "i know it's a lot less permanent. but i still have that key chain of your rookie year helmet on my bag."

you made a face, "you said you got rid of it." you reached out and splayed your hands across his toned chest. across the dark ink of tattoos.

he leaned in further and your hands dropped to the bed. he looked at you and said, "you think about me. i think about you. i guess we're terrible rivals." he took you by the hips, "i carry a piece of you with me. you have me tattooed on your skin." he leaned in further to capture your lips against his.

you moaned a little. there was a joke to be a made that rivals toed the line between enemies and lovers. and tonight, under the soft light of your bedroom. you were lovers. the skins of rivals were shed at the front door. when he sank his cock into you, your nails dug into his strong shoulders.

"we're terrible rivals." you said when the kiss was broken. you laid under him, you moved a little as you accommodated his size. it wasn't like you were having much sex. not while racing was on the brain. the month off in july allowed from the rivalry to explode into something new. like a fuse and a spark.

lewis chuckled, "i guess we are. but, you do look hot when you're angry. i feel like this has driven you." he held onto your hips and started to rock against you. after all the time. all these moments between you two.

you moaned at the feeling. the heat between you two. there was something so magnetic about him. still. even after everything. it was hard to stay made when he treated you with such tenderness. the sex wasn't rough the way rivals fucking should be. it wasn't tender either the way virgins would be. rather it was like the explosive fuse fizzled out and you were trying to work through your problems with sex. to let the bed frame nudge against the wall.

to feel one another in a way both of you hoped for. the layers to your relationship were dense and confusing. they were barely defined and melted together at the edges. rivals, friends, lovers, sex partners, racers. close like blood yet were out for it.

neither of you cared. there was little room to care. lewis' soft lips on your neck. your arms wrapped around him as he held onto you middle to move you up and down his cock. the moans were loud, but not loud enough to file a noise complaint. they died down when the two of you kissed deeply.

fuck ferrari. still. you felt more angry at the team than lewis. the sport was a do or die, and to be on a legacy team like that was an honor for anyone. even a legend like lewis. your nails scraped across his shoulders as the two of you moved against one another.

"shit. ah." you moaned as you arched your back a little when the pleasure started to grow in your core. you could feel the heavy pulse of pleasure in your body as the two of you continued to fuck.

"we're terrible rivals. fuck being rivals." he said as he held you closer. like you were going to slip away once more. you moaned in response and clutched onto him. a silent promise that you were going anywhere.

"we are. fuck, i still have to cover up that tattoo." you moaned.

he looked at you and shook his head a little, "no need. no need. keep it. it's a good number on you. lucky forty-four." it fed his ego, plus he wanted to see the tattoo next time you two got intimate. he knew there was going to be a next time. he said, "i didn't know you did tattoos." you had nothing else on your body.

you replied, "it was a three am decision after drinking. it was when we became friends. i was going to get my number... but then i accidentally said yours. and my stupid friends didn't say anything." you clung to him tighter.

"good choice." he said, "but if you wanted my number so badly." he whispered in your ear, "i could've given you something else with it. i know a pretty girl like you likes pretty necklaces." and you shuddered.

you two both had a vast collection of jewellery. you had worn his bracelets and he still had a pair of your earrings. fuck, you two made horrible rivals.

the two of you continued your steady pace. it wasn't rough nor was it soft. but it was steady and the consistency made the pleasure grow in your gut. it felt hot. erotic in a way that left the hammering in your chest feel present.

the kisses continued, the lust wrapped through you. the feverish heat left both of you panting for more. you needed him. he needed you. you pushed each other to new limits. even a legacy racer like lewis was pushed because of your ability to stand toe to toe with him.

you didn't just make racing fun again. you made life fun away. so any way he'd have you, he'd take. and you were the same. challenged and needed. that was what you were to each other. and it all came together in between the sheets.

you panted heavily as you looked up at him. your expression was full of bliss as you felt the shudder of pleasure in your core. you said between gulps of air, "i'm close."

you two continued. the thrusts were heavy and full of want. the pleasure between you two was heavily felt and it didn't take much longer before you held onto him tightly and came around his cock. your toes curled and your legs kicked out a little at either side of his waist.

he continued to move. his pace quickened as he felt himself close to climax. he gazed down at you. you looked beautiful under him. perfect like a sunrise that he wanted to soak in every morning. he hoped that you'd be in his life for a long while.

now you found mutual understanding. found a connection stronger than rivals. something deeper, that touched the soul. he pulled out and stroked his cock a few times until he came all over your stomach.

he tensed up for a moment as he decorated your stomach with his cum. he could feel his heartbeat in his throat as he slowed his fist around his cock to a stop. he panted heavily and swore under his breath. you both stayed there for a moment before you slowly leaned over to grab tissues to clean up.

he helped you clean and then watched you walk to the waste bin near your desk to dispose all the tissues. you walked back to the bed with shaky legs and ended up back in bed with him.

"there she is." he said as he pulled you next to him. like lovers.

you both laid curled up in one another, lewis' arms were around you and his fingers brushed against the tattoo. he hadn't forgotten about that. it was quiet in the bedroom. clothes everywhere and the lights low. the lingering feeling of sex and the fallout after climax.

"we need to talk." he said as he traced imaginary patterns across your back. he looked down at you while you looked up towards him, "this.. this can't keep going on like this. we'll kill each other before anything else. he swallowed, "i'm hoping that we can go back to how it was."

you cupped his face and rubbed your thumb across his cheek. you stared at him for a moment. you wanted it to go back to the way it was. you hoped there was mutual ground to be found.

as much as you wanted the seat in ferrari, as much as it angered you. you yearned for his company, and not just in the bedroom. he was a better ally than an rival. you leaned up to kiss him on the lips as you said, "we can try... but you have a lot to make up for." <3

#bunny writes #reader insert #formula one imagine #formula 1 #f1 smut #formula one fanfiction #f1 x reader #formula one smut #lewis hamilton x you #sir lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton smut #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton #lh44 smut #lh44 fic #lh44 x reader #lh44

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wbbfannnnnn13 · 10 days ago

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Close Coverage // Chapter 3

a/n: wrote this chapter singing “and i bet we’d have really good bed-chem" the whole time (edit: don't get too excited. nothing happens. at all. just building tension, i'm just excited for what's coming.)

wc: 4.5k

warnings: one singular curse word lol

**** Chapter 3: Chemistry Test ****

Azzi

Azzi walked into the studio three minutes early.

Which, for her, was basically late. Especially when Paige Bueckers had already arrived and taken over the entire energy of the room.

The space looked like a Nike campaign had exploded inside a Pinterest board—cool-toned LED panels glowing overhead, softbox lights suspended from a grid of matte-black rigging, and a forest of C-stands, tripods, and silver camera carts arranged in barely organized chaos. Lenses gleamed from every direction. Coiled cords ran underfoot, taped down in neon gaffer strips like a roadmap only production assistants could read. Somewhere in the back, a massive monitor replayed silent game footage on loop—a slow-motion Sparks–Valkyries highlight reel with a grainy filter, like someone had decided this needed to feel both nostalgic and expensive.

Azzi clocked the setup immediately. The positioning of the lights, the reflective bounce boards angled to flatter skin tone, the black-and-white wardrobe rack sorted by player name and shoot order. Every crew member moved like they were late to something else—coffee in one hand, walkie in the other, eyes scanning, not stopping. It was the kind of set that looked effortless but buzzed with urgency. Like it had a budget. Like every second was paid for.

And then—she clocked Paige.

She was sitting half-sideways on a makeup stool, sipping something green and overpriced, mid-laugh with the stylist like they were old friends reuniting after war. Her blonde hair was already camera-ready. Her voice cut through the background like it had its own channel.

It was… a lot.

Azzi’s instinct was to put her hood back up. Just for something to do with her hands. Instead, she rolled her shoulders back and stepped in.

Paige looked up. “Hey stranger.”

Azzi stopped.

Not dramatically. Just enough that her momentum shifted—like her body clocked something her brain wasn’t ready to name. Knees soft. Shoulders settling. Like she was prepping for a screen she hadn’t seen coming.

She didn’t answer right away.

What was there to say? Hey. Long time. You’re still allergic to subtlety, I see.

Paige’s fingers curled around her cup. Like her body noticed the tension before her brain caught up.

“You made it,” she added, still smiling like they were in on a private joke. “I was starting to think you’d ghost the whole campaign and make me carry the brand alone.”

Azzi’s mouth twitched—reflex, not approval. “Wouldn’t want to steal your spotlight.”

Neither of them moved.

Paige’s hand twitched at her side, like maybe it wanted to do something—offer a fist bump? A handshake? Set the building on fire?

Then she shrugged, like she’d decided against all of it. “Please. You were born with your own.”

Their eyes held for a second too long. Not in a soul-searching way. More in a did you really just say that with a straight face? kind of way.

Azzi blinked once. Was that supposed to be a compliment? A deflection? A dare? Hard to tell with Paige. Half of what she said came wrapped in smirks and static.

And just like that, Paige turned. “Come on,” she said, gesturing toward the wardrobe rack. “Let’s make the internet combust.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. Not hard. Just enough to register as God, you’re exhausting.

Then she followed.

Mostly because standing still felt worse.

There was a black-on-black outfit waiting for her on the front of the rack—more fashion-forward than functional. High-waisted compression shorts. A cropped sports bra with subtle mesh paneling and a matte finish that looked like it had been engineered in a wind tunnel. Over it, a structured half-zip jacket with asymmetrical seams and a stitched Nike swoosh so understated it felt like a dare.

Azzi took it in quietly.

Definitely not built for comfort. Definitely not built for hiding.

The stylist—sleeves full of tattoos, bangs cut blunt—beamed. “This set’s so you. Strong. Minimalist. Intimidating in a good way.”

Azzi managed a polite smile. “Cool.”

She didn’t do short shorts. Not unless there was a stopwatch involved and zero audience.

She didn’t say that, of course. Just kept her expression flat as she took the hanger. Didn’t flinch at the hemline. Didn’t blink at the cropped cut of the top.

And she definitely didn’t look at Paige’s version—already hanging on the far end of the rack. Same set. Different color. White, clean, sculpted. Same heat-engineered fabric. Same precise, cling-to-everything silhouette.

Same full-body fuck you to subtlety.

Because of course it was.

Of course they’d dress them like opposing forces and choreograph it like a standoff. Rival energy, but camera-ready

Paige hadn’t said anything yet. But Azzi could feel her. Some people were loud. Paige was gravity.

Azzi ducked into the changing area and pulled the curtain closed behind her.

This wasn’t the usual jersey-and-smile setup. This was curated tension. Glossy, charged, edited within an inch of going viral. Rival energy repackaged as brand synergy. And she was wearing it. She peeled off her hoodie and stared at the set in her hands.

It was sleek. Sharp. A little ridiculous. The kind of outfit that made her want to fold her arms across her chest and say no comment.

She didn’t feel exposed. She looked like the version of herself the world already believed in. She just hated when that was the headline.

She put it on anyway.

One leg at a time. Jacket zipped halfway. Waistband adjusted.

Nothing self-conscious—just routine.

The mirror inside the changing space was unforgiving in that high-def kind of way. Azzi stared at her reflection. Not out of vanity. Just… a systems check.

She looked like she belonged. Composed. Precise. Exactly the image they'd expect—and the one she'd worked for.

But her pulse was ticking a little too fast. Her mouth was dry.

Because this wasn’t just a shoot. Not really.

This was Paige. In white. Lit like a movie poster. And Azzi had to act like it wasn’t designed to get under her skin. Easy.

She cracked her knuckles once, soft and controlled, then pushed the curtain open and stepped into the chaos.

****

Azzi wasn’t nervous. She just… didn’t want to be here.

The lights were too warm. The set too curated. The energy too loud in that artificial way that made her feel like she was watching someone else’s highlight reel in real time. These kinds of shoots always left her skin buzzing—not from excitement, but from the strain of pretending it came naturally.

She didn’t like pretending.

There were too many people. Too many reflective surfaces. Too many invisible expectations stitched into the fabric of the outfit she’d been handed like a costume. One wrong look and she’d come off too cold. One wrong angle and she’d look like she didn’t belong.

And Paige—Paige was already on.

Effortless. Engaging. Built for the lens.

This was her thing. The camera found her like it was orbiting something. Every movement was intentional. Every look a full sentence. Even her rest face had charisma.

And Azzi? She was just trying not to overthink where to put her hands.

“All right,” the photographer clapped. “Let’s start with the shoulder shot.”

Azzi blinked. “The what?”

“You two facing each other. Paige’s hand on Azzi’s shoulder. Azzi—look just past her. Stoic. Power contrast. Very dual cover energy. You’ll see.”

Azzi didn’t move.

Because of course that was the first pose. Paige touching her. Her standing still. Their bodies arranged like a statement.

Professional. Artistic. Controlled.

But also… no thanks.

“Got it,” Paige said, already stepping into place like she was born to be directed.

Azzi let out a breath. Quiet. Quick. Then moved to her mark like her body had made the decision before her brain could veto it. She kept her gaze neutral. Shoulders squared. Arms loose at her sides.

Then Paige’s fingers touched her shoulder.

And every inch of calm evaporated.

It was light. Barely there. But warm. And definite. Right at the edge of the collarbone, where tension gathered and refused to leave. Paige’s hand settled, fingers angled like she’d done this before, like she knew how to look effortless even while burning through someone else’s equilibrium.

Azzi’s jaw clenched.

Not because she was angry. Because she didn’t know what to do with the way her whole body noticed.

And then—God—there it was. The look.

Paige’s eyes locked on hers—sharp, steady, too blue to ignore. The kind of blue that belonged in ice or glass or something breakable. Azzi hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath until that gaze landed. And then it was all she could do not to flinch.

So she looked past her. Just slightly. A soft shift of focus.

Like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a retreat.

“Perfect,” the photographer called. “Now hold that. Little closer. Eyes locked, Azzi—through her, not at her. Paige, smirk if you’ve got one in you.”

Paige chuckled. “Always.”

Azzi didn’t respond. She kept her eyes trained on the softbox light just past Paige’s head. She didn’t dare shift focus—not when Paige’s breath was brushing her cheek. Not when she could feel the shift of Paige’s weight, just barely leaning in.

The camera clicked. Paige’s hand didn’t move. If anything, it flexed. Just enough to register.

Azzi felt it. Sharp. Immediate. Unwelcome.

Not annoyance. Not distance.

Just heat. Low-grade. Inconvenient. The kind that didn’t belong here.

Not under lights. Not with Paige.

Definitely not with Paige.

Click.

The heat between them wasn’t visible, but Azzi was sure someone would see it in the playback. Or maybe it was just her. Maybe she was the only one who felt like the air was folding in on itself.

Paige’s voice came low. “You good?”

Azzi nodded. Once. Tighter than she meant to.

“Okay!” the photographer said. “Reset!”

The camera stopped clicking. The crew buzzed with quiet approval. Someone muttered “perfect contrast” behind a lens. Another assistant scribbled notes onto a shot sheet.

Azzi stepped back automatically. Paige’s hand dropped from her shoulder, but the imprint stayed.

She didn’t shake it off. Just moved toward the wardrobe cart like gravity had changed slightly.

“You can relax for a sec,” someone called out cheerfully. “Next setup’s being lit now.”

Azzi nodded, already halfway to the water table.

She took a sip she didn’t need, just to feel grounded. Coolness on her tongue. Something to do with her hands.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Paige laughing with the stylist again. Head tilted. Arm draped casually across the back of a stool. The kind of effortless comfort that came with being born camera-ready.

It was annoying.

Not the charm—that was expected. It was the ease.

Azzi didn’t get to feel easy. She got to feel prepared. Locked in. Polished within an inch of her own permission. She didn’t know what to do with someone who made the performance look like personality.

Paige caught her eye briefly. Lifted her brows like, everything okay?

Azzi nodded once. Quick. Like punctuation. She turned away before Paige could read too much into it.

She wasn’t rattled.

She just needed to reset. That was all.

The crew called them back a minute later. Next setup.

“Back-to-back. Heads tilted slightly, almost touching.”

Azzi swallowed.

Perfect.

****

They stood with their backs nearly touching. Only an inch apart, if that.

Close enough that Azzi could feel Paige’s breath when she exhaled. Could sense her shifting slightly in place, the quiet rustle of compression fabric brushing fabric. The air between them felt weighted. Tight. Like it hadn’t been there before they stepped into position.

Azzi rolled her shoulders once, slow and subtle. Trying to shake the static building under her skin. It didn’t help.

“Let’s bring your heads a little closer,” the photographer called. “Like you’re in sync without even trying. Just the idea of contact.”

Azzi tipped her head inward.

And paused. Because Paige did the same at the exact same moment—too smoothly, too deliberately.

Now their temples were nearly grazing. The curve of Paige’s cheek hovered just behind Azzi’s jaw.

The warmth was unreal. So was the way Paige smelled—lemon, maybe lavender. Clean. Sharp. Familiar in a way that felt like a trick.

Azzi hadn’t meant to breathe it in. Hadn’t meant to notice. But now it was in her throat, under her skin.

Too close. Too much.

Azzi blinked hard, locked her eyes on a piece of tape near the base of the backdrop. Something to anchor her. This wasn’t that deep. It was just another pose. Another shot. She could stand still. She could survive proximity.

Then Paige’s voice slipped in, soft and way too close to her ear. “You’re gonna hate this picture.”

Azzi didn’t move. “Why?”

“Because I look good,” Paige said, amused, “and you look like you’re trying not to blink.”

Azzi exhaled through her nose. Steady. Controlled. “You really think everything revolves around you.”

“No,�� Paige murmured, the corner of her mouth curling. “Just everything interesting.” Azzi didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. The photographer’s camera clicked again—rapid fire.

“Perfect,” he called. “Stay right there.”

She tried. But Paige tilted her head just slightly—closer. Her hair brushed the back of Azzi’s neck, and Azzi’s skin lit up like someone had hit a switch.

“You’re doing it again,” Paige said quietly.

Azzi didn’t move. “Doing what.”

“That whole don’t-look-at-me thing.” A pause. “Kinda funny, considering.”

Azzi’s throat tightened. “Considering what.”

“You’re literally in a campaign. With me. In spandex.”

“I’m being professional.”

“And I’m not?” Paige asked, voice low now, laced with something lighter. “We’re allowed to have fun while we work. It’s called range.”

Azzi didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her jaw was tight and her pulse was going rogue, and she had no idea what her face was doing because she wasn’t even sure her body still belonged to her.

She could feel Paige smiling behind her. Could feel it.

The photographer called, “Alright, last one! A little more lean. Just barely—like you’re pulling toward each other without meaning to.”

Azzi shifted imperceptibly. Paige leaned in without hesitation.

And for a second—just a second—Azzi let herself tilt.

She didn’t move. Didn’t shift the inch of space between them.

But she felt it. The heat. The gravity.

Like her body was suddenly aware of just how close it was to Paige’s.

The smallest lean and they’d be touching. Shoulder to shoulder. Hip to hip.

She stared straight ahead. Counted the clicks of the shutter. Focused on the lights.

Tried not to wonder how much of this was for the camera. Tried not to care.

But her pulse was misfiring. Her skin was too loud.

And that— Yeah. That was the problem.

The camera clicked once more.

“That’s a wrap on stills!” the PA announced. “Five-minute reset for mic’d up.”

Azzi stepped forward like she’d just been released from something. She didn’t look back.

Not at Paige. Not at anyone.

She needed air. She needed water.

She needed her body to stop reacting like it didn’t care that this was just a photoshoot. She let her arms fall loosely at her sides. Let her eyes stay on the wall behind the camera. Anywhere but Paige.

The energy that had filled her shoulder hadn’t left—it was just drifting now. Diffused under her skin.

Someone handed her a mic. She took it without a word.

“We’re moving into the rapid-fire segment next,” the PA said, chipper. “Stay in those outfits. Just mic’d up and vibing. Keep the banter light but competitive. Think: rivals who maybe share playlists.”

Azzi didn’t go for water. Didn’t peel off the jacket or shake out her arms like some of the other athletes did between setups.

She walked quietly around the back of the studio—just out of sight, behind a stack of unused light panels—and pressed her spine to the cool concrete wall.

Her hands were still.

But her chest was tight. Her pulse steady but wrong.

She tipped her head back, eyes closed, and tried to exhale like it might help. Like the memory of Paige’s hair grazing her neck would just… leave.

It didn’t.

Neither did the heat. Or the scent. Or the way Paige had said “Just everything interesting” like it wasn’t the boldest thing anyone had whispered into her space in months.

It was all still there. Stuck to her skin like static.

And the worst part? For half a second—just one—she’d actually wanted to lean in. Not as a joke. Not because of the setup. Because she felt something.

And what the hell was that?

She’d spent her whole life brushing past moments like this. Ignoring distraction. Controlling static. Staying locked in.

But that—whatever that was—cracked through.

So she did what she always did.

She shut it down.

Pulled the drawbridge, sealed the gates, rebuilt the wall—fast, practiced, automatic.

Her shoulders squared. Her face reset. Her breath leveled.

Professional. Controlled. Untouchable.

That was the job. That was the plan.

And if her pulse was still off, if her skin still buzzed— Well. She’d learn to ignore it.

“Alright,” the photographer called. “We’re going mic’d up next. Just keep it loose—banter a little. Let the chemistry do the work.”

Azzi didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

Let Paige try.

Azzi had walls for a reason.

And this time, she’d remember how to use them.

Paige

Mic’d up spots were supposed to be fun.

Paige had done enough of them to know the beats—banter, charm, maybe a spicy one-liner that made it onto SportsCenter’s TikTok page. But this didn’t feel like that.

This felt like trying to walk across a balance beam while someone threw lit matches.

That someone was Azzi.

They weren’t friends. Weren’t teammates for long. Weren’t anything, really, beyond years of headlines and one too-long stare during a USA scrimmage when they were sixteen and seventeen. Still, being paired for a promo like this meant they had to pretend.

Pretend they had chemistry. Pretend it wasn’t weird. Pretend Paige wasn’t thinking entirely too much about how good Azzi looked in that cut-sleeve jacket and fitted shorts and impossible-to-read expression.

Because she did. Look good, that is. Sharp. Serious. A little intimidating. In that way that made it hard to look away.

There was something in the air now. Not loud, but there. Like the charge right before a tip-off. Or a spark that hadn’t decided if it wanted to catch.

And for a second—just a flicker—Paige wondered if Azzi felt it too.

But then Azzi blinked. Shoulders squared. Jaw set. Like she’d just flipped a switch behind her eyes.

Door closed. Message received.

Huh.

“Rolling in three…” the producer called. “Two…”

Paige locked in her best “camera-ready” grin and turned toward her. “All right. Let’s show the people Huskies and Irish can play nice.”

Azzi didn’t look at her, but her eyebrow lifted just enough to register. “Pretty generous, calling you nice.”

Paige let out a quiet laugh. “Wow. Coming out swinging already.”

“Just setting expectations.” Azzi’s tone was flat, but the corners of her mouth tugged up like she couldn’t quite help it.

The crew chuckled. Paige leaned in slightly. “It’s okay to be nervous. I’m a lot to be across from.”

Azzi’s mouth barely twitched. “You said it.”

That got a full laugh.

Paige felt it—the buzz of attention, the rhythm kicking in. Okay. This, she could work with.

“First question,” the PA read. “Who’s got the better handle?”

Paige raised her hand immediately. “Me. Obviously.”

Azzi glanced at her. “If you like dribbling in circles.”

“I call it creative movement.”

“I call it a waste of the shot clock.”

Laughter again. Paige smirked, but her brain stalled for half a second longer than it should’ve. Because that… kinda stung. Not because it was wrong. Just because Azzi said it like she meant it.

“Next,” the PA said. “Who talks more trash?”

Azzi, instantly: “Paige.”

Paige’s hand flew to her heart in mock betrayal. “Oh wow. No hesitation.”

Azzi shrugged, barely glancing her way. “You’re not subtle.”

“And you’re no fun.”

It slipped out quicker than she meant it to. A little too sharp, a little too real. Not quite a joke. Not quite not.

Azzi’s head turned, slow and deliberate. Her gaze narrowed—not dramatic, but pointed. Like a thread had just been pulled too tight.

Paige’s fingers curled lightly in her lap. She shifted, just enough to feel it.

“Sorry,” she added, with a smile that was trying too hard to land right. “You are fun. Like, very… introvert-fun. Deep cuts only.”

Azzi didn’t respond. Just looked at her, eyes steady. Measuring.

A beat.

“Okayyy,” the producer said slowly, dragging the word like they were trying to break the tension. “Moving on. What’s one thing the other person does that annoys you on the court?”

Paige tried to laugh. “Where do I start?”

But Azzi didn’t wait. “She flops.”

That made Paige blink. “Excuse me?”

Azzi turned slightly, angled just enough to be caught by the second camera. “You sell contact like it’s an acting reel.”

Paige’s jaw dropped, then clicked back into place. “I get fouled.”

“You get dramatic.”

It was said plainly. No heat, no bite. Which somehow made it land harder.

Paige laughed again, but it came out tight. “Well, not everyone can be an emotionless highlight reel.”

Azzi’s smile vanished.

Not all at once. Just enough to shift the whole tone of the room.

Her shoulders stiffened. Eyes fixed on the PA, like Paige had suddenly stopped existing.

One hand flexed against her thigh. Small. Measured. Controlled. Which said everything.

And just like that, the air changed. Even the lights felt hotter.

Azzi’s expression didn’t flicker, but the silence that followed? Loud.

“Sorry,” Paige offered, hands half-raised. “I meant it as a compliment. You know—methodical, flawless, machine-like.” Azzi’s jaw tensed.

The PA didn’t even look up. “Cool. Um… let’s maybe not start a fight on camera?”

A beat.

“Or at least wait until lunch.” “No, it’s fine,” Azzi said quietly. “I didn’t realize being consistent was a flaw.”

“Didn’t realize having a personality was one either,” Paige muttered, mostly to herself.

Too late.

Azzi looked at her.

Really looked.

And Paige suddenly wanted to rewind the last twenty seconds of her life.

The director clapped once. “Okay! Let’s take five!”

The crew moved fast—headsets off, cameras paused, someone offering water like they could cool the temperature in the room with hydration alone.

Paige stayed frozen. Mic still on. Brain on fire.

Azzi unclipped hers without a word and walked off set.

Paige watched her go, heart in her throat. This was supposed to be easy. Charming. Safe.

Instead, she’d pushed too far, misread the moment, and hit a nerve she didn’t even know was still raw.

Now Azzi was iced over, the crew was tense, and Paige was sitting there like the punchline to a joke no one found funny.

Maybe Azzi never had.

****

Paige sat in the makeup chair, mic off, fingers curled loosely around a half-empty water bottle, trying to untangle the five-minute spiral that had just knocked the air out of the room.

A makeup artist drifted by with a compact and a brush, pausing beside her.

“You good?” she asked gently, not meeting her eyes.

“Totally,” Paige said, voice light, smile tighter than it should’ve been. “Just… conserving energy.”

The makeup artist nodded. “Right. Gotta save some for the drama.”

Paige gave a short laugh—too quick, too bright. “Yeah. Can’t peak too early.”

The makeup artist moved on without a word.

Paige stared at her reflection. Yup. There it was. That smile that didn’t quite reach. The kind you practiced until it felt like muscle memory.

It started fine. Easy. Banter, jabs, the kind of low-stakes teasing that made shoots like this go viral for all the right reasons. And then—somewhere between the eye rolls and the too-close pose and that one line about emotionlessness—something shifted.

Azzi had walked off.

No dramatic exit. No fight. Just a clean, quiet done.

And Paige was still here, stuck in the residue.

She’d said worse things to teammates in scrimmages. Sharper lines. Harsher tones. And they’d laughed. Or barked back. Or let it roll off like athletes do.

But Azzi wasn’t someone she had that kind of rapport with. Not someone she could read or recover with.

Paige leaned forward, elbows to knees, watching the studio lights dim into standby. The set was quiet now, everyone moving around her like background noise.

She didn’t know why this stuck.

She didn’t think they had anything like that between them. She hadn’t thought about Azzi that way. Not really.

They were on similar paths. Always had been. But Paige was older. A year, technically—but in the world they came from, that was just enough space to make them feel like separate weight classes.

Azzi had been the phenom trailing behind. Paige had been the one already living in the spotlight.

And Paige? She’d been too busy trying to live up to that—to the “once-in-a-generation” thing—to ever think about chasing someone else’s lane. She didn’t compare herself to the other girls in her class. Not Caitlin. Not Angel. Not Hailey.

She’d learned early that comparison was a rigged game. There was always someone louder. Sharper. More liked. More marketable.

So you pick a lane and you run it until your lungs burn.

That was the job.

By the time Azzi made her splash, Paige was already being called a generational player. The next thing. The sure thing. She was too busy keeping up with her own expectations to look back, or sideways, or anywhere long enough to clock a rivalry.

And maybe that was part of it.

Maybe she hadn’t seen Azzi as a threat.

Not because she wasn’t one—but because Paige had been too busy trying to live up to the spotlight she’d never asked for, but couldn’t afford to drop.

She thought Azzi was quiet. Controlled. Just a player in her orbit.

But maybe she wasn’t orbiting. Maybe she’d been lining up a shot this whole time. And Paige had just turned her back to the basket.

She sat back, watching a loop of their stills flash across a muted monitor screen. They looked good. Too good.

There was something there—sharp, charged. Like tension caught mid-spark.

Weird.

They weren’t friends. Barely talked. But the camera had caught something real.

Like they’d slipped into a story neither of them remembered starting.

She wasn’t sure what they’d captured in those frames.

She just knew it didn’t feel fake.

Maybe she should’ve known, back then.

She remembered seeing Azzi at some AAU tournament. Just once. Azzi was younger—quieter—but already dangerous with the ball. Unbothered by the noise. Paige had been all highlights and handshakes by then, already half-branded.

She didn’t stay long. Didn’t say anything.

But she remembered thinking: That girl doesn’t play for cameras. She plays to win.

And for the first time, she started to wonder:

What if this was a rivalry? Not the headline kind. Not the one you get handed. The kind you only recognize once it’s already shaped you.

#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #fanfiction

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chadobi · 1 month ago

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I promise guys , I’ll get to your requests soon! But for now, I hope you’ll enjoy this one💜

“Under a Blanket of Code”

Bayverse!Donatello x Reader

The power had flickered out about an hour ago.

Mikey screamed something about the pizza oven dying and Raph immediately took it as a sign of the apocalypse. Leo was trying to organize a response plan, but Donnie had already disappeared into the darker parts of the lair—heading toward his lab like a man on a mission.

You didn’t even ask. You just followed him.

It was quiet in his workspace. He had a few emergency lights wired up, casting everything in deep purple and gold. Small LEDs blinked from different shelves, some flickering faintly like fireflies. In the middle of it all, Donnie was crouched beside a stack of servers, furiously typing on a portable rig.

You leaned in the doorway, watching him. He muttered something about “backup fuses” and “secondary distribution lines,” and then paused.

“I know you’re there,” he said without looking. “And I’m not mad. Just… mildly panicked.”

You smiled. “I brought tea.”

That made him glance up. His glasses caught a soft glint of blue from a nearby monitor, and he blinked, surprised. “Oh. Uh. Thank you.” He took the thermos from you awkwardly, hands still faintly buzzing with static.

“Want some company?” you asked gently. “I figured you might need backup.”

Donnie hesitated for a second too long. Then he nodded. “Actually… yeah. That would be nice.”

He gestured to a low platform on the floor surrounded by wires, toolboxes, and glowing screens. You kicked off your shoes and stepped carefully between cables. A fuzzy blanket was already half-draped over the space, clearly something Mikey had tossed aside days ago.

You plopped down, crossing your legs. “So what’s the damage?”

“Main power grid’s fried,” Donnie murmured, sitting beside you. “Generator’s holding up, but I’m going to need to do a manual reroute.” He adjusted his glasses with a tired sigh. “In the meantime, I figured… might as well make the place livable.”

He grabbed a small remote and tapped a button. A string of soft purple lights lit up overhead—cheap LED strips, flickering slightly, but warm in their own way.

“Donnie,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Did you build yourself a tech blanket fort?”

He looked flustered. “No. I mean��not intentionally. I was optimizing work conditions, and the blanket just… enhances acoustic absorption and comfort for long-term programming sessions.”

“So,” you grinned, “a blanket fort.”

He huffed. “Fine. Yes. A highly advanced blanket fort.”

You giggled and tucked the edge of the blanket around your shoulders. “I love it.”

He blinked. “You do?”

“Of course. It’s kind of perfect.” You leaned back slightly. “It’s warm, quiet, glowy… and it smells like solder and coffee. Very ‘you.’”

Donnie was silent for a beat. Then, he mumbled, “I wasn’t sure you’d like it down here.”

You turned to him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He shifted awkwardly, fingers fidgeting with a loose wire. “Most people… wouldn’t exactly enjoy sitting in a dark lab full of failing circuits and overheating processors.”

“I’m not most people,” you said softly.

Donnie didn’t respond at first. He looked down at the blanket, at the way it pooled around the two of you, and then carefully set aside the laptop.

“You know,” he started, voice lower now, “sometimes I forget there’s a world outside this lab. Not in a dramatic way, just… I get stuck in my head. The math, the logic, the endless systems I can’t control—sometimes that’s all I focus on.”

You were quiet, letting him talk.

“And then you show up,” he continued. “With tea. And sarcasm. And blankets.” His gaze lifted to meet yours. “And suddenly the world feels… a little quieter. Like the code finally compiled.”

You smiled, heart thudding gently in your chest. “Is that your way of saying you like having me here?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. Then cleared his throat. “I mean—logically speaking, your presence has a statistically significant impact on my overall mood and cognitive focus.”

“Donnie,” you said, nudging his arm with your elbow, “just say you like me.”

He went red. Deep red. The color crept all the way to his bandana. “I—okay—fine. I like you. A lot.”

You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder. He froze for a second, then slowly, slowly relaxed under the pressure.

“I like you too,” you whispered.

Donnie didn’t say anything, but you felt it—the soft exhale, the way his hand curled just slightly closer to yours under the blanket. He didn’t need grand declarations. Not tonight.

You sat together in the tech-fort, surrounded by quiet buzzes and blinking lights, with the world outside temporarily short-circuited.

And honestly?

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

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mclarensangel · 11 months ago

Text

Our Girl

Warnings: body shaming, panic attack, insecurity, idiots in love, kissing, flirty comments, couple being obsessed with each other. if there is anything I missed, please let me know!

word count: 3.8k before images

You were in one of the hottest countries in the world with Lando. Abu Dhabi was gorgeous, don’t get me wrong. But boy was it hot. You had tried to pack clothes that would be good for the weather, but you didn’t want clothes that made you shapeless. Being friends with Lando meant that you would likely be on camera at least once, especially with the boy having the energy of a 5-year-old and being best friends with anyone and everyone on the grid. And so, with Lando being so well loved, you knew that if you were seen with him, then people would notice the big girl standing in the back constantly. Your outfit had to be perfect, at least to you. In your head, if your outfit had to be perfect to try and reduce the fallout that would no doubt come for you on Twitter.

You loved Lando, probably more than you should, not that you would tell him. But the women that he had been seen with, were gorgeous. You keep telling yourself that you're gorgeous too but these were model-worthy women, and that, as you had been told many times, were not. So this outfit had to be perfect. It had to be perfect for him, for you, for all the women that looked like you.

So this is how you ended up standing in a room with Lando’s baggage as well as your own, anxiety filling you after you had been told at reception that there was only one room left. And to make things worse? It only had one bed. This hadn’t been a problem before, having known him since you were 5, you had shared a bed plenty of times, but now? Now you were head over heels in love with the curly-haired man. And you had to pretend that you weren't. But that wasn’t your biggest problem right now. Right now, your biggest problem was getting ready and getting to the grid on time, you could tell Lando about the bed situation later. And anyway, there was a sofa, you could try and cover yourself up with the end blanket off of the bed, on the sofa. Lando would need the bed anyway, he has the biggest job to do here. And so to sum it all up, all of these reasons are what led you to stand in front of the mirror in the bedroom, nearly in tears as you looked at your reflection. You didn’t hate your body, in fact, you were your biggest fan, but the anxiety of everything was eating you up from the inside out. Every piece of fabric felt like it was clinging to your body. You have to take a deep breath you keep telling yourself.

Your phone ringing from the desk nearby pulled you from your anxiety-ridden trance. Picking up your phone you see Lando’s contact lighting up your phone screen. The image itself makes you laugh. The man had made it as a surprise to make you laugh when you were having a bad day a few weeks ago even though it had some pictures in it that he hated. And he wouldn’t tell you, but he would use the worst images of him in the universe again if it made you smile the way it did again.

Although the picture made you smile, the anxiety still bubbling within you made your thumb hesitate over the reject button before pressing the accept button.

L: Hello?

Y/N: Lando? What’s up? Is everything okay? Are you h-?

L: I’m okay, breath, I'm okay. I just wanted to ask what room I’m in.

Fuck.

Y/N: Uh, about that…

The line stayed quiet as Lando waited for you to continue, and realising that you weren’t, he tried to push you for your answer as gently as possible

L: yeah?

Y/N: Sotheysortofmessedupandtheresonlyonehotelroombetweenthetwoofusanditonlyhasonebed.

L: What? Remember what I said about breathing? Take a breath and then tell me, again. Okay?

Taking what might have been the biggest breath of your life you repeat yourself

Y/N: They messed up the rooms

L: okay?

Y/N: And there’s only one hotel room between the two of us

L: right…

Y/N: it only has one bed

L: Darlin’ I'm not seeing the problem here, we’ve shared a bed before. What room are we in?

Y/N: 410

L: Okay, I’ll see you in a minute okay

Y/N: Okay.

You both hang up the one at the same time, something that has come with being friends for such a long time. With a shaky breath, you throw your phone back onto the desk before making your way to hide in the bathroom knowing that Lando would want to know why you’re so anxious about sharing a bed all of a sudden. You catch yourself in the mirror again, and somehow you hate how you look even more than in the lights of the bedroom. Your hands feel cold all of a sudden, and that’s when you look down at them to realise that your hands are gripping the marble counter. The coldness of the counter does nothing to help calm down the feeling of anxiety that is threatening to bubble over. Tears begin to cloud your vision, building up over your vision, leaving everything blurry. You couldn’t help but feel that everything about your outfit was wrong. The corset is too tight, the skirt too long, the shoes too high, and your hair too tight. You had wanted to surprise Lando with your outfit. Hoping that maybe it might change the way he looks at you. But the more you look at yourself in the mirror the more you doubt it. Your brain reminds you of his friends, his ex-girlfriends, hell even his colleagues.

Trying to loosen the ribbon at the back of your corset, you felt like the room was closing in around you. The gesture of having an old McLaren t-shirt of his turned into a corset, his name and number being the main focus of it. You had tried to pair it with a silk black skirt. You wanted to try and match the skirt to the rest of the outfit by wearing some flatform sandals with a silver buckle. Around your neck, you were trying to put on a silver necklace with the initial ‘L’ hanging down from the chain. Your hair was pulled back from around your face and pulled into an elegant silver claw clip. From your ears was a pair of simple diamond studs that had a climber attached to it, that Lando had brought you for your birthday after he signed his first contract with McLaren. And finally, you had some simple silver bracelets, an orange beaded bracelet with LN in heart-shaped beads, and some simple silver diamond rings that your parents had gifted you for your 21st birthday. When you had planned the outfit, it all felt perfect, but now it felt oh so wrong. Too in your head about everything, you hadn’t noticed Lando enter the hotel room, let alone the bathroom. It wasn't till you felt his warm arms surround you that you even noticed he was there.

“Whats wrong darlin’,” he asks, his arms wrapped around your waist. His voice and warmth surrounding you made the tears finally fall from your eyes. Your anxiety finally bubbling over.

“Everything” you manage to get out before the sobs quickly follow. Lando doesn’t say anything, a thousand thoughts running through his head as he sees his best friend break down in his arms. He looks around the room, noticing your washbag by the shower, your makeup bag on the counter and a necklace near the edge of the sink. “Let's sit down,” Lando says, trying to take a few steps backwards to be able to lean against the wall. However, what he wasn’t expecting was for you to freak out as he pulled you back.

Your breath suddenly became laboured, the tears began falling quicker. And the safe feeling of Lando’s arms around you? Suddenly they all felt too suffocating. Why was he even here? Why did he ask you? He has plenty of other friends that were so much better looking. Was he trying to embarrass you by bringing you here? Trying to clear your sight, you look around the room trying to find the escape, but nothing was working and it felt like the walls were getting closer and closer to each other. You feel your body go into auto-drive as you take a few steps back. Suddenly, your back hit the glass of the shower door. The cold of the glass sends you even further into a spiral.

Lando stood in the corner of the room watching you. He had seen you have an anxiety attack before but never as bad as this. He was panicking inside but he knew that if you were able to see him and saw him freaking out, you would freak out more. Taking a deep breath, he made his way towards you once more.

“Y/N?” You heard him ask. But your mind was running faster than his McLaren car. You tried to respond but you couldn’t. Your vision was grey and your body felt like it was shaking enough for people to think that there was an earthquake.

Trying to think back to how he had calmed you down before during an anxiety attack, Lando finally remembered. He quickly ran out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, first running towards the bed, he ripped the heavy blanket from the foot of the bed before running to his suitcase, practically throwing it to the floor, he unzipped it and pulled the first hoodie he saw from the neat piles of clothes. Having all of the items he needed, he sped back to the bathroom, noticing you still spiralling near the shower. Not wanting to scare you he moved slowly towards you. He took his hoodie, placed it into your hands, and pushed your hands towards your face. He let out a breath of relief when he saw you pause for a second. But the relief didn’t last very long when the sobs became even harder. He knew what he needed to do next. He took the blanket and wrapped you in it as tightly as possible before pulling you into his arms once again.

You didn’t know what was happening but all you could smell was Lando and the pressure of something wrapped around you. The smell of him and the pressure helping you to slowly come back down to earth. You push your face further into whatever it was that smelt like him. The dizzy feeling not wanting to leave you be just yet.

Seeing you slowly calm down, Lando knew that this would probably be the best moment to pull you towards the floor. Holding onto you, he began crouching down, your body following him slowly. And when he managed to get to the floor, he leaned against the wall near the shower door and pulled you close to him. From here he could hear your breathing slow down, the sobs turning to sniffles. And when the sniffles slowly stopped, he spoke

“What's wrong, love?” he asked, his voice soft and yet full of worry. The girl in his arms doesn’t respond.

“Sweetheart?” he prods. There is a pause before the woman speaks. “You shouldn’t be seen with me” she almost whispers. Lando stills his hand from where it was running up and down her arm. “What?” he responds. His voice was almost angry. You didn’t respond. Lando pushed himself forward. Pushing you up so that he could look into your eyes.

You could feel the anxiety bubble up again as you saw so many emotions in his beautiful eyes. “Why shouldn’t I be seen with you? I mean look at you!” He speaks, his voice calm but confused. “Exactly,” you mutter hoping that he doesn’t hear you. But, he did. “Has someone said something to you?” he asks, trying to figure out what had caused you to feel this way. “I saw a comment on the Quadrant Instagram” you start, feeling the tears in your eyes begin to well up again. You keep your head down not wanting to make eye contact with the man in front of you. “It was the one where you’d asked me to model one of your t-shirts, where we were matching” you finish with a sniffle. You look at Lando quickly before looking away when you see the anger on his face. “They said, that you deserve better friends and that someone as big as me shouldn’t even be in the same room as you in case I crush you” you say, the feeling of getting what someone had said off your chest making you feel like you can breathe a little bit better. “And then the receptionist earlier, recognised me from the pictures where I’ve been seen with you, and she was nice to my face, but when I had gone behind the wall to put some stuff back into my backpack, I heard her say-” you spoke before being cut off by Lando’s angry voice “What did she say?” “she said” you pause “as if she thinks that god of a man would even sleep in the same bed as her fatass. He’s probably worried she’d turn over in the night and crush him to death. Fat bitch” By the end of your sentence, Lando had moved to stand up and was moving towards the bathroom door. “Please don’t leave me,” you said into the quiet room as Lando got to the door. He stopped with his hand on the door handle, his knuckles white as he tried to reign in his anger at what he had been told.

—--------------------- lando pov

How fucking dare that woman say anything about his girl. What gave her the right to say something so disgusting? So untrue? The door handle beginning to feel warm in his hand is what brought him back to reality. He turned to see the woman who had always been so strong, so self-confident about herself, in pieces on their hotel bathroom floor. It’s something he never thought he would see. And he didn’t know how to deal with it. Should he call someone? No. You wouldn’t want anyone to see you like this. He sighed, seeing you sitting on the floor, still looking so gorgeous, with your head down and leaning against the shower door. He moves to sit next to you again, sitting as close as possible to you. Close enough that he could smell your signature sweet perfume. Close enough that he can see the tear streaks on your cheeks. He saw you cautiously place your head on his shoulder, making him smile. He moves his arm so that you can cuddle up to him easier. His fingers trace the material of your shirt. Looking down, he realises it's a corset, and the sight makes him blush. The fabric of the material feels familiar to him. He pushes you to sit up a little bit. And in that moment, he realises. He realises that he has been in love with you. He has been since he was 14 when you were the first person to run to him to celebrate his CIK-FIA World Championship. Maybe he’d just been pretending this whole time that he didn’t love you, or maybe he didn’t want to believe it, in case it meant that he would lose you. He looks down at your outfit, finally noticing the corset properly. His cheeks heat up when he realises what it is. It was his top that he had signed for her after his first podium, he couldn’t believe that you would have kept the t-shirt this long and how you’d managed to keep it in good condition from the 2020 Austrian Grand Prix champagne shower. The corset had his surname (and he definitely hadn’t had dreams in the past of it being your surname too, absolutely not) written right at the top with his number underneath. He didn’t know yet, but if he spun you around his signature would be on the back. Then he saw the necklace hung delicately around your neck, the silver chain elongating your neck as it shone beautifully from the base of your neck. And one day he hoped that it could be his lips there instead, if you’d let him. It took him a few more seconds to realise that it was his initial that was hanging around your neck. The more he took you in the more he noticed the little details. The orange bracelet around your wrist, his initials. The earrings in your slightly red ears, the ones he had brought you. The rings that he had helped your parents choose for your 21st adorned your hands that he’d always loved were smaller than his. He took all of you in, finally seeing you. Finally realising that you were his girl. Looking into your eyes, he saw how red they were, and he wondered how many times you had cried because of his fans. “I'm so sorry” he whispered, raising his hands to place them between your neck and your jaw. “If I had known that my fans would make you feel like this I would never have ever started racing” He spoke quietly to her, his thumb rubbing back and forth gently on her cheek. “I love you so much” he told her. Never meaning anything more.

y/n pov —------------------------

The two of you had told each other multiple times that you loved each other. Your heart broke a little bit when your mind told you that he would only ever meant that as a sibling, or a friend at most. Your heart raced as you felt him rest his forehead against yours, his thumb still rubbing soothing swipes against your tear soaked cheeks. A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as you sat in the bathroom. “Can i tell you something?” Lando whispered, pulling back from you slightly, almost regretting it when he saw the worry return to your eyes. “Do you remember when we were 14?” he asked. The memories came flooding back, making a smile appear on your face. “I remember when you came running past the security, even past my parents and straight at me just as I’d gotten out of the kart. It was that moment, with your arms wrapped around my neck and my arms wrapped around you that I realised I was head over heels in love with you. I’ve been trying to keep it to myself for the last 10 years, but I can’t do it anymore. I need the world to know you’re my girl. I love you, more than racing, more than life, more than stroopwafel’s” he said, the smile getting bigger at the end of the sentence. “I remember nearing pushing you over with how hard i was hugging you and nearly being told off by your coach because we nearly fell onto the kart. I’d never seen you smile so big. But” you paused looking up at him, seeing the worry flash across his eyes at your statement “i fell inlove with you when you tried horse riding for the first time, and you fell off. You looked straight at me and you had the worst hair cut but you put your thumbs up at me and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to live in this world if you werent in it. I tried dating other people, thinking I would finally be able to get over you, but i’ve never been able to get over you. My exs all said that they could see how in love with you I was and they couldn’t compete against it. You’d always have my heart. And they’re right, Lando. I love you more than anything in this world. I’ve only ever been able to call you my man in my dreams” you spoke, blushing towards the end of your sentence.

“In your dreams, huh?” Lando teased, smirking. “Shut up” you mumbled, suddenly feeling very self conscious again. You felt Lando’s fingers under your chin, pulling it so that you would look up at him. “Lets not waste anymore time. Be mine?” he asks you, his eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes. “Lemme think about it” you teased. “I suppose I can spare some time for you, but it’s on one condition” you continued. “Which is?” he asked, eyebrow raised. “Kiss me”. And that he did. You have never had such a passionate kiss in your life. It felt like every missed moment, every almost moment was being poured into the kiss. And if the kisses were like this, you never wanted to stop kissing him. But unfortunately, Lando’s phone began ringing. He groaned into your lips, not wanting this moment to end. Ultimately, it was you that pulled away. “You should answer that, boyfriend” you said. The word making him smile as he pulled his phone from his back pocket. “It’s Zak, but he wants to video call” he said nervously trying to regulate his emotions enough to speak to his boss.

“Lando? Where are you? Are you still at the hotel? You’re lucky the hotel is literally across the street. Media starts in 10 minutes. Be here, or we will be having a talk.” the older man spoke, barely letting the younger man have a chance to get a word in.

“Yes, Zak” he said, still barely containing his smile. The men nodded at each other before hanging up the phone. Lando placed his phone back onto the floor before pulling you back into a kiss.

Begrudgingly, Lando pulled away, pushing himself to stand up. Then, he held his hands out to you. He managed to pull you up gracefully enough, and pulled you into him, pulling you in for another kiss, which made you begin to giggle. Your giggles set off lando’s giggles, and then you and Lando were holding onto each other, laughing. Lando moved his hands to hold your face again.

“I need to go, but I’ll get Oscar, Max and the Guys to send their girlfriends in. I know you’re anxious, but I promise you’ll love them, and they’ll love you. And,” he said pulling you into a quick kiss, again, “I’ll see you soon, Girlfriend”. The words made your heart flutter. Lando stepped away, one of his hands still holding onto yours. He turned, about to finally make his way out of the bathroom when he came turning back to you. He pulled you into another passionate kiss. And as he pulled away he whispered into your ear “You look absolutely stunning, baby”. The pet name made you blush, which in turn made Lando smirk. He kissed your forehead, squeezed your hand and made his way out of the room. Away from his girl.

Lando to his boys:

wags group chat:

y/n posted to Instagram

ynusername: today I became part of something I never thought I would. I made friends younger I could only dream about making. Younger me, if you could see me now, we made it. In more ways than one. Thank you @/landonorris for sending this angels my way and also for making me your girl.

landonorris: my girl

------ user 1: WHAT?!

------ user 2: we've been seeing this coming for years! FINALLY!

carmenmmundt: our girl

-------- landonorris: my girl

------- lilyzneimer: our girl x 2

------- flavy.barla: our girl x 3

------- francisca.gomes: our girl x 4

------- heidiberger_: our girl x 5

------- alexandrassaintmleux: our girl x 6

-------lilymhe: our girl x 7

------- iamrebeccad: our girl x 8

------- tiffanycromwell: our girl x 9

------- logjorup: our girl x 10

------ kellypiquet: our girl x 11

------ carolamtz1: our girl x 12

------ landonorris: MY GIRL

The corset in question (I've cropped my own face out, please no hate)

Let me know if you guys want a part two! And if you want to be tagged in part two!

#lando norris x plus size reader #lando fluff #lando x reader #lando norris #lando norris imagine #f1 x plus size reader #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic

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cllightning81 · 1 year ago

Text

Winners [MV1]

Summary : Max decides that it's finally time to put rumours to rest and share your relationship with the world.

Pairing : Max Verstappen x Ice Skater!reader, Reader x OC

Word Count : 0.8k

Faceclaims : Isabella Flores and Ivan Desyatov

Masterlist

Max Verstappen Masterlist

Max was jealous to start off with there was a connection between you and your partner -Luca- but that was just something that he learned to deal with over time. He started to understand that you put your life in Luca’s hands every time you stepped out onto that ice. If Luca dropped you wrong or if you fell wrong, that could be everything over for you, and he learned to accept that.

Everyone had warned you about not falling in love with your partner, and that was never exactly a problem. You tried it once, but the connection wasn’t a dating connection. It was a trust connection.

Finally, your competitions and Max’s races finally lined up - Miami - it allowed you to visit a race, and Max visited one of your competitions. Luca decided to join you because there was nothing better to do.

Walking into the paddock laughing with Luca, Max passed you with a couple of members of the Red Bull team. He reached his hand out, and you took it. He pulled you forward with a smile. His arms wrapped around your neck to hold you close. One hand sliding down your back and into the pocket of your jeans

“What are you doing, Max?” You whispered, looking up at him.

“I think it’s about time we share all of our relationship with the world and not just the part we were planning on” Max replied, and you looked up at him, eyes wide.

“You want to go public more than just dating?” You asked as he took a step back

“Yeah, I left a little surprise in your back pocket. GP and Rupert are waiting for you in the garage. They’ll get you both sorted” Max walked away, and you turned back to Luca and started walking. Your hand reaches into your back pocket to see what Max had left in there. Your engagement ring.

Max had proposed a few months ago, but everything about your relationship was private. Only people close to you knew about it.

“You’re doing that today?” Luca exclaimed, hand resting on your lower back as he led you into the Red Bull garage. Slipping the ring onto your left ring finger, you nodded

“Max decided it was time, and if he’s ready, then we’re doing it because I’ve been ready for months” You smiled. GP greeted you with a hug as the SKY TV and F1TV cameras panned into the garage. Luca and yourself showing up on the TV with your names written in the bottom of the screen as Rupert handed you both a pair of headphones connected to the radios that also block out the noise for when the race starts.

Luca’s hand stayed protectively on your lower back until Max came back into the garage. Max wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pressing a kiss to your head with a smile

“I need to go get ready. I’ll see you before I get into the car” Max explained

“Luca make sure she’s safe” Luca nodded

“Obviously, wouldn’t let anyone or anything hurt her” Max hummed in response to Luca and walked away to his driver's room. Luca and yourself walked over to the VIP corner bit they had and sat down.

It felt like forever until Max kissed you before getting in the car watching the race in person was terrifying. Max made his way up the grid from P9 to P1, also setting the fastest lap. His trainer walked over after the race

“I’ll take you down to the podium Y/N. Luca, you coming?” He asked as you got up

“Made a promise I’d keep her safe so I’m coming” Luca laughed. Luca’s hand rested on your waist you kinda leaned into him as Rupert led you both down to the podium. Surprisingly, even while being in the public, eye crowds were the worst thing you’d ever come across.

Standing at the front of the barrier, when Max got out of his car, he jumped into the arms of his team before moving along to greet you. His hands rested on your jaw as he leaned forward and kissed you. You smiled into the kiss before he pulled back

“You did so great love” You smiled, holding his hand

“I’m so glad you’ve finally been able to come to a race” He smiled

“You get weighed and that trophy so we can celebrate later” You pushed him away as he laughed turning to the podium before you knew it the Dutch anthem was playing through the speakers the team cheering for Max and Checo during the Austrian anthem. Walking back to the garage, cameras were now focused on you and Luca after your helmet kiss with Max.

Getting into the garage, Max pulled you into a sweaty champagne covered kiss one with true meaning this time. Your hands wrapped around his neck as his rested around your waist, pulling you closer to him

“Looks like we’re both winners here” He pulled away, referring back to you and Luca winning your competition the other day. Winning felt great, but nothing would ever feel better than being able to be in public with Max sharing how much you truly love him with the world.

Yourusername

yourusername Just a couple of winners this week. I love you so much, Max, and I'm so happy to spend the rest of my life with you. Luca, I have the most respect for you being able to deal with us over the last week.

There's nothing more I want in this world than to continue skating and spending the rest of my life with you and start creating our future even with Luca as our adopted son.

tagged : maxverstappen1, LucaSkating

Liked by maxverstappen1, LucaSkating, redbullracing and 2,283,192 others

View all 392,239 comments

maxverstappen1 : I love you so much, Schat. We're gonna be a power couple winning all these competitions with our adopted son nearby

↳ yourusername : Baby, you're gonna make me cry

landonorris : Congrats to the couple. Never thought I'd see the day where Max settles down

redbullracing : Looks like we need to get you and Luca a Red Bull sponsor now

↳ lucaskates : Please, please sponsor us. I'm begging

user1 : WHAT?! I THOUGHT Y/N AND LUCA WERE TOGETHER

user2 : OMG, THIS IS CRAZY WHAT IS HAPPENING

user3 : Wait? So, Y/Nca aren't really a thing?

Tag List

@bearryyy

@thewannabewriter

@lozzamen3

@barcelonaloverf1life

@hiireadstuff

@mxdi0

@f1kenzzz

A/N : I might write a part two if anyone's interested in it. My only problem is that I know nothing about ice skating and only had this idea from the movie I was watching. But if it's requested, I'll do it.

#f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 smau #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv33 x reader #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen smau #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen fluff

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swiftiethatlovesf1 · 7 months ago

Text

Unspoken Melody p.1

Hi guys, here's a new story about Oscar and YN, a famous pop star. Let me know what you think :) If you want to read more of my stories, here's my masterlist.

Two drivers, one unforgettable concert, and a chance encounter with a pop sensation that leaves Oscar questioning everything he thought about music—and maybe even himself.

Oscar leaned against the wall of the car, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Lando fiddle with his phone.

“I still don’t get why you dragged me here,” Oscar said, raising an eyebrow.

“Because you need to live a little,” Lando replied with a grin. “And trust me, you’ll thank me after tonight.”

Oscar rolled his eyes but didn’t push further. He wasn’t a fan of pop music, and this YN person, though apparently a big deal, wasn’t even on his radar. All Lando had told him was that she’d invited him to her concert as a thank-you for being in her latest music video. When Lando added a casual, “You’ll love her,” Oscar had scoffed.

The venue was already buzzing when they arrived. Lando, predictably, had VIP seats right in the center. Oscar couldn’t deny the setup was impressive—the lights, the crowd, the electric energy that pulsed through the arena. Still, he kept his expectations low, determined not to get swept up in the hype.

Then, the lights dimmed, and the crowd erupted into cheers. A spotlight illuminated the stage as the first chords of a song Oscar didn’t recognize echoed through the arena. And then he saw her.

She walked out with a confident grace, her voice captivating from the first note. Oscar felt a jolt run through him, like he’d just been plugged into the very power grid lighting up the stage. Her presence was magnetic, her smile dazzling under the glow of the stage lights. He couldn’t look away.

“See?” Lando nudged him with a knowing smirk. “Told you.”

Oscar ignored him, his focus entirely on YN. She moved effortlessly, her voice weaving through the air like it was meant to be there, commanding everyone’s attention. For the first time, Oscar understood what people meant when they said someone was a star.

By the time the concert ended, Oscar’s hands were sore from clapping. Lando shot him a smug glance as they stood to leave.

“You were into it,” Lando teased, elbowing him in the ribs.

“I wasn’t—” Oscar started, but the lie died on his lips. He had been into it. More than into it.

“Well, you’ll be glad to know we’re not done.” Lando pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. “We’re going backstage.”

“What?” Oscar’s stomach flipped. “Why?”

“To say hi, obviously. She invited me.” Lando rolled his eyes. “Don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m not being weird,” Oscar muttered, though his pulse was racing. The thought of meeting her up close, of hearing her speak directly to him, felt like more pressure than being on the starting grid of a Grand Prix.

Lando led the way to the VIP area, breezing past security with a casual confidence that Oscar envied. Oscar, meanwhile, felt like his legs were made of lead as they walked through the backstage corridors.

The VIP lounge was smaller than he expected but no less glamorous. Laughter and conversation filled the room, but Oscar barely registered it. His gaze zeroed in on her instantly. YN stood near the bar, chatting animatedly with a group of people. She was even more stunning up close, her smile as radiant as it had been on stage.

“Lando!” she exclaimed when she saw them. Her eyes lit up, and she crossed the room to greet them.

“YN!” Lando pulled her into a friendly hug. “Amazing show, as always.”

“Thanks.” Her gaze shifted to Oscar, and for a moment, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. “And you must be…?”

“Oh, right.” Lando clapped Oscar on the shoulder. “This is my mate, Oscar. He’s a driver too. Not in music videos, though.”

Oscar’s face burned. “Hi,” he managed, his voice embarrassingly soft.

“It’s nice to meet you, Oscar,” she said, her smile warm. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“Yeah, it was… incredible,” Oscar admitted, his usual cool demeanor completely abandoned.

“Glad to hear it.” She tilted her head slightly, studying him. “You look a little nervous. Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

Lando burst out laughing, and Oscar shot him a glare. “I’m not nervous,” Oscar said quickly, though his voice betrayed him. “Just… impressed.”

Her laughter was light and genuine. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

For the rest of the night, Oscar tried to play it cool, but every time YN spoke to him, his heart raced. As they left the lounge, he couldn’t shake the way she had smiled at him, how easy it had felt to talk to her despite his initial nerves.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Lando asked as they walked down the corridor toward the exit. He had his usual smug grin plastered on his face.

Oscar gave him a half-hearted glare. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Maybe a little,” Lando admitted with a chuckle. “But you’ve gotta admit, I was right. She’s amazing.”

Oscar sighed, his expression softening. “Yeah, she is.”

They stepped out into the cool night air, the muffled sounds of the crowd still buzzing behind them. Oscar shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at the ground as they walked toward Lando’s car. His thoughts were a whirlwind of her laughter, her voice, and the way she had looked at him like he wasn’t just some guy tagging along.

Lando unlocked the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. As Oscar slid into the passenger side, Lando glanced over at him with a smirk.

“You’ve got that look,” Lando teased.

“What look?” Oscar frowned.

“The ‘I’m completely smitten’ look,” Lando said, leaning back in his seat with a laugh. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

Oscar groaned, tipping his head back against the seat. “I’m not smitten.”

“Sure, mate. Whatever you say.” Lando started the engine, but before pulling out, he added casually, “Just so you know, she has a boyfriend.”

Oscar blinked, the words hitting him like a splash of cold water. He sat up straight, turning to look at Lando. “What?”

“Yeah, some actor guy. Been together for a while,” Lando said, his tone nonchalant as if he hadn’t just crushed Oscar’s very fragile, very unexpected hopes. “She doesn’t talk about him much, though. Likes to keep it private.”

Oscar stared out the window, a strange mix of relief and disappointment settling in his chest. Relief, because it meant YN’s warmth and attention toward him had been nothing more than her natural charm. Disappointment, because, well… maybe he had been a little smitten after all.

Lando glanced at him as they drove off, his grin softer now. “Don’t overthink it, mate. She’s just one of those people who makes everyone feel special.”

“Yeah,” Oscar murmured, forcing a small smile. “Guess so.”

But as they merged onto the highway, Oscar couldn’t help replaying the evening in his head. YN might have been unattainable, but she had left an impression he wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

Part 2

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 #lando norris #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri

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ilium-ilia · 3 months ago

Text

As Your Skin Gives

ghoap x fem!reader | pet!au | masterlist

Chapter Three: bonnie

tw: non-con

Department stores always have a synthetic scent to them.

Simon’s stomach twists as he stands in the midst of one with his arms crossed over his chest. Rubber and animal feed hangs heavy in the air around him as he huffs. This is the last place he wants to visit after a long day of butchering animals and cutting them into palatable pieces, but there’s something he needs. Something that proves to be difficult to find. Plastic is incorporated into everything these days—it's weaved into food bags and molded into anything one can think of. Cheap trash. Something that breaks too easily, unlike flesh and metal.

Dark eyes scan the rack of dog collars in front of him with disappointment as nothing but plastic and nylon stares back at him. Fluorescent reflective yellow, glittery princess pink—disgusting. They’re poorly crafted; simple items that will fray and break within no time. Putting either of his pets into something so gaudy seems inhumane, and his nose twitches underneath his mask at the very thought.

No, he needs something more dignified. Something real.

Thick-soled work boots hit the concrete floor with a dull thud as Simon rounds the other side of the rack. It takes everything in him not to scoff at the plump purple faux leather collar that greets him on the second row, but as his eyes meander downwards, he finally catches sight of the good stuff. Dark cow skin tanned and conditioned into lovely leather, coupled with a smooth, malleable interior for comfort. His knees creak as he bends down and reaches a hand towards one of the collars. Smooth—it smells leagues better than the synthetic bands a few rows above.

Once he makes his choice of a dark brown leather collar, Simon straightens himself before cutting through the store. There’s only one more thing he needs to retrieve before returning home.

Your name.

The engraving machine sits at the ready with a flashing LED screen with photos of dogs and cats cycling through the monitor. There’s an array of different shaped tags that the machine offers, but Simon isn’t interested in any of them. Dog bones, stars—all of it. Cliche. Annoying. Though he’s certain Johnny would like for you to have the heart shaped tag, he opts to go with a simple circle.

The screen prompts him to type a name to be engraved into the metal. Simon’s thick fingers tap on the electric keyboard.

B. O. N. N. I. E.

Bonnie.

Of course, Simon knows your other name. Your old name. The one that’s on your lease and etched into your driver’s license. The one your mother always coos when you talk on the phone together. It doesn’t suit you, and you’re under his care now. After all, a new life demands a new name.

As the machine whirs and whines in front of him, Simon sneaks his phone out of his pocket. Several customers mill around the aisles behind him as he opens an app that sports a house-shaped icon where he’s instantly brought to a live feed of the rooms in his home. The videos illuminate in a grid on his phone, and though the images are too small to clearly see the contents, he knows exactly where he can find you and Johnny.

Clicking on the live feed from the bedroom, Simon nearly smirks when the video pops up on his screen. Johnny has you nearly naked on the bed with nothing but a tank top to cover your torso. He’s stradling your chest as he shoves his cock into your mouth, leaving your hands to pound against his stomach as your legs flail from underneath him.

Simon knows just what he would hear if he turned the audio on. Even now in his mind he can hear Johnny’s pathetic grunts and your gagging and panting as you struggle to suck in air. It’s not his first round with you that day, and Simon doubts it’ll be the last. Simon’s watched the cameras like a hawk all day since he left for work. He witnessed every second of Johnny fucking your thighs. Pathetic. Almost cute. So close to your cunt, yet not quite the real deal.

He has to make sure his pup listens to the rules, even when he’s not around. He would hate to get rid of you if the silly pup had fucked you properly.

The machine in front of him beeps, signaling the completion of your freshly engraved name tag, yet Simon’s eyes refuse to look away from his phone. Johnny’s hips begin to stutter, and with one final push, he presses his cock down your throat. Your body trashes as you try to squirm from his grasp, but Johnny’s weight keeps you pinned to the bed as he throws his head back.

Simon can nearly hear the groan in his mind. His fucked out, mouth open gaze trains on the ceiling as his spend trickles down your throat. Eventually, his legs give out, sending him collapsing onto the bed next to you, cock pulling out of your mouth in the process.

Once you’re free from Johnny’s weight, you sit up as coughs rattle your body. Even through the graininess of the camera, Simon can see the spit and cum dribble down your chin and onto the mattress. He huffs as he watches the moisture soak into the duvet—yet another mess that he’s not excited to clean up when he gets home.

Simon turns his phone off with a sigh before he finally retrieves your tag out of the machine. His thumb grazes over your new name. The letters are cut so deep that he can feel the texture as the metal splits and widens. Nodding, he pockets it along with his phone before going to pay for your collar.

The bold cashier that is unfortunate enough to serve Simon looks at him with his towering height, intimidating mask, and concerning choice of merchandise with what can only be described as faint disgust accompanied by caution. Simon doubles down on his cold expression. His eyes trace over the man’s features, counting the ten different ways he knows how to filet a human. Even now he can see how easily his knife could sink into the socket of his shoulder and how a simple twist would get the limb to pop free. A flash of silver is all it takes to slice through tendons and ligaments—Simon could have the man ready for shipment by the top of the hour.

Neither of them speak as the cashier scans the collar, but Simon wishes that he could grab his knife instead of cash when he’s asked to pay for it. Animals shouldn’t look at owners like this—as if he was a monster.

If an animal wasn’t a pet, then the only look he should receive from them is fear.

Instead, he grabs the collar from the counter the moment the man takes his money, and he doesn’t look back as he exits the store, not even as the clerk calls after him asking about his change.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here (tentative of patreon tos)

#ilium writing #sr ilia #jm ilia #pet!au #ghoap x reader #ghost x soap x reader #ghost x reader x soap #female!reader

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wroetolando · 3 months ago

Text

𝙸𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚢 𝚂𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 | 𝙼𝚅𝟷

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: max verstappen x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where max realizes his feelings for you after a scary crash and a quiet, vulnerable moment between you two. What starts as a rivalry evolves into something much more meaningful

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: hold me while you wait - lewis capaldi

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: mentions of injury and medical procedures

. ・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The crowd roared, deafening in its noise, the cheering and chanting of the spectators mixed with the ear-piercing hum of the Formula 1 cars zooming down the track. The air was heavy with tension, and the excitement hung thick in the air.

You'd been in the F1 press for a few years at this point, yet each race remained the first. The energy of the sport, the speed, the tactics—it all contributed to the pull. But even though you loved your job, there was always one part of it that frightened you half to death: seeing one of the drivers you'd come to respect or even know on a personal level take unnecessary risks.

And there was no driver who had caught your attention more than Max Verstappen.

It wasn't just his talent on the track that drew you to him, though that certainly was impressive. It was the intensity of him, his drive, and his determination to always reach and stretch, sometimes to the point of recklessness. You'd seen him ride all of it: the rushes of championship wins, the crashes of the losses that were impossible to climb out of from under, and all the in-between stuff.

But as the cars drove on to the grid to line up for another beginning, it was a terrifyingly familiar feeling that swept over you: the one that caused you to question if this would not be a regular race.

You attempted to brush it off, like you did when you needed to be courageous for the team. It was nerves, right? It was nothing. You didn't expect something would happen today.

And then the race began.

Max's vehicle was in the lead, as it always was, the engines thundering through the air as he and the others zoomed down the track. Your eyes were glued to him as the vehicles zoomed around the track, each lap more dangerous and faster than the last. You watched closely to the action, making sure you caught every detail for your story, but you couldn't shake the queasy sensation in your stomach.

And then it did.

Max's vehicle spun out of control, a flash of red and blue as the car slid and careened into the barriers. The crunch of impact was sick-making. The shocked silence from the crowd.

Your heart stopped beating in your chest.

You could hear the words in your earpiece before you could see them: "We've lost the feed. Something's gone wrong with Max's car."

Time was frozen. The pit crew, the medics, and the engineers were racing to the scene, but it was the wait—the waiting—that almost killed you. The silence after the wreck was worse than anything. You couldn't move, couldn't think. All you could do was stare at the empty track and hope against hope that you would see Max's car emerge from the rubble.

Seconds passed, becoming minutes.

Finally, the screen flickered on again, and the camera caught Max being led out of his car. His helmet was removed, his head down as he was walked towards the medical center.

A rush of relief swept over you, but it was quickly replaced with concern. Was he okay? Was he shaken, or was it something worse than that?

Before you could even process, you were racing to the medical center with the rest of the crew, your legs automatically on autopilot.

As you arrived at the door, the last thing you thought you'd hear was a voice. Max's voice.

"I'm fine. Just a little blow. Nothing I haven't been through before."

You stood stock-still where you were, the voice cutting through the thick tension that had been building up inside you.

But that was not the voice of someone who was okay.

The door creaked open, and there he was—Max Verstappen, on the edge of a gurney, his muscles tense, his hands grasping the sides of the bed as though he was holding himself together.

Your heart skipped a beat when you saw him. His cheek was bruised purple and there was a small cut above his temple, but it is his eyes that made you stand there gaping. They contained something more than pain.

"Are you okay?" you insisted, your voice betraying the terror you felt before.

Max looked up at you, offering a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll live,” he muttered. But his tone lacked its usual bravado.

You took a cautious step forward, eyeing the medical team that was still hovering nearby. They hadn’t cleared him yet, which made your stomach tighten.

One of the paramedics coughed, advancing. "Max needs to stay for observation a bit longer. He'll be fine, but we just want to make sure there's no concussion or worse."

You nodded, your gaze not wavering from Max. He shifted on the bed, clearly uncomfortable with being under examination.

"I'm fine," he once more insisted, this time emphatically, as if attempting to convince himself.

"Yeah, I know," you told him softly, attempting to calm him. "But that does not mean that you do not need to rest."

Max looked at you fiercely for a second, his mouth compressing into a line. He did not want to be told this, but you could see it in his eyes—the exhaustion, the growing worry that the crash had taken more from him than he was willing to admit.

You moved another step towards the bed, trying to lighten the mood a bit. "You're always like nothing hurts you, but I do know better."

His lips twisted into something that was almost a smile, but it didn't last long. "It's just a punch. I've taken worse.".

There was stunned silence before you continued. "Max, how you crashed. that wasn't a small thing. I've seen drivers come down much harder than that, and I don't care if you are the toughest man on the grid. You have to listen to your body."

He looked at you, his eyes scanning your own. The defenses he'd built so many times crumbled, for an instant. Then he turned away, jaw set.

"Maybe you're right." His voice was softer now, quieter. It was as if the load of the crash had begun to fall on him. "I don't want to let the team down, though."

You sat next to him on the gurney, your heart heavy with the exposure he was allowing. Max Verstappen, the toughest competitor in F1, who never yielded, who always gave everything, was sitting before you with only fear in his eyes.

"You're not disappointing anyone by taking care of yourself, Max," you said softly. "The team needs you at your best. And you can't be your best if you're hurt."

His eyes met yours again, a flash of something—maybe realization, maybe gratitude—darting across his face.

For once, Max did not brush aside your concern. He nodded matter-of-factly.

"I'll take it easy. Just for a little while."

The relief that washed over you was almost suffocating.

. ・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

As the medical professionals kept watching and Max was cleared for a short break, you stayed by his side, offering silent support. The day had turned in a way you hadn't expected, and something inside of you began to change. There was something about Max that you hadn't noticed until this moment—the way his guard had dropped just enough to let you in. And although you didn't want to see him suffering, there was something else, too, that was different, something you couldn't quite pinpoint.

But one thing was sure: you would never look at Max Verstappen the same way again.

. ・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Max's stay at the medical center dragged on longer than either of you had anticipated. You didn't mind, though—there was a soothing quality to simply being there, sitting quietly alongside him. The bravado he normally radiated on the track had been stripped away, replaced with an unusual openness. It was something that only those close to him were privileged enough to observe, and you couldn't help but wonder if he was sharing more than he knew.

Finally, the rest of the team arrived, asking about him, expressing their opinion, and making sure everything was okay. But Max cared for no one but you. His focus was on you, and it gave you a knot in your stomach.

"Are you sure you're alright?" You asked again, concerned.

Max nodded, but it was a small motion, almost as if he were still processing the impact. “I’m good. Just… need some time to clear my head.”

You could see it now, more than ever—the way the accident had shaken him. Max wasn't shaken only physically, he was mentally trying to reconcile the vulnerability he'd experienced in that crash. On the track, he was invincible, but off the track, he was as human as the next man.

"Max…" you started, choosing your words carefully, "It's okay to not be okay, you know?"

His eyes moved in your direction. There was something in his eyes, a pool of emotion he never revealed. But he didn't speak right away. Instead, he shifted his position, breathing slowly.

"I hate feeling weak," he admitted, his voice low but sincere. "I don't want anyone to see me like this."

You leaned forward, your tone low and even. "You don't have to be perfect all the time, Max. No one's looking for you to be."

Max remained silent, but the tension in his body relaxed a little. He looked down at his hands, then up at you, his expression unreadable. There was so much he wanted to say to you, but you knew he wasn't going to say it yet.

The quiet was interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open, and in walked Christian Horner, team principal of the Red Bull Racing team. He looked at Max with a softened expression.

"Well, well," grinned Christian, clearly relieved to see Max awake and talking. "Looks like you survived the crash. The team's been frantic, you know."

Max just nodded but didn't talk any more than that. He wasn't the small talk type, let alone when it came to something like this. Christian's eyes flew back and forth between you and Max, probably understanding there was more to the story than met the eye.

"I'll give you two some space," Christian stated, his tone light but with a sense of understanding. "Max, just get some rest. We don't want you wearing yourself out."

As Christian left, the room felt slightly quieter. The seriousness of the moment seemed to return, and you could sense Max's unease. He was fine physically, but emotionally, he was a long way off. You didn't want to push him any harder. Instead, you sat in silence, content just to be there for him.

It wasn't long before Max spoke out himself.

"So, what's next for you?" He growled, his tone gruff. "You just waiting around for me to get back on track?"

You couldn't help but smile a little at his attempt to shift the topic from the openness he'd just shown. "Maybe. I've got lots of things to do, but you know I wouldn't leave until I knew you were okay."

Max raised an eyebrow, a flicker of his usual smirk. "Always the go-getter, huh?"

You smiled in silence, your head shaking. "I'm not here to baby you, Max. But, for real, you need to take this seriously. You don't even realize it now, but you've been through a lot."

He locked eyes with you again, his own eyes now more intense. "I know. I know. It's just. I've never let anyone in like this before."

Your heart skipped a beat. Max had never been one for letting his guard down, always putting on the front of tough, untamed driver. To hear him say so, even in a throwaway way, caused something fall into place within you.

"Max, you don't have to—"

But he cut you off, his voice gentler than it had been. "I know I don't have to. But I want to, okay? I don't want to keep pretending everything's all right when it's not."

The blunt honesty in his words struck a chord deep within you. Max Verstappen, the individual who had lived by pushing boundaries and staying ahead of the crowd, was now admitting his own limitation. And he was doing so with you.

"I'm here," you murmured, truly. "I don't require you to be perfect. You never need to hide with me."

Max turned away, his eyes taking in the walls as if the walls might bring some escape. But he did not go. Instead, he turned back to you, his eyes holding for a moment.

"Thanks," he said under his breath.

The moment was held in the air—heavy, but comfortable. Max did not like being exposed, but there was something about this moment, this realization between the two of you, that made all of it more real.

And after another couple of minutes of silence, Max sat up straighter. "Fine, I'm fine. Let's go. I hate being cooped up in here any longer."

You raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

He smiled at you crookedly. "Yeah. I've got a race to win."

You sighed, more out of amusement than worry. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

Max winked, his confidence reappearing. "Yeah, but you enjoy it."

All was well, for a moment, like all the tension which had hovered over them once, had dissolved. But both of you, in your heart of hearts, knew that the crash had served as a warning. And maybe, perhaps only just, the crash had altered the dynamics of the two of you.

The rest of the afternoon was a haze as Max was cleared to return to his hotel, though he promised to take it easy. You didn't have to remind him twice.

As you walked hand in hand back to the paddock, you couldn't help but get the impression that this was only just the beginning. Max's defenses were crumbling, and you were standing there, holding your breath, waiting for the moment when all would finally change.

You had no idea when it would happen or how, but for the first time, you were aware that maybe the hatred between you and Max wasn't the only thing that had been growing between the two of you.

. ・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The more days went by, the tension between Max and you slowly evolved into something new—something better. Max was more cautious than ever after the scare of an injury, but there was a unmistakable change in the way he treated you. You noticed it in the way his eyes softened when he made eye contact with you, the little but consistent touches—his hand grazing against yours or the occasional wink when no one was watching.

For you, it was a shock initially. Max had been your competitor, the one you competed against in every race, every test. But now, you were beginning to feel something different—a bond you hadn't anticipated forming. You didn't want to analyze it, but it was impossible not to.

The next race arrived sooner than you expected. Max was driving again, his face set as firmly as ever, but something was different about the way he drove now. He was focused, certainly, but there was a quality of calmness in his movements. It was not the frenzied drive he had displayed before, the need to overtake his opponents at all costs. There was a new type of concentration—one that appeared to sweep him, more than propel him, forward.

You were in the pit lane looking at him go around the track, his vehicle roaring past. His usual cocky grin was gone, instead, he wore a strict but imperturbable expression. When he finished it, he took the number one spot, as one would have expected, but this time, there was something different. It wasn't the win itself—it was the reaction.

He pulled up at the pit, and as he stepped out of the car, he glanced around at the cluster of mechanics, reporters, and crew. His gaze fell on you, at the rear, staring at him with keen interest. His lips twitched into a faint smile.

You couldn't help but smile back. You knew he had won, but somehow this was different.

Later that night, after the party and interviews with the press, Max found you again, this time in the team's private lounge backstage. You stood against the wall, aimlessly swiping at your phone as he approached you, his presence unmistakable.

"Hey," Max said his voice low but firm.

You glanced up, meeting his eye. "Hey. You were incredible out there today."

He shrugged offhand, but there was a warmth in his eyes. "You were watching?" he asked with a tone on the verge of teasing.

"Of course," you replied with a grin. "I'm not going to miss you winning the race again."

Max laughed, his voice deep and genuine. "It's nice to know that I have at least one fan."

You raised your eyebrow. "You have more fans than you know."

He looked at you with a sneering glance, and for a moment you saw something in his eyes—something deeper than the usual bluster.

"You know," he said, coming closer to you, "I've been thinking."

You raised an eyebrow. "About what?"

He paused, his eyes darting from your face to the ground and back up. "About… how things are different between us. After the crash, I didn't know if I should speak to you, or if I should just keep doing the usual thing. But it's been difficult not to want to speak to you. It's difficult to ignore how much I… well, care."

Your breath was frozen in your chest. This was not the Max Verstappen you knew—not this, but something else, something fragile.

"You're concerned about me?" you barely whispered.

He nodded, a look of earnestness on his face. "Yeah. I am."

There was the silence that seemed to hang between you, the weight of his words draped around you. You couldn't help but feel the growing connection that was present between you, and now with him accepting it as well, it felt like pieces were finally coming together.

You breathed. "I care about you too, Max."

His eyes eased at your words, and he took another step forward. His hand extended to yours, fingers brushing against yours before he folded them together in his.

"It's an odd thing, isn't it?" Max breathed. "I never imagined this between us."

"Neither did I," you admitted, smiling up at him. "But sometimes the best things are the ones you don't plan for."

Max's lips curled into a real smile, spreading across his face. "So what do we do now?"

You looked up at him, and the calm you hadn't expected. "We take it a step at a time. We're both here, and that's all that counts."

For a fleeting moment, it was just the two of you, the cacophony of the world outside muffled. Max's hold on your hand tightened, and you knew that things would never be the same. The competition that had defined you for so long was now superseded by something deeper—a connection that neither of you had anticipated.

Max moved in, his face against yours, and for the first time, you didn't flinch. In silence, he closed the space, his lips on yours in a slow, soft kiss.

It was simple, but it was all that mattered.

You pulled away, and Max leaned his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

"This is just the beginning, right?" you whispered.

He nodded, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah. It's just the beginning."

And in that moment, you both knew—whatever lay ahead, you were going through it together. No longer rivals, but something more.

. ・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

#max verstappen #max vertsappen fic #mv1 x reader #mv1 #mv1 imagine #formula 1 #formula one #red bull racing #red bull f1 #red bull max #red bull gives you wings #wroetolando

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eagerledscreen · 2 years ago

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The Latest Trends in Stadium LED Screen Technology

The craze of sports is not new. But the way we watch sports is changing. Yes, you read it right. Gone were the days when people watched their favorite sports on TV. Now people love to visit stadiums and want to watch their favorite players play live. But the distance from the ground to the sitting area is so great that sometimes the field is not visible clearly.

To solve this problem, a new technology is evolving: Stadium LED Screens. They offer stunning visuals, interactive features, and real-time updates. It makes your way of watching sports even better. This makes the viewing experience more exciting and engaging than ever before.

In this article, we are going to talk about the latest trend in stadium LED technology and look at some factors that are driving the growth of stadium LED screen technology. So, let’s get started.

Some of the Latest Trends

Ultra-high definition (UHD) resolution: These screens provide real-time images with every focus detail. These screens are mostly used on sports grounds because the audience wants to see every detail of the action.

High refresh rates: High refresh rates (120 Hz or more) reduce motion blur and make the viewing experience smoother and more realistic. It provides the audience with every single update in high quality and is basically used for fast sports like hockey and basketball.

HDR (high dynamic range): It used high-range color, which helps to provide realistic images and make them visible from a large distance. This is important for areas where there is more sunlight, as sometimes sunlight washes out color on traditional LED screens.

Curved Screen: These curved screens reduced the fisheye effect, which is most common on flat screens. It wraps around the viewers and provides a real-time experience.

Interactive screens: These screens are basically used for advertisement purposes in the stadium to make the audience interact through touch-screen, gesture control, or even voice command.

These trends are not only making sports interesting but also changing the way people watch sports. This technology is evolving better, and we expect to see even more innovation in the future.

Factors driving growth in stadium LED technology

In addition to the above trends, below are some of the factors that are driving the growth of stadium LED screen technology:

Increasing popularity of live sports

Growing demand for digital advertising

Falling cost of LED technology

Longer lifespan

Ability to control remotely

Energy efficiency

Stadium LED screens are the most interactive and engaging way to watch sports, and the growing demand will drive more innovation in this technology. These screens are not only best for stadiums but can also create a great impact if used for advertising purposes.

#Stadium LED Screen #LED Grid Screen #HD LED Display #HD LED Screen #Led Rental Display #Flexible LED Screen #Best LED Screen #LED Display Panel #LED Screen Module #Front Service LED Screen #Commercial LED Screen #Led Screen Companies

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wolveria · 7 months ago

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The Raven's Hymn - Ch 54

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Series Warnings: Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, violence, horror, death, monsters, human experiments, dark with a happy ending

Chapter Summary: "Trust me?" "Always."

AO3

Spotify

Against all odds and expectations, you made it to the archives without being attacked, waylaid, or harassed. Considering your company, even the most dangerous anomaly would hesitate before crossing paths with your group. 682 might not be back to his original size, but he was still deadly and unkillable, and 053 would mentally affect any humans before they ever caught sight of you.

Much like Safe Object Storage, the archives contained items that were labeled as Safe and needed minimum containment. What made them so lethal as to be buried deep within Heavy Containment was what they could do to a person when touched or perceived.

You glanced around the large foyer, doors surrounding the walls that led to different hallways and sections of the archives. It reminded you of 106’s dimension, of the circular room filled with gaping corridors that branched out into the darkness, and you shivered.

“So,” you began when the group came to a stop in the middle of the room, “do you know which way to go?”

It took 049 a moment to realize you were talking to him.

“I have never been here before, nor do I know of an exit—”

He tilted his head in a peculiar way, as if catching a sound only he could hear.

“What? What is it?”

“I do not know. There is something…” He trailed off, turning in a slow circle to face the plethora of doors. He came to a stop, facing one, and said, “There.”

“Is it the Pestilence?”

“No.” The answer came out faint, his gaze distant. “But it is… familiar.”

You exchanged a glance with 682, but the reptile said nothing, giving a roll of his eyes before turning toward the door. Apparently, he didn’t think much of 049’s choice.

Seeing as you were the one closest to the door with opposable thumbs, you strode forward and pulled open the door on its tracks. It moved with a pneumatic hiss of released pressure, and thanks to 079 in the system, didn’t require a keycard you lacked.

682 with 053 on his back went first, with you in the middle and 049 covering the rear. He closed the door behind you, and white light illuminated the long hallway. The power in this section had its own separate grid and had remained online during the breach.

Doors lined both sides of the corridor, first on one side and then another, alternating so no two doorways faced each other. They appeared to be made of thick concrete and steel, the size of their hinges and the hatch handles giving the impression of bulkheads or vault doors.

As you continued along the hallway, you watched 049. The idea that 035 might have been right about him knowing a way out made you more uneasy, not less. And the distant look in 049’s eyes began to change, sharpen with focus, and when he stopped before one of the doors, you knew you’d found your destination.

“Wait.”

049 paused, his hands freezing before grabbing the hatch. You eyed 682, and wisely decided to ask before reaching for his neck.

“I need to get out 079. Make sure it’s safe to open and the security measures have been disabled.”

“Fine.” The reptile, now the size of a small pony, eyed you with one large, yellow slitted eye. “I suggest you take care.”

“I promise I’ll be gentle.”

“Sarcasm does not become you.”

Instead of rolling your eyes, which was quite tempting, you offered a tight-lipped smile and pulled the bag strap from his neck and over his head, careful not to tangle it in his green mane. You looped the strap over your neck and shoulder before pulling out the laptop, and unable to find a nearby flat surface, you smiled at 053 and put the computer on her lap.

“Wanna say hi to 079?”

“Yeah!”

You flipped open the laptop and immediately the screen illuminated with the black and white image of 079’s projected image.

“079.”

“Reid. Your success and survival are an aberration.”

“I missed you, too. Can we get into this room safely?”

“Yes.”

“Great—”

“Hi, 079!”

The snappish computer didn’t have an immediate response to the girl’s outburst.

“…Hello.”

“We’re going on an adventure.”

“If that is what you quantify as a journey that will likely end in the deaths of everyone in this facility—"

“Okay.” You lifted the laptop from 682’s back. “We can catch up later. Anything else we should know before going inside?”

The computer glared at you as much as possible with a static face.

“Do not linger.”

Helpful.

“Thanks.”

“The Foundation has sent outside forces, and once they have finished reconnecting the skybridges, they will attempt to recapture the facility.”

“Oh. Right, thank you.”

You closed the screen, tucked it away inside its bag, and then stepped forward only to be blocked by a gentle hand.

“I will open it.” Despite the troubled look he held, his words were soft. “You’ve done more than your share to get us this far.”

You stepped back and nodded, mostly because you didn’t trust yourself to speak. Even now, with death all around you and danger chasing at your heels, your mind still went stupid and fuzzy when his eyes went all soft and warm like that.

049 gripped the hatch in his gloved hands and turned the handle. It might be unlocked, but with the strength it took for 049 to open it, you guessed it would ordinarily take two guards to turn the wheel and open the door. It rumbled on his hinges as 049 pulled it outward, the corridor wide enough to give plenty of room to the massive door.

He stepped through first, and you followed him into an entry way, beyond that a second doorway, this one constructed of two sets of glass to form an airlock.

Next to the airlock was an informational placard in an octagonal shape. At the top was the green lock symbol for Safe. Next, a weaving triangle that indicated it as a Warning risk class, and on the other side, a Keneq disruption class. Both were level three, indicating significant risk to an area the size of a city.

At the top of the placard read, ITEM#: 5917.

“049,” you said, “I don’t think we should—”

The glass door shattered as he hit it with the point of his elbow. He cleared the remaining fragments of tempered glass with his arm, the shards unable to pierce his thick hide.

No alarm sounded, proof that 079 had indeed shut down any security measures or alarms. The second glass door broke as easily as the first, reinforced glass not presenting much of a challenge to the SCP. He strode forward into the room, and you followed at a more cautious pace.

There were two objects contained within the space, and the muted lights overhead reminded you of a museum exhibit, especially with one of the objects housed under a glass display on top of a pedestal. The other was a large, oblong box in the middle, lying flat on the ground.

049 homed in on the smaller object, but you walked up to the coffin-like structure and read the plague melded onto the side: SCP-5917-1.

Another round of shattering glass filled the room as 049 broke the glass, and he opened the box and pulled out an intricately decorated silver scroll case with gold trim. He stared at it, mesmerized, and said, “This will guide us out of our captivity.”

You barely heard his words; you stepped onto the ridge around the base of the large box, recognizing it for what it was. It was an anomalous-corpse cryogenic chamber, and under the glass lid, you could see the body inside.

It was both humanoid and avian, with brown speckled feathers that disappeared under dark brown robes, and what you mistook for a mask was an actual curved beak.

“They look like… you.”

“There are no others like me.”

When you didn’t move or speak, only continued to stare at the bird-like being, 049 joined you, and he froze with a wide, confused expression.

“I do not understand.”

682 cast a narrow eye at the contents of the coffin and let out a horse-like snort.

“More crows. Not so special, are you.”

053 tried to reach for the lid, her eyes large and curious, but 682 pulled her away before she could do more than smudge the glass with her hands. 049 remained stock still, his own expression wide and on the edge of panic.

“Hey.” You rested your hand on his arm, your thumb stroking the course fabric of his skin. “It’s okay, we can figure this out later.”

You indicated the case in his hand, sealed with tiny silver latches.

“You said that will help us escape. Do you know how?”

He was lost, his words unsure as he met your eye, something pleading in them.

“I… I don’t know.”

“Come on, Doc,” spoke a voice from the doorway. “Use that birdbrain of yours.”

Lifting your shotgun, you spun and aimed, but 035 already had his rifle pointed at your chest.

“Now, now. Let’s not be hasty,” he crooned. “No one needs to be riddled with the un-fun kind of holes.”

You took in his appearance, changed since you last saw him. Black liquid oozed from the eyes and mouth of the mask, the decayed state of his body leaking through and staining the MTF’s attire. He was eating through his body too fast, and if you had to guess, he didn’t have much time left.

049 slipped in front of you, forcing you to aim the shotgun at the ground. Goddammit.

“I beg to differ,” he growled. 035 sighed.

“Are you still sore at me? Come now, it’s been over a hundred years. Let it go. I forgave you for that little crypt incident, didn’t I? Can’t we all just get along?”

“No.”

035 spoke louder and said, “Be a dear and convince your beau that I’m only here to help.”

You moved out from behind 049, out of reach before he could grab you, and aimed your shotgun again at 035. He mirrored the movement with his rifle, and you had the distinct feeling he enjoyed this game.

“What do you want?” you snapped.

049 gave you an unhappy look but stayed where he was. 682 was on the other side of the cryogenic chamber, hunched down as if to leap, but he didn’t. You didn’t think it was possible for the reptile to be unsure about anything, but as 053 clung to his back, eyes round with fear as she watched the oozing mask, you knew the reason why.

“Like I said before,” 035 said in a lazy drawl. “A ride out. And judging from the good doctor’s vacant expression, he doesn’t remember how to use the map.”

“What map?”

035 tilted his head toward 049, or more accurately, what was in his hands.

“That map.”

“Another one of your tricks,” 049 seethed.

“Is that poultry-popsicle a trick?” 035 gave him another curious look, his tone as equally interested. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

049 said nothing but narrowed his eyes, and 035 rewarded him with a mocking laugh.

“That’s all right, I couldn’t either. Being away from the Golden City tends to… distort one’s memories. But I sense your broken mind goes much deeper than that. They didn’t want you to remember anything. Not after what you did.”

He nodded toward the cryogenic chamber, his words laced with sinister glee.

“Are you saying 049 did that?”

“Is that what I’m saying?” 035 giggled at your scowl. “No, this death isn’t on his hands. But there are others, and their blood stains him down to the marrow. He’ll never wash it clean.”

“Falsehoods,” 049 growled. Maybe it was because of the corpse nearby, but you could imagine the snapping of a beak. “Your words are air, without substance. You speak lies and dress them as truths—”

“Am I lying about the feathers, Valens?”

049 went rigid.

“They itch, don’t they.” 035’s voice was low, equally seductive as it was insidious. “It must be torture. A constant prickling you can’t scratch, trapped under that hide like a coat of paint over rotted wood.”

“What’s he talking about?” you asked, and the unnerved look in his eyes made you far more uneasy than anything else. And how does he know your name?

“More tripe. A palaver of nothing.”

“Gods, you’re just as stubborn as you were a millennium ago.” Gone was 035’s amusement, replaced by genuine anger. “I’m trying to help, you old quack. If you don’t get that stick out of your ass, you’re going to die here, along with your precious assistant.”

049 started towards him, hands clenched at his sides as if he would like nothing more than to beat the mask into ceramic dust.

035 raised his rifle and aimed it directly at your face. 049 froze.

“I’ll do it. I’ll blow this place sky-fucking-high with a bullet to her skull. I actually like her, but I’ll see us all dead before I go back to that suffocating box.”

A sniffling noise interrupted the dead silence, and 682 released a low growl as the mask looked at the girl. Her face was teary as she clung to the reptile’s fur, and 035’s words went sharp.

“Really? You brought the brat and the dog, but you won’t take your old pal? And I was just about to tell you how the map works.”

“It’s okay,” you said to 053, your voice soft and hopefully calming. “We won’t let anything happen to you.”

035 sighed, and like a switch being flipped, his hot anger became sweeping melodrama.

“Come on, sweetheart. You know kids make me antsy, and I need a steady trigger finger.”

049 stiffened, and his fists curled at his sides.

“Fine,” you said. “We’ll help you escape.”

049’s head snapped in your direction.

“Splendid,” 035 cajoled, but you didn’t pay attention to him, and instead met 049’s eye. His look of surprise and then anger faded into something more confused the longer you stared.

“Just how long have you been planning this containment breach?” you asked, finally breaking eye contact as you turned back to the oozing mask. “Most of the Site-19 anomalies are here. That can’t be a coincidence. Even the Dream Man showed me the Site-19 breach and said it would be important.”

035’s head went at a tilt, and his curiosity was like unseen fingers trailing over your skin. You held back the shiver.

“Yes… if only we all made it. Too bad about 173; I assume that was your work. Shame. I liked that little creep.”

“Dýo.”

The mask immediately perked up at 049’s tired voice.

“Oh, I love it when you say my name. Yes, dear?”

049 looked like he would rather be flayed than say another word, but he still asked:

“How do we use the map?”

“I’ll show you just as soon as you put down the gun, Reid.” He leaned his head in your direction, leering. “You no longer need it, and I’m not fond of that murderous little glint in your eye.”

You moved your hand to regrip the stock of the shotgun, but 035 didn’t see you reaching for the laptop bag. You sent him an ugly look, just in case he was mistaken in the belief that you didn’t despise him completely, and you set the shotgun on the ground and kicked it out of reach.

“Attagirl. Now, Valens, if you would, take the scroll out of the case and open it up.”

049 hesitated, but with 035’s rifle steadily aimed at your head, he didn’t have a choice. He unlatched the glittering case and took from it a scroll of old brown parchment. He carefully unfurled it, and as he did so his eyes widened, his gaze transfixed on what lay across its surface.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” 035 purred like a satisfied cat. “Do you remember how to read it?”

“I…”

That was all 049 said, as if entranced.

You reached for the bag again, and with both of them occupied, neither noticed you slip SCP-178 from an outside pocket. But someone did. 682 appraised you with one yellow eye, noting the anomaly clasped between your fingers before meeting your gaze again.

“Well?” 035 said, his tone clipped. “You better not fuck this up, Doc. You’re making more than one trip.”

That finally snapped 049 out of his fixation, and he looked at the mask with a growing frown in his gaze.

“What?”

“You’re taking me out of here first. I’m not staying a minute longer, and I gotta make sure you really give it your best shot.” 035 nudged the muzzle of his rifle in your direction. “Otherwise, ton cœur gets left behind to live out her days in a cell. So, you know. All the pressure.”

049 gripped the edges of the aged scroll so hard you worried he would tear it.

“No.”

035 dropped his playful tone, and his grinning face turned into the tragedy mask within the blink of an eye.

“What’s the problem? If you don’t screw it up, you’ll be back within seconds.”

“Rot in hell, enfoiré.”

“Stubborn old cloaca—”

“Run!”

You shouted the word to 682 at the same moment you put on the 3-D glasses, and the room erupted into chaos and strange, screeching nightmares.

The reptile bounded for the door, carrying 053 on his back and out of harm’s way as they made it through the broken airlock. You dived for the sarcophagus, blocking 035’s line of sight and his ability to shoot you. But he was too occupied to care; several 178-2s had popped into existence inside the room. Almost seven feet tall with smooth bodies and oblong heads, dozens of tiny black eyes dotting their surface, their claws were poised for ripping, and the appendages on their back could act like cutting whips or lethal blades.

035 yelled what sounded like curses in several languages before he started to fire.

Bullets ricocheted across the tile floor and embedded into walls and lights. More screeches filled the room as some of the bullets hit their targets. Terrified he’d been hit, you peeked around the cryochamber to search for 049, and found him trapped in a corner, one of the entities attempting to stab him with its scythe-like appendages.

049 gripped the appendages, and blood oozed down his wrists from where the blades bit into his palms, cutting through his hide.

You yanked off the glasses, and the chromatic double image of the world returned to its normal focus and color, and you stuffed 178 back into the bag and then crawled across the floor. The 178-2s had stopped popping into existence, but the remaining creatures were here to stay, and they were pissed.

049 was losing the fight with the larger anomaly. A slice bled from across his chest, and his arms shook where the 178-2 pushed down, making a horrible gurgling noise as its blades cut deeper into 049’s palms.

You lunged forward and grabbed it by the ankle, and before it realized its fight was over, the entity dissolved and fizzled into nothingness.

A wave of exhaustion hit you, and you lowered your forehead to the ground in an attempt to stop the room from spinning. You hadn’t caught your breath before you were grabbed by the waist and hoisted off the floor, 049 pulling your arm over his shoulder before half-dragging, half-carrying you out of the room.

Bullets pinged off the metal frame of the airlock behind you. 049’s hands were slick with his blood, and it must have hurt to support your weight, but he didn’t stop until you were at the end of the corridor in the rotunda room with the doorways leading outward.

He leaned you against the wall, putting his own back to the surface, but he wasn’t catching his breath. He was waiting for something.

The gunfire had stopped. Either 035’s body had succumbed to the 178-2s, or he’d killed them all. Either way, you had to find the others. Did 049 still have the scroll?

You opened your mouth to ask, and snapped it shut at the sound of racing footsteps down the corridor.

049 reached out and snatched the barrel of the gun as soon as it appeared, wrenched it downwards, and punched 035 hard across his porcelain face.

035 let out a string of curses that might have been Greek, stumbled off balance, and 049 grabbed him by his covered throat and slammed him against the wall.

“Son of a bitch—"

049 snapped his neck.

Whatever else 035 wanted to say, he wouldn’t be saying it now. 049 let his limp form slide to the ground, the legs splayed out like a broken doll, and he released a held sigh.

“I have waited a long time to do that.”

You also sighed, too tired to have patience for their thousand-year grudge match. You knelt next to the body and set the bag against your knees, and then you carefully pulled the mask off the corpse’s face. Nothing remained but a black, oozing sludge pile.

“What are you doing?”

The mask itself, stained with greasy pitch tears a moment ago, was now pristine and white in your hands.

“Taking him with us.”

“Tell me this is a poor jest.”

You looked up, but at the sight of his wounds still trickling blood, your irritation softened into a need to reach out and touch him. But you didn’t, not yet.

“Better us than the Foundation. He’s too dangerous to stay here. 035 trapped me in your containment chamber.”

“Pardon?”

“He manipulated at least one researcher to make it happen.” You swallowed hard. “Kenneth locked me in your cell, and that’s only what 035 has admitted to. Knowing him, he has more personnel under his sway. Maybe by removing him, they have a chance of being freed of his control.”

If they survived. Was Kenneth still alive? You couldn’t think of the alternative, not right now. You were mentally worn, trembling with physical exhaustion, and approaching the edge of what your sanity could handle.

049 watched you for a long moment, and then his shoulders lost their rigid edge.

“I will defer to your judgement.”

You placed the mask in the bag, using a separate pocket. The last thing you needed was for 035 to try and wear 079 like a body. You slung the laptop bag over your shoulder, and after a moment, you took 035’s rifle as well. Once you were on your feet, you reached for 049’s hand and gently squeezed his fingers, mindful of his injuries.

“Thank you.”

He smiled with his eyes, and you quickly looked down. You laid his knuckles across your palm and spread open his fingers, examining the wound more closely. The blade had sliced deep, and you were sure his other hand wasn’t much better.

Reaching for the bottom hem of your gown, you tore off two long strips, uneven and a poor substitute for a real bandage. You wrapped it around one hand, careful to cover the wound and tie it off tight before starting on the other. 049 allowed you to do this without a word, a compliant patient, even as he looked at you in a way no patient should.

“I know you two have a history,” you said, still cradling one of his hands even though you’d finished treating both, “but once we escape, I’ll find a way to safely secure him and—"

An explosion nearly rocked you both off your feet, and rumbling followed in an aftershock, deep within the bones of the facility. The growling screams of nearby 178-2s joined in with melodic cacophony, and a second shockwave sent you scurrying for the security desk. After yanking out the ethernet cable from the computer and inserting it into 079, you opened the lid and yelled, “What happened!”

Instead of responding with words, a surveillance feed flashed onto the screen showing a man on fire. He roamed down a hallway, leaving a conflagration of melting panels and combusting wall insulation in his wake.

“That’s SCP-457,” you said. Shit.

“At the current exponential increase of catastrophic events, this facility will be uninhabitable within a quarter hour. It is statistically unlikely the Foundation will be able to retake and salvage Site-20.”

“Where are 053 and 682?”

He showed you another corridor, and your heart fell. The burning man was either stalking them, or simply going in the same direction, but either way, you were cut off from reaching them unless you went straight through the anomaly.

“How do I get there?”

“I will guide your way.”

The room plunged into darkness, and with a low rumble, one of the heavy doors slid open, the corridor behind it illuminated with a trail of fluorescent lights. It was like the lit catwalk to 682’s cell, an unwelcome reminder.

After tucking 079 away, you took off down the corridor, making sure 049 was right behind you. The rifle you’d taken off the MTF body grew heavy in your hands as your strength continued to flag, and eventually you left it behind. You doubted bullets would harm an anomaly like 457 anyway.

It was easy to pick up his trail, the corridor blackened and still burning like a tunnel to Hell. The heat coming from the flames was considerable, but it wasn’t scorching like you expected, and you stepped closer.

049 took a quick step toward you, his eyes wide with fear at what you were about to do, but you walked into the flames before he could stop you. The fire licked your feet and legs, but it didn’t burn you or your clothing.

You looked back at 049 and held out your hand to him.

“Trust me?”

He glanced from your hand to your face, and his eyes were far warmer than the flames.

“Always.”

He took your hand and walked into the fire. The flames caressed his robes but didn’t burn them, and he followed you through the path of destruction, trusting that you would keep him alive with a single touch.

Now instead of following 079’s hallways of light, you followed 457’s corridors of flame, until eventually you rounded a corner and the burning man was there. He had no features to speak of, his entire body glowing white-hot, but even without eyes you sensed his gaze as he slowly turned to face you.

You paused, swallowed down your nervousness, and continued forward. The entity remained in your path, the flames around him hungry. You were forced to stop in front of him, and you gripped 049’s hand harder. You knew you were hurting him, but at this range without your protection, he would burn to ash within seconds.

457 continued to stare at you, but it didn’t feel like a challenge. It felt like he was waiting for you. You couldn’t explain the irrationality of it, but that thought scared you more than burning.

“Move.”

For a moment, you didn’t think the anomaly would listen. You could erase him, just as you’d done to 173, but you couldn’t do it while touching 049. You’d learned that hard lesson with the anomalous patient. But if you released 049, he would die.

Another few seconds passed, and you considered turning back, but then the anomaly stepped aside. He was letting you pass.

Come with me, you could almost sense the anomaly saying. Come with me, and we will burn it all.

No, you thought. I already have.

You walked past the burning man, and the heat that radiated from him ran hotter than any of the flames at your feet, and you wondered if you reached out if he would burn you.

But you held onto 049 and made it through the fire. 457’s gaze lingered on your back until you were out of sight. Neither of you stopped until you reached the corner where 682 and 053 were trapped against a containment door sealed shut. From the deep gouges around the edges of the door, 682 had tried to claw it open but lacked the strength of his full size to do so.

682’s mane was singed, but otherwise they were unharmed. The girl leapt and hugged you around the legs, and there were tear-tracks through the soot on her cheeks. Smoke filled the corridor ahead of the fire, and it burned your eyes as it clogged your throat. The fire might have been anomalous, but the smoke was from the burning of real material.

You coughed and held the neckline of your gown over your mouth, but the others weren’t affected by the rapidly darkening air. It was another reminder that despite your abilities, you were still very human.

“Hold onto my robes. I shall need both hands.”

You looked up in time to see 049 pull the scroll case out of his robes. You didn’t know how the parchment, presumably a map, was supposed to help you escape, but 049 seemed confident it worked by touch.

Hooking one arm around 053 and hoisting her onto your hip, you held your other around the crook of 049’s elbow. 682 sunk his claws into the hem of his robes and said, “Do not fail, crow.”

049 ignored the reptile’s verbal barbs and actual claws, and rolled open the scroll until it was held aloft between his hands. On the other side it looked like a blank canvas of old parchment, but on this side, it displayed a view of the night sky, constellations twinkling and nebulas swirling.

Your head ached, but you didn’t look away even when the vertigo threatened to tip you forward and swallow you whole.

And then you jolted forward, sounds and colors and air bleeding together and rushing past. You held 049’s arm tight against your cheek, scared if you lost your grip you would be tossed into the whirling cosmos around you.

And then you fell. Not far, maybe a foot or two, but it was enough for your knees to buckle and throw you to the ground. You immediately curled so you wouldn’t land on 053, but your landing was soft, cushioned by something that littered the ground.

Leaves. Brittle red, gold, and orange autumn leaves.

053 darted out of your arms, squealing and giggling as she leapt into another pile of leaves. 682 spotted the girl and sat close by, licking his paws as if entirely unbothered, so you let her go and rolled onto your back, still trying to catch your breath. The chill air bit at your skin, but after the heat of 457’s destruction, it was welcome.

You must have been lying on some kind of natural forest path or trail, because the sky yawned above you, bordered by autumn-dressed trees. You’d forgotten how blue the sky was.

You let out a single laugh, quiet and disbelieving, and then a louder bark, and you covered your mouth but couldn’t stop giggling more. You felt drunk, heady and euphoric.

And then you looked to your left and saw him. The sun had just broken through the trees, and the morning light painted 049’s robes in dusky black, his face angled toward the sun as he closed his eyes, basking in the natural warmth he hadn’t felt in years.

You just… watched him. Far more mesmerized by him than even the sight of your newfound freedom.

049 out in the world should have felt like an unnatural thing, but he looked like he belonged here. A dark creature of the forest that bathed in the sunlight before it retreated to the shadows, a remnant of something ancient that was long forgotten by man.

He was beautiful. And the thing in your chest suddenly felt too enormous to name, but you knew its name, anyway.

As if he sensed the attention, 049 opened his eyes and looked at you. His gaze softened, tender in a way that twisted your insides—

He doubled over. A pained noise wheezed from his chest, and then he dropped to his knees.

“Valens!”

You scrambled, not bothering to stand as you rushed on hands and knees until you reached his side.

“What’s wrong?!”

He shook his head, still bent over and holding his stomach. No… not his stomach. He was hiding his hands, cradling and shielding them.

“I do not know,” he said, breath trembling. “My hands…”

“Let me see them.”

He uncurled his back only enough to extend his arms, and you knew something was wrong. His hands had always appeared gloved in nature, thick and leathery, but now the skin was stretched, and in some places even ripped.

The makeshift bandages were still in place, and 049 suddenly ripped them off. But he didn’t stop there. He dug his fingers into the back of his hand, and you cried, “No, don’t!” but it was too late.

With a terrible ripping sound, he tore off the skin from the back of his hand. You prepared for a spray of blood, maybe to even see bone with how much he tore off, but that didn’t happen. There was skin underneath, a dark grey that was a shade lighter than his robes.

And it was smooth, not coarse and leathery like his hide. In his other hand he held the strip of old skin, and it looked like nothing more than a torn piece of glove.

You could only stare as he continued to rip off the old pieces of hide, first from one hand and then the other, shedding his old skin to reveal fresh skin beneath. 049’s posture relaxed the more skin he removed, and after he’d stripped off the old hide completely from both hands, he let out a small sigh of relief.

You hesitated, and then gently took one of his hands, cradling it in yours as you examined it. It looked, and felt, like an actual hand, aside from the dark grey tone and some rough patches on his knuckles and the backs of his hand, reminding you of the scaly feet of a bird. You could see the details along these rough patches, and when you traced the thin lines along his palms, his fingers twitched. He was sensitive.

He was also healed, no sign of the deep gouges dug into his palm by the 178-2. Along with the grey color, the other noted difference curled from the ends of his fingers. His glove-like hands had been without fingernails before. Now, each finger was tipped with a dark talon, short and curved.

“What… what is this?”

“I believe the map caused it.”

“The map?”

“Yes. Though I do not know how.”

He didn’t resist as you continued to examine his hand, his own expression curious and not nearly as worried as you felt.

“Look.”

He followed your gaze. The smooth skin stopped at the sleeve of his robes, but just beneath the hem was a new pattern. Beginning at his wrists, small, delicate black feathers grew from his skin.

“I assumed he was lying.” He spoke softly, almost windswept, like someone had delivered him terrible news.

You traced your thumb over the feathers lining his wrists. They were soft, glossy, and slightly puffed up at the stimulation of your touch.

“035 tells the truth when it suits him.”

“Yes. He has not changed in that regard.” 049 gently withdrew his hand from yours, flexing his clawed fingers once before pulling them closer against his chest. The girl had moved in close, at first frightened by 049’s displays of pain, and then curious as soon as she spotted the claws.

“I think they’re neat!” she chimed in, her smile wide and dimply.

“They’re small.” 682 shuffled over, and he was big enough now that he towered over you from where you sat on the ground. “But at least your actions were not completely incompetent, crow.”

“I think he just complimented you.”

682 snorted and walked away, his thick tail missing your head by a narrow margin. 053 chased after him, unmindful of the cold, but you were starting to shiver, and your breath clouded the air.

“Come. We should get settled in.”

049 rose to his feet easily, the previous pain gone, and even the chest wound and treated injuries didn’t seem to bother him. Unlike the wounds on his hands, these still remained, and you planned to bandage him as soon as you could.

“Settled… in? Wait, you know where we are?”

“Of course I do. I brought us here.”

You stared at him blankly, but he only smiled with his eyes and extended a hand down to you. And then he paused, realizing the hand he offered was now tipped in claws.

But the talons looked blunt, like they were meant for gripping rather than tearing, and they didn’t bother you. In fact, when you took his hand and his warm, smooth palm pressed against yours, you might even like it.

You barely gained your feet before your knees buckled again, and gentle hands caught you on the way down.

“Sorry,” you mumbled. You tried to make your legs work, but they seemed to have quit. “More tired than I thought.”

And in pain. Every part of you had found a way to ache, but the soreness in your abdomen made each breath uncomfortable. Without another word, 049 hoisted you into his arms as easily as if you were a doll, and his expression brightened at your embarrassed one.

“You should be off your feet and resting,” he said. “Do not protest, I am your physician.”

Your mouth popped closed. With the bag in your lap carrying 079, 178, and 035, and 682 and 053 somewhere ahead of you, you’d somehow survived the containment breach and had more anomalies with you than when you’d started. You didn’t know how it was possible, how you and 049 managed to escape together, and some part of you didn’t think it was real.

But you rested your cheek against his shoulder, and that felt very real, as did his arms hooked under your knees and back. The gentle quiet of the forest and the cold autumn air was almost shocking compared to the climate controlled, fluorescent-filled artificial environment of the facility.

“Where are we?”

“Southern France. Far enough away from where the Foundation captured me that I am confident they do not know of its existence.”

You saw your destination, what drew the girl and reptile so far ahead of you. A cabin sat nestled in the trees, fallen leaves collecting on the slanted roof, the windows dark and vacant where they were set into wood walls.

Rustic was an understatement; it looked at least a hundred years old, but still in remarkably good condition.

“What is this place?” you asked and looked up at him.

His answer was warm, fond, and his gaze on you equally affectionate.

“Home.”

Next Chapter

#the raven's hymn #scp 049 x reader #valens x reid #scp fanfiction #scp foundation #and other fun cameo appearances #wolveria writes

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dandelionsresilience · 6 months ago

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Dandelion News - December 15-21

Like these weekly compilations? Tip me at $kaybarr1735 or check out my Dandelion Doodles for 50% off this month!

1. 7 good things humanity did to combat climate change in 2024

“The UK […] closed its final coal power plant in October. [… In India,] the share of power provided by coal dropped below 50% for the first time since the 1960s. [… A non-profit] has provided solar energy to more than 6,000 of the poorest Nigerians.”

2. California Voters Said Yes to Prop 4, a Win for Birds, People, and Our Shared Future

“[…] Prop 4 will direct millions of dollars for water conservation and habitat restoration [… and] includes a requirement that at least 40% of its funding go to lower-income and climate-vulnerable communities.”

3. This Pennsylvania school is saving big with solar and EV school buses

“Steelton-Highspire’s solar arrangement will save it about $3.6 million over the next 20 years. As for the electric school buses, Steelton-Highspire is one of thousands of districts able to access federal rebates from a $5 billion program created by the 2021 Bipartisan Infrastructure Law.”

4. Autism Speaks Canada shuts down in January. Good.

“As Canada’s autistic-led advocacy group […] we are relieved that Autism Speaks Canada will be shutting down in January of 2025. This is an opportunity for autistics and our families to collaborate locally to build new, neuro-affirming spaces and projects.” [If you don’t know why this is a good thing, please click here]

5. LA Zoo hatches first-ever perentie lizards, one of largest lizard species in the world

“The LA Zoo is one of only three institutions accredited by the Association of Zoos and Aquariums that have successfully reproduced them[….] Adult perentie lizards can reach more than 8 feet (2.4 meters) in length and can weigh more than 40 pounds (18 kilograms), the zoo said.”

6. Research reveals an inexpensive fix for California's struggling wildflowers

“[… R]aking [“dead, invasive grasses”] is decidedly less labor-intensive and more ecologically friendly [than other management techniques…, but doing so] increased plant diversity overall, reducing invasive grasses […] while increasing both native and exotic wildflowers[….]”

7. A new EV battery could last more than 8 times longer, travel farther

“[… A] typical battery lasts 2,400 cycles, while the new battery lasted more than 20,000 cycles. [… Used batteries could be repurposed] for grid storage on wind and solar farms, the study notes.”

8. Women who are homeless in Boston find safe space and care at 'HER Saturday'

“Women can get lots of other care on the spot — from sick visits and basic health screenings to Pap smears and contraception. [… They also come for] "The makeup, the snacking and the girl talks. And ... picking out a new outfit," said Pinky Valentine [“a homeless transgender woman”].”

9. ‘It absolutely took off’: five UK biodiversity success stories

“[…N]ew methods are emerging to preserve, improve and generate new habitat and, in many cases, attract back or reintroduce species not seen for decades. After a nudge, ecosystems are often doing much of the heavy work themselves.“

10. Personalized gifts really do mean that little bit more to your loved ones, says research

“Research has also shown that receivers of personalized gifts are more likely to take care of them. […] In this sense, gift-giving can be not just an emotional exchange, but also a more sustainable one. A carefully preserved [personalised] gift avoids waste and brings long-term satisfaction.”

December 8-14 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

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sebscore · 2 years ago

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LUCK OF A CHAMPION | SEBASTIAN V.

pairing: sebastian vettel x fem!reader

warnings: swearing.

time - place stamp: september 14, 2008 - Monza, Italy

author's note: AAH !! already on the second chapter!! the first time seb and reader meet at the italian grand prix!! the dialogue in bold is german and the dialogue in cursive is french!

masterlist

• • • • • • •

''Miss Y/L! We are so happy to have you here,'' an older man approached in front of the Toro Rosso garage, ''It's really nice to meet you, I'm Franz Tost- the team principal of Toro Rosso.'' He introduced himself, sticking out his hand.

A warm smile appeared on the young woman's face, she confidently shook his head. ''It's very nice to see you, Franz. Thank you so much for having me.''

''It's our pleasure! We're very big fans and the team is very excited to meet you.'' The French athlete had her doubts about the F1 team being ''big fans'', but Franz's words came across as genuine.

She nodded her head, the PR-friendly smile still glued on her face. ''Well, that's very kind.''

''I was informed this is your first time at a Grand Prix?'' He asked, slowly guiding her into the garage. ''Yes, it's my first time attending a race.'' She confirmed with a small nod.

''Fantastic!'' An Austrian accent slightly coming out. ''We're very honoured you chose to be with us today, Miss Y/L.''

''You can call me Y/N, Franz. I'm not an old lady or anything, you can relax.'' The tennis star assured him, not a big fan of the formalities the older man was using.

Franz chuckled at her words, a bit embarrassed. ''My apologies! We don't often receive young women into our garage so it's a habit.'' He clarified.

''It's okay, I understand.'' Y/N brushed it off.

''Anyway- I'll explain some things. So, here,'' he pointed towards a few men who were seemingly doing some work on one of the cars, ''we have the mechanics, they're currently working on Sebastian's car.''

She politely nodded along, paying attention to his words.

''There you have the engineers, they talk to the drivers while they're racing and keep them informed about a variety of things.'' Franz further explained, pointing to some guys that were observing the computer screens.

Y/N glanced around the quite busy garage, spotting a familiar face. ''There's Sébastien!'' She signalled to the older Frenchman to approach them.

The pair had met on numerous occasions, both being French athletes. She had been the one to reach out to him regarding her attendance, hoping he'd be able to get her a ticket to one of his races. Sébastien happily agreed to fix her a special pass, delighted to invite her to the Italian Grand Prix.

''Y/N, how are you? Happy to see you here.'' The driver greeted her in French, a kiss on both of her cheeks. ''I don't have much time, but they told me you arrived so I wanted to quickly pop in and say hi.''

''I'm good, thank you for asking and also thank you for getting me here,'' she grinned, making the Frenchman laugh, ''good luck with your race, I'll be rooting for you.''

''Merci.'' He thanked her, nodding his head to Franz who seemed quite clueless about their conversation- his understanding of the French language not being advanced enough yet.

The team principal awkwardly scratched his voice as Sébastian left them alone to prepare for his race. ''You would like a closer look to the car?'' He asked her, pointing at the machinery with the number five on it.

''Yes, please.'' At her confirmation, he led her to the car. ''This is the cockpit,'' Franz motioned his hands over the area, ''and as you can see, the drivers are basically laying in there.'' He simplified.

''Is it comfortable?'' She asked the team principal, genuine curiosity audible.

Franz excitedly nodded his head. ''Yes, very very comfortable! The seats are custom made for every driver on the grid so they fit perfectly.''

''Do they ever fall asleep?'' Y/N chuckled, a joking tone to her question.

The man laughed at the inquiry, surprised by the woman's sense of humour and unfeigned interest in the sport. ''With our two drivers it hasn't happened, but with others it has definitely happened before.'' Franz answered.

''But not during a race!'' He quickly added, not wanting her to think that drivers have fallen asleep while driving the fast cars.

''I hope not, that would be tragic.'' Y/N commented, a laugh attached to her words.

Franz snickered along with her. ''It would be indeed. The mechanics wouldn't be too happy with that either so we're happy it hasn't happened yet.''

''But to continue- this is the steering wheel and as you can see, it's quite complica-''

''Hey Franz, are you rea- oh…''

A curly-haired young man appeared next to the team principal, taking the young woman by surprise. The unknown man's eyes widened as he stared at her, the tennis star becoming slightly uncomfortable by the guy's gawking.

The older man in-between them seemed to grasp her uneasiness. ''Oh. This is one of our drivers, Sebastian Vettel. He scored our first pole position yesterday and hopefully, our first win today.'' Franz introduced him.

Y/N stuck out her hand, intended for him to shake it. ''It's nice to meet you, Sebastian.'' He instead grabbed her hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. ''It's very nice to meet you too, Miss Y/N Y/L.''

The woman was impressed by the greeting, raising an eyebrow at the gentleman in front of her. ''You know me. Are you a fan of tennis?'' There was a surprising tone to her voice, his boss hadn't introduced her by name.

Sebastian shook his head, dropping her hand. ''No, I'm just a fan of you.'' He proudly grinned, crossing his arms.

''Well, thank you very much. I'm flattered.'' The athlete would be lying if she said she wasn't intrigued by the man's confidence, her interest in getting to know who this Sebastian Vettel was growing by each passing second.

The German driver unsubtly looked her up and down. ''As far as I know, this is a Formula 1 event, right? You're not gonna find any courts around here.'' He joked, glancing around the garage and pretending to look for a tennis court.

Y/N laughed at his antics. ''I must have gotten the wrong memo, I was promised a rematch with Venus,'' she feigned annoyance, placing her hands on her hips, ''but, uh, your teammate actually invited me.''

''Sébastien?'' He frowned. ''I wasn't aware he knew you. He's been hiding you from me, I can't believe it.'' It was Sebastian's turn to pretend to be agitated, although there might be a truth to his annoyance.

Sebastian wouldn't describe himself as a tennis fanatic, but whenever the French prodigy in front of him would play, he would find himself clinged to the television. Was it her genuine skills as an athlete or the fact that he fancied her in a short skirt? Who would know.

''We've met on a couple of occasions.'' Y/N explained her history with his Toro Rosso teammate. Sébastien and herself were French athletes so they have had a few run-ins with each other at dull award shows.

''I see,'' Sebastian nodded, ''he just didn't want to share you with me.''

His flirtatious remarks not only surprised Franz and Y/N, but himself as well. The 21 year-old had always seen himself as quite a flirty pal, but he had never gone to this level with someone he had just met. It didn't help much that the woman standing opposite him was seemingly enjoying every word he said.

''I guess that's the case,'' she matched the light smirk on his face, ''but I'm very happy he didn't, cause otherwise I wouldn't be here.''

''I'll make sure to thank him after the race.'' Sebastian chuckled, shyly breaking the eye-contact they had been holding for what seemed like forever. ''But, uhm, you're still in recovery? From Roland Garros?'' He asked, dropping the grin as he asked about her injury.

''Yes, I had a surgery in June.'' She confirmed.

The tennis star sustained a back injury at the French Open of that same year. It happened quite early in the tournament, but she continued playing instead of retiring from the competition. It was the first time in 3 years that she managed to make the final at Roland Garros, she couldn't win last time and wasn't going to let that opportunity slip again- even if it cost her the rest of her season.

She did manage to win the final, winning her first French Open title of her career. However, there wasn't much of a celebration as she collapsed after taking the championship point, the pain in her back too much to bear. She was brought to the hospital and was informed she would need to receive surgery and a long recovery process.

''Have you been training again, or how is it going?'' Sebastian continued, interested in her physical state and when he would be able to see her play again.

Y/N unsurely shook her head. ''Uh, I've had some training sessions with my coach, but nothing too serious.'' She answered, an unconscious pout present on her face.

''That's a good start,'' Sebastian encouragingly smiled, noticing the slight decline in courage, ''too bad I won't see you compete soon, though.'' He frowned, genuinely downhearted by her recovery break.

''You'll have to wait until January.''

That's when the first tournament of the new WTA season took place in Australia, something she had been working towards for the past 2 months. Y/N had always been a self-assured person- some of her competitors might say ''arrogant'', but she knew her worth. Still, 2 months of not picking up a racquet had seriously messed with her mentality and doubts had formed in her mind about her future performances as a professional athlete.

Those doubts were visible to Sebastian even if she didn't vocalise them. ''I know you'll make a great comeback, tennis isn't the same without you.''

''My lovely colleagues would happily disagree with you.'' The sarcastic comment made him laugh, taken aback by her sense of humour.

He shook his head. ''They're just jealous! They actually have a chance now that you're not playing.''

''That's very sweet of you, thanks.'' Y/N brushed it off, the amount of praise he was giving her making her a bit shy.

''You know what? I think having a champion here will actually give me some luck for the race, don't you think?'' He told her, her presence giving him all the energy he needed before the Grand Prix.

Y/N snickered at him. ''You got pole position yesterday! I think you're doing fine on your own.''

''No, seriously! You being here will definitely have an influence- I can't embarrass myself in front of a Grand Slam champion, right?'' Sebastian's words lifted her spirits, not used to athletes of other sports speaking and thinking so highly of her.

''You're flattering me, Sebastian.'' Y/N moved a few strands of hair out of her face.

''Seb.''

''Pardonne?''

''Call me Seb, Y/N.''

A tingly feeling settled in her stomach as he asked her to call him by his nickname, meanwhile the way he said her name send goosebumps down her neck.

She timidly nodded her head. ''Alright… Seb.'' Y/N couldn't help but match the smirk on his face, taking way too much joy out of this interaction.

''Uh,'' Sebastian looked next to him where Franz previously stood, but now nowhere to be found, ''oh, he's gone.'' He chuckled, feeling slightly guilty for leaving his boss in the dark. ''I have to go, though, but I'll see you after the race?'' He looked at her with a hopeful glance, not wanting this moment to be the last time he saw her.

A smile slowly formed on her face, his attempt at nonchalance malfunctioning. ''I'll find you on the podium.'' Y/N winked.

Sebastian's cheeks heated up at her response, her confidence that he would finish in the top three flustering the Toro Rosso driver. ''Yeah, yeah- I'll see you there.'' With a final long glance, he made his way over to his engineer.

The Toro Rosso garage erupted into chaos once the German took the chequered flag, their and his first F1 win in the pocket. Y/N observed the mechanics falling into each other's arms and yielding their fists into the air, meanwhile the pit wall yanked their headphones off and jumped up from their chairs in overjoy.

As a fellow athlete, she understood the excitement that came from winning your first big achievement like winning a Grand Prix. You work almost your entire life for just an ounce of success and when it finally pays off? It's a feeling you can't describe.

Y/N was guided to the podium ceremony by a staff member, standing behind the team as Sebastian appeared from the inside of the building and strided to the top step while the team and crowd cheered him on.

The tennis star chuckled at the driver holding up his index finger, a symbolised No. 1, and the way he seemed to be poking it in everyone's faces.

Despite standing at the very back and doing her best efforts to let the Toro Rosso crew have their moment, Sebastian found her in the mass- pointing said finger at her and threw her a smug look as if to say ''I told you you would bring me luck''.

The woman nodded at him, raising her arms above her head and applauding him.

Y/N flinched when the German national anthem ended, and the drivers started spraying each other with their champagne bottles. She turned to the staff member next to her. ''Do they always do this?'' She asked.

The staff nodded, amused by the athlete's shock. ''Yes, every race!''

''Wow… a nice combination with the sweat.'' Y/N was quite disgusted by the stank that would come off from the drivers- champagne and sweat not being a satisfying mix.

After the ceremony was done, she was brought to the Toro Rosso hospitality. Many of the mechanics, engineers and others were, contrary to what she first believed, actual fans of the young athlete and wanted the chance to grab a picture with her.

Y/N didn't mind sticking around a little longer than what was planned. She appreciated the support she was given, especially now that she's injured and might have already passed her prime. Besides, the Toro Rosso team had been extremely kind to her the entire day and it was only right of her to reciprocate the kindness.

A tap on her shoulder made her turn around right as she handed one of the strategists their napkin back that she had autographed.

She was met with a smirking Sebastian, holding a small camera. ''Can I get a picture as well?''

The 21 year-old woman lightly pushed his arm with her hand, laughing at the question. ''Hey, congratulations, Mr. First Race Win.'' Y/N bowed her head.

''Thank you, thank you, but what about my picture?'' He brushed her congratulations to the side.

The athlete jokingly scoffed. ''They already took one of us in the garage, you've had your chance, Vettel.'' She figured he was taking the piss out of her and all the people that wanted a photo with the tennis star.

''But that's for the publicity, this is just for me.'' He contended.

There was a certain tone to his voice, one that explained to her that he might actually wanted a photo with her- and not to just be funny and tease her.

Y/N sighed, but agreed. ''Alright then. If it's just for you.''

Sebastian held up his fist, the same way she did after winning a point in a tournament. ''Yes,'' he glanced around, his eyes falling upon a man sitting at one of the tables, ''Riccardo!'' He called him over.

Riccardo was surprised by the sudden call of his name, but stood up anyway once he noticed Sebastian waving at him.

''He's my engineer.'' He quickly told Y/N, seeing her confused expression. ''Hey, can you take a picture for me? Of us?'' The German asked his engineer, who nodded at the request.

Sebastian handed him the camera and stood next to the tennis player. He rested his hand on her back, but swiftly retreated it. ''Is that okay?''

Y/N moved her head towards him, surprised by his concern over touching her. ''It's okay, don't worry.'' She consented, putting her own hand on his back.

''1, 2, 3. Cheese!'' Riccardo counted down and snapped a few pictures, knowing Sebastian would appreciate a couple of candids. ''Can I get a picture as well?'' The engineer asked, smiling when he saw Y/N nod.

''Here, Seb.'' Riccardo gave him the device back and the two men switched roles.

Sebastian had an indifferent expression on his face as he took the pictures of them, a vast difference from just a few seconds before when he was grinning from ear-to-ear. ''Okay, I got it. Don't want my card to be full.'' The driver put the camera down and back into his bag.

''Thanks, mate,'' Riccardo warily glanced at Sebastian, ''it was very nice to meet you. You should invite the entire team to a match next year.'' The older man joked (but not entirely), looking at Y/N.

''Thank you all for having me, I had a really nice time,'' she thanked them, ''and about that- I'll see what I can do.'' The Frenchwoman chuckled. She was fond of everyone, but fitting an entire Formula 1 team on the courtside? That would be a guaranteed challenge.

''Hopefully see you soon, then. Seb, see you tonight.'' Riccardo bid them goodbye, walking towards where the other pit wall crew members were seated.

At his engineer's ''tonight'' a ring went off in Sebastian's head. ''Oh, uh, we're celebrating tonight with everyone- would you, uh, like to come as well? It would be really cool if you were there.'' He uncharacteristically stumbled over his words a bit, barely managing to get the question out.

''I don't know,'' she hesitated accepting the invitation, ''I have quite an early flight tomorrow and I really can't miss it.''

There were more reasons behind her uncertainty than a simple worry over missing her flight to Paris the next day. She liked socialising, but she had only met everyone for the first time today and most of them were panicking about being in her presence.

The doubt in her mind was clear to him. ''You don't have to, but the option is there. How about you give me your number and I'll send you the address and hour- you can decide for yourself if you want to go.''

His suggestion was reasonable, she figured. That way she also had the young man's phone number, something she wouldn't hesitate taking. ''Okay.''

Sebastian quickly reached for his phone in the back of his jeans at her agreement, unlocking it and opening his contacts app, and handing the device over to her.

''There… you… go.'' She bit on her lip as she concentrated on typing her number in, unaware of Sebastian's unsubtle fascination with her action. Y/N gave the phone back once she was done. ''I already send a message to myself so I'm sure it's your number.''

''Great! So I'll maybe see you later.'' The young man didn't want to say goodbye to her, but he still had things to discuss with the team and not even a Grand Slam champion could make him escape out of his responsibilities.

Y/N nodded at him, an enchanting smile hanging on her face. ''Maybe, yeah,'' she smirked, ''again, congrats on your first win. I'm sure many will follow soon.''

''Let's hope there will be more,'' Sebastian had gotten the taste of success now and he wanted more, way more, ''but, uh, in case I don't see you again- it was very nice to meet you, Miss Y/N Y/L.''

''It was nice to meet you as well. You have my number so if you miss me too much you can just give me a call.'' She grinned, throwing out the flirty remark.

The German licked his lip, taking a few moments to compose himself. ''I'll definitely keep that in mind.'' He smiled to himself.

Y/N chuckled at his shy state. ''Bye, Sebastian.'' At the mention of his full name, he was about to correct her to use the shortened version, but she beat him to it. ''Sorry- Seb.''

''Goodbye.'' He bid her farewell.

Sebastian watched her leave, his eyes following the woman like a puppy when their owner leaves for the day. As soon as she was out of his sight, he pulled his phone from his pocket again and opened his messages. He knew he should have waited a little longer before sending her the address and hour of the meet-up, but he couldn't help himself. Perhaps the young man didn't want her to forget him, he wanted her attention.

While in the debrief with his team, he kept taking glances at his phone- something unusual for him to do, especially during discussions about the race that had taken place.

Her response came in the middle of Franz's opinion on the tyre management, causing Sebastian to make a surprise jolt in his chair, receiving a few side-eyes from the others. ''Sorry… a cramp.'' He apologised, making up an excuse.

| Y/N Y/L: I'll stop by :) I can't stay for too long, but I won't say no to a good celebration!

| Seb Vettel (the flirty f1 guy): Nice! I will see you there then :)

| Y/N Y/L: is there a dress code?

Sebastian loudly chuckled at her question, making him apologise again for interrupting the team boss. ''Sorry, sorry!'' He put his phone away for a minute before sneakily grabbing it again to answer her.

| Seb Vettel (the flirty f1 guy): I don't know

| Seb Vettel (the flirty f1 guy): casual, I guess.

| Y/N Y/L: boring, but alright :)

''No dress code?'' Y/N mumbled to herself, frowning. ''Pinnacle of motorsport my ass.'' The young woman had eventually agreed to go, planning to stay for about an hour or two. She wasn't going to drink any alcohol, because she had a practice the next day and a potential hangover isn't something she needed.

She considered it a night-out so usually she would go for something more elegant, but since Sebastian told her it was casual, she went for a simple pair of jeans and a blouse.

The young athlete couldn't get the German gentleman out of her head in the hours leading up to the celebration of his first win. Some time had passed since she last felt intrigued by someone on this level and that had been her former boyfriend.

There was something about Sebastian.

Was it the way he treated her like she was the queen of the universe or the way the man couldn't take his eyes off of her? Either way, she liked it.

Y/N walked into the Italian establishment with excitement, curious to see what a night with a Formula One team looked like. The space was mostly filled by the Toro Rosso Team, most of them already having had some drinks. She could see some of the mechanics dancing and other crew members cheering them on.

Unsurprisingly, Sebastian was the first person to notice her arrival. He immediately stood up from his chair, making the people around him flinch due to the suddenness of it. He didn't hesitate in walking over to her, grabbing her attention by waving and a call of her name.

He greeted her with a hug. ''Hey, you actually came!'' Y/N was taken by surprise, not expecting him to embrace her.

''Of course, wouldn't want to miss it.'' She smiled.

''Can I get you something to drink? They have a bunch of good stuff here.'' Sebastian politely offered, pointing at the bar.

Y/N glanced to where he signalled. ''Uh, do they have non-alcoholic drinks?'' She hesitated. Sometimes people can act judgemental when someone doesn't want to drink alcohol, especially at parties.

''Sure, I think they have mocktails actually.'' He answered, not making a big deal out of her not wanting to have any strong drinks.

She nodded, appreciating his nonchalance. ''Great, I'll have one of those then.''

Sebastian guided her to the counter, his hand on her lower back. Y/N kept a strong hold on her bag with her two hands, trying not to start acting giddy at the physical contact.

''The menu is on the wall,'' he signalled to the board in front of them with all of their drinks and prices written in chalk, ''let me know when you've chosen something, I'll pay for it.'' The German concluded.

''You're paying? Shouldn't it be the other way?'' Y/N chuckled, wanting to buy him a drink since he was the one who invited her- out of politeness.

Sebastian brushed it off with a wave of his hand. ''No, I'm feeling generous tonight.'' He said, a wink following his words.

She raised her eyebrow at that, sensing an innuendo behind the sentence. ''Well- I'll just have a mojito mocktail, can't go wrong with that.'' She chose her drink, looking from the menu back to Sebastian.

He nodded at her choice, and waved the bartender over. ''A mojito mocktail and a beer, please.'' The older woman behind the bar praised their options and got to work on their drinks. The pair sat down on the stools at the counter as they waited on her.

''So how does it feel to be a Grand Prix winner now?'' Y/N turned to him.

Sebastian laughed at the question. ''I feel really great. If someone had told me going into this week that I would cross the line first, I wouldn't have believed them.'' He answered, still in a state of shock about his performance today.

''I know I haven't been watching the sport for that long, but you did really great today.'' The tennis player complimented him, sincerity flowing from her lips.

''Thank you,'' the German smiled in appreciation, ''how long have you been into the sport?''

''After I was done with my surgery, I had to stay in the hospital for a few weeks and my doctor was actually a huge F1 fan,'' she explained, ''and I was really bored, cause I laid in my hospital bed all day and couldn't do anything, and he came into my room and I told him how bored I was, and he told me the qualifying of the Canadian Grand Prix was on tv. I didn't have much better things to do so I put it on and I liked it. I watched the race the next day and have been following the season since then.'' She recapped how her interest in F1 came to be.

''I think your doctor just wanted to use your tv to watch the race.'' Sebastian laughed, finding humour in the origin of her curiosity in the sport.

Y/N laughed along, admiring the way his eyes smiled. ''Yeah, maybe- oh, thank you'' the bartender set their drinks down in front of them, giving them a polite grin, ''uh, yeah, he suddenly did a few more check-up visits than were necessary.'' She chuckled, finishing her sentence.

''I think Robert won that race…'' Sebastian thought out loud, trying to recall the results of the Grand Prix in Montréal.

''Uh… Kubica, yes- I'm still trying to learn the names.'' Y/N said, feeling slight embarrassment of not being able to recognise Robert's right away.

The German gave her a comforting smile. ''That's okay, there are 20 of us, it's hard.'' He assured her.

Y/N thanked him and took a sip of her drink, needing some refreshment.

''You already know my name and that's the most important one, if you ask me.'' Sebastian added, the smirk making a re-appearance.

''Sure,'' she responded with a small laugh, ''but, uh, is this your first season in F1?''

Sebastian hesitantly answered. ''Uhm, it's my first full season in F1. Last year, I was a reserve driver first, but then I replaced someone else mid-season.'' He explained to her.

''Oh, okay cool. How long have you been racing?'' She continued, curious about his history with the sport.

''I started karting when I was 3 year-old.''

''Wow, that's young,'' her eyes widened at his answer, ''how did you get into it? You have a family that races?''

''I think it was my dad- I'm not too sure, I just loved it. At first, I wanted to be a singer like Michael Jackson, but I quickly found out I didn't have the voice for it.'' He took a big gulp from his beer, the coldness visibly relaxing him.

Y/N chuckled, not expecting Sebastian to have wanted a singing career. ''That's surprising, wouldn't have gathered you for a singer.''

''Wait until you hear me in karaoke, you'll change your mind,'' he grinned, ''but, what about you? How long have you been playing tennis?'' He turned the curious interrogation on her.

''Since I was 4,'' her response was equally surprising to him as well, ''my dad was a big tennis fan and we would watch matches together on the tv. I would like- copy the way the women were playing and would pretend the remote was my racquet.'' She tittered, the image of her younger self appearing in her mind.

''That's cute,'' Sebastian felt honoured to get such a personal answer from her, the female athlete often coming across as closed-off, ''so your dad got you into it?''

''Yeah, and not too far from where we lived was a tennis club so he signed me up for lessons.'' She replied.

''And the rest was history, as they say.'' He smirked, making a weird gesture with his hands.

''Yes,'' she beamed, a certain pride filling her as the talked about her career, ''but it's a little complicated now.'' An injury in your back is a huge setback for an athlete, especially a tennis player.

''I'm confident you will recover- everyone sees how much you love the sport and how much the sport loves you back.''

Sebastian's words meant more to her than she could express in that moment so she hoped the appreciative look on her face told him enough.

Luckily for her, he did understand. The comfortable silence that followed was one of two people connecting in a room full of people, but their eyes and minds were only on each other. It was something new for both of them; it was intriguing.

''Your partner must be proud of you, you've achieved so much already.'' Sebastian did a horrible attempt at trying to find out if the woman in front of him was in a relationship or not.

Y/N snickered at his words, immediately figuring out what he's trying to do. ''I don't have a boyfriend, actually- I don't know where you got that from.'' She teasingly smirked, his red ears and cheeks working wonders on her confidence.

''I think I read something about, a Spanish footballer or something.'' It had been a rumour a few months ago, splashed on the cover of a gossip magazine he had passed in the supermarket.

''Oh, that,'' it hadn't been the first time she was linked to an athlete she had coincidentally been in the same room with, ''no, that's not happening.''

''Good.'' A flash of relief went through his body as she denied the relationship, a deep breath leaving his body.

His physical response didn't go unnoticed and a coy smile played on her lips. ''What about you?''

Sebastian should have seen the question coming, yet he was surprised as she asked him about his love life. ''Oh, uh, actually-''

''Excuse me… are you Y/N Y/L?'' One of the waitresses interrupted Sebastian, glancing at the young woman with nervous eyes.

Y/N's gaze went from the driver to the, what she presumed, 18 year-old girl who held a notepad and pen in her hands. ''Yes, that's me.'' She confirmed her identity with a polite smile.

''I'm sorry to bother you, but could I get an autograph? I also play tennis and you're one of my favourite players.'' She asked in a very small voice, scared the athlete would reject her.

''Of course, what's your name?'' Y/N took the notepad and pen from the waitress' hands.

''Chiara.''

''To Chiara, thank you for the support! Keep playing!'' She wrote in small letters on the piece of paper, adding her signature at the bottom. She gave it back to Chiara who was grinning from ear to ear as she read over what she wrote to her.

The waitress let out a squeal, surprising both Y/N and Sebastian. ''Thank you so much, I really appreciate it! I hope to see you next year when you're playing in Rome!''

''I hope to see you too! Have a nice night, sweetie.'' She bid the fan goodbye, a bright smile on her face.

''You too, thank you again.'' Chiara quickly turned around, running over to one of her co-workers and showing the autograph off.

Y/N moved her focus back to Sebastian, who waited patiently for her attention. ''Sorry, what were we talking about again?'' She couldn't remember what they were discussing before they got interrupted.

Sebastian knew he should have spoken the truth and answered her question on if he was taken or not. He knew that. ''We were talking about your recovery.''

Yet, he didn't.

taglist :: @dannyramirezwife @luligirl_ @mistrose23 @azxulaa @develised @princesselle2111 @topguncultleader @poppyalice2001 @komorebi21 @Livster @spanishgp @red5seb @lilsiz @gagaga167 @perihelionova @callsignscully @nyenye

#f1 fics #f1 x reader #f1 fic #sebastian vettel x oc #sebastian vettel x y/n #sebastian vettel x reader #sebastian vettel x you #sebastian vettel #f1 imagine #f1 x you #formula 1 fanfic

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russellsppttemplates · 1 year ago

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Idk if you’re comfortable writing sth for Ollie? I know he’s a teenager but I just had an idea for a cute little fluff. How about him going for advice to someone on the grid cause he’s seeing this girl and wants to impress her and take her somewhere nice for a date?

Note: he's not underage so I think I feel okay about writing this blurb for him 😅 don't think I'll keep writing for him as this was just a moment thing, but it was fun!

He had just gotten a date with the communications intern he has been chatting up since before the season began. One would think that the hard part was over, but when one door closes, another opens and the one that stood wide open had a massive poster with "where the hell are you taking her then?" in bold letters.

It was his first time in the city and he didn't know many places around so the logical thing was to ask Charles, "hey! Is Carlos sick again?", the monegasque driver said a she spotted the young driver on the Ferrari garage.

"No, I don't think so, he's fine", Ollie offered, "I'm just here to asked you something actually", he said, hands fumbling with eachother.

"Sorry for the ambush - it's great to see you here! What's up?", Charles wondered.

"I need your advice on where to take someone out for dinner here", he gestured to the ground, "It's for tonight and I have no idea where I'm taking her", he mused.

"Here? Let me think", Charles said, running through the spots he remembered, "Oh, last year, me and Alexandra went to this restaurant near the hotel, I can look it up on the Maps app for you", he continued, retrieving his phone from his pocket so he could search for it, "so, dinner date without a restaurant first?", he teased.

"I had to work myself up to ask her on a date and then I actually forgot that I had to have a plan for it", Ollie led, "I was taking it one step at a time and forgot that this step was quite important", he said as they looked at the screen, Ollie typing the name of the restaurant on his phone.

"They also have a cute flower shop at the paddock entrance - if you are a gifting flowers in the first date type of guy -", Charles added as he saw panic on the younger driver's widened eyes, "not everyone does it, but it depends on the tone you want to set".

"What says the 'I've been wanting to take you out on a date for nearly a year and have chosen an away race out of all places to do it?' tone?", Ollie teased himself, "That's a lot of pressure to put on flowers", Charles chuckled alongside him.

"It's all going to be fine, don't worry! Just be yourself!", Charles advised as Ollie thanked him, walking back to the F2 paddock and seeing you working on your laptop, a smile on your lips followed by a little wave. Yeah, it was going to be fine.

(Thank you for submitting an ask ✨️)

#ollie bearman blurb #inês writes blurbs #f1 blurb #f1 x reader

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ihrespideysonstorm · 1 month ago

Text

Ihre Spidey, Son Storm - Chapter 1: Post-Season Testing 2024

Summary: After a devastating crash at the WSK Euro Series at La Conca in May 2011 ended her karting career and left her blind in one eye, Saarbrücken racer Annika “Ani” Kramer has reinvented herself as a freelance video game concept artist, inspired by a childhood love of comic books. Now she balances her art work with the high-stakes world of Formula 1 as she supports her husband Esteban Ocon through the twists and turns of his own racing career. The Alpine era has ended with the sting of betrayal, a race undriven and a special helmet (designed together) unworn, but the Haas era has just begun. She just had not expected for the 2025 season to bring Esteban a rookie teammate in Ollie Bearman and her a grid little brother to befriend and nurture with snacks and a bear scarf knitted with love.

Notes: Many thanks to my beta reader World Atlas on Discord. They have been an invaluable help. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Tuesday, December 10, 2024

Esteban beamed at Ani from across the Haas garage as he climbed from the cockpit of the VF-24.

Mon araignée![1]

Her heart warming at the sight, she paused for a split second in the doorway that led out of the winding corridor that stretched from the paddock to the garage itself.

It was good to see her husband smiling like that again. That smile—the genuine one, which lit up his face and eyes, the kind she saw when they lay cuddled in bed together on a lazy evening at home in Geneva, as they watched Spider-Man and he told her comic facts that even she, with all her knowledge of the lore, didn’t remember—had become rarer and rarer in recent months and, especially, recent weeks, as his rift with Alpine, his F1 home of so many years (counting its previous incarnation as Renault), grew ever deeper. (He had not even been able to use the special Abu Dhabi helmet that they had designed together or even go to the factories to say goodbye to all the people who had made his dream of racing possible, and that made her so furious on his behalf.After Briatore had summoned Esteban to his office before the Qatar Grand Prix and told him the price of being allowed to test with Haas today, Ani would have gladly stormed into Alpine and had words if she thought she could have gotten away with it. However, her protective fire had to take a back seat to her common sense, unfortunately.) Ani had become all too familiar with the strained smile that told her Esteban was trying to put on a brave face for her.

The station, which Haas had set up for its WAGs at the back of the room, complete with chairs and screens and headphones, was to the right of the entrance at the back of the garage through which Ani had returned. As she turned back toward her seat, the creeping black void on her left side, a constant reminder of her partial blindness, instantly began to swallow the space, erasing Esteban, the Haas personnel, and the gleaming VF-24 from her sight. At least in the garage, unlike the paddock, the floor had no unexpected slopes or steps, but Ani still kept her pace slow and precise, her right eye straining a little to judge the distance back to her chair. When it had grown larger enough in her vision, she reached out a hand, her fingertips grasping the cool plastic backrest, and sank into it with relief. Seated again, her right side no longer facing the wall, the garage rushed back into view, and Ani turned her attention back to the hustle and bustle.

Esteban, who was resplendent in his new team kit (red, white, and black), seemed to have paused watching her, for only now did a couple of long strides take him from the edge of his car to the row of terminals that lined the center of the Haas garage. Ani watched a little nervously as he bent his head to speak with a middle-aged woman in team gear, one of his engineers. (Laura, she thought the woman’s name was.) The typical noises of an F1 garage, even when not in the middle of a race, carried away their words like leaves blown on the breeze, not that Ani would have understood them anyway, because they were presumably speaking English.

Her fingers fiddled nervously with a black-and-red bracelet on her left wrist, fingertips sliding over the smooth beads. Esteban kept all the gifts that fans generously gave of themselves to make for him and bring to him at races, but he had too many bracelets like this one to ever have a hope of wearing them all, even on rotation, so he always gave her some. The others were tucked away carefully in boxes at home with all the cards and other gifts he was given, organized neatly by season.

Maybe I should make him scrapbooks for Christmas next year? It was too late to do it for this Christmas.A book, neatly organized, would be easier to flip through than it would be to dig through boxes.

It was one of those flashes of genius that struck her at random intervals, although they were usually art related and came at 2 in the morning. Ani reached for her tablet in her tote bag to write the idea down before she forgot, her fingernails clicking on the screen as she tapped in her password.

Her sketch of a helmet—F1 meets Spider-Man—stared back at her, the spider on the side and the lightning bursts jumping out from the helmet reflecting her and Esteban’s shared love of comics. The black-and-white, comic-book style had been a mental break for her these last couple of days when the post-Qatar fallout had her too stressed to work on her elaborate Project Orion concept pieces.

A minute later, as she finished typing down her idea in her notes app, a flash of movement in her peripheral vision had Ani’s head coming up.

Esteban was looking at her. When their eyes met, he flashed her a thumbs-up. A silent tout va bien?[2]

Ani smiled, nodded. Some other places she might have blown him a kiss, too, but not here, not with all the cameras on them both.

Within a few minutes, Esteban was back in the car, being strapped into his seat. F1 restraints were far more elaborate and effective than those in karts, and the cockpits were so cramped that someone else had to fasten your straps, a prospect that Ani found incredibly awkward contemplating all the places their hands would have to go. Due to the delays in getting him out on track earlier that morning—the adjustments to the car had been important but time-consuming—he only had eight laps on the board so far and no set time, and she knew her husband would be itching to be back out on track, to get more experience in the car and with his new team. It wasn’t even eleven in the morning yet, though, and testing ran until 6pm, so there was plenty of lap time left for him.

The garage noises were ramped up another notch as the engine in the VF-24 kicked up a gear and Esteban pulled out of the garage into the fast lane. Hirakawa, who had Haas’ rookie seat for testing, pulled out a second later. It made Ani very thankful for the headphones she was wearing over her AirPods. The screens in front of her had camera-feeds that tracked her husband’s progress out onto the Abu Dhabi circuit, and once he was well into his lap, Ani reached down into her tote bag, putting her tablet away and pulled out her knitting.

The scarf, her Christmas gift for Tom, Esteban’s coach, was more than half finished. A new team meant he needed a new scarf—Haas red and black, instead of Alpine pink and blue. She tucked the balls of yarn into her lap and picked up her knitting needles, the metal cool and smooth against her fingers. Soft, chunky yarn alternated between red and black stripes every four rows, the underside of the scarf showing where she was carrying the yarn up the side of the piece.

One more black row, and then back to red.

There was something soothing about the repetitive nature of knitting. Looping yarn into stitches—knit and purl, knit and purl—row after row after row until a new scarf or blanket emerged. Ani could lose herself in her work, mind churning away over whatever was on her mind, while her fingers worked. Knitting patterns like this was simple now, and her fingers danced through the stitches with easy grace, her work only requiring a little more conscious thought when it came time to switch colors.

The scarf she had planned for Ollie Bearman, Este’s new rookie teammate, whom she hoped to get along with, would require more work and planning. Red and black with a bear motif in yellow—it would be glorious … if she could pull it off, but there would be time enough to make a pattern over Christmas.

—————————————————————————————

Just about a quarter past eleven, her phone vibrated in her pant’s pocket. Ani kept most notifications muted, or she would be inundated constantly between social media, her chat apps, the news, weather feeds for several different cities, but Instagram, for once, she was allowing to buzz through so she could keep up with what Haas was posting about Esteban throughout the day.

This post immediately made her smile.

“Welcome to the family @estebanocon 👋❤️,” read the caption.[3]

The first picture (of five) was of Esteban with a bright, beaming smile, looking past the camera … straight at her across the room, Ani knew, because she recognized that exact look on his face as the one from when she had reentered the room after her bathroom break.

Oh, how lovely!

For once, a photographer has excellent timing.

Instead of the absolute worst.

Ani left a reply with a simple heart emoji and then put her phone away. The photographer might have had good timing with these photos, but she knew there was also a camera on her, and she would prefer it not to catch her with her nose totally buried in her phone. And this scarf wouldn’t knit itself, anyway.

At least Haas remembered to actually use photos of Este and him in his car…

Unlike Alpine’s first and quickly deleted farewell post, which had been mostly composed of pictures of Gasly and his car. That had left her absolutely seething with fury. She had nearly posted something but caught herself in time. The non-toxic side of the F1 fandom had torn the team apart for that (hence its quick deletion) without her having to risk saying something that could have the trolls jumping yet more on Esteban than they already were.

Ani didn’t trust Haas completely yet, but what she was seeing so far was reassuring, and that Esteban had seemed so happy all day made her happy and very relieved.

Tom’s scarf was calling, but her eye scanned the timing sheet first.

38 laps.

Still outside the top ten.

Ani would have been quite pleased to see Esteban in the top ten or, better yet, P1—I can dream!—but she knew learning a new car took time, and he was wisely easing himself into it, not overreaching, which could lead to costly mistakes.

Crashing the car in testing would not be a good look.

—————————————————————————————

Later—maybe much later, given how time could fly as Ani knitted, just like with her art—Tom himself reentered the garage. I hadn’t realized he’d left again. It was strange seeing him in black-and-red. She had gotten used to pink-and-blue (or yellow-and-black before that), although Tom hadn’t been with them during the Renault days. His short dark hair was messed, and his face looked tired—they were all ready for winter break. It had been a very long season.

“Hey, Ani!” He crouched down beside her chair, knowing her dislike of being loomed over, and gestured to the scarf in her lap. “Bist du bereit, den Schal …”—his brow furrowed, and he momentarily hesitated—“mit mir zu messen?”[4]

After Tom had joined Esteban’s team in 2021, he had resolutely devoted a good chunk of his spare time to learning enough German to hold normal conversations with her without either of them needing to resort to Google Translation, as long as she simplified somewhat. Ani still found his hard work extremely touching, and after four years, his German was not fluent yet but pretty good.

“An dir,” Ani corrected gently, grinning a little at the way his English accent still colored his words after all these years. “Nach dem Mittagessen.”[5]

If Tom had been Esteban’s height exactly or almost exactly (like Ollie was, apparently), this would have been easier, but there was just enough difference to make her need to check the length of his in-progress scarf periodically to make sure it didn’t end up being either too long or too short.

Tom nodded. “About lunch …”

“Is it that time already?” Ani set her knitting needles down in her lap and glanced at her watch. Oh, not quite yet. It was only a quarter past noon, and the morning testing session didn’t end until one pm.

He shook his head. “Not yet. What do you want to eat? And don’t tell me you’re not hungry, yeah?”

“I’ve been eating,” Ani protested quietly, gesturing to her bag, where she always kept an array of non-perishable snacks from Saarbrucken and Normandy, her and Esteban’s respective home regions, as nostalgic pick-me-ups amid F1 chaos and F1 diets.

“Snacks, not a meal,” Tom retorted pointedly but kindly, a look of long-suffering on his face somewhat reminiscent of Esteban’s when he would come home after a long day of training and find out she had forgotten to eat lunch and maybe breakfast, too. “Pretzels and caramels don’t count. You ran out of ham rolls in Qatar.”

The childish urge to make a sour face at him was very strong, but her horror at the idea of that potentially ending up on someone’s camera and then on social media was much stronger still. “Do gummy bears count?” she asked cheekily, instead, brown eye twinkling.

Tom, whose back was to the room, did give her a very sour look. “No.”

Ani grinned. “Ah, too bad.”

“You never came and ate breakfast in hospitality”—that last word was in English before he switched back to German—“like you said you would after the session started.”

She blinked. Oops, I did forget. “The delays …”—one hand flapped in the direction of where Esteban’s car had been parked earlier—“… I forgot.”

“Yes. I know.”

A young woman in Haas gear approached at that point, clearing her throat to get their attention. She had a digital camera hanging from a thick strap around her neck, which meant she was probably from Media or PR, and her face, the way her hair was pulled back made her look about sixteen in Ani’s estimation. Whatever came out of her mouth a second later was English, but it was so strangely accented, compared to what Ani was somewhat used to, that the German woman had not a hope of deciphering any familiar words. The words immediately blurred into noise.

Another conversation I’ll just smile through.

The smile on Ani’s face tightened—hopefully not into a near grimace.

It’s a question—I know that much. At least with a photographer it wasn’t like when she would occasionally get ambushed in the paddock by a reporter and be faced with a choice between awkward silence (that could get twisted) and smiling and nodding along, all the while hoping desperately she had not agreed to something dreadful.

I do hope someone in Haas got the memo I don’t speak English. Well, almost any English. In her opinion. Tom and Esteban always said her English was better than she thought it was.

Her gaze snapped to Tom, who pushed himself up from his crouch, wincing slightly, and turned to face the other woman. Ani raised an eyebrow, a silent question and request for him to translate.

“Was machen Sie?”[6]

Oh!

Ani’s grin returned, the confusion smoothing off her face. “Ein Weihnachtsgeschenk für Tom – schwarz und rot: Haas-Farben.”[7]

Tom duly translated that.

Another question was asked in that same heavily accented English. There was a flash in her eyes—that hungry look from the media when they saw a successful post incoming.

I wonder where she’s from.

“Kann sie ein Foto machen?” asked Tom.[8]

Ani nodded and returned her gaze to her knitting, starting to finish the row she had stopped in the middle of when Tom arrived. This way, the photo would hopefully look less staged. And if her head was down, there was no risk of a photo from the wrong angle making it more obvious that her prosthetic eye did not always track perfectly in relation to her right eye, either.

When the photo was taken and the other woman had departed, Tom stepped back to her side. (With her left side mostly facing the wall, it was easier for him to stay in her field-of-view, even with the hustle and bustle around them.) “You must eat lunch,” he continued, picking up the conversation where he had left off. “Everything I bring you, or I will tell Esteban you didn’t eat breakfast.”

Ani laughed at him, setting down her knitting needles so she didn’t risk messing up anything up. “That isn’t the threat you think it is.”

Este’s been trying to get me to remember to eat regularly since university. Or was it before?

Regardless, he still hasn’t succeeded.

A hyperfocused artist’s life—meals optional, apparently.

Tom sighed and just shook his head, his face slightly bemused.

“And yes, I’ll eat lunch,” she concluded. “Just don’t bring me sauerkraut or Schnecken.”

“Schnecken?” Tom repeated the word, clearly confused.

“Escargot?” Ani tried, instead.

“Oh, snails…” His nose wrinkled.

Oh, that is what the English word is.

Ani laughed.

—————————————————————————————

The morning testing session ended at 1pm, and the final time-sheet for the session found Carlos Sainz in a Williams on top, which made Ani stare for a moment, even though she knew quite well that testing was not the same as free-practice or qualifying. It was still strange after this season to see Sainz in a Williams and to see Williams on top. Esteban was in P20, his fastest lap a 1:27.9, four-tenths back from Hirakawa in P19.

It’s testing.

He’s getting used to a new car.

A new team.

A new steering wheel.

It’s testing, and this isn’t even the car he’s driving next year.

There’s nothing to worry about.

Her spider still looked happy as he climbed from his car in the closing moments of the session and stepped across to the terminals to speak to his engineers again. Ani knew all too well his his looks of restrained displeasure throughout the season as he climbed from the A524 or spoke to the media after yet another disappointing session. However much she wished for him to be able to shine today, if he was happy with how it was going, she was happy.

That Alpine was a tractor, especially in comparison to last year’s car. Brazil had been the glorious exception that proved the rule.

Tom got up from his chair next to her and, stepping around the console in front of them, joined Esteban in the center of the garage, taking his helmet and HANS device from his hands and passing him his water bottle. Tom then put both items away on their proper shelf to await the afternoon session.

“I’m going back to hospitality to make sure Esteban’s lunch is ready—and yours,” he told her in German over the sounds of Hirakawa being wheeled back into his garage across from them. “He’ll be ready soon. Some comments for his engineers.”

Ani nodded and began tucking her knitting back into her bag, needle points covered so they didn’t score her tablet screen. (Scarves were easy compared to knitting on the round, and Tom’s scarf was progressing beautifully. She would easily have it finished that afternoon.) She smacked her left hand into the chair-leg as she did so. Her struggles with depth perception were exacerbated when she was right on top of an object, and she could struggle to tell where her hands were in relation to … everything else, sometimes.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket again as she finished. Hissing a little at the sting in her hand, Ani fished her phone out. A WhatsApp notification showed a new text from Lance, one of her oldest friends whom she had known since karting, as the sender. “Allo Ani, comment ca va les …” was all the preview bar showed her. The words looked momentarily odd to her eye, but then she realized why: the accents were missing.

Ah, Lance, Lance, Lance, you forgot to switch keyboards again. It was a common occurrence, one of his quirks that had quietly bugged Ani for years. Small fish,[9] though.

“Tout va bien?” Esteban asked a little worriedly, joining her at the back of the garage.

Distracted, Ani jumped. The way she had swiveled her chair, the majority of Esteban’s side of the garage was within her field of view, but distracted by her hand and then the text, she hadn’t even noticed him move, and there was too much ambient noise for her to pick up his footsteps.

“Comme un chat, toi!”[10] she replied with a teasing grin, feeling the quick beat of her heart begin to slow. “And I’m fine—just bumped my hand.”

Esteban grimaced but didn’t say anything, not here with the cameras and microphones, and just held out his right hand for her to take. He had long despaired of a day or week going by without her gaining some new bruise from a door handle, a door frame, the corner of a table, catching her off guard when she misestimated the distance and smacked her hand or shoulder or shin.

Some days my skin is as colorful as my artwork, but those are the bad days.

“Et toi, mon amour? Tout va bien?”[11] Ani asked as the two of them threaded their way through the hallways at the back of the garage toward the paddock. The hallway was wide enough for them to walk side-by-side, and he always walked on her blind side to prevent her from bumping into obstacles or drifting left into anyone or anything.

Because Esteban was on her left, she couldn’t see him, but she could feel the way he squeezed her hand, could hear the continued excitement in his voice in his “Oui, tres bien.”[12]

During post-season testing, the paddock always seemed quiet and deserted, compared to its usual bustling nature, and the two of them managed to cross from the garage to hospitality with a minimum of fuss and bother, Esteban warning her quietly whenever the ground sloped or there were steps.

Tom was downstairs eating his own lunch, but theirs was neatly arranged upstairs in Esteban’s driver’s room, his on the desk and hers on the massage table. There was one of those Styrofoam takeout type containers for each of them with a packet of silverware on top. Esteban had two thermoses, and Ani had a water bottle and an orange in addition.

As soon as the door shut behind them and they were cocooned in relative privacy (as long as they weren’t loud—these rooms weren’t exactly soundproof) for a brief period, Esteban tugged her into the circle of his arms and hugged her tightly before lifting her clean off the floor for a few seconds. Ani squeaked reflexively, her arms flying up to cling to his shoulders.

“It’s good to see you so happy again,” she murmured in French, blinking back the happy tears stinging her eye as her heart swelled.

Esteban gave her another squeeze and then set her carefully back down on the floor. “I couldn’t be more happy with how things are going,” he said, as they took their seats and started into their lunches.

Testing breaks were never long, so they had to chat and eat simultaneously, because it would be all too soon that Esteban had to return to the garage, warm-up a little, and then get back in the car. (Her food was chicken and rice and vegetables, the same thing Esteban had—simple and a little bland for her tastes, but nothing heavy for his sake with several more hours of driving to do.)

“The car—it will be different next year,” he continued, “but it’s good to get a first feel for it, especially with the steering wheel. I need to talk to them about making some changes to that, though.”

“And you’re enjoying driving the car?”

Esteban nodded. “Everything is fantastic.”

Ani smiled, encouraged by his upbeatness. “What are they thinking for the afternoon? Short runs? Long runs?”

“Both, so I keep getting a feel for the car,” was the reply around a mouthful of chicken. Esteban stretched out his long legs and gently knocked one foot against her dangling ankles.

Ani grinned, nodded. The crash that had instantly ended her karting career and blinded her left eye meant that she had never driven any single seaters, but she still understood how important it was to get well established in a new car, to get a feel for how it functioned, how it was similar and different to what you had driven before, and what quirks it had.

“I was watching you some while I was working on Tom’s scarf,” she said after washing a too big bite of rice down with a sip of water. “You looked good. I kept wishing for you to catapult yourself up the timing sheets, even though I know why you’re not.”

He grinned. “How has your morning been, chérie? Alright?”

“I’ve still been too distracted to do actual work,” she admitted, “but there’s no deadlines for Orion soon, so those pieces can wait until we get home. I’ve just been sketching some and working on Tom’s scarf.” A grin quirked up one corner of her mouth. “A photographer wanted a photo of me knitting. That will probably be on Haas’ social media pages later if it’s not already.”

“Ma tempête[13] in her Haas jacket knitting a Haas scarf. A very pretty picture, yes?”

Ani went a little red. “Flatterer. And you mean your Haas jacket?”

Esteban’s dark eyes twinkled as he grinned at her. “You managed the conversation alright?” he asked then, brow furrowing a little.

She grimaced. “Her accent was very thick, and she talked like a waterfall, but Tom was there. I gave him a ‘help me’ look, and he translated.” A pause. “Someone in Haas knows my English is extremely limited, right?”

Esteban nodded. “I told them that you would need French or German—they’ll sort it out.”

For all its faults by the end, at least in a French team like Alpine, there had been plenty of French speakers—and some German ones, too—in Media and PR that they could and had sent her way whenever they wanted something.

Ani blinked suddenly, as her phone pressed into her leg momentarily as she shifted positions.

“What?”

“Lance texted me a little bit ago. I forgot to go back and read the message, not just the preview.”

Ani pulled out her phone and quickly navigated into WhatsApp. The full message from her old friend was, Allo Ani, comment ca va les tests? Esteban tient le coup, j’espère, haha. Passe-lui le bonjour.[14]

“Does Lance need something?”

The Canadian driver wasn’t driving the non-rookie car for Aston Martin during the test and, thus, as far as Ani knew, had already left the circuit for winter break. The end of season shoot had already taken place, so there wasn’t exactly anything requiring him to stay.

“He was just asking how testing is going and how you are. He says ‘hi,’ too.”

Esteban smiled. “Tell him ‘hello’ back, please.”

“I will.”

—————————————————————————————

Between finishing Tom’s scarf and then doodling, the afternoon session passed quickly for Ani, a fact for which she was grateful. Racing had been her passion for many years and would always be her first love, as high a place as art had now taken in her life, but the F1 season was growing ever longer, and she was quite ready for winter break, for her and Esteban to be able to go home and rest and enjoy each others’ company briefly and not have to worry about cars and tests and new teams.

By hour 7 of testing, Esteban had 66 laps on board and was still 22nd, but he seemed happy whenever he briefly returned to the garage, so Ani was happy. By the end of the session, after rising to P5 for a while, Esteban ended the day in P10 with 119 laps on the board. A very good day at the office.

Everyone in the garage seemed happy as the two cars were wheeled back into their positions—backslaps, smiles, and handshakes all around as well as upbeat words Ani couldn’t understand. Esteban looked happy, too, when he had climbed from the car and raised the visor of his helmet, allowing her to get a glimpse of his face. His eyes were bright, and even with most of his face covered, she just knew he was beaming. He made the rounds of the room, thanking all his new engineers and mechanics in turn, and then lingered by the center consoles for several minutes in more in-depth conversation before finally joining her and Tom at the back of the room.

“C’était …”[15]

Before Esteban could get out more than two words to her—literally—a team member from Haas joined them, and a quick conversation in English followed that had Ani completely lost after the first half sentence. Too fast, too accented, too complicated. For a split second there was a flutter of annoyance on Esteban’s face that quickly smoothed out as he gave her an apologetic grin and then pivoted to face the newcomer, taking off his helmet and HANS device and passing them and then his gloves to Tom as they talked.

That was … what?

Well, I guess he’ll tell me in a minute.

(Since Esteban had spoken in French, that meant it was a comment for her, not for both her and Tom, in which case he would have said it in German. They had known each other since they were children in karts, and after over fourteen years, Esteban’s German was nearly fluent, although Ani still despaired about his accent and, some days, the absolute precision of his grammar.)

It was a reminder that just because the session was done, Esteban wasn’t hers for winter break … not quite yet. Post-season testing had finished, but there were still debriefs to go with the team and probably something quick to film for Haas’ socials.

It was also moments like these that made Ani tempted to finally go to the trouble of learning English just to avoid feeling like a complete outsider when there wasn’t someone around who spoke either French or German.

Not that I don’t already have enough to do.

After a few awkward minutes the other woman finished and left, and Esteban turned back to Ani with another apologetic smile, reaching for her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said as they made their way toward the paddock, squeezing her hand gently, a reminder he was always there even when she couldn’t see him. “As I was saying, that was an excellent session. We have debrief next, and then Media wants me to film a short recap video for the fans, and then I’ll be done.”

“Don’t you need to post something, too?” she asked.

“I do, but I can do that later, even at the airport. You can help me choose the pictures!”[16]

It was only—Ani glanced down at her watch, instead of tracking where her feet were going, trusting Esteban to watch for a moment—about a quarter past six, which gave them four hours before they needed to leave for the airport to catch their flight home.

“I’d love to.” Ani smiled. “Haas has gotten some good pictures today! They even caught you smiling at me once with your helmet off this morning!”

“Oh, they did!?” He sounded delighted. “I wonder if they noticed.”

“Someone on Twitter probably will if they don’t.”

The way they dissect images and videos still amazes me.

(Sometimes they were too eagle-eyed for their own good—or ours—but with this, Ani didn’t care.)

Sunset had passed over forty-five minutes ago now, but the paddock was well lit, as it had been last week, which eased the anxiety that always gripped Ani when navigating outside after dark. Darkness made judging slopes, finding steps, and all those things that people with two eyes never thought twice about all the more hard for her.

In hospitality, the two walked upstairs together, Esteban murmuring to her that he was going to change out of his fireproofs before going to debrief. Ani was just as happy for him to walk with her, anyway. Next May would be fourteen years since she had lost the use of her left eye, and she had adapted well to its absence, but no matter how well she had adapted generally, sometimes she was still a klutz, miscounted the number of stairs at home, in the paddock, or in hospitality, and promptly tripped over her own feet.

—————————————————————————————

The lights had been dimmed, enough for sleep but not enough to leave her blind and panicked.

That was the first thing Ani realized as she drifted back to wakefulness, not even recalling getting sleepy enough to stretch out on Esteban’s massage table in the first place.

That someone had draped a jacket over her was the next thing she realized.

And that her tablet was sitting across the room on the desk with a scrap of paper set on top of the screen was the third.

After a few seconds, Ani sat up and rubbed some of the sleep from her eye with one hand. (She used to rub both eyes out of habit, but those days were long past.) Her eye felt heavy, and there was a dull headache starting to make itself known, probably from the eyestrain of staring at screens or her knitting all day without a break. (One eye always did the work of two now.) Whether she would be better or worse off for her unexpected nap in the long term would remain to be seen. For now, I think I feel worse. She glanced at her watch. It was only eight-thirty, which meant there were hours still until she could hope to sleep in an actual bed.

For some semblance of the word. The seats on the plane lie flat—it’s not quite a bed.

The note on top of her tablet was in Tom’s handwriting.

Esteban → Meeting

Ich bin unten.[17]

And below, Tom had signed his name.

Eight-thirty.

Debrief should be over by now? Right?

Did Este have another meeting come up?

There was only one way to find out, so Ani used the bathroom quickly, checked herself over in the mirror as best she could, making sure she didn’t totally look like she had just woken up from a nap, and went back downstairs, carefully counting off the steps as she went. Tom was at a table at the back of the dining area—each F1 hospitality suite had its own kitchen and dining room for feeding all the many personnel who made every race weekend possible.

“Where’s Este?” Ani asked, sliding into the seat across from him and muffling a yawn behind one hand. “Did Haas give him something else to do?” She propped her head on her hand, blinking tiredly.

Tom shook his head. “Down by the marina, and no. Alpine—his mechanics.”

Her eye widened in surprise and a little alarm at the word ‘Alpine’ before her brain caught up with his final two words, and Ani relaxed back into a slouch. As frustrating, infuriating, devastating—take your pick—as getting booted from his seat before the final race of the season had been for Esteban, not being able to say proper goodbyes to his team and everyone at the factories had been just as hard for him. To not be able to thank all the team members he had known for years for all their hard work that made his job as a racing driver possible had stung deeply.[18]

This gives him something at least. Not the same, but it’s something.

“Good,” Ani murmured through another face-breaking yawn. “I hope they don’t get in trouble or something.”

Tom made a face, nodded. “Debrief was an hour-and-a-half, and his video for social media was quick, so he’s been gone about twenty minutes. He should return by nine. I think.”

“Our flight’s at 11:45. Fifteen minutes to the airport. An hour, at least, for security.”

“The perks of being in an F1 driver’s team,” Tom put in with a chuckle.

Ani nodded.“Plenty of time. Even to eat.” A thought struck her, and a frown flashed across her features. “Why didn’t you go, Tom, and say goodbye, too?”

“I was invited,” he replied, “but I knew Esteban would not be comfortable with you here alone, and he didn’t want to wake you either.”

Her instinctive retort, almost on the tip of her tongue before she caught it, was I’m not a child! She had been blind in one eye since she was thirteen; she was quite capable of taking care of herself and living alone, which she did for days or weeks at a time whenever she went to Berlin or Warsaw or Saarbrucken for work, whenever Esteban was off at far-flung races in Asia or the Americas, which she did not attend. And yet, every hospitality was a little different in layout and arrangement of furniture—an environment in which she could struggle at first. The sun had set, which meant with these windows the shadows inside had shifted—also something that could trip her up. No familiar faces among the staff, like at Alpine, if she needed something.

Ani understood why.

And it wasn’t because Esteban thought she was a child, no matter how much he fussed over her and worried about her some days, no matter how much her independent streak rebelled sometimes at the inaccurate feeling of being babysat.

He cared.

Tom cared.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t go,” Ani said after a minute, “but thank you.”

“Of course!”

Tom got up and brought a water bottle for her, because apparently he thought she hadn’t drunk enough today, which she probably hadn’t, and when he had sat back down and she had thanked him, she added, “I must give you your scarf before the flight. It’s in my bag. I don’t want to find it when I am unpacking at home.”

He laughed and nodded. “Thank you. I’ll enjoy it this winter.”

—————————————————————————————

One conversation about Christmas plans later, Esteban returned. There was too much ambient noise from too many people as hospitality was packed up for the season for her to have a hope of picking out his individual stride, but Tom’s eyes flickered towards the door, as he broke off mid-sentence. Taking that as her cue, Ani glanced back over her right shoulder and saw her husband, just entering the building.

What is that?

Esteban had acquired something that was now cradled in the crook of his left arm, and after a split second, Ani realized it looked like a pot of some kind. His eyes were a little wet as he approached the table and slid into the seat to her left, setting the pot down on the table between them. He had been smiling, though, as he crossed the room.

“Tout va bien, mon araignée?” she murmured.

Esteban nodded and kissed the side of her head. “All good,” he replied in German. “Twelve of my team could get away … with greetings from the others. And they brought me this as a gift!”

Ani swiveled the pot so she could read the label, tilting her head almost into his shoulder to get it within her field of view. Fondue was thankfully the same word in many languages. “Oh, how kind of them! We’ve lived in Geneva for how many years now? We actually don’t have one of these!”

Tom chuckled. “Fondue wouldn’t usually be in our meal plan, but it’s Christmas.”

“Now to decide what kind of fondue to try first!” Ani added with a laugh. Simply in Switzerland, there were so many variants. “Just no morels!” She had never understood the Genevoise tradition of putting morels in their fondue. “And there’s always fondue au chocolat!”

Both men chuckled.

“How will you get it home?” asked Tom. “First things first.”

Esteban squeezed her shoulder and then got up. “I should see if someone has some spare packing material.”

Ani swiveled her head left towards him on instinct as she spoke, although he was now too far behind her shoulder by the sound of his voice now to see him without physically turning first. “There’s some room in my checked bag,” she noted, switching back to French. “With my undergarments and pajamas. Wrap it up as best you can, and between that and the clothes, it should be fine.”

Their luggage had been brought across by Haas from the hotel that morning and was currently tucked away in a room somewhere, waiting for the trip to the airport and home. One major advantage of flying with Esteban to and from races was help dealing with airport security and luggage and everything. She always missed that whenever she flew separately.

Crowded security checkpoints — talk about a nightmare.

“Will I see you in January?” Tom asked. “Or do you have work?”

“January will be busy,” Ani replied, slouching back into her chair and grimacing at the thought of her packed, color-coded calendar, “but I should be at the Jerez test with Este. I will be in Warsaw for about a week before and then in London for two days shortly afterwards while Este is away at the sim in Maranello. I have more meetings in Warsaw in February, but those should be virtual.”

“Project Orion?”

Ani nodded. “The game is in pre-production now, so our work is really ramping up. I’ve got some other smaller projects, but Orion will be my focus this year.”

“How long’s the flight to Warsaw? It’s not that bad, is it?”

“From Geneva? No, about two hours.” Which I can deal with. “It’s too far for the train.” Entirely too far. “Four trains to Cologne once a year for Gamescom, instead of a connecting flight, is one thing. I’m not taking a train halfway across Europe.”

Tom appeared to shudder at the very idea. “If you come to Jerez, you can meet Bearman!”

“Oh, I hope so.” Ani’s eye lit up. “I’m looking forward to it—he seems like a nice boy, and Esteban likes him so far. I do need time to make his scarf first, though.”

“Make sure you remember to eat and sleep!” Tom cautioned. “I know you love knitting for people, but don’t stretch yourself too thin. Esteban worries about you.”

“Yes, yes, yes, I know.”

It’s not like I intend to work straight through meals or stay up until 3am.

But when inspiration strikes, I forget everything else.

—————————————————————————————

Flying from Abu Dhabi to Geneva was relatively uncomplicated, travel-wise, if long. With the stopover in Qatar for two hours, it was an almost ten-hour trip, and Ani and Esteban landed at the Geneva Airport at 7:45am, slightly behind schedule, on the morning of December 11th. With neither Haas, nor Esteban up for any awards, he was not going to the FIA Awards Gala in Rwanda, so they could simply come straight home.

Come home and sleep for a few days.

“Does Henri have a car for us, or do we need a taxi?” asked Esteban as they waited for their luggage. The airport was relatively quiet at the moment, and so far no one seemed to have recognized him or, if they had, at least hadn’t approached, and there were no suspicious phones pointing cameras in their direction either.

“A car. There’ll be someone waiting for us in arrivals,” Ani replied. “Remember to look for ‘Kramer’ on the sign.” Her last name drew less attention than his.

Esteban nodded absentmindedly, hiding a face-breaking yawn behind one hand. The flight to Doha from Abu Dhabi had been too short to bother sleeping, but Ani had managed to sleep for a couple hours on the flight to Geneva. He had never seemed to be asleep, however, whenever she roused briefly, so given how tired and subdued he now seemed, she doubted he had slept much, if at all.

I always find it ironic that I handle long nights better than you.

But I didn’t spend all day driving a Formula 1 car either yesterday.

And I’ve always managed better on far less sleep than you.[19]

The warning light on the baggage carousel began to flash, and the warning tone sounded. Ani pivoted a half turn to her left so she had a better view without just craning her neck. Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it from her pocket. The only thing visible on her lock screen was the beginning of a text from her mother-in-law. That had her clicking into her phone and not waiting to check the message later.

“Mes chéris, vous êtes à la maison de Abu Dhabi?” the text read.

“Maman Sabrina wants to know if we’re home yet,” Ani said aloud, beginning to type back a reply, her eye flicking back and forth from the keyboard to the passing suitcases.

“Soon.” Another face-breaking yawn slurred the word. “But not yet.”

“Pas encore,” Ani typed out, nails clacking on the screens. I need to trim them after I shower. “On attend nos bagages. Este est presque endormi sur place, je crois.”[20] As soon as that message had been thumbs-up reacted to, she pocketed her phone.

“Ah, there we are,” Esteban exclaimed.

Her head snapped up, and after a few seconds, she saw what had caught his attention—their suitcases, both of them. Together! When will that ever happen again? We usually find them separately. He dragged them both off the carousel as they passed, and then they were on their way.

And one fifteen-minute drive later, they were home.

Their apartment building in Les Eaux-Vives was elegant in the morning sun, the light flashing brightly off the glass windows on the front of the building, in which the reflection of the lake could also be seen. Henri Dubois, the day-shift concierge and a long-time friend of sorts, greeted them as they entered the lobby, coming around from behind the front desk across from the elevators. He was an older man, his hair long since turned silver, and a warm smile always adorned his creased face.

“Bonjour, welcome home!” he greeted them kindly.

“Salut!” replied Ani, curving off to join him. “Any mail or packages for us?”

“Yes, madame. Let me get them.”

“Do you need help?” Esteban asked from her blind spot.

“No, I can manage if you get both suitcases. I’ll be up in a minute.”

Back on extremely familiar ground, Ani could almost manage blind-folded, even with her arms full, and their front door was a key fob and not a key that had to be inserted, which made it even easier.

“How was testing?” Henri called from the mailroom as he retrieved the promised deliveries. “I watched the race, but it would have been more interesting with Monsieur Esteban racing.”

“Testing was … productive. A lot of good learning—the car, the team. And Esteban is smiling again, so I am happy.”

Henri smiled softly as he emerged from the back room, carrying three boxes and a stack of mail bound together with a length of string. “Good. Very good. Is there anything else you need right now, madame?” he asked, transferring the load carefully from his arms to hers.

“No, thank you. I think our main task for today will be not sleeping the entire day, so we forget what time zone we’re in.”

“Ah, yes. One downside of travel. Let me get the elevator for you.”

The apartment was surprisingly quiet when Ani got upstairs, detouring into the kitchen to set down her load on the dining room table. Esteban hadn’t turned on all the lights, but between the ones he had and the sun through the curtains, there was plenty of light for her to navigate without risk. She found him in the living room, the suitcases still in the hallway. Esteban had sat down and was now fast asleep, stretched out on the couch.

Ani smiled and pulled out her phone, taking a quick picture, which she sent to Maman Sabrina with the simple caption:

Home sweet home.

—————————————————————————————

[1] (Fr) My spider! (One of Ani’s nicknames for Esteban.)

[2] (Fr) All good?

[3] https://www.instagram.com/p/DDY5PyaNXbt/?img_index=1

[4] (Ger) Are you ready to measure the scarf with me?

[5] (Ger) On you. After lunch.

[6] (Ger) What are you doing?

[7] (Ger) A Christmas present for Tom — black and red, Haas colors.

[8] (Ger) Can she take a photo?

[9] The German equivalent to “small potatoes.”

[10] (Fr) Like a cat, you!

[11] (Fr) And with you, my love? Is all well?

[12] (Fr) Yes, very well.

[13] (Fr) My storm. (One of Esteban’s nicknames for Ani.)

[14] (Fr) Hello, Ani, how is testing? Esteban is holding up, I hope, haha. Say hi to him.

[15] (Fr) That was …

[16] https://www.instagram.com/estebanocon/p/DDZrW63t_Th/?img_index=1

[17] (Ger) I’m downstairs.

[18] https://www.instagram.com/p/DDH4mtQSRZg/?img_index=7

[19] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O8nBzCTdalU, given Esteban’s comment about needing 12 hours of sleep.

[20] (Fr) Not yet. Waiting for our luggage. Este's nearly asleep on his feet, I think."

#f1 #f1 fanfiction #f1 smau #esteban ocon fanfic #esteban ocon #esteban ocon x reader #ollie bearman

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