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sv5hive · 3 months

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womaniser | jb22

pairing: jenson button x fempopstar!reader, brief mark webber appearance

content warning(s): swearing, mentions of drinking, use of y/n, inaccurate information about the monaco paddock/circuit, suggestive champagne drinking(?)

word count: 1,771

note: first of all, thank you for all the notes on my lewis fic i'm absolutely blown away 😭🫶🏻 secondly, first fic featuring mr. playboy himself! i hope you enjoy this one bcos i had so much fun writing it 🩷

(masterlist!)

you gawked at the herds of people waiting for your arrival at the entrance of the paddock from behind your sunglasses. even after years of being in the limelight, you still weren't used to all the attention.

somehow, news had leaked that you would be attending the monaco grand prix this year, which meant that you had to cover yourself in team gear (that your manager had fortunately brought to your hotel room the night before) from head to toe and walk in with the other team members rather than make a glamorous entrance in a far too revealing outfit like you usually did.

not that you were complaining. your manager would have your head if you caused any more chaos especially after your recent stunt during some after party which involved a bit too much drinking and dancing for the public's liking. apparently people didn't think three awards was something to celebrate with several rounds of shots.

"over there!"

shit.

despite your best efforts to remain incognito, it seemed you were identifiable even while wearing the slightly grim team uniform you wouldn't be caught dead in if it were under normal circumstances.

in a split second decision you made a run for it, hoping to evade any and all slightly deranged fans who might cause mayhem if they managed to reach you. stifling a giggle, you sprinted down the road without sparing a single thought about how odd it looked to everyone else around. you were suddenly grateful for the fact that you were wearing attire suitable for an unexpected, albeit thrilling, getaway.

yep. your manager is definitely going to give you an earful when you get back.

after what felt like an eternity of running, you ducked in between two motor homes to try and catch your breath while also staying hidden. you were so preoccupied with your own endeavours that you hadn't noticed the two men who were once engaged in their own conversation, now ogling at you.

just your luck. were they fans too? god, when were you going to catch a break?

"sorry, i can't sign anything or take any pictures right now. thanks for your support though." you muttered, finally managing to get out your pr approved message while leaning against the wall.

you promptly figured out that you had obviously said something wrong by the sight of a growing smile on the slightly shorter, blond man. looking closer at his chest, you recognised the same brawn gp logo that you were currently wearing stitched onto his racesuit.

fuck.

you looked to the dark haired man on his right who still looked confused at your random appearance. as you moved your gaze down from his face, you then noticed the red bull racing logo on his racesuit.

double fuck. but of course it was your luck to run into the drivers and embarrass yourself!

"shit. ok, wait, hang on. sorry about that. i'm not actually like that, i swear. i'm just trying not to make my manager any angrier at me than she already is." you managed to huff out.

"no worries, take your time."

thankfully, the blond man could see that you were still desperately trying to get air in your lungs and graciously gave you time to recover.

"erm, sorry, can we start over? i'm y/n l/n, nice to meet you."

you moved forward to shake both of their hands.

"jenson button, it's a pleasure. although i feel like i've already met you the amount of times you've been in the headlines."

you almost lost all your breath again as he maintained perfect eye contact while shaking your hand. you grimaced at the reminder of the mischief that you had been known for since the beginning of your career.

is this the regret that your manager was talking about during one of her lectures?

"mark webber, nice to meet you too. so, what was that all about?"

the brunet man, mark as you had just learnt, finally snapped out of his daze as he lightly shook your hand.

"oh, that? it's not a big deal, just some fans who wanted to meet me. i mean i appreciate them and i'm sure they have good intentions but it's a little scary to have a horde of people chasing you. you understand, right?"

jenson's shit-eating grin grew impossibly bigger and it was starting to get on your nerves. and this intense staring contest he had initiated didn't help.

what was his problem?

"yeah, i guess? something tells me you get recognised a lot more often than we do."

you nodded at mark's response without even giving him as much as a glance. if it weren't for the fact that you refused to lose the unofficial staring contest, you might have felt bad for practically ignoring him.

mark looked between you two and made the sensible decision to not get involved in whatever the hell was going on.

"uh, i'm gonna go get ready. see you out there, mate."

"yeah sure, see you later."

and just like that, you were alone with jenson.

"so, what's the world's biggest pop star doing at a formula 1 race?"

your face warmed at the compliment from the man who was becoming more and more attractive as time went on.

"thanks. my friend was meant to be here but something came up and she gave me her pass. i don't know anything about racing but i've heard the after parties are good. is that right?"

"good? they're better than good. they're the best parties in the world."

you raised an eyebrow at his declaration. you had been to more after parties than you could care to remember and you heavily doubted that they could be topped. sensing your uncertainty, jenson made an offer.

"tell you what. if i win the race today, you have to let me take you out to celebrate. i'll even let you watch the race from my garage."

he was on pole position and it was almost impossible to overtake at monaco. but you didn't have to know that.

you did need somewhere safe to watch from. and who knows? maybe celebrating with him could be fun.

"and what if you don't win?"

"don't worry about that, sweetheart. i'll win it just for you." he replied shooting you a wink.

jesus, was he trying to make you pass out?

"well if you're so confident then sure."

"great. let me take you to our garage. don't worry, your fans won't be able to get in there. although i can't promise that some of the team won't ask you for pictures."

"as long as they don't try and trample me i think i'll be fine!"

laughing along with him to the garage, both of you failed to notice the cameras pointed at you, broadcasting your interaction to live television.

almost two hours had passed by now and you were anxiously waiting for jenson to cross the line in first place. you didn't think watching race cars go round in circles could ever be so exciting but your mind had been undoubtedly changed after today. jenson had just begun his final lap around the prestigious circuit when the mechanics started leaving the garage. through all the emotion no one had bothered to tell you what was happening so you just rushed outside with them.

eventually you managed to push your way to the front of the crowd and rested against the wall facing the number boards waiting for the top 3 drivers arrival.

"where's jenson?" you turned to the mechanic on your right after the second and third drivers, who you found out were rubens barrichello and kimi räikkönen, parked their cars behind their respective number boards while jenson was nowhere to be found.

you soon got your answer once you saw him round the corner on foot.

"looks like he got lost!" joked the same mechanic on your right.

you shook your head and chuckled at the absurdity of a professional racing driver getting lost at a track he's driven at several times before. in the end he managed to get to the podium to raise his trophy and celebrate with his teammate.

a serene smile fell on his face as the british national anthem played for him for the fifth time that season. slowly but surely his claim to the 2009 title was becoming stronger and stronger.

as his eyes fell on his team he picked out your face in the sea of people. acting solely on impulse, he blew a kiss towards you ultimately causing an echo of wolf whistles. you made a motion as if to catch the kiss and slip it into the pocket of your jeans, saving it for later.

it would just be rude to leave the man hanging after he had let you stay in his garage. it definitely was not because he was charming your socks off.

shortly after the podium ceremony, he made his way towards the wall you were stood against. joining in with everyone else, you applauded him as he walked up. you let him celebrate with the people who had made the win possible before he finally reached you.

"congratulations, jense! you were incredible!"

"thank you, darling! would you like to try some of this champagne? might not be as good as some of the stuff you've had but i like to think victory makes it taste sweeter."

you smirked at the thought.

"if you insist." came your reply before you tilted your head back and opened your mouth to let him pour the champagne in.

for the first time since you had met him, he was speechless. snapping out of it, he poured the champagne into your mouth and the cheers seemed to become deafening. you tapped his chest to signal him to stop and wiped your mouth with your sleeve.

"you were right. victory does make it sweeter."

you mirrored the grin on his face as the celebrations almost faded away into the background. you two must have had the same thought in that moment because before you knew it, you were kissing each other as if there weren't dozens of cameras being shoved in your faces.

once again, you were breathless as you pulled away.

"i know i owe you a proper celebration, but how about dinner? just us two?"

your cheeks were starting to hurt from the permanent grin on your face now.

"sounds like a proper celebration to me."

your manager was definitely going to kill you now. but you couldn't care less; you had a dinner date with jenson button.

#f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #jenson button x reader #jenson button x you #jenson button imagine #jenson button x fem!reader #jenson button

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interlvgos · 2 months

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───── full throttle, george/max, 3.3k. explicit. AO3.

Later, Max will turn to him, meeting his gaze head on, and ask if George truly hadn’t seen him in his mirrors at turn eight, like George had claimed. He'll rub his hands on his racesuit as he says it, like he'll be rid of the phantom feeling of George's hair from between his fingers if he wipes them hard enough. George will look back at him, licking the taste of Max from the back of his teeth like he can savour it, and will reply, “of course I didn’t,” lying through his smile.

#gax #russtappen #f1 rpf #this is sooo nastie oh my god. i am so embarrassed #not as embarrassed as george tho <3

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f1extras · 8 months

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It's funny because Lando has been accused in the past of not being serious about his training (maybe because he doesn't usually post training content, maybe because of his gaming/streaming habits, idk) yet he was one of the drivers who ended the race in a better state.

He was tired, of course, but he didn't sit anywhere until the cool down room, he did the bottle smash in the podium, he kept his racesuit and fireproofs on through all the press conf, media duties, and the celebration with McLaren, etc. And it's not like he had a peaceful management race. He did a lot of fastest laps in his last stint.

Even Oscar was impressed by how Lando was still standing and chatting with the mechanics after his interview, instead of sitting/lying on the floor while the rest were interviewed.

These guys do a lot of silent work we don't see so we shouldn't judge them by the things they share (or don't share) on social media. Kudos to all of them and their trainers, they raced yesterday in the hardest conditions and still they delivered.

#lando norris #f1 #formula 1 #This is kind of a Jon Malvern appreciation post tbh

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thebearchives · 2 years

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breakfast in bed | CL16

PAIRING: dad!charles leclerc x mom!reader

REQUESTED: [X] yes [] no

WORD COUNT: 2.2k

SYNOPSIS: when charles is woken up by his son demanding to make you breakfast in bed, he finds it hard to say no.

WARNINGS: fluff, dad!charles, slight rbr slander from pierre lolzies

A/N: i apologize to the person who requested this bc i feel like this is so badly written, but i spent so much time just staring at this fic that i just want to get it done and other with. i loved the request so much, just wish i could have executed it better :(

as always, don't be a ghost reader!

the first thing charles thought on the morning of his first day of summer break was that someone was trying to steal his arm. the tugging on his arm was constant, whoever wanted his arm seemed to be struggling.

charles opened his eyes, blinking once, and then once again, until his vision cleared up. there–up close and personal–stood a little boy, his beautiful son, hands wrapped around his father’s bicep, a pout on his pink lips.

“papa, levez-vous,” get up, he whispered, “i’m hungry.”

charles groaned lightly, pressing his face into his pillow, “léo, c'est trop tôt” it’s too early.

his arm was shaken, hard, “but papa,” the boy whined, “you said that if we wake up before maman, we can make her breakfast in bed.”

charles sluggishly raised his head and turned it to the side. léo was right, you were still sleeping, chest raising up and down ever so softly.

any other day and charles would have been surprised to see you still asleep, but yesterday had been a busy day with you and léo making guest appearances on the paddock, and an even busier night celebrating charles’ podium once léo had gone to bed.

charles turned back to his son, the playful pout on his own lips challenged léo’s, “what about breakfast in bed for me? i won the race yesterday.”

léo huffed, hands resting on his lightning mcqueen pajama-clad hips, “papa, we had a whole fancy dinner for you. vous êtes trop gourmand!” you are so greedy!

“gourmand?” charles perched up on his elbow, blanket dropping to his lower torso. he shivered at the sudden rush of cool air, “qui t'a appris ce mot?” greedy?…who taught you that word?

“tonton pierre! he said that’s what redbull was being when they took him out of the team.” léo’s eyes were wide as he explained the context to his father.

charles shook his head in amusement, of course pierre would say that. ever since léo declared that he wanted a redbull racesuit for his birthday, pierre had been adamant about changing his mind. ‘aren’t you enraged that he likes redbull more than ferrari?’ he had asked charles once. you had laughed and elbowed charles, ‘forget rage. charles cries about it every night when léo asks for him to call max’.

and it was true. charles’ call history always contained max’s number, and max couldn’t help but anticipate every time he got a call from charles in the late hours of the day. every time he answered the facetime call, léo would appear with a big smile and a ‘tonton maxie!’.

charles hated to admit it, but his son’s closet was almost split between ferrari and redbull merch, the occasional white and blue of alpha tauri peeking out.

“can we go now?” léo’s hands were back on charles’ arm, “maman might wake up if we keep talking.”

charles sighed before nodding in agreement, “have you brushed your teeth yet?”

the boy shook his head and charles gave him a look. léo huffed, “you better not go back to bed.”

charles let out a breathy chuckle, watching léo rush out of the room. as much as he would love to go back to bed, he didn’t want to face léo’s wrath. he’d taken after you in that category, always ready to speak his mind when things didn’t go as planned.

charles quietly swung his legs over the bed and stepped out, tucking the blanket against you gently so you wouldn’t wake up from the cold. he tried to keep the noise to a minimum as he threw on a hoodie and some sweatpants.

the two leclerc boys met at the bottom of the stairs, freshly-brushed teeth and minty breaths. charles and you had decided to switch léo to minty toothpaste earlier than most other parents made the switch themselves, having caught the then four-turning-five-year-old sucking his toothpaste out of the bottle and eating it. we’ve all had those days, right?

“d’accord, mon petit chou. what should we make maman?” charles ruffled leo’s hair as he walked past him. alright, my little cabbage.

léo clapped his hands excitedly, instantly stopping with an apologetic look when charles shushed him gently, “can we make pancakes?”

charles searched the pantry, “hmm, i think we’ve got everything we need for it. sure!”

léo walked over to the side of the kitchen to grab the little step stool you and charles had bought for him.

charles had read online once that letting your kids help around in the kitchen made them smarter and helped them learn about nutrition, sending you a link and a ‘we should do this with léo’ before getting into his car and setting out for his race. that week, after charles returned, the two of you went shopping for some children-friendly appliances, excited to introduce léo to something new.

the six-year-old positioned himself right in front of the large bowl charles had set out. the older leclerc stood to the side, looming over the open utensils drawer. he pulled out two items, a spatula and a whisk, before holding them up in the air.

“léo, which one should we use?” as much as charles wanted to say he was asking this as a learning experience for his son, the monégasque was truly clueless.

léo pointed to the whisk and charles brought it over, moving on to grab the ingredients next. he handed léo the box of pancake mix, “okay, bébé, do you think you can tell me what ingredients we’re going to need?”

the boy nodded excitedly, flipping the box around and slowly reading the steps. after a few seconds, he gave up, impatient, and looked at the pictures instead, “papa, milk!”

charles faltered for a second, waiting for the next ingredient that never came, “that’s it?”

léo hummed, “yup! see, the front says just add milk! ajoutez juste du lait!” just add milk!

“alright then,” he pulled the milk out of the fridge, “whatever you say, chef léo.”

“papa,” the boy giggled, hand to his mouth to hide his smile–something he learned from you, “i’m not a chef! i don’t have my chef hat on.”

ah, the chef hat. another one of charles’ impulse buys after he saw one small enough to fit around léo’s head. he bought the same ones in larger sizes for both himself and you, and demanded that they had to cook something that night so they could wear the hats.

that same night, f1 fans went crazy over the domestic photodump charles had posted to his instagram, starting with a picture of the three of you with matching chefs hats, and ending with progress pictures of your attempt at making pizza from scratch.

charles pulled the hat out and placed it on léo’s head, grabbing another one and placing it on his own head, “okay, chef léo. shall we begin?”

“we shall!” he shook the pancake mix in excitement, handing it over to charles to open and measure.

it wasn’t long until both boys moved over to the stove, although léo had been sat on the island right across from the stove so he could watch without the risk of getting burned.

“what toppings should we use, papa?” léo was holding onto a bottle of chocolate syrup, something charles had taken out of the pantry along with honey and an array of berries.

“well, do you know what maman’s favourite fruit is?” charles flipped the pancake over.

“strawberries!” léo replaced the chocolate syrup with the bowl of chopped strawberries near him. his eyes still lingered on the chocolate syrup, “can we still put some syrup on top?”

charles chuckled, having already expected that question. when you had been pregnant with léo, your cravings always included chocolate in one for or another, and as a result, léo leclerc was obsessed with chocolate.

“of course we can, ma fève de cacao.” my cocoa bean.

the two leclercs worked like an assembly line, with charles cooking pancakes while léo decorated them with strawberries and chocolates. after yours was done, and charles had finished making his own and léo’s, charles joined the younger boy in plating and setting up the tray that they would take up to your room.

hopefully, you’d still be asleep.

right before charles could attempt his way up the stairs, léo gasped, hands placing themselves on the bottom of charles’ back, “papa! nous avons oublié le jus.” we forgot the juice!

charles stared at the already full tray, “mon amour, je ne pense pas que nous ayons de la place sur le plateau.” my love, i don’t think we have any space on the plate.

léo contemplated before smiling, “one second!”

he ran off into the pantry, a few grunts escaping his lips as he searched for whatever he was trying to find. charles was intrigued, watching his son come out of the pantry with three juice boxes.

he let out a loud laugh, “tu es très intelligent, petit chat.” you’re very smart, little cat.

léo pouted, a foot stamping against the tiled floor, “papa! i’m not un petit chat, i’m léo! a lion! un gros chat!” a big cat.

“ouais, ouais. let’s go, lion, the pancakes are getting cold.”

léo rushed out in front of charles, climbing up the stairs speedily before turning around to watch his father maneuver slowly up the same steps. when charles finally reached the top, léo opened the door and ran up to your still sleeping body.

he poked your cheek, “maman,” his voice was low, “maman, wake up.”

much like your husband, you groaned, not wanting to wake up. léo poked your nose next, giggling as you scrunched it up and batted at his hand lightly. he shook you, “maman, get up! we have a surprise!”

you blinked your eyes open, squinting at the light that peeked through the curtains, “what time is it?”

your son smiled wide, moving close enough so his face was all that you saw, “it’s breakfast time!”

“léo, inside voices,” the sound of charles’ voice caused you to flit your eyes up. there he stood, at the foot of the bed with a tray of pancakes and a soft smile on his face, “good morning, ange.”

you pulled yourself up, leaning against the headboard, “what’s this?”

you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face as charles brought the tray over to you, placing it in front of you. léo hopped onto the bed, placing a juice box in front of both you and charles, leaving his in his lap.

you wiped the sleep out of your eyes, “is it like, mother’s day or something? my birthday? am i forgetting something?”

charles smiled, reaching over the plate to place a kiss on your forehead. when he leaned back, léo replaced him, also placing a kiss on your forehead. unlike his father, he also patted your head, no doubt trying to tame your monstrous bed hair.

charles looked at the two of you fondly, “nothing special. notre petit lion voulait vous faire le petit déjeuner au lit.” our little lion wanted to make you breakfast in bed.

you looked over at léo who was smiling shyly, “merci, mon petit chaton.” thank you, my little kitten.

charles smirked to himself, waiting for léo to interject and tell you that he wasn’t a little kitten, but was amazed when léo smiled and cuddled up into your side, showing you the pancake he had decorated into a smiley face for you.

charles couldn’t stop his mouth from opening in shock, “léo, how come when i called you un petit chat, you corrected me, but when maman calls you un petit chat, you don’t say anything?”

you giggled at your husband’s pout, and léo stuck his tongue out at his father, “because i’m only maman’s kitten!”

charles narrowed his eyes at you, who hid behind léo’s head, the shaking shoulders giving away your amusement.

“y/n,” he slumped over, whining, “comment peux-tu me faire ça?” how could you do this to me?

you took a deep breath, willing yourself not to laugh before looking at charles, “sorry, i don’t speak french, i have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“oh, mon dieu, you are so annoying sometimes,” he snaked his hand back to the tray, “i’m not sure you deserve this anymore.”

before you could do it yourself, léo grabbed the other end off the tray and pulled it towards you.

“papa! no funny business,” his brows were furrowed and hands were back on his hips like earlier. charles bit his lip to hold back his laughter and you looked away to hide yours.

léo pointed a finger to the pancakes, “the pancakes are getting cold! we need to eat them.”

you cleared your throat, a smile still present on your lips, “you are absolutely correct, mon petit. where should we start?”

and with that, the three of you finally started eating your breakfast in bed. and though the pancakes had significantly cooled down, and were soggy from the chocolate syrup, you would easily say that it was one of the best breakfasts you had, watching your husband and child banter about who made the mess in the kitchen and who would clean it.

and even though you knew that you would end up cleaning the kitchen, nothing could ruin the happiness that filled you when you looked down at your plate and saw the small strawberry small and blueberry eyes looking back up at you.

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alexalbono23 · 1 year

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In the Austrian Hills (Lando Norris smut)

WARNINGS - 18+, sexual content

Summary - Ahead of the Austrian GP you find out Landos biggest secret. (Based on a request. Keep them coming! )

Whenever you saw lando at the track you always noticed his fat bulge. As McLarens social media manager you of course saw lando on a daily basis, on photos and in real life, so the feminine eye in you could tell that he was packing something special.

You walked past his motor home at the Austrian GP, the door just opened with a little crack. Interested as you were you decided to look.

Lando currently was putting on his racesuit as you noticed how his dangeling soft cock was still hanging out of the suit. Damn that thing was huge. 6 inches soft, you guessed, only imagining what it looked like hard. It also was as thick as your forearm, pocking out his prominent, cut head.

As he wanted to stuff his cock into his suit...he noticed you. Shit! He stood there for a second, in shock, his dick still hanging down halfway to his knees (or at least it looked like this for you) before he opened the door.

"I'm so sorry", he said

"You don't have to be sorry, Lando", you said as you still looked at his monster member. He was beautifully circumcised. "Does that thing grow bigger?"

"Wanna try?"

As soon as he asked you closed the door and where down on your knees. It felt so fat and meaty in your hands. "Wow, thats the biggest dick I've ever seen"

"Every girl tells me this"

You started to stroke his cock but couldn't grab it all with one hand so you used two, which still was though.

Lando started to moan as his massive member grew to about 9 hard, fat inches.

You tried to blow him but it was just to big so you sticked to jerking him off.

After a few more minutes he came, spraying you in his milky seed.

"I can fuck you next time", he joked as he stuffed his tripod in the race suit.

How could you handle that thing???

#f1 smut #f1 imagine #f1 x you #f1 fanfic #lando norris #lando norris smut

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skitskatdacat63 · 11 months

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Aforementioned Napoleonic AU! Martian !! I said it would just be a wip but then oops, I basically finished it! Ty to everyone who was interested :D

Really really proud of these I'm ngl! I rendered in a really different way than ever before and I'm very satisfied with it :D

Ramble about historical influences(basically me being a nerd about who I consider the F1 drivers of the Napoleonic era):

So I wanted to explain my thought process because I think that the specific context behind the uniforms I drew is very relevant, as I didn't just pick them on a whim.

I drew them in Hussars' uniforms(Austrian Empire = Red Bull, but like obviously not 100% accurate because the uniform colors are based off the RBR racesuits.) Hussars are, in my opinion, the F1 drivers of their time. Let me quote several things that led me to this conclusion:

"During the Napoleonic period, hussars, as in all armies, were employed as scouts, given raiding missions or despatched to harry and pursue a defeated enemy on the run. Mounted on light, nimble horses..."

"...Their flamboyant costume and their reputation for daredevil acts..."

"...developed a romanticized image of being dashing and adventurous.

Okay....so they're dashing and adventurous, riding specifically on fast, light horses, dressed in flamboyant outfits committing daredevil acts...sir that is literally an F1 driver!!! Tell me they aren't the historical predecessor to F1 drivers!!!

I have this big book of Napoleonic uniforms(yea I'm a nerd) and I was paging through it to see what uniforms I wanted to draw(I have a habit of drawing my one oc in the Napoleonic era. So when I started drawing fanart, I'm like of course I must draw them as this!) Austria's normal uniforms in this era are soooo boring compared to France's, so I was really 😒 about drawing them, but then I came across the Hussars, and then started noticing all these similarities and thought it was perfect. Also I need to mention the fact that Austria's royal cipher at the time was literally this:

IT'S "F1", IT IS LITERALLY FUCKING F1, WHAT THE HELLLLL!?!?!?!? I had like a partial mental crisis coming across this, at that point it was destiny for me to draw this

*I forgot to include actual ref images 😐, so here you go!!

*I wrote most of his around when I started this drawing, which was all the way back in April. And it's really interesting to consider now that I was basically immersed in the history of the Austrian Empire for a month. I apologize to everyone in my life who had to endure my lecture on why Hussars are the F1 drivers of their time. But god I could not hold it back when I saw some of these uniforms in person. And it was cool to pull out this drawing, even if it was just a wip, and be like "oh hey I've drawn these!!" Anyways, I digress.

Obviously the martian drawing is a direct reference to this pic from Malaysia 2010:

My thoughts on this picture:

I almost wanted to draw Seb in the Austrian Kaiser's outfit, but it is nowhere near as slay as the Hussar uniform, so Hussar uniform it is!

I have many thoughts and opinions on the lore of this au so pls ask if you're curious but it's also just a lot.

#me: i will draw anything but their racing suits idk how to draw that :(#also me: then procedes to draw them in the most complicated uniforms ever #like seriously how is this easier to me than fucking race suits????#catie will draw anything but normal f1 fanart #you will only get weird AUs that have even me going 'why did i make this???'#as ive said before i have burnout most of the time but then will be able to draw for hours at a time every once in a while #this was one of those times.#ty to everyone who said theyre interested!! you guys made my brain kick into gear #like the before of what i was gonna post compared to what i actually finished is pretty insane #i drew that seb drawing and discovered a method of rendering that was easier to me #so then i was able to go back and finish that drawing and not go mental over it #i just have a habit of being overly meticulous and then not being able to finish things #so these are great cause it was kinda just 'fuck it'#but god i genuinely actually love drawing napoleonic uniforms its very soothing to me #as if you couldnt tell my weird obsession already when i said that napoleon painting is my fav painting ever #anyways please take my weird obsession fanart !! i am pleased w it :D #i asked if anyone was interested bcs i think i couldn't just post this without preface LOL #martian #sebmark #mark webber #sebastian vettel #f1 #formula 1 #f1 fanart #formula 1 fanart #catie.art.#<- i use that tag every once in a blue moon fr #hussar au

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callmewrinkles3 · 1 year

Text

Helmets

Summary: Dan brings Em karting.

June 2019

"Remind me why I agreed to do this?" Em stared at Dan with wide eyes, the smell of petrol invading her senses. She was in her very own racesuit that Dan had presented to her that morning, the lavender colour she knew wasn't going to last long. Dan had his race helmet with him but she pulled on one they gave her at reception.

"Because you made a comment about how if Max could do this at four you should probably do it. I mean four is too young, and we won't talk about Max's childhood, but I figured we should try it out. And I'll go easy on you."

He'd rented the entire kart track for the two of them. Walking in she was pretty sure reception thought it was a prank, the track down for Ricciardo for two hours. But there they were.

"Left is for the brake, right is for the accelerator. Steering wheel is like a normal car. Just go and have fun." He kissed her cheek before they got their helmets on. "Go fast and be safe."

"I thought that was my line?"

Sitting into the kart was weird, so low to the ground. They were doing F1 rules, two practice sessions and then qualifying before doing twenty laps around the karting circuit. It took a couple of minutes to get her head around it but she managed to push herself through her nerves and didn't hit a single barrier on the way around. Between their practices Dan congratulated her, giving her a hug before they got back in.

She would have given Dan the pole but. he insisted that they worked for it. It didn't feel fair considering his day job but she shrugged and got back into the kart. Taking a deep breath Em did her warmup lap before pushing down on the accelerator and letting it go. She came back to a grinning Dan, helmet off as he bowed with a flourish.

"I should have brought one of my pole trophies for you."

"What?!"

"P1, Baby. P1."

She stared at the electronic timing. Dan was of course in kart 3, a lap of 31.231 there in his place. But her number 5 had a time of 31.187.

"How the fuck did I do that?"

"Seb encouraged you because you're in his number? You hit every apex I could see. It was magical. Should put you in a karting race."

"Not happening. I have enough anxiety watching you get in your car."

She stared at the screen, taking a photo of it for posterity before they got into the karts to go back out. She'd beaten a formula one driver in a kart. That felt good.

The race was fun, even though Dan took off ahead of her from lap one. She didn't care about it and focused on hitting the corners right and enjoying every single moment of it. She could see how Dan enjoyed driving like this. Her mind was blissfully blank as she focused on the track.

Coming into the pits at the end she was grinning, Dan helping her out of the kart as adrenaline flowed through her.

"You could have been a driver," Dan said when her helmet came off.

"No thanks. I think I'm better if I don't get in a kart. I'm a good support person though."

"So you'll let any future kids get in one?"

"I mean not before they're in school, but if they want to I can't really say no. Not when so much of my life has revolved around it."

"True."

They did the podium ceremony, Dan lifting the flimsy trophy above his head as Em cheered for him. They left grinning to go for food, Dan's question about future kids ringing around Em's head.

#call it what you want fic #daniel ricciardo imagine #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #ciwyw drabble

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sebscore · 1 year

Note

very very random thought but with the new barbie movie coming out soon i thought it would be fitting - imagine genz!reader having a small part in the movie, and her character is a motorsport barbie with the pink racesuit and all 😭 imagine her movie poster saying “this barbie is a race car driver”, how do you think the fans and other drivers would react lmao

I also like to think she has a cameo !! 💞 of course I’ll wait until the movie is out, but imagine her as a taxi chauffeur or something! 😭😭

it would def become a meme and the f1 team accounts would make their own versions of her poster! 🤍🫶🏻

#tgd #anon

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everybodyisasebfan · 2 years

Text

Sebastian Vettel über seinen Abschied - Seb’s interview with der Spiegel

Sebastian Vettel on his farewell: "I want to do it like Stefan Raab".

Four times world champion, now it's time for Formula 1 driver Sebastian Vettel to call it a day. Here he explains why he is now at odds with the racing circus - and how he imagines his life without horsepower.

As a child, he dreamed of being like his idol Michael Schumacher. With four world championship titles (from 2010 to 2013 with the Red Bull team) and a total of 53 Grand Prix victories, Sebastian Vettel, 35, will end his Formula 1 career on November 20 in Abu Dhabi after 16 years - the only German driver to be more successful was Schumacher. In order to be accepted into the guild of the really great drivers, Vettel lacks a title with a second racing team. He tried in vain for six years at Ferrari. Now he is embarking on a new chapter in his life.

SPIEGEL: Mr. Vettel, the first race of the new season will start in Bahrain on March 5 next year. Will you be sitting in front of the TV with chips and Coke?

Vettel: I don't know, I haven't made any plans yet. But I'm not sure I want to watch the race at all. Formula 1 was my purpose in life for 16 years. Now I secretly expect myself to be able to cope without Formula 1 - as if I were going through withdrawal.

SPIEGEL: You deliberately want to keep your distance so that the transition to a new life is successful?

Vettel: I think both can be nice and right: Cutting the cord and holding on. If you enjoy doing something, you can hang on to it. But I want to go the other way, detach myself and realize: There are enough other exciting things, I can manage to open the next door and find my happiness there. That's why I'm definitely not going to stand in front of the camera at the first race as an expert with a microphone in my hand and give my two cents. My role models are people who have succeeded in simply disappearing and taking the next step in life.

SPIEGEL: Who are you thinking of?

Vettel: Stefan Raab, for example. He was so omnipresent in the German television industry, announced he was quitting - and then, practically overnight, there was silence. Now you'd have to ask him whether he's happy with that or not. But first of all, I think it's admirable when someone detaches themselves from public attention to such an extent that you have the feeling that they haven't become dependent on it: He hasn't become dependent on it. That's a big risk, especially in sports.

SPIEGEL: Roger Federer loved tennis so much that he was still fighting a battle against his ailing body at the age of 41. U.S. football star Tom Brady has returned from short-term retirement at 44, and your colleague Fernando Alonso is entering the cockpit you will leave behind at Aston Martin at 41. Why do you think you won't mind the loss of attention?

Vettel: Of course I don't know how I'll react after my last Grand Prix. On the other hand, I've been practicing a strict separation for years: When I get home, I hang up my racesuit and leave the job behind with it - apart from fitness training and a few phone calls. I have no pictures of myself at home on the wall, no trophies on display. I have a lot of other interests to look forward to. And with three kids at home, it's never boring anyway.

SPIEGEL: Cultivating vanity is one thing, but experiencing the pleasure or fun of driving at the limit is something else. So it's not just your mind that will have to go through withdrawal, but your body as well?

Vettel: I've thought about that a lot. What happens when that's no longer there: the thrill, the adrenaline, the challenge, the competition as well, all of the things that make racing so special.

SPIEGEL: ... can you describe the thrill of having to get the maximum out of yourself, the car and the track on a qualifying lap?

Vettel: The special thing is that I don't have time to think, to look where I'm going, where I'm turning in. If I'm hurtling toward a corner at 300 km/h and hit the brakes a blink of an eye too late, then I miss the apex. But it's impossible to feel the blink of an eye, to measure it for yourself. We're talking about five hundredths of a second, which no human being can pinpoint. To hit the exact right moment anyway, that's the thrill.

SPIEGEL: So do you rely on your intuition?

Vettel: I would call it anticipation. You always have to be one step ahead. Imagine a drawn circle that you trace with your hand. Not a millimeter over and not a millimeter under. Because on that line is the maximum grip. That's the perfection you're looking for on a qualifying lap. You need to have blind faith in the vehicle and merge with it. When a lap like that is successful, there's an incredible sense of satisfaction.

SPIEGEL: Are you addicted to this feeling of perfection?

Vettel: Absolutely. That's a big part of my identity. Another, of course, is simple ambition. Even outside the car, I constantly find myself wanting everything to be perfect. With me, things always have to be completely accurate. I can't stand a picture hanging crookedly on the wall. It disturbs me, distracts me, has to be corrected. My wife sometimes gets annoyed with me about that, but that probably happens to many women with their husbands.

SPIEGEL: You haven't been in tune with your race cars for a long time. You won a single Grand Prix in 2019 and none since. There is no trace of perfection.

Vettel: That's why I was considering retiring even back then. In 2017 and 2018 I competed for the world championship with Ferrari, won five races in each year, but still only finished second behind Lewis Hamilton in the end. Spending so much energy, including mental energy, for two years in a row and then coming up short - that's when doubts emerged: Will this ever work out? Is there still hope?

SPIEGEL: After your world championship titles with Red Bull, you switched to Ferrari for one reason only: to become world champion there.

Vettel: Of course. But in 2019 it quickly became apparent that we weren't competitive. At the same time, I had a new, young teammate who simply started off unburdened by disappointments. Charles Leclerc took the wheel and hit the gas. He was carrying less weight around with him. He drove the way I saw myself during my first Formula 1 years. I, on the other hand, saw my goal slipping out of reach. That did something to me that I didn't immediately understand. Then, when my contract with Ferrari ended in 2020, the thought of leaving was very present.

SPIEGEL: What kept you from doing that?

Vettel: Somehow I still had a few unanswered questions or unsettled scores with myself. To put it simply, I wanted to know: Can I still do it, am I still good enough to compete at the top of Formula 1?

SPIEGEL: But there was no offer from a top team, only from Aston Martin.

Vettel: 2021 was a development year for me - with high hopes that things would get better in 2022 from a sporting point of view.

SPIEGEL: Things turned out differently, and Aston Martin continues to lag behind. In retrospect, was it a mistake not to have quit two years ago?

Vettel: No. In order to get answers to the unresolved questions, it was important to have this time. However, the fact that I'm not currently in a race car with which I can show what I'm actually capable of has also contributed to my retirement.

SPIEGEL: You announced your decision in a lengthy video that you posted - unusually for you - on Instagram. Your main motive was to have more time to spend together with your three children.

Vettel: Absolutely. But it's a bundle of motivations. As far as my children are concerned, I've been living in a conflict for years. They are my priority, but on the other hand I'm very dedicated to my sport, and every year it's become more difficult to do right by them - in part because there are more and more races each season. At the same time, I can't escape the changing times, can't ignore what's happening to our world and environment, where we're all collectively headed. And what part I play as a racing driver.

SPIEGEL: Despite your passion for racing, have you become estranged from Formula 1?

Vettel: Yes. I don't want that to be understood as a negative thing for Formula 1, but in recent years I've often asked myself the question: Do I still fit in here? It doesn't make me a better person, for example compared to the other drivers, if I ask myself that question. But I think I've always been a bit different from most in the Formula One bubble. The issues that concern me, the things I see like that, are quite different. Estranged is an appropriate word.

SPIEGEL: You profess to be a Green voter, travel to European races by train or RV, campaign for biodiversity and waste reduction, demonstrate for the rights of the LGBTQIA+ community - this has earned you applause, but also scorn and criticism. Do you understand when some call you a hypocrite?

Vettel: I've asked myself in recent years how I should approach the fact that I fly to Japan, Brazil or Abu Dhabi and consume resources. But I couldn't change that as a Formula 1 driver. And so I'm increasingly caught in a conflict between the views and values I hold and what I do. It doesn't fit together. In retrospect, it bothers me that I didn't realize until this late that I could use my voice to draw attention to such problems.

SPIEGEL: Niki Lauda, Alain Prost, Michael Schumacher - three of the greatest stars of the Grand Prix circus have made a comeback. Is that out of the question for you?

Vettel: I'd like to rule it out. But I can't. I don't know what I'll do in one or two years' time. As far as the physical side of things is concerned, I'm in a sport that you could easily return to after a two-year break. However, I hope that in two years' time I'll still be saying: No thanks, I don't need racing anymore.

SPIEGEL: Is that a bit of a worry about a relapse?

Vettel: I think that's a concern for almost all professional athletes. You grow into your career, it's a development that starts as a child, whether you're a cyclist, a soccer player or a racing driver. Hardly anyone reaches the top of their sport after changing careers or coming in late. I am aware that the second step into life after sports is much more difficult.

SPIEGEL: For decades, racing drivers were something like the car industry's top ambassadors. Now, manufacturers favor electrically powered cars and are gearing up for a mobility revolution that aims to drastically reduce traffic in cities. What is your opinion on this?

Vettel: I see it as a great opportunity. Because of my job, I've seen many cities all over the world - in some of them, people don't even consider opening their windows. People there are dying because of how bad the air is. I think cities where it's a given to ride a bike, like in Scandinavia, are mega-cool. And I like to use on-demand networks. You can spin that further and wonder what happens to all the parking spaces if not everyone wants to own a car. That's all space that can be given back to the people, which would improve the quality of urban living. I'm not afraid of this change.

SPIEGEL: Will automotive racing still be around in ten years?

Vettel: Only if it manages to put itself at the forefront of the movement, so to speak. Above all, that means bringing a technological development to the race cars that really has relevance. In the future, can we afford to waste resources just to have fun? No. Motorsport has to find an answer to the question: What's the point?

SPIEGEL: Formula 1 sees itself in a pioneering role. From 2026, the new regulations will provide for hybrid engines, half of whose power will come from an electric motor and half from a combustion engine powered by synthetic, CO2-neutral fuel.

Vettel: A few things immediately come to mind. I think 2026 is too late to see it as a pioneering role. Synthetic fuels already exist, so why wait another four years? We're running on E10 gasoline this season and acting like it's a big deal. I find that a bit embarrassing, E10 has been available at the gas station for over ten years. I see synthetic fuels more as a bridging technology because their production requires a lot of renewable energy. This energy would be better used for heating and warm water - before it is spent with great difficulty and low efficiency for the production of synthetic gasoline.

SPIEGEL: Is Formula 1 on the wrong path?

Vettel: Formula 1 is far too preoccupied with the present and looks far too little at the opportunities of the future. It's busy expanding - instead of having the foresight to become the pacesetter for tomorrow's mobility.

SPIEGEL: Mr. Vettel, thank you for this interview.

#as usual #if you see any mistakes pls let me know!#sebastian vettel #formula 1 #f1 #translation

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russellrustles · 2 years

Text

Showbiz, Baby - Chapter 4

a/n: guess who’s finally back from her unplanned hiatus! (hint: it’s me). thank you as usual to @f1tingz for being supportive throughout the process as always.

warnings: swearing, some rather angsty angst

word count: 6k

masterlist

showbiz, baby playlist

adding some george tags as usual due to a lot of george content in this chapter.

——————————

The sweltering Hungarian heat is suffocating, your black racesuit only serving to further amplify it. Squatting down against a wall, you try to protect yourself by covering yourself with an umbrella, but the relief provided by the shade is temporary.

All the cars are already lined up on the grid in their respective positions, a slight sense of irritation filling you at the sight of your Mercedes in fourth position. That’s not to say that you have any resentment for George, who had qualified one place ahead of you, or for Max after he had snatched pole position with a rather impressive lap time. But Charles second on the grid? Charles ahead of you?

That gets under your skin.

You try not to let it show, of course. Every reporter who had asked you about the qualifying results had definitely been looking for some new material, a new morsel of drama between you and Charles that they could wring every drop of content out of for an attention-grabbing headline.

Oh, if only they knew about your recent stay in Monaco.

Maybe the press doesn’t know about it, but George certainly does. He had confronted you about your swift escape from his and Gabi’s company when you had both arrived for your media duties a few days ago, asking why you hadn’t come back to England after finding out that Pascale was alright. You had told him rather bluntly that it was none of his business. Yet, you’re still certain that he knows damn well where you had stayed, even if you hadn’t replied to his messages or calls asking where you were back when you had been at Charles’.

George isn’t angry at you in any way, shape or form - throughout all the years that you’ve known him, you can’t note a single time in which he had lost his temper directly in response to you. Instead, he just seems to be disappointed at your inability to stay away from things that do you no good, and being the cause of George’s disappointment hurts more than being at the receiving end of his fury ever could.

Despite this, he still comes over to you just before it’s time for everyone to get back in their cars. You do your little pre-race ritual, a fist bump followed by a one-armed hug and finished with a delicate bonk of the helmets. The first time the last part of the little ritual had occurred had been a pure accident, George having accidentally hit your helmeted head with his as he bent over to grab his water bottle from the ground, but for humour’s sake you had decided to keep it as a permanent feature.

Getting in the car and waiting for lights out after the formation lap doesn’t bring any rush of adrenaline with it, or at least in the traditional sense. Instead, there’s a feeling of steely composure, a hyper-focus of sorts. Hands gripping the steering wheel, you take a few deep, steady breaths as you watch the red lights appear one by one.

As soon as they’re off, you take off at a blistering pace. You focus on trying to weave between the cars in front of you, edging closer and closer to them, until you reach the first turn and suddenly overestimate your braking abilities and have to awkwardly maneuver the turn in a way that barely keeps you on the track. Squeezing the steering wheel in frustration, you throw yourself back onto the racing line just in time to avoid being overtaken.

Forcing down your disappointment at your lack of form so far this weekend, you settle on defending the positions of you and your teammate from a McLaren that’s managed to make its way through the grid and towards you. Logically speaking, George finishing ahead of you wouldn’t be the most disastrous ending possible - maybe it wouldn’t benefit you in the individual standings, but it would still boost the team’s overall points.

It takes a staggered series of pitstops across the grid and some daring overtakes to land you in the position of race leader. You try not to let the rising nerves distract you but you can’t stop yourself from repeatedly asking about the gaps behind you. The only solid answer you receive is that Max is three seconds behind you, busy fighting with Charles, and George is doing his best to defend against Carlos after the aforementioned two.

Knowing that Max and Charles are at each other’s throats rather than focusing on chasing you down at this current moment in time provides you with a bit of relief. You allow yourself to focus more on keeping your car in good condition, only occasionally peering in your mirrors to take a look at what’s behind you. You’re mainly unbothered by what you see until all of a sudden a blur of navy and red goes skidding off the track.

“Hey, uh, what was that?” you ask over the radio, now too far away to take a look at what’s ensued behind you.

A few seconds later you get a reply, “Yellow flag, Verstappen and Leclerc went off the track.”

You huff quietly, a little frustrated that only the obvious is being stated, “Yeah, alright. Did they just go wide or something?”

“They’re in the barrier.”

Well that’s certainly not what you had expected.

You mull over the matter for a moment as you’re notified of the red flag, quickly asking, “They’re both okay though, right?”

Being told that they’re both out of their cars soothes your distressed thoughts to a small degree. Maybe it’s not uncommon for there to be a yellow or red flag at some point in a race, but you know from experience that a high-speed, brutally blunt crash is no pleasant business.

Waiting for the restart is rather boring, with you sitting by your car occasionally sipping from your bottle. At one point you give a quick wave to a camera that’s pointed in your direction, and a little later George gives you a pat on the shoulder as he walks past, but other than that you remain sitting down, impatiently tapping your foot against the ground.

The pitlane only really gets interesting once Max and Charles are brought back off the track to be escorted to the medical centre. There’s a palpable tension in the air as you watch on from the sidelines, the two drivers striding through the throng of mechanics in a rather aggressive fashion and throwing glares of blame and bitterness across at each other, most likely delighting the cameramen as they scramble to capture the moment.

And yet, beneath the seething exterior that he’s putting on, you know Charles well enough to know that it’s all a facade, and he’s about to crumble from within.

You don’t allow yourself to feel pity for him, though. Empathy is perhaps acceptable, having been in his position before and knowing exactly how the defeatist emotions gnaw at you in such a situation, but pity is a step too far - it’s all part of the sport.

And, besides, you’re not the one with the responsibility to mollify him anymore.

But when a crowd of people prematurely ends their stare-off all traces of fury dissipate from his face and instead he looks up at the sky with begging eyes, as if both demanding answers from and cursing every deity in the heavens for having forced such misfortune upon him.

You force yourself to look away.

The restart leaves you with only thirteen laps to go, and thanks to George defending against Carlos a short distance behind you, your ego gets a nice boost as you cruise across the finish line in first place.

You cheer and raise your fist in the air as you drive back into the pitlane whilst screaming through the radio, “Good stuff! Great stuff! George - what a fucking legend!” Admittedly, it doesn’t bring as much satisfaction as a win that you fought for until the last lap would, but first place is first place and who are you to complain when you’re the one on the top step of the podium?

Clambering out of your Mercedes, you immediately run towards your team pressed up against the barriers. Launching yourself at them, you try and get as close to them as possible despite the metal fence separating you, borderline overwhelmed by the deafening yells and applause.

Breathing deeply, you eventually back away from your team, trying to regain your breath and calm down your heart rate as the adrenaline begins to ebb away. With shaky hands, you remove your helmet and balaclava, watching Carlos and George congratulate each other and laugh a little between themselves. You stroll over to them, water bottle in one hand and towel in the other, to give Carlos a fist bump and a “Nice job,” before turning to face George.

He pulls you in for a one-armed hug, a triumphant smile upon his face once he pulls away. “Pretty good, huh?” he says, “Bet the team’s really happy with this one.”

“God, yeah. Thank you, though - amazing defence at the end,” you respond, still a little too stunned to form a reply that’s any more detailed. He just gives you a thumbs up and squeezes your shoulder before moving off for his interview.

Your interview is last, and so you spend the least amount of time in the cool-down room. Making your way up the stairs to the podium two steps at a time, you take one final calming breath before stepping out before the crowd.

The roar of the crowd is overpowering, and you bask in the glory as you do a little jog over to the top step of the podium, waving and raising your fist in the air a few times before hopping up to your designated spot. The main part of the ceremony passes in a blur, mainly because you allow yourself to zone out throughout the majority of it. Your thoughts keep drifting away from your win and towards Max and Charles.

Or, more specifically, just Charles.

Call it favouritism, call it borderline obsession, but it’s an undeniable fact that the person at the forefront of the mind is usually the one who should have been forgotten instead.

You don’t really focus on the ceremony until everybody starts spraying the champagne, Carlos completely catching you off guard as he suddenly tries to pour it down the back of your racesuit. Gasping, you scramble around for your own bottle of champagne for self-defence.

Rather viciously, you retaliate against the other people on the podium before posing for a few photos with George, just so that all the Mercedes accounts will have something to post. Arms around each other’s shoulders, you both drink some champagne while plastered with confetti. As soon as it’s polite for you to do so, you grab your stuff and bolt from the stage, weaving your way around people and refusing to slow down in any circumstances, much to the dismay of interviewers and photographers.

The medical centre has a cold, clinical feel to it as you slip in through a side door. Feeling out of place carrying a trophy and an oversized bottle of champagne, you do your best to navigate your way through the corridors and rooms without getting in the way of any staff.

It’s Max’s room that you stumble across first, and you decide to check in on the Dutchman. His face is rather blank as he sits on the edge of a portable stretcher, helmet nowhere to be found and racesuit tied around his hips. Noticing your arrival, he gives you a small smile, and the two of you have a quick chat about how he’s feeling and the results of the race. Feeling slightly comforted by the fact that he’s alright, you wave him goodbye as you leave.

The atmosphere in Charles’ room could not be any less amicable. He too sits like Max, but instead of greeting you with a smile he just keeps an inscrutable expression on his face. For a second, you scold yourself for even thinking that coming here would be a good idea.

You find yourself to be lost for words for all the wrong reasons. His emotionless gaze seems to slowly morph into an accusatory glare as your silence prolongs, almost as if he’s saying, ”Have you come here to flaunt your successes and then leave again?”.

Maybe you’re just making things up at this point, or perhaps he isn’t thinking that at all, and is just distressed by his DNF, but you still blurt out the first thing that comes to mind in an attempt to shift the atmosphere.

“I think we need to talk about what happened back in Monaco.”

You groan internally as you realise how much worse you’ve just made the situation, and Charles confirms your thoughts by scoffing and rolling his eyes.

“If you want me to be honest, I’m not in the mood to talk about that,” he mumbles, crossing his arms but refusing to make eye contact.

“Yeah, I know, but I just needed to clear up a bit - I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done what I did. I should have just walked away then instead of doing so afterwards,” you desperately try to backpedal, anything to dispel the tension in the air.

Charles seems to consider his answer for a second before replying, “Maybe I should have had some more self-control.”

The blanket of silence returns after that, covering the room in its heavy mass until you speak up again, “Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head, only lifting his left hand a little, “My wrist hurts a bit, but I’m okay.”

Wistful, you think back to the days where you would have kissed his wrist better, prepared a bubble bath and then held him in bed afterwards, gently running your fingers through his hair in the way that you knew he loved so much. Just for a brief moment, when you finally meet his gaze again, his eyes show the same poignancy that you’re feeling. Despite this, you push the present emotions to the side with the intention of asking one final question.

“Why was it that when I first visited Pascale, she asked me if you’ve been trea-“

“There you are!” your PR manager’s voice cuts you off mid-sentence, and you whip around with a feeling of dread, as if she’s just caught you doing something illegal.

She doesn’t pay any attention to Charles as she grabs you by the shoulder, forcing you out of the room without even giving you the chance to take one last look at him. “For goodness sake, everybody’s trying to talk to you so we’ve been looking for you everywhere for the past ten minutes or so - what are you even doing here anyways?” she chews you out as she escorts you, head lowered and shoulders drooping, out, and all you reply with is a shrug.

—————

The sunset paints Budapest in a stunning array of warm orange and red hues, providing a perfect view for the three of you to admire whilst you wind down after a busy day. Walking down the hill from the Citadella certainly isn’t strenuous, and the minimal amount of other people on the path only eases the journey, but you feel exhausted despite that, and quite honestly at this moment in time you partially wish that you could be in your hotel instead.

Even though you’re enjoying your evening stroll, the drama of the day has left you drained. However, when your friends had asked you to join them on their so-called adventure, you hadn’t had the heart to refuse them

“The city looks nice from here,” Lewis says, voicing your own thoughts as he does a small jog to catch up with you way in front, and just a few seconds later you hear George loping over too, never far behind.

George is oddly quiet tonight, having mostly kept to himself since you had bolted from the podium earlier, but Lewis has no difficulties filling this new silence. He eagerly asks questions about the car and tracks, occasionally offering a tip here and there or inquiring further into the matter. In return, you ask him about what he’s been getting up to in his spare time and check in on how Roscoe’s been doing.

Eventually the conversation drifts back towards the weekend, and Lewis asks, “What have you been up to in Budapest, then?”

You’re just about to recommend a restaurant that you visited last night when George cuts in: “Why don’t you ask her what she’s been doing in Monaco instead?”

Slowing down a little, you turn to face him with a clear look of disdain. “We’ve already talked about this, there’s no need to bring it up again,” you tell him sternly, wanting to nip his attitude in the bud before it develops into something worse.

“Well, quite frankly, the last time we talked about it you didn’t give me much of a reply,” he snaps back. You don’t give him any reaction, rather unwilling to converse with him anymore. Seeing your lack of response, he signs loudly and adds, “Can we please just have a calm discussion about this? I definitely started this off badly, but I just want to know what’s going on.”

You look over at Lewis and he just shrugs, not picking a side to defend. Maybe he wants to be in on the gossip as well.

“So, obviously I was making sure that Pascale was feeling better, and then I ended up unexpectedly prolonging the trip a little,” you explain, but don’t elaborate much further. Kicking a few pebbles on the path serves as an attempt to distract yourself from the conversation.

“And during this little prolonged trip, you just so happened to stay at your ex’s apartment?” Hearing George use that term to refer to Charles stings a little, especially as he’s hit the nail on the head in regards to the Monaco situation with terrifying precision. On your other side, Lewis gives a low ‘oh damn’ sort of whistle.

You try to justify your actions, suddenly realising how bizarre it all seems from an outside perspective, “Look, I really needed to keep an eye on Pascale for a few days, and this was easier than booking a hotel somewhere on the other side of Monaco.”

George just raises an eyebrow, pressing you to continue.

“Nothing even happened - honest! I literally slept on the living room sofa!” At this point, you’re not sure if making up half-lies gives your attempts at self-defence any more credibility.

“I just don’t get why you keep running back to him,” he mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets and chuckling half-heartedly as he sees you rolling your eyes.

“I’m not looking to grant him any forgiveness. The only thing I want from him now is an explanation as to why Pascale didn’t know anything about the situation, and then I’m done with him.” Your voice cracks a little at the end, but you do your best to cover it with a cough.

It takes you a second to notice that both Lewis and George have stopped walking, and you turn around to see them softly discussing something behind you. Lewis is the first to speak up.

“What do you mean? What is it that Pascale didn’t know?” he asks, and your heart drops with dread as you realise that the easiest option out of this is to explain even more of your Monaco visit. It’s a sickening feeling, one that’s clawing its way up from the depths of your body and towards your mouth, weighing your tongue down and making it difficult to speak.

George and Lewis both look at you expectantly as you fail to put your muddled thoughts into words. Finally, after a few stutters and restarted sentences, you manage to spit something out, “I don’t think she knows about what happened with…” you trail off, unable to force yourself to recount the event, “you know what.”

Revealing this new aspect of the already-convoluted situation seems to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

“The fuck do you mean, Pascale doesn’t know? He didn’t tell his own mother?” George exclaims, returning to his previous ire.

Holding your hands out placatingly, you try to defuse the situation, “Look, I don’t know what’s going on either. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth while she wasn’t feeling well.”

Lewis watches on wide-eyed, occasionally opening his mouth as if to contribute, but never actually saying anything.

“I just want to find out why he did that - that’s all I want from him now, like I said earlier,” you continue, deciding that now is the time to start walking down the hill again, just to have something to focus on other than the discussion at hand.

The other two are quick to hurry to catch up with you, but one is very obviously calmer than the other.

“This is exactly your problem: you keep running back to him with a new excuse every time. If I told Gabi all this she’d go crazy,” George scolds you, and you respond with a scoff.

“Gabi doesn’t know specifically because of that - once I get an answer from Charles, then I’ll talk to Gabi.” Gabi, ever so loyal, has already stood by your side throughout all of the events that had occurred in the last few weeks, and the last thing you want to do now is stress the poor girl out any more.

“Lewis, please talk some fucking sense into her!” George groans.

“Hey, man, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea for her to find out.”

The sudden silence from George is almost comical. Eyebrows furrowed, mouth slightly open and hands held out, palms up, in an expression of accusatory questioning and betrayal.

“Right, fine, that’s two against one,” he concedes with a sigh, “go and see what’s going on with this whole ‘mother doesn’t know’ mess.”

You and Lewis both laugh, triumphantly high-fiving each other.

“I’ll help if you need help, and we’ll tell Gabi about all this as soon as we know more,” he says in a serious, no-nonsense tone, “in return, you promise that you’ll stop acting like you suffer from separation anxiety in relation to your ex. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes, we do, Mister Russell.”

—————

The warm light from the chandeliers high above illuminates your dress flawlessly, making the silver fabric - a clear reference to the Silver Arrows - glimmer as you sway around the lavish hall. Filled with sponsors, senior team members and the sons and daughters of the filthy rich, the venue provides you with the perfect opportunity to fade away into the background, hidden in the shadows of the more influential, more powerful people around you.

From what you’ve heard, every team has been invited, and from what you can see, the majority of them have turned up. The owner of some Budapest-based company - not that you care enough to find out more details than that - is the one organising all this, and you’re more than happy to attend just for the entertainment and free food.

However, between you, George, and Lewis is the knowledge that there are some ulterior motives related to your appearances here tonight.

Sitting across the room from the three of you is the man himself, donning a Giorgio Armani suit and a radiant smile.

It doesn’t take him long to register your deep stare, and soon enough he turns his head slightly and makes eye contact with you - the previously called star-crossed lovers now separated by not only the cosmos, but also by the hostilities between them.

You’re the first to wave the white flag and excuse yourself from the stare-off, telling George and Lewis some random excuse about going to grab a drink whilst hurriedly leaving, suddenly feeling a visceral need to put more distance between you and Charles.

You tell yourself that there’s no need to make a move yet, that the night is young and everybody will be staying here until the sun comes up. Yet, despite this, you cannot help but feel as if you’re haunted by some metaphorical clock, ticking menacingly as time slips away from you. Deep within, you know that the more you put off the confrontation, the worse it’ll be once it finally occurs.

However, you end up shoving those thoughts to the very back of your mind, amongst the other dusty and tattered memories and events that you wish to forget, and force yourself to enjoy the party.

Working your way throughout the grand hall with some random fizzy drink in your hand, you occasionally stop to make small talk with some sponsors that you’ve seen once or twice before. Soon enough you bump into Lewis who’s chatting with some Mercedes team members, and he’s quick to politely end his conversation and come over to you.

“Have you spoken to him yet?” he asks in a hushed, urgent tone, as if you are currently in the process of performing a clandestine, top-secret mission.

You shake your head and take another sip of the fizzy drink. “I’ve kind of been trying to avoid him, if you want me to be honest,” you admit.

He gives you a glare of mock disapproval and looks around the room, concentrating hard as he searches for someone. Rather quickly, he gives up and turns back to you, “You know, if George was here I’d tell him to tell you to hurry up, but he wandered off with some guys from Williams a while ago.”

You laugh half-heartedly at that, trying to mask that you too are disappointed in your lack of initiative. Just as you’re about to craft some snark reply, you’re jolted forward as someone knocks you from behind.

“Sorry! Sorry!” you hear an all too familiar voice apologising as he presumably struggles to get through the crowd of people. You freeze in a moment of realisation, and Lewis looks a little shocked too, before you shove your drink into his hand.

It’s now or never.

Turning around, you place your hand between the shoulders of the man who’s just bumped into you, firmly pressing him to go where you guide him.

“Just keep walking, Charles,” you whisper, and he offers no resistance as the two of you start heading away from the crowd, down a wide corridor, and eventually once you find some random empty room, you usher him in and slam the door shut behind you.

He immediately sits himself down on an ugly green sofa, one of those furniture pieces that’s meant to be a status symbol but just looks plain distasteful instead. He’s got a smirk on his face, and a mischievous glint in his eye.

“You know, you could have just said if you had wanted to-“

“Pascale.”

One single word of yours immediately wipes the cockiness from his face, replacing it with a flash of confusion. “What has she got to do with anything?” Charles asks, “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

Your exponentially increasing level of exasperation surpasses your self-restraint abilities and you lose your patience before the conversation even properly starts, “I’m on about the fact that she didn’t know anything about us!”

It seems to take a second for him to process your sudden outburst, resulting in him just staring blankly up at you as you stride towards him sitting on the sofa. The vexation that you’re feeling is of the overwhelming kind, and you can already tell that there’ll be tears of frustration running down your face if you don’t get an answer soon.

“I…” Charles begins, but quickly trails off, breaking eye contact and looking around the room awkwardly instead, “I didn’t want to explain any details that I wasn’t sure about to her, in case I got it wrong.”

How can he possibly be unsure of any details? You’re shocked into silence purely from how absolutely baffled you are at what he’s just said. Out of everybody involved in this whole mess, wouldn’t he be the one who’d be able to recount it most accurately?

“How can you be unsure of any details?” you ask faintly, all of your previous ire having been beaten out of you by his one simple response.

“Because I don’t remember it.”

You laugh. You absolutely guffaw, most likely loud enough for anybody walking past the room to hear. It’s not like you can help it - no other reaction can encompass the sheer emotional cocktail that you’re being served right now. It only takes a second or two for your awkward laughter to cease, but Charles doesn’t speak even once you’re quiet again.

“Right, we need to sort this out - at what point during the night did it all cut off?” you say sternly, needing to get to the bottom of this.

He just looks up at you helplessly, tears gathering in his eyes, as he admits, “I don’t even remember her kissing me. I just drank too much and woke up on the sofa in Lucas’ room feeling like I’d been hit by a truck. Then I checked my phone, saw all your calls and messages, and those articles…”

The room is inundated by the silence between you for a short while before you bluntly respond, “I can’t fucking believe this.”

“What do you mean?” he whispers, before adding, “I’m sorry.”

You wipe your damp cheeks before mumbling, “I can’t believe that we’re going through some of the most difficult weeks I can remember, and you don’t even know if the thing causing all of it actually happened.”

He stands up now, grabbing you by the wrists, and you take a half-step back to put some space between you as he begins rambling, “Please, we can try sorting this out, we can find a way to make the media get over it without telling them too much. If we just try doing it together for once instead of constantly being at each other’s throats-“

“Charles, even if you didn’t fuck some random girl, you still kissed her.”

Another moment of tense silence.

“I can’t possibly fathom why you didn’t tell me this earlier,” you sigh, utterly lost in all the twists and turns of this convoluted nightmare.

“God, I don’t know - I was confused, scared, upset. I had no idea what I had done or hadn’t done, I couldn’t think straight,” he blurts out, clinging onto you tighter as if trying to ground himself in this moment of emotional turmoil.

Shaking your head, you move your wrists out of his grasp and turn to leave the room, “I need to process this.”

Charles’ heavy, urgent footsteps follow you across the room, his voice rising in volume as he too loses any last remnants of self-restraint, “You need to come back here and we can sit down like grown adults and discuss what we’ll do.”

Ignoring him doesn’t stop him - if anything, it only irritates him.

“You can’t keep running from all your problems! Maybe if we talked about this properly for once then we’d be able to get to the bottom of it!” he rants, yet you still don’t pay any attention to him, the world around you spinning as you try to organise your thoughts.

The raucous noise emanating from the main hall sounds muffled as you shove open the door from the room and stumble into the hallway. You break into a brisk jogging pace - the most that you can manage whilst intermittently half-tripping over your own dress - desperate to put all your problems behind you, even if only temporarily.

Nobody seems to notice your dramatic entrance into the main hall. Everybody is far too busy trying to suck up to their higher-ups or taking advantage of the endless supply of food and drinks. You take this as an opportunity to make your getaway, skirting along the edge of the room as you try to reach the exit of the building.

A hand firmly grasps your shoulder.

That’s it. You’re done for. Charles must have somehow managed to catch up to you, and now the entire gathering of people will witness the two of you bickering. You finally capitulate, shoulders drooping and head lowered as he turns you around.

“Charles, please, not in front of everyone,”

“Charles?”

The unexpected voice catches you off guard, and you look up to see George with a quizzical frown on his face.

“Did you talk to him? What happened?” George questions you, his other hand coming to grip your other shoulder as he tries to support you, still swaying from how dizzy and nauseous you feel.

“God, he doesn’t even fucking remember!” you blurt out, your attention shifting from George and to your surroundings as you try to work out if Charles is still trying to catch up to you. Instead of spotting Charles, however, you notice that Lewis is weaving through the crowd, heading towards the two of you.

George’s frown immediately transforms from one of confusion to a clear expression of concern, “He doesn’t remember what?”

It’s in that very moment that Charles appears, rushing out from the corridor and into the main hall, rapidly turning around a few times, most likely in an attempt to locate you.

“Fuck, fuck,” you mumble, twisting out of George’s grip and breaking back into a run before Lewis even arrives, completely disregarding George’s protest of, “Hey! Where are you going?”

“Sorry,” and, “Excuse me,” fall from your lips meaninglessly as you shove through the people in your way. The ludicrously oversized wooden doors marking the exit to the building loom over you as you near them, and you grab some outdated magazine from a small decorative table by the wall as you get closer to your destination.

You’re fully aware of the fact that there’s going to be countless reporters and paparazzi photographers outside the building, frothing at the mouth and drooling as they wait for the opportunity to snap up a celebrity or well-off individual. But, after all the damage that they’ve already done, you can’t imagine them possibly exacerbating the situation any further.

Pushing open the door just far enough to slip out of the building, you lift the magazine in a feeble attempt to shield your face. Cries of your name and bright flashes fill the night air as people try to grab your attention, but you refuse to either stop or to look at them as you scramble down the stairs and down the street.

A sudden rise in volume and even more frequent clicks of cameras leads you to presume that Charles has also just made a dramatic exit from the building.

Great, what a way to stir shit even further.

You can’t possibly look back now. Continuing to speedwalk down the street, you don’t even lower the magazine from your face until you’ve hailed a cab and clambered in, firmly shutting the door behind you.

The first thing you do after asking the driver to take you to your hotel is call Gabi.

“Goddamn, I’m trying to sleep,” she grumbles, her voice croaky.

You let out a small, amused huff, “Well, you’re going to have to help me out.”

There’s a few seconds of silence from Gabi on the other side of the call, before she quietly says, “Go on?” in a tone laced with hesitation.

“I need to get in touch with either Lucas or Amelie.”

Just saying her name makes you feel a visceral ache deep in your stomach.

“Why the hell would you want to talk to either of them?” she yells from across the phone, evidently no longer sleepy.

You consider explaining the last few days from start to finish, filling her in on the details and answering any questions that she may have. But, acknowledging the urgency of the situation, you settle on a blunt answer instead.

“Me and Charles have something that we need to get to the bottom of.”

——————————

a/n: once again, apologies for the wait. please do correct any errors that i may have made in my writing and haven’t fixed.

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