#clara.writing

[musicallisto]

hello beloved I hope your shoulder surgery goes well!!! as a little distraction can I please ask for a franco colapinto x driver!reader, enemies to lovers? love u and thinking of u always xoxo

· · · · ♡ BOOM, CRASH! (fc43)

… starring franco colapinto x f!driver!reader ... 2.4k words ... in which you get into a nasty crash, and the first person to visit you in the hospital is the last guy you'd ever imagined being worried about you. ... warnings for crash, hospital, injuries, blood, nothing too graphic i think! reader is a bit of a bully tbhh but it is a cutthroat sport 😌 ... if you haven't noticed already, these are all very self-indulgent for me, and this is no exception.

Ironically, the last words you remember telling Franco Colapinto before you barrel into the wall at turn 12 were “Don't crash it.”

“What?”

“Don't crash it,” you repeat pointedly. “Logan wasn't exactly irreproachable in that regard. Budget cap's drawing closer.”

Your smile is wide but dulcet, not quite reaching your eyes, and your teeth are sharp and gritted. To any inopportune cameras that would be pointed at you right now, you only look like a well-meaning driver giving your rookie teammate advice before his second-ever F1 race... but neither you nor Franco miss the electricity crackling in the hallway outside the driver rooms.

“What makes you think I'm gonna crash it?" the Argentinian bites back, all fluttering eyelashes and wolfish smile. Unfazed, as always. Grinds your gears like little else can. "If anything, you be careful to not crash into me. Since I'm starting ahead on the grid and all.”

“Right, I forget it's your first time in Baku. You'll see what I mean soon enough, anyway.”

Your steps lead you down the hallway and to the garages mechanically, a path you've taken dozens of times, wearing different colored suits, following behind different teammates in stride. And this year's Williams blue would've suited you perfectly... if it didn't come attached with the pretentious goofball traipsing behind you.

You don't even bother looking back when you speak again. You raise your chin and brace yourself for the artificial lights of the pitlane.

“Good luck, or whatever.”

“It wouldn't kill you to be nice, you know?”

“Wouldn't kill you to know your place.”

The door handle creaks beneath your gloved hand, drowning out whatever it is Franco mutters in Spanish on the other end of the hall—”re amargada la piba esta” he mumbles to no one but himself—, and at last you are safe, at peace in the nervous bustle of a garage entirely devoted to you.

Sure, getting a new teammate midseason is a tough predicament to find oneself in: a whole new dynamic to establish, a whole routine to fall into. And newbies always get the chance to make good first impressions; not the girl who’s been sitting in the car for two years. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t mind it—Carlos Sainz will be snatching your first driver privileges next year anyway—but it would be easier to comply if the aforementioned new teammate wasn’t an annoying pain in the ass, flirting and laughing his way through the paddock with that detached nonchalance that believes everyone must be wrapped around his finger, and then having the gall to outqualify you on one of your favorite circuits. On his first-ever time there!

So yes, maybe it’s your ego taking up too much space in the tight cockpit of your Williams, obscuring your vision. Maybe it’s the disastrous grip you’ve reported twice now on the radio—Okay, Y/N, we heard that and we’ll get back to you.

Whatever it is, somewhere around lap 20, your car oversteers into a wide spin right as you enter the rapid turn. The steering wheel snaps out of your hands, and it’s like a giant strangles you with all its might for a blink of an eye, barely even a second.

You only know you’ve hit the wall—hard—from the ringing in your ears and soreness of your jaw. What used to be your front right tire lies in front of your smashed wing, rubber and carbon scattered pitifully. Your finger shakes when you lift it and press the radio button.

“I’m OK… I think.”

A flash of red catches the corner of your eye. You’re not sure if it’s from the flag being waved outside of track limits, a Haas zooming past in the corner, or… it’s hot, and viscous on your eyebrow, dripping into your eyes. You bring your hand to your forehead, where your helmet is crushed inward, just above your left eye. Smashed into your forehead.

Then everything kind of blurs together. You vaguely feel someone helping you out of the wreckage, their distant yapping about concussion symptoms not helping your light-headedness at all. You think you slip out of consciousness for the first time then, on the track still, because your next memory is of an ambulance—or what you assume to be an ambulance, you’ve never ridden in one before, and you even think to yourself this new procedure is pretty excessive from the FIA, the medical car was quite sufficient—and then it’s back to nothingness until you wake up for good on a stretcher, hooked to some sort of medical tube—perfusion?—as you’re being ushered into a quiet hospital room.

The nurse who visits you is sweet, filling in the blanks in slow, accented English. The gash to your forehead is pretty deep, but nothing the surgeon doesn’t see at least once a week! (At that, you lift a groggy hand above your brow bone, where you feel a thick bandage.) A few stitches later and you’re good as new, though the blood loss and concussion combined left you pretty weak, and justify keeping you in observation for the night. It’s just protocol, you’re probably used to hospital visits in that line of work of yours, she jokes—and you know you’ve recovered almost all your mental acuity because you get offended at that. No, you don’t usually crash. In fact, you haven’t all season…

And it had to be today of all days, in Baku… after you told Franco to not crash it.

When the nurse leaves the room with the promise she’ll be back in an hour, you let out a long, dreary sigh. Fernando Alonso’s grainy voice over the radio comes to mind. ¡Karma!

Night falls quickly outside your window with nothing to kill time but your phone. After catching up on the race results—somehow you’re too exhausted to feel irritated at Colapinto’s points finish—and posting a reassuring Instagram story for your followers, you’re left to the mercy of your ruminating thoughts. Sleep is impossible to catch; the adrenaline of the race hasn’t worn off yet, and you’ve been knocked out so long now you’re desperate to leave this stretcher.

You’ve just about decided to call the nurse for an early discharge when a shadow appears behind the door’s little windowpane, hesitates for a second, and then knocks. Medical personnel wouldn’t bother; it’s probably your family, or maybe even Vowles, or…

“Hey, how… che, estás hecha mierda.”

You tense immediately when you catch the brown waves of hair and unmistakable accent as Franco walks into your hospital room. He looks genuinely stumped, like he hadn’t expected to see you in such bad condition, so much so he forgets to shut the door behind him.

For some reason, the sight endears you. Makes you want to take him in your arms, feel his realness in this hallucinatory evening. What a ridiculous thought!

“Stop it with the Spanish,” you protest, devoid of your usual fire however. “Maybe it works on your fangirls, but not on me.”

“I said you look like shit.”

“Oh.” You look him straight in the eye, the silliness of the situation dawning on you, and against all odds you start to laugh. A real laugh, more than a chuckle, one that sends phantom pains stabbing through your sore abdomen. “Well if that’s all you’re gonna say, you can stick to Spanish! I don’t want to hear it.”

What did the nurse say about the anesthesia’s side effects? Do they include feeling a little glad and relieved to see your detested teammate? To know he’s the first person to check up on you?

Whatever the reason, you’re laughing, absurdly, and so is Franco, chuckling to himself as he closes the door and drags a chair closer to your bed. His eyes crinkle like a little kid’s, and that’s when you notice his disheveled appearance. Cheeks a little flushed, hair tousled like he’s just run a marathon, he’s wearing a crumpled-up Williams shirt, no doubt the first thing he could get his hands on after the race. It hits you then that he’s probably just off media duties, and the fact he’s alone, with no team delegation in tow, indicates he left early. Just to get to you. To make sure you were alright.

You are a competitor, but you aren’t a monster. The idea Franco couldn’t be bothered to wait for James, or anyone else, tugs at your heartstrings.

“Thank God you told me not to crash it, huh?” he teases between chuckles.

“Shut up.”

“Careful, Y/N, the budget cap is coming for you,” he wiggles his fingers over your face like a looming ghost.

You turn your head away to face the wall, huffing in exasperation, but a throbbing pain traverses your skull, and you wince. Franco’s eyes darken, smile fading into a grave expression.

You rarely see him like this outside of the helmet. It’s novel, but it’s welcome. Almost attractive, in a way.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I… My helmet smashed into my forehead. I was bleeding pretty bad, apparently, they had to stitch me up. I got concussed too. Aren’t helmets supposed to absorb these hits?”

“Concussed?” he repeats, and holds out his hand in a peace sign. “How many fingers?”

You stick out your tongue at the Argentinian, flipping him the bird.

“And now?”

“Ah, come on, don’t be so mean,” Franco chuckles, scooting a little closer to your stretcher with his chair. Unfazed, as always. But this time it doesn’t peeve you; you’re rather thankful for his cheeky banter, actually. For a moment, in the blur of cold white lights and carbon fiber debris, you’d started to fear you could lose it for good. “We were just starting to become friends!”

“That’s because I’m concussed. I don’t want to be friends with you, we’re rivals.”

“Well the whole rivals thing isn’t working very well for you lately. Maybe you’re better off being friends with me.”

You roll your eyes, but the gnawing anxiety that roars in your stomach whenever someone pits you against the rookie stays quiet for once. Perhaps you’re still under the influence of the tranquilizers… or perhaps those brown eyes holding you in their light, tender in a way you’ve never seen them before, make it harder to get mad at him.

“I’ll consider it.”

And you don’t mean it just yet, but you don’t don’t mean it. What do you even hate Franco Colapinto for? Stealing the spotlight from you just two weeks into his career? Flirting with every living being on the paddock except you? Or forcing you to up your game and face your fears?

A stabbing pain crushes your skull all of a sudden, and you shut your eyes, teeth gritted and muscles taut, to try and breathe it out… to no avail. When you open your eyes, Franco is staring at you, brows furrowed in that same serious, concerned expression that sends a wholly different type of pins and needles through your body.

“Everything alright?”

“No… The painkillers. I need another ketoprofen,” you whine, squinting your eyes against the harsh hospital lightning.

“Should I call the nurse?”

“No, they’re on the table over there,” you gesture blindly. “There’s a glass too.”

Only sounds inform you of what’s going on once you close your eyes, faint lights and colors barely piercing through your eyelids. The rustling of fabric, then someone fumbling with cardboard and pills, your sink opening, and then cautious footsteps stopping at the edge of your bed.

“Here.”

You take the pill between weak fingers and fight with all your might to sit up straight in the bed without moving your head… but the soreness and exhaustion from the race and surgery overpower you. So much for neck strength.

“I can’t,” you huff out in defeat. “I can’t tilt my head.”

“It’s okay. Take the pill,” Franco orders softly, and you put the drug on your tongue, too tired to raise the outrage of him bossing you around.

Slowly, carefully, Franco brings the rim of the glass to your lips, and you drink all that you can, training your attention on the medication going down your throat—and not on your teammate’s intense gaze fixed on your mouth, nor the proximity of your bodies or his slightly ragged breath.

“Thank you,” you exhale when you’re done.

Luckily for him, he has his back turned to you when you speak, setting the empty glass down on the table, so you don’t notice his bashful smile. He’s never heard you so docile, affable, even, and though he likes it when you bite back… it feels great, too, to know there is a way to pierce that armor of yours.

“Franco,” you call out to him, neither of you missing how this is one of the first times you’ve called him by his first name. “Do you mind… staying? Just until James or someone else gets here. It gets so boring.”

He spins on his heels in disbelief, scrutinizing you in search of mockery, or irony, or your usual callousness… but all he reads is earnest and the slightest hint of embarrassment, all he sees is your outstretched hand. So he brushes it with his, not daring to hold it purposefully just yet. Like he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome into your bubble.

“Yeah, sure. But only so you won’t get bored.”

“Of course,” you smile faintly as he sits back down on his chair. Your eyes meet in newfound amusement, maybe even temporary fondness. “Don’t go around thinking I like you.”

“Me? I would never. We’re rivals.”

You give a small appreciative nod, and after some instants of silence, clear your throat and ask him to recount the end of the race. Just as you expected, his storytelling is dramatic and entertaining, interspersed with words he doesn’t remember how to say in English and the unmissable zest of grid gossip Franco always brings to his tales. You chuckle, gasp, and pester even, as much as you can with your aching skull and limbs… and barely notice the minutes ticking by, or how you wish the rest of your team would never show up, your distaste for Franco slaking.

Maybe you can be persuaded into liking his presence, after all. So long as he stays out of the car, though… and remains your personal nurse.

… f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)

[musicallisto]

omg for the valentine's prompt echo: sender leaves a voicemail, confessing their feelings with charles, u decide if receiver or sender :) (drgnsfly)

· · · · ♡ YOU WIN SOME, YOU WIN SOME (cl16)

… starring charles leclerc x f!reader ... 2.1k words ... in which losing an offhanded bet to pierre gasly never felt so good to charles leclerc. ... lol i know this was supposed to be short but im a chronic overwriter and i got carried away by this idea <3 piarles have my very heart and soul

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐂 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 know better by now than to make pacts with Pierre Gasly.

To be fair, it began so long ago—years upon years of late-night dinners after disappointing races hammering the habit in. Muscle memory, like corners of a track. Pierre says something outrageous to get a laugh out of Charles; Charles answers he'll gladly do it when he hits some impossible milestone.

"I think you should do a video with Squeezie, mate. You'd be aaaall over Twitter." "Yeah, right! When you beat me in chess, maybe."

"So are you ever gonna release an album where you sing or?" "When I'm world champion, sure. I'll let you do the adlibs."

And it always works, always does get a laugh out of Charles, even after the most botched races, once again powerless victim to Ferrari's fads, and somehow even after his very first breakup. Charles must've promised the moon and then some, in the sacred outline of a conspirational grin; things only the Norman can get out of him, it seems, and things he's already forgotten all about.

So it isn't that weird, truth be told, that he forgot about you too.

The pact is sealed on a charter jet. Charles can't remember where from and where to; somewhere between Europe and the Americas, because the flight had seemed eternal to him, gripping the seat's leather armrest every time the small plane jolted up and down from turbulence. For a second he'd thought the soft wheezing sound was an impending mechanical failure, precipitating them all to their death into the cold, unforgiving Atlantic... until he'd opened his eyes and noticed Pierre sneering at him.

"I don't understand how you're still not used to it with how much we fly."

"I don't understand how you get used to it," Charles had retorted. "It's just not natural! Man was not made to fly."

"Yeah, 'cause man was definitely made to go three hundred kilometers an hour in a big carbon box."

His exasperated sigh, arms crossing over his chest and eyes fluttering closed should be enough for Pierre to understand the conversation is over and out, but Charles can still feel his amused gaze on him. The Monégasque's pursed lips melt into a smile.

"Stop it," he groans.

"I'm not doing anything!"

There's a mock offense in Pierre's tone, quickly replaced by honeyed mischief when he speaks again.

"Just imagine you're sitting with Y/N instead of me."

Charles' eyes snap open.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Obviously he knows what that's supposed to mean, but he still has to brace himself for the conversation that comes next. For the high-pitched voice and offensively bad Southern accent.

"Oh no, Y/N, I'm so scared! The plane is going to explode! Hold my hand or I'll cry!"

"Okay, first of all, I'm not Marseillais," Charles' eyes narrow, "and second, I don't... need her to hold my hand or anything."

"But you'd like that," Pierre replies pointedly.

From the way Charles shifts in his seat, turning to face the window and muttering a "whatever", the Frenchman knows he's struck a nerve. He's more gentle when he speaks again, after a few seconds of silence.

"So when are you gonna tell her you're madly in love with her?"

"I'm not madly in love with anyone."

"You told me you think of her every time you pass Ascari because the little flowers that grow down the side of the track are her exact favorite color."

Of course, there's nothing to retort to that. Not that it would do much anyway; Pierre is Charles' closest friend on the grid, and has been for more years than his hands, now calloused from the gloves, can count; he doesn't need any word from the younger man, just the twitch of his eyelid and the shadow of his dimple, to know Charles is irrevocably enamored with his old friend.

"I'm just saying, if you're gonna be whipped for someone, at least make it your girlfriend."

"Ferrari is enough of a girlfriend to me," Charles snorts, but he doesn't miss how talking about you evaporated all the flying fright in his belly.

"Okay, hear me out," Pierre leans in conspiratorially, "if you win Monaco... you have to tell her."

Charles stares him down for long, long seconds. It's another one of those mindless pacts they sign together, a purely recreational agreement they'll both have forgotten by the time they hit the tarmac... and Pierre's eyes and slight smile are so familiar and enticing, and it's not like Charles has got any chance of winning Monaco soon, anyway, not after adding yet another DNF to his streak—by the time he stands on the top step before the marina, you'll have found someone, and perhaps even he will have, too, and all will be forgotten.

"Yeah, okay. Promise."

Promises to the wind. Utterly inconsequential.

Especially because Charles doesn't win Monaco the next year, and watches his teammate prowl on the podium instead. Nor does he even come close the following.

So by the time 2024 comes around, he's completely forgotten about his promise—more of a bet, really—to Pierre Gasly in that jet all those years ago. Although, of course, in the gaps left by the deep rumble of the engines, the only thing he hears is your voice from when you wished him good luck over the phone just an hour ago.

"This year's yours, champion! I'll be watching you on TV. Make me proud!"

Charles has never been more thankful for a boring race than the moment he races past the chequered flag, barely making out the mechanics' triumphant fists behind the tears clinging to his lashes. The walls he'd leaned against, catching his breath climbing Monte Carlo's steep hills as a child, kiss him one last time, beckoning him forth into the pitlane where he eventually comes to a halt, dizzy like only Monaco winners are.

Most of the celebrations immediately after are a blur. From the garage's bone-crushing embrace to the roaring crowd and a billion adoring eyes on him, like he is their god—it all clouds into one gigantic red and white haze and the immeasurable, euphoric lightheadedness of being on top of the world.

Charles is still in his drenched race suit, dripping from Mediterranean waters, when Pierre Gasly finds him in the harbor, beaming head to toe, and hugs him as tightly as his sore arms will allow.

"Bravo ma poule," Pierre laughs, and the vibration against Charles' chest makes him laugh too. "I knew you'd do it."

If this were a usual race they would debrief it right then and there, and Charles would no doubt hear detailed, explosive accounts of every act of vehicular manslaughter Esteban has attempted against his teammate; but this is no usual race, this is Monaco, its trophy now bearing Charles Leclerc's name until the end of time; so Pierre grabs his friend by the shoulders instead and looks him straight in the eye.

"So, you won Monaco."

"I did," Charles giggles.

"And you remember what that means, right?"

Charles doesn't like the sly smile he sees on Pierre's face—he knows it too well.

"That means we're gonna party?"

"That means you have to tell Y/N you love her."

For some crazy reason, Charles doesn't flinch at the thought, doesn't even try to argue against it, pretend he does not remember the pact—because it seems like a perfectly good idea, the most logical course of action to take. He's a Monaco Grand Prix winner—he's just won Monaco! He's drunk on the adrenaline, traversed up and down by a million lightning bolts; he could run a mile, or skydive into the sea, or even tell you he's been dying of love for you since the day you met.

This year's yours, champion! Make me proud!

"She's... she's in Paris right now, for work," he replies. "I'll have to do it when she comes back—"

"Call her."

"What?"

"Call her!"

"Like—now?"

"Yes, now! If you don't do it with me right now you're never gonna do it. You're not getting off easy."

Charles hesitates for a split second—so much for lightning-fast reflexes!—and then his hand reaches for his back pocket, and he goes to your contact like some higher being is piloting his every move.

One tone, two tones...

"Voicemail," Charles breathes out, frantic, looking over at Pierre like it's an implacable fatality only he can get him out of. Pierre opens his palms, widening his eyes with a shake of the head, his every muscle screaming, "So? Are you dumb?", and Charles nods, clears his throat.

"Ahem! Erm... hi. Hi! Hi Y/N. I'm calling to say I won! I won the race, I won in Monaco... at last," he smiles into the phone, somehow oblivious to the fact he's about to pour his heart out in front of his best friend. "And I, uh... I also wanted you to know that I'm... really sorry you couldn't make it to the race, because... the truth is I—I like you. Like, more than as a friend. I like you so much, and I've liked you for so long, it's... you've given me so much strength over the years, so much confidence and resilience to bounce back and I never expected to fall for you like this when we met but sometimes it just... happens! And I wanted to dedicate this victory to you. To thank you for sticking with me even when I suck horribly, or when I'm in a bad mood because I suck horribly... you're among the most important people in my life, and that's why I want you to have the most important day in my life too. At least if you don't feel the same way, you know, I still get... one victory. Uh, yeah! Bisous, bye!"

He misses the hang-up button once and then buries his phone in his pocket to never ever hear from it again. Pierre stands dumbfounded as his friend grimaces tentatively.

"Too much?"

But Pierre can't stop chuckling and shakes his head.

"Honestly, brother, I don't even wanna make fun of you, that was genuinely cute."

And the Frenchman grabs the Monégasque by the shoulder, whisking the little prince away into the fervent clamor of his Principality.

Charles' hands don't start shaking until well into the night. The rest of the evening passed in the blink of an eye amidst congratulatory kisses, unending interviews, and the grandest, finest dinner he's never had to pay for. But now Charles is sitting on the edge of his bed, trying to tie his nicest shoes for the afterparty, with the utmost certainty his eyes will burn out of his skull if he glances at the lit-up screen of his phone. No use putting it on Do Not Disturb, chucking it across the room, opening and closing the calculator app like a mad tiger pacing inside a circus trailer... the notification taunts him; three missed calls from you, and two voicemails he will never, ever open.

At least never ever sober.

He barely even remembers the exact words he used in that voicemail. Maybe it wasn't that bad, maybe there's still room to save face, salvage his ego. Pass it off as mere gratitude from a friend to a friend. He didn't say I love you, after all—right? Could he have?

The electric chime of his doorbell snaps him out of his reverie. Surely the taxi. It's a long way down to the first floor—dammit, Charles, who even needs a house with this many stairs?—and he's a little flushed by the time he rushes out the front door to the iron gate, distracted enough to forget to check the security cameras.

A gust of wind picks up just as he opens the gate... and stops dead in his tracks. You're only wearing a frilly summer dress, of course the night chill would make you shiver... you? At his doorstep?

You look up at him, all parted lips and disheveled hair in the night, and he swears your eyes light up the tranquil street a thousand times more than the car lights in the distance. He takes you in, you, you! So splendid and breathless like a comet made woman—your suitcase in your hand, the French taxi driving off behind, and he pieces it all together.

"Y/N...?"

"You had something to tell me," is all you answer, your face pure, gleaming, like the trophy he kissed facing the sea.

[musicallisto]

Lando + 35 ( from the domestic prompt list ) please! It would fit him so well 🌟🩷🥹

35. endless giggles — lando norris

EVERYONE KNOWS LANDO NORRIS IS HOPELESS AT STAYING SERIOUS.

You call that Norrising between the two of you. Nothing to do with the explosive rush of panic that courses through his veins when his tires screech at the very first turn, the one that has him cursing at himself behind the visor as Verstappen barrels past. Nothing to do with the red-hot adrenaline that earns him all his detested monickers. No, Norrising is endearing, it's inconsequential, and above all it's fun. It's Lando ranting loudly about an annoying journalist and having them materialize right behind him—their presence betrayed by the half-amused terror in Oscar's widening eyes. It's Lando knocking over the empty champagne flutes at some fancy reception, the noise drowned out by all the animated conversations around—his only witness your gasping mouth. It's Lando milliseconds away from bursting into laughter during the very solemn pre-race national anthem, avoiding Daniel's lethal gaze at all costs with unconvincing sneezes. It's what Carlos lovingly called meter la pata years ago—putting your foot in it. Blundering. Goofing up.

It's Lando's specialty, and it's the F1 75 live event in front of the whole wide world.

You sense him losing grip before he even makes a sound. Though your attention is fixed on the Ferrari team unveiling their livery, your peripheral vision catches his dimly-lit face scrunching up. He rests his elbow against the table to hide the bottom of his face as you shoot him a glare. To the untrained camera, he'd look nonchalant, but you know the glint in his eye better. He's just been overcome with something really stupid.

Then Vasseur takes the mic, all the screens in the O2 displaying his bonhomie, and a soft chuckle escapes your boyfriend.

"Norris," you warn him with a stern whisper, "do not start Norrising on me now."

But Lando leans over to your chair, mouth still hidden away from cameras and eyes glittering with unconcealable delight. This does not bode well.

"He..." But he's cut short by a series of giggles that he clumsily passes off as coughs. "He looks like—" he can't help the laughter now, rattling his shoulders and splitting every word into shaky syllables, "Fred, he looks like the... the evil egg thing from Puss in Boots," he finally wheezes out on the third attempt.

You can't help it—you chortle, something a little too loud between laughter and shock that has neighboring tables glaring over at you, because what the fuck is he on about and why would he say that now but you glance back at the giant screens where Vasseur's jovial, full-moon face sinks into the collar of his suit and Goodness, yeah, he does look like that fuck ass egg.

"He does, oh my God, Lan," you giggle back, hiding your face in your hands—and Lando wheezes, blowing bubbles into his champagne.

This is ridiculous, and stupid, and you're both being horribly impolite, and the alcohol is making it worse and you feel tingly all over from holding back the laughter, but it's uncontrollable, rising into you like a tidal wave and Lando's whiny chuckles next to your ear are the worst kind of torture. He exhales slowly, and you dare hope crisis is averted... until Vasseur turns around, shiny, round head in all its glory underneath the spotlights, and Lando loses it.

Thank God for Lewis Hamilton's first time in red stealing all the attention. You're not sure how either of you could have explained to the press your two figures, groomed and perfurmed and designer-clad, hunched over the table in maniacal spasms.

"Lando, we're gonna get kicked out," you manage to exhale as you try your hardest to hide behind the champagne bucket.

"Don't look at me," he pleads. Like a kid fearing detention, his face red and crinkled from hilarity. "Please don't look at me." And a few seconds later, when he spots Toto Wolff at the next table over raising an unimpressed eyebrow at him, "I need some air."

Right. It's life or death. At least diplomatic life or death.

All too aware of the Twitter captions you'd find under the video of you leaving together unexplained right now—Lando Norris, Girlfriend Can't Be Bothered To Sit Through Ferrari Exhibit; Leave Arena For Own Kind Of Fun!—, you make a show of pursing through your bag, scanning the table, then the floor, and hope to God the place is too dark to distinguish your expression; bitten lip and flushed cheeks are not the best look for someone who's supposed to be frantically looking around for misplaced belongings.

"Follow me," you whisper curtly at him.

He startles out of his chair, scraping it against the floorboards like a thunderstorm, and somehow that makes you laugh even more, so you stiffen your lips, doing your utmost to avoid the bewildered looks from all the guests. You're almost trotting by the time you push open the grand swinging doors of the auditorium, hastily shutting them behind a still-giggling Lando.

A pause, first. Then a glance—just one—and you both erupt into laughter, as if it were escaping from the very marrow of your bones. Lando isn’t even laughing anymore: he’s whining, hands on his knees like he just ran a marathon. When he finally straightens up, breathless and eyes glazed with tears, he sways into your arms, as if to cloak his exhausted body in yours—but you push him away at once.

"I can't fucking believe you!" you exclaim. But you're not mad—not really. He knows it, and he's still giggling, and your indignant mouth melts into a full-toothed smile. "Seriously, you're a bloody idiot. You're the biggest idiot I've ever met. Genuinely—I'm not laughing!" you say between giggles when he shakes his head affectionately. "Do I look like I'm laughing? That was so rude. Everyone is going to say you think you're too good for Ferrari or something."

"Well they already think I think that," he just shrugs, leaning against the wall. "Can't a guy have some fun?"

"You're gonna kill me, Norris," you sigh, and he sighs back, exaggeratedly, beckoning you into his arms. You fall into the familiar embrace, and he kisses the crown of your head, filling his lungs with your sweet scent.

"I don't think I can go back in there," he admits, his voice cracks away from breaking into laughter again.

"It's your event, champion."

"I'm not even champion, so I don't see the point. Wait here a sec?"

"Wait here a sec."

His heart rate dwindles slowly back to a normal rhythm against your ear, and you remain immobile, far from the spectacle, in the empty hallway, so out of place in your fancy clothes—yet exactly where you need to be; crying from laughter with him at some shitty event he only finds bearable because he gets to look at you all night.

"Do not look at me even once when we walk back in there."

"Yeah, and you neither."

© musicallisto, 2025

MASTERLIST / TAKING REQUESTS!

[musicallisto]

HIII CLARA! may i request 36 + cl16? 🌟

36. eyes brimming with adoration — charles leclerc

THERE'S AN ANGEL ON YOUR BALCONY.

The lazy Brazilian sunshine casts shadows on what peeks of his skin through his linen shirt, still too pale against the vibrant greens and blues below.

Surely this figure, aureoled in light, must be an angel, because there is no way your husband is out of bed before ten A.M.

The rustling of bedsheets makes Charles turn around, hair tousled from the marine breeze. Squinting your eyes, you make out the widest of smiles beginning to dawn across his face.

"What are you doing up so early?" you croak, stretching with a long yawn.

A few silent steps on the polished floor and there he is, sinking into the vastness of the hotel bed. The glittering sea behind him is no match for the stars in his eyes—blue-green, like the seam where jungle kisses ocean.

"It's nine, mon cœur."

"My God," you collapse back between the sun-warmed pillows. "You are not the man I married."

"Well it's our honeymoon!" he chuckles, and crawls over to you, lifting the pillow off your face. Your eyes stay stubbornly closed. "We've got the rest of our lives to sleep. For now, we have a breakfast buffet waiting for us and a whole Brazilian beach all to ourselves."

The rest of your life. Spending it this way doesn't sound half bad. Then again, it almost feels like a lifetime you've lived with Charles already. What's another?

Your husband's fingers snake over your bare waist, where your shirt has riden up in the night. Slowly, your lips crack into a wobbly line; then a puff of laughter when the tickling sensation becomes irresistible.

"Okay, okay, I'm getting up, I'm getting up!"

You open your eyes to find him grinning like a triumphant kid. Morning haloes him as he leans in ever so slightly, and you think he's going in for a kiss, but he stops just a few inches short of your face, taking you in. All of you, like he wants to cradle you within his gaze, lock every shadow of you away into the depths of him.

He smiles, not from the slightly curled corners of his mouth, but from his eyes, overflowing with love. Liquid light spilling onto you.

"At least I lucked out with you," he whispers, rather to himself.

Somewhere out the window, some exotic bird breaks the moment with a shriek. Charles props himself up, off the bed in a second, and you'd shake your head in worry at your husband's uncharacteristic morning energy if it weren't so endearing.

"Allez! I'm starving!"

"Let's get you fed, sports boy," you chuckle, removing the covers off of you.

Any lifetime that begins like this is certainly worth reliving over and over.

© musicallisto, 2025

MASTERLIST / TAKING REQUESTS!

[musicallisto]

Could I please please please ask for a lil thing about Lewis comforting his partner when they’re feeling insecure 🥺 👉🏻👈🏻

· · · · ♡ PRE-SEASON JITTERS (lh44)

… starring lewis hamilton x gn!reader (and roscoe !!)

... 1.4k words

... in which the bleak pre-season period has you feeling all sorts of anxious, but a homemade meal and affection from your favorite person (and dog!) could be just the thing you need.

... i love this request and I think we could all use a little bit of lewis reassurance every now and then 🥹 let's all forget this horrendous weekend for him btw

The pitter-patter of Roscoe's claws on the linoleum floors is what reveals your presence first. Slumbering in the kitchen amidst the fumes from the extractor hood, the bulldog suddenly straightens up, stares at the front door, ears pricked up for no apparent reason, and disappears into the hallway with a snort. That's when Lewis knows he has to set the table, add pepper to the risotto. He's not the best cook, and usually the private chef would be in charge of dinner... but in the week preceding each new season, the British driver prefers to keep his evenings and his hands busy.

Your steps are heavy, keys turning in the door laboriously—"Hi Roscoe, oh, you're a sleepy boy, aren't you?" faint between huffs and puffs. Lewis can read you like an open book after so many years: it's not just the bleak mid-February evening weighing you down.

You've had a shit day.

"Hi, Lew," you sigh as you step into the kitchen to wash your hands, something like weary relief peeking from your tone.

"Hi, love." In the cozy penthouse lights, your tense figure and slumped shoulders look out of place, too harrowed to belong in this neat space that the London night outside can't traverse. "I made dinner, nothing too fancy, sorry, but..."

"It's perfect," you cut him off gently, with those shiny eyes he adores so much, eyes that only ever seem to catch his light and nothing else's. A quick peck to his cheek unravels your twisted face a little more. "Wish it were pre-season jitters every week."

"I don't," he chuckles, the sound vibrating against your shoulder like a gentle caress. "Poor Bono's going to have a heart attack any day now... you'd think we haven't done this ten times over already."

Dinner is a ritual, almost a sacralized place for Lewis and you—and Roscoe, wagging his tail back and forth between your legs to see what he can puppy-look his humans into slipping him underneath the table. And it works, Lewis never having been one to resist him for long; Roscoe licks his chops with each mushroom he eagerly steals from the driver's fingers. Easy conversation turns into soft jokes and his latest media duty drama, your favorite to dissect after a long day... but he notices the spark in your smile doesn't reach your eyes, and your mouth contorts into a downtrodden pout when he leans over to scratch the top of Roscoe's big head.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asks in earnest, and as long as you don't meet those big, soulful brown eyes, you know you can get through the conversation without crumbling.

"Yeah, I'm just a little tired-"

"No," he shakes his head, smiling ever so slightly, as his hand reaches out to cradle your fingers on the table. "Come on, I know you by heart. I know you're upset. You know you can tell me everything that's on your mind, right?"

Moonlight filters through the large glass windows, mixing with the ceiling light's warm glow and casting a hundred different hues on your cheeks—fractals of white and gold softening the blacks of your eye bags. Lewis aches to see you so—gorgeous and exhausted, yet unwaveringly surrendered to him, willing to crash headfirst into his safe haven. His hand clasps yours at the same time as Roscoe rests a warm, heavy head on your lap.

"It's just... this stupid thing at work. I'm so... behind on everything, and there's this new guy who's always being passive-aggressive towards me in front of our boss, and he's a fucking idiot but—everyone loves him and his ideas, and I feel like no one... appreciates anything I do or even just values my presence, and..." Quivers in your voice you barely control anymore. "And also, you're gonna be leaving next week and I hate it so much when you're gone because then I feel sad but being sad makes me feel like a big burden to you because you're supposed to be focusing on racing and not... not babysitting me or listening to me drag you down, and then I—"

"Hey," he interrupts before your tirade degenerates, and you almost don't notice him getting up from his chair, shapes moving beyond the blurry veil of your eyelashes.

You rush to wipe them; in the blink of an eye he's there, with a gentle hand on your shoulder; its weight grounds you, much like Roscoe's chin pressing a little deeper against your thigh. As if sensing your distress.

"I think you may be getting into your own head a little. Don't you think?"

He speaks softly, but nothing paternalistic; a conciliatory hum that echoes the steady purring of the washing machine, and down below, all these cars full of people headed back to their own little warm huts. Words don't come to your tongue, blocked by the acerbic shame that bubbles in the pit of your throat—how many times must you fall to pieces over nothing in front of him like this? Instead, you shake your head, and that's good enough for him.

"You're not a burden, love."

You've heard it before, from unremarkable social media influencers and good-natured friends, but it's only when Lewis says it, with the perfect balance of pragmatism and warmth, that you truly let the meaning seep in.

"Not now, and not ever. I listen to you because I choose to listen to you, because I want to be there for you. And about work—look at it this way. Do you really think they'd keep you around if you contributed nothing? I know I'd get axed."

You laugh despite yourself, which Roscoe takes as a sign that the sudden sour mood is gone and everyone's attention will soon return to the food if the content little yelp he lets out is any indication.

"No one would ever axe you, Lew, you can't be bothered to do media day like every other week and have never been told anything. But I'm not a seven-time world champion of anything."

"You don't need to!" he chuckles too, raising his hands in mock innocence. "I'm just being realistic here. You're valued. You really do matter. Who do you trust more, some pathetic high school bully or a seven-time world champion?"

"You just want me to stroke your ego," you retort, rolling your eyes, though a small smile creeps on you lips when Lewis leans even closer, eye to eye with you.

"Well you brought it up first, and I can't exactly help being the greatest at what I do."

"Shut up," more giggles escape through your pursed lips.

Lewis' eyes crinkle a little brighter with each of your chuckles, but his grin fades into tenderness when he kisses your forehead. As he pulls back, his features are more relaxed, more quiet, but no less expressive for all that.

"Whenever I start beating myself up after a particularly shit weekend, you always tell me you wish I could see myself through your eyes, right? How admirable it is that I always give it my all, and that I always strive to be the best I possibly can? Well, that goes both ways. You get all caught up in your own head and don't realize how people see you... but I love you, and I do. From outside your head," he ends with a playful tap to the tip of your nose, where a few gleaming tears have dug a bed.

Your fingers intertwine with his out of habit, without really thinking about it, and you lean into his side just as his arms close around your frame, one hand cradling the back of your head. It's indescribable, the tranquility that overwhelms you whenever you're in Lewis' arms, like his strong heart is enough to numb all your aching nerves and wounds.

Time can't pass slow enough in his comforting embrace... much to Roscoe's dismay.

"Oh, sorry, big boy, you must be starving," Lewis laughs at the bulldog's disgruntled bark, "it's been at least ten minutes since you last ate anything..."

You ruffle Roscoe's thick neck as he nonchalantly trots behind Lewis and the treats he always smells on his clothes; though the dog's attention is too captivated by the prospect of food to pay you much attention now, you swear he rubs up against your leg like an approximative hug. Blinking away the last tears, you take in the domestic scene, Lewis mumbling sweet nothings to his waddling companion, the familiar sound of his food bowl scraping against the floor.

At least you do hold some significance in your small corner of London, you think. In between these walls, in the depths of their hearts—hearts that have, somewhat and somehow, chosen you. And it won't be easy to understand just yet... but at least, for now, it will be enough to treasure.

... f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)

[musicallisto]

clara my dearest role model, clara my devoted friend, clara my delicate muse... i am sending this right as i'm finishing the final chapter of romancing mister bridgerton on audiobook, so forgive me for being so inexcusably brief </3. might i request one of these 💿 lovely surprises with literally any f1 driver, i want to see a violent characterization of these loser men from my most respected author friend yuki tsunoda? i am, in all things, horribly on brand.

· · · · ♡ EXILE (yt22)

… starring yuki tsunoda x f!reader ... based on exile by taylor swift ft. bon iver ... 1.2k words ... in which yuki tsunoda, fresh from his formula 1 debut, returns to a tokyo both familiar and foreign, where ghosts and feelings still linger. ... i really hope you enjoy this my darling olive!! when i saw i had pulled exile out of all songs i freaked out a little,, this song has gotten me through a lot so i had to pay homage </3 happy august 1st to those who celebrate!!!

"I can see you staring, honey

Like he's just your understudy

Like you'd get your knuckles bloody for me

𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓, 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐄 comes to Tokyo, always brings her heat with her.

More than the temperatures, it's a joyous sort of effervescence that coils around the street corners, trickling down like the first monsoon rains. Day after day, Tokyo attires itself in the most festive of summer colors, until all of a sudden all the festivals, open-air markets, and traditional dances flood the city like budding poppies. Here, rows upon rows of sunflowers sway to the soft breeze in Kiyose; over there paper lanterns float off into the night sky over the Sumida river, each cradling an unspoken wish.

To Yuki, August is always the best time to return to the capital. Or rather, the second best; nothing beats the cherry blossoms of late April, but late April is home for Imola now, and it's been years, really, since he last saw the sakura of home.

He doesn't mind the heat—he never did, and his Japanese friends joke that he was already a fiery character before his time in the West made him brazen. He's always glad to be back home over the summer break. Even more so since he debuted in Formula 1 six months prior.

It's Yuki's first time returning to Tokyo since he started racing with AlphaTauri, and one of his increasingly rare visits to his homeland. He's been eagerly anticipating the break; to recharge, certainly, and most importantly to meet with his family. In the cloudy skies the plane traverses, Yuki can see his elders' crinkled eyes, beaming with pride as he, the picture of practiced humility, answers every question about the sport, about Italy, about the world he made it big in. It matters not they won't understand much about racecars, or the FIA—he's coming home aureoled in a gladiator's glory. Honor to his family, to the Tsunoda bloodline! He smiles to himself as the plane touches down on the tarmac.

Yet as Yuki steps into the urban jungle he's so ardently missed… he finds the city changed. Not transformed, entirely, but… almost misplaced. As if street names and trees and playground slides have been shuffled over his time abroad, all of them still there but in a disposition unknown to him. Sure, he is a child of the suburbs, and Tokyo a fidgety creature—maybe Italy's stone roads have eroded his memory. But wasn't there an old laundromat on this corner, on which the papier mâché dragons would cast fantastical shadows as they snaked down the street? And the brand new KFC—this was a pet store, where he'd press his nose against the glass to watch the colorful fish and guinea pigs until his mother forcibly dragged him away.

This is still home, he tells himself to soothe the unease away. Things change, but they don't leave you behind, he repeats as he checks his phone to make sure he's going in the right direction.

They're all little details. Like when he stops at a food vendor's cart and has to repeat his order twice, taken aback by the sound of his very own mother tongue coming out of his mouth. Six months without speaking Japanese to another person, other than the odd calls to his parents, have left his voice chalky. The woman looks at him for a brief second, quizzical, but hands him the sugary buns; he thanks her, seamlessly this time, and it's all back to normal. Yuki Tsunoda is home.

They're all little details until they aren't. Until he turns on his heels, biting into the snack, and catches sight of her.

It's unmistakable, and it's her. Even with the facemask, it's the same silky hair and smooth skin, same little bounce to her step, and even the same linen pants she used to wear in high school. Tokyo's immutable certainty on the other side of the street. Y/N.

Yuki stops dead in his tracks as their eyes meet, thirty feet away, and a flash of recognition has her almost recoiling, but she holds firm onto the hand she's holding and stays immobile. A man's hand; he's a little taller than Yuki, black hair in a neat middle part and dark eyes distracted by an advertisement on a screen. Wearing nice clothes, sunglasses hanging from his neckline, shoulders relaxed but holding Y/N with the casual affection of a man who cherishes a great treasure.

Yuki's throat dries up. He thinks about reaching out—to say what? Giving her a polite wave—but what for? High school confessions play in his head, back when he loved her as zealously as he raced, and when her laugh ringing in his ears, more than the trophies and the European circuits and the million-dollar contracts, was his only belief.

"So when do you plan on coming back?" she'd asked him the last time they'd ever seen each other, sitting on a park bench that cherry petals flecked.

"Eight months to a year, maybe," he'd answered after a little while, knowing there was no return once he said it.

"Eight months?" she'd exclaimed, disbelieving. "Yuki, I can't… I don't think I can go eight months without seeing you."

"I don't think I can ask you to do that, either," he'd said, sounding sadder than he'd wanted, though he had rehearsed the moment over and over in his head.

She'd stared at him wordlessly, her incomprehension feigned. She knew what he was about to say, but pretended not to. He'd wished she'd piece it together on her own, admit it to herself so he wouldn't have to say it out loud, but…

"I think it's best for both of us if we just… go our separate ways. I don't want to hold you back, and you deserve to be happy here. With someone who's here with you."

You are among the twenty best in the world, Yuki, had told him Franz Tost after some F2 race he couldn't remember, when news had broken out into the world the Japanese rookie would be AlphaTauri's shiniest, newest addition. It's rough getting here and it's only gonna get rougher staying here. The engineers may cut out what's slowing you down… but you need to do it too.

"All right," was all Y/N had said, her eyes glassy. Steel. Dignified, like he'd always known her. Like he sees her right now, staring at him from the other side of the street.

Her new boyfriend taps her shoulder to show her something in a shop, and she turns her head, breaking eye contact with Yuki. Up the road, the lights turn green, and a flock of cars of all shapes and colors buzz past, invading the crosswalk and hiding the couple from view.

Twenty seconds later, when the street is quiet once more, and Y/N eagerly turns her gaze from her boyfriend to the opposite sidewalk, she finds moms pushing strollers and well-behaved Inus on leashes, but no trace of Tsunoda. A flame, gone in a flash. Her heart drops.

She squeezes her boyfriend's hand, and they keep walking.

I'm not your homeland anymore, so what am I defending now?

You were my crown, now I'm in exile, seeing you out

I think I've seen this film before

So I'm leaving out the side door"

… tagging @retvenkos @heliads @faerieroyal (the f1 girlies🥺)

… masterlist here

[musicallisto]

jesper fahey + 💿

· · · · ♡ VENOM (jesper fahey)

… starring jesper fahey x f!reader ... based on venom by stray kids ... 1.7k words ... in which jesper and you are the best shots in all of ketterdam, but assassination missions never go as planned ... warnings for death, gun violence ... what were the ODDS of pulling this song i'm still screaming!! anyway i went a bit more literal with the title than the song really says but i hope you enjoy this

𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐍 Kerch never dressed in the morning with their impending assassination in mind.

Out of hubris, perhaps – they thought themselves above the black canines of Ketterdam, as though Ghezen’s favors shielded them in the starless alleys. Or out of negligence – after all, they had many an important matter on their daily schedules, meetings with partners and stock markets to analyze and speculation bubbles to burst… it all left little room for death.

But death, undiscriminating, sent her rats forth to bite into pale, delicate necks ruffled collars and striped ties had no chance of protecting. Today, the rats were Jesper Fahey and you.

“So… which of these toys should I use to take them out this time? Your pick.”

“You? Do you want to get us killed?”

Both of you were lying on your stomachs on some sooty rooftop, overlooking a shopping avenue of the capital. Beautiful Ketterdam awakened gently, caressed by the first rays of dawn; shutters creaked upwards, windows opened to let the sea air flood in, and the earliest risers stifled their last yawns in the shopping street below. They were few; this part of town was lazier than what you were used to in the Barrel, its residents accustomed to the silky warmth of mid-morning rustling them awake on Sundays.

Thankfully for you, that meant fewer witnesses to sound the alarm… and an easier time locating the target.

 “What? You know I’m the best shot in this hellhole,” Jesper turned to look at you, frowning. Difficult to say if he had really taken offense at your words or if he was only pestering you for fun, as always. You kept your gaze firmly locked on the comings and goings of people below, strolling back home with steaming pastries or braving the Northern breeze for an invigorating promenade.

“Yeah, and also the loudest. We need to do this the subtle way.”

“Subtle,” Jesper scoffed. “Why the hell did Kaz sent me out here if he wanted subtlety?”

“He probably wanted you to cover me. You know? Be my second…”

“Pfft!” Your acolyte rolled his eyes, his chuckle rumbling through the finely carved bricks under your chests with just a point of humor. “There’s only one second in this team and we all know who it is.”

You resisted the temptation to elbow him – it would only encourage his antics further. Both of you knew you were, out of all the Dregs, the best-matched duo, both in terms of temperament and skill. To Jesper’s brash hyperactivity, you brought level-headed professionalism; where his sarcastic quips and surprisingly wistful tales of infinite Zemeni fields distracted you on long, grueling covert missions, your quick wit and lightning-fast reflexes got you out of all sorts of sticky situations – that Jesper never failed to recount on Crow Club evenings, with all their exaggerated epithets. Besides… you were at least the second-best shot in this hellhole. Kaz knew as much, and so did Jesper, though he never failed to highlight the fact the boss still believed him superior; and so Kaz never sent one on the field without the other. No matter how many times you returned from operations swearing on all the Saints that one day, you would gouge out Jesper Fahey’s eyes.

“There he is,” you tensed all of a sudden, narrowing your eyes, and Jesper stopped fidgeting next to you.

A red beret that concealed nothing of already advanced baldness… the swaggering, smug gait of a man who has everything and therefore thinks he can lose nothing… and that ridiculous collar, typical of influential merchants, that exposed the entire nape of his neck. There was no mistaking the description Kaz had given you – if anything, you were surprised to see him up so early, and not flanked by a wife or bodyguards. As to why Brekker wanted the man dead, well… inconsequential to you. You weren’t close enough to him to expect a justification, and if Jesper knew the grudge his friend held against yet another rich middle-aged man in Kerch… he hadn’t thought it relevant to mention.

“Okay, get set,” you ordered. When your tone got cold and your hands tightened around your dart gun, Jesper knew better than to keep up with the bravado. “Remember, soon as he’s on the ground, we’re outta here.”

“Got it, boss.”

A faint ember of light shimmered in your belly, but you stopped it before the emotion could get to your cheeks. The rare moments when Jesper acknowledged you as his equal did feel nice. Your admiration for the sharpshooter, practically an idol to all the famished mouths in the Barrel, was a secret to no one… but him.

Slowly, you lifted the visor of your gun to your eye, keeping your finger away from the trigger. Your breathing slowed as you scanned the faces below… and stopped, once you had your sights on the target. Not once did he look up… and not once did you think about the family who’d mourn him.

Death, too, worked her hours. Everyone had to make a living in Ketterdam, indeed.

“Y/N, don’t-!”

You pressed the trigger, and the recoil barely got a blink out of you as the air whistled past the dart. A second passed in stunned silence, just enough time to hear your heart beat, and what you could’ve sworn was Jesper’s too. Then it all erupted at once.

It was the screams that first caught your attention. The first, hoarse and purposeful, rose from the sidewalks below and grazed the brick walls like blades against metal. Most of the policemen had their sights and guns raised at you, screaming unintelligible words; the rest of the unexpected patrol rushed to the merchant’s side right as he collapsed on the damp ground, pierced through the neck with impeccable precision. He was dead before he hit the ground, the dose of venom you’d injected him largely above the lethal threshold.

Then the shrill, biting howls of the bullets fusing in the air between Jesper and you tangled with the high-pitched shrieks of horrified passersby.

“Crap! Where did they come from?!” you screamed, both of you ducking behind the brick ledge for cover like well-oiled machinery.

“You wanna stick around long enough to find out?”

“Not really, no,” you huffed through gritted teeth.

So much for not making a scene.

You grabbed Jesper’s hand, the one that wasn’t holding his handgun. Later on, you’d play the gesture off as a reflex, merely more than accidental, evidence of you being a true team player – but you’d long ponder the way his clammy palm in yours had cleared your mind and clouded it all at once, filled you with immense safety and overpowering fear, if only for an instant.

“Let’s get out of here!”

“Hold on a second-“

“Jesper! Now’s not the time to play hero!”

You doubted he heed your words. Jesper was damn predictable to those who had worked with him long enough – there was no way of distracting him when his brain registered the smell of burning lead, when his ears caught the unmistakable tinkling of cartridge cases on the ground. The duel was Jesper Fahey’s favorite game, merely a competition he could never turn down… let alone die from.

He sprung to his feet, crouched against the ledge, and as if the whole death match was just another joke to him, he twirled the handgun in one hand, blew on it, and murmured as a good luck wish, “Do your thing, love.”

The next second, his face was swallowed by the billowing white smoke from the barrel of his gun, as he spewed leaden poison from his unshaken hands. From the safety of your hiding spot, you watched him, your heart pounding with what, admiration or terror, you no longer knew, but the city and the whole earth disappeared in the space of a gunshot and only remained the bulletproof braggart, all draped in white clouds like a demigod.

And then, as quickly as the torrent of noise had swept down the street, it dried up, and an unreal calm descended on the dazed neighborhood.

Jesper leaned over to you, making sure he was out of reach from the attackers below, and took in your parted lips and wide eyes with uncharacteristic worry.

“Are you okay? You’re not hurt, right?”

It took you a few moments to register his words, and then some more to notice his hand had gently cusped your jaw, lifting your chin to examine your face and neck for any trace of injury.

“N-No, I’m good,” you snapped out of your trance, and immediately Jesper retreated his hand… leaving you to miss the calloused heat of his fingers more than you’d care to admit.

“What’s that? Oh, thank you Jesper for saving my life! You really are the best shot in all of Ketterdam!” he trumpeted in a comically high-pitched voice with a smug grin. “Oh, well, it was nothing. Don’t bother. Just doing my job!”

“Shut up. Come on, let’s get out of here before they send any more our way.”

“I hope they do. You’re down four kills to one and you’re not even trying to catch up?”

This time, you made sure you grabbed your sleeve and not his skin; nothing to give him more leverage to use against you later, when he’d be boasting to Inej about leaving Y/N speechless with his sharpshooting skills. With a good-natured sigh, he got to his feet, and you retreated towards the lower roofs you’d used on your climb together.

And death called back her rats to her side, vanishing into soot and silence.

· · · · ♡ tags! @retvenkos @sassyscribbler @lettersoftroy @rosesnink

[musicallisto]

my first (and CERTAINLY not last) carlos fic coming tomorrow in honor of his win!!! a little sneak peek below the cut <3

Leclerc plays the piano on Saturday nights; you hear him every time you pass by the team hotel's lounge, his melancholy tracks grounding you in a precise time and place. Now the car is out of bounds, the comfort of your object-oriented programming and optimized lines of code off-limits; now's the time for withdrawal and for rest.

Typically, you like to hang out in the lounge while Charles plays, trying to distract yourself with a book or simply basking in the music. The predictable, calculated flow of Charles' arpeggios soothes you, like lines of code running one after the other. So does the Monégasque driver's easy conversation. Although it doesn't shoot butterflies in your belly like Carlos' does... but you're not supposed to play favorites.

This Grand Prix eve is just like any other, save for the unordinary trepidation that carpets the hotel. With one of their own sitting on pole, it's obvious strategists struggle more than usual to drop the words "tyre management" and "pit stops". Eager to escape the nervousness, you excuse yourself from the dinner table, and make your way to the lounge.

Charles is already there, if the usual pieces echoing in the distance at dessert are any indication, and you barely even get lost in the elegant halls before you find the lounge... though there is no piano to be heard. Maybe this hotel has two music rooms—maybe Charles went to bed early—or maybe...

maybe he's sitting on the piano stool and chatting with Carlos, wet and sleepy from his evening shower.

[musicallisto]

wrote 1.6k words in one sitting for three billion girls and subsequently found out that writing drunk carlando is my guilty pleasure ‹𝟹

[musicallisto]

which one do you want to read first (theyre both angst because i am a tragic person)

[musicallisto]

❛ me gustan los aviones, ¡me gustas tú! ❜

· · · · ♡ MASTERLIST · · · · ♡ @SMOOTHOPERADOR (mostly f1 fandom/spam blog)

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡ CURRENTLY…

​… reading the magnus archives by jonathan sims … watching the white lotus … listening to sincerely, by kali uchis

❛ qué horas son, ¿mi corazón? ❜

[musicallisto]

𓂃🖊 wip ask game

tagged by @f1version to share the names of all the wips in my drafts, no matter how vague, and let people ask me about the ones they find most intriguing. thank you for tagging me!

dans l'univers* 𖹭 cs55

we weren't in love (but we were pretty damn close) 𖹭 cl16

música ligera** 𖹭 cs55

watch it all fall down, babylon 𖹭 op81

night flight 𖹭 cl16, pg10

*untitled, but that's the song it's based on

**still undecided but that's what i'm working with so far

i actually have more, but they're all over a year old and i'm not sure they'll ever the see the light of day unfortunately ‹/𝟹

tagging: @heliads @schuvries @spiderbeam @isaadore @lvrclerc @driverlando + anybody who wants to share their writing! i'd be stoked to know what you're working on (:

[musicallisto]

5pm is past my work hours so technically that's not writing formula 1 rpf on the job. though i wish it were

[musicallisto]

· · · · ♡ IF (SAINZ WIN == TRUE) (cs55)

… starring carlos sainz x f!engineer!reader ... 4.4k words ... in which carlos is an effusive, self-assured lad to every member of his team... except ferrari's head software engineer, making her wonder if he secretly hates her guts. ... based on this request ... warnings for language (minor) ... my first ever (posted) fic for carlos aaaaa (i have written A Lot More about this man because he occupies my every waking hour, but i shan't share it yet). in honor of me missing my communication networks final last week i made the reader a software engineer, but you would Never catch me willingly coding anything in c++ outside of my mandated assignments. no not even for carlos sainz jr. i have morals. this is open for part 2 if you guys enjoy it <3

He speaks the language of princes.

It's not in anything he says, no, he's much too industrious to waste time boasting, but rather in all that he doesn't. Carlos walks into the Ferrari motorhome, with that good-natured smile and that slightly disheveled hair from the morning's cycling session, and heads bow. Not out of plight, or even obligation, but mostly because it's hard not to. His warm greetings to everyone—Ciao's and even Come stai?'s to his team members strolling down the hallways before the weekend—, his keen interest in remembering little things about engineers' and photographers' lives, his nonchalant stride around the parc fermé all force camaraderie at least; reverence to most.

Wherever the red car goes, Maranello or any other corner of the world, religion follows, and though Carlos Sainz has never quite fit into the nooks they keep for their idols—their walls are carved for Monégasque shoulders—, he's at least always carried the air of a rebel leader on unforgving land.

But if Carlos is Ferrari's bastard prince, then clearly you are a subject he would not go to war for.

Or so he makes you think, once again, on that hot Singaporean afternoon.

You hadn't meant to interrupt, really, but with only one hour to go before FP1, you needed to talk to Riccardo Adami; something about the software updates, optimization of the data acquisition systems to account for Marina Bay's sweltering heat—run for half a second too long, overheat half a degree too much, and everyone's calculations would be going to hell. So of course you'd corrected it, supervised a brand new version of your code for the weekend, for that tenth of a Celsius; competition drove you. Almost just as much as those solar eyes boring into you when you walk into the room.

"Riccardo, about the softw—oh. Carlos. Hi," you timidly trail off when Carlos' eyes meet yours.

The room gets quiet, and it is only then that you notice how much space his laugh takes. Usually, you would've recognized the accent from outside the door, the boisterous voice regaling the Fifty-fives with another funny story—how could you not, when it sends shockwaves down your stomach? He seems to have been in an animated conversation with his race engineer, but as you get closer to the two men you notice the crinkles lengthening Carlos' eyes are fading with his smile. You aren't sure he's even said hi back.

"We've changed the code for acquisition, but some loops could still cause problems with overheating, particularly the engine oil temperature sensors…" you explain, though half your attention is directed to your peripheral vision, in which Carlos sways on his two feet, averting your gaze at all costs.

But you're not a college girl with a crush, you're Scuderia Ferrari's head software engineer and so you go on with your precisions to Riccardo. What to expect during free practice, how to overshoot any nonessential sensors that might fuck up the data analysis... until, mid-sentence, Carlos excuses himself awkwardly, pats Ricky on the shoulder, and walks out of the room.

You will your face into not betraying the sudden ache in your throat. How he simply acted like you weren't there... didn't even inquire about the updates. About the race. About your flight, about how much you loved Singapore's twinkling lights, about... you.

"Xavi and Charles know this already, but we really gotta test it all now before it gets cooler for FP2," you conclude with a too-hard swallow. Back firmly turned to the door Carlos just disappeared out of.

Riccardo thanks you, offers his own insight, some banalities about the risks of rain—no, you shouldn't consider them banalities. Nothing, on a Friday, is a banality anymore; yet everything is when you remember how Carlos' entire face shuts close when you're around, how his tone quietens down, how he repeatedly and stubbornly conceals all his rays of brazenness from you.

Does he hate you? Despise you? Are you not worth his effrontery?

This is ridiculous. You're not a college girl with a crush, you're a damn senior member of the team with responsibilities and he doesn't owe you anything more or less than you him—

"Riccardo," you neither ask nor plead. "Has Carlos... said anything about me?"

"About you? Like what?"

"I don't know... but you did see he just... left while I was in the middle of talking, right? And he looked annoyed as soon as I came in." And for all that's holy, try to pass this off as mere politeness and not a heartache that is eating you alive.

"Maybe he was just bored."

"So I'm boring?"

"No," Riccardo wheezes, in uncharacteristically high spirits for the conversation. "But I've worked with a ton of drivers, and you know, they're all the same. Less time discussing boring analytics is more time they spend in the sim. Or on track. What, you think he's angry at you or something?"

"I just... don't get why he's always so guarded and distant with me but so outgoing and confident with you guys. Charles isn't like that either. It makes no sense. We're a team, all of us."

The Italian looks at you for long seconds, amusement noticeable on his features, and you would shake him up and tell him to stop giving you those pity eyes if you lacked the tiniest bit of respect for the man; instead, you frown and cross your arms.

"He'll be in a good mood tonight when we top free practice," Riccardo assures you before you can ask him if he needs anything else. "and even better tomorrow after getting pole. You can talk to him then if you want."

A smile creeps its way on your lips without you conjuring it. There it is, that loyal veneration that only men and women of the Scuderia possess. Something in those southern eyes Carlos shares with legend has made you religious, too.

"I'll hold you to that... we could all use a Singapore miracle."

Singapore is a miracle.

Surely any other team would scoff at the word, bragging that a pole position has nothing to do with miracles, that it's all meticulous teamwork and endless iterations on calculators, but Ferrari is deeply supersitious at its core. You—the centenarian team, its red-hot beating heart—don't shy away from thanking divine intervention. Maybe that's the reason why it still works.

After Carlos' last pole in Monza, the whole Scuderia had dared to dream of something different, a glimmer of scarlet in the season's overwhelming orange. Of course, an uncatchable Max had put a dampen on the fervent Tifosi's mood, but the formidable hope machine had revved back to life...

and now it's roaring in Marina Bay.

Leclerc's side of the garage claps for a hard-earned P3, but it's the Spaniard's team that erupts into cheers and rushes out into the pitlane to congratulate their hero. You stare at his lap time on your monitor with a grin—1:30.984, not even a tenth faster than his teammate—as cheerful screams, in Italian and Spanish, fill the garage; they get louder when Carlos walks back inside, grinning ear to ear and not even bothering to dodge the strong-arm pats on his head and back.

"Twice in a row, cazzo!"

"And this time you won't have Verstappen underfoot!"

"Perfect lap, Carlos, that was a perfect lap..."

"Grazie a tutti," Carlos beams, fire suit down to his waist, running clammy hands through his hair—he parts the red sea as he walks deeper into the garage, close to where you are. "I think we all did a very good job today, and now we gotta finish the job tomorrow..."

He laughs with the mechanics, a sun of fire and victory casting its rays onto the tarmac, and maybe it's the euphoria of the moment, but a sudden wind of courage rushes through your blood, and you walk up to him.

"Bravo, Carlos."

Your voice hits him like the purr of an engine in the ruckus, overshadowing any other sound; he whips his head in your direction, shiny eyes colliding with yours, and for the first time you don't back off but hold them in awe, and his smile doesn't fade, but rather shifts. To surprise, or... coyness?

"You were incredible out there, we're all so so proud of you," you praise, and the more you look at him the wider your smile grows, and the quieter the rest of the world gets.

"Thank you, Y/N," he rubs the back of his neck, his free hand fiddling with the hanging sleeves of his fire suit. "We... I couldn't have done this without you. Because, you know, the overheating, or what you were saying to Ricky before? I didn't understand everything, but at least I didn't cook to death."

Coyness? In Carlos Sainz? When he's still sweaty and panting from qualifying first? What a bizarre sight, one that makes you giggle.

The way your nose scrunches up beneath sparkling eyes is so endearing, Carlos almost feels his breath hitch in his throat, almost reaches out to lightly brush your arm, hold the steady coolness of it.

"Great, that was what we were going for, pretty much," you reply, and for a second you could've sworn he wanted to touch your arm and changed his mind, but...

you bury the idea before a craving for his warmth can nestle in your chest.

"Great," he repeats. "So, I'll... see you later," and with that he leaves you there, stranded in the middle of the garage, to be lauded by the press and fans.

You'd be lying if you said his shadow disappearing out the backdoor as quickly as it had come doesn't slice a gash in your heart—always whisked away to some important obligation, and you, like everyone else, duty-bound to pick up the pieces behind him. But this time around the cut doesn't run as deep, doesn't bleed as red; because for the first time in months Carlos talked to you, joked with you, and looked the tiniest bit glad to be doing so.

If that's how good of a mood a pole puts him in... then clearly you'd better make damn sure he wins this race.

Ferrari is deeply superstitious at its core. Maybe that much is true in any sport—when victory eludes you, athletes find obscure laws to trick themselves into believing they still retain control—, but a team so old, on which glory has rained so often, does not withstand the passage of time without a few pillars of faith. And so it makes sense that Ferrari drivers, of all people, would have their pre-race traditions.

Leclerc plays the piano on Saturday nights; you hear him every time you pass by the team hotel's lounge, his melancholy tracks grounding you in a precise time and place. Now the car is out of bounds, the comfort of your object-oriented programming and optimized lines of code off-limits; now's the time for withdrawal and rest.

Typically, you like to hang out in the lounge while Charles plays, trying to distract yourself with a book or simply basking in the music. The predictable, calculated flow of Charles' arpeggios soothes you, like lines of code running one after the other. So does the Monégasque driver's easy conversation. Although it doesn't shoot butterflies in your belly like Carlos' does... but you're not supposed to play favorites.

This Grand Prix eve is just like any other, save for the unordinary trepidation that carpets the hotel. With one of their own sitting on pole, it's obvious strategists struggle more than usual to drop the words "tire management" and "pit stops". Eager to escape the nervousness, you excuse yourself from the dinner table, and make your way to the lounge.

Charles is already there, if the usual pieces echoing in the distance at dessert are any indication, and you barely even get lost in the elegant halls before you find the lounge... though there is no piano to be heard. Maybe this hotel has two music rooms—maybe Charles went to bed early—or maybe...

maybe he's sitting on the piano stool and chatting with Carlos, wet and sleepy from his evening shower.

Neither driver notices you at first, and you stop dead in your tracks, wondering if you should just leave. You wouldn't want to intrude—intrude on what, the rational part of your brain says, but with Carlos I always feel like I'm intruding on something bigger than myself, the rest of your body answers—, but you really enjoy this unspoken tradition with Charles... and, well, this is everybody's lounge, and...

"Y/N," Charles sees you eventually and beckons you over. "Sorry, I don't think there'll be a lot of music tonight, Carlos is distracting me."

"You could kick me out anytime," Carlos remarks good-naturedly, but you don't miss how he angles his body away from you ever so slightly. The sight sends a dagger through your heart. So he actually hates you then. So you didn't breach any barrier earlier at the circuit, didn't melt any ice. So he didn't look pleased and a little excited to be talking to you.

"That's okay, I'll just head to bed then—"

"Oh no no no," Charles interrupts, "come sit with us. I was trying to convince Carlos to give the piano a go, maybe you'll be more successful than me."

"Absolutely not, mate."

"Come on Carlos, it will relax you!"

"No, you're the musician, not me. One of us has to be the sportsman, no?"

Unsure, you flick between the two men, Charles' inviting face and Carlos, who's still doing everything he can to avoid looking at you in the eye. And then you decide—fuck it. You're just as much a member of the team as he is. He cannot drive you away with his... stupid cold shoulder tactics any longer.

You take a seat on the sofa opposite Carlos, and watch in half delight, half annoyance as he turns his shoulders away from you. Though his body language appears relaxed, one leg strewn across his knee and elbows hugging the backrest, he is, as usual, going to hell and beyond to not acknowledge your presence.

Charles has the merit of lightening the mood with his jokes and fan encounters of the day: some bizarre, some endearing, because he seemingly never has a boring day in the paddock. His easy laughter mixes with the distant voices down the halls when your attention drops—too fast, too soon, as always, it's irremediable—to Carlos, the soothing scent of his shampoo and the little droplets that run down his temple whenever he shakes his head in amusement... before you know it, you're staring again, eyes shining with undisclosed heartache. Something Charles sees, and recognizes very well, with a jot of curiosity.

Charles may not be the most perceptive when it comes to these things, but he is in love too, and he'd know the signs anywhere. That's why after a little while he lets silence blow his last words away like wind does the mist, and stands up from the piano stool.

"Well, I'm going to bed," he announces with an air of conniving finality, and he smiles his crooked smile at Carlos. "Gonna need all my energy to take the lead in turn 1."

This snaps you out of your reverie. Half-gone, you bid him goodnight at the same time as the Spaniard does, and you brace yourself for his own excuse... but it doesn't come. Carlos lazily watches as Charles leaves the lounge. You don't dare to move, as if your slightest sound could remind him you're there and trigger his fight.

You would've thought a tête-à-tête with you to be Carlos' worst nightmare... but he makes no sign of leaving. And sends solar flares up your chest and throat. "Whatever problem he's got with me, he'll have it sort it out with me like an adult" sounds much more intimidating when it's so plausible.

"You think he has the slightest chance of overtaking me in turn 1?" Carlos chuckles.

You look him straight in the eye and read no resentment, not even that sheepishness from before—just relaxed delight, and the slightest hint of reddened cheeks against tan, damp skin. It takes you a second, maybe even two, to realize there's no one else in the room. He's talking to you. Joking with you.

Why is the script running without error all of a sudden, even though you changed no variables?

"Maybe," you give a noncommittal shrug and a smile. "Why not? It all depends on you."

"He can lead the first lap if he wants. That will just make it more fun to cross the finish line ahead of him after."

"You better win this one, Sainz, because I..." you start, and midway through your sentence are hit by how absolutely ridiculous you're about to sound, but he's leaned in already, intrigued by your words, and his burning gaze and strong hands fiddling in his lap have you losing all notions of propriety. "I've... coded a little something for you. If you win. A surprise. It's not much, but... yeah."

Your whole face burns deep scarlet as you trail off... and the light in Carlos' eyes darkens, then goes out completely. His smile fades back to the usual professional grimace he reserves for you. Distant. Cold. He rises to his feet.

"I should get some sleep."

Terror strikes you. Incomprehension too.

"No, Carlos, wait."

He turns his head to your outstretched hand... your pleading eyes almost rip through his heart.

"Why do you dislike me so much?"

And then his shoulders slump, like crushed by an immense weariness, and he sighs, long and hard, before his gaze falls back to yours. Those big brown eyes, gentle, compassionate, and those fingers tapping against his thigh like they're waiting for an invisible cue to reach out for yours.

"... Can we talk about this after the race?" he says, shooting daggers through your stomach.

So he didn't deny it. Didn't reassure you, tell you it's all a misunderstanding, that he bears no ill will towards you, that you're imagining things as usual and that you two could be on the best of terms if you just got out of your head a little bit.

One more time, he's running away. Sweeping everything under the rug, for just one more session, one more race, hiding behind the excuse of concentration and professionalism.

But who are you to revoke him that? It's a damn good excuse. You need to win. He needs to win. Not be bothered about... interpersonal relationships while clipping walls.

"... Alright," you concede, voice and bones all broken, glistening under your frozen skin. "But if it's something I've done, then I'm sorry. I really do... enjoy your company. And you."

"It's not something you've done," he speaks quietly. Gosh, your frailty in this moment—you, so proud and unshakable on the pit wall, so dedicated and thorough on TV, so immeasurably devoted to Ferrari, to Charles, to him... "Or, well, I guess not directly..."

If he looks into your confused, imploring eyes one more second, almost brushes your arm with his one more time, then he's done for. But he thinks he knows this already.

"I don't dislike you," he starts speaking and as soon as he opens his mouth he knows there's no stopping himself now, so he blurts it all out as quickly as he can to get it over with and hopefully bury some meaning in the pits of his accent. "Not at all. In fact I really like you. I think you're gorgeous, and smart, and clever, and fun, and every day I wish I could spend more time with you outside of races and get to know you better but then I remember that can never happen and it's so frustrating and I have the hardest time concentrating. So I just avoid you. It's easier."

Silence thick as a thundercloud tethers you to one another. He runs a hand over his face, sighing deep, and you blink. Once, twice.

You've always prided yourself on your brains—not everyone gets to be in charge of all the computing for a Formula 1 car—but right now, you are all utterly lost.

"Carlos, I... I don't get it." Or maybe you do, heart thumping in your ears, but you're too scared you might be wrong.

"In any other life I would've asked you out on a date." This time he speaks more slowly, more purposefully, too. Like he's imbuing every syllable with the depth of his confession. "But it kills me that it can't be this one."

"... Why not?" you tentatively ask after an instant, feigning not to notice how his hand is now resting on the back of your sofa, right next to your ear and neck.

"Because you're a senior engineer! That would be like... like dating Ricky. Even if you're much prettier than Ricky. But you don't need to tell him that," he adds with a nervous laugh, which you mirror; though you fall silent as soon as his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, right where your collar ends, millimeters away from your skin. His body's warring with his own words... one wants to resist, the other to give in. "What if I leave Ferrari? That's a crazy conflict of interest."

"That's a silly idea, you're not leaving Ferrari anytime soon. Are you?"

"I don't know, it's... hypothetically... you know what I mean," he exhales in defeat. His hand clasps a little tighter on your shoulder, his scent dizzying, closer than ever before. Can he feel your frantic heart thumping underneath your skin? If he keeps licking his lips like this, will he sense your breathing getting more erratic?

"I do. But... the problem is I like you too, Carlos."

If embers could burn back to life, light a hearth out of nothingness... they wouldn't shine as bright as Carlos' eyes just then.

"Don't mess with me."

"I'm not messing with you. Why wouldn't I like you?"

"Because you're not supposed to have a favorite."

"I won't tell Fred if you don't."

He laughs, a brittle but adorable little thing, like a small bird taking its first flight. If you could hear the sound more often, see that bashful smile on his handsome face more every day... you wouldn't need any other prince to die in war for.

His hand runs down your arm, his thumb lightly caressing your skin through the fabric of your shirt before he grabs your shaky hand in his.

"Now's not the best time, but... I think we've got to have an important conversation after the race tomorrow," his deep, soft tone pacifying you just as much as the abstract shapes he traces on the back of your hand.

"After you win, you mean."

"Right. After I get my surprise, no?"

"After you win," you repeat with a grin, and he squeezes your hand, smiling too. Something, deep down, tells him he'll win regardless of the race result.

"Cosa diavolo sta facendo?"

Even in spite of the roaring crowd and the bellowing V8s speeding down the straight, the dumbfounded voices around the pit wall come to you clear as day.

"Russell 1.4 behind Lando," Ricky, sitting on the other side of Vasseur, speaks into his headset.

The team principal keeps quiet, eyes fixed on the cascade of numbers and brackets on your screen. He understands before the rest of the wall what his driver is doing; and as you relay all the information you get to the race engineers, you understand it too.

"Lando .8 behind, .8 behind with DRS—Russell no DRS... Copy that."

He's doing it on purpose. Keeping Norris just close enough to shield him from the Mercs while making sure he can't catch up. You'd laugh in triumph and disbelief if you weren't gritting your teeth so damn hard, heart on the verge of exploding as the last laps tick out in a blur.

Just a few more minutes. Just a few more seconds, and the night sky over Marina Bay will explode in crimson lights...

Mechanics spring to their feet and climb the wall to the track, bumping their fists in the air. Cheers, claps, exclamations, a bouquet of red roses swaying in the wind to greet its champion at the finish line. And then, the unmistakable roar of a racecar speeding past the chequered flag at three hundred kilometers an hour. Liberation.

You spring to your feet right as the fireworks go off, yelling to the sky. Carlos won. Carlos won! Your Carlos—in the middle of Red Bull's flawless season...

"¡Vamos Fred! ¡Vamos Ricky!" Flashes of red and gold pass his high spirits by, diligently braking into the first corner.

He laughs, he screams it all out, unclenching all his muscles, woozy from the G's, from the adrenaline, from the win... from you, watching him from the pit wall. From the memory of your skin against his, your adoring eyes and the formidable lightness inside his chest that has him feeling like he's the king of the world.

In a few minutes, he'll be posing with his trophy and the team in front of his P1 plaque for the group photo, and he'll drench you in champagne—your lively laughter will fill his heart with the gold of medals. And later in the evening, before the afterparty, he'll pull you aside and tell you maybe this victory has made him reckless, and he'll kiss you senselessly like a prize he fought for.

For now, though, he's nodding his head at Lando who gave him a congratulatory wave from his car when his on-board screen lights up with an unexpected message. Glowing red letters read, "Great job, smooth operator! 🌶️" Laughter escapes him as small virtual fireworks go off on his screen... and he presses the radio button on his steering wheel.

"Did she have one of these ready for Charles too?"

A few seconds of white noise, and then, your mischievous voice, dripping with joy.

"You know me, Carlos. Never play favorites."

… f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)