#mechanical design engineer interview

[uniquejobs]

Dassault Systèmes Jobs Openings | Best Latest Mechanical Jobs 2023

Introduction – Dassault Systèmes Jobs Openings Dassault Systèmes Jobs Openings: Dassault Systèmes has Published a notification for the vacancy of Trainee Engineers The educational qualification required to apply for this Dassault Systèmes Careers is B.E.Engineers Interested and eligible candidates can apply for Dassault Systèmes Jobs Openings. There is enough time to apply for any job. Read…

[purinfelix]

Franco Colapinto, where his girlfriend gets jealous of his interviews, so she does everything to make him jealous in return.

a taste of his own medicine ⋆.ೃ࿔*･- franco colapinto

summary: you've had enough of your boyfriend's shameless flirting during interviews, and hatch a plan to get back at him for it w/c : 1.3k

a/n: AAAA this is such a cute idea anon - i wrote a good chunk of this a while ago but only just finished the last bit today, thank u for the req and i hope u enjoy !! <333

You wondered if your boyfriend could feel the stone-cold glare you were giving the back of his head from your spot in the VIP lounge - though if he could, he surely wasn't doing anything about it.

Initially, there hadn't been any problems with keeping your relationship secret - in fact, it had been your idea for a number of reasons. You just didn't consider yourself ready to be swarmed and scrutinised by the media or have the title of 'F1 wag' bestowed upon you. It didn't feel right, if anything it felt like a disservice to boil down your relationship with Franco to something so sensationalized. Keeping it private seemed the best decision, at least for the time being. But now, the longer you watched your boyfriend shamelessly flirt with anyone who crossed his path, the more you grew to regret this decision.

You weren't by any means a jealous person by nature, but something about the fact that no one but you had any problem with this situation - and only because they didn't know about your relationship - irritated you. If only you could figure out a way to make Franco feel the same way you were. Just at that moment, as if by fate, you spotted a young-looking boy in a race suit walking casually past the lounge. His carefree walk, curly brown hair and boyish smile - bingo.

"Hey there," you called out, hopping up from the chair you were sitting in and walking over to the boy.

"Oh, hello," he replied, seemingly taken aback by being addressed by you.

"Sorry, it's just that I'm a little new to all of this and," you look him up and down, "you look like you know what you're doing, do you think you could show me around?"

He laughs shyly, hand rubbing the back of his nape. "Well, I mean, alright then, I'm Ollie by the way."

"Lovely to meet you, Ollie." You offer a girly giggle which you try your best not to cringe at as you follow the boy, who begins to walk around the nearest garage.

He begins to explain things, the process of getting ready to drive, the roles of different team members and the physics of the car itself - all of which you could care less about, but you nod earnestly regardless. Along the way, you even offer any mechanic or engineer who seems your age a friendly smile, and even a wink if they're particularly good-looking.

It's just your luck too that all of this is happening just close enough to the media hubs where your boyfriend has been stuck all afternoon. You try your best not to look too often over at him, not wanting to give away the true intentions of this mini tour you're scored for yourself. He doesn't seem to share the same sentiment though, based off of how many times you've caught him stealing glances at you, his eye following watchfully as you laugh and tease your impromptu tour guide.

"And so every element of car design has the purpose of making it as fast as possible, either through aerodynamics or by making everything lightweight," he continues to explain excitedly, and even though you're starting to feel dizzy from all the nodding you give him a quick one.

"Oh, wow!" You say, and before you know it you've landed yourself in the perfect position - within both earshot and line of vision of your boyfriend who seems to be wrapping up one of his last interviews for the night. Now, for the cherry on top.

You watch as Franco finishes saying his goodbyes to the last of the media crew, his eyes now searching the paddock for you. Knowing that he's looking at you, you throw your head back in laughter at nothing in particular and bring a hand up to graze Ollie's upper arm. Though you have his back to him you know your boyfriend well enough that when you feel a hand on your own shoulder mere seconds later, you aren't too shocked.

"Oh, hello Franco," you hum, feigning innocence. "Ollie here was just showing me around and keeping me company, isn't he the sweetest?"

"Very sweet." He grins through gritted teeth, though his strengthening grip on your shoulder says otherwise.

"No problem, oh but hey I forgot to show you just one more th-"

"Thanks, kid, but my girlfriend and I have got to get going."

Trying not to make it too obvious on your face how pleased you were that your plan had worked, you thanked Ollie once more before you felt Franco's grip sliding down your arm and intertwining his fingers with yours. Desperately, he dragged you off and away from your tour guide - who had a slightly confused expression painted on his face as he watched the two of you disappear into the Williams garage. You were amazed by how quickly your boyfriend was walking as he pulled you into his driver's room, shutting the door behind you quickly.

"What was that?" he huffed immediately, not giving you a second to say anything. You only smiled in response, watching his normally calm expression morph into one of frustrated confusion.

"I told you, Ollie was showing me around, you were busy with your interviews anyways," you decide to keep up the act of innocence, though you can tell he's not buying it.

"Bullshit, what sort of showing around involves touching him."

"I didn't think you were watching, those reporters seemed to keep you pretty occupied," you say in a sing-songy tone, throwing yourself down on the couch in his room. You wait for him to respond - something equally sarcastic or quippy, but when you turn to look at him you see him staring at the wall in front of him, eyes furrowed in confusion. Slowly, the cogs in his mind seem to start working as his expression slowly changes into one of realisation.

"You were jealous," he breathes out, turning to you with eyes wide and brows raised.

"Oh pfft- I wouldn't say jealous, bored now that might be more accurate but-" You're interrupted by him taking a seat on the couch next to you, face now painted with a smug look.

"You didn't like that I was talking to so many reporters, did you?" His teasing tone is enough to make your heart race a little, though you try your best to keep calm.

"I'm pretty sure you were doing a little more than talking babe, you were flirting!"

He looks at you with a slightly offended expression, "flirting?" It's almost as if he's just realising what he was doing.

"Uhm, duh."

"Did it really look like that?" His brows curve up into a pleading expression, "I didn't mean to, I swear!" You let out a soft chuckle watching his apologetic expression.

"It's fine baby, just try to be a little less friendly next time - I think your PR team would appreciate it anyway." He nods, scooting a little closer so that he can lay his head on your shoulder. There's a beat of silence before he speaks again.

"You were jealous," he hums, almost as if he's talking to himself.

"Wh- so were you! Poor Ollie is probably terrified of you now!"

"Whatever, he's a big boy, he'll live," he sighs, reaching for your hand and intertwining it in his "Plus, don't act like you're any better using that kid to get back at me."

"Hey, I had to do something before you walked out of that media room with a second girlfriend," you crossed your arms in annoyance, refusing to even look at him.

"You're cute when you're jealous," he laughs, before turning to peck at your jawline. Before you can stop you're melting into his touch, bringing a hand up to brush his curly hair away from his face. It might be a weak apology to some, but to you - to be here with him, in the privacy of his driver's room, away from Ollie, the reporters, and the rest of the world - it's more than enough.

taglist: (reply/send me an ask if you'd like to be added!)

@spreadyourwings-my-smiling-angel @alelo23 @scill-a @multifan-idk

[pucksandpower]

Wagification

Max Verstappen x analyst!Reader

Summary: your job was slowly crushing your soul and stealing your sanity … until Max showed you the pleasure to be found in letting yourself be cherished and cared for (or in which a chronically overworked Sky Sports analyst becomes a WAG)

Monaco Grand Prix, 2025

You take a deep breath as you step out of the car, the Monaco sunshine bright and warm on your face. Max comes around and takes your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“You ready for this?” He asks, his eyes searching yours.

You nod, though your stomach is fluttering with nerves. It’s been nearly a year since you were last at a Grand Prix, and so much has changed. You glance down at the massive diamond on your left hand, still not quite used to seeing it there.

Max kisses your temple. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right by your side the whole time.”

Hand-in-hand, you make your way into the paddock. Immediately you’re assaulted by the familiar sights and sounds — mechanics yelling, engines revving, reporters gesturing to their cameras. It’s like you never left.

You keep your sunglasses on and your head down, hoping to avoid notice. The last thing you want is to be bombarded by your old coworkers. As a data analyst for Sky Sports F1, you knew everyone in the paddock. But you walked away from it all for Max and you aren’t sure what kind of reception awaits you now.

“Max! Max Verstappen!” You hear a female voice call out. You suppress a groan as you recognize it as belonging to Emma, one of the network’s top reporters. She hurries over, dictaphone in hand. “Max, can I get a quick interview for the pre-race show?”

“Sure,” Max says easily. He keeps holding your hand, drawing you forward. “Just make it quick, yeah?”

Emma nods, then seems to notice you for the first time. “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I’m Emma Walsh, with Sky Sports.” She sticks her hand out with a friendly smile.

You hesitate a second before shaking her hand. “Y/N,” you say simply, not offering your last name.

Emma’s eyes widen behind her glasses and she leans in for a closer look. “Wait a minute, I know you ...” Her jaw drops open. “Y/N Y/L/N? Is that you?”

You give a little shrug. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Oh my god!” Emma practically shouts. “I can’t believe it! We all thought you fell off the face of the earth after you left Sky. What happened to you?”

Max slides an arm around your waist. “She fell for me,” he says with a grin.

Emma’s eyes bug out even more as she takes in your designer dress, heels, and rock on your finger. “You mean … you and Max ...”

You nod, feeling yourself blush. “About a year ago, yeah.”

“Wow.” Emma shakes her head in disbelief. “Just … wow. I mean, look at you! You look incredible!”

You smooth your hands self-consciously over your dress. Your style has certainly changed since your Sky Sports days of sensible pantsuits. As an analyst, you had lived in jeans, flats, and minimal makeup, your hair always pulled back in a simple ponytail. Now your hair falls in soft waves over your shoulders, and you’re wearing a floaty floral maxi dress and strappy heels. You went from broadcasting racing stats to being a WAG almost overnight.

“Thanks,” you say, your cheeks growing even warmer. “It’s really good to see you, Emma.”

“You too!” She grins. “I have so many questions, but I better let you go for now. Don’t want to keep the championship leader waiting.” She winks at Max. “We’ll catch up later, yeah? Drinks tonight to celebrate your return?”

“Sure, sounds good.” You smile, thankful she’s not pressing for more details now. Emma waves and heads off in search of her next interview.

Max keeps his arm around you as you continue through the paddock. “See, that wasn’t so bad,” he murmurs.

You let out a shaky laugh. “One down, about a hundred more to go.”

Over the next hour you run into what feels like every person you used to work with. They all react with similar shock at the former paddock nerd turned glamorous girlfriend of the reigning four-time World Champion.

You chat briefly with Will, who stutters over his words and goes bright red when you say hello. He had the biggest crush on you back when you worked together. Sarah can’t stop gushing over your ring. Tom tells you how weird it is not to see you hunched over a laptop crunching numbers.

The encounters leave you feeling drained, but also relieved. Your old coworkers seem genuinely happy for you, not resentful like you had worried. They don’t pry too much into how exactly you went from reporting race stats to ending up with Max Verstappen. That’s a story for another time.

Eventually you make it to the Red Bull garage, where you let out a long breath. “Phew, I survived.”

Max grins and pulls you close. “You were amazing. And you look beautiful, as always.” He nuzzles your neck.

You smile and loop your arms around his shoulders. “Have I mentioned how happy I am whenever I’m with you?”

“Mmm, maybe once or twice.” Max kisses you softly. “But feel free to keep reminding me.”

“Ahem.” Christian Horner clears his throat from behind you. “If you two can pause the PDA for a moment, we have a race to focus on.”

You spring apart, blushing furiously at being caught by Max’s team principal. Max just laughs and slings an arm around your shoulders.

“Lighten up, Christian. I’m allowed to kiss my fiancée.”

Christian shakes his head, but he’s fighting a smile. “Indeed you are. But perhaps when there aren’t cameras around?” He nods over your shoulder.

You turn to see several photographers zooming in, no doubt dying to get shots of the paddock’s newest it couple. You bury your face in Max’s shoulder.

“Ugh, no privacy anywhere,” you grumble.

Max kisses your hair. “It’s not so bad. Just part of the deal when you’re with me, remember?”

You smile up at him. “Very true. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

The day passes in a blur of activity. Max has various sponsor obligations and media commitments. You stick close by his side, learning how to avoid the cameras and deflect the constant questions about your relationship. Being the center of attention still feels strange, but you’re getting better at handling it.

During Max’s autograph session, you chat with some of the other drivers’ girlfriends and wives. They give you tips on dealing with the madness. You’re touched by how kind and welcoming they are.

“It takes some getting used to,” Alex Albon’s girlfriend, Lily, says. “But once you figure out how to focus on what really matters, the rest just becomes background noise.”

You nod. Your priority is Max. Everything else is just part of the ride.

***

One Year Ago

You sink down onto a stack of tires behind the Red Bull motorhome, finally letting the tears fall. This weekend in Barcelona has been a nightmare so far. Your team at Sky Sports is chronically understaffed, so you’ve been working 18 hour days analyzing data and prepping stats graphics.

You’re exhausted, frustrated, and seriously questioning your career choices.

On top of that, you just found out that your coworker and boyfriend Jamie has been cheating on you for months with one of the new junior reporters. You feel like such an idiot for not realizing it sooner.

You just need a few minutes to yourself to cry it out before plastering a smile back on and soldiering through the rest of the weekend. You hear footsteps approaching and quickly dab at your eyes with your sleeve, but it’s too late.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to ...” The voice trails off awkwardly.

You glance up to see none other than Max Verstappen standing there, a look of concern on his face. Great. The last thing you need is Formula 1’s wunderkind catching you bawling behind the motorhome.

You scramble to your feet, trying to compose yourself. “Um, hi. No worries, I was just ...” You trail off, at a loss for how to explain.

Max steps closer, head tilted. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

His kindness makes the tears threaten again. You stare down at your scuffed sneakers, embarrassed.

“I’m fine, really. Just had a bad day. You know how it goes.” You force a weak laugh.

Max doesn’t seem convinced. “Here, come sit for a minute,” he says gently, guiding you back over to the stack of tires.

To your surprise, he sits down next to you in his designer jeans and Red Bull Racing hoodie like it’s no big deal. You would laugh if you weren’t still fighting more tears.

“I’m Max, by the way.” He smiles and holds out his hand.

You shake it weakly. “Yeah, I know. I mean, uh, I’m Y/N.” You blush. Smooth.

Max either doesn’t notice or is too polite to comment. “So Y/N, what has you so upset? Boyfriend troubles?” He raises an eyebrow knowingly.

You let out a watery chuckle. “Yeah, something like that. The idiot’s been cheating on me it turns out.” Saying it out loud makes the hurt swell back up.

Max shakes his head angrily. “What a dick. I don’t understand guys who treat girls like that. You deserve so much better, Y/N.”

The genuine outrage on your behalf makes you smile a bit through the tears. “Thanks, Max. I appreciate that.”

He nods. “Any guy would be lucky to have a girl as pretty and smart as you. This loser doesn’t know what he’s lost.”

Now you really can’t help blushing. You’re used to being called a lot of things — nerdy, awkward, obsessive about stats — but no one’s ever called you pretty before. Especially not a kind, cute, and famous race car driver.

You dip your head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear self-consciously. “You’re very sweet to say that.”

Max bumps your shoulder with his. “Just calling it like I see it.”

You chat for a few more minutes about nothing in particular. Max is easy to talk to, and makes you laugh with funny stories about mishaps in the garage. By the time you hear your boss calling your name, you’ve almost forgotten about Jamie and your tear-stained face.

“Shit, I have to get back to work,” you say, standing quickly and grabbing your laptop bag. “Thanks for listening, Max. I really appreciate you taking the time.”

“Of course.” Max stands too, shoving his hands in his pockets. He seems reluctant to end the conversation. “Hey, maybe I’ll see you around again this weekend?”

You give him a curious look, wondering why he’d want to see you again after witnessing that mess of emotions. But he looks sincere. “Yeah, maybe! I’m around if you need any stats analysis or data work.” You tap your temple. “Numbers nerd, at your service.”

Max grins. “Good to know. Take care, Y/N.” With a little wave, he heads off, leaving you staring after him in surprise.

The rest of the day you keep replaying those moments with Max in your head, unable to focus. Why did he seem so interested in a frumpy data analyst having a meltdown? You can’t make sense of it.

By the time qualifying ends on Saturday, you’re practically dead on your feet. Your eyelids keep drooping as you pack up your equipment. Maybe you’ll just sleep under your desk tonight instead of walking all the way to the hotel.

“Long day, huh?”

You jerk awake to see Max leaning in the doorway of your makeshift office, thumbs hooked in his pockets. He looks annoyingly energetic and put together compared to your disheveled state.

“Uh, yeah.” You smooth your hair back,feeling self-conscious. Why does he have to catch you looking like such a mess yet again? “Just have about a million graphics to finish before tomorrow’s broadcast. The glamorous life of a data analyst,” you say wryly.

Max frowns. “They keep you here this late doing all the work yourself?”

You sigh, rubbing your grainy eyes beneath your glasses. “Unfortunately yes. We’re way understaffed, but it’s not like they’ll give us more budget to hire help.”

Max shakes his head. “That’s unacceptable. You deserve so much better than this.”

The kindness in his voice makes you suddenly emotional again. You bite your lip, willing yourself not to tear up at work twice in one day.

“Thanks, Max. I’ll be okay though, once I get some sleep ...” You know you don’t sound convincing.

Max appears to think for a moment, his brow furrowed. “You know what, enough of this. Come on.”

Before you can react, he takes your hand and gently tugs you to your feet.

“W-what? Where are we going?” You stammer, heartbeat quickening.

“We’re getting out of here. You’re clearly exhausted and need a break.” Max keeps hold of your hand as he leads you from the office.

“But-but my work … I have to finish-” Even as you protest, you let him continue pulling you along. A rebellious part of you is thrilled at this sudden adventure.

“It can wait. Right now, we’re getting some food and drinks in you so you actually have energy left for tomorrow.” Max winks at you as you exit the paddock into the cool night air. “Trust me.”

And despite barely knowing this man, you realize you do trust him. Max guides you around the corner to a lively tapas bar, chatting all the while about random topics to make you laugh. He seems genuinely interested in getting to know you.

Over shared plates of patatas bravas and fizzy cocktails, you find yourself opening up to Max in a way you never do with people you just met. But his kindness and openness make you feel comfortable. He tells you more about life as an F1 driver, the pressures and perks.

“It must be amazing getting to travel all over the world racing cars,” you muse after your second cocktail. “Like a dream.”

“Part of it is, yeah.” Max smiles wryly. “But it can also be lonely. Never really putting down roots anywhere. Hard to meet people outside the racing bubble, you know?”

You nod thoughtfully. Under the playboy racer exterior, it seems there’s a down-to-earth guy who just wants connection. On impulse, you cover his hand with yours and give it a squeeze.

“Well, you’ve got a friend here now if you ever need company at a race.”

Max turns his palm over to link his fingers through yours. “I was hoping you’d say that.” His smile is so warm and genuine, you feel your cheeks heat.

By the time you stumble back to your hotel, you’re laughing and chatting with Max like old friends. When you get to your door though, you blink blearily and sway on your feet — the long day and alcohol hitting you hard.

Max steadies you with a hand on your waist. “Whoa there. You gonna make it okay?”

You wave a hand drunkenly. “Oh yeah, totally fiiiine ...” Your balance wavers again. Okay, maybe not so fine.

Max bites his lip, seeming to have an internal debate. “Alright, slight change of plans. You’re in no state to be left alone right now.”

In one smooth motion he scoops you up bridal-style. You make a very dignified squeaking noise and clutch his shoulders.

“Max! What are you doing?”

“Making sure you’re safe for the night.” He grins down at you. “You can stay in my suite where I can keep an eye on you.”

“But … people will think ...” Even tipsy, you know spending the night in Max Verstappen’s hotel room is probably a bad idea.

“Let them think whatever. I’m being a gentleman, I promise.” The sincerity in his eyes melts your feeble protests. You really are in no state to be left alone.

You sigh and rest your head on his shoulder. “Okay fine, you win. But just for tonight!”

Max chuckles, carrying you towards the elevator. “Deal. We’ll get you sobered up and rested for tomorrow.”

You have vague impressions of a plush suite, being tucked into cool satin sheets and handed water and pills for your headache. Max brushes hair off your face with a lingering touch. “Get some sleep, Y/N. I’m right next door if you need me.”

His kindness brings tears to your eyes again, but happy ones this time. As you drift off surrounded by his scent, you think dazedly that maybe this race weekend hasn’t been so terrible after all.

In the morning, waking up in Max Verstappen’s hotel bed, you at first think it was all some crazy dream. Then the smell of brewing coffee draws you out to the living room, where Max stands in the kitchenette.

“Morning! I ordered us some breakfast.” He hands you a mug, smiling softly.

Daylight streaming through the windows makes last night’s events seem even more surreal. You feel suddenly shy as memories return. A part of you wishes you could stay here in this peaceful bubble with him forever, away from the outside world.

But reality calls, as you both have jobs to return to. Max convinces you to eat some food and take more pain meds before he walks you back to your own room to shower and change.

At your door he pulls you into a gentle hug. “Take care of yourself today, okay Y/N? And if you need another break or company again, you know where to find me.” He presses a featherlight kiss to your forehead that sends tingles through your entire body.

Somehow you make it through the day fueled by Max’s kindness and the smallest hope this could lead to more. You catch sight of him striding through the paddock, fans clamoring for his attention. His eyes always seem to find you though, lighting up with that warm smile.

After the race, you’re back in your makeshift office trying not to fall asleep at your desk before the last minutes of broadcasts. When you walk outside into the golden hour sunset though, Max is waiting for you.

“So, ready for round two at the tapas place to celebrate my win?” He bumps your shoulder playfully.

You grin up at him, this beautiful boy who inexplicably wants to spend all his free moments with you. “Definitely. Bring on the croquetas.”

Laughing together, you start making your way there. And though you don’t know what this budding connection will lead to, you’re ready to find out.

***

Nine Months Ago

You snuggle deeper into Max’s arms with a contented sigh, resting your head on his chest. The lights are dim and music plays softly in the background of his hotel suite. Rain patters against the windows, making it the perfect night to get cozy indoors.

Being wrapped up with Max like this, away from the chaos of the race weekend, has become your favorite place to be over the past few months. After that impulsive first night in Barcelona when he took care of you, you started spending more and more time together.

What began as a supportive friendship soon turned into dates, kisses, and eventually becoming official boyfriend and girlfriend. You still can’t believe that Max Verstappen, Formula 1 superstar, wants to be with a plain data analyst like yourself. But from the way he looks at you — like you’re the most captivating person in the world — you don’t doubt his sincerity.

“Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?” Max murmurs, trailing his fingers slowly up and down your arm.

You smile and nuzzle his neck. “Mmm, I think you mentioned it once or twice.”

His hands drift up to stroke your hair and you practically purr, eyes drifting shut. Max kisses the top of your head. “I mean it though, Y/N. Being with you makes me so happy.”

You lift your head to meet his lips in a soft kiss. “You make me happy too, Max. I-” You cut off with an enormous yawn that you fail to stifle in time.

Max chuckles. “Am I boring you over here?”

“No no,” you insist around another yawn. “I just can’t seem to keep my eyes open tonight.”

It’s true. As blissful as you feel cuddled up with Max, you’re utterly exhausted. This weekend has been nonstop work with little sleep. By the time you wrapped the Sky broadcasts up for the night, you could barely see straight.

Max brushes a strand of hair back from your face, his expression growing serious. “You’re completely worn out, schatje. I hate seeing you push yourself to the breaking point like this.”

You give him a tired smile. “It’s okay, really. I’m used to the long hours by now. Occupational hazard.” It comes out less convincingly than you intended.

Max’s frown deepens. He shifts around to face you, cradling your cheek in his palm. “But you shouldn’t have to be used to it, Y/N. Your bosses take advantage of your dedication. It’s not right.”

You bite your lip, not meeting his earnest gaze. Deep down you know he’s correct, but you don’t know what else to do. This career has been your life for years now.

Max gently turns your face back to his. “You deserve so much better. You keep giving everything to this job and they just keep demanding more. When’s the last time you took a real break?”

You look down, feeling the prickle of tears. You can’t even remember your last vacation or rest day. “It’s okay, really ...” you whisper half-heartedly.

“No, it’s not.” Max’s voice is firm but caring. He tips your chin up to meet his eyes. “I can’t stand seeing you being taken advantage of. It makes me want to take care of you properly, the way you should be.”

Your breath catches at the intensity in his gaze. Being taken care of and cherished so deeply is new for you. You don’t know how to respond.

Max seems to take your silence as uncertainty. “Just think about it, liefje. You could finally put yourself first and do what makes you happy instead of what makes Sky Sports happy.” He caresses your cheek with his thumb. “Doesn’t a break to rest and recover sound nice?”

You close your eyes with a shaky exhale, admitting to yourself just how badly you need it. Your health and mental wellbeing have been steadily declining under the relentless stress.

“It really does sound nice,” you whisper. A few tears leak out beneath your lashes.

Max kisses them away tenderly, holding you close. “Shh I know, baby. You’re burning yourself out trying to do the impossible. Anyone would be exhausted.”

You cling to him, sniffling. “But it’s my job, my career. I can’t just walk away ...” Even as you say it, the prospect doesn’t seem as scary as it once did. Not if you get to have this, being wrapped in Max’s love and care.

“You can walk away from anything that’s making you suffer. You’re so much more than this job. And you’ll never have to worry or want for anything ever again.” His tone drips with promise.

You lean back to search his face. “What do you mean?”

Max smiles and brushes his nose against yours. “I mean, I’ll take care of you. If you leave your job to focus on yourself and our relationship, you will want for nothing. I’ll make sure of it.”

Your eyes go wide. “You mean … quit working altogether and just … be with you full time?”

Max nods, still smiling. “It can be that simple if you want. No more crazy hours and stress. Just let me spoil you and give you the life you deserve. What do you say?”

Your pulse races as you imagine it. No more coming home at 2 am and collapsing, living off vending machine snacks. Instead you could be leisurely mornings with Max, seeing the world together, doing activities you actually enjoy instead of endless stats analysis ...

It sounds idyllic. But could you really just stop working and let Max support you? Would people judge you for it?

As if reading your mind, Max says “Ignore whatever anyone else might think. This is about what’s right for you and makes you happy. I’m sure of this, Y/N. Please trust me.”

His eyes radiate so much love and certainty. Slowly you nod, feeling a weight lift from your chest.

“Okay,” you whisper. “If you’re sure then … I trust you, Max.”

Joy spreads across his face. He kisses you deeply, pouring all his feelings into it. When he finally pulls back you’re both breathless.

“You won’t regret this, schatje. I’m going to take such good care of you from now on.” Max strokes your hair, eyes shining. “No more exhaustion and stress. Just being together and enjoying life. It will be amazing.”

You truly believe it as you drift off, safe in his arms. No more pressure to single-handedly carry Sky Sports’ data analysis. From now on, you can just be his … and find yourself again.

The next day you take a deep breath and knock on your boss’ door. Within minutes, you’ve quit your job and ended a years long chapter. It feels bittersweet but right as you box up your belongings from your little makeshift office. This time when tears prick your eyes, they’re from overwhelming relief.

Max is waiting to pick you up, greeting you with a spinning hug and long kiss. “I’m so proud of you. You’re going to be so much happier and healthier from now on, I just know it.”

You hug him tight, burying your face in his neck. “I already feel lighter. This was the right choice.”

And it truly is. As you jet off to a tropical island just the two of you that weekend, it feels like a new life.

The days pass in a dreamy haze — sleeping in, long massages, breakfast in bed courtesy of Max, sunset walks on the beach holding hands. He delights in pampering you with gifts, gourmet meals, and your every whim met often before you even speak it.

“I could get used to this,” you sigh contentedly as you lounge together in a cabana, sipping fruity cocktails.

Max smiles and nuzzles your neck. “That’s the idea. You’ll never lift a finger except when you want to from now on.”

It amazes you how he transforms from fierce competitor on the track to this caring, protective boyfriend behind closed doors. He seems to find his greatest happiness in making sure you’re thoroughly spoiled.

You do occasionally think of the drastic shift your life has taken. But any flicker of doubt is erased by Max’s love and devotion. He’s given you freedom from exhaustion and anxiety. You’ve never felt more adored.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you whisper one night as you sway together on the balcony under the stars, your silk robe fluttering around you.

Max gazes at you like you hold the secrets of the universe. “You just had to be yourself, schatje. That’s all I’ll ever need.”

He takes your breath away with slow, passionate kisses until you meltingly agree to take things inside. Your first time together is everything you imagined and more.

Afterwards, lying entwined with Max stroking your hair, you have never felt more whole. You found in each other what you needed most — care, understanding, and unwavering love.

This blissful new life together has only just begun.

***

A Few Hours Ago

You hum to yourself as you flip through the designer outfits in your massive walk-in closet, selecting options for the upcoming race. This will be your first time attending a Grand Prix on Max’s arm and you want to look perfect.

As you sift through rows of Chanel, Dior, Valentino, and Prada, you feel a pair of familiar arms wrap around your waist.

“Need any help choosing?” Max asks, nuzzling your neck.

You lean back into him with a smile. “I was just trying to narrow it down. I want to look nice for your big weekend.”

Max turns you in his arms, one hand coming up to caress your cheek. “Schatje, you could show up in sweatpants and you’d still be the most beautiful woman there.”

You scrunch your nose. “But it’s Monaco! I need to look at least semi put-together.”

“It’s impossible for you to look anything but,” Max declares, stealing a quick kiss. “You always look perfect to me.”

You swat his chest but can’t help grinning. His constant compliments and admiration still give you flutters even after months together.

Taking your hand, Max comes to stand before the endless clothing options. “Okay, let’s see what we’re working with here.”

You pull out two of your favorites: a sleek black Balmain jumpsuit with a deep neckline and waist cutouts, and a shimmering floral Givenchy maxi dress.

“Ooh, these are both amazing,” Max says, fingering the luxe fabrics. “That jumpsuit would show off your sexy legs, but this fabric is so pretty with your skin tone ...”

You chew your bottom lip thoughtfully. “I’m torn too. What’s your vote?”

Max pretends to scrutinize them closely before breaking into a smile. “Well you know I love you in anything. Or nothing,” he adds with a wink.

You roll your eyes and swat him with a hanger. “Behave! I need actual fashion advice please.”

“Okay okay.” Max puts on an exaggerated serious expression. “The Givenchy dress is very classy and princess-like. But I love the way this Balmain hugs your curves.” To demonstrate, he traces a hand along the waist and down your side.

You shiver pleasantly at his touch. “Mmm, good point ...”

Max leans in close behind you, hands resting on your hips. “Imagine me peeling it off of you after my win.” He presses a kiss below your ear.

You melt back into him, tilting your head to give him better access to your neck. “Well when you put it that way ...”

“The dress would be pretty easy access too though.” Max slides his hands under the fabric across your thighs teasingly.

You gasp and swat him away again, laughing. “Okay stop distracting me! I really do need to pick.”

Max relents with a grin, holding up his hands in surrender. “Alright, you win. I officially vote for the dress. It’s sexy yet elegant, just like you.”

You smile and give him a peck on the lips. “Now, what about bags and shoes?”

You move through your endless options as Max offers his input. He has a surprising eye for fashion despite his own relaxed, sporty style.

“This one matches the best.” He selects a sleek black crocodile Birkin. “Classy and understated.”

You turn the bag over in your hands. “Ooh I forgot I had this one. Good call!”

After picking strappy heels to complete the look, you start browsing your jewelry selection.

“That’s a lot of shiny stuff,” Max remarks, eyes roving over the boxes of diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and more.

You arch an eyebrow. “Says the one who got carried away with the jewelry purchases ...”

Max just grins and pulls you close. “I want you to have it all. You deserve to be spoiled.” He captures your lips in a sweet kiss.

You hum happily against his mouth before pulling back. “Will you help me pick something?”

“Hmm let’s see ...” Max peruses the options before selecting an elegant diamond necklace. “Yeah, this one is perfect. Really complements the dress.”

He fastens it carefully around your neck, meeting your eyes in the mirror with a smile. His gaze trails down your body as you model the full outfit together.

“You look absolutely incredible, liefje. Every man in Monaco will be drooling over you.”

You turn to wrap your arms around his shoulders. “Well I only care about impressing one man.” You kiss the tip of his nose.

Max’s hands find your waist again, warm on your exposed skin. “Oh trust me, I am very impressed. And the second we’re alone after the race this outfit will be on the floor.”

You laugh as he nuzzles into your neck, nipping lightly. Somehow, you manage to fall more in love with Max every day.

You eventually disentangle, needing to actually get ready for the day ahead.

“What should I wear in the meantime?” You muse, fingers drifting over the designer options.

Before you can choose, Max comes up behind you and starts guiding a silk robe onto your shoulders.

“How about nothing at all? I’m enjoying this view already,” he murmurs against your skin as he wraps the sash loosely around your waist.

You lean back into him with a hum of pleasure. “Well if you insist ...”

Max takes your hand and leads you to the bed, laying you back against the pillows. He undoes the robe just enough to expose your body as he trails kisses everywhere. “Mmm yes, this is much better than any outfit.”

You run your fingers through his hair, arching into his touch. “What happened to getting ready for the race?” You breathe.

Max pauses his kisses just below your navel to flash a wicked grin up at you. “Race day can wait for a few more minutes. Right now I want to appreciate my gorgeous girl.”

You have zero arguments with that logic. With a happy sigh, you surrender to his skilled and eager mouth, letting all other concerns fade away. Everything else will have its turn — being worshiped by Max is the only thing on your schedule this morning.

Eventually though, you manage to dress and make your way to the circuit. As you ride through the streets together on the way, Max keeps an arm curled tightly around you.

“You know, despite the fancy clothes and jewelry, you’re still the same humble, kind-hearted woman I fell for,” Max says, kissing your temple. “All that other stuff just enhances your inner beauty.”

You smile and squeeze his hand as you lift your lips to meet his. “You always know just what to say.”

You keep your chin up and shoulders back as you step onto the harborside track that will soon be swarming with VIPs. With Max by your side, you have everything you need — now and always.

***

Monaco Grand Prix, 2025

The cheers of the crowd echo in your ears as you watch Max pass the chequered flag, securing his win. Your heart swells with pride and love as he pulls the car over to parc fermé and hops out, immediately searching for you on the other side of the barriers.

The second his eyes land on yours, his face lights up with that smile that melts you every time. He’s barely stepped out of the car before you launch yourself into his arms.

“You did it! I’m so proud of you,” you breathlessly exclaim.

Max laughs and pulls you closer. “I’m just happy to win it for you, liefje.”

Still holding you against his chest, he claims your mouth in a fierce celebratory kiss as the team and cameras swarm around. Your world narrows to just the feeling of his lips on yours, his race suit damp with sweat under your palms.

When you finally break for air, foreheads touching, Max murmurs “I love you so much. This one was for you.”

Your answering smile feels brighter than the Monaco sunshine. “I love you too. You were incredible today.”

The podium ceremony and interviews pass in a euphoric blur. Max keeps you tucked close to his side whenever he can, his arm firmly around your waist. He only has eyes for you despite the chaos surrounding him.

Finally escaping to the privacy of his driver’s room in the Red Bull motorhome, Max properly ravages you up against the door. The heady mix of victory and desire is intoxicating.

Much later, surrounded by empty champagne bottles with Max nuzzling lazy kisses across your bare shoulders, you hear a tentative knock.

“Decent?” Comes Emma’s teasing voice.

“Just a minute!” You call out, scrambling for your discarded dress.

Max pouts adorably as you wriggle back into it. “Do we have to go out? I’m enjoying having you all to myself ...”

You smile and kiss him sweetly. “Soon baby. But let’s celebrate with some friends first.”

Max sighs but nods, taking your hand as you go open the door. Emma’s eyebrows shoot up as she takes in your thoroughly debauched state, but she politely doesn’t comment.

“Y/N! There you are! Oh, and congrats on the win,” she says to Max before turning back to you. “We’re all heading to Jimmy’z for the afterparty. You have to come!”

You hesitate, glancing at Max. “Oh, actually we already have plans ...”

“Come on, it will be like old times! We can squeeze you both in, I’m sure,” Emma pleads. Your former colleagues are beckoned over — Tom, Will, Sarah, and others waving excitedly.

Their eager faces make you pause, but Max just chuckles and slides an arm around your waist. “No need for squeezing into crowded clubs. I’ve already reserved some VIP booths so we can party properly.” He winks down at you.

“Oh! Well in that case, we’ll see you there.” Emma looks impressed. The others chatter excitedly as they head off to get ready.

You grin up at Max, arms looped around his neck. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“Only the best for you, beautiful.” He kisses you softly before you head off hand-in-hand.

After making yourselves presentable again, you set out into the Monaco night. The Circuit de Monaco is still abuzz with energy, music and laughter pouring from every corner.

The line outside Jimmy’z stretches far down the block. But the bouncer immediately waves you through with a respectful “Mr. Verstappen, this way please.”

You exchange a smile with Max, who keeps you tucked close against his side. It still feels surreal being ushered into exclusive areas that once intimidated you. Now it’s your glamorous new normal.

“Y/N, you made it!” Emma jumps up and hugs you tight. She eyes your designer outfit and perfectly styled hair. “Damn, look at you! Got that WAG glow going on.”

You smooth your hands self-consciously over your dress. “Oh, thanks! Just trying to look the part, I guess.”

You chat and laugh with Emma and your former coworkers as music pulses around you. When the Go-Go dancer comes by with a tray of sparklers, you impulsively grab two, popping one in your mouth and handing the other to a wide-eyed Emma.

She fumbles to light hers, watching as you tilt your head back and laugh, little sparks showering your face.

“Girl, you are wild tonight!” Emma has to shout over the music. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

You just smile and rummage through your Birkin for lipstick to touch up, crossing and uncrossing your legs that sport sky-high Louboutins. Your time working 18 hour days hunched over a laptop feels like another lifetime.

Eventually needing a break from the noise, you head to the bar to refresh your drink. Emma joins you, peering at the menu.

“Damn, I can’t even pronounce half this stuff,” she laughs. “What are you thinking of getting?”

You scan the options. “Mmm, maybe the Dom Pérignon Rosé? Sounds nice.”

Emma shakes her head in disbelief. “You really have gone full glam. I don’t think I ever saw you drink anything but Heineken at the track.”

You scoff, “Well we didn’t exactly have champagne on offer in our part of the paddock.”

You smile politely as the bartender brings your drink over. Emma is still eyeing you curiously.

“What?” You ask, laughing under her scrutiny.

“Nothing, just ...” She waves a hand at you. “Look at you with the designer outfit, Birkin bag, $500 drinks … you’re a whole new woman!”

You take a sip of the bubbly pink liquid and just smile. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“No no, not at all!” Emma rushes to say. “You seem really happy. I’ve just never seen you like this before. You were always the practical, focused one. Now you look … fully embraced by the glitz.”

You lean against the bar, considering her words. She’s right — the old you never could’ve imagined fully embracing this lifestyle. But now you can’t imagine anything else.

“I am happier than I’ve ever been,” you tell her honestly. “With Max I’m free to enjoy life and not worry about anything. He takes care of it all.”

Emma raises her eyebrows. “So he just … pays for everything, and you live this champagne lifestyle together?”

You smile, fingering the enormous diamond on your left hand. “Basically, yes. And it’s as amazing as it sounds. I’ll never need to work or stress over bills or anything again.”

“Huh.” Emma takes a thoughtful sip of her own drink. “Don’t you ever miss the thrill of data crunching and racing strategy though?”

You consider it for a moment. The thought of long hours analyzing race stats and performance metrics makes your brain hurt.

“You know … I really don’t,” you realize. “I can barely even remember the programs and systems we used. And I like it that way.”

Emma nods slowly. You can tell she’s making an effort to be open-minded about your new life. Before she can respond, you feel the presence of someone behind you.

“There’s my beautiful girl,” Max murmurs, sliding his arms around your waist and nuzzling your neck. “This party is nowhere near as fun without you.”

You lean back into him happily. His passion and desire for you still give you the same flutters as that first night together in Barcelona. You doubt that will ever change.

Turning in his arms, you accept the kiss he gives you, not caring that Emma is still standing there. Let her see how crazy you are for each other.

When you pull back, Max smiles down at you like you’re the only person in the crowded club. “Dance with me?” He extends a hand, already gently pulling you towards the dancefloor.

You let him lead you away without a backwards glance. Emma can think what she wants, but she can’t possibly understand your relationship with Max. You know this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

Max hands you a fresh glass of champagne and keeps an arm curled around your waist as you sway together. The music and alcohol fill you with euphoria.

“Have I told you how stunning you look tonight?” Max murmurs in your ear, his breath hot on your skin.

You smile up at him coyly. “Feel free to keep reminding me.”

Max’s answering grin is sinful. His hands travel your body as you move together. “I plan to show you later just how irresistible I find you.”

The night flies by in a blur of dancing, drinks, and stolen kisses in the shadows with Max. Your former colleagues party into the early morning, but eventually stumble back to their hotels.

You and Max retreat back to your shared apartment just as dawn breaks over the horizon. As promised, your dress hits the floor immediately. He ravages you with hungry kisses, urging you higher and higher until you cry out his name again and again.

After, wrapped securely in his arms, you sigh in utter contentment. The smooth sheets feel divine against your skin and Max gently strokes your hair as you doze against his chest.

“So I take it you had fun?” He asks, a smile in his voice.

You lift your head to grin at him. “It was amazing. Although ...” You bite your lip coyly.

Max raises an eyebrow. “Although what, schatje?”

“Well, this part is still my favorite.” You punctuate your point by straddling his waist again, bending to kiss him deeply.

Max groans appreciatively against your mouth, hands grasping your hips. “Mmm mine too. In fact, I don’t think we’re done celebrating yet ...”

Your lips part in ecstasy and your nails rake down his back as he takes you right to the edge again and again. Finally collapsing in a tangle of sweaty limbs, you’re both completely spent and blissful. You curl into Max’s side, eyes drifting shut.

“I love you so much,” you murmur, the words slurring together.

Max kisses your hair, stroking your back. “I love you too, Y/N. Being with you is a dream.”

You slip into peaceful dreams still wrapped in each other. The glitz and glamour of F1 life is fun, but nothing compares to the private world you share with Max.

You’ll face the crowds and cameras again soon. But right now, lost in Max’s embrace, you have everything you need.

[manzuaves]

ɢᴏᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴘᴏᴘᴘɪɴ ᴘɪʟʟs (ᴀɴᴅ sʜɪᴛ)

pairing. f1wag!manon x f1driver!reader

warnings. mentions of substance use. curses. lwky cheating that's it.

Monte Carlo, Monaco, 2025.

You were indulging in the opulence of the Monte Carlo lifestyle. You were the newest rising star on the grid, and this was your first ever GP in Monaco, signed under Scuderia Ferrari. To say the least, you were pretty much nervous. Especially when the view from your million-dollar hotel suite stared straight down at the grid.

Outside, the city pulsed with legacy and wealth. Classic Monte Carlo. But inside, there was you. A hardworking kid who only got here because of pure passion. Not wealth, not last names, not family friends with sponsors. Just grit, long nights, and a go-kart your dad kept alive with duct tape and prayers.

Your overlooking view made you see how different your life was from these people. The Mediterranean Sea contained yachts that looked like floating mansions, each one a symbol to old money and older power. The balconies were filled with champagne flutes and designer sunglasses. Brands you used to only see in magazines now hung casually on the shoulders of people who’d never had to check a price tag.

You pressed a hand to the giant window glass of your hotel suite. Somewhere out there, mechanics were prepping your car. Somewhere out there, your name was printed on the Ferrari garage wall. But inside, it was just you and the quiet weight of everything you’d sacrificed to stand here.

The old you, the kid from a two-bedroom flat who spent weekends fixing busted engines, wouldn't believe it. Wouldn't believe the view, the hotel, the red suit with the prancing horse stitched on your chest.

But even with all that, you didn’t feel like you belonged. Not really. Not when everyone around you made luxury look like second nature.

You'd still prefer cheap wine over their thousand-euro champagne, a late-night take-out from McDonald’s over whatever they served on yachts. You still checked price tags out of habit. The heavy Rolex on your wrist felt more like borrowed time than status.

You reached for the pill with hands that shouldn’t have been shaking. You didn’t know if it was habit, desperation, or survival at this point. Maybe all three. But you knew the feeling that came after: the slow, spreading calm, like slipping into water just warm enough to forget how cold the world had been.

Your eyes closed, just for a second. And in that second, you saw it. The life you’d once dreamed of. The roar of the crowd. Your name on a race suit. 

And when you opened your eyes, the dream was real.

Below, the grid pulsed with life. Cameras flashed. Revealed your infamous orange-and-black rival stepping out of his car, immediately engulfed by media and attention.

But it wasn’t him who made your breath catch.

It was the woman at his side.

Manon Bannerman.

She clung to your rival like she was built for the cameras. Her lips were red, her sunglasses oversized, her posture elegant and lethal all at once. The world moved around her, but she moved like the world belonged to her.

She was everything Monte Carlo epitomize: wealth, beauty, scandal. But to you, she was something more dangerous than any of that.

You knew her in ways your rival never could, in places no cameras had ever caught.

And that was the problem with Monte Carlo. It had a way of blurring lines. Yet she was the only line you saw clearly. And the only line you kept crossing.

Everyone expected it. You ended the GP night with a spot on the podium. Not first place, but not bad for a 22-year-old like you. You hadn’t beaten your rival, but it was a good start to your career. The crowd cheered, your team celebrated, and the press didn’t waste any time, jumping on the chance for interviews and congratulations.

People kept inviting you to the after-party at Amber Lounge, but you weren’t in the mood for any of it. Tonight wasn’t about the spotlight or the champagne. You just wanted peace.

Your phone buzzed constantly. Your family, back home, had flooded your messages, especially your father. You’d decided to reply to them tomorrow. Right now, you just needed a break. You were about to activate Do Not Disturb when a notification popped up on your screen.

dont reply: hey! congrats, champ. can i come over?

You stared at the message for a moment. Of course it’s her, you thought, your mind flashing back to the last time you two had been together. The temptation was undeniable.

You: i didnt win manz. anw arent u spposd 2 b celebrating w yk who?

dont reply: lol, he’s grown. i think he can handle himself.

dont reply: so?

You hesitated. The pull between you two had always been impossible to ignore, even when you knew you shouldn’t give in.

You: ugh. fine

dont reply: i’ll be bringing your fave wine and takeout. 🍷🍟

The clink of wine glasses echoed in your marble suite. Manon sat on the couch, clad in a plain oversized shirt, old pajama bottoms, and her hair tied back like it was any other night.

This was the only version of hers that only you get to see. No designer heels, no red lipstick, no flushbulbs painting in her gold.

You placed your wine glass carefully on the rare wood table, the liquid swirling inside as you took in its deep, rich color.

The metallic taste of the alcohol now soothed you. You didn’t even like it the first time you tried it. It was too bitter and too pretentious. But now? Now it slipped past your tongue like second nature. Like everything else that used to feel foreign before you got good at pretending it belonged to you.

“Gosh, this brings me back.” she murmured, tugging your usual order out of your hands to sneak a bite. Her half-eaten cheeseburger sat forgotten on the table as she reached over to steal a handful of your fries. “You still eat like your seventeen.”

You laughed, wiping the side of your mouth with the back of your mouth. She looked at you with plain disgust that she used to always wear whenever you ate like you haven’t seen food in days.

“You’re so uncivilized, Y/N.” She said, shaking her head but there was no real bite behind it.

“Sorry, rich kid,” you shot back, mouth half-full. “And you keep stealing my food, so maybe we’re even.”

Her eyes darted to the ketchup still clinging to your mouth that you failed to wipe off. Without thinking, she leaned in and wiped it away with her thumb gently and deliberately.

Then with that same efortless boldness only she could pull off, she brought her thumb to her lips and licked it clean.

She caught the way your eyes followed her every move, and the flicker of attention only made her bolder.

“Still so messy.” She murmured, her smirk curling like it knew exactly what it was doing to you.

The room felt smaller to you. Warmer. Like the air had thickened.

When the heat crept up your neck and settled low in your stomach, you reached for the little bottle on the table like its muscle memory by now. You let one rest beneath your tongue, closing your eyes for a beat as the familiar weight pressed down just enough to steady you.

Just enough to keep her from unraveling you completely.

When you opened your eyes, she was staring at you. Frowning.

“I thought you stopped that.” She said quietly.

And that was when it hit you, how familiar this felt. How it mirrored a different night, 5 years ago, when you were seventeen, and she was still the girl who tasted like wine she wasn’t old enough to drink and talked like nothing in the world could hurt her.

You remembered her frowning then, too.

But that time, it was over a half-empty bottle of cheap painkillers and a race you thought you’d never win.

And for a second, it almost felt like seventeen again.

South Garda, Italy, 2020.

“Fuck!”

It was the fourth time your kart had sputtered out halfway through practice, and the frustration was boiling over. You slammed your gloves down on the steering wheel, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

From the corner of your eye, you saw your dad sprinting down the pit lane, waving his arms like he could will the damn thing back to life. Sweat clung to his shirt, darkening the fabric, but he didn’t care, not when it came to your kart.

You pulled off your helmet, the heat and anger mixing with the weight of disappointment in your chest.

“Again?” your dad huffed, already crouched beside the engine. “This thing’s gonna kill us, kid.”

“It’s alright, dad.”

You looked at the sky like maybe the clouds could answer for all of this.

The clouds felt so far like the dreams you swore you’d reach, even when the world kept telling you otherwise.

Then an angelic, familiar voice called out from the fence.

“I told you to stop naming it after your exes,” Manon teased, arms folded over the track barrier, her Chanel sunglasses sliding down her nose.

Your dad chuckled at Manon’s comment, shaking his head as he wiped his hands on an oil-stained rag.

“And you, Manon, get out of the sun. The heat’ll kill you and your dad’ll kill me after.”

But Manon, like the headache she so proudly was, simply pushed her sunglasses up her nose and didn’t move an inch.

“I’m not a kid, Bill,” she said with that lazy grin, like she knew exactly how far she could push before anyone would stop her.

You caught her smirk as she climbed over the barrier anyway, sticking out like a sore thumb amid the grit of this poorly managed track. Her designer clothes so expensive it felt like even the dirt was too intimidated to touch her.

She didn’t feel like she belong there, not really. But she was there for you, anyways.

“So what, Y/N?” she said, walking toward you with that careless sway only she could pull off. “Are you just gonna sit there and cry about your kart, the one you named after your ugly ex, or are we actually gonna hang out after this like you promised?”

You stared at her, half-annoyed, half in awe because even when even when the sky felt distant, she made it feel like something you could reach.

The kart was dead for the day, your dad grumbling under his breath as you helped him roll it toward the trailer, sweat darkening the back of his shirt. He gave you a tired nod before glancing across the lot where his real job was waiting.

Manon’s family car gleamed in the sunlight, black and sleek and so clearly out of place in this dusty karting circuit. Her father was waiting for your dad to fetch him some place in South Garda you’re too broke to be familiar with.

Your dad wiped his hands and jogged over, falling into his other role: the one that paid the bills. Driver. Assistant. Sometimes mechanic, sometimes errand boy. Whatever they needed, he became. Because that’s how you afforded the dream.

“I’ll come back for you, kid. I’ll just fetch your father.”

Manon just gave your dad a lazy thumbs up. Like she wanted him to leave the two of you alone already.

Once her family’s sleek black Cadillac disappeared down the hill, Manon reached into her oversized designer tote comically out of place against the grime of the paddock and pulled out a crumpled paper bag of fries. Then, like it was the most casual thing in the world, she revealed a half-wrapped bottle of wine.

You immediately recognized the label, one of those expensive vintages you’d only ever seen in the wine magazines her dad left scattered around the Bannerman property.

Your eyes widened. “No way. I’m not drinking that. That bottle’s probably worth more than my entire kart!”

Manon just smirked, already working the cork loose like she did this every weekend. “Exactly why we’re drinking it. Papa won’t even notice. He doesn’t drink red.”

You watched, half-horrified, half-impressed, as she reached into her bag again and pulled out two mismatched plastic cups. The kind you’d usually rinse out and reuse during long weekends at the track.

“Your sommelier, m’lady,” she teased, pouring the deep red into one and handing it to you like it wasn’t a crime against luxury.

You took it, still stunned. Fries in one hand, a wine worth a month’s rent in the other.

Once the metallic taste of the alcohol hit your tongue, you winced. It was unfamiliar and sharp, nothing like the sweet sodas or watered-down iced tea you were used to. You looked at the cheap plastic cup in your hand, then at Manon, who was already taking another sip like it was juice.

She laughed when she saw your expression. “You’ll get used to it,” she said, nudging your knee with hers. “It’s an acquired taste. Like me.”

You snorted, trying to mask how fast your heart was racing, faster than you could ever drive your kart. You didn’t know it then, but she was right. About the wine. About her.

And about how two kids from entirely different worlds: one born into grit, the other into gold, were somehow casually enjoying the time of their lives in the middle of a dusty paddock. Sharing cold fries and smuggled wine like the world wasn’t waiting just outside the barrier, ready to split you apart the moment it noticed.

Back then, nothing tasted right like it was all just waiting for you to acquire it, to grow into it. Yet something it still felt right.

Especially when she leaned over, brushing the salt from your lips with her thumb before pressing hers against yours in a kiss.

Her kiss tasted like the expensive wine you were drinking: rich, heady, a little dizzying. A kiss that overwhelmed you in the quietest, most dangerous way.

The kind of feeling that settled in your chest and made everything else blur out. The kind only Manon could make you feel.

Neither of you were sure when it started. But suddenly, you were just kissing in one of your hangouts like these when both of your knees brushed against each other and suddenly she just pulled you in.

And in moments like these, it felt like you were rich. Not in money, but in possibility. Like you could have it all as long as she was there, laughing with you in the dirt, lips stained with stolen wine. Like becoming an F1 driver was more than a dream, it was inevitable.

But then came the floating. The dreaming too far. The way your mind would start to spin, faster than your kart ever could.

And just before you let yourself drift too far, you pulled back to reach into your pocket, slipping a cheap little pill onto your tongue. Just something to remind you the world was still waiting to pull you back down.

She arched an eyebrow, her tone laced with mock offense. “Really? Should I be offended that my kiss makes you reach for a pill?” Manon frowned, her arms crossed as she studied you. “Or is this just how you handle feelings now?”

“Oh shit, my bad. But I’m not exactly in the mood for a lecture right now.” You shrugged, trying to play it off even though the slight tension in your voice betrayed you. “And it’s not you.. it’s just.. this whole driving thing. The pressure and the expectations. It gets to me sometimes. But don’t take it personally, Manz.”

You didn’t have to explain everything because she knew already. Manon had seen it all, felt it, even. The way you wore the weight of your ambitions like armor, even when it was cracking beneath the surface. She just didn’t know how to fix it, or if you even wanted her to.

All she did was grip your jaw, her fingers warm and firm against your skin, pulling you back in. The kiss was deeper this time, almost as if she was trying to anchor you, to pull you back from whatever spiral you were drifting into. Maybe, just maybe, it would make you feel grounded again.

[emo-batboy]

Somewhere out there in the DC multiverse, there’s a world where Battinson’s parents didn’t die, and he became the Lance Stroll of Formula One racing. Wayne Enterprises has an F1 team, Thomas brought Bruce to races when he was young, they indulged his love of cars until he was winning kart races at 8. He BEGGED to help design the race cars, ended up making a great car, and now Wayne has turned from a midfield team to nearly top three.

You’d think everyone hates Bruce because he’s a nepo baby, but he’s just so nice and smiley (like Lance lol) that everyone loves him anyway. His dad is the team’s chairman and pretty hands-on just like Lawrence Stroll. Fans call Bruce the F1 Princess as a joke since he’s already the Prince of Gotham, but then it sticks, and now everyone makes edits of him with tiaras on every time he makes it to the podium. He doesn’t get it, but he’s not going to complain either. His fans are just silly. (He blushes so much when anyone calls him princess to his face, though. Fight me.)

Bruce still insists on everything being black because it’s his favorite color. It was already mostly black before he joined, but now it’s even blacker. His suit is all black. The car is all black. The helmet is all black. He loves it. He looks just like the dark, regal old money rich boy you’d imagine until he’s smiling and talking about racing. (Imagine a meme with two cars next to each other, one being WE’s. It says: “Bruce’s Car v. Bruce’s Personality.” The other one is covered in glitter obv.) One time, a little girl gives him a tiara that she painted black herself and asks him to wear it if he wins. (He does win. He puts it on at the podium. He’s embarrassed the entire time. The champagne rubs some of the black away. It’s a treasured memory and sits right on top in his trophy case.)

His fellow drivers call him Brucie to tease him. He’s a bit awkward during interviews, but that just makes him endearing. He’s also tall for an F1 driver (nepo baby core) so there’s always jokes about him towering over everyone. One time, he came second to Lewis Hamilton, but you could still see he was visibly standing taller on the podium, and people would not stop making jokes about it. (It was mostly his hair, but you know how Twitter is.) Speaking of hair, it will NOT stay flat. He looks insane every time he takes his helmet off. He could be sweating for hours in there but when he takes the thing off, he looks like he’s through in a tornado. (Again, memes.) He knows so much about car mechanics, even for a driver, and will regularly start talking to other drivers or the press about the tiniest of parts in the engine or break system, unaware that everyone is completely lost. (Also memes about that.)

When he’s 23, he suffers a pretty bad crash. It knocks him out for about twenty seconds, and his mom and dad are ready to pull him completely from the sport, but he refuses to stop, and despite missing a few races to recover—his dad’s still a doctor—he ends up winning the next race and gets to stay.

During his F1 career, it’s pretty much guaranteed that he’ll get fastest laps, but he only gets podium like 40–50% of the time. There’s always drama that apparently Wayne Enterprises is trying to become top three, but they insist that they’re not as competitive. They will always have respect for every team, and it shows. They never join in on protests. They always wish the other teams luck, and they genuinely congratulate the winners. Bruce is always the first to hug the winner :)

Before Bruce joined, the Wayne team was always a midfield team, and they were perfectly comfortable with it. WE had good-looking cars, they designed good-looking cars, and they sold good-looking cars, and F1 was just a way of promoting that. Thomas loved watching the races, and he was happy to see them get podium a few times per season, and that was it.

Until Bruce became their lead driver, and he wanted to really earn his seat, and he wanted to get podium, and he wanted to design a faster car, and he wanted to win, and Thomas Wayne couldn’t say no to his son, and suddenly Wayne Enterprises was inching closer and closer to the front of the grid. Now, they’re still not The Best, but they’re a team that future drivers look up to.

During a season of DTS, Bruce is 27. Netflix films the Wayne episode when there’s a fatal crash in F2, and Bruce was nearby when it happened. He ends up crying on camera for ten minutes. They had to cut almost all of it, but we get the most gut-wrenching confessional about how after he heard the news, in that moment, he didn’t want to be an F1 driver. He admits that if he hadn’t become a driver, he was going to become a doctor like his father, and he wonders if he could have saved the driver’s life if he did that instead. “What am I really doing if I can’t help others? I could have been anything…Maybe being a driver was selfish. Maybe I don’t belong on the track anymore.”

He’s visibly distraught during the moment of silence on the day of the race, but Bruce decided to continue because he wants to make the fans and spectators happy. (That’s his job, anyway. That’s what he does.) Despite getting pole position the previous day, he doesn’t get fastest lap or make it to the podium, but he still gets fourth. He has a long talk with his father away from cameras and calls his mom. The future’s uncertain for a few days until Bruce comes back to training. To finish the episode, he says he’s going to continue driving, even if he might need a bit of time to get his confidence back, and he pledges to one day make the safest F1 car ever seen. Even if it’s part of the risk of being a driver, he doesn’t want to see any more drivers losing their lives to the sport they love.

When he’s around 35 or 40, he retires from Formula One so he can inherit Wayne Enterprises, and he takes his father’s place as chairman of the team. Since he has the time now, he holds up on his promise to make an even safer car—the designs inspiring safer car designs for other teams as well—and they pick out two incredible drivers who end up finally (FINALLY) moving Wayne Enterprises into one of the top three teams. They win the world championship twice in a row before falling back a bit and only winning it every couple of years, but they’re nonetheless fierce competitors. Bruce still has a ton of kids, some of which like F1 just like he does, but he is the only Wayne to become a Formula One driver.

I just think Battinson would love driving for F1 :)

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Three

Series Masterlist

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August 26, 2022- Belgian Grand Prix, FP1

The very moment the motor first kicks to life behind you, none of it matters. Not the grueling four days of data and sim work, fitments and interviews, handshaking and poster signing and representing- none of it. All week, you had been a hopeful reserve, a smiling PR campaign, and- behind team doors, in the cover of night, behind the flickering OLED screens of your SIM sessions- a demon, addicted to work. Addicted to making it work. 

But now? Right now? Feeling 1600 cubic centimeters of compressed power vibrate the monocoque with a pitch that borders on mechanical insanity? You are one thing.

You’re a goddamn driver. 

The green light flickers on at the end of the pit lane, and you release the clutch, feeling the car lurch forward beneath you. The moment the wheels catch, the second the throttle opens up, it feels like someone has jammed a live wire straight into your spine. Your whole body floods with something electric, something hot and sharp and intoxicating, a rush so pure it borders on delirium.

For half a second, you expect fear. You expect nerves, or hesitation, or the overwhelming weight of the moment to crash down on you. You expect to second- guess yourself, expect the sheer reality of piloting a Formula 1 car to be too much all at once.

But none of it comes.

What hits you instead is joy.

The engine roars behind you, a sound so crisp and violent it doesn’t feel like noise- it feels like energy, like it’s bleeding straight into your bloodstream, wiring itself into the cadence of your pulse. The car is impossibly light beneath you, a creature so finely tuned it responds before you’ve even finished forming the thought to move. It’s not a fight. It’s not a negotiation. There’s no pleading, no compensating, no sluggish delay between what you want and what it does.

It listens.

It reacts to you like an extension of your own body, like it has been waiting for you to touch it, waiting for you to tell it what to do. The steering is surgical- razor-sharp and immediate. The brakes are so strong they feel like they’re stopping time itself. The grip is astonishing, an impossible glue holding you to the track as you push into the throttle, feather- light but coiled tight with power.

The speed is like nothing you’ve ever felt before, but it doesn’t scare you. It doesn’t overwhelm. It fits.

You fit.

Every car you’ve ever driven has had a point of stalemate-  some ceiling you had to work around, some wall you eventually hit where you could have done more, you could have gone faster, but the car just wasn’t capable. You’ve spent years fighting underwhelming machines, extracting every ounce of potential from cars that refused to give you anything for free. You’ve always had to compensate. Always had to drag the car with you.

But not this time.

This car- this fucking car- is ahead of you. It’s waiting for you to catch up, for you to match its ability. And for the first time in your life, the machine is not the limiting factor. The steering is so sharp it’s surgical, the brakes so powerful they threaten to rearrange your internal organs. You know it won’t stay like this -  the tyres will go off, the balance will shift, the car will inevitably degrade -  but right now, in this first out- lap, it’s close to perfect.

It’s you.

It makes you feel giddy, almost manic with adrenaline. You haven’t even pushed yet- not really- but God, you want to. You want to lean on it, ask for more, see what it can do. And the most insane part? This isn’t even a good car.

This is an AlphaTauri- a junior car, a hand- me- down car, the one that lives in the midfield on its best days and drowns in the back on its worst. This is a car that’s not designed to win, that is, at its core, inferior to the likes of Red Bull, Ferrari, and Mercedes.

But to you, it is already the best thing you’ve ever driven in your life.

If this is what a bad F1 car feels like, then holy fuck, what does an RB18 feel like? What kind of machine must Max and Checo have beneath them if this- this perfectly sharp, beautifully reactive beast- isn’t even the best option? You cannot even begin to fathom it. But right now, you don’t care about that. Right now, you only care about this car, your car for this fleeting, precious session. 

The grip is intoxicating.

You barely have to think, barely have to make any conscious effort, and the AlphaTauri does exactly what you want. The front end bites into the track through La Source, and the moment you release the brakes, the car surges forward, eager, hungry for speed. You ride the torque curve with practiced ease, feeding in the throttle as you rocket downhill toward Eau Rouge, fingers instinctively twitching in a minor correction as you kiss the white line.

Mattia’s voice crackles into your ear. "Take your time, get comfortable." He sounds calm, controlled- like he doesn’t know that your heartbeat is rattling inside your ribs like a caged animal, like you feel so high on this experience that you might never come down.

You exhale a laugh, barely able to contain the sheer joy that’s bubbling inside of you. Oh, Mattia. If only you knew. He sounds almost concerned, like maybe you’re overdriving already, wringing the car’s neck before you’ve even warmed the tyres. Maybe you’re asking for too much, too soon. 

You’re not. You’re just driving. And it feels fucking amazing.

Still, you know he’s right. You need to settle in first- feel it out, give your body time to sync with the car. You run through your checks, the familiarity of it grounding you just enough to keep your head from spinning off into the stratosphere. You flick through the gears, feeling the crisp snap of the paddles beneath your fingers, listening to the way the power unit responds, learning the exact moment to upshift without losing momentum. Every movement feels dialed in.

Your eyes dart to the track ahead, picking up the slightest cues- the painted curbs, the shifts in tarmac color, the subtle undulations of Spa’s legendary circuit. You pay attention to the weight transfer, how the rear settles under throttle, how much slip you can get away with before you’ll have to catch it.

Still, you can feel the edges of a grin pulling at your lips, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. “I am comfortable.”

Because this is fun.

It’s the most alive you’ve felt in years.

You can feel the car’s hunger to move, to be set free. It doesn’t wait for you- it demands you to be as fast as it is. You breathe through it, settling into the car’s rhythm, hands steady, body loose but alert as you approach the most iconic stretch of track you’ve ever driven.

Eau Rouge is insane.

You’ve watched this turn a thousand times. You studied the film, traced it on paper, imagined the weight shift over and over. But nothing- nothing- prepares you for the way it feels.

The incline rises in front of you, daunting, but you don’t lift. The climb is steeper than you expected, the compression more violent, the forces tugging at you like they want to rip you straight through the seat. Your stomach drops for half a second as the car squats under the load, the tires digging into the asphalt, the aerodynamics pressing you into the track with a force that should not feel this natural. And then, before your brain even finishes processing it, you’re already cresting Raidillon at over 300 kilometers per hour, foot flat, the car stable beneath you.

Jesus fuck. It’s effortless. It’s violent. It’s perfect.

Your grip tightens on the wheel, your breath coming quicker, but not from fear- from sheer, unfiltered exhilaration. You don’t even need to say anything. You just let the car run, let the chassis talk to you, let the track tell you where the limits are.

The DRS opens with a click, and you’re flying down the Kemmel Straight, the wind resistance dropping as you rocket toward Les Combes. The downforce is working, keeping the car planted even as your speed climbs to levels you’ve only ever experienced in a sim. The world blurs at the edges, the engine note a high- pitched scream in your ears.

You’re here. You’re doing this.

Lap after lap ticks by, your times are not spectacular but solid. Consistent. No major mistakes, no excursions into the gravel, no panicked radio calls, even if you’re seeing streaks of red and black and navy buzz past like you’re a mere annoyance to them-  a hunk of carbon between them and the hundredth of a second it took to steer around you. You don’t ask about Liam’s times -  not because you’re not curious, but because you can’t afford to care about anything but your own laps right now. This isn’t about beating anyone. It’s about proving you belong.

"How does it feel?" Mattia’s voice cuts through the noise in your helmet, steady and professional, but you can hear something beneath it- something expectant, like he’s bracing himself for your answer.

You swallow, force yourself to be methodical. Every part of you is buzzing, strung tight between euphoria and the razor- sharp focus of a driver with everything to prove. But you need to be helpful. Useful. You can’t just give him an emotional response, no matter how much you want to laugh like a maniac and tell him it’s the best fucking thing you’ve ever experienced.

"Front feels good," you start, keeping your voice even. "Responsive, stable on turn- in. Maybe a little light under braking, but I think that’s just me adjusting. Rear is planted- feels predictable on power. Balance is neutral for now. Tires are still coming in, so I’ll hold final impressions, but initial read is solid."

There’s a beat of silence before he responds. "Copy that. You’re managing. No need to push yet.” Mattia keeps his voice measured, feeding you gentle corrections, reminders about brake balance and shifting points, but you can hear something underneath -  a flicker of quiet surprise. Like maybe he didn’t expect you to look this at home so quickly.

Then comes the first sign that things aren’t going to plan in the other car.

"Just a heads- up -  we’re pulling Liam in for a soft tyre run."

Mattia’s voice is steady, controlled, relaying information the way he always does- clinical, neutral, as if it’s just another line item in the plan. But the words snag something deep in your brain, pulling at loose threads you don’t want to unravel.

It’s early. Too early for a performance run, unless they’re already trying to adjust something. Maybe Liam’s struggling to get comfortable. Maybe they’re trying to tease out extra speed. Or-  and God, you hate that this thought even occurs to you - maybe you’re so far behind that they’re already moving him onto a different program, already setting him up to succeed in ways they haven’t even considered for you.

You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, willing yourself not to care. Not to let that poison seep in. Not to start calculating, comparing, doubting. You do not need to be doing the math in your head, breaking down sector times, trying to anticipate the numbers they aren’t telling you.

That is not your job right now.

Your job is to drive.

And more than that- your job is to feel.

Because for all the calculations, all the planning, all the raw, blistering focus you need to maintain to be sharp here, this moment is not guaranteed.

This might be the only time you ever drive a Formula 1 car.

You might never get another shot. They might decide to stick with the devil they know. Liam might pull something incredible out of his soft tyre run, and all of this- all of this- could be over before the day is done. You could be back on a plane to nowhere, and this could all become nothing more than a fever dream, something you got to touch for a single, fleeting moment before it was snatched away.

You feel every inch of it. Every push of the throttle, every delicate slide of rotation, every perfect hum of the tyres as they start to hit their peak. You take Eau Rouge again with a smooth confidence that should scare you, but doesn’t.

The world outside the cockpit doesn’t exist- not the engineers, not the data, not Liam, not the fear creeping at the edges of your consciousness whispering that this might be the end before it even begins.

What exists is this. 

This car, beneath your hands. 

This track, stretching before you.

This moment, where you are exactly where you have always dreamed of being.

You will yourself to hold onto it. To be here, in this, in a way that isn’t just performance and analysis and execution.

And for however long it lasts, you will not waste one single second of it.

A lump lodges itself in your throat, something thick and complicated and impossible to swallow down. You knew this would be an uphill battle. You knew that even with talent, even with an hour of near- perfect execution, you might still be shown the door when this session ends. That you might walk away with nothing but the knowledge that you were almost enough.

So you do the only thing you can do.

You drive.

You let yourself love it. You let yourself hold onto every second, every sensation, every ounce of connection between your hands and the wheel, between your body and the machine, between the moment and the meaning of it.

You brake later. Let the car settle where it wants to. Trust that it will be there when you need it. You feel it, let yourself memorize the way it moves, the way it breathes beneath you, the way it lets you be more than you’ve ever been before.

Just in case.

Just in case this is all you get.

Fifteen minutes in, your number flashes up on the pit board, and Mattia’s voice follows half a second later. “Box this lap.”

It takes you a second to process it- long enough that you almost forget you’re supposed to respond. The call feels intrusive, like a knock on a locked door when you’re in the middle of something sacred. You swallow the instinct to bristle at it, at the way it yanks you out of that special place in your head where it’s just you and the car and the turn ahead.

Stay present. Do your job.

You bring the car in, neat and clean, threading it into the pit box with the muscle memory of a hundred rehearsals- but it’s a little rough. A little unpolished. Not bad, not enough to be a problem, but enough that you feel the difference, enough that it reminds you that this isn’t just driving, this is procedure, and procedure isn’t instinct yet. The stop is quick- clean, efficient hands swapping out your tires, sending you back onto track with a fresh set of softs, pristine and bright as candy against the dull asphalt.

Your heart stutters. Oh, baby.

Soft tires. Real grip. The kind of grip that turns a car from a machine into an extension of your body, something you don’t just drive but wear.

Mattia is in your ear again. “Out lap, gentle. Get some temp in the tires, feel the grip, no heroics.”

You hum in acknowledgement, rolling out onto track, but the whole garage already knows the truth: they couldn’t keep you from pushing if they tried. Not now. Not with this car underneath you, not with the way it responds to every input like it’s reading your mind, wanting to be driven harder. You roll heat into the tires like you’re coaxing a lover- just enough aggression to wake them up, to make them want to give you more.

By the time you cross the line again, they’re alive, and so are you.

The first push lap is obscene, the car reacting with an almost sinful precision, the softs gripping the track so hard it feels like you could carve your name into it. It moves exactly how you want it to, no hesitation, no lag, no resistance- just pure obedience. You barely register that Mattia is saying something- gentle cautions, probably- but it doesn’t matter. You’re high. Absolutely fucking high. This is what you’ve spent a lifetime chasing, and somehow, somehow, it’s even better than you imagined.

The AlphaTauri isn’t perfect- there’s understeer in the slow corners, the rear gets light if you’re too greedy on exit- but compared to the stubborn bricks you’ve been wrestling in Indy, it’s dreamy. Everything you put in, it gives back, no compromises, no fighting, just yes. 

And God, do you want to give it everything.You crave to be the kind of driver that can take it to the absolute edge of what it can do, hold it’s hand and take it to places that flirt with where machinery ends and magic begins. You’re not there-  not after just half a session together-  but you want to be. You could be.

It’s intoxicating.

You don’t need Mattia to report the time. You know. The lap was hot. Not perfect- there’s more in it-  in the lap, the car-  you’re sure- but fast enough that you’re only really getting passed by the Red Bulls, the Ferraris, the Mercedes. The best cars, driven by the best drivers-  give or take a few more. You had seen the rear of Alonso’s Aston Martin float by, a handful of others on their own push laps. And you? You’re holding your own.

You’re already lining up for another flyer, already recalibrating, ready to shave another few tenths, when the lights flash yellow.

Shit.

Your eyes snap to the flag boards, then sweep the track ahead as instinct overrides adrenaline. It takes half a second to spot the wreck at the top of Les Combes- Liam, half- buried in the gravel, nose pressed into the barrier at an angle that tells you exactly how it went wrong. Too much kerb, unsettled the car, lost the rear on correction. It’s not catastrophic- he’s already out, helmet off, standing with his hands on his hips- but he’s done for the session.

You don’t need to see to know what he looks like under the helmet. You know that posture. The stiff-set shoulders, the weight shifting restlessly from foot to foot. The barely-contained fury at himself, at the car, at physics itself for not bending to his will.

You should probably feel something. Relief. Satisfaction. Some kind of justification. But you know better than to celebrate someone else’s mistake. Racing gods have long memories and a penchant for irony. And honestly? You get it.

He’s worked his entire life for this shot. Spent years clawing his way through the ranks, waiting for this one golden moment to prove himself. And now? Now he’s standing there, staring at the crumpled nose of his own downfall, watching the opportunity slip through his fingers.

And it’s not like he binned it on purpose. It wasn’t reckless, wasn’t careless- it was just too much. The same hunger that fuels you, the same fire, pushed him one inch too far, and now the session belongs to you.

You don’t let it affect you. Not right now. Not when you’re still in the car, still running, because you’re still in control of your own fate. But you make a mental note as you pass the scene, rolling through under caution.

You expect to keep running- you’re certain there’s still some meaningful time left in the session- but instead, Mattia’s voice comes again, careful. Measured. “Uh, we will box this lap. Copy? Boxing. Please come into the pits.” Your fingers twitch on the wheel, a barely- there protest. Already? You don’t want to cut the session short, don’t want to step out of this car when there’s still time left to extract more, to refine, to prove. But you don’t argue.

“Uh, copy.” The words are tight in your throat as you roll back in, forcing yourself to think practically. Maybe they saw something on the data- temps spiking, a weird vibration. Maybe Mattia’s just feeling protective. You can’t really blame him. You’ve already exceeded expectations today, and with Liam out, there’s nothing left to prove.

Still, when you pull into the box and kill the engine, it feels too soon. Premature. Like cutting a song before the final chorus.

The moment your belts come off, you climb out of the car, still buzzing- adrenaline humming through your veins, pulse high, mind spinning from the rush of it all. Your boots hit the concrete with a muted thud, but your hands- your hands find the tires without thinking, drawn like magnets to the still-hot rubber.

They radiate heat into your skin, warmth still trapped from the laps you carved into the track. The surface is pliant, sticky, alive in that way only fresh, brutalized rubber can be. It clings when you press your palm against it, tacky against your fingers, resisting just slightly before pulling away with a soft, reluctant give. You roll a few marbles of rubber between your fingertips, feeling the way they squish, shift, then firm as they cool- still soft, still warm, but not for long.

The smell rises to meet you- burnt asphalt, scorched rubber, the faintest whisper of fuel. Familiar. Comforting, in the strangest way. The smell of garages and pit lanes, of every car you’ve ever driven, from the first time your hands touched a steering wheel to the moment you left IndyCar in the rearview to chase this impossible, once-in-a-lifetime chance.

You don’t even think about it. You just do it- the same way you always have. Rolling, pressing, rubbing the warmth into your palm like a grounding ritual. You’ve been doing this since you were a kid, since you were small enough to sit in the grass after your mom’s hobby races and pick up the leftover bits of tire shed by passing cars. You used to save them in little piles, fill old jam jars up with the bits of treasure you had pulled from your karts, line them up like tiny trophies-  label them. If you’re still- if you try- you can see them in your mind’s eye, each sitting next to the accolades that the marbles themselves brought home.

Your mom never questioned it. She’s the one who passed this on to you, after all- the fever, the addiction, the inheritance of a heartbeat that sounds more like a piston stroke than flesh and blood. She never complained when your laundry came out of the dryer with melted bits of rubber stuck to the pockets.

Your dad and brother, though? Loving. Supportive. But always the first to tease. They’d scrunch their noses when they caught you bringing them into the house. Why do you want those? They’re just trash.

But you loved them. Because they weren’t just rubber. They were proof. 

Proof that the car had been there, that you had been there. Proof that the track had left its mark, that you had marked it back, that something had happened, something real.

And now, standing in the middle of an F1 garage, the weight of the session pressing in around you, you’re still doing it. Still rolling the marbles between your fingers, feeling the way the life bleeds out and they start to go stiff, still reminiscing the heat and the effort and the fight. The marbles are cooling. The tyres are cooling. The garage itself is cooling-  technicians already working, already stripping back what was yours.

But is it even yours anymore?

You don’t know.

You don’t want to know.

The important faces- the ones that would know- are gone. Slipped off the pit wall, disappeared behind closed doors, out of the garage entirely.

So you keep your eyes on the rubber in your fingers, rolling it, pressing it between your thumb and index finger, grounding yourself in the one undeniable truth left in this moment.

This was real.

You were here.

You are here.

But for how much longer?

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This cannot be happening.

This cannot be happening.

You’re standing at the back of the garage, hands still stuffed into your gloves, visor down, every inch of your body still buzzing from FP1, though it’s been hours. The adrenaline should’ve faded by now, but it hasn’t. The feeling of the car- of its perfect responsiveness, the way it listened- still thrums beneath your skin, electric and alive. You had delivered. Textbook. Fast, controlled, right behind Pierre’s pace and miles from the backmarkers. You did exactly what they asked.

And now you’re watching them strip your seat out of the car.

The moment you see it, your brain tries to reason, to find the logic, the natural order of things. Of course they’re pulling the setup-  Pierre missed the session because of you; they’re down a car for the rest of the day; obviously, they’re prepping it for him.

Except that’s not Pierre’s kit they’re loading in.

It’s Liam’s.

Your stomach drops so hard it feels like a freefall.

The only reason you even suited up for FP2 was because nobody told you what was happening. You waited. And waited. And waited. Hours of PR duties, of answering the same dozen questions from media vultures picking at the scraps of your noncommittal answers. You smiled, nodded, danced around the real question- will we see you again this weekend?- because the truth was, you didn’t fucking know.

Mattia had been locked in meetings. Franz, too. Every single person who had the power to decide your fate had spent the last three hours behind closed doors, leaving you in the lurch. And now, instead of answers, instead of clarity, you get this- standing here like an idiot, ready to go, while they rip every piece of you out of the car and replace it with him.

You force yourself to breathe, slow and controlled, but your hands twitch inside your gloves, instinctively curling into fists. You should leave. Take the hint. Walk out and change back into your street clothes like you don’t feel like you’re about to crawl out of your skin. But you can’t move. You can’t look away.

You watch as one of the mechanics fits Liam’s seat into place, tightening it down like it belongs there. It shouldn’t bother you this much. It shouldn’t feel like they’re ripping something out of your ribcage, like the miscarriage of your career, like you’re being erased before you ever had the chance to really exist.

You don’t say a word. Because what could you even say? You stare, trying to make sense of it -  like maybe you’re misinterpreting what you’re seeing, like maybe there’s some logistical quirk you’re not understanding. But no. It’s exactly what it looks like.

They’re giving him your car.

You feel your teeth sink into your lower lip, the sharp sting barely cutting through the fire crawling up the back of your neck. This is not what they told you. This was supposed to be a fair fight. FP1 -  a clean, head-to-head comparison. You both got laps, you both got data, and then they would decide.

And you delivered. Not just clean laps- fast laps. Controlled, methodical, sharper than anyone could have reasonably expected from a driver who had never touched an F1 car before today. You did exactly what they asked, more than what they asked. Liam? Liam binned it into the wall like a fucking rookie in his first wet kart race.

It should be easy. It should be so fucking easy.

But instead, you’re standing here, watching them slot his seat into place, load his ballast, prep your car for his second attempt. The injustice of it- the naked, gut- wrenching unfairness- burns in your throat like acid. You can feel it, the scream clawing up from deep inside you, a fury so razor- edged it threatens to spill out before you can choke it down. The kind of scream that would echo off the metal walls and shatter any chance you have of being taken seriously.

But you can’t scream.

You can’t do anything.

Not here. Not in front of all these people.

Your whole body is electric with rage, white-hot and so fucking bitter you can taste it. It’s the exact same, isn’t it? The exact same as every other garage you’ve had to claw your way through. Dale Coyne, where results didn’t mean shit if the right people wanted someone else in. Where performance got you exactly nowhere if the narrative was already written without you in it.

And you had wanted so fucking badly to believe that Formula 1 was different.

You stare at the mechanics working, each precise motion hammering the reality deeper into your ribs. The thought comes unbidden- they had a plan for you. Not a seat- never a seat. Just the optics, just the PR points, just the “historic” moment they could milk for feel-good stories before sending you back to the fringes where you belonged.

You hate that you’re even thinking it. Hate that this is the spiral your brain is trying to pull you into. Because you know- you know- this sport isn’t that simple. You know there’s more to this than what’s happening in the garage right now. But that doesn’t stop it from feeling like the same bullshit in a different uniform.

Your jaw tightens, your lip throbbing where your teeth have broken skin, but you keep your visor down, your expression locked away behind layers of carbon fiber and bulletproof glass.

Because if there’s one thing you won’t do, it’s give them the satisfaction of seeing you crack.

You could throw a fit, pitch a scene, demand the fairness you earned- and you’d be right. You are right. But that doesn’t fucking matter. Not here. Not now. It doesn’t matter that world champions and 3-point drivers alike can curse, and scream, and shove. You’re a woman. You don’t get that luxury. Not in a world where being difficult, emotional, hysterical will write you off faster than a bad lap. 

So, whatever. Have it their way. They have no fucking clue what you’re capable of. You’re talented at a lot of things. Driving, sure. But if there’s one skill you’ve mastered above all else?

It’s swallowing bowlfuls of bullshit when everyone would just love to watch you spit it out.

So you swallow it.

You don’t ask about Liam. You don’t ask about the car. You don’t hover, you don’t press. You just walk yourself to the back wall, take a seat, and you swallow it. You lay your gloves down, pull your helmet and balaclava over your head, and you swallow it.

Pierre, to his credit, is pissed. Not the kind of anger you’re used to- sharp, barely- contained, barely hidden. No, this is different. This is furious. Visibly, unflinchingly, in the exact way you can’t afford to be. His arms are crossed so tightly across his chest it looks like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will, jaw locked, muttering rapid- fire French under his breath that you’re pretty sure would have been censored on live television.

And fuck, is it satisfying.

Not because it helps, not because it changes anything, but because it’s proof- someone else sees this for what it is. You know it’s not necessarily on your behalf, not exactly, but it feels nice all the same. Like a tiny, bitter validation of what’s currently crawling under your skin like acid.

When you settle in beside him, he barely turns his head, just shoots you a sharp look, his nostrils flaring slightly. You’re seeing this bullshit, no?

Oh, you’re seeing it.

It’s not just insulting, it’s outright disrespectful -  to him, to the car, to the team as a whole. He’s the only fully contracted driver here this weekend. The only one guaranteed to race. And yet, somehow, the team has decided that the only functional car should go not to him, not to the rookie who actually put in a respectable showing in FP1, but to the kid who wrecked the other car in the first place.

Pierre lets out a short, sharp exhale through his nose, shaking his head as he watches Liam step up to the car, as the engineers finalize their checks. Pierre’s arms are crossed so tightly over his chest it looks like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. His jaw is tight, his mouth set in a line so sharp it could cut.

It doesn’t take a genius to see you’re getting fucked here. Even Pierre- who has no real stake in your fight, who doesn’t owe you anything- sees it clear as day. And if anyone knows what it’s like to get fucked by Red Bull, it’s Pierre Gasly.

You don’t leave before the session starts, not to change, not even for air. The moment you step outside that door, you know the press will be waiting- cameras, mics, wide grins sharpened into knives, all of them dying to get a quick interview with the American girl who just made a splash in her first Formula 1 session. For every reporter you had talked to this afternoon, there were four more behind them with a recorder and a pen and a thousand questions designed to make you work to be diplomatic.

And right now? You do not trust yourself to be diplomatic. Even Marissa’s schooling of grin-and-bear-it can only temper so much rage, and you’re certain that if the right amount of camera flashes went off in your face, if the right amount of finely sharpened queries poked at just the right soft spots-  that you would say what you really think. And nobody wants that. 

So you sit. And you stare at your notes. And you wait.

You can see Liam through the gap between the monitors, helmet already on, body language stiff and defensive in a way that tells you even he knows he shouldn’t be the one climbing into that car. But he does it anyway, because this is racing, and nobody turns down free laps.

Soft tires, again.

You watch as he rolls out, and you have to fight the urge to go stand by the timing screen. You won’t. You’re not going to hover, not going to ask, not going to play the desperate rookie begging for scraps of information. You have some fucking pride.

Still -  another set of softs. You bite the inside of your cheek, wondering how much they’re going to coddle him, how much they’re going to stack the deck in his favor just to justify putting him in the car tomorrow.

Pierre sees it before you do, his quiet scoff an indicator that something requires your attention more than the seam of your racesuit. A flash of yellow on the screen, the quick, sharp flicker of movement in the timing tower, and then- confirmation. Sector one, yellow flag. Car stopped. The air in the garage tightens, and Pierre exhales hard, sharp, his hands flexing over his biceps where they’re crossed tight over his chest.

“Putain.” The word is quiet, but pointed. French profanity laced with something that sounds almost like vindication.

Your eyes snap to the monitor, and there it is-  Les Combes. Again. Same mistake, same angle, same outcome. The gravel swallowing the front tires, the nose crumpled into the barrier, the whole car looking like it got caught in some nightmarish deja vu of this morning

Liam’s helmet bobs slightly as he shifts in the cockpit, unbuckling, moving slowly like the weight of the mistake is already starting to settle. The track marshals swarm around him, the cameras cutting away just as he climbs out.

Pierre doesn’t even bother hiding his disdain. He turns slightly toward the row of engineers at the screens, leveling them with a look that could probably peel paint. He doesn’t have to say it out loud- you can feel the sentiment radiating off of him. This is what you get. This is what you fucking get. He runs a hand over his face, dragging it down his jaw, lets out a humorless chuckle, then turns to look at you. It’s not an I told you so look. Not exactly. But it’s close.

You press your lips together, fighting the complicated mix of emotions churning under your ribs.

Because Pierre’s right. Obviously he’s right. This is bullshit, and now they all have to sit with the consequences of it. They pulled you from the car, gave Liam another shot, and he binned it again.

And yet…

You bite the inside of your cheek, watching Liam stand by the wreckage, helmet still on, hands limp at his sides. His shoulders are drawn in tight, his whole posture screaming humiliation. You don’t need to see the screen to know exactly what his reaction is- flushed, jaw tight, eyes already darting toward the pit lane, toward the garage, toward the engineers who are probably already muttering under their breath about how much work this is going to take to fix.

It’s not his fault they put him in.

It’s not his fault they stacked the deck in his favor, piled all this pressure onto his shoulders, and sent him back out there like they could just will him into proving them right. Like they could force him to be the driver they needed him to be.

You inhale slowly through your nose, exhale just as carefully, keeping your face blank, keeping every reaction locked down inside your chest. Pierre, however, has no such restraint. He lets out another sharp breath, shaking his head again. “They deserve this.”

You don’t disagree. But you also know that when the dust settles, when the adrenaline fades and the session is over, the only one really paying for this mistake is Liam.

[boxboxblog]

F1 Break: In the Mean Time

Alrighty, so as we are all well aware the 2024 season has officially come to a close. This means we will not see cars on track until late February and no racing until mid-March.

If you are looking at the almost 3 month long break we have ahead of us and panicking over what to do with yourself (like I often do), I find Winter break is a great way to get a little deeper knowledge on F1 and it's history.

Shows or Movies:

Drive to Survive (Netflix): Controversial, but fun, this "docuseries" makes the behind the scenes of F1 into a real spectacle. As long as you take a lot of their insinuations about people with a grain of salt, it's good fun and helps get view into the politics of F1.

Rush (Prime or AppleTV): A rather dramatized version of the Lauda v Hunt rivalry, but good fun.

Hunt v Lauda (Prime): If you want a less Hollywood look at this rivalry, this documentary is great.

The Formula 1 Story (YouTube): Covers the creation and evolution of F1 and it's history.

Schumacher (Netflix): Documentary on the 7x WDC's life, career, and legacy.

A Life of Speed: The Juan Manuel Fangio Story (Netflix): Covers the story of Fangio and his championships wins.

Senna: No Fear, No Limits, No Equal (Netflix): Documentary about Ayrton Senna, has a habit of saintifying Senna but is quite informative.

Fernando (Prime): A documentary about Fernando Alonso during his time racing with IndyCar. Interesting view into another series with a familiar face.

Grand Prix Driver (Prime): A short series following McLaren during their 2017 pre-season. Great look into what teams do over the break and how they prepare.

Villeneuve Pironi: Racing's Untold Tragedy (Max): A look into the Villeneuve-Pironi rivalry and it's tragic end, seen from the perspective of both of their families.

One: Life on the Limit (AppleTV): Looks into safety throughout F1's history and the early risks involved in F1.

Science of F1 Design (YouTube): Mini-series that dives into the technical side of F1, on the official F1 channel.

Podcasts:

F1: Beyond the Grid: Official from F1, this showcases interviews with drivers, TPs, and other important figures in F1 history.

Bring Back V10s: a deep-dive into the V10 era from the 90s to the early 200s.

Missed Apex: Dives into more detailed and technical things. Can be a bit biased, but c'est la vie.

Parc Ferme: Goes into race strategies and regulations.

The Race F1: Race analysis, technical breakdowns, etc.

EngineBraking: The hosts worked as engineers in F1 and have great insight.

Shift+F1: Very beginner friendly look into F1, light and humerous.

Books:

How to Build a Car by Adrian Newey: If you are interested in the more technical aspects of F1, these insights from possibly the greatest F1 car engineer of all time would be a fascinating read.

The Mechanic by Marc Priestley: Stories from a McLaren mechanic about life inside the paddock.

The Winning Formula by Ross Brawn: Dives into strategies behind winning teams.

Life to the Limit by Jenson Button: A humorous look into Button's career, is pretty lighthearted and fun to read.

Survive.Drive.Win by Nick Fry: The story of Brawn GPs 2009 championship.

F1 Mavericks by Pete Biro: Dives into innovators in F1 throughout its history, from drivers to TPs to engineers.

The Death of Ayrton Senna by Richard Williams: A heavily researched look into Senna's career.

The Physics of Racing by Brian Beckman: A very scientific approach to understanding how F1 cars run.

F1: All The Races by Roger Smith: A detailed account of every single F1 race ever. Pretty hefty, but interesting.

Formula 1: The Champions by Maurice Hamilton: Profiles of every single F1 champion and a look into how they got there.

My Life in Formula 1 by Niki Lauda: A great insight into of of the F1 legends himself, goes through his career and his own personal viewing on his rivalry with James Hunt.

Popular YouTube Channels:

Chain Bear: Goes into F1 technical aspects in simple ways, such as what ground effect is and how the tires operate.

Driver61: Explains car performance, driving techniques, and race strategy from an ex-racing car driver.

CYMotorsport: Goes into F1 controversies, innovations, and strategies.

The Race: Dives into different controversies and different f1 happenings as well as race overviews.

F1 Reverse: Dives into different times in F1 history, as well as some gossip here and there.

Nico Rosberg: Info from the mouth of an F1 champion, does some race analysis and analysis of particular race tracks (I like his How to Master series the most)

All Time Great Races:

You can also rewatch some old races, especially if you have the F1TV subscription. I will list some super great races to watch.

1994 Australian GP

1996 Spanish GP

1998 Belgian GP

1998 European GP

2005 Japanse GP

2008 Brazilian GP

2011 Canadian GP

2014 Bahrain GP

2019 German GP

Other Motorsports:

Finally, diving into other motorsports during this time is super doable in my opinion. F1 is not alone in this massive world, and their are dozens of other very interesting series. MotoGP is one of my all time favorites, and is racing on two wheels instead of four. If you think F1 drivers are crazy for doing what they do, just wait until you see someone fall off a bike and skid across the pavement at 150 mph, then you will understand real crazy. IndyCar is also a blast, and although people tend to equate it to F1 it is very different. I will list some great documentaries/series that dive into other motorsports below.

MotoGP Unlimited (Prime): A look into the 2021 MotoGP season, follows riders and teams. Great first look into how that world works.

Fastest (Prime): A look into the MotoGP rivalry between Valentino Rossi and Jorge Lorenzo during the 2011 season.

Marc Marquez: All In (Prime): Story about MotoGP champion Marc Marquez and his return to racing after an intense injury.

100 Days to Indy (Netflix): Story about the drivers in IndyCar and their path to the Indy 500.

Nascar: Full Speed (Netflix): A documentary that follows a few teams and drivers as they take part in the championship.

NASCAR: The Rise of American Speed (Prime): Explores the history of this sport, super duper interesting especially with the similarities and differences to F1.

Alrighty, I hope this post is helpful! I will be doing some more series and posts throughout break, but if anyone has anything they wish to know about as always my asks are open!

Cheers,

-B

[23fallencomets]

American ricochet

f2, imola

mateo frowns, logan sighing heavily next to him. their cars, while not horrifically damaged, would be out for the remainder of practice.

“that was the shittiest race line you could’ve taken.” mateo grumbles, his voice slightly muffled by his helmet. logan shrugs, the sun glinting over his own, the american flag on display.

“you took the same one!” logan replies, kicking the gravel with the tip of his boot. mateo continues to grumble, arms crossed against his chest as they watch the others cars pass by.

they’re taken back to the paddock, getting checked and cleared by medical. the annoyance had ebbed away as they made their way back to their designated garages, logan back to carlin and mateo back to campos.

practice is still going on so he sits by his engineers, watching olli’s practice and comparing it to his—at least up until both him and logan crashed.

it wasn’t a big crash either, mateo had come up alongside logan when something went wrong with logan’s car, sliding both of them onto the gravel. still though, the race line was shitty to begin with anyway.

mateo sits through a few media videos, two interviews, an hour long debrief with the team and a quick conversation with the mechanics before he’s being ushered into the little trailer.

olli is in there, slouched over the table and clearly asleep. he carefully nudges him around, olli grumbling until he’s laying on his side. mateo finds his blanket and tosses it over him before taking the small couch.

he quickly leaves, finding the carlin trailer and logan’s familiar giggles. the door is left open and he finds logan on the floor, grin wide on his face when he see mateo.

“hi babe.” he says, tone light as mateo glances at a knocked out liam.

“unblock me you dick.” mateo says, lightly nudging logan with the toe of his shoe, “that was mean.”

“you government named me,” logan sniffs, turning away. mateo groans, plopping onto the floor next to him, he’s on some padding that’s way more comfortable than whatever they had over at their trailer.

“i’ll pay for dinner.”

“you can’t because i’m already doing that.” logan says, hands on his chest, “outqualify me and i’ll unblock you.”

mateo smacks his stomach, smiling when logan jerks in response. the two end up smacking each other, their giggles turning into full on laughs.

“can you guys take your weird ass flirting elsewhere,” liam grumbles, tired eyes blinking at them, “some of us are trying to sleep here.”

“didn’t you have a meeting at 5?”

liam shoots up, patting around for his phone, “what’s the fucking—you cunt! get out of my way!” he shouts, hopping over them, barely ducking down to grab his shoes before he’s out the door.

mateo snorts, “he didn’t set an alarm?”

logan smiles, “jack was in here earlier and disabled it.”

mateo flops down next to him, “so you’re not gonna unblock me.”

“nope.”

[st4rgiirll]

no one wants to talk to lance

— an awkward episode where netflix tries to focus on an underperforming driver. they follow him around the paddock—except no one will interview, partner, or even sit next to him. it’s comedy and tragedy at once.

this is a little angsty but it gets better!!

all credits are in my masterlist!! <33

the netflix production team huddled around their monitors in the aston martin garage, watching lance stroll methodically adjust his racing gloves for the seventh time in three minutes. they'd been filming for three hours and had captured approximately nothing except various shots of people suddenly remembering urgent appointments elsewhere.

"maybe we can make this work," sarah, the lead producer, whispered into her headset. "you know, like a nature documentary. 'here we observe the stroll in his natural habitat...'"

lance looked up hopefully as fernando alonso entered the garage. his teammate had to talk to him, right?

"fernando! i was thinking about your feedback on my racing li—"

"lo siento," fernando cut in smoothly, already backing away. "i have to... how you say... practice my signature smile in the mirror. el plan requires perfect teeth." he vanished with the speed and grace of a man who'd spent decades perfecting the art of tactical retreats.

the netflix cameras zoomed in on lance's face, catching what the crew had started calling "the billionaire's son blues" – a unique mixture of confusion, hurt, and the dawning realization that maybe money couldn't buy everything.

in the paddock cafeteria, lance approached the drivers' table with his lunch tray. max verstappen suddenly developed an intense interest in his water bottle label. lewis hamilton received an apparently urgent call from his dog. charles leclerc began speaking in such rapid monégasque that he started hiccupping.

"i brought some canadian maple syrup," lance offered hopefully, holding up a bottle that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.

the entire table evacuated so quickly it left tire marks on the floor.

"this is actually fascinating," pete the cameraman whispered. "it's like watching wealth become a forcefield of awkwardness."

back in the garage, lawrence stroll's voice boomed through the team radio: "why isn't anyone talking to my son? don't they know who owns this team?"

three mechanics immediately dove behind a stack of tires. a fourth pretended to be a mannequin displaying racing suits.

the media pen proved even more challenging. journalists who normally fought like piranha over driver quotes suddenly became deeply absorbed in their shoelaces. one reporter began interviewing his own reflection in a window rather than approach lance.

"i've been working really hard on my qualifying pace," lance said to the empty space where journalists should have been. "and dad only bought me three new simulators this week..."

sebastian vettel, who had stopped by as an environmental consultant, watched the scene unfold with a mixture of pity and amusement. he approached lance, because seb was fundamentally unable to ignore suffering, even if it came wrapped in privilege and designer racing suits.

"lance, sometimes in life—" seb began, before being tragically interrupted by a mysterious smoke bomb that appeared from nowhere. when the air cleared, only seb's "save the bees" cap remained.

the netflix crew followed lance to a strategy meeting, where the entire engineering team had apparently decided to communicate exclusively through interpretive dance rather than speak directly to him.

"i think i'm really connecting with the team," lance said optimistically to the camera, as behind him an engineer moonwalked away with impressive speed.

in the paddock, things reached new levels of absurd. daniel ricciardo, passing by, tried to maintain his trademark smile while actively contorting his body to avoid being in the same shot as lance. he ended up looking like a honey badger attempting yoga.

"we could focus on his journey," sarah suggested desperately to her team. "you know, the challenges of being a... um..."

"rich kid whose dad bought him a whole f1 team?" offered jimmy the sound guy, who was immediately sent to cover the tire warmers instead.

lando norris and oscar piastri speed-walked past, engaged in what appeared to be an intense conversation about invisible butterflies. lance tried to join in.

"hey guys, i saw some butterflies at my private ranch in switzerland—"

lando and oscar achieved speeds that would have impressed adrian newey.

by late afternoon, the situation had become almost surreal. lance had managed to clear entire sections of the paddock just by walking toward them. even the catering staff had developed an elaborate warning system involving coded messages about pasta varieties to alert others of his approach.

"i think people are starting to see the real me," lance said to the camera, standing alone in what had been, moments earlier, a packed briefing room.

toto wolff walked past, saw lance, and immediately pretended to receive a call about porpoising regulations in his non-existent second phone.

"at least the cameras like me," lance added hopefully.

the netflix crew exchanged glances. they had enough footage for either the world's first silent f1 documentary or a masterclass in social avoidance techniques.

as the sun set over the track, lance made one final attempt at human connection. he approached christian horner, who was mid-dramatic monologue about team politics.

"christian, i was wondering about your thoughts on—"

"oh look, it's time for my daily rivalry with toto," christian announced to no one in particular, speed-walking away with remarkable agility for a team principal.

the netflix producers finally called it a day. sarah looked at her watch and sighed. "well, we can always title the episode 'silver spoons and silent rooms.'"

as they packed up their equipment, they noticed lance standing by his father's empty office, still adjusting his gloves.

"you know what's weird?" he said to the camera one last time. "i think dad's going to buy netflix next week."

behind him, pierre gasly performed a perfect somersault into a nearby motorhome to avoid being in frame.

little did lance know, they were all planning a secret birthday party for lance. they wouldnt speak to the boy because some people have an unhealthy habit of blurting surprises and secrets.

[srbachchan]

DAY 5974

Jalsa, Mumbai June 26/27, 2024 Wed/Thu 12:56 am

🪔 ,

June 27 .. birthday wishes to : Ef Ravi Patel .. Ef Diyansh Kumbhat from Chennai .. and .. Ef Ayush Mishra from Bilaspur .. 🙏🏻❤️🚩

💍 .. wedding anniversary greeting to : Ef Rajesh Kejriwal from Kolkata .. completing 35 years of togetherness .. on June 26 .. our wishes and more .. 💐🙏🏻❤️🚩

..

Birthday - EF - Ravi Patel Thursday, 27 June our wishes for this day and the best ever .. love ❤️

Resistance .. its many forms and values and dimensions and usage .. so it became urgently important to apprise the self of it from sources ..

"Resistance is a multifaceted concept, encompassing physical, psychological, social, and political dimensions. Its definition and application can vary significantly depending on the context in which it is considered. At its core, resistance involves the act of opposing, withstanding, or striving against some force or condition. This broad definition can be applied to various fields, including physics, medicine, psychology, and social movements.

In physics, resistance is a measure of the opposition to the flow of electric current in a conductor. It is quantified by the unit ohm and symbolized by the Greek letter omega (Ω). The resistance of a conductor depends on its material, length, cross-sectional area, and temperature. For instance, materials like copper and aluminum have low resistance and are therefore good conductors, whereas materials like rubber and glass have high resistance and are good insulators. Ohm's Law, a fundamental principle in electrical engineering, states that the current flowing through a conductor between two points is directly proportional to the voltage across the two points and inversely proportional to the resistance. This relationship is crucial in designing electrical circuits and understanding their behavior.

In medicine, resistance often refers to the ability of microorganisms, such as bacteria and viruses, to withstand the effects of drugs that are intended to kill or weaken them. Antibiotic resistance is a significant public health concern, as it makes infections harder to treat, leading to longer hospital stays, higher medical costs, and increased mortality. Resistance can develop through various mechanisms, such as genetic mutations or the acquisition of resistance genes from other bacteria. The overuse and misuse of antibiotics in humans and animals accelerate this process, making it imperative to use these medications judiciously and to develop new treatments.

Psychologically, resistance can manifest as a reluctance or refusal to accept certain thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. This concept is particularly relevant in therapy and counseling, where clients may resist discussing painful or traumatic experiences. This resistance can be conscious or unconscious and can hinder the therapeutic process. Understanding and addressing resistance is crucial for therapists, as it can provide insights into the client's internal conflicts and defenses. Techniques such as building a strong therapeutic alliance, using motivational interviewing, and gradually exposing clients to difficult topics can help in overcoming resistance.

In social and political contexts, resistance is often associated with efforts to oppose and challenge established power structures, policies, or social norms. Throughout history, resistance movements have played pivotal roles in advocating for social change and justice. Examples include the civil rights movement in the United States, the anti-apartheid struggle in South Africa, and the women's suffrage movement. These movements often involve a combination of nonviolent protest, civil disobedience, and sometimes armed struggle. The success of these movements typically depends on various factors, including leadership, organization, public support, and the ability to adapt to changing circumstances.

In contemporary times, resistance continues to be a vital force in addressing issues such as climate change, systemic racism, and economic inequality. Activists and grassroots organizations worldwide are mobilizing to resist policies and practices that they perceive as unjust or harmful. Social media and digital communication have transformed the landscape of resistance, enabling rapid dissemination of information, coordination of actions, and amplification of marginalized voices.

Resistance, in its many forms, is an essential aspect of human experience and societal development. Whether in the realm of science, health, psychology, or social justice, resistance challenges the status quo and fosters progress. It embodies the struggle for survival, dignity, and betterment, reflecting the resilience and determination inherent in individuals and communities. As such, understanding and engaging with the concept of resistance is crucial for addressing the complex challenges of our world. "

... and at times the sources do not even address the most common of them all in the resistance ..

It be the pen and paper writing ..

When the pen has a resistance to the paper quality it is being written on the writing experience is determined as good bad or average ..

When the holding posture of the pen is conveniently comfortable to write, it produces the quality of writing exhibited ..

When the nib and flow of the ink on the pen is of desired like , the paper may be of the best resistance quality, the writing shall never be of the desired ..

paper same .. nib different , pen different .. sign same , but all different in form and appearance ..

GN 😴

Amitabh Bachchan

[uniquejobs]

Mechanical Design Engineer Job Opening in Chennai | Min 1 - 3 Year Experience | Apply now

Introduction Mechanical Design Engineer Job :Quest Global has Published notification for the vacancy of  Mechanical Design Engineer The educational qualification required to apply for this Quest Global is B.E.Mechanical Engineer Interested and eligible candidates can apply for Quest Global. There is enough time to apply for any job. Read Quest Global date, last date to apply, full details of…

[stevebattle]

Teddy Ruxpin Prototypes (1984), Ken Forsse, Alchemy. Teddy Ruxpin would become Ken's most famous work, spawning an industry-changing toy and a television series. The first photo illustrates one of the first attempts to put animatronics inside a teddy bear, while the next photo shows another prototype that looks more like Pooh bear. The third photo shows one of the final prototypes of what would become the iconic toy.

"In the early 1980s, I developed the technology, which was the basis for animated talking toys. I also formed Alchemy II at that time. By then I had the Teddy Ruxpin property pretty much structured as it is today. I had written quite a few story lines. So, it was a natural process to combine the stories and characters with the technology. I believed that the combination would be very successful. Alchemy II started in my garage, with four other very dedicated Alchemists: Linda Piersen, Mary Becker, Leon Hefflin and Larry Larsen. Darwin Thompson later joined the company and with Larry Larsen did the original engineering on the toy technology. While I worked on the designs for the animation mechanism in the head, Larry and Darwin developed the engineering and programming. By 1984 Alchemy had produced working prototypes of the Teddy Ruxpin animated talking toy. The rest is history. The development of the story lines were really more for creating a television production than for children's books. So after the technology was developed, the scripted story lines still worked because of the ability of Teddy Ruxpin and other characters to act out the stories. "The Airship" and "The Missing Princess" stories were really the original story for a television production." – Interview with Teddy Ruxpin Creator Ken Forsse, Teddy Ruxpin Online.

[mossdaggar]

Unemployed Promo Post

Hey y'all, I'm Moss, a queer game designer who heads Brewist Tabletop Games. Late December, I quit a toxic job environment when my mental health was at its lowest. I fortunately had a big game launch just before I did, but I've now been out of work for 6 weeks (I've had interviews and I've got some hope!) and it has left me in the red. I'd love if you'd check out my games or boost this to people who might. <3 A notable release I've had is HELLWHALERS, a TTRPG of nautical and Christian-religious horror. Play as damned whalers hunting a leviathan whale in a bid for redemption in this token and d6 based game. There's even a metacurrency with its own gambling mechanic! I also have Rel1ct, a GMless eldritch body horror solo or duet TTRPG inspired by things like Annihilation and The Color Out of Space. Play with cards and dice in a journaling game that TTRPG reviewer/designer Sam Leigh called a "TTRPG that will wreck you". There's also my experimental gridless tactical TTRPG that is a love-letter to JRPGs and weird math, Infinite Reverie. It's only $9 right now, but the 2nd edition is coming this year, and it'll just go up in price from here. It's complete and playable in v1, but the layout is /bad/. Pip, the other half of Brewist Tabletop Games, is working on a gorgeous and fantastic redo of the game, and you'll want to pick it up before that price jumps! You can also find a draconic duo of games bundled together, Kn1ght and Dr4kk3n, two games about fighting their own respective terrible dragons, but in two very different ways. Kn1ght is a GMless solo or duo journaling game, the original model rules that Rel1ct was based off. Dr4kk3n is a d4 based dungeoncrawl for 3-4 players and a GM built on Caltrop Core engine, pioneered by designer Titanomachy. Regardless of whether or not you can pick them up, all my games can be found at brewisttabletopgames.itch.io, and as a thanks for looking, I'll be adding a few community copies of each of these games. There are also a smattering of pay-what-you-want and small microgames available on our itch as well.

[zyonsay]

Wildfire, Chapter One MV1

Fem aligned people may read but not f3tishize my work!!

Summary: Your very first Grand Prix!

Reader: Male

Warnings: Swearing, Max holds a grudge against you

Now playing: 'Break stuff' by Limp Bizkit

AN: First Chapter of Wildfire! This is a rewritten version, the early version was too short and sucked ass, so here you go babes!

(Here is the next chapter)

“Y/N L/N coming through the inside! This looks like P2 for the Redbull rookie! Don’t blink because you might just miss him!”

Loud cheering erupted from the watcher stands and colorful smoke hung in the air. Nobody really knew who you were since your addition to the team was announced barely a day before the quali.

“OH MY GOD, Y/N! YOU DID IT, YOU DID IT!”

Horners voice boomed through the team radio, the mechanics and engineer’s celebrations could be heard in the background. Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes; you couldn’t believe you placed so good at your first race in F1. You knew that you were talented, and you’d worked hard too, but your second place today was unexpected. Usually, it takes time to settle into F1, figuring out all the dynamics and such, so naturally you’d expect some more difficulties than this.

Once you’d hopped out of the car, you received many pats on your helmet. You were obsessed with the design that you’d chosen a few weeks ago; it was a beautiful reinterpretation of ‘starry night’ depicting a race car, watcher stands and track lights instead of a village.

You were grinning from ear to ear, proud of today’s accomplishment. Naturally, your teammate and racing legend Max had won the Grand Prix, but you were more than pleased with your work. The third place was achieved by your friend and fellow racer Lando Norris.

You took your place on the chair in the cooldown room, observing the replay of your drive carefully, still grinning. Lando punched your shoulder lightly. “Hey dude, good drive!”, he had a playful gleam in his eyes. “Next time i’ll get you tho.”, he smiled mischievously. “Keep on dreaming, I’ll crush everything in my way.” You patted him on the shoulder, making idle chit chat with your buddy.

Max stood at the other end of the room, watching the replay too. Your presence, your words, your attitude left a sour taste in his mouth. It’s not like you were mean or anything, but the way you present yourself seemed too cocky for a rookie. He’d never admit it, but having you around felt threatening. Like a lion, waiting for the Zebra to get distracted for a split second so it can rip it to shreds. But Max was always the lion? Why not now?

Many Formula 1 Fans were intrigued by you, the first impressions you left sure were lasting ones. “Fucking hell! Did this dick even get his fucking driver’s license?! Do I need to get him some glasses or will he be able to see the turn next time?” You were a strong fiery character, reminding many people of Max. Your overly confident nature was charming somehow and managed to pull in many fans, but it also earned you loads of judgmental stares and nasty comments on Instagram.

But you loved the attention. Your fire was only fueled more and more that way.

The ceremonial part of spraying fizzy alcohol and various festivities took its time, but eventually ended with you feeling sticky and gross, but happy.

Shortly after leaving the podium, you were circled by interviewers, fighting to be the first to speak with the ‘wonder rookie’. A grey-haired man with an unknown accent gained your attention first. “Congratulations on your Success! You surely made a good first impression! Did you expect this outcome and furthermore, do you think someone else would’ve deserved the second place?” You blinked a few times at the blunt question but broke into a playful grin soon after. “To be honest, I couldn’t exactly weigh my chances because I’m new to all of the circumstances, but my success is definitely welcomed with open arms.” You looked intently at the camera that was shoved into your face, still smiling. “I deserve the second place, if anyone else felt like they deserved it, they should’ve tried to be faster than me.” The interviewer was flabbergasted at your retaliation and raised his eyebrows in shock. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m sweating terribly.” You turned towards the camera, pointing at it: “Lot’s of love to all of you watching, have a nice evening!”

And with that you rushed off, wanting to peel your race suit off as fast as possible.

Max stood nearby and had heard the whole interview while talking to his friend Charles Leclerc. He was equally as perplexed as the interviewer. How could you talk like that at your first Grand Prix? Cocky much.

Max couldn’t wait to crush your little rookie dreams.

[kelcemenow]

Drive Me Crazy - Chapter 9.

Pairing Travis Kelce x Reader

Words 2056

Warnings A little bit of strong language and a little bit of angst.

Huge thank you to the Anon who sent this in! They had such amazing words to say about my writing which I massively appreciate and then to top it off, had an incredible request for me! I only have experience with mechanics in the UK, so I’ve tried my best with this one! “I just recently got interested in Travis K. X reader stories and wanted to let you know, I read all of yours as quickly as I could. They are so well done and I couldn’t help but laugh/giggle and feel through each word you typed out. You’re doing amazing and I’m so glad to have stumbled onto your page. If you have any space for a request, I’d be curious about what Trav would think about having a military (like fighter pilot) or engineer or mechanic girlfriend. I see a lot of stories with him paired with models/singers/social media individuals (which are phenomenal!) but just wondering how he would be with a more tomboy like girlfriend!”

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

Your feet pounded the damp pavement, the earthy scent of rainfall thick in the air. You weren't 100% sure what you were going to say when you saw Travis, or even why you were heading to his place, but you figured the walk would help set your thoughts straight.

You pressed the heel of your palm to your forehead, closing your eyes for a second as you waited at the crosswalk, letting the traffic sounds of the street fade into the back of your mind. You had only known Travis for a couple of weeks, a handful of dates summarising what was still a very early relationship. If it could even be classed as a relationship.

He was charming, he was kind and gave you all of the attention that you could ever want.

But your lives were completely different.

Travis would spend his days giving interviews, recording his popular podcast and managing his successful and varied career and would spend his evenings in bars and clubs, being photographed rubbing shoulders with other well-known and high profile celebrities in designer outfits. You spent your days in overalls fixing cars and your evenings trying to clean the motor oil from your hair.

As the rain began to fall heavier, you pulled your sweatshirt hood over your head, pulling the edges of the fabric hard and clinging to them as if it was only thing holding you together. You checked the street signs ahead of you and continued in your way, staring down at the pavement to avoid to heavy raindrops that were falling hard from the gray sky above you.

The streets became quieter and the houses began to look bigger and more expensive. Travis' neighbourhood was quaint and humble, but still impressive, the sidewalks edged with a neat line of trees. You pulled your phone from your sweatshirt pocket, checking the address again and trying to focus on the house numbers as the raindrops built up onto the top of your cheeks.

You squinted further up the road to a house slightly set back from the sidewalk, large with brown roof tiles and a wide road that led to a double doored entrance. Nervously, you fidgeted with your fingers as you approached the house. You noticed a few vehicles scattered around the driveway and a well kept garden that looped around the property. Your wet hands rubbed against your soaked sweatshirt as you tentatively approached the door, your eyes fixated on the frosted glass panels. As your feet reached the top of the handful of stone steps, your heart instantly began beating faster and faster. Quickly clearing your throat, your shaking hands knocked firmly on the door and your chest swelled as you took a slow and deep breath.

Footsteps grew louder on the other side of the door and before you had chance to change your mind and turn away, the door opened and a blonde woman sporting glasses and a tight, black dress stared blankly at you. Your eyes darted to the house number that was displayed on the wall next to you and then towards your phone screen, confirming that you were at the correct house.

"Uhhh...sorry. I thought this...I mean-I'm sorry." You mumbled as you began to turn around, your chest filling with embarrassment. Of course he was seeing someone else.

"Y/N?" A voice called out.

You glanced around over your shoulder to see Travis making his way through a small gathering of people towards the doorway.

You smiled meekly, making uncomfortable eye contact with the group, "Travis? Sorry...I-"

"What are you doing here?"

You exhaled an awkward laugh and shook your head, "I don't really know."

His eyebrows lowered as he reached for your hands, "Is everything okay?"

You watched as his thumbs ran over the damp skin on back of your oil marked hands before looking up to see the pristine and glamourous blonde woman leaning on the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. You opened your mouth to speak but Travis ushered you away from the house.

"I'm filming a piece for Jason's documentary." He nodded towards the house and your eyes followed to see the crew of people looking in your direction. Lights and cameras were scattered around the room and a man appeared in the doorway holding a clipboard.

Your hands flew to your face, your wet hair plastered over your forehead, "I'm so stupid. You're so right, what am I doing here?"

Travis' lips curled downwards, his expression confused and mystified, before he smiled and pulled you closer to him, "It's fine, just come in. I'll get you some dry clothes and we can hang as soon as it's finished?"

"No, this is ridiculous." You shook your head and stepped away from Travis' grasp, "Thank you Travis, but I am so stupid."

He reached out for you again, "Why do you keep saying that? It's not a big deal?"

You retreated from him, stepping carefully down the remaining steps as you avoided eye contact with Travis, "I am so sorry I bothered you, Travis."

You pulled your sweatshirt hood tighter around your head, muffling whatever Travis called out to you and power walked away from the house, a mixture of raindrops and tears staining your cheeks.

______________________________________________________________

"Ahh...fuck!" You winced, sucking the air into your mouth through your teeth. Looking at your red fingertip, you noticed a small purple welt beginning to form thanks to the bolt that slipped from your grip.

You rolled your eyes, gripping your injured digit before leaning down back under the hood of the classic white Camaro that you were currently working on. It had been a week since you had seen Travis and in an attempt to forget about the situation, you had thrown yourself into your work, spending every hour you could at the garage.

As you brought your finger to your mouth to stem the blood that had started to emerge, you felt the car dip as someone rested their weight against the door.

"You need a break."

You tipped your head to see your Dad using a cloth to clean some oil from a large wrench. Bowing your head back down, you wiped your finger on your overalls and continued working, "No, I need to finish this turbo."

"I could take a look at it, if you want?" His voice was thick with concern.

Gripping the bolt again, you grimaced as the pressure caused a sharp pain to rush to your small injury, "I'm perfectly capable of doing it by myself."

Your Dad chuckled at your independence, a trait he had always admired, "I didn't say you weren't."

You stayed silent, aside from a short sigh when you had eventually managed to tighten the bolt adequately.

"Has he contacted you?"

"Dad-"

"No, Sport. Here me out."

You emerged from the hood, dropping it closed and walking to the open drivers side door as your Dad followed you around the vehicle.

"Has he contacted you?"

"Yes, he has. Every day this week, not that it matters." You said as you started the car, hearing the gentle purr of the engine.

"Okay." Your Dad pursed his lips and nodded his head slowly, "Look, I've never been the type of Father to tell you what to do, and I'm not about to start now. But I do think you're letting something really good go." He turned to walk away before stopping himself, "And I'm not just saying that because it's Travis Kelce."

You smiled and watched through the car windshield window as he strolled back into the garage office, his high pitched whistle fading from your ears.

______________________________________________________________

It was late and the garage was silent, aside from the occasional car passing by on the street. You dumped a handful of dirty rags into the hamper next to the office door and reached for the light switch, immersing the room into darkness.

You used the small amount of light beaming in from the office window to guide yourself to the large gray roller door that filled the wall. Turning the small metal key in the lock, you watched as the door began to descend. It had almost fully closed when you heard the sound of a car engine over the sound of the door motor. Beams of light peeped from underneath the bottom of door, brightness spilling out onto the smooth concrete floor.

You rolled your eyes and turned the key in the opposite direction, squinting and shielding your eyes from the gleam of the headlamps, "I'm sorry, buddy. We're closed...we actually closed a few hours ago."

A large figure stepped out of the vehicle but you struggled to identify it.

"Dude, did you not hear me?"

"Oh, I heard you." A familiar voice echoed in your ears, "But I ain't here for a service."

"Travis?"

As he stepped closer to you, the lights illuminated his face which was uncharacteristically covered in black smears. His usually pristine denim jeans were ripped in several places and a clear oily handprint was slapped across the right thigh. Your eyes drifted upwards to see his white t-shirt coated in stains of varying shapes, colours and sizes. He grinned at you, picking up a rag from the floor that you had missed and throwing it over his shoulder.

"Need some help?"

You narrowed your eyes, a small smirk growing on your face, "From you?

Travis looked around the room and shrugged his shoulders, glancing at the numerous cars and tools, "I could learn?"

"Travis, what are you-"

Before you had chance to finish your sentence, he stepped forward quickly and kissed you, his arms snaking around your waist. You melted into his hold, allowing his soft lips to move across yours and your hands to float up to the sides of his face. His thick stubble prickled against your fingertips, the intoxicating scent of his cologne enveloping you just as it did the first time.

He pulled away from you slowly, studying your expression, "Sorry, I just had to do that."

Your eyes drifted to the floor before closing shut whilst you took a deep breath. You focused in on the butterflies that were dancing in your stomach, trying to find the words that you wanted to say.

"You didn't reply to any of my messages."

His eyes were full of hurt and confusion and you suddenly felt a pang of guilt fill your chest, "I know. I needed to think."

One of Travis' hands ran up your side to cup your cheek, "About what? About us?"

"Yeah." You sighed, "I just don't know if we fit right. Although, I must say, you'd fit in here looking like that."

His eyes glinted, "You see? If I can fit in your world, you can certainly fit in mine."

You looked up, "I don't know if I can do it. The photographers, the online comments, I like my privacy, Travis."

"What online comments?"

"I saw something on Instagram, there was a photo of us and people...people had a lot to say about our relationship...or whatever it is." Tears began to pool against your lower lashes.

Travis held onto you tighter, "You shouldn't read that shit. I sure as hell don't! People are assholes, baby."

You leaned forward, resting your forehead against Travis' warm chest.

He continued, his large hand stroking the back of your head, "And if you want privacy, we can do that. You have the right to live your life however you want to, but I want you in mine."

Your heart jumped, a sudden overwhelm of emotion flooding you. You lifted up your head and breathed a laugh as a couple of tears ran down your cheeks, "I want you in my life too."

Travis' eyes creased into nothing, his smile as wide as it could possibly be, "So, that's settled then? Now, which of these car's needs my expertise?"

You threw your head back as you howled with laughter, throwing your arms around his neck and allowing him to take your weight. Your feet lifted from the ground and your lips crashed against his, this time a much deeper and passionate kiss, his fingers sinking into your flesh as if he never wanted to let go. Without breaking contact, you reached across and turned the key, shutting out the outside world.

______________________________________________________________

And it's done! This one has been my Everest! But thank you to everyone for their encouraging words and positivity! I hope this final chapter lives up to expectation!

I'll be scouring through my requests now and looking at doing some one-shots in the next few weeks to hopefully clear the list that has built up! I'll put a post out when my requests are open again!

If you want to be included in my Taglist, let me know and you'll never miss another fic from me (although don't be alarmed if there's a bit of a wait, that's my new style now apparently!)

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[vintagelasvegas]

Tropicana, c. 1981

The leaded stained glass ceiling was created in collaboration by Judson Studios (est. 1897) of Los Angeles, and architect Tony DeVroude. The 4000 square-foot piece was patterned after the stained glass ceiling of San Francisco’s Hibernia Bank.

The designers ran into some unique problems when installing the piece in early '79. Tropicana’s massive air-conditioning, heating and other mechanical systems that cause what the engineers call “building vibrations” which made normal installation of the glass ceiling impossible. They devised a system that allowed the ceiling to be suspended on pneumatic shock absorber to avoid the vibrations. The ceiling is stationary and the building vibrates around it.

Tropicana closed in 2024. The ceiling was removed and placed into the care of the Neon Museum, Las Vegas.

Sources: Tropicana Celebrates 25th Anniversary. Review-Journal, 5/13/82; M. Rourke. Walter Judson, 61; Ran Family’s Business of Making Stained Glass. Los Angeles Times, 1/12/2003; L. Benston. Tracking Out the Tropicana. RJ, 5/30/2011; Interview with Kent Carmichael. Oral History Research Center at UNLV, 2019. Interview with Kent Carmichael by Vintage Las Vegas, 2024. Note: An earlier version of this post included the Raul Rodriguez as a collaborator. Rodriguez, according to Kent Carmichael, designed stages and presentation centers for the Tropicana’s Entertainer’s Hall of Fame, but was not involved in the stained glass ceiling.

Photo, top: Photo by West Light (Tom Campbell & Gary Boulanger). Photo, below: Circa '80, Photographer unknown via The Cat's Pajamas Collectibles.