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dilftaroooo · 1 year

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݁ ִ ࣪⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ "𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙡 "

ﾟ𐦍༘⋆ after some convincing i finally decided to write this nasty lil imagine or whatever this shit is, enjoy, mwah~ (p.s. for the native spanish speaking girlies, pls lmk if i fucked up on anything)

ﾟ𐦍༘⋆ wrd count: 2.2k+

ﾟ𐦍༘⋆ tags/tw: mdni 18+ race/ethnicity neutral + age gap (reader can be from 18 to early 20s! so college aged) + dilf!miguel (mid to late 30s) + don’t trust him he’s using u!!! + afab reader + sweet nothings + spanish petnames + cursing + unprotected sex + miguel is a perv + exhibitionism(?) + expensive cars + money + and big booty bitches (you).

Just thinking of you stumbling upon dilf!miguel as you go by door to door offering to wash peoples’ cars for a few bucks. You weren’t expecting a behemoth to be behind the tall, mahogany, double doors to answer your languid knocks – a handsome one at that. One that stood six-nine feet tall paired with honey drizzled orbs surrounded by hooded lids. Soft tufts of hair shimmered burgundy with silver specks which were gifted to him from prolonged time. His tan skin brightened under the powerful sun but it still wasn’t enough to obscure the fine forehead wrinkles and smile lines that adorned his features.

“Can I help you?” The deep baritone of his voice rumbled so deeply you wouldn’t be surprised if you were to look down and see the bucket of soapy water you brought ripple at its force. It should be you that’s supposed to be helping him. You’re the one going from neighborhood to neighborhood asking uninterested people to wash their cars for some cash that wouldn’t even last you a few days. But a side hustle is a side hustle, you thought. Nothing wrong with a stash for a rainy day.

You take note of how seductively the black wife beater he wore embraced his torso and how his pecs puffed out at you like some majestic penguin in the cool lands of Antarctica, staring down at you, a piece of flopping fish dreading to be eaten as he cocks his head to the side waiting for a response. His shoulders are broad and his muscles are taut and veiny – you ponder on what his reaction would be if you were to trace his veins from his neck down to his finger tips and tell him how badly you want them inside you. Gulping down the saliva that was building up on top of your tongue, you spoke your first words like a toddler.

“Would you, um-” Why couldn’t you finish your sentence on the first try? Did you forget how to speak English? Perhaps that’s only the case around him and a few other gorgeous people you’ve met in the span of your years living on earth. “Do you need to have your car washed – sir? I can wash it for fifteen.” You sounded so weak and frail to Miguel, just like how most college-aged girls sounded when they managed to have some sort of interaction with him – their hands clasped firmly around their elbow as they sway from side-to-side, asking him frivolous questions before poking their chest to get him to catch a glimpse of their cleavage that peeked out from their low cut tops. They all played the same game – a game he always loved to play.

He takes this moment to observe what you had on; a peach colored camisole that matched the flower placed delicately in your hair along with the daisy dukes that revealed your plump thighs. Not too skimpy. At least you were somewhat modest. A cute, weak, little thing you are.

He grins and you can see his crows feet crinkle at the gesture, his canines looking sharper than most. “Of course. Been a while since I’ve gotten her cleaned up.” He reassures you to wait for him as he gets his car from the garage and when you lay eyes on the ‘Ferrari SF90 Spider’ he displayed to you, your eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. It was a car model that you couldn’t even afford to dream of, glowing a dark navy blue with a rear wing that was coated in a vibrant red. Its engine roaring loudly and aggressively, telling you who the alpha is in the midst of asphalt concrete and dotted yellow lines. Miguel twitched at the gasp you couldn’t contain.

“A-are you sure you want me to wash this?” You ask while ogling at the car parked in front of you. This wasn’t a car some teenager bought with the aid of their low minimum wage job at a department store, this was a sports car – a Ferrari! This was something that should be washed professionally. “I’m no expert car washer or whatever those guys are called. As much as I would love to help you I don’t think I’m fit for something so…luxurious.” He lets out an airy chuckle that kisses your eardrums.

“No worries, cariño.” He would say and it makes your heart tremble and thighs clench. You’re not proficient in Spanish. Only remembering the fundamentals you learned when you were still in grade school and several language apps you’ve downloaded on a whim but you heard that word before in several love songs you’ve come across. ‘Darling’ is what it means. An affectionate pet name.

Miguel drinks up your reaction like drinking water in the Sahari desert. It was the last drop left in a flask that was so kindly offered by you, smiling at him with dry lips as he sticks his tongue out, aching for the pure droplet. You were so considerate – not wanting to risk destroying his five hundred-thousand plus car that he deliberately squandered his money on. But it was ok with Miguel. He always has money to spare.

He finally convinced you to do the job and get his vehicle all cleaned up and tidy. You instantly got to work but not before murmuring a sugary ‘thank you’’ and taking your sponge to the roof of his car. You and Miguel would conjure up some small talk such as your hobbies or careers. You’ve learned that he was a father of a little girl named Gabriella. His ‘sweet sunshine’ is what he would call her. You found that attractive – a father who is willing to take care of their offspring with genuine affection. His wife must be lucky…well, if he had one she would be, you think.

Miguel didn’t go deep into explanation at his lack of a spouse. A typical “It just wasn’t meant to be.” fell from his lips as he looked off to the direction of his house. Sensitive topic, maybe. Which is why he decided to shine the light on you. “You’re in college, right? Anyone there sweep you off your feet?”

All of a sudden, you feel coy. Embarrassed and bashful at your answer being a firm “no, there has not, Mr. O’Hara.” There’s a slight quiver in your voice but Miguel can tell that you’re trying to remain neutral and not break into tiny pieces under his watchful gaze. And just like every man thinks when they see an attractive young woman who claims they don’t have a partner, he asks why – why hasn’t anyone stepped up to you and asked for your number in hopes for a date? Why hasn’t anyone paid for your meals at semi-expensive restaurants? Why hasn’t anyone told you they loved you more than anyone they could ever imagine before clasping their hands under your chin, gazing at soft, plump lips before pressing them onto theirs? Why hasn’t anyone dared to run mischievous fingers up the hem of your dress before tasting the sensual keen you let out due to the fingertip teasing your throbbing clit?

Then Miguel remembers there’s a difference between boys and men.

You would notice how sinful Miguel’s gaze is on you. Like a stray cat preparing to pounce on a small alley mouse, the feline waiting as patience is his best friend. The mouse is aware of the cat’s presence and stiffens like a rock. “I just haven’t found the right, uh, time. Though, I would like to…” You try your best to conceal your face, you felt as though he was staring too hard. Miguel adjusts his stance to be directly next to you and you smell his scent – like masculinity, vetiver, and sweat. Your knees buckle.

Then the cat sluggishly leaned in on its prey, familiarizing itself of the little mouse’s smell. “No time for it, huh, amor? Guess pretty girls are too busy for romance, what a shame,” His tsks were faux but they still made you feel bad however you didn’t have the time to empathize with his breath streaming down the curve of your neck and his hand caressing your waist. His hips were practically against your lower back as a result of his staggering height and you can feel his bulge poke you excitedly. “Who will I have to love me at night? It gets so cold sometimes.”

Finally that cat strikes, working its fangs in the fragile neck of the weak mouse. With hands firmly planted on the hood of his sports car, your shorts were practically ripped away from you as Miguel takes its place with his big hand, digits rubbing over the cotton fabric of your panties at the direct spot your swollen clit lays, aching and pulsing for his attention. Your back was securely glued to his chest as he loses his patience and rudely shoves your panties to the side, pushing back your clitorial hood with a skilled finger to hear you squeak like said mouse under the grip of the fervent cat.

“Mr. O’Hara. We can’t. Not out here.” The words exhale from your lips so elegantly as you try to prevent Miguel’s free hand from lifting up your loose camisole top above your breasts, to no avail. They glistened under UV rays and sweat, your areolas were puffy and craved Miguel’s assertive touch. You both were out in the open driveway of his home with dozens of other beautiful houses encasing the area yet there was no one in sight but people still had windows they could look out from. Everyone looks out their window from time to time, right? Maybe not unless they hear the muffled moans and wet squelches coming from outside to which they wouldn’t be able to contain their curiosity and feel compelled to take a quick peek between their blinds only to be met with their hot neighbor ramming the living daylights out of some young woman they’ve never seen before.

Both rocking in harmony as you relish in the filthy pleasure you are both given. The suds from the soapy water covers the expanse of your tummy and forearms as you feel Miguel abuse your guts with the hard tip of his reddened cock. Filling you like a hand in a latex glove, you feel so full, so stuffed, so cramped with all of his veins and precum as he grips a hand around your neck like your favorite, pink, choker – reminding you of oh how dumb you sound taking his dick like the ‘buena puta’ you were made to be. His trimmed, pubic hairs tickled your ass each time he plunged his way back in you after teasing you lightly whenever he pulled out to the head.

“Ay Dios, amor. You’re clenching around me so tightly. You aren’t gonna let me go? Want me to cum in your filthy, young, pussy out here in the middle of my driveway? Have you any decency? Mierda.” He would groan in the shell of your ear. His canines brush against the skin softly and you bite your lip for the fourth time that afternoon as he continued to have his way with you.

“I do,” You pathetically start. “I do have some, ugh, decency, sir. I do.”

“But you’re not showing that to me, love. That isn’t what I see here now, is it? Is this the same girl talking to me while she lets me stuff her full with my cock, hm?” The tap-tap-tapping of his thighs colliding with yours crescendos into a louder pitch, one much more noticeable than a few minutes ago and you wish you could cover yourself with an invisible cloak. He kisses his wet kisses and speaks his sweet nothings as he hovers over your small, mouse-like, appearance with his hulking form. It would have scared you if not for the pecks he left on your body and the conjuring of soft coos he knows you would like to hear.

It was too hot, metaphorically and literally. The sun was blazing and the combination of both of your body heat was not ideal for this kind of weather but Miguel just looks so good fondling your tits and pumping his warm seed into the wet cavern of your insides while he slurs out cursed spanish phrases from his tongue that you couldn’t even bother to pick up, too busy savoring the spurts of cum leaking in your used cunt.

Fortunately, in the middle of your fucked-out daze, Miguel was nice enough to pull the panties and shorts back in their reserved spots (you felt his cum pile up in your underwear as soon as he lifted them up and you shivered at the feeling). You feel something wiggle its way between your hip and the hem of your shorts just for you to look down and catch sight of the wads of cash he stuffed there like you were some cheap whore (perhaps you were).

You glance back up, getting ready to tell him it was only fifteen dollars but he beats you to it by giving you a quick peck on your cheek. It was softer compared to when he was balls deep inside of you.

“Take it. For being so good to me, corazón.” His crow’s feet appear again and you silently wish to give each line a kiss but it was already too late once he turned around and stepped foot into his house, locking his door shut with a loud ‘click’.

©This work belongs to @dilftaroooo. If you see any work similar to mine, please notify me for plagiarism will not be tolerated.

#miguel x reader #miguel smut #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut #astv miguel #tw: age gap

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carsthatnevermadeitetc · 6 months

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Lamborghini Marzal, 1967, by Bertone. Another Gandini concept that never made it beyond prototype stage, the Marzal was powered by a 2.0 litre in-line 6 cylinder engine placed transversally behind the rear wheels, in fact half of Lamborghini's 4.0 litre V12.

#Lamnborghini #Lamborghini Marzal #Bertone #Marchello Gandini #Marchello Gandini RIP #RIP #concept #design study #gullwing doors #mid-rear engine #transverse engine #straight 6 #1967

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the-handsome-stranger · 10 months

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THE GREAT SEA STORY

The passenger steamer SS Warrimoo was quietly knifing its way through the waters of the mid-Pacific on its way from Vancouver to Australia. The navigator had just finished working out a star fix and brought Captain John DS. Phillips, the result. The Warrimoo's position was LAT 0º 31' N and LONG 179 30' W. The date was 31 December 1899.

"Know what this means?"

First Mate Payton broke in, "We're only a few miles from the intersection of the Equator and the International Date Line". Captain Phillips was prankish enough to take full advantage of the opportunity for achieving the navigational freak of a lifetime.

He called his navigators to the bridge to check & double check the ship's position. He changed course slightly so as to bear directly on his mark. Then he adjusted the engine speed. The calm weather & clear night worked in his favor. At mid-night the SS Warrimoo lay on the Equator at exactly the point where it crossed the International Date Line!

The consequences of this bizarre position were many:

The forward part (bow) of the ship was in the Southern Hemisphere & in the middle of summer.

The rear (stern) was in the Northern Hemisphere & in the middle of winter.

The date in the aft part of the ship was 31 December 1899.

In the bow (forward) part it was 1 January 1900.

This ship was therefore not only in:

Two different days,

Two different months,

Two different years,

Two different seasons

But in two different centuries - all at the same time!

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slutforpringles · 11 months

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The key difference to McLaren that makes Ricciardo's revival real

Ricciardo drives the car very differently to regular driver Yuki Tsunoda, but also to Pierre Gasly - who was Alpha Tauri’s spearhead for several seasons. They prefer a later-braking approach with a sharp, later rotation - the V-style we often hear drivers talk about, and that Ricciardo wanted to move away from at McLaren but couldn’t. The way Ricciardo brakes and approaches a corner puts very different demands on the car and tyres, and requires (and instigates) a different kind of car behaviour. What you saw in Mexico was the result of Alpha Tauri really adjusting the car to that for the first time.

“The driving style is different and not only from the mechanical or aero platform, but we know the Pirelli tyres are quite sensitive,” says Alpha Tauri’s chief race engineer Jonathan Eddolls. “The way he drives we can see different tyre temperatures, different tyre temperature balance. We're not talking big numbers, it's not massive, but we can see differences in the way he drives. And he makes the laptime in different parts of the corner. Therefore he exposes different weaknesses to say Yuki does - he drives it in one way, Daniel in a slightly different way. So we just need a slightly different set-up direction for him.”

Ricciardo prefers to carry more speed through the corner by making it more of a ‘U’ shape. To do that he needs a little rear instability on entry to turn in, and enough grip to rotate the car mid-corner without the rear braking away. The McLaren had a lot of peak downforce but it was not always usable, making the car unstable and inconsistent to drive in certain corners and conditions. That was murder for Ricciardo’s preferences. And even now, in a McLaren regularly scoring podiums, Lando Norris says he wants to ‘U’ a corner but has to ‘V’ it off because the car can’t handle that.

Ricciardo admitted he’d had a limitation exposed by his failure to switch styles in the way Norris could, and even how Ricciardo’s replacement Oscar Piastri has. But give him the right car and he was adamant he could still work wonders. That’s what he seems to be moving towards with the AlphaTauri. But achieving that by pursuing this set-up direction was not the work of a moment. AlphaTauri started to experiment after the summer break but Ricciardo only managed one and a bit practice sessions at Zandvoort before breaking his hand.

Then the first attempt at his second comeback of 2023, at Austin, was hamstrung by it being a sprint weekend. Given it was his first race back, upgrades had changed the car’s behaviour in his absence, and the sprint format meant just the one practice session before qualifying, AlphaTauri played it safe and put Ricciardo on Tsunoda’s set-up. That didn’t really work for him. So it was all about getting to Mexico and working on different set-ups to try to unlock a bit more potential from the car based around his driving style. “One of his big limitations has been the front end,” says Eddolls. “So the [new set-up] directions have been able to improve the front end of the car for him, accepting the stability compromise and how that impacts the tyre temperatures through the corner and through the lap.”

It may sound surprising given this was his Kryptonite at McLaren but what Ricciardo has been clear on from the start at AlphaTauri is that he could live with a bit more rear instability. There were signs of this right back in Hungary, where Ricciardo drove the car for the first time. There, and in his second race in Belgium, there was some under-rotation in the car. While the AlphaTauri lacks the aerodynamic peaks of what Ricciardo was driving at McLaren, it seems to have a more stable platform. It’s consistent, and understandable. So Ricciardo actually found that he could cope with some more rear instability than it had, to help give him the front end he needed, without it prompting the kind of inconsistency in car behaviour that he could not handle the way Norris could at McLaren.

The key to understanding the difference is to consider that not all rear instability is the same. AlphaTauri has battled some specific corner entry trouble all season, mainly when its drivers were braking late into heavy braking zones. Given he generally struggled with rear instability at McLaren, it was initially a concern that this might be an issue for Ricciardo. But with the way he drives compared to Tsunoda, Ricciardo didn't counter the same issues with the AT04. Instead, Ricciardo knows what to expect from the car and is able to take it to its limits more comfortably.

“Probably the car that we've got, the characteristics, it behaves,” says Eddolls. “Maybe we haven't quite got the load or efficiency of some of the top teams. However, there's no big fundamental weaknesses of the car other than a lack of a bit of load. He knows what it's going to do. And the fact that it does the same thing, every lap, corner to corner, it's given him the confidence to be able to throw the car into the corners and know that it's going to stick and knows that it’s going to do the same every time. Once we've got that platform in those couple of races earlier in the season, then we can start working on changing the balance corner to corner or through corner with the set-up to try to extract a bit more performance. It's a car that's given him the confidence to be able to push it closer to the limit than maybe he had in McLaren.”

Since Ricciardo’s early races before the summer break, the team has added a bit more aero load through upgrades, and the new set-up direction has now unlocked an even more Ricciardo-friendly balance. In Mexico, Ricciardo was able to use the stronger front end to rotate the car through the corners more to his style - braking a little earlier but riding it a little longer, giving him the grip to turn the front in mid-corner and carrying speed through. The result was being at ease with the car in qualifying, visibly leaning on the front and throwing the car around more.

It doesn’t mean he was on another level to Tsunoda, who looked like he could have been just as quick were his qualifying not sacrificed because of a predetermined engine change and grid penalty. But it did mean Ricciardo was more at the limit of this car for the first time, and feeling more like his old self. This continued in the grand prix itself. The controlled tyre management and comfortable race pace was different to the vast majority of his grands prix for McLaren. Were it not for a red flag, Ricciardo probably would have finished fifth – the final stint suggests he’d have had the race pace to fend off George Russell’s Mercedes (who jumped him at the restart instead), and Norris would have been too far back to catch and pass him on his recovery drive from the back of the grid. Ricciardo also looked feisty at both the start and the post-red flag restart, doing a good job amid frenetic runs to Turn 1 and beyond, and even launched an attack on Russell the final lap. It didn’t quite come off, but how often did you see him able to try that in papaya?

“It was a little weird, at the start of the stint, I didn’t feel as good as towards the end,” Ricciardo said of the second part of the race. “It felt like it took me a little bit to get a rhythm with the tyre. Then the last probably 10 laps, I was able to really start pushing harder. Lando getting George probably hurt George’s tyres a little bit, so that brought him back to me. It was tough. I probably didn’t expect to get that close. When you’re that close, you’re like ‘ah, we could’ve!’. But he protected well in Turn 4. At one point, I was trying to go on the outside, but I could see we were both going to run off and had to abort the mission. We tried, but ultimately, just to be battling a Mercedes at the end, that makes me more happy than just missing out on sixth.”

Ricciardo probably does need a Red Bull Racing promotion to start doing that on a regular basis. Getting the most out of the car he has now must be the objective for the rest of the season – and on this evidence, it should be sustainable. “After last week, it’s funny,” he said. “You can never guarantee a good weekend [but] I’m not surprised we had a good weekend. I was just ready for it, and I think the direction we went with set-up, I knew that would allow me to have a bit more confidence with the car. There’s still certainly some things to get out of it. Even in the race, my first sector was a little average, I wasn’t very consistent there through the first chicane. For sure some things I could improve on, but overall I was very happy with the weekend.”

via: The key difference to McLaren that makes Ricciardo's revival real | The Race

#daniel ricciardo #dr3

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blurredcolour · 3 months

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What If We Just Fall?

Oh my goodness @supervalcsi this has been the hardest secret to keep! 'Tis I, your summer exchange gift writer! Thank you for all your hard work as the moderator of HBO War Daily, we deeply appreciate you!! It's been a pleasure getting to know you and I hope you enjoy your summer as well as this lovely interlude with sweet Rosie!!!

Robert "Rosie" Rosenthal x ATA!Female Reader

Flying with the Air Transport Auxiliary has taught you many lessons – including the importance of guarding your heart carefully. It seems fate, however, has much more to teach you when you are forced to make an emergency landing in East Anglia.

Warnings: Language, Era Typical Sexism, Fear, Crying, Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - T.

Author's note: No descriptions of reader other than the fact that she is not British. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 5729

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October 1944

Meeting a man like Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal was not something you had expected when you volunteered for the Air Transport Auxiliary. In fact, you were not even supposed to land at Thorpe Abbotts Airfield until fate, or more accurately faulty wiring, intervened. Ferrying a Wellington bomber from its repair depot back to the RAF in Norfolk for use in their nighttime bombing runs, you were piloting the five-man aircraft alone – standard practice in the ATA. There was no radio, no navigator, and most definitely no guns. You were a civilian non-combatant and if any Luftwaffe fighter pilots happened to get onto your tail, you simply had to outfly them.

This was not your first Wellington, not by a long stretch, and while you preferred Spitfires for their speed and manoeuverability, these mid-sized bombers were usually fairly docile once they got off the ground. This particular aircraft, however, had been displaying a bad attitude from the moment it took to the air. How it had passed quality control inspection was beyond you. The wonders the mechanics were able to work in short turn arounds were usually feats of precision and skill, but almost immediately you noticed the rudder seemed reluctant to obey your steering commands.

A cascade of instrumentation issues followed before the left engine quit. There was a reason, however, that the ‘Wimpy’ as it was affectionately called by the boys who took the aircraft into combat, was still relied upon by the RAF despite the arrival of four-engine heavies like the Halifax and Lancaster. The Wellington could take a great deal of punishment; lose great chunks of its aluminium and linen airframe, be down one engine, and still get the crew to its destination. It was this reputation you were banking on as you pressed forward to your assigned airfield, hoping the ground crew there would treat this plane better than whomever had done it such a disservice at the repair depot.

You were, by your best guess of the landscape and quick glance at your maps, roughly twenty minutes out when the right engine began to choke and sputter.

“Shit.” You hissed under your breath, pleased no one could overhear you, and dropped your altitude to scan for a safe place to land.

During your pre-flight preparations, you had noted this area was dotted with American airfields as well as RAF; surely you could find a stretch of tarmac to keep both you and this precious piece of war material in one piece. The telltale ‘V’ of concrete, surrounded by still-lush grass waving in the autumn breeze, could not have come into view at a better time. Exhaling in relief as the indicator lights confirmed the wheels had descended at your command, you checked visually that the left was down and had to trust the right and rear were also – with no co-pilot to look for you, there was most definitely no way you could release the yoke and glance out the window yourself.

Hoping the allies would recognize you for a friendly, you lined up to make your landing, the right engine quitting on you as you decreased your speed. Holding your eyes open wide with focus, you leaned forward in your seat, gripping the yoke almost painfully, willing the aircraft to stay aloft to meet the first few inches of runway. The silence in the cockpit was agonizing, a tense ringing in your ears replacing the normal, companionable thrum of the engines, sweat stinging at your eyes and prickling in your armpits. Seconds drew out into hours until at last your tires – all three of them – bumped down to land on the runway.

With a sigh of relief, you quickly pulled up on the flaps, frowning deeply as, with no engines to throw into reverse, the large object in motion seemed reluctant to come to a stop. Mortifyingly, you overshot the end of the runway, skidding to a halt some one hundred meters in the grass like a wet-behind-the-ears trainee, and yet…and yet both you and the plane that you had been charged with delivering were still in one piece. Not at all where you were intended to be, but landed safely, for now.

The sound of several vehicles approaching from down the runway refocused your attention and you pulled off your leather flying helmet, smoothing your hair before gathering your things into your flight bag. Climbing from the dead aircraft, you were greeted by a host of astonished male faces.

“Jesus Christ, she’s a dame!” One of the younger men exclaimed, not so quietly, from the back of the crowd and you did your best to keep a straight face.

“I’m so sorry to intrude on your airfield, gentlemen, ran into a little trouble during my flight. I appreciated the safe place to land.”

Several eyebrows shot up at your distinct lack of British accent, at least one astute gaze dropping to the gold wire weave badge bearing the name of your home country just below your shoulders.

“Well, we’re just glad you’re alright, ma’am. We got very nervous when we couldn’t raise you on the radio.” The owner of said astute, piercing blue gaze spoke, a hint of…New York, was it?...colouring his tone.

“Ah, of course, we aren’t connected to radio in the Air Transport Auxiliary, sorry for the confusion that must have caused.” Stepping forward you offered your hand as you introduced yourself. “Second Officer, ATA.”

“Robert Rosental, Major, United States Army Air Force. What happened up there?”

It took a moment to register that he had asked you a question, the feel of his palm pressing against yours as he shook your hand in greeting more than a little distracting. Inhaling sharply, you turned back to look at the troublesome aircraft.

“Rudder was slow to respond, then I started losing my instruments one-by-one before the left engine cut out. I was hoping to make it on the right, but when it started to go, I knew I had no choice to put it down as soon as possible.”

“You flew that all by yourself?” Another member of the crowd piped up and you nodded patiently.

“Standard practice in the ATA, just me.”

“Maybe that was the real problem.” It was hard to tell where exactly the snide comment, spoken under some ignorant boy’s breath, had originated from.

You noted a flash of anger in Major Rosenthal’s eyes before he started to scan the crowd for the source of it, but this sort of response was something you had certainly encountered before.

“I’m sorry I didn’t quite catch that, could whoever said that please repeat it? I’d really appreciate the opportunity to improve on the over seven hundred ferry flights I’ve made since 1941, including one hundred with this very type of plane, so please, speak up.” A sort of stunned silence overtook the group, several of the men wearing bemused smiles, others a look of shock, while the rest shuffled their feet awkwardly in the grass. “Hn. My loss, I suppose.”

“I’m assuming you’re a long ways from where you ought to be?” Major Rosenthal chimed in, the luscious thatch of hair of his upper lip highlighting the way his mouth hitched up at the corner in amusement.

“You would be correct, Major, might I impose upon you for the use of a telephone?”

Some directions were shouted to tow your aircraft to a spare hardstand as it seemed there were replacements planes of their own expected in a few hours and you turned to address the same man Rosenthal was giving orders to – Lemmons, you believed.

“Please be careful, its not a metal skin, it’s linen.”

The look of shock on the boy’s cherubic face framed by copious curls spilling from beneath his knit cap finally broke your control, a small grin sneaking onto your lips as Major Rosenthal led you over to his jeep. Unclipping your parachute from your waist, you tossed it and your flight bag into the back, sliding into your passenger’s seat and finally feeling the ability to relax somewhat.

“Over seven hundred flights?” He glanced at you as he drove, and you nodded softly.

“There are a lot of planes needing to be moved around this island.”

“And here I thought my boys had it rough needing to hit thirty…” He shook his head, driving past the control toward a sea of the all-too-familiar Nissen huts that populated every airfield you had ever visited.

“Ferry flights and combat missions are in no way comparable, Major, the worst thing I face up there is usually English weather.”

The pair of you shared a laugh as he pulled up in front of a long row of buildings. “My CO will want to talk with you, unexpected guest and all.”

“Of course, caused quite the ruckus didn’t I.” You laughed ruefully, sliding from the jeep to collect your gear, startled as he beat you to it.

“Follow me.” He nodded warmly, holding open the door to lead you inside.

After a brief meeting with a very busy Colonel Jeffrey where he put ‘Rosie’ at your disposal, you were ushered into an empty office to use the telephone and contact your superiors. Providing a detailed report of your flight, you were instructed to sit tight pending further directions – most likely an RAF repair crew would be dispatched to try and get the plane operational, but they were also loathe to keep you grounded and out of the rotation for too long. Providing them with Jeffrey’s secretary’s number as the point of contact, you stepped out of the office to find Major Rosenthal waiting patiently in the hallway.

“You must be starving…”

“I would not say no to some food, by any means.” You smirked and followed him back out to the jeep for the short drive to the officer’s mess. “You sure its alright for me to eat in here? RAF doesn’t usually…”

“I insist.” He nodded and opened the door for you once more.

With a grateful nod, you stepped into the space flooded with natural light where row on row of tables covered in crisp white linens stood empty. Given that it was an odd hour for a meal, somewhere between breakfast and lunch, it was no surprise that you were practically alone in there. A server in a white coat quickly approached and Major Rosenthal looked to you to place your order from the choices on offer before requesting just a coffee for himself, pulling out a chair for you to sit before setting your kit in the empty chair beside you.

“This is really quite civilized, thank you again. I apologize that I’m not really dressed for the occasion…”

He chuckled warmly and shook his head. “You look prettier than me after I fly, though I’m quite confident you start out that way, too.” He winked and you smiled shyly, busying yourself with laying your napkin across your lap.

Major Rosenthal was not the first handsome airman to cross your path in your line of work, there had been countless men who had either jeered or flattered you. But after opening your heart to several early on and promptly losing them to a ruthless enemy, you had learned better than to let yourself fall for such girlish stupidity again.

“Having a second breakfast Rosie? Oh…oh I’m sorry I didn’t see you were entertaining…”

“No apologies Croz, one of the lovely ladies of the Air Transport Auxiliary dropped in for a visit.” He grinned and introduced you properly to his friend and Group Navigator Harry Crosby who was apparently only finishing his breakfast now.

“A pleasure, well I’ll leave you two to it. Make sure Rosie tells you about his love of jazz.” His knowing grin at his friend drew an exasperated exhale from Rosenthal, but before he could protest, the server was returning with food and hot beverages that were fit to make your mouth water and Crosby had disappeared.

“I don’t think I realized quite how hungry I was…” You murmured, fixing your drink to your liking before seizing your utensils to dive in.

“Well then, please, enjoy.” He leaned back, cradling his cup in his hands to allow you to enjoy your meal.

After a few bites, once you were feeling somewhat less ravenous, you tilted your head. “Artie Shaw or Benny Goodman?”

He raised an eyebrow slowly before huffing an incredulous laugh. “Artie Shaw, if I must.”

You nodded thoughtfully as you took a deep sip of your beverage.

“What other planes have you flown in your seven hundred ferry flights?” He parried with a question of his own.

“Oh, all sorts - Tiger Moths, Hurricanes, Mosquitos, Spitfires.”

He nodded thoughtfully, smoothing the edge of his moustache with his forefinger. “Favorite plane to fly?” He inquired.

“To fly? Spitfire, without a doubt.” You answered easily, licking a bit of food from your upper lip. “That plane knows what I want it to do before I even think it. Landing however…one the test pilots famously said, ‘she’s a lady in the air but a bi–’” you quickly cut yourself off with a rueful twist of your lips “she’s something else ‘on the ground.’” You finished the quote with more appropriate language inserted.

Rosenthal’s eyes danced with mirth as he enjoyed a hearty laugh at that and you could not help but notice the reddish hue to the whiskers on his upper lip, highlighted by the sunlight streaming in the windows. You wondered if that was where he had gotten the nickname ‘Rosie.’ Jarring yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you quickly turned back to your meal and peppered him with more questions about American jazz greats, enjoying the way he enthusiastically and engagingly spoke about the various band leaders he preferred and why before turning back to you with further questions about your service in the ATA and life before that. Conversation came dangerously easy between the two of you, an undeniable overlap of interests and motivation to contribute.

You were admittedly attracted to the man as well, but for the sake of your sanity, that was something you were going to have to set aside for as long as he continued his brave yet perilous missions over enemy territory. The mess gradually began to fill as true lunch time arrived, your meal and his coffee long finished, and you were about to get up and find somewhere else to wait out the repair crew when one of the servers approached with a message that they had already arrived and were looking for you.

A short drive to the hardstand revealed the four RAF men hard at work on the Wellington under the curious eye of Lemmons and others who were occasionally drifting by.

“When I get my hands on whatever git did this to this poor Wimpy…” You could hear the threats and grumblings emanating from inside the fuselage and pressed your lips together, hoping it was the previous repairperson they had it out for and not you.

“Gentlemen?” You popped your head into the bomber and were greeted by several flustered men.

“Ah there you are Ma’am, how on earth did you keep this lobotomized plane in the air for so long?!”

“Well you know, a good old Wimpy can always get you home…or at least a friendly field.”

“We’ve got…a good few hours ahead of us but then I think you’ll be able to finish the last leg of the journey.”

“Thank you very much, I’m sorry to take you away from your more pressing work. Can I get you anything?”

“Crew Chief Lemmons has been very helpful, Ma’am, but thank you.”

You offered the young man a smile of thanks over your shoulder before shuffling over to set your belongings on the grass. The afternoon was fair, the weather still warm, so you figured it was as good a place as any to wait it out. To your surprise and pleasure, Rosenthal settled onto the ground beside you, picking up your conversation right where you left off as you listened to the men work through the thin skin of the aircraft, watching the sun make its way to the western sky to sink toward the horizon.

“You know, Major, you really ought to come visit London some time. We may not have Artie Shaw or Benny Goodman live in concert but there’s still a great deal of jazz to be enjoyed.”

“Please, you can call me Rosie if you’d like.” He smiled softly and you nodded in response, not wanting to have been so bold without his permission. “You stationed that close that you can just pop into the jazz clubs?”

You nodded quickly. “White Waltham, near Windsor Castle. Very short train ride. Used to fly with the Spitfire girls out of Southampton but I wanted a chance to fly the twin engines…maybe even someday I’ll get inside a Halifax or a Lanc…but that was definitely not going to happen in a ferry pool right next to the Spitfire factory flying only short-range flights.”

“These four engine beasts are definitely a whole other ball game,” He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder towards a B-17 looming behind him, dwarfing the Wellington with is height and breadth “would you still be alone?”

“ATA sends a flight engineer on four engine flights, but no co-pilot.”

He nodded thoughtfully, looking about to add something when the RAF repair crew suddenly emerged, grinning in satisfaction.

“Should be all set Ma’am, care to give it a whirl?”

Nodding quickly, you looked to your companion softly. “Thank you very much for an unexpectedly pleasant standby, Rosie.”

“My pleasure.” He responded with a grin, sliding to his feet and holding out his hand to pull you to yours.

Clipping your parachute in place on the back of your thighs, you slid on your helmet before climbing into the aircraft to try starting the engines. Running through an extended pre-flight check with one of the maintenance crew, they cleared you for take off, Rosie waving to you before driving off in the direction of the control tower. Beginning to taxi out, you could not help the grin as he returned to guide you down the runway, pulling off into the grass and waving once again from where he stood in the driver’s seat of his jeep.

Opening the cockpit window you shouted down to him, “See you in London, Rosie!” before taking off to the sound of his laughter.

To your delight, Rosie heeded your suggestion and made the trip to London – several times in fact, over the course of the winter, otherwise keeping in touch with you via letter. Despite the logical, cautious part of your brain demanding that you keep your feelings for him at bay, feelings that constantly threatened to swell and overwhelm you with each passing meeting and letter, you still found yourself constantly fretting for his safety. Awaiting his next contact, the next proof of life, with bated breath and firmly denied distraction whenever a friend or colleague would tease you about it.

How utterly rude it was of fate to throw such a perfect specimen in your path. Particularly one that could so very easily be taken away with the same rapidity. For not only was he breathtakingly handsome, but his understated confidence and capability in all things so far encountered simply made you yearn to discover his more hidden talents. To have survived so long in an occupation where the life expectancy was six-weeks, just forty-two days, and then sign up for a second tour after meeting his mission quota – yes, he’d had luck on his side thus far, but you had seen luck abandon far too many in the last few years.

The driving pace of your own worked helped distract you, undertaking training in the four engine Halifax bomber in December before the calendar turned to January 1945, and then onto February. Your commanding officer soon indicated you had nearly accumulated enough hours to begin flying Lancasters – much to your delight and eager anticipation. The pace of the production and demand on the frontlines required more ferry pilots for the British answer to the B-17 and you were more than ready to meet the challenge head on.

Not far into the month, however, you found yourself stranded near Diss on a weather delay, unable to fly back to White Waltham. With no trains until the next morning, you decided to hitch a ride to Thorpe Abbotts to take Rosie up on his standing offer to ‘drop by anytime.’ What greeted you, however, was a very concerned looking Crosby and no Rosie in sight. Sitting you down in the same spare office you had used to call in your emergency landing last October, the obviously under-slept man seemed to be having some difficulty getting down to the point.

“Major Crosby, I can assure you I am no stranger to the variety of outcomes of aerial combat, would you mind telling me as much as you are able before you asphyxiate from lack of oxygen?” You coaxed firmly, quite certain he had not taken a breath in over a minute as he paced anxiously in front of you.

His head jerked up at the sound of your voice and he nodded once before sinking heavily into the chair opposite you before taking a deep breath, to your minor relief, and beginning to speak.

“Rosie went up on a mission on the 3rd and we’ve had no news of him since he dropped out of formation.”

Your spine went completely rigid, snapping you almost painfully upright in your chair as you nodded in a cool, detached manner at the news. This. This was precisely the reason why you had been guarding your heart and fighting your feelings and putting every moment of wonderment and each smile of adoration you felt for the man in a small internal box for safe keeping. Because this very situation had seemed so very inevitable.

So why did it still hurt so damn much.

“No news is, is usually good news in these cases but it takes a while for us to hear…. well anything.”

You gulped once, twice in rapid succession as you nodded again before clearing your throat forcefully. “Well, Major, I have to go but,” grabbing a piece of paper from the desk, you scrawled the contact number for Ferry Pool No. 1, rapidly blinking as your eyes threatened to cloud over with tears “will you call if you hear anything? That you can share of course.”

“Of course I will, did you need a ride somewhere?”

You shook your head almost violently, looking forward to the walk to the pub in Diss, a good roadside cry would fix everything surely, before you had to show your face in public. Practically dashing out of there and off the base, you barely made it out of earshot of the gatehouse before your tears bubbled over. Fine lot of good all your cautious and careful planning had done you – you had been half a person in Rosie’s presence only to have the very emotions you willfully denied snap back at you tenfold now that he might very well be…and you never once got to see how his eyes might light up if you had told him how you really felt. Feel.

All the logic in the world could not save you now as you blindly sobbed your way towards town, stubbornly wiping at your nose with your handkerchief. If you had really lost him, a very real possibility that twisted your gut painfully and drew an extremely dramatic series of hitching sobs from your breast, he had deserved better. He had deserved to know that he was cherished and admired rather than just a friend to you, and on that front, you had failed so miserably you just might never forgive yourself.

The weeks of watchful waiting were long and painful. No news came, no messages awaited you at Pool Headquarters, no gossip on the bases you visited. Until the morning of the 26th when, to your great relief, and amusement, you learned that the man was alive and well, enjoying a hero’s stay in Moscow, of all places. The newspaper article quoting the absurd volume of vodka he had endured consuming brought a long-absent smile to your face and lightness to your chest, the news beating Major Crosby’s phone call by, at most, thirty minutes. All as you were on your way with your flight engineer to your first routine Lancaster ferry flight.

Climbing into the cockpit, you took the brief moment of solitude to close your eyes, inhaling deeply as you whispered words of gratitude to whatever higher entities had clearly been watching over him. Perhaps luck was never going to run out for Robert Rosenthal. Clearly you were a fool for thinking that was the eventuality here.

“Ma’am?” The timid voice of your flight engineer, Naylor – though everyone called him Tiny Tim for the young man hardly ever spoke above a whisper, pierced through your thoughts and you jolted back to reality quickly, offering him a reassuring smile.

“Let’s pop over to Wales and deliver this bird, shall we?” You did your best to display nothing but confidence in the task before you.

He smiled back with a nod, just as eager as you to get this great beast of a plane into the air. To say that heavies became the primary planes on your delivery roster would have been an overstatement, but they were most definitely a constant. As was the ever-present thought that someday soon you would find yourself face-to-face with Rosie once again and just how to handle that day of reckoning was certainly something you found impossible to decide upon.

Should you confess and apologize on sight? Wait for a few weeks for him to settle back into life on base before unloading your feelings onto him? Or continue on as you had before? The way your stomach plummeted like a wounded bird at the last option was a clear illustration of how impossible it would be to pretend you simply regarded him as a friend. But there was a growing fear as well. For all of your focus on concealing and compartmentalizing your own feelings, you had not once allowed yourself to consider how he might feel for you. Aside from some flattering comments that may have been construed as flirtatious, he had never displayed anything but the highest calibre of warmth and social graces towards you. But you found yourself constantly pondering just how Rosie might react to a confession of what had flickered into an irrepressible blaze in your chest.

In the end, you spent more time sitting with those concerns than those for his very well being, the unseasonable warmth of February continuing on into March, with more sunny days than you had grown accustomed to after living in England for so long. April was only a few days away on the calendar when your next ferry run took to you St. Mawgan to deliver a Lancaster to the RAF Overseas Aircraft Despatch Unit. Where exactly the aircraft’s journey would end was a point of mystery and you were admittedly envious of the pilot who would sit in the lefthand seat next and take it beyond the relative safety of England’s shores – territory that was strictly off limits to you as both a civilian and especially as a woman.

Parting with your flight Engineer Martens in the all-female WAAF mess, the girl avidly ensconced in a conversation comparing beaus with the girls stationed in Cornwall, you headed back out to pick up a damaged Spitfire that had just arrived from France, desperately in need of a visit to the repair depot. In the process of inspecting the aircraft, to ensure you knew precisely what damage you would be needing to overcome, a remarkably familiar voice broke through your concentration.

“She certainly still looks like a lady on the ground…rather mistreated, but definitely a lady nonetheless.”

Straightening and turning far too quickly, you cracked your head on the underside of the fuselage, earning a look of sympathy as his hands cupped your shoulders to pull you closer, out of danger of inflicting further harm to yourself.

“Rosie…” You whispered, staring at him, unable to stop your fingers from reaching out to brush his cheek, to confirm he was real.

The muscles of his face crinkled beneath your touch as he broke out into a smile, an expression you immediately echoed despite the unbidden prick of tears in the corners of your eyes.

“Hi there.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed sharply, face growing slightly solemn as he lay his hand atop yours, pressing your palm fully against his warm skin. “I’ve been a complete fool, and I’m not sure if you can forgive me.” You tilted your head, brows furrowing in bewilderment. “The world out there is dead set on tearing itself apart and I…” His tongue darted out to wet his lips nervously, an emotion you were quite confident you had never seen overcome him before. “The entire time I was struggling to get back here just to tell you. To tell you how much I care for you. You are much more than just a friend to me, and I was an idiot to think I was okay with putting this off until the war was over.”

Eyes widening as the man seemed to be stealing the very thoughts from your head and putting them into words before you even had the chance, you sniffled playful and wiped at a stray tear that had managed to sneak down your cheek. “Don’t you go taking all the credit now, Robert.” You chided warmly, earning a stunned look from him in return. “It has taken two complete fools to deny what we’ve become, wouldn’t you say?”

Huffing a soft laugh, Rosie conceded your point with a nod as he grasped the unbuckled ends of your leather flying helmet, tugging your face closer. “I love you, you incredible woman.”

Taking a notably shaky inhale, you nodded quickly, a few more tears spilling over. “I love you, too, Rosie.” You struggled to speak around the knot of emotions in your throat, fully intending to reciprocate with some sweet term of endearment, not quite certain you could manage.

Mercifully, his lips had the grace to press against yours and save you from trying to say anything more. Grasping the fleece collar of his bomber jacket, you pressed closer in the shadow of the plane you ought to be inspecting, but the Spitfire was doing a fine job of shielding you from prying eyes and five more minutes in the arms of the man you loved – yes, it was love – and had been separated from could easily be made up courtesy of the stiff tail wind you expected on your flight to Southampton.

The rasp of his facial hair made you shiver at the slightly ticklish sensation as he maintained a firm grip on your straps, delivering kiss after kiss as if to make up for lost time. An uncontrollable grin stretched across your lips, making it nearly impossible for him to continue and so he shifted to focus on erasing any trace of tears from your cheeks, only encouraging your grin to curl wider until you were simultaneously giggling and trembling at the feel of his moustache against your jaw.

“Someday, we’ll have a lot more time, and I’m going to spend every second of it kissing you…” His eyes were filled with a fiery intensity that made it awfully difficult to draw breath and you shifted forward to press your lips to his flushed cheek in turn.

“I’m going to hold you to that, Robert Rosenthal.” You nodded firmly as you pulled back, arching sharply as his hands slid to rest against your shoulder blades, his mouth landing on yours fiercely.

“First Officer, are you quite ready?!” The shrill bark of an encroaching member of St. Mawgan’s ground crew wrenched the pair of you apart as effectively as a physical intervention, a shared look of reluctance passing between you as you quickly straightened your clothing.

You noticed his eyes flick to your shoulders to admire your new rank badges.

“You’ve been busy.” He murmured and you smiled with quiet pride.

“Fly Lancasters now, too.” You nodded and pointed over his shoulder to the plane you had flown in that morning before turning to address your intruder as he called your name once more. “Nearly ready, thank you so much for your patience!” You poured on the sweetness in your tone, noting the way Rosie’s eyes narrowed slightly as they returned to your face.

Biting back a giggle you blew him a kiss before emerging around the nose to greet the harried RAF man. “Major Rosenthal of the USAAF has never seen a Spitfire before, he asked me to show him around.”

“Thank you again for your indulgence, Ma’am, they are definitely fine planes. But I will let you get on with it.” Rosie played his part admirably, the set of the intruder’s shoulders easing somewhat.

“Yes, yes, well we need you out of here in five.” He turned to look at the clipboard in his hand and your gaze met Rosie’s once more.

“It was my pleasure, Major. I’d best be off.”

“Of course.” He nodded firmly, eyes remaining locked on yours as he mouthed ‘love you’ making your heart lurch erratically for a few beats as you mouthed it back. “Safe flight.” You spoke aloud.

“You as well.”

Noting the RAF man was once again paying attention to his surroundings, you turned to finish your quick once over of the plane before stepping up onto the wing and slotting into the narrow cockpit before pulling the side flap closed and starting the engine. Once the coast was clear, you blew one last kiss to Rosie, laughing brightly as he made quite a show of catching it and tucking it into his pocket.

“Until next time!” He shouted and you nodded brightly, pulling the canopy closed.

Because there most definitely would be a next time for you and your man of endless luck, and that was something that you no longer wished to deny.

-------------------------

Masters of the Air Masterlist

Postscript - thank you ever so much to @precious-little-scoundrel for proofreading this for me!!

#hbowarsummer24 #rosie rosenthal x reader #rosie rosenthal x you #robert rosenthal x reader #robert rosenthal x you #rosie rosenthal #robert rosenthal #masters of the air #mota #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction #mastersoftheair

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mousical · 2 years

Text

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wheel to wheel

pairing; f1 x female-driver! reader

warnings; car crash, mentions of alcohol, cursing

summary; alpha tauri’s first female driver has a day.

word count; 3.7k

a/n; part one of a multi chapter fic! will be an eventual driver x reader, just not sure which driver yet lololol. also i wrote the first half of this before the race, which is why a lot of the results don’t line up whoops

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

TURN 1 INCIDENT INVOLVING CARS 6 (LAT), 4 (NOR), 12 (Y/L/N) NOTED — CAUSING A COLLISION

"Are you okay, are you okay?"

The muffled voice of your engineer repeated over the radio.

"I'm fine." You mumbled back. Not waiting to hear a confirmation, you began maneuvering out of your seat, careful to avoid any scraps of metal torn off the body of the car.

A sigh escaped your chapped lips as you gave the car a once over. It certainly wasn't a pretty sight; the back half had taken the worst blow, rear wing nowhere in sight. It could've been a lot worse, though.

Thankfully, when your rear wheel had been touched, sending you off the track, you had managed to somewhat get control of the spin before getting thrown into the wall. If you weren't so pissed about DNFing, you would've been impressed with your reaction.

You lifted your gaze away from the car, just in time to see a limping Latifi rolling back onto the track before skidding away. Figures.

Now that you were out, you could check on the other victim of Latifi's most recent murder attempt. You winced at the soreness of your legs as you jogged to the McLaren.

You didn't quite catch the incident, but you assumed that it was probably the McLaren who had spun onto your wheel, only after being clipped himself by the Williams.

The other driver seemed to have had it a bit worse than you. His left sidepod was lodged into the barrier, the nose, at least what was left of it, angled into the wall. The back remained mostly untouched, save for a nasty hit on the rear wing. You clicked your tongue. Must've been a nasty impact.

You caught a glimpse of the driver’s helmet on your way to the car. Poor Lando.

The marshals had reached him first, standing around the car while he hopped out. Then began the work to get those cars off the track.

Meanwhile, you and Lando only had so much time to breathe before having to head back. Thankfully, the crash had occurred at the end of the main straight, which meant that the walk of shame back to the garages wouldn't be too long.

Once you had gotten off the track, you were able to slip the helmet off. Thank goodness, because between your headache from the crash and the Austin heat, you were just about ready to pass out under that suffocating helmet. You tried to keep your head down, not really in the mood for the crowd's pitying stares.

“Latifi." Lando groaned, catching up to you.

"Latifi." You repeated through a breath. The two of you walked along side of each other, helmets in hand.

"Did he clip your rear?" You asked, blowing a strand of hair out of your face.

"Tried moving to my outside to pass." Lando nodded, confirming your suspicions.

"Maybe he sneezed mid-overtake. You never know." You joked dryly. Lando scoffed.

"I think you're giving him too much credit." Lando rolled his eyes. Teasing the driver was an easy distraction from the fact that the two of you had lost out on possible points.

You made simple small talk during the walk back, giving each other your own perspectives of the race before ending up in the wall. And, of course, came the inevitable Latifi slights.

"I'll never understand how someone ends up 21st in a 20 driver championship." You laughed. Lando shrugged.

"I'll never understand how he gained 20th back." The two of you had finally reached the pit lane, a couple of team members from your respective garages coming up to meet you.

"How many laps left?" You asked one of the crew members. He told you 31, to which you groaned. Turning back to Lando, you waved a quick goodbye.

"Smashing race, Lando!" You mused. He shook his head with a smile before walking off to the McLaren garage.

The Alpha Tauri garage was fairly uneventful. Franz gave you a quick pat on the back on your way in. "Come over to the wall when you can." He yelled over the bustling pit lane.

You gave the principal a quick thumbs up before heading inside, the pit crew already waiting inside to give their condolences.

To be completely honest, you weren't feeling too upset about the unfortunate end to your race. Maybe it was because you knew it wasn't your fault, maybe it was the heat getting to you- either way, you felt content to slump down in a fold out chair in the back of the garage.

You knew that you eventually had to head back out to join Franz and the engineers on the pit wall, but you didn't see the harm in giving yourself a couple seconds to unwind after such a troubling crash.

Now that the adrenaline had all but dissipated from your system, the soreness in your legs was feeling a bit worse, and a new pain had formed in-between your shoulder blades.

"Y/N! Everything alright? That looked nasty." Your PR manager appeared, causing you to jump in surprise. "Oh, sorry." She laughed, bringing a hand up to her chest.

"All good, Nat." You responded with a smile, leaning back into your chair. "Sky come racing down yet?"

"Not yet. Think they're stopping at McLaren first. They'll be around soon though. If you get to the pit wall quick enough they might not bother you." She handed you your cell phone.

"Guess I better get out there then." You yawned, slowly stretching out of the seat. You winced at the soreness, eliciting a frown from Natalie.

"Want me to get the medic over here?" She asked, walking you across the garage. You shook your head.

"Just need a massage. I'll be fine." You assured her. She pursed her lips, not sure if you could be trusted. Ultimately, she gave in.

"Alright, whatever you say. Sorry about the race." She waved you off before turning on her heels to go back inside.

After waiting for a Mercedes to pass, you jogged across the pit lane, hopping up onto a pit wall stool with a grunt.

You slipped on a headset, quickly checking the screens in front of you to get a sense of how the race was running.

The Mercedes that had just crossed your path was Hamilton's. He had come back onto the track in 5th, just ahead of Perez.

Max was running in first, little surprise there, with Sainz in second and Leclerc in a comfortable third. A ways behind the Ferrari, Russel had gained some generous distance between him and P5, a gift from Lewis's first pit stop of the race.

The rest of the grid was nothing out of the ordinary, save for Yuki, who was fighting hard to maintain a surprising P9. You would make sure to congratulate your teammate after the race was over, whether or not he ended up keeping the position.

"Any update on a penalty for Latifi?" You spoke into the headset at 20 laps to go.

"It is being investigated. Should find out in a couple laps." Your engineer's thick French accent spoke.

With only so many laps left, and Latifi running on a set of fresh hards, you assumed it would be a post race penalty. A penalty, mind you, that would serve no purpose, as Latifi had been crawling through the track in last place since the collision.

Speaking of said collision, you decided to take your newfound free time to begin thinking about answers to predictable questions that were sure to come up in the media pen.

Can you explain to us what went down on track? Did you feel as though you had the potential to score crucial points before the collision? Could Lando Norris have avoided an impact with you?

'I'm sure Crofty explained it better than I could.'

'Maybe, sure.'

'Maybe, I don't know.'

All answers you wished you could give the media, but you knew better. Whatever you were going to feed them was going to have to be filled with a lot more bullshit than those perfectly fine answers.

The last laps of the race dragged on excruciatingly slow, until finally ending in a laughably predictable way. Max won, Ferrari bottled a potential win, and George Russell complained the entire time. Typical Sunday race day.

Natalie hunted you down right after the cars had been pulled in, quickly giving you a synopsis of what not to do in the pen. That's something you loved about having her as a PR manager; she never scripted your responses. More often than not, she just told you not to be an arse and sent you on your way. This time was no different.

The media pen was as bustling as ever when you strolled in, journalists pushing over each other to jot down quotes from the drivers. You slid into an empty space next to Lando, who was in the middle of an interview with F1 TV.

"It's disappointing, of course, not to score any points on such a promising weekend, but hopefully we'll back stronger for Mexico." He explained.

The interviewer thanked him before he was shuffled away by his own PR manager, and you were thrown into his spot.

"Yeah, I mean," You started after a basic enough question. "It really is unfortunate to have had our race ended like that, especially after such a successful first stint." You sighed, crossing your hands over your chest. "The team has been working so hard all weekend, and it is a shame to have no result to show for their efforts." The interviewer nodded at your response.

"Did you think that anything could have been done to prevent such an incident?"

You pursed your lips, trying to judge how much trouble you'd get in if you told the truth. Quickly glancing at Natalie, you found your PR manager staring daggers into you, as if she knew exactly what you were thinking.

“It's racing." You smiled at the interviewer with a shrug, catching Natalie nod out of the corner of your eye. "These incidents happen. The car has been brilliant all weekend, I felt like I’ve had a lot of good pace; real results were definitely reasonable and very much in reach. There’s a lot of crucial information we’ve learned from Austin that we can hopefully apply down to Mexico. I don’t know, I guess I’m trying my best to take away what few positives we got from this weekend— stay optimistic, you know? I mean that’s really all I can do.”

“Well, the fans were certainly sad to see your drive ended so soon.” She spoke, still committed to keeping the conversation on the incident.

"Yeah, you know, I really am so lucky to have such incredible fans. Austin has been so welcoming— it's really been great." That response wasn't a lie. This was only your second time racing COTA as an F1 driver, and the city had welcomed you in with open arms.

"Glad to hear it." She paused, biting her tongue for just a moment before speaking up again. "I do have to ask, on behalf of the loyal fans of the US, will we be seeing you racing again here at COTA next year?"

Oh boy. You wish you knew.

Your eyes flew to Natalie, who looked just as thrown as you.

"I'll let you know when I find out."

After a quick thanks and good bye, you were hurried to the next interviewer, and then the next, and the next. Eventually, it was over, Natalie saving you from having to answer the same questions thirty times over. On your way out, you quickly stopped by Yuki, who was talking to Sky Sports.

"Congrats on the points!" You exclaimed with a smile, patting the other driver on the back. Startled, he spun around, sighing when he realized it was just you.

The interviewer laughed, Yuki gave you a quick thumbs up, and then you were off to the paddock.

The paddock lane was busy with activity; teams running equipment to and from the garage, post-race paddock tours mingling through the buildings, the occasional driver making their way back to their own team's temporary HQ's.

You took your time getting back to the Alpha Tauri hospitality, enjoying the way the light Austin breeze ruffled through your hair. The sun was going down, which meant that, thankfully, the heat was less punishing. You unzipped the top of your overalls, tying the sleeves around your waist.

The drivers' rooms were hardly luxurious, just a small office space with a couch, a chair, and a coffee table. An air conditioning unit sat against the wall, keeping the room cool for your arrival. The chill air was a welcome shift to the dry heat you had been melting in all afternoon.

A change of clothes was waiting for you on the couch, and you couldn't have been more excited to get out of the sweaty fireproofs. Just as you began slipping on a fresh Alpha Tauri polo, you heard a soft knock at the door.

"Y/N? You decent?" Natalie's voice rang out.

"One sec." You called out, hurriedly putting on the rest of your clothes before opening up the door.

"Not sure if you feel like celebrating-" Before she could go on, you groaned, turning around to slump down onto the couch. "Max won, so Red Bull is putting together a thing."

"A thing?" You whined.

"Yuki is going. Obviously, Max and Sergio will be there." She alluded, arms folded over her chest.

"I don't have a choice." You finished her thought.

"See you there, then. I'll send you the address." And with that, she was gone.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

The club floor was a cacophonous maze of drunk dancers and party-goers, all shamelessly slamming their bodies together in a syncopated rhythm. The music was deafening, shaking the floor itself with its pounding bass.

You maneuvered your way through the hoard, scanning each guest with a profound curiosity. Professionals in the racing world, masters of their own crafts, all stumbling through the crowd in tipsy hazes.

The place was bursting at the seems with excitement and energy, all in celebration of the team’s latest victory.

You were entirely lost. For the first half an hour or so, you simply wandered through the club, hoping to find a familiar enough face to strike up a conversation with.

Max found you before you could find him.

“Y/N!” His accent slurred. “Tough luck today!” You turned to greet him with a small smile.

“Is what it is. Congratulations on the win! Didn’t think you had it in you.” You quipped, eliciting a laugh from the Dutchman.

“Of course, of course.” Max paused, taking a sip of his drink. “Hey, did Christian find you yet?”

“Christian?” You repeated, raising a brow. “Not yet, why?” Before he could respond, a new person cut in, bombarding the race winner with congratulatory words. You swallowed a laugh, amused at the ambush. “Just find him!” Max shouted, before being whisked away.

Being honest, you didn’t really want to speak to Christian; it seemed like every time you did, you ended up getting yelled at. If it could be helped, you would do your best to avoid your boss for as long as it could be helped.

The night continued on in a similar fashion, team members from both Alpha Tauri and Red Bull giving their condolences, only before asking if you’d seen the man of the hour.

Despite knowing almost everyone in the club, you couldn’t help shake the feeling that you were alone, left to stumble your way through the night all by yourself. This, coupled with your unfortunate sobriety, as you were responsible for driving yourself back to the hotel, was shaping your evening up to be more of a bore than a celebration.

It wasn’t that you weren’t excited for the team— quite the opposite in fact. You’ve always sort of seen Red Bull and Alpha Tauri as two sides of the same coin. You felt their wins as if they were your own, same with the losses. Even if Max winning was becoming a natural occurrence, each time felt just as special as the last.

Maybe the sting of your DNF was still poisoning your spirit. That must’ve been it, you decided.

The far away sight of a familiar set of curls coaxed you out of your concentration. Without another thought, you squeezed your way over.

“Lando!” You exclaimed, happy to see someone you knew enough to busy yourself with. He, just like you, looked incredibly lost. “What are you doing here? Thought this was a Red Bull party.”

“Not super sure, honestly.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, always glad to see you.” You grinned. “No party at McLaren tonight?” It was a bit of tease; a DNF and 17th weren’t anything to go clubbing about. He gave you a glare.

“Nothing to celebrate, really. Unlike you lot!” He gestured to the hoards of people around you two.

“Yeah, constructors. Pretty wild.” That fact had only just begun to sink in; the implications of Red Bull’s constructors win was a miraculous feat.

“You alright?” He quirked a brow at you, to which you swatted away.

“Perfectly fine! Maybe not as drunk as I’d like to be.” You scrunched your face, the craving for alcohol itching through your body.

“You drive here?” You nodded in response. “Well, I can always give you a ride if you need it.” He offered.

“Really?” You knew the two of you were friendly, but you didn’t think you were that close. He nodded.

“Yeah, I mean, I’ve got nothing else to do tonight.” He shrugged. You caught your bottom lip between your teeth. The offer was very tempting.

“Alright, Norris. I’ll take you up on that.” You decided with a smile. Not wishing to waste any time, you began making your way to the bar, Lando following close behind.

You were painfully close to the counter before bumping into none other than Christian Horner. Just your luck.

“Y/N?” He shouted over the music. It took every ounce of will power you could muster not to run away right there and then. You felt Lando’s hand touch your arm, momentarily turning your attention away from your boss.

“I’ll meet you at the bar.” He nodded towards the one object of your desire, giving you a sympathetic smile.

“Y/N, I’ve been wanting to talk to you!” Christian regained your focus, his drunken speech accentuating his accent.

“It can’t wait until tomorrow?” You half joked, not even sure if he would remember this conversation tomorrow.

“I know your contract is up,” He continued right on. “And you’ve been very patient with negotiations.” You rolled your eyes, already annoyed with where this conversation was going.

You were tired of being patient, being a team player. You wanted a contract, the one you were promised months ago. You weren’t looking forward to being told to wait for the fifth time in two weeks.

“Well, there might just be an open seat with us next year.”

Your heart dropped out of your chest right then and there. Did you hear him right?

“At- At Red Bull?” You stumbled over your words, heart rate rising exponentially. Christian brought a finger up to his lips, indicating this breaking news was still top secret.

“Just hold tight, alright?” He slurred. You nodded fiercely, suddenly very okay with playing the patient game.

A seat. At Red Bull. You didn’t see that coming.

The walk to Lando was a blur. It was a miracle you managed to keep yourself straight up before tripping into a seat at the bar.

“You get fired yet?” He mused, taking a sip from his glass. Your mouth was dry, the words stuck in your throat. His brow furrowed. “You okay?” He put down his drink.

“Red Bull.” You spit out, unable to form any full sentences.

“Red Bull.” Lando repeated slowly, confused to say the least.

“Open seat. 23’.” That was all it took for the Mclaren driver to put everything together. He slapped a hand over his mouth, letting out an excited laugh.

“Oh my god!” He exclaimed. “Actually?”

“I think!” You replied, finally breaking out in a smile. An overwhelming wave of excitement, relief, and terror flooded your systems all at once.

“You think? Is that what he said?” He pressed further.

“I think?” Was all you could come up with, still not entirely sure what was going on yourself. At that moment, the specifics didn’t really matter, at least not to you.

“Wow.” You heard Lando whisper from beside you.

“I know.” You gaped, putting your head in your hands.

“Well go on, celebrate!” Lando cheered, waving the bartender over to where the two of you sat.

“No, no.” You shook your head, shooing him away. “I wanna remember this sober.” You decided out loud.

“Up to you.” There was something odd about the boy’s expression, something you didn’t really feel like deciphering at the time. “Any theories?” He broke the lull. You quirked your head.

“As to?” That made him laugh.

“I thought the Red Bull seats were pretty much set.” You hadn’t even given that a thought, but he was right. Where was this seat coming from?

“Surely not Max?” You thought aloud, and Lando shrugged.

“Guess not. That leaves Checo.”

As far as you knew, Checo wasn’t going anywhere. At the very least, Red Bull had no plans on letting him go. Did that mean he was leaving on his own accord? Retirement, maybe? No, not at the height of his career. What then?

“I’m stumped.” You sighed, resting your chin on your hand.

“Guess you’ll find out soon, huh?” He tried, not eliciting much of a reaction from you. “Hey, Y/N.” He grabbed your attention. You looked up at him through distant eyes. “This is good news!” He was right again- you knew that. So why did it still feel so strange?

You let out a long exhale.

“I sure hope so.”

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

#f1 x reader #Formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x you #f1 imagine #lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 x you

2K notes · View notes

mensfactory · 8 months

Text

1950 Porsche “Gmünd” 356

It’s chassis number 356/2-0032 – the ‘2’ relates to the fact that it was in the first production run after the prototype ‘1’ car, a mid-engined, ally-bodied 356.

The Gmünd production run shifted the engine to the rear, like the VW Beetle on which it was so heavily based but kept the hand-beaten aluminium body panels.

This particular example was completed on 12th June 1950 and an early owner was Gert Kaiser, who gave it its first competition outing in the Rally to the Midnight Sun in Sweden. Naturally, in its 70-plus years of existence it’s been with various owners, including famous collectors in the US, before it came back to the UK in 2007.

Courtesy of DK Engineering

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everythingne · 8 months

Text

out of the woods (ls2) - ch3

After Dhanishka's first race, media goes quite wild. Logan is forced into an unexpected ultimatum. Charles is on damage control, Alex and Oscar help.

logan sargeant x ferrari!oc

fc: iffat marash

warnings/notes: sexual comments, demeaning reporter, blackmailing/threatening, misogyny, logan and charles povs very briefly to sort of carry the story here, blink and you miss it 'marketing ploy' crossover, very long chapter, buckle in kids.

(chapter two) (chapter four)

When asked how they know Dhanishka Dubey, most people will say Trident's 'crashgate' incident that broke F2 headlines in 2021.

While that moment is what most people know Dubey from, it might be what split two drivers apart, and what led to her career in Formula One under Ferrari this season.

Sargeant and Dubey have been noted to have been friendly since as early as their karting days in the 2010s, with photo evidence of a friendship blooming around 2017-18 when both were racing for Formula Renault.

It's believed by most fans the two started dating around that time. Some marking the start of their relationship as the day of Dubey's win over Sargeant that year, while some say they started dating even earlier.

While the speculation of when the pair dated is fuzzy, a hard date of December 13th, 2021 marks the end of the relationship. A Tweet from that day posted by Sargeant, which was retweeted by Dubey, being the only public note of their relationship that was not in sparse live interviews from their racing days.

On December 11th, 2021, Sargeant lost the P2 position in the F2 Championship to Dubey after being forced to retire mid-race due to damage sustained when Dubey's teammate Viscaal rear-ended him during turn three of the lap. Sargeant ended the season P3, beaten out by Dubey and the 2021 champion, Piastri.

During an investigation conducted by the FIA, a Trident engineer revealed hidden documents about the planned accident between Viscaal and Sargeant. While Trident was investigated further, the P2 position was bounced between Sergeant and Dubey before it was determined Dubey personally had nothing to do with the plan. She was allowed to keep her pole position.

This accident is what led to the breakup of the couple, and many fans note Dubey also negatively changed a lot from her last day with Trident in 2021 to her F1 debut this season with Ferrari. Dubey was a shock, as most fans expected to have Albon or Leclerc's brother Arthur as the second driver for Ferrari this season with both being better fit for the team.

Leclerc spoke with Sky News after the race in Bahrain, "[Dubey] is a force to be reckoned with this season, she's coming in here with something to prove, and I think she's shown that already tonight [...] There's a lot at stake for her, I think she's going to continue to surprise us."

Vasseur paired Leclerc and Dubey based on similar driving styles, with fans believing Dubey would be a support to her teammate. Although it will not be easy for Dubey to cement herself among the greats, as she's already under FIA investigation.

During one lap, at turn three, the FIA suspected Sargeant had actually pushed Dubey outside of track limits before she recovered. The FIA is still working on their decision of either letting Dubey keep her podium, or giving the proper points to Norris who was in P4.

While no decision has been made yet, many fans have taken to Twitter to discuss their feelings about the situation.

Many fans have speculated this was done purposefully by the FIA on behalf of Williams as 'payback' for Ferrari signing Dubey. Many fans of Sargeants believe Dubey's signing was done deliberately to get back at the American driver for knocking Ferrari out of the top five positions last season by two points he gained at the last race.

Other fans believe it's simply improper etiquette for the FIA to not charge Dubey with the fine they knew of for around four hours before the fine settled in.

Regardless of opinion, it's the decision of the FIA alone on whether or not Dubey will lose her first podium of her F1 career.

written by Anthony Davis

dhanishkadubey added to her story!

Charles is laying in the sun, the boat motor humming as we come to an idle. Arthur and Lorenzo are bickering, Pascale just whacking her sons with the fan in her hand and waving them over to help pass out lunches.

Charles and I still haven't spoken about Logan.

I had spoken sparsely to Logan in the few weeks that had passed, anyways. We avoided each other like the plague, like if we got to close we'd irreversibly fuck up and not be able to get out of it. Which, I guess was better than actively feuding. He'd apologized for the FIA trying to take my podium away, promised he hadn't done it on purpose. I never thought he had. But I guess he didn't want me to think he was getting back at me for Trident's stupidity.

We were so lucky no one had seen that drunk makeout in the hall, something I still thought of late at night when thinking through all my mistakes.

Charles eyes me in the shade, the book of poems my sister had gifted me right before leaving home making my stomach sick. I'd bookmarked one page, imagining the feeling of Logan's hands on my waist when I'd read it.

'he only whispers i love you when he slips his hands down the waistband of your pants.'

But was that what we were? Or was it what the media would destine us to be if they ever, ever, found out? I wanted to love Logan Sargeant, as impossible as it was in my head. I wanted nothing more than to fall irreversibly in love with him again, to slot back in like I never left, but my own fear held me back. How did I know if he liked me back the same way? The way that makes you feel so light when they are nearby? The way that would make me give him anything.

It felt weak, to admit how much I loved him, so I blamed ovulation hormones with a grimace on my face as I flipped to a new page.

"What is that face for?" Charles finally says, sitting up and rolling to the side to be next to me. I contemplate bothering my teammate with my fucked up love life and go to close the book when Charles slips a thumb into the pages to stop it from moving in the breeze. I swallow and watch him mumble the words.

"I agree with it." He says simply, eyes glancing to the side under his sunglasses before he takes the book from me and drops it in my bag, "and we should talk about that night."

"I was drunk," I counter, "and you have no room to talk about shit relationships."

"I might not have room, but," Charles sits up so he can properly sit next to me on the little shaded bed, "I know men, I know, I am one of the 'red flag' guys, as much as I'm trying to get over that now... and I wanna help you."

"We were drunk, there's still weird feelings there, we made out and then have barely spoken since." I shrug, "If you and Daniel weren't there, it probably would've been a hook up or something similar."

"Gross thought." Charles comments and I can't help the laugh that bubbles out of my lips but it dims when Charles continues talking, "You still love him, don't you?"

"I do." I groan into my hands, "Which is so dumb, because he only loves me back when he's drunk or tipsy."

"Do you know that for certain?" Charles hums and I pause, eyes flickering over to him with a confused furrow of my eyebrows.

"What?"

"Do you know, with a hundred percent certainty, that he only loves you when he's got alcohol in his system? Or is he just bold enough with it to actually do something about the way he feels?"

The boat rocks, Pascale handing us lunches and I make sure to thank her as I tear my eyes away from Charles for a moment. I hear Arthur and his girlfriend laughing behind us, Lorenzo's fiance napping against his chest as he lays on another shady part of the deck and I swallow. Love is all around me, it always has been, platonic and romantic, and it makes my stomach sick.

"No." I whisper and Charles shrugs and nods, rolling to the side.

"So either you do something about it, figure out if he actually wants something or is just leading you on." Charles takes a sip of his drink and then uses it to motion to me, the water on the outside of the cup cold as it flicks against my leg, "and if he's just fucking with you, let me know and I'll like... I dunno, crash into him or punch him."

I laugh, but nod. Swallowing past the guilt of knowing I had led Logan on too, I could've stopped his advances a thousand times over but never did. Pascale sends me a soft smile and hands me a drink she promises is extra strong. I let the gross taste of the vodka wash down my worries.

I'll be fine. It's fine.

"Also, the FIA called Vasseur." Charles hums through a bite of his salad, "They're keeping you in P3. Congratulations."

I nod with a tiny smile even if I don’t feel any level of satisfaction from knowing that, "I hate how remiscent it was of Trident."

"I know." Charles finished off his drink and stood up, “which, maybe your paranoia is rubbing off on me, but I felt like that was purposeful.”

“Assuming Vasseur argued the point that they knew about the violation for four hours before giving me a fine, yeah, that’s shady as hell.” I sigh, relaxing back into my seat as Charles nods as he disappears around the corner. Arthur leans over my seat to steal a bit of my salad and I mock stab him with my fork.

“How is F1, since you stole my spot?” he teases and I shrug, giving him a confident smirk I know is mostly for show.

“Other than everyone still acting like I’m with Trident? It’s been good.” I say, taking a sip of my drink and wincing at just how strong it actually is. Arthur nods, and whatever he said is lost over my head as Charles comes back and waves his brother away, saying I need peace on this boat and he’s not helping. As the two brothers bicker, I laugh, and post a photo of the poem in my book.

Fuck PR for a moment. I loved being petty.

vogueuk made a new post!

liked by charlesleclerc, logansargeant, anyadubey, and 769k others...

vogueuk: "Every day I push 500% harder than any of those men, and I will never be praised half as much as them." Dhanishka Dubey, the first female driver to get a podium finish--on her first race no less, reflects on how media treatment and past mistakes have changed the way she views herself as a top F1 driver.

photographed and written by @ opheliapiastri

dhanishkadubey: thank you so much vogue and thank u a billion times ophie for this <3!!

oscarpiastri: THE f1 crossover of all time

user1: omg oscar’s sister works for vogue??

oaklynnpiastri: motherrr (and my sister.)

user2: DHANISHKA UR HOT!!!!!!

user3: i’m actually in love with her. i need her in a way that is NOT halal. get out of my way logan.

⤷ user5: ‘IN A WAY THAT IS NOT HALAL’ 😭😭😭

landonorris: ophie and dhanishka would actually be a dangerous duo

⤷ opheliapiastri: nah you and olivia are bad enough

⤷ maxverstappen: lando stay out of my garage challenge

⤷ oliviapiastri: my drivers being nice to my boyfriend challenge

⤷ danielricciardo: no get his papaya ass outta rbr ❤️

⤷ landonorris: danny i thought we had something 💔💔

user5: DHANISHKA HOLY FUCK

Dhanishka Dubey is the first woman in Formula One in three decades, and it comes at a cost. Every celebration for her is bogged down by the weight of being shamed her for her past in F2 and simply for her biology. With a long history from karting to moving up the Formula racing ladder, Dubey has the same if not more experience than some of her peers.

But despite that, she's always going to be seen as an outsider.

"It's extremely isolating," Dubey exclusively tells me and Vogue in her sparsely decorated drivers room after her podium in Bahrain, her home race. She's soaked with sweat and champagne, but her waterproof eyeliner and mascara don't smudge. A hint of what she calls a 'craved connection to her femininity' in the masculine world of racing. Dubey's pulling her hair into a braid, running a brush custom painted by her mother with Ferrari's logo with clear inspiration from her Indian roots and she says to me, "Being a woman in this industry, every day I push 500% harder than any of those men, and I will never be praised half as much as them."

Dubey credits her teammate and mentor Charles Leclerc and friend Daniel Ricciardo for making the transition a lot easier for her. Leclerc was one of the people to pull her into Formula One, recommending her to Ferrari. Ricciardo shares a nickname— Danny, which led the two to becoming friends before Dubey was even announced to be in F1.

But despite having two friends before getting into F1, Dubey still feels isolated. Not from her fellow drivers, who she says have welcomed her with open arms, but from the media.

“Everyone still links me back to Trident. I have been blamed for years for causing Logan that P2 position. It’s something that’s been held over my head since I was seventeen."

Dubey is of course referencing the 'crashgate' incident that happened in December of 2021. The accident, planned by ex-Trident Team Principal Henry Davis, had her teammate Viscaal crash into then HWA pilot Logan Sargeant on one of the final turns of the race. This accident, which also took out low-placing Viscaal, caused Sargeant to lose any chance of knocking Dubey out of the P2 position. The drivers were separated by five points, meaning Sargeant did have a chance to overtake her in the championships that year.

Despite the plan being for Dubey's benefit, the Trident team did confirm she was completely unaware. Davis and the head analyst at the time, Alexandre Auclair, being cited as the ones to come up with, and execute the plan with Viscaal. When interviewed by the FIA, Viscaal played voice recordings where he was threatened by Davis to knock Sargeant out "or else." Viscaal himself apologized to both Sargeant and Dubey, who both are now on completely fine terms with him.

As soon as the investigation was complete Davis and Auclair were fired with Trident being fined around￡150.000 for the damages done to HWA's car and the hospital payments for both Sargeant and Viscaal.

With a past that haunts her, Dubey has turned inside herself to stay safe. She cites her treatment at Trident for turning her into the stone cold driver many people have immediately related to Kimi Räikkönen.

"Having a team plan behind your back to harm someone you love, just to keep you in the spot you yourself fought for tooth and nail completely undermines any achievement you would've gotten. If they stripped me of everything after that race, I would've felt the same level of devastation." Dubey speaks with a level of eloquence I haven't encountered much with Formula One drivers. She’s poised and perfect, a soft smile gracing the lips she recoats with her favorite lipstick--Valentino's shade 22R. A gift from her ex years back, and one she claims nostalgia keeps her coming back to, "I turned in on myself and became cold because that was the only way to be safe. It still is. I keep most things to my chest, I don't like sharing about myself unless I feel like I'm safe to do so. It took probably three months for me to open up to Charles about anything despite his insistence."

After the tragedy with Trident, Dhanishka moved to drive for Prema and worked with Ferrari's Drivers Academy alongside Arthur Leclerc. A move she cites helped her transition into F1. Her present in racing, is as she says with a soft laugh into her water bottles straw, "Messy at best."

"Ferrari has been a dream. They welcomed me in and made me feel right at home. Same with the drivers, each and every single one of them on the grid has been so kind. I would love to stay here, to compete alongside these guys for as long as possible. This is a good group."

Dubey already has started her season with fifteen points, and many are expecting her to challenge Verstappen for the championship title. Dubey herself says, "Max is a great challenge and I love racing with him, however, I think Ferrari will have an easier challenge knocking Red Bull out of the Constructors Championship. I can't say for certain what Charles and I have in store for this season, but with a car that got a perfect crash test, we're not going to be easy on anyone."

When I wish Dubey the best for this season, her smile is lined with 22R and she gives me a tight hug before she whisks away in a cloud of Dior's J'Adore and Valentino's Born in Roma. Louboutins clicking along the concrete floors of Ferrari's garage, her little black dress, custom made by an Armani Tailor is tucked under her large Ferrari jacket. It's cold in Bahrain tonight, and Dubey dazzles brighter than any lights we stand under.

written by Ophelia Piastri.

If this guy doesn’t shut his mouth, Logan might just hit him. The cameras haven't even started rolling yet, and this guy thinks he has the audacity to say a lot of shit about how Dhanishka wasn't a good racer and was trying to bait Logan into saying some sort of quote he could horrible misconstrue into some sort of misogynistic hate rant. This reporter, Anthony Davis or whatever, really seemed to have some vendetta against Dhanishka for no damn reason.

It’s been a while since he’d spoken to Dhanishka. Hell, Australia had come and gone with an Oscar P1 by sheer happenstances and maybe a fuck up by Red Bull. They'd gotten drunk, but steered clear this time. For Logan's benefit, as he'd told both Oscar (who, that night, was far too drunk to remember anything going on) and Alex (who was moderately tipsy) to keep him the hell away. It ended up being Charles sending him nasty side eyes that kept him barred back. He wasn't sure what the Ferrari teammates had spoken about but he was glad for the silent memo. He'd meant to message her, to meet up when they were both home, but Dhanishka still lived in Bahrain and he was in London. It would be virtually impossible to meet up in person outside racing weekends, and then he felt too bad to ask.

Or maybe he was just afraid. But that was for him to figure out later.

Miami is hot in May, and it burns into his skin as he narrows his eyes at the reporter in front of him who grins.

“I mean she’s eye candy for all the drivers, right?” The guy says and Logan clicks his tongue and rolls his neck out. He’s so close to clocking this guy. This is every comment thats been said. Complete undermines to Dhanishka's abilities as a driver, equating her to nothing more than some sort of... paddock bunny.

When Logan looks through the reporter with the most dead stare he can muster, trying to look completely unimpressed rather than pissed, the guy clicks him tongue almost like an echo of Logan. Then he opens his stupid mouth to spit, "Logan, don't you think it's a bit odd how well she's performed this season?"

"Dhanishka's an excellent driver." Logan replies, calm and calculated in his tone, "I'm not at all surprised she's bested a lot of us immediately."

"But someone who is as feminine as her shouldn't be able to handle this sport, surely." The man grins, but when Logan doesn't bite the apple he dangles in front of him, the man lowers his mic and steps closer. Logan almost backs up, not wanting anything to do with this guy, eyes searching for Alex or literally anyone who can whisk him away when the man's tone drips with venom.

“C’mon, surely you think so if that hallway in Bahrain is anything to go by?”

Logan's heart drops to his stomach. Or even further. Maybe it goes all the way through the ground, through the core of the Earth, and out the other side. It's probably shot off to the farthest edge of the fucking universe. His blood is ice, his skin is red from the mix of heat and embarrassment, and his eyes finally finally meet the reporters. The camera is still low, still not showing this moment, and Logan doesn't get it.

If this guy, whoever he was, wanted to catch Logan's reaction, why weren't they recording?

"I don't know what you're talking about." Logan keeps his voice flat, mimicking the tone he held earlier, and the man sighs. He tells Logan that his 'secret is safe with me.' and when he lifts an arm in expression, Logan catches the mans name written onto the bright orange tape on the side of his mic.

Anthony Davis.

"Oh, you're joking." Logan finds himself saying before he can even think to censor, "You're Henry Davis' brother."

"That I am." Anthony steps closer, "So either you give me what I want, or I happily send those photos over to my friend at People."

Logan can't think. Suddenly it's like every single decision he ever made is miniscule compared to this. His and Dhanishka's reputations sit on the line of whatever he's about to say, and he finds the world sits with baited breath. Even the trees stop rustling in the wind.

"What do you want?" He asks, immediately jumping to defend Dhanishka. He always had.

"Just a story, just a tidbit from you about what it was like to date someone whose built like a Victoria's Secret Angel." The man licks his teeth and Logan, one again and a bit weakly, resists the urge to deck him.

"The truth? Or some twisted story you decide the narrative of?" Logan asks and Anthony shakes his head.

"The truth, Logan."

He curses internally, but does what he can to save face.

DAVIS: Today I'm with Logan Sargeant of Williams, currently standing in P6, how are you feeling about Miami?

SARGEANT: Good, good. I've got high hopes today, the engineers have been working extremely hard to fix some of the issues we've been seeing so far and I trust they did well.

DAVIS: Good to hear, improvements are always good. You are currently only four points behind Dhanishka, how does that feel?

SARGEANT: Hah, well, she's been giving me a run for my money since we were young so I can't say I'm too surprised to be right behind her again.

DAVIS: Now, getting a little personal here so I apologize, but in the past you and Dhanishka dated, how was that?

SARGEANT: God, mate, uhm... [pause] well, pardon me for thinking this is a bit too personal. All I'll say is we were kids, y'know? Young love, it was really a beautiful thing. I don't think I'll ever regret a moment in our relationship, everything was just perfect.

DAVIS: Yeah?

SARGEANT: Yeah... uhm, we were really close friends before we dated, so everything just sort of naturally clicked into place.

DAVIS: and how about now, is Logan Sargeant back on the market?

SARGEANT: [laughing] Don't count me in just yet.

DAVIS: Ah, still holding your heart close?

SARGEANT: Well, theres only one person whose been able to hold it and I have never loved someone the way I loved her and-- God, I've said too much.

DAVIS: [Laughing] No worries, I also see Alex waving you over so it was nice speaking with you Logan!

SARGEANT: Yes, of course, my pleasure!

Charles is sprinting through the pit lane. Which, isn't a huge surprise, but it is when he's stopping at every person he sees to ask if they've seen Dhanishka. Max is immediately shouting into Red Bull asking, and no one knows. Charles grabs Carlos by the wrist, who points down the lane towards Ferrari's garage. When he passes Logan, he keeps his head ducked. He can deal with him later, he doesn't have time for this. Alex calls after Charles, saying they passed Dhanishka heading towards Ferrari.

Charles meets Logan's eyes and sees something more than just regret. Almost like fear, a trepidation rolling across his skin.

'He's gonna fear me a lot more if he doesn't leave Dhanishka the fuck alone,' Charles decides, but thanks Alex sharply before taking off again.

It's Danny who saw her duck into the Ferrari paddock in tears, and Charles is so thankful he could kiss the guy, but settles for a slap on the shoulder and a hasty thank you instead. He ducks under something, slips past two engineers, and nearly shoves an analyst out of his way. He misses them all telling him to stop, to give Dhanishka air, and just opens her drivers room door.

He thanks the gods above for his reflexes when Dhanishka throws a tennis ball at his head.

"Well this is hardly helping." Charles shuts the door once he's inside, looking around the usually pristine drivers room to instead find it a mess. The season had just started and he knew what had thrown her off so badly. Charles had seen the pictures on Twitter. He knew someone had decided to photograph someone in a vulnerable state and blast it online months after it had happened.

He was literally fuming so badly he wouldn't be surprised if his hair started to smoke out of his sheer frustration.

Hands gently taking Dhanishka's wrists, he settled her down on her PT bed, her anger falling into the form of heaving sobs he knows hurt. She refuses to curl into his side, but keeps hitting his chest with a tight fist. Through tears she choked out angry laments in what he assumes is a mix of all the languages she knows. He picks up on bits and pieces, and what he gets confuses him.

"That damn reporter...Davis--Of course that... Logan should've never spoken to him, you know that?! ... I hate him!"

"Dhanishka, I barely understand you when you speak and cry as is. You gotta throw me a bone here." Charles sighs and Dhanishka rips her box of tissues out of his hand and dots her cheeks with far more aggression than is necessary. He won't be surprised if she has little irritated marks on her face after.

"Anthony Davis, the reporter who interviewed Logan? He's Henry's brother, the old Trident Team Principal?" Dhanishka wipes under her eyes, "and Logan was so nice in the interview but I just know there was some ulterior motive to talk to him! He only asked him about me! Like Anthony was trying--"

"--Woah woah, okay, slow down." Charles grabs her wrists once more and Dhanishka sniffles and her watery eyes meet Charles' panicked ones. Theres more to the story here, more he doesn't know, and he struggles to figure out how exactly to handle this.

So he just bites the bullet and asks, "What interview? I thought this was about the pictures?"

Dhanishka feels her stomach drop, "what pictures?"

And at perfect timing, Dhanishka's phone lights up with a call from Oscar.

Charles is sitting suffocatingly close to me. Alex is leaned against the wall on the phone with someone from his PR team while Oscar sits besides Logan. We all look exhausted, worse for wear, and I can't believe the season that was supposed to be my big start had already crumbled so quickly.

"Well, PRs gonna handle it." Alex's voice chimes as he makes his way over to the couch and tosses Logan's phone back to him. Logan sets it face down next to mine, his plain black case in sharp contrast to my bright red one.

"How so?" I ask, trying to keep any sense of dread from my tone. I have to be optimistic that this will be solved or else I'm going to start spiraling. And no one here will enjoy that.

"Blackmail," Alex hums, and when me and Charles send him sharply confused looks he stammers out an explaination, "No, no, it was blackmail. They're gonna go after Davis' brother under the assumption it was done as foul play to get back at you, Dhanishka. Anthony Davis also literally blackmailed Logan into that interview."

I look over at Logan who's sat silent this whole time. I feel Charles' eyes rest on my face as I shift and lean closer, my knuckle gently tapping against Logan's to get him to look up. When he does, I find theres no normal laughter and light in his eyes, every crease and wrinkle I'm used to seeing on his face is completely gone. Replaced with some sort of stone cold man.

This wasn't Logan. This was me, mirrored in him in the worst way.

"Is that true?" I ask Logan. He just nods, then leans back to adjust the way he's sitting. I sit back against Charles, feeling his body heat through my thin work jacket. I knew he was trying to be some sort of comforting presence behind me but somehow he just felt overbearing. Though, I'd rather feel overwhelmed by support than abandoned, so I lean into it.

"He told me if I didn't do that interview and give him what he wanted, he was gonna release the photos to People Magazine." Logan runs a hand through his hair and I can see the stress in his expression as his eyes fall to mine briefly, then he looks away, "I knew I could control what he knew, so I did the interview. He released the photos to a F1 blog instead."

The room is quiet with his admission and I groan out an irritated laugh as I try to soothe the headache that wants to start thrumming behind my eyes, "wallahi—you should've gone to PR immediately after!”

"He did,” Oscar defends Logan, crossing one leg over the other and sending me a look that reads 'cool it' even though he knows this isn't nearly as tense as I can get, "but that interview isn't the problem. The photos are."

"We can't erase them, they've probably been shared a hundred times over by now." I complain and Charles hums in agreement. We sit in silence for a few moment before Alex is the one to sigh and pitch forward, waving his phone in the air before setting it down on the table.

"I didn't want to suggest this, 'cause it's not my business what y'all plan to do, but... Dhanishka, no one sees your face in those photos. Even if brightened up." Alex looks over at me, then looks at Logan who starts to shake his head, but Alex has already continued speaking, "PR suggested we either say it wasn't you... or you and Logan confirm to be dating again."

"But before you decide anything about this, you two need to figure out what the hell is actually going on between you." Charles butts in, and I expect both Oscar and Alex to decline, to just suggest lying and saying it was someone else.

But all three of them stand and nod. Almost like they'd fucking planned to do this.

"We'll be in the next room over." Oscar hums, looking between me and Logan for a few moments. Charles squeezes my shoulder as he passes and I know it’s a mix of support and his way of telling me to actually talk to Logan. The silence just about swallows us whole. There’s not much to say here, and so I just watch Logan with a nervous look before he runs a hand through his hair and groans. Was that his new nervous tick?

“I don’t wanna hurt you.” He starts as he looks at me from across the table our couches are separated by, “I already did once and I regret it every day. I shouldn’t have assumed you had anything to do with that crash, I should’ve let you explain.”

“Don’t apologize for the past.” I say sharply between his sentences and he pauses, like I’ve cut off this whole big speech in his head, so I keep going, “You hurt me, yeah, you did. I can live with that. What I need from you is what you’re going to do now, what your plan is for us now.”

“If I told you I was on board, that I want to try again, would you let me?” He asks after a moment. His voice is so raw, so nervous, and suddenly I’m transported back to Renault all those years ago.

Logan had approached me once my teammate had slipped off, I was wiping my face down with a cloth when he’d nervously introduced himself and congratulated me.

“I know who you are,” I had laughed, watching as the tension drained from his body and a tiny dorky grin grew across his face. A face still loosing his baby fat. Both of us so young. He’d stammered, blushing hard before he held out an original generation iPhone with Instagram up. The old Polaroid themed icon and original blue bottom bar staring at me as it sat on the search section.

“I wanna keep in touch, maybe talk about racing—or other stuff.” He’d said, “only if you want to.”

I had laughed and nodded, taking his phone and plugging in my information with a tiny peaceful grin. His grin grew twice in size and he thanked me before his Mom had come to pull him back to his garage, moments later my own mother doing the same.

That night, he texted asking if we could meet up before the race to get lunch.

‘Like a date ??’ I had texted, sitting on the floor in the bathroom while I waited for the hotel shower to warm up. I felt butterflies in my stomach as I awaited his reply, and then it came.

‘yeah :D!!!’

I squealed and showed my mom, who had laughed and told me to get ready. And that little date at a shitty race track food cart was still my favorite first date ever, because it was the only one that was genuinely love. I had tried dating after Logan, but never loved those guys, and he had shown me so much love even back then.

And now he sat in front of me, that same shy smile on his lips as he twirled his phone in his hands out of nervous habit.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to it.” I say softly, and try to ignore the way butterflies float in my stomach and my arms go all tingly and my cheeks hurt from the wide smile that pokes at them, “but we have to take it slow, be genuine. Not just some sloppy hallway make out, no friends with benefits, a genuine real thing you aren’t stringing me along with. Okay?”

“I can do that.” Logan nods sharply, “Yes. Yeah I—I can do that.”

And as we sit awkwardly apart, it feels like that little first date.

“And this always my intention, even when drunk.” Logan says, the silence between us being broken by his confession, “and we still have a lot to talk about and such, but I figured I should at least give you that closure. I was never going to use you.”

I nod, a tiny smile poking at my lips, “thank you for that. It was… oddly reassuring.”

“I’m glad.” Logan laughs, nodding to himself, “Really glad.”

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