#third drivers

[dedeinthewild]

paul aron x reader, no labels

“Your bed is like… 30% sheets, 70% snack wrappers and passive aggression,”

summary : In hotel rooms that smelled like warm sheets and shared routines, a sleepy driver and his favorite photographer quietly fell into something soft and utterly theirs.

If there was one thing they loved, it was the smell that filled the rooms they slept in for just a few days but, for that short while, became their home. That smell they picked up—each time a different blend of skin, fabric softener, and soap bars stolen from hotel amenity kits—and the sound of them waking up and fixing their hair in the morning, one of the things that bonded them. Like when you're at home with nothing to do, and once you open your eyes, you just stay under the covers, the warmth of your skin marked by the deep sleep, and you can still catch that unmistakable scent people leave in the sheets.

That had kind of become Paul’s anthem in life. By now, he was the third driver for a Formula One team, and even though he wasn’t racing anymore, he still traveled around to do some testing and spend time with the team. But not being behind the wheel meant he could give in to that feeling—the one that glued you to the mattress for hours and was nearly impossible to resist. And if it hadn’t been for the girl often by his side, the Estonian probably would’ve spent weeks wrapped in the warm scent of his own skin, getting up only for the morning run he loved. Maybe not even for that.

She, on the other hand, was the type of person who went to bed when everyone else was already asleep and woke up before most had even opened their eyes. Still not quite used to traveling, she’d walk down the hallways in pajamas, hotel slippers, and a slightly messy braid keeping her hair in place. Lately, though, she’d gotten into the habit of waking Paul up when they were at the same hotel—especially when Parc Fermé was collaborating with him and they were spending several days in close contact. She had figured out that after racing, he would always crawl back into bed and sleep a few more hours now that he didn’t have to follow the intense training schedules of the racing season. And after two mornings of Paul sprinting breathless into the paddock, she figured she could kill two birds with one stone.

That morning, she’d been woken up earlier than usual by a call from her mother, who had completely forgotten about the time difference. So she’d taken a little extra care getting ready for the day of photos she had ahead in the feeder series paddock. She was walking down the hallway in a pair of worn jeans, cameras in hand, hair neatly braided, and that calm, rested air she always carried leaving behind faint hints of a perfume she’d picked up in the French Riviera. A sharp contrast to the chaos she’d find in the driver’s room—shirts everywhere, an overflowing suitcase splayed open on the floor, and protein bar wrappers scattered at the foot of the bed.

“You better not be dead in there,” she joked, pushing open the door he’d left ajar, stepping in carefully so she wouldn’t startle him. A few water bottles were scattered around, some cologne boxes falling out of the suitcase, and polo shirts draped over the armchair, next to his laptop.

“Paul?” She passed the entryway and peeked into the main room, where the giant Estonian lay sprawled across a bed that looked both massive and incredibly comfortable. His left arm was wedged between the pillows, the other resting on top, his hand close to slightly parted lips, curls splayed across the striped blue sheets. He looked like he’d been shot mid-dream—lying on his stomach, sleeves of his black sleep shirt rolled up on his shoulders.

“You’re not slick. I know you’re awake,” she said with a smirk, setting her cameras down on the nightstand and leaning over slightly to tickle him just under the arms—his weakest spot. But he was quick. And sneaky as hell. With a swift move, he grabbed her arm, trapping her between himself and the bed and pulling her onto the other half like the universe had always known that was where she belonged.

Paul looked at her with those mischievous, strikingly blue eyes, the blankets pulled up to his chin as he stretched, while she stayed there with the faintest smile still on her face.

“You’re so predictable. You fell for it,” he laughed, stretching wide enough to knock the cameras off the nightstand and nudge her glasses back up her nose.

“You are the worst human being I’ve ever met,” she said—her usual line—while he rested his head on his fist, curls going in every direction.

“Mm, good morning to you too.”

“I have a schedule. People to shoot. Tire blankets to romanticize. Let me go.”

“Nope. You willingly entered enemy territory. Rookie move.”

He grinned, chest rising and falling with each breath, and she caught a whiff of that signature scent—some blend of hotel sheets and whatever cologne he’d bummed off a teammate after forgetting his own. He always had a different one, but underneath it all was the smell of Paul, and to her, that was one of the best scents in the world.

“I knew you were awake,” she muttered, pinching his arm, stealing a bit of that grin for herself.

“Sure you did,” he teased, soaking in the perfect feeling of waking up next to someone like her—in warm sheets, with all the time in the world… or almost.

“You look like a real adult this morning. Very professional,” he added, nodding toward the cameras on the nightstand, alongside her phone and wallet buzzing with notifications.

“You’re just jealous because I actually have responsibilities today, while you sleep here like one of those snoring dogs.”

“What kind of dog would I be?”

“What kind of question is that?” she laughed, resting her cheek on the arm he’d curled around her. Her full cheeks pressed into his skin, warm from the bed. She was so cute. Sweet. Terribly familiar. And the fact that she didn’t realize it made it all even better.

“I’m saving my energy. It’s called reserving. You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re not even pretending to be productive,” she said, while he raised his eyebrows at the jab—watching her slowly give in to the bed’s siren call.

“I’m not a fan of lying.”

Paul was the kind of person who was hard to read at first, but she’d been one of the few to really understand him. Sometimes withdrawn and private, other times so goofy and light that even the deepest conversation would turn into laughter. The kind that carries you somewhere else. The kind that makes you want to play your favorite song and let it blend with the moment—just like the two of them did.

“Your bed is like… 30% sheets, 70% snack wrappers and passive aggression,” she grinned, eyeing him as he seemed to realize she was trying to get up and drag him with her.

“Five more minutes, come on,” he said, gently tugging at the hem of her shirt, keeping her close before wrapping his arms around her shoulders, pinning her between his chest and arms.

“You don’t even like cuddling.”

“Who said that?”

“You,” she laughed, feeling the warmth of his arms against her, almost brushing her cheek. In truth, Paul was exactly the type to rest his chin on someone’s head, wrap an arm around someone’s shoulders, press a quick kiss on a relative’s cheek, or offer his elbow to a girl walking beside him. So no, he wasn’t someone who didn’t like cuddles—he just had his own rhythm.

“I guess I’m evolving then,” he said, letting her go so she could move to her side of the bed. But she didn’t seem inclined to. She was too comfortable, nestled in the pillows, one of his hands still resting around her waist.

“You smell like… photographer stress and vanilla lip balm.”

“It’s unscented, dumbass,” she laughed. “You smell like hotel sheets and ego.”

They stayed like that, laughing, tossing around dumb questions, until her phone and alarms buzzed a little louder, and it was finally time for her to leave. She sat up, grabbing her phone, while he leaned back with his hands behind his head, watching her with a half-dreamy smile, eyes locked on the way she talked to herself out loud.

“Okay. I actually have to go. Like, five minutes ago.”

“Fine. But if I fall back asleep and miss breakfast, it’s your fault.”

The sleepy air around them definitely made that a real risk.

“I wouldn’t even be here if you didn’t forget to set alarms and would 100% sleep through your entire career.”

“True. But still. Makes you kinda my hero.”

She rolled her eyes, stepping out of bed and noticing that even though Paul had slept alone, he’d still slept on the monster side of the bed. And her heart told her that if he were in any bed, anywhere in the world, then the other half of it would always be hers. With her wallet, her shoes kicked off at the foot, and her own suitcase open on the floor—shower gels and hair straighteners scattered everywhere.

By the end of the day, she was exhausted—thousands of steps, countless photos, and the full weight of her work sinking into her spine. And as if that wasn’t enough, after her shower, the hotel hairdryer sputtered out in a puff of black smoke, leaving her in her favorite oversized tee and too-big pajama pants, standing in the hallway debating who could lend her one.

The answer was obvious. Actually—no “almost” about it.

She knocked on the door that had become her regular stop. Key card in one hand, phone in the other, hoping no one stepped out of their room to witness the mess she was.

Paul opened the door in Nike shorts and a faded shirt she’d seen him wear a thousand times, holding a mug of hot tea, freshly dried curls falling perfectly across his forehead.

“You look… aggressively off-duty,” he said, surprised, glancing at her wet hair and her pajama pants.

“Bold coming from someone drinking bedtime tea like a grandma.”

He laughed, letting her walk in under his arm, watching her head straight for the bathroom in search of the hairdryer, as he leaned on the sink sipping his tea.

“You have a nicer one,” she called out.

“Parc Fermé not treating you well?” he teased, watching her comb her hair with the precision of someone with a full-blown routine. She looked pocket-sized in the mirror, like a character from one of his favorite books.

“So this is where you disappear when you ghost the group chat,” she said, pointing at his mug.

“Sometimes I need a break from you chaos goblins.”

“You are the chaos goblin,” she muttered as she carefully dried her hair, and he watched her in silence—comfortable, easy.

“Do you ever think we’re gonna miss this?”

“Me stealing your hairdryer?” she smirked at him.

“No. I mean… this. The weird nights. The almost-normal stuff. The in-between.”

Paul could be tender. He knew how to put into words the memories and feelings she usually just felt, but never said—sometimes too afraid, sometimes too wired to nostalgia.

“Yeah. Probably. Even the dumb parts,” she said, warmth filling her chest just like it had that morning.

“Especially the dumb parts,” he smiled, handing her a bit of tea while she combed. Then helped smooth her shirt with the warm air, flattening it with his hands.

No surprise they ended up sitting side by side against the bathroom wall, two more steaming mugs in hand, hair full of what was happening between them—laughter, comfort, little moments. Talking about where to eat, hotel towels, and the laundry service they’d both secretly worshipped at least once.

“I like how it fits you, anyway,” he said, sipping the last of his tea.

She looked down, realizing she was wearing a shirt from the collection her agency had made in collaboration with Paul. And his smile held the look of someone who knew she’d caught the meaning—and loved watching those little moments bloom.

“Wanna split a protein bar? I gotta finish them or the team’s gonna kick me.”

“Not a chance,” she laughed, eyes soft as ever. Shirts on the floor. Bottles on the ground. Just like them.

I know you'll be getting bored of the photographer x driver plot line, but it fits paul (and me) so well, so I feel like I can picture it well... however, I'm having another huge paul phase 'cause he's amazing and well... he's paul aron

[thearchercore]

we're entering the stage of the season where red bull is so grateful for charles stealing poins from mclaren that they make max look gay

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness.”- Oscar Wilde.

[blorbocedes]

russian grand prix 2019 drivers parade

jenson is asking who he should ask a question to first and chooses lando. lando's about to say max (as in ask max) and max goes 'norris' and pets lando's head unprompted and lando just repeats him "max...norris? 😀 why max norris?" and then max gives the most bullshit answer of all time

you can see lando's brain short-circuiting in real time as max pets them and then he's careful placing his own back and touching max's

[levemetal]

Ye old Shen twins au where they both become peak lords EXCEPT. Instead of making them twin peak lords or something, we pretend the evidence that the beast peak does likely not exist is lies, and Shen Yuan gets to become peak lord of the beast peak. Why? Because he would LOVE IT there. It's his territory. He gets to be unapologetically nerdy about beasts 24/7 and make it everyone's problem.

As he should.

And bonus! He can snatch LBH at the disciple hole digging. Plot solved! (Assuming the system wouldn't you know. Pull system stuff and force LBH to end up on Qing Jing or some shit.)

And everyone lived happily ever after or some bullshit idk. I reread the 79 extras as well as the TLJ & ZZL ones let me have fluffy AU thoughts goddamnit, my heart has been irreparably damaged-

[likedbycheri]

lestappen nation, rise up to give checo official-lestappen-third-wheeler perez a proper goodbye: thank you sir, for your services, may god repay you for all the suffering you have endured 🫡🫡🫡🫡

[adimouze]

“We all should move on from daniel ricciardo” “dont hate on [insert asshole] because he’s the one who got the seat not your washed driver!!!” “He wasnt even good enough for the seat!”

ONE society has moved past the need for you to not understand how to mute and block words on tumblr and TWO baby he BUILT that seat on his tears and podiums and wins AND WE HAVE EVERY RIGHT to make this about Daniel because it IS about Daniel so…also maybe realize this is a giant app and you putting on hate on Daniel and then saying uwu be nice to the flopson over there…

also how are you a verstappen fan blog do you know your fave would jump into the seine just for the opportunity to gargle daniel’s balls

[jeonstellate]

currently preoccupied with writing kimi räikkönen’s pov on the ghost of monza (+ curating the summary/preview for the next btpa fic), but i can’t get this idea out of my head (𖦹ᯅ𖦹)

it’s not even a new idea, iirc i put it in the back-burner last year/two years ago. it just fits really well with f1, so it has been plaguing me for the last week—

for a (hopefully) peace of mind, here’s the general premise of that idea:

Following the multiverse theory, this specific universe lives in numbers. Not countdowns of steps nor time until soulmates find each other, but rather of the instances they’ll unknowingly pass each other by.

Soulmates can be regulars at the same coffee shop — always there around the same time — without knowing their other half is literally just a few tables over the entire time. They can be office/school mates who are vaguely aware of each other, with no reason to know one another beforehand.

Hell, they can even know each other for years — as friends or acquaintances — and the countdowns on their wrists will stay the same until one passes the other by on the street without knowing. They can also be exes, with the same scenario but heavier disbelief in the realization.

Either way, it makes entertaining stories.

In this universe, the most common numbers range from one (1) to ten (10). A small subset has eleven (11) to twenty-five (25). An even smaller subset count for the remaining two-digit numbers. The smallest subset — the rarest — has starting numbers with three digits.

And, of course, YN belongs to the latter category with their staggering 153.

And if that wasn’t enough tough luck, that number is what they were born with. As in, their countdown has never moved. Not even once.

Until they went to watch a grand prix in person, that is. Because, all of a sudden, their seemingly permanent 153 has been lowered by 62 into a meek two-digit number. 91.

There had been 62 laps in the grand prix they just came from, including the formation lap. Which means logically, YN’s soulmate can only be out there in the circuit track — passing the grandstand they were on at every lap.

YN just doesn’t know which driver.

[sideswipesjetpack]

SIDESWIPE DUMP🗣️💕

[httpiastri]

first arm/neck/hands dump of 2024???? yes absolutely 🫶🫶🫶

[aaanyaajpg]

From third wheeling on podiums to third wheeling on driver dinners. Checo my love, we all thank you for enduring the torture. 😭✨

[itskindnessinfinite]

the recency bias in the f1 community is insane actually

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

I'm sorry but James Vowles criticising how Red Bull has treated their drivers in the past, only to go and then treat Logan far worse while pulling the exact same shit Red Bull did, ie the exact behaviour he criticised and called them out for, is so freaking infuriating like the sheer hypocrisy -

[rickybaby]

🐕

[foolishlyzephyrus]

typical, three says it’s a perfect landing and obviously he’s parked on the edge of cliff in a storm

[takeiteasyonmeimstilllearning]

Screenshot credit goes to @chalpurnia