Hiiii I'm Paige (she/her) and I've just discovered F1 this year, accidentally. I'll be using this space to create more F1 RPF, hope you enjoy :)
This is an 18+ blog.
Hi there! Welcome to my masterlist, aka the pitlane of my writing process. Here you'll find all the stories, drabbles, one-shots, etcetera that I've written about anyone related to F1. I'll also try and keep track here of what's coming next. If you'd like to be added to the general taglist, just leave a comment or send me an ask!
BY DRIVER
Lando Norris
The Prophecy
Won't Say I'm In Love
Carlos Sainz Jr.
Just Because I Called You
George Russell
Constellation
Lewis Hamilton
Begin Again
Oscar Piastri
Don't Let Them See It
Alex Albon
Atlas
tbd
BY STATUS
Completed
The Prophecy
Just Because I Called You
Won't Say I'm In Love
hello! hope you're doing okay :) i was wondering if you have an idea of when you'll update constellation?
hello!
hopefully in the next week or so - I am in the process of moving plus i will most likely be adopting a dog so lots to do at the moment that takes my focus away from writing and being active on here. But I definitely will be back to more regular updates soon ;)
I am coming into your inbox doing a virtual walk of shame, having gotten into tennis because of your fic and now I cannot stop thinking of what yn would do with lando having won the WDC, her own calendar slam, and then now carlos alcaraz completing the career slam. Would she ... congratulate him? Ignore it? Root for Djokovic? Would she have won the Aus Open the day before herself?
omg no haha there's no need to do a walk of shame! i am proud if won't say i'm in love got you into tennis becuase i LOVE that <3
to answer your questions, well she'd obviously have celebrated with lando properly that he won the WDC, and then they'd both have gone straight intro training and preparation for barcelona/australian open.
I think, if we take the result of the previous AO winner as a guide, that y/n would've lost the AO in three sets this time around. But she would've flown back after to spend some time with Lando before gearing up for the next tournament.
The thing is, tennis is seen as quite a 'classy' sport where sportsmanship is really valued, so congratulating Carlos on his historic win of being the youngest man would be seen as somewhat expected - regardless of their personal history. Or even more so because of it. In this case, she'd probably just post on her story, and not reach out privately.
Of course that'd set off all the gossip pages, but it's better than sending a message privately and giving the impression that she wants to talk to him - which she doesn't.
ok so I just read constellation and now I'm sad because it's not finished yet 😪 it's so good I hope you can update soon please!! How many parts will it be in total?
hello!!
probably five! i want them to all be more or less around the same length, and with edits/rewriting that means I already have gone past the three this was originally planned as haha 😅 but yeah I am pretty confident it'll be five, max 6 parts! We will have it wrapped up before the season truly starts 🙌
summary: there isn't much that y/n wouldn't do for her best friend, but when you accidentally fall for the same guy? That's when things get complicated. Because while you might have gotten used to orbiting around your friend's world, he makes you feel like you're the center of his entire universe. And maybe you don't mind that half as much as you should. So when it comes down to it, you'll have to ask yourself if you're going to choose years of loyalty or maybe risk it all for a selfish shot at love.
genre: written au, brief 18+ content (not in this part), angst, forbidden romance
word count: 4.4k
note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons or events
sneak peeks: #1 | #2 | #3
series: part one | part two | part three | part four
The first time you visit a race is disastrous. It’s not great for George either – he’s clearly not happy with P3, despite it being a podium. But for you, the race signifies your personal version of a crash into the barrier. Because, the race, well, that is where things begin to spin out of control.
It all starts with a phone call. Which is not something you and George do. He’d always struck you as someone who’d prefer the efficiency of texting, maybe a voice note. But perhaps you’re wrong, and he is a casual caller, you consider when his name pops up on your screen.
On the first buzz, you think it’s probably fine that you’re not picking up right away. It’s just a casual call, and it doesn’t mean anything, and you might not even answer, because you’re at work after all. You can’t help but let your eyes flit across the room, ensuring no one else can see his name on your screen. There’s no need for anyone to realise that you and George also talk outside of work sometimes. That he has your personal phone number. That you have his.
When the buzzing continues, you can’t help but consider the alternative. Perhaps he isn’t a casual caller.
Perhaps it’s an emergency.
You pick up on the third buzz, sounding breathless for all the wrong reasons. “Hiya, am I interrupting?”
George sounds cheery, and air fills your lungs again. Not an emergency.
“No?” You squeak out as you have another look around the office. One of your colleagues is still seated at her desk, clearly trying her hardest not to listen in.
The downside of being a texter, is that you answering a phone call – at the office no less – is such an anomaly, it’s worth paying attention to. “I’m at work, sorry, just finding a quiet spot.”
You move to the break room which is blissfully empty of people, the only witness to your conversation being Andy the cowfish. An involuntary smile takes over, anxiety slowly dissipating from your nervous system.
“Oh. I forgot about the time difference, sorry about that. I didn’t realise you’d be at work. But, well. It’s sorta related, though, I suppose,” George starts.
When you don’t respond right away, he pauses to ask if you’re alright. It makes you even more determined to convince him everything’s fine.
Except he doesn’t buy it, which frustrates and fascinates you in equal parts. Especially because it’s very easy to picture him with that tiny dissatisfied frown on his face. The one that makes him look like an unsettled cocker spaniel, more concerned than he’d have any right to be. “You sound a bit out of breath,” he insists and you hate that he’s right.
You shake your head, realise he can’t see you, then huff in mixed defeat and annoyance. “No, it’s just – people calling out of the blue always gets my heartrate up.”
It’s quiet for a second, heat rising to your cheeks as you scramble for something else to say. Anything to dissolve the awkwardness you’d unknowingly introduced into a conversation that’s now destined to die before it’s even properly begun.
“I’ll text you next time then? Would that help,” George offers, and you don’t know what to do with that. Except say that it’d be nice, and you’d appreciate it.
It’s a kindness he doesn’t have to give, but he moves the conversation on like nothing’s happened. The ease of the gesture reminds you a little bit of your best friend, and you’re instantly brought back down to Earth.
Part of you is relieved when it turns out he really is calling about work, needs to clarify some dates and figures. There’s no risk of grey areas, tip-toeing around or overthinking on your end.
Though the thing is.
He still didn’t need to call you to get those answers. When you casually bring it up, he just as casually tells you that he knows.
“Just wanted to chat. I like talking to you, so why not kill two birds with one stone? ‘M just being efficient. It’s a racing driver specialty. Always looking for those small gains.”
The comment shouldn’t fluster you, know it’s just a silly joke. And yet, it does. Like every time you’re reminded of the fact there is a George who exists out there for the whole world to consume. A part of him, or a version of him that seemingly everyone else has known except you – that Rachel has been interested in way earlier than you ever could have.
You don’t know how to articulate why that matters to you, not even to yourself. It bites away and stings at the corners of your mind. Like a thorn that’s wedged itself too deep with every prod, and will no longer come out. Not without force. Not without drawing blood.
“Speaking of races,” he continues, “Did you manage to talk to Ray? How does she feel about coming to one? You'd get to see where I work and all that, feels only fair, yeah?”
Maybe.
It also feels a little too close for comfort. Most of the time you can sort of pretend that George the F1 driver doesn’t really exist to you. Just George does. The one who shows up to the Institute, who’s met Andy just last week, and who laughs at your jokes. Of course there’s extremely wealthy George who invites you to lavish parties on boats, doesn’t care about spilled drinks on designer outfits, and plans his diving trips around his jet and sponsor availability.
But even that George still is different – separate – from this abstract image of the Mercedes driver that everyone is seemingly in love with.
A part of you would love to go, wants to see what George loves doing, what he waxes poetic about whenever given the chance. Another part of you is a bit scared of what you’ll find. If the whirlwind’s too much, if it inevitably sets you down a path you can’t come back from – or one you might not be able to compete with or catch up to. What if it's not gravity but a black hole, waiting patiently to swallow you down?
“Where are you racing next?” You stall, staring at Andy in his rehab tank.
“Monza. Not far, you wouldn’t even need to fly – unless you wanted to, then I could probably arrange it. Some of us drive, it’s about four hours. Probably less.”
He’s almost ready to move on to the bigger aquarium, and as glad as you are for his progress, you’re going to miss his presence here. But he’ll be back to his natural habitat, back to doing what he does best – protecting coral reefs as a moving part in a wider ecosystem.
“And isn’t it Rachel’s birthday in two weeks? Would that be a good present?”
You smile tersely, feeling a little stupid. George had remembered her birthday. He’s merely asking you for advice on a gift. It’s not an invitation meant for you. “Yes, she would love that. That’s really very sweet of you.”
Maybe it’s time for you to take a page out of Andy’s book, to remind yourself of the bigger picture here. Focus on doing what you do best. Be gentle, and play the protective part you know you're good at. Dispel whatever’s making your heart feel a little bit restless whenever George pops up in your orbit. Because you can see how he lights up Rachel’s world. And you don’t poison things that could be beautiful – you keep them safe.
Or maybe it’s that you don’t want to risk anything that might affect the carefully constructed equilibrium that makes up your friendship with George instead.
Perhaps, the thing you’re protecting is just your own heart. Sacrifice and selfishness dressed up in exactly the same cloak.
“Great, that’s great. Would you need- well, it’s just that I've been wondering. Ack,” he sounds equal parts relieved and rushed on the phone, as if he’s accidentally found himself in far deeper waters than he intended. Is still figuring out if he’s able to stand or swim.
Your heart clenches a little, anxiety dipping back into your veins like it never left. “What is it?”
“I’m just wondering how many tickets you’ll need. Like, will it be just the two of you, or will you need a plus one?”
Dumbfounded, you wonder out loud why you’d need a plus one or even consider asking for one.
“Well, I just wasn’t sure if that guy you were with when we first met – if maybe he was your boyfriend.”
A warbled sound leaves your lips, hand clutching the phone tightly. The implication is so bizarre, that you can’t even form a proper response beyond incredulously uttering his name out loud. Just to confirm who George is talking about.
“Wes? The guy who was wearing an obnoxious suit, has a loud laugh?”
“Yeah, I suppose,” George confirms haltingly.
“Oh my god, I’m genuinely not even sure how to process this. Me and Wes?,” you can’t help but repeat. “No, that’s actually painful to think you or anyone would think I’d be into… that.”
“I was just trying to be polite, I don’t know your type,” George is quick to defend around a laugh.
It’s innocent, you know it is. And yet, it suddenly feels hot inside the break room, t-shirt sticking uncomfortably to the back of your neck. You take a step back from Andy’s tank, acutely aware of the heat emanating from the aquarium’s temperature and lighting installation. It does nothing to cool you down.
“Well. It certainly isn’t Wes, that’s for sure. Besides. Not really dating anyone at the moment. Just – practicing peace and what not.”
There’s a lull, and you wonder if George has also clocked the shift in the conversation. As if you’ve accidentally stumbled into forbidden territory, and now you’re trying to discreetly extract yourself without leaving a trace.
“Right. Yeah. That’s. Good for you. I er- I’ll make sure there’s two passes for you and Rachel then. If you need any help sorting out transportation, let me know.”
The glowing embers of everything unspoken slowly fade into the background as you hang up. They roar briefly when your colleague asks who just called, but they’ve been firmly doused by the time you tell Rachel about her imminent birthday surprise.
Her excitement reaches new heights when you step into the paddock together, eyes eagerly flitting across the entire area. It’s a little overwhelming – the sounds, smells, and just sheer amount of people who’re mulling around. The whole thing is just absolutely nothing like you’ve ever experienced, nor is it what you’d expected.
Rachel smiles indulgently when you say as much, and you’re glad you’re not alone in it.
“Trust me, I’m nervous, too. Trying to brace myself for seeing George all dressed up and ready to race. He probably won’t actually have time to entertain us, but God I can’t believe we’re actually here! In Monza! On my fucking birthday!”
Her enthusiasm is contagious, and you can feel the tension lift from your shoulders as you follow in her footsteps. You’ve never minded that, being the calm after her storm. Just hovering in her orbit, two stars connected by a constellation of your own making. She makes it easier, though, slipping into the Mercedes hospitality room like you belong – as if you’ve done it a thousand times over already.
You’ve just gotten up to get another coffee, your last one before you’ll get a tour around the grid, when there’s a commotion happening outside. It’s the first taste of the actual pandemonium that follows the drivers. There’s photographers, fans, and sponsors who are all eager to get a piece of the two people driving the Silver Arrows.
And then all of a sudden there’s George himself, setting foot in the space that seems just that tiny bit smaller and more suffocating now. Because he somehow always seems to know where to look to catch your gaze, to notice you. He perks up, nodding in acknowledgment as he follows after the engineer who’s walking with him. Shoots you a small smile, before he disappears elsewhere.
You can’t dwell on the missed opportunity to say hi, because you’ve got a grid tour to go on anyways. It’s overwhelming and a little bit dizzying to realise just how big these races are. How many people work like moving parts with such precision, mirroring their own microcosm of an ecosystem right there in the paddock. There’s so much to see, to learn, and to try yourself, laughing as you have a go at a pitstop simulator with Rachel.
When the tour’s finally wrapped up, you leave for the Mercedes motorhome with a thousand questions, and Rachel with hands full of Ferrari merchandise. “We’re in Italy - it’d be more blasphemous for me not to buy anything, than it is to bring it with me to the Mercedes hospitality,” she tries to reassure you on the way there, but gets distracted halfway through when she spots another pop-up store.
It only takes one pleading look in your direction, before she’s speeding off, promising she’ll meet you at Mercedes after. It gives you time to head for the bathrooms first, finding some peace and quiet among the air freshener.
Still, you’re a little afraid of what you’ll find when you come back out again.
It’s not Rachel decked out head to toe in Ferrari gear, but a freshly changed George rocking back on his heels. His hair’s hanging loose across his forehead, curling slightly near his ears.
“You’re here,” words tripping on your tongue as he moves to hug you.
“I am. Did you miss me?” He teases, hand still resting on your waist.
The truth is a slippery thing, squeezing past your teeth and into open air. “Maybe I did,” you cringe. “Just a little bit.”
George bites down on a grin, and you can’t help but mirror his giddy expression. It’s nice to come across a little bit of familiarity with all the chaos around.
“Then again, you’re the one waiting for me outside of the bathroom,” you add belatedly, just to see him lose the battle over his facial expression. He cocks his head in amusement.
“Touché. Just wanted to say hi real quick and welcome you to my world. How’re you finding it so far? How’s the birthday girl enjoying things?”
You react just a beat too late, eyes lingering on where the sleeve of his shirt is pulling against his biceps as he moves his arm away from you.
“I’m pretty sure she’s fully dressed like she was personally invited by Ferrari at this stage. Supposed to meet her outside, then we’re headed for dinner.”
He winces. “Please make sure she doesn’t wear that tomorrow during qualis. Can’t be having Ferrari wearing guests in the motorhome.”
You salute him, promising that Rachel knows better than that.
“Out of the two of us, you should probably be more worried about me making some sort of accidental faux pas.”
George snorts, eyes twinkling and clearly dying to bring up how you two met. Your cheeks heat at the memory. “I swear I won’t ruin any clothes this time.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he laughs, then checks his watch and winces for real this time. “I do have to go to my debrief now. See you tomorrow?”
He’s already leaning in for a hug, knows the answer will be yes to his question anyways. When he pulls back, his brows are jut the tiniest bit furrowed. “What?” You can’t help but ask.
George looks away and rubs his neck awkwardly. “Well. It’s a bit embarrassing, to be honest.”
“I doubt that,” you frown, crossing your arms as you lean against the wall of the motorhome. The picture of calm.
He shoots you a small smile, hesitates for seemingly one second before bracing himself. “Just – we’re not supposed to be superstitious. But. Just in case, would you wish me good luck?”
It’s not embarrassing. What it is, however, is dangerous. Still, how are you meant to deny him that? So you nod slowly, then press a kiss to his cheek. “You won’t need it, I’m sure, though. Good luck, George.”
The exchange is all you can think about for the rest of the weekend. The kiss had been impulsive on your end. Fitting at the time, but it starts to feel more and more like a Judas kiss as the hours tick by. You’ve damned yourself, stepped over an invisible line that you were never meant to cross.
The telltale sign is that you can’t bring yourself to tell Rachel about it. If it truly was as innocent as you’d like it to be, you wouldn’t be hesitating to bring it up. But the fact of the matter is the longer it takes, the harder it gets, and the worse it would look. So you resolve not to mention it all, and hope George won’t bring it up either.
Not that you see much of him throughout the weekend. For as boring as you’d secretly feared watching cars race for hours on end would be, the whole paddock descends into pure chaos with a constant cacophony of noise and pit crews mulling around. Plus, there’s all the cameras and broadcasters – an entire media pen filled with people ready to comment on what happens both on and off track.
Thankfully, you’re somewhat hidden from it all in the back of the Mercedes motorhome. Out of sight, and out of mind. It’s a blessing to you, but Ray seems to think it less so. “I don’t want to complain, obviously. Being here is already a dream. It’s just that I don’t want to feel like an afterthought. He invited us. Not the other way around.”
She’s easily mollified at the prospect of getting to see George after, once the race has ended and he’s been on the podium. It’s the first thing he asks when you pile into a van with him and some other team members, on your way to a club.
“Did you manage to see the ceremony? My eyes are still stinging a bit, to be honest,” he asks, and Rachel grins. Offers to check from up close, only to conclude he’s handsome even with a slightly irritated, red eye.
Someone snorts, quick to point out the red flush on George’s cheeks at the comment. You watch it unfold, squeeze Rachel’s hand when she reaches out, and convince yourself it’s all good.
Pretend you’re not third wheeling, even though the drink that’s keeping you company would probably say otherwise. Rachel’s dancing with George, swaying from side to side, more like. Hands hanging onto his neck, while he raises his own to bop to the music. It’s difficult not to smile at how his gangly limbs seem to move to an otherworldly beat, completely out of sync with the actual rhythm of the song.
But then his eyes find yours, and he makes an aborted gesture for you to join, at the same time that Ray’s hand manages to turn his face back towards her.
The smile drops from your face just as quickly as it had come on. You recognise the move. Have seen her use it a thousand times before. Hell, you’ve used it yourself in the past, too. Never on the same man, though.
Had never wanted to.
Had never felt the urge to prevent a head-on collision like you do now.
George doesn’t see the hesitation, or the aborted smile on your face. Can’t see it, because he’s now too preoccupied with the fact that Rachel’s kissing him.
And there it is, the line in the sand you'd drawn ages ago. Latched onto it, as if it wouldn't wash away with the first hint of waves hitting the shore.
You know you should move, should stop staring at the tableau in front of you and just leave it be. Still, knowing it and doing it are two vastly different things. You’re nothing but a fly that’s gotten stuck in a trap of her own making, feet glued to the floor.
Helplessly, you watch on and realise that denying the pull of your heart or the way your skin tingles when George is close, doesn’t mean it’s not there. Like trying to chase your own shadow away, every attempt just sees you confronted with your own inconvenient feelings all over again.
It’s a stranger who saves you, jostling into you and knocking you out of your momentary stupor. The impact causes their drink to spill over your shoulder, of which the irony is not lost on you.
Perhaps what you need is some air. To dry your shirt and find some perspective in the crisp evening sky, remind yourself this is how things were always supposed to go. The smoking area is the closest thing you can find, without leaving the club altogether.
There is a part of you that sighs in relief, that feels a sick sense of satisfaction. You were right, after all. He is a good guy, but this was the extent to which your worlds were probably ever meant to collide. And it’s clear, now. Done. No more wiggle room or grey area – he’s Rachel’s. Nevertheless, while it’s not a lie when you consider yourself happy for her, there’s still the lingering taste of disappointment on the back of your tongue.
You look up at the sky, try to pinpoint the constellations meant to ground you and figure out how to navigate the feelings still looming under the surface. Prowling like a tiger, ready to swallow you whole somewhere in between Cassiopeia and Cygnus.
The smell of smoke is heavy around you, an unforgiving cloak as any. Someone coughs, and your eyes snap back to find none other than George himself stepping into the secluded area.
“Fuck, I forgot how much Italians love to smoke,” he says in lieu of greeting.
A smile pulls at your lips. “They love a lot of things, have lots of vices. Many of them greatly tempting.”
George lifts an eyebrow, settles into a spot next to you as his fingertips graze your shoulder blade. “You smoke, then?”
You snort, gesture with your hands to show how empty they are as you covertly widen the space between the two of you. “Was more referring to the wine and pasta. But why are you here, and not tearing it up inside on the dance floor with Ray?”
It’s George’s turn to look slightly taken aback by the question.
“She’s off to the bathroom. Line seemed quite long. But I – she kissed me. Just now. I don’t know if you saw,” he trails off questioningly. You don’t know what the right answer would be, the one he wants to hear. When all you do is nod, he deflates just a little.
“Right. Well. It took me by surprise a bit. I – I didn’t plan for that to happen. I might drive fast cars for a living, I’m not much of a risk taker outside of that.”
George pauses, seems to mull over the words he wants to say next. When you dare to look at him – truly look at him, that is, you can notice a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. The way in which his eyes are glazed over a bit, heavy-lidded like the adrenalin has worn off, and the alcohol has finally reached its target. He’s drunk.
Suddenly you’re struck with the realisation that you have no idea whether George is even allowed to get drunk. If he’s a lightweight or not – if he gets forgetful, or emotional, or handsy when inebriated. If it’s going to make him brave, or incredibly stupid.
“You see. Because I don’t want to hurt you. I like you, but she’s your best friend and she kissed me. And so I wanna know what you want me to do. Since it was your kiss that got me my podium.”
Your heart lurches in your throat. Brave and stupid it is.
“It was only a kiss,” you protest softly, because that’s what it should be. “It could mean nothing.”
Even if it feels definite and like a door drawn shut. The words are a feeble attempt at an excuse meant to defuse and distract, but you can’t make yourself lie to George either. So you stay silent when he protests that it could just as easily mean something instead.
You can’t do anything, not when his blue eyes are staring straight at you, long lashes sticking together as he blinks lazily, the remnants of what must’ve been another champagne shower at the club. It’s as if he’s taking his time to really see you, to scan for the lies you will not tell. But there’s so many withheld truths, you can only pray he won’t look up and pluck them straight out of the sky.
“So you don’t mind?” He insists.
“You’re a very likable guy,” you counter, and his brow furrows at the non-answer. “I’m sure everyone here likes you.”
In the time you’ve known George, he’s always been patient. Non-confrontational. He doesn’t rush you, but it’s clear that his self-control is fraying at the seams now. He takes a step closer.
“Everyone?”
Blood rushes to your cheeks, and you try to look anywhere else but his face. Try not to think of how his soft stubble has scratched your lips just yesterday. “You know, I once got this piece of advice. If you really like someone, become friends with them. It’s better than dating them.”
It’s said gently, but the words aren’t any less piercing. There’s no misunderstanding what you mean.
“Friends,” George sounds out the word as if trying on a new pair of shoes that you’re a little unsure of. You almost want to beg him to please give in, to make it easier for you.
“If that’s what you want, what would make you happy,” he drags out, and there’s a millisecond in which you feel an overwhelming sense of disappointment. You stamp down on it before it truly catches fire, like it never even existed. But there’s the echo of something aching in your chest that lingers long after the weekend ends.
a/n: "it was only a kiss, it was only a kiss".... with the wrong person. sorry to end it here, but this fic needed a good cliffhanger and remember that things get worse before they get better, but this fic definitely has a happy ending for y/n & george :)
please don't hesitate to send me your thoughts, any comment, reblog, like is appreciated so so much by me <3
if you want to be added to the taglist, let me know either via ask or here in the comments below x
taglist (open): @misolii, @starksztony, @marywantsttobattle, @mon-amee, @linnygirl09, @cassiansabs
reading her calling george an unsettled cocker spaniel made me laugh so hard omfg💀💀💀 also i think george should just kiss her while he's got liquid courage in him. a little "double it and give it to the next person" action, if you will
im crying "double it and give it to the next person" I love that 😭😭
summary: there isn't much that y/n wouldn't do for her best friend, but when you accidentally fall for the same guy? That's when things get complicated. Because while you might have gotten used to orbiting around your friend's world, he makes you feel like you're the center of his entire universe. And maybe you don't mind that half as much as you should. So when it comes down to it, you'll have to ask yourself if you're going to choose years of loyalty or maybe risk it all for a selfish shot at love.
genre: written au, brief 18+ content (not in this part), angst, forbidden romance
word count: 4.4k
note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons or events
sneak peeks: #1 | #2 | #3
series: part one | part two | part three | part four
The first time you visit a race is disastrous. It’s not great for George either – he’s clearly not happy with P3, despite it being a podium. But for you, the race signifies your personal version of a crash into the barrier. Because, the race, well, that is where things begin to spin out of control.
It all starts with a phone call. Which is not something you and George do. He’d always struck you as someone who’d prefer the efficiency of texting, maybe a voice note. But perhaps you’re wrong, and he is a casual caller, you consider when his name pops up on your screen.
On the first buzz, you think it’s probably fine that you’re not picking up right away. It’s just a casual call, and it doesn’t mean anything, and you might not even answer, because you’re at work after all. You can’t help but let your eyes flit across the room, ensuring no one else can see his name on your screen. There’s no need for anyone to realise that you and George also talk outside of work sometimes. That he has your personal phone number. That you have his.
When the buzzing continues, you can’t help but consider the alternative. Perhaps he isn’t a casual caller.
Perhaps it’s an emergency.
You pick up on the third buzz, sounding breathless for all the wrong reasons. “Hiya, am I interrupting?”
George sounds cheery, and air fills your lungs again. Not an emergency.
“No?” You squeak out as you have another look around the office. One of your colleagues is still seated at her desk, clearly trying her hardest not to listen in.
The downside of being a texter, is that you answering a phone call – at the office no less – is such an anomaly, it’s worth paying attention to. “I’m at work, sorry, just finding a quiet spot.”
You move to the break room which is blissfully empty of people, the only witness to your conversation being Andy the cowfish. An involuntary smile takes over, anxiety slowly dissipating from your nervous system.
“Oh. I forgot about the time difference, sorry about that. I didn’t realise you’d be at work. But, well. It’s sorta related, though, I suppose,” George starts.
When you don’t respond right away, he pauses to ask if you’re alright. It makes you even more determined to convince him everything’s fine.
Except he doesn’t buy it, which frustrates and fascinates you in equal parts. Especially because it’s very easy to picture him with that tiny dissatisfied frown on his face. The one that makes him look like an unsettled cocker spaniel, more concerned than he’d have any right to be. “You sound a bit out of breath,” he insists and you hate that he’s right.
You shake your head, realise he can’t see you, then huff in mixed defeat and annoyance. “No, it’s just – people calling out of the blue always gets my heartrate up.”
It’s quiet for a second, heat rising to your cheeks as you scramble for something else to say. Anything to dissolve the awkwardness you’d unknowingly introduced into a conversation that’s now destined to die before it’s even properly begun.
“I’ll text you next time then? Would that help,” George offers, and you don’t know what to do with that. Except say that it’d be nice, and you’d appreciate it.
It’s a kindness he doesn’t have to give, but he moves the conversation on like nothing’s happened. The ease of the gesture reminds you a little bit of your best friend, and you’re instantly brought back down to Earth.
Part of you is relieved when it turns out he really is calling about work, needs to clarify some dates and figures. There’s no risk of grey areas, tip-toeing around or overthinking on your end.
Though the thing is.
He still didn’t need to call you to get those answers. When you casually bring it up, he just as casually tells you that he knows.
“Just wanted to chat. I like talking to you, so why not kill two birds with one stone? ‘M just being efficient. It’s a racing driver specialty. Always looking for those small gains.”
The comment shouldn’t fluster you, know it’s just a silly joke. And yet, it does. Like every time you’re reminded of the fact there is a George who exists out there for the whole world to consume. A part of him, or a version of him that seemingly everyone else has known except you – that Rachel has been interested in way earlier than you ever could have.
You don’t know how to articulate why that matters to you, not even to yourself. It bites away and stings at the corners of your mind. Like a thorn that’s wedged itself too deep with every prod, and will no longer come out. Not without force. Not without drawing blood.
“Speaking of races,” he continues, “Did you manage to talk to Ray? How does she feel about coming to one? You'd get to see where I work and all that, feels only fair, yeah?”
Maybe.
It also feels a little too close for comfort. Most of the time you can sort of pretend that George the F1 driver doesn’t really exist to you. Just George does. The one who shows up to the Institute, who’s met Andy just last week, and who laughs at your jokes. Of course there’s extremely wealthy George who invites you to lavish parties on boats, doesn’t care about spilled drinks on designer outfits, and plans his diving trips around his jet and sponsor availability.
But even that George still is different – separate – from this abstract image of the Mercedes driver that everyone is seemingly in love with.
A part of you would love to go, wants to see what George loves doing, what he waxes poetic about whenever given the chance. Another part of you is a bit scared of what you’ll find. If the whirlwind’s too much, if it inevitably sets you down a path you can’t come back from – or one you might not be able to compete with or catch up to. What if it's not gravity but a black hole, waiting patiently to swallow you down?
“Where are you racing next?” You stall, staring at Andy in his rehab tank.
“Monza. Not far, you wouldn’t even need to fly – unless you wanted to, then I could probably arrange it. Some of us drive, it’s about four hours. Probably less.”
He’s almost ready to move on to the bigger aquarium, and as glad as you are for his progress, you’re going to miss his presence here. But he’ll be back to his natural habitat, back to doing what he does best – protecting coral reefs as a moving part in a wider ecosystem.
“And isn’t it Rachel’s birthday in two weeks? Would that be a good present?”
You smile tersely, feeling a little stupid. George had remembered her birthday. He’s merely asking you for advice on a gift. It’s not an invitation meant for you. “Yes, she would love that. That’s really very sweet of you.”
Maybe it’s time for you to take a page out of Andy’s book, to remind yourself of the bigger picture here. Focus on doing what you do best. Be gentle, and play the protective part you know you're good at. Dispel whatever’s making your heart feel a little bit restless whenever George pops up in your orbit. Because you can see how he lights up Rachel’s world. And you don’t poison things that could be beautiful – you keep them safe.
Or maybe it’s that you don’t want to risk anything that might affect the carefully constructed equilibrium that makes up your friendship with George instead.
Perhaps, the thing you’re protecting is just your own heart. Sacrifice and selfishness dressed up in exactly the same cloak.
“Great, that’s great. Would you need- well, it’s just that I've been wondering. Ack,” he sounds equal parts relieved and rushed on the phone, as if he’s accidentally found himself in far deeper waters than he intended. Is still figuring out if he’s able to stand or swim.
Your heart clenches a little, anxiety dipping back into your veins like it never left. “What is it?”
“I’m just wondering how many tickets you’ll need. Like, will it be just the two of you, or will you need a plus one?”
Dumbfounded, you wonder out loud why you’d need a plus one or even consider asking for one.
“Well, I just wasn’t sure if that guy you were with when we first met – if maybe he was your boyfriend.”
A warbled sound leaves your lips, hand clutching the phone tightly. The implication is so bizarre, that you can’t even form a proper response beyond incredulously uttering his name out loud. Just to confirm who George is talking about.
“Wes? The guy who was wearing an obnoxious suit, has a loud laugh?”
“Yeah, I suppose,” George confirms haltingly.
“Oh my god, I’m genuinely not even sure how to process this. Me and Wes?,” you can’t help but repeat. “No, that’s actually painful to think you or anyone would think I’d be into… that.”
“I was just trying to be polite, I don’t know your type,” George is quick to defend around a laugh.
It’s innocent, you know it is. And yet, it suddenly feels hot inside the break room, t-shirt sticking uncomfortably to the back of your neck. You take a step back from Andy’s tank, acutely aware of the heat emanating from the aquarium’s temperature and lighting installation. It does nothing to cool you down.
“Well. It certainly isn’t Wes, that’s for sure. Besides. Not really dating anyone at the moment. Just – practicing peace and what not.”
There’s a lull, and you wonder if George has also clocked the shift in the conversation. As if you’ve accidentally stumbled into forbidden territory, and now you’re trying to discreetly extract yourself without leaving a trace.
“Right. Yeah. That’s. Good for you. I er- I’ll make sure there’s two passes for you and Rachel then. If you need any help sorting out transportation, let me know.”
The glowing embers of everything unspoken slowly fade into the background as you hang up. They roar briefly when your colleague asks who just called, but they’ve been firmly doused by the time you tell Rachel about her imminent birthday surprise.
Her excitement reaches new heights when you step into the paddock together, eyes eagerly flitting across the entire area. It’s a little overwhelming – the sounds, smells, and just sheer amount of people who’re mulling around. The whole thing is just absolutely nothing like you’ve ever experienced, nor is it what you’d expected.
Rachel smiles indulgently when you say as much, and you’re glad you’re not alone in it.
“Trust me, I’m nervous, too. Trying to brace myself for seeing George all dressed up and ready to race. He probably won’t actually have time to entertain us, but God I can’t believe we’re actually here! In Monza! On my fucking birthday!”
Her enthusiasm is contagious, and you can feel the tension lift from your shoulders as you follow in her footsteps. You’ve never minded that, being the calm after her storm. Just hovering in her orbit, two stars connected by a constellation of your own making. She makes it easier, though, slipping into the Mercedes hospitality room like you belong – as if you’ve done it a thousand times over already.
You’ve just gotten up to get another coffee, your last one before you’ll get a tour around the grid, when there’s a commotion happening outside. It’s the first taste of the actual pandemonium that follows the drivers. There’s photographers, fans, and sponsors who are all eager to get a piece of the two people driving the Silver Arrows.
And then all of a sudden there’s George himself, setting foot in the space that seems just that tiny bit smaller and more suffocating now. Because he somehow always seems to know where to look to catch your gaze, to notice you. He perks up, nodding in acknowledgment as he follows after the engineer who’s walking with him. Shoots you a small smile, before he disappears elsewhere.
You can’t dwell on the missed opportunity to say hi, because you’ve got a grid tour to go on anyways. It’s overwhelming and a little bit dizzying to realise just how big these races are. How many people work like moving parts with such precision, mirroring their own microcosm of an ecosystem right there in the paddock. There’s so much to see, to learn, and to try yourself, laughing as you have a go at a pitstop simulator with Rachel.
When the tour’s finally wrapped up, you leave for the Mercedes motorhome with a thousand questions, and Rachel with hands full of Ferrari merchandise. “We’re in Italy - it’d be more blasphemous for me not to buy anything, than it is to bring it with me to the Mercedes hospitality,” she tries to reassure you on the way there, but gets distracted halfway through when she spots another pop-up store.
It only takes one pleading look in your direction, before she’s speeding off, promising she’ll meet you at Mercedes after. It gives you time to head for the bathrooms first, finding some peace and quiet among the air freshener.
Still, you’re a little afraid of what you’ll find when you come back out again.
It’s not Rachel decked out head to toe in Ferrari gear, but a freshly changed George rocking back on his heels. His hair’s hanging loose across his forehead, curling slightly near his ears.
“You’re here,” words tripping on your tongue as he moves to hug you.
“I am. Did you miss me?” He teases, hand still resting on your waist.
The truth is a slippery thing, squeezing past your teeth and into open air. “Maybe I did,” you cringe. “Just a little bit.”
George bites down on a grin, and you can’t help but mirror his giddy expression. It’s nice to come across a little bit of familiarity with all the chaos around.
“Then again, you’re the one waiting for me outside of the bathroom,” you add belatedly, just to see him lose the battle over his facial expression. He cocks his head in amusement.
“Touché. Just wanted to say hi real quick and welcome you to my world. How’re you finding it so far? How’s the birthday girl enjoying things?”
You react just a beat too late, eyes lingering on where the sleeve of his shirt is pulling against his biceps as he moves his arm away from you.
“I’m pretty sure she’s fully dressed like she was personally invited by Ferrari at this stage. Supposed to meet her outside, then we’re headed for dinner.”
He winces. “Please make sure she doesn’t wear that tomorrow during qualis. Can’t be having Ferrari wearing guests in the motorhome.”
You salute him, promising that Rachel knows better than that.
“Out of the two of us, you should probably be more worried about me making some sort of accidental faux pas.”
George snorts, eyes twinkling and clearly dying to bring up how you two met. Your cheeks heat at the memory. “I swear I won’t ruin any clothes this time.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he laughs, then checks his watch and winces for real this time. “I do have to go to my debrief now. See you tomorrow?”
He’s already leaning in for a hug, knows the answer will be yes to his question anyways. When he pulls back, his brows are jut the tiniest bit furrowed. “What?” You can’t help but ask.
George looks away and rubs his neck awkwardly. “Well. It’s a bit embarrassing, to be honest.”
“I doubt that,” you frown, crossing your arms as you lean against the wall of the motorhome. The picture of calm.
He shoots you a small smile, hesitates for seemingly one second before bracing himself. “Just – we’re not supposed to be superstitious. But. Just in case, would you wish me good luck?”
It’s not embarrassing. What it is, however, is dangerous. Still, how are you meant to deny him that? So you nod slowly, then press a kiss to his cheek. “You won’t need it, I’m sure, though. Good luck, George.”
The exchange is all you can think about for the rest of the weekend. The kiss had been impulsive on your end. Fitting at the time, but it starts to feel more and more like a Judas kiss as the hours tick by. You’ve damned yourself, stepped over an invisible line that you were never meant to cross.
The telltale sign is that you can’t bring yourself to tell Rachel about it. If it truly was as innocent as you’d like it to be, you wouldn’t be hesitating to bring it up. But the fact of the matter is the longer it takes, the harder it gets, and the worse it would look. So you resolve not to mention it all, and hope George won’t bring it up either.
Not that you see much of him throughout the weekend. For as boring as you’d secretly feared watching cars race for hours on end would be, the whole paddock descends into pure chaos with a constant cacophony of noise and pit crews mulling around. Plus, there’s all the cameras and broadcasters – an entire media pen filled with people ready to comment on what happens both on and off track.
Thankfully, you’re somewhat hidden from it all in the back of the Mercedes motorhome. Out of sight, and out of mind. It’s a blessing to you, but Ray seems to think it less so. “I don’t want to complain, obviously. Being here is already a dream. It’s just that I don’t want to feel like an afterthought. He invited us. Not the other way around.”
She’s easily mollified at the prospect of getting to see George after, once the race has ended and he’s been on the podium. It’s the first thing he asks when you pile into a van with him and some other team members, on your way to a club.
“Did you manage to see the ceremony? My eyes are still stinging a bit, to be honest,” he asks, and Rachel grins. Offers to check from up close, only to conclude he’s handsome even with a slightly irritated, red eye.
Someone snorts, quick to point out the red flush on George’s cheeks at the comment. You watch it unfold, squeeze Rachel’s hand when she reaches out, and convince yourself it’s all good.
Pretend you’re not third wheeling, even though the drink that’s keeping you company would probably say otherwise. Rachel’s dancing with George, swaying from side to side, more like. Hands hanging onto his neck, while he raises his own to bop to the music. It’s difficult not to smile at how his gangly limbs seem to move to an otherworldly beat, completely out of sync with the actual rhythm of the song.
But then his eyes find yours, and he makes an aborted gesture for you to join, at the same time that Ray’s hand manages to turn his face back towards her.
The smile drops from your face just as quickly as it had come on. You recognise the move. Have seen her use it a thousand times before. Hell, you’ve used it yourself in the past, too. Never on the same man, though.
Had never wanted to.
Had never felt the urge to prevent a head-on collision like you do now.
George doesn’t see the hesitation, or the aborted smile on your face. Can’t see it, because he’s now too preoccupied with the fact that Rachel’s kissing him.
And there it is, the line in the sand you'd drawn ages ago. Latched onto it, as if it wouldn't wash away with the first hint of waves hitting the shore.
You know you should move, should stop staring at the tableau in front of you and just leave it be. Still, knowing it and doing it are two vastly different things. You’re nothing but a fly that’s gotten stuck in a trap of her own making, feet glued to the floor.
Helplessly, you watch on and realise that denying the pull of your heart or the way your skin tingles when George is close, doesn’t mean it’s not there. Like trying to chase your own shadow away, every attempt just sees you confronted with your own inconvenient feelings all over again.
It’s a stranger who saves you, jostling into you and knocking you out of your momentary stupor. The impact causes their drink to spill over your shoulder, of which the irony is not lost on you.
Perhaps what you need is some air. To dry your shirt and find some perspective in the crisp evening sky, remind yourself this is how things were always supposed to go. The smoking area is the closest thing you can find, without leaving the club altogether.
There is a part of you that sighs in relief, that feels a sick sense of satisfaction. You were right, after all. He is a good guy, but this was the extent to which your worlds were probably ever meant to collide. And it’s clear, now. Done. No more wiggle room or grey area – he’s Rachel’s. Nevertheless, while it’s not a lie when you consider yourself happy for her, there’s still the lingering taste of disappointment on the back of your tongue.
You look up at the sky, try to pinpoint the constellations meant to ground you and figure out how to navigate the feelings still looming under the surface. Prowling like a tiger, ready to swallow you whole somewhere in between Cassiopeia and Cygnus.
The smell of smoke is heavy around you, an unforgiving cloak as any. Someone coughs, and your eyes snap back to find none other than George himself stepping into the secluded area.
“Fuck, I forgot how much Italians love to smoke,” he says in lieu of greeting.
A smile pulls at your lips. “They love a lot of things, have lots of vices. Many of them greatly tempting.”
George lifts an eyebrow, settles into a spot next to you as his fingertips graze your shoulder blade. “You smoke, then?”
You snort, gesture with your hands to show how empty they are as you covertly widen the space between the two of you. “Was more referring to the wine and pasta. But why are you here, and not tearing it up inside on the dance floor with Ray?”
It’s George’s turn to look slightly taken aback by the question.
“She’s off to the bathroom. Line seemed quite long. But I – she kissed me. Just now. I don’t know if you saw,” he trails off questioningly. You don’t know what the right answer would be, the one he wants to hear. When all you do is nod, he deflates just a little.
“Right. Well. It took me by surprise a bit. I – I didn’t plan for that to happen. I might drive fast cars for a living, I’m not much of a risk taker outside of that.”
George pauses, seems to mull over the words he wants to say next. When you dare to look at him – truly look at him, that is, you can notice a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. The way in which his eyes are glazed over a bit, heavy-lidded like the adrenalin has worn off, and the alcohol has finally reached its target. He’s drunk.
Suddenly you’re struck with the realisation that you have no idea whether George is even allowed to get drunk. If he’s a lightweight or not – if he gets forgetful, or emotional, or handsy when inebriated. If it’s going to make him brave, or incredibly stupid.
“You see. Because I don’t want to hurt you. I like you, but she’s your best friend and she kissed me. And so I wanna know what you want me to do. Since it was your kiss that got me my podium.”
Your heart lurches in your throat. Brave and stupid it is.
“It was only a kiss,” you protest softly, because that’s what it should be. “It could mean nothing.”
Even if it feels definite and like a door drawn shut. The words are a feeble attempt at an excuse meant to defuse and distract, but you can’t make yourself lie to George either. So you stay silent when he protests that it could just as easily mean something instead.
You can’t do anything, not when his blue eyes are staring straight at you, long lashes sticking together as he blinks lazily, the remnants of what must’ve been another champagne shower at the club. It’s as if he’s taking his time to really see you, to scan for the lies you will not tell. But there’s so many withheld truths, you can only pray he won’t look up and pluck them straight out of the sky.
“So you don’t mind?” He insists.
“You’re a very likable guy,” you counter, and his brow furrows at the non-answer. “I’m sure everyone here likes you.”
In the time you’ve known George, he’s always been patient. Non-confrontational. He doesn’t rush you, but it’s clear that his self-control is fraying at the seams now. He takes a step closer.
“Everyone?”
Blood rushes to your cheeks, and you try to look anywhere else but his face. Try not to think of how his soft stubble has scratched your lips just yesterday. “You know, I once got this piece of advice. If you really like someone, become friends with them. It’s better than dating them.”
It’s said gently, but the words aren’t any less piercing. There’s no misunderstanding what you mean.
“Friends,” George sounds out the word as if trying on a new pair of shoes that you’re a little unsure of. You almost want to beg him to please give in, to make it easier for you.
“If that’s what you want, what would make you happy,” he drags out, and there’s a millisecond in which you feel an overwhelming sense of disappointment. You stamp down on it before it truly catches fire, like it never even existed. But there’s the echo of something aching in your chest that lingers long after the weekend ends.
a/n: "it was only a kiss, it was only a kiss".... with the wrong person. sorry to end it here, but this fic needed a good cliffhanger and remember that things get worse before they get better, but this fic definitely has a happy ending for y/n & george :)
please don't hesitate to send me your thoughts, any comment, reblog, like is appreciated so so much by me <3
if you want to be added to the taglist, let me know either via ask or here in the comments below x
taglist (open): @misolii, @starksztony, @marywantsttobattle, @mon-amee, @linnygirl09, @cassiansabs
hii!! hope ur good! any updates for the constellation gr63 fic? js curious :))
hello!!
i am good, thank you <3 just getting over a little cold, but that's the time of year for it, and i'm lowkey kinda happy it's made my return to work a bit slower haha!
as for constellation, should be an update later today!! i'm actually just going over the draft now for final edits :) x
omg what is the alex albon fic going to be about?? i'm definitely going to want to get updates on that
helloooo,
basically, it'll be an ex!reader x alex albon fic. but i'll warn you right now and say it's not going to be a happy or straightforward fic, kinda felt like because alex seems like such a happy-go-lucky person, my version of him needs to suffer a little. it's how i show love, i suppose haha.
I've put a snippet underneath the read more.
There’s 3 stitches in your hand, and 4 missed calls on your phone when you walk out of the hospital again. Three of them are from Alex. Those are easy to ignore. Too easy, perhaps.
The fourth one makes your stomach turn. It’s Carmen. The only reason she’d call at this hour is because Alex has already spoken to George, who in turn has now escalated the situation to Carmen.
And of course, you love Carmen. But perhaps you loved her better when she was just your friend – and not the weapon of choice to figure out your whereabouts.
Instead, you send a quick text to Alex. “Stitched up. Going to a hotel for the night. Don’t call me.”
Of course he calls again, immediately, because he is stubborn and doesn't listen. His bullish attitude was something that you'd found enticing at the start. How relentless he was in his pursuit of you.
Now it just hurts. Knowing he’s holding on to a reality that doesn't exist. Or maybe it's the fact that he is holding on at all, just when you've finally decided to let go.
hiii! happy new year!! i was wondering if you have any writing or fic related goals this year? A planning of stuff on what we can expect? i love your writing so just hoping you'll do more long-form stuff :) thank youu x
Happy New Year to you too!!
Ooooh I don't set any writing related goals because I don't wanna stress myself out with them... but I've got quite a few things lined up :) you can find those on my main post, under the coming soon header.
There's an Alex Albon fic, which will most likely be a written work.
I've got an OP81 fic, which will probably we social media posts, but I've got a couple of other ideas, including another one with Oscar that I'd have to write because it doesn't lend itself to a social media style work...
And then who knows :) There's one with Lewis but his season made me feel so bad for him I have to revisit that in the near future haha and hopefully make it a bit more positive in the alternate universe setting of rpf!!
But if you have suggestions or drivers or plot ideas, feel free to drop them. Can't promise I'll use them but they might inspire me!
absolutely adore ur Constellation fic with George Russell!! literally binge-read the first two parts, ready for the third only to realise you just posted the second one recently OH THE DESPAIR 😔😞
Also, i swear your writing is absolutely beautiful. i LOVE it. you write so intriguingly, in a way I can't stop reading even if i meed to take a screen break. love the way you describe things, the metaphors you use, the way you constantly factor in little details that seems like nothing but fills the space perfectly. absolutely adore.
can't wait for part three!!
p.s. could i be added to ur taglist? :3
hiii 🥰,
awwww thank you thank you thank you for your lovely words and sharing this with me! So happy to hear that you're loving Constellation ❤️. I am hoping to have the third part up in early January, so fingers crossed you won't have to wait too long for that 😊
And thank you so much, I am super glad that the writing is connecting with you. Constellation is only my second written F1 fic, so always hoping that the style and phrasing translates well here while I figure it all out on the go haha 🙏
I will add you to the taglist for the next part, absolutely! Might be posting a small preview of it soon, and will be sure to tag you for that as well 😉
your works are incredible! just finished the prophecy and all of constellation so far and i’m so amazed with the amount of effort and love you put into all your work! can’t wait for the next part of constellation 🫶 will be starting wont say im in love soon ❤️🔥
hi anon,
ahh that is so incredibly sweet of you, thank you so so much for reading and for sharing this with me. It is comments like this that definitely motivate me to keep posting 🥰🥰 feel free to ask questions if you wanna know more about the thought process behind other stories and have fun reading won't say I'm in love 😘
summary: there isn't much that y/n wouldn't do for her best friend, but when you accidentally fall for the same guy? That's when things get complicated. Because while you might have gotten used to orbiting around your friend's world, he makes you feel like you're the center of his entire universe. And maybe you don't mind that half as much as you should. So when it comes down to it, you'll have to ask yourself if you're going to choose years of loyalty or maybe risk it all for a selfish shot at love.
genre: written au, brief 18+ content (not in this part), angst, forbidden romance
word count: 4.4k (of total: 15.2k)
note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons or events
sneak peeks: #1 | #2 | #3
series: part one | part two | part three
The first time George texts you after exchanging numbers, you can’t help but feel a little giddy. You certainly wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d forgotten to follow up like he had said he would. In fact, you still routinely forget to text your own mom or respond to Ray’s memes.
And yet when you check your phone after a long day at work, you’re inordinately pleased to find he’s not sent just one, but a few messages.
Hey, just sending you the details for Friday as promised! See you there 😊 [image attached]
This is George (Russell) by the way
Also bring ID. I’ve had your names added to the list, but security’s quite strict - George
The message is a stark reminder that George isn’t just a boy sharing an invite to a party he’s hosting. He’s the multimillionaire sportsperson that Ray has had a crush on since forever, and who’s famous enough to have to hire security when he’s hosting a party.
Still, you try to focus instead on the bit where he awkwardly signs off his own texts with his name. There’s something endearing about it, like he’s just a regular guy who’s not sure if you’d recognise the contact in your phone.
He doesn’t let the conversation die after you’ve confirmed on behalf of Ray and yourself. Instead, George sends you a link to a video of an octopus changing colours in its sleep and confesses his algorithm is now all messed up. He’s charming.
It’s easy to see why Rachel would like him, you begrudgingly admit. She’d been ecstatic once you’d told her about the serendipitous meeting at the Institute, and how you’d managed to snag an invitation – an opportunity to meet again.
She doesn’t know about the video, though. Maybe that’s why it feels like you’re doing something you’re not supposed to when you keep texting him back. His name popping up on the screen has you immediately flipping it over – just to ensure no one sees it. Which is stupid, because the messages are entirely innocent.
In fact, George makes it a point to say he looks forward to meeting Ray on Friday. You should tell her. There’s no reason not to, and she’d love to hear it. Except there’s just something about having to share what he’s written to you, that makes you a little bit uneasy. Even if the messages don’t go beyond the sharing of funny little clips on ocean life. He’s particularly fond of the dolphin meme, which is so incredibly cringy, yet it makes you snort every single time he adds his own texts to them. The truth is – you don’t want to share those. Want to hoard them like they’re a treasure that needs to be buried deep under the ground for nobody to ever find out about, except for the person who put them there in the first place.
So you keep delaying, until Friday rolls around and you’re on your way to the party, while she’s still none the wiser.
It's fine. You might be best friends who don’t have any secrets, that still doesn’t mean you owe her a report on every single conversation thread. It’s not that deep. It’s just a dolphin meme. She’ll live without it.
“Hey, so did George mention to you this small party of his was actually a big thing on a boat?” Rachel asks you, eyes stuck on the harbour as the taxi comes to a standstill.
“No?” You squeak out nervously, trying to stop the cascade of held-back truths from spilling past your lips. “He just said that it’d be a small get together. That there might be some people who I should talk to, since they’re also divers.”
You thank the driver, before following after your friend and staring out at what qualifies as a ‘small party’ according to George. Perhaps it is exactly what you should’ve expected, because Rachel seems totally unperturbed as she confidently steps onto the walkway.
“Doesn’t matter. You know you’re the best friend slash wing-woman I could ever ask for? Truly,” she repeats once you’ve safely gotten yourself onto the deck of the boat. Now, with a drink in hand, her eyes rove over the crowd.
There’s an easy smile on her face, shoulders relaxed. As if she isn’t looking for anyone in particular. You wish you could say the same.
“What do you want to do? Shall we explore this yacht, or go for a little dance first? You could send him a text we’re here, but I’m sure we’ll come across George at one point. Let’s just enjoy ourselves,” she suggests, before pulling you towards the centre of the makeshift dance floor.
It turns out that Rachel is right, as she usually is. No sooner than five minutes after you’ve sent that message, and she wraps her arms around you to pull you close. “Pretty sure I’ve just spotted him, but I’m going to play it cool this time,” she whispers.
You idly wonder what exactly constitutes playing it cool, but then she turns you around so it’s you that has a prime view of the guy who’s gotten you invited to this party in the first place.
He looks good. It’s awful, because you don’t want to notice how the top button of his shirt is undone. You don’t want to see how his hair falls across his forehead, and you definitely do not want to acknowledge the spark of excitement you feel when his eyes land on you.
“Is he watching?”
You swallow, mouth feeling dry and eyes still stuck on the blue ones staring in your direction from across the room. “Yeah.”
Rachel smiles, then makes sure to swivel her hips with extra emphasis. “Good. That’s good.”
Rachel pretends to be surprised when she turns around and finds him just a few steps away. She immediately reaches out to greet him with a kiss on the cheek. “So nice to meet you again, George.”
“Yeah, I’m happy you were able to make it. Rachel, right?”
He doesn’t wait for her to reply, instead turning to give you a hug. His arm is still pressing closely against yours when he moves back. It’s easy to tune out the small talk, focusing instead on the way the music and the water make you sway from side to side.
Except all of a sudden the conversation turns to you, and how George had run into you at work. “That’s why I thought it’d be nice – well. There’s some other people around who dive a lot. It’d be good to tell them more, get them involved,” he adds, big blue eyes looking at you hopefully.
Right. You blink once, twice, trying to tune back in. “Absolutely,” you murmur, smiling politely as you leave enough room for Rachel to take back control.
She asks after the boat, and George offers to give you a tour, even though he makes it clear that this isn’t his. “I don’t actually have a yacht. Probably should, at this point. Maybe I’ll get that written into my next contract,” he jokes, then looks on confused when you make no move to join him and Ray.
She shoots you a grateful smile when you excuse yourself, tell them to go on without you. It’s what you’re here for, aren’t you? To help her get the man she wants. The man she deserves. And George seems like he’d fit the bill. He’s funny, smart, and he asks good questions. Listens.
Had done so even back at the Institute, when you’d been undoubtedly boring him with details on local biofilm and aquaculture.
And he’s a gentleman, judging by the way his hand hovers on your friend’s back as he guides her through the throngs of people to reach the stairs leading to an upper deck.
You turn your back to the scene and move towards the bar, ordering something sour. Not your usual, but it’s all you can do to counter the numbness settling in. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it doesn’t quite work.
When you hold the glass up to the disco lights just so, though, its blue hues do remind you of the ocean you love so much. It’s a beautiful distraction in and of itself.
In fact, you’re so preoccupied with the way the light refracts in your drink that you don’t notice you have company.
“Your friend seems like she’s on a mission.”
It’s Alex Albon. You only know this because you’d not been able to resist the temptation of googling George. Had wanted to indulge Rachel a little bit in her obsession after learning about her crush. And so you’d stumbled upon a “10 Facts about George Russell” page, which included a photo of his best mate in Formula One.
“Yeah? She usually is,” you smile faintly, eyes now looking out into the crowd to try and spot Rachel. To see what it is that Alex had seen. They’re nowhere to be found, though. He must’ve come from upstairs. Your stomach twists.
“Even at a party?”
“Aren’t most people on a mission at a party? To have fun? To relax? To meet new people? To make stupid decisions you regret in the morning? Or to be brave and reckless, and hope you won’t regret it?” You counter, and Alex snorts.
“Touché. So, what’s your mission then? Being stupid – or being brave?”
Maybe you should’ve expected the comeback, prepared for it. Instead, it leaves you a little adrift.
“Not sure yet,” you settle on eventually, then pause to consider him. “How’d you know my friend, though?”
Alex smiles at you but doesn’t answer, and it does nothing to dispel your nerves. Because he looks like he knows exactly what you’re doing here – knows it better than you do yourself.
“No, come on. I know who you are, because you’re a driver. But how do you know who I am, let alone who my friend is?”
A horrifying realisation washes over you, and you look over at Alex with alarm. “Oh my god, please don’t tell me that they asked you to come keep me company like some sort of pitiful set-up between the two sidekicks, no offense, ” you shudder.
His eyes widen, jaw slacked before he guffaws a laugh and starts vigorously shaking his head. “No! I’ll have you know I have a lovely girlfriend, but still – some offense taken. I am a catch,” he gets out between giggles. It doesn’t help his attempt to look even the slightest bit annoyed or angered at your comments. Still, you motion to the bartender to bring over another two blue drinks as an apology. Alex twirls the straw, before taking an approving sip. “But George did tell me he invited you for tonight, so I was curious. Saw him walk off with your friend, thought I’d take the opportunity to introduce myself to you.”
“Oh! Do you dive, then?” You ask, still slightly confused. Perhaps he’s one of the people that George had mentioned.
“Have been,” Alex nods. “Cayman Islands a few years ago. It was beautiful. Not so much around here, to be honest. Feels like a holiday activity to me, and I’m only here for work, really.”
“Right. The driving thing.”
“The driving thing,” Alex echoes in amusement. “George should invite you to a race. So you can see what it’s actually like.”
You shrug, not entirely sure that you’ve got that kind of rapport – nor is it what you’re after. “Maybe. He really doesn’t have to. I don’t want that from him.”
The second the words come out of your mouth, your shoulders tense. It’s obvious looking at Alex’ face that you’ve just stepped straight into the trap he’d laid out. “Then what do you want?”
Truthfully, how are you supposed to know after having only just met him? It’s a question that shouldn’tbe making you nervous, because it’s ridiculous. And yet, there’s more than just condensation clinging to your hands as you make to take a sip from your drink. Just to steal a moment, stretch time a little while you attempt to formulate your thoughts into something that’ll justify why you’re here.
Because that’s really what Alex is asking, isn’t he? What had possessed you to entertain George, if you didn’t see him as a gateway into his world. If you didn’t want something from him? Your heart feels heavy at the thought of always having to second guess people’s intentions, shrivelling up like a dried up flower petal.
Especially because your intentions aren’t entirely pure, either. Whether it’s getting George so excited about reef restoration that he’ll invest in your new research venture, or trying to set him up with your friend – you are just as guilty as everyone else.
Whichever deity is out there must be feeling merciful, because like an apex predator that’s abandoning the hunt, Alex shifts all of a sudden. Smiles and claps George on the back as he comes to stand near you, Rachel following behind with a content smile on her face.
She wiggles her brows at you, sinking into a seat at the bar. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Your heartrate speeds up, can feel the gravitas of the question as it spills from your lips, and yet you are unable to escape the pull of needing to know the answer. “Did you … have a good time?”
It’s an unpleasant feeling, and one you haven’t really experienced before. Wes’ comment lingers in your mind, but you try to physically shake it out of your head.
Convince yourself of the fact that it’s an innocent question after all, turn away from George’s body so you can lean in and listen to whatever Ray wants to share. It’s not much, but she seems satisfied with whatever happened during their little one-on-one moment.
Doesn’t seem bothered when George touches your arm, asks if you want another drink while his eyes sparkle as he officially introduces you to Alex. “He loves animals, has like 15 cats and dogs.”
“How about marine life? Any fish?” You ask, smiling as you gratefully take the drink that George offers you. Life’s starting to get a little blurry around the edges, but it’s doing a lot for your nerves.
It’s not so bad now, to be wedged in between your best friend and the guy she’s crushing on. Alex seems not so bad either – protective of his own best friend in a way that you recognise. A similarity that you could bond over, if you ever had to. If whatever this thing is that ties Rachel to George might last.
You suggest to George that you should swap seats. Pretend it’s so you can hear Alex more clearly, that it’s the sweetness of the drink that makes you feel a little bit unsettled.
Alex looks at you like he can see right through the way you’re twisting and turning, falling right back into orbit, because it’s where you’re meant to be. He doesn’t call you on it. Instead, he distracts you with stories about all of his pets, confesses who his favourites are and how he’d love to have an aquarium.
It only works a little bit, because every single time you lean back, you’re reminded of what’s happening behind you. The soft press of George’s shoulder, his hand gripping the back of your bar stool – it’s enough to have you suggest another go at the dancefloor.
Anything to create some space, some room for you to breathe and not think about how nice the casual touches feel. Because it shouldn’t be you on the receiving end of them, even when they probably don’t mean anything.
The closeness is easier to ignore when you’re in a jostling crowd, and everyone’s bumping against everyone. It’s not on purpose now, and Ray’s just as close. George smiles at you, motions for your hand so he can twirl you around. It’s funny and innocent, except then he leans in and asks if you’re having a good time. You can’t help but come closer, to make sure you’ve heard correctly and he can hear your say that it’s been nice talking to Alex in return. “I wish I’d have spoken with you more, though. Kinda wanted to pick your brain about free diving.”
“Feel free to pick my brain about that or anything else,” you blurt, filter having gone away after finishing the last sip of your latest drink. George smiles, and it’s golden.
So it’s worth it. He deserves to be happy, you think.
“But maybe not right now, I’m slightly concerned with the way I can’t feel my face at the moment,” you wonder out loud – one hand coming up to emphatically touch your own cheek.
He laughs, then pushes you towards Rachel. She presses a kiss to Alex’, then George’s cheek, before guiding you into the back of a taxi, and finally, back into your own bed.
Rachel, who can be ruthless and is her own true North star as much as she is yours. Your confident, protective, fierce friend Rachel, who’d absolutely do anything for your happiness. No questions asked.
So shouldn’t you do the same?
Deciding as much is a given, especially when you wake up with the very same thought still viscerally lingering behind your eyelids. There’s a new account following you on Instagram, which turns out to be George’s way of reaching out. Sometimes he’ll send you the instructional videos or explainers that have ended up on his Explore page that he wants you to fact check. More often than not they’re just silly memes and funny videos, though. It should be enough to keep the intrigue on your end at bay. Because half the time the videos aren’t even that funny. They don’t really require you to respond beyond maybe an emoji.
Except it feels a little bit too much like dopamine whenever you see an unread message awaiting you. Want them to keep showing up. So you send videos back yourself, things you think he’d find funny. Learn the shape and tells of his moods, through shared reels and quick photos of places you’ve never been. You know you’re playing with fire, gazing up at a comet that’s heading straight towards you and hoping that it’ll just dissolve or burn out all on its own if you just let it run its course, rather than have it alter you forever.
Rachel is still giddy whenever she talks about the party even days later, keeps mentioning her and George getting closer – having exchanged numbers and now texting once in a while. She’s apparently yet to talk him into meeting again, but he’s gone a lot, apparently having multiple races in a row. But it’s only a matter of time. Whether it’s a date, a friendly drink, or meeting under the guise of it being work-related, of wanting to have a look or go at his portfolio.
You make it a point to let her know whenever he does pop up in Monaco. Specifically, your place of work. It happens semi regularly, now that he’s officially expressed interest in taking on a role as Ambassador of the Institute. Part of you feels bad that he can’t even enjoy the Institute without immediately being preyed upon, people pulling him into meetings or wanting to document every step for the visibility of it all.
Which is why you find yourself caving the second he asks if you want to have lunch elsewhere after a particularly gruelling meeting to discuss preliminary research onsets, immediately stepping all over the boundaries of your own making.
“I’ll see if Ray can join,” you ask in a feeble attempt to do right by your friend. George shrugs, and motions for you to call her. When she doesn’t pick up, he doesn’t seem all that bothered. Neither are you.
And so the universe in which you might pass each other, but your paths never actually overlap starts collapsing bit by bit. For as much as you try to ensure his gravitational force never mixes with yours, never ends up winning the battle and pulling you in; it does, incrementally so, with every single text, voice note, and inconspicuous lunch.
“You know, you’ve never asked me,” George tells you from across the table, stabbing his fork into his salad as if it’s wronged him. You’re not envious of his diet, and the way he takes photos of his food – not because he’s a foodie, but because his nutritionist requires it.
You’re in the staff lunch room, which is absolutely empty on a Wednesday, so it’s just you and the aquarium quietly bubbling away in the back. There’s a cowfish rehabbing in there you think George would like.
“Asked you what?”
He swallows around another mouthful of salad. “To get you tickets to a race. To visit a Grand Prix. Visit my work, raid my lunch room like I do yours.”
“I don’t think I’d very much like your lunches, to be honest,” you reply sweetly. He kicks your leg under the table in retaliation, eliciting a squeal from you.
When you try to return the gesture, he just traps your leg in between his, and smirks. “Can’t let you do that – need my legs in tip-top condition. You’d know that, if you came to visit.”
George doesn’t let go of your leg. You pretend it’s normal to sit like that, foot tucked behind his calves. “I’m pretty sure if I visited a Mercedes garage the Prince of Monaco might revoke my visa. There’s probably a contract stipulation in there somewhere obliging me to support the one driver from Monaco.”
He snorts, then purses his lips. It’s his thinking face. You hate that you know what it looks like. Hate how endearing it is. “So you do know something about racing,” he accuses you.
“Ray’s the connoisseur, to be honest. But I’m afraid she’s a tifosa or whatever the Ferrari fans call themselves.”
“All the more reason to invite you and convert you into Silver Arrows fans,” he insists, letting go of your foot as he sits up, glint in his eye. “Although, between the two of us – I can understand supporting Lewis wherever he goes. He looks good in red.”
It’s your turn to laugh now, thinking that his offer isn’t actually serious. Except then he’s pulling up his calendar and showing you the schedule. “Choose a weekend. Whichever suits you and Rachel, I’ll take care of everything else. Perhaps it’d be a nice birthday surprise for her?”
He remembered her birthday. It’s actually quite sweet, you think, as you register the hopeful look on his face. Even as something curdles in your chest, you smile and nod – promising to take him up on his offer after speaking with Rachel. Your friend who can create chemistry at the snap of her fingers, and whose crush maybe isn’t all that out of reach. Maybe he’s just waiting for the stars to align.
You forget to show him the cowfish as he leaves.
As expected, Ray is deeply enamoured with the prospect of attending a race when you float the idea later that evening. You tell her of George’s thoughtfulness, and she smiles as her cheeks turn pink out of excitement. “He likes to play it cool then, I guess. But that’s fine, I can work with that.”
You nod encouragingly at her casual confidence and optimism. “It’s hard not to like him. Was going to introduce him to Andy, but I forgot. ”
Her eyes sharpen. “Cowfish Andy?”
It feels like a trap when you can’t help but answer in the affirmative. She hums, then tilts her head.
“Do you have a crush on George? It's okay if you do, I just need to know who my competition is, you know?”
To the untrained eye, the smile looks easy, but it comes with shark teeth. You'd know. You've seen your friend direct it at others throughout the years. Never at you, though. Perhaps she’s never really had to consider you before. Maybe she doesn’t even realise how that smile comes across, how obvious it is to you that this is nothing but performative. She doesn’t expect you to say yes. Doesn’t matter what the honest answer is, she’s not looking for it.
Because while you love her dearly, this is not her strongest suit. Sharing. But you are good at shrinking. At tapping out, taking a step back. Putting the treasured friendship you have over the potential crush that would surely fade anyways. Once the excitement would wear off.
Except this time it doesn’t fade. It lingers. Festers, more like, with every single text and invitation he sends your way. Every hidden smile, stupid wink, and shared dolphin memes.
But you don’t tell her any of that. Because George belongs to her. And as long as you don’t flirt, as long as you can keep your lingering looks to a minimum, can torture yourself by watching as she takes every opportunity to get close instead, then you’re okay.
You won’t act, aren’t nearly delusional enough to think George would want you in return anyways.
So you drawl out his name, as if you have to work hard to call up an image of who exactly she is talking about again – despite having met him for lunch that day. As if the lie leaving your lips next doesn’t let you test the way his name feels in your mouth. As if his blue eyes aren’t permanently etched into your brain.
“George? No, I don’t think so.”
a/n: MERRY CHRISTMAS everyone!!! Sorry about the delay, my grandpa was taken to hospital and this has been a very stressful month as a result... but he's doing better now (just in time for the holidays thankfully), and i finally got round to cleaning this up a little.
as always, appreciate any and all comments/likes/asks - so please lmk your thoughts <3
taglist (open): @marywantsttobattle, @mon-amee, @linnygirl09, @cassiansabs
gahhhhhh okay but alex???? omg how is it that girl is so blind to the fact that george is into *her* and not her friend? [also hello welcome back, happy christmas to you too queen]
hahaha yes! he will make another appearance in the next bit, because alex is not blind and he sees everything :) and considering he has no skin in the game apart from wanting to see george happy, he doesn't mind dishing out some hard truths when they're needed... and they might be needed soon...
omg not Andy the cowfish being what gives her away 😭😭
Andy the cowfish is so so so important to me!! Cowfish are such interesting weird little creatures - they're actually terrible swimmers but somehow have survived all this time lol because their skin's got toxins and they're actually super important to the maintenance of coral reefs!
Also they growl when they're stressed which is just so fascinating to me because while I can wrap my head around dolphins/whales making noises, I just never considered fish to make noises too. But they do!
But yeah, her best friend knows that she must've been enthralled by George a little bit if she was thinking of having him meet Andy the cowfish who's off on his own little rehab adventure in the lunch room of research staff. Regular visitors don't get the privilege of seeing Andy, so he must be special.
Then again, Rachel has no reason to not believe y/n when she says that there's nothing there and she's just being kind. We'll see how it plays out in the next part though!
