description: After befriending girl group, GIRLSET, you find yourself falling for Lexi. But as she begins dating your band's singer, you have no choice but to hide your feelings in your music.
ghost
mast. | next
“Wait, you guys are where?”
Khalil's voice faded as he walked away, phone pressed to his ear. He handed off his microphone to a staff member without breaking stride and disappeared around the corner.
The rush of post show activity filled the space he left behind.
Cases rolled across concrete floors. Crew members wove between one another carrying coils of cable over their shoulders. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed loudly enough to cut through the noise before it dissolved back into the hum of backstage.
You tipped your head back and finished the last of your water.
When you lowered the bottle again, your attention caught on a flash of silver.
A woman stood near the wall.
The glow of her phone lit the edges of her face. Dark hair fell over one shoulder. Every few moments she brushed a loose strand behind her ear, only for it to slip free again.
She glanced up. Not at you, past you.
Searching.
That’s when you realized who exactly held so much of your attention. It was Lexi. You’re fairly sure it was at least. Khalil had spent the better part of the last week talking about how he managed to invite Girlset to the show. Camila's name came up most often, but the others had surfaced in conversation too. A photo here. A story there. You remembered seeing Lexi somewhere among them.
Her gaze moved across the room before returning to her phone. The silver chain at her throat caught the light when she shifted. You looked away.
Then back.
She was probably looking for Khalil.
The thought settled somewhere beneath your ribs.
A stagehand excused themselves between you carrying an equipment case. When the path cleared, she was still there.
Just say hi.
Simple enough. No need to make it weird. People introduced themselves every day. Yet your feet remained rooted to the floor. Maybe there wasn't any reason to.
Khalil invited them. Khalil would find them. You could save yourself the awkward conversation entirely.
The idea felt reasonable until she smiled at something on her screen. A small smile. One that was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Before you could reconsider, you started walking.
The distance wasn't far. A few people crossed between you and her. Someone carrying lighting equipment. A crew member pushing a flight case. You slipped around them, suddenly aware of your heartbeat beneath the lingering adrenaline from the show.
What were you supposed to say? Hello, maybe? Every option sounded strange by the time you reached her. Then her eyes met yours. Too late to turn around now.
“Um, hi. You're Lexi, right?” Her attention lifted immediately.
“Yeah.”
You nearly forgot to offer your hand. “I'm Y/N. I’m a big fan of yours.” Recognition finally flashed across her face.
“Hi! Oh my gosh, thank you. I thought you did amazing up there tonight." Her hand slipped into yours. It was warm. Soft. The compliment landed harder than you expected it to.
The handshake lasted only a moment before you remembered to let go.
You looked away first.
“Thanks, you too–” The words escaped before your brain caught up. You stopped.
“I mean you weren't performing so just um– thank you,” you finished weakly. A laugh escaped her. Not a loud one. Just one enough to showcase the dimples in her cheeks.
“Well, thank you anyway.” A warmth spreads across your skin as silence settles in the air. You find yourself smiling still. For a moment, the noise of backstage seemed to soften around the edges.
“Are you here by yourself?” you asked.
“No. Khalil invited all of us.” She glanced down the hallway. “The others went looking for him.”
“That's unfortunate.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Why?”
“Because Khalil’s instructions will always add at least an extra 30 minutes to the trip.” Another laugh from both of you. The sound came easier this time.
“Good. I thought maybe I was just bad at directions.”
“Nope, that's all on him.”
The conversation settled into something easier after that. Not effortless. You still found yourself thinking too carefully before speaking. Still caught yourself noticing things you probably shouldn't. Like the way she listened when you talked. The way her attention never seemed divided even when people moved around her.
Most conversations backstage felt temporary. People constantly in a rush to say what they needed and leave but Lexi didn't. She listened as though she genuinely wanted the answer. It made you want to keep talking.
“Ah, finally!”
Both of you turned. Khalil appeared around the corner with three girls trailing behind him.
“There they are,” Lexi said.
“See?” Khalil pointed triumphantly at the group. “Perfect directions.”
“You literally sent us in a circle,” Savanna said.
“Same difference.”
Kendall groaned. Camila looked seconds away from pushing him back down the hallway. You stepped aside as they joined the group.
Introductions followed quickly.
Savanna's handshake was firm. Kendall smiled warmly and immediately asked how long you'd been touring. Camila informed Khalil that he was banned from giving directions forever.
“That's dramatic.”
“You didn’t even find us, security did,” she argued.
“Oh, was it Markus? I love him.” Everyone couldn’t help but laugh at his response, but you found yourself looking toward Lexi before anything else.
“Anyways, come on,” Khalil said, “There are even better places to be than here.”
The group started moving. Conversations split apart and reformed naturally as everyone walked. You ended up beside Kendall for part of the trip. You talked about how life was on the road for a band as there were many more moving parts that were harder to keep track of. She replied with a similar experience of her adjusting to her group's rigorous schedule. The conversation flowed easily. You didn't have to think about every word before speaking. You didn't have to wonder whether something sounded stupid. You just talked.
Then, Lexi joined the conversation, and suddenly you became very aware of yourself again.
=
The lounge was quieter than backstage. Dim lighting, worn couches, and a scattering of tables pushed together near the far wall. Your other band members were already talking amongst themselves before you all arrived. After more quick introductions, everyone settled wherever they found space. The girls sat comfortably next to each other and the room filled with overlapping conversations.
You drifted between discussions easily enough. The others were easy to talk to. Like people you'd known longer than an hour, but every so often your attention snagged on Lexi.
Not because she demanded it. Quite the opposite, actually. She listened more than she spoke, and when she did, everyone seemed to pay attention. You noticed how she laughed before finishing some of her sentences. How she remembered details from stories people told. How she made space for quieter voices whenever conversations became crowded.
At one point Savanna was halfway through telling a story before getting interrupted.
Lexi gently redirected the conversation back.
“Wait,” she said. “You never finished.”
Something easy to miss, but you found yourself remembering it anyway. The longer the evening went on, the more relaxed you became. But every moment Lexi looked your way, it was as if you had never learned how to talk. Then every thought seemed to arrive all at once.
You lost your train of thought halfway through a story, forgot where you were going with a joke, and nearly launched into an explanation about audio equipment that nobody had asked for. Still, she smiled through it. The knot beneath your ribs loosened a little more each time.
Outside, the venue had begun to quiet.
The crowd was gone now. The show was over.
Yet when someone checked the time and groaned about needing to leave, disappointment flickered through you before you could stop it. You glanced across the room. Lexi was laughing at something Camila said. The silver necklace at her throat caught the light when she tilted her head back. You looked away.
As the a guitarist and lyricist behind a rising band, you've always been better at putting feelings on paper than saying them out loud. When your group befriends the girl group Girlset, you find yourself falling for Lexi, only to watch her start dating your bandmate instead. Determined to keep your feelings hidden, you pour them into your music, never realizing the songs would become your biggest giveaway.
warnings:
this is purely a work of fiction and is not a depiction or accurate representation of any person mentioned.
tags:
18+ | lexi x trans male!reader | mentions of dysphoria || jealous!reader | explicit scenes | angst-ish | comfort | cheating
chapters:
i. thank you LA
ii. please don't call yourself a rizz god
iii. pay per view
synopsis . . . after a bitter and chaotic divorce, daniela and you can’t stand being in the same room — but for the sake of your little girl, you would do anything, including agree to couple’s therapy. it starts with weekly sessions of torture that relives the past and turns into the discovery that hate isn’t always the opposite of love.
trope . . . exes to lovers • enemies to lovers • romcom.
you and daniela never meant to have a baby at sixteen. but what you thought to be your worst mistake, turned into the light of your life — elena avanzini, your perfect baby girl. daniela and you raised her together and, against all odds, you both built a life that actually worked. for a while, at least.
after four years of marriage, everything began to fall apart. every conversation became an argument, every little misunderstanding turned into a fight. until daniela’s one final mistake shattered what was left of your marriage. now, divorced and barely able to stand each other, you are forced back into the same room for the one reason you can’t walk away from: your daughter.
to learn how to coexist, couples therapy is a good option… if you don’t kill each other in the process first, or even worse; fall in love again.
question no. 1
how did you choose your username when you joined tumblr?
athough simple, we are just kicking off the games. expect more moving forward for your host.. the answer is simple. i am asking questions to katsblr.
♫ ⟡﹒ leave the door open by bruno mars & anderson paak, heart of a woman by summerr walker.
painter!manon who is always sketching new works in her sketchbook. sometimes they’re statement pieces, sometimes they’re a spark of ideas; but most of the time they’re from you!
painter!manon whose first painting was of you. you were facing the setting sun, hair blowing in the wind as your arms were outstretched and hitting the breeze. that same easel is raised high in your house, a reminder of her love for you.
painter!manon who loves bringing you down to her workshop when she paints. usually she’d work alone, but with you there it seems she can focus more. however, there are instances in which she can’t take her eyes off of you.
painter!manon who loves having you ride her thigh. she has so much access to your body, and will squeeze and caress any part of you.
your breath was shallow, her lips finding your neck instantly. manon’s hand found the back of your neck, holding you tight as her other hand hooked around your leg, hoisting you down onto her thigh. you let out a breathy whine, her fingers grazing your body. manon’s lips left your neck, her eyes dark and wide. she guided your hips back and forth, her grip steady but firm.
painter!manon who is very creative when it comes to her paintings. she takes a while to come up with an idea, wanting everything to be perfect before she finally dips her brush in.
painter!manon who has almost 100 easels in her workshop. most are drafts or mess ups, and she keeps them to analyze mistakes she’s made so she can avoid.
painter!manon who is very observant. she notices the tiniest details in anything; from a color streak on a mural to the way your attitude changes, manon isn’t afraid to call it out.
painter!manon who takes her time with you during intercourse. she’ll press her forehead to yours lightly, her breath airy and quiet as she gazes at you.
“that’s it my love, take it. you’re so pretty like this, so gorgeous f’me.” manon’s voice was low and husky, her fingers sliding in and out of you slowly. your body was arched into hers, your eyes constantly rolling back as she curled her fingers. your hands gripped her shoulders, her lips finding yours as she sped up slightly.
painter!manon who, when you finish on her fingers, has you suck on them. it’s an intimate thing for her, seeing you whine at the taste of yourself.
painter!manon who wants to make a mural dedicated to you for your 5 year anniversary of moments between the two of you.
painter!manon who loves when you give commentary on her art. whether it be something she improve or just a compliment, it makes her heart soar that you care so much about her passion.
painter!manon who teaches you how she paints sometimes; it’s the cutest thing.
painter!manon who claims you are her muse, her inspiration; and you love it.
painter!manon who can’t go a day without telling you how much she loves you.
hey friends, as the owner of katsblr korner, i just wanted to come and spread some word like many of my other friends are doing. recently, we have been informed that two active members of our server have been lying about their age. one being too young to even get a job, eyeball who i know most of us are very aware of. though there is more i would like to say about him , being more personal to me, but thats not important rn.
it sucks that me and ven made this server to spread love and create unity and a sense of belonging in this community, while making it very aware that it’s only a 18+ server.. and to have ppl ignore those rules and come in the server and continuously FLIRT and making explicit jokes, being the main ones at that is just soo distasteful and frustrating.
that puts all of us in such a bad place and i myself feel guilty and ashamed for flirting with someone who is not of age when they said they were.
i think you guys all should be aware of who these ppl are. eyeball from jorlandoforever and pluto @ plutoafterhours
PLEASE BE MINDFUL HOW DANGEROUS THIS CAN BE FOR THE ADULTS OF KATSBLR. this is such a serious matter and minors need to respect boundaries when we set them.
i try my hardest to keep my server positive and welcoming, but when ppl continue to lie thats what makes it soo hard.
my server is still welcoming and remain in peace with all that’s happening. i love evb in that server, i made a family and i will always have their back and protect them.
ik my good friend dak is posting something similar to this but i felt the need to say something as well. a lot of you probably know about the jorlandoforever account. i was one of the admins and we recently found out that eyeball and gecko are minors. none of us knew about this, we were lied to— some of us for months. when i confronted eyeball he avoided having a direct conversation with me and chose to deactivate the account immediately. i just wanted to bring this to everyone’s attention. always be mindful of who you’re talking to on the internet.
hey everyone, i know i haven't been the most active on tumblr the past couple of days. but i wanted to make an announcement/warning.
i've been in a discord server with most of katsblr. some of the conversations were eighteen plus with us playfully flirting with each while also thirsting over the girls and recommending smut fics.
while i've been in this server, i became friends with eyeball from the jorlando team and plutoafterhours. however i recently found out that the two of the are MINORS. within the server, the two of them were among us flirting with adult members like me, riri, leah and others.
i won't say their ages out of the sliver of respect i still have for them. but if you're not even able to get a job, you shouldn't be writing fanfictions about the kats boyfriends.
had i known a member of jorlando was lying about their age, i wouldn’t have written for them, interacted w them, or even been apart of the team.
if you're a mdni page, block them or whatever. if you guys are reading this, do better instead of lying about your age to adults.
pairing: model!daniela avanzini x f1driver!gp!reader
synopsis: monaco has a way of making everything feel like it’s about to become something else. when daniela, your teammate’s sister, walked into the paddock you felt it immediately.
content: MDNI. there’s plot and also SMUT. blowjobs, cunnilingus, backshots, size kink, big dick!reader, beefy!reader, unprotected sex, breeding, mentions of cock/pussy, dirty talk, drinking, sad talk, carlos sainz big brother, probably not a good portrayal of f1, taller!dani for plot reasons.
— now playing die for me by chase atlantic
the williams motorhome sits wedged between the barrier and the pit lane wall like it always does in monaco.
smaller than it looks on television, louder than anywhere else you've ever been, smelling permanently of tire rubber and industrial cleaner and whatever the caterers are burning two floors up.
thursday. practice day. the harbor shimmers behind the wall if you look up from the right angle, which nobody does, because looking up in the paddock is what tourists do.
and you're not a tourist.
you've been racing here since you were twenty.
all three seasons in this same garage, two podiums on this specific stretch of asphalt, and a reputation for going deeper into the hairpin than anyone has any business going. williams likes you for it. sponsors love you for it.
carlos sainz, your teammate, thinks you're slightly unhinged for it and he is probably right.
he finds you in the garage, leaning against your car's nose cone with your arms crossed, watching the mechanics work on the floor. you're in the team’s kit, navy williams polo, sleeves straining at your biceps, which is either a sizing issue or the gym has gotten out of hand. you stopped caring which one is it a long time ago.
"hey," he says. comes to stand next to you. "my sister's coming to the paddock today."
you don't look up from the floor.
"okay." you nod once, direct. almost disinterested.
"she's a model and probably won't care about any of this." he gestures at the garage, the car, the controlled chaos of two dozen mechanics doing their jobs.
you glance at him. "why are you telling me this?"
he gives you that look. the one that says you know exactly why.
you do know why. you have a reputation in the paddock that has nothing to do with your lap times.
"i'll behave," you say.
he doesn't look convinced. you return your attention to the mechanic on the floor.
you forget about what you said twenty minute after.
there's a technical briefing, then a debrief from the engineers, then a half hour where you're supposed to be eating something before the afternoon session but instead you're standing outside the motorhome with your phone, squinting into the thursday sun.
monaco during may has this specific quality of light; gold and almost aggressive, bouncing off every reflective surface in the paddock until the whole place feels overexposed. like everything's been turned up slightly past what it was meant to be.
you're reading something that isn't important when you hear carlos's voice from the paddock walkway.
and then you look up and see his sister.
she's taller than you expected.
not tall like you because you've got five or six inches on her easily but the model thing makes sense immediately. you observe the way she moves through the paddock like the space is slightly smaller than it should be for her.
she's wearing wide-leg white linen trousers and a dark fitted tank, thin straps, nothing complicated. a pair of oversized sunglasses pushed up into her brown, wavy, thick hair. simple silver earrings.
she looks like she got dressed without thinking about it.
her face, from where you're standing, is a lot. jaw, nose, the geometry of it. sharp in the right places.
she's looking around the paddock with an expression that isn't bored; boredom is lazy, and her face isn't lazy but something cooler. observational. taking inventory of everything around her.
you watch her do it.
carlos is talking to her. she nods. smiles at something he says, and the smile is warm, quick, real and reserved for him specifically, not for the paddock.
she hasn't seen you yet. and you can’t wait to make your presence known.
carlos spots you and waves you over. "this is my sister, daniela."
she turns and looks at you.
and there it is. that observational look, up then down, settling at your face with the sunglasses still in her hair and her chin lifted by half an inch. the adjustment is quick and she doesn't make it obvious, but you catch it. you're used to catching it.
"hi," she says.
"hi, i’m y/n y/l/n" you put your hand out. she takes it. her grip is firm, which you note, and her hand is cool from the water bottle she's been holding at her side.
"carlos didn't mention you were—" she seems to reconsider the sentence.
"what," you question, finding it amusing.
a small smile. "nothing." she drops your hand.
you feel immediately that she is going to be a problem.
"first time in monaco?" you ask.
"second. i came four years ago." she's looking at the pit lane, the cars, the controlled mess of it all. "it's smaller than i remembered."
"most things are, when you come back." you smile.
"most things," she repeats. not agreement. more like she's filing the sentence somewhere, turning it over.
"have you been to milan?" you ask. "for work perhaps?"
"milan, paris, new york. depends on the season." she looks back at you. the sun is doing something specific to her face, catching the angle of her jaw, the line of her nose and you are registering all of it simultaneously with the part of your brain that catalogs and the separate part that should probably mind its own business.
"do you always ask questions like a someone from the press, or is this specifically for me?" she questions, not bothered but amused.
you smile. slow, deliberate. "specifically for you."
she doesn't smile back. but something shifts in her expression. a small recalculation. like you've changed the math and she's running it again quietly.
carlos comes back from wherever he wandered. the moment closes. you let her slip away.
the afternoon session runs long.
by the time you're out of the car and through the debrief it's past six, the light is gone, the paddock beginning to thin. you shower in the motorhome and change into a clean dark shirt, nothing promotional, the kind of thing you wear when you're not being a brand.
and you're not thinking about carlos's sister when you head down to the hospitality level.
except you totally are.
the williams hospitality suite at monaco has glass panels along the back wall that look out over the harbor. the water in the evening is a different color than in the afternoon, it’s deeper, less gold, more indigo, the kind of blue that only exists in this specific city at this specific hour. the catering team has done a little more than usual with the tables tonight. it's monaco week. everyone performs slightly harder.
daniela is already there.
she's changed. a dark dress, some draped fabric that sits off one shoulder in a way that looks unplanned and a thin gold chain that catches the light when she moves. low black heels. her hair down and settled, the kind of looseness that takes effort to achieve.
the latina is standing with two of the williams comms team, holding a glass of white wine, and she's smiling at something one of them said, a real smile, warm and quick, the one she doesn't hand out to everyone.
you get a drink. you sit with your engineer and go over the next day setup in your head while you eat, because that is your job and the job doesn't pause for dinners.
you don't look at her more than necessary.
which means you look at her approximately fourteen times in an hour.
you notice, each time, that she doesn't look back.
you have spent your career in rooms full of people who don't look at you and it has never once registered as a thing worth noting.
the comms team drifts away. carlos gets pulled into something with the team principal at the far end of the room. daniela settles alone at the table with her phone face-down, wine glass in hand, and looks out through the glass panels.
you have no logical reason to do what you do next.
you pick up your drink and cross the room towards her.
she looks up when you sit down. doesn't say anything. she sets her phone down and waits. there's something in how she waits — like she knew you were coming, like she's already further along in this conversation than you are.
"how's the wine?" you ask.
"it’s fine." she folds one leg over the other. "how's the dinner?"
"also fine" you take a sip of your drink.
outside, the harbor is lit, the boats still on dark water, the buildings stacked and pale and illuminated behind them, monaco doing its particular thing at night where everything looks slightly fake because nothing that expensive is supposed to actually exist.
"what does it feel like," she says suddenly. "the car."
you weren't expecting that.
"depends on the day," you say.
"what about today?"
you think about the afternoon session. the heat rising off the asphalt in the tunnel. the way sound becomes physical in there. the car getting loose into the chicane and then catching, the exact sensation of the rear stepping out and coming back. three seconds of controlled falling. then the wall, then the instinct to hold the line.
"like something that's always about to become something else," you say. "you're right on the edge of the next thing the whole time. and then it happens, and there's half a second where you know you made it. and then you have to turn on the next corner."
she's looking at you. there's something behind her eyes and you don't know her well enough to name it. you are generally good at reading rooms. she isn't offering you any translation.
"i know what that feels like," she says and it doesn't sound like flattery. it sounds like a fact she's decided to share.
"i bet you do," you say. quiet.
you're closer than you realized, your elbows on the table, both of you leaning in without deciding to and the overhead light is low enough that you're inside it together. her chain catching at her sternum. her face is a few degrees of angle from yours.
she doesn't look away.
under the table, you feel her foot against yours. barely. the kind of contact that could be an accident.
it isn't an accident.
you don't move. neither does she.
carlos comes back to the table with something to say about the team and the room opens back up around you. you finish your drink. the evening moves. but her foot stays exactly where it is for the next forty minutes.
you are both perfectly aware of it without saying anything about it at all.
you find her again later.
it's near ten when the dinner starts breaking up and you slip out the side door of the hospitality suite onto the service terrace. it's a narrow strip of space behind the motorhome with two white chairs, a railing, the paddock below and the harbor beyond it.
the night doing that monaco thing where the darkness isn't quite dark because everything is lit from the lights of the city.
you've been up here before. when the rooms get loud, when the sponsor conversations go an hour past useful, when you need to be somewhere without walls or people for five minutes.
you're standing at the railing with your third drink of the night when you hear the door.
she doesn't look surprised to find you here.
"carlos is looking for you," daniela says casually. she comes to stand at the railing beside you, a few inches of air between your arms.
"carlos knows where i go."
she's close enough that you can see the city lights reflected in her earrings. she looks out at the boats, her forearms resting on the railing. the chain falls forward when she leans.
you let the quiet sit.
"what's your boat called?" she asks interested while looking at the harbor.
"princesa." you whisper.
she turns her head to look at you. something shifts in her expression.
"princesa," she repeats it a perfect spanish accent. looking at you like she's deciding what to do with that information.
"it’s quite a story," you say. "bought her three years ago. she's there." you point along the port to where the princesa sits; sixty feet, white hull, lit at the stern. not the biggest boat in there and not trying to be.
daniela looks at her for a long moment.
"she's beautiful," she says. quiet, and she means it.
"i know." you smile at her. memories of the day you bought it and named in honor of one of the most important person in your life, came rushing into your mind.
you're both quiet again. below, the building is thinning out, the lighting on the garages dimming to maintenance level. the music from the port reaches up here.
"how long have you been doing this," she asks. "formula one."
"since i was seventeen. karting before that." you put your drink down on the ledge. "my whole life has been this. every decision. every morning, afternoon and nights of my life"
"does that bother you? " she tilts her head.
you think about it. the real answer, not the interview answer.
"no," you say. "i chose it every time. everyday even when i didn't have to, i still chose it." you pause. "i don't know how to want something halfway."
she's looking at you now. not the same look from earlier in the paddock but softer, like she's adding something new to what she already has.
"no," she says, finally. "you don't look like you do."
the air between you is different than it was inside. smaller. the whole terrace is three meters wide and you are occupying it together and the distinction between the space that is yours and the space that is hers has gotten very unclear.
"tell me more about you," you say. "about your travels, about what you do there."
she's quiet for a moment. considering, you think, how much to give you.
"there's a studio in paris near the marais i've been going to for five years," she says. "the photographer there, an older woman, she's been working since the seventies and she's the only person i've ever worked with who shoots without telling you what to do. she just waits." daniela pauses. "most people can't work like that. they need direction, need to be told where to put their face. but she waits until you do something real, and then she takes it."
"and you can do that," you say. "the real thing."
"it took me a long time," she says. "to stop performing and just… be there." daniela pauses. "now it's the only way i know how to work."
you look at her profile. the line of her jaw in monaco’s lights.
"so right now," you say. "are you performing?"
you both pause.
"no," she says. she doesn't look at you when she says it. "i stopped about three hours ago."
something moves in your chest. you don't do anything with it.
you reach out and put two fingers under her chin. gently. turn her face toward you.
daniela lets you.
up close, her eyes are very dark and steady, and she's looking at you the way a photographer waits, like she's already somewhere past the pretense, already at the thing underneath.
"i have a bottle of something good on the princesa," you say. "and it's ten o'clock on a thursday in monaco."
she holds your gaze. the calculation happens fast; you see it, the decision assembling.
"how far is it from here," daniela says.
"eight minutes"
she looks at you for one more second.
"then let's go," she says.
the dock is quiet.
you go through the paddock exit badge-first, the security guard not looking up, then out through the rue de la piscine and down toward the port, the two of you walking close but not touching or at least not yet, that's a choice you're both making, letting the anticipation stay a little longer.
monaco at eleven smells like money and salt water and something floral from the hotels above the port. her heels on the dock boards are the loudest thing.
the princesa sits lit at her stern, fenders out, the water beneath her black and still. you step aboard first and offer her a hand down.
she takes your hand, and steps down into the cockpit light.
she looks around mesmerized by her surroundings.
the princesa has an interior that someone very good spent a long time on. it’s decorated with warm-toned wood, low lighting. there are books in the salon. an actual rug. a painting on the forward bulkhead that you bought at a small gallery in lisbon two seasons ago because it reminded you of something you couldn't quite name.
daniela takes it in with that observational expression. but something in her face is warm.
"i didn't know what to expect," she says.
"what did you expect?” you ask with curiosity.
"more mirrors," she says. "more things to look at yourself in."
"i spend enough time looking at myself on tv."
she laughs at that, real laugh, quick and unguarded, different from the ones she gave carlos at dinner. you grin at that.
you go below and open the wine, a white burgundy, the good one, the kind you keep on the boat for nights that earn it and when you come back up she's standing at the stern rail looking at the lights of the other boats and the buildings above the port, the whole lit-up dreamlike version of monaco at night.
you hand her a glass. she doesn't move from the rail.
"it's different from here," she says. "the city."
"always is, on the water." you stand beside her. you're close. the terrace back at the motorhome was three meters wide. this deck is narrower.
"do you sleep here?" she asks.
"when i can. not on race weekend, it’s too close to the paddock, team has opinions about my sleep schedule." you look out at the water. "but the weeks before and after. i'd live here if i could."
daniela is quiet. she takes a sip of wine and you watch her throat when she swallows, the chain catching.
"why princesa," she asks, with interest.
"my grandmother called my mother that. she called me that too, when i was small." you don't usually tell people that. it comes out uncalculated.
"my mother died when i was fifteen. the year i started taking the karting seriously." you pause. "it felt like the right name. something carried forward."
she turns and looks at you.
"i'm sorry, y/n" she says and means it; you can tell the difference by now, the weight of a real one versus a polite one.
"i know," you say. "it's fine. she'd have hated all this." you gesture at the boat, the port, the whole thing. "she thought racing was stupid and dangerous."
"it really is stupid and dangerous." her shoulders drop.
"yes, you’re right" you say shrugging it off "but here we are."
she sets her wine glass down on the ledge. she turns to face you fully now, closer.
"here we are," she whispers.
you put your free hand at her waist. just the palm of it, fingers at the curve, testing. she doesn't move back. she looks up at you with her lifted chin, her hand finds the front of your shirt.
you set your drink down next to hers.
and then you pull her in.
her mouth is delicate; you savor the sweet gloss on her plump lips.
she kisses you the way she moved through the paddock, like she's already past the opening question, already decided this is fine, already somewhere ahead of you.
her hands are in your shirt, fingers curled against your chest, and you have one hand at her jaw and one at the small of her back
you pull back. look at her.
"want to go below?" you say.
she looks up at you with hooded eyes and nods.
the princesa's master cabin is in the bow; a proper bed. white linen. a small porthole above the waterline that shows the black water and the lights of the port upside-down. a lamp on the forward bulkhead that puts out warm gold light.
she looks around the cabin with that same taking-in expression. then she looks at you.
you reach out and trace the chain with one finger, from the clasp at the back of her neck, over her collarbone, down to where it settles against her sternum.
she watches you do it.
"you've been looking at this all night," daniela says.
"it’s beautiful, it suits you."
"i know." her hands come up to your chest. palms flat, feeling the breadth of you. she takes her time.
"you're very strong," she says. not a complaint. information.
"is that a problem?” you whisper, your hands secured around her waist.
"no." she tilts her head back to look at your face. "i just want to feel all of it."
you bring both hands to her face and tilt it up and kiss her again, slower, the door is now closed, the boat rocking barely under you. she grips your shoulders and you feel the exact position of her thumbs.
you reach for the zip at the side of her dress. she helps shifts her arm, finds it with you. the fabric loosens and falls. she steps out of it without looking down, keeps her eyes on you, and in the lamp light daniela is breathtaking. you take a moment to appreciate her.
"what?" she asks, aware of her naked figured.
"nothing." you put your hands at her waist. "just looking."
the latina makes a sound that isn't quite a laugh and reaches for your belt.
“you know, staring isn't exactly the politest way to show appreciation." her hands works to unfasten your belt, her movements slow, almost teasing.
"but then again," daniela adds, her tone dipping just a little, "i don’t mind the attention." the latina mumbles under her breath "in fact..." her hands leaving your belt to run up your chest, feeling the texture of your shirt, "...i might even enjoy it."
daniela hands move to the buttons of your shirt, undoing them one by one. she takes her time, her knuckles occasionally brushing against your bare skin, sending a shiver up your spine.
“maybe I like knowing you can't keep your eyes off me," she murmurs. "it’s… flattering." the latina grins, undoing the last button and pushing your shirt open.
her gaze drops to your now bare chest admiring the sight of you. daniela’s delicate hands trace the lines of your chest muscles, her touch light but electrifying.
she lets out a soft sigh, her eyes flickering back to yours. "you're just so fucking sexy, you know that?" she says, stepping even closer. "it's almost unfair." she bites her lip, leaning forward to press a kiss to your collarbone.
you sigh loudly, your head dropping a little to watch her next movements.
daniela continues a path of light kisses up the side of your neck, her hands roaming across your shoulders, down your biceps, scratching your abs.
she hums softly in appreciation, feeling all your strength beneath her fingertips.
her lips reach your earlobe and she sucks gently, her breath warm against your skin. "so strong," she murmurs again, her hands drifting down to your hips, where she hooks her fingers into the waistband of your pants.
“you're too damn handsome for your own good," the brunette whispers, her voice thick with desire.
your hands work along hers as you help her remove your pants, sending the article of clothing pooling around your ankles.
daniela’s gaze drops to your lower half, her eyes taking in the sight, her cheeks flushing slightly. she lets out a soft breath, a hint of anticipation in her voice.
“what?” you smirk, your hand grabbing hold of your hard cock.
"you're so..." she starts, her words trailing off as her hand reaches out to cup your cheek. daniela’s fingers trace the edge of your jaw, her touch soft but deliberate. she steps forward, her body pressing against yours.
and then you watch daniela sink to her knees in front of you, her movements graceful and confident.
there's an air of excitement mixed with a hint of mischief in her eyes. her touch is firm, yet delicate as she wraps her hands around your length. you can practically feel the heat coming off her.
She looks up at you from under her lashes, her tongue darting out to wet her plump lips. “you know what they say—" she purrs, "bigger is better, right?"
you grin at her comment and daniela can’t help but return your same energy, her eyes sparkling with desire
then, as she takes you in her mouth, that look in her eyes turns into something a little bit devilish. as she hollows her cheeks, she looks up at you, waiting for whatever comes next.
your grip tightens around the back of her neck just enough to guide her, and daniela doesn't flinch, instead, she relaxes her throat and takes you deeper, her hands resting lightly on your thighs.
“mmh—" the sound is muffled by your cock in her mouth, like she’s laughing at you without saying a word. her fingers dig into your skin just a little, nails pressing into your muscles.
you moan her name without shame.
your thrusts grow quicker, more urgent; each push drawing a muffled gasp from daniela as she fights to keep up. her long nails dig deeper into your hips, her breaths ragged through her nose, but she doesn’t stop you.
you grab her long hair in your hand and go even deeper; the sensation of her warm mouth taking your whole length without any difficulty is driving you insane.
and just as you’re getting on the edge, she does something; flattening her tongue and humming, the vibration tearing another mown from your throat.
her eyes lock onto yours, dark with triumph. and you know she’s daring you to come.
the second your release hits her tongue, daniela's smirk grows even as she works to swallow every last drop of your cum. she pulls back slowly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, but her eyes never leave yours.
“you’re delicious, y/n” she grins “just as i expected”
the latina surges up onto her knees and kisses you hard, letting you taste yourself on her lips.
you finally push her to the bed taking off her tiny black underwear in the process.
she's warm under you and all you can think about at first, her skin against yours. she looks up at you with that dark steady gaze and her hair spread against the pillow.
daniela shivers as your lips brush across her skin, a soft gasp escaping as you shower her with kisses. her hands move to tangle in your hair, fingers clenching as she trembles beneath you. but then something in her eyes hardens and she bites her lip.
you know she wants more.
and so, you give it to her.
daniela arches beneath you, her breath hitching as your mouth moves lower, teasing. her fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding you close, like she’s afraid you’ll stop.
then you don’t tease anymore.
her hips jerk the second your tongue drags over her pussy, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat.
“fuck—" her legs tense, one heel digging into the mattress, the other hooking over your shoulder like an anchor.
every flick of your tongue, every suck has her squirming, her breath coming in ragged little pants. “y/n—" it’s half a whine, half a warning, but she doesn’t push you away. instead, her grip on your hair tightens, her thighs trembling as you work her toward the edge with precision.
you can feel that she's close, the tension wound so tight in her body. one more drag of your tongue along her folds, one more suck and a twist, and she's shaking, her breath coming in harsh gasps now.
she falls apart completely in your mouth. it’s wet, it’s warm and you swear it’s your favorite taste in the whole world.
daniela’s back bows, her fingers clenching in your hair, and the sound she makes are shameless. it’s loud, desperate, and so utterly wrecked that you can't help but feel satisfied of your performance.
her body is still trembling as she gasps for air, the aftershocks coursing through her as you continue. then you kiss her, tongue diving into her mouth, and she can taste herself on you.
she arches into the kiss, chasing it, greedy even now. her hands are everywhere, roaming over your skin, nails scraping your arms, like she's trying to mark you.
“díos, y/n” she chases your lips, pecking and biting
you kiss her neck. “you’re gonna ruin me, dani”.
she smiles. completely satisfied with your comment, she can feel your hard shaft pressing into her cunt. you need her. she knows exactly how to drive you insane.
daniela’s hands grip she sheets as she shifts to all fours. she looks over her shoulder at you, eyes dark with desire, her lips curled in a smirk.
"what're you waiting for, papi?" she purrs. "don't keep me waiting."
you almost short-circuited right there.
daniela arches her back slightly, giving you a perfectly clear view of exactly what's on offer and exactly what she wants. It's a shameless tease, and she knows what it does to you.
she shivers as your hands close around her hips, her back arching slightly more at the contact. she feels the heat of you pressed against her, and the anticipation makes her breathless.
her voice is low, almost a whisper, when she speaks.
"don’t be gentle with me," she murmurs. "i can take it."
the latina words send a surge of heat through you, and you adjust your hold on her hips, your fingers digging in just a little bit rougher than before. she can feel the change and her breath catches.
“are you sure about that?" you ask, your voice dropping to a rough whisper.
daniela shivers at the tone in your voice. there's something about it, the low whisper, the hint of warning that makes her heart race, her breaths coming in harsher pants.
"yes." her answer is immediate, "i'm sure. don't hold back."
she looks back at you over her shoulder, her expression a mix of confidence and excitement. it’s like she wants you to show her what you're made of.
daniela gasps as you finally push into her, her fingers clenching the sheets beneath her. you stretch her so good. her pussy walls are warm and the sensation is delicious and overwhelming.
"f-fuck—" her voice is already wrecked, her body arching back against you instinctively.
she doesn’t finish the sentence, because you start moving; her moans come in ragged bursts, her hips rocking back to meet each thrust.
"y-yes— like that, just like—" she moans as you pick up the pace. your hands guiding her hips to meet your thrusts.
“you’re so sexy like this, dani” you bit your lips while moving inside her.
daniela's cries grow louder as you drive into her, each thrust sending shocks of pleasure through her body. she bites her lip hard enough to leave marks, but it doesn't stop the moans from slipping free.
her hands grab on the sheets, twisting them into fists as she pushes back against you, matching your rhythm with desperate urgency. "papi, voy a—" she moans loudly.
the sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, mingling with her whimpers. her body trembles, legs shaking, she's close, you can feel she’s close, and she can't hold back anymore.
the latina’s body locks up as the climax crashes through her. a silent scream parting her lips before she finally finds her voice again in a sharp cry. her back arches impossibly deeper, pressing flush against your chest as she shakes beneath you.
you can’t hold back anymore and release all your cum inside her while still thrusting into her slowly, riding out you orgasm.
for a moment, neither of you speak. you both just stay there, catching your breath and trying to gather your thoughts. then, finally, daniela breaks the silence with a soft smile. with her head against your chest.
"...you didn’t disappoint me at all."
and she finally collapses forward, you slip out of her as she breaths heavily against the mattress, she turns her head just enough to glare at you through hazy, satisfied eyes.
“i’m glad you think so” you smile at her, your eyes locked on hers. you collapse next to her.
later she's on her back looking at the porthole.
you're on yours. your arm is around her and her head is on your shoulder and the chain is cold against your skin where it falls between you.
the boat rocks, barely. the harbor makes small sounds against the hull.
"i have an early flight," she says. casually.
"so you’re going back to paris" you knew it.
"yeah, paris." she whispers.
your heart beats a little too fast now.
"i don’t want you you to leave," you say. vulnerability is written all over your face.
daniela doesn't say anything. but she turns, settles in closer and puts her hand flat on your chest, over your sternum, the same weight as before except now you're in the bow of the princesa and the whole evening is stacked up behind the gesture.
you put your hand over hers.
you don't sleep for a while, lying there, the boat rocking under both of you.
you think about the corridor earlier. the displaced air when she passed too close. her foot under the table that she never moved. you think about her face on the deck, looking out at the harbor.
she breathes slow and even against your shoulder.
you close your eyes and let sleep consume you.
she's gone before six am.
you’re half-wake when the latina gets up. she’s careful, practiced, the movements of someone who has had early flights her whole adult life. the bathroom. the zip of her dress. the particular quiet of someone holding their breath so they don't wake you.
you let her think it's working.
you hear her pause at the cabin door. two seconds, three. four.
then the sound of her footsteps on the ladder. the dock boards. then nothing.
you look at the porthole. the sky is just starting to lighten past the port, the lights of monaco going amber in the early hours.
you sleep again. but without her in your arms.
carlos finds you in the garage at eight forty-five. coffee in hand, setup sheet in the other, a look on his face that you identify and do not acknowledge.
"had a good night?" he asks nonchalantly
"fine," you say. you take the coffee from him.
he doesn't push it. you like that about him.
you strap in at nine for the morning session and the helmet goes on and the paddock disappears, carlos disappears, the princesa disappears, the white linen sheets and the warm cabin and the chain cold against your chest disappear.
and it's just you and the car and the next corner. as always.
into the hairpin you brake later than anyone else on the grid.
you come out clean.
your phone is in your kit bag. you don't check it until after the debrief, after the shower, after the long conversation with your engineer about what you need to make the next session better.
one message.
unknown number:
you were right about the hairpin. it’s stupid.
you stare at it. you're standing in the corridor with your hair damp from the shower and your second coffee going cold as something very inconvenient is happening in your chest.
you:
you watched the whole session?
daniela:
maybe i did. tried to catch a glimpse of you.
you:
paris is one hour away from monaco by plane. six hours by car.
daniela:
are you asking me to come back or telling me you're coming to paris.
you read it twice. your heart rate increases.
you:
which do you want?
daniela:
i’m waiting for you, y/n. don’t make me wait too long.
you read it standing in the corridor in the williams motorhome with the paddock noise all around you. you put your phone in your pocket and go back to work.
but you're smiling because you know you’re booking the next flight to paris as soon as you win the monaco grand prix.
i personally feel like people on katblr turn a blind eye on the harassment from anons and it’s becoming quite repetitive.
we have anonymous people sending suicide threats to writers for simply existing (katseyeluv). yet you have the fucking audacity to say you want a better community, but turn around the minute we ask you to back up what you say.
because the minute the conversation becomes serious you hide, because you can just say that you want better community so no one bats an eye, but when we ask you to speak up? you stay silent. choosing not to engage because it feels safe.
i am truly so tried of seeing good writers deactivate or just stop posting cause of the toxicity.
to every single anon i simply just want to say that you are pathetic and a good for nothing fucking loser.
