SUMMARY: Franco can’t understand how you, the love of his life, could ever feel insecure—so he goes above and beyond to show you (and the world) how beautiful he thinks his girlfriend is. This can be read within the RYD universe or as a stand alone one shot!
WORD COUNT: 6.1k
WARNINGS: SMUT, 18+, MINORS DNI. Teasing, light dom reader/ sub Franco at the beginning dom Franco at the end, body dysmorphia/reader insecurity, worship, mirror sex, spanking, hair pulling, dirty talk/mentions of AFAB anatomy (reader has a vagina), use of the word whore, protected sex. Use of YN. Also the song doesn’t match the vibe of the story but I wanted to stick with the Måneskin theme lol.
A/N: Some more Franco content! I need some more time with the Oscar fic, plus I’ll be returning to regular life since the holidays are over soon, so I figured I’d tide you over with a spicy Franco one shot. Since (in my head at least) this is set in the RYD universe, I’ve included the same tag list, and I hope you all enjoy it!
She’ll never love you more than money and cigarettes
Every night’s a heartbreak
“You’re fucking beautiful,” Franco panted, his eyes trailing your curves up and down just as his fist squeezed tightly over the growing bulge in his pants.
Your cheeks were flushed red, almost as dark as the wine-colored matching lingerie set you now wore before him, leaving little to the imagination. You couldn’t help it—no matter how long you’d been with the Argentine, you still got bashful when he complimented you.
“I hope you know I mean it,” he began, leaving his spot on the bed to advance toward you. He gently brushed your hair away and kissed the top of your shoulder, looking up at you with his deceptively innocent doe eyes. “You’re the most perfect thing in the world to me.”
You smiled, blissful at the feeling of his touch. “It’s easy to say that when I’m standing in front of you in my new set.”
“I love you,” he said, as if it was as simple as telling the time. “So much. More than words can say. And I want you to remember that when you’re mad at me after I rip this off of you.”
He grabbed the strap of your bra, and you giggled, “You better not!” You playfully pushed him back on the bed. “No touching, not yet. Be good.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, obedient to only you. The grip you had on him was intoxicating.
You climbed up on the bed, straddling him, running your featherlight fingertips up and down his arms and chest.
“Mi amor,” he exhaled, “you are cruel to me.”
“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, sarcastic yet seductive.
“Don’t you dare.”
You laughed. If he thought a bit of teasing was cruel, he would not be having fun for the rest of the night.
But, of course, he loved nothing more than ravishing your body, evident by his labored breath, laying next to you when the deed was finished. He stared at you with awe, your eyes still closed. He listened as you tried to catch your breath, placing gentle kisses on the top of your arm and into your shoulder.
You just let out a little noise in response, feeling safe and comforted by his touch. When you two were alone, he always needed to touch you in some way, much to your dismay during the sweltering hot months of summer.
His kisses traced their way up to your neck, chin, and finally to your cheek, where he gently moved your hair out of your face to gaze on the gorgeous image of your face.
“I wish there were better words in English to explain how I feel about you,” he said, his voice low and genuine. “Something stronger than I love you. Something more than just beautiful.”
“You know I love it when you speak to me in Spanish,” you said, letting your eyelids flutter open to meet his gaze, only inches from your own.
“Yes, but I want you to understand what I mean.” He smiled softly.
“My Spanish is getting better.”
“It is, you’re doing great,” he joked, nuzzling his nose into your neck, leaving you in a fit of giggles. “You’ll be talking circles around me in no time.”
“I wish. You’re fluent in yapenese,” you joked. You playfully mocked his voice, “Mi amor, you are so beautiful, the light of my life—”
“Oh hush,” he said, smiling ear to ear. “You love it.”
“I do.”
“And it’s true.” He cupped your face, bringing you into a sweet embrace with a gentle kiss. “Join me in the shower?”
“In a minute,” you answered, as he got up from the bed and started the warm water. After a few more moments of rest, you got up, picking up the discarded items of clothing that now dotted the floor, thrown aside in the heat of the passionate moment.
You crossed the room to open the bureau and grab a fresh set of pajamas, before you caught sight of your reflection in the floor-length mirror.
You had gained a little weight. It was normal, you supposed; a natural result of your many nights out with your lover.
But you felt stuck in front of the mirror, your eyes rolling over the curves at the bottom of your stomach, what once was somewhat flat. Little thunderbolt-shaped lines now decorated the dimpled skin. And as you brought your arm up to grip the loose fat, you saw the extra flesh there too.
“Mi amor, you coming?” Franco called from inside the bathroom. You hummed in response.
You turned, noticing how the light caught every imperfection. The puffiness in your face, the roundness of your jaw, the lines and bumps and discoloration. You sucked in your stomach, seeing the surface flatten, then exhaled, watching with disgust how your body shifted.
“Amor?” Franco said, poking his head outside of the bathroom. Seeing you in front of the mirror, he crossed the room, finding his way behind you. He was covered only with a towel, wrapping his arms around your naked form and kissing your neck. But the sight of his flawless, athletic body behind yours did nothing to dismiss your insecurities.
“What are you doing, pretty girl, hm?” he asked, resting his head on your shoulder.
“I’ve gained weight.”
“Did you? I didn’t notice.” His voice was tinged with a genuine confusion.
“I look like I’m pregnant,” you said, gesturing to your bloated stomach.
“No it doesn’t,” he assured. “But if you want to be pregnant, we can arrange that.”
You ignored his attempts at banter. “I look gross.”
“Mi amor,” Franco began, his voice more serious. “Do I need to fuck you again to show you how beautiful you are?”
“Franco—”
“YN.”
You looked away. “You could be with a model.”
“I’m with you. And you’re perfect, and I love you with my entire heart.” You bit the inside of your cheek. He continued, “Look at me.”
You brought your gaze back to his. “Your body has changed a little bit, so what?”
“It’s easy for you to say. You’re an athlete.”
“That doesn’t matter. No more of this talk. You’re beautiful. End of discussion. Now, let’s stop wasting water and get in the shower.”
You weren’t really feeling any better. If anything, you felt worse, now self conscious of your nakedness as Franco ran his hands up and down the soapy surface of your skin. You wanted nothing more than to get out of the shower, put on your clothes, and bury yourself so deep under the covers that you’d forget that you ever even possessed a physical form.
And, much to Franco’s dismay, that’s what you did, turning away from him as you laid your head down to sleep. He pushed himself up next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. He tapped his foot on your leg, initiating you to throw it over his is like you usually did every night.
“You know,” he whispered, “this is when you’re supposed to pretend like you like me.”
“It’s not you, Franco,” you whispered back. “I love you. But it’s not something you can fix.”
“I know.” He sighed. “But that won't stop me from trying.” He placed a gentle kiss on the back of your neck, and you fell into a tense sleep.
Although Franco hadn’t initially noticed your physical changes, he now noticed your emotional ones. You wore loose clothing more often, as if to hide your body not only from the outside world, but from yourself. You skipped breakfast occasionally when you were having a really bad day. And now, when you made love, you wanted the lights out, preventing him from seeing the shapes of your body.
He knew that what you had said was true—he couldn’t fix this. No matter the amount of love he showered you in, he couldn’t change the way your mind thought when you looked at yourself in the mirror. And it broke his heart knowing that you couldn’t see the same version of yourself that he saw, the perfect girl who he loved so dearly.
Your pain was beyond his fixing, but not beyond his helping. If he had showered you in love before, it was monsoon season now. Flowers every week. More lingerie to model for him. Touching you nearly every second of the day. More sex than your body could handle.
Of course, you welcomed his affection. But none of it helped that wound deep inside of you.
It was at work, of all places, that he got the idea.
“We’ve got a meeting with the new sponsors today,” his manager explained as they quickly trotted down the long hallway to the conference room. “That luxury brand I was telling you about? I’ve sealed the contract, they’re just here to plan the promo materials.”
Now, sitting in the conference room, the brand representative explained it to him. “The idea for the campaign is risque luxury. We want something… elegant, yet dangerous. Formula 1 fans are the perfect audience. Most of the shots for the initial campaign would just be in-studio, and then, we’d need you to wear some pieces we provide at official Formula 1 events.”
“That all sounds fine,” he said.
“Great! We’re still looking for some more representatives for the women’s line, but when we find them, we can set up a date for the shoot.”
“Wait, like a female model? I’d need to pose with her?”
“For the first shoot, yes. And if we can get some shots of you and whoever we choose at official events, that’d be perfect.”
“Uh, well, I have a girlfriend. I can't just…be taking random women to events.”
The rep laughed. “Oh, it’s not like that. The models are all professionals. I assure you that no one would be trying to take you away from your partner.”
“If you all need a female model, why not just use her? We’ll be seen together a lot more than anyone else, no?”
His manager shot him a death glare. Was it highly unprofessional to be suggesting his own girlfriend for a job like this? Absolutely. Did he care at all? Absolutely not.
The rep asked, “Oh, does she model?”
“Eh… no, not professionally. But this could be her big break, no?” Franco laughed, and the rep did too, for obviously different reasons. But Franco was, unfortunately, serious.
“Does she have social media?” the rep asked, and Franco pulled up your instagram as the rep scrolled through.
“Well, first of all, she’s beautiful,” the rep said, clearly trying to be polite. “But, modeling is not just about being pretty.”
“Then why am I here?” The room erupted in laughter, but Franco hadn’t intended the statement to come out like a joke. “No, I’m serious. I drive Formula 1 cars. What are my modeling qualifications?”
“Well,” the rep began, carefully choosing his words, “you have the Latin American market in a chokehold—”
Franco cut him off. “My fans love her, too.”
The rep pursed his lips. “I’m sure they do.”
“Look, I’m not trying to be difficult—”
“Not at all,” the rep said, cutting Franco off as well. “Let me ask, though… is this a deal breaker for you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if we get a real model, are you saying you wont pose or be seen with her?”
Franco looked at his manager across the table, who was nothing short of fuming. He began, “You said the theme was ‘risque luxury.’ I’m not going to pose for risque photos with another woman, no.”
The rep sighed. Franco continued, “And honestly, I still don’t even understand why you all even want me to model for you. Nobody in Argentina can even afford these outrageous prices—”
“Okay Franco, that’s enough!” his manager said, a false happiness in her tone. She turned to walk the rep outside, saying, “This has been a wonderful meeting, we can’t wait to hear from you…”
Once he had exited the building, she returned, looked at Franco, and said, “I hope you know you just lost us that contract.”
“Did you sign me up to do a photoshoot with a random woman?”
His manager paused. “...It’s business, Franco.”
“C’mon,” he said, “you knew about this, and you didn’t say anything?”
“I thought you’d understand. Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do.”
“You knew that was too much.”
She sighed. “Yeah, okay, I took a gamble hoping you wouldn’t care and I lost. But that sponsorship money is coming out of your bonus.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to promote this overpriced shit anyway.”
“You’re the bane of my existence, kid,” his manager said, patting him on the back as she walked out of the room.
At the end of the day, all Franco could think about was coming home and collapsing in your arms. When his manager was mad at him—which was often, given his refusal to be media trained—it was his favorite way to destress.
So when he arrived home and collapsed on top of you, interrupting whatever mindless show you had been watching, you just smiled to yourself. As he exhaled, you placed one hand through his soft curls, and threaded the other under the collar of his shirt to scratch his back. He melted into your touch.
“Hello,” you said, placing a kiss on his head. “Long day?”
“She’s mad at me again,” he murmured, closing his eyes.
“What’d you do this time?”
“Why do you assume I did something?”
You softly chuckled, “Because I know you.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” he pouted.
“I’m sure it wasn’t.”
He sighed. “I fucked up a sponsor contract. But really, it wasn’t my fault! They wanted me to pose with a bunch of models to sell their overpriced jewelry.”
You hummed. “I thought you liked doing photoshoots?”
“They’re fun, yeah, when they don’t want me to touch random women,” he frowned. You could hear the genuine disgust in his voice.
“I think you’re the only man in the world who would turn down the opportunity to be surrounded by models,” you laughed.
He lifted his head up to look at you. “Seriously?”
“What?”
“Why would I want a bunch of random women touching on me when I have a girlfriend?”
You laughed again. “Because they’re models.”
He gave you a look of confused disgust and said, “Oh, hush, YN. You’re the only woman I want within a hundred feet of me at any given time.”
“There’s nothing wrong with acknowledging that other women are beautiful.”
He looked at you sternly. “Um, no. This is when you tell me I’m not allowed to look at, let alone touch, anyone other than you.”
“Franco, you know I’m not like that.”
“You are, though! What has gotten into you, lately?”
“I don’t know what you mean, I’m fine.”
Franco sighed. “No, you’re clearly not. What do I have to do for you to understand that you are the only woman in this world that matters to me? I don’t care what you say, you are the only one I want, the most beautiful girl in the world—”
He leaned up to kiss you, but you dodged his affection.
“Hey!” he protested. You got up from the couch, feeling overwhelmed by the whole interaction.
“YN, come back—” you just ignored him as you went back to your shared bedroom, barricading yourself in the attached bathroom and exhaling.
Franco was right. The insecurity had been eating at you for weeks, and somehow, Franco’s commitment to trying to make you feel better had made it worse. Most girls would be happy that their boyfriend (especially their young, famous, athlete boyfriend) wanted nothing to do with other women. But somehow, it just made you fear the worst—when Franco finally saw you as you saw yourself, and you became nothing more than just another one of the many women he ignored.
“YN, come out and talk to me,” you heard him softly plead from outside the door.
“I’m sorry, I just need a minute,” you said through the tears that welled up in your eyes.
“No need to apologize, take all the time you need,” he said. “But when you’re done, promise you’ll come talk to me about it?”
You took a deep breath. “Yeah,” you answered weakly.
“Okay,” he said. You could hear how he pressed his forehead to the door. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” Your voice was shaking.
You just needed 5 minutes to breathe and calm down alone. That’s what you told yourself as you took another deep breath and wiped away the tears that now spilled over the corners of your eyes.
“I’m okay,” you whispered to yourself. “I’m okay, it’s okay. It’s okay.” You’d say it until it was true.
When you'd finally calmed down somewhat, you still waited in the bathroom, not wanting Franco to see your puffy, bloodshot eyes, the evidence of your tears. But he knew you were crying. And he knew you’d keep your word and talk to him when you were ready.
He knew you inside and out. So when you silently emerged from the bathroom and found him in the kitchen washing dishes, he knew no words were needed. You slipped your arms around his waist and rested your head against his back as he turned the water off and dried his hands.
He turned around and met your embrace, holding your head beneath his chin and enveloping you in his strong arms. His tender touch brought the tears back.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologize.”
“No,” you corrected. “You’re so good to me. I don’t know why I’m like this.”
“It breaks my heart to see you hurting like this. Is there anything I can do to make it better?”
“Just hold me,” you said, burying your head deeper into his chest, smelling the familiar scent of his cologne and the warm comfort of his breath rising and falling.
The next day, Franco woke before you, spending a moment staring at your sleeping form before he had to get up and leave for the day.
He knew you had been struggling, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand how your mind saw something so much more different than his saw. It broke him to know you thought of yourself so negatively.
But he’d hold you all day everyday if it meant it helped even a little bit. He would do anything.
So, when your alarm began screeching and you lazily turned it off, he let you sleep in, simply pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before he went into yet another one of endless meetings with his manager before the season started.
She walked in and slammed a stack of papers on the desk. “I don’t know how you keep getting away with this shit every fucking time,” she said.
Franco raised a brow. Her tone wasn’t angry, as he expected, but rather…frustrated?
“The contract,” she continued. “The rep called me last night. They want you to do the campaign no matter what. They’ll let you do it with YN.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. We’ll have to get her in here to sign the contract, then we’ve got fittings and we still need to set the date for the actual shoot…”
His manager’s voice faded into the background as Franco remembered the previous night. The idea of you, dolled up in designer clothes posing next to him, had excited him at first. Now, he was unsure if that would just make things worse.
He had to be…deliberate in bringing it up. At home that night, as you two ate dinner, he decided to choose his words very, very carefully.
“So, you remember that contract I said I lost?”
“The designer stuff?” you asked. He nodded.
“Yeah. Well, I…actually didn’t fuck it up as bad as I thought I did. They still want us to do the campaign.”
“That’s good. It’ll get your manager off your case.” Your gaze drifted to the plate of food in front of you. The unspoken question lingered in the air.
“Please don’t be mad at me—” he began, but you cut him off.
“Franco, you’re a professional. I trust you.”
“Well, um… they want you to model.”
You looked up at him, perplexed. “Me?”
“I showed them your social media.”
“And they want…me. To model for them.”
“Well, they want you to do the campaign with me, yes. And wear a dress of theirs to a fancy event or two.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a model. And all my followers are just your fans, anyway.”
“Other driver’s girlfriends have done it, why can’t you?” He put down his fork and looked you in the eye. “YN, I think this would be a great thing. I can show you off to the world, and they’ll dress you up and make you feel beautiful. You’re beautiful without it, of course, but you know what I mean. I can’t make you say yes, but I’d love to do this with you.”
You took a beat to think. You couldn’t deny that you wanted the experience of going to lavish galas in designer gowns and seeing Franco grace the covers of magazine and social media home pages. Besides, you thought, if you truly looked bad they could just photoshop you to hell and back.
“Okay,” you answered, “let’s do it.”
So, a few weeks later, you found yourself in one of those cloth chairs that you had only seen in movies, having powder liberally applied to your face by a makeup artist.
“The heavy makeup is just for the lights. They’re warm and harsh, so it’ll drown you out and make you look greasy if we don’t apply this much.”
You hummed in response, afraid to move your face. “I can tell this is your first time,” the artist said. “Just relax and let us work our magic, yeah? When they all say celebrities are fake, this is what they mean.”
You would have chuckled if you weren’t already sweating with nervousness. “Close your eyes,” she said, and you obeyed, only flinching as she generously sprayed setting spray over your makeup.
“Alrighty, off to hair for you.”
Hair was the same—a nervousness that clearly identified you as an outsider to this world of glitz and glamor. You coughed when she nearly drowned you in hairspray.
Then it was time for the final touches, the dress and jewelry.
You gasped as they brought it out. A long silver satin gown, custom measured to hug your curves perfectly. Your neck was adorned with diamonds, your lips blood red, your hair falling in soft waves over your shoulders.
When you finally made it into the studio, Franco was already there, clad in a simple yet elegant black suit to contrast against the shiny fabric of your dress. He wasn’t facing you when you first entered, but hearing the click of your heels against the wooden floors, he turned and stopped in his tracks.
“Oh my God,” he exhaled. “You look…” He was, quite literally, speechless.
You let out an awkward laugh, unused to having so much attention on you.
“Amazing!” the brand rep said. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
And that, you did. The first shots were simple: you resting your arms on a chair while Franco sat, looking off into the distance, his perfect side profile on display. Both of you staring down the camera, arms placed in dynamic positions.
Then you switched to the more sensual shots. Franco kneeled before you, kissing your hand, allowing you to show off the ring they had placed to contrast your black gloves. Another one, a shot of you holding his cheek as he gazed up at you in admiration.
Then you switched, with him taking the more dominant role in the poses. His hand around your neck, showing off his own ridiculously expensive rings, as you tilted your head upwards towards him and he glared at the camera. A shot of Franco holding you up against a wall; his arm was draped above you to show off a watch, but his other hand found your waist and his head was turned as if to kiss you while you stared at the camera.
“Okay, play with the pose a bit,” the photographer instructed. “Let’s get some candids.”
You turned away from the camera, trying to ignore the incessant clicking and flashing in the background.
He smiled. “Hi, pretty girl.”
“Hi,” you replied, smiling as well. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”
Franco leaned closer to your ear to whisper, “I really want to rip this dress off you.”
“Franco!”
“Oh, that was good!” the photographer yelled. “Whatever you said, do it again, her expression was golden.”
You laughed as you both repositioned, standing in front of the dark backdrop.
“How much will it cost if I damage this dress?” Franco asked, looking at the photographer.
“Probably more than quadruple my salary,” the photographer laughed. “So please don’t.”
“But I have an idea. Just hear me out.”
Franco leaned down and gripped the strap of your dress in his mouth, eliciting a gasp from you and a thousand clicks of the camera.
His most bold suggestion, though, was the shot from the floor; he laid down and had you crawl on his chest and kneel above his head, draping his shoulders in the luxurious fabric and showing off your bedazzled garter beneath a silt in the dress. Though the photo would only expose a little bit of thigh, you couldn’t deny the rush of adrenaline that the position gave you.
When the shoot was over, it hurt your heart a bit to have to take off the dress and jewelry. Franco could tell. A sad smile painted your face as they carefully removed the diamonds from your neck and ears. But the one that hurt most was the gorgeous diamond ring, which you gently slipped off your gloved finger with a pang of sadness.
Franco was right; it had been fun to dress up and show off, but it was over now. So you said a silent goodbye to this false world of luxury as you walked off to the dressing room, and Franco went over to the brand rep who was packing up your jewelry.
“A lovely job, both of you!” he said. “I’ll admit, I was hesitant at first, but you all definitely proved me wrong. These photos will come out amazingly.”
“How much is the ring?” Franco asked, gesturing to the lockbox that it was now hidden away in.
“Ah, I could tell she liked it. Are you thinking of popping the question soon?”
“Ah, well…” Franco said, nervous now. It hadn’t occurred to him that it was an engagement ring.
The rep laughed. “Well, this one’s from the new collection, expertly crafted. Usually goes for around $130,000, but that’s just with the base without any modifications.”
Franco choked on his own saliva. He certainly wasn’t making that much money yet, and besides, he didn’t know if his little working-class heart could ever justify spending that much money on a shiny rock.
But for you? Anything.
The rep could sense his hesitation. “Well, if you decide to go for it, here’s my card. Maybe we can work something out.” Franco nodded and accepted the card, stowing it away in his wallet after he changed out of his suit.
Once you arrived home, the mountain of makeup and hairspray that you were both still covered in acted as the perfect excuse for a shower together.
As Franco lathered shampoo into your hair, he whispered, “You looked beautiful today.”
You smiled. “I felt beautiful.”
The photos were released a few weeks later, sending the internet into chaos.
YN!?!?!?! CAN FRANCO FIGHT?
Does YN know that we’d all kill to be her right now
The hand placement!! The look in his eyes!!! That man is IN LOVE!!!!!
You chuckled to yourself as you read through the comments on your Instagram post.
You saw the most important comment: the one from Franco.
Eres el amor de mi vida <3
You felt butterflies rise up in your stomach as you tapped the little heart to like the comment, as if that same man wasn’t taking you to the F1 Grand Prix Gala in Monaco tonight.
You wanted nothing more than to walk in on his arm, basking in the glow of the photoshoot. It wasn’t just the glamor of the shots or the makeup that made you feel better; it was Franco. The way he looked at you like you were a goddess—you finally understood what he meant when he said he wanted you to see yourself as he saw you.
As you donned the loaned dress from the same brand—less extravagant than the gown from the shoot, but still gorgeous—you were so thankful you had let Franco talk you into this.
Everyone was abuzz at the event, and you were getting kudos left and right from strangers, which was slightly embarrassing, but you soaked in the attention anyway. But the best feeling was your lover’s hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the crowded ballroom.
You stepped out onto an empty balcony, drinking in the clear night air, now alone from the crowd. Of course, he followed like a lost puppy.
“Mi amor,” he said as you leaned against the ledge, “I don’t know what’s more beautiful, you or the night sky.”
You smiled and rolled your eyes. “That’s too much, even for you.”
“Maybe,” he joked. “And, maybe, we should get out of here. I’m tired of pretending to like all these old rich people.”
“That sounds lovely.”
You two sped home, where Franco wasted no time taking off your dress and decorating the floor with it.
“Let me worship you,” he said, grazing his lips over the soft flesh of your thighs.
“Don’t you already?” you joked, evidence of your returned confidence.
“I do,” he said, “because you’re divine. I want to taste you.” He grabbed your panties with his teeth, pulling them down slowly, enjoying the burning desire you both felt as his skin grazed against yours.
But even now that he had you fully undressed, he still teased you, gently kissing your thighs, looking up into your eyes with every kiss. You pushed his hair back, softly inhaling with every inch of skin that his mouth touched.
“Franco…”
“Mi ángel,” he exhaled. “Mi reina, mi cielo, mi vida.”
With a featherlight touch, he brought his mouth to your wetness, kissing your clit before rolling his tongue around the soaked bundle of nerves. Your breath hitched.
He brought two fingers to your entrance, teasing you until you were dripping with want for him. “You’re perfect. So perfect for me.”
His praise felt like your native tongue, the way your bodies and words naturally curved to each other, fitting together like you were made for this.
He echoed your thoughts, continuing, “You take me so well.” He curled his fingers to hit that sensitive spot inside of you that made you see stars, eliciting a moan.
“I live to pleasure you, mi amor.” He brought his mouth back to your clit, pointing his tongue and swirling circles around it as he pumped his fingers in and out of you.
You squirmed under him, overcome by the pleasure of both his hands and his words. As he continued his movements, he never shifted his gaze from you.
But you looked away, to the mirror in the corner that had been moved as you got ready. You had a perfect view of Franco pleasuring you, and God, was the sight beautiful.
Franco saw you looking and stopped, eliciting a frustrated whine from you.
“Come here,” he said, climbing on the bed. “Keep facing the mirror.” He positioned himself behind you, grabbing your chin to keep your face straight as you both gazed at your reflections. “I want you to watch me fuck you. I want you to see how perfect you look when I take you.”
You wordlessly nodded, loving the vulnerability of being at the mercy of the man who worshipped you.
As Franco unwrapped and put on a condom behind you, you studied the patches of red that colored your cheeks, flushed from your lover having nearly brought you to the brink of orgasm only moments before.
He spanked you and you playfully yelped. “Don’t you dare take your eyes off this mirror.”
“What if I do?” you asked. “Will you punish me?”
He spanked you again, the other side this time. “Don’t even think about it.”
Then, slowly, he placed his hands on your hips and found his way to your entrance, filling you with a swift but gentle motion. You both let out a low moan.
“Even your pussy is perfect,” he said as he began to move. “Taking every inch of me.”
“Yes,” you moaned.
“You feel so fucking good,” he growled, increasing his pace and intensity, making you scream. “I want to fuck this pussy every day for the rest of my life.”
His words went through one ear and out the other; you couldn’t focus with his fucking you into the mattress with every thrust.
You cried and closed your eyes, hanging your head as you tried to hold back the waves of pleasure that were building in your core. But Franco roughly grabbed your hair and yanked your head back up.
“What did I tell you? Look at yourself, getting fucked like the perfect little whore you are.” You loved it when Franco was a little rough with you, but combined with the praise, it nearly sent you over the edge.
“Now,” he said, slowing down his pace, “since you didn’t do what I told you, you don’t get to cum.”
You whined in protest as Franco pulled out, leaving you feeling cold and empty. “Please,” you begged.
He laid down on the bed. “If you want it, do it yourself,” he teased. “Ride me. If you want to cum, you have to watch as you make yourself cum on my cock.”
You didn't argue, instead just obeying and sinking yourself down on him. You watched in the mirror as he disappeared in you, mesmerized by the way your bodies connected.
His hands found your waist again as you began to bounce on him, chasing your release with an relentless pace.
“Fuck, Franco, I’m close—” you moaned, and you felt his hand come down hard on your ass again.
“Are you watching?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Tell me how beautiful you look.” If he had said this at any time other than in the heat of your passion, you would have cringed. But now, moments away from an orgasm, you obeyed.
“I fit perfectly on top of you,” you began with a shaky voice. “And I look…I look perfect riding your cock.”
“What else?”
“I look beautiful covered in your love bites.”
“Good girl,” he growled, matching your pace, fucking up into you. “My perfect, beautiful girl.”
With his final statement of praise, you shook, letting yourself drown in waves of pleasure as he continued fucking you through it.
He had switched back to Spanish now, babbling away what you assumed to be your praises as he chased his own orgasm, quickly finishing from the heavenly feeling of your walls gripping around him.
When you all collapsed in a pile next to each other, he threw an arm around you, wordlessly holding you in his embrace. His words could never truly make it better, he knew that.
But thankfully, his words weren't needed anymore. Now, you believed him.
CHAPTER SUMMARY: The end of the 2024 F1 season brings regret and a newfound desire for reconciliation—but is your relationship with Franco beyond saving?
WORD COUNT: 13k
WARNINGS: Sadness. Angry Hispanic mother. Creepy men in bars (not Franco ofc). Drinking, drunk Franco is a media menace. Use of the word whore jokingly. Smut 18+ MINORS DNI. Hickeys, hair pulling. Dom Franco and sub reader, use of good girl, light choking, Oral (m receiving), p in v, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!)
A/N: My baby is now complete!! I did not plan for this to be the ending originally, but as I was writing it just kind of came about, and who am I to anger the writing Gods? Honestly, though, the beginning of this chapter destroyed me trying to find a way to redeem Franco. Fun fact, I very loosely based my depiction of Franco off of my real life ex, which explains why he is so horrible lmao (but unlike my real life ex, Franco has been redeemed!). I cannot express how grateful I am for everyone’s support throughout the writing of this story. More to come, but for now, enjoy!
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4
All this love, I'm so choked up, I can feel you in my blood
All this lust for just one touch, I'm so scared to give you up
Valentine, my decline is so much better with you
Valentine, my decline, I'm always running' to you
Valentine, Valentine
The block button did nothing to assuage Franco’s obsession with you. In fact, it only made it worse.
If he hadn’t blocked you, he would at least know that you weren’t contacting him. But since he pressed the button, there was now the ever present question of if you had reached out, and if the digital barrier he erected had led it to be lost forever.
But why would you reach out after what he had done?
Truthfully, it took everything in you to not call him. You had both said things you didn’t mean—at least, you prayed that Franco didn’t mean them—and you wanted nothing more than to just make up and act like it never happened.
But the words kept echoing in your mind at night when you couldn’t sleep. You were a distraction.
All the years of supporting him, all the sacrifices you made—all for nothing.
You couldn’t help that you loved him. And the Franco you knew and loved didn’t mean those things. He couldn’t.
So you checked your phone’s international clock. It was still night where you were at home, but morning in Abu Dhabi, where he’d be completing his last F1 race tomorrow.
There was still time. If you called and made up now, you could be there for the final race. You could be there at the end, just like you had been there at all of his beginnings.
So you swallowed your pride, tapped on his name in your contacts, and pressed call. But it didn’t even ring before it hung up. You knew what that meant. He had blocked you.
At first you wanted to puke. You wanted to burst down the stairs of your apartment and run into the street screaming. You wanted to throw a bottle of wine on the walls and cry in the wreckage.
But after a few hours of getting all the crying out, a strange peace fell over you.
It was just… over. That was that.
In the morning, however, the grief came back from a familiar notification. His mother.
You had been putting off her messages ever since your argument with Franco. You couldn’t bear to tell her what had happened. But she was worried about you, evident by her increasingly concerned messages.
You finally gathered the courage to type up a response.
Hi Mami, you began—she had forbidden you to call her by her name, instead telling you to call her Mom—I tried to talk to Franco like you asked. It didn’t go well, and we both said a lot of hurtful things. It ended on bad terms and he ended up canceling all my passes and flights, and I think he blocked me. I’m sorry, I tried to get through to him. Thank you for all the kindness you’ve shown me over the years <3
You read over what you’d typed. It was honest. You could have spared her more of the details, but why? Franco would have to live with the consequences of his actions. That wasn’t your problem.
It was only a few moments later that she responded. Oh dear, I am so sorry. I am ashamed of Franco—that is not the son I raised. I hope you know we all love you, and I wish you all the best.
You liked her message and left it at that. But she called you later that night.
She began, “YN, words can’t describe how sorry I am. What happened?”
“I… I don’t know,” you began, carefully choosing your words. You weren’t quite sure how much you wanted to tell her. “He was already upset when I got there. He kept accusing me of lecturing him, but I was just trying to tell him I was worried. He said… that I was a distraction.”
“I can’t believe him! You have never been a distraction. You’ve been there for him when we couldn’t, we’ve always been so grateful for you.” Her admission nearly brought tears to your eyes. “I just… Dios Mio.”
The conversation was short, but vulnerable.
“YN, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You had feelings for him, didn’t you?” She asked it as if it were a statement, rather than a question.
You were silent for a beat before answering. “I did. I… I do.”
“Oh, dear, I wish I was there to give you a hug.” You could feel the care in her voice, a soothing comfort. “I want you to know you’re always welcome here, no matter what my idiot son says.”
You chuckled, thanking her for her kindness before ending the call. You were truly grateful for her invitation, but you couldn’t imagine being in Argentina without Franco. The call had felt more like a farewell.
In Abu Dhabi, Franco was having his own farewells. It was bittersweet; he had worked so hard for so long to get here, but he couldn’t wait for it to be over. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. He just wanted to go home.
Home—the only place he felt like he had left. His Madrid apartment would feel empty without your laughter echoing in the halls. But back in Argentina, the people still loved him, and he could come back to a warm, home-cooked meal.
It was the only thing on his mind as he was forced to retire the car early, ending his last F1 race of 2024 with a DNF. But he didn’t care about that at all when he stepped off his flight from Abu Dhabi to Buenos Aires.
Unfortunately for him, what was waiting for him at home was not peace and a warm meal. It was a very angry Hispanic mother.
He came through the door, jet lagged, struggling with his luggage. She didn’t help him.
When his father and sister ran up to give him a hug and help him in, she didn’t move an inch. She just stayed in the kitchen, silently chopping vegetables with her recently sharpened knife.
After putting away his bags into his room, Franco made his way to the kitchen to greet his mother, who didn’t even look up from her cutting board.
“Hi Mami, I’m home,” he said tentatively.
“Welcome home,” she replied, no warmth in her voice.
“Aren’t you excited to see me?” he joked. He knew he was dodging landmines. He knew she had every right to be angry—he had gotten caught up in everything after Singapore, and after his controversy, he had been dodging her calls and texts, other than to arrange plans to come home for the holidays. Others may have gotten over their frustration, or chose to ignore it for the sake of the holidays. She was not that kind of woman.
“Oh, I’m thrilled,” she said, her voice flat. “Dinner is almost ready. Can you set the table for five, please?”
“Five? There’s only 4 of us.”
“Well, isn’t YN going to join us?” She already knew the answer. She just wanted to see him squirm as he answered it. He had nowhere to run anymore.
“Uh… no. Not this year.”
“And why would that be?”
“She’s, uh, busy.” His mother didn’t respond. He had to fill the awkward silence. “And she’s probably mad at me…”
She paused, holding the knife in an iron grip. She lifted it from the cutting board to point towards him. “And why would that be, Franco?”
“Mami…”
“Do not lie to me.” Her voice was cold as ice.
“Mami, it’s complicated. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to enjoy the holidays and forget about this whole season.”
“I’m sure you do,” she concluded, not an ounce of sympathy in her voice. Franco sighed, getting down the plates to set the table for his family. But he stopped in his tracks when he turned and felt a slipper to the back of his head.
“Ah! What was that for?” The blow didn’t hurt anything but his ego.
“You know what you did,” his mother seethed. “You can’t run from this forever. Now get out of my kitchen.”
Franco obeyed, muttering under his breath.
“What was that?” his mother asked.
“Nothing!” he chirped, setting the plates on the table.
During dinner, it wasn’t any better. His father and sister, oblivious to his mother’s rage, chatted as if nothing had happened. They had been angry at his…questionable dating decisions, yes, but they clearly had let it go in the meantime and decided to just enjoy the time together as a family. His mother, however, had not.
And whenever anyone asked about it, she said she was fine. But she was clearly not fine.
As Franco took the dishes into the kitchen to help clean up after dinner, he sighed, knowing that his mother was right. He couldn’t go the entire holiday ignoring it—she would make sure of that.
He couldn’t sleep that night. The bed of his childhood home was warm and comforting, but he couldn’t relax under the weight of it all.
Maybe some fresh air would do him good. That’s what he reasoned when he slid open the back door and inhaled the cool night air. He sat cross legged on the back terrace, just taking in the sounds of the serene night.
That was, until he heard another person closing the door behind him. His mother.
“Not now, Mami,” he said, not even turning to look at her.
“I’m not going to chastise you.” She handed him a mug of something warm. For a moment they just sat next to each other, sipping their drinks in silence.
Franco began to speak unprompted. “YN has every right to be angry at me. I…ruined everything. I was so cruel to her.”
His mother just gave him a reassuring hum.
He continued, “She had feelings for me. I know I should have known it sooner, but I was in denial. But I had feelings for her too. And I got distracted. But it wasn’t her fault. I was so worried about my future that I ignored how she had always been there in my past.”
The mug in his hands trembled and his voice wavered. “She was always there for me. Every race, every win, every failure. She was always there.”
His mother reached for him, lovingly stroking his back as he confessed.
“She probably hates me now. I don’t blame her.” A tear fell into his mug. He turned to look at his mother, her expression far more sympathetic than it was at dinner. “Can I fix it?”
“I don’t know. But first of all, you owe her an apology.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. Because if you did, you would have already done it.” He was silent. “It’s possible that she will forgive you. Or, she may not. You have to accept that.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“Franco,” she began, “you did this. You have to suffer through the consequences of your actions. And if you are lucky enough that she forgives you and wants you back in your life, it’ll be a hell of a lot of work to regain her trust.”
He nodded. “I’ll do it. I’d do anything.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
He paused. “I’m scared. Scared that it really is beyond saving.”
“The longer you wait, the more likely that is to be true.”
This time, he actually knew what he needed to do.
Neither of you knew the parallels between you two; each of you pining for the other’s love, wanting nothing more than just to speak to the other. And when he unblocked you and called, it was like the stars aligned.
You didn’t answer.
He didn’t panic at first. It was close to the holidays, in the middle of the day in your timezone. Maybe you were with your family.
But as one missed call turned to two, and days of no contact turned to weeks, Franco began to know the bitter taste of his own medicine.
You had seen him call. And yes, you were with your family at the time. You told yourself that was the main reason why you hadn’t answered. As if seeing his contact on your phone didn’t shatter your heart into a million pieces.
But later that night, when you were finally alone, you couldn’t bring yourself to call him back. He hadn’t left any voicemail or text, just his name and a missed call icon.
What would you even say to him? He knew you were angry. And you knew you couldn’t just act as if nothing happened.
So despite your desperation to speak to him again, you just let his calls keep coming and coming over the weeks.
A dark part of you enjoyed having his attention. You waited to see his icon pop up, just to let the call go to voicemail. It made you feel wanted again.
And you were wanted. When he tried to sleep at night, he wanted you. When he talked with his manager about future plans for the next season—back down to F2—he wanted you.
Both of you knew it was a delicate balance. He couldn’t keep calling forever. At some point you’d have to answer, or he’d have to stop. But you loved the dark thrill of pushing it.
And this continued for weeks.
The calls lessened as the F2 season began. Franco was back at work. You had finally let go of the need to watch his races.
But there was another contact you hadn’t ignored: Lily.
She called you out of the blue one day. “YN! I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”
The last time you saw her—it must have been Austin—felt like years ago.
“Yeah, it’s been a while,” you replied.
“Do you… wanna talk about how you’ve been?” It was late January now. You had spent the weeks just passing time, lost, but somehow also at peace with all of it.
“Um… not if you don’t want to ruin your day,” you joked. Humor was a good coping mechanism, you had learned. You’d grown tired of explaining to people why Franco was no longer in your life. You had once been so intertwined, and now, nothing. You were thankful that she didn’t press further.
“Well, we should go out,” she suggested. “I know a great new club in Madrid, and Rebecca and I will be there the weekend before Valentine’s Day.”
Valentine’s Day. The bane of your fucking existence. Worst holiday ever.
But you had spent Christmas in a daze, and New Years alone. You didn’t know if you could do another holiday like that, so acutely aware of Franco’s absence. So you agreed.
But Lily’s phone call wasn’t as out of the blue as you had thought.
One thing about Franco was that he was determined. If he wanted something, he was going to get it. So yes, he called and called and called and let all his calls be missed.
He couldn’t just text you or leave a voicemail. What he needed to say was too important. He needed to see you.
So he called up the only other woman he knew besides you and his own mother: Lily.
He pitched the idea simply. He just needed her to arrange something where you and him would meet. Lily was skeptical.
“Franco, you know when a woman isn’t answering your calls, it’s usually because she doesn’t want to talk to you, right?”
“I know,” he signed. “I know she’s pissed at me. She has every right to be. I just want to apologize to her.”
“Then why not, like, send her a letter or something? Trying to organize an event where she’s forced to see you is kind of…creepy.”
Deep down, he knew Lily was right. “It’s not like that, though. I just need to see her, say it to her face. If she gets angry and never wants to see me again, I’ll respect her wishes. But I love her too much to not try.”
Lily was a hopeless romantic if nothing else. And Franco was charismatic and too smooth to deny with his one-liners.
So she agreed. Besides, she knew you needed a girls night.
And you realized it too when Rebecca and Lily came over to your apartment to get ready a few weeks later.
You vented to them as they helped you apply your eyeliner and zip up your dress—yes, THAT dress—about how hard the past few weeks had been.
“And then,” you explained, as Rebecca dusted a brush along your cheekbones, “he told me that I didn’t need to be there! As if he wasn’t the one who begged me to go!”
Rebecca made a sour expression. “Girl,” she said, “Good riddance to him.”
When you looked at yourself in the mirror, you nearly gasped. You looked fucking amazing.
Yes, you were wearing that dress that always reminded you of him—his favorite color, bought while on vacation to see his family. But if he couldn’t see your beauty, someone else would. And right now, that someone was Lily, as she snapped photos of you all before you left for the club and posted them on her story.
As you entered the club, you felt the bass in your bones. Yes, this was exactly what you needed.
You drank. You danced. You felt the eyes of tipsy men on you.. And for a while, all your troubles faded away.
You approached the bar for your second drink of the night. A man walked next to you, presumably to order his own drink. You recognized him as someone you’d danced with earlier.
“You look great tonight,” he said, eyeing you up and down. His tone was too sleazy for your liking.
“Thanks,” you said, hoping a short response would end the exchange so you could get your drink and make your way back to Lily and Rebecca, who were waiting for you in a booth.
“D’you always dance like that?”
“Like what?”
He smirked. “You’re cute when you play dumb like that.”
You genuinely had no idea what the man was going on about. “Sorry, I need to get back to my friends.”
You turned to leave, but the man grabbed your arm. “Don’t you need to get your drink? Stay a minute.”
You grimaced, but a surge of anxiety kept you frozen to your spot. You turned your glaze to the floor, silently beginning for an out.
“So, what’s your name?”
“Uh…” You were unable to answer. You feigned ignorance. “Sorry, it’s loud in here, I can’t hear you.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to know your name to take you home tonight.”
“What?” You wanted to puke.
The man started to reach his arm out toward your waist. You stepped back and bumped into someone. You cursed your own awkwardness. When you turned to apologize, you saw a familiar face.
Franco. Fuck. You felt your stomach drop.
“You know this guy?” The man behind you asked.
“She does,” Franco answered for you. You were grateful—you were unable to speak, choked with anxiety.
“You let your girl act like that?”
“Fuck off, mate.”
The man took the hint and shrugged, taking his drink and disappearing into the crowd.
Your eyes were still glued to the floor. “Thank you,” you said.
“Don’t thank me,” he said, “it’s the least I could do.”
The bartender handed you your drink. Part of you just wanted to go back to Lily and Rebecca and act like all of this never happened. But by the look of Franco’s face, one of grave seriousness, you knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
But the other part of you was thankful. Thankful that Franco had saved you from that creep, yes, but also thankful that the stars had aligned to bring you and your best friend back together. What were the odds?
Wait. Maybe the stars hadn’t aligned.
“Franco, what are you doing here?”
Now it was him who looked to the floor in embarrassment. “Lily told me you were here. I asked her to help me talk to you.”
“So you… arranged to find me in a club, because I wasn’t answering your calls?”
Franco may be Latino, but he sure had the audacity of a white man.
“When you put it like that, it sounds bad…”
You rolled your eyes and walked away. He followed you through the crowd.
“YN, wait! Why won't you answer my calls?”
“Because I have nothing to say to you.” That wasn’t true. You actually had a lot to say, you were just too afraid to say it.
“Okay, I get it. I fucked up. But will you just listen to me? Please?”
You just kept walking.
“YN! Please!” You had nearly reached the booths, and he was still following you. You just kept ignoring him.
“YN—” You slammed down your drink on the table, startling Lily and Rebecca. When Franco came into view behind you, they exchanged knowing glances.
You turned around to face him. “Are you really begging?” you whispered in a hushed tone.
“Yes,” he said, his voice equally low.
Lily got out of the booth, standing next to you. “What’s the harm in just hearing him out?” she said, low enough that he wouldn’t be able to hear her over the thumping bass.
You swallowed. The harm? You would fall for him again. And he would hurt you again and again. You’d lose him again. A never ending cycle of pain.
But his pleading expression in front of you was too much to bear. You couldn’t say no to the man you still loved.
“Let’s get some air, hm?” he said, and you nodded, silently following him back to the crowd. He led you to a staircase where a bouncer nodded and silently let the both of you pass.
The staircase led to the roof of the club, with a beautiful view of the city. The space was clearly set up for patrons to enjoy, but there wasn’t a soul there besides you and Franco.
The view took your breath away. You had seen so much beauty when you had traveled the world with Franco for his races, but this was home, and he was warm next to you as he snaked his arm around your waist, silently taking in the sight next to you.
You relaxed into the touch. For a moment, you just let everything fade away into the peaceful scene.
But as you smelled Franco’s familiar cologne and relished the feeling of his touch, you couldn’t help the anxiety that rose in your throat. It felt like it was choking you. You moved forward, forcing his arm away, and leaned against the railing on the edge of the rooftop.
“Say what you have to say,” you said plainly.
“I want to apologize.” His opening sentence was simple, yet powerful. “YN, I was horrible to you. I lied and I betrayed your trust. I blamed all my problems on you, when you were the only one who was ever there for me.”
You watched the cars on the road below, like ants in a colony.
He continued, “And you were right, about everything.”
The silence in the air was thick.
Your voice was shaking when you began. “Franco, you made me feel like I was insane. You… you accused me of using you. You called me a distraction. You said I was disgusting. You uninvited me from the last races and you blocked me.”
“You tried to call?”
“Of course I did.” The tears in your eyes threatened to mess up your mascara that Rebecca had so carefully applied. “I tried to call you before Abu Dhabi. I wanted to forgive you and be there for your last race.”
“Shit, YN… I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I don’t know if I can forgive you now.”
It was him, now, who had eyes full of tears. “YN, I…I love you. I can’t lose you. I know I hurt you, and it kills me. But I miss my best friend. My friend who skipped prom to come to a race. My friend who helped me dry my clothes after she found me trying to use an oven to do it. My friend who is the only one that really gets my sense of humor.”
You finally broke down at his confession. He reached out to hold you.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered. “I’m here. It’s gonna be okay.”
He let you cry it out, before pulling back and looking at you. He gently used the pad of his thumb to wipe away your tears and fix your smeared makeup.
“I can’t ask for everything to go back to normal,” he said, looking you in the eyes. His eyes were teary, too. “I know I can’t. I did things that are beyond awful. But I promise you that if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I’ll do whatever I can to regain your trust. You’re too important to me.”
All you could do was bury yourself in his chest. He wasn’t expecting the sudden gesture, but he slotted his arms around you like they always belonged there. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. You don’t know how long you stood there, warm in his embrace. You could have stayed there for years.
You were brought out of the perfect scene by the sound of a notification on your phone. You broke the hug after a moment to check it. A text from Lily: everything okay?
You chuckled. “I think Lily is worried about us.”
“Well,” he asked, “is everything okay?”
He wanted an answer. You didn’t know if you could say it.
But is this not what your entire journey had been leading up to? You had begun writing in your journal to communicate what you feel. And now, you had no choice.
You were strong. You had changed.
“I want to forgive you,” you said. “But it won’t be easy. It’ll take time.”
“I have all the time in the world.”
“And I can’t promise that I won’t be scared or insecure.”
“Whatever you need, I’ll do. I’ll listen, I’ll show you—”
“Franco.” You cut him off. “I know. I love you.”
You couldn’t name the expression on his face. Like relief. Or love.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
You were scared of what door that would open, of how much you truly wanted him to. So you didn’t speak. You just reached up to caress his cheek and tell him with your actions.
Your lips met his, and all the sorrow melted away. You could feel the vibrations of the club under your feet, the gentle pumping of blood through his veins, faster now that he could touch you. He pulled you in by the waist, and you brought your other hand to the back of his neck, making the space between you infinitesimally small.
But you pulled away before he could deepen the kiss. You couldn’t rush it, no matter how badly you wanted it.
When you opened your eyes, he had that expression you had grown to yearn for; it gave away how badly he needed more of you. You could feel a blush rise to your cheeks at the thought of his wanting.
“We should go back down before Lily gets too worried,” you said. He smiled and nodded, but as his expression of desire faded away, you saw the familiar signs of anxiety. He didn’t know how far to push, how comfortable to act.
You grabbed his hand. “And then, you should dance with me.”
His tentative smile grew more relaxed. “Of course.”
Turns out, there’s nothing an honest conversation and a little alcohol couldn’t fix. And in the aftermath of the former, you definitely indulged in the latter—maybe a little too much.
You went downstairs to retrieve your drink that Lily and Rebecca had so kindly watched for you. It was a little watered down from the ice melting, but it would do the trick.
Rebecca helped you fix your makeup as Lily glared at Franco for making you cry. He knew he’d have work to do to earn back their trust, too, but he was more than willing.
So when you were ready, he wasted no time taking you out to the dancefloor to give you the night of your life.
The only problem was that Franco was not a frequent club goer, and therefore unable to handle his liquor. And you all had a lot to drink that night.
You finally cut him off when he threatened to get on the table and start stripping.
“Oh, Lord, Franco, I’m cutting you off, you’ve had too much to drink,” you slurred. You were tipsy yourself, in no state to talk, but at least you were committed to staying clothed for the night.
“What are you gonna do? Fuck me about it?” he joked, sticking his tongue out playfully.
You don’t know if the blush on your face was from the drinks or his taunting. But God, even when he was wasted, he looked so good. As the night had progressed, he had become more disheveled, his shirt buttons coming undone to expose his toned chest and a sheen of sweat from all the dancing. He leaned over, running a hand along your cheek. “Bet you would want that, wouldn’t you?”
“Okay, time to get you home!” you told him. Lily and Rebecca had left a bit earlier, satisfied that their mission was accomplished.
You got up and tried to corral your drunk friend out of the club. He didn't want to cooperate, though.
“No, YN, I don’t want to go home! I missed you, dance with me!” He reached out to grab your waist, his hands wandering up and down your body.
“Franco, you’re drunk,” you said, moving out of his grip. “I’m calling an Uber and getting you home.”
It’s not like his touch was unwelcome. But you were in public and he was inebriated, unable to consent to what he was actually doing. You knew it was time to go.
You finally dragged him outside as you waited for the Uber on the corner. You hoped the cool night air would sober him up a bit.
“Have I told you that you look fucking gorgeous tonight?” he slurred. You ignored him as you watched the little car icon drive closer and closer.
“I always loved that dress on you,” he continued, “but it’d look better off of you.”
“Our Uber is here!” you said through your blush.
But even in the Uber, he was relentless.
“I missed youuuuu” he cooed in your ear.
“I missed you too, but could you not be a whore for 5 minutes?” you laughed. You hoped the humor would distract him. He lowered his voice to a husky whisper.
“But YNNNNN, I want you so fucking badly. Every part of you, even the parts that you’re ashamed of—fuck, especially those parts. I want to know the version of you that you’re scared to be. I want you to use me like a toy to get what you want. And when I read what you wrote I was… fuck, I couldn’t stop myself. Every day I’d read it and touch myself and wish it was you. God, I just need to fuck you so badly—“ he practically moaned in your ear as his hand again reached to your waist.
You grabbed him by the wrist, stopping him in his tracks. His doe eyes looked up at you, deceptively innocent, hiding behind them the true depths of his lust.
You moved his hand away and let go. He was silent and still.
“Franco, you are drunk. I am going to get you home and you are going to get some rest.”
“I know you’re mad at me. You should be, I’m a fucking idiot,” he slurred. “But you can take it out on me, on my body—“
“Franco! We are in public,” you hissed through gritted teeth.
“Is being horny a crime? You can arrest me, put me in restraints—”
The Uber pulled up in front of your apartment and you wasted no time getting Franco out of the car and up the stairs. You made sure to tip the driver well.
Franco didn’t even let up as he collapsed on your bed, dizzy from stumbling up the stairs and into your apartment. He grabbed you, pulling you back to the bed, burying his face in your hair.
“You smell so good,” he muttered. You wrestled free from his grip, throwing a pillow back at him playfully.
“I am not going to fuck you when you’re this drunk. Get changed and go to sleep.”
He pouted, but complied, undressing agonizingly slowly behind you. You had turned away to give him privacy, but your mind wandered as you heard the shuffling of his clothes.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he apologized, still behind you.
“You didn’t,” you said, and it was true; you loved that he wanted you, just…not in that setting. “Just sleep it off. I’ll take the couch.”
“No, come here,” he said, patting the side of the bed. You turned and jumped, seeing that instead of changing into the pair of old pajamas that he had left at your place many months ago that you had laid out for him, he had just stripped down to his underwear.
“Absolutely not,” you said, your face turning a bright red. “Put some clothes on.”
“But it’s hot in here!”
“Then I’ll take the couch.”
“YN just snuggle with me—”
You cut him off by closing the bedroom door.
A few hours later, you were convinced that you had the world’s most uncomfortable couch. You couldn’t sleep a bit.
You filled the hours by scrolling on your phone. The F1 gossip pages were calling your name.
The reappearance of YN! The former friend (and suspected ex girlfriend) of Williams reserve driver Franco Colapinto was featured in a post from a nightclub in Madrid with current Williams wags Lily Muni He and Rebecca Donaldson. Several attendees also caught videos of her dancing with a mysterious man that is definitely not Franco. YN hasn’t been publicly seen since the 2024 Brazilian Grand Prix, which fans assume has something to do with Franco’s fling with a controversial Argentine actress.
Above the caption was a slideshow: the pictures of you, Lily, and Rebecca on the first slide, and the next being a video of you dancing with the creep. You cringed at the memory.
The top comment made you chuckle: I can’t believe Franco fumbled his 2025 seat AND a baddie.
You scrolled to the next post.
Former F1 driver for Williams, Franco Colapinto, spotted in a nightclub in Madrid getting very handsy with best friend YN!
The two have not been seen together since the Brazilian Grand Prix in 2024. At the time, fans speculated that the two were dating, but sources close to the driver reported that a falling out regarding Franco’s dating controversies during the season led him to cancel her VIP pass for the last triple header.
But luckily for Franco x YN shippers, the pair seem to be quite comfortable with each other again. Do you think they’ll make it official soon? Comment your opinion below!
Fuck. Someone had gotten a video of you trying to get Franco out of the club, and without context, it looked bad.
You were pushing him off of you, yes, but not because you didn’t want his touch. You were just afraid of this exact scenario happening. You prayed a silent apology for his manager.
Your scrolling was interrupted by the sound of Franco waking up and stumbling into your kitchen for a glass of water. Even with only a few hours of rest, he had slept off the drunkenness, but was left with a horrific hangover.
You probably should have just pretended to be asleep until he went back to bed. But, against your better judgement, you got up to meet him at your kitchen counter.
He still hadn’t put any clothes on. Typical.
“You alive there?” you joked.
He downed his entire glass of water. “Barely,” he grimaced. “Worth it, though.”
You gave him a half smile. “You’re probably gonna have a million notifications from your manager. I tried my best.” You handed him your phone to watch the video.
“Jesus, that’s how I looked? I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t mind. But it’s a good thing that you probably don’t remember what you said.”
“Oh no, I remember.” You blushed. “And I don’t regret a word. I meant everything I said.”
“Franco, when we were in the Uber, you said I could use your body as a toy.” You cringed as you repeated his words back to him.
“I know. Offer still stands.”
“Franco…”
“YN, be honest with me. If I was sober, and we were alone, what would you have done?”
You swallowed. He was sober. You were alone.
He saw the thoughts cross your eyes. He broke the space between you walking to the other side of the counter. He pulled you in by the waist until all that separated you was the thin fabric of your pajamas and his underwear.
The breath had been taken from you. “Talk to me,” he said. You couldn’t. The anxiety choked you. “YN, I’m tired of pretending like I don’t want you.”
“Don’t do this to me, Franco,” you pleaded. “I want this but … we shouldn’t.” You looked away. You couldn’t handle the intensity of his gaze
“Why not?”
“Because… we just made up. I don’t want to lose you again.”
“You won’t. I’m here to stay. Trust me. If I promise that everything will be okay, will you trust me?”
You paused. “… I can’t. I don’t trust you. Not yet, at least.”
You had to be honest with him, but it broke your heart to say those words. You didn't know yet if he was genuine, or if his fling with the actress hadn't worked out and he was using you as a placeholder. The thought made you want to puke.
He loosened his grip on you. Your words felt like a thousand knives going through his chest, but he knew he was going to have to face the very real consequences of his actions.
“I understand,” he said. “Just let me hold you. I know my words don’t mean much anymore. But I promise I’ll do everything in my power to earn back your trust, and I mean it.”
He buried his face in your hair. “Come back to bed with me.” You knew the request was innocent, so you allowed it, snuggling up into his warm chest and falling asleep as the sun began to peak in the sky outside. “I’m letting go of you. Never again,” he murmured. Both of you knew that it wasn't about the sex, or about how right you felt curled up next to him. It was something deeper, more intimate, than the bare skin that he now innocently wrapped his arm around.
When you woke up, for a moment, you thought you had dreamed the whole thing. But the soothing sound of Franco’s soft snoring proved you wrong.
Over breakfast, you laid out boundaries. You both needed to take things slowly, build up the trust that had been lost.
But when you woke up a week later on Valentine’s Day to a bouquet of pink roses on your nightstand, you couldn’t help but blush darker than the petals, remembering the reference from your diary.
Franco had planned to take you out, and of course, you wore his favorite dress.
The night was perfect—a little too perfect. In the back of your mind, you couldn’t help remembering the salacious ending to that diary entry, replaying the fantasy over and over in your mind. But as he took you home for the night, Franco was ever the gentleman, perfectly keeping his hands to himself.
The longer you looked at him, the more you wanted him to touch you.
You had only made it to your apartment for a few seconds when the sight of Franco taking off his suit jacket was too much to bear. You grabbed him by the collar, pulling him into a frantic kiss.
He wasn’t complaining, of course.
He took your actions as a sign, gently pushing you into the wall behind you until you were pinned. His lips never left yours, instead deepening the connection, tongues exploring each other’s mouths.
When you did come up for air, there was a faint hint of your lipstick on him. He chuckled. “Mi amor, what was that?” he teased, stroking your cheek and he looked down on you. He rested his arm above your head, leaning his body into yours. You could feel both of your chests breathing heavily with a growing desire.
“I wanted you.”
“I thought you wanted to wait?” He was right. You didn’t want to rush into physical things so early. Franco had been nothing but respectful and apologetic all week, but still, only those few days had passed.
“...Yeah,” you said. You were frustrated at him. For being so fucking attractive. For making you want him so badly.
“It’s alright, hermosa,” he teased, “I’m sorry that I’m so irresistible.” Only a week since you all had made up, and he was already back to reading your thoughts.
“Oh, hush.”
In the following weeks, Franco’s return to racing made resisting him a lot easier. He had asked you to come to a few races, but you had declined. The memories of his time in F1 were too fresh, the wounds not quite sealed. Besides, you didn’t want to be seen in public with him just yet. You hadn’t exactly made your relationship official—though neither of you were talking to other people—and you were anxious for the public eye to be on you again.
That was, until Franco got a very exciting phone call.
Carlos Sainz had gotten in a minor biking accident—nothing major, just a sprained wrist, but enough that he needed to take a week off to heal—so Franco would be back in his car.
When he asked you to return to the F1 paddock with him, this time, you couldn’t refuse.
So that’s how you found yourself in a hotel room with your best friend (and now sort-of boyfriend).
Before bed on Wednesday night, after a long day of meetings, he wanted nothing more than to come back to the hotel and lay in your arms. And that’s exactly what he did.
You absentmindedly ran your fingers through his hair. “You nervous for tomorrow?” you asked.
“No,” he answered truthfully, “not one bit.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I mean, I have nothing to lose. Nothing could be worse than the end of last season.”
“Franco, don’t say that.”
“It’s true, though.” He chuckled. “I can’t fuck up any worse than I already did. For a while there, I lost everything.”
You stopped playing with his hair to crane your neck down and kiss the top of his head. “Well, I’m not going anywhere,” you said.
He sat up, looking you dead in the eyes, his expression as serious as it could get.
“I love you.”
You were taken aback for a moment. You had both said it back in February when you confessed, but it was different now; more real, vulnerable.
“I love you too.”
“I want you to be mine.” His gaze traced the line from your lips to your eyes, finally meeting you where you couldn’t look away.
“I already am.”
“Then I’m yours, too. And I want the world to know it.”
You finally broke the stare, looking down at the comforter. “I’m nervous about what people will say.”
“YN, who gives a fuck what they say? They’re not here. They don’t know us.” You knew, deep down, that he was right, but that did nothing to temper your anxiety.
Franco playfully grabbed you and pulled you to sit on his lap. You let out a yelp that dissolved into laughter as you saw the smile on his face.
“I don’t care what anyone says. You’re my girl, yeah?”
You smiled too. “Yeah.”
“And I'm yours. You wanna prove it?” he teased, pulling down the collar of his shirt, exposing his neck. “Show them all what’s yours, hm?”
“Franco,” you said, blushing, “everyone will see.”
“That’s the point, mi amor.”
“Your manager will kill me if you show up to media day covered in hickeys.”
“I’ll cover them up.” You knew better. He absolutely would not cover them up. He’d wear them like a badge of honor.
But Franco’s refusal to be media trained was one of the many qualities you loved about him.
“Come on, you know you want to,” he teased. He was right. Right now you wanted nothing more than to cover him in love bites, claiming him as yours.
But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he could read you so well.
“Oh, hush,” you said, grabbing his chin to bring him into another drawn out kiss.
You trailed the kiss down to his neck, finally giving in to his request. Yes, he was yours. And now the world would see it.
You relentlessly nipped at the rough skin, enjoying the soft but labored breaths that came from Franco. You kissed his earlobes, his jaw, his collarbones, until you found that perfect spot on his neck. He gasped when your teeth met his skin, softly moaning when you gently sunk your teeth in and sucked to leave a bright red mark.
You pulled away, and his expression was one of deep wanting. Sitting on his lap, you could feel him hardening under you, desperate for whatever he could get of you.
You rested your hands on the hem of his shirt. “This is getting in my way,” you complained.
He wasted no time in taking it off.
He slid his hands under your shirt too, drawing you closer to him, burying his face in your neck and smothering it with kisses. You gently grinded down on him, giving both of you the friction you so desperately needed.
But you didn’t want to be the focus of the night. You took back control, running your hands through his hair and roughly pulling it, forcing his head back.
His doe eyes on you were full of lust. He paused for a moment.
“Sorry, was that too much?” you whispered, embarrassment beginning to flush your face bright pink.
“Oh no, I..” he panted, “I liked that a lot.”
You smiled, and went right back to your attack on his skin. He ran his hands up and down your back underneath your shirt, teasing with the clasp of your bra.
You felt his phone buzz in his pocket. You both ignored it.
“YN…” he exhaled, a breathy moan. You pulled back, seeing the red flush on his face. You could feel his excitement beneath you.
“Can I take this off?” he asked, his hands tugging at your top.
You weren’t quite sure what to answer. You figured that you’d sit down and talk before your first time. You all hadn’t gone beyond heavy kissing—Franco had been respectful of your desire to wait. But it had been months now, and he’d gone above and beyond to prove that you could trust him.
His phone buzzed again. And again, you both ignored it.
“You don’t have to if you’re nervous,” he said. “We only go as far as you want.”
You nodded, silently giving him permission. He leaned in to softly press one last kiss to your lips before moving to pull off your top.
Only for his phone to ring, ruining the moment.
Your shirt remained on as he fumbled to get his phone out of his pocket and turn it off. But the caller was James Vowels.
You both saw the contact info and knew that the mood had been ruined.
“I’m sorry, amor, I have to take this—” he apologized as you climbed off of his lap and he answered the call.
As he spoke, you took a deep breath, trying to process what had just happened, and what was about to happen before you had been cockblocked by the William’s team principal.
After only a minute he hung up the call, continuing to apologize. “I’m so sorry, they need me right now.” His voice was full of urgency.
“It’s okay, go,” you assured him, your tone genuine. He placed a chaste kiss on your cheek before grabbing a Williams quarter zip from the floor to cover up the darkening marks on his neck.
He raced down to the hotel conference room, hoping that his…little problem would not be visible in what had sounded like a very important meeting. The tone in James’ voice had been one of immediacy, and Franco had no idea what to expect.
And when he finally made it to the room, he was met with faces both new and familiar: James, his manager, and…Aston Martin employees?
He made a confused face and he gave the group a cursory nod and sat down in the last remaining seat, next to his manager.
“Oh, Franco, you’re here,” James said, exhaling. “We have some exciting news.”
His manager had a smile that beamed across the room. “We’ve been talking to these lovely folks from Aston Martin,” she said, gesturing to the other side of the table. “It hasn’t been officially announced yet, but soon they’ll be putting out a statement. Fernando Alonso is retiring.”
Franco gave them a polite smile, unsure of what that information had to do with him.
“So, Aston Martin would like to offer you the seat for 2026.”
Franco felt the air leave his lungs. “I…uh…yes,” he said, too stunned to really speak. “Yes, I want it. Where do I sign?”
“Well, not so fast,” his manager responded. “We have a lot to discuss regarding the new contract, brand deals, buying you out of your Williams contract…”
But Franco was on cloud nine. His manager’s words faded into the background. He felt like heaven had opened up, and the absolute novel of a contract that now sat on the table in front of him was dropped directly there by God Himself. He could even hear the chorus of angels singing.
His presence there was merely a formality, it seemed, as the Aston Martin officials and his manager talked back and forth on minute details for what felt like hours. Nothing would be set in stone today, of course, but she wasn’t lying when she had said that a mountain of work laid ahead of them.
As the time droned on, the officials filtered out one by one, leaving only Franco and his manager alone in the conference room.
“I’m so proud of you, kid,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “You really earned this.”
“Thank you,” he replied, genuine.
“Look, go back to your room and get some rest. You’ve got a big day tomorrow. But this is strictly confidential, you hear me? You can’t tell a single soul. Not even your own mother. Not even YN.”
“I hear you.”
“And, tomorrow, maybe cover that up better, yeah?” she said, gesturing to her neck. But Franco felt no shame.
“Well, can’t help that you all called at a very inconvenient time.”
His manager grimaced. “I didn’t need to know that. Get some rest,” she laughed, shaking her head. Even she was too happy to truly scold him.
When he finally returned to the room hours later, you had already fallen asleep waiting for him. He quietly undressed and got in bed, gently brushing your hair out of your face to gaze on your sleeping form.
You were perfect. He had gotten the seat and the girl; what else could a man ask for?
The morning was chaotic. You had both overslept.
“I’m sorry about last night, amor,” Franco said as you applied concealer to his neck. “It was urgent, and they kept me there for hours.”
“What was it about?” You gently dabbed a makeup sponge across the reddened skin.
“I can’t say. Strictly confidential. But it’s amazing, you’ll see.” He beamed, but you made a face at him. Smiling flexed his neck muscles and made it harder to cover up the evidence of your intimacy.
At the paddock, it was chaos as usual. It was the return of the Franco Colapinto—now triumphant, having had a solid season in F2 so far—and this time, he walked in with you on his arm.
The only problem was that Franco kept tugging at the neckline of his quarter zip, and the friction was causing the hastily applied makeup from the morning to smudge, revealing the marks beneath.
Thankfully, no reporters said anything. But the fans online certainly were.
Steamy! Franco Colapinto arrives today at the paddock with suspected girlfriend YN in tow, and the driver appears to have several red marks on his neck. YN and Franco have not confirmed any relationship other than being friends, and this is the first race she has attended since Brazil 2024.
COMMENT: Franco showing up to the paddock absolutely covered in hickeys was not on my 2025 bingo card
COMMENT: Okay but that is so on brand for him. This man simply does not give a fuck and I love it.
You chuckled to yourself as you read the comment. But you tensed up as you felt Franco’s manager walk up next to you. You were already anticipating the earful she’d give you.
“He’s a natural at this, ain’t he?” she asked, more a statement than a question. In the distance, Franco was making a reporter laugh.
“Yeah,” you said. Franco’s manager always made you nervous, for some reason.
“I’m so proud of him.”
“Me too.” You paused, unsure of whether to broach the subject. “You’re…unusually chipper today.”
His manager laughed. “Yeah, I guess so. But even I have to relax sometimes. I mean, he’s doing a great job.”
“I heard there was some exciting news. Franco wouldn’t tell me what, though.”
His manager’s casual smile now stretched from ear to ear. “Oh yeah, big stuff. But top secret.”
“I can’t wait to hear.”
Media day went smooth as butter. Practice 1 and 2 went perfect. With the arrival of Carlos Sainz, the Williams car had vastly improved, and Franco drove like an expert.
Such was evident by his P8 finish in qualifying the next day; his highest ever qualifying in F1.
Since your night had been interrupted the day before, your wanting of him hadn’t lessened; in fact, it had grown stronger ever since you realized how you truly were ready. But quali day had taken it out of him, and you knew he needed to rest before the Grand Prix tomorrow.
And on that next day, as you watched him climb in the car from the Williams garage, you hoped that he’d put that rest to good use. You said a prayer for his safety even more than his success.
You held your breath through each lap, silently cheering him on through the knots of nervousness in your stomach. But it seems like your prayer was working; he was gaining places, P8 to P5 only a fourth of the way into the race.
He boxed halfway, and your eyes traced the lines of his car and helmet as he pulled into eyeshot of you and sped away in only a few seconds. He wasn’t looking at you, of course, but it didn’t matter. Your heart felt like it would burst with love.
At first, you didn’t even notice the cameras capturing your sentimental expression. That was, until you glanced away from his car in the distance and looked toward the screen. You were shocked to see your own reflection, captioned with your job title and ‘Franco Colapinto’s partner.’
He really was yours, now. You smiled at the camera and waved before it cut away to the action. Franco just kept gaining. He had dropped a few places after boxing, but made up for it in no time. P4.
You could hear the commentators through your headphones.
“And really, Franco Colapinto is stunning us all here. As we all remember, he had a rather disappointing end to the 2024 F1 season, but he seems to have come back with a vengeance. A podium is a real possibility for him today.”
Your smile couldn’t be contained. He was going to do this. You knew it.
With only five laps left, he overtook for P3. The garage cheered. You cheered with them. But it wasn’t over yet. It was a tense, wheel to wheel battle. Your heart was beating out of your chest.
He was able to inch just slightly enough ahead to cinch the spot as he crossed the checkered flag.
The William’s garage erupted in applause.
You ran to meet him as he pulled up the car, catching him when he jumped into the arms of the crowd of William’s employees. He nearly ripped off his helmet and balaclava, grabbed your jaw and brought you into a rough kiss.
You broke with a smile. “I love you, I’m so proud of you!” you said, unsure if he could even hear you in the chaos.
“Te amo, YN,” he said, tears of happiness clouding the edges of his vision. He continued speaking in Spanish, but you couldn’t make out what he was saying over the crowd. He had to break the embrace to go to the podium.
As he stood up there, you beamed with pride below. He really had made it.
After the podium, you hid away in his driver’s room, waiting for all his media obligations to be over so you could go back to the hotel together. To pass the time, you scrolled. The internet was losing their mind over your hard launch.
And even better, people had already uploaded videos of you and Franco exchanging words of love at the barriers. His words were difficult to make out, but a few dedicated lip readers had attempted to decipher the message. But there was no internet consensus just yet.
You made a mental note to ask Franco what he had said later, but for now, you were sure he was exhausted.
Your assumption was proven correct as he walked into his driver’s room, rolling his shoulders and sighing. But upon seeing you, his face lit up. You greeted him with more hugs and words of praise.
As you both stood there, holding each other, it was like the world around you melted away.
“YN, can I tell you something?” he muttered into your hair, hand snaked around your upper back.
“Anything,” you answered, your face pressed into his chest.
“I’m not supposed to tell anyone. You can’t let my manager know that I told you.”
You hummed in response, but he broke the hug to look at you, indicating the seriousness of his statement to come.
“I got a contract for 2026.”
Your eyes went as wide as dinner plates. You were speechless.
“Franco… that’s, oh my God, that’s amazing!” You thought you were going to burst with love for him.
“Nothing is set in stone yet,” he explained, “but she’s been negotiating the contract, and they’ll probably announce it in a few weeks.”
You reached your fingers up to run them through his curls. “You’re incredible.” He blushed.
“I think we should go back to the hotel and celebrate, hm?” he teased.
“You don’t want to go out?”
“We can if you want,” he mused, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, “but I think the world has seen enough of us today, yeah?”
So you celebrated in your hotel room alone. The bottle of champagne that decorated the desk of the room was left untouched—but you sure as hell weren’t.
The podium had emboldened him. He explored the curves of your body over your clothes with reckless abandon. You wordlessly helped him remove his shirt, trailing your eyes of the muscles that were sure to be sore in a few hours. You traced the marks you had left the other day, now beginning to fade.
“My turn,” he joked, bringing his lips to your neck to give you your fair share of love bites. He brought one hand to gently hold your neck, while the other inched further and further up your shirt, teasing the edge of your bra. You felt like you could drown in his touch. You closed your eyes and fell deep into bliss.
“YN,” he whispered, “are you sure you want to do this? Are we ready?”
You swallowed, nervous. “Yes.”
But he could sense your anxiety, and was hesitant to continue. He pulled back, raking his eyes up and down your form. You couldn’t help your nervousness. But having read your darkest fantasies, he knew what you really wanted.
“You know, the reason I read your diary is because I knew there was something about you that you try so desperately to hide,” he said, his voice soft and smooth as honey. “I wanted to know whatever part of you that you try to hide away from the rest of the world,” he let his hands trace down the length of your arm, and leaned in closer to whisper in your ear, “and that part of you is that you’re a needy girl who’s desperate to get fucked.”
A shiver ran down your spine at the vulgarity of his words, a side to him you’d never seen.
He brought his hand from your arm to your neck, gently tracing the curve towards your chin. “And there’s nothing wrong with that, of course.”
His voice was soft and tender, but when his hand grabbed your chin and forced you to face him, his expression was anything but. “You just needed a man who can fuck you like the desperate girl you are.” Your eyes widened at his words, and you could feel the warmth rush to your cheeks in a rosy blush.
His eyes met yours. “Just say the word, mi amor. Do you trust me? Will you let me fuck you like you want… no, like you need to be fucked so badly? I can do it. I’m not afraid. I want to give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of…” His voice trailed off as he turned his head and closed the gap between you, placing his lips right below your ear. The kiss was soft and made you release your breath. “Say it, YN. Tell me you want this as bad as I do.”
“You really want this?” you said, your voice almost trembling with anticipation.
His lips near your ear were going to be the death of you. “Of course. Can’t you feel how badly I do?” he whispered. You could feel him beneath you, hardening with every second that went past. You imagined the feeling of grinding your hips down on his length, recalling the memories of only a few days before.
Oh God, how badly you wanted to. You wanted to give him everything. You could feel his soft breath on your neck, his hands now resting on your waist, tentatively waiting for your permission to resume roaming the curves of your body. But your breath was caught in your throat.
“Franco…” The soft exhalation of his name was all you can muster. “What, amor?” he replied. You swallowed and closed your eyes, knowing your next word would let the floodgates of your desire open.
“Please.”
His lips met your neck in a kiss that was tentative at first, like you were something fragile that could be broken by his touch. But the feeling of his soft lips finally meeting your skin caused you to draw in a breath.
“You want to take the lead, or should I?” he asked.
“You,” you answered simply, too distracted by the absolutely heavenly feeling of his velvet lips on your neck.
He hummed in response. “If you ever want to stop, just tell me, okay?”
“I will.”
He placed one final kiss on your neck and helped you take off your top. You felt his eyes undressing you more than his hands.
He wordlessly turned you around to sit on his lap, your back against his chest. His hands traced lower and lower down your stomach until they met the lacy waistband of your shorts.
“Are you going to be a good girl and take these off for me?” he purred.
“Why would I do that, when I have you to do it for me?” You could tease him right back. He let out a dark laugh, kissing your neck from behind.
“Little brat…” he cooed, but you took no offense. He slid your shorts off, and you were left with only your bra and panties. He ran his hands up and down your now exposed stomach. His touch was warm and inviting as it traced down to the now wet fabric of your panties.
He began slowly, just tracing the skin through the fabric, inching lower and lower. He could already feel how wet you were. “Doesn’t take that much to get you going, hm? So wet just from my words.”
You blushed in embarrassment at his teasing. “Shut up…”
“Oh, amor,” he kissed your cheek, your face now turning away from him. “It’s okay. I know how badly you needed this.”
You let out a breathy moan as he began to outline your pussy with the feather-light touch of his fingers. He tentatively dipped his fingers under the fabric, spreading them around your growing wetness as he circled your clit.
Slowly and carefully, he put a finger inside you curling it up to hit that sweet spot. With his other hand, he roughly groped at your chest. He unclasped your bra with one hand, tossing it across the room, and let his free hand paw at your chest and circle your nipple.
“See, bébé, what a reward you get when you use your words and tell me what you want?”
“Yes,” you moaned, breathy and full of desire.
“And what do you want?” he asked.
“I want… you.” The words stuck in your throat, your mind too preoccupied with the pleasure of his thumb swirling softly around your clit and the two fingers now pumping in and out of you. You were vulnerable, at his mercy, but you trusted him.
“You want me to…?”
“I want you to… to fuck me.”
“Good girls get what they want. You’ve been so good for me, haven’t you? Can you do one more thing for me?” He smirked, removing his hand from your sensitive bundle of nerves. You already missed the friction.
“Yes, anything,” you promised.
“Get on your knees for me.”
You obeyed. The sight of you on your knees below him, gazing at home longingly with your big doe eyes, made his cock twitch. But he saw something beyond obedience in your face.
He knelt down next to you. “Are you still nervous?” he asked.
You laughed. “I’m always nervous.”
He brushed your hair out of your face, removing all the barriers between the two of you. “Do you want to stop?”
“No. I’m just… not as experienced as you. What if I'm not good?”
“You’ve already been so good for me,” he said, cradling your face in his hands. “I’ll guide you.”
You watched him with your innocent eyes as he stood up, unbuckled his belt, and took off his pants. You dug your knees into the pillow beneath you as he shed his last remaining layer of clothing.
He had no right to tease you for being so wet, when his own arousal coated him. His cock was dripping precum, so hard that it nearly hurt.
“Open your mouth,” he instructed, and again, you obeyed. He gently led you to him as you pressed your tongue to the bottom of his length and licked up to the sensitive head.
He moaned. “I don’t think you need any help, do you?” You just hummed as your tongue traced the lines of his veins up and down his shaft, before you took as much of him as you could, closing your mouth to trap him in the warmth.
He grabbed your hair to gently guide you to a good rhythm. You looked at him in admiration, but his head was thrown back, eyes closed in bliss.
He moved your head faster, and you gagged a bit at his cock filling your mouth. You dug your hands into his thighs. Franco cursed in Spanish under his breath.
Soon, he pulled you away. You were embarrassed. Did you do something wrong?
“God, you feel too good. I can’t finish yet. I want to take my time with you.” He led you back to the bed, finally taking time to gaze at your form laid bare before him.
For a moment, he was silent, just taking in the sight of you. “You’re beautiful, YN.”
You blushed. “You don’t need to flatter me, you already got in my pants,” you joked.
“It’s not flattery,” he replied as he crossed the room to grab a condom from his bag and put it on, “it’s true.”
He returned to the bed, climbing on top of you. “You’re perfect. Every part of you.”
The vulnerable praise made you uncomfortable. “Franco…”
“Touch me, amor.” You obeyed, bringing your hands to his broad shoulder, bracing for what you knew would come next.
“You may not think you’re beautiful, but I do. And I’ll make love to you as many times as I need to until you believe it.”
You blushed and brought your hands to your face. You were not immune to his Argentine charm. He gently pulled your hands away, kissing your wrists, so he could see your face.
As he guided himself to your entrance, he slowly and carefully slid inside you with a deep groan. His eyes rolled back into his head at the heavenly feeling of your pussy, and your breath hitched.
He stopped to give you a moment to adjust to his length. You felt filled and warm; all his.
For a moment he just stayed there, still, looking down at the sight of you stuffed with his cock, ready to be ravished.
“You alright?” he asked, softly tracing circles along your hips with his hands. You nodded through the sweet burn of being stretched on him.
But he could feel the tension in you. “Just relax, YN,” he cooed at you. “I’m going to take good care of you, hm?”
He leaned down to place a gentle kiss on your forehead and you whined. He whispered something in Spanish, too fast and incoherent for you to understand, but with a soft enough tone to recognize the love behind the gesture.
His thrusts at first were slow and shallow, giving you time to adjust. As he gently fucked you, he leaned down to softly whisper sweet nothings into your ears. You felt safe in his arms.
But soon the softness faded away into lust. You both wanted it, and you showing him by how you sang a chorus of noises the faster he fucked you. His rough thrusts brought forth sinful noises from the both of you, lost in your pleasure. “It’s okay, YN. I know how badly you needed this,” he cooed, his own breath strained. “And I needed it too. I needed to feel you wrapped around me. You feel so fucking good, so tight and wet.”
His words weren’t lost on you. “Fuck, Franco…” you begged between his thrusts. You dug your nails into his back as he continued his unrelenting pace.
“Talk to me, pretty girl,” he said, slowing down for a moment. “You okay? Is it good?”
“So good,” you responded. “Don’t stop.”
He wordlessly continued, pumping his full length into you with reckless abandon. You were sure that your nails in his back would draw blood with how roughly you clung to him.
All you could do was take it, all of him, and let the moans and gasps fall from your lips with every touch.
As he sped up, his tone changed, becoming something rougher. He was clearly emboldened by the noises that left your mouth with every movement.
“I love hearing your pretty little noises. I want you to scream for me. Fucking scream my name,” he commanded. You didn’t have the strength in you, too distracted by how good he felt, burying his cock in you.
“F- Franco,” you gasped. He pulled back so you could see him and grabbed your chin, forcing you to look him directly in the eyes.
“What’s that, love? Did you say something, or am I fucking you too good that you can’t even speak properly?”
“Franco, I—” you were cut off by your own whine, “I’m gonna cum.”
“Oh, pretty girl,” he cooed at you, “let go. Cum for me.”
You wanted nothing more than to obey him, and you came closer to the edge hearing his command.
“I want you to look at me when I make you cum,” he instructed. You nodded at him.
But he slowed his pace down to a torturously slow speed, savoring how every inch of him went in and out of your drenched pussy.
Even with his switch, you could feel that knot in your stomach tightening, threatening to explode as you held his intense gaze. Any self consciousness you would have had was cast aside by your desperate need to obey him.
And when he moved his hand from your hips down to your sensitive clit and began to rub, you couldn’t help but follow his command, climaxing in his arms.
He held you as you let the waves of pleasure come over you, not letting up his soft assault on your bundle of nerves. Even as you began to buck your hips involuntarily from the sensitive touch, he just whispered, “It’s okay, mi amor. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
He softly shushed your whimpers of pleasure, gently running his free hand up and down your curves. “Are you okay to keep going? Because you know I’m not done with you yet.”
You didn’t know if you could handle any more, but you sure as hell weren’t going to tell him to stop. You’d waited too long for this, wanted it too badly, to go back now.
You nodded, so he kept going, hitting every spot inside you just right, causing you to throw your head back in pleasure. He was careful not to overwhelm you, taking an even and steady pace, but neither of you could help so heavenly it felt to have him inside of you.
Franco chased his own release, sitting up so he could see your whole body as he fucked you. He held onto your hips hard enough to leave marks, but you’d gladly wear them with pride.
It didn’t take long for him to pull out and rip off the condom, pumping his hand up and down his length.
“YN, I’m so fucking close,” he moaned. “Where—”
You didn’t answer him, just leaning down to take him in your mouth. He grabbed the back of your head, roughly pushing you closer to him.
“Don’t stop, you’re gonna make me cum, don’t—”
He couldn’t finish his sentence before he climaxed, filling your mouth and letting out a low and low groan.
You pulled away from him and swallowed the stickiness that coated your mouth.
He collapsed on the bed next to you. “Fuck, YN.” You laid down next to him. “That was so good.” His chest was still heaving with the intensity of his orgasm.
But as he turned to you, the lust left him, growing into something softer as he brushed your hair out of your face. You were both covered in a thin sheen of sweat.
“You okay?” he asked.
You hummed and nodded, closing your eyes and leaning into him, taking in the smell of sex and his cologne. You couldn’t get close enough to him.
He kissed the top of your head. “I’ve got you,” he assured. You were too overwhelmed to say anything. He just held you.
Eventually, you both got up to take a shower before you both got ready for bed. Snuggled close to him, you felt the quiet warmth of his presence protecting you, and it lulled you to sleep quicker than anything else ever could.
When you woke up in the middle of the night, you checked your phone. The internet sleuths had finally deciphered what Franco had said to you—a heartachingly sweet confession of love. He had said you were his life, his everything. He couldn’t have done it without you.
Within the thin crack of light from blinds and the streetlights outside, you could see Franco’s backpack, with your diary still in it. If you wanted to, you could have stolen it back. But instead, you left it be, snuggling deeper into the bed to get close to the man you loved who slept peacefully beside you.
It was true that more work needed to be done until you all could fully communicate with no difficulties—no language barriers, no journals, just heartfelt words. But you knew you both could do it. You loved each other too much to not.
So you smiled as you felt his arm sleepily wrap around you and pull you close. You were safe. You were home.
SERIES SUMMARY: You’re Franco Colapinto’s best friend in the entire world, and you’ve agreed to accompany him along for the ride in his races with Williams. He finds it endearing how, per your therapist’s recommendation, you’ve started always bringing your diary everywhere you go, even the paddock. But when he crosses the line and turns the page, he never expected what’s inside… (Based on the song Read Your Diary by Måneskin).
WORD COUNT: 3.8k
WARNINGS: therapy heavily mentioned, reader is emotionally constipated, use of YN, reader is a lil FREAK in later chapters (affectionate because we don’t kink shame here), eventual angst and smut
Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
Meet me there where it never closes
Meet me there where it’s never hopeless
All is fair in love, oh
Honey, are you coming?
If you had to blame anyone for this whole ordeal, it would be your therapist. After all, she was the one who had given you the idea to start journaling in the first place.
The session had, frustratingly, gone like all of the others; you’d tell her about something you thought was innocuous and she’d ask you how that made you feel, and you wouldn’t be able to answer. You could feel your feelings all day long, but when asked to explain them, the words never came out.
Maybe it was a fear of being misunderstood or judged for your feelings. Maybe it was the fact that no one had ever taught you what to do with that bundle of emotions that rested in your stomach like a ball of yarn to be unraveled, except to avoid it altogether and stuff it down. Or maybe you just know how you actually felt, deep down, and this was your mind’s way of making it known.
Whatever the case was, your therapist suggested, in addition to your usual sessions, of course, that you start a journal. “It’ll be for your eyes only,” she assured, “you don’t have to tell me a single word of what’s in it. Just write whatever comes to mind, no matter what that is, as long as you get it out.”
So you took her advice. Worst case scenario, you thought, you’d just stop after a week or two if it didn’t make it better. But you couldn’t help feeling a little immature, like a little girl hiding a diary, when you went to the airport shop and bought a small, unassuming leather journal at a heavily marked up price and stuffed it into the bottom of your carry on.
Your therapist had suggested customizing the journal as you write your way through it—making it a safe place for your feelings and words. But for now, this would have to do. Traveling this much recently had been difficult, and you didn’t want to add the journal into the mix of your already chaotic life for the past few weeks.
Of course, you wouldn’t have had it any other way. The recent chaos and jet setting around the world was all due to the hard work and incredible luck of your best friend, Franco. He had finally made it to Formula 1, even if just for the remainder of the season, and when he had excitedly run over to your apartment to tell you the news, you had practically crushed him to death with the enormous hug you gave him. Despite his rookie status, he had somehow managed to get you paddock passes, flights, and accommodations all arranged for each of the races so you could spend your next few months flying around the world and waltzing around the Williams paddock with your best friend in the entire world.
You and Franco had met when you were younger and he had just moved to Italy to pursue his racing career. He had moved in right next to your family, and it felt like you were instantly connected. You introduced him to the country and he introduced you to the world of racing, and your friendship was a match made in Heaven. When he went to Spain, you followed, and now with his entry into Formula 1, you were still tagging along for the ride.
Of course, Franco wanted you there just as much as you wanted to be there. At first you had been hesitant to do it. You didn’t want to impose, and to this day Franco refused to tell you what strings he had to pull to get you access to the paddock, let alone flights and accommodations. “Cmon, come with me,” he had pleaded. “Think of the stories we’ll be able to tell one day! Besides, I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else by my side.”
“Franco, you sound like the protagonist of a cheesy rom com,” you laughed. “Don’t you think this is all… too much?”
“The tickets or my audition for the next Hallmark movie?” he teased, eliciting a small laugh from you. “No, I’m serious, YN. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I want you there with me, for every part of it.” He paused and looked down at his shoes, as if choosing his next words carefully. It was unusual of him, to be so worried about saying the right thing instead of just saying something. The grid had caught on soon that Franco was a talker. He continued, “I understand if you can’t come to all of them. But at least come to a few. It won’t be the same without you.”
There was a heaviness to his words that made you the slightest bit uncomfortable. Like his request was something deeper than just wanting the support of a friend. “Since when have you gotten so sentimental?” you teased, cracking a smile to lighting the tension.
He smiled back, “Since I achieved my dreams.”
Your slight smile stretched ear to ear at the reminder of how monumental a moment this was for him, and you enveloped him in another hug. “Oh Franco, I’m so happy for you!” you exclaimed.
“Happy enough to come with me?” He asked as you all broke the hug.
You lightheartedly exhaled at his instance. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The smile on his face was electric. You just couldn’t say no to him, so that’s how you ended up here, unable to say no to the steep markup on your airport shop journal, waiting for your unfortunately delayed flight from Azerbaijan to Singapore.
Even at only 4 races in, you had gotten used to doing your remote work in airports, but trying to open this journal and pour your heart out onto the pages right next to traveling strangers was… difficult, to say the least. It couldn’t have been more than 10 minutes that you stared at the blank page, but it felt like an eternity. You didn’t know what to write.
So you just began by writing how you felt physically. Tired. Nervous. Excited for Franco. Very excited for Franco.
This was supposed to be your journal, but as you got into the rhythm of filling page after page, the words were all about your best friend, the newest Formula 1 driver. You used to think that words couldn’t even describe how proud you were of him. You’d seen his hard work pay off with just a little bit of luck, and your heart seemed to swell into your chest when you thought of him in his Williams race suit ready to show the world what he could do. He’d gotten points in Baku, and you remembered your frantic heartbeat as you watched from the Williams garage and cheered in excitement at his performance. After the race he ran to you and you all practically crashed into each other going for a bear hug.
You had squeezed him with all your strength. “Franco, I’m so proud of you!”
He released you and smiled. It was a rare moment, seeing you this vulnerable. You were so happy that tears had formed at the edges of your eyes, and for a split second he looked at you and knew the true depth of those words. “So proud that you’re crying tears of joy?” he joked.
He had ruined the moment. You were so caught up in your raw emotion that you didn’t even notice the tears until he pointed them out, and your defenses kicked it as you replied, “I wasn’t crying.” Franco saw your walls go up again and cursed himself internally for talking without thinking, as he almost always did.
As you penned this memory, you felt all the emotions rushing back to you. That feeling of pride in your chest, the chaos of the garage, and Franco’s hands wrapped around you in a celebratory embrace—no, that made it sound weird. You looked down at the page. Why did that sound so… weird?
Once again, the moment had been ruined. Your flight was about to board anyway, so you exhaled and put the journal back in your bag, telling yourself you’d deal with that later. For now, you had a race to get to.
Singapore was humid and buzzing with life. Practices had gone well. On Saturday, you hoped that the usual chaos of the paddock would distract you from your thoughts, but it was the opposite. The drone of noise—reporters talking, mechanics laughing, the purr of the car—all faded away, just background noise to your painful confusion.
Something was just…off. Before your flight you had written about your best friend and his first few races in F1. That was it. Then why did you feel like your skin was crawling every time you glanced at him on the other side of the garage? He had his headset on, talking to some race engineer about something you couldn’t even begin to understand. His gaze was so focused, his attention fully captured by the screen in front of him. He raised his hand to his mouth, thinking, before turning to the engineer and saying something.
You were enraptured by him. His passion was infectious, his determination admirable. Clad in his white race suit, he looked like he belonged here, like he had always belonged here. His hair gently curled over the top bar of his headset. His race engineer said something and Franco laughed, and again you noticed those little details that had become so usual to you; the way his eyes crinkled when he truly smiled, the scrunch of his nose, the blush that danced across his cheeks—whether from the warmth of the garage or the words of his engineer, you couldn’t tell.
Your observation (or, rather, staring) was interrupted by Franco’s gaze shifting from his engineer to you. He sent you a soft smile, and you gave him a weak one in return. You felt sick to your stomach as he politely excused himself from the conversation and made his way over to you.
“Hey YN, you good? You’ve been staring off into space for, like, five whole minutes.”
You brought your hands to rub your face, trying to bring some life into you. “Have I?”
“Yeah, thought you were checking me out or something.”
“Huh?” You felt a pang of anxiety at his insinuation.
“Well, I can’t help it that I’m so irresistible,” he replied with a smirk.
“Oh, Lord,” you laughed, exhaling in relief at his usual banter. “I just feel weird, but I’ll be okay.” You weren’t exactly lying.
The brow furrowed with concern. “You’re not feeling well? You want to go lay down for a bit?”
As much as you wanted to protest that you really were fine, the opportunity to get away for a few minutes felt like a godsend. You answered, “That’s sounds nice, actually.”
“Here, come with me,” he said as he gestured for you to follow him through the back of the garage and into the Williams motorhome.
You ended up in his driver’s room, a quiet haven away from the overwhelming chaos of the paddock. As you stepped inside it hit you just how awful you truly felt: your head was pounding, your stomach turning in flips, and your heart beating outside your chest. You practically slumped down onto the small couch, hunched over, covering your eyes with your arm to shield away the harsh fluorescent light.
You felt Franco settle beside you, breaking the silence with a soft, “You alright?” You just hummed in response, until you felt his hand meet your upper back, gently rubbing your shoulder blades as if his touch could smooth away your discomfort. But all it did was make it worse; you didn’t think your heart could beat any faster, and the turning of your stomach threatened to bring up your breakfast.
A knock at the door interrupted the moment. “Franco, need you at the media tent in five!”
Franco grumbled a reply that he’d be right there. Then he turned back to you, “You want to go back to the hotel? I can have someone take you.”
“No, I’ll be okay. I don’t want to miss qualifying.”
“YN, you look horrible.”
You laughed. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”
“No, I just… you don’t have to be there if you’re not feeling well, it’s okay.” Franco knew how stubborn you were. Never the type to admit any weakness, you could be on your death bed and still make it to the paddock to watch him race.
“No, really, I’m fine. Just give me a few minutes…”
He huffed, knowing it was no use arguing with you. He kneeled down to where you head was laid against the small table next to the couch, looking in your eyes. “Shit, YN, you’re
shivering—I’ve got a hoodie around here somewhere…” he began rummaging through his locker when another knock came at the door.
“Franco, media tent, NOW,” said the clearly agitated voice behind the door.
“Yeah, coming!” he replied.
He looked back nervous scratched the back of his neck, unsure of how far to push.
“I’ve got to go. Grab a hoodie and warm up, and if you feel any worse you come straight back here or I’ll end you,” he said, in an attempt to lighten the concern he felt for his best friend who sat before him, looking like a zombie.
“Understood,” you said, giving him a weak thumbs up.
He left the room and you sat there alone, taking deep breaths in an attempt to bring yourself back down to earth. You had truly believed it when you told Franco that you thought a few minutes in the quiet would fix you up, but your thoughts just kept racing, and your body reacted with it. The gentle comforting touch of his hand on your back left you spinning. It didn’t make sense—you two had been friends so long, the touch was nothing unusual. Just a friendly gesture. Then why did it feel like your skin was on fire?
Franco had been right, you were shivering, and to distract yourself from your thoughts you heeded his advice to find a hoodie to wear. You stepped over to the locker and found the one he brought—one purchased for him by one of his ex girlfriends, some blonde model who was nice enough but clearly wanted nothing to do with you. You didn’t blame her; you were nothing special, and your company paled in comparison to the excitements of dating a race car driver. Or at least, you assumed. It’s not like you’d ever date Franco.
Wait, what were you thinking? Dating Franco. The thought should bring disgust to your mouth. It did. Sort of. You weren’t shivering any more.
You put the hoodie back in the closet and took a deep breath. You decided to take the time between now and qualifying to see if writing in the journal could make you feel a little better. But when you opened the pages again, you just found what you had written last time and your feelings stuck.
You remembered a tactic your therapist taught you: sometimes your feelings can manifest physically. To calm down, ground yourself in your surroundings. Five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, one thing you can taste. You brought your pen to paper.
I can see: The hoodie that Franco’s ex gave him. It’s crumpled in the corner of his locker. He wears it a lot, and it makes me wonder if he misses her. I don’t ask him stuff like that. That would be weird.
I can touch: The smooth plastic of the VIP pass around my neck. Franco refuses to tell me how he got it. I can’t believe he’d go through all this for me.
I can hear: The quiet silence of the room. Feet shuffling outside the door. Does anyone know I’m in here, hidden away like a secret? Did Franco tell anyone about me—about us? What even is us—why would he tell the paddock about a friend?
I can smell: Franco’s cologne, everywhere. It smells familiar, like home and a warm hug.
I can taste: the bitter taste of the maté I had this morning. Franco put me on to it when we were younger.
You went back and read through everything you’d written, seeing how many times his name came up—Franco, Franco, Franco.
And so you wrote it again. Franco, Franco, Franco. God, I feel like a little girl having a crush on the boy who sits next to her in class.
Wait. A crush? No, you were too old for that. That’s ridiculous. But reading the words you had written over and over and over again—what else could it be?
Of course I love Franco. He’s my best friend.
Reading and writing seemed to blur. Yes, you loved Franco. So you wrote it again.
I love Franco Colapinto.
Finally, you stopped. Your headache, stomach pain, and that stubborn heartbeat had all faded to calmness. You read it, no, wrote it, no—did it even matter anymore?
I love Franco Colapinto.
No. You scribbled it out and closed the diary. No, no, no no no no no.
You checked your phone. It was almost time for quali. You threw the journal to the bottom of your bag, took a deep breath, and made your way back out to the Williams garage.
On the way there you ran into a familiar face—Franco’s mother. You had heard she would be here for the weekend, but you hadn’t run into her yet, with everything going on. Upon seeing you her face lit up in a smile. “YN! Franquito just sent me to check on you, said you were feeling well?”
You cringed a bit internally at her knowing your situation, but smiled anyway. “Oh, I was, but I’m doing okay now. Ready for quali.”
So the two of you made your way back to the garage, making idle chat about your lives back at your respective homes outside of Franco. The more you all talked, though, the more it became apparent that both of your lives seemed to revolve around him; but it made sense for his mother, of course, even if he didn’t live in Argentina anymore. But you? You couldn’t shake the feeling that your connection to Franco was deeper and more problematic than ever now. His mother’s voice faded into the background sounds of the garage as your mind returned again to again to the words you had written: I love Franco Colapinto. It felt so childish, like it belonged in a pink diary, written in a glittering gel pen, surrounded by little hearts. It made you sick to your stomach.
“You know, YN,” his mother said, breaking you from your spiraling thoughts, “I’m so glad he has you. I was so worried when he left home, but when you all met it helped me sleep better at night knowing someone was looking out for him. And look where we are now! Oh, I’m so proud of him.”
“I am too,” you smiled, somewhat pained but still genuine.
She laughed, “Now I just keep telling him he needs to find a girl like you! Stay away from all those actresses and models, they’re always trouble.”
You laughed in response, though your heart skipped a beat. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll find a good one. But I think he’s more focused on the racing.”
“Well, I hope so,” she replied, a hint of lighthearted criticism in her voice.
The conversation came to a natural end with qualifying about to start any second. Franco, suited up and putting on his helmet, glanced to you and his mother behind the barriers, throwing you a wink before stepping in the car. You rolled your eyes. Everyone who had ever met Franco knew how much of a flirt he was, it was just part of his personality. It had never bothered you before. But to be the girl he was flirting with? To have it mean something? That was something else entirely, something you’d stuffed deep down. You told yourself it meant nothing, because it didn’t. Franco was just…like that. He was just your friend. Nothing more.
Franco had a respectable qualifying—P12—and the rest of the day went by as usual before your dinner plans with him, his mother, and the rest of the Williams team. It was awkward at first. You were sat by Franco and his mother on one side, who were talking to each other in Spanish, far away mentally from the dinner; and on the other was Alex Albon's girlfriend, Lily. Thankfully, Lily seemed very kind and made conversation.
“Oh hi, YN isn’t it? I’ve been meaning to say hello! I’m Lily, it’s nice to meet you, welcome to the wag club,” she joked.
“The wag club?” You were confused, was this some motorsports term you’d never heard of?
“Oh, you know, wives and girlfriends. The fans just call us wags,” she smiled. You were grateful that at least one person's girlfriend was kind to you. But her assumption brought a blush to your cheeks.
“Oh, I’m not—“
Lily wasn’t quite paying attention, or maybe you were too quiet compared to the busy atmosphere of the restaurant. “You know, it’s really great to have you here, you and Franco are so cute! It’s a shame what happened with Logan, but on the bright side so get to make new friends. I can introduce you to the rest of the girls too, it’s hard being in a garage full of guys so we have to stick together, you know.”
You cut her off, unable to handle her mistake any longer. “Oh, uh, I’m not… Franco’s girlfriend. We’re just friends.”
Lily paused for a moment. “Oh! Um… sorry about that.” She nervously laughed. “I just thought, you know, since you’ve been at all his races so far…”
“Oh yeah, I’m not sure how, but he got me paddock passes for the rest of the season. I mean, once in a lifetime opportunity, right?”
“Yeah, that’s… I mean, wow. Alex can’t even get me that many passes.” Lily left the implication of her comment unsaid. Franco had gone above and beyond—he wanted you here more than anything. “Well, anyway, I’m sure the girls would still love to meet you!” she smiled.
It was nice to have a friend other than Franco in the paddock. You passed the dinner telling funny stories back and forth about Franco and Alex’s embarrassing karting moments. The Williams team was beginning to feel like family.
Back in your hotel room, the chaos of the day faded away into a calm silence. You opened your journal and wrote about everything that had happened since you had left his drivers room. Again and again you returned to that sentence, now scratched out, but finally, you had to accept what you had so long avoided, what everyone around you could see plainly.
So you took your pen and wrote one last sentence of the night:
I am in love with my best friend, Franco Colapinto.
CHAPTER SUMMARY: You’ve always felt like you belonged right at Franco’s side, but as he begins to grow in popularity, you begin to wonder if his world has any place for you.
WORD COUNT: 7.7k
WARNINGS: Hurt/comfort. Use of YN, mentions of anxiety disorders/therapy, reader has major self esteem issues and panic attacks. Appearance of Christian Horner (that man needs his own CW). There is a “manager” character that is not a reference to any of Franco’s IRL managers!
A/N: I can’t thank you all enough for all the love you’ve shown on this fic 💙 It’s been incredible. I do want to sincerely apologize for leaving you with all this cliffhanger before I have to take a small hiatus with the holidays haha. I played around a bit with perspective in this chapter, so I hope it still reads clearly! Also, if you want to be added to the tag list, make sure your blog isn’t set to hidden and that you allow tags or else I’ll be unable to do that on my end. As always I hope you enjoy it :)
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
Sip the gossip, drink ‘til you choke
Sip the gossip, burn down your throat
You’re not iconic, you are just like them all
Don’t act like you don’t know
Austin had been beautiful, and you had written down every word you could describing it. Mexico, however, was a race you wouldn’t exactly want to document.
It started out okay. Franco’s Forbes cover shoot was released, and, as predicted, it blew up the internet. Of course, you were happy for him. But to see the entire world want him almost as much as you wanted him was…disheartening.
For a long time, it had just been you and Franco. He had clawed his way up and earned everything he had achieved through hard work and unmatchable determination. You were his biggest fan and supporter. And it was just you and him against the odds.
You had been so happy for him to make it to F1 after all he’d worked for. And to see the world embrace him so wholeheartedly was beautiful. But you were scared, deep down, that you’d lose him in the glitz and glamor of pilot stardom.
His place at Williams was only temporary, of course, but you knew that when he did eventually get a secure seat, your friendship would have to change. After all, you couldn’t fly around the world with him forever. But you figured you’d adapt, like you always did. It would all be okay in the end. Franco never gave you any reason to believe that you’d get left behind.
That is, until Mexico.
You barely saw him at the beginning of the week, with him being so busy filming for brand sponsorships. Come the weekend, a phone call from home had soured his mood. You let it be, knowing that now was the time to just support him in any way you could, even if that was just giving him space.
But on Saturday he had woken up feeling better, and you were happy, thinking that he’d turn this weekend around for the better. Mexico was full of Argentine fans, and again, you were both ecstatic for him and feeling a bit left behind. You weren’t from Argentina. You didn’t really speak Spanish. These random fans had that connection with him that you’d never have.
You pushed it down—for now. You’d write about it later.
But now you were on your way to Williams hospitality to meet Franco. He was beaming when you’d seen him at breakfast that morning. Some big Argentine musicians were coming to the paddock.
You would have been happier for him if he had introduced you to them. But now you sat in hospitality with Franco and the group, and they all completely ignored you. Franco hadn’t even introduced you.
Yes, you were naturally on the quieter side. Yes, you didn’t speak Spanish, which they now all excitedly talked in, laughing about something you’d never know. But did that really mean that you deserved to sit there, awkwardly glancing at your phone as your best friend ignored you?
And all the while, he was glancing over to the female singer sat opposite him. God, she was beautiful. And from Franco’s tone, you could tell he thought so too. He was flirting with her right in front of you.
Yes, you were just friends. But you had slept in his bed with him curled up into your side. He had celebrated every win with you since you were teenagers. But right now, you were nothing.
You just kind of stared off into the distance until you saw a familiar face. Lily to the rescue! She came over and waved to Franco and the group, who stopped their conversation for a brief second to wave back.
“Hey YN, wanna come help us film a video?” she asked. Clearly this was just an out to help you escape the torture of being ignored.
“Sure,” you agreed. When you got up to leave, Franco didn’t even acknowledge you.
You and Lily walked into the garage. “Thank you for helping me out there.”
“Yeah, you looked like you were going through it. Were they that bad?”
“Well, I don’t know. Franco never even introduced me and I don’t speak Spanish.”
“So he just ignored you? That’s so rude,” he said, her face grimacing, “I’m sorry.”
You just shrugged and offered her a weak smile. There was that unspoken recognition from both of you; Franco had ignored you to flirt with the singer. She was everything you weren’t: beautiful, popular, confident.
“Well, come hang with me and Alex. I’ll teach you how to make a tiktok,” she said.
You were surprised that her excuse hadn’t been an excuse at all—she actually wanted your company, unlike someone else.
You went out to the pit lane to meet Alex. Fans were cheering from the sidelines. They were all screaming for Alex, of course, but a few yelled for Lily too. And one yelled for you.
“YN! YN!” the girl yelled, Argentine flag in her grasp. Your head turned. “YN! Can I get a picture with you?” she asked.
You paused. “You want a picture with me?”
She smiled. “Yes, if that’s okay.” You laughed, not mocking her, but just unsure to do with the absurdity of it all.
“Of course,” you said, smiling for the camera. “I wasn’t trying to be rude,” you explained, “I’m just surprised you knew me.”
“Oh, we all know you. Everyone’s seen the videos of you and Franco. You all are so cute!” You knew what she meant—your friendship with him was endearing, you had to admit. But the reminder of him felt like a sharp dagger to the heart. Lily called you over, so you bid goodbye to the fan, an odd feeling settling in your chest. That could be unpacked later.
But later was sooner than you anticipated. You had a great time making videos with Lily and Alex, but they had gone to get lunch before qualifying, and you couldn’t find Franco anywhere. So you went to his driver’s room, and finding that even empty, you just gave up and stayed there. He had told you that his room was fair game to hide in if you ever felt overwhelmed, and you definitely did. Now that you were alone, all the emotions were rushing to the surface.
So you opened your notebook to write.
I can’t believe Franco didn’t even introduce me to anyone this morning. I get it, I’m not like them. I’m not talented or famous or as beautiful as that girl is. God, she’s perfect. She’s everything a man could want. Why would Franco ever want someone like me? I’m just an anxious, dependent mess. I don’t blame him for flirting with her. I just wish he wouldn’t do it in front of me.
You were spiraling, and soon enough tears came to your eyes. You tried to blink them away but it was futile. You felt like you were losing your best friend.
But, speak of the devil, he was at the door.
“Oh, YN, I was looking for you,” he said absentmindedly as he walked in the room and fiddled with his helmet. “You left your phone in the garage, Lily has it.”
“Oh, shit,” you muttered. It seemed like you were developing a habit of losing things. You got up to meet Lily in the garage, making a mental note to stop at the bathroom to take a breather. You prayed that Franco wouldn't look at you, but today was your unlucky day, it seemed. As you walked out, he looked up and his eyes met yours, and you saw the concern dawn in his eyes. He moved to say something, but you just quickened your pace, and ignored him when you did hear him call after you.
You found the nearest bathroom and broke down, allowing yourself to just cry it out for a few minutes. Your thoughts kept spiraling. You were ridiculous, you thought, breaking down over something so small. You were pathetic. No wonder he didn’t want you. Why would anyone?
After a few minutes, you took a few deep breaths and steadied yourself and tried to make it look as if you hadn’t been crying. Qualifying would be starting soon. You quickly grabbed your phone from Lily, who thankfully didn’t say anything about your clearly post-sobbing session face, and you found a comfortable spot in the back of the garage to watch qualifying.
He qualified 15th. Not great. Nothing to elicit a celebratory hug, though, God, you needed one right now.
You were exhausted and wanted nothing more than to go back to the hotel and sleep away the weariness. So that’s what you did, skillfully avoiding Franco’s eye scanning the paddock for you.
When you got back to the hotel, you could barely change into your pajamas and get in the bed. You felt heavy like a block of lead. You checked your phone before bed, seeing that Franco had taken a photo with the musicians and posted it to Instagram.
It was taken after you left, of course. As if you were never there at all.
The sight brought another wave of tears. You sighed in frustration and cried until the weight of it all lulled you to sleep.
The next morning, you didn’t even want to go to the grand prix. As you got up and tidied where you had gotten back and just thrown things around last night, you contemplated what to do.
On one hand, you wanted to support Franco even if you were upset. On the other hand, you thought you might burst into tears if you saw him again.
You just needed to write it out, and then you’d be able to face him. You grabbed your bag and fished around for your journal.
It was gone.
Shit.
Then you remembered, you had left it in his driver’s room yesterday. You groaned.
You checked your phone, intending to text him about it, only to find that he had already texted you last night while you were asleep. Just a simple, You okay? but you hadn’t answered.
Frantic, you called him. He answered immediately.
“Hey YN, you—”
“Have you seen my journal?”
“What?”
“My journal. I accidentally left it in your driver’s room yesterday.”
“No? I don’t remember seeing it.”
“Shit…” you whispered. Tears pricked in your eyes yet again.
“I’m on my way to the track, I’ll check when I get there and ask the team about it,” he assured. “We’ll find it.”
“Thanks,” you said, your voice dry.
“Look, are you okay? You just disappeared yesterday—”
“I’m fine,” you lied. He knew you were lying.
“YN, talk to me. Please.” His voice was soft with genuine concern, but it pissed you off. There was no way he could know he was the cause of your upset if you didn’t tell him. But you just couldn’t. Not now, at least.
“Can I just meet you at your driver’s room to look for it?”
He sighed. “Yeah. I’ll be there in ten.” You hung up the call.
You had calmed yourself down a bit before you reached the track, but it was no use when you met Franco at his room and found it empty. The desk where you had set yesterday to write looked strangely devoid of life.
You all wordlessly continued to look for a while, and even went around asking the Williams employees about it, but it was no use. It was gone.
When you returned back to the room, defeated, you couldn’t help but cry.
For fear of embarrassment, you'd never cried in front of Franco before, but you didn’t even have the capacity to try and hide it anymore. At first he looked startled, like he didn’t know what to do. But as you crumpled onto the small couch and he saw your body wracked with sobs, he knew all he could do was hold you.
So that’s what he did.
His touch was warm and comforting, but it just made you weep all the more. He just held you tighter, and you were enveloped in the smell of his cologne. “It’s okay,” he whispered gently to you, “I’m here.”
When the sobs finally left you, he looked in your tear-stained eyes and asked, “Will you talk to me?”
You had never wanted to do anything less. But you knew that these were the moments that counted. Your journal had become a crutch rather than a tool—now was the time to actually do the hard work to get better.
You began, “It’s stupid—”
“I want to know anyway,” he assured.
You paused, then resumed, “It just really hurt me yesterday when you didn’t introduce me to anyone.”
He made a confused face at you. “I didn’t?”
“No, Franco, you didn’t,” you said, your tone getting angrier. “You were too busy flirting with that singer to notice that I was sitting there alone.”
“She asked about you, though. I told her you were just a friend.”
Ouch. Just a friend.
“I thought I was your best friend.”
“You are,” he assured, but it felt hollow.
“It doesn’t feel like it when Lily has to come rescue me from being ignored all day.”
“I’m sorry, YN. I didn’t even realize it, I was just caught up in the conversation. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I just felt like an intruder. I mean… I’m not a famous musician or anyone important in Formula 1. I’m not from Argentina, I don’t speak Spanish—”
He cut you off, “So? And you know my mother would adopt you in a heartbeat.”
You were unamused by his attempt at banter. “So, it just hurts because I don’t belong here. And when you ignore me, I’m just alone.”
He paused. “YN, I’m so sorry.”
You didn’t know what to say.
He continued, “But for the record, I was not flirting with anyone. You know the main reason I spend time with all these people is for the brand, right?”
You looked confused. “The brand? Since when do you care about your brand?” Franco was known for being impossible to media train. Why was he suddenly so concerned with his public reputation?
Even though you were alone in his driver’s room, he looked over his shoulder, listening out for any approaching footsteps. But you all were truly alone in the quiet morning at the paddock. “You have to promise to keep it quiet,” he said.
“I promise,” you whispered.
He leaned in closer. “There’s a chance, a very small chance, but a chance…that I could get a contract with Redbull next year.”
Your eyes widened. He continued, “Checo has been driving so bad that they want him out. But he brings in a lot of money and it’ll cost a lot to break my Williams contract. I need to show them that I can have just as much backing in Argentina as Checo has in Mexico.”
You were practically speechless. “Oh my God, Franco, that’s…”
But Franco was more worried about you. “The people are all nice enough, but I’d prefer your company over theirs any day. You’re still my best friend.”
The tears that threatened to fall now were happy ones, from pride in your best friend and the love you felt for him.
You confessed, “I hope you get it. But I’m so scared that I’ll be left behind and forgotten.”
He reached to hold you again and you let him. “Never,” he said, “never. You’ve been here since the beginning, you’re not getting rid of me any time soon.”
You both broke the embrace and he wiped a tear from your cheek. The soft touch sent shivers down your spine.
“Thank you,” you said.
He smiled at you. “No, thank you for opening up to me. You ready for the race today?”
You nodded, “Always.”
He didn’t score any points, but the points weren’t the point anymore. Your conversation earlier had made you feel so close to him in a way you never had before. You watched the screens in the garage with a religious reverence, looking into his eyes when the camera switched to face him. They were focused, like the only things in the world were him, the car, and the track ahead. And for you, that was all there was in the world, too.
Your celebration after the race was more subdued, but nonetheless supportive. As he walked to the media tent, you all glanced at each other and you mouthed to him proud of you. He winked back.
You all had fallen into a familiar routine of dinner together and winding down in his hotel room, and tonight was no different. Again you all found yourselves in the same positions: him, cross legged on the bed, and you in the chair near him.
The atmosphere was a bit tense though. Being back at the hotel, you couldn’t help but remember the horrible morning, and what you had lost—your journal. Who would have thrown away a journal from his driver's room? You had asked around the paddock again after the race and no one had seen it.
Or maybe it hadn’t been thrown away. Maybe someone took it.
Your mind wandered back to the last few conversations with Franco: your “stolen” lipstick, his asking to read the journal…
No. He wouldn’t. That’d cross a line.
But weren’t the contents of the journal crossing a line themselves?
Franco noticed how you’d gone quieter since you got home from the paddock. You all were both exhausted.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked, lazily tracing circles in the comforter.
You responded with your own question. “Franco, will you be honest with me?”
He looked up at you, his face hardened with concern. “Of course.” He looked nervous.
“Do you have my journal?”
He shifted his gaze away from you. “No,” he said, simple as that.
“Franco,” you began, “listen to me. I’m not mad, but you understand how this looks, right? I know we joke about this kind of stuff a lot, but you asked to read it and then it suddenly disappears after I left it in your driver’s room.”
“I didn’t even go back to the room after you left,” he said.
“Maybe not. But you got there this morning before I did. And now it’s gone.”
He paused. “You really think I’d steal your diary?”
The situation had become too tense for your liking. “I’m not trying to accuse you of anything,” you explained, “and I promise, I’m not mad. I just… there’s some things in there that are too personal for me to share with anyone, even you.”
“YN, I don’t have it.”
“Okay. I’m just saying, if you happen to find it, please promise me that you won’t read it. Please,” you quite literally begged.
“I wouldn’t do that to you, YN. You know I was joking when I asked to read it, right?”
He wasn’t joking. Both of you knew that. And both of you knew that he had taken the diary.
You hoped that he would understand what you asked and respect your wishes. In a few days he’d text you saying that a Williams employee had randomly found it—another lie—and he would give it back to you, unread. And your friendship would go on like nothing had ever happened.
But what if it didn’t? What if he read every filthy word you had written about him?
You thought it through over and over later that night, back in your own room but unable to sleep. So you made a plan.
You and Franco, thankfully, would be on the same flight to Brazil. When you landed and went to the hotel, you’d swap out your room keys and go to his room while he did his media duties. Then, you’d find the journal in his room and take it back.
A few problems with the plan. One, It gave him the first 3 days of the week to read it, and two, it was fucking unhinged of you to go through your best friend’s stuff.
You rolled over and angrily groaned into the pillow.
Brazil was going to be an interesting time.
Well, interesting was the understatement of the century.
It began on the flight, a flight that was way too fucking long. Thankfully, Franco had arranged for you to take this one together, so at least you had his company.
You could never sleep on planes, they were too loud and uncomfortable. Franco usually did, but today it seemed he couldn’t; he bounced his legs and darted his eyes around the plane.
“Nervous?” you asked.
“Very,” he answered honestly. “There’s just so much going on this weekend.”
“I know,” you said reassuringly rather than condescendingly. “You really should try to get some rest though. It’s been a long few weeks for you.”
“I can’t. I’m too wired up.”
You felt an unexpected boldness come over you. “Close your eyes,” you directed, “and take a few deep breaths. Stay still.”
He obeyed, and you grabbed his hand from the armrest between you and held it in yours. You felt him tense at the unexpected touch, but you slowly began to trace circles into his palm with your thumb, and he relaxed into it. With his own boldness, he placed his head on your shoulder and exhaled. Within minutes, he was fast asleep. You knew from experience that he’d be asleep for the rest of the flight, so you let yourself get comfortable with the familiar weight of your sleeping best friend pressing into your side.
Slivers of sunlight from the window traced the soft edges of his sleeping form. Even when unconscious, he was beautiful. If you truly wanted to, you could have turned ever so slightly and kissed his forehead without waking him. And God, you truly wanted to.
So you did, gently pressing your lips to the smooth surface of his skin. Maybe this was crossing a line, but it seemed like, at this point, all lines had been crossed between you two.
His presence calmed you enough that you were able to fall asleep, too. When you woke a few hours later, he was still fast asleep by your side, and you savored the moment.
But deep down you wondered how long this would last. You were head over heels in love with him. He was… well, you didn’t know how he felt. But he was your best friend in the entire world. He knew almost everything there was to know about you.
He had four races left in F1. Four races until you would go back to your day to day lives; still intertwined, but not this close. And if he did get the seat, that you so desperately wanted for him? He’d be gone even more than he already was. You couldn’t follow him around the world forever. He’d go from city to city, race to race, club to club, woman to woman.
You felt your stomach drop at the thought of him with another woman. You remembered the singer in Austin, how he said he wasn’t flirting with her, it was for the brand, whatever excuse he could come up with. You guessed it was true. Or maybe he meant that it didn’t really mean anything to him. Just playing up that side of him that the media absolutely loved. His Argentine charm was undeniable.
Okay, then maybe it was true. Everyone knew Franco was a flirt, you especially. But it made it so much harder to determine, then, what was truly meaningful to him and what wasn’t.
But your friendship meant something to him, right? He had asked you to come along to all his races. He made time for you in the midst of the paddock’s chaos. You had slept in the same bed. He held you when you cried. And now, he slept peacefully on your shoulder, hands still intertwined. How could that not mean something?
You didn’t want your fears of the future to make you miss out on the present. At some point you’d have to open up to him. But that moment wasn’t right now.
And you were determined that you’d be the one in control, so when you landed and made it to the hotel, you enacted your plan you’d concocted earlier. When the receptionist handed you the keys, you waited until Franco was fiddling with your luggage to switch out two, making sure to hand him the correct key. He would never need to know that the other key in the little paper pocket was the key to your room, and if he did, he’d just assume there was an issue. A natural cover.
Okay, maybe you were smart and smooth with it.
You knew you wouldn’t see much of Franco in Brazil. With stakes this high, he had an overwhelming amount of team meetings and media duties. Still, as usual, you all made your way to the paddock together.
The energy was electric—in good ways and bad. Good: there were so many Argentine fans that you often found yourself questioning what country you were in. The amount of support was unreal. And each one of them were proud of Franco—but not as proud as you were.
Bad: Literally everything else.
But that was yet to come. You entered the paddock to a flurry of camera shots and a cacophony of voices yelling for Franco.
Usually you liked to stay out of the shot of cameras, but it was impossible here. Franco did his best to draw their attention towards him and away from you, but it was overwhelming nonetheless.
As you all passed a group of fans, one in particular caught your eye. She was holding out two bracelets. “Franco, YN!” she called out.
You both stopped to speak to her. “I made you all bracelets,” she said, handing one to you and the other to Franco. You read the beads: it had Franco’s name, number, and blue hearts. You smiled at the adorable gesture.
“Oh,” Franco said, looking at you, “This one has your name on it. Let’s switch.”
As he moved his hand to do so, the fan said, “No, they’re supposed to be like that. They’re friendship bracelets for you all!”
“Thank you,” you said, unsure if the warmth of your cheeks was a soft blush forming or from the chaos around you. The fan had wanted you to wear each other’s names.
You kept walking, but when you were out of eyeshot, you offered to switch the bracelets around again, thinking the implication was a little too much for him. He refused, keeping your name around his wrist.
He went off to wherever he needed to be, and you went to William’s hospitality to find Lily, but unfortunately, she wasn’t in Brazil at all.
Maybe, in hindsight, what you did next was a terrible decision. But you did it anyway.
You made your way to Franco’s drivers room for some privacy and pulled up your social media, looking to see what people were saying about him.
Ever since he had confided about his potential for a seat next year, you had also cared about his brand, too. And, officially or unofficially, you were a part of that. Like Lily had told you, people were speculating. You just hoped that what she said about the people loving you was true.
Fortunately, it was.
Franco and YN being obliviously in love with each other; a thread
You tapped on the post, reading your way through the comments.
Does YN know that she’s living our dream?
Oh to be YN, being loved by Franco like that.
Need someone to look at me the way YN and Franco look at each other.
Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love YN, but Franco should be with an Argentine girl. They’d be a power couple.
The comment soured your mood. You kept reading anyway.
Guys, I met YN in Austin and she was so sweet! Our girl is chronically offline because she was so surprised that I even knew who she was and like, girl, WHAT DO YOU MEAN? WE ARE ALL ROOTING FOR YOU!!
You smiled, the memory of the girl in Austin coming back to your mind.
I love how we have all collectively decided to adopt YN as the newest wag even though her and Franco aren’t even dating
You laughed to yourself, remembering how Lily had mistaken you for a wag when you first talked. Maybe that was the reason why.
You read the replies:
To be fair, you don’t look at someone like that unless you LOVE LOVE them
Does anyone else think this is weird tho? I mean, they're just friends but the entire internet wants them to get together, must make things so awkward…
Honestly I’m glad they’re not together because if my bf flirted with other women the way Franco flirts with reporters, I’d throw the whole man away
You snorted. Of course, these random people on the internet didn’t know you, but they seemed to get inside your head a little too much for comfort. Or maybe you just weren’t as good at hiding your emotions as you always thought you were.
Speaking of hiding your emotions, you had a job to do. Checking your clock, you knew that Franco was going to be busy for the next 3 hours before you all had planned to meet up again. He had a very important meeting with Christian Horner. Your heart skipped a beat and you said a silent prayer for your friend.
But now, you have a mission. You were going to get your journal back.
It would have been an easy task, if not for the fans. Thankfully you got out and into an uber undetected, but upon opening the door to his room, you cursed them in your head.
Gifts were everywhere. His team must have been gathering them all week, and Franco clearly wasn’t organizing them.
You thought 3 hours would be more than enough to leave, find your journal, return it to your room, and get back to the paddock unnoticed. Maybe, you thought wrong. This was going to be a long 3 hours.
As you searched, back at the paddock, Franco sat in the meeting that would decide the course of the rest of his life. His leg bounced uncontrollably, his mouth was dry, and he felt like he was going to throw up his breakfast.
He wished you were here. Your presence always calmed him in moments like these; he had no idea where you were, and the intimidating presence of Christian Horner across the table did nothing to ease his nerves.
“I’ve got to admit,” Horner said, “he’s exceeded everyone’s expectations. But a couple good races doesn’t tell us much.”
Franco’s manager replied, “Of course, we understand. But he’s got more than enough of a fanbase to rival any driver. I mean, just look outside and it’s a sea of Argentine flags!”
“Fans are good, but does that translate to sponsors? I mean, you’ve got to compete with Disney here. Not every driver can bring in that level of support.”
“We’ve gotten some strong sponsors recently, and a lot more in the works currently. Franco’s future is promising.”
“What about his PR? Any disasters there?” Horner laughed.
Franco’s manager, however, did not. “He’s good. The fans love him, and he knows when to shut up.”
Franco suppressed a laugh. Anyone who had been around him for more than 5 minutes knew that he was a PR nightmare. And it seemed Horner knew it too.
“Now, that’s not what I’ve heard,” he said. “I’ve seen the videos. You strike the balance well for the most part, but you can’t be telling people not to buy Redbull merch.” They all laughed. “And you can’t be bringing your girlfriend to every race.”
Franco’s manager began to speak, but not before Franco cut her off. “My girlfriend?”
“Yeah, YN isn’t it? As far as I’ve seen, the fans like her, but if she’s constantly around they’ll get fatigued. Again, it’s a delicate balance.”
“YN isn’t my girlfriend.” The sentence felt…odd, as Franco said it with a matter of fact tone.
“Oh, even better. We can get you with an Argentinian woman, then. Maximize that market.”
“A PR relationship? Those are real?” Franco questioned, and Horner laughed, as if Franco was the dumbest one in the room, and he certainly felt like it.
“Not really. Just be seen a few times, like some posts, maybe go to events together if you wanna really get serious about it. Generate talk, you know.”
“Isn’t that what happens with YN now anyway? I mean, everyone already thinks we’re dating.”
“Yeah, but she’s nobody. No offense,” Horner said, as if his comment held no weight. “But with a celebrity or model? That really gets people talking. A little controversy is good.”
Franco felt sick to his stomach. She’s nobody. But she was somebody, to him. She was his best friend.
“Look, kid,” Horner began, “I agree that you’ve got promise, but it’s too early to make any decisions right now. Show us what you’ve got in these last few races, and maybe we can work something out.”
Everyone rose to exchange polite goodbyes and handshakes. Franco felt like he was in a totally different plane of existence.
His manager came over to him afterwards. “You did well, Franco. We’ll just do as he said—keep focused, get results, and keep your head down. Seriously, watch it with the media.”
Franco nodded absentmindedly, but his manager wasn’t happy with that response. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Franco began, “Look, a PR relationship, seriously? And he’s telling me I can’t have my best friend in the paddock?”
“I think YN will survive if she doesn’t come to every single race.”
“But I want her here with me. I don’t want to hurt her.” He remembered Austin, holding you while you cried, afraid that he’d leave you behind. And here push had come to shove.
His manager looked at him, incredulous. “Seriously, Franco, this is what you're focused on? You have a shot at a seat with Redbull, and you’re more focused on not hurting YN’s feelings? How do you expect to achieve this with that attitude?”
Franco was upset now. “Don’t say that. Even Horner said I’ve been exceeding expectations.”
“I know you have, and we’re all proud of you. But you need to stay focused. Leave the women alone.”
“YN is not just a random woman, she’s my best friend.”
His manager’s frustration was growing by the second. “I know Franco. I know you love her, we all love her. But she is not your priority right now. Your future is, okay?”
Hearing those words felt like a rollercoaster, complete with the euphoric highs and stomach churning lows. I know you love her—well, it was true, you were his best friend. But what kind of love? He didn’t know, and besides, the low—she is not your priority right now—he didn’t have the time or space to find out.
He had a job to do.
All the while, you also had a job to do, but you were failing spectacularly. You had searched every square inch of that fucking room. You looked in every nook and cranny, every pocket and pouch, under the covers and even in the bathroom. Your journal wasn’t there.
There was no way Franco was this good at hiding anything (other than emotions, maybe). You now had to entertain the possibility that you had been wrong all along.
Maybe he didn’t have the journal. Maybe you had just accused him of lying and shown that you don’t really trust your best friend.
You let out a frustrated groan as you put everything back in place. You couldn’t believe it.
If he didn’t have the journal, then where was it?
It was a question you’d have to answer later, because right now you were racing to reconfigure his room and get back to the paddock before anyone noticed that you were gone.
You barely made it in time, arriving at the Williams garage with your body in fight or flight mode. You spotted Franco instantly.
“YN! There you are,” he said. “I thought I lost you.”
“Oh yeah, I was with some fans.” The lie just slipped out without you having to think about it. You’d never done that before—who were you becoming?
Franco looked confused. “You were? Since when do you willingly leave the paddock?” he questioned, clearly joking.
“Since I have to help the brand,” you smiled. “By the way, how did the meeting go?”
He just replied, “Good.”
Franco was never a man of few words, so his hesitancy to speak was a red flag.
“Top secret?” you asked, thankfully giving him an out.
“Yeah, it’s… complicated.”
“Well, you know I’m always here rooting for you,” you said, reaching out to gently squeeze his hand. The gesture sent shivers down your spine.
Seriously, who were you becoming?
The next day didn’t make the situation any easier. The morning sprint had granted Franco another 12th place finish—no points, but still respectable. At least, it was to you. You could tell that he wasn’t happy. You knew that he pushed himself too hard, because how else would he be able to achieve, but it still broke your heart. You assumed that the meeting yesterday hadn’t been the greatest, and you wished that Franco would talk to you about it. But he didn’t. That was okay, you’d done the same to him before. You just wanted to be there to support him, even if it meant being on the sidelines, in the dark both physically and metaphorically.
And the darkness was looming over Interlagos. The forecast was horrific. The reality was even more horrific.
As the rain poured down in sheets, you silently said a prayer for all the poor souls with General Admission tickets who must be swimming right now. You were nice and dry under the paddock, thankfully, but outside it was practically a monsoon.
Everyone knew qualifying would get postponed, it was just a matter of time until a final decision would be made. The atmosphere was tense—a championship battle loomed in the distance between Max and Lando, and Franco would be driving for his life.
But as the hours passed and the rain continued, the energy around the paddock loosened up. You saw Lando and Oscar at the gates waving to fans, George jumping in puddles, Ollie taking naps against the warm tires.
So, of course, Franco would enjoy his time too.
His manager stood in the back corner of the garage, talking with one of the media interns. Looking at her, Franco felt his frustration return. He had never been the stubborn type. But since making it to Formula 1, he had been told what to do left and right. Go here, say this, don’t do that. It pissed him off.
He was going to do what he wanted to, at least this once.
Of course, you were oblivious to all of this. You didn’t know what to make of it when he walked onto the pit lane, exposing himself to the elements. Within seconds his fluffy curls were flattened and he would be dripping in rainwater when he came back into the garage.
“YN!” he called into the garage. “Come dance with me!”
You looked up from your phone, and the garage around you was still buzzing, but you could feel everyone’s necks craning to listen and look upon whatever antics Franco was up to.
You just laughed and shook your head. You weren’t getting out in that mess.
But you didn’t have a choice. Franco marched his way up to the garage and yanked you out.
You yelped his name playfully as he dragged you to the middle of the pitlane and put his arms around your waist.
“What are you doing?” you asked him through your widening smile.
“Dancing. Having fun,” he answered. His arms stayed around your waist, too close to be platonic.
You turned to the crowd of fans in the grandstand in the distance. “We have an audience. Is this good for the brand?”
It would seem ‘the brand’ was becoming a running bit, until Franco shut it down. “Fuck the brand. Dance with me.”
He pulled you closer, the only thing separating you being the layers of clothes that were thinning with the rain. He spun you and you all danced back and forth, giggling when you splashed in the puddles swiftly gathering around you.
And then he dipped you. The world felt like it stopped for a moment. You were suspended in air, an electric warmth between you and your best friend, the only two people in the world.
He brought you back up and you both stopped. Your eyes met for what must have only been a split second. It was like all at once, all the love you had for him flooded your heart, stronger than the unrelenting rain.
Everything about him was beautiful. His arms wrapped around your waist, his eyes now looking at your lips—
He was going to kiss you.
That is, until his manager yelled at you both from inside the garage. “Franco! Quit fucking around and get in here!”
The moment was ruined.
You both sheepishly returned to the garage. Your anxiety had faded in that perfect moment with him, but had now returned with a vengeance upon hearing the frustration of his manager. Luckily, everyone else in the garage seemed to not care. But Franco looked like a kid getting called to the principal’s office at school.
Before you even got back in the garage, you turned to him and said, “Franco, I’m sorry for getting you in trouble, I—”
He cut you off. “You didn’t get me in trouble,” he joked, “I got myself in trouble. Don’t worry about it. You can shower in my driver’s room, I should have a spare sweater in there. I’ll try to meet you there.”
You nodded as you went your separate ways.
You did as Franco said, having a quick shower and doing your best to dry your hair in his driver’s room. You grabbed the spare Williams quarter zip he had and slid it on, relishing in the warmth and the smell of his cologne. You felt safe here, quiet and alone, knowing that he’d come meet you when he could. You scrolled on your phone to pass the time.
Of course, it had only been minutes and you all had already gone viral.
You tapped on the post of a gossip page.
Williams driver Franco Colapinto and friend YN seen in Interlagos having a sweet moment dancing in the rain! Although the pair are quoted calling each other just friends, fans continue to speculate about the true nature of their relationship. What do you think? Sound off below!
You scrolled to the comments.
Might as well just make out with her in parc ferme smh
Why are they actually the main characters of a rom com
Sooooooo when is he proposing
YN the woman that you are. I’d ask what we are after being held like that
You smiled. Maybe the internet was starting to grow on you.
Back in the paddock, Franco was soaked to the bone, shivering, and being scolded by his manager.
“I told you to keep a low profile. What was that stunt?”
“I was just having fun—”
“I know. That’s the problem. You are not here to have fun. You are here to compete.”
“Having fun doesn’t impact my ability to drive,” he said, his voice sharp with anger. “Look, I get that you want what is best for me. But I’m not stupid. Fans love this kind of stuff, they eat it up. And I’m improving every day with my driving. Just let me do what I do best.”
“And you’re doing this purely for the fans?” she asked. They both knew the answer. Franco was silent. She continued, “Franco, she’ll be here at the end of the season no matter what. But this opportunity won't if you don’t focus. You’re distracted.”
“This will be good publicity. The fans like it when I’m flirty.”
“You’re not here to be flirty. You’re here to drive,” she said with a forceful and final tone. She sighed. “The FIA just announced that quali is postponed until tomorrow morning. Go back to the hotel, get some rest, and come back tomorrow ready to perform, okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed.
When he finally made it back to his driver’s room, he found you asleep on the small couch. He thought his heart would burst.
Quietly, he took a shower and changed into dry clothes. He sat down and just watched your sleeping frame, taking in how beautiful you were.
But you couldn’t stay here all night. He woke you up by gently brushing your hair out of your face, and you stirred at his touch.
“YN,” he whispered. “Quali is postponed. Time to go.” You sleepily rose and followed him out of the paddock, only fully waking up on the Uber ride back to the hotel.
The drive was quiet, but peaceful. It was dark out, and the rain scattered the light from the street lamps of Sao Paulo. Franco looked out the window, contemplative. It was a side of him you'd never seen before.
You placed your hand in the middle between you two, and wordlessly, he held it in his own.
It was unspoken, this new…thing, between you two. You both knew that something had fundamentally changed. It was a question of who would crack first.
Franco knew, though, that his manager was right. He needed to focus. He needed to deliver. And you’d be here at the end.
But when he laid in his bed alone later that night, he couldn’t rest. All he could think about was that moment you both had felt, and his eyes that had focused on the soft skin of your lips. How badly he had wanted you in that moment.
A line had been crossed, yes, but that wasn’t the only one.
In his backpack, there had been a weight that had hung over him the past few days. A metaphorical one. He had kept it on his person at all times for safekeeping, not wanting to risk anyone finding out what he’d done.
He told himself he wouldn’t do it. But he needed more of you that he couldn’t have—not now, at least.
But he could have this, right now.
So he sat up in bed, grabbing the small leather diary from the bag, and opened the first page.
CHAPTER SUMMARY: You might have finally admitted to yourself that you have feelings for Franco, but that doesn’t make the deep longing you feel for him any easier. And he's starting to make you question if he might feel the same longing for you, too.
WORD COUNT: 5.2k
WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT 18+ ONLY MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Reader is a lil freak, use of YN, mentions of anxiety disorders/therapy, reader has self esteem issues
TAGLIST: @scopeiguess
A/N: Thank you so much for all the love on part one! I never expected my first chapter to get any notes let alone over 200 notes in just a few days. Seriously every single note has me kicking my feet and turning my eyes into little heart emojis lol. I’m already about 2k words into ch 3 so I am hoping I’ll finish it before I have to travel for the holidays (I will not be able to write at all while I’m gone). Also, I had a request for someone to be tagged in this chapter, so let me know if you all would like me to start a permanent tag list. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it!
Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
Oh it’s automatic, you know I just gotta have it
I’ll make your body a habit
You know there’s some kind of magic, uh huh
Do you wanna, do you wanna, own my mind, own my mind?
The Singapore Grand Prix was later that night. Franco did really well considering the circumstances. It was disgustingly humid, and when he was done you could tell he felt awful. You were so angry at everyone at Williams for letting him race like that. Yes, it was his job, but that was your friend out there suffering—your friend who you had just admitted to yourself yesterday that you were in love with.
You watched him from afar when he spoke to the media afterwards. His curls were plastered down to his forehead with sweat, and his skin was pale and clammy. You just wanted to hold him and tell him that you were proud of him. Instead you had to settle for keeping an eye on him in the chaos of the paddock post-race, and helping him back to the hotel with his mother.
She had to get on an early flight, so she left and you promised her you’d stay until he was okay. She was worried about him, and you were too. God, seeing him so sick broke your heart. You helped pack up his things while he took a cold shower and he emerged in just a towel wrapped around his waist. He seemed to be feeling much better thankfully, and his more playful mood reflected it.
Of course, you snuck a glance or two at his sculpted form. Just a peek at his wet curls, the water droplets running down his chest—even the scar on his collarbone that he always tries to hide. He thinks it’s ugly. You think there isn’t a single part of him that’s ugly.
You tried to ignore him and continued tidying up. “I hope you don’t expect me to tip you,” he joked.
You playfully rolled your eyes. “What else are you going to do with all your stripper money?”
“Well, if we’re stripping…” he said, slowly lowering his hand down to his hips, palming the towel. You stomped to the bathroom, out of view of whatever joke he was making. “Get dressed, you man whore,” you instructed.
You lived for the banter you all had—at times, it felt like your own language separate from the rest of the world. The audience could hear Franco’s humor, but they’d never understand it like you did.
When you left the bathroom he was thankfully (or, unfortunately) fully clothed, lying on the bed and lazily scrolling through his phone.
“I’m glad you seem to be feeling better,” you said.
“Well, better than I was, but still kind of like shit,” he responded with a sigh.
“Well, you can get some rest, I’ve got you pretty much all packed up so you’ll be ready to go tomorrow.”
He put his phone down and gave you a soft smile. “Thank you.” He paused for a moment, as if he was readying himself to say something, and looked at the floor away from you. “YN, would you… stay? Just in case I get worse, you know.”
You could tell by the color in his face that he was feeling better, but how could you deny him this small comfort, when his eyes met yours through his long eyelashes, a sliver of light from the street lamps outside cutting through the drawn curtains and resting on his face? He was so beautiful. And he wanted you to stay.
“Of course,” you said. You were going to get up from the corner of the bed where you now sat and move to the chair until he fell asleep, but instead he motioned for you to lay down on the bed next to him. Tentatively, you did, heart racing as he laid his head on your shoulder and curled his body into you.
His playful flirting was normal, but this was… different, a closeness beyond what was usual between you two. You could feel the warmth of his skin, his breath steady against you. Yes, your heart was beating, but you felt strangely calm. Peaceful. In this moment all that mattered was you and your best friend, quietly sharing a moment in each other’s presence.
Your hand, trembling, reached down to smooth a piece of his hair. He hummed in response, to which you quickly moved your hand, mumbling, “Oh, sorry.”
He just grabbed your hand and wordlessly placed it back on his head. Slowly, you began to run your fingers through his beautiful curls. You got lost in the moment, and soon enough, you felt his breath even out as he fell into a peaceful sleep. Soon enough, the stillness of the moment and the soft rise and fall of his breathing lulled you to sleep too.
You woke just as the sun was beginning to illuminate the sky outside. You had an unfortunate habit of waking up in the middle of the night—a common symptom of anxiety, your therapist had told you—but for the first time in a long time, you slept through the night soundly.
You and Franco had shifted, and he know had his arm lazily wrapped around you. You remembered the previous night and felt your heartbeat increase. It wasn’t just the feeling of his arm draped across your waist, but the feeling of…. something else. A little… morning problem.
Of course, you knew Franco couldn’t help it. He wasn’t even awake, and from your years of friendship you knew how much of a heavy sleeper he was. It was just an uncontrollable biological phenomenon. Nothing more.
But you couldn’t stay, feeling him pressed against you like that. It felt wrong and you were so nervous you could hardly breathe. So you carefully wiggled your way out of his grasp and quietly left his room, returning to your own.
Returning to your hotel room, all you knew to do to calm yourself down was to write. So you opened your journal and wrote all about the scene; the dinner, the banter, waking up next to him in the morning sunlight.
You wrote until your hand started to cramp. Then you went back to read what you had written, skimming over it, your mind only picking up on little snippets.
Lily thought I was Franco’s girlfriend, and I guess I can’t blame her. He’s such a flirt, I love and hate it. I just wonder if it ever means anything to him. I mean, he treats random reporters the same way he treats his girlfriends. What does he do when he actually wants someone?
He asked me to stay. I thought he must still be sick, but he just wanted me to… cuddle? I ran my fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. He looked like an angel, so soft and innocent, resting next to me. I wanted to kiss him so badly.
But when I woke up, I could feel his morning wood pressing against me. God, it was so awkward. But I can’t stop thinking about it, what he would do if he really wanted me.
Oh no. Oh no no no. You shouldn’t write that kind of stuff. Having a crush was one thing, but thinking about him like that? It was…wrong. Franco was your best friend. Your best friend who was absolutely perfect—yes, physically as well.
You threw your journal on the bed with a grunt of frustration.
You were fucked.
Your heart beat nervously as you walked into the waiting room before your next therapy session. It had been a week or so since Singapore when you had finally admitted the truth to yourself.
Yes, you had feelings for Franco. Emotional and… physical. No, you had no idea what to do with them.
Waiting for the clock to strike the hour, you reached down into your bag to run your fingertips along the spine of your leather journal. You had been writing incessantly in it since that night.
And if you thought that your fantasies were bad then, oh, it had gotten so much worse.
You told yourself you couldn’t help it. You were ovulating. You’d been single for a while. You were a girl with needs. But you felt disgusted, basically writing porn about your best friend.
I keep imagining that night at the hotel in Singapore, when he came out of the bathroom with just his towel on. In my mind, he sits on the edge of the bed like always, hand carefully placed at the top of his towel. His hair is dripping and his skin is still dotted with water droplets.
He doesn’t even have to say anything. The way he looks at me—eyes looking up through his gorgeous lashes, his pouty lips looking so lonely—I know exactly what he wants. So I get on the bed and straddle him, the only thing between us being my skirt, panties, and the thin fabric of the towel. I can feel him, how badly he wants me.
Then I’m in control, kissing his neck, leaving love bites up and down so that everyone knows he’s mine. He moans softly into my ear, bucking up his hips into me for just a bit of friction. “No,” I tell him, “I didn’t give you permission for that.” He whines in protest, but I just smile at his frustration. “My sweet boy…”
Even remembering what you wrote felt filthy. You wanted him—all of him.
I had a dream last night that Franco dominated me. We are in his apartment, arguing about something stupid, and he pushed me against the wall, kissing me roughly, like he couldn’t get enough of me. He holds me waist with his strong hands as his kisses get deeper.
“I need to taste you,” he growls into my mouth, picking me up and throwing me on the bed. Before I can react he’s on top of me, one hand holding my chin and the other fumbling with the zipper of my jeans. “Are you going to be good for me?” he asks, and I frantically nod.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, smirking, as he pulls off my jeans and my panties with it—
“YN? You can come in now.” You’re pulled from your daydreaming by the voice of your therapist. You close the journal, embarrassed, but not without her seeing it in your hands.
“I hope you’re doing well. I see you’ve got a journal, you’ve been writing in it, I take it?” she asked as you sat down in the familiar office.
“Yeah, I have,” you answered, clutching it tightly in your folded hands.
“Well, that’s great! Has it been helping you?”
“Um… I guess?”
“Explain more.”
You paused, unable to think. All you could do was blurt out the truth.
“I’m in love with my best friend.”
“…Okay.” Your therapist also paused. “Did your writing bring about this revelation?”
You tumbled through the rest of the session, trying to explain what happened without revealing too many intimate details.
“I just feel… horrible I guess. It’s so dumb. It’s not like he’ll ever feel the same way about me.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, he’s so… perfect. And I’m an anxious mess,” you laughed.
“Is anxiety that much of a barrier to being loved?”
You laughed, considering the gravity of her question. You couldn’t truly answer it. “It shouldn’t be. But I just know he’d never choose me and that’s okay. He doesn’t even know how I feel, and even if I had the courage to tell him, I wouldn’t want to ruin our friendship.”
“Does it bother you, not being able to tell him about all of this?”
“….yeah, it does, actually,” you admitted. "I'll never do it but... I just wish I could, you know?"
"I understand. Why not start with expressing your feelings platonically? Telling him what he means to you as a friend?"
"I guess I could do that." You didn't quite know how you'd accomplish that, but you weren't in therapy just to refuse to try anything. You wanted to do hard things. You needed to do them.
So you made it your mission, next time you saw Franco, to tell him something meaningful. You weren't sure what it would be or how it would come out, but you'd at least try.
Unfortunately, it was a while before you'd see Franco again. There were a few weeks between Singapore and Austin, and between race prep with Williams and sponsorship deals, Franco was up to his ears in work. You still talked, of course—you texted back and forth every day—but it just wasn't the same, and you missed him horribly.
You'd felt this before, the ache in your stomach that longed for his presence when you'd gone too long without seeing him. You figured it would be different now that you had finally admitted to yourself what this feeling was. You didn't expect it to be worse.
Because now that feeling in your stomach was sharper. You didn't just yearn for the mere concept of him—you wanted everything. You missed his smile. You missed hearing his voice rise and fall in intonation as you bantered back and forth. You missed his perfect curls smoothed across his forehead. You missed the feeling of his arm wrapped around you, whether in a friendly embrace or something more intimate, like you'd had in Singapore. And in the back of your mind, you missed the feeling of Franco's hardness pressing against your back, a sign of what you fantasized was a deep wanting for you, both physical and emotional.
You tried, and failed, to rein in these fantasies. But with the more days that passed, the more Franco began to feel less and less like your best friend, and more and more like the version of him you'd created in your head, desperate for you more than anything else in the world.
You wrote all of this down, of course. If you hadn't you would have lost your mind with lust. Romantic pining was nothing new to you—you'd had a boyfriend before, although what you felt for him paled in comparison to Franco—but this intense physical desire you felt was new.
You had never been satisfied by anyone, anything, before. You smiled to yourself as you thought, well, I guess it's true what they say about the quiet, shy ones.
And Franco, unbeknownst to him, wasn't making it any easier. He called you one day, the first phone call you'd had in a while, a few days before you'd be flying out to Austin for the grand prix.
"I'm sorry I've been so busy," he explained, "but the stuff we're doing is so cool."
"Am I allowed to know, or is it top secret?" You smiled through the phone.
"Well... I can't tell you everything just yet, but I can give you a sneak peek. Check your messages."
You felt your phone vibrate, receiving a notification from Franco. You tapped on the text and nearly dropped your phone. He had sent you unedited pictures from a photoshoot, and he looked fucking amazing.
His voice on the other end of the line explained, "I'm gonna be on the cover of Forbes Mexico for the race. What do you think?"
At first, you were quite literally speechless. "Franco, you look..."
"Gorgeous? Sexy? Like the most fuckable Formula 1 driver?" he teased. For a split second, you wondered if it was possible to hear a blush through the phone.
His banter inspired your own. "... not bad. I mean, you certainly give them a lot of work to do to make you look good, but they did pretty decent."
If human beings could hear a blush through a phone, you were sure the noise that Franco made would be indicative of one. "Oh, shut up and tell me I'm pretty."
A million potential responses went through your head. Make me. Beg for it. My pretty boy.
Instead you just laughed and said, "No, really, you look great. This is amazing. You know the entire internet is going to lose their minds after this drops?"
He smiled. "That's the plan."
It still hadn't been released by the time you made it to Austin, but you weren't complaining. A part of you liked having this piece of Franco all to yourself. You kept going back to the photos again and again—his glare at the camera, his arm draped over a steering wheel—you couldn't get enough.
And when he met you at the airport in Austin (even though you told him it wasn't necessary), all that want came rushing back the instant he wrapped you in a hug that lasted a little too long to be considered platonic.
You couldn’t let your thoughts go that far. You’d already crossed a line by allowing yourself to feel such… intimate emotions for him. But to even imagine that he really wanted you to? No. That was where you actually drew the line.
But unfortunately, Franco’s confusing behavior made it far too easy for you to believe that he didn’t feel the same.
You all didn’t talk about that night in Singapore, or the fact that he must have woken up alone. You’d rather throw yourself into a pit of knives than talk about it and have to bear the embarrassment, and Franco didn’t seem bothered at all, so you let it go to the back of your head, acting as if it never happened at all. Your first day in Austin was fine, mainly spent recovering from jet lag and exploring the city on your own while Franco did his media duties. You had dinner with him that night and it was like no time had passed. The banter was the same, the atmosphere was great, and you were so happy to be back in his presence again.
As he walked you to your hotel room, you remembered your promise you had made to yourself, that you’d try to practice being vulnerable. For some reason, you didn’t have it in you today. You were tired, in a good way, but all you wanted was to curl up next to Franco and wake up in his arms the next morning.
And of course, you assumed Franco would want to stay. Why else would he walk you back to your room? Maybe it was the nervousness of the implication—you and Franco, alone in your hotel room—that prevented you from saying anything, or maybe you just knew that now wasn’t the right time.
Either way, there was no moment. Franco just bid you goodnight with a wave and left to his own room.
You didn’t know what you were expecting. He just didn’t like you like that, and it was okay. You didn’t want to ruin the friendship.
But you also couldn't help but feel a bit...disappointed. You cursed yourself for letting your fantasies become too real. It would be weirder if he had tried something.
Still, you dealt with these complicated emotions the only way you knew how: writing. You opened the journal and began to write away, not even stopping to think, just vomiting words on the page.
We're in Austin right now. It's been...normal. Good. Which is weird, considering that last time we were at a grand prix we spent the night together. It's not like that, but I can't help but think that something is just...different. I keep thinking about what my therapist asked, about anxiety being a barrier to love. Franco has always supported me, or tried to at least. I haven't exactly made it easy for him, or anyone else, since I bottle things up so much.
But he doesn't love me, not like that, anyways. He dates models—I mean, God, he is a model now—and I'm just me. I'm not exceptionally pretty or smart or funny. I'm nobody.
I can't help but fantasize about how things could be different. I imagine us going on a fancy date. He's wearing that suit he did the Mexico photoshoot in, with the top shirt buttons undone to tease me. He picks me up from my apartment at 8 with a bouquet of pink roses (not red, red is too cliche; but I guess I can't complain, no man has ever bought me flowers). I'm wearing that dress I got the last time we visited Argentina together—the one that hugs all my curves just right, and it's his favorite color. The dinner is sweet. We savor the time together, since it's more scarce now that he's a permanent driver in F1. We've had a few glasses of wine, just enough to get us slightly giggly and blushed, our inhibitions long abandoned. In the back of the Uber he traces his hand up and down my thigh, each time teasing scandalously closer and closer to the place I need him the most.
The ride is torturously long, but when we arrive back at his apartment, he wastes no time in getting me alone so he can have his way with me. He picks me up bridal style and kisses me through my drunken laughter, a smile on his face, too. He lovingly tosses me on the bed before taking off his jacket. I just look at him in awe. He’s so fucking perfect. And he’s all mine. He gets on top of me, kissing me gently, and no words need to be exchanged between us. I can feel the tenderness of his lips against mine, and he pauses, looking me directly in the eyes. The moment is quiet and I feel so safe and loved with him, until our lips crash together and his hand finds its place on my thigh again. It trails up and
There was a knock at your door.
You jumped, startled. Getting up and looking through the peephole in the door, you saw it was just, of course, Franco, so you hurried to open the door.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“You left your lipstick in my pocket,” he smirked, holding out the tube to you.
“Oh!” you exclaimed, having forgotten about asking him to hold it earlier at dinner since your outfit didn’t have pockets.
“You didn’t even notice that I stole it.” It was true. You had completely forgotten about it with all your journaling.
“Well, the shade would look good on you,” you teased.
He playfully rolled his eyes. “It’s no fun pranking you when you don’t even notice. Keep up, hm?” Franco loved to play little tricks on you like this, and usually you played right into them, knowing that the fun of his taunting outweighed whatever consequence the prank itself would bring.
“You’re impossible,” you said, smiling regardless. “Now, if you’re done stealing my stuff, I’m exhausted.” You went to close the door, assuming this to be the natural end of the exchange, until Franco took a step into your room and rested his weight on the doorframe.
“Not exhausted enough to skip your… journaling?” he said, looking over your shoulder.
Shit. Shit shit shit. You hadn’t closed your journal.
“Since when do you journal?” he asked, leaning forward as if he was trying to make out the words from across the room.
If you had been smarter, smoother with it, you probably could have lied and said it was for work, then proceeded to rant about your remote corporate job which would have bored Franco to tears. But smart and smooth with it are two things that you are not.
You swiftly turned around to grab the journal and slam it closed, holding it in a death grip. Your absence from the door, however, had been interpreted by Franco as an invitation to come in. And it was clear by the urgency of your actions that whatever was in that journal was something you did NOT want him knowing.
You answered him, “I haven't been doing it very long.” There was a brief moment where you considered ending the conversation there. It was too late to formulate a good lie, anyway. But on the other hand, you wanted to do hard things and be honest with yourself and others. So you did. At least your therapist would be proud.
So you continued, “It was a suggestion from my therapist. Just helps you get your thoughts out so they aren’t all stuck in your head.” Simple enough. It was the truth, after all. He didn’t need to know what those thoughts were.
“Can I read it?”
You paused in bewilderment. “Um, no? Franco, what the fuck?”
“What?”
“You don’t just… ask to read someone’s personal journal.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s personal, you muppet!”
“Really? Stole that one from Lando?”
“It fits." You snorted. "But seriously, why would you ask to read my journal?”
“Because I never know what you’re thinking. You’re impossible to figure out.”
“... I am?”
“Yes, you are.”
“Well why don’t you just, I don’t know, ask me what I’m thinking?”
“... I know you did not just say that.” He made a face at you. Yeah, he was right. If you were skilled enough at communicating your emotions you wouldn’t have needed to start the journal in the first place. He continued, “You were literally dying in Singapore and when I asked you what was wrong you said you were fine.”
“Hey, I made it to quali alive,” you replied.
“Look, I just… It would be nice to understand where you’re coming from a bit more, like… actually nevermind, forget I ever said anything.” Your confusion only lingered as Franco clearly struggled to find the words. You guess that this was how he felt communicating with you sometimes—it sucked.
“Whatever, you weirdo,” you said, your joking tone an indicator to him that you were willing to act as if this horribly embarrassing exchange had never happened.
“Goodnight, YN,” he said as he left the room, ending the conversation like that. Now it was your turn to be confused by his actions. There was something he clearly wanted to say but couldn’t, and you let yourself wonder, just for a second, if what was happening to you wasn’t so different from whatever was going on in his head.
You let your fantasies lull you into sleep.
Again, you let… whatever was happening between you and Franco go unsaid and focused on supporting him for the grand prix.
From the Williams garage, you cheered him on as he got another point, overtaking Alonso so skillfully. When he came back to the garage, you met him as you always did, with a smile that stretched across your entire face. Your hug this time was different, as he picked you up and twirled you around. You laughed into his shoulder, holding on to him as he spun you.
He put you down and was immediately assailed by hugs all around from the Williams team. Lily, who had been in the garage by your side the whole race, elbowed you in the side.
“So, you and Franco are just friends, huh?” she teased. You all had become friendly enough that a little bit of banter was acceptable.
You inhaled with a soft smile, watching him celebrate in the distance. Once again, you chose vulnerable honesty.
“Yes, we’re just friends. But it’s…complicated.”
Her eyes widened and she turned to you, shielding you off from the celebratory scene. In a lowered voice, she muttered, “You have feelings for him?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Unfortunately, yeah. But c’mon, he just spun you around like a Disney princess. He obviously has feelings too. And have you seen what the fans are saying about you all?”
“No?” You were surprised the fans even knew you existed. You had cut down on social media a long time ago, knowing how much it contributed to your anxiety and self-esteem issues. You still had accounts, but all were private and hardly used, and you didn’t interact much with fans at the races, preferring to stay in the garage or in Williams hospitality to enjoy the races without worrying about what people were thinking of you.
“They love you two. Seriously, I think there’s gotta be a million teenage girls living vicariously through you.”
You laughed at her comment, not in a mocking way, but because of the absurdity of it all. None of these people really knew you, or Franco, for that matter. It just proved your point that social media wasn’t real.
So if people on social media were shipping you and Franco, then it couldn’t be true. At least, that’s the confusing logic you held yourself to. A line had to be drawn somewhere.
Your conversion with Lily was cut short by Franco approaching. “Celebratory dinner later?” he asked, still beaming. You agreed.
If you could have bottled the energy that Franco exuded all day after the race, you would have had yourself a very lucrative energy drink company. As he was packing up his things to leave the circuit, you all passed by barriers where fans were practically crawling their way to get to him, screaming his name and waving Argentine flags in the air. He tilted his head to them as you passed, and asked, “Can I?”
You were in no rush, and of course you could never deny him this moment to enjoy what he had built with all his hard work. He stopped to sign shirts and caps while you stood behind. Everyone had their phones out, filming Franco, but you knew you’d inevitably end up in the background. You just hoped you didn’t look too awkward.
Franco turned his head back to you as the crowd behind the barrier just grew more and more excited. “You see this, YN? This is insane!” his smile stretched from ear to ear, and you just smiled in response. He climbed up the fence, eliciting a small giggle from you, and filmed the crowd below him chanting his name.
You had never been more proud of him. And you had to say it.
So you did, after dinner when you all somehow ended up in his hotel room together again. The atmosphere was…calm. Familiar. Warm.
The conversation had reached a natural pause, and the night had gotten to that point where that space between you and him felt simultaneously infinite and nonexistent.
He sat crossed legged on the bed, fiddling with something in his suitcase next to him. You sat on the chair only a few feet away.
“I’m so proud of you, Franco. I don’t tell you enough.”
He looked up and your eyes met. And he blushed. You had made Franco Colapinto blush.
“When did you get all sappy on me?” he asked. There was still a bit of a wall up. It was unusual for you all to be this vulnerable with each other.
“Since my best friend in the entire world is achieving all his dreams! I mean, we’re celebrating points now, but one day we’ll be celebrating podiums. And then race wins. And then championships. I believe it.”
The room was draped in a thick silence. Franco knew you didn’t throw these words around carelessly. And the unspoken implication, that you’d be there for all of it.
“I believe it too,” he said quietly. There was no ego in his statement. Only true hope.
CHAPTER SUMMARY: The end of the Americas triple header brings chaos, scandal, and conflict to your relationship with Franco. And after an unforgivable betrayal, your friendship may be beyond saving.
WORD COUNT: 9.6k
WARNINGS: SO MUCH ANGST, reader is going through it, Franco is mean and lowkey kinkshames reader :( also Franco is a lil freak at the end so SMUT MINORS DNI
A/N: HAPPY HOLIDAYS YA FREAKS (affectionate). The long awaited chapter 4 is here! So sorry to dampen your holidays with this very sad chapter, but thank you all for being so patient with me while I was away. I hope you enjoy this extra long chapter as a reward for your patience!
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 5
You’ll be the saddest part of me
The part of me that will never be mine
It’s obvious, tonight is gonna be the loneliest
You’re still the oxygen I breathe
I see your face when I close my eyes
It’s torturous, tonight is gonna be the loneliest
The morning light was torturous. It signaled the end of Franco’s short lived unconscious peace, and the breaking of the dawn forced him to confront the fact that it was race day. He hadn’t slept well. It had been one hell of a night.
One glance to the curtained window showed that the morning light was quickly going to be shrouded by rain clouds anyway.
But despite his tiredness, he got up. If he had laid there too long he would have started thinking too much. About the race. About what was at stake.
About you.
He didn’t have time for that. He pushed that mixed jump pile of emotions—what exactly they were, he couldn’t name—down to the pit of his stomach as he quickly showered and gathered his things so he could get to the circuit quickly.
But even in the shower, as he tried to wash the memories of last night away, he couldn’t. His own nakedness didn’t even seem to be his, not anymore. The words you had written, imagining every inch of skin, stuck to him.
A wave of nausea hit him, and he felt like he was going to puke.
And it didn’t get any better as he dressed and gathered his things. There was a journal shaped space in his bag now, hollow without the evidence of his deception. He had kept it on him always to avoid you finding out. But now, it didn’t matter. He knew every word. Even if you did discover what he’d done, he had crossed a point of no return.
The journal itself still lay open at the foot of his bed. Had he fallen asleep after reading it, or just not had the energy to return it to its spot after feeling the shockwaves of the words? He didn’t remember.
All he knew was that his head was pounding. His entire body felt disconnected from the mind that governed it. It was too damn early, and too important of a day to be distracted like this.
But it was all his fault. No one had forced him to read it. No—he had decided, of his own volition, to steal the journal. When you ran out of his room with tears in your eyes and ignored his calls for you down the hallway, he had glanced at the open journal, teasing him to commit this unforgivable offence. He ignored it then, leaving his room, but when he returned that night the temptation had become nearly too much to bear. So yes, just as you had accused him, he did steal the journal that morning before you arrived at the track. And he’d lied to your face about it.
And you believed him.
That didn’t matter now. What mattered was getting to the track and doing his job, showing everyone that he could do what he said he’d do. He had talked a big game—now was time to deliver.
So when he didn’t respond to your text that morning, you let it go. You knew how important of a day this was to him. Even though he never divulged the contents of his meeting to you, you had known him too long to not be able to assume that the stakes were much higher than anyone had originally thought.
Why else would he be so standoffish when you finally saw him at the paddock that morning, brushing you off and quickly leaving? Why else would he not speak a single word to you the morning before qualifying?
At first, the tonal change from last night—dancing in the pit lane and nearly meeting lips to a morning of being ignored—was shocking to you. But you knew Franco. And he had promised that you’d always have a place next to him. Maybe not this particular morning, when all he needed to do was perform. But always. And you trusted him.
So you let the transgression roll off you like the rain that continued into the morning. You took your usual spot at the back of the garage to avoid the ever present watching eye of the media cameras. After last night's stunt, you knew the world would be watching both you and Franco. You weren’t very keen to give the media what they wanted, knowing every gesture or word would inevitably be scrutinized. The fans, though, had been kind so far.
All the things that they had said—we’re rooting for you—had hit you like a ton of bricks last night, alone in your room. You, too, had been unable to sleep.
It was the effect of the ever-present possibility of what could be. You wanted Franco. All of him. His body, yes, but also his mind and his heart. You were in love with him, without a doubt, and since admitting it to yourself only a few weeks ago, you had fallen hard and fast. But at the end of the day, he wasn’t yours. He had a goal to work towards, and it wasn’t you.
But maybe one day it could be. Maybe when all of this was done, you’d still have him. That’s what he promised.
And for once, you’d allowed yourself to really and truly trust him.
You glanced at the screen that showed him sitting in his car before quali. His back was to you, and it felt odd to see him like this, so disconnected, as if you were just another fan rooting on your favorite athlete.
Sure, he was your favorite athlete too, but he was also your best friend.
You wanted so desperately to trust those words he spoke when he held you as you cried. You wanted to believe that his job would never come before you. So when those familiar insecurities rose in your throat like bile, you swallowed them down and forced a smile to your lips.
If the people were watching you, you’d give them a show. And if Franco had to perform today, so would you.
So you let that sparkle come to your eyes when the fans with paddock passes strolled in and out in front of the garage, straining their necks to catch a glimpse of Franco in his car, and you in the background.
Until it was time for quali. You had wanted to wish Franco good luck, but he had been so laser focused talking with his race engineers and fiddling with the car that you settled for whispering a silent prayer as he expertly rolled his car onto the track.
You were always nervous for him. Even when the stakes were much lower, you knew the skill it took for him to do this job, and how dangerous it was. And on days like these, where the rain just kept coming and coming in sheets, you couldn’t help but let your anxiety win, knowing that anything could go wrong.
But Franco was talented, and focused. He would be okay, and he’d exceed everyone’s expectations. You had to believe that right now, on track, all that was on his mind was becoming one with the road.
Unfortunately, Franco couldn’t focus as well as he needed to. His mind wandered, of course, to you. He had brushed you off earlier, unable to look you in the eye after what he’d read.
Maybe, if there had been more time, he would have figured out what he was feeling. But he had chosen the worst possible night to do what he had done. Maybe his manager was right, he was distracted, and now he had to live with the consequences.
Or maybe, if he had been a better man, he wouldn’t have read it in the first place.
Regardless, he had, and even now, when he needed to focus, the emotions swelled up in him, coming in waves.
The first was shock. He read each sentence carefully, over and over again, praying that something had gotten lost in translation and you weren’t really saying what he thought you were saying. The second was disgust—how could his best friend write such detailed fantasies about him?
The third wave, the one he tried to ignore, was something he couldn’t name. A pool of warmth that settled at the bottom of his stomach as he read each filthy word, and the inevitable vision of the scenes he couldn’t help but imagine. He could feel his blood pulse through his veins as he let his mind give in to everything your words had commanded him to picture.
But the fourth wave came quicker, pushing down whatever the third had been. It was anger. Anger at himself for betraying you like this. Anger at you for writing all this and hiding it from him. Anger at life for putting him in this situation. Anger at his manager because she was right—he was distracted.
He had been driving completely by muscle memory, even going silent with his race engineers. They angrily instructed him to return to the garage.
He obeyed, apologizing to them for being so caught up in his own thoughts. But as he pulled the car into the garage and sat, he couldn’t help but let his eye wander the garage to you, standing towards the back as always, hands over the race headphones that they gave all the VIP guests so they could listen in on the actions.
You looked so innocent. His best friend, just cheering him on from the sidelines, so blissfully unaware of what he had done. But what you’d done, too—the pages full to the margins of your fantasies—well, no one was truly innocent here, it seemed.
You looked up and gave him a reassuring smile, and he felt like he was going to lose it.
He darted his eyes away, and thankfully, the race engineers cleared him to quickly return to the track. He would one last clean lap to finish off Q1, then return to the garage for Q2.
But he couldn’t get your smile out of his head, even when he coasted through turn one. And that familiar queasiness returned in his stomach as he approached turn two.
The rain, and his distractedness, was too much to overcome. He spun and eventually hit the wall.
Back in the garage, you couldn’t breathe. The seconds of silence from his end of the radio felt like years as you waited to hear that he was okay.
All he let out was a sad, “Sorry mate,” to his engineer. But to even hear his voice was a blessing.
He eventually confirmed he was okay and made his return to the garage. His head hung low, weighed down by the expectations he had failed to fulfill. As his best friend, you wanted nothing more than to comfort him, to hold him and assure him that everything would be okay. But he didn’t even look at you.
Turning his back away from you, he just stood solemnly as he removed his helmet and fluffed up his hair, before leaving to go speak with the media.
As his car was wheeled into the garage, you thanked whatever God was listening to you that Franco had made it back to the paddock in one piece. The carnage was bad—and with the grand prix in only a few hours, the mechanics would have their work cut out for them.
The garage was soon becoming too chaotic for your liking, so you slipped out to make your way to Williams hospitality to hopefully catch your best friend once he left the media tent.
But Franco never appeared. You assumed he had been dragged from meeting to meeting, trying to salvage what was left of this clusterfuck of a grand prix weekend. You watched qualifying from the screens in hospitality, wincing when Alex crashed too, and offering another prayer for the sanity of the poor William’s mechanics.
The rain only worsened into the afternoon, when the Grand Prix would have to take place even despite the monsoon that raged outside. You still hadn’t found Franco; you occupied your time by chatting with the fans that were now drenched in the general admission sections. They at least were trying to salvage some joy from the weekend, and you were too.
But it bothered you that you couldn’t find Franco, and that he had been avoiding you all day. It was an odd juxtaposition; on one hand, you had become so comfortable in the space of the race circuit that you no longer hid from the people, but sought them out, taking photos and cheering along with Franco’s many fans. On the other hand, you couldn’t help but feel a prickling sensation at the back of your neck that something between you and Franco was wrong. But your anxiety had lied to you so many times that you no longer trusted your intuition.
So, again, you tried to shake it off. It was going to be okay. Franco was going to focus and bounce back and get points. And when he did, he’d pick you up and spin you like he always did. And his beautiful smile would be yours again.
When it came time to return to the garage to get ready for the race, you were hopeful but nervous, your emotions a delicate balancing act of steadying your fear with your desire to support the man you loved.
As you entered the garage, you saw him, fiddling with the cuffs of his fireproof race suit, clearly annoyed by the scrunched lines in his forehead. And then, his eyes traveled up to meet yours.
It was like time froze. You had two options: do as you usually would and go up to him and wish him luck with a hug that was too close and too long to be strictly platonic. Or, ignore him and just silently wish him luck, praying that at the end of the race, he’d come running to you as he always did.
You didn’t get to decide, though. Franco’s eyes darted away as quickly as he could move them, a subtle expression of disgust replacing his former frustration.
It felt like a knife to your heart. You slipped on your race headphones in silence.
He’s just having a bad day. He’s stressed. He wasn’t even looking at you. He did it without thinking. A million thoughts ran through your head, faster than the F1 car that you now watched Franco climb into, readying himself for the race.
You couldn’t look away from him, but he couldn’t even look at you.
All you wanted to do was go back to the hotel and cry. You’d always been too sensitive, people had said, and that was part of the reason you started suppressing your emotions in the first place. But since you’d started your healing journey with your journal, you couldn’t stop the emotions anymore. The blush, the tears—all of it was beyond you, now.
At least, if you cried, the rain would hide it.
That’s what you told yourself as you watched his car roll into the pit lane and onto the track. You prayed to whatever God was listening that Franco would be okay.
But it seems no God was listening to you that day.
It started almost comically, with Lance Stroll crashing into the gravel on the formation lap. A miscommunication between the FIA and the drivers caused confusion on when the race would actually begin. And when the race finally did begin, it was nothing but chaos.
You held your breath during the first spin. It was Nico Hulkenburg, not Franco. Thankfully. Everyone was okay.
You counted the laps in your head, like you’d counted Franco’s breath when he would fall asleep in your apartment during your many past sleepovers. Like you’d counted his breaths when you woke up next to him in Singapore.
Lap 32. He was okay.
In your ears, you heard his race engineer warning him of the wet conditions, advising him to take extra caution with all the water on the track.
Franco asked to box for wet tires. His engineer refused. He told Franco to survive.
A wave of anger rose in you. Is surviving not exactly what he was already doing?
Franco pushed back, asking if the engineer understood what he was saying. And again, he refused. An argument back and forth. Trust us, the engineer said.
And then, he crashed.
A hard hit on the wall and a skid across the wet road.
You felt like your knees were going to give out from under you. Everything was spinning.
The only thing that brought you back down to Earth was his voice in your ears. “I’m okay. I’m so sorry, guys,” he apologized.
In the aftermath of it all, you’d feel sorry for the William’s mechanics. But right now all you cared about was the man you loved and if he was really okay.
You didn’t care that he had been upset with you, for whatever reason beyond your knowledge. All you cared about was that he was alive and unharmed.
Your only want was to run to his arms, feel the warmth of his beating heart against your chest, assuring you that he was okay.
But he stomped into the garage and walked right past you, as if you didn’t even exist to him, like you were an invisible burden.
Your heart was pounding as if you were the one who had crashed. You watched as Franco disappeared into the paddock, likely heading to quickly speak to the media before sneaking off to God knows where.
Again, your mind went to the familiar choice, whether to go to him or hang back. But you’d been hanging back too much. You couldn’t stand it anymore.
You followed in his general direction, but the paddock was buzzing with reporters and team officials. You scanned the crowd for the familiar curls of your favorite Argentine, but to no avail; the frustration threatened to bring tears to your eyes.
Until you saw him darting through the crowd, nearly as fast as his own car, rushing to get away from all the people with their eyes on him. You had become one of them.
You navigated your way to the crowd and back to his driver’s room, waiting until you and Franco were out of the crowd to call to him.
“Franco!” you yelled, “Franco, wait up.”
“Go away, YN.”
That familiar stab in your stomach pulsed again. “Franco, I just want to know that you’re okay.”
“I’m fine. Leave me alone.”
He reached his room and slammed the door shut, locked it behind him. You sighed.
“Please, let me in,” you practically begged. He was silent on the other side of the door.
He had never shut you out like this before—literally or figuratively. You felt the tears begin to pool. With a shaky voice, you began, “Franco, I’m your friend. I just want to support you and be here for you when things go wrong. You’ve been ignoring me all day, and I’m just worried about you.”
His silence continued, and the quivers in your voice became more intense.
“If you want space, I’ll give it to you. But don’t shut me out forever. I want to be here for you. I… I care about you.”
Your heart beat with the near Freudian slip you had said. You were so close to saying I love you. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t said it before; you were best friends, after all, but the shift in the nature of your relationship had made the words take on a new meaning. You couldn’t say it now.
It seemed as if nothing you could say would have any effect, judging by the silence on the other side of the door. You had just turned to begin walking away when you heard the click of Franco unlocking the door.
You knew it was a silent invitation to enter. And when he carefully opened the door, just wide enough for you to enter but not enough so that anyone else could see, you saw the redness in his cheeks and the puffiness in his eyes indicating that he, too, had been crying.
It broke your heart.
You entered and locked the door behind you, instantly enveloping your best friend in a warm embrace. You wanted no distractions—just you, the man you loved, and the silence of the room that was only broken by your collective cries.
All you could do was hold him close, burying your face in his neck, relishing the smell of his cologne mixed with the sweat from the race and the familiar smell of the garage—mechanical, yet somehow like home to you now.
“I ruined everything,” he sobbed into your shoulder. The statement was cliche, but by the strength of his sobs, you knew he felt it was true.
“You don’t know that,” you reassured him. “So many other driver’s have crashed today. It’s a mess out there. You did the best you could.”
“No, no, you don’t understand. I’ve fucked it all up. I’ve ruined it. I let everyone down.”
He clearly wasn’t in a state to be reasoned with, and you knew that wasn’t the best thing right now anyway. He just needed someone to be with him.
“It’s going to be okay. I promise it will.” That, and a warm body pressed to his, was all you could give him.
But the thoughts cascading through his brain were much darker. He really had ruined everything. Yes, his crashes would likely lose him the Redbull seat. But what he really ruined was his relationship with you.
He had done the unforgivable, crossed the line that he couldn’t return from. Everything between you two would be different now, especially when you found out what he had done.
Part of him wanted to lie and act as if it had never happened. You never wrote those words, he never read them, and everything would go on as normal.
But he knew he couldn’t. It had only been a day and the guilt was eating him alive. And now, he had ruined his chance at securing his future.
Still, in the bottom of his stomach was again that jumbled feeling he couldn’t quite name—something like anger, or disgust, something… vile. His manager was right. You had become a distraction, through no action of your own. But the filthy thoughts that went through your head at the sight of him, all which you’d written down and he’d read… it excited and repulsed him all at once.
And these emotions all ran through him as he sobbed in your arms, a quiet solace from the world. Things were broken now.
But in this moment, Franco could act as if none of that was true. He broke the embrace and finally looked you in the eyes.
Your stomach turned with butterflies. He was so beautiful, even with his puffy bloodshot eyes and gentle blush dancing across his cheeks.
And as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world, he gently cupped your chin, bringing your face to his, and kissed you.
The kiss was slow and tentative, soft, like you were something fragile. And this moment was fragile, evidenced by the silent peace between you when the kiss ended and you pulled away, staring at each other.
Franco was about to go in for another when his manager knocked on the door.
“Shit…” he muttered under his breath, and the reality of the situation hit you like a ton of bricks. He wordlessly got up and left with her, leaving you alone in his driver’s room.
You were scared of what would happen when he returned, so you spent the rest of the day in Williams hospitality before leaving the track alone.
You never saw Franco again at the track, but you figured he was in deep shit for his crashes, and that you should keep your distance. But sitting in hospitality, your mind in the clouds as you heard the celebrations of Max Verstappen’s win in the distance, you were haunted by the feeling of Franco’s lips on yours.
It was soft, caring, full of… no. You couldn’t say it.
You felt like there was a stone in your throat. You needed Franco now, but at the same time, you were terrified of what would happen the next time you saw him. So you left and went back to the hotel alone. You knew your usual routine; dinner together, spending a bit of time in his hotel room, then going to bed and heading home on separate flights.
And even though your journal had long left your mind, you imagined what would happen that night in his hotel room.
Another kiss, but rougher this time, more sure of what he wanted; and what he wanted was you. Hands wandering, hitched breaths, waking up next to each other in the morning light.
You felt like you were going to faint. But he never came by that night. No text, no call, no tentative knock on your door.
And even in the morning when you checked out of the hotel and made your way to the airport, still nothing.
You had hoped when you landed and turned your phone off airplane mode that you’d find a notification from him, but your texts were empty.
A day turned into a week. One week turned into two. No word from him. All your messages left on delivered.
It took you two weeks to get him on the phone. You had to call him out of the blue; that was the only time he answered you.
“Hello? YN? Are you okay?” He asked.
“I’m fine. Are you okay? I haven’t heard from you—”
He cut you off. “I’ve been busy.”
“I know,” you answered, slowly, as to not cause an argument. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.” You paused. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
He paused too, but his pause was more awkward than peaceful. Clearly what had happened in Brazil had changed things, to a point where even a phone call felt stiff and unnatural.
You continued, “Do you maybe want to get dinner this weekend? Our usual place?”
It was a neutral enough offer, something that would be absurd of him to refuse.
“Yeah, let's do that. I’ll pick you up on Saturday.” His tone was cool, but you took any opportunity you had for connection. He had said yes to your invitation; that was enough.
In the meantime, unbeknownst to you, Franco was losing his fucking mind.
He didn’t know why he had kissed you in his driver’s room. It was like he wasn’t in control of his body. But how beautiful was the result; his lips pressed to yours, so softly, felt like heaven. He relished every second of the slow and chaste kiss as if it would be his last.
And when his manager had ruined the moment, he realized that it might be. He snapped back into reality as he rushed down the hallways of the paddock with her. She was clearly pissed. She led him back to a small meeting room. The room was empty, but he knew soon the whole team would be there, and he walked in like a dog with his tail between his legs.
Before he had even sat, she took her place at the head of the conference table, small but imposing. He was in big trouble.
She inhaled deeply before beginning. “Franco, are you okay?”
He nodded.
“Say it.”
“I’m okay. I’m so sorry, I—”
“You were distracted.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”
“But it’s the truth.” He was silent. She continued, “Look, I get it. You don’t have much experience driving in the rain. You wanted to switch to wets, I heard the radio. You tried your best during the race.”
He fiddled nervously with his hair like a child being scolded, not even able to meet her eyes.
“I’m not upset that you crashed. Five other drivers crashed too. What I am pissed about is the media shitstorm that you’ve created. First that stunt last night, then crashing this morning? And I know you were distracted then, because you weren’t talking at all on the radio and then I saw you staring at YN before your last lap. What is going on?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” She was right. “Tell me what’s going on.”
He paused, stretching and scratching the back of his neck. He had always tried to keep his personal and professional lives separate, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that he couldn’t do that for much longer.
“I… things are just… weird with me and YN lately.”
“I can tell.”
He gathered his courage before his confession. “I think I’m in love with her.”
His manager sighed. “I figured.”
She sat, a more sympathetic expression crossing her face. She explained, “Look, we all love YN. She’s always been there for you. I’m not trying to tell you what you need to do in your personal life, you’re an adult. But I think you know what needs to be done.”
He did know. But he was so scared. So terrified of the unknown future now. He couldn’t even speak it.
His manager continued, “Well, after today, it’ll be hard to salvage the Redbull contract. But we have interest from other teams, too. Alpine, mostly. You still have a shot at a seat for next year. We can do this.”
She reached over to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. He smiled and nodded, knowing there was much work ahead to be done.
And that work had truly kept him busy in the following days, though not too busy to reach out to you. He just couldn’t do it. He knew if he gave himself anything he’d fall too far in. You consumed his every waking thought—but he couldn’t bring himself to respond to your messages.
Instead, he spent his late, sleepless nights online, reading what everyone was saying about him. A horrible decision, in retrospect.
The commentators had thrown him under the bus, calling him underdeveloped and inexperienced. Hundreds of people calling him “crashpinto” and saying he didn’t deserve his seat. To them, maybe lighthearted, but to him, it meant everything he had ever worked for becoming a mockery on Twitter.
When you called, he picked up on instinct. You never called out of the blue unless it was bad.
But you had just wanted to hear his voice.
Fuck.
He couldn’t do this. He knew he couldn’t do this. His manager had told him. The entire internet was telling him. But he agreed to see you that weekend anyway.
At least, that was the plan. But Saturday came and went and no word from him, no knock on your door, no answered text. Even a call went straight to voicemail—he had declined it.
All week, you had been looking forward to seeing him. You were wearing that dress you’d always fantasized about, the one that was his favorite color, the only one you felt truly beautiful in.
You had gotten dolled up for dinner. You wanted to finally tell him how you felt.
And he stood you up.
You cried yourself to sleep that night. How could you not? Franco was sending you mixed signals and you couldn’t do it anymore.
But when you woke up, it was worse.
A million notifications. At least, that's how it felt. Disoriented, you opened your phone to a video from last night; Franco, walking around Madrid, with an actress. He had stood you up for someone else.
And not just any someone. You had heard of this Argentine actress. She was…controversial. Older. Beautiful.
And Franco had spent the night with her. At least, from the video and comments, that’s what you would assume. They were seen outside his apartment. He was reportedly very…talkative with her. Touchy.
You wanted to puke. The comments didn’t make it any better.
FRANCO BABY GET AWAY FROM HER
How could he do that to YN?
I know he and YN weren’t official but if a man danced with me in the rain one week and was caught with the most problematic actress of Argentina the next, I’d commit an act of violence.
He is so fucking stupid, does he really think this is gonna help his PR after Brazil?
OMG they are so cute! They could be Argentina’s power couple <3
The last comment made you cringe. The replies to it were not kind.
You read through far too many comments before checking your texts. No message from Franco, of course. But from someone else: his mother.
Call me when you can xx
You took a moment to compose yourself. Taking a deep breath, you dialed her number.
Her voice on the other line was comforting.
“YN, dear, how are you?”
“Hi,” you said, “I’m… I’m okay.” You lied, and she knew it.
“Tell me the truth.”
“I’m not really okay. Franco has been acting…odd lately.”
“I know. That’s what I called to ask about. I’m sure you’ve seen the video?”
You swallowed hard, as if you could force the pain down to your stomach and ignore it. “I have.”
“I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I haven’t heard from him for weeks, since Singapore. I thought I raised him better than this. The press is saying he was covering his face in the video because he didn’t want us, his own family, to know.”
“Seriously?” you questioned, aghast. But your shock was also at the implication of the statement—us, his own family. Even his mother considered you part of the family. But you were invisible to him, it seems.
“Yes!” She responded. “And for good reason. I’ve never seen his father so angry. He’s throwing away his whole career for some… woman. He’s distracted.”
That word: distracted. It felt more powerful now than ever before.
“I mean, he hasn’t seemed like himself lately. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
“I don’t either. I actually wanted to ask you to check in on him. He isn’t answering anyone, but I just need someone to talk some sense into him. Just go over to his apartment. If I was there, I’d be on his doorstep with a wooden spoon.”
You could hear the frustration and restraint in her voice. The visual of Franco’s mom on his doorstep with a spoon ready to discipline him was almost comical, if not given the context.
“I’ll try. But if he’s not listening to his own mother, I don’t think he’ll listen to me.”
“Well, if you at least try, that’s enough.” She sighed. “YN, I’m so worried for him.”
“So am I.”
The line grew quiet. You could tell his mother had more to ask, but was restraining herself. You were grateful; you didn’t have the energy to tell the insane back and forth you’d undergone with him in the past few days. You were exhausted.
So you bid each other goodbye and you readied yourself to go to Franco’s apartment and confront him. This couldn’t go on forever.
You were surprised that he ever even answered the door. You knocked tentatively at first.
“Franco, it’s YN. Let me in.”
He wordlessly shuffled to the door and opened it, not even stopping to greet you as he went back to his couch to scroll on his phone.
“Hi,” you greeted, awkwardly, as he was clearly uninterested. He just gave you a small nod.
You sat down next to him. You weren’t quite sure what to say. You opened your mouth to begin, but he cut you off.
“If you’re just here to lecture me, don’t.”
“I’m not here to lecture you.” Except, you kinda were. “Franco… everyone’s worried about you. I’m worried, your mom is worried too. She asked me to check in on you.
He placed his phone down and laughed, an exclamation dripping with sarcasm and contempt. “I’m sure she did.”
“Franco—”
“No, she sent you over here to come scold me, didn’t she?”
“No,” you lied. “You’re just not acting like yourself—”
“No, don’t start with that. You’re here to tell me how badly I fucked up, aren’t you? Well you can save it. The entire internet and all my managers and sponsors and everyone else on the planet beat you to it.”
“Franco, will you let me talk?” You asked.
He ignored your question. “I already fucked up my chances at a Redbull seat, so might as well just keep doing it, right? Go big or go home.”
“Don’t you still have a chance with Alpine?” You had heard the rumors. It didn’t matter, though. Franco still had a chance at a seat, yes, but he was no longer the golden boy of F1, the perfect replacement for the driver that always crashed.
“Why does it matter? Redbull or Alpine or… Chinese F4 or whatever the people come up with. It’s over.”
In an ordinary conversation, you would have chuckled. But this was no laughing matter.
“Franco, everyone's rooting for you. We all want you to succeed, and we know you can. I know you can. I believe in you. Why are you doing this?”
He paused. “Doing what?”
You weren’t quite sure how to answer that. Ignoring you? Kissing you? Or spending the night with another woman?
“Doing things that hurt your reputation.”
“What, are you worried about the brand?”
“Yes. I am. And you should be, too.”
“Oh, fuck off. If you were really worried about ‘the brand’ you wouldn’t have been acting like you did in Brazil.”
“What do you mean?” Your voice was full of pain. He’d never used that kind of language or cruel tone with you before.
“Acting like we’re a couple.”
“Franco, you initiated all of that.” The truth cut through both of you, leaving you raw and vulnerable. “And I thought you meant it. Was it all just… a lie?”
It couldn’t be. The dancing was public. But the kiss had to be real. Away from the cameras, the scrutiny, the potential of what could be. Just you and him. Two people who loved in each other—but in what exact way, it was impossible for you to know.
His only response was curt. “Don’t ask me that,” he whispered.
Silence blanketed the room for a moment.
“The actress,” you asked, “Do you love her?” It was a simple question, asked while still ignoring the elephant in the room of what had really happened in Brazil.
“Why do you care?” he asked, his voice dripping with contempt.
You looked at him with bewilderment. “I care because I’m your friend! She has the potential to ruin your reputation, so I mean, it’s kind of different depending on if she’s the love of your life or just a quick fuck.”
“I just don’t understand why you’re so concerned about my love life. I don’t ask about yours.”
You weren’t quite sure where his agitation was coming from, but it shocked you nonetheless. You responded back with your own passive aggression. “That’s because I don’t have one, Franco. I’m too busy flying around the world watching you race to go on dates.” It was true. But you left out the obvious fact that you were in love with him.
“You didn’t have to come.”
“You asked me to be here!” His words cut sharper than a knife. He had practically begged for you to be there.
“Well, if it’s such a bother, then don’t come to the last three races. I need to focus, anyway.”
“It's not a bother. I enjoy being there! Franco, I’m just trying to talk to you, please don’t take out your anger on me.”
“You’re not trying to talk. You’re trying to tell me what to do, just like everyone else does. You all act like I’m a stupid child who can’t make any decisions on my own.”
Your anger grew. “Maybe it’s because you make decisions like this! You have a reputation to uphold and you’re choosing to associate with people like her?”
“You’re just jealous,” he said, with a thick venom in his voice.
Your heart skipped a beat. You pushed your nervousness down and let anger replace it. In an equally snarky tone, you rolled your eyes and replied, “Look, obviously you’re not going to acknowledge whatever happened between us in Brazil. But I am not jealous. I’m your friend and I want to help you. And besides, not every woman wants to fuck you, Franco.”
“Oh, but you do.”
If your heart had skipped a beat before, it had just dropped into your stomach now. Was it that obvious? Before you could even summon any rebuttal, Franco continued, “You know what actually happened in Brazil? You found me out. I stole your little diary when you left it in my driver’s room. And I read every fucking word.”
All the color had drained from your face. Every single word—where you had declared your love for him, and written all your fantasies about ravishing him and him ravishing you. Every fear and frustration and moment of sadness that you had poured into that journal; he had read it.
“What, nothing to say now?” he snapped at you.
He was right; what could you say when your best friend had crossed a line, only to find out that you had crossed the line so much further?
You could feel the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You didn’t have the strength to push them away as you had always done. What was the point, anymore?
Your only response came out like a sad whisper. “Why would you do that?”
But clearly, he felt no sympathy for you. “Why would you do that?” he retorted. “Everyone tells me constantly that you’re a distraction. And they’re right. Because I’m trying to win points and you’re in my driver’s room writing fantasies about us fucking. And then I crash and lose everything and you want to act like you’re so innocent, just wanting to help. Well I know what you really want. And it’s disgusting.”
For a second, you really thought Franco was insane. Somehow, he had managed to manipulate the situation into making this your fault.
But if he had truly read every word, how could he come to the conclusion that all you wanted was his body? How could he not understand how deeply you loved him?
In mere moments, a million ways to convey this went through your head, But it was no use. He was beyond the point of reason. And your friendship was beyond saving.
You had nothing to say, and it felt like if you didn’t get out of there right that second, you’d go insane. “I think I should just go…” you muttered as you turned to grab your things and exit his apartment.
“No, you don’t get to do that! You don’t get to just run away from this.”
Your anger returned at his refusal to let you go. “If you can do whatever you want, then why can’t I?”
This time it was him who was silent.
Just as you were finally about to leave, you heard his voice behind you, “I’ll prove you wrong.”
His four simple words released the flood of your anger. You turned to him. “Prove me wrong? All I’ve tried to do is tell you that you’re wrong, that you still have a chance to save this if you do the right thing. But what if you don’t, Franco? What if you don’t get a seat for next year? You know what will happen? She’ll leave you. And the entire world will forget about you, everyone except for me, because I’ve always been here, even when you were nothing. But this is how you treat me, you’re mean and you lie to me and you betray my trust and you blame everything on me! So don’t come crying to me when everything falls apart.”
And so you left. And that was that.
The next few days went past like a blur.
You could only remember small snippets. A set of emails; your VIP passes had been revoked, your flights and hotel reservations canceled.
A video of him kissing her in a nightclub. A video of her going home with another man. Rumors. Pain.
All of the sudden, you weren’t in his life anymore. But life just…went on.
You knew it would be best to just get off social media for good, now. Try to move on with your life. But you couldn’t help it. You watched the gossip pages, the F1 updates, his own page.
His comments were full of angry people, lambasting the actress or trying to defend you. His managers even had to issue a statement.
In your head you could hear his manager’s voice, scolding him. You knew exactly what she’d say.
And halfway across the world at the Las Vegas Grand Prix, you were right.
The few days in between the video of the actress, his argument with you, and the Grand Prix weekend felt like a century. But he was here, for better or for worse.
Still, the icy glare of his manager cut through him. He’d gotten an earful after the video leaked. The tension still hadn’t settled.
But media day had gone fairly well; little mention of you or the actress. In fact, everything had gone smooth—a little too smooth, going into qualifying.
One last meeting before he’d have to get to the garage. The garage itself had felt oddly…quiet, without you there. Yes, he’d canceled everything in the hot aftermath of your argument.
But he couldn’t ignore your absence, like a hole in his chest.
He went in and out of focus—he was doing that a lot, these days—as the meeting dwindled and staff filtered out of the room one by one, until again it was just Franco and his manager.
She felt the tension in the room, and knew it was a delicate balance. The wrong mention at the wrong time could ruin everything. So she didn’t mention your name, knowing that it could affect his performance.
“Hey, kid,” she teased him, “You’ve got this. You’ve been through a lot—Hell, you’ve put me through a lot, but you’ve still got three more weeks to show the world what you can do. And I believe in you.”
He only gave her a reassuring smile before he went to the garage.
The smile was fake. He knew it. She knew it. Maybe the fans knew it.
You certainly knew it, watching the Sky Sports broadcast from home. It was an odd duality; you couldn’t stop watching, but every time they showed Franco, you felt like you’d been stabbed right in the heart.
And across the world, Franco felt that same pain. His manager hadn’t brought you up, but her words were far too similar to yours. I believe in you.
Of course she did. That was her job. But you? You believed in him when he was fourteen and couldn’t figure out how to wash his clothes alone. You believed in him when he was sick and when he crashed and when he fucked everything up.
Everything you had said just echoed in his mind, over and over, every night. He hadn’t been sleeping well.
But this was his own fault. He had ruined it. He had read the journal. He had revoked your VIP passes.
He had no one to blame but himself. And it was eating him alive.
When he was younger, he fell in love with racing because of the freedom it gave him. When he was in the car, it was just him and the road. No one could touch him—he could drive into oblivion if he wanted to.
But now, even in the former bliss of that sacred space of his F1 car, his shoulders were weighed down by the weight of all he had done.
The quali session was almost over when he crashed.
There were no words anymore. He retired the car and went back to the garage in silence.
At home, you just cried. There was nothing else you could do.
It wasn’t long before Franco heard a familiar knock at his driver’s room door—his manager. He had spoken to the media, answered all the questions perfectly. But he had cost the team more time and money. He had let everyone down.
He opened the door without speaking a word, bracing for his scolding.
But when his manager entered, her expression was not one of anger. “Franco, talk to me. What’s happening?”
“I don’t know. I just lost control of the car and—”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He paused, a strange sense of deja vu washing over him. He sat down and brought his head to his hands. The words wouldn’t come out.
“Where is YN?”
“She’s not here.”
His manager’s tone grew angrier. “Yeah, I’m aware. Where is she?”
“At home.”
“Why isn’t she here? What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Franco said, his frustration growing at his manager’s insistence.
“Well, obviously something happened, because she’d have to be dead or in jail to not be attending one of your F1 races.”
He looked up, furrowing his brow. “You told me to do what I have to do. So I did.”
“She didn’t take it well? That's… surprising.”
His anger was now tinged with confusion. “Well, most people don’t take it well when they’re called a distraction.”
“...Franco, did you tell her that?”
“Yes, that’s what you wanted me to do!”
“Oh my—no, God, Franco, that’s not what I meant!”
The driver got up, ready to angrily speak with his hands. His manager didn’t cower one bit. She asked, “Franco, what the hell did you tell her?”
“I told her she was a distraction and that she didn’t need to come to the last races. And I told her that she doesn’t need to scold me because you already do that enough. I did what I had to do, exactly what you told me to do!”
His manager took a deep breath. “When I said that you should do what you had to do, I meant that you needed to sit down and tell her how you feel.”
Oh.
She continued, “Yes, you were distracted because of your feelings for her. But she isn’t a distraction. She’s your friend, right? And you love her. So why would you say that to her?”
He began, “I—I don’t know. I don’t…” He couldn’t even finish his sentence.
“Jesus Christ, Franco. What has gotten into you?”
He couldn’t even speak.
“Is there any chance in hell that this can be smoothed over before the race next week?”
He shook his head. No. Not after he had deliberately stood you up to go out with the actress. Not after he had spent the night with her, imagining your lips on his instead of hers. Not after everything he had said. Not after he’d rescinded his gift he’d worked so hard to give you by univiniting you to all the remaining races.
No, things were definitely not going to be smoothed over anytime soon.
Qatar. Still no word from him.
You’d contemplated reaching out a few times, but every time you’d gather up the courage, you’d remember what he said. There was no point anymore.
He crashed within the first laps of the race. It wasn’t even his fault, but still. The damage was done.
The once promising young driver was now the laughing stock of the internet from all the work he’d made for the Williams’ mechanics. Unfortunately for your mental health, you’d still been keeping up with F1 news.
Your absence hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Has anyone else noticed that since YN hasn’t been at races, Franco hasn’t been performing well?
REPLY: Yeah, he does seem kind of off, even in interviews :(
REPLY: He didn’t do well in Brazil and she was there tho
REPLY: Yeah, but Brazil was a mess, no one except Max did well
REPLY: Call me parasocial but I 100% believe that he confessed his feelings and she didn’t reciprocate them. Why else would he immediately crash twice, hook up with a famous actress, and then YN isn’t at any races?
You laughed from the sheer absurdity of it all. Their assumptions couldn’t be further from the truth.
But time kept passing, like your entire world hadn’t been destroyed.
And again, as Franco traveled across the globe for races, his world was crumbling too.
It was becoming apparent that he wouldn’t get a seat for 2025. His time in F1—at least, for now—was coming to an end. And you were gone.
As he checked into his hotel room in Abu Dhabi, he could feel that familiar weight coming to rest on him. It hadn’t let up through the entire triple header.
And when he was alone in his room, he couldn’t hide from it anymore.
You were just a phone call away. All he had to do was press a button and apologize. You were kind—he’d always loved that about you—you’d forgive him.
Or maybe you wouldn’t. Or maybe you couldn’t.
He couldn’t bear the thought. So he didn’t call. Instead he tried to shake it off and take a shower, washing away the grit and grime of the airport, and the metaphorical dirt that now clung to him, the guilt of all he’d ruined.
But even in the shower, his thoughts wandered to you, back in Brazil. You had held him, and he buried his head in your shoulder, taking in the sweet scent of your perfume and the warmth of your embrace.
His hand trailed from his hair, where he was rinsing out his shampoo, to lower on his body, over his toned stomach and the happy trail that dotted his stomach.
He imagined his hand was yours.
No. This was wrong. But you had done it, hadn’t you?
He finished his shower in record time. Now, sitting on the edge of the bed in just a towel, he remembered that night in Singapore.
Had you thought about him like this? You must have. Yes, he remembered, you wrote about it.
He had kept the journal. It was there, in his backpack, at his feet.
He didn’t even think when he did it, reaching down to grab the small leather bundle of sin, letting his towel fall to the floor and not bothering to pick it up.
Climbing on the bed, he opened the journal again. His hand gripped his aching cock, but God, how he wished it was yours.
He read. I keep imagining that night at the hotel in Singapore, when he came out of the bathroom with just his towel on.
Yes, he remembered. The memory of your closeness made his hard length twitch. His eyes darted further down the page.
So I get on the bed and straddle him, the only thing between us being my skirt, panties, and the thin fabric of the towel. I can feel him, how badly he wants me.
He pumped himself up and down, slowly at first, then harder as your words got filthier. He imagined the scene; you on top of him, his hand being yours. God, how badly he wanted you, no, needed you right now.
Then I’m in control, kissing his neck, leaving love bites up and down so that everyone knows he’s mine.
Yes, he was yours. His body was yours. His mind was yours. Everything that he was, was yours. How badly he wished he could tell you that. But all he could do now was keep himself on the edge, denying himself the sweet release as you’d imagined.
He moans softly into my ear, bucking up his hips into me for just a bit of friction. “No,” I tell him, “I didn’t give you permission for that.” He whines in protest, but I just smile at his frustration. “My sweet boy…”
He mimicked the scene when his hips jerked involuntarily, eliciting a low groan from his throat as he released all the pent up anger and frustration. He hadn’t meant to finish this early, but your words and the memory of your lips on his had an effect on him that he couldn’t control.
But even as his breathing slowed and he moved to clean up the evidence of his debauchery, he couldn’t help but wonder how you’d punish him for disobeying your commands.
God, he fucking missed you.
Even with the clarity of his release, he didn’t seem to be thinking clearly. His phone still lay open, the screen on your contact.
One phone call. That’s all it would take. One phone call and you could be there at the end of it all, just as you’d always been there at the start.
But he still couldn't do it.
He tapped the settings icon and hit “block caller.”
about me: Hi! I’m Anix or Ani, I’m 23F and obsessed with fast cars and pretty boys! Terminally thirsty, chronically online, here for all your fandom pleasures 💙
This is my F1 side blog where I post fics. My favorite drivers are Franco Colapinto, Oscar Piastri, George Russell, and Gabriel Bortoleto (in that order). I also like Zhou Guanyu, Alex Albon, Charles Leclerc, Lando Norris, and Lewis Hamilton. Not a fan of Redbull/Max Verstappen, but we don’t hate here (discourse is fine, just keep it respectful).
I write smut, so minors DNI! Feel free to send thoughts in the ask box or via DM and we can chat :)
Requests are currently: CLOSED
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