#flat spin

[nocternalrandomness]

Advanced Aerial Maneuvers

[ireton]

Russian Sukhoi Su-57E fighter jet in action in Bengaluru Aero India 2025

[internetgremlin-writes]

Flat Spin [Chapter Nine]

Summary/Prompt: 1. A spin in which an aircraft descends in tight circles whilst remaining almost horizontal 2. A state of agitation or panic [informal] As the only female driver on the grid, you’re fighting a constant need to prove yourself, however sometimes the line between accepting help and hand-outs is more blurred than you think

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr x Female Reader

Word Count: 6,100

Warnings: Sexual references, general Chapter 8 Aftermath content

Previous chapters: ONE || TWO || THREE || FOUR || FIVE || SIX || SEVEN || EIGHT

Newton's third law is that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. 

The following hangover lasted for two days.

The next morning, you thought you were dead. Or at least you did for the thirty seconds you got to sit in that odd, floaty feeling you get when you wake up with a hangover, right up until the point where a quiet “Cariño,” brought your attention to the side of the bed where you met the soft brown of Carlos’ eyes as he waved a croissant under your nose. 

You groaned loudly as your stomach flipped and a wave of nausea crashed over you with such force you physically shuddered. 

“Get that thing away from me now,” you managed to groan against the pillow. Carlos must have managed to understand the muffled garble because the rich, buttery send drifted away.

“Good morning,”

“No,”

“What?”

“Just…” you stopped to swallow down another wave, Carlos’ peppy attitude grating on you intensely. You couldn’t finish the sentence. “‘M going to lie on the floor now,” you rolled out of bed and army-crawled into the bathroom where the cool slates were all but calling your name in the balmy morning. 

You got a whole five minutes of peace before he was grinning over you again. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, your Monaco winner,” you squinted at him and caught the lens of his camera flash as the sunlight caught the polished glass. You made a certain hand gesture in his direction that made him make a gleeful noise. 

“I think I’m dying,” You heaved yourself over the toilet bowl and felt his presence come mortifyingly closer before his hand landed warm on your back.  For the first time, it occurred to you what you were wearing - after a second of sifting through your swimming mind you realised it was a T-shirt, much bigger than anything you owned.  “It feels like my soul is being ripped from my body,”  You coughed, felt your mouth water and weakly tried to push Carlos away when you realised there was no escaping your imminent fate.

“So dramatic,”  he tutted, but his tone was softer, his touch careful and he stayed far too close for comfort as your body tried to expel whatever alcohol was remaining in your stomach.  Suddenly you were small again, fragile.  Something he could so easily break should he choose to. 

“Says the person who kept feeding me champagne,”  you moaned, the word like acid on your lips, and you felt your stomach heave again at the mention of it.

“Come on, you’re okay,”  Carlos’ encouraging hands were lost on you, he was trying to get you to stand, but the thought of standing made your head spin and you flopped back onto the floor, pushing your forehead harder against the tiles as you waited for the feeling to pass again, swallowing furiously and breathing deeply through your nose.  “Oh Cariño,”  he seemed to realise that there was no amount of enticing he could do to get you off the floor right then.  “Can I help?”  

“Please,”  you were so hungover tears were pricking your eyes.  “I just need a shower,”

You were semi-correct.  One cold shower and a bottle of electrolyte-spiked water later you’d made it downstairs to the lobby, lolling your seat in the breakfast lounge with sunglasses firmly in place.  But you were sat up, opposite Carlos, and picking at the display of bland, carby foods he’d fetched for you.

Carlos, who’d started the day annoyingly bright, seemed to have finally felt his hangover arrive.  He’d lost a bit of colour from his cheeks and had also gone from trying to wolf down the buffet he’d raided for himself, to nudging the bits of ham curling around the edge of his plate with his fork.  You’d have had more sympathy for him except for the fact that it was largely his fault you were in such a state. 

You were about to open your mouth to tell him off for complaining that he, too, wasn’t feeling so good when the other half of his bad influence dragged a chair around the table that was clearly meant for two, and down plopped Charles, fully accessorised with a large pair of Ray-Bans.

“Lando is not coming for breakfast,”  that didn’t surprise you, the younger Briton rarely drank and even he’d been roped into the chaos of last night.  “He’s not in good shape,”

“Surprised you’re here,”  you mumbled.  Charles shrugged, and made a vague gesture that said ‘me too’.  “D’you know where Seb and Mick are?”  If the group of twenty-something-year-old athletes had taken such a battering, you dreaded to think what had happened to poor Seb.

“Flew back to Switzerland earlier,”  Charles told you, swiping a pastry from your untouched plate as payment.  You took another gingival sip of the black coffee you were cradling, not even bothering to protest the blatant thievery.

“Where’s my phone?”  You patted your pockets, knowing full well your phone wouldn’t be there.  You hadn’t looked at it all morning, in fact, you weren’t even sure it had survived Jimmy’z and made it back to the hotel.  “Oh god,”  the words were small and defeated, accompanied by your head falling into your hands.  You knew that if your phone were missing, it would have to stay missing for at least another day; there was no way you could stomach going on the hunt for it in the state you were currently in. 

“Upstairs, I put it on the charger,”  Carlos didn’t even look up from his eggs, but you nudged his foot under the table and felt him respond with gentle pressure against your ankle.

“Thanks,”

Charles stood in a dreamlike fashion shortly after, hardly remembering to bid the pair of you goodbye as you watched him drift unsteadily back to the elevators.  The rest of the morning was spent back in your room.  The Champagne remainders were untouched, but Carlos made a good effort at finishing off the French treats that came with the celebratory hamper as you curled against him, your eyes unfocused on the mindless, trashy TV you were both pretending to watch.

The afternoon followed with an hour of lazy head, Carlos so settled between your thighs you’d thought he’d fallen asleep there.  You came quietly against his mouth, rocking your hips to match his languid pace, your fingers tightening in his hair.  The endorphin rush that spread through your body, too, was slow.  It gently made its way through your nervous system, clearing your head and healing you so blissfully that you barely noticed him kissing his way back up your stomach until you were cuddled against his chest.  Carlos held you tightly as you slept off the last of the hangover together.

“I hate this bit,”  his calf-like eyes were focused on you again.  He had that devastatingly handsome look on his face, the one he had in interviews when he’d just missed out on a pole, or a podium, or a few hundredths of a second to Charles.

“It’s just over a week,”  You promised.  He shrugged.

“Always feels like longer these days,”  You felt yourself melt against him at his words.  The advantage to Carlos’ private jet sponsorship was the equally private lounge access he got before his flight; at least this time you could say a proper goodbye.  You pecked his lips for what felt like the thousandth time that day.  You wanted to tell yourself it was just the hangover and the adrenaline crash that was making you feel clingy, but you knew deep down something had changed.  You just weren’t sure what - or how - just yet.

At least it was a night flight home.  You slept from the moment you found your seat until you were set to land, and that was only because a steward gently touched your shoulder and informed you so.  Your dad picked you up at the airport and you slept once more, the whole car journey home.  You were way too big for him to do so, but somehow you remembered briefly waking up to the feeling of him lifting you out of the car and placing you into bed.  For a moment you were the eight-year-old girl who’d won her first-ever karting race, a gruelling, wet affair that had taken everything out of your tiny body and that night too you’d slept all the way home and right through your dad carrying you to bed.  You’d clutched that trophy so hard you woke up the next morning with it still in your hand.

This time around there wasn’t a trophy in your hand the next morning.  There was the dull ache of the final stages of recovery headache and an equally dull, gnawing hunger that seemed to be coming from somewhere much deeper than your stomach.

*****

“Finally,”  was the first word to pass Andrea’s lips as you made your way downstairs for breakfast.  You weren’t sure if she was referencing the monumental lie-in you’d had or the fact that you’d cancelled the celebratory brunch you were supposed to have yesterday morning before their flight home.  You figured she meant both.

“I told you not to expect her yesterday,”  Your dad sent you a wry smile from across the breakfast table and slid you a mimosa.  Your stomach twisted, but it was weak and you wanted to make it up to your mum for standing them up yesterday.  She’d had a busy morning; a spread filled with pancakes, waffles, even french toast, with a whole tray of bacon, eggs and sausages.

“Bloody hell mum, were you expecting The Queen?”  You joked at the sheer volume of food, not that you were complaining as your dad piled your plate high, the day of barely eating finally catching up to you.

“Just my little champion,”  You smiled appreciatively, not even bothering to correct her terminology.  A single win wasn’t a championship, but this one sure as hell felt like it.  Either way, you weren’t going to complain when you had a “sim and gym” day with Katie and were going to need all the energy you could muster to survive that.  The other downside to having a rugby player as your coach, she got some kind of sick kick out of forcing you to do the most gruelling workouts on the days when you needed it the least.

Fortunately, your parents lived within an hour from Silverstone, so you took advantage of the slow lunch before getting changed into your team colours and packing your laptop and a gym bag for later.  The green seemed to shine a little brighter that morning.  You couldn’t help but admire the way your new Ray Bans seemed to complement your polo perfectly.

You hadn’t expected an honour guard, but the welcome you got when you walked into the Aston Martin headquarters was oddly quiet.  The receptionist barely lifted her head as you scanned in, and you made it all the way to your office completely unbothered, which, you thought, must have been the first time that had ever happened to you.

You popped one of those little pods into your coffee machine and contemplated snapping a picture to send to Carlos.  The man was a borderline coffee snob and with Ferrari being so deeply Italian, they seemed to have professional barristers on every corner endorsing the habit.  He’d scoff at whatever you had in your hand whenever you saw each other in the paddock and you knew his reaction would be the same towards your little coffee machine.  Could you really complain though, given how many of their exquisite drinks you’d had for free in the last few weeks?

Your thought process was interrupted by a knock on the door.  A young man in a polo shirt that was at least two sizes too big and a name badge pinned on an angle you had to tilt your head to read was hovering in the door.  You could tell by the blue of the badge that he was an intern.

“Hi,”  you volunteered it became apparent he wasn’t going to offer words.

“Oh, um, hi,”  

“What’s up? Did Katie send you?”  You could see the poor boy physically wracking his brains trying to remember if he’d met a Katie yet.

“Uhm, no I can’t remember her name - sorry - but, there’s a- like a meeting, soon?”  He paused to check his watch  “In twenty minutes.  Whole team in the… the big conference room,”

Why they had sent an intern to tell you rather than Katie, or even an email, was lost on you.  

“Thanks,”  The intern moved as if he was going to rock back on his heels to leave, and then changed his mind, swaying forwards again.

“Congrats on Monaco, by the way!”  He almost shouted, making you flinch a little and the champagne-induced throb in your head threatened to return for a moment.  “My little sister - she loves you.  And - I mean I do too - not like that!  But you’re really cool,”

He’d gone an impressive shade of pink, but the sentiment warmed your heart.

“That’s very sweet of you guys!  Hang on,”  you leaned over and grabbed a sticky note from your desk.  “What’s your name?  And your cubicle number?”  He hastily told you his name was Luke, and gave you the location of his desk in the intern pen.

“Cool, thank you.  I’ll get something for your sister sent over there,”  He nodded and retreated in a rush of thank yous.  There were always boxes of merch in your office, so it didn’t take you a minute to put together a little gift bag with a couple of your driver cards, a mini helmet model and a couple of caps, all signed for Luke and his sister along with a few other Aston Martin branded bits you had lying around.  You stuck the note with Luke’s number on the top of the bag, grabbed your coffee and made your way out.

The intern pen was on the way to the meeting rooms, so you slipped the bag under his desk on your way down, thankful that the rest of the interns also seemed to be out running errands. You’d been caught before in there and when one intern gets a sniff of their hero, you tended to get stuck in a mob it would take you at least an hour to extract yourself from.

The sheer size of the big conference room always surprised you.  Four long tables made a square, with projectors on all four sides of the room and space for a speaker to stand at one end with a platform and a microphone.  You very rarely had to go in here, meetings involving you were usually smaller affairs, or they were much larger and much more informal whole-team briefings. 

You were one of the first to arrive, despite the fact that the meeting was due to start in two minutes.  Fortunately, Seb was already there and almost instinctively you found yourself sliding into the empty seat beside him.  Despite your mother’s incredible brunch spread that morning, you still found yourself a little disappointed that there wasn’t a snack in sight.

“Do you know what this is all about?”  You whispered to Seb, the room so imposing you felt like a child in a school assembly hall, unable to raise your voice despite several other conversations happening around you.  A steady trickle of people were making their way in, several of whom you didn’t recognise, others you were more familiar with.  Your whole pit wall team was present, as well as Katie and Britta, John the social media admin and even Mike, who sat close to the podium with the microphone.

Seb shook his head, curls following the movement with a gentle bounce of defeat.  You made a non-commital noise of acceptance.  “How was yesterday?”  The question was accompanied by an elbow in your side and eyes shining with mischief.

“How was yours?”  You instantly reflected the question, but Seb stopped you with a clear look of ‘I asked you first’.  “It was rough,”  you admitted, trying hard not to recall the gory details of the morning in Monaco, but even so there was a small, proud smile fighting to make its way onto your face.

“I nearly missed my flight,”  He admitted with a wry smile.  You wanted to push for more details, but something Charles had said at the hotel breakfast distracted you.

“Wait, you went back to Switzerland - how are you here?”

“Supposed to still be there,”  he sent a look in the direction of Mike that screamed Red Bull sulk for a second, eyebrows drawn in and an impressive pout.  “I was only told about this last night.  I had to fly in this morning,” 

You were about to press further when Mike stood up and cleared his throat, effectively commanding the full attention of the whole room.  Silence fell so suddenly it was as if a mute button had been pressed.

“Right, well thank you all for coming.  I think we all know why we’re here,”  You did not like the pointed look he sent in the direction of you and Sebastian, especially considering you very much did not know why you were there.  You sent a desperate look towards Katie, hating the feeling of being caught out.  She wouldn’t meet your eyes.  

“First of all, congratulations where it’s due.  First and third for the team is an outstanding effort,”  there was a round of rather stilted applause, you and Seb standing out as you both launched into much more enthusiastic clapping, which you quickly ceased.  Mike was fiddling with the projector.  You took the opportunity to lean towards Seb.

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t going to be positive?”

“Y/N, where do you want to start?”  Mike’s direct address snapped your attention right back to the front. 

“Um…”  Under his steely gaze, you had nothing to say.

“Let’s give you some options, how about that?”  The tone of his voice made it clear that that was not a question he was waiting for you to answer.  “How about assaulting a marshall?  Or marching into the Haas garage?  Acting as if you’re the only one in charge of the decision-making? Breaking into the Red Bull hospitality!?  Or perhaps your concerning relationships with other drivers? To name a few,”

Oh.

“‘Oh’ indeed,”  

“Sorry-”  Sebastian interrupted, the attention of the room immediately gravitating towards him. 

“You’re not innocent either, Vettel,”  Mike’s tone was icy as he spat the German’s surname.  You felt Seb shift beside you and knew immediately that he was switching from the gentle, bee-loving neo-hippie mentor back into the petulant driver who rose to world-dominating fame.  A fantastic scowl graced his features, clearly offended at being interrupted in such a manner.  

“What assault?”  The ‘W’ came out like a ‘V’ when he was cross.

“We’ll start there, then,”  Mike snapped.  He threw a letter down and watched it slide along the elongated desk to where you stopped it.  You didn’t need to open it because there was a copy of the contents being projected on all four sides of the room.  An official FIA statement.

A fine of 20,000 euros is to be paid by the driver of car number 15 (Y/N Y/L/N) alongside a requested formal apology for the physical assault of a pit lane marshal during the second red flag event of the 2022 Formula One Monaco Grand Prix.  The driver of car number 15 (Y/N Y/L/N) shall receive 1 point on their Superlicence for unsportsmanlike behaviour.

It wasn’t the money that felt like you’d just been kicked in the chest.  

“Unsportsmanlike?”  Your voice was smaller than you would have liked.  “But I didn’t assault him,”  you sounded like a child, and it was clear in Mike’s expression he wasn’t interested in your side of the argument.  

“What did you do then, Y/N?”

“I-” You took a nervous sip of coffee.  This was going to be a long meeting and you were not going to cry at the first accusation.  “I was running to the Haas garage to find out about Mick.  He grabbed me and stopped me,”

“And then what?”

“I…wriggled,”  it sounded ridiculous when you said it out loud.

“So you got into a physical altercation with a pit lane marshall?” 

“I didn’t hit him or anything!  I just got away from him,” 

“Y/N, I don’t want to hear it.”  You knew better than to argue back.  “Which brings me to my next point.” The image changed slightly, and two more letters were sent down the desk.

A fine of 5,000 euros each is to be paid by the driver of car number 5 (Sebastian Vettel) and the driver of car number 15 (Y/N Y/L/N) for the illegal entry into a competitive garage (HAAS Formula One Team) during racing hours in the second red flag event of the 2022 Formula One Monaco Grand Prix.

“Oh come on!”  Sebastian spoke from beside you where he was reading his copy of the statement.

Mike was staring right at the two of you with an exasperated fury that made you want to disappear.  You weren’t one for getting in trouble at school, but you could easily imagine this was the way teachers looked at naughty children.  It didn’t sit well in your chest.

“Sebastian, you illegally entered their garage!  Please argue that,”

“It was very clear we were both only there for the concern of our friend,”  Seb spat the word at Mike like it was venomous.  “Y/N couldn’t tell you a single detail of that garage, she was in a state,”

That was true, the only memory you had of the Haas garage was the stony-faced man in the white shirt who told you Mick was alive and the feeling of the world splitting apart beneath your feet. 

“And you want the FIA to believe that?”  Mike ran a hand through his short, grey hair and for the first time, you noticed the bags under his eyes.  You wondered how long he’d known he was going to have to handle this.

“Sportsmanlike behaviour?”  Sebastian scoffed.  “Clearly not,”

Mike had had enough of the conversation.

“You’re not to argue the fines,”  he sent a pointed look in Seb’s direction.  “You’re both to pay in full out of your personal accounts, you’re both to write formal apologies.  And you’re never going to display such immature, unprofessional behaviour again.  This goes against everything we stand for as a team and you’re both going to make a very public rectification, understood?”

You nodded, your focus suddenly extremely limited to the square of the desk in front of you, unable to look up and meet the eyes of anyone in the room.  Your face was burning, your vision was swimming and you knew you had never been so embarrassed in your life.  You could feel Sebastian beside you, almost quivering with rage and his hands balled into tight fists in the periphery of your vision.  Unlike you, his whole body was tense, on high alert and ready to fight.

“You’re also extremely lucky that Christian is a very reasonable man and isn’t pressing charges for your little stunt in the Red Bull swimming pool.  How stupid could you possibly be thinking that was a good idea?”  You sank further into your seat, what had appeared nothing more than a hilarious prank at the time suddenly was thrown into harsh, bleak contrast as you realised just how dangerous your idea had been.  Although it had been your idea, John was rounded on for his turn of telling off.  You didn’t even feel like the pressure had been taken away from you, as you watched the beloved members of your team that you had slowly grown closer and closer to being reprimanded on your behalf.  The guilt was eating you alive.

“A team apology has already been issued to Red Bull.  I don’t want to hear another word about this now-”  Mike interrupted at least three of you who had spoken up over the stunt at once.  “John, you stick to your team’s ideas only from now on and Y/N and Sebastian - you’ll be having separate PR briefings because you know Drive to Survive will be all over this,”  Mike paused to rub his temples.

A break was suggested, and half the room stood to go and locate coffee.  Mike took two paracetamol and you couldn’t help but think he had the right idea, however, you felt like you were glued to your seat.  Katie was still refusing to meet your gaze and with Seb and Britta murmuring over an iPad in rapid-fire German, you suddenly felt very small and very alone.  You were almost willing for Mike to hurry up and continue the onslaught because at least it gave you something to focus on.

After the break, you moved on from fines to receiving a very public lecture about your attitude towards tyres.  Apparently arguing with your strategist over broadcasted radio is not something well endorsed by Aston Martin, regardless of who’s opinion was right. 

“You have one job, Y/N,”  Mike snapped.  “Just the one!  Drive the fucking car.  The idea of it being a team sport is that we sort the rest,”

That was enough to tip you from embarrassment to anger.

“I drove that ‘fucking car’ to first place!  And had you boxed me to inters I would have driven that fucking car right into a fucking wall.  I argued because I was right,”

“You weren’t right, you were lucky!”  

“I’m the driver, if anyone knows the tyres it’s me,”

“You’re barely out of your rookie season.  You respect the strategy we give you,”

“Not when it’s wrong!  I listened to you in Imola and-”

“Enough!  Y/N that is enough!”  Mike was red in the face, and his hands slammed down right in front of you so that he was towering over your seated frame as he shouted.  “Maybe your friends at Ferrari can call their shots but you are not contracted for your opinion and we do not want to hear it.  Need I remind you Lawrence’s son is waiting for your seat,”

“How dare you talk to her like that,”  Sebastian’s voice was so controlled it screamed danger.

“Be quiet, Sebastian,”  Britta’s hand landed on his arm.  Seb dropped whatever he was about to say, but it couldn’t break the intense stare you were stuck in with Mike himself.

“And as if that wasn’t enough damage-” 

Mike stepped away from you, clicking on a few slides further where a collection of images made your stomach sink.

“Schumacher is young, he’s popular and he’s already formed a close alliance with Sebastian.  We chose to ignore whatever your relationship with him may be.  Your personal life should be none of our business,”

You knew what was coming next.  One of the pictures on the screen was of you wrapping your entire body around Mick right as he’d stepped out of the safety car, his head buried in your neck and Sebastian closing in on you.  The second image was taken shortly after; you were gripping each other’s forearms with your heads pressed together.  To an outsider who didn’t know the depth of your bond, it was obviously intimate.  The third photo was at the end of the race when you’d jumped into Carlos’ arms and he’d held your legs.  You hadn’t noticed at the time but here, caught in HD, the way his fingers splayed across your bum was not friendly, nor was the way he was looking at you in total awe.  The quality of the final photo dropped off significantly, but the evidence was so much worse. 

A grainy picture that was taken in the dark of Jimmy’z.  Carlos’ hips pressed so close to yours there wasn’t a spec of space, his hand in your hair and the other on your hip, pulling you impossibly closer. His nose was at the juncture of your neck and lips millimetres from your skin.  You were no better, eyes closed and lips parted in clear bliss, a hand gripping his bicep for dear life and the other fisted in the front of his shirt, clearly encouraging him into you.  

“For fuck’s sake, Y/N,”  Katie’s voice was quiet enough that few people would have heard her.  The disappointment in her tone echoed in the pang in your chest.

“It’s not what it looks like-”

“Shut up, Y/N,”  Mike snapped.  “You have done enough for a lifetime in less than 24 hours.  I don’t want to hear another word from you,”

“But I’m not dating Mick, it’s not-”

“ENOUGH!  The adults are talking now,”  

That stung.  The tears that had been intermittently welling in your eyes finally spilt over as you swallowed the lump in your throat.  You made an exaggerated gesture of running both hands across your face in frustration to remove the evidence, although you knew it was obvious he’d finally made you cry, and in front of the whole team no less. 

The PR team were suddenly speaking up, discussing how much they’d offered the magazine companies that had hold of the paparazzi photos to keep their silence.  Mike had sat down and for the first time, there was an efficient, business-like feel to the meeting rather than a public humiliation.

Within the next half an hour several cover-up stories had been prepared and were ready to be released if - and when - the rumours started.  You weren’t consulted on a single one, despite it being your personal life under the microscope.  Katie was the only person sticking up for you, and you had a strong sense that you were not going to be received well if you tried to offer anything.  You didn’t understand the full scope of what the PR team were suggesting, too many business-like words and complicated, contractual terms for simple things that you were simply too overwhelmed to be handling right then.  From what you understood they’d be saying you’d broken up with Mick and Carlos was nothing more than a drunk moment.

Agreements were starting to be murmured and there was a restlessness you could feel spreading amongst the whole meeting.  Mike announced the dismissal and people were nodding and iPads were being packed away.  You didn’t dare move.  Seb was the second person out of the door, his expression nothing short of stormy.

Mike spotted that you were still rooted to your seat amongst the steadily growing flow of people leaving.

“I want your apology done and published tomorrow.  Pay the second the FIA contact you.  Keep your head down, you do nothing between now and Baku but train and I swear to god Y/N, you pull another stunt like this again and you’re out, I don’t care how talented you are,”  

You held Mike’s gaze, something childish in you refusing to acknowledge him further than a swift nod.  You tried not to look too much like you were scampering out of the meeting room with your tail between your legs, but you knew it was obvious.

Sebastian was in your office.

“Looking for these?”  He held up your car keys, which were exactly what you were looking for.  There was nothing in the world that could stop you from immediately getting out of the Silverstone complex as quickly as possible.  You nodded, fully aware that your chin was wobbling as you fought off a fresh wave of tears. 

“Good.  Come on,”

He marched ahead of you through the building, out into the car park and unlocked your car, opening the passenger door for you with an expectant look.  He didn’t say a word as he climbed into the driver’s seat, and pulled out of the complex with impressive speed.

“Cry now,”  He said.  You didn’t need much encouragement. 

He drove in silence for ten minutes, whilst you tried to cry as quietly as you could.  There was something big building in your chest and it was hurting the more you tried to control yourself.  Seb pulled off the main road into a leafy, sheltered run-off that was totally uninhabited.  He parked, rounded back over to your side and without a single word pulled you up and into his arms.

He held you tight and allowed you to finally let out the broken sob that sent you spiralling into a full-blown panic attack. 

“Sorry-”  you choked out but Seb immediately cut you off with a firm ‘no’.  He didn’t try and talk you through it or get you to stop, instead letting you work your way through the way your body was attempting to rip itself in two until you somehow found your own breathing rhythm and your chest stopped squeezing and the sobs settled to a gentle stream of tears.  He just held you, firm and fast against his chest and let you figure it all out yourself. 

“You need to cry,”  He told you when you tried to apologise again,  the both of you now sat on the floor in the late May sunshine.  “You’ll feel better.  But not in there,”

“Oh my god, Seb-”  the wave of dread that had temporarily pulled back crashed over you once more, and you immediately curled towards your senior, his arm opening and pulling you into his shoulder as if it was second nature.

“I know,”

“My career is over,”  you moaned, a fresh stab of pain shooting through you.  “Lance has been waiting for me to fuck up for years,”

“They are not going to sack the winner of Monaco,”

“But-” 

“Look,”  Seb handed you a stack of papers you hadn’t noticed he was carrying.

“What is this?”  

“I printed them off last night.  I thought we might need them,”  Each sheet was a photocopy of a news article, each about a scandal involving an F1 driver.  Seb himself and the Multi-21 incident was on the first page, there were several other on-track episodes, but what mattered most to you at that moment was the list of after-party allegations.  From wild parties to sex scandals, the list of drivers with gossip surrounding them was ridiculous.  Seb plucked the bottom paper from your hands.  It was several screenshots of ‘news’ from Monaco two nights ago.  Lewis in the club bathrooms, Checo allegedly cheating on his wife, Lando had been caught kissing that girl he was talking about, Charles had a very public fight with Charlotte, and Mick had been seen walking a girl home. 

“Scandals are part of the job,”  was all he said.  “How many of these do you remember, Y/N?”  You flicked through the pages again.

“Maybe three?” 

“Exactly my point.  It all dies the second they see something more interesting to talk about,”

“But it’s different, they already don’t take me seriously because I’m a girl, and now they all think I’m fucking half the grid and have evidence,”  The image from the club flashed across your mind again.  You had a feeling Mike had only put up a select sampling.

“I know,”  Seb pondered  “I don’t have the answers for that one,”

“Thank you,”  you hoped he knew how much you meant it.  “I think you’re the only person who can make this feel like it isn’t the end of the world,”

“Do you know how many times Christian told me off in front of the whole team?”

“No?”

“Enough that I just used to laugh when he tried,”  You gave a wet giggle at that.  “Do you want to go to McDonald’s?” 

“I always want to go to Maccies,”  you agreed, allowing Seb to once again drive as you pulled out of the quiet spot and rejoined the main road to find the nearest food source.

“One day, we will laugh about this,”  He handed you the prized milkshake from the drive-thru window.

“I can’t believe he actually called me a diva over tyres,”  Seb managed to grin around his veggie burger. 

“Yes.  But you need to know, Y/N, the way he spoke to you was completely unacceptable,”

A few of Mike’s choicer phrases bounced around your head. 

“No jokes about that, okay?  I’m going to do something - or say something - I don’t know what yet,”

“You don’t have to,”

“I’m your mentor.  And you’re my friend.  I’m not letting anyone talk to you like that and get away with it, do you understand me?” 

“Yes, but shouldn’t I say something?  Feminism and sticking up for myself and all that?”

“I think experience is more important here.  And keeping you out of any more trouble,”

“Thanks, Grandpa,”  

“Hey, enough of that!” he nudged your elbow, and the pair of you dissolved into emotionally drained giggles over your shitty burgers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Liked this? Check out more of my work here: MASTERLIST

Helloo, long time no see!

As per standard Iggy behaviour, I vanished for a few months but I'm back! Uni is finished, I can finally breathe and I have three months until I start my job in which priority #1 is finish Flat Spin so I hope you're all ready for an onslaught of writing >:)

I've missed being here so much and I'm so excited to pick up this story again. Hopefully, we can all remember the 2022 season lol. As always, this is a work of fiction based on real life but nothing more. I'm sure Mike is actually a lovely person and a great team principal, I just needed him to be like this for The Plot! (also can we talk about Aston Martin this season? Suddenly I'm not feeling like this fic is totally delusional hehe)

Anyway, so happy to be back. So excited for the next few months!

Lots and lots of love, Iggy

Taglist: @imreallylosingit @serialkillertbh @sticksdoesart @piceous21 @whosays75 @xscorpioxmoon @j-brielmalfoy @22yuki @teapartydreams @guccicloudz @valkyrie418 @nochillnel

@ruledchaos @isabellabrodar @ccloaned  @ihearttheoriginals @ferrarifwendvale @bradfordbantams @bobohumyonlyboo @zoobabystation @formulacads @f1-incorrect-s @alicekepley @thembeforethea

(taglist is too big for one post so 2nd half are tagged with a link post don't panic!)

[internetgremlin]

After that devastating race we all need a consolidation. *me begging for a new chapter or a oneshot without trying to be a bitch*

Like for real seeing the flames behind him was shocking, and ferrari literally ruining the season of its drivers with all those dnf... unbearable

oh my god don't i actually thought i was going to be sick when it started to roll back and he couldn't get out

working on something to put out tonight but I'm not sure what it'll be yet

in the meantime made a moodboard for flat spin & am working on a playlist (quality is a bit meh bc i had to screenshot it off the design website, also pls be nice i am NOT an artist or a designer)

[daf-mod]

A couple of pics I drew to make stickers out of. They came out really well! Man I love drawing Coral.

[novasparksart]

so I have returned from bronycon! here are some of the sketches I drew while I was there. There are some that were drawn in some other sketchbooks during an artist meetup so I don’t have pics of those but I’m sure they’ll be posted soon enough. There are also some more that I have but I’ve gotta find them/ touch them up a bit first. Featuring @daf-mod and @pythtwitchytail

[internetgremlin-writes]

Flat Spin

Summary/Prompt: Flat Spin

1. A spin in which an aircraft descends in tight circles whilst remaining almost horizontal

2. A state of agitation or panic [informal]

As the only female driver on the grid, you're fighting a constant need to prove yourself, however sometimes the line between accepting help and hand-outs is more blurred than you think

Word Count: 8,060

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x Female Reader

Warnings: Description of a racing crash, mentions of vomit, angst-ish, fluffy ending! It's a long one kids but stick with it

You were flying.

Every time you got in that car you felt as if you were flying, the swooping sensation in your stomach and the rush in your ears carrying you as adrenaline pumped through your bloodstream.

You adored racing, and despite not being from any sort of motorsporting family, you could have sworn it was in your blood. You never felt as good as you did behind the wheel, going over 200 miles per hour and hurtling into turns. It was two hours of pure adrenaline and nothing could beat that rush.

Like every other driver, you had been karting since you were a child, climbing through the ranks and finally earning your spot as a Formula One driver. It was your third year now, old enough to no longer be considered a rookie, but new enough that you were still frequently referred to as the 'new kid', despite being older than both Yuki Tusunoda and Lando Norris. But for you, it was a little different.

Because you were unfortunate enough to have been born a girl.

Your career from an early age had been followed by significant media attention, especially once you became the highest-ranking female driver and even that was nothing compared to the media storm you caused when it was announced you had signed to an F1 team. Aston Martin was nearly denounced by fans for taking you on, however, after finishing your rookie season in a respectable P9, they quickly shut up.

This year would be different still. You'd had a flying start, and without really noticing it you had found yourself fighting in the top five, and suddenly the words 'Championship contender' were following you around. That week you were at Imola, a fine enough track in Italy but by no means your favourite. Qualifying had been tough, and you ended up in P8 on the grid, but you were quickly making progress.

Time seemed to move differently when you raced because you'd already done 3/4 of the laps in what felt like just a few minutes and managed to claw your way up to P3 in a difficult and wet dog fight that had you nearly spin out twice.

"Y/N, radio check," your strategist's voice crackled into your earpiece. Feeling good about your current position you decided to entertain the crowd a little and sing a few lines from what had become your signature song as an F1 driver.

"She's a maneater, make you work hard, make you spend hard, make you want all of her lo-o-ove," You sent back. Being the only female driver on the grid had earnt you the playful title of 'Maneater', for your rather vicious overtakes on some very impressive corners to gain places and shave seconds. You heard your strategist laugh down the radio for a second, and then he was back to business.

"You're pretty close to Sainz now in P2. I want you to get on his tail, then we're gonna pull a signature Maneater overtake on turn 7, okay?"

The plan made sense, except your mental map of the course made you falter. Turn 7 was a particularly nasty hairpin and in the wet weather, it would take all of your strength just to keep the car in tight and not lose time drifting wide.

"You sure it's safe when it's so wet?"

"Sainz has already pitted and his lap time is just above yours on wet tires. The only way to overtake him is through the bend, he's not as strong on turns as you are,"

"Gotcha," you signed off and turned all your focus onto catching the tail of the red Ferrari that had been coming in and out of your sight for a few laps.

Stepping on the gas and feeling the car leap forward into your hands made you grin like a maniac behind your helmet, and you took a quick sip of your drink before beginning your hunt.

By the end of the lap, you were virtually sitting on Carlos' rear wing. You felt a bit bad because Sainz had become one of your closer friends on the grid, but there was no time for friends in the actual race, and you'd buy him a drink after as had become the overtake custom between you and a handful of drivers. The rain was starting to drive and the track was no longer damp but properly soaked. You could feel the spray from the car in front pelting you.

"Guys I don't know about this overtake," you admitted into the radio as you had to rapidly correct a slide into turn 5.

"Y/N, I promise you he'll go wide to protect himself and you'll have the perfect opening. If you want the championship we need you to step up the aggression and chase the title," You were not happy with your strategist for pushing you in the conditions, but you knew at the end of the day that if you wanted to keep a lead driver position with the team and be within a fighting chance for championship then they were right.

As predicted, on the approach to turn 7 Carlos' car drifted wide and you tucked yourself even closer, coming up on his inside as you rammed the car into the curb with all your might and pulled through the corner. It was working, and you could see the nose of your car draw level with his as you reached the apex of the turn.

Your mistake came when you hit the acceleration. Your aim had been to push the speed coming out of the corner and complete the overtake, but your tyres span on the wet tarmac and you felt the car jerk in your hands as the back end swang out, sending the front following it around and your stomach dropped as you felt the sickening sensation of a wet spin.

All you felt was an almighty impact that made your neck snap back against your support brace and your hands fly off the wheel, the impact then forcing the car to jolt the opposite way and a second fast spin followed by an even harder impact swept any comprehension from under your feet.

You weren't sure if the car had stopped or not, because your head was spinning so violently and your body was still recoiling from the double impact and the intense G forces that had thrown you about. Your radio was crackling and buzzing in your ear, but clearly, the connection was lost. Your eyes kept sliding in and out of focus and you weren't entirely sure if you were conscious, everything around you was silent and you felt like you were sitting underwater, watching everything happen above the surface. You could faintly smell burning.

You didn't move. You weren't sure if you could, or if you just didn't want to. You were warm, very warm. But it was nice. You were quite happy to sit in the fuzzy little bubble.

The only thing to bring you from the haze was the feeling of something gripping the shoulder pads of your race suit and tugging you upwards. You felt like you were moving in slow motion, but you finally registered that you were supposed to get out of the car and in clumsy movements, with much tugging, you managed to stumble from the cockpit.

The body you stumbled into immediately wrapped an arm around your waist and half dragged your body as your feet scrambled on the gravel and made sluggish attempts at steps. You felt yourself being hoisted, and you vaguely registered that you'd been pulled over the barrier and clear of the track. You were pulled further away and then forced into a sitting position with your back against a low concrete wall a little further away.

The person who'd dragged you out was in front of you, shouting something but their voice was muffled by their helmet. They were fiddling with yours, yanking it off your head followed by your baklava, and then their own. You recognised the Ferrari race suit and realised it was Carlos squatting in front of you. He was shouting at you, you could see his mouth moving but the words weren't reaching you through the fog surrounding your head.

"Are you stupid!?" He was shouting over the noise, the words starting to reach you but you just stared at him blankly.

"Are you stupid!?" He yelled again, "What the hell were you thinking!?" He carried on a little, the same question of your stupidity and a string of Spanish swear words repeating rather frequently.

The fog in your head lifted momentarily and the full force of the accident suddenly hit you. Your whole body lurched as your stomach dropped and your head started to spin again as it throbbed with pain.

"I'm going to be sick," was all you managed before rather ungracefully turning your head sideways.

Carlos immediately leapt up, helping to pull your body into a better position. One hand was gripping firmly to your shoulder strap, making sure you didn't tip forward into your mess, and the other rubbed gentle circles on your back.

"It's okay, Y/N, it's okay, I'm here, I'm here," he was mumbling, face far too close for your liking with what was happening, but you were grateful. Your whole body hurt and you could feel the energy draining from you rapidly.

"Where the fuck is first aid!?" He was shouting again, but not at you. There was too much activity and you were too preoccupied to work out if someone was replying to him. "I don't care! I don't give a shit about the fire, she needs help! Where are they!?" You'd stopped dry heaving and he handed you his baklava to wipe your mouth, before helping you back into a sitting position so you could lean against the wall.

And then it finally hit you, that you'd collided with Carlos. "Shit, Carlos, are you okay? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry-" you were rambling but he cut you off.

"I'm okay, hey," his hand found your chin and forced you to make eye contact with him. His eyes were wide and had a slightly wild look in them, but they were dark and honest, his cheeks were flushed pink and had lines from his helmet that stood out even against his deep tan, and other than his hair being damp and sticking up in every direction he really looked okay. "I'm okay," he repeated, and you believed him.

"Shit, I'm so sorry," you sounded meek. The adrenaline and initial shock of the crash were fading and you were feeling very small and very tired.

"What were you thinking?" His voice was softer, the initial anger giving way to concern. "That overtake is bad even in the dry weather, why attempt it in the wet?"

You were starting to feel very warm again, and Carlo's features felt like they were drawing away from you as if you were slipping through a tunnel. There was a ringing in your ears. Behind you, you vaguely registered the start of another flurry of activity.

"My strategist..." you mumbled, the words feeling heavier and heavier on your tongue "They told me to...if I want the championship..." Carlos' eyes visibly darkened, thick eyebrows drawing into a scowl and he started breathing through parted lips, muttering a single word you didn't recognise. The tunnel seemed to be extending and the last thing you saw before you let the darkness consume you was Carlos craning around frantically, the look on his face positively murderous.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You came around under the bright white lights of the track's sickbay in the pit lane. The hard foam of the examination table was pressing hard into your hips and shoulders, your head uncomfortably tilted upwards on a lumpy but simultaneously flat pillow.

You started to stir, tentatively stretching your legs out and carefully gauging your body's reaction, testing the stretch available in your sore muscles. The track doctor must have heard you because he turned around from where we was stood with his back to you, examining something you couldn't see.

He was a tall man, with pale skin, platinum blonde hair and washed blue eyes that reminded you of the colour of hospital gowns. He was neat as a pin, down to the iron pressed suit and row of pens clipped into his breast pocket lab coat, also pressed, and the stethoscope perfectly balanced around his neck.

"Ah, Miss Y/L/N, I'm glad to see you awake," you couldn't quite place the soothing yet slightly clipped accent he spoke with.

"I need to ask you a few questions, okay?" You nodded, which you soon realised was a mistake as the room seemed to swoop in front of you. You stilled and had to take a deep breath, determined not to let him see you in any worse state than you already were

"Can you tell me your name please?"

"Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N,"

"Good, and do you know what day it is?"

"Sunday,"

"Excellent. Now this last one is a little tricky, okay? Do you know why you're here?"

You were quiet for a moment. And then it slowly started flooding back to you, the flash of red on green and the out of control feeling of the car spinning you into the wall. You remembered the force of the impact and, for some reason, Carlos Sainz's face.

"I crashed," you mumbled "I hit another car on the corner and span into the wall," the realisation that you had a DNF and no points to add to your championship campaign created a knot in your stomach.

"Very good!" He seemed a lot happier about your predicament than you were.

"How long have I been here? Is the race finished? Is Carlos okay?" The apparent approval from the doctor opened a floodgate of your own questions, but he sushed you gently and encouraged you to quieten down and lay back on the bed.

"No need to panic, Miss Y/L/N, please. The race is finished and you have only been here a few minutes. You passed out when you were removed from the track and the ambulance crew brought you straight here, I was just taking your heart rate when you woke up. Mr Sainz is fine, he is a little shaken but has already returned to his team,"

You nodded, still in shock from the crash and you found yourself having to work hard to follow the doctor's explanation.

He continued to examine you, shining a light in both of your eyes and asking you to perform several reflexes and further memory tests once you were able to sit up.

"Well, I am pleased with you. That was a big crash and you have no lasting injuries. As you managed to walk away we don't have to send you to the hospital. You are not showing any signs of a concussion but I would like you to please be watching for the symptoms, okay? You will be sore for a few days, and I would like to you rest a little, but other than that I am happy to release you to your team,"

The doctor helped you to your feet and you found that you were able to stand, and despite most of your muscles screaming you managed a polite thanks and collected the slip of paper signing you off and making your way slowly back to your home garage.

The scene when you arrived was surprising, your teammate and mentor Sebastian Vettel was in a shouting match with your head strategist. Sebastian was backed by a small green-clad crowd, but the head of Aston Martin and your whole strategy team were stood opposing him.

"-because you know this isn't the first time you've made her do something so dangerous in a race!" Someone tried to interrupt him but Sebastian was having none of it, "No! I have stood by and I have watched her be pushed and pushed and pushed! I won't have it anymore, she's your primary but I'm older and I have championships and this is not how you win. I won't watch her win like this,"

"It's not like that-" someone, you couldn't pick out who in the flurry of activity, started.

"You are going to get her killed!" Sebastian jabbed your strategist in the chest so hard he stumbled back a step. "I won't stand by and watch it happen." He turned on his heel and stormed out, finally spotting you leaning against the entrance.

You must have looked a state because his face instantly softened and he rested a hand on your forearm.

"You're coming with me now, we are going to cool down," he turned and shot a venomous look at the team behind him, who looked completely shellshocked. "We will be in the meeting later." And with that Sebastian led you out of the garage.

"I'm sorry for you to see that," you shrugged.

"It's okay, I'm okay anyway,"

"No, it's not okay. I knew they were pushing you, and several other drivers have made comments feeling you are being dangerous this year. And now we know it was not your choice, I am just so cross that they are doing this to you. And that we needed a crash for something to be said," he shook his head as he walked.

You didn't know what to say in response, so you just swallowed the lump in your throat and said nothing. It had never occurred to you that your team had been putting you in such dangerous positions and that you, who had been awed by the promise of the first female championship, had been blindly following their instructions. You were also worried you'd let Sebastian down, he was your mentor and your hero. The idea of disappointing him was in ways worse than the entire of Aston Martin and the FIA combined.

Seb led you back to your driver's room and left you to manage yourself whilst he did his own cooldown routine. Having not completed the race you decided against your usual routine, instead opting to look after your body for a change. A trick from Carlos sprang to your mind. You had mocked him when he had first admitted that a big part of his routine was sitting in a massive bucket filled with ice-cold water, but now the idea sounded glorious for the multitude of bumps, bruises and aching muscles you'd acquired. You fixed yourself an electrolyte drink and changed into your swimwear before submerging yourself in the shockingly cold water. It was unpleasant, but as you grew used to it you could feel it soothing your whole body, and when you clambered out you had to admit you felt refreshed and a lot more comfortable. Your physiotherapist was about, so you called her in and relished in the feeling of the deep sports massage and adjustments she did with you to help limit the pain you'd be in over the following days.

As much as you wanted to avoid the team meeting, especially after Sebastian's outburst you knew you couldn't. And before long you found yourself slouched in an uncomfortable chair around a large table in the corporate offices above the garage. As you had suspected, the meeting was the first in what would be a string of many at headquarters in the coming weeks. You were given a formal apology from your strategy team for the accident, and Sebastian sat grimly with his arms folded and refused to apologise for his words until they gave you more than the formal apology because he felt it wasn't enough. Then the meeting was the usual, driver reports of the car's performance, a quick review of the statistics and a couple of goals set for your next race. Nobody dared analyse the crash. Seb made life wonderfully difficult for the team, and every time they tried to get more than the essential information out of him he'd just remind them with a short "I'm still mad at you," and simply refuse to say another word.

You had been told you weren't allowed to drive yourself back to the hotel, which was fine by you because your body was so heavy and tired that you had no interest in driving at all. You even skipped the paddock walk or finding the podium boys to congratulate, deciding to opt for the injury excuse to avoid interviews and use the back exit to leave. Seb had offered to drive you back to the hotel, but he didn't have a choice in the post-race interview matter, so instead, you tossed your PR manager-slash-bodyguard Katie, a rather fierce ex-England Rugby player, your keys and let her drive you back to the hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once in the safety of your hotel room, the exhaustion of the day hit a whole new level. You just about managed a sitting-down shower to scrub the race-day grime from your hair and body and changed into a pair of your most comfortable sweatpants and an oversized crop top and you crashed out on the king-sized bed with shitty TV in the background.

It was only late in the afternoon, but it didn't stop you from falling into a deep, empty sleep that you woke up from several hours later, to a completely dark and silent room.

You reached blindly for your phone, blinking in the bright white light as it turned on in your face to realise it was only just past 9pm. You contemplated simply rolling over and falling back asleep, but scrolling through your Instagram had woken you up too much, plus a loud growl from your stomach reminded you that you had barely eaten that day and had only had an electrolyte solution after the race.

You had a couple of notifications, mainly from family members and a handful of drivers wishing you well, including Sebastian who was asking for regular updates on your health. You wrote them all back and spent a little time scrolling through your tags on your Instagram account, even reposting a couple of fans' stories of the crash and reassuring people that you were okay. You were sitting with the music channel on in the background once again as you browsed the room service menu. Nothing was really capturing your attention, as most of it was large, heavy meals you knew you weren't allowed during training and that you didn't really want when another text notification drew your attention back to your phone.

Carlos Sainz: I hope you are feeling better now, Y/N.

Carlos and you texted every now and then. You had a good friendship with him, and you would consider him close, but it was more of an in-person friendship and you almost exclusively associated him with race-week antics. Your messages were largely confined within the realms of the odd well wish, a birthday message or double-checking group plans. Although this tex was to be expected, it still made your insides warm a little.

You: I am, thanks! Just had a big nap and I feel pretty much back to normal

That was a lie, your headache had definitely died down but you were still stiff and achy, not to mention embarrassed and frustrated and deeply confused over the conflict the incident had caused. You felt a little guilty for lying to Carlos, so before you could think you were typing out a follow-up message.

You: I'm actually just about to order some food, so by Seb's standards, I'm totally cured :D

You instantly regretted the smiley face, how embarrassing could you be? You tossed your phone to the side and started going back through the menu, but another notification came through almost instantly.

Carlos Sainz: Would you like some company?

That was enough to send your heart rate up and you felt a small stirring in the pit of your stomach.

Carlos Sainz: I didn't eat yet either

You: Sure, it's the least I can do for you after today

You: But you're coming to my room, I'm not dealing with the dining hall tonight

Carlos Sainz: I don't mind

You swallowed hard, you didn't really know why this was having such an effect on you. Maybe it was just because in three years' time the only driver you'd ever chosen to spend one-on-one time with was Seb, outside of the paddock and other race week promo business you ended up on. Well, there was no going back now.

You: Room 287

Carlos simply sent a thumbs-up emoji after that, so you assumed it meant message received. You knew he was staying in the same hotel as you, as were the majority of the drivers because nearly all the managers went for the same trick of booking the closest hotel to the track with a 5-star rating, but you had no idea what time he'd arrive.

Considering he had only ever seen you before in either your race suit or promotional paddock wear and the occasional formal outfit for events, you weren't entirely sure what was appropriate now. You decided that the least you could do was splash some cold water on your face and re-do your hair into a neater ponytail that didn't look like it had been recently slept on. You made your bed and quickly shoved some clothes that were lying around into the wardrobe so there was less clutter about. You were just contemplating changing outfits when there was a soft knock on your door.

Even though he'd barely made a sound, the knock still made you jump and you had to take a second to steady yourself before you answered the door. A rather sheepish looking Carlos was on the other side.

"I feel like I am sneaking around, doing something I shouldn't be," he admitted, scratching the back of his head as he stepped into your room, taking in his surroundings with the same analytical gaze he seemed to approach everything with.

"Sorry," you mumbled, "I'm just not feeling up to going anywhere,"

"Hey, no, it's okay," he was quick to retaliate "It's more important you get time to recover, no?" He finally looked at you then, with those deep brown eyes so full of emotion, a gentle smile just playing at the corners of his lips. He, too, was dressed more casually in a plain but well-fitting white t-shirt and his standard blue jeans. You still felt underdressed, because Carlos had a knack for always looking put together, and because you were still wearing sweatpants. You cleared your throat awkwardly, and unsure of what to say, nodded stiffly.

"Uh, yeah. So, um, do you wanna look at the menu?" Carlos followed you as you walked in front of him, plucking the menu from where it had been sat on your bed and handing it to him, before moving towards the sofa under the window and sitting down. It felt weird to sit on your bed around him.

Carlos seated himself on the desk chair but angled his body slightly so he was nearly facing you. He was leaning back in the chair, confident and relaxed with one leg crossed over the other but maintaining perfect posture. His arms were massive, even when just holding the menu up and the white top further accentuated his deep tan skin. His head was dipped forward slightly and the angle he was sitting at gave you a jawline sharp enough to slice through, well, anything. His eyebrows were drawn together as he scanned the page and his full lips moved slightly as he tested out certain words. His hair was jet black, shiny from a fresh wash and combed neatly behind his ears, but just tufting up a little at the back of his head and the fringe was long and flopped forward onto his face.

Suddenly, as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice-cold water on your head, you realised why you were so nervous.

He's gorgeous, you thought, rapidly followed by; shit. Because you needed him out of your room now and you couldn't see any normal way to say 'So I've suddenly realised you're incredibly attractive and I can barely breathe when you're around me let alone act normal so please can you go?' It wasn't that you hadn't known he was attractive before, come on, you weren't blind, but you'd never seen him attractive like that before and it was completely throwing you.

Just as you were about to blurt out some excuse as to why you suddenly couldn't entertain guests this evening, Carlos lifted his head and looked at you.

"Is there anything you would like?" Maybe it was because he held eye contact the entire time he spoke, and held it after, or maybe it was the Spanish accent but you felt like you were in a vacuum. You forced yourself to smile, screaming internally to act natural and not fuck this up because losing him as a friend would suck entirely.

"I dunno, it all sounds pretty crap if you ask me," You didn't know how someone could look at you with childlike curiosity, and at the same time like they are about to say or do something entirely sinful. Instead, he leaned back and laughed and you found yourself breathing a little easier.

"Are you fussy? Like Lando? Please, no, I cannot deal with teaching another child to eat," he groaned dramatically, but was grinning at you.

"I'm not fussy!" You defended yourself, but met his playful tone, "I just don't know what I want,"

"Women," he rolled his eyes "None of you ever know what you want to eat. Come on, not even the burgers sound good?" The way he dragged out the 'come on' and rolled his r's was simply distracting. Your stomach decided to step in and make a loud squeaky growl. Judging by the way Carlos' eyes widened and he let out another free giggle, he'd heard too. "See, you are hungry! I'm ordering the burgers, okay?"

"Yeah, alright," you agreed, and then "Actually yeah, burgers sound great, thanks,"

There was something about his confidence that you found innately attractive, the way he was instantly comfortable in your room, but still respectful. He picked up the phone on your bedside table and dialled down as if it was the most natural thing in the world, sending glances at you and pulling a funny face as someone spoke at him from the other side of the line like he'd been placing orders for you all his life. When he sat back down it was on the sofa, beside you, so you turned to face him.

"Hey, Carlos, look I'm so sorry again about the race today-"

"Ah-"

"No, I want to talk, please? I shouldn't have ever attempted that corner so close to you, no matter what I was being told over the radio, and it was totally my fault. Not that it's an excuse for dangerous driving, but they - my strat team - have been really getting in my head about this year's championship, you know? I think something's going on with it because you should have seen Seb, he went off the handle back at the garage. He said they were going to kill me, and he threatened to quit,"

Carlos' face had changed too, his jaw a little set and he'd lost all sense of relaxed teasing.

"They will, if they keep asking you to make choices like that. You are young, still, and you are supposed to be trusting in your team, why should you question them, ay? You shouldn't have to, not yet anyway," he sounded cross, and then he softened a little. "Dios mío, when I saw you in that car. You didn't move, Y/N, you weren't responding. There was a lot of smoke," his voice faltered for a second, and he stared out of the window, running a hand through his hair with a hard swallow. "I couldn't-"

But you didn't get to find out what exactly Carlos couldn't because the food arrived.

You ate the burgers in mostly silence, both of you more hungry than you knew from the long and stressful day. Burgers were absolutely the right call, and you told Carlos so as you sat, finally satisfied with a belly full of comfort food, picking off the last of your french fries. He seemed pleased with you, and you couldn't help but think how nice it was to have dinner with a man who was actively encouraging you to eat more, rather than questioning you for not choosing a salad. You told Carlos that, too.

"Food is important," he said it so simply, just a plain statement. You noticed he talked like that a lot, in relatively short sentences, all of which were perfect statements. He never seemed to invite contradiction or conflict, as if everything in his world was just simple facts. You couldn't help but find it addictive.

Once the food had been consumed Carlos rose without a word and collected the plates and glasses, neatly stacking them on a small table near the door.

"You don't have to do that," you started, standing to take the plates off him when you realised he was clearing up for you. Carlos turned, quite sharply, and met your gaze once more.

"I want to,"

There he went again, with those statements that you just couldn't argue over. You decided to let him have his way, and once he was done the pair of you retired back to the sofa.

"I'm sorry I don't really have anything to drink in here," you felt a little awkward, maybe it was the stubborn English culture kicking in that had trained an entire country to rely on copious amounts of alcohol at any social event.

"Cola is fine for us both, no?" You wanted to say no it was not, because your nerves were starting to return now you didn't have food to focus on and you would have quite liked a glass of wine or even a gin for a bit of liquid courage.

"Yeah, no of course it is," he had such a warm smile, you just wanted to be close to him.

"I would like to ask, why do you have your TV on always?" Part of you wanted to withdraw and lie, but he was staring at you with those wide eyes as if you held all the secrets he needed and before you could think you found yourself speaking honestly, for the first time in a while.

"I hate silence," you admitted "My head's always full, mind racing you know? Wherever I go I turn on the radio or the TV first thing and leave it on, it's just background noise really but it helps me drown out myself," you laughed awkwardly because you didn't quite know how Carlos would react to you telling him something quite personal, but he didn't laugh. He reached forward and placed a large hand on your forearm and squeezed lightly. When he leant back you could have sworn there would have been a burn mark in the shape of his hand on your arm.

"I understand,"

After you'd opened up to him it felt like part of the tension in the room had broken, and you found yourself relaxing again. He was still the Carlos you knew on the track, just as kind and funny and eager to please. Only now you were the sole subject of his attention. And you had to admit that whilst it was a little intense, you were loving every second.

The conversation flowed more naturally too, chatting about anything that came to either of your minds. It was easy and pleasant and it was only when he caught you stifling a yawn that the flow finally ceased.

"Are you tired?"

"No, I'm okay-"

"It's later than I was expecting," he acknowledged, nodding towards the clock on your bedside table that was reading nearly midnight. He stood despite your reasoning and you found yourself following him to the door. "This was really nice, but you need to sleep, to feel better,"

You knew where he was coming from and you agreed, but there was a strike of panic that suddenly shot through you as his hand closed around the handle door handle to leave.

"No, wait!" He dropped the handle as if it was electrified, that wide brown stare fixed on you, confusion and concern flashing across his features.

"I just don't think I want to be alone yet," you admitted to the floor, the sudden spike of fear that had shot through you was yet to subside and you could feel the icy cold shot of adrenaline making its way through your system, and not in a good way "Please?"

Your voice faltered and Carlos immediately stepped forwards, reaching to hold both of your upper arms as if to steady you.

"Are you okay, Y/N?" That did it, the shock of the day and the realisation of everything that had happened crashed into you with full force and for a second you felt your breath hitch. Your vision started to cloud as your eyes burnt, and you had to look away to allow yourself to swallow and try to blink it away. But it was too late, the lump had already formed in your throat and the moment you blinked you felt hot, wet tracks streak down your face. Words were clearly not going to happen for you so you just gritted your teeth and managed the smallest shake of your head.

"No, no, Cariño, don't cry," without hesitation Carlos pulled you even closer, allowing you to bury your face in his chest as he wrapped his arms around you and squeezed you just enough to provide the pressure you didn't know you needed. You instantly felt safe in his arms, like nothing could get to you when you were there. And it wasn't long with your forehead pressed against his sternum and several steadying breaths that you managed to regain control of yourself. Carlos didn't move a muscle aside from one hand gently rubbing your back, keeping you tight in the hug and not even flinching away from the contact until you managed to find the self-control to push yourself back, at which he immediately released you.

"Sorry," you mumbled, still staring at the floor. Then you dragged your fingers under your eyes and across your cheeks, perhaps a little harsher than necessary and managed to look at him. The expression on his face wasn't difficult to read, but it was confusing because he was staring at you as if the two seconds of weakness you had shown had completely broken his heart. "Dunno what came over me. Here," you moved back into the living space of the hotel room and threw him the remote control which he caught with ease "Do you wanna watch a movie or something?"

He nodded, not pushing you to talk which was good because the short burst of tears had done nothing but further tangle the mess in your head. Deciding that having to be dragged out of your car by Carlos and then have him subsequently watch you both throw up and cry within the space of only an afternoon, what remained of your dignity was now in tatters and so you climbed onto your bed without a second thought, too tired to care what he might think of you. He waited quietly, gently turning the remote in his hands as he watched you get comfortable on your side of the bed. You decided getting under the covers would be a step too far but opted for propping yourself up against the copious pillows behind you and stretching your legs out. Only when you stopped moving did he join you, sitting close, but not so close that he was touching you.

Within seconds you found that you had drawn your knees up to your chest, hugging them as you used to do when you were overwhelmed in your earlier years. You watched quietly as he flicked through the Netlfix options, squinting slightly to examine the titles. For some reason, you couldn't shake the panicked feeling that hit you when the Spaniard had gone to leave your room.

"Did I hurt you?" Your voice was small, and you did not appreciate the wobble in your tone. Carlos' attention was temporarily diverted from the television as you found him searching your face once more.

"No,"

"Don't lie,"

"Well, it was a crash. You know how the G-force hits, the muscles get a little sore but I'm not hurt," the look on your face clearly said that you weren't buying it. "Y/N, I promise to you, okay? I have hurt myself more at the gym," the way his hand landed on your shoulder, right at the top, on your neck really, a thumb caressing your cheek so briefly you could have sworn it never happened, was just enough to convince you to drop it.

"Okay,"

"Okay," he nodded and went back to picking the movie. You wished you could be like that, so calm and collected, so seemingly unfazed by the chaos surrounding him. You let him decide on the film, it was an action movie and you didn't even recognise the title but you didn't care. You just didn't want to be alone, you didn't want to dwell on the inevitable, but even as you stared non-focused on the sword-wielding heroes in front of you, you could feel it bubbling still.

"If I lose my seat because of this I deserve it," you said finally. The second the words were out of your mouth you felt lighter like your chest had finally been released and some of the weight lifted off. Something subconscious uncoiled within you.

"Drivers don't get fired for mistakes," he said like it was nothing.

"But it wasn't a mistake, I was told to push on the corner and I did,"

"You didn't plan to hit me, so it's a mistake, you're not gonna lose your seat,"

"But-"

"No,"

"Carlos-"

"No!" Finally, you thought, he responded to your worries with something other than total nonchalance. "You are so talented, Y/N, you're one of the best drivers on the grid. Look at you, you're fighting for the world championship in a midfield car - that's incredible. They don't wanna be losing you, and this is their fault anyway. So no more losing seats, okay? I don't wanna hear it," his eyes were blazing, burning right into yours and his cheeks were just starting to show a pale pink flush. Judging by the heat in your face, you were as red as a tomato. You were about to open your mouth to say, well, something, but Carlos beat you to it with a simple gesture forwards, and so you both turned and carried on watching the film in a slightly more tense, but still amicable silence.

You found yourself relaxing as the film went on. Carlos' silence was actually quite pleasant, as he seemed relaxed too, leaning back against your bed with casual attention on the movie, not frightened to laugh or gasp along with it as he pleased. Mirroring him was almost too easy, and you allowed yourself to stretch out once more and relax your shoulders. If Carlos noticed, he didn't say anything, and you appreciated that.

You weren't sure exactly when it happened, but he dropped the knee of the leg closest to you out to the side, causing it to knock gently against yours. And he didn't move away. The next thing you knew your legs were touching, all the way from your hip down to your ankle. It wasn't a cuddle, just a light contact, but it was nice. You couldn't help but feel calmer just by being in his presence. Before you could stop yourself you were leaning into his side, so your whole body was just pressed against his. He had an arm draped over your headboard, and you wondered if he would put it around you, but he never did, allowing you full control of the situation and the level of touch you wished to seek from him.

He was warm too, so warm, even in just a t-shirt. You supposed it was his Mediterranian blood. It was like having your own personal heater sat right beside you, a heater that was suddenly very still and had a wonderfully rhythmic breathing pattern. You found yourself naturally synching with his movements, and the film seemed to be quietening into the background.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You must have fallen asleep then because the next thing you knew you were waking up for the second time in a pitch-black room. You were sweating, your heart racing and your skin sticky and unpleasant, the only thing you wanted to do was remove everything from your body, instantly. You ripped the covers off and shimmied the sweatpants down your legs, kicking them quickly away from you and revelling in the way the cooled night air hit your legs. You were about to follow suit with your top when it occurred to you that you had not fallen asleep alone.

However, there was an eerie silence that blanketed you now. All it took was reaching a hand out to the other side of the bed to realise what your sinking heart already knew, Carlos was gone. You couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed, and actually quite embarrassed that he'd felt the need to sneak away from you. But the digital clock was showing it was close to 3am and you weren't even fully conscious, so you allowed yourself to flop back down and sleep off the rest of the night.

When you did wake up naturally once more, it was late in the morning. After scrolling through your phone for a bit, and finding yourself disappointed and actually quite annoyed that you hadn't even had so much as a text from Carlos, you decided to have a shower and take advantage of the all-day breakfast menu in the restaurant downstairs. It was only after your shower when you were rummaging around searching for something that you spotted a piece of paper folded and propped up against your bedside table.

The note was addressed to you and written in a familiar loping script.

Y/N,

You fell asleep and I didn't feel good to stay the whole night when you didn't ask me to, so I went back to my room. I hope it didn't upset you that I was gone, if I am to be so confident to hope you missed me!

I wish to thank you too for dinner last night. I wish I had been able to know you like that a bit more sooner. Perhaps you would like breakfast tomorrow? I will wait for you to wake up.

Love,

Carlos.

He'd written you a note. A real, old-school note and he'd signed it 'love'. You found yourself grinning like a schoolgirl, your heart racing and your face felt hot even though there was no one around. There was no point pretending, you thought to yourself, what was the point? You'd realised last night something was different and he made you feel good. Plus if you were about to go through a very challenging period with Aston Martin, and maybe even finding yourself losing a seat or transferring to a different team, then why didn't you deserve to have a bit of fun in the meantime?

You changed into a sundress that you knew was far too pretty for the restaurant in the hotel, and spent a little time fussing with your hair and makeup before you picked up your phone. It was still before midday, so you decided to take control for once, and sent off a one-word text to Carlos,

You: Brunch?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Two

Check out my masterlist here

Dear existing followers, I'm sorry it's YET ANOTHER new fandom!! Am still writing my Obvious fic and I'm planning to get Chapter 4 out in the next 1-2 weeks whilst I'm still on a break before I start rotations and shit hits the fan! Plus I have some spiderman content and a little James McAvoy thingy in the drafts...

But over exams, I managed to develop yet another hyperfixation, this time on Formula 1 (probably because there was tons of content to gobble up and distract myself from the horror that was 4th-year exams, because oh my god they were BRUTAL) and shortly after deciding that I don't hate the sport I grew up watching nearly every Sunday and not once appreciating, I very quickly collected a new person to obsess over.

Anyway, non-F1 followers meet Carlos. He is Spanish and sexy and in my opinion quite underrated. I think he's a really interesting person and gives a lot of layers to himself which to me just begs to be written about. So I wanted to get this off my chest and kick start back into writing with something that's chucking free dopamine at me and not giving me insane writer's block for now.

F1 followers/fans, this is my first F1 fic so please be nice. Undecided whether to leave this as a single or add in a second part with some smut as is my style. Input would be appreciated!! Either way, don't panic I defo have more ideas for Carlos and maybe some of the other drivers too so more content and definitely smut to come.

Also, standard disclaimer, this is real person fiction, but it is still FICTION. F1 fans don't take the Aston Martin/Imola track and turn shit too seriously, I didn't write it with accuracy in mind and I know realistically an Aston Martin car atm is not gonna be a championship contender but I love Track Dad!Seb too much. With Carlos, a full disclaimer is in my masterlist, but this is a work of fiction based on the personality he gives during his work. It's interpretation, not accuracy and out of respect to his current girlfriend, this is based in an AU where he is single.

Happy reading and I hope to be around for a wee bit again!

Rage and Love,

Le Gremlin xx

Forever taglist: @graysonmalfoy @inumorph @lokilvrr @bookgirlunicorn @thinkwritexpress-official @samandstuffworld @faeriedelalune-blog @elthanin-sive-blog-blog @ispendmoretimehere-blog @drakesfiance @allonesharingonebreath @storm-howlett @daneel-the-sister-of-castiel @groovy-lady

[internetgremlin-writes]

Flat Spin [Chapter Five]

Summary/Prompt: 1. A spin in which an aircraft descends in tight circles whilst remaining almost horizontal

2. A state of agitation or panic [informal]

As the only female driver on the grid, you’re fighting a constant need to prove yourself, however sometimes the line between accepting help and hand-outs is more blurred than you think

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x Female Reader

Word Count: 10,900 i sincerely hope this makes up for the wait

Warnings: smut (deep breath kids, its finally happening)

Previous Chapters: one || two || three || four

“So… when are you coming?”  His voice was rich even through the crackle of the phone line.  It made your insides warm and if you were in an ’80s movie, you’d have been twiddling the coiled cord of the landline phone around your fingers as you giggled down the receiver.

“What?”  You couldn’t keep the laugh out of your voice. 

“To Barcelona?  To see me?”  You liked the way he said ‘Barcelona’.

“Wait, were you being serious?  I thought you were just drunk!”  He laughed then, properly.  It felt like he was right next to you, not thousands of miles away, already in Spain.

“Oh, Cariño, I was very drunk,”  You could imagine him, lounging out somewhere in the heat, a dogged grin on his face as he thought back to a couple of nights ago in Miami.  You couldn’t help yourself from shifting in your spot on your bed as you thought of it too; of the way he’d whispered in your ear and the warm weight of him on top of you.  “But I meant it.  Come to Barcelona early, let me be your - eh - tour guide,”  you heard him snicker. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” 

As it turned out, you didn’t have to do very much at all.  Your request to fly out to Barcelona four days early was suspiciously accepted with no complaints or questioning from Mike, but it wasn’t until you were back at headquarters after Miami that you found out why.

The week at Silverstone was strange.  There was a flurry of activity and meetings around you, all of which you seemed to be blocked from.  You spent most of the time there in the sim, getting the Spanish track down to perfection and setting some impressive times if you did say so yourself.  At one point Max was online, and you beat him in an iRacing round, something virtually unheard of.  Even the mechanics, who you usually got on well with were being surprisingly cagey around you.  You figured it must be because everyone was on edge, with Barcelona being one of the tracks you tested at before the season officially started it was a popular choice for many teams to bring updates to their cars and several of your midfield rivals had announced just that.  You were finally called in for a meeting, only two days before you were due to fly out to Spain.

Seb was there and you were happy to collapse into a spot beside him.  A quick glance around the room told you this was not going to be fun; not a person in that room wasn’t a highly important member of the team, including all the team heads and Mike in the flesh to top it off.  Any meeting led by a team principal was never fun, you thought.  There was a large platter of sandwiches cut into triangles, an attempted offering of fruit and a big urn with hot water for tea and coffee. 

Seb looked at you through one eye, reminding you very much of a cat who'd just had his sunny afternoon nap interrupted. 

“Hello,” 

“Hi Seb,”  He gestured to the sandwiches that were already looking a little sad in front of him. 

“I love working lunch,”  you snorted, but still leant forward for a slightly stale sandwich as he wrinkled his nose. 

The meeting was, unsurprisingly, boring.  As you suspected, it was about the new updates being brought to the cars.  Now, you liked to think of yourself as pretty smart - you’d managed to finish school with good grades alongside your early racing career, but you had nothing on the engineers who dedicated whole swathes of their lives to mastering the inner workings of formula one cars.  Either way, you tried not to drift off too much and managed to gather that the updates looked good, and could give you a serious shot at the Championship.

“Now, one more thing before we go,”  Mike was wrapping up and you could feel your pulse picking up as your body decided it, too, was ready to go home and snap out of the carbed-up, warm-room dormant state it had been put in.  Your mind drifting to the open suitcase on your bed and if you were going to need a new bikini when you vaguely realised your name was being mentioned alongside a string of other words that when put together sounded an awful lot like missing out on upgrades.  

“What the fuck?”

Mike was looking at you, a strange appeasing smile on his face which did nothing to quell your outburst - in fact, it only spurred you on.  “What do you mean I’m not getting the updates I’ve just sat and listened to you talk about for two hours?” 

“Y/N, you have to understand with the budget cap we can’t do everything at once-”

“But I’m in fourth, I could still get the championship this year,”  you couldn’t quite keep the whine out of your tone.  You didn’t understand why you'd just been told all about the car that could get you precious podiums and points for the rest of the season if it wasn't for your championship campaign.

“So Seb needs it more,”  His tone reminded you of being scolded by a teacher, very clearly telling you to shut up and stop arguing, now.  But I could win, you wanted to argue.  You’d not been on a podium since Australia and the last two disastrous races were fresh in your mind. 

“Is that why you let me take holiday next week?  I’m not needed for testing because there’s nothing for me.”

“We need to adjust the sim for Seb to get a feel for the updates,”  you snorted.  You wanted to lash out at anyone near you, but Seb was arguing too, claiming he wanted you to have the updates over him.  Clearly, it was the first he'd heard of it too. 

“You know what?  It’s fine.  See you in Barcelona,”  you snapped at Mike and walked out of the meeting. 

*****

“I still don’t understand why you need to fly out so early,”  

Your mum’s voice broke through your drifting mind.  You were sat in the front seat with your forehead pressed against the cool glass window, halfheartedly watching a couple of raindrops chase their way down.  She was driving you up to the airport and you felt a small rush of guilt when she questioned your early trip once more. 

“I don’t know,”  you lied, ignoring the small twinge of guilt in your chest.  “Something about training in the hot weather, apparently it’s due a heatwave,”  she sighed and tapped her hands on the steering wheel as you joined the back of the M25 traffic.  

“How can it possibly be busy at this hour?”  She mumbled to herself.  Like most people in England, between complaining about the weather and the traffic, there was nothing your mum loved more.  You just laughed quietly, made a lazy joke and handed her some sweets from the snack bag perched on your knees.  After a brief, but teary, goodbye you were finally at the bag check-in desk with lots of promises that Monaco, where your family always flew out for the weekend, was only two weeks away.

You wondered idly through the duty-free shopping.  You didn’t really need anything but it was always fun to waste time there, between buying a shitty romance book for the flight to the strangest gifts you could find or pretending you were a millionaire as you sampled the overpriced perfumes.  You supposed you didn’t have to pretend about that part anymore, but you still didn’t care for a £500 bottle that didn’t even smell good.  

The plane ride was only a couple of hours, so by the time you’d settled into the perfect playlist and read most of the dodgy sex scenes in your book that almost made you think about taking up yoga, you were coming into land.  Luckily, it was a fairly quiet time, and you were only stopped a couple of times between the bag collection area and the taxi ranks outside.  You were in surprisingly good spirits, especially considering the power of the heatwave already settling over the country had you feeling simultaneously damp and crusty by the time you’d been deposited at your hotel in desperate need of a shower.

Carlos had initially been adamant that you were to stay with him at his family’s apartment in Barcelona.  There was a big part of you that desperately wanted to play house with him, but you couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t the smartest idea.  Between going from seeing him now and then at race weekends to virtually living together for a week and the sheer number of fans that would be going crazy for him at his home race and itching for a glimpse of him anywhere in the city - well, you didn’t feel guilty in admitting that it all sounded a bit much.  You were lucky that Katie didn’t question it when you asked her to book you into the hotel you’d be using for the race early.

You’d agreed on a meeting point with Carlos that wasn’t in the lobby of a fully booked hotel.  Instead, he’d sent you the address of a street corner nearby that had a big restaurant with sweeping bay windows and a waterfall of flowers decorating the doorway.  He was already asking you when you’d be ready, so you found yourself naturally hurrying along your routine whilst still spending a little more time than normal fussing around your outfit and makeup before deeming yourself ready. 

You decided to keep it relatively simple for the first night, with a pretty co-ord set a stylist had given you after a photo shoot you’d done for some women’s magazine or another.  You had never been bothered about the non-racing side of fame, but the free clothes that were chosen to look great on you were a nice little bonus. 

Carlos was waiting on the corner for you, leaning casually against a lamp post.  You felt your heart flutter in your chest as you caught sight of him and allowed yourself a moment to drink in his appearance in the golden evening sun.  He looked completely at home, in white jeans and a loose-fitting blue shirt to help combat the heat that was not fading any time soon.  He was looking at something on his phone, leaning back against the post with one leg crossed in front of the other and a hand resting in his pocket with comfortable ease.  As you made your way towards him his head snapped up, an easy smile spreading across his face as his eyes lit up. 

He greeted you with a warm hug, placing a deliberate kiss on both cheeks.  It made warmth bloom throughout your body as you melted instinctively into his touch.  

“I missed you,”

“You literally saw me a week ago,”  you pointed out.  It felt good, the way he made you feel.  The way now you just seemed to click back into place when you were with him like you’d never been separated.  He shrugged at your comment, grinning good-naturedly as his hand found the small of your back and applied gentle pressure to guide you forward.  This time you weren't going far, as Carlos held the door into the restaurant behind you.

“I still missed you,”  he told you as he sat down, an almost shy smile and a sense of finality in his tone. 

“Missed you too,”  the words felt a little bulky and awkward on your tongue.  Admitting your feelings was something you’d never been strong at, but something about Carlos had him pulling confessions from you before you could catch yourself. 

“So,"  you grinned at him, a sense of deja vu hitting you as you held up a menu in a language that you didn't speak.  "Talk me through this,"  Carlos didn't even touch his menu. 

“Paella.  It’s not the best,”  he admitted with a bashful smile, “My mother’s is the best.  But for restaurants?  Here is the best,”  The conversation flowed easily, Carlos filling you in on his week at home as hoards of his family had arrived from across several countries for his home race. 

“How are you feeling though?”  Carlos had shrugged, placing the order for the pair of you as if it was second nature.  You found yourself remembering your last date, and how every little thing had felt supercharged compared to now, only a few weeks later and you felt like you'd been going out to dinner with him all your life. 

"Hm, it's a lot of pressure,"  you nodded, catching the fleeting look of something other than total confidence in his eyes.  "But you know, the car is good, I'm feeling good in it.  I know the circuit so well.  Home races are always special," 

The restaurant was pretty quiet, and you'd been given a slightly secluded table so you figured you could afford to reach over for a moment to squeeze his hand.  Carlos' skin was warm against yours, in a way you'd never really experienced before.  You didn't know how someone could ignite such a comforting warmth and electric excitement at the same time.  It was addicting. 

He walked you back to the hotel after, your arms brushing as you fell into step with each other, a comfortable silence settle between you as you soaked up being in his company once again.  The paella you'd had was perfect, leaving a satisfying fullness in your belly and you didn't care what your fitness coach would have to say about it.  When it came to paying, it took a short battle and a very disgruntled Carlos for you to settle up as you'd promised back in Imola. 

He walked back to the hotel with you, the warm night air charged as the city came to life before your eyes.  Carlos pointed out the odd place or building, but the only thing you were aware of was the way your fingers would collide every now and then.  He dropped you off at the back entrance to your hotel, standing impossibly close.

“You brought trainers?”  His question took you back a little bit and you raised an eyebrow at him. 

“I am not going on a run as a date,”  you warned immediately.  Your hatred of running was deeper than hot Spanish men with doe eyes and a wicked smile.  Carlos laughed freely, running a hand through his hair. 

“No running, Cariño,”  he confirmed.  “Wear them tomorrow, okay?  I'm picking you up at eight and lots of walking,”  he sent you a Charles-esque wink that had you wondering what on earth he had planned for you.  You were about to ask when he swept you into a quick hug and turned to walk away. 

“Okay,”  you called after him.  “Bye then!”  Almost as if he was waiting for you to have said something, he turned.  Making his way back to you in a couple of short strides and grasping your face in the palm of his hand as he pulled you into a kiss that had your stomach somersaulting. 

“Until tomorrow,”  he murmured against your lips, before leaving you stood dumb-struck outside of the hotel. 

The next three days were quite possibly the best of your life. 

Carlos collected you as early as promised the next morning with a compliment to your trainers that you'd spent 40 minutes desperately trying to find a non-paddock outfit that would match them.  He informed you that you were going to be making the most of the city itself before it was infiltrated with F1 fans and you wouldn’t be able to move without a camera shoved in your face.  He presented you with a breakfast pastry and a cup of coffee to have whilst you walked.  He had a quiet smile as he chatted with you, but every time you asked him what he was planning for the day he would just point out something on the street ahead of you, adjust your sunglasses and completely ignore your question. 

You started the morning in the Sagrada Familia which between its dramatic gothic exterior and open, high-ceilinged interior thrown into stark contrast by soft rainbows of light from the stained glass windows was the most stunning piece of architecture you'd ever seen. 

“It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,”  you'd murmured, gazing around in awe as the multicoloured lights illuminated the spot of the marbled floor where you were.  Carlos hummed in agreement, but he didn't seem to be looking at the building. 

After you'd explored every crevice of the unfinished church, he took you through a food market.  You loved a good market, but this was a far cry from the farmer's markets you were used to back home - these were full of bright colours and loud music and more exotic food than you could name.  Carlos was beside you the whole time, explaining and translating as you idled through the various stalls, making recommendations as you went.  After he helped you pick out lunch he bought you a pretty braided bracelet that reminded you of seaside holidays as a child.  It was a thin strip of black with three delicate beads; two red with a yellow one sandwiched between.  You could have sworn your entire body was filled with static as he gently lifted your wrist and fastened it for you, eyes burning into yours as he did. 

The afternoon was much more relaxed, with a stroll through the old town where Carlos could have been a qualified history guide with the amount he knew about the city and ending the day in an impressive art museum.  You’d never really had an interest in art, in truth you found the Mona Lisa media trip incredibly dull, but with Carlos standing so close, whispering beside you as he pointed out his favourite pieces you found yourself transfixed.  It turned out he’d visited many areas of Spain during his childhood, his parents engraving a solid belief in an understanding of the culture within him.

When you returned back to the hotel that night you had to push down the twinge of regret at not accepting the offer to stay at his flat and the urge to pull him into your hotel room.  What you did notice, however, was that already the hotel was significantly more full.  You entered the lift to your room with four people in Mercedes caps that immediately asked you for photos, and the dining hall was alive with team polos. 

You were on the verge of falling asleep when your phone chimed, almost making you jump.  It was a text from your best friend, with bleary eyes you realised it was a photo and a smirking face emoji.  You opened the photo to realise it wasn’t a photo at all, it was a screenshot. 

It was a screenshot of Carlos’ Instagram story.  The picture he’d posted was of the back of a girl, unidentifiable, her body bathed in the rainbow castings of the Sagrada Familia.

The following morning you found yourself having to make more of an effort to disguise yourself; wearing your hair down with a floppy sunhat, oversized sunglasses and a dress that was deliberately floaty to disguise your figure.  Carlos had clearly planned ahead to avoid the crowded streets because he collected you in a VW Golf you didn’t recognise and the pair of you drove out into the beautiful countryside.  Carlos handed you his phone demanding you play him some of your music.  He pulled up to a quiet single-track lane that had you raise an eyebrow in question as he forced the small car up the track. 

You were met by an old man who greeted Carlos in rapid-fire Spanish with a hug and a handshake as if they were old friends.  He was introduced to you as Pablo, turned to you, and hugged you whilst babbling in Spanish.  Carlos said something that must have explained you were English because after that he managed a broken ‘hello’ and spent the rest of the day looking at Carlos and waiting for him to translate for you.  As Carlos told you, the pair of you were treated to a private tour around the extensive vineyard Pablo and his wife owned.  They were an old family friend who moved to the countryside to start their own wine business.  In the quiet of the gardens, Carlos’ hand slid down your wrist and tangled his fingers in yours.  Your stomach bloomed with warmth as you bumped your hip against his in appreciation of the gesture.

After the tour, the pair of you were seated in a sunny spot of the garden at an iron table, where Pablo presented you with glass after glass of the best wine you’d ever had.  Carlos sat opposite you, relaxed back in his seat in yet another loose linen shirt and shorts combo, sunglasses pushed up into his hair as he carefully explained each glass's tasting notes and region.  Pablo’s wife also made a brief appearance as she shakily presented a platter of food paired with each glass on the table for the both of you.

On the way back you found yourself full and sleepy on spectacular wine, your head lolling to the side as you watched Carlos drive back into the city.  If it wasn’t for the sun setting against his features and the gentle rock of the car maybe you’d have demanded to follow your buzz and get him to take you out.  Instead, you found yourself being gently awoken by Carlos shaking your shoulder. 

“We’re home, Cariño, come on,”  still in your sleepy haze you happily let him lead you into the building and up the steps with little question.

It wasn’t until you awoke the next morning, still in your dress, with your head under a pillow and a blanket placed over your body that you realised you were on a sofa you didn’t recognise.  The smell of coffee was wafting through, as you slowly sat up and gauged your surroundings.  The lounge area was small but elegant with white walls and a terracotta tiled floor. The sofa, a matching blue armchair and a low coffee table the only pieces of furniture in the room.  There was a television mounted on one wall and art that reminded you a little of a hotel room across the others.  You stretched and rose to your feet, noticing that your sandals had been neatly placed at the bottom of the sofa.

You padded quietly across to the kitchen, where the site that greeted you made your breath catch in your throat.  The kitchen was beautiful, white and open like the lounge with that holiday home feel you loved.  There was a bot of coffee brewing to the side, and the stove was alive with activity.  Two plates were set out at the island and in the middle of it all was Carlos.  Correction, was a very shirtless Carlos, wearing only a pair of gym shorts and a tea towel that was thrown over his shoulder.  There was a speaker playing soft jazz and he was humming along under his breath as he worked.

Your breath caught in your throat and something in your chest tightened because oh god, whatever the hell this was - it was the only thing you wanted.  Carlos turned, from where you realised he was cooking bacon and eggs on the stove and caught you.  His face broke into a wide smile as he called you forward to take a seat at the island. 

“Good morning!”

“Hi Carlos,”  he poured a cup of coffee, pushing it towards you with expectant eyes.  You murmured a thanks and took a sip, your body immediately relaxing as the familiar richness of the coffee hit you.  He’d turned back to his food, telling you that you had perfect timing as he began plating up the food.  He presented you with a plate of bacon and eggs with a kiss on your temple, before seating himself beside you at the island. 

“I thought it was time for some English,”  he gestured at the plate.  As much as you loved all the rich foods you got to try when travelling for races, part of you always missed the comforts of home and you found yourself more grateful than explainable for his little gesture.  

“Care to tell me where I am, by the way?”  You interrupted as he was explaining his newfound appreciation for morning jazz.

“My family’s flat, where I am staying,”  he looked at you as if you were a little stupid.  

“Hm, I figured.  I meant more why,”  you didn’t miss the way Carlos’ cheeks flushed with a little pink and he played with the remaining bacon on his plate. 

“You fell asleep in my car,” 

“You woke me up to come in here, could have done that at the hotel,”  you were pushing, but you had a feeling he knew you were being goodnatured and that you wanted him to crack.  He shrugged, but the small smirk creeping across his features gave him away.

“You are pushy,”  he whined, but immediately gave in.  “I wanted to carry you.  Make sure you were safe,” 

“Prince charming,”  you joked, but you were blushing and there was a not-so-secret part of you that was entirely thrilled.  “I promise I’m not usually that boring,”  you broke the odd tension between you, pulling a surprised bark of a laugh from Carlos. 

“I don’t think you could ever be boring,”  he cleared your plates, stacking them neatly in the dishwasher and allowing you to admire the way the muscles in his back rippled and moved as he did so.  You swallowed hard, finishing your coffee in two more sips and making your way over to him.  Your hand landed on his hip, just above his waistband.  Carlos was still bent over the dishwasher, but you felt him still beneath for a split second.  The way his skin felt under your fingers was heavenly as you leant past him to add your cup to the top drawer.  You went to move away, pleased with the small reaction your touch had, but Carlos was quicker. 

He moved like lightning; before you had time to blink, he had you trapped.  You were backed up against the kitchen counter, Carlos standing directly in front of you.  He had one hand on your hip, putting just enough pressure on to hold you in place, not that you needed to be because there was no way you’d move.  He was leaning down, his face level with yours as he watched your reaction.  You averted your gaze, with little success as your view was entirely obstructed by tan skin whichever way you turned your head.  Instead, you traced a soft line across his bare shoulder and down his arm, your hand coming to rest in the crook of his elbow.  Carlos shuddered under your touch, reacting by gently cupping your chin and licking his lips as he dipped down for a kiss. 

You decided he deserved payback for stealing you back to his flat, so right at the last second, you ducked away from him, using your strength and his distractedness to break free to the side.  Carlos made a frustrated groan that melted into a laugh as he reached for you childishly.  

“Come on, Cariño, no kiss for me?”  He was pouting but his eyes were shining and you realised that he too was enjoying whatever this new, flirty dynamic was between you.  You shook your head with a quip about stealing women away in the night.  He grumbled again, but you let him catch you and leaned against his solid body as he told you the plan for your final day before the race weekend. 

Carlos drove, again, despite you claiming you were more than comfortable sharing the job.  He shut you down, saying, “My mother raised a gentleman,” and “I grew up on these roads,”  but you didn’t really mind.  Watching Carlos drive was fast becoming one of your favourite hobbies.  He deposited you at the hotel with instructions of what you needed to fetch. 

You didn’t question it as you grabbed the fastest shower and shave of your life, changing into your favourite little bikini and pulling yet another sundress over the top, before stuffing a bag with a towel and change of clothes.  Carlos drove out of the city again, which by now was entirely swamped with Formula One fans.  You had a message from Katie that the rest of the team had just landed.  You turned your phone off. 

Your heart rate picked up as the sea came into view, and then even more as Carlos drove you along the seafront, the beaches positively golden and the sea glittering turquoise in the bright sunshine.  He pulled up in the marina car park, which had your interest piqued.  And it wasn’t until he was leading you along the jetty explaining that his uncle had a boat here you realised that one of the yachts to rival Monaco was about to be your ride. 

The boat was beautiful, not a massive yacht at all but you didn’t mind.  It had a large wooden deck with white benches and sunbeds at one end and a large traditional wheel at the other.  There was a small hatch leading to a below-deck area, but Carlos didn’t show you that immediately.  He took the boat out to a fairly secluded bay, a little further up the coast from Barcelona and dropped the anchor far enough offshore that the two of you had complete privacy. 

You spent the morning diving off the boat, swimming and snorkelling in the crystalline waters.  The heat of the day meant that by the time you’d play wrestled-slash-made-out in the deep water enough to be starving that you didn’t even need to towel off, the water evaporating off your skin in no time.  Carlos didn’t bother to pull a shirt on with his bathing trunks, not that you minded in the slightest.  

You couldn’t help but be entirely touched as he carefully laid out a picnic blanket, complete with non-alcoholic wine and personal trainer-approved foods that he’d somehow still managed to make appetising.  

After lunch, you spread out side-by-side on the loungers, soaking up every fraction of the warm weather you could.  You were reading a book and looked up to see Carlos sitting playing chess with himself.  You’d never really had someone like that in your life, where you could just do your own thing in the comfort of each other’s company.  It made you feel special.

An idea jumped into your mind that made you smirk as you undid the strings of your bikini and lay on your front, leaving your whole back exposed.  

“Can you get my back?”  You asked innocently, gesturing to the suncream beside you.  You caught Carlos’ eyes rake over your figure before you turned around, dropping your head back against the soft cushioned seat.  You could feel him as he moved closer to you until you heard him pick up the bottle and settle himself beside you.  Carlos understood the assignment exactly, warming the cream into his hands before gently spreading it across your shoulders and working his way down with firm but gentle movements.  He leant down, pressing a kiss against the point of your shoulder. 

“Done,”  his voice was low in your ear, the hair tickling your cheek combined with his accent making you shiver.  You hummed in appreciation, feeling Carlos’ hand which was still spread across your back move with you.  He started adding to the kiss, working his way across your shoulders and then gently sweeping the hair to the side to give him access to your neck and jaw.  You found it hard to keep up your act, you could feel yourself reacting to him.

When Carlos pawed at you gently you turned without hesitation, allowing him to find your lips and settle himself between your legs like he belonged there.  You sighed automatically into the kiss, your hands twisting in his hair as he licked into your mouth. 

“This is all I have been thinking about since that nightclub,”  his voice was heavy, laced with something you weren’t used to as he kissed you between words, one hand making its way under the loosened fabric of your bikini top with a groan.  “I wanted to rip that dress off you,”  

Your hips bucked up helplessly in response.  You didn’t even have it in you to be embarrassed at how desperate he made you, how he could have you squirming under him in a matter of minutes.  Carlos seemed aware of the effect he had as he continued to kiss you at a painfully languid pace until you found his hips, gripping to the bone there and pulling him down against you.  It did little to help, but feeling that he was as turned on as you felt provided some relief.  He grunted into your mouth at the momentary friction.

He was playing with the waistband of your underwear idly, as if he had all the time in the world to take with you and completely ignoring the way you were positively keening for him.  You reached down instinctively, finding the bulge in his shorts with no effort.  Carlos managed a stuttered moan at your action, but before you could move any further he was gently sitting you up and moving you away.

You’d have been more upset if he didn’t look so pained himself. 

“We shouldn’t,”  he sighed, running a hand through his hair and casting a look over your shoulder.  You must have pulled a face because he circled his arms around your waist and pulled you close with a sweet kiss.  “I want to, believe me, please.  But not before a race weekend,”  

You didn’t entirely see how having sex before a race weekend could be so detrimental, but something in the back of your mind was agreeing with him. 

*****

You walked into the paddock the next day feeling the most relaxed you had in your whole career.  Carlos had surprised you with a lovely dinner below the deck of the boat before you were deposited back at your hotel to face the rest of the world. 

You had turned your phone back on after you’d washed the salt out of your hair and pulled on your loosest pyjamas to combat the heat that had only been mounting all afternoon.  You had a multitude of texts and missed calls from a myriad of Aston Martin people, all of which were deleted rapidly, apart from Seb whom you informed that you were actually okay and had just been spending a little bit of time off-grid, which wasn’t entirely a lie. 

In fact, the whole media day had been the smoothest you’d ever experienced.  Perhaps it was because it was Carlos’ home race and with his recent results everyone was talking about his big maiden win opportunity, so naturally, he was the centre of attention.  You smiled and answered the questions in the press conference, but without the pressure of Miami and film crews taking over the paddock, you found that you felt positively free.  You even were a willing participant in the strategy meetings and actually volunteered information and took notes. 

The rest of the team were casting nervous glances amongst each other as if they were just waiting for you to explode, but you genuinely felt like you didn’t have an explosive bone in your body.  After the practice sessions, in which you pulled a top-five result for all three with Seb close but still behind you in the newer car, you found yourself forgetting all about the upgrade drama and settling into the race weekend with business as usual.  

That was, at least, until qualifying.  You had a rough start to Q1 with the high heat and equally high winds catching you in a tailwind that had you lose the back end on your first fast lap and spin into the gravel.  You were able to recover and even without a pit stop you set a lap fast enough to get you into Q2, which was all that mattered.  With a new set of soft tyres, you were back out for Q2 and starting to feel yourself, until you were told to give Seb a tow.  There was enough time for each driver to set two laps and as Seb was pushing to reach Q3 with the new package you knew you had to oblige.  You gave him the tow, resulting in having to abort your first attempt.  Your second attempt felt good, the car snapping up into your hands the way you liked as you put your whole focus into setting the fastest lap you could.

There was no mistake that racing was your life, but there was something about qualifying, where it was just you and the road and your absolute best that you really loved.  You had a little wobble as the wind caught you in one of the final corners of the lap, but you were ready for it and threw your entire body against the wind to pull the car through.  The lap felt great, so you started your cooldowns and prepared to head back to the garage for Q3.

“Great drive, Y/N, lovely lap,”  your race engineer crackled over the radio.

“Yep, felt good,”  you agreed. 

“Good.  Unfortunately you came P11, so that’s us out,” 

There was a sudden bitter taste in your mouth.  You’d been in Q3 for every race of the season so far, in fact, you’d even have been bold enough to say you’d sailed through the first two rounds each time with little effort.  So to have a lap you had tried so hard in and having given your first attempt up for the tow felt… pretty shit.  You didn’t reply to the ranking because you didn’t think you could keep the edge out of your voice.

Instead, you let them pull you back into the garage and jumped out of the car in silence.  You didn’t say a word until you had your helmet off and race suit pulled down and even then it was only to find out how Seb had done.  He’d gotten P8, and qualified in P7.  You didn’t see Carlos for the rest of the day; he’d qualified in third and was immediately swamped by the entire of Spain wanting to know how he planned on passing his teammate Charles and Max Verstappen himself.

It was probably a good thing you were so annoyed with the P11 start that you couldn’t bring yourself to care much about the race.  Seb was older than you, he was a four-time world champion and you knew the day would come when he’d once again be better than you, but you still didn’t like it.  You’d been the first driver since you came to the team, with Seb’s initial plan to be a gentle two years in the Aston before retirement as a way to wind down.  Except with the results the pair of you had pulled in those two years, he decided it was worth staying on.  But it still felt strange.  You’d never been out-qualified by your teammate, you’d never been treated as the data-collecting, obliging second driver, and you’d never not received updates as soon as they were available.  You didn’t like it one bit.

Katie was annoyed at you for missing her calls.  You could tell because she kept sending you emails with annoying attachments that could have easily been discussed over a meal or a cup of coffee as was your usual custom.  In fact, you were glad the weekend seemed to fly by and you were strapped into your car and off on the formation lap before you had to think too much about anything.

You had a strong start to the race.  You reacted quickly at lights out and gained yourself two positions by the first turn, so there was just Daniel Ricciardo between yourself and Seb.  As you’d told yourself aiming for points was enough this weekend, you were already quite pleased with yourself, but you could feel that you were gaining on the orange car in front of you and within a few laps and a little bit of DRS you’d probably have been able to take him.

You started to relax a little, as you always did once you made it through the first part of the lap, or ‘First Sector Splash Zone’ as you sometimes called it for all of the pile-ups that seemed to happen in the first lap.  Just as you settled yourself into the car and started to pick up the pace to really push Ricciardo, you spotted a familiar red car reversing out of the gravel.  You sent a silent prayer in hopes that it was Charles, not Carlos who’d spun, or even better that you’d mistaken the flash of red for an Alpha Romeo. 

With DRS enabled the McLaren was easy pickings and you’d made the overtake by the end of the fifth lap.  What made your heart sink, was that you were gaining fast on Seb.

“I think I’m quicker,”  you muttered down the radio.  You didn’t want to be seen to be asking for team orders, but if you were already pushing for P7 there was still a glimmer of hope for a podium for you.  

“Hold position,”  you felt yourself deflate, but you did as you were told.  You wouldn’t have minded except you were actually braking to keep out of Seb’s way and you were fighting your DRS to keep behind him. 

“Guys I’m really holding back here,”  you pleaded again, your stomach clenching as you did.  

“Okay,”  your engineer replied, which was entirely unhelpful, but the line was still crackling.  “Yep, permission to fight,”

It wasn’t team orders, but it was worse.  You didn’t want to make this look like a rivalry and for the first time, you realised just how lucky you’d been so far that you and Sebastian never really crossed paths on the track.  But with your DRS open once more you were on his tail and coming into the next bend you had him on the outside. 

You were settling into the race, setting your sights on a minimum of P5 already when something changed.  Your throttle was… well you weren’t sure but it was not throttling.  You were stamping on it to try and kick it back into action but you could feel the speed dropping and the familiar tightening panic in your chest. 

“Problem, problem,”  you reported, hoping the desperation wasn’t too clear in your voice as the car dropped even slower and you guided it outside of the track limits and let it fall to a stop in the next gravel trap.  You were far enough ahead in the pack that you thought you’d be able to have a go at the old turn-it-off-and-on-again trick, but the car wasn’t responding. 

“Are you okay?”  Was the only correspondence you got from your engineer.  You watched the blue Williams marking the back of the pack streak past you and heaved a sigh.

“Yeah,”  you mumbled before disconnecting your radio and hoisting yourself out of the car.

The ride back to the pit lane sucked.  You hated all the cameras pointed at you, even through the shield of your helmet, you knew they were there.  You hated the way that the second you walked into the Aston Martin garage you were patted on the back and pulled into hugs and apologised to as if they hadn’t been using you as a sacrificial lamb all week.

You pulled on a pair of headphones to watch the rest of the race, which was possibly the worst idea you could have had.  Carlos was in 10th, he had spun and was struggling to make his way back through the pack.  Meanwhile, Leclerc had also had to retire with an engine failure and Verstappen had a 15-second lead which was only extending.  In other words, Maiden win hopes were looking bleak for Carlos and his family which the cameras kept cutting to in the Ferrari garage.  The race wasn’t looking good for Seb either, who seemed to be suddenly struggling with the pace and had dropped just outside of the points. 

You had to leave to do your interviews, which was possibly the only good thing about a DNF.  You got the media pen to yourself and were able to have a bit of a whine about the reliability issues on your car before you were allowed to head back.  You stopped by an almost deserted food stall to treat yourself to ice cream in a weak attempt to lift your mood and combat the blistering heat in one go.  By the time you made it back to the garage, there were only five laps left, in which you simultaneously watched Carlos fighting for his life against Hamilton for P4, and Seb with Ricciardo for one point in P10. 

Carlos got P4, but Seb wasn’t so lucky.  You could tell he was disappointed because he too was quiet when he came back to the garage and between the two of you the debrief was an awkward affair.  The pair of you were a united front of grim faces against a panel of apologetic engineers.  Seb refused to volunteer a word of information, and you just shrugged and insisted that your opinion didn’t matter if your car was going to throw itself off a bridge less than a quarter of the way into the race.  The second it was over Seb was up and out, but that wasn’t your main concern.

For three days all you’d listened to was Carlos talk about how badly he wanted to win at his home race, about how special it would be for it to be his first win with all of his family and loved ones surrounding him.  Your heart was aching for him, and when you spotted the back of his polo shirt heading towards the driver’s exit, you didn’t hesitate in following him.  After all, you’d finished all your media duties well before the race had even finished. 

You weren’t entirely sure that he would have gone back to the apartment, but he wasn’t the type to lose himself in some seedy bar to drown his sorrows after a bad race.  In fact, you weren’t even sure if he would want you to be chasing after him like this, but you were already pulling into the apartment’s garage and you’d already seen a valet walking away from a Ferrari, so you figured he had to be there. 

With your heart in your mouth and not so much as a fraction of a plan, you bounded the stairs to the third floor and rapped on the door, hard.

You’d barely stepped through the door when he pulled you into a crushing hug, his face buried in your neck.  You could feel his hot breath on your shoulder and his hair brushing your cheek and you had to force yourself to clear your mind.  He needed you, so you were going to be there for him.

He didn’t let go, and when you tried to pull away a fraction he made an uncharacteristic noise in the back of his throat and tightened his arms around your waist, pulling you so were flush against him once more.

“Okay,”  you returned the squeeze and stood still, letting him take whatever he needed from you.  You’d never really seen Carlos like this before.  Frustrated yes, disappointed yes, irritated yes.  But never like this; he seemed positively heartbroken, and had been since Saturday really.  There was still a simmering in your stomach, you hadn’t forgotten about your own loss with no points at all, but when he was like this it was all too easy to forget yourself.  You felt him finally step back, and prepared yourself to release him, but he kept his grip on you, moving the pair of you backwards.

He only let go of you to sit down on the sofa and even then the second your bum hit the material he was back, his body turned to you and pulling you close so you mirrored him.  His arm draped across the back of the couch, fingers just running along the exposed skin of your neck.  His other hand was on your thigh, making sure you were sat so close that the knees of your crossed legs were pressed against his, one of which was tucked underneath him and the other hanging down to the floor.  He was watching you, a look in his eye you didn’t recognise.  

The downside of Carlos’ Disney-cartoon eyes was that when they were sad, they were devastating.  He looked like he’d just found out the world was ending, and not even the proud slope of his nose or the usual upturn of his lips could save him.  You hoped you didn’t look like you were pitying him, because you weren’t.  You felt his pain last year - you’d been tipped to take your first win at your home track of Silverstone, only to crash out in lap seven.  And now he was looking at you like that and you could have sworn your heart was breaking for him.  You sighed heavily, your mind grappling to find the right words.  You didn’t know him like that yet, to know what he needed to hear or how he needed you to be in moments like this.  It made your chest ache because knowing what to do for him was all you wanted. 

“I’m so sorry-”  he shook his head, unable to meet your eye for a second.  Okay, so no apologies.  You sat in the pause, should you try again?  Or wait for him?  He was still looking at the foot tucked under his thigh, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. 

“It’s just another race, no?”  The way he was looking at you gave him away, his eyes boring deep into yours, searching you for an answer you didn’t have.

“You don’t have to pretend-”  you tried but he was shaking his head again, a humourless laugh escaping him. 

“A personal best for the track,”  you didn’t speak that time, just letting him lead you.  “My car felt wrong, also, but I finished,”  you hadn’t known that  “I made all those places back, I fought Hamilton,” 

“You drove incredibly,”  he shrugged.

“I let everyone down still,”  his words cut through the air.

“Don’t say that,”  but you could see it in him, he’d been punishing himself all afternoon and he wasn’t going to stop now.  His voice was thick when he spoke again, his accent coming through heavier than you’d ever heard it. 

“I want to make everyone proud.  Of me, yes, but also of Ferrari and Spain and to be a fan.  But it’s not enough,”  your hand came to rest on his cheek, and he leant into your touch.  You released a silent breath you’d been holding because part of you was getting worried he’d not want you that close.  He covered the hand on his cheek with his own, and his eyes met yours again, that look you couldn’t quite decipher back in them. 

“I want to make you proud,” 

Your heart skipped a beat, and then picked up its pace.  That was - well, he’d never said something like that to you.  You felt like you were on fire under his gaze, needing a second for the thoughts to come rushing back into your head and allowing your mouth to work again. 

“Carlos, I am proud of you,”  he looked up at you with disbelief, his hand still cupping yours on his cheek, where your thumb was gently stroking his five o’clock shadowed cheek.  “All the time, no matter what you think of yourself,” 

He sighed again, the intensity still burning in his eyes, but it was different.

“I didn’t imagine it to go like this,”  he looked away again, mumbling the words to himself more than you.  Before you had time to question it, he grabbed your face and pulled you into a searing kiss.  

No one had ever kissed you the way that Carlos kissed you then, the desperation, the disappointment, the frustration all bleeding into it and setting you alight.

You reacted immediately, running your fingers through his hair and melting into his touch.  Everything you’d been feeling for the past week, fuck it, for the past five weeks since he’d sat in your hotel room in Imola, suddenly came rushing back to you and settling as a weight in your lower stomach.  He groaned against your lips, and you responded with ease, opening your mouth to let him lick inside.  The feeling sent a shiver down your spine.  Part of you couldn’t help but feel a little bit pleased, because maybe you weren’t good at comfort, but you were damn good at kissing and if that’s how he wanted to forget this mess, well, you were more than eager to be his partner.

You used his hair to stabilise yourself, earning a thick grunt from him as you tensed, hoisting yourself forward and into his lap, the need to feel him closer overwhelming.  The kiss was growing feverish, breathing into each other’s mouths as both of you refused to move away.  He found your hips and tightened his grip, shifting the pair of you with ease so he could sit properly on the couch, leaning back against the cushions with both feet firmly on the floor to ground himself.  You took advantage of the new position, your chest pressed right against his and testing out a roll of your hips, enjoying the delicious way your crotch rubbed right over his.  His groan was higher pitched than you expected, his neediness betraying him and you loved it.  His hands tightened on your hips again, forcing you back down, guiding you as you rolled again, allowing you to feel the increased friction as he hardened beneath you. 

Your heart was hammering in your chest as you moved your hips the same way, Carlos letting go when you established a steady rhythm, leaving you to work away as his hands roamed freely.  The friction created, over no less than two pairs of jeans, was enough to already have you soaked; the familiar sensation growing between your legs as you became hungrier for more.  He slipped under the material of your team polo with another sigh in your mouth as his fingers danced up and down the soft skin of your torso and then he pressed his palms flat against your bare skin as if he couldn’t quite believe there was more of you to feel.  You moved, finally breaking the heated kiss as you found his stubbled jaw. 

“No,”  it was a plea more than a demand.

You didn’t know what he didn’t want, so you just pulled back and stared at him in confusion.  He simply leant forward, capturing you in yet another kiss.  Okay, you thought, I can get behind this and you kissed him back with equal vigour, pulling his full bottom lip between yours and gently dragging it back through your teeth, at the same time as you pressed your hips down.  Carlos hissed, his fingers digging into your soft flesh for a second as he steadied himself.  And then he was back at it, kissing you like you’d disappear if he didn’t, playing with the hem of your shirt as he did so.  He was tugging at your shirt as the kiss became messier, all teeth and tongues and open mouths in the best way.  He bunched the material in his hands, and then dragged them painfully slowly up your body so you felt his knuckles drag along the length of your torso.  If that wasn’t enough to make you shiver, having to almost force him away from your mouth so you could pull back and pull the polo over your head was certainly enough to do it. 

He watched in awe as you took over for him, stretching up as you finished the job and threw it into a corner of the room, and before he could move closer you followed suit with the sports bra.  Carlos’ eyes were blown wide, his lips swollen and hair a perfect mess.  He looked unreal beneath you as he was watching your breasts swing free in rapture.  Your moment of appreciation was broken when in a blink of an eye he’d sat up, his own top yanked over his head and mouth catching yours in a cheeky kiss before you had time to see him.  You could feel his smile against you, and for the first time you properly relaxed into him, so pleased you’d managed to draw one out of him when he was so upset moments before.  

His skin was so warm against yours, the direct contact feeling like the most natural thing in the world.  You could have stayed there, snuggled into his arms as you kissed him into oblivion forever.  Carlos, however, had other plans.  You’d stopped moving against him in your distraction, so he bucked his hips up against you, allowing you to feel how badly he was straining for more.  You couldn’t stop the whine that slipped from your lips or the heat between your legs that was burning to the point of distraction in itself.  Your hands ghosted across his shoulders, determined to commit his body to your memory, working your way down his arms and then back up, noting the way he shivered as you thumbed along his collarbones and then down.  His chest was smooth, allowing you to easily slide your palms down his pecs, your fingers deliberately catching his nipples as you went past, just to see his reaction.

You’d seen his abs in many a picture, but to feel them beneath your touch was a different thing entirely, earning him a small moan as you finally got to appreciate him properly.  And then you were back on the rough fabric of his jeans, your knuckles brushing against the small gathering of hair just above, toying with the button as if you were waiting for something.  His hands mirrored yours, poised at the same place on your own jeans.  He still didn’t break the kiss, instead, surging up to pull you deeper, attacking you with renewed energy as his fingers slipped beneath the button to pop it open.  You jumped into action undoing his jeans and pushing them to the side, unable to stop yourself from pressing your hand flat against his underwear and enjoying the way he bucked into you with a heavy breath just graced with sound from a catch in his throat. 

And then you really did have to pull away because you had to stand up to kick your jeans off.  Nevertheless, Carlos complained about the loss of contact.  You moved as quickly as possible, glad that he was distracted with removing his own, because taking jeans off has never, ever, been achieved in a sexy manner.  When he was done he looked up, his breath catching in his throat as he saw you, standing naked in front of him except for the thin strip of soaked material that made up your underwear.  He was a sight himself, his now bare thighs spread on the couch, his straining bulge on full display for you beneath tightly fitted boxers.  

“Cielo,”  you didn’t need to know what he said, because it was all in the way he was looking at you like you were simply heaven on earth.  “Take it off,”  he gestured to the last remaining garment on your body.  You did as you were told, hooking your thumbs into the waistband and slowly dragging your underwear down your legs, not breaking a second of eye contact with him, enjoying the way he gulped when you playfully flicked the discarded item at him.

And then you were back on his lap, the friction ten times better as he held you in yet another bruising kiss, his hands mapping out every fraction of your new body as you rocked shamelessly against him, your desperation for him reaching a boiling point.  In a moment of abandon you reached down and understanding your meaning Carlos lifted his hips, allowing you to shimmy his boxers away from his hips and then there you were, the pair of you totally exposed to each other.  The tension building in you had you squirming.  You knew you wouldn’t make it through any more teasing, your need for him entirely overwhelming.  He pulled away from you, his eyes scanning your face in earnest, fighting the urge to drop his head back as he felt your small hand wrap around him.

“Do I need-”

“I’m on birth control,”  he nodded, rewarding you with a sweet kiss, but before you could deepen it he backed off once more. 

“You’re sure you want to..?”  You moved the hand that was pressed between you, allowing him to feel the wetness that had been gathering glide across the head of his dick.  He gritted his teeth, but held eye contact, determined to get an answer out of you.  You rolled your eyes playfully at him.

“I really want to,” 

With that, he nodded, his hands just resting on your hips as you lifted yourself up, and then sank down onto him.

He was bigger than you’d anticipated, needing to stop to collect your breath as you adjusted to the new feeling, the air felt like it had been punched out of your lungs.  Carlos was panting, taking deep breaths that gave small sounds on the exhale as he did his best to collect his thoughts and sit still.  Even his breathing was creating enough movement that you could feel it, every little brush sending tingles up your spine and before you could stop yourself you ground down onto him.  That seemed to do it, Carlos throwing himself at you in a kiss that took your breath away as his hands began to gently guide you up, and then back down onto him.  His arms came up to wrap around the small of your waist, his palms resting flat against your sides as he kissed you like you were his last breath. 

You found yourself building rhythm quickly, grinding against him as you moved.  There was already a tightening sensation building that you couldn’t help but chase and with Carlos unable to stop his hips from lighting up slightly to meet yours as they came down, allowing him to bury himself as deep within you as possible, you knew you weren’t far off.  You were still kissing, technically, mouths opened against each other in ecstasy, you greedily swallowing every sound he made.  He was cursing in Spanish and his breath hot on your face was working for you. When your hands came up to thread through his hair as you slightly changed your angle of movement you felt him shudder. 

“Shit,”  his voice was strained, the change in pitch going straight through you as you realised how hard he was working for you.  “If you do that it’s not going to be much longer,”  it was the hottest thing you’d ever heard.  He couldn’t stop his hips from bucking up into you, picking up the speed and you let him, adapting to his pace as he grunted, his head falling against your shoulder as he tensed.  The new angle was sending shockwaves up your spine with every thrust, and there was a white heat building that was stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping and desperate as his lips worked around your chest. 

“I want to make you-” 

“I’m close,”  you were, in fact, too close to let him finish his sentence. 

You felt like your body was splintering, the room suddenly stifling.  The only thing you could focus on was the feeling of Carlos inside of you, and before you could stop yourself you grabbed his face, pulling him into a rough kiss.  The second you felt him push back against your mouth you were gone, a high-pitched moan signalling the start of your orgasm as your hips stuttered, moving in a slower, harsher rhythm as you contracted around him, your vision whiting out as you let the explosion work through your body, making your toes curl as you came with a force you’d never experienced before.  Carlos groaned against your mouth, his arms holding you fast as he rutted up into you, finally letting himself fall over the edge with you.

For some reason, it reminded you of the interior of the Sagrada Familia.

He didn’t loosen his hold on your body.  When you’d started to return to a more normal breathing pattern he pressed a soft kiss to your lips, before pulling back to rest his forehead against yours with a satisfied smile.  He was still inside of you, the sweat you were both coated in rapidly cooing but you didn’t care.  You could have sat in his arms like that for hours.  He kissed you again, soft and sweet and yet somehow still all-consuming.  He had a small, dazed smile and his eyes were shining at you as he pulled away and shook his head as if he couldn't quite get his head around what had just happened.

"How long I've wanted this… you have no idea,"  he whispered with a gentle smile, his forehead pressed against yours as he held you close.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Read Chapter Six Here

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Cielo = heaven

hello and welcome to iggy gets writers block and then provides a mammoth chapter because she feels bad. It's also 2am and i hit 2k followers yesterday, lost my mind and immediately got inspired to finish this chapter lmao

i might split this into two chapters further down if people feel like that would be a nicer read... let me know!

anyway this was pretty much done for ages but i was stuck on the three day date in Barcelona bc I've never been and i had no idea what was even there to do. i hope it's not too shabby and you guys liked that part of this chapter

as per usual feedback is always appreciated!!! and thank you guys so much for all of your patience and all of the love I've been getting in the gap between chapters, it seriously means the world <3

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