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heliads · 8 months

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i've got my money on things going badly

Lance Stroll should be delighted to watch his sister get married, but the only heart he's thinking about is his own. The one Fernando Alonso broke.

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To Lance, weddings are a kind of performance art. He’s gotten somewhat good at them ever since he was younger, when the Strolls were invited to everything. His father would get caught up in knots of expensive men wearing expensive suits, lost in business talks for hours, but Lance could slip away the second someone blinked, go find his sister disguised in a coat closet somewhere and talk about Pokémon or cable TV or something little kids like best.

Now his sister is the one getting married, and, enfolded into someone else’s party of groomsmen, Lance has absolutely no chance of hiding, excessively large coat closets of the elite be damned. He likes Scotty, really he does, even went to the trouble of presenting him to Chloe as a potential husband in the first place, but ceremonies are always long and Lance, as per usual, is tired of it.

He should be good. He should like this. Weddings are wonderful ceremonies. You can appreciate them for the expensive decorations and myriad artistic decisions that go into them, if not the fact that they’re basically just one extended celebration dedicated to the love of your close friends and family.

Lance is here for his sister and her future happiness with her recently declared husband. This should be an excellent day, and it has been, along with the rest of the wedding festivities that have been going on for ages, but now that the sun has set and he’s still here, starch-stiff in his dress suit, wishing he could go but knowing he can’t.

It’s not even the wedding’s fault, really, it’s just that Lance can’t stand spending so long thinking about the bliss of someone else’s love when he’s just lost one of his own. His sister is twirling in a white dress, a woman who hasn’t stopped smiling in hours, and Lance is standing in the shadows of this rosy glory with just one name on his mind.

Fernando Alonso.

It’s foolish, what this has done to him. Lance waved goodbye to Seb last year and told himself that he could look forward to another good relationship with another world championship teammate. Fernando would be challenging but rewarding as another Aston Martin driver, or so the motorsport gossip pages had told him.

What no one counted on was just how Fernando would make Lance feel. Not even Lance can do a good job of that, not really. There are no words in English or Spanish or even half-and-half lighthearted Spanglish that can sum up how Lance’s ribs ache like they’ve been bruised from sentences alone.

He had not meant to love Fernando; hell, he wasn’t even sure he did until the abrupt ending, but now Lance is choking on the words he never got to say and wondering how he’s meant to pick up the pieces of a heart that was only ever Fernando’s to break. Lance was supposed to stay professional, and he didn’t, and now he’s the one suffering for it. So it goes.

It didn’t take much, actually. Four months to fall. One month to break. Now he’s standing alone in the corner of his sister’s wedding, hoping for an escape that doesn’t seem willing to come his way. He’d been stupid, thought he could take too much, but is that really his fault for trying? All his life, he’s been told that he could be anything, do anything, have anything, and now he’s found that limit and it hurts like hell.

It’s not like anyone told him that the meter on Stroll luck and expectation would fall short when it came to one Spanish two time world championship winner. Well, that’s not true. Esteban had tried. Lance had not listened. He cannot even say for sure that he should have, because Lance had been very happy up until the point when he wasn’t.

It almost makes sense that the whole affair was conducted over such a short period of time. Lance is impatient, he likes doing things fast. It’s why he was able to become a Formula One driver. It’s why he set his sights on the man most likely to break his heart and cut the brakes before either of them could back out of it.

And it was just. Fuck. Hands on shoulders on the backs of necks on waists. How Fernando kept whispering in his ear, so close he could feel the other man’s breath hot on his neck, even though/just because it made Lance h— they were on camera the whole time. It didn’t matter. They wanted what they wanted and they got it, too.

Or, Lance had thought they had got what they wanted, and then he had dared to ask for a label for the unspoken thing he was sure both of them felt, and everything was lost for good. It was the end of the Miami race weekend, and Fernando was drunk on the glory of another podium, happy enough that Lance felt certain that he could have the conversation he wanted without it going sour.

They had been hanging around one of their driver’s rooms– which one, Lance can never tell, they kept swapping door to door until even the labeled placards felt like a joke of hospitality’s courtesy. Sprawled out on a couch, so close that Lance couldn’t stop staring at how their legs kept touching whenever he breathed too hard, he’d felt absolutely crazy with the knowledge that this was his.

Too much of a good thing can make you foolish, convince you that things will be that good forever. Lance had laughed to himself, then turned to Fernando with a grin. “We’ll still be like this next season, right?”

Fernando had given him this look as if he were being intentionally difficult. “Yes, Lance. My contract will not expire for another season. I will be on the grid.”

Lance had shaken his head. “No, duh, I mean like, hanging out like we are now. You know, like us.”

Lance doubts he could have packed more meaning into that one syllable if he tried. He’s heard Fernando refer to the unbreakable us before too many times to count, like when they’re coming back from a bar late and Fernando, eyes dark and heavy, promised him they’d have fun like that again, just us. Or, scoffing at the other driver lineups– they’re not us, you know. They don’t get along as well. One hand on Lance’s shoulder, fingers digging into muscle, the others could never get along as well.

Fernando had cocked his head to the side, curious. “What do you mean? We’re teammates.”

Lance had rolled his eyes. “Yeah, obviously, but like, there’s more. You know that.”

The space between them went silent. He should have taken that as his first warning sign if nothing else. Fernando had cleared his throat carefully and said, “What else would there be?”

Lance can still imagine the cold feeling that had descended upon him, spreading from the back of his throat like ink. What else would there be? It was impossible that he could have misread every single signal, every touch, every unspoken word. Unless, of course, the hidden meaning he dedicated so much time to channeling had never been there at all.

Lance had waved his hand vaguely. “But we were– you know, we did. Things.”

Fernando’s expression was impossible to read. “Did we?”

It was condescending and pitying and Lance hated it, all of it. He felt like a boy again, small enough to watch his voice disappear into the stillness of an uncaring room. He’d shot up from the couch, pushing out the door and away before anything else could happen. If anything had happened at all, or if it would, that is. Apparently, Lance has made a habit of picturing things that didn’t fucking exist.

Now he’s left spiraling like he survived a bad breakup, but you can’t have a breakup if there was never so much as a spark in the first place. It’s impossible that Fernando could have missed it all. Impossible, that Lance could have simply invented it. He knows what he felt, he knows what Fernando did, but none of it was worthy of a single word of acknowledgement from the other half of two seemingly perfect parts.

He wants to scream and throw up and put his phone down for longer than ten minutes at a time. There are many, many things that Lance had wanted to tell Fernando, and it’s only now starting to occur to him that he’ll never get the chance. I wanted to transform. For you. I wanted to be good. You made me want to be better.

It’s foolish for him to be thinking of things like this. Lance is a young man. He’s got time for his heart to grow up and even out. Maybe in a decade or less, he’ll meet some perfectly nice young woman, someone his father would approve of, someone with country club connections that won’t rival his own (who can) but could at least keep up with the game. They’d have a manicured front lawn and two docile children, including a son to keep up the Stroll legacy. It would be normal, it would not break his heart like this. It would be very dependable.

Lance doesn’t want dependable, though, he knows it as he thinks it. He wants wild, unpredictable, insane things like falling in love with your teammate and letting him convince you that he’d settle down for you. Lance wants to be the reason someone so used to choosing themselves chooses you instead. He wants Fernando, and he wants no one else.

This is a difficult thing to think about at a wedding. Across the crowded event hall, he can see his sister, happy and secure in the knowledge that her husband is hers, legally and emotionally. There are scores of couples smiling up at each other, content that their love is theirs and no one else’s.

Lance stands alone, tapping his foot to the beat so he doesn’t look like a complete loser. Every time someone looks over at him, he wants to shout that he’s fine, actually, this is fine, he doesn’t need someone the way that everyone else seems to, but they glance away again before he can properly vocalize this.

The DJ spins another song, the beat drops and the dance floor shakes appropriately from a hundred stomping feet, and just when Lance is certain that he wants to give up and really tries in earnest to look for somewhere to go, the crowd parts and Lance sees him.

Fernando. Here. Impossible. Yet that’s still a glint of hickory eyes he’d know anywhere, even distorted by swimming shades of party lights. Lance feels physically immobile as the man who cannot possibly be his teammate skirts couples and friend groups, and then they’re standing in front of each other and even though this cannot be, it is, and this is the first time Lance has seen him since the argument.

Lance stares at Fernando, jaw dropped comically. He has the harebrained thought that he’s glad the only camera nearby is the one in the hands of Chloe’s Vogue-ordered photographer; if this was the paddock, he’d probably end up as yet another stupid reaction image, giffed into oblivion until not even Lance can recognize his face when he sees it again.

If this was the paddock, seeing Fernando wouldn’t be such a surprise. If this was the paddock, Lance would not feel the absurd urge to run, because Fernando would already be gone, separated by an impenetrable wall of PR officers and personal trainers and anyone else he could shove in between the two of them.

Instead, they’re in one of the rare quiet patches in the wedding reception hall, and Lance is watching Fernando watch him, and slowly, deliberately, Lance forces his mouth to shut enough to ask, “How did you get in here?”

Fernando chuckles, teeth flashing in the uneven lighting of the dark hall. Lance has taken to ranking his teammate’s grins on a sliding scale from closed lips to a shark’s predatory display. This one is somewhere in the middle, hovering between quiet and pleased. Maybe even real.

“I bribed Daniel to get me past the door,” he says.

Lance casts an outraged look across the dancefloor until he catches the Australian attempting to foxtrot with Scotty. They should both be at least passable at it, but both men keep trying to lead, then follow, then lead again, endless cycles of not-quite-right.

Daniel somehow feels Lance looking– twitchy, isn’t he, has been all day– catches sight of Fernando standing in front of him, and grins apologetically. Bastard. If Lance gets him for grid Secret Santa, if Daniel manages to make it back onto the grid before December, he’ll have to actually try this time. Lance might owe him big for this.

The DJ starts a new number, cueing flashing lights that cascade from the blinding storm on the dance floor to faint rays out here where the two of them linger in the shadows, occasional flashlight beams sent out to catch them.

Lance swallows hard, watches the LEDs dye Fernando’s hair with undertones of Renault yellow, Ferrari red, Aston Martin green. If he were in the mood to be honest, Lance would admit that he’s been looking at Fernando for a while, actually. Not just since Fernando joined his team, before that, too. Long before they were teammates, when Lance first started racing in Formula One and he was eighteen and Fernando was thirty-five, a fact that makes him shiver down to his toes every time he thinks of it, which is– more often than it should be, for certain.

Now that the issue has been solved of how Fernando managed to get past the security guards Chloe swore were unnecessary and Lawrence swore he wouldn’t hire, plus the overeager wedding planners and racing fans stuck outside the gates with iPhone cameras, Lance pivots to a new question, one far more important.

“Why are you here?” Lance asks cautiously.

He knows what he wants to hear, of course, but he can’t let himself get his hopes up just for them to be dashed yet again. This is not his wedding, of course. Fernando could be here to corner some Aston Martin engineers or strategists if they won’t return his midnight calls. He could even be here for Danny, which would explain why the Australian went to the trouble of letting him in, and he’s just stopping by Lance because he got caught while trying to get drinks.

That thought makes Lance’s stomach twist in angry knots, and he’s only calmed from saying or doing something rash by Fernando’s following words, quiet in the dark but full of a lasting power.

“For you, Lance,” he says, “I came for you.”

God. Lance has spent the whole day witnessing lavish displays of affection, but for some reason it is seven simple words that makes him come undone. He stands there, stock still, and Fernando asks hesitantly, “Is that okay?”

It reminds Lance of how it had been before everything went south, when they were both dancing around a truth both ugly and glorious, that teammates do not stare like they did, that coworkers should not use getting drunk at an Aston Martin post-race celebration party as an excuse to keep their hands on each other, that Fernando didn’t keep interrupting Lance’s interviews to place his hands on Lance’s shoulders and whisper in his ear that he was Fernando’s hero just to get Lance to react like he always did. Not something he was supposed to do on camera, but neither of them could stop.

It is like the very beginning. Fernando, infiltrating Lance’s garage to lean down over the edge of the halo of Lance’s test drive and grip his gloved hands. How’s the car? Fernando, stopping by Lance’s driver’s room to hug him around the shoulders, cold and damp from the champagne that was still soaked through his race suit. I saw you out there. It was good, no? We are good? Fernando, with his hand on Lance’s leg when they’re supposed to be paying attention in a dry and stilted meeting with no one’s eyes on them for once. Can I? Is it alright?

Lance never said no. Even when his breath caught in his throat. Even when he knew he was just sinking further into a pit he would never be able to escape. The falling was the best part, anyway.

“Fine,” he says at last, “Dance with me, then. If you want to talk, we dance. I’m sick of being a wallflower anyway.”

He raises an eyebrow impetuously, daring Fernando to make the next move. If Fernando’s actually serious about being here for Lance, he won’t mind this. He won’t mind the chance that someone could see them together and start to speculate. If Lance is anything other than a backroom missed connection, they should be able to dance without worrying.

Fernando nods once, accepting his challenge. He places one hand on Lance’s waist, the other on his waiting hand. His grip is strong, but not agonizing. Just a reminder that Lance will not be able to leave easily, not unless Fernando is satisfied that the situation has been handled as he planned.

Here, locked in the vise of another man’s arms, Lance thinks about how deeply he’s let himself get enthralled in Fernando’s way of doing things. He likes pretending that he’s the one in control, that Fernando is here to win him over, but the second Fernando’s hands are on him, Lance cedes that last bit of power over to him. Fernando does it easily, like a habit. It probably is.

Esteban warned him about this, after all, how easy it is to get sucked in. Lance, however, does not mind Fernando’s trap in the slightest. The rabbit must learn to love the snare. The bird likes its cage when the gilded bars keep it safe.

“I was thinking,” Fernando begins.

“Always a good start,” Lance quips.

The hand on Lance’s waist tightens momentarily, a warning. Lance kind of wants to mouth off some more to see what the resulting action would be.

“I was thinking,” Fernando repeats, “that I may have gotten something wrong. I did not want to rush you, Lance. We have a lot of time. Being hasty can cost you.”

Unwillingly, Lance’s mind flashes to driver’s meetings, planning sessions with his engineer. Being a driver is knowing the difference between when to push and when to plan. Fernando may have spent a lot of time guarding his pace, but Lance gets the feeling he’s finally ready to go for the trophy, the fastest lap. To sprint and never look back.

“I don’t want you as just a teammate,” Fernando continues. “I had not realized you thought we were past that. It would have sped things along, I think, if I had.”

“I thought we had plenty of time,” Lance comments.

“We do,” Fernando says smoothly. “But that does not mean I want to push this off any more if I don’t have to.”

“This?” Lance asks, feeling like he’s parodying that fateful conversation from so long ago, “And what’s this?”

Fernando meets his gaze coolly, calmly, and then he smiles and changes everything. Night brown eyes go caramel. “We have something better than anyone else, Lance. I do not want to lose it.”

There’s a sharp, triumphant streak in those words. Fernando Alonso has always been on a different level from everyone else. Hearing that he considers Lance on that distinct pedestal as well– it makes Lance lean into his touch a little more, and the last of his guard drops away.

“Why’d you tell me differently earlier, then?” He can’t help but ask. “You could have said you wanted me then.”

Fernando sighs, looks away. “I didn’t know I wanted it then. I didn’t count on how it would feel to lose you. I know now. I don’t want to feel it again.”

Across the room, they’re starting to cheer and shout from the center of the dance floor. It takes Lance a few moments to realize that the applause isn’t for the two of them but for the newlyweds, Chloe and Scotty, who are leading the group in an exuberant rendition of I Wanna Dance with Somebody. Lance thinks that it wouldn’t be entirely unfounded for the cheering to be for him, though. He feels like celebrating now.

And, when he looks back, Fernando’s lips are on his. Lance stumbles a little, and Fernando’s hand slides up his spine to catch him before he loses balance. It’s easy. It’s victorious. Lance never wants to let him go.

Fernando’s breath is hot against his throat, sending Lance into a feverish spiral. “I’ll see you in Monaco,” he whispers, and then he’s pulling away.

Lance watches him leave, but for once, it’s not a sad feeling. Instead, the emotion currently crashing through Lance’s bones is more one of anticipation. This is not the end, just the beginning. Fernando turns once, smiling at him before disappearing in a crush of people. Lance’s chest feels cold where Fernando’s hands had once been, but his heart’s racing enough to make up for the lost heat.

A voice by his shoulder; his sister, who has somehow fought her way through the crowd of well-wishers to find him. “Was that your teammate?” She asks, frowning.

Lance gazes softly at the place that had once been his. “Yeah, it was.”

Chloe tilts her head to the side with a frown, considering this. “Is something going on there?”

“Yes,” Lance answers her. Chloe looks like she wants far more of a response than just that, but Lance just laughs and helps her back to the dance floor. He will have plenty more days to explain it to her. After all, Fernando was right. They do have plenty of time.

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy, @juphey

all tags list: @wordsarelife

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ynbabe · 1 month

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Fernando, sparing with a punching bag: Do you think you could take me?

Lance, scrolling on Pinterest:

Lance: Yes.

Fernando, squaring up:

Lance: Oh you mean in a fight? No-

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 imagine #f1 incorrect quotes #strollonso #alonstroll #lance stroll #fernando alonso

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fryebitch · 10 months

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#me when i have to draw backgrounds (imagine me crying)#nando has lances scarf btw #notice how they both have blondie's clothes from tgtbtu #im very uncreative ok💀#fernando alonso #lance stroll #strollonso #alonstroll

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writingstoraes · 10 months

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say cheese 📸

pairing: charles leclerc/fem!photographer!reader

type: instagram imagine, social media au

notes: lucky me this made it out of my drafts 🎉 lmk what you guys think! also if anyone wants to be part of my permanent taglist, pls lmk hehe

about: fans absolutely adore the way you are able to capture charles in photos (plus what's a little harm with an accidental post that made its way to your account)

scuderiaferrari

liked by charloslover, finemidnight, arthurleclerc, and 782,221 others

scuderiaferrari Outtakes from Montreal 🍁

lightningleclerc I FEEL BLESSED

forzaforeva Congratulations, Charles! Amazed by the amount of work you put in every race weekend. Hoping for good results next GP 💪

livelovecarlos whoever took the last photo needs a raise actually

lecssaint i think y/n took this photo! but true lol she photographs charles so well its crazy

scuderiaferrari

liked by mercdefender, lewham, c2buddy, and 561,223 others

scuderiaferrari Mode: push 🏎️

vettelegend Such a good picture! Good luck, Charles! ❤️

lestappenfilmz ferrari's photographer in love with charles' eyes just as much as i am

f1thusiast y/n please speak into the mic

ssainzluvr carlos version where?????

scuderiaferrari Just posted! We'd never leave a driver behind 🤗 lecssssainz who the fuck are you tryin to fool

scuderiaferrari

liked by ferrariswift, pumasports, monacoprince, and 893,331 others

scuderiaferrari Charles clad in his special colors ❤️🤍

alonstroll The photographer working overtime so the Ferrari admins can distract us once again from the terrible strategy lol

popstarz LOOOVE THIS GIVE Y/N A RAISE IMMEDIATELY

finelineleclerc real when charles doesnt post i head over to her account just to get crumbs pls

ynfilms

liked by charles_leclerc, joris__trouche, lovers1989, and 56,445 others

ynfilms back in monaco 🌊

charles_leclerc Props for taking the second picture, not thrilled on diving a fourth time if ever you didn't 😁

landonando THE FIRST PICTURE??? I CANT BREATHE???

eudeleclerc he's definitely carved by god himself like

charmleclerc thank you for your service, queen 🙏

moneqazques came back here after all the y/n hype on twitter, what a legend

ynfilms

liked by monegasquez, swiftfeld, loveleclerc, and 67,221 others

ynfilms hard at work; improving day by day.

charles_leclerc Ah so that's why there was a click sound behind me yesterday

ynfilms just doing my job, charlie 🙏

forzaforeva the il predestinato is il predestinato-ing

schumangels Love this ❤️

ynfilms

liked by charles_leclerc, pascale_leclerc, scuderiaferrari, and 45,667 others

ynfilms out and about in barcelona 🏔️

lecs1655 queen providing our delusional asses we thank you, really

sainzchamp Charles and his pista god what a combo

ynfilms

liked by sainzhero, hamilchamp, leclove, and 23,445 others

ynfilms love you to the moon and saturn :)

landonando MAM???? WERE YOU SUPPOSED TO POST THIS

oconsgirl HELLO???SJSNJJ

grandprizcx im fucking crying so much for soft launches?????

ricciardos My best guess is this wasn't supposed to be posted in this account....

lecshamilt0n posting a picture of charles so boyfriend-y and so intimate to a taylor swift lyric is just so sick!!!

charles_leclerc

liked by carlossainz55, maxverstappen, pierregasly, and 1,230,778 others

charles_leclerc I always thought I was just a fan of cameras, turns out, I loved smiling in photos when you're the one behind the lenses. I do not know the first thing about photography, but I do know every picture of you I have deserves to be treasured.

The day you took your first picture of me was the same day you captured my heart. It's been yours ever since.

tagged: yourusername and ynfilms

carlossainz55 Does this mean Y/N will stop being my photographer at Ferrari

charles_leclerc Yeah cause she's my girlfriend yourusername no carlos, don't listen to him

charlosfan god no wonder she captures charles so well??? cause they have each other's hearts???

gaslysgirl Did not think going on Instagram will only remind me how loveless my life really is but ok

sainznorris FINALLY MY PARENTS

yourusername you know what i'm kinda glad i forgot to switch accounts and posted that on my work photography ig (hehe love you, baby)

charles_leclerc More glad than you cause I finally get to show you off pierregasly You put the cheesy in say cheese mate

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, franciscagomes, pierregasly, and 567,212 others

yourusername i was about to quit photography as a whole when i got accepted as a photographer for ferrari. who knew accepting this job when i was on the brink of losing what i was passionate about would only be the reason why i wake up every day doing what i love and living my best life.

bonus: i met the love of my life while doing it 🤍 it was later that i realized i don't just love taking pictures in general, i adored who i was taking photos of.

took a while before we shared with the world what we meant to each other, but the answer to why i capture charles so well — i take photos from my heart, which incidentally, belongs to him.

reputationcl who's cutting onions whhy are there tears in my eyes

sainzoperator THIS SOME SWEET ASS SHIT I CANT TAKE IT

lovingscuderia sleeping on a highway doesnt sound like a bad idea

danielricciardo EVERYONE RUN! The ants are here...

-----------

tagging: @slytherheign, @honethatty12

notes: this took like 2 hours lolol lmk what u guys think <3 hopefully i can finish all my wip's and get to the requests hehe thank you for reading :D

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desomniis · 8 months

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Thank you for the tag @f1-stuff

Share a snippet of a current WIP!

So this story had been stuck in my WIPs for months now and I first shared the idea about 5 months ago on this ask. So basically...

'We breathe a sigh of relief' is a story about 8 people who discovered they were another type of human species. It is essentialy a Sense8 AU with multiple driver pairings (Charlos, Carlando, Yukierre, Maxiel, Alonstroll... you get it.)

The plot still does not exist but I'm already about 5k words into the first chapter. The first chapter will essentially be similar to the first episode of Sense8, so if you have seen it, then this will be familiar to you. I will share half of the first chapter but please read the following notes below first:

This story contains depictions of sensitive and complex topics such as death, suicide, gun violence, physical violence, drug use, emotional manipulation, misogyny, and sexual acts. These themes may be uncomfortable or triggering for some readers. Hence, reader discretion is advised. It is the responsibility of the reader to manage their own reactions to the material.

Enjoy. :))

Inside the remains of an abandoned church, the air was thick with the musty stench of dampness and decay. The once beautiful stained glass windows lay shattered and scattered amidst the rubble and debris, casting ghostly shadows on the ruined walls.

A filthy mattress lay in the centre of the room. Upon it, a man writhed in agony, his anguished sobs and groans echoing off the walls.

He reached for a small tin box under the mattress, bony fingers frantically searching for relief.

Blockers. His blockers. Where are they? He should have more. He swore he had more. He wants— No. He needs it. He just needs one, just a small piece, it would do. Please.

Finally.

He found one: a small, broken piece—a glimmer of hope.

Temptation whispered in his ear «take it!» loud and demanding.

But a smaller voice pleaded.

Don’t.

He looked at it, the small black pill, imagining the pleasure of it melting in his mouth, the tingling sensation as it blocked his sense, the way it relaxes his muscles, they way it lulled him to sleep.

Peace.

But he couldn’t do it. Not yet.

Begrudgingly, he kept it in his pocket. As soon as he did, his body started to contort and twist in pain, his nails digging through the mattress, red staining the soiled sheets.

He can’t take it anymore. He needs something. He needs someone.

"Seb," he cried out, reaching out his hand, clawing for the surface of the water like a drowning soul fighting for air. “

Seb,” he called out again, his heart pounding. Please.

His outstretched hand caught a familiar warmth, saving him.

“Mark!” his voice raw as he pulled him up. Sebastian held him close, Mark’s body sagging against him. “I’m here love, I’m here,” he whispered, his fingers brushing through Mark’s hair as he held him in his arms.

Mark looked up at him. He could breathe again. “You came,” he said through his smile. Despite it, Sebastian could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the pain etched deep in the lines of his face.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Sebastian sobbed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Shhh. Don’t cry. I’m still here love, still fighting,” Mark said, hushed.

“All this time?”

“All this time.”

Damn it, Mark. “Don’t do it alone. I’m here. I can help,” Sebastian begged.

Mark shook his head. “I can’t risk it,” he said, cupping Sebastian’s cheeks. “You’re too precious to me.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Mark,” Sebastian said, his voice breaking. “We could do this together.”

Mark shook his head. “It’s too late,” he said, his voice strained with pain. “I’ve run out of time, and I’ve run out of blockers. He will find me soon enough.”

Sebastian's heart sank as he realized what was happening. His voice shook as he said, "No... no no no. I'll come to you. I'll ask for help and get you out of—"

"Don't. Please don't,” Mark pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Or else, he will find you too."

As soon as Mark uttered the thought of him, the devil showed itself.

His gloved hand picked one of the aluminium wrappers on the floor, inspecting it. «Is this how you’ve been hiding from me? Blockers?» Toto whispered in his ears, a menacing growl. The hairs on the back of Mark's neck stood as he refused to give the devil the satisfaction of a response.

He was dressed in all black: black coat, black sleeves, black everything—a perfect reflection of his rotten soul if he even had one.

"I don't care if he finds me," Sebastian choked out between sobs. "I just don't want to lose you, Mark. Not you too. I don't know how I'll go on without you," he admitted, his voice breaking with the weight of his emotions.

“Shhh… I know you can do it, love,” Mark reassured. “I believe in you.”

«Is that, Sebastian?» Toto asked with a smirk, all too eager. «Tell him, I can’t wait to meet him.»

Mark's heart skipped a beat. Sebastian felt it, his eyes growing wide. "Is that him?" he asked.

Mark managed a faint nod, trying to conceal his conversation with Sebastian from Toto.

«I wonder what your precious Sebastian would think if he knew all the things you did for me,» Toto mused, his eyes glinting with pleasure. "Do you think he'd still love you, knowing what you've done?"

Mark gritted his teeth, refusing to give Toto the satisfaction of a response.

“Seb, listen to me,” Mark said, urgent, indifferent to Toto. “I found hope, Seb. I found more of us.”

“What do you mean?” Sebastian asked, his brows furrowing.

Mark knew Toto was listening. He knew that he would hunt them regardless, just like how he hunted everyone else. But He can’t let that stop him. Sebastian and his children were his last hope.

The pounding pain in his head grew. The clock was ticking.

“I’m giving birth,” Mark revealed.

Sebastian's eyes grew wide but deep in his heart he knew what was happening. He felt it.

A sinister grin crept up on Toto's face, his eyes glinting with malevolence, before he broke out into a cruel laugh. «Oh, Mark,» Toto said, »how nice of you to bring them into the light for me. Thank you. It would be my pleasure to meet them too,» he warned.

“But,” Sebastian said, apprehensive. “They’ll get hunted down by Toto, by the FIA.”

“I know,” Mark said, “But promise me, you’ll protect them. Promise me that you’ll show them the light.”

Another mocking laugh came from Toto. «I always find my prey, Mark, you know that. You really think little Sebastian can protect them?» He tutted. «How optimistic, even for a dying man. Let me clarify a few things for you, alright? First: I will find you by the end of this night. Second: I will have Sebastian by morning. Third: All eight of your children? Gone before they could even say hello to each other.»

Mark’s breath hitched as he felt Toto’s satisfaction. No. It’ can’t be.

«Did you feel that, Mark? My team just found your location. Looks like we will be meeting each other sooner than I thought,» he said, disappearing the moment the words left his mouth.

“What did he say?” Sebastian asked.

He can’t know. “Seb, love, I need you to be strong alright? I need you to be there for them.”

Time. He felt it slip away from his fingers.

“Why can’t you do it, Mark?” Sebastian pleaded, his voice strained. “Show them the light, just like you did with me?”

“Oh Seb,” Mark sighed, kissing Sebastian’s knuckles. “I wish I could. But I’m running out of time.”

Sebastian shook his head. He wished that he could do something to help Mark, to take him out of his pain, to protect him from Toto. But he knew better, he knew that the only thing he could do now was to do what he was asking.

“Okay… Okay,” Sebastian agreed through broken sobs. “I promise— I promise I’ll find them… and protect them. I’ll try.”

Mark smiled, feeling a moment of respite before pain surged through him again, all at once.

It was time.

Mark's consciousness ignited, a cosmic burst like a supernova, casting luminous tendrils that surged through the obsidian expanse of the One Mind. One mind is a place one can feel but never reach, a concept one could know but never understand, an idea within grasp but always intangible.

What was once a sanctuary for homo sensoriums, now a graveyard for those who came, and those who hide. It used to be a universe, glimmering with stars, but now it was just a void, except for the faint light of those who hunted them, one of their own. Those who work under Toto. Apart from them, no one else dared to come here. Coming here is like wishing for death.

Perhaps it was cruel, giving birth to his children in such cruel times. But it seemed worse if he didn’t, a betrayal to himself, to the future of his kind, to the forces that led him to them. A selfless yet selfish act.

At the precipice of this vast expanse, Mark found them. Faint beacons of hope, his children, like distant stars in an infinite night. Finding them was nothing short of a miracle, a work of the Divine. Who would’ve known that their salvation lay dormant beyond their grasp waiting to be known.

So that's what he did. He made them known.

He drew them in until

they were a part of him,

a part of those who came before,

a part of everyone who still lives.

Together, they were One.

“I see them,” Mark announced, his tone full of hope.

“What are their names?” Sebastian asked, hushed.

Mark closed his eyes as he made his very first and last visit.

In the dead of the night, buried under the bricks of London, the DJ ignited the dance floor with the unmatched beats of techno music. A sea of people jumped and swayed, bathed in a spectrum of neon colours. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and perfume, tequila and vodka, marijuana and coke. Everyone danced like it was the last night of their life.

The moment the DJ dropped the beat, he saw him, the man in white standing in the midst of the crowd like a rock in the middle of a torrentous river. Unyielding.

Who the fuck?

“Lando,” Mark said.

Under the glimmering lights of Times Square, the Artist clung to the cold steel of a lamp post, patiently waiting for something interesting to behold itself. His keen eyes peered through the viewfinder of his Leica M6, scanning the crowd.

He was framing a shot when he saw him: the man in white, standing in the middle of 7th Ave, yellow cabs passing him by. He was tall and lean, his features sharp and chiseled, his piercing blue eyes seemed to glint with ancient wisdom, and his pale skin was almost translucent, like he was made of moonlight.

Click. The shutter closed.

Gone. Just like a ghost.

Was he dreaming?

“Charles,” Mark said.

On the rooftop of a war-abandoned building in Moscow, the Spy proned, his eyes peering through the scope of his rifle. The frigid winter winds bit his skin but he paid it no mind. He has one goal tonight and he is not leaving his spot until he achieved it. So he waited, his breaths shallow and measured.

That's when he saw him: the man in white, blending in with the snow, staring back at him. He seemed to glow in the darkness, his piercing blue eyes boring into the spy's eyes, seeming to see right through him with an all-knowing gaze that sent shivers down his spine. His gut had never betrayed him before.

Max placed his finger on the trigger.

Bang.

“Max,” Mark said.

Beside the Old Port of Montreal, the Hacker sat in front of a wall of screens, his fingers dancing across the keys with the fluid grace. Lines of code streamed across the monitors, their glowing green text a mesmerizing sight. His eyes scanned the code with a hawk-like precision as he crafted a programme aimed to kill and destroy.

As he turned around to get a drink, the man in white stood in his apartment, his ashen skin illuminated by the monitors. Lance yelped, falling to the floor with a thud, his head hitting the sharp corner of his table.

Ouch.

“Lance,” Mark said.

At the top floor of a gleaming skyscraper overlooking the Marina Bay Sands, the Businessman sat through one of the most pointless meetings he had ever attended: the succession of the largest media empire in the world. His father sat at the head of the table while a line of lawyers were infront of him and his lovely sisters beside him. No offence to his sisters but a woman can’t handle the pressures that came with running this empire.

He was about to say something when the man in white appeared behind his father.

¡Madre mía!

“Carlos,” Mark said.

In the rugged terrain of the Australian Outback, the Daredevil defyed gravity by soaring through the air on his dirt bike. The engine roared, as he revved up for another hill, wheels kicking up a cloud of red dust, the sun beating down mercilessly on his tanned skin. He lived for the thrill of danger, elusively dancing death with every trick.

He saw him the moment he launched into the air: the man in white, standing on the track, curious. For a moment, the daredevil was suspended in the air like a bird, before he landed with a jarring thud, his bike bucking beneath him as he fought to regain control.

Fucking cunt.

“Daniel,” Mark said.

Under the clay roof of a small sushi restaurant in Tokyo, the Chef in his pristine white uniform glided the sharp edge of his knife across fresh tuna, preparing it with the precision and artistry of a master. The scent of freshly grated wasabi and soy sauce wafted through the air, mingling with the subtle, sweet aroma of the rice vinegar. Soft murmurs of his customer mingling and enjoying the food filled his ears.

He carefully placed two pieces of Tuna Nigiri on a plate before coming to attend a new customer standing by the door, the man in white. “Irrashaimase. Nan mei sama— Eh?” the chef asked, stopping when he saw a foreigner wearing white, with blood dripping on his forehead. He was unsure wether he wanted sushi.

Daijoubu?

“Yuki,” Mark said.

Under the relentless sun of Djibouti, the Soldier stood stoicly in the face of the blistering heat. His uniform clung to his sweat-soaked body, fingers clutching his rifle, waiting for his captain's signal. The hot, dry air was thick with the stench of diesel fumes and dust, the gritty sand coating his boots and filling his nostrils.

The glare of the sun was blinding, casting harsh shadows across the barren landscape and making it nearly impossible to see.

But he still saw him, the man white, standing on top of mudhut, staring down at him.

Contact!

He pulled the trigger.

“Pierre,” Mark said.

“Boys… they’re all boys?” Sebastian asked.

"Just like your cluster," Mark added, tinged with sadness.

Sebastian was the last of his cluster.

Mark was the last of his cluster.

“I’ll find them. Every single one of them. And protect them,” Sebastian promised.

Mark's touch was gentle, his fingers brushing delicately against Sebastian's cheek. ”Thank you,” he whispered, “for everything.”

Sebastian leaned into his touch, letting the world around them fall away as they savoured this fleeting moment.

"You look as beautiful as the day I first met you,” Mark said. “I wish we had more time.”

Sebastian clutched Mark’s hand. “I love you,” he said. “Always.”

“Always.”

Mark brought his face close to Sebastian's, and they shared one final kiss. Tears streamed down Sebastian's face as he held Mark close. He felt all of him: his soul, his body, their love.

For one last time.

The soft screeches of tire on asphalt broke through the silence. The devil has arrived.

“Go,” Mark whispered, giving Sebastian a choice.

“No,” Sebastian rebelled. “I’ll stay here till the end.”

Mark managed a weak smile. He knew this was coming. He reached for the black pill in his pocket, the last one.

Sebastian closed his eyes, withdrawing. Mark had always been wiser than him.

“I’ll see you on the other side?” Mark

Sebastian nodded. “I love you.”

Mark took one last look at Sebastian before swallowing his last blocker. Within seconds, the light of the One mind disappeared along with Sebastian.

Sound of heavy boots approaching echoed through the church, an all too familiar signal of impending doom.

With newfound determination, Mark reached for the pistol hidden under the mattress. It was his last resort.

Toto turned the corner with an army of soldiers in black in his trail. “Oh please, Mark,” he said, eyeing the pistol. “We both know you won’t do it.”

“Watch me,” Mark taunted, pressing the cold barrel on the roof of his mouth before the devil could posses him.

"Stop him," ordered Toto, his voice betraying a slight tremor. His soldiers sprinted towards Mark, desperate to catch him.

But they were too late.

Bang.

-+-

Max jolted awake, instincts kicking in as he snatched his pistol from the nightstand, aiming at the intruder who just fired a shot.

But there was no one else in his bedroom.

What the?

The clock read 4:00 AM. He winced.

The sound of the gunshot still rang in his ears, reverberating like a thunderclap, igniting a searing pain in his head. He wanted to sleep more, but the pain wouldn’t let him.

"Damn it," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He stood up and stumbled towards the bathroom. He switched the light on, assaulting his eyes and making the pain worse. He walked over to the medicine cabinet, fingers frantically searching for relief but he was only met with empty bottles of painkillers. Leaning over the sink, he prayed for it to subside, to no avail.

The man in white…outside blending in with the snow…inside a church…staring back at him…a black pill…a pistol…bang.

It’s been a week since he first saw him. He doesn’t know why he still kept seeing him in his dreams. He used to not dream at all.

It’s fucking him up.

“Are you going to tell me what’s up?” a voice asked, bringing him back to reality.

Rico Verhoeven, his partner, leaned against the doorway in all his glory for the world to see. "Can you put on some pants?" Max asked, his voice clipped.

Rico’s brows furrowed. “Since when did you care?” he asked.

“Since, right now.”

“Too bad. Deal with it.”

“Rico, I’m not in the mood to—” Max said.

"No shit, you haven't been in the mood," Rico said, his voice a low growl, grumpy.

“It’s just the migraine…” Max attempted.

“Just the migraines my ass,” the giant scoffed. “We’re going to be stuck in this shithole for two more months if you don’t don't tell me what's actually going on.”

Max hung his head low, quietly admitting defeat. He had almost sabotaged their mission. If it wasn't for Rico's intervention, they would have blown their cover and probably be on an electric chair under the Kremlin right now.

Rico let out a deep sigh, walking over to Max, placing his massive hands on Max's shoulders, and kneading them with a firm grip. "Do you need some… loosening up?" he suggested, his voice softening, carrying another meaning.

This was Max’s eighth mission assignment with Rico. They are Field Agents working together for the Vanguard Intelligence Agency (VIA) for five long years. They had been through it all: stranded in deserted towns of the Gobi Desert, hid in the cargo hold of container ships during a typhoon in the middle of the Pacific and even camped in the middle of the Siberian permafrost. Isolation had always been part of the job description. Field agents like him are trained to spend a year without human contact. Not a single one. But luckily for him, he was assigned a partner.

A partner who was willing to… relieve him of the stress that came with the job. Max was also more than willing.

However, their missions were bearable most of the time. But occasionally, fear and uncertainty swoops in from their back, taking hold of their thoughts. And it usually came at night, when the world was quiet.

But it wasn’t one of those nights.

Max shook his head, careful not to jog it too much. “No,” he said, removing Rico’s hands off him. “Like I said, not in the mood.”

“Alright, if you say so.” he shrugged, turning to leave. “Goodnight, partner.”

“Before you go,” Max said, stopping Rico. “Can you tell the neighbours to turn the music down?”

Rico frowned. “What music?” he asked, bewildered.

"The music. Don't you hear it?" Max asked, his voice strained with confusion and pain. The sound was deafening, drowning out all other noises. He could feel the bass reverberating through his bones, and the cheers of a crowd were like a knife to his already throbbing head.

“Max, there is no music,” Rico said, concerned. “And we don’t have any neighbours.”

But the music and cheers only got louder, taunting him. "Never mind," Max said, his words clipped as he pushed past Rico, ignoring his partner's worried gaze. "I'll do it myself."

Max stomped over to their neighbour's door and banged on it, the sound of his fists echoing in his own head.

"Hey, open up!" he shouted, his voice hoarse and frustrated. The blaring music spilt through the cracks of the door, grating on his already battered senses. Realizing that screaming was no use, he resorted to force. Stepping back, he kicked the door open, causing splinters of wood to fly off the knob.

He got what he wanted. The music stopped. The cheering stopped.

Because no one was there.

-+-

Everybody was there.

In the rugged terrain of the Australian Outback, Daniel savoured everyone’s cheers as he landed another stunt. After a solid week of sitting on a couch munching on potato chips, drinking coke and jerking off three times a day, he was pumped to have his baby, the KX250**,** in between his legs again.

“BOOYAH!” He cheered. “Oi! You didn’t see that coming, did yah?!”

Oscard rolled his eyes, unamused. Of course, he was. The cunt just kissed his 500 quid goodbye.

Daniel? Oh yeah, he was born to be behind the wheel. He also meant that literally because her mom was leaning on his dad’s massive monster truck wheel when he came out of the womb. Nuts, right?

What's more nuts is that at three years old, while most kids were still drooling trying to figure out how spoons worked, he was already speeding around in a go-kart. Shocking by today’s standards. Back then? Nah, just another Tuesday. Though if it were now, his dad would probably have his own reality show titled: "How to Kill Your Kid While ".

At six, he was zipping around on a mini dirt bike. Sure, by today's norms, it's like giving a kid a chainsaw for his birthday. But Daniel was practically NBA height at that age, so his father thought, why not put my son on a bike? A Kawasaki one, at that.

By ten, he was racking up trophies like they were Pokémon cards. Australian Motocross Championship? Check. Australian Rally Championship? Yep. Australian Kart Championship? Of course. And that's just the start of it. Let's not forget the I-beat-grown-ass-adults-at-racing-stuff awards too, like the Finke Desert Race, Targa Tasmania, Rotax Pro Tour…

You know where he's getting at. He's cool, right?

Damn right, he was.

I don't know if I will ever come to complete this and post it on AO3 it's definitely quite a challenge. So for now, it would exist here. :)) Ignore this if you've done it already, but I'll tag @pgaslys @queent09 & @effervescentdragon If y'all have any WIPs share them. :))

#mine #my fics #Sense8AU #this story is not for the faint of heart #heed my warning #Mark Webber #Sebastian Vettel #Toto Wolff #max verstappen #daniel ricciardo #charles leclerc #carlos sainz #lance stroll #pierre gasly #yuki tsunoda #rico verhoeven #lando norris

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