Levitating

Levitating

Summery: You are Charles’ celebrity crush... or are you?

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader. (This has nothing to do with my Smau series… it’s just a one shot I couldn’t stop thinking about)

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itsMeYn ...LEVITATING... OUT... NOW!

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YnMyQueen I’m obsessed already... obsessed

 iloveyn Oh my god! yes!

yourbestfriend Finally bitch!

itsMeYn shut it 

yourmom So proud of you honey

ItsMeYn ❤️

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vogue Your new album is out today, what has inspired you to write it?

Y/n Y/sn speaks to Vogue about her new album, how she come to write it and new love.

“The last couple of years have been  complicated but a full ones too: full of emotions, new experiences and happy memories. This album is a complex one because for me it’s  about moving on, finding love when you weren’t expecting it and where you weren’t expecting. But all I want is for people to want to dance and have fun whenever they listen to it at the same time”

Levitating has just been certified with Platinum, what are your favorite lines of the song, if we can ask?

"-If you wanna run away with me, I know a galaxy, And i can take you for a ride.-

yeah I really like the beginning"

Visit the link in bio to read the full interview

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Y/nfan Oh my god, my baby is in love.... 

Ynmyquenn I’m so happy for her after her last break up... she deserves it 

iloveYn do we know who is she dating?

YnmyQueen she did’nt say, I only hope whoever it is treat her like the queen she is

Yourbestfriend well look at this beautiful baby

ItsMeYn look who is talking

Charles.leclerc.fanclub

Interviewer to Charles: “Who is your celebrity crush?”

Carlos (before Charles can answer): “He can not say it, he has a girlfriend”

Charles: “No I don’t”

Interviewer: “So you have to answer”

Charles: “Mh… Y/n Y/sn”

So this happened and I’m so confused… is he in a relationship? Is he not in a relationship?

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Yn.leclerc So yeah... it's just been one minute but I'm ready to die for this ship already

YnMyQueen He is cute, but I'm sorry to say Y/n is in a relationship

Yn.leclerc Nooooo really... my poor boy, with whom? YnMyQueen We don't know yet, but some of the songs of her new album are about her new relationship Yn.leclerc So you're telling me, my ship is dead already? well one can always dream

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ItsMeYn Is this enough red? I don't know... @scuderiaferrari what do you think?

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scuderiaferrari It's a good start. We're gonna cover you in ferrari merch soon

Yn.leclerc Look at our boy supporting his crush in red. @charles_leclerc we can see your likes

ilpredestinato She is a ferrari guest at this week gp just saying yn.leclerc Are you telling me they are gonna meet? Hell yes. This ship is ready to sail evelyn.leclerc This ship is not sailing... she is just an attention sicker YnMyQueen What are you even doing in her comments if you only want to bring hate

Spotted Spotted Y/n having fun with some friends

There are no responses to the current rumors about a relantionship between @itsMeYn and @charles_leclerc. What do you guys think?

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YnmyQueen why can’t you guys leave her alone? She deserves some privacy

IloveYn My friend met her and she was so nice... I can't be sure but my friend noticed a new tatoo under her ribcage, it seemed like a moon and a sort of number or a writing. she couldn't see it whole

Yn.Leclerc Imagine if it is Charles’ number… “you, moonlight, you are my starlight”

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charles_leclerc I could spend all my days listening to you sing

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danielricciardo Mate.. that was fun @itsmeYn thank you for having us

itsMeYn You guys can come whenever you want, you know it IloveYn Y/n giving all times free tickets to all F1 drivers is a mood 😂

Yn.leclerc Oh my god, he was at her concert

formula.one.fan Not only him, like half the grid was there. They all were seen backstage speaking with Y/n after the concert charles.leclerc.fanclub I saw Pierre's stories, they seemed to have a lot of fun

Yn.leclerc I just don't understand if this is Charles confirming the rumors or just crushing hard.

YnmyQueen Who cares... let them be

ILoveYn I don't know, but what I can tell you is that, I was at the concert and I saw Charles covering Pierre's eyes everytime Y/n got closer to them. In particular when she was singing Pretty please 😂 PierreGasly That was uncalled for @charles_leclerc, I'm a good boy

ItsMeYn ❤️

yn.leclerc Y/n singing "Love Again" while looking at Charles, you can tell me what you want but they are together and they are super cute

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ItsMeYn Always present even when you are away... Love you baby @charles_leclerc

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Charles_leclerc ❤️

Scuderiaferrari Happy birthday

YnMyqueen Happy birthday queen

Yn.leclerc The confirmation we were waiting for... I'm happy now, happy birthday

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ItsMeYn Post concert fun

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Charles_leclerc @yourbestfriend why are you touching my girlfriend's boobs?

Yourbestfriend She has amazing boobs Charles_leclerc I know that, but it doesn't answer my question Yourbestfriend Hey I was here before you, @itsMeYn control your boyfriend ItsmeYn I can't leave you two alone... not even for a second PierreGasly Does this mean that all your friend can touch your boobs or is just a @yourbestfriend thing? Asking for a friend Charles_leclerc @pierregasly you are an idiot ItsMeYn @PierreGasly 😂😂 it's mostly a charles' thing only, @yourbestfriend just like to rile him up Charles_leclerc I knew it Yourbestfriend @charles_leclerc you make it so easy 😂

Your story

English is not my first language so I’m sorry if there are any mistakes

What are we gonna do after this weekend race 😭

FEEDBACK IS ALWAYS WELCOME AND APPRECIATED 😘

All around taglist: @jwspiter

Feeding the U.S Army

summery: You’re a Masterchef contestant, and during the team challenge you and your team have to cook for 100 army men. Easy right?

Pairing: Captain Syverson x reader

Warning: very bad english, no proof-read. ENGLISH IS NOY MY FIRST LANGUAGE SO IF THERE ARE ANY MISTAKES I’M SORRY.

I don’t even know what this is but I hope you like it

Masterchef! You had just passed the last selection and finally were going to cook in the Masterchef kitchen.

You didn’t really know what you were expecting when you send in your request to partecipate to the new season of Masterchef, the only thing you knew was that you loved cooking.

You had started cooking when you were really young: you were only eight when you helped your mom baking your dad’s birthday cake for the first time and you hadn’t stopped ever since.

It could seem strange for some people but, growing up in a farm, it was normal for anyone to help as much as they could: you had started with tidying up your room, you had learnt how to collect the eggs from the chicken goop first things in the morning, you had gone with your father to take care of the cows; but as soon as you and your family had found out how much you enjoyed spending your time in the kitchen, that had become your kingdom. You still helped with any other task if help was needed, but most of the time everyone left you do what you did best and what you loved the most: cooking.

So yeah.. you loved cooking: you cooked when you were happy, wou baked when you were stressed, you cooked when you were stuck in your own head, you went to the kitchen when you needed a moment to yourself knowing that very few people had the guts to follow you in your place in the house. 

Anyway the idea of participating at Masterchef first come out while the previous season of the show was on air: you were in the kicthen (surprise surprise!), you were preparing everything for that night gathering; your father was keeping you company while preparing a fruit salad (the only thing you had given him permission to touch, he had pretended to be fed up with your behavior but you both knew it was just for show). You were talking, the tv was on in the background when a new episode of Masterchef had began and your father had stopped answering your question.

“Dad?”- you had asked while still chopping the onions; there was so much to do in so little time you didn’t have time to pay attention to what your father was doing

“You are so much better than him”- your father hadn’t been making any sense

“What are you talking about?”- you had taken your attention from the onions to finally look at your father

“You should try and get on Masterchef”- your father had insisted still looking at the screen where Joe Bastianich was talking to a man in a black apron.

“You’re crazy”- you had simply said before getting back to your cooking. 

You hadn’t talked about it again that day, but the idea had lingered with you and even though you had kept your thoughts to yourself, your father knew you better than anyone else, so one day you had found the Masterchef application on your bed with a post on it 

‘I know you can do it honey- dad’- the post had said 

You had had a lot of fear: the fear of dissapoint your family, the fear of being on national television, the fear of leaving your family that needed your help at the farm every day, the fear of not suceeding, the fear of not being good enough,the fear of not pass even the first selection. Your father had come to your help once again “Honey the only way you could lose is if you didn’t even try. What’s the worst that could happen? that you don’t get in? Who cares? You will always be our favorite chef”

Your father’s words had been the push you needed, so you had send you application and when you had been called for the selection you had been excited.

You had survied the first couples eliminations and now you were going to be the captain of your team, the red team, in the first team challenge and you were scared shitless: not only you could go home if you made any mistakes, but the future in the competion of your team mates depended on you too, and as if that wasn’t enough you had to feed one- hundred army man. So yeah you were panicking and trying not to show it because you needed your team to trust you and to be calm enough to serve good food.

You took a deep breath and focused on what the judges Gordon Ramsay, Joe Bastianich and Aaron Sànchez were saying.

“Each  team will have to devise a menu that includes a protein, two vegetable and a sauce”- Joe said

“Now remeber, at the end of the day one of you will be eliminated and this will be last time he will be cooking in this competion”- Gordon’s words kept your anxiety spiriling but you tried to keep your focus- “All right, are you guys ready? let’s go”

You and your team sprinted as soon as Gordon had done talking. Once what you wanted to cook had been decided, you gave a task to each and everyone of your team mates and you all started cooking.

Managing between doing your own prep and making sure every team member was doing ok and didn’t need your help, wasn’t easy but you made it; the judges tasted your dish after half an hour and, aside from some suggestions to make it better, they liked it.

So you were on cloud nine: the judges liked the dish your team had devised, your prep had gone alright, your team was doing ok. But then service started and YOU PANICKED: you had to serve 100 army men and women and you had no idea how to prepare 100 dished that were perfect and that looked all the same. Your team was looking at you for direction but you had no idea what to do: you had never worked in a restaurat, none of you ever had, and when you cooked for your family gathering everyone made their own dishes, you were so out of your comfort zone. 

And that’s when things started to go even worse: service had started, the army men and women had arrived and had a very clear view of your stations, you had no idea how you wanted to plate the food and Gordon Ramsay came to you and he didn’t look happy.

“Red team come here, all of you, RIGHT NOW! We need a system, your tray is cold, the food is cold, I’m not letting you serve fucked up food. Take your food back in, warm it up, warm your tray. Y/n come here. YOU ARE THE TEAM CAPTAIN, SO FUCKING WAKE UP, DECIDE HOW YOU WANT YOUR FOOD ON THE PLATE AND START A PRODUCTION LINE. RIGHT FUCKING NOW Y/N”- Gordon pratically screamed in your face, you knew he just wanted to make sure the food that came out was perfect, he only wanted for you guys to succeed, but you had never liked when people screamed in your face even if you knew they didn’t mean any harm. Your eyes watered but you weren’t going to cry, you were going to do this, but when you thought things couldn’t go any worse..... you found out you were obviously very wrong.

“HEY! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?”- a voice boomed behind Gordon and once you raised your gazed to see what was going on, you saw a mountain of a man, dressed in uniforme, coming towards you.

It was clear not even Gordon knew what was happening

“Can I help you, sir?”- Gordon asked, you couldn’t sure but his voice sounded a little bit unsure

“You wanna help me, why don’t you start by not screaming at a woman?”- the army-man’s voice was much calmer now but he wasn’t any less intimidating. Gordon didn’t know what to say and you knew it, so you took a step forward

“It’s really not a problem.. ehmm”- you read the name of the man on his uniform - “Captain Syverson, sir. Chef Gordon was just giving me a pep talk, everything is good. We will be serving you your food very soon”

As soon as you had started talking the man’s eyes had moved from Gordon to you and for the first time, since he had come over, you noticed how bautiful they really were. His eyes had become gentler when he had started looking at you, you had almost shivered when his attention had been on you and you only.

“Mhhm”- Captain Syverson said like he was still assessing the situation before deciding - “You can called me just Syverson”- he said before turning around and going back to his men.

You stood there for another second, all eyes were on you and you were sure your cheeks were burning

“Back to work guys”- you said. There was no way you weren’t sarving your best food to that hunk of a man.

Everything had gone smoothly after that, you had felt eyes on you some time during service but every time you had looked up you had never been able to pin point who was looking at you, so you had always gone back to work.

Once the judges had annouced your team had received 70 votes against the 30 of the other team and you had won you couldnt’ been happier, you had been sad for the contestant that had had to leave the show, but it was a competition and that was how it worked.

You were still celebrating with your team when you heard someone clearing their throath behind you

“Hello”- captain Syverson was behind you

“Oh Captain, hello”- what was happening?

“I thought I told you to call me Syverson, or Nathan if you prefer, but none on that Captain crap”- his raspy voice was doing things to you that shouldn’t be possible when you had just met the man.

“Right. Was everything ok with your food?”- you asked because why would he be here, if not because there had been something wrong with his food

“The food was amazing, you’re a fantastic cook, sugar”- he said and your cheeks burned once again at the name. What was this man doing to you

“Oh thank you, it was a team effort”

“Well you are the team captain, so I think you deserve some credit, sugar”- he said before looking back where a man was calling for him - “I need to go, but I really hope to see you again sugar”- he winked at you before leaving.

“uh”- you stood there staring at his back not sure of what had happened.

Everyone had joked about what happened between Gordon and the captain for the rest of the season, but you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the man that had screamed at Gordon Ramsay (GORDON- FUCKING- RAMSAY) for you.

The competition had gone on and without even knowing how you had arrived to the grand finale and to your surprise YOU HAD WON!

So yeah when you sent your application for Masterchef you didn’t know what you were expecting, but in the end it was clear you had left the show with so much more you had even though you could win.

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itsMeYN When I sent the application for Masterchef, because my father conviced me to, I never thought I would even passed the first selection, let alone win the finale. This journey has given me so much, I learnt from every single one of the other contestat, some of which have become really good friends. I don’t even know how to start thanking the judges, Gordon, Joe and Aaron, They have taught me so much and always known when I needed a nudge to wake up and start believe in myself. Thank you, thank you this competition has given me so much 

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yourmominsta I’m so proud of you honey 

jennifer So happy for you, I was rooting for you since the first episode

haley234 Congrats! can we please talk about the team challenge with the army man ;)

austin  Oh my god! that episode was the best, that army captain was totally hitting on her

felicity Does Captain Syverson have instagram? Please does anyone know?

austin I dont think so, I’ve been looking for him too

rachel  Guys I was watching her story the other day and I swear there was a very familiar scratchy voice in the backgroud

yourbestfriend Oh my god... @itsmeYn I think you got busted

itsmeYn @yourbestfriend shut up

haley234 wait what

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ItmeYn Had the pleasure to dine at @gordonndram restaurant, and wasn’t that an experience. Also I think the second meeting between Gordon and at certain someone went a lot better

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austin “Certain someone”... yep she is totally dating Captain Syverson. Is it normal being so obsessed with the idea of them together when I have only seen 5 min of them together on tv?

haley234 Same sis, same.... and maybe it’s not normal but who cares

gordongram We still yelled at each other so I wouldn’t say it went so much better

itsMeYn “We” is the key word here, you yelled at Sy too, i think it’s mostly out of love now 

austin Sy... I repeat she wrote Sy... My ship is real

Yeah Masterchef had given you so much…

Masterlist

All around taglist: @jwspiter​

Henry Cavill and characters taglist: @xxxkatxo​ @mansaaay @thorins-queen-of-erebor​ @maan24​ @grounded-in-light​ @omgkatinka​  @xprettyqueenx​ @marytudorbrandon

Ahhh I’ve just found all your stories and I absolutely love them! could I be added to your Henry Cavill tag list please?? I can’t wait to read everything you’ve wrote

Thank you so much. I hope you’ll enjoy them, I’ll be sure to add you to it

Netflix: We’re swapping Geralt in season 4.

Henry: “I’m laying down my medallion and swords.”, but you’ll like new Geralt.

Liam: I’m happy to pick up your swords and medallion. I’ll do my best.

Me:

The Witcher and Henry Cavill Fandom:

I need more people to start writing max Wolfe story… please I’m begging you

I mean look at this bean

sweet pea ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, dad charles/pregnancy au, fluff!, humor, super slight angst

word count: 4.6k

“I thought the puking was food poisoning,” he says. “Jesus, you know how many takeout places I’ve avoided lately?” “Well, it’s not Panda Express. It’s your alien sperm.”

Or: you finally reap what you sow after fooling around with your best friend. The reaping in question is a kid.

notes... some nsfw allusions, nothing too bad. if pregnancy isnt ur thing this is all about it so.

auds here... i hated this for a long time so i thought id never post it hahahah but i will now bec i just redid some scenes and its okay in my eyes... also this is a bit overdue. i hope u like it everyone! :) title from this

It’s an hour before the race and you’re absent from your usual spot greeting friends and guests along the paddock. Instead, you’re leaned against the wall of the tiny motorhome bathroom, silently digging your toes into your sandals. Charles knocks twice before trying to open the door and succeeding. He beams when he sees you, goes, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

He offers a hand, but you let your eyes shut, refusing to take it. You fail to even make eye contact, holding up the plastic stick that’d been in your clammy grip for about twenty minutes. It’s an omen, a portent, a cursed thing, casting your best friend into silence.

It’s cold and sterile in the bathroom—a stark contrast to where other families might find out they’re pregnant for the first time. You imagine a lemon yellow room bathed in noon sunlight and a happy balding doctor going “It’s positive, mama!” You picture a white family SUV in the parking lot, a happy blonde couple jumping into each other’s arms with unadulterated happiness.

Instead, you get: “Do you have COVI—oh.”

“Yeah.” You say, pursing your lips. You swallow. “Oh.”

“I thought the puking was food poisoning,” he says. “Jesus, you know how many takeout places I’ve avoided lately?”

“Well, it’s not Panda Express. It’s your alien sperm,” you counter, lifting yourself from the wall and bumping past Charles on your way out and into his room. He follows, brows knitted together, muttering something French under his breath. 

“By that logic, that’d mean you’re an alien now, too. See, your kinks have finally met their match.”

You turn, effectively stopping him in his tracks. He almost collides with you, his eyes trained determinedly on the positive pregnancy test in his hand. You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, annoyed. “Seriously. Jokes? Right now?”

“I mean—”

“Whatever,” you say, waving him off. “Just go and drive. We can talk about this later.”

“I’ll dedicate the race to the little alien.” He giggles, mimicking a champagne spray, waving the invisible bottle back and forth toward your still-not-showing stomach. His accent switches to a measly English one when he goes, “Oh my Gawd! And there goes the alien Leclerc! Wins in first! From pole!”

“Get out. Or so help me God this baby is growing up without you.”

He ends up winning. (“Should I dedicate every race to the ali—” “Stop calling it that.”)

—

This is nothing but a final culmination of your very layered relationship with Charles. For years, you two had comfortably gone by the “best friends” label, with a hidden “with benefits” clause. You’d grown up together, separated only when you went to university in New York. Your re-arrival in Monaco, coupled with the both of you having grown older and more independent, marked the start of the sex.

It works like clockwork. To relieve stress, to celebrate, to cure boredom. At some point, both of you just inwardly admitted there was a certain weakness to it. A glass of wine, a stick of tobacco, and you’d give in to the temptation easily. Then, in the morning—sometimes in Monaco, other times in foreign countries where your body feels like it’s still three a.m.—you come to a mutual agreement to never do it again.

But you always do, laughing in between kisses, mumbling whispered nothings between the sheets (or in the bathtub, or against the wall, or—that one time—on the balcony.) And now there’s proof of it. Well, barely any yet, you realize, staring at yourself in the mirror of Charles’ hotel room. You turn and flop yourself onto the bed, but face-up. You inch yourself toward the headboard and lean against it in a half-seated position.

“I can’t believe I’m…” You sigh. Finally, the jokes fizzle. This is the real talk.

Charles burrows himself next to you, shirtless and in a stupid pair of boxers with red hearts all over them. You’d gotten them as a Valentine’s Day gag two years ago, but now you’re thinking of the future, of telling this kid their dad has a pair of heart-decorated boxers. Momentarily, and temptingly so, you weigh the options of telling Charles you were joking and running away before sunup.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asks. He’d learned the phrase from some obscure American rom-com, if you recall correctly. He uses it constantly, and for many years, improperly.

“I’ll give you them for free,” you say, breathless with worry. “We’re having a kid.”

A hand places itself on your knee. You almost jerk away, but you relax. “What do you want to do?”

“With?” You ask, emptily. There’s so much to do. “The baby?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, but also us.”

“We’re not dating,” you say, a bit sharper than intended. 

“We could.” He pauses. “For its sake.” He pokes your abdomen.

“I don’t—” You inhale, trying to reorganize all your thoughts. “I don’t want people thinking we’re suddenly dating and engaged and happy just because I’m about to pop a Charles Jr. out. I mean, what are you going to do with your racing? With a kid on the way, how’s travel going to work? My job? My masters?” 

“I think… I think you and I are lucky enough,” he says slowly, “to be able to weigh all these options without losing too much time or resources. I will support you no matter what, and you know that. And really, who cares if people think we ‘date’ because of the baby? You and I have been ‘dating’ since we were eleven.” 

You don’t realize you’re crying until your laugh is mixed with a sob. You don’t know if you’re sad, pissed, overwhelmed, loved—or all four. “Okay? So… let’s both think about it. More you than me. And tomorrow, we can weigh this all over again. Let’s sleep on it. Remember? La nuit—”

“—porte conseil,” you finish tearily. “Okay.”

—

It’s two weeks later. Charles gets stuck in the paddock doing something or other for Sunday, so you’re left to your own devices in the parking lot. Five minutes of waiting turns to fifteen, then a half hour. That’s the catalyst for your mid-evening freakout—suddenly you’re thinking about all the times you and this weird thing inside you might be alone, left for work, by an athlete dad.

“Are you okay?” A voice asks when you’re heaving out another dry, panic-induced sigh. You turn, finding it familiar, and see Seb behind you. He may have been Charles’ teammate, but he’s a friend to you, too, and you find he’s always the most grounded in heated discussions.

“Seb,” you croak, caught off guard. “I’m fine.” Your voice breaks on the ine, and suddenly fat tears roll quietly down your face.

You tell him eventually, when he asks you again if you’re okay, making him the second person to know; still, the telling doesn’t get easier. You didn’t even tell Charles, you think. You merely shoved a Clearblue stick in his face and waited for the goofy reaction that would undoubtedly meet your ears.

“A baby,” he says softly. Happily. “Congratulations. This is a big step… but you don’t sound excited.”

“I mean,” you say in between waves of tears, “I am? I am. But—it happened so fast—we’re not even officially together—and Charles is—”

“Do I need to talk some sense into Charles?” Seb asks suddenly, concerned. 

“No. He’s—he’s being great. Really supportive.” You wipe the tears and fresh ones come. “He’s happy. You know him. I think I’m just overwhelmed. I mean I’m the one who’s toting this baby around.” 

“Take it one step at a time,” he muses. “See a doctor, work out non-race schedules with Mattia, get everything in order. If I know you, this baby will be in the best hands. And that’s not even counting Charles.” He pulls you in for a hug that lasts ages, one that says thank you and I love you better than words. You inhale, find the tears have stopped. You realize what comes after this—it’s telling everyone else. Lily, your best friend. Carlos. Charles’ family. Your family. The fans, oh God you’d forgotten about the fans. The social media announcements. 

Charles strolls into the parking lot—runs, more like, with apologies spouting out of him, just two minutes after Seb leaves. He presses a delicate, apologetic kiss to your forehead, a hand on your stomach. “Hey,” he says. Then, to your abdomen, covered by a sweatshirt, “Hey there, alien.” You wonder what this will be like in two months. In seven. In nine.

—

You tell your families over lunch on a lucky off day. There is little surprise—just tears from both your moms and Arthur teasingly asking you to recount the details of conception. You’re in a sundress serving crostini when Pascale pulls you aside to the back of the yard.

She presses a kiss to your cheek, one of conviction and faith. “I always knew,” she says. “You’re going to be a wonderful mom.”

—

The drivers all find out one way or another, news trickling through the grapevine like honey. You share it to Lily first, and of course she tells Alex. You tell Lewis, too, over spring rolls that he claims will power up the baby when it’s born. Charles tells Pierre, who tells Yuki, and Carlos, who tells Lando. You tell Mick, who hugs you and says, “Oh my god! I already knew, Seb told me. I kept wanting to say congratulations.” 

It’s a matter of two weeks before everybody knows. You know because you’ve barely taken a step into the dimly lit Ferrari motorhome when you halt and bolt back outside, harboring yourself a few metres away at a safe distance. Charles, who had been walking beside you, arm looped around your waist, turns, puzzled.

“What’s going on?” He asks.

“No. Nuh-uh. It smells in there.”

He sniffs the darkness, fumbles for the light switch. “No it doesn’t.”

“It smells like”—you grit your teeth, trying to identify the stench—“cheese. And champagne.”

“Why would it smell like che—”

He bangs the light open and illuminates a surprise party. The entire grid starts cheering, having unheard the entire conversation. There’s a huge banner that says CONGRATULATIONS PARENTS, and on a makeshift table in the centre, an assortment of cake slices, cheese, and flutes of champagne. Charles laughs with delight at the surprise, and then turns to find you squatting on the ground, trying to quell your stomach. 

“Give me five,” you say, waving him off.

He returns after ten to find you still trying to calm the waves of nausea. You hear his footsteps and heave yourself up, standing to face him. “I asked Esteban and Max to evacuate the place of cheese and champagne. It’s just coffee and cake now. I even got three fans going.”

“Desolée,” you say, miserable. He wraps two big arms around you, nestling his chin atop your head. “I feel like a high-maintenance monster.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re not the monster. The alien is.”

“I told you to stop calling it that,” you say, shutting your eyes and leaning into his touch. “Before it catches on.”

“Okay. E.T.? Spock? Open to suggestions.” Hand in yours, he walks you gently to the party, arising loud cheers again. In between sips of hot water, he says, “How about Chewy?”

—

The sense of smell proves to be useful in endeavours elsewhere.

“You never clean your car,” you say, lying horizontal on the leather seat and picking bits of dirt off. “I can smell month old Cheetos.”

Charles watches you obsessively nitpick at the detailing. “Last time you looked like this, I gave you a baby.”

“One more word,” you warn sharply. 

“But seriously, be careful. The alien might get stressed.”

You brace yourself for the stupid words that will indubitably follow.

“Don’t worry. If it falls out I’ll plop it in a race car and it’ll be the next Hamilton. Imagine how light it’ll be.”

There it is.

—

Your first trip to the doctor’s is interesting. Charles insists on wearing a wig because he’s so easily recognized in Monaco, so now you look like you’re conceiving a baby with Weird Al Yankovic.

The doctor wheels in a cart with a monitor and all the necessary equipment, and even if it suddenly feels all too real, Charles squeezes your hand and you’re calm again. “I’m back,” she says, sliding into a wheely chair beside you and gelling your stomach.

“Hi, Back,” Charles responds in a crude, twangy Texan accent. The dad humor starts early, you suppose.

You grit your teeth to try and excuse his embarrassing behavior, but suddenly the monitor clicks open and there it is. It looks like the ones in movies, print-outs from friends, but at the same time it doesn’t. It looks different. Special. Yours. You zero in on it, breathless. That’s yours. The doctor says a couple minor things—nothing worrisome—and when you turn to relay it to Charles in case he’d zoned out, you find his face splotchy.

“Are you crying?”

“That’s ours,” he says, dipping down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“It’s mine and Charles’, not mine and Bob Ross’,” you say, but you pull him closer anyway. 

You order two printouts. The week next, you discover that Charles snuck back in to order an extra eight and has mailed them out to friends and drivers. You find out because Kylian Mbappe messages you “Due in April? Make me godfather!” on Instagram.

—

Gradually, you fall into a pattern of being queasy constantly. You get nitpicky with meals, and not irrationally—Charles had fed you a spicy hotdog and you’d gone half a bite before hurling it, and your breakfast, into the nearest toilet. You find solace in your cravings—all of which happen to be the same everyday.

Chinese takeout from just about any restaurant ends up being your best friend. You somehow can’t stomach anything but that specific cuisine, much to your own surprise. You find new ways to combine them with each other. Rice paper wrappers with chow mein. Hotpot with fried rice. If you’re not eating Chinese, you reduce your appetite to crackers or hot tea to avoid becoming too nauseated.

It’s poetic almost, the way he sets out the food carefully, in the order you like them. He always presses a kiss to your forehead after. 

Around this time, you develop a crazy sex drive, waking Charles up at numerous points of the night, begging into his neck for something, anything. You last an hour before you’re asking again. This proves especially difficult before races, where Charles gives in a bit too easily and Carlos has to knock on the door, going “You have to finish somewhere else too, Charles!”

—

You insist Charles hold off on telling the fans, for a few months. It goes okay until your outfits on the paddock evolve into the variety of “Charles’ hoodies” to hide the increasingly evident bloat of pregnancy, and nosy fans start speculating all over Twitter. That’s when he sits you down and gently tells you he thinks it’s time you both announce it.

You’re sitting beside him in his hotel room, after two calls with his bosses, trying to formulate the proper announcement. You download PicsArt to make it pretty and clean and formatted—because the poor guy was about to post a Notes app screenshot—and then it’s on the Internet. 

“She’s truly MOTHER,” one fan comments. Despite yourself, you press the heart icon beside it. It’s your bit of comfort when you catch sight of the nastier comments under the post.

—

You’re ironically gifted an ancient 80s aerobic exercise DVD for mums by Lily and Alex. You’re sure it’s older than you. Charles, though, in his valiant effort to connect with you and Chewy, does the routine everyday. You wake up to the electronic synthpop and Charles doing booty squats in the living room.

The permed instructor smiles through the scratchy 80s quality and goes, “You are rocking it, momma!”

“You hear that?!” Charles pants. “I am rocking it!”

—

Your first parenting fight ends up being one over the baby’s name. Yeah. Of all things. You don’t know why you’re so worked up about it, considering you don’t even know the gender of the baby yet. You arrive in Monaco to mark the first of five off days and Charles makes some random, offhand joke about naming the baby Daryl, and you suddenly start rambling on and on about how it’s too ugly, even if you’d never thought about names before now.

“It’s not going to be Daryl. It won’t be Daryl,” Charles says, hands on your shoulders. You heave another sob. “Please stop crying. You never cry. I’m a bit freaked out.”

“It’s—just—that,” you hiccup, “I—don’t—want to name a—our—baby—Daryl.”

“Yeah, yep,” he says, soothingly. “I got you. It’s not going to be Daryl. Never. We don’t need to decide anything. You gonna calm down for me?”

“I can’t—stop—crying,” you snivel desperately, burying your face in your hands.

He presses a firm kiss to the corner of your quivering lips, and you tug him in for a real one. You calm down when you pull away, exhaling. You gaze at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Blame the alien,” you sniff. 

He kisses your stomach, which shows signs of pregnancy more and more as the days pass. “Hear that?” He whispers into the skin. “She’s blaming you, Chewy.”

—

Your next trip to the doctor’s is with your appointed private physician, Dr. Davies. Two minutes before the doctor walks in, you make a serious and compelling order for Charles to remove the Weird Al wig, which he does—but stores in your bag, “just in case.” It’s also his opporunity to play teacher’s pet and showcase how involved he is in your pregnancy, which, judging by the amount of weird cultish pregnancy books he’s burned through, is very much so.

“It’s gonna be a boy,” you declare while you’re being gelled up. You’re past the point of denial and bloat, now showing way too obviously. “Mom’s intuition.”

“Well, all the books say it’s a girl,” he says proudly.

“Yeah, they also say drinking lemon juice while trying to conceive gives you a girl. I’m sure scientific accuracy was their greatest objective.”

“Girl.”

“Boy,” you say dismissively.

“Girl.”

“Boy.”

“Girl.” It’s not Charles this time, it’s the physician, with a small smile on his face.

You squeeze Charles’ hand so hard you’re half sure it’s chipped off and fallen to the tiled floor. You’re having a girl. Normally Charles would turn and make some petty statement about he’d been right, but—you’re having a girl. A pretty baby girl. You almost can’t believe it. He totally can’t, pressing kisses to your hair and face.

You let him buy pink paint later that day.

—

You predict it, but it comes—fights and squabbles over nothing at all.

First it’s about work, then housing, then his job, then the danger of his job. It’s petty, and usually you storm off in an emotional cloud of irrationality, brought down after a talk, a play-by-play, compromise, reassurance. It’s hard when you’re carrying around a human being, you want to say. Try being in my shoes.

“Can we talk?” Charles says, in the thick of another fight. You’re on the balcony of your flat, mulling over nothing at all. Your stomach is heavy, you’re always exhausted, you never feel pretty anymore even if Charles is always unfailing at telling you you are. 

“Okay,” you murmur, turning. You’ve already developed a habit of placing your hands on your bump always.

He inhales. “I’m scared.”

This is a first. And you realize—in these six months of being pregnant, Charles has been your rock, but has never expressed much fear until now. He’s always been good. Great. Supportive. “Of what?”

“Of—becoming a dad.” He pauses, as if to weigh his words. “I don’t have… a blueprint anymore.”

It dawns on you what he’s talking about. You accept the hug when it comes, holding the nape of his neck. He isn’t crying, but is close to it. His voice is shaky when he continues, whispers against your ear. “What if I don’t know what to do?” 

“Baby,” you say, weakly. You push him gently so he’s looking into your eyes. “If the way you’ve taken care of me the past how many months is any indication of how you’ll treat this alien, I know she’s in good hands. You’ve got so much of your dad in you. You’re caring, sweet, you even got a headstart on the dad jokes.” He laughs. “I want this. And the only reason I ever did was because I knew you’d be with me, being an amazing dad, and an even better…”

“Boyfriend,” he says. His eyes hold hesitance—but you quell it with a nod.

“Boyfriend,” you echo. “For now.”

—

The nursery looks like a nursery in February. It was a storage room in Charles’ flat that had really, at some point, become yours, too. Full of boxes and old suits and memories, it’d taken weeks to properly store everything and make way for the furniture. Charles, of course, insists on painting it himself, with the shade of pink he purchased especially for the room.

He hits his head twice and touches the wet paint. There’s a handprint embossed above the bassinet. (Yours is next to it, at his insistence.)

—

You’re a yoga ball by mid-March, having trouble sleeping and dealing with everything being swollen. Charles helps you through it all, turning the heating up and down every time you get even a bit scratchy with the temperature in the flat or motorhome. Your cravings also morph again at this point, into rigatoni that Charles cooked sometime over winter; he requests Ferrari add an induction stove to every race weekend motorhome that you can make it to so he can cook it at your beck and call.

The season begins. Every race is dedicated to Chewy, and every race is won.

—

It’s early morning in late March when Dr. Davies sends you an email with a one-liner that sounds firm enough to set you and Charles in place after two races that involve you being flown around.

Absolutely NO more air and long car travel for Mommy. 

“Can we manage?” You mope, rereading the email, genuinely distressed as you watch your boyfriend pack for Australia. It’s a long haul flight, with only one stopover in Zurich, and you’re filled with anxiety. There isn’t a compromise—until you’re popping the baby out, Charles needs to try and score the title.

“You know I can always drop out of races,” he says softly. “That’s what reserve drivers are for.”

“It’s not the same,” you argue. “I’m just worried.”

“You’re not due ’til the 12th,” he assures you. “I’ll be back then, even if it means dropping a race.”

He leans down and kisses you softly, rubbing your shoulders and ankles. “I’ll be back before you know it. Get some sleep first, okay?” He repeats the sentiment to your stomach, adding a kiss and a bye bye Chewy. You drift off to a sorrowful sleep when he departs, a slow ache in your lower back blooming that feels just like many of the other slow aches lately. 

You’re up after a half hour with discomfort. You suppose something is just up with your sleep position, and readjust yourself. The discomfort sharpens, then melts. You sigh with relief, a long whistley exhale, and sleep again.

Bliss lasts about three hours, then you’re up again, groaning. You’re not due for a prenatal yoga class until four in the afternoon, and your body isn’t used to being awake. Hell, it’s not used to being this pained. You shift once, twice, trying to sleep with fruitless and exhausting attempts. It takes a while, but in between shifting positions and trying to make yourself yawn, it registers.

“Chewy.” You groan, cupping your gigantic bump. “Seriously?”

—

The first person you call is Charles, naturally. He should be in Zurich, but maybe signal is spotty or something, because none of your texts or calls ping. So you move down the list to the person you know will be in Monaco and not off racing, like everybody you know is—and it just so happens to be Dr. Davies.

You always thought Charles would be nowhere but beside you when you went into labor. But you’re here clutching the straps of your overnight bag being driven to the hospital, exhale, inhale, try Charles, try Carlos. Exhale, inhale. Try Charles. Try Carlos. Your contractions don’t quell; they only grow in intensity and you wince the whole ride through.

“Looks like it’s going to be a fast labor,” Dr. Davies says when he’s done checking you in and making sure everything is in order. You nod, breathless and flushed. You’ve called your mum here and she’s on the way with Charles’ but—Charles is the issue.

“I will weld myself shut if it means I’m giving birth without the dad,” you beg. “Without Charles.”

Charles, who picks up after forty-five minutes of radio silence. He’s in the jet. Give him an hour. “I will pilot this plane myself if I have to. Don’t do anything—don’t make any decisions without me.”

“Too fucking late.” You say, wheezy with labor. “I’m putting N/A on the certificate.”

“You carry Chewy around for nine months and I don’t get to meet her first?” He asks, in a last-ditch effort to cheer you up. You tear up, splotchy and red all over.

“We can’t call her Chewy. We never discussed names. And oh God it can’t be Daryl,” you say, whimpers turning into half-sobs of overwhelm and yearning. You’re scared. You need Charles, who’s been with you for every week, every milestone, every kick, every rigatoni craving. But he’s not here. You have Dr. Davies, and in five minutes you’ll have your mum and Pascale, but they are not Charles. You breathe heavy into the phone.

“I love you,” you say finally. “Please, I love you.”

“I love you more,” he says gently. “I love you. I’ll be there, okay? Just—just wait for me.”

—

Lil 3s ago

does it hurt?

i know it does but i’m trying to make u feel better

love from houston. i will call you ASAP.

You 1s ago

yeah it hurts so bad

apparently they don’t do epidurals

fuck europe

—

In between quiet periods and intense ones, you finally reach your peak. A nurse takes one glance and nods and your bed is disengaged and wheeling around again. Pascale squeezes your left hand, your mum the other. “Wait!” You pant, voice spent, totally tired, flustered.

The nurses exchange a look. “Ma’am—”

“No, you don’t understand. The dad, my—the dad—he’s out—and I don’t.” You pause, the onset of a cry coming on. Pascale takes the lead, firm, asking for a few more moments of patience.

“I can’t do this,” you say hopelessly, throwing your flushed head back. “No. Not without Charles.”

“I’m here,” Charles says, bounding through the door. He’s in official Ferrari gear and his hair is disheveled and he's clearly been crying. Had Chewy not been wedging her way out, you would’ve kissed him right then. You feel nothing but love.

“You’re a sneaky fucker,” you say instead, and the rest is a blur.

—

It’s an hour before the race and Charles is absent from his usual spot greeting friends and guests along the paddock. Instead, he’s leaned against the wall of the motorhome, silently digging his toes into his shoes. You knock twice before trying to open the door and succeeding. You beam when you see him. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

His two girls.

Julia stretches out a chubby hand, but he smiles teasingly, refusing to take it. He holds eye contact, holding up the ring that’d been in his clammy grip for about twenty minutes. It’s a symbol, a sign, a blessed thing, casting his girlfriend into silence.

It’s a bit dark—a stark contrast to where other guys might propose for the first time. He imagines a Caribbean beach bathed in sunset. He pictures a Jeep in the sand, a happy blonde couple jumping into each other’s arms with unadulterated happiness. He figures if you don’t like this, he’ll pay for that.

Instead, he gets: “You’re a doofus—oh.”

“Yeah.” He says, pursing his lips. He swallows, gives you the biggest smile of his life. “Oh.”

It’s perfect.