Formula One - One Shots

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞: 𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐆𝐏

𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐜 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐳/𝐟𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐨 𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐨/𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢 ~~ Flash-heat

cw: omegaverse, inherent dubcon of heats

🛵~~~

First points are a landmark for all racers. It's the beginning of the glory path, or the end of a empty but eventful career. When coupled with another landmark, first podium, it becomes even more important. It becomes a day that surely won't be forgotten, won't be washed away by the dull waves of time.

As Fabio lifts up the second place trophy above his head, he knows he'll remember that moment for life. Under the stuffy smell of his suppressants, he can still feel the sheer excitement of his team, of his family, but his own. Taking a deeper whiff, he wonders how the hell has nobody commented on it. It feels like joys is pouring out of him. Not that Fabio will complain about that.

To his left, Marc gently nudges him. Bottles of Prosecco are being handed. Fabio puts his trophy down. It's his first podium in this category, he knows he'll be the star of it. As he shakes his bottle to build up as much pressure as possible, he feels a cool liquid being splattered on his face. Marc hasn't waited for him then.

Fabio feels himself vibrate under the attention, and puts in under the sheer overjoy he feels as he finally retaliates. He tries to soak the two other racers, but he wasn't fast enough. As they leave the podium, trophy in hand, wet hair in their eyes, Fabio knows only his boots will leave mark behind him. His step is bouncy, he still has some pent-up energy left.

"Will you join us?" Marc asks, a knowing smile plastered on his face. "I know things aren't that great with Vale, but it's your first podium, we'll come up with something."

The French racer winces. He wished he would have known a time when the MotoGP pack wasn't torn between the two True Alphas fighting for leadership, season after season. Fabio knows how much it costs Marc to even think that.

"Gracias," he ends up answering, tugging at his collar, the air suddenly too stiff to breathe. "I'll be there in a few, just have to leave that first."

He gestures at his trophy, trying to pass off his burning cheeks as the results of being too happy. Is it him or has someone turned on some heater in the paddock? Marc looks at him, confused.

"Are you OK Fabio?"

"Yes!" He quips back, too quickly and strangled to be true. "It's just, I'm too hot in this damp racesuit."

Fabio tries to laugh it off, but a sharp pain in his stomach makes his smile falter. Oh oh, that's not a good sign, not at all. He struggles to swallow his spite, avoiding his Alpha's inquisitive gaze.

"I'll go, euh, change, yep."

He contemplates saying anything, but the worried glare Marc throws him deters him enough to sprint towards his driver's room. Catalonia isn't far from Andorra, but he still sleeps in a hotel, near the track. He can feel his Pack Alpha's gaze on the back on his neck, studying his every move.

Fabio doesn't run away per say, but it sure do looks like it.

Closing the door behind him as never been such a relief. Thank god for Vale making all the driver's rooms scent proof, because the whine Fabio lets out is nothing but Omegean. He lets himself fall on the ground, back against the door, butt roughly colliding with the hard linoleum.

It's too hot, even in his specially cooled to 22°C room. Fabio's hands shake, he can't even open his racesuit, let his skin breathe. He can feel his stomach rumble, and something under it stirs.