Vettel One Shots

LAW Update. Canada - Pt 3 (2022 version)

"How the fuck did we get it so wrong?!"

She visibly grimaces at her husbands angry voice on team radio, he sounds furious and understandably so - the car has gone from P3 in the last practice session to P17 in qualifying.

His car is jacked up and the dolly wheels slid underneath it before being wheeled back into the garage. After such a promising morning qualifying is over, just like that, and for both cars too. The atmosphere in the garage has soured, as if the storms that have plagued the circuit all weekend long so far have converged over the Aston Martin garages alone to piss down with rain while elsewhere is all rainbows and fucking sunbeams.

His body language speaks volumes as he emerges from the car, gloves being hurled to the floor and his visor kept shut. How has this happened? How has such scintillating pace just simply evaporated? Her heart breaks for him and she closes her eyes to try to stop her tears from escaping, Seb won't want to see her tears, he never does after a bad result, her misery is the last thing he needs. A single tear still escapes though and it rolls down her cheek, leaving a chilled path on her skin as it attracts the cool air. She sweeps it away as quickly as she can and opens her eyes to see her husband walking her way, his visor still closed. He hasn't even attempted to remove his HANS device either. She tries to keep her expression as neutral as possible, not wanting him to see how she's feeling while inside she's struggling to swallow past the lump in her throat.

Suddenly he stops in front of her, his darkened visor means that she can only just about see his eyes so it's impossible to gage his mood aside from what she heard on team radio. She stays still as he removes her headset and she then removes the rest of the device and places it on the shelf beside her. Her heart begins beat more rapidly as it dawns on her that he probably wants her to go with him to his cool down room, she well remembers what happened the last time they were here. Angry sex. Rough, angry sex that was actually a little frightening when he'd been squeezing her throat. Sex that she'd offered herself for. Back then he'd had a hard fought for and well deserved win snatched away from him, in retrospect this doesn't seem as bad.

He takes hold of her hand, linking his fingers with hers in a grip that's surprisingly gentle and he keeps it like that even when she's risen from her seat and is letting him lead her out of the rear of his garage and straight into his hospitality suite.

She doesn't know whether to speak or to remain silent when she finds herself in his changing room. It's a small room with white walls and black rubbery flooring, basically furnished with a massage table, a fold out chair, a small shelving unit and a running rail on which hangs spare race suits and fireproof clothing. There's also a sliding door which leads to a very small bathroom containing shower and toilet. She lets Seb manoeuvre her to where he wants her, which is right by his massage table and he tenderly runs a palm down her left cheek before stepping away from her.

He unclips the HANS device first, freeing it from his helmet which he removes and places on a shelf, following with the HANS. Next he pulls off his balaclava and then removes his earpieces which link him to the team radio when he's in the car. He carefully places everything down and then ruffles the mop of unruly curls on his head, showing no sign of the anger that's boiling away inside him. Turning to face his wife, he's eyes her lithe form while unzipping his race suit. He knows what he wants, he knows what he needs and he's hoping that she'll know without him having to ask, just like she always used to when she worked alongside him as his press officer. He remembers those days well, how she'd have exactly what he needed, when he needed it without either of them having to verbally communicate. Now as his wife, Chloe is much the same; she's knows him better than anyone and he'll forever be eternally grateful for that.

He says nothing as he steps closer to her, placing his hands on her waist to tug her closer to him. His lips crash on to hers, his kiss harsh, bruising and demanding; his body pushing her backwards with the force of a bulldozer, bumping her into the massage table which in turn scrapes a short distance over the floor behind her until it bangs against the wall.