#mercedes driver program

subtle is not being subtle - ralf aron x reader requested

The adrenaline of racing had captivated countless people, with its way of showcasing the magic of four wheels, the deafening noise, and that unique sense of security that only watching the speedometer needle push past the limits could provide. But for Ralf, adrenaline wasn’t everything.

He loved driving, pushing his car through the corners of circuits, meeting the people who supported him while he stood there in his black racing suit, helmet in hand. But deep down, what he enjoyed most was simply sitting on the pit wall, a cup of stolen tea from the motorhome in hand.

There was a slight breeze in Portugal at that time of year, as the sun began to set over Portimão. The remaining cars on track were wrapping up the final laps of a productive test day. Ever since leaving the chaotic world of formula racing, Ralf had much more time to spend with his family, and even on race weekends, he allowed himself these moments—losing himself in watching the cars go by without saying a word.

"That noise is so annoying," he said, hopping down from his perch on the pit wall and making his way toward her, resting his hands on her shoulders.

She was sitting on the curb, legs crossed beneath her, her ridiculous green sneakers clashing against the red line marking the edge of the pit lane. Green was also the color of her hoodie, with some phrase on the back he didn’t bother to read. Its oversized hood could probably fit four people under the rain—along with the camera she was currently holding, scrolling through the day’s shots.

"So, how does it feel to be the second-most photogenic person on the team?" she teased, already knowing that Ralf was only here to distract her, just so she’d do exactly what he wanted after a day like this. Pull out her laptop, go through the pictures, and eventually find some ridiculous detail in one of them that they’d laugh about until it was completely forgotten.

"Bold of you to assume you’re first," he shot back, sitting down beside her and resting his chin on her shoulder as she clicked through the images, producing the very noise that had apparently annoyed him moments ago.

"Well, you always said so."

"Accurate," Ralf shrugged, his gaze shifting to his GT3 Evo parked in the garage in front of them. A couple of mechanics were wiping off the bug splatters on the windshield and checking the tire pressure before removing them for the next day’s Pirelli tests.

"Your hair looks so bad. God."

"Excuse me? That’s so random and rude," Ralf chuckled, peeling off his black team hoodie and folding it neatly before placing it on the stool he had just vacated. The concrete curb seemed like a better place to sit—with her.

"You used to have the best curls back at Prema. Now you look like a burnout dad of three," she teased, finally tearing her gaze away from the camera screen to meet his blue eyes, mischief twinkling in hers.

One side of her hair was tucked behind her ear, while the other fell freely over her shoulder, framing her soft, delicate features.

"I really need to work on my decision-making skills when it comes to the people I spend time with," he mused, resting his forearms on his knees as he watched the last of the crew finishing up, the cars tucked away in their respective garages, everything set for tomorrow’s tests.

"Nah. Seems pretty solid to me."

Ralf had always loved messing around with her like this. They shared the same humor, spoke the same language, and nothing entertained him more than when she was exactly like this—unfiltered, sharp-tongued, with no effort to hide behind professionalism or shyness.

"So, what are you doing after this?" he asked, bumping her shoulder lightly with his.

"I downloaded Challengers, so I think it’s gonna be an ice cream and movie kind of night," she smiled, turning off her camera and setting it down with the rest of her gear while Ralf absentmindedly rolled a piece of melted tire rubber between his fingers, one of many scattered across the pit lane. "Why?"

"Because I’ve decided you’re coming to dinner with me."

"Oh, have you? Again?" she laughed, resting her chin on her knees and tilting her head slightly as she looked at him.

"Figured I’d save you the trouble of pretending you were going to say no."

Casually, he placed the piece of tire rubber in her palm—a gesture that, for the two of them, probably held more meaning than a bouquet of pale tulips ever could.

"Wow. Very generous of you."

She joked, catching the scent of the team members who had stayed behind to eat at the track—plates filled with meat and sides whose aroma blended seamlessly with the ever-present smell of fuel that lingered in the air.

All day, she had been thinking about this moment—when it would just be the two of them. And she wasn’t ashamed to admit it, nor to acknowledge that she would do anything to make her realize what was really happening between them. Because it had long since gone beyond just a driver-photographer relationship.

And he was so sure of it that every conversation they had turned into an excuse for him to flirt shamelessly, watching her laugh and banter right back—but never quite catching on to what he was really getting at.

And even if it was a little frustrating, it was part of her socially awkward charm.

And he loved it in a way only he could.

"I don’t get how you still have energy after waking up that early," she muttered, accepting his outstretched hand as he helped her up from the curb, cracking her neck slightly as she looked at him with those big, tired eyes.

"It’s the adrenaline. Keeps me going. You, on the other hand, look like you need a nap," he teased, grabbing her gear before heading toward his garage to pick up his backpack from that morning.

"Excuse me, I’ve been on my feet all day. Lugging cameras around, chasing after you—" she shot back, gesturing dramatically as she followed him inside.

She was joking, of course—there was no other way she would have rather spent her day. Running around, arguing with stewards who were convinced her media pass was fake just because she had accidentally misspelled her credentials.

“You say that like you don’t love it, and like you don’t love me, which you still have to admit,” said the Estonian, throwing her a bracelet that he had kept for her after they were taken to the circuit that morning, even though it was the merch of one of his opponents.

“Not happening, Aron,” she replied, catching it in mid-air and putting it on her wrist, noticing the number and name of Conrad Laursen on it, appreciating how Ralf had kept it for her even though he would’ve much preferred for her to wear one of his. She lifted her gaze, seeing him folding the fireproofs and placing them on a shelf to his right, with the beginnings of a beard growing on his chin and his eyes looking more gray than blue lately.

“You’ll break one day,” he told her, stealing the water bottle from her hands.

As they walked along the pit lane, heading towards the paddock exit and then to the parking lot where the drivers’ cars were, he slid two fingers behind her hoodie, tickling the spot on her neck between her shoulders, making her hunch slightly.

“What?” she asked.

“Just making sure you’re still nice and cozy, so that you don’t annoy me with the a/c.”

“You’re unbelievable,” she shook her head, spotting the boy's Mercedes among the few cars still around, taking her bag off her shoulder and getting ready to place it on the back seats along with his stuff. It was a routine that had been going on forever, since he had made the unfortunate decision to ask her if she wanted a ride when he saw her hunched over her camera, trying to keep it safe from the downpour at Imola when he had gone to watch his brother Paul race.

Ralf had short nails, and although he didn’t care much for his hands, they were soft, so his touch was pleasant, and the way he seemed to caress her skin with each step made him smile.

They kept joking, teasing each other, adding that extra bit of spice to every race weekend, every trip they took together, and even during the days when FaceTime wasn’t an obstacle for them to joke around like they did in person. The last time, she had called him while she was about to do the laundry, staying at her parents’ house during the off-season when she wasn’t traveling. She had no idea what settings to use for washing the team’s technical fabric shirts. He had answered, laughed, and helped her while she was drawing a lion with one of his brother’s kids, who kept pulling his hair like the main character from Ratatouille did with the chef.

“I still hope that one day you’ll let me drive,” he said, watching her as she sat next to him while he drove towards the restaurant he had chosen for the evening. He told her that probably a former colleague of his, Juri, would be there, having come specifically to visit him.

“You got the hang of it last time?” he asked, looking at how she was holding her arms on her thighs, playing with the myriad of bracelets around her wrists.

“I’m just scared you’ll kill us both.”

“You have to stop, I’m serious,” Ralf replied, knowing full well that she loved the way he drove, and recalling all the times she had fallen asleep in any seat of the car, like she would have done right then if only her stomach weren’t practically begging her for food.

The restaurant was one of those picturesque places with vibrant tiles, bright colors, and people who, at the slightest musical note, would throw themselves into beautiful dances among the wooden tables, with blue napkins waving in the air, filled with the scent of cinnamon and smiles. In one corner, there was a well-stocked buffet, behind which were two big men handing out plates to the guests and welcoming those sitting at nearby tables, including the two drivers and the girl. Ralf guided her towards the buffet, with one hand on her arm, while Juri followed them, looking at them with a sly grin on his face as he got lost among slices of spiced meat, cheese, and toasted bread.

“You wound me,” he told her, watching her steal the plate from his hands, brushing it with his cold fingers.

“Good,” she replied, biting into a piece of toasted bread spread with a to-die-for herb cream.

“Do you two ever stop?” Juri asked, standing next to the girl, contemplating what to pick as he bit his upper lip.

“Nope,” Ralf answered, taking a tart from the photographer’s plate while she checked an email on her phone, scrolling through the words and barely mouthing them with her pink lips, focused like she rarely was at that moment.

“Wouldn’t be nearly as fun,” the Estonian laughed, looking at his colleague.

“It’s painful to watch,” Juri said, shaking his head.

“I agree with him,” she smiled, putting the phone back into the back pocket of her pants and lifting her gaze to the one driving the GT3 Evo.

“Then stop watching,” the other one replied, pretending he hadn’t heard her, wrapping an arm around Juri’s shoulders as they made their way to their table, hungry and amused by the thought of teasing them.

“Yeah, right. This is basically free entertainment.”

“Glad we could amuse you,” she said, fist-bumping Aron, who had sat down with his back to the wall, leaving her the seat in front of the window, knowing she loved looking out, watching the people walking along the sidewalks, chatting.

“I mean, it’s kind of impressive. Watching Ralf flirt with you so obviously while you continue to be completely oblivious.”

She stopped chewing for a second, looking at him with furrowed brows while Ralf poured water for the three of them.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, look at him. The man is practically screaming it.”

The photographer bit the inside of her cheek, as she always did when she noticed a detail she desperately wanted to capture behind her camera lens, or when she lost the cap of her lens and thought about how she could find another without spending all her money in a foreign country. And maybe there was a detail she wanted to engrain in her mind right then. It was Ralf’s face at the words of his friend. The way he looked at her, holding the fork in his hand with a soft smile, not afraid to show her that Juri was right, and that it only took that moment of realization on her part for their teasing to become part of the everyday routine of something more.

“Oh? Do tell,” Ralf said, keeping the atmosphere playful.

“The extra attention, the teasing, the dramatic gestures, the fact that you’re literally his right-hand man…”

“That means nothing,” she said, trying to disguise the thoughts that were running through her mind at that moment. And she caught the detail, keeping it in her pocket like the note she had found that morning with her coffee when she arrived at the circuit.

“I’d take pictures of you every day if I had the talent, see you after the first session,” with a small Polaroid of her smiling as she held her camera, winking to see better in the afternoon sun of Portimão. And the detail was that, instead of wearing Conrad’s bracelet like that evening, she had a small “R” drawn on the back of her hand, the last clue of the playful evening they had spent two days before that dinner. He had insisted on giving her something of his, and since he was in pajamas and only had his balaclava, he decided to do something small and silly, almost like something a high school boy would do. Was he really sure that she was oblivious? Or was he simply afraid that he wouldn’t be taken seriously about his feelings?

I feel like I can easily see arvid being older, more mature and ready to excel in the higher ranks than kimi. It has nothing to do with their talent or anything, 'cause I have been following them both since f4, and they're both outstanding, without even having to remark that kimi has fully deserved his seat. But kimi is my little guy, the one to who you just want to pinch the cheeks and that happens to do a cool thing for a living, while arvid's out there being the badass fast king he is.

I love kimi. He's the most soft softie ever.