#formula 1 driver imagines

[youkissedareaderinthedark]

Sunshine

Synopsis: You are the youngest and only daughter of the Leclerc family, and no matter how much he tries to hide it, Charles can’t deny you’re his favorite

monegasque female leclerc reader x brother charles leclerc

A/N: let’s say that y/n was born in 2006, making her about 17 now, 15 years younnger younger than lorenzo, 9 years younger than charles, and 6 younger than arthur

. so

. pascale leclerc has always wanted a daughter

. a little girl she could love and spoil with all her heart

. don’t get me wrong, she loves her sons with all of her being

. but i’d be lying if i said she’s never wished for another girl in the house

. the rest of the leclercs know this

. so it wasn’t a big suprise when she told everyone that she was pregnant in 2005

. and nearly cried of happiness when she learned she was carrying a baby girl

. now at first

. 8 year old charles leclerc didn’t know how he felt about this

. because he already has 5 year old arthur following him around everywhere

. what would it be like with another sibling in the house?

. so he wasn’t entirely thrilled at first

. but the second pascale and herve brought you home from the hospital a few months later

. he knew he’d love you no matter what

. his friends at school constantly talk about how annoying their baby sisters are

. but charles is always more endeared with you rather than annoyed

. he would play and watch kid shows with you for days on end if that’s what you wanted

. would be lying if he said he’s never played pretend with you

. repeatedly asked for pascale to allow you to come to his karting races

. something that didn’t happen until you were 3

. shows you off to all of his friends at said races

. “you see that baby over there with my maman? that’s my sister, y/n”

. “she doesn’t really know what’s going on, but she always cheers for me anyway”

. charles makes sure he’s there for every milestone in your life

. first day of school

. the first time you drove a kart

. when you learned how to ride a bike

. etcetera

. it does get harder as the years go on, with his karting career continuing and everything

. but your brother makes sure he’s there for you

. because no matter how busy he gets

. he’s never too occupied to see you discover yourself

. finding your own personality and hobbies

. interests and dislikes

. this has all happened by the time you’re 9 years old

. nearing the end of your childhood but still enjoying it nonethless

. pascale even lets you follow charles to formula 1 races, because she knows he’s really following jules bianchi

. your older brother loves when you come with him to races

. but he wishes more than anything your mother made you stay home with her instead of going to suzuka with him

. because he knows you love jules

. he’s like another brother to you

. he’s always the one to have you sitting on top of his shoulders, doing anything to help you see more than the world you were given (both literally and figuratively)

. jules was the one who gave you his kart to practice with

. the one that taught you everything you know about cars

. the one that taught you to always dream for more

. the one that taught you what grief felt like

. charles remembers the moment it happened, the crash, the noise, the shock

. the way you looked up at him, your 9 year old self not old enough to realize what just happened

. “charlie, what happened? where’s jules?”

. he remembers how much you cried in the hospital, looking way too young to be sitting in those waiting room chairs and losing one of the people you loved the most

. he remembers hearing you sob in your room when you got home, how helpless he felt that he couldn’t do anything to stop his own emotions, nonetheless his baby sisters’

. he remembers how instead of driving the kart jules left you, most of the time you just sat in front of it, staring at it, wishing jules would come outside like he always would, and persuade pascale to let you two drive around for just a few more hours

. arthur was the one who looked out for you in these times, because charles was too busy either being looked after by lorenzo, or trying to drive his own feelings away in formula championships

. 2015 was a sorrowful year in the leclerc household

. so it makes sense that charles is happy when you start to show some progress in late 2016

. when you start to drive your kart again, improved by the JB17 stickers you start to put everywhere

. you start enjoying school again, hanging out with your friends and playing outside

. it almost gives him hope

. almost

. because by 2017, charles is nervous

. because herve is getting worse

. and charles knows his litter sister, you’re not stupid

. you can tell that your father is sick, and he’s not going to be get better

. he tries to subtly encourage you to spend more time with him

. makes sure you tell him all your stories from school, tell him what you want to be when you’re older and what you want to do

. soon enough though, you can’t do these things because your father was emitted into the hospital

. charles is nearly twenty now, he’s old enough for his mother to give him the truth about these sorts of things

. but still not old enough to tell his eleven year old sister the truth

. the whole family is there with herve in the hospital in june 2017

. none of them are ready to lose another one of their own again

. you’re sobbing, arthur’s arms wrapped around you and hand pushing your head into his neck because he know you shouldn’t have to see this

. lorenzo is the only thing keeping both his mother and first younger brother standing, all while trying to keep his own tears from blurring his vision

. this time, you don’t let anybody help you

. you never leave your room, only to go to school and to eat

. you stopped karting completely, not wanting to unless your father was standing on the front porch, cheering you on and giving advice from where he stood

. you don’t come to either arthur’s or charles’ races, not the one charles wins after herve dies, not the ones he continues to win after that

. the family almost forgets what your smile looks like, they only remember the faint sound of your cries at night

. charles beats himself up over it, feels guilty and helpless

. he couldn’t stop jules from crashing, couldn’t stop his father from getting sick, and can’t even protect his younger sister from losing herself

. he tries his hardest to be there for you, to hug you, tell you he loves you, and that he’s always there if you want to talk

. he waits as long as it takes for you to open up to him

. it comes eventually, the day you knock on his bedroom door and let yourself talk and cry in his arms

. it takes much longer for you to co-exist with your grief this time

. but charles is there for every step of the way

. you go to his first formula 1 race with him in 2018, cheer him on from the sauber garage with lorenzo and pascale no matter what position he comes in

. you hang out with arthur while he’s racing in formula e and formula 4, cheer for him just as loudly, if not louder than you would for charles

. you’re 12 by the time 2018 ends, but feel much older than you actually are

. this is the point where you and charles bond on a deeper level

. because whereas the rest of the world just sees you as a tweleve-year-old girl

. charles see you as a twelve-year-old girl who’s been through more than she should’ve, and now feels the emotions to match

. so as time continues to pass, you guys talk about the real stuff in your lives

. he talks about joining ferrari and what it feels like to do what jules had always wanted to

. what it felt like lying to your father about the ferrari contract and how he wonders what herve thinks about it now

. you talk about what it feels like going through life without a father

. what it feels like fearing for your brothers’ lives every time they get into their cars

. he tries to help you get over this fear by bringing you to the paddock with him

. which includes becoming friends with andrea after all the hours you two spend side by side in the ferrari garage

. meeting sebastian who instantly becomes a mentor to you

. you’ve known pierre for longer than you can remember, so you hang out in his team garage sometimes

. your brother tries to keep an eye on you while your in the paddock, but as you get older, the more freedom you have

. by the time you’re 15 in 2021, you roam around the paddock on your own free will

. with carlos joining ferrari, you hang out with his younger sister ana, who leads you on all sorts of adventures in whatever city you two are in that weekend

. meeting all sorts of celebrities while you’re walking down the pit lane on sundays

. spending time in the aston martin hospitality because you’re still close with seb

. passing time with lewis in the mercedes garage, he sheds some of his wisdom on you, you tell him all the drama in your life

. bothering pierre while simultaneously befriending yuki in the alpha tauri garage

. and of course, hanging out with charles in the rare moments when you both have nothing do to

. these are the antics that carry on throughout your late teenage years

. so by the time the end of 2023 rolls around, you’re close to graduating school and moving on to whatever you wish to pursue

. it’s in those moments, the ones where you’re talking about college and moving away and your career

. truly makes him realize that you’re growing up

. and you’re not the little girl that will always be there to cheer him on from the stands

. you assure him that you will though

. that wherever you end up, still in monaco or not

. you’ll always be rooting for him

. and he knows he’ll always be rooting for you too

. because you’re his little sister

. and he loves you more than you know

[jellycrusher]

Wolves and Lambs: Part 1

Alpha Max Verstappen x Omega fem!driver

Genre: Series, Omega verse, Enemies to Lovers, Romance, Eventual smut

Synopsis: Male Alphas are the ones who dominate motor sports all around the world, especially Formula 1. It is a well known fact. Females in general nor Female Omegas are never heard nor encouraged to join the sport since the 1950s. Well, up until now...

Word Count: 2.4k

Chapter's Premise: "How could I forget? The reckless rookie during FP1. Almost crashed into me."

Parts: W&L masterlist / general masterlist

"How does it feel to be the only female alpha here on the grid?" The reporter extends his mic to you during the last press conferences on the last F2 Grand Prix in Abu Dhabi.

Here we go again. "It doesn't feel any different. Everybody here puts out their all when racing and I do that too. Outside of race week, I could say that they're like my younger brothers. It's fun."

"Congratulations again for your promotion to Formula 1 for the next season. Do you have any expectations? Any goals coming in to next year?" At least this reporter is not sexist unlike the others.

"I have been the test driver for Aston Martin for almost two years now. I'm grateful that I've been given the seat alongside Fernando Alonso. Any expectations? I've seen how hard everyone works back in the factory. I hope we develop a better race-winning car. My goal is definitely to win a Grand Prix." You can't help but smile at the thought that your next career move is inching closer and closer now.

"Thank you very much. That's y/n y/l/n, everyone. Your 2023 F2 World Champion." You bid goodbye to the reporter while your Press Officer ushers you to the next reporter.

After your meeting with the Aston Martin Team, your assistant tugs your shirt to signal you to walk to Mike Krack, the team principal.

"Here comes our favorite female driver!" He enthusiastically opens up his arms to welcome you in a tight hug. "Are you ready for the next season?"

"All good. I'm itching to jump in the car and drive." You chuckle as he release you from the hug.

"Hello sir. I just would like to go through something with you." Megan, your assistant, clears her throat which caught the attention of your new team principal. "I just informed y/n that you are aware of her true classification. I want to know how do we handle it from here."

You freeze in your spot as you observe Mike's face. It was astounding that your team principal is still very much determined to add you to the lineup despite knowing that you are not an Alpha, rather an Omega. He assures that he didn't care about it but what he looks for in a driver is talent, grit, and passion.

All your former team in F3 and F2 were never made aware of this fact, even until now. You never had a problem with this secret since your heat haven't arrived yet. At 25, you were considered a very late-bloomer, Normally, one would have their first heat at around 17-20 years old. If you were asked, you prefer it to never arrive at all. Better that way, at least it won't affect you during your races if ever it comes unexpectedly.

Ultimately, you had to force your manager to be upfront with Mike Krack. She was hesitant at first but you knew it was inevitable. The first one is always unpredictable and is affected by your emotions. It's better if your contract stays intact and won't be affected by it.

"We'll keep it under wraps. Limit the people within our team. I know a few people in the media so if this gets out, we can control it. I'll do everything that I can to keep a talent such as yours." Mike pats your back as he noticed you keeping quiet at Megan's side.

It's a wonder that you were able to keep it a secret up until now. It's not that it's forbidden to have Omegas as drivers in motorsport. There were a few male Omegas and only one female Omega before. She drove for one season and retired on the next. It was a very brief stint. Since then, no female omegas were ever able to climb up to Formula 1. Well, not until you but it's a secret. For now.

Of course you want to make a name for yourself. Not just being the first female driver since the 50s but a female Omega. It's something to be proud of. Although, majority of the people are still against it and will surely doubt your talent before they even see it.

Most of the people in the paddock that are either managers, mechanics, presenters, race engineers, and PR officers are almost all Betas and a few are only Omegas; just to name a few. The drivers and team principals are almost entirely Alphas.

You remember Megan mentioned that two of the drivers on the 2024 grid are Omegas but you forgot the names. Well, she also painfully reminded you to keep your classification a secret from them so forgetting who's who is not actually a bad thing.

Back in your F3 and F2 days, whenever Alpha drivers would argue with each other and get rowdy, you could literally feel the effects within you. Shivers down to your spine, tightening chest, trembling hands. Used to having that kind of physical effect on you during those situations, you would just avoid any altercations with any of them.

You were dubbed "The Lamb" of the paddock, being the calm and collected driver out of all of them. In contrast to your nickname, you were like a wolf when you put on the helmet. You would obliterate every driver during every race, herding them to the side.

"I look forward racing alongside our new driver." You, Megan, and Mike swiftly turned your head towards one direction. The sight of the Spanish driver smiling made you freeze. "I've seen your lap times during one of the test drives at Silverstone. It's been the talk of the factory. You almost beat Max's record lap time on the track."

He's definitely an Alpha. The Alpha aura that the two time world champion exudes is definitely nerve-racking. Any other Omega should've felt this when they met him, for sure. It's good that you're used to being around Alphas that it's not obvious in your body language that you were affected.

You bumped fists with Alonso. "Let's not forget the impression you left on the other drivers on FP1 back in Abu Dhabi GP when 11 rookies joined the practice for the Driver Development Program. You drove my AMR23 like a beast and you were the only rookie who was able to put their car in the top 10. In P3, at that." Alonso chuckles, reminding him how the team radios of other drivers went when you were passing them on the track, as broadcasted.

"Thank you sir. Just wanted to show everyone who they might compete against." you replied.

"Oh you most definitely did." he smirks.

It was a comfortable welcome within Aston Martin. Even Lance Stroll, who took a break from Formula 1 to recover from his injuries due to a career-changing incident, worked with you and Alonso to work out the kinks in the car. Being the son of Lawrence Stroll, he won't leave his son out in Formula 1 in any kind of way. Plus, Lance is a familiar face back in karting days so his presence actually helps.

Days pass and it all felt like a blur. You were practically living in the factory when you made certain to be as hands-on as possible with the development of the car. When you sat in the car for almost 2 hours for the seat fitting, Megan basically bribed the other engineers to let you rest for once. The other employees nearby were laughing because Megan was pushing the other engineers away that you were hollering to come to you.

Come February, the day of the AMR24 reveal. It was the first event where you donned your green race suit in front of everyone. In the backstage, Fernando could notice the tenseness painting your face. Lance was also there with you two waiting. He smacked your back so hard that you almost cursed at him, warranting a loud laugh from Fernando.

The welcoming party for the F1 teams was held in Bahrain on the third week of February, just a few days before pre-season testing. Lance and Fernando accompanied you to a ballroom decorated elegantly from the floor to the ceiling where waiters are walking around to give hors d'oeuvres and champagne to people basically in dapper suits and sparkling dresses at every turn. F1 events never disappoint.

You gently push Lando and Fernando to leave you and to go mingle with sponsors and other people they know. Laughing at how close you got to the two drivers just after a few months of working with them. Fernando felt like a mentor and a father, while Lance felt like an annoying brother.

Multiple Alphas gathering in one venue is hurting your nose and making your head spin. As a temporary refuge, you occupy an empty seat at the bar and ordered an Amaretto Sour. It didn't take you two sips before somebody with a mild Alpha scent sits next to you. You look at the man through your periphery. Unruly hair so brown with soft curls and a gummy smile.

"Nervous on your first event?" he says, sliding his drink close to him after the bartender hands it out.

"Hm?" You swiftly turn your head at the man, still taking a sip from your drink.

"You're y/n, right? Aston Martin? I'm Lando Norris. I'm just wondering why a gorgeous woman like you is alone here at the bar?" he replies.

"Nice to meet you!" You offer your hand out to the Mclaren Driver and he shakes it. "Big events like this is not my thing. I'm just charging up my social battery right now. Fernando and Lance will likely pull me later to meet with our sponsors." You add while taking another sip to help mask the overwhelming scent of the venue.

"Tell me about it. It's an introvert's worse nightmare." Another man with an Australian accent pops up beside Lando, wrapping his arm on the man's shoulder. "I'm Oscar Piastri. Nice to meet you!"

Lando and Oscar turns out to be such a fun company to be with. They even introduced you to some of the drivers that were not so busy socializing with VIPs and sponsors; like Yuki Tsunoda, Daniel Ricciardo, Pierre Gasly, Esteban Ocon, Alexander Albon, and Logan Sargeant.

Lando was about to call Charles and Max when he spotted them from afar but you were quickly pulled away by Lance to do some rubbing shoulders with your team's sponsors.

"Hey! Why did you call me?" Charles pats Lando's back then proceeds to greet the others gathered around at the bar.

"I was going to introduce you to someone but Lance swept her away." Lando scoffs as he greets Max, who appeared behind Charles.

Max and Charles search the crowd for Lance and eventually spots the man with a gorgeous girl at his side in an emerald green long dress. "Remember the driver who got P3 in FP1 when we were in Abu Dhabi?" says Lando to the two men staring at your side profile while you were busy smiling and mingling with older men.

"Y/n Y/l/n, right? Aston Martin?" Charles said, still can't peel his eyes away from you.

"How could I forget? The reckless rookie during FP1. Almost crashed into me." Max sneers, turns back at the bar and orders a drink.

"Come on mate. Like you were not? You were too aggressive at that FP1. You drove like you were racing with us already. Even overtaking at the pit lane exit." Charles lightly slapped his hand on Max's chest, earning a laugh from him and Lando.

"Still. At the end of the day, she was too eager to prove herself that it came off as reckless." Max takes the drink that he ordered and turns back around to his fellow drivers.

"Come on, you were like that when we were young. Remember our inCHIdent?" Charles, Lando, and even Pierre and Alex laughed so hard at the mention of the adorable memory of Charles and Max's rivalry when they were young.

"Maybe you're just nervous that someone might be able to finally de-throne you from your seat, your majesty?" Lando chuckles.

"We'll see at the pre-season testing if she's all bark and no bite." says Max, staring at you like you're a lamb in a wolf hunt.

"The new season of Formula 1 is just around the corner. But before the lights go out in Bahrain, you'll see all teams hit the track in three rigorous pre-season testing days. It's the first chance to see how this season is shaping up."

It was so surreal to see your driver number 13 in big font on the side of your AMR24. This is the dream and it all starts with the pre-season testing. With only just one car per team to be allowed per day, it was decided that you will drive on the first and second day, and Fernando on the third day.

You could say that it was a bit difficult on the first day. The car was superb and fast, except for the porpoising. After driving almost 150 laps with all the porpoising and understeer, your back felt like cracked uncooked noodles. The makeshift bed in your room in the garage basically inviting you to sprawl down on it. Thankfully, the car got better on the second day.

Everyone was so busy to improve everything on the car that you barely mingled with anyone outside of your team. Even on the third day where Fernando was out on track, you were still discussing with the engineers on what to improve and what strategies to use on the first race in Bahrain a week from now.

After the pre-season testing, Megan made sure to empty out at least two days in your schedule to give you a break. You woke up at around 11 am and went down to the hotel lounge to spend some time reading. Oscar was about to go to the hotel restaurant but stopped when he saw you.

"What are you reading?" You looked up behind you when you heard a voice and saw Oscar in casual clothes.

"Nothing. Just something to pass the time." You replied as Oscar takes up the couch beside you. "Are you about to have lunch?"

"Yeah. Just waiting for Lando." said Oscar, keeping his eyes on you. Oscar paused for a moment, contemplating on continuing his train of thought. "I'm curious so I'm just gonna ask it now."

"What?" you ask, closing your book.

"Why are you hiding that you are an Omega?"

Next part: Part 2

[whatsverstappeningnow]

how f1 drivers react

when they want you back after you break up with them (part two to this fic)

drivers mentioned: MV33, LN4, OP81, AA23, CS55, CL16, LH44, GR63

max verstappen

Weeks pass in painful silence. For days after the sudden breakup, Max tried to call, to text, to contact you. But the longer you ignored him, thinking it was for the best, the more it hurt. Eventually, the phone calls stopped, and the texts too. Your world descended into self-inflicted silence and loneliness.

You knew it would be hard without him, but the loneliness was worse than you could have ever imagined. It settled deep in your bones, carved into your soul and invaded every aspect of your life. Every moment of silence was a reminder of what you had given up. 

Every second of silence was a reminder of how alone you were.

Friends tried to comfort you, tried to tell you that you had made the right choice. But in the middle of the night, with nothing but the cold emptiness of your apartment to hold you, you could only spiral into darker thoughts: you had done the wrong thing. But it was too late. What was done was done. Max had stopped calling, moved on likely. You needed to as well.

You couldn't bring yourself to watch his races. You told yourself that it was for the better. You needed to let go completely. It was the only way you could move on and build a life without Max.

But when you see him again, finally, it’s not at a race. It's not some flashy paddock media day or high-stakes press event, things you used to loathe and love so much. It’s on your doorstep, hoodie pulled up, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. 

“I keep waiting for you. Every night. I keep thinking you'll call, you'll turn up at my house. You never do,” he says quietly, holding your gaze for the first time in forever. “Look me in the eye and say it again. Tell me our love isn't worth it. Tell me you don't love me anymore. C'mon. Tell me to leave and I will.”

You open your mouth to reply, not even sure what you could possibly say in response beyond what you'd already said that infamous night, but Max just holds up one hand to quiet you. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone and taps it a few times before a sound starts to play out of it quietly. 

It's you.

Your voice echoes back to you, happy, laughing, talking about something stupid. You hadn't realized he’d saved it. You're not sure why he would until the sound of you hanging up echoes around you both.

I'll talk to you later, ok? Bye Maxie. I love you!

“That’s the last time you said you loved me,” he says, voice low, pure exhaustion dripping from his words. “And I’velistened to it every single night.”

Tears sting your eyes and threaten to fall. Max finally steps closer but still doesn't reach out for you.

“I haven’t driven better. I'm getting worse, I'm making stupid mistakes. I haven’t focused more. I’ve just... missed you. Every day. Every night. You think you were holding me back? I'm scared every time I drive, scared of winning and still going home alone. Scared of doing well and you thinking that it proves you right when I know I'm fucking miserable. I'msorry I told you to leave. I shouldn't have... fuck, I'm just scared, and tired, and I want you. Please.”

Behind him, thundering clouds threaten to erupt and pour down over the city. Dark storms brew with forbearing gloom.

“You want to protect me? You want to make me a better driver? Then stay. Let me love you again. Because losing you has nearly fucking destroyed me."

His hands finally reach out for yours, holding them tightly. His hands are cold, but you find that you don't mind. You need to feel him so desperately that you're willing to endure the torture of the weather on your fingertips. Within you, a deep desire to keep Max warm and safe resurfaces with renewed conviction.

“You are the only thing I’ve ever wanted outside of racing. Please. I love you. I've only ever loved you.”

Despite the tears welling in your eyes, a small smile spreads across your face.

"It's cold. Come inside." You whisper the words, tugging slightly on his hands.

"Only... only if you mean this. I can't come inside if you're just going to turn me away again."

Swallowing guilt, swallowing your hurt and fears, swallowing everything you thought was right that turned out to be so wrong, you say, "Come inside, Max. Please."

Love you think, is the sound of Max closing the door behind him and knowing he is here to stay. 

lando norris

You know you shouldn't watch it, but when the clip comes up on your instagram you can't help but pause and watch. It's instinct: you see Lando, you watch. Despite everything, all you said, all that happened and tore you two apart, you still care deeply for him. 

It’s a post-race interview. Lando’s just gotten a podium, according to the video's caption anyway. He looks as he always does after a tough drive: hair stuck to his forehead from sweat, eyes wide, adrenaline high as he slowly calms down and takes deep breaths inwards. His smile is wide, until the journalist makes a passing comment...

"Must be nice having all the distractions out of the way now."

Something shifts in his expression. It’s barely a flicker, but if you know him—really know him—you can see it. You know what the interviewer means, the media, the sprint, the free practices, quali, it's all out of the way now. He only has to think about starting P1 tomorrow. All the distractions are gone. Almost all the opsticals of the week have been passed. But the joke doesn’t land. His smile falters, then falls completely. His eyes are hollow with want, tinged with a hint of fear.

And then he says it.

“Not all distractions are bad.”

The interviewer laughs, confused, asks him to elaborate, and he seems all too happy to comply. But he keeps going. The world around you seems stuck, you can't take your eyes away from the screen. If you listened carefully, you swear you can hear your life caving in around you.

“Sometimes the things everyone else thinks are a distraction are actually what keeps you grounded. What keeps you… you.”

He looks down, clears his throat, doesn’t continue. What's said is said. When he finally looks up again, staring into the camera lens, it feels like he is looking right at you. His eyes meet yours for the first time in weeks, even if it's just through the screen. The familiarity of his gaze burns. Your heart cracks. You miss him. God, you miss you. 

The video cuts off and you are stuck again in the quiet abyss of your empty apartment. Everything is quiet again. But later that night, you get a text.

I didn’t mean to say that. but I meant it.

Before you can question yourself, second guess your instincts, you reply.

congrats on P1 I didn't see quali but I saw the interview

Then, after a moment of consideration, you add:

I miss you too, btw

It's a few minutes of dead silence, eerie uncomfortable nothingness, before he responds again.

can i call you? please

You think of his words earlier, of the way he looked as you walked out of his life and shattered all you had built together. You call him without thinking of the alternative. 

"Hey," his voice rings out through your speaker.

"Hi."

There’s a pause. The kind that aches. You can hear his breath, unsteady, shallow, like he’s been holding it since the second your name lit up his screen.

“I didn’t think you’d reply,” he admits quietly.

“You didn’t leave much room not to,” you say, your voice almost a whisper. “You're not the only one who feels alone right now, Lando.”

“I know I can’t take back how I made you feel," he murmurs, "I just… I need you to know none of this, none of the podiums, none of the wins, means anything when I’m not coming home to you.”

Your throat tightens. You try to swallow it down, but his words eat at the fear in your heart...

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” you say softly. “Giving you space. Taking myself out of the equation. I didn’t want to be the reason you—”

“You were never the problem,” he cuts in, firm but gentle. “You were the only thing that made the rest of it bearable.”

Another pause. This one is softer. He exhales.

“I want to fix this. I don’t care how long it takes.”

And maybe you should hesitate. Maybe you should ask for more time, time to think it over. But you’ve already spent weeks apart, feeling the ache of a life half-lived. And now, hearing his voice, hearing the tremble he’s trying to hide, something in you unclenches.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” He sounds like he doesn’t quite believe it.

You smile, a little cracked, a little shaky, but real for the first time in days. “Yeah. Win your race, Lan, then come home to me.”

oscar piastri

The past few weeks had dragged by you in a dull, confusing haze. The sun felt dimmer, the rain less harsh, the breeze not so calming. Everything was just... off. You knew adjusting to being alone again would be difficult, but you never imagined it would feel like this. So helpless, so cold.

Without Oscar, someone you relied upon and loved so completely, your life felt empty. You spent your days going through the motions. You woke up, ate, slept, worked. It all felt so monotone. It was impossible to do something without wondering where you would be if you were still with Oscar. 

A seed of doubt planted itself in your mind. Maybe, just maybe, you think, you were wrong. Maybe things would have been better if you were still together. But you cut the sapling before it could grow into a full thought. 

Dwelling on the past was killing you. Dwelling on the past was leaving you tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that left you feeling nothing at all. Heaviness hung in your bones.

Sleep seemed to abandon you these days, leaving you alone in the moonlight hours. The howl of the wind was your only companion in the night.

It’s past midnight when your phone buzzes. With nothing better to do, and no inclining that sleep would find you anytime soon, you reach for it from where it is charging on your bedside table.

Oscar's name stares back at you through the bright light of your phone, blinding you momentarily in the darkness of your bedroom. 

You hesitate before opening it, his name on the screen still does something awful to your chest. Memories of past late night calls, tired giggles and intimate words, swirl around you in a haze of regret. But, to your unexpected surprise, it’s not a text. It’s a voice note. 

You press play. The second you hear his voice, the pounding in your heart seems to double in speed. And yet, the comforting familiar sound also puts you completely at ease.

Hey. Sorry, I know it’s late where you are. I shouldn't— I know— I just got back from dinner with the team. Everyone was laughing about something, and I almost turned to tell you about it. As if you would be there, next to me.

He exhales sharply, so suddenly that it shocks you out of the trance you're in. Hearing his voice again, speaking directly to you, feels like a delusion after all this time. There’s silence for a few seconds, just the quiet rustle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of him rubbing his hands against his clothes that way he always does when he’s nervous.

You can imagine it as if he’s standing right in front of you. But you know that if he was here, standing close and looking you in the eyes, you wouldn’t know what to say, how to act, to look him in the eyes and not admit all the regrets you’d been having.

Missing him feels like longing for a lost childhood toy, something you remember so fondly and yet is so resolutely out of reach. But loving him is something you can never let go of.

It’s stupid, I know. It's been weeks. We haven't even talked once since. I know. I should know better. But I just… I don’t think I’ve gone one day without reaching for my phone to text you, call you. And I haven’t sent anything, 'cause I didn't want to hurt you more than I already have. But tonight it kind of hit me that maybe I should. Text you, I mean. Reach out. So, I guess that's what I'm trying to do. I don't even know if you'll listen to this. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. I should have fought harder. Should have told you more often how much you mean to me, how much you still mean to me. You were never a distraction. You were my balance. My constant. My love.

You wouldn't hear me then, but I have to make you hear me now. I love you. I love you. I'll say it as many times as you need to believe it again. And I miss you. Every day. I just want to try again. Please, let me show you how much I need you, how much I love you.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling. When the recording stops, you drag the audio back to the beginning and listen through it again. Over and over, you replay the section where he tells you he loves you. 

He sounds just as truthful, just as honest, as the first night he said it to you. The night he held you so close, kissed you so slow and carefully that you wanted to melt into the floor and never touch anyone but him ever again. The night you felt whole, and loved, and so at peace with your life. The night you had remembered over and over through the past few weeks with a longing dread. Suddenly, yet slowly, in small thoughts, then all at once, it feels like you have no option but one.

You don’t text him back. No.

You press call. He picks up immediately.

carlos sainz

You probably should have expected this, should have seen it coming from a mile away. Carlos is not one to let something, or rather someone, he loves slip through his fingers like spring water. He's built his life around the people he cares about, painstakingly carved out a space for each of them in his chaotic, fast-paced life… he wouldn't let you think so lowly of yourself for long. 

It’s only been a few weeks, but it’s felt like a lifetime. 

You open the door of your apartment, dressed in pyjamas and an oversized hoodie that was likely his, once upon a time, to find him standing there. Hair slightly messy. Hoodie zipped halfway. 

His eyes drift over you, slowly, taking every inch of your appearance. It doesn’t feel crude though, or intrusive, his gaze is so familiar, so kind, it fills your heart with joy just to be seen by him again. A small pit of guilt sinks in your stomach, you are the reason you haven’t seen him. This was your choice, after all, one you made for him.

He holds a takeout bag in one hand, your favourite food from the place you always used to order from together when it rained. It was the food that comforted you in your worst moments and excited you when you were feeling your best. 

You haven’t seen him in weeks. Yet here he was. 

He offers the bag, holding it out in one hand while the other settles on his hip. But he doesn’t move closer. He looks stuck in place, unsure of what moves to make and yet so confident in his presence at your front door.

“I’m not here to fix anything. Not if you don’t want me to,” he says softly, a tone of admittance colouring his words. “I just thought… you probably haven’t eaten. You always forget when you are stressed, or tired.”

You take it. Hands brush. He pulls away first. You find yourself immediately missing his touch.

Carlos looks down, then back up, eyes dark and earnest.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think. And I’ve been telling myself to let you go if that’s what you need, what you really want. But I also know you pushed me away thinking it was helping me. That it was the unselfish thing.”

He pauses, breathes deeply as if centring himself. He speaks with a tone that tells you he has been thinking of the right words to say for days, and is still afraid of driving you away.

“But cariño… you were the thing keeping me sane. I didn’t need saving from you. I needed saving with you. I need you to save me. Every day I need you to save me.”

You bite your lip and look down at the bag. The familiar smell fills your nostrils.

“My house is so empty,” you admit, and it feels like exposing the deepest part of your soul. “I’ve still been watching you drive. You’re doing well. I’m happy for you.”

“I’m driving well, maybe. But I’m not happy, cariño. You have known me long enough to know that is the truth.”

You can’t find it in your to meet his eyes, he keeps speaking anyway.

“I’m not driving well because you are gone. I’m driving well despite it. Because my life is nothing but racing now and I am miserable. Every day I think of you. There is no one else for me, and you must let me show you again. Without you... without you I am no one. You make me whole.”

His words are sweet, and so painfully honest that they burn into your heart.

“I’ve missed you. More than I should. Even though I feel like I shouldn’t. I want you to become everything you’ve ever dreamed of. But watching you do that without me…” you trail off, unable to explain the hurt you have inflicted on yourself by forcing him to go. Doing this, this conversation, out in the open feels too exposed. You want to tell him you love him in the comfort of your home. The home you want to share again.

“Do you want to come in?” You ask it in a hushed whisper, like saying it loud will frighten him away again 

He smiles faintly. “Only if you want me to stay this time.”

“Will you? Please? I think... I think we need to talk.”

His smile is soft, understanding, filled with hope, “Of course, my love.”

That night, he holds you close. He doesn't leave, you don't ask him to.

alex albon

You don’t pick up the first time he calls.

Or the second.

But the third? You answer.

“…Hey,” he says, voice gentle and soft, but cautious. He's holding something back. Like he is afraid of scaring you off.

You don’t say anything at first. Just breathe. Just listen. You half expect him to hang up, regret his decision to contact you and disappear again. After all, you were the one who walked away, who could blame him for holding onto resentment and anger and just... hanging up?

The,n quietly, you say, “Alex.” His name feels like the only thing you could possibly say.

He lets the silence stretch out. It doesn’t feel awkward, just heavy. Shared. Weighted with everything that’s been left unsaid for too long. Everything you didn't explain that day, everything you struggled to say. The silence reminds you not of the emptiness of your apartment, but of the comforting quiet of lying in each other's arms. Everything, even silence, feels better with him around. Even if it's just his voice.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he says, finally. “Not really. I’m not calling to change your mind. I just—” He sighs, shaky and unsure. “I just wanted you to know I think about you. Still. Every day.”

You close your eyes and press your forehead to your knee, trying too hard to not let your thoughts spiral away from you. You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands, and your heart somewhere between breaking and blooming at the sound of his voice.

“I’ve been driving ok, not great, not badly,” he continues. “Doing the media stuff. Smiling for the cameras. Saying the right things when they ask. Everyone keeps saying I look happy.”

Happy, just like you wanted him to be. That's the reason you did all of this. For him. To help him, even if it hurt your soul to do it. 

There’s a pause. Then a quiet, dry chuckle.

“But I’m faking it. All of it.”

Your breath catches, stuck in your throat. No.

“I catch myself thinking about you in the stupidest moments,” he says, softer now. “Like... I’ll be walking out of the paddock and I’ll reach for my phone to text you something dumb. Just muscle memory. Or I’ll hear a song you used to sing in the shower and it’ll hit me like I’ve run out of road.”

You stay quiet, swallowing hard and fiddling with your jumper sleeves. Against your better instincts to run, to hang up and hide yourself from the truth that maybe breaking up wasn't saving him, you stay.

“You remember how you used to tease me for holding my breath when I’m nervous?” he says, voice roughening just a little, like he's holding in a hollow laugh that is bubbling in his chest. “Like, properly holding it—like I’m underwater?”

You smile, just a little. Of course, you remember. 

"Yeah..."

“I keep catching myself doing it again. A lot. I didn’t even realise until Carlos pointed it out during a sim session... said I looked like I was about to pass out.”

Another small pause.

“Anyway,” he says, trying to collect himself. “If this is really what you want, I'm not here to yell at you. But I need you to know. I just... I hope you’re okay. I really do.  But if you’re not, if there’s ever a day you want to talk, about anything, bout everything.... I'm here. I'm always here”

You don't hang up.

"I'm sorry," you whisper into the phone. "I ruined this. All of this."

"No, baby, no. Please don't apologise. You were doing what you thought was right." His voice cracks a little, rushed and urgent, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear again.

“I miss you,” you say. Simple. Honest. Like breathing.

“I miss you so much it makes my chest hurt,” he says. "I know I can’t go back in time, but I want to move forward. With you. If there’s any part of you that wants that too…”

You wipe your eyes again and sit up straighter.

“I want that,” you whisper. “I’m scared. But I want that.” And that's all it takes. 

charles leclerc

After weeks of moping around your apartment, mourning your own decisions and cursing yourself, your friends had put their feet down and ordered you to have a night out. Something to take your mind off of him. Despite the fact that you had no desire to go out, you agreed. More for their peace of mind than your own.

You're dressed in your favourite dress, make-up done, hair perfectly in place. At any other point in your life, you would feel beautiful, but for some reason, you don't feel much of anything at all. From the second you enter the party, some rooftop bar event your friends had heard of through word of mouth, you want to go home. But you don't want to let them down, so you try and stick it out, try to pretend you feel ok.

Time passes by you, and it's hours before you notice it. Notice him. Because of course he is here. Why wouldn't he be?

Charles walks through the dancing crowd and it's like the sea parts for him, people move effortlessly out of his way despite the lack of room on the dance floor. His eyes scan the room and then, as if on instinct, they land on you.

He walks over without any dramatics, but there is a speed in his step. He's afraid if he's too slow you'll disappear into the crowd again. He's barely a metre away when he starts speaking. You can only just hear his voice over the booming music, but the heartbreak in his voice is unmistakable.

“Every time I win, I wish you were there. Every time I lose, I need you.”

You inhale sharply. He's suddenly right in front of you. He looks down at you with tired, hurting eyes.

“You said you didn’t want to hold me back. But love doesn’t hold me back—it grounds me. Keeps me from getting lost in all of this. Cheri, how could you ever believe your love was hurting me? Without it, I am nothing.”

You’re frozen in place, drink in hand, heart in your throat. You thought this night couldn’t possibly get worse... you never imagined it might get better. You never thought you'd get the chance to explain yourself to him again.

“Charles…” you say, barely audible, unsure if he even hears it over the bassline of the song thumping through the bar the screams of joy that pervade around the room, the sound of dancing feet shaking the building.

But he does. Of course he does.

“I know I should have said something earlier,” he continues, closer now, lips practically against your cheek so you can hear him clearly. His hands hold yours, keeping you close with a grounding grasp. His eyes flick briefly to your friends standing behind you, watching from the edge of the crowd, unsure whether to swoop in and save you or stay back and let this moment unfold. You hope they stay away, you couldn't stand to lose this moment because of well-meaning friends. His gaze returns to yours, and it’s the same one you’ve seen a hundred times before. 

“But I wanted to give you space. I thought… if I gave you time, you’d come back when you were ready.”

You laugh softly, but there’s no humour in it. “I wasn’t going to come back.”

“I know,” he says, voice strained and tired. “That’s why I’m here. One of my friends saw you in the crowd, I had to come. I'm sorry. I had to try one last time.”

The music shifts suddenly to something slower, softer. You glance over your shoulder as the crowd shifts to accommodate the new rhythm, but Charles doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care. He only sees you. The rest of the room fades into the background for him.

“I didn’t think I deserved you,” you admit. “I didn’t think I could watch you go out there every weekend, chasing something so dangerous and demanding, and not become the thing that dragged you down.”

“You were never the weight,” he says, without hesitation. “You were the anchor. There’s a difference.”

You don’t speak for a moment, letting his words settle over the noise, the lights, the blur of people around you. You’ve imagined this moment a hundred ways over the past few weeks, some louder, some messier, but none quite like this. There is something so soft about this, despite the noise. 

“You look beautiful,” he adds quietly. “But you don’t look like yourself.”

That’s what undoes you. That sentence. The gentle truth in it.

“I haven’t felt like myself.”

“Then let me take you home.”

“Charles—”

“Not like that,” he says gently, quick to clarify. “Not unless you want that. I just… I want to talk. Or sit in silence. Or be there while you fall asleep on the couch watching something terrible. I don’t care what it is, just... let me come with you this time.”

You look at him, really look. And for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest loosens, just a little.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s go home.”

lewis hamilton

You’re alone on a walk, one headphone in and hands stuffed into the pocket of your hoodie, desperately trying to shield yourself from the cold wind of the mid-afternoon, when a familiar voice calls your name. The sound of the voice, so comfortingly recognisable, causes you to stumble over your own feet. He's here. 

It's Lewis. Hoodie on, hood up, looking just as surprised as you feel seeing him out in the world. He stops a few steps away from you. The distance feels like a gorge you could fall into if you take a wrong step. The fall would go on for ages, you can't risk slipping now. 

“I’ve been writing, texting you, then deleting it all before I send it,” he says quietly. “Trying to find the right words to say. Honestly, I don't think they exist. Every time I think I've figured out what to say, it just feels wrong.”

You just stare, hands fidgeting in your pocket as you feel stuck to the concrete sidewalk.

"I'm sorry. I know you probably want me to walk away, but if I don't say this now, in person, I never will."

Before you can stop yourself, you say softly, "I never want you to walk away, Lew." The truth of your own words surprises you. Lewis can only smile slightly at the sudden interjection. But he knows, just as well as you do, that you didn't leave him because you fell out of love. It was fear that drove you away.

“I thought I could prove something by letting you go. That I could be strong. But the truth is, I’ve felt lost without you.”

"Lew—"

“I miss you,” he adds, and it’s almost a whisper. “God, I miss you so much. I've stayed up at night just thinking about what you said. I can't believe I let you believe all those things about yourself. I can't believe I didn't fight harder to prove how much I love you.”

You stare at him. This is the version of him that you always knew. The one who cares so deeply, it scares him. The one who never walks away unless he thinks he has to.

“You could’ve sent any of those texts,” you manage to say, voice uneven and slow. “I probably would’ve answered, no matter what you said.”

“I didn’t want to reach for you until I knew I could be what you needed. You need someone who can show you that you aren't a burden. You need someone who can prove how loved you are. You deserve perfection.”

You let the silence linger a beat longer. Then you take a slow, steady step forward.

“I didn’t need perfect,” you say. “I just needed you.”

Lewis reaches out, gently, finally closing the gap between the two of you. “Let’s start again. Somewhere quiet. Just us.”

You nod before your voice catches up.

george russell

It’s been raining all day, light, misty showers that make the city feel cold. The world is sad, you want to say to your friends, but you don't think they'd understand what you mean. Maybe you just mean you are sad. But even that feels wrong.

You’ve left the windows open just a crack, a small sliver of room to let in the crisp storm air as you curl up on the couch. There's a cup of tea in your hand that's slowly going cold, but you don't drink it. It's more for the company than for taste. The TV plays something you aren’t watching. It's just background noise to keep your thoughts from drifting back to him. 

It’s been weeks. Long enough that you’ve memorized the silence his missing presence has left behind. You miss him, but it was all for good reason.

You don’t hear the footsteps outside your apartment, you don’t hear his car as it arrives at your building. But when the doorbell rings, something deep inside you seizes up.

You freeze.

You haven’t seen George in weeks. But when you open the door, he’s there, suitcase by his side, hair messy, expression shaken. You realise suddenly that he must have come straight from the airport. His race ended only 15 hours ago. He's come straight to you.

“I’m not here to argue,” he says softly. “I just want to talk. Please.”

Against your better instincts, you hold the door open and step aside, welcoming him in in silence. He walks in slowly. His eyes scan your apartment like he doesn't recognise it, like he hasn't been there a hundred times before. Seeing him feel so out of place feels like a punch to the gut. It's a reminder of what you said to him, the way you pushed him away so suddenly, so cruelly.

Eventually, after a moment of quiet contemplation and awkward insection, he sits on your couch, wringing his hands in his lap. When he speaks, finally, his voice holds with it a tone of practised care. He's been thinking about what to say for days, you're sure of it. 

“You said I needed to focus. That I needed to be selfish.”

He looks up.

“Well, this is me being selfish. I need you to hear me, let me speak before you turn me away again. Please." 

You swallow the lump in your throat and settle yourself down across from him on the couch. You keep a bit of distance from him, not trusting yourself to be able to not fall apart if you sit within arm's reach. You missed him more than words could explain, but you owed him the chance to speak. You know you do.

After a deep breath, long and slow, he starts to speak again.

"I need you. Not just the good parts. I want the hard days. The fears. The panic at 2 am. I want all of it. I’ve spent every day since you left wondering if I could’ve... should've... done more. So here I am. Doing more.”

You press your hands into the couch cushion beneath you to stop them from shaking, trying desperately to listen to every intonation and shake of his voice, as if you could uncover every thought he's had for the past few weeks if you just listen close enough. 

You aren’t sure what to say. You thought you were protecting him by leaving, giving him an out to finally focus. But now, here he is, telling you the absence of you is the only thing that’s really hurt him. The truth hurts more than your fears ever did.

“I kept thinking… maybe if I just left you alone, gave you time and space, you’d feel free again. Feel more like yourself again. ” His voice dips. “But I think about you constantly. Every second since you walked away. And I don’t feel free... I feel hollow. And you're right, I should be more selfish with my career, my life. So this is me being selfish about what I want: I want you. I want you next to me all the time. Every day. Every night.”

He swallows, hard. Like saying all he's feeling out loud is hurting him. But he keeps going despite it.

“If you don’t want this anymore, truly don't, not because of what you think is best for my career, for me, but because you don't want it, I’ll go. But I had to try. I had to tell you that you weren’t a distraction. You were my calm in the chaos. You still are.”

You stare at him, heart caught in your throat and eyes glued to his sombre gaze. Your voice breaks when you speak.

“I've missed you so much, George.”

His shoulders sag with relief. “I know I'm not perfect. I know I wasn’t always good at balancing it all. But I never stopped loving you. That has never changed. Not for a second.”

He shifts, adjusting his posture sat upright on your couch. After a moment's hesitation, he asks, “Can I hold you?”

When you nod he moves slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll wake you from some fragile dream. But when his arms wrap around you, it’s like the weight of everything you've ever feared has finally lifted off your shoulder.

You melt into him.

And for the first time in weeks, you breathe easy.

taglist: @fastandcurious16 @coolpeanutchaos @hangingwiththestars

-> ree here! I'm sorry for the length inconsitancy and any mistakes! I tried to just do what felt right for each set up and I have editted this very sleep deprived from uni study... send help for my incoming essay due dates i am avoiding by writing imagines instead...

[jungwnies]

f1 grid (1/2) | two string bathing suit

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri (click here for part two) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : your f1!boyfriend reacting to you showing him two strings as a bathing suit (tiktok trend - click for reference)

୨ৎ : genre : romance comedy ୨ৎ : tws : slightly suggestive ୨ৎ : word count : 2073

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : a rare wednesday post that isn't a solo story !! also i will be putting a pause on request bc my inbox is flooded, but once i have released a majority of the stories (within the next few weeks everyday there will be a new post in honor of 10k) they will open up again ty guys so much for the support <3

ʚ・max verstappen

“max,” you called from the bathroom, biting your lip to keep from laughing. “don’t freak out.”

he barely looked up from his phone. “that’s the worst way to start a sentence.”

you stepped out, deadpan. wearing… if you could even call it that… a “swimsuit” made of two threads, three knots, and maybe half a square inch of material. total. it looked like it was crocheted by a sleep-deprived spider. you posed with a straight face.

max blinked. then blinked again, slower.

“no,” he said, setting his phone down with almost religious care. “absolutely not.”

“what do you mean?” you said, fighting to keep a straight face. “it’s trendy. minimalist.”

“that’s not minimalist. that’s missing.”

you twirled, the strings shifting dangerously. “it’s high fashion.”

max stood up like he was about to perform an exorcism. “that’s not fashion. that’s barely science. you could sneeze and the whole thing would combust.”

“i think it’s cute.”

“i think it’s… illegal.”

you walked over slowly. he didn’t move, just looked absolutely offended by the garment clinging to your body with the hope and optimism of dental floss. “so… i can’t wear it on the yacht?”

he stared at you, stunned. “if you wear that on the yacht, i’m jumping into the ocean and letting nature take me.”

you burst out laughing, and he immediately buried his face in his hands. “who sold you that? who allowed this to exist?”

“i made it myself.”

his head snapped up in horror. “what.”

“yarn. patience. emotional damage.”

max grabbed the nearest towel and threw it around your shoulders like he was shielding your soul. “you need help. professional help.”

you leaned in, still grinning. “so that’s a no?”

he groaned. “i love you. but you’re grounded.”

ʚ・lewis hamilton

you stepped out slowly. wearing… well, calling it a swimsuit would be legally questionable. two strings of yarn tied together with the optimism of a third-grader’s friendship bracelet. honestly, it looked like you raided a kindergarten art bin and called it couture.

lewis lowered his sunglasses.

paused.

stared.

“be honest,” he said, slowly standing up. “did you lose a bet? or is this, like, a charity stunt i don’t know about?”

you fought to keep a straight face. “it’s my new swimsuit. do you like it?”

“do i like it?” he walked in a slow circle around you, studying it like a museum exhibit. “you look like someone gave a hamster a crochet hook and no supervision.”

“be serious.”

“oh, i am.” he waved a hand at the barely-there strings. “you’re out here dressed like a cursed macramé project.”

you pouted. “it’s artistic.”

“it’s traumatic.”

you posed dramatically. “but imagine this on the beach… champagne… sun setting…”

“yeah, and a full-blown scandal.” he crossed his arms. “you’re gonna flash everyone.”

you smirked. “so you’re saying it’s a little much?”

“i’m saying it’s one wardrobe malfunction away from me throwing my entire body over yours like a security guard.”

you grinned, stepping closer. “but you’d still let me wear it?”

he paused.

then? “yes. but only indoors. with the curtains closed. and a blanket.”

you laughed as he wrapped you up in the nearest hoodie and muttered, “i need a drink. and therapy. and maybe a glue gun.”

ʚ・george russell

you walked into the living room with the fakest innocent smile on your face and the largest box you could find on amazon. george was sitting on the couch, laptop open, looking like a ceo of something important.

“i got something for the trip,” you said sweetly.

he looked up. “that box is huge. did you order a tent?”

you beamed. “bikini.”

he blinked. “that’s not a bikini-sized box. that’s an appliance-sized box.”

you set it down and started dramatically peeling off the layers — tissue paper, unnecessary foam, even a fake ribbon — while george just watched in mild horror.

“is this an unboxing video?” he asked, deadpan. “should i film this for content? are we reviewing the manufacturer’s efficiency?”

you reached the final layer.

and pulled out the swimsuit.

or… the two lonely strings of yarn and a prayer that you were calling a swimsuit.

george stared.

and stared.

“…where’s the rest of it?” he finally asked, voice cracking ever so slightly.

“that’s it!”

he shut his laptop slowly. “that’s not it. that’s… that’s not a garment. that’s yarn.”

“it’s cute!”

“it’s nonexistent.”

you turned it around, holding it by the strings like it was a spider you weren’t sure was dead. “you don’t think it’s cute?”

he stood up like he needed to physically confront the reality of the situation. “how did you even find this? who sold it to you? did you blackmail someone? did it come with a warning label?”

“i packaged it myself.”

he blinked. “you what.”

“it’s a prank, babe.”

silence.

then, he slowly sank back onto the couch, covered his face, and mumbled, “you’re the reason i have stress dreams.”

you dropped the string bikini on his chest and smiled. “but you love me anyway.”

“i do,” he sighed. “i just… wish you loved fabric.”

ʚ・carlos sainz

carlos was lying on the bed, one arm behind his head, scrolling his phone while you rifled through your suitcase.

“i got a new swimsuit for the trip,” you said casually, pulling out a folded towel to fake wrap the "swimsuit" in.

he hummed. “another one?”

you smirked. “this one’s special.”

he turned his head just in time to see you dramatically unwrap what could only be described as two strings of yarn connected by stubbornness and delusion.

carlos sat up.

paused.

blinked.

“…dios mío.”

you fought to keep a straight face. “it’s cute, right?”

he stood up slowly, like his body was moving while his brain was buffering. “that’s not a swimsuit. that’s—that’s a trap. you wear that, and i’m fighting everyone.”

you held it up by the strings. “it’s kind of artistic.”

“it’s kind of criminal.”

you twirled it once. “it’s technically wearable.”

“it’s technically two pieces of string and a death wish.”

you laughed, tossing it onto the bed. “so you’re saying you don’t want me wearing it at the hotel pool?”

“hotel pool?” he gave you an incredulous look. “you can’t even wear that in our apartment without risking emotional damage.”

“too much?”

“i’ve seen paper towels with more coverage.”

you walked over and looped your arms around his neck, grinning. “jealous?”

he rested his forehead against yours, sighing dramatically. “no. i’m concerned. for your safety. and my blood pressure.”

you leaned in close. “you’re just mad because you know i’d steal the show.”

he kissed your cheek. “i’m mad because i know i’d get arrested for public indecency by association.”

you laughed into his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around you like a man who had just stared into the abyss.

“i’m hiding that,” he muttered. “i don’t even trust you to prank me with it again.”

ʚ・charles leclerc

“charles?” you called sweetly, stepping into the hotel room with a mischievous grin and a suspicious little shopping bag.

he glanced up from the bed, where he was sitting with his ipad and airpods, one brow raised. “yes, amour?”

“i got a swimsuit for this weekend. want to see it?”

he smiled, setting the ipad aside. “of course.”

you pulled it from the bag slowly, two strings. only strings. it might have once been a swimsuit, but now? it was a scandal waiting to happen.

charles stared.

then blinked once.

then smiled. slowly.

“mon dieu…” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “is that legal?”

“technically,” you shrugged, holding it up. “there’s a front. and a back. i kind of wish it was thinner.”

he tilted his head, eyes trailing the string in your hands with the fascination of a man watching his entire moral compass short-circuit. “and you plan to wear this in public…it's already thin enough?”

“maybe. why?”

he stood, crossing the room in three slow, measured steps. “because, chérie… if you wear that outside, i will never survive it.”

you smirked. “you hate it?”

he leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. “no,” he whispered. “i want you to wear it. but only where i can see you.”

you blinked.

“put it on,” he said, voice low, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. “let me see everything.”

you burst out laughing, hitting his chest lightly. “charles!”

he laughed too, pulling you in by the waist. “you’re evil,” he said against your neck, voice playful. “you come in here with two strings and expect me to be normal?”

“you seemed pretty into it.”

“i am,” he said shamelessly. “but mon amour… if you wear that out, i’ll have to start swinging. and i don’t want to go to jail in monaco.”

ʚ・lando norris

you stood in front of the mirror, struggling to keep a straight face as you unwrapped the tiny bag you’d stuffed the “swimsuit” into. two strings. one knot. less coverage than a shoelace.

“baaaabe,” you called sweetly. “i got a new swimsuit. wanna see?”

“yeah, sure!” lando shouted from the other room. “wait—should i come in there or—?”

you opened the door slowly, string bikini dangling from one finger like it was a precious artifact. “no need. just look.”

he turned.

froze.

squinted.

then: “what is that?!”

you fought a grin. “it’s my new bikini.”

“that’s not a bikini,” he said, already walking toward you like he needed to inspect it up close for safety reasons. “that’s—that’s a joke, right?”

you turned it around like a qvc host. “front and back. simple.”

he gaped at you. “it’s a crime scene.”

“very fashion-forward.”

“it’s barely forward! it’s not even forward-adjacent!”

you were shaking with laughter now as he waved his arms in genuine disbelief. “where did you even buy that? why did you buy that? how did they ship it? in a matchbox?!”

“i thought it’d be cute on the beach.”

he took the swimsuit carefully, like it might bite him, and held it up with two fingers. “there is more fabric in a tea bag.”

“i think you’re being dramatic.”

“i think you’re being dangerous.”

you stepped in close, resting your hands on his chest. “so you don’t want me to wear it?”

lando looked at you. then at the strings. then back at you.

“i want you to burn it.”

you grinned. “too late. i packed it.”

“i’m not letting you leave the hotel room.”

“promise?”

his jaw dropped. “you’re the worst.”

you winked. “and yet.”

he groaned into your shoulder, muttering, “i need therapy. and a one-piece. for you.”

ʚ・oscar piastri

you didn’t warn him.

you just walked into the hotel room, holding what looked like a piece of yarn with a dream. no dramatic intro, no buildup — just straight chaos.

“new swimsuit,” you said casually, tossing it onto the bed like it wasn’t about to destroy him.

oscar turned from his laptop, expression as flat and unreadable as always… until he saw it.

he stared.

blink.

longer stare.

“…that’s it?”

“that’s it.”

he sat back in the chair slowly, arms crossed. “that’s not a swimsuit.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you don’t like it?”

he took a very long pause. processing. buffering. internally screaming.

“i… don’t disapprove,” he said finally, choosing his words like they were part of a hostage negotiation. “but… i’m trying to understand where the rest of it went.”

you held it up by a single string. “it’s trendy. daring. very… cute.”

“it’s barely thread.”

you grinned. “so you do disapprove.”

he didn’t answer right away, just tilted his head, looking you up and down like he was trying to calculate structural integrity. “…if it makes you happy to wear that, then it’s fine.”

you squinted. “but you’re dying inside.”

he blinked. “a little.”

you walked closer, draping the swimsuit over his shoulder like a sash. “you don’t think i’d look hot?”

“that’s not the issue,” he said immediately, not even blinking. “the issue is physics.”

you burst out laughing, and that finally cracked a smile from him — soft, a little resigned, but full of affection.

“i trust you,” he added, voice quiet but firm. “i just… don’t trust gravity. or wind. or humanity.”

you kissed his cheek. “so private pool only?”

he nodded. “preferably with no windows.”

you leaned back, watching him eye the bikini like it was a cursed relic. “you’re kind of obsessed with me.”

he smiled again, this time without hesitation. “obviously.”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[housepartyprotocol]

Teammates

Oscar Piastri x teammate!reader

summary: Oscar and his teammate have a close hilarious relationship

Masterlist / TipJar

ynusername

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, lewishamilton and 2,109,851 others

ynusername Photo of oscar accurately describes how I feel going into my home gp

view all 10,293 comments

oscarpiastri how do you always find the worst photos of me

ynusername i take them bb oscarpiastri oh my god user best teamates on the grid

user if only the mclaren car was better for them

user i think mclaren should be more worried about yn's insane internet presence ynusername omg no..... dont tell them mclaren you are mistaken we live for this

lewishamilton home race !

georgerussell silverstone ! ynusername Brit squad assemble ! landonorris here we come !

user YN is my favourite driver by a landslide

ynusername

liked by oscarpiastri, lewishamilton, georgerussell and 1,992,938 others

ynusername he may've been schooled in this country but he is in desperate need of an education on pure culture

view all 41,291 comments

user I love the fact the minute she is not racing she has the craziest nails

user are they acrylics ynusername they are press ons, easy on easy off ynusername easy way to be hot

oscarpiastri I love that these are the photos you post, you're education was not coffee shops and bookshops

ynusername what nope it was very mundane oscarpiastri nothing with you is mundane user shots fired user petition for yn to release the other photos landonorris petition signed alexalbon petition signed

lewishamilton the most cultured driver crown might be passed down soon

ynpiastri omg can you knight me too lewishamilton i wish! user the crown needs to be passed on now

oscarpiastri

liked by ynusername, landonorris, lewishamilton, and 802,439 others

oscarpiastri Just shy of a podium but got to witness the united kingdoms honorary princess on a podium. (also its not her birthday, her birthday is in 8 months)

view all 99,204 comments

user its always her birthday!

user always !! ynusername it is! oscarpiastri I am not getting you gifts everyday user he gets her birthday gifts..

ynusername mclaren domination in the foreseeable future

oscarpiastri so soon user i love them user they should date

f1fanupdates

liked by 3,420 users

f1fanupdates For the uneducated and borderline uncultured, meet the McLaren cuties. Teammates YN LN and Oscar Piastri channel the Gen Z unmedia-trained craziness. Having known each other from F3 days, their social media makes McLaren admins have heart attacks. Both having wins under their belt, it makes them a very strong team, a force. Would I be lying if I said they would be cute together...

view all 198 comments

user I love them, they are my parents, together or not

user they are iconic I hope they never get trained

user they are the hottest drivers, McLaren slayed with this pairing

user preach

user I already thought they were dating

user no they are just friendly user I bet there are underlying feelings

ynusername

liked by oscarpiastri, lewishamilton, landonorris, and 2,202,420 others

ynusername checking out the opposition. checking OUT the opposition

view all 70,436 others

user she is unhinged

user she is iconic

user is she dating lewis

user nah lewis is married user since when?!?

oscarpiastri don't you dare jump ship

ynusername can't promise anything pooks oscarpiastri you better mclaren you better ynusername till death does us part x

lewishamilton you are not smart with this caption

ynusername innocent until proven guilty lewishamilton you are baiting him user WHO, LEWIS TELL US user OMgggg drama

oscarpiastri

liked by ynusername, lewishamilton, landonorris and 892,104 others

oscarpiastri pov we were meant to be at the technology centre at 9. One of us was

view 67,241 comments

ynusername nooo youve made me look bad, it was traffic

oscarpiastri So, thats not an ice cold coffee in the selfie you sent me ynusername no one was meant to see that oscapiastri nothing you send me is safe sweetheart ynusername I ... okay user omg is she lost for words

user thats possible??

user omg they sent each other photos

user thats not a crazy thing user just let me believe they have feelings

mclaren ohhhh thats why you were late

ynusername no not at all mother mclaren mother is disappointed oscarpiastri what is happening? mclaren its okay son oscarpiastri oh hell naw we are not siblings user hes not helping the rumours

ynusername

liked by oscarpiastri, lewishamilton, mclaren, and 2,579,546 others

ynusername A visual representation of me trying to soft launch a relationship

view all 278,543 comments

oscarpiastri is this why you have been screaming/wheezing in your drivers room for the last 30 mins

user omg she is just like the rest of us oscarpiastri shes been in tears screaming 'why do i have none without his face!!' ynusername you are out of line Piastri oscarpiastri wow, not the surname

lewishamilton very very accurate

ynusername huh lewishamilton we are going to talk soon ynusername @ anyone HELP ME oscarpiastri nothing can help you now

user okay so who do we think it is

user oscar user oscar user oscar user ah so a universal thought

f1fanupdates

liked by 8,250 users

f1fanupdates It has been five months since this soft launching started! We are almost in Abu Dhabi, and YN is still just teasing her partner. We all think it is Oscar, but it is still unknown. No matter who it is though, they look good together

view all 942 comments

user OSCARRRRR

user Imagine it is not oscar and it is some poor guy and now he's upset

user oh user thats a good point

user OscarYN for life

oscarpiastri

liked by ynusername, lewishamilton, landonorris, and 1,240,567 others

oscarpiastri Hoping on the soft launching YN's relationship train

view all 82,459 comments

ynusername wow, thats my next post ruined

lewishamilton for the love of all that is good, just post him ynusername booo oscarpiastri no booo its getting boring ynusername you think that, really.. ? oscarpiastri i do yn girl

user this is hilarious

user i thought this was an YN post at first user same! user oscar is getting sick of it lol

mclaren There were three of us in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded

user not mclaren quoting princess Diana user wouldn't it be four, mclaren, oscar, yn, yns partner user i think you are delusional user i think they are right user mclaren outing there relationship...

ynusername

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, lewishamilton, and 2,520,636 others

ynusername my man my man my maaaan

view all 97,577 comments

user its officalllll guys

user im so happy i was right user they look amazing together user hot couple

oscarpiastri finally a hard launch pookie

oscarpiastri was wondering when you would do it ynusername i was teeing it up lewishamilton its been a good 8 months of you two sneaking around the paddock landonorris we all knew maxverstappen i walked in on them making out fully behind the mclaren hospitatility alexalbon we all did that day, it was basically public information

mclaren our evil plan finally worked

ynusername your what... oscarpiastri your what... mclaren nothing, doors sometimes just lock on accident user not mclaren admin confessing to playing cupid mclaren not just me, everyone, Zak once hid YN's car keys so Oscar had to drive her home ynusername WHAT OMG I FEEL BETRAYED

oscarpiastri

liked by mclaren, ynusername, landonorris, and 1,924,250 others

oscarpiastri HR approved of photos 1 and 2 of my girlfriend

view all 45,266 others

user goddamm

ynusername OSCAR

oscarpiastri hey georgus ynusername georgus? oscarpiastri thats you landonorris you guys make me sickkk ynusername love you toooo oscarpiastri hey... ynusername x

mclaren we do not approve of the 3rd

oscarpiastri I do not want another HR meeting ynusername THIS ONE WASN'T MY FAULT! DON'T MAKE ME SIT THROUGH ANOTHER user what happened last time.. mclaren setting work place phyiscal intimacy boundaries ynusername Oscar is not a good influence on me oscarpiastri you aren't a good influence on anyone love

user I love these two so much

user best teammates on the grid

user the next brocedes ynusername we arent having a dramatic public break up lewishamilton oh

[piastriprincess]

burnin’  up  (for  you  baby)  ⸻  lando  norris  x  reader  .

featuring  lando  norris  ,  best  friends  to  lovers  ,  sickfic  ,  lando  being  a  clingy  boy tw  use  of  fahrenheit  ,  illness  (non  major  but  a  lil  gross) word count  2.5k author’s note  requested  by  anon  !!  thank  you  sm  because  i  really  loved  writing  this  one  .  something  about  a  sickfic  …  very  delicious  TO  ME  !!  one  of  my  favorite  tropes  to  read  so  i  was  very  excited  to  try  it  out  for  the  first  time  .  i  hope  you  enjoy  and  as  always  let  me  know  what  you  think  ,  it  helps  me  so  much  to  get  feedback  about  what  yall  like  and  don’t  like  <3  title  is  from  burnin’  up  by  the  jonas  brothers  !

The only thing worse than experiencing a heatwave is experiencing a heatwave with a sick man blowing up your phone. 

You’re laying on your couch, as close as you can get to the air conditioning unit without actually being on top of it, when it buzzes once. Then again. By the time you shore up the energy to lift your head from the throw pillow, your phone is practically vibrating off the arm of the sofa. 

You know who’s texting you even before you check the notifications. The culprit, as always, is Lando Norris. 

[01:05 PM] help i think im dieing  [01:12 PM] coughs chills snot fever DESPAREEEEE 🤒😷🦠🌡️🤢🛌🪦 [01:13 PM] did i spell that right [01:27 PM] ignoring me. unbelieveable. what are BEST FRIENDS FOR [01:39 PM] do u think i’d look good as a ghost at least [01:42 PM] if u love me u’ll come over and bring that weird soup ur mom made up for colds

You’re about to tell him to stop being a baby and go to the pharmacy himself when two more texts flash across your screen:

[01:44 PM] okay my head is starting to proper hurt now [01:44 PM] come over please?? not joking anymore i feel realy shit [01:45 PM] i need u here

The others — those you could laugh off as your best friend’s usual dramatics. But these make you pause. You’ve known Lando for years, long enough to tell the difference between when he’s playing up his symptoms for attention and when he’s really sick. And the tone of these texts is less performative-whiny-manchild and more genuine discomfort.

You sigh. Sit up. Make a mental list of what’s in your fridge, and what you’ll need to pick up at the pharmacy, resolve crumbling the way it always does when it comes to Lando. Because he may be a baby when he’s sick, but he’s your baby. And as much as you wish your heart didn’t skip a beat when he texts you for help, as much as you wish you could ignore the way your chest tightens when he says he needs you, you’ll always show up for him. 

You’re grabbing your keys before you’ve really admitted to yourself that there was never a choice at all.

The Monaco heatwave is no joke, sun beating down and warmth unrelenting. You already feel like you’re wilting outside, but in Lando’s apartment it’s worse, if that’s even possible. The air feels stale and hot, stifling you as soon as you let yourself in. More worryingly, the flat looks completely empty, nothing but a pile of blankets on the couch with a couple discarded tissues on the ground.

“Lan?” you call, kicking off your shoes and dropping the bags on the counter, slipping the spare key he’d given you as soon as he moved in back into the inner pocket of your purse. “I brought supplies. Even got those lozenges you like because they don’t taste like medicine. Where are you?”

The pile of blankets moves slightly. Then coughs. “You came.”

“Jesus,” you hiss, making your way into the living room. Sure enough, Lando’s buried under the stack, curls plastered flat to his forehead. Despite the heat, he’s wearing a Quadrant hoodie and sweatpants, cheeks flushed crimson. “You look like shit.”

“Rude,” he croaks, voice hoarse and eyes glassy as he looks up at you. “I’m dying. This is it. This is how I go out. Can you make sure Max doesn’t post that picture of me from Ibiza last year as a remembrance? Because I know he thinks he looks good in it, but it’d be my death photo, and my hair looks sort of… wonky.”

“You’re not dying, you have a cold, you drama queen,” you say gently, placing a hand on his forehead. His skin burns beneath yours. “You do feel proper awful though, bub.”

“Told you. I wasn’t joking,” he mumbles, leaning into your touch without seeming to realize it. When you smooth the sweaty curls off his face, he makes a soft sound, almost like a purr.

You wince. “Okay. I’m gonna put the soup on the stove. You get these blankets off before you cook yourself.”

You turn to the kitchen, but Lando whines — actually whines, high and pathetic, like a kicked puppy. “Wait, no, don’t go.”

“I’m literally just going to the kitchen.”

He kicks uselessly at the pile of blankets, trying to sit up. “That’s too far.” 

You look back at the kitchen, no more than ten steps away, then wordlessly back at him.

When he pipes up again, his voice is smaller than usual, eyes are still fixed on the floor when he speaks. “Just… what if you leave?”

You soften immediately at the vulnerability. “Oh, Lan, I’m not going anywhere, I promise. But I have to get this soup started. So here’s what we’re going to do — we’re going to get you out of this hoodie and then you can come to the kitchen with me and sit at the counter and supervise. That work?”

His face brightens, and he nods so eagerly he winces and has to press a hand to his temple. “Perfect. Can’t wait to soup-ervise.”

“I’m going to regret this,” you mutter as you help him untangle from the blankets and stand up, but there’s no heat behind it. “C’mon, arms up.”

He blinks at you slowly, like his body has to catch up with his brain, and then lifts his arms like they’re moving through Jell-O. You grasp the hem delicately and start tugging it upward, but he’s dead weight, not helping at all. 

“Lan, you gotta work with me here.” The hoodie catches on his chin as you pull, and he makes a soft little noise of protest, muffled through the heavy cotton. 

“Can’t,” he mumbles weakly as you finally manage to pull the thing over his head. “Everything’s spinny.” 

You’re about to respond — probably something funny, something that will make him huff out a laugh that won’t turn into a cough — before you realize he’s shirtless underneath the hoodie. 

You’ve seen Lando shirtless countless times before, at beach trips and post-race celebrations and one very ill-advised game of strip poker with Max. And even though he’s sick, bare chest not its usual golden tan, instead flushed feverish pink with a thin sheen of sweat, the sight of it still scrambles your brain a little bit. 

“You good?” you ask, proud of the way you manage to make it come out only slightly strangled.

Lando seems completely oblivious to your sudden inability to form coherent thoughts, nodding as he sways slightly on his feet. “Better. But cold now.”

“Ridiculous. You’re like a human radiator, I can feel how hot you are from here,” you say gently, wrapping your arm around his waist, and he practically melts against your side like personal space is a concept he’s never heard of. He clings to you all the way to the kitchen, bare skin pressed against your side, palm resting low on your hip and head tipped against the slope of your neck. With the way your heart is going, at this point you think you might be closer to fainting than he is.

You try to sit him on a stool at the edge of the counter, but he frowns when he realizes you’re going to the stovetop until you pull the stool around to your side of the kitchen. Even once he’s seated, slumping against the counter, his hand never leaves yours, lacing your fingers together as you pour the broth into the saucepan. You glance back at him, expecting him to let go, but he just tugs your hand into his lap and holds it there, gaze unfocused and fever-bright.

“Lan,” you sigh. “How am I meant to make your soup like this?”

“You’ve got one hand free,” he sniffles. “That’s all a real chef should need.” 

You try to extract your hand from his, to mince the garlic, but he tightens his grip just slightly around you. You raise an eyebrow at him. “Fine,” he relents, pouting as you chop up the aromatics, grate the ginger and lemon. But the moment you’re done with the knife work, turning to the stove to add the vegetables to the broth, he’s standing behind you, arm looping unsteadily around your waist and chin pressing into your shoulder. 

“Oi,” you say, trying not to sound as ridiculously flustered as you feel. “You’re meant to be sitting. Resting. Remember?”

“I missed you,” he mumbles, skin hot through the thin fabric of your tank top. “S’been like, thirty seconds of me time over there. Thought I might die alone.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace,” he corrects, soft and pleased. You can feel his smile against your shoulder, and no matter how many times your brain tells you not to be affected, your heart isn’t quite getting the message. So you let him stay like that while you stir, fever-warm, the weight of him pressed against you in a way you absolutely do not let yourself think about. 

Once the broth is simmering together on the stovetop, you turn back to Lando, guide him gently back to the stool. “While we wait, I need to check your temperature. Open your mouth, yeah?”

“Buy me dinner first,” he responds, cheeky as ever.

“Lando,” you say, going for stern but coming out embarrassingly fond, cheeks pink with it. 

He grins like it’s the exact reaction he was hoping to pull out of you, before he sticks out his tongue with an exaggerated sort of obedience and you place the thermometer in his mouth. While you wait for the reading to come through, you slide a cool cloth across his forehead, watching his lashes flutter shut at the contact and trying not to think about how stupidly pretty he looks even with a potential fever. 

It’s a losing battle. You’re still pretending not to notice it when Lando’s hand curls around your wrist, palm slightly clammy. “S’beeping,” he says, thermometer obscuring his speech slightly. 

“101.2,” you frown, double-checking the digital display like it might change if you stare hard enough. “Lan, you’re burning up.”

“Thanks,” he says, smiling dazedly up at you, hand still around yours. “You’re hot too.”

“Not what I meant.” It’s accompanied by an eye roll you’re using to cover up whatever frankly ridiculous thing your heart just did in your chest, halfway between a leap and a backflip. 

The timer on the stove blessedly chooses that moment to go off, and you turn to check the soup before you do something stupid like kiss him. The soup is golden, zingy with herbs, and the smell fills the kitchen with something like nostalgia. 

“Looks good,” Lando sighs dreamily, resting his chin in his hand. 

“Better than good. It’s going to fix you right up,” you reply, ladling it into a mug, because you know he likes sipping it better than using a spoon. “Drink up, yeah?”

He manages a few mouthfuls before he starts swaying on the stool again, eyelids heavy. The fever seems to be getting worse instead of better, and he’s gone from clingy to practically boneless, leaning more and more of his weight against you. 

“M’tired,” he mumbles, mug tilting precariously in his hand. You grab the cup before he spills it all over his marble floors, placing it gently on the counter as he slumps against you. 

“You need to lie down properly, bub,” you say quietly, but he’s already shaking his head. 

“Don’t wanna,” he says, words slurring together slightly. “Kitchen’s nice. You’re here.”

“I’ll still be here,” you reassure him, looping your arm around his waist and helping him stand. “But you need to get some rest and Jon’ll kill me if your back gets messed up from sleeping on this stool.”

He groans slightly but doesn’t fight you, probably too tired to argue. You lead him carefully down the hallway towards his room, trying not to trip over his feet as he shuffles beside you. He’s not talking, not exactly, just mumbling fevered half-thoughts and sleepy observations that don’t entirely make sense, but every so often he says your name so softly that it makes your chest tighten. 

By the time you get him settled into bed, curtains drawn to keep out the sun, a water glass and ibuprofen on the nightstand, and fan going full blast, even his rambling has mostly ceased. His eyes keep slipping closed, then jolting back open, like he’s trying his hardest to fight off his exhaustion. “Get some rest, Lan,” you murmur, squeezing his hand. 

He squeezes back with a surprising amount of force for someone who’s half-awake and feverish. “You have to stay.”

“I know,” you say gently. “I’m not leaving. I’ll be right out there when you wake up.”

“No,” he insists, eyes fluttering open. “Here. Please.”

You should say no. If not for your immune system, for the way it will almost certainly shatter something fragile inside you to lie next to him and pretend it doesn’t mean everything. 

But he looks so small and tired — vulnerable, almost, and his thumb is tracing across your knuckles, and you’ve never been particularly good at telling him no, anyway. Not when he looks at you like that. 

“Okay,” you whisper, and the relief that floods across his face makes something in your chest give way. “Just until you fall asleep.”

He scoots over immediately, making room for you on the bed. You hesitate for a moment before you clamber in beside him. Before you can even settle properly, he’s already curling into your side, face nuzzling against your neck. Your heart thumps impossibly loud in your chest, and you wonder for a second if he can hear it through your skin. Whether he can press his ear to the pulse point at your neck and listen to the very core of your want. 

“Thanks for staying,” he whispers into your skin, flinging an arm over your waist like it’s second nature, legs tangling into yours. 

“Of course. You asked,” you reply.

“Feel better when you’re here,” he sighs, shifting impossibly closer to you until his body is pressed flush against yours. You think maybe you’ve never been this close with another person, not like this. Skin to skin, breath to breath.

“I know,” you huff out a laugh like you’re trying to turn it into a joke, quiet in the darkness of the room. “Somehow I ended up being the only person you want when you’re sick.”

“No,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, “you’re just the only person I want.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment you think your heart might actually stop beating altogether. There’s something in the way he says it, the quiet certainty, that makes you believe it. Fever doesn’t make you lie about something as important as that, after all. It just makes you brave enough to tell the truth about it.

“Lan,” you whisper, but he’s already snuggling deeper into your side, breath evening out into sleep. He looks peaceful, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. You lie there, holding him close, smile tugging at your lips. 

You don’t wake him up. Not now. You’ll have all the time in the world to figure out where the two of you stand. 

Or, you think to yourself as you sniffle for the first time, several days of sick time, at least.

[0scarp1astr1]

˖ 𐔌 𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐒𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐚𝐲࿐.۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || When the flu hits the Norris household, you're suddenly the full-time nurse, chef, and cuddle provider. With Lando down and sick. It's up to you to nurse him and the kids back to health. ||

ᯓ★ (Husband!) Lando Norris x Fem! (Wife) Reader

ᯓ★ 1x Genre: Fluff

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: More of the Norris Family on your feed. Some stories might not be as long as the others. I do apologize, I am swamped with some things, but making it work. As of now, here is some fluff about the Norris family. DOUBLE POST TODAY!

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

It started with Sebastian.

You were home on the couch, one leg curled beneath you, a warm mug of tea in your hands as the low hum of afternoon silence filled the house. Lyla was upstairs napping, snuggled into her favorite pink blanket with her bunny tucked beneath her chin. Lando had gone out for the afternoon to grab groceries and maybe meet up with Oscar for lunch. It was peaceful. Until your phone rang.

You glanced down, squinting at the screen. St. Mary’s Primary School.

That peaceful feeling? Gone.

You picked up immediately. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Sebastian’s mum?” a gentle voice asked. “This is Nurse Rachel, I’m calling to let you know Sebastian isn’t feeling too well. He’s got a slight fever, looks a bit pale, and he’s complaining about a headache and chills. He’s resting in the office now, but we’d recommend picking him up as soon as possible.”

Your heart dropped. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.”

Ten minutes later, you were parking in front of the school, your chest tight with worry. As soon as you stepped into the nurse’s office, your heart broke.

There was Sebastian, curled up on a cot with a blanket pulled up to his chin. His curls were a mess, flattened to one side, and his eyes looked heavy and dull. His cheeks were flushed, lips dry, and the moment he saw you, he blinked slowly and reached out with a weak little, “Mama…”

“Oh, baby,” you whispered, rushing to his side. You ran your fingers gently through his curls and kissed his forehead. He was burning up.

“Let’s get you home.”

At home, things started okay. You and Lando worked like a well-oiled team—fluffing pillows, taking temperatures, setting timers for medicine, keeping cartoons going on a loop to distract him. You’d been through colds and stomach bugs before. This was just another one. Or so you thought.

But two days in, Sebastian was getting worse.

“He hasn’t eaten anything,” Lando muttered, pacing at the foot of Sebastian’s bed. His hands were shoved into his hoodie pocket, eyes fixed on his son who was lying limp, glassy-eyed, not even responding to his favorite movie playing.

“I know,” you sighed, rubbing Sebastian’s back gently. “He won’t even drink juice.”

“He’s not… him. He doesn’t even want me to read to him.”

You both looked at each other then, the unspoken agreement passing between you like a bolt of electricity.

Doctor. Now.

The diagnosis: flu. A pretty bad one.

“Just rest, fluids, and keep monitoring his fever,” the pediatrician said kindly. “These days, the strains going around have been knocking kids out hard, but with proper care, he should be alright in a few days.”

Lando let out a long sigh once you were back in the car, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Okay. Okay. So we can do this.”

You smiled weakly. “Yeah. We’ve got this.”

You didn’t have this.

Because two days later, Lyla got it.

She woke up wailing in the middle of the night, her entire little body on fire with fever, cheeks damp from tears, and that heartbreaking toddler cry that said she didn’t know what was happening.

“Oh no,” you whispered as you scooped her into your arms.

From the doorway, Lando stood in pajama pants, his shirt long forgotten, with sleepy eyes, hair sticking out in every direction, and dark circles under his eyes. “Not her too.”

“She’s burning up, Lan.”

The house descended into chaos.

You barely knew what day it was. There were humidifiers going in every room. Thermometers beeping every few hours. Medicine charts taped to the fridge. Lyla wanted nothing but cuddles. Sebastian was in a zombie state, and you were running on cold coffee and adrenaline.

One afternoon, while you were wiping down the kitchen counter, a soft knock came at the front door.

You opened it to find Oscar standing there, hoodie pulled over his head and holding a large brown paper bag.

“Hey,” he said with a small, apologetic smile. “Lando said you guys were in full-on crisis mode. I figured you could use a hand.”

“Oscar,” you blinked, almost tearing up. “You’re a lifesaver.”

He stepped inside, pulling off his shoes. “I brought electrolyte drinks, cold meds, some soup, and—” he pulled a stuffed dinosaur from the bag with a small grin, “a get-well friend for Seb.”

You laughed softly, taking the items. “Thank you. Seriously.”

He looked toward the living room where Lando was sprawled on the floor with Lyla clinging to his chest, half-asleep. “How’s he holding up?”

You snorted. “Heroically. Stubbornly. Recklessly. Pick one.”

Lando looked up just then. “Oi! I’m doing my best over here!”

“You’re gonna catch it too, mate,” Oscar warned.

“Nah,” Lando said, stroking Lyla’s back gently. “I’ve got dad immunity.”

“You mean denial,” you muttered, setting down the soup.

But Oscar was right.

Two days later, you walked in from the store to find the living room in complete stillness.

Lando was lying facedown on the couch, motionless. Sebastian was snuggled on top of his back like a human blanket, fast asleep. Lyla was curled at the base of the couch with her head on Lando’s leg, mouth open, drool visibly soaking into the fabric of his joggers.

He lifted his hand lazily and gave you a pathetic wave.

“You’re home,” he rasped, voice so congested it didn’t even sound like him.

You set the bag of groceries down and crossed your arms. “Lando.”

He turned his head just slightly, revealing red-rimmed eyes and a nose that was clearly on strike.

“What?”

“You’re sick.”

“No, I’m just tired,” he mumbled.

You arched a brow. “Tired? Your face looks like it’s been hit with hay fever, the flu, and a cold front.”

He huffed. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. You have a seven-year-old with the flu asleep on your back and a two-year-old sneezing on your leg. You’re now patient three in this house of doom.”

“Don’t diss my babies,” he muttered, sniffling.

You walked over and gently lifted Sebastian off him, carefully not to wake him. “Come on, superhero. Time to go to bed.”

He groaned dramatically, trying to sit up before collapsing again. “This is how I go.”

“Lando.”

He opened one eye. “If I don’t make it, tell Oscar I forgive him for bringing me that soup with ginger.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the fond smile tugging at your lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Tell the children I fought bravely.”

“You got the flu from cuddling a toddler.”

“...still brave.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The early morning had become your only moment of true peace.

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but soft golden light was beginning to filter in through the tall windows of your Monaco flat, casting long, warm shadows across the quiet living room. The city beyond the glass was still sleeping, wrapped in the quiet hum of a new day not yet begun. No traffic. No coughing. No cartoons buzzing in the background. Just silence. Precious, rare silence.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen, the tiles cool beneath your feet, wrapped loosely in your robe. One hand cradled a warm mug of tea while the other rested against the edge of the counter as you took a breath. Deep. Grounding. You could almost pretend the past week hadn’t happened—almost pretend the house wasn’t still full of flu-stricken chaos, discarded tissues, and sleepless nights.

But you knew better.

Your eyes wandered toward the hallway.

In your bedroom, Lando lay sprawled across the bed, curled protectively around a small, warm bundle. Lyla was tucked up against him, her tiny frame almost disappearing beneath the heavy duvet. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, her thumb still resting against her lips, breathing soft and even. One of Lando’s arms was draped over her securely, his hand resting gently on her back as if shielding her from even the remnants of the flu. His curls were a tousled mess on the pillow, his mouth parted slightly as he slept—exhausted, stuffy, and completely defeated by the same virus he’d insisted he wouldn’t catch.

You’d warned him. Time and time again, you told him to stop letting her cough in his face, to quit letting her nuzzle into his hoodie while she sniffled and sneezed.

“She’s a daddy’s girl,” you had said. “You’ll be the next one down.”

And now, here you were.

Across the hall, Sebastian was finally asleep too, curled up in his bright red race car bed. His tiny body lay limp under a Cars-themed comforter, his arms tucked beneath his pillow, one leg dangling out from under the blanket like it always did—flu or no flu. His cheeks were still a little pink, but the fever had come down overnight. You’d stood in his doorway earlier just to watch him breathe, just to make sure.

He looked peaceful. For now.

And for a few stolen moments, so did everyone else.

You sipped your tea, turning slowly back toward the stove.

“Breakfast,” you mumbled to yourself, eyeing the sparse options you’d managed to keep stocked through the week. There wasn’t much point in cooking something elaborate. Nothing seemed to stay down anyway. Every meal came with the risk of being met with a gag, a grumble, or worse—clean-up duty.

You sighed and set the mug down. “Oatmeal and yogurt,” you decided aloud. “Simple. Gentle. Not likely to end up on the floor.”

You grabbed the oats and a small pot, setting it on the stove to warm the milk. Your hands moved with practiced rhythm—quiet, calm. You sliced some banana, then carefully cut a few strawberries, arranging them in a little dish in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, the colors might tempt Lyla or Sebastian to eat something.

The silence was comforting, for once. No crying. No sneezing. No soft calls of “Mama…” from down the hall.

Just you. Your kitchen. The soft hum of the refrigerator. The aroma of tea.

And then—ring ring ring.

You jumped a little at the sudden break in stillness and reached across the counter for your phone, sighing lightly. You glanced at the screen and smiled.

Cisca.

You picked up immediately. “Well,” you said with a chuckle, phone pressed to your ear, “it’s nice someone is calling me and not crying or throwing up.”

“Calling to check in on the family!” Cisca’s warm, familiar voice greeted you.

Your smile deepened. Lando’s mom had always been so caring—gentle but no-nonsense, the kind of woman you could rely on. She knew how hard motherhood could get, even with help.

You leaned against the counter, balancing the phone between your shoulder and cheek. “You have impeccable timing. The house is actually… quiet. For once.”

“I was hoping I’d catch you before the chaos starts again. How’s everyone holding up?”

“Well,” you exhaled, stirring the oatmeal slowly, “Sebastian’s fever finally broke last night. He’s asleep in his bed, looking like a little zombie racer.”

“That’s good news.”

You nodded to yourself. “Lyla’s still all sniffles and sleepy cuddles. And she’s in bed with Lando right now.”

Cisca laughed knowingly. “Let me guess—tucked under his arm like a little koala?”

You chuckled. “Exactly. It’s actually adorable. She’s latched onto him like he’s her personal comfort pillow. She refuses to be anywhere else.”

“She always was a daddy’s girl.”

“Yeah,” you said with a smirk, “which brings me to the bad news—he’s got the flu now too.”

“Oh no…”

You shook your head, scooping the finished oatmeal into a bowl. “I told him. Over and over. Stop letting her breathe on you. Stop kissing her forehead every five minutes. But he couldn’t help himself. He cuddled her through the worst of it and now…” You glanced toward the bedroom door. “He’s just another one of my patients.”

Cisca groaned. “He never did listen to advice when it came to sick days.”

You grinned. “Now he’s snoring like a bear, wrapped around his sick toddler like he’s the one keeping her alive.”

“Well, you’re a stronger woman than me,” she said with a laugh. “I’d have booked a hotel.”

“Trust me, I’ve thought about it.”

You both laughed, and for a moment, the tension eased.

“You’re doing great,” Cisca said warmly. “I know this part is exhausting, but it’ll pass. Just make sure you don’t go down next.”

“Knock on wood,” you muttered, glancing at the counter. “I’m the last one standing.”

“For now,” she teased.

You chuckled again and looked over your shoulder, taking in the morning light filtering across the floor, casting a soft glow down the hallway. Behind those doors were your whole world—sick, tired, and helpless—but still your heart in three fragile, beautiful pieces.

And right now, you were holding everyone together.

“I’ve got it,” you whispered more to yourself than anyone else. “I’ve got all of them.”

The sound of a raspy cough pierced the quiet, interrupting your rare sliver of calm. You gently pulled the phone away from your ear mid-sentence.

“I think that’s my cue,” you murmured with a soft sigh. “One of the tiny patients is awake.”

“Hang in there,” Cisca replied sympathetically. “Call me later if you need anything.”

“I will. Thank you, Cisca.”

You ended the call and set the phone down on the counter, already hearing the familiar rhythm of small footsteps padding against the wooden floors. And then—

“Mama!”

You turned toward the hallway, just as Sebastian appeared—his race car pajamas rumpled, curls flattened on one side of his head, and his cheeks still flushed from fever. He rubbed one eye with the back of his hand, dragging his favorite stuffed animal behind him.

Before you could respond, Lando stepped into the kitchen behind him, holding Lyla close to his chest. She was bundled in a blanket, thumb in her mouth, her heavy head resting on his shoulder. Her curls were tangled from sleep, her little body completely melted against him.

“Lando,” you sighed gently, though your tone carried the weight of exhaustion, “put her down. You all should be in bed. I’m making breakfast.”

He gave a tired shake of his head, voice barely above a whisper. “We’re fine, love.”

But you saw the truth in his eyes—the fatigue, the faint daze behind his movements, and most telling of all, the harsh cough that followed his words, forcing him to turn away from the stove area.

“Please,” you said more firmly, “not around the food.”

He nodded weakly, patting Lyla’s back as she made a soft noise in her sleep.

You set the spoon down with a soft clink and crossed your arms. “Okay. You three—back to bed. Now. All of you.”

“Mama…” Sebastian whined pitifully. He shuffled forward and leaned into your side, wrapping his arms around your leg. “I want to stay with you…”

Your heart tugged painfully.

You ran your fingers through his curls and crouched down to meet his tired gaze. “Oh, sweetheart… you three make me feel awful. I hate seeing you all like this.”

Lando watched you, still holding Lyla like a sick little koala bear. His lips were pale, eyes heavy-lidded. You stepped closer, gently brushing a hand over Lyla’s back and then across his arm.

“Lando, honey,” you said softly, your voice dipping into something tender, something pleading, “can you please lay back down? Take them with you? Just rest a little longer.”

He hesitated, shoulders slumping as he exhaled shakily. “I would,” he murmured, “but my head is pounding and I feel like my whole body’s made of wet paper.”

You sighed, leaning into him briefly, pressing your forehead to his arm. “I told you this would happen.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But she wouldn’t sleep without me…”

You looked down at Lyla, who hadn’t stirred once since they entered the kitchen, her little fingers fisted in the fabric of Lando’s shirt.

“Alright,” you said softly. “Come on. All of you—back to bed. I’ll bring breakfast to the bedroom. Just let me finish getting it ready. I’ll even add a bit of honey to Sebastian’s oatmeal and cut Lyla’s strawberries just the way she likes them.”

Sebastian sniffled and looked up at you. “With the little star shapes?”

You smiled tiredly. “With the star shapes, baby.”

Lando gave you the faintest, grateful grin. “You’re kind of a superhero, you know that?”

You reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “Don’t you forget it.”

As they slowly turned back toward the hallway—Lando shuffling like a sick penguin, Sebastian clutching his stuffed animal and trailing behind, Lyla still completely draped across her dad—you watched them disappear one by one into the bedroom.

The kitchen was warm with the gentle scent of honey and oats, the steam from the tea curling softly into the air. You moved with quiet care, filling the bowls with the oatmeal you’d just made—each one sweetened with a drizzle of honey and topped with star-shaped strawberries and banana slices. A small cup of yogurt sat beside each bowl, along with spoons, napkins, and the kind of quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, the kids would eat today without rejecting it.

You poured a mug of warm tea for Lando—his favorite herbal blend with a slice of lemon, just the way he liked it when he was sick—and then filled a tiny glass with vegetable juice for Sebastian, placing it gently on the tray. You knew he didn’t love it, but he’d promised to try if you made it “look fancy.” Lyla’s sippy cup was filled halfway with the same juice, mostly in the name of fairness.

Balancing the two trays with practiced care, you made your way down the hall and into the bedroom.

What you found made your heart ache in that bittersweet way only motherhood ever could.

Lando had propped himself up against the headboard, hair a complete mess, cheeks slightly flushed. Lyla was curled up on his lap, wrapped in her blanket, her thumb tucked into her mouth as she blinked sleepily at you. Sebastian was leaning into Lando’s side, his little head resting on his dad’s shoulder, still holding tightly to his stuffed bunny.

“Goodness,” you breathed, stepping into the room, “you three amaze me…”

Lando looked up, managing a tired grin as you carried the trays in.

You set them carefully on the bedside table and climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress as you sat at the edge. “Alright, breakfast is served—oatmeal, yogurt, fancy fruit, and drinks you’ll all probably ignore.”

“Ocker!” Lyla suddenly perked up, her voice muffled and sleepy as she looked at you hopefully.

You gave her a gentle smile, brushing a hand over her forehead. “Uncle Oscar’s probably busy right now, baby girl. And you’re too sick—he can’t come over until you’re feeling better, remember?”

Lyla frowned, clearly disappointed, but snuggled back into Lando’s chest.

Lando groaned softly, placing a hand over his face in mock defeat. “Great. Sick, miserable, and now my own daughter is choosing Oscar over me.”

You let out a soft laugh, nudging his foot under the covers. “Relax. She’s not picking favorites.”

He peered at you over his hand. “Sure sounds like it.”

You glanced at Lyla, who was now absently poking the edge of her blanket and sucking on her thumb again. “You know when she’s anxious, she gravitates to people who make her feel calm,” you said gently. “And Oscar’s like her giant golden retriever. He’s quiet. Still. And he always lets her talk first, even when she’s babbling nonsense.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying I don’t let her talk?”

You gave him a look. “You narrate her every move like she’s a Formula 1 highlight reel.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it again, sheepish. “Okay… fair.”

Sebastian let out a soft laugh beside him. “You do that, Daddy.”

Lando gave him a playful nudge. “Traitor.”

You smiled at the sight of all three of them bundled up in bed together—your entire world, messy hair and flushed cheeks and all. You passed out the bowls carefully, helping Sebastian sit up straighter and placing Lyla’s tray on the bed where she could reach it, even if you’d probably end up spoon-feeding her half of it.

Lando took his tea with a grateful hum, blowing on it gently. “You didn’t have to do all this, you know.”

“Yes, I did,” you said simply, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Because if I don’t take care of you three, who will?”

He caught your hand in his and kissed your knuckles softly. “When this is over, I owe you a week of sleep and massages.”

“Throw in some chocolate and a hot bath, and you’ve got a deal.”

Lyla leaned her head against Lando’s chest again, sleepy and warm, and Sebastian spooned some oatmeal into his mouth with a quiet, “Mmm, the stars are tasty.”

You laughed softly.

Even in sickness, even in chaos—you wouldn’t trade this for the world.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Medicine hour. A warzone.

“Lando, for the love of everything, just drink it.” You stood over him, arms crossed, holding the measuring cup filled with thick, cherry-red syrup. “You’re setting the worst example.”

He groaned. “I hate the taste. I’d rather die than drink that stuff again.”

“Dramatic,” you muttered, before grabbing a tissue and wiping a smear of sweat off his brow. “But fine. If you die, I’m throwing you out on the balcony so you don’t get the rest of us sicker.”

Sebastian, peeking from behind the kitchen island, gasped. “You’d throw Daddy off the balcony?”

You grinned. “Only a little.”

“Nooooo,” Lyla whined dramatically, half-laughing, half-crying from where she had crawled into Lando’s lap — seeking refuge. “No medicine! No meeeeedicine!”

“She’s hiding behind me,” Lando groaned. “I’m literally dying, and she’s hiding behind me.”

You gave them both the look. “I swear to God—”

10:00 AM They were scattered across the living room like sick little soldiers after battle. Lyla was curled on Lando’s chest, snot crusting around her nose as she finally gave in to sleep. Sebastian lay on his side with a cold rag on his forehead, muttering something about how he was “still in control of the situation.”

You were running on caffeine and desperation, perched at the edge of the armchair, flipping through temperature logs on your phone and timing medicine gaps.

“You okay?” Lando mumbled hoarsely, watching you through tired eyes. You hesitated. “I’ve been better.”

He gave you a weak smile. “I’d kiss you, but I’d infect you.”

You snorted. “You already did.”

12:45 PM Lunchtime was a joke.

Lando tried to stand and help but ended up throwing up water in the bathroom and groaning dramatically like a Shakespearean ghost. You had to threaten Sebastian with no Mario Kart for a week just to get three spoonfuls of chicken broth into him.

Lyla wailed when you brought the soup near her mouth. She refused to even open it unless Lando was holding the spoon, which he physically couldn’t. It ended with you holding Lyla, and Lando guiding your hand to her mouth with both of yours like some sort of messed-up relay.

“Say aaaaah,” you tried.

“No!” “Please?” “Noooooo!” “Fine, then no cartoon time for the day”

Her mouth opened like magic. You almost cried.

2:30 PM Nap time.

Not for you, of course. Never for you.

Lando was finally out cold in bed, one leg dangling dramatically off the side. Sebastian had passed out with a box of tissues under one arm and a Switch on the other. Lyla was asleep on the living room floor, a stuffed bunny clutched to her chest and tear streaks still drying on her face.

You just sat. In the silence. For ten whole minutes.

Ten peaceful, quiet, blessed minutes.

Until Sebastian shouted from his dream, “Don’t touch my kart!” and startled Lyla back awake.

4:00 PM Round two.

You had to strip Lando’s shirt when he started sweating through it again. He barely fought you this time, just muttered something about “this being true love” as you threw it into the hamper.

Sebastian vomited in the hallway. “I didn’t mean to!” “I know, sweetheart. It’s okay.” “Do I still get Mario Kart?” “…We’ll talk about it.”

Lyla bit your arm during her medicine dose. Not unusual considering who her father is.

6:00 PM You finally had them clean, medicated, in fresh pajamas, and watching a movie — a miracle. Lando took your hand from where he lay on the couch.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered. “You haven’t sat all day.”

“Who has time to sit when you have three Norrises pretending they're fine but slowly dying in front of you?”

He laughed softly, rubbing your knuckles. “Seriously… thank you.” You kissed his temple. “Next time you say you’re fine… I’m duct-taping you to the bed.”

From across the room, Sebastian weakly raised his hand. “Me too?” “Yes, you too.” “And Lyla?” Lyla sneezed so hard she fell over. “Nooooooo!”

You exhaled, leaning back at last.

One long, flu-stricken day down. God help you — it probably wasn’t over yet.

But for now… they were okay.

And that was enough.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The sun had barely crept over the buildings of Monaco, casting soft golden streaks through the glass windows of the flat. You stood barefoot in the kitchen, hoodie sleeves rolled up and hair tied messily atop your head. The faint hum of the dishwasher was a low reward for your efforts, and the strong scent of lemon-scented disinfectant lingered in the air. You'd deep cleaned every surface before anyone had even stirred. You sanitized toys, aired out bedding, wiped down door handles — anything that had been sneezed, coughed, or whined on.

You were exhausted, but the apartment felt new again — lighter somehow, fresher, like the weight of the past 48 hours had lifted a little. Even Monaco, framed through the glass windows, looked like it had taken a deep breath alongside you.

Just as you were about to sink into the couch for the first time all morning, the doorbell buzzed. You already knew the voice before the intercom clicked:

“Delivery!” came Oscar’s cheerful tone.

You grinned.

Dragging yourself to the door, you cracked it open slightly. “You,” you said with a tired smile, “are the absolute best.”

He laughed as you opened the door the rest of the way. “I figured you needed it,” he said, handing over a large brown paper bag with your favorites — fresh croissants, some fruit, and what you knew was a much-needed double-shot latte.

You clutched the bag like it was sacred. “You're a hero. Truly. Come in?”

He shook his head. “Can’t. On the way to the simulator, but I wanted to check in.”

“How’s Lando? And the others?” he asked as you leaned against the doorway, exhaustion written under your eyes but a soft smile on your lips.

You let out a sigh that carried a world of chaos. “Well… let’s see,” you began, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “I’ve been running around handling cleaning and cooking and, you know, making sure no one dies from stubbornness.”

Oscar smirked. “Sounds about right.”

“Lando keeps trying to act like he’s fine, defending Lyla during medicine hour like some sort of sick knight in a hoodie. He practically begged me not to make her drink the syrup last night — while sweating through his own shirt.”

Oscar snorted.

“And Sebastian…” You softened a little, glancing toward the hallway. “He wants to do karting. He was almost crying this morning. Said he knows he can drive even if he’s sick — ‘just not with a helmet on because it squishes his head,’” you mimicked gently in Sebastian’s voice. “So, he’s very much stuck in the flat and not happy about it.”

You paused, then added with a chuckle, “And me? Well. I’m surviving. Officially crowned Mrs. Norris and her flu-stricken family. Put it on the mailbox.”

Oscar gave you a soft look, one of genuine admiration. “You always say you’re surviving, but honestly… you’re the one keeping the wheels turning.”

You gave him a tired smile in return, warmed by the words. “Maybe. But next time they all get the flu? I’m moving out. Temporarily. Maybe to your flat.”

“Ha! Yeah, okay. You, voluntarily away from them?” he grinned. “You’d last three hours before you’re texting Lando to send you pictures of the kids in their pajamas.”

You shrugged, accepting the truth. “Alright, fine. But I will complain the whole time.”

He stepped back, giving you a two-finger salute. “Hang in there. And seriously — nap when you can. You’ve earned it.”

You raised the coffee cup like a toast. “Oscar Piastri, Patron Saint of the Overworked Mother.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said over his shoulder as he walked down the corridor.

You lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, sipping your drink, letting the warmth spread through your fingers and into your chest.

The house was quiet again. Peaceful, if only for a few minutes.

You closed the door and whispered to yourself, “Alright. Round three… let’s go.”

The rest of the day unfolded in a blur of soft whines, crumpled tissues, and half-eaten meals abandoned mid-bite. Every corner of the flat held evidence of a war against the flu — juice cups only half drunk, bowls of soup pushed aside, little socks strewn across the floor like fallen soldiers.

Sebastian and Lyla had entered the “bickering phase,” where every toy, blanket, or parental glance became a battle.

“Mummy, Lyla stole my truck!”

“Nooo, mine!”

“It’s literally mine!”

You exhaled loudly from the kitchen, gently massaging your temple. “Please… one moment of peace. One.”

Lando, lying horizontal on the couch with a blanket thrown over his head like a man defeated, peeked one eye open. “Want me to mediate?”

“You fell asleep twice during Cars 2,” you shot back. “You’re barely qualified to stand.”

“I’m fine,” he said for the fourth time today — voice raspy, hair tousled, and one sock mysteriously missing. “Totally fine.”

You glanced at the coffee table, where a half-full mug of cold tea sat untouched next to a bottle of cold meds. “You sure about that?”

“Mmhm,” he said, eyes already closing again.

You didn’t push it. You just picked up another tissue from the floor and added it to the already overflowing bin.

Midday blurred into afternoon.

You dragged a basket of clothes out of the bathroom, a trail of damp towels and pajamas trailing behind you. Every time you passed a doorknob, you hit it with a disinfectant wipe. The light switches, the remotes, the handles to the fridge — all wiped in steady repetition like you were running your own personal hospital ward.

Lyla cried when she couldn’t find Bunny. Sebastian cried when Lyla touched his Mario Kart controller. Lando made a valiant attempt to make toast, only to collapse back into bed five minutes later, claiming the “world got a little spinny.”

And you… you kept going.

You’d lost count of how many times you’d reheated your coffee. You hadn’t brushed your hair since early morning, and your hoodie had a suspicious smear on the sleeve — you didn’t ask what it was. But still, you moved through the house like a quiet force, taking care of your people, checking temperatures, brushing sweaty hair from little foreheads, rubbing Lando’s back when he coughed hard enough to wince.

You were tired.

Utterly drained.

But you looked at them — at the mess, the madness, the family-shaped hurricane swirling around you — and your chest still swelled with that quiet kind of love.

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Not the mess. Not the noise. Not even the flu.

Because they were yours.

And all you wanted… was for them to feel better.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Three more days.

Three more days of the same rhythm: tissues, thermometers, scattered toys, the faint beep of the washing machine in the background. You moved through the apartment with quiet determination, never stopping for long — cleaning surfaces with one hand, balancing a bottle of electrolyte solution in the other. You knew exactly how many crackers were left, how low the medicine was getting, and which blanket belonged to which feverish body.

You restocked what was needed, organized medications by time, wiped down doorknobs like it was second nature. You were the engine keeping the flat running — quiet, steady, reliable. But it was draining, and though you didn’t say a word of it out loud, your body ached with exhaustion, your eyes stung when you blinked too long, and your thoughts grew foggy from lack of sleep.

Lando noticed.

Even in his haze — buried in the couch, skin pale, lips cracked from dehydration — he watched you.

And it hurt him.

Every time he opened his eyes and saw you wiping down the remote or cleaning Lyla’s pacifier again, he felt it deep in his chest. Not the ache of the flu — but the ache of helplessness. The guilt.

He wanted to get up and take the load from your shoulders. He wanted to hold Lyla while you slept, chase Sebastian around the flat again, make you tea and tell you to lie down. But his body betrayed him. Every time he tried, the wave of nausea, of exhaustion, of weakness pulled him right back down.

Still… he silently promised himself: As soon as I can stand, I’m making it right.

And then — slowly, things began to shift.

Day Four of Illness.

It was subtle at first. But you noticed.

Lando made it to the bathroom on his own. No dizzy hands braced on the wall. No stumbling. Just… quiet steps down the hallway, and a simple, calm return to bed. He even flushed this time, a small miracle. When he laid down, he muttered, “Didn’t even gag this time.” It was ridiculous — and still made your heart squeeze.

His appetite came creeping back. He managed to finish toast without wincing, and even reached for a banana. “Don’t get too excited,” he said weakly when he caught your proud smile. “I’m still a shell of a man.”

Sebastian’s voice was still hoarse with a lingering cough, but he was no longer buried under four blankets in bed. Instead, he was camped on the couch, one leg hanging off as he watched cartoons, munching slowly on dry cereal. His eyes were brighter, not glassy anymore, and he even complained about how boring it was to be sick now.

“Can I go karting today?” he asked. You raised a brow. “Buddy… you’re still coughing.” “But I feel fast.” You laughed softly. “You’ll be fast again soon, promise.”

And Lyla — your little whirlwind — was finally playing again. Her fever had broken. She was dragging her plush animals around the living room like royalty, babbling half-words, climbing into your lap only to squirm out two seconds later. Her energy was returning in soft waves — not chaotic, but present.

And you?

You finally noticed you weren’t holding your breath anymore.

You weren’t setting alarms every few hours in the night. You didn’t have to make midnight runs to the bathroom cabinet. You no longer counted coughs or worried about temperatures spiking.

The house still held signs of the storm — the tissues, the blankets, the smell of menthol lingering in the air — but it was passing. Slowly, but surely, your family was healing.

That night, for the first time in what felt like forever, you laid down in bed and didn’t immediately feel the pressure of duty pulling you back up.

And when Lando turned over to face you, his voice was low, scratchy, but more him than it had been in days.

“You can sleep now,” he whispered, his hand gently brushing yours under the blanket. “We’re okay.”

And you believed him.

So you closed your eyes.

And slept.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You almost thanked the heavens out loud when color returned to your family’s faces.

Sebastian was up earlier, bounding down the hallway with his usual chaotic energy, no longer curled up on the couch like a sad, blanket-wrapped burrito. He was asking about karting again, insisting he was at “90% top speed, maybe 95 if I have juice first.”

Lyla had less whines and more giggles, finally dragging her plush bunny around like a queen commanding her court. She followed Sebastian with a trail of toys and an occasional squeal of laughter, her little feet pattering like soft rain across the living room.

And Lando — God, Lando was himself again. Teasing the kids, poking Sebastian in the ribs until he laughed too hard and snorted, lifting Lyla over his shoulder with ease as she squealed “Daddy noooo!” through laughter. His eyes had lost that fever-dull glaze. His cheeks held their warmth again, his playful smile was back.

It was perfect. Finally.

You could breathe. You could wipe your forehead, toss the washcloth into the laundry, and declare — with exhausted triumph — mission accomplished. You’d nursed your flu-stricken army back to health. You'd survived the storm.

Dinner plates were no longer left half-full. No one was clutching their stomach or whining about sore limbs or sweating through pajamas at 2am. They were whole again.

And then, like cruel irony, a week later… it hit you.

It started slow. A dull ache behind your eyes. The scratch in your throat. A heaviness in your body that you desperately tried to shake off.

No, you told yourself. Not me. I’m the caregiver, the strong one, the immune one. I don’t get sick. I fix sick.

But the ache deepened. The energy drained. And by the time you found yourself in the kitchen, hunched slightly over the steaming bowl of chicken soup, elbows on the counter, face slack with fatigue — you knew.

It got you. The flu finally got you.

Your head lolled to the side as the world tilted just slightly under your feet, and you groaned, nose wrinkling. You didn’t even hear him come in, not until that familiar voice softened behind you.

“You okay, baby?”

Lando’s tone was light, but laced with immediate concern. You turned your head sluggishly and gave a small, pitiful hum.

“Think the flu is trying to attack me,” you mumbled, punctuating the sentence with a weak cough into your sleeve.

He was at your side instantly, hand brushing your lower back. You saw his face fall just slightly. Not the dramatic Lando face he gave the kids — the real one. The worried one.

“Alright,” he said firmly, “go lay down. No arguments.”

You groaned. “No. I still need to finish—”

“Nope. Don’t care. You took care of us. Now we take care of you,” he said, gently taking the spoon from your hand and setting it down. “C’mon, don’t be stubborn. You were a badass nurse. It’s my turn to suck at it.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “You’re going to be the best and worst nurse. Somehow, both at once.”

He grinned, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “Right. Now off you go. Shoo. Mama’s off duty.”

You were about to turn, maybe even argue a little more — but then, with a cheeky grin, he slapped your ass. Hard enough to make you yelp.

“NORRIS!” you barked, rubbing the spot with a soft wince.

“What?” he laughed, completely unbothered, “I’m just encouraging the patient to move along. Nurse’s orders.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, incredibly handsome.”

He winked, ushering you toward the hallway.

You dragged your feet, muttering, “A nurse does not hurt the person he’s caring for.”

“Oh come on,” he murmured, catching up to you, kissing the edge of your jaw. “It’s my favorite part of you. Don’t act like you didn’t know.”

You turned back to give him the dirtiest look you could muster — half-hearted at best — and he smirked again.

“I’ll carry you if I have to,” he said, following close behind.

From the living room, Lyla squealed in laughter and Sebastian shouted something about racing plush animals. You smiled faintly, even through the growing ache in your head. They were okay. They were whole again. That was everything.

Lando guided you toward the bedroom, one hand still gently on your hip.

“Oh, and babe?” he added, grinning, “If I nurse you back to health, I get baby number three.”

You spun slowly on your heel. “You really wanna try that while I have the flu?”

He raised both hands. “Just planting the idea. Let it simmer. Like your soup. Which I’m now in charge of, by the way.”

You laughed softly — hoarse and worn, but genuine.

He brushed your hair away from your forehead, pressed a kiss there. “Go sleep. I’ll check on the kids, do dinner. You’ve earned it.”

You nodded, curling under the blanket a few minutes later, body finally letting go.

Your husband — your teammate, your chaos, your comfort — was the biggest pain in your ass. But he was also the one always ready to carry you when you couldn’t walk.

And really, that made him the best damn nurse of all. Even if he had wandering hands.

[ln4z]

a little bit scandalous — ln4z thoughts [ 18+ ]

smut (obvi), praise kink, first time tgt, 6 year age gap but the reader is almost 20, reader is a mercedes driver, older bf!ln4

thinking about how older bf!lando norris was never the type to go for someone ridiculously younger—atleast not someone as young as you. he first saw you in the Mercedes garage watching the race alongside kimi and toto. the formula two world championship leader. displaying a dominance no one had seen before. every race—including sprint and feature–won from pole, fastest laps set so easily as if it was nothing.

safe to say everyone heard of you. including him. and he didn't think much of it because you were so young—19, basically a child. still a teenager.

it wasn’t until the pre-season testings in bahrain he really looked at you. so timid, reserved. always sticking to your teammate, kimi or people you were already familiar with. what really intrigued him was your coy behavior. the way it was so easy to fluster you. the lovely shade of pink you would turn everytime he complimented you.

eyes immediately casted down wards, heat rushing to your cheeks as you let out a nervous and coy giggle before continuing the conversation. and lando thought it was the most adorable thing ever. but oh how sad this wasn't something reserved for him specially. that's just how you were. even when max complimented you, or so did charles. infact even when any skysports employee praised you!

he wanted to all of it for himself. he wanted the red on your cheeks only because of him. he wanted you to stutter only because of him. he wanted your shy giggles only because of him. he wanted the way you downcast your eyes only because of him.

he wanted all of your timind, coy, and young self all only for him.

"you're such a lovely darling aren't you?" he said as he brushed the hairs out of your face. his fingers pumping in and out of your cunt. your first podium, his monaco win—somehow you both ended up in his bedroom, drunk—enough for you to consent properly. clothes thrown on the floor haphazardly.

"lando." you whined as you felt the knot forming—legs shaking as his calloused fingers pinched your clit. "let go for me doll, let it all go." he leaned down to press a reassuring kiss on your temple. with a final thrust his fingers were coated with your insides and slick. he bought his fingers to his lips, tasting you. "so pretty, and taste so sweet. just like your behavior doll."

and there was it, the way you avoided his eyes, face all flushed from the fingering and his compliment as your lips stretched into a coy smile. "you still with me baby?" you nodded at his word.

you moaned as he pushed his cock inside you. before you could utter about him being too big—making you feel so full—he said, "you're taking it so well, sweetheart. i don’t think you even know how good you are for me." and you shut up—egar to please him, egar to earn his praise. now that he was hovering over you, his face was so close you could see the marks your lipstick left on his jaw.

lando smirked at the lewd noises that left your mouth as he slowly thrusted in and out of you. "my doll, my perfect little thing." he mumbled against your neck. your wet cunt felt blissful against his errotic cock. "every single sound you make is perfect. ever. single. one." he says before bitting your neck. mouth littering your neck with purple bruises.

lando knew this was higly unprofessional. he wasn't supposed to be tangled up with you—atleast not like this. he wasn't supposed to be tangled up with the second youngest rookie on the grid. with the rookie who took his bestfriend's seat. with the only female driver on the grid. it would be higly scandalous but god if they knew the way you sounded—not that they would, not that he would let them. he wouldn't allow anyone to hear the noises you make under him, ever.

"god, you're too young to be this addictive." lando kissed the shell of you ear.

"ahh—ah lando." your hips bucked up when he increased his pace. he put one hand on your throat—not even applying pressure. scared that he might break you so it just stayed there. lando groaned when he felt you clenching around him. "ahh–i'm gonna cum." you panted as you felt the knot getting tighter. lando hissed as your nails dragging down his back.

he leanded down, placing butterfly kisses all over your face murmuring, "this is mine," as he kissed your cheek. "this too." while kissing your forehead. "all you—all mine, you hear that?" if his words didn't prove it then his tone did—so assertive and dominating, so possessive. making his message all but clear. he removed his hand from your throat. slipping it in yours—intertwining your fingers together as he felt you near your climax. his other hand slipped under you, playing with your clit.

you squeezed his hand when you came all over his cock—back archin' off the bed. "just a lil more baby." he muttered against your lips as his pace became brutal. chasing his own high—yet still playing with your clit. you whined his name as all the sensations became too much for your already drunken and orgasm blissed sense. "shh i know baby, i know." he kissed your pout. purposely pounding a little hard, making you moan a little too loudly against his mouth. lando slipped his tongue inside your mouth. making sure all of you was pleasured.

and with the final thrust he came in the condom—ofcourse you have to use protection when sleeping with someone so much younger. he slowly pulled out his now softened dick. replacing it with his fingers. "uh uh keep your legs open f'me doll." he kissed your cheek. "you don't have to think sweetheart, just let me take care you." his forehead rested against yours. "it's too much lan." you cried—barely aware of the tears forming in your eyes.

"i know, i know, but you trust me don't you?" he asked kissing away the tears that feel. you nodded—but ofcourse that wasn't enough. "words darling." he commanded. "i–ah–i do trust you." you managed choke out, slowly opening your legs more. "that's it—there you go, always so so pliant. my sweet girl, my good girl." the praise, the overstimulation, the alcohol in your system—it was all too much. your thighs trembled as you came all over his fingers once again. lando hummed as he tasted you—his new favorite flavour—once again.

he fell next to you, pulling you in his arms. big hands wiping away the dried tears. and that's when something snapped in him–perhaps the reality of the situation. "hey—hey baby, look at me are you okay? did i push you too far? did i hurt you?" he asked, voice laced with worry and anxiety. "no no you were good." you muttered—tired body instinctively curling towards his warmth. "you're not sleeping are you? i need to clean us up." lando looked down at you. carefully tucked into his side already pouting about five more minutes.

god, he was so so so gone. he held you—just five more minutes—with your head tucked under his chin. thinking about he'll never touch another girl ever again. not after you.

[bunny-jpeg]

not second best

max verstappen

tags: smut/pwp, redbull driver!reader, teammates au, jealousy, possessiveness, missionary, dirty talk, rough sex

"if you could be teammates with anyone else, who would it be?"

you stood in front of the camera and thought on it for a moment before you answered, "oh, easy! i'd choose charles! i'd say we're pretty close and i'm hopeful this year is the year we wins... but he'd have to beat me first!" then winked at the camera with your hands on your hips.

your teammate, max, was behind the camera and his ears were burning. he knew the question was a joke, but he didn't want to see his favourite teammate be on the same team with his most loathed rival.

in the hotel room, max's hand lingered across your back a little more as he guided you away from your hotel room and towards his. his nose brushed against your neck, taking in your scent before he went to open the door.

when he got the door closed behind you two, his hands were on you once more. his lips at your neck and between kisses he asked, "you'd pick, charles, huh?"

you squeaked, "they said pick someone else." you looked into max's eyes, "we're already teammates." and your eyes went a little wide as he pressed himself further against you. you two have had sex before, it was no secret - with the amount of time you spent together it was inevitable.

"could have picked anyone else." he said lowly as he rubbed up against you further and touched your chest, "you know how i feel about him. how he gets under my skin. i wouldn't want anyone to be on the same team as you. you're mine."

you knew his reaction was overbearing, but you knew that max deeply cared for you. he yearned for you deeply. the thump of his heart was in time with how much he adored you, needed you. so the idea of charles taking you away from him only poked at something in his brain.

you gasped when he bit into the skin of your neck, you knew it would bruise. but something curled in your gut as you felt the a certain lust wash over you.

"you're red bull or nothing." he said lowly, "by my side, or off the track." he said as he started to play with the front of your jeans, "i don't want charles to get the wrong idea, so tonight. i'm going to make sure you firmly remember who you belong to." he placed another kiss on your neck before you ended up in the bedroom and on the bed.

you could have said no, you could have stood your ground and had him slink away with his tail between his legs. but there was something about the domineering max that just made you wet. the looked in his eye, cold, commanding. he looked like the villain that everyone thought of him as.

you took off your branded t-shirt and you felt his gaze linger on your breasts. he licked his lips and you got your bra off, slowly your jeans came off too along with the rest of your under garments. socks throw in two different directions and your panties on the other side of the bed. max was quicker to get undressed before he got on top of you in bed. he pushed you up against the pillows and gazed down at you.

his cock was fully erect. you knew he got off to submitting you under him. he told you once that he liked when you posed a challenge on the track because that meant he could fuck you harder. a real champion can take anything, he told you once when he had you in a headlock and bullied your poor pussy.

"look at you." he said as he hiked your hips up closer to him, "see, this is what no other driver can have. you're just so sweet on the track, you're their little star. but you need someone to actually keep you safe. and charles would never do that." max said lowly and rubbed the tip of his cock up against you, "too trusting. you should only be trusting me."

you swallowed, "please, max." you held onto the pillows under your head and you lifted your hips a little to give him better access to your cunt. you were wet and max knew it. he loved that he carried that bit of control over you, easily making you soaked between your legs.

he remembered after a rough practice he spent what felt like half an hour rubbing your cunt through your driver's suit and he knew that you raced the next round with stickiness between your legs. risky move, but max had to plant those seeds early.

that after formula one, you wouldn't become an engineer or a reporter, or whatever else ex-drivers seemed to do. no, you'd be max's wife. and hopefully married after after that season ended.

he looked at you and licked his lips. you met his gaze as he sank his cock into you. you arched your back a little and he relaxed against you. and so did you. he planted his hands on either side of you, he leaned in to kiss you on the lips as you wrapped your legs around him.

"look at you." he said.

you shifted yourself on the bed a little and reached for him. your arms wrapped around his neck. you held on while he moved against you. pleasure moved through both of you. you loved the feeling, even with max's harsh words, you still felt affection for him. both as a teammate and a lover.

"i'm always looking out for you." he said, he drank in the sight of your face, "i want you well, i want you safe. and i want you as mine." his strokes started to move faster, he felt a slight fire in his gut from the feeling of his cock buried inside of you slick pussy.

you were on birth control, but still it was a risk to take you this way. to have him bare inside of you. but, it eased his jealousy just a little bit to know that he was the only man to ever take you this bare. to take you as his, all his.

"please, max. it feels so good." you encouraged him as you held on tighter, the pleasure was growing in your core as he rutted against you. there was something about how his cock moved inside of you that hit all the right areas that made your eyes roll a little out of pleasure.

"you don't know what you do to me." he said lowly, "i don't want you to ever think about having another teammate ever again. i want you to only need me by your side. matching cars, matching uniforms." matching last names.

he continued to thrust into you, he held onto the bedding a little tighter and felt the sweat at his brow. it was hot between you two. the movements of him against you only had you holding onto you tighter.

"max. fuck."

"i know, it feels good. you love how you feel under me. do you like being my teammate?"

you nodded and your nails nipped at the back of his neck as you held on, you swallowed before you said, "i love being your teammate, max. you know that!"

"do you want another teammate? want another man to fuck you the way i do?"

you shook your head, "never. never in a million years. i want us to win the constructor's this year!" you arched your back a little when his cock nudged against just the right spot that made you feel tingly all over. he laid another heated kiss on your lips and continued to fuck you quickly and roughly.

the headboard slammed against the wall from the force that he was fucking with you. you whined into the kiss and he held onto your hips tightly, you were pinned under him while he fucked you. he felt your body quake under him, the feeling of heat under your skin. you were the sparks in his brain and the fuel in his blood.

fucking you was the same intensity as driving. except he could let his mind grow hazy with each powerful thrust. to know you'd never want another meant the world to him, to know that you were all his. you moaned against his lips and clawed down his strong back.

you didn't last much longer. you broke the kiss and made a strong yet whiny noise as you came around his cock. you arched your back and squeezed your eyes shut as you climaxed. it only spurred him on, it made his heart hammer along with yours. the pleasure flooded your head and after you reached your peak, you let go of him and let him have his wicked way with you.

"beautiful." max said as he continued to fuck you strong thrusts. he left himself feel all of you, every inch of you felt warm under him. you were sweaty and hot. he licked his lips and the pleasure throbbed in his body.

"please, max. i'm sorry that i made that comment. i knew i couldn't pick you." you whined.

max kissed at your neck, "next time, pick someone else. alex, george, even carlos. just not charles, i won't let that sweet talker take you from me." you could feel the possessiveness in his tone.

he knew he was close, with a few more heavy thrusts he finished inside of you. he groaned under his breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead. your cunt fluttered around him and he drank in the feeling. you felt amazing, warm all over and so soft. he knew he had to have you always.

"perfect." he cooed before he pulled out and laid out next to you in bed. he cupped your face with his large hand. those large hands on your soft skin. he leaned in, "tell me again."

you opened your eyes and asked, "tell you what?"

"that you don't want charles."

you shook your head, "i don't want charles. only you, max." and you curled up closer to him. his touches were more gentle, the jealous beast in him calmed down. for now.

-

"if you could be teammates with anyone else, who would it be?"

you thought about it for a moment, the reminder of last time tickled in your gut. but quickly you looked back to the camera and said, "i'd have to pick, lando! he got really close to the wdc last year, but if we were teammates he'd have a little more competition."

and you knew behind the camera, max verstappen was seething. <3

[suliigwp]

okay but but may i requesr some Rookie! Reader being an absolute menace that she’s considered a ticking timebomb bc of how ballsy she is with her moves on the track? Yk the quote— “I knew he'd hit the brakes—he has a wife and two kids at home.” Reader applies it to EVERYONE. They have families back home, people to get back to, and she doesn’t even care if she lives or dies, she has to cross that finish line 😭 yk everyone is praying in their respective garages when she’s racing 😭 I’d love a fic where we can see just how death defying vroom vroom is and how her grid parents and the f1 community reacts !

TICKING TIME BOMB

Rookie! Reader x Platonic! Paddock

Previous part!

SULI: Hiiiiii thank you all so much on the love for this series — this is extremely rushed and a little short but oh well I was stuck- this is a more serious one I haven't been feeling well and can't really come up with jokes- sorry the next part well be back

Warnings: reckless driving, she's better at English here, bad writing lol

They started calling her that around Monaco.

The Time Bomb.

Not to her face. Never to her face.

Because you don’t provoke someone whose idea of a clean overtake involves two wheels in the grass and a sixth sense for who won’t risk it all.

Everyone had a theory.

“She grew up karting with criminals.”

“She used to race bikes in underground leagues.”

“She watched too much Senna footage and lost the plot.”

None of it was true. None of it mattered.

Because whatever circuit she was on, she drove like it was her last race on Earth. Not desperate, not suicidal—indifferent. Like crashing or finishing were equal outcomes. As long as she got past you first.

Barcelona, Turn 1.

She went wheel to wheel with Sainz at the start.

The commentators said: “That’s gutsy!”

The team said: “That’s unnecessary.”

Carlos said: “She’s insane.”

She said nothing.

When asked about the incident, she shrugged and unzipped the top of her race suit like the air was too heavy.

“I knew he’d brake,” she muttered to the wall of microphones. “He’s got a girlfriend.”

The media room fell into an uneasy silence.

A few reporters exchanged glances. The PR girl standing beside her stiffened slightly. She didn’t bother clarifying. She wasn’t joking.

The Grid Watched.

She had no interest in post-race handshakes or fake Instagram smiles. The others stopped tagging her in memes. Stopped inviting her to dinner. It wasn’t personal. It was caution.

She walked like someone who had better places to be. Talked like she’d done this all before.

Fast in the car. Faster out of conversations.

No one knew where she went after the debriefs. Some nights she was spotted at the edge of the paddock. Others, she disappeared before the cooldown room had even emptied.

She lived in silence and tire smoke.

Lando Noticed.

He didn’t mean to. But you notice the things that scare you.

At first, it was little things. Her qualifying laps—perfectly controlled chaos. Her refusal to let anyone walk behind her in the garage. Her habit of double-checking her steering wheel even after the mechanics had gone over it.

Then it became something else.

He saw her staring at the pit lane before a race, completely still, like she was somewhere else. Not zoned in—zoned out. Like she was waiting for something to catch fire.

“You know,” he said one afternoon, leaning against the wall of her hospitality, “you drive like you don’t care what happens.”

She didn’t look at him. Just kept tapping her fingers against the water bottle in her lap.

“I don’t,” she said, eventually.

He laughed a little, awkwardly. “You can’t mean that.”

Now she looked at him. Eyes like flint. “I’m here to win. I’m not scared of anyone on this grid.”

He believed her.

...

Spa Weekend, Qualifying.

She went purple in Sector 2.

Purple, despite rain, despite cold tires.

Purple, even after nearly clipping Albon into the wall on the previous lap.

Her engineer’s voice cracked mid-sentence: “Box—no, wait—okay, you're—fuck—”

DNF.

She came back into the garage with two wheels vibrating like they’d seen war. Took off her gloves and threw them on the floor.

“I had half a second in that lap,” she muttered, ignoring the shaking hands she quickly stuffed into her pockets.

Her team principal pulled her aside.

“You have to stop doing this.”

She blinked. “Doing what?”

“Risking everything. You’re not racing them, you’re threatening them.”

Whispers on the Grid Grew.

“He said she cut across him at 290.”

“She’s going to hurt someone.”

“She’s going to hurt herself.”

When asked about it, Max didn’t say anything. Charles gave a diplomatic shrug. Pierre muttered something about needing a cigarette and walked away.

Lando? He just watched.

There was a storm behind her eyes that he didn’t think she even noticed anymore. Like she’d been living inside it so long, she thought that was just the weather.

Later That Night.

He found her sitting on the curb behind the motorhomes. Helmet beside her. Still in her race suit. Her boots were untied, like she hadn’t even noticed.

“You okay?”

She didn’t look up. “Do I look okay?”

“No. You look like you might detonate.”

A dry chuckle escaped her lips, but there was no warmth in it.

She pulled out a cigarette and stared at it for a moment before tucking it behind her ear. “You ever feel like you’re one bad day from being someone else entirely?”

He didn’t answer.

She looked up at him then—finally—and her voice was quieter. “This isn’t about winning, Norris. It’s about surviving long enough to win.”

And that was the first time he realized:

She wasn’t reckless.

She was exhausted.

...

Monza.

She went P3 after nearly tangling with Alonso on the final chicane.

As she walked past Lando in parc fermé, he said, “Nice moves out there.”

She looked at him. Not a glare. Not even her usual smirk.

Just that same hollow smile.

“I knew he’d brake,” she said again, softer this time. “He’s got people to go home to.”

She paused, eyes flicking to Lando’s.

“And you? Would you?”

He hesitated.

“I don’t know.”

She nodded like that was the only answer that made sense.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

She wasn’t trying to crash.

But no one was brave enough to assume she wouldn’t.

She was only just getting started.

Taglist For Vroom Vroom, comment to be added;

@angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz

Make sure you can be tagged! Thank you!

[cheftsunoda]

Would you consider doing something with a quiet/ reserved reader. I love the idea of a reader who's an up and coming driver but isn't about the press or media at ALL. Like dodging cameras and running away from interviews, and maybe a boy (I don't mind who you pick) misunderstands and thinks that she's running away from them? Maybe add some drama from f1 update twt accounts escalating the situation and painting the reader in a negative light for being "rude" or "impolite".

Thx!! (Sorry for any confusion, English is not my first language but I hope you get what I mean)

miss misunderstood— op81

smau + blurbs

oscar piastri x !quiet/shy driver reader

yn has a lot of pressure on her shoulders— she is the only female driver in f1 and that leads to her consistently having to prove herself to not only her team, who took a chance on her, but the press who are constantly there hounding her. she has always been very shy and reserved— especially around people she does not know. when fans notice how she skips out on interviews and hides from big crowds, the hate pours in, especially after she is seen avoiding a conversation with the grids other most quiet individual— but he is persistent and wont give up on her.

(a/n) : such a cute idea anon! i understood you perfectly fine my love. i hope you enjoy this. i thought it would be fun to pair reader with someone who is also rather quiet and reserved.

fc : amna al qubaisi

—

f1gossipgirls

257,087 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Almost all of our favorite drivers have touched down in Barcelona for media day. Some of our first arrivals include YN LN, Charles Leclerc, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris and George Russell.

—

view 32,057 other comments.

username0 : george not dressed properly for the weather pt 899

liked by f1gossipgirls

username10 : yn always looks like she doesn’t want to be there. why is she even in f1 if she hates to do the job??

username15 : everyone is smiling, waiving, talking to fans and press and then there is yn who immediately books it to the paddock and ignores everyone

username22 : ill say it once and i will say it again— f1 is not a silent film. she either needs to speak up and play the role or step aside. good driver or not. that job comes with more responsibilities than just driving around the track.

username5 : she gives off “im better than everyone else” energy and im sick of her.

username00 : every time i try and like her, she gives us absolutely nothing. cold and awkward isn’t a personality, babe.

↳ username9 : yet you guys eat it up when oscar does it. the double standard is insane.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username11 : its always the quiet ones y’all tear apart for not being loud enough. she’s there to drive. not entertain you.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username17 : you guys are extra hard on her because she is a female. and it is sick.

username101 : she minds her business, she’s fast, and she is unproblematic. you guys are just finding reasons to hate her. jealousy is a disease.

liked by f1gossipgirls

—

They say I’m cold. Unfriendly. Standoffish. Like I’m trying too hard to be mysterious or above it all. But they don’t know me. Not really. Because if they did, they’d know I used to be warm. I used to talk too much. Laugh too loud. Hug people without thinking twice. But that was before. Before the phone call. Before the hospital room. Before the person who knew me better than anyone else—who loved me without needing me to be anything but myself—was just… gone.

Losing a parent is something people talk about like it’s a passage. A sad inevitability. But they don’t talk about what it does to you when it’s sudden. When it’s brutal. When the last words you said were something stupid because you thought you had more time. My dad was my safe place. The only person I could fall apart around. He was the reason I started racing. The reason I believed I could do anything. And when I lost him, I didn’t just lose a person—I lost myself. I haven’t spoken about it. Not to anyone.

Not to my engineers. Not to my teammates. Not to the drivers who think I’m just “shy” or “quiet” or “moody.” Because once I say it out loud, it becomes real in a way I’m not ready for. It becomes the thing people pity me for instead of the thing I’ve survived. So I stay quiet. I keep the noise out. I protect the stillness inside me. People don’t understand it, and that’s fine. They think I’m emotionless when really, I’m overflowing and just trying not to drown. I hear what they say. The fans. The media. That I don’t engage. That I don’t give enough. But I didn’t come here to be their favorite. I came here to race. I came here to honor my father. To survive something else. To find moments of peace between the chaos and the grief that still sits like stone in my chest.

They’ll never understand why I am the way I am. Because they never saw me before. Before the silence felt safer than the world ever did. And I don’t owe them an explanation for that.

—

The air in Barcelona is thick with heat and noise—press cameras clicking, fans shouting driver names like spells, a thousand voices layered on top of each other. I keep my head down but offer a small smile, lifting my hand in a quiet wave. They cheer anyway. Some scream my name. Others don’t. Some just stare, waiting for me to trip or ignore them or give them proof I’m “as cold as they say.”

I smile again, even if it doesn’t reach my eyes. It’s not fake—it’s just not loud.

Security walks with me as I cross the paddock. My eyes flicker over the cameras stationed outside team motorhomes, the reporters already calling out names, hoping for a quote. I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag. Just a few more steps.

I keep walking. Fast, but not suspiciously fast. Just enough to dodge the press circling like hawks, waiting for a moment of weakness, a headline, a clipped quote that can be turned into whatever version of me they want to sell this week.

Finally, I step inside Red Bull. The air conditioning kisses my skin. The silence—relative silence—is heaven. I make it to my driver room, push the door shut with my shoulder, and lean against it for a second. Eyes closed. Deep breath. The chaos is muffled now, like a storm just beyond the walls. Then the door opens again without a knock.

“Nice escape,” Max says, completely unfazed. He shuts the door behind him like he owns the building. “You only almost ran over two photographers. New record?”

I huff out a laugh—quiet but real. “Felt like twenty.”

He drops into the chair across from me like he’s been doing this his whole life. Which, to be fair, he basically has.

Max studies me for a second, unreadable as always. “You look like you’re about to vomit. That your media day face?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

He shrugs. “Just saying. You do realize they can’t eat you alive on camera, right? Legally.”

“I don’t know. I think one of the Sky guys has sharp enough teeth.”

He chuckles, dry and quiet. “You’ll be fine. Say as little as possible. Give one-word answers. Scowl a little. That’s what I do.”

“You give plenty of one-word answers.”

“Exactly,” he says, proud. “It’s an art.”

He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, face softening just slightly.

“They don’t matter, you know. The journalists. The fans who think they know you. The Twitter freaks. You’re fast. That’s what counts. That’s what wins. Let them think you’re a robot or a villain or a Bond girl or whatever mood they’re in this week.”

I nod. A slow exhale.

“Thanks, Max.”

He shrugs again. “Just don’t cry on camera. I already have a reputation for being emotionally unavailable. Don’t need yours adding to the Verstappen Cold Front.”

This time, I laugh out loud. He grins. Mission accomplished.

“Go be scary,” he says, pushing himself up. “And if you panic, just pretend they’re all standing in front of your car at turn one.”

“I’d drive through them.”

“Exactly.”

He leaves without another word, and for the first time all morning, I feel like I can breathe.

—

I answer with the same even tone I always do. I deflect, redirect, smile where I’m supposed to. I’ve trained myself not to flinch. But it still chips away at me, a little at a time. I finally escape outside, tucked behind one of the Red Bull displays near the fan zone—close enough to be seen, far enough to feel like I’m not drowning. I sip from a water bottle, hoping the air might settle in my lungs again. That’s when I see her.

A girl, maybe twelve, in a handmade cap with my number scribbled on it in glitter glue. She’s holding a small notebook and a marker, standing with her dad and hesitating like she doesn’t want to bother me. I almost keep walking. I’m tired. Overheated. Ready to shut down for the rest of the day. But something in her eyes stops me. She doesn’t look like the others—she looks like she’s trying to be brave. So I walk over.

Her eyes go wide when I stop in front of her. “Hi,” I offer, voice soft.

She blinks. Then holds out the notebook with slightly trembling hands. “Um—sorry, I just—could you sign this? I know you don’t really like talking to people a lot, but you’re my favorite. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want.”

My chest tightens. Not in a bad way—in the way it does when something hits a nerve you didn’t know was still exposed. I take the notebook and sign it carefully.

“You know,” she says, voice quiet, “I get nervous talking to people too. But I think you’re really brave. I like that you don’t try to be loud just to fit in. You make me feel like that’s okay.”

I blink fast. It’s not the kind of compliment I get. It’s not about speed or podiums or stats. It’s about me. The parts I’ve always kept hidden because the world made me feel like they were wrong. I smile—genuinely this time—and crouch a little so we’re eye level.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “That means more than you know.”

Her face lights up like I just handed her a trophy. We take a photo. I sign her hat. She hugs me before I even have time to react—but I don’t mind. Not even a little. As I walk away, I feel lighter. Like the weight pressing on my shoulders loosened just a little. Maybe I’ll always be the quiet one. The misunderstood one. But to that one girl? I was seen. And that’s enough.

—

The moment I cross the line, the radio explodes.

“P1, YN! That’s P1! You did it! You absolutely nailed that last stint—what a drive!”

I don’t say much. I can’t. My throat is tight and my hands are shaking around the wheel. The pit wall is screaming, my engineer shouting through the static. The grandstands blur into one giant roar. I slow the car down and guide it into parc fermé, P1 board waiting. The marshals are waving, cameras already turned in my direction like hungry mouths. I sit still for a beat. The engine is off, the world is loud, but in my cockpit it’s just… quiet. Then I hear it—Max’s car pulling into P2.

“Let’s go,” I murmur to myself and start the slow climb out.

But my limbs feel heavy. Every emotion I’ve buried all year starts clawing its way to the surface, and I’m suddenly not sure if I’ll make it over the halo without falling flat on my face. And then—there’s a hand. Max, already out of his car, standing beside mine like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He holds his hand out without a word. Just a look that says, Yeah, I know. Take it. I take it. He helps me out of the car, firm but unshowy. As soon as I hit the ground, I sway a little, overwhelmed—but I don’t fall.

He leans in, dry as ever. “You know you’re supposed to breathe when you win, right?”

I huff out something between a laugh and a sob. “I’ll try next time.”

Our helmets clink together briefly as we hug—quick, tight, familiar—and then he nudges me toward my team. They’re already there—Red Bull crew surrounding me, cheering, hugging, spraying water. I let myself fall into it for a moment. I smile, genuinely. I hug back. One of the engineers lifts me off the ground and spins me, and I let them. Because this is theirs, too. Ours. But just as the broadcasters and press start pushing through the sea of mechanics, I slip away—ducking behind the barrier, walking briskly toward the cooldown room before they can catch me.

I hear a few voices behind me—“YN, one word for Sky? Just a few seconds?”

I keep walking. The cooldown room is blissfully empty. Cold, quiet, white walls and a table with water and towels. I sit, press the bottle to my forehead, and finally breathe. No cameras. No questions. No pretending. Just silence. Just peace. Just… me. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

—

The water bottle sweats in my hands, condensation dripping slowly onto my race suit. I haven’t said much since sitting down, and Max hasn’t asked me to. He’s lounging across from me on the other bench, head tilted back, eyes closed like he owns the room. His suit is halfway peeled down and his hair’s a sweaty mess, but he looks… content. Neither of us are fans of the overexposed post-race routine. The lights. The forced questions. The soundbites that get twisted a dozen ways before the sun even sets. So we sit here, in the eye of the storm, letting the world knock on the door without answering.

Max finally cracks an eye open. “You going to do the interviews?”

I lean my head back against the cool wall and sigh. “Eventually. Maybe. If they don’t forget I exist by then.”

He grins slightly. “You just won. They’ll send a SWAT team if you don’t come out soon.”

Before I can answer, the door opens — fast but tentative — and in walks Camille, my press secretary. She’s breathless. Her clipboard’s half tucked under her arm, and she looks like she’s been fighting off wolves outside.

“YN,” she starts, trying for calm but clearly begging on the inside, “I hate to interrupt, but they’re getting antsy. Sky, F1TV, everyone’s lining up. They want quotes, a soundbite—anything.”

I nod slowly. I expected this. It doesn’t make it any easier.

“I’m not doing the scrum,” I say. “Not the pen. Not the mixed zone.”

Camille looks like she wants to scream into a pillow. “Okay. Fine. What will you do?”

I glance at Max, who’s watching like it’s the most entertaining episode of Drive to Survive he’s seen all year.

“One interview,” I finally say. “That’s it.”

Camille’s already flipping through her mental rolodex. “Okay. Sky? F1TV? Maybe something for social? Martin Brundle is waiting and—”

“No,” I cut her off, gently but firm. “If I do one, it’s with Lissie. No one else.”

Camille blinks. “Lissie—Lissie Mackintosh from Sky?”

I nod.

“She’s the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I’m under a microscope,” I explain. “She’s kind. And she actually listens.”

Camille softens a little. “Okay. I can work with that. But they’ll push back.”

“Let them,” I shrug. “I don’t owe them anything else today.”

She studies me for a moment, then exhales and heads out, already dialing her phone as she goes.

The door shuts again, and I fall back into the silence like it’s a blanket.

Max raises a brow. “Lissie, huh?”

“She doesn’t try to make me a headline,” I reply.

Max gives a nod of respect. “Smart. Wish we all had a Lissie.”

I glance down at my fingers, still slightly trembling from adrenaline. “I just need someone who sees me.”

“You just won a damn Grand Prix,” Max says, standing and nudging my foot with his. “They’re gonna have to see you now, whether they like it or not.”

—

yn's post race interview with lissie mackintosh- barcelona

—

third person pov

YN steps down from the small stage, fingers tugging at the collar of her suit as if she’s trying to breathe easier now that the lights are off. She’s walking fast, already focused on making it back to the safety of the garage. She doesn’t see Oscar until she turns the corner, he is halfway through his own interview with a different outlet. He’s smiling—tired, but still upbeat—and when he spots her, his expression brightens like he’s been waiting for a chance to say something. Oscar turned to YN as she passed by.

“You should really be talking to the winner, huh?”

His voice is friendly. Joking. The kind of throwaway line that’s meant to show camaraderie, not pressure. YN pauses just for a second. She offers a small, polite smile—closed-lipped and barely there. No laugh. No response. Just a nod. And then she’s gone. Quiet steps, fast retreat.

Oscar watches her disappear down the corridor, his smile faltering slightly. His interviewer says something, but he doesn’t really register it.

“…Did I say something weird?”

He turns back to the camera, eyes a little more unsure. In the back of his mind, the question settles in— Does she just not like me? But the truth is simpler. And sadder. She doesn’t dislike him. She just doesn’t have room for warmth in the places where the world watches too closely.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Race Winner, YN LN, only gave 1 two minute interview with @/skysports Lissie Mackintosh. Oscar Piastri who was P3 today, was also doing an interview when LN happened to walk by and made a joke to which YN just walked off. He then asked the interviewer if he said something wrong. Thoughts?

view 120,004 comments.

username00 : imagine winning a race and still managing to have the personality of dry toast 😭 poor oscar was just being NICE

username22 : as someone who watched the full interview with Lissie — she was genuine and soft spoken. maybe what she needs is respect, not attention.

username08 : i love Oscar but this isn’t that deep. she clearly has boundaries and isn’t fake about it. that’s kind of refreshing.

username09 : she didn’t even thank the fans today. one interview and vanishes? okay ice queen 🧊

username17 : not her making Oscar second guess himself when he was literally just being sweet? i would NEVER recover.

username20 : this is why she’s boring. no charisma, no interviews, no interaction. i said what i said. 🥱

username30 : are y’all ignoring the interaction she had with a younger fan today?? she is such a sweetie, she is just camera shy.

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, redbullracing and 1,7005,002 others.

ynfromredbull : good shit.

—

view 74,032 other comments.

lissiemackintosh : Honored to have been the one to share part of this day with you. Congratulations again, YN! ✨

liked by ynfromredbull

username0 : i feel like max is the only one that understands her.

maxverstappen1 : good shit indeed.

liked by ynfromredbull and redbullracing

oscarpiastri : Insane drive today, YN. 💪🏻

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ username0 : oscar is much better than me bc id be a hater rn

alexalbon : can someone pls nerf the redbull team. i am tired.

liked by maxverstappen1, ynfromredbull and redbullracing

username10 : can y'all shut up now- she is literally taking pictures with fans.

↳ username0 : wowww one time in her whole career.

carlossainz55 : such a beast. congratulations yn

liked by ynfromredbull

—

I don’t like nights like this. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many eyes that don’t know me but swear they do. I don’t stop for cameras, I don’t pose, I don’t even slow down when someone calls my name. I just head straight inside the theater like I’m late for something, even though I’m not. I keep my eyes low, find the row I asked Max to save for me, and drop into the seat beside him with a quiet exhale. He glances at me, unimpressed but amused.

“Nice entrance. Scared three PR people on the way in.”

I almost smile. “Was aiming for five.”

He snorts, and just like that, I feel a little more human. Max has always understood the value of silence. He never pushes, never demands more than I can give. We talk a little—about the ridiculousness of the event, the car updates, the championship—but mostly, we just sit. It’s enough. Until I feel a shift. I don’t even have to look up. I can sense someone walking toward us with too much hesitation, like they’ve already decided I’m going to run. When I do glance up, I’m met with wide brown eyes and a nervous smile. Oscar.

“Hey. Sorry—YN? Can I talk to you for a second?”

Max raises a brow. I pause, heart twitching in my chest for reasons I don’t fully understand, and then I nod. I follow Oscar into the hallway, the noise of the event fading behind me like static. The lighting is dimmer here. Softer. Still too bright. He turns to face me, shifting on his feet like he’s rehearsed this five times already.

“I, um—did I do something to upset you?”

My stomach drops.

“What?”

“After the race. I made that joke and you just… walked off. And I get it if you’re not a fan of me or something, I just—” He laughs nervously. “I keep thinking I said something wrong.”

I blink. I want to laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I look down, ashamed.

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” My voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s not you. It’s just… me.”

He looks confused. Still gentle, though. Waiting. I don’t know why, but I want to explain—just a little.

“When I was younger, I lost someone. My dad. He was… my person. The one who made the noise of the world feel a little less loud. And after it happened, I kind of… shut off. I don’t like being watched. I don’t like being asked to smile when I don’t feel like it. I just… exist better in the quiet.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a long moment. But his expression softens in a way that makes my chest ache.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says eventually. “But thank you for trusting me.”

I nod, throat tight. Then, a flicker of guilt. “And I’m sorry for walking off like that. You didn’t deserve it.”

He smiles, shy and genuine.

“So… you don’t hate me?”

That makes me laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

“No,” I say softly. “I don’t.”

There’s a pause, and for the first time since I got here, I feel something shift in my chest. A crack of light.

He nudges me lightly with his shoulder. “Cool. Friends, then?”

I think about it. About how hard it is to let people in. About how much it scares me.

Then I nod. “Yeah. Friends.”

—

3 month time skip

ynfromredbull

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, lando & 2,409,001 others.

ynfromredbull : as my counterpart @/maxverstappen1 would say— these last few months have been simply lovely. 🏆💪🏻

—

view 127,002 other comments.

username0 : this caption is the most personality i’ve seen from her all season.

username14 : i can’t believe she is leading the wdc rn

maxverstappen1 : id sue for copyright infringement if i wasn’t so proud

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : very artistic post yn

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ ynfromredbull : thank you mr. piastri

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ lando : OMG SHE SPEAKS

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ lando : yn i didn’t mean that in a bad way pls don’t drive me off the track

liked by ynfromredbull

georgerussell63 : it is against fia regulations to have a teddy bear in the car. RACE BAN (she is still destroying all of us— it would not help save the season)

liked by ynfromredbull

—

f1gossipgirls

428,023 likes.

f1gossipgirls : For the first time in her F1 career, YN LN has not walked into the paddock alone. She walked in with none other than Oscar Piastri himself. Not only did she walk in with him but the two stopped for the press multiple times and stopped to talk with fans. Many people say that this is the most they’ve seen her smile in her whole career. Thoughts?

—

view 15,539 other comments.

username00 : from Oscar “did I do something wrong?” to Oscar walking her in and making her smile… the arc is so insane

username15 : f1gossipgirls is finally being NICE about her. this is how powerful love is

username17 : i haven’t seen her this relaxed since she debuted. i’d cry if i wasn’t already crying.

username22 : this is NOT a drill. she SMILED. she TALKED. she STOOD STILL for the PRESS. what is happening

username0 : So now she wants the attention? Pick a side. Either be private or don’t.

username14 : she’s literally only tolerable when she’s standing next to a man. that’s so sad lol

username20 : i’m sorry but this whole “she’s just shy” thing got old last season. f1 drivers are public figures. she knew what she signed up for.

—

It happens slowly. Like sunlight through tinted glass — warm but filtered, creeping in without permission. Oscar’s been around a lot lately. Not just in the paddock, where we’re both supposed to be, but everywhere in between. Track walks, post-race debriefs, long flights, short layovers, dinners in quiet towns we don’t name on social media. He’s become part of the background noise of my life, and for once, that doesn’t scare me.

I notice it when we’re sitting side by side in the sim room, not speaking, just existing. The silence between us feels easy now. Familiar. Like I don’t have to earn my space — I just have it. I notice it when he hands me a coffee before I’ve even asked, the way he always remembers I take it black with a splash of oat milk, no sugar. Or when he throws a hoodie at me because I always forget I get cold before FP3.

I notice it most on the plane ride. He’s asleep beside me, his head tilted toward me, headphones slipping. I’m staring at the clouds and thinking about how close I am to the title. Closer than I’ve ever been. I should be terrified. But I’m not. Because he’s here. And for some reason, that grounds me.

He mumbles something in his sleep and leans slightly toward my shoulder. I freeze. Not because I’m uncomfortable — but because I’m suddenly too comfortable. My heart stutters. It’s a dangerous thing, comfort. I’ve avoided it for years, convinced it would disappear the moment I reached for it. But Oscar—he never asked me to reach. He just stayed.

Now I’m sitting in row 8F of some transatlantic flight with a soft-voiced Aussie curled up next to me and a World Championship lead in my lap — and all I can think is... God, I might actually be in love with him. And that’s scarier than any press conference I’ve ever dodged.

—

I could already feel the heat of the Monaco sun pressing down as we stepped out of the car. The walk to the paddock always felt long, even when it wasn’t. My palms were tucked into my jacket pockets, nerves dancing beneath my skin like they always did. But this time, I wasn’t alone.

Oscar walked beside me, chatting softly about absolutely nothing — the weather, the coffee at the hotel, the chaos of the Monte Carlo grid. I appreciated it. His voice was grounding. I didn’t have to say anything, and he didn’t expect me to.

I kept my eyes low, used to the flashes of phones and the buzz of people trying to get my attention. Normally, I’d keep walking. Fast. Direct. No room for error. But then I heard it.

“YN!”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t aggressive. Just… hopeful. I slowed down without thinking. Oscar noticed instantly and stilled beside me.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… give me a sec.”

I turned toward the barricade. A young fan was holding a poster of my car from Australia. I’d won that race. My name was scrawled across the sidepod in sharp lettering — a moment frozen in time I’d barely let myself process. I took the marker from their hand, signed it quickly but neatly.

“Thank you for today,” the fan said, eyes wide. “You’re… amazing. You’ve always been amazing.”

The words hit me somewhere in the chest I didn’t know was sore.

“…Thanks,” I said, almost too quietly. Then louder: “Thanks for saying that.”

They smiled like I’d handed them gold. I took one photo — just one. And then I stepped back beside Oscar, who gave me a subtle smile. Not too proud. Not too over-the-top. Just there. Solid. Steady. We weren’t even halfway through the paddock before a Sky Sports reporter called out.

“YN! Oscar! Over here?”

I froze.

Oscar looked at me. “Wanna skip it?”

I shook my head. “Just one.”

We walked over together. I didn’t say much — I never do — but I stood there. Present. Listening. And when they asked how I was feeling going into the weekend, the words came before I could edit them.

“Focused,” I said. Then, after a breath: “And a little less alone today.”

Oscar glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. There was a flicker of something soft there, something understanding. It felt… safe. When we finally reached the Red Bull garage, I exhaled for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes. I peeled off my jacket, tugged at the brim of my cap, and tried to disappear through the back. But Max was already leaning on the pit wall, headset half-on, watching me with that unreadable Verstappen face.

“You smiled,” he said, completely monotone. “Terrifying.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start.”

He smirked just slightly. “I’m just saying… if you become media friendly, I’m going to have to be the difficult one now.”

“You already are,” I deadpanned.

Max laughed under his breath and tossed me a bottle of water. “You did good, LN.”

And for once, I let myself believe it.

—

The world was quiet around us. The kind of hush that only existed in moments like this — between heartbeats, between stares. Monaco’s lights flickered just beyond the windows, gold threads pulling through navy silk. I could hear the sea in the distance. Oscar lay beside me, legs stretched across my duvet like he belonged here. He wasn’t touching me, not yet, but he was close enough that I could feel every inch of space between us — and it made my chest ache.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he said softly, barely above a whisper.

I turned my head toward him. “That’s saying something.”

He smiled, tired and tender. “Fair. Still true.”

I didn’t answer. Because truthfully, I was scared. This was all new. The closeness. The comfort. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t hard to figure out. Then he said it — no fanfare, no buildup, just a simple truth.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

It should’ve terrified me. But it didn’t. Not really. It cracked something open.

I stared at him, eyes burning, heart folding in on itself. “I think I already have,” I breathed, voice barely there.

The silence that followed was thick — not heavy, not awkward. Just real. He reached over, his fingers grazing mine so gently it made my skin buzz. It wasn’t a grab. It was an invitation. And for once in my life, I accepted. I laced my fingers through his and sat up, pulling open the drawer next to my bed. There was only one thing inside — an envelope. Worn at the edges, the flap taped down three times because I’d opened and closed it more than I should have. I handed it to him. His brows furrowed as he opened it slowly. The photo slipped into his hand.

Me, at six. All tiny teeth and wild hair, grinning up like the sun had never set. Standing next to a man in a racing suit. His hand was on my shoulder. The same eyes. The same smirk. My father. Oscar looked between the photo and me, and I saw the shift happen in real time — confusion to understanding to quiet reverence.

“That’s… is that who I think it is?” His voice cracked just slightly.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “My dad.”

I didn’t say his name. I didn’t need to.

“He died when I was eight. It was… it was violent. Sudden. One second he was there, and then he wasn’t. He was my safest place. My everything. After that, I… broke. I stopped talking for months. And when I started again, it was never the same.”

He didn’t move. Just stared at me like I was something delicate, like if he breathed too loudly I might fold in on myself.

“I never told anyone,” I continued, voice barely holding. “I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want to be treated like some ghost of his shadow. I wanted to be me. Just me.”

Oscar’s fingers tightened around mine — not too much, just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone anymore.

“You are,” he whispered. “You’re everything.”

I looked at him then, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like hiding.

“I think he’d like you,” I said, smiling through the burn in my throat.

Oscar leaned in, resting his forehead against mine, and whispered back, “I like you more than I should.”

And in the soft glow of the Monaco skyline, wrapped in the quiet I used to fear, I finally let myself feel it all. Love. Safety. Peace. Him.

—

f1

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, ynfromredbull & 8,029,003 others.

f1 : Your 2025 World Champion, YN LN! Incredible drive this season, YN. This is well deserved.

tagged : ynfromredbull

—

view 239,492 other comments.

username00 : MY QUEEN! CONGRATULATIONS YN.

username15 : gonna be insufferable about this for the next 40 years ok????

susie_wolff : YN has made history. I am forever proud of her.

liked by ynfromredbull and f1

username30 : people doubted her, the press dragged her, and she STILL smoked them all. cold-blooded. we love a quiet assassin 💅

lissiemackintosh : I’ve seen your journey up close. You are everything this sport needs. Congratulations, champion. 💫

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : No one more worthy. What a season, YN. 🏆🤍

liked by ynfromredbull

lando : MY GOATTTTTT LFGGGG

liked by ynfromredbull

lewishamilton : It’s been inspiring watching you come into your own. World Champion sounds good on you. 🔥

liked by ynfromredbull

maxverstappen1 : Couldn’t be more proud. YN deserved this more than anyone.

liked by ynfromredbull

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, lando and 12,037,024 others.

ynfromredbull : this is what it is all about. thank you all. it is an honor to be your 2025 world champ. i hope you grow to love me as much as i love all of you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

We were far from everything — the noise, the cameras, the endless headlines. Just a small coastal town somewhere in Portugal, sun-drunk and slow, the kind of place where people didn’t care about championship points or last names. Oscar and I had spent the day walking through sleepy markets, eating too much gelato, and laughing at nothing. Now, the two of us lay tangled together on the bed in the little apartment we rented, the linen sheets kicked down to our ankles and the windows cracked open to let in the salt-kissed night air. His hand rested on my stomach, thumb drawing slow circles over the hem of my shirt. The world outside our window was quiet, but my mind wasn’t. Not tonight.

“I want to do it,” I said into the stillness.

He turned his head, his voice a low murmur against my temple. “Do what?”

I hesitated, even though I already knew he’d understand. He always did.

“The interview. I want to finally say it. Talk about… him. All of it.”

Oscar sat up slightly, enough to look at me properly. “You’re sure?”

I nodded, throat tight. “It’s time. I’ve hidden behind the silence for so long. And I don’t want to anymore.”

He searched my eyes, then gently tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You don’t owe anyone your pain, you know. You don’t have to justify who you are.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I want to tell the story. My story. People have made it for me for so long — all the gossip, the assumptions. I’ve let them believe I’m cold or arrogant or just awkward. But the truth is…” I swallowed. “The truth is, I’m just someone who lost the one person that made the world feel safe.”

Oscar’s hand found mine under the sheets, his fingers warm and steady.

“I think he’d be proud of you,” he said softly. “For everything. For surviving. For being brave enough to do this now.”

I blinked hard, staring up at the ceiling to stop the tears from spilling.

“I miss him so much, still. Every day. Sometimes I think that little girl in the paddock died with him — the one who used to talk to everyone, who smiled without thinking about it.”

He pulled me into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “That girl’s still in there. I see her every time you light up after a race. Every time you laugh when you think no one’s listening. You’re still her. Just… grown, and stronger.”

I breathed him in — the cologne I’d come to associate with safety and something close to peace.

“Will you be there? When I do it?” I asked quietly. “When I finally say his name?”

“Every step,” he said without hesitation. “Always.”

And in that moment, with his arms around me and the stars blinking somewhere above the rooftops, I knew I wasn’t alone anymore.

Not in the silence. Not in the truth. Not ever again.

—

‘hey lissie— its yn. i want to do an exclusive interview with you. if you’re willing.’

’omg hey champ— obviously id be willing to. where do you need me?’

’my house. next week? i can send a plane your way.’

’ill be there. i am honored, yn. truly.’. 

—

world champion, yn, sharing her truths from her home in monaco with lissie mackintosh - 1/2/2026

—

ynsenna

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, oscarpiastri & 17,023,004 others.

ynsenna : i’ve spent most of my life trying to be quiet enough not to be noticed. not because i didn’t have anything to say—but because grief took the words from me before i ever had the chance to speak.

this season changed my life. not just because of the results, but because i finally stopped running from the part of me that hurt the most. my father was everything to me. and losing him the way i did shattered something i didn’t know how to rebuild—until recently. the truth is- i’m proud to be his daughter. but i’m also proud of the woman i’ve become, entirely on my own.

to those who’ve seen me when i couldn’t see myself—thank you. to the ones who stayed kind even when i stayed quiet—you mean more than you know.

and to the person who reminded me i’m allowed to be loved, messy and whole—i love you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirl : YN just did an interview from her home with Lissie Mackintosh going into detail about her childhood and revealed that Ayrton Senna is in fact her father. She spoke about how her father’s tragic death left her emotionally shut her down for most of her life— and she chose silence as form of self protection. She led Lissie through a room in her house which held a large collection of her father’s helmets and trophy’s and she shared a few photos of them on her instagram today— which her new instagram handle is @/ynsenna. She also revealed in this interview that she is indeed dating Oscar Piastri. Oscar was behind the camera silently supporting her during the interview. Thoughts?

—

view 802,482 comments.

username0 : i’m crying real tears. she carried the weight of that legacy in complete silence. absolute warrior.

username14 : Oscar being behind the camera and just silently supporting her???? marriage. immediately.

username20 : now it all makes sense. the silence, the eyes that always looked a little sad. she’s been carrying so much. proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

username15 : she didn’t win the championship for the world. she won it for her dad and for the little girl who lost her dad. i’m not okay.

username17 : everything about this interview was raw and honest. we don’t deserve her but god do we respect her.

username30 : the fact she said nothing for years and let people think the worst of her, just to protect herself?? she’s not cold. she’s human. and she deserves peace.

—

oscarpiastri

liked by ynsenna, maxverstappen1, lando & 10,273,005 others.

oscarpiastri : proud to know you. proud to love you. you are the strongest human i know. you made him proud, sweetheart.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

The interview with Lissie had gone live less than twelve hours ago. I’d barely blinked since then. I was curled up on my couch, hoodie three sizes too big, hair in a bun, face completely bare. Oscar sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, his back leaning against the couch between my legs. I absentmindedly ran my fingers through his hair while he scrolled through TikTok with the volume low. My phone buzzed every five seconds on the table, but I ignored it. Oscar didn’t ask questions. He just stayed. And he was quiet in that way that felt like peace.

The soft hum of city traffic below filled the silence until—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Someone was knocking on my door like it owed them money. Oscar and I both jolted.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked, twisting to look at me.

“No—wait. Shhh. Listen.”

BANG BANG BANG.

Then—“YN! OPEN UP! YOU OWE US A DAMN EXPLANATION!”

That voice. That unhinged tone.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Is that—Max?”

Oscar looked up at me. “Should I get the bat?”

I was still laughing as I padded to the door, the sound of voices growing louder.

“Carlos, stop pressing the buzzer, it’s annoying.”

“She’s probably ignoring us—”

“She probably moved to Brazil, bro.”

“Shut up, George.”

“YN, IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR I’M GETTING THE SPARE FROM CHRISTIAN!”

I opened the door. And immediately got hit with a wave of chaos. Max was at the front like the ringleader. Behind him stood Charles, Lando, Carlos, Pierre, Yuki, Lewis, George, and Alex, all staring at me like I’d just casually announced I was royalty.

“Hi,” I said blandly.

“‘Hi’?! That’s all we get?” George sputtered.

Max shouldered his way in first, eyes wide. “You—YOU—” He pointed at me. “Are Senna’s daughter and you didn’t tell anyone?!”

“I told Oscar,” I mumbled, leaning against the door frame.

“Yeah, okay, Oscar gets a free pass,” Lando said dramatically, waving a hand as he walked in. “Since he is the boyfriend.”

“I can’t believe you’re his,” Pierre said, mouth open as he stared around the apartment.

Yuki beelined for my kitchen. “Do you have snacks?”

Carlos gave me a look that was half stern, half soft. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Lewis stepped forward, eyes kind. “You didn’t have to. But… damn. That was powerful, YN.”

“Yeah,” Charles agreed, nodding slowly. “I cried, but that might’ve been the wine.”

The room was buzzing. Full of movement, questions, half-jokes, too much cologne, and disbelief so thick I could feel it crackling in the air like electricity. And yet, through it all, I just… Chuckled. I mean — this was my life now? Eight world-class athletes pacing my apartment like it was a race strategy debrief while Oscar, my boyfriend, my soulmate, looked like he wanted to protect me from the emotional onslaught with nothing but a throw pillow.

Max stared at me. “What’s funny?”

I smiled — wide and honest. “You guys are all losing your minds in my living room. Like I’m a unicorn or something.”

George raised a finger. “To be fair, you are. We just didn’t know it.”

Lando turned toward Oscar. “You knew. You absolute sneaky bastard.”

Oscar held up his hands, all innocence. “She told me. I didn’t say anything. Not even in the group chat.”

“I’m so proud of you, and also I hate you,” Pierre muttered, clapping Oscar’s shoulder.

And then — without warning — Max said, “Alright, that’s it. Everyone shut up.”

I blinked. “What—”

He lunged. Then Lando. Then Charles. Then George. Before I could even think to protest, I was being dragged into a ridiculous, suffocating, all-limbs, too-many-colognes, full team group hug. My face was squished between Max’s shoulder and Pierre’s head. Oscar laughed and wrapped his arms around all of us from the outside.

Someone yelled, “We’re proud of you!”

Someone else yelled, “She’s a Senna but she’s our YN!”

And I think it was Alex who shouted, “WE LOVE YOU, WORLD CHAMP!”

I couldn’t breathe. Not from the pressure of the hug — from the feeling of it all. Acceptance. Support. Love. After years of walls, of silence, of solitude, it all rushed in like the wave I didn’t know I’d been bracing for. And I let myself sink into it. Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to carry the legacy alone anymore.

—

[youkissedareaderinthedark]

Reality

Synopsis: Even though the cameras don’t see it, Y/n is more than just the anti-social driver the media paints her out to be. So the grid helps everyone see it

young female driver reader x 2023 F1 Grid

A/N: a few things: reader will be 20 in this fic, she takes the spot of valtterri and drives for alfa romeo, and if you can’t already tell, the reader in this is going to be kind of shy and reserved, so y/n might not 100% represent you in the case, just keep that in mind while you’re reading

. so

. you were announced to drive for alfa romeo as one of the rookies for the 2023 season in the beginning of the year

. you were ecstatic

. mostly because you’d be driving with two of your close friends, oscar piastri and logan sargeant

. and because one of your best friends was going to be your teammate

. you’d driven with zhou and oscar for one season in f1, but you and logan raced alongside each other for your entire f2 careers

. and now your were all going to be in formula 1 together

. you thought you were set socially because of this

. since you’d always been kind of quiet in large group settings

. especially with people you weren’t really comfortable with

. and being around mostly strangers 24/7 didn’t sound that appealing to you

. but now with a few people you loved being around

. you were happy

. as you weren’t known for being quiet with the oscar, zhou, and logan

. the three of them considered you the most talkative

. you just got a bit quiet when there were more people around

. so that’s how things went for a while

. you, oscar, and logan entered formula 1

. you guys hung out with zhou all the time in the paddock and off track

. and your group became very well known in the f1 community

. which makes the media focus on you a lot more

. something you rather didn’t like

. you weren’t that uncomfortable in front of a camera

. it was more the people behind it watching you

. but as more and more people take a liking in your friendship with the other three drivers

. they take more of an interest in you

. and so do the other drivers on the grid

. because you’re friendly with nearly everyone

. but not friends friendly like you are with zhou, logan, or oscar

. and they get curious

. because lando will see you visiting the mclaren garage

. and alex will see you in logan’s drivers’ room

. cracking jokes and making one of them laugh

. or rapidly talking about a topic they won’t recognize

. and the other drivers will see clips of alfa romeo videos on social media

. jokingly teasing zhou while you’re doing a competition

. or not being able to focus in a quiz because you’re laughing so hard

. and everybody, fans and the grid

. see the post your friends make

. the funny videos of you that you’re unaware are taking place

. the random candid photos of you

. all laughing and talking and smiling

. but when you’re grouped with them in a media activity or something

. you become quieter and reserved

. at first, some of the grid just thought you didn’t like them

. but then they’ll have a good conversation with you off camera

. you talk to charles during the drivers parade

. you’ll walk into the paddock with carlos

. take photos with lewis

. and joke with max and daniel

. but then go quiet during in front of the media

. so once they realize that you’re just a bit camera shy

. the drivers take it upon themselves to ease your discomfort

. whenever they’re grouped with a driver you’re somewhat close with in media

. lando, charles, carlos, lewis, max, danny

. they try to make you as comfortable as possible

. whether that be making more jokes than usual

. hanging out before you guys even go in for the interview

. or just talking before the camera is on to make you feel more relaxed

. and eventually, the more they do those things,

. the more confident you feel in front of media

. it’s a gradual change, one you don’t really notice until the end of the season

. all the sudden you realize that you don’t even care if there’s a camera around

. you hardly even notice them by brazil

. and the drivers take half of the credit for that

[inkandapex]

fan favourites

Summary : Fans compiled clips of their favourite moments between Lando and Aston Martin driver!reader.

Words: 2.2k

Warnings: swearing

Speculation continues to swirl around McLaren’s Lando Norris and you, Aston Martin’s young star, with many fans convinced there's more than just friendship between the two of you. Though neither you, nor Lando had confirmed anything, and no solid evidence had surfaced—your playful interactions and unmistakable chemistry have only added fuel to the fire.

these moments do not help your case.

The water bottle

It was post-race at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. Lando, Max and you, sat slumped on the nearest sofa, drained after securing P1, P2, and P3 respectively. The heat still clung to the air, even off-track, and your race suit stuck uncomfortably to your skin. The podium made it all worth it—but right now, all you wanted was a cold drink and a second to breathe.

You reached for the bottle water baside you lazily, hand sluggish and aching, half-listening to Lando as he answered a journalist's question about race strategy. The exhaustion weighed on your limbs, making the simplest takst of uncapping the bottle feel like such a challenge.

“The team knew what was needed to stay ahead of Max and—ugh, sorry. Here, let me.”

Without skipping a beat, he set down his mic, reached over, and easily twisted the cap open before handing the bottle back to you. You blinked in surprise, lips parting, but all that came out was a quiet, breathless “Thanks” as you took a sip.

Max let out a snort of laughter beside you. “Sorry, let’s pause the whole interview for this sweet little moment,” he teased, shaking his head.

Lando just rolled his eyes and grabbed his mic again, continuing as if nothing had happened. But judging by the grins from the journalists, and the certainty that the clip would be everywhere within the hour—it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

---------------------------------------------------------

Champagne problems

Lando is known for his champagne celebrations on the podium. Sure, it looks glorious, basking in victory, champagne flying through the air—but no one ever talks about the reality: it burns your eyes, floods your nose, and leaves your skin and hair sticky.

You stood tall on the top step, your first-ever win still sinking in. The crowd roared as your national anthem played, and you could feel your heartbeat thundering in your chest, pride swelling with every note. On either side of you stood Lando and Lewis, but it was Lando’s cheeky grin that caught your attention just as the anthem reached its peak.

The second it ended, chaos began.

Corks popped. Champagne exploded. And Lando, of course, immediately slammed his bottle down and aimed it straight at you.

You barely had a second to react. The cold spray hit from both sides, soaking you instantly as you struggled to open your own bottle. It poured down your face, into your suit, burning your eyes and blurring your vision. Lando’s laugh, loud, carefree, unmistakable, rang out over the madness.

You blinked rapidly, trying to wipe your face, unable to see a thing. Your expression probably said it all: somewhere between shocked and helplessly amused.

Then, through the chaos, you felt his hands on your face, gentle and steady. Lando’s fireproof sleeves brushed against your skin as he carefully wiped away the champagne from around your eyes, his thumbs moving with a softness that contrasted sharply with the wildness around you.

“You good?” he asked, laughing quietly, his grin now more sincere than mischievous.

You nodded, finally able to meet his gaze again, still catching your breath. “I swear, I’m never letting you near me with champagne again.”

Lando’s smile widened as he gave you a pat on the back. “I had to make it memorable!”

And God, he really had.

---------------------------------------------------------

Dinner with the Sainz Family

This video clip sent your's and Lando's shippers into a full-on spiral. After the Mexico Grand Prix, where Carlos Sainz and Lando secured an electrifying 1-2 finish, the pair were spotted celebrating with Carlos’ friends and family over dinner. A few lighthearted posts even made their way onto social media.

But what really caught fans’ attention was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it detail in one of the photos. In the background, seated next to Lando, was someone who sharp-eyed fans quickly identified, you. Wearing the same distinctive sweater you were seen in earlier that day when leaving the paddock, and the unmistakable bracelets you frequently wore throughout the season.

There was no official mention or tag, but that didn’t stop the speculation. For many fans, it was another subtle breadcrumb confirming what they’d suspected all along. The internet lit up with theories, edits, and speculation, convinced that yet another quiet public appearance had just taken place this time, tucked into a cozy moment with the Sainz family.

---------------------------------------------------------

daniel.jpg

Lando and you have made several unexpected appearances on Daniel Ricciardo’s iconic JPG Instagram account. While it wasn’t unusual for the three of you to be seen together, given the tight-knit friendship between Daniel, Lando, and yourself—fans didn’t hesitate to dive deep into the posts, convinced they were subtle clues feeding the long-standing theory that there’s more between you and Lando than just friendship.

One photo showed the three of you in a mirror selfie inside an elevator. Daniel, played photographer, camera in hand, while you and Lando stood casually beside him. At first glance, it looked like a typical group pic, until fans zoomed in. Slung over Lando’s shoulder was your bag, resting there like it belonged, as if it had found its place without either of you thinking twice about it.

Another upload showed a moment at a karting track. You were standing beside your kart, preparing to head out, when fans noticed the figure next to you. Though his helmet covered most of his face, there was no mistaking it, Lando. He stood close, hands carefully adjusting your helmet strap, focused and steady. The gesture was small, but intimate, and the natural ease between you didn’t go unnoticed.

Within hours, the comment sections were flooded with theories and heart-eyed emojis. To the internet, these weren’t just photos, they were proof.

---------------------------------------------------------

Driver's Parade

The truck moved at a crawl, weaving past grandstands packed with fans shouting your names and waving flags like their lives depended on it. You kept your sunglasses on, smile practiced, waving just enough to look friendly, nothing more, nothing less.

Lando stood beside you, doing the exact same thing. Waving, smiling, keeping the conversation low between the two of you. Like you weren’t both trying not to laugh at the stupid inside joke he’d just whispered about a guy holding a "Marry Me, Lando" sign.

He’d helped you into the truck earlier, hand out like a reflex, fingers brushing yours a second longer than necessary. No one caught that. At least, you thought so.

And then came the moment. You were both waving, smiling, still laughing at something only you two found funny, when Lando’s hand casually dropped to the small of your back as the truck began to make a turn at a corner. Barely there. Light. Familiar.

Too familiar.

It lingered for just a second before he suddenly realized. His hand flew back like he’d touched something hot, and he looked ahead like nothing happened. But you could see the panic flash across his face for a split second.

You didn’t say anything, just smirked.

Unfortunately for both of you, Charles did notice, and so did your fans. From the truck behind, he leaned over dramatically and yelled, “Oooohhh! I saw that, penalty for Norris”

Lando groaned under his breath. You tried, and failed, not to laugh, biting your lip as your shoulders shook.

“Smooth,” you teased him, still smiling to the crowd.

“Tiny slip up, just a friendly hand” he whispered, eyes still forward like a guilty schoolboy.

He glanced over his shoulder, then muttered with a grin, “If this ends up on a fan cam—”

You bumped his shoulder playfully. “Please. They’ve already made ten TikToks about us just from this truck ride alone.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Rain

The rain had been relentless, hammering down onto the track, forcing a red flag that left drivers scattered around the paddock like bored students on a rainy field trip. Some retreated to their garages, napping, listening to music to stay focused, while others found creative ways to pass the time. A few were even caught playing football with balled-up tire warmers.

You, Lando, and Carlos had ended up in a quiet corner of the paddock, chatting while waiting out the weather. The broadcast cameras, desperate for content, eventually found their way to your little trio, panning slowly toward the three of you laughing at something Carlos had said.

Then the focus shifted—subtly, but noticeably—to just you and Lando.

Lando stood close, holding an umbrella tilted almost entirely your way, rain spattering off the edges while he stayed mostly outside the shelter himself. His hoodie was already damp, but he didn’t seem to care. You nudged him at one point, trying to shift it so he wasn’t fully out in the wet, but he just gave you a boyish grin and said something that made you laugh.

That’s when the Max Fewtrell, Lando's good friend, side eyes his running twitch stream, knowing full well the moment the camera just caught would send fans into a full blown spiral.

Max paused. Blinked. And then, slowly, looked straight into the camera with the most dramatic, expression he could manage.

“Right,” he said, eyes wide, the corners of his mouth twitching with a grin. “So it’s that kind of weather delay, huh?”

The chat exploded within seconds, fans already reading into the umbrella, the body language, the fact that Lando didn’t seem remotely interested in moving.

Max leaned in, voice dropping and thick with teasing. “Alright chat, calm down—cut our boy some slack and give him a fighting chance.”

Back on screen, Lando caught the camera out of the corner of his eye, shifted the umbrella just enough… and casually rested a hand on your back, if only for a moment.

Carlos caught it. You caught the smirk.

Max definitely caught it.

“Look at these two—already causing more buzz than the race itself.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Secret Santa

To this day, fans swear the annual driver Christmas gift exchange was the clearest sign that something more was going on between you and Lando Norris.

It was already suspicious enough that, out of all the names in the bucket, you and Lando somehow ended up picking each other. But what truly sent the internet into a frenzy were the gifts—thoughtful, personal, impossibly specific. The kind of presents only two people who knew each other too well would give.

Lando was mid-unwrapping, his usual excited grin slipping into a confused frown as he rotated the box in his hands, trying to make sense of it.

“Oh, sh—” His eyes widened. “—Sorry, cut that out,” he added quickly, glancing toward the crew with a sheepish grin.

Inside the box: a 1:1 LEGO replica of Lando’s first-ever karting helmet. Every detail was there—from the exact color scheme to the little decals only a handful of people would remember. Attached to the side of the box was a small envelope. He opened it and read aloud:

“From someone who knows how much this still means to you.”

Lando went quiet. Just for a second. The camera zoomed in slightly, catching the subtle shift in his expression.

“Who do you think your Secret Santa was?” someone asked off-camera.

“Oh, I know exactly who it was,” Lando said, chuckling softly. “Still kinda freaky how she managed to pull this off—I’m guessing my mum or dad helped her out.”

“Did they do a good job?”

“It’s perfect,” he said, smiling as he gently patted the box. “I love it. Definitely looking forward to building it and putting it on display.”

“And do you think the person you got will like their gift?”

Lando laughed under his breath. “I mean… I got her. And she’s already beaten me in the gift department—but yeah, I really hope she does.”

The video then cut to you, sitting just outside Aston Martin’s hospitality unit, carefully unwrapping a paper bag handed to you just before filming began.

“Who do you think your Secret Santa is?”

You glanced up, laughing as you peeled away the last bit of tissue paper. “Charles, maybe? He’s been asking me about my hobbies recently—like, weirdly specific questions.”

Your eyes dropped to the contents of the bag: a vintage film camera and a leather-bound journal. Your race number and initials were engraved on the cover in gold. You flipped it open slowly, revealing a message on the inside page:

For every moment you want to remember, and the ones you think you’ll forget.

You let out a breath, covering your mouth with your hand. “No way. This is so—” You shook your head, smiling. “This is so nice. You guys… best Secret Santa season ever, I think.”

Then you paused, adding with a laugh, “No offense to Alex—he got me that spa voucher last year and it was amazing.”

“Any idea who your Secret Santa was?”

You smiled, chuckling as you hugged the journal to your chest. “Yeah, I do.”

“Still think it was Charles?”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure he was just genuinely curious about my hobbies,” you laugh.

“Any other guesses?”

You shake your head with a grin. “Nope. I know exactly who it was—and I really hope he liked what I got him, too.”

[afterglowsainz]

dandelion | max verstappen, daniel ricciardo

pairing: max verstappen x age gap!reader x daniel ricciardo

summary: you thought the puppy fever that took over the paddock by storm would rub into your two boyfriends, but it seems to be a struggle to convince them to get a dog

fc: sab zada

request: here

a/n: grand prix winner max verstappen you were missed 🙂‍↕️

—

liked by charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and others

yourusername leo’s play date with his favorite aunt (me)

tagged alexandrasaintmleux

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username leo!!!

username he’s the cutest little puppy 🥺

username besides alex and charles, there’s no one that loves that dog more than y/n

charles_leclerc ah, i was wondering where my son was

yourusername in my back pocket of course

username alex and y/n the ultimate it girls‼️

francisca.cgomes i beg to differ

yourusername you can’t

username pls she posts leo more than alex herself 😭

danielricciardo 😍 (liked by yourusername)

alexandrasaintmleux and he loves it everytime 🤍

yourusername i love him 😭😭

liked by danielricciardo, pierregasly and others

yourusername the og simba (he’s so cute i might steal him)

tagged francisca.cgomes

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username excuse me the face card on the first pic

username lethal

francisca.cgomes the best aunt 💗

yourusername my nephew 😭

username daniel and max i’ll fight you both i don’t care

danielricciardo ❤️ (liked by yourusername)

username simbaaaa 🤩

pierregasly please don’t steal my dog

yourusername fine, i’ll steal your girlfriend instead

pierregasly don’t even 🤬

username y/n is collecting all the paddock puppies like infinity stones

username someone please give this woman a dog 😩

yourusername maxvertsappen1 danielricciardo

maxverstappen1 no

maxverstappen1’s instagram stories

[caption 1: 🐱] [caption 2: cats❤️]

liked by maxverstappen1, lilymhe and others

yourusername lucky 24 🍀

view all comments

username happy birthday queen!

danielricciardo 24 years blessing the earth with your presence

yourusername 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

username the most magical person ever 🤩 hbd <3

username have a great birthday y/n ❤️‍🩹

maxverstappen1 happy birthday schatje i love you ❤️

yourusername 🥹 <3

alexandrasaintmleux happy birthday y/n!! (leo sends his regards too)

francisca.cgomes happy birthday🫶🏽 from me and simba

username loveeee the dress and the cake

username and the crown!

lilymhe happy birthday pretty🩷

lewishamilton happy birthday y/n! roscoe misses you

yourusername i’ll drop everything rn 😭

yourusername’s instagram stories

[caption 1: totally not freaking out over how cute she is😭] [caption 2: love at first sight]

liked by landonorris, danielricciardo and others

yourusername this is the best day of my life and i’m not kidding at all. my baby 🥹🩷

view all comments

username omg so cuteeee 🥹

username she’s a cutie look at her!!

username her eyes 🥺🥺

username omg finally! this girl was screaming at the sky for a puppy

username ahhh so pretty 🥰 i wonder what her name is

maxverstappen1 lion

yourusername dandelion*

username clock him y/n‼️

alexandrasaintmleux can’t wait to meet her!

yourusername omg her and leo 🥺

username i’m afraid i already have grown fond of dandelion and we’ve only had a post and two stories

username the cuteness aggression is real

username i lowkey have a feeling this was daniel and max’s doing

yourusername best boyfriends ever !!!!!

danielricciardo 🥰🫶🏽

maxverstappen1 🙄

yourusername’s instagram stories

[caption 1: who’s more entertained with dandelion and why is it jimmy and sassy] [caption 2: hello there]

liked by yourusername, carlossainz55 and others

maxverstappen1 family

tagged yourusername and danielricciardo

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username he include dandelion guys this is not a drill he include dandelion🚨🚨

yourusername the most perfect one❤️

maxverstappen1 ❤️‍🩹

username they might be the best throuple ever

username them and their pets

username jimmy, sassy and dandelion are the main characters

username awww max found his love for dandelion 🥰

username typical man saying he doesn’t want any pets and then being obsessed once they get them

danielricciardo love it ❤️‍🩹

maxverstappen1 ❤️

username he was NOT inmune to little dandelion charm

[jungwnies]

F1 GRID (2/2) | being lifted onto a counter

୨ৎ : featuring : lando norris, oscar piastri, kimi antonelli, ollie bearman, and yuki tsunoda (click here for part one) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon 🫐) : your f1 boyfriend picking you up on the counter... or maybe even vice verse for shits and giggles ;)

୨ৎ : genre : comedic romance & slightly suggestive (for some drivers) ୨ৎ : tws : suggestive if you SQUINT ୨ৎ : word count : 1774

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : who do you guys think is going to get podium this weekend >.<

ʚ・lando norris

lando was up to something.

you could tell from the way he was grinning like an idiot, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he stood in front of you in the kitchen.

“i bet i could lift you,” he announced suddenly, arms crossed like he was about to prove some great athletic achievement.

you raised an eyebrow. “uh… yeah? you literally train every day?”

lando smirked. “okay, okay. stand still.”

you complied, waiting for him to make his move. he bent his knees, placed his hands on your waist, and then—absolutely nothing happened.

he grunted. groaned. dramatically wiped his forehead. even pretended to struggle as if you were a literal boulder.

you blinked. “are you serious?”

lando huffed, shaking his head. “damn, babe. you’re, like… heavy.”

silence.

you narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms.

lando’s grin immediately faltered.

“wait—no, that’s not what i meant!” he panicked, waving his hands around like a madman. “i was JOKING—”

“oh?” you glared, stepping back. “i’m heavy?”

lando’s brain short-circuited. “no! i mean—well, yes, but not like that! i mean, like—you’re the perfect weight! no—wait, i don’t mean perfect weight, i mean—”

you stared, watching him dig his own grave.

“lando.”

he froze.

you tilted your head. “if i’m so heavy, maybe you shouldn’t try again.”

that was all it took.

suddenly, his hands were on your waist again, and before you could even react, you were lifted into the air with complete and total ease.

you gasped, hands gripping his shoulders. “HEY—”

he smirked up at you, holding you like you weighed nothing.

“huh,” lando said smugly. “guess you weren’t that heavy after all.”

you smacked his arm. “i hate you.”

he grinned, leaning in slightly. “no, you don’t.”

you narrowed your eyes. “you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

lando’s smugness disappeared instantly. “no, no, wait—babe, please—”

and that’s how lando norris learned there are some jokes you just don’t make.

ʚ・oscar piastri

it was the kind of quiet, cozy evening that made everything feel just right, no race weekends, no flights to catch, just you and oscar, home together.

you were standing by the counter, absentmindedly stirring your tea, wrapped in one of oscar’s hoodies that hung far too big on you. he was leaning against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching you with that small, lazy smile that only appeared when he was truly relaxed.

“what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes playfully.

oscar shrugged, pushing off the counter and walking toward you. “nothing. just thinking about how nice this is.”

you smiled, setting your spoon down. “you mean me making tea while you do absolutely nothing?”

he smirked. “exactly.”

before you could roll your eyes, his hands found your waist, and in one smooth motion, he lifted you onto the counter.

a surprised laugh left your lips. “oscar!”

“what?” he stepped between your legs, his hands still resting on your thighs, thumbs tracing slow circles. “you looked like you needed a change of perspective.”

you huffed, but couldn’t fight the warmth spreading through your chest. “and you just had to lift me?”

he hummed, leaning in slightly. “well, yeah. it’s my boyfriend duty.”

you scoffed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “oh? and what else does your ‘boyfriend duty’ include?”

oscar pretended to think, his fingers still absentmindedly tracing patterns on your skin. “making sure you’re always warm. stealing your snacks, just to test them for poison.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “how noble of you.”

he grinned, his nose brushing against yours. “and, of course, making sure you never forget how much i love you.”

your heart stuttered. even after all this time, he still had that effect on you.

you softened, threading your fingers through his hair. “you’re doing a great job, then.”

oscar smiled, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips before pulling back just enough to murmur, “good. because i’m never quitting.”

and in that small, quiet moment, with the rain outside and his warmth surrounding you, you knew, you never wanted him to.

ʚ・kimi antonelli

kimi wasn’t big on public affection. not because he didn’t love you, he just wasn’t the type to put on a show.

so when you tugged at his hand in the middle of a crowded paddock, laughing as you challenged him, “bet you can’t lift me,” you thought nothing of it.

kimi, however, didn’t hesitate.

he simply stepped closer, hands settling at your waist, and you barely had time to react before you felt your feet start to leave the ground.

that was when he realized.

the moment it hit him that you weren’t alone.

that, in fact, several people were watching.

kimi immediately froze, muscles going tense. his grip slackened slightly, and you could practically see the internal debate happening in real time.

“…df, pdf… vdc…” he mumbled under his breath, his brain quite literally short-circuiting.

you blinked at him. “excuse me?”

kimi exhaled sharply, dropping his hands as if you had suddenly become radioactive. he took half a step back, eying the people around you with suspicion.

“i’m not doing this here,” he muttered, shaking his head.

you burst out laughing. “what, you’re embarrassed?”

he gave you a flat look. “no. i just—” he gestured vaguely at the people around you. “why are there so many witnesses?”

you grinned. “ohhh, i see. you can win races, but lifting your own girlfriend in public is too much pressure?”

kimi scowled. “that’s not—”

before he could finish, you took a step closer, lowering your voice. “so… if we were alone, you’d do it?”

he hesitated for one second too long.

“ha!” you pointed accusingly. “you would!”

kimi rolled his eyes, grabbing your wrist and pulling you away. “fine. come with me.”

you blinked. “where are we—”

the moment you turned a corner, out of view of prying eyes, he lifted you effortlessly, hands gripping your waist, placing you onto the nearest flat surface—a low counter, a bench, whatever he could find.

“there.” he smirked slightly, stepping between your legs. “happy now?”

you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “you’re ridiculous.”

he hummed, leaning in just a little closer. “mmm. and you’re lucky i like you.”

and just like that, the kimi antonelli no-public-affection rule was officially broken.

ʚ・ollie bearman

ollie bearman liked to pretend he was smooth.

emphasis on pretend.

he was confident on track, composed when it mattered, but when it came to you? all bets were off.

which is how he ended up in this situation—standing in the kitchen, staring at you like he had just made the most genius decision of his life.

“i could totally lift you,” he announced, randomly, like he had just thought of it and immediately decided it needed to be said out loud.

you raised an eyebrow, setting down your glass. “and why exactly do you feel the need to prove that?”

ollie grinned. “because i just know i can.”

you narrowed your eyes at him. “have you been thinking about this?”

“…no,” he said, way too quickly.

you sighed, shaking your head. “you’re ridiculous.”

but before you could argue any further, ollie had already stepped closer, his hands firmly gripping your waist.

“wait—”

too late.

in one effortless motion, you were off the ground, lifted cleanly into the air like you weighed absolutely nothing.

your hands immediately gripped his shoulders, your laugh bubbling out before you could stop it. “ollie!”

he grinned up at you, looking way too pleased with himself. “told you.”

you rolled your eyes. “okay, fine, strong guy, put me down—”

his smirk widened. oh no.

“hmm,” he pretended to think. “maybe i won’t.”

you gasped. “ollie bearman, do not—”

before you could even threaten him, he spun you in a circle, his laugh mixing with yours as he effortlessly twirled you in the air before finally placing you onto the counter.

you stared at him, breathless, eyes wide. “you’re unbelievable.”

ollie brushed imaginary dust off his hands, still grinning. “you can admit you’re impressed.”

you tilted your head, crossing your arms. “okay. now you let me lift you.”

his cocky expression immediately dropped. “uh—”

“you were so confident a second ago.”

ollie laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “i—look, that’s different—”

you raised an eyebrow, challenging him. “oh? because i think i can totally lift you.”

“…can i at least finish my snack first?”

“nope.”

and just like that, his ego was officially on the line.

ʚ・yuki tsunoda

yuki tsunoda wasn’t the biggest fan of public displays of affection.

it wasn’t that he didn’t like affection—he actually enjoyed it quite a bit when it was just the two of you. but growing up in japan, where pda wasn’t exactly the norm, meant he was always hyper-aware of who was watching.

which is why, when he effortlessly lifted you off the ground in the middle of a very crowded paddock, he immediately regretted it.

at first, he was smug about it.

you had teased him about his height one too many times, so he had proved a point—his hands firm on your waist, your feet leaving the ground before you could even react.

“see?” he said, grinning up at you. “stronger than i look.”

you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “okay, okay, you made your point—”

that’s when yuki realized.

you weren’t alone.

the second he turned his head slightly, he was met with several amused, wide-eyed faces.

a few team members. some journalists. and worst of all—pierre and lando.

pierre’s jaw dropped.

lando’s smirk was pure evil. “ohhhh, this is adorable.”

yuki’s entire body locked up.

he froze, mid-lift, realization hitting him like a freight train.

he had just done this in front of everyone.

you could see the exact moment his brain malfunctioned.

“…oh,” yuki muttered, voice flat.

pierre grinned. “don’t stop now! give them a kiss too!”

yuki immediately set you down, face burning red. “shut up, pierre.”

lando was laughing so hard he could barely stand. “mate, what happened to ‘not in public’?”

yuki scowled, grabbing your wrist and practically dragging you away. “i forgot, okay?!”

you, barely containing your laughter, let him pull you along. “so, lifting me was fine until you realized you had an audience?”

yuki groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “i swear to god, i’m never doing that again.”

“you love me, though.”

he sighed dramatically. “yeah, yeah. i do. but next time, we’re doing this in private.”

pierre called after him, voice dripping with amusement. “are you sure, yuki? maybe next time you can dip them too!”

yuki’s entire body tensed.

“keep walking,” he muttered under his breath. “i’m gonna kill him.”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[whatsverstappeningnow]

how f1 drivers react

to you breaking up with them because you think you are distracting them from their career (requested) -> part two: getting back together

drivers mentioned: MV33, LN4, OP81, AA23, CS55, CL16, LH44, GR63

max verstappen

Weeks of contemplation hadn’t made this any easier. You still didn’t really know what to say, how to say it. But you knew what needed to be done. Every second you’re together is time taken away from his work. Hours wasted.

You don’t even get the words out all the way, just the beginning of a sentence, something about how maybe this isn’t fair to him, he’s distracted. He’s making mistakes he never used to make.

Max stills like you’ve poured ice cold water over him. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, eerie still.

“What are you saying?”

You keep your eyes on the floor. Meeting his gaze would hurt too much. You don’t have the strength to do it. “We need to break up.”

It’s quiet. So deathly quiet you think you can hear every thought whirl through his head at a million miles an hour. Your heart pounds heavy in your chest.

“You don’t mean it. Stop.” His voice is small, restrained.

“I do. We’re done. This is for you Max… you’re better off with me gone. I’m in the way.” You voice cracks and wavers as you speak, but you refuse to back down. You know you’re right.

Max lets out a sharp breath through his nose, like he’s trying not to raise his voice.

“You think I’d be better off?” His voice cracks on the last two words, his arms crossing like he can’t figure out what to do with us hands. “You think my life gets easier if you disappear? What the fuck?”

You start to explain, something about pressure, the pressure on him, his career, about not wanting to be the thing that takes his focus. About not being able to stand yourself if you were the reason he failed.

“Jesus, you think I don’t know pressure? You think I give a fuck about all this shit if the choice is it or you? You can’t decide for me that I can’t take it. You can’t decide that for us! For fucks sake!”

You flinch. His words hurt like a knife to the heart. His hands are in his hair, rubbing his face and then settling back into crossed arms, his chest rising and falling too fast. Then he stops.

He’s still so suddenly it makes your heart drop. He just looks… tired. The kind of tired that goes bone deep and settles in your soul. He looks up at you and you see the look in his eyes, he knows he’s already lost you.

If he won’t do this for himself, you will. You love him too much to let him fail.

“If you leave… don’t pretend it’s for me. Don’t. Just go.”

Leaving feels like giving up, but you don’t let yourself turn back. A flurry of texts erupt from your phone as you drive away from his house, a call rings. You let it go to voicemail and delete it without listening.

This is for the best.

lando norris

“No, nope, not happening.”

He’s pacing the room, a nervous energy filling his body and seemingly preventing him from sitting still for ever a second. His hands fidget, fighting for something to do. Ever since you told him you needed to break up, he has simply stopped listening. Nothing you were saying was getting through to him.

He refused to understand.

“Lando, please just listen—”

“I am listening. And you’re talking bullshit.”

You sigh slightly and look down, you’ve been fighting of tears all morning just thinking about having to have this discussion, but you can’t let yourself cry now. But still, they well in your eyes and threaten to fail your resolve. He softens instantly, moving toward you.

“I’m sorry, I just—” He looks desperate, eyes wide and searching your expression for any sign of hope. A sign that he can turn this around. Save what you have. “You can’t drop something like that out of no where and expect me to be okay with it. I don’t want you to leave. You don’t distract me.”

“You say that now—”

“I say that because it’s true. You ground me. You make me feel normal. You give me someone to come home to no matter if I’m P20 or P1. You make me feel like more than my fucking result. And if you walk away, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing any of this for. Cause I’m not sure who I am without you around!”

His hands reach out and grip yours, his hold tight and firm but not painful. Just constant pressure. Like he’s afraid if he lets go you will disappear. You might.

“You’re not leaving. You wanna talk about this? Fine. But you don’t get to pick up and leave me out of no where. You owe me more than that.”

“You need this. Trust me.”

“I need you!”

Finally, a tear falls down your cheek. You don’t brush it away. As it plummets to the ground, Lando knows something has shifted that can’t be undone. He’s lost you.

oscar piastri

Oscar doesn’t say anything at first. His face is straight, mouth in a tight line, but his eyes hold within them all that he feels. He just stares at you like he’s trying to figure out if this is a test. Or, maybe, an elaborate prank. He hopes it is.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just… I don’t want to be the reason you lose focus. You’re so close to everything you’ve worked for.”

He finally exhales and looks away. “You think I made it this far alone?” he asks quietly, voice slow and careful.

You blink. “Oscar—”

“I didn’t. You were there. Every night I was doubting myself, worrying, thinking I wasn’t going to make it, you reminded me who I was.”

He pauses. Swallows hard. You take the chance to interrupt, to justify yourself.

“Things change. You needed that then. You need me gone now. You just can’t see it.” You plead with him, desperate for him to understand; this wasn’t because of any loss of love or heartbreak. You were doing this because you loved him too much to stand in his way.

“You think taking yourself out of the picture is going to help me? You keep me going.”

You say nothing, because anything you say will only make it worse.

So he nods, just once. Hurting. Resigned. He turns his head and stares out the window, his eyes glazed over with unshed tears.

“I don’t want this,” he says, unable to look you in the eye.

“I know.”

“You don’t either.”

“I know.”

“So don’t leave,” he pleads, but it’s too late. You had made your mind up days ago. If this is what it takes for him to reach his dreams, you’d glad to clap from the sidelines. Even if in your heart you would always be applauding in the front row.

carlos sainz

Carlos is quiet for a long time after you say it, the five fatal words. Long enough that the pit, already deep in your stomach, starts to feel like it’s going to cave in on itself. The silence is more painful than any screaming would be.

“I don’t understand. You think I’d give up what we have… because I had a couple of bad races?”

Your eyes sting, you try to hold your ground. But the sheer confusion in his voice makes you want to turn and run.

“It’s not just that. I can feel it, Carlos. You’re distracted. You need to be focused. And I… I can’t be in the way. I won’t let myself do that to you.”

He steps toward you, voice calm but firm and hands reaching out to grasp yours. You shouldn’t, but you let him. The warmth of his hands in yours grounds you.

“Hey, don’t say that. You’ve never been in the way.” He says it with such certainty, such conviction, you almost believe him. Almost.

“I don’t love you because it’s convenient. I don’t just love you when times are easy, mi vida. I love you because when the world’s spinning, you’re the only constant. You ground me.” He exhales shakily. “Don’t take that away from me. Don’t take you away from me.”

You press your lips together to keep them from trembling, and Carlos finally lets the emotion crack through his voice.

“If I crash and burn, I want you in the pit watching. If I win, I want you there too. But I want you. That’s never changed.”

“Then maybe I’ve changed. It’s me, Carlos. Not you.”

“No, no. Cariño, no.”

“We can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry.”

“Doing what? Loving either? You want to give this all up because, what, I am not performing well?”

“No, Carlos, it’s not that…”

He’s quiet then. He can’t understand , and you can barely explain. You know what you have to do. Even if it hurts.

“Please, I have to go.”

You don’t think you’ll ever forget ever forget the look of pure desperation in his eyes as you walked out of his house for the last time, carrying with you the weight of all the could have been, that now never will again.

alex albon

The colour drains from Alex’s face the second you tell him. The spark in his eye, the pure joy he radiates that you’d learnt to associate with him, and him alone, suddenly disappears. His whole body just stops.

“No—no, no, come on,” Alex says, voice panicked. “You don’t mean this.”

“I do,” you whisper. “You’re distracted, Alex. Every time you chose me over work, I know what you’re giving up. You’re so close to proving yourself again, and I don’t want to be the reason you miss this opportunity. I won’t be.

His mouth opens like he wants to argue, but he closes it again. His eyebrows furrow and his head dips. For a moment his hands twitches forward, but, like he suddenly thinks better of it, it stays in his lap.

“You’re not the reason for any of that. But you are the reason I get out of bed some days.”

You look away. It’s too much. “Alex…”

“No, c’mon. You want to know what you’re really responsible for? It’s not my failures. It’s not my losses. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re not enough. I’ve lived that for years. And then you showed up and made me believe I was more than all of that.”

His hands wave in the air as he speaks, but you can only stare at his eyes. The beautiful eyes that look so heartbroken, so afraid. He swallows hard

“You really think you could make me believe all that, and be standing in the way of my success?”

He doesn’t stop you if you walk away. Just stands there like he’s still waiting for you to come back, hoping you’ll wake up from the sleep of insecurity you’re deep in and turn back around to him. You don’t.

Walking away takes a kind of strength you didn’t know you had.

charles leclerc

“No.”

It’s immediate, institutional. He says it the second the word breakup leaves your lips. Whatever he was going before is immediately forgotten, he’s turned to you dead on like a challenge.

You try to keep your voice calm. “Charles, I just… I’m not good for you right now. I’m distracting you. You need something that I’m not.”

He laughs bitterly, eyes glossy with disbelief. One hand rest on his hip, the other rubs his eyes. He’s the picture of confusion and shock. It hurts to have caught him so unaware, just yesterday he was talking about holidays and date nights. In one sentence you’ve sent it all crashing to the ground.

“So, what? You think you’re the reason I haven’t won a championship yet?”

“Of course not—”

“Then stop trying to erase yourself like you’re some burden I didn’t ask for. If I didn’t want to be here, if I didn’t think what we had was special, I wouldn’t be.”

He steps closer, but doesn’t touch you. You fight the urge to reach for him, you know you have to stand your ground.

“I don’t care about perfect focus. I care about coming home to you. About having someone who understands me. Someone who stays.”

You whisper his name, but he shakes his head.

“If you do not want to stay, then leave, cheri.” His voice is low, and there’s a breathily disbelieving laugh that clouds the end of his sentence. He doesn’t think you’ll actually leave. That is his last mistake. He doesn’t realise how much you are will to do to help him reach his goals.

You love him so much. But you can’t keep holding him back, you won’t let yourself. Endless phone calls pile in throughout that night, but by morning they have stopped. A single text shines bright among the string of apologies.

“I love you. Please come home.” But home isn’t with him anymore.

lewis hamilton

It’s the hardest sentence you’ve ever had to say. Your heart beats heavy in your chest. Doing the right thing is never easy.

“I think we should break up,” you murmur, barely loud enough to rise above the hum of the hotel room’s air conditioning. “You’re better off without the distraction. Better off with me gone.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. Lewis doesn’t speak right away, he doesn’t even look at you at first. He just stares down at the floor, hands clasped tightly to the crisp white bedsheets.

When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “You think you are a distraction? Baby, what?”

His head shoots up and his eyes meet yours with a tearful gaze. He’s stuck in place, so in shock that he can barely move.

You nod, swallowing hard. “I see the pressure you’re under. The expectations. The media. I don’t want to be one more thing pulling at you. You need to focus. And I— I can’t always be okay. You shouldn’t have to carry that too—carry me too.”

His jaw clenches like he’s trying not to fall apart from your words. Each thing you say, each self deprecating phrase, cuts into him like a knife.

“No. No! It’s not like that. Yes it’s hard, it’s always been hard. But no,” he says with a sudden firmness. But not anger. Somehow, that hurts more than rage.

“You’re not something I carry, you’re the reason I keep going.” He finally turns to face you, eyes glassy with something unspoken. “Do you really think I’d be better off alone in all this? You really think an empty house and an empty bed is going to fix me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because it’s already too much.

“I’ve given up a lot for this career,” he says, voice shaking. “So many things. And I’ve told myself over and over it was worth it. I’ve made a million mistake and I’ll make a million more before I retire. I’m sure of it. But you’re the first thing in a long time that feels right. You’re the first person who has made me feel like there is more to life than winning.”

His voice cracks on that last word, and he curses under his breath, turning away like he can’t bear to let you see. Like the very sight of you hurts him. It’s hard to admit that it hurts you too.

“I love you,” he whispers. “And you want to walk away because you think I’d be better without you?”

You’re crying now, silent tears slipping down your cheeks, and it’s killing him. He crosses the room… then stops. Like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. He doesn’t want to over step in already shaky grounds.

“I won’t beg you,” he says, finally. “If you really believe I’ll be happier without you… then go.”

And so you do.

You feel his absence deep in your bones. It’s hard, figuring out what to do when the thing that made him feel most human leaves. But no one ever talks about how hard it’s to be the one who must walk away.

george russell

You’re standing at the edge of the room, arms crossed tight over your chest, like you're trying to physically hold yourself together. George is sitting on the edge of the bed, running a towel through his hair, fresh from the shower and smiling up at you with practiced fondness. Then you say it.

“I think we should break up.”

And it’s like a switch flips.

His hands still, towel frozen mid-motion. The silence stretches long and cold. Neither of you move, each waiting for the others next choice.

Finally, breaking the dome of silence over the two of you, he speaks, slow and careful. “You… what?”

“I just think maybe I’m a distraction,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “You’ve been under so much pressure and I— I don’t want to be something that takes your focus away.”

George stands, slowly, eyes narrowed just slightly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not,” you insist, your voice already cracking. “You’re fighting for a championship. You don’t need me in your head before every quali or after every crash, you need to think of yourself. You need to be selfish for once!”

His expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it sharpens, like he’s trying to understand how this could possibly be happening. He drops the towel onto the bed, his hands resting beside him with a practiced kind of care.

“So you’ve already decided,” he says, voice quiet and tight. “Without talking to me.”

You look away. “It’s better this way.”

“For who?” The question is sharp, angry in a way George rarely lets himself be. “Because it sure as hell isn’t for me.”

The fight drains from him almost instantly. He hates getting mad, especially at you. He runs a hand down his face and leans back, sitting back down in the bed and letting the distance between you grow.

“I thought we were a team,” he says, softer now, but broken. “I thought when things got hard, we worked through it. We talked. Together.”

You can barely breathe. “I didn’t want to make you choose.”

“But there was never a choice,” he says, shaking his head. “It was always you. Everytime.”

“And that’s why I couldn’t let you decide… I’m sorry.”

You move towards the door. He doesn’t stop you. Not because he wants you to go, but because he’s not the kind of man who’ll beg someone to stay who’s already halfway gone. Your decision your his own, he won’t tell you what you can or can’t do.

But after you leave, he sits on the edge of the bed, the one that used to be yours, staring at the door like he expects you to come back. You don’t. And George doesn’t sleep that night, or the one after. He’s not sure when he will ever sleep well again knowing what he let slip through his fingers.

part two here!