#morphing grid

[benjaminbanger]

Oh shit, it’s your favorite 3 DJ’s from Baltimore

[trescoolcomics]

[alotofrandomfangirling]

I'm not taking any criticism on Cosmic Fury cause we had badass female red ranger and that's all that matters to me

[5sospenguinqueen]

Feels Like Sabotage | Charles Leclerc x Red Bull! Reader

Summary: The Grid have decided that this is the season to see who can injure Yn the most. (Not intentionally, they all feel terrible about it). Fed up of seeing his girlfriend injured, Charles decides to enact revenge. 

Pairing: Platonic! Grid x reader. Charles Leclerc x Reader (slight)

Warnings: swearing, slight injury 

Word count: 3.3k

F1 Masterlist

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

#1 Lando Norris

Cheers thundered throughout the track, vibrating through the floor and buzzing into the bodies of the podium winners. Max Verstappen stood in the middle, arms raised high as he bared his Grand Prix trophy to the roaring crowd. Another successful race, another win under his belt. The Dutch anthem was still ringing in his ears, and his smile widened as he turned to his left, finding his teammate beaming with her P3 trophy in hand. A double podium for Red Bull and another step closer to the Constructors Championship.

Jumping down from the P2 podium, Lando raced over to his friends, eager to share in their victories. He threw his arms around Max and Yn, dragging them both into a hug and shouting congratulations into their ears. Disentangling herself from the papaya racer, Yn turned to face the crowd, eyes scanning for a dark-haired Ferrari racer. Dimples deepening as he made eye contact with her, Charles blew his girlfriend a celebratory kiss. Unimpressed that Yn was distracted and not listening to his overjoyed shouts, Lando waved his arms about in front of her, hoping to garner her attention. Miscalculating his movements, his face morphed from delight to terror. Around them, cameras caught the moment that Yn’s face morphed from heart eyes to pain as the trophy came into contact with her skull. 

“Oh, fuck! Yn, I am so sorry! Oh, no. That was so hard.”

Recoiling from the McLaren driver, her free hand came up to nurse the red mark forming on her forehead. Lando chased after her, apologies spilling from his mouth. Yn beat him back with her elbow. 

“Did you just hit me with your trophy?” Yn asked in shock. “I didn’t even beat you.”

“I didn’t mean to. I was waving it about and…”

“And they say F1 drivers are coordinated,” chuckled Max, walking over to his teammate to inspect the damage done to her skull. He winced jokingly, fingers prodding the dark bruise forming. “Oh, dear, you have a bump.”

“Your protective P instincts are kicking in.” She teased, jerking back as pain lanced down the side of her face. “You going to put a Disney princess sticker on it next?” 

Max laughed, the melodic sound breaking through the ringing in her ears. “No, no. I will save those for Lando after Charles runs him off the track.”

The three winners glanced down at the aforementioned Ferrari driver, although Lando quickly looked away. Fury blazed in his blue eyes at the dark mark on her forehead. 

Sighing deeply, Yn placed the bag of ice (long since melted into water) on the table in her driver’s room. Post-podium interviews were always draining but it seemed to drag more so today. Although that might have partly been due to the pounding headache and the dull ache behind her eyes. After the disaster on the podium, the journalists had focused less on their momentous success and more on the injury she had sustained at the hands of Lando Norris.

The internet had already turned their moment into a meme, laughing at the incident, but the journalists decided to take a different route, complaining that Lando had done it deliberately. Fielding those questions was always soul-destroying, especially when they liked to twist whatever you said. Three short knocks sounded at her door, and it clicked open before she could turn from the mirror. 

“Mon amour.” Charles’ head poked between the gap before wincing slightly at the look on her face. “Does it hurt? I can’t believe Lando hit you.”

“He’s like an excitable toddler.”

Charles pulled her into his arms, glancing down at his bruised girlfriend. “You look like an œuf.”

“Saying it in French doesn’t make it any less insulting, Charles.” 

“You are the most beautiful egg I have ever seen,” he grinned, pressing a kiss to the wound Lando had left. 

#2 Daniel Ricciardo 

Sweat ran down the back of Yn’s neck as she gripped the steering wheel harder, flying through turn six. She tapped the brake slightly as the back of a Ferrari came closer, slowing down. 

“What is he doing?”

“Leclerc seems to be having an issue.”

“No shit. He fucking slowed right down.”

“Overtake when you can.”

“Tell me how to do my job, why don’t you?”

Pushing the car forward, she inched past the Ferrari as they approached the next turn. Her teeth clenched tightly together as he faded from view, running right alongside her. She felt sweat run down her cheek as her heart pounded in her chest and tried to focus on her breathing. She could do this. Just a little more.

“Fantastic job,” her engineer praised. “P5 now.”

Glancing in the mirror, she startled at the sight of Charles skidding off the track and onto the gravel, coming to a stop just before the barrier. 

“Is he okay?”

“Gearbox malfunction. Leclerc is fine and out of the car. Car behind is Ricciardo, two seconds.” 

“Okay.”

Relieved that Charles was fine, Yn returned her attention back to the track, doing her best to keep the McLaren behind her. 

“Defend. He’s going to try and overtake.”

Turning the corner, Yn kept on the inside, yanking the wheel in order to achieve the tight turn. Despite pulling left, she felt the car veer off to the right, ignoring her command as she slammed her foot down on the brake. Her body snapped forward as the car came to a sudden stop, smacking into the foam barrier. The plastic coating with Pirelli splashed across it broke, landing atop her head. 

“You okay?”

“What the fuck was that?!” 

“Ricciardo made contact.”

“No shit. He fucking shunted me into the wall!” 

“Obviously we’re going to have to retire the car.”

The cameras honed in on the Red Bull racer as she pulled herself out of the car. The crowd sighed in relief, pleased that she was alright but recoiled as she turned, violently kicking part of the plastic barrier. “Fuck!”

Storming over to the McLaren garage, Yn called out for the other driver forced to DNF. Behind them, the race was continuing, only another ten laps left to determine who would find their way onto the podium. And Yn wasn’t one of them. 

“What the fuck was that! Do you know how to drive?”

“Me? You turned into me!” 

“Don’t give me that shit! I was ahead of you, I was doing my turn first! You fucking clipped my wheel because you didn’t leave enough space and you want to blame me.”

Flashes of light went off around them, capturing the furious racer as she yelled at the sheepish Australian. 

“I am sorry but coming in here to yell at me won’t put you back in the race.”

“No, it won’t because my car is fucked! Learn to fucking drive next time.”

“A pleasure talking to you as always, LN.” 

“Suck my dick!” She yelled back, ignoring the numerous journalists smirking to themselves over their next juicy headline.

Debriefed and dismissed for the evening, Yn dragged her weary body out of the Red Bull motorhome. Despite having been cleared by medical, she was covered in bruises and looking forward to a night off. 

“Fancy seeing you here.” Charles teased, taking his hand out of his pockets and holding it out for her. Lacing her fingers through his, Yn’s broke out in a smile when he pulled her closer. 

“You didn’t have to wait for me.”

“What sort of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t drive you back to the hotel after your accident.”

“But, my car-”

“Will be dropped off later. I’ve already sorted it, mon ange.”

“You take such good care of me.”

Charles bent down, lips tracing her ear. “It does not end here. What do you say we take a bath when we get back?”

Yn laughed, leaning into him as his breath tickled her neck. Before she could answer, the pair of them were out of the paddock and assaulted by the media. 

“Yn. Yn. How are things between you and Daniel after your argument today? Things looked to be quite heated.” 

“Daniel and I will be fine. We haven’t spoken since our argument but it’s very hard to remain mad at someone like Daniel.”

“Charles, do you feel the same way? After all, it was your girlfriend he crashed into.”

“Obviously there was a bit of anger at seeing someone you care about crash. Um, but Yn is a driver much like anyone else. These things happen. If she forgives him then that is all that matters.”

The two drivers excuses themselves, walking past the rest of the media without stopping. Charles’ arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close. A muscle in his jaw ticked and he was relieved when they entered the safety of his car. 

“You handled that very well.”

“Could you tell I was furious?”

“No. You were very diplomatic.”

“Just another name to add to my list of people to hit with my car.”

“Char, you can’t say things like that,” giggled Yn.

“Only to you.”

#3 Lewis Hamilton

Waving at the crowd, Yn made her way across the paddock, eager for the day ahead. Another Sunday, another race, another chance at the podium. Stopping every now and then to take pictures with fans, Yn chatted animatedly with her PR manager as they discussed her upcoming media obligations. Unlike her teammate, she was much more amiable towards media appearances but only enjoyed the ones that didn’t feel more like a conference. 

“Beep beep,” a British voice called out behind her, alerting the two women clad in Red Bull polos that he was approaching. “Good morning, lovely ladies.”

He pulled up alongside them, foot slipping off the brake. Instead of coming to a stop, he felt the scooter roll over a bump in the end. Jumping off the two-wheeled contraption, he winced as his on-track rival hopped around clutching her left foot. 

“I am so sorry. I didn’t realise your foot was right there.”

“Why can’t you walk like everyone else?” She grumbled, wincing at the throbbing sensation when she put her foot flat on the ground. 

“Because it’s slower?” He offered weakly, looping her arm around his shoulders and helping her hop the remaining feet towards the Red Bull garage. 

Interested in the laces of her shoes, Yn shuffled in her seat. The top half of her racing suit had been discarded, tied around her waist, but when she sat down the sleeves had created an uncomfortable mound. P4 had been a helpful finish for the battle for Constructors but she couldn't help the disappointment at her finish. Lando, noticing her movements, asked if she was still in pain. One of the journalists called her name, preventing her from answering. 

“We noticed you limping earlier when you got out of the car. Was that in relation to the videos of Lewis helping you into the Red Bull garage earlier?” 

Lewis shifted awkwardly in his seat, offering the young woman another apologetic smile. 

“Uh, yes. Unfortunately, earlier today, Lewis ran over my foot with his scooter. I have some lovely bruising to show for it.”

“Do you blame Lewis? Do you think that was what stopped you from achieving P1? Perhaps it was deliberate.”

“Both Lewis and Toto made their way down to the Red Bull garage to apologise personally. It absolutely wasn’t sabotage. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unfortunately, yes, my boot was tied looser than usual, and putting pressure on my foot was painful in terms of braking. However, the onus is on me in terms of my performance. I don’t feel like I gave it my best today, and Max is very fast,” she finished with a laugh, earning scattered laughter from the room.

A buzz sounded in her pocket and she discreetly slipped her phone from it, checking the notification. The little race car next to the name had her smiling. 

Charles: You. Me. Celebration later? I’ll find the greasiest food

Yn: I miss you. This conference sucks

Charles: No, you miss being in the podium conference. Don’t lie to me x

Yn: That too

#4 Max Verstappen

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is another perfect 1-2 for Red Bull! I imagine it’s smiles all around in their garage.” 

The Dutch anthem was still ringing in her ears when the 2nd place trophy was placed in her hands. Grin plastered across her face, Yn raised her trophy high in the air, relishing in the roar of her team, watching down below. Once Charles’ trophy had been securely handed over, and the presenters had scurried off the stage to safety, Max lunged forward for the large champagne bottle. Shaking it profusely, he popped the cork and aimed at his teammate.

Not even having time to reach for her own bottle, Yn was waterboarded by the bubbly liquid. Spluttering violently, she clapped her hands over her face, trying to ward off the onslaught of champagne. It was up her nose, down her throat and, most painfully, burning her right eye. 

“Max, you bastard,” she hissed, stumbling towards the edge of the stage where her engineer was waiting with a damp towel. Pressing it tight against her eye, she grumbled to herself about the dangers of champagne. 

“Oh, bebe, not another injury.” Charles murmured, glancing at her bloodshot eye. Champagne rolled off the tip of his hat, flicking the tip of her nose. 

Max bounded over next, laughing in elation at his win. He apologised at the sight of her eye but it felt a tad insincere when he followed it with, “They should call you the driver’s champion of non-race related injuries.”

“More like the champion of idiotic work colleagues.” 

“Don’t be like that. You love me really.” Max pulled her in for a headlock, wet arms wrapping around her head. Yn stomped on his foot when another drop of champagne rolled into her stinging eye. 

Fiddling with the cord of her microphone, Yn’s high from achieving P2 faded with each passing moment. Winning a podium was euphoric until she remembered it entailed a ninety minutes press-conference afterwards. Ignoring how badly she wanted food, Yn leaned over, whispering to Max, who looked as equally bored as she.

Charles’ hand slipped from her thigh as she moved, and he shook his head with a smile when he caught her gossiping. Her teammate grinned at whatever she said before the pair of them heard her name being called. Snapping to attention, Yn pulled away from Max and sat upright in her chair.

“Apologies but would you mind repeating the question?” Yn asked sheepishly. 

“Following your recent accidents at the hands of your fellow racers, there’s rumours flying around that the male members of the Grid are opposed to your presence on the track. Care to comment?” 

Yn leant forward towards her mic. “I must admit I’m starting to believe these rumours,” she let out a small laugh, informing everyone she was joking. “No, no. In all seriousness, I do seem to be getting attacked an awful lot by my fellow racers this season - uh, most recently was being blinded by Max after the podium - but I don’t believe there is any animosity behind it. They’ve all been very apologetic. I’m just unfortunate.” 

“Mon amour maladroite,” whispered Charles but the microphone picked it up regardless. 

Fake frowning at him, she reiterated for the crowd. “There’s a lot of love between me and the rest of the drivers so these are all just inCHIdents.” 

Charles looked at her in shock, offended by her mockery. “Hey!” He whined. “I’m the only person not trying to sabotage you.”

Yn pressed an apologetic kiss to his cheek and the cameras lapped up the rare glimpse of affection between the two during a race weekend. 

Charles' Revenge

A race in Monaco meant that the majority of drivers were able to spend the week beforehand at home. Padding across the living room barefoot, Yn made her way towards the kitchen. Wrapping her arms around Charles’ waist, she pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades. He turned in her arms, beaming down at her in his oversized hoodie. After her racing suit, this look was his favourite. 

“Thank you for helping me with this, handsome.”

“Help you? It was my idea, mon coeur. Especially because you would not let me run them off the track.” 

“Because that is…” she prompted.

“Dangerous,” he finished with a pout. 

The doorbell alerted them to the arrival of their first dinner guest, and she smirked to herself before flitting over to the door. Max stood there nervously, a bouquet of flowers in hand. She stepped aside to let him in, and thanked him when he handed the large flower bunch to her. 

“To apologise for blinding you, and to thank you for dinner.” 

“That’s very sweet of you, Max,” she inhaled the sweet fragrance of the flowers, almost feeling bad for deceiving him. He probably deserved this the least but her boyfriend needed a way to release his anger. “I’m going to put them in some water. Charles is in the main room with some sport thingy on the television. Gin and tonic?” 

“Just one.” He nodded, placing his discarded shoes on the rack before sloping off in search of the brunette driver. 

Hands clasped, Charles and Yn placed dishes of pasta in front of Lando, Daniel, Lewis and Max, smiling when they thanked them. Yn was well-known for her cooking throughout the paddock, often cooking sweet treats in the week and bringing them in for the Grid to share. Having a birthday on a racing weekend was a much coveted holiday because it meant a homemade cake from the Red Bull racer.

Watching as each of them took a big mouthful, she watched them all grimace in disgust when they swallowed. Taking a sip of wine before speaking, she informed them of the true reason behind their meal. “I lied to you. I didn’t cook dinner for you this evening.”

The four of them turned to face the devious Ferrari driver looking innocently at them, horror plastered across their faces. “Charles did.”

Friday - Practice 

“Four F1 drivers are reportedly suffering from food poisoning. Perhaps a racing dinner gone wrong? They’re still set to race on Sunday, just two days from now, but images of them have emerged from today’s free practice, and the four look particularly under the weather.”

Seated opposite her Team Principal, Yn fiddled with her fingers as Christian berated her. Shame crept up the back of her neck and for the fifth time that day, she wished Charles was with her. Hands perched on his hips, Christian stared down at her, waiting for an explanation. 

“I didn’t think they’d be ill for this long?” She defended weakly. “I just thought they’d suffer through a gross meal and that would be the end of it. I bought pizza afterwards!”

“You let them eat Charles’ food! What did you think would happen? The boy can’t cook.” 

“Oops…?”

Christian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You could’ve at least left Max out of it.”

“He blinded me!”

“And I’d do it again!” Max groaned, clutching his stomach. Sweat beaded his forehead despite the cool compress resting atop it.

“The alternative was Charles pushing you off the track,” she shot back.

“He’d have to catch me first,” argued Max. 

The two drivers broke out into good-natured bickering, voices raising as they got more heated. Sighing yet again, the Red Bull principal sank into his chair and muttered to himself, “I’m working with children.”

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

A/N: I'm not sure what this is (laugh) I apologise but writing fics isn't my strong suit. I should probably stick to smau's lol

On that note, requests for F1 smau's are open. You can see who I write for on my masterlist :)

[its-avalon-08]

hi !! can you do headcanons max verstappen X senna’s daugther!reader?

thank uuuu

hii !!! if i were to imagine senna's daughter!reader she would be so talented. she isn't a driver because of her built up trauma. (im fully aware that the timelines don't add up, don't add logic into it <3) she is an aerodynamic engineer, mainly responsible for making the car. she is secretly in love with speed and racing.

max and y/n met when they were just kids. max was a menace on track and y/n was terrified of racing. she saw speeding cars as a reminder of her father's passing. being good friends, y/n has a tradition of kissing max's helmet as a feeble attempt to keep him safe.

they started dating in 2019, and have been together ever since. y/n being the absolute genius she is, continues to work in redbull and delivers top of the line car designs leading to the dominance as seen on track.

max leaves a single, perfect red tulip on y/n's desk every race weekend, a silent promise to return safely.

y/n hides little notes in max's helmet before qualifying, each one a technical insight phrased like a love letter.

max, despite his aversion to early mornings, wakes up before y/n on important presentations to make her breakfast, his way of calming her pre-work jitters.

y/n, who finds airplanes stressful, uses a calming app max downloaded for her whenever they travel together.

max, after a particularly grueling race weekend, finds y/n curled up on the couch with a book about aerodynamics. he joins her, listening intently as she explains a new concept she's been working on, his full attention the sweetest victory lap.

max knows how deeply the lack of a father figure affected her, causing under-confidence and a constant need of validation. max knows this and never stops giving her words of affirmations.

everyone of the grid adores y/n. they see her spirit and her beautiful face reflect senna's in so many ways. max is fiercely protective of y/n, often defending her from questions about her father and his death.

y/n hates jos verstappen from the bottom of her heart. she is not scared of yelling at him when he berates max. she whispers affirmations into max's ears after a bad race (which was rare but not impossible)

when max crashes, y/n is the first to suffer from the highest intensity of a panic attack. she shivers and trembles until max gets out safely. after the crash in 2021 with hamilton which caused max to fall over in the medical center, y/n angirly stormed towards the cheerful hamilton, shouting angrily.

here's what happened ↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓

the smile evaporated as y/n marched towards him. it wasn't a walk, it was a storm surge. "congratulations? you call pushing max off the track at 200 mph congratulations?" her voice, usually calm and collected, was a tightly leashed fury. lewis blinked, his smile morphing into something defensive. "it was a racing incident, y/n. we both went for the corner." her voice cracked. "racing incident? you call leaving him stranded on the gravel, risking his life, a racing incident? do you have any idea what it's like to watch someone you love walk away from a fireball?" the room held its breath. lewis's face paled. "y/n, i…" "no, you don't," she cut him off, her voice thick with emotion. "you don't get to pretend you know what it's like to see your dreams vanish in a cloud of smoke. you don't get to understand the terror of every single corner, every single race because you haven't lost anyone on this damn track!" tears welled up in her eyes, blurring the accusing stare she fixed on him. "max is more than a rival, lewis. he's a friend, a teammate, a human being. and today, you gambled with his life for a trophy." the silence stretched, suffocating. finally, lewis spoke, his voice devoid of its usual bravado. "y/n, i… i didn't…" "you didn't think," she finished the sentence for him, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "just like some people never think about the consequences of their actions." turning on her heel, she stormed out of the room, leaving behind a stunned silence and a champion stripped of his celebratory air. as y/n reached the red bull garage, she found max emerging from the medical center, a sheepish grin on his face. relief washed over her, so strong it brought her to her knees. max rushed to her side, his concern a warm balm on her raw emotions. he held her close, whispering reassurances into her hair.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

well i hope you liked it! thank you for sending in your request and do send more <3 happy reading!

leave a like! leave a note!

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

[loonylupinblack3]

Home Race

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: Charles finally wins in Monaco and you're there to celebrate alongside him

Warnings: none i think? maybe slight suggestive content but very, very vague

Word Count: 1.2k

A/N: I LITERALLY CAN'T EVEN IM SO HAPPY FOR CHARLES YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND 😭😭 THIS IS LIKE A DREAM

Your heart was bursting. You felt like you couldn’t breathe as you ran through the paddock, ignoring the flash of the cameras. Charles had won. Charles had won in Monaco, his home race, a dream he’d held close to his heart for years but one he’d started losing hope for, year by year as luck went against him.

This year was different. You’d felt it in the air, as you arrived for the weekend. A hope, latching onto your heart, stronger than usual. There was a fevored excitement in the air that hadn’t been there before, as if the people of Monaco too knew this was the year Monaco would finally accept Charles, would let him win and feel that pure ecstasy of earning P1 in your home race.

People moved out of your way as you ran, smiles and congratulations following you. Fifth place was good; you could have done better, but a 5-6 for Red Bull was still an acceptable turnout, and you knew some teams on the grid couldn’t even dream of actually achieving a 5-6, so you were okay with your result.

It didn’t matter to you much though, not with your boyfriend having finally achieved his childhood dream of winning his home race. You could only imagine the emotions he must be feeling, the joy and shock of finally winning. The relief of finally feeling like maybe, maybe you do belong there, maybe you do deserve this. The overwhelming pure happiness of winning in your home, along your streets, full of people you know, your people, watching from balconies and screaming from stands. You couldn’t be happier for your boyfriend if you tried.

You made it to the crowd waiting beneath the podium, pushing yourself to the front. You stood out like a sore thumb with your navy Red Bull uniform against the sea of Ferrari red and yellow but you didn’t care, and no one else did either. Everyone had long ago gotten used to seeing Red Bull livery in the Ferrari garage and vice versa, the two of you always together no matter what team you’re on.

Today was no different, and you were pat on the back and had your shoulders squeezed by Ferrari engineers and employees, an honorary member of the team as they liked to call you. You craned your neck back to look at the podium, waiting with a grin for Charles to appear.

When he did you cheered alongside everyone else until your voice was hoarse, clapping your hands until they were raw. Charles spotted you immediately, like an iris in a sea of roses. His already ear splitting grin widened, eyes locked on you as he took his place in the middle of the podium.

You shared a smile, trying to show all the emotions you couldn’t put into words. Charles understood it; he always did, his gaze softening, smile morphing into something special, just for you. Your heart fluttered, even after all these years together, and your smile turned slightly shy, something Charles noticed if the way his grin turned into a smirk was any indication. 

You watched as he was awarded with his trophy, hugging the Prince of Monaco like an old friend, his hair windswept and eyes alight with an infectious joy. He grinned down at his team, at his fans, and at you. He had everything he wanted in front of him. The day could not get better.

You waited for him to get off the podium, hurrying to meet him at the Ferrari garage. When he finally made it there- being the winner of a grand prix made you a very busy person- his eyes immediately scanned the area for you, the corners of them crinkling from a smile when he found what he was looking for.

You ran up to him and threw your arms around him in a bone crushing hug, feeling so overwhelmingly happy for him. He mirrored your emotions, an iron grip on you as one hand wrapped around your waist and the other rested on your back, nestling his head into your hair.

You pressed kisses to the side of his head, and when you pulled back peppered his face in kisses too, the man laughing but indulging your antics, the both of you over the moon. He cupped your face in his hands when you were done, staring into your eyes, finding the same happiness he was feeling in them. You understood each other, cared for each other and both your achievements. His happiness was yours and vice versa.

He grinned, pulling you close for a kiss. There were cheers and teasing whistles as people watched, causing the two of you to smile against each other's lips. It wasn’t a long kiss- you’d save that for later when you were alone- but it was nice. It meant something, something only the two of you would understand and share.

You pulled back, letting Charles get dragged away and congratulated over and over, but he made sure you were close by, always catching your eye in the crowd, wanting to share this amazing moment with you.

You walked by his side, his arm wrapped securely around your waist as they travelled away from the garage to the docks by the harbour. By now some employees had left, and family friends had joined the group, creating a sea of colour rather than just red and yellow. You reached the docks and you took a safe step back from Charles, knowing what was about to happen.

Just like you expected, Charles took an unsuspecting Fred Vasseur’s shoulder, manoeuvring him to the edge, and with a strong shove pushed the man into the water, a spray of water droplets hitting the now laughing crowd.

Charles readied himself to jump in and you made sure your friends were recording- you hadn’t retrieved your phone after finishing the race- when Charles paused, turning towards you. Too late you realised what was about to happen, and by the time you started shaking your head Charles had you by the hips and jumped into the water, taking you down with him.

You let out a shriek as you hit the water, the cold enveloping you as your face went under. You could feel Charles’ hands leave your waist, so you both didn’t drown, and you swam up eagerly, gasping for breath when you broke through the water’s surface.

Charles came up shortly after, laughing and wiping his face. He saw you and gave you a cheeky grin, one you responded to by splashing him with water, the man exclaiming in surprise, his pleading mixed with laughter.

Before you could continue he had his arms wrapped around your waist and was tugging you to him, creating ripples through the water. You put your hands gently on his shoulders to balance yourself, smiling down at him.

“I love you,” you whispered. “I’m so proud of you.”

Charles pressed his head against your chest, giving your waist a squeeze. “Thank you mon amour. I love you too. So much.” He pulled back to look at you, his eyes full of adoration, and gently peeled a strand of wet hair from your face and tucked it behind your ear. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

[devilshalfhour]

"Your Honor, I'm a freak bitch." -Matt Murdock at some point probably

[FLASH WARNING]

General video description: A fan edit of Matt Murdock also known as Daredevil to the fourth verse of WAP by Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion. Clips are mostly from the Daredevil TV shows, but there are some from She-Hulk: Attorney At Law as well as a few panels from the comics

A detailed description with dialogue and lyrics is under the cut

[We hear the song's looped intro of "There's some whores in this house" playing as the edit opens on a scene from Daredevil: Born Again showing the trial of Hector Ayala. Lawyer Matt Murdock is cross examining a witness.]

Dialogue: "Officer Powell, good morning, um, I'm told you have a black eye. I hope everything is okay," says Matt

"Yeah, don't worry about it," responds Powell.

[There is a cut to the scene of Matt fighting Powell in Nicky Torres's apartment. Matt grabs him slams him against the fridge, hard, on the refrigerator door.

Another cut to a scene from the Daredevil Netflix show of Matt training in a church basement. First, there is a close up shot of him boxing using a punching bag, then we see a zoomed out shot of him, later on in different clothes, practicing his punches on the air. The double D Daredevil logo pops up on the screen and the scene turns black and white.]

Dialogue (now a voice over): "There's this thing they say in boxing: the best cure for a black eye is fast hands," says Matt.

"Objection!" shouts the prosecution.

[A transition as we hear Megan Thee Stallion's iconic "Ah" in the background and then we see the cover art of Daredevil Volume 2 #50 on screen of Matt Murdock sitting slouched in a chair in front of a grey background, in his daredevil costume, unmasked with tousled hair, a scar on his face, and his eyes closed. The next piece of dialogue moves across the screen and the cover art before it disappears.]

Dialogue (still a voice over): "C'mon, Mr. Murdock."

[END OF INTRO]

Lyric: Your Honor, I'm a freak bitch.

[Matt in his Daredevil suit with a gun taped to his hand, smiling]

Lyric: Handcuffs, leashes

[Matt, wrapping his hands in preparation for a boxing match in the church basement, and then him in his Daredevil costume standing at the bottom of a staircase unfurling a chain under flashing red lights.]

Lyric: Switch my wig

[Matt's array of Daredevil cowls from Born Again]

Lyric: Make him feel like he cheating

[Matt, shirtless, eyes wild with boxing gloves on, getting punched in the face by the gloved hand of his opponent]

Lyric: Put him on his knees

[Daredevil dodging She-Hulk's arm in their parking garage fight scene and then pushing himself back up to his feet seamlessly]

Lyric: Give him something to believe in

[A sped up clip of Daredevil standing on the roof of a church with a large, red LED cross from the first episode of season 2]

Lyric: Never lost a fight, but I'm looking for a beating

[Matt and Elektra sparring in the boxing ring at Fogwell's gym. She punches him. He ducks and slaps her butt as she is propelled into the ropes by her own motion. He grins.]

Lyric: In the food chain, I'm the one that eat ya

[Matt fighting the ninja Nobu in his black mask costume while Nobu is on fire.]

Lyric: If he ate me ass, he a bottom feeder.

[Daredevil, cocking his head and pretending to look at something someone is showing him. Cut to Matt in the black mask outfit shot from a low angle, pulling out two wooden clubs from his cargo pants pocket in preparation for a fight.]

Lyric: Big D stand for big demeanor

[Twelve different drawings of the double D Daredevil logo appear on screen, one at a time, to make a photo grid. Then, a set photo of Charlie Cox in the black Daredevil suit with said double D logo on the chest pops up over the rest of the photos]

Lyric: I could make you bust before I ever meet ya

[Cut to a a scene from one of the Daredevil: Born Again trailers of a mural of Daredevil painted on a brick wall with the words "Born Again" painted underneath. The clip then morphs into a smiling Daredevil in his yellow and red She-Hulk suit with his billy clubs in hand.]

Lyric: If it don't hang...

[A shot of Matt from the back doing pull ups]

Lyric: ...then he can't bang, can't hurt my feelings

[Daredevil wrapped in chains body slamming the Punisher on a rooftop]

Lyric: But I like pain

[Daredevil punching the Punisher repeatedly]

Lyric: If he fuck me

[Matt and Elektra making out in the ring in Fogwell's]

Lyric: Ask whose is it

[Matt in Defenders walking down a hallway with Jessica Jones behind him. He is wearing normal clothes, save for the grey scarf wrapped around his head to conceal his face.]

Lyric: When I ride the dick

[Matt on the roof of his apartment complex in Born Again training. He throws his weapon at the camera and the screen goes black]

Lyric: I'mma spell my name, ah

[hughjackmansbicep]

Delicate

a/n: hi friends!!!! im hoping to make this into a multi part series, got lots planned for this mini fic :))))) this is kind of the prolouge to the real deal, needed to get the setup for it started before we divulge. expect lots of twists n turns my friends!

Pairing: Logan Howlett X F!Mutant!Reader

Warnings: uhhhhh none lol

Word Count: 2.4k

Summary: The government has successfully began the eradication of all mutant species in the United States. Lucky for you your dad has taken careful precautions to protect you from the evil that lurks in the streets outside. Tucked away in a concealed basement you sat and rotted away clinging to your old life and dreams. What happens when one day you've got a severe hankering for some ice cream and he ran out of beer the same night? Both finding yourselves in the right place at the right time.

The world as you knew it was slowly coming to an end. Mutants everywhere were dropping like flies after the government slowly started poisoning everyone's food. Unless you were an off-grid loner living off the land, you succumbed to the same fate as everyone else, 6 feet under. Lucky enough for you, your father kept you pretty sheltered. Tucked away in your fully renovated basement, the world is ignorant of your existence. It was safer this way; I mean, sure, you missed going out to bars and seeing your friends; hell, you even missed those 8 a.m. bio classes you used to take. But this was safer; at least that's what your father always preached. “It’s safer down here, away from all those evil people.” He'd remind you every day, “You're to never leave my site, kiddo, and never step outside those doors.” Not like you could anyways, while your mutation allowed you to control the atoms around you and morph them into anything your heart desired, you had one weakness, adamantium. Your house was coated in it; every doorknob, lock, and even the goddamn windows were coated in the shit. 

It was 3:00am, no one was home, and you found yourself craving ice cream. It wasn't uncommon for your dad to leave you to your own vices. He still had a job he'd have to attend to, and that more often than not led you to solidarity on his trips. And here you were in the middle of the night, the light from the fridge illuminating the dimly lit kitchen, tearing your freezer apart hoping to magically find a pint of Ben and Jerry’s buried deep in the frost. You groan, sinking down to your knees, met with disappointment and an ever-growing craving for the sweet, delicious taste of The Tonight Dough. Sure, you could've totally put in an Uber Eats order, but where would the fun in that be? You stood in front of the adamantium-cladded door, using all your strength to melt it to the ground, but to no avail. The only thing between you and your Jimmy Fallon-adorned ice cream was some space metal, and to hell if your dad really thinks that's going to curve the urge.

For the next hour, you ran around the house like a lunatic looking for a weak point. Maybe your father missed just one spot—one tiny spot in this prison he calls a home. A small hole fit for the size of a mouse teased you. Sure, you control all the atoms around you but your own? You'd never even attempted to entertain that idea, although the worst that could happen is you turn your body into a permanent pile of slop. That didn't sound too terrible when compared to being a basement dweller for the last 7 years. And it turns out it wasn't as bad as you'd thought; you melted your body down into a pile of liquid, slithering your way through the walls of your house before you were spit out from a hole in the bricks. The air on your skin cascaded goosebumps along your body; you honestly couldn't remember the last time you felt wind grace your skin or the sun illuminating off your shoulders. 

You skipped happily toward the corner store, taking in every sound around you. The sound your feet made when they hit the pavement, the distant chatter of the locals crowding down the sidewalks, even the obnoxious sound of a car horn brought a smile to your face. You finally understood the saying, ‘the city that never sleeps.’ You reached the corner store, swinging the door open and prancing inside as if it were Disney World. Your happy fantasy faded as the man behind the register yelled at you to put some shoes on before walking into his store. You looked down, wiggling your free toes, with all the excitement of liquifying yourself to get a taste of the outside world, common societal rules had slipped your mind. “I um.. Just came to grab a pint of ice cream; I’ll be really quick, I promise.” You pleaded sheepishly, offering him a quick smile to butter him up a bit. He simply rolled his eyes in disgust and turned his back to you, mumbling something under his breath.

You made your way around the convenience store towards the dairy section when something, or rather someone, caught your attention. He looked tall, and even with a leather jacket on, you could tell he was huge. He had some silly-looking facial hair and even sillier-looking cat-ear-like hair, but man, he still looked good. Your eyes slowly traveled down his arms to his pants. Cute butt, you thought to yourself. He stifled a laugh before turning in your direction and saying, “Thank you.” He grumbled, turning back towards the beer cooler. “What?” You ask, heat rising to your cheeks once you realize you'd accidentally said that out loud. He didn't acknowledge you, just went back to scanning the cooler. You took that as a hint to keep moving, finally landing in front of the ice cream section and grabbing the last pint of your favorite ice cream. Carefully looking around to make sure nobody was watching you, you pulled the lid off and used your mutation to pull out all the atoms belonging to the anti-mutant poisons that were mixed in with the delicious sweet treat. Floating above the ice cream, you cautiously manipulated them into a different container of food and made your way back towards the front. What you didn't know was that the unfortunate corner store owner had been watching your freak act on the CCTV cameras the whole time.

Turning around one of the aisles, you had spotted two men in suits talking to the man upfront. You couldn't make out what was being said as they whispered, but watching him point to you using your mutation on the TV screen explained enough to you. You backed up slowly, trying to even your breaths out before you had a panic attack. You felt someone grab your shoulder, spinning you around into them. It was Mr. Cute Butt; he must be working with those suited men too. Your eyes go wide as you focus all your energy on him. You were attempting to melt him, freeing yourself from his grasp, but it wasn't working for some reason. He just stared at your brows laced together, trying to figure out what in the fuck were you doing. “You're going to shit yourself if you keep straining like that.” He whispered a low chuckle, following after.

You froze, looking up at the man with pleading eyes. “Please don't hurt me; I just wanted some ice cream. Please i'll leave right now, sir.” You rushed out searching his face for sympathy or remorse something in hopes he'd release his grasp on you. He looked confused at what you were saying to him as if you were speaking some foreign language, but that didn't last long once you two heard footsteps approaching you. “C’mon kid.” He grumbled out, dragging you by your arm, ducking in between the small isles towards the exit. “They're over here!” The man upfront yelled, and the mystery man beside you just groaned before scooping you up into his arms and rushing you out of the store. You both quickly fell into the crowd, blending into the sea of people that populated the streets of New York. As soon as you two were outside, he'd set you on your feet, his arm still gripping your wrist, dragging you through the city with him.

“I need to go home, sir; please don't hurt me. I'm so sorry.” You cried, tears adorning your cheeks as you pleaded with him; if your father knew what was transpiring at this very moment, you'd be toast. Absolutely never allowed outside your basement ever again; you could kiss the sun goodbye because you'll probably never see it again once he gets home. He ignored your pleas though as he pushed through the crowds to a parked motorcycle on the road. “Oh no, I am not getting on that thing.” You halted your movements, digging your heels into the ground. “Suit yourself, sweet cheeks.” He laughed at you dryly hopping onto the bike, “They'll find you eventually.” He kicked the stand up, revving the bike on. You looked through the crowd behind you, worry etching onto your face. Maybe he's right; maybe I should hop on that bike and ride it into the sunset with this beautiful specimen, or he's no better than those suited men and could ultimately be leading me to my death. “Just get on the fucking bike.” He growled at the sound of sirens roaring closer to you two.

Begrudgingly, you hopped onto the back of the bike, plopping the helmet latched behind you on your head. At this rate, your sure your dad is going to skin you alive and hang you up to dry. “Hang on tight, princess.” He turned around to smirk at you. You snaked your hands around his torso, and he took off, the force causing your face to smash into his back and your grip on him tightening. You were sure if you had been gifted some form of super strength, you would've popped his torso clean off his legs with how tight you were squeezing him. You attempted to give him directions back to your house, but he couldn't hear you and kept heading in the opposite direction. He totally could hear you too, but he was ignoring your requests to return you home.

The quick 15-minute drive felt like an eternity with how utterly petrified you were. Matter of fact, you were so scared, eyes clenched shut, arms squeezing all the oxygen out of his lungs, you hadn't even noticed that you'd arrived at your mystery destination. He pried your arms off him, causing you to open your eyes; you were in complete shock. A gorgeous castle-like building stood before you, surrounded by trees, and a long gravel driveway trailed in front of it. A voice broke you from your thoughts, but this sound didn't come from the man sitting in front of you; no, it appeared like it came straight from inside your head. 'Logan, would you please introduce me to your new friend? The voice sang through you, your head whipping around frantically to find the owner of these words. “C’mon, I got someone for you to meet.” The man in front of you finally spoke, helping you off the bike and placing the helmet back in its spot on the rear. He guided you through the mansion all the way to the back, stopping at two huge double wooden doors.

“Come in, please.” Rang the same voice you heard earlier, the double doors slowly opening before you to reveal a small, bald man sitting in a chair. “And who might this be, Logan?” He questioned, looking towards the big man next to you. Logan, huh, you thought to yourself, cute name and a cute butt. Logan awkwardly shifted beside you, the bald man sending a booming laugh throughout the room. “Oh my God.. Did I say that out loud?” You whispered heat rising to your cheeks once again. Ignoring you, Logan started explaining to the bald guy, whose name you quickly learned was Charles, what happened earlier. Logan had seen what you were doing in that small store—how you made some substance float out of the ice cream and back into another pint. He assumed you were attempting to do something similar to that when he had grabbed you, and you began shaking like a Chihuahua, yet all you could think about during their discussion of the previous events was how you never got to eat the ice cream you risked your whole life for. “So,” Charles spoke, directing his attention to you. “What can you do exactly? What were you doing with that ice cream?” He hummed his eyes, raking you up and down, studying all your features. hoping they might tell him about who you are.

You were fairly normal-looking; I mean, to the average human eye, they couldn't tell you apart from another human. You felt like a deer in headlights right now, though; you'd never been asked or questioned about your mutation. You never dared to speak about it aloud; hell, your dad wouldn't even let you use your powers ever; it's like he was ashamed of you. “I can... manipulate things, i guess.” You spoke quietly; it felt taboo to you to speak about this, like this was some intimate, inappropriate topic to discuss. “And what do you mean by that?” He mused, deeply interested in your mystery. “I’m not exactly sure, sir. I just know I can do this.” You focus your eyes on the pen sat upon his desk, watching it quickly fall into a liquid puddle. “Fascinating.” Charles smiled up at you, “Can you change it back?” You trained your eyes down on the mess you created, quickly blinking as it slowly morphed back into its original shape of a pen.

Charles laughed in amusement before clasping his hands together. “We have much to discuss, little one, but for now Logan will show you to a room you can rest in. We'll talk more tomorrow.” He nodded at you before Logan had turned around out the door. You took this as your sign to follow, doors shutting behind you both. He guided you up the stairs, stopping at a random white door and handing over a towel and toothbrush he'd picked up on the way to your room. “Just try and get some sleep.” He shoved his hands in his pockets as he spoke. “I’m just up the hall if you need anything, i guess.” He nodded his head in the direction of his door. You just smiled, turning around into your room and softly closing your door. 

You had no clue where the fuck you were or what these strange men were planning to do with you. You've heard the horror stories from your dad about how the government would poke and prod you if anyone knew what you could do. you'd be a test subject for rich white males to toy and play with. You'd set the towel and toothbrush down on a chair in the room you were assigned and slowly stalked your way to the bed. As you crawled into bed attempting to get some shut eye all that you could think to yourself was, "Man my dad is soo going to fucking kill me when he finds me."

[russilton]

Huh crocheter George... I can see him doing it and he seems like a person that would make stuff for his friends?

Someone gave Carlos a crochet chili? So something like that

Obviously first to like Alex and Lando etc and now I want Lewis to be a bit jealous and offended that everyone seems to be getting something self made from George from him (except of course, it's fine to give something with potential mistakes to your best friend and other friends but to someone like Lewis? It would have to be perfect which means improving a lot before you dare present something....)

(Anon I have been working on this for months now- since you sent it, but you can’t complain it’s late or that I made it knitting instead of crochet since you got what is in essence, fic) (un-edited because my wife is sick, there was no planning, just vibes)

word count: 4679

It started as a stupid way to prove to Alex he did in fact have artistic skills. Somewhere between grainy YouTube videos and detangling knots it became a way to decompress between sessions, it made for good practice with repetitive actions and not making mistakes, something in following stitch patterns that isn't that different from memorising turns and breaking points.

Incorporating new colours and designs teaches him to build patterns in his head that help with race planning. It's surprising how much the skills intersect. The only problem that arose was just how many scarves he ended up with.

So, George makes everyone scarves. Everyone gets a scarf. It’s a straight line and easy to follow. He has to get rid of the results of his labour somehow.

Aleix? Scarf. Bono? Scarf. Marcus’ scarf has extra fancy tassels. Riki’s has his first ever pole time embedded in it in little pixelated number shaped stitches. Mike’s scarf is almost as long as he is tall, George finally conceding it was long enough when he ran out of yarn at that weekends race. Shov’s scarf is connected in a loop, when asked, George teases ‘it’s because you’ve been here forever, Andrew.’ and has to duck out of the room and set off running before it gets pelted at his head. Shov does keep it though, along with one George manages to slyly pay Anthony to slip into his bag for Jenson. Toto gets sent home with scarves for Susie and each of his children. His is hidden at the bottom, so George doesn’t have to look him in the eyes when he finds it.

George only has to squint at Fred with red ears and nose, on a chilly Silverstone test day huddled up beside Mick in their boyband style white puffers, before he’s handed a black and silver scarf a week later. It doesn’t matter how much he protests being from a northern circle country, if Valtteri got a scarf so does Fred.

The fact Valtteri’s attempt was one of his earlier ones and has a finger sized hole in it is of no consequence. After all, Alex’s scarf has more holes than it has clean runs, but George just tells him it’s to get him used to the Williams style of living. If James Vowles' scarf is a lot neater, George challenges Alex to go and fight him for it.

Charles gets one in a red so vibrant it almost glows, though it’s not until after a summer break, George wouldn’t be caught dead working with Ferrari red in his garage, even now. Mick’s is a similar red, if paler, patterned with a grid of white stitches, and he looks surprised when George drops it in his lap, but it morphs into his wide bright smile when George just nods at him. Even Nicky receives a scarf in Williams blue with little wonky maple leaves patterned in white down the length of it mailed to him after a particularly stressful season opening. Nicky's girlfriend sends him a photo of him wearing it while they stand in snow up to their ankles. It feels good to know he's doing alright.

Eventually George’s scarves get more and more complicated, new patterns and shapes appearing as he pushes the boundary of his easy little plans, and finds new ways to occupy his mind during the hardest parts of the season. Eventually even drivers George knows a little less well find themselves with an unlabelled gift George gets snuck to them— Yuki and Guanyu both have the good sense to not question it too hard. Esteban texts him a middle finger, but he doesn’t get it back.

Even Roscoe gets a scarf, perfectly shrunk in size for his boxy head, rows interwoven with yellow and purple that he wears proudly as a bulldog can for a modelling photo in his home in LA alongside Angela who’d been more than excited to partake in George’s unspoken mission. The Bulldog looks stylish and comfortable despite it not being even close to the right season for it. He’s a professional after all.

—

Lewis gets nothing, which, y’know, he’s fine with. Roscoe got one so that kind of counts, and he’s been told he’s hard to buy for with his eccentric fashion sense, doubled by the fact he has enough money that even he doesn’t know what to do with it all sometimes. He’s worn more scarves than most people have ever owned, the majority of them handed to him by his stylists and then neatly returned that same week, their loan period from the brands vying for his attention ending without much fanfare.

He’s only kept one or two that particularly held his interest, and while Lewis doesn’t know their exact price, he knows that they probably cost more than one of the team's laptops. While Lewis has long been comfortable with his wealth, every now and then it still catches him, like a missed tag in a shirt, itchy and distracting.

This was one of those times.

When he’d first seen the scarves popping up around the garage, in the early part of that season when they’re still racing in deserts and countries close to the equator, he assumed its a new fashion trend he just isn’t aware of yet. It doesn’t make sense to him the way trends usually do; the heat of the climate combined with the way all of them are so varied and different. The only connecting factor is the handmade air to them, holes and sloppy loops peppered across the lengths. He even starts to wonder if one of the mechanics partners was sending them to races with gifts.

Lewis is used to purposefully distressed fabrics, so it takes him longer than he’d care to admit to realise what’s going on. He really should have noticed when Bono got one, as notoriously intolerant to modern trends as he usually is, but it isn’t until Valtteri of all people texts him a photo of himself with one tucked around his neck and newly trimmed mullet on a cycling trip between races that he finally cracks.

———

[VB sent an image]

LH: Where the hell did you get that thing, I keep seeing them everywhere

VB: This is a moustache Lewis, you should be familiar with the concept

LH: Har har

LH: wise ass.

LH: I meant the scarf

VB: Ask your boytoy

VB: it was him who threw it at my head in Spa last week

LH: George???

VB: who else

LH: don’t call him that- since when is he buying everyone scarves?

VB: but you knew who I meant didn’t you

LH: answer the question

VB: I’m pretty sure he made it, there’s a lot of holes

LH: Since when does George knit?????

VB: these sound like questions for YOUR teammate, I have pedalling to do

VB: 👋➡️🚴‍♂️

LH: what the hell man

LH: did you seriously just ghost me rather than answer

LH: fuck you

LH: and your secrets

LH: I hope tiff beats you

LH: 🖕🏾

[Valtteri BottASS liked a message]

——

The conversation with Valtteri leaves him even more confused than he was before. Despite the fact he now has even more questions swirling around his head, he does not ask George what’s going on. The last thing he wants to do is find out why he’s been excluded from the man himself. Lewis chooses not to question exactly why that is.

He’s also glad he hadn’t asked his stylist to find it for him like he’d planned to, containing his mild embarrassment down to just Valtteri, who he’s reasonably sure won’t tell George he asked about it. Valtteri may deeply enjoy fucking with Lewis, but not enough to have a conversation with George about it. If there’s one thing Valtteri objects to on all levels it’s being involved in… whatever is going on between Lewis and George.

Lewis isn’t quite sure what it is either. They’ve been dancing around each other for years now, Lewis isn’t quite sure when George turned from colleage to friend, and he really doesn’t know where they stand now they’re teammates who spend almost every week together in some form. The formality of clear labels was lost somewhere in the late night strategy sessions and food shared at different tables across the world at every hour of the day, from late breakfasts in Qatar to eyes-barely-open meals at 3am in Singapore. He wouldn’t call George his best friend… but he’s not sure he would call George just his teammate anymore either. He’s George. Whatever that means.

That lack of definition bites him in the ass sometimes, such as cases like this one where he has no idea what he is to George in return.

In his final year with Mercedes it had only gotten harder to figure out where they stood. In the years prior it had been a little easier at least, they'd had their ups and downs as they fought the car and worked hard not to fight with each other, but they'd always settled somewhere level. George's warmth toward him had felt unshakable.

Now it feels like they're both in some kind of pendulum motion, sliding from a desire to keep some distance, to make it hurt less, to an almost clingy need to soak up the time they have remaining together. It feels silly really, it's not like Lewis is retiring, he'll still be there, a couple doors down from George...but he can't escape the reality of knowing it'll be different.

Coupling that with his already complicated and grief heavy emotions about the entire team, and the fact their needs don't exactly line up most weekends, it's been a hard year. Lewis is pretty sure he's pulled George into more hugs this season than he has any other teammate before, but that didn't stop the sting of weeks where George seemed to catch a glance at him and turn tail and run for his drivers room. He doesn't feel particularly emotionally intelligent, but the slip of pain and something pinched in George's too clear eyes had been plain as day.

He knows there's nothing he can really do about it other than let George feel what he feels, but it still felt like a balm when George would grab his hand after a good race with that crazed joy in his eyes he always got, sweat practically flicking off every strand of his hair, and smile so bright it shone reserved just for Lewis, rubbing away any awkward moments from that weekend, like when George had winced when Lewis as squeezed his hand in greeting in Silverstone, mumbling something about sore fingers that Lewis hadn't understood.

Coming into their final races together as they do now, every movement feels amplified, every gesture and discussion hangs with the weight of being potentially his last with his team the team. Thoughts about George and scarves get lost in the heat of desert tracks and a cloying grief he finally has to face head on without the facade of getting through the year. He's not sure he's ever felt this emotional in his life. Leaving Mclaren had been a breath of fresh air and a weight lifted even if he'd loved what they had achieved together. Leaving Mercedes feels like moving away from England for the first time, unsure of what will be on the other side, or if he'll be able to make somewhere foreign and so different feel like his home again. Unsure if he wants to.

George seems to almost disappear behind that. Lewis figures he's giving him time to say goodbye to his team uninterrupted. Despite the fact George had been part of the Mercedes family in a way almost as long as Lewis has driven for them, they both know there's something different about it, and he's thankful for the space. He can press down the guilty, aching and confusing emotions he has about George into a box in the back of his mind to be handled late. He doesn't have time to unpack Georges furtive, almost nervous peeking at him between monitors when he's listening to Shov present their debrief for what might be the last time.

That's does however leave him ultimately unprepared for when George does finally demand his attention, by appearing on the doorstep of his drivers room after they're wrapped up for the evening, qualifying finished and preparations for the race day concluded, with what appears to be a colourfully wrapped lump in his arms.

Lewis is still blinking at the shiny obstacle between them, overhead lights glinting off the chrome coloured paper, when George speaks.

'Sorry mate, I hope I didn't interrupt anything did I?' His voice is oddly high pitched, sounding a little like when Lewis knows he's trying to lie to Toto about how much sleep he's had.

'No man I was just packing up for the night'

'Mind if I come in before you leave? It won't take long I promise,'

Lewis murmurs a quiet uh sure as he steps back, gesturing George inside and then shutting the door behind them as he see's curious eyes in the engineering bay start glancing over toward them. Even Bono, Mike, and Marcus, still clustered in the corner as normal poking away at their laptops seem to be looking over, trying and failing to seem subtle as if Lewis hasn't had over a decade to pick up on what Bono looks like when he's trying to listen to gossip.

In the privacy of Lewis' drivers room George spins around to face him and before he can even ask what's going on, George is pushing the thing he brought with him into Lewis' grasp

The parcel isn't too dense, but there's a weight to it that feels like it has to be good deal heavier than the wrapped scarves Lewis had watched George pass out in the past, and it looks at least three times the size them. Lewis barely has a second to try and figure out what it is before George’s fingers twitch toward him, like he’s itching to pull it from Lewis’ hands and unwrap it himself because Lewis is being too slow. Wordlessly, Lewis holds the package back out, gesturing for George to go ahead, and rather than steal it back out of his hands, George crowds up into his space to start unpicking the paper.

George’s wrapping handiwork has never been strong, but Lewis can’t really pay attention to that when George is this close, towering above him but seeming almost small in his nervousness. The moment feels strangely intimate as George slips those long fingers between his own crumpled tape job, tugging the attached parts free until he pulls back the final fold to reveal his signature woven handiwork.

George steps back then, leaving Lewis holding his presented gift in a cradle of paper. Out of the corner of his eye Lewis sees him twist and wring his fingers together as he watches, but Lewis can barely focus on how George might be feeling as a wave of... something hot and warm rushes over him.

The lump turns out to be a jumper. It's a bright mustard yellow, rich and bold. Or at least, part of it is, the arms and chest in one continuous colour that ends abruptly partway down the torso when one line stops and continues in a slightly paler shade. The difference is almost imperceptible, and likely would hidden entirely if the colours weren’t butted up against each other like this, juxtaposed the way they are. Towards the hem of the thing, the colour shifts again, one step lighter for the last handful of rows falling at the waistline, the changes creating a gradient down the body. When Lewis traces it with his eyes, he can spot small areas in the neck and wrists where the pattern falters, warped patches that correct quickly but don’t quite line up with those around them. Rather than make the whole item look bad, there’s an odd personality to it, a touch of handmade individuality compared to a lot of the pristine items Lewis gets handed by his stylist, not a spec of lint in sight despite the fact they aren’t headed to a closed catwalk, but a dusty paddock.

As his fingers lift the folded bulk of it he spots a little detail along the neckline, a tiny, almost unnoticeable LH in a dark gold colour that would settle in line with his ear. Surely enough on the right side, there's a tiny 44 in the same font, the pair crowning his shoulders. Twisting the woollen form again, he sees there are tiny stars stitched into the cuffed sleeves in the same colour. There's seven by his count, and an eighth peeking out from the inner band where it would press against his wrist.

He's not sure how long they've been stood together now, silent but for the rustling of paper and the jumper as Lewis studies George's work. As he finishes his inspection he becomes aware of the anxious energy practically radiating off George in the silence that the same man finally snaps and breaks.

'I know its uh, pretty hot where we are but I figured, when you get back home- I mean when you get back to England you can- I tried to finish it earlier but-' George stumbles, words sounding unsure and faux light before Lewis interrupts him

'Did you make this?' He breaths, fingers pressing into the stitches as if it might tell him instead.

'Yeah, I wanted to make something... bigger. I know it's not quite what you're used to with the fashion stuff but I thought...well I don't know what I thought' George explains, words trailing into a lilting mumble. When Lewis' eyes dart up to meet his face, George's cheeks are glowing even in the low light of the one lamp he'd left on, face twisted as if braced for a blow. Like he thinks Lewis is going to be mad at him for this, somehow.

'George...man...'

'Sorry- It's stupid I know, if you don't like it I'll take it back, I won't be mad, I swear-' George isn't looking at him anymore, eyes darting around at his feet and his hands that he shoves into his pockets only to yank them out and wring them together again, fidgeting so he doesn't have to meet Lewis' gaze. His uncertainty makes Lewis' stomach hurt.

'It's perfect'

'I can even save the yarn, it's not actually that hard to unravel- what?'

'It's perfect, George, I really like it' He repeats, grabbing Georges arm with the hand he isn't cradling the jumper with, forcing George to stop trying to climb the walls with his eyes and look at him properly.

'You do?'

'Of course? Did you think I wouldn't like it?'

'I dunno I just- I wanted to make something special.' George rasps, surprisingly wet looking eyes boring into his. That stumps Lewis, and he has to drop his eyes back down to the gorgeous golden knit work, so undeniably a labour of care. It must have taken months, When Lewis was so deep in his own head trying to figure out if George felt anything or was just waiting for him to leave, the man himself was working in secret on something just for Lewis.

'How long did this take you?' He whispers into the space between them, not sure he even wants to know the answer, fingers still wrapped almost too firmly around Georges arm, a little worried George might run for the gates of the paddock if he lets go.

'You don't want to know- since before Imola at least. I normally just do scarves cause uh, they're just straight lines y'know.' George starts tentatively, before the dam seems to burst and he begins rambling 'I had to unpick half of it in October cause I'd counted wrong and it was shaped like a pear- there's still some wrong bits I couldn't fix, sorry about that- and I hope its the right size I had to ask Angela for them and she said they're a couple years old and-'

He continues but now it's Lewis' turn to freeze up, puzzle pieces clicking together in his head as he realises George has been working on something just for him since at least May. For over 7 months while Lewis was absorbed in fighting the car and his own emotions George was working away at something specifically for him, without even being sure if he would like it.

George has started to go off into a tangent about getting knitting needles through airport security when Lewis finally stops him, squeezing his arm.

'Why... why'd you do all that just for me?' He grits out, voice scratching against his raw throat, trying to make eye contact with George so he might read it in his face why the hell George put more effort in for him than anyone else.

'Just for you- Blimey, Lewis, cause I had to say thank you somehow, didn't I?'

'Cause I'm leaving?'

'No! No- 'cause you stayed. 'Cause you made me feel like this is my home too. 'Cause you listened to me and never made me feel too young or not good enough when I made mistakes and you never treated me like the enemy or just some guy across the garage. I know I keep saying it but you probably saved my career-'

'George- you would have been fine without me, you've always been good-' Lewis tries to interject, but George just steamrolls past him.

'Yeah but- you didn't make me figure that out on my own. I learned more in a month with you than three years at Williams. You made me a better person'

'George-'

'Please, I know it's a bit much, maybe, but I just had to do something before you left, so you knew.' George's voice cracks a little over the last words, and Lewis doesn't feel much better, eyebrows furrowed and throat clogging as he tries to choke down the indescribable feeling climbing up his throat and threatening to suffocate him in response to George's frank honesty. He's always been better at being vulnerable than Lewis.

He doesn't know what to say anymore, how to tell George that it was never a hardship to be his teammate, that Lewis was the one who struggled to articulate what George meant to him. That he's going to miss this like breathing and he wasn't prepared for that.

Words have never been his strong suit though, so instead he turns slightly and gently throws the jumper onto the nearest couch, ensuring its landed safely and ignoring Georges noise of confusion before he turns and drags George into his arms.

It's become natural, to hug George, another thing that's evolved over the last couple seasons when Lewis would have sworn himself touch averse for the most part. His arms wrap tight around George, one clutching at the middle of his back as the other skates up to cup around the back of his head, fingers slipping on shower damp hair and George's shirt collar.

George's nose tucks into his neck like routine, cheek pressed hard into Lewis' as he winds a long arm around the shorter man's neck to clutch at his shoulder, the other tugging at Lewis' shirt, gripping like Lewis is going to pull away, as if he hadn't initiated it.

Lewis squeezes harder than he imagines is probably comfortable, but George just makes a wet noise into his neck and digs his head down harder, fingers clutching tighter as Lewis runs a thumb over his hairline. There's a damp feeling growing on Lewis' shoulder but he doesn't care, he's not sure how he isn't tearing up himself, maybe he would be if he wasn't trying to memorise the feeling of how George fits against him.

It crashes over him then, blunt as a hammer, that this is what he's afraid of losing. He's afraid of losing this closeness with George when he leaves, when he's no longer going to be the experienced, advising teammate but just another obstacle on the grid George needs to climb over. He might lose the George who crowds into his space looking for Lewis to celebrate with him this way. He might lose the joy and adrenaline of George flinging himself at Lewis with the confidence that he will be caught, when it might be strange if they aren't teammates.

'I'm sorry' he blurts out, words crawling from somewhere in his lungs, only for George to make a confused noise, trying to pull back and stopping when Lewis only grips harder.

'What're you sorry about' George gets out, words wet and quiet where they are muffled against Lewis' shoulder.

'About this, the hugging, I just-' Lewis starts, but George just laughs at him, damp and a little hysterical, face tilting till their noses are practically brushing so he can look at Lewis from within his embrace.

'The last thing you ever have to be sorry for, is hugging me. You can do it more if you want'

Lewis stares at him for a second, gaze darting over George's lax but wet eyes, and the way his cheek smushes into Lewis' shoulder at an angle that must be uncomfortable but yet he makes no attempt to move away from, and yet another thing clicks into place, very much the theme of the evening. He was clearly teasing, but even Lewis can hear the truth under his words.

He brushes a seeking thumb over the nape of George's neck, dragging across the hot skin there. George shivers, fingers flexing against Lewis back, and that's all the permission he needs to tip his mouth onto Georges, lips slotting together in a kiss he hadn't even realised he'd wanted.

It's hardly picture perfect. George's face is sticky from his own tears and Lewis can taste it on his lips, his own cheeks are hot and itchy, and the angle they're at makes the seal of their mouths messy at best, and yet its the best thing Lewis has ever tasted. The hand George had at his shoulder slips along to thumb Lewis' jaw, pressing over his beard, and Lewis wants to drown in it. All his experience flies out the window in the face of following his gut and holding George as close as he can manage.

The slide of their mouths should really be indecent, wet as it is, and he's starting to think a little about being too loud, when he shifts slightly and George makes a breathy whimpering noise that sends any worries about being overheard right out of his head.

Time melts a little, as they curl together, until Lewis' neck really can't tolerate the angle anymore, and he has to pull back, panting harshly just in time for something to go clattering the the floor outside in the engineering bay, making them both jump and reminding them abruptly that they are in fact still at work, in thrown up rooms with paper thin walls that the cleaning staff are going to want to vacuum soon, as thorough as they are.

'We probably shouldn't be- well- we probably should have figured this out before now' George muses, still sounding awful breathless for an athlete Lewis seen run several miles for fun. They'd pulled apart a little in shock at the noise outside, but he's still gripping Lewis' arm, and there's that bright, beautiful smile creeping across his face again.

Lewis glances just over his shoulder, where the jumper is still lying haphazardly on the sofa.

'I dunno, Man. Better late than never?'

[norriszn]

"𝐖𝐄'𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐉𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐍 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝟏. 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐄" And perhaps only in Japan - land of ceremony, restraint, and polite indifference - could the most talked about man on the F1 grid saunter through a city, hood up, without a phone being shoved in his face. Well, until I whip mine out to show him a photo from the first time TopGear inter-viewed him, back in 2019.

"S**t, would you look at that!" he exclaims, unleashing his trademark helium giggle.

Back then, he was a 19-year-old prep-ping to become the youngest British driver ever to start a Grand Prix. Now, 134 GPs later with a neck like an oak trunk he's visibly stronger, more con-fident, but still fantastically lucid and funny.

"Time flies and it's mad to think it's my seventh year in Formula One. It felt like not long ago I was trying to get to Formula One. Don't get me wrong, everything still feels crazy, but more normal now - like Formula One is my everyday life, rather than feeling like I've got an everyday life and then I do Formula One."

But we're not in Japan for the F1. Quite the opposite. We're in Tokyo - 250 miles from the pad-dock in Suzuka - so Lando can take his new car for a midnight spin. A very much not a McLaren, 600bhp Liberty Walk R32 Nissan Skyline - Lando's first JDM car to join an ever-growing and increasingly juicy collection.

"I had the Gumball 3000 Top Trumps cards when I was a kid and always remember the Nissan Skyline. Back then, I also played Gran Turismo, and I remember racing around the streets of Japan - it just looked awesome. So I've always wanted to see what that's like in reality."

Tonight is that make a wish moment for Lando. And as we make our way to rendezvous with his insane kaido racer inspired GT-R, he fills me in on his increasing love for road cars.

"I just love to drive. I know Lewis [Hamilton] has had a lot of cars, and probably has a better collec-tion of cars, but I really love to drive."

Something Instagram's algorithm loves too. When we first interviewed Lando, he was driving a diesel Mini. Nowadays, he's seen rocking up to lunch in Monaco looking like the card-board cutout of cool in his knuckle-bitingly beautiful Blu Julie over orange leather, gold wheeled Lamborghini Miura P400.

"My Miura is my favourite. It's the first proper, proper car that I bought, and probably my favourite in terms of looks. And it was all Because I watched the Lam-borghini movie. Growing up, I was more into modern cars - I think most young kids are. But I've definitely switched to vin-tage cars because I've changed quite a lot. I know myself a lot more now - what I like, what I don't. And when I first had my own money to spend, I was just getting crap. I was like, why on Earth did I ever buy those things?"

With a Ferrari F40, AC Cobra, Carrera GT and Fiat 500 Jolly all having taken up space in his garage (plus, naturally, the greatest hits of modern McLarens, including a 765LT Spider, P1 and Senna) that Top Trumps pack has morphed from card-board to actual bits of metal and carbon fibre. It's an eclectic, con-sidered selection, with a McLaren F1 and Mazda 787B still being the ultimates to collect. So why has he bought and modified a two-door 1990s Japanese coupe?

"If I could, I'd have a collection of Skylines. But the R32 is the one that you don't see as much - it's not as obvious and as noticeable."

Until you put a Liberty Walk widebody Super Silhouette race-car bodykit on it. Liberty Walk might be one of the most polarising tuners on the planet. It has become notorious for bandsawing the arches off a multitude of exotic supercars, only to then rivet supersized bodykits and fit slammed air suspension setups in place. For good or bad, people will always have something to say about it. And when Lando, someone in tune with street culture -wanted to collaborate through his motorsport inspired lifestyle and apparel brand Quadrant, there was only one company he wanted to speak to. In person, the car is even more extreme than pictures. The stance is off the scale, with step-like side skirts, fat arches and massive rims shod in steamroller spec semi-slick Yokohama rubber. Then there's the bespoke bonnet extending out like a peaked cap, a 'jutta' chin spoiler below, and a bumper slung oil cooler in between - it's as JDM wild as it gets and a throwback to Japanese circuit racers of old. It also makes for a potentially spicy combination when paired with the uprated Garrett single turbo (the size of a wheelie bin lid) that's been bolted onto the side of the iconic RB motor for over 600bhp.

To add more jeopardy into the mix, tonight it's raining sideways.

[trescoolcomics]

[gr4cier4cie]

okay but like lewis x (much younger....) reader in the sports media field. like imagine getting to do content for the team or just getting to interview your man.. like he'd be so cutesy and supportive. and him helping you prep questions or coming up with funny things to say to his friends on the grid. idk i think it'd be so cute.

not me making this up because i am studying sports media.......

okay bye gracieracie love u

OH. YOUR MIND. I WANNA TAKE A HUGE BITE OUT OF IT BECAUSE YEAHHHH. YEAHHHHHHH. and omg?!! sports media is SO DAMN COOL can't wait to see you on the big stage someday hehee 💫💫 and oh YES. lewis is cordial. professional to a fault with everyone else. always polite. says what needs to be said before moving on. but with you? he changes. morphs into something distinctly real. all his media training? out the window. he's playing with the hem of your skirt under the table as you're trying to ask him questions about tire pressure, tilting his head when you stutter as if to ask you if you're alright. and in my mind, he straight-up skips past other reporters when he sees you if he can do so. he'll let you ask meaningless questions if it means another minute with you, another minute seeing you be effortlessly, simply you. and then when the camera cuts, he's leaning in, pressing a little kiss to your temple, a murmured, 'good job, love' or 'so proud of you' muffled by the click click click of the hawkish cameras surrounding you.

oh, and at the the next post-practice press session, when you ask him about how he's feeling about the weekend ahead, he'll smile slyly, lean forward, and say something like: "depends. how long are we spending in the bedroom tonight?" 💖

[lordcrumps]

4T2 Modern Luxe Kit Conversions

Sul Sul!

All items have been converted, the record player acts as a stereo, the dresser has insides, so you can see clothes inside, the TV painting is actually a TV too, living chair has morphs, rug is off-grid ready, bookcase has 5 slots. Collection file included!

Hope you enjoy!

DOWNLOAD

ALT - SFS

@sims4t2bb - hopefully you dont need a list of everything?

[its-avalon-08]

Can you do a fluffy and angsty fic for Lando after Austria, his girl comforting him. I'm surprised there aren't more after what happened under the tags but the only ones that were there are smut, which I don't really want to read I want fluff and angst.

look at you now (ln4)

✦ pairing - lando norris x female!reader

✦ genre - tears, comfort, negative self talk

The silence in the McLaren motorhome was deafening. Lando slammed the door shut behind him, the force echoing through the sterile space. He could feel the sting of Zak Brown's disappointed gaze and the worried glances of the mechanics burning into his back. But all he saw was red. The vibrant blue and red of Verstappen's car that had stolen his dream away at the last corner.

He stormed into his living quarters, helmet flung across the room with a dull thud. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring the already distorted reflection staring back at him from the mirror. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" he yelled, slamming his fists against the cool glass.

The sound of his own voice startled him, the raw anger morphing into a crushing wave of despair. This wasn't just any race. This one, at the heart of Austria, could have been his. He'd driven his heart out, pushing the McLaren to its limits, only to have it ripped away in a heartbeat.

Just then, the bedroom door creaked open. Y/N, her normally cheerful face etched with concern, stepped inside. One look at Lando's hunched form, and her face crumpled in sympathy.

"Lando," she whispered, her voice barely a breath.

He turned, the dam breaking. He fell onto the plush sofa, burying his face in his hands as choked sobs wracked his body. Y/N sat beside him, her arms wrapping around him in a silent embrace. She didn't try to talk, just let the storm rage within him.

Slowly, the intensity of his sobs subsided into shaky breaths. He finally looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. "I messed up, Y/N," he croaked, his voice thick with shame. "I had it. I had the win. And I threw it all away."

Y/N cupped his face, her touch sending a jolt of warmth through his chilled body. "Hey, no," she said gently, her gaze unwavering. "It wasn't your fault. These things happen."

His voice broke again. "But it could have been different. I should have been more careful, should have backed out. Now, Max extends his lead, and all the hard work..." He trailed off, unable to finish the crushing sentence.

"Lando," Y/N interrupted, her voice firm but laced with love. "Listen to me. You drove a phenomenal race. You were brilliant out there. Don't let one incident define you."

He shook his head, the self-loathing swirling inside him. "It's more than an incident, Y/N. It's my season, maybe even my championship dreams, going up in smoke. What if it was all for nothing? What if I'm just not good enough?"

His voice cracked on the last word, a raw vulnerability Y/N had rarely seen. She squeezed his hand, her heart aching for him. "No," she said fiercely. "Don't you dare say that. You are one of the most talented drivers on the grid. This doesn't change that."

He looked down at his trembling hands. "But what if I keep making these stupid mistakes? What if I'm just a glorified crasher?" The words were bitter on his tongue, fueled by the self-doubt gnawing at him.

Y/N's eyes widened. "Lando, stop it! You are not a crasher. You're a racer, a damn good one. This doesn't erase all the podiums, all the incredible races you've driven."

He let out a humorless scoff. "Yeah, a few podiums here and there. But a win? A championship? Maybe that's just a dream for someone else, someone who doesn't crack under pressure."

Y/N's heart clenched. She hated seeing him like this, tearing himself down. But she knew blind reassurances wouldn't work. She needed to reach the root of his despair.

"Lando," she said softly, "where is this coming from? This isn't the Lando I know, the one who fights tooth and nail for every position."

He met her gaze, his eyes filled with a storm of emotions. "Maybe I'm not that Lando anymore. Maybe I'm just a disappointment."

The pain in his voice was a knife twisting in her gut. But she knew this wasn't the time for coddling. He needed a reality check, a reminder of the racer he truly was.

y/n's pov

"Lando, listen to me," I said, my voice firm but laced with the fierce love I felt for him. I cupped his tear-streaked face, forcing him to look into my eyes. "This isn't some pit stop gone wrong, some tire strategy backfiring. This is you, deep down, and that man staring back at me is someone I barely recognize."

He flinched at my words, a flicker of hurt crossing his eyes. But I couldn't sugarcoat it. He needed a wake-up call, a reminder of the incredible person he was.

"This self-loathing, this tearing yourself down – that's not you. You're Lando Norris, the fearless racer who takes corners with the precision of a surgeon and the audacity of a daredevil. You're the one who leaves veterans speechless with your talent, the one who brings a smile to every engineer's face because you push the car to its limits and beyond."

I paused, letting my words sink in. His eyes were glistening, but a flicker of curiosity peeked through the storm of emotions.

"Yes, this race didn't go your way," I continued, my voice softening. "But that doesn't erase all the incredible moments, Lando. Remember Miami , the way you battled for the lead lap after lap? Or Sochi, that daring overtake on the last corner that stole the show? You don't define yourself by one mistake."

"But what if..." he started, his voice barely a whisper.

I cut him off gently. "There will be mistakes, Lando. That's part of racing, part of life. But you learn from them, you come back stronger. And that's exactly what you'll do. Because that's who you are. A fighter, a champion in the making."

Taking a deep breath, I shifted the focus. "And beyond the track, Lando? You're the one who lights up a room with your goofy grin, the one who donates his time to charities close to his heart. You're the one who surprises me with those ridiculous flower crowns and remembers the smallest details about my day. You're an amazing boyfriend, a kind soul, and that doesn't change just because of a DNF."

A single tear escaped his eye, but this time, it wasn't one of despair. It was a tear of understanding, a flicker of the Lando I knew and loved starting to shine through.

"You are so strong my love," I finished, my voice thick with emotion. "And stronger than any setback this sport can throw your way. Don't let one race define you. Remember who you are, the incredible racer, the amazing boyfriend, the extraordinary person I fell in love with."

end of y/n's pov

Y/N's words hung in the air, a balm to the storm raging inside Lando. He stared at her, the self-doubt slowly receding, replaced by a flicker of the fighting spirit she'd ignited. He wasn't a failure, and he wouldn't let this break him.

With a surge of determination, he cupped her face in his calloused hands. "You're right," he murmured, his voice raw but filled with newfound resolve. "I am Lando Norris. And I'm not done yet."

Before she could reply, he leaned in, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that spoke volumes. It was a kiss of gratitude, of rediscovery, of a love that wouldn't be shaken. He poured his emotions into it, the frustration, the self-doubt, and the overwhelming love for the woman who held him together.

Y/N responded in kind, her kiss fierce and full of support. When they finally broke apart, both breathless, a shaky smile played on Lando's lips.

"Thank you," he whispered, his forehead resting against hers.

Y/N squeezed his hand. "Always."

Settling back on the sofa, he pulled her close, his head resting on her chest. The familiar rise and fall of her breath soothed him, a calming rhythm against the chaos in his mind.

Y/N carded her fingers through his hair, a gesture that always brought him comfort. The soft strands tickled his scalp, sending a wave of relaxation washing over him. He closed his eyes, the sound of her gentle humming filling the space between them.

He knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy. There would be more races, more challenges. But with Y/N by his side, he was ready to face them all. He would learn from his mistakes, come back stronger, and chase his dream with renewed determination. Because he wasn't just Lando Norris, the racer. He was Lando Norris, the man who loved and was loved in return, and that, he realized, was the greatest victory of all.

[yourstrqly]

★ . . . 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐃, 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

yuki tsunoda x fem!alphatauri!engineer!reader

in which you're like a gentle breeze in spring, always there but too hard to get, though the young Japanese tries his best to ask you out till you take matters in your own hands.

sitting down besides you at lunch break while his trainer michael sat two tables in front of him with a bright smile and a quick thumbs up, yuki took a deep breather before his face morphed into a happy expression.

you hadn't acknowledged him yet, deeply concentrated on reading whatever you had open on your work phone — he knew the difference between your private and the one alphatauri gave the staff.

he waited a few seconds, hoping you'd notice him but you only scrunched your eyebrows in confusing, tipping a reply to whoever wrote something to you; you were with the team for over two years now, starting off as the engineer of pierre, then nyck, daniel and now liam. everyone knew of your shyness though that didn't stop you from forming a bond with your drivers — yuki knew that you were still in contact with pierre every now and then, and you once shared a while ago that you were going to join nyck on a trip in the alps on winter break.

as the racing driver's hazy gaze lost its focus on the task at hand —asking you out—, to shift his eyes onto your beautiful hair, you finally finished up a mail, sending it out, and grab a fork to dig into the broccoli on your plate. then you dragged your eyes upwards to the cute man sitting to your right.

a soft smile etched on your lips as you chewed on the greens. he too smiled at you, swallowing the food he had eaten.

"hey y/n", he greeted you excitedly, big brown eyes interlocking with yours. you blushed, replying with a greeting and then returned to lunch.

that action didn't stop him from asking you through. "there's a flowershop around the corner on the way to our hotel. want to go later?"

you let out a small huff. "i'm busy with liam's car, won't make it back in time, yuki," you shared, "you could ask maria, she'd love to i bet."

his smile flattened and he slowly pushed himself up, putting away the dishes and made his way to the door of the cafeteria where his performance trainer michael already stood waiting. michael immediately took notice of his friend's dampened mood as they walked the staircase down to a media shoot with alphatauri's very own kiwi.

"I guess it didn't go as planned?", the trainer asked, concern written on his face. he got a shake of the head from the Japanese.

"said she's busy with liam's car", he groaned lightly before he changed his tone,"who the fuck is maria?"

whilst the grid's driver 22 ranted about his crush, you continued to sit alone at the round table, eating your lunch and tipping away on your phone till another presence took yuki's place.

liam lawson grinned at you brightly, just seen the interaction between yourself and his teammate — he like anyone else knew of yuki's everlasting ogling eyes at you but he also could proudly say that he was one of the few people who knew of your crush on the Japanese too; you were quite shy and obvious to the male's intention it seems, reasons why you kept your distance.

"mate, he's whipped", the kiwi giggled, causing a strand of blonde hair to fall against his face. gently you brushed it away, shaking your head. "You're delusional, liam", you moaned, taking your hand back to rest it on the table next to your now empty plate.

"i'm not delusional, you're just stupid, y/n. honestly you could murder someone and he'd throw heart eyes your way. he's that crazy for you", he sassed back, ignoring your rolling eyes as you got up.

"see you later, alligator", you mumbled under your breath.

"in a while crocodile", liam exclaimed.

"she likes him", liam said as he stood next to his former f2 teammate oscar piastri and alfa romeo's guanyu. "I don't understand how she's that obvious, the man's trying at any given opportunity."

"if she likes him, why doesn't she agree to go out with him?", guanyu asked, relative new to the crush-mess-situation at alphatauri. a frown was written all over his delicate features.

oscar shrugged his shoulders; he heard some gossip about the woman but didn't know if they were true.

"eh . . . its complicated I guess. I only know that her ex did some pretty shit things to hear and that's how she turned out the way she is now; shy and seemingly uninterested", the blonde man explained.

"but yuki isn't bad by any means", guanyu said in wonder, "he curses a lot but that's the only slightly negative thing about him."

oscar shook is head. "I don't think she'd mind his cursing — nyck did say she was pretty creative forming new insults."

as the three of them chatted about the pair, alex albon silently joined them while he fired away a lovely dovey message to his long-term girlfriend lily. his interest peaked up at the mention of y/n's name. "aren't they an item yet? just saw her running up to Michael and yuki, giving the later a piece of paper. my boy couldn't help himself but blush as red as tomato as she grabbed his hand."

"what do you mean?", liam's eyes grew bigger, "my girl got some balls? Unbelievable. "

"yeah unbelievable she didn't tell you", oscar sarcasticly grumbled under his breath. "Mate it happened probably five minutes ago."

Alex giggled at the aussi's comment, nodding in affirmation as the other men looked at him. then his gaze focused on the woman in question, you. "oi y/n", he started to wave, screaming your name once again to catch your attention, "we're here, left . . . the other left, ah yes."

your head snapped to the sound of someone screaming your name; there stood a few drivers, grinning at you excluding zhou who looked like he'd rather get somewhere more quiet than listening to whatever conservation happened in the first place. a few mechanics of the ferrari garage watched as you slowly made your way over to the drivers, letting your blush return — you didn't like the attention at all and right now if looks could kill the Williams driver would've been six feed under.

"what's the matter alex?", you mumbled, already aware that one of them would say things you didn't want to know.

the thai's left eyebrow moved upwards at your mildly excited voice. "cheer up buttercup, want to share with us what you gave yuki?"

a small huff escaped your lips; those men were stuck in bodies of teenagers. "Don't you have places to go?", you questioned, determined to end the conversation. "I have to go to a meeting where you also have to be there, mister lawson."

"fine", the kiwi muttered, drawing the 'i' out, "keep your secrets from your driver."

the little shithead you thought, rolling your eyes at the dramatic response whilst walking away to said meeting. "I'm glad danny will be back in a few weeks."

"Take that back", liam cried out, following you. As he catched up to you, he shoot a cheeky smirk at you and threw his right arm on your shoulder. "So", he sung," now that we're alone, you can revel your secret, y/n dearest."

another annoyed groan left your body; you knew he wouldn't let the subject go, it was like a superpower of his, being persistent.

"I've given him my number", you shared with him.

A proud smile formed on liam's face at the sentence, overjoyed of the news. "I'm a matchmaker", he whispered to himself in awe through you catched it.

Shaking your head, you revealed that a quick text message from former alphatauri driver nyck helped you out of your comfort zone.

"Oh for fucks shake that can't be true", liam said, voiced laced with disappointment.