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dullwaterlily · 13 days ago

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Princess of the Paddock

okay this is my first f1 story i've written so please be nice. also ignore the terrible insta photo lol if anyone has any good websites to make texts or anything i'd love to know

also also I wrote this story and then put it into chatgpt because 1. i'm dyslexic and needed someone to fix my mistakes and 2. i daydream my stories and i can do it in so much detail but then i really struggle to get my stories to be exactly how I want so I tried using chatgpt after

Summary: Red Bull’s second seat has a reputation — and now it has its first-ever female driver.

Y/N L/N enters Formula 1 with two F2 championships, zero F1 experience, and the entire world waiting to see her fail. But between press scrutiny, social media storms, and a nickname that clings to her like glitter — “Princess” — she’s determined to prove she’s more than a headline.

She’s not here to play nice. She’s here to race.

f1:

‘L/N has been on our radar since her first year in F2. To get back to back championships in F2 is an incredible achievement and we can’t wait to see what she can achieve in the second redbull seat’ - Christian Horner

liked by redbullracing, maxverstappen1 and 152,826 others

user1: interesting…

user2: baby noooooo not the cursed seat 🫠

user3: great watch all the drama start -user4: what because she’s female that immediately means drama? -user5: you must be new here

redbullracing: watch out 😎

maxverstappen1: excited to see what we can do together

Bahrain Pre Season testing

Walking into pre-season testing felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, the unknown stretching out beneath you. Terrifying and exhilarating all at once. You sat in the stillness of your car for a moment longer, fingers clenched around the steering wheel. With a deep breath, you adjusted the brim of your Red Bull cap.

Your cap.

Your number embroidered into the fabric.

Yours.

A nervous smile settled on your lips as you opened the door and stepped out into the heat and noise. The fans were already gathered, their cheers rising like a wave, while the press pack swarmed like bees beyond the barrier. Cameras flashed. Voices called your name. Some excited, others demanding.

You waved politely, forcing calm into your posture even as your heart pounded against your ribcage. Every step toward the paddock felt heavier than the last. You didn’t need to hear the questions to know what they were asking — you’d heard them since the day your signing was announced.

“Do you really think you’re ready for Formula 1?” “How will you cope alongside Max Verstappen?” “Can a woman genuinely fight for podiums?” “Aren’t you going to distract the other drivers?”

The doubt wasn’t new, but the volume of it had grown louder since stepping into the spotlight.

As soon as you crossed into the Red Bull Hospitality, everything felt right. The space was cool, crisp, familiar. Christian Horner looked up from where he sat chatting with Max and GP. The moment his eyes met yours, he stood without hesitation and pulled you into a quick, grounding hug.

“Feeling good? Ready to take on the circus?” he asked, his voice light but kind.

You grinned despite the tension still coiled in your chest. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Max offered you a quick fist bump. Over the winter, you’d spent a lot of time in Milton Keynes, training, working through data, and learning everything you could. You and Max had become something unexpected. Not just teammates, but a kind of chaotic harmony. He was calm, calculated, and fiercely competitive. You were fire, energy, and laughter. Somehow, it worked.

“Media day ready?” Max asked with a teasing tilt to his head, as if he already knew the answer.

You groaned. “Uhhhh…”

Christian chuckled. “You’ll do fine. Brett’s with you the whole time. If anyone crosses a line, we shut it down. Full stop.”

Max leaned back, smug grin in place. “Yeah, gotta protect our princess.”

You rolled your eyes and swatted his hat off his head, making everyone at the table burst into laughter.

Princess.

A nickname that clung to you like perfume: sweet, but impossible to shake off. You loved it. You kinda hated it. It had started innocently enough, a quip from Toto Wolff at the F175 Live red carpet event.

“Ah, the Red Bull princess,” he had murmured with a grin, kissing your cheek in a gesture as old-world as it was cheeky. “At least now there’s some class on the grid.”

You sat sandwiched between George Russell and Lando Norris on the couch, your fingers absently flipping a microphone from hand to hand. The media team bustled around, adjusting lights and cameras, prepping for your first official press conference as an F1 driver. Nerves hummed beneath your skin, but you took comfort in your company, two British drivers with sharp tongues and playful smiles. If anyone could keep the spotlight from settling too harshly on you, it was them.

“Question for Y/N,” a reporter's voice cut through your thoughts. You looked up.

“How are you feeling going into testing tomorrow?”

You straightened slightly, voice calm and practiced. “Honestly, I’m really excited. I’ve done a ton of SIM work during the break, but nothing compares to actually being in the car. I just want to get out there and see how we stack up.”

The follow up came quickly. “Are you concerned that, of the six rookies on the grid this year, you have the least experience in an actual F1 car?”

A pause. You didn’t flinch. “Yeah… that’s fair. I’ve never driven a real F1 car… no test runs, no Friday sessions. Even Kimi’s had more seat time than me. But I’m confident I’ll be okay once I find my rhythm.”

“She says that like she hasn’t just come off two back-to-back championship titles,” George chimed in, chuckling. “Princess, I think you’ll be more than okay.”

The word slipped out before he realized it. You saw his eyes widen, mouth twitch as he cursed himself silently.

“This is George laying the groundwork,” Lando added quickly, “so when Y/N’s beating him on track, he can pretend he saw it coming.”

A couple of hours later, George found you backstage, sheepish and apologetic.

“Y/N, I’m really sorry about earlier. The whole ‘Princess’ thing… I didn’t mean to…”

You waved him off. “It’s okay. It was bound to come out eventually.”

And come out it did, viral on social media, scrawled on fan signs, printed on unofficial merch. Some embraced it with charm. Others used it as ammunition.

The next morning, you walked into the paddock flanked by Max, Charles, and Lewis. Practice 1 and 2 had gone better than expected, your pace promising, your feedback sharp. But today, the air felt heavier.

The crowd outside the gates was louder, more agitated. Cheers mixed with sneers. You kept your head down until you heard the first one:

“Get out of here!” “F1 isn’t for girls!” “Oi, Princess who’d you have to sleep with for that seat?”

The words hit like stones, sharp and deliberate.

Max tensed beside you, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the crowd like a predator on the edge.

“Leave it,” you whispered, grabbing his wrist. “Just ignore it.”

And he tried. He really did.

Until something flew from the crowd and struck you squarely in the face.

You staggered back, hand flying to your eye. “Shit…”

A pink plastic tiara clattered to the ground.

Charles was at your side instantly, pulling you away from the barrier. “Y/N, are you okay?”

Max turned, fury radiating from him like heat. But before he could take a step, a deep, commanding voice cut through the chaos.

“That one,” Toto Wolff said coldly, pointing. “Security, remove him. Now.”

Guards moved fast, seizing the man who had thrown the tiara. The crowd parted as whispers spread.

Toto stepped forward, voice raised just enough to carry. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear: there is no room in Formula 1 for hatred. For misogyny. Y/N earned her seat—every lap, every win. If I ever see behavior like this again, I will make sure you never set foot near a race circuit.”

Silence.

You bent down, picked up the tiara, and with deliberate calm, placed it on your head.

Then, chin high, steps steady, you walked into the paddock like it was a throne room.

Princess? Maybe.

But this crown was yours. And you’d earned every jewel in it.

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dullwaterlily · 19 days ago

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The Long Way Home I Chapter Eleven

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Boarding School Era is over after this chapter. Are we going to miss it? *Everyone drops to their knees and starts wailing*

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

It starts like this.

Harper Grace Whiatt is half an hour into her English Literature exam when the cramps start.

She frowns, drinks some water, and glances around anxiously at her classmates. Heads down, full focus. Pens flying. The low, scratchy murmur of papers turning.

She looks down at her stomach, round and heavy on her thighs, and thinks, No. There's no way.

It's probably Braxton Hicks again. It has to be. She's been getting them on and off for weeks. The nurse and her midwife said it was normal. Said it was her body preparing and practicing.

But twenty minutes later, when she's halfway through the third question—something about dramatic irony in Macbeth, which she's managed to write exactly two and a half paragraphs on—it happens.

It's not like in the movies. No gasping, no screaming, no dramatic splash of water across the floor. Just... a slow, horrible trickle. Warm and humiliating and sudden. It puddles under her, darkening the plastic seat beneath her uniform skirt.

She freezes. Blinks.

And then the next cramp hits.

This one is different. Sharp, low, deep. Her whole body folds with it, involuntary. Her hands fist around the metal sides of her desk, her pen clatters to the floor, and—

Yep. She's crying.

The invigilator is already standing. Someone's chair scrapes back. Everyone is staring.

And then Oscar is there.

Up from his seat across the exam hall, papers forgotten, stepping over bags and chairs like none of it matters. He's kneeling beside her desk before the invigilator even manages to speak.

"Hey. Harp." His voice is tight. Controlled. He's trying not to panic, and failing. "You okay?"

She can't answer. She just shakes her head, because the pain's ramping up now, another contraction building low in her spine. She clutches the underside of her belly with one hand and his forearm with the other.

Oscar looks up. His eyes are wide and he's breathing fast. But he sounds steady when he says, "She needs an ambulance. Now."

"Out of the exam, both of you—" the invigilator starts, flustered.

"I don't give a shit about the exam!" He snaps, louder than anyone's ever heard him. "She's having a baby."

Someone swears.

Sam stands up from the back row, nearly knocking over his chair. "What? Now?"

"She's thirty-five weeks," Oscar says through his teeth, arm already around her shoulder, helping her stand even as she leans into him. "It's early but it's happening."

"Matt, get the nurse!" Someone yells.

Jane's already halfway down the row, pushing past a stunned Alfie and hauling Harper's bag up off the floor.

The whole room blurs.

But Oscar holds steady. He keeps one hand flat on Harper's lower back, the other gripping hers like a lifeline, and he says quietly, just to her:

"I've got you. You're okay. We're okay."

And somehow, through the tears and pain and mortification, Harper believes him.

—

The ambulance lights blur red and white against the stone front of Haileybury as the doors slam shut behind them.

Harper is strapped onto the stretcher, still in her school blouse, damp and wrinkled and stuck to her back. Her skirt's bunched under the curve of her bump, and there's dried tears on her cheeks. Oscar sits beside her, gripping the side rail with white knuckles. His tie is askew and one of his shoes is half-on, like he didn't have time to fix it when he sprinted from the exam hall.

He hadn't.

The paramedics are talking in a calm, professional blur—"thirty-five weeks... irregular contractions... possible rupture..."—but it all sounds like background noise.

Oscar fumbles for his phone. His hands are shaking. His voice cracks on the first ring.

"Dad—"

Chris' voice comes through immediately, sharp with concern. "What is it? What's happened?"

"It's Harper. She's in labour. Her water broke—during the exam, we're—we're in the ambulance. I don't—" He cuts himself off. His throat is too tight.

"Okay, okay—fucking hell. Listen to me, son. We're in Barcelona—Oscar, breathe, alright? We're getting the next flight over. Me and your mum, we'll be there as soon as we can. Just stay with her. Don't you dare leave her side, Oscar Jack Piastri. You hear me?"

Oscar just nods even though his dad can't see him. "Okay."

He looks at Harper. She's gripping his fingers in both hands now, her face pale and pinched, her breaths going tight again as another wave of pain hits.

"Hurts," she whispers. "I want it to stop."

"I know." He presses a kiss to her knuckles, helpless. "You're doing so good, Harp. Just hang on. We're nearly there."

—

The hospital is all bright lights and sharp corners and words they don't understand.

She's whisked into a room. Oscar stays beside her, even when a nurse tells him to wait. "No. I'm staying. I'm her—" he stumbles on the word. What was he? Boyfriend? Partner? Father of her child? He'd only turned sixteen last week. "I'm staying," he repeats, and no one stops him.

There are too many people. Too many hands. Too many questions.

"How far along did you say she is?"

"Thirty-five weeks, four days."

There's a hundred people surrounding them suddenly. Harper's skirt is cut off, her tights too, and then there's another flurry of movement.

"She's breech."

"Baby's presenting bottom-first. That's not ideal, given mum's small stature."

"She's how old?"

"Fifteen."

"Oh, Christ."

Harper is shaking. One of the nurses places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We're going to take care of you, sweetheart. But we need to move quickly. Your baby girl isn't in the right position, and your contractions aren't doing their job right now."

"I don't—" she gasps. "I don't know what they're supposed to do."

One of the doctors crouches down to their level. "Okay, here's the deal. We need to deliver your little girl and we need to do it soon. Right now, given your size and age, the safest way is a caesarean section. It's surgery, but you'll be awake the entire time, and we'll be right here with you. Do you understand?"

Harper looks at Oscar, then back at the doctor. "But I didn't even pack anything," she says weakly. "I didn't bring anything with me."

Oscar wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "We'll get it after. It doesn't matter. I promise it doesn't matter."

"Okay. Harper, darling, you're going to be fine. You're both going to be fine," the doctor says gently. "We just need to get a move on."

"Can he come?" Harper asks, voice small.

The nurse nods. "He's dad?"

Oscar nods. So does Harper.

"Then of course can come. Dad, let's scrub you up."

They wheel her out. Oscar walks beside the gurney like he's not entirely sure where his feet are taking him. He's barely heard the words "breach" or "c-section" before today. He still had an hour left on his exam. Somehow, he's only wearing one shoe.

None of that matters.

The fluorescent lights blur overhead, and he holds her hand the whole way.

—

Oscar's never known this kind of silence before. Not even on the grid, not even at the start of a race when every nerve is coiled and waiting.

This is different. The air is sharp with antiseptic and adrenaline, and the lights above the operating table buzz faintly, almost drowned out by the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and the low hum of voices murmuring things like "scalpel" and "next layer."

He's sitting on a stool next to Harper's head, hidden behind the curtain that separates them from the surgery. She's pale and half-dazed, the drugs making her eyes heavy, her fingers curling weakly in his hand.

"You're doing good," he whispers, even though he's not sure she can really hear him. "You're so brave, Harp. I swear, I've never seen anyone braver."

And then one of the nurses says something quietly—"we're ready"—and the stillness breaks.

There's a sudden shift in the room, a new focus. Oscar hears the surgeon say something about "gentle traction" and "legs first." And then:

"Here she comes."

Oscar stands, just enough to peek over the curtain. And there—

There she is.

Tiny. Pink. Furious.

There's blood, and there's motion, and she's slippery and folded up like she was curled into a puzzle piece—but she's alive. She's squirming, kicking, red-faced and loud.

Oscar's mouth drops open. His whole body goes still.

Then she cries.

A shrieking, furious wail that pierces right through him.

And he's crying before he even realises it.

"Oh my god," he whispers, voice cracking hard. "Oh my god, she's—"

The midwife glances at him, softening. "She's got lungs, this one."

Another nurse is already wrapping the baby in a towel, suctioning her nose gently, checking her fingers, her toes, everything so careful and practised.

"Do you want to cut the cord?" One asks.

He doesn't answer—just nods, stumbling forward on shaking legs. They guide his hand to the scissors, show him where to snip.

His hands are trembling so hard he misses the first time.

"Easy," the nurse says gently. "There you go."

He cuts.

And just like that—she's theirs.

Someone brings her over, naked and still squalling, and lays her down on Harper's chest.

Harper is crying now too, dazed and exhausted and blinking like she can't quite make sense of it all. Her hand comes up, instinctive, resting on the baby's back.

"She's so small," she whispers, her voice cracking like wet paper. "She's so small, Oscar."

"I know," he says.

He's still crying.

He crouches beside the bed, resting his forehead against Harper's arm, one hand on his daughter's tiny spine, the other still clutching Harper's fingers.

No one tells them what to do. No one says anything at all for a while.

And for a second they can pretend that it's just the three of them.

—

The recovery room was quiet. Too quiet, almost. The kind that made Oscar's ears ring with the silence.

Harper was asleep, her head turned slightly to the side, pale against the white hospital pillow. She hadn't said much since they'd moved her out of surgery — just held their daughter to her chest until she'd drifted off, finally, like her body couldn't handle being awake a second longer.

Their baby — their actual baby — was in the little heated bassinet beside the bed. Still tiny. Still pink. Still real.

Oscar sat in the chair pulled up close, one hand resting on the plastic side of the crib like he couldn't quite stop touching something that proved all of this wasn't a dream.

He hadn't slept. Didn't even know what time it was.

But then the door cracked open, and a nurse poked her head in.

"Are you Oscar?" She asked gently. "There's... well. There's kind of a group of teenagers, your age, I suppose, downstairs. Insisting they're all somehow your next of kin."

Oscar blinked. "Wait—what?"

"They're being very persistent. One of them's threatening to call Ofsted — although I'm not sure what they think that would do."

Oscar let out a tired, stunned breath. "Yeah. That sounds about right."

⸻

The moment he stepped into the corridor outside reception, he heard them before he saw them.

Sam. "You think I won't scale that fucking desk?"

Jane, sharply. "Obviously we're family. Can't you tell? We're quadruplets!"

Matt. "Sam, don't—okay, Sam's climbing the desk—"

Alfie. "Christ. You're all going to get us kicked out."

"Oi!" Oscar called across the room, humiliated and warm all at once.

The four of them turned in unison.

Oscar barely got a word out before Jane had practically launched herself at him.

He caught her, stumbling back a little, and then the rest of them joined in — Alfie clapping his back too hard, Matt wrapping an arm around his neck, Sam hovering awkwardly until Oscar yanked him into the circle too.

For a second, just a second, Oscar let himself lean into it.

Just stood there in the middle of a huddle of teenage arms and deodorant and half-tied ties, and let himself feel.

When he pulled back, his cheeks were wet and he hadn't even realised he was crying again.

"She's okay," he said thickly. "They're both okay. The baby... she's really small, but she's okay. They said her lungs are strong. She—she cried. She was loud. Harper's asleep now. She's okay too."

"Jesus," Matt muttered. "Did it all go alright?"

Oscar gave a weak, crooked smile. "They cut her open. Like—she didn't have to push or anything. A C-section. They didn't even let us wait. She's—Harper's so small, and she was in so much pain, and I didn't—I couldn't do anything."

Sam looked at him for a second. Then just pulled him into another hug, wordlessly.

Jane leaned her head on Oscar's shoulder. "You did exactly what you were supposed to, Osc. You got her here. You stayed with her. You held it together."

He didn't say anything. Just nodded, pressing the back of his hand over his eyes.

Matt cleared his throat. "So... can we meet her?"

Oscar shook his head. "Not yet. She's... she came early, and they don't want too many people near her while her immune system's still new. But—soon. You will. She's got this frowny face, like Harper. It's mad."

Alfie grinned. "Glad she didn't inherit your ugly mug."

"I bet she's gorgeous," Jane added.

Oscar looked at them all, his ridiculous, chaotic, loyal little found family. "Thanks for coming," he mumbled.

"Don't be stupid," Jane said. "Where else would we be?"

They stayed until the nurse kicked them out.

—

Harper woke slowly.

Not all at once, the way she did from nightmares or Oscar's too-early alarm. This was foggy and sore and strange — her body aching in places she didn't even have names for.

The lights were low in the hospital room. The air smelled of antiseptic and warm baby skin.

And her daughter, her daughter, was curled against her chest in a bundle of soft blankets and quiet huffing breaths.

Oscar sat beside her on the bed, one knee pulled up, his fingers gently stroking the baby's back. He looked up when he saw her stir.

"Hey," he whispered, voice thick with softness.

Harper blinked slowly. "Hey."

"Sorry. I just— put her on you. She was crying and she's already been fed, so I think she just wanted to be with you," he stumbled, and the relief in his face almost too much to look at.

She shifted slightly, wincing. Her stomach felt heavy and wrong and tight, like it had been sewn back together with fishing line.

"I can't remember it," she murmured.

"What?"

"The birth," she said. "The—surgery. Everything's blurry. I remember pain, and crying, and being so scared. And then... nothing. Just waking up here."

Oscar nodded. "You were... out of it. They gave you something once they decided to go for the C-section."

Her hand trembled slightly as she adjusted the baby. Oscar reached out, steadying her.

"You were amazing," he said. "I know you don't remember it. But you were so brave."

She shook her head. "I was terrified."

"I know." He swallowed. "So was I."

He hesitated, then told her everything — how the nurses had run with her down the corridor, how he'd had to stop at the surgery doors and wait in scrubs, alone, cold with fear. How he'd been shaking when they finally let him in, when they raised the curtain and let him sit beside her head and hold her hand.

"You kept asking if she was okay," he said. "You don't remember that?"

Harper blinked hard. "No."

"You were half-asleep, but every few minutes you'd whisper, 'Is she okay? Is she okay?'"

He paused.

"And then... they pulled her out. And she cried. Loud. Screamed, actually."

Harper gave a broken little laugh, her free hand brushing at her cheeks. "That's my girl."

"They put her on your chest, and you smiled," he said. "You were still sort of out of it, but you smiled. I cut the cord. My hands were shaking so bad."

"I wish I remembered," Harper whispered.

"I remember enough for both of us," Oscar said softly.

There was a pause. Harper looked down at the baby, at her tiny scrunched-up face and her head of soft downy hair.

And then—loud footsteps. A voice.

"Oscar!"

It was his mum.

Nicole burst into the room first, Chris a step behind her, both of them breathless from the corridor. Oscar barely had time to turn before his mum was pulling him into her arms, hugging him tight, stroking his hair like he was five years old again.

"Oh my god, sweetheart," she said. "Oh my god."

He let himself go limp in her arms, the tension pouring out of him all at once. A full-body exhale.

"Is she okay?" Nicole said, already moving toward the bed, eyes wide and glassy. "Is Harper—"

"I'm fine," Harper said weakly. "A bit... sliced open. But fine."

Nicole was already at her side, brushing Harper's hair off her forehead, looking down at the baby with wide, reverent eyes. "She's beautiful. Oh, sweetheart. You did it."

And Chris — always more reserved — stood at the end of the bed and gave a slow, stunned shake of his head. "Jesus, Oscar," he murmured. "You're a dad."

Oscar gave a dazed, lopsided grin. "Yeah."

Chris clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You alright?"

He nodded. Then swallowed. "Now that you're here."

Harper blinked up at them. At Nicole. Her bottom lip trembled. "Thank you for coming."

Nicole squeezed her hand. Leaned down and kissed her forehead. "You're our babies. I'm just sorry we couldn't be here sooner."

—

The hospital room was dark, save for the low yellow glow of the lamp near the cot. Outside, the corridors were quiet, the world hushed and sleeping.

Inside, Harper sat upright in the narrow hospital bed, her legs stretched out stiffly under the thin blanket, her daughter nestled in the crook of one arm and a bottle in the other. Oscar sat behind her, his chest pressed to her back, arms wrapped gently around her — like if he let go, she might come apart.

The baby suckled softly at the bottle, her tiny fingers curling and uncurling near her face. The only sounds were her quiet drinking and Harper's occasional, sniffling breaths.

"I'm sorry," Harper whispered.

Oscar shook his head against the back of hers. "Don't be."

"I just— I couldn't do it. I tried. I really tried. The nurse kept saying I was doing it wrong, and then she latched wrong and it hurt, and then she just— screamed and screamed and— I just want her to eat. I don't care if it's not my body feeding her, I just— she was hungry and I couldn't— I didn't—" Her voice cracked, her whole body trembling against his.

Oscar tightened his arms around her, leaning in closer. "She's eating now," he said quietly. "She's fine. Look at her. She's okay."

"She deserves better," Harper whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Oscar sat there silently for a moment, his hands splayed protectively over her ribs, one of them gently stroking up and down her arm.

"You're seventeen hours out of major surgery," he murmured. "You're holding her. You're feeding her."

"I just wanted to do it right."

"She's eating. That's all that matters."

Harper wiped at her cheek with the sleeve of her hospital gown, sniffling again. "Do you think she'll hate me?"

Oscar let out the smallest, broken sound. He pressed his lips to her shoulder. "No. No, Harp. Never."

The bottle clicked as the baby finished the last of the formula. Harper tipped it gently away, cradling her daughter tighter, staring down at her flushed, soft face.

"I think she looks like you," she whispered.

Oscar smiled faintly. "She's got your hands."

They sat like that for a while — in borrowed pyjamas and rumpled clothes, huddled together in a too-small hospital bed, holding this impossibly small person who had turned their whole world inside out.

"She's so little," Harper whispered, voice cracking again.

"So are we."

She let out a soft laugh that was really more of a sob, and Oscar buried his face in her neck.

Neither of them said it — how scared they were, how much it hurt to feel like they weren't enough, how wildly, madly they loved this baby they barely knew. But it was all there, in the way Oscar kept holding her even after their daughter had been gentle burped and promptly fallen asleep. In the way Harper didn't flinch when he took the bottle from her hands and leaned forward to kiss the top of their daughter's head.

It was 5:47 a.m., and they were still just kids.

But their baby girl was warm and full and safe.

And that was enough.

—

Clementine Grace Piastri was born on the day the rest of England's Year 11 students sat their English Literature GCSE.

Oscar and Harper both failed the exam, having missed most of the questions — for fairly obvious reasons.

Their friends sat the paper in the aftermath and passed with flying colours; even Matt.

Jane and Sam were given the honour of being Clementine's "godparents", a title they took far too seriously far too quickly.

And when Harper received a text from her mother asking for a photo of her granddaughter, she didn't hesitate.

She blocked the number.

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dullwaterlily · 20 days ago

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Society appreciates Oscar Piastri but not in the correct way. Nobody ever talks about how downright diabolically hot this man is

MEOOWWWWWWEW. BACK MUSCLES. CLEAN SHAVEN FACE. NICE HAIR. ARMS. LEGS. ARMS AND LEGS. BEAUTIFUL BROWN DOE EYES.

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dullwaterlily · 20 days ago

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But what about Oscar? (!)

Request: anon <3

Pairing: Dad!Max Verstappen x Daughter!reader

Themes: max dad fluff is back my books

Warnings: favoritism (with a child okay chill)

Summary: I'm back I'm back with a huge ass fever

“Pole just means you go first,” she deadpanned, looking about as excited as someone waiting for a dentist appointment. Max honestly felt like he’d just been dunked on by a moody pre-teen in a Lightning McQueen tee.

He made another go at it, sounding a bit desperate. “But my car was the fastest.”

Y/N just shrugged, twirling the string of her Verstappen cap like it was the world’s most boring fidget toy. “Oscar’s cool.”

Savage. The brutality. Max started wondering if this was cosmic payback for every time he’d punted someone wide at turn one.

Lando wandered over, grinning like he’d just watched a cat fall off a table. “Yikes, mate. She’s ice cold.”

“Yeah, cheers, Lando. Super helpful.”

Later, in the drivers’ room, Oscar strolled in, halfway through a granola bar. Max gave him a look. Maybe a bit too much intensity there. Oscar froze, granola mid-chomp.

“Uh, you good?”

Max groaned and dragged his hands over his face. “She didn’t even care about pole. Just asked where you were.”

Oscar blinked, then smirked. “She’s got her favorites.”

“Yeah, and apparently, it’s not me. Betrayal.”

Oscar flopped into a chair, looking way too relaxed. “Would you rather she liked Lando?”

“God, no. He’d have her driving a golf cart into Lake Como.”

Oscar cracked up, and, honestly, Max couldn’t stay mad. Not at Oscar. The guy was like if a Labrador put on a bucket hat and learned to talk.

After the race, Y/N was waiting in the garage with a tiny McLaren plushie clutched in her hands. She didn’t even blink at Max’s champagne-soaked race suit—just bolted straight for Oscar, who scooped her up like it was the most normal thing ever.

“Good race, Y/N?” he asked.

She nodded so hard her hat nearly fell off. “You went so fast.”

Max, still dripping, threw his hands in the air. “I win at home and my little sister’s giving all the credit to Piastri. Unreal.”

Lando sidled over, smirking like a little gremlin. “Guess you’ll have to step up your game, champ.”

“Or just bribe her with cookies,” Max muttered.

Oscar glanced over, sheepish. “She, uh, gave me this.” He held up a crumpled, slightly sticky drawing. It was… probably him? Maybe? Hard to say.

Max squinted. “She’s never drawn me with that many hearts.”

Oscar tried not to look smug. He failed. Miserably.

Weeks ticked by. Max tried everything—matching socks, extra bedtime stories, even a sneaky turn in the Red Bull sim (Christian would actually combust if he found out). Didn’t matter. Oscar was still her sun, moon, and all the stars.

One night, after a long slog at the track, Max found Y/N crashed out next to Oscar in the hospitality lounge, mouth open, dead to the world. Oscar looked over, awkward but weirdly proud.

“Sorry, mate. Think she likes me more.”

Max just sighed, a little defeated but kinda okay with it. “Yeah. She’s got pretty solid taste.”

Oscar grinned. “Must run in the family.”

Max rolled his eyes, but his chest didn’t feel so tight.

Honestly? If his little sister was gonna worship someone, Oscar wasn’t the worst choice. Not even close.

And maybe Max could get used to sharing the spotlight—at least until Y/N decided Toto Wolff was her new obsession. At that point, all bets were off.

951 notes · View notes

dullwaterlily · 21 days ago

Note

Hiii, I had this idea for Kimi where the reader is the youngest Leclerc, 18, but the Leclercs don't see her, they ignore her. Still, she's been dating Kimi for like a year (she moved to Italy when she was younger with her godparents or something), and I was wondering if you can make it like a 2-3 parts??

he put me first — ka12

smau + blurbs

kimi antonelli x !estranged leclerc sister reader

yn always fell on the back burner for her family, never truly seen. her father was the only one who ever made her feel like she mattered. when he passed, the distance between her and her siblings—charles, arthur, lorenzo—only grew wider. she felt more like a shadow than a sister. desperate to escape the weight of monaco and the name that never really felt like hers, she left for italy with nothing but a suitcase and a tearful phone call to her godparents. that was five years ago.

a year into her new life in bologna, she met a boy. kimi antonelli—soft-spoken, kind-eyed, and utterly unlike anyone she’d ever known. they were just kids when they met, but something about him felt like home. they’ve been inseparable ever since. now, five years later, both 18 years old, yn and kimi have been together for three years. he’s the only person who’s ever truly seen her. but everything changes when kimi is offered a spot in formula 1. because standing on that grid? is her brother. and kimi has no idea who she really is.

(a/n) : amazing idea anon! part two is already finished and will be posted in a few hours. i wasn’t sure if you wanted a happy or sad ending so i wrote both :)

fc : darianka on ig

—

5 years ago…(Before YN privates her instagram and goes radio silent.) (age 13 1/2)

yn_leclerc

57,089 likes.

yn_leclerc : au revoir pour toujours (goodbye forever)

—

username00 : hope this poor girl finds peace wherever she ends up

username15 : her family never deserved her truly and she must be so upset about the passing of her father

username20 : is she leaving monaco fully?

username17 : is this leclerc’s little sister??

username10 : yes

username17 : starting his f1 debut with family drama yikessss

username50 : grief is hard especially when you don’t have a good support system. we love you, yn.

liked by yn_leclerc

username11 : y’all act like this is so out of left field when none of the leclerc’s acknowledge her publicly and charles was legit asked about his family in an interview and said he had ‘two brothers’. I hope this poor girl heals.

username22 : the poor thing just lost her father a year ago and has been living in agony ever since. she seemed like she had no one to lean on.

—

yn_leclerc has unfollowed charles_leclerc

yn_leclerc has unfollowed arthur_leclerc

yn_leclerc has unfollowed lorenzotl

yn_leclerc has unfollowed leclerc_pascale

yn_leclerc has made her account private.

yn_leclerc is now its_yn on instagram.

—

3 months later

charles_leclerc has requested to follow you.

Block? Account is now blocked.

—

The house was quiet. Too quiet. No footsteps in the hallway. No one calling my name. Just the ticking of the clock above the kitchen sink and the sound of my own breath as I stood by the door, suitcase in hand, trying not to shake. I looked around one last time. The living room still had the blanket folded the way Papa used to do it. There were photos of us smiling—when I was younger, when I thought we were happy, before the silence swallowed everything after he was gone.

No one had come to stop me. Not Charles, not Arthur, not Lorenzo. I don’t even know if they noticed I was leaving. Or maybe they did and just thought I’d come back like the youngest sibling who didn’t know any better. But this time is much different.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A message from my godmother: “We’ll be at the airport in Bologna when you land, darling. We’re so glad you called.”

That was the only text I’d gotten all day. The car ride to the airport was a blur—buildings passing by like ghosts, my reflection in the window looking pale and unfamiliar. I clutched Papa’s old scarf the entire ride, fingers curled tight around the soft wool, as if holding on to it meant I wasn’t fully leaving him behind. When I reached my gate, I felt something shift. Not relief. Not excitement. Just this aching hollow where my home used to be. Boarding was called. I stood. Walked. Didn’t look back.

As I sat by the window and the plane began to taxi down the runway, I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. The tears came quietly, without a warning—just like the grief did. Just like the loneliness that had made a home inside me the day they stopped looking at me the way he used to.

I pressed my forehead to the cold glass and whispered, “au revoir, Papa.”

And I left. Forever. Or so I thought.

—

The air in Bologna was different. Warmer, softer, like it wasn’t trying to weigh me down. The sun stretched low across the sky as I stepped out of the airport, suitcase dragging behind me, heart heavier than anything I was carrying.

My godmother spotted me first. She didn’t say anything right away—just pulled me into a hug, the kind of hug that said I know you’re not ready to talk, but I’m here when you are. I clung to her like I was drowning.

The drive to their home was quiet. The roads curved through terracotta buildings and narrow alleys lined with vines and shutters and chipped paint that somehow looked like art. Everything felt old, but in a comforting way. Like maybe it had survived too much and was still standing anyway.

Their house was small and warm and smelled like garlic and old books. My room overlooked a garden with a lemon tree and chipped flower pots and two cats who seemed entirely uninterested in my arrival.

I set my suitcase down and sat on the edge of the bed. Everything was quiet again—but this time, it didn’t feel suffocating. Just… unfamiliar. I checked my phone. Nothing. I told myself it was the time difference. That maybe Charles was racing. That Arthur was busy with training. That Lorenzo had work. That someone—anyone—was thinking about me. But the silence didn’t change.

That first night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept staring at the screen, refreshing my messages. Waiting. Hoping. A stupid part of me thought I’d hear a knock at the door. That someone would get on a plane. That I’d wake up to a missed call or a message that said “Come home.”

But it never came. And deep down, I already knew it wouldn’t.

So I turned off my phone. Slipped under the unfamiliar sheets. And let the sound of Bologna—distant voices, the creak of old floorboards, a cat meowing in the courtyard—slowly lull me into something close to peace.

For the first time in a long time… I didn’t feel like a burden. Just a girl with a second chance.

—

I didn’t want to go. My godfather insisted I needed “fresh air and new faces.” I would’ve preferred to stay hidden in my room, curled up with a book or pretending I wasn’t still checking my phone every hour. But he was persistent in the gentle way only he could be — and before I knew it, I was being walked down the stone path to a small karting track just outside the city.

It smelled like rubber and oil and sun-warmed concrete. I hated it immediately. It reminded me of home — not the home I was trying to forget, but the one I couldn’t stop missing. There were a few kids scattered around, helmets under their arms, laughing and comparing lap times. I hovered awkwardly near the fence, hands in my sleeves, trying not to make eye contact. That’s when I saw him.

He wasn’t loud like the others. He was off to the side, squatting next to a kart with grease on his fingers and a serious look on his face. Blue eyes narrowed in concentration, curls messy under the weight of the sun. He glanced up at me. Just once. And then again — longer this time. Not in a curious, who’s the new girl kind of way. But softer. Like he already knew I didn’t want to be there. He wiped his hands on his suit and walked over, quiet steps across the pavement.

“You don’t like racing?” he asked, his Italian smooth but slow. Like he was trying not to scare me off.

I shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

He nodded like he understood more than he should for a boy his age. “I don’t like people watching me when I drive.”

I blinked. “Aren’t you supposed to be used to that?”

He shrugged back. “I race better when no one’s expecting anything from me.”

I looked at him then — really looked. And for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like I was about to cry.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Kimi,” he said simply. “You?”

“YN.”

He smiled, just barely. “You look like you needed someone to talk to.”

I didn’t say anything. But I stayed. And so did he. We sat by the fence for the rest of the afternoon — not saying much, just watching the karts fly by. He offered me half of his water bottle and didn’t ask why my eyes looked red or why I flinched every time my phone buzzed. He just… stayed. And that was enough.

—

a few months later

His room always felt lived in. Not messy, just… honest. Trophies tucked into corners like he forgot to show them off, books stacked sideways on a shelf, a blanket half-hanging off the bed from when we’d watched a movie the night before and fallen asleep mid-scene. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, picking at the frayed end of the rug. Kimi lay on his stomach across the bed, chin resting on his arm, eyes lazily watching me in that calm, patient way of his.

“Do you ever miss home?” he asked quietly, out of nowhere.

I froze for a second. Then shrugged, trying to play it off. “Not really.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound true.”

I didn’t answer. He didn’t push. Just waited, the silence stretching softly between us, like it always did when he sensed I had something I was trying not to say.

“I used to think it was normal,” I said finally. “To feel invisible.”

His expression didn’t change, but he sat up, like my voice had shifted something.

“They were busy. All the time. With important things. Big things. I was just… there. A shadow in the background. Quiet, easy to forget.” My fingers curled around the edge of the rug. “The only one who really noticed me was my dad.”

Kimi’s brows furrowed slightly. Still quiet.

“He made me feel like I wasn’t just an accident. He remembered things, small things. He showed up. He listened. And then… he was gone.” My throat tightened. “After that, it was like I stopped existing to them.”

I could feel my eyes sting but I didn’t let the tears fall. Not yet.

“I kept waiting for someone to knock on my door. To ask if I was okay. To notice I was breaking. But no one did. So I left.”

Kimi didn’t say a word. Just leaned down and passed me one of his racing gloves like it was a stress ball. I took it without thinking, gripping it tightly in my hands.

“I thought they’d message. Call. Ask me to come back. But they didn’t.” My voice cracked, just once. “They never did.”

A long beat passed. And then he said softly, “They don’t deserve you.”

I looked up at him, startled.

“I mean it,” he said, eyes steady and a little sad. “Whoever—wherever they are… they don’t deserve you.”

And that was the thing about Kimi. He never needed all the details to understand exactly what I meant. He slid off the bed and sat beside me on the floor, shoulder to shoulder. He didn’t say I’m sorry, or It’ll get better, or You should call them. He just sat there — present, quiet, and unwavering. For the first time in a long time, I felt like someone had chosen me. Not because of a name, or a title, or an obligation. Just… me.

—

The days had started feeling softer. Lighter. I wasn’t exactly happy — not yet — but I was starting to breathe again. I saw Kimi almost every day. We didn’t always talk much, but it didn’t matter. There was comfort in his silence. In the way he didn’t ask questions I wasn’t ready to answer. In the way he made space for me without trying to fix me. That night, it was raining. Not a thunderstorm — just a steady, quiet drizzle. We’d been watching a movie on the old TV in his living room, but we both lost interest halfway through. Now we were just sitting in front of the window, side by side on the floor, watching raindrops slide down the glass. His shoulder brushed mine. Not on purpose. Not entirely on accident either.

“You seem… lighter lately,” he said after a long stretch of quiet.

I looked down at my hands. “I guess I am.”

He nodded like he already knew that. Like he could feel it in the way I laughed a little easier. Like he saw the part of me that was slowly, finally, healing. I glanced at him. His curls were damp from earlier, still soft and sticking to his forehead. He had that look again — thoughtful, half-serious, like he was about to say something important but didn’t know how.

“Do you ever think about…” I started, then stopped.

He tilted his head. “About what?”

I swallowed. “Us.”

There was a pause, long enough that I thought maybe I’d ruined everything.

“All the time.”

My breath caught. He looked at me — really looked at me. “But I didn’t want to push. I didn’t know if you were ready.”

I blinked hard, my throat tightening. “I don’t know if I am. Not really. But I want to be. With you.”

He reached out slowly, giving me the space to move back. I didn’t. His fingers brushed mine, then threaded through them like it was the most natural thing in the world. And then, gently — so gently I almost thought I imagined it — he leaned in and kissed me. It wasn’t fireworks or heat or any of the things I thought a first kiss had to be. It was soft. Slow. Careful. It was safe.

When we pulled apart, he didn’t say anything right away. Just rested his forehead against mine and whispered, “You don’t have to run anymore.”

And for the first time in years, I believed that.

—

3 years ago (private IG) (age 15)

its_yn

liked by kimi.antonelli and 428 others.

its_yn : so proud of my boy <3

—

view 25 comments.

kimi.antonelli : mia bella regazza. ti amo così tanto ❤️ (my pretty girl. love you so much)

liked by its_yn

its_yn : je t’aime ma chérie

yourbff : so cute 😊

liked by its_yn

username22 : so she is missing for two years and pops back up with some random prema guy. hm

username17 : let her be. its clear they didn’t care for her. she has a new life.

liked by its_yn

username8 : she has grown so much in just two years, beautiful girl.

liked by its_yn

—

3 years ago (Age 15)

The paddock was buzzing with energy. People rushing around, shouting in Italian, cameras flashing. I stayed close to Kimi’s side, his hand occasionally brushing mine, grounding me. He introduced me to a few mechanics and an engineer, but I barely registered their names. My stomach was already tight. Then I saw him. It was just a glimpse — the back of his head at first, the familiar tilt of his shoulders as he laughed with someone near the Prema hospitality area. My heart stopped. Arthur.

I hadn’t seen him in two years. I didn’t even know he was racing for Prema now. My eyes locked onto him like a ghost had walked into the room. He hadn’t changed much. Taller, maybe. Sharper around the edges. But still him. He turned a little — not toward me, just enough for me to catch his profile — and I froze. My breath vanished. My chest started to cave in. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I turned sharply and pushed through the crowd, barely hearing Kimi call after me.

I found a quiet spot behind one of the team trucks, crouched down and pressed my hands over my mouth to muffle the sound of my breathing. Too fast. Too loud. I didn’t know if it was fear or guilt or some horrible mix of both, but the world was spinning.

A few minutes passed before I heard footsteps approach — soft, careful ones. Kimi didn’t say anything. He just sat beside me on the concrete, close but not touching.

After a moment, he offered me his water bottle and looked at me gently. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But I’m here if you ever want to.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. Not because I was sad — but because he never asked for more than I could give. Never pushed. Never demanded an explanation or a name. He just waited.

“I didn’t know that someone I used to know would be here,” I whispered after a long while.

Kimi nodded once. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

I wiped my face on my sleeve and stared down at my hands. “I thought I was far enough away. That I could breathe here.”

“You still can,” he said, soft but firm. “You’re safe. I promise.”

He wrapped me into him and pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head softly humming into my ear.

—

I hadn’t planned on staying.

After seeing Arthur, every instinct in my body told me to disappear — to slip away before he could look up and really see me. But then Kimi found me behind the truck and told me quietly, “My family’s here. Come sit with them, yeah? I think you need them today.”

He was right.

So now I sat in the Prema grandstand with Kimi’s little sister curled up beside me, legs swinging, playing with the bracelets on my wrist. His mother had tucked a handkerchief into my palm and told me, “You look pale, sweetheart. You need sugar,” before pressing a warm piece of cake into my hand from her bag.

They always treated me like I belonged — like I wasn’t this strange, fractured thing still learning how to be whole. Kimi’s father stood beside us, arms crossed, watching the track like a general watching his son go to war. The cars screamed past us in blurs of color, and every time Kimi’s flashed by, his sister would squeal and clap, and I couldn’t help but smile. Even through the noise, the nerves, the ache in my chest — I smiled. Until I saw the flash of red out of the corner of my eye. Arthur. He was walking along the lower row, near the barricades, clearly heading toward the engineers and team leads. A pass swung around his neck. He hadn’t noticed me — yet — but the sight of him this close sent a bolt of ice straight through my chest. I sat up straighter, turned my head slightly, trying to hide without drawing attention. My breathing quickened. Kimi’s father noticed instantly. He didn’t say anything. Just looked down at me for a half-second, eyes sharp and knowing, before taking a small step forward and positioning himself directly in front of me — calm, casual, like it was coincidence.

But I knew it wasn’t. He stood just enough in Arthur’s line of sight to shield me completely. He didn’t even glance back. Just crossed his arms and watched the race again like nothing was wrong. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. Not from fear this time — but from something deeper. Something I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time. Protected. Accepted.

The little girl beside me leaned into my shoulder and said, “Papa says Kimi drives best when you’re watching.”

I blinked fast and gave her a watery smile. “I think so too.”

Arthur passed by without noticing me. And I exhaled. Kimi’s father gave the smallest nod without looking back — a silent I’ve got you. And for the first time since I ran away from my old life, I didn’t feel like I was running anymore.

—

present day

The Antonelli kitchen felt like the safest place in the world. It smelled like basil, fresh dough, and melted cheese. Kimi’s mom was humming as she shaped dough into little hearts, laughing every time her kimi threw flour in the air like confetti. His dad was outside with the grill, pretending to be a world-renowned chef. Maggie was sat on the couch on her iPad, picking out what she thought I should wear on my first magazine cover. And I was leaned against the counter next to Kimi, our elbows brushing, my cheeks still warm from all the attention. They were celebrating me. Me — the girl who once ran away in silence. Me— the girl who was just picked up by one of the biggest model agencies in the world.

“Model status suits you,” Kimi teased, reaching over to flick a piece of mozzarella off my shirt. “Soon you’ll be too cool to sit at my kitchen table.”

I snorted. “Right, because Vogue’s dying for a girl who cries watching dog videos and can’t walk in heels.”

He smirked. “That’s exactly your charm.”

I didn’t respond — not out loud. Just looked at him the way I always did when I didn’t have the words to say thank you for staying. For loving me when I couldn’t love myself. His phone buzzed on the counter. Once. Twice. Then nonstop.

Kimi’s dad poked his head through the back door. “Tesoro, your phone’s vibrating like it owes someone money.”

Kimi chuckled, swiping it up and answering casually.

“Ciao, Kimi speaking…”

Then came the pause. I watched it happen in slow motion — the shift in his voice, his posture, the disbelief spreading across his face like sunlight cracking through clouds.

“Wait—really?” he said, straighter now. “Like… official? For this season?”

The phone slipped from his ear a moment. He looked at me — stunned. Breathless. And then he laughed. Just once. A sharp, stunned sound.

“They want me. Formula 1. I’m in.”

The room exploded. His mom gasped, then started crying. His sister squealed so loud the dog barked. His dad came rushing in, hugging them both, eyes glassy with pride. Kimi turned toward me, beaming, his arms already opening like they always did when the world became too much. And I stepped into them — because I loved him, and he had worked for this his whole life, and nothing in the world could’ve made me prouder.

But behind my smile, a storm was brewing. F1 meant exposure. Paddocks. Media. Faces from a past I’d hidden like a wound. It meant Charles. It meant the life I left behind — the life I never wanted to explain — was about to come crashing into the one I’d built with Kimi. He pulled back slightly, still grinning, forehead pressed to mine. “Can you believe it?”

I nodded. Swallowed the lump in my throat. “Of course I can.”

But deep down, I wasn’t sure who I was more afraid of facing — the brothers I’d run from…Or the boy I loved who still didn’t know.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Let’s get to know our newest rookie— Kimi Antonelli. It was just announced that the 18 year old will be taking Lewis Hamilton’s (big shoes to fill) spot at Mercedes. Born and raised in Bologna, Kimi is the son of racing driver, Marci Antonelli. He has had back to back Direct-Driver European Championships and he won his first title in 2022 F4 Championship with Prema racing. He has been a member of the Mercedes Junior team since 2019. Now— we know what you are all thinking ladies. Does he have a girlfriend? Are we getting a new wag? Short answer being, yes— he does have a girlfriend. 18 year old, YN, who just recently signed with one of the world’s biggest modeling agencies and we do have to say…she is quite gorgeous. Her once-private Instagram account recently went public — and fans immediately noticed Kimi appearing in multiple soft, cozy photos going back years. No tags. No captions. Just vibes. She has also appeared on Kimi’s account many many times. However— F1 fans are clocking something. She looks familiar— with some insisting they’ve seen her around the paddock long before she ever appeared on Kimi’s feed. Let us know what you think below!

view 120,090 comments.

username00 : is this the YN?? like the one we all know.

username20 : WAIT. am i insane or does she look like she could be a leclerc??

username17 : because she is

username20 : huh?

username17 : the leclerc’s have always had a little sister— she was just always left behind. she disappeared shortly after their dad died. guess this is where she was

username15 : my friend is one of the people that still had access to her instagram while it was private and before she deleted all the family stuff. it is most definitely the same yn.

username000 : OMG OMG yn return to the paddock was not on my 2025 bingo card

username7 : this is the drama i needed this season to open with YES MAMA

username11 : wow she has grown up so much. she is stunning. definitely can see those leclerc genes

username0 : her and kimi are so cute omg. they’ve been together since they were 15

this tweet has reached 500k retweets.

—

third person point of view

It was a quiet evening in the Leclerc apartment. The windows were cracked open, letting in the soft hum of the sea below, and the TV played old F2 highlights that neither Charles nor Arthur were really watching. The off-season had given them rare downtime — but lately, neither of them had really known what to do with it.

Arthur was half-scrolling through Instagram, letting the silence settle between them. Then he stopped. His thumb hovered over the screen. His body went still.

“Charles,” he said, voice tight.

Charles didn’t look up. “What?”

“No—Charles. Look.”

Arthur turned the phone toward him. It was a post from a well-known F1 gossip page. The caption wasn’t what caught Charles’s attention, though. It was the photos — grainy at first, then clearer, softer. A girl in a sun-drenched field. On a balcony. Sitting next to Kimi Antonelli, smiling like the world wasn’t heavy anymore. Her smile. Her face. It couldn’t be. But it was.

His breath caught. “No…”

“It’s her,” Arthur whispered. “It’s YN.”

They both stared. It had been five years. Five years since she’d vanished overnight with nothing but a vague message and a suitcase. Five years since they’d called her phone, left angry voicemails, waited by the door. Five years without their little sister. And now here she was.

Not a girl anymore. Not the quiet, overlooked youngest who used to sit at the end of the dinner table, trying not to take up space. She looked like a woman now. Confident. Radiant. Her curls were longer, darker. Her cheekbones sharper. Her eyes… the same, but older. Like they’d seen more than any eighteen-year-old ever should have. Charles swallowed hard, eyes locked on the screen.

“She’s stunning,” he murmured, almost like the words had escaped him before he realized he said them.

Arthur didn’t respond right away. His throat was tight. “She looks… happy.”

Charles nodded slowly. “Yeah. She does.”

Another beat passed.

“She went public,” Arthur added. “Her account. It’s not private anymore. That wasn’t an accident.”

Charles took the phone from him, scrolling carefully through her feed. The soft aesthetics. The little captions. Kimi in the background of nearly every photo, his arm around her waist, his chin on her shoulder.

“She really stayed gone,” Arthur said. “She meant it.”

And it hurt. It shouldn’t have surprised them — not really. But it did. They’d spent so long pretending she’d come back on her own. That time would heal things without them having to face what they’d done — or failed to do. But now, the girl they barely said goodbye to had grown up into someone they didn’t even recognize. Someone who had built a life without them.

“She’s with Kimi,” Charles said, staring down at one of the photos. “She’s been with him a while, I think.”

Arthur looked over. “Do you think he knows who she is?”

Charles shook his head. “If he did, we’d have known a long time ago.”

Silence stretched between them again. Then Arthur said it — the question neither of them had said aloud in years.

“Do you think she hates us?”

Charles stared out the window, jaw tight, eyes glossy.

“I think… she had every right to.”

—

#ka12

2K notes · View notes

dullwaterlily · 21 days ago

Text

Catching Strays ! LN04

SUMMARY 𝄡 There's a stray child in the McLaren garage, and of course, Lando is the one who has to deal with it.

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Single Mother! FemReader

TAGS 𝄡 Fluff.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 1k.

NOTE 𝄡 The cutest thing I've ever written ( yet ). This drabble is about another pairing I had in mind... <33

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Something tugged at Lando’s race suit.

Amid the paddock frenzy, that subtle touch⏤so gentle he first thought he’d imagined it⏤startled him enough to abandon his pre-race ritual.

He looked down.

And found himself nose-to-nose with a pair of big amber eyes.

Lando blinked.

The child blinked back.

“What the—?” he murmured before crouching to her level. “What are you doing here, muppet? Where are your parents?”

She let go of his leg, stuffed her fist into her mouth—long enough for drool to glisten down her chin and wrist—and dropped onto the ground with a soft oomph.

She smacked her lips a few times—undoubtedly mimicking someone—and then clapped her hands, giggling.

“Mama!”

Lando cast a desperate glance around him, but the engineers and mechanics paid him no mind, wholly absorbed in their final adjustments to the car.

“I don’t know where your mama is.”

He ran a hand through his curls as stress began to rise. The girl looked at him with wide, hopeful eyes, only fuelling the tsunami building in his chest.

Of course it had to happen to him.

“Well... what am I supposed to do with you now?”

For a fleeting moment, he considered calling Oscar, who was probably still holed up in his room, but the Aussie driver was just as hopeless in situations like this—if not worse. His mother’s face flashed through his mind, and he suppressed a shiver at the thought of her scolding him.

That’s when he noticed it.

Tucked between the girl’s overalls and t-shirt, a lanyard.

Carefully, Lando pulled it free and let out a sigh of relief when he saw the pass. He flipped it over, softened momentarily at the ID photo, and read the name printed in bold.

“Apolline L/N? Well, at least we know you're not a paddock intruder, muppet.”

She giggled as if she understood him, then tipped forward—still figuring out her balance, clearly. Lando caught her before she hit the ground, muttering a quiet thanks for his fast reflexes.

As he resumed reading, he absentmindedly rubbed her back. Shaken by her near tumble, she had settled her head against his chest, sucking on her thumb.

Apolline L/N VIP ACCESS A guest of: SCUDERIA FERRARI

“Well, I guess your mama’s probably over at Ferrari. What do you say, Apolline?” He leaned back to meet her gaze. “Shall we go for a walk?”

He stood, a child in his arms and tiny fingers clinging to his fireproofs.

Together, they set off.

Eyes lingered on the duo as they passed by. Whispers soon followed. What was Lando Norris doing with a small girl in his arms? Was that his sister? His daughter from a past fling?

He could already imagine the headlines, always eager to twist the narrative. Watching warily as a cameraman aimed his lens at them, he tucked Apolline's head into his neck and tightened his embrace before quickening his pace.

He passed Williams, then Mercedes—ignoring George’s raised eyebrow—and finally stopped in front of the red garage.

The usual Monaco frenzy took on a different flavour here. Lando could almost taste the tension soaked into every inch of the garage.

Ferrari wasn’t swept up in Monaco mania, no; they were drowning in Chaos.

A Charles in full race gear paced, his phone pressed to his ear, while a flustered Alexandra—so far removed from her usual elegance—tried to comfort a woman in tears.

Her sobs drowned out the frantic conversations of the team, whose faces all wore the same expression: that of pure dread.

In his arms, Apolline began to wriggle.

“Mama!”

At the sound, the woman spun around. She tore herself from Alexandra’s arms and ran to Lando.

The latter remained frozen as he took in the woman before him. His eyes darted between her sparkling gaze and her intoxicating mouth. They would have travelled further down—drawn to the delicious lines of her figure in that dress—had she not spoken, brows furrowed.

“May I have my daughter back?”

Her French accent nearly made him faint.

“What? Your daughter… Oh—uh—yeah! Of course!” he stammered. “She’s yours. Right. Obviously.”

Clumsily, he transferred Apolline into her mother’s arms. She hugged the girl tightly before setting her down and checking her over.

“Mon ange! You scared me to death! Don't ever do that again. If you want to go wandering, we’ll go together. Understood?”

The little girl just laughed, unfazed by the turmoil she’d caused, and dashed off into the garage. Lando watched her wrap herself around Alexandra’s legs, and then—

Vanilla.

Lando instinctively hugged the woman back. He buried his nose in her hair and breathed in the sweet scent as his hands tightened on her back.

“Thank you,” she whispered with the kind of gratitude only a mother could convey.

When she stepped back, Lando was already mourning the warmth of her body against his. Flushing, he rubbed the back of his neck to chase the thought away and shrugged.

Control yourself, she has a child.

“It’s nothing. Anyone would’ve done the same.”

“Still. It means a lot.”

She offered her hand.

“I’m Y/N.”

“Lando.”

Alexandra called her over. Y/N gave him a small, apologetic smile—one that did something strange to his chest—and turned to walk away, tossing a final “thank you” over her shoulder.

Lando stayed there, a little dazed.

A throat cleared, breaking the spell.

Fred Vasseur stood in front of him with his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. Only then did Lando realize half the garage was staring at him.

Knowing he had overstayed his welcome, he turned on his heel and headed back toward the McLaren garage—but not without grabbing Charles by the collar. The Monegasque struggled against his hold before freezing as Lando leaned in and whispered:

“Give me Y/N’s number, or I’m crashing into you at turn one, constructors’ championship be damned.”

#ln4

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dullwaterlily · 21 days ago

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my man - ln4

⋆˚✿˖° lando just won monaco, but it was supposed to your night with him ⋆˚✿˖° inspired by miss possessive for my so close to what event ⋆˚✿˖° wc: 2.1k+ | a/n: this was finished at 12 am for lando monaco win so sorry it took me forever (so happy for lando)

SASS CAFE WAS BUZZING WELL INTO MIDNIGHT. lando had just won monaco, and of course, it called for a big celebration with his friends. honestly, was it really a lando norris win without a rager? there were celebrities galore, such were lando’s connections, and you even saw kylian mbappe hanging around. rounds of shots had been passed around, with most partygoers buzzed within the first hour or two.

it was how you expected—bass thrumming, lights down low, people crowded together as they attempted to dance to the beat. and there in the middle of it was your boyfriend, the race winner. from lights out to lap 78, it had been a whirlwind, but it ended with you tearing up as you watched lando beam, triumphant, so it was all worth it. had you almost pulled out your hair due to nerves? no comment. had your heart pounded with glee and pride? most definitely.

but it all worked out in the end. lando deserved the stars, in your unbiased opinion, and you knew how much this meant to him. c’mon, it was the monaco grand prix. historic. iconic. magic. and lando, your lando, had won it. in a beautiful, perfect victory no less. how were you supposed to be normal about that?

the whole time you were fidgeting with whatever was on hand, and a few curse words were muttered, but god, was it worth the anxiety. cisca and adam were also there, a highlight of your day as cisca gave you one of her unique bangles for good luck, and adam narrated everything in extreme detail. they were genuinely some of the sweetest people you’d ever met; it was clear where lando got it from.

you headed back towards the center of action, where lando and his mates were cheering and making a poor attempt to dance to the music. drinks in hand, you stopped in your tracks as you saw what was in front of you.

baby blue eyes wandered up and down your boyfriend’s figure, and a red lip caught by teeth made your blood boil. her outfit certainly didn’t help either; a skintight dress that landed high on her thigh with a slit. the girl leaned over, and you almost rolled your eyes. it was clear she was trying to get lando’s attention, and you didn’t like it. to be honest, it was like watching the fia make decisions: annoying, irrational, and pointless. now, you didn’t—couldn’t—move as you watched her blonde hair sweep over her shoulders, model physique moving closer to lando in that short orange dress of hers that you knew was for attention.

she was beautiful, anyone could see that she had the kind of natural beauty many women would envy. but you kept watching, frozen, as she squeezed his shoulder and giggled way too hard at whatever joke lando was making, shoulders shaking. and your boyfriend was too kind and outgoing to notice, bless his soul. he was oblivious, much to your surprise.

but the initial shock washed off, and a spark ignited inside you. you had already let the rest of the world have their moment with lando after his win. you let zak brown terrorize him. you stood off to the side and let the team have their share of champagne showers and helmet pats. you saw his parents squeeze him tightly, pride shining in their eyes. you went with him to interact with his fans and noticed him taking some time with the random famous partygoers. hell, you even watched on in disbelief as jenson button brazenly flirted with him, charm in full force as he teased lando about “monaco, baby”. everyone else had gotten their time with lando, and it was finally your turn now. or, it should have been.

it was akin to watching a wildlife documentary or something of the sort as the girl’s eyes flitted over your boyfriend yet again, a kind of ravenous desire in her eyes, like watching predator and prey. you knew what she saw—a famous and handsome f1 driver who had just taken a big victory here in monaco. yeah, you knew what she, and countless others, wanted: to run around and go home with a winner, someone with the status and fame. she wanted a star. she wanted your boyfriend.

something twisted under your ribcage, not a sharp pang but a slow, torturous grind. this wasn’t the first time this had happened, nor would it be the last. the tabloids had made it clear that you were different from the women lando had dated before, that you were cut from a different cloth. the “not a model and more of a normal person” cloth. and honestly? you didn’t expect lando to stay forever; you knew there would be an expiration date. his lifestyle was a magnet for girls like the one with your boyfriend right now, and let’s be real, athletes clearly dated models. part of you thought he saw you as a new challenge, a new kind of conquest that was nice before he went back to his old ways. and you supposed that you were fine with that, despite how it sounded. you liked lando, and it would be good while it lasted.

but tonight, he was yours. not hers. and she really needed to get her hands off your man before you were about to snap.

“lan, baby, here’s your drink,” you hummed, voice dripping with honey as you draped your arm around lando’s neck. you gave the girl a once-over, but if she noticed, she didn’t let on.

“thanks, love,” lando grinned, pecking your lips quickly but still giving you a taste of the champagne he had been drinking. you cast a side glance at the girl, smug as you ran your fingers through your boyfriend’s hair. lando waved his hand, the corner of his mouth quirking up at the sight of you as he introduced you to the girl. “this is my girlfriend, who i really appreciate got me drinks.” you snorted, playfully hitting his arm.

“nice to meet you,” the girl beamed, but you knew she couldn’t have been that happy to see you, as evident from the way the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. she reached over and patted your arm, nails skimming over your skin in a way that made you stiffen. quite frankly, you didn’t know why she was keeping up the pretense that she really seemed to like you. you hardly knew her, how was she acting like you two were about to become besties? “lando’s such a great guy, you must be very lucky.”

lucky. ha. if only she knew that was actually how you felt. as irritated as you were, you weren’t about to let her see that she had struck a nerve. “oh, i don’t know if it’s luck,” you chuckled, trying to ease the tightness in your jaw. you were already a few drinks in which made you much less cautious than how you usually acted, more reckless and unbothered. “you know fate has a way of bringing two people together.” you took a sip of your drink, trying your best to feign nonchalant indifference and not let her get what she wanted.

“and i’m glad it did,” lando chimed in, a soft, reverent gaze in his eyes.

he tended to get sentimental when he got drunk, and today was no exception. you chuckled, cupping his cheek for a second as if to ground him. he was making things easier for you, making it easier to prove your point. your hands left lando, fixing your outfit with indifference as you sat down on the couch next to him, one of his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist.

before you could do anything else, max and pietra walked over, with the latter smiling and rushing to hug the girl who had been hovering around lando. so apparently she was p’s friend. okay, well, so be it. your legs shifted closer to lando, and his hands went under your knees, pulling your legs over his, amusement sparkling in his eyes. with a knowing smirk, he leaned forward, voice low and teasing. “i know what you’re trying to do.” his lips almost brushed the shell of your ear.

“and?” you huffed, tilting your head as if to dare him to quit first. “you got a problem with that, lan?” to add to it, you splayed a hand across lando’s chest, playfully kissing his cheek and pushing him back as he tried to be a little shit and get up.

lando opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off as max nudged him, bringing you two back out of your bubble. “oh, we were just talking about you,” the girl added, not bothering to add further elaboration until the awkwardness started to settle like a cold front. “i was just asking p why we didn’t see you at all during the race.” wow, now you knew what it was like for lando in the media pen and the horde of press that loved to stir random things up.

composing yourself, you smiled and laughed like a champ, twisting a ring on your finger to ground yourself. “i’m not one for the spotlight,” you shrugged, leaning into lando, who was animatedly chatting with max about something he saw in the paddock. for a heartbeat, your breath caught at the way the purple light caught on the angles of his face and his wide beam as his hands were gesturing, clearly in the middle of telling a story. you couldn’t help but smile, your boyfriend was happy, and that’s what made you happy as well. he was just…a star, the dazzling sun, and you loved him.

the girl wasn’t impressed, blue eyes narrowing at you as she fixed her hair. she could act indifferent. still, you were so sure that she’d lay a hand on your boyfriend again. “lando, are you staying in monaco for a bit?” she asked, voice saccharine, almost a croon. “maybe the race winner should do a victory lap sometime.” the implication in her tone was obvious; if not, the way she was looking at lando like she was asking him to do her a favor was clear.

you almost rolled your eyes to the back of your head at the girl’s giggle. why the hell was she all over your man? kylian mbappe was literally right there. anyone else except lando, in your humble, unbiased opinion. “i’d appreciate it if you kept your hands off my man.” your eyes met the girl’s, hoping your glare didn’t waver.

lando moved his hand to your knee, giving you a small squeeze as a shit-eating grin stretched across his face, leaning back with an air of superiority. knowing him, he probably thought it was entertaining watching you fight off other girls.

the girl opened her mouth to say something before turning back to lando. “you know where to find me,” she purred in lando’s ear, metaphorically swiping her claws at you with the barbed smile she gave. with that, she walked off with an air of arrogance, presumably to find pietra.

you scoffed, wrapping your arms around lando’s neck. his grin widened, enjoying your extra attention. he closed his eyes as your fingers ran through his brown curls, gentle and bold, a juxaposition. as lando trailed soft kisses to your jaw, you shot a glance at the girl over his shoulder, blowing a mocking kiss to her. she so wished she was you. but alas, she could only wish.

“y’know, you become so vicious when you’re jealous,” lando smirked, the sound low and teasing, nuzzling into your neck. his hands roamed up and down your sides, squeezing your hips in a way that tempted you, looking like the cat who got the cream. “i love it. trying to stake your claim on me?”

it twisted something in you, some part of you that was happy at his pride over you being jealous. everything he did seemed to cater to your needs, honestly. “just didn’t like the way she was looking at you,” you mumbled, suddenly bashful as you ducked your head. “like she wanted the winner to herself when you’re mine.”

something flickered in lando’s eyes, some emotion you couldn’t place—it made you want to reach out and fall into the abyss of his eyes. he leaned forward, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer to him. “yeah? yours?” he grinned, voice soft as his eyes sparkled. and really, how were you supposed to not love him?

“yeah, mine.”

#ln4

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dullwaterlily · 23 days ago

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90% of the time I just wanna go home.

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dullwaterlily · 24 days ago

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"please ask charles questions cause he needs to leave in 5 minutes to see the stewards"

oscar and charles faces:

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dullwaterlily · 24 days ago

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actually he's NOT allowed to sign the champagne for his sisters again. I'll have a breakdown about it.

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dullwaterlily · 24 days ago

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SPANISH GP 2025 | Oscar dedicating his win to his sister 🧡

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dullwaterlily · 24 days ago

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Reader is secretly married to Lando, and she starts using his sim, she misses him and she wants to feel closer and also really wants to learn (even if she is not ready to admit that she always had a thing for learning how it would feel to be in an actual f1 car). She creates a profile for herself for fun: Mrs Norris (which of course no one thinks it’s actually her). She becomes so good at it that she ends up beating the whole grid one time, and everyone is just wondering who the hell is this person…

👀👀👀👀

Very unrealistic, but well… 😂😂😂😂

Mrs Norris (Oneshot)

Lando Norris x Verstappen!Reader

Summary — It was only supposed to be a bit of fun, but really, what did she expect? Her surname might be Norris now, but she was born a Verstappen.

Notes — This was so fun!!!!!! Em, I will never not appreciate your cute ideas.

Lando had been gone for exactly twelve hours when she caved.

It wasn’t boredom—the Verstappen family didn’t do boredom. Her schedule was packed with gym sessions, influencer brunches, and brand events she had no real desire to attend.

But the apartment felt off without him. Too quiet. Too tidy.

And the sim rig—God, it just sat there. Smug. Taunting. Like it knew she’d eventually give in to its silent, high-tech seduction.

She told herself it was just curiosity. Racing was in her blood, even if she’d had zero interest as a kid. She used to stage silent protests just to get out of karting, sulking until her dad finally let her quit and focus on gymnastics instead.

Still, one harmless session wouldn’t hurt, right?

Just a few laps around Silverstone. Just something to do before bed.

Two hours later, she was red-faced, sweaty, and yelling at an AI Williams for brake-checking her into Turn 1.

She was terrible. Hilariously, painfully terrible.

But she was hooked.

—

By day three, she was watching tutorials, scribbling notes, and fine-tuning the seat and wheel setup like her life depended on it.

She texted Lando under the guise of checking in.

Hey handsome, you okay? Totally random, but what’s the best braking point for Eau Rouge?

He didn’t even question it—just sent a smug voice note with a full breakdown like she was a rookie on his team.

It made her want to destroy his time.

That night, she created a profile.

She debated using her real name, but that was a quick no. The username had to be anonymous… but also funny.

So she picked the most on-the-nose option possible.

@Mrs.Norris

It was meant to be a joke. A bit of fun. She never expected it to go anywhere.

She definitely didn’t expect to get good.

—

Two weeks in, she was holding her own in online lobbies. Four weeks in, she was winning. All of them.

Six weeks in, she entered a public charity sim race and beat George, Charles, and Alex.

The stream chat lost its collective mind.

Who TF is Mrs. Norris???

Actual alien pace.

Lando alt??

Plot twist: it’s Max Verstappen in disguise.

That last one made her laugh so hard she nearly fell out of the rig. The idea that they thought her brother was racing under her married name? Unhinged enough to make her cry.

Then came the text from Lando.

Lando:

Baby, are you using my sim under the username Mrs. Norris?

You:

Yep. And I beat them all.

Lando:

No. Shut up. You did not.

You:

Duh. I might be a Norris now, but I was born a Verstappen.

—

When he finally got home after the triple-header, he walked in to find her mid-race, cursing like a sailor, laser-focused, fire in her eyes.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking.

She crossed the finish line five seconds clear of second place.

Slowly, she removed the headset. Even slower, she turned to face him, cheeks flushed pink.

“Hi,” she said softly, suddenly shy.

He didn’t say anything.

Then he grinned.

“Mrs. Norris,” he drawled, walking over to kiss her forehead, “we are so screwed if this gets out.”

She smiled. “It won’t. They think I’m Max.”

He leaned in, voice low. “You beat my Silverstone time.”

“Your fault for sounding all smug about Eau Rouge.”

He kissed her properly then, holding her like he hadn’t seen her in months.

And neither of them mentioned the way his hands trembled slightly at the thought of her in a real F1 car.

Because if her dad ever found out?

He’d have her in one tomorrow.

#ln4

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dullwaterlily · 26 days ago

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oscar leaning forward in interviews thanks for coming to my ted talk

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dullwaterlily · 26 days ago

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Could you write a Dad!Oscar, where yn is constantly in a game of hide and seek with everyone (engineers, other drivers, mechanics, team principals, everyone) and everyone finds it adorable

Hide and Seek

Oscar was crouched beside his car, speaking quietly with one of his engineers about the updates to the front wing, but even as he focused on the words, his ears were trained on the familiar giggle echoing through the paddock.

"Behind the tire rack again?" his engineer asked with a grin, eyes darting to the left where a soft peal of laughter rang out again, barely muffled.

Oscar didn't need to look. "Third time today," he muttered fondly, standing and brushing his hands on his fire suit. "She thinks no one ever looks there. She’s very proud of her hiding skills.”

His five-year-old daughter, Yn, was once again playing her favorite game—hide and seek in the paddock. It had started as a simple distraction during a long race weekend, but it had quickly become tradition. Engineers, mechanics, other drivers, even team principals—they were all drafted into her ongoing game. And none of them minded. In fact, most of them actively looked forward to seeing the little girl scurrying behind tire stacks or squeezing beneath tables, giggling as she waited to be “found.”

Oscar turned just in time to see Lando tiptoeing past the pit wall, hands on his hips, eyes darting around theatrically.

"Yn! Hmm… where could she be?" Lando called in a sing-song voice, drawing out the vowels.

From the corner, a soft snort of laughter exploded from behind a row of stacked tires.

Lando froze and gasped dramatically. "Did I just hear a mouse?"

Giggle.

"Wait a minute…" he turned, creeping closer to the tires with exaggerated stealth, "...was that… a racing mouse? Wearing tiny sneakers?"

This sent Yn into fits of laughter, and she burst from her hiding spot, sprinting out into the open with a squeal. Lando pretended to slip and fall over, face-planting into a patch of unused mats, groaning dramatically.

"No! She’s too fast!" he wailed, throwing an arm over his eyes. "I’ve been defeated!"

Yn giggled uncontrollably and spun in a circle before spotting her father just a few meters away.

“Daddy!” she shrieked, running up to him at full speed.

Oscar, mid-conversation again, crouched down instinctively and caught her, lifting her high into his arms. "Hey, sunshine," he said, grinning. “You winning?”

She nodded fiercely. “Lando almost found me! But I’m too sneaky. Can you hide me, please please please?”

Oscar laughed, glancing at Lando, who was peeking over a mat and winking.

"Where do you want me to hide you?" Oscar asked.

“In your jacket!” Yn announced, eyes wide with excitement. “He’ll never find me there!”

Oscar didn’t miss a beat. He sat down in his chair, unzipped his team jacket and helped her nestle into his lap. She curled up with a little sigh of satisfaction, her tiny hands holding the inside of his suit like it was a security blanket. He zipped the jacket halfway back up, not really covering her, but enough for pretend.

She giggled again as he gently hushed her, “Shh, shh… the hunter is near.”

Lando sauntered over, hands on his hips. “Now, where oh where could Yn have gone?” he mused, very pointedly looking everywhere but at Oscar’s lap.

Oscar raised an eyebrow, keeping a very serious expression. “Haven’t seen her.”

“Hmm…” Lando stepped closer, bent to peer under a bench. “Maybe she went back to the hospitality suite? Or—wait. Maybe she climbed into the tire rack again.”

Oscar shrugged. “Could be. She’s pretty quick.”

A tiny giggle trembled from within his jacket. Lando froze.

“Wait… was that wind?” he asked, blinking. “Or do I hear… a giggle?”

Oscar opened his mouth solemnly. “Wind.”

“Oh,” Lando said. “Weirdly adorable wind.”

The jacket shook slightly. Oscar patted the little bump under the fabric gently.

“I guess I’ll have to keep looking,” Lando sighed dramatically. “I’m the worst seeker ever.”

A tiny head popped up from Oscar’s jacket, grinning triumphantly. “You didn’t find me!”

Lando gasped and staggered back. “What?! You were hidden in there? Impossible! That's cheating!”

“It’s not cheating,” she insisted, climbing out into Oscar’s lap, “It’s being smart.”

Lando crossed his arms, pretending to pout. “I’ve been outsmarted by a five-year-old again.”

“You always are,” Oscar teased, poking his friend in the ribs with a laugh.

“Okay,” Lando said, spinning to face her. “Next round, I’m going pro. No mercy.”

“I’m going super pro!” she shot back, pointing at him.

Oscar chuckled, hugging her tight. “Go easy on him, sunshine. He’s not that smart.”

“I heard that!” Lando called as he jogged away, already scanning for hiding spots.

Oscar stood, setting Yn gently on the ground. “Alright, off you go, professional hider.”

She gave him a kiss on the cheek and whispered, “You’re the best hiding place ever,” before darting off again.

Oscar just smiled and watched her run, her pigtails bouncing, her laughter echoing through the paddock.

As she disappeared behind a catering cart, a group of engineers turned, pretending to be confused. One whispered loudly, “Was that the wind again?” and the others nodded seriously.

The whole paddock was in on it. She was their little ray of sunshine, their game master, their daily joy. And Oscar wouldn’t trade a single moment of it for the world.

Even during a debrief later, when a mechanic leaned in and whispered, “She hid in the tire warmers again. You might want to go rescue her before she cooks,” Oscar didn’t mind.

He smiled, stood up from his seat, and headed to retrieve his daughter.

Because no matter how many races he drove, no matter how many podiums he reached, this—this chaotic, loving, laughter-filled paddock life with his daughter—was the greatest win of all.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-♡○♡

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dullwaterlily · 27 days ago

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BRAZIL - Franco Colapinto

Summary: After another crash of Franco the reader has to figure out a statement for the the public. Franco comes over to apologise while they sit out in the rain together.

Words: 1331

Warnings: Mentions of a crash

__________

"Fuck." It's the only muttered word that comes over my lips when I look at the absolutely wrecked Williams on the screen. I'm torn between the two feelings inside of me. On one hand, I feel very sorry for Franco, who already had a rough weekend before crashing out. On the other hand, I pity myself because I'll need to find a statement that won't rip us and him apart in the media and with the fans.

Sighing, I put my headphones away and head back to the Williams motorhome. It's probably best if I start working on those statements now. It's something I've had to do a little too often in the last few weeks, and this weekend already, with both drivers crashing out during qualifying. Explaining to everyone that Alex wouldn't be racing seemed so difficult yesterday, but now I need to justify another crash.

I grab my iPad, deciding not to take the laptop to write so I can roam freely through the building while doing it. Scribbling down notes, crossing out potential statements, and eliminating the ones we might have used too often in the last few weeks. At one point, I find myself on one of the rooftop balconies. The rain is still dripping down, but I don't care. I sit on one of the damp chairs, burying my head in my hands, not even realizing that my clothes and hair are slowly getting soaked.

Even when I hear hesitant footsteps approach, I don't look up. Only when the chair beside me is pulled back do I glance up. To my surprise, Franco has joined me out here. He's still in his race suit, but unlike me, he's wearing one of the large raincoats Williams has. I look at his face; his eyes are tired, and I know it's been a rough weekend for him with his grandfather passing, as well as his crashes in both qualifying and the race. We sit in silence for a bit longer until Franco clears his throat.

"I think we should go inside soon." His accent is thicker than usual, his voice low as if he doesn't have the strength to speak any louder. We probably should, but I can't bring myself to move. It feels like, as soon as I leave this rooftop, my responsibilities will crash down on me again, so I stay quiet. Franco stares at me until he's the one who moves.

Before I can process what's happening, he opens his large coat and pulls me to my feet. His grip is firm but gentle at the same time. "Wait, what are you—?" I try to ask but lose my voice when he pulls me onto his lap, his coat wrapping around my damp body.

"It's cold and it's raining. I'm not letting you freeze out here," he explains, his arms placed around me, holding me tight against his chest. I blush at how close we are. His body radiates heat, but I don't want to admit he's right, my mind is too scrambled to think straight.

"It's fine, really. I'm okay," I mumble, but I don't even convince myself. It's freezing out here by Brazil's standards, and my damp clothing does nothing to keep me warm. A shiver runs down my spine as Franco's warmth slowly transfers to me.

"No, you're not. Let me take care of you. Just for a little while." Franco's voice is firm, tightening his grip around me as if he's afraid I'll jump up any second. I sigh and accept my fate, carefully leaning my head against his shoulder. Maybe this isn't so bad.

"Thanks. You didn't have to," I say, and I mean it. Franco didn't have to be out here with me in the rain; he could be inside, warming up before heading to his interviews to charm his way out of trouble, like he always does.

"I wanted to." He says, his head resting against my body, and then we just stay like this, the rain and the occasional sound of the cars the only noise around us.

"I'm sorry," Franco suddenly says, and I'm startled. What is he apologizing for?

"For what?"

"Causing you trouble. It was my task from the team to crash less than Logan, but I'm not doing a great job. And you need to fix it with statements." He whispers, his voice laced with self-disappointment, and I sit up straight to look him in the eyes.

"So, sorry for making your job difficult," he adds, avoiding my gaze, and I sigh inwardly. Oh, Franco. I lift my hand to brush some of his slightly wet curls out of his face, but he still keeps his eyes firmly fixed in the distance.

"It's okay. It's really tricky out there, and even the more experienced drivers are struggling or crashing out," I try to reassure him. So many drivers crashed out during qualifying, and from what I watched of the race, they're all struggling with the conditions.

"But they didn't wreck their car like I did." Now he looks at me, his eyes burning with so many emotions that I have to swallow. He's full of grief, anger at himself, and disappointment. He looks more than tired—ready to curl up under a blanket and not come out until the next race.

"Alex can't even drive today. I think he did a better job than you yesterday in destroying the car." I remind him that Alex totalled his car in the session yesterday, and there was no way to fix it. "At least you managed to drive. Stroll even crashed out before the race even started." The fact that the Canadian driver didn't even make it to the starting line should help lighten Franco's mood, but it doesn't.

"He didn't damage the car." Now he sounds like a toddler, and I lose my patience with him when he tries to avoid my eyes again.

"Franco!" I snap, and his eyes widen, but he looks back at me.

"Stop sulking, okay? The situation isn't ideal at all, but don't be so harsh on yourself. If both drivers crash out constantly, maybe the problem is the car and not them!" I feel the rage inside of me, similar to the one I felt when it became clear that Logan would be dropped by the team. Yes, Franco did a lot of damage, but so did Alex, and the Williams was clearly not suited for weather like this. So, the team maybe should fix their technical errors before blaming the drivers for them.

Franco licks his lower lip before a soft smirk appears on his face. "Don't say that too loud, or they'll get rid of you next."

"There's your smile." I can't hold back my own smile, my hand back on his cheek, feeling his dimples under my touch. Franco leans his head into my hand, and I'm glad I could make him smile, even if just a little.

"Can we just stay here?" he asks, tilting his head slightly. As much as I'd like to stay, I'm sure Franco's PR team is already searching for him to get his interviews done, and I should probably start working on that statement.

"I fear we have to go back soon," I sigh, and Franco is silent, only tightening his arms around me for a moment.

"Can I come over to you later?" His voice is barely above a whisper, and it takes me a second to process his words.

"I don't want to be alone with my thoughts," Franco adds, sounding so vulnerable that my heart aches.

"Of course." I'll do anything to make him feel better about today, the weekend in general, and everything else that might be occupying his head, preventing positive thoughts.

"Thank you," Franco says, leaning his forehead against mine. I feel like him and I, wrapped in one coat, is the start of something that comforts the struggles in our lives.

#fc43

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dullwaterlily · 27 days ago

Text

Every Little Thing - Oscar Pistri

A/N Comforting Oscar after the Australian GP

WORDS: 1350

The air around me is thick with tension, the crowd around the circuit roaring with excitement. The cars line up at the start and finish line, and the Australian Grand Prix is about to start. My heart is pounding, fingers fiddling with each other, while my eyes are firmly focused on the orange car with the 81 on it. Today is special, not only because it's Oscar's home race, but also because I'm attending a Grand Prix for the first time. I am more than nervous, even though I'm not even racing. Surrounded by Oscar's family, I watch the formation lap, needing to suppress a whine when the first driver is out before the race even starts.

When the lights finally go out and the next drivers end their race early, I flinch. Every time I see a car wiggle on track, struggling to keep traction, my heart sinks. This weather is a mess, and so is the race. Rookies and experienced drivers struggle to keep their cars on track, and at one point, I just wish for it to be over.

It's good for my pulse that McLaren manages to pull away, putting them in a safe distance from their rivals, until I remember that, even though Oscar and Lando are teammates, they are still rivals on track as well. Oscar's first slip-up makes his side of the garage groan, and my heart almost drops. But he manages to continue just fine, gets past Verstappen again, and everything seems to be going well for McLaren until it doesn't.

"Noo," Nicole and others around me yell when Oscar slips off track and ends up planted in the grass. Everyone thinks he's out of the race, but Oscar is already trying to reverse out of the patch and reach the asphalt again.

"Come on, Oscar," I whisper, hoping that he will somehow manage to get out of the grass. He steers carefully, and the crowd erupts with cheers when he brings his car back on track and makes his way to the garage to get his damaged tyres changed.

"At least he can continue," his mother mutters beside me not happy with the amount of struggle her son is having today and I'm sure she would have preferred for him to pick a different job. A less stressful one.

"He will be so disappointed," I sigh, knowing Oscar tends to be hard on himself, and I try to figure out what I can do to help him feel better.

The race continues, and while Lando easily manages to stay in front, Oscar makes his way through the rest of the grid, overtakes some of them, and ends up in the points. Something I'm proud of, while he's probably beating himself up already.

"He did good," Nicole decides, and I nod. At least we're proud of what Oscar did today. It might not be what he imagined his home race to be, but he did a great job recovering after slipping off the track.

"I know that he's the one thinking otherwise," I tell Nicole my thoughts, and she agrees, knowing how hard her son can be on himself. We part ways, knowing it will take some time until Oscar returns, but when he doesn't appear in his motorhome, even after the podium ceremony, I decide to search for him.

I walk around the rainy paddock, looking between the different hospitals, until I make my way back to the garage. Maybe he's with the team? I spot him almost immediately, even though he's kind of hiding himself away. He sits between a wall and the counters where his helmet is stored before a race. Oscar looks like he's deep in his thoughts, and I sigh softly, time to cheer him up.

"Hey," I mutter, approaching him slowly, waiting for him to look up and acknowledge that I'm there before I crouch to his height. Oscar almost immediately wraps his arms around me, pulling me against his chest, and I hug him tightly, trying to show him that I'm there, that everything is okay, and that he doesn't need to feel down. His grip around me tightens before a soft sigh leaves his lips.

"Sorry I didn't win or even get a podium for you," Oscar apologizes, and I pull my head back to be able to look at him. He avoids my gaze, but I will not let him do this. Not let himself shame his performance when there is nothing to be ashamed of.

"I'm still proud of you," I whisper, fingertips tracing his cheek until his eyes meet mine. There is nothing left of the excited glimmer he had the days before the race; now they are just empty.

"There's nothing to be proud of," Oscar huffs and lets his arms fall to his side, looking to the side, refusing to let me read his expressions.

"Don't say that!" I say sternly, and maybe my voice sounds a bit harsh because Oscar's eyes are back on me quickly. I rarely get loud, but I feel like Oscar must understand this.

"You fought back when everyone thought you were out of the race," I mutter, recalling the moment he was in the grass, people thinking he was another one out of the race, but then he managed to get back on track and put on a hell of a show.

"You swallowed it and raced your heart out to get points," I remind him that he did not do nothing but managed to do something others couldn't. He saved his car and even made it back into the points.

"This is not nothing," I end my little speech, and I can see a soft smile tugging at the corners of Oscar's lips.

"Why are you always right?" he asks, tilting his head slightly to the side, and I smile, knowing I managed to get him out of his downward spiral.

"To remind the little pessimist inside you to stop being so harsh on yourself," I tap my fingers against his heart, knowing that it is one thing he struggles with—being happy with what he's achieving and not listening to the pessimistic tugs in his heart and head.

"Every little thing about you makes me fall in love more and more," Oscar sighs, and my heart stumbles. Even though we've been in a relationship for a while now, we rarely talk about the deeper feelings between us.

"Osc," I mumble, hands finding his to intertwine them with each other.

"You know I love you, no matter how you're doing at a race?" I ask him, and Oscar's eyes widen in surprise.

"Wait, you love me?" he whispers, and I blush a little bit, realizing that I just said that out loud, but it's nothing but the truth.

"Of course, I love you," I laugh softly before adding, a little less seriously, "Going to a country full of spiders and other scary stuff isn't something I would do for anyone."

Oscar grins before locking his eyes straight with mine.

"I love you," he whispers, sharing it just between him and me, making the smile on my lips get wider.

"Love you too," I say again, and saying it for a second time makes it even more real. Oscar places one hand on my cheek, thumb brushing over it softly before he pulls me in for a kiss. It's not hectic, just a sweet touch to seal the words we just told each other, and I snuggle against his chest, not ready to face the world again.

"Maybe this day isn't the worst," Oscar says after a few minutes of holding me close, and I scoff.

"Charming," my voice is full of sarcasm, hinting that he's kind of ruining the sweet moment between us.

Oscar's chest rumbles with laughter. "You love it," he says, referring to the fact that his dry act is usually something I like about him.

"Can't deny that" I grin and snuggle back into his chest, knowing that those are the little things that make our relationship worth it.

#op81

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