#OSCAR PIASTRI

[landopoet]

dada's girl.

pairing lando x reader

synopsis an unexpected pregnancy, the journey through milestones and a race day with dada's girl.

warnings just some cute, long awaited norris family fluff <3

author’s note here's the dad!lando i promised heheh, hope you enjoy! special thanks to @clovermoters for always being there to proofread and help me get my creativity flowing with her ideas. highly recommend you check out her dad!lando (and other!!) stuff, it's as great as herself

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Lando never knew he wanted to be a dad until 3:05 pm on a random Tuesday in June. 

He was sitting on the couch, eating whatever you had started for lunch that day, before you started feeling ill and he had to take over. What you planned to be a delicious pasta dish for that day had turned into a burnt… something… on Lando’s plate. The guilt of ruining your food made Lando promise to buy you some takeout once you felt better.

You had gotten increasingly nauseous and felt weak nearly every day for the past two weeks, but Lando figured it was just the flu so he brought you tea and some chicken noodle soup (ordered in) every once in a while. 

“Lando!”

Your voice echoed down the halls from you two’s bedroom and he paused his show before jogging over, ready to get you the world. What he saw when he opened the door made his heart swell— you looked like a shell of yourself, all pale and weak underneath the sheets. 

“What do you need, angel?” He sat down next to you, gently placing the back of his hand on your forehead to check if you had a fever. 

You sat up, taking his hands in yours before taking a deep breath. “I need you to buy me something.” 

“Anything.” He nodded, paying attention. What he didn’t expect to hear was pregnancy test as soon as he answered you. “A what?” 

“Pregnancy test,” you repeated. “Just in case. I don’t want to scare you into anything, but we also can’t be unprepared if that’s the case.” 

“You mean if you’re pregnant,” he hums, completely lost in thought. “I, uhm, I gotta get a shirt on and I’ll go get you the, uh. The pregnancy test.”

Lando flailed around your bedroom like a headless chicken, looking for a shirt to pull over his naked chest, his hips already covered by black shorts. He tugged on a Quadrant hoodie and looked over to you, about to say something. You raised your eyebrows to encourage him, but he just turned around and ran out of your bedroom, closing the door behind himself. 

He’s not even sure how he got to the pharmacy. All he remembers is calling Max frantically from the car on his way home.

“Dude, are you okay? You look insane.” Lando’s best friend laughed through the screen. When he noticed his curly haired friend simply glancing over at his phone with worry, Max furrowed his brows. “Seriously, what’s going on?” 

“Isn’t it crazy how, like, someone peeing on a stick could potentially change your whole life? Like I know more goes into that and, like, stuff happens before the pee stick, but isn’t it insane to you?” Lando rambled. 

“Mate, pee stick?” Max looked confused. It’s only when Lando held up the little pink box that he finally understood. “Oh, you think she’s pregnant?” 

“No, she thinks she’s pregnant. I was watching Dexter and she just called for me, and then I’m-“ 

“Lando, breathe.” Max cuts him off. “It’s okay, you two are at a great place in your relationship right now to start planning for these things, if this turns out to be just a pregnancy scare.” 

“Are we? I mean, am I even ready to be a dad?” Lando continued freaking out, the car already parked at the garage. “I’ve never even thought about kids, and this is just-“ 

“How about you go inside, go be there for her, and if it turns out that you will be a dad, then you call me and freak out, okay?” 

Lando was about to bite off his whole finger with how aggressively he was nibbling at the skin around his nails. “Okay, I’ll talk to you later.” 

It took him another ten minutes before he got himself out of the car. He was dreading it. He wasn’t sure what you were thinking about it, either, so he didn’t know whether or not his lack of excitement was because he was scared for himself or for you. 

You knew he would never force you into anything you didn’t want to do, but motherhood? That’s not something Lando could imagine was easy to be in or get out of. Hell, he couldn’t imagine what the next nine months would be like for you. Especially with how he’s away for most of the time.

Maybe that’s what he’s most scared of.

He knows you’d be a great mum and he could be a good dad if he tried, but his career could interfere with this. 

Lando liked how you would sometimes pick to come and visit him during race weekends, especially at Silverstone or Monaco, but what if that’ll have to stop and he’ll only get to see you a few days every month? 

The fear of being a present but physically absent father shook him to his core. 

He was still scared and trying to stop biting his fingers as he watched you open the bathroom door. “So?” 

“We have to wait five minutes,” you told him before sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. He noticed your shoulders shake before you let out a quiet sob. “Sorry, I’m just-“ 

“Shh, it’s okay,” his arms instinctively wrapped around your body as he pulled you in, all the fear from his just gone the second you needed him. “I know you’re probably terrified.” 

“Yeah,” you sobbed into his shoulder. “I know I should be happy, but I’m so scared.” 

“You shouldn’t be anything other than you are, babe.” His hand came up to caress your head, like he knew you liked him to do. “I’m fucking scared to death right now, and I honestly feel better knowing you didn’t expect me to be happy.” 

“No, I know. This could fuck up your whole career,” you pulled away, wiping your eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, no, what?” Lando’s face changed from worried to confused. “Don’t even think like that and don’t apologise. It’s kind of both of our fault if we’re having a baby.” 

That’s when he saw you dart up from your seat and practically throw yourself towards the bathroom. He followed you closely, leaning on the doorframe to your en-suite bathroom, his bottom lip between his teeth as he anxiously nibbled at it. 

Lando couldn’t exactly read your expression. He couldn’t tell if you were looking at a positive or a negative, your face was just frozen in the expression you had when you looked at it. “So?” 

Your bottom lip quivered as you turned the little plastic stick towards him. 

“We’re having a baby?” He took it into his own hands, hastily, eyes darting between the two lines on the test and the nervous look on your face.

“We’re having a baby.” You nodded, a sad smile decorating your face as you welled up in tears again. 

Lando’s not sure what changed, but in that split second, he felt an overwhelming amount of joy pump through his system. His face erupted into a wide grin as he picked you up and spun you around. 

“We’re having a baby!” 

— november

The bedroom door opened to reveal your boyfriend with a small smirk on his face. 

“What have you bought this time?” 

He raised his arms in offense. “What do you mean? Why does me entering the bedroom have to mean that I bought something again?” 

“Because you have that look on your face. The one that tells me you bought something, and I won’t know if it's a new car or a tub of ice cream until you tell me.” You rubbed your little bump as a thought came to your head. “Oh, ice cream. Could you get some? Caramel, please.” 

“Yeah, sure, later. And you’re right,” Lando finally revealed what he was hiding behind his back. It was a small, turquoise, paper bag with a pacifier logo on it. “I did buy something.” 

You watched closely as he dumped the content of the bag onto your bed. He lifted up each article of clothing one by one, showing you what he picked out with a proud smile on his face. 

“Aren’t these cute?” He asked, glancing over at the laid out onesies, shirts and socks on the bed. “I got them for like four to six months, cause I heard they grow out of newborn clothes, like, immediately.” 

“That’s sweet, angel,” you smiled at him. “But we don’t even know the gender yet and you’ve already bought the baby their whole wardrobe.” 

“No, I know.” Lando nodded. “That’s why they’re all either green, yellow or papaya,” he said the last colour with a wiggle of his eyebrows, which made you roll your eyes and laugh. 

“You’re lame.” 

He leaned in to place a kiss on your forehead. “And you’re beautiful. What does baby want for dinner?” 

Lando developed a habit of speaking to you through the baby now. It was honestly adorable— he’ll wake up in the morning, a hand softly caressing your belly as he asks how did the baby sleep, which in truth is asking how you slept. It was lame, but cute. 

“Ice cream. Caramel.” You remind him. “And maybe some chicken with rice.” 

“Ew, are you trying to be healthy?” Lando grimaced. “That’s like what I eat for race weekends to be all fit and stuff. You need to eat nutritious and filling meals.” 

“Is chicken not nutritious or filling?” You crossed your arms, challenging him. 

He shrugged. “I don’t think that’s what the baby wants.” 

He knew your little tricks and habits. You would spend a little too much time on pregnancy blogs online, reading into their nonsense about how much or little you should eat, and what you should or shouldn’t eat. 

You had already had some doctor visits and Lando had made sure to ask if you needed any dietary changes, to which your doctor said no. So, Lando knew that you being a health-freak again meant you were in your head, and he wasn’t wrong.

When you finally dropped your shoulders in defeat, he smiled softly. “Yeah. Baby wants fries and nuggets.” 

“Coming right up,” he waltzed out of the bedroom, leaving you to fold all the new baby clothes and put them in the dresser Lando had built for them. It stood right next to the crib, of course. 

Lando was a little over prepared at a really early time, but it made you that much more excited to see him become a father. 

You know he’ll do great, even if he spends about half his money on baby stuff.

— august

It’s a few months after your daughter was born and you have yet to fully get the hang of parenthood. 

She’s amazing— little Maryn Grace Norris, a head full of hair and the chubbiest little cheeks known to man. Lando fell in love with her the second he saw her, his eyes welling up in tears when they laid her on his bare chest for the first time. 

And you fell in love with him all over again seeing how he carried Maryn in one arm and prepared a bottle with his other. He was tired, hair messy and a yawn left his system as often as a breath at this point, but still— fatherhood looked gorgeous on him. 

Lando thought the same about you. His heart grew twice the size when little Maryn was born, and he admired how you immediately knew what to do to make Maryn feel content.

Since it’s already been a few months since her birth, you two decided to let friends and family come visit. The first two people who wanted to see little Maryn were Max and Pietra. 

The pair came bearing many gifts, of course, and you had to put them all in the spare guest room since your bedroom had an abundance of baby products in it already. 

You and Pietra sit on the couch, watching how Maryn slept soundlessly in your arms. There’s distant chatter from the kitchen where Lando and Max are discussing racing stuff and preparing dinner, so you three decided to head to the living room and watch a show.

“She’s so tiny,” Pietra softly tucked her finger into Maryn’s tiny palm. “Is she always this calm?”

“Most of the time, yeah. She gets fussy at night, but Lando’s always up with her.” You look towards the kitchen, a small smile on your face as you watch your fiance stir the pan. He’s always shirtless, because Maryn immediately calms down when she feels the warmth of his skin— something she probably would’ve gotten from you if it was genetic— and his back muscles were on full display.

“What?” Pietra notices your gaze lingering for a while and once she sees who you’re looking at, she snorts. “Are you thinking about another one?”

“Another what?” You snap out of your tiny daydream and turn to her. “Baby? No, definitely not.”

“Mhm,” she gives you a knowing look and takes a sip of her wine. “I’ll give it a year or two before we have another copy of Lando running around.” 

“We’ll see,” you look down at the sleeping girl in your arms. She began to fuss a little, rubbing her nose with her fist and threatening to cry. 

In a few more minutes, Lando waltzes into the living room with a new glass of wine for Pietra and one for you. “Non-alcoholic,” he says, placing the glass down in front of you. “Now gimme my girl.”

You gently lift her up and hand her off to Lando, and of course, the second her cheek lays against his bare chest, she’s calm again. Pietra’s eyes widened. “You weren’t lying.”

“I know!” You pick up your glass and take a sip. “He’s like magic or something.”

As Lando walks away back towards the kitchen, he briefly turns his head towards the two of you with a proud smile. “She’s just a daddy’s girl.”

Both you and Pietra roll your eyes before continuing your conversation.

— march 

It’s the middle of the day and Lando was helping you get Maryn ready to go visit your parents.

The little one was now ten months old, babbling about things only she could understand, but Lando found it entertaining to have full-on conversations with her, as if she could respond in any intelligible way.

He was getting her dressed when Maryn started babbling again.

“Yeah? You like this dress, huh?” He smiles down at her. “I bet your grandma will love it, too.”

You were in the bathroom, curling your lashes when Lando suddenly called out for you. When you walked out into your bedroom, he was holding your daughter with a little glimmer in his eye. “She just said dada.”

“No way,” you gasp. When you’re close enough, Maryn reaches her arms towards you and you pick her up into your embrace. “Did you? Is my big girl about to start talking?”

She starts babbling again, poking at your face and playing with her fingers. In the midst of her babble, she says dada again, and your eyes immediately shoot to Lando. “I told you! I knew she’d be a dada’s girl.”

“That’s just unfair, I spend so much time with her!” You sigh in defeat before turning to your daughter. “C’mon, you got this. Say mama.”

Maryn just looks down at her fingers and how she’s grasping her own hands in an odd way. She babbles again, blowing raspberries as you lay her down on the changing table.

Lando walks up behind you and places a kiss on your shoulder, before harmoniously announcing, “dada’s girl,” as he walks away.

“I don’t know how you do it, Mar,” you look at your daughter again, a wide grin on her face as she continues talking to you in a language only her little mind can understand.

— june

Dulcet sounds of your favourite songs play through the kitchen as you prepare lunch for you and Maryn. Lando’s out to golf with Max, so you two decided to have a little girls day. 

She’s playing in the living room when you turn around to the pans for just a minute. You can hear the pitter patter on the floor and assume it’s her tiny palms as she crawled over.

Maryn was a traveller, she enjoyed playing in the dirt and sand, and crawling through your backyard to find rocks and flowers. And she was a huge daddy’s girl. To the point where she would start crying if she hadn’t seen Lando in more than an hour. 

Today, however, she didn’t seem to be too bothered by his absence.

When you turn around, you see her sitting on the floor in the spot between your kitchen and living room. “Are you coming to mama?” You kneel down and watch as Maryn begins crawling to you.

What you don’t expect to see is her stand up on two feet and steady herself, eyes focusing on you as she held herself up with a hand on the wall. She was determined to make her way toward your outstretched arms, and so she did.

Maryn took one step, and then another, and then three, four, five, until she slumped into your arms with a giggle. 

“Oh my god,” you kiss her head as you pick her up. “Your dada will be so happy.”

As if on cue, the front door opens and Maryn’s head whips to the source of Lando’s cheery voice. He steps into the kitchen with a grin on his face, “my two favourite girls,” he kisses your temple and takes Maryn into his arms. 

You decided to not tell him that she already took her first steps and instead let Lando experience them himself without expecting it. You’re not sure how long it’ll be till she decides to walk again, but you’re sure it’ll spark that same excitement in Lando’s chest as it did in yours. 

It took her a few more days, and a week before her first birthday, to take her second-first-steps.

Lando was sitting on the couch watching an old race of his, you were in the kitchen preparing a snack for your little girl while she sat and played on the playmat in the hall between you two. Lando would glance over at her every once in a while to keep an eye on what she was doing, but Maryn has always been a calm girl so there was no worry there.

“What’s on the menu today?” Lando asks when you set down the plate on your coffee table. He has a habit of stealing a few bites of Maryn’s snack once in a while, which eventually made her understand that he was also hungry when she was, so she’d immediately share her food when he’s in sight. 

You smack his hand away when he reaches over to take a cucumber off her platter. “Leave her food alone, she hasn’t even had a bite yet.” Lando sighs in defeat and looks at Maryn when you call her name. “Maryn, come have your snack.”

Lando’s heart skips a beat when the girl pushes herself up to stand on her legs. He softly touches your shoulder, “babe, look.”

Maryn lets go of the wall, her balance still off for the most part, but she reaches her arms towards you two and waddles a few steps over to the coffee table. Lando’s beaming and jumps out of his seat to pick Maryn up and spin her in the air. “My big girl can walk!”

You watch as Maryn erupts in giggles and Lando kisses her face, a warmth in your chest so big it could replace the sun.

— a year later

The paddock was buzzing with people and Maryn grew more and more anxious in Lando’s arms.

You walked beside them when Maryn tucked her head into the crook of Lando’s neck. “You okay?”

“Loud,” she mumbles, snuggling closer to hide her face from the sun. Maryn was now two and a half years old, and made her first paddock appearance today.

She had already met a few of the drivers and found them all incredibly funny, and all of them adored her. Maryn had grown into her personality— she’s curious, funny, caring and silly. She pulls funny faces when she notices someone’s sad, gives pieces of her food to you and Lando when she’s eating, makes jokes without even realising it and asks questions about everything. 

The three of you make your way to the McLaren garage and all the engineers beam at the sight of Maryn. 

“Alright, you two can stay right here while I go get ready,” Lando pressed a quick kiss to your lips and softly pinched Maryn’s cheek before making his way to where he needed to be. 

Maryn watched as her dad walked away and gently placed her head on your shoulder. “Where is dada?”

“He has to change into his special clothes for the car, remember?” You look down at the curly-haired blonde girl and she nods an answer to your question. “He’ll be back in a bit, don’t worry.”

The little girl just huffs a sigh and takes a look around the garage from where she’s sat on your lap. She can see all the aunts and uncles who work with her dad, noticing how all of them are dressed in the same colour as her— a small LN4 shirt sitting baggy on her torso. Maryn smiles to herself, believing that they are all matching her. 

“Mum?” Maryn glances up at you. You smooth a hand over her curls, knowing that whenever she says your name like that— soft, a little hesitant— she’s about to ask something important.

“Yes, love?”

“Why does dada have to go in the car?” she asks, blinking up at you with those green, wondering eyes that always seem to look right through to your heart.

“It’s his job,” you remind her, “he has to go fast and win the race. It’s kind of like a game.”

She rests her head against your chest, processing, as her tiny fingers play with the hem of her shirt. Then, in the smallest and most sweet voice: “Can I go fast too?”

You laugh softly, wrapping your arms around her, softly tickling her sides. “Maybe one day, but for now you get to sit with mama and watch daddy race.” Maryn giggles at that, leaning into your arms as she tries to wriggle out of your hold. 

One of the engineers comes by and hands her a tiny headset, custom-made just for her. She squeals when she recognizes it— she’s seen Lando wear one just like that. “Look, mum! I match again.”

“You do!” You grin a smile as wide as your daughter and softly adjust the headset to sit more snugly. “You look just like your dad.”

As if summoned by the sentiment, Lando appeared back in the garage, now clad in his orange race suit. Maryn spots him and immediately sits up, bouncing a little in your lap. “Dada!” She waves with both arms and Lando makes his way over. 

He picks her up from your lap with a soft peck to her forehead. “There’s my little racer,” he beams. “Ready to see me go fast?’

Maryn nods, enthusiastically. “Mhm! But, be careful, okay?” She curls into Landos’ embrace, awkwardly laying her head against his chest. 

“Of course, baby,” he softly caresses her back in an attempt to calm her. “I promise only safe speeds today, okay?”

You watch the two of them, softly smiling as the paddock noise blurs in the background. When one of the engineers informs Lando that he has to go, the curly-haired racer hands Maryn off to you and places a kiss on each head of his girls. 

“Go win this,” you tell Lando, smiling as he prepares to walk away. Maryn raises her arms in support, “go win, dada!”

“For my girls,” he nods, flashing the two of you a smile before tugging on his balaclava and disappearing further into the garage. 

Soon after, the race is about to begin and the garage springs to life—monitors flicker with telemetry, voices crackle through the headsets and engines roar as the cars exit the pitlane. You pull Maryn closer on your lap and adjust the volume on her headset, making sure it’s just low enough not to startle her, but high enough to hear her dada’s voice filter through. 

Her big, green eyes track every movement on the screens—all the colourful cars are displayed but she’s only looking for orange. When a McLaren appears on the screen, she narrows her vision to notice the helmet. She knows that uncle Oscar has a blue one, and her dada’s got a fleuro green. 

Excitement erupts in her whole body when she notices the green helmet, “there! That’s dada!” She squeals with such awe, as if she can’t believe that the superhero on the screen is the same man who tucks her into bed and sneaks her cookies when you’re not looking. 

You brush some curls away from her forehead and plant a soft, but proud, kiss on it. “Yep, that’s him. Look at him go.” 

For the next laps, Maryn sits still, as if her movement could, in any way, make a difference in the race. She thought that if she sat still, her dada could focus and win, so she did just that. In all truth, she was completely captivated. Maryn didn’t understand a thing about racing just yet, but she knew enough to know that when the aunties and uncles in orange start leaning forward, narrowing their eyes at the screen, her dada’s doing something incredible. 

And he was. 

Lando gains a position, going from p4 to p3. A cheer breaks out in the garage and Maryn shrieks with joy, mirroring the smiles on everyone's faces. 

“Did he win, mum?” she asks, looking up at you with curious eyes. 

“Not yet, love, but he’s getting there.” 

A few more laps pass and she begins to fidget, tired. You lay her against your chest and her thumb slips into her mouth like it does when she’s sleepy— a habit she formed soon after you took pacifiers away. Still, despite the noise of the garage lulling her to sleep, Maryn’s little eyes stay glued to the screen, watching Lando in quiet admiration. 

Then, in the last few laps, when Lando’s another position ahead and fighting for pole, the energy shifts. The entire garage sits still— hopeful, waiting. Maryn’s eyes flutter shut, no longer fighting the sleep as your eyes stay focused and your heart pounds, watching as the gap between Lando and the car ahead shrinks corner to corner. 

“Come on, Lan,” you whisper under your breath as you subconsciously caress the back of Maryn’s head. 

And on the very last lap— through a risky overtake and a perfectly timed sector— he does it. He gains the position and lands himself in first place. 

Maryn jolts awake at the noise of engineers cheering around her, and she quickly glances to the screen. “Mum, he won!” She grins widely, still sleepy but happy to be included once you tightly squeeze her into a hug. 

“He did!” You laugh, blinking away a tear or two. 

The cooldown lap passes in a blur of shared hugs and smiles, and Lando’s voice plays in the headsets, light and breathless. “This one’s for the two loves of my life waiting for me. I love you.” 

You feel your daughter sigh happily in your arms, waiting patiently for when her dad joins you two. Once the team helps him out of the car, Lando makes his way back to the garage, flushed and sweaty, but beaming. He barely gets his helmet off when Maryn starts running in your lap, her feet not even touching the ground yet. 

She wriggles out of your lap and sprints across the floor, arms raised for her dad to pick her up. Lando catches her mid jump, lifting her high in the air and twirling the two of them around before bringing her close. 

“You went so fast!” She beams. “And you were so brave!”

“I had to be,” he mirrors the same smile that’s on her face. “You were watching.” 

You join them when Lando walks over to you, heart full and eyes welled with happy tears. Lando leans in to kiss you and you meet him halfway. 

“She didn’t take her eyes off of you the whole time,” you murmur against his lips. 

“She's just like you, then.” He gives you a cheeky grin. You roll your eyes but still wrap an arm around his waist, hugging the two most important people in your life, surrounded by victory and love. 

Maryn tucks her head into the nape of Lando’s neck, cheek pressed against his race suit as she softly mutters, “I want to be fast, too. Just like you.” 

“You will be, princess. One day.” 

— 

It’s late by the time you get home. 

Your little girl is barefoot the second she gets through the door, padding down the hall to her bedroom, in search of her stuffie and blanket. You and Lando follow more slowly, shoes off, bags dumped at the door, the post-race adrenaline now wearing off, but still faintly buzzing in your limbs. 

Lando yawns as he drops down to the couch, one arm draped over the backrest as the other lays across his belly. “I think I aged six years today.” 

“You say that after every race,” you laugh, making your way to the kitchen. You grab a glass of water and lean your back against the counter, watching as he runs a tired hand down his face. 

Maryn returns with her blanket trailing behind her on the floor and a half-eaten bag of popcorn she must’ve hid somewhere in her bedroom. “Movie time,” she declares and plops herself down next to her dad like she owns the house. At this point, she kind of does. 

Lando raises a brow at you, helping her pull the blanket over her legs. “You approve of this?” 

“She’s almost three. She doesn’t ask for approval.” 

Maryn hums contently as she rests against Lando in her usual manner— one arm draped across his stomach, cheek pressed against his chest. “You won today.”

Lando kisses the top of her head. “That’s right. And who cheered the loudest?” 

“Me,” she mumbles through her best battle against sleep. 

You cross the room and join them, tucking your legs beneath yourself as you sit next to the two of them. None of you say anything for a while, letting the TV play a replay of the race on low volume as you closely observe every move. Maryn eventually stills completely, asleep, face soft and peaceful. 

Lando’s still absentmindedly playing with the ends of her curls when he says, “I used to think winning was the best part of this,” he nudges his chin at the TV. 

“And now?” You raise a curious brow. 

“Now it’s this,” he leans his head back against the couch, eyes half-lidded as exhaustion tugs at his features. “Coming home to you two. Even when there’s popcorn crumbs all over me and my back hurts.”

You shake your head with a laugh, softly nudging his thigh with your foot. “You’re getting soft, y’know.” 

“Probably am.” He looks at you— tired but content—and adds, “still wouldn’t change a thing.”

[theothots]

ojp at a dinner with a bunch of men bigger than him kicking his feet giggling cause he knows he’s- CRASH 💥 SIRENS 🚨 WHO SAID THAT

[maxtermind]

telling f1 boyfriend that you’re pregnant

FINDING OUT THAT YOU ARE PREGNANT

( texts masterlist \ main masterlist \ let’s talk )

★ : feat :: max verstappen, lewis hamilton, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri ★ : genre :: every couple got a happy ending appropriate to them <3 (i fought hard to not make this angst which is the direction these were taking lol)

©maxtermind // do not copy, rewrite or translate any of my work on any platforms.

★ : a/n :: ignore the typos, comments, thoughts and reblogs are appreciated!

[eightyonefour]

more of oscar at cannes lions festival!

[p1girlfriend]

you’re awkward with PDA and physical affection – f1 grid reactions ── .✦

lando norris ── .✦

he thinks it’s adorable grabs your hand in public just to watch you short-circuit

“you can hold it back if you want. i’m not letting go though.” hugs you from behind constantly. gets you used to it slowly — one pinky touch at a time and every time you finally give in and hug him back? he whispers “progress.”

oscar piastri ── .✦

he notices it instantly — but he’s patient doesn’t force it, just offers the affection when you awkwardly pat his shoulder after a kiss he goes

“…so romantic. i’m swooning.” softly teases you, but reassures you every time “you don’t have to be good at it. i’m just happy you want to try.”

charles leclerc ── .✦

took it personally for 0.5 seconds

“do you not like holding hands?” “…are my hands sweaty??” but once he gets it, he adjusts. completely. kisses the top of your head instead presses his knee against yours gives you micro touches you barely notice until you realize how comforted you feel “i don’t need you to be touchy. i just need you near.”

lewis hamilton ── .✦

a king of reading your energy he knows you want to be close — just doesn’t rush you whispers things like:

“can I touch you?” or “do you want to hold my hand, or just walk next to me?” lets you initiate 100% of the time but when you do? his whole face lights up like “thank you for letting me in.”

carlos sainz ── .✦

he’s so touchy — and you’re so not he tries to wrap an arm around you and you do the awkward lean

“you’re so stiff. are you okay??” teases you nonstop but never mean calls you “mi cactus” (sharp and avoidant) lowkey melts every time you get comfortable enough to kiss his cheek on your own

daniel ricciardo ── .✦

oh he’s obsessed. wraps you up in a hug and holds you hostage while you panic

“look at her! she doesn’t know where her arms go!!” laughs so hard and kisses your face anyway but also… respects your space when you need it and whispers “i’ll wait forever if it means i still get your awkward little hand pats.”

gabriel bortoleto ── .✦

doesn’t push at all leans into your pace you accidentally touch his arm once and he goes

“tô ganhando.” (“I’m winning.”) treats every little touch from you like it’s a precious gift secretly keeps count of how many times you reach for him

franco colapinto ── .✦

he’s affectionate but lowkey likes to sit near you and brush your hand with his fingers

“you don’t have to do anything. i’m good like this.” but when you do finally hug him back fully, tightly, on your own? he stares at you like you just told him you love him for the first time

max verstappen ── .✦

he notices, doesn’t comment but adjusts immediately his affection becomes quiet and indirect — passing things to you, standing close, gentle hand at your back but the first time you gently wrap your arms around him at home? he leans into your chest and whispers

“i knew you’d get there. worth the wait.”

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[nooscar2]

i love when this little guy posts

[mixedstyles]

Has anyone ever pointed out that Isack Hadjar was an Oscar Piastri fanboy back in 2019??? Man was liking all the photos.

[papayasector]

cute as hell

what the hell.

[paddockclub]

oscar piastri the man you are.

[ccupcakqs]

— Miss America & Mr. Melbourne ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: not proof read, tooth rotting fluff, oscar's a huge softie pairing: oscar piastri x first daughter!reader a/n: from a request, idk not my best fic in my opinion

it starts with a mistake.

not the kind that causes chaos, or lands you on the front page of every newspaper in the country. just a soft, silly kind of mistake. the kind that might make the secret service frown, but won’t trigger a full lockdown.

it’s miami. it’s hot. it’s loud. it’s crowded in that way that makes your security team nervous, and you restless.

it’s also the first time in six months that you’ve managed to convince your father’s chief of staff that you don’t need a formal schedule for the weekend. technically, you’re attending the grand prix in an “informal diplomatic capacity,” which just means you’re allowed to smile for cameras but not say anything interesting.

so instead of sitting in a hospitality suite with senators and ceos, you wander.

in sneakers. in sunglasses. in a bucket hat you stole from one of the interns.

you ditch your detail for a little while — not recklessly. just enough to breathe. they know where you are, roughly. you’re not reckless. just tired of being watched.

somewhere around turn nine, you find a wall of orange — and duck behind it.

it’s just a canvas divider, separating the mclaren hospitality area from the paddock walkway. you’re not supposed to be here. no one says anything, but you know the rules.

still, it’s cooler in the shade. and quieter.

until someone steps around the corner.

he’s tall. not imposing. just… tall. clean lines. race suit unzipped and tied around his waist. dark hair damp from his helmet. and eyes — bright, amused, gold-flecked — that land on you like he already knows something you don’t.

he blinks. you blink.

"this is… definitely not the red bull lounge," you say, deadpan.

he huffs a laugh. “no, not quite.”

and that’s the moment it begins.

not with fireworks. not with recognition. just with a stranger behind a curtain, on a hot saturday in miami, looking at you like you’re not the president’s daughter — just a girl.

and for the first time in a long while, you feel like one.

he doesn’t ask who you are.

maybe he doesn’t know. or maybe he does, but decides not to make it weird. either way, you’re grateful.

you lean your shoulder against the canvas divider, squinting at the pit lane past his elbow.

“you’re oscar,” you say. not a question.

his lips twitch. “you’re not supposed to be here.”

“neither are you,” you counter, a smile tugging at your mouth.

“i drive here.”

“i walked.”

he raises a brow, like he knows that isn’t the full story, but doesn’t press. instead, he glances over his shoulder, makes sure no one’s listening, and lowers his voice just enough to feel like a secret.

“you’re supposed to be in the ferrari suite.”

“that obvious?”

he shrugs. “you’re wearing a mclaren hat.”

you blink. reach up. realize you grabbed the wrong one from the hospitality desk.

“shit.”

he laughs. it’s quiet, but genuine.

you’re not sure why you’re still standing there, tucked behind a canvas wall with him. you could leave. your phone is buzzing with unanswered texts from your detail. someone probably wants to escort you back to a Very Important Room with air conditioning and filtered water.

but you don’t move.

because he’s not asking for anything. he’s not telling you to smile. not pretending to be impressed. just standing there, easy in the heat, looking at you like you're not a headline or a talking point.

“want a drink?” he asks.

you hesitate. “are you offering because you’re polite, or because you actually want me to say yes?”

he tilts his head. “a little of both.”

you follow him without thinking.

the mclaren motorhome is busy, but not overwhelming. people nod as you pass. no one stops you. oscar slips a staff badge lanyard over your neck without comment.

you sit in a shaded lounge while he brings you two cold cans of something citrusy and sparkling.

“thank you,” you say.

“you’re welcome,” he says. “you looked like you needed a moment.”

you do. more than a moment, really.

you sip your drink, letting the coldness ground you. he sits beside you, not too close, elbows on his knees, looking out at the crowd beyond the glass.

it’s the first time in weeks you haven’t felt like you’re on display.

and somehow, it’s oscar piastri — quiet, sharp-eyed, soft-voiced oscar — who gives that to you.

you watch him from the corner of your eye.

he doesn’t fill the silence. doesn’t try to entertain you. just exists, calm and steady, like he doesn’t mind sharing this exact moment with you.

you think, maybe he’s like this on track too. focused. unshakable. maybe you want to stay a little longer.

you’re not sure how long you sit there with him.

five minutes. maybe twenty. long enough for the tension in your shoulders to dissolve, for your pulse to stop ticking like a countdown.

no one interrupts.

when you finally glance at your phone, there are a few texts. nothing urgent. nothing on fire.

he notices. not nosy, just observant.

“should i be worried the cia is about to drag you out of here?” he asks.

you huff a soft laugh. “wrong agency. but yes, probably.”

“do i have to pretend i didn’t see you?”

“only if i pretend i didn’t see you either.”

he smiles, and it’s boyish. not for show. not political. just… real.

you haven’t seen many real smiles lately.

outside, the sun shifts. the sky softens from harsh afternoon to gold-tinted early evening. track activity slows. the noise pulls back.

you let your head fall gently against the wall behind you, the cold can still sweating in your palm.

“do you like it?” you ask.

he looks over. “f1?”

you nod.

he considers it.

“i love it,” he says, simple and certain. “but i don’t always like it.”

you understand that.

it’s how you feel about politics. about the white house. about your title. a thing that shaped your life but doesn’t always feel like it belongs to you.

he doesn’t explain the difference. and you don’t ask. it’s enough that the words exist between you.

you watch his hand flex on the rim of his can. long fingers. calm rhythm. thoughtful, the way people are when they don’t speak just to fill the air.

you glance back at the track.

“can i ask you something?”

he nods.

“do you get scared? before races?”

he doesn’t flinch.

“sometimes,” he says. “but mostly i get quiet.”

“quiet?”

“yeah.” he leans back a little, turns his head toward you. “like everything goes still right before i go.”

you swallow. that feels familiar too.

“does it help?”

he shrugs. “it makes me honest. like i know what i want. and what matters.”

you look at him a second longer than you probably should.

you think he’s telling you something he doesn’t say often.

you think you’ll remember it later, when things feel too big.

he finishes his drink, tosses the empty can into a nearby bin, and stands slowly.

“i should go debrief,” he says. “and you… probably have to go be very important again.”

you nod, lips tugging up. “i guess i do.”

he reaches down, then pauses.

“is it okay if i—?”

you hand him the lanyard before he finishes the sentence.

he slips it off your neck gently. doesn’t brush your skin. doesn’t need to.

“thanks for not calling security,” you say lightly.

“thanks for hiding in the right curtain.”

you both linger.

then he says it — casually, like it doesn’t weigh anything:

“see you around?”

you say yes, even if you don’t know if you will.

but you hope you do.

you get escorted back to your suite twenty minutes later.

your detail doesn’t scold you. they’re used to your disappearing acts by now — quiet, timed, harmless escapes that never last longer than an hour. still, you can feel them tracking every step. the weight of duty presses in again like velvet ropes around your ribs.

you change. you debrief. you shake hands with people who pronounce your name like it’s a title instead of a person. one man tells you you’ll make an excellent diplomat someday. you smile. it doesn’t feel like a compliment.

your mind drifts back to the canvas curtain. to citrus sparkling water and the sound of his voice. to the way he didn’t try to impress you, and somehow impressed you more because of it.

the rest of the night moves on. more press. more photos. more smiles. you’re good at all of it. you always have been.

but every once in a while, you catch yourself turning toward the crowd, wondering if you’ll see a familiar face.

you don’t.

not that night.

the next time you see oscar, it’s accidental.

or maybe it isn’t.

you’re in monaco, two weeks later, at a glittering reception hosted by someone who owns three yachts and two national banks. you’re wearing pale silk and borrowed diamonds. your name is on the guest list twice — once as your father’s daughter, and once as an independent delegate for an international youth diplomacy council.

the latter sounds more impressive, but everyone here only cares about the former.

you’re standing by a high window, watching the lights skim across the harbor, when someone steps up beside you with a glass of something golden and fizzing.

he offers it to you without looking. you take it without hesitation.

“you clean up well,” you say.

he smiles at the reflection in the window. “so do you.”

his voice is just the same — low and unhurried, like nothing about this world startles him. it steadies something in you.

“do you do this often?” you ask. “stumble into galas like a romcom lead?”

“only when the girl behind the curtain might be there.”

your chest tightens. soft. stunned.

you look up at him fully now.

he’s in a tux. sharp black lapels. no tie. hair a little unruly, like he hasn’t been able to stop running his hand through it. he looks like every girl’s favorite daydream and none of it seems to reach his head.

“you remembered me,” you say, mostly to yourself.

he turns toward you slightly. “i haven’t forgotten anything.”

the room spins slowly. laughter clinks through crystal. cameras flash across the marble hall behind you. and somehow, it’s all quiet.

quiet like he said. quiet like the moments before the lights go out and the race begins.

you don’t know how long you stand there, just looking at each other, framed by crystal and gold and candlelight.

he watches you like he did in miami — calm, certain, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, beside you. and maybe it’s the champagne or the dress or the way the evening feels stretched like a ribbon between something old and something new, but you lean in.

not much.

just enough to ask the question without words.

he answers without hesitation.

his hand finds your waist. your palm finds his collar. his mouth finds yours, slow and warm and sure.

it starts soft.

curious. familiar in a way that surprises you both. the kind of kiss that makes your stomach drop and your lungs forget what they’re supposed to do. you breathe into it like you’ve been holding your breath for weeks — since miami, since the curtain, since that first stolen moment in the middle of a crowd.

and then it deepens.

his hand curls tighter against your side, pulling you closer. your fingers slide into his hair, tilting his face toward you like instinct. your lips part. he follows. and suddenly it’s a kiss that says i found you again. i remembered. i wanted to.

he tastes like champagne and adrenaline. like gold light and something just a little dangerous beneath the stillness.

it doesn’t feel careful. not anymore. it feels wanted.

his mouth moves against yours, slow but intent, and your back presses against the tall glass window behind you. you think you hear him exhale — shaky, barely-there — and it makes you want to pull him even closer.

he kisses like he’s been waiting.

you kiss like you finally let go.

your heart drums wild in your chest, but nothing about this feels uncertain. the world outside might be watching. people might be whispering. the press might have opinions and headlines already drafted.

but none of that reaches here.

not where his hand slips up, thumb brushing your jaw, not where his lips linger when the kiss breaks, just barely.

you stay close, foreheads pressed, breathing like you’ve both just crossed a finish line you didn’t know existed.

he’s the first to speak.

his voice is low. rougher than before.

“i think i’m in trouble.”

you smile, breathless. “me too.”

he’s still close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. the glittering lights of the gala blur behind his eyes, but the moment feels sharp, real, like you’re both finally breathing after holding it in for too long.

“so,” he says, voice a little rough, “how do we not mess this up?”

you laugh softly, a breathy sound that feels like relief. “i don’t think we have a choice but to try.”

he grins, that same boyish smile that makes the world seem less heavy for a minute.

you shift slightly, the silk of your dress whispering against the marble floor, and suddenly the noise of the party fades. there are conversations and music, but they feel distant — like they’re happening underwater, muffled and far away.

“you make it easy,” you say quietly.

“you make it worth it.”

there’s a pause, warm and full. his fingers trace the small of your back, steady and sure.

you want to believe him. want to believe this isn’t just a stolen moment but something that could stretch beyond the track and the spotlight and the expectations.

but there’s still the world waiting outside.

“we should probably get out of here before someone notices,” you whisper, not quite ready to pull away.

he nods, eyes darkening just a little. “yeah.”

you don’t move yet. you just let your fingers lace with his.

there’s a soft kind of promise in the way your hands fit together, and for once it’s not about duty or diplomacy. it’s just two people — no titles, no cameras, no racing or politics — just the quiet hope of what might come next.

you slip out of the gala through a side door, the warm mediterranean air wrapping around you like a blanket. the party’s hum fades behind you, replaced by the distant lapping of waves against the harbor.

oscar keeps his hand gently on your back as you navigate the narrow cobblestone streets. neither of you says much. words feel unnecessary. the night is full of quiet possibility, the kind that lives in stolen moments away from cameras and expectations.

you find a bench tucked under an olive tree. the scent of salt and jasmine hangs heavy in the air.

he sits close, close enough that you can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. the kind of closeness that doesn’t rush, doesn’t demand — just is.

“what’s your favorite part of all this?” you ask.

“the quiet,” he says without hesitation. “the seconds when everything slows down. when it’s just me and the car and the track. no noise, no distractions.”

you nod, thinking about your own favorite quiet moments — the rare times you slip away from the spotlight, the press, your security detail. the rare seconds where you can breathe without performance.

“do you think we can find our quiet?” you whisper.

he turns to you, eyes softening. “i think we have to.”

the world might be loud. complicated. relentless.

but maybe here, now, it can be different.

you lean into him, the gentle press of your forehead against his the softest kind of promise.

for now, that’s enough.

the next days blur into a whirlwind of noise and schedules, but you carry that night with you like a secret warmth beneath your skin.

at the paddock, the world spins faster. flashes, interviews, racing strategy — all the things that pull at you in different directions.

oscar’s there, always present but never intrusive. a steady presence in a storm of chaos.

you find small ways to steal moments. a quick smile across the garage. a touch on the small of your back when no one’s looking. whispered jokes in hallways bustling with engineers and team principals.

there’s an unspoken understanding growing between you. one that doesn’t need words because it’s written in glances and quiet proximity.

during one race weekend, after a long day in the heat, you find yourself sitting beside him on the steps of the hospitality area, your legs stretched out, racing shoes dusty.

“you look tired,” he says softly.

“you don’t?” you ask, leaning your head on his shoulder.

he shrugs. “race day is always draining. but moments like this help.”

you close your eyes, savoring the rare stillness.

“promise me something?” you say after a while.

“anything.”

“that no matter what happens out there on track… or off it… we’ll keep this. this quiet space we’ve found.”

he smiles against your hair. “promise.”

and in that promise, you find a quiet kind of strength.

days fold into nights, and every quiet moment you share with oscar feels like a small rebellion against the chaos surrounding you.

one evening, after dinner, the paddock is already dark and humming with the distant noise of late-night team meetings.

you walk together toward the motorhome, the cool air brushing past you like a whisper.

oscar’s hand finds yours, fingers curling around yours gently. you don’t pull away.

“sometimes,” he says softly, “i wish this part wasn’t so complicated. that we could just be two people — no expectations, no headlines.”

you squeeze his hand, the same thought crossing your mind.

“me too,” you whisper.

he stops walking, turns to you, and the glow of the lights paints his face in soft gold.

“but maybe the best parts are the ones we fight for.”

you nod, leaning into him. it feels like home.

he kisses your temple, warm and steady, a silent promise that no matter what, you’re not alone.

and for a moment, the world outside fades to nothing but the two of you.

you stay wrapped in each other’s arms for a long moment, the weight of the world outside forgotten, if only for a little while.

“we’ll figure it out,” you say softly.

“together,” he agrees.

the paddock buzzes faintly around you, but inside this bubble, there’s nothing but steady heartbeats and slow breaths.

he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze gentle and sure.

“thank you for taking the risk. for sneaking behind the curtain.”

you smile. “thank you for letting me.”

there’s a promise in the silence between you — not just for now, but for everything that’s to come.

and as the night stretches on, you know this is just the beginning.

you never expected the quiet to feel so loud.

after the grand gala in monaco, after the nights spent walking narrow streets and stealing moments away from cameras, you find yourself craving the silence between the chaos more than anything else.

oscar is always there, steady and calm, like the eye of a storm you never want to leave.

today, you meet at a small café tucked away from the bustle of the paddock. the smell of fresh espresso and warm pastries fills the air.

you sit opposite each other, the sunlight catching the gold flecks in his eyes.

“you ever get tired of all this?” you ask, gesturing vaguely to the busy paddock around you.

he shrugs. “sometimes. but then i remember why i do it. why every race matters.”

you nod, understanding too well the weight of expectations.

“it’s hard,” you say softly. “to be yourself when everyone’s watching.”

he smiles, a little sad but honest. “you make it easier.”

you laugh quietly. “good. because i’m not going anywhere.”

he reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours.

“me neither.”

and in that simple touch, you find a world of promise.

the weekend races blur into a rhythm you almost get used to — the early mornings, the roar of engines, the intense focus before each qualifying lap.

oscar is always nearby. sometimes it’s just a glance, other times a quick squeeze of your hand. small gestures that say more than words ever could.

one afternoon, you find him alone by the pit wall, watching the sunset turn the sky a shade of burnt orange.

you sit beside him, legs dangling over the edge.

“what are you thinking about?” you ask softly.

he shrugs. “how lucky i am to have found this — found you.”

you smile, heart fluttering.

“you’re the only thing that feels real.”

he turns to you, eyes shining.

“same here.”

the world feels quieter then, like it’s folding around you both.

and for once, the noise of the season can wait.

after the race, the paddock starts to empty, teams packing up equipment, engineers exchanging tired smiles.

you and oscar find a quiet corner near the garage. the air is cool now, touched with the faint scent of fuel and rubber.

he leans back against a tire stack, pulling you close by the waist.

“race days are intense,” he murmurs, voice low.

“but moments like this make it all worth it,” you reply, resting your head on his shoulder.

he kisses your hair softly, a silent thank you for being there, for understanding.

you both stay like that for a while, savoring the calm after the storm.

no words are needed. just shared breath and steady heartbeats.

and the quiet promise that this is only the beginning.

days stretch on, the pace relentless, but the little moments you share become your anchor.

one evening, after a long day of interviews and media appearances, oscar finds you alone on a balcony overlooking the circuit.

the sky is painted in soft pinks and purples.

he slips his hand into yours without asking.

“sometimes,” he says, “i forget how lucky i am.”

you squeeze his fingers gently. “me too.”

you lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

the world fades away — no cameras, no schedules, just the two of you in the quiet.

he turns to kiss your temple, slow and sure, a reminder that no matter how loud life gets, you always have this.

you and oscar stand side by side as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of gold and lavender.

he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“this,” he whispers, “is what i want to remember. not the races, not the pressure — just us.”

you smile, heart full.

“me too.”

the air hums softly around you, the world slowing down just enough to hold this moment.

you press your cheek to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

in the silence, there’s a promise — of more stolen moments, of soft laughter, of love growing quietly but fiercely.

and as the stars begin to twinkle overhead, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

as you stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms under the fading sky, everything feels quiet and right.

the chaos of the world — the cameras, the expectations, the endless noise — fades to a whisper.

in this moment, there is only you and oscar.

two people who found each other behind the curtains, in the quiet spaces, in the stolen moments.

and maybe that’s all you really need.

because love, soft and steady, is its own kind of victory.

[gryjpiastri]

Occupation

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Interlude

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 — Tell a friend to tell a friend… she’s backkkkkk. P.S. We’ll pick up Oscar, Harper and baby Clem in the next chapter which will begin our F2 era (forgive me for skipping F3, but we will revisit that era in the future!)

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

They started to call it home before they even had the keys.

It was the kind of flat you only ever saw in a glossy magazine or on a Netflix teen drama — all clean lines and warm wood, soft lighting that dimmed with a voice command, floor-to-ceiling windows that turned the city skyline into wallpaper. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a concierge who knew them by name, underground parking, and a leafy park nearby with a duck pond.

It was somewhere in Zone 2 — close enough to the centre for Harper to feel like part of something, far enough out for Oscar to breathe. Within easy driving distance of Silverstone, and surrounded by three coffee shops that all knew Harper's name and her usual: an oat flat white, extra hot, one sugar. Coffee had become a staple since becoming a mum. It was either that or total collapse.

They signed the lease two weeks before Clem's second birthday. Moved in one week after. Harper carried the baby through the door on her hip, while Oscar fumbled with the keys and kept asking, "Are we really doing this?" as though the furniture wouldn't show up in four hours and make it permanent.

Oscar had taken a year out of racing after Clementine was born.

It wasn't a planned decision, and it wasn't one many people understood — least of all the people who'd watched him dominate junior karting and expected him to rise like smoke through the open-wheel ranks. But he'd missed too much school. Missed too many nights, too many hours of Harper crying or trying to make Clementine latch, or just needing someone to keep her upright. And when he was asked — really asked — Are you sure you're not throwing it all away? his answer was always simple.

"She's my baby. Of course I'm sure."

So while others trained and raced and pushed for attention, Oscar Piastri vanished. No interviews, no paddock appearances. Just him, and Harper, and a squishy pink newborn who made the ceiling light look like a disco every time she waved her hands.

They stayed at Haileybury, still just fifteen, turning sixteen. They re-sat their missed GCSEs and passed on the second try. Clementine learned to crawl in the boys' dorm common room. She took her first steps in the school library.

Their friends — Jane and Sam and Matt and Alfie and the rest of that oddball, fiercely loyal circle — became her first family. Clementine had more teenaged godparents than anyone could count. She learned to walk holding onto Oscar's physics notes. She learned to talk sitting in Harper's lap as she typed HTML.

Then came the offer — again. F3. A team ready to take him as soon as he was ready to return. It had been a quiet year in the eyes of the motorsport world — but Oscar came back different. Sharper. More grounded. And far more terrifying behind the wheel.

So they moved into the London flat. Nicole helped decorate — soft colours, baby gates, a kitchen with pale blue cabinets and an American fridge.

Mark handled the other side of Oscar's life. The logistics. Contract offers that just kept getting longer.

Clementine's nursery was a vision board of calm: birchwood cot, pastel cloud decals, a plush rug like walking on cake.

Harper coded the baby monitor app herself — it had the ability to learn and distinguish between Clemmy's cries.

Oscar installed blackout blinds and built a mini bookshelf filled with picture books in three different languages.

They weren't struggling — not the way people expected seventeen-year-old parents to be. Not financially, anyway.

But money never softened the sharp edges of responsibility.

There were still nights where Clementine cried for hours and Harper paced in circles, whispering, 'You're okay, you're okay,' like a mantra she needed to believe herself. There were still moments where Oscar stared at the calendar on the fridge — race dates, interview days, booster shot appointments — and felt panic coil in his chest.

Still, they chose it. Every day. And every day it got a little easier.

In the two years after Clementine was born, the world became a blur of trackside hotel rooms and baby bottles tucked into designer handbags. Harper and Clem travelled with Oscar more often than not — Japan, Italy, Austria, France.

Harper made a rule: in every new country, within three days, she had to learn to order a coffee in the local language.

Oscar made a rule: Clementine got to press the elevator button in every hotel.

They were young. Strange. Wildly out of place sometimes — but a family all the same.

Harper built Oscar's official website from scratch — sleek, scalable, clean UX, dark mode toggle because he was picky. Max Verstappen emailed her after seeing it. (Hey — could you build me something similar?) She said she'd think about it.

She sat her A-levels online. She was already starting to specialise in full-stack development. Her dyscalculia made things hell sometimes — numbers swam on the screen — but she learned how to code by pattern and logic, by rhythm and recursion. She learned how to work with her brain, not against it.

Oscar kept racing. And winning. F4 became F3. Then whispers of F2 began. He got sharper in interviews, more polished for sponsors, more careful around cameras. But at night — when it was just them, limbs tangled on a hotel bed, or Clem snoring softly between them in the cot — he was still that awkward, soft-eyed boy.

They celebrated Clementine's second birthday in a hotel suite in Barcelona with balloons Oscar had blown up and a lopsided cake. They FaceTimed the Haileybury crew. Jane cried. Sam tried to teach Clementine to say fuck.

Later that month, they hung a print in the entryway of their flat. Just one word, in soft gold foil.

Our Home.

Because for all the flights and chaos and podiums and late-night feeds — that's what they were building. Slowly. Quietly. Against every odd and every doubt.

They were seventeen and a half. Young. Exhausted. Occasionally terrified.

But they were a family.

And it was messy, and real, and theirs.

[mawapeach]

Inspo I got from twitter <3 Oscar Pastry

[eightyonefour]

[p1girlfriend]

your kid treats them like their dad – f1 grid reactions ── .✦

lando norris ── .✦

he was nervous at first — “what if your kid hates me?” kind of nervous but they warm up to him fast, especially after he teaches them how to use a camera the first time they call him “dad” by accident he FREEZES mid-sentence you’re like 😳 but he just kneels down and goes

“hey, is that okay with you? ‘cause that’s really okay with me.” tears up in the car later. won't admit it.

oscar piastri ── .✦

treats your kid with so much quiet respect not overbearing, never forces anything just shows up. every time. one day, the kid runs up to him at the park like

“dad, look!” he stares, stunned, softest smile ever “…that’s me?” he doesn’t say a word after — just holds their hand tighter walking back to the car

charles leclerc ── .✦

he’s such a natural with them it almost hurts does little voices. fake races in the hallway. bedtime stories in French your kid makes a Father’s Day card and gives it to him — no hesitation he sees “to Charles (my second favorite Ferrari)” on it laughs. then absolutely sobs later that night

“i didn’t think i’d be someone’s papa so soon… but i love this.”

lewis hamilton ── .✦

he’s so soft and gentle with your child it makes everyone cry always down on their level when he talks to them makes them playlists and lets them sit in the front seat during errands the first time they fall asleep on his chest, he’s just… quiet

“they trust me. that means everything.” frames a photo of the three of you for the living room without saying a word

carlos sainz ── .✦

acts super casual but is secretly OBSESSED with being called dad your kid asks him to come to a school event and he says yes instantly draws a picture of “me and daddy carlos” and gives it to him he keeps it in his wallet teaches them Spanish and pretends to be strict but lets them braid his hair and call him “papi” like it’s nothing

daniel ricciardo ── .✦

IMMEDIATELY turns into fun stepdad of the year makes weird songs for brushing teeth teaches them dumb Aussie slang like “budgie smuggler” they call him “dad” during a game of Uno and he pauses

“you mean… ME?” acts like it’s casual but buys matching shirts the next day tells people “these are my people” with the proudest grin ever

gabriel bortoleto ── .✦

treats your kid like royalty reads every bedtime story with voices the first time the kid draws a crayon family of three, he almost loses it

“sou eu? tipo... de verdade?” (that's me? like... really?) takes them out for Saturday bakery runs and calls it “our little tradition” you find him asleep on the couch with the kid on his chest every other Sunday

franco colapinto ── .✦

awkward at first but tries so hard the first time they hold his hand on their own, he nearly cries starts drawing cartoons for them, custom little stories they shout “papa look!” during a video call he literally MUTES HIMSELF and has a breakdown of joy

“they called me papa. i didn’t even ask for that. that’s insane.”

max verstappen ── .✦

very lowkey, very protective acts like it’s no big deal until your kid gets hurt at the park and yells

“I want Max!!” max RUNS. drops everything. from then on, it’s over — he’s fully in calls them “kiddo,” teaches them to play video games lets them nap on him during F1 races and whispers “you’re safe. always.”

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