#Small Engine Upgrades | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pitlanepeach · 21 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, slight smut, a bit of general anxiety.

Notes — Welcome to Miami!!!!!

2024 (Miami—Imola)

The McLaren garage was quiet in that early-morning lull before the chaos. Screens still black. Tyres covered. Mechanics nursing coffees and stretching into the day. Amelia stood just inside the halo of overhead lights, hands on her hips, watching her car, her car, come alive in pieces.

The floor gleamed with fresh resin. The side-pods were lean, smooth, seamless in their curvature. The front wing was finally the right spec; the airflow data had confirmed it. The new floor geometry played nicer with the updated rear suspension. The whole package, finally cohesive.

It had taken months of pushing. Quiet conversations. Brutal ones. Drawings on the back of napkins, pacing in her kitchen at 2am. And it was all here now, carbon and copper and logic made real.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just circled the car slowly, one hand brushing against the wing mirror, the leading edge of the nose, the curve of the intake. Reverent, almost.

Tom stood a few feet back, sipping from a thermal mug. He was always nearby at the moment; watching and learning. “Looks different,” he said.

Amelia nodded. “This is the car I designed from the beginning. No compromises. No shortcuts.” She crouched beside the floor, fingers tracing the sculpted undercut, the exact shape she’d fought for. “We’ve been patch-working upgrades onto old foundations. But this; this is a clean slate. It’s mine. Finally.”

“So it’s ready?” He asked.

She looked up at him, eyes sharp. “Yeah. It’s ready to win.”

Lando ducked into the garage then, still in joggers and a hoodie, yawning around a protein bar. He caught her eye, then stopped mid-step. “Holy shit.”

Amelia nodded.

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. Studied the car with wide eyes, taking in every minor adjustment, every small change that’d somehow made the entire car look different. Meaner.

“It looks fast.” He breathed.

“It is.”

He turned toward her, something quiet in his expression. “You happy?”

Amelia didn’t blink. “I’m relieved. Now it’ll do exactly what I designed it to do.”

Oscar wandered in a moment later, eyebrows lifting when he saw the chassis. “Oh shit, this the final spec?”

“The one I promised you both,” Amelia muttered.

Oscar grinned, circling the nose. “Looks like a weapon.”

Amelia hummed. “That’s because it is. All the patchwork’s gone. This weekend, you’ll both be driving the car I built for you from the ground up.”

Tom, now beside her, tapped his pen against his notebook. “You going to name it?”

Amelia looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “It already has a name — and that name has my initials in it anyway. Why would I give it another name?”

Oscar shrugged. “I name my chassis something new every weekend.”

“That’s because you’re weird.” She told him.

But later, when they were running race simulations and Lando had slipped out for media, she sat alone beside Oscar’s car, one hand resting lightly on the side-pod. Just for a second. And under her breath, too soft for anyone to hear: “Don’t let me down.”

Because it was all here now; her vision, her work, her legacy in motion.

And in Miami, for the first time all year, she was finally going to see her car on track.

—

Even in Miami, the F1 Academy paddock felt smaller. Tighter-knit. Less spectacle, more steel. It reminded Amelia of the early days she’d watched on flickering TV screens—before race suits were tailored, before engineers had agents. When she’d been three feet tall and already knew more about car setup than most of the men working on them.

She walked beside Susie, the low hum of tyre warmers and generators buzzing faintly underfoot. The air smelled like brake dust and fuel. It smelled like home.

“You don’t get much spare time,” Susie said, glancing down at the curve of Amelia’s bump beneath her papaya hoodie. “So thanks for making this one count.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Amelia said, eyes scanning the compact garages. “These girls are the future of motorsport.”

A mechanic rolled a jack across their path. A knot of young drivers stood nearby, still in their fireproofs, talking fast, voices tight with nerves.

Susie called one over. “Chloe. Come here a sec.”

Chloe Chambers jogged over, ponytail bouncing, already grinning like she knew exactly who Amelia was.

“Amelia Norris,” Susie said, pride softening her voice. “Meet Chloe. One of our brightest. She’s been dying to pick your brain.”

Chloe stuck out a hand, eyes wide. “I’ve watched every onboard from Oscar since you started working with him. And you basically built this year’s McLaren, right?”

Amelia glanced at the hand, winced, then gave a small shrug. “Built it. Argued over it. Cried about it once or twice. So—yes.”

Chloe lit up, dropped her hand like she didn’t even register the rejection. “I want to do what you do. I mean—I want to drive first. But also understand the car. Maybe even design one. Someday.”

Amelia's smile tugged sideways, something more serious behind it. “Then don’t let anyone tell you to choose. You don’t have to.”

A few more girls wandered over—Doriane, Abbi, Maya. One asked if it was true she’d rewritten part of the ride height algorithm in the middle of the night, thanks to pregnancy nausea.

“It’s true,” she said dryly. “Wouldn’t recommend it. I couldn’t stand the smell of carbon fibre for three days.”

They laughed, young, high, unfiltered, and something eased in her chest. She didn’t feel like a figurehead here. Not a myth. Just one of them. Older, yes. Blunter, definitely. But still part of it.

“Do you still get nervous?” One asked. “Being Oscar’s engineer?”

“No,” Amelia said. “But sometimes, I get… quiet before an upgrade. Or a tough strategy call. But I trust the hours I put in. That’s how you survive in this job—you trust the work, then you trust yourself.”

They asked for a photo. She said yes.

Afterwards, stepping back into the heat and light, Amelia felt something shift beneath her ribs. Not the baby. Something else.

“These girls,” she murmured. “They’re so—”

“Ready,” Susie finished. “They just need someone to show them what’s possible.”

Amelia looked down at her belly. The baby kicked once, low and firm. She wondered—would her daughter want this one day? The speed. The noise. The risk.

Would she want her to?

She didn’t know.

But she knew this: she wanted the door to be open. And she wanted it to stay that way.

“Well,” Amelia said, eyes back on the track. “Let’s make sure the road stays clear.”

Susie nodded, a quiet kind of promise in her voice. “That’s exactly why we’re here.”

—

The room was dark.

Not pitch-black—just enough light from the closed blinds to trace the edges of things. A spare media suite deep in the team hospitality unit, soundproofed from the bustle outside. Cold air whispered from the vents overhead.

Amelia sat curled up on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled down over her hands. In her lap, she twisted the stim toy between her fingers: click, roll, flip, snap. Again. Again. Again.

Her morning had unravelled in that invisible way it sometimes did. Nothing catastrophic—just too many voices, too many schedule changes, someone touching her shoulder without warning. The wrong texture on the cutlery at breakfast. The wrong smell in the paddock. She’d swallowed it all down with a brittle smile until she couldn’t anymore. Now the inside of her head felt raw and overlit, and only silence helped.

Click. Roll. Flip. Snap.

The door opened.

Soft, slow. No bright light flooding in. Just a narrow slice of hallway glow and a silhouette. Lando.

He didn’t say anything. He just stepped inside, closed the door again behind him. Let the dark settle. He moved quietly, then sat beside her, legs stretched out, shoulder to shoulder with hers.

A beat later, the door creaked again. Oscar this time.

She didn’t look up, but she knew him by the shape of his walk, the subtle way he moved like he was trying not to wake a sleeping cat. He settled on her other side, crossed-legged, just close enough to touch but not quite.

Nobody spoke.

Amelia kept clicking. Rolling. Flipping. Snapping.

And slowly, her breathing evened out.

Lando reached over and gently brushed his fingers across the back of her hand. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She let him. Then let her head tilt sideways until it rested lightly on his shoulder.

Oscar stayed quiet, respectful in that way he always was with her—like he got it, even if he didn’t always understand. He just existed beside her, like a grounding point.

The toy made a soft clack as she turned it over again, her fingers finding the rhythm she liked best. The baby shifted inside her, low and firm. She exhaled slowly.

They weren’t talking. They weren’t asking her what she needed. They just were. Present. Patient. Steady.

It hit her, then, with quiet force: how deeply she was loved. Just… for being.

She blinked hard. One tear, maybe two. Nothing dramatic. Just the kind that came when the pressure released, even just a little.

Click. Roll. Flip. Snap.

Lando rested a hand on her hip, tracing soft circles on the red, itchy stretch marks. Oscar leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed, humming something tuneless under his breath.

Amelia let the dark hold all three of them.

And she knew that soon, she’d feel okay again.

—

Amelia had gone out for air.

That was the plan, anyway—just ten quiet minutes away from the structured chaos of media day. No cameras, no questions. Just walking, hoodie on, head down, hands in her pockets.

But somewhere along the paddock hospitality row, she saw them—six or seven VIP fans lingering near the McLaren garage, lanyards bright, eyes wide, trying not to look starstruck and failing. Most of them were young women. One had a notebook. Another had made her own earrings out of mini DRS wings. A third was nervously adjusting the hem of her papaya windbreaker.

They saw her before she could disappear.

“Hi—sorry—Amelia?”

She could’ve smiled and nodded and kept walking. Instead, she stopped. “Yes,” she said. “Hello. You’re not supposed to be standing there. You’ll block the tyre trolleys.”

One of them blurted, “You’re, like… kind of our hero.”

Amelia blinked at them. “Why?”

Which made them all laugh awkwardly.

“I mean,” the DRS earring girl said, “you built the car. Everyone knows it. You’re the reason we’re consistently getting podiums again.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Amelia said bluntly. “But thank you.”

The girl with the notebook held it out. “Could I maybe ask you a few questions? Just for fun?”

Amelia glanced around. There was a patch of artificial turf by the hospitality tents where a drinks cooler sat forgotten. No cameras. No execs. No schedule.

“Fine,” she said. “But I want to sit down. And I want something to eat.”

Fifteen minutes later, Amelia was cross-legged on a grassy patch, a fizzy drink in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other, surrounded by a semicircle of fascinated girls. Someone had scrounged up crisps and trail mix from a hospitality unit. It was, essentially, a picnic.

She’d taken a napkin and a pen and was now drawing vortex flows and side-pod shapes in clean, confident lines, explaining how turbulent air off the front wing could be used as a tool, not just a nuisance.

“People always think air is the enemy,” she said. “It’s not. It’s a language. And if you understand what it’s saying, the car will behave for you.”

Someone gasped. Someone else scribbled furiously. One girl offered Amelia a gummy bear, which she accepted without breaking eye contact from the diagram.

“Do you… want your daughter to be an engineer too?” One asked, softly.

Amelia paused. “I want her to believe that she can be anything she wants to be.”

That was when Lando found her.

He was coming from an interview and nearly missed the scene entirely. Then he spotted her—Amelia, sitting in the middle of the grass like a camp counsellor or a pre-school teacher, surrounded by fans who all looked like they were in total and utter awe of her.

Oscar arrived seconds later. “Is this… what’s going on?”

“I think it’s a cult,” Lando whispered. “My wife has created a cult and she is their leader.”

One of the girls spotted them and nudged the others. The whole circle turned.

“Oh. Hi,” Amelia said, gesturing vaguely to them. “They asked me about ground effect. I got carried away.”

Lando sat down beside her without a word. Oscar followed, grabbing a crisp from the communal bowl like this was all perfectly normal.

“We’re learning,” Oscar said solemnly. “Let’s not interrupt the professor, Lando.”

One of the girls burst into laughter. Amelia handed her the napkin diagram and grinned.

And there, in the middle of a media day she’d meant to escape, Amelia Norris held court not to journalists or executives; but to the next generation. Bright-eyed. Hungry to learn. Eager to belong.

—

Later, Lando slipped an arm around Amelia’s shoulders.

“So,” he said, voice light but steady, “when our daughter’s old enough, do we risk teaching her about vortex generators and having her build a wind tunnel in our bathroom?”

Amelia rolled her eyes, resting her head against his chest. “Who knows? She might put us all out of a job.”

He laughed softly. “She’ll definitely get your brains.”

“And your stubbornness.” She gave him a sidelong look. “And adrenaline addiction.”

“Great combo.”

They walked slowly back toward the garage.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If she wanted to race,” Amelia started, her hand moving instinctively to her hip, “would you want that for her?”

Lando scrunched his nose, bit his lip. “God. Uh…” He paused, searching her eyes. “I’d be worried. Not happy about it, but if it’s what she wanted, I’d make it happen.”

She studied him. “You’d make it happen even if it made you unhappy?”

“Worried,” he corrected gently. “Worried sick, probably. I’ve crashed, seen the worst of it. You know how dangerous this sport is. Would you be okay with it?”

She shrugged. “I’d tell her the risks, the stats. Karting? Sure. But racing professionally… I don’t know.” She hesitated, voice quieter. “I don’t know.”

Lando cupped her cheek. “It’s okay not to know yet.”

“I don’t know,” she repeated, staring into his eyes as panic fluttered beneath her skin. “Why don’t I know? I should.”

He pulled her close, voice low. “It doesn’t work like that, baby. I’m sorry.”

She sniffled, clutching his shirt. “Parenting is already hard and she isn’t even born yet.”

“Yeah,” Lando agreed, with a shaky kind of inhale. “Yeah.”

—

Amelia sat on the couch in their hotel room, fiddling with her stim toy, brow furrowed. The past few weeks had been… confusing. She knew about pregnancy hormones, but this sudden surge in her sex drive? That was new and confusing territory.

Lando entered the room, carrying a glass of water. He caught her eye and smiled, but there was a flicker of something (nervousness?) in his gaze.

“You okay?” He asked, voice a bit higher than usual.

Amelia bit her lip. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded quickly, almost too quickly.

“Is it… normal to suddenly want sex all the time? Like, nonstop?” Her voice was blunt but uncertain. ‘I’m nervous to look it up in-case weird stuff comes up.”

Lando’s face flushed, and he scratched the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at her. “Uh, yeah. Totally normal. Second trimester… hormones and all that.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Amelia blinked, surprised by his sudden heat.

Lando shifted closer, cheeks still pink. “I mean, it’s… well, you’re pretty irresistible right now.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Irresistible?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. So, uh… we can make you feel better, if you want?”

Before she could respond, he leaned in, brushing his lips lightly against hers. The kiss was soft but full of promise, and Amelia’s heart sped up in that familiar way; equal parts surprise and warmth.

When they parted, Lando grinned sheepishly. “You want to?”

Amelia stared at him. “Yeah. Now. And then again a few more times. And tomorrow morning before we go to the track.”

He stared at her for a beat before he smiled wide, sharp little fangs and all.

—

Amelia lay awake.

Her head rested on Lando’s chest, his hand soft against the curve of her belly. His breathing was slow, steady, familiar. She could feel the faint shift of it under her cheek.

She stared at the ceiling, fingers tracing idle circles over the sheets.

She hadn’t expected to want him like that. Not with this body — not now, not so much. And yet…

Flashes of the night flickered across her mind like bright sparks.

Lando’s laugh, half-muffled against her neck.

His voice, rough, whispering, “You sure? You’re sure?”

The way he’d kissed the inside of her wrist every time.

Her hoodie halfway off, clumsily caught around her elbows.

The sound she made when he touched her lower back — sharp, surprised.

His thumb brushing gently over her bump, reverent. “Hi, baby,” he’d whispered, “Your mum’s kind of a goddess.”

She blushed in the dark just thinking about it.

But what stuck with her most wasn’t the heat — it was how seen she felt. How known. How safe.

She’d spent most of her life learning to translate herself for the world. She thought that’s what relationships would always have to be — filtering, explaining, shrinking things down.

But with Lando, she had never once had to do that.

He read the pauses in her voice like she would read telemetry. Felt her silences without trying to explain. Met her confusion with patience, not pity. Anticipated the needs she hadn’t even decoded herself yet.

She tilted her head, studying him in the quiet.

She hadn’t just fallen in love with him all those year ago.

She’d grown into love with him — steady, real, elemental.

And somehow, impossibly, he kept giving her more reasons to love him even more.

She pressed a kiss to his chest, so soft he didn’t stir.

Then closed her eyes, finally ready to sleep.

—

The bathroom lights were aggressively bright for how little sleep Amelia had gotten.

She was perched on the closed toilet lid, sleep-shirt inside out, bump resting on her thighs, and a toothbrush in her mouth. Her phone leaned against a half-used roll of toilet paper on the counter, and Pietra’s face filled the screen, already smirking.

“You look like you’ve been run over,” Pietra said with wide eyes.

Amelia spat into the sink. “I had sex for four hours straight last night.”

Pietra choked on her iced coffee. “Good morning, mami.”

Amelia shrugged like she was reporting on tyre deg. “Hormones.”

“Second trimester hitting like DRS on the main straight, huh?”

She nodded seriously. “It’s physiological. There’s blood flow redistribution and heightened sensitivity in—”

“Stop,” Pietra laughed. “You can’t do the engineering breakdown of your sex life.”

Amelia grinned, a little proud. “I definitely can. Do you want to see my graphs?”

“No graphs.Please. No vibes. How’s Lando coping?”

“Hydrated. Exhausted. Still asleep,” she said, brushing through her tangled hair. “He kept making these noises like he couldn’t believe what was happening.”

Pietra chuckled. “Yeah, he’s down bad for you, my girl.”

“I know,” Amelia said. “He, like, kept kissing my wrist.”

“Amelia. Please.”

“No, like he held it and did it twice.”

There was a pause.

Pietra blinked slowly. “That’s so sweet.”

“He made me feel like myself again.” She flushed.

Pietra was quiet, her smile gentler now. “Because you are.”

Amelia nodded once. “He’s also half-worried that our daughter might invent a bathtub wind tunnel.”

“Oh God,” Pietra said, grinning again. “That little girl is going to make him go grey. I hope she cuts up her dolls and builds a diffuser from their severed limbs.”

“She won’t have dolls.” Amelia said dryly. “She’ll have CFD software.” Even though her tone was flat, the twitch of her lips betrayed her joke.

Pietra laughed. Amelia finished tying her hair into a low, slightly messy ponytail. A streak of sunlight cut through the window, warming the tiles beneath her feet.

“I should go,” she said. “Track walk in forty-five minutes.”

“Tell Lando I said ‘well done’.”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “No. That’s weird.”

“You love me anyway!”

Amelia ended the call and stared at herself in the mirror for a second.

Messy. Flushed. A little wild-looking.

Entirely herself.

And deeply, deeply loved.

—

The heat shimmered off the asphalt in waves, the whole paddock buzzing with anticipation. Miami was loud, chaotic, full of pastel shirts and bass-heavy DJ sets; but the McLaren garage felt like a storm waiting to break.

Amelia had one hand on Oscar’s halo as he settled into the car. Focused. Calm. Starting fourth on the grid. It was a good starting position, but they both knew it wasn’t going to be an easy climb through the field — if they even managed to keep their position into turn one.

“Conditions are fine. Brakes might take a while to come in. Let the tyres come to you.”

Oscar looked up at her, half-grinning under his visor. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll scream at you over the radio for being annoying and not listening to me.”

He laughed. “As usual.”

She patted the car once, stepped back, and moved to her tiny little thrown-together desk just as Lando passed her on his way to climb into his car. His hand grabbed her back. Their eyes met. He gave her a look; small, private, thrilling. The kind of look that said: I think today is the day.

She nodded once. Just once.

She’d believed in him for years now — since before Sochi, since before he’d even been given the full-time McLaren seat.

He was capable of incredible things.

—

The first 20 laps were a blur of strategy juggling and telemetry surges. Amelia was locked into Oscar’s race; managing his energy deployment, traffic, undercut threats.

He was driving sharp. But something wasn’t sticking.

A slow pit stop on Lap 32 killed their momentum. They dropped back into traffic. She clenched her jaw, recalculated in seconds, called Plan C.

“Ducky, don’t lose steam. We’re still in this for good points. Head down.”

“Copy,” he said, clipped. Frustrated, but fighting.

But further up the field, Lando was flying.

And then there was the safety car.

Chaos. All improper preparation and garages rushing.

And then Lando exited the pits. And he hadn’t just made up a few positions — he’d taken the lead.

The garage erupted. Amelia nearly stood up from her station. She felt it before the numbers confirmed it — Lando was about to win his first Grand Prix.

She could barely breathe.

—

Oscar crossed the line P6. Solid points. Not what they hoped for, but not failure.

But Lando…

Lando held off Max for the last five laps like his life depended on it. No mistakes. Just pure, blistering pace and nerves of steel.

And then—

“Lando Norris. That’s P1. You are a Formula One race winner!”

Will’s words cracked through the comms.

The garage exploded.

Amelia didn’t move.

She sat frozen, one hand over her mouth, the other gripping the edge of the console like it would float her back to earth.

He’d done it.

Finally.

No more self-doubt. No more what-ifs.

Lando won.

Her husband, who stayed up with her until 3am looking at ride height data; had won.

And he did it in the car she built for him.

"We did it, Will. Amelia — baby, we did it. We did it!" He said over the radio.

The first race it was fully her spec — and sure, they’d gotten ‘lucky’ with the safety-car, but luck was insubstantial. His pace said it all.

He’d won. And he’d won by a mile.

—

The moment she found him in Parc Ferme, still helmeted, still breathless, still shocked, she ran.

Not far; just to the holding area, where only a few people were allowed. But she was McLaren’s lead engineer. She was also his wife.

She had every right.

He turned and saw her and the helmet came off in one swoop.

His face was flushed, eyes red-rimmed, disbelieving.

She launched into his arms and he caught her without hesitation, arms around her waist, face buried in her shoulder.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “I won. I fucking won, baby.”

“I can believe it,” she said, steady and breathless. “I knew it was coming. How long have I told you that this would happen for you? You’ve been driving like a winner all year, Lando.”

He kissed her, fast, messy, barely containing the wild joy in him. “Tell me you saw the move on Max.”

“I saw it. It was amazing.”

He laughed against her neck, giddy and stunned and vibrating with relief. “I did it, Amelia.”

“You did.” She leaned into him, eyes pricking with tears. “I am so, so proud of you. So proud.”

—

They went to a few parties. Smaller ones. Danced together — Lando being celebrated in exactly the way he deserved.

He hadn’t been all to keen on the idea of his visibly pregnancy wife going into the Miami nightclub, but she’d insisted they go. Even just for a little while.

Oscar and Lando stayed close — like bodyguards. Max was no better, hovering, constantly bringing her water. It was sweet. It was nice to still be involved in the celebrations.

His trophy sat on their hotel room table.

Lando was in the shower, singing Queen, completely off-key.

Amelia sat on the bed in one of his t-shirts, one hand on her belly, the other tracing the MCL38-AN etched into the side of the silver.

Their daughter kicked.

She smiled. “Your dad,” she whispered, “is a Formula One race winner.”

—

They touched down just before dawn, Heathrow still hushed in early morning fog. Amelia’s body ached with the kind of deep exhaustion that only adrenaline can leave behind; but her hand never left Lando’s.

He’d won. That wasn’t going to stop echoing in her head any time soon.

By the time they got to his parents’ house, the sky had cracked open with gentle rain. The front door opened before they even rang the doorbell.

His mum pulled him into a tight hug, burying her face in his chest. His dad hovered behind, proud and misty-eyed in the quiet way he always was. There were champagne flutes already out in the kitchen, a cake someone had clearly stayed up late decorating — “P1, Finally!” scrawled in sugar icing.

But what caught Amelia off guard was how his mum hugged her too.

Carefully, because of the bump. But tightly. Fully. Without hesitation.

“We were watching,” she said, her voice warm in Amelia’s ear. “I’ve never screamed so loud in my life. He wouldn’t have gotten here without you, you know?”

Amelia blinked. Didn’t know what to say to that. Just squeezed her hand and nodded.

—

Later, in the quiet of Lando’s childhood bedroom, Amelia lay curled into his side beneath soft, over-washed sheets. The walls were still plastered with old racing posters, a few crooked photos of karting days — a little shrine to where it all began.

The trophy was on the dresser.

Not a glass cabinet, not a pedestal. Just… sitting there. Like it belonged next to a lava lamp and a stack of F1 magazines from 2009.

Amelia snorted at the sight of it. “You really just plonked it there?”

“It’s weird, right?” Lando said, his voice drowsy. “Feels like it should be… more. But also not. I don’t know.”

“It’s exactly right,” she said. “It belongs where you started.”

He looked over at her. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You okay?”

She nodded. Then, after a moment, “It’s strange. Everyone talks about how hard it is to get here. To win. To be part of something like this. But nobody tells you how hard it is to… stop. To come down from it. To believe that it’s real.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just pulled her closer, hand on her belly. “She’s gonna know,” he said softly. “Our daughter. She’s going to grow up knowing this is possible. Because she’ll have you. And she’ll have me too.”

“You,” Amelia said firmly, “are going to be her favourite person.”

He flushed, kissed her shoulder. “You’re both my favourite.”

—

Breakfast was a chaotic, sweet mess. His younger cousins had come by with orange balloons and mini trophies made of Lego. His grandmother insisted on touching Amelia’s belly and declared, in full authority, that the baby would be born with racing boots on already.

Someone pulled out a bottle of something sparkling, and Lando looked like he might cry for the tenth time in 48 hours.

Amelia stepped outside with her tea, just for a moment. The garden smelled like damp grass and daffodils.

Lando came out after her, wrapping his arms around her from behind, nose pressed into her neck.

“We really did it,” he murmured.

“You did.”

“No,” he said. “We.”

She leaned back into him, eyes fluttering shut.

For once, she didn’t argue.

—

The highly sought after private clinic was tucked behind a row of converted barns; all soft wood beams and white walls, the kind of place that smelled faintly of lavender and sterilised plastic. Quiet. Private. No waiting rooms. No fluorescent lights.

It had taken Amelia weeks to agree to in-person visits. Not because she didn’t trust the care, but because the idea of new faces, new spaces, new sounds — it made her skin hum in the wrong way.

But this midwife, Fiona, had been patient. Kind. Spoken to her over the phone like Amelia wasn’t strange or fragile or complicated. Just… herself. And today, for the first time, they were meeting in real life.

Amelia sat in the softly-lit consultation room, sleeves pulled over her knuckles, while Lando leaned back in the chair beside her, fingers loosely linked with hers.

The door opened, and Fiona stepped in; mid-forties maybe, silver at her temples, Doc Martens under a midi skirt. Exuding a calm energy.

“Hello, Amelia,” she said with a small smile. “It’s good to finally meet you properly.”

Amelia blinked at her. “You don’t sound as tall as you do on the phone.”

Fiona laughed, delighted. “That’s a first. Most people say I sound shorter.”

Lando grinned. “She’s very good at spatial audio. It’s… sort of freaky.”

Amelia elbowed him lightly. “It’s not freaky. It’s useful.”

“I know, baby,” he said, kissing her hair.

Fiona sat, not rushing. Just matching the room to Amelia’s pace.

“Shall we talk through everything slowly?” She offered. “We’ll do the checkup, listen to baby’s heartbeat if you’re feeling up for it — and then talk about next steps. I’ve got your notes printed exactly how you like them. Font size 13, double spaced.”

That surprised a smile out of Amelia. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

—

Fiona talked her through every step before touching her. Let Amelia guide where the Doppler went. Gave her control.

The heartbeat came through — fast and steady and perfect.

Lando stared at the screen like it was made of gold.

“There she is,” he murmured. “There’s our girl.”

Amelia stared at the graph. “Still sounds like a horse galloping.”

“Strong horse,” Fiona said. “Very healthy.”

They spent another fifteen minutes going over nutrition changes, sleeping positions, birth plans. Fiona never pushed. Never filled silence with filler words. Just waited.

“You’re very good at this,” Amelia said finally. “I don’t like many people.”

Fiona smiled gently. “That means a lot. Thank you.”

—

They stepped back out into the quiet spring air, a softness between them.

Lando opened the car door for her, waiting until she was settled before getting in himself. He looked over at her, one hand finding hers on the armrest.

“I like her,” he said.

“I don’t hate her,” Amelia replied, which was even better.

“You did so well,” he added softly. “I’m really proud of you.”

She glanced at him. “Why?”

“Because I know how much it costs you to do things that feel uncertain,” he said. “And you still showed up for her. For our daughter.”

Amelia’s eyes prickled, caught off guard by the depth in his voice.

“She deserves someone better than me, sometimes,” she whispered.

“No,” he said firmly. “She’s getting someone more brilliant, more brave, more herself than anyone could hope for.”

She kissed him. “Okay. Take me to get some chicken, please?”

—

The kitchen was full of soft light and the smell of roast chicken and rosemary potatoes. There were too many voices, too many overlapping stories, the occasional clink of cutlery — but somehow, it didn’t overwhelm Amelia the way it usually did. Maybe it was the dimmer switch Lando had installed last year. Maybe it was the way he kept checking in with her from across the room. Or maybe… maybe it was just the peace that came from knowing her daughter was still tucked safe inside her, heartbeat strong.

Dinner was warm.

They passed around the scan print-outs — Lando sliding them carefully across the table. His mum teared up a little at the clearest one, where the outline of a tiny face and curled fingers was visible.

“She’s so beautiful already,” Cisca whispered.

“She looks like an angry shrimp,” Amelia said flatly, which made Adam chuckle into his wine.

“An angry shrimp with a big Norris head,” Lando added.

“Oi,” Adam said. “Watch it.”

“She’s got Amelia’s precision, though,” Lando added, turning the scan toward his dad. “Perfect symmetry in the profile. Look at that jawline. Look.”

“She’s 38 centimetres long, Lando,” Amelia said, eyebrows raised. “She’s still just a smudge.”

He shrugged, grinning. “Let me have this.”

—

Cisca topped up everyone’s water and gently set her glass down. “Have you two thought much about… the birth yet? Or after? What it’ll look like, who you want with you, where?”

Amelia nodded immediately, already sliding her phone from the edge of her placemat. “Yes. I’ve got it all planned.”

She pulled up a bullet-pointed note, clean and colour-coded. “I’ll be labouring at home for as long as is medically safe, with Fiona monitoring. Then transferring to the birth centre — the one with the adjustable light panels and hydrotherapy. I’ve selected a playlist that aligns with optimal relaxation frequencies, and Lando will be coached on pressure-point guidance in case I don’t want verbal input. We’ll have backup bags packed and pre-positioned in the car by Week 37.”

The table went still for a moment. Not unkind. Just… a bit awed.

“And after?” Adam asked gently.

“Fiona will do at-home checks. I’ll be off work technically, but I’ll still be supporting Oscar’s data remotely if we’re out of hospital. I’m going to stay with my mum in Woking. Sleep will be rotational in the first two weeks depending on Lando’s schedule, but my mum had already agreed to step in. Breastfeeding is Plan A, bottle Plan B. I have a spreadsheet.”

There was a quiet pause.

Then Cisca reached over the table, her hand warm as it closed gently over Amelia’s. “That all sounds wonderful, my darling. But, and this is only a but, if it doesn’t go exactly the way you’ve planned, don’t panic,” she said. Her voice was soft but certain. “Sometimes babies decide to do things their own way.”

Amelia didn’t flinch from the contact — rare for her. She just looked at Cisca’s hand, and then at her face. “I know that,” she said, a little stiffly. “Logically.”

“But knowing it logically isn’t the same as feeling okay when it happens,” Cisca said gently.

Amelia looked down at the scan photo in front of her. Then quietly, almost like a confession, “I want to do it right. I want her to feel safe from the second she arrives.”

“She will,” Lando said, reaching for her hand under the table. “Because she’ll have you.”

—

The door was already open before they even made it up the path.

“There she is!” Zak’s voice boomed from the hallway as Amelia climbed out of the car, Lando trailing behind with his hand protectively on the small of her back.

Tracey appeared right behind him, dish towel still slung over her shoulder. “Let her breathe, Zak, Jesus.”

Amelia barely had time to blink before she was enveloped in one of her mother’s trademark, over-long hugs — all vanilla perfume and chaotic warmth.

“I can’t believe how much she’s grown,” Tracey murmured, hands sliding down to press lightly at Amelia’s bump. “My granddaughter’s in there, that’s crazy.”

“She’s the size a watermelon,” Amelia said, dry. “A big watermelon. But still.”

Lando grinned. “Not for long. She’s growing every day.”

Zak clapped a hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder. “Still wrapping my head around the fact that you’re gonna be a dad, son.”

“Same,” Lando replied with a breathy laugh.

—

The Browns’ home was bigger than you might expect, but still carried the energy of a family who talked over each other and left laundry on stair banisters. The TV was on in the background playing a re-run of some F1 docuseries, and Zak had already pulled out a bottle of strawberry alcohol-free wine.

“No, Dad,” Amelia said, waving him off. “No bubbles. I’ll get heartburn.”

“I’ve got ginger beer!” Tracey called from the kitchen. “And saltines!”

Amelia drifted toward the fireplace, fingers brushing over old framed photos. There was one of her as a little girl with a screwdriver in one hand. Another of Zak holding her on his shoulders at the Silverstone track.

She stared at that one for a beat too long.

“You okay, kiddo?” Zak asked gently, appearing beside her.

She didn’t look up. “Yeah. Just remembering.”

“You’d sit on the garage floor with the brake calipers,” Zak said, fond. “You used to name them.”

“They needed names. They had personalities.”

“You said one was ‘grumpy and over-torqued.’ You were five.”

She let out a tiny laugh.

—

Dinner was loud. American-style pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans drowning in butter. Tracey refilled everyone’s drinks every ten minutes. Zak told old stories about testing sessions Amelia had half-forgotten.

Later, Amelia found a quiet spot in her childhood bedroom, lights dimmed, the duvet still vaguely smelling of fabric softener. Lando leaned against the doorframe, watching her brush her fingers over an old model car she’d built with Zak when she was nine.

“You okay, baby?” He asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m nervous to be staying here again, after having the baby. I wish we could just… have her in Monaco and disappear for a few months.” She frowned. “We didn’t plan our timing very well, did we? You’ll be mid-season, and Oscar won’t have me there, and—“

Lando crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.“Hey. Hey, calm down, baby. I think that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be,” he murmured. “You’ll want your mum, yeah? She’ll be able to help you adjust without being overbearing.”

She hummed against his chest, her hands closing around his shirt. “What if you’re not here when it happens?”

He was quiet for a beat. “I’ll come home as soon as possible, baby. I promise.”

“I don’t want you to miss a single session.” She said, hotly. “But I want you with me all the time and I can’t have both, can I?”

“No, baby. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He murmured. “It’s fine, baby.”

—

Amelia stood at the edge of the test platform, squinting at the flow viz spread across the prototype floor. She wasn’t officially here to work, just visiting. Just dropping in. Just… checking the numbers. Seeing the model. Touching the damn tunnel wall like it could somehow speak to her.

“It’s still bleeding airflow here,” she muttered to herself, pointing at the front of the floor, just under the bargeboard curve. “Boundary layer’s detaching early.”

“Still better than Ferrari’s design,” someone mumbled behind her.

“Low bar,” she shot back.

She didn’t look up. Her fingers danced automatically across the control screen. Toggling split channel overlays, flipping between computational fluid dynamics layers. She could feel her heartbeat syncing with the faint thrum of the tunnel, her mind slotting into gear like it always had.

Until she felt someone step beside her, too quietly for a regular engineer.

“Amelia,” Oscar said softly, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Hey.”

She blinked, her brain still five seconds behind in aero-language.

He glanced at the setup, then at her bump, then back to her face. “Did you… sleep at all last night?” He asked.

“I took a nap on Lando’s thigh for twenty-three minutes in the car,” she said.

Oscar huffed. “Very normal. Very healthy.”

She turned back to the airflow sim. “This isn’t right. The adjustment from the Miami spec — it’s throwing off drag balance on the mid-straight.”

“Amelia.”

She didn’t answer this time. Just kept muttering corrections under her breath, lips moving like she was translating a language no one else could see.

Oscar stepped closer, then placed one hand gently on her wrist — not to stop her, just to connect.“You’ve been here for hours. You can come back to this later,” he said.

“I don’t know how to be here without doing something.”

“I know,” Oscar said. “But we’re not racing this week. And you’re allowed to just… exist in this space without trying to fix every tiny issue that you see.”

Amelia looked at him. Her mouth opened, then shut again. He didn’t push. Just stood with her in the quiet hum of the room, solid and calm.

Eventually, she whispered, “My brain’s too loud when I stop.”

“Then let me help you turn the volume down,” Oscar said simply. “C’mon. Let’s go sit by the lake for a bit.”

—

They ended up outside with two mugs of ginger tea that Oscar had somehow convinced catering to let them take out of the dining hall. Amelia sat with her feet up on the bench edge, dress stretched over her bump, breathing slower now.

She watched the fountain spray in silence for a few minutes before saying, “Thanks.”

“For the tea?”

“For not treating me like I’m fragile,” she said. “But also not treating me like I’m a machine.”

Oscar smiled sideways. “You’re a human. A terrifyingly brilliant, data-possessed human. But still.”

She let out a tired laugh and leaned her head briefly on his shoulder. “Don’t tell Lando I had a moment.”

“Alright,” he said. “It’ll stay between us and the ducks.”

She smiled. “My ducky and my ducks — conspiring together. Cute.”

He rolled his eyes.

—

The morning sun hit the Emilia-Romagna pit lane with a sharpness that reminded Amelia of why she loved racing. Clean, brutal light cutting through the lingering coolness of dawn.

She stood just inside the garage, eyes scanning telemetry streams on her iPad, but her mind elsewhere. This was her second-to-last race before maternity leave. A strange mix of accomplishment and anticipation knotted inside her.

Lando caught her eye across the garage, giving a small thumbs-up. She returned the gesture with a faint smile.

Oscar approached, carrying his helmet. “Ready?” He asked.

“Of course I am.”

—

During a quiet moment before qualifying, Amelia slipped out from behind the pit wall to find Lando.

He reached for her hand, squeezing it lightly. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I’m okay. Just… thinking about how this is all starting to feel a bit too much like a goodbye for my liking.”

He brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “We’ll hold the fort. You’ll be back before you know it. You don’t need to worry.”

Her eyes softened. “I know. But it feels… weird.”

He held her. Kissed her. “You’ll be fine, baby.”

—

The race was intense. Strategy calls fired rapidly, tyres switching, gaps closing. Amelia’s voice came calm and precise over the radio, guiding Oscar through every corner, every lap.

When the checkered flag finally waved, Oscar finished fourth — solid, but just off the podium. Amelia exhaled, a complex wave of pride and bittersweet acceptance washing over her.

Lando’s race had been even more intense; a nail-biting late charge from Lando, a nail-bitingly close finish between him and Max.

They’d take second.

But she could see it. Hear it.

Her husband had enjoyed winning. And he was hungry for more.

—

Back in the garage, the team gathered around the screens replaying Lando’s brilliant win at Miami — a reminder of the highs to come. Amelia let herself smile, feeling the warmth of the team around her.

Lando slipped an arm around her waist. “Only one more weekend to go,” he murmured.

She leaned into him. “Yeah.”

Tom gave them a nervous smile. “I feel ready to take the reins. Do you think I’m ready?”

“As ready as you could possibly be.” Amelia told him.

Oscar laughed a bit. “I feel like I’m being passed between my divorced parents.”

Amelia rolled her eyes at him. “You’re ridiculous, ducky.”

NEXT CHAPTER

510 notes · View notes

reasonsforhope · 5 months ago

Text

"As 3D-printing methods continue to evolve, it’s not uncommon to see this method employed for various engineering projects, especially in the construction of affordable housing, structures, and schools.

In Ireland, a first-of-its-kind social housing project has been built from the ground up, using 3D printing as a time and money-saving solution.

In fact, it’s Europe’s first 3D-printed social housing project, fully compliant with international standards. In Grange Close, Dundalk, the three-unit terraced build is now a milestone achievement in eastern Ireland. It was created by Harcourt Technologies Ltd (HTL.tech) and assembled using COBOD’s BOD2 3D construction printer.

The unit is 3,550 square feet and is divided into three separate homes, each measuring 1,184 square feet.

The use of this technology allowed for a 35% faster construction process, which took 132 days from start to finish. During that time, the 3D-printed superstructure itself was completed in just 12 printing days.

Conventional construction methods usually require more than 200 days, according to COBOD, meaning this method could be transformative in quickly scaling affordable housing options.

“Ireland’s housing crisis, driven by a decade of under-construction and rising demand, has reached critical levels, leading to widespread protests and influencing national elections,” HTL.tech shared in a press release.

“The rapid construction made possible by 3D printing offers a promising solution. The homes in Dundalk demonstrate how this technology can address housing shortages by dramatically reducing construction time and costs.”

In the 132 days it took to go from initial site preparation to handing over keys to the client, builders say approximately half of the time savings came directly from 3D printing.

Additionally, during the project, COBOD upgraded the concrete hose of its printer, which increased its output by 40% and significantly increased the printing speed. With this upgrade, the company estimates that printing times for similar structures would be reduced to nine days instead of 12.

“We continue to improve our technology,” Henrik Lund-Nielsen, general manager and founder of COBOD International, said in a statement, “and although a hose update can be seen as a small step, the numbers from HTL.tech proves that it is not.”

Now, the client — a local housing council — will finish furnishing the homes and will rent them to social housing tenants at an affordable price.

It’s a success that will surely have ripple effects.

“As the first 3D-printed social housing project in Europe, the Grange Close development sets a precedent for future housing solutions,” a press release from HTL.tech explained. “With countries like Sweden and Germany also experimenting with 3D-printed homes, this technology is poised to become a standard approach for addressing housing shortages.”

The statement also added that governments across Europe may increasingly adopt 3D printing to “deliver faster, more cost-effective housing solutions for low-income residents.”

“This project not only showcases the potential for rapid, sustainable construction but also serves as a blueprint for other nations facing similar challenges,” the statement concluded. “As 3D printing technology evolves, its role in shaping the future of housing construction looks increasingly promising.”"

-via GoodGoodGood, January 23, 2025

‍

#ireland #europe #housing #housing shortage #affordable housing #housing crisis #3d printing #architecture #good news #hope

780 notes · View notes

sebscore · 11 months ago

Text

ARE WE STILL FRIENDS?

pairings: f1 grid x driver!reader (she/her pronouns)

warnings: angst. angst. angst. swearing. like a lot of swearing. i cannot write crashes/contact for the life of me. argument. lando and reader are assholes in this.

author's note: dont even ask me why i wrote this, i got inspired and needed it out of my system. lol.

masterlist

''Retire the car. Too much damage. Sorry, Y/N.'' Marco informed her over the radio, sounding frustrated and apologetic over her already finished race.

The driver took a deep breath before answering. ''Too bad, it was going well. Thanks, guys.''

Her race had in fact been going well. She'd made a great start going from P4 to P2, and had managed to keep up with the Red Bull of Max. They weren't even halfway in the race or Lando tried overtaking her, causing contact, causing her to run off in the gravel with too much trouble on the car to continue.

In her opinion, it had been reckless. The McLaren driver knew exactly she would end up being forced off the track by the overtake, and that her race would most likely be over because of it.

As she trudged back to the garage, helmet in hand, she could barely contain her frustration. The team greeted her with sympathetic looks, but she didn't stop to talk to anyone. She headed straight for her driver's room, needing a moment to cool off before she could face the media.

Her hands trembled with anger as she peeled off her gloves, tossing them onto a nearby chair. The season hadn't been going how she had hoped or even expected it to go. Last year she had been the vice World Champion, the undisputed second-best driver on the grid, the only one to essentially have been able to challenge Max's dominance. Now, she got lucky to even end up in the top five of a race. Her team's design of the car hadn't been meeting the expectations the engineers had set, and upgrades weren't helping in the way they had hoped.

That is why this race weekend had been a great boost for the team's morale and confidence. Qualifying had gone really well, and for a moment they were able to fight for the win even. But the papaya car of No. 4 had shoved their hopes down the drain.

Minutes later, there was a knock on the door. She turned to see Marco standing there, looking concerned. ''You okay?''

''Have I ever been okay,'' she remarked, a sarcastic chuckle leaving her lips. ''I'm just pissed, that's all. I had high hopes for today.''

''We all did,'' he smiled sadly. ''The stewards reviewed the incident, but he, uh, didn't get a penalty.'' He said softly, almost as if he was afraid of her reaction.

The young woman let out a bitter laugh. ''Of course he didn't, why would he?'' Her hands covered her face, briefly wiping off the sweat that had formed.

Marco took a step closer, his expression a mix of empathy and disappointment. ''You drove brilliantly out there. Everyone saw it. The team saw it. It's just... racing politics sometimes.''

She dropped her hands, meeting his eyes with a mixture of anger and resignation. ''It's always like that, though. It's always the same drivers suffering the consequences of others, and they don't get shit for it. It is fucking annoying.''

Her engineer nodded, understanding everything she was saying. ''I know, we all know. But we keep fighting. We keep pushing. This season isn't over yet.''

''Yeah, true.'' She sighed.

Marco gave her a reassuring smile. ''We'll be ready for the next race. We're all in this together, okay? We're all behind you.''

She nodded, feeling a small measure of comfort in his words. ''Thanks, I appreciate it.'' They shared a quick embrace, before he left to join the team again. Meanwhile she got herself ready to go to the media pen. As much as she wanted to hide away, she knew it was part of the job.

Since she had an early exit, there wasn't much activity inside the area, though there were a bunch of reporters waiting for her.

''Y/N, tough race today. Can you tell us what happened from your perspective?'' The reporter asked after briefly greeting her.

''Yeah, it was, uh, challenging, I guess,'' she plastered a smile on her face. ''We had a great start, moving up to P2 and keeping pace with Max. Then, yeah, the contact with Lando. The car had a bunch of damage, and we decided to just retire the car.''

''Do you think it was a fair move by him?'' He followed up.

She paused, weighing her response. ''Racing is always intense, especially at this level. I don't think it was the right move to make, but the stewards saw it as a racing incident. I'll respect their decision, but it doesn't make it any less frustrating.''

''You and Lando are good friends, and have been racing against each other since your karting days. Will you talk to him afterwards or just forget about it?''

They had expected a question like this, so the media-trained answer came out very quickly. ''It was deemed a racing incident, so there is not much to say further about it.''

''How do you and your team plan to bounce back from this setback?'' The reporter for Sky Sports changed the topic.

''We'll regroup and come back stronger,'' she answered, injecting as much determination into her voice as she could muster. ''This season has been tough, but my team and I are committed to pushing forward. We learn from every race, and today is no different.''

''That's great, thank you, Y/N.'' They wrapped up the interview, and she moved onto a new one.

Once she had spoken to everyone she needed to speak to, she finally had a moment to herself. She knew the words she had just spoken were the right ones, but they did little to soothe the turmoil inside her.

It didn't help that Lando managed to take the lead, and eventually get his first win. As she watched the remainder of the race from the sidelines, her emotions were all over the place. On the one hand, she was proud of her friend for finally making his dream come true. However, it had come at the expense of her race. She had pushed so hard this season, and to see her friend and rival celebrate his triumph while she stood there with nothing but frustration was almost unbearable.

The cheers from the McLaren garage echoed in her ears. They celebrated wildly, the joy of his long-awaited victory palpable even from a distance. He was swarmed by his team as they shouted his name.

The podium ceremony was even worse. As Lando stood on the top step, the British national anthem playing in the background, she couldn't help but replay the moment that had ended her race. She could see the excitement in his eyes, the genuine happiness that came with achieving a lifelong dream. But all she could think about was the contact, the gravel trap, and the wrecked potential of what could have been her race.

Under any other circumstance, she would have been there for him. She would have run to the ceremony herself, just like he had done for her when she got her first win in F1 and made history as the first woman to do so. But it just stung too deep.

''Lando, there was an incident with Y/N that resulted in her retiring from the race. Can you tell us what happened there?'' The Dutch reporter asked the race winner.

Lando's expression shifted slightly, the euphoria dimming just a bit. ''Uh, yeah. I saw a gap and went for it. It was a tight move, and unfortunately, it led to some contact. But that's racing, you know.''

''Have you spoken to her yet?''

''Not yet,'' he admitted. ''But I don't think there is much to talk about.'' He chuckled, quickly glancing sideways, but his laugh seemed forced.

''She told Sky Sports that she didn't think you made the right move there.'' The journalist said, instigating a headline for them to be able to use.

Lando frowned at his words, but recovered. ''Well, that's her opinion. It was just racing for me.''

''So you don't regret making the move?'' The reporter pressed on.

The Brit took a deep breath before answering. ''I regret that it ended her race. But as a racer, you have to take chances. It's a fine line, you know.''

The older man in front of him nodded at his response, knowing they had gotten a glimpse of the tension that was present between the fan-favorite duo. ''Thank you, Lando. Congratulations again.''

''Thank you.''

With that, the interview wrapped up, and Lando moved onto the next reporter. As he walked away, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease. He didn't think he had done anything wrong, so why was everyone talking to him as if he had done something wrong?

Y/N was struggling to unwind. The events of the day played over and over in her mind, each replay more frustrating than the last. She tried to distract herself by either watching some TikToks or TV, but nothing could drown out her thoughts. The texts from her friends, family and team certainly didn't help. It was a nice gesture, but she didn't want to think about the race anymore and the messages weren't helping. Finally, she decided to call it a night and climbed into bed, hoping sleep would offer some respite.

Just as she was starting to drift off, another knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. It was unusual for someone to bother her this late, especially when she was winding down in her hotel room.

She frowned and got out of bed, opening the door to find Lando standing there, wearing his signature grin, acting nonchalant as ever. ''You wanna come celebrate with us? We rented a club.''

Y/N frowned at him, confused over his casual behavior. ''No.'' She scoffed, offended by the mere thought.

It was now Lando's turn to frown at his friend. ''Why?''

She crossed her arms, incredulous at his obliviousness. ''Why? Are you taking the fucking piss out of me or something.''

His grin faltered slightly, but he tried to maintain his composure. ''If this is about the racing incident then you're being ridiculous.''

Her eyes widened in disbelief, her frustration boiling over. ''I am being ridiculous? You were ridiculous with that move you pulled!'' She retorted, raising her voice. ''You ran me off the track knowing how hard this season has fucking been for me. You know how much I needed a good result today and you ruined it for me!''

''Y/N, I get that you're upset, but it's racing. These things are bound to happen. I saw a gap and I went for it. The stewards didn't even penalize me, so clearly, it wasn't as bad as you're making it out to be.'' He was restraining from rolling his eyes, she could tell.

She scoffed, shaking her head. ''Oh, so now you're agreeing with the stewards? Now that it is benefitting you? And there was no fucking gap, you were just being selfish. You knew what you were doing, and you didn't care how it would affect me.''

Lando's face hardened, his patience wearing thin. ''I didn't do it on purpose to screw you over, where the fuck are you getting that from? I saw an opportunity, and I took it. That's what we do out there. You know that better than anyone."

''If that opportunity was ruining my fucking race, then yeah, you really took the opportunity, Norris.'' She rolled her eyes, voice tinged with sarcasm.

He took a step closer, his frustration now matching hers. ''I'm sorry that you didn't get the result you wanted today, I really am. But I am not going to apologize for racing and doing my job, Y/N.''

She simply glared at him, disappointed in how he was acting towards her. They'd never really had an argument before, at least not one where they couldn't see each other's point. They'd been frustrated with each other before, but it was always in reason.

''If anything, I should be angry with you- not the other way.'' Lando suddenly said.

''Why's that?'' She sneered, almost in disbelief that he would have a valid reason.

''Because you didn't even have the fucking guts to congratulate me,'' he snapped back, ''when you won Silverstone, I was literally one of the first people to hug you and congratulate you for your win. I stood next to your fucking parents, Y/N! And today you didn't even bother doing anything.''

Her mouth fell open, a mix of shock and anger flooding her veins. ''You are unbelievable… You ruined my fucking race, Lando! How am I supposed to stand there and cheer for you when you cost me everything today?''

He rolled his eyes while throwing up his hands. ''This isn't just about today. You're just jealous because my season has been going so much better than yours. You can't fucking stand that for one time I'm doing actually better than you.''

''Jealous… of you?'' The words came out like laughter, slightly hurting the McLaren driver's ego. ''You think I can't be happy for you because I'm not doing as well? That's so low, Lando.''

''Ever since the start of the season you've been so moody and distant, and now you can't even say or even fucking text me a congratulations for my first win. You're so pissed that I got a win before you this season, you can't even hide it.'' He shot back.

''Oh, give me a break. Like you wouldn't act the same if you were getting all these shit results. Maybe I didn't congratulate you because I was too busy trying to scrape gravel out of my fucking tires.'' She remarked, throwing in the sarcastic comment.

Lando looked unimpressed by her remark. ''You're just mad cause I'm outshining you. You can't fucking stand that I'm getting all the attention.''

''Outshining me? Are you hearing yourself?'' She mocked him, laughing bitterly. ''You get one win and you're acting like you're a fucking World Champion already. You've been riding Max's dick these last years hoping some of his success will rub off on you. Newsflash Norris, everyone is just fucking laughing at you.''

His face turned red, either embarrassment or anger. ''At least I'm not constantly whining about my car and blaming everyone else for my problems. Maybe if you spent more time focusing on your driving and less on complaining, you'd have more to celebrate.''

''You're a fucking spoiled brat who can't stand some competition. You think everything should be handed to you on a silver platter.'' She retorted.

''And you're a fucking baby who throws a temper tantrum everytime you don't get what you want. It's time to fucking grow up, Y/N!'' He shouted, his voice rising with each word.

She took a step closer to him. ''You should spend less time trying to prove yourself to people who don't give a shit about you, and more time trying to be a decent fucking human being. I'm ashamed to call you one of my best friends.''

That last sentence had clearly hit a nerve or several nerves. He shook his head, taking a few steps back. ''Fuck you, Y/N. Enjoy your pity party.'' Lando turned and walked away, joining his friends who were waiting in the lobby.

She watched him go, her chest heaving with a mix of anger and heartbreak. She could feel the pulse of her racing heart, the adrenaline from their argument making her feel jittery and unsteady.

A lump formed in her throat as she replayed the last few minutes in her mind. She cringed internally at the words she had fired at Lando, while also trying to ignore the sting from his own harsh words. She wondered how they would be able to come back from this. They had never been in a situation like this before, and she knew that she would never want to be in this situation again.

The young woman knew that she had let her emotions get the best of her. She had always prided herself on being fair and understanding, but now she felt ashamed of herself.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of another door opening. George peeked out, concern etched on his face. ''Y/N, you okay?''

She shook her head, not wanting to deal with anyone else. ''Mind your business, Russell.'' She retreated back into her room, not before slamming the door behind her.

As she leaned against the closed door, the weight of the evening pressed down on her. The room felt too small, her emotions too big. She slid down to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest, and let the tears she had been holding back finally fall.

Even when she finally got up, even when she tucked herself in again for the final time, and even when she tossed and turned the entire night, the same question lingered in her mind.

Are they still friends?

The question haunted her, gnawing at her thoughts every time she closed her eyes. She replayed the argument over and over, dissecting every word, every expression. The hurt in his eyes, the anger in his voice- it all felt so raw and irreversible.

As the hours dragged on, sleep remained elusive. The darkness of the room mirrored the uncertainty in her heart. She knew they both needed time to cool off, to reflect, but the thought of facing Lando again filled her with dread.

The first light of dawn began to seep through the curtains, and she felt no more at ease than she had the night before.

Are they still friends?

story ideas are always welcome, but remember that it can take a while for me to get to it! :)

#lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x oc #f1 grid x reader #female f1 driver #f1 x reader #f1 x female driver

2K notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 4 months ago

Text

“The Fagin figure leading Elon Musk’s merry band of pubescent sovereignty pickpockets”

This week only, Barnes and Noble is offering 25% off pre-orders of my forthcoming novel Picks and Shovels. ENDS TODAY!.

While we truly live in an age of ascendant monsters who have hijacked our country, our economy, and our imaginations, there is one consolation: the small cohort of brilliant, driven writers who have these monsters' number, and will share it with us. Writers like Maureen Tkacik:

https://prospect.org/topics/maureen-tkacik/

Journalists like Wired's Vittoria Elliott, Leah Feiger, and Tim Marchman are absolutely crushing it when it comes to Musk's DOGE coup:

https://www.wired.com/author/vittoria-elliott/

And Nathan Tankus is doing incredible work all on his own, just blasting out scoop after scoop:

https://www.crisesnotes.com/

But for me, it was Tkacik – as usual – in the pages of The American Prospect who pulled it all together in a way that finally made it make sense, transforming the blitzkreig Muskian chaos into a recognizable playbook. While most of the coverage of Musk's wrecking crew has focused on the broccoli-haired Gen Z brownshirts who are wilding through the server rooms at giant, critical government agencies, Tkacik homes in on their boss, Tom Krause, whom she memorably dubs "the Fagin figure leading Elon Musk’s merry band of pubescent sovereignty pickpockets" (I told you she was a great writer!):

https://prospect.org/power/2025-02-06-private-equity-hatchet-man-leading-lost-boys-of-doge/

Krause is a private equity looter. He's the guy who basically invented the playbook for PE takeovers of large tech companies, from Broadcom to Citrix to VMWare, converting their businesses from selling things to renting them out, loading them up with junk fees, slashing quality, jacking up prices over and over, and firing everyone who was good at their jobs. He is a master enshittifier, an enshittification ninja.

Krause has an unerring instinct for making people miserable while making money. He oversaw the merger of Citrix and VMWare, creating a ghastly company called The Cloud Software Group, which sold remote working tools. Despite this, of his first official acts was to order all of his employees to stop working remotely. But then, after forcing his workers to drag their butts into work, move back across the country, etc, he reversed himself because he figured out he could sell off all of the company's office space for a tidy profit.

Krause canceled employee benefits, like thank you days for managers who pulled a lot of unpaid overtime, or bonuses for workers who upgraded their credentials. He also ended the company's practice of handing out swag as small gifts to workers, and then stiffed the company that made the swag, wontpaying a $437,574.97 invoice for all the tchotchkes the company had ordered. That's not the only supplier Krause stiffed: FinLync, a fintech company with a three-year contract with Krause's company, also had to sue to get paid.

Krause's isn't a canny operator who roots out waste: he's a guy who tears out all the wiring and then grudgingly restores the minimum needed to keep the machine running (no wonder Musk loves him, this is the Twitter playbook). As Tkacik reports, Krause fucked up the customer service and reliability systems that served Citrix's extremely large, corporate customers – the giant businesses that cut huge monthly checks to Citrix, whose CIOs received daily sales calls from his competitors.

Workers who serviced these customers, like disabled Air Force veteran David Morgan, who worked with big public agencies, were fired on one hour's notice, just before their stock options vested. The giant public agency customers he'd serviced later called him to complain that the only people they could get on the phone were subcontractors in Indian call centers who lacked the knowledge and authority to resolve their problems.

Last month, Citrix fired all of its customer support engineers. Citrix's military customers are being illegally routed to offshore customer support teams who are prohibited from working with the US military.

Citrix/VMWare isn't an exception. The carnage at these companies is indistinguishable from the wreck Krause made of Broadcom. In all these cases, Krause was parachuted in by private equity bosses, and he destroyed something useful to extract a giant, one-time profit, leaving behind a husk that no longer provides value to its customers or its employees.

This is the DOGE playbook. It's all about plunder: take something that was patiently, carefully built up over generations and burn it to the ground, warming yourself in the pyre, leaving nothing behind but ash. This is what private equity plunderers have been doing to the world's "advanced" economies since the Reagan years. They did it to airlines, family restaurants, funeral homes, dog groomers, toy stores, pharma, palliative care, dialysis, hospital beds, groceries, cars, and the internet.

Trump's a plunderer. He was elected by the plunderer class – like the crypto bros who want to run wild, transforming workers' carefully shepherded retirement savings into useless shitcoins, while the crypto bros run off with their perfectly cromulent "fiat" money. Musk is the apotheosis of this mindset, a guy who claims credit for other peoples' productive and useful businesses, replacing real engineering with financial engineering. Musk and Krause, they're like two peas in a pod.

That's why – according to anonymous DOGE employees cited by Tckacik – DOGE managers are hired for their capacity for cruelty: "The criteria for DOGE is how many you have fired, how much you enjoy firing people, and how little you care about the impact on peoples well being…No wonder Tom Krause was tapped for this. He’s their dream employee!"

The fact that Krause isn't well known outside of plunderer circles is absolutely a feature for him, not a bug. Scammers like Krause want to be admitted to polite society. This is why the Sacklers – the opioid crime family that kicked off the Oxy pandemic that's murdered more than 800,000 Americans so far – were so aggressive about keeping their association with their family business, Purdue Pharma, a secret. The Sacklers only wanted to be associated with the art galleries and museums they put their names over, and their lawyers threatened journalists for writing about their lives as billionaire drug pushers (I got one of those threats).

There's plenty of good reasons to be anonymous – if you're a whistleblower, say. But if you ever encounter a corporate executive who insists on anonymity, that's a wild danger sign. Take Pixsy, the scam "copyleft trolls" whose business depends on baiting people into making small errors when using images licensed under very early versions of the Creative Common licenses, and then threatening to sue them unless they pay hundreds or thousands of dollars:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/24/a-bug-in-early-creative-commons-licenses-has-enabled-a-new-breed-of-superpredator/

Kain Jones, the CEO of Pixsy, tried to threaten me under the EU's GDPR for revealing the names of the scammer on his payroll who sent me a legal threat, and the executive who ran the scam for his business (I say he tried to threaten me because I helped lobby for the GDPR and I know for a fact that this isn't a GDPR violation):

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/13/an-open-letter-to-pixsy-ceo-kain-jones-who-keeps-sending-me-legal-threats/

These people understand that they are in the business of ripping people off, causing them grave and wholly unjust financial injury. They value their secrecy because they are in the business of making strangers righteously furious, and they understand that one of these strangers might just show up in their lives someday to confront them about their transgressions.

This is why Unitedhealthcare freaked out so hard about Luigi Mangione's assassination of CEO Brian Thompson – that's not how the game is supposed to be played. The people who sit in on executive row, destroying your lives, are supposed to be wholly insulated from the consequences of their actions. You're not supposed to know who they are, you're not supposed to be able to find them – of course.

But even more importantly, you're not supposed to be angry at them. They pose as mere software agents in an immortal colony organism called a Limited Liability Corporation, bound by the iron law of shareholder supremacy to destroy your life while getting very, very rich. It's not supposed to be personal. That's why Unitedhealthcare is threatening to sue a doctor who was yanked out of surgery on a cancer patient to be berated by a UHC rep for ordering a hospital stay for her patient:

https://gizmodo.com/unitedhealthcare-is-mad-about-in-luigi-we-trust-comments-under-a-doctors-viral-post-2000560543

UHC is angry that this surgeon, Austin's Dr Elisabeth Potter, went Tiktok-viral with her true story of how how chaotic and depraved and uncaring UHC is. UHC execs fear that Mangione made it personal, that he obliterated the accountability sink of the corporation and put the blame squarely where it belongs – on the (mostly) men at the top who make this call.

This is a point Adam Conover made in his latest Factually podcast, where he interviewed Propublica's T Christian Miller and Patrick Rucker:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y_5tDXRw8kg

Miller and Rucker published a blockbuster investigative report into Cigna's Evocore, a secret company that offers claims-denials as a service to America's biggest health insurers:

https://www.propublica.org/article/evicore-health-insurance-denials-cigna-unitedhealthcare-aetna-prior-authorizations

If you're the CEO of a health insurance company and you don't like how much you're paying out for MRIs or cancer treatment, you tell Evocore (which processes all your claim authorizations) and they turn a virtual dial that starts to reduce the number of MRIs your customers are allowed to have. This dial increases the likelihood that a claim or pre-authorization will be denied, which, in turn, makes doctors less willing to order them (even if they're medically necessary) and makes patients more likely to pay for them out of pocket.

Towards the end of the conversation, Miller and Rucker talk about how the rank-and-file people at an insurer don't get involved with the industry to murder people in order to enrich their shareholders. They genuinely want to help people. But executive row is different: those very wealthy people do believe their job is to kill people to save money, and get richer. Those people are personally to blame for the systemic problem. They are the ones who design and operate the system.

That's why naming the people who are personally responsible for these immoral, vicious acts is so important. That's why it's important that Wired and Propublica are unmasking the "pubescent sovereignty pickpockets" who are raiding the federal government under Krause's leadership:

https://projects.propublica.org/elon-musk-doge-tracker/

These people are committing grave crimes against the nation and its people. They should be known for this. It should follow them for the rest of their lives. It should be the lead in their obituaries. People who are introduced to them at parties should have a flash of recognition, hastily end the handshake, then turn on their heels and race to the bathroom to scrub their hands. For the rest of their lives.

Naming these people isn't enough to stop the plunder, but it helps. Yesterday, Marko Elez, the 25 year old avowed "eugenicist" who wanted to "normalize Indian hate" and could not be "[paid] to marry outside of my ethnicity," was shown the door. He's off the job. For the rest of his life, he will be the broccoli-haired brownshirt who got fired for his asinine, racist shitposting:

https://www.npr.org/2025/02/06/nx-s1-5289337/elon-musk-doge-treasury

After Krause's identity as the chief wrecker at DOGE was revealed, the brilliant Anna Merlan (author of Republic of Lies, the best book on conspiratorialism), wrote that "Now the whole country gets the experience of what it’s like when private equity buys the place you work":

https://bsky.app/profile/annamerlan.bsky.social/post/3lhepjkudcs2t

That's exactly it. We are witnessing a private equity-style plunder of the entire US government – of the USA itself. No one is better poised to write about this than Tkacik, because no one has private equity's number like Tkacik does:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/02/plunderers/#farben

Ironically, all this came down just as Trump announced that he was going to finally get rid of private equity's scammiest trick, the "carried interest" loophole that lets PE bosses (and, to a lesser extent, hedge fund managers) avoid billions in personal taxes:

https://archive.is/yKhvD

"Carried interest" has nothing to do with the interest rate – it's a law that was designed for 16th century sea captains who had an "interest" in the cargo they "carried":

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/29/writers-must-be-paid/#carried-interest

Trump campaigned on killing this loophole in 2017, but Congress stopped him, after a lobbying blitz by the looter industry. It's possible that he genuinely wants to get rid of the carried interest loophole – he's nothing if not idiosyncratic, as the residents of Greenland can attest:

https://prospect.org/world/2025-02-07-letter-between-friendly-nations/

Even if he succeeds, looters and the "investor class" will get a huge giveaway under Trump, in the form of more tax giveaways and the dismantling of labor and environmental regulation. But it's far more likely that he won't succeed. Rather – as Yves Smith writes for Naked Capitalism – he'll do what he did with the Canada and Mexico tariffs: make a tiny, unimportant change and then lie and say he had done something revolutionary:

https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2025/02/is-trump-serious-about-trying-to-close-the-private-equity-carried-interest-loophole.html

This has been a shitty month, and it's not gonna get better for a while. On my dark days, I worry that it won't get better during my lifetime. But at least we have people like Tkacik to chronicle it, explain it, put it in context. She's amazing, a whirlwind. The same day that her report on Krause dropped, the Prospect published another must-read piece by her, digging deep into Alex Jones's convoluted bankruptcy gambit:

https://prospect.org/justice/2025-02-06-crisis-actors-alex-jones-bankruptcy/

It lays bare the wild world of elite bankruptcy court, another critical conduit for protecting the immoral rich from their victims. The fact that Tkacik can explain both Krause and the elite bankruptcy system on the same day is beyond impressive.

We've got a lot of work ahead of ourselves. The people in charge of this system – whose names you must learn and never forget – aren't going to go easily. But at least we know who they are. We know what they're doing. We know how the scam works. It's not a flurry of incomprehensible actions – it's a playbook that killed Red Lobster, Toys R Us, and Sears. We don't have to follow that playbook.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/07/broccoli-hair-brownshirts/#shameless

#pluralistic #Maureen Tkacik #the american prospect #corporate sociopaths #pixsy #luigi mangione #propublica #doge #coup #elon musk #guillotine watch #adam conover #private equity #citrix #tom krause #looters #marko elez

401 notes · View notes

vitalverstappen · 7 months ago

Text

Cassandra - C. Leclerc

summary: when everyone believes you, what's that like?

pairing: Charles Leclerc x platonic teammate! reader

warnings: Mattia Binotto, swearing, some sexist comments

word count: 3k

a/n: in honor of max winning the WDC, i figured i'd post something. in honor of charles finally losing his shit on the team radio, i figured i'd post this. also it takes place during the 2022 season

masterlist

the tortured drivers department masterlist

2022 was supposed to be your year. You broke onto the F1 scene in 2020 with Haas after working your way up through F3 and F2, championing both levels of racing with ease. You proved yourself time and time again by consistently placing within the points in a less than superior car.

That’s how you got the attention of Ferrari. They offered you a one year deal, and you couldn’t turn it down. You were okay with being the second driver, because you were racing for the most historic team in F1.

Things started out great. The car was a major upgrade from the tractor you were driving with Haas, and the team actively listened to your input and took having a woman in the car seriously.

You and Charles also clicked instantly, which led to some amazing content for the social teams.

“Anything you need, or feel needs changed, let us know. We’re a family here” Mattia said as he gave you the tour of the Ferrari factory.

You couldn’t have drawn up the first two races any better. Both you and Charles were on the podium and it looked like you two were going to give Max and Red Bull a run for their money in the championship races.

The downward spiral started in Australia. From the moment you hit the track for the first time, something felt off. The car was sluggish, it took all of your strength to accelerate and brake properly.

“There’s something wrong with the car.” you told the team, your frustration mounting. “It takes forever to accelerate and then when I do, I can’t break”

“Have you tried leg day?” Mattia asked, a smirk forming on his face, causing you to storm away and find your mechanics.

The Australian Grand Prix ended up being a disaster. You struggled through the laps, barely able to keep up with the field. The car was just too much of a handful. Thirteen laps in, you hand no choice but to retire from the race. The speed was gone, and your confidence was shot.

“I cannot believe he looked me in the eyes and said ‘try leg day’” You fumed as you barged into Charles’ driver room. The frustration was evident in every word, your anger still fresh from the weekend’s events.

Charles looked up from his phone, raising an eyebrow at your entrance. “Well hello to you too” he said with a small chuckle. “What’s going on?”

You let out a deep sigh and recounted the car troubles and the interaction with Mattia. “He actually said ‘try leg day’ to me, like it’s some kind of joke. What happened to ‘if you need anything, let me know’?”

Charles listened intently, a sympathetic look crossing his face. “Hopefully it was just an assembly issue” he said, trying to ease your frustration. ”Imola should go smoothly for the two of us. We both know you’re a hell of a driver.”

Imola was next, and that was somehow even worse than Australia. Instead of acceleration and braking problems, the new issue was the engine. It had to be replaced between practice 3 and qualifying, only for the new one to fail during the race in Imola.

“I have the utmost trust in my team.” You said during your press interviews “We’ve tried upgrades, but they’ve fallen flat. Hopefully Miami provides some better results”

For Miami, the team had reverted your car back to the original set up, the one it had when the season started. The difference was night and day. The car felt responsive, alive in ways it hadn’t in the past few races. As you flew through all three practice sessions and qualifynig, you could feel the weight lift from your shoulders. You had been pushing the limits all weekend, and it had paid off - P2, only behind Charles. Things were looking up.

The problem now was the strategy. As the number two driver, you knew your strategies were mostly going to be defend defend defend but you didn’t realize how badly Ferrari’s lack of adaptability would come into play

The race was shaping up to be intense. Charles had led most of it, with Max behind him. You were right behind Max, keeping a steady pace, but always aware of the massive pressure from the drivers behind. Then, when Charles pitted, you thought, for sure, you’d get the green light to battle Max for the lead. After all, you were right there, in prime position.

Instead, the radio crackled to life.

“Y/n keep defending. Leclerc will be back up there in no time.” Your engineer said

You blinked, incredulous. “I’m sorry what?” You couldn’t believe what you just heard.

“Defend Max. Charles will be back up there to take over. Hold your position” he repeated as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

“Are you fucking serious?” you barked back, your grip tightening on your steering wheel. “I can overtake him for the lead and you want me to defend?!”

Before your engineer could respond, Mattia’s voice boomed over your radio “Defend y/n. Team orders.”

You could feel your irritation building, but there was no choice. Ferrari had spoken. You stayed behind Max, holding position, and waiting for Charles to catch up. Sure enough, Charles had soon found his way back to you, but by that point, Max was far enough ahead that any shot at victory was all but lost.

Later, in the media pen, you stood with the press surrounding you, microphones, shoved in your face. They asked you the usual questions, but you were still stewing over what had happened.

“Yeah, I mean the car felt great” You started, trying to keep your tone even. “We reverted back to the original, pre-upgrades and the car showed it’s worth”

The reporter pressed further. “Now even though the car was great, why do you think you couldn’t pull off the win? You were less than a second behind Max, and chose to defend your position instead of attacking.”

A disappointed sigh escaped your lips. You were tired of repeating the same frustrations. “If it was up to me, I would have attacked. I know we would’ve gotten a different result on the podium today. If we had a different strategy, then we would have gotten many more points.”

“How do you think this result is going to impact the championships?” another reporter asked

You paused, considering the question. “It could make or break it. There’s a large jump of points between one, two and three, and one thrown away strategy can make or break a shot at either championship. I’m just hoping they don’t mess up Charles’ strategies like they have mine.”

As you finished your media duties, you made your way back to the garage, expecting to be alone with your thoughts. But to your surprise, Charles was waiting for you.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, raising an eyebrow as you approached

“I, uh, wanted to congratulate you on P3. You had a good race out there” He said sheepishly, his hands shoved in his pockets.

You shrugged, the weight of the day still on you. “I could have won if my strategy wasn’t total shit.” you muttered, your tone flat.

Charles let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I get it. P1 and P2 would have been great, but strategy isn’t Ferrari’s strong suit” he admitted, his eyes meeting yours with a shared understanding.

“So I’ve learned.” you replied dryly. “I just hope it isn’t bad enough to fuck up winning either championship”

He nodded, a look of quiet concern in his eyes. “So do I. I’m terrified my shot at a driver’s championship is gonna slip away”

Before you knew it, your interview was trending all over social media. Clips of you talking about the strategy missteps were circulating, and the Tifosi and general F1 fans alike were all over it. They didn’t believe you. They thought you were complaining, too bitter about the loss, and some even accused you of undermining the team. The backlash was stiff.

User1: there’s no way they’re going to mess up the golden boy’s strategy. Mattia cares too much about winning to do that

User2: y/n doesn’t know racing. She’s obviously going to get the shit strategy - she’s not charles

User3: Ferrari needs to get rid of her. She doesn’t belong here #burnthebitch

Before media day in Spain, you got called into Mattia’s office.

“Thank you for joining me on such quick notice y/n” Mattia said with a smile as you walked in

You gave him a polite smile as you sat across from his desk “Of course. Why did you call me in?”

The smile on his face instantly hardened “We need to talk about how you approach the media. You embarrassed myself, along with the rest of the Ferrari staff during Miami.”

You found yourself fixing your posture and dropping the smile you had previously, prepared to go toe to toe with your principal. “I would say I told the truth on how the race was handled. We could have left Miami with eleven more points, had we gone P1 and P2”

Mattia sighed “That may be true, but we know you couldn’t have battled Max safely. Regardless, that was two weeks ago. We need to focus on Spain now.”

“Whatever” You mutter “ If we provide sufficient results, I’ll give you praise. If we don’t, I’ll keep mentioning what needs to be done better. Simple as that”

Spain turned out better for you than it did for Charles. You had finished P4, while Charles was forced to retire. Another blow for Ferrari.

Both of you managed to score points in Monaco. The car felt good and it seemed like the team was back to how they were at the start of the season. That is until Baku.

The start of the race seemed like it was going well. The practices and qualifying went well. Charles was on pole and you were not far behind him at P4. But that’s when the good luck ended. Just like the Australian Grand Prix, your brakes were faulty, and this time your clutch wasn’t working.

“Check the hydraulics - brakes aren’t working again and clutch is out.” You voiced over the radio, concern filling your words

After a few moments of silence, your engineer’s voice filled your ears. “Seems we have a uh hydraulic problem. You need to retire the car.”

You muttered a curse as you found a spot to pull your car off. If it wasn’t a strategy issue, it was the car. If it wasn’t the car, it was something else. Something always had to go wrong.

It was only lap eight and Charles was still driving. You had some hope he could get points for the team and for his championship.

Throwing on a spare headset in the Ferrari garage, you watched as Charles battled through the streets of Baku. Just as quick as he was driving, the problems with his car also began to show. He had to retire only a handful of laps later with a power problem.

While Ferrari’s golden boy wouldn’t have a negative thing to say about them during the pressers, you had much less of a filter.

“You can mark my words that we aren’t winning a championship this year. As much as I want to put faith into our team and our strategies, we’ve shown time and time again we come up short.”

Instead of your remarks being pushed aside by everyone, you found yourself in the spotlight. All eyes were on you as you walked into the paddock for the British Grand Prix. You acknowledged your team out of respect, and they greeted you back, but you could tell there was tension.

“Mattia wanted me to tell you that the strategy for today is the same as usual: protect Charles.” Your engineer told you as the two of you sat down for lunch

You furrowed your eyebrows “Why couldn’t Mattia tell me that himself?”

“He doesn’t think you deserve his time and energy” He said, rolling his eyes

A scoff left your lips “That’s ridiculous. We’re both adults. He needs to act like it.”

“You’re telling me” Your engineer muttered

Before you knew it, it was lights out at Silverstone. The race was a disaster for everyone. While a scary crash had been cleaned up, leading to a restart, another safety car was put out for a stopped car.

“Y/n box box” Your engineer spoke through your earbuds

Under the safety car, you were able to pit and get fresh soft tires. When the race resumed, you quickly found yourself behind Charles.

“Am I defending again?” You asked

“You are free to overtake, but you must give up the position once Charles gets back up after pitting”

“You mean Charles didn’t box under the safety car?”

“Correct.”

“Fucking idiots” You sighed, but did as you were told.

Charles easily gave up the front position to you as he headed to the pit lane. You expected him to make a quick comeback in the next few laps, but as the laps ticked by, the gap remained. The radio crackled with instructions from your engineer, and you kept your focus, pushing through.

And just like that, you crossed the finish line. Your first Grand Prix victory.

The celebrations were a blur - the podium, the champagne, the flashing cameras. As the trophy was handed to you, you felt a surge of pride, but the weight of the race still hung in the air. Charles had been a force throughout the race, and even though you had won, it felt wrong that he hadn’t been able to capitalize on his pace.

After the post-race formalities wrapped up, you found yourself in Charles’ room, finally able to breathe. He greeted you with a grin, the kind that only someone who experienced a dramatic race could wear.

“Congratulations! First win!” Charles said, his voice full of enthusiasm

“You should have fucking won that and we both know it.” You said as you tossed him a Gatorade

Charles caught the bottle with a small chuckle, cracking it open “You’re fucking telling me.” he said, taking a long swing. “At least Mattia didn’t chastise you on national TV.”

You leaned against the wall, your arms crossed. “Maybe we’ll both be off speaking terms with him by the end of the season,” you joked, but there was no humor in the situation. “But seriously, what did he say?”

Charles groaned, clearly not looking forward to recounting the conversation “Basically that I needed to listen to team orders. He was pissed that I was pissed that I didn’t win the thing. Said I needed to trust that the team knows what they’re doing.”

“They know what they’re doing?” You raised an eyebrow “Because the last time I checked, they’ve messed up both of our races this season”

“Tell me about it” His tone shifted, frustration building, “I need him out.”

A small grin tugged at the corner of your mouth “Twenty bucks he’s out of his job by the end of the season”

Charles hesitated for a moment, then extended his hand “Deal”

The rest of the season trudged along, with highs and lows in the car, the strategy, and the relationship between Mattia and his drivers. There were some days he would be all over their radios encouraging them, while others he would avoid them like the plague.

And sure enough, once Abu Dhabi came, Charles and Ferrari were so far behind Max and Red Bull that it was impossible to catch up to them in either championship. Mattia announced that he would be stepping down at the end of the season, and you had repaired your rocky relationship with your team, allowing you to renew your contract with Ferrari.

It was the final time in the media pen this season, and it felt much different. The usual questions about the ups and downs of the season were there, but now they came with a certain respect - respect for the struggles you had endured and for the candidness with which you handled it all. Your honest take on Ferrari’s performance had earned its fair share of criticism, but it had also sparked conversations, both within the paddock and among fans.

The final question from the reporter hit differently. The interviewer’s tone wasn’t mocking, but rather filled with a certain curiosity. “How does it feel to know that you had called it earlier in the season, that Ferrari weren’t going to win either championship this year?”

The question hung in the air for a moment as you processed it. The emotions of the entire season flashed through your mind: the excitement of the podiums early on, the disappointment after races like Miami and Baku, the frustrations with the strategies, and the battles you fought on and off the track. It had been a rollercoaster, and while it hadn’t turned out the way you had hoped, you were still standing.

You cracked a smile as you spoke, a mix of pride and exhaustion “Oh, so you guys believe me now?” you said, your voice light but laced with the weight of everything that had happened. “Have a good winter break. I’ll see you in Bahrain”

It was the moment of closure you needed. The reporter thanked you for your time, before wishing you a good break as well. As you walked away from the media pen with Charles by your side, the season’s tension finally seemed to release, at least for a moment.

Charles, sensing the mood, nudged you. “That was… honestly, impressive. You know, calling it before anyone else.”

You let out a short laugh. “Yeah, I guess I had a feeling.” you said, shrugging. “At least I wasn’t wrong.”

Charles smirked, clearly tired but also relieved that the season was over. “Let’s just hope next year’s a little less… chaotic, yeah?”

“Agreed.”

668 notes · View notes

ozzgin · 1 year ago

Note

Is it just me or can I imagine a yandere with a darling who’s immune system and possibly everything about them just screams weak and pathetic, BUT their darling is actually very strong mentally and has and will create the most fucked up, batshit crazy inventions from what used to be harmless to something that can help them escape and possibly destroy everything in its path.

But at the end of the day, they become sleepy koalas who hug whoever is near them and fall asleep :)

This could be a request or rant, whatever you can think of! I just wanted to see how different yandere writers would interpret this small imagination of mine <3

But as always, stay safe and take care! everyone needs a break some time to time~

Sorry, but the moment I read the Darling's description, I instantly thought of Dr. Finkelstein from Nightmare Before Christmas. You know, Sally's inventor. 😭 So let me quickly write this down while I'm in my Shelley vibes, because I like the idea a lot. With a little twist, if you don't mind. :)

Yandere! Monster x Inventor! Reader

A frail inventor, and their affectionate rag doll that has been carefully stitched together for the purpose of a caregiver. An artificial existence, trapped within the confines of your lonely tower. Or so you might think.

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, obsessive behavior

"I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel..." [Frankenstein]

You dangle an old, rusty bell for a good minute before leaning back in your chair. The barely audible chimes are quickly swallowed by the loud, mechanical groans of the gears and engines occupying most of this room. No matter, his ears are good. You picked them yourself. And surely enough, within moments, the door to your laboratory opens and someone cautiously walks in.

A tall, slender man. Or rather, something meant to resemble a man. The skin is a clumsy patchwork of blues and grays - you're no talented seamster, sadly - gathering together the body parts in what feels like a parodic attempt at mimicking God and his image. You gaze at the creature approaching you with a tray of tea and sweets. Scarcely your best work, if you must adhere to honesty. Regardless of the quality of your labor at the time of creation, you are proud of the result. How could you not be? You know this man better than you know yourself. Every organ, every artificial nerve cord, every blemish and stitch of his body was placed according to your intentions. A masterfully detailed project that took you years to complete; not an easy feat considering the lamentable state of your health.

"Here's your deadly nightshade tea." The man places a small, porcelain cup on the desk. "Do let me know when I should take you to bed, (Y/N)." You wave your hand dismissively and stretch out your limbs. "Not yet. I am almost finished", you respond, returning to the mound of metal scraps and pipes before you. "Can I ask what you're making?" The pale creature lowers himself to your level, a curious smile plastered on his face. "It's a mechanical heart", you reveal boastfully. "Like the one I have?" You run your hand through the creature's hair affectionately. "Almost. I'm testing out a different way to build the valves, for a more efficient pumping cycle." You continue to explain the intricacies of your novel mechanism, occasionally sipping on your tea. "Who knows, you might have a sibling in the near future."

The man's smile drops in an instant, and his sunken eyes widen at your statement. "What? Am I- am I not enough?" You glance at the creature as he becomes increasingly frantic. "Don't speak nonsense. If it comes out alright, I'll upgrade your own parts as well. I'm a disciple of scientific virtue, of continuous improvement." Nonsense? Vile treachery! You might've chiseled the brain that throbs within the walls of his skull, but his mind is his alone, and you seem to lack a fundamental understanding of his feelings and thoughts. His ardent confessions of love are met with mockingly pitiful grins, in the way a parent soothes a needy child. Even now, your eyes reflect nothing more than sympathy towards his protest. A childish tantrum is what you're most likely thinking. You've no time for emotional bagatelles. He can read you like an open book.

You simply won't understand. There is no place for a stranger in the life he's crafted with his very own hands: you, and him, and the evening tea with a side of butterscotch biscuits, and the bedtime talks, and the stripped branches of the decaying tree that rap at the windows on stormy nights. You might be the Inventor, but he is not just a mere, humble servant, a rag doll to be tossed around or toyed with. As you will soon discover, after all.

You awaken in the midst of night with your temples burning from a much too familiar headache. Although it's not just the pain that has disturbed your slumber. You can hear rattles and thuds coming from the upstairs laboratory. An intruder? Oh, your creations! The sound of glass breaking and metal scraping sends you into spiraling despair. You fumble to reach the nightstand, patting the surface in search for the bell and keys. You shake the handle in a panic, unable to find anything else in the darkness.

The chaotic rustle abruptly stops, followed by descending footsteps. You hold your breath as the chamber door opens, but it's none other than your creature. "Another flare-up? Shall I bring you some medicine?" the man asks with monotonous courtesy. "What have you been doing? What's all that noise?" you demand, agitated, but upon lifting yourself off the mattress you discover your legs are numb and uncooperative. The man hurries to your bed with a worried frown, and you hear the familiar clatter of the keychain coming from one of his pockets. "Have you taken my keys? Cease this foolishness at once!" Indifferent to your reproach, he places a firm hold on your shoulders and forces you back down, tucking you in effortlessly.

"You must forgive my impertinence." he says in a pleading tone. "I do not wish to impede the works of your genius. As your partner, however, it is my duty to prevent you from making mistakes." You furrow your eyebrows at his words. "What mistakes? My invention was flawless!", you argue fervently. "Indeed it was, but not its purpose. What need have you for another being?" It is the creature's turn for a passionate speech. He stands up with a confidence you don't recognize and continues: "You should know by now that I am fit to perform any role. That of your servant, your caregiver, your lover, or anything else you may desire. You can resume your tinkering starting tomorrow, but such blasphemies to our bond as the one today will not be tolerated." He straightens his vest and reaches for the door handle. "I will prepare some tea to help you rest."

Inconceivable. Your own creation, built with your own hands...Has something escaped your attention? His dialogue is deranged, tainted by madness. "Have I done something wrong?" you mumble to yourself, deep in contemplation. "Nonsense." the creature turns to face you briefly. "It was you who created me after all. Everything is perfectly splendid."

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x darling #male yandere x reader #yandere monster #yandere monster x reader #monster x human #monster x reader #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #gender neutral reader #yandere headcanons #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere creation

2K notes · View notes

v6quewrlds · 2 months ago

Text

&.⠀⠀OFF THE TABLE I⠀⋆⠀JUSTIN HERBERT.

pairing⠀⁎⠀justin herbert x single mother!oc. word count⠀⁎⠀4.3k.

series summary⠀⁎⠀in maya's eyes, love has been completely off the table since the birth of her son, miles, six years ago. fate disagrees with maya's point of view, bringing her justin in more ways than one.

author's note⠀⁎⠀these chapters will generally be under 10k words. no idea how long it's gonna be, but i have several parts planned for the future <3 series warnings⠀⁎⠀18+ mdni, smut (none in this part), oc warning [maya atkins], single motherhood, friends with benefits, discussions of guilt, mention of deadbeat dads.

read more⠀⁎⠀justin herbert masterlist⠀⁎⠀next part.

The rumble of the car engine came to a stop as Maya pulled into the driveway of her parents' home. The right index finger of her unmanicured hand was pressed against the start/stop button, and she felt the subtle vibration under her thighs completely halt. She took a moment to gaze at the quiet street, the porch light casting a warm glow on the lawn. Streaks of gold mixed with pinks, purples, and midnight blue painted the sky, hinting at the end of a long week, yet the start of a long weekend.

She collected her keys, leaving her purse behind in the passenger's seat. Her heels hit the concrete one after the other, her muscles tensing as she pushed herself onto her feet. "Bag," she muttered to herself, turning towards the back doors of her recently upgraded Mazda CX-5. She grabbed the handle with her left hand and pulled open the door with a click. The smell of the leather interior melded with the faint scent of Miles' shampoo from his car seat. Her hand reached in to grab the bag she had packed for his weekend with his grandparents. Two of his favorite plushies, his book for the week—Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, his current hyperfixation was Roald Dahl chapter books, and a tablet (parental controlled to hell) with access to only educational content.

The bag slung over her right shoulder familiarly, though the stretch of her blazer pulled at the left. She locked the car with a habitual double press of the lock button on her keys, then turned on her heel to approach the house. Her eyes fell upon the welcome mat, slightly askew from a day of her parents' comings and goings. She corrected it with a gentle nudge of her foot before using her spare key to unlock the door.

"Mom, Dad," she called out, her voice echoing through the hallway. The smell of dinner lingered in the air—something rich and comforting that immediately made her stomach growl. She pulled her heels off, bending over to set them on the rack beside the door. Her feet sighed with relief as they met the cool tile. "Miles," she sang out, a smile playing on her lips. The patter of little feet grew closer, and before she could even straighten up, she was enveloped in a warm, sticky hug.

"Mommy!" Miles beamed, his eyes sparkling with excitement. He held onto her tightly, his small body wriggling against hers.

"Hi, baby," she responded, feeling his energy and love in every inch of her being. She knelt down to return his embrace fully, her cheek pressing to his soft hair. "How was school today?"

"Good," he said, his voice muffled against her neck. "We had a pizza party!"

Maya chuckled. "Wow, sounds like a great Friday. Did you save any for me?"

Miles pulled away, his face flushed. "Nope, I ate it all," he said with a cheeky grin, his breathing heavy from the excitement of seeing his mom.

Maya laughed, brushing some lint away from his striped blue and orange t-shirt. "I bet it was real good, huh?" she said, standing up. She bent down to kiss him on the forehead, her eyes catching the glint of the gold necklace her mother had given her for her birthday years ago and saved when she outgrew it, so the necklace was now a permanent part of Miles' collection.

"Where's Papa and Mimi?" Maya asked, setting the bag down near the stairs. They had picked Miles up from school on her behalf, as they always did on Fridays which she used to meet with her clients located the farthest away from her central hub of Los Angeles County.

Miles looked up at her with those same brown eyes she saw in the mirror every morning, his little face a canvas of innocence and curiosity. "Papa is in the bathroom, and Mimi is in the kitchen," he said, pointing down the hall, reaching up for her hand to guide her.

Maya's mother, Brandy, emerged from the kitchen, her eyes lighting up at the sight of her daughter. She was a smaller woman, her natural coils that matched her daughter's were pulled back from her face with an extra-large claw clip Maya recognized as one likely stolen from her collection. The twist out on her 4B hair looked fresh, saturated with her favorite curl cream that smelled of shea butter.

"Maya, baby, how was your week?" she asked, her voice warm and inviting. She turned to face her daughter, dressed in a V-neck top and flared yoga pants. Her arms opened wide, ready to embrace her.

Maya stepped into the warm hug, feeling the stress of the week melt away. "It was busy, but productive," she replied, her voice muffled against her mother's shoulder. "How did the pick-up go?"

"It went well," Brandy said, pulling back to look at Maya. "You look good, baby. Did you finally get some rest?"

Maya nodded. "I had a meeting that ran late, but I managed to squeeze in a quick nap before I picked him up on Thursday." She took a deep breath, the aroma of her mother's perfume bringing a brush of comfort to her senses.

Her father, Raymond, appeared at the top of the stairs. "Look who's here," he boomed, his baritone voice filling the space. "You staying for dinner?"

Maya glanced at her watch, the digital face reading 6:45 PM. "Can't tonight, Dad. I'm heading down to that new place on Melrose for dinner and drinks," she said, reaching out to hug her father, who stumbled as Miles scrambled to hug his leg.

"Oh, okay," Raymond said, his eyes searching hers before he added. "You meeting someone?"

Maya shook her head with a roll of her eyes, "No, working again. The client I'm working with is struggling with menu items, just need to get an idea of what's out there, what's popular…" she responded, watching as Miles turned to run off for the door, presumably eager to dig into his bag of activities.

"Bubba, what do you need?" she called after him, watching as he disappeared into the living room.

"Nothing, Mommy, I got it," he yelled back, immediately following up with a 'rawr' signaling he had found his dinosaur plushie.

Brandy chuckled. "He's in a loud mood today," she said, stepping aside to let Maya into the kitchen. The counters were cleared of the usual clutter, a sign that her mother had spent most of the day cleaning in preparation for Hurricane Miles. "How long do you think you'll be out tonight?"

Maya shrugged. "As long as it takes, I guess. I'll text when I'm on my way home," she said, leaning against the kitchen counter, her eyes scanning over the fridge covered in her son's artwork. And there it was, that creeping of guilt into her stomach. She knew her parents looked forward to their weekends with Miles, but she couldn't help the feeling that she was abandoning him. It was a sinking feeling that she had grown accustomed to over the years, especially when work called on her weekends.

"You're thinking too deep, Maya," Raymond said, his hand landing on Maya's shoulder with a gentle squeeze. "You work hard all week, you deserve a break. Get your work done, go home, sleep in—" before he could complete his thought, her mother interrupted.

"Don't be shy to get some," Brandy added with a knowing smile. Maya chuckled, rolling her eyes. Her parents had always been blunt about their desires for her to find someone, but she was always amused by the bluntness of it all. She hadn't had a serious relationship since Miles' dad, and even that was more of a whirlwind romance that ended with a baby and a lot of unanswered questions.

"I'm just going to check on Miles before I head out," Maya said, making her way to the living room. Her son was sprawled on the floor, the backpack wide open, its contents spilling out like a treasure chest of toys and books. She squatted beside him, her hand smoothing over his hair. "Remember to be good for Mimi and Papa, okay?"

Miles looked up at her with those big, innocent eyes. "I will, Mommy. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too, sweetie," Maya said, her voice thick with affection. She gave him another kiss, then stood, her eyes following him as he turned back to his toys to continue playing. She took a deep breath, gathering herself.

"Okay, I'm heading out," she called out to her parents, picking up her purse and sliding her feet back into her heels. "Let me know if you all need anything, okay?"

"We're fine, baby," Brandy said, waving her off with a dish towel. "You go do what you have to do. Enjoy your weekend, honey."

Maya nodded, slipping her phone into her pocket and grabbing her bag. "Love you, Miles," she called out, her heels clicking against the floor as she made her way to the door. She stepped out into the cool evening air, the breeze playing with her hair. She took a moment to appreciate the quiet of the neighborhood before climbing into her car and heading towards Melrose.

The restaurant was already bustling when she arrived, the neon lights flickering in the windows. She stepped inside, the low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses filling her ears. The hostess, a young woman with a sleek bob, glanced up from her podium. "Just one tonight?" she asked, her eyes scanning Maya from head to toe.

Maya nodded. "Yes, just me. Do you offer food at the bar?"

The hostess smiled, grabbing two menus. "Absolutely," she said, leading Maya through the crowded dining area to the bar. The space was intimate, with high-backed stools and a polished mahogany bar that gleamed under the soft lights. She took a seat at the corner, her back to the wall, and opened her notebook to the page she had reserved for the night's findings.

She scribbled her first observations, namely the lighting—soft and flattering, a good balance between mood and practicality—and the music, a mix of old school R&B and contemporary jazz that created an ambiance that was both nostalgic and modern. The bar was a blend of chrome and glass, with bottles of various liquors arranged with the precision of a museum exhibit.

"What can I get you, gorgeous?" the bartender, a man in his early 30s with a clean-shaven face and a friendly smile, asked as he approached her.

Maya looked up from her notebook and gave him a polite smile. "I'll warn you I'm a culinary consultant, so please forgive me if I annoy you tonight," she said, her voice a smooth blend of humor and apology. "Could I start with a non-alcoholic mojito?"

The bartender grinned. "Not a problem, I've had my fair share of picky customers," he joked, getting to work on her drink. "What brings you here? Just work?"

Maya nodded, watching him mix the mint and lime with soda water. "Always," she replied, her eyes taking in the freshness of the ingredients set in front of him. "I've got a client looking to spice up their menu, and I want to see what's working for others before I make any suggestions."

The bartender slid her drink over, the mint leaves bobbing at the top. She took a sip, her eyes closing as she savored the crispness of the mint and the sweetness of the lime. It was perfect, and she made a note of that. "You're in luck," he said. "We just revamped ours last week. If you're looking for inspiration, I can give you the rundown on what's selling and what's not."

Maya's eyes lit up. "That would be amazing," she said though her head turned at the sound of a guest attempting to capture the bartender's attention. "Come find me when you're free," she told him gesturing behind him. "I'll be here a while," she finished with a laugh.

The bartender nodded and moved off to serve the waiting customer, leaving Maya to sip her drink and continue her observations. She noticed the way the staff interacted with each other and the guests, the efficiency of their movements, and the presentation of the food that was being delivered. She made notes about the cleanliness of the bar and the variety of the non-alcoholic options, something that she felt was often lacking in similar establishments.

As the evening progressed, she ordered a few more items from the menu, each one carefully considered and critiqued in her notes. The bartender, whose name she had learned was Caleb, checked in with her periodically, offering insights into the popularity of certain dishes and sharing a few stories about the chefs that had created them. The conversation flowed easily between them, a blend of professional curiosity and friendly banter that had her relaxing more and more as the night went on.

The low murmurs of the restaurant at the beginning of the night slowly grew to all all-out chatter and laughter as more guests filled the space. Maya's notebook was now a canvas of scribbled notes surrounded by three half-eaten appetizers and an empty mojito glass. Caleb, the bartender, had been true to his word, keeping her informed of the bestsellers and even slipping in some behind-the-scenes gossip about the staff drama.

With the swell of guests, she decided to take a backseat, allowing him to handle the busy crowd. As the night grew later, the restaurant's energy remained high. Taking another look at the menu, she picked out a dessert to end the evening with, lifting her head to begin an attempt to catch Caleb's eye.

Her efforts proved increasingly difficult as Caleb found himself pulled in all directions by guests across a spectrum of intoxication levels, each demanding his attention. She pursed her lips, watching him juggle drink orders and good-natured banter with a skill that suggested he'd been born to this life.

As she sought to capture the bartender's attention once more, she felt a presence beside her. She glanced over to find a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark shirt and dark wash jeans, his handsome face framed by the dusting of his well-groomed facial hair across the lower half. His sandy hair curled perfectly around his ears, thick enough that she could make out layers, but not long enough that it touched his shoulders. Her second glance over his frame brought her a brief moment of shock as she took in just how tall he was. He looked at her with a friendly smile and leaned in, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the din.

"You need the bartender?" the man asked, his voice a rich baritone that resonated through the room. Maya nodded, a bit taken aback by his proximity. "I got you," he said, raising a hand to signal Caleb. The bartender nodded in recognition and held up an index finger, signaling she would be next.

"I'm Justin, by the way," the man introduced himself, extending a hand as he leaned against the bar.

Maya took a moment to appreciate the confidence in his grip and the way his eyes held hers as she took in his athletic build. "Maya," she replied, her voice a touch lighter than she intended. "Thanks for the help."

Justin nodded, his smile never faltering. "No problem. This is the busiest I've ever seen this place." He glanced around the crowded restaurant, his eyes reflecting the lights from the bar.

Maya took another sip of her drink, her gaze lingering on the group of men at the end of the bar. They were all tall and muscular, their laughter booming through the room. "You come here often?" she asked, her curiosity piqued by their presence.

"Not really," he admitted. "But when you're in town with friends, you tend to follow the crowd." He nodded towards the group, who were now looking their way.

The bartender, Caleb, made his way over, a knowing smile playing on his lips as he caught the interaction between Maya and Justin. "Another drink, Maya?" he asked, his eyes darting to Justin before returning to her.

"Dessert this time, then I'm heading out," Maya said to Caleb. "I'll do the cinnamon baklava roll-ups, to go, please. And put whatever his drink is on my tab," she added, gesturing to Justin.

Justin's eyes widened slightly. "You don't have to do that," he protested, reaching for his wallet.

Maya waved him off, her head shaking. "Consider it a thank you for saving me," she quipped, reaching in her bag to find her wallet.

Justin's hand remained outstretched, his eyebrows rising. "I can't let you do that," he said, his voice firm.

Maya chuckled, pulling out her credit card and placing it firmly on the bar. "I've got it," she assured him, her voice steady. "I'll just charge my next client extra to make up for it," she joked, her professional persona slipping slightly to reveal a playful side that matched the lightness in her eyes.

Justin hesitated for a moment before conceding with a grin. "Alright, I'll just get another Blue Moon, thanks, man." He nodded to Caleb, who took the cue to serve him up. "So, while we wait, tell me about these clients you charge exorbitant amounts for your time," he said, leaning slightly closer, his eyes sparkling.

Maya couldn't help but laugh. "It's not quite that dramatic," she said, her cheeks warming. "I'm a culinary consultant. I help restaurants and bars refine their menus, train their staff, troubleshoot, that kind of thing."

Justin nodded. His gaze was genuine, and Maya felt a flutter in her stomach. "That's pretty cool," he said. "Did you go to culinary school or something?"

Maya took a moment to appreciate his curiosity before responding. "Yeah, I did," she said. "But I realized that strictly cooking wasn't for me. I'm more of a behind-the-scenes kind of person. I like new challenges, I get to work with different kitchens and concepts. It keeps things interesting."

"So what would you recommend from this menu?" Justin asked, his eyes scanning over the list of exotic cocktails and tapas.

Maya's gaze followed his, her mind racing through the dishes she'd tried so far. "If you're into spice, the habanero-infused guacamole is amazing with the plantain chips," she said, her voice taking on a professional tone. "But if you're looking for something sweet, the churros with the caramel rum sauce are amazing."

Justin nodded thoughtfully, his eyes shifting up to take in her side profile. "I'm more of a savory guy," he said. "Did you try the chicken tacos?"

"I did," Maya said, her smile widening as she motioned to the sample to her right. "They're pretty good. The meat's cooked really nice, not too much heat. Ask for the pineapple salsa on the side to avoid getting them too soggy."

Justin's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he spoke up again. "It wouldn't be too forward of me to ask for your number, would it?"

Maya's heart skipped a beat. She had been enjoying the conversation, but she wasn't expecting this. She took a deep breath, contemplating the implications. "Maybe," she said coyly. "Depends on why you want it."

Justin leaned in, his voice lowering. "Well, I'd love to pick your brain about more of these hidden gems in the city," he said. "And maybe, if you're down for it, I'd like to take you out for a drink. You know, to thank you for the advice and to make up for the fact that I didn't pay for that last one."

Maya felt a warmth spread through her chest, his words carrying an undeniable charm. She studied him for a moment, taking in the confidence that seemed so natural to him. "Alright," she said finally, taking his phone in her hand. "Does this make us even?"

Justin grinned as he watched her type in her number. "More than," he said, taking his phone back and sending her a quick text to confirm they had connected. The vibration sounded in her purse, and she pulled out her own phone to read the simple message:

This is Justin. Looking forward to seeing you again.

Maya felt a thrill of excitement. It had been a while since she'd felt this way, but she couldn't ignore the little voice in the back of her mind reminding her of her responsibilities. She pushed that little voice to the side, taking a deep breath just as Caleb returned with her to-go dessert. She took it with a smile, feeling the warmth flood through the white plastic bag. She stood from her bar stool, taking in the height difference between herself and Justin. Her head tilted up to meet his eye contact, and she couldn't help but appreciate the way he had to look down at her, not in a patronizing way, but as if he were frozen in place, worried that if he broke eye contact, she'd vanish into thin air.

"I should get going," she said, the words feeling awkward on her tongue. "I have an early morning with a client."

Justin nodded, stepping back to allow her space to move in the direction of the exit. "It was nice to meet you. Maybe we can do this again sometime?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

Maya felt a tug at her heart, the kind she hadn't felt in a long time. "I'd like that," she replied, her eyes shining. "Have a good night with your friends."

"You too," Justin said, his gaze lingering on her before she turned to leave. She walked out of the bar, the cool Pacific air taking over the warmth that had settled over her skin. As she got into her car, she couldn't help but open up the message thread again, her heart racing as she reread his words. The simplicity of it—the fluttering flush of crushing—was surprisingly sweet, and she found herself smiling to herself in the quiet of the driver's seat.

Maya made the short trip home, her thoughts swirling around the encounter with Justin. She knew she couldn't get too invested—she had Miles to think about, her career to focus on—but it was difficult to ignore the excitement bubbling within her.

The hours of the next morning melted together as Maya spent the majority of her day with her client. The conversation with Justin lingered in her mind like the sweet scent of cinnamon from the baklava rolls. When her phone buzzed with a message from an unsaved number as she made the drive home, she felt a mix of excitement and trepidation.

It was simple:

How was your day?

Yet her heart skipped a beat as she read the message, recognizing the sender as none other than Justin. She set her phone aside, brainstorming a potential reply as she hit the highway toward Culver City. It was a simple text, but it felt loaded with potential. The weight of her son's importance in her life rested heavily on her shoulders, but for a moment, she allowed herself to indulge in the flirty banter that had been so long absent from her world.

Maya parked in her driveway and took a deep breath before responding.

Busy, but productive.

She texted back, keeping it casual.

How about yours?

Justin's reply came quite quickly after, relating to her woes and easing into a smooth conversation.

The male attention was a welcome change of pace for Maya, whose life had been seized by the relentless grind of single motherhood and career ambition. The conversation with Justin was a breath of fresh air, a reminder that there was more to her than just being Miles' mom.

Have you recovered from my interception last night?

Maya's text echoed in Justin's mind, bringing a smile to his face as he read it in the locker room. He quickly responded, playing along with the banter.

Barely.

He typed.

But I'm willing to let it slide if you give me a chance to redeem myself.

His foot tapped anxiously as he watched those three dots signaling her typing appeared at the bottom of the text thread. The anticipation grew as the message popped up:

Well, if you're feeling generous, maybe we could meet somewhere whenever you're free?

Justin's smile grew. He had hoped their encounter wasn't just a one-off fluke.

I'd like that.

He replied, trying to keep his excitement in check.

I should check my schedule, but I'll get back to you with a few dates.

The schedule in question had nearly two entire weeks blocked off between the start of OTAs and some promotional appearances and photoshoots. He figured he'd take another look at his schedule when he was home, sitting down, and freshly showered without the wandering gazes of his teammates who still circled in the locker room.

So he left it there, gathered his towel, and headed for the showers.

Leaving it there stretched on, the dates left unchecked, the promise of getting back to her forgotten. As the days passed, Maya found herself touching the edge of disappointment, scooching close to tumbling over when she checked her phone for a follow-up or even just an apology for disappearing that never came. She reasoned it was for the best, that she had Miles to focus on, and that maybe, just maybe, she'd dodged a bullet with a tall, charming man who likely had more women in his lineup than he could count.

So she threw herself back into her work, balancing motherhood and her consulting gigs with renewed vigor, trying her best to shake off the sting of "what if?".

#&. cassie writes.#justin herbert #justin herbert imagine #justin herbert x oc #justin herbert fanfic #justin herbert smut #justin herbert fluff #justin herbert x black oc #justin herbert x black!oc

219 notes · View notes

hammerheadperformancetx · 8 months ago

Text

#150cc Engine Replacement Parts #Small Engine Parts Online #150cc Engine Components #Engine Parts for Go Karts #Small Engine Replacement Parts #Online Engine Parts Store #150cc Engine Upgrades #Small Engine Maintenance Parts #High-Performance Engine Parts #Go Kart Engine Parts

0 notes

hamilton-here · 1 month ago

Text

𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒫𝓁𝒶𝓃 𝒫𝓉.1

Authors Note: Hi all! Here is a quick one-shot I was able to do. Hope you enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis Hamilton tries to charm Charles Leclerc’s sister, only for the bet to evolve into a deeper emotional connection. Until the truth about the game shatters the fragile bond.

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog

Warnings: angst, mild swearing

MASTERLIST

Pt1, Pt2

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Ferrari motorhome had its usual heartbeat of hushed radio chatter in the background, espresso cups clinking and the hum of engineers dissecting data over breakfast. Drivers filtered in and out, some still waking up and others already halfway through briefings.

In a far corner of the lounge, a few drivers who didn’t have meetings for another hour had clustered at a small table. Carlos Sainz sipped his double shot macchiato with a smirk. “She’s back this weekend.”

Oscar glanced up from his phone. “Leclerc’s sister?”

Carlos nodded toward the glass doors. “Yep. Saw her come in with Charles. Still looks like she wants nothing to do with any of us.”

“She’s smart,” Lando snorted, lounging across two chairs. “We’re a disaster.”

“She’s not wrong to avoid you,” Carlos said. “But me? I’m great.”

“You’re like a brother to Charles,” Oscar pointed out. “It’s different.”

Lando grinned. “What’s the over under on someone actually getting her to smile for more than two seconds?”

Carlos scoffed. “Smile? Try holding a conversation.”

“I could do it,” Lewis said from the far side, where he was stirring honey into his tea. His tone was calm, confident. Too confident.

Oscar blinked. “Wait. You?”

“I’m good with people.”

Lando laughed. “Mate, she looked through you last time like you were part of the wall.”

Lewis set his spoon down slowly. “You’re underestimating me.”

“No one’s doubting your abilities,” Carlos teased. “We’re just saying, not even you could charm Leclerc’s sister.”

A spark of mischief lit Lewis’s face. “Wanna bet?”

Oscar looked at the others, then back at Lewis. “Alright. We’ll make it simple. A proper, casual conversation. More than ten minutes. Voluntary. No PR obligations. And she has to look like she enjoys it.”

“No Charles around,” Carlos added. “We’ll know if it was pity.”

Lando leaned forward. “And if she agrees to get coffee with you? Game over. You win.”

Lewis offered his hand with that signature smirk. “Deal.”

They shook on it.

And just like that, a harmless bet was born.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You’d only come to Maranello for the weekend something you did occasionally when work wasn’t drowning you. Charles liked having you nearby, even if it meant dragging you into endless corridors and debriefing rooms.

Ferrari’s compound was more tense than usual. Whispers of upgrades and expectations buzzed through every hallway. Still, you found a quiet corner with a cappuccino and your laptop, determined to get some paperwork completed while Charles prepped with his engineers.

That’s when you noticed him.

Lewis Hamilton.

He’d just walked through the lounge, still in his team polo, greeting staff with a relaxed nod. You’d seen him before, obviously. He was nearly impossible not to notice. But you’d never actually spoken. Your few encounters had been limited to polite nods or a brief smile from a distance.

This time, he walked directly toward you.

You tried not to react.

“Is that legal code?” he asked, pointing to your screen.

You didn’t look up. “No.”

“FIA rulings?”

Still typing. “Nope.”

“Secret Ferrari strategy?”

You sighed, glanced up. “It’s my dissertation.”

He tilted his head, reading upside down. “Criminal profiling. Sounds intense.”

You closed the laptop halfway. “It is.”

“You always complete work in race paddocks?”

“Only when my brother insists I come keep him company and then promptly disappears for four hours.”

Lewis chuckled. “Sounds like Charles.”

You finally looked at him, curious. “You don’t have somewhere better to be?”

“Not really. Thought I’d say hi. I feel like we’ve circled each other for a while without actually talking.”

“That’s not an accident,” you deadpanned.

He laughed like a full, surprised laugh. “Fair. But a little harsh.”

You shrugged, sipping your cappuccino. “You’re just a lot.”

“A lot?”

“Media. Noise. Cameras. Entourage.”

He leaned against the back of the chair across from you, casual and unfazed. “And you don’t like noise?”

“I like peace.”

“You don’t think I can be peaceful?”

You gave him a look. “Do you want to be peaceful?”

His smile softened into something quieter. “More than you’d think.”

That made you pause.

He saw it. The hesitation and the flicker of curiosity. And instead of pushing, he stepped back.

“Nice talking to you,” he said, genuinely. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He didn’t linger. Didn’t press. Just walked off.

And for the first time, you found yourself watching him go.

Over the next couple of days, he kept showing up.

Once, it was at the espresso machine, where he handed you the exact coffee you usually ordered. “Saw you eyeing it yesterday,” he said with a wink.

Another time, he waited beside you while Charles was in a debrief and asked about your thesis. He actually listened.

You couldn’t ignore it anymore. He was charming but not in the obnoxious way you expected. He asked questions. He remembered details. He didn’t talk about himself unless you asked.

And God help you, he was funny.

“What would it take,” he asked one afternoon, sitting across from you again, “for you to admit I’m growing on you?”

“You’re not,” you said, typing.

“You paused.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You always pause when you lie.”

Your fingers froze.

He grinned. “Gotcha.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I get that a lot.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched and he noticed.

Back at the drivers' table, Lewis didn't report his progress. He didn’t need to. They could see it.

“She’s laughing with him now,” Oscar muttered to Carlos over dinner.

Carlos folded his arms. “He’s not even trying anymore.”

“That’s the scary part,” Oscar replied. “He doesn’t have to.”

Lewis barely heard them. His mind wasn’t on the bet anymore. It hadn’t been for days.

He was too focused on you, on the way you’d started sitting next to him at team dinners or how you teased him about his jewellery. Or how you didn’t care about who he was, just how he was with you.

He liked that version of himself. Liked being around you. Liked the sound of your laugh echoing in the sterile walls of Ferrari’s fortress.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

And it didn’t feel like a win anymore.

It felt like a risk.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Lewis wasn’t expecting you to show up at the track that early.

You weren’t expecting him to already be waiting, leaning against a metal railing outside the Ferrari motorhome with two takeaway coffees in hand and that damned smile that made it hard to think straight.

“I guessed right,” he said, handing you one of the cups without asking. “Oat milk, no sugar. You strike me as someone who doesn’t fake their caffeine preferences.”

You blinked at him, amused despite yourself. “Are you trying to impress me with barista intuition?”

“Is it working?”

You rolled your eyes but took the cup. “Only because you got it right.”

“Then yes. I am absolutely trying to impress you.”

He fell into step beside you, easy and unhurried like he had all the time in the world despite the looming media duties and team meetings. You could feel eyes glancing toward you from the corner of the paddock, maybe just curious stares or people already wondering why Lewis Hamilton was spending so much time with Charles Leclerc’s little sister.

Lewis ignored the glances. You didn’t know it, but he'd already caught heat for it in the driver's lounge earlier that week.

“Mate,” Lando had said, grinning into his protein bar, “you’re laying it on thick.”

“It's just friendly conversation,” Lewis said lightly, although even he didn’t believe that anymore.

Carlos, tying the laces of his shoes, smirked. “Right. ‘Friendly conversation’ that now involves bringing her coffee, walking her around the paddock, and quoting her favorite podcast in the cafeteria?”

“Sounds like someone’s catching feelings,” George added, only half joking.

Lewis had brushed it off, but deep down he knew something had shifted. What started as a bet was becoming something else. He didn’t even care if he won anymore.

That thought terrified him more than it should’ve.

Back outside, you were talking about a legal case from your studies something about deception and motive. Lewis found himself listening too intently, laughing at your sarcastic takes, noticing the way your eyes lit up when you were passionate about something.

It didn’t feel like a game.

It hadn’t for days now.

“You always this intense before a race?” you asked, watching him tap a rhythm on the coffee cup with his fingers.

He looked at you for a moment. “Only when I’m thinking about something I can’t quite figure out.”

You tilted your head, amused. “Let me guess - strategy?”

“No,” he said, smile softening. “You.”

Your laugh came out before you could stop it, but there was a flicker of something behind your smile. Curiosity. Intrigue.

Maybe a touch of danger, too.

Later, you were in the back of the hospitality suite, curled up with your notes while Charles debriefed. Lewis walked in, talking with a Ferrari comms assistant, but the moment his eyes met yours his conversation trailed off.

“Give me five?” he murmured to the assistant before veering toward your seat.

“You stalking me?” you teased as he leaned against the table near your laptop.

“More like orbiting,” he said. “You’ve got gravity.”

You snorted. “That’s cheesy, even for you.”

“I was aiming for charming.”

“Well,” you said, pretending to think, “you’re somewhere between smooth and suspicious.”

He laughed, then took a slow sip of his water. “Let me ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“What would it take for you to let someone in?”

The question caught you off guard. It was too sincere. Too raw.

You studied him. “That depends. Are they knocking to stay or just to pass through?”

Lewis went quiet. For once, the witty comebacks died on his tongue.

You hadn’t meant it to be personal. But suddenly it was.

“I don’t pass through,” he said quietly.

You nodded, not quite smiling. “Good.”

And the moment lingered - unspoken, electric.

The rest of the weekend became a slow burn.

Lewis kept appearing, sometimes with a joke or sometimes with silence. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t push. But he was always close, always watching, like he wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten this deep but didn’t want to leave.

The others noticed.

Pierre nudged him during a break in the media pen. “So, Hamilton. You charming her yet?”

Lewis didn’t answer.

He was starting to hate the sound of the word charming.

Because none of them knew how your laugh made his chest ache, or how you listened to him like he was more than the fame and the headlines. You looked at him like he was real.

He didn’t want to fake anything anymore.

One night, after most of the paddock had cleared out you stayed late with Charles while he wrapped up simulator work. Lewis found you alone in the lounge, feet tucked under you, nose buried in your book.

“You’re always reading,” he said as he flopped onto the couch across from you.

“You’re always interrupting me.”

“Yeah,” he grinned. “We make a good pair.”

You glanced up at him over the top of the book. “Don’t you have a race to win?”

He shrugged. “I’m not worried.”

“Confidence or ego?”

“Both,” he said. “But mostly because I have something else on my mind.”

You shut the book, raising an eyebrow. “Like?”

He hesitated, eyes on yours. “You.”

This time, the silence didn’t feel teasing. It felt honest.

You didn’t run. You didn’t deflect.

You looked at him like maybe, just maybe, you’d been thinking the same thing.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It had become a quiet routine, Lewis showing up beside you like gravity without ceremony, without warning. Sometimes with coffee, sometimes just with a story or a glance that lingered longer than it should’ve. And you had let him.

Because despite the whispers in the paddock, despite the warning bells in your head that your brother would not approve, Lewis had a way of making you feel like the only person in the room.

That day, you were zoning out as Charles’s girlfriend Alexandra was chatting something to you. Lewis had drifted in after a meeting, uninvited but not unwelcome, collapsing beside you like he’d earned that spot.

“Mind if I steal Y/N for a bit?” he asked with a grin.

Alexandra smiled nodding before walking off eyes glued to her phone.

You blinked at him, realising you hadn’t listened to Alexandra the whole time.

“I was distracted,” you admitted.

He tilted his head. “By what?”

You stared at him. “By you.”

That surprised him - his brow lifting, lips parting slightly like he wasn’t used to being seen so plainly. Not for the victories, or the image, or the name. Just him.

“Good,” he said softly, voice dipping into something less performative. “Because you distract the hell out of me.”

The silence between you felt weighted. Not uncomfortable, just full of questions neither of you had asked yet and answers that might hurt if spoken too soon.

Lewis reached out, brushing your fingers with his. You didn’t pull away.

His hand hovered over yours before finally curling around it, warm and careful. You looked down at the contact, then back up at him.

There were footsteps and voices elsewhere in the suite, but here it was just the two of you, in a moment that felt too fragile to last.

“You always this quiet when you're nervous?” you asked gently.

He gave a small, crooked smile. “You’re the first person in a long time who makes me nervous.”

You looked at him like you could read every crack in his armor. “That’s not what people expect from you.”

“People don’t really know me,” he said. “Not like you do.”

His eyes flickered over your face.

And then he leaned in slowly, cautiously, like he was asking permission with each inch. You met him halfway.

The kiss wasn’t fast or breathless. It wasn’t a fireworks exploding, camera flashing kind of moment. It was quiet. Gentle. Real.

His hand cupped your jaw. Yours slid to the back of his neck.

And for those few seconds, nothing else mattered. Not the team. Not your brother. Not the questions that would come.

Only the closeness. The connection. The warmth that bloomed in your chest like the first sun after winter.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his. You didn’t open your eyes.

“I think I’m in trouble,” you whispered.

Lewis didn’t ask what you meant.

Because he was thinking the same thing.

A week passed like a dream you didn’t want to wake from.

You weren’t labeling anything yet, weren’t telling Charles and weren’t admitting it even to yourself. Butthere was something between you and Lewis now. Something unsaid and growing fast, like ivy creeping through every conversation and glance.

You met in corners of the paddock. In quiet moments between sessions. In his driver room once, when the door was cracked just enough for privacy and too much for deniability.

He held your hand when no one was watching. Brushed his fingers down your spine as you passed each other in hallways. Whispered things that made your stomach flutter and your pulse race.

And maybe, maybe you were falling.

But it was Charles who brought it all crashing down.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It happened on a Saturday, before qualifying.

You weren’t there when he heard it.

He was walking past the Red Bull suite when he caught the tail end of a conversation. Carlos laughing too loudly with Max and Lando saying something about “Hamilton actually catching feelings” and “bet's long done anyway, isn’t it?”

Charles froze.

“What bet?” he asked sharply, stepping into view.

The laughter died.

The silence that followed was damning.

Carlos glanced at Lando, then tried to play it off. “It was nothing, man. Just a dumb joke.”

Charles stepped closer. “What. Bet.”

Lando, uncomfortable now, tried to retreat. “Just…something the guys said a while ago. About Lewis trying to charm -”

“My sister?” Charles snapped, voice going deadly quiet.

Neither of them answered.

He didn’t wait for an explanation.

You were walking through the back hallway of the Ferrari motorhome when you saw Charles striding toward you, jaw clenched, eyes dark with rage.

“Can I talk to you?” he said, voice tight.

You stopped, instantly on alert. “Yeah. What’s wrong?”

“Are you seeing Lewis?” he demanded, not wasting time.

You blinked. “Charles…”

“Just answer me.”

You hesitated, heart pounding. “Yes. Kind of. It’s new.”

He shook his head, furious. “Did he tell you it started as a bet?”

The words hit like a slap.

You stared at him, confused. “What?”

“He and a few of the other guys made a bet, [Y/N]. About whether he could charm you.”

“No,” you said, weakly. “No, he wouldn’t”

Charles’s voice cracked. “He did. I just heard them talking about it.”

Your chest tightened, breath catching like a glitch in your lungs. “You’re wrong. This isn’t some game to him. He, he cares. I know he does.”

Charles looked at you with a rare softness behind his anger. “Maybe now he does. But it didn’t start that way. You deserve to know that.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He reached out, but you pulled away.

“I need to find him,” you said, voice shaking.

Charles didn’t stop you.

You found Lewis by the garage, helmet in hand, mid conversation with his engineer. He looked up the second he saw you, smile fading instantly at your expression.

He excused himself and met you halfway.

“Hey, what’s -?”

“Was it a bet?” you asked, eyes locked on his.

He froze. “What?”

“When you started talking to me. Was it because of a bet?”

You didn’t blink. Didn’t let him look away.

Lewis opened his mouth, but no words came. He looked torn, caught between honesty and regret.

You nodded slowly, the silence louder than any answer.

“I trusted you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You made me feel like I wasn’t just someone’s sister. Like I mattered.”

“You do,” he said quickly, desperate now. “You do. That - that bet was a stupid, shallow thing I never meant to act on. But once I started talking to you…”

“You chose to. Knowing what it was. You let me fall for something that started as a joke to you.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “It stopped being a joke so fast, [Y/N]. You have no idea how fast. I didn’t care about the bet, I cared about you.”

You looked at him, eyes full of hurt. “But you never told me.”

He reached out, and for a moment, you wanted to take his hand again.

But you didn’t.

You stepped back, shaking your head.

“I don’t know if I can believe anything you say anymore.”

Lewis swallowed hard, helpless for the first time in a long time.

It was a different kind of defeat than anything he’d felt on track. This wasn’t a lost podium or a poor quali session, this was losing something he hadn’t even realised he was holding so tightly until it slipped through his fingers.

He watched your back as you walked away, every part of him wanting to chase after you. To explain. To fix it. But there were no lap times to improve, no strategy to change, no pit stop that could make this right.

He had done this.

He had let them laugh and push and dare him. He’d told himself it was harmless, that you were off limits anyway, that it wouldn’t matter. And then you'd smiled at him for the first time and everything had shifted under his feet. He’d felt the gravity of you immediately but by then, it was already too late.

You didn’t know it but every day since that first kiss, he’d been trying to make it real. To make it mean something more than how it had started. But now all you could see was the lie. And he couldn’t blame you.

He stayed where he was, hand clenched around his helmet, jaw locked tight. The noise of the garage pressed in around him, mechanics moving, engineers talking, tires rolling across the concrete - but none of it reached him.

Because the only thing he could hear was your voice, breaking in front of him.

“I don’t know if I can believe anything you say anymore.”

And the worst part?

Neither could he.

#lewis hamilton #lh44 #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 imagine #f1 drivers #formula 1 #lh44 x reader #lh44 imagine #lewis hamilton x you #x reader #f1 one shot #lewis hamilton one shot #f1 #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic

168 notes · View notes