#blue ferrari wing

[petit-papillion]

Black & blue Ferrari wing - we was robbed...

📸 Scuderia Ferrari

[pucksandpower]

I’m actually so excited to see what Ferrari does with their livery for Miami 🫣

[nico-di-genova]

Okay, Lance and Fernando with special Miami GP helmets next now 🙏

[sterredem]

Descendants

F1 grid x driver!rookie!reader

Face claim Pinterest girls

Warning Mention if addict (max with RedBull), Not proofread, spelling mistakes, long

Summary the new rookie on the grid is obsessed with descendants and makes it everyone’s problem

A/N bsf/n = best friends name (for anyone that didn’t know)

I like it! I hope y’all also do. It’s pretty long and I made it over here course of a few weeks so there can be parts where it doesn’t fit so if you notice that please say it so I can fix it! I have also had my descendants obsession come back with the new movie. (Still deciding if I like it or not)

Please repost and comments it helps a lot! Feadback is also appropriated!❤️🫶

Instagram

Liked by LewisHamilton and 2.735.567 others

f1 BREAKING: Y/n y/l/n will make the step in 2025, signing a multi-deal with Red Bull! ✍️

View all 8.276 comments

User1 YES!! 💜💙

User2 OMG? Already up to red bull? I would suspect that she would go to rb first!

User3 There are going to be a LOT of GenZ on the grid! It’s gonna be chaos!

User4 wait till everyone finds out how crazy and a PR nightmare she is 💜💙

User5 LETS GOOOO

User6 power duo with her and max

User7 Women in F1 again??

User8 YESS!! 💜💙 I have loved her ever since F3!

User9 Why do so people use the blue and purple heart?

User8 its an inside joke with her and the fans. It’s better if you get to know it through something else (I’m not trying to gatekeep its also just really hard to explain)

User9 alright. I’ll look it up.

User10 not really surprised

User11 she’s so pretty

User12 why do they say multi-year and not the year?! ITS SO ANNOYING!!

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Instagram

Liked by RedBullRacing and 926.752 others

Y/n_Racing Ready for 2025 with red bull. Already binge drink wing this drink. Happy to drive the bull for a few year (hopefully a long time)💪

View all 9.968 comments

RedBullRacing Happy to have you on our team next year💪

MaxVerstappen1 2 history makes in the same team… this is gonna be fun. Happy to have you as a team mate

Prema_Team Sad to let you go, but happy to see you in f1. Great job Y/n💪

User1 HISTORY MAKER!!

User2 Why is this such a dry caption? From what I’ve heard she is a PR problem but this doesn’t seem like it

User3 she is… she has a second account that is managed by herself and that is the chaotic and problematic one. PR has tried to take it away but she always finds a way to get it back. So they’ve given up. I think I’m a few minutes she is gonna post on their and cause a problem of post a chaotic post

User4 FINNALY A WOMEN AGAIN!!

User5 she will be the inspiration to Kay many jong girls

User6 Already looking forwards to the next season!

User7 wait… so where is Carlos going?

User8 her and Ollie being on the grid together is just so funny to me. They are going to cause havoc

User9 I already love her and I’ve only seen a PR made post

User10 💜💙

User11 wait till everyone sees her descendants obsession. They won’t think the same about her

User12 she is so pretty

User13 she looks so nice😊

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Instagram

Liked by bsfuser and 745.578 others

Y/n_Real Just vid announced as a RedBull driver… I think I need to change the aesthetic to red…… good this the new descendants movie will be with a lot of blue (and Evie will be our saviour!)!! Als the 5th picture is how it feeling rn.

View all 14.852 comments

Bsfuser AAAHHHH IM SO HAPPY!!!!

Y/n_Real YESSSSS

Bfsuser Also the rise of red and Evie our saviour 🙏🙏

Y/n_Real REAL!!🙏🙏

User1 AAAHHH!!! IM SO PROUD

Y/n_Real THANK YOU!!💋💋

User2 OMG I FOUND THE SECOND ACCOUNT!! And user3 was right!

User3 Always eats with her posts

User4 The mal picture is so real

User5 I love how she interacts with her fans in this account

User6 wait why rise of red? Isn’t that Ferrari?

Y/n_Real yes. But CINDERELLA AND HER DAUGHTER! (Sorry for being passive aggressive I am just SO EXITED ABOUT EVERYTHING (but they are both blue so yaya red bull!))

User7 I love her and bsf/n’ relationship!

User8 do you know how they became friends? I’ve seen a lot about them but I’m just wondering

User7 yes I know! They became friends at a comic con event for the 3rd descendents movie where they sat next to each other so they began talking and became friends

User8 That so funny! How do y’all know all this?

User7 sometimes Y/n or bsf/n go live and just talks a lot

User9 The make up looks so good!!

User10 you are so pretty

User11 Post 941 of Y/n putting mal in her post (don’t break this streak sweetie)

Y/n_Real OMG YOUR STILL HERE!! I love you!!

User11 ILY TOO

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Instagram

Liked by Kyliecantrall and 626.735 others

Y/n_Real SO PROUD OF YOU KYLIE!!! All that aside… I am soooo proud of you Kyliecantrall and I’m very happy that you have made it this far!

For anyone that’s nee here: this is my VERY talented friend Kylie, and she has made it into a Descendant movie!! I have had the honours to go to the premiere and to have known this lovely lady for quite some time!

Love you Kylie and you did an AMAZING job playing Red!!

(Also 5th picture is how I felt at the premiere)

View all 9.925 comments

Kyliecantrall I LOVE YOUUUU!!!💋❤️💕

Y/n_Real ILYYY 22222!!!! 💋💕❤️

Bsfuser I LOVE U KYLIEE!!!

Kyliecantrall I LOVE YOUT TWOOOO!!!😘😘

User1 I love her friendship with bsf/n and Kylie

User2 OMG SHE WAS AT A DESCENDANT PREMIERE!!!

User3 I WAS SO EXITED WHEN U SAW HER!!

User4 real ones know who Kylie is and her friendship with Y/n and bsf/n

User5 Now the male picture again😂

User6 I’m still so confused at this

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Instagram

Liked by Bsfuser and 767.725 others

Y/n_Real New team, new me (Also this wasn’t my plan Bsf/n dragged me into this)

View all 8.726 comments

Bsfuser Don’t say I dragged you into this. It was YOUR plan

Y/n_Real STOP SPREADING LIES!!

User7 It looks so good!

User8 Why does this seem so random?

User9 My new fav brunette and black haired duo

User10 I love you both!!

User11 you both give me dark academia vibes and I’m LOVING it!

User12 So cute!

User13 and there we go with mal… again (not complaining)

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Instagram

Liked by Bsfuser and 925.725 others

Y/n_Racing Life as a newly brunette and attending an f1 race as an announced driver for the first time

View all 9.926 comments

Redbullracing Happy to have you and glad we can see more of you next year😊

Maxverstappen1 It was nice seeing you again!

Alex_albon I see you have already taken after my hair dyeing. Welcome me the grid Y/n

Bsfuser Rude that you didn’t invite me🙄

User1 Brown hair looks good on you

User2 she is really living the dream life: going to premiers and f1 races and also going to drive in f1 and being besties with descendants cast members

User3 just wait until she meets dove Cameron or Sophia Carson, she WILL freak out

Y/n_Racing DONT EXPOSE ME!

User4 my favourite celebrity

User5 So happy to see you on the grid next year!

User6 just wait until the grid sees her descendant obsession.

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Time skip to 6 races in the season

Twitter

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Instagram

Liked by DoveCameron and 1.564.254 others

Y/n_Real A real dream come true! Me and @bsfuser met the people that started our friendship!!! It was an absolute dream meeting @DoveCameron and @SophiaCarson !

(We also got some great advise… you will see it soon)

View all 123.625 comments

DoveCameron I also had a great time meeting you! Liked by author

SophiaCarson It was lovely meeting you and bsf/n (I also hope you can do something with what I said) liked by author

Bsfuser THIS STILL FEELS LIEK A DREAM!!

Y/n_Real FOR REAL

OscarPiastri Weirdo. I noticed you where obsessed with descendants with the music that always comes from your drivers room but this…

Y/n_Real Says the one that is doing a movie marothon from descendants with his girlfriend

User7 AHHHH THEY MET!!!!

User8 What did they tell you?!

Y/n_Real It’s a secret 🤫🤫🤫

User9 Not this being one of the only posts with over a million likes😭😂

User10 I love how the drives are already aware and done with her descendants obsession

User11 I AM SO JEALOUS!!

User12 I love that for y’all!! (Totally not jealous and not sarcastic)

User13 Them also commenting🫠🫠 so cuteee!!!

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Liked by Descendants and 1.725.267 others

Y/n_Real Dove, Sophia, Bsfuser, Alex, Kylie and a lot of the drivers + descendants movie cast said I should do it… so I did. New hair era!!!

View all 267.275 comments

DoveCameron It looks so good!!

Y/b_Real Thank you!

SophiaCarson I said it would be a good idea!

Y/n_Real And you were right!

Bsfuser Should I go blue?

Y/n_Real YES!!

Alex_albon Already going for my bit I see

Y/n_Real you’ve never done purple soo…

OscarPiastri This is really beginning to become a problem

Landonorris True

Zhouguanyu24 True

Hulkhulkenberg I also see it

Logansargeant I also do

Yukitsunoda0511 Same with me

Valtteribottas I fear I also see it

Kevinmagnussen I also see this becoming a problem

PierreGasly I also do… and why purple? There are a lot of different… better colours

Lancestroll I have to admit I also see this as a problem…

DanielRiccardo Why doe it kinda look good??

EstebanOcan It doesn’t…

Fernandoalo_Oficial It does, shut up Estie

Carlossainz55 Yeah shut up Esteban

LewisHamilton It looks really good Y/n!

Y/n_Real Thank you Lewis!

LewisHamilton Also I also think Descendants is a great movie series

Y/n_Real YESSS!!

Maxverstappen1 Obsessed

Y/n_Real Says the RedBull addict

Charles_Leclerc should I now also whatch it? I want to but I think I’ve already heard to many spoilers from you

Y/n_Real watch it.

User1 All the drivers in the comments😭😂

User2 I think the grid noticed her obsession

User3 They FINNALY caught up!

User4 The hair looks amazing!

User5 everyone here talking about the hair but has anyone seen the make up?? IT LOOKS AMAZING!!

User6 Y/n had really made it now

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[dilftaroooo]

݁ ִ ࣪⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ "𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙡 "

ﾟ𐦍༘⋆ after some convincing i finally decided to write this nasty lil imagine or whatever this shit is, enjoy, mwah~ (p.s. for the native spanish speaking girlies, pls lmk if i fucked up on anything)

ﾟ𐦍༘⋆ wrd count: 2.2k+

ﾟ𐦍༘⋆ tags/tw: mdni 18+ race/ethnicity neutral + age gap (reader can be from 18 to early 20s! so college aged) + dilf!miguel (mid to late 30s) + don’t trust him he’s using u!!! + afab reader + sweet nothings + spanish petnames + cursing + unprotected sex + miguel is a perv + exhibitionism(?) + expensive cars + money + and big booty bitches (you).

Just thinking of you stumbling upon dilf!miguel as you go by door to door offering to wash peoples’ cars for a few bucks. You weren’t expecting a behemoth to be behind the tall, mahogany, double doors to answer your languid knocks – a handsome one at that. One that stood six-nine feet tall paired with honey drizzled orbs surrounded by hooded lids. Soft tufts of hair shimmered burgundy with silver specks which were gifted to him from prolonged time. His tan skin brightened under the powerful sun but it still wasn’t enough to obscure the fine forehead wrinkles and smile lines that adorned his features.

“Can I help you?” The deep baritone of his voice rumbled so deeply you wouldn’t be surprised if you were to look down and see the bucket of soapy water you brought ripple at its force. It should be you that’s supposed to be helping him. You’re the one going from neighborhood to neighborhood asking uninterested people to wash their cars for some cash that wouldn’t even last you a few days. But a side hustle is a side hustle, you thought. Nothing wrong with a stash for a rainy day.

You take note of how seductively the black wife beater he wore embraced his torso and how his pecs puffed out at you like some majestic penguin in the cool lands of Antarctica, staring down at you, a piece of flopping fish dreading to be eaten as he cocks his head to the side waiting for a response. His shoulders are broad and his muscles are taut and veiny – you ponder on what his reaction would be if you were to trace his veins from his neck down to his finger tips and tell him how badly you want them inside you. Gulping down the saliva that was building up on top of your tongue, you spoke your first words like a toddler.

“Would you, um-” Why couldn’t you finish your sentence on the first try? Did you forget how to speak English? Perhaps that’s only the case around him and a few other gorgeous people you’ve met in the span of your years living on earth. “Do you need to have your car washed – sir? I can wash it for fifteen.” You sounded so weak and frail to Miguel, just like how most college-aged girls sounded when they managed to have some sort of interaction with him – their hands clasped firmly around their elbow as they sway from side-to-side, asking him frivolous questions before poking their chest to get him to catch a glimpse of their cleavage that peeked out from their low cut tops. They all played the same game – a game he always loved to play.

He takes this moment to observe what you had on; a peach colored camisole that matched the flower placed delicately in your hair along with the daisy dukes that revealed your plump thighs. Not too skimpy. At least you were somewhat modest. A cute, weak, little thing you are.

He grins and you can see his crows feet crinkle at the gesture, his canines looking sharper than most. “Of course. Been a while since I’ve gotten her cleaned up.” He reassures you to wait for him as he gets his car from the garage and when you lay eyes on the ‘Ferrari SF90 Spider’ he displayed to you, your eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. It was a car model that you couldn’t even afford to dream of, glowing a dark navy blue with a rear wing that was coated in a vibrant red. Its engine roaring loudly and aggressively, telling you who the alpha is in the midst of asphalt concrete and dotted yellow lines. Miguel twitched at the gasp you couldn’t contain.

“A-are you sure you want me to wash this?” You ask while ogling at the car parked in front of you. This wasn’t a car some teenager bought with the aid of their low minimum wage job at a department store, this was a sports car – a Ferrari! This was something that should be washed professionally. “I’m no expert car washer or whatever those guys are called. As much as I would love to help you I don’t think I’m fit for something so…luxurious.” He lets out an airy chuckle that kisses your eardrums.

“No worries, cariño.” He would say and it makes your heart tremble and thighs clench. You’re not proficient in Spanish. Only remembering the fundamentals you learned when you were still in grade school and several language apps you’ve downloaded on a whim but you heard that word before in several love songs you’ve come across. ‘Darling’ is what it means. An affectionate pet name.

Miguel drinks up your reaction like drinking water in the Sahari desert. It was the last drop left in a flask that was so kindly offered by you, smiling at him with dry lips as he sticks his tongue out, aching for the pure droplet. You were so considerate – not wanting to risk destroying his five hundred-thousand plus car that he deliberately squandered his money on. But it was ok with Miguel. He always has money to spare.

He finally convinced you to do the job and get his vehicle all cleaned up and tidy. You instantly got to work but not before murmuring a sugary ‘thank you’’ and taking your sponge to the roof of his car. You and Miguel would conjure up some small talk such as your hobbies or careers. You’ve learned that he was a father of a little girl named Gabriella. His ‘sweet sunshine’ is what he would call her. You found that attractive – a father who is willing to take care of their offspring with genuine affection. His wife must be lucky…well, if he had one she would be, you think.

Miguel didn’t go deep into explanation at his lack of a spouse. A typical “It just wasn’t meant to be.” fell from his lips as he looked off to the direction of his house. Sensitive topic, maybe. Which is why he decided to shine the light on you. “You’re in college, right? Anyone there sweep you off your feet?”

All of a sudden, you feel coy. Embarrassed and bashful at your answer being a firm “no, there has not, Mr. O’Hara.” There’s a slight quiver in your voice but Miguel can tell that you’re trying to remain neutral and not break into tiny pieces under his watchful gaze. And just like every man thinks when they see an attractive young woman who claims they don’t have a partner, he asks why – why hasn’t anyone stepped up to you and asked for your number in hopes for a date? Why hasn’t anyone paid for your meals at semi-expensive restaurants? Why hasn’t anyone told you they loved you more than anyone they could ever imagine before clasping their hands under your chin, gazing at soft, plump lips before pressing them onto theirs? Why hasn’t anyone dared to run mischievous fingers up the hem of your dress before tasting the sensual keen you let out due to the fingertip teasing your throbbing clit?

Then Miguel remembers there’s a difference between boys and men.

You would notice how sinful Miguel’s gaze is on you. Like a stray cat preparing to pounce on a small alley mouse, the feline waiting as patience is his best friend. The mouse is aware of the cat’s presence and stiffens like a rock. “I just haven’t found the right, uh, time. Though, I would like to…” You try your best to conceal your face, you felt as though he was staring too hard. Miguel adjusts his stance to be directly next to you and you smell his scent – like masculinity, vetiver, and sweat. Your knees buckle.

Then the cat sluggishly leaned in on its prey, familiarizing itself of the little mouse’s smell. “No time for it, huh, amor? Guess pretty girls are too busy for romance, what a shame,” His tsks were faux but they still made you feel bad however you didn’t have the time to empathize with his breath streaming down the curve of your neck and his hand caressing your waist. His hips were practically against your lower back as a result of his staggering height and you can feel his bulge poke you excitedly. “Who will I have to love me at night? It gets so cold sometimes.”

Finally that cat strikes, working its fangs in the fragile neck of the weak mouse. With hands firmly planted on the hood of his sports car, your shorts were practically ripped away from you as Miguel takes its place with his big hand, digits rubbing over the cotton fabric of your panties at the direct spot your swollen clit lays, aching and pulsing for his attention. Your back was securely glued to his chest as he loses his patience and rudely shoves your panties to the side, pushing back your clitorial hood with a skilled finger to hear you squeak like said mouse under the grip of the fervent cat.

“Mr. O’Hara. We can’t. Not out here.” The words exhale from your lips so elegantly as you try to prevent Miguel’s free hand from lifting up your loose camisole top above your breasts, to no avail. They glistened under UV rays and sweat, your areolas were puffy and craved Miguel’s assertive touch. You both were out in the open driveway of his home with dozens of other beautiful houses encasing the area yet there was no one in sight but people still had windows they could look out from. Everyone looks out their window from time to time, right? Maybe not unless they hear the muffled moans and wet squelches coming from outside to which they wouldn’t be able to contain their curiosity and feel compelled to take a quick peek between their blinds only to be met with their hot neighbor ramming the living daylights out of some young woman they’ve never seen before.

Both rocking in harmony as you relish in the filthy pleasure you are both given. The suds from the soapy water covers the expanse of your tummy and forearms as you feel Miguel abuse your guts with the hard tip of his reddened cock. Filling you like a hand in a latex glove, you feel so full, so stuffed, so cramped with all of his veins and precum as he grips a hand around your neck like your favorite, pink, choker – reminding you of oh how dumb you sound taking his dick like the ‘buena puta’ you were made to be. His trimmed, pubic hairs tickled your ass each time he plunged his way back in you after teasing you lightly whenever he pulled out to the head.

“Ay Dios, amor. You’re clenching around me so tightly. You aren’t gonna let me go? Want me to cum in your filthy, young, pussy out here in the middle of my driveway? Have you any decency? Mierda.” He would groan in the shell of your ear. His canines brush against the skin softly and you bite your lip for the fourth time that afternoon as he continued to have his way with you.

“I do,” You pathetically start. “I do have some, ugh, decency, sir. I do.”

“But you’re not showing that to me, love. That isn’t what I see here now, is it? Is this the same girl talking to me while she lets me stuff her full with my cock, hm?” The tap-tap-tapping of his thighs colliding with yours crescendos into a louder pitch, one much more noticeable than a few minutes ago and you wish you could cover yourself with an invisible cloak. He kisses his wet kisses and speaks his sweet nothings as he hovers over your small, mouse-like, appearance with his hulking form. It would have scared you if not for the pecks he left on your body and the conjuring of soft coos he knows you would like to hear.

It was too hot, metaphorically and literally. The sun was blazing and the combination of both of your body heat was not ideal for this kind of weather but Miguel just looks so good fondling your tits and pumping his warm seed into the wet cavern of your insides while he slurs out cursed spanish phrases from his tongue that you couldn’t even bother to pick up, too busy savoring the spurts of cum leaking in your used cunt.

Fortunately, in the middle of your fucked-out daze, Miguel was nice enough to pull the panties and shorts back in their reserved spots (you felt his cum pile up in your underwear as soon as he lifted them up and you shivered at the feeling). You feel something wiggle its way between your hip and the hem of your shorts just for you to look down and catch sight of the wads of cash he stuffed there like you were some cheap whore (perhaps you were).

You glance back up, getting ready to tell him it was only fifteen dollars but he beats you to it by giving you a quick peck on your cheek. It was softer compared to when he was balls deep inside of you.

“Take it. For being so good to me, corazón.” His crow’s feet appear again and you silently wish to give each line a kiss but it was already too late once he turned around and stepped foot into his house, locking his door shut with a loud ‘click’.

©This work belongs to @dilftaroooo. If you see any work similar to mine, please notify me for plagiarism will not be tolerated.

[slythereen]

May I ask why you say the orange car is illegal? I see that around a lot and cannot tell if it's a joke or there is genuine speculation.

i think it’s 50% joke/feverish hope and 50% genuine speculation for most tbh. mostly bc the meteoric rise in mclaren’s development came out of the blue and it’s now a better car than even the rb19 seemingly (don’t quote me on that idk the math), with no perceivable disadvantages (monza is supposed to be one of their worst tracks) + some of the upgrades have seemed sketchy (the dagger front wing; this weekend it’s apparently a bendy/flexible front wing design that’s actually against regulations, which merc might be doing too)

when you pair that with distaste for mclaren in general and mclaren’s actual noted history with corporate espionage (against ferrari no less) and f1 fans’ tendency to decide too-good cars are illegal… clearly that mclaren is actually illegal!!!

[37sommz-archive]

✼. VICTORIOUS | 2018.

CH. 03. NOW PLAYING: tio by zayn [fluff, suggestive]. ✼.⠀summary: michaela keeps winning, 2.2k. ✼.⠀view:⠀masterlist⠀⸻⠀join the taglist⠀⸻⠀request.

✼.⠀JULY 01, 2018 — spielberg, austria

“Though it is dry here in Austria, it seems as if the Sommer Rain will never let up.”

-

“She won in Baku, in Barcelona, and in France. Now, here in Austria, across the finish line, it’s Michaela Sommers who secures her fourth win this season.”

-

“They called for her to answer to the legend of Lella ‘76, and she has responded in kind. Michaela Sommers extends her lead in the Formula 2 Championship with double wins in both races here this weekend.”

-

“The current placements, as they stand, are Sommers in first, Russell in second, and Norris in third.”

-

“Mickey!” The trance Michaela found herself in was quickly broken by the sound of her nickname pouring from the left of her. 

“They’re all out for the formation lap… headphones?” 

Shaking herself from her staring at the track, her hands fell to the red headphones thrust out to her by a Ferrari engineer—one whom she couldn’t quite remember the name of—and lifted them to cover her ears. Her feet bringing her closer to the large monitors adorning the garage fell to a stop as the crackle of Sebastian Vettel’s voice echoed in her ears. As he cleared the radio check, her arms crossed over her chest; the yellow of the Ferrari logo contrasting with the black of her team jacket. 

Her duties to the team as a reserve driver demanded every bit of her attention the minute she stepped out of her red Prema car, her mind immediately shifting to the red Ferrari cars of Vettel and Raikkonen as they took their second-row places. Eager to learn from the two veteran drivers, Michaela had found herself tagging along to every meeting possible. She leaned in closer when they complained about the back tires or the steering and her eyes tracked their wings as they drew in and out of the breadth of Hamilton and Verstappen. Her focus on the twists and turns of the Austrian Grand Prix only relieved itself once she saw Kimi and Sebastian pass the checkered flag—second and third, respectively. 

As they always did at the end of the race, her hands shook from the concentrated energy rushing through her body. One of the engineers—she knew his name, he was much friendlier than most of his coworkers—nudged her shoulder to tease her about the tremble. 

“You shake as if you had raced yourself.” His eyes sparkled in amusement as he spoke to her—they always did, as Kimi had once casually pointed out to her. 

“It’s all the anticipation,” She easily responded. “I wish I was the one driving.” 

He chose not to respond this time, his cheeks taking on a blush that deterred his speaking. 

In the few months she had spent in and around the Ferrari garage Kimi had taken to pointing out every person he perceived to have any romantic inclination towards the Australian. She would roll her eyes, mutter something about types, and hope he would let it go. If he noticed her discomfort he never commented on it, simply shifting the topic to one about engines or advice for her next race. 

Sebastian was much different. Taking a liking for teasing the Australian every chance he got, Michaela had previously likened him to a friend’s older brother. Effortlessly relaxed with seemingly nothing else to do but find the humor in every situation presented to him. Blue eyes would meet her brown ones from across the room, corners crinkling in mischief before she could fully process the situation before her. 

In those few months that the three of them had shared gentle conversation, Sebastian had regularly urged Michaela to take in every moment for what it was. To relax in the company of others who understood her anticipation to hurtle down a gravel track at 200 miles per hour. 

Kimi would rest an icy hand on her shoulder, squeezing once then twice in a signal. He would lean over to whisper, “Your shoulders are too high”, before retreating to whatever shadow he had occupied in the distance. 

She knew they meant well; both champions in their own right and well aware of her own ambitions to hoist the winner’s cup over her head. But Michaela has never been relaxed. 

She doesn’t think she ever will.

✼.⠀JULY 07, 2018 — silverstone, england

The champagne underneath Michaela’s shoes squeaked as it stuck to the linoleum beneath her. Wincing at the sound, her hands steadied themselves on the pristine corner leading to the Prema quarters. Roaring cheers of “Brava!” and “Complimenti!” continued to ring in her ears as the hall grew quieter, drifting away from the continued celebrations of the scarlet team. Her head was swimming in victory and her mouth was cotton-balled from the neverending Italian phrases of gratitude and appreciation. 

Finally reaching the changeroom, her race suit pulled together at her waist fell to the floor with the softest of thuds. Incapable of taking anything slowly, Michaela’s hands rushed to rid herself of the champagne-soaked fireproofs. Swapping the red of the Prema suit for the red of her Ferrari polo and her favorite blue jeans, she exited the stall with a gentle sigh. Passing her reflection in the mirror, she couldn’t seem to wipe the smile off her tanned face. Catching a glimpse of the annoying mismatch in shades from one side of her shoulder to the other, those eager hands brushed through the controlled chaos of her honey-blonde bleached hair. 

Rushing back down the hall to Ferrari’s garage, her eyes spotted the lights of a camera crew standing in between herself and the entrance. 

Shit.

The gentlest of forced smiles fastened to the corners of her dry lips as she attempted to sneak past. Her hopes to evade the crew without detection were made futile as soon as the producer standing in front of the host made direct eye contact with her. The smile grew wider—her discomfort pure and shining—as her brown eyes begged the producer’s equally dark ones for mercy.

Before she could open her mouth to rattle off some bullshit excuse that only another driver would be able to understand, the producer—Aaron, she remembered his name—clapped his hands together, startling her before a groan slipped from her lips. Locked in a silent argument, Aaron was the first to break the silence.

“Michaela,” Eyes peering into hers as if in a warning. “You owe me this.”

Feigning innocence she whispered lowly, “I’ve got no idea what you mean, Aaron.”

His prim English accent was firm with sincerity as he took a moment to remind her with a tired, “France?” Receiving another sigh from the Australian girl, Aaron nodded as if emitting an obviously from his pursed lips. Pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, he called over the host—the identity of whom was still unknown to Michaela. 

“Michaela, you’ll be having a quick chat with Jenson. He’s just joined the Sky team for this season,” Stopping himself to clap a hand onto the blonde Brit’s shoulder and to issue a warning glance towards the starry-eyed Aussie, he continues. “Be your normal bright self, put him at ease, it’s his first day.” 

The emphasis on ‘normal’ is not lost on Jenson who chuckles at the warning. At a loss for words, Michaela pulls in a bated breath, eyes transfixed on the 2009 World Champion. 

“Go easy on me?” 

Blue eyes sparkle as they finally meet her brown ones. All words seem to fail her, that familiar rush of eagerness subsides as she takes him in. 

Of all the things to notice about the former driver—the high peak of the bridge of his nose, the sharp lines of his hair, or the wolfish tilt of his lips—the feature Michaela can’t seem to pull her attention from is the spray of sun-tanned freckles laid across his cheeks. The freckles—and the unadorned, noticeably pale band of his left ring finger—are sure to haunt her as she finally finds the trust in herself to respond to the plea of grace. 

“For you? How could I be anything but easy?” 

If she was unaware of how desperate the words sounded as they fell off her two-toned lips, Aaron made sure to point it out to her. A clear of his throat covering the chuckle released from the back of his throat made sure to cut the present tension between the two drivers.

“Pick your good side and get it over with,” His words are choppy as he motions for the cameramen to take their places, “Please?” 

The plea, whiny with exasperation is finally the thing to sever Jenson’s attention from the pink tinge hiding underneath the roundness of Michaela’s cheeks. With a quirk of his head and the offer of a red Sky Sports microphone, Michaela’s hands are still as her heart beats with an anticipation foreign to her own body. 

✼.⠀NOVEMBER 25, 2018 — abu dhabi, united arab emirates

The last round of the Formula 2 Championship had passed by in a blur. The strobe lights catching onto the obnoxious trophy—with her name on it—seated in the middle of the table only added to the massive headache clearing any and every thought in her mind. Unsure of George’s whereabouts, Michaela downed a massive gulp of the mystery drink in her hand. 

“Any plans before the next season?” Alex’s words slurred together into one big nearly incomprehensible sentence. Lando, seated on the other side of Michaela, giggled incessantly before answering on behalf of the newly crowned champion. 

“You should try getting laid!” Dark eyes cut across to glare at him before they both fell into a shared giggle. Alex, dissatisfied by the lack of response from the Australian’s lips, whined impatiently. 

“C’mon, Mick, answer me.” 

“You talk funny when you’re drunk—” She continued giggling as Lando joined in imitating the oldest amongst the three. “Mickey!” He whined once more, face buried in his hands dramatically. 

“Fine!” 

She hummed to herself, much livelier with the endless flow of alcohol coursing through her.

“Lando’s right…” She pouted as if coming across an epiphany. “I should get laid.”

Alex shook his head as he turned to face her once more. 

“You can’t get laid yet!” 

Confusion gripped the two younger drivers, hanging on to his every word. 

“If you get laid, Lando’ll be the only virgin on the grid.” He could barely get the words out without a stumble of laughter.

A rumble of a laugh released itself from Michaela as she threw her head back in amusement. The driver beside her grumbled to himself, eyebrows furrowing as he stood up with a jerk. The mutter of an excuse to grab another drink fell on lost ears as Michaela and Alex took their turn to share a laugh. 

Just as soon as Lando left, his spot on the couch was taken by Pierre. The Frenchman threw a sluggish arm over Michaela’s shoulder before planting an exaggerated kiss on her temple, a “mwah!” ringing into her ears as she pushed him away. 

“Mickey, félicitations, ma jolie!” His words were—impossibly—more slurred than Alex’s, clear his intoxication had impaired his ability to distinguish between English and French. 

“Merci chouchou,” She responded through squished cheeks as the older driver pinched them together in his warm hands. 

“Are you getting laid tonight? I have a few suggestions.” He nearly sang the words into the Australian’s ears, his arms wrapping around her affectionately—not unlike his sober mannerisms. 

“We were just talking about that!” Alex spoke up excitedly before Michaela could reply. “I told her Carlos would be down but she said—”

“No! He fucks anything that walks.” 

Michaela ripped herself from Pierre’s arms at Alex’s suggestion. Crossing her own arms, she began to pace in front of the couch. Reaching for Alex’s drink, Michaela fell into deep thought, carefully surveying the section before them. Full of drivers across formulae and whoever they deemed glamorous enough to join them in their drunken celebrations, it was a dark-haired man who caught her eye. 

Recognizing the stillness in her stance, Pierre nudged a confused Alex before standing to join the younger woman. 

“His name’s Olivier, he’s with Giovinazzi.” 

Alex nodded, pushing his shoulder forward to nudge the shorter woman’s, “His trainer or something?” 

Pierre’s response—whatever it was—were ultimately ignored by Michaela who simply took another large gulp of his drink before surging forward. The cheers of Pierre and Alex were matched with a confused Lando as he returned drinkless.

Making eye contact with the dark-haired man—Olivier—his smile worked to quickly spur Michaela on. A surge of confidence ran through her as Antonio, and the rest of his entourage boyishly roughed up the subject of Michaela’s confidence. With a push forward, he was suddenly eye-to-eye with the Australian driver. 

His skin, nearly the same shade as her own, met hers with a heat so addictive Michaela swore she saw Eros. 

His voice, slow and accented—French, she decided—tickled at her ear as he bent down to speak to her over the noise of the EDM. 

His hands, lightning through her body grasping at her hips as she rocked above him late into the early morning. 

His lips, were gentle like the calming patter of the rain against her spine as he slipped out of her bed, number scribbled on the hotel notepad, and a sweater marked with his scent left to lie next to her luggage.

✼.⠀taglist:⠀

@cha-hot @certifiedlesbianbaddie @nichmeddar

@d3kstar @thewannabewriter @hwalllllllelujah

@pacmacs-macs @thearchieves @doodlehunz

@lavisenri @evie-119 @bxdbxtxh

@seaweed-orchid @glitterquadricorn @99snse

@ginghampearlsnsweettea @alliwantisadonut @hiireadstuff

@emilyval1

[thearchercore]

I’m really enjoying learning more and more about Charles’s PR strategies and uncovering grid dynamics through who he interacts with.

The “Oscar Piastri Leclerc” Saga has been a delight to watch and it’s made me love the two of them even more. But I do have to admit (at least from a newer fans perspective) that it seemed to come out of nowhere? The two of them seemed to have barely interacted ahead of this (aside from podiums? Idk?). The only connection I could draw is the amount of talent/skill the two of them share.

Here are my questions: Do you think that the shared “prema golden boy” status drove that interaction, or is there a deeper/more thought out strategy here? Is aligning themselves together drawing battle lines? Am I thinking too much into this?

ill also tag @valyrfia and @tsarinablogs bc grid dynamics are their niche but i do think there was definitely something that drove that joke (even if, at the end of the day, it was a funny bit). for example, charles barely interacts with other drivers and admins (like LN4) on twitter. so for charles to pull this joke on oscar was very out of blue to me, too.

like yes, it's a silly joke. but i do think at some point charles kinda took oscar under his wing and gained more trust in him. he picks the drivers he interacts with (outside of ferrari pr videos) very carefully. and from what we've seen, mclaren had recently issues of prioritizing lando over oscar and it resulted in questionable strategic decisions so maybe that caused them to talk -- bear in mind as of recent, charles barely talks about/with lando.

so yeah, i discussed this in deep with the girls i tagged and they definitely have more to share but i do see slowly some battle lines forming, very slowly and carefully, but they are

[serchive]

given the blue wheels and how the front wing is painted I think the car will look like the 296 gts ferrari

[petit-papillion]

You know - I think people like the new livery, no?

Comments under Ferrari's video of the unveiling of the Miami "blue" livery.

[falntcry]

A Mess It Grows - LS18, OP81

Pairing: Lance Stroll x Oscar Piastri (Maplescotch)

Summary: Following Lando's win at Miami, an insecure Oscar heads to his hotel room to regress. One of his boyfriends follows suit to comfort him the only way they know how.

Warnings: Angst, fluff, kink themes (petplay/animal play), sfw intimacy, hurt/comfort, mentions of polyamory, use of pet names

A/N: Crosspost of my fic from my ao3 (inlovingmemory) and also my first fic here. Maplescotch is such an underrated ship and one of the few I would actually die for. (Mainly bc I'm a sucker for ships only I care about) Enjoy.

-

The checkered flag waved as crowds clad in orange and black began their frantic frenzy. 8 seconds ahead of the 3-times World Champion, for several laps. The rows upon rows of fans under the Florida sun were livid at the sight. Could it really be? A car the color of papaya-orange crossed the finish line for the first time since 2021. But an Australian wasn't the winner. Not this time.

No, that Australian was at Toro Rosso now. AlphaTauri. RB. Whatever they were called, it wasn't Red Bull or McLaren. He was stuck situated behind a Sauber and would likely be his same, bitter, old self after the race.

Yet, there was one Australian today who got the shorter end of that stick. One younger, yet dressed in the same ol' familiar orange and black. Bright, exhausting orange like his car. The one cameras paid no focus on: Oscar Piastri. Driver for McLaren, Alpine survivor, and 2 seasons into F1. Drove his car off for podium place until Carlos collided his Ferrari into the papaya boy. 

Front wing damage. No penalty. Late leaving the pit stop from repairs. Forcibly having to settle for 13th place with no points. Losing his place late in the race while Lando was having the time of his life.

Oh yes, Lando. Lando Norris.

There's not much the Aussie could say about the Brit. They were teammates, they were competitors. Nothing more, nothing less than that. They got along, admittedly, only because Oscar knew they had to.

Being at Alpine years ago, he witnessed the opposite firsthand. His long-term boyfriend, Esteban Ocon, had been the subject of several cutthroat backtalk and altercations involving fellow Frenchman Pierre Gasly. Sly remarks full of snark and internal gossip with mean looks, or full on fights in private. It would get nasty, almost catfight-ish. All Oscar could do was sit back and watch like a child of divorce, until he'd have to later comfort and ice Ocon's bruises.

The Aussie knew any teammate relationship could turn sour like theirs at any time. No matter how long or how deep their bond went, a budding rose always came to grow thorns. He's seen the contempt boil and bubble, masked behind the Frenchmens' PR-fueled, artificial smiles for social media. Pierre's faux-friendliness on and off-camera had targeted him too, coming from someone who desperately wanted to lure the young driver in despite knowing Esteban's warnings. Even the most enticing of snakes prepped their fangs.

But Lando wasn't like that.

Atleast, that's what Oscar hoped. Since switching his colors from Alpine's sugary, teeth-rotting, cotton candy-esque light blue and pink to a more vivid orange, the relationship between the two Anglophones had since been short of amiable. Sure, maybe they weren't constantly at eachother's throats - and maybe Oscar should've been grateful for that - but they weren't the best of friends either. Or friends at all. An air of stillness had settled between them since they first met in the same garage over a year ago, growing like a thick fog. 

McLaren and F1's social media could paint the papaya pair like two peas in an overwhelmingly positive pod as much as they wanted, but all it did was make them look good. Good. Marketable. Two young drivers ready to take on the whole grid, overwhelmingly clad in black and orange. A World Champion-in-the-making and a former rookie who seemingly locked together like two puzzle pieces. Landoscar, the fans called it. Soulmates, everyone viewed it.

If it were that easy, maybe Oscar would already be attached to the hip of the Brit. Maybe Lando - for how much he flaunted his shamelessly hedonistic lifestyle as if it were his sole personality trait and thought inside that hollow head of his - would atleast make the effort to include and invite him to stuff once in a while. It's not like Oscar was begging to go to his teammate's pretentious parties across Europe, full of high-class randoms several leagues above him. Full of people he didn't know nor could care less about him or his relationships. Instead, Oscar usually kept quiet, only bothering to smile and make small talk when McLaren needed them to. Even when the cameras weren't rolling, it was never like he asked the Brit time and time again to be besties, although sometimes he wish he did. 

Lando wouldn't have to pretend to reach out to him after their social media shoots, pretending to be interested in him and his life. The Aussie knew deep down his teammate, for how dull he proudly was, was playing the same games he was, tricking the media and inadvertently, Oscar aswell. People already thought they were the "bestest" of teammates compared to the other, far more infamous pairs on the grid. The thought made Oscar shiver.

Even his boyfriends, despite the bias against them, were never the subject of tabloids as much as the Brit was. If anything, his two lovers being disliked helped keep their relationship out of the spotlight - yet it only made the vipers of paparazzi focus solely on Lando and Oscar. Labeled as 'friends', an 'ideal couple,' despite the younger man already having special people (who were also on the grid) in his life. But God help him for actually thinking journalists payed attention to what was true.

Maybe he wouldn't be constantly compared to Lando - more than he already was - if they actually were good friends like the news said. Oscar was just a former rookie in the eyes of his team and the media, but Lando was a proven, soon-to-be World Champion. Every step he took, praise followed like a trail of gold. His own red carpet. Even the cameras were too bright, Oscar was almost blinded despite how far he was shoved out their view.

In regards to the times where he, or perhaps where McLaren allowed him to, shone, he was restricted to playing 2nd. Times where he could've helped the team gain points were never considered when they focused on his tanner teammate to earn another podium. Oscar would have to stick towards the back end of the race, feeling too insecure to look at his manager in the eye in the garage. A disgustingly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he'd grown familiar with. And as he predicted, this strategy (or lack thereof) happened again today.

Except Lando was a race winner now.

-

The heat of the Miami sun rested upon Oscar's back as he begrudgingly exited the cockpit, his fireproofs and suit on fire as he ripped off his helmet. What a horrible race that was, just his luck to go from top 4 to being the loser in a challenge with Carlos. The Spaniard seemed to collide with him, giving him damage to his front wing as he'd end up losing his place. Sure, he was able to get back in the race and set the fastest lap so he'd gain something out of it, even if it was to just end up behind an Alpine and out of points territory. But it didn't really mean anything when he had his race ruined and McLaren couldn't care less about him. 

From where he currently was in the garage, God Save The King blared in the distance, like a thought he couldn't truly escape. If he were a little more patriotic, he'd find it nauseating. But even if he wasn't, it still was. Everywhere he went, it seemed to remind him that he'd never be good enough. He'd never be like him in their eyes, only a liability. Feeling sick again, Oscar ran and tried finding the nearest bathroom, far from the McLaren garage. Far from the podium. He couldn't bear to deal with the strategists and members of the team crowding his way right now. 

It was his day. Lando's day. It always was.

Stood proud on the podium were the same three that usually stood there: a McLaren, a Red Bull, and a Ferrari. A Brit, a Dutchman. and a Monegasque. The sun's golden glare made them looked blessed, like a trio of angels. Oscar couldn't bother to look from behind his back, ignoring the barrage and sea of voices and lights blinding and deafening him if he did. But they weren't for him, not all of them. It didn't matter. The spotlight was focused on something - rather, someone - else, and he needed to leave. Fast and unbothered. His hotel couldn't have been that far from the track, especially when he was sure some of the other drivers were headed their way there also after the race ended. 

Especially the two he knew, who he shared a room with. Who he always shared hotel rooms with, discretely under the guise of being a "group of best friends." Whatever people thought, Oscar needed them. Particularly in this moment, when his head began to feel too heavy for him to support himself. When he needed to be away from the masses and fall into a special sort of headspace only they knew about, behind closed doors. Those special, intimate moments. 

After having to do some careful finding in the garage and stripping of his fireproofs, Oscar grabbed his phone and immediately went to his contacts. He's changed enough out of his race suit and back to regular McLaren merch that he could sneak back out to the paddock. In such a fast amount of time too, seeing how the rest of the papaya crew was still too focused on throwing Lando around. Then again, Oscar was rushing in a hurry and practically gone ghost once he situated his cap.

Most of the drivers on the grid stayed at the same hotel for certain races, their team executives booking them months in advance. They were never usually that far from the track or paddock either, for the teams convienence. Such was the case for Miami, where Oscar currently padded open the resort's luxerious doors in an urgent manner. Did McLaren need him right now? Probably, if Lando's win got boring to rub in. Would Oscar head back to attend? Nope.

As the Aussie went to dial the number labelled, "Lancey," in a strike of coincidence, life decided to serve itself to him for once. Meeting eye to eye with the Canadian again off track, the taller male's expression went from one of surprise to worry. The concern seemed to rub off the younger man, as evident by how Lance was able to pick up on it quickly.

"Osc, what are ya' doing here? Shouldn't you be at McLaren's garage?"

Nothing. No response. All he received was a big, brown-eyed stare from his dark brown eyes into his. Lance's worry seemed to grow tenfold at his boyfriend's out-of-character silence. Something must've been really wrong, his race must've gone pretty bad. Lance knew his wasn't great either, but Oscar handled his more deeply.

The Canadian looked down with his own dark eyes, reflecting a vulnerable Oscar in them like a mirror. His voice almost cracked, bringing a hand to grip his tightly as he pulled them towards the elevator. Oscar wasn't even aware that the button for their floor was clicked, and soon they were off.

"I'll- I'll need to phone Esteban as soon as possible, tell him he needs to come back immediately. He's—" Lance's voice trembled, as if he had something stuck in his throat. This ride was taking too long, goosebumps forming on skin from pure nervousness.

Seemingly noticing, Oscar rubbed his head of fluffy peanut-brown hair against his side. He looked up into the eyes of his boyfriend, and felt the Canadian's nerves rapidly calm down. Realizing what kind of care Oscar needed now, the taller man spoke again, this time much more clearly.

"Esteban, right. Este is uhm, busy with Fernando right now. He'll be back soon, hopefully with some food. But I might need him to come quicker, especially since you're going into err—" Oscar pawed at Lance's sweater, cutting his train of thought off again. Feeling concerned yet a little more relaxed now, he laughed. Their elevator had reached their floor. Lance heard Oscar whine a little at how hard he gripped the Aussie's hand while walking over to their room door.

"Pupspace." A smile bright as the morning sun spread on his features. Oscar's followed as he laid put on the velvet floor, restlessly pawing at his feet.

He would've preferred if he had brought a leash to Aston Martin's garage, or perhaps if Esteban did to Alpine's. It would've made his job a lot easier, yet it's not like he could've predicted Oscar would regress this soon. Or this severe. Or Nando potentially finding it on accident. That would've been one hell of an embarrassing talk.

After some fumbling with the lock of the hotel door and Lance's strangely large quantity of keys, the door finally let loose. The Montrealer squatted down near the Australian, exchanging a gentle glance and offering his hand to help him back up to his feet, although only to walk him inside. Oscar's weight felt like a bag of thick rice, needing all of Lance's support to be carried inside as if he couldn't use his legs anymore. Granted, that was because he couldn't. He wasn't "grown" enough to do so currently. 

The lights of their hotel room were turned down low, a nice warm orange coating everything. Enough time had passed that the Miami sun had begun to set, its luminous colors bleeding through the large glass windows and fine curtains as it dipped into the horizon. The sight almost made Lance sleepy, almost falling into a drowsy state before realizing he was carrying someone much sleepier already.

Setting Oscar aside on the nearest couch, he kept his head up as the Aussie looked at him with pleading eyes. Wanting warmth and attention now that they were behind closed doors, he whined again, in a higher pitch than last time. Lance couldn't help but chuckle, hands on his hips as he returned some sass.

"Alright alrighty, Butterscotch. I'm trying to be fast for ya, but you're asking quite a lot!" The mahogany of the Canadian's lively eyes reflected back onto Oscar's, who couldn't help his cheeks grow pink like bushes of roses. The younger man watched from his place, sat on the couch, as Lance looked around their temporary living space for a few moments. Almost urgently so.

When finished, he had a familiar leather collar wrapped in his hands. Oscar's eyes went wide at the sight. Unable to keep his excitement down, he reached his thin paws out in a 'grabby' motion and yelped. Yip yapping away. Another laugh escaped Lance, who rested a rough hand on Oscar's shoulder. "Who knew Esteban and I had such a needy, impatient puppy..."

"But I shouldn't mock you this much, especially when ya need this more than me right now." Despite his outward manner and physique compared to the Aussie, the Quebecker's hands were quite gentle as he began wrapping the accessory around his partner's neck. Oscar, of course, stayed still and soaked in the attention like a sponge. Feeling the black and orange-accented leather lock into place and hearing his name tag (which simply read: "OP31, replies to 'Oscar' or 'Butterscotch.' If found, return to Stroll or Ocon.") jingle, he finally relaxed. The bad thoughts from earlier were beginning to drain out.

Not bothering to change either of them out of their team merch, Lance pulled his pet into his grip with one arm. Oscar fell immediately into his chest, pawing at it before circling around to settle himself down more comfortably. Lance gazed down, petting the fluffy caramel-brown hair between his fingers as he pressed a kiss on the Australian's nose bridge.

"You're a good boy, Osc. A good pup." Lance paused, looking away from the chocolately love in Oscar's eyes to his own fingers. Fidgeting and flicking them around, he felt a certain paw mess with it. Lance felt a familiar pair of eyes look back up at him again.

"I'm just— sorry. Sorry for you. I just feel bad that, well, ya know. Lando, Carlos, or whoever, ruined your race today."

A high pitched whimper followed in agreement as the younger man laid his head against the chest of Canadian, opting to lay against the armrest as he waited for their other partner to come home. Oscar took in his partner's scent as he laid on his side, curled up in his arms. Faintly smelling like maple with hints of pecan pie. A cold Autumn breeze over the warmth of a thick cotton scarf.

"It wasn't your fault. I know your mind will tell you otherwise, but I won't. I know, I know..."

Oscar was more than upset about the earlier drama and results, but wouldn't be lying if he admitted that he couldn't care anymore. Fortunately fleeting away, then gone in the wind. Was almost like a near memory that he since brushed off once returning home.

Home where he could unwind, where he could be his true self. Where he could no longer worry about the race or any sort of grid drama. A home where he could be with physically, no matter where he went. Melbourne, Suzuka, Shanghai, Miami...

He was safe at home. Safe, secure, and warm. Home meant comfort, but it also meant security. Private, yet seeked fun. Home never judged him for letting his walls down, or anything else really. Home made him feel seen. Feel loved. Acknowledged.

Lance was home, Oscar's home. Nothing could change that. Nothing would. He wore dark green, but loving him was red.

And so were both of their cheeks currently, mutually flushed as they pressed against eachother. Lance wasn't sleeping, no, but he was surely entertaining himself as he watched Oscar try not to. Yet a peck to the cheek helped his senses kick in, as he giggled and licked at the Montrealer's face.

Smiles were exchanged once more, Lance couldn't help but keep playing with the silk of Oscar's hair. The younger man melted to the touch, rubbing against him in an attempt for more petting. His collar seemed to be a bit too tight for his skin, causing a noticeable red mark around his neck. He had his hands available, but seemed to prefer Lance's help.

"I just wish they came to some sense, ya know? Carlos, I mean. I— I don't understand him."

The Quebecker stood up, causing the reaction of his little spoon to do the same. Oscar fell to the floor. Knobby knees against the velvet carpet as he stayed on his fours. Lance stood to stretch, leaning down to pet the Aussie as he walked towards his temporary water bowl. Tapping the side twice, Oscar skittered across obediently. Lance's train of thought continued again as he leaned against the wall, watching Oscar lap up his water.

"There's always gonna be those types of people on the grid, the ones that want you gone. I've been through it, so has Esteban. Even Lewis." 

Oscar stayed put on the floor, sitting crissed-cross with his two front hands infront. Water ran from his face down his chin. A noticeable stain now soaking the collar of his papaya-orange polo. He turned his head to the side at Lance's words, whining an octave louder. Brown eyes staring.

"I know what it's like to constantly be compared to your teammate too. You— You have to survive with it in this sport, unfortunately."

Lance adjusted his posture, squatting on the floor before standing up on his knees. Unlike Oscar, he wobbled, only stabilizing himself with a hand behind him on the floor. He pat at his thigh, whistling as he locked eye contact with the Australian, before bringing him in a tight embrace.

"You don't deserve any of this, Butterscotch. None of this. I'm sorry."

The Canadian's grip seemed to fasten against Oscar's skinnier body like a death grip. As if he didn't want to let him go, or let him breathe. Oscar rested his head the broad of Lance's shoulder, hands splayed on his lover's back. He didn't know where else to leave them.

He felt Lance's hands curl into the caramel of his hair, like milkweed silk between his rough fingers. Oscar closed his eyes, huffing before shaking slightly. His breath stuttering as his chest heaved, feeling like the weight of several stones. Was he crying? He can't remember the last time he did that, especially over a race. Over Lando. Over Carlos. Over everything and anything. Lance hugged him tightly, shushing him as he felt cold tears stain his sweater.

A nearby phone on the coffee table began to ring. Lance's phone. Must've been Esteban. 

They let it play, ignoring the ringtone repeating before it eventually ended. They didn't need to move for the world, to wait for others. All Lance needed to do was pay attention to his puppy. His pet. His lover. His Oscie. 

It was his night. Oscar's night. It always was.

Atleast to Lance. Esteban too, but only one of them was present. That's all that mattered. Oscar had people that cared, spotlight or not. Race winner or not. Unruined race or not.

Before he knew it, the Australian felt lightheaded. And light. His sopping eyes opened once again as streams littered his face, his blurry vision turning around to notice he wasn't on the floor anymore. Lance was carrying him in his arms, bridal style now. It made Oscar feel small. Vulnerable. Safe. Too deep into headspace and his own insecurities to feel anything but like a puppy. 

Looking up, the younger man was met with dark brown eyes meeting his gaze. The Canadian nodded, allowing Oscar to use his sweater to wipe his tears. He pressed a kiss to the bridge of Oscar's nose again, before laying him in the marble of their hotel room's bathtub. His soft yet coarse hands made quick work of the leather collar around the Aussie's neck, rubbing the slight red it left behind. 

Mercy coated Lance's eyes, as he sighed yet still gave a gentle smile. His cheeks lightly budding pink like a bush of hibiscuses. Oscar turned his nose up, smiling back in a toothy grin that went up the corners of his face. Face redder than salmon roe. Lance gripped his delicate hands, bringing them to his lips for a kiss. His skin was soft like the rest of him, yet he smelled his strongest here. Like oranges and vanilla. 

Lance leaned against the tub, slowly taking off each of his dear's garments. Maybe Oscar had his hands available, but he was too deep into headspace to speak — let alone strip himself. The toffee of his eyes stayed locked onto the Quebecker, purring as he went limp. Even if Oscar could take care of himself, Lance knew he needed him now. And now was all that mattered.

At the final piece of clothing, Oscar's boxers, Lance paused. His hands moved up the pale of the Australian's body to cup his cheeks, moving his thumbs against them in a soothing motion. Lance looked down at him, gentle, serene. Oscar let him do anything, and he was glad he trusted him that much. Like a puppy to its owner. A vulnerable animal to its caretaker. He pressed one final kiss to his soft, pink lips. He tasted like sorbet, Lance's favorite.

They locked eyes once more before Lance's train of thought continued. His faint voice finding itself again.

"Let's— Let's get you cleaned up, Scotchie."

[pucksandpower]

Gilded Cage

Charles Leclerc x heiress!Reader

Summary: when a girl who craves for freedom meets a boy who knows what it feels like to race at the speed of light

Warnings: overprotective (but loving) father

The first time you tried to escape, you were seven.

“Y/N, let go of the bird!” The nanny’s frantic voice echoed as your small fingers clutched the delicate cage, trying to unlatch it.

“I just want to see it fly!” You cried, tears streaming down your face, looking at the trapped canary. Its golden feathers seemed dulled, its tiny beak opened in a silent plea for freedom.

The cage slipped from your grasp, crashing onto the pristine marble floors. The sound was deafening in the otherwise quiet mansion. Your nanny rushed forward but not before the canary took off, its wings catching the sun, radiating a blinding brightness.

You watched, mesmerized, as the bird soared above, circling once before disappearing into the vast blue sky.

“It’s gone …” your nanny muttered, distraught at the loss of such a valuable creature.

But you, young and innocent, whispered with a smile of pure joy, “It’s free.”

From that day on, you knew one thing for certain: no amount of gold or jewels could substitute for the glitter of freedom.

***

“Again!”

The shout echoes through the cavernous halls of your palatial home. Somewhere outside, the splashing of the water from the elaborate marble fountain merges with the faint humming of gardeners trimming the intricate mazes. The walls, lined with gold-trimmed tapestries and priceless paintings, feel more like prison bars than luxuries.

"Again!"

Your fingers, stiff and aching, try to mimic the piano instructor’s exact movements. Every wrong note feels like a physical blow, another reminder that you are trapped in a world of perfection and expectations.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” you whisper but it came out stronger, more defiant than you intended.

Madame Lucille, your instructor, raises an eyebrow, unaccustomed to your resistance. “Your father wishes you to be well-versed in the classics,” she reminds you with a patronizing tone.

A voice, deep and commanding, interrupts the tension, “Let her be, Lucille.”

Your father stands at the doorway, his expensive suit impeccably tailored, matching the stern look on his face.

“But Sir, she—”

“I said, let her be.”

Madame Lucille gives you one last disapproving glare before hurriedly packing her things. Your father watches her go then turnes to you with softer eyes. “I just want the best for you,” he murmurs, walking over to sit beside you on the grand piano bench.

You take a deep breath, “I know, Papa. But I want to breathe, to live. Not just exist inside these walls.”

He sighs, looking tired. “The world out there isn’t a nice one. There are those who would want to harm you, to use you.”

“I would risk it,” you admit quietly, “For a taste of real life. For a moment outside this golden cage.”

He takes your hand, his grip firm but gentle. “You’re my everything. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

The weight of his love and the prison of his protection bears down on you. “One day, whether you like it or not, I’ll have to face the world. And when that day comes, I want to be ready.”

He leans back, looking up at the ornate chandelier. “What if that day was sooner than you thought?”

Confusion marrs your features. “What do you mean?”

He smiles cryptically, “There’s a Formula 1 race across the country next week. I sponsor Ferrari. Thought you might like to come with me, see something different for a change.”

You blink, taking a moment to process. “A ... race?”

He nods, “Yes. It’s not freedom but it’s a start.”

You look into his eyes, seeing a glimmer of understanding. “Okay,” you whisper, “Let’s start there.”

***

“The roar of the engines, the energy of the crowd ... there’s quite nothing like it,” your father begins, his usually stern voice tinted with boyish enthusiasm. You find yourself watching him, intrigued by this rare display of passion.

Sitting across the opulent dining table, which was rarely used to host anyone but the two of you, you play with your food, pushing it around the plate. “Cars going in circles? I don’t see the appeal.”

He chuckles, taking a sip of his vintage wine. “Oh, it’s much more than that. The strategy, the risk, the sheer speed ... it’s ballet at 300 kilometers per hour.”

You raise an eyebrow, interest piqued despite yourself. “Ballet? Really?”

He nods with a smirk. “Don’t tell me you’re not curious now?”

You hesitate. “I mean, maybe a little? But why the sudden interest in taking me? I’ve never even seen you watch a race.”

He leans forward, his gaze intense, searching yours. “I sponsor Ferrari and have an open invite to every race. Now that one will be hosted nearby, I thought maybe it’s time you see a bit more of the world. Not just through the glass windows.”

You blink in surprise. This was unexpected. “A public event? With crowds and other people?”

He nods slowly. “With crowds and other people.”

You weigh the options in your mind, the yearning for freedom battling with the anxiety of exposure. “And you think I’m ready for this?”

He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing yours. “I think we’re ready for this. It will be an unforgettable experience, I promise.”

You look into his eyes and realize that this is as much a leap for him as it is for you. Taking a deep breath, you reply, “Alright, Papa. Let’s go watch some ballet.”

***

“The red ... it’s everywhere.” You can’t help but blurt out, momentarily overwhelmed.

Your father chuckles beside you. “Well, it is Ferrari. Red is their signature.”

You gaze down, the red soles of your Louboutins now seem almost camouflaged against the vibrant Ferrari decor. “Feels like I’m stepping into another world.”

“Just stay close,” your father advises, his protective instincts rearing up again.

Promising him with a nod, you’re soon lost in the kaleidoscope of sounds and colors. The hustle of engineers, the chatter of excited fans, the roar of engines being worked on.

Suddenly, a man clad in a racing suit accidentally bumps into you, causing your drink to splatter.

“Mon dieu! I am so sorry!” He exclaims, eyes wide.

You find yourself staring not at the stained dress but into the most expressive eyes you’ve ever seen. “It’s ... it’s okay,” you stutter, taken aback by the unexpected jolt of electricity at the brief contact.

He looks genuinely apologetic. “Let me make it up to you? Another drink, perhaps?”

You laugh, “Only if you promise not to spill it.”

He grins, the smile reaching his eyes. “Deal. I’m Charles, by the way.”

Hesitating for a split second, you reply, “Y/N.”

He raises an eyebrow, “No last name?”

You smirk, “Not today.”

Charles chuckles, intrigued. “Alright, Y/N-with-no-last-name, let’s get you that drink.”

You follow him, weaving through the crowd. Every now and then, someone stops Charles to shake his hand or pat him on the back, throwing in a “Good luck, Charles!” or “Can’t wait to see you on the track!” He greets everyone with a genuine smile and a word of thanks. It’s clear just how loved he is here.

However, you remain a mystery to him. He sneaks curious glances your way, the playful teasing evident in his eyes. “So are you a big Ferrari fan or just here because you look particularly fetching in red?”

You laugh, the sound more carefree than you’ve felt in ages. “Let’s just say I’m here to explore something ... different.”

Charles nods, handing you a fresh glass from the bar. The bubbling champagne mirrors the effervescence you feel inside. “Different can be good,” he muses, taking a sip from his own plastic water bottle. “Sometimes it’s the unexpected moments that change everything.”

The weight of his gaze, the intensity of the moment, makes your heart race. “Tell me, Charles,” you begin, leaning in slightly, “What was the unexpected moment that changed everything for you?”

He looks taken aback, clearly not expecting such a question. He takes a thoughtful pause, “Every time I get behind the wheel. Each race is a new story, an unexpected twist waiting to happen.”

You nod, appreciating his sincerity. “It’s brave, you know. Facing the unexpected at such high speeds.”

He smiles warmly. “It’s not bravery, it’s passion. When you love something deeply, risks become challenges instead of threats.”

Your fingers toy with the stem of your glass, his words resonating with your own yearning for freedom. “I envy that,” you admit softly.

Charles tilts his head, studying you. “Why?”

You search for the right words. “I’ve lived in a world of certainty for so long. Every step planned, every move calculated. It’s ... suffocating.”

Charles reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your arm. “Then maybe it’s time to take a risk, Y/N-with-no-last-name. Even just a small one.”

You smile, the promise of the unknown beckoning. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s time.”

***

“Do you trust me?” Charles’ eyes search yours, intense under the paddock lights.

You blink, taken aback by the sudden question. “We just met.”

He grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “That’s not an answer.”

Drawing in a deep breath, you reply, “I might. What are you proposing?”

His gaze drifts momentarily to the track. “After qualifying … how about a drive? Not here,” he adds, seeing your hesitation, “Away from all this. The city at night, the open road. Just two people and the world.”

You tilt your head, contemplating the offer. A spark of excitement ignites within you. “A midnight drive with a stranger? Sounds reckless.”

He chuckles, leaning in closer. The scent of leather and adrenaline wraps around you. “Life’s best moments usually are.”

As his name is called by his press officer, Charles straightens up. “I have to go. But think about it, Y/N-with-no-last-name. The invitation stands.”

Before you can respond, he jots down something on a piece of paper and hands it to you. An address. “Meet me here if you’re in. Midnight.”

You watch him stride confidently towards his garage, the weight of the decision pressing on you. Risk, freedom, the open road — its all you’ve always yearned for.

Hours later, as Charles places his car on pole, you find yourself gripping that piece of paper. The thought of the city lights and the wind through your hair is too alluring to resist.

You whisper to yourself, “Midnight it is.”

***

The ornate curtains rustle as you inch your way onto the balcony of your suite. The sheer drop below sends a thrilling chill down your spine. You’ve never snuck out before but the thought of the night ahead and Charles’ invitation propels you forward. You hitch up your dress, carefully lowering yourself onto the ledge below. The soft grass cushions your landing and you take a moment to steady your racing heart.

“You’re even crazier than I am,” a familiar voice observes from the shadows.

You whirl around, finding Charles leaning against his car, an impressed grin on his face. “I had to make a discreet exit,” you explain, cheeks warming.

He chuckles, pushing away from the car and walking over to you. “Glad you made it. Ready for our adventure?”

You nod, the proximity of him, the thrill of the night, everything heightening your senses. “More than ever.”

The car roars to life as you both settle in. The city lights blur past, the nocturnal beauty of the world unfolding around you. The road beckons, the possibilities endless.

Charles casts a sidelong glance at you, a playful smirk on his lips. “Ever driven with no speed limit?”

You laugh, “Not in my daily commute.”

He grins, “There’s a first time for everything.”

The car accelerates, the wind whipping through your hair, the night alive with potential. The city skyline fades, replaced by an open stretch of road, illuminated only by the car’s headlights and the soft glow of the moon.

Charles’ voice breaks the comfortable silence. “There’s something freeing about the night. The world sleeps, and for a few hours, you can pretend you’re the only ones alive.”

You glance over, sensing the depth of emotion behind his words. “Is this why you race? For that freedom?”

He nods, his profile bathed in moonlight. “And more. Every time I’m behind the wheel, it’s a battle against my doubts, the world, and myself.”

You understand, the weight of your own gilded cage pressing on you. “I’ve been trapped for so long. But tonight, with you, I feel … alive.”

He reaches over, entwining his fingers with yours. “Then let’s live. For tonight, let’s forget the world.”

***

“Why are those men watching us?” Charles’ voice is low, almost a whisper, as he subtly gestures towards two figures in dark suits, positioned at opposite sides of the bar you found yourselves at.

You follow his gaze discreetly, feeling a familiar dread settling in. Security. Your father’s men. “They’re ... they’re just protective, that’s all.”

Charles narrows his eyes, piecing things together. “Protective? Y/N, who are you really?”

A pang of guilt washes over you. You had hoped for more time before this moment, more stolen moments under the veil of anonymity. “It’s complicated,” you admit, hesitating.

He leans forward, his intense eyes searching yours. “Try me.”

You take a deep breath, struggling to find the right words. “My life ... it’s not what it seems. I live in a gilded cage. A cage built by my father’s wealth and influence. A beautiful cage, yes, but a cage nonetheless.”

He processes this, watching as one of the security approaches your table, handing you a phone. “Your father wishes to speak with you,” the man says tersely.

Charles’ gaze sharpens, suspicion evident. “Your father?”

You nod, taking the phone with a sigh. “Hello, Papa.”

“Y/N,” your father’s voice is a mix of relief and sternness, “I’ve been so worried. You just disappeared.”

“I needed some time,” you explain, glancing apologetically at Charles who is watching the exchange closely.

“You should come back now.”

“I’m not a child anymore,” you argue gently, “I need to live my life.”

A heavy silence follows. “Just ... be safe,” he finally murmurs.

Hanging up, you face Charles, the weight of the world pressing on you. “I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner.”

Charles leans back, his expression unreadable. “So, the mysterious Y/N-with-no-last-name turns out to be the daughter of …?”

You sigh, “A very wealthy and overprotective man.”

He processes this, the playful teasing from before replaced by deep contemplation. “You know, secrets have a way of catching up with us. But,” he adds with a hint of a smile, “I’m interested in who you are, not your family name.”

You smile, relief washing over you. “Then let’s leave the secrets for another day.”

***

The morning sun paints the Ferrari garage in a wash of golden hues, every glinting reflection a dance of radiant red. Charles stands out despite wearing the same color as he eagerly waves you over to show off the helmet in his hands.

“It’s beautiful.” Your fingers trace the lines of the design, the light catching on its glossy finish.

Charles spins the helmet so you can see every detail. “Not just the design. It’s the weight, the feel. When I put this on, I’m stepping into another world. Everything else fades away. Just the track, the car, and me.”

You smile, fascinated by his passion. But as your gaze slides over the helmet, you freeze. There, emblazoned on the side, is the unmistakable logo of Y/L/N Industries. You try to hide your surprise but Charles catches your reaction. “You recognize the logo?”

Swallowing hard, you nod. “It’s … everywhere, isn’t it?”

Charles, not picking up on your unease, grins. “Oh yes. They’re our main sponsors this season. Y/L/N Industries is massive.”

Your heart thuds. Every mention, every hint, makes the looming truth harder to avoid. “They seem ... impressive.”

You avoid his gaze, watching the mechanics prepare the cars for the race. Each Ferrari, shining in the morning sun, proudly displays the same Y/L/N Industries logo. There’s no escaping it.

Noticing your distraction, Charles follows your gaze. “I’ve always found it fascinating. How brands link up with teams. How they can become synonymous with each other over the years. Like what we had with Marlboro and now Y/L/N Industries. It’s ... an alliance.”

You chuckle, trying to deflect. “An expensive alliance.”

He laughs, “Very true. But Y/L/N Industries is more than just a name on our cars. I met the owner once, at a sponsorship event. Very ... protective of his interests.”

You gulp, feeling cornered. “Is that so?”

Charles nods, oblivious to your discomfort. “Yes. Has a daughter too, I’ve heard. But she’s kept away from the limelight. Must be hard, living under such a powerful shadow.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, “You have no idea.”

He looks at you, sensing the weight behind your words. “Y/N?”

Taking a deep breath, you finally admit, “My last name ... it’s Y/L/N.”

He stares, processing the revelation. The playful driver you spent the past days with is replaced by someone more cautious, more guarded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You look down, fighting back tears. “I wanted to be just Y/N, not a Y/L/N. I wanted freedom, even if just for a few days.”

Charles reaches out, lifting your chin gently. “You're still Y/N to me. But secrets ... they complicate things.”

You nod, regret clear in your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He smiles, though it’s not quite as bright as usual. “Let’s focus on today. The race. We’ll figure the rest out later.”

***

You’re startled from your thoughts when the doors to your room burst open, the journal in which you’ve been scribbling memories of your secret meetings with Charles slipping from your fingers.

Your father stands there, a mixture of anger and desperation etching his features. In his hand, he holds a photograph — one of you and Charles lost in conversation in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant.

“Explain this,” he demands, voice shaking.

You swallow hard, the weight of your secret outings pressing down on you. “Papa, I—”

He cuts you off, waving the photograph. “Weeks, Y/N! Weeks you’ve been sneaking around, meeting him. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Your voice trembles, “I just want something for myself, something real.”

He looks torn, battling between his desire to protect you and understanding your need for freedom. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because,” you hesitate, taking a deep breath, “I want to be just Y/N for once, not Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Don’t you see? That’s exactly why I protect you! The world will never see just Y/N. They will always see a Y/L/N and they will always want something from you.”

“You can’t keep doing this!” The words burst out of you before you can stop them, the pent-up frustration, fear, and yearning for freedom all culminating in this very moment.

Your father stands at the opposite end of the lavish living room, the city skyline a muted backdrop behind him. His eyes, usually so authoritative, are wide with surprise and concern. “I am only looking out for you.”

You shake your head, your voice trembling. “Looking out for me or controlling me?”

He flinches as if you physically struck him. “I want to keep you safe.”

Safe. The word hangs heavily between you, a reminder of the invisible chains binding you. “At what cost, Papa? My happiness? My freedom?”

He sighs, running a hand through his graying hair. “It’s not that simple.”

You pace the room, your emotions spilling over. “Do you even realize? Every choice, every decision has been made for me. Who I meet, where I go, even what I feel. I am suffocating!”

He looks pained. “I never meant to—”

“But you did!” You interject, tears streaming down your face. “Every time you made a choice for me, you took away a piece of my life.”

A heavy silence settles between you two, the unspoken words and regrets creating an impenetrable barrier.

Finally, your father speaks, his voice soft and filled with sorrow. “I lost your mother. I can’t bear the thought of losing you too.”

Your heart aches, understanding and resentment warring within. “I’m not Mama. I need to live, make mistakes, find love. I need to be free.”

He closes his eyes tightly, the weight of your words pressing down on him. “I just ... I love you so much.”

You walk over, taking his hands in yours, feeling the roughness of age and experience. “And I love you. But love isn’t about possession. It’s about understanding, trust, and letting go.”

Tears brim his eyes, the facade of the powerful businessman crumbling. “You will always be my little girl. I would give up every dollar — everything — if it meant keeping you safe. I’m scared that one day I won’t be able to protect you.”

You squeeze his hands. “We have to face our fears. Together.”

***

“He knows. Papa knows about us.” Your voice wavers as you meet in your secret hideaway, a small bakery tucked away from prying eyes.

Charles’ face pales, his fingers gripping the table edge. “How did he react?”

You draw in a shuddering breath, recalling the confrontation. “Not well. He feels... betrayed. I think I got through to him eventually but you never know with him. One second he’s smiling at a business rival and the next he’s snatching away their company in a hostile takeover.”

Charles’ eyes darken with concern. “I don’t want you caught in the crossfire between me and Y/L/N Industries.”

You shake your head, reaching out to touch his hand. “This isn’t about sponsorships or racing. This is about us. He’s just overprotective.”

He sighs, rubbing his temples. “This complicates things. Your father’s influence runs deep, even in the racing world.”

Tears sting your eyes. “So what? Are you saying we should …?”

“No,” Charles interjects firmly, squeezing your hand. “I’m saying we need to be careful. I won’t let anything harm you.”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. “My father would never hurt me … at least not physically. It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s you.”

He smirks, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, I do have a penchant for driving really fast cars. Comes with a touch of danger.”

You’re not amused. “This is serious. Papa can be ... vindictive.”

Charles looks deep into your eyes. “Then we face this together. Secrets have kept us apart but now, truth will keep us together.”

You lean in, your foreheads touching. “Promise?”

He smiles, capturing your lips in a kiss. “Promise.”

***

A reporter leans forward, her voice crackling with excitement. “Charles, you just secured a stunning victory for Ferrari in a race that almost everyone thought was Red Bull’s to lose. How does it feel to come out on top?”

Charles grins, his eyes alive with a fire that burns brighter than ever. “Honestly, it’s hard to describe. We’ve been pushing ourselves, refining the car, and today, everything just clicked. The team’s effort, the car’s performance, it all paid off.”

The crowd cheers, their elation echoing through the broadcast. The reporter presses on, “You dedicated this win to someone special. Care to tell us who?”

Charles’ gaze softens, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. “There’s someone who has shown me a world beyond the track. Someone who made me realize that the freedom I feel whenever I get behind the wheel is even more precious than I always thought. This win is for her.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, the identity of this mysterious someone a topic of speculation. The reporter smiles, clearly eager for more details. “And can you give us a hint? Is she here today?”

Charles chuckles, his dimples popping through. “Let’s just say she’s closer than you might think.”

Later, as the celebrations continue, you find yourself in a secluded corner of the motorhome, away from the clamor of the team and fans. Charles walks over, that same victorious smile on his lips. “Did you hear?”

You nod, heart still racing. “You dedicated the win to me.”

He steps closer, his hand cupping your cheek. “Of course. You’ve given me one more reason to keep pushing, keep racing. It’s not just about the cars. It’s about the freedom, the moments we steal away from the world.”

Tears well up in your eyes and you kiss him passionately, pouring all your emotions into that single moment. The crowd may not know the truth behind his dedication yet but you do. And that’s all that matters.

***

“Charles seems ... different than the others,” your father begins, his gaze distant as he looks out from the penthouse balcony.

You step closer, the night air cool against your skin. “Different how?”

He sighs, turning to face you, vulnerability evident in his eyes. “He looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. He looks at you how I used to look at your mother.”

You smile, “I never expected you to notice.”

He chuckles softly. “Just because I’m protective doesn’t mean I’m blind. I’ve watched people all my life. It’s how I built everything,” he gestures towards the sprawling city below, the twinkling lights of his corporate empire.

The weight of the moment settles between you, the years of misunderstandings and unspoken words pressing down. “Papa, I know you’re scared. Scared of the world out there, of what it might do. But I can’t be trapped forever.”

His expression softens, pain evident. “I have seen so much, faced so many betrayals. The world is rarely kind.”

You reach out, touching his arm gently. “I understand. But holding on too tight will only push me away.”

He closes his eyes, taking a shaky breath. “It’s just ... hard. Watching you grow, wanting to spread your wings. I wish I could shield you from everything.”

You smile gently. “But then I wouldn’t truly be living. Charles, he’s shown me a world beyond these walls. A world that’s unpredictable, thrilling, and real.”

Your father nods slowly. “I saw that. The way he stood by you, the way he spoke of you. He … he loves you.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, the night’s chill deepening. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Someone who sees me, not my last name, not a walking dollar sign.”

He steps closer, pulling you into a comforting embrace. “I’m trying. It’s not easy, letting go. But I trust you. I just need time.”

You nod, resting your head against his chest. “I know. Just promise me one thing.”

He tilts your chin up, looking into your eyes. “Anything.”

You smile, a weight lifting off your shoulders. “Trust him too. Give Charles a chance.”

He sighs, the walls he built over the years slowly crumbling. “For you, I’ll try.”

***

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” your father says, breaking the tense silence that envelops the extravagant dining room.

Charles, sitting straight-backed and visibly anxious, clears his throat. “Sir, I assure you, my intentions with Y/N are—”

Genuine laughter interrupts him. You glance in shock at your father, who chuckles, “Relax, Charles. I’ve watched you on the track. You face challenges head-on. That’s a quality I admire.”

Charles exhales a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir. Y/N means the world to me.”

Your father studies Charles, his gaze thoughtful. “I can see that. And I have seen the change in Y/N since she met you.”

You bite your lip, waiting for what he might say next. “Papa, I—”

He raises a hand, silencing you. “I’ve spent my life building walls around you, trying to protect you from the world. But maybe ... maybe it’s time to let you fly.”

Your heart leaps in your chest. “Papa …”

He smiles at you, warmth shining in his eyes. “You’re my daughter. All I’ve ever wanted is your happiness. If Charles is the one who brings that joy, then I give you both my blessing.”

Tears glisten in your eyes as you stand, moving to embrace your father. “Thank you.”

Charles stands too, extending a hand towards your father. “Thank you, sir. I promise to take cherish and take care of her.”

Your father grasps Charles’ hand for a moment longer than expected, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Charles,” he begins, a twinkle of mischief evident, “just remember … if you ever hurt my daughter, they will never find your body.”

Charles gulps, eyes widening, then realizes the playful tone your father has adopted. He chuckles, nodding, “Duly noted, sir.”

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Papa, you are impossible.”

Your father grins, the atmosphere significantly lighter. “Just making sure he understands.”

Charles playfully raises his hands in surrender. “Message received loud and clear.”

***

The pitter-patter of little feet echoes through the grand halls, accompanied by peals of laughter. The once silent mansion is now alive with the exuberance of youth. Every corner and every room tells tales of play and joy, of childhood memories being crafted.

“Slow down, my darlings!” You call out in amusement as you chase the energetic duo.

Charles laughs as one of your kids hides behind him, tiny hands clutching his leg. “You can’t hide here forever!” He teases.

From the doorway, your father watches, his eyes glassy. The stoic businessman, the guardian of a vast empire, is rendered soft and vulnerable by the presence of his grandchildren.

“Grandpa!” The children cheer, running to him, their arms outstretched.

He bends down, scooping them into a gentle embrace. “I have a surprise for you,” he whispers, producing a small cage with a golden canary inside from behind his back. Its wings barely beat, eyes darting around to mirror its trapped spirit.

The children’s eyes widen in wonder. “Why is it in a cage, Grandpa?”

Your father looks up, meeting your gaze, the weight of the past reflected in his eyes. “It looked sad at the market, just like someone I once knew. But we’re going to set it free.”

Together, the family moves to the balcony. Your father opens the cage door, and the canary, after a hesitant moment, takes flight, its song a melody of freedom and hope.

As you watch the bird disappear into the horizon, your father breaks the silence. “Sometimes, we cage the things we love, thinking it’s for the best. But true love is about letting go, letting them spread their wings.”

You lean into Charles, his arm wrapping around you, the children nestled between you both. “Thank you, Papa,” you whisper. “For letting us learn the true meaning of freedom.”

Your father smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “It took me a while but I finally understand. Love, life, freedom — they’re all interconnected. We just have to find our sky.”

[saintminseok]

10 millions hp logo on my little red car, blue making it look like a fucking clown, no more Ferrari rear wing, Mercedes changing the red racing car on wtsp to whatever the hell their tractor looks like... I'm not feeling good 😭

[disneyprincemuke]

the hated and the endeared

[fast times and fast nights]

when you think rebellious and outspoken in f1, who is your answer? if your answer is jupiter nightshade, you’d be absolutely right. so, imagine everyone’s surprise when it came out — through no fault of her own because aella had posted a picture of them together — that seemingly cold hearted jupiter is dating warm and bubbly oscar piastri.

→ qatar, 2021

“oi, mate!” oscar barges into the garage with a hand on his forehead. “why did you do that?”

aella, pulling her red racesuit up her legs looks up at her best friend in the dark blue hoodie. “what did i do?”

jupiter comes out from behind him with her hands on her hips. “you outted us to the public, aella.”

at the sight of the world champion — the person she looks up to, literally — she stumbles back a couple of steps and holds onto the wing of the car parked in the garage to balance herself. “it was a group photo!”

“i had my hand around her waist!”

“it’s not my fault you can’t keep your hands off of her for one picture!”

jupiter sighs, throwing her head back. “aella.”

“i’m sorry,” she cries out, hurriedly pulling up her race suit over her body. “i thought you guys were okay with people finding out. we went to the bahamas together! that’s a public space. i’m sorry, jupiter.” she looks at oscar. “help me; i don’t want to get mauled before my race.”

a small smile plays on jupiter’s lips watching the younger driver looking at oscar for some form of protection. she taps aella on her arm. “okay, fine. only because,” jupiter sighs, wrapping her hands around oscar’s arm and rests her head on his shoulder, “i like him a lot.”

there are many questions surrounding their involvement. oscar… oscar piastri… that name rings a bell, doesn’t it?

— renault junior, oscar piastri, wins 2020 f3 championship title on first try

— breaking: prema driver, oscar piastri, announces retirement from racing after winning 2021 f2 championship title to focus on furthering his education

i think you can see why there’s a lot of questions regarding their involvement. a kid with a bright future ahead of him in the racing scene suddenly steps away after his alleged involvement with the reigning world champion.

rumour has it that jupiter had asked oscar to step away from the racing scene so that she can keep unapologetically be a menace on the track. there was even one alleging that jupiter is forcing him to be her trophy boyfriend – to sit in the sidelines while she dominates the track.

❝no, god! that’s an absurd thing to say. stepping away from racing to focus on my education is a decision that was set in stone even before i met jupiter. she didn’t have to convince me to quit racing; she didn’t even know of the decision up until a week before my last race in f2.❞

❝ohh, he announces his retirement from the sport and suddenly everyone is accusing me of forcing him to quit racing. no, i didn’t tell him to quit. i even joked with oscar that the only way i’ll be giving up my championship is if he is fighting me for it.❞*

the villainisation of jupiter nightshade doesn’t end there. you know how to story goes: a woman dominating a sport meant for men. the woman who paved the way for several others to earn their rightful spot in f1 with her and roxanne castle.

– ❝jupiter nightshade takes the podium once again for tonight’s race. on your screens, folks, is jupiter and her boyfriend, oscar piastri, in an embrace. this win means a lot for her – she’s now taken the lead for the driver’s championship away from mercedes driver (and long time rival) sonnet pham.❞

– ❝oscar piastri was sighted walking about in the paddocks alongside best friends, aella gutierrez and logan sargeant, before bidding them goodbye to enter the red bull racing home.❞

– ❝jupiter nightshade’s custom ferrari was spotted in oscar piastri’s university parking lot. shortly after, they were seen walking out of campus hand-in-hand before he drove them out of the parking lot.❞

– ❝there’s just something off about how oscar retired shortly after they came out and told everyone they’re dating.❞

– ❝did you see oscar’s instagram the other night? they went on a romantic dinner in monaco together! that might have been one of the rare times that i’ve seen jupiter nightshade sport such a genuine smile.❞

– ❝jupiter nightshade is under investigation by the fia stewards for pushing another driver off the track.❞

but even ice melts when you’re in the presence of the warmest smile everyone’s ever seen.

→ japan gp, 2023

“no, it doesn’t make any fucking sense!” jupiter scolds, walking into her garage with her helmet in her hands. “that’s stupid – why did you let kelly pass me? i was faster! i needed those extra points!”

christian sighs, stepping back as the angry girl approaches. “jupiter, please. calm down first.”

“camellia closed up our gap! one wrong move and i swear either mercedes is coming for my throat in the championship fight!” she throws her arms in the air. she takes a deep breath, ready to continue her rampage.

in the corner of her eye, she notices a figure taking off the headphones from his head and approaching her. she does a double take, unsure if she’s hallucinating. she raises her eyebrows with a smile. “oscar!”

“jupiter!” oscar laughs, opening his arms as he comes towards her. “surprise! i made it out this weekend! i finished my submissions early and i got a flight to fly out in the afternoon yesterday. i arrived this morning; i’ve been hiding in the mclaren home with aella the entire day.”

“oh, you’re sneaky!” jupiter laughs, throwing her arms around oscar. “i’m so glad you could make it. thank you.”

the signature smirks turn into the warmest smiles in his presence — some might argue that her ice cold demeanour is thawing with his presence. but everyone says, and swears, that oscar piastri made jupiter nightshade more likeable. they could very well be right. but is that what she thinks?

@cashtons-wife @darleneslane @angsthology

[charlesgirl16]

Ferrari Livery For Miami GP

I don't know what I was expecting but it was not it. They should've only done one color of blue, preferably the color the race suits are. For me personally, the red, dark blue, and light blue combo is too much. If you are gonna do a blue car it would be cool if the base is light blue and red accents for sponsor logos, driver numbers, etc. Also, the amount HP logos is excessive, do we need 5 from the front view alone. The rear wing is offensive where else on the SF-24 does it say, Ferrari and logos don't count... the rear wing is the only place it says, Ferrari.

[il-predestinato]

Tag Game:

Tagged by the super talented @cupidskissx 😘

rule(s): post a snippet (however long or short or longish or shortish) from a wip !!

(Okay, I think you can guess which WIP this comes from. *screeches off key bc I cannot sing* I am the one thing in life I can control / I am inimitable / I am an original 🤣😇)

Blinking a few times to shake the blurriness out of his vision, the bedside alarm clock comes into focus: 02:41. Max exhales a soft groan before turning around with a sigh. Sliding off his own pillow, he squeezes his eyes shut and attempts to burrow blindly in his usual naked mole rat move to find the warm and familiar mop of brown hair on the adjacent pillow. Wrinkling his nose in disdain when his usual maneuver yields nothing but cool evening air hitting his face, he reluctantly opens his eyes again.

A gaping, Charles-sized absence on the other side of the bed mocks him in greeting. The sheets were rumpled, the pillow dented, and beneath his fingers… a dried stain of -

He has the grace to blush contritely, making a mental note to leave a generous tip when he checks out of the room on Monday. Meanwhile, he has a more pressing issue. The last vestige of sleep leaves his mind as an uncomfortable twinge flips inside his chest. Max grabs the closest sweater off the floor. Wincing when he notices the Ferrari logo on his chest, he is subsequently placated when the familiar scent of Charles’ soap and antiperspirant hits his nose.

He opens the balcony door and is immediately hit with a sense of gratitude towards the warm, cozy sweater - offensive logo aside - as he steps into the surprisingly chilly British summer air.

Charles spares him a brief glance before turning back to the screen between his hands. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Hell would have to freeze over before Max Verstappen admitted that the mere absence of Charles Leclerc from his bed was enough to rouse him out of REM sleep - not when he has confessed multiple times to various media outlets that sleep was indeed one of his favourite activities and special talents.

“You didn’t wake me up,” he denies stubbornly, pretending that he can’t practically hear Charles’ responding eye roll. But whatever snarky retort evaporates in his throat when he sees exactly what Charles had been neglecting sleep before race day to watch.

The onboard footage shows the rear wing of a familiar red car ahead on track. Roars of jeers and boos echo through the speakers as the red car crosses the start-finish line. Then the onboard car, proud and blue-nosed, crosses the line a few seconds later, and the crowd’s boos turn into jubilant applause.

“1:25.8,” GP’s voice crackles through.

He knows what comes next, even before he hears his own slightly hoarse: “Did I get it? Did I beat him?”

“By a hundredth. That’s pole position, Max!”

He doesn’t get to hear his own celebration because Charles rewinds the video back to the start of the lap. Max smiles a little as he watches himself twitch through Maggotts and Becketts, and again as he uses every last inch of the track at Stowe. Not before long, he’s gunning down the Hamilton Straight again as the jeers turn into celebration.

“1:25.8.” “Did I beat him?” “By a hundredth -”

The video plays back again. And then again. By the fourth time, he’s watching Charles and not his own onboard - watching every furrow and twitch of the perfect brown eyebrows, the gentle frown tugging at the corners of his lips, the mask of indifference as heavy boos greet the tiny red car in the distance, and the subtle clenching of his thumb against the rim of the iPad as the Silverstone crowd transitions into cheers as Max crosses the line.

“Did I get it? Did I beat him?” “That’s pole position, Max!”

The video restarts.

Max notices it on the fifth playthrough - Charles staring intently at the left side of his wheel, and he can practically hear the question: Is he adjusting the engine brakes there? Is that what allowed him to take such a tight line? Then Charles’ eyes dart to the other side. Or maybe he’s upshifting at the end there? Is that where the hundredth came from?

The onboard camera is set a little too high, denying Charles a clearer view of Max’s wheel. If he just asked…

If Charles just asked, Max would tell him.

On the next playthrough, a little smile squirms at the edge of Charles’ lips. So he heard it. The subtle upshift. Max hides his own snort of affection before his mind turns to more sober thoughts.

Charles wouldn’t ask. Charles never asked anymore. Not after last year. Not after his own championship trophy joined Max’s on their mini fridge. He was determined to separate their racing and personal lives entirely and would hear of nothing else.

The crowd is booing again. Max has now seen this footage multiple times from multiple camera angles, but he still has to gape at the onboard proof to believe it. To accept that the jeers were for the red car ahead of him - for Charles - and not for him. But every single time, without fail, the crowd’s anger turns to cheers as his own car crosses the line, beating the despised Ferrari and its despised driver to pole.

Has everyone been tagged? 🙈 If you get tagged again, do we get double snippets? 😂 Anyways, @gaslightgirlsummer @maxemilianverstappen @karlmarxverstappen @xiaoluclair @alestire - cough them up! 🤪