Canadian Grand Prix: Qualifying
The Qualifying for the Canadian Grand Prix was very... interesting. Due to wet and changing weather conditions it was fun to watch and had a few surprises in store.
Q1: Q1 started with a damp track but several parts of the racing line already dry, this however wasn't really important at the beginning, because right after leaving the pits, Guanyu Zhou lost power (for me it sounded like an gearbox issue) and had to stop his car in turn 7. This caused the first red flag of the session,, but shortly after the red flag came out, Zhou's Alfa Romeo found some engine power again and was able to drive without help back to the pits and after the short red flag, Zhou was able to continue Q1.
As the track was drying more and more, the times got faster. But the track was never getting dry enough for slicks. The first famous victim, who didn't made it into Q2 was Pierre Gasly who got impeded on his flying lap by Carlos Sainz whogot penalized with a +3 grid penalty later.
Out in Q1:
16. Yuki Tsunoda (Alpha Tauri)
17. Pierre Gasly (Alpine)
18. Nyck de Vries (Alpha Tauri)
19. Logan Sargeant (Williams)
20. Guanyu Zhou (Alfa Romeo)
Q2: The second qualifying session then got really interesting, because the track was getting even dryer now and Albon was the only one who left the pits on soft slick tyres. Everyone else was still on intermediates, but after a few laps almost everyone changed tyres to soft slicks. But because of the longer time on the soft tyres, Albon was the quickest in Q2 at the end. Also shortly after everyone changed tyres it started to rain again and the track got more wet, so many drivers were still able to get faster than before, but not as fast as Albon. Another negative surprise was that Perez and Leclerc didn't made it into Q3 for the third time in a row now.
Out in Q2:
11. Charles Leclerc (Ferrari)
12. Sergio Perez (Red Bull)
13. Lance Stroll (Aston Martin)
14. Kevin Magnussen (Haas)
15. Valtteri Bottas (Alfa Romeo)
Q3: The last Qualifying session had much mor rain now and the track was getting really wet. And this was the time when the Hulk got incredible (pun intended) (and also incredible lucky), because Nico Hülkenberg crossed the line and set the second fastest time of the session and just three seconds later the session got red flagged because Oscar Piastri crashed into the wall at the exit of turn 7. After the red flag it was so wet that no one was able to drive faster anymore and most of them came back to the pits at the end of the outlap. Max Verstappen was the fastest, Hülkenberg got in the second place and Alonso third. Unfortunately Hülkenberg lost his second place and has to start from the fifth because he was driving too fast under red flag conditions.
Starting Grid for the Canadian Grand Prix:
Max Verstappen (Red Bull)
Fernando Alonso (Aston Martin)
Lewis Hamilton (Mercedes)
George Russell (Mercedes)
Nico Hülkenberg (Haas) (+3, too fast under red flags)
Esteban Ocon (Alpine)
Lando Norris (McLaren)
Oscar Piastri (McLaren)
Alex Albon (Williams)
Charles Leclerc (Ferrari)
Carlos Sainz (Ferrari) (+3, impeding)
Sergio Perez (Red Bull)
Kevin Magnussen (Haas)
Valtteri Bottas (Alfa Romeo)
Pierre Gasly (Alpine)
Lance Stroll (Aston Martin) (+3, impeding)
Nyck De Vries (Alpha Tauri)
Logan Sargeant (Williams)
Yuki Tsunoda (Alpha Tauri) (+3, impeding)
Guanyu Zhou (Alfa Romeo)
For me personally, as a fan of Nico Hülkenberg, it was a great Qualifying!
0 notes
pretty in pink ౨ৎ
♡: when an unfamiliar face tries to steal you away, oscar is there to remind them that you are his.
notes: oscar piastri/reader, established relationship, protective & somewhat possessive demeanour, unwelcome attention from strangers, fluff.
– based on this request ☁️
a/n: thank you nonnie & i love this req since i am the pretty-pink girl of my neighbourhood lol. as some know, i am not much of a lover of toxic tropes or that dark romance genre so i apologise if this isn’t the kind of ‘possessive’ you were thinking of, i was craving some soft & loving osc. <3
♡ ✧ 。*・.
The aroma of petrichor against warm pastries from the L'Amour du Pain Vieux bakery nearby lingers, skies over Montréal grey with the lull of clouds where hints of the early afternoon light dance through and upon the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve below, a gentle remnant of dampness about the smooth stone streets from rainfall earlier in the hour that has since come to a halt.
With qualifying to commence in a few hours – highlighting the true beginning of the Canadian Grand Prix where your boyfriend hopes to secure the finest result possible – there is a heightening feel about the paddock as you wander through, latte of oat-milk and vanilla balanced in one soft-skinned hand, donned in your favourite, little dress like blushing, pale peonies.
After an early albeit comfortable, familiar morning waking beside Oscar in your shared hotel suite amongst the quiet luxury of pretty, minimal décor – mussed bed sheets of lush cotton, cashmere throws and interlocked limbs – shared, slow kisses and breakfast consisting of sweet, syruped pancakes and coffee, before greeting the true day ahead, you are most excited.
Amongst conversational journalists with inviting, saccharine smiles merely for enticement and photographers who do not hesitate to notice your face, the lovely and pretty diamond that is Oscar Piastri's lovable girlfriend, you have never quite opposed to the media attention so long as you have him by your side.
"Hm." Chanel ballet flats of embroidered ivory and light-pink clicking on the path, comforted by your sweet treat in hand whilst balancing your iPhone in the other – a brief conversation with your lover concluding he would be busy for another couple of minutes at least due to press conferences – you are mostly contently lost in your own daydreams.
"Excuse me?"
It is the sound of a voice addressed in your direction that has you faltering in your gait, pretty head tilting just the slightest to glimpse over your shoulder just as the sudden voice and approach of a male has you somewhat shy.
"Sorry, I feel like I know you from somewhere," He is youthful, perhaps the same age or a year older than the aforementioned by looks, dressed rather comfortably in a clean, white shirt of linen only half-buttoned against the beige hues of his trousers, Française Cartier watch glinting on his wrist.
His mouth curves on a smile, eyes like caramel dancing over your face and lower until he allows himself the fleeting, silent glance at how the neat edges of your mini dress hug your thighs before straightening his stance once again, lithe fingers threading through his styled, light hair.
The words leave you a touch perplexed given you certainly do not recognise him and lack any recollection of his face, laughing uncertainly as you tuck a stray hair behind the shell of your ear with the clink of a rose quartz bracelet about your wrist, the sound sweet as an angel's.
"I'm sorry, I don't think–"
"It's alright, I don't either." The man continues with an amiable shrug as though pretending to understand or assume what you had been meaning to say, countenance turning more charismatic on the edge of a revealed dimple, "My name's Jacques, love."
There is something in his gaze and the execution of his demeanour which has you hesitating, rosebud mouth parted ajar whilst you glance about momentarily even when the hint of a natural, polite smile remains.
"Well, it's nice to meet you, Jacques," You reply quietly, the expression you hold towards him is a pleasant one despite yourself, although not enough to reveal the slight discomfort that lurks in the depths of your stomach, "But my boyfriend is–"
"Right here."
As if the mention or mere thought of him was an innate manifestation, you are greeted with the presence of a certain, handsome individual where you recognise the warmth of his aura just as fingertips are felt on the curve of your vertebrae against a splayed palm.
You cannot deny or refuse the immediate beginnings of a soft smile and the ease flourishing within you as soon as his touch is known, the lingering scent of his cologne with hints of patchouli and rosewood permeating, an incline of your head allowing gazes to meet momentarily in mutual greeting.
He stands tall beside you, the limb draped around your waist a familiar presence whilst eyes of an intimate, rich hue that remind you of coffee and autumn dance between yourself and the other man who now stands a touch awkwardly with a dissuaded visage.
"Is this man bothering you, princess?" His tone is honey-like, a smooth and lowered baritone that you adore, though there is the telltale sign of his fingertips that press a touch firmer against your hipbone, and the arch of a brow, that demonstrates the silent brewing of protectiveness in the midst of his affections for you. Oscar Piastri is an affectionate sweetheart, true to his feelings and honest in generosity with the renowned presence of patience, though can be a defensive figure when the subject concerns his girl.
"Not really. He was just being friendly," Your cadence is light and sweet with imploration, the subtle gesture of a kiss left against his cheekbone in comforting warmth as you balance on the edge of your toes momentarily.
You are sweet, almost too much so with your pretty looks and the faint glimpses of innocence there even though you know exactly where you stand; it has Oscar longing to return to the quiet privacy of home where nobody will harass you both for attention, where he can have you to himself even if only for a little while.
Jacques chuckles, almost uncertainly in a manner that juxtaposes his previous incentive whilst tucking one palm into the concealing wool of his tailored slacks when he nods, "I was just saying 'hello', no harm done."
The Australian does not seem particularly reassured though there is no instigation for a disagreement, looking over the other only a moment longer without another word before he's silently coaxing you against his side when he walks with a gait somewhat quicker than his usual.
"Wait," Your kissable lips touch a little downward in uncertain wonder, though you follow his guidance easily, a touch intrigued by his lingering silence that lacks explanation, "Where are we headed? Was I doing something wrong?"
There is no initial comfort or answer to your inquiries as he looks forward, evidently lost to his own thoughts whilst internally calming himself from the dwindling ache of his possession over you, a muscle in the line of his jaw shifting almost imperceptibly.
A boring press conference consisting of being asked the same questions like a repetitive, tedious dance had already left him a touch bitter, and the sight of a stranger trying to steal his girlfriend's attention away only aggravates him further.
Eventually, your shared walk leads to the quieter alcoves of the McLaren hospitality comforts until he's nudging you backwards through a white-varnished door, breathing in the sweetness of your perfume – Good Girl: Blush – with hints of almond against sweet peonies, vanilla and coumarin.
"You weren't doing anything wrong," Oscar murmurs, his arm entwined securely about your figure as his lips ghost over the outer shell of your ear near the glimmer of divine, embellished earrings he gifted you on your birthday after he had seen you admiring them through the glass of a jewellery shop once, swallowing slowly.
It is a quiet, comfortable room – one that he often confides in the refuge of when in need of fleeing from the never-ending attention and demands of his profession, an inviting, plush chaise lounge of white cushioning, shelves and cupboards of various items.
Your glossed lips touch into a delicate pout of mystery, a gentle sound of consideration and acknowledgement leaving the back of your throat whilst arms drape loosely around his neck, the edges of your thumbs tracing along his nape where you feel the soft hairs there.
"Then what was it?"
"Nothing." It is an uncharacteristically brief reply, though the manner his lightly-calloused palms cradle the small of your waist until he cannot quite restrain himself from the tightened grasp there with a brief glance towards the closed door, exhaling through his teeth in some kind of defeat, "I'm... Do you want me to be honest?"
The question is uttered so softly that the question leaves you a fraction breathless, heart thrumming within the interns of your rib cage like a dove locked away as you nod.
"I always want the truth from you, Ossie," You respond in a lull so saccharine it sounds like a sing-song of delight, the edge of your index finger and thumb dancing downwards against the soft fabric of his sweater before pausing when you meet his eyes through your lashes.
Oscar sighs, though there is the slightest of reservations of a smile the corners of his mouth at the manner in which you address him, a nickname reserved especially for when the two of you are alone together and intimate.
He does not immediately bless you with an answer, tilting your head towards him in silent, shared invitation before your mouths melt together. It is slow and sweet, tasting one another and your belongings forgotten on the nearby, makeshift desk of polished oak, a sweetened hint of café au lait on your tongue.
"Seeing that man," He begins between chaste kisses, not quite allowing you the liberty of shying away as he holds you close until your back nudges the ivory-coated wall behind, near drawn photographs of memorabilia from old Grand Prixes, "And how he looked at you, it made me want to–"
He pauses, inhaling audibly as though trying to meditate on his own emotions in that moment, his hands feeling over your body like a sculptor and his finest work before he swallows the remainder of his sentence with a kiss.
Oscar Piastri is an undeniably attractive man when he's possessive over you, touching every inch of you like his belongings, muttered sweet nothings and vows of devotions against your tongue. It is a warm feeling, knowing he will always protect you without hesitance. And he does, cherishes you like the pretty doll you seem to be, because he cares in some earnest, undying reality.
"I love you."
The punctuation of another kiss, "I love you more." And he traces the jut of your ribs through the thin, velveteen fabric of your rosé dress when he holds you close until you're flush together, sighing against your lips, "I will never let anybody hurt you, ever. Understood?"
"I understand."
♡ ✧ 。*・.
© missydior
756 notes
·
View notes