ʟᴇᴠɪ ᴀᴄᴋᴇʀᴍᴀɴ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜰᴏʀᴍᴜʟᴀ ᴏɴᴇ ʀᴀᴄᴇʀ
F1!levi who doesn’t give a damn about the flashy sponsorship events and post-race parties; he shows up to the bare minimum, says almost nothing, and then disappears. Yet somehow, everyone wants to interview him because his cold attitude makes him more interesting as a racer.
F1!levi who is ridiculously precise about everything. From steering, and braking points, to even how his gloves fit. He’ll throw an entire tantrum (quietly) if his gear isn’t exactly the way he wants it.
F1!levi who doesn’t smile on the podium, even after winning. But the cameras still zoom in on him because the world can’t get enough of the sharp jawline + champagne bottle combo. Ironically, his aloofness makes him stand out even more, with photos of him “looking bored while winning” going viral every time.
F1!levi who treats his car like its a princess. He refuses to let anyone touch the steering wheel unless absolutely necessary (like when the team has to do repairs), and after each race he’ll walk around the car, eyeing the engineers’ work with suspicion. He also scrubs his car after every time he races in it.
F1!levi who secretly enjoys the adrenaline of overtaking at 300 km/h. he thrives on the adrenaline of racing. The high-speed overtakes, the razor-thin gaps between cars, the force of turning a corner. His heart pounds with excitement in those moments.
F1!levi who savors the moments before stepping out to the roaring crowd. Sitting strapped into his cockpit, visor lowered, engine rumbling faintly beneath him, the world outside goes quiet. It’s just him, the machine, and the track. And for those brief minutes, he feels untouchable, at peace in a way he never does anywhere else.
F1!levi who swears under his breath in multiple languages when the team radio tells him something obvious like “push harder” or “watch your tires.” He’ll growl, “No shit. What do you think I’m doing out here, sightseeing?” The fans love it so much they turn his curses into memes and merch.
F1!levi who is infamous for his post-race reactions when things don’t go his way. If a strategy call costs him a podium, he’ll rip his helmet off, fling it onto the garage floor, and stalk off without a word. But five minutes later, he’s sitting stiffly in the corner, arms crossed. His glare focused not on what happened, but on how he’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again next weekend.
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