Pairing: George Russell x Fem! Reader (no use of y/n)
Genre: Hurt-Comfort; angst...? fluff; George being neglected by mercedes
Summary: George doesn't mind sharing the spotlight. He just didn't expect to disappear from it entirely.
Avi's Radio📻: I just could not stop thinking of a hurt comfort George fic after the Spanish GP... so here it is! Btw, my ask box is open to any requests!!
Parc fermé is still loud when George steps out of the car, but it’s a different kind of loud now—less chaotic than the race, more like the world trying to remember how to breathe after holding its breath for an hour. His heartbeat is still too fast, adrenaline still sitting under his skin like electricity that hasn’t figured out where to go yet.
He pulls his helmet off in one smooth motion, hair flattened and damp at the edges, and for a second he just stands there, blinking like he’s adjusting to being a person again instead of a driver. His hands are still slightly shaking when he loosens his gloves, and he looks up at the timing screen once more like it might still change if he looks at it differently.
P2.
One hundred races.
It hits him in uneven waves instead of one clean feeling.
And then—
He hears her.
“GEORGE!”
It’s not a call. It’s an arrival.
She’s already running before he even turns fully, weaving through mechanics and officials like none of them exist in the same world she does right now, eyes locked on him with a kind of joy that looks almost too big to fit in her face.
He barely has time to brace himself before she hits him.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
Just completely.
Her arms wrap around his shoulders with such force that he almost laughs from the impact alone, stumbling back half a step as she presses into him like she’s been holding this moment in all day and it finally has somewhere to go.
“You—” she starts, breathless, pulling back just enough to look at him properly, eyes wide and shining in a way that makes his chest tighten without warning, “you just got P2 on your hundredth race. Do you understand how insane that is? Do you understand how cool that is?”
He laughs, still trying to catch up to her energy, hands settling instinctively at her waist like grounding himself.
“I mean,” he says, breath still uneven, “I was there, so I think I’ve got a rough idea.”
She shakes him slightly like she can’t contain it, smiling so hard it almost looks like it hurts.
“No, no, listen,” she insists, leaning in like she’s sharing classified information, “you are going to be unbearable about this for weeks.”
“Me?” he scoffs lightly. “I am extremely humble.”
She gives him a look immediately.
“You literally pointed at the timing screen.”
“I was acknowledging it respectfully.”
“That’s not what that was.”
He’s laughing properly now, not the controlled media kind, but the kind that comes out when someone else is so happy for you that it makes it impossible not to be pulled into it too.
And for a few seconds, it actually feels simple.
Like it’s just a good day.
He doesn’t think when he leans down and kisses her forehead, slow and familiar, and she goes quieter for half a second like the gesture lands somewhere deeper than either of them expected.
༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻
The podium always feels like a different world.
Everything is sharper there—the lights brighter, the noise more structured, the emotions more performative even when they’re real. George stands on the middle step with a smile that he has perfected over years, the kind that looks effortless even when nothing about the moment is.
Champagne sticks to his skin. Cameras flash endlessly. The crowd roars in a way that feels distant and close at the same time.
Lewis is beside him, laughing like this is exactly where he belongs, energy effortless and full. Lando is somewhere nearby too, already being pulled into another version of celebration, another version of the day that will be remembered differently depending on who tells it.
George smiles through all of it.
Because that’s what he does.
Because it is a good day.
It is.
And yet—
There’s a moment, somewhere between the end of the ceremony and the beginning of everything else, where the structure breaks without anyone announcing it.
Lewis is gone first, swallowed by interviews. Lando disappears into a different crowd. The podium empties in a way that doesn’t feel abrupt, just gradual enough that George almost doesn’t notice it until it’s already happened.
He’s still standing there when most people have stopped looking.
Still holding the trophy.
Still smiling.
Just slightly less inside the moment than before.
༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻
Hospitality is quieter, but not in a comforting way.
It’s the kind of quiet that is full of movement—people shifting between conversations, phones buzzing constantly, voices overlapping but never quite connecting. George moves through it the way he always does, greeting, thanking, acknowledging, because that is what the rhythm of these days requires.
“Good drive, George.”
“Thanks.”
“Solid result.”
“Appreciate it.”
Everything is familiar.
Everything is automatic.
At some point, he sets his trophy down on a table near the edge of the room, not because he decides to, but because his hands simply stop needing to hold it for a moment. No one reacts to it. No one looks at it for longer than a passing second.
It just sits there.
Like it belongs to the room more than to him.
༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻
Toto arrives like he always does—efficient, composed, already thinking ahead like the present is just something passing through on its way to somewhere else.
“Tough race,” he says briefly, like it’s already been filed away in his mind.
George straightens slightly without meaning to, that automatic shift into composure clicking into place before he even thinks about it. “Yeah,” he replies after a beat, voice steady in that practiced way, “I think we made the most of it overall.”
A small nod from Toto.
“Good drive, George,” he adds, already half turning away as he says it.
And then he’s gone.
Not unkind.
Not cold.
Just… already somewhere else.
“Kimi, come here.”
The words are simple enough that they almost don’t register as anything more than movement.
George watches for a second longer than he means to, something tightening quietly in his chest before he forces it down again like it was never there in the first place.
“He’s busy,” he says under his breath without really meaning to say it out loud.
But no one hears it.
So it doesn’t matter.
༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻
She finds him a few minutes later when everything has softened at the edges but still feels heavy underneath it all.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she says gently, like she’s already seen this version of him before.
George glances at her, tired but still trying. “What thing?”
“The thing where you act like you’re fine,” she replies softly, “and if you say it enough times, everyone around you starts believing it before you even get a chance to figure out if it’s true.”
He lets out a small breath through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. “I am fine.”
She doesn’t react immediately. Just looks at him, steady.
“George.”
“I am,” he repeats, a little quieter this time, like he’s trying to convince both of them at once.
A pause stretches between them.
Not uncomfortable.
Just full.
Eventually, his shoulders drop slightly, like something in him gives up the effort of holding everything in place.
“…I’m serious,” he adds, softer now.
“You’re lying,” she says, but there’s no edge to it, no frustration, just certainty.
And somehow that makes it harder to keep deflecting.
He looks away, jaw tightening faintly like he’s trying to organise something inside his head before it comes out wrong.
“It’s stupid,” he says after a moment.
“Then tell me the stupid thing,” she replies, like it’s the most natural response in the world.
That lands.
Not because it pushes him.
Because it doesn’t.
“I don’t know why it bothered me,” he admits finally, voice lower, less controlled, like he’s stopped filtering himself properly. “It shouldn’t have. I’m happy for Kimi, I am, and Lewis—he deserves everything, obviously, I know that.”
He pauses, swallowing once.
“It’s just… I thought maybe today would be my day for five minutes. That’s all.”
The silence after that isn’t empty.
It just feels too real to interrupt.
When she speaks again, her voice is softer.
“You keep apologising for that,” she says, almost quietly.
He frowns slightly. “Apologising for what?”
“For wanting that,” she clarifies. “For feeling it. Like it needs to be justified before you’re allowed to have it at all.”
That makes him still.
“I didn’t—”
“You do,” she interrupts gently, not cutting him off, just finishing the thought for him. “Every time. Like you’re waiting for permission to want something that doesn’t hurt anyone.”
A pause.
“And you don’t need it.”
Something shifts in him—not fixed, not solved, just… loosened.
༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻
Alex appears like he’s stepping into a conversation he absolutely refuses to understand the rules of.
“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” he says.
She doesn’t look at him. “We’re in the middle of something.”
“Perfect,” Alex replies immediately. “I’ve never respected middle things in my life.”
Despite everything, George lets out a small laugh—quick, surprised, real enough that it breaks the tension just a little.
Lily follows behind Alex more quietly.
She doesn’t speak at first.
Just steps forward and pulls George into a hug like it’s the most obvious thing in the world that he needs one, no hesitation, no performance, just steady presence.
When she pulls back, she keeps her hands on his shoulders for a second longer than necessary.
“Happy hundred races,” she says simply, like it’s not a question or a celebration, just a fact she refuses to let get lost.
Then, softer:
“I’m proud of you. Don’t argue with me.”
He almost does.
But he doesn’t.
Alex clears his throat like he’s been waiting for his turn to emotionally disrupt the room.
“Toto is an idiot,” he says casually, like it’s a well-established fact of nature.
“Alex—” Lily starts immediately, already sighing.
“What?” he shrugs. “He is. If your own team forgets something like today, that’s not professionalism, that’s selective memory.”
George lets out another laugh—this one longer, warmer, like it actually stays instead of slipping away immediately.
Alex gestures vaguely, tone softening just a little.
“But you still did it,” he adds.
And that one lands differently.
George doesn’t want the celebration.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just… not at all.
And she understands without him needing to explain it properly.
So they leave.
༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻
The restaurant is small in a way that feels almost accidental, like it wasn’t designed to be noticed at all, tucked away from the louder parts of Barcelona where everything still feels slightly too bright, slightly too fast. The kind of place where nothing expects you to perform, not the lighting, not the tables, not even the silence between conversations that drift in and out without meaning to be heard.
George sits down like his body is only just now realising it can stop bracing itself. It’s subtle, not dramatic, just a slow release in his shoulders, in the way his hands rest instead of hovering with tension he didn’t notice he was carrying.
The food comes without ceremony, simple, shared, unimportant in the way dinner becomes when it is no longer attached to anything larger than hunger. They eat without turning it into a moment, without needing it to be anything more than what it is, and for a while, that is enough.
At first, he moves slowly, like he’s still catching up to the idea that nothing here is being judged or watched or measured, but it passes quietly, almost unnoticed, into something more natural. Eventually, he starts eating properly again, like his body remembers what ease feels like when it isn’t being asked to justify itself.
At some point, he steals from her plate without thinking, like it’s instinct more than intention, and she notices immediately, of course she does, but she doesn’t call it out harshly.
“Thought it was just alright,” she says, tone light, like she’s letting him exist without interrupting him.
“I never said it was bad,” he replies too quickly, still not looking up properly, and that alone gives him away more than anything else.
“George,” she says again, softer this time, and something in him loosens at the sound of it, like the name itself is permission to stop holding so tightly.
“I’m hungry,” he adds, quieter, and this time it actually feels like him speaking instead of him managing himself.
After a while, they leave without deciding to make it a decision. The night outside is cooler, softer in the way cities become when they are no longer demanding attention, when even the lights feel less sharp. They walk without direction, not because there is anywhere to go, but because standing still feels heavier than moving.
His hand finds hers naturally, like it has done this before, like it will do it again, and neither of them comments on it because there is nothing to explain.
Somewhere along the walk, he speaks, voice lower now, less careful than earlier in the day, less like he’s filtering every word before it leaves him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, like it slips out before he can organise it into anything more structured.
She slows slightly beside him, not stopping him, just adjusting to him. “For what?” she asks, not because she doesn’t know, but because she knows there is no single answer that will fit cleanly.
He looks down for a moment, then exhales. “I don’t know,” he admits, and there’s no attempt to fix it into something clearer than it is.
That earns a soft pause from her, not disappointment, not frustration, just understanding. “Exactly,” she says quietly, like that is enough on its own.
Later, back in the room, everything finally settles in a way the rest of the day never allowed it to. The air feels still instead of heavy, quiet instead of sharp. George comes out of the shower still slightly damp, hair messy, shoulders no longer carrying the same invisible weight they had been all day, and for a moment he just stands there like he’s recalibrating what it feels like to exist without expectation pressing against him.
Then he walks to her.
No hesitation. No explanation. No attempt to rebuild anything he spent the day carefully holding in place.
Just collapse.
She holds him immediately, steady and certain, like it is the most obvious thing in the world that this is where he is supposed to be.
After a while, her voice comes quietly into the space between them, soft enough that it feels like it belongs only there.
“Thank you for remembering,” he says.
She exhales slowly, like the words land somewhere deeper than everything else did today, and after a beat he answers just as quietly, almost like it’s the simplest truth he has all day.
“I did not remember,” she says.
A pause.
Then softer—
“I never forgot.”
Avi's Radio📻: So, how was it? Frankly speaking, this was my first attempt at angst or hurt comfort, and i have n idea how it turned out.
And sorry if the writing is inconsistent, it took me like 3 days to write.
Thank you for reading!!<3
Taglist:
If you want to be added or removed, just leave a comment or dm me!
@hereforfanfictionsfr @valeelavvale @maladaptive-anxiety @harrystyleskiwi9 @sonasarchive @yearnerray @sparksfromhell @velisa003 @gulaabjamun08
Pairing: Fernando Alonso x Fem! Reader
Genre: Tooth rotting fluff
Warnings: None
Avi's Radio📻: So, I was supposed to be writing my text!au, but I could not get his out of my head, so here you go!! Btw my requests are open if you have anything in mind!!
She didn’t notice it was gone at first.
It wasn’t something she ever really thought about, just a habit more than an accessory—looped around her wrist most days, half-forgotten until she needed it. So when it disappeared, there was no dramatic moment of realization. Just a few absentminded days where her hand kept reaching for it anyway, meeting empty skin instead.
By the third day, she finally frowned, turning her wrist like the angle might fix the problem. It didn’t. She checked her bags, her desk, even the bathroom counter like it might have staged a quiet rebellion. Nothing.
“Traitor,” she muttered to herself, then let it go.
It was just a hair tie.
Until race weekend.
The Aston Martin garage always felt like a different kind of chaos—controlled, expensive, slightly too loud to think properly in. She weaved through it easily, coffee in hand, greeting a few engineers before spotting Fernando near the back, half-focused on a conversation but already looking for her the way he usually did without making it obvious.
She walked closer.
And then she saw it.
A plain black elastic around his wrist.
She stopped.
“…Is that my hair tie?” she asked, slowly, already narrowing her eyes.
Fernando didn’t even look surprised. He glanced down, then back up at her like she was interrupting something mildly important. “No.”
She let out a short laugh. “Nando. That is my hair tie.”
“It is a hair tie,” he said, completely calm.
“My hair tie.”
That finally got a pause. Just a small one. Then he shrugged. “It was in my apartment.”
“So you stole it.”
“I didn’t steal it,” he corrected immediately. “I found it.”
“In your apartment.”
“Yes.”
“And your solution was to wear it.”
“It was convenient,” he said, like this was obvious logic.
She stared at him for a second, then shook her head. “Convenient for what? Emotional support hair tie?”
He hesitated, just long enough to give himself away. “Its so you don’t lose it again.”
Her expression softened despite herself. “And did that work?”
“…Sí,” he admitted.
She laughed under her breath. “Clearly not, because now I’ve found you wearing it like a criminal.”
He gave her a look. “It was not criminal.”
“It’s borderline emotional theft.”
“I forgot it was there,” he added, quieter, like that explained everything.
That made her lose the fight completely.
“Unbelievable,” she said, stepping closer and slipping the elastic off his wrist. “I leave you alone for a few days and you adopt my belongings.”
Fernando watched her wrap it back around her own wrist, expression unreadable for a moment too long.
Then, softly: “Can I have it back?”
He blinked. “No”
He tilted his head slightly. “It has become habit.”
That did something inconvenient to her chest.
She exhaled, pretending it didn’t. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he said.
Still, he didn’t look away.
So she stepped closer, gently took his wrist, and slid the hair tie back into place where it had been on him, smoothing it down like it belonged there.
“There,” she said lightly, stepping back before she could overthink it. “Try not to get attached, hm?”
Fernando looked down at it, then back at her.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Too late, cariño.”
And she absolutely did not think about that for the rest of the day.
Avi's Radio📻: Annddd thats it! Now i can finish my text!au in peace!
Please don't hesitate to leave any constructive criticism or insight!!
Thank you for reading!!
Taglist:
If you want to be added or removed, please dm me or leave a comment!!
@hereforfanfictionsfr @maladaptive-anxiety @valeelavvale @harrystyleskiwi9 @sonasarchive @yearnerray @sparksfromhell @velisa003 @gulaabjamun08
anyway hoping that the generative AI bubble pops so disastrously that the tech industry becomes allergic to anything involving it for the next 1,000 years
my ex used to get pissed off every time i showed them this video they would be like "that's not how a train works" really angrily and storm out of the room
