Frank

They/them or she/her Somehow I’m 23

[theprofessional-amateur]

link to bluesky post

[theprofessional-amateur]

In addition to how to turn various things, it includes:

Other useful AI Removal/Detection links

How to spot AI Hallucinations like a Reference Librarian (originally on Substack)

Library Freedom Project has a lot of handouts about AI on their Resources page

[lap90]

Love in a Lunchbox - YT

pairing: yuki tsunoda x fem!chef!reader synopsis: for months, the F1 paddock operated under the assumption that Yuki Tsunoda was a culinary mastermind. That illusion shatters on a chaotic Friday when a late, exhausted Yuki arrives at the garage completely empty-handed, only to find his gear and a perfectly prepped lunchbox already waiting for him with a sweet note. wc: 756

note: hello besties!! this is an idea that @fraaaaankiiiiieee sent me a while ago, I hope you like it a lot <3 (if you have more ideas with Yuki, please send them, we need more about him 🤍)

The entire Formula 1 paddock had simply accepted it as a universal truth: Yuki Tsunoda cooked for himself.

He always showed up with incredibly rich, aromatic meals that made the motorhome smell like a Michelin-starred kitchen. Whenever anyone asked, he’d just shrug and say something like, "I cooked something simple." It was a blatant lie—the plating alone looked like it took an hour—but no one questioned it. Yuki loved to eat. Yuki loved to cook. Case closed, right?

Spoiler: No.

It happened on an FP1 Friday. The morning was chaotic, and Yuki was late. Not just standard F1-traffic late, but late-late. When he finally jogged into the hospitality area, he looked completely exhausted, half-asleep, and running on pure, unadulterated inertia. More noticeably, he was completely empty-handed. No backpack. No helmet. No neatly packed cooler bag.

A mild panic began to ripple through the Visa Cash App RB side of the garage.

But when Yuki finally stumbled into his driver's room, he froze. His backpack was already sitting perfectly on his chair. His helmet was prepped. And sitting squarely on top of his gear was his familiar insulated lunchbox, with a small, neatly folded sticky note attached to the handle. It wasn't overly sappy or poetic. It just read:

"Eat properly. I’ll see you later."

The garage fell into a sudden, collective silence. Engineers, mechanics, and PR officers all stared at the neatly arranged gear, their sleep-deprived brains slowly connecting the dots.

"Wait, he didn't arrive with that," one of his mechanics whispered.

"Then who...?"

"He definitely didn't cook that this morning," his race engineer pointed out, eyeing the intricate bento box that Yuki was already unzipping. "Or yesterday."

Someone at the back of the garage finally murmured the realization out loud. "So... someone’s been cooking for him this whole time."

Yuki, thoroughly distracted and already chewing on a perfectly seasoned piece of tamagoyaki, blinked up at his team. "Yeah," he said, entirely casually. "My person does."

My. Person.

You were a chef. Not necessarily world-famous, but you worked hard in the paddock, managing the catering for one of the hospitality suites. And you knew Yuki better than anyone. You knew that despite his profound love for food, the stress of a race weekend often made him forget to eat entirely. You knew he always performed better, felt better, and smiled more when someone took the time to feed him properly.

So, you did. No grand announcements. No stealing the credit when the grid praised his culinary skills. It was just love, quietly packaged in Tupperware and thermos flasks.

Later that afternoon, while Yuki was debriefing, one of his trainers gently opened the lunchbox to check his macros for the day. It wasn't just "random food." It was his absolute favorite meal, precisely adjusted for the carbohydrates and proteins he needed for a high-G-force track. The vegetables were cut beautifully. The balance was flawless. It was a meal made by someone who studied his schedule, knew his body, and knew his heart.

His trainer closed the lid with a soft sigh. "This isn’t just food," he muttered to the head mechanic. "This is care."

Much later, when the chaos of FP2 had finally settled and the sun began to dip below the grandstands, Yuki found you. You were wiping down a stainless steel counter in the quiet of the catering kitchen when you felt his arms wrap around your waist from behind, his chin resting heavily on your shoulder.

"I didn't even say goodbye this morning," he mumbled, his voice thick with leftover exhaustion, pressing a kiss to your neck.

You leaned back into him, resting your hands over his. "You were asleep, Y/N. I wasn't going to wake you just to say goodbye."

"You still packed my lunch."

You smiled, turning slightly to press a kiss to his cheek. "Always."

Yuki’s grip tightened just a fraction, his tone shifting into something incredibly soft and sincere. "I eat better when you’re taking care of me."

"I know," you whispered back. "That's why I do it."

From that Friday onward, the narrative in the paddock completely shifted. Nobody ever said, “Yuki cooks for himself” again. Instead, whenever he walked into the garage with a perfectly arranged meal that smelled like heaven, the team would just smile knowingly and say, “Yuki is very loved.”

And you kept cooking. Because you loved your craft, because seeing him eat happily was your favorite thing in the world, and because, to you, feeding him was exactly what it meant to love him.

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

💌 tag list: @mysthicwhispers @anamiad00msday @st4r-girl-official @kartuke @gridsandstories @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @pedriglazer @viper-0800 @clocouettelife @leviathan0000 @roseannih @rosietoesf1 @thisdoesntexsist-cherry @elizamoe133 @nichmeddar @galaxygurlll @ojijhij @naenaen @josephinel83 @linnygirl09 @axelstillalive @star73807-blog @meyla123x @vinylphwoar @artyyjia @meritxellao @anaylen01 @martygraciesversion381 @supernatural-harrypotter7 @chair-things @moonlitelaine @hades-favourite-daughter @justaf1girl @liv1209 @celiaisacaterpillar @yellow14m @maebejustmaebe @sainz0fthetimes @waitingatthegreenlight @ilocuras24 @beathreat @biancathecool @thepolyamorywriter @aerangi @recklessyears @natqrvlvr @scenesofobx @sassypostpatrol @dutchlionforev @emmaxdelicate @ophirei @goldi-1-graysons-version @queen-of-disasterrrrr

[lap90]

hi!

I don’t know if this will be a bit niche, but I was wondering if you could write an Oscar Piastri x fem!reader fic where she features on “Box, Box” with Bella James. (essentially, if you haven’t seen the videos, Bella is an F1 content creator and has made a series on her YouTube channel where she interviews people while driving them around. the interview format/style and humour is similar to Chicken Shop Date.)

Oscar and reader have been dating for a long time (very much Oscar and Lily vibes), so reader gets asked about their relationship, but also about her own life (e.g. what she studied at university). it’s all very lighthearted and fun, and fans eat it up.

no worries if this is too random, but thank you anyways! I love your writing 🫶🏽

Box, Box - OP81

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader sypnosis: Y/N survives an episode of Box, Box with Bella James, successfully prevents Oscar's 720S from getting scraped against a dumpster, and inevitably spills the secrets of what it's like dating Formula 1's calmest driver. wc: 1.9k

note: a little short but hope you like it and it's what yoy have in mind! have a great day, bestie 😽🤍

The camera cuts in abruptly. There is no intro music, just the deafening, throaty roar of a twin-turbo V8 engine before the audio levels automatically aggressively balance themselves out.

The angle is a GoPro mounted to the dashboard of a sleek, Papaya Orange McLaren 720S. Behind the wheel sits Bella James, wearing an oversized vintage racing jacket and a deadpan expression. In the passenger seat, looking effortlessly chic but slightly terrified as the car takes a sharp corner, is Y/N.

"Hello," Bella says, staring straight ahead at the road, not blinking. "Welcome to Box, Box. The only show where I hold people hostage in very fast cars until they tell me their secrets. Today, I am driving a McLaren 720S. I didn't buy it. I borrowed it. From my guest’s boyfriend, who probably doesn't know I have it."

Y/N laughs, reaching up to adjust the sun visor. "He definitely knows. He made me sign a waiver before I got in here with you."

"Legal jargon," Bella dismisses with a wave of her hand, shifting gears. The car growls. "With me today is Y/N. WAG, academic weapon, and the only person who can tolerate Oscar Piastri for more than four consecutive days. Welcome."

"Thank you, Bella. It's an honor to be in Oscar's car with you."

Jump cut.

They are stopped at a red light. Bella turns her head slowly to stare directly at Y/N. The silence stretches for a full four seconds.

"You went to university," Bella states flatly.

"I did," Y/N nods, playing along perfectly with the awkward tension. "I studied Architecture."

"Architecture," Bella repeats. "So, you like looking at buildings."

"I like designing them, yeah."

"Right. Have you ever considered designing a better track for Monaco? Because I think the cars are getting a bit wide."

Y/N snorts, covering her mouth. "I'll put it on my to-do list. Right after I finish my current project."

"Good." Bella hits the gas as the light turns green, throwing them both slightly back into the bucket seats. "So. You and Oscar."

"Me and Oscar," Y/N smiles, a soft, involuntary thing that happens whenever his name is brought up. The comments section of this video is going to absolutely melt over it.

"You are high school sweethearts," Bella says, reading from a crushed piece of paper she pulled from her pocket. "You met in Australia. You’ve been together since before he had a driver's license. Which means you knew him when he had bad hair and took the bus."

"I did," Y/N confirms, grinning now. "I actually had to drive him around for a good six months because I got my license before he did."

Bella pauses, looking genuinely intrigued. "You chauffeured a Formula 1 driver?"

"In a beaten-up Toyota Yaris, yes. He was a terrible passenger. Always telling me I was braking too late."

"Did you ever just... leave him at a petrol station?"

"The thought crossed my mind," Y/N laughs. "But he used to buy me snacks, so I kept him around."

Jump cut.

They are cruising down a scenic, tree-lined road. The lighting is golden hour perfect.

"Are you not bored?" Bella asks abruptly.

Y/N blinks. "Of?"

"Him. You’ve been together for years. Most people our age change relationships like they change tires during a wet race. What is the secret to not getting the ick?"

Y/N leans her head against the headrest, smiling softly at the dashboard. "I think we just grew up together. Instead of growing apart, we just figured out how to fit into each other's weird, chaotic lives. Plus, he's actually really funny. Not just internet-funny, but actually funny."

"He has the emotional range of a very polite robot," Bella observes dryly.

"That's just what he wants you to think," Y/N teases, leaning slightly toward the camera. "Behind closed doors, he's basically a golden retriever."

Bella looks directly into the GoPro lens. "I am trying to picture Oscar Piastri fetching a tennis ball, and my brain is actively rejecting the image."

Y/N bursts into laughter, the sound filling the small cabin of the McLaren, right before Bella aggressively shifts gears again and the engine roars, drowning them out.

Jump cut.

The camera angle has shifted slightly. They are now parked in a drive-thru line, inching forward. Bella is staring blankly at the car in front of them.

"You studied Architecture," Bella says, not looking at Y/N. "Which hospitality building in the paddock is the ugliest? You can be honest. I can blur your mouth."

Y/N laughs, a hand covering her face. "I can't answer that! I have to eat in those buildings."

"Coward," Bella deadpans. "Fine. Which one has the best structural integrity for when a driver inevitably throws a tantrum and throws a chair?"

"McLaren, obviously," Y/N smiles smoothly. "Papaya is a very load-bearing color."

"Good PR answer. Zak Brown is wiring you fifty quid right now."

Jump cut.

They are back on the open road. The 720S purrs as Bella takes a sweeping bend, shockingly adept at handling the supercar despite her relaxed posture.

"What is the worst thing about living with an F1 driver?" Bella asks. "Does he try to hit the apex when he's pushing a trolley around Tesco?"

"Yes, actually," Y/N nods, completely serious. "Grocery shopping is a nightmare. He treats the dairy aisle like it's Parabolica. If someone is moving too slow with their cart, I can literally see him calculating the overtake. I have to physically hold his jacket to stop him from slipping up the inside of an old lady."

Bella blinks slowly. "Has he ever asked for DRS on a straight piece of pavement?"

"No, but he did complain about dirty air once when we were walking behind a group of tourists."

"He's sick in the head," Bella concludes.

"A little bit, yeah."

Jump cut.

Suddenly, the harsh, generic ringing of an incoming call echoes through the car's Bluetooth system. On the sleek center console, the name osc 🧡 flashes brightly.

Bella glances at the screen, then at Y/N, then back to the road. She presses the button on the steering wheel to accept the call.

"You're on Box, Box," Bella announces flatly. "State your emergency."

A beat of silence. Then, Oscar’s very calm, very Australian voice fills the cabin. "Why is my McLaren app telling me that my car is currently doing sixty in a thirty zone?"

Y/N instantly bursts into laughter, leaning out of the frame slightly.

Bella doesn't even flinch. "Your app is broken. We are stationary. I am a very safe driver."

"I can literally hear the engine, Bella," Oscar sighs. The long-suffering tone is palpable even through the speakers. "Hi, darling."

"Hi," Y/N says, grinning at the dashboard. "I'm alive. She hasn't crashed it yet."

"That's reassuring," Oscar says dryly. "Could you kindly remind the host of this kidnapping that she promised to bring it back with a full tank?"

"I don't believe in petrol," Bella says to the steering wheel. "It's a construct. Goodbye, Oscar."

Bella aggressively hits the hang-up button. The cabin returns to the low hum of the engine. She looks at Y/N.

"He seems needy."

Y/N is still wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. "So needy."

Jump cut.

The car is now parked in an empty, scenic layby overlooking the city. The engine is finally off. Bella turns her entire torso to face Y/N, clasping her hands together in her lap.

"Y/N. It has been a pleasure having you in your boyfriend's car. Do you have any final words for the internet?"

Y/N smiles, looking right into the GoPro. "Don't let Bella borrow your car."

"Spiteful," Bella mutters. "And what about Oscar? Any message for him?"

Y/N softens just a fraction, the golden hour light catching her eyes. "I'll see you at home. I'll bring snacks."

"Disgusting," Bella says, deadpan. "I'm ending the video now. Get out."

Y/N laughs, the sound fading perfectly as the screen abruptly cuts to black.

-

The screen remains black for a few seconds before simple, white text appears: BONUS FOOTAGE (Because McLaren’s PR team threatened to sue me)

Jump cut.

The GoPro is back on, but the car is moving at an agonizingly slow pace. Bella is attempting to parallel park the 720S between a skip bin and a very battered Ford Fiesta.

"You have about two inches on your left," Y/N instructs, leaning out of the passenger window, squinting. "Wait, no. That's a spatial illusion. You have zero inches."

"I am an apex predator of the road," Bella mutters, white-knuckling the carbon-fiber steering wheel. "I don't need inches."

"Bella, if you scratch this car, Oscar won't yell at you, but he will just stare at you with immense disappointment, and I promise you that's much worse."

Bella hits the brakes, freezing the car in place. She stares blankly at the dashboard. "I can't handle the disappointed Australian sigh. I'm leaving it here. We are walking."

Jump cut.

Bella and Y/N are sitting in the parked car eating chips out of a greasy paper bag.

"So," Bella says, chewing thoughtfully. "Does he sleep in his race suit?"

Y/N chokes on a chip, coughing into her hand. "No, Bella. He wears normal pajamas. Or sweatpants."

"I bet they have sponsors on them."

"They don't."

"Are you sure? Have you checked the waistband for a stray Dell logo?"

Cut to black.

Later That Evening

The heavy front door of the apartment clicked shut. Y/N dropped her keys into the small ceramic bowl by the entrance, the satisfying clink echoing through the quiet hallway.

"I'm alive," Y/N announced to the apartment. "And I brought the snacks I promised."

"In the kitchen!" Oscar’s voice called out, followed by the sound of the fridge closing.

Y/N walked in to find him leaning against the kitchen island, wearing a grey hoodie and looking infuriatingly relaxed. He raised an eyebrow as she placed a crinkled bag of his favorite crisps on the marble counter.

"You survived," Oscar observed, his lips twitching into a small smile as he pulled her in by the waist. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "More importantly, did my car survive?"

"Barely," Y/N laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "She tried to parallel park near a dumpster. I had to use my architectural degree to calculate the angles so we didn't scrape the paint."

Oscar let out a quiet, genuine laugh, shaking his head. "I knew I shouldn't have given her the keys. But she cornered me in the paddock, and it’s very hard to say no when she’s staring at you without blinking."

"She asked me if you sleep in your race suit."

"What did you say?"

"I told her you had a Pirelli logo stamped on your lower back."

Oscar groaned, letting his head drop forward to rest against her shoulder. "The internet is going to run with that. Lando is never going to let me hear the end of it."

"Oh, it gets better," Y/N teased, running her fingers lightly through the hair at the nape of his neck. "I also told her that behind closed doors, you have the personality of a golden retriever."

Oscar lifted his head, narrowing his eyes at her in mock offense. "I am a ruthless competitor, Y/N. I am a fierce, cold-blooded racing driver."

"Mhm. Sure you are," Y/N smiled, reaching up to pinch his cheek. "Now, are we going to open these snacks, or is the ruthless competitor too cool for salt and vinegar?"

Oscar looked at the bag of crisps, then back at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I suppose even fierce racing drivers need a snack break."

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

💌 tag list: @mysthicwhispers @anamiad00msday @st4r-girl-official @kartuke @gridsandstories @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @pedriglazer @viper-0800 @clocouettelife @leviathan0000 @roseannih @rosietoesf1 @thisdoesntexsist-cherry @elizamoe133 @nichmeddar @galaxygurlll @ojijhij @naenaen @josephinel83 @linnygirl09 @axelstillalive @star73807-blog @meyla123x @vinylphwoar @artyyjia @meritxellao @anaylen01 @martygraciesversion381 @supernatural-harrypotter7 @chair-things @moonlitelaine @hades-favourite-daughter @justaf1girl @liv1209 @celiaisacaterpillar @yellow14m @maebejustmaebe @sainz0fthetimes @waitingatthegreenlight @ilocuras24 @beathreat @biancathecool @thepolyamorywriter @aerangi @recklessyears @natqrvlvr @scenesofobx @sassypostpatrol @dutchlionforev @emmaxdelicate @ophirei @goldi-1-graysons-version @queen-of-disasterrrrr

🧡 tag list oscar: @teamnovalak @aturnof-thepage

[lap90]

hi!

I don’t know if this will be a bit niche, but I was wondering if you could write an Oscar Piastri x fem!reader fic where she features on “Box, Box” with Bella James. (essentially, if you haven’t seen the videos, Bella is an F1 content creator and has made a series on her YouTube channel where she interviews people while driving them around. the interview format/style and humour is similar to Chicken Shop Date.)

Oscar and reader have been dating for a long time (very much Oscar and Lily vibes), so reader gets asked about their relationship, but also about her own life (e.g. what she studied at university). it’s all very lighthearted and fun, and fans eat it up.

no worries if this is too random, but thank you anyways! I love your writing 🫶🏽

Box, Box - OP81

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader sypnosis: Y/N survives an episode of Box, Box with Bella James, successfully prevents Oscar's 720S from getting scraped against a dumpster, and inevitably spills the secrets of what it's like dating Formula 1's calmest driver. wc: 1.9k

note: a little short but hope you like it and it's what yoy have in mind! have a great day, bestie 😽🤍

The camera cuts in abruptly. There is no intro music, just the deafening, throaty roar of a twin-turbo V8 engine before the audio levels automatically aggressively balance themselves out.

The angle is a GoPro mounted to the dashboard of a sleek, Papaya Orange McLaren 720S. Behind the wheel sits Bella James, wearing an oversized vintage racing jacket and a deadpan expression. In the passenger seat, looking effortlessly chic but slightly terrified as the car takes a sharp corner, is Y/N.

"Hello," Bella says, staring straight ahead at the road, not blinking. "Welcome to Box, Box. The only show where I hold people hostage in very fast cars until they tell me their secrets. Today, I am driving a McLaren 720S. I didn't buy it. I borrowed it. From my guest’s boyfriend, who probably doesn't know I have it."

Y/N laughs, reaching up to adjust the sun visor. "He definitely knows. He made me sign a waiver before I got in here with you."

"Legal jargon," Bella dismisses with a wave of her hand, shifting gears. The car growls. "With me today is Y/N. WAG, academic weapon, and the only person who can tolerate Oscar Piastri for more than four consecutive days. Welcome."

"Thank you, Bella. It's an honor to be in Oscar's car with you."

Jump cut.

They are stopped at a red light. Bella turns her head slowly to stare directly at Y/N. The silence stretches for a full four seconds.

"You went to university," Bella states flatly.

"I did," Y/N nods, playing along perfectly with the awkward tension. "I studied Architecture."

"Architecture," Bella repeats. "So, you like looking at buildings."

"I like designing them, yeah."

"Right. Have you ever considered designing a better track for Monaco? Because I think the cars are getting a bit wide."

Y/N snorts, covering her mouth. "I'll put it on my to-do list. Right after I finish my current project."

"Good." Bella hits the gas as the light turns green, throwing them both slightly back into the bucket seats. "So. You and Oscar."

"Me and Oscar," Y/N smiles, a soft, involuntary thing that happens whenever his name is brought up. The comments section of this video is going to absolutely melt over it.

"You are high school sweethearts," Bella says, reading from a crushed piece of paper she pulled from her pocket. "You met in Australia. You’ve been together since before he had a driver's license. Which means you knew him when he had bad hair and took the bus."

"I did," Y/N confirms, grinning now. "I actually had to drive him around for a good six months because I got my license before he did."

Bella pauses, looking genuinely intrigued. "You chauffeured a Formula 1 driver?"

"In a beaten-up Toyota Yaris, yes. He was a terrible passenger. Always telling me I was braking too late."

"Did you ever just... leave him at a petrol station?"

"The thought crossed my mind," Y/N laughs. "But he used to buy me snacks, so I kept him around."

Jump cut.

They are cruising down a scenic, tree-lined road. The lighting is golden hour perfect.

"Are you not bored?" Bella asks abruptly.

Y/N blinks. "Of?"

"Him. You’ve been together for years. Most people our age change relationships like they change tires during a wet race. What is the secret to not getting the ick?"

Y/N leans her head against the headrest, smiling softly at the dashboard. "I think we just grew up together. Instead of growing apart, we just figured out how to fit into each other's weird, chaotic lives. Plus, he's actually really funny. Not just internet-funny, but actually funny."

"He has the emotional range of a very polite robot," Bella observes dryly.

"That's just what he wants you to think," Y/N teases, leaning slightly toward the camera. "Behind closed doors, he's basically a golden retriever."

Bella looks directly into the GoPro lens. "I am trying to picture Oscar Piastri fetching a tennis ball, and my brain is actively rejecting the image."

Y/N bursts into laughter, the sound filling the small cabin of the McLaren, right before Bella aggressively shifts gears again and the engine roars, drowning them out.

Jump cut.

The camera angle has shifted slightly. They are now parked in a drive-thru line, inching forward. Bella is staring blankly at the car in front of them.

"You studied Architecture," Bella says, not looking at Y/N. "Which hospitality building in the paddock is the ugliest? You can be honest. I can blur your mouth."

Y/N laughs, a hand covering her face. "I can't answer that! I have to eat in those buildings."

"Coward," Bella deadpans. "Fine. Which one has the best structural integrity for when a driver inevitably throws a tantrum and throws a chair?"

"McLaren, obviously," Y/N smiles smoothly. "Papaya is a very load-bearing color."

"Good PR answer. Zak Brown is wiring you fifty quid right now."

Jump cut.

They are back on the open road. The 720S purrs as Bella takes a sweeping bend, shockingly adept at handling the supercar despite her relaxed posture.

"What is the worst thing about living with an F1 driver?" Bella asks. "Does he try to hit the apex when he's pushing a trolley around Tesco?"

"Yes, actually," Y/N nods, completely serious. "Grocery shopping is a nightmare. He treats the dairy aisle like it's Parabolica. If someone is moving too slow with their cart, I can literally see him calculating the overtake. I have to physically hold his jacket to stop him from slipping up the inside of an old lady."

Bella blinks slowly. "Has he ever asked for DRS on a straight piece of pavement?"

"No, but he did complain about dirty air once when we were walking behind a group of tourists."

"He's sick in the head," Bella concludes.

"A little bit, yeah."

Jump cut.

Suddenly, the harsh, generic ringing of an incoming call echoes through the car's Bluetooth system. On the sleek center console, the name osc 🧡 flashes brightly.

Bella glances at the screen, then at Y/N, then back to the road. She presses the button on the steering wheel to accept the call.

"You're on Box, Box," Bella announces flatly. "State your emergency."

A beat of silence. Then, Oscar’s very calm, very Australian voice fills the cabin. "Why is my McLaren app telling me that my car is currently doing sixty in a thirty zone?"

Y/N instantly bursts into laughter, leaning out of the frame slightly.

Bella doesn't even flinch. "Your app is broken. We are stationary. I am a very safe driver."

"I can literally hear the engine, Bella," Oscar sighs. The long-suffering tone is palpable even through the speakers. "Hi, darling."

"Hi," Y/N says, grinning at the dashboard. "I'm alive. She hasn't crashed it yet."

"That's reassuring," Oscar says dryly. "Could you kindly remind the host of this kidnapping that she promised to bring it back with a full tank?"

"I don't believe in petrol," Bella says to the steering wheel. "It's a construct. Goodbye, Oscar."

Bella aggressively hits the hang-up button. The cabin returns to the low hum of the engine. She looks at Y/N.

"He seems needy."

Y/N is still wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. "So needy."

Jump cut.

The car is now parked in an empty, scenic layby overlooking the city. The engine is finally off. Bella turns her entire torso to face Y/N, clasping her hands together in her lap.

"Y/N. It has been a pleasure having you in your boyfriend's car. Do you have any final words for the internet?"

Y/N smiles, looking right into the GoPro. "Don't let Bella borrow your car."

"Spiteful," Bella mutters. "And what about Oscar? Any message for him?"

Y/N softens just a fraction, the golden hour light catching her eyes. "I'll see you at home. I'll bring snacks."

"Disgusting," Bella says, deadpan. "I'm ending the video now. Get out."

Y/N laughs, the sound fading perfectly as the screen abruptly cuts to black.

-

The screen remains black for a few seconds before simple, white text appears: BONUS FOOTAGE (Because McLaren’s PR team threatened to sue me)

Jump cut.

The GoPro is back on, but the car is moving at an agonizingly slow pace. Bella is attempting to parallel park the 720S between a skip bin and a very battered Ford Fiesta.

"You have about two inches on your left," Y/N instructs, leaning out of the passenger window, squinting. "Wait, no. That's a spatial illusion. You have zero inches."

"I am an apex predator of the road," Bella mutters, white-knuckling the carbon-fiber steering wheel. "I don't need inches."

"Bella, if you scratch this car, Oscar won't yell at you, but he will just stare at you with immense disappointment, and I promise you that's much worse."

Bella hits the brakes, freezing the car in place. She stares blankly at the dashboard. "I can't handle the disappointed Australian sigh. I'm leaving it here. We are walking."

Jump cut.

Bella and Y/N are sitting in the parked car eating chips out of a greasy paper bag.

"So," Bella says, chewing thoughtfully. "Does he sleep in his race suit?"

Y/N chokes on a chip, coughing into her hand. "No, Bella. He wears normal pajamas. Or sweatpants."

"I bet they have sponsors on them."

"They don't."

"Are you sure? Have you checked the waistband for a stray Dell logo?"

Cut to black.

Later That Evening

The heavy front door of the apartment clicked shut. Y/N dropped her keys into the small ceramic bowl by the entrance, the satisfying clink echoing through the quiet hallway.

"I'm alive," Y/N announced to the apartment. "And I brought the snacks I promised."

"In the kitchen!" Oscar’s voice called out, followed by the sound of the fridge closing.

Y/N walked in to find him leaning against the kitchen island, wearing a grey hoodie and looking infuriatingly relaxed. He raised an eyebrow as she placed a crinkled bag of his favorite crisps on the marble counter.

"You survived," Oscar observed, his lips twitching into a small smile as he pulled her in by the waist. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "More importantly, did my car survive?"

"Barely," Y/N laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "She tried to parallel park near a dumpster. I had to use my architectural degree to calculate the angles so we didn't scrape the paint."

Oscar let out a quiet, genuine laugh, shaking his head. "I knew I shouldn't have given her the keys. But she cornered me in the paddock, and it’s very hard to say no when she’s staring at you without blinking."

"She asked me if you sleep in your race suit."

"What did you say?"

"I told her you had a Pirelli logo stamped on your lower back."

Oscar groaned, letting his head drop forward to rest against her shoulder. "The internet is going to run with that. Lando is never going to let me hear the end of it."

"Oh, it gets better," Y/N teased, running her fingers lightly through the hair at the nape of his neck. "I also told her that behind closed doors, you have the personality of a golden retriever."

Oscar lifted his head, narrowing his eyes at her in mock offense. "I am a ruthless competitor, Y/N. I am a fierce, cold-blooded racing driver."

"Mhm. Sure you are," Y/N smiled, reaching up to pinch his cheek. "Now, are we going to open these snacks, or is the ruthless competitor too cool for salt and vinegar?"

Oscar looked at the bag of crisps, then back at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I suppose even fierce racing drivers need a snack break."

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

💌 tag list: @mysthicwhispers @anamiad00msday @st4r-girl-official @kartuke @gridsandstories @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @pedriglazer @viper-0800 @clocouettelife @leviathan0000 @roseannih @rosietoesf1 @thisdoesntexsist-cherry @elizamoe133 @nichmeddar @galaxygurlll @ojijhij @naenaen @josephinel83 @linnygirl09 @axelstillalive @star73807-blog @meyla123x @vinylphwoar @artyyjia @meritxellao @anaylen01 @martygraciesversion381 @supernatural-harrypotter7 @chair-things @moonlitelaine @hades-favourite-daughter @justaf1girl @liv1209 @celiaisacaterpillar @yellow14m @maebejustmaebe @sainz0fthetimes @waitingatthegreenlight @ilocuras24 @beathreat @biancathecool @thepolyamorywriter @aerangi @recklessyears @natqrvlvr @scenesofobx @sassypostpatrol @dutchlionforev @emmaxdelicate @ophirei @goldi-1-graysons-version @queen-of-disasterrrrr

🧡 tag list oscar: @teamnovalak @aturnof-thepage

[000l]

[shrewreadings]

like to charge, reblog to cast.

[goldsbitch]

monaco kiss .wav

Lando's mildly exhibitionist dreams came true. Due to genius sound engineering, the world can now listen to him and his girlfriend having sex, without a clue it's them.

the track mentioned and referenced (no need to listen to it to get the story, go and be free): French Kiss - The Original Underground Mix, Lil'Louis, The World (credit where credit is due)... 05:30 is the timestamp

word count: 7k

warning: smut, minors DNI, p in v, oral sex, voice notes, colapinto level amount of the word "mate"

PS: i rarely do, but I fuckin love this one

If there was ever a place where Lando could spend hours and hours on end, it was the blue couch at Martin Garrix's personal studio. That piece of furniture was the peak of comfy. He'd asked many times where he got it - if only Martin could remember that.

The whole studio has a cozy vibe around it. A safe space for the F1 star to escape the ever-present eyes of the public, a timeless place where he could wind down and sit passively, while his friend digged notes for hits of the future. They'd often sit for hours in silence, just winding down.

To Lando's joy, the ultimate friend chemistry he had with Martin also worked for him and his, not-so-new-anymore, girlfriend Y/N. In fact, the moment these two met, it was clear that Y/N would quickly become a frequent member of their private recording sessions.

But this time, she had to be in a different city due to work, so it was just the boys, the olden days. Back when Lando would actually dabble in DJ'ing. Those days were long gone, but...It wasn't a rare thing that Lando would help and brainstorm ideas, chord progressions or effects applied to the tracks. What the public didn't know was that he was a loud creative force behind some elements in Martin's recent tracks. Lando had almost threatened him, urging to keep this behind closed door. He wasn't gonna Leclerc this one out.

"You look beat, mate," said Martin finally after nearly two hours of staring into track nods. Lando finally looked up from his phone.

"I'm waiting for you to be done, bro," he replied simply, reffering back to their debate regarding this latest track. A pause. "You know my opinion."

Max turned around to face him, only to find a signature overplayed smirk looking back at him. "You know what, I'm a fucking renowned producer, and you have the decency to come and tell me my track is shit?"

Lando did not flinch. This as a fairly normal way they'd speak together. "Well, someone apparently has to," he shot back, challenging Martin to flip out.

"Screw you," he replied and turned back to face his three monitors. Lando waited patiently, knowing that this was his signature first reaction to criticism. He always came around eventually. Max was his friend. And he would do everything to stop him from releasing crap. "Ok," he heard the DJ say, caving in to his doubts. "I am too deep in this track anyway. Tell me what you think."

"Mate, you said you wanted to do something more experimental. You forgot to add boring," Lando deadpanned.

Martin sighed loudly and leaned back to his chair.

"Don't get me wrong, I fucking love how you go from like - what, 120bpm?-"

"135-"

"Yeah, whatever," Lando said, not happy when Martin used his i-know-music-theory-and-you-don't tone. "As I was gonna say, the come down from the fast tempo to the painfully slow one, in the middle of the track, kind of works. It's certainly nothing like I'd heard play anywhere lately. But like, there is nothing in the production that makes it stand out? Like no real build up or interesting sound."

Lando knew it was brutal from him. But he wasn't there to pat his friend on the back. Just like Martin would never fake compliment his on a bad race. To Lando, this was peak friendship.

Martin hit quick save and closed the file abruptly, startling a minor panic in his friend. Did Lando overstep?

"Come on, mate. Don't copout now."

Martin was visibly startled. "Maybe I just need to put this one down for a moment. Lando did not know what to say to that. He might be right.

"Cig break?"

//

They were standing at the small balcony connected to main entrance to the studio, cigarette smokes mixing together. Yeah, Lando did enjoy an occasional smoke break with his friend. A guilty pleasure one might say.

"So, what was the starting point of the track?" he couldn't help but ask, still not happy to see his friend aborting something he'd spend hours on.

Martin gave him an annoyed look, but did not hesitate to reply. "Remember how the conversation I had about techno tracks being awfully predictable?."

Lando eyes shot up. "Wait, that weird chick you ran into in Germany?"

Rarely would Martin blush, but today was a lucky day apparently. A mocking snort came as a reaction from his friend. "Mate, I don't remember ever seeing you so flustered because of a girl." Few weeks ago, Martin had the fortune of meeting someone who he called "the love of his life" in a random club. And that girl had the audacity to leave him on read for hours. Him, Martin Garrix. Infuriating.

"Yeah, well, fuck you. She was real cool, alternative and reminded me of why I got into music in the first place. Let's revisit how insufferable you were when you met Y/N." Lando exhaled, forever happy anytime anyone ever brought up him and Y/N meeting. If it were up to him, that would be the only thing he's talk about. Getting to know her was like the best kind of drunk one can get. Tipsy enough to make everything fun and perfect, and not too much to get lost in it.

"Fuck off, I was never as insufferable as this," he defended, deep down knowing he might have been even worse. But, he and Y/N ended up dating. Poor Martin was desperate even for a reply.

"Whatever," Martin remarked and put his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray. This small gesture reminded Lando why he was friends with this guy, the precious safe-space he managed to create. If there was a moment to act as a friend, it was this one.

"Shut up and let's get back to the track. We just gotta let loose a bit, that's all," he said, determined to get Martin out of the rut of his own head.

//

They'd been sitting for another hour, the sun long gone from their sight, two vodka soda's mixed from personal studio bar in, dozens of old tracks analyzed.

Martin played the middle section once again. Lando's head was mindlessly nodding into the beat they'd added and it was starting to look kind of good for the track. But it was not exceptional. And if Lando was trying to help Martin get the attention of some pseudo-pretentious alternative chick, they had to step up their game.

"Can you recall any track which uses the same level of tempo slow down? We could like, I dunno, look into why it works when other people did it and maybe something will come up." Lando often drew inspiration from other artists, something Martin usually hated. But, desperate times.

The racer watched the DJ and suddenly, as it was as if the musical equivalent of the DRS just hit him, his eyes went wide and he stood up.

"Of course!" Martin exclaimed and started pacing around the room. Lando was obviously surprised and kept still, hoping for the best, really. He watched his friend, walking back and forth around the room, deep in his own thoughts and searching for something on his phone.

"Yes! That's it," he finally said happily and put a song up to their loud speakers. The excited look he gave to Lando was almost scary. "You're gonna absolutely love this one," he continued with absolute confidence.

Lando prayed for this to be good, otherwise he was going to have to start getting worried about his friend's sanity, based on the crazy eyes.

The song started with a steady, four-on-the-floor beat (or that was what Lando had assumed). It was a typical 1980's techno track, fast, repetitive with a strong bass line.

But they were almost four minutes in and nothing that would stand out in any way was coming out of this track. Lando could not help but give Martin a doubtful look, not really getting what he was excited about. But Martin was there, nodding his head to the beat, in his own world. He must have sensed Lando's so-far-unimpressed expression, so he shot him a quick smile and gestured for him to wait. Finally, something started to happen and just like in Martin's new track, the music started to slow up on the tempo, quite dramatically. It got Lando somewhat hooked. And then-

And then! He thought he was imagining things. That his mind created sounds in his own head out of boredom.

Instead of a new instrumental added a vocal component was added. The most sensual female moan started to dominate the track, as the tempo kept slowing down. Lando felt his stomach dropped and hair and the back of his neck stand. It was sensual, almost vulgar in fact. Like some sort of elegant porn track playing over the original beat. Unapologetic. And it was increasing. What started as a somewhat socially acceptable sigh, turned into a full on orgasm moan - and as the music almost stopped, the female voice was taking on the main stage, full on peak. Thank God the walls were sound proofed. Lando cock was twitching. He tried to ignore Martin, who was grinning like a school boy first time seeing a porn video. And once the voice finally reached a peak, the music started to pick up, leftover moans cutting through the beat. Only then was Lando able to look Martin in the eye and got out of the semi-trance this track got him into. Finally the tempo fully picked up and the nine minute song was over.

"Uhh..." Lando got his initial reaction out and stared into the screen. Martin was there, unable to contain his laughter.

"You look flushed, mate, you good?" he teased, obviously pleased with himself for getting Lando out of his comfort zone.

Lando was finally getting back to Earth and couldn't help but to release a girl-like giggle. "Yeah, mate...I think if you do something like that, you will break the internet almost definitely."

What Martin could not know, because they did not have that kind of a relationship, was that Lando's phone was full of noise recordings of him and Y/N having sex. She was quite a vocal person. And he was a bit of a naughty boy, asked for a permission to record a sex tape nearly dozens of times. His girlfriend was probably right in refusing to do so, given the fact that if a video got out, it would be a disaster for both of them. But, an audio? One without any names mentioned? That was something she felt comfortable. And it as this thing Lando was using to get himself off when he was traveling alone for the past few months. So yeah, Martin hit the nail on its "head" with this one.

Lando gulped, trying to get himself back in the right headspace and not thinking of all the times Y/N screamed and moaned for him while bent over a table or laying in a silky bed.

"I fuckin' love this idea, mate. I'm gonna check with the lawyer team and see if I can go and sample this or something," Martin said, his tone indicating he was happy and done for the day.

"Yeah. This would work," Lando replied, unable to tone his voice down to his usual octave.

//

It was a surreal plane trip home to Monaco. They'd wrapped at the studio and Lando was headed directly to airport. This was proving to be unfortunate, as there was no time for him to go anywhere and take care of the problem growing in his pants. He had never listened to their voice notes in public, but he could not find any sort of self-restraint not to do so that day. Shamelessly walking around the private lounge area with a ragging boner and sex noises blasting in his headphones. He prayed for no fans showing up. At one point he was debating just beating it off in the airport bathroom. A teenager he had not been for a long time now.

And like a cruel joke, a voice memo landed in his messages from Y/N precisely at the time he as about to board his flight.

A part of him hoped it was a voice note of her jerking off. Sadly, it was not.

"Hey, my love, I hope you're all good and will make the flight. I've had such a boring day and can't wait to see you," she said a tone so sweet Lando felt almost guilty for walking around with thoughts of her on all fours, begging for his cock. It brought him back to normal, which was probably for the better. "Anyway, I'll be at home, let me know when you're coming." He smiled, loving the fact they were there for each other even in the innocent sort of way. "Aaah, what a day," she ended the voice note with a moan. A fucking tired sort of sigh. Normally, it would be a very casual thing for Lando. But did it sound like something out of their sex tapes? Of course it fucking did. "Mmmm.." And with that, the voice memo ended and Lando's boner was right back on.

//

"Hi, my love."

"Hello, sweetheart."

It was something he was proud about. Teaching her to sleep naked. Sleeping in clothes is close to committing a crime when she has a body like that. Clothes were for the outdoors anyway. It was doing something to his ego to see she fully accepted that. To his luck, he found Y/N just like he wanted - bare, snuggled up in their bed under a criminal amount of duvets, but most importantly, given his current state, still somewhat awake. She was giving his the most inviting look he'd ever seen on a human.

"Are you hitting the shower?" Y/N asked, pushing the duvet closer to her neck, as if to cover herself for some reason. Lando found that more than amusing and shook his head.

They'd exchanged few pleasantries, mundane questions while we was undressing and finally crawled into the bed with her. As a natural move, she shifted, letting him to be the big spoon. He caressed her hair before stepping in. Changed his tone from casual to bedroom. Finally.

"You and me baby, just us. How it's suppose to be."

Flirting was a second language to Lando and he was not afraid to use it.

"I see you kept the bed warm for us," he said, warmed his hands by blowing his hot breath on both of them. When he was sure that his body adapted from the chilly outdoors air to their hot flat, he started tracing lines on her body and pressed his crotch to her ass, to test her reaction, and see if he got lucky and caught her in the right mood.

He wouldn't be able to see it, due to the fact he was spooning her from behind, but her eyes shot wide open as his ragging boner pressed on her and a cheeky smile crept in. She answered by moving back to him, and arching her back. Loud, horny sighs from Lando followed.

"I see you've been a good boy, am I right?" she whispered sensually.

And fucking yes, he was a good boy. She'd often reward him when he manage to obstain from jerking off when they were suppose to see each other. If he had been hard before, they would need to come up with a new name for what he was experiencing after hearing his hard work being acknowledged.

He gulped, trying to keep his some cool in his voice. "You can guess twice," he challenged and pushed his body towards her, squeezing his dick between their bodies. She giggled and turned on her back to face him. Tried to kiss him slowly, but he was having none of that. Once the door was opened, he took the lead and kissed her with all of his pent up hunger. His hands were holding her jaw in place, as if she was going to slip away - which was the exact opposite of her plans. Soon enough she kissed back with similar urgency, roaming her hands on his chest and pulling his ever-so-curly hair.

"I need you," she whispered when he reached away to take in some air.

He grinned, happy to have some sort of level of upper hand, given how down bad he actually was.

"Have you been a good girl, sweetheart?" he asked, expecting the same answer he gave her. His cheeky fingers started exploring her upper thighs.

She waited a moment. "No, I haven't," bit her lip. This took Lando as a surprise and he opened his mouth in disbelief.

"Well, would you look at that..." he said, secretly loving this side of her. Horny little angel, getting herself off. In his mind, it was like she'd been training for him. He gripped her thigh, making her gasp.

"I think you might still find some evidence on the sheets," she whispered, and it was exactly that sound that was a turning point of Lando. He flipped over to tower her and slammed his lips towards hers. He opened her legs with his hands and started exploring her core - and it was exactly as she said it. Still wet from her on fingers, as he'd imagined.

"Well then, we'll do this on my terms. You understand?" he said in a playful tone. "What are you?"

She knew what answer he was looking for. "Bad girl," she sighed as he fingered her in a way that could not be described as gentle. Soft moans started escaping her mouth and that was the main thing Lando was longing for.

"And what am I? For keeping myself full for you?" he asked, trying to keep her on the edge with his moves.

Her eyes were now shut and her arms locked around his back, same as her legs. "Good boy," she sighed.

"Exactly. So do me a favour," he said, kissing her again, "be loud for me tonight. Make my ears ring and wake up the neighbours. Otherwise I'll make sure you don't get what a good girl gets." Both of them knew there was not a single cell in Lando willing to keep his empty promise. She was going to finish multiple times and he'd work for it the whole night if he had to.

Back arched. Lando's fingers doing the God's work. "Yes," she almost choked on her breath and let out an honest and beautiful sound.

It was already getting too much for Lando, he stroked himself few times and then slid into her wet cunt, as if it was his home.

And boy, was it better than any home he'd ever know. He warm wet, almost dripping cunt welcomed him in the sweetest of ways. Lando waited few seconds for both of them to adjust before he gripped her legs and swung them over his shoulders. It was a dance they'd practiced countless times before. She knew to clench her legs and provide support for him to be able to fully start launching into her.

He gave her one more lustfilled look before he thrusted for the first time. The thing he was specifically looking forward was the way how the breath escaped her throat in almost surprised way - as if she was not expecting this to happen. Pure pleasure overruled any thoughts he was having pretty quickly. The way her walls clenched over him was a sensation very few things could compare to. It was so easy to start moving faster and harder. He lived for the sight of her, lying down beneath him, eyes closed and finally, after few more perfectly placed movements, first moans started to escape her lips. He wanted more, tonight he needed it all. Speeding up, gripping her legs tighter. And with that, he watched as her boobs were bouncing back and forth, a sight so glorious he had to put one of his hands on it. All that she was somehow trying to hide in, started to come out. Face stuck in a scream like position, hands gripping Lando's arms and the most glorious of it all - the silent moans growing into muted screams. And once he added even more speed, those turned into unhinged screaks. He didn't even notice him own mouth stuck open. Breaths were getting heavier and heavier, drops of sweet sweat were falling on her torso and slowly Lando moved his hand over to from her boobs to the crease of her neck and squeezed just a little bit, the way he knew she liked. He didn't mind that the sound she made got a little muffled - he could feel the sound coming from her throat before it left her body.

And then finally, Lando felt almost a hot liquid hit his dick and gradually bounce over to his lower stomach as he moved even quicker than before, knowing well enough that when this happened to her, the incoming orgasm was about to be glorious. He thrusted, fully focused on her expressions and loud screams.

When her release happened seconds later, he nearly came himself. By some miracle, he managed to hold it of for just few more minutes. He kept thrusting, while he felt her body collapse momentarily, complete hard shut down. More liquid came out of her and Lando wished he could fuck and lick her at the same time.

And just like that, she was back again, panting hard and finally, eyes open once again. Her fucked out face challenging him once again. She smirked and tried as much as he could to keep up his tempo. It always took her one orgasm to bounce back and become more active. Lando wished he could go on for hours, but his dick almost begged him to allow the release. He wasn't gonna deny himself pleasure tonight.

"Say my name," she said in a loud demanding tone, stern look on her face. He wanted to chuckle, always finding it amusing how she went from almost a comatose princess to a challenging boss girl in seconds. After he made her come, of course. But Lando's mind was truly getting blurry at that point. He kept saying her name as like some sort of prayer as he carried himself to the heavenly release. It was the ultimate relief, dipping in a hot water, getting charged with electricity, tasting the sweetest drink, stepping into the hottest sunshine. Whatever kind of pleasure Lando could think of, nothing would ever mount to finally releasing it into her, especially after a long, oh so long, build up.

And with that, he fell next to her. Heave panting on both sides of the bed, before either of them spoke.

"All good? Are you ok?" he asked, just like he always did after they'd slept together. The thought of her not having a good time haunted him. He was aware that it sometimes came out more anxiously than he intended to, but who has a proper working brain after a sex session.

Y/N turned at him, blissful smile on her lips. "Oh yeah, baby. Love when you come home like this."

He smirked, getting some of the blood back to his brain. "Hmm, I also love coming home."

Their fucked out minds chuckled at the stupid joke. He gathered all the remaining strenght, got up and cleaned her up.

"Oh God, I've missed you," she complained into the no quiet room, still filled with sex air.

"You have no idea, how much I did, sweetheart."

//

It had been a good few weeks before Lando found himself once again in Martin's studio. This time Y/N was able to join him on the iconic couch. They sat, her legs relaxed over his, Lando's hand stroking her shins innocently. Physical touch boy if there ever was one.

Light banter laced the evening, few sips from Martin's signature vodka sodas and general lightness of the company were bound to end up with Martin sharing his latest relationship news. The alternative girl he met in Germany? Yeah, that was over. However, the track was definitely not.

"Ok, but like, I'd never seen you this anxious about a new track before," Y/N spoke, feeling like there was something these two guys were walking around, somewhat afraid to say hat it was.

Martin and Lando shared a look. There was not a single bone in Lando's body that was afraid of Y/N reaction to this track. He way in fact dying to know what Martin has done with it in the past few weeks. Martin was not allowed by his label to send any demos, only to show them in person. Well, he was not even allowed that, but it's not like they were there with them in the room. Martin raised his brows while looking at Lando, as if to look for a permission. Lando nodded, secretly looking forward to seeing what Y/N had to say about their newest idea.

"Well, I'm actually still working on a track we tried to finish when your boyfriend was here the last time," he said reluctantly.

"Yeah mate, I'm stoked to hear what you recorded," Lando said, trying to add some entusiasm to Martin's speech.

Martin's face formed a small frown. "Well, I'm worried, mate. Listen for yourself, it might be just me hearing this track for too many times. But, I'm afraid it does not work."

This took Lando by surprise - he was full on expecting a hot, sexy banger.

Martin did not add anything and upon Y/N's plea for finally play it and with zero protests on Lando's side, he did just that.

So they listened to the almost six minute track. The instrumentals were basically in the exact same state as when Lando was there for the last time. Intrigue filled his body as the tempo slow down came - it must have been time for the moaning to start. He could not wait to see Y/N's reaction. Was there a chance she would actually be mad and consider it tacky?

He didn't let her out of his sight, no matter how much Martin tried to catch his eye. Y/N sat there, her usual focused face on, as per any other time they'd listen to a new track.

And just like that, it took Lando only few bars of the part with the moans to understand where Martin's disinterest came from. This wasn't the right vibe. There was absolutely no comparison to the original track they'd based this on. It was a weak mockery of that whole idea. Sounded cheap, almost fake and with no atmosphere whatsoever. A face of slight disgust formed on Lando's face and he temporarily forgot he was watching Y/N for her reaction. They finally exchanged a look with Martin, both knowing this was just not working. While the girl moaning into the track had a perfect pitch, something was just not right.

Only when the moans and sighs part of the track ended he noticed the look on his girlfriends face and started actually feeling embarrassed. Will she think this as his idea and that he is a pervy simpleton? That he actually likes this?

He started his defense before she'd have any time for a reaction.

"That's not good, mate," he stated the more than obvious. Martin nodded, his expression hard to decipher. "It was not meant to sound this cheap."

"Yeah, don't know what to tell you. We recorded this with like two other producers in the room, this girl is apparently a good porn actress with a perfect pitch. But it sounds just like that. Like, I wanted to create a hot track, this is just cheap and kind of sad."

Lando gulped, almost fearing Y/N's reaction.

And boy, was she staring at him. It almost caught him of guard. Definitely silenced him. If he had to describe it, it would something along the lines of shooting arrows. Lando felt very small. But then, like by some sort of miracle, the corner of her lip turned up and a cheeky smile started to form. Martin knew more than interfere in their silent conversations and turned around to leave them be. A shot of confidence went though Lando's bloodstream and he gave Y/N a questioning look. Almost wanting to challenge her to say something. She shot her eyebrows up and tried to bite her smile away. Lando played dumb and shook his head, as if he did not understand. With that, she nodded toward his phone that was lying next to his hips. Lando's eyes went wide and his heart rate went up. Is she really suggesting this?

Out of nowhere, her look still firm on Lando - who stopped blinking a long time ago - she spoke, probably more to Martin than her boyfriend.

"I love the idea, and I think it could catch on really well. But like you said. You can't fake that if it's suppose to be good. Any girl will se right through this anyway."

Was Lando about to fall in love all over again?

"So what, am I suppose to pay someone to fuck in the studio?"

The silence that followed was a heavy, awkward, hot and hilarious one. Many looks were exchanged between the three of them before, as they say, all the pennies dropped.

"Oh my God," Martin exclaimed. Neither Lando or Y/N reacted in any verbal way, however Lando did raise his eyebrows in order to stop his smile from growing. Failing at that miserably. Suddenly, he was more than aware of Y/N legs near his crotch.

Martin shook his head, as if he became prudent out of nowhere and spun on his chair few times, most likely thinking it over. Lando was about to step in to ease the tension, but Y/N was faster.

"It would be the easiest way to test if the track works, just saying," she commented and Lando tried to stay as still as possible, almost worried that if he moves to much, he might wake up.

To potentially have his girlfriends orgasm voice blasted anonymously in clubs all around the world was doing some thing to his semi-exhibicionist persona, which he had to keep buried deep down. Things he had a lot of trouble admitting to outloud.

The conversation was continuing, no matter how spaced out and horny Lando became.

"Ok, say it works. Are you ok with this staying on the track?" Martin asked Y/N only. He knew his mate well enough to figure he'd be more than fine with it.

Y/N seemed to think about it, in a serious way, for few moments. The air felt oh-so-heavy to Lando. Please, say yes. Both of you.

"As long as it stays anonymous and nobody else, not even your label ever finds out, I say we go and give it a try," she answered and turned over to her boyfriend. He knew the look she had on her face more than well. It was the same one she'd have after agreeing to press record on their personal sex voice memos. And it was doing things to him.

It looked like Martin was coming around with the idea.

"Fuck it, ok then. I guess, I'll just press the button and give you guys some space in the recording room. But like, bare in mind I only need her, not you," he hinted over to Lando, "and for the sake of our friendship, I'd really appreciate if you kept it clean in terms of dirty talk. I don't want this to be the reason I died. Also no...mess please. Ugh."

Lando downed his drink, still unable to believe this was happening, and finally spoke again. "I'm sure there is a way to make sure we get only Y/N's voice."

Images flooded their heads - for Y/N very much wanted, to perfectly contrast Martin's reaction, who was sitting on the complete opposite of the excitement spectrum.

"Ok, let's go with it before I change my mind," Martin said and began prepping the recording room.

Lando squeezed his girlfriends hand, to make sure she was really ok with it.

"I love you," he whispered, unable to hold it in.

"Me too. I'm happy you don't think of me as slutty or perverted," she replied, hint of shame for the first in a long time creeping on her face.

"I would never....We can stop whenever, if you stop feeling it, ok? Please promise you'll let me know."

There was a look on her face he couldn't put a name on. "Thank you."

Martin coughed demonstrateively. "Lando, come over. I'll tell you what to do." Lando eyebrows shot up once again. "Not like that, with the recording, you weirdo," Martin exhaled, already regretting the decision.

//

"So, the recording is on, have a good one, I guess," were Martin's last words before Y/N was about to have a series of little deaths.

And with the click of the door, they were alone. Deep dark silence. Never before has she seen Lando stare at her this much like a hunter would at his prey. His good name was on the line. Maybe not for the whole world, but he had to show his best bud he can make his girl come. And perhaps something more than that.

The room was small, light dimmed out.

"So, what do you have in mind?" she asked softy, still not quite in the same feral mood Lando was in. He crossed over the distance between them slowly to put a finger on her mouth.

"No words, remember?" he reminded himself probably more than her. His plan was never to fuck her here. She'd soon find that out.

With ease and confidence only those who kissed each other countless of times, he locked his lips with hers. His hand in the back of her hair, pulling, not gently. Her tongue rolled over his and she bit his upper lip, to return the favor perhaps. Her head bent back and he follow the train to her collarbone with pecks. With ease, he started walking her over to the chair here the recording artist would usually sit. Today, she'd be the main act and he her muse. She was regretting not wearing a skirt that day. He saw no issue when he pulled her jeans down. He was already hard and just had to squeeze himself for few times, a mindless action. No doubt in his mind that before the night calls quits that day, he'd see his own release. She noticed his moves and tried to get in on the action, only to somewhat wake him up from his own selfishness as he stopped her hands reaching his crotch. Another head shake - hopefully, this time she'd get the hint.

Her eyes were filled with hot wanderlust and with that, she gave up on trying to take the lead. He smiled and got rid of her panties as well.

Two strong hands popped her up on the round chair with no back rest. One last kiss on the lips before he knelt down. Stomach tingled with anticipation. Lando was taking his time, slowly kissing his way up her legs. The ever so blue, green and whatever colored eyes glowing with lust. He stopped at the spot where thighs and knees bend, his tongue finally out, as if for a practice run. Only recently he found out about her secret soft spot. He watched her face relax and give in, first pleasure arriving. He was the moon and her body a shore, waiting for the waves.

Long heavy breath. Lando wanted, needed more. He progressed further and further, until the only place left to go were her folds and wet core. But before that, he didn't for get to leave few bite marks on her upper thighs. Quick catch of breath and her hands buried in his curls. Watching him as if the gods had sent him to ruin her.

And they might have. Normally, he's utter few cheeky lines before dipping his tongue deep into her, but the looks were all he could use this time.

Relaxed and come for me, baby. Drip all over this chair and make them know I can make you scream.

His tongue could as well be completely dry and it would not matter. They way how he was all over her got her wet anyway. His moves were never the same, yet they always worked like magic. He twisted, pulled in and out and all over. Slight bite at her less sensitive folds. Clit suck. And then he called upon his fingers to assist. She was barely sitting on the chair, legs fully rested on his shoulders, priorities loud and clear. As were her moans she didn't notice at first. She had to support herself with her arm, squeezing the weak leather top of the chair. Her other hand was busy with pushing Lando's face towards her. First tide started to arrive. Lando drew his head back to catch some breath - and she let him, because his fingers became the main act. He made sure to hold the tempo, knowing that would work like volume increase button. Was there a more beautiful sight than watching a woman you love hit the highs of life? Lando very much doubted. Judging by the way her face clenched, she must have forgotten the why and where. Her throat served like a gateway to pleasure sounds. And she screamed, more and even more once he sucked her clit again.

They call it little deaths because it might just be the only accurate description of what washed over her. If wasn't often he'd go down on and not fuck her shortly afterwards. Since that was out of the picture, she focused fully on his moves, knowing this was the peak.

He felt her relax after a particularly loud scream. Coming down to Earth once again. She opened her eyes and he smirked. He knew, by the way she tried to steady his breath and the slight movement of her supporting hand that she considered it "job done". She nodded and head and he shook his once again. Her puzzling look quickly replaced by a lip bite as his mouth traveled back to her core.

One more round, one could say Lando's ego was becoming the main hero of this story. The thought of somebody having to go and listen to another round of him destroying his girl with pleasure was an intoxicating one.

//

Martin's track was an instant hit and minor shock to the public. Never before has he released something so explicit. Y/N's screams were out for the whole world to listen and it did a wonder to their sex life. It was something else to fuck and blast your own love soundtrack on.

There were two main versions release, one less explicit, for the DJ's to play around the radio during the day and for club goers to party to during the night.

Lando stopped counting how many times it happened that in the middle of the day he'd hear this song around the paddock radio. Whenever he did, he would send Y/N a photo with a cheeky wink, and she'd do the same when she had the luck of listening to her own voice in public like that. A nice, somewhat innocent tradition for them only to understand.

//

Keep you friends close and rivals closer. That's how Lando ended up at one of the many celebrations of Max Verstappen's title celebrations. Little did he mind, secretly loving the fact the pressure was off him for a moment. Expensive alcohol flowing freely also helped.

He found himself sitting in a VIP booth across from Max, by some stroke of luck, alone. And of course, that was the first time he slipped up. Somehow he managed to avoid a situation when someone who knew him well was around when Martin's monaco kiss came up.

"the recording is on, have a good one, I guess"

Martin decided to keep his own line in the intro, only later admitting he'd re-recorded it out of his own insecurity. Which Lando found very amusing, given the fact him and Y/N only needed one take to get it right perfectly.

His stomach dropped a bit when he heard the now iconic opening line. Shifted a bit to regain some composure. Sipping a drink might help to hide his slight panic and lack of any real light did not allow his blushed cheeks to go noticed.

Across from him, Max was nodding his feet to the beat of the track. The conversation grew stale a moment while, so Max's complimentary comment on Lando's friend's track must have been intended as an innocent ice-breaker.

"what do you have in mind"

Another line kept in from the recording. Y/N's real voice hidden under many layers of autotune to keep her identity anonymous. As per her wish and Lando's secret regret.

The tempo started to slow down. Anyone would remember the track by heart if they'd listened to it the same amount of times as Lando had. Words were lost on him and he did not find a response to Max's comment. Very unusual from Lando. He sipped his now empty drink, hoping more liquid had magically appeared. Max noticed something was off. And then the key jump, straight out the book Diet Pepsi took inspiration from. Followed by the peak moan, or maybe a scream, from his girl for everyone to hear. It was not supposed to be this arousing. Max tilted his head and after another few beats, his intense stare aimed at his rival/friends went wide.

Lando tried to stop his smirk. He really did.

Max's mouth went open and he stopped his breath before uttering a simply lovely, slightly astonished: "No way."

Lando averted his gaze to the crowd below in order to avoid Max, who chuckled and took a big gulp of his not-empty glass.

If the lights went on, everybody would be able to see a bright red Lando. He was never going to break his promise about keeping this a secret, so he did not comment. But he grinned at Max's nod of approval.

He excused himself as went to the bar. Searching for his girl.

Light brush on her waist made her turn, wonder in her eyes easing when she saw it was him. They were both in the same horny headspace.

He leaned in and whispered, as much as one can whisper in a club, the last few beats of their track playing. "You sound so hot, baby. I'm so down bad for you."

Tipsy, she shot him a wide smile and mouthed a silent "i love you".

[goldsbitch]

in honor of party lando coming back - he's an oldie of mine ❤️

[lap90]

The Honey Badger’s Guide to Dutch Etiquette - DR

pairing: daniel ricciardo x verstappen!fem!reader summary: Y/N was always just "Max’s little sister"—the girl Daniel knew by sight but never by heart. What follows is a chaotic descent into stolen hoodies, "missing" hotel keys, and a ghosting phase that lasted approximately three days before Daniel realized he was functionally useless without her. wc: 3.8k 💭 this one will stay as a standalone :)

note: daniel is still in VCARB! i love the idea, tysm @fraaaaankiiiiieee

The paddock is a small world, but it felt much smaller once you started your internship at VCARB. Back when you were just "Max’s little sister" visiting the Red Bull garage, Daniel was a whirlwind of energy you only saw from a distance. You’d shared maybe two words—a "hello" and a "congrats"—before he moved on to other teams.

But now, you’re part of the machinery. Whether you're analyzing PR metrics or checking aero data, you’re there. And Daniel? He’s impossible to ignore.

It didn’t happen all at once. It started with professional proximity and drifted into something that felt dangerously like a friendship.

"Everything okay with the media brief?" turned into "Did you see that ridiculous aero update on the Haas?"

He’d stop by your desk, leaning against the frame with that signature grin. "I'm headed to hospitality. You look like you need a triple-shot espresso or a nap. Which is it?"

It moved to WhatsApp. First, it was just weekend schedules. Then, it was 2 AM memes of capybaras and blurry photos of his dinner.

The voice notes were the point of no return. Daniel didn’t just text; he sent three-minute voice notes of him singing badly to the radio or narrating his walks through the airport.

Daniel swore to himself he was just being "the cool veteran teammate figure." He told himself it was fine because you were Y/N, Max’s sister. You were off-limits by default. "I'm just being friendly, mate," he told his reflection. "Totally chill."

It was a minor clip. Daniel took a corner too tight, the rear stepped out, and he tapped the wall. It wasn't a heavy hit, but it was enough to end his session.

In the garage, the engineers were looking at the telemetry. Max was probably rolling his eyes in the Red Bull garage next door. But as Daniel climbed out of the car and stripped off his balaclava, his eyes didn't go to the screens or his race engineer.

They went straight to you. He needed to see if you looked worried. He needed to see you smile so he could feel like he hadn't just messed up.

Later that night, in the motorhome, Lando watched Daniel staring at his phone, hovering over a "thinking of you" text he was about to send you.

"Dude," Lando said, popping a piece of gum. "Stop. If the first thing you do after hitting a wall is look for a girl who isn't your trainer or your mom, you’re screwed. You like her."

Daniel’s head snapped up. "I don't. She’s... she’s Max’s sister, Lando. It’s professional. I'm a mentor."

"You don't send memes of screaming goats to someone you're 'mentoring' at three in the morning," Lando countered. "You’re in deep. And Max is going to kill you."

The word "wrong" started looping in Daniel’s head.

You were younger. You were an intern. You were the sister of his former teammate and friend. Every "functioning adult" bone in his body told him this was a PR nightmare and a personal disaster waiting to happen.

So, Daniel did the only thing he knew how to do when his emotions got too fast for him to outrun: He hit the brakes.

Monday: You sent him a funny clip of a driver interview. Read 14:02. No reply.

Tuesday: You asked if he wanted his usual coffee before the briefing. Delivered. No reply.

Wednesday: Silence.

He didn't look at you in the garage. He kept his sunglasses on. He stayed buried in his data sheets. He wasn't just being professional; he was a ghost. He didn't know how to tell you he was terrified of how much he liked you, so he decided to act like you didn't exist at all.

And as you sat in the VCARB office, staring at a one-sided conversation on your phone, the "universe" of the paddock suddenly felt very, very cold.

The ghosting phase didn't last long—mostly because Daniel realized that avoiding you was harder than actually driving a car at 300 km/h. By the time the after-party in Austin rolled around, his resolve was paper-thin.

The club was loud, smelling of expensive cologne and spilled champagne. You were standing near the bar, cornered by some guy who worked in marketing for a major sponsor. He was leaning a bit too close, his hand resting on the wall behind your head.

Daniel was across the room, nursing a drink he hadn't touched in twenty minutes.

His jaw was so tight it looked like it might snap. "I'm not annoyed," he muttered to himself. "He’s just... taking up her space. It’s a safety concern. As a friend."

Lando appeared out of nowhere, leaning into Daniel’s field of vision. "Daniel. Your eye is literally twitching. She clearly wants to escape. Go be the hero or I'm telling Max you're staring."

Daniel didn't wait for another word. He marched over, sliding in between you and the marketing guy with the grace of a man who had nothing planned.

"Hey! Y/N! There you are," Daniel exclaimed, way too loudly for the distance. "Max is looking for you. He’s... uh... somewhere. Maybe by the DJ? Or the bathroom? Who knows, really, but he looked very 'big brother-y' and urgent. We should go."

The guy took the hint and vanished. You let out a long, shaky breath. "Max isn't even here yet, is he, Daniel?"

"Probably not," he grinned, though his heart was hammering. "But you looked like you were about to fake a fainting spell to get away."

An hour later, you were both outside the venue waiting for a car. The desert air had turned biting, and you were shivering in your thin dress. Before you could even ask, Daniel was pulling a heavy, oversized black hoodie over his head.

"Here. Take it. I don't need you catching a cold and blaming my 'mentorship,'" he joked, though his eyes were soft.

You slipped it on. It was massive—the sleeves hung past your fingertips, and the hem reached your mid-thighs. You looked like you were swimming in it. Daniel took one look at you—small, bundled up in his clothes, smelling like his laundry—and felt his soul leave his body.

"I'm doomed," he whispered under his breath.

The night took a turn when you realized your hotel key was missing. Your phone was dead, and Max was—ironically—actually unreachable at another party.

"I don't want you waking Max up," Daniel said quickly, his 'protective mode' kicking in. "He’ll ask questions. Just come to my suite. I’ve got spare clothes, we’ll order a pizza, and you can crash on the couch. Everything chill. Total 'bro' move."

Inside the suite, the "chill" vibes were non-existent (at least for Daniel): He gave you a pair of his gym shorts that you had to tie three times just to keep them up. You sat on his bed (it was the only place with a good view of the TV), sharing a pepperoni pizza and watching a random 90s rom-com. Daniel promised he’d move to the couch once the movie was over. But halfway through, he felt a weight on his shoulder.

You had drifted off, your head sliding down until it rested firmly against his chest. Your hand, still lost in the giant sleeve of his hoodie, was curled into his shirt.

Daniel froze. He was a world-class athlete with lightning-fast reflexes, but he couldn't move a muscle. He looked down at you, the way your breathing had evened out, the way you looked so safe.

"If I wake her up, I'm a monster," he whispered to the empty room. "And if I stay here... I'm definitely in love with Max Verstappen's sister."

He stayed. Obviously.

The peace of the morning was shattered by a sound that could only be described as a police raid.

The banging on the door was rhythmic, violent, and very, very Dutch.

Daniel had barely slept. He had spent the entire night paralyzed by the weight of Y/N resting against him, his mind racing through every possible scenario where Max Verstappen found out and proceeded to exile him from the sport. He had finally drifted off around 5:00 AM on the very edge of the mattress.

He stumbled to the door, eyes crusty, wearing nothing but his boxers and a look of pure confusion. He swung the door open, squinting against the harsh hallway lights.

"Mate, it's seven in the mor—"

"WHERE IS SHE?" Max didn't wait. He stormed into the room like a man on a mission to reclaim stolen property. "She didn't answer her door. She didn't answer her phone. If you've—"

Max stopped dead. His gaze fell on the bed. There you were, Y/N, completely swallowed by Daniel’s oversized black hoodie, wrapped in a duvet like a human burrito, looking soft and deeply asleep.

Max’s face went through three colors in four seconds: pale, red, and then a terrifying shade of purple.

"Daniel," Max said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low octave. "What. Is. This."

"Max, wait, it’s not—"

Daniel didn't get to finish. Max’s protective instinct bypassed his brain and went straight to his fist. He swung—a chaotic, brotherly rage punch—that Daniel narrowly dodged, the air of the swing whistling past his ear.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" you shrieked, bolting upright in bed. The sudden movement made you tangle in the sheets, nearly falling off the side. "Max! Stop! Are you God?! Why are you even in here?!"

The room went silent, save for Daniel’s heavy breathing and Max’s clenched teeth.

After ten minutes of frantic explaining—the lost key, the cold air, the very platonic pizza, and the fact that Daniel had spent the night contemplating his own mortality rather than anything "inappropriate"—Max finally stopped pacing.

He looked at you, still wearing Daniel’s hoodie, and then at Daniel, who was looking pathetic in his underwear.

"Okay," Max breathed out, the 'World Champion' focus returning to his eyes. "I am not killing you today. But Y/N, you are getting a new key. And Daniel... put some damn pants on."

Max left, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the minibar. He didn't say it was okay, but he didn't call their father, which was a win in Daniel's book.

Max might have "allowed" it, but he had inadvertently opened a door he couldn't close. The tension had been broken, and the "rules" had shifted.

Suddenly, your hotel key became the most unreliable piece of technology in the world. It "demagnetized" at least once every race weekend.

It wasn't about the key anymore. It was about the routine. You’d show up at Daniel’s door with a bag of snacks, and he’d already have your favorite hoodie waiting on the edge of the bed.

You started sitting in the back of his garage during debriefs. He started checking his phone every five minutes during PR events just to see if you’d sent a voice note.

Everyone in the paddock saw it. The engineers, the mechanics, even the team principals. It was the most obvious "secret" in Formula 1. It wasn't an accident anymore; it was a choice. And every time you fell asleep on his chest, Daniel felt a little less like he was "screwed" and a little more like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The state of denial Daniel was living in wasn’t just a river in Egypt; it was a full-scale psychological fortress. To Daniel, you were his "best friend who happened to be his ex-teammate’s sister." To the rest of the world, you were the couple that wouldn't stop being adorable in public.

It happened after the Mexican GP. Max had finished on the podium, and Daniel had managed a solid points finish. In the cooling-down area, Max leaned against a stack of tires and gestured for Daniel to come over.

"Look," Max started, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "I know I was... aggressive that morning in the hotel. But I've watched you two. You’re good for Y/N. I would have liked you to tell me officially, but I’m happy for you guys. Just don't break her heart, or I'll have to find a way to make your DRS fail permanently."

Daniel stared at him, his mouth falling open. He let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh. "?????? Bro, what? What are you talking about? We’re not dating!"

Max paused. He looked Daniel up and down, then looked over at you, who was currently holding Daniel’s helmet and laughing with his performance coach.

"...No?" Max asked, genuinely baffled. "Then why is she wearing your lucky hat? Why did you spend forty minutes explaining the tire strategy to her while holding her hand last night?"

"I wasn't holding her hand, I was... stabilizing her! For science!" Daniel stammered.

Max just shook his head, looking disappointed. "You’re an idiot, Daniel. A fast idiot, but an idiot nonetheless."

Within twenty minutes, Daniel realized the "delusion" went deeper than Max.

He asked his race engineer: "You knew we weren't dating, right?" The engineer didn't even look up from his laptop. "Daniel, I’ve already budgeted for your wedding gift. Don't make me redo the spreadsheet."

The PR team at VCARB had already stopped asking you for "intern tasks" and started asking you "where Daniel was," assuming you were his human GPS.

Lando, upon hearing that Daniel had "denied the allegations," decided that enough was enough. If Daniel couldn't handle his emotions like an adult, Lando would handle them like a chaotic teenager.

He gathered a small "strike team" (mostly himself and a very amused Oscar Piastri) to launch the operation.

The Missions Included:

Every time you and Daniel entered the VCARB garage at the same time, the team’s Spotify suddenly switched from heavy metal to Careless Whisper or All My Life.

Lando would literally shove you both into the hospitality lift and then jam a folded piece of cardboard in the sensor so the doors wouldn't close, yelling, "Oh no! It’s stuck! Guess you’ll have to talk about your feelings for ten minutes!"

During interviews, Lando would walk behind Daniel and whisper loud enough for the mics to catch: "Wow, look at that chemistry. It’s like a rom-com, but with more engine oil."

Lando invited you both to a "group dinner" in Brazil. When you arrived, the table was set for two, there were rose petals (made of torn-up napkins), and a note from Lando that said: “I have diarrhea. Oscar has a cat emergency. Enjoy your date, you cowards.”

By the time the triple-header was ending, the pressure was at an all-time high. Every "casual" touch felt like an electric shock. Every time you "lost" your hotel key, Daniel’s heart did a burnout in his chest.

You were sitting on his bed in Brazil, wearing his hoodie (obviously), watching Lando’s latest Instagram story which was just a zoomed-in photo of the two of you with the caption: #GETTHEMTOCHURCH.

"He’s so annoying," you muttered, though your face was bright red.

Daniel looked at you—really looked at you. He saw the way you were swimming in his clothes, the way you didn't even hesitate to make yourself at home in his space.

"Y/N," Daniel said, his voice dropping the 'chill' act for the first time. "I think... I think the entire paddock might be right. And I think I’m a massive idiot for trying to pretend they weren't."

The air in the paddock was electric. Against all odds, the strategy had held, the car had stayed together, and Daniel Ricciardo was a race winner once again.

The VCARB garage was a sea of blue and white tears. As Daniel parked the car in the #1 slot and leaped into the arms of his mechanics, his eyes were searching. He didn't care about the trophies or the champagne yet. He was looking for the girl in the oversized team shirt who had been his "intern" and his "not-girlfriend" for the last six months.

You didn't even wait for him to take off his HANS device. As soon as he cleared the barrier, you were there.

Daniel didn't just hug you; he swept you off your feet. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving with adrenaline and sheer joy. It wasn't a "congrats, mate" hug. It was a "the-world-could-end-right-now-and-I-wouldn't-notice" hug. He spun you around, holding you so tight that the breath left your lungs, his hands gripping your waist like he never intended to let go.

The cameras were flashing. The commentators were losing their minds. And then, the shadow of a Red Bull suit loomed over you.

Max stood there, arms crossed, looking remarkably calm for a man who had just watched his sister being twirled around like a rom-com protagonist.

"Look," Max said, raising his voice over the roar of the crowd. "I already talked to Kelly about my overprotectiveness. I’ve processed my issues. I’ve done the emotional work."

Daniel let you slide down his body until your feet touched the ground, but he didn't move his hands from your waist. Max gestured impatiently between the two of you.

"Bro, you can kiss her in front of me. I’m good. Just... get it over with. The tension is making my telemetry look weird."

The words hit you and Daniel like a double-DRS boost. Both of your faces turned a shade of Ferrari Red that shouldn't be physically possible. You both started talking at the exact same time, overlapping in a chaotic mess of denial and unintentional honesty.

"WE’RE NOT—I mean, Max, it’s a victory hug! It’s physiological! I've just had a lot of sugar! It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that I never—"

"IT’S NOT LIKE THAT! I’m just an intern! Although the idea doesn't exactly bother me, it’s just that we haven't officially—"

"Wait, it doesn't bother you? Because I’ve been thinking about it since Singapore, but I didn't want you to think I was weird—"

"Singapore?! I thought you were ghosting me because you hated my coffee choice!"

Max stared at the two of you, his expression shifting from boredom to genuine pity. He looked at Lando, who was standing nearby with a camera phone out, filming the whole disaster.

"You guys are such idiots," Max groaned. He reached out, grabbed the back of Daniel’s racing suit and the shoulder of your shirt, and physically shoved you toward each other. "Kiss each other. Now. That’s a team order."

Daniel didn't need a second order.

The stuttering stopped. The excuses evaporated. He reached out, cupping your face with his damp, fireproof gloves, and pulled you in. It wasn't a "PR-friendly" peck. It was the culmination of months of late-night memes, stolen hoodies, and "missing" hotel keys.

The paddock erupted. Lando was screaming in the background. Max just nodded, satisfied, and started walking toward the podium.

"Finally," Max muttered to himself. "Now maybe I can get some sleep on the plane tonight without hearing them 'not-date' in the lounge."

Daniel pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, that massive, toothy grin finally reaching his eyes.

"So," he whispered, breathless. "Does this mean I get my hoodie back?"

"Never," you laughed, pulling him back in for more.

The transition from "secretly dating" to "the paddock’s favorite couple" was surprisingly smooth. The only downside? Spending so much time with the Verstappen siblings meant Daniel was being exposed to a language he never intended to learn.

Life with you, Y/N, involved a lot of Dutch. You’d call your mom, you’d argue with Max over which race track had the best catering, or you’d just mutter to yourself when you couldn't find your shoes—all in your native tongue.

Daniel, being the human sponge that he is, started picking it up. He didn't study it. He didn't have Duolingo. It just... seeped into his brain through sheer proximity and love.

It was a Tuesday morning at Max’s apartment in Monaco. You were curled up on the sofa with your laptop, working on some VCARB designs, while Daniel was rummaging through the pantry for breakfast. Max was sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through race data, looking typically intense.

Daniel was in his own world, checking the fridge and ticking off a mental checklist. Without realizing it, he started muttering his thoughts out loud.

"Okay... ik moet brood kopen," he whispered to himself, grabbing a piece of paper to write a grocery list. "De was doen..."

He paused, tapping his pen against his chin. "Oh, and Max's psycholoog bellen because that guy is definitely going to have a breakdown after the next triple-header."

The room went deathly silent.

Max’s head snapped up from his tablet, his eyes wide. You froze on the sofa, your fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Max stared at Daniel for a long ten seconds. "Since when do you understand that?" Max asked, his voice flat with genuine shock. "And since when do you have my psychologist's number?"

Daniel froze, a carton of oat milk in one hand and a pen in the other. He blinked, replaying the last thirty seconds in his head.

"Wait," Daniel said, his voice climbing an octave. "What did I just say?"

"You said you needed to buy bread, do the laundry, and call my therapist," Max deadpanned. "In perfect Dutch. With a slight Hasselt accent, which is even weirder."

Daniel’s face went through a kaleidoscope of emotions before settling on pure horror. He looked at you, his eyes pleading for help. "Y/N... did I just speak Dutch? Am I... am I becoming one of you?"

You burst into laughter, burying your face in a cushion. "Daniel, you’ve been calling me 'Liefje' for three weeks! I thought you knew!"

"I thought that was just a cute word for a type of pastry!" Daniel cried out, throwing his hands up. "...Holy shit. I’m fluent. I’ve been compromised. My Australian passport is going to burst into flames."

Max didn't even look annoyed anymore; he looked impressed. He leaned back, a small, mischievous smirk playing on his lips.

"Well," Max said, "If you're going to be part of the family, you might as well sound like it. Now, Liefje," he teased, looking at Daniel, "can you also ask Y/N where she put my spare sim racing wheel? In Dutch, please."

Daniel groaned, leaning his forehead against the fridge door. "This is a nightmare. I’m going to start craving stroopwafels and complaining about the weather. Y/N, look what you’ve done to me."

You walked over, wrapping your arms around his waist and leaning your head against his back. "Don't worry, Daniel. You're still a Honey Badger. Just a Dutch-speaking one."

He turned around in your arms, his signature grin finally returning, though he still looked a little dazed. "Fine. But if I start wearing orange clogs to the grid, someone has to stage an intervention."

© 2025 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

💌 tag list: @mysthicwhispers @anamiad00msday @st4r-girl-official @kartuke @gridsandstories @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @pedriglazer @viper-0800 @clocouettelife @leviathan0000 @roseannih @rosietoesf1 @thisdoesntexsist-cherry @elizamoe133 @nichmeddar @galaxygurlll @ojijhij @naenaen @josephinel83 @linnygirl09 @axelstillalive @star73807-blog @meyla123x @vinylphwoar @artyyjia @meritxellao @anaylen01 @martygraciesversion381 @supernatural-harrypotter7 @chair-things @moonlitelaine @hades-favourite-daughter @justaf1girl @liv1209 @celiaisacaterpillar @yellow14m @maebejustmaebe @sainz0fthetimes @waitingatthegreenlight @ilocuras24 @beathreat

💛 tag list daniel: @fraaaaankiiiiieee

[lap90]

Secret kids with DR3

They were kinda a one night stand that had the chemistry for more. The issue was shes a pro barrel racer 5x world champ. And she woke up late the next day and had to basically bolt out the door to do chores before the rodeo and was in such a rush she didn't leave any contact info. Year ish later shes scrolling social media and sees the "daniel ricciardo is no longer an F1 driver" posts sees him and is like omg that's my newborns dad. She reaches out on all the platforms "hey idk if you remember me but we need to talk its important" with no response for like a month. And right when shes like giving up hope he will respond he does! He remembersher! She invites him to the family ranch to talk there and tells him and he sobs because his life was hollow without racing but now its got so much potential becuase of the baby and after months of silence he hard launches his daughter (without her face) and his girlfriend (and his girlfriends barrel racing horse that def will off him first chance) and ppl are like "wow I've never seen that kinda smile from Danny before. Thats genuine happiness

When the Rodeo Meets the Racer - DR3

pairing: daniel ricciardo x fem!probarrelracer summary: life tore them apart before they could even exchange numbers, but fate had a funny way of bringing them back together—through a baby, a ranch, and a new chapter of happiness Daniel never expected. status: complete

The lights of the after-party shimmered on the polished floor, bouncing off champagne glasses and sequined dresses. She, still feeling the adrenaline from the recent rodeo, leaned against the bar, taking a breather after a long week of training. That's when she saw him, smiling at someone across the room. He radiated a carefree charm and that mischievous glint that always made him seem like he was about to break a rule.

Their eyes met, and suddenly, the vast room seemed to shrink to just the space between them. She laughed, at a joke he hadn't even made yet, and he raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

"Are you always this… chaotic?" Daniel asked, easily sliding onto the empty stool beside her.

"It depends on the competition," she replied, returning his smile. "And you? You seem like the kind of person who lives life at a million miles an hour."

He laughed, a deep, warm sound that made her heart flutter. "It depends on the company," he said, leaning closer, the distance narrowing and the air growing electric. "But let's just say, in my world, a million miles an hour is just the warm-up."

She took a sip of her drink, her eyes fixed on his. "Well, in mine, if you're going a million miles an hour, you're most likely going to fall off a half-ton animal. I bet my job is more dangerous."

"Oh, really?" Daniel propped an elbow on the bar, his smile now a promise. "I put my life in the hands of engineering and physics at 300 kilometers per hour with twenty other guys who want to win. You just trust a four-legged animal."

"It's a champion horse," she retorted, with a laugh. “And I trust him more than I would trust your tires. Besides, my fines are for carrying too much hay. Yours are for speeding. Who’s the real rebel?”

They exchanged stories as if they were secrets, playfully comparing their jobs, joking about the smells (his stable vs. her gas station), and exchanging glances that promised much more than just a friendly banter. The loud music, the murmur of the party, the familiar faces… none of that mattered. Only the bubble they had created existed: a mix of adrenaline, ambition, and undeniable attraction.

As the DJ started packing up his equipment, and the crowd dispersed in drunken goodbyes, the silence between them was as loud as their laughter had been. They had spent so many hours in that corner of the bar that the idea of ​​separating felt unnatural.

“I don’t want this night to end,” she whispered, almost to herself.

Daniel didn’t reply with words. He simply reached out, his fingers brushed her wrist, and he guided her through the emergency exit, away from the hustle and bustle. They walked together under the streetlights, the city lights blurring around them as if conspiring to make them the only couple in the world. The intensity and rush of their lives had completely stopped. The night became a blur of shared laughter in a taxi, the soft familiarity of a silent elevator, and the urgency of lips that finally met.

She woke with a start, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. For a moment, there was only the dark velvet curtains and the silk pillow, and then the onslaught of reality. The horses!

"Damn it, damn it, damn it," she muttered, sitting up abruptly. It wasn't just that she'd overslept; it was that her alarm clock was the entire herd neighing for breakfast. Oat milk. The vet. The trip. Her mind was already at the stables, three hours away.

She pulled on her own jeans, finding her wallet and phone in the pocket (with several missed calls from her manager), and silently cursed her recklessness from the previous night. She wasn't the type to oversleep!

She saw a hotel notepad on the bedside table. She needed to leave a note. She didn't want to look like a runaway, even if she was. She grabbed a pen and scribbled quickly, in her own distinctive handwriting.

Thanks for last night :) —The cowgirl who can't be late to the stables.

She glanced at the note. It was fine. Informal, requiring no explanation. She folded it quickly, placed it on the bedspread, and rushed to the door. She opened and closed it with the stealth of a horse thief.

The sun was already high when Daniel woke up. It took him a few seconds to recognize the unfamiliar hotel room ceiling. His head was throbbing slightly, and the first sensation was one of pleasant confusion, as if he had won a race in a dream.

He turned over, searching for the woman who had kept him awake all night.

The bed was empty.

He sat up, blinking. The silence was absolute. Had it all been real? All the chemistry, the conversation, the passion? The evidence was scant: his side of the bed still bore the imprint of her body, and if he concentrated, he could detect a faint scent of worn leather, hay, and a floral perfume that wasn't his own. A blend of country and city, rough and sweet at the same time.

Then he saw something folded on the pillow.

He picked it up. The ink was smudged, the writing quick and hurried.

Thanks for last night :) —The cowgirl who can't be late to the stables.

Daniel smiled; the hangover vanished instantly, replaced by frustration. She had been so true to her chaotic style, even in her escape. He realized, as he turned the paper over, what was missing.

Her number. Her last name. Any clue to how to find her.

"Well played, cowgirl," he muttered to himself. He left the note on the bedside table and got up, feeling a twinge of amused annoyance. He had a thank-you note from a woman he had met, who had been spectacular, and who had vanished as quickly as smoke from tires on the track.

All that remained was the faint memory of her laughter and a new mystery to solve: who was the fastest and most elusive rider in town?

The silence in the rodeo arena was almost overwhelming. The dust had finally settled after another long and exhausting weekend of races. She could still feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins, the echo of hooves thumping like drums in her head, when the nausea struck again. It wasn't the typical queasy feeling of pre-ride nerves; it was something deeper, more persistent, entirely different from the sensation of being thrown off a saddle. This had been happening too often to ignore it anymore.

With a heavy sigh, she sat on the edge of the trailer bed, her riding boots still on, and stared at the small white box in her hands. The pharmacy bag rustled, abandoned at her feet. Her pulse pounded in her throat as she gathered the courage to take the test.

The minutes stretched, became slow, ridiculous, endless. She stood up and took three steps, then turned back. She picked up the phone, put it down, rubbed her temples in exasperation, and finally forced herself to look.

Two pink lines.

A cold shiver ran down her spine. Her first instinct was absolute denial. No, no, no, it can't be. Stress, lack of sleep, it's just a cheap test. Incredulity gripped her like a tight lasso.

Her second instinct was panic. An anxiety attack that left her breathless. She had a season ahead of her, multi-million dollar sponsorship deals to fulfill, horses that depended on her daily dedication. The image of her team and her manager's disappointed faces flashed before her. How could she possibly stand on the podium, let alone ride, with this? The fear that her career would end prematurely hit her like a brutal fall.

Her third instinct was a whisper, soft but undeniable: him. She barely knew him. A fleeting night that had been the perfect escape from her hectic life. A night that burned with an intensity and a passion she had never known before. And now… a life. A tiny, helpless human being.

She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, tears stinging her eyes, blurring her vision. She pressed her trembling hands against her stomach, desperately trying to calm her breathing. She didn't know whether to laugh at the absurdity of the situation or cry at the radical change. She did both, sobbing intermittently, her cries echoing in the small space of her trailer.

The world champion barrel racer, fearless in the face of any animal or danger, suddenly felt as if she were participating in an event for which she was completely unprepared. It was a completely new challenge.

And the strangest thing was that, despite the paralyzing fear, she felt a small, protective flame ignite in her chest. A spark. Perhaps hope. A small but brave emotion that refused to be extinguished by her obligations or her panic.

She took out her phone and, for the first time in months, she didn't think about the timer, but about the distance. How could she contact him?

She wiped her tears with her hand and forced herself to stand up. She was in trouble, but people like her don't give up. Never. She just needed to figure out how to tame this new, wild situation.

*✶✦

f1

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris, f1 and others

f1 After over a decade in Formula 1, Daniel Ricciardo will not return to the grid for the upcoming season.

8 Grand Prix victories. Countless memories. An unforgettable smile. 🧡

Thank you, Daniel, for the moments that made us laugh, cheer, and believe. Once a Honey Badger, always a Honey Badger. 🏁✨

#F1 #ThankYouDaniel

mclaren 🧡 Forever part of the family.

redbullracing Legend. Thank you for everything, mate 🍯

lando.jpg my big brother 🫶

fan33 NOOOO I’M CRYING 😭😭😭

fan19 not the end… just a new beginning. 🐝

*✶✦

The farmhouse was finally quiet. The horses were fed, the stables cleaned, her saddle polished and put away. She sank into the old wooden rocking chair on the porch, listening to the monotonous chirping of the cicadas in the warm night air. It was the only moment of peace after an endless day.

Her newborn daughter was curled up against her chest, tiny fingers clinging to her shirt, drifting back to sleep after a long nighttime feeding. She rocked him absentmindedly, her free hand idly scrolling through Instagram.

Mostly it was rodeo updates: training videos, a friend's win in Texas, some equipment advertisements. News from her world.

But then, a headline stopped her cold, colder and sharper than the winter wind:

“Daniel Ricciardo Leaves F1 Grid”

Her thumb froze mid-swipe. For a second, her brain didn't register it. She blinked, straightened up in her chair, her heart pounding as if she'd been abruptly dropped into the middle of a barrel race.

The accompanying photo was of him: hair a little longer, smile a little softer, but unmistakably Daniel. That smile that had been burned into her memory the morning he stormed out the door.

She whispered it aloud before she could stop herself, her voice hoarse with shock:

“Oh… my God. That's my son's father.”

The air rushed out of her. Her eyes instinctively dropped to the baby against her chest. The same nose. The same stubborn, little brow-furrow he made when he was annoyed. She'd noticed it before, of course, but attributed it to coincidence, to the whims of genetics. But now, looking at his photo on the screen, it was undeniable. It was the same spark in his eyes, the same bone structure.

She let out a dry laugh, a cracked sound that teetered on the edge of panic and hysteria. She had been planning her comeback to the top for months, secretly juggling motherhood, and now, the father of her child—a man she barely knew—was suddenly outside her perfectly controlled world of Formula 1. He was no longer a distant, mythical figure with an impossible schedule; he was an available man who had simply vanished from her public life.

What on earth was she supposed to do with this information now?

She hugged the baby a little tighter. The urgency, which she had suppressed for nine months, returned like an avalanche. The question was no longer whether she should tell him someday, but whether he, now that he was out of the racing circuit, would find her first. Time was running out. She had to make a decision before the world, or Daniel, made it for her.

*✶✦

Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter while she wrestled with a bottle and a very fussy baby. She almost didn’t check—it was probably another feed delivery notification, or her sister sending memes.

But then she saw the name. Instagram DM — @.danielricciardo

Her heart stuttered. Hands shaking, she opened it.

Of course I remember you. Can we talk?

For a long moment she just stood there, baby finally quiet against her shoulder, staring at the words. Her throat went dry. The world tilted a little—weeks of doubt and silence and convincing herself she’d been forgotten all collapsed into that single line.

Her fingers flew over the keyboard before her brain could catch up:

Yes. Please. Whenever you want. If you’re willing… come to the ranch. We can talk there.

She hesitated, hovering over the send button. Was she really about to open her entire world—her family, her secret—to him?

Another glance at the sleeping baby in her arms was all the answer she needed. She hit send.

And then she set the phone down, pressing her forehead to her child’s. “Okay, little one,” she whispered, voice breaking into a nervous laugh. “Guess we’re about to meet your dad.”

The crunch of gravel announced his arrival before she could even see the car. An unfamiliar rental car pulled up at the edge of the ranch, kicking up a cloud of dust in the afternoon sun.

She rubbed her hands nervously against her jeans, her heart pounding as if she were about to ride in the final race of the championship instead of facing the man she hadn't seen in over a year.

The car door opened, and there he was. Daniel Ricciardo. His baseball cap pulled low, the sleeves of his sweatshirt rolled up to his elbows, as if he were trying to blend in even here, miles from anywhere. He looked… older. More tired than she remembered. But his eyes met hers instantly, and that same wry smile tugged at his lips before his nerves could fade it.

"Hello," he said softly, his voice deeper than she expected.

"Hello," she echoed, suddenly feeling breathless.

For a moment, they stood there, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on them. She shifted, adjusting the baby in her arms.

Daniel's gaze followed her automatically. His smile faltered. His lips parted. His breath hitched audibly.

The baby blinked, looking at him, her tiny fist clutching the edge of her shirt. And then Daniel broke down.

"Oh my God," he whispered, his voice cracking as his hand flew to his mouth. Tears filled his eyes so quickly that it surprised her. "Is— is she…?"

She nodded, her throat tight. "Yes. She's yours."

Daniel stumbled forward, as if his knees refused to hold him. "I— I thought I was empty after losing F1. Like I didn't know who I was anymore," he said, his voice trembling as he looked alternately at her and the baby. “But—this—God, this is…”

She forced herself to speak calmly, because someone had to. “Daniel, she wasn’t planned. I didn’t even know how to find you. But she’s here, and she deserves to know her father. That’s all that matters.”

He nodded rapidly, tears now streaming down his face, laughing and sobbing at the same time, as if he didn’t know which emotion to hold onto. “I remember that night like it was yesterday. I thought about you. About what if. But this…” He wiped his face, completely undone, “I never thought the universe would give me something so wonderful.”

For the first time since she’d sent him the message, he felt the pressure in his chest ease slightly. He wasn’t running away. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t denying it. He was standing on the land of his family ranch, weeping for a baby he had just met, and for the first time he allowed himself to think: maybe this could work.

“Do you want to hold her?” she asked, her voice low but firm.

Daniel just nodded, his arms already trembling with anticipation. When she placed the baby in his arms, his entire body shrank under the weight, not from fear, but from awe. He pressed his forehead against hers, his eyes tightly closed, whispering something she couldn’t quite hear. The baby, sensing the unfamiliar warmth and scent, made a small sound and then curled up against his chest.

And for the first time in months, since the night she met that race car driver in a hotel bar, she smiled. Not a forced smile, but a real one, soft and full of a kind of hope she had never known on a racetrack.

*✶✦

danielricciardo

liked by youruser, maxverstappen1, landonorris and others

danielricciardo Didn’t expect this chapter, but it’s the best one yet 🤎

youruser 🤎

lando.jpg the horse already hates you bro 💀

maxverstappen1 good luck mate, you’ll need it with that horse.

f1 happiness looks good on you, Honey Badger 🐝

fan12 THE horse made it to the grid before me 👀

fan1 I have NEVER seen Danny smile like that 😭

fan92 omg he’s a dad. HE’S A DAD.

fan34 that horse is 100% the villain of this story and I support her 🐴

*✶✦

The day had faded, and the stillness of the country house settled upon them, a silence deeper and more meaningful than that of any Formula 1 garage. The baby was already in her crib, wrapped snugly and peaceful after a long night of adjustment and wonder.

Daniel approached with the same methodical care he used to check his tire pressures. He leaned over the crib, his tall figure casting a gentle shadow. With a finger, he gently brushed the small cheek, making sure the blanket was secure and tucked neatly under her chin. His eyes were fixed on her sleeping face, observing the miniature replica of his own eyebrows.

He straightened up, releasing a sigh that sounded like both relief and profound surrender. He walked slowly back to the living room, where she was waiting, watching the scene. He sank into the sofa beside her.

"Look at her," Daniel whispered, his voice soft yet rough. There was no fanfare, no champagne, no cameras. Just the soft glow of the lamp.

"She's perfect," she replied.

Daniel took her hand and squeezed it, a simple gesture that spoke volumes about the chaos and connection that had brought them together. His gaze drifted to the wall for a moment, as if remembering all the tracks he had raced on, all the risks he had taken.

Finally, his gaze returned to her, shining with an undeniable truth.

"I think this might be better than racing," he whispered, and the silence of the night embraced the profoundness of that statement.

© 2025 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

💌 tag list: @mysthicwhispers @anamiad00msday @st4r-girl-official @kartuke @gridsandstories

@ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @pedriglazer @viper-0800 @clocouettelife @leviathan0000

@roseannih @rosietoesf1 @thisdoesntexsist-cherry @elizamoe133 @nichmeddar

@galaxygurlll @ojijhij @naenaen @josephinel83 @linnygirl09

@axelstillalive @star73807-blog @meyla123x

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hey don't cry. 7,401 species of frog in the world, ok?

[werewolf-transgenderism]

IMPORTANT UPDATE: 7,532 species of frog in the world, ok?!

[werewolf-transgenderism]

great news! 7,556 species of frog in the world, ok?!

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hey don't cry, now there are 7,576 species of frog in the world, ok?!

[werewolf-transgenderism]

excellent news! 7,591 species of frog in the world, peace and love on planet earth

[werewolf-transgenderism]

guess what! 7,624 species of frog on planet earth, ok?

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hey don't cry, 7,645 species of frog on planet earth, ok? peace and love on planet autism

[werewolf-transgenderism]

great news! 7,653 species of frog on planet earth, ok?

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hey don't cry. 7,670 species of frog on planet earth, ok?

[werewolf-transgenderism]

new year new frogs! 7,678 species of frog on planet earth, ok?

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hey don't cry. 7,683 species of frog in the world, ok? ❤️

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hey don't cry. 7,698 species of frog in the world, peace and love on planet earth

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hey don’t cry. 7,701 species of frog in the world, ok?

[wandering-aloneo-o]

@markscherz how many of these do we get to thank you for again?

[markscherz]

95 at present, more on the way :)

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hey don't cry. 95 species of frog discovered by tumblr's own frog scientist dr. mark scherz, ok?

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hey don't cry. 7,758 species of frog in the world, yippee!

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hey don't cry. 7,806 species of frog in the world, ok?

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hey don’t cry. 7,817 species of frog in the world, peace and love on planet autism 💖

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hey don't cry. 7,836 species of frog in the world, ok?

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hey don't cry. 7,864 species of frog in the world, yay!

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hey don't cry. 7,935 species of frog in the world, yippeeeeee

[werewolf-transgenderism]

HEY DON'T CRY. 8,008 SPECIES OF FROG IN THE WORLD PER AMPHIBIAWEB AND THE 8,000TH FROG WAS DESCRIBED BY TUMBLR'S OWN FROG SCIENTIST DR. Scherz, ET AL., PEACE AND LOVE ON PLANET EARTH ‼️‼️‼️

[sharkfiinn]

prism's parental situation

[palaceoftheprophets]

WIP of the pebbles visiting their Uncle Grace

[leafsheepie]

oh this? this is just in case you were wondering where max LIVES. not my goat explaining to the children his ocean view. give this man a day of being a real estate agent. those monaco apartments would be FILLED.

[beardedmrbean]

[womanguy]

you should get a second evening for reading fan fiction. And you should get an extra day in the week to do arts and crafts.

[hughesupdates]

🎥| Quinn Hughes for the Honda “ Olympics: Dreams Become Reality” campaign.

[quinnyhughes43]

More Quinn Hughes ASMR - groin edition 😂

[quinnyhughes43]

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨