Warnings: car crash, injury description (nothing graphic), near death/mentions of it, medical mentions
Summary: after y/n suffered a terrifying crash at the Red Bull ring, Lando has to figure out what to do. Calming his son/ (More himself though.) And working on helping him heal.
A/N: no names of actual current f4 drivers were said bc its in the near-ish future and reader is apt 14, do some math if you'd like but don't think tm act it!! there will be a part two to this specific one, but I couldn't finish it atm, this is as far as my motivation can go sorry! enjoy!
Saturday at the Red Bull Ring.
The Red Bull Ring—man, it’s gorgeous in that “might kill you if you blink” kind of way. All those rolling green hills and sneaky dips, blind corners just waiting to ruin someone’s afternoon. It’s the sort of place that keeps everyone’s nerves jangling, mechanics and dads alike.
Lando Norris stood there on the pit wall, arms tight across his chest, McLaren hoodie on, but he wasn't looking at the scenery. Not even glancing at the track, really. His eyes were glued to Car #17. His kid.
Y/N had been on it all weekend. Quick as hell in practice. Didn’t flinch in the rain. Nailed qualifying. But something felt off this morning. Not just the car—him, too. Different edge.
“Still got the Red Bull kid rattling around in your head?” Lando threw it out there, eyes still locked on the timing screen.
Y/N’s voice came over the radio, dry as toast. “No.”
Yeah, right. Lando knew a fib from his kid a mile off.
Friday – The Day Before
FP2 was a mess.
Turn 3—classic. Y/N dived for the inside. Elias Voss, the Red Bull Academy’s newest wonderboy, tried to hang it round the outside. Neither of them lifted. So, naturally, Y/N’s front wing went bye-bye, and Voss got a face full of gravel.
Cue drama. Voss’s team was fuming. “Reckless!” “Entitled!” All the greatest hits.
Stewards called it just a racing thing, but the paddock loved to gossip.
“Bet Norris thinks he’s untouchable now.”
“Silver spoon, gets away with anything.”
Y/N heard every word. Pretended he didn’t.
Back to Saturday
Lap 14.
Everything goes sideways.
Happens in a blink, as usual.
Voss is right there again, lining him up into Turn 3. Déjà vu.
Lando leans in, practically chewing his nails. “Don’t fight it too hard,” he mutters. “Let him screw up.”
But Y/N? He’s not backing out.
Tires touch. That sound—metal, rubber, chaos. Smoke. Debris everywhere.
Car #17 launches, spins, smacks the barriers so hard you could feel it in your teeth. Even the engineers stagger back, pale.
The whole world just… stops.
“Red flag. Red flag. Medical team dispatched.”
Lando’s off like a shot. Doesn’t care about credentials or radios or anyone yelling at him. He’s running, pure dad mode.
The Wreck
Marshals’ve already swarmed the mess. Wheel over here. Halo’s got a nasty crack. The car’s twisted in ways it shouldn’t be.
Lando shoves through the crowd and finds him.
Y/N’s slumped over, helmet askew, not moving.
“Y/N!” Lando drops, knees on tarmac. “Hey, buddy, c’mon. Open your eyes, look at me.”
Medic grabs him, pulls him back. “We need space, possible spinal.”
Lando stumbles away, can’t breathe, just staring at the kid in the mangled car.
Time crawls.
Then—was that a twitch? A noise? Yeah. Y/N’s alive.
Hospital – Graz University Clinic
Broken arm, cracked ribs, concussion, bruises everywhere, a bit of a spinal scare—but he’s gonna make it.
He’s out cold, though.
Lando sits there, holding his son’s hand, mumbling stuff he should’ve said ages ago.
“You don’t have to prove a damn thing. Not to them. Not to me. Especially not to me.”
Wipes his eyes, trying to play it cool.
“You’re already everything I hoped you’d be.”
Sunday Night
Y/N wakes up just as the sun’s ducking out.
Eyes flutter, sharp breath, groan.
Lando’s right there.
“Hey, hey. I got you, I’m here.”
Y/N blinks up, groggy. “Did I crash?”
Lando nods, smiling through tears. “Oh yeah. Massive one. Gave your old man a few grey hairs.”
“Voss?”
“He’s fine. You will be too. Just not today.”
Y/N glances at his cast, then his chest, and his face kind of crumples.
“I thought I was better than that. I thought I could—”
“Stop.” Lando’s suddenly all business. “You don’t get to do that. Not when you’re the one in the hospital bed.”
Silence.
Finally: “I was scared.”
Lando squeezes his hand. “Me too. But you’re here. That’s what counts.”
Three Weeks Later – Home
Recovery sucks.
Y/N’s hating every minute. The quiet, the ache, the way every tiny thing feels like screwing up.
But Lando’s there. Every physio, every stretch, every crap night when the pain comes roaring back.
He never says it, but Y/N knows:
I’d take the crash for you if I could.
But this time, all he can do is stick around and help him through it.
One Month Later – Back at the Track
No racing yet. Just walking the paddock, getting his bearings.
People look. Whisper.
Voss walks by, eyes flickering, maybe a little sorry.
Y/N stares him down. Doesn’t even flinch.
Lando, hiding behind his shades, grins.
“You scared the hell outta me, you know.”
Y/N bumps him with his shoulder. “You already said that.”
“Still true.”
They stand there together in the shadow of the Red Bull Ring—the same place that broke him, and the same place he’s back again.
Summary: Cheering for her brother? Nope! Oscar is so much better.
“Pole just means you go first,” she deadpanned, looking about as excited as someone waiting for a dentist appointment. Max honestly felt like he’d just been dunked on by a moody pre-teen in a Lightning McQueen tee.
He made another go at it, sounding a bit desperate. “But my car was the fastest.”
Y/N just shrugged, twirling the string of her Verstappen cap like it was the world’s most boring fidget toy. “Oscar’s cool.”
Savage. The brutality. Max started wondering if this was cosmic payback for every time he’d punted someone wide at turn one.
Lando wandered over, grinning like he’d just watched a cat fall off a table. “Yikes, mate. She’s ice cold.”
“Yeah, cheers, Lando. Super helpful.”
Later, in the drivers’ room, Oscar strolled in, halfway through a granola bar. Max gave him a look. Maybe a bit too much intensity there. Oscar froze, granola mid-chomp.
“Uh, you good?”
Max groaned and dragged his hands over his face. “She didn’t even care about pole. Just asked where you were.”
Oscar blinked, then smirked. “She’s got her favorites.”
“Yeah, and apparently, it’s not me. Betrayal.”
Oscar flopped into a chair, looking way too relaxed. “Would you rather she liked Lando?”
“God, no. He’d have her driving a golf cart into Lake Como.”
Oscar cracked up, and, honestly, Max couldn’t stay mad. Not at Oscar. The guy was like if a Labrador put on a bucket hat and learned to talk.
After the race, Y/N was waiting in the garage with a tiny McLaren plushie clutched in her hands. She didn’t even blink at Max’s champagne-soaked race suit—just bolted straight for Oscar, who scooped her up like it was the most normal thing ever.
“Good race, Y/N?” he asked.
She nodded so hard her hat nearly fell off. “You went so fast.”
Max, still dripping, threw his hands in the air. “I win at home and my little sister’s giving all the credit to Piastri. Unreal.”
Lando sidled over, smirking like a little gremlin. “Guess you’ll have to step up your game, champ.”
“Or just bribe her with cookies,” Max muttered.
Oscar glanced over, sheepish. “She, uh, gave me this.” He held up a crumpled, slightly sticky drawing. It was… probably him? Maybe? Hard to say.
Max squinted. “She’s never drawn me with that many hearts.”
Oscar tried not to look smug. He failed. Miserably.
Weeks ticked by. Max tried everything—matching socks, extra bedtime stories, even a sneaky turn in the Red Bull sim (Christian would actually combust if he found out). Didn’t matter. Oscar was still her sun, moon, and all the stars.
One night, after a long slog at the track, Max found Y/N crashed out next to Oscar in the hospitality lounge, mouth open, dead to the world. Oscar looked over, awkward but weirdly proud.
“Sorry, mate. Think she likes me more.”
Max just sighed, a little defeated but kinda okay with it. “Yeah. She’s got pretty solid taste.”
Oscar grinned. “Must run in the family.”
Max rolled his eyes, but his chest didn’t feel so tight.
Honestly? If his little sister was gonna worship someone, Oscar wasn’t the worst choice. Not even close.
And maybe Max could get used to sharing the spotlight—at least until Y/N decided Toto Wolff was her new obsession. At that point, all bets were off.
Summary: Young Y/N is making the transition from karting to F4, and he begins to over train himself. Lando takes notice, and had finally begun to step in.
A/N: tysm, to this anon! Struggled w this but our first male!reader is here! Tysm to @koalapastries and @milessunflowers for helping me! (one I asked and one I used as reference 🙏)
The kart let out a hiss as it came to a stop, the gravel crunching beneath its slick tires. In the garage, the air was thick with exhaust and dust, but Y/N barely noticed. He was too busy pulling off his helmet, his curls damp with sweat, jaw clenched tight, and his lip almost raw from chewing.
Lando was leaning against the paddock tent, arms crossed, just watching.
He'd been keeping an eye on Y/N for the last hour—quietly, from a distance. Not that he meant to hover, but it’s tough not to when your thirteen-year-old just finished his sixth practice run of the day and hasn’t smiled once.
“Again,” Y/N puffed out, asking one of the mechanics, already yanking off his gloves to wipe the sweat from his brow.
“Nope,” Lando said, stepping in. His tone was firm but easy, like he wasn’t about to argue. “We’re done for today.”
Y/N's shoulders tensed up. “But I messed up the last sector. I braked too early—”
“And you’ll fix it. Tomorrow,” Lando cut in gently. “Right now, your arms are shaking, and you haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“I’m fine.”
Lando raised an eyebrow, moving closer. “Y/N.”
There it was. The voice. The Dad voice.
Not the one everyone knew—the funny, high-energy one—but the softer, serious tone. The kind that didn’t need to shout to get through.
Y/N slumped a bit. “I just don’t wanna mess this up.”
“I get it,” Lando murmured. “But burning out before F4 even kicks off? That’s not the way to go.”
The ride home was quiet.
Y/N sank in the passenger seat, arms crossed, jaw tight like he had been for weeks.
They both knew this jump to F4 was coming. He’d been karting for years, racing on tracks all over Europe since he was four. He was fast—there’s no denying that. But F4? That was a whole different ballgame.
And the nerves? The pressure? It was starting to show in all sorts of small, dangerous ways.
Skipping meals.
Grinding through practice long after everyone else had left.
Waking up in the middle of the night to watch onboard footage again.
Lando noticed it all. And it scared him—because he recognized it.
It was him at fifteen. The weight of dreams too big for one kid to carry alone.
“You were overdriving in sector two,” Lando said softly, his eyes on the road.
Y/N didn’t respond.
“You were trying to make up for the mistake in turn four. That’s why the back end slipped out on the final exit.”
Y/N’s voice was quiet. “I know.”
“And that’s why you should’ve stopped after run four. You’d already nailed your lines by then.”
“Didn’t feel like enough.”
Lando glanced at him at a red light. “Enough for who?”
Silence.
“For me?” he asked. “Because I don’t want you to be perfect.”
Y/N swallowed hard. “I just want to be good enough. To earn it.”
Lando felt a bit of his heart break at that.
“You don’t have to earn my pride, kiddo,” he said softly. “You already have it. Every day.”
Y/N blinked quickly and turned to stare out the window.
Back home, Lando made pasta—his go-to when they were both too tired to think straight. They sat at the counter in silence, each poking at their bowls.
Not awkward, just… heavy.
Finally, Y/N spoke. “What if I’m not like you?”
Lando looked up sharply.
“What if I get to F4 and choke? What if I’m not quick enough? What if they only want me because of who you are?”
Lando’s breath caught in his throat.
“You think I haven’t thought those same things?” he said quietly. “You think I didn’t ask myself those questions every single day when I joined McLaren at nineteen?”
“But you proved them wrong.”
“After years of self-doubt,” Lando replied. “You think confidence just came naturally? No way. I had to build it. One mistake at a time.”
Y/N looked away, staring at nothing.
Lando got up and walked around the counter, squatting down in front of him.
“Listen,” he said, keeping his voice low. “You aren’t a clone of me. You’re your own driver. Your own person. And yeah, you’ll make mistakes. That’s how it goes. But I’d rather you mess up and learn than push yourself too hard trying to be someone you’re not.”
His son’s lip quivered.
“I don’t need you to be me. I just need you to be okay.”
That was it.
Tears rolled down Y/N’s cheeks, quiet and stubborn, the kind that had been held back for too long. He leaned forward, resting his head on Lando’s shoulder, and for a moment, he wasn’t a future F4 driver. He was just a kid. A scared, tired kid.
And Lando held him like he was the most important thing in the world.
Because he was.
Later, when Y/N had dozed off on the couch—wrapped up in a hoodie two sizes too big—Lando sat beside him, running his fingers through his hair.
He thought back to being thirteen. The long hours. The mental games. The moments when he hated the thing he loved most because it felt like it took everything.
And then he looked at his son, seeing that same spark and the same fear behind his eyes, and he made a quiet promise:
No matter how far Y/N went—F4, F3, F2, F1—he wouldn’t have to do it alone.
Not like Lando did.
Not ever.
A Week Later — F4 Practice Weekend, Mugello
The paddock was buzzing with tension. New drivers. New engineers. Everyone walking around with stiff shoulders, like they could fake confidence into existence.
Y/N adjusted his suit, helmet tucked under his arm. His hands were still shaking. Less than before, but still noticeable.
“You nervous?” Lando asked from beside him.
Y/N nodded.
“Good,” Lando said. “Means you care.”
“I don’t want to let you down.”
Lando reached over, tugging lightly on the strap of his HANS device. “Y/N. Look at me.”
His son turned to face him.
“You could come in dead last today, and I’d still be proud.”
Y/N swallowed. “Really?”
“Really. Because you showed up. Because you’re trying. That’s what matters. The results will come later.”
For the first time in weeks, Y/N smiled.
A real smile.
Lando grinned and tapped his helmet. “Now go out there and show them what the future looks like.”
Y/N didn’t win that session.
He didn’t even make the podium.
But he took a corner that no one else dared to take flat out.
When he came into the pit lane, flushed and breathless, he pulled his helmet off and looked right at Lando, eyes shining.
“That felt good,” he said.
And Lando—beaming from the wall, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets to hide how much they were shaking—shouted back,
Summary: Charles missed your dance and he'll do everything to make it up to you.
A/N: tysm, 🏀 anon!
The curtain had just fallen.
The lights dimmed, the applause still echoing like a heartbeat in your ears, but you stood frozen behind the wings, trembling in your pointe shoes, your tutu barely rustling as you breathed in shaky, silent gasps.
You’d done it.
The first solo performance of your life.
Except—he wasn’t there.
You turned toward the doors, your eyes scanning the silhouettes beyond the velvet curtains.
Nothing.
No sign of the signature Leclerc curls. No smile that could melt your nerves. No warm arms ready to say “You were incredible, mon étoile.”
Just darkness. And noise. And stagehands calling cues for the next group.
You blinked.
Swallowed.
And walked off with your chin high.
Back in the dressing room, everyone buzzed. Makeup being wiped off, pointe shoes unfastened, glitter dusting the carpeted floor. Girls hugged. Instructors smiled. Parents waited outside, holding presents and bouquets.
You sat at your mirror, slowly unlacing your shoes. The satin ribbons trembled in your fingers.
Your heart felt too big and too empty at the same time.
Your phone buzzed.
You swiped it open without much hope.
Charli
8:42pm — “Je suis désolé, chérie. We got held up at the paddock. I'm coming now. Please wait for me.”
You stared at the text for a long moment.
Then a tear fell. And another. They kept coming.
Not loud. Not messy. Just quiet tears sliding down your cheeks like kisses from a rose petal.
You’d told him about this performance months ago. He’d promised. Pinky promised. Charles never broke those. It was the childish nature in him.
Except now, with the season full swing, the Monaco GP madness around him, and press demands on every corner…
You’d been pushed down the list.
Again.
It was twenty-five minutes later when he finally arrived.
He burst through the backstage hallway in his Ferrari polo and jeans, hair slightly mussed, eyes frantic.
“Y/N!”
You didn’t look up right away. Just sat in the corridor still half-dressed, your bag open beside you.
His voice softened when he saw you.
“Oh, ma petite…”
“I’m not that little anymore,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on your bag zipper.
“No, you’re not,” he agreed, crouching in front of you. “But you’ll always be my little étoile.”
You sniffed.
“I danced without you.”
“I know. And I’m so proud of you.”
“You weren’t there to see it.”
Charles looked like he’d been hit straight in the chest.
He reached forward slowly, like you were made of glass, and gently tucked a loose curl behind your ear.
“I’m so sorry. The race weekend—it ran long, the media was insane—I didn’t want to miss it, I swear on everything.”
You nodded, barely. Only just.
He dropped to sit beside you now, shoulder to shoulder on the cold floor.
There was a pause.
Then: “You know what I used to do before every kart race?”
You shook your head.
“I would listen to that one Chopin piece. The one you used to practice with. The one with the soft piano and the sad ending. It made me think of you.”
Your throat tightened.
“You did not. Liar.”
“I did. Even in Formula 2. Even now sometimes. It reminded me of how hard you worked. How graceful you were. How pretty and neat. How I never wanted to let you down.”
You bit your lip, a tear escaping. A gentle hiccup escaped.
Charles turned to face you.
“You didn’t let me down,” you whispered. “I just… really, really wanted you to be proud of me.”
“I am proud of you,” he said, voice cracking a little.
You looked up, and there it was—his face, open and full of love and guilt and admiration all in one.
“I’m your big brother. But tonight, I was also the guy running through the parking lot like a maniac to catch his sister’s final bow.”
You laughed, watery.
“That sounds stupid.”
“It was stupid. And I still missed it. But I swear, next time—I will be there an hour early, in the front row, wearing a glitter tutu if I have to.”
You burst out laughing.
The ache didn’t vanish, but it softened.
He pulled you into a hug.
“You looked beautiful,” he murmured into your hair. “Even now, all tired and glittery and grumpy. You’re everything I’m proud of, (Y/N). Always.”
You buried your face into his shoulder and let yourself breathe again.
Back at home, he insisted on cooking pasta.
“You danced, I make dinner. That’s the rule.”
You sat at the kitchen island in your hoodie, finally warm and makeup-free, watching your Formula One driver of a brother burn garlic in a pan like an amateur.
“You’re not doing it right,” you teased.
“You sound like Enzo.”
“You cook like Enzo.”
“Watch it.”
“Maman cooks better than you and she makes toast with tomato sauce.”
He gave you a deadpan look.
“Rude.”
You smiled, slowly, for real this time.
Later, you lay on the couch, legs stretched over Charles’s lap as he scrolled through pictures from your performance that your ballet teacher had sent him.
“She sent me like fifty,” he muttered, zooming in. “Look at your arm here! That’s crazy! You looked like you were floating!”
You blushed.
“Stop hyping me up.”
“Never.”
You peeked at his phone screen. One photo caught your eye — you, mid-pirouette, lit from above like a painting.
You inhaled. “I… I really did that, huh?”
“You owned it, ma belle. No wonder people cried in the audience.”
Your eyes widened. “Someone cried?”
“Yeah. Maggie’s mom told Arthur.”
You covered your face, groaning.
“Oh noooo.”
He laughed and poked your ribs. “Famous already.”
You peeked at him. “Did you mean it? About wearing a tutu to the next show?”
“Do you want me to?”
You grinned.
“Only if you bedazzle it.”
“Done. Ferrari red.”
You laughed so hard your stomach ached and tears fell.
As the night wore down and the apartment dimmed to its sleepy hush, you curled into the corner of the couch, head on Charles’s shoulder.
He wasn’t talking now. Just scrolling through photos again, eyes fond.
“I was scared today,” you murmured suddenly. “Before going on stage.”
He looked down. “Really?”
You nodded. “I thought I’d fall. Or forget the choreo. Or freeze.”
He wrapped an arm around you. Strong and protective. “But you didn’t.”
“Because I pretended you were out there watching.”
Charles didn’t speak for a moment.
Then he kissed the top of your head.
“I’m always watching, even when I’m late,” he said quietly.
Summary: Baby Piastri get bored so why not cause chaos with Mae?
A/N: I would say nobody asked to the haters but instead I will say 'I do not recall any individual inquiring thy whatsoever' (I'm so funny) and lets not talk Abt the first one on the image, Kay? Utterly short but the angst one is better, trust
You were twelve, sprawled on the couch, and already declaring yourself the ruler of boredom. Nicole and Chris, mom and dad, had gone out for a date, and the house felt too quiet.
So you grunted as you got up, grabbing your phone.
“Hello?” you piped into your phone. “Mae?”
Mae who was out at a friends' house, answered on the second ring.
“I’m bored. Do something.” You flopped over dramatically.
Mae whined, “Kiddoooo! Come on, go outside, touch grass. Do you do that anymore?”
You stared at the screen with a deadpan expression.
She giggled, “Alright fine! Call the group chat, we'll play a game.”
You gasped and your fingers flew to Whatsapp, calling the Piastri Sibling's group chat.
Oscar popped into view first, face grinning. “Hey, bug. What’s the emergency?”
“I need fun,” you declared.
Edie rolled her eyes playfully. “We could do homework.” “Ew, Edie, come on! Let's do something other than homework.” Mae attacked.
“Or we could scare ourselves silly...?” Hattie suggested, fingers already hovering over the “Play” button on Phasmophobia.
You gasped, Oscar groaned, Mae giggled and Edie was loading it already.
And that's how you ended up on your computer, yelling at Oscar over the phone because apparently he knew more about this than you.
“Just click on the ghost book, and don’t—oh!”
“OSCAR, YOU SAID DON'T CLICK ON IT!”
“NO, I SAID CLICK ON IT!”
You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest, spectating while Edie shrieked as a phantom lunged across her screen. Mae howled so loud she woke the cat. Hattie was laughing so hard she snorted into her headset.
Through it all, Oscar kept one eye on you. When you jumped and nearly knocked over your juice box, texted you. “You okay?” then—through the speaker—“Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”
You giggled back, heart pounding. Even when a banshee screeched, you felt safe knowing Oscar and your sisters were right there with you.
At one point, Lily had peeked around the doorway of Oscar’s room, arms folded, smiling at the chaos. She didn’t interrupt—just watched her boyfriend become the hero of a twelve-year-old’s Friday night.
When the game finally ended—everyone too breathless to speak—Oscar blew a kiss to your camera. “Good job, team. Same time next week?”
You nodded, already looking forward to the next phantom hunt. Because with Oscar and the girls around, even the scariest ghosts felt like family.
The night air in Le Mans tasted like disappointment.
You didn’t even make it past the garage. Still half-zipped out of your fireproofs, knees pulled to your chest while you sat on an overturned pit box crate. The Cadillac crew tiptoed around you, eyes low. You could still hear the roar of Ferrari’s champagne-soaked celebration from the podium.
But you didn’t make the call until later. Until you were alone. Until the ache in your chest cracked wide open and spilled down your cheeks.
It rang once.
Then twice.
And then Kimi answered.
He sounded tired—post-quali tired—but the second he heard you sniffle, the edge in his voice softened instantly.
“Hey, hey, hey. What’s wrong, amore?”
“I lost,” you whispered. “They passed us in the last ten minutes. Ferrari. They won.”
Kimi didn’t say anything at first. Just breathed gently into the phone.
“I’m sorry,” you said, so quiet he almost missed it.
“No. Don’t do that.” His voice was firmer now, protective. “You drove Le Mans. You led Le Mans. You don’t get to say sorry for being brilliant.”
You wiped at your cheeks. “And it’s not fair.”
“It never is,” he murmured. “But it doesn’t change what you are.”
“What am I?”
“Mine,” he said simply. “And the best damn driver in that field.”
That’s when your voice cracked fully, and Kimi knew. He knew you didn’t just need his voice. You needed him.
So he made a few calls. Told Toto he wasn’t missing a thing. Took the overnight flight from Montreal and didn’t even stop at the hotel. Straight to the track, still in his team hoodie, eyes rimmed red from no sleep.
When you saw him, you didn’t even move. You just stared, eyes wide and disbelieving.
“…Kimi?”
He nodded once. “Did you think I wouldn’t come?”
You stood slowly, unsure if you were dreaming.
Then you crashed into him like the checkered flag itself.
He held you close, hands spread wide across your back, his chin tucked into your hair like he’d been waiting for this all day.
You sniffled. “You missed your race weekend.”
“You needed me,” he said. “And I needed to see you.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes still shiny. “You always know.”
“I know you,” he said softly, brushing your cheek with his thumb.
He pressed his lips to yours. Not hungry with desire, but gentle.
Against your lips he whispered, “Come on, Amore. Let's go to the hotel, okay?”
You were too tired to tell him no. Not like you would have. So you nodded and he took your hand as he led you to the car.
An hour later, he came home with a paper bag of groceries.
He set it down before closing the room door so you wouldn't wake up.
After, went back to the kitchen and took out a knife and a wooden cutting board as he chopped the basil. He threw it in a bowl with eggs, whipping cream, salt, and pepper. He turned on the mixer and left it while he turned to the stove with a pan.
The wrapper of butter crinkled as he opened is and cut some off to spread it on the pan, looking over at the door to make sure you hadn't come out yet.
The Italian stopped the mixer and poured it onto the pan, his eyes focused.
Kimi covered it and watched it.
You walked out the room quietly, Kim's hoodie on with sweatpants that weren't dirty. You saw your boyfriend cooking and smiled tiredly. Walking over, your hands slid around his torso as you hugged him from behind.
He jumped a bit, but once he felt your head resting on his shoulder he smiled and relaxed.
“Morning, Amore.” Kimi whispered.
In response you mumbled, “Morning, Drea.”
After a few moments he took the lid off the pan and grabbed a plate without moving his feet so you wouldn't have to walk around. He took a spatula and took the frittata off and plated it.
“Come on, Amore, I made breakfast.” He said, tugging your hands toward the couch.
Once he sat down, he pulled you into his lap.
“How are you feeling?”
“Still shitty, but a bit better because a certain little pizza boy made me food.” You smirked. He chuckled.
Warnings: Ferrari winning Le Mans <3 (CADILLAC PLEASE WIN THIS YEAR.)
Summary: In which you lost Le Mans while Ollie was in Montreal for a race and he refuses to let you cry on your own.
The Cadillac driver didn't have time to take off her helmet before the tears fell.
The lights at Le Mans were brutal—too bright, too sharp, shining down on a podium you weren’t standing on. Ferrari had taken it. Again. And this time, you’d made it to the final stint. You had a real shot. You had the lead. And then the car sputtered in pit lane, just once, just enough.
P2. Not even five seconds in it.
And you didn’t want to hear the interviews or the noise or the celebration that wasn’t yours.
So you called him.
Ollie answered on the second ring, still in the Haas hospitality suite in Montreal. His curls were damp from the post-quali rain, face tired from media duties, but the second he heard your voice—broken and trembling—he sat up straight.
“Hey, hey,” he whispered. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
You sniffled, voice small. “I lost, Ollie.”
He paused. “You came second at Le Mans, love. That’s not losing.”
“I was leading with twenty minutes to go,” you choked. “I let them down.”
“You didn’t let anyone down,” he said firmly. “You raced your heart out. Everyone saw it.”
You didn’t answer right away. He could hear you breathing, uneven, trying so hard not to cry harder.
“I just… I really wanted this one.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I know, baby. I’m proud of you. So, so proud of you.”
There was silence, soft and heavy, and then you barely whispered, “I wish you were here.”
That’s all it took.
The next morning, before most of the paddock in Montreal had even had coffee, Ollie was on a flight to France. No press. No fuss. Just him, hoodie pulled up, headphones in, watching the clouds blur past the window as he counted the hours until he could hold you.
By the time he got to the circuit, you were still in your post-race fireproofs, sitting on the pit wall with your arms wrapped around your knees, looking more like a ghost of yourself than the fighter he loved.
You looked up when you heard footsteps.
And then froze.
“Hi,” he said simply.
Your lip quivered. “You’re—how—”
“I told you I’d be where you needed me.”
You ran to him like the ground burned, and he caught you without a second thought, wrapping you up in his arms, your face pressed into his shoulder.
You were crying again, all the tears were back and falling into his hoodie.
He just held you, rubbing your back whispering sweet nothings.
The next morning Ollie had never looked more serious in his life.
Sitting on the hotel balcony in a hoodie and sweatpants, his curls still messy from sleep, he had one hand around a mug of coffee and the other holding his phone to his ear.
“Pierre, I need your help,” he said, quietly but firmly.
There was a pause, and then—
“Bearman?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s 6:42 in the morning.”
“I know,” Ollie whispered, glancing back through the hotel window to where you were still asleep, curled up under the white sheets. “But it’s important.”
Pierre sighed dramatically. “Is this about your car?”
“No.”
“Your quali?”
“No.”
“...Are you dying?”
“No!” Ollie hissed. “I need a place to take her for breakfast.”
Pierre went silent.
And then, “Ohhh.”
“Yeah.”
“She cried, didn’t she?”
Ollie smiled softly, eyes flicking back to you. “A river.”
Pierre’s voice softened too. “She deserved that win.”
“I know.”
“You showing up was good.”
“I want to do more.”
Pierre was quiet for a moment. Then: “Okay. There’s a bakery in the old quarter. Not touristy. Locals only. You’ll want a table in the back—sunlight comes through the window just right. Tell them Gasly sent you. They’ll know.”
Ollie blinked. “Why do you know that...? ”
“Because I’m French.”
“You’re too French.”
Pierre smirked through the phone. “You’re welcome, mon gars. Let her feel soft this morning. She gave the world everything yesterday.”
Ollie smiled, something warm blooming in his chest. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She really did.”
By 8:30am, you were in one of Ollie’s oversized sweatshirts, hair still a little messy, blinking in the soft morning light as he led you down a quiet cobblestone street, hand in yours.
“Where are we going?” you asked, cheeks still puffy from the night before.
“Somewhere only Pierre would know,” he said mysteriously.
You squinted. “You called Gasly?”
“I needed the inside scoop. I’m on breakfast duty. Don’t question my sources.” He grinned.
And when you reached the tiny café tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore, when you sat in the sunlit back corner, hands wrapped around warm mugs, buttery croissant melting on your tongue…
You smiled.
Just a little.
And Ollie relaxed. Because you were smiling again.
Request: no but I liked the bit of takeout Times so uhm...here guys<3.
Pairing: Husband!Max Verstappen x Wife!reader
Warnings: FLUFF HAS COME AGAIN (do you guys want angst or smut idk anymore)
Summary: You stole someone's hoodie.
The hum of the Red Bull garage still clung to Max’s skin as he tugged off the top half of his race suit, sweat-damp curls clinging to his forehead, fireproofs bunching around his waist. FP2 had gone well—second fastest on the board, decent long-run pace, and a few jokes thrown across the radio with GP—but you were the only thing on his mind as he headed straight to the driver room.
And there you were.
Sitting on the couch you’d both claimed earlier, now wearing his hoodie, the navy fabric practically swallowing you whole.
Max froze in the doorway.
“You’re wearing my hoodie.”
You glanced up, mid-scroll on your phone, and grinned. “I always wear your hoodie.”
“Yeah, but you’re wearing my hoodie after FP2. That makes it elite.”
You snorted as he crossed the room in three strides, shedding his balaclava and gloves before flopping down beside you. He didn’t even hesitate—just dragged you straight into his lap like he’d needed to touch you since he stepped out of the car.
“Missed you,” he mumbled, arms wrapping tight around your waist.
“You saw me less than an hour ago.”
“I know. Too long.”
You tucked a few damp strands of blond hair back from his forehead, thumb brushing over his cheek. “You did amazing.”
“P2.”
“Still amazing.”
His smile went soft at that, eyes dropping to where your hands were fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve. “I swear, it’s impossible to care about the leaderboard when I walk in and see you like this.”
You leaned in. “Like what?”
“In my hoodie. Looking like you belong in it.”
You didn’t say anything—just kissed the tip of his nose, then his cheek, then right over that little spot just below his eye that always crinkled when he smiled.
Max let his head fall back against the couch, pulling you tighter against his chest. “You know,” he murmured, “I’ve got trophies, helmets, championship rings... but this?”
“This?” you asked, half-laughing.
“This—you in my hoodie, wrapped around me, after a long day in the car? This is better than all of it.”
You sank into him, the sound of his heartbeat louder than the cooling fans humming in the background. The rest of the world—engine notes, flashing cameras, pit walls—it could wait.
Here, you had his hands warm on your back, his lips ghosting over your forehead, and that voice—his voice—soft and sleepy and only for you.
“Let’s just stay like this forever,” he whispered.
You nodded, smiling against his chest.
“Forever sounds good.”
A/N: THE LAST TWO FICS HAVE BEEN SO SHORT IM SORRY!!!
Summary:Max's little cuddles and meal time with his wife.
The buzz of the paddock was a distant hum, muffled behind the closed door of Verstappen’s driver room. FP1 had ended with solid data, a clean car, and a familiar shrug from Max—"The car feels good. A little understeer in turn five, but nothing crazy."
But now?
Now was the best part of the day.
You were curled up beside him on the small couch that barely fit two people—though neither of you minded the lack of space. It just meant you had to press in closer, which Max had happily taken advantage of the second the door clicked shut.
Chinese takeout containers were scattered across the little coffee table in front of you, your shared order scribbled with black marker and checkmarks. Max was lazily holding chopsticks in one hand, using them more to poke at his food than eat, while his other arm was wrapped tightly around your waist, keeping you tucked against him.
“I think the sesame chicken is yours,” he murmured, looking down at you with that quiet, sleepy smile he only ever gave you in these private moments.
“Mmm,” you hummed, reaching over and grabbing the box. “You say that like you didn’t already steal half of it.”
“I needed to test it. For quality control.”
You snorted. “You're such a liar, Verstappen.”
He leaned in, his nose brushing against your temple, breath warm as he whispered, “Yeah, but I’m your liar.”
You melted a little, leaning fully into him as your food momentarily became a forgotten background character to the warmth of his hoodie, the sound of his heartbeat under your cheek, and the smell of soy sauce lingering in the air.
Max nudged your chopsticks toward your mouth when he saw you zoning out. “You’ve gotta eat before FP2.”
“You mean you have to eat before FP2,” you corrected, grinning up at him.
“Exactly,” he said with a smirk. “And if you don’t eat, I’ll just worry about you the whole time. Can’t win a session like that.”
You fed him a bite instead. “You’re so dramatic.”
“And you love it.”
You did. Of course you did.
He pulled the blanket tighter over the two of you, the world outside the driver room utterly irrelevant. It didn’t matter that engineers were probably reviewing data or that fans were screaming just outside the barriers.
In here, it was just your husband, who was soft and silly and pressing absentminded kisses to your forehead as you shared spring rolls and small smiles.
“Five more minutes,” he murmured, eyes already fluttering shut. “Just five, and then I’ll go pretend I don’t wish I could just stay here with you.”
You kissed his jaw and curled deeper into his chest.
“Five minutes,” you promised.
“Or maybe ten.”
He didn’t argue.
A/N: HOPE YOU LIKES IT MY SHAYLAS. I know I'm on break but I had to add this for the weekend. there might be a silly part two but idk yet! sorry Abt it being so short, love you<3
Hi! I don't know if you've ever written anything like this if you have please ignore and english is not my first language so I apologise if its confusing😅 But I think it would be cute if Max Verstappens toddler daughter while P is more obsessed with Lando, she's got a little crush on Oscar and is always eager to see him when she's watching her dad race. Hope you have an amazing day☺️
NOOO YOUR ENGLISH IS GREAT!! dw it's not mine either🙏
i have a few in the works right now, but I haven't seen one like this! I'll get to work on it soon. love you!!
Pairing: Dad!Carlos Sainz x Daughter!reader (+ a Kimi Antonelli and Alex Albon cameo.)
Warnings:nothing unless a baby get's their heart broken but alr
Summary: Kimi turns into a "heartbreaker" and some adorable payback from Carlos and his daughter.
Carlos Sainz had always known that being a dad would change his life, but nothing could’ve prepared him for this. Not the sleepless nights, the glitter explosions, or even the emotional breakdowns over pink sparkly socks.
But today?
Today was new territory.
“Papá…” his five-year-old daughter whispered, tugging on his hand as they stood in the Mercedes hospitality. “Is Kiki coming soon?”
Carlos tried not to laugh. “Kimi? Sí, he’s finishing media duties.”
She practically sparkled at the name, her curls bouncing as she nodded. “Okay. I wanna give him the picture I drew.”
She held up a folded piece of paper, drawn with bold, lopsided hearts and what Carlos guessed was a version of her and Kimi Antonelli holding hands. In crayon.
Carlos knelt down. “Cariño… You know he’s a lot older than you, right?”
“I know,” she said, clutching her picture to her chest. “But I’m gonna marry him. You said I can do anything I want.”
Carlos bit the inside of his cheek to stop the smile. Technically, he had said that.
And finally, Kimi appeared around the corner, hair still messy from his helmet, chatting with a girl. A girl she didn't know. A girl who held his water bottle and laughed at something he said. A girl who was holding his hand, not Y/N's/
And Y/N froze.
Her smile fell.
Like, really fell.
Carlos followed her gaze and oh… oh no.
She was watching Kimi look at Eli the way Max looked at his Red Bull trophy shelf.
She turned slowly, eyes wide and glassy. “Papá,” she whispered, voice small and cracking. “He has a girlfriend?”
Carlos gently scooped her into his arms. “Oh, mija…”
“I loved him.”
Eli spotted them and nudged Kimi, who waved instantly, grin wide. “Hey, princesa! You came!”
Carlos felt her tiny arms tighten around his neck. “Don’t wave at me,” she muttered. “You’re a heartbreaker.”
Carlos blinked. Dios mío.
Eli tilted her head. “Did… did we miss something?”
Kimi stepped closer and knelt beside Carlos, looking up at the tearful little girl.
“Hey, hey,” he said gently. “Did I do something wrong?”
“You didn’t tell me you were taken!” she burst out. “I made you a picture!”
Carlos quickly passed Kimi the crayon drawing as a peace offering. Kimi stared at it with wide eyes, lips twitching into a warm smile. “Wow. This is so cool. Is this us?”
She sniffled, cheeks red. “Yes. But it’s ruined now. You like someone else.”
Kimi looked to Carlos, who just gave him a helpless shrug. “It's alright mate, I'll handle it.” Carlos whispered, giving Kimi a nod as he turned with Y/N in his arms. Softly sniffling.
The walk back to Williams wasn't so bad. It was her little cries and whimpers of sadness and heartbreak that made is bad.
“I was going to marry him!”
“Did he ever love me?”
“That girl is rude.”
Once he opened the door to the William's Hospitality, Alex saw him immediately and smiled. Y/N turned her head and sniffled again, quiter this time.
“Hi, tío Alex...” She mumbled.
Alex stopped.
Carlos frowned. He was clueless to this. And Rebecca could not find out.
“Oh, Darling, what happened!?” Alex said quickly, pulling her from Carlos' arms.
“Kiki doesn't love me.”
Alex looked at Carlos with a shocked expression. Carlos shook his head, “I don't know what to do.” He whispered to his teammate.
They both we're quiet for a moment.
Alex spoke up again.
He softly whispered in Y/N's ear. “Do you wanna throw water balloons at him?”
Y/N gasped, looking up at her uncle before nodding quickly, “Yes, yes!”
And that's how they were sitting in the paddock, using a hose that Ferrari said they could use. Y/N was giggling mischievously, helping her uncle and father make sure the balloons were perfect. There would be exactly twelve balloons thrown. In honor of Kimi's racing number.
They stood up, Alex counting quickly. “Right! Are we ready?”
Carlos chuckled when his daughter nodded with a squeal.
They marched over to the Mercedes garage where George whispered that Kimi was coming out his driver's room soon.
And when he did...
Y/N threw hers, missing a few times, and landing 2 of her four.
Alex made sure that all of his hit Kimi.
Carlos landed 2 extras to make up for the one's Y/N had missed.
“Ah! Wha-”
He got cut off by the familiar giggles.
Y/N was holding her dad's pant leg, enjoying seeing Kimi all soaked from the balloons.
“Principessa! Stavo per salire in macchina!" (“Princess! I was going to get in my car!”) He cried, but there was no anger.
Kimi knelt In front of the girl. “Is this because of Eli?”
Y/N nodded softly.
Kimi chuckled.
“You know, I still love you. It's just...a different sort of love from how I love her.” He said gently.
“So you can still be my Prince?”
Kimi chuckled. “Of course.”
She grinned softly.
Carlos smiled at the interaction and Alex was wiping a fake tear.
And all was right again. Kimi was a prince again, even if a civil war was almost caused.
A/N: HIIII I HOPE YOU LIKED THIS!! I had sm fun writing it <3
George had always considered himself a proper Englishman.
He loved a rainy day, said “sorry” to doors, and took tea as seriously as he did pole positions. It wasn’t just a drink—it was a way of life.
So when his daughter—age two and a half—started developing opinions (loud, dramatic, and undeniably adorable ones), George made it his mission to raise her right.
That included proper manners, tidy socks, and—most sacred of all—tea time.
“Alright, little bear,” George said with a grin, kneeling at the tiny pastel tea table in their sunlit living room, “Daddy’s made you your very own cuppa. Milk in first, just how you like it.”
She blinked up at him from her chair, curls slightly messy from her nap, hugging a worn-out bunny with one hand and adjusting a curl in her face with the other.
He handed her the sippy cup.
She took one sip.
Paused.
And made the face—the full-body shiver of betrayal.
George blinked. “You alright, poppet?”
Y/N looked him dead in the eye. “No like.”
He tilted his head, confused. “No like the cup? Or the tea?”
She shoved the sippy cup across the table like it had personally insulted her bunny.
“Noooo tea, Dada! Tea is yuck!”
George sat back like someone had just unplugged his soul. “Wait—what do you mean? You love tea. You’re a Russell. We have tea in our blood!”
From the hallway, Carmen’s voice floated in, barely holding back a laugh. “Georgie, she’s two. Last week she hated bananas, remember?”
George turned toward her, horrified. “This is different. Bananas aren’t a lifestyle choice.”
Carmen appeared, phone already recording, and leaned in the doorway with a smirk. “This one’s going straight to your mum.”
Y/N, oblivious to her father’s spiraling, grabbed a juice box from the table and held it up triumphantly. “I like orange.”
George let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a gasp. “Orange juice,” he repeated, dead inside. “First she snubbed Yorkshire pudding. Now this.”
“She didn’t snub it,” Carmen said gently. “She was just confused when you poured gravy on it.”
George huffed something about traitors in his own home and flopped onto the sofa dramatically.
Y/N marched over, holding the bunny in one arm and the juice in the other. “BunBun say tea is bleh.”
George placed a hand over his heart. “Even BunBun?”
Carmen walked over and kissed his head, still laughing. “You’ll survive, babe. She might come back to it.”
But later that evening, as George brewed his last cup of the day and sat down quietly in the kitchen, Y/N toddled in wearing her rocket ship pajamas and climbed into his lap.
She peeked at his mug, then looked up at him with soft eyes.
“Tea?”
“You want a sip?”
She nodded.
He passed it to her carefully. She took one tiny sip… and gave him a look.
Then: “Still yucky.”
George sighed, scooped her up, and kissed her forehead.
“Orange juice it is, then.”
And as Carmen watched from the doorway, smiling at the sight of her two sleepy loves in the kitchen, she whispered, “She’s still Daddy’s girl—even if she’s not into tea.”
George, cradling his juice-loving rebel, smiled.
“…Always.”
A/N: huge apologies abt the divider, my program is having warfare with me so sorry about the blurry ones
So like I was a little nervous to ask but can you make a story where Carlos's daughter (who's like 5 years old) has a crush on one of the 2025 rookies (your choice). Obviously, she finds out that he has a girlfriend and gets really upset, but the rookie makes it up to her somehow. Carlos didn't take it to heart because she was young and truly didn't understand what having a crush really is. Thank you!! And keep making your cutesy stories :3
HI MY LOVE!! no don't be nervous pookie<3 AND WHAT THATS ADORABLEEEE?? no bc all the rookies would be so cute with it and stuff omggggg. and ofc, it's going into my drafts rn<333
