୨ৎ : featuring : husband!kimi x wife!reader
୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : after a rough race, no one dares approach an absolutely fuming kimi räikkönen, no one except his wife. while the paddock walks on eggshells, she walks straight into the fire, and kimi melts the second he sees her.
୨ৎ : genre : romance
୨ৎ : word count : 423
୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ
the paddock was walking on eggshells.
you could feel the tension in the air the second you stepped past security — thick, blistering, coiled tight like a storm about to snap. no one had to tell you that kimi had a bad race. you could tell by the way people were whispering in corners and actively avoiding the alfa romeo motorhome like it was cursed.
“is she—?” a mechanic whispered as you passed, eyes wide.
“is that—?”
“oh god. someone stop her before she walks in there—”
a brave soul, maybe one of kimi’s engineers, jogged up beside you. “uhm, mrs. räikkönen—he’s not in the best mood. i just—maybe give him a little time? he’s kind of… you know. hot.”
you blinked. “hot?”
“like—like radiating anger. you might burn your eyebrows off.”
you smiled sweetly and kept walking.
because you knew better.
kimi was sitting in the back of the garage, fireproofs tied around his waist, hair damp with sweat, jaw clenched so tightly you were pretty sure it could snap steel. his race suit hung limp off his shoulders, and his eyes were locked on the floor like it had personally offended him.
no one dared speak. no one dared breathe.
until you stepped into view.
and everything shifted.
he looked up. you saw it in real time—his entire expression flickered, softened, shattered. his hands unclenched. his shoulders dropped. and then came the most shocking thing of all:
a grin.
“kulta?” he said, voice a low rasp, and it hit you right in the heart.
you didn’t hesitate. you walked right into his space, cupped his cheeks with both hands, and pressed your forehead to his.
“you okay?” you whispered.
he didn’t answer at first. just pulled you into his lap like it was second nature, wrapped his arms around your waist, and buried his face in your shoulder.
“i hated today,” he muttered against your skin.
“i know,” you murmured, fingers brushing through his hair.
“but i love this,” he added quietly. “you here.”
someone cleared their throat awkwardly behind you. then another voice, way too smug:
“well, look at that. the ice man does melt.”
you looked up to find sebastian vettel and fernando alonso grinning from a few feet away, arms crossed. valtteri was trying not to laugh. lando and charles were just wide-eyed.
“should we start bringing her to every race?” joked seb.
“she’s clearly the key to unlocking kimi 2.0,” lando added.
What happens when friendship isn’t enough? Childhood best friends Aila Räikkönen and Oscar Piastri thought they knew each other — until a crash, a year apart, and the return to racing changes everything.
▶ TRACKLIST
1: Echo
2: Currents
3: Throttle
4: Redemption
5: Birthday Lap
6: Gridlocked
7: Window Seat
8: Sweet
9: Best Friend
10: Twinge
11: Unread
12: Watching
13: Unsaid
14: Tipping Point
15: Home
16: Distracted
17: Elea
18: Korvapuusti
19: Restrain
20: Tethered
21: Reckoning
22: the Climb
23: Between Lines
24: Scary good
25: Almost
26: Blonde Pancake
27: Edge of Control
28: Breaking Point
29: Always
30: Aave
31: Obvious
32: Is it True?
33: Twenty Candles
34: Headlines
35: Awkward
36: Frostbite
37: Finally
38: Pole, Pit, and Pride
39: Headlines and Records
40: Mestari
41: Silly
42: Prove it
43: Hunger
44: Between Flashes
45: I Love You
46: Homey
47: Supposed to be
48: Goodbye
Genre: Series, Omega verse, Enemies to Lovers, Romance, Eventual smut
Summary: Male Alphas are the ones who dominate motor sports all around the world, especially Formula 1. It is a well known fact. Females in general nor Female Omegas are never heard nor encouraged to join the sport since the 1950s. Well, up until now...
Word Count: 5.9k
Chapter's Premise: You had spent years fearing that being an Omega would eventually affect your career. Today, it finally had. The thought made your stomach turn.
Parts: W&L masterlist / general masterlist
The empty bottle slipped from your fingers and hit the floor with a sharp clatter. For a moment, you simply stared at it.
The world around you seemed to blur at the edges as your brain struggled to process what you were seeing. The bottle rolled slightly across the concrete floor before coming to a stop beneath the workbench. Empty. Completely empty.
A sick feeling settled in your stomach.
Slowly, you crouched down and grabbed it again, shaking it once. Then twice. Then a third time. The rattling sound you had relied on for years never came. Not a single tablet remained.
"No..." The word escaped before you could stop it.
Your pulse immediately quickened. The garage suddenly felt too warm, the air thick and suffocating in a way it hadn't been moments before. Around you, mechanics hurried through final preparations, engineers discussed strategy, and cameras moved through the paddock searching for last-minute footage. Everything continued exactly as it should have.
Except your entire world had just tilted on its axis.
You unscrewed the cap anyway, as though somehow the pills would magically appear if you looked hard enough. The empty container mocked you. A wave of heat rolled through your body, stronger than any you'd experienced during the past few weeks, and you instinctively gripped the edge of the workbench.
Not now. Please. You squeezed your eyes shut and forced yourself to take a slow breath. This couldn't be happening. Not before the race. Not after everything.
For weeks, you had convinced yourself you still had time. Even when the symptoms returned. Even when the suppressants stopped working as effectively as they once had. Even when Oscar had looked at you with growing concern. You had ignored every warning sign because acknowledging them meant accepting a reality you weren't ready to face.
Now that reality was standing directly in front of you.
The radio clipped to your shirt crackled to life. "Y/N, ten minutes until we head to the grid."
Your eyes flew open. Ten minutes. A bitter laugh nearly escaped you.
Of course your first heat would choose race day.
Not during the off-season. Not during simulator training. Not while you were sitting safely inside your apartment surrounded by half-built furniture and Charles arguing with instruction manuals.
No. The universe had apparently decided to save the disaster for the one day that mattered most.
Another wave of warmth swept through your body. This one was harder to ignore.
Your fingers immediately reached for the scent blockers in your bag. You sprayed your wrists. Your neck. The collar of your race suit. Then you sprayed again for good measure. The artificial scent stung your nose, momentarily overwhelming everything else.
Momentarily. Because the relief lasted only seconds before the heat returned. Panic clawed its way into your chest.
You were so focused on keeping yourself together that you didn't immediately notice someone approaching.
A familiar scent reached you first. Fresh grass. Ocean air. Omega. Your entire body froze.
Slowly, you lifted your head. Oscar had stopped several feet away.
The easygoing smile he usually carried around the paddock was gone. His eyes flickered from your face to the empty bottle still clutched in your hand. Then they narrowed slightly as understanding settled over him.
The realization was almost immediate.
"Oh." The single syllable left his mouth quietly. Not confused. Not surprised. Just resigned.
His gaze remained fixed on the bottle for another second before returning to your face.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
You looked away immediately. The concern in his voice hurt more than you expected.
"Don't." The word came out softer than intended. Almost a plea.
Oscar ignored it. His jaw tightened as he stepped closer, lowering his voice enough to ensure nobody else could overhear.
"It's happening."
The words weren't phrased as a question, but there was still something uncertain in them. A tiny sliver of hope that maybe he was wrong.
You wished he was. Your fingers tightened around the bottle.
"Oscar..." You didn't know what else to say. Because admitting it aloud would make it real.
The Australian watched you carefully. Every attempt you'd made over the past few weeks to hide your worsening symptoms had apparently been far less successful than you'd thought.
"How long?" he asked quietly.
A humorless laugh escaped you. "As if I know." Frustration immediately flared in your chest. At the situation. At yourself. At the fact that your body had chosen now of all times to betray you. "I don't know, okay?"
Your voice cracked slightly. You hated that. Hated how scared you sounded.
Oscar's expression softened instantly. Not with pity. Never pity. Just concern. Which somehow felt worse.
His eyes dropped briefly to the empty suppressant bottle before returning to your face. Everything seemed to click into place for him. The headaches. The exhaustion. The moments you'd brushed him off. The reason you had looked increasingly miserable throughout the weekend.
"Tell me you aren't planning to race." Silence filled the space between you. You didn't answer. You couldn't. Because the answer was obvious.
Oscar closed his eyes and dragged a hand down his face. Slowly. Painfully. Like he was trying to physically process what you were implying. "Oh my God." The words were muffled behind his palm.
When he looked at you again, there was genuine disbelief written across his face. "You cannot seriously be considering it."
The frustration that had been simmering beneath your panic finally erupted. You straightened immediately, forcing your shoulders back.
"I'm racing."
The declaration sounded stronger than you felt. You clung to it anyway. Oscar stared at you, then laughed. Not because he found anything funny but because he genuinely couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"No."
"I'm racing."
"No." His response came harder this time. The calm demeanor he'd maintained throughout the conversation finally cracking. "You are not getting into that car." Your jaw clenched.
Anger was easier than fear. Much easier. "So what?" you shot back. "You want me to withdraw?"
The question hung between you. Oscar didn't answer immediately.
That hesitation told you everything.
A bitter laugh escaped you. "After twenty years?" Your voice trembled despite your best efforts. You hated that too. "I've spent my entire life fighting to get here."
Memories flashed through your mind. Karting championships. Early mornings. Long flights. Missed birthdays. Sacrifices. Years of proving people wrong. Years of proving that you belonged. Your throat tightened painfully. "I can't walk away now."
Oscar's expression softened again. This time there was sadness in it. Because unlike most people, he understood exactly what those words meant.
"I know." His voice had become quieter. Gentler. "I know exactly how hard you've worked." That almost made it worse. Because if anyone understood what this sport demanded, it was him. Which meant if Oscar thought this was a bad idea... maybe it really was.
The thought terrified you. So you buried it. Deep. And reached for the only thing that had gotten you this far. Stubbornness.
"I'm racing."
This time the words came out quieter. Not defiant. Desperate. As though you were trying to convince yourself more than him.
Oscar noticed. Of course he did. His shoulders sagged slightly. The fight draining from him. Not because he agreed but because he knew you well enough to realize you had already made your decision. And nothing he said would change it.
The walk to the grid felt longer than usual.
Maybe it was because every step sent another wave of heat through your body. Maybe it was because Oscar's words refused to leave your head. Or maybe it was because, for the first time in your career, you couldn't completely trust yourself behind the wheel.
Whatever the reason, the familiar pre-race routine felt strangely distant. Normally, race day brought a sense of calm.
The nerves disappeared the moment your helmet went on. The noise faded. The pressure faded. Everything narrowed until only the track remained.
Today was different. Today, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't silence the awareness simmering beneath your skin.
As you climbed into the cockpit, your race engineer began running through the usual procedures. Tyre temperatures. Starting sequence reminders. Strategy windows. The words flowed through your headset in a familiar rhythm, one you had heard hundreds of times before.
You absorbed every instruction automatically. Responded automatically. Functioned automatically.
Because if you stopped moving, stopped focusing, stopped pretending... You weren't entirely sure you'd be able to keep yourself together.
The halo above your head cast a shadow across your visor as mechanics completed their final checks. Beyond them, grandstands stretched toward the horizon. Thousands of spectators filled the circuit. Cameras tracked every movement.
None of them knew. The thought should have comforted you. Instead, it only made the fear worse. Because they didn't know now. But what about later?
Your fingers tightened around the steering wheel. The heat pulsed again. Stronger. Closer. You swallowed hard.
Not now. Please. Just give me two hours. That's all I need. Two hours. Then you could deal with the consequences.
The formation lap began. Instinct immediately took over. For the first time all morning, relief swept through you. The car felt good. Predictable. Familiar.
The engine vibrated beneath you like an old friend. This, at least, hadn't changed. This still made sense.
By the time the cars lined up on the grid again, your heartbeat had finally settled.
Maybe Oscar was wrong. The thought arrived quietly. Dangerously. Maybe you could do this. Maybe the adrenaline would carry you through. Maybe the heat wouldn't be as bad as everyone feared.
The five red lights illuminated above the circuit.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Then darkness. The field exploded forward. Everything else disappeared. For a while, racing was enough.
The opening laps demanded your complete attention. Every braking zone required precision. Every overtake required calculation. Every corner required commitment.
There wasn't room for fear. There wasn't room for panic. There wasn't even room for Max. Only the race.
And somehow, against all logic, you began settling into a rhythm. The car came alive beneath you.
The moment the five red lights went out, instinct took over.
For a few glorious laps, everything else disappeared. The panic. The heat. The fear that had been clawing at your chest since discovering the empty suppressant bottle. All of it faded beneath the familiar demands of racing.
You launched cleanly off the line, immediately tucking into the slipstream ahead as the field charged toward Turn 1. Twenty cars compressed into a space far too small for twenty cars, every driver fighting for position before the race had barely begun.
This was where you belonged. Not worrying about heats. Not worrying about biology. Not worrying about fate. Just racing.
The car felt planted beneath you as you navigated the opening corners. Tyre temperatures came in quickly. Front grip felt strong. The balance was exactly where you'd wanted it after the setup changes made overnight.
By Lap 5, you had settled into rhythm. The familiar kind. The one that always made everything else disappear.
Sector times flashed across your steering wheel. Delta targets. Battery deployment. Tyre management. Things that made sense. Things you could control.
You found yourself tucked behind George Russell, hovering just within DRS range while carefully managing your energy deployment. The gap fluctuated between seven and nine tenths. Close enough to attack. Far enough to protect your tyres from excessive dirty air.
Your engineer sounded pleased over the radio. "Pace is looking strong. Russell ahead is starting to struggle in Sector 3."
A smile tugged at your lips. Finally. Something normal. "Copy."
You adjusted your differential settings heading into the next sequence of corners.
The car rotated beautifully. The Aston Martin came alive beneath you. For the first time all day, something close to confidence returned.
Maybe Oscar had overreacted. The thought slipped in quietly. Dangerously. Maybe you could actually do this. Maybe the adrenaline would carry you through. Maybe...
A scent hit you. Your breath caught. The sudden sensory overload nearly made you miss your braking point. Not by much. Only a meter. Maybe two. Small enough that nobody watching would notice. Large enough that you noticed. And that was worse.
Your hands tightened around the steering wheel. The car ahead. Russell. Alpha. The realization settled heavily in your stomach. The heat wasn't simply affecting your body anymore. It was affecting the way you processed the world around you. You forced your attention back toward the track.
One hundred meter board. Brake. Downshift. Turn in. Apex. Throttle. Simple.
The sequence repeated itself over and over inside your head. A desperate attempt to drown out everything else.
For several laps, it worked. At least well enough. You remained competitive. Consistent. Fast. The timing screens showed no obvious drop-off.
To everyone else, nothing appeared wrong. Unfortunately, Formula One drivers noticed details. Especially drivers who spent their entire lives looking for weaknesses.
During a battle through the midfield, another car drew alongside exiting Turn 2. The two of you ran side-by-side for several corners before you finally held position. The move itself was clean. Professional. Textbook.
Yet when the driver dropped behind, confusion lingered. Something felt strange. Not enough to identify. Not enough to understand. Just enough to notice. You weren't aware of it. But you weren't the only one fighting distractions.
Several cars behind, Max found himself staring at the timing screens more often than usual. Something wasn't right. The lap times looked acceptable. Strong, even. Yet every few laps, small inconsistencies appeared. Tiny corrections. Minor mistakes. Moments that didn't belong. Most people would've ignored them. Max couldn't.
Not after spending weeks paying far more attention to you than he'd ever intended. The realization unsettled him. Because the mistakes themselves weren't the problem. The problem was that they didn't look like you. You were aggressive. Calculated. Precise. The driver he was watching now seemed distracted. As though part of her attention was somewhere else entirely.
Back inside the cockpit, the race became harder. Every lap demanded more effort than the one before. The heat lingering beneath your skin had become impossible to ignore. Your race suit suddenly felt too restrictive. The cockpit too warm. The air too thin. You found yourself adjusting your grip on the wheel more frequently. Trying to relieve tension that never truly disappeared.
Another wave of warmth swept through your body. Stronger. Longer. You clenched your jaw. Focus. The braking markers blurred slightly. You blinked hard. The track remained clear. The racing line remained clear. Yet something felt off. Like your brain was suddenly working twice as hard to process information that should have come naturally.
The radio crackled. "Everything okay, Y/N?"
Alarm immediately shot through your chest. Had it become that obvious?
"I'm fine." The answer arrived too quickly. Too rehearsed. You knew it. Your engineer knew it too. A brief pause followed.
Then: "Copy." The hesitation in his voice lingered long after the transmission ended.
By Lap 18, the pit window had opened. Cars ahead began diving into the pits. Undercut attempts started appearing across the timing screens. Strategy calculations updated in real time.
Normally, this was the part of racing you loved most. The mental chess match. The constant calculations. The balancing act between pace and tyre life. Today it felt exhausting.
Your engineer continued feeding information. "Russell pits this lap."
"Copy."
"Target plus two on entry."
"Copy."
"Push now. We need two strong laps."
You swallowed. Another wave of heat rolled through you. The effort required to simply remain focused was becoming overwhelming. Still, you pushed.
Because that was what racers did.
You pushed.
And pushed.
And pushed.
Even as your vision blurred for a fraction of a second. Even as the scents around you became harder to ignore. Even as your headache evolved from an annoyance into something sharp and relentless.
The car wasn't the problem. The tyres weren't the problem. The strategy wasn't the problem.
You were. And for the first time all race, the realization genuinely frightened you.
Because no amount of talent could fix this. No amount of preparation could fix this. No amount of determination could stop what was happening.
And with every passing lap, the heat was getting worse. Not better. Worse. The terrifying part wasn't that you were struggling. The terrifying part was that sooner or later, someone else was going to notice.
By the time the first round of pit stops cycled through, you had dropped into survival mode.
The race itself hadn't completely fallen apart yet. On paper, things still looked respectable. The strategy remained intact. The car had decent pace. You were still fighting inside the points.
If anyone glanced at the timing screens, they would see a normal race unfolding. Only you knew how much effort it was taking to keep it that way.
Every lap felt heavier than the one before. Every braking zone demanded more concentration. Every radio message required you to repeat the information in your head before it properly registered.
The heat wasn't arriving all at once. It was creeping forward. Patient. Relentless. Like a tide you hadn't noticed rising until the water was already around your ankles.
You exited Turn 14 and immediately checked the steering wheel display.
Gap ahead: 1.2 seconds.
Gap behind: 0.8.
Close enough to attack. Close enough to be attacked. The worst possible scenario.
Normally, this was exactly the kind of race you enjoyed. The strategic battles. The constant calculations. Knowing when to save tyres and when to push. Watching gaps rise and fall by tenths. Instead, every piece of information felt like it was fighting for space inside your head.
The radio crackled. "Driver behind has significantly better battery. Expect an attack on the next lap."
You pressed the radio button. "Copy." Your voice sounded steady. You weren't.
As the lap continued, another car appeared in your mirrors. The gap dropped. Eight tenths. Six. Five. DRS.
The rear wing on the car behind opened. You immediately moved to defend. Instinct took over before fear could. Inside line. Late apex. Force him the long way around. Simple. The move worked. The position remained yours.
But as the other car pulled alongside through the next sequence of corners, another wave of scent hit you. Your stomach twisted. It wasn't overwhelming. Not yet. But it was enough. Enough to distract. Enough to pull your attention away from the thousands of calculations happening every second inside the cockpit. Enough to make your hands tighten around the steering wheel.
The car drifted slightly wider than intended on corner exit. Barely noticeable. Still enough that the driver behind nearly got alongside. You recovered immediately.
The position remained yours.
But your heart wouldn't stop pounding. The mistakes were getting bigger. Not visibly. Not dramatically. But bigger. And you knew it. The worst part was that your body seemed determined to make sure you noticed every single one.
A few laps later, another radio message came through. This time from your race engineer. The hesitation in his voice immediately caught your attention. "Y/N, everything okay in there?"
You stared at the apex approaching ahead. Focused on the kerb; on the braking marker. Focused on literally anything except the question. "I'm fine."
The lie came automatically. A pause followed. Long enough to be uncomfortable.
Then: "Copy."
You knew he didn't believe you. Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one. Across the paddock, several engineers had already started noticing small inconsistencies.
Nothing alarming. Nothing dramatic. Just unusual. A missed apex here. A slower corner exit there. Tiny mistakes that rarely appeared in your driving. The type of things casual viewers would never notice. Formula One teams noticed everything.
Back on track, however, you were becoming increasingly aware of another problem. The scents were getting stronger. Not just individual drivers anymore. Everyone.
Every Alpha around you. Every close battle. Every nearby garage during pit stops. Every interaction. The scent blockers were failing. Slowly. Painfully. Inevitably. The realization settled heavily in your chest.
You had spent years preparing for races. Years studying telemetry. Years learning how to extract every possible tenth from a Formula One car. None of that had prepared you for this.
The next pit stop came and went in a blur. Hard tyres. Clean stop. Back into traffic. The team executed everything perfectly which only made your frustration worse. Because the car was good. The strategy was good. The team was good. The only thing failing was you. The thought hit harder than any physical symptom. You hated it immediately.
By Lap 38, the race had become a defensive battle. A train of cars stretched across the circuit. Each separated by barely a second. One mistake would cost positions. Maybe more. You knew that. Everyone knew that. The pressure was constant. Relentless.
You exited the final corner and immediately came under attack from behind. The pursuing car had DRS. More battery. Better straight-line speed. You moved to defend. The move itself wasn't unusual. Drivers did it every weekend.
The problem was that your focus fractured at exactly the wrong moment. A scent. A headache. A pulse of heat. Just one second. One single second. The car behind closed faster than expected. You reacted slightly later than normal. Not enough to avoid the move. Enough to complicate it.
The two cars entered the corner side-by-side. Wheel-to-wheel. You left space. The other driver left space. Everything should have been fine.
Then came the smallest misjudgment. A tiny correction. Barely a twitch of the steering wheel. The front wing of your car behind clipped the rear tyre ahead. The contact was light. Nothing dramatic. No massive crash. No trip into the barriers. Just a sharp jolt through the chassis and the sickening sound of carbon fiber breaking.
Your stomach dropped. "No." The word escaped immediately. The steering felt different. Lighter. Wrong. The car ahead continued. You didn't.
The radio erupted. "Front wing damage. Front wing damage."
You already knew. You could feel it. The balance had disappeared. Understeer flooded the next corner. The car refused to rotate. The race was over. Not officially. But effectively. You gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles hurt.
For a moment, nobody spoke. Not you. Not the engineer. Not anyone.
Then: "Box, box."
Your eyes burned. Not because of the damage. Not because of the lost points. Because you knew. You knew exactly why it happened. The contact wasn't the result of aggression. Or poor racecraft. Or bad luck. It happened because for one second, one stupid second... You weren't fully focused. And that terrified you.
The drive back to the pits felt endless. The front wing scraped occasionally against the track surface. The damaged car resisted every corner.
Your race engineer continued talking. Explaining options. Discussing strategy. Searching for salvageable results. You barely heard any of it. Because the only thing echoing inside your head was the same thought. Oscar was right. The realization hurt more than the crash.
By the time you pulled into the Aston Martin garage, the heat felt unbearable. The cockpit suddenly seemed impossibly small. The air impossibly thin.
You shut the engine off and sat motionless for several seconds. Nobody rushed you. Nobody questioned you. The mechanics simply waited. The way they always did. Professional. Patient. Supportive. The kindness nearly broke you.
Because they didn't know.
They were looking at damaged carbon fiber. You were looking at the first piece of evidence that your biggest fear had been right all along.
The heat wasn't threatening your career anymore. It had already started taking it.
The moment you climbed out of the car, you knew you weren't going to survive the rest of the day on stubbornness alone.
The front wing damage had effectively ended your race. The team could repair the car, send you back out, and salvage whatever positions remained, but everyone in the garage knew the truth. The points were gone. The result was gone. The race you'd spent all weekend preparing for had unraveled in a matter of seconds.
Yet somehow, the disappointment wasn't the thing suffocating you.
It should have been.
Under any other circumstance, you would've been furious. You would've been replaying every corner in your head, analyzing every decision, searching for the exact moment things went wrong. You would've already been preparing yourself for the debrief, arguing with engineers over strategy calls, obsessing over telemetry.
Instead, all you could think about was the heat.
It sat beneath your skin like a living thing. Every passing minute made it harder to ignore. Harder to suppress. Harder to pretend that everything was still under control.
The walk back through the paddock felt unreal.
Voices blurred together into meaningless noise. Cameras flashed somewhere in the distance. Team personnel moved around you with the same efficiency they always carried on race weekends. Life continued exactly as it should have.
You felt detached from all of it.
Your race engineer was speaking beside you. Something about the incident being unfortunate. Something about reviewing the footage later. Something about how these things happened when cars were racing wheel-to-wheel.
You nodded automatically.
Because arguing would require energy you didn't have. And because deep down, you knew he was wrong. The contact hadn't happened because of aggressive racing. It hadn't happened because the other driver had squeezed you. It happened because you'd hesitated.
Because for one moment... one stupid, pathetic moment... your concentration had fractured. The realization sat heavily in your chest.
You had spent years fearing that being an Omega would eventually affect your career. Today, it finally had. The thought made your stomach turn.
"Y/N." The familiar voice cut through the noise surrounding you. You looked up and immediately found Charles weaving through the crowd toward you.
Relief hit so suddenly it almost caught you off guard. Not because Charles could solve any of this. Not because he had answers. But because Charles represented something simple. Something normal. Something untouched by the complicated mess your life had become.
Over the past several weeks, he'd become one of the few people around whom you didn't feel like you were constantly fighting. Fighting expectations. Fighting instincts. Fighting yourself.
For a brief moment, confusion crossed his face. Then he got a proper look at you. The confusion vanished immediately. Concern replaced it.
You watched his expression shift as his gaze traveled over your face. The flushed skin. The exhaustion. The tension sitting visibly in your shoulders. The way your hands trembled despite your attempts to hide it.
Charles had never been particularly good at hiding his emotions. The worry was obvious. "You look awful."
Under normal circumstances, the comment would've earned a sarcastic response. Maybe an insult. Maybe a joke about Ferrari's mirrors being broken.
Today, all you managed was a weak huff of laughter. "Thank you."
The attempt at humor fell flat. Charles didn't smile. That alone told you how serious he thought the situation was.
His gaze lingered for another second before something in his expression shifted. A slight furrow appeared between his brows. Not confusion exactly. More like realization.
Your stomach dropped. He'd noticed something. Maybe not enough to identify it. Maybe not enough to fully understand. But enough. Enough that his attention sharpened. Enough that concern deepened into something closer to alarm.
To his credit, he didn't ask questions. Didn't demand explanations. Didn't force you into a conversation you clearly didn't want to have.
Instead, he glanced over your shoulder and visibly grimaced.
Following his gaze, you immediately spotted several reporters making their way toward the garage.
The sight nearly made you feel sick. Questions. Interviews. Cameras. Absolutely not. Charles seemed to arrive at the same conclusion.
Without another word, he stepped beside you and subtly redirected your path away from the growing media crowd.
"Come on." His tone was gentle but firm. The kind of tone people used when they'd already decided the argument for you. "We're leaving."
For once, you didn't protest. You simply followed.
The walk through the paddock passed in a blur. Charles talked the entire time, filling the silence with complaints about strategy, complaints about Ferrari, and more complaints about Ferrari strategy. Under normal circumstances, you would've teased him for sounding like a broken record.
Today, you understood exactly what he was doing. He was trying to keep your mind occupied. Trying to give you something normal to focus on. The realization made your chest ache.
Eventually, he guided you into an unused hospitality room tucked away from the main paddock. The second the door clicked shut behind you, silence settled over the space.
For the first time all day, you weren't surrounded by people. The relief was immediate. So immediate it was terrifying. Your legs nearly gave out beneath you.
Charles noticed instantly. "Hey."
Concern sharpened his voice as he instinctively reached toward you. You stepped back before he could touch you. The reaction wasn't logical. You knew that. But everything inside you felt wrong.
The heat had transformed every sensation into something overwhelming. Your skin felt too sensitive. The room felt too warm. Your pulse refused to slow down.
Charles froze. Not offended. Just worried. Again, he didn't push.
Instead, he quietly grabbed a bottle of water from a nearby counter and placed it within reach. The simple gesture nearly broke whatever composure you had left.
"I'll give you a minute." Panic flared immediately.
"No." The response came far too quickly. Far too desperately. Charles paused.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then something in his expression softened.
The realization that you genuinely didn't want to be left alone settled across his features.
"I know." His voice was quieter now. Gentler. "And I'm still going to make sure you're okay."
Your throat tightened painfully. Because he clearly knew something was wrong. He just respected you enough not to force the truth out of you.
After another moment, Charles nodded toward the door.
"I'm going to find someone." The panic returned immediately.
"Charles—"
"You don't have to explain anything." His interruption wasn't harsh. If anything, it sounded reassuring. Like he was trying to tell you that whatever was happening, he wasn't going to judge you for it. The kindness nearly undid you.
A few moments later, the door closed behind him. Silence returned. You sank into the nearest chair and buried your face in your hands.
Everything hurt. The crash. The heat. The fear. The crushing realization that your worst nightmare had become reality.
You didn't know how much time passed before the door opened again. Thirty seconds. A minute. Maybe more. You barely noticed. What you did notice was the scent. Your entire body reacted before your brain could. The realization hit instantly.
Max.
Of course it was Max. You looked up and found him standing just inside the doorway. For a moment, neither of you moved. The room suddenly felt much smaller than it had a few seconds ago. The air felt heavier. Warmer. Every instinct you had spent weeks suppressing became painfully aware of his presence.
You hated it. Hated how immediate the reaction was. Hated how your body seemed determined to betray you at every possible opportunity. Most of all, you hated the look on his face. Because Max understood immediately.
The moment his eyes landed on you, whatever uncertainty remained vanished. The avoidance. The symptoms. The panic. The crash. The rooftop conversation. Everything clicked into place. And somehow, seeing that realization in his eyes hurt more than the race itself.
"Don't." Your voice cracked around the word. You looked away immediately. Unable to endure the concern already appearing on his face. Because concern meant he knew.
And if he knew... then everything you'd spent years trying to avoid was finally catching up to you.
synopsis: A combination of a fic and SMAU (Social Media Alternate Universe), following new F1 teammates Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris. . . and Oscar’s childhood best friend, Y/N L/N. 2.2k words.
trigger warnings: Use of Y/N; Use of feminine pronouns from the reader’s perspective; Use of swear words in English; Descriptions of romantic acts and behaviors; Suggestive remarks; Depiction of a love triangle and polyamorous relationship (MMF)
a message from the author: My first hybrid post! I really love this idea – Landoscar is one of my favorite driver pairings – and I hope you all do as well 🥰 This took me forever to make, but I think it’s worth it.
yourusername: Summer went away, still, the yearning stays ☀️
tagged oscarpiastri
comments 2.1k
user1 How are you real??? You’re so beautiful
user2 This belongs on a postcard, fr 💌
user3 HAHAHA Oscar
user4 Hair tut when?
user5 Model, muse, icon, legend
oscarpiastri Thanks for including me 😁
user6 You look absolutely devious
comments 8.3k
user7 NO WAYYYY
user8 Is this how I find this out?
user9 Oscar is my GOAT 🐐
user10 Future WDC incoming. . .
user11 Poor Lando, he’s going to get demolished
user12 I’m excited to see this pairing!
user13 They’re complete opposites, it will be funny to see how this works out 😅
When Oscar didn’t think you were paying attention, he loved to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ears. You had a bad habit of having loose curls flying around, which is why you straightened your hair to an inch of its life almost every day. Oscar had been pestering you about this habit of yours for weeks now, bribing you with sweets and threatening to steal the iron. He said that your bright red hair reminded him of blood, of the invisible bond the two of you shared. You waved him off, calling him creepy, but secretly? You found it kind of poetic.
We’ve known each other since we were six. When would I lie to you? If your hair looked bad, I’d tell you.
You hated letting him win. The few arguments the two of you had never been resolved by direct confrontations. For Oscar, it was a nightmare: he was an introvert, through and through. Even if you were angry, it didn’t mean you were going to cross his boundaries. Instead, your arguments had been settled like icebreakers. A silly joke cracked by either one of you, and the tension dissolved. Neither one of you had ever conceded, but maybe it would be worth it this time.
Because Oscar Piastri, your best mate since childhood, had reached his insurmountable dream of entering Formula 1. He had signed with McLaren – a mid level team, but one with massive potential. The one thing that he could never stop talking about and spent ages fighting for, had finally happened.
So, yeah. You were willing to make some sacrifices to make Oscar happy. Never let it be said you didn’t do anything for him.
When you had found out, the notification from the official Formula 1 Instagram page appearing on your phone, you had screamed so loudly your mother had rushed into your bedroom, clutching her heart like she’d suffered a heart attack. “OSCAR MADE IT INTO FORMULA ONE!” you shrieked, tears flowing down your face. You were deliriously overwhelmed.
“Oh my God, I thought somebody killed you!” Your mum had scolded you. “Tell Oscar I said congratulations. That’s amazing. But don’t do that again to me, you understand, Y/N?”
You nodded, immediately going to the text chain for Oscar and typing up a series of messages to him. It was incredible how fast the trajectory of someone’s life could change for the better.
In the blink of an eye, your best friend was suddenly thrust into the public sphere. Now, he wasn’t just yours to admire, to love, to keep. He was everyone’s.
And suddenly, his newfound fame didn’t seem so wonderful anymore.
In the twenty years that spanned your life, you never believed that you would fall for the “sexy” British accent trap. Lots of the girls in your year – when you were at school – adored it, swooning over actors’ voices in the cinema, but personally? It wasn’t something you were fond of. You rather liked Oscar’s Australian accent: clipped, quiet. Familiar.
But then you met Lando Norris.
You were at McLaren Headquarters in Woking, touring alongside Oscar. You hadn’t asked to join him – your company and consoling presence was just an unspoken rule, especially when Oscar was forced out of his comfort zone. The building and grounds were sprawling, with a sleek modern design and blinding white lights. The raw power and the faded glory emanating from within disoriented you. You couldn’t believe that you were here, walking through halls haunted by the memories of legends.
The Brit was two years older, and a veteran in Formula 1. He was waiting for the three of you in a meeting room, and didn’t wait for the tour guide (a young woman named Shelley) to introduce himself. Lando was cocky and sure of himself, cracking jokes like it paid the bills. He was the complete opposite of Oscar, and typically, you avoided men who were outgoing.
Yet. . . something about Lando lured you in.
When Oscar was in the garage, getting to know the pit crew, you stayed behind, telling him you were tired – which was the truth. Lando waited with you, pretending like he was relaxing, scrolling through his Instagram feed.
“So. . .” he finally said, looking up from the glowing screen. “Can you believe it?”
You shrugged, as casually as you could muster. “Not really, no.”
“I’m sure Oscar is thrilled,” Lando continued. You could tell he was pushing for details, eager to know more details about his new teammate. Oscar hadn’t revealed many things about himself, one of the many reasons why you were so loyal to him. He would die before telling anyone else the secrets you told him.
You looked down at your hands, unsure of what to respond. Lando was being nice, but you felt like there was something else he wanted to know. You decided to be courteous, in case your gut was overanalyzing the situation. It did have the tendency to do that. “Yeah. In his own way.”
Lando cocked his head, searching your face for clues. “Not a very emotional guy?”
“He is, but only when he gets to know the other person. It takes time.” You swallowed, plastering on a bright smile. “He’ll warm up to you, don’t worry.”
“OK.” Lando hummed appreciatively. “Turn up the charm. I can do that.”
You chuckled, imagining Oscar’s reaction to Lando’s nearly insufferable charisma. It would be absolutely hilarious to witness it. Poor Osc.“Mhm. Good luck.”
“Thanks!” Lando grinned, obviously not detecting the sarcasm lacing your words. Then, in a serious tone, he questioned, “Could I potentially. . . have your number? I understand if not.”
“Of course,” you answered, after a beat. “Here’s my phone. You can put in your contact details here.”
A few moments later, Oscar returned to the meeting room, immediately standing by your side like a protective guard dog. You could feel the tension radiating from him, as if he were aware that you’d given Lando your cell number. “How was everything?” you asked, twisting around to look at him.
“Great,” he said, staring at Lando with a shrewd expression. “Ready to go?”
You nodded, rising from your seat. “Just about.”
“Thanks for tagging along,” Oscar said calmly, but you saw something flicker in his eyes. Was it jealousy?
You had no idea, but you were sure that it was a matter of time. Not even Oscar could keep his cards hidden for too long.
oscarpiastri replied to the Snap
Interesting song choice 🤔
You had never kept a secret before from Oscar. It wasn’t something the two of you did. You knew each other like the back of your hand, and sometimes, you really did question whether he was psychic, so there was no point to it.
Except. . . now you were hiding the biggest bombshell ever from him. OK, maybe not the largest scandal ever, but it would hurt Oscar when he found out. Which is why you were sure to act as normally as possible, so he couldn’t sniff it out.
Because you were talking to Lando Norris, his teammate, behind his back.
And you were falling for him. Hard.
He was witty. Smarter than you’d first thought, with a tongue that could send heat sparking through your skin with only a few words. So what if he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the bunch when it came to geography or maths? Lando had a sweet, genuine soul.
He resembled Oscar in that way – trying to conceal the vulnerability that you admired so much. Everyone thought that F1 drivers had an ego, believing they were invincible. Lando disputed that, whole-heartedly, and you adored him for it.
Meanwhile, Oscar was extremely hostile to Lando. You had never seen him so distraught before, resisting cordiality despite all your efforts. It gave you an extra reason to be guarded; if he found out, there was no doubt that he would seek revenge on the track.
You couldn’t risk it.
Especially since you knew – if it came down to it – you could not choose between the two of them.
Time skip (March 2023)
f1 And that’s a wrap! Bahrain Grand Prix, the opener for the 2023 season, is completed! Astounding performance by Red Bull’s Max Verstappen and Sergio Perez.
comments 27.3k
user14 Du Du Du Max Verstappen
user15 I can already tell this season’s going to be Verstappen domination
user16 Lwk want him to dominate me
user17 Mega
redbullracing 🎉🎉
user18 Awesome start to the season!
It had been six months since you had met Lando Norris for the first time. Six months, you had been harboring a crush on Oscar’s teammate.
Six months, and you still hadn’t told Oscar.
Your heart was torn in two; part of you wanted to stay loyal to Oscar. You’d known him for ages, and you felt like dating his teammate was a betrayal.
After you confided in your mum, she had gotten so frustrated with the situation that she forbade you from talking about it anymore.
“Either do something, or don’t complain,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air.
But was more complicated than it seemed.
Because the memory of that December night was still imprinted in your mind, as if it had only transpired mere days ago. Your family had gone on a trip with Oscar’s, heading to Byron Bay for a nice summer getaway. It was almost ten p.m., and you wouldn’t have been able to see anything, if it hadn’t been for the bonfire Oscar had set up. It crackled merrily, illuminating the dark stretch of sand you were lounging on.
You were talking to Oscar, mindlessly passing the time, waiting until your parents shooed you off to bed. And then, without any warning, Oscar had kissed you, cutting you off in the middle of your sentence. You couldn’t remember now what you were talking about. The only thing your brain could comprehend was Oscar’s lips on yours. He was chaste, gentle, but when you pulled yourself closer to him, he had deepened it, ferociously clinging to you like you were his saving grace.
Oscar didn’t mention it ever again, and sometimes, you truly believed you had imagined it.
Now, three years later, you waited outside of Oscar’s driver’s room, still unsure of where you stood with him.
And you weren’t sure you’d ever know.
f1gossip Rumors are making the rounds that McLaren driver Lando Norris is dating Y/N L/N — yes, Oscar Piastri’s childhood best friend! What’s the verdict? Could there be some truth to this?
tagged yourusername, landonorris, oscarpiastri
comments 136
user19 This seems like a plot to a book 😭
user20 Oh, how I wish I were Y/N L/N
user21 Two hot eligible bachelors pining over her. . . 💔
user22 I like Lando, but Oscar suits her much better
user23 What in the ever loving rom-com is happening right now at McLaren?
user24 Yeah, no. Stick to the racing PLEASE.
user25 The papaya boys are fighting 😡
“We’re going to tell Oscar about us.”
Lando’s head tilted to the side as he absorbed your words. “What do you mean?”
You tapped your foot impatiently. “You heard me. I want to tell Oscar that we’ve been. . .You know. Talking.”
“And we’re suddenly not worried he’s going to kill me on track?”
You bit your lip. “I hate keeping secrets.”
Lando huffed, irritated. “But you don’t care that I could die?”
With an aggrieved sigh, you looked at Lando, silently imploring him to just shut up and go along with your plan. The plan that you’d quickly assembled after caving to the immense pressure of the secret you were keeping from Oscar. “Please don’t be dramatic.”
“It’s hard not to be! He’s terrifying! Like a silent serial killer. Do you have it out for me?” Lando followed you as you headed to the kitchen, brewing yourself a cup of mint tea to soothe your stomach. “Are you being serious?”
“He’s going to be here any minute now,” you murmured under your breath. “So. . .It’s a bit too late to back out now.”
Lando gasped. “Any minute now?” he repeated, disbelieving. “No fucking way.”
“Look, I know you’re nervous, but you need to calm down.” You stepped closer to Lando, cradling his face in the palm of your hands.
He tugged himself free of your grip. “Nervous is the understatement of the year.”
The doorbell rang, and Lando yelped. You rolled your eyes, walking back to the living room to unlock the door and let Oscar in.
“Is everything OK?” he immediately questioned.
You nodded, mouth going dry. “Yep,” you managed.
“You’re pale. What’s going on?” Oscar narrowed his eyes, scanning you for the reason why you were acting so strangely. “You texted me, saying there was something urgent you needed to talk to me about. So? What is it?”
You gave him a shaky smile. “Um, yeah. About that. So. . .”
“Aw, come on. Spit it out, Y/N.”
You lowered your head, avoiding eye contact. “Lando, come out of the kitchen.”
Lando edged himself out of his hiding space, ears blazing red. “Hey, mate. How are you doing?”
Oscar looked at you, then at Lando, absolutely dumbfounded. You could see the cogs in his mind whirring as he made sense of the situation. “I knew it,” he said, realization dawning on his face. “I knew you were together. Fuck.”
You glanced over at Lando, who was just as confused as you were. “Pardon?”
“This isn’t the right thing to say. I shouldn’t say this, but I’m going to.” Oscar paused, fumbling for the proper words. “Y/N, I’ve been in love with you for what feels like an eternity, and I can’t watch you date my teammate without wanting you for myself.”
A small gasp left your mouth. “What?” you whispered.
“I love you, Y/N. I always have.” Oscar closed the gap between the two of you. “Call me selfish, but I want you too.”
Lando scoffed. “So, we’re going to share her or something?”
You blushed. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind.”
Oscar blinked, then smiled broadly. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.”
yourusername, oscarpiastri, and landonorris So maybe the rumors were, in fact, true. . .? 🤭
comments 7.2k
user26 I predicted it.
user27 Knew it since day one as well. There was just no way it wouldn’t happen. Y/N’s too hot.
I Read That Toto Wolff Romance (So You Don't Have To)
IDK if y’all remember a post that made the rounds a while ago, a F1 romance about a journalist, a “hero with Toto Wolff vibes,” and “dirty talk… in German!” If any of you wondered what on Earth could be going on in such a book, I hope this review will answer all of your questions.
Coming in Hot is about a serial-numbers-barely-smudged version of Toto Wolff. (Lowkey, not fond of people publishing RPF, but anyway.) Not-Toto then hooks up with, and eventually falls for, an American F1 reporter named Natalia. Unlike other F1 romances, the book’s minimal amount of racing is decently accurate, and it was suspenseful enough to keep me reading. However, the dialogue can be pretty cringy, and the romance plot strains the credulity of anyone who knows much about F1 or journalism. Both main characters are highkey annoying. There are some funny moments and a bit of industrial espionage (which ultimately goes nowhere), but it’s not even interesting enough to justify its questionable concept.
Special thanks to my German consultant Senta @maxedes and my early English literature consultant Nest @nest-of-shiny-things. (Both of these will be relevant.)
Overall rating: 2 out of 5 Tire Compounds
🛞 🛞 / 5
To start off, I would just like to note that this book is not available in my library system, so I had to do an interlibrary loan from a city two hours away. And then had to ask for it in person from the front desk. As questionable as I find this concept, I don't believe in pirating books from indie authors. Such humiliations I will suffer on behalf of enlightening the public.
Striving reporter Natalia Evans has just landed a gig at Auto Racing Journal, a prominent motorsports publication. While waiting for her friend Phaedra, a race engineer, Natalia strikes up a flirtatious conversation with a *dreamy* middle-aged Germanic gent at the hotel bar. Sorry, if you're going to psyop me into thinking that German is a romantic language, you're going to need to try harder than this.
His eyes are dark as puddles of ink, and oh the things he's writing with them...
"Are you shy, kleine Hexe?"
I know only a smattering of German but am pretty sure this deliciously bad man just called me a little witch. (5)
Anyway, the two rush up to the man’s palatial suite and have mind-blowing sex. (Starting on… page 9. Y’all wasted no time with this one.)
When her friend Phaedra calls, Natalia realizes with horror that the shag of her life was with none other than Phaedra’s boss, billionaire stakeholder and team principal Klaus Franke. Despite getting up close and personal with this man, and being a literal F1 journalist, Natalia conveniently does not recognize him until AFTER their, erm, amorous pitstop. Klaus also leaves a pile of money for Natalia, figuring she may or may not be a sex worker, and she leaves in a huff. (She doesn’t take the money though. In this economy?)
We interrupt this programming to bring you a Brief German Interlude from our pal Senta over at @maxedes. First off, she let me know that Klaus is a terribly stuffy name she associates with grandparents. Second, “kleine Hexe” does mean “little witch,” but it’s a weird thing to call someone flirtatiously and seems a bit insulting. It’s also the name of a children’s picture book. (Full answered ask here.)
Natalia finally does her job (researching prominent F1 figures) and discovers Klaus is Austrian and “a tragic widower.” (They fridged Susie!) Overall, there’s criminally little work to disguise that Klaus is supposed to be Toto. It’s even listed as a selling point on the author’s Instagram. Klaus is Austrian, very tall, with dark hair and dark eyes. He's also a former racer who amassed his billionaire fortune through tech and finance. The man on the cover is Toto-shaped, and the car in the back looks suspiciously like the Mercedes W13. Klaus and Phaedra’s team, Emerald, also has a similar green and silver color scheme to Merc. The main difference is that Klaus is a widower, and his deceased wife Sofia was his childhood sweetheart. (Klaus is also a bit younger, at 45 instead of in his 50s.)
There’s hints of a vastly more interesting subplot involving sponsor drama and… host country human rights violations? Klaus learns that sponsor Basilisk Tech has decided to abruptly drop the team. Klaus suspects that Basilisk is pulling back because Emerald is investigating Basilisk’s possible ties to human rights violations in an unnamed Middle Eastern coded nation, which is angling to host a future GP. Sponsor drama and human rights violations are F1’s bread and butter, so this subplot does get points for accuracy.
Something that does NOT get points for accuracy, though, is the German. Brief German Interlude! Ex. Klaus swears, “Sohn einer Hündin,” which Google-translates to “son of a bitch,” but Senta informs me that “Hundin” literally just means “female dog” in German and isn’t actually a cussword. (Apparently the correct swear for this situation would be “Hurensohn.”) Klaus calls his coworker Klara “Klärchen,” and refers to Phaedra as “Schatzi." Both are real endearments but wouldn't be used in these contexts, and they come off as unintentionally condescending. (Senta’s in depth commentary can be found here.)
At the first race in Australia, Klaus and Natalia run into each other because of their work obligations. Klaus apologizes for assuming Natalia was a sex worker during their, erm, frontal collision in Abu Dhabi, and they go on a walk around Melbourne. Both insist that it would be unwise given their line of work to see each other again… right before they make out in public on the street. Klaus does get props though for seeming genuinely sorry and not being the type of MMC that seems to get off on tormenting their love interest. Which is a low bar, but is unfortunately a bar we need.
The two lovebirds quickly start doing dating behavior (calling, sending gifts etc.), without even the perfunctory angst I’d expect for how bad of an idea it is. They later meet up during another GP weekend in Barcelona and kiss at a popular tourist location, which is fucking NUTS to me. Like the city must be CRAWLING with F1 fans who would definitely recognize Klaus and/or Natalia. It really is NOT giving forbidden romance because these two are even more brazen with their PDA than the Louvre robbers, and they’re not even wearing high-vis vests.
Anyway, several things happen in the following chapters that obviously violate journalistic ethics. (Which I did look up, courtesy of the US Society for Professional Journalists, the New York Times, and a journalism professor.) The most obvious being, don’t date or hook up with sources, and don’t cover your friends or romantic partners. And not for no reason. Natalia is at one point tempted to prevent unflattering coverage of Klaus. She later drops a story in part because it might damage Emerald, and by proxy, Klaus and Phaedra. More on that later. Natalia also accepts free plane tickets and lodging from Emerald to cover their community event, and she’s gifted things including a five-figure emerald necklace by Klaus. Accepting free travel, lodging, or gifts are more journalism no-nos.
Look, it may seem like I’m complaining that the plumber in a porno is using the wrong wrench. I mainly dislike how unprofessional and highkey incompetent Natalia is, especially as a woman in a male-dominated field. Natalia is aware of misogyny in her industry and claims she has always wanted to prove herself as a serious reporter, not just a pretty face or a sexual object. At the same time, she’s also literally perpetuating stereotypes that female reporters are unprofessional and just exist to bang their male reporting subjects.
Additionally, Klaus and Natalia have barely any reluctance around dating, even though it actively harms the jobs they supposedly care a lot about. This is narratively convenient but actually undermines the tension of the romance plot. It’s not a forbidden romance if the characters have zero qualms about engaging in it, and if they can just carry on however they like in public and somehow never get caught, because every fan in Barcelona conveniently has face blindness or something.
Phaedra and Natalia keep having arguments, which happen entirely off page and are only referenced in the text. I assume probably happen in the series’ previous book that centers Phaedra, but it’s fucking annoying. I can barely get through one of these books, and I’m not putting myself through another just to make Natalia’s arc make 5% more sense. Sidenote, Phaedra is a race engineer, but she’s also hooking up with her driver???? And she’s a nepo baby (daughter of Mo Morgan, CEO/ owner/ public face of Team Emerald). The HR department of this team must be a real nightmare.
During the Montreal race weekend, Natalia finally decides she’s ready to box for a second Amorous Pitstop. She then gets upset when Klaus is busy with work (on a grand prix weekend… as a team principal). And because he’s hiding team related business from her (...an F1 journalist). While waiting for Klaus, Natalia receives news from Phaedra that Phaedra’s father Mo, the team owner, is having serious health issues. Natalia had apparently asked Klaus if Mo was okay, which he didn’t feel comfortable answering. For whatever reason, Natalia decides to get mad at Klaus for not telling her? God forbid a man respect medical privacy.
Natalia decides to start a fight and says that their relationship was a bad idea, expecting him to disagree and like, ‘fight for her’ or whatever. And then she’s mad when he won’t argue with her! So she makes a big show out of leaving, hoping he’ll call her back, but he doesn’t. This scene annoyed me because what do you mean you’re thirty five and literally throw a tantrum. Her bad romantic decisions are chalked up to her family Trooma (put a pin in that), but they’re not even consistently bad in a logical way? She kinda just decides to fuck over her love life in whatever direction is convenient for the plot.
Anyway, timeskip to the end of the season… what happened in the WDC or WCC? Who the fuck cares, apparently?
There’s a mandatory Fancy Gala Scene (that Natalia and the press are somehow invited to, despite it being a team celebration). It’s here that we are introduced to Sage, an up-and-coming female driver and a BADDIE. She pulls up at the function wearing a dress designed to look like plate armor? She also has blue hair and tattoos. Nest wanted to believe that Sage is a lesbian, but unfortunately, she’s the protagonist for the next (straight) book in the series. Emerald’s second driver is underperforming, so they want to buy him out and replace him with Sage. (Another very realistic plot point.) They’re trying to be all *secretive* about it, but Klaus apparently doesn’t know secretive if it bit him in his Austrian ass. He’s talking to Sage (who has literally no reason to be at Emerald’s party if not silly season shit) in front of the entire function, which also includes several F1 journalists.
Remember how I told you to put a pin in family trauma? In a sudden and almost jarring turn of plot, we get some of Natalia’s backstory. Earlier, she mentions that her biological parents had her young and abandoned her when she was a child, so she was raised by her great aunt Minnie. (Aunt Min straight up says that Natalia’s abandonment issues are the root cause behind her terrible taste in men, which… subtlety is dead I guess, but Min did clock her ass.)
Aunt Min tells Natalia that Natalia’s bio-parents want to get in touch with her. Apparently they didn’t choose to abandon her– they left Kentucky for California and intended to send for her, but they couldn’t find work, so they started working for a drug dealer to make ends meet. And then, during a drug delivery, a man tried to sexually assault Natalia’s mother, and she STABBED HIM TO DEATH WITH A SCREWDRIVER in self defense. Her mother is only reaching out now because she was finally released after being in PRISON for TWENTY FIVE YEARS. The most realistic part of this book is that someone gets screwed over by the American justice system.
Anyway, Natalia’s editor tells Natalia that her next assignment is a feature piece on… who else… Klaus. For the interview, Natalia flies out to meet Klaus at his vacation house in Santorini. Even though they claim to haaate each other, Klaus picks her up from the airport, and she’s staying in his house?? (Because known tourist spot Santorini has NO hotels or taxis… right.)
They have a very unprofessional interview in which Natalia is just rude and passive aggressive to Klaus. Klaus isn’t really in the right either, since Sage pops in to visit, and Klaus briefly implies that the two are sleeping together to make Natalia jealous. Natalia rightfully calls out Klaus and says that a female driver would never be so unprofessional as to sleep with a TP, which I agree with… but this is in the universe in which a F1 reporter is fucking one of her sources, and a driver and engineer are sleeping together, so I don’t get why this is the moral rubicon of professionalism here.
But anyway, after like two pages of being mad at each other… they inevitably get wetter and wilder than Spa 2021. We already knew that Klaus calls Natalia “kleine Hexe,” but he is also really, REALLY into weirdly fantasy and magic-coded dirty talk. Here’s a brief sampling.
Additional examples:
“Talia," he murmurs as we come together again. "Lioness... witch... conqueror." (79)
“voyeur. Shadow. Wicked thief.”
Also he shouts “I am!” when he orgasms, which is never explained
Even in the non sexual scenes, Klaus just uses overly formal, anachronistic, and faux poetic English. I would get some formality since he isn’t a native English speaker, but he is almost written like a medieval shadow daddy that got reverse-Isekai’d into being a Formula One TP. Someone check in with the author and see if she knows that Austria is like, a real modern country with exports like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Red Bull, not a fantasy land full of fairies in lederhosen.
There’s also a little bit of the promised (threatened) German dirty talk. Senta largely vouches for its grammatical correctness, but says that its sexiness is up to your interpretation. The sex itself is fine, and they at least get a bit creative with some light BDSM elements and Natalia being on top, though any spice is quickly snuffed out by Klaus’s Lord of the Rings style pillowtalk.
Unfortunately, an anonymous tip at Natalia’s work starts sowing some doubt in Klausville. She receives a mysterious flash drive, which shows that an employee of the rival Allonby team may have leaked their car blueprints to Emerald. This information substantiates paddock rumors that Emerald’s car is just a ripoff of the Allonby car from the previous year. (This plot point is a nice tie-in to the Racing Point “Pink Mercedes” allegations and the infamous Spygate.)
Natalia confronts Klaus, who denies stealing IP from Allonby, though he’s clearly up to something else sus. Natalia decides to trust Klaus, saying she doesn’t want to know what he was up to so she can live in ignorance I guess. She drops the story, and then they fuck about it. Raw, I might add, because Natalia says that she’s period tracking and therefore it’s okay. (Really not beating the Southerners have no sex ed allegations. At least be on the pill or SOMETHING!) Obviously since Klaus is a main character, he isn’t actually involved in industrial espionage, but imagine if Spygate got covered up because someone at Sky was fucking Flavio. Like come on. Where is the professionalism?
During the Montreal weekend, Klaus and Natalia dance together at a team party. (Does everyone at Team Emerald need an eye exam, because how do you NOT see your 6 foot 5 alpha ceo dancing with a well known F1 journalist without leaving room for Jesus?) Remember the human rights and sponsor subplot? So Natalia accidentally reveals to Klaus that she’s following up on the human rights issues in Basilisk Tech’s Unnamed Middle Eastern Country, and… oh yeah, the last person who researched the rumors mysteriously *fell off a balcony* while on location. Klaus isn’t happy and acts generally sus, and then Natalia’s source cancels and refuses to participate in the story. HMMM…
Apparently everyone in the PADDOCK needs their eyes checked, because Natalia and Klaus get papped on a romantic dinner in Monaco. Somehow it’s literally not a big deal and no one else notices or cares. (Natalia’s boss actively encourages the relationship, claiming she got information for her Pulitzer winning book on the Bosnian genocide by flirting with CANONICAL Henry Kissinger. Go off queen.) Natalia and Klaus also have an openly shared room during the Hungarian GP. Again, how is this a forbidden romance if there are literally zero ramifications to people knowing they’re together?
Unfortunately, Klaus and Natalia’s amorous evening, like the 2020 racing season, is abruptly cut short. After sex, Nat discovers 1. Phaedra texting Klaus that they were right to cancel involvements with Basilisk’s home country, since said country is currently in open revolt against its evil government, and 2. That Klaus’s briefcase is filled with like a dozen of the same flash drives that Natalia received in her inbox, with the purported Spygate smoking gun.
Natalia realizes that Klaus fabricated the Spygate receipts and planted the flash drive to throw her off the Basilisk scandal. (And I realized that Klaus is like, terrible at committing crimes. Why didn’t you just buy ONE flash drive? Why did you keep the extras IN YOUR BRIEFCASE, for MONTHS?) Klaus realizes he fucked up and explains that he wasn’t trying to cover up his involvement with Basilisk (since he and Emerald were actively pushing the FIA to end its involvement with Unnamed Middle Eastern Country). He only wanted to keep her from investigating the story and putting her life at risk. Regardless, Natalia is pissed and breaks up with him. She also tells him to read “The Wife of Bath’s Tale” from Canterbury Tales on her way out the door.
Sidenote, the most unrealistic part of all of this is that someone in F1 actually cares about human rights. LOL.
Natalia reluctantly finishes her Klaus feature, resolving to quit at the end of the season and write a book about her mother’s life story. And then, Ruh roh! She realizes that Herr Klaus came in HER a little too hot, and she’s got her own kleine Klaus incoming. She reveals that after she left Klaus’s room in Hungary, where I guess they rawdogged, she put only a passing effort into finding a morning after pill and basically said “fuck it we ball” about her reproductive health, and was lowkey hoping she might get pregnant so that she could return home or something?
Klaus makes a surprise visit to Kentucky to meet Aunt Min and Natalia’s bio-parents, with whom she’s reconciled. He apologizes to Natalia and says he wants to be present for their child, though it would be hard to work around his schedule as a TP. He also says that the moral he learned from “The Wife of Bath’s Tale” is that women want agency, which he denied her by giving her the false information on the flash drive.
Sidenote, I consulted Nest (who has an English degree and has read her share of medieval English literature) about this literary interpretation of Chaucer. She says it’s wrong. The moral of the story is really more like that women want to have control over the men in their lives. Which is not “as slay girlboss independent woman” as what Klaus says, but is apparently the moral of the story that they state in the text “out loud several times,” according to her.
Natalia comes to the last race of the season, her final assignment before she resigns. To the shock of the reporters, including Natalia, Klaus announces that he is retiring Nico Rosberg style (that is to say, IMMEDIATELY) and hard launches the fact that he has an unborn daughter. He then reconciles with Natalia and agrees to retire to Kentucky, in order to be present for their future child. And Natalia’s parents will be there, as will Aunt Min, and her Kentucky Hot Brown Casserole, which will definitely give Klaus some kind of heart disease. The End!
Overall, I’ve definitely read worse F1 romances. (Throttled, for one, is much cringier, and its writing infuriates me on a sentence level, an accomplishment that even Coming in Hot doesn't hold a candle to). The small amount of racing in the book is somewhat accurate, like the various references to real life scandals. But I definitely wouldn’t waste your time with this book. Its spice and humor land in some parts, but other parts will have you cringing. (Klaus’ medieval times-ass way of speaking was a big sticking point for me.) I personally found Natalia irritating and incompetent, while Klaus is a stuffy bootleg shadow daddy in TP’s clothing. The pacing drags in the middle, bogging down the story with rehashed relationship drama instead of stuff that is actually interesting, like the team scandals or ANYTHING at all about the racing season.
In conclusion. If you want to read anything about Toto’s steamy desires, just read whatever he’s up to in seducing Max Verstappen.
So you know- "English is not my first language. I have dyslexia. Let me know what you think about it, please."
Charles Leclerc x Reader
Romance, Hurt/Comfort, fluff
The Monaco skies had turned a dull grey by the time Charles got back home. Rain tapped rhythmically against the windows, the kind of soft drizzle that felt more emotional than meteorological. Y/N sat quietly on the couch, legs tucked under her, thumbing through the pages of a book she wasn’t really reading. She was wearing his red Ferrari hoodie—the one she always stole after race days—because it still smelled like him, even when he wasn’t there.
The front door opened slowly. She didn’t have to look up to know it was Charles. The soft shuffle of his trainers, the pause as he set his keys down on the marble counter—it was all familiar. Comforting, even now, when everything else felt just slightly off.
“Hey,” she called softly.
There was a beat of silence before he answered, “Hey.”
He looked exhausted. The kind of tired that went beyond the physical toll of racing. His eyes were dark under the brim of his cap, and his shoulders were tense, like he was carrying the entire weight of the Grand Prix on his back. He didn’t need to say anything. She already knew.
“You didn’t have to come back right away,” she said gently, closing her book. “I figured you'd be with the team.”
He shook his head, finally toeing off his shoes and walking over to her. “I couldn’t. I needed to see you.”
That was all it took. She opened her arms, and he sank into them immediately—like a man finally allowing himself to break. He buried his face in her neck and exhaled a shaky breath. She held him there, grounding him, fingers weaving through the damp curls at the nape of his neck.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered.
“I should’ve done better,” he murmured into her skin.
Y/N pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “Charles, stop. You gave it everything. Everyone saw that.”
He looked away. “But it wasn’t enough. Again. In Monaco of all places.”
Y/N bit her lip, her heart aching for him. She knew what this place meant to him—not just as a driver, but as a boy who grew up just around the corner, dreaming of making it big, dreaming of standing on that podium while the whole city watched.
“You don’t have to win here for people to know how good you are,” she said softly. “You don’t have to prove yourself—not to the world, and definitely not to me.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, almost brokenly: “But I want to. For you. For Maman. For Jules.”
That last name hit the air like a held breath. Y/N’s hands stilled in his hair.
“I know,” she whispered. “And they would be proud of you. I am, Charles. Every single race. No matter the result.”
He nodded slowly, eyes glassy. “I just… I get in my head. All the pressure. All the noise. And I don’t know how to silence it sometimes.”
Y/N leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Then let me help you.”
He gave a soft laugh, the first real one she’d heard all day. “What would I do without you?”
“Lose your keys at least once a week. Eat way too many protein bars. And probably wear the same hoodie for three days straight.”
Charles smirked. “So basically, still be me.”
“Exactly. But a slightly more disorganized version.”
He let himself melt into her then, their limbs tangled together on the couch as the storm outside picked up, wind howling faintly down the Monaco streets. The glow from the kitchen light warmed the room, casting soft shadows over the walls.
After a long silence, Charles spoke again, voice quieter this time.
“I hate that I feel like this after every race that doesn’t go right.”
“You’re not a robot,” Y/N said. “You’re allowed to feel. That’s what makes you you, Charles. You care. You care so much.”
He turned his head, his nose brushing against her collarbone. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”
Y/N’s heart clenched. She gently tilted his face up to hers.
“Hey. Don’t say that. You were born to do this. I’ve never seen anyone fight like you do. You inspire people—me included. But you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”
Their eyes locked. She saw the storm inside him—every crash, every close call, every podium that slipped away. But she also saw the boy who once watched this same rain from his bedroom window and dreamed of driving through it one day.
“I love you,” she whispered, brushing her thumb against his cheek.
“I love you more,” he said, and this time, his voice didn’t break.
Breakups suck. Especially when your ex is a world-famous F1 driver. Especially when he looks that good in Ferrari red.
You haven’t seen Lewis Hamilton since last summer, and things were supposed to stay that way—until a New Year’s Eve kiss turned into a one-night stand… and a surprise wedding.
Oops.
Now it’s race season, he’s ready to win you back, and you’re stuck figuring out how to say, “Hey, so funny story… we’re actually married.”
No pressure, right?
Trigger Warnings: Alcohol consumption, memory loss due to intoxication, implied sexual content, emotional topics related to breakups and relationships.
⸻
You haven’t seen him since the summer.
Not really, anyway. There were glimpses—on TV, plastered across social media, billboards on your way to work. Lewis Hamilton in Ferrari red. A new chapter. A new team. A new life. One that didn’t seem to have room for you anymore.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was mutual. Clean break, no mess. You both needed time, space, clarity. But the truth is you never stopped missing him—not when you buried yourself in work, not when you tried dating again, not even when you found it.
The envelope.
The certificate.
Your name and his, in cursive black ink.
Married.
New Year’s Eve had been a blur. Champagne, music, friends—and then him. Lewis. The way he looked at you like no one else ever had. You remember a kiss at midnight. A hotel suite. Laughter, hands roaming, clothes on the floor. You remember waking up next to him, head pounding, heart light, thinking: God, I still love him. And then he rolled over and mumbled something about how wild the night had been, how funny it was that you’d ended up together again.
Neither of you remembered the vows. The officiant. The witnesses. But the papers were real.
You’ve read them a hundred times since.
You’re married to Lewis Hamilton.
And he doesn’t know.
⸻
The first race of the season is in Bahrain. The world watches. Cameras flash as Lewis steps out in red for the first time, and the air practically buzzes with anticipation. New era. New energy. New Lewis.
But when his eyes scan the crowd, past the fans, past the chaos, they land on you.
Everything stops.
Your breath catches, and you can’t tell if it’s from nerves or the desert heat or just… him. Still him, always him.
He walks past his team, past the paddock, and comes straight toward you. Like there’s no one else in the world.
“You’re here,” he says, and his voice is soft, like a secret.
You nod. “Didn’t want to miss your first race.”
His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to find pieces of himself in them. “I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.”
You don’t speak. You can’t. Your fingers twitch toward the envelope in your bag, the one you’ve carried around for weeks, the one you keep meaning to hand him.
“I miss you,” he continues. “I thought time would fix it, but it hasn’t. It’s made it worse. And I know we’re not… I mean, we haven’t talked since the break, but—Y/N, I love you. I never stopped. And I want to fight for you. For us.”
You swallow hard. This is the moment. Tell him, your mind screams.
But the words won’t come.
So instead, you smile, half-hearted and trembling, and say, “We should talk. Later.”
He nods. “Promise?”
You promise.
And you mean it.
⸻
That night, you slip into the Ferrari hospitality suite after most people have left. The trophy is in his hands—third place, but you can tell by the look on his face that all he’s thinking about is you.
“Can we talk now?” he asks.
Your heart hammers in your chest as you hand him the envelope.
He frowns as he opens it, and you watch his eyes skim the certificate. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower. He doesn’t speak.
Then—
A laugh.
A real one. Deep. Shocked. Disbelieving.
“We got married?” he says, like the words are too big to fit in his mouth. “You’re serious?”
You nod. “I found it a few weeks ago. I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t even remember… until I saw the date, and then some things started coming back.”
He just stares at you, quiet for a long moment. And then, to your surprise, his smile grows.
“Married,” he repeats. “So… I already won you back. I just didn’t know it.”
“Lewis—”
“I’m not mad. I’m relieved.” He takes your hands, grips them tight. “This… this is fate. I was ready to beg you to come back, to give us another shot, but this—this means we never really ended. We’re already on chapter two.”
His excitement makes your head spin.
“You still want to be with me?” you whisper.
“I want it all,” he says. “You. Us. A home. Kids. The whole messy, beautiful ride.”
You blink back tears, wondering how this could be real. Wondering if maybe, just maybe, the universe knows what it’s doing after all.
And then his phone buzzes.
He glances at the screen, and his expression shifts. Just slightly.
You notice.
“Everything okay?” you ask.
He hesitates. “Yeah. Just… something I should probably tell you too.”
You raise an eyebrow, pulse quickening. “What is it?”
But he doesn’t answer.
Not yet.
⸻
TO BE CONTINUED…
Part 2
⸻
I hope you love it. Please let me know if you guys want a part 2. Enjoy🫶
I Read That Gay F1 Romance Novel (so you don't have to)
After reading the massive disappointment F1 sports romance that was Throttled, I did what a normal person would do– seek out the gay version and hope it was better. (Throttled deserves its own post and may get one, if I have time.)
Fortuitously, my cousin entered into a giveaway and won a free copy of Pole Position, by Rebecca Cafferty, marketed as "F1 meets Red White and Royal Blue." Unappreciative of the gold she had scored (to me, as an F1 fan and wannabe book critic), she agreed to loan me her copy, as long as I gave it back to her before I visited her again.
So… how did it go?
^^ a live reaction from me reading this book
It’s certainly better than Throttled, but despite its name, Pole Position never quite makes it into Q3. It features some accurate racing lore and a decent amount of character moments, but I also found one of the leads insufferable and that the author often sacrifices realism or coherent storytelling for the sake of tropey story beats. If you want thrilling on-track action and homoerotic tension, you’re better off watching actual F1.
~~Spoilers ahead~~
Kian Walker is the reigning world champion and an F1 legend, known for his seriousness and ironclad discipline. At 33, with four world titles under his belt, he constantly faces questions on when he will retire. Unfortunately, his reliable second driver Elijah (his Bottas or Barichello) suffers a season-ending injury. (He slips in a swimming pool, Lmao). Kian discovers that, to his horror, Elijah’s replacement is none other than rookie and hashtag-messy bitch, Harper James.
From the outset, Harper is like, one of the biggest gaping holes in the book’s attempt at racing realism. Less realistic than a good Ferrari strategy. Even as an F2 driver (which, for some reason, is only ever referred to as “the lower categories”-- is F2 trademarked or something?), he has an outsized reputation for partying hard, grinding on random guys in the club, and generally being a PR nightmare. IRL, F2 drivers get dropped from driver academies or teams all the time, often for seemingly arbitrary reasons. It makes no sense why a top team like Hendersohm, the reigning constructor’s champions, would develop and promote driver who can’t keep it in his fucking pants, no matter how talented he is on track.
Also, he’s 25, which is geriatric for an F2 driver/ F1 rookie and thus is confusing when other characters act like he’s the second coming of Senna. (Though given how old Kian is, it would have been kinda gross if Harper was standard rookie age.)
As a sidenote, some people on Goodreads were saying that this book reminds them of Carlando, or perhaps was marketed that way by the cover. THIS IS NOT CARLANDO. Kian is way older and much further along in his career than Carlos, and he's British instead of Spanish. Harper is so annoying and pervy that I would honestly be offended on Lando's behalf if this is what people think of him. I think the closest examples would be Sebchal or Alonso and Hamilton during their stint at McLaren, given that it's a WDC versus hotshot rookie situation. But even so, as I'll get into later, there isn't much in the way of rivalry.
^^ OK the hairography is very Carlos tho.
Another thing that pissed me off about Harper is that he is just annoying. His narrative voice is grating, and he is constantly pestering Kian (and even making borderline harassment suggestive comments about Kian, like asking if he swims naked).
Things reach a boiling point when Harper and Kian are interviewed and lose their tempers, Harper arrogantly insisting that he’s a better racer than Elijah and Kian negatively comparing Harper to Kian’s father, a former F1 driver whose career was overshadowed by his messy personal life. (Points for realism, Kian being a nepo baby with a problematic dad. Nelson Piquet or Jos Verstappen, anyone?) Both characters have as much media training as Sauber has points-- basically none.
(Also, this scene generally shows the author does NOT understand F2. Harper says he made money as an F2 driver when IRL, you have to PAY literally a million dollars for your seat, and even with sponsorships most drivers do not break even. Further, the interviewer says that Harper received his “first podium win” in the preceding F2 season, which Harper claims was “record breaking” for him. How did he stay in F2 until 25 without podiuming a single time, and then have a “record breaking” points haul? Unless “podium win” is their weird way of saying it was the first time he got top 3 overall in the championship?)
Harper is also friends with a Red Bull driver, Johannes, whom he's known since karting. (Johannes was probably my favorite character, even though he is also kind of the “Black best friend” trope.) Johannes warns Harper that if any driver brings bad press or pisses off the sponsors, they can be easily replaced by the next hotshot rookie. This is all true in real life, but it doesn’t ring true in the book: Harper is KNOWN for being messy and keeps getting into trouble, but his career never truly feels imperiled. If a single one of Harper's various shenanigans happened IRL, he'd be out of a seat faster than a Red Bull second driver. Also, I have no idea how Harper would have never picked up on the precarity of his career at his big age of 25 when even feeder series drivers and karters know they have to scramble and suck up to everyone they know to get even the slimmest shot at an F1 seat.
Anyway, first race of the season– Bahrain. A couple more technical/ terminology inaccuracies and sus moments. The Grand Prix is referred to as “the Prix” (which I’m pretty sure Throttled or one of the other F1 romances, maybe Downforce, does), and Harper mentions that “the halo is secure”... are there times when it’s not?? And then during a race, Harper is in P3 and battling someone for P2, but despite battling for position he's GAINING on Kian in P1, which doesn’t really make sense unless Kian's tires are absolutely shot. (Tire strategy/ pitting is almost never mentioned in this book, so who knows.)
The on track action Exists. It is mostly dry summary, narrating who is in what place, and lacks the visceral sensory details you’d expect from someone flying around a track at 200+mph. In a regular race, the F1 commentators do a better job at narrating the drama and emotions that someone feels behind the wheel.
(Exhibit A: the Italians when Leclerc does literally anything cool.)
To explain his dickish behavior, we learn that Harper is somehow a *foster child*?? Which makes absolutely zero sense given how expensive a karting/ single seater career is. It feels like that beginner-writer tendency to nonsensically traumatize your blorbo because you think it makes them deep, even if it makes no sense. You could have given him rich but absent parents, or he could even be adopted, just by a wealthier family! Or something, please!
Kian also has his own shit going on: his cheating/ alcoholic/ famous driver/ absent father, and also the fact that his mother has early onset Parkinson’s. His sister is the full time caretaker for their mother, and he constantly feels guilty about not being able to be there for her and their family. This part was actually fairly well done, which I was not expecting. (Hooray for dementia and caretaking rep in F1 yaoi!) The author indicates in the dedication that her own grandmother had Parkinson’s, which is likely why it feels much more emotionally real than some of the other storylines
After Harper is a sore loser and publicly refuses to shake Kian’s hand on the Bahrain podium, they make a “compromise”-- Harper will work out with Kian, and Kian will go out to a club with Harper and learn to be nice or loosen up or whatever. (Which would be a fine character arc, if the only person Kian was unfriendly to wasn’t just Harper, because Harper is annoying.) It’s also highkey implied that Harper straight-up doesn’t work out or does so infrequently. He acts like Kian is weird for working out every day? When they’re both PRO ATHLETES? My guy has no diet plan, no physio, no workout plan, no nothing. Literally out here rawdogging F1. Anyway, they do go clubbing, and Kian lowkey gets turned on by Harper’s dirty dancing, after which we get some corny narration about his “burning desire” for Harper and this gem of a line:
Oh and also. Fernando Alonso CANONICALLY EXISTS in this book.
Like yes, Red Bull, Haas, McLaren, and Ferrari all exist in the book, but a real, current driver canonically existing is fucking weird. (I wonder what in-universe Fernando thinks of all of this. It pales in comparison to the crazy multiple wdc vs rookie teammate drama that he had IRL w/ Lewis.) It’s also weird in combination with the other really hazy worldbuilding. Even though McLaren is Hendersohm’s biggest WCC rival, their two drivers are just referred to as “the two McLaren Swedes” or “the brothers” and DO NOT HAVE NAMES despite existing in several scenes.
Also there’s kind of an icky scene before the Miami race where Harper is absolutely sloshed from going clubbing in Miami during a race week (which again, huh?), and Harper and Kian start making out even though Kian knows Harper is WAYYY too drunk to consent. Kian ends up leaving, but it takes an uncomfortably long time. It’s portrayed as a mistake that Kian kissed Harper because they're teammates, not that Kian kissed Harper while he was literally too drunk to consent.
Anyway, one of the commentators also tells Kian that there’s going to be a “Kian Walker night” at one of the local gay bars in Miami, which is kind of funny to me because he’s not publicly out, is pretty masc presenting, and seems relatively dripless. Anyway, comment down below which real F1 driver should get a theme night at a Miami gay club. I think a Franco or Carlos themed night would go hard.
But wait! There’s only one motorhome!
It’s one thing for a fluff fic to have some absurd contrived shenanigans like this, but an actual book that is trying to be serious and semi realistic? Y’all please.
(To be fair, David Coulthard and Mark Webber once revealed that the Red Bull hospitality used to only have one shower, and given the tight time constraints in driver schedules, they literally had to shower together. So sometimes, reality is even crazier than the most contrived romance tropes.)
Anyway, because he’s determined to never let Kian know peace, Harper is intentionally super messy in their shared motorhome, ogles Kian’s booty while he’s doing morning yoga, and then brings in some nameless twink to hook up with in their shared motorhome to make Kian jealous. (The guy is literally nameless. Harper refers to him the whole time as “the twink” the entire time.)
(Someone should write a gender studies thinkpiece here about how Harper’s objectification and disdain for his usual more feminine, “easy” hookups mirrors the straight romance fuckboy’s objectification and disdain for “slutty” girls. Also, Harper and the standard hetero fuckboy reject these hookups they look down on for a “not like other girls girl”/ a more masculine guy who demands commitment.)
One thing I did like is that there were less stereotypical gendered/ power related dynamics than in hetero sports romance books. (Well, really just Throttled and the other bad ones I’ve seen funny YouTube reviews for, like Moonshot.) Usually, the male character has all of the power– they are older, famous and rich, a guy, physically imposing, and established in their career. Meanwhile, the female character is *three apples tall* and clumsy, usually an everywoman/ self insert character without a strong career. Thus, I get grossed out when the guy character is also the sleazy fuckboy who borderline sexually harasses– I mean flirts with– the female lead because of the power dynamics involved. Here, it’s a little less bad because even though Harper is kind of a perv, he is not the one with greater power or influence on the team.
Harper ends up doing absolutely dogwater in Austria and literally gets P-Last, costing Hendersohm the lead in the championship, then has a breakdown in the garage. The book does a relatively good job at portraying how media speculation about a poor performance leads to self doubt and creates a negative psychological spiral, which I did like. It engages with the media ecosystem as part of the F1 landscape way more than Throttled. But anyway, turns out the thing that threw him off is that some guys he had a foursome with years ago are trying to blackmail him for money. I don’t mind that there is basically no homophobia in racing in this book (Harper is openly gay), but I guess the public draws the line at having a foursome?
Harper ends up crying in the motorhome (at this point I did feel genuinely kind of bad for him), and Kian ends up comforting him, and then they have a good old fashioned heartfelt trauma dump to smut pipeline. The sex is like, fine. Medium tire on a scale of soft to hard. It’s not as cringy or over the top as Throttled, but, like the racing, it’s more a bunch of descriptions that could use way more character moments, sensory detail, or emotion.
Midway through the book, Kian is handily winning the championship, which is fine and all but feels like a missed opportunity to add tension or a rivals to lovers vibe. What’s the point of making them teammates (who are super close but also often the most competitive rivals) when they won’t actually have a rivalry subplot? Harper performs well but virtually always finishes behind Kian; there are few on track battles and no strategy drama. At least make it like Alonso and Hamilton or Seb and Charles, where the rookie actually is giving the seasoned WDC a run for his money and causing angst and drama over the older driver’s potentially fading career. This change would also actually improve the romantic arc– the characters are supposed to dislike each other from the outset, and what better way to do that than make them on track rivals, instead of just making one of them really really annoying?
In the absence of racing related drama for Kian and Harper, the main conflict in the relationship is pretty predictable romance fare. They’re in a tenuous hookup situation where Kian wants an exclusive relationship, but Harper struggles to rid himself of his self loathing and commitment issues. Their personal lives affect their racing (Kian literally “crashes out” in Italy and gets into an accident after Harper turns down his offer of a relationship), but the racing itself largely takes a backseat.
Their conflict is solely interpersonal and just rehashes story beats we’ve seen a million times before, when it would be relatively easy to also cause relationship problems via racing drama. Ex. what if one of them feels as though the other is taking better strategies or is driving too aggressively or is scheming to put them out of a job? (Despite the hype about Harper’s risky driving style, it’s barely mentioned in the racing scenes.) The sports part of the sports romance is more of a backdrop for the story and, rarely, an outward representation of the main interpersonal conflict, rather than inextricable from the story itself.
It is sweet to watch Harper open up more, and Kian and his sister try to provide the loving family they didn't receive as children. But at the same time, the writing often isn't strong enough to carry the emotional weight without it coming across as corny.
Re: accuracy, Harper passes someone under the yellow flag, which in most cases is illegal unless the yellow flag is only on a portion of the track. (Given that the yellow flag is for the serious accident in Italy that puts Kian in the hospital, I’d say this move would be illegal IRL. Also, they never clarify whether it was Monza or Imola, LOL.)
Anyway, there is a rest of the book. I’ve been spoiling throughout, and the ending is pretty predictable, but skip until the last paragraph if you’d like.
Harper and Kian decide they’re done with each other after Harper literally chickens out on asking Kian to a dinner date. Right after, Kian’s mother passes away, and he skips the Singapore race to be with his family. (Again, this choice would have more emotional stakes had he not literally been leading the championship and nearing the all time record of driver points. He doesn’t give anything up except the points record by choosing to go home.) He also blocks Harper, who is spending a night trying to get wasted and party it up before realizing that he actually DOES want a relationship with Kian. Johannes tells Harper he’s embarrassing himself and convinces him to rush to the UK to support Kian. (Despite Harper lowkey being emotionally absent for much of their relationship.)
Harper surprises Kian at the funeral, and they reconcile relatively quickly. For me, I think Harper needed to do a bit more to show he had changed, but oh well. They do get secretly photographed together at the wake, outing Kian and exposing their relationship, though the fallout is actually minimal.
(Homophobia doesn’t really exist in this F1 universe, *except* in Qatar and Dubai. Which. Hm. Seems a little racist but OK.)
While staying with his family, Kian finally decides he will retire at the end of the season to spend more time with his loved ones. It makes sense for his character arc, but it doesn’t feel built up to enough, especially since he spends much of the book insisting to himself and the media that he won’t actually retire. Since he handily wins the championship (even after entirely missing Singapore for the funeral), there isn’t even an element of tension about whether or not he will prove the haters wrong about his form as an aging driver. It doesn’t feel like he is giving up that much, so his choice to retire doesn’t feel emotional. I think it would have been more meaningful had he lost the championship (perhaps because he chose to skip Singapore) and retired anyway, instead of trying to get another title and prove the haters wrong.
So Kian wins the WDC and retires, blah blah blah. There’s a time skip to an epilogue (because of course there’s a “where are they now” style epilogue), where Harper and Kian are engaged, and Harper, now teammates with Elijah, won the WDC in the following year. (Rip Elijah… thus is the life of a second driver.) The end!
Overall, I give it 2 out of 5 tire compounds. It’s not bad compared to other romance books I’ve read, but it’s also way worse than stuff I’ve read on Ao3 for free. If you can’t get this book from your library or in a giveaway like my cousin, save your money. Again, it boggles my mind how dramatic real-life F1 lore is (cf. Brocedes, or Prost and Senna, or even Seb and Charles or Fernando and Lewis if we’re talking rookie-old man rivalry), and how easy it would be to write an emotionally rich love story that uses even a tenth of the conflict from these real life rivalries/ friendships. But instead, we get the same tired story beats we’ve seen a thousand times before, just played out in front of some shiny carbon fiber as a backdrop.
