flavy barla x !med resident gasly reader (smau + written)
you’ve known flavy for years — through pierre and esteban, through races and weekends spent in paddocks filled with noise and champagne. but residency is different. there’s no glamor here, just sleepless nights, cold coffee, and the quiet comfort of having her beside you.
somehow, you always end up together — studying, running on caffeine, laughing through exhaustion. she is calm where you’re chaos, warmth in the sterile hospital halls.
somewhere between 3 a.m. rounds and sunrise walks home, you realize it’s not just friendship keeping you close anymore. it is something softer, something that feels a lot like love.
fc : desire inglander
(a/n) : day 15 of chef's tea party series! (idk where exactly flavy is in her education- however her and reader are both like towards the end of their residency in this story!) (esteban is still w alpine) (this was based off two requests that i received! 🤍)
ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺
dr_yn_gasly
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dr_yn_gasly : residency diaries
tagged : flavy.barla, kikagomes, pierregasly and yukitsunoda0511
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charles_leclerc: do you ever rest 😭
liked by dr_yn_gasly
↳ dr_yn_gasly : define "rest" babes
liked by charles_leclerc
flavy.barla : you have heavily influenced my coffee addiction☕💀
liked by dr_yn_gasly
↳ dr_yn_gasly : don't expose me on the main 😭
liked by flavy.barla
↳ dr_yn_gasly : plus i am just trying to make sure we don't sleep on the job 😇
liked by flavy.barla
username00 : flavy and yn in scrubs?? the prettiest doctors in the world
liked by flavy.barla and dr_yn_gasly
username0007 : THE BUTTERFLY PINS AHHH 🦋
liked by flavy.barla and dr_yn_gasly
↳ dr_yn_gasly : we love @/corazonesunidos and @/alexandrasaintmleux 💞💞
liked by alexandrasaintmleux
↳ alexandrasaintmleux : mes belles filles 🦋✨
liked by flavy.barla and dr_yn_gasly
kikagomes : simba says hi to his favorite aunt 🐾💞 i love you and miss youuuuuu
liked by dr_yn_gasly
↳ dr_yn_gasly : tell that baby i miss him😭😭 and i love you so so so so so much
liked by kikagomes
pierregasly: why do you look like a celebrity even when you’re supposed to be working 36 hours straight 😑
liked by dr_yn_gasly
↳ dr_yn_gasly : genetics 😇
liked by pierregasly
↳ pierregasly : we share the same dna and i look dead after not sleeping
liked by dr_yn_gasly
↳ dr_yn_gasly : that's unfortunate for you<3 mom gave me all the good genes
liked by pierregasly
estebanocon: proud of both of you 🤍 keep doing your thing.
liked by flavy.barla and dr_yn_gasly
↳ flavy.barla : merci e🤍
↳ username005 : the fact that her and esteban broke up to let each other focus and they are still best friends. I COULD CRY AGAIN
lando : hey there dr. gasly 😳
liked by dr_yn_gasly
↳ dr_yn_gasly : non
liked by lando and pierregasly
↳ pierregasly : absolutely not.
yukitsunoda0511 : why did you have to become a doctor? become something where they don't take you away from me all the time.
liked by dr_yn_gasly
↳ dr_yn_gasly : miss you too bestie
liked by yukitsunoda0511
↳ pierregasly : is seeing me everyday not enough yuki?
liked by dr_yn_gasly and yukitsunoda0511
↳ yukitsunoda0511 : im greedy when it comes to the gaslys. need both
liked by dr_yn_gasly and pierregasly
lilymhe : brain scans and lunch at l'oiseau blanc...you are the blueprint i fear
liked by dr_yn_gasly
ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺
The morning light outside the hospital is the kind that tricks you — soft and golden, the kind that whispers of rest and warmth. Inside, under harsh fluorescent lights, it feels like another planet.
You and Flavy sit across from each other in the hospital café, the small table between you covered in open textbooks, loose notes, and two half-empty cups of coffee that have long gone cold. She’s reading over a neurology case file, lips pressed together, hair loosely tied back. You’re trying to focus, but your eyes keep wandering to her.
It’s been like this since residency began — quiet mornings before the chaos, both of you clinging to these rare minutes of calm.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” you ask, half a laugh in your voice.
Flavy shakes her head, smiling tiredly. “Maybe an hour. You?”
“Forty minutes,” you admit. “Power nap.”
She huffs out a laugh. “We’re doing great.”
You lean your chin in your hand, watching her skim another page. “You’ve been doing better,” you say softly, not really meaning to pry but meaning it all the same. “Since... the breakup?”
Flavy’s pen stills for a second, then she looks up at you — that same gentle steadiness she always has. “Yeah,” she says after a moment. “It was the right thing. We both needed space to grow, to focus. Esteban’s still... Esteban. He calls sometimes, sends me photos of the paddock. He’s happy.”
You nod, the corners of your lips curling. “And you?”
“I’m getting there,” she says, her smile small but real. “This helps. Having you here.”
You feel warmth bloom in your chest, quiet and unspoken. “We’re a good team,” you say, trying to sound casual, but it comes out softer than you mean it to.
She holds your gaze for just a beat too long before glancing back at her notes. “The best team.”
The day unfolds the way all residency days do — in controlled chaos. You’re both back on the floor, moving between rooms, notes in hand, exhaustion trailing behind you like a shadow.
Flavy’s with a pediatric case; you pass by her door and peek in just long enough to see her kneeling by a small patient’s bedside, her voice light and calm, the child smiling despite the IV taped to their arm. It makes you pause — the sight of her like that, so gentle in a place that’s anything but.
Later, she finds you mid-rounds, your brow furrowed over a cardiac chart. Without saying a word, she slips a pen into your hand when yours runs dry, offers a smile that’s all reassurance. You mouth a “thank you,” and she nods — a silent rhythm you’ve fallen into, always there when the other needs it most.
Hours blur. Meals are forgotten. Coffee replaces sleep.
You catch small glimpses of her throughout the shift — her hand brushing yours as you both reach for a chart, her tired laugh echoing in the corridor, the soft sigh she lets out every time she ties her hair up again.
By the time you finally clock out, the clock reads something obscene — seventeen hours, maybe more. The hallway outside the residents’ room is quiet. Everyone else has already crashed.
Inside, there’s one small cot. The others are taken, sheets rumpled and shoes lined up neatly beside each bed.
You both stand there, blinking at it.
“I can sleep on the floor,” Flavy offers immediately, already shrugging off her white coat.
You shake your head. “Absolutely not. We’re both sleeping. We’ll fit.”
She laughs, that small, tired sound that feels like a reward after a day like this. “You’re impossible.”
“Efficient,” you correct, tugging your scrub cap off and tossing it aside.
You both squeeze onto the cot — knees brushing, shoulders pressed together, too exhausted to care about anything else. The hum of the air conditioner fills the silence.
For a long moment, neither of you speak. You feel her breathing slow beside you, her arm pressed lightly against yours.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it.
“For what?”
“For making this all a little easier.”
You smile into the dark. “You make it easier too.”
There’s a pause — the kind that feels suspended between exhaustion and something tenderer.
Then, softly, Flavy whispers, “Bonne nuit.”
You whisper it back.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, you both sleep deeply — side by side, under hospital lights that finally seem to soften.
ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺
You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep when the pager clipped to your coat pocket starts vibrating violently against the thin cot frame. It takes a few seconds for your brain to catch up — for you to realize where you are, who you’re with.
You jolt awake with a quiet groan, half tangled in the thin blanket and very much tangled in Flavy. Her arm is looped loosely around your waist, her hair falling against your shoulder, her breathing still slow from sleep. The sound of the pager pulls you fully into consciousness, but for a second, you just freeze — the closeness, the warmth, the way your heart stutters in your chest.
“Shit,” you mumble, fumbling for the pager. “Sorry— sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
Flavy stirs, blinking up at you through sleep-heavy eyes, her voice still soft and raspy. “It’s okay. What time is it?”
“Too early or too late, depending on perspective,” you whisper, brushing your hair out of your face. You manage to sit up, only to realize your hair is a tangled mess from sleeping in it.
Flavy sits up too, rubbing her eyes, and then her cheeks flush when she notices how close you still are. “You—uh—your hair,” she says, smiling faintly. “You’ll never survive another shift like that.”
You laugh tiredly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
She tilts her head, the faintest pink still coloring her cheeks. “Sit. I’ll braid it.”
You blink at her. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” she interrupts softly, patting the space in front of her. “Sit.”
You sigh, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. You sit cross-legged on the cot, and Flavy shifts behind you, her fingers threading gently through your hair. Her touch is light, careful — combing through tangles with soft patience.
The silence stretches comfortably between you, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner and the distant sounds of hospital monitors through the wall. You can feel the warmth of her knee brushing your back, the faint rhythm of her breathing.
“Better?” she murmurs after a few minutes.
You reach up to touch the neat braid trailing down your shoulder. “Perfect.”
Flavy smiles. “Go save lives, Dr. Gasly.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. “I’ll see you later?”
She nods. “I’ll be here.”
The next few hours blur into motion — rounds, charts, pages, and the endless hum of the ward. You move through it on autopilot, but every so often, your thoughts drift back to her.
You know she could’ve gone back to sleep. After seventeen hours, she’s earned it. But instead, she’s wandering the hospital café again, grabbing two coffees and a few protein bars. The barista gives her a sympathetic smile; she’s seen the both of you enough times to know the look of overworked residents.
By the time Flavy finds you again, you’re hunched over your computer in the corner of the nurse’s station, typing notes into a patient file with one hand and holding your head up with the other. Your braid has started to fall loose already, but you still look put-together in that tired, stubborn way she’s come to adore.
“Dr. Gasly,” she says quietly, sliding the coffee cup into your line of sight. “You’ve been charting for three hours straight. Eat something before you forget what food tastes like.”
You look up, a grin spreading across your face. “You’re a saint.”
She shrugs, sitting down beside you and unwrapping one of the bars. “Just your friendly neighborhood intern trying to keep you alive.”
You lean back in your chair, taking a sip of the coffee — it’s lukewarm, but it tastes like heaven. “If I make it through this shift, it’s because of you.”
“Please,” she teases. “You’d survive a war zone.”
You smirk. “Feels like we already are.”
For a few quiet minutes, you both eat, side by side, talking about your cases, about everything and nothing — about the little girl she saw on rounds who insisted on naming her IV pole “Bob,” about how the vending machine coffee is worse than the café’s, which is an achievement in itself.
Then Flavy’s pager buzzes, breaking the moment. She groans softly. “That’s me. I’ve got a consult in ER.”
You frown playfully. “You mean you’re leaving me?”
She grins, standing and straightening her coat. “Only for a little while. Study session after shift?”
You nod immediately. “Deal.”
Hours later, when the shift finally ends, you’re both running on fumes. The hospital has quieted to that late-night hum again. You gather your things and leave together — two shadows crossing the parking lot under flickering streetlights.
At your apartment, you toss your coats and bags in a heap by the door and collapse onto the couch, textbooks in hand but barely awake enough to read. You still try — heads close together, voices low as you quiz each other. Flavy’s head eventually tips against your shoulder, and your highlighter slips from your fingers.
You don’t even remember falling asleep.
The next morning, Pierre knocks once before letting himself and Kika in, both armed with takeaway bags and a bouquet of flowers. Simba trots at their feet, tail wagging happily.
“Mon dieu,” Pierre mutters, setting the bags on the counter. “I haven’t heard from her in three days. I thought she’d collapsed in the ER.”
Kika’s gaze softens when she spots you and Flavy curled up on the couch — still in scrubs, hair messy, faces pressed close in sleep. You’re both tangled in the same blanket, Flavy’s hand resting over your arm like it belongs there.
Pierre opens his mouth — and Kika immediately shushes him. “Don’t,” she whispers, smiling. “They look peaceful.”
He rolls his eyes but quietly sets the flowers beside the food. “She’s going to kill me when she sees I came over.”
“Only if you wake them,” Kika murmurs, gently draping another blanket over you both before tugging him toward the door. “Come on. Let them rest.”
When you finally wake up, sunlight is streaming through the blinds, warm and golden. Flavy’s still beside you, blinking sleepily as you both realize how close you are.
There’s a moment of silence — shared, awkward, but somehow sweet.
Her voice comes out quiet, still thick with sleep. “You’re drooling.”
You gasp. “Liar.”
She grins, eyes sparkling. “Okay, maybe not. But you were close.”
You shove her playfully, and she laughs — that bright, unguarded sound that makes your chest ache a little.
The smell of food drifts from the kitchen, and you both glance over to see the flowers and takeaway waiting for you. There’s a note on the bag in Pierre’s handwriting: “Eat something before one of you ends up in the ICU. – P.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “He’s ridiculous.”
Flavy smiles, stretching before getting up. “He cares.”
You both sit at the counter, sharing the food, hair messy, faces still soft from sleep. The flowers sit in a makeshift vase beside you — a bright reminder that even in the chaos, there’s warmth. When Flavy catches your eye over her coffee, smiling that quiet, grateful smile — it feels like the beginning of something you’ve both been slowly finding your way toward all along.
ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺
It feels strange — walking into the restaurant not wearing scrubs, not clutching a coffee cup, not hearing the constant hum of hospital monitors in the background. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’ve brushed your hair, put on something that isn’t navy blue, and actually put on perfume.
When you spot them — Pierre, Kika, Yuki, and Simba sitting outside under the golden patio lights — your heart swells instantly. Kika’s waving the moment she sees you, Yuki’s already flagging down the waiter for another chair, and Simba bolts from under the table the second you’re close enough, tiny paws skittering on the pavement.
“Mon dieu, finally!” Pierre says dramatically, standing to pull you into a hug. “I was starting to think you’d taken a vow of silence.”
“I texted you two days ago!” you protest, hugging him tightly anyway.
“That was two days too long,” Kika says, her eyes soft and smiling. “You look tired but happy. Hospital life suits you, I think.”
“I’m surviving,” you say with a grin, bending down to scoop Simba into your lap as you sit. “Barely.”
Yuki grins across the table, mischief already written all over his face. “You sure it’s the hospital that’s keeping you busy? Not a certain woman?”
You freeze, looking up sharply. Pierre’s grin spreads like wildfire. “Ah, so that’s why you’ve been smiling more lately.”
You groan, setting Simba back down gently. “Oh, no. No, no, no. We’re not doing this.”
“Oh, we are absolutely doing this,” Yuki says, leaning forward with that glint in his eye that’s equal parts affection and menace. “Kika told me about the couch. The blanket. The snuggling.”
Your jaw drops. “She what?”
Kika puts her hands up immediately, laughing. “I didn’t say anything! He guessed, and I just… didn’t deny it.”
“Unbelievable,” you mutter, covering your face with your hands as Pierre bursts into laughter.
Pierre’s relentless. “So? What’s her name again?”
You shoot him a look. “You know her name.”
“Right, right, Dr. Barla.” He says it like it’s a secret code. “The very same one who used to date my dear teammate Esteban, correct?”
You glare. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Kika giggles, reaching over to refill your glass of water. “You have to admit, it’s kind of adorable. The two of you working side by side, saving lives, sharing snacks. You look so happy when you talk about her.”
You sigh, shoulders relaxing a little as the teasing dies down. “We’re just… good for each other, I think. She’s steady when I’m all over the place. But she just got out of something, and we’re both buried in work, and it’s—” you gesture vaguely, “—chaotic.”
Yuki, of course, doesn’t let it go. “Chaotic can be good. Sometimes you just need a little chaos to remind you you’re alive.”
Pierre rolls his eyes. “He says that because his entire life is chaos.”
Yuki points at you with his fork. “You should bring her to a race. You both need a break. Nothing says ‘stress relief’ like engine noise and free paddock food.”
Pierre immediately nods. “Oui. Exactly. There’s a race in two weeks. You’ve got that break coming up, don’t you?”
You hesitate, picking at the corner of your napkin. “I do, but—”
“No buts!” Pierre interrupts, already pulling out his phone. “You’re coming. You’ll stay with us. I’ll even convince Flavy to come too.”
You snort. “Oh, I’m sure she needs you to convince her.”
Kika smiles knowingly. “She’d say yes if you asked her.”
You throw her a look that’s half exasperated, half flustered. “You’re all insufferable.”
“Maybe,” Yuki says, grinning, “but we’re right.”
Pierre leans back in his chair, satisfied, while Kika hides a smile behind her glass. The teasing fades into easy conversation after that — Pierre catching you up on the latest team gossip, Yuki showing you ridiculous memes on his phone, Kika updating you on her new modeling campaign.
Simba curls up in your lap again halfway through dinner, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe. You laugh until your stomach hurts, sip on something cold and sweet, and let yourself just be for a while.
By the time the waiter brings the bill, the restaurant’s lights have dimmed, and the four of you linger at the table, reluctant to end the night.
Kika squeezes your hand gently. “Promise me you’ll come. You need a break, and we miss you.”
You smile, something soft and genuine warming your chest. “Alright,” you finally say. “I’ll come.”
Pierre pumps his fist in the air triumphantly. “Yes! Bring Flavy. We’ll make it a family affair.”
Yuki grins. “And maybe a romantic one.”
You groan, shoving your chair back as everyone laughs. “I hate all of you.”
Kika stands and hugs you tightly. “You love us.”
And you do — every chaotic, ridiculous, wonderful part of it.
As you walk back to your car under the soft glow of the streetlights, you text Flavy almost without thinking:
I might have agreed to a race weekend. You in?
Her reply comes a minute later:
With you? Always.
You smile down at your screen, the sound of Pierre and Yuki still echoing in your head — and you can’t help but think, maybe chaos isn’t such a bad thing after all.
ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺
It was supposed to be another quiet afternoon — or as quiet as life could get in the middle of medical residency — but you had other plans.
You were both sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by textbooks, case notes, and half-empty coffee mugs. The late afternoon light filtered through the window, painting the room in soft gold. Flavy was squinting at her tablet, brow furrowed, muttering something about treatment plans, while you watched her for a moment — the way your friend’s lashes fluttered when she concentrated, how she pressed her lips together when she got frustrated.
You smiled faintly before closing your own laptop. “Okay,” you said, stretching your arms above your head, “that’s enough suffering for one day.”
Flavy didn’t even glance up. “You say that every time right before making me do something terrifying, like take care of myself or go for a run.”
“This time,” you grinned, reaching for your bag, “it’s something better. Get your shoes — we’re leaving.”
Flavy blinked. “Leaving? For what?”
“Surprise.”
“YN…”
“Trust me.”
There was a pause — then a resigned sigh. “You’re lucky I like you,” Flavy murmured, closing her tablet.
By the time you reached the car, Flavy was side-eyeing you the entire drive, trying to get information out of you. You only hummed along to the music, sunglasses on, an infuriating little smirk tugging at your lips.
When you finally pulled into the spa’s parking lot, Flavy’s mouth fell open slightly. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I absolutely did,” You said proudly. “You’ve been running on caffeine and adrenaline for the last three weeks. You’re one bad case away from falling asleep mid-rounds.”
Flavy huffed, though her eyes softened. “You’re not much better.”
“Exactly why we’re both here.”
Inside, the quiet hum of soft music and the faint scent of lavender immediately wrapped around you both. The front desk attendant handed you robes and slippers, and before long, you both were tucked away in a private suite — nails soaking, phones tucked far, far away.
For the first time in what felt like months, You saw Flavy truly relax. Her shoulders dropped, the tension leaving her expression as a nail tech gently massaged her hands.
“You really didn’t have to do all this,” Flavy murmured after a while, looking up through her lashes.
You smiled from the other side of the room. “Yeah, I did. You’ve been taking care of everyone but yourself lately. Let someone else do it for once.”
Flavy blushed faintly and looked back down at her nails, whispering a quiet, “Thank you.”
You moved from manicures to facials, and then to a side-by-side massage, giggling through the awkwardness of being so tired yet so ticklish. At one point, You caught Flavy’s eye through the headrest hole and you both started laughing, muffled and quiet but contagious. It was a soft, domestic kind of laughter — the kind that fills all the empty, aching spaces left behind by stress and exhaustion.
Afterward, the two of you emerged feeling lighter, their hair damp from the steam room and their skin flushed from warmth. You were practically glowing, and Flavy’s usual tight smile had melted into something gentle and open.
“I feel like an actual human again,” Flavy admitted, stretching as you stepped back into the fading sunlight.
“Mission accomplished,” You said, bumping your shoulder against hers. “You’re going to thank me when Pierre takes pictures of us all weekend.”
You ended the day at a tiny café tucked down a quiet side street, one of your favorites. The two of you sat outside, bundled in oversized sweaters, sharing a warm pastry — the kind filled with chocolate that melted at the center.
“Okay,” you said, after a quiet moment, “rate the day. Ten being best.”
Flavy tore off another piece of the pastry and smiled softly. “Eleven.”
You blinked, then smiled back, something fluttering in your chest. “Yeah,” she murmured, “me too.”
As you drove back, the radio low and the city lights flickering past the windshield, the air between you hummed with something unspoken — not quite romantic, not quite platonic, but something fragile and warm that neither of you dared to name yet.
When you reached her building, Flavy turned to you, still smiling. “Thank you. For… today. For everything.”
You shrugged, though your voice was softer than usual. “You don’t have to thank me, Flavs. I just wanted you to breathe again.”
For once, Flavy didn’t try to deflect. She just nodded, eyes shining, and whispered, “I really did.”
ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺
alpinef1team added to their story!
seen by dr_yn_gasly, pierregasly, kikagomes and 1,209,000 others.
ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺
The paddock is already buzzing when you and Flavy arrive, credentials hanging around your necks and sunglasses shielding your tired eyes from the morning sun. The air hums with engines, chatter, and the faint scent of fuel — that familiar mix that feels like home.
You’ve both done this a hundred times — Flavy, once hand-in-hand with Esteban, and you, always trailing after Pierre with Kika, weaving through the blur of photographers and press officers. But this time, it feels different. This time, Flavy is walking beside you — not behind someone else, not holding anyone’s hand but her coffee cup — and it feels almost… right.
The moment the media spot you, there’s a ripple of excitement. Cameras flash, microphones lift, questions fire off rapid and overlapping.
“YN! Are you here to support Pierre this weekend?”
“Flavy! It’s been a while since we’ve seen you in the paddock — how are you? Back with Esteban?"
“Any chance you’ll be back in the F1 medical team rotation soon?”
You both smile, poised, calm — paddock pros at this point. You give short, polite answers, brushing off anything too personal, and when someone asks whether you came together, Flavy laughs softly and says, “We survived residency together. The paddock’s easy after that.”
You catch her eye and grin. The chaos somehow feels easier with her beside you.
Finally, you make it into Alpine hospitality where Kika is already waving you down, sunglasses perched on her head and a croissant in hand. “About time,” she says, hugging you both in that warm, perfumed way she has. “I thought the photographers were going to eat you alive.”
“They tried,” you joke, flopping into a chair. “Flavy threatened to hit one with her textbook.”
Flavy rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “I said if they got too close.”
The three of you settle into a corner table by the window, tucked just far enough away from the main chaos but close enough to see the bustle of the grid outside. Kika orders more pastries and coffee, and it feels good — the kind of normal that only exists between friends who have seen each other through too much.
For a while, you and Flavy pull out your tablets, going over notes and reviewing case questions. It’s ridiculous — studying in the middle of a Formula 1 race weekend — but it’s the only quiet time you’ve had together in days. Kika teases you both relentlessly, snapping a photo of you surrounded by caffeine and med school materials.
“‘Future doctors of the paddock,’” she captions it before you can stop her.
When you look up from your notes later, Flavy’s chair is empty. You spot her outside, a few meters away, talking quietly to Esteban. He’s smiling — soft, familiar — and you recognize that expression immediately. It’s the same one he used to wear when he’d look at her during post-race interviews.
You swallow, something tight twisting in your chest.
“She’s talking to him again,” you say, trying to sound casual.
Kika hums, not looking up from her phone. “So?”
“So,” you exhale, “I think they’re still in love. You can just… tell.”
Finally, she glances up, eyebrow raised. “And what if they are?”
You look back toward the window. Flavy’s laughing now, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, and the sight makes your chest ache. “Then I don’t want to stand in the way of what they could come back to one day.”
Kika’s expression softens, but she doesn’t argue. She just reaches across the table and squeezes your hand. “You have the biggest heart, you know that?”
You shrug, eyes still fixed on the scene outside. “Doesn’t feel like it right now.”
Flavy returns a few minutes later, cheeks a little flushed but her smile still small and real. “Sorry,” she says quietly. “He just wanted to say hi.”
“Of course,” you reply easily, even managing a smile. “You guys looked happy.”
She hesitates — maybe catching something in your tone — but doesn’t press. Instead, she nudges your notebook toward you. “You missed a question about renal dosing while you were staring into space.”
You laugh softly, grateful for the out. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you love it,” she shoots back, smirking.
By the time the race begins, the three of you are standing along the balcony overlooking the paddock. The engines roar to life, that familiar vibration running through the ground, through your chest. Pierre waves up at you from the garage, and you and Kika cheer like lunatics while Flavy stands between you both, laughing, arms crossed over her chest.
Throughout the race, you find yourself stealing glances at her — at the way she leans forward when the cars speed past, the excitement lighting her face. Every so often, she looks back at you too, offering a quiet smile. The kind that makes your pulse skip just enough to notice.
When Pierre crosses the line, you and Kika erupt, yelling and jumping, nearly knocking Flavy into the railing. She laughs, breathless, and lets you drag her into the celebration anyway. Cameras flash from the paddock floor, and someone’s already filming, but for once, you don’t care. Things feel so simple where she exists.
ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺
several weeks later…
dr_yn_gasly
liked by flavy.barla, yukitsunoda0511, pierregasly, kikagomes and 567,000 others.
dr_yn_gasly : been drowning with residency lately so have a photo dump <3
tagged : flavy.barla and yukitsunoda0511
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flavy.barla : still stunning as ever 🤍
liked by dr_yn_gasly
pierregasly : i feel like maman but please answer my texts
liked by dr_yn_gasly
↳ dr_yn_gasly : i am fine dear big brother
kikagomes : love you always 🤍
liked by dr_yn_gasly
ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺
You’ve been living in survival mode for weeks. Eat. Work. Study. Sleep — when you can. And avoid Flavy.
It wasn’t intentional at first. A missed coffee break here, a rescheduled study session there. But the longer you kept your distance, the easier it became to convince yourself that it was the right thing to do.
She and Esteban were so close at the race. You saw the way they looked at each other — soft, familiar, like two people who hadn’t finished their story yet. You told yourself that staying away was doing her a favor. You didn’t want to blur any lines. You didn’t want to make her feel guilty for something she probably didn’t even realize.
So you threw yourself into your residency. Seventeen-hour shifts turned into twenty. You ate less, slept less, smiled less. You went home only to shower and collapse into bed, your phone buzzing endlessly with messages you didn’t have the energy to answer.
Flavy still found ways to reach you — a coffee cup left by your locker, a brief smile in the hall, a quiet “bonne nuit” when your shifts overlapped — but you kept your answers short, polite. Distant.
You didn’t know that she noticed every hesitation. Or that she eventually told Kika. And Kika, of course, told Pierre. And Pierre — being Pierre — told Yuki.
Which is how, on a rare night off when you’ve finally changed into pajamas and settled into bed with your laptop and leftover noodles, your intercom buzzes.
You frown. It’s nearly eight.
When you answer, the voice that comes through is unmistakable.
“Open the door, doctor.”
You sigh. “Yuki, what—”
“No excuses,” he interrupts. “You didn’t answer my texts, so I assumed you were dead. If you’re not dead, we’re going to dinner.”
You blink, utterly thrown. “It’s raining. I’m in pajamas.”
“Then change. I’m downstairs. I’ll wait five minutes.”
You almost laugh, but he’s already hung up.
Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting in the passenger seat of his car, hair still damp from your rushed shower, hoodie zipped up to your chin. Yuki glances at you, muttering something about how he “knew you’d try to flake,” before pulling out into the wet streets of Paris.
He takes you to a little late-night ramen bar — one you used to visit together with Pierre when you all needed something comforting. The smell alone makes your chest ache.
You settle into a booth, and Yuki immediately orders for both of you. Then he leans back, crossing his arms. “Okay. Talk.”
You blink. “About what?”
He gives you that look. “You’ve been a ghost for three weeks. Even Flavy’s worried. Kika says you barely sleep, Pierre says you look like you got hit by a bus. I’m the intervention.”
You groan, rubbing your temples. “Oh, mon dieu.”
“I’ll keep asking until you talk,” he warns.
And you know he will.
So you sigh, staring down at the steam curling from your bowl. “I just… needed space.”
“From who?”
You hesitate. “Everyone.”
“Why?”
You take a breath. “Because everything’s too much right now. Residency’s hard enough, and then there’s—” You stop, the words catching.
Yuki tilts his head. “Then there’s Flavy?”
You close your eyes. “You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand.”
You pick at your chopsticks for a moment before finally saying it. “She still loves Esteban.”
Yuki blinks. “You asked her?”
“No. But I saw them at the race. They looked… happy. And if there’s a chance they could fix things, I don’t want to stand in the way.”
He frowns, suddenly quieter. “You think loving someone means stepping aside?”
You look up, startled by how calm his voice sounds.
“You always do that,” he continues, leaning forward. “You carry everyone else’s feelings like they’re your responsibility. But who’s carrying you?”
Your throat tightens. “It’s not that simple.”
“It never is,” he says, shrugging. “But maybe it’s not about doing her a favor. Maybe you’re just scared she won’t love you back.”
You stare at him, heart pounding. “Yuki—”
He raises a hand. “Hey, no judgment. Just saying what Pierre would say if he weren’t the world’s most overprotective brother.”
As if on cue, your phone buzzes — and you glance down to see Pierre’s name flashing on the screen.
Yuki grins. “Ah. Speak of the devil.”
You answer with a sigh. “What do you want, Pierre?”
“Where are you?” he demands. “Kika said Yuki dragged you out of the house. Is it true?”
“Yes, and I’m fine.”
“I’m coming,” he says immediately. “Don’t move.”
“Pierre, no—”
He hangs up.
Yuki is practically crying with laughter. “You’re in trouble now.”
It takes Pierre less than twenty minutes to show up, hair damp from the rain, hoodie half-zipped. He scans the restaurant until he spots you both, then walks over with that older-brother energy that manages to fill the entire room.
“You look tired,” he says the moment he sits down, no preamble. “Are you eating enough?”
“I’m literally eating ramen right now,” you mutter.
“Because Yuki kidnapped you,” he shoots back.
Yuki shrugs. “You’re welcome.”
Pierre sighs, softer now. “Kika told me you’ve been isolating. What’s going on, petite sœur?”
Something about his voice — the gentleness underneath the worry — makes your chest ache. You tell him everything, slowly, haltingly: how you’ve been overwhelmed, how you’ve been avoiding Flavy, how you think she still loves Esteban.
When you finish, Pierre leans back, shaking his head. “You really are my sister,” he says quietly. “You always try to protect everyone, even when it hurts you.”
You look down. “I don’t want to make her life harder.”
Pierre reaches across the table, resting his hand over yours. “She’s an adult, YN. If she wanted to be with Esteban, she would be. You don’t get to decide what’s easier for her — especially if it means hurting yourself.”
Yuki nods, for once completely serious. “Yeah. Stop thinking you’re a burden. You’re not.”
You swallow hard, blinking back sudden tears. “I just didn’t want to make things messy.”
Pierre squeezes your hand. “Life’s messy. But that’s not a reason to give up something good before it even starts.”
The silence that follows is warm, not heavy. Yuki slurps his noodles obnoxiously to break it, and Pierre immediately smacks him on the shoulder, muttering something in French that makes Yuki cackle.
It’s chaotic and comforting all at once — exactly what you needed.
By the time the three of you leave, the rain has stopped. Pierre insists on walking you to your building, arm slung protectively around your shoulders.
At the door, he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Promise me you’ll talk to her soon,” he says quietly.
You nod, voice small. “I promise.”
Yuki grins from behind him. “And eat something that’s not processed or frozen tomorrow.”
You laugh softly, heart feeling lighter than it has in weeks. “Okay.”
As they drive away, you stand by the window of your penthouse, watching the taillights disappear into the city. For the first time in a while, you let yourself think about her — really think about her — and realize maybe you’re not doing her a favor by staying away.
Maybe you’re just running from something you’ve already started to fall into.
ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺
It happens near the end of an already impossible shift. You’ve been running on caffeine and autopilot for sixteen hours straight — one trauma after another, one life slipping through your hands while you try to keep the others from doing the same. Residency isn’t kind, but some days, it feels cruel.
And then, just as dawn begins to bleed pale light through the hospital windows, you lose a patient.
A young woman — barely older than you — who came in with something that should’ve been fixable. You did everything right. You know you did. But medicine doesn’t care about right, and death doesn’t care about fairness.
You stand there long after the monitors go flat, the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. Your attending murmurs something — clinical, distant — and someone else gently tugs your gloves off when your hands won’t stop shaking.
You don’t remember walking out of the room. You just… end up in the hallway, back against the cool wall, hands pressed over your face as the tears finally spill over. The air tastes sterile, metallic, too sharp to breathe in.
You don’t cry often. You can’t, not in this line of work. But right now, the weight of it all — the exhaustion, the isolation, the guilt, the ache you’ve been pretending not to feel — crushes down until you can’t hold it in anymore.
You hear footsteps, light and quick. And then a voice, soft and familiar.
“YN?”
You freeze. Of course it’s her. Of course it’s Flavy.
You try to wipe your face, but she’s already kneeling in front of you, eyes wide and full of worry. Her white coat hangs loosely around her, a pen tucked behind one ear, and she looks just as exhausted as you — maybe more.
“Hey, hey…” she whispers, her accent curling through every word. “What happened?”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Just a choked sound and another rush of tears.
She doesn’t press. She doesn’t ask again. She just reaches forward and pulls you into her arms, holding you tight — the kind of hold that anchors you when the world feels like it’s spinning too fast.
You bury your face in her shoulder, sobbing in a way you haven’t allowed yourself to in months. Her fingers trace slow circles between your shoulder blades, steady and rhythmic, grounding you in a world that suddenly feels too heavy to exist in.
“She was so young,” you finally whisper, voice raw. “She was fine one second and then— I just— I couldn’t—”
“You did everything you could,” Flavy says firmly, her voice breaking a little. “You always do.”
“But it wasn’t enough.”
She leans back just enough to cup your face in her hands, her thumbs brushing away your tears. “You can’t save everyone. None of us can. You know that.”
“I hate knowing that.”
“I know.”
For a moment, neither of you move. The hallway is silent except for the hum of the fluorescent lights and the uneven sound of your breathing. And then, slowly, you realize she hasn’t let go of you.
You rest your forehead against hers without meaning to, exhaustion and comfort blurring into something softer, deeper.
Flavy’s voice comes out in a whisper. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
Your breath catches.
“I thought maybe I did something,” she continues quietly. “Or that you didn’t want to be around me anymore. But seeing you like this— I can’t pretend I haven’t missed you.”
You close your eyes. It would be easier to lie, to say you’ve just been busy, to promise things will go back to normal. But you’re too tired to keep pretending.
“I thought I was helping,” you say finally, voice trembling.
“Helping what?”
“You.” You swallow hard. “I thought… I thought you still loved Esteban. And I didn’t want to make things harder for you.”
Flavy blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”
You take a shaky breath. “I saw you two at the race. You looked happy. And I— I didn’t want to stand in the way of something you could get back. I didn’t want to be selfish.”
Her brow furrows. “YN…”
You keep going, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Because the truth is, I’ve been in love with you for months. And I didn’t want to tell you because you don’t need that, not with everything else you’re carrying. So I thought if I just stepped back, if I just stayed away, maybe it would be easier for both of us.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Your heart feels like it’s stopped entirely.
And then — so quietly you almost don’t catch it — she says, “You think I left Esteban because of my career.”
You blink, looking up. “Didn’t you?”
“Partly,” she admits. “But that wasn’t the only reason.”
You stare at her, unsure what she means — and then she says it.
“I started having feelings for you,” she whispers. “Long before I was ready to admit it to myself. And that wasn’t fair to him. I couldn’t stay in a relationship while I was falling for someone else.”
Your breath catches, the hallway spinning just slightly. “Flavy…”
She gives a small, almost shy smile. “You think you were protecting me, but I think you were protecting yourself.”
You let out a laugh. “Maybe both.”
She reaches out, fingers brushing yours. “Can I tell you something?”
You nod, unable to speak.
“I don’t know what happens next,” she says softly. “We’re both exhausted, and this life is hard, and maybe it’s crazy. But when I’m with you, even when we’re just studying in silence, it feels… lighter. Like I can breathe again.”
Something in your chest cracks open at that.
You don’t think. You just lean forward — slow, uncertain — until your forehead rests against hers again. The world around you narrows to the quiet sound of your breaths, the warmth of her hands still holding yours.
Her lips brush your cheek, soft and tentative, and your entire body stutters at the feeling. When you tilt your head slightly, she meets you halfway. The kiss is barely there — gentle, trembling, hesitant — but it carries everything you’ve both been trying not to say for months.
When you finally pull back, her eyes are glossy but bright, a small smile curving her mouth.
“I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to disappear,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry I did,” you answer just as softly.
She presses her forehead to yours again, breathing you in. “Let’s stop running, hmm?”
You nod, tears still clinging to your lashes. “Yeah. Let’s stop.”
Outside, the sun has fully risen — pale gold spilling through the hospital windows. You both stand there for a while, leaning into each other, the weight of the night slowly fading into something lighter. It’s not perfect. It’s messy and raw and uncertain. But for the first time in weeks, it feels real. And real feels like enough.
ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺
several months later...
Morning light spills through the soft cream curtains of your apartment, dancing over the neat chaos that comes with the end of something monumental. Your residency graduation day. You blink awake slowly, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest in a way that’s both grounding and surreal. The air feels lighter somehow, as if the universe has exhaled after years of holding its breath with you.
Flavy is already up—her soft humming trails from the kitchen, a melody you’ve come to associate with calm mornings and shared lives. You find her leaning against the counter, two mugs of coffee steaming between her palms. She looks up as you approach, her whole face lighting up with that familiar, tender smile that still manages to make your knees weak.
“Morning, Doctor of Pediatrics,” she teases softly, handing you your mug.
You laugh, taking it from her. “Not yet. I think I need the plaque first.”
She steps closer, tracing her fingers along the hem of your sleep shirt. “You’ve earned it ten times over,” she murmurs, before kissing you—gentle, grounding, perfect.
The two of you spend the morning in your quiet, unhurried rhythm. The same rhythm that’s carried you through the sleepless nights and coffee-fueled chaos of residency—the difference now being that you’ve finally made it through to the other side. You take turns getting ready, helping zip each other’s dresses, fixing stray hairs, laughing over how surreal it all feels.
Flavy’s in a pale sage green dress, one that makes her eyes glow in the morning sun. You catch her reflection in the mirror as she helps you with your necklace, her hands brushing over your collarbone. “You look incredible,” she whispers, and you can hear the emotion hiding beneath her calm voice.
You turn to face her. “So do you.”
Your lips meet again—soft, unhurried, full of quiet disbelief that this life you dreamed about on long, hard nights is finally here.
The ceremony itself feels like a blur. Rows of proud families, applause echoing through the hall, the low hum of excitement filling every corner. You sit beside Flavy, your fingers brushing in the shared folds of your gowns. Every so often, she glances your way, her expression caught between pride and awe.
When your names are called—one after the other—the room erupts. You step forward, your steps steady but your heart pounding. In the crowd, Pierre’s voice is the loudest, his whistle cutting through the applause. Kika’s next to him, beaming, recording the whole thing. Yuki stands on his chair, waving like a maniac while Esteban claps with a proud, knowing grin.
You catch Pierre’s eye as you return to your seat. He mouths, so proud of you, and your throat tightens. You mouth love you back.
When the ceremony ends, you and Flavy are pulled into the gravity of everyone’s arms—hugs, laughter, tears, photos. Kika insists on taking ten different pictures until Yuki complains about the poses being “too romantic for a LinkedIn post.”
Pierre’s hand finds the back of your head, pulling you into a tight hug. “Mon ange,” he murmurs, voice thick, “you did it. You really did it.”
You smile into his shoulder. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
He snorts softly. “You did most of it without sleep.”
Dinner that night feels like a dream. A long table at your favorite little restaurant overlooking the Seine, fairy lights strung above the terrace, laughter spilling like wine across the evening air. Everyone you love is there—Pierre at one end, loudly recounting your first day of medical school to anyone who’ll listen; Kika teasing him about crying during the ceremony; Yuki and Esteban arguing over who’s paying the bill (Yuki insists it’s Pierre’s big brother duty).
Flavy sits beside you, her hand resting on your thigh under the table. Every time you look at her, your heart does that small, dizzying flutter it always has.
When dessert comes—some decadent chocolate thing shared between the two of you—Pierre clinks his glass.
“To my little sister,” he says, eyes shining. “You’ve made us all proud. And to Flavy—for being the calm she always needed. You two are unstoppable.”
The table bursts into cheers and laughter, and you feel yourself flush, warmth spilling through your chest. Flavy squeezes your hand, smiling softly.
Later, when the night winds down, you step out onto the balcony with her. The city hums below, bathed in the gold of streetlights and laughter. You lean into her, head on her shoulder, your fingers intertwining.
“We really did it,” you whisper.
She kisses your hair. “We did. And now we get to decide what comes next.”
You tilt your head to look at her, smiling. “Whatever it is, I want it with you.”
Her smile grows, eyes shining in the low light. “Always.”
There, in the quiet hum of celebration and love, with the people who saw you through every breakdown and every triumph just behind the door—you let yourself breathe. Fully, deeply, freely. You’re no longer surviving. You’re living. Together.
ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺
dr_yn_gasly
liked by yukitsunoda0511, pierregasly, kikagomes, flavy.barla and 1,090,000 others.
dr_yn_gasly : made it through residency with the love of my life <3 could not have done it without you, mon ange. you keep my head straight, you make everything make sense and you keep me calm. i love you, dr. flavy barla 🤍
tagged : flavy.barla
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ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺 ᝰ.ᐟ 🩺
epilogue! (three years later)
The sunlight in Monaco is different. Softer, golden, always carrying that faint shimmer off the water that makes every morning feel like it’s been brushed in warmth. You still wake up early—some habits from residency never really fade—but now, the sound that wakes you isn’t a pager or the blaring of your phone. It’s laughter.
From the living room, you can hear Flavy humming as she sets out coffee mugs, her engagement ring catching the light as she moves. You still aren’t used to seeing it—glinting on her hand, shining against her scrubs—but you love it. You love everything about this life you’ve built.
The pediatric clinic you opened together sits just a few blocks from the marina. It started as a dream during those long shifts, when the two of you used to whisper about what it would be like to have a place of your own—a clinic built on compassion, not chaos. Now it’s a cornerstone of the community. Parents adore you both, kids run down the halls to the murals you helped paint, and your waiting room is always filled with soft giggles instead of sterile silence.
Flavy still insists on handling the morning rounds herself, and you still tease her about how every child seems to fall instantly in love with her. But truthfully? You’re the same. You adore this work, this place, this life.
You’re sipping your coffee when the clinic doors burst open, and a familiar little voice echoes down the hallway.
“Tatie!”
Pierre and Kika step in, hand in hand, their one and a half year old daughter wobbling between them in a tiny sundress patterned with strawberries. You kneel just in time to catch her as she toddles toward you, giggling.
“Hey, my favorite girl!” you beam, scooping her up. She squeals, pressing her small hands to your cheeks before planting a slobbery kiss on your nose. Flavy laughs from across the room, her stethoscope still around her neck as she comes over to join you.
“She’s growing so fast,” Flavy says softly, brushing a curl from the toddler’s forehead.
Pierre groans dramatically. “Tell me about it. She already ignores me in favor of her aunties.”
“She has excellent taste,” Kika quips, kissing his cheek before turning to you and Flavy. “We just came to drop off the treats from Maman—she said to tell you she’s proud of her two favorite doctors.”
You glance at Flavy, a grin breaking across both your faces. “We’ll have to call her later,” you say, taking the little paper bag filled with pastries.
Pierre wraps an arm around you, squeezing tight. “I still can’t believe it sometimes,” he murmurs, glancing around the bright, cheerful clinic. “You two really did it.”
You smile, eyes soft. “We did.”
And it’s true. Every late night, every heartbreak, every ounce of doubt—it all led here. To this.
You and Flavy walk them out after a while, standing together at the door as Pierre straps his sleepy daughter into her stroller. Kika waves, the toddler waving back with a tiny, sleepy hand.
When they disappear down the street, Flavy slips her fingers through yours. The sun is dipping low now, gold bleeding into the pink horizon over the harbor. You turn toward her, smiling softly.
“Still feels unreal sometimes,” you say quietly.
Flavy leans her forehead against yours, smiling. “Then let’s never get used to it.”
You kiss her—slow and certain—and in that moment, surrounded by the hum of your clinic and the glow of the Monaco sunset, it hits you again: you made it. Not just through residency. Not just through love. Through everything. And you wouldn’t change a single thing.
don’t⠀ make ⠀ me ⠀hate⠀ you ⠀ prolifically ⠀ ⠀— ⠀ ⠀ mv33
summary ⠀: ⠀when George Russell’s ex girlfriend goes on tour after their messy breakup, she doesn’t expect to get dragged to his enemies home race..
warnings ⠀: ⠀breakups, george is a cheating little shit, mild george russell slander, cheating, swearing.
extra ⠀& ⠀notes ⠀: ⠀all graphics (setlist & poster) made by me
faceclaims ⠀: ⠀sabrina carpenter
pairing ⠀: ⠀george russell x ex gf!reader , max verstappen x singer!reader
ynln
liked by yourbestfriend, maxverstappen1 and 965,200 others
the tickets for the eu & usa breakup tour are now live! my new album, mans best friend releases on the 29th of august just before my tour starts! locations available in the pinned post aswell as wherever you buy your tickets, i can’t wait for them to be yours 🐾🤍
yours truly, y/n l/n.
userfive ּ ❤️ by creator
our queen is back!!
madisonbeer ּ ❤️ by creator
gorgeous gorgeous girl!!
ynln
no you!!
alexandrasaintmleux ּ ❤️ by creator
oh i am so taking charl and the girls!! we miss you at the paddock so bad bébé 🙁🤍
ynln
i miss you so bad sweet girl!! i’m so making sure to reserve some backstage passes for you x
flavybarla ּ ❤️ by creator
oh my goodness! my gorgeous girl 🙁 you’re absolutely glowing
ynln
says you?! how’re you and estie?? we need to catch up some time..
flavybarla
we do!! pleasepleasepleaseee come to hungary.. i promise you that you wont have to see anyone you don’t want to, we all miss you so bad..
ynln
dm me bébé..
dms with yn ln and flavy barla — 16.07.25
ynln
liked by maxverstappen1, estebanocon, flavybarla and 20 others
so long london, hungary is calling me.. to the gp we go, i suppose
PSA: a gentle reminder that wags are just normal people that happen to date drivers. Yes, they may be models, professional athletes and social media sensations, and be featured in rhode, but at the end of the day, they're people with their own passions, careers, and stories, not just accessories to your favourite driver.
If you know me, you would know that I am 1. a fangirl. 2. the number 1 hater of wag culture (and parasocial relationships in general). Combining my two expertises, here is why wag culture is horrible:
For instance, merely gaining the status of being a wag affords you incessant and unrelenting praise. I don't think anyone can deny that a wag's popularity is solely due to the driver—yes, i'm looking at you, Alexandra minions. I can guarantee that you know someone like Alexandra in your life—your Lacy of sorts. Someone who is beautiful, outgoing, and just genuinely a nice soul to be around. From my personal, purely unbiased perspective, here is my impression of Alexandra: an unassuming French-Mexican girl with good fashion sense, posture, networking skills, and just so happened to be dating the prince of Monaco Charles Leclerc. I won't elaborate on her brand deals with Rhode, Meshki, etc, but people need to stay grounded so here we are. Purely objectively, Alexandra is a marketing machine. While it is undeniable that her brand deals are deserved, her largest selling point is that she fully embodies the je ne sais quoi, it girl persona while dating objectively the most popular f1 driver amongst female fans, which gives a connection that allows brands to delve into the growing female fan demographic of f1 without paying an exorbitant sponsorship for f1 academy which probably wouldn't bring them too much press anyways. To continue, I fear I must talk about Lily Zneimer. She seems to be the perfect unassuming girl, sharing a lilt of as if to say she is just like anyone else. I suppose that is why she became so popular even through her privacy. If you google her, you find out she's British, met Oscar in school, and is an aspiring engineer. If you dig a little deeper, you find out that she received all 9s on her GCSEs. That's all can be found on her on the internet. You know NOTHING about her personality, hobbies, etc. NOTHING. Who are you stanning? And yet, there are fanpages dedicated to reposting her every move, passionate fans that spend hours searching up every piece of her outfits to post on instagram. As evidenced by Lily's private demeanour, the fanpages could be making her uncomfortable, and pulling her into the exact situation she seeks to avoid by being a private wag. On an off note, a large reason why she is loved as a "private wag" is because she is not profiting off Oscar for clout on instagram, by which is internally misogynistic on its own. Since people don’t know anything about Lily, there’s nothing for them to criticise, so they "stan': her mainly to use her as a contrast to more well known wags, often as a way to hate on those other women, if that makes sense. To put it simply, you are just glorifying someone with very little status. Wags like Alexandra (to no fault of their own) are stealing from actual women in motorsport. I recently saw an article titled something along the lines of "Is Alexandra Saint Mleux the most glamorous woman in Formula 1?" First off, she is not a woman in Formula 1. She would not have any connection to F1 or motorsport if she wasn't dating Charles. She isn't involved in the sport’s competitive or technical side. The term “women in F1” generally highlights those making a hands on contribution—drivers, engineers, strategists, mechanics, and other team personnel—rather than those attending as partners or guests. While wags certainly contribute to the racing atmosphere and community, their role doesn’t fit the professional focus that the phrase aims to recognise. Using your logic, is Pascale Leclerc a woman in f1? How about Nicole Piastri? Calling her a "woman in f1" is a slap in the face to the actual drivers, engineers, etc who have had to fight for a place in this highly competitive, male‑dominated industry. By applying the label to someone simply because of their relationship to a driver, it diminishes the efforts and expertise of the women making a direct, professional contribution to f1 every day. Alexandra has 2x the amount of followers as Susie Wolff, 18x of Hannah Schmitz, 10x of Doriane Pin. Let that sink in.
Lastly, I find the wag tiering system interesting. If you go on tiktok search up f1 wags and scroll just a little too far, you will find fanpages dedicated to a specific wag. Occaisionally, these account like to slander the previous girlfriends of these drivers in order to re-enlist the superiority of their fav wag. I have nothing to say other than it is utterly ridiculous, parasocial, and just downright weird. Let’s break down what constitutes a “good wag” by analysing the definition : WAG, wives and girlfriends of professional athletes. Therefore, by this logic, the vitality of a “good” wag is decided by the how “good” of a girlfriend they are. But how do you measure being a good girlfriend when you dont have any input or space in their personal life? critiquing outfits or whatever sponsorships they may have recieved due to their wag status (highly connected to the prestige and reputation of their driver boyfriend) is completely irrelevant to their status as a wag, as is psychanalysing their reactions (cheering, smiling, emotions, etc) to their boyfriends winning. Point is, you have no right to judge whoever a driver choses to date.
On the opposite side of the coin, people are to obsessed with digging up dirt about wags. I recently discovered a 30 page website dissecting Rebecca's entire instagram posts, presence, employment, connections, and public appearances, since she her adolescence, including extrapolating many rumours that have little to no relevance to her current public image. I won't continue as that thread does not need any more publicity than it already has, but you get the idea. Additionally, I think that most of you are familiar with the povkellyp fiasco. Why do peaple act like kelly is some kind of evil mastermind?? like be serious. You’re foaming at the mouth over a woman you don’t know because she dated two drivers, has a daughter and dared to exist in public. It’s giving misogyny in a cute fandom wrapper. not everything needs a villain arc. Sometimes a person is just living their life and y’all project a whole telenovela onto it. Maybe go outside. Have a coke. Pet a dog. Yes, she’s high profile because she’s connected to Max, one of the biggest names in f1, but that doesn’t justify making her a target. Criticising her every word, outfit, or social media post doesn’t prove how passionate you are about racing—it just exposes how little you have to say about the actual sport. People change—even if the horrible rumours surrounding her are true, Max has his reasons for choosing her to be the mother of his children. You needn't interfere and perpetuate rumours, and doing so is childish. If she is really so bad, people will realise without your hate posts.
To conclude, I must remind everyone to be open of others' opinions, and to reflect before commenting something mean. All the wags are amazing girls who deserve the utmost respect. I am happy to engage in open discussions surrounding my argument, should you wish to hear more.
Those are everything I can think of for now. Anyways, thank you for reading my rant ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
Now that these last few months have brought us the Chengagement and the Albonogagement, here's my casual and completely unserious assessment of the odds of the rest of the grid proposing in the near future, in order:
MAX VERSTAPPEN and KELLY PIQUET: Now that Max and Kelly have a child together, I could see them getting engaged in the next couple years, perhaps this year. The engagement announcement would either drop when Max retires and decides to do endurance, OR their team will keep the announcement photos locked and loaded to deploy as a PR smokescreen for the next time Max gets cancelled for threatening to hit someone with his car.
PIERRE GASLY and KIKA CERQUEIRA GOMES: Charles and Alexandra got a PR dog, right before Pierre and Kika got a PR dog. I've connected the dots. (You haven't connected shit!) Pierre will thus pop the question to Kika sooner rather than later. He's just waiting for his hair to grow back after that disastrous buzz cut because Kika would refuse to have her man immortalized in their photos looking like that.
GEORGE RUSSELL and CARMEN MONTERO MUNDT: George and Carmen have been together for a while, but I think they would not get engaged super soon so as to not steal the thunder from Alex and Lily. In my head they're definitely considering it, but they would need to do it only after months of talks with tax experts, brand consultants, and the F1 calendar to make sure that their union minimizes any disruption to their careers and finances. The engagement will be sponsored by Tommy Hilfiger and will come with a completely unhelpful PDF guide from Carmen on how you and your spouse should invest your shared wealth.
CARLOS SAINZ and REBECCA DONALDSON: I don't know much about their relationship but given their proximity to both parties of the Chengagement, I would not be surprised if they are using it as market research.
LANDO NORRIS and MAGUI CORCEIRO: They haven't been public for very long, but I wouldn't put it past Lando to spring a big romantic grand gesture like this, and then you'll see me eating my popcorn as all the parasocial Lando fans on Twitter declare War and start coming up with Gaylor level theories about how Lando's evil girlfriend forced him to propose and has him currently trapped in a tower Rapunzel style.
OSCAR PIASTRI and LILY ZNEIMER: Yes Oscar and Lily Z have been together since high school, but they are both quite young, and Lily has a normal real world job where you aren't considered peak at 27 and washed at 40, so I don't really think they're in a rush. But they are so private they could already be engaged and the general public would know fuck all about it, which. Fair enough.
ESTEBAN OCON and FLAVY BARLA: Flavy is premed, so she's probably #marriedtothegrind rn and will be until she completes her program. Hope she's acing O Chem and Biostats.
FRANCO COLAPINTO and RANDOM MILF: I was originally not going to put any of the recent rookies/ children, but Franco is the exception. Odds are low, but never say never, right? I wouldn't put it past him to have a wild time after a Las Vegas Grand Prix and get married to a beautiful woman twice his age by an Elvis impersonator.
