#formula 1 angst

[cheftsunoda]

𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 - 𝐦𝐯𝟑

max verstappen x !retired driver/tp reader

you swore you would never come back to this place. not to the noise. not to the politics. not to the ghosts of your past.

but when red bull calls, you don’t hesitate.

you tell yourself it’s for the team. for the legacy. for the championship you never got to defend. it’s most definitely not for him.

not for max verstappen, standing in the garage like he’s been waiting for you to return since the day you left. he looks at you the same way he always has— like you’re something to conquer. or something he lost and can't help but want back.

and maybe the real problem isn’t that you hate each other. maybe it’s that you never learned how to stop.

(a/n) : omg hello babes! this is my slow return. i appreciate all the messages and love i have received while i was away. i have just been going through a lot recently and needed some time to get myself together before my return. idk how much i will be posting this week but i will try my best to get a few more pieces up. hope you all love this as much as i love you! fc : bella hadid!

₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚

f1gossipgirls

liked by username045, username3, lando and 1,500,000 others.

f1gossipgirls : it has been confirmed that none other than ex red bull driver and world champion, yn ln, will be taking christian horner's spot as red bull team principal. now, if you do not know the history between her and max- it is time to catch up BABYYYY. this season about to be messy. max was already asked about yn's return and seemed to be less than impressed.

-

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username007 : that’s not dislike that’s unresolved feelings btw

liked by f1gossipgirls

username775 : can anyone catch me up here??

↳ username110 : max and yn used to be teammates and had like a brocedes level rivalry if not worse, they could not STAND each other. they had a crash, yn got seriously injured and was forced into retirement and max was fine. but honestly i choose to believe they hate each other so bad because they are in love with each other. there were rumors that they were dating and the 'hate each other' act was to hide it. because if you watch old interviews, there is so much TENSION. and honestly after yn's crash, max became even more max than he already was. like mans turned into a monster. to say their history is complicated is an understatement.

liked and pinned by f1gossipgirls

mclarenfan4 : oh we taking that constructors and drivers peacefully thank you

username002 : this is either going to win us the title or implode spectacularly. i feel like a ferrari fan

liked by f1gossipgirls

username11 : mans is SICK to his stomach.

username78 : imagine showing up to work and your ex rival/situationship is your new boss.

username005 : max already fighting for his life and the season hasn’t started

↳ username101 : that man was blinking like he saw a ghost

username11110 : the interview had me on the floor

↳ username424 : the way he paused before saying her NAMEEE

₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚

eight years ago

You’re twenty. Too young, they say. Too sharp. Too emotional. Too much.

You’ve just stepped off the top step of the podium, champagne still drying in your hair, trophy heavy in your hands. The cameras loved it — the smirk, the wink, the deliberate glance down the grid toward the garage. Toward him.

Max Verstappen stands with his helmet tucked under his arm, jaw tight, eyes tracking you like you’ve just committed a crime. You beat him by three tenths. You defend the win like it’s war.

And in the media pen, when the interviewer asks how it feels to beat your teammate again, you lean back in your chair and say, sweetly: “I don’t see teammates. I see competition.”

You don’t look at him. You don’t have to. You can feel the way the air shifts. It’s an hour later when your driver's room door slams open. You don’t even jump.

“You’re unbelievable,” he snaps.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, still in team kit, scrolling through your phone like he’s a mild inconvenience.

“Hi, Maxie.”

“Don’t.”

He paces once. Twice. Stops in front of you.

“You embarrassed the team.”

You laugh. It’s sharp. “I won the race.”

“You don’t have to act like I’m beneath you.”

“Then stop driving like you are.”

Silence. Thick and volatile. He steps closer.

“You think you’re better than me?”

You stand now, nose almost brushing his. “No. I know I am.”

It’s cruel. You know it’s cruel. You say it anyway. His hands flex at his sides.

“One day,” he says lowly, “you’re going to push too far.”

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But you’ll still be behind me, Verstappen.”

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe you both do.

The shove is small but intentional. Your back hits the wall. His hands catch your arms like he didn’t mean to hold you — but he doesn’t let go. You’re breathing too hard.

“I fucking hate you,” he says.

“Good.”

Your mouth crashes into his before either of you can take it back.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth and anger and months of unfinished sentences. It’s hands fisting into fabric and the taste of champagne and pride and resentment.

You pull away first. Because you always do.

“Get out,” you tell him.

He stares at you like he wants to say something else. He doesn’t. The door closes.

The next morning, You don’t speak. As always.

present day

The phone rings at 2:17 a.m. You stare at it for a long time before answering.

“YN, we need you.”

The voice is clinical. Urgent. All too familiar.

Red Bull is spiraling. Sponsors nervous. Structure fractured. Christian Horner is gone.

There’s a pause.

“Team principal.”

Your laugh is hollow. “You’re joking.”

“Absolutely not. I don't have time to joke, YN.”

And suddenly you’re not in your quiet penthouse anymore. You’re back in the cockpit. The smell of fuel. The vibration through your spine. The corner that never straightened the way it should have— The flash of white. The crunch of carbon fiber. Silence.

Your hands start shaking. You swallow.

“You’re asking a retired driver. Must be desperate."

“I'm asking a World Champion.”

A beat.

“And I'm asking the only person he’s ever truly listened to.”

Him. Of course.

Your mind betrays you with the memory of his mouth on yours. Of the way he used to look at you like you were something he had to defeat or devour.

You close your eyes.

“Send the contract.”

—

The Red Bull conference room hasn’t changed. Same long table. Same muted lighting. Same air of calculation. Engineers line the walls. Strategy team at the far end.

And at the head of the table—him. Older now. Sharper. Colder. Max Verstappen doesn’t stand when you walk in. But Isack Hadjar does. Immediately. His chair nearly scrapes the floor.

“It’s an honor,” isack blurts, eyes bright. “I used to watch your championship season on repeat.”

Your lips soften despite yourself. “Don’t make me feel old.”

He grins like you just handed him the world. Max doesn’t smile. He watches. Assessing.

You take the seat at the head of the table without asking permission.

“Let’s be clear,” you begin. “I’m not here to babysit. I’m here to win.”

Slides appear. Data. Projections. Weaknesses. You cut through it all.

“Our corner entry is too conservative. We’re bleeding tenths on exit. I want the rear stability adjusted before Imola.”

One of the senior engineers hesitates. “That’s risky.”

“So is losing.”

Silence. You glance at max.

“Thoughts?”

His jaw ticks. “It’ll make the car unpredictable.”

“Only if you’re not precise.”

It’s a challenge. The room feels it. His eyes narrow.

“I’m precise.”

“Then you better prove it to me.”

Isack is practically vibrating.

“This is going to be insane,” he mutters under his breath.

The meeting ends with a mix of awe and tension. Chairs scrape. Voices murmur. Isack lingers.

“Seriously,” he says quietly, “this is the coolest thing that could have happened to this team.”

You smile at him gently. “Focus on your lap times, Hadjar.”

He nods eagerly and disappears with the others. The door clicks shut. And it’s just you and Max. The air shifts instantly. He stands slowly.

“Team principal,” he says flatly.

“My senior driver.”

He steps closer to the table.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Your pulse spikes. “Why? Afraid that you'll lose control of your team?"

“This isn’t funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

A beat.

“You left,” he says, and there’s something under it now. Something less controlled. “You don’t get to just come back.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t leave by choice.”

“You could have fought.”

“I almost died.”

The words land heavy. He looks away first. Silence stretches.

“Why did you take the job?” He asks quietly.

You hold his gaze.

“Because I’m not done winning.”

That’s not the full truth. He knows it. He steps closer until the edge of the table presses into your hips. Too close. Just like eight years ago.

“Don’t play games with me,” he murmurs.

“Then stop reacting to me like this.”

His hand twitches like he’s debating reaching for you. He doesn’t.

“This won’t end well,” he says.

You tilt your head.

“It never does with us.”

His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second. There it is. The ghost of twenty years old. Champagne. Anger. Bitterness. Unfinished.

He steps back first this time.

“You’re my boss,” he says, like it tastes wrong.

“And you’re still my biggest problem.”

A flicker of something almost like a smile touches his lips.

“Good,” he says softly. “I was worried you’d gone soft.”

You don’t breathe until he leaves the room. And when the door closes, you realize the real problem isn’t the team. It’s that nothing between you has ever been simple. And it still isn’t.

₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚

several weeks later

You learn very quickly that winning a championship is easier than rebuilding an empire. The paddock is loud. Not physically — not yet. Testing has not even begun — but online, in interviews, in whispered phone calls between sponsors and executives.

“She has no management experience.”

“Her and Max won't be able to get along.”

“She retired. That means she couldn’t handle it.”

You read none of it. You hear all of it.

Inside, the atmosphere is split clean down the middle. Half the staff look at you like you are salvation. The other half look at you like you are a risk assessment.

You strip the strategy department down within days. Two senior analysts are reassigned. You bring in a younger data engineer who had been buried in simulation work. You demand shorter debriefs. Sharper communication. Fewer politics.

You do not raise your voice. That unsettles them more.

In the design office, you stand over schematics with sleeves rolled up, pointing at the rear suspension geometry.

“We are sacrificing rotation for comfort,” you say calmly. “Comfort does not win championships.”

An older engineer shifts. “Instability doesn’t either.”

You meet his eyes. “Instability in the wrong hands doesn’t.”

A pointed silence. Everyone knows who the right hands are.

The first official media day is brutal. Cameras flash as you step to the podium, composed in navy tailoring that still feels foreign compared to race suits.

A reporter clears his throat.

“You’re the youngest team principal on the grid. What makes you think you’re ready?”

You smile faintly.

“I’ve raced against most of the grid. I’ve beaten some of them. I understand pressure. I understand failure. And I understand this team.”

Another question.

“Isn’t there concern about your personal history with your lead driver?”

There it is.

You don’t blink.

“My personal history is irrelevant. Performance is not.”

Across the media pen, you see him. Max is being asked the same questions. He leans back in his chair, expression flat.

“What do you think about her appointment?”

A pause.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he says evenly. “She’s a world champion. That doesn’t disappear.”

The room stills slightly.

Another reporter pushes. “But you seemed less than impressed when it was announced.”

His jaw tightens.

“I’m impressed by results. Let her work.”

He stands before they can dig further. He does not look at you. But he did not let them question you. And that is louder than praise.

The factory becomes your battlefield. You arrive before sunrise. Leave long after the lights in the simulator room go dark. In the corridors, you catch fragments of conversation that cut off when you approach.

“She’s changing too much too fast.”

“It’s reckless.”

“Maybe this is temporary.”

And then there are others —

“You see her in the sim? She still knows exactly what the car needs.”

“She caught that brake bias issue before telemetry did.”

“Max is sharper already.”

The split grows visible. You can feel it in meetings. In how some people avoid eye contact. In how others straighten when you enter a room. And in how he watches. Always watching.

It happens on a Thursday afternoon. The final aerodynamic package before testing is locked in — conservative, stable, safe.

You stare at the data projected across the wall. Then you shake your head.

“No.”

The room freezes.

“We are scrapping the secondary floor concept. I want the aggressive spec.”

An audible inhale from the head of aero.

“That hasn’t been validated at high speed tracks.”

“It doesn’t need to be,” you reply. “It needs to outperform.”

“It could destabilize rear traction.”

“It will increase downforce in medium speed corners. That’s where we’re bleeding lap time.”

Silence. You make the call. Within an hour, the entire factory knows. Within two, so does he.

Your office door opens without a knock. Of course it does.

You do not look up immediately. “You could try knocking.”

“You changed the floor.”

His voice is controlled, but only barely.

You close the file in front of you and finally meet his gaze.

“Yes.”

He steps inside, shutting the door behind him. “That spec isn’t stable.”

“It’s faster.”

“It’s unpredictable.”

“It’s responsive.”

His jaw ticks. “You’re gambling.”

You stand slowly, circling the desk.

“I am optimizing.”

“You’re not the one driving it.”

The words land harder than he means them to. You stop a foot away from him.

“No,” you say evenly. “I’m the one responsible if you don’t win.”

His eyes darken. “This isn’t about ego.”

“It never is with you.”

He takes a step closer.

“You think I can’t handle it?”

“I think,” you say quietly, “that you don’t like not being the one making the final call.”

Silence thickens.

He is close enough that you can see the faint scar near his eyebrow from years ago. Close enough that you remember what it felt like to stand like this before.

“This car needs to be drivable,” he insists.

“It needs to be dominant.”

“And if it spins?”

“Then you adapt.”

His eyes flash. “You’re asking for perfection.”

“I’m expecting it.”

A charged beat.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t get to treat me like I’m your teammate again.”

“And you don’t get to pretend you haven’t always driven better when someone pushes you.”

That stops him.

His gaze sharpens, searching your face.

“You think this makes me better?”

“I know it does.”

The air shifts. Not soft. Not warm. But electric.

He steps closer again, until the edge of your desk presses against the back of your thighs. There is less than a breath of space between you now.

“You’re not in the car,” he says lowly. “You don’t feel it.”

Your pulse stutters — not from fear. From proximity.

“I don’t need to feel it,” you reply, voice steady. “I know you.”

A flicker. Something unguarded. Gone just as quickly.

“You’re wrong,” he mutters.

You turn, reaching for your tablet, pulling up telemetry overlays from last season.

“You overcorrect under pressure in high-speed entries,” you say calmly. “This package forces commitment. It eliminates your hesitation.”

“I don’t hesitate.”

You slide the data toward him.

“You did. Three times in Suzuka. Twice in Silverstone.”

He stares at the screen. Then, quietly:

“…That was wind.”

“It was doubt.”

His eyes lift slowly to yours. You don’t look away. He studies you for a long moment — weighing, calculating, remembering. Finally, he exhales through his nose.

“If this backfires—”

“It won’t.”

“That’s not certainty.”

“That’s trust.”

Another pause.

He shakes his head slightly, but there is no anger left in it now.

“Everyone’s saying you’re changing too much.”

“I am.”

“They think it’s reckless.”

You tilt your head. “Do you?”

His gaze softens — just barely.

“No.”

The admission hangs between you.

“They don’t know you like I do,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

Your throat tightens unexpectedly.

“That’s not an advantage,” you say quietly.

“It is.”

For a second, neither of you move.

There is no kiss. No touch. Just heat and unfinished history and the shared understanding that you have always brought out something sharper in each other. He steps back first.

“When testing starts,” he says, regaining composure, “I’ll drive it your way.”

You nod once.

“And when it’s faster?”

His mouth twitches faintly.

“Then I’ll tell the press it was my idea.”

You almost smile.

“Of course you will.”

He reaches the door, then pauses without turning around.

“They’re wrong about you,” he says.

Before you can respond, he leaves. The door clicks shut.

Outside your office, the factory continues buzzing — divided, doubtful, restless. Inside, you allow yourself one slow breath. He does not like that you are here. He does not like that you challenge him. But when it matters — He stands beside you. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚

several weeks into the season

yourusername

liked by kellypiquet, redbullracing, isackhadjar, francolapinto and 3,570,000 others.

yourusername : winning tastes just as sweet as i remember.

-

view 209,000 other comments.

redbullracing : and you make winning look even better 😻

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : raise for you admin !!!!!

liked by redbullracing

username00 : im sorry on behalf of anyone who ever doubted you queen, this car is fucking insane.

liked by redbullracing, yourusername and isackhadjar

username101 : kelly in the likes???

↳ username105 : clearly yn and max have gotten over their differences. it has been years.

↳ username005 : mmm im not completely sold.

↳ username101 : i am. max looks at yn like she makes his entire world spin.

↳ username500 : he HAS ALWAYS LOOKED AT HER THAT WAY.

↳ username10010 : imagine being kelly and reading all these comments about your man and his boss.

↳ username1515 : don't make that face kelly piquet

isackhadjar : la reine🏎️

liked by redbullracing and yourusername

₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚

The car is a monster. Not temperamental. Not fragile. Not theoretical. A monster.

From the moment testing began, the numbers spoke for themselves. The aggressive floor spec you forced through the factory transformed the rear stability under load. Medium speed corners — once your weakness — are now your advantage. High speed sections look effortless.

The paddock shifts quickly when something works. Doubt turns into admiration. Admiration turns into fear.

You stand on the pit wall in as Max threads the car between barriers like it was built around him. The timing screens glow purple sector after purple sector.

The engineers behind you exchange looks that say it without words: She was right.

When he crosses the line first, you do not celebrate wildly. You remove your headset calmly, nod once, and allow yourself a small breath.

He climbs from the cockpit and does not look at you immediately. He looks at the car. Then he looks at you. There is something unspoken there — acknowledgment, maybe. You do not let it linger.

The press cannot help themselves.

“He’s too aggressive.”

“Is this sustainable?”

“Are you concerned about how hard he’s pushing?”

You sit straight backed under the lights.

“If you want safe sport,” you say coolly, “go watch golf.”

There is a ripple through the room.

A reporter presses further. “He nearly lost the rear in Turn Three. Isn’t that risky?”

You fold your hands.

“He didn’t lose it.”

Across the media room, Max hears every word. Later, when they ask him about your comment, he shrugs.

“She’s right.”

He does not elaborate. He does not need to.

Publicly, you are composed. Strategic. Loyal. Privately, you are ruthless.

After the last win, you stand in the engineering office reviewing footage. He walks in without announcement.

“You wanted to see me.”

You gesture to the screen.

“Turn Three.”

He exhales lightly. “I won.”

“You nearly overcooked entry.”

“I had it.”

“You got greedy.”

His eyes narrow.

“I wasn’t greedy.”

“You were chasing an extra tenth.”

“That’s my job.”

“Not when it compromises exit speed.”

He hates it. He hates that you can see it. He hates that you are right.

“You don’t trust me,” he says quietly.

“I trust you to push,” you reply. “I don’t trust you to stop.”

Silence. His jaw tightens. Then, reluctantly:

“…I’ll adjust it.”

He hates that he listens. But he does.

-

Success does not soften you. If anything, it sharpens you both. You refuse to let him get comfortable. After a dominant win, you greet him in debrief with a raised brow.

“You missed apex in Six.”

“I was managing tires.”

“You were showing off.”

A flicker of annoyance.

“You enjoyed it.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

He steps closer to the table.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

The engineers pretend not to hear. You defend him to the world and challenge him in private. He pretends he resents it. But he drives better. Cleaner. Sharper. The championship lead grows. And naturally so does the tension. Especially when Kelly appears in the garage.

At first, she likes you. She has no reason not to.

You are professional. Polite. Distant in the right ways. You give her a courteous smile in the paddock, compliment her dress once.

She thanks you for giving him a car that can win.

“That’s all that matters,” she says lightly.

You nod. “It always has.”

She knows you and Max had history. Everyone does. Rivals. Teammates. Complicated. But she assumes it is contained. Ancient. Dead.

At first, she only notices small things. He watches your interviews back at night. He replays them. Analyzes them. When reporters question your authority, his shoulders stiffen. When someone implies your success is tied to him, he bristles.

“You talk about her a lot,” Kelly says one evening, seated across from him at dinner.

Max doesn’t look up from his plate.

“She is Team Principal.”

Kelly tilts her head.

“I feel like that is not all she is to you. There is history, Max."

He doesn’t answer. And that silence says more than anything else could.

You begin to notice it too. Not from her. From him. The way he lingers in your office doorway a second longer than necessary.

The way his tone changes when you go colder. Because you do go colder.

You realize it in Spain. You are standing on the pit wall when he wins again, flawless this time, surgical in execution.

He removes his helmet and looks toward you instinctively. You do not meet his gaze.

You are suddenly aware — painfully aware — that you are proud of him in a way that is no longer purely professional.

It unsettles you. So in debrief, you are sharper than usual.

“You lifted slightly in Nine.”

He frowns. “It was optimal.”

“You could have carried more speed.”

“You’re nitpicking.”

“Yes.”

He studies you.

“You’re different,” he says quietly once the room empties.

“I’m consistent.”

“No. You’re colder.”

You turn away, stacking papers.

“You’re imagining things.”

He steps closer.

“I know when you’re pushing me.”

“And?”

“And you’re doing it harder now.”

Your fingers still on the desk.

“That’s my job.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The air tightens. You do not give him anything.

“Focus on the next race,” you say evenly. “The walls don’t forgive mistakes.”

His eyes search your face.

“You’re trying to prove something.”

“Always.”

He exhales slowly.

“You don’t have to compete with me anymore.”

The words hit deeper than intended. You lift your chin.

“I never competed with you.”

A lie. He knows it. And instead of softening, he leans into it. If you are colder, he becomes sharper. If you withhold, he provokes. During qualifying in Monaco, he delivers a lap that borders on violent precision.

On the radio, he says calmly, “Good call on the setup.”

You answer, equally calm, “Don’t overdrive the exit tomorrow.”

A pause.

“…I won’t.”

He listens. He always listens.

Kelly watches the changes accumulate. He is more distracted. More intense. He brings up your strategy decisions mid-conversation.

“She adjusted the brake migration for sector two.”

Kelly sets down her glass.

“You admire her.”

“She knows what she’s doing.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He rubs a hand across his jaw.

“She pushes me.”

Kelly’s voice is soft but steady.

“I see that.”

A beat.

“And you like it.”

He doesn’t answer. Again.

The distance you try to create only makes everything more volatile. You challenge him harder in meetings. You interrupt him mid-sentence. You refuse to let praise linger. After another dominant win, he corners you in the corridor.

“Why are you acting like I’m underperforming?”

“You’re capable of more.”

“I’m leading the championship.”

“You’re capable of more.”

He steps closer, voice lowering.

“Is this about the car?”

“It’s about you.”

Silence.

He studies you carefully now.

“You’re scared of something.”

The accusation lands.

“I’m not scared.”

“Yes, you are.”

Your pulse betrays you. Like it always used to.

“You think I don’t see it?” he continues. “You defend me to the world, then freeze me out when it’s just us.”

“That’s called professionalism.”

“That’s not what this is.”

You take a step back.

“It’s nothing.”

But it isn’t nothing. And he knows it. He always has. He straightens slightly, expression sharpening.

“Fine,” he says. “If you want distance, I’ll give you distance.”

But he doesn’t. Instead, he drives harder. Smarter. He brings you victories like offerings. And every time you hand him data and corrections and clinical praise, the tension coils tighter.

Because success has only amplified what was already there. Unfinished. Unspoken. And becoming impossible to ignore.

₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚

The season settled into sharp rhythm. Win. Pressure. Scrutiny. Repeat. But beneath the success, beneath the polished press conferences and controlled debriefs, something far more dangerous begins to surface.

Not scandal. Not collapse. Temptation.

It happens the first time the car betrays you. Not dramatically. Not catastrophically. Just enough.

A mistimed yellow flag. Traffic in the final sector. A compromised lap. P3 instead of pole. The garage is tense. Engineers defensive. Media already circling. You keep your voice even during debrief.

“We recover tomorrow.”

Max says nothing. He leaves before the meeting properly ends. You know that silence. You feel it like a shift in air pressure.

Hours later, the paddock is quieter. The motorhome corridors are nearly empty as you step into the elevator, reviewing telemetry on your tablet.

The doors begin to close. A hand stops them. He steps inside. The doors shut. The space is too small. Too quiet. You do not look up.

“Rough session,” you say evenly.

No response. Then— His hand wraps around your wrist. Firm. Sudden. Not violent. But not gentle. You look up sharply.

His eyes are darker than usual, frustration bleeding into something more personal.

“You think you can just walk back in like nothing happened?” he asks.

The words aren’t about qualifying. They never are. Your pulse stutters, but your voice stays level.

“Nothing happened.”

A humorless laugh.

“You don’t get to act like this is normal.”

You pull slightly against his grip.

“Let go.”

He doesn’t.

“You left,” he says, low and tight. “You vanished. And now you’re here like it’s just another season.”

The elevator hums upward. Your throat tightens.

“You think you’re the only one who almost died?” you fire back.

The words hit harder than intended. His hand loosens slightly. For a second, the anger fractures. There is something raw beneath it.

“You shut me out,” he says quietly.

“I was trying to survive.”

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. Neither of you move immediately. Then he releases you. Steps back. Composure snapping into place like armor.

“Tomorrow,” he says flatly, “we win.”

You step past him.

“Yes,” you reply. “We do.”

-

It happens again.

Rain falls without apology. The race is paused. Cars lined along pit lane. Chaos suspended in gray mist.

You stand under the narrow awning near the garage entrance, headset hanging around your neck, watching droplets streak down the halo of his car.

He joins you without invitation. Close. Too close.

The awning barely covers both of you. Your shoulders nearly brush. The scent of rain and fuel fills the space.

“Track will not be forgiving when it restarts,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

Lightning flashes in the distance. Silence settles between you. Not angry. Not sharp. Just heavy.

You can feel the heat radiating from him despite the cold air. You tell yourself to step away. You don’t.

A drop of rain slides from your hairline down your cheek.

Before you can react— His fingers brush your face. Barely there. A reflex. Wiping the water away. The contact is fleeting. But devastating.

He freezes. You freeze. The world feels suspended. His thumb lingers a fraction too long. Then he pulls his hand back like he’s touched something forbidden.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re certain he can hear it.

“It’s fine.”

But it isn’t. The tension crackles. The race resumes moments later. He drives like a man trying to outrun something. You stand on the pit wall pretending your pulse isn’t racing.

He defends aggressively. Brakes impossibly late. Holds the inside in a move the commentators call reckless. You call it necessary.

He crosses the line first. The garage explodes. Cheers. Applause. Relief. You remain composed. Until your office door slams open.

He storms in, helmet still on, gloves half removed, breathing hard like he hasn’t fully left the car. The door shuts behind him. The noise outside fades.

“What are you doing?” you ask, though you already know.

He steps toward you. Still charged with adrenaline. Visor lifted. Eyes bright and wild.

“Tell me,” he demands.

You cross your arms lightly.

“Tell you what?”

His chest rises and falls rapidly.

“Tell me you’re proud of me.”

The vulnerability in it is sharper than any argument. For a moment, you see him at twenty again. Angry. Desperate. Needing acknowledgment more than victory.

Your throat tightens. You take a slow step forward. Close enough that you can see the fine tremor in his hands.

“I always am,” you whisper.

The words land between you like something sacred. His breath catches. For a fraction of a second, it feels like he might close the distance. Like he might forget everything else — titles, contracts, optics, consequences. Instead, he pulls off his helmet and sets it down on your desk with deliberate control.

“Good,” he says quietly.

But he doesn’t leave. Not immediately. He studies you like he’s trying to memorize something. Then, finally, he steps back. Professionalism sliding back into place.

“You made the right call on the tires,” he adds.

“You drove it perfectly.”

A beat. And then he’s gone. The door closes softly this time. You stand there alone, heart still racing, fully aware that each almost moment is pushing the boundary further. You tell yourself you are in control. But control has never been what existed between you. Only tension. Only restraint. And it is wearing thinner with every race.

₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚

several weeks later

f1gossipgirls

liked by username45, username009, username11 and 2,900,000 others.

f1gossipgirls : rumor has it that kelly piquet and max verstappen have reportedly broken things off. many believing that it has to do with a certain team principal/ex teammate 👀

-

user has disabled comments on this post.

₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚

The tension does not explode. It erodes. Slowly. Quietly. Relentlessly.

At first, Kelly tries to be understanding. She tells herself it is stress. Championship pressure. Long factory hours.

But stress does not make someone stare at interview clips at midnight. Stress does not make someone bristle when your name is criticized. Stress does not make someone distant in bed.

It happens after Spa. Another win. Another dominant performance. Another post race interview where he defends you without hesitation.

“She knows what she’s doing,” he says when a reporter questions your aggressive mid race strategy call. “That’s why she’s in charge.”

That night, the apartment is quiet. Kelly stands by the kitchen counter, arms folded.

“You’re in love with her.”

Max stills.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

He runs a hand through his hair, already irritated. “She’s my boss.”

“No,” Kelly says steadily. “She’s never just been that, Max."

He looks away.

“You light up when you talk about her,” she continues. “You fight harder when she’s watching. You get defensive when people question her. You barely look at me when you come home from a race.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

He doesn’t have an answer. Because he doesn’t know how to articulate the truth. That it is not simple. That it is not new. That it did not start this season.

Kelly’s voice softens, but there is steel beneath it.

“I deserve someone who isn’t still fighting ghosts.”

He exhales slowly. “Kelly—”

“You don’t even deny it.”

That is what breaks it. Not anger. Not betrayal. Absence. She nods once, almost to herself.

“I hope you figure it out,” she says quietly.

Then she leaves. And he is alone with the silence.

The apartment feels different without her. Too quiet. Too honest. He sits on the edge of the couch, staring at nothing. And then memory does what it does best. You backed against his hotel room wall after a tense race. Your arms draped around his neck, pulling him in closer. His lips leaving kisses down yours. The petty comments linger in his brain.

“You think you’re better than me?”

“No. I know I am.”

He remembers the way you used to look at him — like a challenge. Like a threat. Like something you wanted to conquer and couldn’t quite manage to let go of.

He remembers the crash. The hospital. The way he never showed up publicly. The way he told himself distance was strength. He remembers the elevator. The rain. The office.

“I always was.”

He tries to sleep. He cannot. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees you. Hears you. Feels the brush of your cheek under his thumb. The way you stand too close when you argue. The way your voice drops when you are trying not to feel something.

At 2:47 a.m., he stops pretending. At 3:02 a.m., he is at your door.

You are awake. Of course you are. Laptop open. Telemetry from the last race glowing on the screen. Coffee cold beside your hand. When the knock comes, sharp and impatient, your brows knit together.

You check the time. 3:02 a.m. You open the door. And there he is. Max.

Just him. Tension radiating off his body like heat from asphalt. You stare at him.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you here?”

His jaw tightens.

“She left.”

The words land heavily.

Your stomach drops.

“…Kelly?”

He nods once. Silence hangs between you.

“That’s not something you tell your team principal at three in the morning,” you say carefully.

He laughs once, humorless.

“Stop hiding behind that.”

Your pulse quickens.

“You can’t just show up here.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s not my problem.”

He steps closer, forcing you to either retreat or hold your ground. You hold it.

“It is your problem,” he says quietly. “You made it my problem.”

Your eyes flash.

“I didn’t ask you to feel anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The door is still open. You close it. That is the first mistake. The space becomes smaller. More dangerous.

“You think I don’t see it?” he continues. “You pull away every time it gets close. You push me harder when it’s not about the car.”

“You’re projecting.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

His voice rises.

“You walked back into my life like nothing happened.”

“You think it was easy for me?” you snap. “You think I wanted to see you every day and pretend I don’t remember everything?”

He steps forward until your back brushes the wall.

“Then stop pretending.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re my driver.”

“And you’re lying.”

Silence. Charged. Volatile. He searches your face like he’s looking for permission. You should tell him to leave. You should step away. You don’t.

“You were the only person who ever pushed me,” he says, voice rough. “The only one who ever matched me.”

“That’s not love,” you whisper.

“No,” he agrees. “It’s worse.”

The air feels thin. His hand comes up — slow this time. Gives you time to stop him. You don’t. His fingers brush your jaw. And that is it. Years of restraint snap. The kiss is not soft. It is overdue. It is frustration and grief and unfinished sentences crashing together.

You grip his shirt like you’re trying to ground yourself. He backs you further into the wall, one hand braced beside your head.

There is nothing tentative about it. Nothing careful. It is everything you both refused to name. When you finally pull back, breathless, your forehead rests against his.

“This is a mistake,” you murmur.

“Probably.”

You kiss him again anyway. It is messy and desperate and far too intense for something that was supposed to stay buried. He lifts you slightly, and you laugh against his mouth despite yourself. The sound breaks something open. Not just tension. Fear. Vulnerability. Eventually, the anger fades into something slower. Softer. You end up tangled together on your bed, breathing evening out, silence no longer hostile.

-

Sunlight creeps through the blinds. You wake first. He is still there. Arm draped over your waist. Face unguarded in sleep. For a moment, you simply stare. Trying to understand how you got here.

His eyes open slowly. And for once, there is no armor in them. Just honesty. You both stay quiet. Processing. Finally, he exhales.

“I’ve been in love with you since we were young,” he says, voice low and steady. “I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

Your throat tightens.

“You’re impossible,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“I tried to hate you,” he continues. “It was easier.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t want to.”

Silence settles, but it is different this time. You reach for him first. Pull him closer. Rest your forehead against his.

“We can’t let this ruin the team,” you murmur.

“It won’t.”

“That’s not a promise you can make.”

“It is.”

You study him for a long moment. Then you nod slightly. He holds you tighter. For once, there is no fight in it. No rivalry. No unfinished tension. Just two people who finally stopped running. And outside your apartment, the world — the press, the paddock, the championship — waits. Unaware that everything just changed.

₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚

end of the season

You are careful. Careful with doors. Careful with glances. Careful with how long your hand lingers at the small of his back when no one is looking.

Only a few people know. Your chief strategist — because she walked in on a hug that was decidedly not professional and simply sighed, “About time.”

Your performance engineer — because he is observant and loyal and pretends not to notice when Max disappears into your office after hours.

The rest of the world still believes you barely tolerate each other. It makes it easier. And harder.

And here we are, one race left. Two championships on the line. The Drivers’. The Constructors’. Both currently in McLaren hands. Mathematically, it is possible. Realistically, it is brutal. But the car is a beast. And the man driving it is sharper than he has ever been.

You stand in your office the morning of the race, reviewing final simulations for the hundredth time. The numbers are solid. The strategy is aggressive. The margins are razor thin.

A soft knock at your door.

You don’t look up immediately.

“Come in.”

The door shuts quietly.

You feel him before you see him. Max leans against the door for a second, still in partial race kit, balaclava hanging loose around his neck.

“You’re supposed to be in the garage,” you say lightly.

“I know.”

You finally meet his eyes. They are steady. Focused. Not nervous. But alive.

“You’ve run the simulations twelve times,” he says, glancing at your screen.

“Fourteen.”

A small smirk.

“You don’t trust me.”

“I trust you completely,” you reply calmly. “I don’t trust probability.”

He steps closer to your desk.

“You know I can do this.”

“I know.”

“And the car?”

“Is perfect.”

The weight of the moment presses in. If he wins, you take everything. If he loses, it will still be a monumental season — but not the one you both want. He walks around the desk until he’s standing in front of you. For once, there is no teasing. No edge. Just honesty.

“Good luck,” you say softly.

He studies your face for a second.

Then, quietly:

“That’s it?”

You arch a brow.

“You want a motivational speech?”

“I want something better.”

You stand slowly.

“Max—”

He cuts you off gently, stepping closer.

“No one’s around.”

He leans down and kisses you. Not rushed. Not desperate. Steady. Certain.

Your hands slide into his racesuit instinctively, pulling him closer for a brief, heated second before you remind yourself where you are. He deepens it slightly anyway, and you can’t help the small laugh that escapes you against his mouth.

“You’re unbelievable,” you murmur.

“I’m about to win my fifth championship,” he replies softly against your lips. “I can afford one distraction.”

The office door suddenly swings open.

“Oh my God—”

You both break apart instantly. Standing frozen in the doorway is Isack. He looks between you. Once. Twice. Eyes widening to cartoonish proportions.

“…I KNEW IT.”

You stare at him.

“Knock,” you say sharply.

He is already grinning so hard it hurts.

“This is the best day of my life,” he announces dramatically. “And the race hasn’t even started.”

Max exhales, half amused, half resigned.

“If you tell anyone—”

“I would never,” Isack says, immediately crossing his heart. “But also this explains literally everything.”

You can’t help it. You giggle. Max looks at you. You look at him. And for a brief second, the enormity of everything — the risk, the secrecy, the history — feels lighter.

“Go win,” you tell him.

He nods once. Then he leaves.

It is ruthless. Strategic. Unforgiving. McLaren fights hard. Their pace is strong. Their pit stops flawless. But your strategy is sharper. You undercut at exactly the right window. You switch to the aggressive tire compound when others hesitate. On the radio, your voice remains calm.

“Don’t overdrive Turn Three,” you remind him mid-race.

A small pause.

“…I won’t.”

He doesn’t.

With ten laps to go, he makes the move. Late braking. Perfect placement. Clinical exit. The overtake that secures everything. The garage erupts. You don’t. Not yet. You wait. Five laps. Four. Three. When he crosses the line first, the world explodes.

Cheering. Headsets thrown into the air. Engineers hugging. You close your eyes for one second.

He climbs out of the car, helmet coming off slowly. The cameras swarm. Commentators shouting.

“Unbelievable turnaround.”

“Red Bull snatch both titles from McLaren!”

He scans the chaos. Looking for one person. You step forward from the edge of the garage. For a split second, you hesitate. Then he walks straight to you. Not the mechanics. Not the cameras. You.

He pulls you into him before you can overthink it. The kiss is public. Unmistakable. The paddock collectively loses its mind. Gasps. Shouts. Flashes going wild.

For a heartbeat, everything else disappears. When you pull back, breathless and laughing, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You were right,” he murmurs.

“About what?”

“Everything.”

You smile up at him.

“Of course I was.”

The press is scrambling. Because they genuinely thought you hated each other. The narrative collapses in real time. From rivals. To tension. To this.

Isack appears behind you both, absolutely vibrating with joy.

“I am never shutting up about this,” he declares.

You laugh, wiping a tear from your cheek. Max keeps one arm wrapped securely around your waist.

“World Champion,” you tease softly.

“Team Principal,” he replies.

Against doubt. Against scrutiny. Against history. You built the car. He drove it to perfection. And somewhere between rivalry and redemption, you both finally chose each other. The season ends not with silence. But with victory. And this time— Neither of you walks away.

₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚

maxverstappen1

liked by yourusername, redbullracing, isackhadjar and 12,300,000 others.

maxverstappen1 : the only thing that tastes sweeter than a championship win is her

tagged : yourusername

-

view 554,000 other comments.

redbullracing : this caption was not HR approved max emilian.

liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1

₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚₊˚⊹ ☆ ‧₊˚

[formulaaddict14]

WI$H LI$ST ( SMAU )

Oscar Piastri x Reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summary : Reader and Oscar have been dating for a while and fans are waiting for them to take it to the next level

Warnings : none!

Author note : day 8! I loveeedddd making this one 🫶

Song : Wi$h li$t

12 day TS masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

yourusername just posted :

Liked by urbsf, oscarpiastri and 203,831 others

GP here I come 🧡😋

user : OSCAR IN THE FIRST PIC LMAOOO

user : the keychain?? 😭🫶

urbsf : You and Oscar suck at paddle 💗

| yourusername : hey 😔

| oscarpiastri : we get style points.

user : Not Y/N’s bsf exposing their bad paddle skills 👏

user : A HANDMADE KEYCHAIN?? my heart can’t take it anymore💔

| user : if they don’t get engaged soon i will crash out

user : I need a fit check!!!

oscarpiastri : We are AMAZING paddle players

| yourusername : Exactly, we should just ignore the haters 😌

user : I NEED a braids tutorial

user : I’m new, how long have they been together?

| user : Since they were 15!

| user : literal goals???

oscarpiastri just posted :

Liked by yourusername, landonorris and 598,037 others

Another good weekend 💪🏆

user : Y/N IN THE SECOND PIC!!!

user : Oscar’s smile 😭💗

| user : I’d also be smiling like that if Y/N was my gf 😍

user : OSCAR IF YOU DON’T GET ON ONE KNEE SOON

user : My parents 💓

yourusername : We might have lost at paddle terribly but it’s the thought that counts!

| oscarpiastri : Perfect mentality 👏

| yourusername : even though I refused to admit defeat…

user : I need Y/N to start vlogging

user : They look so happy omg 😭

| user : making me feel very single 💔

user : THE OSCAR KEYCHAIN ON HER BAG IN THE PADDOCK?? 🥹

yourusername just posted :

Liked by oscarpiastri, urfriend1 and 181,098 others

Italy’s sun always hits better 🇮🇹🍝

user : Oscar poses so awkwardly 😭

| user : honestly me too

user : I NEED TO KNOW THE PLACEE!!!

oscarpiastri : Beautiful view 💗

| yourusername : me? 🥹

| oscarpiastri : No the pasta…

| yourusername : 🖕

user : they bicker like an old married couple oml 🫶💕

user : Y/N’s jewellery means everything to me 💔

user : Oscar rotates like 3 fits

urfriend1 : Would be a perfect place to propose…

| yourusername : 😐

user : Y/N’S FRIENDS COMMENT??

| user : good to know we aren’t the only people praying 🙏

oscarpiastri just posted :

Liked by yourusername and 872,837 others

Break time 🏝️

user : Oscar try not to post Y/N ( challenge impossible )

| user : SHE LITERALLY APPEARS IN EVERY PHOTO DUMP ( honestly goals )

user : I need Y/N’s closet 💔

user : This influenced me to an impulsive trip to Italy 😭

yourusername : I will never leave Italy ❤️

| oscarpiastri : So our flight will leave in…

user : Oscar is so lucky I can’t

user : I swear if he does not propose I’m gonna…

| user : so we’re all rooting for an engagement? 😭

user : I CAN’T WITH Y/N’S AND OSCAR’S COMMENTS

user : I need her to post a full make up tut 🙏

yourusername just posted :

Liked by oscarpiastri, urbsf and 1,028,635 others

summer bucket-list officially completed 💍💗

user : OH MY GOD I JUST SCREAMED

user : He looks so smug 😭

urbsf : YES FINALLY!! CONGRATS!!

| yourusername : ❤️

user : We were right ( as always ) 😌

user : THE LOCATION? THE RING? my honest dreams

oscarpiastri : Glad to make a trip memorable

| yourusername : I’m going insane rn

| oscarpiastri : I can tell 👍

user : I can’t with Oscar’s comments 😩

user : NOBODY IS TALKING ABOUT THE RING?

user : I wouldn’t be surprised if he proposed in shorts and a baseball cap lmao

urfriend2 : So it was a great please for an engagement!

| yourusername : I hate you ( I love you )

user : My OFFICIAL parents

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ MY LOVE, MY LIFE | #CS55

pairing. carlos sainz x linguist!reader

synopsis. in which everyone thinks you and carlos should get married

warnings. none; linguistics rambles

note. i rambled a bit about linguistics in this one, i'm sorry

MASTERLIST ; requests open

yn

liked by carlossainz55, georgerussell63 and 365 others

yn Happy birthday to the man, the myth, the legend Paul Grice, whose pioneering work (alongside J. L. Austin) is the reason pragmatics exists as its own subfield in linguistics. Central to Grice is the cooperative principle, conversational implicature, and his maxims (of which there are four: maxim of quality; maxim of quantity; maxim of manner; maxim of relation/relevance). Grice thought that speakers may communicate either by breaking the maxims or by obeying them, when a maxim appears to be violated, a pragmatic inference is created. This is only possible if the speaker is believed to be cooperative. An important point is that speakers—as long as they are cooperative—are generally guided by these maxims.

Happy anniversary to me and Carlos too, I guess.

view all comments

alex_albon please wish him a proper happy anniversary, he’s been whining for ten minutes

yn Sorry, but Grice > Carlos

charles_leclerc yn, please. he cornered me in the paddock, and now i’m late for a strategy meeting 🥹

scuderiaferrari Get to the meeting right now, Charles. -Fred

user1 yn is so real for that

carlossainz55 happy anniversary, mi amor <3 i love you, and i cannot wait for our dinner later today

yn I love you more, Carlito <33 I’m so excited to see you later and to celebrate our anniversary

carlossainz55 i love you the most, actually

user2 PLEASE JUST GET MARRIED ALREADY

user3 okay, so yncarlos marriage when?

user4 second this

user5 fourth this

user6 MOTHER

carlossainz55

liked by yn, alex_albon and 467,075 others

carlossainz55 she brought me here only to spend the entire time talking about accents

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lando there was a race?

carlossainz55 and? she’s more important

charles_leclerc you’re so whipped

alex_albon you’re so whipped

user7 GET MARRIED PLEASE

georgerussell63 photo credit: georgerussell63

user8 guys, what if they’re already married?

user9 that’s delusional

user10 there’s no way charles would be able to keep it secret if that was the case

charles_leclerc I CAN KEEP A SECRET

lando no, you can’t

alex_albon no, you can’t

georgerussell63 no, you can’t

yn No, you can’t

carlossainz55 no, you can’t

charles_leclerc you’re all so MEAN to me

yn You loved it

carlossainz55 i love you

yn

liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55 and 643 others

yn Since it’s race weekend here in Australia, it is only right that some facts are shared about the variety of English which is spoken here, Australian English (AusE, for short). English came to Australia through convicts being transported from Britain. It eventually became a killer language, which means that it replaced the aboriginal languages which already existed in Australia—and had existed in Australia long before English made its entrance. Unlike other varieties of English (like British English and American English) there is little regional variation in AusE, but there is social variation. When talking about AusE, it is possible to differentiate between three main varieties: broad AusE, general AusE, and cultivated AusE. Some noticeable features of this variety is that it has two productive noun suffixes: -ie and -o; she may be used as a generic pronoun; and it has highly characteristic vocabulary. Regarding phonetics, AusE is non-rhotic, which means that /r/ is only pronounced in front of vowels. Another notable feature of AusE phonology is that it has HRTs (this is sometimes referred to as Australian Questioning Intonation). HRT is short for high rise terminals; this means that declarative sentences often end with a rising pitch.

view all comments

user11 my favourite part about the races is yn’s linguistic rambles

user12 my favourite part of her instagram is her linguistic rambles

user13 when’s the wedding?

user14 stop asking them about when they’re getting married. it’s getting weird

charles_leclerc thank you, this was very informative

user15 i imagine carlos asking a million questions and getting increasingly confused

carlossainz55 i understood all of this actually

yn You got distracted and asked if we could get ice cream in the middle of my explanation of killer languages.

carlossainz55 i still enjoy listening to you, even though most of it goes over my head

user16 ditch carlos, yn, i’ll listen to your explanations of killer languages

carlossainz55 don’t flirt with my wife??

user17 WIFE? WIFE? MR SAINZ?

carlossainz55

liked by yn, williamsracing and 923,460 others

carlossainz55 summer break spent in spain with the love of my life. i’m ready to get back to racing and scoring points

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williamsracing We’re excited to see you back in the garage carlossainz55

carlossainz55 i'm excited to be back!

user18 MR SAINZ, YOU HAVE TO EXPLAIN THE WIFE COMMENT

user19 what wife comment??

user20 on one of yn’s posts carlos referred to yn as his wife

user19 i log off for one day and suddenly carlos has a whole WIFE??

user20 we don’t know for sure, yet

yn Carlos <333 please come back to bed :(

carlossainz55 i’ll be right there, mi vida

yn

liked by carlossainz55, alex_albon and 1,230 others

yn So sad I couldn’t be at the race this weekend, but duty called. I wish Carlos, Alex and Williams the best luck this weekend!

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williamsracing Thank you, yn. We’re so sad you couldn’t be here this weekend, but we’ll see you at the next race?

yn Absolutely!

lando god, just get married already

carlossainz55 we did??

yn CARLOS

user21 did anyone else see carlos’ comment or am i going insane?

user9 what if user8 was right?

user8 I TOLD YOU BUT YOU ALL THOUGHT I WAS DELUSIONAL

carlossainz55

liked by yn, georgerussell63 and 943,124 others

carlossainz55 three months ago, i married the love of my life in a small courthouse in a coastal town in spain

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yn And I got to marry the love of my life. Here’s to many more years with you

carlossainz55 to the rest of our lives

user8 WHAT DID I TELL YOU, BUT NO, I WAS DELUSIONAL

georgerussell63 congratulations, you two!

charles_leclerc I KNEW IT

user22 THEY’VE BEEN MARRIED SINCE THE SUMMER BREAK? I’M SICK

williamsracing Congratulations on your wedding! We’re so happy for you!

user23 A YNCARLOS MARRIAGE?? FINALLY!!

user24 OUR PRAYERS HAVE BEEN ANSWERED

lando i feel betrayed, you were married for three months and didn’t tell me?? we are no longer friends

yn

liked by carlossainz55, lando and 943 others

yn Does the language people speak influence the way they think? If you ask Edward Sapir and Benjamin Lee Whorf, that is true. Though neither Sapir or Whorf coined the term “Sapir-Whorf hypothesis” they have come to be associated with it. The central idea of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis is that the languages a person speaks determines the way people perceive and think about the world. There are three version of this hypothesis: the strong Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, which claims that the only conceptual distinctions people can make are those encoded in language because language imposes these distinctions on sense data; the restricted Sapir-Whorf hypothesis claims that some topics are such that the only conceptual distinctions are those encoded in language. This is because language imposes these distinctions on relevant sense data. The last version of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis is the watered-down Sapir-Whorf hypothesis. This version claims that there are some topics that are influenced by language, specifically this happens for things that are habitually or stereotypically thought about, an example of this is grammatical gender. The strong Sapir-Whorf hypothesis is false; the restricted Sapir-Whorf hypothesis is unproven; the watered-down one is the only one which may be true. The answer to my question, then, suggests that languages influences the way people think in respect to scarcely perceptible cognitive biases and subtle stereotypes.

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user25 GIRL, you just got married to THE carlos sainz and you’re talking about linguistics

yn Linguistics is the love of my life

carlossainz55 i cannot wait to spend the rest of my life listening to you talking about linguistics

yn Forever <3

lando oh no, they’re more insufferable now than they were before

carlossainz55 this is your fault

yn I second that

user26 yn really said the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis is more important than her husband

user27 an icon

[land0scarwdc]

"can't handle me" oscar piastri x oc x lando norris

in which, bella has been posting interesting photos with both mclaren drivers for the past two years, resulting in fans speculating which of the two she's dating. but what if it's both ?

| face claim: lily rose depp & pinterest girlies

| oscar piastri & lando norris social media alternative universe

(a/n: i've had this idea in my notes for quite a while now, hope you like it as much as i do ! mwah mwah !)

Winter Break 2025

(bellaa.sanchez shared a post !)

liked by maxfewtrell and 968.2k others

bellaa.sanchez i hate the snow we should've gone to australia

tagged: lando, oscarpiastri

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oscarpiastri told you the beach was better liked by author

_ lando shut the fuck up you muppet, it was a nice trip 🙁 liked by author

_ bellaa.sanchez don't tell him to shut the fuck up they're gonna get mad at you !

_ user1 the way we can tell she ruled the house liked by author, oscarpiastri and 45.9k others

maxfewtrell finally a trip without bob

_ bellaa.sanchez BOB 😭😭

_ lando oh so everybody hates me now

user2 to the girl who said she's dating oscar, you're 100% delulu 😭

_ user3 for real, there's NO WAY ON EARTH these two talk about anything else than lando

_ user4 guys they're friends, of course they have others things to talk about than lando 🙄

carmenmmundt hot hot hot

_ bellaa.sanchez love you wifey

_ lando @/georgerussell63 come get your girlfriend

_ georgerussell63 it's too late i reckon 😔 liked by author

_ bellaa.sanchez 🤤🫦

February 2026

(lando shared a post !)

liked by arvid.lindblad and 452.3k others

lando pre-season partayyy :) 🎉

thanks @/alexandramalenaleclerc you always throw banger parties !!

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user0 LANDO POSTED OSCAR !! ALL IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD !! liked by bellaa.sanchez and 325.1k

bellaa.sanchez everybody thank my queen lily for that punch rn !

_ rebeccadonaldson THANK YOU LILY !!

_ alexandramalenaleclerc thank you lily !

_ kikagomes THANK YOU LILY YOU DA BEST

_ maiareficco THANK YOU LILS

_ lilymhe your very welcome my queens 😘

user1 they would've been THE friend group in high school liked by 142.2k

_ user2 IKR ! they seem so cool to be around !!

user3 see guys ? no oscar like or comment. told ya 😉😋

_ user4 that doesn't prove much now does it ?

_ user5 well kinda, if HE was dating her, he'd be reacting with the fact another man's posting his girl liked by 96.5k

user6 can we talk about the look in oscar's eyes on the picture. who are you looking at like this sir ? 😏

_ user7 probably lando 😭 liked by 253.1k

_ user8 definitely not bella that's for sure LOLLL

March 8 2026 - Australian Grand Prix

(f1 shared a post !)

liked by user44 and 833k others

f1 Oscar Piastri has crashed pre-race and is OUT of his home Grand Prix 😞

#F1 #Formula1 #AusGP

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user1 Ausgp curse is getting stronger 😭

user2 crying, throwing up

user3 at his home grand prix as well 😭😭😭

user4 NOOOO OSCARRR

_ user5 bro chill 😂

user6 oh for fuck's sake 😫

(formulaonefan5 posted a video !)

🎥: the video takes place at the media pen of the melbourne circuit. we can see oscar entering the frame by the right, head down and shoulders tense. he looks up at the journalist and send them a very forced smile.

"oscar, what can you tell us about your sudden stop of the race ? what happened ?" we can hear the journalist ask behind the camera, the carefulness in his voice louder than oscar's desperation.

"um.. yeah i don't-i don't really know. it was all going well.. and yeah i-i've gone off the curb a little bit. um, but from what we've seen as well, um" he exhales as to take a deeper breath and look up at the journalist again. "i think everything kind of reacted the way it should within the rules..?"

lando is seen entering the screen from the back and giving a slight but tight hug to oscar from behind, making the australian relax a little bit, his hand laying on top of his teammate's, before lando's forced to move away. "but um, yeah this one was-was entirely on me. head wasn't in the game the way i wished it could've been. so um, yeah"

oscar gives another forced smile to the camera before he's asked to move away.

▶️ 1.2M | ❤️ 320k | 💬 10.1k | 📥 823.4k

forumlaonefan5 oscar's post race interview after his dns at home grand prix 😔

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user1 bro oscar piastri going to become darth vader after this season if this keeps up liked by 23k

user2 my heart's breaking for him 😭

user3 AT HIS HOME GRAND PRIX AS WELL

user4 for fuck's sake it's not that deep

_ user5 bro you'd be exactly like us if it happened to lewis or charles i reckon liked by 102k

_ user4 tough luck, my drivers are in ferrari and not yours 😂

user6 MY LANDOSCAR HEART OMG

_ user7 can't wait to watch a thousand edit on this exact part tonight 😋😋

📞 *ring, ring ring* *ring, ring ri-*

"hey osc.." bella's voice can be heard on the other side of the phone. her voice is softer than usual, the tone she only takes when she's really concerned. and saying she's concerned for oscar at this very moment is an understatement.

an exhale of relief can be heard from oscar's end, followed by a wobbly breath. "baby.." he lets out, his voice cracking instantly as the words leave his mouth.

bella could almost feel her heart breaking at the sound he lets out, her eyes becoming watery at the second. "you okay ? i watched the race, i-fuck osc, are you okay ?" she asks repeatedly, unable to hide her fear.

"im-uh, yeah i'm okay." is all oscar manages to let out before he exhales loudly again, trying to retain the tears. "i'm sorry you had to watch that. and i'm sorry you had to stop watching the race. lan did an amazing jo-"

"no" she cut him sternly, sniffing slightly before talking again. "don't do that. don't make yourself feel smaller, that was not your fault." seeing as oscar doesn't say anything she continues. "i just wanna know, what happened out there baby ?"

on the other end, oscar lets out a chuckle. not the warm and contagious she loves him for, a dry and sarcastic one. "i got distracted. i wasn't focused on the race, or formula one, or the car or anything racing related, okay ? i was thinking about you, and what people are saying.."

her breath caught in her throat. before she has time to answer, he clears his throat and shuffling can be heard through the phone. "i gotta go".

"osc, baby wai-" "sorry, bella"

*call has ended* ☎️

March 15 2026 - Chinese Grand Prix

(f1gossippofficial shared a post !)

liked by user78, user79 and 45.9k

f1gossippofficial ❗BREAKING NEWS❗ The model, influencer and fashion icon Isabella Sanchez is in the paddock for the Chinese Grand Prix ! 👀

Do we think she's here to support Lando ? 😋 Or Oscar ? 🥺

What do you think ? 😍

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user1 she's so pretty omg

user2 wait i LOVE the outfit

user3 SHE ATE WITH THAT

user4 doesn't matter who's she's there for, they're gonna LOVE the outfit

user5 what a slut honestly, we can literally see her breasts

_ user6 we found kelly piquet's mother private account guys liked by 42.3k

(mclarenf1 posted a story !)

(lando posted a story !)

view all story replies

bellaa.sanchez my baby

bellaa.sanchez he's such a cutie patootie

_ lando he's right there, you know that ? reacted ❤

(oscarpiastri posted a story !)

view all story replies

bellaa.sanchez DAMN reacted ❤

_ oscarpiastri damn is right

lando she's so ughh

_ oscarpiastri right ?!

_ lando i mean so are you reacted 😉

(bellaa.sanchez posted a story !)

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oscarpiastri he's cute

_ bellaa.sanchez and hot

_ oscarpiastri and hot

March 29 2026 - Japanese Grand Prix

(f1gossippofficial shared a post !)

liked by user24, user26 and 65.3k others

f1gossippofficial ❗BREAKING NEWS❗ For the second time this season, the model, influencer and fashion icon Isabella Sanchez is present in the paddock for the Japanese Grand Prix. 👀

Many fans saw her entering the Mclaren building too 😋

What do you think ? 😍

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user1 her outfits just keep getting better and better

_ user2 i mean she IS a fashion icon so 🤷‍♀️

user3 i just love how she shows up for her man, no matter who it is (probably lando) liked by 12.5k

user4 can we please have a lando podium and like a very hot kiss or whatever

_ user5 I'D BE OVER THE FUCKING MOON

_ user6 real ! cause they're litterally my parents

(bellaa.sanchez shared a post !)

liked by carlossainz55 and 1.8M others

bellaa.sanchez B-O-A-F ! BOAF !

tagged: oscarpiastri, lando

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oscarpiastri and yes i can handle her

_ bellaa.sanchez OSC !

_ oscarpiastri better than lando too

_ lando WHOA WHAT ?

lilymnhe OMG MY PARENTS I LOVE YOU GUYS

_ bellaa.sanchez I LOVE YOU TOO

_ lando love you too child

_ oscarpiastri thanks..?

user1 WHAT THE FUCK liked by author, lando, oscarpiastri and 1M others

user2 my fantasies have come to life !

user3 oh oh? oh... liked by author

user4 i didn't know this was an option

_ user5 same tbf, but i kinda like it

_ oscarpiastri cheers

_ user5 OMFG

(oscarpiastri shared a post !)

liked by gabrielbortoleto and 1.5M others

oscarpiastri we handle her perfectly, thank you very much

tagged: bellaa.sanchez, lando

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bellaa.sanchez i love you osc

_ oscarpiastri love you more

lando i love you

_ oscarpiastri i love you

alex.albon omg guys they love each other ooh act surprised ! liked by author, bellaa.sanchez, lando and 857.2k others

_ user1 how long has this been going on for him to be done with that already ?😭

_ lando almost two years

_ user2 WHAT NOW ? liked by 1.3M

_ georgerussell63 the longest of my life too

_ bellaa.sanchez fuck off you twat

lando btw he does NOT handle her better than me

_ oscarpiastri oh you know i do lan

_ lando alright, let's prove it

_ user3 NOT THEM BEING HORNY ON MAIN 😭😭

_ charles_leclerc they're always horny liked by carlossainz55, alex.albon, georgerussell63, lilymhe, alexandramalenaleclerc and 1.1M others

[boxbox81babygirl]

hi! I feel like reading some angst or sad stuff, do you think you’d be interested in writing an Oscar fic inspired by the song "I Hate U I Love U" by gnash (feat. Olivia O'Brien)?

I’d be honoured! I hope you like it 🥰 (Sidenote: I only noticed this after writing everything, but it could almost be read as a continuation of love, in lowercase, if you were looking for a pre-log.)

Here is to:

I Hate U, I Love U - OP81

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: You hated that you loved him—but could you have ever helped yourself?

︎▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 1:21 

There was just something about Oscar that made it impossible to move on.

Even after he broke your heart. Even after he chose someone else over you—over someone who had known him his whole life, someone who understood him in ways only you could.

And yet… she still wasn’t you.

The cruelest part wasn’t rejection.

It was that he never rejected you at all. Twice.

He never said the words that would have made it clean. Twice. Never took your heart in his hands and crushed it in one decisive moment.

No.

He handled it gently. Carefully. The kind of care that makes you feel chosen—until you realize it was only ever about not hurting you, not about keeping you.

So he just… set you aside.

Softly.

And then walked forward as if nothing had ever been misplaced.

—

That was the thing about loving Oscar Piastri—falling in love had been slow, quiet, natural.

It had started simply. You met in boarding school at fourteen.

It started as friendship, easy and unforced. The kind of connection that didn’t need explanation.

And somewhere along the way, it shifted.

Not into something defined. Not officially.

But into something that lingered in the spaces between everything else.

Glances that lasted too long. Conversations that stretched into the early hours. A quiet understanding that neither of you ever fully named.

For a moment, it had felt inevitable.

Like if either of you had just reached out—just slightly—everything would have fallen into place.

But then Oscar met Lily.

And the world adjusted around her.

You had accepted it. Not because it didn’t hurt—but because you had learned how to make your pain quiet enough to live with. Because Lily was kind. Warm in a way that made her easy to be around, easy to like, easy to not resent—at least not out loud.

So you stayed.

Close. Present. Still part of his life.

Jealousy lived quietly underneath everything else.

Unspoken. Unacknowledged. But always there.

Because a part of you had already known— you had been close.

Close enough to almost matter in a different way.

And then it happened again: the almost.

Both of you felt it before either of you said anything.

It was the beginning of 2024. Oscar was single again—after years with Lily. Years of you just accepting the jealousy you’d always have to carry when she was around.

And suddenly, the space between you changed.

What had once been carefully maintained as “just friends” started to blur.

He leaned into you more. Texted more. Stayed longer. Looked at you like there was something unfinished between you—something neither of you had dared to name back then.

This time, it didn’t feel like a question.

It felt like a return.

Like everything that had been paused years ago was finally continuing—as if it had to, this time.

One late night, somewhere between exhaustion and honesty, you were lying on his chest when he said it.

Quietly.

Almost like he didn’t want the words to exist outside that moment.

“If I believed in soulmates…” he murmured, eyes heavy, voice softer than you had ever heard it, “I’d almost be sure it’s you.”

You hadn’t responded.

Not because you didn’t have anything to say.

But because everything in you had gone still.

Because that was the closest thing to a confession you had ever heard from him.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

Not loudly. Not fully. But enough.

And then Solange entered the picture.

Not dramatically. Not suddenly.

Just… naturally.

Like something he hadn’t been looking for—but recognized immediately anyway.

At first, nothing changed.

Or at least, not visibly.

He still spoke to you the same way. Still laughed at your jokes. Still sat next to you. Still existed in your shared space like he always had.

But slowly, almost imperceptibly, the edges shifted.

The late-night conversations became shorter. The pauses between replies grew longer. The eye contact—once lingering, once searching—became brief.

Contained.

Controlled.

And then he started pulling back.

Not cruelly.

Never cruelly.

Oscar didn’t take things away.

He just… let them fall out of reach.

Softly.

Gently.

Like lowering something fragile onto a shelf you couldn’t quite access anymore.

You noticed it before he ever said anything.

Because you had been here before.

You knew what it looked like when someone was choosing a different version of their life.

And without a confrontation, without a breakup, without a single defining moment—

you were quietly, carefully, gently placed back into the role of friend.

Again.

“What are you staring at?” he asked softly, a faint smirk already tugging at his lips as his eyes tried to follow yours.

But you weren’t staring at anything.

Just an empty page open on your OneNote.

You were stuck.

Caught somewhere between memory and reality, trying to steady your breathing while replaying fragments of conversations you never wanted to hear—and some you never asked to hear.

Mentions of her name. Casual. Effortless.

Solange.

Always Solange. A name you had started measuring yourself against without realizing you were already losing.

You forced a small chuckle, dragging yourself back into the present.

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head slightly. “Been thinking about the next content for your platform.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie.

Just… not the truth that mattered.

Because what you were really thinking about was how easy it sounded when he talked about her.

How her name fit so naturally into his sentences.

How he said it the same way he used to say yours.

You want her, you need her. And I'll never be her The thought lingered—unspoken, but deafening.

“And?” he asked, pulling you out of your thoughts again. “And what?” “What did you think of?” he repeated, his tone light, unaware of the war happening quietly inside you.

You forced another laugh, the sound thin, practiced.

“Another stupid TikTok trend,” you said. “A dance.” He shook his head immediately.

“I’m not dancing.”

“Coward.”

“That wouldn’t get views,” he added, as if defending himself. “Everyone knows I don’t dance.”

“But that’s exactly why it would get views,” you countered. “Remember when you hit the griddy? That went viral.”

The memory slipped out easily.

Too easily.

Because you remembered everything.

He had looked so awkward that day. So unpolished. So uncalculated. So human.

And you had laughed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like being around him would always feel that effortless.

Because it was your face he had searched for in the crowd. Your face he smiled at—checking if you had seen it. If you had caught him in that moment.

He huffed quietly, shaking his head.

“Never again.”

“Coward,” you repeated, softer this time.

There was a pause.

Small.

But heavy.

Oscar leaned back slightly, his attention shifting—not away from you, but toward you in a way that made your chest tighten.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

And there it was.

The same question. The same tone. The same quiet concern that used to make you feel seen.

Now it just made everything worse.

Because he still cared.

Just not in the way that mattered.

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Just tired.”

A lie.

One he accepted too easily.

Oscar never pushed.

Never forced answers out of people.

He gave space.

Always space.

Space for people to come to him. Space for people to leave.

Your gaze dropped again, fingers tracing nothing in particular as your mind drifted back to her.

Solange.

The name had started to feel permanent.

Like she had always been part of his life—even if she hadn’t been there when you were.

You had heard how she laughed. How she understood him. How she fit into his world without friction.

Don't want to, but I can't put nobody else above you.

That was the worst kind of love.

“Did you see her today?” Oscar asked suddenly.

Your chest tightened.

“Who?”

“Solange.”

Of course.

The name landed softly in the space between you, but it still cut like something sharp—clean, precise, familiar in the worst way.

“Yeah,” you said after a beat. “Briefly.”

He nodded, a small smile forming—quiet, content, effortless.

“She’s good to have around.”

Simple.

Honest.

Final.

And somehow, that was what broke something in you all over again.

Because there was no hesitation in his voice.

No conflict.

No trace of the mess you were drowning in.

Just certainty.

She belonged. She was wanted.

You swallowed.

“Yeah,” you managed. “I’m sure she is.”

Your voice didn’t sound like yours anymore.

His phone buzzed.

He glanced down.

And the shift was immediate. Subtle, but unmistakable.

His focus changed.

His expression softened.

Not for you.

Not for this conversation.

For her.

For whatever message had just come through.

For a world you were no longer part of. A world that no longer belonged to you.

I hate you. I love you.

The words echoed in your mind, uninvited but painfully accurate. Because that was what this felt like.

Loving him. Resenting him.

Missing him.

Sitting right in front of him while he slowly—so gently—became someone else’s.

Your throat tightened.

“Hey,” he said again, looking up from his phone, like he had just remembered you were still there.

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

And you almost laughed.

Because he would always ask. He would always care. He would still notice the smallest shifts—the tiniest cracks—because he knew you well enough to see them.

Just not well enough to understand what caused them. Not well enough to stop being the reason they existed.

You met his eyes.

And for a second—just a second—everything pressed forward.

I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay since you left without leaving. I still love you. I hate that I still love you.

But none of it came out.

Instead, you smiled.

Soft.

Careful.

Just like he had been with your heart.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’m fine.”

And this time, he believed you.

Or at least, it looked like he did.

You had spent years teaching him how to.

Years of swallowing words, smoothing edges, making your pain easier to stand next to.

So when you said I’m fine, he nodded—easy, unbothered, already halfway gone again.

His attention drifted.

His phone lit up in his hand again.

That same faint smile returned—automatic, unthinking.

Like muscle memory.

Like her.

“Are you okay?” he asked again.

The third time.

Soft. Concerned. Familiar.

Too familiar.

And that was it.

Your head lifted slowly.

And something in you—something that had been holding itself together with quiet, trembling hands for far too long— finally slipped.

And this time, when you looked at Oscar, you didn’t soften.

You didn’t filter it.

You didn’t make it easier for him to understand.

Your eyes were sharp.

Wet.

Breaking.

“How could you do that to me twice?”

The words fell between you before you could stop them.

Before you could reshape them into something safer.

Something survivable.

Because this wasn’t safe.

This wasn’t careful.

This was everything you had swallowed for years—quietly, obediently—finally forcing its way out.

His expression shifted immediately.

Confusion first.

Then something tighter.

Something that looked dangerously close to recognition.

“What?” he asked—but it came out wrong.

Too quick.

Too quiet.

Because somewhere, deep down, he already knew.

You let out a breath that shook on the way out.

“Twice,” you repeated, softer now.

Like maybe saying it gently would make it hurt less. It didn’t.

“Make me fall in love with you,” your voice wavered, your chin trembling despite how hard you tried to steady it, “and then choose someone else twice.”

Silence.

Heavy. Pressing.

Your vision blurred, tears slipping free before you could stop them, and you hated it—hated that he got to see this, this version of you, the one you had worked so hard to keep hidden.

You should’ve been better at this by now.

You had practiced long enough.

“It’s fucking cruel,” you whispered.

Not loud. Not angry. Just… broken in a way that had nowhere left to go.

His breath hitched.

And for the first time, he looked shaken.

Not uncertain. Not distant.

Shaken.

“I’m sorry,” he said. And he meant it.

You could hear it in the way his voice dipped, in the way the words didn’t come out clean.

And it would have meant everything—

if it hadn’t come too late.

You let out a hollow, uneven laugh.

“Are you, though?” Your voice cracked on the last word.

Because that was the question.

Not whether he regretted it now. Not whether he felt bad now that it was right in front of him.

But whether he had thought about you while it was happening.

While he was pulling away. While he was choosing someone else. Twice.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

And that silence— that hesitation—

hurt more than anything he could have said.

Because if there had been an answer, he would have given it.

Oscar was many things.

But he wasn’t a liar.

“I didn’t—” he started, voice low, strained in a way you had never heard before. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

You cut him off.

Too fast. Too sharp.

Because that was the problem.

You knew. Of course you knew.

He had never meant to hurt you.

Not the first time. Not the second.

Not now.

Not ever.

“I know you didn’t mean to,” you said again, quieter now, your voice unraveling with every word. “You never do.”

And that was what made it unbearable. Because how do you hate someone who never intended to break you? How do you leave someone who never gave you a clear enough reason to go?

Your hands clenched in your lap, nails digging into your skin just to feel something real. Something that wasn’t this hollow, aching pull in your chest.

“You just… do it anyway,” you whispered.

His eyes were on you now.

Fully.

No distractions. No distance.

Just you.

And it almost made you laugh.

Because this—this—was what it took.

To make him see you. To make him stay. To make him look at you like you mattered in the moment.

You shook your head, tears falling freely now.

“You don’t even realize what you’re doing, do you?” you asked, your voice barely holding together. “You just… move on. You just find someone else and—”

Your breath caught.

“And I’m still here.”

The words broke.

Raw. Unfiltered.

“I’m still stuck on something that never even happened,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “Do you know how pathetic that feels?”

His jaw tightened.

“Hey—”

“No,” you cut in again, stepping back before he could step forward. Before he could soften this. Before he could make it survivable.

“Don’t,” you said quietly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you try to fix it now,” your voice cracked. “You don’t get to fix it now.”

Because fixing it now didn’t undo the years. Didn’t undo the almosts. Didn’t undo the way he had looked at you like you were everything—

right before choosing someone else.

Again.

“I was there,” you said, quieter now, more fragile, more honest than you had ever let yourself be. “Both times. I was right there, Oscar.”

You didn’t give him the chance to say your name.

“You knew how I felt,” you whispered. “Maybe not in words—but you knew. You always know.”

He didn’t deny it.

And that silence— that quiet, devastating confirmation—

was the final crack.

“And you still let me stay,” you said, your voice barely audible now. “You still let me be there while you figured out that I wasn’t the one you were going to choose.”

“I… I fucking hate you,” you breathed.

The words hung there.

Heavy. Wrong.

True.

“I hate you,” you repeated, softer now, breaking at the edges, “for making me believe it could be me.”

His breath caught.

And for a second—just a second—you saw it.

Regret. Real. Sharp.

Too late.

“But I—” your voice faltered, collapsing inward, “I still—”

You couldn’t finish it. You didn’t have to.

Because he knew.

He had always known.

“I still love you,” you whispered finally. Barely there.

Like something fragile you were ashamed to let exist out loud.

Silence followed.

Not the quiet you used to share. Not something easy.

Something broken. Something that wouldn’t go back.

“You think I didn’t—” his voice broke slightly, stripped of that careful control he always carried. “You think I didn’t feel it?”

Your breath caught.

“I did,” he said. “Both times.”

And that— that hurt more than anything else.

Because it meant you hadn’t imagined it.

It had been real. Just not enough.

“Then why didn’t you choose me?” you asked.

Your voice was small now.

Not sharp. Just… tired. Worn down by years of almosts and maybes and things that never became real.

He looked away. And for a moment, that hurt more than his answer.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

And it shattered something in you completely.

Because if he had said*I didn’t love you enough, you could have survived that. If he had said she’s better for me, you could have learned to accept it.

But I don’t know?

That left everything open. Everything unfinished. Everything still… possible.

In the worst way.

“I never stopped,” he said suddenly.

Your heart stuttered.

“What?”

“I never stopped caring about you.” And somehow, that was worse than if he had.

You let out a hollow laugh.

“That’s not better, Oscar.”

It was worse. So much worse.

“Loving you when you don’t love me back?” you whispered. “I could survive that.”

Your voice broke.

“But loving you while you also love me—just not enough to choose me?”

You swallowed hard.

“That destroys me.”

“I hate you,” you said again.

Softer now. Weaker. “I hate that you still feel like home.”

And that finally broke something in him.

You saw it. But you couldn’t stay.

Because if you did—

you would forgive him. You would stay. You would always stay.

So you stepped back. Putting space between you and the person who had never fully left you—

and never fully chosen you either.

And as you turned away, one thought settled, heavy and permanent in your chest:

It would have been easier…

if he had never loved you at all.

— Your resignation letter landed in his inbox the next day. Clean. Professional. Final.

You removed every trace of yourself from his life. Unfollowed him. Uploaded every piece of content you still had onto the shared platform. Deleted everything from your phone. His number. Your messages. Your pictures.

Except three.

The first—fourteen, school uniforms, awkward smiles. The beginning of everything.

The second—the night he whispered something that sounded too much like forever.

And the third—

the one where neither of you were looking at the camera. Just at each other. Like it had always been enough.

And maybe, for a moment— it had been.

And with that— you were finally done with him.

xoxo babygirl

wow… did i hurt my own feelings? yeah. did this hit way too close to home? also yeah. hope you’re just as hurt as i am 🥰🥲

[hemmingsleclerc]

Ballet ┃charles leclerc

hope u like it 😘💗

summary:Charles goes to his daughter's first ballet recital

Charles could barely contain his excitement as he sat in the dimly lit auditorium, anxiously waiting for his young daughter Emma Jules to take the stage for her first ballet recital.

Since he had known from his wife the great news that his little bunn was going to participate in that recital, he could not keep his mouth shut. Everyone in the paddock had heard the news thanks to the proud dad.

Emma Jules, a beautiful five-year-old girl, had been practicing for weeks for this special performance. Charles was sitting in the audience next to his wife, surrounded by other parents, all sharing the same mix of pride and anticipation. The soft strains of classical music filled the air, creating a feeling of magic as the curtain slowly rose.

The stage was adorned with twinkling lights and silence fell over the audience as the young dancers took their positions. Charles felt a surge of excitement when he saw Emma Jules among them, dressed in a delicate pink tutu and tights of the same color. His heart swelled with pride and he couldn't help but smile as he watched his little girl spin off of her and slide across the stage. He quickly took out his cell phone to record the entire act.

The performance unfolded like a dream, with the little dancers moving gracefully to the music. Charles was completely captivated by Emma Jules' movements, his eyes following her every step. As the ballet reached its climax, he couldn't help but feel awe at the talent of his daughter. His wife next to him, hugging his arm, both marveling at their little creation.

As the final notes echoed through the auditorium, the audience burst into enthusiastic applause. Charles stood up and joined the chorus of proud parents with teary eyes .When the curtain fell, he waited until the little ones came back from backstage to greet Emma Jules, who was beaming with joy.

"Daddy! Did you see me?" Emma Jules exclaimed, running into Charles' open arms.

"I saw you, princess, and you were absolutely amazing!" Charles replied, lifting her into the air. "I'm so proud of you."

Emma Jules laughed and her eyes shone with happiness. Charles knew that this moment would be etched in her memory forever.

''Mommy! Did you like the presentation?''

''I loved it my little baby, we are beyond proud of you''

Charles would definitely attend each of the following recitals and would be as excited as he was the first time.

[fanficsat12am]

I Choose You - cl16 (P2/2)

pairing: charles leclerc x gf!reader, max verstappen x friend!reader

Part 1, Part 2

word count: 3.7k

outline: Just one dinner together was all you asked for. But for a man who moves at three hundred kilometers an hour, he was too slow when it mattered most. Now, Charles' world slows to a crawl as he's left wondering if there's still a chance to mend what he'd broken.

Across the city, in another hotel room, you were curled against Max on the couch. Your tears had finally quieted, replaced by the kind of exhaustion that hollowed everything out. He just stayed there beside you, one arm loosely around your shoulders, until your hiccups had finally evened out. 

Max glanced down slightly. “You asleep?” he murmured.

Met with silence, he carefully shifted away and eased you down onto the couch, making sure your head rested properly against a pillow. He grabbed a spare blanket the hotel provided and draped it over you, movement slow and deliberate so as to not wake you. As he turned to leave, his familiar ringtone cut through the silence. Fishing his phone out his pocket, he sees the name.

Charles “Inchident” Leclerc. He declines it and shoves it back into his pocket. Again, it buzzes. He rolls his eyes, lips pursing into a thin line. Max glanced back at you—curled up on the couch, face still faintly damp from tears. He let the phone ring for another second before finally answering, his voice low and flat.

“What,” he answered, moving to the hotel balcony and shutting the sliding doors behind him.

“Max.” From the tone of Charles’ voice, he was sure he knew. Max leaned his elbows against the balcony railing, the night air cool against his face as the city lights flickered below. 

“She told you to leave her alone.” There it was—the confirmation Charles needed. He was silent. The Dutchman’s words were the truth, yet it was a truth he still wasn’t ready to accept. The tension hung thick between the two racers, stretching across the quiet line.

“You and I both know I can’t do that. Please, just let me see her”

“You had months to see her. To fix this. And you didn’t. Now she wants space. Funny how you had no problem giving it back then—so for once in your life, Leclerc, you’re going to respect it.”

“Max—”

“No.” His tone sharpened slightly. “You’ve already done enough tonight.”

“Please Max…” Charles whispered.

Max had seen him vulnerable before. He’d heard the way Charles’s voice softened whenever he spoke about the people he’d lost in his life. And right now, it was no different. It was the voice of a man who knew he might have already lost you—but also knew that not trying would haunt him far more than the loss itself. Max sighed quietly as he stared out at the city. For a moment, the anger in his chest wavered, replaced by something dangerously close to pity. 

“You really screwed this up, you know,” Max said bluntly as he shifted his weight against the railing. “For someone who drives at three hundred kilometers an hour without blinking, you’re unbelievably slow when it actually matters.” 

Charles let the words settle. Normally he would have snapped back—thrown something equally sharp in return. Tonight, he didn’t have it in him.

“How is she?” he asked instead.

“If you think her crying her eyes out from the moment she got here until she passed out on my couch is ‘okay’, then she’s doing amazing. No thanks to you at least.” he answered, not caring how his words may affect him. On the other end of the line, the Monégasque closed his eyes, the image of you sitting alone forcing its way into his mind once again—whether he wanted it to or not. For the past few hours, as he drove mindlessly down the roads of Japan, that picture had permanently ingrained itself in his thoughts.

“Putain…” the brunette breathed under his breath. “I’m a shit boyfriend”

“Glad you know. You want a medal with that?”

Charles knew how blunt Max could be. He wasn’t one to sugarcoat anything. It carried over with every press conference and interaction they had. Every word that left his mouth was the raw truth that stirred within him. So having to hear the extent of his fuck ups tonight from him made it one hundred times worse.

“But for what it’s worth, she still loves you,” he continued. ”So if you’re planning to screw this up again, do everyone a favor and let her go now.”

Charles felt those words settle heavily in his chest.

“I’m not letting her go,” he said quietly.

“Then you better start acting like it. Stop with the bullshit excuses and actually show up. Because with the way you’re treating her, she could easily leave your ass and you won't see me stopping her.”

“I will. Just…” he started, hesitating. “Stay with her tonight.”

“Obviously.” Max couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Go to sleep, Charles.” 

“I don’t think I can”

“Good” Without another word, Max ended the call. He walked back inside and looked at your sleeping figure for a moment. You shifted, tugging the blanket closer, tear stains barely visible yet eyes a bit puffed. 

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath—though it wasn’t clear if he meant Charles. Or you.

You woke up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you pushed yourself up from the couch. The sun peeked through the thin drapes, casting the space in a warm, golden glow. Your head throbbed faintly. You blinked a few times, glancing down at the blanket wrapped around your shoulders before looking around the room. Right, Max’s place. 

Just then, the blonde pops out from the bedroom. 

“Morning” he says, sending a small smile as he makes a beeline to the in-room coffee machine. “You want some?”

His eyebrows raise as he waves one of the drip coffee bags to you. You nod, movements still slow from waking. You rubbed your temples, trying to ease the dull ache sitting behind your eyes as the memories from the night before began creeping back in. 

Max glanced over his shoulder briefly, noticing the way your shoulders tensed as you sat there. He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he finished pouring the water through the drip bag before walking over.

“Careful, it’s hot,” he warned, placing the mug gently on the low table in front of you.

As you stared at the mug in your hands, the bitter aroma familiar, you couldn’t help but reminisce about the simple life you had lived before. Everything had been so easy then. So predictable. Only for it to all change the moment the Monégasque boy walked in.

The small bell above the café door rang softly as it opened, announcing his arrival. You remembered looking up from behind the counter, half distracted by the stack of cups you were drying. He stepped inside, sunlight spilling in behind him, the faint scent of cedar and spice following him through the door. Every step he took closer to the counter made the butterflies in your stomach flutter harder, though you had no idea why.

“Good morning, Madame. May I please get an espresso?”

He smiled—soft, a little shy—his eyes warm as they met yours. For a brief second, it felt like time slowed down. His eyes were mesmerizing. It was green like a lush forest yet blue like a clear sky, all brought together by a sliver of brown.

At the time, you had no idea who he was. To you, he was just another handsome stranger passing through the café. Someone with a charming accent and a smile that lingered a little longer than most customers'. As he stared at you expectantly, you realized how long you’ve actually been staring. 

“O-of course,” you’d managed, hoping he couldn’t hear the slight tremble in your voice.

You turned quickly toward the espresso machine, busying your hands so he wouldn’t notice the way your heart had suddenly started racing. The familiar hiss of steam filled the small café as the shot poured. Behind you, you could feel his gaze. When you turned back around, the espresso cup resting carefully on its saucer, he was still watching you.

“Here you go,” you smiled, sliding the cup across the counter.

“Merci,” he replied, fingers brushing yours for just a second as he picked it up.

One encounter turned into many after that.

The memory faded slowly as the warmth of the coffee mug returned you to the present. Across from you, Max watched quietly. 

“You’re thinking about him,” he said as a matter of fact.

“Is it that obvious?” you mumbled, taking a sip of the beverage.

“Yeah, no. Everyone I know stares at their drink for like five minutes in silence, watching it go cold,” he jested, still keeping that signature Verstappen resting face. 

Despite everything, a faint huff of amusement left your nose. You took another small sip of the coffee. It was bitter, stronger than you were used to, but the warmth grounded you.

“I don’t know what to do,” you admitted quietly.

Max leaned back against the couch, arms crossing over his chest as he studied you for a moment. He purses his lips, debating whether he should tell you of their conversation last night. But with the way you looked so defeated, uncertain, like you needed something to hold on to—he figured you deserved to know.

“He called last night after you fell asleep. He sounded like shit.”

Your body visibly tensed, the mug in your hands pausing halfway to your lips.

“Oh.” The single word came out quieter than you intended.

Max watched your reaction carefully, noting the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your gaze dropped immediately back to the coffee in your hands. You knew to yourself you couldn’t stay hidden forever. And deep down inside, you didn’t want to. You just needed time—not to punish him, but to figure everything out. How you felt, where things had gone wrong, and whether any of this could still be fixed.

“What… did you tell him?” you asked carefully, still not looking up.

“What he needed to hear,” he answered, voice unwavering. Despite how vague it sounded, his tone alone was enough for you to know Charles’ feelings had not been spared last night.

With a deep sigh, you buried yourself deeper into the couch, swirling the mug in your hands and its contents. “I just want to forget any of this happened. For things to go back to how they used to be…when we were happier.”

Max rolls his eyes. “Look. You have two choices, and that’s definitely not one of them.  Pretending last night didn’t happen isn’t going to fix anything. You can’t keep living like that. You know it, he knows it. All you can do now is move forward with or without him”

You looked at him, a bit shocked at his straightforwardness.

“I mean it,” he continued. “If loving him hurts you more than it makes you happy… then walk away.”  

The words settled heavily in the air. Because part of you knew he was right—there was no clean way back from something like this, no simple undoing of what had already fractured between you. With every missed schedule and every broken promise, what once was only a small crack had spread quietly through the foundation of your trust, leaving it brittle, trembling, and just barely holding on. The silence was broken as a knock echoed from the hotel door, pulling both of your attention toward it.

Max frowned slightly, “I didn’t order room service.” 

He pushed himself off the couch and walked toward the door, glancing back at you briefly before looking through the peep hole. 

“…You’ve got to be kidding me” he mumbled, stepping back and opening the door.

Max stepped aside just enough for you to see past him. Your stomach dropped. Standing in the hallway, hair messy, eyes tired and rimmed with red was Charles. The man looked like he hadn’t slept at all. Yet as his eyes found you across the room, all traces of exhaustion were shoved back and replaced with relief.

“(Y/N)...” he sighs, taking a step into the room. But before he could put a foot inside, Max quickly stops him, standing firmly as an arm stretches out to block his path. 

“I just want to talk.” he pleaded, bloodshot eyes never leaving yours.

“Only if she wants to, mate” Max spoke softly as he glanced back at you briefly, his expression unreadable but tone protective. 

They looked to you, waiting for your decision. You take a moment to really take in his state. He wasn’t the polished driver from magazine covers or race-day headlines. The charming smile and effortless confidence the cameras loved so much were nowhere to be found. Instead, standing there was the man you knew. 

The one who sat quietly beside you after a race that hadn’t gone his way. The one who would bury his face into your neck late at night, holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping the world from swallowing him whole. The one who’d let silent tears flow, knowing you’d be there to wipe every one off. The version of him reserved only for your eyes.

And right now, he looked like he was barely holding himself together. His gaze never left yours, like he was afraid that if he looked away—even for a second—you might disappear again. After what felt like an eternity, you send a small nod. Despite his hesitance, Max stepped aside with a quiet huff. As Charles walks past, he takes him by the arm, his hold not strong enough to bruise but still firm. 

“Don’t screw this up again,” he whispered, letting go of his arm and closing the door. Knowing you two need some space, he opted to move to the bedroom. Just before disappearing inside, he glanced back at you. 

“Just give me the word and he’s out of here.” Knowing him, he wouldn’t hesitate to do it either.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room suddenly quieter than before. Now it was just the two of you. For a moment, neither you nor Charles moved. He stayed near the entrance like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to take another step. Even from where he stood, he could see the toll this has put on you. The light in your eyes—the one he adored, the one that always seemed to glow when you looked at him—had dulled. Faint, but not gone.

How long had it been like that? How did he not notice? There was so much he wanted to say. A thousand apologies crowded his chest, fighting to be the first one out. He wanted to beg, to plead, to somehow prove to you that what you meant to him hadn’t changed—had never changed. Even if it meant getting down on his knees right there in front of you. But the words stayed stuck in his throat, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Say something. Anything.

“I’m so sorry.” The words were raw. Honest. “I promised you I’d be there, and I wasn’t. I kept you waiting… and worst of all, I made you question my love for you.”

His voice faltered slightly before he continued.

“You’ve given me more than I ever deserved. You were always there when I needed you—always beside me, no matter where I was. And when you needed me…” He swallowed. “I couldn’t even show up.” His gaze dropped briefly before he continued. 

“I took your love for granted. I got so used to it being there that I started expecting it. Like it was something that would always be waiting for me.” The silence between you felt impossibly heavy. “I forgot that you didn’t have to wait for me. That you didn’t have to drop everything or put it on hold just to fit my schedule.”

He took a slow, shaking breath, “I understand if you never want to see me again. I’d understand if you disappeared without saying goodbye. But if there’s even the smallest chance you’d still have me… I’ll spend every minute, every hour, and every day showing how much you mean to me. I will give up everything if it means I get the chance to prove that loving you was never something I deserved, but something I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of.” His voice wavered, feeling the familiar pricks of tears in his eyes.

“Because none of it means anything if you’re not there with me.”

The words lingered in the air between you. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. From behind the bedroom door, the faint sound of Max moving around reminded you that he was still there. Still listening. Still ready to step in if things went wrong. You shut your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before standing up from the couch and letting the blanket fall back into the cushions. 

“You really hurt me, Charles.” you say, arms crossing in front of you as if it would shield your already broken heart.

“I know.”

“Apologies and flowers wont fix it.”

“I don’t expect it to.”

“It’s going to take a lot of time.”

“I’m ready to try. However long it takes.”

You studied his face carefully, searching for any hint that this was just another promise that would eventually be forgotten. You took a step forward, the cold wood of the floor pressing against your bare feet as the distance between you slowly began to close.

“How do I know things won’t just go back to the way they were?” you asked, taking another careful step.

“It won’t”

“You can’t just promise things like that, Charles. I need you to actually be there” You moved closer, each step deliberate, bridging the space between you.

“I will”

“It’s not easy to forget something like this” You said, your eyes locked on his.

“I’m not asking for you to forget about it,” he continued. “I’m asking for the chance to start something new. To do better.”

“And if I don’t want to?” You stopped, looking up at the man you had entrusted your heart to—the same one who had crushed it in one night, and yet now was asking for one more chance to pick up the pieces and earn the right to mend what he had broken.

His expression faltered, his heart practically stopping at the thought. In his mind, the fans, the checkered flags, the podiums—all of it fades into something dull and meaningless. He imagines a future spent scanning the crowds, hoping to catch a glimpse of you that will never come. Victories where no one waits for him in the paddock. Trophies that feel far heavier than they ever did before.

“If you don’t…” he repeated quietly. “I’ll spend the rest of my life being grateful you ever let me love you at all.”

Even as you stood right in front of him, within arm’s reach, he stayed still. His hands hovered at his sides, fingers twitching slightly before curling into his palms as his eyes searched your face quietly. After a beat of silence, you closed the distance, pulling him into your arms. He froze for a moment, letting the familiar warmth sink in, before carefully wrapping his arms around you, holding you close as if you were sand slipping through his fingers.

“One shot. If you ever make me feel like that again…” you paused, your voice steady. “I’ll be gone.” Charles nodded without hesitation. Relief washed over him from head to toe, the weight he’d been carrying a lot lighter now. He nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck, relishing the familiar scent of your perfume, the softness of your skin, and the quiet rhythm of your heartbeat, all a subtle reminder that you were here.

“Thank you, that’s all I need” he breathed, letting the world fall away around you both.

A small, shaky smile tugged at your lips. From behind the bedroom door, there was a sudden muffled thump followed by Max’s voice. You both let go, Charles keeping you close by the waist. Right on cue, the bedroom door opened and Max leaned out, arms crossed.

“So,” he said, glancing between the two of you. “Are we hugging, crying, or breaking up?”

You sighed. “We’re… working on it.”

Max narrowed his eyes slightly at Charles. “Working on it…” he repeated.

“No more bullshit,” Charles reassured, sending the Dutchman a smile. Max studied him for another second before nodding once.

“Good.” Max said, walking over to pat him on the back. In a split second, his smile dropped before pointing to the door leading to the hallway. “Now if you’re gonna fuck it out, the door’s wide open. I won’t hesitate to kick you both out right now.”

You and Charles shared a quiet laugh, the tension between you finally loosening. He turned to you and placed a palm to your cheek, taking a second to memorize what he could have lost but now working to deserve.

“Thank you, Mon cœur. Je t'aime de toute mon âme” he whispered as he pulled you close, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head before resting his forehead against yours. You both knew it wouldn’t be fixed overnight. It would have to be built slowly, with consistency and presence. It was a simple but small start to a chance he wasn’t going to waste. 

And true to his word, he spent every second proving it. Not through grand gestures or empty promises, but in the quiet, steady ways that mattered most. He showed up—on time, every time. In the chance he was late, it was immediately met with apologies and reassurance of how close he was. Calls that once went unanswered were now the first thing he reached for. Messages never left unread for more than an hour. No more “later’s,” no more waiting. Just him, choosing you, again and again.

The races never stopped. The world never slowed. But somehow, he learned to make space for you within it all. Flights were rearranged. Schedules adjusted. Even in the chaos, you were no longer something he fit in—you were something he made time for. And little by little, the distance that once felt so vast began to close, not in leaps, but in small, deliberate steps.

Trust didn’t return all at once. It came silently—when he walked through the door when he said he would, when his hand found yours without hesitation, when you no longer had to question if he would choose you.

And this time, he did. Every single time.

an: And that concludes my first Formula 1 fic!! I'd love to hear your thoughts, feedback, and more in the comments or tags. If you guys are interested in a max ending, let me know <3 Thank you so much for reading!

[uglyducklingofthe2000s]

Just A Pretty Face - F1 Grid

Just A Pretty Face series - pt 1

Summary: After getting her seat the media, former F1 drivers, commentators and journalists decide before they've even seen her in the Mercedes that y/n is a driver with no talent but a pretty face who flirted her way into F1. Even a couple of the drivers on the grid seem to insinuate that she's not good enough. But she didn't get here letting men think they get to make a judgement and be proven right.

Themes/warnings: Misogyny and sexism within F1, drivers acting out of usual character (for the sake of the plot)

Set in 2026 (Kimi!teammate - bye-bye Georgie) - using the 2025 race calendar for timeline reference

Pt 2

Word count: 1.9k

It had started before Y/n even got in the seat.

Toto had been watching her for a while in F3 and was happy with her progress, she'd already been signed as junior in Mercedes and with George seeming to have some sort of vendetta against Kimi, they decided he was too much a liability to the team.

So out went George and his destructors championship win and in came y/n for the new regs.

The news was not taken well. Not only did people tear apart her F3 second place that was "not deserving of an F1 seat" but the media made a point to suggest that her appearance and femininity played a big part in her getting the seat at all.

It was like a kick to the teeth with the years of blood, sweat and tears she'd poured into her career to get here and at the end of it all she's been reduced down to her physical appearance and worse yet it's being used against her.

Salt in the wound came when a press conference in testing came around where Max, Charles and Lando were asked about their thoughts on the matter of a female driver and much to her hurt they laughed and said she makes for a pretty picture in the sport. As 3 of the most popular faces in the sport right now, their words held power and it hurt.

That really hurt and y/n decided in that moment that she wasn't there to befriend those men anyway. The might be popular and talented but she'd be damned before a man's words meant anything to her. Talented or not.

Kimi has supported her and made his feelings on the disrespect towards his new teammate very clear. Toto and Susie have spoken in outrage about the comments from anyone and everyone about y/n getting her seat for any reason other than her talent.

Media is difficult for y/n, she manages to plaster a smile on her face but she's handed over her social media logins and deleted everything from her app beyond communication apps which is really just with her team or family and friends to contact her. She is in the drivers group chat but she muted it after the derogatory comments.

Right now she's sitting with her team in the Mercedes unit, preparing for the first practice in Melbourne and Toto is making a point to be present especially with her.

“How are we feeling? Are we feeling good?” Toto asks trying to help maintain a positive atmosphere since there has been a slightly dampened mood and the whole team has felt it. The team around y/n seems to hesitate to get too vocal about their feelings and agreement, waiting for y/n to speak up first.

“We’re feeling great, only Friday but we’re going to look good.” Y/n confirms with a smile reliving some of the tension and pressure in the air. “Got a lot to prove and I think it’s going to be great.”

“That is exactly the attitude we want to hear. I will leave you to focus and see you on track.”

-

Y/n didn’t tell a like when she said it was going to be great. She finished P1 for both practices with Kimi right behind her. Though they’re not getting ahead of themselves. Engine modes and strategy for how to spend sessions all vary from team to team and a lot of them keep their cards close to their chest till qualifying.

As she goes to media, she feels her chest get a little tight and her palms get a little clammy as she steps into the media pen. Thankfully if there’s one saving grace beyond her team. It’s Lewis.

“Hey, you looked incredible out there.” Lewis states catching her attention from the ground then frowning when he notices her slightly queasy expression. “Feeling ok?”

“Yeah, just not a fan of speaking to people who think nothing about me but that I’m pretty and talentless.” Y/n comments with a weak nod. She has confidence, actually Lewis knows she has confidence because he was one of the people who talent-spotted her and got her on Toto’s radar before he left the team. He’s spoken out in disgust of the treatment and attitudes towards her but it’s hard to do much for her being in another team. “Don’t worry, it’s not affecting me in the car. It’s only when I have to actually speak to them.”

“I get it.” Lewis nods with a soft smile then offering a hug which she takes despite feeling certain it will be used against her. “For the record, you are the only driver right now that’s making me consider that maybe I am too old and need to retire.”

“Oh god, don’t say that. I don’t want to be blamed for your retirement. I’ll never live it down.” Y/n laughs lightly before she sighs a little. “Thank you…for supporting me. I needed that.”

And she did.

But that doesn’t stop her from later seeing the Sky broadcast talking about how she was “overwhelmed and couldn’t handle” her day in an F1 car without needing to “be held by a man”. The way they spoke about her crossed a line and Toto decided they would not be interacting or speaking with Sky for the foreseeable future.

“Are you sure you’re ok?” Her trainer, Dakota asks as y/n flops down on the ground deciding to have some floor time to try and distress herself.

“It’s going to be like this forever, isn’t it? I could win every single race this year and they’d just say that the other drivers let me by or let me win to be a gentlemen. Nothing I do will be good enough in their eyes.” Y/n sighs closing her eyes to let her tears pool but not fall before she digs her fists into them and rubs at them violently. “I just wish I didn’t have to speak to any of them. What does media have to do with driving a car? I fucking hate every one of them.”

Using spite as motivation probably doesn’t sit well with most people but y/n has decided it’s the best means of using up these emotions.

“Go get some sleep. We’re both going to need good rest if we’re going to make it through this weekend and the rest of the year without murdering someone.”

-

She didn't make a statement getting pole but she did manage to get P3 which isn't a bad position to be in for the starting grid and earned plenty of praise from Toto and the team.

Now she's climbing back into the car after the anthem and getting ready for her first race. Everything felt good on the grid laps.

There's already been a lot of unreliability predicted for the 2026 season as teams all come to terms with the new regulations. Reliability tends to be unpredictable but Mercedes, especially with so many teams relying on them for engines, has made the effort to completely extinguish the chances of that happening.

"Radio check." Dez states into her ears.

"Yep, radio check."

When they get around and back to the grid, the crews have cleared and it's just her and the drivers around her. This part is all down to them.

Which is why when Charles' car in pole doesn't move, y/n has to swerve to get around him and takes P2 with Oscar in P1. An image that y/n is sure the Australian's love but she doesn't waste time thinking about it.

At least karma got the man in pole who in her opinion deserved a bad start with the comments he felt comfortable to make about her.

But off the line means nothing, you don't win the race or stand on the podium going into the first corner. Even if internally she feels some victory over seeing someone else's massive failure.

"Head down, you could take this win." Dez states which even y/n feels like it might be a little eager and overly optimistic to say she could win.

"Y/n's engineer seems to think she can win. That would be quite a tall order to ask of a rookie they just threw in the car." Crofty comments while Martin hums not approving of Mercedes' decision to ignore Sky exists including him on his track walk so in his own petty revenge he's making a point to not commentate on them.

Y/n does lose the P2 to Lewis after they make their pit stops but she keeps the P3. She maintains the podium, though admittedly Max, Liam, Lando, Nico and Charles were all within the DNFs who retired with reliability issues which obviously made it worth it. Oscar won the race which is no doubt the best moment of his life with it being his home race.

"You are incredible. Be proud. Be very very proud." Dez chuckles through her radio as she does her in lap. "Podium on debut."

"Thank you. Thank you so much." Y/n sighs then smiling when she sees Lewis driving by her side and waving at her with a thumbs up.

The team makes sure to make an especially big deal, actually challenging McLaren's celebrations for Oscar's home win as she climbs out the car and moves to them.

The hands slapping and patting her actually make her exhausted body ache but she knows every slap and pat is out of love.

It's when she gets up into the cool down room that Lewis congratulates her.

"You know a podium debut is a good omen from my experience." Lewis smiles as he hugs her and she smiles hugging him back almost a little too tightly but she can't help it.

She makes sure to congratulate Oscar on his home race win, though he only briefly thanks he before counting to talk to the McLaren team member, which is fair enough.

But when she goes down to media all she hears is that she got very lucky and the podium was great work by the team. Which it was, but it wouldn't be the worst thing to just give her a little credit for her driving that got her to the podium.

"Come on, we are going out for dinner and drinks-on Toto, he's meeting us there." Dez states appearing with some of the team.

"Alright, but I want to dress up. I'm not going like this."

-

Y/n might not always feel like her looks are something to make a big deal about but celebrating isn't something she's ever taken lightly so when she appears after having sent out a text that she has chosen a restaurant and will be footing the bill, it's no surprise that she's dressed up and she smiles giving a small shoulder shrug to Dez as he waits for her.

"Gold?" He smirks making y/n shrug a little.

"A wins a win. Take them where you can." Y/n smiles before she takes his hand. "Anyway, they keep saying I'm just a pretty face, but I think the world needs reminded that actually the rest of my body is pretty fucking amazing as well."

"Are you...embracing the headlines?"

"I just don't care anymore. They don't want to give me any praise or credit. I'll get my achievements do more with my life than they will."