Jun 16, 2025
what is formula racing even about?
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seen from China
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what is formula racing even about?
That's All? || F1/F2
type :: smut!!! tw/cw :: cuck alert (ln04), dacryphilia (cl16), contains :: carlos, charles, oscar, lando, ollie, paul, pepe, isack, summary :: accidental ways you end up exciting the drivers. from seemingly innocent things to stuff you had no clue was sexual . ⊹ ࣪ ˖
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Carlos Sainz | 55 being above him
Carlos is fairly tall, not a giant but still enough to be taller than 80% of his fans
But he just loves having to look up at you
When he's sitting down and you're standing between his legs,
Playing with his hair as you yap to him
He's not hearing a damn word
Just looking up to you like a god gets his pants tighter
Or when you're cuddling in bed and he's resting his head in your lap
You're sat up reading a book or scrolling on your phone
He loves just feeling like he's insignificant to you
Seeing his beautiful partner, glowing with the light behind your head
It makes him want to service you
Thank god his head is already on your lap, all he has to do is sneakily sneak your shorts off and begin to mess with you
Which he does instantly, already prepared to make you feel good
Charles Leclerc | 16 crying aka dacryphilia
Seeing you cry is something he doesn't want to see often
But when he does see it, it just strikes something in him
Maybe his protective side? The urge to make you feel better?
He just loves seeing you be so raw, unguarded, and open to him
Because Charles is a very emotionally stable person, he rarely even cries to anyone
So seeing you grant him that permission to see you so vulerable... he just wants to make you feel better
But he can never say it, he's just not sure how to
So he just does his best to overstimulate you in bed
That way your eyes can water up, maybe earn a cry or two from you
Which is always his end goal
To have you feeling so good that you're squirming
Isack Hadjar | 06 cocky attitude
Being competitive is one of Isacks strong suits
So seeing you be equally as competitive is something that just drives him further
It just makes him excited to see you be so cocky
Hearing you praise yourself, he loves seeing your confidence
And hearing you degrade him? Yeah, he's into that too
If you win, he's going to reward you
Any position you want, he'll give it to you
You won fain and square anyways
If you lose? Oh he's even more turned on
Seeing your ego being crushed or having to make up an excuse as to why you lost
It just makes him want you even more
To shut you up and make you babble more nonsense
He's also really into bragging about his wins
Just to rile you up and get you to tell him how he "cheated" or that you "weren't ready"
And you fell right for his trap
Lando Norris | 04 wearing someone elses merch
Oscar is his teammate and rival, everyone knows that
So seeing you casually walk around the house in Oscars jersey is just insane to him
"Really?" Lando asks as he walks up to you. You simply twirl in the merch you bought
"I gotta support Osc too!" You say with a smile
And instantly he's putting his lips all over you
Just something inside him likes the idea of seeing so obedient under him while following someone else
And it feels so dirty to him
As if he's taking away someone's fan
Makes him fuck you rougher, for longer, and meaner
So you take note and wear other jerseys
Doesn't who, what team, or even the sport
Just loves seeing you in someone elses name
Ollie Bearman | 87 modest clothing
Seeing you be so cute, clean, and modest
It just makes him want to tear it apart
Loves the idea of being so freaky while hiding it
Because look at him? He's some lanky, awkward, British man
No one would ever suspect that he's fingering you till you squirt all over him
Or he's fucked you on every surface in your cute apartment
When you cover your chest, your legs, it just reminds him what he misses seeing
Loves when you wear baggy clothes the most,
He always tugs it back, making your figure become highlighted in it
It's like a surprise, expect he knows exactly what's coming
Oscar Piastri | 81 being alone in a car
Something primal just,,, comes out when Oscar is in a car with you
It truly doesn't matter the scenery, the outfit, the time
Just the idea of being locked in a car with you instantly makes him want to slide his hand up your thigh
Which he always does without fail
"Osc." You always say as a warning to him
But he never cares, and he knows you always want it too
He'll fuck you anywhere in the car
Sitting on his lap in the driver seat, letting you ride him
Using his fingers while you try to squirm away, but he just uses his other free hand to pull your thighs apart
Or moving to the back so he can fuck you missionary
Or maybe doggy, letting you look out the window like a true dog
All the possibilities just drive him insane
Loves that you can't run away from him
You're his, trapped in his cage
Paul Aron | 17 being uninterested in him
Everyone loves Paul, or can at least admit he's attractive
Even his biggest haters can't say he's ugly
Cause that's just a straight lie
He's spoiled in attention, basking in his limelight
So when you rob him of it, ignoring him
He's so intrigued and turned on by the sight of you looking away
If you're cooking and not hearing a word he says?
Instantly, he turns off the stove and begins to lift you onto the counter
If you're working on an important essay with noise cancelling headphones?
He slides your chair out of the desk and will get on his knees to please you
It works in your favor by knowing exactly how to get him going
He loves it even more when you try to ignore him while he's pounding you
Seeing you try to read your book with your mouth open, instantly he's quickening his pace to break you
Or avoiding his eyes and looking off to the side, he'll grab your face and make you look at him, giving him all the attention he deserves
Pepe Marti | 21 paying for you
It's such a minimal thing to you, yet for him it changes everything
You don't even know this is a secret turn on for him
He always pays for your nails, a sweet action that you loved
He would even help design your newest set and pick out the colors, shapes, 3D details
When you come home and show him, he just feels so proud
He doesn't care that your nails cost $200, he just loves providing for you
Or when you get your hair retouched and styled for a date, costing almost $800 just for a simple blowout
He could give less of a shit about the cost
Having you look so good, knowing he paid for it, knowing he's providing for his partner is all he needs
It's like a piece of you is permanently altered by him, claiming you
Loves when you tell others that he helped pick your clothes, buy your makeup, or paid for your expensive Dyson hair tools
Just wants to make you a comfortable princess
And it's the details that drive him crazy
Like when you're giving him a handjob with the nails he designed and paid for
Or when you're riding him and your freshly style hair bounces so nicely alongside your chest
Or when your makeup is smudged against the sheets from him pounding into you
It's so fun making you dolled up, to claim you, provide for you, and ruin you
f1/f2 masterlist || join taglist!
For anyone who hasn't seen it, here's the Blues Brothers-level crash at the start of today's F2 race
hi could i request a ka12 where he and reader are long distance because she’s still in uni and they finally are able to see each other for the first time in ages and he refuses to let her go and it’s super fluffy?
In His Arms
Summary: Kimi and you are in a long distance relationship because you're still in uni but when you two finally are able to see each other for the first time in ages, Kimi refuses to let you go.
Song: Desert Rose · Lolo Zouaï
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 2.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
The steady hum of the plane’s engines vibrated through the cabin, a low, comforting drone beneath the frantic beat of your own heart.
For what felt like an eternity, Kimi had been a face on a screen, a voice echoing through tinny phone speakers, a whirlwind of race weekends and press conferences.
His life, a blur of speed and high-stakes decisions, felt a million miles away from your own, grounded in the quiet intensity of university lectures and the late-night glow of a laptop screen.
It had been eight long months.
Eight months since you’d last felt the solid warmth of his hand in yours, eight months since you’d inhaled the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the faint metallic tang of a race suit, eight months since you’d woken up tangled in his limbs.
Long distance, they called it. It felt more like an emotional endurance race, each passing week a lap, testing your resolve, your patience, your unshakeable belief that what you had was worth every single mile, every single missed moment.
Your phone, clutched in your hand, displayed your last text exchange. Kimi: “Almost there, amore. My eyes are already glued to the arrival board.” And you, a jumble of nerves and excitement: “Counting down the seconds, Kim. Can’t believe it’s finally happening.”
His schedule was notoriously brutal. The F1 season was relentless, a global circus that allowed precious little time for anything beyond the track, the training, the media obligations.
But this was his off-season. A rare, blessed window of reprieve, and he’d insisted you come to him, to his apartment in Monaco, a place you’d only ever seen in pictures and video calls.
You juggled your demanding final-year university schedule, pulled all-nighters to get ahead on assignments, all for this. For him.
The plane touched down with a gentle bump, and a ripple of anticipation went through you.
The next hour was a blur of disembarking, navigating the airport, the anxious wait for your luggage, and finally, the walk through the sliding doors into the arrivals hall.
Your palms were sweating. You chewed on your lip. What if he wasn’t there? What if you walked past him? What if it felt… different?
Then your eyes landed on him.
He was leaning against a pillar, a dark baseball cap pulled low, a pair of sunglasses obscuring his eyes, but there was no mistaking the lean, athletic build, the way he carried himself with an innate confidence even in a casual hoodie and jeans.
He looked… real. More real than he had in months. A gasp caught in your throat, a silent, joyous explosion in your chest.
As if he felt your gaze, Kimi pushed off the pillar, slowly, deliberately, and pulled off his sunglasses. His eyes, those intense, intelligent eyes you knew so well, met yours across the bustling hall.
A slow, breathtaking smile spread across his face, not the practiced, PR-friendly smile he offered to cameras, but something softer, more genuine, laced with an undeniable tenderness that was reserved only for you.
He started walking towards you, a purposeful stride that seemed to devour the distance between you. Your legs, suddenly shaky, took a tentative step forward, then another.
The world seemed to fade into a blur of background noise. All you could see was him, all you could hear was the frantic thumping of your own heart.
When he was finally close enough, close enough to touch, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, you saw the raw relief in his eyes, mirroring your own.
His hand reached out, not to shake yours, but to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your skin. “You’re here,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble that sent shivers down your spine.
It was the same voice that talked strategy with engineers, the same voice that spoke calmly to the press, but now it was laced with a vulnerability that melted your resolve.
“I’m here,” you whispered back, a tear escaping the corner of your eye.
And then he was pulling you into him, a fierce, desperate embrace that stole your breath. His arms wrapped around you, not gently, but with a powerful possessiveness that surprised you.
One arm went around your waist, pulling you flush against his solid frame, the other tangled in your hair, holding your head against his shoulder.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, as if trying to commit your scent to memory.
You clutched at the back of his hoodie, your fingers digging into the soft fabric, anchoring yourself to him. It was a reunion, yes, but it was more than that.
It was the coming home you hadn’t realized you’d been so profoundly missing.
The world outside the circle of his arms ceased to exist. All the anxieties, all the loneliness, all the endless hours of longing simply evaporated in the overwhelming reality of his presence.
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just held you, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your chest, a rhythm that was strangely calming, profoundly intimate.
“I missed you so much,” he finally murmured against your skin, his voice muffled, thick with emotion. “More than I could say.”
You felt a tremor run through him, and you held him tighter, your own tears now flowing freely. “I missed you too, Kimi. So, so much.”
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, his thumb still tracing patterns on your cheek. His eyes, usually so sharp and focused, were softened, glistening.
He leaned in, and his lips found yours, soft at first, then deepening with an urgency that spoke of months of pent-up longing.
It was a kiss that tasted of distance and relief, of promises kept and futures yet to unfold. A silent conversation that needed no words.
When he finally broke the kiss, he didn’t let go. His arms remained steadfastly around you, his chin resting on the top of your head, pulling you back into the warmth of his embrace.
He just stood there, swaying slightly, seemingly content to block out the entire world and just hold you.
“Okay, my love, let’s get you out of here,” he eventually mumbled, but even as he spoke, he didn’t loosen his grip.
Instead, he simply adjusted you, managing to grab your small carry-on bag with one hand while keeping you firmly tucked against his side with the other.
Walking through the airport, Kimi refused to release you. His arm remained clamped around your waist, pulling you so close that your hips brushed with every step, your shoulders constantly touching.
You had to practically shuffle to keep up with his longer strides, but you didn’t mind. You leaned into his warmth, reveling in the constant physical contact.
He seemed to take perverse pleasure in it, occasionally squeezing your side or pressing a soft kiss into your hair.
When you reached his car, a sleek, anonymous black SUV (he preferred discretion when not on track), he opened the passenger door for you, but only after pausing to give you another lingering hug, as if he worried you might vanish into thin air.
You slid into the seat, and he leaned in, brushing a lock of hair from your face before closing the door with a soft thud.
The drive to his apartment was surprisingly quiet, punctuated only by his soft hum of a song you knew he liked, and his hand finding yours on the center console.
His fingers interlaced with yours, his thumb stroking the back of your hand in a continuous, comforting rhythm. It was a silent testament to his need for connection, for proof that you were truly there.
Once inside his apartment, a spacious, modern place overlooking the glittering Mediterranean, he led you straight to the sofa.
He didn’t offer you a drink, or ask if you were hungry, or suggest you unpack. He just sat down, pulled you into his lap, and wrapped his arms around you again.
“Just… five more minutes,” he murmured into your hair, his voice sounding utterly content.
You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.
You nestled deeper into his embrace, a soft sigh escaping your lips. The flight had drained you, but being in his arms felt like the ultimate recharge.
Five minutes turned into thirty. He stroked your hair, kissed your forehead, murmured sweet, nonsensical things against your scalp. He traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, his gaze lingering on your face as if trying to memorize every detail.
“I’ve missed this,” he said, his voice quiet, almost vulnerable. “Just… having you here. In my space. Being able to touch you.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “This place feels so empty when you’re not here.”
You smiled, your heart aching with a tenderness so profound it hurt. “It feels like home now,” you confessed, leaning up to kiss his chin.
Later, when you finally suggested you should probably unpack, he agreed with a reluctant sigh, but even then, he followed you to the bedroom.
As you opened your suitcase, he sat on the edge of the bed, watching you, a small, endearing smile playing on his lips.
When you turned to put a t-shirt into the wardrobe, he was suddenly behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“What if I just… keep you here?” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t let you go back?”
You laughed softly, leaning back into him. “And what about my degree, Mr. Antonelli? My future career?”
“I’ll buy you a private jet for your lectures,” he countered immediately, making you laugh harder. “Or better yet, I’ll be your private tutor. I’m pretty good at numbers, you know.”
He was teasing, of course, but there was an underlying current of genuine desire in his voice, a hint of the longing that had defined your months apart.
You turned in his arms, wrapping your own around his neck. “I love you, you silly F1 driver.”
“I love you more, my smart university student,” he replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He paused, then hugged you tighter. “No, really. I do. This is… exactly where I want to be. Exactly what I needed.”
Over the next few days, Kimi remained your shadow. He was an international sports star, but at home, with you, he transformed into the most affectionate, clingy version of himself.
If you were reading on the sofa, he’d subtly manoeuvre himself until your head was resting on his chest, or your legs were draped over his.
If you went to the kitchen for a glass of water, he’d follow, leaning against the counter, just watching you, a soft smile on his face.
Even when he was on his phone, catching up on team emails or planning his off-season training, he’d keep you tethered to him, his free hand finding yours, or his foot nudging yours under the table.
He loved to just sit with you, in comfortable silence, his arm wrapped firmly around you, his fingers idly playing with a strand of your hair.
One evening, as you were cooking dinner together, Kimi kept distracting you by kissing the back of your neck. You finally turned, flour dusting your hands, a mock-irritated expression on your face.
“Kimi, I’m trying to make pasta here!” you exclaimed, but your smile betrayed you.
He simply pulled you into a hug, heedless of the flour. “I know,” he mumbled into your hair. “But you’re here. And I can touch you. And I don’t want to stop.”
He pulled back slightly, his eyes serious. “You know how hard it is, right? Being away? I see so many places, meet so many people, but none of it means anything without you beside me. My wins feel… incomplete. My life feels… muted.”
Your heart swelled. “It’s been hard for me too, Kim. So hard. But seeing you like this… it makes every single minute of it worth it. Every single flight, every late-night study session.”
He gripped your waist, his thumbs rubbing circles on your skin. “Good. Because I plan on making up for every single minute.”
He punctuated his words with a kiss, then another, then another, until the pasta was forgotten and you were both laughing, flour-dusted and breathless, in the middle of his kitchen.
The days melted into a hazy, beautiful blend of togetherness. You went on walks along the coast, his hand never leaving yours.
You spent lazy mornings in bed, tangled in sheets and each other, talking about everything and nothing. You watched movies, Kimi pulling you so close you practically merged into one person on the sofa.
He didn’t want a single inch of space between you, and you, utterly starved for his touch, happily reciprocated.
His usual F1 intensity seemed to have dissipated, replaced by a quiet joy. He was softer, more relaxed, his focus entirely on you. It was a side of him the world rarely saw, a precious gift he laid at your feet.
You knew, deep down, that this blissful bubble would eventually burst.
University beckoned, and soon enough, the F1 season would begin its relentless march. The thought was a dull ache in the back of your mind, a shadow on the edges of your happiness.
The night before your flight, you were lying in bed, snuggled into Kimi’s side. He had his arm thrown protectively over you, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your arm.
The silence of his apartment was broken only by the gentle rhythm of his breathing.
“I hate that you have to leave,” he said, his voice low, a raw edge to it.
You turned to face him, propping yourself on your elbow. “I know, Kim. Me too. But it’s not forever. And before you know it, I’ll be done with uni, and then… then we can figure something out, right?”
He nodded slowly, pulling you closer. “Right.” He kissed your forehead. “Just… promise me you’ll come back as soon as you can. For every break, every chance you get.”
“Of course, I will,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his chest. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
He let out a soft, contented sigh, his grip on you tightening. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go.”
And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you knew it was true. This was a love that spanned continents and careers, a bond that wouldn’t break.
And as long as Kimi Antonelli was there, refusing to let you go, you knew you’d always find your way back home.
Even if home was just the space between his arms. . . .
Temporary Paralysis? Part 1
❤︎ |7k| Summary: Lando is left paralysed after a huge crash. Nobody knows if he will ever be able to walk again, or return to formula 1. His hired a specialist in the field, Y/N. She’s breathtakingly stunning, and she also just happens to be his caretaker.
The scent of his own soap, clean and vaguely antiseptic, clings to Lando’s skin. It’s a smell he’s come to associate with helplessness. He’s freshly showered, a process that is now a meticulous, awkward ritual involving his father’s steady hands and a waterproof shower chair. He’s dressed in black sweatpants and the soft, worn fleece of a McLaren hoodie, the familiar orange logo a small, bittersweet comfort against his chest. It feels like a ghost of the man he used to be, a man who wore that same logo with pride, strapped into a roaring machine, not sitting in a silent, sterile room.
He wheels himself out of his bedroom, the quiet hum of the electric motors the only sound in the sprawling, sterile-feeling hallway. The house is too big for one person, especially one confined to a chair. It echoes with a silence that feels heavier than any physical weight. This silence used to be filled with the sounds of his life: the clatter of his simulator setup, his mates laughing downstairs, the distant roar of a jet ski on the lake. Now, it’s just the hum of his chair and the phantom memory of an engine he’d give anything to hear again. The grief for his career, for the life that was stolen from him in a blur of tire smoke and shattered carbon fiber, is a physical presence in his chest, a cold, heavy stone. He feels useless. A 25-year-old man who can’t even get out of bed by himself, who can’t walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The embarrassment is a constant, burning humiliation, especially when he catches his reflection in a dark window—a man broken, trapped in a chair.
His parents’ voices float from the living room, low and serious. He recognizes the tone. It’s the one they use when they’re about to discuss something they think he won’t like, something they’ve already decided. He steers his chair towards the sound, the wheels gliding silently over the polished wood floors. He stops just at the entrance, partially obscured by the wall, a habit he’s developed since the accident—listening, gathering information before he has to face it.
“…he just needs more support, Adam,” his mom, Cisca, is saying, her voice tight with a worry that never seems to fully leave her these days. “We can’t keep doing this. The Hendersons are expecting us for dinner on Friday, and I have that charity luncheon next week. We can’t keep putting our lives on hold. It’s not fair to him, and it’s not sustainable for us.”
“I know, love, I know,” his dad, Adam, replies, his voice heavy. “But hiring someone? A stranger to be here, with him? It feels like we’re… I don’t know, giving up. Like we’re failing him.”
“It’s not giving up! It’s giving him the best possible chance. This woman isn’t just a carer. She’s a specialist. A physiotherapist, a nutritionist, everything. She’s worked with athletes before, with spinal injuries. She’s the best, and she was available. It’s a miracle.”
Lando’s stomach tightens. A stranger. He knew this was coming, of course. He’d heard the hushed conversations, seen the exhaustion etched deeper around his mother’s eyes, the way his dad’s shoulders seemed to permanently slump. He feels a pang of guilt, sharp and immediate. He hates being a burden. He hates the way his dad has to look away when he helps him with the most intimate things, the forced casualness in his voice as he asks if Lando is ‘good to go’ in the shower. He loves his parents more than anything, but this dependency is a corrosive thing, eating away at all of them. He especially hates the thought of his dad seeing him like this, so weak and vulnerable. His dad, his hero, now reduced to bathing his grown son.
He takes a deep breath and wheels himself into the room.
“Morning,” he says, trying for a cheerful tone that he doesn’t feel.
Both of his parents turn, their expressions softening instantly into the familiar mask of parental concern.
“Lando, sweetheart,” Cisca says, coming over to kiss the top of his head. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a log,” he lies. He never sleeps well anymore. His dreams are still full of screeching tires and the violent, sickening crunch of carbon fiber, the smell of fuel and the terrifying moment of darkness that followed.
Adam rests a hand on his shoulder, a firm, grounding weight. “Good. That’s good, son.”
They stand there for a moment, the unspoken thing hanging in the air between them. Finally, his mom gestures to the plush sofa opposite the one they’re sitting on.
“We need to talk to you about something, Lando.”
Here we go, he thinks. He nods, keeping his expression neutral. “Okay.”
His dad takes the lead. “As you know, our schedules have gotten… complicated. We have things, commitments. We’re struggling to give you the care you need, the care you deserve.”
Lando wants to protest, to tell them they’re doing a great job, that he’s fine. But it would be a lie, and they all know it. So he just nods again, his gaze fixed on an abstract painting on the wall.
“So,” Cisca continues, jumping in. “We’ve found someone. To help. We’ve hired someone.”
Lando looks from his mom’s hopeful face to his dad’s weary one. He swallows past the lump in his throat. “A carer?”
“More than that,” Cisca says, her voice warming with genuine enthusiasm. “Her name is Y/n. She’s French. She’s a highly specialized physiotherapist and nutritionist who also does in-home care. She’s going to be your physio, manage your diet, and… well, she’ll be here to help with everything. To be your support system so we can… so we can be your parents again, instead of your full-time medical team.”
The relief that washes over Lando is so potent it almost makes him dizzy. He hadn’t realized how much the thought of his dad helping him shower again today was weighing on him. It’s not his dad’s fault, it’s just… wrong. Awkward. He’s a grown man. The thought of a stranger doing it is also awkward, terrifying even, but it’s a different kind of awkward. It’s professional. It’s clinical. It’s not his dad trying to maintain eye contact with the ceiling while asking if he’s washed everywhere.
“Okay,” Lando says, and a real smile touches his lips for the first time that morning. “Yeah. Okay. That’s… that’s actually a huge relief. I hate you guys having to do all that.”
His mom’s eyes shine with tears. “Oh, Lando.”
“We wanted to make sure you were alright with it,” Adam adds, his own shoulders seeming to lose a fraction of their tension. “She’s very qualified. Comes with glowing recommendations.”
“I’m sure she is,” Lando says. “When do I meet her?”
Cisca glances at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Actually, she’s due any minute. We wanted to talk to you first.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rings, a clear, melodic chime that cuts through the tension in the room. His mom’s face lights up. “That’ll be her! I’ll get it!” She practically bounces out of the room, a spring in her step that Lando hasn’t seen in months.
Adam gives him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “It’s the right thing, son. For all of us.”
Lando just nods, his heart starting to beat a little faster. He smooths down the front of his hoodie, suddenly self-conscious. He hears his mom’s delighted exclamation from the hallway, the sound of her greeting someone warmly. Then another voice, low and melodic, with a lilting accent he can’t quite place.
He wheels himself forward a little, positioning himself to have a clear view of the living room entrance. And then you walk in, following his mother, and the entire world seems to grind to a halt.
You are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
It’s not just one thing. It’s everything. The way the sunlight from the large bay window catches in your hair, turning it into a halo of gold. The kind, intelligent warmth in your eyes as you listen to his mother chatter. The effortless grace of your movements. You’re wearing a matching set, a crisp white top and a flowing white skirt that seems to float around you as you walk. You look like something out of a dream, ethereal and completely out of place in the mundane reality of his injured life.
His mother is already smitten, hugging you tightly and kissing your cheek like you’re a long-lost daughter. “We’re so happy to have you here, Y/n, so happy!”
“Thank you for having me, Cisca. It is a pleasure,” you say, your voice exactly as it sounded from the hall—soft, musical, with that French cadence that makes every word sound elegant.
His dad steps forward, offering a more reserved but still warm hug. “Welcome, Y/n. I’m Adam.”
“Adam. A pleasure.” You smile at him, a genuine, easy smile that reaches your eyes.
And then you turn and your gaze lands on him.
Your smile widens, becomes brighter, and it’s directed right at him. It feels like a physical touch, a jolt of electricity that starts in his chest and spreads outwards, making his skin tingle.
His insides, which have been a twisted knot of anxiety and resignation for months, turn to goo. Complete, utter goo. He feels his own lips stretch into a helpless, besotted smile, his eyes wide as he stares at you. He’s completely and utterly smitten, in the space of three seconds. It’s pathetic, and he doesn’t care one bit.
You glide across the room towards him, and lean in, and for a second he’s confused, then you gently kiss his left cheek, then his right. A French greeting. “Lando. It is wonderful to finally meet you. I am Y/n.”
“Y/n. Hi. It’s, uh, great to meet you too.”
He can smell your perfume up close, something light and floral, like jasmine and fresh linen. It’s intoxicating. His eyes are probably the size of saucers. He knows he must look like an absolute idiot, gaping at you with what his sister would call ‘heart eyes’.
He can feel his parents watching him, and he can practically hear the silent, triumphant conversation they’re having with their eyes. See? He likes her! This is perfect!
“Well,” his mom says, her voice a little too bright. “Adam and I were just about to pop out. We have that… that thing. We’ll be back in a few hours. You two get acquainted!”
It’s the most transparent excuse he’s ever heard, but he’s not about to call them on it. Anything to get them out of here so he can just… breathe. So he can be in the same room as you without feeling like he’s under a microscope.
His dad claps him on the shoulder again. “You be good for Y/n, son. Listen to everything she says.”
“I will,” Lando manages to say, his gaze still fixed on you.
And just like that, they are gone. The front door clicks shut, and the silence that descends is different now. It’s not empty and oppressive; it’s charged, humming with a new and terrifying energy. It’s just him and you.
You turn back to him, your smile softening into something more gentle, more professional, but no less warm. “They seem very lovely,” you say, your voice a low murmur.
“Yeah, they’re the best,” Lando says, his own voice feeling rough and inadequate. “A bit… overbearing.”
You laugh, a light, musical sound that makes his heart do a funny little flip. He’s just… staring. He can’t help it. He traces the curve of your cheek with his eyes, the elegant line of your neck, the way your white skirt drapes over your hips. He feels a familiar, unwelcome heat pool in his stomach, a feeling he hasn’t had much since the crash. It’s both exhilarating and mortifying. He’s a wreck, a broken man in a wheelchair, and he’s getting a crush on the woman who’s been hired to basically babysit him. The humiliation of it is almost enough to extinguish the spark, but then you look at him again, and it roars right back to life.
“So, you say, I know this is all very new. But I was thinking, if you are feeling up to it, we could make a start today. Nothing too strenuous. Just some initial testing, so I can get a baseline. And we can discuss your new nutrition plan.”
He wants to spend time with you. He wants it with a desperation that’s almost embarrassing. He nods, maybe a little too eagerly. “Yeah. Yes. Let’s do that. I’m ready.”
Your sweet smile returns, and it’s like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Wonderful. But first, I think you need some proper fuel. I’m sure you just had a light breakfast. I’ll make you something. A granola bowl, perhaps? With fresh berries and yogurt. It will give you energy without weighing you down.”
He doesn’t care what it is. If you’re making it, he’ll eat it. “That sounds amazing. Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” you say. “Why don’t you show me the kitchen? And then you can tell me what a typical day of eating looks like for you right now.”
He leads the way, the quiet hum of his chair the only sound as you walk beside him. He’s acutely aware of your presence, the soft scent of your perfume, the sound of your footsteps on the floor. He feels a strange mix of self-consciousness and pride. He’s showing you his home, his territory, but he’s doing it from a chair. He pushes the thought away and focuses on the sound of your voice as you ask him about his diet. He has to admit it’s been mostly whatever his mom puts in front of him, a lot of comfort food and takeaways. He hasn’t had the energy or the will to care.
You listen intently, nodding, your expression serious but kind. “That is completely understandable, Lando. But we are going to change that. Food is medicine. It is fuel for your recovery. My goal is to get you walking again. It will be hard work, and it will require discipline from both of us. But I believe we can do it.”
Walking again. The words hang in the air, so full of promise they feel dangerous. He’s dared to hope before, only to be met with cautious platitudes from doctors. But you say it with such conviction, such certainty. You’re a specialist, his mom had said. He wants to believe you. He needs to believe you.
You move around his kitchen with an easy confidence, pulling out bowls and containers from his pantry as if you’ve lived here for years. You slice bananas and sprinkle granola and arrange a handful of vibrant, deep-blue blackberries on top of a cloud of Greek yogurt. It’s beautiful. It looks like something from a magazine.
You place the bowl on the table in front of him. “There you go. Let me know what you think.”
He takes a spoonful. It’s delicious. The crunch of the granola, the sweetness of the fruit, the creamy tang of the yogurt. It tastes like health, like hope. He eats with an appetite he hasn’t felt in months, cleaning the entire bowl. When he’s done, he looks up to find you watching him, a pleased smile on your face.
“Good?” you ask.
“Incredible,” he says sincerely. “Thank you.”
“Excellent. Now,” you say, standing up. “Shall we move on to the testing? We can do it wherever you feel most comfortable. In here, the living room, or your bedroom?”
He wants you in his room. It feels private, safe. “My bedroom is good,” he says, trying to sound casual.
“Perfect,” you say. “Lead the way.”
He wheels down the hallway, his heart thumping a nervous rhythm against his ribs. You follow him, your presence a warm weight at his back. He pushes open the door to his room and wheels inside. It’s his sanctuary, but now it feels like it’s being invaded in the best possible way. You stop just inside the doorway, taking in the space—his unmade bed, the racing posters on the walls, the stack of video games by the TV.
“Where would you prefer to do this?” you ask. “On the bed, or on the floor on a mat?”
“The bed,” he says. It’s easier. Less movement.
“Okay,” you say. “Lie down on your back for me, please. Get comfortable.”
He wheels himself over to the side of the bed and puts the brakes on. He looks at the bed, then at his useless legs. He places his hands on the armrests, preparing to heave his dead weight across the gap, a maneuver he’s perfected but that is always undignified and a little scary. He pushes off, swinging his upper body, his arms straining with the effort.
Before he can complete the clumsy transfer, you’re there. “Oh, let me help,” you say softly. You’re suddenly beside him, your hands gentle but firm on his back and arm. “Just lean into me. I’ve got you.”
Your touch is electric. He freezes, every nerve ending suddenly alight. He can feel the warmth of your hand through the thin material of his hoodie, can smell your perfume, clean and floral and so close. He leans into you as you instruct, his body moving with an ease it never has on its own. You guide him, your strength surprising, and in one smooth motion, he’s on the bed, settled on the soft mattress.
He’s breathing heavily, but it’s not from the exertion. It’s from you. From being so close, from your hands on him. He lies there, staring up at the ceiling, his heart hammering against his ribs.
You arrange a pillow under his head and gently straighten his legs on the bed. “Comfortable?” you ask, your voice close to his ear.
He can only nod, his throat too tight to speak.
“Good,” you say, completely oblivious to the turmoil inside him. “Now, I am just going to press on different spots on your body. I need you to talk to me. Tell me everything you feel. If you feel pressure, if it hurts, if it’s sharp, if it’s dull, if you feel nothing at all. All of it is important information for me. Okay?”
“Okay,” he manages to croak out.
You start on his chest, your fingers pressing gently on his sternum. “Feel that?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Pressure. No pain.”
You move to his shoulders, his biceps, his forearms. Your touch is clinical, professional, but his body doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. Every spot you touch ignites a trail of fire. He answers your questions, his voice a little shaky, trying to focus on the sensations and not the fact that your hands are on him.
“Good,” you murmur, moving down his side. You press a spot just below his ribs. “And here?”
“Just pressure.”
Your fingers move to his side, near his armpit. You press into a small muscle there, and a strange sensation zings through him. “Ooh,” he says involuntarily. “That… itches.”
You pause, your fingers still resting on the spot. A flicker of something—interest, maybe excitement—crosses your face before being replaced by your professional calm. “An itch? You can feel an itch?”
“Yeah. A weird one. Deep inside.”
“That is a very good sign, Lando,” you say, your voice warm with genuine encouragement. “That means the nerve signals are trying to get through. That is exactly what we are looking for.”
The hope that had flickered when you talked about him walking again surges, bright and fierce. An itch. A stupid, annoying itch, and it feels like the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
You continue your assessment, your hands moving down his torso, over his hips. He tries to stay detached, to be a good patient, but he’s hyper-aware of your proximity, of the scent of your hair as you lean over him, of the soft fabric of your skirt brushing against his arm. He’s a mess of conflicting emotions—hope, desire, embarrassment, and a deep, burgeoning fondness for this woman who is so gentle and so capable.
Then your hands move lower, down his thighs. Your touch is light, methodical, but as you get closer to his groin, his breath hitches in his throat. Panic and arousal war inside him. He can’t control it. He’s attracted to you, and his body, the traitorous, broken thing, is responding. He feels a flush creep up his neck, his face burning with humiliation.
You must feel it, the sudden tension in his muscles, the way his breathing changes. You glance up at his face, your eyes meeting his for a second. Your expression is unreadable, but you don’t pull away. You just move your hands to a different spot, a little further away, and continue your work as if nothing happened. The relief is so overwhelming he could cry.
Finally, you’re done. You straighten up, pulling a small notebook from your bag and jotting down notes. “Alright,” you say, your voice all business again. “That’s enough for today. That can be quite taxing on the nervous system. I want you to rest now. Sleep if you can. Your body needs to process this.”
He nods, not sure what to say. Thank you seems inadequate for everything.
“Just call out if you need anything at all,” you tell him, tucking your notebook away. “I will be just in the living room, going over these results and drawing up a proper plan for us. I’ll bring you a snack in a few hours.”
“Okay,” he says. “Thank you, Y/n.”
You give him one last, warm smile. “Of course, Lando. Rest well.”
And then you’re gone, pulling the door quietly shut behind you.
Lando lies in the sudden silence of his room, his mind racing. He can still smell your perfume on the pillowcase. He can still feel the ghost of your touch on his skin. He’s exhausted, but his mind is wide awake. He replays every moment of the last hour: the way you smiled at him, the sound of your laugh, the gentle strength in your hands as you helped him onto the bed. He’s so completely gone for you, it’s almost funny.
And then a dreadful thought hits him, and the warm bubble of happiness instantly pops.
You’re going to be taking care of him. All of him.
You’re going to be the one helping him shower. You’re going to see him naked, weak, and helpless. You’re going to be the one dressing him, undressing him, helping him with the most basic, private functions of his life. The thought is so mortifying it makes him physically recoil. He’d felt awkward with his dad, but this… this is a different level of hell. How can he ever face you again after that? How can you look at him, this pathetic, broken man, and not see him as anything less?
It’s strange, he thinks, that his parents would choose a woman for this role. But then he remembers what his mom said. She’s a specialist. The best. And in their small, wealthy enclave, qualified home carers are few and far between. It would be complicated to have a male carer for the daily stuff and then you for the physio. This makes sense, logistically. Emotionally, it feels like a cruel joke.
He turns his head, burying his face in the pillow that still smells faintly of you. He’s so tired. Tired of the embarrassment, tired of the helplessness, tired of the constant, gnawing grief for the life he lost. But for the first time in a long time, there’s something else mixed in with the exhaustion. A tiny, fragile spark of hope. And it’s all because of you.
He falls asleep thinking about the color of your eyes and the way his name sounded when you said it.
You sit at the pristine kitchen counter, your laptop open, but you’re not seeing the screen. You’re seeing him. Lando Norris. You’d read his file, of course. You knew the statistics, the medical history, the details of the crash that had ended his Formula 1 career. You’d prepared yourself to meet a young man who would be angry, depressed, withdrawn.
You had not prepared for this.
For the quiet sadness in his eyes, the vulnerability that he tried so hard to hide. For the shock of messy, damp curls falling over his forehead, for the way the oversized McLaren hoodie made him look boyish and endearing. For the heart-stopping moment he looked at you, his wide, hazel eyes full of a raw, unguarded adoration that nearly made you stumble.
You stop yourself, shaking your head slightly. Professional, Y/n. Be professional.
But it’s difficult. He is, objectively, incredibly attractive. Even in the wheelchair, even with the shadows of pain and exhaustion etched on his face, there’s a beauty there. A strength in his jaw, a warmth in his smile. And those eyes… You force your focus back to your notes. The itch in his latissimus dorsi. That’s what’s important. That’s the breakthrough. The data.
You review your findings, your mind easily slipping back into its clinical mode. You map out a nutrition plan, a schedule of exercises, a timeline of goals. You’re good at what you do. You’re the best. And you are going to help him walk again. You pour all your focus into the work, into the plan, because the alternative is thinking about how cute he looked, all sleepy and soft in that hoodie, and that is a path you absolutely cannot go down. You are his physiotherapist. His caretaker. Nothing more.
A couple of hours pass. You’ve made a comprehensive plan. You feel focused, in control. You glance at the clock. It’s time for his snack. You grab the high-protein, low-sugar energy bar you’d brought with you and head down the hall.
You open his bedroom door quietly. He’s awake, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He turns his head when you come in, and a shy smile touches his lips.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” you reply, your own smile feeling more natural than it has in hours. “Time for a little refuel. I brought you something.”
You walk over to the bed and hand him the bar. He sits up, a little awkwardly, and takes it from you.
“Thanks,” he says, his fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting second. He rips open the packaging and takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully.
You watch him for a moment, your professional mask firmly in place. “How are you feeling?” you ask. “Any soreness? Any new sensations?”
He swallows and shakes his head. “No. Just… tired. But a good tired, I think.”
“Good. That’s to be expected. Your nervous system has been stimulated in a way it hasn’t been for a while. Rest is crucial.”
He nods, finishing the bar in a few more bites. He looks at you, his expression open and sincere. “Y/n?”
“Yes, Lando?”
“Thank you,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “For… for all of this. For not treating me like I’m made of glass. For talking about me walking again. It… it means a lot.”
Your heart clenches in your chest. You fight to keep your expression neutral, to maintain the professional boundary that is so essential. But it’s hard. It’s so hard when he’s looking at you like that.
“It’s my job, Lando,” you say, your voice softer than you intended. “And we are going to work hard. Together.”
The word ‘together’ hangs in the air between you, full of promise. You can see the hope bloom in his eyes again, and it does something to you, something you immediately stamp down. You are his caretaker. That is all.
You give him a final, professional nod. “Get some rest, Lando. We have a big day tomorrow.”
You turn to leave, but something stops you. His file. There was a detail, a confusing anomaly that you need to understand before you can truly formulate a plan. You turn back to find him watching you, his expression still open and trusting.
“Lando, can I ask you something a bit more detailed?” you say, your tone shifting to be more clinical. “I read in your file that the paralysis is primarily from the waist down, but that there’s some… inconsistency with your arms and upper body strength.”
He nods, his gaze dropping for a moment. “Yeah. It’s… weird.”
“Can you tell me about it?” you ask, pulling up the desk chair and sitting down, giving him your full attention. “The file was vague. It said sometimes you have full function, and other times… it’s like they don’t work at all. Is that right?”
He lets out a long, weary sigh, running a hand through his messy curls. “That’s right. It’s the most frustrating part, I think. With my legs, it’s… it’s final. I know they don’t work. There’s no false hope. But my arms… they’re a tease.” He flexes the fingers of his right hand, looking at them as if they belong to someone else. “Some days, I wake up and I can feel the strength. I can push myself up in the chair, I can transfer myself to the bed without help. It feels… normal. Almost. And then, an hour later, or sometimes just minutes later, it’s like someone flips a switch. All the strength just drains away. They become these heavy, useless things. I’ll be trying to grab a glass of water and my hand just won’t grip. I’ll try to push up and my arm won’t hold me.”
He looks up at you, and the raw frustration in his eyes is painful to witness. “It feels like being betrayed by my own body, over and over again. The doctors say it’s something about ‘incomplete’ spinal damage and nerve pathways misfiring, but they don’t really know. It’s random. There’s no pattern. I can be having a good day, feeling strong, and then I’ll reach for something and just… collapse. It’s humiliating.”
You listen, your mind working, processing the information. This is the key. The file hadn’t captured the emotional toll of this inconsistency, the psychological torture of the intermittent hope. This isn’t just about rebuilding muscle; it’s about retraining a chaotic nervous system.
“Thank you for telling me that, Lando,” you say, your voice serious. “That detail is incredibly important. It changes things. It means we need to approach your upper body rehabilitation differently. We’re not just building strength, we’re trying to establish consistent nerve pathways.”
You stand up, your mind already racing with new exercises and tests. “Okay. This is good. This gives me a much clearer picture. We are going to do a lot of testing tomorrow. A lot. I need to map out exactly when and why these ‘switch flips’ happen. We’ll test your strength, your fine motor skills, your endurance, at different times of the day, before and after meals, before and after physio. It’s going to be a long day, so I need you to be mentally prepared for that.”
He looks at you, a flicker of apprehension in his eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by determination. “I’m ready,” he says. “Whatever it takes.”
“Good,” you say, pleased by his resolve. You turn to leave again, your hand on the doorknob. Before you go, there’s one more practical, crucial thing to address. You turn back, keeping your tone as matter-of-fact as possible.
“And Lando… one more thing. My role here is to assist you with everything you need. That includes… personal care. So, when you need to shower, or use the bathroom, or anything else that you’re struggling with, you need to tell me. Don’t try to do it yourself and don’t wait for your parents. It’s my job to help you, and I need you to let me. Okay?”
A deep blush creeps up his neck, flooding his cheeks. He looks away, his gaze fixed on a spot on the wall. He’s clearly flustered, embarrassed by the directness of the statement.
“Okay,” he mumbles, still not looking at you. “Yeah. I will.”
You nod, satisfied. You’ve laid the groundwork. You give him what you hope is a reassuring, non-intimidating smile. “Alright. Rest up. See you later”
You turn and walk out of the room, closing the door softly behind you. You lean against it for a second, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. That was… intense. The emotional rawness he’d shown you, the trust he was already placing in you—it was more than you’d anticipated.
And then you replay the last five minutes in your mind. The way he’d talked about his body, the frustration in his voice. And throughout it all, you’d noticed it. A subtle, almost unconscious pattern. Every few seconds, his eyes would flicker down. Not to your hands, not to your chest, but to your lips. It happened when you were explaining the testing plan, when you were talking about his nerve pathways. It happened again just now, when you were telling him to ask for help with the shower. A quick, darting glance, then his gaze would snap back up to your eyes, as if he was scolding himself.
You feel a strange flutter in your own chest, a mix of surprise and something else you refuse to name. It’s probably just a nervous tic, you tell yourself. A product of his anxiety and his injury. It means nothing.
You push yourself off the door and walk away, forcing yourself to focus on the plan, on the science, on the work. You are his physiotherapist. You are a professional. And you will not let yourself notice the way his eyes linger on your lips. You simply won’t.
Lando lies in bed long after you’ve left, the silence of the room no longer feeling empty, but filled with the echo of your voice. He replays your conversation, the clinical yet compassionate way you spoke about his body. And he finds himself feeling a strange, twisted sort of gratitude for the bizarre reality of his injury. It’s a weird, almost cruel paradox of his condition. His arms are a lottery, a game of chance he never knows he’s playing until he’s already lost. But there’s one exception, one reliable, consistent function: he can always manage the bathroom. The short, sharp burst of effort needed to transfer from his chair to the toilet, to hold himself up, to manage his pants—it’s a task his nervous system has seemingly hardwired into his ‘always work’ file. It’s a small, pathetic victory, but it’s his. It’s the one sliver of dignity he has left, the one intimate act he doesn’t have to ask for help with.
But the trade-off is absolute. The longer, more complex tasks are impossible. He can never shower himself. The sustained effort of holding himself, of washing, of navigating the wet, slippery space—it’s a non-starter. His arms will always betray him, turning to dead weight halfway through. He can never dress or undress himself. The fumbling with buttons, the coordination to pull a shirt over his head, the simple act of putting on his own sweatpants—it’s a mountain he can’t climb. So he’s left with this absurd situation: he can pee by himself, but he can’t wash his own hands afterward without help. He can take care of the most private biological urge, but he can’t clothe his own body. It’s a weird, broken kind of independence, and as he drifts off to sleep, he’s almost glad for it. Because the thought of you helping him with the former is a humiliation he doesn’t think he could bear.
The darkness in his room is absolute, a heavy blanket that presses in on him. Sleep, when it finally came, was a fitful, restless thing, filled with fragmented dreams of roaring engines and the phantom sensation of his legs working, pumping pedals that no longer existed. He wakes with a jolt, his heart hammering, the need to pee a sudden, urgent pressure in his bladder. For a moment, he lies still, disoriented. Then the reality of his situation crashes back down on him. He’s alone. And he needs help.
His eyes adjust to the sliver of moonlight coming from the window, illuminating the small, sleek button on his bedside table. The call button. He stares at it, a wave of hot shame washing over him. He hates this. Hates having to press a button to summon someone for a task a toddler can perform alone. But he has no choice. The pressure is building, insistent. He takes a shaky breath and presses it.
In the living room, you’re curled up on the sofa, a mug of herbal tea growing cold in your hands as you review the initial assessment data on your tablet. The soft, insistent chime of the call button cuts through the quiet. You’re on your feet instantly, placing the mug on the coffee table. You grab the small, prepared medical kit from your bag—a pair of latex gloves, some antiseptic wipes, and a clean towel—and walk calmly down the hall.
You tap lightly on his door before pushing it open. “Lando? You called?”
The room is dark, save for the moonlight. He’s sitting up in bed, a shadowy silhouette. “Yeah,” he says, his voice rough with sleep and embarrassment. “Sorry. I… I need the bathroom.”
“It’s okay,” you say, your tone even and reassuring. “That’s what I’m here for.” You know from his file, from the detailed notes his previous care team provided, that this is one of the few things he can manage on his own. The transfer, the act itself—it’s a short, sharp burst of effort his body can still reliably perform. It’s the aftermath that’s the problem. “I’ll be right outside. Just call me when you’re done.”
“Okay,” he whispers, his relief palpable.
You step back into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar, giving him privacy but remaining within earshot. You hear the quiet hum of his chair as he maneuvers it, the soft thud as he transfers his weight, the click of the bathroom door closing. You wait patiently, your mind already running through tomorrow’s intensive schedule.
A few minutes later, his voice, small and hesitant, calls out. “Y/n? I’m… I’m done.”
You push the bathroom door open. He’s back in his chair, positioned by the sink, his head bowed. He won’t look at you, his shame a physical thing radiating from him. You don’t say a word. You just walk over, pull on the thin latex gloves, and turn on the faucet, adjusting the water to a warm, comfortable temperature.
You stand beside him, your shoulder almost touching his. Gently, you reach down and take his hands. They’re limp in your grasp, the fingers slightly curled. You place them under the flowing water, letting the warmth cascade over his skin. He flinches slightly at your touch but doesn’t pull away. You pick up the bar of mild, unscented soap from the dish and begin to lather it between your palms, working up a soft foam. Then, you take his hands again and start to wash them.
Your touch is methodical, thorough, but impossibly gentle. You work the soap over his palms, between his fingers, over his knuckles and wrists. It’s an intimate, strangely tender act. You can feel the faint calluses on his hands, remnants of his former life, a life of gripping steering wheels and working with tools. His hands are beautiful, even when they’re like this, and you force the thought away, focusing on the task. You rinse the soap away, the water swirling down the drain, and then you take the soft, clean towel and carefully, meticulously, dry each finger, each part of his hand, until his skin is warm and dry.
“All done,” you say softly, pulling off the gloves and disposing of them. You meet his gaze in the dim reflection of the bathroom mirror. His eyes are wide, fixed on you, but there’s no embarrassment there now. Just something soft and unreadable.
He gives a tiny nod. “Thanks.”
You follow him as he wheels back into his bedroom. He stops by the bed, and you know what comes next. He puts the brakes on and prepares to make the awkward, strenuous transfer.
“Let me,” you say, moving to his side. Just like this afternoon, you place your hands on his back and arm. “Lean on me. I’ve got you.”
He does, and you guide him, your bodies working together to move his dead weight from the chair to the bed. As you help him settle back against the pillows, your faces are just inches apart. In the moonlight, you can see every detail of his face—the dusting of freckles across his nose, the soft curve of his lips, the thick, dark lashes that frame his eyes. His eyes. They are so soft, so sweet, and they are looking right at you. A powerful urge to look back, to really look, surges through you. You fight it, dropping your gaze to the pillow you’re fluffing behind his head, your heart beating a little too fast.
You help him get comfortable, pulling the duvet up over his chest. “There,” you say, your voice a little too bright. “All set for the night.”
He sinks into the pillows, his body finally relaxing. He looks at you, a genuine, grateful smile on his face. “Thank you, Y/n,” he whispers. “For… you know.”
“I know,” you say, your own smile softening. “Get some sleep, Lando. We have a big day tomorrow.”
You turn and walk out of the room, closing the door gently behind you. You lean against it for a second, just like before, your hand pressed to your chest. You can still feel the weight of his hands in yours, the warmth of his skin. You can still see the look in his eyes. And you know, with a sinking, terrifying certainty, that this is going to be much harder than you thought.
Could you do an smau with Kimi Antonelli where he starts dating Verstappen!reader, and people joke about him dating her for Max because he's always fanboying about Max, thank you!
my brother, or me? -k.antonelli
summary: Kimi joins the grid with your brother, and you two stop posting each other on socials, cheating rumours spark, and your new album coming out doesn't help.
pairing: kimi antonelli x fem! singer! reader (i used tate mcrae as a face and album claim because she's so fucking good)
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youruser
liked by kimiantonelli, mercedesf1team, georgerussell and 4,764,382 others
youruser this is my boyfriend with a) my brother, b) his team boss (😐), and c) his best mate. the other two pictures of him are how he looks at me. the last picture is a representation of how i'm feeling. is it just a necklace?
comments
olliebearman it's just a necklace for me 🤷
kimiantonelli 🫠🫠🫠
mercedesf1team this is so… insane! 😹 -> youruser I CAN GET WORSE!
maxverstappen y/n, what the fuck is this? -> kimiantonelli NOTHING, she's insane -> youruser calling me crazy now? ⁉️ -> maxverstappen he's not wrong to... -> youruser both of you owe me an apology!
mercedesf1team we love kimi- toto -> youruser I LOVE KIMI. HE'S MINE! -> mercedesf1team we can share- toto -> youruser stan twitter will kill you. -> mercedesf1team he's all yours?- toto -> youruser YAY! @.kimiantonelli -> kimiantonelli please don't threaten my boss baby -> user242 why does he never play into her jokes? -> user82 ikr, it annoys me so much! can he not just join her in her whimsy? -> user2824 no, because she's immature and annoying, hope this helps xxxx
user24 Ollie and Kimi are awfully close...
user294 OLLIE AND KIMI PLEASE DON'T PULL A BROCEDES ON ME -> youruser I won't let them 🕺 -> user83 doing the lord's work -> youruser I try 🫶
paularon *honourable mention* the time when you surprised Kimi and Ollie was in his bed ⁉️⁉️ -> youruser better than the time i caught him looking at photos of my brother on pintrest😸 -> user57 he knows it's legal, right?
user855 My FAVOURITE part of Kimi and Y/n lore is that when she first met him she thought he was with Ollie 😹 -> user8356 nah, my fav gotta be when kimi freaked out over meeting max for the first time.
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mercedesf1team
likedby maxverstappen, georgerussell, and 853,847 others
mercedesf1team Rocking up to the paddock in style! 🦘🦘🦘
comments
youruser cutiepie! 🥧 -> georgerussell awh! thanks -> kimiantonelli she meant me?? -> youruser nah, i meant him. HE responds to my texts... unlike someone i know...
landonorris looking sharp
jackdoohan welcome to the homeland :) 🕺
user35 OMG HE'S SO HOT I NEED TO FUCK HIM -> youruser i get it🫠 -> maxverstappen please refrain from ever going on insta again -> youruser WHY IS EVERYONE TRYING TO CALM MY FREAK????
user8 a girl who is going to be ok
user924 YESSSS giving picture day realness!
user247 hamsters -> youruser I didn't see it in the tweet, but I see it with this one -> kimiantonelli ?????🤷♀️ -> youruser I'll explain when you get back to the garage -> kimiantonelli 👍 -> user28 they're so in love it genuinely HURTS me
user54975 i need a relationship like kimi and y/n
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youruser
liked by pierregasly, maxverstappen, redbullf1team, and 2,763,382 others
youruser promise new music next week, but here's these cuties on the first race weekend of the season! 🏎️🏎️🏎️
comments
user7 P MENTIONNNNN -> youruser obvi, i have to remind everyone i'm the best aunt ever😏 -> user08 oh to be y/n verstappen's niece... -> user924 I WISHHHHHH
maxverstappen who's that strapping young boy? -> youruser if you're talking about yourself... I think we're past young mr. pushing thirty...??? -> maxverstappen no i was talking about kimi :) -> kimiantonelli thanks mate! -> youruser STOP TRYING TO STEAL MY BOYFRIEND FREAK! 🐺 -> maxverstappen *succeeding
user92 THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTING
user358 they're both so pookie i cannot
user35 Once again, I ask myself WHY he's with HER. -> user123 ?????? -> user35 She's such a bitch and all she does is make fun of him, it's not cute, nor funny, and she goes around acting like it's hilarious. -> user123 has he complained once? -> user35 Not in public but I assume in private. Shocker that he likes her sister more than her.
paularon Y/n post a picture of herself challenge has been lost again...😔 -> user34 Paul gets it -> user234 PAUL PLEASE SAVE Y/N FROM KIMI -> user5588 ????? -> user234 he's so unwhimsy and boring compared to her, it's so sad how she has to dull herself down for him. 👎👎👎 -> user5588 has she literally EVER been dull? I DON'T THINK SO. -> user385 fr, people in relationships can be different kinds of people and once both of them are happy (which is true as far as we know), then why should we judge?
user995 WHY IS KIMI SO INTO MAX IT FREAKS ME OUT -> youruser THANK YOU -> olliebearman once i asked him if he ever fantasised about max when he was with y/n, he said no but... I didn't believe him.... -> youruser brb bleaching my eyes -> maxverstappen same. -> kimiantonelli NO I'M SORRY I WAS BEING TRUTHFUL I PROMISE 🙏🙏
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kimiantonelli
liked by youruser, maxverstappen, mercedesf1team, and 564,321 others
kimiantonelli Hard to put it in to words. Thank you all for the support xxx
comments
youruser my love 🫶 -> kimiantonelli my everything 🫶
user8 never felt more single in my life!
user554 why are they SO the alchemy coded
user5873 they were so cute then he won -> user248 when he ran out of the car, past his favourite person (y/n verstappen) to hug her brother instead? Or when he finally noticed her and gave her a tiny kiss and hug? -> user57756 become employed 😼
jackdoohan congratualtions mate! 🫡 -> youruser you're next on that podium, i feel it! -> jackdoohan let's hope so!
mercedesf1team Welcome to the family Kimi 'youngest race winner ever' Antonelli! -> youruser I know my goat. 😸
lewishamilton ⭐️
georgerussell amazing work mate -> liked by kimiantonelli
charlesleclerc major drive mate, well done
user556 why is it always about y/n in his comments??? ffs he just won a race!!!!! -> user57557 bc she's more famous than him? bc people care about their relationship? he's not going to pick you when he already has the most beautiful woman on the planet?
user577 WHAT A DRIVE!!!!!!!! -> liked by youruser
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youruser
liked by paularon, charlesleclerc, isackhadjar, and 4,342,249 others
youruser can confirm toto and I were in hysterics. holy fucking shit he won :)
comments
user99 my fav wag
user748 she's so me
mercedesf1team not hysterics- toto -> youruser and who was crying? -> mercedesf1team you u want him to have a seat next year? -> youruser YES PLEASE, I'M SORRY UR RIGHT IT WAS ME
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y/nverstappenHQ
liked by landonorris, kimiantonelli, pierregasly, and 325,593 others
y/nverstappenHQ 'so close to what' out next month, see you there xxx
comments
user5 kimi in the likes, not comments
user3847 OH PREPARE TO BE SICK OF MEEEEEE -> liked by youruser
user735 DIVA DOWN, DIVA DOWNNNNNN 🕺
paularon she's eating the house boots down houston we have a problem (did i use that right?) -> youruser why yes you did king! 👑 -> user835 no way we got paul aron saying THAT before GTA 6. -> georgerussell does anyone understand what any of that was??? -> paularon I'll teach you, just get me a meeting with toto, yeah? -> mercedesf1team I'm interested- toto -> paularon HOLY SHIT THAT WORKED WHAT 😼
jackdoohan the cuntiest of them all I fear -> liked by kimiantonelli
olliebearman WORK IT GIRL!!! 🕺🕺🕺
landonorris oh this is going to go HARD -> youruser you get it, and i appreciate that. 🧡
isackhadjar POOKIE IS EATING AND SERVING CUNTTTTTT -> youruser MY FUCKING BOY 🫡
user348 where tf is kimi rn? -> user2345 probably hyperventilating over his super hot girlfriend 😏
user245 Babe wake up, new y/n music just dropped. -> user348537 I'M FREAKING OUT ⁉️⁉️⁉️
user959 gorgeous gorgeous girls listen to y/n while watching formula one -> oscarpiastri they also listen to her while competing in f1 :) 🧡 -> landonorris HE'S SO DIVAA!!!! -> youruser oscar, i love you queen 🙏👑
christianmansell SLAYYYYYYY -> youruser SLAYYYYYYYYYYY
davidmalukas PRETTY BITCHES LISTEN TO Y/N VERSTAPPEN 💯💯 -> youruser YOU JUST GET ITTTTTTTTTT
maxverstappen please get off this app 👍 -> user475 DON'T SAY SUCH THINGS PLEASE MAX -> user457 older brother core
yourfriend UGH THIS ALBUM 💯💯 ->youruser ugh your gorgeous faceeee -> liked by yourfriend
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olliebearman
liked by paularon, youruser, kimiantonelli and 542,452 others
olliebearman kimi when he finds out about his girlfriend's next album: picture one. kimi when he realises max is free to talk in the paddock: picture two. @.kimiantonelli @.youruser @.maxverstappen
comments
youruser it's a sad truth... he likes him more than me... 😿 -> olliebearman I still love you more than I love Kimi so it's fine. -> kimiantonelli ⁉️🤷♀️ -> user385 OLLIE AND Y/N????
user53 ollie is shooting his shot and i do not blame him
user356 when will they just ditch kimi and get together? they were always cuter together anyway? -> user66 SHE'S BEEN DATING KIMI FOR ACTUAL YEARS WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE 🙏🙏🙏🙏
yourfriend he's a bitch -> youruser PLAY NICE IT'S KIMI! 😸 -> yourfriend ...👎
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isackhadjarprivate
liked by kantonelli, max4verstappen, yourprivuser, and 283 others
isackhadjarprivate us when we hear kimi embarrass himself in front of max AGAIN
comments
yourprivuser ik he's ur grid dad, but let him live @.kantonelli
pauloaron no way ISACK (aka the KING of embarrassing himself in front of Lewis Hamilton) had to call him out 🙏
olliebear the girls are fighting! 🕺 -> youruser he's learning! 👑
estebestie ...
lewishamilton it is pretty bad... 🙈
max4verstappen guys let's not be mean :( -> kantonelli exactly!
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paularon
liked by youruser, kimiantonelli, maxverstappen, and 734,294 others
paularon Us enjoying our time away from our son (aka Kimi, her boyfriend)
comments
jackdoohan MI BABES -> youruser MI JACKIE!!!
olliebearman looking fabulous paulito ->liked by paularon -> user385 MY PAUOLLIE HEARTTTT
user23 still boyfriend??? -> user556 be so fr they deffo broke up -> user323 if they broke up i don't believe in love. -> user345 please get a job.
kimiantonelli invite me? -> youruser i did :( u said no. -> user4 istfg if kimi hurts her i'll CURSE HIM
landonorris stop i want to be your frienddddd -> youruser invite me to mclarennnn bitch
pierregasly looking cute -> youruser why are u in love with paul? -> pierregasly why aren't you?
user555 DID ANYONE CATCH PIERRE'S COMMENT LMAO -> user99 PAULY/N TRUTHERS RISEEEEEE -> user13 he's so me it's crazy
liamlawson the pookie group :) -> youruser you're my pookie
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olliebearman
liked by kimiantonelli, youruser, paularon, and 742,294 others
olliebearman flicks from the past couple races, adios to Y/n and GOOD LUCK ON TOUR!
comments
user76243 so we're not talking about ioio? -> user356 i'm employed what does this mean -> user58583 basically the girl in the middle is a singer (y/n verstappen) and is dating the f1 rookie kimi antonelli, and she just released a song that makes it look like kimi cheated... no one in the paddock or her has said anything so we have no idea if that's actually what's going on
user576 BADDIE ALERT 🚨🚨🚨
maxverstappen who's the gremlin in the middle photo? -> kimiantonelli she sometimes comes into my garage to touch my hair... freaky. -> maxverstappen she does the same to me... freaky... -> youruser please stop with the joint bullying i just like to play with hair :) -> kimiantonelli weird hobby but i love you anyways so i guess it doesn't matter :) -> maxverstappen as sweet as it is to know my sister is loved, please refrain from doing it on instagram -> kimiantonelli 👍 got it max! -> youruser LET ME BE LOVED OUT LOUD MAX FFS NOT ALL OF US HAVE A FAMILY -> maxverstappen I'm your brother?? -> youruser I don't even know what i meant there??? -> user50 y/nkimi CRUMBS and he's in love omfg they're so cute
jackdoohan how's that hottie in the third slide single? 😏 -> paularon have you seen him and kimi? I wouldn't exactly call him single -> user767 PAUL WHAT DO YOU KNOW?????
user87y/n is GLOWING post break-up. she's seriously so stunning
user75 Y/NPAUL TRUTHERS RISEEEEEE -> user784 I've been here
gabrielborteleto the divas are in town 🙀
liamlawson BADDIE PAUL 😻😻😻 -> paularon "bad crash for lawson, straight into the barriers in the first turn" -> this u? -> liamlawson do you live to humble me? -> youruser I do... 😼
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f1WAGgossip
liked by pierregasly, yourfriend, and 823,392 others
f1WAGgossip Trouble in paradise? Singer/songwriter, WAG to Kimi Antonelli, and sister to Max Verstappen, Y/n Verstappen, recently released a song called 'it's ok, i'm ok', possibly alluding to the idea that Kimi might've cheated on her! They haven't been seen much together, though she has been in the paddock, but now she's going on tour.
comments
user37 y/n nation we ride at dawn
user25 I KNEW PAUL WOULD'VE BEEN BETTER FOR HER -> user5779 0 days since a pauly/n 'truther' has pissed me off. she's clearly better suited to ollie. -> user565 SHE'S DATING KIMI?????
user935 PLEASE SAY THIS IS A JOKE
user2133 finally she's free of him -> user356 ???? -> user2133 i just think they're not right for each other. she's so extroverted and open and he's just so... not. Like he seems extroverted but just not with her, and he seems to not get her humour. -> user84 key word? SEEMS! you know nothing about their private and personal relationship.
user244 PLEASE SAY KIMI IS SINGLE NOW
user73 finally i have a chance with kimi! -> user935 do you enjoy humiliating yourself online?
user358 guys i fear this might be the end of kimiy/n, her friend and pierre gasly liked this... -> user55 ok, and let's be so real, her friend fucking hates kimi. -> user546 maybe she has a reason to? she actually knows him personally????
user3853 my mate is in F2 and knows kimi and said he's been just off his phone for the past few weeks. i think they broke up AGES ago. -> user76 deffo had nothing to do with the fucking F1 season starting up, right? you are a moron, so is your friend.
user46 pierre here for the drama and i respect it
user7835 CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE NEW ALBUM AND HOW GOOD SHE LOOKS???
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youruser
liked by landonorris, maxverstappen, olliebearman and 4,342,245 others
youruser holy shit! tour is underway, max actually (WILLINGLY) came to a show, and got p1 the next day! I must be a good luck charm!
comments
jackdoohan might need some of that good luck over here in alpine... -> youruser bro you've had three podiums in an alpine wtf are you on about????? -> jackdoohan how hard did you hit your head last night???
user83 NO KIMI LIKE? IS IT OVER ???? -> user2567 i'm done if they are -> user3678 sleeping on the highway brb!!!
user35702 KIMI IS GONE, PAUL YOU MUST RISEEEEE
user244 OLLIE HAS A CHANCE!!!! -> user7565 yall are crazy they havent even TOLD anyone yet. Just let them live.
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kimiantonelli
liked by maxverstappen, lewishamilton, landonorris and 312,329 others
kimiantonelli Great season so far, up to P2 in the constructors, and P3 in the drivers. Can't wait to go back to racing, but first, some rest :)
comments
user835 not to be chronically online but y/n hasn't commented or liked???
user530 babes... it might be over.
user995 broke up with his sister, but still gotta get max in, i respect the grind.
user123 this is so insane i fear
user92 he looks so sad :( -> user573 he's a grown man -> user83 babe he's 18 and has been dating her for 3 years, it's a big deal
user8357 why isn't anyone talking about his incredible start to the season???
user345 guys i'm so devastated
oscarpiastri Putting in the work mate, good job! -> liked by kimiantonelli
alexalbon Forza Kimi -> liked by kimiantonelli
user3575 if my boyfriend broke up with me, i'd kill my brother for still being his fucking photodump -> liked by yourfriend
user375 ollie still making it into the photodump is so boyfriend coded
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f1WAGgossip
liked by yourfriend, pierregasly, landonorris, and 2,349,924 others
f1WAGgossip Crisis averted! Kimi and Y/n are fine (as far as we know), and he actually visited her at her show last night in Montreal. He surprised her on stage and everything!
comments
user83 I'M SORRY DID YOU SEE THE WAY HE LOOKED AT HER??
user34 she looked so stunning last night, and he was ENTRANCED fr -> user84 i get it.
user75 this is the best news i've had all week, and I passed the bar this week
user457 they're my fav couple -> landonorris same tbh
user450 can we talk about how yourfriend was adding fuel to the flames?? like wtf -> yourfriend lol, my b. kimi pissed me off. He's actually so in love with her it's so annoying and he takes her away from me :( -> youruser I still love you too :)
kimiantonelli People thought we were broken up? @.youruser -> user8435 LMAO -> user47 dude didn't even know -> user57 have you been living under a rock???? -> kimiantonelli No, I've been racing???? -> youruser could've sworn i told you, sorry love :) -> kimiantonelli all goo love. just to check, we aren't broken up, right? -> youruser nope. i'm all yours. -> kimiantonelli 👍 -> user353 why is he a thumbs up warrior?? -> user7565 they're so cute i want to claw my eyes out.
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navigation for my blog :)
mercedes & williams masterlist
hii, hope you're doing good. Can you do a Kimi Antonelli fic where the reader is also from Italy but the south and the first time she hears his accent in Italian she just laughs because in the south we pronounce words differently like I remember hearing him speak Italian for the first time in an interview and just laughed for like a whole minute, I think the most notable thing is the way he pronounces his s's especially and his vowels and words in general sound kinda like my 2 year old nephew with the flu. Could you make the reader a driver and you can choose which team in f1 or f2, so that like she first hears him maybe during a pr thing. Whether you do it or not thanks and have a great day!😊
On Brand (Andrea Kimi Antonelli X Southern Italian! Reader)
Fandom: RPF/Formula 1
Requested: Clearly (took me a minute, but we got around to it lol)
Warnings: Flirting in Italian (I'm learning Italian, so some translations may be wrong)
POV: Second Person (You/your/They/them)
W.C. 1093
Summary: “Are they flirting? In Italian?” “Oh god. It’s worse than that. They’re flirting in grammar.”
~~(^Pinterest)
It all started the day you walked into your first driver’s briefing, and you heard two very different voices talking in Italian - your native language. One was a very weird accent, definitely not Italian, and he was speaking in broken sentences like he was still learning. The other was very nasally, so maybe the other one was sick. You chuckled to yourself as you sat down next to Max.
The actual briefing itself was boring. It was all common sense, in your opinion, and it was just reiterating everything you already knew. Don’t go beyond the white lines. DOn’t move more than once under breaking. You’ll have the chance to do practice starts at the end of each free practice session. If you do a practice start, don’t go until the driver ahead of you has pulled away. Yeah, common sense.
“You getting along with the other rookies?” Max asked, bumping his shoulder against yours after the briefing was wrapped up.
“Haven’t really had the time to,” You shrugged, “I know there’s quite a few this year. They all came from Formula 2, no?”
“Yeah, I can introduce you to some, if you want,” Max offered before looking around the room.
“That would be helpful,” You responded.
“That is Gabriel Bortoleto,” Max started, pointing over to the man in green. “He won the championship last year, and Isack, you’ve met him already, finished second to him.”
“Yeah, I remember Isack,” You nodded along.
“Jack Doohan over there,” Max continued, pointing over to the man in pink.
“Mick?”
“His son,” Max snapped his fingers, “Jack is racing for Alpine. Honestly, not sure how long that’ll last.”
“Don’t be mean,” You said, slapping his arm.
“Not mean, just realistic,” He chuckled, rubbing his arm. He turned to point at the two you were laughing at from earlier. “Then, there’s Ollie and Kimi.”
“One of them is Italian,” You said, matter-of-factly. “He sounds so Northern.”
“Why’d you say it like that?” Max chuckled as Kimi and Ollie walked further into the room and sat on the other side of Max. “Were you making fun of his accent?”
“Who’s accent?” Ollie asked, leaning over Kimi to be part of the conversation.
“Boys, this is my new teammate for the year, also a rookie,” Max said before telling them your name. “Your country mate, Kimi, and they were poking fun at your accent.”
“It’s just the way he says everything,” You said, tilting your head as you looked at Kimi. “It’s not a bad thing. You just say everything so precisely.”
“Ah, and you're Southern,” Kimi pointed out with a smirk.
“Oh, very,” You laughed, loud and unashamed.
“Please don’t do the regional thing,” Max groaned, already standing up.
“It’s already happening,” Ollie groaned too, and followed Max, “Can we stay within listening distance? I want to hear this.”
“You heard me say all of - what, three words?” You questioned, “And you’ve figured me out?”
“Your vowels did most of the work,” Kimi chuckled, sliding into the seat next to you.
“Oh, he’s an expert, I see,” You smirked, leaning closer to him, “Listen to yourself, sounds like you should be filing paperwork.”
“I speak clearly,” He replied, snappily as he kept the joke running.
“Exactly, every syllable is sober,” You said, mocking his accent.
“Is that a burn?” Ollie whispered to Max.
“Probably? I don’t understand Italian insults,” Max whispered back.
“You add extra sounds,” Kimi tilted his head at you as he looked you up and down.
“It’s called ‘emotion,’” You sounded it out, “You should try it sometime.”
“It’s called ‘time,’” He mocked, nodding his head in a condescending way, “The sentence needs to end eventually.”
“I am learning so much about Italy right now,” Ollie gasped, shaking his head, “Shocking, considering I’ve lived there for almost five years now.”
“Say something else,” You said quietly, leaning closer into his side.
“Why should I?” Kimi retorted with a raised eyebrow.
“Because it’s fascinating,” You admitted, “You pronounce Italian like it owes you money, or you are sick, and I’m not sure which one it is yet.”
“And you sound like you're singing to it,” Kimi huffed out a laugh despite your subtle diss.
“Alla fine, è una questione di equilibrio, no (In the end, it’s a balance, no)?” You smirked, biting your lip.
“Forse ci completiamo a vicenda (Maybe we balance each other),” Kimi continued your thought, leaning in further.
“Forse dovremmo uscire insieme allora (Maybe we should go out together then),” You said, subconsciously licking your lips as you felt Kimi’s breath ghost across them.
“Vengo a prenderti alle sette (I’ll pick you up at seven),” He replied in a soft tone as his eyes dropped to your lips momentarily before returning back to your eyes.
“Perfetto,” You whispered, gazing into Kimi’s eyes and smiling like it wasn’t the end of the conversation at all.
“Are they flirting? In Italian?” Ollie grimaced, looking between the two.
“Shhh, don’t ruin the moment,” Max chastised, slapping Ollie’s shoulder.
“È solo un esempio (It’s just one example),” Kimi whispered calmly, rolling his eyes at Ollie and leaning back slightly to look at him and Max.
“Oh god. It’s worse than that,” Ollie gasped. “They’re flirting in grammar.”
“Shush,” Max complained again, “that’s pretty on-brand for them.”
“Aspè (Wait),” You blinked as if you’d just woken up, “Did we just…”
“It was hypothetical,” Kimi said after clearing his throat, suddenly very interested in the floor.
“In the future tense,” You chuckled.
“With a time,” Max piped up.
“And a pick up,” Ollie joined in.
“Please stay out of this,” Kimi said, directing it towards Max and Ollie, who avoided eye contact with him. “Alle sette è un orario ragionevole (Seven is a reasonable time).”
“Never said it wasn’t,” You chuckled. “Does that still work for you, or do Northerners need to schedule further in advance?”
“I plan efficiently,” Kimi scoffed.
“I already regret introducing you two,” Max groaned before getting up and walking back to the Red Bull garage.
~
“Truly, I thought you were sick the first time I heard you,” You admitted while you were laying in bed with Kimi. You two had been together for almost a year at this point, and you never thought to clarify your initial thoughts of him. Not until it had been a little too quiet after a race weekend. ”Just thought you should know that.”
“That’s what that comment was about?” Kimi gasped, sitting up and looking down at you. “I thought I actually sounded like I was becoming sick!”
~~~
Main MASTERLIST // F1 / Kimi Antonelli // HITLIST
~~~~~
© BAD268 2026. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.
Seven Years Strong
Arthur Leclerc x Reader
Seven years. That’s how long you and Arthur had been together, and somehow, fans loved you just as much as they loved him.
Your relationship wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t staged, it wasn’t messy — it was simply real.
Every race weekend, people spotted you in the paddock, or tucked in the Ferrari garage with his family. You weren’t just “Arthur’s girlfriend” anymore; you were part of the Leclercs.
The fans had noticed too.
Tweets and edits rolled in constantly:
“Seven years… marry her already, Arthur 😭❤️”
“She’s literally the perfect paddock queen.”
“If they don’t get engaged soon, I’m rioting.”
Arthur pretended not to see them, but you always caught him sneaking glances when you scrolled. One evening, curled up on the couch together, you showed him yet another meme shouting marry her already.
Arthur glanced at your phone, ears turning pink.
“Guess I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
You arched a brow, nudging his shoulder.
“You better want to marry me because you want to — not just because the comments are forcing you.”
Arthur chuckled, shaking his head before leaning closer.
“Don’t worry, mon amour. I’ve wanted to long before the comments ever showed up.”
Your chest warmed, and you couldn’t help but smile at him. Seven years later, the world wanted a wedding — but for you, this right here was enough.
And by the look in his eyes, you had a feeling Arthur wasn’t going to make the fans wait much longer.
This was Requested.🫶🏼