Imagine being George Russell's little sister and Kimi being in love with you
Kimi had always known what it felt like to push his heart hard, to chase the next lap, the next split, the next finish line. But being in love was nothing like racing. It made his chest light, his stomach twist, and his hands jittery in ways he wasn’t used to. And it was all because of Yn Russell.
She had just turned nineteen and was spending the weekend at Bahrain with her brother. From the moment she stepped into the paddock, Kimi had been captivated. Her energy wasn’t loud or flashy, but it drew people in—the way she laughed at small jokes, how she noticed little details about the cars and the track, even the way she tied her hair back when leaning over the pit wall.
Kimi tried to stay focused, on the car and the team, but every time Yn was near, he found himself doing everything to be close to her. Carrying her bag, fetching her coffee, remembering the little things she liked, even just standing nearby so she had someone she could lean on without even asking.
Ollie noticed immediately. One morning in Miami, he leaned against the motorhome wall, smirking at Kimi, who was hovering behind Yn while she looked at the car setups. “Mate, you know you’re following her like a puppy, right?”
“I’m… not,” Kimi said, his voice low and defensive, but Ollie just laughed.
“You literally move when she moves. You’re carrying her bag like it’s part of your job. It’s sweet… but ridiculous,” Ollie said, shaking his head. “And the best part? You don’t even care that we all notice.”
Kimi just muttered something under his breath, cheeks warming. He didn’t care. Being near her, helping her, seeing her smile—that was worth every awkward moment.
George had been worried at first. She was young, Kimi was young, and the F1 environment wasn’t always easy for relationships. But after a few weekends, he had relaxed completely. Watching Kimi interact with her, always careful, patient, genuinely thoughtful, he realized this wasn’t reckless. It was sweet, real, and she was safe.
The other drivers noticed too. Max liked to tease Kimi openly. “You’re basically her assistant at this point,” he said one afternoon in Monaco, grinning as Kimi handed Yn a water bottle.
“I am helping,” Kimi muttered, trying not to smile.
“Yes, helping,” Lando said, laughing. “Or stalking. It’s hard to tell the difference, but it’s very cute. You’re like a shadow following her every move.”
Even Oscar and Isack exchanged amused looks whenever Kimi hovered nearby, holding a bag or adjusting her scarf when the wind picked up. Carlos chuckled quietly when Kimi rushed to catch up with her after a track walk. Alex just shook his head, smiling knowingly. And Lewis, standing nearby, gave a small nod and a grin. “You look happy, and she seems to like having you around. Fair play.”
Kimi didn’t mind the attention or the teasing. He was in love, and he liked that people could see it. It didn’t make him embarrassed; it made him feel proud. He could show he cared in little ways—carrying her bag, grabbing coffee, helping with a tripod, bringing her favorite snacks—without having to rush to explain the big feelings in his chest.
At Silverstone, he surprised her with a miniature car model she had mentioned liking. When he handed it to her, she laughed, delighted. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he said softly, looking away, cheeks burning.
“It’s thoughtful,” she said, smiling brightly, tucking the model into her bag.
That small acknowledgment made him feel like he had won. He didn’t need her to say more; her smile, her laugh, her enjoyment of the small gesture was enough.
The pattern repeated itself at every track. In Monza, he ran back to the hotel to grab sunglasses she’d forgotten and returned just as she walked past the garage. She laughed, holding them up. “You’re ridiculous, Kimi.”
“I… just wanted to help,” he said, heart racing, but his grin was unstoppable.
In Singapore, he bought tickets for a small museum she had said she wanted to visit, quietly happy just to see her enjoying herself off the track. At Suzuka, he noticed she liked a particular kind of tea, so he remembered to have some ready in the hospitality tent, watching her face light up when she took a sip.
And all the while, the other drivers commented quietly, teasing but kindly. Ollie would nudge him with, “Mate, she’s going to notice eventually. Just don’t trip over your own feet getting there.” Lando would laugh, “He’s literally following her around like a little puppy. It’s painfully obvious, but you can’t help smiling.” Carlos and Alex found it sweet, Isack snorted at Kimi’s obvious nervousness, Max grinned, and Lewis shook his head with amusement.
Kimi didn’t mind. He liked it. He liked that everyone saw how happy he was when Yn was around. Being in love wasn’t always easy, but it felt alive and bright.
He also did small, thoughtful things that weren’t just about her comfort. At Barcelona, when she mentioned enjoying photography, he stayed late one evening helping her frame shots and teaching her angles. At Monaco, he found a scarf she admired in a small paddock shop and gave it to her, watching quietly as she draped it over her shoulders. At Austin, he remembered she liked a particular pastry from the hotel and grabbed it before she even realized she wanted it.
He didn’t do these things for recognition. He did them because he loved being in her orbit, because seeing her enjoy a little surprise made his chest light. And the teasing from his friends, from all the drivers, didn’t bother him—it was part of the fun.
Yn was oblivious to the depth of his feelings, of course. She thought Kimi was sweet, considerate, maybe a little over the top. She liked him, absolutely—but she didn’t realize he was completely in love with her. And that was fine. Kimi didn’t need her to know everything yet. Just being near her, being part of her weekend, making her happy in small ways—that was enough.
By mid-season, George had completely relaxed. He watched his sister laughing with Kimi, saw how attentive he was, and even teased him occasionally, just as a brother should. “Don’t mess it up, rookie,” he’d say, and Kimi would blush but nod.
Other drivers joined in the fun. Oscar Piastri and Alex Albon would watch Kimi hover around her, smirking quietly. Carlos chuckled when Kimi brought her something little but thoughtful. Lando and Ollie made constant commentary about his puppy-like behavior. Isack snorted at his nervous energy. Lewis would give him a quiet nod or a smile in the hallway. Max, of course, continued teasing him openly.
And Kimi? He didn’t mind any of it. He liked being in love. He liked carrying her bag, helping her, surprising her with small gestures, and being present in ways he could. He liked that everyone noticed and found it sweet. He liked that it was obvious. He liked being happy.
Being in love with Yn wasn’t complicated for him. It was simple. He carried her coffee when she needed it, grabbed her favorite snacks, helped with small problems, stayed nearby when she looked tired, noticed the little details she liked. And when she laughed at a joke or smiled at a tiny surprise he planned, it made his chest light in a way nothing else could.
By the time they reached Singapore, the rhythm of their weekends was settled. Kimi, devoted and happy, followed Yn like a careful shadow, always attentive, always thoughtful. The other drivers teased, laughed, and watched, but it didn’t matter. Kimi knew he was in love, and that was enough.
And Yn? She noticed that he cared, she liked him, she appreciated his thoughtfulness—but she didn’t yet understand the depth of his feelings. And that was okay. Kimi didn’t need more than this. Seeing her happy, being near her, making her life a little easier in small ways—he was content, and he was exactly where he wanted to be.
Being in love with Yn was messy, joyful, and exhilarating. And Kimi was proud of it, proud that he could love someone so entirely, so honestly, and be happy doing it.
Toto Wolff & russell!reader
George Russell & russell!reader
Summary: George celebrates his 100th race for Mercedes with pole position, second place, and an empty space beneath the podium where his team should be. You celebrate by storming into Toto Wolff’s office, calling him an old idiot, and leaving your handprint on his face.
Warnings: reader does not like Toto, protective sister!reader, angry reader, sad George, Toto being emotionally constipated, one slap, Mercedes family drama, sibling banter, light angst.
Word count: 2k
a/n: I have very mixed feelings after today’s race, especially when it comes to Toto and the way he treats Kimi and George.You all know how much I love Toto, but he really does have a tendency to show favouritism. Last week, he stood on the podium with Kimi after George finished outside the points. He looked ready to jump for joy when Kimi took pole in Monaco. Then George took pole yesterday, finished second today in his 100th race for Mercedes, and Toto barely acknowledged his podium. There is even a video of Toto sitting in the garage watching the ceremony, talking about Kimi’s DNF and Lewis’s win, without saying a single word about George. Honestly, it made me feel awful for him. So yes, I poured some of that frustration into this one-shot. Do not misunderstand me — I still love Toto. Sometimes, though, I really want to slap him myself. Luckily, George’s little sister did it for me. 😉
You already dislike Toto Wolff.
The Spanish Grand Prix simply gives you fresh evidence for the prosecution.
George loves him, obviously.
Your brother speaks about Toto with the reverence usually reserved for gods, kings, and people who pay for dinner. Toto gave him his Mercedes seat, believed in him, guided him and became some complicated combination of boss, mentor and father figure.
You have never understood it.
Toto is tall. Fine. He has broad shoulders, expensive watches and the irritating habit of entering every room like he personally owns the oxygen inside it.
He can also be charming when he wants something. You still think he is an arrogant Austrian control freak with the emotional availability of a garage door.
After Monaco, your opinion of him somehow gets worse. George loses points because of the team’s mistake. He climbs out of the car furious, disappointed and already preparing to defend Mercedes in front of the media. In the meantime Toto stands on the podium with Kimi. Smiling. Celebrating.
George says nothing bad about anyone. Of course he does not. Your brother would thank the iceberg for giving the Titanic valuable feedback.
Then Barcelona happens. George takes pole.
For the first time in weeks, he looks happy. Properly happy. The smile reaches his eyes, and you spend Saturday evening listening to him pretend he is calm while pacing around his hotel room.
“I’m completely relaxed,” he tells you.
“You’ve folded that shirt six times.”
“It had creases.”
“It’s the shirt you’re wearing.”
He looks down at it. “Oh.”
Sunday begins beautifully and slowly turns into the kind of emotional torture Mercedes appears to consider a team-building exercise.
George leads. Lewis gains ground in the Ferrari after a brilliant strategy call and eventually takes first place.
Then Kimi catches George. On lap sixty, he passes him.
You watch from the Mercedes garage as George drops to third.
Then, unexpectedly Kimi’s engine dies.
Lap sixty-three. George’s racing number.
The universe has a cruel sense of humour.
George finishes second.
Lewis wins for Ferrari. The grandstands explode. The Ferrari garage turns into a red carnival. Kimi sits beside the track with a dead Mercedes and heartbreak in his voice.
You feel sorry for him. You genuinely do. You also watch Toto’s face collapse into thunder.
George brings the car home. George stands on the podium. George scores eighteen points after starting on pole. George completes his one-hundredth race for Mercedes.
Nobody from the team comes beneath the podium. Nobody.
You stand there alone among Ferrari shirts, photographers and celebrating fans, wearing your Mercedes pass and enough anger to power Kimi’s broken engine.
George looks down. He finds you immediately.
You clap until your palms hurt. You whistle. You raise both arms and scream his name like you can fill the space where his entire team should be.
His smile appears for a second. Small. Grateful. Painfully tired.
Then he looks toward the empty area beside you.
You see the exact moment he understands. Your stomach twists.
Lewis sprays champagne over him. George laughs because George always finds a way to behave correctly. He hugs Lewis, congratulates him and raises his trophy.
He looks like a perfect Mercedes driver. He also looks alone.
Your rage becomes very calm. That is usually when people should run.
You leave the podium before the interviews finish.
One Mercedes employee tries to stop you near hospitality.“Can I help you?”
“Yes. Where is Wolff?”
His eyes widen slightly. “Toto is in his office.”
“Excellent.”
“Does he know you’re coming?”
“He will.”
You march through hospitality, ignore two assistants and open Toto’s office door without knocking.
He stands behind his desk, headset abandoned beside his laptop. Bradley is speaking to him while three screens replay Kimi’s retirement.
Toto looks up. His expression changes when he sees you.
Bradley glances between you both and makes a decision based on years of survival instinct.
“I’ll give you a moment.”
“Coward,” you mutter as he passes.
“Absolutely,” Bradley whispers.
The door closes.
Toto straightens. “You cannot simply walk into my office.”
“Apparently I can.”
“I am dealing with a serious situation.”
“So am I.”
His eyes narrow. “Your brother finished second.”
“My brother just completed his one-hundredth race for your team.”
Toto’s jaw shifts.
You step closer to the desk. “He took pole. He drove a brilliant race. He stood on that podium, and nobody from Mercedes bothered to show up.”
“Kimi suffered an engine failure three laps from the end.”
“I saw it. I can count to sixty-three.”
“This could have serious championship implications.”
“And George does not?”
His face hardens. “Do not twist my words.”
“I don’t need to. You make them ugly all by yourself.”
Toto places both hands on the desk.
You see the warning in his eyes. You ignore it with enthusiasm.
“A week ago, George finished outside the points because your team failed him. But you still managed to stand on the podium with Kimi.”
“That was a different situation.”
“Yes. Kimi had a trophy, so you remembered how stairs work.”
His nostrils flare. You point toward the door.
“George is out there defending this team again. He is congratulating Lewis. He is answering questions about his future or the strategy. He is doing your job for you while you hide in here looking like someone cancelled Christmas.”
“I am not hiding.”
“You missed your driver’s podium.”
“I have two drivers.”
“Today you behaved like you had one.”
Silence crashes through the office. Toto stares at you. You stare right back.
You have spent years watching grown men become nervous under that gaze.
You mostly feel the urge to throw his laptop out of the window.
“He loves this team,” you say, your voice lower now. “He loves you. God knows why. He would drive that car with one wheel missing and thank you for the opportunity afterward.”
Something flickers across Toto’s face.
You keep going. “He sees you as family. Today, on his hundredth race, he looked down from that podium and saw nobody.”
Toto’s shoulders lose a fraction of their tension.
“He saw you,” he says.
“Yes. His sister. The only person in that paddock who does not receive a Mercedes salary.”
“I will speak with him.”
“After the cameras disappear? After everyone has already seen how little you cared?”
“That is enough.”
“No, you old idiot. It really isn’t.”
His brows lift. The room becomes dangerously quiet.
“What did you call me?”
“Old. Idiot.”
His eyes narrow dangerously. “You are behaving like a spoiled child.”
“And you are behaving like a heartless bastard.”
His jaw locks. “You know nothing about what it takes to run this team.”
“I know what it takes to stand beneath a podium for someone you claim to care about.”
“Kimi’s retirement required my attention.”
“Kimi always gets your attention. You treat him like a son and George like an inconvenience you are forced to manage.”
Something sharp flashes in his eyes. “Do not speak about my drivers as if you understand this team.”
“I understand enough. When Kimi succeeds, you are there. When Kimi fails, the whole world has to stop. When George succeeds, you find somewhere else to be.”
“George does not need his little sister fighting his battles.”
Your blood turns white-hot. “No. He needs his boss to stop treating him like the disposable one.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Watch how you treat my brother.”
“You have crossed enough lines for one day.”
You step closer. “So did you. The difference is George will forgive you because he worships you.”
Toto’s expression turns cold. “And perhaps that is why he understands this team better than you ever will.”
You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “No. He just keeps making excuses for you because he sees you as family.”
“You should leave.”
“I should. Before I waste another second looking at an old idiot who does not deserve my brother’s loyalty.”
His eyes flash. “That is enough. George is my employee, a driver, not my son. If he needs affection after every race, he chose the wrong sport.”
That does it.
You should leave. You know that. Your common sense sends a formal written request.
Your anger rejects it. So you raise your right hand and slap him with all your strength.
The sound cracks through the office.
Toto’s head turns slightly. A red mark immediately begins spreading across his cheek.
Your palm stings.
For one long second, neither of you moves.
Then he slowly looks back at you.
You expect fury. You expect security. You expect him to have you thrown out of Mercedes hospitality and banned from the paddock entirely.
Instead, Toto studies you with a strange expression.
His eyes move over your face, taking in your anger, your shaking hand and the complete absence of regret.
“You hit very hard,” he says.
“You have a very slappable face.”
His mouth twitches.
You stare at him. “Are you... smiling?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I assure you, I am not amused.”
“You look impressed.”
“That would be deeply inappropriate.”
“So yes.”
Toto exhales through his nose. “George is lucky to have you.”
The words steal some of your anger. Only some.
“He shouldn’t need me to defend him from his own team.”
Toto glances toward the frozen image of George’s podium on one of the screens.
His face changes.
The team principal disappears for a second. You see the man George insists exists beneath all the control, spreadsheets and expensive knitwear.
“He should not,” Toto says quietly.
You reach for the door. “Fix it.”
“I intend to.”
“And put ice on your face.”
“That sounds suspiciously like concern.”
“I don’t want people thinking George did it.”
You walk out before he can answer.
George finds you twenty minutes later behind the Mercedes motorhome. He still wears his race suit tied around his waist. His hair is damp, and the trophy hangs loosely from one hand.
“There you are,” he says. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
You study his face. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
“George.”
He looks down at the trophy. “It was a good result.”
“It was.”
“Lewis was faster after the strategy.”
“He was.”
“Kimi deserved the podium.”
“He did.”
“And eighteen points are useful.”
You fold your arms.
George’s mouth tightens. “It was my hundredth race for Mercedes,” he says softly.
“I know.”
His eyes shine for a moment before he blinks it away. “I thought someone would come.”
Your heart cracks straight down the middle.
You pull him into a hug.
George holds you tightly, his chin resting on your head. “You came,” he murmurs.
“Always.”
He laughs weakly. “You looked terrifying.”
“I was terrifying.”
“What did you do?”
You release him. “Nothing unreasonable.”
His entire face fills with suspicion. “What did you do?”
“I spoke to Toto.”
George goes pale. “Define spoke.”
“I used words.”
“What words?”
“Old idiot was mentioned.”
His eyes close. “Oh God.”
“And then I slapped him.”
George’s eyes fly open. “You did... what?”
“I slapped Toto.”
“Our Toto?”
“There is only one, unfortunately.”
“You hit Toto Wolff?”
“He survived.”
George stares at you like you have announced plans to invade Austria.
“You assaulted my boss.”
“I corrected his face.”
“You cannot correct people’s faces!”
“His ego survived too.”
George presses one hand over his mouth. A strange noise escapes him.
You realise he is laughing. It starts quietly, then grows until he bends forward, trophy pressed against his stomach.
“You slapped Toto,” he wheezes.
“Yes.”
“On my hundredth race.”
“It felt commemorative.”
George laughs harder. You grin despite yourself.
Then his laughter stops. His eyes move past your shoulder.
You turn.
Toto walks toward the media pen with Bradley beside him.
The left side of his face carries a clear red handprint.
Bradley speaks rapidly while Toto listens with the expression of a man reconsidering every decision that brought him to this exact moment.
As they pass, Toto looks at you.
He holds your gaze. Then he gives George a small nod and changes direction, walking straight toward him before the media interviews.
George watches him approach.
You glance at the red mark on Toto’s cheek and feel a deep, peaceful sense of satisfaction.
George leans closer. “You’re insane.”
“You’re welcome.”
Toto stops in front of you both.
His eyes settle on George. “We need to talk,” he says. “First, I owe you an apology.”
summary: the girl who's wouldn't want to not be near Max Verstappen ends up finding out he’s actually not the worst. max verstappen x russell!reader
word count: 1.9k
author's notes: should i make part two? a nsfw part two? part two is here!
english is not my first language, i use grammarly to help me with grammar, besides that fuck ai - semi proof read.
masterlist
It's almost 3 a.m. The only thing you wish for more than going back in time and refusing that party invitation is for your brother to answer his bloody phone.
You're outside the club in Hungary, where the post-race party happened. You don't speak the language, and you don't know the name of your hotel, let alone its location. And your perfect, responsible older brother got too drunk to drive—let alone remember he showed up with his own sister.
Now you're less desperate and more just… numb. Praying for a miracle—someone, anyone—to pick up while you still have battery life. The short sparkly dress and heels were also a huge mistake. As the night drags on, the wind seems determined to freeze you.
Then, as if the universe has a sick sense of humor, you feel two guys approaching.
Yep. Definitely not your night.
They say something to you that you think is Hungarian, smiling in a way that immediately makes your stomach tighten. You shake your head politely.
"No, thank you." For some reason, you think that'll make them leave you alone.
They keep talking. You don't understand a word. One of them gestures down the street, motioning for you to come with them.
Your grip tightens around your phone, and the energy doesn't feel helpful at all. It never does, though.
Luckily, two security guards pass through you, interrupting before the situation can get any more uncomfortable. They say something sharply to the men, who walk off quickly. You look around, confused. Whose security guards are these? And then you spot him.
Max. Of course.
Your heart betrays you a little by skipping a beat.
You've never known how to explain the feeling you get when he's around. You've barely exchanged ten words with him over all the years you've gone to races. But based on your brother's experiences—the fights, the tension, the way George reacts sometimes—you decided a long time ago that Max Verstappen was trouble.
You also don't know how to explain the way your stomach does a strange little flip every time he walks in. It's a strange situation, how he can be so annoying and charming at the same time.
It's very bad that he just helped you and he's the only familiar face around, because somehow, against every instinct you have, that comforts you.
He just doesn't need to know that.
"You okay?" he asks.
"I had it under control," you say, pressing your lips together.
He raises an eyebrow. "Sure looked like it."
You side-eye him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a real response.
"Where's George?" he asks.
"He left."
"Okay… and why are you still here exactly?"
You take a deep breath. You know how stupid you're about to sound. But you're too cold and too tired to lie.
"I don't know the name of the hotel. And George, Carmen, and everyone else I was with aren't picking up their phones. Also, I don't think anyone here understands me enough to give me that information, so…" You stare at the street, hugging yourself.
You feel him looking at you for a long second. When you turn your face, Max is biting the inside of his cheek.
The bastard is holding back a smirk.
You roll your eyes, instantly regretting every word you've just said.
"Come on," he says. "I'll drive you. Everyone's staying at the same hotel. I know where it is." His eyes drop to your bare legs, just for a second. "Also, I can't let you stay out here wearing… this dress. So just… let's go."
"I don't need—"
"What's your plan? Sleep here? Die of hypothermia?"
"I'm not sure. Whatever happens first."
"God, you're stubborn." He shrugs off his jacket and holds it out to you. "I respect that, but your lips are turning blue, and you are alone here. So take this and accept that I'm your only choice right now."
I can't believe this.
Why is this happening to me?
I guess he won't take no for an answer.
And I'm going to have to accept.
I'm going to have to put a Red Bull jacket on.
Your internal scream is deafening. Max doesn't say anything—just stands there holding the jacket out, that stupid smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. You hate that he's right.
You hate this night. You hate that when you finally snatch the jacket from his hands, the fabric is still warm from his body.
Shit.
"Fine," you mutter, shoving your arms through the sleeves. It smells strong—clean, woodsy. And it feels good. Too good. "There. Happy?"
"Ecstatic." He's already walking toward his car. He opens the passenger door for you and waits.
Your eyes narrow. He's definitely enjoying this more than he should.
You slide into the seat. He closes the door and moves around to his side. The car is warm. It smells like him. He pulls away from the curb, the low hum of the engine filling the silence. You side-eye him, observing him casually driving.
It's a bit hard to accept that he's not the complete asshole you thought he was.
Beside you, Max glances over briefly.
"All those years I've known you, I don't think I've ever seen you be this quiet," he says.
"I'm saving my energy."
"For what?"
"In case you start being, you know… you."
A small huff of laughter leaves him.
"And what was that supposed to be?"
"You tell me. I've heard things."
"From George?"
You hesitate.
Max nods slowly, grinning, eyes back on the road. "Riiight, because you're not biased at all, and your brother isn't the most dramatic person alive."
Now it's your turn to huff. "What? Can you blame him? You don't exactly act like an angel."
He shrugs one shoulder. "Most people hate me already. Being rich and winning races doesn't help, so…"
A slight pang of guilt falls upon you. Not that you hated him, but it was hard not to take your brother's side.
"I don't hate you," you confess quietly.
"You're George's sister."
You narrow your eyes at him. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," he says casually, "you probably decided you hated me a few years ago."
Your mouth opens.
Then closes.
Because, unfortunately… he's not entirely wrong.
Max glances over again, catching your expression.
"There it is," he says.
"What?"
"That face."
"What face?"
"The one where you realize I'm right but you don't want to say it."
You scoff and turn toward the window again, the corner of your mouth curving slightly. "You really know how to annoy a Russell."
He clicks his tongue. "What can I say? It's a talent."
"Of course it is," you say, rolling your eyes.
He tilts his head slightly. "Oh? What's that tone about?"
"The great Max Verstappen obviously is a man of many talents."
Max lets out a quiet hum at that, like he's considering responding.
"Many talents, huh?" he repeats. "Why do you sound almost like you're curious?"
Your brows lift. "Curious about what exactly?"
He shrugs one shoulder, completely unfazed.
"About the many talents you just mentioned." His smirk grows. "You trying to discover something tonight?"
You stare at him for a second longer than necessary, caught slightly off guard by how casually he said it.
Is he…?
No.
He can't be.
Max wouldn't make a move on you.
Definitely not.
"You're unbelievably full of yourself." You fold your arms, trying to keep it cool.
Max glances at you again, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's barely holding back another comment. You're suddenly very aware of your surroundings. What if he was making a move? That came out of nowhere. Why do you feel like your cheeks are about to turn red?
A few minutes later, the car slows as it pulls into the hotel entrance.
"Well," he says lightly, glancing toward the building. "Looks like your dramatic survival story has a happy ending."
"Oh my God," you breathe. "Finally."
He stops the car near the front and hands the keys to the valet, stepping forward. As you step out of the passenger side, the cool air hits your legs again. You're shivering again. The thought about being cold barely finishes forming before Max steps beside you.
His hand lands lightly on the small of your back as he guides you toward the entrance.
The sudden contact sends a strange rush through you, like your body forgot how to behave normally. Your shoulders stiffen slightly.
Stop that. Be normal, Y/N.
He quickly removes it a second later, like he became aware of his movement.
Inside, the lobby is quiet. Your heels click softly on the floor. Grabbing the card key, you walk toward the elevators.
You clear your throat.
"Well," you say, pressing the button. "You got me here alive, so I guess I have to say thank you."
"See? I wasn't that bad." Max leans back slightly against the wall beside the elevator, arms loosely crossed. "Come on, let me walk you to your room."
You shake your head immediately.
"It's okay, really. You were a lot of help already."
"Please," he says as the elevator doors slide open. "I'm just making sure you don't get lost again."
You give him a look as you step inside. "You'll never let me forget that, will you?"
"Nope."
The elevator doors close, and the space suddenly feels… very small. The quiet between you two is… different. Heavier, maybe.
Time slows down as you start looking back at your evening, thinking how the hell your heart started beating so fast because of Max Verstappen. God, get it together.
The elevator dings a few seconds later, and you both step out. Your room isn't far down the hallway. You stop at the door with the card in your hands. The moment lingers for a second longer than expected.
"Safe and sound. Thank you again."
Max nods once, hands sliding into his pockets.
"No problem. That was… fun." One corner of his mouth lifts.
You stare at him.
He stares back, the familiar teasing look still there, but his eyes don't move away. Not even a little.
Your lips press together, fighting a smile.
"Goodnight, Verstappen."
"Goodnight, Y/N."
You swipe the keycard and push the door open, stepping inside before you can give yourself time to overthink what just happened. As the door closes behind you, you lean against it for a second, pressing your hand to your chest like that might slow your heart down.
What the hell was that?
Why didn't that feel… bad?
You breathe out, trying to regain composure because you're not thinking straight. You feel desperate to vent this to someone, but you remember that your friends and sister-in-law are probably passed out.
You decide to go to the front desk to see if Carmen is there—safe and alive. Alive enough to help you understand things.
You pull the door open—
Max is standing right there.
His fist is raised mid-air, clearly about to knock.
For a split second, you both just freeze.
"Hi… what… happened?"
"I forgot something," he says.
Shit. The jacket.
"Oh, right. Sorry, I—I forgot about it too." You slide it off and hold it out to him. "Here."
His eyes drop to your lips for half a second.
"It wasn't the jacket," he says, stepping closer to you.
His body gets closer, and you can't think of anything except his lips. You both crash into each other desperately. It's the kind of kiss that steals your breath and your sanity all at once—his hand sliding into your hair as your back presses harder against the door. The jacket slips from your fingers, forgotten, falling to the floor as you pull him closer and closer.
The only thought left in your head is that maybe you should' have've gotten lost around Verstappen a long time ago.
- After you brother, George made you mad -
Max: Kiss, marry, kill
Max: Me, Charles, Lando
Y/N: Kiss you, marry you, kill George
George: But I'm not even on the list, what the fuck?
Lando: (⊙_⊙)？
Lando: At least give me a high five or something
Esse imagine pertence a @ari-ana-bel-la e eu estou apenas traduzindo.
A equipe da Netflix vinha acompanhando a Mercedes durante todo o dia, registrando desde as discussões acaloradas de estratégia com Toto até os momentos silenciosos de Kimi Antonelli se preparando para sua próxima saída. Mas havia uma pessoa que mal aparecera nas filmagens: George.
Não era por má vontade — ele só estava ocupado. Mas não com reuniões nem debriefings. Na verdade, George passara a maior parte do dia ao lado de sua filha de quatro anos, Sn. Ela era sua pequena sombra, sua maior alegria, e hoje ele havia decidido que, entre o trabalho e o tempo com ela, ficaria com ela.
Por isso, quando a equipe da Netflix entrou na área de descanso da Mercedes, não esperava presenciar um momento muito mais íntimo do que qualquer briefing técnico ou cena de box.
Ali, no canto acolhedor do lounge, estava Sn. Seu corpo miúdo repousava em uma das poltronas acolchoadas, as perninhas balançando no ar enquanto ela se concentrava no livro colorido aberto à sua frente. O livro era quase grande demais para o seu colo, mas ela dava conta — os dedinhos acompanhavam as ilustrações com cuidado, e ela murmurava a história para si mesma, completamente imersa naquele mundinho de fantasia.
Atrás dela, George escovava cuidadosamente seus cabelos. O semblante dele era sério, os olhos atentos, as sobrancelhas levemente franzidas enquanto tentava desfazer os nós sem puxar demais.
Sn exibia um biquinho adorável, o nariz franzido em claro sinal de desaprovação. Era sutil, mas George percebeu na hora. Ele sempre percebia.
— Oh não, o que foi isso? — murmurou, pousando a escova para dar um beijo rápido na bochecha dela. — Está brava comigo, meu amor?
Ela soltou um pequeno suspiro irritado, cruzando os bracinhos. — Você estragou meu cabelo.
George piscou, depois olhou de novo para a trança meio torta. Bom… agora ele entendia.
— Ah… — disse, assentindo. — A mamãe fez hoje de manhã, né?
Sn balançou a cabeça, ainda emburrada.
George conteve uma risada. — Desculpa, princesa — disse, com toda a solenidade do mundo, beijando sua bochecha outra vez. — Eu não quis estragar.
Ela o olhou de canto, os olhos avaliando se devia ou não aceitar o pedido de desculpas. George percebeu a hesitação e se inclinou, conspirador:
— Que tal isso? Eu faço de novo. Prometo que vai ficar tão bonito quanto o da mamãe. Talvez até mais.
O biquinho começou a vacilar. — Promete?
Ele levou a mão ao peito, encenando dramaticamente: — Cruzadinho.
Ela deixou escapar um sorrisinho tímido, e George retribuiu com um sorriso radiante, depositando mais um beijo na testa dela antes de pegar a escova de novo.
Sem que ele soubesse, as câmeras da Netflix captavam tudo — em silêncio. Eles tinham se escondido discretamente no canto, percebendo que aquele era um daqueles momentos raros e genuínos que revelam o lado humano dos pilotos. Não queriam interromper, só observar.
George dividia o cabelo de Sn em mechas com cuidado, os dedos atentos, dedicados. Não era tão ágil quanto Carmen, nem tão habilidoso, mas estava determinado a fazer sua garotinha sorrir.
— E então, o que vamos fazer hoje? — perguntou com ar profissional. — Rabo de cavalo? Maria-chiquinha? Coque?
Sn franziu o nariz, pensativa. — Trança.
— Ah, um clássico — ele disse, assentindo com seriedade. — Gosto da escolha.
Com delicadeza, começou a trançar os fios, os dedos trabalhando devagar para não apertar demais.
Enquanto ele penteava, Sn folheava o livro, cantarolando baixinho uma melodia inventada. A atmosfera era tão suave que o lounge parecia flutuar fora da correria do paddock — como se tivessem se escondido num pedacinho secreto do mundo.
— Quase pronto — anunciou ele alguns minutos depois, prendendo a ponta com um elástico pequeno que tirou do bolso. — Agora vamos ver se o papai passou no teste.
Ele tirou o celular e tirou uma foto rápida, virando a tela para ela. — E aí?
Os olhos de Sn brilharam. — Eu amei!
E então, antes que George pudesse reagir, ela se atirou nos braços dele.
Ele a segurou com naturalidade, os braços envolvendo firme aquele corpinho pequeno. Apertou-a contra o peito, a mão pousada gentil nas costas dela enquanto ela se aninhava ali, tranquila.
— Melhor papai — ela murmurou, escondida na camiseta dele.
O coração de George derreteu. — E você é a melhor menininha do mundo.
A equipe da Netflix, entendendo que aquele era um momento que não devia ser explorado, desligou as câmeras em silêncio, afastando-se devagar.
Algumas coisas não são feitas para serem exibidas. São para serem guardadas.
pairing: lando norris x russell!reader
word count: 3.2k words
request: yes/no by anons "bestie after peace you got me thinking. how would the imagine go if reader was george’s sister dating lando instead?" & "reader has had a bad week and lando's been away and reader starts doubting their worth. lando comes back and notices that you are down and you hesitantly tell him your feelings and quick reassurance going "there isn't really anyone else. you're it for me." and ends with some fluff.🤗" so sorry this took so long! hope you both like it!
warnings: what is says up there! pretty angsty, pretty fluffy.
a/n: NOT ME REALIZING I SCHEDULED THIS FOR 8PM INSTEAD OF AM. i'm thinking maybe the mick fic i promised might be turned into a series... idk yet, but i'm taking my time with it bc this is my new "pillow" .
my masterlist / this is sort of a part two to 'peace' (but not rlly just the concept)
growing up with george as your twin brother was quite fun. you’d have excuses to skip out of school every other day, which you loved. you got to travel with your whole family to new places, which you also loved.
but george had one rule. stay away from his friends. that, you didn’t love so much. you got to see them almost every weekend, at times when they’d all hang out together at your house you’d take the opportunity and stick to them. mostly because you wanted to look at him. lando.
no matter how many times george would tell you to leave them alone so they could do ‘boys’s stuff’, you’d just roll your eyes and sit between lando and alex, who told george it wasn’t a big deal. they actually enjoyed spending time with you.
“so, what i’m hearing is… your friends like me more than you,” you’d tease, smiling cheekily before throwing an arm around each boy’s shoulder, lando took the opportunity and leaned his head against yours, under the excuse of trying to piss off george, but in truth, he only wanted to be close to you at all times. george would just grunt and whine.
as time went on, you and lando kept getting closer. race weekends were the best for you, you felt conflicted, though, because you desperately wanted your brother to succeed, but at the same time you couldn’t help but celebrate your friends’s success. after george’s first year in f1, you noticed how being alone had really taken a toll on him. you were used to always being there for him, but your studies didn’t leave you as much free time as before. which was why you decided to do college online so you could join your twin brother.
you could see it in his eyes, his spark was back. you’d walk through the paddock with his arm over your shoulders protectively, telling everyone that if they messed with you, they’d have to go through him first.
following the f1 circus meant that you, obviously, had to spend time with the other drivers, which you weren’t complaining about at all. you liked most of them and enjoyed their company.
the first race of the 2020 season was a chaotic one, half the grid didn’t finish the race, and those who did were fighting fearlessly to defend their position, and attack when they tried to overtake. you knew it was hard for george to abandon the race, so you gave him alone time to process it.
meanwhile, you were watching the last minutes of the race, wanting to see who’d end up on the podium. you gasped when you noticed lando was in fourth place, and slowly catching up to the car in front. your heart stopped when he crossed the finish line, waiting to hear if he’d gotten a podium.
hearing his team radio brought tears to your eyes, he’d had a brilliant race, and he deserved that podium. you wanted nothing but to wrap your arms around him and tell him how proud you were of him. but, you had to look after your brother, at least make sure that he was alright and ready for his post-race interviews in the media pen.
“what were the results?” you heard behind you, seeing george walk to you.
“valtteri, charles, lando,” you smiled at him.
“lando got a podium?” he asked, eyes wide, “are you serious?”
“look for yourself,” you said, standing up and walking out of the williams hospitality. you heard the celebrations before you saw them, the whole mclaren garage was ecstatic about their result. “don’t worry, you’ll get your time to shine,” you told him, sliding an arm around his waist, squeezing his side.
“thanks, sis,” he kissed the top of your head. you were about to say something when the team’s pr manager stepped in front of you. “duty calls, see you in a bit?”
“sure, i’ll do some exploring around,” you smiled, slipping away from him.
a few hours later, you were getting ready to leave.
“i’ll get my bag and we’re good to go,” george said, ready to walk up the stairs again.
“i’ll be outside!” you told him.
you stepped outside of the motorhome, feeling a light breeze against your skin, blowing the hair away from your face.
“little rose,” you heard someone calling you by your nickname.
when you and george were young, he couldn’t pronounce your last name correctly, which ended up sounding like ‘rose-elle’. and, since you were the younger twin, people started calling you ‘little rose’.
“hey! congrats on the podium!” you grinned, throwing your arms around lando’s neck. “you were amazing!”
“you saw it?” he bit his lip, trying to prevent the inevitable grin that was taking over his face.
“of course i did! had to give georgie a bit of space, so i watched it. how do you feel?”
“it honestly doesn’t feel real. at all.” he confessed, you nodded, “like… i’ve been waiting for this moment so long, and now that it’s here, i…” he shook his head, “i don’t know,”
“maybe it’s the adrenaline,” you shrugged, “did you cry?” you smiled, your heart thumping as you watched his cheeks turning red.
“i did, yeah,”
“aww, lando!” you cocked your head to one side, taking a step close to him. “you deserve it,” you hugged him again, and this time, you felt his hands on both sides of your hips.
“take your hands off my sister, you already got your trophy,”
“george!” you grunted.
“sorry, lad,” lando chuckled, squeezing your side before letting go of you. you gasped, and he winked at you, making your heart flutter inside your chest.
-
that night, you tossed and turned in your hotel bed, something wasn’t letting you sleep. you checked your phone for the millionth time, before tossing it to the side and turning around. you closed your eyes, just as you were starting to drift off, your phone buzzed.
grunting, you picked it up, squinting at the bright light. you’d gotten a text from lando.
‘r u awake?’
you frowned, it was almost 2 am, why did he want to talk to you at 2 in the morning?
‘yeah, why?’
instead of a reply, you heard a knock on your door. you stood up, dragging your feet until you opened the door.
“lando, what are you doing here?” you asked, leaning against the door frame.
his hands were by his sides, fingers playing with each other as his eyes went wide.
“h-hi,” he breathed, “i didn’t wake you, did i?” he asked, and you shook your head slightly. “oh, okay,” he said.
“is something wrong… or-”
“no, no, i… i wanted to tell you something,” he said, eyes flicking down to your lips before returning to your eyes.
“what is it?” you crossed your arms over your chest.
“um, well… you know how i… i got my first podium today,” he started, you nodded, “and even though the celebration wasn’t as big or great as i’d hoped,” you chuckled, “i felt amazing, like there was nothing that could stop me.”
“that’s amazing,” you whispered, a small smile on your face.
“and i think it’s the adrenaline that’s still running in my veins but-”
“what?” you asked as he paused. he looked down, balling his hands into fists for a second, before stretching his fingers again.
“i realized, as i was standing there, with my team around me, that there was one person missing. you.”
your breath hitched, he’d taken one step close to you so you only had to extend your arm a little and you’d be touching him.
“what- what do you mean?”
“it means that when i get a podium, i’d like you to be there. i’d like to hold your hand, to make you laugh and share late night thoughts when we can’t fall asleep.”
he leaned in, closing the space between you.
“i’ve liked you for a long time now. i don’t know when you went from being my friend’s sister to you, but i-”
he stopped talking, his mouth too busy fighting against yours for dominance. it’s a messy kiss. your hands fly up to his hair, fingers gripping his curls as you bring him close to you.
that was the beginning of your relationship, a love confession at 2am. ever since then, your life became a mix of hiding from the public and your twin, and sneaking around as you try to spend as much time as you can with lando.
you had to be smart, you couldn’t walk hand in hand because then the media would blow up. plus, george was always there, like a shadow that you couldn’t shake away.
but now, after a year and a half, you felt ready to come clean about it.
“baby…” you whispered. you were in your apartment, about to fall asleep.
“hmm?” he hummed, hiding his face in your neck, you shivered at the feeling of his breath on your skin.
“i was thinking… maybe we should tell the world,”
“are you sure?” he asked, pressing a kiss to your neck.
“i mean… we’ve been together for a while now, and i love you completely. i think it’s time. but if you don’t want to, it’s fine, i just don’t know how long i can keep this from george,”
“yeah, i’m honestly surprised none of us has slipped yet,” he chuckled.
“i know,”
“we’ll talk about it in the morning, okay?” you nodded, feeling his arms tightening around you, bringing you closer to his chest. “now, let’s go to sleep,”
“sweet dreams,” you smiled.
-
as it turned out, next morning was a busy one for the both of you. so the subject completely slipped out of your minds. without noticing, weeks and weeks passed, and you were still a secret.
you looked out your window, seeing the gray sky. the clouds looked dark, and there was a certain smell in the air, rain.
you grabbed your phone, smiling at the lock screen, a photo of the beach, a silhouette in the distance. since you had to be careful about the relationship, you couldn’t use a photo of the two of you. so this was the next best thing. you felt a pang in your chest, as you realized how much you missed him. he’d been gone for a few weeks now, busy with the car launch and other pre-season responsibilities.
you took a seat on a chair on your balcony, breathing in the cold air, it felt like home. you opened tiktok, laughing as you scrolled through the funny videos. but one caught your attention.
‘lando norris’ secret girlfriend?’
the video went on to explain how some pictures of him and a mclaren worker showed the two of them laughing, her hand on his shoulder. then, a clip from one of the ‘unboxed’ series, where lando was showing her something on his phone. out of pure curiosity, you went to the comments.
‘god i hope not. she's too ugly for him.’
‘ew no’
‘wait, they’re so cute, omg’
‘honestly good for him. she’s cute’
you’d been advised, many times now, to not look at comments on social media. things could get pretty ugly, especially for girls that had some type of relation or link to the drivers.
it made you wonder, though, if this is how they talk about a girl who had nothing to do with lando… how would they react when they found out that he actually had a girlfriend… that you were his girlfriend?
your mood changed after that, and it seemed to affect the weather, since it started raining. the louder your thoughts got, the harder the rain kept falling. after a few minutes of sitting numbly outside, you walked to your bedroom.
maybe letting the world know about your relationship wasn’t such a good idea after all.
the sound of the rain hitting your roof lulled you to sleep.
the next day, you found yourself repeating the same routine. you sat by your window, opened your phone, and read nasty comments people (mostly girls) online made about someone they didn’t even know. you looked through the other girlfriends’ profiles, you wondered how they dealt with it.
another day went by, and you kept yourself away from social media as much as you could, it was weird how comments that weren’t even directed to you affected you so much.
as you sat down on your same spot, on your chair in your balcony, lando told you he was arriving in a few hours. you’d missed him so much, longed for his touch when you needed it the most. now you could finally feel his arms wrapped around you, you’d finally be able to hide your face in his chest or his neck.
hours later, you got a text.
‘i’m on my way!!!! xxxx’
you smiled at the text, standing up from your chair so you could change and look presentable for him. you didn’t want him to worry about you when he already had more important things in mind. you sat down in front of your vanity, grabbing some concealer and mascara to hide the bags under your eyes and highlight your lashes.
the secret knock that you and lando came up with at the beginning of your relationship was like music to your ears. you smiled and walked to the door so you could open it.
“baby!” lando smiles, arms wrapping around you immediately and bringing you close to his chest. “i missed you, little rose,” he whispered on your lips, his hands grabbing your face and bringing you close to him.
“i missed you too,” the smile on your lips didn’t reach your cheeks, and he noticed.
“what’s wrong?” he asked, leaning in and placing his forehead against yours.
“come in,” you whispered, knowing there was no way you could hide your insecurities from him.
“is everything okay? you… you look kind of sad,” he frowned.
“i’m okay, it’s just… i don’t know,” you looked down. lando held both of your hands, his fingers slipping between yours.
“wanna talk about it?” you didn’t answer, and lando took your silence as one. “come on,” he led you to your bedroom, “get in there, we’re sleeping through it,”
“but you just got back,”
“and you’re sad. we’re sleeping. come on,” he placed his hands on your shoulders and gently guided you to your side of the bed.
“okay,” you smiled.
his presence was not enough. your thoughts were loud, even with his comfortable warmth all around you, the nagging thoughts couldn’t let you sleep.
you slipped out of his hold, grabbing your phone from the nightstand and walking to the bathroom. you sat on the floor, your back against the cold wall as you opened social media. since your life was surrounded by f1, it wasn’t long until you found a post that caught your attention.
it was a picture of lando’s instagram, showing the people he followed.
‘lando norris just followed model jasmine byrd! do you think they’re dating?’
‘oh i hope so!’
‘she’s literally so perfect. otp’
you knew it wasn’t true. he was asleep in your bed. not hers. not anyone else’s.
then why were you crying?
you threw your phone to the side, pulling your knees up to your chest. maybe they were right. maybe you shouldn’t be with lando, he deserved someone perfect, gorgeous, someone who didn’t let silly comments get to her brain.
you weren’t enough for him.
the sound of your soft sobs woke him up. he was cold, missing your warmth. he didn’t have to search too long for you, a quick look around the room told him you were in the bathroom, the light peeking in though the slit under the door was enough of a clue for him.
he opened the door slowly, his heart breaking and beating hard at the same time as he saw you on the floor. in an instant, he was beside you, an arm around your shoulders as he grabbed your hand with the other.
“baby, what’s wrong? are you okay?” he whispered. his hand playing with your hair, something that always helped calm you down.
“no,” you said.
“do you want to talk about it? what happened?” you shook your head.
“i don’t want to talk, i…”
“then we’ll stay here in silence, i’m staying with you,”
“you don’t deserve this,” you said after a few minutes. your breathing was calmer, but there were tears still falling from your eyes.
“what? what do you mean, darling?” he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, feeling you freeze under his touch.
“this. me. i’m not good enough for you,” you admitted, looking up from the floor. your heart ached as you watched his confused expression.
“of course you are! baby, there’s only you for me,” he kneeled next to you, pushing your hair away from your face. you shook your head, his hands still holding your face delicately. “where is this coming from?” he asked, and your eyes flickered to your phone, but quickly came back to his. he noticed, though, and he leaned in to grab your phone. “baby… you know i’m only yours.” he said, wrapping an arm around your waist, his free hand holding your face delicately.
“but you’re… so amazing and there’s so many girls out there who could-”
“no, stop that. i love you, there’s no one else for me. only you.” he said, looking straight into your eyes. “you’re it for me.”
you stayed quiet.
“i know people can be cruel sometimes, but just know that you’re the one thing in my mind, all day. every day. i don’t want a model, or an actress or anyone, only my little rose.”
“i’m sorry,”
“no,” he shook his head, bringing you closer to him by holding your waist and pulling you over his lap. “don’t apologize. we all have bad days, and i’m always going to be here to tell you how much you mean to me, okay?” he leaned in, brushing his lips against your cheek, making you giggle softly at the feeling.
“okay. thank you. i love you,” you smiled, leaning back a little so you could admire him fully. wild hair from the few hours of sleep he got, his slightly red eyes and pink lips that you adored.
“i love you too. now come on, it’s time to sleep,” he stood up with you still in his arms, making you yelp as you wrapped arms and legs around him.
your doorbell rang, and you groaned, trying to ignore it. you turned around burying your head in lando’s chest, closing your eyes and sighing in delight.
it rang again, and this time lando woke up, too.
“i can go get it,” he mumbled, placing a kiss to your forehead.
“no, stay here, they’ll go away eventually,”
“mhm, what time is it anyway?” he asked, lifting his head from its spot, looking around, “it’s 10am,”
“why do i feel so tired then? i feel like i need a nap from that nap,” you chuckled. “see? i told you they’d go awa-”
you were cut off by the bell, again.
“stay, i’ll be right back,” you let him go, stretching your limbs, back arching off the bed as you groaned.
lando was trying to be a nice boyfriend, he really was. letting you stay in bed while he took care of whoever was trying to reach you at that moment. but, he forgot about one tiny detail.
