Pairing: lando Norris x reader, but mostly just Y/n and the WAGs
Summary: Y/n, Lando Norris’ new girlfriend, attends her first F1 race and is swiftly taken under the wing of the WAGs, who teach her the unspoken rules of f1
Y/n had been to big events before. Red carpets, premieres, and fashion weeks—she could handle a camera flash like a pro. But standing at the entrance of the paddock for her first-ever Formula 1 race, wearing her McLaren pass around her neck, she felt completely out of her depth.
The world of F1 wasn’t just about fast cars; it was about politics, strategy, and—most terrifyingly—the WAGs.
Lando had kissed her goodbye at the hospitality entrance, promising to see her after FP1, and that was when she was ambushed.
“Alright, rookie,” Kika, Pierre Gasly’s girlfriend, looped an arm through hers, her honey-blonde hair bouncing as she steered Y/n toward a private table in the paddock. “Time for bootcamp.”
“Bootcamp?” Y/n repeated, feeling a bit like a deer in the headlights.
“You think you can just waltz in here and be a proper F1 girlfriend without guidance?” Lily, Alex Albon’s girlfriend, teased, sliding into a seat with a knowing smirk. “No, sweetheart, it doesn’t work like that.”
“You’re lucky,” Alex, Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend, added. “Not everyone gets the full WAG orientation on their first weekend. Usually, we just let them suffer.”
Y/n blinked. “Should I be scared?”
Rebecca, Carlos Sainz’s girlfriend, gave her an encouraging pat on the back. “Yes.”
Lesson One: Pre-Race Preparation
“You need to know how to handle Lando before a race,” Carmen, George Russell’s girlfriend, started, flipping her sunglasses onto her head. “Every driver has their own pre-race routine. If you mess it up, congratulations—you’re the reason he finishes P12.”
“Wait—what?” Y/n’s eyes widened. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
“Not really,” Kelly, Max Verstappen’s girlfriend, said with a shrug. “Just don’t be annoying. Keep the energy calm, don’t talk too much, and if he’s in the zone, let him stay there.”
Kika nodded. “Pierre needs hype. So I tell him he’s the best, kiss him, and send him off like a gladiator into battle. Meanwhile, Lily literally has to trick Alex into thinking racing is just a fun little game so he doesn’t overthink.”
Lily grinned. “I gaslight him into thinking it’s no big deal. Works like a charm.”
“Susie?” Y/n turned to Susie Wolff, the ultimate WAG and wife of Toto Wolff. If anyone knew how to manage an F1 man, it was her.
Susie sipped her espresso like a woman who had seen it all. “Toto is different. He’s not the one in the car, but believe me, he’s more dramatic than any of the drivers.” She sighed. “My advice? Just make sure Lando doesn’t forget to eat.”
“Got it. No messing with his pre-race mood, gaslight if necessary, and make sure he eats,” Y/n recapped. “I can do that.”
Lesson Two: Media Management
“Now, the media,” Alex said, leaning in. “You’re dating Lando. People will analyze everything you do. What you wear, how you look at him, whether or not you smiled when he crossed the finish line.”
“You need to learn the ‘paddock girlfriend’ face,” Kelly instructed. “Not too excited, not too miserable—just engaged enough to look like you care, but also mysterious.”
Lily demonstrated, tilting her head slightly and pressing her lips together in the perfect neutral expression.
Y/n tried to mimic her but ended up looking mildly constipated.
“We’ll work on it,” Carmen assured her.
“And social media,” Rebecca added. “Fans will stalk every post, every like. If you breathe near another driver, they’ll start a conspiracy theory that you’re cheating.”
Y/n groaned. “Oh, fantastic.”
“Just own it,” Kika advised. “If they start a rumor, make it worse. That’s what I do.”
Lesson Three: Surviving the Race
“You are now a part of the emotional rollercoaster that is watching your boyfriend risk his life at 300 km/h,” Susie said with a knowing look. “You will feel stress, anxiety, and possibly rage.”
“If someone crashes into Lando, you are obligated to hate that driver for at least two weeks,” Kelly informed her.
“And you need a coping strategy,” Rebecca added. “I stress-eat.”
“I online shop,” Alex said.
“I start manifesting,” Lily said dramatically.
“I drink,” Kika said, holding up a glass of champagne.
Y/n exhaled. “This sport is insane.”
The women all nodded in agreement.
As the session wrapped up, Y/n felt a new sense of confidence. Maybe she wasn’t fully prepared yet, but she had an elite team of WAGs ready to guide her through the chaos.
Just then, her phone buzzed. A message from Lando: How’s your first F1 day going?
She smiled, typing back: I think I just joined a secret society.
And so, the newest recruit of the WAG Bootcamp was officially initiated.
I have a request. Can you do a dad! Daniel Ricciardo x child! Reader x platonic F1 grid. Where all her friends ditch her birthday party last minute, so her dad steps up and calls the entire grid (+ the wags) to give her the coolest birthday party ever
🎂 “The Grand Prix Birthday Party”
(aka: how dad!Daniel Ricciardo summoned the entire F1 grid + WAGs to save his kid’s birthday)
Pairing: platonic!F1 grid x child!reader, dad!Daniel Ricciardo x daughter!reader
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Found Family, Comfort, Pure Chaos™
Warnings: swearing (bc it’s F1 drivers), sugar highs, Daniel being the most unhinged dad ever, mild roasting (all loving), too much cake, Pierre Gasly almost ruins everything at least twice, emotional whiplash (you’ll cry then laugh in 2.3 seconds).
💔 The Sad Birthday That Wasn’t Supposed to Be Sad
You had been looking forward to this birthday for weeks.
The balloons were ready, the cupcakes were set up in the hotel suite, Mario Kart was loaded on the big screen.
Your school friends were supposed to come.
But one by one, the messages rolled in:
“Sorry, can’t make it.”
“My mom said I can’t.”
“We’re busy.”
Until the group chat was silent.
You sat alone at the table, a cake meant for ten in front of you, wearing a paper hat that felt like a cruel joke.
When your dad—Daniel freaking Ricciardo—walked in, he knew something was wrong instantly.
“Hey… why the long face, mate?” he asked, crouching in front of you.
“They canceled,” you whispered. “All of them.”
And Daniel froze. All of them?
His eyes darkened with the kind of determination he usually saved for overtakes at Monza.
“…Alright. If they won’t come to your birthday, then I’m bringing my friends.”
You blinked. “Your… friends?”
Daniel grinned like a man possessed. “Kid, you’re about to have the most legendary birthday party in F1 history.”
📱 Dad’s Emergency Group Chat
Two minutes later, Daniel had created a chat that would go down in legend.
Group Chat Name: 🚨 Y/N’s Emergency Birthday Bash 🚨
Participants: The entire F1 grid + WAGs + a few confused engineers
📱 Daniel: OI LISTEN UP LEGENDS. My kid’s friends ditched her birthday. Party is still happening. You’re all invited. No excuses.
📱 Lando: wait are we talking like actual cake??
📱 George: I have a Mercedes sponsor dinner tonight.
📱 Carmen: no you don’t george. we’re going.
📱 Charles: I bring balloons.
📱 Pierre: I’ll bring shots.
📱 Carlos: she is a CHILD, Pierre.
📱 Pierre: …juice shots?? 😬
📱 Lewis: I’ll sort decorations. Don’t worry Y/N, Uncle Lewis got you.
📱 Max : if I have to come, I’m winning Mario Kart.
📱 Oscar: uh do we need gifts?
📱 Alex: Lily’s already wrapping something don’t stress.
📱 Fernando if there is cake, I will attend.
📱 Daniel: PERFECT. Be there in 20.
🎉 The Party Arrivals
You didn’t believe your dad until the door actually opened.
Lewis walked in first, arms full of car-shaped balloons. “Happy birthday, champ.”
Behind him was Charles, carrying an entire bakery box twice his size.
Carlos followed, loaded with three grocery bags.
Lando came barreling in screaming “DIBS ON MARIO KART.”
And suddenly—the room was packed.
Lily, Carmen, Alexandra, and Kika were already stringing up decorations like wedding planners on steroids.
Oscar awkwardly handed you a gift bag. “I, uh… didn’t know what to get. So… socks?”
Pierre was trying to hijack the speaker for DJ duty until Toto Wolff confiscated it like an angry teacher.
Max sat down at the Switch, eyes locked in on victory.
Fernando, with complete seriousness, was slicing the cake with podium precision.
Your lonely birthday had turned into the loudest, most chaotic hotel-room party the paddock had ever seen.
🏎️ Party Highlights
✨ Mario Kart Tournament
Max was sweating like it was the championship.
Lando screamed every time someone threw a red shell.
You beat Max once. The entire room ERUPTED like Silverstone. Daniel leapt onto the couch, screaming, “THAT’S MY KID!!”
Max: “Rematch.”
Everyone else: “NO.”
✨ Cake Catastrophe
You leaned to blow out the candles—
Lando sneezed. Directly. On. The cake.
Absolute silence.
Fernando swooped in like a hero, cutting the unsneezed half and declaring, “This side is safe.”
Everyone applauded.
✨ Karaoke Disaster
Lewis, Daniel, and Charles sang “Happy Birthday” like it was Madison Square Garden.
Pierre grabbed the mic halfway through and started singing Shawn Mendes.
Carlos unplugged the mic mid-note.
✨ Gifts
George (forced by Carmen) gave you a signed Mercedes cap.
Alex & Lily got you a giant plush cat.
Yuki gave you a bag of Japanese snacks.
Max… handed you a Red Bull can.
Lewis: “She’s too young for this.”
Daniel: chugged it himself.
✨ The Dance Floor
Kika and Carmen started blasting music.
Charles did the worst floss dance known to man.
Oscar tried to clap along and somehow missed the beat.
Your dad? Peak dad dancing. Zero shame.
🥺 The Moment That Hit
Eventually, after hours of chaos, sugar highs, and three Mario Kart rematches, you ended up sitting on Daniel’s lap, head on his shoulder.
The room was still buzzing—Lando had frosting on his face, Pierre was banned from aux, WAGs were teaching Yuki TikTok dances, Fernando was asleep in the corner holding a plate.
Daniel kissed the top of your head.
“See, kiddo? Told you it’d be the best birthday ever.”
And as you looked around—Lewis laughing with Charles, Max grumbling about Mario Kart, Oscar trying not to be dragged into a dance circle, Toto holding a balloon like it was stock data—you realized he was right.
Your school friends might have ditched you.
But the grid? The grid showed up.
And they gave you the most unforgettable birthday in Formula 1 history.
been chewing on a tag I saw @gayferrari type... "wags are the new grid girls"
so what was the point of grid girls - to associate glamour and sex to an otherwise all male sport. too much penis, even the cars are shaped like phalluses they needed that yonic energy. it was a marketing tactic, a ploy to associate F1 with their playboy, drive cars get money bitches pussy aspiration. It was being marketed to men -- hence grid girls, not even women, dressed in the driver's insignia but more scantily clad, to be beside him for the unspoken implication that the driver can have her after winning the race.
it took until 2018 to phase out grid girls and was replaced by grid kids (and many of our presently woke feminist drivers then wanted grid girls to stay), with a growing cultural backlash and feminist criticism to the sexualisation of women as props in sports in an era where f1 was rapidly losing viewership and relevancy.
after the drive to survive netflix blow-up, FOM, Liberty Media started explicitly marketing to a lesser tapped market which is the female demographic. anything that wants to be relevant in the social media age needs stans, and nothing encourages that like parasocial relationships. now we have social media admins engaging specifically in fan spaces, using their language, referencing ships, doing fanservice and moving away from the solely male centric marketing.
now wags have always existed as long as drivers have been heterosexual but it wasn't until victoria beckham peak spice girls fame sitting courtside for david beckham made being a wife and girlfriend look glamorous, the outfits she wore and the face she served. the princess story for the new age, where the prince is a handsome famous athlete and you're the prize, the one he's blowing a kiss before shooting the hoop. it's why we still have nicole from pussy cat dolls and lewis hamilton winning world title edits in the year of 2025. it's that camera panning on her, with her gorgeous brown waves and teary eyes as she did the sign of the cross and ran to lewis, kissing him over his helmet -- the fireworks of yas marina in the background.
if grid girls tapped into a purely male heterosexual fantasy, wags tapped into a heterosexual female fantasy.
we can see this with the meteoric rise in social media following of the new age wags. f1 drivers have always dated models and beautiful women, but now those women become famous and build a following off the men they're seen with. what used to be limited to paparazzi and the daily mail, now has hundreds and thousands of independent gossip pages who follow their every move, meticulously detail every outfit and brand they've worn, track their social media activity, even their personal relationships. f1 wags are now bigger than ever, they're parasocially obsessed over and hated on more than ever, every move watched and criticised or smothered in affection just for existing. I'm not here to moralize on celebrity worship culture idgaf, but all this online attention is currency and it is profitable. hence wags build their own careers off the curated, aspirational image of being a wag. of travelling all over the world to beautiful places, wearing beautiful outfits, having a (up to debate) beautiful man by your side -- and brands have certainly taken notice. hence the sponsorships, beauty and fashion brands and self care sponsors all vying to work with them from your rhode lipgloss to your alo matching set
now Liberty Media has seen the shift -- no longer reliant on their official female mascots of grid girls, it's the meticulously dressed, savvy, skinny, gorgeous wives and girlfriends who are the aspirational women on the grid. it's important to note hundreds of women have always worked at f1 races, on the grid as marshals, in hospitality, as team personnel, as engineers and strategists. but YAWN 🥱 bo-ring! everyone knows the most important people on the grid are the drivers and therefore the most important women are the ones at his side. and so Liberty Media pans the cameras on these women and their doe eyed worry/elation as their guy crosses the finish line. it's more frequent, more lingering, and voyeuristic in a way that invites you to inhabit their place in your mind -- what would that be like? after all, you viewer at home are similarly biting your nails watching your guy cross the finish line. in that moment she represents you.
it's ofc misogynistic to imply the aspiration of wags is just for women — the idea of the Hero taking his helmet off and kissing the swooning damsel is literally in bond movies and appeals to the conqueror/winner male fantasy.
but from a purely marketing standpoint, FOM benefits from putting these women in official unofficial spaces as part of the drivers' (and thus F1's new more sanitized, "inclusive" brand image). When the wags are invited to F1 Academy events to promote them, when they're invited to the official F1 movie that's just for the drivers' viewing as the plus one, when they're shown on DTS beside the drivers in their private lives, or a whole segment that's about Ginger Spice riding horses with her sex pest team principal husband, when they're in hospitality and the camera cuts to them every so often signalling to the you, the audience, are supposed to care about this story they're selling you. it's no longer the scantily clad 'girls' by the drivers' side to be ogled, it's the official dowager titled Wives and Girlfriends selling you the aspirational, western, heterosexual, wealthy, conventionally attractive family unit.
not here to cast any moral judgments on wag culture -- I enjoy looking at beautiful women who live such fundamentally different lives too, but rather looking critically at why the larger media complex behind f1 wants to sell you their personal relationships in the era where your attention is currency~
Summary: you just wanted to prank him , didn’t think his reaction will be this
------
Charles had never been an overly dramatic person. He was passionate, yes. Emotional at times, sure. But dramatic? Not really.
But right now? Right now, Charles Leclerc looked seconds away from spiraling into a full-blown crisis.
And it was all because of you.
You had expected him to be confused. Maybe a little bit frustrated. But nothing could have prepared you for the way his entire expression cracked the moment you told him, "I think we should break up."
His lips parted slightly, his breath hitching in his throat. "W-What?"
You had planned to drag this out a little longer, to tease him just enough before you told him it was a joke, but the look on his face? The way his green eyes immediately darkened, his entire body tensing as if he had just been sucker-punched?
Yeah. No. This wasn’t fun anymore.
Your stomach twisted as you forced out a nervous laugh, reaching for his hand. "Charles, I–"
He stepped back.
Your heart dropped.
"No." His voice was barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours like he was desperately trying to find some kind of reassurance. "No, please. Don’t do this."
You panicked. "Charles–"
His breathing was uneven now. He ran a hand through his messy hair, his movements frantic, like he was trying to physically hold himself together. "Is it because of something I did?" His voice cracked, his French accent growing thicker with panic. "Did I not love you enough? Did I–"
You immediately reached forward, grabbing his face between your hands. "Stop."
His entire body stilled under your touch. His breathing was still heavy, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt.
You felt awful.
"Charles, baby, it was a joke," you whispered, your voice urgent. "I was pranking you. I didn’t mean it–I swear."
For a second, he didn’t react. Just stared at you with wide, glassy eyes, his hands hovering in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them.
Then, ever so slowly, his lips parted. "...A joke?"
You nodded frantically. "Yes, a stupid, stupid joke. I wasn’t serious. I would never leave you."
Charles blinked once. Then again.
Then, before you could say anything else, he collapsed against you.
His arms wrapped around your waist tightly, his head burying itself in the crook of your neck as he let out a deep, shuddering breath.
"You scared me," he muttered against your skin.
Your arms immediately tightened around him, guilt clawing at your chest. "I know. I’m so sorry, mon amour. I didn’t think you’d take it so seriously."
Charles let out a breathy laugh, but it was weak. "How could I not take it seriously? You are everything to me."
Your heart broke at his words.
You pulled back just enough to cup his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "I love you, Charles. I love you so much, and I am never going to leave you. I promise."
He searched your face for a long moment, his lips twitching slightly before he exhaled, finally allowing his body to relax. "...If you ever prank me like that again, I’m proposing on the spot so you can’t leave."
You burst out laughing, your forehead falling against his. "That is the most Charles thing I’ve ever heard."
He smirked. "And yet, you still love me."
"Of course I do," you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "Forever."
And just like that, the tension melted away. But deep down, you knew one thing, you were never, ever pranking Charles like that again.
