Any- & Everything

my f1 blog is boxbox81babygirl

[xteddybearprincess]

too romantic

And somewhere along the way, I realized I'm too romantic for my own good.

I romanticize the smallest things—the way you laugh, the way you look at me, the way you say my name, the way your hand finds mine.

I even romanticize the hard parts. I'd be willing to carry your darkness and still look at you as if you were the sun.

Maybe I should stop.

But stopping would mean changing who I am, and changing who I am would mean losing a part of myself.

So maybe I am too romantic.

But maybe that's exactly who I need to be.

Because life is hard enough already, and so few people still choose romance—not just in love, but in the way they see the world.

Maybe I'll always feel a little deeper than most.

Maybe it'll hurt more.

But if being too romantic means finding beauty where others don't, then I don't think it's a flaw.

I think it's simply the way I love.

xtbp

[xteddybearprincess]

If I had to explain

how I want to be loved,

I wouldn’t start with words like easy

or casual

or whatever happens, happens.

I would start with depth.

The kind that doesn’t just touch the surface

but lingers—

in the quiet,

in the in-between,

in the parts of me I don’t hand out lightly.

I don’t want to be someone

you spend time with.

I want to be someone

you return to.

A place, not a pause.

A home, not a habit.

I want to be chosen

in the small, unremarkable moments—

when the day has been long,

when nothing feels cinematic,

when love is not a feeling

but a decision you make anyway.

Try to understand me.

Not perfectly—

that would be impossible.

But relentlessly.

Gently.

Like I am something worth learning,

again and again,

even when I don’t make it easy.

Because love isn’t knowing everything.

It’s refusing to stop trying.

I will meet you there.

With effort that doesn’t keep score,

with hands that know how to hold

and how to steady,

with a heart that does not run

at the first sign of weight.

I want a connection

that does not disappear

the moment life becomes inconvenient.

I want to fall apart in your arms

and know

you won’t flinch.

And I want to be the place

you bring your storms to—

not to fix them,

but to stand in them with you.

If I could choose,

I would not ask for forever

without you.

I would trade eternity

for one lifetime

where we chose each other—

fully,

deeply,

without looking away.

[xteddybearprincess]

i deserve to come home

[xteddybearprincess]

I miss the innocence of loving someone

before I learned how easily a person can ruin you.

I miss the butterflies.

I don’t miss the aftermath.

[xteddybearprincess]

i miss being in love, but fuck i dont miss you

[boxbox81babygirl]

MASTERLIST

I'm very happy to present you my main masterlist.💖

📖 Stories / Series:

EDGES | OP81 x AR13 [completed!]

What happens when friendship isn’t enough? Childhood best friends Aila Räikkönen and Oscar Piastri thought they knew each other — until a crash, a year apart, and the return to racing changes everything.

Let the Light in | OP81 x YOU

After seven years with Lily, Oscar isn’t sure he’s ready to try again. Then a blind date—with you, impossible to ignore—makes him question everything he thought he knew about healing.

Can he let the light in, or will guilt and lingering hurt push him away?

📝 Prompt me: OPEN

Oh, Baby | AA23 x YOU

It was supposed to be one reckless night—just fun, just stress relief, just him… your best friend. But Alex Albon’s fucking swimmers had other plans.

Can you survive the fallout when friendship, desire, and a very unexpected surprise collide?

Crash Into Me | OP81 x IS21 [coming soon]

Legacy versus new blood. Senna versus Piastri. One seat, one champion—she drives like she has something to prove; he drives like he never makes mistakes.

But when rivalry turns into something more dangerous, can they walk away before they crash into each other?

📝 Prompt me: OPEN

💌 Imagines:

angst 🥀 | fluff ☁️ | dark/toxic ⛓️| smut 🌶

OSCAR PIASTRI 81

love, in lowercase - OP81 🥀

Fuse - OP81 ☁️

Purple Lace Bra - OP81 🥀

Revolving Door - OP81 🥀⛓️

No Neutral Ground - OP81 r ☁️🥀

Insomnia - OP81 ☁️

Greenlight - OP81 ☁️

I DON'T HATE YOU - OP81 🥀

Iloveitiloveitiloveit – OP81 🥀⛓️🌶

Stars around my Scars - OP81 (TW: Self-harm) r ☁️

I Hate U, I Love U – OP81 r 🥀

MAX VERSTAPPEN 33

In the Kitchen pt. 1 pt. 2 r pt. 3 r pt. 4 r 🥀☁️

I DON'T HATE YOU - MV33 🥀

CHARLES LECLERC 16

Between Silence - CL16 🥀

Unlose Me - CL16 ☁️

Glitter - CL16 r ☁️

ALEX ALBON 23

I know Love - AA23 ☁️

The Rockstar prequel r, pt. 2 r, pt. 3 r ☁️

If I Can't Kill You - AA23 r ⛓️🌶

📝 Requests

Open! Slide into my ask — I love making your F1 dreams (or heartbreaks) come to life. [slow updates]

🏁 So... on to the next one!🏁

xoxo, babygirl 💋

[boxbox81babygirl]

Crash Into Me | OP81 x IS21

Legacy versus new blood. Senna versus Piastri. Anger versus control.

McLaren needs a number one. And neither of them plans to be second.

One Seat, One Championship.

She drives like she has something to prove; he drives like he never makes mistakes.

It’s not about feelings — it’s about winning. About proving who belongs at the top.

But what happens when hate turns into something far more dangerous?

Can they walk away—

before they crash into each other?

[coming soon]

www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ísis_Senna

LEAVE IN THE COMMENTS WHAT YOU NEED IN THIS STORY! ♥️

[🧡 TAGLIST OPEN 🧡]

taglist: @yumarkie @naenaen @heartsformarie @aturnof-thepage @teamnovalak @originaldaughterofagun @pharmasennapuff @mayax2o07 @nerdylittlesh1t @astrrlily @gabby-marrie15 @thegirlinblackgreensilver

[boxbox81babygirl]

Lego & Lavender – OP81  

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader 

Summary: Maybe it’s time Arthur knows — and how will he react when he finds out who it is? Jealousy? Nonchalance? Protectiveness? And can Oscar maintain the calm domesticity you learned in Canada, or will he freeze again?” 

Part 18  to Let the Light in

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 1:21 

You probably should’ve calculated it. 

If you were flying home with the Leclercs, you were flying home with all the Leclercs. Arthur included. 

You also could’ve calculated that there was absolutely no universe in which you’d sit next to Charlotte if Lorenzo was there. Not next to Alex if Charles was there. Or vice versa. 

Which left one very obvious option. 

Arthur. 

Because you were friends. Because it made sense. Because you had already been each other’s “dates” at that February wedding when neither of you wanted to deal with curious questions alone. 

So really, it shouldn’t have surprised you. 

What did surprise you, though, was how calm he was. 

The first hour of the flight, Arthur barely spoke. Headphones on, music playing faintly loud enough that you could hear the dull rhythm of bass when you leaned closer. His head rested against the seat, eyes half-lidded as he stared out the small oval window. 

Montréal shrinking into nothing below you. 

You watched him for a moment longer than necessary. 

Arthur had always been expressive — quick to tease, quick to react. But like this? Quiet. Thoughtful. There was something softer about him at thirty thousand feet. 

Eventually, he nudged you lightly with his elbow. 

“Movie?” 

You rolled your eyes, dramatic. “You’re insufferable.” 

“And yet,” he replied, already pulling the screen toward the middle. 

You rolled your eyes but handed him one side of the shared screen anyway. 

You shared one screen between you, shoulders occasionally bumping. You laughed at the same scenes, exchanged pointed side-eyes when the other laughed at something that was objectively not funny. He dramatically rewound one scene just to prove you wrong. You still claimed he was wrong. He accused you of having no humor. You accused him of having terrible taste. 

Later, you played cards on the little fold-out tray table. He accused you of cheating. You accused him of dramatic exaggeration. It felt easy. Familiar. 

Safe. 

It wasn’t until much later — when the cabin lights dimmed into a muted amber glow, when the hum of the engines turned heavier and more hypnotic, when Charlotte had curled into Lorenzo’s shoulder and Charles had draped a blanket carefully over Alex — that Arthur shifted again. 

The air felt different. Quieter. 

More honest. 

He turned toward you properly this time, one leg angled slightly in your direction. 

“You’re really dating someone on the current grid, right?” he asked, voice low enough that it wouldn’t travel past your row. 

You glanced at him. 

You had already confirmed that much before. 

You nodded slowly. 

“I am.” 

He studied you for a moment, eyes softer than usual. “Will you ever tell me who it is?” A pause. Then, more urgently, “And please tell me it’s not Lando.” 

That made you laugh — quiet but genuine. 

He knew just how hard Lando had tried over the years. He also knew Lando’s… phases. And Arthur had never liked the idea of you being part of one. 

“It’s not Lando,” you promised softly. “I swear.” 

Arthur visibly relaxed, shoulders dropping in relief. 

You hesitated for a moment. You considered keeping the game going. Teasing him a little longer. But he was your friend. And maybe… maybe it would feel nice not to pretend in front of at least one more person. 

You inhaled slowly. 

“It’s Oscar,” you said gently, a small smile forming before you could stop it. “Charles set us up in January.” 

Arthur froze. 

For half a second, you wondered if you’d misjudged it. 

Then his face lit up. 

“I knew it!” he whisper-yelled, nearly waking Lorenzo in front of you. He slapped his own thigh in triumph before lowering his voice again. “I actually knew it.” 

You couldn’t help laughing at his excitement. 

But then he turned serious again. Fully attentive. 

“And he’s treating you well?” he asked. 

The protectiveness in his tone didn’t go unnoticed. 

You nodded. “He is.” 

Arthur leaned back, thinking. His fingers tapped lightly against his armrest — a habit he’d had since karting days. 

“How have you known him as?” you asked quietly. “Back then.” 

You knew Arthur had been around Prema around the same time. He’d seen Oscar before Formula One polished him into something quieter, more contained. 

Arthur tilted his head, considering. 

“Gentle,” he said after a moment. “Always. And attentive. With Lily especially.” 

You didn’t flinch at the name. You didn’t need to. 

“He was never loud about it,” Arthur continued. “But he was there. Always. The type who’d carry her bag without making it a thing. The type who’d remember what she liked without her asking.” 

He glanced at you. 

“If I had to name one driver I’d feel most comfortable with you dating,” he admitted, “it would actually be him.” 

You blinked. 

“That is… unexpectedly high praise.” 

Arthur shrugged, but there was sincerity in it. “It’s just the truth.” 

He rested his head back against the seat. 

“He’s a good guy. And not the ‘nice guy’ type of bullshit. Actually good. Down to earth. Respects women without someone having to remind him to. Doesn’t perform it.” 

You smiled softly at that. 

“And if he knew all the crap Jade and I went through,” Arthur added with a crooked grin, “he probably would’ve slapped me on the back of the head once or twice.” 

You laughed with him. 

Arthur had a good heart. That had never been the issue. But he hadn’t always been a good boyfriend. Sometimes better. Sometimes worse. Sometimes still learning. 

“And,” he added more quietly, glancing at you again, “he’s steady. That’s important.” 

You swallowed. 

Steady. 

The word settled somewhere deep in your chest. 

Arthur hesitated for a second, then nudged you lightly with his elbow. 

“Just… if he ever makes you doubt yourself? Tell me.” 

Your brows furrowed slightly. “Arthur—” 

“I mean it,” he said, softer now. “You don’t freeze loudly. You just… go quiet. And people don’t always notice.” 

Your breath caught. 

It was such a small observation. So casually delivered. 

But it landed heavier than he probably intended. 

You forced a small smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Arthur studied you for another second, like he knew there was more there. But he didn’t push. 

Instead, he reached for his headphones again, slipping them over his ears. 

“Wake me when we land,” he murmured. 

You nodded, turning toward the window. 

Outside, the sky was endless and dark. 

Inside, your mind wasn’t. 

Because Arthur had said something simple. 

Steady. 

And for the first time, you wondered what would happen if something tested that. 

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

Sol’s Insta Story 

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

The sound of distant laughter drifting up from the street, the hum of passing cars, and the faint rhythm of waves rolling somewhere beyond the buildings wrapped your apartment in a kind of quiet life. 

Inside, it was just you and Oscar. 

You sat cross-legged on the light gray carpet, pastel Lego pieces scattered like confetti around you. The instruction booklet lay open between you like something sacred, both of you leaning over it with exaggerated seriousness. 

His knee brushed yours every so often. 

Neither of you moved away. 

You were building Lego flowers. 

Because you deserved flowers that never die. 

You had nearly melted when he’d said it — so casually, like it wasn’t the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for you — holding the purple bouquet in one hand and the Lego box in the other. Real flowers for now. Forever flowers for later. 

You’d stared at him for a second too long after that. 

It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t flashy. 

It was thoughtful. 

And that was worse. 

“I don’t think that belongs there,” you laughed softly now, watching him try to force a pale lavender piece into a very clearly wrong spot. 

He squinted at it like the Lego had personally offended him. “It definitely does.” 

“It absolutely does not.” 

“No?” His voice was gentle, almost amused. Calm in a way that still startled you sometimes. 

You shook your head, smiling. “Doesn’t fit.” 

Oscar didn’t sigh. Didn’t tense. Didn’t get defensive. 

He just blinked at the structure, then at the manual, turning it upside down before flipping back a page. A small pause. 

“Oh,” he murmured, lips twitching. “I was on the wrong page.” 

You laughed, warm and unguarded, and the sound made him look at you instead of the Lego. “That explains many things.” 

He nudged your knee lightly with his. “Hey.” 

“All men claim Lego is easy,” you teased. 

“Clearly false advertising.” He held out a different piece, brushing his fingers against yours as you took it. “You need this one. That goes there.” 

You leaned closer to attach it, your shoulder pressing lightly against his chest as you clicked it into place. When it snapped perfectly into position, both of you smiled like you’d just solved something monumental. 

“Teamwork,” he murmured. 

His arm slid around your waist naturally, not asking, not hesitating. You let yourself fall into him without thinking, your back resting against his chest now as he adjusted behind you. His shirt was soft against your bare arms. He smelled like clean cotton and something faintly citrus — subtle, familiar. 

For a while, you built in comfortable silence. 

Your thigh draped over his. 

His chin occasionally brushing the top of your head. 

His fingers absentmindedly tracing small shapes at your hip. 

Domestic. Easy. Yours. 

When you finished the last petal of the purple flower, you held it up proudly. “She’s beautiful.” 

“She takes after you,” he said without missing a beat. 

You snorted. “That was smooth.” 

“Wasn’t trying to be.” 

He wasn’t. 

That was the dangerous part. 

You turned toward him slightly, still half in his arms. “You really thought of everything, didn’t you?” 

He shrugged, but his cheeks tinged faintly pink. “You deserve flowers that stay.” 

There was no weight behind it. No fear. Just sincerity. 

You set the Lego flower down carefully beside the real bouquet on the coffee table. Plastic and real petals side by side. 

Then you looked back at him. 

He was already looking at you. 

Not intense. Not demanding. 

Just… soft. 

His hand came up slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered at your jaw for a second longer than necessary. Your breath slowed automatically. 

“You’re staring,” you whispered. 

“Yeah.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I can.” 

The corner of your mouth lifted. “Confident.” 

“Comfortable,” he corrected quietly. 

The word hung between you — warm and solid. 

You shifted, climbing fully into his lap now, your knees on either side of him. His hands settled at your waist instinctively, steadying you like he’d done it a thousand times. 

You leaned down first. 

Slow. 

 Unrushed. 

 Certain. 

His lips met yours softly — almost testing — and when you didn’t pull away, his hands tightened slightly at your waist.  

he kiss deepened gradually, warmth building instead of exploding. His fingers tightened slightly at your waist. Your hands slid into his hair, tugging lightly. The soft sound he made — surprised, low — sent heat straight through you. 

That changed something. 

You kissed him harder. 

He adjusted instantly, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other gripping your thigh where it hooked over him. The careful edges he carried in public — the composure, the quiet restraint — began to dissolve. 

Your living room felt smaller. 

Warmer. 

Charged. 

Your lips moved against his in messy rhythm now — breath breaking, teeth grazing, hands exploring familiar territory in new ways. When your palms slid under his shirt, warm skin meeting your fingertips, he inhaled sharply. 

“Careful,” he murmured, though his voice had already deepened. 

“Why?” you breathed. 

He looks up at you then, eyes darker than you’ve seen them all evening. “Because I’m trying very hard to behave in your living room.” 

You smiled against his mouth before kissing him again — slower, deeper — testing the line. 

His hands tightened at your hips. 

And then he moved. 

In one smooth motion, he shifted, guiding you gently onto your back against the carpet. Not rough. Not rushed. 

Certain. 

He hovers over you for half a second, giving you time to pull away. 

You don’t. 

Instead, you pull him down by his shirt and kiss him like you’ve been thinking about it for days. 

The kiss turns hungry — not frantic, just consuming. His hand slid along your side, thumb brushing beneath the hem of your shirt. Yours traced down his back, holding him there. 

When his lips moved to your neck, you arched slightly without meaning to. 

He stilled immediately. 

“Okay?” he asked, voice rough but steady. 

You nod, fingers curling into his shirt. “Yeah.” 

He exhales like he’s been holding it in. 

The kisses get slower after that. Still intense. Still consuming. But layered with something softer. More deliberate. Like he wants to memorize you — not just lose himself in you. 

Eventually your laughter breaks through — quiet and breathless — when his elbow knocks into the pile of Lego pieces, sending pastel bricks skittering across the carpet. 

“We destroyed the bouquet,” you whispered dramatically. 

“Worth it,” he replies without hesitation, pressing one last lingering kiss to your lips. 

Eventually the fire settles. 

Not gone. 

Just banked. 

You both end up tangled into each other on the carpet, your head on his chest, his fingers drawing lazy shapes across your arm. Your leg hooked over his instinctively, fitting into him like you’d always known how. 

His arm wraps around you, pulling you flush against his chest. Your leg hooks over his instinctively. 

The outside noise had quieted by then. Fewer cars. Softer laughter drifting from below. The sky outside had turned deep blue, city lights flickering to life. 

“I didn’t mean to attack you,” you murmured sleepily. 

“I didn’t feel attacked.” 

You smile against him, feeling his chuckle vibrate beneath your cheek. 

The sun hung low by now, spilling long, lazy beams through the window and bathing your apartment in a gentle wash of warm oranges. 

“Will you stay for dinner?” you asked softly, your words careful not to disturb the comfortable silence that had settled between you like a shared secret. 

“If you have me?” 

You only nod, a smile spreading across your face as if it had always belonged there, delicate and effortless. 

“Want to order in or cook?” 

He pauses, still holding you close, his fingers tracing slow, intimate patterns on the soft skin of your upper arm. “How lazy would I sound if I said… order in?” His laugh laced the words, warm and teasing, making the space between you feel softer, lighter, like it had room to breathe. 

You chuckle softly against him. “Relieved.” 

“How about pizza?” he offered, then, as if he’d remembered something, added, “Or sushi?” 

“How could I ever say no to sushi?” you asked, smiling. 

Oscar just nodded, a quiet, knowing grin on his face. “I know, right?” 

It was your favorite. You had mentioned it once, in passing, and he remembered. 

With the arm not wrapped around you, he reached for his phone lying on the floor. The Delovery app opened almost immediately, showing the restaurants that delivered your favorite rolls to your apartment. 

You braced yourself for the old pattern — that moment from previous relationships when someone would order first, ignoring your preferences — but when he handed you the phone, the shopping cart was blank. 

“You choose first,” he said easily. “I’ll add after.” A small smile tugged at his lips. “And whatever you can’t finish… becomes mine,” he joked. 

It was such a small gesture. 

But it felt enormous. 

You carefully added your favorites — salmon nigiri, spicy tuna rolls, miso soup — half-expecting him to comment on the amount, but he didn’t. 

Instead, he watched you. Fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, the softest kiss pressing to the crown of your head whenever you leaned back against him. 

When you handed the phone back, he added a few things quietly, locked it with three smooth taps, and returned his full attention to you. The world outside your apartment seemed to disappear. 

“You want to finish the flowers,” he asked, glancing at the scattered Lego pieces, “or start that movie you keep recommending?” 

“Another flower,” you decided. “Before the food gets here.” 

He shifted behind you, warm against your back as you rebuilt what you’d demolished before. His breath tickled your neck when he leaned forward, reading the manual aloud with exaggerated seriousness, and you laughed softly at the little theatrics. 

It felt soft. Warm. Homey. 

Before you knew it, you’d completed not just one flower, but all of them. Time slipped by, unnoticed, your movements rhythmical, fluid, almost as if you’d been building flowers together for years. 

And then the doorbell rang. 

It startled you, only because it pulled you out of the quiet intimacy, reminding you of the outside world. You realized, with a little awe, how calming and effortless the afternoon had been. No impatient sighs. No frustrated voices. No need to conform to some impossible expectation. He had just watched, waited, and allowed you to be exactly yourself. 

“I’ll get it,” he said smoothly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before rising. He moved with that easy confidence, like he owned the space, while you gathered the completed flowers and placed them carefully in a vase, displaying them beside your favorite books. 

You heard him thank the delivery driver in atrocious French, and it made you chuckle quietly to yourself — utterly endearing. The door closed behind him, and you carried the vase back to the coffee table. 

Then you looked up, and froze. 

There he stood, soft and effortless, two bags in hand, a bright smile illuminating his face. 

“I think I ordered too much,” he said, laughter light and gentle. 

“Maybe,” you replied, walking toward him, your voice free of judgment, full of quiet happiness, as you took one of the bags from his hands. 

Together, you unpacked the food, arranging the containers on the coffee table. You handed him the remote. “Choose a movie,” you said, ducking briefly into the kitchen to grab a small bowl for the soy sauce. 

When you returned, the movie was already ready. The food was open, neatly set, chopsticks in hand, napkins within reach — everything waiting, prepared, thoughtful. 

You settled back against him, the warmth of his chest against your back, the scent of him surrounding you. Every bite of sushi, every small smile exchanged, felt effortless. You laughed softly at lines from the movie, whispered comments only the two of you noticed, and glanced at the Lego flowers glowing faintly in the lamplight. 

Real ones for now. Lego ones for forever. 

His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers intertwining with ease, and you let yourself relax, letting the quiet of the apartment settle around you. The outside world didn’t exist here. There was only this. Only the comfort of him, the small perfection of a lazy evening together, the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this — all of it — could last. 

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

Sol’s Insta Story 

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

yourusername

yourusername life lately 🐞

Liked by alexandramalenaleclerc, kimi.antonelli, arthur_leclerc and 557'810 other's

alexandramalenaleclerc: une coccinelle sur ma coccinelle 🐞❤️ (A ladybird on my ladybird 🐞❤️)

margot.faure: Ma jolie 🥰❤️ Mais de qui viennent ces fleurs ? (my pretty 🥰❤️ but from who are these flowers from??)

camille.riv: stop your outfits are always perfect

amelie.m: monaco in spring>>>>

f1girlie22: wait is that from the ferrari garage in slide 3???

leclercfan16: yup. sol and alex have been friends for ages, so sometimes she tags along with alex on race weekends

f1girlie22: how cool is that?!?!? 😍😍😍

lucy.trackside: ok but why is @.kimi.antonelli in the likes 👀👀

fadetective is that kimi's hand in slide 6?

kimifan23: wasn't kimi a lot in france and monaco recently?

tracklimitsfan: please tell me the hand is @.arthur_leclerc 😭😭 i NEED THEM TO BE A COUPLEEE!❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️

❁✿❀ Let the Light in ❁✿❀

So how long will they be able to uphold the domestic bliss until it all crashes and freezes again?

AND KIMI WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! 👀

xoxo babygirl

taglist: @teamnovalak @anamiad00msday @engelsmoment @madd1115@frankiejo04 @aerangi @dakotapaigelove @azldee @dazaisdogsblog @lighttsoutlewis @0717luv @yumarkie @jennibahng @suns3treading @sassyangel16 @alwaysclassyeagle @moons-v @disappointednotsuprised24 @okcurran @esw1012 @okayarkay @sltwins @bhagyashreeghuge @mysteriousduckprincess @kay-bello @vinylphwoar @mclarensnumberone@taetae-armyyyyy@woninabillion04 @cherryhazee @shawnscurlz @csceclairs@daddyrafeslittleslut @theladybiers @piastripastry81 @be4rnellis @princessria127 @phosphen3-s @wiggly-yrath @artyyjia @chloclo @nilletellsstories @sunshinevansh @cherryniyaah @lora21@marinasblogs-posts@blablabla2242 @dustyinkpages @applejackrootbeerhollis @pharmasennapuff

[xteddybearprincess]

Between Then and Soon

There are days I am sad—

sad for the me who loved too much,

who stayed when I should have walked,

who gave away pieces of herself

to someone who could not hold them.

I am sad for the sixteen-year-old me,

eyes wide, heart raw,

begging for a love she would have given

so fully, so recklessly,

dreaming of a love she had yet to meet.

And yet…

I am lucky.

Lucky to have survived the harm,

lucky I did not give up when life seemed impossible,

lucky because love is still on its way,

and because I am here, breathing, whole,

still able to feel.

The sadness and the luck

weave themselves together—

a tangle of past and future,

of what was and what will be.

I know I will meet you.

I feel it in the marrow of my bones.

I am that lucky.

But until then,

there is this ache,

this quiet mourning

for the love I am still waiting for,

for the versions of me

who loved and longed and waited,

who deserve to be met, finally, fully.

xtbp

[boxbox81babygirl]

hi my babes 🤍

quick check… do we have readers in here? (yes, tumblr absolutely counts, but I mean books books 📚)

has anyone read the Boys of Tommen series? I’ve finished Binding 13 and Keeping 13, and now I’m trying to decide if Saving 6 is worth it—because I really want to know what’s happening to Joey right after Keeping 13.

no spoilers pls, but tell me… ✨ which book broke you the most? ✨ when should I have the tissues ready? ✨ and most importantly… should I read Saving 6?

and if you’ve read it—PLEASE gush with me 🫶 tell me how it made you feel, because I already know I’m about to be completely unwell 🥲💔

[boxbox81babygirl]

Mango Sticky Rice – AA23 

Pairing: Alex Albon x Model-GF!Reader 

Summary: Cravings don’t wait to be invited. They hit when they want—sharp, sudden, and ruthless—sometimes straight out of a dream at 2:07 a.m.

Part 21 of  Oh, Baby 

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:23

The craving hit at 2:07 a.m. 

Not gently. 

Not politely. 

It slammed into you like a freight train—no, worse—like a Formula 1 car meeting the barriers at fifty G, sudden and merciless, knocking the breath right out of you. 

You lay flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, wide awake now. One hand rested over your bump, instinctive, protective, feeling the small, insistent movements inside—little Mango kicking like they had just discovered their own strength. The other hand clutched the duvet as if it could anchor you to the bed, to reason, to sleep. 

Your brain, however, had made a decision. 

Mango sticky rice. 

Not just mango. 

Not just rice. 

Mango sticky rice drenched in warm coconut cream. Sweet. Soft. Comforting. Immediate. 

Your mouth watered painfully. 

You shifted with a small groan, rolling slightly onto your side, hoping—praying—that if you ignored it, it would pass. You squeezed your eyes shut, counted your breaths, told yourself you could wait until morning. That this was ridiculous. That you had survived worse cravings than this. 

But your body didn’t care about logic. 

The craving only grew louder, sharper, clawing its way up your chest until it sat behind your ribs, heavy and demanding. Your throat tightened. 

You sighed again, long and shaky. 

Beside you, Alex stirred. Not fully awake—just enough to register that something was wrong. He turned slightly, his voice rough with sleep. 

“Mm… you okay?” 

“No,” you whispered, panic creeping in fast, traitorous. Your eyes burned before you could stop it. “I’m really not.” 

That did it. 

Alex blinked awake instantly, like a switch had flipped. He pushed himself up on one elbow, squinting into the darkness until he found your face. Concern replaced sleep in a heartbeat. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, but alert. Always alert when it came to you. 

“I need mango sticky rice,” you said, the words tumbling out. “Like… right now.” 

There was a pause. 

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. “So bad that if I don’t get it,” you continued, voice wobbling despite your efforts, “I’ll cry. Like—full-on breakdown. I tried not to. I tried to go back to sleep. But I can’t.” 

The tears clung to your lashes now, threatening. 

You braced yourself. 

It was two in the morning. 

You were in pajamas. 

It was raining outside. 

And this was—objectively—insane. 

Instead of sighing or laughing or telling you it could wait, Alex nodded slowly, like you’d just explained something perfectly logical. 

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah. That tracks.” 

You blinked at him through watery eyes. “You’re… not going to argue?” 

“Nope.” He swung his legs out of bed without hesitation. “Give me two minutes. Or maybe thirty.” 

“Alex,” you said, sitting up despite yourself. “It’s two a.m.” 

“I know.” 

“And it’s raining.” 

“Yep.” 

“And I don’t even know if anywhere is open.” 

He pulled a hoodie over his head, movements clumsy with sleep but purposeful. “I’ll find something,” he said simply. “Worst case scenario, I improvise.” 

You watched him in disbelief as he shoved his feet into trainers—no socks, no hesitation. 

“You don’t even know how to make sticky rice,” you said weakly. 

“I’ll Google,” he replied, like that solved everything. Then, as an afterthought, “Or call my mum.” 

That broke something open in you. 

You laughed—soft, breathless, half-tearful—as warmth spread through your chest. He grabbed his keys, then paused at the door, turning back to you. 

“Anything else?” he asked. “While I’m out.” 

You sniffed, thinking hard. “Maybe… salted crisps?” 

“Got it.” 

“And Sprite.” 

“Obviously.” 

“And if they don’t have mango—” 

He lifted a finger, serious now. “I will find mango.” 

The certainty in his voice made your eyes sting all over again. 

Before you could say anything else, he crossed the room in two strides. He cupped your face gently, thumbs warm against your cheeks, grounding you. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead—slow, lingering, full of promise. 

“I’ll be back,” he murmured. “With the sticky rice. I promise.” 

When the door clicked shut behind him, the apartment fell quiet again. 

You sank back into the pillows, one hand returning to your belly, a smile tugging at your lips despite the hunger gnawing at you like a wild animal. 

Hungry. 

Emotional. 

Ridiculously loved. 

And very, very aware that you’d never forget the night Alex Albon left the house at 2 a.m. in the rain—no socks, half asleep—because his baby wanted mango sticky rice. 

𖠘⋆｡˚✩ 

Forty-seven minutes later, the front door creaked open—soft, careful, like he was afraid of waking the whole house. 

You were drifting in that hazy in-between when sleep loosens its grip, but the scent reached you instantly. Sweet coconut. Warm rice. Something comforting and familiar that made your stomach twist in anticipation. 

Your eyes flew open. 

“Alex?” you whispered into the dark. 

“I’m here,” he breathed back, voice low and victorious. “And before you say anything—do not judge me.” 

He appeared in the doorway like a damp, sleep-deprived hero, hair darkened by rain, hoodie freckled with droplets, arms so full he was barely managing to juggle everything without dropping it. Plastic containers, a paper bag, napkins stuffed into his pocket like an afterthought. 

You pushed yourself upright, already emotional, already starving. “You didn’t.” 

“Oh, I did,” he said proudly, setting everything down on the bedside table with exaggerated care. “I drove to three places. Three. One Thai restaurant was somehow still open. The woman behind the counter stared at me like I’d lost my mind.” 

Your mouth fell open. “Alex.” 

“She asked if I was okay,” he continued, unbothered. “So I told her, ‘My girlfriend’s pregnant and she needs mango sticky rice.’” He grinned. “She gave me extra coconut sauce. Said it was for the baby.” 

You laughed, the sound wobbling halfway into a sniffle. “I might actually cry.” 

“That’s fine,” he said gently, already opening the container. “I planned for that. Emotional support snacks included.” 

He handed you the spoon like it was something precious, something earned, then settled beside you on the bed, shoulder brushing yours as he watched—really watched—you take the first bite. 

Your eyes fluttered shut. 

“Oh my God.” 

His breath hitched. “Good?” 

You nodded immediately. “Perfect. Like… exactly right.” 

The relief that washed over his face was almost comical. He leaned back against the headboard, finally letting himself relax. One hand found your bump without thinking, resting there naturally, like it had always belonged. His thumb moved in slow, absent circles, grounding, steady. 

“Worth it,” he murmured, half to you, half to the tiny life beneath his palm. 

You turned your head to look at him—rain-soaked, exhausted, eyes warm with quiet pride, like this late-night mission was something he’d file away as a win. 

“You know,” you said softly between bites, “most people would complain.” 

He scoffed, shrugging. “I’m not most people.” Then, after a beat, with a crooked smile, “And I kind of owe it to you. You know. For getting you pregnant.” 

You laughed, leaning into him, careful not to spill, the container resting against your bump as if even that needed to be close. His arm came around you easily, familiar, safe. 

At 2:54 a.m., wrapped in blankets, sharing dessert in the quiet dark, the rain tapping softly against the windows, you realized something. 

This— 

the absurd timing, the cravings, the way he showed up without hesitation, without complaint— 

This wasn’t grand gestures or perfect plans. 

This was love. 

𖠘⋆｡˚✩ 

[a little extra because i know you'll love it]

Text thread between Alex and Lando:

🍼 Oh, Baby!

How cute is Alex?! 😍🥰

xoxo babygirl

taglist: @sunsetinitalys-blog @anamiad00msday @that-dress @missprolog @thecharlson @marywantsttobattle @lesliiieeeee @hc-dutch @buffpiastri @naenaen @jennibahng @kay-bello @pharmasennapuff @luc1a81 @formulaal @bykamryn @nathalielovesonedirection @yapper3001 @dazaisdogsblog @rainystrangerwasteland @thegirlinblackgreensilver @kebsf1shit @lauvender-bolter @ilocuras24 @midnights-lily @freakingfrackingtired @brianna28483 @thecubanator2 @robindrake13 @lestappenisalive @nilletellsstories @misszkr @oh-buttercup @esw1012 @ponypickle @lovingfurypanda @melancholymoonlightsworld @myheartgoesvroom @donttalktosposts @eclipsiieevsx @sidders127 @cherryniyaah @naty-sunshine

[thetalesoffastcars]

my kink is karma | series masterlist

✎ — oscar piastri x fem!teammate!reader

✎ — summary: They were teammates. Friends. Maybe lovers. But McLaren lets their drivers race, and as the championship slips into chaos, ambition corrodes everything. Two rising stars, one world title, and a rivalry so personal it bleeds. Love isn’t gone. It’s just buried under throttle, heartbreak, and the will to win.

✎ — series word count: +113.8k

✎ — warnings: the slowest of slow burns, angst, mean moments, mentions of alcohol, use of strong language, use of [Y/N], cars crashing, english is not my first language, first fanfiction, multi media, SMAU, (let me know if any warnings are missing)

PT. 1 after the win, before we fall [ 4.2k ]

PT. 2 maybe you should say less [ 3.6k ]

PT. 3 it's always fucking Max [ 4.2k ]

PT. 4 there'll be a fine line [ 4.1k ]

PT. 5 fastest bricks on the grid [ 3.9k ]

PT. 6 from the dining table [ 4.0k ]

PT. 7 pastel-coded purgatory [ 3.9k ]

PT. 8 mistake, remember? [ 3.6k ]

PT. 9 papaya rules [ 5.4k ]

PT. 10 will they kiss or crash [ 3.9k ]

PT. 11 god save the queen [ 6.3k ]

PT. 12 margin for error [ 3.6k ]

PT. 13 second best [ 4.0k ]

PT. 14 hagelslag diplomacy [ 5.2k ]

PT. 15 una problema interna [ 6.4k ]

PT. 16 public enemy number one [ 5.2k ]

PT. 17 everything you ever wanted [ 5.1k ]

PT. 18 ten things i can't say out loud [ 6.3k ]

PT. 19 the distance between us is measured in laps [ 6.5k ]

PT. 20 from p6 with regret [ 5.0k ]

PT. 21 jackpot: heartbreak [ 6.9k ]

PT. 22 you too, race winner [ 5.6k ]

PT. 23 all's fair in love and formula 1 [ 5.9k ]

EPILOGUE [ 1.0k ]

[boxbox81babygirl]

EDGES | OP81 x AR13

What if childhood best friends, separated by a crash and a year abroad, meet again? What if friends aren’t just friends? What if Oscar Piastri and Aila Räikkönen finally see each other past the lens of friendship?

22: the Climb

Aila Räikkönen: From Silverstone Heartbreak to Heroic Comeback — and Now, Championship Leader 

By Elias Korhonen, Motorsport Weekly – July 4, 2022 

“I finally made peace with it.” 

Those were the words of Aila Räikkönen — the 19-year-old F3 sensation who returned to Silverstone last weekend not as a shadow of her past, but as the driver everyone is talking about. 

Two years ago, this circuit changed everything for her. 

The daughter of Formula 1 World Champion Kimi Räikkönen had been carving a near-perfect trajectory through the junior categories — a blend of quiet precision and unshakable racecraft that drew inevitable comparisons to her father. But that trajectory came crashing to a halt in the summer of 2020, when a violent lap-12 collision at Copse sent her F3 car into the barriers at over 220 km/h. 

Three broken ribs. A fractured leg. A shattered left hand. For many, her future in racing seemed uncertain. 

Last weekend, she returned to that same pit box — same team, same garage, same sponsor — and rewrote the ending entirely. 

Driving for Prema under the Red Bull Junior Programme banner, Räikkönen didn’t just survive Silverstone — she conquered it. A blistering qualifying lap placed her sixth on the grid. A flawless feature race earned her P2, while the fastest lap sealed an extra championship point. With 90 points to her name, she now leads the standings — comfortably clear of her nearest rival. 

Her performance wasn’t flamboyant, nor did it need to be. It was devastatingly precise — every lap a quiet statement that the Aila Räikkönen who once left Silverstone in an ambulance was gone. In her place stood a driver who had rebuilt, refined, and returned stronger than ever. 

“She didn’t flinch once,” Prema race engineer Matteo Rossi told Motorsport Weekly. “Every corner that used to haunt her, she attacked like it never happened. I’ve seen drivers come back from injuries — but not like this. She’s different now.” 

Inside the Red Bull Junior Programme, Räikkönen’s resurgence has not gone unnoticed. While no official announcements have been made, one senior figure described her Silverstone weekend as “mature beyond her years — mentally bulletproof.” 

With a Red Bull F2 seat for next season still unconfirmed, whispers are growing that Räikkönen’s comeback may be more than redemption — it could be an audition. 

For now, the 19-year-old keeps her focus simple. 

“I’m just enjoying racing again,” she told reporters after the podium. “Silverstone means something to me — it always will. But I think I finally made peace with it.” 

As the championship moves to Spielberg, Austria — deep in Red Bull territory — one thing is clear: Aila Räikkönen’s journey has only just begun. 

And this time, she’s not just part of the story. 

She’s leading it — and this time, the world is watching. 

Quick Stats: Silverstone 2022 

Qualifying: P6

Sprint Race: P6 

Fastest Lap: Yes 

Championship Points: 90 (Leader) 

Injury & Comeback Timeline 

🟥 2020 Silverstone: Heavy crash at Copse, three broken ribs, fractured leg, shattered hand.  

🟧 2021–2022: Rehabilitation, private testing, full year in NASCAR (P3 finish).  

🟩 2022 Silverstone: Returns to the same track. Podium finish. Fastest lap. Championship lead. 

Spielberg, Race Weekend — 2022

Aila scrolled through the article, thumb hovering above the last line. 

“…this time, the world is watching.” 

She hadn’t expected to be written about like this — not yet. Not this early. But she guessed it was happening now, whether she liked it or not. 

The hum of her father’s private jet filled the silence. Her reflection in the window looked calm — too calm for what she felt inside. Beneath the surface, her thoughts flickered like the Silverstone lights at dusk. 

Two years ago, she’d left that track in an ambulance. 

Now, she’d left it as the story. 

She turned off the screen and leaned back in her seat. Across from her, Kimi sat quietly, swiping through his phone with that same unreadable expression he always wore. It was just the two of them — apart from the crew. 

He’d told Minttu he was coming along because he missed the racing air. Minttu had only smiled and said he just missed his favorite driver. 

“Good article,” Kimi said suddenly, eyes still on his phone. 

Aila smiled faintly. “You read it?” 

He grunted softly. “They wrote what happened. You did good, pieni varjoni.” 

She hummed in response, staring out the window where clouds streaked past the wing. Austria next. Red Bull territory. 

Her stomach twisted slightly — not nerves, not really, but knowing. Knowing the whispers were getting louder. That her name was being passed around in rooms she hadn’t yet entered. 

Part of her wanted to lean into it — to prove she belonged there. Because she did. 

The other part wanted to stay invisible just a little longer, where racing still felt like hers alone. 

Her phone buzzed again. Not a message from Oscar. Not from Elea or the Prema group chat. 

An email. 

Subject line: Congratulations on Silverstone. 

No sender name — just two initials at the bottom. 

She hesitated, thumb hovering for a heartbeat, then opened it: 

Aila,  You’ve done something remarkable last weekend — not only in speed, but in composure. Silverstone was always going to test you, and you handled it like a professional far beyond your years.  Keep doing exactly what you’re doing. We’ll be watching.  — C.H. 

Aila stared at the screen, unsure whether to laugh, panic, or both. 

She knew those initials — had seen them on press releases, Red Bull letters, beside headlines that shaped the sport. Now they were in her inbox. Addressed to her. 

For the first time since stepping off the podium, her pulse quickened — not from adrenaline, but from the quiet, dangerous spark of possibility. 

Silverstone was behind her. 

The climb — the real climb — had just begun. 

And this time, Aila couldn’t shake the feeling that Red Bull’s eyes weren’t just on her results. 

They were on her. 

Sometimes she truly wondered how her father had always done everything with such calm and coolness. A calm she had last seen in Oscar — but still struggled to find in herself. She had asked her father before, but his answer — “I just am, and have always been” — had never felt satisfying. It wasn’t guidance. It wasn’t motivation. It was… just him. And that left her to figure it out on her own. 

Finishing Silverstone in P2 — after the track that had haunted — had helped. Some of her calm had returned, and with it, a new layer of confidence. Not that she had been lacking before, but seeing it with her own eyes, feeling it, achieving it, solidified everything she had been telling herself. Her lead in the championship helped, too. She knew she could do it — now she believed it. 

Arriving at Spielberg, after settling into the hotel rooms, her father slipped away to meet old track friends, leaving her to prep for a full day of media. After the headlines she’d earned at Silverstone, vanishing wasn’t an option — especially not in Red Bull territory. 

Makeup done, eyeliner clean and precise, a touch of gloss, she stepped toward the Prema motorhome, nerves fluttering just slightly under the surface. The only thing keeping her grounded — the faint warmth of a message still burning in her jacket pocket. 

She opened the door, following staff to the room for her next interview. Cameras set, microphones clipped, anticipation buzzing in the air. Aila was ready. 

And the interviewer didn’t hold back. 

“Silverstone — you faced your track. P6 in qualifying, but then you fought your way up to P2 in the feature, plus fastest lap — how does it feel to come back after two years and absolutely own it?” 

Aila took a slow breath, her fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the chair. “Honestly… a bit surreal,” she said, her voice steady but soft. “I’ve been haunted by that track for a long time. And to come back and… not just race, but race well? It’s hard to put into words. Feels great, though.” 

The camera clicked. The interviewer smiled knowingly. 

“And P2! You nearly took the win — a fantastic result, but was there still that little sting of ‘almost’ after the flag?” 

Aila shrugged, a small, self-aware smile tugging at her lips. “Of course there’s always that little voice — you could’ve done more, faster, cleaner. But P2 felt like victory to me. Not because I beat someone else, but because I beat the fear I carried here for years.” 

A pause. A sip of water. A flash from a camera. 

“What was going through your mind during those opening laps at Copse?” the interviewer wondered. 

Aila almost laughed — not because it was a bad question, but because her answer wasn’t as dramatic as they might’ve hoped. “Not much, honestly,” she said with a soft laugh. “Just focus.” 

The interviewer nodded, jotting something down. “And now, the championship lead — does that change anything? Pressure?” 

Her pulse quickened slightly. She could feel the weight of the standings, the whispers, the expectations already forming. But she let it settle into her chest like a familiar hum. “It’s not pressure,” she said finally. “It’s… motivation. Every race is a challenge. And I want to meet it head-on.” 

Another flash. Another click. The interviewer grinned. 

“And of course, the fans are buzzing. Red Bull’s watching, the junior program’s watching… How does it feel knowing everyone’s starting to see what you’re capable of?” 

Aila’s smirk was small but confident. “Exciting. Terrifying. Both.” 

The interviewer let the silence hang for a moment before leaning in again. 

“...and has there been any talk from Red Bull about next year?” 

Aila tilted her head slightly, the corner of her mouth curving upward. “Maybe,” she said simply, cutting it short with a shrug. 

Though the interviewer looked unsatisfied, she moved on smoothly. 

“You’ve been compared to your father a lot — Kimi Räikkönen. How do you handle those comparisons?” 

Aila’s gaze flicked briefly toward the reflection of Spielberg through the window. The sunlight glinting off the tarmac, the faint scent of petrol in the air — it all reminded her of her own path. “I try not to think about it too much,” she said honestly. “He’s incredible — obviously. But I have to drive my own race, my own way. That’s the only thing that matters.” 

“Your father is here this weekend — how does it feel having him in your corner again?” 

“It always feels good to have family close,” Aila said, a genuine smile breaking through. “It’s grounding, while also a bit more pressure — you want to impress them and show them just how good you are.” 

Her smile turned playful. “Especially someone who’s been in your shoes before. For me it’s a little spur — like, ‘look, Dad, I’m just as good as you, and I’m coming for your records.’” She laughed softly, then added, “But mostly, it’s grounding. Calming.” 

The interviewer chuckled at that. “Staying on family — there’s been a lot of talk about your composure. Would you say calmness runs in the family?” 

Aila took a moment to think. She was calmer than many drivers, sure, but not quite at the level of her dad — or Oscar. Still, maybe on the outside, she seemed just as composed, and that was enough. 

“I think so, yes,” she said finally. “It has a lot to do with confidence and what my dad always taught me — that there’s no point stressing over something you can’t change. So I only really stress about things I can control.” 

Smiling at her answer, the interviewer glanced down at her notes before looking back up. “Okay, last question: one message you’d send to your fans after this weekend?” 

Aila smiled, a spark lighting in her blue eyes. “Thanks for the support — and just keep watching,” she said, a grin tugging at her lips. “I’ll make it worth it.” 

The interviewer laughed softly, thanking her as the camera light blinked off. 

Only then did Aila let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her shoulders finally relaxing. The hum of the paddock outside filled the quiet. 

🏎️ 

The sun dipped behind the mountains, painting the pit lane in gold and amber, when Oscar found her sitting on the pit wall, still in her Prema race suit, helmet resting at her side. The sprint had been messy — contact midrace, a drop to P8 — and she hadn’t even noticed him at first. 

“Hey,” his voice was low, careful, almost reverent. “You okay?” 

She looked up slowly, chest tightening at the sight of him. He leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, the Alpine logo catching the fading light. “I’m… fine,” she said, though her voice betrayed the edge of frustration she’d carried all day. 

“You don’t look fine,” he said gently, stepping closer. “P8 isn’t exactly what you wanted, is it?” 

She laughed dryly. “Obviously not.” The edge in her tone carried more than disappointment; it carried the weight of every expectation she’d piled on herself. This should’ve been her weekend — a chance to prove she deserved her F2 seat, maybe even make a statement about her F1 future. Instead, she felt scorched from the inside out. 

“It should’ve been better. I… I messed up.” 

Oscar’s brows furrowed, but his gaze softened. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

He’d caught what he could between Alpine obligations and a meeting with his manager, Mark Webber. Sure, she’d made a minor mistake — locked up in a battle with Isack Hadjar, causing a tiny collision — but she’d recovered. Until Maloney and Edgar. While Maloney eventually DNF’d, Edgar held his position ahead of her. 

He crouched in front of her, careful not to crowd her, close enough that she could feel the faint warmth radiating from him — sun-warmed skin and the familiar trace of his cologne. “You finished the race,” he said quietly. “Honestly, for a moment it looked worse than it ended. You held it together when it could’ve gone much worse. That’s not messing up.” 

“But it’s not good,” she muttered, voice tight. 

“It’s P8,” he countered softly. “That’s still three points. And don’t forget the one for pole — congrats again, by the way.” 

It settled in her chest like sunlight through clouds. 

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her breath caught. 

He’d texted her after the results but hadn’t been able to come by — team briefings, media, the usual chaos. So now, arriving in person, he was here to congratulate her. Comfort was secondary. But she would take both. As long as it was him. 

“I wanted to tell you… in person,” he added, lower this time. 

A soft smile flickered across Aila’s face, some of the tension melting from her expression. “Thanks, Osc.” 

Her fingers brushed the helmet beside her, grounding herself. His presence felt like a tether — safe, familiar, and still electric. When she dared to look up, his eyes were already on her, steady and calm, anchoring her in the stillness. 

They let the silence settle. Around them, the paddock was thinning — mechanics laughing in the distance, a faint hum of traffic beyond the gates — but here on the wall, time felt slower. 

“I probably reek,” she said finally, laughing under her breath, embarrassed. 

Oscar shook his head, a familiar smile on his lips. “You smell like… jasmine and vanilla.” He tilted his head. “You doused yourself in that bodyspray again, didn’t you?” 

The blonde grinned. “Spot on. Both of them.” 

His smile softened. “Told you I remember. Especially when it’s you.” 

The words sank deep into her chest. Her posture softened as she tore her gaze away from the track and met Oscar’s warm hazel eyes. 

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she whispered. 

He blinked, a hint of confusion. “Like what?” 

“Like… like you’d trade a win just to see me laugh again.” 

His smile deepened. “Maybe it’s not about trading wins,” he said. “Maybe it’s just… knowing what matters more.” 

Her chest tightened, warmth pooling low in her stomach. For the first time this weekend, she let herself lean closer, exhaustion and adrenaline blurring into relief. Because he was here and he saw her. 

And for a moment, nothing else mattered. 

🏎️ 

By Sunday morning, the calm was gone — replaced by the hum of engines and the sharp scent of rubber heating under the Austrian sun. Spielberg felt alive. 

Kimi stood by the sidelines, sunglasses on, eyes locked on the car sitting in pole position. His daughter. Helmet on. Visor down. Heart steady. 

She could still feel Oscar’s words from last night somewhere deep in her chest — a quiet hum beneath the adrenaline. 

This time, she wasn’t here to just finish the race. 

No more reverse grid.  

She was here to win. 

When the lights went out, her start was perfect — clean, fast, controlled. By Turn 1, she was already two lengths clear of Bearman, Hadjar shadowing every move.

The first laps were rhythm — tyre management, DRS, focus. Spielberg’s elevation changes punished impatience, but Aila stayed patient.

By Lap 12, she’d found her flow. Each lap, she chipped away at Hadjar’s gap.

“Gap to Hadjar, one-point-three,” her engineer said.

“Copy.”

Behind her, chaos unfolded — Bearman and Leclerc battling for P3. But Aila’s world narrowed to red-and-white curbs, steering wheel hum, and her rhythm.

Lap 28: fresh tyres, flawless pit stop, untouchable. Hadjar lunged at Turn 3 — desperate. Aila shut the door like a pro.

“Nice work, Aila. Two laps to go. Fastest on track.”

She exhaled, muscle memory carrying her through Rindt and Red Bull Mobile.

The chequered flag waved.

“YES! P1, Aila! Feature win — fastest lap!”

Her laugh broke through. “Oh my god — yes! That’s— that’s what I’m talking about!”

For a heartbeat, the world went silent. Then cheers, engines, her laughter echoed in her helmet.

She’d done it. 

Silverstone had tested her. 

Spielberg had crowned her. 

From pole to victory. 

A Red Bull one-two — Aila Räikkönen first, Isack Hadjar second, Oliver Bearman third. 

She let the car crawl along the main straight, waving to the crowd before climbing out and punching the air. 

This was what Red Bull wanted to see — and she delivered. 

Her gaze swept over her team, over the blur of red and navy — until she found him. 

Her father. Standing in the far corner, stoic as ever. 

And next to him — Helmut Marko. 

Her heart skipped. 

But before she could think, before she could hope, the cheers of her team drowned everything else out. 

She jumped from the car, sprinted into their arms. 

Arms over arms enveloped her — laughter, sweat, fuel, victory. 

It wasn’t her first win, not even her second. 

But it was her first home win. 

A home win for Red Bull. 

“You’re fucking cold out there,” came a familiar French accent when the chaos finally died down, both of them waiting near the stairs to the podium. 

“What?” she blinked, startled — until she saw the grin on Isack Hadjar’s face. 

“Arctic precision,” he said with a teasing lilt. “You really didn’t want to let anyone else have that one, huh?” 

She shrugged, a laugh slipping out. “Of course not.” 

He smirked. “Didn’t think so.” 

The marshal called his name for second place. He gave her a little salute before heading up the stairs. 

And when her name followed — P1, Aila Räikkönen! — she exhaled a long breath, the kind that came with peace. 

Not relief. 

Not disbelief. 

Just peace. 

formula2 

🏁 Breaking News 🏁 

Aila Räikkönen is moving up! The #RedBullJunior star has officially secured her F2 seat for 2023 after an incredible F3 campaign. With 121 points and a commanding championship lead, she’s ready for the next challenge! 🔥 

#F2 #F3 #Motorsport #NextGenChampion #AilaRaikkonen 

Liked by aila.raikkonen, kimimatiasraikkonen, redbullracing and 65,993 others

🏁 Chapter’s over, on to the next one!🏁

Are you interested in Aila's F2 2023 season?

yes, love to see it in detail

maybe only a few chapters

maybe 1 big chapter or an article that summarizes everything

no, lets skip ahead

Voting ended onDec 3, 2025

FYI: If you're not interested in her F2 Season, we'd just skip ahead to 2024

🏎💨 Front-row seats to all my OP81 x AR13 chaos? 🏁🧡 Hit me up and I’ll add you on the taglist!

I hope you liked this chapter.

I'm happy to receive any feedback or things you'd like to see in this story ❤️

xoxo, babygirl

[boxbox81babygirl]

MASTERLIST

EDGES | OP81 x AR13

What happens when friendship isn’t enough? Childhood best friends Aila Räikkönen and Oscar Piastri thought they knew each other — until a crash, a year apart, and the return to racing changes everything.

1: Echo

2: Currents

3: Throttle

4: Redemption

5: Birthday Lap

6: Gridlocked

7: Window Seat

8: Sweet

9: Best Friend

10: Twinge

11: Unread

12: Watching

13: Unsaid

14: Tipping Point

15: Home

16: Distracted

17: Elea

18: Korvapuusti

19: Restrain

20: Tethered

21: Reckoning

22: the Climb

23: Between Lines

🏎💨 Front-row seats to all my OP81 x AR13 chaos? 🏁🧡 Hit me up and I’ll add you on the taglist!

Always open for feedback! 🫶🏻 xoxo Babygirl

[xteddybearprincess]

self-Inflicted

did you break my heart?

yes and no.

because yes—

you hurt me

with your ego,

your quiet control,

your way of loving

a version of me

that never existed.

but the truth is,

i broke my own heart more.

with all the expectations

i carried like glass,

believing my first love

would be the love,

that waiting

would make it perfect,

that patience

guaranteed forever.

so no—

you didn’t break my heart.

i did.

with everything

i hoped you would be.

[francolapinto43]

Oh god 🫠

[xteddybearprincess]

should've

I’m so fucking excited

to fall in love again—

to feel that rush,

that sweet stupid hope.

But right now

I’m still hurting

from the weight of my own expectations,

from what I thought

my first love

should’ve been.

It wasn’t horrible—

God knows there are worse men out there.

But it wasn’t the love

I spent 23 years imagining,

wishing for,

promising myself.

So the ache stays.

He never hit me,

never forbade me anything—

but he didn’t love me.

He loved the girl

he decided I was.

The one he wanted.

Not the one I am.

He wasn’t controlling,

but he wasn’t not controlling either.

Nothing was ever crystal clear—

just the quiet way

I could feel his approval,

or the sting

of his disapproval

over things I did

or didn’t do.

Sometimes I think

I’m too romantic for my own good—

not delusional,

just someone who loves deeply,

softly,

fully.

And maybe that’s why

it broke me the way it did.

So yes—

fuck yes—

I can’t wait to fall in love again.

But right now,

I’m still a little scared,

still piecing myself together,

still healing

the parts he never learned

how to hold.