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f1withespresso · 8 days ago

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the seven times of matching each others freak | MV1

✎ — max verstappen x fem!reader

✎ — summary: Despite what people might think, Max Verstappen can be quite goofy. And as the drivers come to find out... it due to you.

✎ — word count: +5.4k

✎ — warnings: fluff, innuendos, alcohol, use of [Y/N][Y/LN]

based on this request

1st time

The paddock hums with the chaos of a Grand Prix weekend — phones ping with urgent notifications, camera lenses click relentlessly at every moving figure in sight, and somewhere behind you, a golf cart zips past too close to your feet. The late-morning sun drapes the Italian hills in soft gold, and your black-and-white polka dot dress feels both too much and not enough in the crowd of beautiful high-key guests, journalists, and team personnel. You grip the handle of your lanyard like it’s a lifeline, badges swinging gently against your sternum.

This is your first weekend at a race since… well, since you and Max became somewhat of a thing. Almost two months now — soft-launching it through blurry photos from restaurant dinners under dim light and suspiciously identical Spotify song shares. But this? Walking into the paddock on your own, with intent, wearing a dress that’s definitely skimming a few millimeters above safe and appropriate? This is the hard launch. Max had texted you earlier about when to meet where.

[Maxie 🦁🧡]: FP3 wraps by 13:30. Meet me by the garage, we’ll grab lunch

You texted back a thumbs up and a slightly nervous emoji. He sent you a flame emoji and the words:

[Maxie 🦁🧡]: Wear that short dress you brought. I love how it looks on you

Which is, you suppose, how you ended up in this drop-waist mini that looks scandalous on the hanger but somehow French-girl chic on your body. Polka dots. Tiny skirt. Clean white sneakers for irony and comfort. Now, walking alone through the paddock, trying to find the exact path to the Red Bull garage, you realize something mildly horrifying: you are slightly lost. You pass a Sky Sports crew, nod awkwardly, then spot a vague landmark — a familiar blue canopy and some scaffolding — and veer left, hoping it’s the right left. You end up slipping past a divider and suddenly—you're in the pit lane. Not the paddock or the garage. No, the actual pit lane. You hesitate for a second, glancing at the asphalt like it might shout at you. No one seems to notice or care, so you just keep walking. Head high, as they always say. Eyes scanning for the iconic navy and red blur of Red Bull — Max’s garage. And then you see him. He’s standing in front of the Red Bull pit box, fireproofs unzipped halfway down to his waist, the white of his undershirt clinging to his chest and arms. His hair’s still slightly damp from the helmet, cheeks a little flushed, probably mid-debrief. He’s talking to Charles Leclerc, who’s gesturing animatedly about something — hands doing that whole Mediterranean thing. It’s kind of charming seeing them so passionate. You slow down instinctively.

And that’s when Max notices you. His whole body stills. His eyes flick up from Charles’ hands to you, and his expression falters for half a second — lips parting just slightly, the ghost of a grin tugging at one corner. Then he does the thing he also likes to do when you exit the bedroom all dressed up before you go for a night out: scans you head to toe, unapologetically. Lingers on the hem of your skirt. Tilts his head like you’ve just proven a theory he’d been toying with all day. His gaze is all heat and admiration and a touch of mischief. Then he sighs. Loudly. Theatrically. “If beauty had a name, it’d be yours, schatje!”, he shouts over at you. It echoes a little, because of course it does. Several heads in helmets or without turn. You want to melt into the pit wall and die just for a second. Charles flinches like someone just kicked him in the pride. “Mate,” he mutters, visibly cringing. “That is not how you get a girl to think you're likeable.” You blink. Then hide the little smile that creeps up your throat and start walking — slowly, casually — toward the two of them, chin high, mouth twitching with amusement. “Well, good thing I already have a name,” you say, coming to a stop beside Max and leaning in to press a quick kiss to the curve of his cheek. “But points for effort.” Charles stares. Eyes dart from Max to you, back to Max. His jaw drops slightly. “You’re kidding. That worked?”You flash him a grin, all confidence and chaos. “He’s got other talents than flirting.” Max, at this point, looks like the cat who caught the canary, the mouse, and probably your heart. He smirks, lets his hand settle low on your back — not quite possessive, but definitely not subtle. Charles exhales slowly and takes a tiny step back. “This explains… a lot.” Max glances at him and shrugs. “She has impeccable taste, in fashion, and men.” You elbow him lightly in the ribs, but your smile betrays you. Max tugs you a little closer, hand warm and firm around your waist. “C’mon,” he murmurs near your temple. “Let’s grab lunch before I start saying worse things.” “Worse?” you echo, mock horrified, “what could you possibly say that’s worse?” He’s already leading you inside, toward the Red Bull motorhome, his fingers casually laced with yours. From behind, you hear Charles say something in French under his breath that sounds an awful lot like a prayer to you. You just laugh. So apparently this is what putting a label on it feels like.

2nd time

The sea glitters like an inside joke, that only few understand, but the ones that do beam upon hearing. It’s the kind of day Monaco promises but rarely ever delivers in all its richness — not just sunny, but glowing hot and bright. No deadlines, no flashbulbs, no calls from managers or engineers or strategically vague PR reps. Just sunlight, salt air, and the quiet buzz of a yacht gently bobbing on its anchor, moored in one of those ridiculously scenic pockets of the Riviera where the coastal hills seem too green and steep to be real. You’re sitting cross-legged on one of the shaded loungers near the stern, sipping something cold and citrusy from a sweating glass. Your sunglasses are pushed halfway down your nose, watching Max and Gabi argue about something that seems deeply unserious and irrelevant but involves a lot of hand gestures. “I’m telling you, Gabi, it’s not about the rig. It’s your inputs, mate.” “That’s such a Max Verstappen take.” “Okay, well, have you thought about the fact that I am Max Verstappen?” They laugh. Gabi reaches over to steal a slice of melon from the plate between them. Max keeps talking about what looks to be sim racing. Both are wearing swim shorts, both look sun-warmed and relaxed, and it’s a rare sight for anyone who only knows him in fireproofs — not just calm, but open. Loose-shouldered. Happy and unbothered. You glance sideways at Isabella, who’s tucked under the shade beside you with one leg bent up and a Kindle in her lap. “You weren’t kidding,” she says, nodding toward the boys. “It really is like babysitting two labradors.” You smile. “Yeah. Except they know how to drive 300 km/h and that makes it entirely worse.” She laughs, then shifts to sit a little straighter. Her bikini top is the same bright red as her nails, and you make a mental note to ask where it’s from. “Tell me again about that digital storytelling course you did? I’ve been trying to pitch a VR module for my AI seminar next term but my professor thinks it’s too ‘distracting.’” And just like that, you’re back in safe terrain. Woman-to-woman, brain-to-brain. She listens attentively as you explain how you pitched narrative structures inside immersive environments, and in turn, you ask about her research in bias detection algorithms for medical diagnostics. It’s funny, really — two women on a luxury yacht, talking about artificial intelligence, marketing and VR integration while sipping lime cocktails. If teenage you could see this, she’d probably scream.

Later in the afternoon, the sun dips a little lower, stretching the shadows across the deck. You and Isa lie side by side on matching sunbeds, limbs stretched, you propped up with a book on your belly and her with the kindle in hand. The yacht rocks gently beneath you. Somewhere in the distance, gulls squawk half-heartedly. It’s suspiciously quiet. Too quiet. You lower your book and squint toward the bow. No sign of Max. No sudden cannonball splashes. No “Wait, look at this!” shouts. You should have known then and not when strong arms grab you from behind. You yelp, drop your book, flail half-dramatically as Max — soaking wet and way too pleased with himself — lifts you off the lounger like you weigh absolutely nothing. “MAX!” “Nah, too late,” he says through a grin, water still dripping down his chest and hair sticking to his forehead. You struggle — sort of. Not really. He carries you bridal style toward the edge of the yacht, and Isa’s laughter rings out behind you. Gabi joins in with an unhelpful, “She’s gonna kill you for this, mate.” “Put me down! I swear to god—!” “Schatje,” Max coos, “You look like you could use a dip.” “Max, I just reapplied my SPF—” “Cry me a river,” he says. And drops you. SPLASH. The water is colder than expected. Your whole body shocks awake, limbs flailing for one beat before you resurface with a sputtering gasp. He jumps in after you with an absurd amount of skill — arms slicing the surface, legs stretched out in a straight. He comes up beside you, laughing, eyes squinting against the sun. “Oh, you’re dead, Verstappen,” you say, lunging forward and splashing him full-force in the face. He shields himself, still laughing. You splash again. He retaliates with a lazy backstroke escape, but he lets you catch up — you both know he does. You wrap your arms around his neck from behind, legs looping around his waist under water. You try to dunk him, futilely — he's too solid, too grounded, too annoyingly strong. “Admit defeat,” he grunts, trying not to choke on seawater and laughter. “Never. You deserve this.” He turns in the water until you’re facing each other, both of you breathless, treading. His hands reach out to your waist automatically. Yours push wet hair out of his face. “You okay?” he murmurs. You nod, smile. “Always.” And then he kisses you. It’s slow, sea-soaked, a little salty. His mouth is warm and a nice contrast to the cold water, his arms steady around you. Somewhere above, you hear a camera shutter — probably Isa pretending to be an artsy genius with her phone. You don’t care. The sun kisses your shoulders. The sea rocks you gently. And Max — Max just kisses you like he’s got all the time in the world.

3rd time

It’s hot in that unmistakable Austrian summer way — bright sun, no wind around the track, and a distinct dryness to it all that makes you sweat and your top stick slightly to your back. The parade trucks are lined up like toy models along the track access road, each decorated in team colors flags and sponsor logos, and the drivers are trickling in one by one like it’s the world’s strangest school field trip, each dressed up in a jersey issued by a different team on the grid. You stand beside Max, just shy of the Red Bull banner flapping against the breeze-less air, sipping on lukewarm water and fidgeting with your sunglasses.

George Russell appears first— sleek, on-brand, probably just finished giving somewhat of a Ted Talk to a Sky Sports reporter who is hunting down the drivers in the garages for a last minute interview ahead of the race. His teammate Lewis joins moments later, casual in an oversized black Mercedes jersey and a pair of fashionable sunglasses that look more expensive than your monthly rent. All four of you end up in a loose semi-circle near the front truck, killing time with the easy small talk of people who exist in the same high-stakes reality but have learned how to coast around each other’s edges. George is saying something about the surface grip out of Turn 6, Lewis is joking that he’ll just have to learn how to drift the entire lap if the car’s still as twitchy as it was all through Friday and yesterday, and Max… Max is looking anywhere but the conversation.

His hair is a disaster, you notice as you observe him. It looks like he blow-dried it with a leaf blower and then rolled around on the floor of the Red Bull garage. A thick cowlick at the crown. Several rogue pieces sticking out sideways. A bit in the front doing its best impression of a seagull in flight. You tilt your head. “You look like you lost the fight with your pillow this morning.” Max blinks, caught off guard. “What?” “Hold still.” You lift your hand and gently thread your fingers into his hair — smoothing the back, coaxing the side down with a practiced motion, then combing the front into something almost respectable. He ducks down a bit so it’s easier for you to reach. Your touch is light, borderline reverent, like this is something you do every morning. He stands still, gaze soft, mouth tilted up into the kind of smile that tugs at your chest. Lewis and George go quiet. Max blinks slowly. “I think you might missed your calling. Should’ve gone into hair and makeup.” “You’re lucky I like you and don’t charge you for my services,” you murmur, still fussing with a strand of blond hair near his temple. And then—without warning—his soft smile turns into somewhat of a grin. That grin. The evil one. The one that always precedes a deeply stupid decision. “Wait, it would be way cuter if we matched,” he exclaims, and runs both his hands through your perfectly styled, effortfully waved, heat-protected and hair-sprayed hair. You gasp, stumbling back half a step. “MAX!” He laughs. Fully, out loud, head tilted back. “C’mon. You look hot like this.” You touch your hair — it’s everywhere. Frizzy in the front, pushed back unevenly, probably flattened in weird places. George makes a strangled noise like he wants to intervene but has no idea on whose behalf. Lewis just shakes his head like he’s watching a romcom unfold in real-time. “You dick,” you mutter, but your voice is half a laugh. Max steps closer, his hands now suspiciously innocent at his sides. “Says the woman who just licked her fingers and fixed my hair like a mum on picture day.” You narrow your eyes. “You better watch what your hands are doing, Verstappen. Or you’ll find yourself without any further fun this weekend and instead regretting your existence.” He doesn’t blink. Just slides his arms around your waist, tugging you close enough that your chest brushes his shirt. His voice drops low, so only you can hear: “We both know how much you love my hands.” His thumbs drag slow, lazy circles against your lower back. “And the funny things they’re capable of.” You inhale sharply, lips parting, heat running into your cheeks before you can stop yourself. And then—because the universe has perfect comedic timing—the parade truck horn blares.

Everyone jumps. Lewis: “Jesus—” “Okay. Right. We’re doing this now”, George finally intervenes. Max pulls back just enough to press a kiss to your temple, smug and unbothered, before climbing up onto the Red Bull dedicated truck bed like nothing happened. George follows, stepping onto his own truck just behind Max’, mumbling something about the FIA not paying him enough to witness foreplay. Lewis walks past and mutters under his breath, “Y’all need a PR manager. Or a room. Preferably both.” You shake your head, hair still somewhat a mess, cheeks still flushed. Max turns around from the edge of the truck, smirks down at you, and mouths: "Worth it."

4th time

It’s media day in Spa-Francorchamps around noon and the paddock is unusually relaxed for once — no urgent press calls or technical debriefs (at least not in front of the Red Bull motorhome, there is no telling about what catastrophes other teams might be living through), just the low murmur of conversations and the sound of forks clinking against ceramic in the open-air hospitality tent. The Belgian sun is peeking through scattered clouds, and the smell of fresh, sweet food floats through the breeze. You’re already halfway through your lunch when Max finally drops into the seat beside you, plate in hand. His is a predictable composition: grilled chicken, brown rice, steamed vegetables, one slice of avocado perched like a sad green crown. Yours, on the other hand, is a work of art. Two warm Belgian waffles (the good, thick kind) stacked proudly. Chocolate syrup drizzled with precision. A criminal amount of rainbow sprinkles. One single, perfectly placed strawberry on top — for health value. Max glances sideways at your plate, then at you. “You know dessert comes after actual food, right?” You hum, slicing a forkful with exaggerated grace. “This is brunch dessert. Totally different category and totally counts as actual food, dumbass.” Max snorts and stabs a carrot slice with his fork. “You’re gonna be sick in half an hour from all that sugar, and I won’t be there to stroke your back and hug you until you feel better.” You fake a pout, syrup on your lip. “Aww. Such a shame. I think it’s actually your problem you can’t find time to hug your girlfriend.” He side-eyes you, chewing, and you catch the faintest twitch of a smile. Then: “I’m just saying, there are other options in the paddock available. You know not all vegetables taste like sadness.” “There are also desserts that don’t taste like sadness,” you shoot back, licking chocolate off your fork slowly and dramatically. Just then, Alex Albon passes by behind Max, holding his own plate of mixed fruit and some overly optimistic tofu wrap. He glances over, brow raised. “What’s this? First fight?” Max looks up, already grinning. “Just looking out for my girl’s health.” And with no hesitation whatsoever, he reaches across the table and swipes your plate toward him — out of your reach. You freeze, fork mid-air. “Max.” He shrugs innocently. “Someone has to be responsible, Schatje.” You deadpan him. “Give. It. Back.” Alex chuckles. “You’re braver than me, mate. I wouldn’t get between my girl and her food in a million years. Lily would kill me.” Still holding the plate, Max turns back to you, clearly proud of himself. You reach over — a little quick but not too sudden — and strike his cheek once, twice. Not hard, just enough to make a little smack sound. His eyes widen for half a second. Then you take your plate back. Max blinks. And then — infuriatingly — his grin widens. “Is it weird I liked that a bit?” he says under his breath. Alex eyes widen and his head tilts down to his plate, “Okay. I’m out.” He vanishes before either of you can respond. You shake your head, reclaiming your plate with a victorious glint in your eye. “Mess with my food again and I’ll slap you harder.” Max leans his chin in his hand, elbow propped lazily on the table. “Don’t promise me things you can’t keep later.” You don’t dignify that with a response — just cut another square of waffle, scoop up a perfect ratio of chocolate, and eat it while maintaining full, unbroken eye contact. He watches you the whole time. Quiet. Amused. A little aroused perhaps. The kind of smile that says you started it.

5th time

The content team has taken over the lounge area at the Red Bull motorhome on media day in Spielberg — lights set up, camera rolling, a few interns and content producers awkwardly lurking with cue cards and clip-on mics. Max is down on the floor, half laughing, half concentrating, positioned stiffly in an absurd sideways plank. His upper body is held perfectly horizontal, neck muscles engaged and head resting on a little wooden. One arm is tucked behind his back like some kind of deranged circus act. Checo’s standing behind him, explaining what exactly Max is doing at the moment. “And… this is like what you can do at home or I don’t know, in the office. It trains neck endurance. Max has to hold this position for… twenty seconds, thirty, because his neck is already well trained.” Max, straining slightly, shoots a look up at Checo. “This is how I know you’ve never done this in your life.” Checo shrugs. “I have survived so far. I do other stuff to train my neck." Behind the cameras, you’re watching it all unfold. Arms crossed, leaning against the doorway of the lounge area. You’ve been here the whole time, trying not to laugh. Max hasn’t acknowledged you yet, but he knows you're watching — his smirk’s been dialed to performative male showoff ever since the cameras started rolling. The plank continues. “Ten more seconds,” someone calls out. Max grunts dramatically. “It’s not terrible, but I really like the other exercises more. This is arguably the worst part of the job.” And that’s your cue. Casually, without saying a word, you walk over — slow and smooth — and with the gentlest tap of your foot, nudge his side. Just enough to break the tension. His balance wobbles for half a second. His elbow slips. Then: he crashes down to the floor with a very un-swanlike oof. A pause. His head turns slowly toward you from the floor, eyes narrowed. “Oh, you’ll regret this, liefje.” You grin. “Will I? Make me then.” Then you bolt.

The motorhome doors burst open behind you. Max is in pursuit, no camera crew in sight anymore — just the two of you, tearing up the paddock like unsupervised children. Your sneakers slap against the ground, laughter ripping out of you as Max gains ground. “You started this!” he calls, only semi-breathless. “You chose violence!” You duck around a cluster of crates, nearly trip over a cable, round the corner toward the back of the McLaren motorhome — where all is peace, calm, order. Oscar Piastri is standing in the quiet shade, leaned against the wall with earbuds in, reviewing something on a tablet. He doesn’t look up immediately — not until your squealing laughter pierces the air like a Formula 2 car with no muffler. He glances up. Blinks. You shoot past him. Then Max follows, just behind, catches your waist in one clean move. You let out a yelp — the kind that turns into a laugh halfway through — and before you can say let me go, he sweeps you clean off your feet. As if you weigh nothing, he throws you over his shoulder. You are now upside down and playfully hammering your fists against his back muscles. Max is laughing. “Naughty girls,” he announces, “deserve to get punished, [Y/N].” From your new vantage point — head hanging beside his back, arms flailing — you spot Oscar still standing there. “Hi Piastri,” you call, voice muffled. “Sorry about this.” Oscar slowly removes one earbud, considers what he’s seeing, sighs and puts it back in. Then goes back inside without saying a word.

Max finally sets you down, and you nearly collapse from laughing. Your hair’s a mess. His shirt’s wrinkled. You both look like you just escaped a daycare fire. He brushes your shoulder off with faux chivalry. “Well, I hoped you learned something?” You flick his forehead. “Yeah. That your neck exercise sucks.” He just grins. “You say that now, but wait till your punishment.” You arch a brow, voice light: “Is that a threat or a promise?” Max leans in close, eyes mischievous. “Both.” You don’t move. Neither does he. Your heart’s still pounding — and not just from the running.

6th time

It’s 3 minutes before FP2 begins. Outside air is thick with heat and rubber and the rising, anticipating whine of engines starting up. Inside, it’s dim. Cooler than the outside, barely lit by the sliver of daylight bleeding through the door’s seam. A maze of stacked Pirellis, freshly wrapped and tagged — hard, medium, soft, intermediate and full wet — tower up like black altars. And somewhere deep between them: you and Max. Pinned to the wall on the floor behind a tower of green rimmed intermediates, your back hits cool metal as his mouth finds yours again, desperate and consuming. His hands are everywhere — one gripping your hip with such intensity you’ll likely feel the imprint later, the other tangled in your hair, tugging slightly to tilt your chin up just so. Your hands fist in the fabric of his fireproof undershirt and pulling him closer, ever closer still. He groans low against your lips — half-frustration, half-ecstasy — like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to memorize your taste before someone yells his name over comms. Teeth clash, breath mingles. He kisses like he drives: fast, controlled until he’s not, a little brutal around the edges. You finally pull back — just for air — foreheads pressed together, breathing hard. Your lips are slick, swollen. His jaw is flushed. His pupils blown wide. “You should be in the garage,” you whisper, voice unsteady, wrecked in the sweetest way. Max doesn’t move. Just drops his head to your throat and groans. “You’re right. I should. And it’s your fault I’m not. You’re bad for business, [Y/LN].” You laugh breathlessly, fingers still clutching his waistband and gently stroking the warm skin around his hip bone. “You’re a free man, Verstappen. You can leave me here and drive around in circles any time you want, really.” He plants another desperate kiss on your lips, before pulling back, eyes fire-glazed. “Addiction kills free will,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your lower lip. “And your lips are a Class A drug.” Then he’s kissing you again, deep and unrepentant — all tongue and teeth and need. You gasp into it. He doesn’t stop. You pull him closer. It’s hot, and messy, and so completely stupid — but neither of you can or want to stop. His hand sneaks under your shirt, palm spreading flat against the bare skin of your back. Your thighs tighten around him. His breath hitches.

Then— BANG BANG BANG — on the container door. A voice: “MAX?! You in here, mate?” You both freeze in the position you are in. His hands all over your lower back and waist, your thighs clutched around his hips. It’s unmistakably GP’s voice — Max’s race engineer, the one man who holds the keys to all that organized chaos of your boyfriends job. You look at Max. He looks at you. Both flushed, hair messy, mouths red with each other. The silence lasts all of two seconds before the door creaks open. Footsteps. “Oh my god,” you mouth silently, ducking lower behind the tire stack. Too late. You can’t hide. GP rounds the stack and stops. Sees everything there is to see. Max still has one hand on your hip and one behind your head, both of you clearly mid-sin, mid-sweat, mid-disaster. Your leg is hitched around him. His shirt is rucked up. Your expression is pure guilt mixed with post-kiss daze. GP just stands there. Silent. Processing. Then: A sigh. Long. Tired. The sigh of a man who already doesn’t get paid enough to see this and having to deal with it. The sigh of a man who expected better, “This is so unbelievable,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his forehead, dragging his hand across his shut eyes. Max tries, hopelessly, to school his face into something that isn’t feral desire. “We were… talking strategy,” he says. Deadpan. Somehow sounding almost close to sincerity. GP turns around slowly, muttering under his breath. “Strategy my ass.” He doesn’t even fully face you again. Just gestures vaguely toward the paddock. “Get in the fucking garage, Max.” You’re still crouched behind the tire, a hand over your mouth, laughter shaking your shoulders even as you try to stifle it. Max looks at you, shrugs. “Worth it, I’d say. See you after.” Then jogs off toward the garage, still slightly out of breath — and maybe, still slightly hard.

7th time

You are in a velvet-roped VIP booth in some exclusive downtown Las Vegas club. It’s loud — bodies packed, bass vibrating through walls, lights flickering between acid pink and deep, decadent red. It’s Max first night as a four-time World Champion, the crowning being only mere hours away. And he’s letting the entire fucking world know.

He’s sweaty, smug, in a black polo shirt that’s been unbuttoned all the way since 11:30 p.m. There’s champagne stains on his shirt. There’s confetti in his hair. His title-winning Pirelli cap is backwards on his head. You’re sitting in the booth beside him — legs crossed, dress short, head fogged from too much tequila and too many stolen glances at the way his neck looks under strobe lights. Around you: The Red Bull mechanics are already three too many rounds past sober. Lando’s here too — invited by Max, half out of rivalry, half out of chaotic friendship. He’s got his phone out more than his drink. Someone’s dancing on the booth seats. Someone else is shouting something about Ferrari’s PR girl, who’s apparently rather good looking and articulate. Max is draped across the booth like a king surveying his kingdom — flushed cheeks, eyes half-lidded, untouchable. He slams his palm on the table. “Shots,” he says, grinning like a lunatic. “We need shots.” A waitress delivers the tray not long after — twelve glistening lemon drops, sugar rims, lined up like a dozen little trophies. People cheer. Hands fly. You, quick and sly, grab two — one in each hand. “Oi—one’s gotta be mine,” Max says, trying to reach for the tray, only to realize it’s empty. He frowns. “Where’s mine, actually?” You smirk, swirling the shot in your hand, both of them still untouched. “Oh, you want one?” you purr, leaning forward just enough for the neckline of your dress to dip scandalously low. Max blinks, momentarily thrown — pupils dialed all the way up. You take the second shot glass and slowly, with exaggerated care, wedge it between your pushed-up cleavage. “There,” you say innocently. “Come get it then.” The table goes feral. Lando whoops. One of the mechanics chokes on his drink. Someone shouts “Holy fuck.” Max is very, very drunk. But even drunk, he’s composed in his own sense. Dangerous combo. He doesn’t speak — just raises a brow. Then rises slowly from the bench, walks to you in slow, rolling steps. Eyes locked on yours. A lion looking at his prey. You watch him drop into your lap — literally — straddling your thighs with more balance than you’d expect from a man who started this night with half a bottle of Moët in the paddock a couple hours ago and has since not stopped putting spirits to his mouth. His weight settles over you. Hot. Heavy.

Then — still without breaking eye contact — he lowers his head and takes the glass between his lips, teeth catching the rim with practiced ease. The cool press of the glass against your skin makes you shiver. He tilts his head back, shot glass still in his mouth, throat bobbing as he downs it — and god — your jaw actually drops. He sets the empty glass on the table beside you and kisses you like he just claimed another trophy — full-mouthed, greedy, a little dirty. His tongue is lemon-sweet and tasting of tequila. You’re laughing, gasping into his mouth, drunk on everything. Max grins against your lips. From across the booth: Lando, phone up, filming every da,n second for the personal collection. “This is either the end of your career,” he drawls, “or the start of a sex tape.” Max, still in your lap, arm now possessively around your waist, doesn’t even flinch. “Let’s hope it’s the second one,” he says, voice low, cocky, just a little slurred. “I’m fully planning on winning that fifth title next year.” You throw your head back, laughing — and he kisses your neck like a promise. The music rises. The lights pulse. And Vegas swallows the rest of the night whole.

radio: had so much fun writing this you have no idea! So thanks to the person who send the request :) also little life update, i'm going to a bunch of festivals this month so updates on this blog might come slower but i'm fully committed to your requests, cause they are all so fun!

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f1withespresso · 9 days ago

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hi gorgeous, I love your work! Been craving some more Lando content, and I was thinking of something set in the mid-season break maybe where the driver and his gf are driving through the streets of maybe Monaco, and get in a car crash (other car's fault) and it's not too bad for Lando but quite serious for her and they have to go to hospital and all that stuff. So his summer break is looking after her and battling with the thoughts that he should've been quicker to react and maybe she might not be so hurt. Idk, do with it what you want bc it's your work and I'd be happy with whatever you have the time to do, but I am a sucker for a hospital fic.

currently working on this! Stay tuned for when it’s finished (in hopefully a couple of days hahaha) ✌️

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f1withespresso · 11 days ago

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salt air and the rust on your door | GR63

✎ — george russell x fem!reader

✎ — summary: It was supposed to be a nice summer holiday. Two weeks away from the circus and time for you and George to figure out what you are, and you did... in a way.

✎ — word count: +6.2k

✎ — warnings: some fluff, angst, hurt and only little comfort, alcohol, use of [Y/N][Y/LN], situationship

The kitchen is too quiet. It’s the kind of quiet that captivates everything and seals it like a vacuum, thick with the absence of movement, of breath, of him. Outside, the wind pushes salt-slicked air against the window panes, the North Sea shore humming in the distance like a ghost trying to crawl its way back to the sandy beach. You don’t move. It almost feels like you can’t, like your limbs aren’t following the orders from your brain anymore. Just stand there, barefoot on the cold, slate-tiled floor, your arms crossed loosely over your chest like you’re trying to hold something in place. Like your ribs might shatter if you let go. The late-afternoon light is a dull grey, the kind that tricks your body into believing it’s still a bit of day left — that things are still fixable. But they're not. It’s just hours after George left, and you’re still here, still in this rental cottage he booked for you. For both of you. Your eyes are fixed on the slightly opened door to the bedroom You catch a glimpse of the duvet. That’s where he told you. Where he said it was all moving too fast. Where he zipped his things up like it was a clean break, like this wasn’t a mess he helped to create in the first place. You don’t cry. It’s strange, the things your mind latches onto when your heart can’t keep up. A pot is still sitting on the stove, its copper base flecked with scorched parmesan. The wine bottle is still there — half-finished, a casualty of a night that pretended to be ordinary. One glass is in the sink, lipstick faded around the rim. The other, his, is on the coffee table in the living room, next to the book he borrowed from you. He was halfway through it. You didn’t even get to talk about the part where the main character confesses. You blink and look away. The chair in the corner still holds your swimsuit, drying where you hung it after the beach. He said you looked unbelievable in it, ran his fingers down your back like he was drawing a memory. The straps are twisted now. The fabric cold. You wonder if he noticed it when he left, like you do now. If he cared in this moment, like you do now. You walk to the counter slowly, each step sounding like too much. Your fingers wrap around the neck of the wine bottle out of muscle memory, not desire. The glass you washed this morning is still there, upside down on a dish towel. You flip it, fill it, watch the deep red liquid swirl like blood against the rim. There’s a part of you that hopes drinking it will rewind time. That he’ll come back through the door with some bullshit excuse, something weak and boyish like, “I panicked. I’m sorry. I made a mistake.” But that likely won’t happen. He’s probably in his Monaco apartment by now or on his boat enjoying the sunset somewhere in a warmer climate. You raise the glass to your lips, take a small sip, and feel the slight burn at the back of your throat. It’s sharp and warm and tastes like a night that didn’t end right. Your reflection catches in the oven door. Your hair is a little tangled. You’re still wearing the hoodie he liked to steal back — because it’s his, actually, just one of the many things he left behind. You think: if he really meant to come back, he would’ve left something more meaningful than a half-empty bottle of Merlot, a hoodie and a bunch of shitty excuse. Your fingers curl tighter around the body of the glass. You don’t even know what made him leave. Not really. Just that something shifted. That you asked for too much when all you asked for was what he offered first—intimacy, closeness, mornings and pasta and sunscreen on your back. You exhale. The silence thickens around your eardrums. And for a moment, just one awful, flickering second, you let yourself remember how it started. You remember the text. Not the exact timestamp, but the feeling. You were curled up on your sofa, Thursday night in your apartment, the overhead lights off, a episode from that show you recently started watching playing on low volume while you scrolled through your phone pretending not to think about him. Then:

[George 🐻 6:32 pm]: How spontaneous are you feeling this week?

You’d stared at it for a good minute, blinking. Smiled. Bit your lip. Typed something back and deleted it. Typed again.

[You 6:35 pm]: Depends. What kind of spontaneity are we talking about?

Three dots. Then a pause. Then a voice memo instead of a reply, because of course he liked to keep you guessing. You played it. His voice, warm and amused: I was thinking you should pack a bag. Something light. Think sunscreen. Beach. Maybe a good book. I’ve got something in mind.

Your heart did that stupid thing. The one it had started doing more and more often around him—fluttering like it was skipping ahead of the conversation, already imagining the possibilities. You called him immediately. He answered with a grin in his voice: “You in?” You were. Of course you were. The next twenty-four hours passed in a scramble. You begged your manager to let you take time off on short notice—claimed it was a family thing, which technically wasn’t true unless you counted the family you were maybe, kind of, possibly building with George without either of you ever really saying it. He didn’t tell you where you were going until the Uber pulled up to Heathrow. “Sylt?” you repeated, eyebrows raised. “As in, like… the fancy German version of the Hamptons?” He shrugged like it was nothing, like whisking a girl off to a luxury island was just something he did on slow weekends. “Thought you could use some air. And I figured it would look really good if you showed up at the paddock in Zandvoort with some tan.” You didn’t ask what that made you—girlfriend, rebound from Carmen, situationship — and laughed it away. At the gate, he bought you coffee. You offered to pay; he rolled his eyes. You sipped it while watching him scroll through some Sky Sports article about something related to his work. He caught you staring and smiled. “What?” “Nothing,” you said, and looked out the window as your heart started building a future faster than your brain could stop it. When they called your boarding group, he took your carry-on with his free hand like it was natural. Like it had always been his to carry. And you let him. Because you wanted this. Because it felt like the start of something dipped in honey. Because, god, you were so happy to be getting the princess treatment by someone who basically resembled the idea of prince charming.

And now, in this quiet, wine-stained kitchen, that memory cracks open like a bruise beneath the skin. Still tender. You take another sip of wine and whisper into the empty space where his voice used to live: “You said pack a bag. You didn’t say I’ll leave you here with it.”

You knew the cottage was going to be nice—he’d promised something tasteful but chill—but you hadn’t expected this. You knew George Russell was a man of good taste, but still it surprised you when you actually stepped inside the cottage, that was already announced as a fancy stay by it well-maintained front yard. It looked like it had slipped straight from the pages of Architectural Digest and onto the shore. All timber beams and soft creme linen drapes and weathered oak. Big windows open to the salt air. A fireplace you probably wouldn’t need in August, but somehow it made the place feel more cozy and homey. George had walked through it like he’d been there before. Like he’d picked it just for you. “Too much?” he asked, watching your wide-eyed scan of the art books on the coffee table, the basket of clean beach towels already folded by the door. “Too perfect,” you replied, and meant it. He set his suitcase down, clapped his hands together once like a man on a mission. “Right,” he said. “We need some proper groceries. I’m not living on takeaway.” He already had recipes bookmarked on his phone. Not just bookmarked—organized. Pastas. Grilled fish. A fucking lemon tart. You stared at him. “Did you… prep for this?” George shrugged. “Of course I did, who do you think I am? Lando Norris?” You laughed, and it echoed beautifully in the high-ceilinged kitchen. The supermarket in town was small but impossibly chic—Sylt-style posh. Soft jazz played from unseen speakers. There were fresh figs on display. An entire aisle dedicated to wine you’d never heard of. George insisted on pushing the cart and pulled up the list on his phone like he was on a timed mission for a cooking competition. “Okay. Eggs. Parmesan. Lemon. Garlic. Creme brûlée ramekins if they have them.” “You’re actually serious about trying too make the crème brûlée,” you said, half teasing. “You said you liked it, like the other night at that Spanish restaurant. There’s no more perfect place to try and recreate it than here.” It felt surreal—like pretending to be grownups in a world that had quietly allowed you in. Like playing house, except it didn’t feel like a game. You turned a corner and paused in front of a display. Lindt chocolates, in crisp, colorful packaging. One caught your eye—dark chocolate with sea salt, the kind you always gravitated toward but never bought for yourself, because spending 10€ on a tiny amount of Swiss chocolate didn’t feel worth it. You lingered just a beat too long. George noticed. He reached behind you, grabbed two, and dropped them into the cart without a word. Just smiled when you looked at him. “They weren’t on the list,” you murmured. He winked. “I won’t tell the spreadsheet, if you promise not to either.” It was so… easy. Too easy. His hand brushed yours when he passed you his phone to read off the next thing, and your skin warmed like it had registered the promise of something it couldn’t yet name. You wandered the wine aisle together like you had all the time in the world. He picked up a bottle, held it up to the light, then handed it to you. “What do you think about this one,” he said. “It’ll go with the lemon pasta.” You turned it in your hands—elegant label, German script. You didn’t even pretend to read it. You just nodded. You bought that wine. The same wine now sitting half-drunk on the counter back in the cottage.

The memory pinches. Not sharp—just enough to sting. You’re back in the kitchen now, the present curling back around you like claustrophobic fog. You glance down at the glass in your hand, the wine you’re sipping alone, and wonder why it still tastes so good when everything else is falling apart. You perch on the counter like you don’t remember how to stand. The tile is cold beneath your thighs. The glass in your hand is almost empty now. Your grip is too tight, like you’re afraid it might slip or shatter or both. The kitchen is too quiet. You stare at the stove, at the black glass surface that still has that stupid streak from where he wiped it with the wrong cloth. It’s stupid, how much you hate that he left it like that. It’s stupid, how much you still want it to all to stay like it was three days ago. The whole place still smells like him. That cedar cologne he only wears on holidays. Warm and sharp and expensive. It’s clinging to the air like memory. You press your heels into the cupboard beneath you. Sip again. The little wine left in the glass is too warm now, but you barely taste it anyway. Your chest feels like it’s folding in. It’s only Thursday and you were supposed to stay here till Saturday. He stood just about there, whenhe told you he was going back to London early. Told you it was all too much, too fast. You didn’t say anything then, because all the words you ever had seemed to have just vanished from your head that second. You just watched him pack. Watched the zipper on his suitcase drag shut. Watched the door click behind him. You tilt your head against the cupboard. The silence roars. Your hand moves absently to your hair, twisting a strand like you’re trying to ground yourself, trying to hold something in place. Your remember that day inside last week, where it was too stormy to go to the beach like you had planned to.

It was a Wednesday and the rain had started sometime after noon—soft at first, then louder, until it drummed steadily against the windows like a living thing. Outside, Sylt was all grey sky and wind-shaken dune grass. But in here, the world shrank down to the rustle of pages and the rise and fall of George’s chest beside you. He was lying lengthwise on the couch, legs curled just enough to fit. His socked feet brushing your thighs. You were cross-legged, book open, spine cracked, a blanket pooled around both your hips. The light was warm, dimmed slightly yellow. A candle flickers on the coffee table—sandalwood, you had picked up in a tiny little store in town the day before. George’s phone was in his hand, but there’s no sound. Subtitles scroll steadily across a video you were not watching. He didn’t make you feel like you have to talk. You were reading something smart, maybe a little pretentious—something he teased you about when he caught you packing it. But he borrowed it a few days later anyway. Asked if he could start from the beginning after you were done. You told him yes. Of course. Somewhere in the second act, your fingers found his hair. You don’t remember why. You just started toying with it—lightly combing through the dark strands above his temple, a lazy rhythm. He shifted but didn’t pull away. Your fingertips trailed down, slow, soothing, gentle— And when you moved to stop, he turned his face a fraction toward you and hums, deep in his chest. “Don’t stop,” he murmured, barely audible over the rain. “Feels too good.” You froze. Just for a second. Long enough to notice how close you had become. Long enough to wonder if he could feel your heart picking up speed under the blanket. But you didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. You just let your fingers keep moving, and for a little while, you pretended that this is something that could last.

The next day, the weather had settled down and the sun was peaking out again. The beach day you had planned for the day before, you simply did that day. Because time didn’t matter on vacation. It had been one of those rare North Sea afternoons that felt like a promise fulfilled—sun overhead, barely a breeze, the sand warm underfoot instead of whipping sideways into your skin. George packed the beach bag like it was a small expedition. Towels, sunscreen, the book from the day before you were almost through with. The one he kept asking questions about even though he said he wasn’t really into that type of book. You added the smoothies you’d grabbed at the upscale grocery store, a little overpriced but cold and bright-tasting. A handful of cherries in a paper bag. Two bananas. A portable speaker that never ended up being used. The cottage was five minutes from the beach if you walked slow. Seven, if he stopped to kiss you halfway down the dune path like he did that day. You remember the look on his face when you took off the cotton dress. The way his eyes dropped—not just to stare, but to take you in. New swimsuit. High cut. Open back. It was a splurge, bought impulsively the night he texted and delivered with prime deliviery the next day, as if some reckless part of you already knew you’d want to be beautiful for him. “Blimey,” George said under his breath, blinking like he’d just lost his place in the world. “You could’ve warned me.” You smiled, biting back the grin. “Why would I do that?” He didn’t even argue. Just spread the blanket out, shook sand from the towels, and handed you your book like it was a ritual. You read. He lay behind you, close but not crowding. One of his hands was propped beneath his head. The other moved slowly across your back—drawing idle, senseless shapes. Circles, maybe. You weren’t sure. You couldn’t concentrate. Every time his fingers swept across your shoulder blade, your skin ached a little. And when he paused to push your hair aside so he could trace the dip at the base of your neck, you had to close your eyes. The sun was hot. His touch was soft. You felt your heart stretching, expanding like saltwater inside your ribs. Maybe it was more than just attraction. Maybe this wasn’t just casual. You didn’t say it aloud. But you imagined it. What it would be like if this—reading in the sun while he touched your back like a canvas—wasn’t just a break from real life. What if it was real life?

The salt was still on your skin when you get ready for bed that night. Dried into a film that glitters faintly in the warm bathroom light. The tip of your nose was pink from the sun. Your shoulders hummed with the ache of heat and touch and longing. You stood barefoot on the tiles, fingertips skimming the edge of the sink as you leaned in to remove the last traces of mascara. The cotton pad drags slowly, gently, across your lashes. One eye, then the other. You were so tired your body feels liquid—sleepy, sun-drenched, soft. Behind you, reflected in the mirror, George was sprawled on the bed. He hadn’t said much since you got back from the beach, but not in a cold way. Just content. He wore only a pair of dark grey pj shorts, one leg bent, hair messy. The bedside lamp lit half his face in amber. The other half was shadowed and calm, like dusk. “You’re pretty like this,” he had said. You glanced at him through the mirror, startled, a cotton pad still pressed to your cheek. He looked at you like it’s a fact, not a flirtation. Not a line. Like he was genuinely seeing you—the bare face, the salt crusted, frizzy hair, the oversized sleep shirt you stole from his side of the closet because it smelled like him. “Like what?” you murmured. His voice is low. “Just like… you.” You tried to laugh it off, but your throat was tight. There was something in his tone that lodged itself behind your ribs. You put down the cotton pad, rinsed your face again, slower this time. A part of you didn’t want to break the moment, the intimacy of it. Another part was terrified you’re already too deep in something unnamed, lacking a proper label. When you stepped back into the bedroom, he shifted just enough to make room for you. The blanket rustled. His hand found your thigh under the covers like it belonged there forever and since ever. The way he kissed you goodnight wasn’t rushed or greedy. It’s quiet, like a promise he didn’t realize he was making. And still, you believed it. You believed all of it.

The sink still holds the promise he didn’t keep. You don’t even notice it at first when you lean against the counter trying not to cry over the memories. Not really. Your body drifts on muscle memory—pour more wine, avoid your own reflection, walk barefoot across cool tile, let the glass sweat in your palm. But then your eyes catch on something jagged in the periphery. A small white ramekin. Crusted at the edges. A spoon tipped inside it like an afterthought. It’s been there since the night he cooked for you. Since he promised he’d do the dishes in the morning. I’ll clean up after, he’d said, smiling like it meant something. You stare at it now, heart stuck somewhere behind your ribs. That stupid little dish. Burnt sugar still clinging to the edges. One of the last things he touched. And it’s not just that ramekin. It’s the pot beside it, the lemon zester with pulp still clinging to its teeth, the kitchen towel half-tucked under the cutting board like a forgotten love note. It’s all the little remnants of someone who once looked at you like you were soft enough to stay with. He’d cooked like he knew your rhythms. Laid the table with casual ease. Pulled your stool closer while the pasta simmered, his hip brushing yours as he reached for the wine. Like you were already a we, already stitched into his life in invisible thread. That night he didn’t let you touch anything. Not the lid of the pot or the spoon to stir the sauce once. He wanted you to just sit down and talk to him. And that’s what you did. You talked to him about that upcoming you movie you had been excited about. About how Macbeth, your favorite play by Shakespeare, would play at the Globe soon and how you thought that people didn’t appreciate Shakespeare enough nowadays. He chuckled at your words, glanced at you everytime the pasta wasn’t overcooking and agreed with every word you said. It was an easy night. An intimate one, in a sense.

You don’t remember how you end up on the floor. Maybe your knees gave out. Maybe the weight of it all—the mess, the silence, the nothingness he left behind—just pulled you down like gravity. The wine glass doesn’t spill, miraculously. You sip from it with trembling fingers, knees curled to your chest like you’re trying to hold yourself together from the inside out. The kitchen smells faintly of citrus if you try long enough. You press your palm to the cold tile. Close your eyes. Try to remember the way his laughter sounded when he burned the sugar just a little too much, when you teased him about MasterChef George and he just grinned like he wanted to kiss you again and then did. The ache sharpens. You wonder if the dishes would be easier to clean now if he’d stayed. But then again, he would’ve been easier to love if he hadn’t left.

You’re still sitting on the floor when your eyes land on the hallway. The wine glass is warmer now in your hand. Your limbs ache—not from sitting too long, but from holding in everything you don’t say. And there it is. Your suitcase. Half-zipped, half-empty. Still slumped by the door like a bad omen. You never finished unpacking. There is the purse you brought for the beach. For the sun, and the early mornings tangled in each other, and the dinners you didn't know you'd remember this sharply. For him. For you and him. You blink slowly, your gaze tethered to the frayed handle of the purse. And just like that—like a match to dry tinder— you’re there again. Dressed up. Laughing. Tipsy on promise.

It had been his idea, of course. He wanted a night that felt a little more polished. Something other than sandy feet and salty hair and beach towels that never fully dried in the breeze. “We’re going out,” he’d said, already scrolling on his phone. “Someplace nice. Something white-tablecloth and utterly ridiculous.” You’d raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t we agree this was a low-key, out-of-spotlight trip?” He just grinned, all cheek and dimple and mischief. “Doesn’t mean we can’t have one night at a fancy place. And I don’t think there’ll be much spotlight anyways.” And so you’d let him talk you into it. The dress. The heels. Lipstick dabbed on with trembling fingers while he watched from the bed, buttoning up a crisp shirt like a man who knew how to turn heads. The restaurant he picked was packed. Booked out weeks in advance, the hostess had said, trying to hide her smirk. But George just leaned forward over the podium with that particular kind of charm — the one he didn’t use often, but always knew would work. “Surely there’s space,” he said, voice smooth and effortless, “for a Mercedes F1 driver and his pretty lady?” You had flushed scarlet. Utterly floored. And she had laughed, and rolled her eyes, and somehow — somehow — she’d found them a table. Later, you asked if that line usually worked. “I’ve never used it before,” he said, nudging your foot under the table. “But it’s nice to know it gets the job done.” The restaurant was intimate in the way the rich like intimacy — soft jazz echoing off polished glass, candlelight dancing on silver cutlery, staff who never let your wine glass go empty. He leaned in while scanning the menu, eyes bright, thumb idly brushing your knee under the tablecloth. “Have you see they have turbot,” he told you with quiet confidence, not even glancing up. “Grilled, with beurre blanc and samphire. I saw it and thought of you.” “Did you?” You tried to keep your voice steady. He finally looked at you. “I know what you like.” And damn him—you did like it. Enough to order it. Enough to offer him a bite when he looked at your plate with theatrical longing. He moaned — actually moaned — after stealing a forkful. “Christ, you’ve got good taste.” You tried not to melt. You really did. But the wine was good, and he looked at you like he wanted to memorize you. Every smile, every shift of your bare shoulder, every single unguarded laugh. He rested his hand on your side of the table the entire time as a silent invite to take it and stroke his with your thumb. Talked about things he hadn’t told you yet. Told you you looked like trouble in that dress. And all you could think was: maybe this is everything but casual anymore. Maybe I’m his, and maybe he’s mine.

You’d barely managed to ask why before he was already halfway through his answer. Some bullshit about timing. About how he thought he could do this—whatever this was—but he just… wasn’t ready. That it wasn’t you. That you’re wonderful. That you made everything feel so good it scared him. That he didn’t want to hurt you by pretending to be ready when he wasn’t. That you deserve someone who — You had stopped listening after that part. Now, standing in the hallway alone, you replay it on a loop. The distant echo of the front door clicking shut behind him. The hollow scrape of his suitcase wheels on the gravel outside. The clink of the wine bottle as you set it too hard on the counter just moments ago. But what really replays—what you can’t scrub out—is earlier that same day, today. Before everything tipped. When you still thought maybe, maybe this time, you’d won something.

The sun was warm on your shoulders, and George had your hand wrapped securely in his as you strolled along the boutique-lined streets of the little town. It had been his idea. Again. All of this was his idea in the end. "Come on, we’re in a coastal village full of nice shops. And I think we should get you a little souvenir so you don’t forget this trip,“ he said that morning, handing you your sunglasses. "You can’t wear hoodies to lunch every day.” You rolled your eyes but let him tug you along anyway. You’d already had coffee, shared a croissant off one plate, and now here he was — arms full of hangers, coaxing you into trying on a series of sundresses with a boyish grin that made it impossible to refuse. "You’ll need one for our next trip," he teased, leaning on the dressing room doorframe as you stepped out. “Can’t be caught dead in Monaco or Capri or wherever else I plan on taking you looking this irresistible.” You bit back a smile. "You planning an entire resort rotation now?“ “Don’t tempt me,” he said, eyes scanning you from head to toe in that soft, reverent way that made you feel like a painting. Eventually, you gave up arguing. You tried them all on. Spun for him. Laughed. Let yourself take in the moment and easiness it came with. And then, later, after he’d carried your one chosen dress in a paper bag, you passed the jewelry shop. He dragged you inside, you took a look around what was exhibited in the showcases. It was all breathhtakingly pretty, but one necklage caught your eye in particular. Van Cleef. Gleaming glass. Velvet boxes. The kind of piece of jewelry you don’t choose unless you’re sure. You slowed in front of the showcase. A delicate clover necklace caught the light. Soft green stones set in gold. It sparkled in a way that felt almost personal. You smiled. “This one kind of matches my eyes.” George glanced over, but stayed where he was, a step behind you. “I could wear it to races, you know when I visit you at work,” you added, not looking at him. “Y’know. For that extra portion of luck.” That silence was sharp. Immediate. When you turned to him, his jaw was set in that almost-invisible way that meant he was somewhere else entirely. His voice, when it came, was low and cautious. “Maybe… something for your birthday.” You blinked. “That’s three months away.” He didn’t say anything. You tried to laugh it off, but it landed flat in your throat. “Relax. It’s okay, I don’t need it. I just—thought it was pretty.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It is.” After that, something shifted. Not outwardly. He still laced his fingers through yours. Still kissed your temple when you crossed the street. But his grip felt different. Measured. Like he was already letting go a little. And deep down, you knew something had cracked.

You immediately went to the bathroom after you got back to the rental, just to wash your hands. The bedroom door was open when you came back. His suitcase already sat on the bed. Half packed. His folded clothes laid out in that same irritatingly neat way he always did it, even when rushing. You didn’t ask what he was doing. You didn’t have to. You already knew. George didn’t look at you. Just moved wordlessly around the room, gathering socks and t-shirts with surgical precision. The silence was deafening. “Why are you packing already?” „I’ leaving,“ he said clipped, as if that was all the explanation required. You didn’t know what to reply. The faint zip of his toiletry bag being sealed shut. Then he finally did speak to offer you some more insight into the situation, yet he didn’t meet your eyes. “It’s all moving too fast,” he said flatly. “I like you, but I’m not ready for anything… serious like this.” The words felt rehearsed. Scripted. Like a break-up scene in a movie he didn’t want to star in. His eyes skated past yours, grazing over you like you were a stranger who had gotten too close. “Not ready for what?” you asked. Your voice cracked in the middle. “For love? For me?” He shrugged one shoulder. “You’re… intense. Clingy, sometimes. It’s a lot.” That one gutted you. You stood frozen. Rain lashed against the windows outside. The wind howled like it wanted in. “I was matching your energy,” you snapped, suddenly flushed and shaking. “You wanted this. The trip. The late nights. The cooking. The mornings. The goddamn intimacy. I gave it to you because I trusted you. Now you’re calling me clingy for what exactly?”George sighed and shoved the last of his charger into a side pocket. “It was you who invited me here,” you added, breath sharp. “You asked me to stay longer. You called me your lucky charm. You held my face and said I made things better—” “I thought I could do it,” he said, louder this time. “I thought maybe if I tried, it’d feel right.” That stung worse. Like all of it had been a rehearsal. A lab experiment. And then, without another word, he walked past you, dragging his suitcase behind him. The door opened, letting in a sharp gust of wind. For a second, he hesitated in the threshold, like he might say something else. But all he did was slam it shut. You stared at the wood until the sound stopped ringing in your ears.

You press your palms to the kitchen counter just hours after and bow your head, trying to breathe. But nothing good comes from it. It’s nearly 11 p.m. The kitchen feels darker than it should. Maybe the lights have become dimmer over the last two hours. Maybe your vision has. You’re still holding the wine glass, now empty, cradling it like it might steady you, like it might anchor you to something real. But your hands are trembling again. The stem clicks against the cool tiled flow as you try to set it down next to the bottle and miss. Your chest aches. Not metaphorically. Literally. A sharp, bruising pressure between your ribs that makes it hard to breathe. You gasp once. Twice. And then— Then the tears come after hours of holding them back. You bury your face in your hands, but it doesn’t muffle the sound. The sob rips through you, raw and wet and pathetic. You curl in on yourself like it might make it hurt less, like becoming smaller will make him come back. “He said he wanted this,” you whisper to yourself. The words echo in the kitchen. They sound insane out loud dispite you barely whispering. Childish. Like you're still trying to convince someone—maybe yourself. “He said—he wanted this.” The walls don’t answer. The fridge hums. A car drives past outside. Somewhere, faintly, the outside wind of the night taps against the windowpanes. But nothing actually speaks back. Nothing actually moves. Everything is still exactly where it was. His cologne still lingers in the corners. His dish still crusts in the sink. His damn glass still sits on the coffee table in the living room, untouched since yesterday night. You don’t know how long you sit there, crying into the silence, but at some point the tears slow. They don’t stop. Just… dull. Like everything else. And that’s when the clarity creeps in, slow and cruel. You can’t stay here. Not with the empty, unmade bed and the towel he left on the floor. Not with the wine glasses. Not with the ghost of a man who said he wanted you, then couldn’t make it through two weeks. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. It doesn’t help much. Your skin is sticky, salt-streaked. The kitchen is blurry. But you know. You have to go.

One week later, your apartment smells like fresh laundry and lavender candle wax. The storm has long passed—both outside and within—but you still move a little slower. Like your limbs are adjusting to a new gravity. The silence here is different. Not haunted like the cottage. Just... yours. The doorbell rings at 11:07 a.m. You open the door to a delivery man and a package that doesn’t need a return address to tell you who it’s from. A small white box. A bouquet—white peonies, your favorite, with a letter attached. And inside the white box is a smaller velvet case: the Van Cleef necklace you lingered on, the one you said would be lucky, the one he recoiled from like it carried a proposal. It gleams in the sunlight. Pale gold. Teal enamel. Your eyes, exactly. You put it aside to reach for the letter. His handwriting. “I’m sorry I stormed off like that.” “I like you a lot.” “The necklace does suit your eyes.” “Please let us talk.” “Xx George”

You stare at it. Not long. Just long enough. Then you pick up your phone. The message comes easy. It’s not rehearsed. You’re not shaking. You’re not crying. You’ve already done all of that. You type: “Thanks for the necklace. But I don’t run back to men who don’t fix their shit and then storm off.”

Send. The text bubble shifts from green to “Delivered.” And that’s that. You close the velvet box. Slide it into the second drawer of your dresser, beneath the silk scarves and the one good belt you have. You’ll wear it someday. Maybe, because it’s too pretty to hide in a drawer. But not for him. You exhale. And for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t catch on heartbreak.

radio: had this little thought in my head on august 1st and i thought writing it out would be fun! hope you enjoy! also: i am currently working on a Lando Norris request and a MV1 idea I had so there are things coming! Hope you have a lovely day and show this fic some love <3

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f1withespresso · 13 days ago

Text

controversially young and pretty

✎ — michael schumacher x model!reader

✎ — summary: You have been showing up at Grand Prix as a guest of the Ferrari team and people are starting to wonder why you are suddenly present at every Grand Prix and spending your weekends in Monaco. Little do they know...

✎ — radio: based on this request that was submitted. had a bit of a rough time coming up with things but I love a little WAG au and i love SMAUs in generel soooo... hope you like this one!

✎ — warnings: age gap, SMAU, use of [Y/N][Y/LN], rumors

yourusername posted a story

📍Monaco, Monte Carlo

liked by scuderiaferrari, mickschumacher and 1.935.681 others

yourusername Monaco, mon amour ❤️ thanks for having me @/scuderiaferrari 🥂

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scuderiaferrari Grazie for joining us this weekend! 🏁❤️ #MonacoGP

username1 literally what i imagine when i picture “soft life”

username2 wait you like F1??? i just fell in love again 😭

username3 this is the most elite photo dump I’ve seen all season, the yacht to pit lane pipeline is lethal I fear🔥

username4 YOU ATE also red is so your colour

username 5 ferrari hospitality suits you babe 😌👠

username6 new wag unlocked??? 👀

username7 no bc how do i become you

username 8 she said: I’m a motorsport girl now and wiped the floor with everyone else there

username9 Ferrari posted you… my girl is officially IT

username10 rich, gorgeous, and a paddock pass?? i’m so jealous it hurts

📍Barcelona, Spain

liked by scuderriaferrari, charles_leclerc and 2.359.356 others

yourusername and that's two in a row 🏎 thanks barcelona x 🍷💋

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scuderiaferrari Always a pleasure to have you in the paddock ❤️🐎

charles_leclerc 🔥

username1two races back to back?? you’re not just visiting as a celeb guest anymore 😭

username2 charles AND lewis in the likes and one of them has to say something cause we’re spiraling

username4 this account is slowly becoming a very well-dressed paddock diary

username5 how do i get your life. like genuinely.

username6 y’all i’m not saying she’s dating one of the ferrari drivers but… okay i am saying that

username7 everyone saying she seeing lewis but this feels so not-his-style… unless ferrari pr made him 👀

username8 honestly i thought it was carlos but now he’s not even on the team anymore??? WHAT’S GOING ON

username9 the soft launch of something is reaching levels of sophistication previously unimagined

username10 her stylist deserves a raise and a constructors' trophy

📍Monaco, Monte Carlo

liked by mickschumacher, lewishamilton and 2.935.356 others

yourusername love to spend the weekends like this ☀️💋

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username1 girl, that’s not a rental yacht.

mickschumacher ☀️🍒

liked by yourusername

lewishamilton 👀

username2 you know you’ve made it when your soft launches involve luxury vehicles and yacht decks

username3 you don’t just accidentally end up back in monaco between races unless someone very rich and very involved in f1 wants you there

username4 lewis doesn’t date. charles is taken. carlos ain’t at Ferrari no more. who she with?? 😭😭

username5 my theory: she’s dating someone at ferrari but it’s not a driver. maybe like a team exec or idk… charles’ brother??

username6 just a reminder: she had dinner with the schumachers after monaco GP 👀

username7 soft-launching your sugar daddy with a luxury weekend in monaco is a move tbh

username8 one of you said “what if she’s dating michael schumacher” and i haven’t slept since

📍Maranello, Italy

liked by scuderiaferrari, lewishamilton and 3.752.461 others

yourusername it was "bring your girlfriend to work day" at Ferrari last week 💋❤️

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scuderiaferrari 🐎❤️🏎

username1 NO TAGS. NO DENIAL. SHE SAID YES AND???

username2 the soft launch is now a hard launch and i’m not emotionally ready

username4 everyone crying in the comments like she’s not just living your dream

username5 “bring your girlfriend to work day” is so NASTY when the work is being michael schumacher 😭😭😭

username6 you know what? they’re two grown adults. i’m just mad it’s not me

username7 just a reminder that michael schumacher is trending in 2025 because of this woman HER POWER

username8 the age gap is insane

username9 everyone’s spiraling and she’s just out here playing ferrari dress-up with a bf who owns the damn team

username10 okay but imagine this being your villain origin story if you’re the ferrari comms intern

yourusername posted a story

yourusername i guess this is my life from now on

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f1withespresso · 13 days ago

Note

Don’t know if you’d write this because some people don’t write Micheal but I’d love to see an SMAU of an early 20s F1 fan finding like with FerrariTeamBoss!Schumi

had a rough time with this at first, but I think i managed to do it justice (i hope at least) :) you can find it here

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f1withespresso · 14 days ago

Text

epilogue

✎ — 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.

✎ — chapter word count: +1.0k

✎ — radio: and it's a wrap!! Thank you soo much for all the love throughout the past weeks <3 this was the first ever fanfiction I published and at first I really doubted my writing abilities and whether this was good enough to be consumed by others, but you guys with your messages, comments, likes and reblogs really lifted me up to also share some other work on here! So thank you all from the bottom of my heart. now enjoy this final little snippet!

series masterlist

The crowd is thunder. The British summer air hums with energy as you pull into parc fermé, sun peeking through the grey clouds in the late afternoon sky. Your hands are shaking slightly on the steering wheel — not from nerves, but from the rush, the high from adrenaline in your blood circuit, the win. Silverstone. Home of legends. And now, yours too once again. It's win number three of your first season with Red Bull and podium number nine. A thick, red number one gleams on the nose of your car — still yours, still real. The reigning world champion, and today, once again, the queen of Silverstone. But when the engine dies and you tug off the wheel, none of that matters quite as much as what you see just beyond the barriers. He’s already there. Still in his McLaren race suit, hair dampened slightly by sweat and misfortune — a gearbox failure took him out mid-race — but his smile? His smile is the most brilliant thing in the world. And sitting crooked on his head is a Red Bull cap. Your Red Bull cap. The one with the #1 stitched in red and gold. You don’t even think. You climb out of the car, helmet still on, gloves half-off, and run. Sprint, really. Straight across parc fermé to the barriers where your team is half-leaning over, cheering, losing their minds. But it’s only one person you care to reach. Oscar is front and center, elbows braced on the railing, eyes locked on you with such blinding pride you nearly trip over your own feet. You crash into him through the metal, arms over the barrier, hugging him like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. Your helmet clunks lightly against his shoulder, but you don’t care and neither does he. His arms lock around your waist like second nature — no, first nature — pulling you impossibly close. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs, his voice warm and reverent in your ear. It's barely audible underneath the helmet. “You were unbelievable out there.” You laugh slightly — giddy, high on it all. It fogs the inside of your visor. He holds your helmet for a moment before letting you go. It's never ,goodbye‘ anymore. Just ‚see you in a second‘.

📍Silverstone Circuit

liked by oscarpiastri, yourusername and 11.849.949 others

mclaren Not quite the race result we were hoping for (except for Oscar, who definitely won parc fermé 🏃‍♂️💨) A tough DNF, but we’ll reset and go again in Spa! 🇧🇪

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zakbrownceo Oscar’s pace was on it all weekend, but sometimes bad luck gets us all. We go again in Spa!

oscarpiastri still proud of the team! and very proud of someone else too 🫶

username1 “he won parc fermé” IS KILLING ME LMAOOOO he really said supportive boyfriend era

username2 Oscar watching her race post-DNF in the garage like his life depends on it and then sprinting across the track when she won???? HE'S SO DEEP IN IT 😭💍

username3 this is a safe space for people who are not okay about oscar in her red bull cap 🥵 boyfriend of the year

username4 he’s not the same since dating her 😒 used to be hungry for podiums, now he’s just simping lol ↳ username3 bro he’s literally P2 in the WDC and beat her in Monaco sit DOWN

username5 zak has probably already approved the wedding budget after that sprint to parc fermé 🧡

username6 idc if the engine exploded, oscar being in love and soft and golden is a w in my book

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The podium is radiant. You stand beneath the falling gold confetti, race suit still zipped up to your neck, hair tousled from the helmet, cheeks damp — not from tears this time, but from laughter, from the champagne, from the sun after the rain and the joy and the magnitude of it all. You lift the golden trophy once more. It's heavier than it looks, but not as heavy as last year’s weight. This one is lighter, freer. It doesn’t come with the same haunting ache. It comes with peace. The crowd roars. Union Jacks wave over the heads of a sea of people, that is your crowd today. And when your eyes fall to the pit straight below, you spot him instantly. Oscar. Still in that suit. Still in your cap. He’s the only thing orange in a sea of dark blue. Beaming so hard it almost knocks the breath out of you. The cap is shielding his eyes from the sun and your view, but the grin is unmistakable. Like he’s in awe of you. Like he always has been, even when he didn’t know what to do with it. And your soft, proud smile crumples into a giggle. Your cheeks flush pink. You duck your head. You’re supposed to be a world-class athlete, poised and composed, but right now you’re just a girl in love with the boy looking at her like she hung the stars.

The sun is low when the paddock begins to clear. You’ve changed out of your race suit and into a pair of wide-leg jeans and a sweater. Hair brushed, skin glowing, the navy, red and yellow of Red Bull swapped for soft gold jewelry and quiet pride. Oscar’s waiting outside the Red Bull motorhome. He always waits now, leaning against a railing, hands in the pockets of his faded jeans, white t-shirt slightly wrinkled, hair an endearing mess. When he sees you step out, his face lights up like he’s seeing you for the first time. “Hey, champ,” he says, walking up. He takes your backpack from your shoulder without asking. With his free hand, he gently hooks his fingers into your belt loop and pulls you in for a kiss. It’s quick, familiar, casual. Like some would describe the act of breathing. Like love that doesn’t need to prove itself anymore. You smile against his lips, “I missed you.” He smirks, “You were a little busy winning Silverstone.” “Still missed you.” He shrugs, eyes glinting. “I don’t blame you. I’m excellent company.” You roll your eyes and flick his cap brim before lacing your fingers through his. You walk out of the paddock together, hand in hand. Not rushing. Not hiding. Just yourselves. The car ride home is gentle, your phone connected to the bluetooth speakers as always and blasting your favourite playlist. Oscar drives and you ride shotgun, one leg propped up, one hand tangled with his over the middle console. You lean over at a red light and kiss his cheek. “Thanks for always showing up. Even when you didn’t win anything.” He doesn’t say anything at first. He just smiles to himself, taps the steering wheel, and glances sideways while waiting for the traffic light to turn green and let him past. “I’d follow you to the end of the world.” You smirk, teasing. “Good, because I don’t wanna see you going anywhere else.” He laughs — that deep, real one — and says, “Then I won’t.” You live together now. In a flat tucked into a quiet part of West London, filled with plants you both forget to water from time to time and framed photos from races you both remember too vividly. There’s a shelf in the hallway with your championship trophy and his Rookie of the Year award from 2023. You bicker over what records are more impressive. He always lets you win. There’s peace in your home. There’s warmth in your kitchen and music playing in your living-room and too many of his hoodies are on your side of the shared closet. There’s love. Not fragile, not tentative — but steady. Earned. The kind that holds. No more secrets. No more war. Just a girl and a boy, once rivals, now nothing but soft places to land. And every time he looks at you — whether it’s after a podium, a disappointment, or on a lazy Tuesday morning — he always looks at you the same way he did at Silverstone today. Like you’re everything. Because to him, you always have been. And you always will be.

📍Silverstone

liked by oscarpiastri, redbullracing and 7.247.949 others

yourusername what an incredible weekend at Silverstone! 🇬🇧 Thanks for all the fans coming out and supporting me in this weather (and thanks to my little lucky charm) 🏆 Third podium of the season and hopefully more to come in Spa!

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oscarpiastri silverstone will always belong to you 🤍 ( i do too)

mclaren no hard feelings for stealing our driver… okay maybe a tiny bit 🧡

redbullracing our reigning champ, our softie-in-love, our everything 😭 what an incredible race today!

username2 bro we started with helmet taps and now he's buying her flowers and coffee after the race 😭😭😭

username3 SHE’S THE REIGNING WORLD CHAMPION. SHE’S THE QUEEN OF SILVERSTONE. SHE’S GOT A BOYFRIEND WHO BRINGS HER FLOWERS AND COFFEE. I’M GONNA BITE MY WALL

username4 this is what peak gender equality looks like: world champion gf, soft little trophy bf who buys flowers and supports her wins

username5 if my future husband isn’t getting me post-win my favorite oat milk flat white and a bouquet, i don’t want him

username6 [Y/N] pulled a whole championship and possibly the softest man in motorsport

username7 not oscar being the OG fangirl??? like he WORE her merch from a different team. if that’s not husband behaviour idk what is 😭😭😭

username8 oscar's whole vibe is just “that’s my girl 🥺👉👈” and honestly? as he should. she’s the f*cking champion of the world.

now playing:

answer by The Regrettes mystery of love by Sufjan Stevens the alchemy by Taylor Swift call it what you want by Taylor Swifts still into you by Paramore heros by David Bowie celeste by Ezra Vine sweet nothing by Taylor Swift my love mine all mine by Mitski perfect by Ed Sheeran

taglist:

@luvs4haechan @satorinnie @comfortzonequeen @481reasonstocry @fcblb81 @piastribabe @edgyficuselastica @julyexx @cherryhazee

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f1withespresso · 15 days ago

Text

all's fair in love and formula 1 | pt. 23

✎ — oscar piastri x fem!teammate!reader

✎ — chapter word count: +5.9k

✎ — radio: can you believe this is the last full lenght chapter? I hope you can at least live with the ending :) there will be an epilogue just for vibes. i hope you got emotional reading this just like I got emotional writing this and everytime i edited this part and put together the social media parts. Thanks for all the love, see you one last time tomorrow!

series masterlist

The press conference room at Yas Marina is packed—more than usual. Lenses snap like crickets in a summer field, and the murmur of press chatter buzzes through the air, thick with anticipation. It’s the kind of atmosphere that hums with reverence, a prelude to the gravity of what this weekend means. To your left, Lewis sits in his scarlet Ferrari team jersey, relaxed and composed. He’s every inch the legend—seven-time World Champion, graceful in his farewell lap. There’s nothing left for him to prove, and it shows in the way he smiles, unburdened. Closure looks good on him. The media darlings that call themselves reporters know it. They eat it up. On the other side of you is Kimi —barely nineteen, wide-eyed, and still riding the high of his rookie season. There’s a nervous energy to him, like a student called to the front of the class, but he’s eager and earnest, soaking it all in. He nods along when Lewis speaks. Casts you shy glances whenever a question is being shot in your direction. You sit in the center. Commanding. Calm. There's a McLaren polo on your body and a championship crown on your head— only figurative, but no less real for everybody in this room. And for the first time, you wear that title like it was always meant for you. No trace of the exhaustion that haunted you mid-season. No fractures. Just glow. Earned glow.

The moderator’s voice cuts through the buzz: “We’re joined today by seven-time World Champion Lewis Hamilton, Rookie of the Year Kimi Antonelli, and your 2025 Formula One World Champion, [Y/N] [Y/LN].” Applause follows—not from the reporters, but from the photographers and the paddock staff tucked along the back wall. It’s short-lived, but genuine. It makes you smile, a soft curve of gratitude at the corners of your mouth. The first questions go to Lewis and Kimi. Softballs, mostly. Reflections and reverence. Lewis handles them with ease. Kimi answers like someone still pinching himself, like someone who doesn't want to screw up. Then, the spotlight turns to you. “Congratulations, [Y/N], on a historic season. What was the hardest race for you this year?” You don’t hesitate. “Japan perhaps or Singapore.” A pause, „It was hard on track, of course, but… off track, too. Both of these weekends forced me to confront a lot of things I’d been trying to push down.” You let the silence hang. You don’t need to elaborate. Anyone who's been watching closely this season knows exactly what you mean. “And which win are you most proud of?” A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Monaco or perhaps Silverstone. Also Brazil.” Your voice softens. “That one meant a lot to me. For reasons beyond just the racing. It was… freedom, I think. I really allowed myself to enjoy it aside from all the championship stuff.” From the corner of your eye, you see Lewis glance your way. He nods, almost imperceptibly. A quiet, knowing gesture. Like he understands what it's like to be in your shoes, to fight a championship against someone you'd never thought you'd actually fight with. “If you could change one thing about your season, what would it be?” You exhale, tilt your head slightly as you think. Then, almost to yourself: “Maybe I’d have learned how to enjoy things a bit sooner. Especially in the beginning of the season and around the summer break it was very tough. With all the competititon and everything and the lead changing after every race.” You look up again, more certain. “Winning is great. But if you can’t feel the joy in it, then what’s the point?” The room murmurs. You don’t have to check Twitter to know that line is already live. “What will you miss the most about McLaren? You've been with this team since the start of your Formula One career.” You glance down at your hands for a second, watch them fiddle, try collecting yourself. “The people,” you say simply. “The team in the garage. My race engineer, my mechanics, Zak, Andrea… McLaren's kinda like a family, to me at least. And leaving a family, even for a good reason, is never easy. I owe McLaren everything. They gave me my shot. They were the ones taking the risk and putting me into an F1 car. They helped me become the driver I am now, the champion I am now. And yeah—” you smile, voice light, “—if Red Bull doesn’t win every race next year, then I’d rather see Papaya on the podium with me than Mercedes.”

“There’s been a lot of talk about your move to Red Bull. What are you most looking forward to?” You flash a grin, all fire and edge. “The challenge,” you say. “Red Bull’s a beast of a team, that’s for sure. But I’ve never been afraid of stepping into big shoes. I want to prove myself in every environment. That’s what makes you not only a good driver but a legendary one.” “Are you worried about being seen as the second seat at Red Bull?” The room stills slightly. The energy shifts. You raise a brow. Let the pause speak first. Then, evenly: “I think the entire ‚second seat at Red Bull is cursed‘-talk is bullshit. I’m here to race. I can handle a car. And I think I’ve made it clear this season, that I don’t take a backseat to anyone.” That lands. A low hum rolls through the crowd, approval and surprise mingling. Even Lewis lets out a soft laugh under his breath. When the attention returns to him, Lewis is all grace and gravity. He speaks about endings and intention. About writing his own final chapter. And how proud he is of the sport’s evolution. “To see a woman win the championship? That’s very special,” he says, glancing over at you with a smile. “About time, too.” The next question goes to Kimi. He fidgets slightly, blinks like he’s still surprised to be sitting here. “Your idols growing up?” He glances sideways. “I mean… Lewis for sure. And also [Y/N] as well.” He gestures to Lewis, then to you. “I grew up watching Lewis. And I got to race against [Y/N] this year, and a few times in karting. She’s always been a motivation for me to push. I’ve never seen someone defend like her in Brazil.” You laugh at that, quiet and genuine. The moderator begins to wrap. Cameras flash one last time. You stand, stretch, feel the muscles in your back pull with the effort of months. Years. It’s only when you catch Lewis clapping a hand gently on your shoulder that it hits you again—what this is. What it means. Two and a half generations of Formula One. The legend on his farewell lap. You, the champion stepping into your prime. Kimi, the rookie waiting for his turn. The baton isn’t passed formally. But you feel it all the same—in the weight of Lewis’s touch, in the sparkle behind Kimi’s grin. Like he’s just seen the future. And maybe he has.

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The car feels good on Friday. No, better than good. It feels like a conversation—sharp, fluid, familiar. Every input gets a response. Every doubt is quieted by the balance beneath you. The steering whispers instead of screaming. The rear sticks. The lap times tumble. You’re first in FP2. The name [Y/N] [Y/LN] blinks at the top of the leaderboard as the sun begins to dip behind the Yas Marina paddock, casting the track in that golden-purple glow it does so well. Mechanics offer you quiet nods and high fives in the garage. Your race engineer’s voice crackles through the radio as you pull into the pit box. “Nice job. That was… clean. Real clean.” You click into neutral, brake cooling hissing around you. “Feels like it wants to win,” you say, exhaling. “Then let’s go win,” he replies. It’s businesslike. Sharp. There’s still a a last race win on the line. But you can feel it—underneath the numbers and data and tyre programs—everyone knows. This is your last Friday free practice session in papaya. Dinner that night is small by design. No big send-off. No speeches. Just the people who matter. A quiet restaurant tucked away from the circuit chaos. Zak, Andrea, and your race engineer are already seated when you arrive. They stand up when you do, offer hugs that linger a little longer than usual. The table’s simple—cloth napkins, good bread, nothing flashy. But there’s a bottle of something celebratory already uncorked, waiting. It starts easy. Shared jokes. Light teasing. Zak complains about your habit of ghosting group chats. Andrea rolls his eyes at your music taste in the garage. Your engineer tells a story about your first FP1 session that makes you laugh until your shoulders shake. You had nearly send the car into the wall but caught it last minute making everyone on the pit wall almost loosing their mind that day. And then, slowly, the air shifts. Zak’s voice goes soft. “You know…” he clears his throat, blinking a few times, “You were one of the best signings I ever made. Ever.” You don’t say anything right away. Just look down at your glass, try to breathe through it. He pushes on. “Not just because of the results. Though yeah, those helped,” he jokes, voice catching. “But because of what you stood for. What you brought into this team. The belief. The hope.” Andrea nods, resting his forearms on the table. “You changed how people saw us. How we saw ourselves. You made it okay to dream bigger again. That constructer's in 2024 wouldn't have been possible without you.” You blink fast, swallow even faster. Then your engineer pulls something from under the table. A slim, square package. Wrapped in dark orange tissue, tied off with a ribbon. You unwrap it carefully, fingertips brushing over the contents. It’s a framed photo. Your first win with McLaren in Austria last year. Podium champagne mid-air, your smile caught mid-shout. Oscar is beside you, one arm raised in triumph. Papaya all around you. You don’t say anything at first. Can’t. Your throat clamps up around the words. You trace the edge of the frame with your thumb, the weight of it anchoring something in your chest. “Thought you should have something to remember the start of it,” he says, a little sheepishly. “Before you go off rewriting records somewhere else.” You laugh once, quietly. Then nod. “Thank you,” you murmur. “All of you.” No one says anything for a moment. Just the soft clink of silverware and quiet breathing. It’s not a goodbye. Not really. But it is an ending. And you let yourself feel it. Fully.

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You sit in the cockpit, watching the purple sector split flash across your delta. Just one more corner. You don’t think—you react to your instincts. Brake late. Rotate early. Let the rear dance, but not too much. Feather the throttle. Open DRS. The finish line comes up fast, but you know before the radio crackles. You feel it in your chest. It has to be good enough for pole. “Great final lap.” Your engineer’s voice filters through your helmet. Calm and collected, but there’s warmth in it. “That’s the last pole position of the year for you.” You grin, breathless. “Not bad for a farewell.” Your team erupts in quiet celebration as you pull into parc fermè. Papaya-clad arms reach out to greet you. High fives, helmet taps, smiles that feel like sunlight. Oscar is already out of his car—second place, two tenths behind. He gives you a look across parc fermé. Nods once with a small but proud smile on his lips. You nod back. Front row lock-out. One last time.

The debrief is short, clinical, and dusted with pride. Your strategist’s tone is easy. Familiar. “Front row lock-out,” he says, eyes scanning the data. “Always a good outcome for a Saturday. And with the championships wrapped up, we’re letting you race tomorrow as we did a season.” He glances between the two of you. “But remember, papaya rules. Bring both cars home.” You and Oscar both nod. You’ve heard it a dozen times before. Race Clean. Race Hard. Don’t touch. Remember they’re your teammate. Still, it lands differently now. Tomorrow’s the last time those rules will apply to you. A junior strategist makes a joke from the back of the room. Someone throws an empty water bottle at him to shut him up. When the meeting breaks, you stand to leave, stretching the stiffness out of your shoulders. Oscar’s waiting for you near the door, thumbs hooked into the collar of his shirt. He eyes you with a mock-serious expression. “So,” he starts, “should I let you win tomorrow? Give you your storybook ending?” You scoff. “Don’t you dare.” His smirk widens. “C’mon. Would be poetic, wouldn’t it? Your last race with McLaren, sailing into the sunset…” He gesturing ridiciously through the air. You cut him off playfully. “Promise you won’t hand me a win on a silver platter.” Oscar studies you then—really looks at you. The lighting in the debrief room is flat, fluorescent, but there’s a sharpness in his gaze that cuts through it. You soften just slightly, voice steadier. “Promise me you’ll fight me tomorrow like your life depends on it.” The corner of his mouth lifts. No teasing now. “I promise.”

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The lights above the grid burn white-hot. One. Two. Three. Four. You find stillness in the storm. Fingers tight around the wheel. Heart like a drumline. Oscar’s car sits to your right, chrome and papaya reflecting the dusk. The air between you sizzles — full of history, heartbreak, hunger. Five. The engines scream. Lights out. You launch. Tyres bite. Reaction perfect. Gears clean. You hold the inside line into Turn 1, but Oscar doesn’t yield. He’s there — right there — hanging on your gearbox, threatening your rearview like a ghost you can't outrun. Lap after lap, he hunts you. Lap 5. You adjust brake bias. Take Turn 9 deeper than ever. Trust the tyres. Trust yourself. The balance is perfect. The car does exactly what you tell it to. Oscar sticks with you. Every time you breathe, he’s there. Every time you dare, he answers. It’s the hardest he’s pushed you all season perhaps. But you’re not breaking. You’re not bending. Lap 13. Oscar has DRS and is slipsstreaming down the back straight — he lunges into Turn 11. You let him take it. Just for a second. Just long enough to study him. And then, on the very next lap, you take it back. You send it into Turn 1 on lap 14. It's bold. You're braking late, crossing the dirty side of the track. Oscar leaves you a car’s width — just — and you commit. Trust the grip. Trust the car. Trust yourself. You reclaim the lead like it belongs to you. Because it does. Commentary box, live: “And [Y/N] [Y/LN] takes back the lead in absolutely stunning fashion! That’s championship-level racing from the world champion!” “But Piastri isn’t giving her an inch — but she’s fighting like it’s the first race of the season, not the last.” The debris back in Sector 3 from a Lap 16 midfield clash brings out a brief yellow flag, but it doesn’t reach the front. You and Oscar keep dancing. Circling. Trading fastest laps like blows in a boxing ring. Lap 25. “Oscar just announced over the radio that this fight isn’t over yet.” “Tell him I’m counting on that.” Your engineer laughs. The kind of laugh that sounds a little like heartbreak. Lap 37 of 58. You start to stretch your legs. After the pit stop your fresh tyres are coming alive again. You manage the pace. Keep your head down. Drive clean. Drive clever. Oscar tries once more down the main straight — but your defending is masterclass. You take the inside and never give it back. The gap grows. Half a second. One second. Then two. Clean. Brutal. Brilliant. And when the chequered flag drops— When the radio explodes in cheers— When the fireworks go off above the pit lane and the final race of the season is behind you— You finally let yourself feel it.

“P1. That’s P1, [Y/N]. Final race. Final win. That was... God, that was stunning. Absolutely stunning.” Your throat tightens. You don’t speak right away. You take the slow turns of the cool-down lap, staring out at the night-lit circuit you’ve just conquered for the last time in papaya. Then— You press the radio. Your voice shakes, but it holds. “Thanks for everything to the entire team, all of you. Thanks for putting me into an F1 car. Thanks for lifting me up when I didn’t know how to do it myself." Your voice breaks a little. "This was a great season. And a great journey.” There’s silence on the line. Just for a moment. And then your engineer speaks again, voice cracking, “It’s been the honour of my career, [Y/N]. I’m proud I am able to say that I worked with you.” That’s when it hits you. All of it. How you were barely an adult when you signed the contract. The nights you cried in hotel rooms. The first points. The podiums. The wins. The love. The fracture. The rebuilding. The championship. The team. Zak’s voice cuts in. “I’ll miss you, [Y/N]. I’m proud of everything we achieved together. You made this team better. Made this team a constructors champion two times in a row and now the drivers championship. All I got left to say is, try not to beat us too badly next year in that Red Bull, yeah?” You laugh. You cry, just a little. You wipe your face underneath your helmet with the gloves on. You pull into parc fermé. The team is waiting. Oscar is waiting. And for one shining, still moment—you let yourself stand still in it. The final race. The final win. You cut the engine. Noise roars in your ears nonetheless. The cockpit is hot with adrenaline, sweat, victory. You unclip the belts, peel off your gloves. Hands shaking. Chest full. A final win. A final breath. You blink up at the sky, let yourself feel the weight of everything. Then— You climb out. Helmet off. Hair damp. Your boots hit the tarmac and the flash of the world returns — mechanics, marshals, cameras — but you don’t see any of it. Because Oscar is already there. He’s not with his crew. He’s not hiding inside his helmet. He’s standing by the No.2 board, half-turned, watching you. Waiting. You don’t even think. You run. Straight across parc fermé, past the lines and barriers and photographers, like you’ve broken from orbit and he’s gravity. One breathless heartbeat after another. You don’t stop until your arms are around him. Your helmet cradled in one hand, the other curled behind his neck. Your face buried in his shoulder. He wraps around you like instinct. No hesitation. No coldness. Just warmth. Just him. The paddock falls away. It’s just the two of you again. Like it used to be. Like it almost is. Oscar leans in, voice low by your ear, steady despite the shake in his laugh. “I kept my promise. Raced you hard today,” he says. “But you’re just too fast.” You pull back just enough to see his face. His hair is a mess. His eyes are shining. And he’s smiling, showing you his gleaming bunny teeth. You grin, chest rising and falling with too much emotion to name. “Well, duh. That’s how I became world champion.” He laughs — really laughs — and you feel it vibrate between you, in his chest, in yours. It’s joy and heartbreak all tangled into one final, shiny thing. The cameras are clicking. The fans are screaming. McLaren crew are cheering across the barriers. But for a moment — this moment — none of that matters. Because this is your final hug as teammates. And it means everything. Even after everything.

📍Yas Marina Circuit

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mclaren From rookie teammates to front-row rivals, from first laps to final flag — what a journey. Thank you, [Y/N]. 💔🧡 One last time, side by side!

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oscarpiastri 🧡 one hell of a teammate

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redbullracing we can't wait to see them battle on the grid next year as true rivals! 👏

username1 i'm not crying you are

f1 Two gladiators 🧡⚔️ One last hug

username2 They pushed each other to greatness. That’s what it’s all about!

charles_leclerc Iconic. That’s all I have to say!

username3 this broke me. this fixed me. this broke me again.

username4 the way he was WAITING for her 😭😭😭 we were never just watching a sport we were witnessing cinema

username5 petition to make this a statue outside MTC pls

📍McLaren Technology Center

liked by yourusername, mclaren and 8.239.245 others

oscarpiastri Final race as teammates. I’ve had a front-row seat to history, chaos, brilliance, and occasionally getting overtaken into Turn 1. [Y/N], it’s been an honour to race alongside you. You pushed me harder than anyone ever has. I’ll miss the telemetry battles, the radio sass, and pretending not to care when you beat me. Go be fast in blue. Just… not too fast – Oscar 🧡

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yourusername still waiting on you to admit I’m faster ↳ oscarpiastri: I said what I said

mclaren You two made history together. We’ll miss this duo more than you know 😓🫂

landonorris oh so you’re allowed to be sentimental?? ↳ oscarpiastri: grow up

redbullracing We’ll make sure she keeps you on your toes next year😉

f1 The McLaren duo we’ll be talking about for decades 🧡

username1 THE MONACO PHOTO??? HELLO??? I’M SOBBING IN MY ROOM

username2 he said “go be fast in blue” like he’s not going to immediately start fighting for his life next season

username3 oscars love language is sarcasm and emotionally devastating photo selections ↳ yourusername: i trained him well

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The sun sets like a curtain falling — gold, soft, triumphant — and you stand beneath it, blinking back tears on the top step of the podium. Your hands shake around the trophy. Not from nerves, not from exhaustion — from the release. The weight of it all is coming off your shoulders in waves. You lift it into the sky. And then it happens — the break. A sharp inhale. A crack in the voice. The kind of tears that taste like the sea and adrenaline and champagne and years of becoming. You don’t fight them. You let them run down your cheeks, salt tracing the outline of your smile. Around you, the roar of the crowd is a living, breathing thing. From the left, Oscar lifts his bottle with practiced ease. From the right, Max mirrors him. And they absolutely drench you. You double over in laughter, slick with champagne and sobs, the metal of your trophy still in your grip like it’s fused there. It’s undignified. It’s glorious. It’s perfect. Someone captures the photo — You, crying under the stadium lights, soaked in champagne, flanked by two world-class drivers who hold nothing but respect for you. You: the first female world champion. The fighter. The teammate. The storm. It will become one of the most iconic images of the era. No posing. No perfection. Just truth. Just a girl who gave everything, and got everything back.

📍McLaren Technology Center

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yourusername how do you say goodbye to the team that made you believe in yourself? you don’t. you just say thank you. for the wins, the losses, the 2 a.m. debriefs, the bad coffee, the inside jokes, the heartbreaks, the radio rants, the papaya suits, the pole positions, the trust. for every second of belief when I didn’t have any left for myself. this chapter changed my life. and if you ask me, it was a damn good chapter. I’ll always be proud to say: I was a McLaren driver 🏆 i'm gonna miss all of you so much! 🧡🏎

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mclaren 🧡 Once papaya, always papaya. Thank you for everything, champ 🏆

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oscarpiastri at least I made you work for it! ↳ yourusername: and I STILL cooked you 😌 ↳ landonorris: domestic

zakbrownceo gonna tattoo this championship right under Danny’s first win ↳ yourusername: you’re ungovernable and I respect it

redbullracing We'll take good care of her 👀💙 ↳ mclaren: cries in papaya

lewishamilton It’s been a privilege watching you. Go make more history! ↳ yourusername: 🖤 right back at you legend

charles_leclerc i want to cry but I don’t know why 😢 ↳ yourusername: same Charles. same.

f1 This goodbye is hitting harder than a last-lap DRS overtake. 🥲

danielricciardo Proud of you legend ❤️ now go cause some chaos in blue!

mclaren We’ll keep your garage bay exactly as chaotic as you left it, just in case you wanna come back 🧡

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﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Later, in the press pen, you feel lightheaded from emotion and champagne bubbles. Every camera points at you, every reporter hungry for something raw — but they don’t need to dig. You’re cracked wide open, glowing. And still — the only thing you hear is Oscar. His voice in a Sky Sports mic. “She earned it. She deserves it. I know she’s not off the grid next year, but I’ll miss racing alongside as teammates her more than I can say.” No bitterness. No passive-aggression. Just quiet, genuine pride. It wraps around you like a ribbon, like a little precious gift. Oscar, the same driver who used to race you with stubborn silence, now speaks about you like he’s narrating a legacy recap. And maybe he already is. In the media pen, they ask him if he feels disappointed. “No,” he says, and it’s immediate. “Not even a little. If I had to lose to anyone… it would be her. Every time.” You close your eyes when you hear it. You try not to cry again. You fail, a little. In another corner, Max almost smiles in a debrief interview: “She’s a real racer. She earned the respect of everyone on the grid her rookie season last year — now the whole world sees why.” The paddock buzzes with the end of a chapter. Teammates no longer. Rivals once again. But for now, no tension. No strategy. Just champagne and memory. Just the sound of the anthem and the crowd. Just the image of a girl who stood tall on the podium and cried, not because she was weak — but because she finally, finally let herself feel it all.

📍Yas Marina Circuit

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f1 And with that the 2024 season comes to an end 🏁 Herstory was made. Tears. Champagne. Glory. Your 2025 World Champion, [Y/N] [L/N] becomes the first woman to win a Formula 1 Drivers’ Championship — and does it in style. Flanked by her McLaren teammate Oscar Piastri and four-time world champion Max Verstappen, this achievement will be etched in motorsport forever. What. A. Season. 🧡🍾👑

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mclaren We'll never stop being proud of this 🧡🏆

maxverstappen1 About time the world saw what we’ve known in the paddock all along. Congrats champ 👊

redbullracing Respect where it's due. Incredible season — see you next year 😉👀

susie_wolff More than a victory. It’s a shift in the sport. Massive congratulations 👏🔥

username1 we are LIVING through herstory. I’m gonna start crying again.

username2 POV: you realise you just witnessed the final Drive To Survive episode called "The Teammate, The Champion, The Goodbye" 🎬

username2 AND SHE DID IT WITH WINGED EYELINER AND NERVES OF STEEL 😭💅🏁

username3 someone said “no bitter feelings” and Oscar said “correct. only love. only pride. only heartbreak actually.” 😭

username4 Oscar Piastri not being world champion and still saying “she deserves it” with a smile on his face is not teammate behaviour that’s “I fell in love with you during preseason testing in 2024” behaviour

username5 "i'll miss racing alongside her more than i can say“ oh okay mr piastri i’ll just go cry in the paddock

username6 oscars interviews today should be studied. Respectful, loving and a little heartbreaking. That boy is fighting tears professionally. F1 is just a hobby for him at this point

username7 the way oscar looked genuinely devastated they won’t be teammates anymore and STILL managed to be nothing but proud of her 😭 brocedes WISH

username8 the way oscars voice cracked just a little when he said “I’ll miss her” like SIR you are on live television, have some mercy

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The paddock is quiet now, hours after the podium ceremony. The media scrum is gone, the engines long cooled, the champagne dried into the floor of the pit lane. Only the faintest echo of celebration lingers in the air — laughter, cheers, music, memory. But here, in the dim light of the McLaren garage, it’s all shadows and silence. You stand still at the center of it, dressed down in a tight fitting top and black trousers, wearing orange sambas you bought after you signed the contract. Your hair is still damp from the shower you took to get all that champagne out of yourit, eyes glassy from everything else. You trace your fingertips over the nose of the MCL39. Your car. The one that carried you through every heartbreak and high this year. The one that made you champion. It doesn’t feel real yet. You inhale the scent of oil and rubber, carbon and effort. You catalogue every detail. The empty pit wall. The stacked tires. The faint outlines of footprints left by your mechanics. This was your battlefield, your proving ground, your home. And soon, it won’t be yours at all. It will be somebody else’s entirely.

“Hey.” The voice cuts through the stillness — soft, familiar. You turn. Oscar stands in the entrance of the garage, changed out of his race suit. Jeans, sneakers, plain t-shirt. His hair’s still a little messy. His face, unreadable. But his eyes — god, his eyes — have only ever looked at you one way, even when he didn’t realise it. “Well,” he says, hands in his pockets. “We’re no longer teammates.” You smile, small but honest. “Yeah. End of an era.” He walks towards you slowly, quietly, like he’s approaching something fragile. Or precious. “Could be the beginning of something new.” You raise a brow, cocking your head. “What are you implying?” Oscar exhales — sharp, nervous. Then he steps closer. Close enough for the air to thrum. “I’m saying…” He hesitates, then speaks with unflinching sincerity. “I never wanted the rivalry to destroy the thing between us. The love. The chemistry. Whatever it is that’s always pulled me towards you — even when I was trying to race against it.” Your breath catches. His voice doesn’t waver. “I hate that I didn’t realise it earlier,” he says. “That you should’ve always been the priority. Not the stupid championship. Not the headlines. You.” You don’t move. You just feel. And let him go on. “But I know it now,” he adds. “And I want to try. I want to see what we could be off-track. What we could build — together.” Your voice comes quieter than you expect. “Oscar, I don’t know if I’m ready to forget what happened.” His shoulders sink slightly, but he nods. “But I can’t pretend I don’t feel it either,” you say.

Oscar looks up, meets your eyes with something so tender it could tear you apart. “That’s okay,” he whispers. “There’s no rush. We can build it back up — slowly, honest — and make it something beautiful. I have time. I would wait for you my whole life if it meant an opportunity to call you mine eventually.” It knocks the air out of you. The weight of it. The truth of it. No one’s ever said anything like that to you before. You blink once, then again. Smile, fragile and full. “That’s the cutest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” Oscar grins, crooked and bashful. “I mean it, though.” You stare at each other for a moment. Just take each other in. This is the softest the world has ever felt. He steps a little closer. Not crowding you — just… offering. “Want to grab dinner?” he asks, like a hope he’s scared to lose. “Celebrate the 1-2?” You tip your head, eyes gleaming with the echo of flirtation, “We could also call it a date, you know.” He laughs, stunned and glowing. “I’d love it to be a date.” And when he holds out his hand — careful, reverent — you take it. You leave the garage hand in hand. The walk through the paddock is quiet, almost sacred. Most of the teams have packed up. A few lingering photographers try to snap a shot, but neither of you look. You just walk like you’ve finally found your way back to something that matters. Back to home. He opens the car door for you. You slide into the passenger seat, legs tucked up, hands in your lap, heart lighter than it’s been in months. Oscar climbs in beside you and starts the engine. You fiddle with the radio, trying to connect your phone, failing and having to go through his playlists. “Your music taste better not suck as much as it did last year.” He chuckles, adjusting the rearview mirror. “It’s impeccable, actually. Thank you very much.” You hum, unconvinced, before settling on something soft and wordless. The kind of song that sounds like a Sunday night and a new beginning. He pulls out of the lot gently, carefully. One hand on the wheel, the other resting near yours on the console. His eyes flick to you every so often — not just glances, but looks. The kind of looks that say: I’m here. I see you. I care. And you look back. Because how could you not? There’s a different kind of silence now. Not heavy. Not sad. Just full. Full of all the things you haven’t said but might. Full of the things you’re still afraid of, and the things you’re ready to feel again. You look out the window at the night sky, lights blurring past. Your last race with McLaren. Your first official day as a reigning world champion. His last day as your teammate. Maybe your first day of something else entirely. And still, his hand is there. Close to yours waiting patiently for you to take it whenever you feel ready. You do. War is over.

📍Brighton, Melbourne

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yourusername best break ever! glad i got to spend it with this handsome dork @/oscarpiastri 🌊💙

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mclaren our papaya hearts are full 🧡

oscarpiastri I am NOT a dork. I am handsome, though ↳ yourusername you r such a dork! love u <3

redbullracing enjoy the time off! We can't wait to see you in the garage soon! 💙

hattiepiastri my favourite couple on and off track 🫶

lilymhe look at my little emotionally repressed bestie doing a full hard launch!! 😭 so proud

landonorris i KNEW IT

username1 they had the angst, the betrayal, the heartbreak, the team orders, the rain-soaked monologues—AND NOW A BEACH VACATION?? im sobbing

username2 THE DORK WENT FULL ROMANTIC HERO IN THE END BOOKTOK IS IN SHAMBLES

username3 we went from rivals to enemies to maybe friends to this?? oh this is cinema, this is divine, this is oscar-worthy

username4 her dating her former teammate, championship rival, literal nemesis, and emotional support dork is actually proof that slow burn is worth it

username5 just want a relationship that goes from “we’re not speaking” to “look at us holding hands in the ocean”

now playing:

pink skies by Zach Bryan slipping through my fingers by Declan McKenna invisible string by Taylor Swift everywhere, everything by Noah Kahan can't help falling in love by Kina Grannis new year's day by Taylor Swift keep driving by Harry Styles

taglist:

@luvs4haechan @satorinnie @comfortzonequeen @481reasonstocry @fcblb81 @piastribabe @edgyficuselastica @julyexx @saudianna @cherryhazee

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f1withespresso · 16 days ago

Text

you too, race winner | pt. 22

✎ — oscar piastri x fem!teammate!reader

✎ — chapter word count: +5.6k

✎ — radio: we are going places with this! thanks for all the support, comments, likes and reblogs so far. only one more chapter and the epilogue. must admit i'm a bit emotionally devastated from today's race, what about you?

series masterlist

The lights are bright, the countertop spotless, the ingredients lined up in perfect little aesthetic rows. You’re wearing a McLaren tee, your hair tied back, no makeup beyond a swipe of tinted balm and the tiniest bit of mascara on your lashes to make your eyes pop. It's just you, a camera, and a very sponsored mission: make three smoothies, be charming, don’t cry. As far as that it's easy. The recording starts. “Alright,” you say, smiling wide for the camera. “Today, I’m showing you my top three protein smoothies — which I definitely didn’t choose based on what was in my hotel mini-fridge. Totally planned. Totally professional.” You roll up your sleeves, already reaching for the first set of ingredients. Banana, matcha, spinach, chia seeds, coconut water. You walk the online audience through the macros like muscle memory, talking about recovery windows, which workouts this one pairs with best. It’s fine. You’re fine. Then the words start to pile up. You spiral into a tangent about protein powders — specifically how some of them smell “like a public aquarium trying to pass as a wellness spa" and why that's the reason you stick to this specific brand that smells like actual food. You laugh at your own words, tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Keep going. Talk about the time your blender exploded and you had to bribe a hotel staffer with paddock passes to help you clean smoothie off the ceiling. Your hands move automatically — blend, pour, taste — but your brain is two seconds behind everything you’re doing. And somewhere else entirely, if you're being honest with yourself. Because every pause is dangerous. Every quiet breath is another chance for his voice to echo back into your ears. “I fucking love you.” Vegas. Late at night. The way he said it — low and furious and helpless — like he couldn’t hold it in anymore. Like it had been eating him alive for weeks.

You reach for the second set of ingredients. Your fingertips shake just slightly. “Okay,” you say, voice a touch too bright, “this one’s my favorite for post-race recovery. Frozen berries, vanilla protein, oat yogurt, maple syrup. Simple. Sweet. Very pink. I think I drank this every day in Austria last year. Maybe that’s why I got a podium…” You trail off again. Cut yourself off with a sip and a small, awkward laugh. You’re talking too much. Rambling. Circling your words like you’re afraid of where they might land if you stop. And then comes the third recipe. You hesitate the moment you see the ingredients laid out. Peanut butter. Chocolate protein powder. Banana. Oat milk. Cinnamon. Your breath catches. Just for a second. “This one’s… kind of a classic,” you say, forcing your voice back into that light, practiced rhythm. “It’s a chocolate-peanut butter protein shake. Great as a post-workout meal. Or, like, mild emotional breakdowns. Hypothetically.” You smile, trying to make it a joke. But your cheeks are burning. You can feel it. That creeping flush, high on your cheekbones, blooming warm at the tips of your ears. “I used to make this one for Osc–ar” you add, trying to overplay how you almost called him by the nickname you baptised him with halfway through last year. “Last season. He—uh—he loved it. Swore it fixed everything.” You look down quickly, blinking hard. You blend the smoothie, say something about cinnamon being underrated, toss in a joke about almond butter being a love language and actually hating peanut butter. You keep talking. Keep smiling. Because if you stop — if you let the silence stretch too long — you know exactly what will come rushing in. You pour the last smoothie into a glass. Taste. Grin. “It’s good,” you say, voice soft again. “Comfort in a cup. Thanks for watching, and don’t forget to, uh—hydrate. Or whatever the sports version of that is.” You blow a kiss to the camera. End recording. The video goes up that afternoon. By nightfall, the comments section is chaos:

username1 not to be dramatic but she’s either in love or having a breakdown and I support her either way ↳ username2 why not both 💅 ↳ username1 IT’S THE PAUSE WHEN SHE SAYS HIS FOR ME 😭 username3 no bc that last smoothie is OSCARS favorite. I’m screaming. I’m shaking. I’m emotionally unwell ↳ username4 she used to make it for him all the time last year SHE SAID IT OUT LOUD username5 ladies if you’re rambling about almond butter and making your ex-teammate’s favorite smoothie in front of millions of people… you’re not over him ↳ username3 the blender wasn’t the only thing that was spinning 😭😭😭 username6 Oscar watched this 13 times on his phone and then stared at a wall for twenty minutes. Source: trust me mclaren FYI: no blenders were harmed in the making of this reel

You try not to look at the smoothie in front of you. You try not to think about his eyes, or his voice, or the way he looked at you in Vegas like he meant every word he said. You try to focus on something else. But even now, you see him everywhere. Even here — in peanut butter and chocolate protein and stupid cinnamon dusted on top like memory. And no matter how hard you blend, you can’t mix him out of you.

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You spend most of the day mastering the art of avoidance. It’s not like you hate him. God, no. If anything, that’s the problem — the second you see him, really see him, the blood in your veins will start sprinting and your mouth will forget how to form normal human words. So instead, you take the scenic route to everything. You map out alternate paths through the McLaren hospitality suite like you’re planning a heist. You memorize his media schedule so you can time your coffee run with mathematical precision. You even ask your PR to "just make sure I don’t bump into Oscar at lunch, okay?" with a forced, breezy smile that fools absolutely no one. Because it's not bitterness. It's nerves. Stupid, fluttery, adolescent nerves that settle in your chest like a beehive every time his name crosses your mind. In the morning briefing, you catch his eyes for half a second — hazel, warm, wide — and your stomach does a full somersault. You look away so quickly it’s almost comical. You feel like your whole face is made of blush. Your engineer gives you a confused side glance. You ignore it. Keep scribbling fake notes. Keep pretending your heart isn’t somewhere near your throat. Meanwhile, across the paddock, Oscar watches you like you’ve hung the stars. He keeps his distance. Respects your orbit. But that doesn’t mean he stops looking. When you’re standing in front of the espresso machine in hospitality — sunglasses on, head tilted slightly as you decide between almond milk and oat — he watches quietly from across the room, fingers loose around a water bottle, expression soft. You don’t see it. You never do. But God, does he smile. Later, during a media shoot for McLaren, he’s standing trackside under the blistering Qatar sun, sweat glinting at his hairline, walking the camera through Turn 6. Or at least, he tries to. "Turn 6 is pretty tricky," he starts, brows drawn in focus. "It’s off-camber and—„ Then you walk by in the background, laughing at something your PR just whispered to you, head tossed back, ponytail bouncing. Oscar freezes mid-sentence. "Sorry, uh…" he blinks. His jaw flexes like he’s resetting it. "What was the question again?“ The camera guy chuckles. “Mate, you good?” Oscar clears his throat. “Yeah. Sorry. Lost my train of thought.” McLaren posts the blooper anyway.

username1 McLaren posting this video of Oscar glitching the second [Y/N] walks by is literally the most romantic thing that’s ever happened in F1 history username3 if someone looked at me like this i would simply pass away and leave the grid username4 POV: The love of your life walks past and now you’ve forgotten what a racing line is. Turn 6? Never heard of her username5 YALL I AM SHAKING IF THEYRE NOT BACK TOGETHER BY ABU DHABI I AM GOING TO MAIL MYSELF TO ZAK BROWN username6 amazing to see oscar piastri finally embracing his roman empire (aka [Y/N] [Y/LN]) username7 i just want to know what it feels like to be the girl who makes oscar piastri forget what he’s saying in the middle of a work assignment

By the time the sun dips low behind the garage shutters, the paddock buzzes with weekend energy. Drivers debrief. Media scurries. PR teams herd people toward interviews and obligations. You still haven’t exchanged a single real word with him. You tell yourself that’s a good thing. You tell yourself you’re focused on the championship. You don’t tell yourself the truth — which is that the second he looks at you like that again, you’ll fall apart all over the asphalt. And he already knows. God, he already knows.

You’re pacing the paddock just after Qualifying, heart still pounding. Him on Pole and you in P2 — the closest you’ve been to him all weekend. Oscar’s pole lap was flawless, precise, a masterclass in control and aggression. You’re proud but also restless, the rivalry crackling between you like static. Across the paddock, the cameras have found him already. Oscar stands with the microphone in hand, calm and composed, eyes gleaming with that quiet fire. He’s breaking down his pole lap for the interviewer — the way he clipped the final apex, his brake temperature management, the tricky wind conditions on Turn 8. “So, Oscar, talk us through your final lap. It looked perfect out there.” Oscar’s voice is steady, professional, the tone of a man completely in command. “Well, the key was maintaining speed through Turn 6. I adjusted the throttle earlier than usual, which allowed me to carry extra momentum for the straight—”You appear in his peripheral vision, walking by, laughing softly with your PR. You don’t look at him. You’re caught up in your own conversation, animated, a little breathless from the adrenaline of the session. Oscar blinks. His words stutter, the thread of his explanation frays. “Sorry, can you repeat that?” he says, voice slightly hoarse, eyes still fixed where you were. The interviewer laughs, amused but professional. Fans don’t miss a second. The clip is everywhere within minutes — Oscar’s distraction, the way he loses focus mid-sentence because of you. The subtle shift in his expression, that flicker of something unspoken, something raw. Back in the hospitality suite, you steal a glance across the room. Oscar catches your eye for a moment, a flicker of a smile and something deeper — a quiet acknowledgment that this ignited flame that is more than just the on-track battle. Later, as the sun sets over the Doha skyline, both of you know the weekend is far from over. Each lap, each corner, each split second on the timing screen is a conversation — tense, charged, and full of meaning. You’re chasing him on track. He’s chasing you off track. And somewhere beneath the roaring engines and flashing cameras, something unspoken burns between you both, almost a promise that this isn’t just about racing.

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The floodlights of the Lusail International Circuit shimmer like stars across the desert. The air is thick with heat, tension, and the unmistakable scent of rubber and ambition. You sit on the grid in P2, visor down, hands clenched around the wheel. Ahead — just meters away — is Oscar. Pole sitter. Rival. Teammate. Heartbreaker. Your engineer’s voice crackles through your radio. “Alright, [Y/N], nice and clean into Turn 1. We’re good to race.” Your reply is short. Focused. “Copy. Let’s go.” As the red lights turn of both McLarens shoot off the line like twin bullets. You stick tight to Oscar through Turn 1, braking late, daring, sharp on instinct. The commentators are already buzzing. “It’s a brilliant start from both McLarens! Look at [Y/N] go, not wasting a moment!” “She’s putting pressure on Oscar immediately — we’re only in Sector one and this already feels like a grudge match dressed up in papaya!”

Lap 3. You’re on his gearbox. DRS open, you fake a move into Turn 6, pull out slightly just to see how he reacts. He doesn’t flinch. You smirk in your helmet. “Tell me if he starts moving under braking.” “So far, all clean. You’re quicker in Sector 2.” You take that information and push. Lap 5. You send it down the inside of Turn 10 — it’s bold, tight, almost reckless. The crowd gasps. Oscar defends with precision, leaves you just enough space not to crash, and still manages the better exit. “Oh, she’s really going for it today! [Y/N] [L/N] wants that win! It could very well mean that she wins the championship ahead of the last race.” “And you have to wonder what else she wants, Crofty. It seems to some as if she’s been avoiding Oscar all weekend. But on track? No hiding there.” Lap 10. The first stint is pure tension. You push and probe, hunt for gaps in his defense. But he’s ice-cold. The Oscar you fell for — and the one you can’t seem to outrun. “Box, box. Let’s go for the undercut.” “Understood.” You peel into the pit lane. You’ve nailed the entry. But something’s wrong. Too slow on the front right. “3.9. Apologies for the delay.” You bite down a curse. Back out. Clean air. But Oscar’s still out and he’s fast. Lap 16 Oscar pits. 2.4 seconds. Flawless. He rejoins ahead of you — the gap has widened. “[Y/N] just couldn’t capitalize on the strategy — that slow pit stop cost her crucial seconds. But I wouldn’t count her out yet.” Lap 21. You’re still pushing. Still believing. You clock the purple sectors, take tenths off every lap. But the tires are degrading, and so is the gap. “You’re +2.4 to Oscar. We need tire management now.” You sigh, short and clipped. “Copy.” Final laps. The fight simmers down into quiet control. You’re still chasing, always chasing. But it’s not your day. Not this time. Checkered Flag. “That’s P2. Solid job. Great effort, all year actually. Well done.” You cross the line behind him. Oscar wins. Russell P3. Max P4. You exhale sharply and slump back in your seat. It’s not heartbreak — not exactly. But it’s a different kind of ache. A beautiful race. A brutal one. And somewhere beneath the sweat and speed is something more fragile: You miss him. You still love him. And it’s starting to show.“That first stint — electric. [Y/N] really took it to Oscar today.” “You can feel it — the trust, the history, the tension. This wasn’t just racing. This was layered.” “And you know what they say: when drivers race each other that hard and that clean… that's a sign of intimate understanding. Think of Verstappen and Leclerc who have been racing each other since childhood.”

username1 Her dive into Turn 10 was a love confession in racing language username2 HE WON THE RACE BUT SHE WON THE CHAMPIONSHIP 👑👑👑 username3 this is not racing this is foreplay

The engine winds down, but your pulse does not. You pull into Parc Fermé, the familiar orange-clad swarm of McLaren mechanics already crowding Oscar’s car as he climbs out, victorious. He’s beaming — flushed cheeks, wide grin, radiating adrenaline and happiness and heat. You hear his laugh over the engine hiss. Watch him take his helmet off and shake out his hair, smile so hard it looks like it hurts. His race engineer claps him on the back, and he yells something you don’t catch over the pounding in your chest. You don’t mean to look, but you do. He looks beautiful like this. Free. Your car shutters to a halt beside his. P2. So close. Your hands are still shaking as you unclasp the belts. The sweat on your neck clings to your suit and everything inside you feels like it might burst out — like you might scream or cry or float right off the asphalt and into the atmosphere. Because he said it. Because he meant it. Because he loves you. You slide off your helmet and take a breath that doesn’t help. Oscar’s still surrounded, still the center of it all for now — and yet, you swear his eyes are on you the second you move. Like he senses you are there. You duck your head and step down from the car, boots light on the ground. Heart in your throat. You’re passing him. You could stop. Say something more. Stay. But all you manage, voice tight and too quiet, is: “Congrats.” You don’t wait for a reply. You don’t turn to look. You walk right past him like it costs you nothing, when it costs you everything. Because if you don’t keep moving, you’ll melt into the ground. But he sees you — he’s already turning your way, halfway through a laugh with his engineer, and suddenly that laugh cuts short. His eyes track you with open, visible affection, lips parted, like he’s about to say your name but forgets how. And then you’re gone. You round the corner, practically fleeing toward the garages, heat blooming across your cheeks, hands trembling where they clutch your gloves. The kind of nerves you haven't felt in years. Not in racing. Not in life. Like a teenager with a crush. Like a girl who just found out the boy she loves… still loves her back. You lean against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, breath short. And somewhere back on track, Oscar is still looking at the place where you stood, like you’ve taken all the air with you.

username1 did she just say “congrats” and BOLT??? like fully ran away?? username2 HE LOOKS LIKE A BOY WHO JUST WATCHED HIS DREAM GIRL WALK PAST HIM AND SMILE???? username3 these two are going to kill me and bury my body in parc fermé and i will THANK THEM username4 reminder that she made his exact favorite smoothie on thursday. reminder that she avoided him all weekend. reminder that she smiled when he wasn’t looking. reminder that she RAN away just now username5 I think she’s scared because she wants him back and that’s the worst kind of vulnerability (also she is SO me. girl could not look at him. girl said “congrats” and moonwalked into hiding)

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You don’t even make it that far from parc fermé. You’re still trying to outrun your heartbeat, still flushed from the near-miss, still reeling from the way Oscar’s eyes followed you like gravity itself — when someone screams. Not just someone. Your race engineer. Then the entire McLaren team erupts around you like you’ve just crossed the finish line again. Hands grabbing you, lifting you. Shouts of "CHAMPION! CHAMPION!" echoing in your ears, and before you can fully process what’s happening, someone — probably Will — is dousing you in Monster, and another arm wraps around your waist to haul you onto their shoulders. It’s all happening so fast, all noise and blur and joy. But in flashes, you register the chaos: — A crew member waving a printed out sign that says “WORLD CHAMP [Y/N]” — Zak sprinting across the pit lane like an overexcited dad at a football game— a bottle of champagne already open and foaming before the podium's even set. You’re laughing and blinking through sticky energy drink, alcohol and heat haze and fireworks that burst in the distance like the sky itself is celebrating you. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your lungs burn from screaming. And then Zak pulls you into a hug so fierce your feet leave the ground. “You did it,” he chokes out, pride thick in his voice. “You really fucking did it.” You don’t know whether to cry or laugh. So you do both. Loudly. In his arms.

The interviews start almost immediately. You’re passed like a trophy from Sky to F1TV to Ziggo and beyond, cameras and mics thrust toward your still-damp face. Someone hands you a shot of something strong and celebratory — you toss it back with a giggle. Another shot appears. You take that one too. Someone shouts, “Are you drunk already?” You grin. “No! I’m a champion! That’s totally different.” By the time you make it to the podium press conference, your knees are weak, your voice hoarse, and your soul is floating ten feet above your body. Oscar’s already seated, looking polished, back straight, like nothing could rattle him. But when you walk in, cheeks flushed, hair still damp from Monster, water bottle in hand (he’s not quite sure if it’s water in there) and giggles threatening to spill over — he breaks. He bites down on a smile so big it turns his whole face soft. His eyes crinkle. He can’t stop looking at you. Russell nods politely. But Oscar? He doesn’t blink. You plop onto the sofa like it’s a bean bag. The mic squeaks. You squint at it. “Is this thing on? Can I swear for once today?” The room laughs. Oscar hides his grin behind his hand. “I don’t think I’ve processed anything yet,” you say after a moment, words slightly slurred but still sincere. “I feel like someone’s about to wake me up for FP1. Like in my head, this race weekend hasn’t even began.” The questions start coming — about the season, the race, the moment — and you try your best to answer them all, but you keep slipping sideways into unhinged territory. You call George “my favorite shampoo commercial model” and tell him you love his hair. You call Oscar — well, nothing. But when you laugh at your own joke and nearly knock over your water bottle, he reaches out instinctively to steady it. Your fingers graze. He looks like he’s been electrocuted. You look anywhere else. Your cheeks go nuclear. The journalists eat it up. One of them asks Oscar something about tire degradation, and he answers half a sentence before flicking his eyes back to you and stammering. The smile returns. He barely makes it through the rest of the question. You’re beaming. Glowing. Buzzing like champagne in your veins and sunlight in your ribs. You’re the first female Formula 1 World Champion. And somehow, impossibly, you feel like you’ve won more than that. Because just next to you on the sofa, Oscar is looking at you like you’ve hung the moon.

username1 people are talking about the championship but I’m talking about THE WAY OSCAR LOOKED AT HER WHEN SHE SAT DOWN username2 bro she was so drunk she flirted with george russell’s hair and Oscar STILL looked like she just cured world hunger username3 if oscar’s smile gets any softer I will have to lie down on the floor forever username4 she won a championship. he fell harder. we lost our minds more than Charles Leclerc after 6 years at Ferrari

The paddock is beginning to wind down, but you’re still humming with energy — champagne in one hand, sunglasses on despite the hour, laughter spilling freely as you stroll toward the paddock gates with your engineer and a few mechanics. You're teasing someone about their terrible clubbing playlist. One of the tyre guys is daring you to shotgun another drink. Someone’s draped a papaya flag around your shoulders like a cape, and it flutters behind you like you're still on track, still flying. The night is warm. Sticky with celebration. You should feel tired — but instead you feel untouchable. And then you see him. Oscar. He’s walking toward the McLaren truck, backpack slung over one shoulder, cap pulled low. Alone and quiet. But when he spots you, his expression softens instantly. He smiles like you’ve lit up the night all over again. You pause your stride, but just barely. There’s a beat — no music, no cameras, no Monster being poured over your head. Just him. Just you. “Congrats, World Champion,” he says, voice low but earnest. “Have a fun night out.” There’s something else in his eyes — something not quite spoken. Regret, maybe. Or something deeper. You smile, wide and a little sheepish. Can’t stop yourself. “You too, race winner.” And then you’re gone again. Spinning back into the pull of your mechanics’ jokes. Laughing, golden, untouchable as you disappear into the Qatar night.

Oscar watches you go. Even after you’re out of sight, long after the echoes of your laughter fade into the warm air, he stands there, still facing the direction you walked. In a perfect world, he’d be with you right now. Not trailing behind like a ghost in the background of your victory. In that world — the one where he hadn’t fucked up hard in China, hadn’t shut you out when he got scared, hadn’t been too proud, too slow — you’d be celebrating together. You’d have dinner. Dessert. Maybe drinks at that rooftop bar you both liked in Singapore. Maybe end up tangled up in crisp hotel sheets, limbs and lips and something that feels like forever. But this isn’t that world. Not yet. He’s not foolish enough to think he deserves you right now. He’s not arrogant enough to pretend like just looking at you from across the paddock could fix what he broke. But he knows what he wants. He knows who he wants. And Oscar Piastri is done running from it. He’s going to fight for this. For you. For whatever still lives in the quiet space between race wins and world titles and all the words left unsaid. Because even from across the paddock, you still feel like home. A badly recorded phone video of that moment makes it out of the paddock and straight onto the internet.

username1 HIS LITTLE VOICE. THE WAY SHE SMILES. THE FACT THAT THEY WALK AWAY FROM EACH OTHER LIKE IT HURTS THEM. WHY ARE WE STILL PLAYING RACES. JUST GIVE THEM A FARM IN ITALY username2 there is something so tragically tender about the way he says “world champion” like he’s so so proud username4 i’m sorry the "you too, race winner" has the exact cadence of "you too, sweetheart" in a 90s romcom where the sexual tension is high but the timing is wrong username7 does anyone else feel like they’re third-wheeling in a fanfic that accidentally became real life?? username8 "you too, race winner" is now canonically the softest most flirtatious thing you can say to someone in motorsport username10 every straight man in the comments: “bro they’re just teammates” me, a degenerate: they are star-crossed lovers in the last act of a Greek tragedy with a redemption arc written in champagne and regret username11 did you SEE the way he looked at her in parc fermé? That's not a teammate. That’s a man who just watched the love of his life walk away with his heart AND the world title username12 THEY COULD HAVE BEEN CELEBRATING TOGETHER

📍Lusail International Circuit

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mclaren 🏆 WORLD CHAMPION 🏆 History made in Qatar. [Y/N] [L/N] becomes the 2025 Formula 1 World Champion — and the first woman to ever win the title. This season. This fight. This team. From everyone of McLaren: we're so proud! 🧡

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oscarpiastri Well deserved World Champion 🏆

nicolepiastri Congratulations @/yourusername 🧡 Such an incredible season and so proud of how far you’ve come. Enjoy every second of this moment!!

lando Holy sh*t. YOU DID IT!!! Unreal 🍾

maxverstappen1 Told you you’d do it, massive congrats

f1 History made! Congratulations, Champ! 🏁🏆

redbullracing Congrats to a worthy champion 👏 (But we’ll see you in 2026 👀)

username1 From fighting in F3 to winning F1, young girls everywhere have a new role model 🧡

username2 Her pit crew carried her, but she carried this team. Iconic

username3 Let’s be real… anyone could’ve won in that McLaren this year ↳ username7 well apparently Oscar couldn’t that’s why he didn’t

username4 I mean she’s good, but the car was obviously OP Verstappen in that seat would have won by Monza

username5 little girls across the world are watching this and saying “that will be me someday” 💗

username6 queen of being the fastest

username8 they laughed when she joined the sport. they said she wasn’t serious. now she’s holding a world championship trophy and giggling

📍Lusail International Circuit

liked by mclaren, yourusername and 29.245.256 others

f1 WORLD CHAMPION 🏆 [Y/N] [L/N] is your 2025 Formula 1 World Champion. 🏎 The first woman to ever claim the title. The fiercest fight. The most historic win. A season for the history books!

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yourusername holy sh*t 😭😭😭

mclaren Our World Champion 🧡 Forever proud

oscarpiastri You earned every bit of it 🏆

username1 SHE’S DONE WHAT NO ONE THOUGHT POSSIBLE. A GIRL FROM [Y/HT] JUST BECAME A WORLD CHAMPION. IMMA GO CRY IN THE GARAGE.

username2 This was the car, let’s not pretend otherwise.

username3 This post belongs in a museum! My daughters are watching this

redbullracing: Well earned. See you in 2026 👀

username4 as a max fan i’m legally required to hate but… nah she was inevitable

The Guardian – A Champion on Her Own Terms: [Y/N] [L/N] Makes History in Qatar In a sport where fractions of a second decide careers, [Y/N] [L/N] has done more than just win the Formula One World Championship — she’s shifted the axis of what’s possible. What’s most remarkable is not just that she’s the first woman to do it — though that will rightly dominate headlines — but that she did it her way: relentlessly fast, fiercely independent, and unshaken by pressure. Her 2025 campaign wasn’t perfect. But it was strategic and gritty. She’s not a figurehead. She’s a fighter. Sky Sports F1 – She’s not just a historic champion — she’s a bloody fast one. Her racecraft this season was second to none. Watch her onboards in Suzuka, in Spa, in Silverstone. That wasn’t just pace — that was guts. That was control under fire. And if you’re still blaming the car, you haven’t been watching closely enough. Autosport – [L/N] Makes History: F1’s First Female Champion Dominates the 2025 Season [Y/N] [L/N] has become the 2025 Formula 1 World Champion — and in doing so, the first woman in history to claim the title. Her victory is not only a personal triumph but a symbolic one, after decades of underrepresentation. This championship may well define an era of F1 where boundaries finally began to fall.

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f1withespresso · 17 days ago

Text

jackpot: heartbreak | pt. 21

✎ — oscar piastri x fem!teammate!reader

✎ — chapter word count: +6.9k

✎ — radio: first and foremost: if u submitted a request, it will likely be published after this series ended! So far I have loved all of them and started working on some of them, but I want to finish this series before publishing them :) And now about this chapter: it's a fever. it's meant to get worse before it finally heals. Enjoy!

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The sun had long set when they hand you an oversized race jacket. It’s part of McLaren’s limited-edition Las Vegas drop — all retro-preppy nostalgia and Americana flair: padded sleeves, punchy back prints, trucker caps with wavy logos, and those ridiculous football-style jerseys with your racing numbers on the back that the marketing team insists will “go viral.” You’re too tired to argue. You just shrug the jacket over your shoulders, let the zipper hang open, and roll your shoulders back under the too-big silhouette like you were born to wear it, not forced to wear it. Oscar’s already standing by the track, framed in a haze of low red light, holding the matching cap in his hand like he’s not sure whether to wear it or throw it. This is the first shoot you’ve done together since the start of the season. A few months back, ahead of Silverstone, you weren’t on the right terms for any of that kind of PR work. Probably would have yelled mean things at each other. Today, it’s… quieter. You settle in beside him, the hem of your jersey brushing his knuckles, and you can feel the stiffness in his shoulders — that same awkward hesitation that never quite went away, even back when you were closer than teammates had any right to be. The photographer calls for more movement. You glance up at Oscar and squint. “Cap’s crooked, mate.” He blinks. “What?” You reach up without thinking, fingers brushing his temple as you tug the brim into place. “There. Now you look marginally less ridiculous.” Oscar huffs, a small sound that might be a laugh if you weren’t so used to hearing it as a sigh. His yearning gaze meets your eyes for half a second — and it’s just like that again. Monaco. The garage. You look away first. The camera clicks, catching the moment like a secret neither of you are ready to admit. The next part of the shoot is more chaotic — more Vegas if you will. You’re posing in front of the iconic “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas” sign, bathed in flashing neon and taillights from vintage rental cars. Tourists gawk behind the roped-off section. You’re wearing the hoodie version of the drop now, paired with a high ponytail and a scuffed pair of sneakers that PR swears are “intentional.” Oscar looks like someone’s teenage brother dragged in last-minute. His hands hang awkwardly at his sides. He smiles a little lazy and confused. His eyes flick to you every time the photographer shouts a new direction. Still, there’s a boyish charm in the way he fumbles with the jersey hem. The way he tries — really tries — to not let you outshine him, even though you are. You, on the other hand, are on fire. Every picture hits. You lean into the trucker hat with a knowing smirk. Let the hood fall casually on your back. Strike a pose on the curb that earns a breathless “Perfect, stay just like that” from the camera crew. You don’t even notice you’re smiling until someone shows you the playback. And even then — even in a gallery of perfect shots — the ones fans lose their minds over aren’t the polished ones. They’re the blurry BTS photos McLaren’s social media manager leaks a few hours later:

username1 wdym they're not totally into each other??? be fr rn username2 THEIR ARMS TOUCHED IN SLIDE 3 I’M ON THE FLOOR username5 it’s the way she’s fixing his cap in slide 2 like a girlfriend would😭 username4 y’all sure this isn’t a promo for a romcom username6 finally a team drop where the merch doesn’t look like a rejected high school PE kit username7 she’s the only one who can make that trucker hat look hot. i’m sorry. username8 if he doesn’t kiss her under the neon lights of Abu Dhabi in the season finale i will sue mclaren and god username9 McLaren dropped this merch collection AND fanfiction promo in one go, give the social media intern responsible for this a raise username10 the real winners of the vegas gp are 1. [Y/N]’s bone structure 2. the guy holding oscar’s dignity off-camera 3. us

McLaren’s numbers spike. So do the comments. So does your heartbeat. You remind yourself — for the fiftieth time this week — that it’s just PR. But there’s something in the way he looks at you. Like he wants to say something. Like he still remembers what your laugh sounds like when it’s not caught between press obligations and silence. There’s something in the way your arm brushes his when you’re walking back to the garage, and neither of you move away. Something bubbling beneath the surface like champagne in a bottle that has just been shaken. Even if you think you’ll never say it out loud.

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The lights of Las Vegas flicker like a thousand camera flashes, relentless and disorienting. They shimmer off the asphalt in sharp, fragmented reflections — reds, greens, golds — dazzling, chaotic. It’s a spectacle, a circus, a simulation of glamour. And under it, you drive. FP1 begins and the first lap feels fine. But by sector two, the rhythm falters. Not dramatically. Just enough. Enough to know something’s off. Enough to feel your eyes narrow at all the visuals around you running by at top speed. Enough to hear your own breath grow tighter in your helmet, like it did in Singapore. Déjà vu. The car is fine. The setup’s fine. But your vision keeps catching on the shine of casino signs, the pulse of neon, the way everything seems to move at a thousand miles an hour even when it's slow corners. You push through. You always do. But it doesn’t flow the way it should. Your times are good. Not great. Not enough. And Oscar? Oscar is fast. Not reckless, not trying-too-hard fast — but smooth, confident, relaxed. You catch a glimpse of his timing delta flashing on the screen in the garage. Then another. Green, purple, green. He edges you in both sessions, cleanly. You step out of the car after FP2, peel off your gloves, and find yourself walking into the debrief room with your jaw tight. Not angry. Not jealous. Just… unnerved. The engineers talk data. Your performance coach talks hydration. But your eyes are on the monitor showing the replay of Oscar’s fastest lap. You don’t mean to stare. But you do. The way he kisses every apex. The patience in his throttle. The way his hands barely twitch. He’s not chasing something. He’s just… there. Present. And frighteningly good. A whisper of commentary crackles through a screen in the background: “Is Vegas where Piastri reclaims the narrative?” “Let’s not forget how brilliant this man really is.” And you don’t disagree. You press your water bottle to your lips and swallow. Your eyes still on his onboard. You can feel something shifting — not just in the standings, but in the story. For months now, you've been the headline. The chaos. The rise. But here, tonight, beneath the impossible lights of Las Vegas, Oscar Piastri is reminding everyone — including you — that he's not just part of your story. He’s got one of his own. And it’s starting to sound loud again.

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The Wynn glows like a mirage against the Las Vegas skyline at night — tall, gleaming, decadent. Inside, everything is gold-edged and glinting: champagne flutes catching the light, diamonds everywhere, golden light spilling across black marble floors. The entire lobby-turned-ballroom smells like money, power, and expensive perfume. This is not just any motorsport event. This is a spectacle. McLaren’s final livery of the season is on display under a slow-turning spotlight — a deep, glossy black with vibrant orange streaks, sleek and aggressive. Jack Daniel’s branding is everywhere on the car and here at the event: etched into the ice cubes, printed on cocktail napkins, stitched into the inside lining of the limited-edition bomber jackets the staff wear. It’s bold. American. Loud. You stand just to the side of the stage, a crystal glass of something non-alcoholic in your hand, condensation dripping down your fingers. You’re wearing black. A halter-style dress that glides against your skin like water, clings at the waist, then flows down in quiet elegance. It’s backless. Simple. But the kind of simple that costs a fortune. No glitter. No gimmicks. Just confidence, stitched into every seam. The kind of dress that doesn’t beg for attention — but gets it anyway. Someone from the media compliments you as you pass. Someone else from the sponsor board insists on a photo. You give them your best smile. The smile you’ve learned. The one that says I’m grateful, I’m polished, I’m here for your brand. The flash goes off. Again. Again. You’ve barely taken a sip of your drink before a third person starts talking about title odds and the Red Bull move. You nod. You answer. You thank them. But your mind is only half in the room. Oscar isn’t here. He was never meant to attend — he’s not required, not obligated. Still, his absence is a noise you can’t quite tune out. You picture him maybe already asleep, earbuds in, lights dimmed, thinking about qualifying. Or maybe not thinking at all. Maybe not caring — and that thought lands like a pebble in your stomach, rippling out into something heavier. You hate how easily your eyes still scan the room for him. You make your way through the event like a ghost in heels. Glamorous, effortless, adored — and aching. Everyone wants something from you tonight. A smile, a picture, a quote. And you give it to them. Because that’s what champions do. You are the championship leader. Statistically unbeatable if things go right this weekend. You’ve earned this spotlight. You should feel powerful.

But all you feel is... tired. Tired in your bones. Tired in your heart. Because somewhere between the runway lights and the pit lane, this team became your home. And now, every step forward feels like leaving. Like shedding skin that never felt borrowed but always like belonging. McLaren. Zak. Andrea The crew in the garage. Even Oscar. You’ve spent two years building this version of yourself — the girl who could walk into a party like this and look the part. The driver who delivered when it mattered. The competitor who clawed her way through the championship with nothing but grit and brilliance and a team who fully believed in her every step of the way. When you were a rookie crashing cars. When you were a championship contender batteling your teammate for the lead. And now you're about to walk away from it all. For Red Bull. The thought of that is a cold one. Sharp-edged and clinical. Red Bull doesn’t do sentiment like that. Doesn’t do softness. They don’t want your heart — just your data. It’s not a home, it’s a well oiled machinery. And maybe that’s what you need. To prove you’re not just a flash-in-the-pan world champion, lucky with a good car and a forgiving team. You want to be remembered. Feared. Written into the history books with the greats. You want more. But you also want someone to miss you. You want someone to fight for you. And you’re starting to realise that our ambition doesn’t protect you from loneliness. And that just because something feels right most of the time, perhaps even is right, it does never feel right all the time. In some moments even right decisions are meant to be mourned a bit.

You slip out of the party before midnight, muttering something about qualifying prep. People let you go. No one follows. No one sees the way your smile falls as the elevator doors close, or the way your hand clenches around the tiny black clutch in your palm like you're trying to hold yourself together. The hotel suite is too quiet when you get back. You sit in bed with the lights off, phone face down, still dressed. The dress feels like armor you can’t take off. Your thoughts spiral. Oscar. The car. The way the Vegas lights caught in the corners of your vision. The way he looked in the merch shoot. The way you looked without him here tonight. What you’ve lost. What you’re about to lose. You stare at the ceiling and realize you’re scared. Not of the racing. Not of Max. You’re scared of disappearing. Of being just another girl who burned too brightly, too fast. Sleep doesn’t come easy. When it does, it comes with dreams of track lights and engines and silence.

📍The Wynn, Las Vegas, Nevada

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formula1fashion [Y/N] at the McLaren x Jack Daniel’s livery launch last night in Vegas. Understated. Unbothered. Unmatched. The backless halter, the slicked hair, the minimal glam? She didn’t just attend — she arrived. 🖤 styled by @/leocastillo.studio

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mclaren Yeah, we won the livery drop. And the paddock 👑

username1 congratulations to whoever is getting this every night ↳ username2 Oscar 👀 ↳ username1 not very likely at this point unfortunately

username3 can’t believe Oscar fumbled a woman who walks into a room looking like THIS

username4 Y/N giving “red carpet at a Bond premiere” while 95% of the men in that room looked like tax fraud incarnated

username5 Her spine is exposed. I am not emotionally stable enough for this.

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The lights in Las Vegas famously never turn off. Neon glows like second skin across the city, a surreal blanket of stimulation that never quite fades. Underneath it all, the circuit over the strip hums—glittering, alive, pulsing with energy that borders on unbearable. Your mind buzzes too. You're tired, emotionally overstretched from the livery launch the night before. You’d smiled for every camera, played nice with every sponsor. Pretended the highlighter on your skin wasn’t masking something heavier underneath. The truth is: you're leading the championship, and yet, nothing about this weekend feels light. Still, when Q3 arrives, something inside you sharpens. Locks in. The first two runs are clean. Good, even. Oscar sets the benchmark, and it’s a strong one. Your engineer tells you to focus, that you can do it — his sector three was perfect. You take a breath. Dig deeper. Last run. Last lap. You silence the noise. Let instinct take over. The corners come to you like choreography you’ve always known — flick, throttle, brake, apex. The lights blur, but this time, they don’t blind you. They guide you. You don’t think. You drive. When you cross the line, your engineer doesn’t scream. He just breathes, sharp and stunned. “Pole by two thousandths. That’s P1, [Y/N]. Seventh of the season.” You laugh, breathless. It sounds like relief, like release. Like something untangling in your chest. Oscar only gets P2. You dap hands with him in parc fermé — brief, gloved, but it lingers. His helmet’s still on, but you can imagine the corners of his eyes crease, just slightly. He’s smiling. The media pen is a warzone of flashing lights and pointed questions. You do your bit — praise the car, the setup, the team. You dodge the Red Bull chatter with a smile so polished it could cut glass. The mic passes to Oscar. A reporter grins. You know the type. “Oscar, two thousandths… did you let her have that one?” Oscar doesn’t flinch. “No one needs to let [Y/N] win,” he says, tone even, clipped, but certain. “She’s that good. She’s proven that season that she is a real contender for dominance, poles and wins. If anything, people should be afraid of what she’ll do in a couple of years.” The camera lights flicker. Someone mutters “wow” off to the side. He doesn’t look at you, but you feel the words land in your chest like thunder. Another voice cuts in: “And her move to Red Bull?” Oscar’s eyes soften. Just a fraction. “I’ll miss having her around in the garage,” he says simply. “[Y/N] is great fun to work with.” He hesitates, as if he meant to add something. There’s a pause in the pen. An inhale. Something unspoken thick in the air. And just like that, it’s over. You walk away before it sits too long. Before the heat of it all makes you burn.

📍Las Vegas Strip Circuit

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mclaren 📍 P1 & P2 in Las Vegas 🪩 Two thousandths of a second between them. Our drivers are pushing limits together ♥️♣️ We can't wait for the race tomorrow! 🧡

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username1 the way they look at each other like they're still in love but also rivals who’d kill each other 💅

username2 oscar saying “she’s that good” like he doesn’t wake up thinking about her 😭

username3 “no one needs to let [Y/N] win” MARRY HER THEN??

username4 two thousandths is too intimate. they’re SICK for this

username5 I’m also afraid of what [Y/N] will do in a few years and i’m not even on the grid 😭

username6 don’t mind me just crying in the club bc he said he’ll miss her in the garage 🫠

username7 can’t stop thinking about how he said “i’ll miss having her around in the garage.” this is softcore heartbreak. romantic tragedy. Don’t need the F1 movie. This is peak cinema

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The lights feel brighter than usual on Sunday. Not just overhead, but everywhere — refracted in the halo, bouncing off barriers, flashing from slot machines even behind the catch fencing. Vegas doesn’t blink. Vegas glares. “Okay [Y/N], let’s keep it clean. Remember your braking points into Turn 1. You’ve got this.” You barely hear your engineer. The world shrinks to the five red lights ahead. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Lights out. You react — late. Not a twitch or a stall. No — a delay. Half a second of hesitation, and it’s done. Oscar darts past before you even hit second gear. Max slices around the outside. Russell. Leclerc. Hamilton. They swarm. You’re swallowed whole by Turn 1. P6 by the time you reach the Strip straight. “Fuck!” you hiss into the radio, jaw locked. “Sorry. I’m— I don’t know what happened.” “Reset. Eyes forward. Car’s fine. You’re fine.” But your heart isn’t. It’s pounding so hard it drowns out the engine. You knew the start lights were tricky here — that Vegas' visual noise could rattle you like it did in Singapore. You knew. And still. You dig in. Lap by lap. Sector by sector. The track feels slick with chaos — dirty air, brake dust, red and yellow blinking everywhere. You wrestle the car like it’s fighting back. Meanwhile, Oscar? Commanding. Effortless. Lap 12. “Piastri is absolutely flying out there. Fastest lap again. That’s a 1:34.190 — he’s leaving Verstappen in his wake.” “And let’s not forget — he beat [Y/N] in every practice session this weekend. Only lost pole, but quickly made up for that. He’s in form, and he’s proving it today.” You pass Hamilton into Turn 5 with a brutal late-brake maneuver. He leaves just enough space. Barely. Lap 21. You’re in P5. “Nice one, [Y/N]. Let’s keep it clean through the pit cycle. We’re still in this“, you engineer encourages you over the radio. You breathe deep, eyes narrowing behind your visor. “Copy. Let’s go hunting.” Box. Outlap. You nail it. Lap 31. Russell, cleared. Lap 35. Sainz, done. You’re in P3 now — but Max and Oscar are out of reach. Ten seconds ahead. Running clinical, perfect laps. Vegas keeps flashing. The track lights blur at the edges, making every apex feel like it’s breathing, shifting under your tires. You blink hard. Shake it off. “You okay in there?” your engineer asks on Lap 42. “I’m— yeah. I’m managing.” You’re not okay in there. But there’s no time to spiral. You keep pushing. Lap 50. Final lap.

“What a response from Oscar Piastri! After a string of difficult weekends, this is pure class. He’s led every lap. He’s tamed Vegas.” “And look at [Y/N]. From P6 back to the podium — that’s gutsy. Championship mindset right there. But the win is just out of reach this weekend after that bottled start.” Chequered flag. Oscar crosses first. Max second. You roar across the line in third. “P3, [Y/N]. What a recovery. Mega job. That was a hell of a drive.” You don’t answer your engineer right away. You just close your eyes and exhale. Podium. You ease out of the car, every muscle aching, every breath heavy with the fight you just fought. The Vegas lights blaze around you, harsh and relentless, but somehow they feel less suffocating now—less like a spotlight and more like a glow, a quiet recognition. In parc fermé, Oscar’s already there, calm and steady. His helmet is off, his cap on and pulled low, the faint sheen of sweat catching the light. You meet his eyes, and for a long moment, the noise of the crowd, the buzzing cameras, the roaring engines—all of it falls away. “Hell of a fight,” he says quietly, voice low enough only for you. No triumph, no edge—just honesty. You give the faintest smile, the corner of your mouth twitching like you almost want to laugh. “Yeah you too. Congrats on the win.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. But you catch the flicker of something beneath—the pride, the respect, maybe even relief. The tension between you feels lighter now, as if the race peeled back all the layers you’d both been hiding behind. When it’s time to step onto the podium, your legs feel leaden but your heart lighter. The cheers wash over you, a roar you barely register. You stand side by side—Oscar, the winner, and you, back on the podium after a fight that nearly broke you. You knew you bottled the win. That it was your fault. But it didn’t sting as much as it ought to. As it would have a couple of months ago. He raises the champagne bottle first, a sly grin tugging at his lips. You mirror him, the cold glass sticking to your sweaty hands. The cork pops, the golden spray rains down, and you both laugh, caught between exhaustion and elation. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the rivalry fades into something softer—something unspoken, but deeply felt. It’s not just about the championship anymore. It’s about the fragile, fierce bond that still holds you together, even when everything else threatens to tear you apart. And as the champagne drips down your face and runs off your chin, you realize—maybe, just maybe—this isn’t the end. Not yet.

The press room hums with its usual restless energy — flashes, murmurs, the rustle of papers. You settle into your chair, trying to steady your breathing. The lingering taste of race day is still there — the sweat, the burnt rubber, the faint stickiness of champagne from the podium. Your fingers curl lightly around the microphone. You meet the first question with honesty, your voice calm but tinged with vulnerability. “The start was rough. The lights... they really threw me off. The track just felt like it was moving beneath me. I lost my rhythm for a bit, and that cost me. I’m just grateful I managed to fight back to the podium.” You glance up, scanning the room. The reporters’ faces blur under the bright lights, but something in their eyes feels softer today, like they’re waiting for more — more than just the usual post-race soundbites. The questions come and go, but then the room quiets as it’s Oscar’s turn. You catch his eyes across the table; calm, steady, a flicker of something warm deep within them. A reporter leans forward, a playful edge in their voice. “Oscar, if you could choose your next teammate, who would it be?” Your heart hiccups before you can stop it. The room seems to hold its breath. Oscar’s gaze finds you, unwavering. His voice is quiet but clear. “Honestly? I wish [Y/N] wasn’t leaving.” Your cheeks catch fire, a sudden warmth spreading from your ears to your throat. You look down, biting your lip, trying to hide the fluttering smile that threatens to escape. But the slightest laugh bubbles up — a soft, almost shy sound. You catch him watching you, that genuine smile lighting up his face, no trace of the usual guardedness. It’s the kind of smile that belongs to a moment before everything gets complicated, before rivalry and hurt set in — a glimpse of what might have been. You dare a quick glance back up, eyes meeting his for just a heartbeat. There’s an unspoken softness between you, a shared memory of racing side by side — the quiet mornings before sim practice, the long nights poring over data, the small victories and the stumbles. The room around you feels warmer, softer. Cameras continue to click, but the sharp edge of competition dulls for a moment. You can almost hear the ghosts of laughter and easy conversations you once shared. Oscar leans back, still smiling — proud, a little vulnerable, like he’s admitting something only you will fully understand. The reporter presses on, but the spell lingers. You breathe in deeply, steadying yourself, hoping nobody saw how the redness had softly crawled into your cheeks.

username1 OMG when Oscar said he wished [Y/N] wasn’t leaving??? 🥹💔 The way she blushed tho… they still got it username2 Oscar being all soft and real about [Y/N] leaving is the content I didn’t know I needed. The blush!! The giggle!! So cute username3 press conference was low-key the cutest thing all season username4 he wishes she wasn’t leaving 😭 username5 did anyone else replay that blush like 100 times username6 oh sure Oscar, you wish she wasn’t leaving. Because clearly, mclaren’s been such a warm and fuzzy family all season, nothing awkward at all 🙄 meanwhile, [Y/N] out here glowing. Redbull’s lucky they’re getting a queen 👑 username7 Press: “Did Oscar let [Y/N] win pole?” Oscar: “Nope, she’s just that good” Me: But does she let him win her heart tho? username8 Okay but the way Oscar smiled when she looked away kills me. Like he’s so proud and also a little terrified he’s accidentally cute. And she’s trying not to giggle. This is literally a rom-com but with cars and heartbreak HELP

The paddock hallway is a cold, hollow corridor with harsh white lights that buzz overhead, flickering like a broken heartbeat. The muted hum of distant voices fades away as you and Oscar walk side by side back to the McLaren motorhome, away from the crowd, away from the noise. The cold air hits your skin through the thin fabric of your jacket. You can smell the faint trace of fuel and rubber mixed with sweat — the smell of pressure, expectation, everything that’s come before this moment. Your voice is low, tense, brittle, trying to hold back the flood, but you know it won’t last. “It’s insane, isn’t it? That this—like us being teammates—is going to end in two races. Just two. After all the blood and sweat and the tears. After everything we’ve been through in the past two years.” You try to keep it steady, but the words tremble on your tongue like a secret too heavy to hold. Oscar’s face is tight, jaw clenched. His eyes, usually so composed, burn with a storm you don’t often see. He swallows, voice raw, barely controlled. “You shouldn’t leave.” Your laugh is bitter, sharp, shaking with disbelief. “Well. I mean you didn’t really offer me a reason to stay, now did you? You had every chance.” That’s the spark. The dam breaks. The floodgates open. You turn towards him, “You said you didn’t want me. In China. At the beginning of the season. After we flew there together. After I agreed to stay at your stupid apartment in Monaco. After the dinner with your family, for fucks sake!” Your voice cracks but you press on, furious. “Do you have any idea what that felt like? Like I was some mistake you regretted, some pr accident you wished you could erase? Like I never mattered—like I was a fucking toy to you.” Oscar’s breath catches; his hands twitch as if reaching for something he can’t grasp. His voice comes out sharper now, defensive, angry, pained. “You shut me out! The moment the championship fight began, you acted like I was the enemy—like I was poison. I thought—I knew you hated me.” You stare at him, hurt and fury mixing so thickly it almost chokes you. “I acted like I hated you? Do you fucking listen to yourself?! Miami. Don’t you remember Miami? You left me stranded after China and went out and replaced me with someone else. You used me, played me like a piece in your game, and then pretended like I was the problem. I was broken, Oscar. And you walked away.” His fingers curl into fists at his sides. His voice rises, cracking with emotion. “I wanted to fix it. Monaco. That weekend. I was trying to fix us, but you slammed every door in my face, like I was poison.” You shake your head, voice rising, tears pricking the edges of your vision. “Fix it? Monaco felt like a fucking trap! A goddamn manipulation! You only wanted me close only when it suited you, then tossed me aside like I was nothing.” Oscar’s eyes flash with something fierce and desperate. “That’s some fucking bullshit and you know it. You started this war. You made it personal. I didn’t want this rivalry—but you pushed me into it.” Your voice becomes a roar, shaking the space between you. “No, you couldn’t handle my rise. You hated seeing me succeed. You cracked under pressure, and instead of owning it, you tried to burn me down. Tried to dim my flame because you hated me.” There’s a sharp silence, thick and heavy, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. Your chest heaves with ragged breaths, heart pounding like a drumbeat in a war zone. Then Oscar’s voice falls to a whisper, raw and fragile, as if speaking these words out loud might shatter him. “I don’t hate you.”

His voice breaks. “I fucking love you. Can’t you see? I’ve been in love with you since you joined the team. Since January 2024. When I saw you in the team gear at the MTC for our first team meeting of the season, that’s when I felt it. That feeling of rosey glasses and butterflies rambling in my stomach and all that bullshit.” You freeze—breath caught in your throat. The world narrows until it’s just you and him, the weight of those words hanging between you like a fragile thread. He steps closer, the space between you collapsing like a star imploding. “I really don’t want you to leave.”

Your voice is a whisper, barely there, trembling with all the ache in your chest. “Then you should’ve told me that you loved me fucking earlier” You turn away, trying to walk away, every step heavy, each one echoing through your chest like a drumbeat of heartbreak, leaving him standing alone in the cold, fluorescent glow of the hallway—broken, raw, haunted. But there’s more — because the fight isn’t just shouting, it’s all the moments they remember mid-argument, the months of emotion flooding back with painful clarity. You remember the nights spent barely talking, the cold silences that stretched like miles between you in the garage, the way his eyes looked away when you tried to reach out. You remember feeling like a ghost in your own story, like a queen abandoned on her throne. Oscar remembers the way you shut him out when he tried to text, the way your replies became clipped, distant. How he stayed up nights wondering if you even liked him anymore, or if all this was just a championship to you.

Oscar tries catching up to you. You shout about the endless days of trying to prove yourself, feeling like you had to fight not just the other drivers, but the invisible war between you two. How every smile you gave was a mask, every joke a shield. He yelled about feeling like he was losing you to something bigger, something he couldn’t fight — your ambition, your drive, the pressure that pushed you both over the edge. You screamed about being lonely in the crowd, about how it hurt to be the championship leader and feel like you were losing the only person who mattered. He fired back about how he never stopped caring, never stopped hoping, but you made him feel like a stranger, like an outsider. You trade blows like warriors, but with the words of lovers — cutting deeper than any sword, bruising in ways no physical fight could. And in the silence that follows, just before you walk away, your breath shakes, your throat tightens, and the weight of everything presses down so hard it almost crushes you both. He wants to reach out — to pull you back, to promise he’ll fight harder, to fix what he broke. But you step away instead, tell him not to follow you, tears slipping free, the sound of your footsteps the only thing breaking the heavy quiet. And just like that, the moment is gone — leaving only the ache and the raw, ragged edges of two hearts torn in half.

Your footsteps echo long after you’ve turned the corner, long after your voice has gone hoarse and your lungs have given up trying to catch breath. You don’t know where you’re walking. You just know you have to keep going. Away. From him. From the way he looked at you when he said “I love you.” Your chest hurts. Not with pressure. Not with panic. Just — pain. A soft, raw ache that creeps up your ribs and settles behind your collarbone. The kind of hurt that isn’t urgent enough to scream but too deep to ignore. He loves you. He. Loves. You. And God, it shouldn’t make you feel like this. It shouldn’t light something inside you after he’s spent months pouring gasoline over everything you ever were. It shouldn’t make your heart flutter like it’s seventeen and stupid. But it does. It fucking does. And that’s the worst part. Because he said it too late. He said it when your heart had already built its shell around itself, when you’d already packed your bags for Red Bull, when you’d already trained yourself to stop needing him. It’s not fair — that the boy who caused you the most heartache gets to make you feel butterflies now. You reach your driver room. Slam the door behind you. Sit on the floor like the walls might know how to hold you better than he ever did. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes and breathe. In. Out. Again. It doesn’t help. Your chest keeps tightening. Your brain keeps looping. “I don’t hate you. I fucking love you.” What if he’d said it after Austria? What if he’d said it before China? Before Miami? What if he’d said it before it was too fucking late?

Oscar doesn’t move for a long time after you walk away. The hallway feels colder than it should. Sterile. Artificial. The hum of overhead lights drills into his skull. But it’s not as loud as the silence you left behind. He said it. He finally said it. The thing he’s swallowed for months, folded into every stolen glance, buried under every fake rivalry smile, tucked behind every race win. “I love you.” He said it like a man handing over his last weapon. Like a man surrendering. But you still left. And he doesn’t blame you. He closes his eyes, leans his head back against the wall, and feels it hit — the hollowness, the regret. The quiet grief of realizing he fought too late. He thinks about January 2024. You in the simulator room, hair up, focus sharp. The first time he realized you weren’t just good — you were dangerous. You laughed at his lap time, leaned against the side of the wall with that confident little smirk. He’d known then, without words, that you’d change his life. He just didn’t know how. He thinks about Australia. Monaco. How you looked in his hoodie. How you knew what to say when he got P2 in Silverstone last season. And how at one point you stopped looking at him like he was home. He doesn’t exactly remember when it turned. He just remembers being afraid to tell you what he wanted — because he didn’t think he deserved you. Because he thought ambition had to mean sacrifice. Because he thought love would make him weak. Now he knows better. He checks the paddock lot an hour later. Part of him still hoping, still holding on. Your car’s already gone. And this time, there's no race left to chase you through.

📍Las Vegas, Nevada

liked by mclaren, oscarpiastri and 5.359.354 others

yourusername what happens in vegas, stays in vegas! 🎲 was a tough race, so i'm not mad about letting it go! Will see you next in Qatar! 🧡

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mclaren We hit the jackpot with you. 🎰💥

redbullracing Not gonna lie black and orange suits you... 💙 But wait ‘til you try blue and electric ⚡️

f1 An icon in Vegas, on and off the track.

maxverstappen1 good fight. next time, maybe less thinking — more throttle 😁

username1 the dress >>>> everything else on the strip

username2 oscar making her blush in the press conference and THEN disappearing from the comments like he didn’t just drop a bombshell???? sir

username4 realizing we only have 2 more races of her in papaya is hitting me like a freight train

username5 idc what y’all say she fumbled the start harder than me texting my ex

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that's so true by Gracie Abrams the grudge by Olivia Rodrigo you were good to me by Jeremy Zucker merry christmas, please don't call by Bleachers i love you, i'm sorry by Gracie Abrams can't pretend by Tom Odell when the party is over by Billie Eilish west coast by Lana Del Rey Peace by Taylor Swift

taglist:

@luvs4haechan @satorinnie @comfortzonequeen @481reasonstocry @fcblb81 @piastribabe @julye @saudianna @cherryhazee @edgyficuselastica @paracosmoses

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f1withespresso · 17 days ago

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starting to get scared it wont be a happy ending now that there’s 4 chapters left 😅

well, a lot can happen in 4 chapters... a lot of good things, but then also a lot of bad things... 4 chapters is like 20k words... i can do a lot with 20k words...

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f1withespresso · 17 days ago

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I fucking love the kink is my karma series, it’s so well written and thoughtful! My heart hurt for the both of them rn though 🥹 I just want them to be happy!! Can’t wait for the next part

thank u for all the love!! next part is coming out this afternoon!

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f1withespresso · 18 days ago

Text

from p6 with regret | pt. 20

✎ — oscar piastri x fem!teammate!reader

✎ — chapter word count: +5.0k

✎ — radio: let's just hope [Y/N] has double letters in her last name or it's gonna be a drought for her... on a different note: i published a KA12 oneshot this morning, that I think is really cute! Also thanks for all the feedback, reblogs, likes and comments <3 u warm my heart guys!

series masterlist

It spread through the paddock like court gossip in a regency ballroom—shoulders leaned in closer to look over phone screens together, glances grew more pointed, voices lowered, then pitched with urgency. A subtle shift, as if a frozen lake had cracked underfoot. Thursday mornings were typically very routine during race weekends: media obligations, rehearsed PR smiles, polite small talk over coffees still too hot to drink. But not this Thursday. Not in Brazil. This morning, the silence shattered at exactly 08:00 local time. Formula One's official channels dropped the post like a sledgehammer: dark blue background, a candid portrait shot taken of you in your race suit and in their usual font: „BREAKING: [Y/N] [Y/LN] will join Oracle Red Bull Racing for the 2026 Formula One season.“Just like that, the worst-kept secret in the paddock was no longer a secret at all. It was a fact. Red Bull had also uploaded a post themselves. The graphic was sleek, unmistakably Red Bull — slick, professional, triumphant. Below it, a short caption filled with carefully curated words: “One of the sport’s brightest talents in Formula One joins the six-time World Champion team. The future looks bright in red and blue.” The dominoes fall in real time. Screenshots flood Twitter. Sky Sports cuts the news into their usual programming. Journalists scramble for their cameras and microphones, phones pinging non-stop with alerts and reactions. WhatsApp group chats across the F1 ecosystem buzz like hornet nests. There are no leaks anymore — this was a confirmation. Within the hour, pundits are already mid-debate, studio lights hot with opinion. “She’s been outperforming everyone on the grid since July. McLaren couldn’t keep her down forever.” “They fumbled. Plain and simple.” “She’s not just fast, she’s a game-changer. This is going to be her era of domination at Red Bull, after Vettel and Verstappen, now we see [Y/N]. Get ready.” The fandom splits like cracked marble. Some mourn your papaya chapter. Edits flood TikTok: soft montages of you laughing with the McLaren mechanics, your helmet held in Oscars’s outstretched hands, you grinning beside him under fireworks in Abu Dhabi last year. Captions like “end of an era” and “she was the soul of McLaren” fill the comments. But others—others celebrate like it was coronation day. “This is it. This is her evil empire arc.” “Max and [Y/N] in the same team? That’s a nightmare for any other team in the paddock.” One tweet with over a hundred thousand views simply read: "She left papaya for blood.“

But perhaps the loudest sound of the day was the one not made at all. McLaren said nothing. Not a post. Not a press release. Not even a lukewarm thank you graphic shared to Instagram stories. No driver quotes. No statement from Zak or Andrea. No soft tribute video with background piano music. Just... silence. The kind of silence that didn’t feel neutral. It feels defeated. Publicly wounded. As if the PR department couldn't bring themselves to package up the loss and put a bow on it. In the McLaren hospitality unit, it's an unmistakably tense — coffee mugs clink harder on the tables, jokes die in throats, heads stay down. The entire paddock can feel it. Everyone knows that if the team had hoped to lock her down for 2026, they’d failed. Publicly. Thoroughly. By mid-morning, cameras are already fixed on Red Bull’s side of the paddock. Max Verstappen is the first to break the silence, caught mid-interview by Sky F1. “I mean, I think it’s great,” he says, easy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She’s a promising, exciting, and quick driver. I’ve said it before — she’s one of the best on the grid right now and it’s only her second year. Next year’s going to be... interesting to say the least. We'll have to wait and see what she can do in next year's car.” Then comes Christian Horner — never one to avoid a headline. In an F1TV sit-down interview, he leans back in his chair with the posture of a man who knew he’d pulled off a coup. “We’re absolutely delighted,” he comments, his voice smooth and composed. “Adding [Y/N] to our driver line-up is something we’ve been quietly working on for a while now. She’s not only phenomenally quick, but she has the intelligence, the resilience, and the race craft that defines world champions. We believe we’ve assembled the most competitive line-up on the grid for next season — without any question.” The smile he gives the camera doesn’t just say “we got her.” It says: „and you couldn’t do anything about it.“ Speculation begins immediately.

The Race – Red Bull Confirmed. Now What? McLaren’s 2026 Driver Puzzle Begins. With [Y/N] gone, McLaren faces its biggest lineup question in years. Autosport – Who's Next for McLaren? Sources Say Rookie Talks Are Already Underway. Insiders report McLaren junior Alex Dunne has been 'shadowing race operations' since Singapore. motorsport.com – Could Fernando Alonso Make a Papaya Return? Alonso’s contract at Aston Martin ends in 2025. Too early to rule it out. ESPN F1 – McLaren’s Post-[Y/N] Plan: Risk a Rookie or Buy Out Experience? Rumors swirl about a quiet approach to Alex Albon's camp. WTF1 – Oscar the New No.1? Some Say He’s Not Ready. “You can’t build a title campaign on a confidence crisis,” one engineer commented anonymously.

The silly season has just begun again. And as the day unfolds, the air remains thick with a curious energy. Some call it betrayal. Some call it evolution. Some — the quiet ones — just watch the chaos with something between awe and eagerness. Because whether they cheer your move or hate it, everyone in the paddock understands one thing by noon that Thursday: The game had just changed once again. And you — smiling, silent, nowhere to be found yet — made your next move. Not with words. But with a signature. And the world is only playing catch-up.

username1 no, just no. I need five business days to cry username2 so that’s why she was glowing in Mexico. deal must’ve been signed already username3 mclaren really fumbled their entire bag huh username4 her villain era at Red Bull is going to be UNREAL i fear for the grid username5 redbull just won the 2026 championship before 2025 is even over username6 Max and [Y/N] on the same team??? no one’s sleeping well next season username7 i will never emotionally recover from the [Y/N] x Oscar mclaren era username8 Christian Horner really played the long game and WON. i can't username9 no bc i just KNOW the others on the grid are texting each other right now like “wtf do we do now” 😭 username10 i'm gonna cry when she hugs her engineer goodbye in Abu Dhabi

It’s late afternoon in São Paulo, and the heat hangs in the air like something tangible—thick, humming with electricity. Media day at Interlagos is always a circus, but this year, it’s outstandingly nasty. After the news of your Red Bull signing dropped that morning, all eyes are on you. You don’t flinch under the weight of it. You walk into the paddock like you belongs there. Like you already got that championship trophy and like you’re halfway into your future with a new team. Your smile is relaxed. Your posture loose. The kind of calm that only comes when the storm of negotiations has finally passed. Even the crew over at Visa Cash App Racing Bulls is on a high. They’ve scored the scoop of the weekend—a “Pack the Perfect Weekend Bag with the drivers on the grid” challenge, filmed in a pop-up set designed to look like a cheap hotel room. It’s light-hearted, punchy, and made for reels and to be shared in stories. There’s a duffel bag on a table. A timer. Ten items to pick from. It comes with a twist: if you take too long deciding, you have to answer a fan-submitted “spicy question” off a stack of cards. First up: a pair of sunglasses, your favorite brand. “A must,” you say, tossing them into the bag, stating “Brazilian sun doesn’t play.” Second: A copy of Daisy Jones & The Six, worn and bookmarked. “Don’t judge me, I read this last off-season. Wasn't too bad so I would definitely pack it again.” The clock ticks. You hesitate on your third item. “Three… two…” “I know, I know!” You laugh, grabbing a McLaren team cap. “I’m still papaya for the last couple of races. So calm down, Twitter.” The crew cheers. You throw your head back, laughing freely, and for a moment, it’s like nothing weighs on your shoulders anymore. You breeze through the rest of the game, ending with a pair of noise-canceling headphones and a tub of electrolyte gummies. When you finally pull a spicy card just for fun, it reads: “Which driver are you most excited to work with next year?” You lift a brow. “You mean my teammate? The four-time world champion?” You smile. “Yeah, I think we’ll get along just fine.” The reel hits Instagram by nightfall, cut with jump cuts and a dreamy lo-fi track. The comment section explodes:

username1 she’s BACK the [Y/N] glow era is back on username2 oh yeah, that contract was signed before Mexico for SURE username3 not me missing her over at mclaren already and she hasn’t even left yet 🫠 username4 she signed with rb and immediately does media for them lol username5 she and max are gonna be lethal. i fear we’re not ready username6 oscar what if u just said something, anything, now would be great x

Back in the press pen, your performcance is flawless in a very different way. Your’re seated in front of a row of reporters, dressed in a McLaren jersey, crossed legs, calm expression. When asked about the deal, you don't dodge. You don’t overexplain. “Obviously it’s gonna be a big change,” you say. “And I’m incredibly excited about the season ahead. But right now I’m still here in this season. I’m still fighting in papaya. I owe this team a lot, and I want to finish strong. We’ve built something beautiful this year, and I’m not done yet.” Someone asks if the deal will affect your relationship with the team the last couple of races. “Look, nothing changed for me. The engineers, the mechanics, Zak, Andrea—we’ve all worked together closely for a while now. They’ve been nothing but supportive.” You pause, choosing your next words carefully. “I think there’s been so much speculation all year. It feels good to just… breathe. No more behind the scenes distractions and talks. Just racing.” The quotes hit social media before the panel ends. Screenshots of your answers start trending: “I’m still fighting in papaya.” “It feels good to just… breathe.” “Just racing.” The fan theories swirl fast, chaotic, and—for once—largely joyful.

username1 she was dying inside for 3 months and now she’s out here glowing like it’s spring break username2 red bull got her and she said ✨liberation✨ username3 anyone else notice she only looks like this when oscar’s not in the room 🫢 username4 Oscar watching her leave like 👁️👄👁️

Even the Sky Sports commentators pick up on it. During a panel shot in the paddock, Ted Kravitz remarks, “You can tell, can’t you? That’s not a driver weighed down by politics anymore. That’s someone ready to win a couple more races.” Back inside, you finish the last of your interviews —one-on-one, direct-to-camera, the kind that gets clipped into promo reels. You hold eye contact the whole time. Your voice doesn’t shake once. “It’s been a long road,” you admit. “There’ve been highs. There’ve been lows. But this weekend? I’m just here to race. Nothing else. The goal is to get in a third win in a row.” The lights turn off. The mics unclip. You stretch out your neck and thanks the crew before stepping off the set. Somewhere else in the paddock, Oscar watches the clip play on a tablet handed to him by his press officer. He says nothing. But he rewatches it once before handing the screen back. And outside, the crowd is already forming, chanting your name. In three languages. It’s a wildfire.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The engines scream through the final sector of Interlagos, the light shifting amber-gold across the asphalt as the sun begins its descent. Saturday qualifying at the Brazilian Grand Prix always brings drama — but today, the circuit holds its breath for something greater. You’re on your final flyer, and everything is clicking. Every corner comes to you before you ask. The car — twitchy all through FP3 — has now transformed under you. The rear dances, precise and loyal. The tyres are at the edge but never break loose. You take the Senna S like you were born on it, brake late into Descida do Lago, kiss the inside curb at Junção, and then — full throttle up the hill and through the gears. It’s violent. It’s beautiful. It’s fast. And when you cross the line, the world explodes. P1. The McLaren garage detonates into noise — yells, fist pumps, the unmistakable thump of hands slamming pit wall countertops in celebration. You scream into the radio, laughter breaking through your own breathlessness. “YES! Yes yes yes yes! That was unreal!” “[Y/N], that was magic. Absolutely perfect lap. P1. Fastest on the grid today. Just incredible.” You’re out of the car in parc fermé before anyone can come up to you. Helmet off, eyes wide, your cheeks flushed from the heat and the adrenaline. You run — run — straight into the arms of your race engineer behind the barricade, who catches you like a little sibling returning from summer camp. Then your performance coach. Your mechanics. One by one, you collect them. Tight hugs. Hands in hair. You’re laughing so hard you forget the cameras are there. It feels different, this pole position knowing it could be your last with them. The joy is raw. Unfiltered. It’s not about the championship, not about the media cycle. It’s about this. The lap. The craft. The fire. It's about what you can achieve together.

Oscar watches from a few feet away. He’s already unbuckled his belts and climbed from his car. His P3 is solid — respectable — but it barely is being registered. Not when you’re standing in the middle of the pit lane like you’ve just touched heaven. He’s frozen in place for a second too long, helmet still in hand. You don’t see him yet. You’re still hugging the guy who wheels out your fan during hot sessions. Oscar swallows watching you celebrate like this, like it's the first time you achieve anything. You used to hug him like that too. You used to find him first. The difference in you is startling. Your face is lit with something he hasn’t seen all season. Something he's missed — that spark that used to catch fire after every great Saturday last year. That grin that used to find its way to him, first, always. He hadn’t even realized how dimmed it had become. How dimmed you had become. And maybe — maybe that’s the worst part. Maybe it wasn’t just the pressure. Or the team politics. Or the contract tension. Maybe it was him, too. The way he bristled in interviews. The shortness. The coldness. The fact that every time you rose, he felt threatened — and let it show. He wonders if you saw all the things he didn’t say, even before he knew how to say them. He wonders how long you've felt this jailed. How long you've been waiting to breathe again. He walks over before he can talk himself out of it. You turn at the last second, having just handed your gloves off. Your smile dims slightly, just a flicker — polite, neutral. Not cold. Just… careful. “Congrats on pole,” Oscar says. It’s awkward. Stiff. His voice is rough, like he’s chewed gravel getting it out. You blink, then soften. Just a little. “Thanks,” you say. And then, before it can hang too long between you, you step forward and give him a one-armed hug. Quick. Gentle. Just the brush of connection. And then it’s gone. But for Oscar, it’s everything. You don’t linger. You're already being pulled back into the light — the press, the paddock, the pole qualifying interview lineup. Oscar stays where he is, hands at his sides, eyes trailing after you. And even as the chaos resumes, the photographers shouting, the radio static, the hype music blaring in the background, all he can hear is the silence inside his own head. He thinks about every time he cut you short in a debrief. Every time he let a passive-aggressive quote slip in post-race interviews. Every time he saw your success and mistook it for a threat. Every time he had the chance to say, „You were never my enemy“, and didn’t. He thinks of the podcast. Of Miami. Of how quickly it all fell apart before his eyes and he didn’t see it coming. He doesn’t know what to do with the weight of it. Not yet. But he wants to try. Somewhere in the background, your voice crackles over the press feed. “I just feel like myself. I’m confident in the car, I had a great couple of races the past weeks. And that’s what matters.” And Oscar Piastri, standing in the shadow of your breathtaking lap, realises just how long it’s been since he felt like himself.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

“And it’s lights out and away we go in São Paulo!”

The roar of Interlagos rises like a stadium of gods — the crowd on their feet, the sun casting gold over the Senna S as twenty cars launch into chaos. You hold the inside line into Turn 1, fending off a rapid Max and Charles, both hungry, both surgical. But you’re sharper. “We’re watching a driver at the top of her game. [Y/N] [Y/LN] is soaking up pressure from both sides — Verstappen in DRS range, Leclerc not far behind — and she’s not twitching a bit“, Croft analyses in the Sky Sports Commentator lounge. “She’s driving like a champion already. The maturity, the confidence under braking… It's remarkable to see her control the race from the front.” Your radio crackles into life. “Defend more into Turn 12. Mode push. Clear exit. Max is close.” No panic. No noise. Just execution. You position perfectly into Turn 12 and force Max wide. You bite back at Leclerc’s undercut attempt by Lap 19. You switch modes, cool your tyres, take a breath, then punch in purple laps when it matters. Fast. Controlled. Relentless. Mid-race, the battle reaches a fever pitch — Max attempts the dive into Turn 4, late on the brakes, but you squeez just enough without crossing the line. It’s elegant, high-stakes warfare. The crowd roars. “This is why she’s going to Red Bull next year. This right here.” “But she’s still in papaya now. Still fighting for this title in this seasons McLaren car. And if she keeps driving like this, you’d be mad to bet against her.”

You cross the line fifty-seven laps later with almost a five-second gap to Max. Arms raised. Victory radio exploding in your ears. “That’s win number three in the last three races. That’s a champion’s drive, [Y/N]. Just stunning.” You reply, breathless and laughing: “That was epic. I need to lie down, I think. I need cake. I need— I love you guys.“

Max is the first to greet you in parc fermè. He’s already out of his car, helmet off, grinning like a proud older brother. “That was impressive,” he says, pulling you into a tight hug. “You’re gonna make my life hell next year, I fear.” You laugh, flushed with joy and sweat and champagne dreams. Your team surrounds you in a clamor of hugs and shouts. It’s your third win in a row — and it shows. You’re walking like you own the sky. On the other side of the garage: P6. The car was off from the start for Oscar — rear-end instability, especially through the mid-speed corners. The setup wasn’t there. But that wasn’t the only thing weighing him down. Because somewhere between Turn 12 and Turn 1, somewhere between managing tyres and dodging Sainz on the undercut, Oscar realized his head wasn’t in it. Yours was.

“It’s been a quiet day for Oscar Piastri. Only in P6. Struggling with balance and just hasn’t looked comfortable all weekend.” “You’ve got to wonder how much of this is mental. [Y/N] has been flying all weekend. It’s hard when your teammate’s making headlines and you’re stuck playing catch-up.” “And let’s not forget — [Y/N] is leaving. That changes things in a garage.” After the cooldown lap, Oscar keeps his visor down. Not because he’s angry — he’s not. He’s done hiding behind frustration. The engine turns off in the pitlane. The world fades. He exhales slowly and stares out at the halo arching over his line of sight, framing the horizon. “If I can do 300 km/h into Eau Rouge,” he thinks, “I can talk to her.” If he can risk everything every other Sunday — heat, crashes, margins of millimeters — then he can at least risk the possibility of rejection. Of you telling him it’s too late. Of you smiling that same careful smile and saying you have already moved on and want nothing to do with him. Because if he doesn’t try, he’ll regret it every time he sees you smile and it’s not for him.

Back in the paddock, the cameras swarm the you, microphones flashing under your chin. “It was a proper fight out there,” you tell them, still glowing. “Max kept me honest. Charles too. But I just trusted the car. Trusted the team. I’m loving every minute of this.” And when asked about the championship: “It’s still open. Still mine to fight for. 50 points of gap is big, but on the other hands it's two race weekends with reliability issues or someone crashing into me and then it's gone. So I can't lay back now.” From behind the media wall, Oscar watches. You’re incandescent. And this time, instead of resenting it, he just wants to be close to it again. He takes off his gloves, shoves them into his helmet, and steels himself. Next time he gets you alone — really alone — he’s going to say something, he promises himself. He doesn’t know how much it’ll fix. He doesn’t know if it’ll change anything. But it’ll be honest, like his sister told him to be. And that’s where he has to start.

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The sun leans low against the horizon, casting the podium in molten light as the [Y/H/C] anthem fades. The flags ripple on the digital background. The champagne waits next to your feet. Oscar is in the front row of the McLaren crowd, arms crossed, shoulders tense. Not with resentment — not anymore — but with a feeling he can’t name, something between ache and awe. Then your eyes find him. You are up there, trophy in hand, the Brazilian crowd chanting your name, calling you their champion of the day. But still, your gaze drops low — searching the eyes of your team — and it lands on him. Like instinct. Oscar lifts a hand for a tiny wave accompanied by just a tiny smile. A quiet thumbs-up. No performance. No ego. Just comfort. For a moment, your grin breaks through — wide, real, your eyes briefly crinkling at the corners like they used to and your lips forming into a shy smile — before you catch yourself and look away, grounding your eyes forward again. But the blush is unmistakable. The kind of joy that isn’t just about the win. The champagne erupts seconds later. Max sprays you first, laughing as you shriek and try to block it with the dark green bottle in your hands. Charles joins in, and soon you all are soaked, slipping slightly on the grating, laughing like you’re all kids in karting again. It’s loud, electric, pure. But Oscar barely registers the noise. He just watches you — the way you throw your head back laughing, the way you shoulders have finally uncurled, how you stand up there belonging, confident, gracefully.

The cool tones of the press conference room hit your skin like ice water after the warmth of the podium. Fluorescent lights. Conditioned air. A fifty unblinking eyes and even more recording devices. The cameras click like distant rain. You sit in the center seat, Max on your left, Charles on your right. You're still a little damp — champagne in your collar, your hair pulled back loosely, a few stray curls clinging to your cheeks. Your suit feels heavier now, but your shoulders don’t. You sit tall. Composed. Regal, almost — but not on purpose. It’s just what happens when you feel like you made it. The questions start fast. Some sharp, some lazy, all inevitable. “What was the key argument that convinced you to join Red Bull?” “Did McLaren fight to keep you — and how have they failed?” “Do you expect to be on equal terms with Max next year, or will you have to earn it?” You don’t flinch. Not once. “It wasn’t about who fought harder,” you say evenly. “It was about whether it would personally fit. About the future potential I saw in the team for next year but also the years ahead. And about timing.” You glance briefly at Max beside you. He gives nothing away. You continue: “I’m grateful for what McLaren gave me — the faith, the seat, the freedom to grow. That doesn’t change just because I’ve made a new choice. It’s a new opportunity to grow as a driver.” A pause. A breath. “I wouldn’t sign anywhere I didn’t believe I could fight for wins. And I know I could probably fight for wins with McLaren, but I see greater chances in the Red Bull environment.” You mean it. Every word. You’re not here to play humble. You’re here because you earned the seat, the points, the right to choose. But then, someone goes off-script — that kind of off-script that’s still calculated. “You seem lighter this weekend, like mentally,” a journalist says, too casually. “Is that due to the new contract… or something else?” A few snickers around the room. Some eyebrows raised. You know what they’re hinting at. Everyone does. You don’t give them the satisfaction of squirming. You smile — calm, open, utterly unbothered. “I think I finally got out of my own way.” It’s not venom. Just truth. You don’t look for the reaction, but you feel it land. Clean. Final. You don’t know that Oscar is watching all of it on his phone in his driver room. But if you did, you’d see his jaw set tight. You’d see his hands clenched at his sides. You’d see the way that line — your line — slices him straight down the middle. You don’t know that he’s been sitting there staring at his phone in hands for a long time. Watching. Listening. Realizing. Because you are lighter. You are freer. Not just because of a contract or a new team. But because the thing that once made you small — the silence, the almosts, the weight of being in love with someone too afraid to love you back out loud — that’s gone now. Max nudges you gently as the conference ends, murmuring something about the chaos Red Bull comms will have to deal with in January. You laugh — soft and genuine — and thank the media team before heading toward the back hallway, boots clicking, adrenaline still faint in your fingertips. You don’t look back. You don’t have to.

You hear the soft knock on your driver's room door. It’s quiet in the motorhome hallway, the usual noise faded away like a distant echo. You open the door and there he is—Oscar—standing just inside the frame, awkward and tentative, like he’s stepping into unfamiliar territory. “Congrats,” he says, voice low and earnest. “I saw the highlights. You did a great job out there.” You nod, a small, neutral smile forming. “Thanks.” He shuffles slightly, like he’s searching for what to say next. “So... Red Bull next year.” The word feels heavy, but you say it simply, without hesitation. “It was time.” His eyes flicker with something — regret, guilt, maybe relief? “Guess I pushed you right out the door.” You shake your head slowly, voice soft but steady. “You didn’t push me, I promise. I ran.” The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s real. It’s something you both need. No anger. No bitterness. Just the truth laid bare in the stillness. Oscar lets out a small, almost embarrassed laugh. “You were always desinied for this… for greatness.” You finally allow yourself a genuine smile, a flicker of warmth breaking through. “Yeah. I was.” Neither of you reaches out—no touch, no gesture. But the space between you hums with something unspoken: a fragile thread beginning to mend. Oscar glances toward the door, then back at you. “I gotta get changed. Maybe I’ll catch you later?” You nod again, watching him go. But when he leaves his driver room later, the door to yours is open and empty. In the lot your car is gone. The spot where you left it this morning, now empty. And a hollow ache settles in his chest. He wonders how many times he missed the chance to be better, to be kinder. How much he held people back — not just the team, not just the pressure — but himself. And you? You wonder how long you carried the weight of waiting for him to show up, to see you—not just as a teammate or rival, but as someone who mattered. You feel the bittersweet pull of this ending, knowing the last chapters of this story are writing themselves faster than you can grasp. But there’s something freeing in this final goodbye. Something honest and human. Oscar watches your empty space, knowing that next time, maybe he’ll be the one who shows up — not just to watch you fly, but to be there when you land.

📍Milton Keynes, England

liked by redbullracing, maxverstappen1 and 4.932.245 others

yourusername this is me hard-launching my Red Bull era! 💙❤️ can't wait for what next season holds for us!

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redbullracing Welcome to the family, [Y/N] 💪💙

liked by yourusername

f1 The grid will never be the same! We're excited for next year

maxverstappen1 Let’s get to work 🧠

christianhorner i'm excited to have you in the garage next year!

danielricciardo Good luck, legend. You’ll look fast in blue 😎

username1 Seb would be proud! This is the type of driver he meant when he said “no politics, just pure passion”

username2 i just know oscar is somewhere pacing a hotel room rn

username3 mclaren fumbled so hard

username4 this is serving 2010 sebastian vettel. the villain era. the world domination. i’m ready!

username5 ngl this feels more like a breakup announcement

username6 i respect the move, she wants the title, and she’s not gonna wait around go get it girl!

username7 she didn’t even wait until Abu Dhabi 😭

username8 wasn’t she all “mclaren is home” like 2 months ago 💀💀💀

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f1withespresso · 19 days ago

Text

first times | KA12

✎ — kimi antonelli x gf!reader

✎ — summary: Kimi accidentally says “I love you” for the first time after scoring his first podium at the Canadian Grand Prix, which is the first time you attend a race and you don’t say it back cause you are overwhelmed.

✎ — chapter word count: +4.4k

✎ — warnings: fluff, use of [Y/N], other than that none

Circuit Gilles Villeneuve is already buzzing by the time you step out of the Mercedes car — sound swelling like an orchestra warming up mid-overture. Fans are pressed up against barriers in the parking lot, media huddles in clumps with microphones and long-lens cameras, and crew members in branded polos dart between greetings and obligations. It’s loud, bright, and overwhelmingly alive. And you’re in the middle of it. Kimi’s arm rests casually around your waist as you start walking. He’s in his black Mercedes jersey and a pair of navy trousers, sunglasses and a cap on as the sun in Montreal has already climbed the sky quite a bit despite the early hour. You’re wearing the lanyard he gave you — a bundle of different coloured passes attached to it, with each granting you access to different areeas. On is with your name and picture on it and, in bold it reads: Special Guest of Kimi Antonelli, driver. As if anyone needs reminding. You already know they all know. It started two weeks ago, when Kimi posted that picture of you in your prom dress — floor-length, a bright babyblue, your diploma clutched in one hand, smile half-shy — with the caption: “Proud of my girl for finishing school like a champ 💙” Just like that: one sentence, one emoji, and suddenly you were no longer “rumoured companion” or “mystery girl”. Now, you’re Kimi Antonelli’s girlfriend. A WAG. Which apparently means you’re fair game for lenses and whispers. You feel eyes on you the second you pass the accreditation checkpoint. Not the warm, curious kind either — the calculating kind, scanning you from head to toe like you’re a tabloid caption waiting to happen. It makes your stomach tighten. Not from shame necessarily, just… overstimulation. Kimi notices it before you even have to say anything. His thumb brushes your shoulder as he leans in and murmurs, “Just stick with me, yeah?” You nod. You wouldn’t wanna have it any other way. But then it happens: the moment you reach the edge of the main paddock strip, a handful of fans spot him and everything fractures. “Kimi!” “Can I get a signature?” “Kimi, over here!” “Love you, Kimi!” “Do you think you can win it from P4?” “Is that your girlfriend?”

It happens so fast — someone hands him a sharpie, someone else holds out a cap for him to sign. One of the Sky Sports guys tries to nudge in with a mic, only to get waved off by Kimi’s PR handler. A teenage girl beams as she hands him a woven friendship bracelet in silver and black, carefully knotted. Kimi lets go of you — not unkindly, just because he has to. You step back half a pace, hovering behind his left shoulder as he signs a teddy and thanks the girl with the bracelet, slipping it onto his wrist like it’s a watch. “You made this?” he asks. The girl nods like her head might come off. “For good luck!” “You can never have enough of that,” he says, grinning — that dry, understated Kimi grin that never tries too hard. You exchange a glance with him over his shoulder and smile, and he winks back at you in that way that feels more like a private joke than a performance. He makes it all look effortless. Effortlessly charming, effortlessly cool, effortlessly composed. You, on the other hand, feel like your senses are dialled up to eleven. The overlapping conversations, the camera shutters, the distant roar of engines and people shouting and hurrying— it’s like standing too close to a speaker at a party. You can’t quite think, can’t quite breathe. But then you feel it — the back of Kimi’s hand brushing yours as he takes a step sideways. He’s not holding your hand, but the contact is intentional. Grounding. Tethering. Like a touchstone. He glances down at you through his sunglasses and murmurs, “You okay?” You nod, even though you’re not entirely sure. “It’s just… a lot.” “Yeah,” he says. “It is a lot.” And somehow, the way he says it — plainly, like he’s not trying to fix it or downplay it — makes it easier to deal with. Like you don’t have to pretend you’re made for this. Like it’s okay to just be here with him. He lets the PR guy handle the last two reporters and slides back closer to you, his hand lightly touching the small of your back as you both continue walking toward the Mercedes motorhome. You hear someone behind you whisper your name — your full name — and you’re not sure if it’s a journalist or just someone trying to mess with you. You want to disappear for a second. But then Kimi leans over again and says, low and amused, “You’re doing good, by the way.” “Am I?” “Yeah,” he says, lips curving into a grin. “You look great and I bet your smile is making them all go blind.” You snort softly. “Well thank you Kimi. Thanks for the invite.” He chuckles. “Any time, [Y/N], any time.” But his hand doesn’t move from your back until you’re safely up the steps of the motorhome and the door clicks shut behind you — the noise dimming instantly. You let out a slow breath, like surfacing. He bumps your shoulder lightly. “Well it wasn’t too bad for you, I hope. Come over, you gotta meet some people.” And you do follow him over. Because even in the whirlwind of flashing lights, surging crowds, and public attention — Kimi is your quiet place in the paddock now.

You barely take two steps before two men approach from down the hall, all purposeful steps and serious conversation. One of them has a headset slung around his neck and a familiar, tired sort of kindness in his expression. The other’s got the build of someone who could probably bench press Kimi and a front wing. “Bono, Sergi,” Kimi says, greeting them both with a dap. His hand returns to your back, instinctive now. “This is [Y/N].” They both smile like they already know you — not just by name, but like you’ve been a topic. A part of the conversation even when you weren’t around. Bono’s the first to extend a hand. “Ah, [Y/N],” he says, grinning slightly. “Finally putting a face to the name.” You shake his hand and try not to overthink the word finally. Sergi just gives you a warm, quick smile and says, “He talks about you a lot.” You glance sideways at Kimi, who—true to form—looks unbothered. “Do I?” he mutters, tone dry. Sergi shrugs innocently. “You do, Mate. But it’s all good, don’t worry.” You smile back at them both, a little bashful but grateful for the warmth. It feels like being pulled into the inner circle — like you’re allowed here, in this quiet pre-race bubble where everything’s measured in tire strategy and heartbeat intervals. Then Bono glances at his watch and tips his head toward the back corridor. “Alright, kid. Time to get into it.” And just like that, the shift happens. Kimi’s body language changes — not drastically, but perceptibly. His posture straightens. His eyes narrow just slightly. Focus clicks into place behind his gaze like a gear change. It’s not cold, not distant, just… professional. The switch. He turns to you. “I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?” You nod. “Yeah. Go do your thing.” He steps in, arms wrapping around you in a hug — not lingering, but still gentle. His hand presses lightly against the small of your back and he pulls away only to press a kiss to your cheek. It’s routine for him now, but it makes your face go a little warm anyway. “Enjoy the paddock,” he murmurs against your temple, like it’s just the two of you again. “Get a coffee. Or a pancake. Or talk to Carmen — she’s nice. And my dad’s around, too, you can always go chat with him.” Then, a slightly teasing smile. “Just don’t get lost.” You roll your eyes. “I think I can handle walking in a straight line.” Bono chuckles as he turns to lead the way. “I’ll think she’ll do just fine, Kimi.” Kimi follows with a backward glance and that same soft grin. “I know.” And then he’s gone — disappearing down the hallway with Bono and Sergi flanking him like some kind of pit lane royal guard, his footsteps fading quickly behind the swoosh of a closing door.

You’re left standing in the silence of the entrance space, heart fluttering somewhere around your throat. There’s something strange about seeing him like this — really seeing it. Not just the person who sends you sleepy voice notes or steals bites of your cereal, but the one who belongs to this whole other world. This machine of people and pressure and performance. And somehow, he still made space for you in it. You sit down briefly on one of the cushioned benches near the hospitality counter and look out the tall windows that give a partial view of the paddock. It’s still moving out there, fast and loud and a little terrifying. But inside? It’s quieter. Still. You. You take a breath. Let yourself be in it. And then you rise, fix your lanyard around your neck, and step back out into the flow of it all. The paddock feels different without Kimi beside you. Not much different than before — just more unfiltered. You blend a little more easily now that you’re alone. People glance, sure, but it’s the vague curiosity reserved for someone wearing a team lanyard and not, say, Lewis Hamilton. No one’s calling your name. No cameras in your face. It gives you just enough breathing room to find your bearings. You follow the low hum of espresso machines to a coffee stand tucked between two hospitality units and get in line behind someone from Haas, still fiddling with a printout of some sort. You order an oat flat white and — because your nerves have finally begun to translate into hunger — a little paper box of pancakes topped with powdered sugar and strawberries. You sit at one of the tall tables outside the Mercedes motorhome and people-watch for a bit, picking at the strawberries with the tiny wooden fork. It’s oddly peaceful, the way the paddock pulses around you. Controlled chaos. You catch sight of Carmen — George’s girlfriend — a little ways off, laughing at something with some other beautiful girl who has a Williams lanyard around her neck. You consider going over to say hi — Kimi mentioned her, and she does look nice — but the distance between where you’re sitting and where she’s standing feels impossibly far right now. You’re not ready for small talk with random other people from this world, not yet. Still, she glances your way for a second. Your eyes meet. You smile — quick, polite — and she returns it with a soft one of her own before turning back to her conversation. Seed: planted.

You go back to sipping your coffee and nibbling at the last of your pancake, but the inevitable happens right after you take your last bite and empty the cup: you realise you have no idea where you’re supposed to go next. Do you just… wander into the garage? Is that allowed? Will you accidentally block a mechanic or get run over by a a trolley of tires or — worse — do something embarrassingly obvious like stand in the wrong place and get politely but firmly relocated? The panic is low-level but persistent, curling in your chest like steam. That’s when someone taps you gently on the arm. “Hi,” says a woman in Mercedes gear, hair tucked into a low ponytail and holding a clipboard like she knows how to use it. “You look a little… guest-lost.” You blink. “I—probably do.” She grins. “No worries. Happens all the time. Got a name?” You hold up your lanyard like a passport. “[Y/N][Y/LN]“, you introduce yourself, „I’m with… Kimi. Kimi Antonelli.” She reads it and then smiles wider, warm and a little conspiratorial. “Ah! You’re his guest.” You feel your face go slightly warm. “Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t know if—where I’m supposed to… go.” She waves it off. “You’re all good. I’m Emma — I look after guest logistics for the team.” She tilts her head slightly. “I heard you were coming. Though I assumed he would have probably left you with his dad.” You chuckle softly. “Yeah, no I wanted to explore the paddock a bit. See what the hype on these paddock passes is all about.” “Well,” Emma says, nodding toward the Mercedes garage entrance across the way, “come on. Let’s get you set up.” She leads you through the chaos with the ease of someone who’s done this for years, navigating between camera crews and coiled cables like it’s just another stroll. You follow close, grateful. And as you step into the cool, fluorescent-lit space of the garage, everything sharpens. The smell of rubber and machine oil hits immediately. Engineers line monitors. Mechanics move with quiet efficiency. It feels sacred, somehow.

Emma hands you a headset — smaller and lighter than the ones the engineers wear, but real. Functional. A direct line into the race. “Best seat in the house,” she jokes, pointing to a guest area off to the side, safely tucked behind the barrier. “Kimi’s dad’s there too — but you two probably know each other.” You nod, and sure enough, his dad spots you as you approach. “[Y/N], hey,” he says, standing slightly to give you room. “I was wondering where my son left you, glad you made it to the garage.” You smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He gives you a knowing look — the kind that says he’s incredibly happy you’re here, even if Kimi hasn’t said as much out loud. You settle next to him, headset slipping over your ears, and the world shifts again — now threaded with voices from the pit wall, snippets of team radio, and the distant, visceral rumble of engines warming up. And then you see him. Kimi walks past, fully suited — sleek black overalls with colorful sponsor patches all over, gloves half-pulled on, helmet in one hand. His hair is slightly flattened, his jaw set, his expression focused. He doesn’t stop, but he looks your way — just a flicker, precise and unbothered. A soft, private smile. You pose with your headset and give him an exaggerated thumbs-up like some overenthusiastic student girl at a uni event. His lips twitch into a faint grin. He tips his head back slightly in acknowledgment before turning away, helmet swinging at his side. You don’t even realise you’re smiling until Kimi’s dad nudges your arm and says, “That look on his face? He gets it from his mother. She used to look at me just like that when we were your age” You laugh — a soft sound in the hum of it all — and blush and settle into your seat, pulse steady, ears tuned in. You’re not just watching at ungodly hours from your notebook in your bedroom now. You’re part of this — a small part, maybe, but a part nonetheless.

And as the grid forms and the lights begin their slow, ominous countdown, you realise something: You’re not as nervous anymore. The air in the garage hums with electricity once the formation lap is underway — the kind that sticks to your skin, that makes your breath catch even before anything actually happens. Engines scream to life out on the grid. Lights blink overhead. And your headset — snug over your ears — hisses with the layered soundscape of this world: engineers murmuring in code, tires squealing down the pit lane, and Bono’s voice — calm, calculated, never rushed. “Mode 7 confirmed. Watch Piastri into one. Do it like we talked about.” You don’t blink. Kimi starts P4 — tucked right next Oscar Piastri’s McLaren on the second row. They’ve been near each other all weekend — lap times trading places, sector comparisons flipping like a coin. And now, as the formation lap finishes and they line up on the grid, it feels less like chance and more like fate. The lights go out. And chaos begins. Your whole body tightens as you watch the start — not just Kimi’s car, but the entire pack lunging into motion like a pulse made of carbon fiber and noise. Turn 1 is brutal, bunched up, full of twitchy brakes and overambitious lunges. Oscar goes defensive immediately — not dirty, just smart. Kimi is smarter and forces him wide. Into Turn 3, Kimi takes the outside line — bold, controlled, absolute — and edges ahead. Your breath leaves you like a punch, and before you even know what you’re doing, your hand shoots up in a tiny fist-pump, a strangled, polite little “yes!” under your breath. You don’t know you’re on camera until later — when someone shows you the broadcast clip of you beaming in a headset, mouthing “oh my god” at Kimi’s dad like your heart might fall out of your chest. Kimi holds the place. Settles into rhythm. By Lap 12, it’s clear he has pace. Bono’s voice threads through your headset again, reassuring. Focused. “Nice work, Kimi. Gap to Piastri 1.4. You’re doing good.” You glance at Kimi’s dad — he’s got the look of someone trying very hard to act calm and doing a pretty decent job of it. He catches your expression and gives a small smile, like yep, you get it now. And you do. You really, really do. Because for the next forty laps, you don’t think about the cameras, or the noise, or what the internet is going to say about your outfit, whether it’s pretty enough for the paddock, or your hair or your make-up. You don’t think about the sweat on your palms or how tightly you’re clutching the edge of the seat. You only think about him out there on track. The way he controls the car. The patience through backmarkers. The clean overtake on Sainz on Lap 37. The cool responses on team radio. The grace under pressure. By the final three laps, your heart isn’t pounding anymore — it’s soaring. He’s in P3. Secure. Steady. Podium-bound, unless something wilder than the McLaren’s touching happens. And somehow, it’s not even about the trophy. It’s about watching him do it. Knowing how hard he’s worked for this moment. How much he cares without ever needing to say it. How quiet, but fierce, that determination is. You glance down and realise you’ve been fiddling with the necklace around your throat — the one Kimi got you when you first started dating. Simple gold chain, tiny star pendant. He told you it reminded him of you, “Small, shiny. A bit dangerous and hot.” You haven’t taken it off since. You rub your thumb over the charm and breathe, smile stretched across your cheeks so wide it aches. You can’t help it. You wouldn’t want to.

Kimi’s dad leans in toward you, voice low but warm. “Come with me to parc fermé?” You blink, a little dazed. “Wait—can I?” He nods, already standing, already moving. “Course. I bet he’d like to see you there on his first podium.” Your heart stutters. You rise quickly, slipping off the headset, the world rushing back in around you — the raw sounds of the pit lane, the final lap updates, the frenzy of teams leaning in to screens. You follow Kimi’s dad out the back of the garage, through a side path that loops past engineers and photographers and spare tires stacked like monuments. You don’t know where to look or how to walk, but he moves confidently, and you just… follow. The closer you get to parc fermé, the louder everything becomes. You hear the cheers already, the crowd beyond the barricades rising to their feet. You’re led to the second row behind the barrier, squeezed just behind Kimi’s lead mechanic and a race engineer whose name you don’t know but whose broad shoulders are currently blocking half your view. Still — you can see enough. The #63 Mercedes glides into parc fermé and slides perfectly into the third-place slot, the big white “3rd” sign looming in front of it like a monument. The engine cuts. Then Kimi climbs out. For a second, the noise in your ears vanishes. It’s just him. Helmet off. Hair damp with sweat, curls stuck to his forehead. Fireproofs rumpled a bit. Chest heaving with adrenaline. He turns to face the crowd and throws both fists into the air — and the joy radiating off him is blinding. It crackles, untamed, raw. A cheer erupts across the paddock. Mechanics shout, clap, slap the barricade as he jogs over. Toto grabs him in a hug that nearly lifts Kimi off his feet. Bono claps a hand on his shoulder and says something you can’t hear. His dad reaches him next — proud and teary-eyed and laughing like he’s twenty-five again, not a man who’s been here through everything, from first go-karts to first F1 practice sessions. And then — Kimi looks past them. And spots you. You don’t even realise how tightly you’re gripping your own hands until his eyes land on yours and the smile that blooms across his face could outshine floodlights. His whole posture shifts into something more relaxed and less adrenaline-fueled. He lifts a hand — beckoning. A tiny, unmistakable gesture: come here. The mechanic in front of you glances back, grins, and steps aside. Another reaches to guide you forward — a quiet hand on your elbow, gentle but urgent, as if this moment needs to happen now. And then you’re at the front. And Kimi is right there.

He pulls you into his arms without a word — all hot and fireproof fabric and the faint scent of deodorant trying to fight the sweat. He hugs like he drives: completely. Nothing held back. One arm wrapped tight around your back, the other curling behind your head. You melt into it like you’ve done it a hundred times before — and you have, just never here, never like this. You can feel the crowd behind you, the chaos, the cameras. But none of it gets in. Because Kimi leans in, breath warm against your ear, and murmurs low enough that no one else can hear: “I’m so glad you’re here, [Y/N]. I love you.” You freeze. Just for a second. It’s like the words land too fast — no warning, no build-up, just here they are, suddenly real and loud in the center of your ribcage. Your hands are still clinging to the back of his race suit. Your cheek is pressed against his collarbone. Your heart is pounding. You say nothing. Not because you don’t feel it — god, you feel it — but because you’re too full of everything else. Adrenaline. Shock. Awe. You don’t have words. Not the right ones. Not yet. But you hold him tighter. Just that little bit tighter. And he doesn’t even blink. He pulls back just slightly, his face still lit up from the inside out — cheeks flushed, eyes soft in the corners, mouth curled in a grin that knows. Not asking for anything more. Not needing a reply. Just glad for your presence. He brushes your hair behind your ear with a hand still slightly shaking from the drive and says, with a wink and that crooked smile of his: “See you at the podium.” And then he’s gone — pulled back into the whirlwind of media and team and ceremony and glory. You stay behind at the barricade, skin tingling, heart trembling, hand still hovering mid-air where it had just clutched the small of his back. And all you can think is: He meant it. He really said it. And somehow… you’re ready to say it back. Just not right now.

The sun spills low across the circuit, still bright and warm like it has all day. You’re standing just off to the side of the podium, between Toto and Kimi’s dad. The crowd is a living thing — flags waving, cheers rising and falling in waves. A camera crane sweeps across the masses, catching the shimmer of champagne bottles on the stage and the warmth of the early evening light. Then the announcer’s voice cuts through. “In third place… driving for Mercedes-AMG Petronas… Kimi Antonelli!” The cheer that erupts is deafening. You don’t even try to hold back your grin. Kimi walks out onto the podium, the black Pirelli hat with the gold ornaments stitched on them hiding away his hair. His smile is wild — buzzing with pride, disbelief, adrenaline. You can feel the energy rippling off him even from a dozen metres away. Max Verstappen is called next. Then George Russell, to the roar of a crowd happy to see someone else win than the papaya boys or Max. The British anthem starts playing for George. That’s when it happens. Kimi glances over the sea of people from the teams who stand eagerly beneath the podium. His gaze finds you. His eyes meet yours through the haze and noise and summer light. And you don’t even hesitate. You mouth it. Clear, slow, certain. “I love you too.” It’s only for him. You can’t be sure he saw. You can’t be sure he understood. But his smile softens. It doesn’t widen with showmanship this time. It deepens. Shifts. Becomes something private and kind and charmed. The kind of smile he’s only ever given you in quiet kitchens and early mornings and sleepy post-flight cab rides. And just for a second, he ducks his head. His cheeks flush pink beneath the fading sunlight. He looks up — not at you, not at the crowd, but at the sky. Like he needs a second to keep it together. You watch him exhale. Watch the corners of his mouth twitch again, like he’s trying not to laugh or faint or both. And in your chest, something clicks quietly into place. Like the final piece of a puzzle. Like coming home. You reach up to touch the little necklace at your collarbone. Your fingers toy with the pendant as the champagne sprays and the medals are handed out and Kimi, still flushed and golden, raises his bottle with a shout you barely hear. Because you said it. You didn’t say it when the world was spinning. But you said it eventually.

radio: got inspired to write this after seeing a reel from a comedian doing crowd work and some girl talked about saying "i love you" after only six weeks of dating and her partner not saying it back to her... but that's how writing is sometimes, am I right?

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f1withespresso · 19 days ago

Text

the distance between us is measured in laps | pt. 19

✎ — oscar piastri x fem!teammate!reader

✎ — chapter word count: +6.5k

✎ — radio: we are turning into the final arc of this series. it's only 4 chapters left (omg). thanks for all the positive feedback, reblogs, likes and comments <3 this has been a lot of fun so far! check out the playlist at the bottom btw, it's kinda long this time!

series masterlist

It’s been five days since Austin, barely enough time to breathe. The dust from the Grand Prix still clings to everything — in headlines, in photo carousels, in clipped press quotes and TikToks turned slow-motion. But the circus rolls on, as it always does. You post three photos from your tiny San Francisco vacation: a blurry sunset over the Golden Gate, a too-pretty latte beside a half-read book, a landscape shot of the infamous route 66. It represents the soft reset, curated peace you found.

📍San Francisco, California

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yourusuername took the route out west! god this country is huge 🇺🇸

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mclaren enjoy the days off! We look forward to see you in Mexico City 🇲🇽🧡

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username1 she looks so calm 😭 mother’s healing in her coastal era

username2 girl needed a BREAK fr. let her drink oat lattes and avoid her feelings in peace 🫶

username3 how do i become an f1 driver and also escape to san fran after ruining a man’s life??? asking for a friend

username4 no cause she did the exact same thing after monza… photo dump, retreat, spiritual reset 😭 she’s running a pattern her

username6 posting café pics to distract from the fact that parc fermé almost became a greek tragedy last week

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Oscar, meanwhile, is spotted in Austin and Dallas, tagged in grainy fan photos with Hattie. At a bookstore. Outside a food truck. Watching a local gig with his hands in his pockets, head down because he doesn’t know someone’s watching. He’s smiling in some of them, laughing in others, but he always looks like his mind is somewhere else entirely.

username1 this man is not in texas. he is in his thoughts username2 it’s so cute how he’s spending time with his sister username4 last time he looked like this was post-Monaco and we all KNOW what that spiral was about username5 ngl this gives “he’s trying not to check her insta every 5 minutes” vibes username6 he’s in dallas but his soul’s in parc fermé watching [Y/N] walk right past him username7 don’t let this man near another sad acoustic song or he’s not making it to Abu Dhabi

The paddock hasn’t moved on in those five days — it never does. Especially not this late in the season. Rumors keep echoing louder the closer the flight to Mexico gets.

Red Bull in Advanced Talks with [Y/N] as McLaren Contract Nears End Sources suggest a multi-year deal is on the table as the championship leader weighs her 2026 options. Team Tensions: Is McLaren Losing Their Star? McLaren CEO Zak Brown says nothing’s official... but the silence around a contract renewal for McLaren star [Y/N][Y/LN] is loud. A Championship Leader on the Move? If you’re Red Bull, how do you not chase after arguably the second fastest driver on the grid? Especially if the fastest one is already on your team.

It starts out like any normal race weekend. Flights land. Track walks begin. Engineers huddle around telemetry and mechanics around the car. But everything feels… anticipatory. Like the days in between two weekends didn’t soften the blow — they only gave everyone more time to aim. The world is watching. Waiting. You’re the championship leader. You’re still in papaya orange. But for how much longer — that’s the question on every mic this weekend. And Oscar — somewhere between the Texas backroads and a hotel in Mexico City — is certain: This time, it could be much more than just another race weekend.

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The press room is over-lit and over-crowded. Cameras click, shuffling paper and shuffling feet. You sit between Kimi Antonelli — hands folded, posture impeccable for someone so young — and Nico Hülkenberg, arms casually draped, long familiar with the rhythm of these days. You’re wearing the most basic look possible. Minimal McLaren branding aside from the team shirt. Hair back. Polite face on. It’s the calm before the inevitable media hurricane. A moderator opens the session, names you all, and barely finishes the final syllable before the floodgates open. “[Y/N], has your focus shifted now that talks with Red Bull have been confirmed by both teams? How can you guarantee you're still giving your all to McLaren?“ “I’m in a title fight with McLaren. That’s where my focus is on right now,” you say, voice clear. “That takes all of me. Every single race, every lap, every choice. I’ve worked too hard to get here to let anything distract me.” “But can you confirm whether you’ve signed anything? Some sources say it’s already a done deal.” You exhale through your nose. “Nothing’s been signed. Nothing’s been finalized. Right now, I’m focused on delivering results on track. What happens next season will happen when it happens.” “Do you still feel McLaren gives you what you need to win?” That one stings a little. You square your shoulders. “I want to be a contender again next year, not just this season. That means needing a fast car, yes, which McLaren no doubt has — but also a team I thrive in. A team that brings out the best in me, and that I can give everything to in return. That’s the bar.” Kimi glances at you sideways, brief, thoughtful. “Is this your way of saying McLaren isn’t that team anymore?” You resist the bait. Smile, measured. “I’m saying I haven’t made that decision yet.” A pause, then a softer question cuts through the noise: “What does winning the title mean to you personally?” You sit with that one. It’s a much easier question to answer. “It means everything. It means that all the years and energy I poured into this sport finally pay off. That every unlucky race, every crash, everytime I got yelled at, was worth it.” You glance down. “It’s the kind of thing you dream about when no one’s watching you yet. Before the sponsors or big team names. And then suddenly the whole world is watching. It’s… a lot. But it’s worth it.” “Follow-up: Does that pressure get heavier when your teammate is also a contender?” You meet the journalist’s gaze squarely. „Everyone on the grid wants to win the drivers championship. And by that logic everyone is a contender. That doesn’t make it personal. And of course it’s extra thrilling if one of the hottest contenders is in the same machinery as you. It means that it really comes down to your own race craft and your ability to deliver under pressure.” You know they’ll read between the lines anyway. A shift in attention. The next question is directed to Nico. “Nico, you’ve watched a lot of young drivers come and go. How impressed are you with [Y/N]'s performance, considering this is only her second season?”

He chuckles lightly, giving a small nod in your direction. “Very impressed, to be honest. She’s quick, calm, bold. That’s all good traits to have and she's obviously very successful as well, even under this kind of pressure. It's not just lucky to achieve results like that. She’s earned her place in this fight, I would say.” Then Kimi’s turn. “Kimi, does [Y/N]’s performance in just her second year affect you at all? Add pressure, maybe?” Kimi blinks slowly, choosing his words. “I think it’s motivating more than anything,” he says. “She’s setting a high bar for all the rookies. That’s what makes the sport better. It shows what’s possible early on, and that’s inspiring for all of us rookies coming up.” You catch a quiet sincerity in his tone. You give him a small, grateful smile. He gives you one back. More hands go up. “[Y/N], what’s your take on the swearing fines being discussed again after Singapore and Austin? Too harsh? Or good for the image of the sport?” You raise an eyebrow. “Look, if we’re asking drivers to perform at the highest level, to push past the edge every Sunday, emotions will run high. You want honesty — but then you fine it? Bit of a mixed message.” “So you’re pro-swearing?” someone jokes. You grin. “Hell yeah. Swear all you want if you ask me. It’s only human. And as long as you are not at other people’s throats, you can be mad about the tires or the track or the people crashing into you all you want for as much as I care.” Laughter from the room. A temporary easing of the tension. But when the moderator wraps, the weight settles back in your chest like clockwork. The second you step out the conference room, the noise catches up again — headlines forming before your feet even touch the ground. And you know they’ll twist your words into whatever shape fits their narrative best. You just hope your driving, at least, keeps speaking louder.

Motorsport.com — [Y/LN]: ‘Nothing’s been finalized’ — McLaren star remains focused on title fight F1.com — "Y/LN] addresses Red Bull rumors: ‘I want to be a contender next year too’ The Athletic — Cracks at McLaren? [Y/N][Y/LN] questions where she’ll ‘thrive’ next season Autosport — Between the lines: press conference ahead of Mexican Grand Prix hints at deeper tension within McLaren camp

The warm, amber light casts long shadows across the bar’s polished wood and exposed brick walls. Spanish indie rock hums low in the background, a familiar soundtrack to this exclusive, dimly lit Mexico City spot that smells faintly of lime, salt, and fried nacho crisps. The air is thick with the quiet buzz of weekend revelers, but your corner of the world feels miles away from the track tension — a small bubble where the noise of the paddock, rumors, and media frenzy can’t reach. Max grins at you across the table, eyes sparkling with a dare. “Alright, [Y/N], shot challenge. You lose, you’re buying the next round. No backing out.” You lift an eyebrow, matching his grin. “Aren’t you like a four time worldchampion. Shouldn’t you be like responsible or something.“ „Well responsible is boring and I can see how you are trying to back out,“ he gives you a challenging smirk. „Oh! You’re on, Verstappen. But if you lose, you’re dancing on the bar to Macarena.” Checo snorts, shaking his head as he pulls out his phone to document the moment. “Oh no, I do not want to miss that.” The bartender slides over a tray of tequila shots, each glass catching the light like tiny golden suns. You grab your shot glass, the cool weight firm in your hand. The world narrows to a pinpoint — a brief flash of sharp burn down your throat and then laughter. Max claps, loud and triumphant. “See? Told you! The queen of shots,” he teased. You smirk, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “I hate you so much right now. I'm seriously contemplating what awful thing I can tell the press as payback. Remember Monaco qualifying? Who forgot to put the car in gear?” Max groans, mock offense flooding his face. “Hey! That was a practice session!” Checo leans back, laughing. “Practice or not, it was epic.” The conversation flows effortlessly — stories, jokes, and playful jabs bouncing back and forth like the tequila shots do. Someone dares Max to mimic Toto’s infamous 'I have it'-crashout. The resulting over-the-top flailing and shouting over the music has everyone doubled over, tears in their eyes. Later, you catch Max’s gaze as he slides a glass your way. “You’ve been killing it this year. No wonder all the rumors are swirling about you and Red Bull.” You shrug, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m focused on winning races. Everything else is just noise. And I mean there is nothing to confirm or deny at this point, now is there Mr. Red Bull?” He nods, sincere. “Well, either way you deserve to be where you want to be. Whatever that looks like.” Checo jumps in, teasing, “Yeah yeah, important business talk over here, but seriously, when’s the dance-off on the bar? You can’t chicken out.” You laugh, already feeling the warmth spread beyond the tequila burn. “I might surprise you.” Max smirks, raising his glass. “To surprises, then.” The group joins in, glasses clinking, and the night stretches on with easy camaraderie. Between sips, someone pulls out a phone and snaps candid shots — Max’s hand resting lightly on your shoulder as you lean in laughing at one of Checo’s ridiculous jokes, the faintest flicker of something warm and familiar passing between you. The photos leak quickly, flooding social media before the night is over. Fans and pundits alike buzz with excitement. The internet eats it up, spinning stories about a partnership both on and off track. But here, in this corner booth, none of that matters. It’s just laughter, friendship, and a reminder of the simple joy you share outside the pressure, the rumors, and the constant spotlight. For a few hours, you’re just [Y/N], and they’re just friends. And maybe — just maybe — that’s enough to keep you grounded for the battles ahead.

📍Mexico City, Mexico

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f1gossip 📸 Leaked pics from last night’s exclusive Mexico City bar hangout! 🍸🔥 Max Verstappen and [Y/N][Y/LN] spotted having a blast with Verstappen’s former teammate Sergio Perez and some friends — tequila shots, silly bets, and that unmistakable easy chemistry. One shot shows Max’s hand casually resting on [Y/N]’s shoulder, sparking wild speculation… Is the next great Red Bull duo already in the making? 🤔👀

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username1 OMG I love this duo so much!! If [Y/N] goes to Red Bull, they’ll absolutely crush the grid

username2 [Y/N] looks so relaxed and happy here. Honestly, she deserves a fast car and a team that truly supports her. Red Bull could be that place! ↳ username3 red bull and a team that supports her? They are a more like a broken home

username3 Please noooooo don’t let her leave mclaren! They have something special, and I don’t want to see the team broken up like this

username9 it's so unprofessional of them to go out like this on race weekend ↳ username1 they are literally p1 and p3 in the championship, i think they can handle it pretty well

username4 Bet [Y/N] is just using Max to stir up drama in the paddock. Don’t fall for the Red Bull PR game, folks. It’s all politics

username6 imagine the tension if Oscar and [Y/N] are still teammates next year while she’s cozying up to Max. This is gonna get messy…

username7 I don't think Red Bull can sign [Y/N], Zak’s got his claws in tight. But if they do? Game over.

username8 back in 2024, Oscar was all about [Y/N] — now it looks like she’s moving on. Feels like a slow heartbreak in real time. 🥲

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Oscar’s phone buzzes, a sharp interruption in the quiet of his dim hotel room. Another update from your close friend’s Instagram story— this time a blurred, grainy photo of you, laughing with your head thrown back, tequila shot raised, and Max’s laugh pointed at you. The caption is careless, almost flippant: “Confirmed: I can outdrink Max Verstappen” He blinks, staring at the glowing screen. That image—bright, alive, unguarded—might as well be a photograph from another lifetime. Another world he no longer belongs to. His chest tightens, the sudden constriction like a fist curling deep in his ribs. His throat goes dry. There are no messages from you anymore. No “hope you’re doing okay” texts. Just silence, vast and cavernous, echoing louder than any roar of the grandstands. Your’re out with other people. Oscar’s mind reels back to the beginning. To that first chaotic day of 2024, when you became teammates. He was late, as he usually was (a bad habit he couldn’t quite turn around), but you were early—calm, sharp, with a wry smile and no-nonsense attitude that sliced through the pre-season hopes and fears. You charmed him instantly, with your quick wit and the fearless way you carried yourself. Between the two of you it clicked immediately. The camaraderie was electric, like two currents charging the same circuit. More than teammates, you were partners in crime, sharing strategies, teasing one another, pushing through brutal race weekends side by side. The fans noticed too. The easy laughter after long days. The glances shared during tense team meetings. The way you celebrated victories and consoled each other after defeats. The socials lit up with hopeful whispers: could they be the next great duo, on and off the track? Was this the start of something more?

Now, that spark feels stolen, flickering out beneath the weight of distance and silence. Max and you—laughing, drinking, clinking glasses in a cozy Mexico City bar. Your carefree energy captured in candid shots, lighting up social media feeds. Oscar knows Max is a recent father, grounded by his steady partner, his world neatly arranged. What he doesn’t understand is the nature of your friendship—and how it had happened. But it doesn’t matter. Because every frame of those pictures is a punch to Oscar’s gut. It’s a ghost of what he lost before he even realized it was slipping through his fingers. He scrolls through the comments—some sweet, hopeful, like “Next great duo on the grid!” and “If she goes to Red Bull, they’ll dominate the sport for years.” Others sting more sharply: “Oscar’s probably watching this and wondering what went wrong.” “Why stay at McLaren when she could have a dream team?” Oscar’s fingers tremble as he puts the phone down, unable to bear the weight of it anymore. The room around him feels suddenly claustrophobic—the stale hotel air, the faint hum of the city outside the window, the dim glow of the bedside lamp. It all presses down like a physical weight.

He closes his eyes and lets himself fall back into memories, as if reaching through time to grasp something lost. The time your eyes met during that rookie briefing—the way your smile had made the room seem a little less dull, a little warmer. The way you’d teased him gently about his unbothered approach to the race weekends. The long nights spent poring over telemetry data, your voice calm but fierce, him challenging you to push harder. Him believing in you. The silent understanding in the pit lane when everything else felt like chaos. Back then, the world felt full of possibility. Like you were on the cusp of something—friendship, light rivalry, probably even something more. He remembers the small moments he treasured, tucked away like precious keepsakes: the way you’d catch his eye after a good race, the subtle encouragement in a hug, the warmth in your laugh that had nothing to do with the press or the fans. Now those memories sting with a bitterness he can’t shake. You’ve drifted apart, quietly, painfully. Your silence is a slow burn, the absence of your messages cutting deeper than any harsh word. And the photos? They feel like a final, cruel punctuation mark. Oscar feels hollow, as if the person who once made his world spin faster has spun out of orbit, caught in a new trajectory he can’t follow. He reaches for his phone again, thumb hovering over the messaging app. But the words won’t come. How do you say what’s broken, what’s unsaid? How do you ask for something that might never be? He leans back, the cool sheets doing nothing to soothe the fire in his chest. The hours stretch on, the night growing heavier with every passing minute. Oscar lets the ache settle in—raw, unfiltered, and unavoidable. It’s a quiet surrender to a truth he’s been afraid to face: you were once something rare, something that keeps people from breaking in this sport, but now he’s just a spectator, watching from the sidelines as you move on without him. The golden Australian light from the beginning of the season is long gone. The quiet of the room is absolute. And somewhere deep inside, Oscar wonders if he’ll ever find the way back.

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Sky Sports F1 has the team principals for interviews on Friday morning. The cameras roll steadily, the hum of the paddock just audible beyond the glass. The stage is set for the weekend’s pre-race interviews, and the world waits to hear from the men at the top, their voices carrying the unspoken battles beneath the polished words. Toto Wolff leans back, his gaze calm but intense. “Kimi Antonelli has been remarkable,” he says thoughtfully, fingers tapping the table. “It’s rare to see that kind of maturity in a rookie, especially from an 18 year old. He’s not just learning how to control the car — he’s learning the mental game too. And George? Well, George has really stepped up this year. He’s consistent, he’s fast, and most importantly, he’s leading the team with confidence. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s standing on the top step regularly before long. He’s shaping up to be a future world champion.” Toto’s words are measured, but there’s pride there — pride in the future of the team and a hint of the fierce competition brewing beneath. Switch to Christian Horner, who leans in, eyes sharp, voice steady but inviting. “We’re absolutely in conversations with [Y/N],” he says without hesitation. “What we offer her is a car that can win races — that’s non-negotiable. But beyond the machinery, it’s about the environment. We have an elite team, one that’s incredibly loyal and professional. She’d be joining a crew where she can focus entirely on her performance — engineers and strategists dedicated to supporting her every move on track. And having a teammate like Max? That’s invaluable. Someone who knows what it takes to be the best, who can push and support her in equal measure.” There’s a subtle glimmer of charm beneath the professional tone — a knowing nod to what a partnership like this could mean, not just for Red Bull, but for the sport. Then the screen cuts to Zak, the tension almost palpable in his carefully composed posture. His smile is polite but forced. “Look, I believe [Y/N] has very little reason to go,” Zak says, voice steady but slightly strained. “We’re working through the details. Renewal negotiations are ongoing — nothing has ever been off the table. These things take time, and we’re confident the contract will be sorted soon. [Y/N] is a key part of McLaren’s future, and we want to make sure she knows that. After all we have the most dominant car this year and we had a it last year. There is no reason to believe that we won’t have it next year as well.” His words, though reassuring on the surface, carry the weight of uncertainty. The slight hesitation, the defensive edge — the cracks show. The commentators pick up on it immediately. “One thing’s clear,” the voiceover cuts in, low and serious. “McLaren’s grip on this situation feels like it’s slipping. Zak Brown’s usual confidence sounds a bit hollow today. The questions aren’t just about contracts — they’re about control, loyalty, and what the future holds.” The montage ends with the lingering question hanging thick in the air: in this high-stakes game, who really holds the cards? And where will you play them out?

username2 Horner is playing the perfect devil here by offering the dream package to [Y/LN] without outright poaching. But “elite team,” “race-winning car,” and “great teammate” = clear Red Bull charm offensive. Especially when they put Max in a tractor this year. username3 Zak’s carefully worded “no reason to go” feels more like damage control than confidence username4 Horner’s offer is solid but the real question is whether [Y/N] wants to be the second driver to Max or perhaps the number one at McLaren. Both options come with big risks and rewards. username5 Zak’s statement reeks of “hold on tight” energy. the longer this drags, the more unsettling it gets. mclaren fans, brace yourselves, this could be a turning point. username6 mclarenss unability to get her renewal signed speaks volumes

The sun blazes over the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez on Friday at practice, the scent of hot asphalt and burning brakes thick in the air. You settle into the cockpit, heart steady but mind still buzzing faintly from last night’s tequila-fueled laughs with Max and Checo. The warmth of the memories mingles oddly with the cold focus you need now. As the engine fires up, your fingers tighten on the wheel. The car responds like a wild stallion, eager but obedient. You push out onto the track, every turn demanding precision, every straight begging for maximum throttle. The live commentators can’t resist teasing. „Rumor has it [Y/N] and Verstappen had quite the fiesta last night. Will that hangover slow her down? Or will she outpace them all anyway?" a smirking voice jabs. You are pushing hard on the track. Purple sectors flash — sharp, bright, undeniable. Your radio crackles. “Front end’s biting nicely. Tires are a bit down but manageable. I’m getting a little loose in Turn 6, might try adjusting brake balance next run.” The engineer’s relief is audible. “Copy, [Y/N]. Keep that pace. You’re fastest this session currently.” Behind you, Oscar’s session is a quieter storm. He’s pushing, but his lines aren’t clean — a bit frantic.“Sliding wide! Too much on entry, lost the rear a bit.” A crackle of frustration. Your thoughts flicker briefly to the early days — when it was just you and him, fresh teammates, nervous but electric with possibility. His quiet smile after the first time you made him laugh, the way your personalities clicked on track and off. That spark, that effortless camaraderie — now just a ghost in the machine.

Saturday morning dawns crisp and sharp, the paddock alive with murmurs of anticipation. You slip back into the cockpit, a familiar calm settling in. Q1 and Q2 pass in a blur of speed, concentration, and calculated risk. You sense Oscar’s presence nearby but distant — he’s solid, but nowhere near the fire you feel burning. As Q3 begins, the world narrows to one thing — the track, the car, the moment. Your heart pounds, steady and strong. You know this lap will define the weekend. “Final lap. Clear track ahead. Let’s make it count.” Every corner is a dance — brake late, throttle hard, apex tight. The car sings under your command, every movement fluid, practiced, precise. Crossing the finish line, the timing monitors erupt. Purple sector after purple sector confirms it: pole position. The commentator’s voice swells with excitement. "Incredible! [Y/N] has taken pole with a breathtaking lap! Max Verstappen P2, Charles Leclerc P3, but it’s [Y/N] setting the pace this weekend. What a performance!“ You raise a fist, triumphant, your grin bright and fierce. Behind you, Oscar only manages to get into P4. The disappointment is a shadow over his face — he claps for you, but it’s mechanical, distant.

The roar of the engines shakes the grandstands on sunday, a living beast hungry for battle. You’re pinned low in the cockpit, visor catching flashes of sunlight, the track ahead a blur of asphalt, painted curbs, and frantic anticipation. The lights go out. Your world snaps alive. You explode forward, reflexes sharp, heart pounding a fierce rhythm. Into Turn 1, you jam the brakes, clutch the line — the cars behind you already hunting for gaps. Max is there, breathing down your neck, and Charles not far behind, hungry and aggressive. Your engineer is being in your ear. “Defend into Turn 1, push mode activated, clear exit. Hold it, [Y/N]!” “Copy that. Holding it tight.” Every gear change, every twitch of the steering wheel, precise. You’re a fortress on wheels — no cracks for Verstappen’s relentless attempts to slip past. Lap after lap, the battle intensifies. Charles surprises you, weaving a challenge you hadn’t fully expected this weekend, but you’re ready. Your mind races as fast as the car. “Charles in sector two, 0.3 seconds faster. Mode push when ready.” „Copy“ The tension is electric. Tires scream through corners, brakes glow red-hot, your lungs burn with effort. But you don’t falter. Behind, Oscar is battling his own race — steady but unremarkable, stuck in P4 without the pace to mount a fight for the podium. As the laps tick down, your lead in the championship inches higher, the stakes enormous but the execution flawless. On the final lap, you slice through the last corners with surgical precision. The checkered flag waves. You let out a scream — raw relief and joy — as you climb out, lungs heaving, muscles trembling. You park the car in parc fermè and slide out of it. From the side, Max appears, his face breaking into a genuine smile. Before you can say a word, he pulls you into a quick, respectful hug — a rare moment of warmth between two fierce rivals. You feel the weight of the weekend lift, even if just for a moment. Turning to your team, you leap into their arms, a jubilant firecracker of energy and gratitude. The McLaren crew erupt around you, clapping, cheering, slapping your back and shoudlers — the celebration is loud and proud. Oscar arrives later, clapping too, but it’s different. The smile feels forced, a mask. His eyes flicker toward you and Max, the easy camaraderie and shared victory light between you. The team gathers in front of the garage, bright smiles and triumphant energy soaking the air. You stand front and center — the unmistakable champion basking in the glow. Behind you, the McLaren crew beam, clapping and throwing celebratory fists. Oscar shifts uneasily to the side, trying to mold his face into a smile. It’s there, just barely — a practiced curve of lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His shoulders tense, a fraction too stiff, like a guest at a party who’s forgotten why they were invited. The camera clicks, the flashes pop — team photo after team photo. You catch Oscar’s glance, a flicker of something — discomfort, distance, maybe even envy — before he turns his gaze elsewhere. Social media swarms instantly. Even the official McLaren accounts’ posted photos can’t mask it. The awkwardness lingers, as heavy as the humid air around the circuit. It’s a quiet moment, but one that speaks volumes — the picture of a team fractured, the story of two teammates caught in a silent rift.

📍Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez

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mclaren 🏁 Team spirit after another incredible weekend! Big congrats to [Y/N] on the win. A true champion leading the charge! Here’s to pushing harder and climbing higher together 💪🔥

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username1 Wow, can you feel the tension? Oscar looks like he’s been told he’s just ‘background scenery’ now 😬

username2 Respect to [Y/N] for carrying the team on her back!

username3 [Y/N] front and center as always cause she deserves it! Oscar looks like he’s standing in the wrong place lol

username5 Someone’s watching [Y/N] and Max photos like 👀 ... she’s got options and it shows. Wonder how that’s landing with the team

username6 [Y/N] is absolute GOAT material. This is what leadership looks like. Team or no team, she’s winning!

username7 Oscar’s got the talent, no doubt. But he’s in a tough spot. Hope he doesn’t let this get to him! he’s still got a lot to prove

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The press conference room hums with the buzz of reporters shuffling their notebooks and tapping on keyboards. You settle into your chair beside Max and Charles, the after-race glow radiating from all three of you. The air is lighter than last race weekend, charged with a different energy — relief, accomplishment, and the kind of easy camaraderie born from shared battles on the track. Leaning back, you cross your arms casually behind your head, your smile bright and genuine. Max grins beside you, nudging Charles with a joke about his lap times that gets a round of chuckles. The tension that usually clings in the paddock feels miles away tonight. A reporter calls out, “[Y/N], that was an incredible drive out there! You seemed totally in control, especially defending against Max and Charles. What was going through your mind during those moments?” You exchange a quick glance with Max — he raises his eyebrows, a playful challenge in them. “Honestly?” you say, voice easy. “It was like a game of chess at 200 miles per hour. You plan your moves, keep your eyes on the opponent, and hope they don’t see your next one coming. Max made me work for it today, but I wasn’t giving anything up.” Max laughs. “I was close! But [Y/N] is tough to beat on a good day.” „A good day?“, you cry out baffled. Charles jumps in, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, she’s been in incredible form all weekend. Watching her defend, you could see how calm and precise she was. That’s definitely not rookie nerves anymore.” “Speaking of which,” a reporter continues, “how are you feeling about the championship now that you’ve extended your lead?” You smile wider, the confidence solid and warm. “It’s one race, one weekend. I’m not getting ahead of myself. But yeah, this feels good. We’re pushing, and every point counts. The focus stays sharp.”You shoot a quick playful look at Charles and Max. The mood stays light, the banter effortless.

Meanwhile, somewhere else in the paddock, Oscar stands by himself in a more chaotic interview pen. The screen flickers with his image — calm, but reserved. The questions are straightforward, his answers clipped, professional. “Oscar, P4 today — solid, but not quite the result you wanted. Thoughts on the weekend?” “It was a tough day. We tried, but it just wasn’t there. Definitely not the result I or the team wanted. But I’ll review with the team and we’ll come back stronger next weekend.” Another question hits: “There’s been a lot of speculation about McLaren’s internal dynamics this season. What’s your take on that right now?” Oscar’s eyes tighten fractionally, but his voice remains measured. “I’m focused on my work and scoring points for the team. We all want the best results. That’s what matters to all of us and that’s what glues us together.” Back in the press conference room, the contrast is unmistakable. The three on the podium — relaxed, joking, enjoying the limelight. A seasoned F1 reporter murmurs into their microphone, barely audible over the chatter: “Interesting times at McLaren. You have [Y/N], the current championship leader, radiating confidence and building momentum — and Oscar, seemingly overshadowed, maybe even sidelined. The question now: Is McLaren backing the right horse?” Another voice adds, “It’s a delicate balance for the team. Managing two talented drivers, especially when one is clearly in the spotlight, is never easy. If Piastri can’t find his groove soon, they could be looking at a major shift next season.” The conference closes with a final exchange between you, Max, and Charles. Max quips, “We make a good team, huh?” You nod, laughing softly. “Yeah. I guess I could make you sweat.” But even as you bask in the moment, you know the season is far from over. The quiet tension back at McLaren lingers, and Oscar’s shadow looms in the back of your mind— a reminder that racing isn’t just about speed, but also about hearts and minds.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The driver rooms empty almost simultaneously, the late afternoon sun dipping low, casting a golden glow across the paddock. You step out of your door, blinking in the sudden brightness, and almost collide with Oscar, who is coming the other way from his own room. For a second, you just stand there, the quiet stretching between you. It is one of those pauses that feel too long and too short all at once. Neither of you quite sure what to say first. You clear your throat. “Hey,” you greet him simply. “Good race today.” Oscar looks up, eyes meeting yours, and something flickers in his gaze—maybe surprise, maybe hesitation, maybe a trace of the old warmth. “You too,” he replies, voice low but genuine. “That pole lap was unreal yesterday. Meant to tell you that.” You feel a small smile tug at the corner of your mouth. “Thanks. Took me everything I had to pull that one off.” He smiles back, the kind of smile that used to make your heart skip in the early days. “Well, earned win, I'd call it. You looked solid out there.” “Yeah?” You shift your weight, suddenly aware of the awkwardness hanging between you. “You weren’t too bad yourself. I saw a few solid laps. Just maybe… pushing a little too hard in sector three?” Oscar gives you a tight laugh. “Yeah, that one was definitely me overcooking it. Could’ve ended worse. though” You nod, stepping forward, trying to make your way. “Altitude’s messing with all of us, huh? I swear it felt so fucking weird in the car today.” He chuckles, stepping alongside. “For sure. Feels like my head’s in a fog half the time. The fans, though—they’re something else. So much energy, even when we’re gasping for air.” You glance over, meeting his eyes again. “They do make it worth it. And the weather’s been surprisingly decent. Cooler than usual.” “Small mercies,” Oscar agrees, letting the tension ease out of his shoulders. You walk side by side, tentative at first, like old friends who haven’t talked in a while but want to pretend they didn’t miss it as much as they did. “So, what’s new? I saw you spend some time with Hattie last week,” you ask, voice casual but curious. Oscar shrugged. “Yeah I did, that was quite nice. But aside from that it's the same as always. Trying to keep my head down, get through the season without any more crashes or drama.” “Sounds about right.” You grin. “Guess we both have that in common.” He smiles, more relaxed now. “Yeah. Although I have to admit, seeing you out there flying… it’s hard not to feel a bit… outpaced.” You laugh, teasing, “Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve been holding your own.” “Maybe,” he mumbles, eyes softening, “But you’re definitely on a different level this year." "That pressure must be insane, huh?” You glance sideways, sensing the weight behind your words. “Yeah, it is,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I guess sometimes I wonder if I’m even in the right place anymore.” You hesitate, not wanting to pry but feeling the undercurrent of vulnerability. “Don’t say that, Oscar. You’re an incredible driver. You are fighting for the championship for the second year in a row. You are one of the fastest out there.” Oscar nods, eyes distant. “It’s like—no matter how fast I go, there’s always someone faster. And sometimes, it’s not just on track. It’s off it too.” “Yeah,” you look up at the sky, the sun dipping behind the grandstands. “It’s been a tough season for us in different ways, I suppose.” “Especially when the headlines don’t help,” he adds quietly. You smile wryly. “Tell me about it. Seems like everyone wants to write the next chapter of our careers before we even finish this one.” He chuckles, the sound warm and familiar. “At least we’re not alone in that.”

They say distance makes the heart grow fonder. Maybe it’s true, or maybe it’s just that sometimes, the silence between two people needs to be broken, even by the smallest, most ordinary moments. “So,” you say after a pause, “how’s life outside the track? Family, friends, girlfriend?” Oscar’s expression softens. “I don't know. Trying to keep up with the little things. You saw my sister in Austin. The normal stuff that feels weirdly foreign when you’re constantly on the road. No girlfriend unfortunately.” “No girlfriend, huh? A good looking lad like you should have someone by his side.“ His ears blush a tiny bit. You continue: „I get what you’re saying, tough. I miss simple nights, hanging out without the noise of cameras and expectations.” He smiles, nudging you lightly. „Was that why you were lashing you out with Verstappen ahead of the weekend?“ You laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Shooting tequila with Max and Checo, pretending we were just regular people for a bit felt good.” Oscar raises an eyebrow, amused. “You looked a bit worse for wear the next day though. Hangover?” “Maybe a little,” you admit. “But hey, still got good lap times in in free practice, didn’t I?” “That you did,” he grins. You walk through the paddock, the sound of your footsteps mixing with distant chatter. “So,” you venture, “what’s next for you?” Oscar shrugs again. “Keep racing. Try to find my rhythm again. Maybe figure out where I belong in all of this.” You nod, understanding more than you could say. “Same here,” you say softly. “Just… trying to make it count for as long as I can.” You reach the parking lot. Two different rented McLarens waiting, gleaming under the afternoon sun. The space between you feels bigger now, charged with everything not said in the last ten minutes. Oscar looks at you, eyes lingering. “See you in Brazil?” “Yeah,” you say, the word warm despite the distance. “See you.” You climb into your car and glance back once more, catching his lingering stare. In this quiet stretch of time, it was just you and Oscar—two drivers caught between what was, what is, and what might be. And somehow, walking together felt like a small, hopeful step forward.

📍Mexico City, Mexico

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yourusername viva mexicoooooo 🇲🇽🦅 what a race. what a weekend. tequila-fueled thursday. victory-fueled sunday. (i’m sleeping for three days straight now, don’t call me)

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mclaren When you fly, we fly 🧡🇲🇽

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f1 The definition of “commanding the weekend”! 🏆

redbullracing Good company brings good luck 😉 congrats on the win, [Y/N]!

maxverstappen1 fastest driver and fastest drinker this weekend🍻🇲🇽

schecoperez unreal pace! also: next time you’re buying

username2 Max hugging her like he’s welcoming her to the family… and Oscar standing 3 feet away pretending to check tire temps 😭

username4 Journalists: “Are you moving to Red Bull?” [Y/N]: wins race, hugs Max, posts tequila pics Us: got it. loud and clear.

username5 if mclaren lets her go after THIS weekend, they’ve lost the plot and maybe the championship too

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