#Senna x reader

[iceman-kazansky]

Celebrations Together

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Requested by: Anon

Request: Can you write an Ayrton senna fic which they’re both teammates and it’s just fluff between them and they’re dating

Pairings: Ayrton Senna x F!driver reader

Warnings: Kissing, nothing much just fluff

Word count: 690

A/n: This is really similar to a part of the Seb fic I wrote haha. Anyways, first fic of the new year!! Hope you enjoy, anon. Also, I’m experimenting with replacing the gifs usually featured at the top of my works for pictures or moodboards :)

Taglist: None. If you'd like to be tagged in my works, either ask in the comments or fill out this form !! :)

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

You were sweating hard, a sheen layer of moisture gathered on your brow beneath your balaclava and helmet and breath leaving you in low pants. The knowledge that each corner you took was bringing you closer to winning– to a championship– had you stressed yet excited. All you had to do was hold onto this position for a few more seconds–

Ahead, you could ses the chequered flag waving above the track barriers, white and black squares a blur. Your tires roared against the pavement, engine howling, wind rushing past you.

As you crossed the finish line in first place, you nearly burst with joy. Tears sprung to your eyes immediately.

The cool-down lap felt unreal. You were still in shock. Had you really just won a driver championship for yourself? The first woman in the sport to do so? As you pulled into the parc ferme, you scrambled out of your car in the Mclaren garage. A flash of a signature yellow helmet in your peripheral told you that Ayrton wasn’t far behind.

When you turned to look at him you shouted in joy and he was quick to join you. Together, you jumped around excitedly, his arms looped around your waist with your faces creased into broad smiles. You weren't sure which one of you did it but in a minute your lips were connected in a moment of pure joy.

“I did it!” You exclaimed, pulling away and voice bursting with delight, “I won!”

Ayrton had a wide smile present on his face. “You did it, meu amor!” He repeated, “Você é um campeão mundial!” [You are a world champion]

You smiled wider at his words. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. Your team had gathered around you, cheers and the feeling of their congratulating shoulder pats overwhelming your system.

“Thank you guys,” you said, voice wobbly with emotion, “I mean it. I couldn't have done it without everyone.”

The Mclaren garage was teeming with bright joy. Smiles were present everywhere you looked. Everyone stood around, cheering for you. You, who had proven yourself to Mclaren and the world that you belonged here. You, who had proved that you were worthy of a seat and the investment. You, that had proved you could do everything male drivers could. You.

Eventually, you were forced to part with the team for the podium. You climbed the stairs to the walkway, waving to the crowd as you climbed onto your spot on the #1 spot. As you stood on display for the world to see, the booming sound of your national anthem began loudly in your ears, reminding you of your achievements. You were trying so hard to be strong, to not get emotional, but it was impossible. You had tears in your eyes as you stood with your face to the sky, letting your overwhelming joy smother you.

The champagne spray began shortly after the anthems had been played. Ayrton, who had secured himself a p2 popped open his bottle, the cork shooting off the top and white fizz running over his fingers like lava before he turned and began pelting you. Immediately, you turned your head away from the onslaught, fizz erupting from your own bottle as you directed your own defensive spray back at you. A wet splash against your back caused you to gasp, body tensing as a second spray of champagne hit you. As your bottles emptied, you laughed, the other podium members joining you.

Slowly, everyone filed off the balcony when the celebration came to an eventual end. After throwing a final wave to the crowd, Ayrton reached for your free hand tenderly as you walked off. “I love you, querida,” he murmured into your ear, pressing a kiss to your hair and squeezing your hand. “I could never be prouder of you.”

You smiled, turning to receive the kisses against your lips. The smile had scarcely disappeared from your face, and your cheeks were beginning to sting. Yet, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. You were beyond happy with your achievements, and Ayrton being by your side to celebrate them made it infinitely better.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝!

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ || ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

[angldelight]

BURNING LOVE: AYRTON SENNA x FEM!READER.

love is tough and the gravel is rough! short headcanons on when ayrton doesn’t have a particularly good races

age gap - reader is twenty three / senna is twenty nine - set in the late 80’s. possessive behaviour. hyperfem!reader. kissing?!!

japanese grand prix 1989.

your kisses lift me higher. you press a lipgloss stained kiss to his cheek, a small pout on your face as you watch him grumble. prost had turned into ayrton, causing them both to crash.

like the sweet song of a choir. you push your fingers through ayrton’s hair gently, eyes on his closed lens. you wandered back into brazil not long after the incident which caused prost to be champion. you press a kiss to ayrton’s mouth gently— and you can’t help but squeal as he pulls you onto him, kissing you deeper.

you light my morning sky. he found you not long after, sat on a chair on the balcony, a robe — pink and fluffy, no doubt — tied around you. you had that fond look on your face, which usually meant you were satisfied. ayrton couldn’t help but lean against the doorway with a smile on his face.

with burning love. you have flowers in your hair, swimsuit dotted with flowers of yellows and pink, as you stand in the clearwater sea. a smile on your face which soon turns into a morph of laughs and giggles, ayrton coming from behind you. he gently wraps his arms around you, your shoulders and or your hips, and he can’t help but smile to himself.

yes, he thinks. this is it.

[heartsteellerr]

How they spend valentines with you

Content; 100% fluff, all characters are written romantically, OOC, some characters are written short based on me not knowing how to type/write for them Warnings; GN reader Characters; EVERYONE (Heartsteel, KDA, True Damage)

Indoor dates; Aphelios, Akali, Senna, Yasuo

They choose to spend their valentines day with you indoors; either because they simply prefer it that way, or just want to spend it alone with you ⎯ away from the eyes of onlookers who are desperate for gossip.

Aphelios and Yasuo are introverts at heart, so being away from people is like a blessing to them both. How they'd choose to spend the day with you depends on the current mood they're feeling, for example: wanting to do something that doesn't require much work like watching a movie is one of the go-to's he'd do for valentines. Or on the more rarer occasions where he's wanting to feel genuine and sincere, he'd take some time off idol work to compose a personal song for you ⎯ one that isn't technically sung by him (most likely asked one of their members to sing in his steed) but can be used for karaoke, or background music during dinner.

Akali and Senna are the same as the other two ⎯ both being introverted but also not really? In the pre-tense of it she simply has a hard time getting along with people but would put up some sort of effort when it comes to you. However on this day, she'd much prefer to spend it alone with you. The list on what you would do with her varies on the basics of what most couples do on this day: movies, snacks, dinner, etc. I feel like in a way, Akali would want to spend valentines like how regular couples would ⎯ setting aside her role as an idol.

Outdoor dates; Kayn, Sett, K'Sante, Evelynn, Kai'Sa, Ekko

Kayn and K'sante are the types who'd want to make this day as memorable as he can for you; spending however much money he can offer to spoil you for the whole day. Though I can only imagine for Kayn he'd chooses to spend his money on bringing you to a concert that both you and him have been waiting to attend, whereas for K'Sante he's the type that'll carry all the bags you've bought and take you to a fancy restaurant to dine in.

^ You can also say this would be something Evelynn would also do for you, in terms of taking you out and spoiling you, then bringing you somewhere fancy. She has the power to do so, so why not use it to her advantage, no? At the end of it all you'd both be sitting in a high view building, watching as the city lights coat the streets before calling it a night with sweet kisses and longing words to each other.

^^ Kai'sa somewhat doing the same as what Kayn did, however, instead of just attending 'a' concert ⎯ she'd be giving you tickets to hers and her group's concert instead (i'm sorry idrk how to write for her)

Sett on the other hand is taking you on a walk. Yes, a walk. Varying between places like parks or a walk down the streets ⎯ to taking you on a hiking trip to the mountains. Of course he isn't gonna force you to keep climbing when you're getting tired, but instead of taking a break by sitting down somewhere, he'd continue the walk with you on his back or shoulders. To him it's a win-win situation: You get to rest for a bit, while he continues to walk and show you the amazing view of the place AND technically speaking, this would count as a workout for him, right? I will say at the end of it all, he'd have at least one or two things prepared when the walk is over (your gift).

Ekko is a man who's lived in the street since he was a kid; dealing with hardships and whatnot through out his life already, he'd hope to at least spend one of these days, this day in particular, where he can spend money on you. That's his wish, and with the amount he earns as a Idol ⎯ well, i guess you can say a part of his wish did come true.

A mix between both; Ezreal, Yone, Ahri, Qiyana

In the case of becoming hit stars, and especially being the fans' faves; Ezreal and Yone's schedule are so packed, they have to plan their valentines day to be both indoors and outdoors. For Yone it'd be indoors > outdoors, starting his valetines indoors first because there were still some things he needed to check over before going outdoors with you to spend the rest of your valentines day with him. Ezreal's valentines, however, started off with an outdoor date in mind but then switched to indoors the moment fans caught sight of him and he had to cancel it all ⎯ making him somewhat depressed for the most part because he tried so hard to make this day perfect for you both, but seeing as it was still a day you can spend together, outdoors or not, he's happy as long as he's with you.

^ The same can be said for Ahri, she has plenty of fans who'd want to talk and take pictures of her when she's outside so the outdoor date she had in mind suddenly turned indoor the moment fans caught wind of her activities.

^ As for Qiyana, it'd be similar to Yone but not exactly ⎯ she'd want to spend the day resting a bit longer in bed with you during the start of the day and then spend the rest outdoors; via going to a club or a bar.

[pucksandpower]

Second Heart

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Lewis Hamilton x Senna!Reader

Summary: all you’ve ever wanted was to be able to race just like your Papai … no matter the cost (or in which always going for a gap that exists runs in the Senna family)

You sit cross-legged in front of the TV, shoulders hunched, the remote clutched tight in your little hand. The screen crackles, and there he is — Ayrton. Papai. His yellow helmet blazes under the bright afternoon sun, the car flying down the straight, smooth as a bird on water.

Your eyes don’t blink. The sound of engines growls through the speakers, vibrating all the way to your heart. It’s like he’s right there. Alive.

And so fast. So, so fast. You almost feel like you’re in the car with him, that if you close your eyes, you could taste the gasoline and the rubber, the wind whipping across your face.

“Papai …” you whisper, pressing the volume button louder.

Adriane steps into the room, the clink of her bracelets soft but steady. She pauses when she sees you, arms crossed, one hip jutted out.

“I thought you were doing homework.”

You don’t answer, too lost in the footage. The video cuts to a slow-motion shot of Ayrton weaving through the rain, tires spinning in the spray like magic. They call it genius — what he did at Monaco, at Suzuka, at Donington Park. To you, it’s just your Papai being Papai.

“Turn it off.” Your mother’s voice sharpens now. She hates it when you watch these tapes. You’ve heard her say it before, more times than you can count — It’s not healthy. You shouldn’t keep living in the past. But you don’t feel like you’re living in the past. You feel like you’re meeting him for the first time, every time.

“Just five more minutes,” you plead without looking away.

“No.”

“But I-”

“I said no, agora!”

Her tone makes you flinch. The remote slips from your hand onto the floor with a dull thud. But you still can’t tear your eyes from the screen, where Ayrton’s car crosses the finish line, the Brazilian flag draped over his shoulders as the crowd roars. Your heart beats faster. There’s a strange energy in you, like the buzz before a storm. You push yourself up to your knees, your voice small but determined.

“I want to race.”

Adriane’s laugh is immediate and sharp, like glass shattering. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly!” You twist around to look at her now, the words spilling out. “I wanna race, Mãe! Like Papai!”

Her face changes. The air shifts, heavy and strange. You see it happen — the tightness in her jaw, the way her smile falls away like it was never there.

“No.”

“But-”

“No!” She snaps, louder this time, and it makes you shrink back. “Absolutely not. Never.”

You bite your lip, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. But you don’t stop. Not yet.

“Why not?” You whisper.

Your mother exhales sharply through her nose, as if the question alone is an insult. She crosses the room in two quick strides, crouching down until her face is level with yours. Her hands, delicate but strong, grip your shoulders tighter than usual.

“Because racing is dangerous,” she says, enunciating every word like she’s trying to hammer them into your skull. “Do you understand me? It’s not a game. It took your father from us.”

Her voice wavers on the last sentence, but you don’t care. There’s something stubborn growing in you, something you don’t quite recognize yet.

“Papai loved it.”

“And look where it got him,” she shoots back, her voice sharp as a knife.

You blink, stunned by the words. She’s never said it like that before. She sees your expression — hurt, confused — and her face softens, just for a second.

“Sweetheart …” She sighs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “I know you miss him. I miss him too. Every single day. But I won’t let racing take you away from me.”

“But it won’t-”

“Enough.” Her voice is final, the way grown-ups’ voices get when there’s no more room for argument. “This conversation is over.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. She’s already standing up, brushing invisible dust from her jeans. The TV hums in the background, the commentators babbling about pole positions and podiums.

Adriane snatches the remote from the floor and jabs the power button. The screen goes black, as if Papai never existed at all.

You feel hollow.

Your mother stands there for a moment, the silence thick between you. Then she crouches again, her hands cupping your face this time, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“Listen to me.” Her voice is quieter now, almost pleading. “I lost your father. I can’t-” She stops, swallows hard. “I can’t lose you too. Okay?”

You don’t nod. You don’t speak. You just stare at her, your little heart breaking in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

“I’m serious,” she whispers, her forehead resting against yours. “No racing. Not ever.”

And then she kisses the top of your head, soft and lingering, as if that alone could erase the conversation, the dream, everything. She walks out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall.

You sit there for a long time, staring at the blank TV screen, fists clenched in your lap. Your chest feels tight, like something inside you is being squeezed too hard.

You think about Papai. About how he smiled in the cockpit, how the car seemed to dance under his hands, how the crowd chanted his name like a song. He wasn’t afraid.

And neither are you.

You pick up the remote again. Your thumb hovers over the play button, hesitant for just a moment. Then you press it.

The screen flickers back to life, and Ayrton is there, flying through the rain like a miracle.

You smile.

One day, you think.

One day, you’ll race too.

***

The front door clicks shut behind you as you step into the house, dropping your school bag with a heavy thud. You bend down to untie your sneakers, already rehearsing what you’ll tell your mom — how your science project earned a gold star, how you managed to trade a snack with João without getting caught. You have it all planned, down to the way you’ll grin when she offers you that after-school snack.

But as soon as you straighten up, the voices hit you.

Loud. Sharp. Angry.

You freeze, one hand still on your shoelace.

“You have no right — none — to tell me how to raise my daughter!” Your mother’s voice is sharp, like glass breaking. She’s in the living room. You can’t see her from the hallway, but you don’t need to. You can imagine her perfectly — the tight set of her mouth, the way her arms probably cross over her chest.

And then, another voice, familiar in a strange way. Low and hard. “I’m not telling you how to raise her, Adriane. I’m telling you what she told me — how she called me crying because you refuse to let her chase the only thing she’s ever wanted.”

Alain.

Your heart skips. You know him. Everyone knows him. Papai’s fiercest rival — and, in the end, his friend. The man from the stories, from old photographs your mother keeps locked away. Alain, who came to the funeral and cried even when the cameras weren’t on him.

Why is he here?

You step closer, drawn by their words like a thread pulling you tight. You press yourself against the wall and peek around the corner, just enough to see them.

Adriane stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed exactly like you pictured. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, but her face is tight, her jaw locked in anger. Alain stands across from her, looking just as frustrated. His hands move as he talks, fast and insistent, like he’s trying to grab hold of the air between them and shape it into something that makes sense.

“She’s seven!” Your mother snaps, her voice cracking at the edges. “She doesn’t understand what she’s asking for.”

“She understands better than you think,” Alain fires back. “She understands perfectly. She called me in tears — tears, Adriane — because you shut her down without even listening.”

“I listened.” Her voice drops, low and furious. “And I said no.”

Alain scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “You said no because you’re scared.”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Of course I’m scared! She’s my daughter! You, of all people, should understand-”

“I do understand.” Alain’s voice softens, but only just. “I carried his casket. I watched you cry over him. But that’s exactly why you can’t do this to her.”

Adriane’s face crumples for a split second, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching so closely. “He’s not here, Alain,” she whispers, and it sounds like a confession and an accusation all at once. “He’s not here to see this, to say if it’s right or wrong. And he’s not here to save her if something goes wrong.”

Alain’s voice drops, steady and determined. “And you think Ayrton would want you to stop her? You think he would want her to live her whole life wrapped in fear because of what happened to him?”

“She’s my child.” Adriane’s voice cracks like a whip, but there’s something desperate underneath it now, like she’s fighting to keep her footing in a conversation she knows she’s already losing. “And I will not lose her.”

Alain’s eyes narrow. “You’re not protecting her. You’re imprisoning her.”

Your mother stares at him, her breath coming fast and uneven. For a moment, everything goes still — so quiet you can hear the ticking of the old clock on the mantel.

Then Alain steps forward, his hands on his hips. “If you won’t help her, I will. I’ll teach her to kart myself if I have to.”

Adriane barks out a bitter laugh, but it’s laced with pain. “You can try,” she says, her voice brittle. “But don’t expect me to come watch. I refuse to set foot at a race, and I won’t look at her as long as I know there’s a chance she won’t come back.”

Her words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. You feel like you can’t breathe. You press yourself harder against the wall, your chest tight with emotions you can’t name.

And that’s when the floor creaks.

Both of them turn at the sound.

“Meu Deus …” your mother whispers, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re home.”

Alain’s face softens instantly. He kneels down, arms open. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, just for a moment. Then, without thinking, you bolt from your hiding spot and run straight into Alain’s arms. He catches you easily, wrapping you in a hug that feels like safety. Like warmth.

Adriane stands frozen, her hands still over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, filled with a mix of heartbreak and anger and something you don’t fully understand.

Alain pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got a question for you.”

You blink up at him, your heart pounding.

“How would you like to come to Switzerland with me?” His voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “You could learn to kart there. I’ll teach you myself. What do you think?”

Your heart races. Switzerland. Karting. Learning to drive. It feels like a dream, one you didn’t even know you could have.

But then you look at your mother.

Adriane’s face is pale, her hands still clutched tight over her mouth like they might stop her from saying something she’ll regret. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and there’s a kind of pain in them that makes your chest ache.

You know what this means to her. You know how much it hurts.

But you also know what it means to you.

You’ve wanted this for as long as you can remember — for as long as you’ve been able to understand what racing is. And here it is, right in front of you. A chance.

You swallow hard and look back at Alain. His expression is kind but serious, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“It’s your choice,” he says quietly. “No one can make it for you.”

You take a deep breath. Your hands shake a little, but you ball them into fists to steady yourself.

“I want to go,” you whisper.

Your mother makes a soft, choked sound — like someone punched all the air out of her.

“Minha filha …” Her voice breaks.

You look at her, and it feels like your heart is splitting in two. “I have to, Mãe.”

She closes her eyes, pressing her hands tighter to her face. For a moment, she just stands there, trembling. Then she drops her hands and wipes her eyes with quick, angry swipes.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice raw and broken. “Okay. Go, then.”

The words sting, sharper than anything you’ve ever felt. But you nod. You have to.

Alain gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “We’ll call every day,” he promises, glancing at Adriane, though she won’t look at him. “Whenever you want.”

Your mother doesn’t answer. She just turns away, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on her.

Your heart feels heavy, but there’s something else now too — something lighter. Hope.

You glance up at Alain, and he smiles, soft and warm.

“Switzerland, huh?” You say, trying to sound brave.

Alain chuckles. “Switzerland.”

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you can finally breathe.

***

Life in Switzerland feels like a dream. Every morning, the mountains rise outside your window, peaks dusted in snow even as the spring sun warms the air. The international school Alain enrolled you in is small, the kids friendly. They speak a mix of languages — French, German, Italian — and though it’s strange at first, you like how every word feels like a little puzzle to solve.

But school is just the beginning of your day. The real magic happens afterward.

Every afternoon, Alain picks you up in his car — a sleek, silver Audi with leather seats that always smell faintly like coffee — and takes you straight to the karting track just outside town. There’s a rhythm to your days now: school, then the track, where the scent of gasoline and hot rubber fills the air.

“Come on, petite championne,” Alain says every day as you hop into the kart, the nickname slipping off his tongue with an easy smile. “Let’s see if you can make me proud today.”

The kart rumbles beneath you, a buzz that shoots from your hands to your heart. The moment your foot touches the pedal, the world falls away. The wind rushes against your face, the engine purring with every twist of the wheel.

Here, in the kart, you feel free — like nothing can catch you, not even the pieces of your life that feel too big or too broken to understand.

Alain watches from the sidelines, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his face calm but focused. He takes notes every time you race, shouting tips when you pull up to the pit lane.

“Don’t wait so long to hit the brakes before that hairpin, you lose too much time,” he’ll say. Or, “You’re getting faster through the straights. Don’t get greedy on the corners, though — you’ve got to feel the grip.”

You listen to every word, hungry to learn. And when he grins after you complete a lap, clapping his hands like you just won a Grand Prix, your heart swells.

By the time you drive home, your body hums with exhaustion, but it’s the good kind — the kind that comes from chasing a dream.

And every night, after dinner, there’s dessert.

“Glace au chocolat tonight?” Alain asks one evening, pulling two tubs of chocolate ice cream from the freezer.

You grin. “With whipped cream?”

“Obviously,” Alain replies with mock seriousness. “What kind of barbarian do you take me for?”

He adds a mountain of whipped cream to both bowls, handing one to you before plopping down on the couch with his own.

As always, an old race plays on the TV. Tonight, it’s Monaco — 1988, the race your father dominated, right up until the moment he crashed into the barrier. The screen flickers as the cars glide through the tight streets, their engines howling between the stone walls.

Alain leans back against the couch cushions, spoon in hand. “See that?” He says, pointing at the screen with a mouthful of ice cream. “Your papa’s line through the Swimming Pool section — perfection. Like poetry in motion.”

You tilt your head, studying the way the yellow helmet zips through the narrow chicane. “How did he do it?”

Alain smiles, scooping another spoonful of ice cream. “He just knew. Ayrton could feel the track better than anyone else. It was like … like he was connected to the car in a way no one else could be.”

You lick your spoon thoughtfully. “Did you hate him?”

The question catches Alain off guard. He freezes, then chuckles, shaking his head. “Hate him? No.” He pauses. “Not really, anyway.”

“But you fought a lot.”

“Oh, we fought.” Alain smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He drove me absolutely mad sometimes.”

You giggle. “Why?”

“Because he never gave up. Not even for a second.” Alain gestures toward the TV, where your father’s car rockets through the tunnel. “Ayrton wasn’t just racing other drivers — he was racing himself. Always trying to be faster, better. It was exhausting.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s warmth in his voice, too. You can hear it.

“And that drove you crazy?” You ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

Alain laughs, a soft, fond sound. “Completely crazy.”

You curl deeper into the couch, your ice cream bowl balanced on your lap. “But you were friends, right? In the end?”

Alain’s smile fades a little, but it stays, softer now. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “In the end.”

There’s a silence between you, filled only by the hum of the TV and the occasional scrape of your spoons against the bowls.

You glance at Alain, his expression lost somewhere between memory and regret. “Do you miss him?”

Alain looks at you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if he’ll answer. Then he gives a small nod. “Every day.”

You nod, too, even though you didn’t really know your father — at least, not in the way Alain did. But somehow, you miss him all the same.

The race continues on the screen, the cars weaving through the streets of Monaco, chasing the perfect lap.

“You’ll be just like him one day,” Alain says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blink, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Alain replies, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve got the same fire in you. The same stubbornness, too, I think.”

You laugh, and Alain grins, pleased with himself.

“You just need to tweak your braking,” he adds with a playful smirk. “You brake like me, not like him.”

“Hey!” You protest, shoving his arm lightly.

He chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m just saying! Ayrton would fly into corners like a madman. Me? I was always a bit more … sensible.”

“Sensible is boring,” you tease, scooping up the last bit of ice cream.

Alain pretends to be offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Boring? Sensible is what win me four world championships, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.

The credits for the race coverage roll, but neither of you makes a move to turn off the TV. These moments — curled up on the couch with Alain, the scent of whipped cream still in the air — feel like they could stretch forever.

And maybe, just maybe, they do.

***

Four years blur by like the laps on a familiar circuit. Days turn into months, and months into seasons. You grow taller, sharper, and faster. The kart becomes a second skin, every turn and apex something you know instinctively, like breathing. The track is your playground now — your sanctuary.

Alain teaches you everything: not just how to drive but how to think, how to be patient when you need to be and ruthless when the moment calls for it. He tells you about strategy and racecraft, how to listen for the slightest change in the engine’s pitch, how to make yourself invisible in the slipstream until the perfect moment to strike.

Some lessons come easy. Others, not so much. Like when he makes you practice for hours in the rain, your hands frozen, your kart slipping through puddles. Or when you spin out during a practice race and Alain doesn’t even flinch. He just waves his hand in the air.

“Again!” He shouts from the pit lane. “You have to get comfortable with making mistakes, petite. No champion gets there without a few bruises.”

And so you go again. And again. Because this — this dream — is the one thing you want more than anything.

Now, after all those years, the day has finally arrived. You’re old enough to compete in the FIA Karting Championship. This is what you’ve been working toward.

But Alain surprises you one quiet evening at home. No ice cream, no old races on TV — just you and him, sitting across the kitchen table with two mugs of hot tea. His face is serious, but kind.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he says, tapping his fingers lightly against the mug. “You have a choice to make.”

You lean forward. “What kind of choice?”

Alain tilts his head, his sharp hazel eyes studying you carefully. “Your name.”

You frown. “My name?”

“Yes. You’ve been racing locally for a while, but things are different now.” Alain takes a sip of tea, gathering his thoughts. “The FIA Karting Championship is international. There will be journalists, scouts, team representatives. If you race under your real name, everyone will know exactly who you are.”

You sit back, the weight of what he’s saying slowly sinking in.

“You can use a pseudonym if you want,” Alain continues. “Plenty of drivers do it, especially when they want to build their career on their own terms.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’ve thought a lot about racing — how fast you want to be, how badly you want to win. But this? The idea of hiding your name? It’s a curveball you didn’t see coming.

Alain gives you time to think, his hands wrapped loosely around his mug. “There’s no shame in it, petite,” he says gently. “It’s not about denying who you are. It’s about deciding how you want the world to see you.”

The words hang between you. He’s not pressuring you — Alain never does that — but you can feel the weight of the decision anyway.

You toy with the edge of the mug in front of you, tracing the rim with your fingertip. “Do you think … if I use my real name, people will only see Papai?”

Alain shrugs, but his expression is thoughtful. “Some will. There are people who won’t be able to separate you from Ayrton. They’ll compare you to him before you’ve even taken a proper lap.”

You nod slowly. You’ve known this would happen — how could you not? But hearing it out loud makes it more real.

“At the same time,” Alain adds, “it’s not something to be ashamed of. Ayrton was … well, he was Ayrton. If anyone has the right to be proud of their name, it’s you.”

You bite your lip, the edges of uncertainty fraying inside you. “What would you do?”

Alain smiles softly. “It’s not my decision to make, ma chérie. This is about you. Your future.”

You stare into your tea, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling like tiny ghosts. A part of you aches at the thought of hiding your father’s name — like you’d be denying him, pretending he didn’t matter. But there’s another part, quieter but insistent, that wants to know what it’s like to stand on your own. To earn your place without the shadow of a legend following you everywhere you go.

You tap your fingers against the table, the rhythm matching the beat of an engine in your mind. And then, suddenly, the answer clicks into place.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I want to use a different name. Just for now.”

Alain raises his eyebrows, curious but approving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, more certain now. “It’s not because I’m ashamed. I’m not. I want people to know one day. Just … not yet.”

Alain leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s the plan?”

You grin, the excitement building in your chest. “I’ll race under my mother’s last name. And when the time’s right — maybe after I win a few championships — I’ll tell them.”

Alain chuckles, shaking his head. “You think they’ll like the surprise?”

You laugh, a full, bright sound that feels like relief. “Can you imagine their faces?”

Alain grins, clearly amused. “I can already hear the headlines.” He adopts an exaggerated announcer voice: “The karting prodigy who stunned the world by revealing she’s Ayrton Senna’s daughter!”

You burst out laughing, the tension from the conversation melting away. “They’ll lose their minds!”

“And you’ll love every second of it,” Alain adds with a knowing smirk.

You grin, unable to hide the spark of mischief in your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head fondly, ruffling your hair as he stands up from the table. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Comes with the territory,” you say, beaming.

Alain gathers the empty mugs and places them in the sink, still chuckling to himself. “Well, I think it’s a smart choice. Gives you time to find your own rhythm.”

You nod, feeling lighter than you have in days. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Alain leans against the counter, crossing his arms as he looks at you. There’s pride in his eyes — quiet, steady, and unmistakable. “Your papa would’ve been proud of you, too,” he says softly.

Your throat tightens, but you smile through it. “Thanks, Alain.”

He nods once, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on,” he says, nudging his head toward the living room. “Let’s celebrate with some dessert. I think we’ve got tarte au citron in the fridge.”

You follow him, your heart light and your steps easy. The road ahead is still long — there will be races, wins, and losses. But for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to drive.

And that? That’s the best feeling in the world.

***

The drive from Switzerland to Imola is quiet. You sit with your thoughts, the hum of the engine beneath you and the road stretching endlessly ahead. Alain offered to come with you, but you declined. This is something you need to do alone.

It’s not that you didn’t want his company, it’s just … how do you explain to someone — even someone who knew your father so well — that you need to meet this place on your own terms?

For eighteen years, you told yourself you weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be. But here you are, taking deep breaths as you steer your way closer to the circuit where it all ended. Where everything about your life changed before it even really began.

When you finally arrive, the gates to the Imola track feel strangely peaceful, nestled under a canopy of autumn leaves. The air is crisp, and the sky is that soft, pale blue you only get in early fall. You park the car and head toward the Ayrton Senna memorial, your footsteps crunching through the leaves littering the path.

Each step feels heavier than the last, your pulse loud in your ears. You try to steel yourself — this is just a monument, just a place. You’ve been to a thousand race tracks in your life. But this one is different. This one holds pieces of someone you never got the chance to know.

As you approach the monument, you expect silence. You expect to be alone. But then you notice someone sitting there — another figure crouched near the bronze statue of your father.

The man shifts, startled by the sound of your footsteps on the gravel. His head turns, and you recognize him almost immediately.

It’s Lewis Hamilton.

He blinks up at you, clearly not expecting company either. There’s a moment of awkwardness, both of you standing there, caught off guard in a place meant for solitude.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Lewis waves off the apology, his face softening. “No, no. You’re not bothering me.” He pulls himself up a little straighter, brushing leaves from his jacket. “I always stop by here before Monza. Helps me … I don’t know. Reset.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. There’s something strange about seeing him here — Lewis Hamilton, one of the biggest names in motorsport, sitting quietly in front of your father’s monument like he’s just another fan.

“I came for the same reason,” you admit. “I’m Brazilian. Wanted to pay my respects.”

At that, something shifts in Lewis’ expression — understanding, maybe. “You’re Brazilian?” He repeats, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That explains it. Every Brazilian racer I know carries Senna with them like … well, like a second heart.”

You laugh softly, kicking a stray leaf with your shoe. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Lewis shifts, resting his forearms on his knees as he looks back at the monument. The wind stirs the leaves around your feet, scattering them across the ground.

“He’s always been my hero,” Lewis murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “Even before I really understood what racing was, I just … knew he was special.”

You don’t respond right away, your gaze fixed on the familiar features of the bronze effigy — your father’s intense, focused expression captured in metal. It’s strange, standing here with someone who feels the same reverence you’ve always felt but never quite known how to express.

Lewis glances at you again. “What do you race?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets. “Formula Renault 3.5.”

His eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. “That’s a serious series.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, though there’s a flicker of pride in your chest. “Yeah, it’s been good so far.”

“Good enough to think about Formula 1 one day?” Lewis asks, a knowing smile on his face.

You grin. “That’s the plan.”

He chuckles, the sound warm in the cool air. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. What’s your name?”

For a split second, you hesitate. But you remind yourself — he doesn’t need to know everything. Not yet. “Just … Y/N,” you say casually. “For now.”

Lewis tilts his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t press. “Y/N. Got it.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure how to fill the silence. But it’s not uncomfortable — just … quiet.

“You said you come here every year?” You ask after a moment.

“Before Monza, yeah,” Lewis confirms. “It’s become sort of a ritual. Helps me feel grounded, I guess. Reminds me why I do this.”

You nod, understanding more than you expected to. There’s something about this place — this simple, quiet memorial — that strips everything else away. The politics, the pressure, the noise. It leaves only the pure love of racing behind.

Lewis stands then, brushing dirt from his pants. “Well,” he says, “I should probably get going. Got a long weekend ahead.”

You nod, though part of you wishes you had a little more time to talk to him. There’s something easy about the way he carries himself — no arrogance, no pretense. Just a racer who loves what he does.

Lewis glances at the monument one last time, his gaze lingering on your father’s face. “He would’ve loved to see how many of us still race because of him,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

He gives you a nod, something warm and reassuring in his expression. “Take care, Y/N. I’ll be watching.”

With that, he turns and walks down the path, his footsteps crunching through the leaves. You watch him go, the wind stirring around you again, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and autumn.

For a long moment, you stay there, standing in front of the monument, just you and the bronze figure of your father. You don’t say anything — there’s nothing that needs to be said. But in the quiet, you feel a strange sense of peace.

Maybe it’s the years of racing, the laps you’ve turned, the lessons you’ve learned. Or maybe it’s just knowing that people like Lewis exist — people who carry your father’s spirit with them, even though they never knew him.

You brush a hand over the cool surface of the monument, tracing the edge of the plaque with your fingers. “I’m gonna make you proud,” you whisper.

And this time, you believe it.

The wind picks up again as you turn away from the monument, heading back toward the car. Monza is waiting. And so is the rest of your story.

***

The paddock feels like a world unto itself — buzzing with life, engines roaring in the distance, team personnel hurrying from garages to pit walls.

You’re barely a day into your first GP2 weekend with DAMS, and it’s already overwhelming. The DAMS crew is friendly but businesslike, and the constant stream of engineers, mechanics, and journalists passing by your garage is a reminder that you’ve officially stepped onto the big stage.

Your heart pounds as you adjust the collar of your race suit, nerves crawling under your skin. You spent the morning doing seat fittings, debriefs, and media duties, but now you’re finally free for a few minutes before the next round of meetings.

Alain walks beside you, calm and collected as ever, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He’s been like a steady lighthouse in the chaos of this new chapter, guiding you through the storm with quiet assurance.

“Remember,” Alain says as you both weave through the paddock, “it’s just another race. Keep your focus. Don’t let the noise get to you.”

“Easier said than done,” you mutter, scanning the sea of faces for anyone familiar — or anyone dangerous, like a journalist with too many questions.

Alain smirks knowingly. “That’s why you have me.”

You can’t help but grin, a flicker of relief easing the tension in your chest. Alain’s been by your side for so long now that the idea of navigating a race weekend without him feels unthinkable.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot someone you weren’t expecting: Lewis.

He’s walking toward the McLaren motorhome, surrounded by team personnel and a PR officer trailing closely behind, clipboard in hand. You see the moment recognition flickers in his eyes — he stops mid-step, gaze locking on you like he’s just solved a puzzle.

“Y/N?” He calls, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Alain glances sideways at you, bemused, but you can’t help the small, slightly guilty smile tugging at your lips. You wave at Lewis, feeling a little awkward but genuinely happy to see him.

Lewis strides over, his PR officer groaning softly but trailing after him anyway. “I thought I’d see you around here eventually,” Lewis says with a grin. “Didn’t think it would be so soon.”

You shrug, playing it casual. “Surprise.”

His eyes flick to Alain, standing quietly beside you. “And you … know Alain Prost?”

Alain raises a polite eyebrow, but there’s an amused glint in his eye, as if waiting to see how you’ll answer this one.

You shift on your feet, aware of Lewis’ confusion. “Yeah, he’s … been my mentor for years.” You keep your explanation vague, not ready to drop the full truth just yet.

Lewis frowns slightly, processing the unexpected connection. “You’ve been working with Alain Prost?”

You nod. “Since I was a kid.”

Lewis lets out a low whistle, looking between the two of you with new appreciation. “Wow. That explains a lot.”

Before you can respond, his PR officer steps in, clipboard clutched tightly in one hand. “Lewis, we really need to-”

Lewis waves her off without breaking eye contact with you. “Five more minutes. It’s fine.”

The woman hesitates, then sighs in frustration and backs away to give him space. Lewis turns his full attention back to you, his easy grin returning.

“So, GP2, huh?” He asks, hands on his hips. “How’s it feel to finally be here?”

“Terrifying,” you admit with a laugh. “But also kind of amazing.”

“That’s how you know you’re in the right place,” Lewis says, his tone encouraging. “The nerves mean you care.”

Alain watches the exchange quietly, and you can tell he’s measuring Lewis, sizing him up — not in a competitive way, but in that protective way he’s always had with you. It’s subtle, but you know Alain well enough to see it.

“I’ll make sure to catch the feature race,” Lewis promises, his grin widening. “I’ll be cheering you on.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how much that means to you. “Oh yeah? You sure you have time to slum it with us junior drivers?”

Lewis laughs, genuinely amused. “Come on, now. I started in GP2, remember? I know exactly how tough it is.”

“Guess I’ll have to put on a good show, then.”

“You better,” Lewis says, mock-serious. “Otherwise I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

The two of you share a quick, easy laugh, and for a moment the chaos of the paddock fades into the background. It’s just two drivers, standing in the middle of it all, sharing a moment of understanding.

“You’re going to crush it,” Lewis adds, his voice low and certain.

Something in his tone makes you believe it — makes the nerves that have been simmering all day settle, if only for a moment.

Alain clears his throat softly, a reminder that time is ticking. “We need to get back to the team,” he says, his voice gentle but firm.

Lewis nods, taking the hint but not before offering you one last smile. “Good luck, Y/N. I’ll see you out there.”

You return the smile, feeling lighter than you have all day. “Thanks, Lewis.”

He gives Alain a respectful nod before turning to leave, his McLaren team falling into step around him as he disappears into the paddock.

As you watch him go, Alain leans in slightly, his voice quiet but laced with amusement. “Friend of yours?”

You smirk, still watching Lewis disappear into the crowd. “Something like that.”

Alain chuckles, and the sound is warm, familiar — like the engine note of a car you’ve driven a thousand times.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder gently. “We have work to do.”

You follow Alain back toward the DAMS garage, the nerves still there but tempered now with something else — excitement, anticipation, maybe even a little confidence.

Because this is your moment. Your chance to show the world what you can do. And with people like Alain and Lewis in your corner, you know you’re not facing it alone.

***

The Bahrain sun beats down relentlessly, the heat pressing against your skin even through your race suit. Sweat clings to your brow, mixing with the overwhelming, heady cocktail of fuel, rubber, and victory. You’re breathless, exhausted — but none of that matters.

You did it. You won.

The feature race trophy feels almost weightless in your hands as you stand on the podium, the sound of the Brazilian anthem thundering in your ears. The cameras flash, the crowd cheers, and for the first time since you entered GP2, you allow yourself to savor the moment. You close your eyes for a second, letting the anthem sink deep into your bones, and think of your father.

When the rose water sprays, it feels like you’ve broken through a barrier — proof to yourself and to the world that you belong here. That you’re not just someone chasing the shadow of a name, but a racer in your own right.

The post-race chaos is a blur — interviews, debriefs, more interviews. It’s not until you’re finally allowed to step away from the DAMS garage, damp with sweat and floral liquid, that the realization hits you again: you won your first GP2 race. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, but beneath it, there’s a quiet hum of contentment.

You round the corner of the paddock, searching for a quiet moment to collect yourself — when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/N!”

You turn, and there he is: Lewis, dressed casually in his McLaren team kit, that signature grin stretched across his face. His eyes are bright under the paddock lights, and his presence feels like a cool breeze against the heat of Bahrain.

Before you can say anything, he’s already jogging up to you, wrapping you in a quick, spontaneous hug. The smell of his cologne lingers in the air between you — spicy and warm, like cedar and citrus.

“That was incredible!” Lewis says, pulling back to look at you. “Seriously, you drove like a pro out there.”

You grin, still catching your breath. “You saw the whole race?”

“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s obvious, as if there was no way he could have missed it. “I told you I’d be cheering you on, didn’t I?”

“Guess I didn’t disappoint, then,” you say, teasing.

“Not even a little.” His grin softens into something warmer, more personal.

The way he looks at you — like he’s genuinely proud — makes your chest tighten, but not in a bad way. It’s strange, but comforting, the way he’s here, grounding you in the whirlwind of it all.

“Come on,” Lewis says, gesturing toward the paddock hospitality area. “You deserve a proper celebration. We’ll grab something to drink, at least — water, preferably, because you look like you’re about to melt.”

You laugh. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m not passing out just yet.”

“Still,” he insists, walking beside you. “Gotta take care of the winner, right?”

You follow him, your steps lighter than they’ve felt all weekend. It’s easy with Lewis — talking, walking, just existing in the same space. You can’t tell if it’s the lingering buzz of the win or something else entirely, but there’s a sense of ease between you that you haven’t felt with anyone in a long time.

He leads you to one of the quieter corners of the paddock, where a small group of McLaren personnel are relaxing. Lewis grabs two water bottles from a nearby cooler and tosses one your way.

“Catch.”

You catch it easily, the cool plastic a relief against your palm. “Thanks.”

Lewis leans against the back of a chair, his posture relaxed, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “So … how does it feel?”

“To win?” You twist the cap off your bottle and take a sip. “Like … I don’t know. Like I can finally breathe again.”

He nods, like he knows exactly what you mean. “First win’s always special. But there’ll be more. I can feel it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You think you’re a psychic now?”

Lewis chuckles. “Nope. Just good at spotting talent.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no denying the warmth his words spark inside you. You glance away for a moment, trying to shake the strange flutter in your chest.

“So,” he says after a beat, “what’s next? A second win in Spain?”

“I mean, that’d be nice,” you say, grinning. “But I’ll settle for finishing with all my wheels intact.”

“Good plan,” Lewis agrees, laughing. “That track’s a nightmare.”

The conversation drifts easily from there, flowing from racing to random paddock gossip to stories from his early days in GP2. You’re both standing close — closer than two people probably need to stand. But it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, it feels … nice.

He pauses for a second, watching you with that thoughtful expression he gets sometimes, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on beneath the surface.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He says softly, almost like it’s just for you to hear.

The words catch you off guard, and you feel your cheeks warm under the intensity of his gaze.

“Just doing my best,” you say, trying to play it off, but your voice sounds quieter than you intended.

Lewis’ eyes linger on yours for a moment longer, and there’s a flicker of something between you — something unspoken, but not unwelcome.

Before either of you can say anything more, a loud cheer erupts from a nearby group of mechanics, jolting you both back to the present. You laugh, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Guess the celebration’s already started,” you say, motioning toward the rowdy crowd.

Lewis grins. “Looks like it. You coming?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to celebrate, but because part of you likes this quiet bubble you and Lewis have found.

“I think I might stay here for a bit,” you say, leaning against the wall and taking another sip of water.

Lewis doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stays where he is, like maybe he feels the same pull to stay in this moment, too.

“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice low and a little more serious, “I meant what I said earlier. About you being something special.”

You meet his gaze, and there’s no teasing in his expression now — just quiet sincerity.

“Thanks,” you say softly, the word not nearly enough to convey what you’re feeling.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, then gives you a small, crooked smile. “Guess I’ll just have to keep watching and see what you do next.”

“Guess so.”

And just like that, the air shifts between you — charged with possibility, like the moment before a green flag drops.

You don’t know what’s coming next, but for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of it. Not when Lewis is standing here, smiling at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And somehow, you think, this might just be the start of something worth chasing.

***

It’s late in the evening, and the Monaco paddock has fallen into a rare lull. The energy of race day — mechanics scrambling, journalists hounding drivers, engines screaming — has settled into a quiet hum. Most people have retreated to their yachts or hotel rooms by now, leaving only the occasional team member wandering through the maze of garages and hospitality areas.

You sit with Lewis on the edge of the harbor, the two of you tucked away from prying eyes. The water laps gently against the docks, and the principality’s golden lights reflect across the surface like scattered coins. Neither of you say anything for a while, content to let the quiet fill the spaces between you.

It’s been like this more often lately — stolen moments between races, conversations that drift into the small hours of the morning, and the unspoken pull that keeps you near each other, even when there’s no real reason to be.

Lewis shifts beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. “You ever just sit somewhere and wonder how the hell you got here?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, the glow of the streetlights catching the sharp angles of his face. “All the time.”

He gives a small laugh, running a hand over his braids. “Monaco’s something else, isn’t it?”

You nod, hugging your knees to your chest. “Feels like the kind of place people dream about … like it’s not even real.”

He looks over at you then, his gaze lingering a moment too long. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not sure what’s real sometimes.”

There’s something heavy in his voice, something unspoken. And for the first time tonight, the quiet between you doesn’t feel as comfortable. It feels loaded, like you’re both waiting for the other to say something neither of you know how to say.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You okay?”

Lewis exhales slowly, glancing out over the water. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure how to begin. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately … about the future. About what I want, and where I want to be.”

You shift closer to him, sensing that this isn’t just idle talk. “What do you mean?”

He leans back on his hands, staring at the water like it might hold the answer. “I’ve been with McLaren my whole career. Since I was a kid. But … I don’t know. Lately, it feels like I’m stuck. Like I’ve hit a wall.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

He looks at you then, and there’s something raw in his expression — something vulnerable. “I’ve decided to leave McLaren at the end of the season. I’m signing with Mercedes.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. You blink, trying to process what he just said. “Mercedes?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“But … McLaren’s your home.”

Lewis shrugs, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “It was. But things change. And if I don’t take this chance now … I think I’ll always wonder what could’ve been.”

You stare at him, your mind spinning. “Do people know yet?”

He shakes his head. “Not many. Just a few people on the team. I wanted to tell you before it got out, though.”

You chew on your bottom lip, absorbing the weight of his words. “That’s a big decision, Lewis.”

“I know.” He looks at you, his gaze steady. “But it feels like the right one. Even if it’s scary as hell.”

You let out a breath, feeling a strange mix of emotions — pride, worry, something you can’t quite name. “Well … if it’s what you want, I guess it’s the right move.”

He smiles, but it’s a small, almost hesitant thing. “Thanks.”

The silence stretches between you again, but this time it feels different. Like something has shifted — not just because of what he said, but because of the way he’s looking at you now.

“You’ve been there for me a lot lately,” he says softly. “I don’t think I’ve said how much that means to me.”

Your heart beats a little faster. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is to me.” His voice is low, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath catch.

He shifts slightly closer, and suddenly the space between you feels impossibly small. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle brush of his shoulder against yours.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You look up at him, and the world seems to narrow down to just this — just the two of you, sitting on the edge of the harbor, the night air thick with something electric.

And then, slowly — almost hesitantly — he leans in.

For a split second, you think about pulling away, about the million reasons why this might not be a good idea. But before you can overthink it, his lips brush against yours.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face.

It’s not the kind of kiss that demands anything — it’s the kind that promises everything.

When you finally pull back, your heart is racing, and your mind feels like it’s spinning in a thousand different directions.

Lewis looks at you, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits, his breath warm against your skin.

You smile, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and disbelief. “Yeah?”

He nods, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the quiet aftermath of the kiss. The world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you, floating in your own little bubble.

Finally, Lewis pulls back slightly, though his hand lingers on your face. “So … what now?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound light and easy. “I have no idea.”

He grins, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your chest feel warm. “Guess we’ll figure it out, then.”

You nod, your heart still racing. “Yeah. I guess we will.”

And somehow, even though nothing feels certain — his future, your career, whatever this thing is between you — there’s a strange sense of peace in the not knowing.

Because whatever happens next, you know you’ll face it together.

***

The air in the McLaren garage is thick with anticipation. Cameras are set up, media personnel are adjusting their equipment, and there’s a palpable buzz in the air as the press conference prepares to start. You stand just behind the curtain, your heart racing. You can hear the hum of voices in the room beyond, reporters murmuring to one another, waiting for the big reveal.

The past few months have felt like a whirlwind — a blur of contract negotiations, meetings with McLaren’s team principal, and the quiet, creeping excitement of finally getting the chance to do what you’ve always dreamed of. But now that the moment is here, the weight of it is settling in. You’re not just about to become the first woman in F1 in decades, you’re about to step into the spotlight as Ayrton Senna’s daughter.

You take a deep breath, glancing down at the McLaren-branded polo shirt you’re wearing, the crisp fabric somehow making everything feel more real. This is happening. After all the years of hard work, all the sacrifices, you’re about to make history.

Alain stands beside you, his face calm, but his hand on your shoulder is firm and reassuring. “You ready?” He asks, his voice low, but steady.

You nod, swallowing down the nerves. “I think so.”

“Just remember why you’re doing this,” he says softly, his eyes meeting yours. “This is about you. Not your father. Not anyone else. You.”

You offer him a small smile. Alain’s always been good at grounding you, at reminding you that you’ve earned this, regardless of who your father was. He’s been there through it all — your highs and lows, your victories and failures. And now, here he is, standing beside you as you take this monumental step.

The curtains part, and the team principal, Martin Whitmarsh, steps onto the stage. The room quiets as he approaches the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today,” he begins, his voice carrying through the room. “It’s not often we get to announce something of this magnitude. Today, McLaren is proud to welcome a new driver to our team for the 2013 season. Not only will she be the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in over 20 years, but she’s also someone with a legacy that speaks for itself.”

There’s a murmur of curiosity from the crowd, and you know the moment is coming. The reveal. The truth that you’ve kept hidden, even from the people closest to you.

“Please join me in welcoming, Y/N Senna.”

The sound of your name, followed by your father’s, echoes through the room like a ripple of shock. For a brief moment, there’s stunned silence. Then, the cameras start flashing, the murmurs turn into a roar, and all eyes are on you.

You step onto the stage, trying to steady your breath. The weight of the announcement, of who you are, feels heavier than you expected. But you push through, meeting the gaze of the journalists, the photographers, the team members standing off to the side. You can’t see him from here, but you know Alain is watching from the wings, his quiet support steadying you.

Whitmarsh continues speaking, but the words blur together as your mind races. It’s not until you hear the murmured whispers in the back of the room that your attention snaps back.

“Senna?”

“Ayrton���s daughter?”

“Why didn’t anyone know?”

As the press conference wraps up, and you’re led off stage, the questions start flooding in. Journalists swarm, desperate for a quote, for more insight into the mystery that you’ve kept hidden for so long.

But before you can respond to any of them, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Y/N.”

You freeze, your heart dropping. You know that voice. You turn slowly, and there he is — Lewis, standing just a few feet away, his face unreadable.

The PR team tries to shuffle you away, but you shake them off, making your way over to him. “Lewis …”

He cuts you off, his expression dark. “You’ve been racing for all these years, and you never thought to tell me? Not once?”

The sting of his words catches you off guard, and you open your mouth to respond, but he continues, his voice low but sharp. “I thought we were close. I thought we were-” He stops, running a hand over his face. “You let me fall for you, and you didn’t even tell me who you really are.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. “Lewis, it wasn’t like that-”

“Wasn’t it?” He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours, hurt and confusion written all over his face. “I get it, okay? You didn’t want people to treat you differently because of your name. But me? I thought we were past that.”

“I didn’t want to use my father’s name to get ahead,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I wanted to make a name for myself, first. And I didn’t tell you because … because I didn’t want it to change how you saw me.”

“Well, it’s changed everything now,” he snaps, his voice tight with anger. “I thought I knew you, but clearly, I didn’t.”

You take a step back, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. “Lewis, please. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t mean to hurt me? You’re Ayrton Senna’s daughter, and you never even mentioned it once. How could you keep something like that from me?”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. “I didn’t want it to come between us.”

“Well, it has,” he says, his voice quieter now, but still laced with pain. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening. The distance between you feels insurmountable now, like a chasm that you don’t know how to cross.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lewis looks at you for a long moment, his expression softening slightly, but the hurt still lingers in his eyes. “I need some time,” he says finally, his voice rough. “I just … I need to figure this out.”

You nod, the tears finally spilling over. “Okay.”

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your heart heavy and your world spinning.

As you watch him go, you can’t help but wonder if things will ever be the same between you.

***

The air at Imola is still. The late-summer heat clings to your skin, and the only sounds around you are the distant hum of cicadas and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You stare at the stone memorial, the bronze relief of your father’s face, the flowers people have left here over the years. Some are wilted, some fresh. There’s even a small Brazilian flag tucked against the base.

You exhale slowly, your hands stuffed deep into the pockets of your jacket. It’s been exactly a year since you first stood here, heart in your throat, hoping to find some kind of connection, some kind of clarity. The weight of the past year presses down on you now — signing with McLaren, the media frenzy, the fallout with Lewis.

And Papai. Always Papai.

You kneel, brushing a hand over the smooth stone, fingers tracing the engraved letters. “I made it,” you whisper. “I’m almost there.” Your voice catches on the words, a lump forming in your throat. “I wish you were here to see it.”

You close your eyes, trying to imagine what he’d say if he were standing beside you. Maybe he’d be proud. Maybe he’d tell you to push harder, go faster, never settle. Or maybe he’d tell you to slow down, to find a way to reconnect with your mother before it’s too late. But he’s not here. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

A soft rustling sound pulls you from your thoughts. Footsteps, deliberate but hesitant, approach from behind, crunching through the dry leaves scattered on the ground. You turn, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s Lewis.

He’s wearing a hoodie, hands tucked into the front pocket, his brows peeking out from beneath a baseball cap. He stops a few feet away, his dark brown eyes meeting yours. There’s something guarded in his expression, but there’s warmth there, too.

You straighten slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis shrugs, his gaze flickering to the memorial and back to you. “Monza’s coming up. Thought I’d stop by first … like I always do.”

The tension between you feels like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap at any second. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence stretching out like a canyon.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” you finally say, your voice quieter than you intended.

He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “I didn’t think I’d see you here, either.”

You bite your lip, looking away toward the memorial. “I needed to. Before the race. I … I haven’t been here since last year.”

Lewis shifts, the soft scrape of his shoes against the ground. “I remember.”

The air feels heavy between you, thick with all the things you haven’t said to each other. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, but they feel tangled, impossible to untangle without breaking.

Lewis is the first to speak again, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what happened. About everything.”

You swallow hard, your hands clenching into fists in your pockets. “Me too.”

“I was angry,” Lewis admits. “Hurt, too. But … I get it now. Why you didn’t tell me.”

His words catch you off guard, and you glance at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I know what it’s like to feel like you have to prove yourself, like the world’s already decided who you are before you even get a chance to show them. I just … I wish you’d trusted me with it.”

“I wanted to,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “I did. But … it’s complicated.” You look down, kicking at a stray leaf with your shoe. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out how to be his daughter without being defined by it. And now … now it’s all out there.”

Lewis steps closer, closing the gap between you. “You’re not just his daughter, Y/N. You’re you. And that’s who I fell for.”

The warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten. You blink quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use. They spill over anyway, and you wipe at them angrily with the sleeve of your jacket.

“It’s not just about the name,” you whisper. “Racing … it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But it’s also what took me away from my mom.” You take a shaky breath, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She can’t even look at me without seeing him. I haven’t had a real conversation with her in years. The last time we talked was my birthday. And it was just a two-minute call.”

Lewis’ face softens, and he reaches out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, sniffing quietly. “It’s not your fault. It’s just … hard, you know? I love racing, but it feels like it’s cost me everything else.”

He takes another step closer, his hand lingering on your cheek. “You’ve got me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, your breath catching in your throat. “Do I?”

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. You do.”

The world feels like it tilts for a moment, everything narrowing down to just the two of you standing here, beneath the shadow of your father’s memory. And before you can think too hard about it, before the doubts can creep in, you lean in, closing the distance between you.

The kiss is soft at first — tentative, like neither of you wants to break the fragile peace that’s settled between you. But then his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens, the weight of everything unsaid dissolving in the warmth of his touch.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads resting against each other.

“I missed you,” Lewis whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

“I missed you, too,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Eventually, Lewis pulls back slightly, his hand still cradling the back of your neck. “So … what now?”

You smile, a small, genuine smile that feels like the first one in a long time. “Now … we go win at Monza.”

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn right we will.”

You laugh softly, the sound light and free, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest lifts.

As you stand there, hand in hand with Lewis, you glance back at the memorial one last time. “I think he’d be happy,” you say quietly.

Lewis squeezes your hand gently. “I know he would.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosens. You’re still Ayrton Senna’s daughter. But you’re also yourself. And that? That feels like enough.

***

The crowd roars so loudly that it feels like the earth itself is shaking. São Paulo is electric, the grandstands packed with people draped in green and yellow, waving flags, and chanting. You’ve been in big races before, stood on podiums, and tasted victory. But this … this is different.

This is Interlagos. This is home. And for the first time in your career, you’re leading an F1 race in front of your people.

“Alright, Y/N,” your engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “Five laps to go. Everything looks good on the telemetry. Just bring her home.”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you navigate the tight curves of the circuit. Every bump, every rise, every dip feels familiar. You’ve studied this track since you were a child. This is where your father was a legend — and now, it’s where you can make your own history.

The tires hum beneath you, vibrations pulsing through your hands and feet. The sky is dark with heavy clouds threatening rain, but the track is still dry, for now. Behind you, Sebastian Vettel is chasing hard in second place, his Red Bull a glimmer in your mirrors, but you don’t think about him. Not now. This is about you. About crossing that finish line first.

Four laps. Then three. Every second feels like an eternity. You can hear the crowd over the sound of the engine, their voices rising every time you fly past the grandstands. “SENNA! SENNA!” they chant, over and over, as if your name — your real name — was always meant to be called alongside your father’s.

“Two laps, Y/N. Gap to Vettel is two seconds. Stay focused.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel. You shift gears, your mind and body moving in perfect sync with the machine around you. The wind whistles past your helmet as you race up the hill toward the final turn.

On the final lap, it starts to drizzle — just enough to slick the track and make things dangerous. Your car twitches as the tires search for grip.

“Be careful, Y/N,” your engineer warns. “You’ve got this. Just stay calm.”

You breathe in. Breathe out. And then the chequered flag waves ahead of you, and the world explodes into color and sound.

“P1, Y/N! P1! You’ve won the Brazilian Grand Prix!” Your engineer’s voice is hoarse with excitement. “That was incredible — you just won at home!”

Your heart leaps as tears spring to your eyes. You punch the air, screaming into the radio, not caring who hears. “YES! YES! WE DID IT!”

The car coasts into parc fermé, the engine humming its final notes as you switch it off. You rip off your gloves and helmet, letting the cool air hit your damp face. The grandstands are still shaking with the cheers of thousands. Your name — Senna — is on every banner, every poster, and every fan’s lips.

You climb out of the car, adrenaline still surging through your veins, and jump onto the chassis. The crowd roars even louder as you throw your fists into the air, pointing toward the sky. The thought flashes through your mind: This one’s for you, Papai.

You jump down and make your way to the barriers where your team waits, already celebrating with hugs, fist bumps, and slaps on the back. You push through the throng of mechanics, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. And that’s when you see her.

Among the sea of McLaren team uniforms, standing stiffly with her arms wrapped around herself, is your mother.

Your steps falter for a moment, shock flooding through you. She’s here. She’s really here. You blink, wondering if the tears in your eyes are playing tricks on you, but no — there she is. Adriane.

She’s thinner than you remember, her hair streaked with more silver now. She looks out of place among the mechanics, but she’s here. Her eyes, so much like your own, are filled with something you haven’t seen in years — pride. And something more. Regret.

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or run the other way. Then her face crumples, and she takes a tentative step forward, her arms reaching for you like she used to when you were small.

That’s all it takes. You close the distance in an instant, throwing yourself into her arms.

“Mãe!” The word leaves your mouth in a sob, and before you know it, you’re both crying, clutching each other like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into your hair, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, minha filha. I was wrong. I should’ve-”

You shake your head against her shoulder, holding her tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

She pulls back slightly, cupping your face in her hands like she used to when you were little. “I didn’t think I could do it,” she admits, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was so afraid I’d lose you too. But then … then I watched you out there today.” Her voice cracks, and she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “And I saw him. I saw Ayrton. But more than that, I saw you. My daughter.”

You can’t speak — your throat feels too tight, and the tears won’t stop. So you just nod, leaning into her touch as the noise of the paddock fades into the background.

Adriane pulls you back into a hug, and for the first time in years, you let yourself feel it — the warmth, the love, the mother you thought you’d lost. And somehow, standing here with her in your arms, it feels like you’ve come full circle.

After a long moment, she pulls back and wipes her tears, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Look at us. Crying like fools.”

You laugh too, sniffling as you wipe your own face. “It’s okay. It’s a good day to cry.”

A voice cuts through the noise — your team calling you for the podium ceremony. You glance over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the moment settle on you. You turn back to your mother, hesitant. “Will you stay?”

She smiles, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, squeezing her hand one last time before you let go and jog toward the podium. The crowd’s roar is deafening as you step up to the top step, your name flashing on the giant screens around the circuit. The Brazilian flag rises slowly, and as the national anthem plays, you close your eyes and let the moment wash over you.

It feels like home. It feels like peace. It feels like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Later, after the champagne has been sprayed and the trophies have been handed out, you find Lewis waiting for you in the paddock, a grin stretching across his face.

“Not bad, Senna,” he teases, pulling you into a warm embrace.

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “Not bad yourself, Hamilton.”

The two of you stay like that for a moment, the chaos of the paddock swirling around you, but all you can feel is the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“Your dad would be proud,” Lewis murmurs, his voice soft in your ear.

You smile, closing your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think he would be.”

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, casting the apartment in soft golds and pinks. You let yourself in quietly, the cool metal of the front door clicking shut behind you. Training was brutal today — your arms ache, and every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. All you want is to find Lewis, maybe curl up on the couch together and recover with some takeaway.

You kick off your sneakers, already untying the knot in your ponytail, when you hear voices from the living room. You pause mid-step.

Lewis is talking to someone — no, two people. You creep forward on silent feet, heart quickening as the voices grow clearer.

“-I love her more than anything,” Lewis says, his voice low but certain. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Your breath catches. You flatten yourself against the wall, just out of sight. It feels like you’ve stepped into some kind of dream, one where the pieces of your life are rearranging themselves into something both surreal and perfect.

Then you hear your mother’s voice — gentler than it used to be, softened by time and the walls you’ve slowly chipped away.

“You want my blessing?” Adriane says, her words slow, as if she’s tasting them, feeling their weight.

“I do,” Lewis replies. “I wanted to ask both of you. It felt right.”

Both of them? You inch closer, daring to peek around the corner. And there they are — Lewis, sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him. Across from him sit your mother and Alain, side by side like a pair of mismatched bookends.

Alain leans back, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s trying not to smile. “You realize what you’re getting into?” He asks dryly. “She’s more stubborn than Ayrton ever was.”

Lewis chuckles, but it’s a little nervous. “Yeah, I know.”

Adriane tilts her head, studying him like she’s trying to see through to his soul. “And if she says no?”

Lewis’ face softens, a quiet kind of love settling into his expression. “Then I’ll still be with her. Because I don’t need her to marry me to know she’s it for me.”

Something cracks open inside you. It feels like standing on the podium in Brazil all over again — overwhelming and humbling and impossibly full. You press a hand to your mouth, as if that will steady the emotion threatening to spill over.

Your mother leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. There’s a moment of silence so thick it hums.

“When Y/N was seven,” she begins slowly, “she told me she wanted to race. I told her no. I thought if I kept her away from the track, I could protect her from the same thing that took Ayrton from me.” She sighs, her gaze dropping to her hands. “But all I did was push her away.”

Alain clears his throat, glancing sideways at her. “It’s not easy,” he murmurs, more to Adriane than to Lewis. “Loving someone who belongs to the track.”

Your mother nods, her eyes glassy. “But you’ve made her happy. You’ve given her the space to be who she’s always wanted to be.” She pauses, blinking quickly. “And I see Ayrton in that. In you.”

Lewis rubs the back of his neck, clearly moved but trying not to show it. “That means more than you know.”

“And you promise me something,” Adriane says, her voice gaining strength, as if she’s gathering all her fears into this one request. “That you’ll never try to stop her. Not when things get hard. Not when it scares you.”

Lewis leans forward, looking her dead in the eye. “I swear. I’d never take that from her.”

Your mother exhales, like a weight she’s carried for years is finally lifting off her shoulders. “Then you have my blessing,” she says quietly.

Alain smirks, slapping Lewis on the back. “Looks like you’re in for the ride of your life.”

They laugh softly, the kind of laugh that comes with hard-won understanding.

And that’s when the floorboard under your foot creaks.

All three heads whip toward the sound, and you’re caught, frozen halfway between hiding and stepping forward.

Lewis’ eyes widen, and then a slow, guilty smile spreads across his face. “How long have you been standing there?”

You step fully into the room, arms crossed but fighting back a grin. “Long enough to hear that you’re plotting something.”

Alain chuckles, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “I think that’s my cue to leave.” He winks at you, patting Lewis on the shoulder as he makes his way toward the door. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Alain,” Lewis mutters, rubbing his palms against his thighs, clearly nervous now.

Your mother rises as well, hesitating for a moment. She looks at you, her eyes soft. “I’ll call you later,” she murmurs, reaching out to squeeze your hand briefly before following Alain out the door.  

And then it’s just you and Lewis, standing in the golden light of your apartment, the door clicking shut behind your mother and Alain.  

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice light. “So … what was all that about?”  

Lewis steps closer, and suddenly the nervous energy from earlier melts away. He takes your hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your palm.  

“Y/N …” he begins, and there’s something so tender in the way he says your name that it makes your heart skip a beat. “I wanted to do this the right way. To ask the people who mean the mos to you.”  

Your breath catches as he drops to one knee, right there in the middle of your living room.  

He pulls a small box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light like starlight on water. It’s simple, elegant, and perfect.  

Lewis looks up at you, his dark eyes filled with love, nerves, and hope. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at Imola. And I want to spend every day from now on making you as happy as you’ve made me.”  

You cover your mouth with your hand, tears already welling up in your eyes.  

���So,” he says with a smile that’s both warm and a little crooked. “What do you say? Will you marry me?”  

For a moment, all you can do is nod, words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat. Then you finally find your voice.  

“Yes,” you whisper, your smile breaking wide and free. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

Lewis’ grin lights up the room, and he stands, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms. You kiss him, slow and deep, and in that moment, it feels like everything — the years of struggle, of loss, of love — has brought you to exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you finally pull away, breathless and giddy, Lewis leans his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face.

“Guess Alain was right,” he murmurs, grinning. “This really is the ride of my life.”

You laugh, pure and full, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Buckle up, Hamilton,” you tease. “It’s only just getting started.”

[its-avalon-08]

hi !! can you do headcanons max verstappen X senna’s daugther!reader?

thank uuuu

hii !!! if i were to imagine senna's daughter!reader she would be so talented. she isn't a driver because of her built up trauma. (im fully aware that the timelines don't add up, don't add logic into it <3) she is an aerodynamic engineer, mainly responsible for making the car. she is secretly in love with speed and racing.

max and y/n met when they were just kids. max was a menace on track and y/n was terrified of racing. she saw speeding cars as a reminder of her father's passing. being good friends, y/n has a tradition of kissing max's helmet as a feeble attempt to keep him safe.

they started dating in 2019, and have been together ever since. y/n being the absolute genius she is, continues to work in redbull and delivers top of the line car designs leading to the dominance as seen on track.

max leaves a single, perfect red tulip on y/n's desk every race weekend, a silent promise to return safely.

y/n hides little notes in max's helmet before qualifying, each one a technical insight phrased like a love letter.

max, despite his aversion to early mornings, wakes up before y/n on important presentations to make her breakfast, his way of calming her pre-work jitters.

y/n, who finds airplanes stressful, uses a calming app max downloaded for her whenever they travel together.

max, after a particularly grueling race weekend, finds y/n curled up on the couch with a book about aerodynamics. he joins her, listening intently as she explains a new concept she's been working on, his full attention the sweetest victory lap.

max knows how deeply the lack of a father figure affected her, causing under-confidence and a constant need of validation. max knows this and never stops giving her words of affirmations.

everyone of the grid adores y/n. they see her spirit and her beautiful face reflect senna's in so many ways. max is fiercely protective of y/n, often defending her from questions about her father and his death.

y/n hates jos verstappen from the bottom of her heart. she is not scared of yelling at him when he berates max. she whispers affirmations into max's ears after a bad race (which was rare but not impossible)

when max crashes, y/n is the first to suffer from the highest intensity of a panic attack. she shivers and trembles until max gets out safely. after the crash in 2021 with hamilton which caused max to fall over in the medical center, y/n angirly stormed towards the cheerful hamilton, shouting angrily.

here's what happened ↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓

the smile evaporated as y/n marched towards him. it wasn't a walk, it was a storm surge. "congratulations? you call pushing max off the track at 200 mph congratulations?" her voice, usually calm and collected, was a tightly leashed fury. lewis blinked, his smile morphing into something defensive. "it was a racing incident, y/n. we both went for the corner." her voice cracked. "racing incident? you call leaving him stranded on the gravel, risking his life, a racing incident? do you have any idea what it's like to watch someone you love walk away from a fireball?" the room held its breath. lewis's face paled. "y/n, i…" "no, you don't," she cut him off, her voice thick with emotion. "you don't get to pretend you know what it's like to see your dreams vanish in a cloud of smoke. you don't get to understand the terror of every single corner, every single race because you haven't lost anyone on this damn track!" tears welled up in her eyes, blurring the accusing stare she fixed on him. "max is more than a rival, lewis. he's a friend, a teammate, a human being. and today, you gambled with his life for a trophy." the silence stretched, suffocating. finally, lewis spoke, his voice devoid of its usual bravado. "y/n, i… i didn't…" "you didn't think," she finished the sentence for him, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "just like some people never think about the consequences of their actions." turning on her heel, she stormed out of the room, leaving behind a stunned silence and a champion stripped of his celebratory air. as y/n reached the red bull garage, she found max emerging from the medical center, a sheepish grin on his face. relief washed over her, so strong it brought her to her knees. max rushed to her side, his concern a warm balm on her raw emotions. he held her close, whispering reassurances into her hair.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

well i hope you liked it! thank you for sending in your request and do send more <3 happy reading!

leave a like! leave a note!

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

[regulus-lantsov]

˖⁺｡˚⋆˙French not Monégasque | PG10 part two⁺｡˚⋆˙

Part one

pairing: pierre gasly x Ferrari!user ( she her )

genre: social media au,

warnings: cheating ( not really it's just twitter going wild ) mention of death ( Ayrton Senna )

summary: in which everyone thinks user is leaning french for her teamate and riot when she isn't 🩷

fc: Kika Gomez and other face claims ( It's my first smau so yeah )

yourusernamesenna

liked by pierregasly, charles_leclerc, yourbff

yourusernamesenna Apparently I have to do dump now that I'm a F1 driver so ... France dumpppp

tagged : robertdowneyjr, your bff

ynfan : Yn in her soft launch eraaa and I'm here for it

yourbff : Hard to be a F1 driver

yourusernamesenna : True babe

maxverstappen1 : Where is Hermes ???

yourusernamesenna : In your house ??? WHERE DID YOU PUT MY CAT

Ferrari : Living for summer dumppp from THE Yn Senna

McLaren : Bleeding papaya ?

yourusernamesenna : As always : FORZA FERRARI SEMPRE charles_leclerc : FORZA FERRARI SEMPRE user2 : Delulu team over there

pierregasly : You tagged Robert Downey Jr and not me ???

this comment had been deleted by the creator

user4 : Did yall see that or am I the only one ???

charles_leclerc : France dumppp

pierregasly

liked by yourusernamesenna, charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1

pierregasly : France dumppp

tagged : yourusernamesenna, charles_leclerc, yourfriend1

friend1 : So nice to meet yall

charles_leclerc : Indeed ! pierregasly : Can't wait to meet all the gang

yourusername : I knew you were the one who stole Zazi

charles_leclerc : It was such a nice weekend ! Thank you 🩷

user4 : YN AND CHARLES

user79 : Poor Pierre who had to third wheel them

user36 : Actually I'm sure that he spend a looot of time with friend1 user79 : Two powerful couple !

text ->

twitter ->

instagram ->

yourusernamesenna

liked by maxverstappen1, pierregasly, formulaone and others

yourusernamesenna : Always gratufel for my grandpa. I do this for him and me. Forever and always #forever Thank you @sebastianvettel for this event

tagged : sebastianvettel, foundationsenna, pierregasly, lewishamilton, charles_leclerc

pierregasly : 🏎️🇧🇷🇧🇷 Forever and always

foundationsenna : Forever and always

charles_leclerc : 💛💙💚

sebastianvettel : With pleasure

lewishamilton : Forever and always

Ferrari : True legend

McLaren : Never forget

comments have been restrained

yourusernamesenna

yourusernamesenna

liked by nico_rosberg, sebastianvettel, pierregasly and others

yourusernamesenna I WAS a child of divorce guyys ! FATHER AND FATHER ARE BACK TOGETHER !! And also date night, two dumbass yapping, game & book night + My favorite uncle @sebastianvettel ! I'm german in heart

tagged : sebastianvettel, nico_rosberg, lewishamilton, georgerussell, maxverstappen1, skysports

user60 : Pr nightmare is baaaack

yourusernamesenna : I'm soooo back pierregasly : she's sooo back

lewishamilton : CHILD ??

yourusernamesenna : FATHER ??? nico_rosberg : CHILD AND HUSBAND ??? yourusername : us -> 👨‍👨‍👧

sebastianvettel : Favorite german in law

yourusername : JAAA 🇩🇪🇩🇪🇩🇪 yourusername : IN MY GERMAN ERA 🥨🍺

user56 : YN and Charles dates are my fav

user66 : Same girl user4 : CHARLESYN NATION RISE

THE END OF PART 2

part 3

[ayrtonswnna]

hello there!

Can I request a Franco x reader? But where Ayrton Senna is alive in this universe and the reader is Senna? If not, then fine. It's up to you. Thanks in advance 😊😊

ʚɞ a/n: that is my moment!!!!!!!! i often imagine how would it be to have ayrton in contemporary scenarios it's unhealthy lol. i really think he'd be full of jokes and a fun guy just like he was off track. thanks for the request, it was a real nice one to write! (and if anyone has any senna request, i'll be more tham happy to take it! (i'm even willing to write stuff with senna himself))

ʚïɞ "you got me good" FC43

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀↳ masterlist ↳ drop a request! ↳ more franco fluff!

✧₊⁺ franco colapinto x cecília senna (senna!female oc)

✧₊⁺ word count: 1,6k⠀⠀⠀⠀✧₊⁺, gender: crack, fluff.

✧₊⁺ summary: franco and cecília kept a secret relationship and when they decide to come clean, her father was ahead of it and he's a total menace.

✧₊⁺ warnings: alternative universe where that may 1th 1994 didn't happen and ayrton grew old like he deserved to, my hyper focus on that man shown in references, a bit of portuguese properly translated, kinda short and poorly contextualized, curse words, franco is a baby, just soft and light content for the win.

"What do you mean he doesn't know about it?"

Franco took a deep breath, massaging his own scalp as his friend and co-worker continued talking, a mix of excitement and judgment in his words.

"You are not making this any better," he mouthed.

"You are dating his daughter! You are da-ting. The man's daughter. Like... The man's daughter. The hell haven't you met her family!?"

"I am scared, okay!? If I get rejected by her family... It's not just my girlfriend's family. It's simply Senna himself! Should I what!? Drop the job? Hide in a cave?"

Alex laughed, the words and the tone easing the tension. The guy was worried to death and things might be simpler than he thought. Everyone knew Senna was a fun person.

Dating Cecília Senna felt almost like marrying into royalty. It's a good feeling, though. Bagging Cecília Senna could easily be added to one of Franco's big achievements — and he's a former F2 driver called in last minute to fill a Formula One seat — and he's doing great.

But still, it's Cecília Senna, the only child of a legend, someone he looked up to growing up, someone he saw in the paddock many times before ending up in his daughter's sheets.

"Hello, everyone!"

God, his heart might have dropped to the floor just now. The retired driver walked into the garage happily, with his daughter attached to his arm and waving familiarly.

Everyone gathered around them immediately, though Cecília's eyes instantly met Franco's. She knew he was scared and had made fun of him until she couldn't anymore, teasing him in every way she could.

"I've heard the news on the Argentinian! You guys are lucky you got away easily!"

Alright, it's time to pray. What news? That he's fucking his daughter? That they meet every week? That she wanted a Williams' box pass so badly just because of him? Or... That they hid it from everyone just to gain a bit more time?

"We got quality, mate! That's it." Vowels took his cue to fill in the blank, the people dispersing and going back to their work. "Found the kid sparring and made him a beast."

"Yeah, of course," the Brazilian laughed. "What's up, buddy! Feeling the pressure?"

Franco mentally cursed Cecília for raising her eyebrows and doubling the meaning of the question, but he managed to stand up and dry his sweaty hands on his pants.

"I try not to, honestly. Not... think about it a lot," he said, feeling he could have worded the sentence a bit better as they shook hands.

"That's the spirit! I heard a lot about you, little man. Do you know my daughter? Cecília?"

Tricky question. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Tricky question.

If he had heard about it, then he knew about them. Franco could say "yes" and end up with a lecture, or say "no" and be caught in a lie.

"You guys think you are smart, huh? Fooling around, hiding from cameras..."

Oh, it's over. It's over for him. The "drop the job and hide in a cave" plan was almost running in his veins right now. Maybe he should Sebastian Vettel his way around, retire early, and move to a countryside home in Switzerland. Yes, that's a good plan.

"Pai... Para com isso." Cecília shoved her dad's side, rolling her eyes. (Dad... Stop that.)

"What? You guys thought you got away with it?"

"Pai! Ele tá ficando sem graça!" she insisted. (Dad! He's getting uncomfortable!)

Franco thought of speaking up, but the nerves were all up and maybe he should let it be.

"Yeah! He should!" Ayrton still had a serious look on his face, making Franco shiver.

"Pai, sério." (Dad, I'm serious.)

"Sir, I know it—"

"Come on, Franquinho! I'm fooling around, take that scared look off your face!" In a matter of seconds, Ayrton's grin turned into a playful smile, and his arm was hooked over Franco's shoulder, messing up his hair and leaving him even more confused. "Did I scare you? You should have seen your eyes!"

Franco laughed, still a bit dulled. That was a big one.

"You're a bastard," Cecília rolled her eyes once again, aware of the father she had.

The man was a natural jokester, full of little jokes and loved making uncomfortable scenarios in the name of fun. He was a handful.

"And you guys should have told me about this before! You lost it all, Franquinho. Angra, the travels... You need to be introduced to the family!"

He had heard about Angra; the beach house Cecília went to every now and then, how much she and her father loved the place. He even saw an old interview where Ayrton said that his retirement plans included being "Angra's nature inspector."

"Yeah- Yeah, sim." Franco risked some Portuguese, patting Ayrton on the back before they both stepped apart. "Sorry for... for taking too long to meet you, I was- Damn, you got me good."

"I could see!" Senna didn't waste a single laugh. "Don't worry, little boy. You're a good investment. And Cecília is pretty happy, so... you got my support."

"I'm even happier to hear it." Franco chuckled. "Thank you, very much. Your daughter also makes me really happy."

"Of course! Her bad jokes make everyone laugh." Ayrton kept the teasing going. "Now you better show me some racing! I've been in your place and to keep the daughter you need to be as good as dad!"

"You should have seen your face, baby!"

Franco glanced at his girlfriend as he turned his head, their first alone time since the morning's humiliation session.

"I don't wanna talk about it," he mouthed, shirt off and focus switching. "That was traumatizing."

"I told you he's a clown." Her shoulders went up a bit. "But he wasn't lying at the end! He likes you!"

"I got that part. Now I know where you got that dark humor from." The blue-eyed boy stood in the middle of his room, hands on his waist as he let his girlfriend use her eyes.

"What can I say? I am my father's daughter." She smiled mischievously. "He wants you to spend some time, though. Before Vegas, maybe?"

"I could've Max Verstappen my way around and have stayed for the week... But we waited until your dad could scare me to death in the middle of the box so... Yeah, it can be next week." He started simple, voice steady.

But then Cecília approached and her hands liked to touch. All over his torso while she traced a good way for his hair.

"You ain't seen nothing yet." The smile was still on her face, lips coming closer and closer to his. "But I am really happy, you know? Now we can just be and enjoy some time... I can take you to Angra, and I don't need to hide in your driver's room. I was done with pretending I was investing in Williams just so I had a reason to watch the races here."

"Told you about it... You could afford my seat."

Another joke. Ever since he got into F1 as an emergency call, she did say she only had to call her dad and his 2025 seat would be secured.

"You're gonna get it because you deserve it, I am not affording that." She flashed her eyelashes, rimming a single syllable as his hands also started to travel.

Inside her expensive shirt, up and down her back in good pressure before they found room at her waist.

"You know what else I deserve?"

"You freak! Go shower and I'll be waiting for you outside. My dad is around!"

It took them no time. Within weeks, Ayrton and Franco became partners in crime, and suddenly, Cecília was having a taste of her own medicine.

"Turn it off! Now!" Ayrton whispered in a screaming tone, the last signal Franco needed before turning off the power for the whole house.

Cecília had just come back from the beach and Franco finally knew the Angra house. It was dark, and the prank was not very well planned.

"Porra." (Shit.) they heard the Brazilian swearing. "Que inferno, de novo? PAAAAI?" (What the hell, again? DAAAAD?)

He knew some words in Portuguese and it only made it funnier. Him and his father-in-law were hiding in the small laundry room as Cecília searched for them.

"Ready, kid?"

"No, but I'll do it anyways."

"Good kid. You're a great one." The old man, as a new custom, messed with the Argentinian's hair, before opening the door and waiting for him to leave.

"Eu juro, se vocês estiverem armando pra cima de mim eu— Ah— FRANCO! NO!" (I swear, if you guys are planning something against me I—)

He's fast even with his limited knowledge about the furniture in the house, walking in the dark before he could lift her and throw her over his shoulder.

It's the fourth time she's thrown in the pool and she just knows it's her father opening the glass door for the exterior area before she's sinking in cold water.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU ALL!" Cecília screamed. "I JUST WASHED MY HAIR! OH MY GOD! PUTTING YOU TWO TOGETHER WAS THE WORST THING I EVER DID!"

"Não reclama, princesinha..." (Don't you complain, little princess...) her father played, now standing besides her boyfriend. "Bate aqui, you passed the test. Welcome to the family." (High five,)

"I hate you guys. Eu odeio vocês, los odio. Whatever. Don't ever talk to me again." Cecília stomped her way out of the pool, walking straight past them.

"Don't get mad, baby... It's just a joke!"

"Well, boy... It's your girlfriend. Go ease her nerves. You're called Colapinto for a reason."

ʚïɞ ayrtonswnna, 2024. check my masterlist or drop a request (: reblogs and feedback are always welcome (:

[forza55]

Sebastian Vettel Driving Senna's Historic 1993 Mclaren MP 4/8 2024 vs Sebastian Vettel F1 2013 Indian GP

[champagnedstappen]

A Name Can Be Heavy Duty. (A Fictional Series)

Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Senna-Schumacher!Reader

Champions of Formula One.

Ayrton Senna: 3x Formula One World Champion (1988, 1990, 1991)

Michael Schumacher: 7x Formula One World Champion (1994, 1995, 2000-2004)

Lewis Hamilton: 7x Formula One World Champion (2008, 2014, 2015, 2017-2020)

Three of the greatest Formula 1 drivers who have left an indelible mark on motorsport history. Their combined achievements, racing philosophies, and legacies have shaped the sport into what it is today. What if, a biological daughter of the Brazilian, Ayrton Senna who became closer somehow to her own father’s rival, Michael Schumacher— who despite everything had a soft-spot for the young girl is the fiancée of Lewis Hamilton? Sure, that’ll be a house of champions.

────────────── ✦ GUIDE OF THE SERIES.

Chapter 0: The Starting Point, Early Days

Starting point which resulted her childhood. Those days where she knows her Papai, Ayrton Senna well enough. Until Imola 1994.

Next chapters on progress.

(PS. The series probably will have at maximum 5 chapters, I'll divide each eras of the main character. And I'll update ASAP and see what I can do. And no, I'm not Grammarly, so there must be grammar wrongs here...)

Those who wants to be tagged can leave your trace on the comment below and pls repost or like. Thank you, sweethearts. ;)

[verstappenf1lecccc]

Could you please write something with Fernando and you’re Ayrton Sennas daughter but you where only three when he died. Growing up you didn’t have much to do with Formula 1 until Alain took you to an Price ceremony in the early 2000s where you met an young Fernando you’re pretty sure there is still a picture somewhere. If someone would have told you you would end up marrying an F1 driver let alone that you would have a son you would have told them you’re crazy but the universe had other plans for you and so by the time Fernando finally retires you have a three year old which loves cars over everything with unruly curly hair and an crooked smile and as it is the last race you decide too take him with you too Abu Dhabi he deserves too see his Dad drive atleast once live and so he ends up sitting in the dark green Aston Martin grinning from ear too ear gripping the steering wheel before Fernando picks him up again you’re heart arches you love them so much without Fernando you probably wouldn’t have seen the positive side of everyone all the joy and celebrations and you’re thankful for that.❤️

Racing Through Timeline

this fic made me emotional idk why hope yalls enjoy it

Life has a strange way of unfolding, often in ways that are impossible to predict. You were just three years old when your father, the legendary Ayrton Senna, tragically passed away at Imola. That day, the racing world lost a giant, and so did you—a little girl who would never truly know the father whose name was spoken with reverence, whose legacy became a symbol of passion, talent, and greatness. Ayrton Senna wasn’t just a driver; he was a legend, a man who lived for the thrill of the race, and yet, for you, he was merely a memory—a faint echo in the stories your mother would tell, in the photos, the videos, and the occasional piece of memorabilia. Your father’s world was a place you could never fully grasp, and it wasn’t until later that you began to understand the depth of his impact on the sport and the hearts of those who followed him.

In those early years, Formula 1 felt like a foreign, distant world. The roaring engines, the bright lights, the high-speed cars racing across tracks—it all seemed so far removed from your small, quiet life. Your mother, though always gentle with you, would speak of your father in hushed tones, always reverent, always holding a certain sadness in her voice. She would tell you stories about his passion for racing—how he would approach the track like an artist, crafting perfect lines, how he could feel the rhythm of the car in a way no one else could. But to you, these were just stories, tales from a past you couldn’t truly touch, and as the years passed, the pain of losing him became something you could only feel in the gaps between your mother’s words and the quiet spaces in your life.

But life, as it does, sometimes finds a way to bring the past crashing back into the present. It was Alain Prost, your father’s fiercest rival, who became the person who helped bridge the gap between the man you never knew and the world of racing you would one day come to embrace. Alain wasn’t just a figure from your father’s past—he became a quiet protector, someone who, over the years, guided you through the complexities of your own grief. His affection for you was not loud or extravagant, but steady and unwavering, always there when you needed him. He never pushed you into the racing world, but he always made sure you knew the importance of your father’s legacy.

It was Alain who invited you to a Prize Ceremony in the early 2000s, a grand affair that would forever change the course of your life. You were still a teenager then, unsure of what you were stepping into, but Alain insisted you needed to witness the respect and admiration that your father had earned, to see for yourself the impact he had made on the sport. It was there, in that glittering, surreal world, that you first met Fernando Alonso.

He was young then, still climbing the ranks of Formula 1, but there was something magnetic about him. He spoke about racing with the same fire in his eyes that your father had, the same passion and drive that had defined your father’s career. It wasn’t just his talent that caught your attention; it was the energy he exuded when he talked about the sport. You could feel the same intensity, the same love for the track that you had heard about in your mother’s stories, and for the first time in years, you felt a connection to your father’s world. Fernando didn’t know it then, but his energy, his joy, his spirit, ignited something inside you—a spark that would soon become a fire.

As time passed, you lived your life, far removed from the high-speed, adrenaline-filled world of Formula 1. You followed your own dreams, built your own life, and found a quiet peace in the simplicity of it all. But life, as it often does, has a way of bringing you full circle. Fernando had risen to the top of the sport. He was no longer just a rising star but a champion, someone whose name was known by millions. And then, unexpectedly, your paths crossed again.

When you saw Fernando again, you were both older, different in ways you hadn’t expected. Yet, the connection between you was undeniable. He was no longer just a racer you admired from afar—he was someone who saw you for who you were, who understood the delicate balance between your father’s legacy and your desire to create a life of your own. Your shared passion for racing and the quiet bond between you grew into something far deeper than either of you anticipated. Over time, you found yourself drawn closer to Fernando, not just as a racer, but as a man who was grounded, steady, and full of life. And before you knew it, you had fallen in love with him—not just for his passion for the sport, but for his kindness, his love for life, and the way he made you feel alive in ways you hadn’t felt in years.

Fernando’s proposal was simple, yet profoundly meaningful. One quiet evening, you were sitting on the balcony of your home, the soft hum of the world outside a gentle backdrop. Fernando, ever thoughtful, looked at you with those same eyes that had first captured your attention years ago. He didn’t need grand gestures. There were no cameras, no grand stage—just the two of you. In that moment, he held out a small, simple ring and asked you to marry him. It wasn’t the fireworks of a big public proposal, but it was perfect. It was real, it was intimate, and it was everything you needed. Your heart soared as you realized that this life, the life you’d always dreamed of, was finally falling into place.

The years that followed were filled with quiet moments of joy and profound love. Despite his demanding career, Fernando was always there for you—his presence a steady rock in your life. When you were expecting your son, Fernando became even more attentive, staying by your side through every milestone of your pregnancy. The late-night conversations, the small touches, the way he would softly whisper to your belly, telling your unborn child how much he loved them—it was the kind of love that you had always imagined, but never truly believed you would experience.

When your son was born, it felt like the world had finally aligned. He was the perfect combination of both you and Fernando—a perfect little human, with eyes that shone with the same mischievous sparkle as his father’s. You would spend quiet afternoons watching Fernando hold him, cradling him in his arms as though he was the most precious thing in the world. Those soft moments—when Fernando would softly kiss your son’s forehead, or when he would lay next to you, both of you wrapped in the warmth of your family—were the kind of moments that made every sacrifice, every challenge, worthwhile.

Yet as time moved on, a new chapter began to loom on the horizon—Fernando’s last race. As the years passed, you had known this moment would eventually arrive. The talk of retirement had been subtle, but it was clear. Fernando had achieved everything he had set out to do. But even then, it wasn’t an easy decision. He had dedicated his life to the sport, and stepping away was not something he could do lightly. But then came the moment that changed everything: you kissed him, as you always did, before a race—your touch soft, your love palpable. It was just another pre-race ritual, another tender gesture between two people who had shared so much together. But as you pulled back from that kiss, something shifted in Fernando. A realization took root in him. He knew, at that moment, that his heart was ready to retire. He had made his mark, and now, he was ready to build the next chapter of his life with you and your son. That kiss, that moment, was the milestone that allowed him to finally walk away from the track he had loved so much.

When Fernando’s last race arrived, the emotions were overwhelming—not just for him, but for you too. As you stood in the stands, watching him in his final race, you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of pride, sadness, and nostalgia. Every lap felt like a piece of his soul was being left behind on that track. You remembered your father’s legacy—how you had wished you could have been there for his last race. But now, you were witnessing Fernando’s final lap. There was something incredibly emotional about seeing him finish, knowing that this would be the last time you would see him race at the highest level.

You watched him cross the finish line, and it was as though time stood still. The roar of the crowd, the flashing lights, the cheers—it was all distant. All you could focus on was Fernando’s face, the quiet reflection in his eyes, the understanding that this was the end of one era and the beginning of another. You could feel your heart swell with both love and a deep sense of loss. You had witnessed something monumental, not just as his wife, but as someone who had walked alongside him through the highs and lows of his career.

As you held your son in your arms, the tears welled up. You thought of your father’s own last race and wished, just once, you could have been there to see it. But now, as you looked at your husband, your son nestled between the two of you, you realized that you had witnessed something even more precious—a man who had lived his dream, who had dedicated everything to the sport he loved, and who now stood beside his family, ready for the next chapter. You smiled through your tears, knowing that the legacy of racing would always be a part of your life, but that this was just the beginning of something even more beautiful. Fernando was no longer just a racer; he was your partner, the father of your child, and the man who would shape the future in ways that racing never could.

As the sun set on the horizon, casting a golden glow over the racetrack, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. You had always known that the world of racing was unpredictable, filled with highs and lows, victories and losses. But now, looking at Fernando, you realized that what truly mattered was not the wins or the trophies. It was the quiet moments like this, the ones spent together, the ones that would shape the family you were building.

Fernando gently kissed the top of your son’s head, his eyes soft with love. “He’s going to grow up knowing what it means to chase your dreams, just like his mom and dad,” he said, his voice steady but filled with emotion.

You nodded, feeling a swell of pride. “He’s already learning from the best,” you whispered.

As the three of you stood there, the world of racing slipping away in the background, you knew that this was only the beginning. The track may have been where Fernando had earned his name, but now it was at home, in your hearts, where the real legacy would live on.

And as your son grew, you hoped he would always carry the lessons of passion, perseverance, and love. You and Fernando would teach him to dream big, to face challenges head-on, and to never forget the importance of family. The racing world might have given Fernando his start, but it was his love for you and your son that would propel him forward in ways the racetrack never could. The future was unwritten, and together, you were ready to write it.

[marshmallomoon]

Funeral (LN4)

“U-Um were gathered here today (sniffs) for um wow this really hard to say haha” Y/n sniffs again as she wipes the tears falling from her eyes.

Seeing the raw emotion in Y/n face made all the other drivers look at her in sympathy and pat her pack as to comfort her during this tough time.

“N-no i-i-it’s alright guys I can do this, I have to” Y/n said trying to smile through the pain showing her raw strength in being able to stand front in center of the casket with her best friends helmet laying on top.

Y/n took a deep breath and started again “we are gathered here to-” but before Y/n could finish she was cut off by a voice shouting in disbelief.

“Are you serious, are you actually freakin serious, like how and why” Lando shouted in disbelief as he saw his best friend Y/n Senna holding what seemed to be a funeral with all the driver standing in a circle with a casket in the middles with one of his old fl helmets in the middle.

“How’d you’ve even get a casket, and why are guys even entertaining this and are those tears, are you actually seriously crying right now you know what I’m out, I’m not even doing this” Lando said walking alway.

“Wait Lando don’t go maybe you can say a few words to, come on Lando we have to say goodbye to Lando Nowins he’s been with us for five years he practically family” Y/n chasing after Lando.

(Here’s a short little thing and Congrats to Lando Norris also I got this gif from the internet so credits to the owner)

(P.S sorry if this is bad)

[delulujuls]

brazilian air | as12

hi, i am in my classic f1 era rn and i am currently obsessed with mr Senna god he was so fine and since it's his bday today i thought that im gonna upload this one bc why not

also im like 100% sure that this one will flop but i wanted to upload this anyway, so if you'll find it worth a shot, enjoy then!

happy bday king, 64 today but 34 forever, you'll always be missed

summary: during a month break from racing, ayrton thought that inviting y/n into his family sides will get them along even more. to the surprise to both of them, they got along even better than expected

warnings: sexual content, fingering, female orgasm

pairing: fem!mclarendriver x ayrton senna

After the Sao Paulo Grand Prix, there came a monthly break, even though it was only the second race of the season.

The end of march was very warm, but the weather in Brazil had its own rules. Just as in London there was probably a downpour and the temperature barely above ten degrees, the other side of the globe had almost holiday-like weather.

The 1990 season was the second year when Y/N took Alain Prost's seat at McLaren, thus becoming Ayrton Senna's teammate. While many did not look favorably upon Ron Dennis's decision for various reasons—because Y/N was the first woman in history to have the opportunity to race at the top level of motorsport, her debut in Formula 1, her young age, and the fact of what kind of past Senna had with his previous teammates—with each passing month the doubts started to going away.

The girl handled herself on the track incredibly well, and since McLaren did not disappoint with their cars, she practically returned from every race with points, effectively shutting the mouths of all those who spoke unfavorably about her.

Even Ayrton himself, who was initially the most unconvinced about the boss's decision, also didn't need much to change his mind about her. At first, he approached her with distance, fearing that her joining the team might cause even more damage than when they had Prost in reserve. As it turned out, the girl was not his enemy; often, he himself silenced all those who attacked her and questioned her abilities.

Senna saw that she looked up at him as her authority. She never explicitly told him, but it was evident how she listened carefully to his advice, asked when she had doubts, and consulted almost everything only with him, although she had a whole crowd of people around her.

Ron breathed a sigh of relief seeing that they tolerated each other and there were no forecasts for them to repeat the Senna-Prost scenario. However, tolerating each other was an understatement, because Ayrton would never invite someone to his family's sides whom he merely tolerated. The Brazilian didn't admit it out loud, but he liked the girl. Sometimes he even caught himself thinking about her when she wasn't around, and when she was, he smiled a lot more in her company, whereas McLaren's garage used to be a place of nerves and tense atmosphere for him.

Yes, if someone asked him about Y/N, Ayrton would say she was his friend. Someone he never had after leaving Brazil.

"How do I say in Portugese that I can't eat anymore?"

The girl asked, lying on her towel stretched out on the hull of the motorboat belonging to the Senna family.

Y/N shielded the sun with her hand and glanced at Ayrton, who laughed at her question, sitting next to her and smoking a cigarette.

"It's not funny, your mom wants to fatten me up so that I'm heavier and slower than you on the track."

"Não aguento mais, tô chei", but even if you say it in Portugese, my mom won't listen to you anyway."

"I've never eaten such delicious food, but when we get back, I probably won't fit into my clothes anymore."

He released smoke from his lungs and involuntarily glanced at her when she turned onto her stomach and closed her eyes. Her hair, still wet from bathing in the lake, stuck to her shoulders, and her skin, once pale, slowly began to take on a blush from the sun.

"You look good, so don't worry."

"I didn't say I would look bad, just that I won't fit into my pants anymore."

"As long as you can fit into the car, you'll be fine."

The girl snorted, "Well, in that case, I have quite a reserve."

Y/N gathered her hair behind her shoulder and settled more comfortably, exposing herself to the pleasantly warming rays of the sun. Ayrton glanced down her body and only when the heat from his cigarette burned his fingers a little, he snap out of it. Did he really like the girl, or was it just that he spent so much time with her that he got used to her? He didn't know the answer to that question, but he knew that sometimes he found himself staring at her for a bit too long. Despite being a few years younger than him, she had feminine charms. He also objectively thought that the girl was attractive.

She didn't have much of a different opinion about him either because in her eyes, Ayrton was indeed a handsome man. He was tall, athletic, had beautiful brown eyes and hair of the same color, which often fell in curls onto his forehead. She liked his smile and the way he wrinkled his nose, which, like most of his body, was covered in freckles. But Ayrton appealed to her only as an older teammate, someone who was completely out of her reach, and for whom she was probably just an insignificant kid. At least that's what she thought.

They spent time at the lake until late afternoon, as for dinner, besides Ayrton's parents, his sister with Bruno, his nephew, was also supposed to appear. Upon returning to the Senna family's home, the girl took only a quick shower and threw on a thin, white dress because even though the day was slowly coming to an end, the temperature was still high. They spent the evening on the terrace, and time passed in a very pleasant atmosphere. Mrs. Senna made sure that only delicious dishes appeared on the table, while Mr. da Silva entertained the company with stories and jokes. Although Y/N didn't speak anything in Portugese except for the short phrases Ayrton had taught her, there were no communication problems for a moment. At one point, little Bruno grabbed the radio and turned up the volume, pulling the girl by the hand and inviting her to dance. The girl, already somewhat tipsy from wine, agreed without hesitation and followed the six-year-old, dancing with him barefoot on the still warm concrete. Ayrton's mother and sister sang along with the song, his father clapped his hands, and Ayrton himself looked at the scene with tenderness, laughing and sipping his beer. She took the boy in her arms and spun with him, dancing, to which Bruno laughed out loud. Although Ayrton's family had only met Y/N a few days ago, he was convinced, seeing with his own eyes, how much they liked her. It meant a lot to him.

"Tio, agora tio Ayrton!"

Bruno shouted and pointed at the man when a new song started playing. Ayrton laughed and shook his head, to which his sister started pulling his arm and, to the sounds of approval from the family, he stood up and approached the girl, who put the boy down on the ground.

"Querida senhora," he extended his hand towards her, slightly bowing, "may I?"

Y/N chuckled and nodded, extending her hand, which was met with numerous shouts and whistles.

"I can't dance, I can't dance at all."

She said through laughter when he pulled her closer and placed his hand on her waist.

"Everyone can dance to Brazilian rhythms, trust me."

Ayrton replied with an assuring smile and spinned her around, catching her again after a moment. They danced, understanding each other without words, laughing only when one of them accidentally bumped into someone or stepped on someone's foot.

The girl didn't know if her cheeks were burning from the sun, the alcohol, or the fact that she felt embarrassed by being so close to him. But she felt light and happy enough not to dwell on it. She wanted this evening to last as long as possible.

However, at some point, Bruno fell asleep on the chair, and Viviane took him in her arms, announcing that she would put him to bed and she will also take a rest, wishing everyone a good night. Ayrton's mother, seeing that his dad had had enough beer, took him by the arm and, amid numerous protests, escorted him inside. The girl helped carry the dishes to the kitchen, and when she brought in the last batch of plates, Ayrton's mother hugged her tightly.

Y/N returned her embrace with a smile, wishing her a good night before returning to the terrace.

Seeing the expression on her face, Ayrton smiled too.

"They liked you, but I'm sure you noticed that yourself."

"They are very kind," the girl replied, closing the terrace doors, "you have a truly wonderful family."

Y/N approached the table and took a chair to sit on it, but Ayrton straightened up and patted his knees, indicating that she should sit on them. The girl accepted the invitation without protest and sat on them sideways, embracing him around the neck.

"I'm glad you agreed to come here with me," he said, looking into her eyes, to which she smiled.

"I'm glad you invited me."

For a moment, they looked at each other in silence, she on his lap, with her hand on his bare shoulders, he with one hand on her waist and the other caressing her exposed thigh. He raised his hand and brushed a lock of her hair behind her ear, touching her flushed cheek. The girl smiled at his gesture and closed her eyes.

"You're important to me, you know?"

"I am?"

She asked, looking at him again.

Ayrton nodded, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Y/N threaded her fingers into the hair resting at the base of his neck, stroking it lightly. At one point, without thinking or saying a word, he leaned towards her and kissed her. She kissed him back, touching his cheek with her other hand. Ayrton didn't break the kiss, he just hugged her tighter, pressing their bodies together. Y/N was returning each of his kisses and after a while their tongues started their love dance, rubbing against each other. Even though they were both a bit drunk, Ayrton wasn't sure how much he could afford. However, when she slightly opened her legs, giving him a silent invitation, he squeezed her thigh to which she sighed. He smiled against her lips, continuing to kiss her. He stroked her leg, moving higher and higher with each movement. When he felt the fabric of her underwear with his fingertips, he pulled away slightly, wanting to look at her face and see her reaction, but she pulled him closer again, connecting their lips in a kiss.

"Do not stop"

Ayrton smiled against her lips and deepened the kiss in response. He ran his fingers over her pussy and she purred softly. He began to slowly massage her through the fabric of her panties, but when they began to get in the way after some time, he pulled them off her with a quick movement.

His lips soon moved to her neck, marking it with kisses. She tilted her head, giving him better access to her. Ayrton accidentally slipped the strap of her dress, but neither of them cared. The girl noticed it only when he sucked on her nipple, which made her moan involuntarily.

"You have to be quiet, can you do that?"

He asked quietly, glancing at her ecstatic face. She just licked her lips and quickly nodded. He ran his tongue over her nipple again, his hand still massaging her pussy. When he felt how wet she was, he slowly inserted his finger into her, but carefully watched her face, continuing to caress her breasts with his mouth. He looked at her, wanting to make sure they were both on the same page. However, his actions were perceived with enthusiasm, as the girl tilted her head back, letting out a muffled moans from her pursed lips. Ayrton smiled to himself, still peppering her breasts with kisses. He inserted his finger all the way and started moving it, expertly nudging her inner, sensitive spot. Y/N had a hard time staying quiet, especially when he added a second finger and his movements inside her started getting more precise and decisive. The girl covered her mouth with one hand and grabbed his wrist with the other and pushed him harder into herself, feeling that she was only seconds away from orgasm.

"Ayrton, I- oh my god…"

Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck again and dug her nails into his bare shoulder.

"Kiss me, quick"

He said quietly, his breathing also quickening. She complied with his command and kissed him, making him muffle her moans with his mouth. Y/N came on his hand soon after, squeezing her eyes shut and tilting her head back. After a few moments, the girl sat up straight again, trying to calm her breathing. As she slowly began to realize what had actually happened, the blush on her cheeks intensified even more. She looked at him uncertainly, he laughed seeing her reaction and kissed her on the cheek.

"Don't look so innocent, you're quite a good one."

The girl felt ashamed and closed her eyes, cuddling into him, and he hugged her tightly.

"Promise me that no one in your family will sit in this chair for breakfast."

Ayrton chuckled and rubbed his hand on her back.

"I promise, don't worry about it," he rested his cheek on her head, "We can go somewhere else if you want."

The girl raised her head and looked at him.

"I won't be able to keep quiet, Ayrton. Your parents-" "Don't worry," he interrupted her, taking her panties thrown on the chair next to them and handing them to her hand, "I'll make sure you keep your mouth busy."

[shoot-the-oneshot]

SOULMATE

Lando Norris x Reader F1 as romance tropes Masterlist

If anyone asked Lando always knew he was going to be an F1 driver. It was his dream, his destiny. Not the words imprinted on his arm.

“At least he’s an F1 driver” were the words that appeared on his 16th birthday. At first, he was ecstatic it was proof not only he had a soulmate but he achieved his dreams. It wasn’t until he’d been at McLaren for a few years the words almost haunted him seeing the other drivers meet theirs and he was still walking down the paddock alone, well almost.

“At least you’ll know immediately when you meet her, mine says “hello” that could be anyone!” His best friend Max spoke seeing the dark look in Landos eyes watching Alex and Lily.

Lando scoffed shaking it off “And she'll only care that I’m a driver not about me.” That was the problem the longer you took to meet the worse his thoughts got.

“You don’t know that, she might just think you’re stupid,” at his friends' words Lando turned to glare at him who held his hands in surrender, “You say stupid stuff sometimes”

“You’re not helping you know.” Anything else Lando wanted to say got cut off by a new visitor.

“How’s it going gents, wait Lando what’s with the murder face?” George spoke as he joined the two men, the black Mercedes race suit a stark contrast with the orange of Landos.

“Lando is pouting watching the happy couple over there.” Max's thumb jutting over his shoulder towards the Williams garage and the other British driver understood while Lando tried to look anywhere but the the man now looking at him with pity

George knew how he felt, he felt like half of himself before he met Carmen. “Carmen has a friend in town for the race Lewis and I were going to all go to dinner why don't you come along and get out of your head for a while”

“Appreciate the offer mate but I don't think being a fifth wheel sounds that fun.”

“Lewis had a last-minute meeting he can’t make it now, you should come so Y/n isn’t lonely” lies George spoke before he thought, Carmen would kill him for this.

“He would love to text him the time and place! See you later George.”

Max shoved his friend who was silently thinking of an excuse so he could go home and drown himself in his sorrows so he was ready to go for the race.

“I'm not going,” Lando spoke as soon as they were alone and started walking again towards McLaren hospitality and into his drivers' room

“No, you’re not going home to sulk this dinner will be good for you, get out and socialize.”

“I don't need to socialize I’m fine where I am” the driver huffed stuffing his clothes into his bag ignoring the look his friend was giving.

“You like George and food this seems like a win-win to me!” Max spoke trying to convince him “And maybe the friend is hot plus you need to get out of this funk it’s depressing now go home and shave that god-awful goate and make yourself presentable”

Ignoring in insult Lando swung his bag over his shoulder and caved.

“Fine I’ll go but only to get as drunk as I can on George's tab” and maybe his friends were right and an easy night out would soothe the ache in his chest.

“I am so glad you’re finally here I’ve only been begging to get you at a race for years!” Carmen exclaimed from her spot on your bed while you picked through your suitcase for something the wear.

“Well this might be my last chance to meet Lewis so I figured I'd take it.” You joked, flashing the 44 hat you brought for the race waving it like a flag as she rolled her eyes at your behavior.

“Better not wear that to the garage George might feel offended.” Carmen sang a smile on her face showing she didn’t mean it

“Listen I love George but just like with Toto Lewis is first in my heart George second.” You laughed dodging the pillow she flung at you.

“Alright come on George will be here soon we can wait downstairs.” Grabbing her bag you followed behind her making small talk as you both waited for the Mercedes to pull up

You fake gagged as George immediately jumped you to open your friends' door with a kiss. “Y/n always a pleasure good to see you again.” He said giving her a quick hug while opening the back door for her to get in the car. Returning the sentiment

“I wonder if they have any shawarma at the restaurant” your friend spoke you could hear the smile in her voice as she teased you obviously payback for your comment earlier.

“Oh wow, that joke still hasn’t gotten old.” You deadpanned making George look at the both of you in confusion not getting the inside joke of your soulmate's words.

Choosing to change the subject you felt excitement filling you the closer to your destination you got

“George I cannot thank you enough for setting this up it’s a dream come true I’ve been watching Lewis race for years!” You smiled while Carmen laughed

“She’s been geeking out over meeting Lewis” she spoke as her boyfriend’s shoulders stiffened.

“Well about that….Lewis had a meeting but don’t worry I already took care of it everything is fine and I promise I’ll introduce you tomorrow.” He rushed out white knuckling the steering wheel as you deflated, you were disappointed but it wasn’t his fault.

“Who’d you invite?” You asked before he could answer he was already parked, he turned in his seat looking back at you.

“We’ve been friends forever… I’m sure it will be fine” You would’ve had more confidence if he didn't pause and have such a nervous smile on his face

Lando who was leaned against the building next to the entrance he’s pretty sure he’s accidentally scared off a few couples from entering with his brooding. He glances up hearing a car pull up his back suddenly straightened as if he was struck by lightning when the back car door opened.

His feet moved faster than his brain as he rushed to hold a hand out helping you out of the car.

A soft smile slid across his face uncharacteristically for his recent mood, but before he could dwell on it he locked eyes with you.

Shyly taking the offered hand you got out of the car slightly shocked by the turn of events not having expected George's friend to behave like that.

“Hi, I’m Y/N nice to meet you.” You spoke looking into a pair of awestruck brown eyes. “Umm hello?”

“Lando!” George shouted when you looked around the group when the other Brit failed to respond in choice of staring

“Lando yeah I’m Lando hi.” The man rushed out then mentally kicked himself when you nodded with a smile that made his mind go black again as you walked ahead with Carmen.

“Mate, what was that?” George spoke staring at the fellow driver whose face was covered with his hands “I don't know….” He groaned.

When they entered the restaurant you and Carmen were already seated Lando ungracefully jumped to the empty seat in front of you as if someone else would take it. Huffing out a smirk when you looked up at the sudden noise.

“Y/n this is Lando he drives for McLaren we grew up karting together along with Alex,” at the mention of Alex, Lando recalled the scene from that morning at deflated back into his seat.

“Nice to meet you I haven’t met to many of the grid yet so I’m glad to have started small.” You smiled across the table, still slightly in a mood he just politely nodded back

“You went golfing with Lily a few months ago didn't you?” George asked hoping to spark Landos' interest which worked flawlessly as the man perked back up.

“You like golf? I played in a tournament with the PGA guys for Netflix”

Out of all the things he had to brag about the Netflix cup is what he chose, god, Max was right he does say stupid stuff sometimes.

“You must be pretty good.” If Lando wasn’t proud of his previous answer his next one wasn’t any better. “Oh yeah, practically just hole-in-ones.” He smiled ignoring the look from the other driver, who tried to subtly yank on his sleeve to get his attention away from the two women who were giggling at his poor attempts at impressing you.

“Anyone who’s played golf with you knows that a lie pull yourself together” George spoke his tone hushed “I’m trying I don't know what’s wrong.”

The two men straightened up as if their little conversation never happened and looked over the menus. Lando who was reading over every sentence trying to collect himself.

“What in the world what is chicken shar-sharwarma chicken shar warma.” Lando stutters out thinking it was surely a typo.

George slammed his menu down on the table and looked over at Lando with the most disappointment he had ever seen on his face.

“What did I just say to you!”

“I’m sorry it’s confusing!”

“Chicken shawarma Lando it is not hard if you can’t say it don't order it!” George barked any rebuttal Lando had gets cut off by Carmens' loud gasp. Making both men turn.

“Oh my god!”

“I know he's a muppet” George who thought she was baffled by his friend just waved it off and went to change the subject before you spoke

“At least he's an F1 driver” Lando froze at your words swearing he felt a tingle on his arm where those very words sat. “Oh my god!” Carmen squealed in excitement at what she was witnessing.

“Plus he's pretty.” You lightly spoke still in shock at finding your soulmate who whined “See why wasn’t that part on there.” Lando threw his hands in the air wishing that’s what he stared at for years.

“Wait you think I’m pretty?” He smirked snapping back into the personality he was known for. His question made a flush appear on your cheeks and Lando is sure he just fell in love harder at the sight.

“Can someone tell me what’s happening?” George demanded seeing his girlfriend tear up and you and Lando doing whatever it was you two were doing.

Lando still on a high leaned his arm on the table rolling his white button-down sleeve to his elbow revealing the words you spoke, not taking his eyes off you the entire time.

“That George, was me meeting my girl.”

The rest of the dinner passed by in a whirlwind, all you could remember was the feeling of meeting your soulmate you never thought you’d say this but you’re glad Lewis had a work obligation or you wouldn’t be walking down the paddock hand and hand with Lando a brand new McLaren hat on your head.

“I’m still upset you threw my hat across the room.” Your words did little to dim the smile on his face, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“I’m sorry love, would a first-place trophy make it better?” He boasted feeling as if he was on top of the world with you by his side.

“Oh big ambitions today, huh, feeling good?”

“With you here, babe I'll be unstoppable, and once I win you have to throw out that dreadful hat I’m the only British driver allowed in your heart now.” He declared, his hand sliding down your arm to grab yours. Pulling you to a stop outside his garage.

“There’s the happy couple!” A new voice shouted from the sea of papaya. Max ran out, making Lando roll his eyes and you smile. You spent the last two days glued to each other so you knew all about his best friend.

“Finally so nice to meet you thank you for showing up and fixing this muppet!”

“I wasn’t a muppet, you muppet!”

“It’s very nice to meet you as well Max.” You interrupted the two before they could get started on the back and forth. Landos attention switching as you spoke threw his arm over your shoulder, a smug expression on his face getting to show you off.

“I know what lover boys words were but what was yours?” Max ashed almost bouncing on his feet in excitement. Lando groans immediately holding his head in your neck.

Rubbing your hand through his curls knowing this was going to be rough on him, you showed Max your other arm. “Mate you wonder why I said she probably thought you were stupid!”

Lando felt your head nodding in agreement making his shoot up to pout at you. “I’m sorry but come on it wasn’t your best moment neither was spilling wine all over the table.”

“He spilled wine! Come tell me everything.” Max gasped, pulling you away from Lando lacing your arm with his leading you down the paddock. Leaving the driver to trail behind the two.

A year later.

A hand came into your view as the car door swung open revealing your fiancé.

“For old times sake huh?” you teased refusing to the time he nearly tripped over himself to get to your door the night you met. Lando fondly rolled his eyes. “You act like I don't always get the door for you.” He bowed exaggeratedly pulling the large glass door open leading to the restaurant.

“Like how you acted like you were a golf expert?” Lando's jaw drooped in mock offense before collecting himself pulling you closer to whisper in your ear.

“Got a hole-in-one with you though didn't I?” You giggled hitting his chest as you reached the table. Lando left to greet George while you sat with Carmen and caught up.

Eventually, the men joined you both again, you only noticed when your chair was dragged to your right until you were pressed against Landos side, who held a menu for you to share. You smiled at his determination to keep you close.

Squeezing your arm which you now knew as his ‘watch this’ motion he winked.

“I think I’ll have the chicken shaworma chicken shar warma!”

“Mate not again!” George groaned while Lando laughed in mirth. Looking around the restaurant hasn’t changed a bit since the last time you were here and yet your entire life had, you now travel with your best friend around the world, and most importantly, found your soulmate

Hey guys we are back! After a very long break i got inspired to write again and while this one isn’t the best the other parts of this series are some of my favorites I’ve written so go check them out here but i do hope you all liked it

<< Charles Leclerc as brothers best friend

F1 tag list: if you want to be added please message me

@starxqt @motylekrozi @yeolsbubbles @laura-naruto-fan1998 @moone90 @zig-zzag @its-astrotea-love @peakywitch @obsessed-fan-alert @lenniebordeaux @marelovesf1 @capela-miranda @enjoymyloves @amsofftrack @coffeehurricanes @speedysimp @jasondeservedbetter @chilwell-mount @buendiabebeta @dan3avacado @valkyrie418 @ricsaigaslec @idkiwantchocolate @mydutchproblem @thercher @blckgrl-sunflower @xjval @downinroma @pleasantducktimetravel

[oldfashioned-lovergirl]

omg hihihi!!! im obsessed with the fic you wrote for niki and james and i was wondering if you could write one for ayrton senna? maybe with the reader being his teammate and its their first season and just him falling in love with her? idk tbh. its criminal that theres so little fics of him im obsessed with him currently xx

☽ OLD MONEY — ayrton senna x reader

tags: car crash

note: fr there are no fics about him. also i love old f1 vibes

masterlist

✧༺ ☽ ༻∞　　∞༺ ☽ ༻✧

When you first met him, you immediately noticed how oddly he was looking at you. You couldn’t get whatever he was thinking, so you just assumed he didn’t like you. For a time. Then one day something changed.

You crashed in Imola. You got out of the car without even a scratch, but the faces of the people when you returned to the paddock with the ambulance made you guess it mustn’t have looked good from the screens.

And there he was. Despite the very few words you exchanged since you knew each other, rushing towards you, none other than the best driver on the grid, your rival and teammate Ayrton Senna.

Brown eyes filled with worry and hair still soaked in sweat, he called your name and took your arms in his hands. “Tell me you’re okay.”

“I– I think I’m okay. I just got scared.” You didn’t know why you were telling your feelings to him, you just didn’t think much about it.

“Me too.” For a moment you thought he was gonna pull you in a hug, but he didn’t. He just softly put a hand on you cheek and then let go of you. “Glad to know you’re well, pequena.”

You found Ayrton standing in front of his Porsche Cabriolet at the end of the day. It was getting dark, few people were still in the paddock to celebrate his victory.

You hurried to reach him before he left. “Ayrton.” He turned around, but you know he was already looking at you from afar. He clearly had a shower because he smelled fresh and the red overalls had given way to a white elegant shirt. “I wanted to congratulate. Also, thank you for worrying about me earlier, you kind of reassured me.”

“No need to thank me.” He made a pause. You wondered if it was time for you to go. “You know, I was going to dinner with a friend but he won’t be able to come. Would you like to join? I have a reservation for two.”

You stared at him, surprised by the invitation, then looked down at your own jeans and blouse outfit. “I don’t know if I’m suited for the situation.”

“You are.” He opened the front seat door for you. “Let’s go.”

The restaurant was a villa in the Emilian countryside. You had never seen such a beautiful place in your entire life.

The dinner went very well. You ate pasta on a table in the garden. There were warm lights that made the location very cozy. Ayrton was so sweet, very different from the fierce man everybody saw on track. You talked about the race, but not only. You learned more about his personal life and viceversa. He asked if you were seeing someone, you shook your head. “And you?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

You thought of the gorgeous girls he was often photographed with. You didn’t believe yourself to be that pretty.

“I’m sorry if I’m not very talkative between one race and the other, I’m just trying to stay professional.” His freckles were as glaring as ever in that light. After his words, you realized you may have misinterpreted his detachment. “But when you crashed today… I don’t know, it seemed dangerous from my point of view. The thought of not seeing you next to me anymore scared me a lot.”

Spelling those words, Ayrton was playing with the glass of water in his hand, his eyes shyly looking downwards. “So I wondered if you’d like to hang out. Outside of work, I mean.”

In his own words, that was a declaration.

“I–“ That was what you wanted since you saw him introducing himself in that conference room, however you knew how risky the situation you were putting yourself into was. But right there, looking up at you with those eyes full of hope, surrounded by that magical place, he was so handsome. “I’d love to.”

[ts1m1kas]

Original Ask: would you be comfortable writing for Ayrton Senna? Maybe him being super jealous because she's talking to Schumacher in his rookie season, introducing himself and such and Ayrton gets mad because he thinks she's flirting with him. Maybe he storms up to them and asks to speak to her alone, dragging her to a secluded place. Could end with a heated confession after an argument and a kiss. ( @iceman-kazansky & @nosebeers )

Word Count: 700 words

(author's note: i hope you all enjoy 🫶)

Everyone around the paddock knew how close Y/N and Ayrton were; lifelong best friends who were pretty much inseparable. However, many people had begun to speculate that the pair were more than friends. The way Ayrton looked at Y/N, as if she had hung the moon and stars and the way Y/N would always cling to Ayrton, as if she was afraid to let go.

Ayrton was heading out of the garage, his eyes scanning the paddock to look for Y/N. He eventually spotted her talking to a young-ish man he had never seen before. Y/N seemed interested in what he had to say, which sparked an unfamiliar feeling in Ayrton’s chest. Taking a deep breath, he stormed over.

Y/N had been mingling around the paddock while waiting for Ayrton to finish whatever he was doing in the garage. She said hello to a few people she knew as she stood, looking out for Ayrton. Too caught up in her own thoughts, she failed to notice the man heading in her direction.

“Hello, you’re Y/N aren’t you?”

Jumping slightly, Y/N looked at the person who had started speaking to her, “Yeah, I’m Y/N. I don’t think I recognise you though.”

“Well, I’m new here. I’m Micheal by the way. Micheal Schumacher. It’s my rookie season so I just thought I’d try and speak to a few people. You know, get my name out there.”

“Oh, well in that case it’s lovely to meet you!”

“Thank you. Wait, you’re friends with Senna, right? Ayrton Senna?”

Y/N smiled at the mention of her best friend, “Yes, I am. He’s my childhood best friend.”

“Wow. I’ve always wanted to meet him. What is he like?”

“He’s pretty nice, a brilliant driver of course,” Micheal hung onto her every word, desperate to hear more.

As if on cue, Ayrton stormed over at that moment. He stood next to Y/N and gave Micheal a tight-lipped smile.

“Ayrton! We were just talking about you! This is Micheal, it’s his rookie season and he was just telling me how much he wanted to meet you.”

Micheal looked at Ayrton with wonder in his eyes, “I can’t believe it’s really you. I’m Micheal Schumacher, it’s a pleasure to be able to drive with you this season.”

Ayrton nodded, “Nice to meet you, Micheal. Y/N we need to talk. Now.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Just come with me please.”

“Okay then, goodbye Micheal, it was nice to meet you.”

“Bye! It was lovely to meet you both.”

With that, Ayrton grabbed Y/N’s arm and dragged her to a secluded part of the paddock that was hidden away from cameras, fans and other drivers.

“Are you going to tell me what’s the matter now since you pulled me away from Micheal so rudely? He probably thinks we’re horrible people.”

Ayrton scoffed, “He was clearly flirting with you.”

“Are you serious? He was introducing himself to me. He doesn’t know anyone, what else is he supposed to do Ayrton?”

He rolled his eyes, “I still think he was flirting with you.”

“And what if he was? I’m allowed to-”

“I’m in love with you!” Ayrton exclaimed, interrupting Y/N.

“What?”

“I’m in love with you. I have been for so long. I can’t pretend that I just want to be friends when I want to be so much more. I got jealous, okay? I saw you talking to someone I didn’t know and realised how much I want you to be mine.”

“Ayrton, I don’t know what to say. I feel, exactly the same.”

Moving his hand to cup Y/N’s face, Ayrton leaned down and kissed her. Y/N kissed him back, pouring all those years of mutual pining into the kiss.

As they pulled away, Ayrton looked at Y/N fondly and smiled, “At least I don’t have to worry about you and that Schumacher kid anymore.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and laughed, “You never had to worry about him anyway Ayrton.”

The pair exchanged one last glance before heading back to the garage, except now they were hand in hand, their friendship replaced with romance.

[iceman-kazansky]

The Burn of Jealousy

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Requested by: nobody

Pairings: Ayrton Senna xf!reader

Warnings: Kissing. Jealousy. That's it, I think.

Word Count: 1,102

A/n: Wrote this a week or more ago, just reread it and thought it was ready to publish :))

Taglist: nobody

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

For Ayrton, he'd always been a little sour towards you. Standoffish maybe was easier to explain it. It wasn't that he was rude, no, not at all. He’d just.. had a few difficult times with you at first, but things had improved. Only, you were teammates, a little less than friends, but more than rivals. In some ways. You were both competing for a championship, as were every other driver, so on occasion it put some strain on your relationship.

Yet here he was, sitting on the opposite side of the bar, watching some man practically groveling at your feet for your attention and attraction. It made him feel all sorts of ways he didn't know were possible to feel about you. The way you were laughing at his probably stupid and corny jokes; how you were smiling so beautifully, flashing your precious pearly whites wastefully at him; all of it made his whole being burn with course, bitter jealousy. What did that loser have that he didn't?

Ayrton was sipping on a glass of liquor, watching you two from his seat with a sour look on his usually cheerful, relaxed features. Only when you reached forward and touched his arm did he finally snap. Downing the rest of his drink, he made a beeline to the two of you.

He appeared behind you, arriving just in time to overhear the discussion of this pathetic man taking you on a date. It made a bitter jealousy surge through his veins as he interjected, “She's busy.”

Ayrton didn't spare you a glance as he continued his hard glare at the man who had been hitting on you. Raising an eyebrow, the stranger protested, “Who are you?”

The Brazilian man wasn't in the mood for any further argument and made the, in hindsight, irrational decision to reply with something that would make all of the strangers' advances come to a screeching halt. “I'm her boyfriend.”

Without waiting for another reply from the stranger, Ayrton's jealous gaze snapped down to you and he spoke in a tight voice, carefully curbing his angry jealousy, “We're leaving. Now.”

The seriousness in his voice left no room for argument and you were forced to follow him as he practically dragged you away.

Ayrton clutched your hand tightly and began walking, not stopping to glance back at you as he pulled you outside and away from the bustle of the bar.

Only once he'd pulled you to somewhere secluded did Ayrton stop, turning to face you, “What were you doing with him?” He asked pointedly.

“Talking?”

Ayrton clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing at your flippant response. “It looked like a lot more than talking,” he retorted, “You were getting really.. comfortable with him.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, so I'm not allowed to be comfortable or have fun with anyone else anymore, am I?”

Ayrton's jaw ticked, his irritation growing with every word you said. He felt the hot, tingling sensation of his carefully concealed anger growing steadily, his eyes hardening. Why didn't you understand where he was coming from? “You know that's not what I meant,” he all but growled at you, taking a purposeful step forward. He could feel the heat radiating from your body, his eyes locked with yours. “It's not about you having fun with someone else, it's about how you were acting with him.”

Sighing in exasperation, you respond in irritation, “He was just trying to ask me on a date!”

Ayrton couldn’t take this anymore. Without fully thinking through what he was about to say, he blurted, “That's exactly my point! I don't want him to take you on a date! Take you away from me! What does he have that I don’t?”

A heavy silence settled over the two of you. Ayrton began to regret his words, the full weight of them sinking in. Had he just possibly ruined a friendship with the person he cherished most?

The Brazilian could hardly hold his gaze with yours, but he braved this feeling of shame, meeting your gaze. Your eyes were wide, your mouth parted slightly in shock, making him feel even worse about his mindless words. “What?” You asked suddenly, blinking at him.

Licking his lips, Ayrton pondered whether to continue or to hold his tongue and try backtracking. “I-” He stuttered, mentally cursing his inability to speak. He was better than this. He knew he was. “I want to know what he had that I didn’t.”

Suddenly, Ayrton realized he was past the point of caring about what his words might do now, he couldn’t stop himself anymore, “I want nothing more than to take you on a date myself. Every time I see you flirting with another guy- I just can’t help it. I get so jealous. Maybe I had just hoped that you would look at me like you looked at them. Hoped that you’d flirt with me like how you flirted with them.”

For a long time, you’re silent and Ayrton feels an unusual dread settle over him. Suddenly everything seems so loud. The cars on a not so far away street roar in his ears, the shadows of the alley he'd stopped in front of to talk to you seemed to grow in size, threatening to swallow him whole, and the streetlights cast a blinding light on him.

“I’m sorry.” He’s quick to apologize, hoping this hasn’t changed anything, but deep down he knows it will never be the same. He feels it.

“Don’t apologize-” Your voice snaps Ayrton from his reverie. He had begun to lose all hope but your voice is something that distracts him, “I feel the same.”

Ayrton’s face visibly brightens, his eyes widening with glee, “Y-you do?” he asks incredulously. He can’t believe it.

You nod faintly. Ayrton is overrun with an immense joy, and for the third time that evening, he acts upon an impulsive thought, this time when he leans down and captures your lips in a searing kiss.

After a few seconds he pulls away, his chocolate irises staring down into yours with a newly defined affection swirling amidst them.

“I’d agree to going on a date with you,” you say to him, smiling as you bring up his earlier statements.

Nothing can stop the smile that creeps onto Ayrton’s face as he beams down at you and nods, “I’ll be taking you up on that”

To Ayrton, this was way better than winning any grand prix. Better than winning a world championship. You were the best prize of them all and you were certainly prettier than any trophy.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ || ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝!