That included missing out on countless important once-in-a-lifetime events. One being a convivial, Melbourne wedding, an abrupt career in F1, and particularly when you, the little sweetheart, were born.

But that was a story your father cleared his throat and changed the topic anytime you asked about the pictures sitting on top of very fireplace in your living room – the one that was rarely lit anymore.

Something about that it wasn’t important or that they were just old friends.

Not that it got you wondering or intrigued or anything…

—

And then there’s you, a daughter of a millionaire, born and raised in Melbourne, sweeter than honey, but, oh, stings harder than any white, middle-aged man could ever imagine.

Been the normal girl in school, nothing much, shared a first kiss under a normal street lamp on the walk home just to be broken up the very next week because you were too good for him. fucking, dick.

Nothing much happened, your grades were fine, got your girls with you, lost some along the way, and definitely got your heart broken – but it was still beating. Until you graduated, your parents decided to ship their only and loveliest flower abroad, to Monaco to be exact.

Perhaps ABBA was right if you aspired to win a fortune in a distant land – or find a rich, young man, ready to sweep you off your feet and marry you like a good, conservative husband.

People were rich. And by rich from a millionaire daughter meant ‘rich.’ Their everyday outfits would be many’s finest night of their lives. Wearing Birkin bags like they were the cheaper knock offs, a Ferrari as their day drive and a Bugatti for their night drives.

Of course you knew ‘why Monaco?’ Connections, connections, and connections. Easy. Right?

You could go to class and the next thing you knew might be that your classmate is in line for the Monegasque throne, or the next F2 champion, you just never know.

So you did what any rich and struggling university student would do in their right mind – to Monte Carlo, you headed. Drunk out of your mind after your finals in some random, luxurious, expensive club was the perfect way to end a semester.

Until you found a comfort in an accent close to your home — and heart, you did not look twice before falling into his arms (literally).

“You look familiar–” you shouted into his ear, not sure if the booming music or your voice would deafen him first.

“Do I?” he smiled back, lines showing the proof of experiences – perhaps it was the shadows or the blinding lights of the club. Those eyes explored you from top to bottom, a Mary Jane and a white knee-high sock. Adorable. “Is that your pickup line, sweetheart?”

“I swear, it’s not–” giving him the classic, innocent, doe eyes any guy would drop anything for. And he was fucking around and finding out that he was, indeed, one of them. “I’m telling the truthh– y’know what? Just forget it–”

“I’ll sure try, Sunshine.”

It was just something about the way you clung onto his baby blue buttoned up, hair tied in two little innocent braids, and light pink bows attached to the ends. He would’ve lied if he said he didn’t remember his pants being a little tight that night. Hoping he’ll catch your name and maybe something more…

Of course, you didn’t know that.

All those memories played back like an old movie that was badly cut together, choppy and jumpy. Some parts thrown in the trash, never to be retrieved or revived again – all thanks to the alcohol in your system.

You remembered him sharing his name while keeping his rough and hot hand on your lower back, it was Mark Debber? Max? Mark Webber. Enlightening you that he used to be a race driver, Red Bull, Formula 1 – and it was obvious that you lived in Monte Carlo. And maybe if the alcohol in your system wouldn’t drown out the fact that your dad mentioned something about stupid Formula 1 driver; maybe you would’ve had to recollected something.

And don’t get me wrong, you know a lot about things, it was just a little…inexperienced in his eyes.

Something he could definitely take care of.

“So whatcha doing in Monte Carlo?” He smiled. Tucking that strand of flyaway.

“Studying.” You hiccuped the alcohol, and he gave you the look.

“And this.”

Mark was, without a doubt, an Aussie with that smooth silly Australian accent, and the way he bent down his ear to your mouth – ready to listen and do anything else to you like a good man.

“A driver, huh? So you’re rich?” giggling like a girl whose got a crush on her high school senior, maybe also while wrapping your arms around his neck – reaching it just by your tippy toes.

Amused, Mark let out a laugh as he invited you into his embrace, cute. “You like ‘em rich, hm?”

“I like them experienced…” you corrected him, stupid crowd pushing you two closer.

“Then you’ll like me.”

—

Thank God your period came normal that month. Suck that, teenage pregnancy. All you knew you woke up in a surprisingly well-kept hotel room, dressed in a baby blue buttoned up definitely too big for you and…nothing more. Just your short, white dress from last night neatly hung up across the bed – staring and judging at you with its sparkly sequins reflecting the sunlight from the window.

He ran you a hot bath, dolled you up, shared his Vegemite on toasts, and dropped you off with his white Porsche a block away from your shared apartment —and it took a lot of convincing.

It was nothing more than something you day dream once in a while, as if it was just a Monégasque fever dream – the best fever dream you had. Nothing more than a picture in the hidden folder in your pink iPhone, a selfie of wasted you and chiseled Mark Webber in somewhere dark – somewhere secluded, pressed together.

“Honey, are you listening?” a grape plucked in her mouth.

A hot Christmas back at Melbourne and a good night sleep were the only things you looked forward to between the lectures, caffeine doses, and assignments in Monaco. Things do come true if you wish hard enough, and if you have a private jet.

It wasn’t like paying thousand of dollars to be seated in a sweaty crowd just to see your favorite speck of metallic Formula 1 engine – and a surprisingly hot driver – zoomed past you in 0.01 second. Fun, isn’t it?

And your father wouldn’t approve of such waste.

You were back in the seaside mansion, the deck overlooking the calm beach and a subtle crash on the beach every one-and-half a second, if you count. It called for a glass of lemonade and some weak liquor in your mother’s fancy blown glass sitting between the two of you.

“Yes?…no, I wasn’t.” You sighed, blowing the hair strand away. Stating the obvious, “Business dinner?”

“Yes and no. Networking dinners,” she plucked another grape into her mouth and one followed into yours. “You’re going to follow along–”

“And behave well, got it? I got it.”

Softening, her eyes traveled up to your eyes; placing her free hand on top of yours, “Thank you baby.”

You smiled, leaning into her touch. At the ripe age of twenty-one, you’re still snuggling into her like the baby you were. “Why aren’t you coming?” Snapping your head back.

“Busy.” your mother defended herself, pinching your nose softly. “And I know you’ll be a treat to have.”

If you were correct, and most of the time you were, your mother never left your dad’s side. Never. They were the ride or die, especially when it comes to business…and what not.

They were the it couple, if only you’d wish someone as mature, levelheaded, and emotionally intelligent as your father would be lucky for you to have…

—

Mary Jane is your best friend, and so is tights, mini skirts, and old men. Basically what you wore tonight, on a dimly lit cruise, following your father like a lost puppy – maybe not so lost once you pinpointed where the cruise bar was.

“Can I–”

“Later, darling.” Cutting you short, he whispered. Knowing his girl so well, maybe too well that he knew how much you appreciated a nice glass of whatever the bartender would offer. “Honey, do you remember the…the picture on the fireplace?”

You nodded in acknowledgment, “My 5th birthday?”

“No, the other one,” he glanced at you, sending a nod of greeting to someone behind your shoulder.

You tried to think, head tilting subconsciously along the process. “The one where you were younger? what was his name…right, you never told me what was his–”

“Mark–”

“Evening,” said the third voice. Dark hair, tall frame, GMT Rolex, and that so familiar Tom Ford somewhere along his collarbone.

Mark Fucking Webber. He stood right there, just mere inches away from your father’s face – hand tucked away into his smooth black slacks, one cocooning his glass of whiskey.

ynsenna

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ynsenna guys look who ive found

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oscarpiastri very generous that you decided to bring me along

ynsenna anytime! 🤗

username they are so sibling 😭

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username girl? She’s a designer for the team?

username Yn has been nothing but professional for the team, and I wouldn’t bat an eye if Oscar and Lando finds her attractive.

username she’s the only nepo baby I trust in f1 ☝🏼

ayrtonsenna

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ayrtonsenna feliz aniversário meu amor ! (happy birthday, my love) ❤️ ynsenna

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ynsenna também te amo (love you too) ❤️

username what a daughter does to a guy 😂

username if you tell my dad this is the same dude fighting for the championship in the 90s he would call you crazy

username not her kissing the dog and not her dad 😭

ynsenna 35m

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oscarpiastri: I don’t know if P2 or seeing your dad by the side was more surprising 😂

: you’re welcome I guess

: anyway, congrats on the adoption and P2☝🏼☝🏼

oscarpiastri: thanks yn 😊

mclaren

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mclaren It’s always nice to have at least one Senna in the house 🧡 ynsenna

Check out the lastest collection from the Senna family in the link in our bio! McLaren plus member gets a 10% all orders.

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ynsenna thanks for having me 🧡

ynsenna

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ynsenna always grateful for mclaren!

ayrtonsenna

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So you ended up kneeling on the concrete floor, getting weird looks from passersby. Only for them to realize it was a cat, then it was socially acceptable.

“Poor you,” you cooed as you nervously plucked the twigs and dust away, not really sure how to interact with a cat without getting a scratch.

“Fuck—I am not a cat person,” you mumbled to yourself. “Can I pick you up, little guy?”

Soon enough you did manage to get ahold of the ginger in your hands, realizing it’s a boy. His little ears pinned themselves down, resting his forehead on your chest, and a loud, soft, almost-purring-like meow came from him.

He wasn’t hurt, just a little filthy.

And if he had to guess, he would assume you weren’t a cat person, with the way you were holding him. But he’d appreciate the cuddles every now and then.

There was no collar, no tags to be found. But he was fairly too clean for a stray. And maybe just a little too well behaved.

After a moment of quiet cuddling with the ginger baby, you figured his owner would be looking for him soon enough. Or maybe his mother would come and get the youngster soon.

But would you be so mean and leave him alone?

“Look, if you come with me…I’ll…um…post you somewhere so they can get you back?” He was settled back down on the hard concrete floor, only wanting to see if he would even follow you home.

It also would be cruel to take him back without a little cat-consent…right?

The cat sat himself down, and looked at you, considering your offer. He let his tail flick around the floor, smacking the ground a few times as he thought about your words.

He padded after you, and jumped back up, stretching his bean paws against your leg, as if asking you to pick him back up again.

He wanted up. He wanted attention. He was a needy little bastard.

—

“Make yourself at home…well— no scratching my couch—” you warned as you set the feline down, taking off your coat.

The cat followed a few steps behind you, but when you went into the kitchen—he started to explore.

He climbed up your couch and sniffed around, as cats do, finding your throw pillow a little too inciting. He promised he wasn’t going to do anything to mess up your place, but he was just a cat.

And cats do sniff.

Just when you set out a bowl out of water in the floor, he hopped down from the couch and started to drink, almost desperately lapping the water up— almost like a man parched in the desert.

Watching the ginger feline was almost entertaining, lying yourself on the floor— getting the same eye-level as the cat.

“Okay, your name…” you tapped your chin.

The cat stopped drinking, and looked over at you. His brown eyes followed you as you laid back on the ground, watching you almost curiously. Figuring you out.

He meowed at your words, as if asking you to ‘go on.’

“How is…Daniel? Lucas?”

The cat sat back on his haunches, and tipped his head to the side. Judging you for the names you’d chosen. He let out a soft but slightly rude sounding noise, clearly disagreeing with your choices.

“Okay, that’s a ‘no’…what about…er…Pumpkin?”

He made the same noise, but this time it was louder. Definitely didn’t like the sound of that one. He gave you a displeased look, as if telling you to pick something ‘cooler.’

“Well? I can’t read your mind, mister,” you scoffed lightheartedly. “Ginger?”

Another huff from the cat and a tail smack on the floor.

At this point, you might just well give up.

—

“Here’s the bathroom…for…your business—”

So there you were, touring the cat around, hoping you weren’t going crazy. Not with the way the cat seemed to act/look/respond like it understood what you’ve said.

“And— you, only the foot of the bed is allowed.”

You explained, crawling under the covers. Followed by ‘Ginger’ as he jumped up onto your bed. He sat at your feet, and curled up against them, watching you as you got comfy.

A very polite little guy.

He’d let out a soft, almost human sounding sigh, and seemed to settle down. Kneading the bedding once or twice just to get comfy. And occasionally would be peeking his eyes open— just to mak sure you were still there. Only to be seeing you patting the space next to your waist.

“Fine— just here. No more.”

His eyes widened as you patted at the empty space in the middle of the bed. The cat waited a moment, as if he was expecting some kind of trap. Then quickly started to make his way up the foot of the bed.

You could only guess how much comfort a few inches difference can make of a spot. But, hey, he was just a polite little fella.

You grunted as you got out the bed, fetching him a small blanket you kept in your closet.

“If you get cold.”

He looked down at the offered blanket—inspecting it closely—before pushing his head under it, and starting to burrow. He didn’t seem too cold, but he liked it.

His head poked back out from under the blanket. From under the soft material, his eyes darted up to you, waiting to see if you’d get comfortable again.

—

You woke up, feeling something heavy on your stomach. Figured it was Ginger that moved during the night, so you reached down to pet it. Expecting to feel a layer of hair, but instead you felt what felt fleshy.

When you glanced down, instead of a small cat, you saw a man’s hand resting on your stomach, attached to a muscular arm.

This was not Ginger.

“What the fuck?” You groaned, pushing yourself further to the edge of the bed— rubbing your eyes like it would help you wake up from this dream.

The hand on your stomach shifted, letting out a soft groan at his swollen lips. “…What?”

You had to shift away from him, crawling off the bed. Pressing your back against the wall behind.

“Who are you?—no—How did you get into my room?”

The owner of the hand sat up, and pushed himself into an upright position. He had quite obvious bedhead— mussed up hair sticking in several directions.

And Oh. My. God. This guy was kinda ripped.

“I...” he said, rubbing a hand over his face, still trying to shake off his drowsiness. “I…” he was at a loss for words, as he looked around dumbfounded, trying to process what just happened.

“You what?—What did you do to Ginger?”

“I am Ginger.” He defended himself, his voice going high with a hint of an Australian accent. Squinting his eyes as he saw that you didn’t believe it.

“No? You’re clearly not a cat—I am calling the cops—”

“No! Wait—!” He put his pale, strong hand out to stop you from doing so. Running his hand through his head as the seconds ticked by quickly, trying to find the right way to explain.

“Ok, look—I know it’s a lot, but let me explain first, I just need you to calm down, yeah?”

“I have a fucking man in my bed—one that I don’t know— how am I supposed to know that you won’t jump and kill me. Also.” You breathed.

“You’re claiming that you’re a cat.”

“Look, just—” he began, as he ran his hand through his mussed up bed hair, trying to flatten it down. “I am a shifter—”

Oh.

“Right..” You should’ve known.

“I’m sorry—fuck. I should’ve just left you there— I’m so sorry–”

—

“Can it be permanent?”

The doctor gave Oscar a sympathetic look, his eyebrows raising at the question.

He had seen a lot of cat shifters before, lots of hopeless cases—some of them, and Oscar’s question wasn’t the first time he had heard the same phrase.

“You want to remain in a human body permanently, Mr. Piastri?” He repeated, humming softly as he went over the patient’s history.

The Australian nodded.

“Well…I must tell you. Some shifters have had success in taking medication to help them remain in their human form longer…” He started, seeing the youngster was willing to try. “We can work on a dose and let’s see if it gets you any results,” he added, writing down on the prescription.

“Yeah, I’ll try it—”

—

“You forgot this at my place?”

That snapped Oscar back into reality. Right. He had a casual dinner planned with you at his place. After his surprisingly pleasant interaction with you that morning, he was stuck.

Sure, it was full of you investigating him with all of the shifters’ fun facts and myths. But he handled it professionally. Yes, he’s somewhat conscious in the cat body. No, he can’t really help but to give into the cat instincts.

He needed to climb things, and meow, and rub his face against you, and what not. And, no, his parents are not shifters. Was that all of the questions?

Oscar would often found himself at your place, then vice versa. Just enjoying each other’s company, really.

Not to mention that one time you visited at the ‘wrong’ moment, greeting you in his all-glorious feline state. Even that. You were still nice enough to stick around with a fussy cat.

Oh, and you brought him a lot of cat treats.

Right, the dinner.

“What?”

“I think it’s yours,” you repeated, pushing a pill bottle prescribed with his name across the counter:

Shifting Suppressants Suppress transformation into animal form. Take twice a day.

He quickly reached out for it. “Oh, right, thanks–”

“Why?” You stopped him.

Sure, you weren’t in the place to talk about what medication he should be taking, but can’t a friend look out for each other? It was painfully obvious that he had gone from ‘pale’ to almost a ‘twilight-pale’ this past month, and don’t make you get started on his under eyes.

“Osc…I don’t wanna be pushy, but…I don’t think it’s good for you.”

You can see his face turning just a touch of guilty. And he would argue that the pills were helping with lessening his shifting.

“…I just wanna stay like this, Yn.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, he didn’t want to be like this because he preferred it.

He wanted this so he could feel normal. Just being able to be there and do something for you— not a helpless ginger cat. He had spent a good portion of his life transforming but— he was afraid you wouldn’t even want a cat around for the rest of your life.

“I want to be a human when you’re around— it makes me happy this way—”

“Oh, Osc–”

You frowned admiringly, rounding the kitchen counter to capture his hand. “I like you as a cat, I like you as a human. I don’t care— You’re still…you to me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I mean—I don’t want to kiss a cat, but I still want to cuddle and spend time— even if you can’t talk.

But I’d still like to kiss a human, for sure.”

“…You mean it?”

“Fuck, yes, I do—”

“That’s good to know,” he smiled softly.

The next thing you knew, he was finding the courage to tug on your laced hands, closing the gap between your lips. His hand traced your jaw in all the perfect places, tugging your chin closer so he can pepper soft kisses all over your lips.

Pulling away with a cheeky smile.

“You make me want to overdose, y’know?”

Hey people, long time no see. 👹👹 HOW ARE YALL doinggg

Anyways, interacting anyway would be appreciated and, as always, today’s a good day to take care of yaself. xoxo’s

jensonbutton

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jensonbutton thank you everyone for showing up tonight! looking forward to this exciting season, car’s looking nice guys! ❤️

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username mother is back!!!

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username Jenson’s ex-strategist and wife 😻

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f1gossips

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f1gossips yn’s story a few days ago! bring on miami grand prix!!

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logansargeant

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logansargeant thanks for the drinks! yourinsta

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yourinsta cheers to p3!! 🦅

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yourinsta 14h | jensonbutton 4h

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yourinsta

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yourinsta leave your phone around driver they said…happy birthday 🫶 😘

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jensonbutton I’d never!! ❤️

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logansargeant

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logansargeant happy birthday jensonbutton 🙌

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username you meant ‘happy birthday dad’

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yourinsta

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yourinsta when lives give you father and son…😔🥰

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alex_albon you forgot me :(

yourinsta nooo my sonn

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I’m so tired with my igcse 💀💀

– @namgification @jsjcue @c-losur3 @evie-119