Warnings: car crash, injury description (nothing graphic), near death/mentions of it, medical mentions
Summary: after y/n suffered a terrifying crash at the Red Bull ring, Lando has to figure out what to do. Calming his son/ (More himself though.) And working on helping him heal.
A/N: no names of actual current f4 drivers were said bc its in the near-ish future and reader is apt 14, do some math if you'd like but don't think tm act it!! there will be a part two to this specific one, but I couldn't finish it atm, this is as far as my motivation can go sorry! enjoy!
Saturday at the Red Bull Ring.
The Red Bull Ring—man, it’s gorgeous in that “might kill you if you blink” kind of way. All those rolling green hills and sneaky dips, blind corners just waiting to ruin someone’s afternoon. It’s the sort of place that keeps everyone’s nerves jangling, mechanics and dads alike.
Lando Norris stood there on the pit wall, arms tight across his chest, McLaren hoodie on, but he wasn't looking at the scenery. Not even glancing at the track, really. His eyes were glued to Car #17. His kid.
Y/N had been on it all weekend. Quick as hell in practice. Didn’t flinch in the rain. Nailed qualifying. But something felt off this morning. Not just the car—him, too. Different edge.
“Still got the Red Bull kid rattling around in your head?” Lando threw it out there, eyes still locked on the timing screen.
Y/N’s voice came over the radio, dry as toast. “No.”
Yeah, right. Lando knew a fib from his kid a mile off.
Friday – The Day Before
FP2 was a mess.
Turn 3—classic. Y/N dived for the inside. Elias Voss, the Red Bull Academy’s newest wonderboy, tried to hang it round the outside. Neither of them lifted. So, naturally, Y/N’s front wing went bye-bye, and Voss got a face full of gravel.
Cue drama. Voss’s team was fuming. “Reckless!” “Entitled!” All the greatest hits.
Stewards called it just a racing thing, but the paddock loved to gossip.
“Bet Norris thinks he’s untouchable now.”
“Silver spoon, gets away with anything.”
Y/N heard every word. Pretended he didn’t.
Back to Saturday
Lap 14.
Everything goes sideways.
Happens in a blink, as usual.
Voss is right there again, lining him up into Turn 3. Déjà vu.
Lando leans in, practically chewing his nails. “Don’t fight it too hard,” he mutters. “Let him screw up.”
But Y/N? He’s not backing out.
Tires touch. That sound—metal, rubber, chaos. Smoke. Debris everywhere.
Car #17 launches, spins, smacks the barriers so hard you could feel it in your teeth. Even the engineers stagger back, pale.
The whole world just… stops.
“Red flag. Red flag. Medical team dispatched.”
Lando’s off like a shot. Doesn’t care about credentials or radios or anyone yelling at him. He’s running, pure dad mode.
The Wreck
Marshals’ve already swarmed the mess. Wheel over here. Halo’s got a nasty crack. The car’s twisted in ways it shouldn’t be.
Lando shoves through the crowd and finds him.
Y/N’s slumped over, helmet askew, not moving.
“Y/N!” Lando drops, knees on tarmac. “Hey, buddy, c’mon. Open your eyes, look at me.”
Medic grabs him, pulls him back. “We need space, possible spinal.”
Lando stumbles away, can’t breathe, just staring at the kid in the mangled car.
Time crawls.
Then—was that a twitch? A noise? Yeah. Y/N’s alive.
Hospital – Graz University Clinic
Broken arm, cracked ribs, concussion, bruises everywhere, a bit of a spinal scare—but he’s gonna make it.
He’s out cold, though.
Lando sits there, holding his son’s hand, mumbling stuff he should’ve said ages ago.
“You don’t have to prove a damn thing. Not to them. Not to me. Especially not to me.”
Wipes his eyes, trying to play it cool.
“You’re already everything I hoped you’d be.”
Sunday Night
Y/N wakes up just as the sun’s ducking out.
Eyes flutter, sharp breath, groan.
Lando’s right there.
“Hey, hey. I got you, I’m here.”
Y/N blinks up, groggy. “Did I crash?”
Lando nods, smiling through tears. “Oh yeah. Massive one. Gave your old man a few grey hairs.”
“Voss?”
“He’s fine. You will be too. Just not today.”
Y/N glances at his cast, then his chest, and his face kind of crumples.
“I thought I was better than that. I thought I could—”
“Stop.” Lando’s suddenly all business. “You don’t get to do that. Not when you’re the one in the hospital bed.”
Silence.
Finally: “I was scared.”
Lando squeezes his hand. “Me too. But you’re here. That’s what counts.”
Three Weeks Later – Home
Recovery sucks.
Y/N’s hating every minute. The quiet, the ache, the way every tiny thing feels like screwing up.
But Lando’s there. Every physio, every stretch, every crap night when the pain comes roaring back.
He never says it, but Y/N knows:
I’d take the crash for you if I could.
But this time, all he can do is stick around and help him through it.
One Month Later – Back at the Track
No racing yet. Just walking the paddock, getting his bearings.
People look. Whisper.
Voss walks by, eyes flickering, maybe a little sorry.
Y/N stares him down. Doesn’t even flinch.
Lando, hiding behind his shades, grins.
“You scared the hell outta me, you know.”
Y/N bumps him with his shoulder. “You already said that.”
“Still true.”
They stand there together in the shadow of the Red Bull Ring—the same place that broke him, and the same place he’s back again.
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Summary: Charles missed your dance and he'll do everything to make it up to you.
A/N: tysm, 🏀 anon!
The curtain had just fallen.
The lights dimmed, the applause still echoing like a heartbeat in your ears, but you stood frozen behind the wings, trembling in your pointe shoes, your tutu barely rustling as you breathed in shaky, silent gasps.
You’d done it.
The first solo performance of your life.
Except—he wasn’t there.
You turned toward the doors, your eyes scanning the silhouettes beyond the velvet curtains.
Nothing.
No sign of the signature Leclerc curls. No smile that could melt your nerves. No warm arms ready to say “You were incredible, mon étoile.”
Just darkness. And noise. And stagehands calling cues for the next group.
You blinked.
Swallowed.
And walked off with your chin high.
Back in the dressing room, everyone buzzed. Makeup being wiped off, pointe shoes unfastened, glitter dusting the carpeted floor. Girls hugged. Instructors smiled. Parents waited outside, holding presents and bouquets.
You sat at your mirror, slowly unlacing your shoes. The satin ribbons trembled in your fingers.
Your heart felt too big and too empty at the same time.
Your phone buzzed.
You swiped it open without much hope.
Charli 8:42pm — “Je suis désolé, chérie. We got held up at the paddock. I'm coming now. Please wait for me.”
You stared at the text for a long moment.
Then a tear fell. And another. They kept coming.
Not loud. Not messy. Just quiet tears sliding down your cheeks like kisses from a rose petal.
You’d told him about this performance months ago. He’d promised. Pinky promised. Charles never broke those. It was the childish nature in him.
Except now, with the season full swing, the Monaco GP madness around him, and press demands on every corner…
You’d been pushed down the list.
Again.
It was twenty-five minutes later when he finally arrived.
He burst through the backstage hallway in his Ferrari polo and jeans, hair slightly mussed, eyes frantic.
“Y/N!”
You didn’t look up right away. Just sat in the corridor still half-dressed, your bag open beside you.
His voice softened when he saw you.
“Oh, ma petite…”
“I’m not that little anymore,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on your bag zipper.
“No, you’re not,” he agreed, crouching in front of you. “But you’ll always be my little étoile.”
You sniffed.
“I danced without you.”
“I know. And I’m so proud of you.”
“You weren’t there to see it.”
Charles looked like he’d been hit straight in the chest.
He reached forward slowly, like you were made of glass, and gently tucked a loose curl behind your ear.
“I’m so sorry. The race weekend—it ran long, the media was insane—I didn’t want to miss it, I swear on everything.”
You nodded, barely. Only just.
He dropped to sit beside you now, shoulder to shoulder on the cold floor.
There was a pause.
Then: “You know what I used to do before every kart race?”
You shook your head.
“I would listen to that one Chopin piece. The one you used to practice with. The one with the soft piano and the sad ending. It made me think of you.”
Your throat tightened.
“You did not. Liar.”
“I did. Even in Formula 2. Even now sometimes. It reminded me of how hard you worked. How graceful you were. How pretty and neat. How I never wanted to let you down.”
You bit your lip, a tear escaping. A gentle hiccup escaped.
Charles turned to face you.
“You didn’t let me down,” you whispered. “I just… really, really wanted you to be proud of me.”
“I am proud of you,” he said, voice cracking a little.
You looked up, and there it was—his face, open and full of love and guilt and admiration all in one.
“I’m your big brother. But tonight, I was also the guy running through the parking lot like a maniac to catch his sister’s final bow.”
You laughed, watery.
“That sounds stupid.”
“It was stupid. And I still missed it. But I swear, next time—I will be there an hour early, in the front row, wearing a glitter tutu if I have to.”
You burst out laughing.
The ache didn’t vanish, but it softened.
He pulled you into a hug.
“You looked beautiful,” he murmured into your hair. “Even now, all tired and glittery and grumpy. You’re everything I’m proud of, (Y/N). Always.”
You buried your face into his shoulder and let yourself breathe again.
Back at home, he insisted on cooking pasta.
“You danced, I make dinner. That’s the rule.”
You sat at the kitchen island in your hoodie, finally warm and makeup-free, watching your Formula One driver of a brother burn garlic in a pan like an amateur.
“You’re not doing it right,” you teased.
“You sound like Enzo.”
“You cook like Enzo.”
“Watch it.”
“Maman cooks better than you and she makes toast with tomato sauce.”
He gave you a deadpan look.
“Rude.”
You smiled, slowly, for real this time.
Later, you lay on the couch, legs stretched over Charles’s lap as he scrolled through pictures from your performance that your ballet teacher had sent him.
“She sent me like fifty,” he muttered, zooming in. “Look at your arm here! That’s crazy! You looked like you were floating!”
You blushed.
“Stop hyping me up.”
“Never.”
You peeked at his phone screen. One photo caught your eye — you, mid-pirouette, lit from above like a painting.
You inhaled. “I… I really did that, huh?”
“You owned it, ma belle. No wonder people cried in the audience.”
Your eyes widened. “Someone cried?”
“Yeah. Maggie’s mom told Arthur.”
You covered your face, groaning.
“Oh noooo.”
He laughed and poked your ribs. “Famous already.”
You peeked at him. “Did you mean it? About wearing a tutu to the next show?”
“Do you want me to?”
You grinned.
“Only if you bedazzle it.”
“Done. Ferrari red.”
You laughed so hard your stomach ached and tears fell.
As the night wore down and the apartment dimmed to its sleepy hush, you curled into the corner of the couch, head on Charles’s shoulder.
He wasn’t talking now. Just scrolling through photos again, eyes fond.
“I was scared today,” you murmured suddenly. “Before going on stage.”
He looked down. “Really?”
You nodded. “I thought I’d fall. Or forget the choreo. Or freeze.”
He wrapped an arm around you. Strong and protective. “But you didn’t.”
“Because I pretended you were out there watching.”
Charles didn’t speak for a moment.
Then he kissed the top of your head.
“I’m always watching, even when I’m late,” he said quietly.
Warnings: Ferrari winning Le Mans <3 (CADILLAC PLEASE WIN THIS YEAR.)
Summary: In which you lost Le Mans while Ollie was in Montreal for a race and he refuses to let you cry on your own.
A/N: This is from my main @heyitspapayaontop, I write there mostly!!
The Cadillac driver didn't have time to take off her helmet before the tears fell.
The lights at Le Mans were brutal—too bright, too sharp, shining down on a podium you weren’t standing on. Ferrari had taken it. Again. And this time, you’d made it to the final stint. You had a real shot. You had the lead. And then the car sputtered in pit lane, just once, just enough.
P2. Not even five seconds in it.
And you didn’t want to hear the interviews or the noise or the celebration that wasn’t yours.
So you called him.
Ollie answered on the second ring, still in the Haas hospitality suite in Montreal. His curls were damp from the post-quali rain, face tired from media duties, but the second he heard your voice—broken and trembling—he sat up straight.
“Hey, hey,” he whispered. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
You sniffled, voice small. “I lost, Ollie.”
He paused. “You came second at Le Mans, love. That’s not losing.”
“I was leading with twenty minutes to go,” you choked. “I let them down.”
“You didn’t let anyone down,” he said firmly. “You raced your heart out. Everyone saw it.”
You didn’t answer right away. He could hear you breathing, uneven, trying so hard not to cry harder.
“I just… I really wanted this one.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I know, baby. I’m proud of you. So, so proud of you.”
There was silence, soft and heavy, and then you barely whispered, “I wish you were here.”
That’s all it took.
The next morning, before most of the paddock in Montreal had even had coffee, Ollie was on a flight to France. No press. No fuss. Just him, hoodie pulled up, headphones in, watching the clouds blur past the window as he counted the hours until he could hold you.
By the time he got to the circuit, you were still in your post-race fireproofs, sitting on the pit wall with your arms wrapped around your knees, looking more like a ghost of yourself than the fighter he loved.
You looked up when you heard footsteps.
And then froze.
“Hi,” he said simply.
Your lip quivered. “You’re—how—”
“I told you I’d be where you needed me.”
You ran to him like the ground burned, and he caught you without a second thought, wrapping you up in his arms, your face pressed into his shoulder.
You were crying again, all the tears were back and falling into his hoodie.
He just held you, rubbing your back whispering sweet nothings.
The next morning Ollie had never looked more serious in his life.
Sitting on the hotel balcony in a hoodie and sweatpants, his curls still messy from sleep, he had one hand around a mug of coffee and the other holding his phone to his ear.
“Pierre, I need your help,” he said, quietly but firmly.
There was a pause, and then— “Bearman?” “Yeah.” “It’s 6:42 in the morning.” “I know,” Ollie whispered, glancing back through the hotel window to where you were still asleep, curled up under the white sheets. “But it’s important.”
Pierre sighed dramatically. “Is this about your car?” “No.” “Your quali?” “No.” “...Are you dying?” “No!” Ollie hissed. “I need a place to take her for breakfast.”
Pierre went silent.
And then, “Ohhh.”
“Yeah.”
“She cried, didn’t she?”
Ollie smiled softly, eyes flicking back to you. “A river.”
Pierre’s voice softened too. “She deserved that win.”
“I know.”
“You showing up was good.”
“I want to do more.”
Pierre was quiet for a moment. Then: “Okay. There’s a bakery in the old quarter. Not touristy. Locals only. You’ll want a table in the back—sunlight comes through the window just right. Tell them Gasly sent you. They’ll know.”
Ollie blinked. “Why do you know that...? ”
“Because I’m French.”
“You’re too French.”
Pierre smirked through the phone. “You’re welcome, mon gars. Let her feel soft this morning. She gave the world everything yesterday.”
Ollie smiled, something warm blooming in his chest. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She really did.”
By 8:30am, you were in one of Ollie’s oversized sweatshirts, hair still a little messy, blinking in the soft morning light as he led you down a quiet cobblestone street, hand in yours.
“Where are we going?” you asked, cheeks still puffy from the night before.
“Somewhere only Pierre would know,” he said mysteriously.
You squinted. “You called Gasly?”
“I needed the inside scoop. I’m on breakfast duty. Don’t question my sources.” He grinned.
And when you reached the tiny café tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore, when you sat in the sunlit back corner, hands wrapped around warm mugs, buttery croissant melting on your tongue…
You smiled.
Just a little.
And Ollie relaxed. Because you were smiling again.
The night air in Le Mans tasted like disappointment.
You didn’t even make it past the garage. Still half-zipped out of your fireproofs, knees pulled to your chest while you sat on an overturned pit box crate. The Cadillac crew tiptoed around you, eyes low. You could still hear the roar of Ferrari’s champagne-soaked celebration from the podium.
But you didn’t make the call until later. Until you were alone. Until the ache in your chest cracked wide open and spilled down your cheeks.
It rang once.
Then twice.
And then Kimi answered.
He sounded tired—post-quali tired—but the second he heard you sniffle, the edge in his voice softened instantly.
“Hey, hey, hey. What’s wrong, amore?”
“I lost,” you whispered. “They passed us in the last ten minutes. Ferrari. They won.”
Kimi didn’t say anything at first. Just breathed gently into the phone.
“I’m sorry,” you said, so quiet he almost missed it.
“No. Don’t do that.” His voice was firmer now, protective. “You drove Le Mans. You led Le Mans. You don’t get to say sorry for being brilliant.”
You wiped at your cheeks. “And it’s not fair.”
“It never is,” he murmured. “But it doesn’t change what you are.”
“What am I?”
“Mine,” he said simply. “And the best damn driver in that field.”
That’s when your voice cracked fully, and Kimi knew. He knew you didn’t just need his voice. You needed him.
So he made a few calls. Told Toto he wasn’t missing a thing. Took the overnight flight from Montreal and didn’t even stop at the hotel. Straight to the track, still in his team hoodie, eyes rimmed red from no sleep.
When you saw him, you didn’t even move. You just stared, eyes wide and disbelieving.
“…Kimi?”
He nodded once. “Did you think I wouldn’t come?”
You stood slowly, unsure if you were dreaming.
Then you crashed into him like the checkered flag itself.
He held you close, hands spread wide across your back, his chin tucked into your hair like he’d been waiting for this all day.
You sniffled. “You missed your race weekend.”
“You needed me,” he said. “And I needed to see you.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes still shiny. “You always know.”
“I know you,” he said softly, brushing your cheek with his thumb.
He pressed his lips to yours. Not hungry with desire, but gentle.
Against your lips he whispered, “Come on, Amore. Let's go to the hotel, okay?”
You were too tired to tell him no. Not like you would have. So you nodded and he took your hand as he led you to the car.
An hour later, he came home with a paper bag of groceries.
He set it down before closing the room door so you wouldn't wake up.
After, went back to the kitchen and took out a knife and a wooden cutting board as he chopped the basil. He threw it in a bowl with eggs, whipping cream, salt, and pepper. He turned on the mixer and left it while he turned to the stove with a pan.
The wrapper of butter crinkled as he opened is and cut some off to spread it on the pan, looking over at the door to make sure you hadn't come out yet.
The Italian stopped the mixer and poured it onto the pan, his eyes focused.
Kimi covered it and watched it.
You walked out the room quietly, Kim's hoodie on with sweatpants that weren't dirty. You saw your boyfriend cooking and smiled tiredly. Walking over, your hands slid around his torso as you hugged him from behind.
He jumped a bit, but once he felt your head resting on his shoulder he smiled and relaxed.
“Morning, Amore.” Kimi whispered.
In response you mumbled, “Morning, Drea.”
After a few moments he took the lid off the pan and grabbed a plate without moving his feet so you wouldn't have to walk around. He took a spatula and took the frittata off and plated it.
“Come on, Amore, I made breakfast.” He said, tugging your hands toward the couch.
Once he sat down, he pulled you into his lap.
“How are you feeling?”
“Still shitty, but a bit better because a certain little pizza boy made me food.” You smirked. He chuckled.
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Request: no but I liked the bit of takeout Times so uhm...here guys<3.
Pairing: Husband!Max Verstappen x Wife!reader
Warnings: FLUFF HAS COME AGAIN (do you guys want angst or smut idk anymore)
Summary: You stole someone's hoodie.
The hum of the Red Bull garage still clung to Max’s skin as he tugged off the top half of his race suit, sweat-damp curls clinging to his forehead, fireproofs bunching around his waist. FP2 had gone well—second fastest on the board, decent long-run pace, and a few jokes thrown across the radio with GP—but you were the only thing on his mind as he headed straight to the driver room.
And there you were.
Sitting on the couch you’d both claimed earlier, now wearing his hoodie, the navy fabric practically swallowing you whole.
Max froze in the doorway.
“You’re wearing my hoodie.”
You glanced up, mid-scroll on your phone, and grinned. “I always wear your hoodie.”
“Yeah, but you’re wearing my hoodie after FP2. That makes it elite.”
You snorted as he crossed the room in three strides, shedding his balaclava and gloves before flopping down beside you. He didn’t even hesitate—just dragged you straight into his lap like he’d needed to touch you since he stepped out of the car.
“Missed you,” he mumbled, arms wrapping tight around your waist.
“You saw me less than an hour ago.”
“I know. Too long.”
You tucked a few damp strands of blond hair back from his forehead, thumb brushing over his cheek. “You did amazing.”
“P2.”
“Still amazing.”
His smile went soft at that, eyes dropping to where your hands were fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve. “I swear, it’s impossible to care about the leaderboard when I walk in and see you like this.”
You leaned in. “Like what?”
“In my hoodie. Looking like you belong in it.”
You didn’t say anything—just kissed the tip of his nose, then his cheek, then right over that little spot just below his eye that always crinkled when he smiled.
Max let his head fall back against the couch, pulling you tighter against his chest. “You know,” he murmured, “I’ve got trophies, helmets, championship rings... but this?”
“This?” you asked, half-laughing.
“This—you in my hoodie, wrapped around me, after a long day in the car? This is better than all of it.”
You sank into him, the sound of his heartbeat louder than the cooling fans humming in the background. The rest of the world—engine notes, flashing cameras, pit walls—it could wait.
Here, you had his hands warm on your back, his lips ghosting over your forehead, and that voice—his voice—soft and sleepy and only for you.
“Let’s just stay like this forever,” he whispered.
You nodded, smiling against his chest.
“Forever sounds good.”
A/N: THE LAST TWO FICS HAVE BEEN SO SHORT IM SORRY!!!
Summary: Max's little cuddles and meal time with his wife.
Notice: Yes, this is from @heyitspapayaontop. That is my main and where I post my fics, but I might consider writing here too. Thank you!
The buzz of the paddock was a distant hum, muffled behind the closed door of Verstappen’s driver room. FP1 had ended with solid data, a clean car, and a familiar shrug from Max—"The car feels good. A little understeer in turn five, but nothing crazy."
But now?
Now was the best part of the day.
You were curled up beside him on the small couch that barely fit two people—though neither of you minded the lack of space. It just meant you had to press in closer, which Max had happily taken advantage of the second the door clicked shut.
Chinese takeout containers were scattered across the little coffee table in front of you, your shared order scribbled with black marker and checkmarks. Max was lazily holding chopsticks in one hand, using them more to poke at his food than eat, while his other arm was wrapped tightly around your waist, keeping you tucked against him.
“I think the sesame chicken is yours,” he murmured, looking down at you with that quiet, sleepy smile he only ever gave you in these private moments.
“Mmm,” you hummed, reaching over and grabbing the box. “You say that like you didn’t already steal half of it.”
“I needed to test it. For quality control.”
You snorted. “You're such a liar, Verstappen.”
He leaned in, his nose brushing against your temple, breath warm as he whispered, “Yeah, but I’m your liar.”
You melted a little, leaning fully into him as your food momentarily became a forgotten background character to the warmth of his hoodie, the sound of his heartbeat under your cheek, and the smell of soy sauce lingering in the air.
Max nudged your chopsticks toward your mouth when he saw you zoning out. “You’ve gotta eat before FP2.”
“You mean you have to eat before FP2,” you corrected, grinning up at him.
“Exactly,” he said with a smirk. “And if you don’t eat, I’ll just worry about you the whole time. Can’t win a session like that.”
You fed him a bite instead. “You’re so dramatic.”
“And you love it.”
You did. Of course you did.
He pulled the blanket tighter over the two of you, the world outside the driver room utterly irrelevant. It didn’t matter that engineers were probably reviewing data or that fans were screaming just outside the barriers.
In here, it was just your husband, who was soft and silly and pressing absentminded kisses to your forehead as you shared spring rolls and small smiles.
“Five more minutes,” he murmured, eyes already fluttering shut. “Just five, and then I’ll go pretend I don’t wish I could just stay here with you.”
You kissed his jaw and curled deeper into his chest. “Five minutes,” you promised. “Or maybe ten.”
He didn’t argue.
A/N: HOPE YOU LIKES IT MY SHAYLAS. I know I'm on break but I had to add this for the weekend. there might be a silly part two but idk yet! sorry Abt it being so short, love you<3
Pairing: Dad!Pierre Gasly x Toddler Daughter!reader
Warnings: None, just fluff !!
Summary: Baby Gasly gets a bit excited and runs off at Disney World.
Notice: Yes, this is from @heyitspapayaontop. That is my second blog. Thank you<3
On a sunny Thursday in early June, the vibrant colors of Disney World beckoned families from all over the world, each one ready to immerse themselves in the enchanting atmosphere. Sunlight sparkled off the famous Cinderella Castle, and laughter filled the air as children darted past with balloons bobbing above their heads. Among those families was the Y/N Gasly, pulling her mother and her father closer to a teacup ride. The small family was finally enjoying a rare break between the 2025 Miami GP and the Italian GP .
Pierre and Kika shared a smile, soaking in every moment of happiness. Y/N was a sprightly three-year-old, full of energy and wonder. Her big brown eyes sparkled with excitement as she absorbed the magical sights and sounds of Disney—a place where her dreams were finally coming true.
“Look, Papa! Mickey Mouse!” Y/N exclaimed, pointing toward a character dressed in a large mouse costume that was happily waving to the children around him.
“Do you want to go meet him, Y/N?” Kika asked, kneeling down to her daughter's height. The little girl nodded vigorously, her curls bouncing as she became momentarily lost in her excitement.
As they made their way through the throngs of families, Y/N was torn between the allure of meeting Mickey and the enchanting rides that surrounded them. After a leisurely stroll and a few detours for photos with whimsically-costumed characters, they arrived at the iconic meeting spot. Y/N's face lit up when she saw Mickey, and she rushed forward, pulling her smiling parents along.
With a bright grin, she hugged Mickey while Kika snapped a photo—this was one for the family album. Y/N grinned happily at her mother's phone, her small face beaming with delight.
Afterward, Pierre suggested a visit to the nearby Dumbo the Flying Elephant ride. “Let’s go, Y/N! It’s going to be so much fun!”
“Yay! I want to fly!” Y/N squealed, her little feet bouncing with anticipation. They waited in line, and Pierre hoisted her onto his shoulders. “Higher, Papa! Higher!”
Their laughter rang out as they finally climbed onto the ride, with Y/N flapping her arms as if she could truly fly. As the ride spun happily in the air, Kika watched them, her heart swelling with love for both her husband and their little girl.
As the afternoon wore on, Y/N, enthralled by the sights and sounds, didn't notice when her parents stopped to take a photo at another attraction. Peering curiously at the giant castle, she subtly slipped away, eager to explore the magical world around her.
It was only when Pierre and Kika turned back to find their daughter wasn't next to them and panic-gripped them faster than a car when the lights went out. “Y/N?” Pierre called, scanning the vicinity. “Y/N?” He repeated louder than the first time.
Kika grabbed Pierre's forearm, a wave of anxiety crashing over her. “We need to find her, Pierre!”
The couple dashed in different directions, Kika’s heart racing. They desperately checked around every corner, calling her name, but there was no response. As the world seemed to close in, Pierre suddenly shouted, “Over there! That way!”
Meanwhile, Y/N had wandered towards the beautiful flowers, her eyes wide with wonder at the sights of colorful petals and swirling displays. She marveled at everything, completely oblivious to the worry that swelled behind her.
“Y/N, stay close!” A voice rang around her, but it sounded distant. “Papa?” she called, her little voice barely above a whisper as she turned in circles, searching.
Just then, another familiar face turned the corner—Charles, who she often called her her “Monny”,or her “Uncle Charlo.” He had taken a break from his own visit at the park to enjoy some downtime before the next race. Spotting the little girl with big, worried eyes, he quickly approached her.
“Y/N! What are you doing here all alone?” he asked gently, kneeling down and putting his hands on her waist in a gentle, protective manner.
“Uncle Charlo!” she exclaimed, relief flooding her tiny features. “I lost my mama and papa!”
Charles’ heart melted at the sight of the little girl, and he immediately took charge. “Don’t worry, mon amour. I’ll help you find them. Let’s go look together.”
With that, he gently took her hand, leading her through the bustling crowd. “Can you tell me what they have on today, mon chéri?” he asked, guiding her gently along.
Y/N frowned, thinking hard. “Papa has a blue shirt, and Mama has a pink dress!”
Charles smiled. “Alright, let’s look for blue and pink!”
As they passed groups of people, Charles kept an eye out for Pierre’s unmistakable figure, his heart racing as they checked stalls and rides. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spotted Kika and Pierre not far away, still scanning the throng of visiting families.
“Look over there, Y/N!” Charles pointed, excitement bubbling in his voice.
“Papa!” Y/N cried out and began to run towards her parents, pulling Charles along with her.
Both Pierre and Kika turned at the sound of their daughter’s voice and blinked in amazement at the sight before them. Charles, kneeling with Y/N by his side, smiled at them, a comforting gesture that reassured Kika and Pierre amidst their stress.
“Thank you, Charles!” Pierre exclaimed with immense relief as he knelt to scoop Y/N into his arms.
“Mama, I found Uncle Charlo!” Y/N beamed, completely overjoyed.
Kika rushed over to hug them both tightly, her heart still racing with the remnants of worry. “Oh, Y/N! You scared us!”
“Let’s stay together now, okay?” Kika said as she pulled Y/N closer, grateful to have her back.
“Okay!” Y/N nodded, oblivious to the tension that had just passed.
Charles grinned, enjoying the warmth of their family moment. “I think the magic of Disney worked too well today, huh?” he joked, tousling Y/N’s hair.
As the group wandered deeper into the park together, laughter erupted again, filling the air with joy. Y/N continued to chatter excitedly, her words a fantastic blend of French and English. Family, laughter, and love surrounded her; this day was one she would remember fondly, filled with the magic of Disney and the strength of family.
A/N: I LOVED THIS ONE BUT I HAD WAR MAKING THE DIVIDER??? my reqs are always open loves<3
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Pairing: Dad!Charles Leclerc x Toddler Daughter!reader
Warnings: None, just fluff <3
Summary: Charles takes his family out for a day on the yacht and his daughter and him mess around.
Notice: Yes, this is from @heyitspapayaontop. That is my second blog. Thank you<3
On a sunny afternoon in Monaco, the shimmering waves danced under the blue sky as the sleek yacht bobbed gently at the marina. Charles stood at the helm, a broad smile lighting up his features as he prepared for a day of family fun. The scent of saltwater filled the air, mixing with the laughter that echoed behind him.
"Y/N, regarde! C'est un grand bateau!" ("Y/N, look! It's a big boat!") Charles called back to his daughter, who was perched on the deck, her little fingers gripping the railing tightly. At just three years old, Y/N Leclerc was the apple of her father’s eye. With curly brown hair tumbling onto her forehead and big, bright eyes filled with wonder, she took in the world around her with pure curiosity. It was her very first outing on the family yacht, and everything delighted her.
“Papa! Un poisson!” ("Papa! A fish!") Y/N squealed, pointing excitedly at a small splash in the water. Her French babbling was cute and infectious, wrapping around the family like a warm embrace. Although she hadn’t yet learned English, her enthusiasm transcended any language barrier.
“Oui, ma chérie!” ("Yes, my dear!") Charles replied, ruffling her hair affectionately before turning back to help secure the last of the sails. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing his mother, Pascale, chatting with his brothers, Lorenzo and Arthur, who were setting up a small picnic on the deck.
“Il est beau ici, non?” (“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?”) Y/N clapped her hands, her tiny voice ringing among the adult chatter.
“C’est magnifique!” (“C’est magnifique!”) Arthur chimed in, joining Y/N at the railing and looking over the water with her. “Tu veux voir des poissons de près, Y/N?” (“Do you want to see some fish up close, Y/N?”)
“Oui, oui!” ("Yes yes!") she bounced on her little toes, her excitement palpable.
Lorenzo leaned against the yacht’s railing, watching the two siblings. “Let’s make sure she doesn’t fall in. She still can’t swim, right?” His tone was half-joking while maintaining a protective edge; family was everything, and looking after each other was crucial, especially when it came to the youngest Leclerc.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got her,” Charles said with assurance. He moved closer to Y/N, his large hands ready to scoop her up if needed. “We’re going to have an adventure today!”
As the yacht set off, the gentle hum of the engine blended with the soft lapping of the waves against the hull. Y/N was entranced by the scene, her wide eyes reflecting the sparkling Mediterranean before her. “Ulala, papa! Regarde les vagues!” she exclaimed, her little hands flailing as she pointed at the water.
“Oui, mes petites vagues!” (“Yes, my little waves!”) Charles replied, a laugh bubbling up from his chest.
Alexandra was sitting nearby, soaking in the sun with a serene smile. She often found solace in these family moments, watching Charles and her daughter interact so freely and joyfully. They seemed to be made for each other; the ease with which they communicated, the comfort found in each other's presence, lit up the entire atmosphere. “Charles, look, you’ve got her convinced we are going on a pirate adventure!” she teased lightly, her French accent joyously intertwining with her playful demeanor.
“Argh, I’m a pirate now?” Charles grinned, pretending to brandish an imaginary sword. “Y/N, are you my first mate?”
“Oui!” ("Yes!") she shouted, jumping up and down, eyes sparkling with glee. The innocence of her childhood blended perfectly with the camaraderie that enveloped the Leclerc family aboard the yacht.
As they sailed further into the open sea, Charles dropped anchor in a serene cove. The surroundings were stunning, cliffs rising majestically from the water and lush greenery lining the shores. “This is perfect for our picnic!” Pascale announced, taking charge of the basket filled with sandwiches and fruit.
“Y/N, my little pirate,” Charles said, kneeling down to meet her gaze. “Are you ready for some treasure hunting?”
“Oui, oui, papa!” ("Yes, yes, Papa!") She nodded fervently, bubbling with excitement.
The family spread themselves across the deck, enjoying the treats while laughing and sharing stories. They called Y/N over, presenting her with a small treasure map Lorenzo had doodled. “Here, Y/N! If you follow this map, you’ll find a treasure!” he declared, pointing to the ‘X’ marked boldly on the paper.
“Treasure!” Y/N squealed, taking the map and holding it as if it were a precious artifact. “Allons-y!” (“Let’s go!”) Off she went, wandering around the deck, her imagination taking flight as she searched for hidden gems.
While Charles watched her, he felt a swell of pride and love. This little girl was a mix of him and Alexandra; her laughter, her spirit, and even her babbling French filled his heart to the brim.
Time relieved the moments, and soon they all gathered around while Y/N spotted where her ‘treasure’ might be buried—an old box hidden under a little table. “Regarde! Un trésor!” (“Look! A treasure!”) she yelled, causing every adult on board to join her in a flurry of joy. They hoisted her triumphantly, celebrating her victory.
Inside the box, they found colorful seashells and small toys, trophies of the lovely day they spent together. “C’est joli ! !” (“It’s pretty!”) Y/N said, holding up a shell, and it almost seemed to shine brighter, reflecting her wondrous spirit.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a warm glow over everything, Charles pulled Y/N close, wrapping an arm around her as they stood at the edge of the deck. “Did you have fun, little pirate?” he asked as he looked across the water.
“Oui, beaucoup!” (“Yes, a lot!”) she giggled, leaning into him for comfort.
In that very moment, the world felt perfect—a father, a daughter, a family bound by love and laughter, sailing towards endless adventures in the sun-kissed sea.
Pairing: Dad!Carlos Sainz x Daughter!reader (+ a Kimi Antonelli and Alex Albon cameo.)
Warnings:nothing unless a baby get's their heart broken but alr
Summary: Kimi turns into a "heartbreaker" and some adorable payback from Carlos and his daughter.
Notice: Yes, this is from @heyitspapayaontop. That is my second blog. Thank you<3
Carlos had always known that being a dad would change his life, but nothing could’ve prepared him for this. Not the sleepless nights, the glitter explosions, or even the emotional breakdowns over pink sparkly socks.
But today?
Today was new territory.
“Papá…” his five-year-old daughter whispered, tugging on his hand as they stood in the Mercedes hospitality. “Is Kiki coming soon?”
Carlos tried not to laugh. “Kimi? Sí, he’s finishing media duties.”
She practically sparkled at the name, her curls bouncing as she nodded. “Okay. I wanna give him the picture I drew.”
She held up a folded piece of paper, drawn with bold, lopsided hearts and what Carlos guessed was a version of her and Kimi Antonelli holding hands. In crayon.
Carlos knelt down. “Cariño… You know he’s a lot older than you, right?”
“I know,” she said, clutching her picture to her chest. “But I’m gonna marry him. You said I can do anything I want.”
Carlos bit the inside of his cheek to stop the smile. Technically, he had said that.
And finally, Kimi appeared around the corner, hair still messy from his helmet, chatting with a girl. A girl she didn't know. A girl who held his water bottle and laughed at something he said. A girl who was holding his hand, not Y/N's/
And Y/N froze.
Her smile fell.
Like, really fell.
Carlos followed her gaze and oh… oh no.
She was watching Kimi look at Eli the way Max looked at his Red Bull trophy shelf.
She turned slowly, eyes wide and glassy. “Papá,” she whispered, voice small and cracking. “He has a girlfriend?”
Carlos gently scooped her into his arms. “Oh, mija…”
“I loved him.”
Eli spotted them and nudged Kimi, who waved instantly, grin wide. “Hey, princesa! You came!”
Carlos felt her tiny arms tighten around his neck. “Don’t wave at me,” she muttered. “You’re a heartbreaker.”
Carlos blinked. Dios mío.
Eli tilted her head. “Did… did we miss something?”
Kimi stepped closer and knelt beside Carlos, looking up at the tearful little girl.
“Hey, hey,” he said gently. “Did I do something wrong?”
“You didn’t tell me you were taken!” she burst out. “I made you a picture!”
Carlos quickly passed Kimi the crayon drawing as a peace offering. Kimi stared at it with wide eyes, lips twitching into a warm smile. “Wow. This is so cool. Is this us?”
She sniffled, cheeks red. “Yes. But it’s ruined now. You like someone else.”
Kimi looked to Carlos, who just gave him a helpless shrug. “It's alright mate, I'll handle it.” Carlos whispered, giving Kimi a nod as he turned with Y/N in his arms. Softly sniffling.
The walk back to Williams wasn't so bad. It was her little cries and whimpers of sadness and heartbreak that made is bad.
“I was going to marry him!”
“Did he ever love me?”
“That girl is rude.”
Once he opened the door to the William's Hospitality, Alex saw him immediately and smiled. Y/N turned her head and sniffled again, quiter this time.
“Hi, tío Alex...” She mumbled.
Alex stopped.
Carlos frowned. He was clueless to this. And Rebecca could not find out.
“Oh, Darling, what happened!?” Alex said quickly, pulling her from Carlos' arms.
“Kiki doesn't love me.”
Alex looked at Carlos with a shocked expression. Carlos shook his head, “I don't know what to do.” He whispered to his teammate.
They both we're quiet for a moment.
Alex spoke up again.
He softly whispered in Y/N's ear. “Do you wanna throw water balloons at him?”
Y/N gasped, looking up at her uncle before nodding quickly, “Yes, yes!”
And that's how they were sitting in the paddock, using a hose that Ferrari said they could use. Y/N was giggling mischievously, helping her uncle and father make sure the balloons were perfect. There would be exactly twelve balloons thrown. In honor of Kimi's racing number.
They stood up, Alex counting quickly. “Right! Are we ready?”
Carlos chuckled when his daughter nodded with a squeal.
They marched over to the Mercedes garage where George whispered that Kimi was coming out his driver's room soon.
And when he did...
Y/N thre hers, missing a few times, and landing 2 of her four.
Alex made sure that all of his hit Kimi.
Carlos landed 2 extras to make up for the one's Y/N had missed.
“Ah! Wha-”
He got cut off by the familiar giggles.
Y/N was holding her dad's pant leg, enjoying seeing Kimi all soaked from the balloons.
“Principessa! Stavo per salire in macchina!" (“Princess! I was going to get in my car!”) He cried, but there was no anger.
Kimi knelt In front of the girl. “Is this because of Eli?”
Y/N nodded softly.
Kimi chuckled.
“You know, I still love you. It's just...a different sort of love from how I love her.” He said gently.
“So you can still be my Prince?”
Kimi chuckled. “Of course.”
She grinned softly.
Carlos smiled at the interaction and Alex was wiping a fake tear.
And all was right again. Kimi was a prince again, even if a civil war was almost caused.
A/N: HIIII I HOPE YOU LIKED THIS!! I had sm fun writing it <3
#f1 x reader#f1#formula 1#formula 1 x reader#williams racing#carlos sainz#kimi antonelli#alex albon#george russell#formula one#dad!Carlos sainz#mercedes amg petronas#ferrari
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