ItWasA1TimeThingK?

💞💞🌬️~ RACING HEARTS SERIES ~🏎️🏎️💨

(VARIOUS F1 GRID x PORSCHE DRIVER READER)

CHAPTER LIST:

• Episode # 1:

{ The Face That Launched a Thousand Cars }

Your first race and immediately the whole paddock is whipped for you. You're a driver for the Porsche F1 racing team and have been kept a secret. Finally a sneaky Camera man captures your first true appearance in the paddock and the rest of the grid are head over wheels.

• Episode # 2:

{ A Race Before the Race? }

After your beauty sends the paddock into shock the live broadcasting then cuts to an ad, the paddock tries to recover from seeing you for the first time and slight chaos ensues leading to the drivers parade, with the grid drivers sprinting to get to you first.

• Episode # 3 (Pt.1) :

{ They were her stars but she was the moon }

Your first impressions leaves the grid boys wanting to get to know you more. Your whole being is endearing with your personality being just as lovely as your appearance.

• Episode # 3 (Pt.2) :

{ They were her stars but she was the moon }

Your first impressions leaves the grid boys wanting to get to know you more. Your whole being is endearing with your personality being just as lovely as your appearance.

• Episode # 4:

{ Parade of Hearts }

You (the new Porsche rookie) are finally experiencing your first ever drivers parade, the fans cheering you on and the rest of the grid boys go into protective mode after a few fans start raising interesting signs dedicated to you.

• Episode # 5:

{ Blame the Weather }

Right after the parade, our dear reader is now faced with one "tiny" problem, causing her to internally combust, no matter! Your grid boys are here to provide you every ounce of comfort you need!

• Episode # 6:

{ Last on the Grid, First in Their Minds }

One more step before the race, the grid formation is underway and our reader is about to don her read gear and show these boys how it's done. I wonder how they'l react to her in her full glory?

• Episode #7 (Pt.1) :

{ CAUTION: Cute Driver Approaching }

The moment we've all been waiting for, The readers first race! Come along the ride and watch her pass the grid drivers leaving a trail of confused impressed and immensely enamored love struck drivers in her dust!

• Episode #7 (Pt.2) :

{ CAUTION: Cute Driver Approaching }

The moment we've all been waiting for, The readers first race! Come along the ride and watch her pass the grid drivers leaving a trail of confused impressed and immensely enamored love struck drivers in her dust!

===================================

If you’re enjoying racing hearts why not check out its sub series! :) ⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️

💞PADDOCK TID-BITS💞

>Racing hearts canon sub-series —- focused on specific moments with specific drivers<

(It's a way to get my smaller writing ideas for specific drivers without having to write a long form fic just for that moment:))

CHAPTER LIST:

• EP # 1 { Sticky Sweet } LN1 x Reader x OP81

The two Papaya Boys snag you from your garage and invite you for a post race snack, ice cream! While eating the sweet treat one thing leads to another and your face gets covered in the sticky white substance —- leaving the two boys a blushing mess as they stare at you, wandering minds consuming them.

• EP # 2 { Not A Damn Kid } KA12 x Reader

An angry Kimi storms into his motorhome frustrated after several DNF’s in a row is then pushed over the edge. After he takes some time contemplating, he’s ready to snap after he realizes that you are the cause of his distraction, the way you’ve been treating him recently has caused annoyance to brew inside his chest.

• EP # 3 { Lost in Translation } CL16 x Reader

Hope you have a wonderful day 💕😊

I’m trying girlie 🥺🥺 just went through a THOUGH breakup and hate all men rn (except our grid boys ofc) thanks for the kind words bb 🐧

I’ll make it up to yall <33

:CL 16 x YOU

==================================

EP # 3 { Lost in Translation }

==================================

Synopsis:

A few months into your formula 1 career, more and more French fans have been leaving you with mail, wanting to understand your fans a bit more you ask a certain Monegasque to help tutor you on learning the romantic language.

Characters:

CL 16 + You

Warnings:

(+18) MDI: Suggestive, so minors do not interact!!! Iz spoicy

Happy Reading!!!

==================================

The paddock had its in-between hours.

That strange lull after free practice, when the air still smelled like hot tires and adrenaline, but everyone pretended they could breathe again. Mechanics moved slower. Engineers spoke softer. The world, for a moment, wasn’t roaring.

You found Charles near the motorhomes, helmet gone, hair still damp at the edges, scrolling through his phone like he wasn’t one of the most watched men in the sport.

“Charles?”

He looked up.

And immediately, his expression shifted, like the rest of the world had gone slightly out of focus. It was you after all.

“Yeah?”

You held out a folded piece of paper.

“I, um… got this.”

He took it carefully, eyes flicking over the neat handwriting.

“A fan gave it to you?”

You nodded. “She was very sweet. And VERY French.”

Charles huffed a quiet laugh, already reading.

His lips moved soundlessly for a moment before he glanced up.

“It’s… oh...”

“Oh no,” you groaned, half-laughing. “That bad?”

“No,” he said quickly. “The opposite. She’s basically saying you’re inspiring. That she cried watching you drive.”

“It’s actually quite beautiful.”

Your chest warmed, embarrassment prickling.

“She cried?”

“Oui,” he murmured, softer now. “It’s a big compliment.”

His eyes met yours, soft in its gaze, clear in its admiration, obviously agreeing with what the fan had written about you.

You hesitated, then leaned in slightly.

“Would you… translate the whole thing for me?”

Charles should have said yes normally. Calmly. Like a gentleman. Like a man with composure.

But you were looking at him like that, eyes wide and hopeful, the kind of earnest that slipped past defenses and lodged somewhere inconvenient in his chest.

Charles cleared his throat, buying himself a second.

“Of course.”

He shifted slightly, then tapped the narrow space beside him, utterly unconcerned that the seat was clearly meant for one.

“Sit,” he said, softer now. “Viens, mon cœur.”

You didn’t question it. Just slipped in beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you, distracting in a way he refused to acknowledge.

He translated slowly, carefully, his voice lowered like he was letting you in on something private. Not rushed. Not careless. Every word placed gently, like it mattered that you understood.

By the time he finished, the noise of the paddock felt far away.

You exhaled, quiet.

“I really need to learn French,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

Charles glanced at you, a small hum escaping him. “You do?”

You turned, smiling like it was the simplest thing in the world.

“A lot of my fans are French. I want to know what to say… to thank them properly.”

Something in his expression softened.

Then you stilled.

An idea sparked so suddenly it almost had a sound to it. Charles felt it in the way you straightened, the way you shifted closer without noticing.

“What if…” you started, eyes lighting up, “what if I wanted you to tutor me?”

For a second, Charles just stared.

Like you’d said something far more dangerous than you meant to.

“You want… me?”

“To teach me,” you clarified, amused.

His ears tinged pink. “Right.”

He looked away briefly, then back, composure only half-assembled.

“I mean,” he said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “yes. Yes, of course. I’d… I’d love to teach you.”

You grinned.

“Okay. Professor Leclerc.”

He groaned immediately. “Don’t call me that.”

Your smile turned sly, eyes narrowing just a touch as you tilted your head at him teasingly.

“Orrr would you prefer it if I called you Sir Perceval?”

There was nothing overt in your words. He knew you were just teasing…

But your tone…

Your half lidded gaze…

You being so close…

It was a tad bit suggestive in its nature, and it was dangerous.

Charles choked on absolutely nothing, coughing as he looked away, hand coming up to his mouth.

“Okay,” he managed, voice rougher than before, “that’s enough of you.”

Before you could protest, he was already on his feet, lightly catching your arm and tugging you up with him.

“Go,” he said, ushering you back toward your garage with suspicious urgency. “We have a free practice to get too.”

“You’re the one who started this,” you laughed.

“No you started it, and now I am ending it,” he shot back, far too quickly.

He didn’t let go until you were a safe distance away.

Only then did he exhale, dragging a hand through his hair, ears still burning.

Muttering, mostly to himself—

“I should not have said yes.”

⸻

And so it began.

Little lessons slipped into the cracks of the season.

A few words by the coffee machine.

Pronunciation murmured between meetings.

Him pulling you by your wrist to sit beside him during FIA briefing just so he could pass you notes of French sentences.

Charles leaning closer than necessary, correcting you gently, whispering in your ear like he belonged there. like he couldn’t help himself.

“Not like that,” he’d say, voice soft. “Say it again for me ma chérie.”

And you would try, because you trusted him.

Because he looked so pleased when you got it right.

⸻

One evening, it was later than it should’ve been.

The paddock had thinned into something softer, more private. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere far away, an engine coughed to life and died again.

Charles was nursing an espresso like it was a lifeline when you slid into the seat across from him, chin in your palm.

“Charles.”

“Hmm?”

“Teach me something fun.”

He blinked. “Fun?”

“Fun,” you repeated, eyes bright. “Something that’ll make me sound cool.”

Charles exhaled a laugh, low.

“You already are cool.”

“Charles.”

“You drive one of the fastest cars in the world mon amour, you definitely are cool.”

“Pretty please.” You said, fluttering your eyes in a cartoonish manner.

He held up his hands quick to surrender failing to hide the chuckle that left his lips, unable to say no to your adorable antics.

“Okay. okay, Fine. ….”

You leaned forward. Eyes wide in curiosity, pink lips parted in anticipation.

Oh so obedient.

Oh so Trusting.

Oh so tempting.

Truly, a dangerous combination.

“Don’t do anything reckless Charles.” He scolded himself mentally, scrunching his eyes shut before heaving a sigh.

He reopened them.

His eyes refocused on your own. Your utterly deep eyes, your perfect lashes, your gaze that held so much admiration for him.

Then

His gaze flickered, just once, to your lips. Your Glossy plump, pink lips, so perfect so pretty so…

“Ah”

“Fuck it” he roughly muttered to himself

“Repeat after me.”

His voice lowered.

“Don’t do it Charles.” His mind was screaming at him.

“Dis…”

“Dis…”

“Je…”

“Je…”

He hesitated.

Fuck…

He shouldn’t.

He was a man of honor.

A man of restraint.

A man who absolutely should not be doing this.

And yet…

The opportunity sat between you like it had been gift-wrapped and placed directly into his hands.

He spoke carefully, like he was placing something sharp into your hands.

“Je veux te…”

“Je veux te…”

His throat bobbed hard.

“…goûter.”

Your eyes hooded and tired from the race weekend, pupils dilated from the low light of the night, making them impossibly deeper so deep that he might as well be drowning at this very moment.

It just made it harder to hold back.

“…Je veux te goûter…”

You repeated it under whispered breath, testing how it would sound without his guidance.

God dammit Charles what have you done.

You said it again, making direct eye contact with him.

“…Je veux te goûter…”

Charles went completely still.

For a moment, he looked like he’d forgotten where he was. The paddock, the noise, the world beyond the two of you all slipping somewhere out of reach as heat climbed fast and unforgiving up his neck.

Breathing became… secondary.

And then you smiled.

Pleased. Proud. Completely unaware.

You tilted your head, eyes bright with curiosity.

“…What does it mean?”

Charles blinked, like he was dragging himself back into his own body.

“It means…”

The word stalled.

His throat worked.

His ears flushed pink.

“…It means…”

A small, useless cough escaped him.

“You said it very well.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately.

“That is not what I asked.”

He leaned back, forcing his expression into something smoother, something controlled, like he hadn’t just been ambushed by his own choices.

“It’s better if you don’t know.”

“Charles.”

He shrugged, far too casual for a man whose pulse was practically visible.

“Trust me.”

Your lips parted, half-laughing, half-suspicious.

“That makes it sound illegal.”

“It’s not illegal,” he said quickly.

You studied him.

“Did you just teach me a bad word?”

A quiet huff of laughter left him, softer now, almost disbelieving.

“Do you have so little faith in me, mon amour?”

Your eyes narrowed further, unimpressed.

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

And whatever he saw there didn’t help.

Because when he spoke again, his voice had dropped, something thinner holding it together.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, quieter,

“It’s just..”

A pause.

His gaze flickered, betraying him.

“…distracting.”

He dragged a hand over his face, pressing his fingers briefly to his temple like he could reset himself if he tried hard enough.

He couldn’t.

Not with you sitting that close. Not with that sentence still hanging in the air like it meant something it absolutely didn’t.

“I have to go,” he muttered, already pushing to his feet. “We’ll continue another time.”

Too quick. Too abrupt.

You blinked up at him.

“Oh—okay. See you, Charles!”

He was already halfway gone.

Walking faster than necessary, like distance might cool the heat still burning under his skin.

It didn’t.

And behind him, you sat there, a little confused…

and just a little curious why such a simple sentence made him look like he was barely holding on.

⸻

Later, of course, you tried.

Curled up in bed, phone glowing, thumbs moving furiously.

je vox te gootay…

No results.

je ve te goooosomething something…

Did you mean: je vais te?

You groaned into your pillow.

The next day, you caught him near the garages.

Not by accident.

“I tried to translate it.”

Charles looked up.

And something in his expression shifted immediately, a flicker of satisfaction he didn’t even try to hide.

“And?”

You crossed your arms.

“I couldn’t spell it.”

A beat.

Then he hummed, thoughtful in a way that was entirely for show.

“That’s… unfortunate.”

You glared.

He stepped closer.

Not enough to draw attention. Just enough that the space between you tightened, warmed, turned into something that felt a little too deliberate.

“Maybe,” he said quietly, voice dipping, “if you ask nicely…”

A pause. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then back up.

“…in French…”

Your stomach flipped in the most unhelpful way.

“…I might tell you.”

You scoffed, heat rising to your face despite yourself.

“Now I don’t want to be nice to you at all.”

That earned you a soft laugh, low and pleased.

His hand lifted, slow, almost absentminded, brushing just barely along your cheek. Not quite a touch. Not quite nothing.

“Then I suppose,” he murmured, “you’ll never know, mon cœur.”

Your breath caught, just for a second.

And you hated that he noticed.

You turned away quickly, pretending you hadn’t felt it, hadn’t reacted, hadn’t leaned into it even a fraction.

Behind you, Charles let out a quiet chuckle.

When you glanced back, he was already walking off, one hand lifting in a lazy, teasing wave as he disappeared around the corner.

“Au revoir.”

And just like that, he left you there.

Warm-cheeked.

Annoyed.

And drowning in curiosity.

Not that Charles would stay smug much longer, he’d later learn there are consequences to his actions.

⸻

Things only got worse for the Monegasque.

And it didn’t stop.

You kept saying it.

“..Je veux te goûter…”

At first, it was practice. Careful, measured, almost shy. You’d glance at him after, waiting for approval, unaware of what you were doing to him.

But then—

You got better.

The words stopped sounding rehearsed and started sounding… lived in. Softer. Smoother. Like they belonged to you.

And somehow, without meaning to, you started saying them quieter.

Closer.

“Je veux te goûte.”

Like they were meant for him and no one else.

Charles tried—he really did—to treat it like any other lesson. Correct your pronunciation. Nods, small “good”s, the occasional “again.”

But it was getting harder.

Because you didn’t say it like someone repeating a phrase.

You said it like you understood it. Even when you had no idea what you were saying to him.

Like there was intention sitting behind every syllable, curling through your voice, settling into the space between you.

“..Je veux te goûte.”

Like you were choosing him when you said it.

And the way you’d look at him after—waiting, expectant, just a little too soft—

Like you were waiting for him to answer the phrase you didn’t even know the meaning of.

It made something in his chest pull tight.

Made his thoughts stutter.

Made restraint feel less like discipline and more like survival.

You’d lean in, just slightly, voice dipping as you tried again—

“..Je veux te goûter…”

perfect—

and Charles would go still, every instinct in him lighting up at once.

Because it didn’t sound like practice anymore.

It sounded like a confession you didn’t know you were making.

And he was the only one between you two that understood it.

It was almost painful.

Because you had no idea…

how close he was to answering you.

⸻

The next time it happened, it was entirely your fault.

Sort of.

It was race day. The grid was chaos dressed up as ceremony, cameras everywhere, engineers shouting over each other, drivers standing like statues while their hearts did backflips under fireproof suits.

You were half-listening, half-existing, trying not to trip over cables.

Charles was beside you, calm in the way he always was before a race, like he’d folded all his nerves into neat corners.

You nudged him, grinning.

“I practiced.”

He blinked. “Practiced what?”

You looked unbearably proud of yourself.

“The sentence.”

His spine went straight.

“Hmm, Did you?” he said immediately.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I’m getting good.”

Charles’s eyes darted, quick, like a man checking for snipers.

“You are not saying it here.”

“Why not?” you teased. “It’s just French.”

His jaw tightened.

“It is not just French.”

Before he could physically stop you, you spotted Isack a few meters away, helmet under his arm, already looking mildly stressed by the concept of another race weekend.

“Oh!” you said brightly. “Maybe I can ask Isack!”

Charles’s soul left his body.

“Do not,” he hissed.

But you were already stepping forward.

“Issacckk!” you said cheerfully. “Sorry, quick question.”

Isack turned, polite, attentive.

“Oh Hi! What’s up?”

You smiled, took a breath, and in the clearest pronunciation you’d ever managed, you said:

“Je veux te goûter.”

Isack froze.

Completely.

His brain visibly blue-screened.

His ears went red. Then his cheeks. Then his entire face.

A second passed.

Then another.

His eyes widened further as a thin line of red appeared under his nose.

“Oh mon dieu,” Isack whispered, horrified and flustered all at once. “Euh. Je—”

Charles moved.

He was at your side instantly, one hand clamping over your mouth, the other tugging you backward so fast you nearly stumbled.

“Okay!” Charles said, voice sharp with panic. “That’s enough French for today!”

“Mmph?!” you protested into his palm, eyes wide.

Poor Isack Hadjar was left scrambling for tissue as to not get blood on his racing suit.

Charles didn’t look back.

He hauled you into the nearest supply closet like he was shielding classified information.

The second you were out of earshot, he pushed you against the door, both hands slamming beside your head effectively caging you.

“What is wrong with you?” he demanded.

You blinked up at him.

“I was asking for help!”

“With that?” His voice cracked slightly. “On the grid?”

“I still don’t know what it means!” you insisted.

Charles stared at you, utterly wrecked and heaving.

Then he dragged a hand down his face.

“You cannot say that to other people.”

“Why?”

That word hit something in him.

His eyes darkened, something raw slipping through the cracks.

“Because,” he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice, “it is not FOR other people.”

You tilted your head.

“It’s not?”

His jaw clenched.

“No.”

Your lips twitched.

…

“Then who is it for?”

Charles inhaled, then exhaled, his hot breath fanning against your face, like he was about to make the worst confession of his life.

His hands came down, finding your wrists, not harsh, but firm enough to still you, to keep you right where you were.

His gaze dropped.

Your lips.

Too close.

Far too close.

When he spoke, it was quiet.

Dangerous.

“Only me.”

Silence fell heavy between you.

Your cheeks warmed.

“Oh.”

He swallowed, tension pulling tight through his shoulders before he dropped his head against the space between your neck and shoulder. Hair tickling your collar bone.

Then he whispered heavily.

“Do you understand?”

You nodded slowly

“I think so.”

Something in him softened, just for a second.

“Good girl.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

And that should’ve been it.

It should’ve ended there.

But he didn’t move away.

Didn’t create distance.

Instead, he leaned in, closer, voice barely a whisper against your ear.

“please…”

A pause. His grip tightening just slightly.

“…don’t ever say it again.”

Another breath.

“…unless you’re saying it to me.”

You swallowed.

“Okay?”

You nodded.

“…okay.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he released you, stepping back, like he was finally remembering himself.

Reaching for the door.

“Wait—Charles,” you said quickly, voice softer now. “Please… what does it mean?”

He stopped.

Slowly turned back.

And then he crossed the space again in two steps.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, firm, pulling you in just enough that your breath hitched.

He leaned down, lips brushing dangerously close to your ear.

His voice dropped to something that barely held together.

“Je veux te goûte.”

“I want to taste you.”

The words settled, heavy.

Then, quieter. Rougher.

“I want to taste you so fucking bad, mon cœur.”

And just like that—

He let you go.

And walked out.

Later that evening, Charles was minding his own business when Isack appeared beside him, nose taped, eyes still wide with lingering trauma.

“Charles,” he said carefully as he pointed to you, far off in your garage, “uhm … she..?”

Charles stiffened. “What about her.”

Isack swallowed.

“She said something to me.”

Charles met his gaze, expression perfectly blank.

“That never happened.”

“But she said she wanted to—”

“It never,” Charles repeated calmly, “happened.”

A beat.

Isack nodded. “Okay.”

He hesitated.

“…She has very good pronunciation.”

Charles closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Go hydrate,” he said.

==================================

Autors Notes:

Ngl lowkey one of my faves I’ve written so far, this shi got me giggling like a school girl ✋🏻😭🤭, if y’all coming from racing hearts do y’all wanna be tagged in paddock tid-bits too orr?

Lemme know who you guys want me to write for on the next paddock tid-bits in the comments or thru radio check, thanks for reading! 🤗

-xoxo Victoria

Taglist: @hImzsbl @hlydia111

(Just comment or message me if you wanna be added to the taglist :))

OmG, wait this could be like a paddock tid-bit, imagine she’s asked to do a hot lap and some of the grid boys hear and me like “better not be a hot actor that she’s into” typa shi 😭😭😭😭 and they get jelly or something so it still flows with the story ykyk

Episode # 7 (pt.2)

: { CAUTION: Cute Driver Approaching }

===================================

===================================

Synopsis:

The moment we've all been waiting for, The readers first race! Come along the ride and watch her pass the grid drivers leaving a trail of confused impressed and immensely enamored love struck drivers in her dust!

Pairings:

Various F1 Grid x You

Warnings:

None - your regular schedule of grid boys hyping reader up!

NOTES: I placed emojis in this chapter to help make it easier to imagine :))

🎧 <-- Speaking on the radio

🎙️<-- Live broadcast commentary

===================================

If you haven't read the past chapters I suggest reading it to avoid any confusion as it is a direct continuation of the previous chapters here’s a link to the list! :))

{ Full Chapter List }

Happy Reading!

===================================

Lap 69 POSITION GAINED: P5 → P4 (Charles Leclerc)

🎙️ Live commentary: “Now the fight for P4 — and this is getting very interesting.”

Up ahead, red.

Charles Leclerc.

The Ferrari looks composed, settled, almost serene — the kind of car that doesn’t panic because the driver doesn’t. His engineer has been keeping tabs on the timing screens, watching your name climb for laps now, blinking like it shouldn’t be there.

Charles’s engineer’s voice cuts in, sharper than it’s been all race.

🎧 Charles’ Engineer: “Charles, car behind approaching. Rapidly.”

🎧 Charles (calm): “Okay, noted.”

Charles doesn’t pay much mind to his engineers call, last time he checked Russel was far behind him.

But it wasn't Russel behind him. It was you.

Thinking there was no threat to worry about he focused on managing tires, brake balance, the rhythm he knows by heart.

🎧 Charles’ Engineer (again): “Heads up. She’s gaining two, three tenths a sector.”

That gets his attention.

🎧 Charles (confused): “She..?” “Wait who “she” are you talking about?” Charles asks, already scanning his mirrors. “From behind?”

🎧 Charles’ Engineer: “The Porsche rookie, Charles.”

A beat.

🎧 Charles’ Engineer (lower now): “Who did you think I was talking about?”

That’s when his pulse spikes.

🎧 Charles (startled): “Wait what do you mean Porsche? I thought George was behind me? Are you sure I’m not lapping her? She was last place—- Charles snaps.

🎧 Charles’ Engineer: “It’s definitely her, she’s had rapid pace the entire race.”

Silence.

His eyes flick to the delta, then to the mirrors again finally catching your blue car in his sight.

🎧 Charles (worried): “…Rapid?” he repeats, disbelief curling around the word. “She started last. ‘Rapidly’ shouldn’t be an option. There must be a mistake.”

🎧 Charles’ Engineer: “No mistake, Charles. She just passed Russell.”

Charles lets out a curse in French so impassioned, the radio crackles under the weight of it. The kind of tone that needs no translation to understand exactly how he feels about this situation.

A pause.

Charles exhales slowly.

🎧 Charles (quietly): “Okay. Tell me where she’s strong.”

🎧 Charles’ Engineer: “Everywhere.”

🎧 Charles (deadpan): “Very helpful.”

You arrive quietly.

Not lunging. Not forcing. Just… there. Filling his mirrors, the blue chrome of your car impossible to ignore. Closer than makes sense. Closer than feels fair.

But far enough to deny him a mistake to punish.

“Defend.” Charles mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

Charles defends with intelligence — never wasting movement, always placing the Ferrari exactly where it needs to be. You show the nose, he answers. You threaten the exit, he adjusts his line. Every corner is a conversation.

Every straight, the gap refuses to grow.

He throws the car to the inside. Late braking. Aggressive. You answer instantly, hanging it around the outside like the corner belongs to you. No hesitation. No respect for reputation.

You fight like this for three laps.

Three laps of elbows without contact. Of switches and re-switches. Of Charles slamming doors and you finding windows he didn’t know existed. The crowd senses it before the commentators do — this is one of the battles of the race.

🎧 Charles (starting to fluster): “She’s getting uncomfortably close and I'd normally like that but not in a race scenario.”

🎧 Charles’ Engineer: “Yes. Stay calm. Use deployment.”

Lap after lap, nothing gives.

🎙️ Live commentary: “This is extraordinary driving from the rookie — wheel to wheel with Charles Leclerc and not giving an inch!”

You pressure the braking zones, inching closer, forcing him to protect the inside more than he wants to. The Ferrari starts compromising exits — just slightly. Enough for you to notice.

🎙️ Live commentary: “This is high-level racing — neither driver is blinking.”

Through the middle sector, your car is alive beneath you, soft tyres whispering promises. You stay wider into the final corner — again. Sacrifice entry. Build exit.

The run is better this time.

🎙️ Live commentary: “She’s got a slipstream… this could be on.”

DRS opens.

The Ferrari grows larger.

Charles glances in the mirror.

🎧 Charles (voice raises): “She’s not backing out.”

🎧 Charles’ Engineer: “Defend inside on Turn 1.”

He does.

Hard.

You don’t force it.

🎙️ Live commentary: “Leclerc is driving this like a man who knows he’s being hunted.”

Instead, you stay glued to his gearbox through Turns 2 and 3, showing the nose, backing out, showing it again. The pressure is relentless, surgical.

Charles is breathing hard now. Managing tires is gone. Strategy is gone. There is only defense on his mind.

Into Turn 4, he brakes a fraction earlier than before.

He chops the racing line, moves late under braking, defends harder than necessary — clean enough to stay legal, frantic enough to betray the nerves. You stay planted, refusing to give way, placing your car exactly where it must be.

Wheel-to-wheel.

Lap after lap.

Three laps of pure combat — side by side through Turns 8, 9, and 10, neither yielding, tyres screaming, air tearing between the cars.

🎙️ Live commentary: “This is one of the fights of the race!”

Then it happens.

Charles lunges to shut the door — just a fraction too late.

*Tap.*

Front wing to rear tyre. No damage — but the Ferrari jolts, unsettled for a heartbeat.

🎙️ Live commentary: “Oh! Slight contact between the Ferrari and Porsche — and that’s on Leclerc!”

Charles panicked starts chanting “NON—! No no no—!”

A whisper. A breath.

You dive to the inside — late, clean, terrifying. The tyres scream, the world narrows, and for a heartbeat it feels impossible.

🎧 Charles (incredulous): “No—! FUCCCCKKK—”

🎙️ Live commentary: “OH— SHE’S COMMITTED— THIS IS BRAVE!”

Wheel-to-wheel. Inches apart. Two lines converging.

You claim the apex.

You control the exit.

Then the car sticks.

And when you straighten the wheel, the Ferrari is finally behind you.

🎙️ Live commentary: “ANDDD SHE’S THROUGH! THE ROOKIE TAKES P4 FROM CHARLES LECLERC!”

The crowd roars — not shock now, but belief.

Charles exhales mental exhaustion engulfing his mind, despite this a smile tugging at his mouth. “…She’s lucky she’s cute.” He whispers to himself.

The Ferrari pit wall goes quiet.

Not the focused kind of quiet — the stunned kind. Engineers stare at their screens, red cars reflected in the glass, timing data blinking like it’s malfunctioning.

YN15 P4⬆️

CL16 P5⬇️

One engineer breaks it first, voice low, almost reverent.

“…She actually did it.”

Another scrolls back through sector data, shakes his head.

“Those brake traces — she went later than Charles. Clean. No lockup.”

The strategist exhales sharply, hands on hips.

“She didn’t force him. She waited for the slightest mistake.”

Camera cuts to Fred Vasseur, arms crossed, eyes narrowed — Measuring.

“Keep an eye on her,” he says calmly.

“We might have another monster on track other than Verstappen.”

Out on track, Charles’ radio crackles.

🎧 Charles : “She’s… very good. She’s strong on exits. Very controlled.”

There’s admiration in his tone.

🎧 Charles’ Engineer: “Yes. We know.”

A pause

🎧 Charles’ Engineer: “Let’s focus forward and maintain position.”

Charles doesn’t answer immediately.

Then his voice— softer than before:

🎧 Charles (radio): “…She deserved that.”

The pit wall hears it.

No one argues.

🎧 Charles’ Engineer: “Must be the car-”

Charles’ eye twitches having just lost a wheel to wheel battle with you, it was most certainly not just the car, it was clearly your skills.

🎧 Charles : “Lets add that to the words of wisdom”

——

Tunnel vision on the podium.

Nothing else matters now but the podium ahead of you. P4 glowing on the dash like a promise. Like a threat.

⸻

The broadcast tone changes:

🎙️ “Just to put this into perspective — the rookie who started P21 is now running P4.”

🎙️ “And look at the gap — she’s not losing time to the podium cars.”

Timing screens glow.

P3: Lando Norris

P4: You

Gap: shrinking

🎙️ “If her pace holds… we might have a conversation here.”

The camera finds your car again, glued to the racing line, tyres still alive, no sign of panic. Purple flickers in Sector 2.

🎙️ “She’s matching podium pace.”

🎙️ “…Is it too early to say a possible podium on her first race, not to mention from pLast”

🎙️ “No. It’s not.”

The words hang in the air.

Podium.

Not hope.

Not fantasy.

A possibility.

On the Porsche pit wall, no one celebrates. Patricia’s eyes stay locked on the data. Her face set in a focused permanence.

“Heads down,” she says quietly. Every one of your team members understood the weight of the moment, none willing to break out of the collective shared trance.

She smiled. Cackling back in your radio

“This is where races are won or lost dear, let's make the most on these final few laps.”

You don’t respond.

You already know.

With you now in P4 you tried to ignored your flushed cheeks burning beneath your helmet and the painful thumping of your heart seemed to be going on for the entire race. But your smile betrayed you, you were happy your grin was hidden behind your visor, you must have looked completely entranced, eyes wide with the thrill — the fearless confidence — this was absolutely addictive.

——

Tire wear was becoming a slight concern, but your smooth lines conserved grip. Strategic braking, perfect apexes, tiny adjustments — Patricia’s voice calm, guiding:

“Conserve a little here. Tires will thank you later. Fuel okay. Keep pushing in the next three corners. You are doing beautifully.”

Nearing the final third of the race: your first true podium potential emerging. The backmarker chaos cleared and the midfield contenders long gone, you were eyeing the podium. Heart racing, adrenaline screaming — you were here. A presence. And everyone on the track could feel it.

Each overtake was a message: rookie? Maybe. Dangerous? Absolutely.

The race was far from over. But for now, the rookie from the back had just become the rookie everyone would remember, the rookie to be afraid of.

🎧 Patricia: “Eyes locked on the leaders?”

🎧 You (radio): “Darn right they are.”

———Lap 70 POSITION GAINED: P4 → P?

The race was nearing its end and yet, it felt like it barely started, something irreversible had already taken root in its final laps, something that could not be undone even if the order stayed exactly as it was.

You were a storm in motion, a racing predator carving your way through the grid with steely cold precision, the soft pretty face no longer held a delicate smile but a predatory gaze behind the visor.

The rookie who had started at the very back of the grid was no longer an afterthought, no longer a quiet name people skimmed past when scanning the timing sheets. You had become a presence that pressed itself into the awareness of everyone ahead of you, something impossible to ignore, something that demanded to be accounted for.

You could feel it in the way your engineer’s voice had shifted, steadier but sharper, like he was handling something volatile now instead of something uncertain.

🎧 Patricia: “Talk to me. Are your eyes where they need to be?”

You exhale slowly, though there is nothing calm about it, your chest rising against the belts as if even breathing has become something you need to fight for.

🎧 You (radio): “They’re not just there. They’re locked. I’m not letting them out of my sight now.”

There is a brief pause on the other end, the kind that says more than any words could.

🎧 Patricia: “Good. Because they’re starting to look for you too.”

Lap seventy begins.

The track stretches out ahead of you like something alive, heat rising off in trembling ribbons. Sunlight pouring over it in waves that make the asphalt look almost liquid. Every corner feels scarier now, every straight more intimidating, as though the circuit itself is aware that something decisive is about to unfold upon it.

Inside the cockpit, everything feels closer, tighter. The vibrations of the car travel through your hands, up your arms, settling somewhere deep in your chest where your pulse is already racing too fast to be reasonable. Your breathing has shortened without your permission, each inhale catching just slightly, each exhale leaving you feeling like you still need more air.

You try to steady it, to smooth it out, but the truth is you don’t really want to.

Because this feeling, this pressure, this near suffocating intensity—

This is what you came here for.

Your eyes flick forward again.

Lando.

The last obstacle that kept you from standing on the podium.

The papaya orange car teased you just out of reach.

Two seconds ahead.

His car flashes in and out of view, bright and unmistakable, slipping through corners just ahead of you, always there, always just beyond your reach in a way that feels almost deliberate.

You study him the way you’ve been studying him for the past laps, noticing the way he exits certain corners, the way he positions the car under braking, the subtle hesitations that most people would miss but you have begun to recognize like a pattern you’ve memorized.

🎧 Patricia: “Gap is one point eight. You’re stronger in Sector 2, especially through the medium-speed corners. If you’re going to make this work, that’s where you start applying pressure.”

You let her words settle, your focus sharpening further instead of splitting.

🎧 You (radio): “He’s already feeling it.”

There is something in your tone that makes her pause again, something quieter, more certain.

🎧 Patricia: “You sound very sure of that.”

Your gaze finds his helmet, catching him glancing at his mirror.

🎧 You (radio): “He keeps checking behind him.”

⸻

Up ahead, Lando’s world is beginning to shift in ways he does not like, in ways he did not anticipate.

🎧 “She’s taken another two tenths. Gap is one point six. She’s fastest in Sector 2.”

He swallows, audible in his action. adjusting his knuckle white grip on the wheel, His once clean grasp on the racing line now loosened with your unexpected appearance.

trying to keep his inputs smooth, measured, controlled.

He has done this so many times before, driven under pressure, defended positions against drivers who have far more experience than you.

So why was he nervous?

“Are you sure those numbers are right?” he asks, forcing a lightness into his voice that doesn’t quite land. “Because she was two seconds back like… a lap ago, in fact she was last place last time I saw her.”

🎧 “Numbers are correct. She’s closing consistently.”

His eyes flick to the mirror again.

There you are.

Not close enough to attack.

But close enough to matter.

And somehow, that feels worse.

His mind betrays him again, dragging him back to the grid earlier, to that careless exchange he hadn’t thought twice about at the time.

“Mate, unless I’m lapping her, she’s not showing up in my mirrors.” He chuckled out.

Max had laughed, shaking his head slightly. “Careful with that confidence. Because if she ends up overtaking you instead, I'm never letting you hear the end of it."

At the time, it had been nothing more than a throwaway line.

Now it feels like a warning he should have listened to.

His pulse spikes, adrenaline stacking on top of adrenaline until it starts to blur the edges of his focus. He’s driven at the limit countless times, lived in this razor-thin space between control and chaos, but this—

This feels different.

Because this isn’t just about speed anymore.

It’s about you.

There’s no way, he tells himself, the thought sharp and insistent.

No way you close two seconds this quickly.

No way you turn this into a fight.

And yet—

🎧 “She’ll be on you by the next turn, Lando.”

A laugh escapes him, short and disbelieving, but it doesn’t carry any real humor.

Because he can feel it.

The pressure.

The shift.

He hates underestimating people.

Hates it even more that it was you.

That soft voice, that oh so sweet smile that graced those lips of yours —it had disarmed him completely, rewritten you into something smaller, something delicate in his mind, something he didn’t have to take seriously.

You were just meant to be a pretty little distraction off track.

And yet.

He’d handed you the advantage himself. He gave you the gun.

And now you’re taking it without hesitation, pointing it straight at him.

Something sharp curls in his chest, pride twisting into something more complicated, something almost personal.

He doesn’t want to lose this.

Not to you.

Not like this.

He exhales through his nose, sharper this time, trying to refocus, but his engineer’s voice cuts through again before he can fully settle.

🎧 “She’ll be within DRS soon. You need to start thinking about your defense now, not later.”

He lets out a short almost bitter laugh, though there is no humor in it anymore.

“Yeah mate, I’ve noticed,” he grits his teeth, then more clearly, “I’m not getting overtaken by someone who started last, alright? That’s not fucking happening.”

🎧 “Then don’t give her the opportunity. Hit your marks. No mistakes.”

⸻

Behind him, you are already doing exactly that.

You close the gap further through Sector 2, carrying more speed through the corners, letting the car breathe where his seems to hesitate just slightly. It’s not dramatic, not obvious, but it’s enough.

It’s always enough.

🎧 Patricia: “One point three now. You’re reeling him in beautifully. Keep it clean. Don’t rush it.”

You smile faintly at that, though there is nothing soft about the look in your eyes.

🎧 You (radio): “I’m not rushing anything. I want him to feel it first.”

🎧 Patricia: “…feel what, exactly?”

You take the next corner just a touch more aggressively, the rear of the car stepping out before you catch it, the motion smooth, controlled, intentional.

🎧 You (radio): “That I’m not satisfied.”

There’s a quiet sound on the other end, something between a breath and a laugh.

🎧 Patricia: “Alright. Then make it count.”

⸻

By the time you reach him, it doesn’t feel like a sudden attack.

It feels like something that has been building for laps, something both of you have been circling toward without saying it out loud.

You close in under braking, your car slipping into the space beside his with a precision that feels almost deliberate enough to be personal.

For a moment, neither of you yields.

The corner approaches too quickly, the space between you too narrow, and yet you remain there, side by side, your presence undeniable now.

Lando glances towards you.

It is the briefest look.

But it lingers.

Because you are not frantic.

You are not desperate.

You are composed in a way that unsettles him more than aggression ever could.

There is something in your expression, something focused and unyielding, that makes this feel less like a race and more like a confrontation he didn’t realize he’d agreed to.

🎧 “She’s on your inside, Lando. Stay calm, you’ve got the line on exit.”

“I can see her,” he replies, his voice tighter now, more strained than before.

He turns in, trying to assert control, trying to reclaim the corner, but you are still there, your car holding its position with a quiet stubbornness that refuses to be pushed aside.

Your tires come dangerously close.

Close enough that the tension between you feels tangible, like a thread pulled so tight it might snap at any second.

⸻

You can feel him.

Not just the car, not just the movement, but him.

The way his inputs become sharper, less fluid.

The way he commits just a fraction too hard on entry, trying to shut the door before you can fully step through it.

He’s scared.

And there is something deeply, dangerously satisfying about that.

🎧 Patricia: “Careful on exit, he’s going to squeeze you—”

“He can try,” you murmur under your breath, though the mic catches it anyway.

You let the car drift just slightly, giving him the illusion of space, of control, of having won that particular exchange.

But you are already thinking two corners ahead.

Because you know—

He is starting to crack.

⸻

At the McLaren pit wall, the tension is no longer subtle, barely contained behind the once strong blanket of confidence they had coming into the season.

It hangs thick in the air, in the clipped voices, in the way every set of eyes is locked onto the same section of the track.

“She’s within a second.”

Lando’s engineer exhales slowly, pressing his lips together as he watches the gap shrink in real time, the numbers confirming what he can already see with his own eyes.

This is no longer a possibility.

This is a problem.

He glances toward the other side of the pit wall, where Oscar’s engineer is watching the same screens, coming to the same realization.

“We need to talk about team orders,” he says quietly, though there is an urgency beneath it that cannot be hidden.

Oscar’s engineer looks over, already tense. “Oscars a good few seconds ahead. You’re not seriously suggesting we pull him back into this?”

“Max is gone,” Lando’s engineer replies, sharper now. “Oscar’s tyres aren’t going to hold for a last push. There’s no catching first.”

A beat passes, heavy with implication.

“If we don’t intervene, we lose the double podium.”

The words settle heavily between them.

Neither of them likes it.

But both of them understand.

This was what was best for the team.

A slow exhale.

Then the radio clicks.

🎧 “Oscar, we need you to assist Lando. The Porsche behind is closing rapidly.”

⸻

Oscar’s brows draw together, confusion flickering across his face as he processes the instruction.

“Assist… how?” he asks, his tone measured but edged with disbelief. “She started last. How is she even here?”

🎧 “She’s within DRS of Lando. If she gets through, we risk losing P3 entirely.”

Oscar’s fingers tighten on the wheel.

“…You’re joking.”

🎧 “We need you to keep her behind. It’s critical.”

He lets out a quiet breath, glancing briefly at his mirrors as if he might somehow catch a glimpse of you from this distance.

“So you just want me to fucking drop down to them and help hold her up?”

There is a pause.

🎧 “We need that double podium Oscar, all you have to do is defend against her with Lando. Two against one.”

Oscar huffs out a soft, incredulous laugh, though it lacks any real amusement.

“Right, like that will be fucking easy—“ he mutters.

🎧 “Max is gone Oscar.” he cuts in, voice tight. “Your tires won’t last. There’s no catching him, secure double podium. That is an order.”

Knuckles white under his gloves, he took one more unsteady breath before reluctantly lowering his foot on the breaks.

“Beauty and skills truly are a deadly combination.” The Aussie let out through gritted teeth as his eyes catch a glimpse of your baby blue car in his mirrors.

⸻

Ahead, the two papaya cars begin to shift, Oscar now appearing, subtly at first, then more deliberately, closing ranks as if they’ve come to a silent agreement.

One defending.

One preparing to defend.

The moment you realize what they’re doing, you scoff.

“Two against one? You’ve got to be fucking with me.” You hiss.

Two papaya cars ahead of you begin to move not as individuals, but as something coordinated, something deliberate. The gap between them shifts subtly, not enough to be obvious to anyone not looking for it, but enough for you to feel it instantly.

They’re closing the door.

Not just on the track—

On you.

🎧 Patricia: “They’re forming a DRS train or something. Oscar’s backing Lando up just slightly. They’re trying to break your rhythm before you can get a clean run.”

You let out a slow breath, your fingers tightening around the wheel, in slight panic, and frustration.

🎧 You (radio): “yes Patricia, I can see that… this just made this much more complicated.”

🎧 Patricia: “You giving up?”

A beat.

🎧 You (radio): “fuck no.”

Your eyes flick forward, tracking the way Oscar adjusts his pace just enough to compress the space, just enough to force Lando into a more defensive line, just enough to make every corner feel tighter than it should.

🎧 You (radio), softer: “I want to stand on that damn podium.”

⸻

Up ahead, Lando can feel it too.

The slight change in pace.

The way Oscar’s car seems just a fraction closer than before, just enough to alter the airflow, just enough to complicate everything.

🎧 “Oscar’s helping you. Use him. Keep it tidy.”

“I can see that,” Lando replies, though his attention isn’t fully on the car ahead.

It’s on you.

Because despite everything—

Despite the team orders, despite the defensive play unfolding perfectly in front of him—

You’re still there.

⸻

Oscar glances at his mirrors again, this time catching a clearer glimpse of you threading through the heat haze behind Lando.

There’s a strange stillness to the way you move the car.

Not hesitant.

Not aggressive.

Just… certain.

🎧 “Keep the pace steady, Oscar. Don’t make it obvious.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, though his eyes narrow slightly. “I don’t think she needs it to be obvious.”

Because even from here, he can feel it.

The pressure you’re applying without touching either of them yet.

The way the space behind Lando feels… occupied.

⸻

You close the gap further through the next sequence of corners, not by forcing speed, but by refusing to lose it. Where Lando hesitates, you glide. Where Oscar compresses the pace, you adapt, slipping into the rhythm instead of fighting it.

🎧 Patricia: “Gap is under a second now. You’re in DRS.”

Your finger brushes the button almost absentmindedly, but your focus doesn’t waver.

🎧 You (radio): “I know.”

The rear wing opens.

The car surges forward.

And suddenly, the distance between you and Lando doesn’t feel like distance anymore.

It feels like tension stretched thin.

Lando sees it.

Of course he does.

The moment your car gains that extra bite of speed, the way you close in not with desperation, but with something smoother, something more controlled.

🎧 “Defend. She has DRS.”

“I know she has DRS,” he snaps, though there’s no real bite behind it, just the strain of someone trying to stay one step ahead of something inevitable.

Luckily for him Oscar managed to help with his slipstream

you curse under your breath knowing that the DRS was a bust.

You stay just behind him, just offset enough that he can still see you in his mirrors.

You couldn’t go for it.

The speed difference Oscar gave through the slipstream was just enough to keep you where you were.

But you don’t stop.

Not yet.

Because you can see it—

The way his defense is tightening too early.

The way Oscar’s positioning is starting to cost him time.

The way both of them are reacting more to you than to the track.

🎧 Patricia: “You had a look there. Why didn’t you take it?”

You tilt your head slightly in annoyance, eyes never leaving the two cars ahead.

🎧 You (radio), quieter now: “Because Oscar helped with DRS tow, Lando had slipstream on me.”

There’s a pause on the other end, like she’s trying to read something deeper in your tone.

🎧 Patricia: “…and what are you going to do instead?”

Your lips part slightly, a breath slipping out that feels almost like anticipation.

🎧 You (radio): “I’ll figure it out.”

🎧 Patricia: “Just don’t crash dear. Please, there’s only a few laps left.”

The next corner approaches.

Oscar holds the racing line ahead.

Lando positions defensively again, earlier this time, more aggressively, trying to cut off the inside before you can even think about it.

You watch him do it.

You let him.

And then—

You shift.

Not where he’s looking.

Not where he’s defending.

But somewhere else entirely.

The car moves beneath you like it understands the decision before you’ve fully made it, slipping into a space that wasn’t there a second ago, a line that exists only because you’re willing to take it.

Lando’s breath catches.

Because suddenly—

You’re not where you’re supposed to be.

For a fraction of a second, all three of you are caught in something precarious.

Oscar ahead, unaware of exactly how close this is about to get.

Lando caught between defending and reacting.

And you—

Right on the edge of both of them.

Close enough now that there is no room left for hesitation.

Close enough that every movement feels like it carries weight beyond just position.

Lando glances sideways again.

He shouldn’t.

He knows he shouldn’t.

But he does.

And this time—

You’re already looking at him.

Not distracted.

Not uncertain.

Just… there.

Present.

Like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment to exist.

Something tightens in his chest, sharper than before, something that has nothing to do with strategy or points or podiums.

Something that feels dangerously close to being personal.

🎧 “Lando—” his engineer starts, but the warning comes too late.

Because whatever happens next—

It’s already in motion.

The shift you make is so subtle that for half a heartbeat, it almost doesn’t exist.

And then it does.

Lando had committed early, too early, sealing off the inside line with a desperation that had begun to creep into everything he was doing. He expected you there, expected the obvious move, expected you to meet him head-on in a battle he could anticipate and control.

But you were never there to be predictable.

You let the car drift just enough to sell it, just enough to let him believe he had read you correctly, and then, with a precision that felt almost surgical, you slipped away from where he was looking and placed your car somewhere he hadn’t even considered protecting.

His breath catches, sharp and involuntary, his hands tightening on the wheel as instinct collides violently with disbelief.

“Where did she—” he starts, the words slipping out before he can stop them, his voice edged with something dangerously close to panic.

🎧 “Lando, hold your line—hold your line, don’t overcorrect—”

But he already has.

Because you are not where you’re supposed to be.

You are not following the rhythm he understands.

You are rewriting it.

Ahead, Oscar sees it unfold in fragments, in flashes through his mirrors that don’t quite make sense until they suddenly do.

Your car, no longer tucked neatly behind Lando’s.

Your car, slipping into a gap that should not have existed.

Your car—

Coming through.

“Are you seeing this?” Oscar breathes, his voice lower now, almost dark in its tone, no longer detached.

🎧 “We see it. Maintain your line. Do not react.”

But he is already reacting, because the space around him is collapsing faster than it should, because what was meant to be controlled has become something unpredictable.

Because you have turned it into something none of them could quite control.

At the McLaren pit wall, the tension fractures.

“She’s going for it—she’s actually going for it—”

“No, no, no, Lando’s too far over—he’s going to pinch her—”

“Tell him not to move! Tell him to stay—”

Voices overlap, collide, rise in pitch as the clean structure of strategy dissolves into raw reaction.

“Lando, hold your line!” his engineer repeats, louder now, urgency bleeding through every syllable. “Do not squeeze her—Oscar is right there—”

And for one suspended, impossible moment—

All three of you exist in the same shrinking piece of track.

You edge forward, your front wing inching ahead of Lando’s, your line holding with a quiet, unwavering confidence that refuses to yield even as the space tightens.

Lando reacts on instinct.

A sharp movement.

Too sharp.

His car shifts toward you in a desperate attempt to reclaim control of something he can feel slipping away, but the move comes a fraction too late and a fraction too aggressive.

Your tires nearly touch.

The car twitches beneath you, the rear threatening to step out, and for a split second the world narrows into pure reflex, your hands correcting before your mind can catch up.

But it doesn’t end there.

Because Oscar is there too.

Closer than either of you accounted for.

“FUCk—!” Oscar’s voice cuts through his own radio, breath catching as he’s suddenly forced to react, his steering tightening, his car skimming dangerously close to yours as the three of you dance on the edge of something catastrophic.

At the pit wall, someone swears under their breath.

“Jesus—”

“Oh gosh—“

“Keep it clean, keep it clean—don’t make contact—”

“This is fucking ridiculous—“

The margin is nothing.

Less than nothing.

And somehow—

You all make it through.

But the moment it stabilizes—

It’s over for Lando.

Because in that fraction of chaos, in that breath where control slipped from his hands—

You completed the move.

Clean.

Decisive.

Irreversible.

The crowd reacts before the engineers do.

A roar rises, sudden and overwhelming, rolling across the grandstands like a wave breaking against the circuit, the sound of thousands of voices colliding in disbelief and exhilaration.

You can’t hear any of it, your heartbeat being the only audible thing at the moment.

But you feel it.

In your chest.

In your pulse.

In the way the car seems to surge forward beneath you as if it knows exactly what you’ve just done.

🎧 Patricia’s voice breaks through, sharp with adrenaline, barely contained excitement threading through her usual composure.

“You’re through— you’re through—P3, P3— that’s P fucking thrEee—” she cuts herself off with a breathless huff still reeling from the near three way crash—- It’s not done yet she snapped at herself. “That was unbelievable, keep it together now, Keep it together!!—”

But behind you—

Things are not settling.

Lando’s breath comes out uneven, frustration and disbelief crashing together in a way that leaves him momentarily unsteady.

“No—no, DAMMit—” he slams his fist on the steering wheel, his head slightly buzzing, as if the motion might undo what just happened. “She just—she just cut through—”

🎧 “Stay focused, Lando. You can still recover this. Stay within range.”

But his attention flicks to your helmet, almost involuntary.

And there you are.

Ahead of him.

Baby blue taking up his visor.

Where you were never supposed to be.

Something hot and sharp twists in his chest, pride wounded, control ripped away, and beneath it all, something far more complicated that he doesn’t have time to name.

⸻

Oscar exhales slowly, his grip tightening as he recalibrates, his gaze shifting between the track ahead and the car that has just placed itself between him and Lando.

“Right,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. “So that’s how it’s going to be.”

🎧 “Oscar, maintain pressure. She’s on older tires—this will come back to us.”

“I fucking told you this was a bad idea, she’s clearly dangerous, she came from pLast to here and you guys expected this to be easy?? Don’t tell me I sacrificed my gap for nothing.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

God you were full of surprises weren’t you?

Was this why he felt on edge around you?

“Her damn soft face distracted everyone from seeing her bite.” He huffed out in disbelief

Because even now—

He wasn’t defending for Lando, he was defending for himself—

And there’s a part of him that doesn’t fully believe you’ll crack.

⸻

For a few fleeting seconds, you are exactly where you fought to be.

P3.

yours.

And it feels—

Weightless.

Like everything has aligned just long enough for you to exist in it. Everything turned red with need, the need to prove your presence on the grid, the need to stand on that third step. the need to make history.

You force your breathing to steady, your pulse still fast but no longer chaotic, your hands settling into something smoother as you push forward, chasing the next corner, the next line, the next fraction of advantage.

🎧 Patricia: “Tire temps are high. Keep them under control. You’ve used a lot to get past them.”

“I know,” you reply, though your voice is quieter now, more inward.

Because you can feel it.

Something wrong despite the pride.

Not yet.

But different.

The grip isn’t as clean.

The response not as immediate.

The cost of that daring overtake beginning to surface.

⸻

Behind you, Lando regroup.

“She’s struggling with traction out of Turn 6,” someone notes quickly, eyes flicking across data.

“There—rear temps are spiking—this is it, this is where we get her—”

🎧 “Lando, Oscar—she’s pushing too hard. Stay close. This will come back.”

And slowly—

Inevitably—

It does.

You take the next corner with the same commitment, the same precision, but the car doesn’t respond the way it did before.

There’s a hesitation.

A fraction.

But enough.

Your tires, pushed beyond their comfort, begin to protest in ways that are subtle at first, then sharper, the grip falling away just slightly where you need it most.

🎧 Patricia’s voice tightens. “You need to manage it now. Bring it back—don’t overdrive—”

But you’re already adjusting, already trying to find that balance again, that fine line between holding your position and losing it entirely.

Behind you, Lando is closing back in.

Fast.

The final sector looms.

The last stretch.

Please-

I can do it-

And everything is still within reach.

If you can just hold it together.

If you can just—

You lock-up,

Violent.

Your front tires scream in protest as you brake just a fraction too late, just a fraction too hard, the car refusing to rotate the way it should as the grip finally gives in.

“NOO—” the word slips out, sharp and unfiltered, your hands fighting to regain control as the car runs wider than intended, the line breaking apart beneath you.

And that’s all it takes.

⸻

“They’re through—LANDO IS THROUGH—”

LN P3⬆️

YN P4⬇️

At the McLaren pit wall, relief crashes through the tension like a dam breaking.

“THATS IT, WE DID IT!”

“LETS GOOO!”

“YES LANDO —yes, that’s it—keep going—”

“P2, P3 secured—bring it home—”

Lando doesn’t hesitate this time.

He takes the opening instantly, slipping past with a precision that feels almost desperate, reclaiming what he had lost with a focus that borders on obsession.

Oscar gains his gap back.

Clean.

Controlled.

Final.

⸻

You try to recover.

You do.

You push, you adjust, you fight to claw back the space you had earned, but the car beneath you no longer has the same edge, the same willingness to obey without question.

And as the checkered flag waves—

It’s done.

P4.

Max has already crossed the line.

Untouched.

Unchallenged.

MV P1

OP P2

LN P3

YN P4

===================================

Authors Note: FINALLY THE RACE!! I'm so happy that I finally got these chapters out. Sorry it had to be cut into two shi got too long hit the max tumblr post fo). This was very fun to write BUT very frigging hard ngl, I mean ofc it is I'm not exactly an expert neither have I ridden in a formula 1 car (sadly) but despite this I hope it was a decently fun read for you guys!

Gonna have to take some time to think about the next chapter, but I'm definitely gonna make a the next one more of a filler since it's right after the race hehe. Dw for the max girlies, gotta give him his time to shine in the next chapters If you guys have any ideas on the next chapter I'd love to hear it :)))

xoxo- Victoria

PS: bro ngl idk if I can make another race chapter after this one 😭😭

Taglist: @lottie810 @malphaspeverii @hlmzsbl @hlydia111 @retiredpieceofshits @prodbysainz @catswag22 @pharmasennapuff @teenagetoadghostwobbler @pacifymebby @b-rly @pinkastri @clou-dy @thegothamsiren @miellette @mariaemiliasblog @purple9950 @ninjachangelingriddle @biabunny @boredperson120 @lexi2005

Episode # 7 (pt.1)

: { CAUTION: Cute Driver Approaching }

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===================================

Synopsis:

The moment we’ve all been waiting for, The readers first race! Come along the ride and watch her pass the grid drivers leaving a trail of confused impressed and immensely enamored love struck drivers in her dust!

Pairings:

Various F1 Grid x You

Warnings:

None— your regular schedule of grid boys hyping reader up!

NOTES: I placed emojis in this chapter to help make it easier to imagine :))

🎧 <—— Speaking on the radio

🎙️ <—— Live broadcast commentary

13k words y’all 😭🙏🏻

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If you haven't read the past chapters I suggest reading it to avoid any confusion as it is a direct continuation of the previous chapters here’s a link to the list! :))

{ Full Chapter List }

Happy Reading!

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LIGHTS OUT

AND

AWAY WE GO!!!

You smirked.

“Let’s hunt.”

You Slammed down on the pedal hard, the tires of your car clawing deep into the asphalt, gripping on like a predator holding down its prey.

Each Engine on the grid released a chorus of screams, one by one — like beasts waking up. deafening, intoxicating, alive.

The roar of your own engine filled your chest, vibrating in your ribs, screeching like a monster unleashed.

Your hands shook on your steering wheel, knuckles white beneath your gloves. gripping it like it was the only thing tethering you to the world. Red-hot adrenaline scorched through your veins as your mind tried to steady itself, heart thrumming with the same frequency as the engine.

It almost hurt.

One thing was painfully clear: there was no turning back now.

As the grid erupted into motion. The strong scent of burning rubber and fuel started to wrap around your senses, thrilling and terrifying all at once as the wind whipped harshly against your helmet. every nerve singing with the thrill of acceleration as you neared turn one.

Your radio buzzes on.

Patricia’s calm, guiding voice crackled through the radio:

“Focus, dear. Smooth getaway. Turn one is always tricky— Don’t panic. There’s a long race ahead.”

“After all…”

“You were never meant to stay in last place.”

You launched into the turn, lunging forward instinctively, careful not to clip anyone. Your eyes tracked Max as he shot past the first corner with effortless grace. Oscar slipped by like he was part of the asphalt and Lando hugged the race line clean and fast. Your pulse hammered as you followed carefully all the way at the back of the pack, skillfully weaving through the chaos that is turn one.

Your engineer sensed your tension immediately and was quick to remind you.

“Don’t look too far ahead kid, max is 20 cars away. Let’s not get overzealous, focus on the closest car to you, we’ll take them one by one.”

“Copy.”

The first corner was messy — wheels sliding, a few sparks — but you kept your lines clean. The two rookies ahead of you were already defending against each other, opening an opportunity as one failed to overtake the other.

=Lap 1 POSITION GAINED: P21 → P20

(Franco Colapinto)

Franco is the first car you catch — and the easiest.

He’s fighting the track more than he’s fighting you, corrections stacked on corrections, his rear never quite settled. You don’t rush it. You let the gap close naturally, let him see you in his mirrors long before you arrive.

When you pull alongside, he barely resists.

One blink.

You bolt past, slicing cleanly along the inside.

You’re through almost gently — like stepping past someone who already understands the outcome.

🎧 Franco (exasperated): “Aaand just like that, she’s already gone.”

A pause. A quiet exhale from his engineer.

🎧 Franco’s Engineer: “It was inevitable. Just let her go.”

🎧 Franco (Chuckles): “The blow’s less harsh with it being her, I suppose.”

The timing tower flickers. Your name climbs. YN15 ⬆️ P20

🎙️ Live commentary: “Looks like our back-marker rookie starts her first lap with a clean overtake. You have to wonder — could this perhaps be the start of something special for the Porsche team?”

You grin inside your helmet.

One done only 19 more to go.

Patricia’s voice cuts in — controlled, pleased.

🎧 Patricia: “Good start. Eyes up. Don’t overcommit.”

With the first lap unfolding, the race becomes chaos and beauty intertwined. You can feel every ounce of power beneath you, every twitch of the car answering your hands. In-front of you, the other rookies weave and dart, hunting positions of their own.

They aren’t pushovers.

You’ll have to earn every inch.

And you’re ready to.

———

=Lap 3-5 POSITION GAINED: P20 → P19 (Jack Doohan)

Jack defends harder than Franco — but he’s nervous.

You can feel it in the way he places the car: always reacting, never dictating. Every move is a response, not a decision. This made it easy to control him despite his tries to intimidate you.

You smile at the cute attempt. “He’s trying to make me flinch.”

You don’t.

Copying his movements, you attempt to use his intimidation on himself. You show the nose of your car into the braking zone. Not a complete dive. Just a sudden presence to scare the Aussie — unmistakable, unavoidable.

Jack hesitates.

That’s enough.

🎧 Jack (Startled): “Mate! She’s sending it so early!”

🎧 Jack’s Engineer: “Jack, listen to me — defend cleanly, relax. race just started. Don’t freak out.”

🎧 Jack: “Hard not to when she’s driving like a damn missile so early into the race!”

He tries to shut the opening.

You wedge your cars nose in anyway, deeper than comfort allows, close enough to scare him without touching.

“Choose: contact with me or let me through.” you mutter under your breath.

Jack locks up.

🎧 Jack (radio): “I can’t — she’s being aggressive!”

🎧 Jack’s Engineer: “let her pass, it’s not worth risking the car!”

You slide through on the inside, tidy and calm, the pass completed before the corner even ends.

No drama. No correction.

Just control.

🎧 Jack (confused): “She seemed so sweet off track.”

🎧 Jack’s Engineer: “You’re clearly weak to cute things then-“

🎧 Jack (radio): “ HeY—“

You grin under your helmet satisfied with the pace of your climb.

🎧 You: “Second one down.”

🎧 Patricia: “Beautiful. Keep it up.”

The gap behind you grows immediately.

Ahead, the next target waits.

⸻

=Lap 6-8 POSITION GAINED: P19 → P18 (Lance Stroll)

The first straight is a blur, but your eyes lock instantly on the next target: Lance. You catch him on the back of the straight, hugging the draft, tailing close enough to feel the air off his car.

🎧 Lance’s Engineer: “Lance, #15 is approaching fast.”

🎧 Lance (startled): “Jesus, already? She was miles back!”

🎧 Lance’s Engineer: “She’s not anymore. Prepare for pressure.”

🎧 Lance (muttering): “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Lance holds the racing line like it’s a shield, hoping raw straight-line speed will save him.

He squeezes. You squeeze back harder. Inches between wheels. Heart racing, tyres screaming, hitting the white lines of the track just under the limit.

You bait him into braking early. He bites.

You lunge.

He sees you there, far too close for comfort, and makes the only choice left: survival over pride. The door opens.

You slip through without even slowing. Exiting the corner, you’re ahead — momentum carrying you perfectly — and draw level before the next braking zone.

🎧 Lance (yelping): “Seriously?! Who drives like that?!”

🎧 You: “Onto the next one.”

🎧 Patricia: “Don’t get too confident, dear. We haven’t reached the podium contenders just yet.”

🎧 You: “yet.”

🎙️ Live commentary: “And the only female rookie is already on the move — slices past Stroll cleanly! That Porsche is looking rapid in race trim.”

Two down. Momentum building. Next target waiting.

⸻

=Lap 8-10 POSITION GAINED: P18 → P16 (Yuki Tsunoda & Pierre Gasly)

🎧 Your Race Engineer: “Two cars ahead, kid — 0.6 seconds, closing in.”

Pierre is measured, experienced. He doesn’t panic. Yuki, aggressive and sharp, reacts faster than any rookie. You know you have to earn these positions.

“Eyes up. Timing is everything.” You mentally drill into your head.

You’re on Yuki before he even realizes. One quick glance in his mirror — and suddenly, you’ve appeared out of nowhere. The sleek baby blue chrome of your car gleaming menacingly in the sun.

🎧 Yuki (worried): “No no no NO — I don’t want her behind me this early!”

🎧 Yuki’s Engineer: “Too late for that.”

Pierre doesn’t miss it either.

🎧 Pierre (bewildered): “Mon Dieu… tell me that’s not her.”

🎧 Pierre’s Engineer: “its her.”

🎧 Yuki (concerned): “She’s gaining like crazy!”

🎧 Pierre (confused): “But she started DEAD last no?”

🎧 Pierre’s Engineer: “She’s faster than anybody we’ve seen on data.”

Your car sticks close to the Alpine and Red Bull, shadowing them through every corner, every slight imperfection. You pressure them, forcing tiny compromises — a missed apex here, a shallow exit there.

You Squint analyzing the upcoming possible race line for Turn 5. Tiny gap, but it’s there.

🎧 You (pensive): I see an opening. Small, very small, but possible. Do I risk it?

🎧 Your Race Engineer(smirks): “I trust you.”

You commit.

The daring move is executed in a heartbeat. You thread the needle, dive-bombing past Yuki and Pierre through Turn 5, inches to spare, precise, aggressive. Heart hammering, adrenaline spiking.

You come out ahead.

🎧 Pierre (Startled): “WHaT!? How small was that gap?? She didn’t even hesitate?!”

🎧 Yuki (Yelps): “WHAT THE—?!” Swerves, startled. “No way was there a damn gap???”

🎧 You: “YES MAAM THATS HOW WE DO IT!”

🎧 Patricia: “BEAUTIFULLY DONE! That’s how we do it! Keep that pace!”

Two more down. Momentum building. The podium is getting closer.

🎧 Pierre (radio): “deadly off track and on track, how is this fair to my heart?”

🎧 Pierre’s Engineer: “Focus Pierre, focus.”

🎧 Yuki (radio): “I can’t decide if I’m more attracted or scared.”

🎧 Yuki’s engineer: “I’m more surprised you weren’t cussing the entire time.”

🎧 Yuki (radio): “I refuse to ever cuss at her.”

🎧 Yuki’s engineer: “right..”

🎙️ Live commentary: “And there it is — a breathtaking double overtake by the Porsche rookie! Threading the needle through Turn 5, she’s proving that speed isn’t just raw — it’s intelligence, courage, and perfect timing.”

⸻

=Lap 15-19 POSITION GAINED: P16 → P15 (Liam Lawson)

🎧 Your Race Engineer: “Note: Battery full. Press-and-hold overtake available on Liam coming up on turn 7.”

Straight-up brawl. Liam defends like he has everything to prove.

Lap after lap, several corners pass. You stay patient, forcing him to protect the inside, letting him compromise his exits.

He refuses to yield.

You dive. He counters. You switchback. He blocks. Inches separate your cars. Every heartbeat measures throttle and grip. You breathe on his rear wing until he finally oversteers.

You pounce.

🎧 Liam (radio): “She’s absolutely relentless!” Laughing in disbelief.

🎧 Liam’s Engineer: “Copy. Play less aggressive — tires took a hit. Watch for marbles, losing grip.”

🎧 Liam (radio): “Hard to not be aggressive when she’s is literally breathing down my neck, mate!”

The overtake finally sticks. Smooth, decisive, earned.

He tried. You’re faster.

🎙️ Live commentary: “And there it is! A masterclass of patience and aggression — the Porsche has One of the Racing Bulls behind her, yet again showing her pace is something not to be ignored!”

The more position you gained the more your skills sharpened. Truly, the track was your world. You could feel the grip of the tires, the vibration of the engine, the rhythm of the corners. Each overtake sent a thrill up your spine.

⸻

=Lap 20-24 POSITION GAINED: P15 → P14 (Gabi Bortoleto)

Gabi’s team of engineers watch the replay of your overtake of Liam with open mouths. One of them mumbles out “She’s breezing through with alarming speed.” A grim look shared between their faces

“Quick we need to inform Gabi asap to watch out.” His head engineer warns him.

🎧 Gabi’s Engineer: “Gabi, #15 is coming. Fast.”

🎧 Gabi (confused): “The hell do you mean, fast?”

🎧 Gabi’s Engineer: “Purple sector fast.”

…

🎧 Gabi (shudders): “Oh sh*t.”

Gabi is smooth, precise, cautious — a master of measured racing, it’s how he won his f2 championship the year before, But you close the gap rapidly through the middle sector, your car glued to the track where his starts to float. Every inch is controlled, calculated.

The pass happens under braking — late, confident, unavoidable. No contact. No drama. Just clean subtraction.

You blast past him in a perfect outside maneuver, tyres gripping as if the track is bending to you.

🎙️ Live commentary: “Look at the timing screens! The Porsche rookie is running at a pace comparable to the leaders! Absolutely astonishing!”

🎧 Gabi (incredulous): “MAte— WHAT?! She just… teleported around me!”

🎧 Gabi’s Engineer (amused): “Yeah. That was an outside pass. Textbook.”

🎧 Gabi: “That was not textbook, that was sorcery!”

🎧 Gabi’s Engineer (half-smile in his voice): “Sorcery? Or perhaps you were a little bit distracted.”

🎧 Gabi (defensive): “I’m not distracted!”

🎧 Gabi’s Engineer (dry): “Telemetry disagrees.”

🎧 Gabi (offended): “I was not— okay maybe a little— but still! I swear she wasn’t even there when I defended!”

🎧 Gabi’s Engineer: “We’ll put that in the debrief.”

🎧 Gabi (scrambling): “please do not bring this up, I’m begging.”

Back at the pit wall Patricia starts to smack your head engineer in the back, big grin growing by the second. She didn’t want to pressure you but boy were you performing like a beast.

🎧 Patricia: Another one down. Clean, decisive. Momentum building. The front runners are starting to feel within reach dear. Keep pushing.

⸻

=Lap 25-30 POSITION GAINED: P14 → P13 (Isack Hadjar)

🎧 Isack’s Engineer: “Isack, the Porsche is gaining eight tenths per sector.”

🎧 Isack (panicked): “Excuse me… did you just say eight… EIGHT!? Ohhh no no no — please tell me she’s far.”

🎧 Isack’s Engineer: “She’ll be there soon.”

🎧 Your Engineer: “Keep this pace up and you’ll be within DRS range in three laps.”

You lick your drying lips. “Noted.”

Isack glances at his mirrors. Your Porsche grows alarmingly fast behind him. Instantly, his posture tenses.

🎧 Isack (sweating): “I shouldn’t have looked at my mirror…”

🎧 Isack’s Engineer (helpfully cruel): “Agreed. That was your first mistake. The second was having a crush on her.”

🎧 Isack (tight lipped): “Really mate? On the radio! People are going to clip this!”

🎧 Isack’s Engineer: “Well at least your whole ‘i broke ze car’ meme will finally be forgoten.”

🎧 Your Engineer (calm): “DRS range. We are comfortably in DRS range.”

Perfect.

You tap the DRS button. The car snaps forward, acceleration bleeding into the straight, alive under your fingers.

🎧 Isack (panicking): “She’s coming, she’s coming, she’s—”

🎧 Isack’s Engineer: “Defend inside.”

🎧 Isack: “I am defending inside!”

🎧 Isack’s Engineer: “Defend more.”

🎧 Isack: “There is no more inside!”

🎧 Isack’s Engineer (mildly exasperated): “Well do something. You’re giving her too much room.”

He defends inside. You commit to the outside — the long, risky line. He tries to cross you. No space. No hesitation. The car holds.

🎧 Isack (Incredulous): “She’s actually insane!”

🎧 Isack’s Engineer (half-smile in his voice): “In your case I think she is called distracting-.”

🎧 Isack (flustered): “I was not distracted!”

🎧 Isack’s Engineer (sighing, teasing): “Sure … maybe quit thinking about her face next time she’s on your ass mate.”

🎧 Isack (flustered): “this is not how I wanted to go viral mate-“

🎧 Patricia: “You’re climbing nicely. Stay smooth!”

🎙️ Live commentary: “And the female rookie doesn’t let up — Isack is being pressured like never before, and she’s showing no signs of stopping!”

———

=LAP 30 FIRST PIT STOP OF THE RACE

🎧 You: “Box, box. Grip’s falling away. Commit to Strat Alpha.”

🎧 Your Engineer: “Understood. Box this lap. Crew is ready.”

The pit entry swallowed you whole.

Speed limiter engaged. The engine’s scream dropped to a restrained snarl. Fluorescent lines and concrete walls rushed past, inches from your mirrors. For the first time in thirty laps, you weren’t fighting anyone but yourself.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Your eyes burned — dry, aching — so you blinked hard, once, twice, forcing moisture back as the car rolled to a precise halt on its marks.

And then — chaos. Beautiful, controlled chaos.

The crew descended in perfect sync. Wheel guns cracked like gunshots. Old tires ripped away; new rubber slammed on with violent efficiency. The car jolted as it was dropped back to the ground.

⏱️ 2.7 seconds.

🎧 You Engineer: “Green light. Go!”

You launched. Throttle buried. Rear tires biting hard as you fired out of the box and back into the pit lane stream. The engine howled again — alive, furious.

Merging back onto the circuit, heart hammering, eyes already hunting braking points. No traffic. Clean air.

The timing tower flickered. Your name stayed in place: Currently P13. Momentum still on the high.

Here we go. Back in the fight.

🎧 Your Engineer: “Great timing, no traffic, position maintained!”

⸻

=Lap 31-34 POSITION GAINED: P13 → P12 (Ollie Bearman)

🎧 Ollie’s Engineer: “She’s approaching with purple sectors.”

🎧 Ollie (anxious): “Please don’t say purple… purple scares me.”

“Relax. Let him think he’s in control.”

You let him stew, creeping closer, close enough that every twitch of your car is a question he can’t ignore. Finally, you’re beside him.

Four corners. Wheel-to-wheel. A delicate dance of speed and nerve.

🎧 Ollie (determined): “I’m not giving this for free. No way.”

You feint inside, a deliberate tease, knowing he’ll over-defend. He bites, squeezing into the corner.

At Turn 2, you switchback, forcing him onto the compromised racing line. Your momentum carries you clean past him, the smooth reversal giving you the optimal exit.

One clever feint later — you’re through.

By the time Ollie realizes, the move is already history.

🎧 Ollie (flabbergasted): “She BAITED me! SHE BAITED ME!! I CAN’T BELIEVE I FELL FOR THAT!”

🎧 Ollie’s Engineer (absolutely unhelpful): “Yeah… turns out admiring her face mid-corner was a poor strategic choice.”

🎧 Ollie (Instant denial): “No— I was not looking at her! I was looking at the track! The racing line! She just— she drives annoyingly well, okay?! That’s— that’s on her, not me!”

🎧 Ollie’s Engineer: “Terrible lie mate.”

🎙️ Live commentary: “And there it is — another masterful rookie overtake! Ollie Bearman left scratching his helmet as the Porsche charges on, flawless and ruthless in execution!”

Another one down. Focus. The podium is coming.

⸻

=Lap 41-50 POSITION GAINED: P12 → P11 (Nico Hülkenberg)

🎧 Nico’s Engineer: “Heads up, #15 next. She’s… she’s basically hunting.”

🎧 Nico (Incredulous): “What do you mean hunting?? Like… animal hunting??”

🎧 Nico’s Engineer: “…Yes.”

Nico gives a veteran fight — smooth, calculated, every line defended to perfection. But you’re ready.

You brake later — much later — into the corner, tyres screaming, the edge of adhesion trembling. For a heartbeat, it feels like you’ve gone too far.

Then the car sticks.

Nico inches back. You don’t.

He holds the outside like a knife-edge, daring you to fail.

🎧 Nico (frustrated): “She’s outrageous! What kind of braking point is that?!”

🎧 Nico’s Engineer: “The alarmingly risky kind.”

🎧 Nico (tired): “I feel like I just aged another ten years because of her.”

You slide past with surgical precision. Calm, clean, unavoidable.

Nico just groans.

🎧 Nico (muttering): “Who gave her permission to make ME feel like the rookie??”

🎙️ Live commentary: “And another one bites the dust — Nico Hülkenberg passed with authority as the rookie Porsche continues her relentless climb up the field!”

Front of the pack getting closer with every lap.

_____

The laps blurred together, each corner a heartbeat, each straight a roar of power and anticipation. By now, the midfield chaos had thinned. You were clawing into the points — P10 hot in your sights — tires still gripping, adrenaline coursing through your veins like wildfire.

Focus. Focus. You muttered under your breath, jaw tight. Doubt creeping up your spine, insistent and unwelcome, the thoughts of failure brought up by the fact that you’d be facing world champion winners soon.

🎧 Patricia (calm but firm): “Keep it smooth. Keep it tight. Watch your apex. Remember your lines, your braking points — you’re faster than you think. Eyes up.”

Her words cut through the fog. You let out a shaky sigh, forcing your focus forward.

Snap out of it.

The points were just ahead, you can’t let your nerves get the best of you now. The harder midfield battle loomed ahead — Max, Oscar, and Lando already far in front, stretching a gap as leaders of the race. But the challenge only lit a fire under you.

⸻

=Lap 51-53 POSITION GAINED: P11 → P10 (Alex Albon)

Alex jolts at the voice crackling through his radio.

🎧 Alex’s Engineer (shaky, borderline terrified): “Alex… caution. Porsche rookie is right behind.”

🎧 Alex (confused): “Your voice is shakey? Are you okay? …sounds like you've just watched a horror movie mate.”

His engineer doesn’t flinch, eyes glued to your data, screen flashing purple sectors.

🎧 Alex’s Engineer (grave): “Because I have been watching a horror movie…”

Alex glances in his mirrors. There you are — impossibly close, ghost-like, the car growing in size and menace with every passing second. He panics… politely.

🎧 Alex (panicked): “Ah, yes I now seen what you mean.”

Your right on his rear in a matter of seconds.

🎧 Alex (muttering): “Guys… I swear I can already see all the highlight reels of her. I don’t want to be the next one.”

🎧 Alex’s Engineer: “Defend, Alex.”

🎧 Alex (screaming): “I’m absolutely terrified!”

🎧 Alex’s Engineer: “ShhhHh just focus.”

🎧 Alex (screaming): “When the heck did she even get here?”

🎧 Alex’s Engineer: “I have no clue.”

🎧 Alex (freaking out): “But that’s literally your joB!?”

For three corners, he holds you off — careful, reactive, trying to play defense against something he can’t quite comprehend.

Then you strike.

Through the chicane, smooth, precise, invisible until it’s done. Phantom-like. No contact. No hesitation.

🎧 Alex (Incredulous, heart racing): “HOW CAN SOMEONE SO CUTE BE SO TERRIFYING!”

🎙️ Live commentary: “And just like that, the rookie slices past Alex Albon as if he wasn’t even there! The Porsche is on a relentless climb, and the midfield has officially taken notice!”

⸻

Up ahead, a slight scuffle unfolded between Alonso and Carlos — a small tangle, leaving bits of debris scattered across the track. Race officials didn’t spot the contact between the Aston and Williams thus no yellow flag was properly enforced.

By the next sector, you felt it — a subtle wobble through the rear. A minor puncture. Not catastrophic, but enough to force your hand. The second pit stop would come earlier than expected.

“Of course.” You groan under your breath.

_____

=LAP 54 2ND PIT-STOP OF THE RACE

You keyed the radio.

🎧 You: “Box box! Slight puncture on left rear tire. I think there was debris on track? Why was there no yellow flag??? UGH! Let’s change to plan Bravo. Mediums aren’t working for me anyway.”

🎧 Patricia: “Copy that, dear. Relax. We’ll have them review it. Change pit strategy: Bravo. Mechanics are ready.”

The pit lane appeared. You braked perfectly, rolling into your box. Mechanics danced around your car, precise and practiced. Tires swapped in record time. Instead of mediums soft tires were placed in record time for the final stint. Minor adjustments made to wing angles at your engineer’s call.

“Go! Go! Go!” Patricia’s voice punctuated your departure. You released the brakes, shot back onto the track, and in the first corner after exiting, you were back in the fray.

By now, your name was echoing across the pit wall monitors — the rookie who had started at the very back and was now a serious contender in the midfield. Each overtake, clean and ruthless, drew whispers, stares, and admiration from your competitors and their teams.

2.4 seconds. A fast pit stop

— but traffic screws you.

You rejoin behind:

• Nico P10 ⬆️

• Alex P11 ⬆️

• Ollie P12 ⬆️

• You P13 ⬇️

Three positions lost.

You hiss.

🎧 Patricia : “stay calm dear. If you’ve done it once you can do it again. Time for the sequel.“

🎧 You : “On it.”

⸻

=Lap 55 POSITION GAINED: RETAKING P10 (Retaking Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, & Oliver Bearman)

🎧 Patricia: “Don’t worry, you’ve got the pace. Push hard.”

🎧 Your Engineer: “They’re scared. Intimidate them further. All leaving clean lines for you — hesitant to engage.”

🎧 Patricia (smirks) : “Good. Intimidation is the first impressions I want them to have of you on track.”

Following instructions from your engineer you’re quick to slot closely behind Ollie, in no time you’re in DRS range in just two laps.

🎧 Ollie (frustrated laugh): “Ah shit here we go again.”

🎧 Nico: “Shit… she’s back already…”

🎧 Alex (panicked): “She’s in my mirrors again, isn’t she—dammit, I KNEW IT!”

Each of them tries to defend. You go full monster mode.

They yield.

No hesitation.

Through the esses, you execute a daring triple overtake — Nico, Alex, and Ollie all in one fluid, audacious maneuver. Tires brush asphalt with inches to spare, each car narrowly avoided, each pass surgical.

🎧 Alex : “Nope. Not dying today.”

🎧 Ollie : “that was hot.”

🎧 Nico : “I’m too old for this man”

Just behind, Isack witnesses the chaos.

🎧 Isack (stunned): “Jesus! Did she just… overtake three cars?!”

🎧 Your Race Engineer: “You are now safely in the points. I repeat — in the points!”

You smirk under your visor. Focused. Apex, braking point, line — perfect.

🎧 You: “I’m not satisfied yet.”

🎙️ Live commentary: “#15 has performed a triple overtake! She’s inside the top ten! Absolutely phenomenal for a rookie — this Porsche is making some serious noise, the race leaders better start watching their back there’s a rocket in town!”

🎧 Patricia (holding back her smile): “Momentum building. The podium is coming. One apex at a time dear.”

⸻

=Lap 56 POSITION GAINED: P10 → P9 (Carlos Sainz)

Now the big boys start sweating.

🎧 Carlos’ Engineer: “Carlos, car #15 is coming in hot. She just triple-passed Nico, Alex, and Ollie.”

🎧 Carlos (stunned): “Triple-passed? She’s a brave little thing isn’t she?”

🎧 Carlos’ Engineer: “Affirm. She’s two tenths back.”

🎧 Carlos: “Two tenths? She was in another postcode five minutes ago!”

🎧 Carlos’ Engineer: “Well, she’s moved in.”

A breath. Not panic. Not nerves.

Interest.

🎧 Carlos (lower): “Alright. Let her try.

You fill his mirrors.

Not frantic. Not messy.

Deliberate.

He adjusts his line subtly, protecting the inside into Turn 8. Smooth hands. Calm inputs. He’s not defending out of fear. He’s inviting a challenge.

You go around the outside.

He holds it. Inches between you. Tires whispering at the limit.

Through 9, you’re still there.

Through 10, you refuse to disappear.

🎧 Carlos’ Engineer: “She’s very close.”

🎧 Carlos (amused but focused): “I can see that.”

You brake late.

He brakes late too.

Wheel to wheel.

Neither yielding.

The crowd noise rises like a storm building over asphalt.

🎧 Carlos (radio, laughing despite himself): “She doesn’t back out! I like this.”

🎧 Engineer: “Focus, Carlos.”

🎧 Carlos: “I am focused. She just… doesn’t scare easily.”

You show outside. He covers.

You cut back.

He catches it.

For a full lap, it’s controlled combustion. Every corner a negotiation of pride. Every straight a dare.

Then you send it properly.

Later on the brakes. Later than logic recommends.

You slide alongside him, front wing just ahead before the apex.

He tries to hold you there. Forces you to commit.

You don’t lift.

Side by side on exit.

Tires almost touching.

🎧 Carlos (breath catching): “Okay… okay.”

There’s a grin in his voice now. The kind that only shows up when someone meets him exactly where he lives.

You get the traction first.

You edge ahead.

He slots into your slipstream immediately.

🎧 Carlos: “She’s brave.”

A beat.

🎧 Carlos (quieter): “I like brave.”

DRS open.

He pulls alongside again, refusing to let it go, refusing to let you breathe.

🎙️ Commentary: “They are absolutely refusing to give each other space! This is fierce, this is personal!”

He doesn’t dive recklessly. He presses. Forces you to defend every corner perfectly. Tests you.

And you pass every test.

When you finally secure it, clean and decisive, he exhales through a laugh.

🎧 Carlos (breathless): “Madre mía… she didn’t even hesitate, that was spicy.”

A pause.

🎧 Carlos (softer): “Remind me to tell her after the race… that was beautiful.”

🎧 Carlos’ Engineer: “I don’t think you even need me to remind you mate.”

🎙️ Live commentary: “And she’s through! The Porsche rookie slices past Carlos Sainz in a masterclass of precision and nerve — nobody in the midfield is safe!”

⸻

Lap 57 POSITION GAINED: P9 → P8 (Fernando Alonso)

🎧 Alonso’s Engineer: “Heads up, Fernando. #15 is making… alarming progress. She just passed Carlos. Her lap times are currently faster.”

🎧 Alonso (laughing): “Ay ay ay… okay. Time to play.”

Alright, rookie… let’s see what you’ve got.

You attack. He counters. Alonso elbows you at Turn 14 — masterclass veteran craft. Forcing you wide, Carlos slips past again. You drop back to P10.

🎧 Patricia (calm): “Don’t panic. Alonso’s defenses are no easy task to beat. Just relax and follow whichever race line feels best.”

He defends brilliantly. You attack harder. Respect for your favorite driver runs deep — but there’s no holding back.

Eyes forward. Commit. Just like every other overtake.

You catch the inside line at Turn 4. Brake just late enough to scare yourself, inches from the edge, wheel-to-wheel. His helmet glances toward you — a tiny acknowledgment of your audacity. The thrill surges.

🎧 Alonso (muttering, half-frustrated, half-proud): “Hah… rookie’s got guts.”

🎧 Alonso’s Engineer (checking): “You good, Alonso? She ate your wheels up. Box if you need.”

🎧 Alonso (chuckling): “Bueno. She is ruthless. I approve.”

Carlos sees you returning and mutters under his breath: “No nooo… I just got her off my mirrors!!”

Too late.

You fake left, go right, sweep past — clean, fearless, unstoppable.

🎧 Your Engineer: “Back to P8. Good job, kid.”

🎙️ Live commentary: “And just like that, the Porsche navigates past the iron walls of Fernando Alonso! A masterclass of bravery against El nano — and a huge statement for the midfield battle!”

⸻

Lap 58-60 POSITION GAINED: P8 → P7 (Kimi Antonelli)

Next lap. You were breathing, but barely. Tires gripping. Engine screaming. The track twisted ahead like a serpent. The gap in front was tantalizingly small — Kimi Antonelli, just ahead.

🎧 Kimi (tense): “Guys… she’s behind me.”

🎧 Kimi’s Engineer: “Copy.”

🎧 Kimi: “No no, you don’t get it — SHE’S RIGHT THERE.”

He tries one big defensive move. You counter perfectly.

🎧 Kimi (frustrated): “She read my mind—!”

Kimi is young, fast, fearless. You do everything to shake him — pressure relentlessly, flash your nose, back out, flash again. Each lap, he defends harder. Tyres fade. Margins shrink.

When the opening comes, it’s tiny.

Tiny gap or not, I’m going for it.

You take it, forcing him wide. The pass is clean, surgical. Your pulse doesn’t slow for a long moment afterward — adrenaline still pounding.

By Lap 60, your climb has been impressive. Kimi and Alonso trail, trying to regain ground, but your lines are flawless, your brake points perfect.

🎧 Kimi’s Engineer: “Kimi I suggest box this lap, tires are not looking good.”

🎧 Kimi (frustrated): No I won’t box until I get another attempt to squeeze past!

The poor boy was desperate to pass you causing his moves to be completely predictable.

You anticipate, defend your line perfectly, subtly flick the car toward the apex just enough to make him hesitate. Tiny mental victory. He backs off. Alonso and Kimi are left battling behind you.

🎧 Kimi’s Engineer (amused): “Gotta give it to her she’s Brave.”

🎧 Kimi: “Brave?! That was— that was beautiful!”

🎧 Kimi’s Engineer (Chortles): “her face or her driving?”

🎧 Kimi (backtracking): “I meant… the driving! The car placement— I wasn’t—”

🎧 Kimi’s Engineer (teasing now): “You do know this is a race, not a first date.”

🎧 Kimi (flustered, laughing): “I KNOW that! I’m just saying she’s— she’s really smooth, okay?!”

🎧 Kimi’s Engineer: “Uh-huh. Eyes forward Kimi. And stop smiling.”

🎧 Kimi (defensive): “I’m not smiling!”

🎧 Kimi’s Engineer (dry): “I can hear your heart beating on the radio just from thinking of her.”

🎧 Kimi (embarrassed): “Okay. Please stop talking, if you’re going to tease me please do it off track and don’t air it out on the radio mate.”

*The live camera feed cuts to Kimi’s pit wall laughing hysterically*

🎙️ Live commentary: “And there she goes! The rookie Porsche now controlling the midfield with surgical precision — Kimi and Alonso left to fight for scraps behind her!”

🎧 Patricia: “One step closer Keep pressing, you’re getting closer to race leaders.”

——

Lap 61-67 POSITION GAINED: P7 → P6 (Lewis Hamilton)

🎧 Your Engineer: “Hamilton up ahead — caution.”

Your engineer’s voice slices through the cockpit, sharp enough to spike your pulse.

Lewis Hamilton.

The name alone tightens something in your chest. Seven-time world champion. A driver who doesn’t give away corners, doesn’t make small mistakes, doesn’t get rushed — and certainly doesn’t get intimidated.

🎧 Hamilton’ Engineer: “Lewis, she’s P7 now.”

He smirks beneath his visor — the way he always seems to sense a challenge before it arrives.

🎧 Hamilton (amused): “Well… look who finally arrived.”

You close in through the middle sector, but he places the car perfectly — defensive without being desperate. Every line deliberate. Every brake point exact.

Oh gosh this will certainly be a test.

You show the nose into Turn 1. He shuts it down. Clean. Legal. Absolutely blocking you from an opening.

🎙️ Live commentary: “#15 Attempts a risky move on turn 6 but Hamilton holds firm.”

Lap after lap, he makes you earn every tenth. You pressure the entry — he guards the apex. You fake inside — he reads it instantly. You try the exit — he short-shifts, denies you the run.

Okay. He’s definitely not making this easy.

So you change the tactics. Your breathing stalled as you tried to think. He’s been reading you this entire time, maybe it’s time to return the favor and read him.

You stay wider through the final corner. Sacrifice the entry. Trust the exit.

The moment you straighten the wheel, the car comes alive.

🎙️ Live commentary: “Porsche rookie looking like she’s got a run here.”

You’re closer than before — close enough that he knows you’re there.

Into the braking zone.

Side by side.

He leaves just enough room — not generosity, but respect.

You brake late. The tyres scream. The world narrows to a single strip of tarmac.

🎙️ Live commentary: “Oh— hang on— hang on— could it be? Will the rookie who started P21 claim P6 on this lap!?”

🎙️ Live commentary: “This is extraordinary.”

The cameras scramble, cutting away from the leaders, locking onto your car as it flashes into frame on the big screen.

You claim the apex by a breath. Control the exit.

And finally — finally — you’re ahead.

🎙️ Live commentary: “And she’s through Hamilton!”

For half a second, it doesn’t feel real.

Hamilton mutters to himself calm, impressed “Not bad, rookie… not bad at all.”

Your hands stay steady on the wheel, but your heart is pounding hard enough you feel it in your teeth.

…..

You squeal on the radio: “—/-Holy shit that was EPIC—-!.”

Then the noise hits.

It starts as a gasp — tens of thousands in the stands realizing the same thing at once — then swells into something louder, rougher, alive. The grandstands erupt, a wave of sound crashing over the circuit, rolling through your helmet until it vibrates in your chest.

If no one was paying attention to your race before, they most certainly are now.

Screens across the circuit update in unison. Timing towers flicker—- YN15 ⬆️P6

🎙️ Live commentary: “The rookie — who started dead last, P21 — is now up into P6 Just Grazing the Top 5!”

The roar grows again, disbelief tipping into excitement, excitement igniting into something electric.

🎙️ Live commentary: “That is not normal pace.”

🎙️ Live commentary: “That is an absolute statement drive.”

Your name pulses on the timing tower — higher than anyone expected it to climb today.

And for the first time all race, it feels like the entire world is watching the same baby blue car speeding through the circuit.

The cheering crowd only fanned the already lit fire— your engineer and Patricia in your ear keeping you grounded. You were not reckless, not frantic — but razor-sharp. Every input deliberate. Every movement economical. You sliced through the thinning midfield with a precision that belied your rookie status, the car responding like it was an extension of your own nervous system.

🎧 Patricia (reeling): “Gap to car ahead: eight-tenths. Keep the tyres in the optimal window. Don’t forget to keep battery in check, recover energy while you catch up to P5.”

🎧 You :“Yes, ma’am,” you answered automatically, the words steady even as your pulse thundered. Adrenaline and joy braided together in your chest, something fierce and euphoric. You felt alive — in a way nothing else had ever come close to touching.

The timing tower confirmed it.

Hamilton was behind you now.

Ahead, the picture changed.

Max and Oscar were already gone, operating on a different plane entirely, stretching the race at the front like it belonged to them. Untouchable. For now…

But just behind that elite bubble, the air grew heavier.

Charles.

George.

Lando.

Three names that didn’t usually look over their shoulders.

Yet sector by sector, lap by lap, they were starting to feel you there — whether they wanted to admit it or not.

🎧 Your Engineer: “Fuel’s good. Tires are holding. No issues so far. You’re on fire — keep it smooth.”

A beat.

🎧 Your Engineer: “Charles and George coming up. You’ve got the pace to challenge.”

Your eyes flicked forward, locking onto the duo ahead. Their cars no longer felt distant — no longer felt mythical.

They felt reachable.

Your grip tightened, just slightly, as you lined up the next braking zone.

Okay.

Let’s see how the front feels.

———

Lap 68 POSITION GAINED: P6 → P5 (George Russell)

🎙️ Live commentary: “Unbelievable progress — Porsche already up to the fringes of the top six from the back of the grid . And now — all eyes are on George Russell, because the star rookie is coming.”

=slight time rewind=

🎧 George’s Engineer: “Hamilton currently battling behind with Porsche girl.”

George hears it before he sees you.

🎧 George (exasperated): “Porsche? here?Already? Nah, come on, man…”

The timing screen updates.

Again.

🎧 George (lower): muttering under his breath “…But she started last.”

🎧 George’s Engineer: “Yes. We don’t understand it either.”

A beat. Too long.

George exhales, hollow.

“This is terrifying.”

You’ve been there for several laps now battling Lewis just behind him— close enough that he can’t forget you, far enough that he keeps hoping you’ll fade.

You don’t.

The soft tyres sing beneath you, alive, hungry, your Porsche pinned to the racing line like it belongs there. Every corner trims another tenth from the gap. Every straight makes you slightly bigger in his mirrors.

George check his mirrors again.

And sees it.

Ahead of you — Lewis Hamilton.

Measured. Immaculate. Defending like a seven-time champion does.

Then you move.

You commit into the braking zone — fearless, precise — forcing the space that shouldn’t exist. For a split second you’re side by side.

George watches it happen in real time.

The red Ferrari yields.

Your blue car emerges ahead.

🎧 George (quiet): “…She just passed Lewis.”

There’s something empty in his voice now.

🎧 George’s Engineer: “Affirmative. Porsche Rookie is through Hamilton.—-”

Silence.

If she can do that to him—

The Mercedes monitors glow with telemetry. Sector deltas scroll too fast to process. George’s onboard camera fills one screen — your Porsche growing larger in his mirrors with every corner.

One of his engineers mutters, barely audible:

“…She’s already on Russell.”

Toto Wolff doesn’t speak at first.

He stands with arms folded, jaw set, eyes locked on the timing tower as your name climbs again.

GR63 P5

YN15 P6⬆️

LH44 P7⬇️

He leans forward slightly.

🎧 George’s Engineer: “Be ready, mate. She’s on a rocket pace. You’re next on her radar.”

🎧 George (worried): “Please don’t say it like that. Makes me feel like prey.”

🎧 George’s Engineer: “Probably because you are prey.”

🎧 George (flat): “Gee thanks for the support mate.”

A large baby blue mass much more prominent than before appears in his mirrors —Your car, close— Close enough to fill his mirror completely.

🎙️ Live commentary: “That gap between the Mercedes and the Porsche is coming down rapidly.”

You smile. “Let’s see how you dance Mr.Consistent.”

“How old are her tires?” Toto asks.

“Older than George’s tires by a few laps” an engineer replies. “But despite this… her pace hasn’t dropped.”

Another voice, quieter:

“She’s quicker than George in Sector 2.”

Toto exhales through his nose.

“That’s not tyre luck,” he says flatly.

“That’s absolute control.”

A live screen changes to a live feed. A cameraman catches Toto standing hand against his chin — not in anger, not in disbelief.

Interest.

“Tell George to stay calm,” Toto adds.

“No heroics. If she’s faster, let it go. It won’t be worth it to ruin his current tires, we’re done with our two pit stop strat. If he burns away his current tires we’d have to switch to the three pit Strat and we did not plan for that.”

On track, his radio crackles.

🎧 George’s Engineer: “George, manage expectations. Don’t overdefend.”

George doesn’t answer right away.

Then a tight:

🎧 George (tenses): “…Copy.”

Into Turn 1, George defends the inside — hard, instinctive, protective.

You don’t go there.

You commit to the outside.

The long way.

The risky way.

The way that only works if you believe in it completely.

🎙️ Live commentary: “She’s all over George Russell now — closing, closing…”

Side by side. Speed bleeding off. Grip holding when it shouldn’t. Tyres whispering on the edge of protest.

For a heartbeat, neither of you yield.

🎧 George (confused): “She’s gaining — this is unfair speed!”

🎧 George’s Engineer: “She is simply faster.”

🎧 George (flustered): “Well tell her to stop being faster!!”

🎧 George’s Engineer: “That’s not how it works mate

🎧 George (flustered): “I Know I’m just trying to cope because there’s a Porsche up my ass!”

The corner ends….

A breath barely leaves you…

And—- You’re ahead.

🎙️ Live commentary: “OH— SHE’S DONE IT! ROUND THE OUTSIDE OF RUSSELL!”

The crowd detonates — a wall of sound crashing over the circuit, vibrating through the cockpit, rattling something deep in your chest.

Behind you, George screams “BLIMEY.”

Ahead of you, the track opens.

You laugh out loud, undoubtedly proud. Perhaps is was George swearing so loud you could hear it over your engine that made you laugh or maybe it was the fact that you now stood in the top 5, your smile stretched wide under you helmet — despite this your eyes sharpen back to its focus as you settle back onto the racing line.

The radio crackles.

🎧 Your Engineer (clearly smiling):

“P5 kid. P5.”

You exhale slowly.

Control.

Breathe.

Stay in control.

🎧 Patricia (Grinning): “Absolutely amazing dear, but remember We can’t celebrate just yet. Race is yet to be finished.”

Each overtake has burned away the last of the rookie fear, replaced by something colder. Cleaner.

You aren’t just keeping up anymore.

You’re attacking. Aggressively.

The Mercedes pit wall goes quiet as your Porsche clears Russell leaving both Mercedes cars behind you.

Toto watches your car pull father ahead of George effectively leaving him behind. His eyes switched on the timing tower as your name raises and settles ahead of George’s.

Toto nods once as he watches the broadcast replay of your overtake again.

“…When does her Porsche contract end?”

A few heads turn… “eh..?”

“But we just signed Kimi..”

Toto doesn’t look away from the screen.

“That,” he says quietly, “Is how a careers starts.”

PART TWO

===================================

Authors Note: FINALLY THE RACE!! I’m so happy that I finally got these chapters out. Sorry it had to be cut into two shi got too long hit the max tumblr post😭. This was very fun to write BUT very frigging hard ngl, I mean ofc it is I’m not exactly an expert neither have I ridden in a formula 1 car (sadly) but despite this I hope it was a decently fun read for you guys!

Gonna have to take some time to think about the next chapter, but I’m definitely gonna make a the next one more of a filler since it’s right after the race hehe. Dw for the max girlies, gotta give him his time to shine in the next chapters If you guys have any ideas on the next chapter I’d love to hear it :)))

xoxo- Victoria

PS: bro ngl idk if I can make another race chapter after this one 😭😭

Taglist: @lottie810 @malphaspeverii @hlmzsbl @hlydia111 @retiredpieceofshits @prodbysainz @catswag22 @pharmasennapuff @teenagetoadghostwobbler @pacifymebby @b-rly @pinkastri @cl0u-dy @thegothamsiren @miellette @mariaemiliasblog @purple9950 @ninjachangelingriddle @biabunny @boredperson120 @lexi2005

And how are you doing??

Sorry for the late reply life been a doozy,

But hiiiiiii l'm a big fan of your work ☺️ and here some flowers for youuuu 💐💐💐

I’m sorry if this request makes you feel uncomfortable in any way. (I’m using a translator, so please excuse any grammatical errors!)

Episode # 6

: { Last on the Grid, First in Their Minds }

===================================

===================================

Synopsis:

One more step before the race, the grid formation is underway and our reader is about to don her read gear and show these boys how it’s done. I wonder how they’ll react to her in her full glory?

Pairings:

Various F1 Grid x You

Warnings:

None— More reader appreciation and flirting!

===================================

If you haven't read the past chapters I suggest reading it to avoid any confusion as it is a direct continuation of the previous chapters here’s a link to the list! :))

{ Full Chapter List }

Happy Reading!

===================================

Your motorhome was quieter than most places on the paddock — a little pocket of calm in a storm of roaring engines and adrenaline. But the air inside still felt charged as you started to don your race gear. The crisp scent of new fire-retardant fabric and chemicals lingered faintly, proof that everything you carried into this race was brand-new — including you.

Before slipping on your gloves, you peeked out the small window. A few of the grid boys were hopping out of their own motorhomes, already suited up in their own race gear. The sun washed over them, gleaming off their helmets washing them in a pale yellow glow. You grinned instinctively, warmth blooming in your chest —your hands suddenly scrambling to rush, eager to finally join them on the grid.

You tugged one glove on properly and bit down on the other, hopping on one foot as you forced your race shoes on. You must've looked ridiculous. The moment the straps cinched tight, you bounced upward and spun to face the mirror.

Your suit— a soft elegant baby blue embellish by sleek black panels and crisp white lines— hugged your form just right, sponsor logos scattered over you like badges of honor. You spun as if you were wearing a gown and not layers of fireproof fabric. just a tiny twirl — the kind you'd deny doing if someone walked in. It wasn't a princess dress, but it certainly felt close to one.

Hair fixed. Gloves on. Heart full.

You sprinted toward the door, nearly launching yourself out of your motorhome.

"Don't forget your helmet, dear!" Patricia yelled without looking up from her tablet.

You skidded so hard you almost ate floor as a pre-race snack, muttering a curse as you ran back in. You snatched your helmet off the counter and finally shot out the door for real this time.

Several corners later, you stumbled into your garage with a breathless huff.

Everyone in your Porsche garage turned toward you — engineers, mechanics, data analysts, strategists, your team principal Patricia — all wearing the same bright white 15 stitched across their backs like a shared heartbeat. Every single one of them looked impossibly proud to be carrying your race number.

This wasn't just your first real race — it was your team's first.

People you considered family.

Rough start aside — missing free practice and quali — nothing could dull the fire igniting inside you and the people around you. None of them looked afraid. None of them looked concerned. They looked ready.

You walked down the aisle of your garage, every head turning in unison, each smile growing wider with every step you took.

— everyone offered a few more words of encouragement, as if trying to tuck them into your pockets for later, for the moments you might need them most.

The next few minutes blurred into hands and voices:

A firm handshake from your mechanics.

Bright smiles and thumbs-up from the pit crew.

A congratulatory smack on the back from your strategists.

And a gentle pat on the head from your engineer — "for luck," he claimed before you could swat him away to focus on last minute adjustment and checks, along with a few more one overs with the race data you've gathered over the few months of testing.

Ending the frenzy of last touches, Patricia's arms wrapped around you without warning in a chaotic bear hug, her headset — the one customized with your initials and race number — bonking your forehead.

"Maybe missing free practice and qualifiers was good for us."

You blinked at her, genuinely baffled. "Please explain exactly why you think that, or I'm gonna have to get you checked by doctors."

Your team principal laughed immediately at your expression. "I'm just saying — everything that could have gone wrong on your first Grand Prix already did. What's left to be scared of?"

Your eyes widened. Then you laughed, the tension snapping clean in half. Leave it to Patricia to turn disaster into strategy — and somehow make it comforting. "Fair enough."

She rubbed your shoulders, eye crinkling as she gave you one more squeeze "Make their hearts race," she whispered into your ear, "and show them what you've got."

With a final squeeze and smile, she sent you off like a slingshot.

Heaving out a shallow breath, you stared down at your helmet resting in your hands, taking a few extra seconds to admire its custom design. Your hands trembled slightly as you lifted it, feeling it settle against the crown of your head. You pulled the straps down, the padding enveloping your senses in the best way possible.

Putting on your helmet was always your favorite part of getting ready. It wasn't just a physical shield — it offered a kind of sacred protection, sealing you off from the outside world and letting you slip fully into your own. It was the glue between you and the car, the moment where everything else faded away.

Climbing into the cockpit felt strange — familiar, yet suddenly foreign. Months of testing hadn't prepared you for the crushing weight of this moment: the reality, the pressure, the no-more-second-chances truth of an actual race.

As you settled into your seat, flutters exploded through your stomach.

It's happening.

It's actually—

"Nope. Don't celebrate yet, don't want to jinx it and crash on the formation laugh" you muttered to yourself, a nervous laugh crawling out of your mouth.

Tapping your helmet lightly trying to keep yourself grounded. "You haven't done anything. You're not flying yet."

Your engineers and mechanics were brief with their reminders making sure that the screens of race data in front of you were understood to a point where you could leave in your car confident, they all failed to hide their excitement and behind your helmet all you could do was giggle at their childlike behavior despite being adults much older than you. It was a shared dream after all.

The engine hummed beneath you as you finally drove out of the garage for your installation lap.

After verifying that all of the car's components were working correctly, you made one last pass through the pit lane for a minor brake adjustment before heading out for reconnaissance laps.

You'd hoped the recon laps would do something — anything — to steady your racing heart, but they did little to nothing to calm your nerves. You'd only ever driven this track in the sim, never in real life. Every corner was a surprise. Every straight felt too short. No practice. No quali.

And yet... you were buzzing, jittering with excitement.

It was raw. Unfiltered. Terrifying.

But somehow, perfect.

Once parked at the end of the grid, your team rolled the car into its marked box. You hopped out, tugging your helmet and balaclava free just to breathe, chest rising and falling as the weight of the moment finally settled in.

A mechanic tossed you a juice bottle, and you took careful sips as your crew swarmed the car. Engineers leaned in to tinker with the steering wheel making sure that it was race start ready, while mechanics worked the tires with torque wrenches. Heated blankets were draped on, dry ice hissed and steamed through the vents, and the rest of the pre-race grid procedures unfolded around you as you watched them work from the pit wall.

As your hair slipped free from beneath your balaclava and helmet, you turned toward the grid, the cool air brushing your skin like a held breath finally released.

Pole position sat far ahead—Max at the front, composed and commanding, followed by the two McLarens in P2 and P3. Then came Charles, George, Lewis, Kimi, Alonso, Carlos, Alex, Nico, Ollie, Isack, Gabi, Liam, Pierre, Yuki, Lance, Jack, Franco—

And finally, at the very back.

You.

You leaned briefly against the pit wall, sighing to yourself, the weight of the moment settling beneath your ribs. You bit down on one of your gloves to remove it and reached up, gathering your hair into a high ponytail, fingers steady despite the hum of nerves in your chest. Turning back toward your car, you exhaled softly just as the announcement crackled over the speakers:

"All cars now on the grid."

It wasn't long before heads began to turn—slowly at first, then all at once—as the drivers took the opportunity to look down the line, to find you.

Some grunted.

Some froze.

Some sighed like they'd been struck.

Gone was the cheeky soft, smiling girl from the parade.

Now you were all sleek gear and adrenaline—the race suit hugging every curve perfectly tailored for this exact moment. Your helmet hung casually from your arm, race shoes clicking against the concrete with a sound too sharp, too confident to ignore.

The light blue of your Porsche race suit stood out beautifully against the open sky, sharp yet soft all at once. The simple act of you biting your glove while tying your hair up felt intimate somehow, the curve of your neck—once hidden—now bare, exposed, impossible to ignore. Sunlight caught your collarbone, your suit cinching at the waist just enough to draw wandering eyes.

You looked powerful.

You looked beautiful.

You looked like you belonged.

And then you turned to face the rest of the grid.

A small, proud smile softened your lips—not for them, not for the cameras—but for yourself. —just quiet happiness, the kind that came from knowing how far you'd fought to stand here. Passion burned openly in your eyes, bright and unashamed.

They didn't stand a chance.

Gabi looks up first. Leaning against the pit wall, arms crossed, visor half-down. For once, his smile slips as his mouth parts.

"Focus, Gabi," he mutters to himself, squeezing his eyes shut like that might undo the damage. “First race. Do not ruin this by getting distracted.” He turns away, cheeks warm.

Max whistles low. "Didn't think she could look anymore dangerous off track," he says, pretending it's a joke—except his eyes don't leave you. "That should be illegal." He said as he tipped his head towards your direction.

Lando hears him and chuckles following his line of sight, once his eyes Lando on you his jaw tightened, fingers flexed inside his gloves. "This is going to be a very long race," he mutters, already annoyed with how badly he wants to run straight down the grid to you.

Oscar stands by his car, methodical as ever, hands busy with his gloves while his attention is unmistakably elsewhere. He watches you the way he watches the starting lights — patient, focused, impossible to rush. There's no grin, no show of surprise, just a subtle stillness that says you've fully claimed his attention. The corner of his mouth lifts, barely there, like a secret he's keeping to himself. When he finally looks away, it's with the calm acceptance of someone who knows he'll be thinking about you long after the race begins.

Carlos tilts his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. Warm. Appreciative. Dangerous in its sincerity.

"Madre mía," he murmurs, as his eyes flicked to you. "Well... that's distracting," he admits with a sheepish grin, eyes lingering openly now. He straightens, rolling his shoulders like he's resetting himself. "Guess I'll just have to drive faster to get as far away from the unnecessary distraction."

George follows Carlos's line of sight, posture stiffening as his breath hitches despite himself having acclimatized to your presence. His lips part, then press together, composure cracking just enough to be human.

"She looks..." He pauses, searching for a word that won't give him away. "...ready."

Alex laughs quietly beside him, arms folded, eyes bright with admiration.

"That's one way to say unfairly attractive," he teases. "I'm blaming her if I miss my braking points.”

The two of them exchange a look—shared awe, shared trouble, shared thought:

‘Yeah. She's absolutely killing it.’

Ollie is just climbing out of his car when Ocon stops beside him, nodding subtly in your direction.

"You might want to look at her asap."

The Bear laughs loudly. "She can't get more breathtaking than the first time we saw her, mate—"

He turns, sees you, promptly loses his footing, stumbling out of his car as his teammate catches him, wheezing,

"You were saying?"

The smug grin on the other driver's face says everything.

Moving along the grid we now land at Lance leaning casually against his Aston, helmet under his arm, talking to his engineer mid-sentence when he spots you. The words evaporate. His eyes shine with admiration, unguarded and fierce.

"She's unreal," he says.

A camera crew weaves through the grid, red light blinking to life on a big camera as an interviewer steps between the cars, microphone already raised.

"So, Isack, Kimi—first race on the Formula One grid," she says brightly. "Big moment. How are the nerves?"

Isack nods a little too quickly. "Yeah—uh—good. Really good. I mean—nerves are, you know, normal. Very normal."

Kimi smiles, ready to save him. "We've worked really hard for this and—"

And then you move.

Just a small shift. A turn of your shoulders. The light catches the blue of your suit again.

Isack's sentence dies halfway through. "I—sorry—what was the question?"

Kimi blinks, gaze flicking past the interviewer before snapping back, cheeks warm. "The nerves," she repeats faintly. "We were talking about the nerves. Which are—uh—manageable. Very manageable."

The interviewer glances between them, amused. "Everything okay?"

Isack laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Yeah. Just—uh—there's a lot happening on the grid today."

He clears his throat, eyes betraying him as they wander back to you. "Very... dynamic environment."

Kimi exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Sorry," he admits, composure cracking. "It's just—wow." He winces, realizing she's said it out loud. "I mean—first race. Overwhelming."

The interviewer follows their line of sight and smirks knowingly. "Right. That overwhelming."

Isack straightens, attempting professionalism. "She—" He stops himself, coughs. "The—uh—competition is strong."

Kimi nods far too enthusiastically. "Incredibly strong. Especially—" he pauses, swallows. "Yeah. Especially today."

The interviewer lowers the mic just a fraction, laughing. "Well. Best of luck to both of you."

As the camera light clicks off, Isack lets out a breath. "We are never living that down."

Kimi groans. "I forgot my own name."

And then there's Lewis. Another interviewer standing in-front of him mic uncomfortably close to his mouth "what problems do you think you will face while adjusting to Ferrari?"

He smiles before answering "well I don't quite have an answer for that yet but I'll get back to you when I find out—"

Lewis eyes finally catch you completely forgetting the interviewer standing right infront of him. His smile is slow, knowing, almost indulgent.

"Ah," he hums. "So that's the problem of today."

A slow smile pulls at his lips as he shakes his head. "Dangerous," he mutters fondly. "Very dangerous." Nothing but certainty. You're going to be a problem today — for everyone.

The other Ferrari driver was no better. Charles spots you and lets out a soft, helpless laugh, the kind that comes when something beautiful feels deeply inconvenient. His gaze lingers with open affection, eyes warm and a little ruined, He tilts his head, lips curving as he adjusts his gloves, composure intact but thinner than before.

"So," he murmurs, half to himself, half to the universe, "this is how you plan to distract the grid." His eyes meet yours for a fleeting second, bright with something tender and teasing. "Bonne chance to us both..." he adds gently "most especially to me."

And you just stood there at the very back P-Last—calm, radiant, absolutely lethal in light blue.

With the grid walk underway, you assumed you'd be overlooked back here, tucked away at the rear. You rose slightly onto your toes, squinting toward the front, watching interviews unfold—Max and Lando, Lewis and Kimi, Oscar and Alonso, even Yuki and Isack—your heart slowing as you convinced yourself you were safe.

Then the media turned.

You were mid-squint when your eyes widened in horror—the once-static wall of cameras suddenly breaking into motion, sprinting straight toward you. You instinctively stepped back, turning to flee, only to be stopped by your media manager's firm grip on your shoulders. You glanced back at her just in time to catch her smile—the sharp, dangerous kind that clearly said don't even think about it.

A quiet whimper slipped from you as the microphones and lenses closed in. Media duties was, without question, your least favorite part of racing.

Across the grid, every driver's attention followed the sudden surge of movement. Heads turned in unison, some straining harder than others—Max, Lando, Oscar weaving slightly just to catch a glimpse. What they saw made them soften instantly.

There you were—mortified, trying to hide behind your faintly exasperated media manager, brows knit in worry, teeth biting gently at your bottom lip. Your cheeks bloomed a delicate pink under the attention, only adding to how adorably undone you looked.

The Grid boys watched with mixed reactions. Amusement. Sympathy. Affection. A dangerous amount of fondness.

The media swarm descended like a tide, cameras clicking, microphones thrust forward, voices overlapping in a buzz you couldn't quite follow. Your stomach did somersaults. Okay, breathe. You can do this. You've survived worse... kind of.

Yuki elbowed Pierre, voice low. "Poor thing, huh?"

Pierre's eyes were glued to you. "I'd save her," he muttered, barely audible, "but my media manager would have my head before I even reached her."

Yuki's lips twitched in a smirk. "Yeah, same. Except I might... forget about the manager entirely. She's ridiculously cute. And somehow... impossible not to watch."

Pierre snorted softly. "Mate chill, Your basically vibrating with 'I must rescue her immediately.'"

Yuki's jaw tightened as he stared at you from across the swarm, muttering, "must protecc."

Pierre's expression softened, a hint of awe threading through his annoyance. "Oh to be a knight in shining armor right now."

Meanwhile, Jack and Franco had pushed their way closer to you, pretending to be interviewers with their hands gripping invisible microphones angled like playful weapons.

Jack leaned in, grin wide and teasing. "So... feisty lady from the docks, huh? The one who apparently fights like a hurricane?"

Franco added, mock-serious, brow raised. "And didn't you say — and I quote — 'you better watch your backs, I'm coming for your asses'?"

Your eyes went wide. You leaned toward them instinctively, lowering your voice even as a nervous laugh escaped. "SHH—don't tell them that!"

Then, squaring your shoulders just a fraction, you added quickly, "I mean—I am gonna kick your asses. I stand by it. Just... maybe not now?"

Jack laughed, delighted. "See? She's terrified—and yet she's still threatening us."

Franco beamed. "Honestly, that's the scariest kind."

With Jack and Franco flanking you like chaotic bodyguards, the noise didn't feel quite as crushing. You were still nervous—still very aware of the cameras—but they made it bearable.

Up front, Max, Lando, and Oscar watched.

Max exhaled softly, a low laugh slipping through his helmet as he toyed absently with his gloves. "Almost annoys me she's not closer," he muttered, voice casual, but his eyes never leaving you. "I can't even see her properly from here."

Lando snorted, leaning forward just slightly. "From back here, it's like we don't exist in her world. Simply can't bear the thought of not being close to her." It sounded like a joke but truly it was not.

Oscar, quiet as always, shook his head, though the corner of his mouth twitched in subtle acknowledgment. "She's in P21," he said evenly, but the words didn't hide the slight edge in his tone. "That's quite far away.."

Max smirked, glancing toward him, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Still makes her interesting, doesn't it? Porsche wouldn't throw someone into an F1 seat this fast if they weren't worth watching. Worth worrying about."

Lando raised a brow, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Mate, unless I'm lapping her, she's not showing up in my mirrors. But I'd be lying if I said I'm not curious how long she'd last if we were wheel-to-wheel."

Max huffed a quiet laugh, tilting his head just enough to look at him. "Careful with that confidence," he said lightly. "Because if she ends up overtaking you instead, I'm never letting you hear the end of it."

Lando scoffed. "Yeah, yeah."

Max's smirk deepened. "I'm serious. I'll be laughing all the way to parc fermé."

From beside them, Oscar stayed quiet—but he noticed it. The pause. The certainty beneath Max's teasing. The way Max wasn't joking so much as predicting.

His fingers tightened around his gloves.

Because Max didn't say things like that unless part of him believed they could come true.

The Aussie slowly placed his gloves on, fingers flexing inside them as he thought back to your words from earlier right before the parade. "Your driving intrigues me."

It was a simple phrase, but it unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He clenched his jaw slightly, irritation and admiration tangled together in a way he hadn't expected. His chest tightened, mind churning with unspoken questions: how fast, were you, how smart were you, how dangerous were you? And why was he suddenly paying so much attention?

Max's laugh cut through his thoughts, light, teasing, a challenge in his tone. "You're quiet, Oscar. Scared she's going to embarrass you from P21?"

Oscar's eyes flicked back to the track, but for a fraction of a second, a corner of his mouth lifted, betraying him. — letting the thought linger, letting the tension build. "I don't plan on making it easy for her to pass me, even from p21."

————

As the final notes of the national anthem faded, Lewis leaned in close to you, brushing slightly against your shoulder. "Now that everyone's done standing stiff as boards, let's take a few selfies," he whispered, voice low and warm. "I want to be the first to feature you." He winked.

You blinked, cheeks warming. "Pardon?"

He bent slightly so his head was near yours, lips almost brushing your ear. "You do look wonderful," he murmured, teasing yet sincere. "All nerves and focus aside... you've got this calm, unstoppable energy."

A soft laugh escaped you, and your fingers brushed his as he lifted the phone. "Trust me I'm vibrating from the sheer nerves right now." He angled it just right, catching the sun glinting off the edge of your helmet and the sharp blue of your suit. Peace signs went up instinctively, and he pressed the shutter.

"Hold that," he whispered, smirking. "One more."

You smirked back, teasing. "You're just here for the clout, aren't you?" You joke as if he weren't the 7 world champion title holder between the both of you.

"Maybe a little," he admitted, voice low, eyes sparkling. "But mostly to make sure you get the clout you deserve."

You were quick to pull a goofy pose.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm gonna caption it like, 'Look who's making P21 look dangerous.'"

You rolled your eyes, laughing nervously. "Careful, I Don't want to give them expectations before the race even starts."

Lewis leaned just a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours. "I call it pre-race intimidation. And trust me... it works."

You nodded, heart racing, still grinning. "As long as it doesn't distract me while driving, I suppose I can allow it."

He snapped one last quick selfie, one where he was poking your cheek, and slipped the phone back into his pocket. "Perfect," he murmured. "Now... go show them what happens when someone underestimates P21."

After the anthem, ten minutes remained until the formation lap.

Balaclava on. Helmet on. Visor down. Each layer pressed against your skin, tight but protective, muffling the outside world while sharpening your focus. The slight scratch of fabric against your jaw, the snug weight around your forehead—it all felt like armor.

Patricia caught your eye from the pit wall, a small nod carrying enough faith to steady your heartbeat. That single look was enough to remind you why you were here, why you had fought to be here.

You slid into your car, the cockpit swallowing you in its familiar embrace. Your hands brushed against the wheel, the familiar textured of its material firm beneath your fingers. Pedals pressed beneath your boots with perfect resistance; the scent of warm rubber and faint oil reminded you of every practice lap, every hour of preparation.

Engineers moved around you with synchronized precision. Tire blankets were peeled back with controlled efficiency, and your head engineer saluted—a small, proud gesture reflected in your visor. You gave a curt nod back, letting the signal pass silently: ready.

The engine roared to life beneath you, a vibration that rattled through your spine, rattled your teeth, pulsed in your fingertips. The growl was alive, electric, almost impatient, and you could feel it resonating with your own racing heartbeat. The car and you became one: two engines of focus and power, coiled and tense.

Formation lap starts—

Turn one. Steady.

Breath in. Breath out.

The tires hummed against the asphalt, tiny ridges catching the heat and pressure. Brakes were firm beneath your boots, ready to react to your touch. Every movement of your hands translated directly to the car's response, every nerve ending alert. The Radio cackles as your head engineers voice greets you.

"Radio check."

"I hear you."

"How's the car feel?"

"Car feels perfect."

Patricia's voice joined, calm and grounding through the static.

"Goo to hear, but how are you feeling, dear?”

"Like I'm going to puke," you admitted, letting a nervous laugh escape, tasting the faint metallic tang of adrenaline.

"That means you're doing something right. Now, you want some sappy encouragement my dear?"

You smile softly under your helmet. "… fuck yeah, I thought you’d never ask."

Patricia Chuckles. "You're special. It's time the world sees it.... remember just—.."

"Just... race," you whispered back, tightening your grip on the wheel, feeling the subtle pulse of the engine beneath your palms.

Formation lap ends without a hitch as you guid your car into your grid slot p21, hearing the tiny clicks of the gearbox and the hiss of cooling fluids.

The world contracted.

Everything narrowed: breath, engine rumble, heartbeat, the faint vibration of fuel pumping, the warmth of the sun on your gloves. The roar of the crowd became distant thunder, cameras flashed like intermittent lightning, and the scent of hot tires, oil, and asphalt wrapped around you. Every sense was heightened, every nerve taut with anticipation.

A flash of crimson seared into your vision, hot and scalding, demanding every ounce of your focus.

One of the start lights glowed in the distance

Then another click-

Red.

The red flare reflected off the edges of your visor, glinting across the sleek curves of the car, sharp and blinding. Then another light followed.

Red.

Seconds stretched, unyielding and heavy, each one suspended in a heartbeat that seemed to last forever. Another light was on.

Red.

All you could see, all you could feel, was red.

Red.

A quiet whisper rose from your throat, barely audible over the engine's growl:

"Three."

"Two."

"One."

Red.

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Authors Note: as I mentioned in the previous chapter, the story is moving quite slowly but I assure you I will try to do a few more time skips so we aren’t just stuck in the first states of her race career! Lemme know your thoughts and comments. Thank you for reading have a nice day :)))

Hope y’all enjoy the next chapter, it’s finally gonna be race timEeeee

xoxo- Victoria

PS: bro I just cleaned the fuck outta my room and I’m immensely proud!

Taglist: @lottie810 @malphaspeverii @hlmzsbl @hlydia111 @retiredpieceofshits @prodbysainz @catswag22 @pharmasennapuff @teenagetoadghostwobbler @pacifymebby @b-rly @pinkastri @cl0u-dy @thegothamsiren @miellette @midnigt-leo

Episode # 5

: { Blame The Weather }

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Synopsis:

Right after the parade, our dear reader is now faced with one “tiny” problem, causing her to internally combust, no matter! Your grid boys are here to provide you every ounce of comfort you need!

Pairings:

Various F1 Grid x You

Warnings:

None, just super fluffy and very very flirty scenes!

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If you haven't read the past chapters I suggest reading it to avoid any confusion as it is a direct continuation of the previous chapters here’s a link to the list! :))

{ Full Chapter List }

Happy Reading!

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The roar of the crowd didn't stop all at once — it bled away in stages, cheers dissolving into echoes as the parade float rolled into the docking area. The adrenaline that had been holding you upright finally began to loosen its grip, leaving behind a jittery, buzzing quiet. Overhead lights hummed softly, sterile and bright, a sharp contrast to the riot of color and sound you'd just left behind.

Your thoughts, once neatly lined up like a grid of cars waiting for lights out, were now scattered in every direction.

Lando's laughter still rang faintly in your ears. The rookies buzzed around like shaken soda cans, somehow still vibrating with energy after waving nonstop for half an hour. And you were somewhere between ascension and cardiac arrest — smiling, overwhelmed, slightly dizzy, and absolutely failing at keeping your brain from short-circuiting.

Carlos stretched his neck beside you, still rubbing at one ear as if the sound had physically assaulted him. He glanced toward the direction of the crowd, eyes wide, before breaking into a crooked grin.

"Well," he said dryly, blinking like he'd been personally attacked by your tsunami of new fans, "that was certainly something."

George followed the Spaniard down the float, hopping off with a graceful spin before turning back to help you down — only to freeze.

Because Max was already there.

Hand extended. Smug smile firmly in place.

George's jaw tightened. He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like bloody menace, then stalked off in the opposite direction, clearly swearing to make his move another time.

Max, naturally, didn't bother acknowledging your English gentleman melting down in the distance.

His focus was entirely on you.

The moment your hand slid into his, warmth wrapping around your fingers, the world narrowed just a little. When your shoes finally hit the ground, he didn't let go. Didn't even loosen his grip. Instead, his gaze dropped to your hand in his — your fingers trembling ever so slightly.

One brow lifted.

A slow, knowing grin curved his lips.

"You're shaking."

His blue eyes flicked to your face, locking onto yours pupils, sharp and unreadable and far too close.

He leaned in, voice lowered, soft but thick with amusement. "Were the fans really that overwhelming?" His head tilted, teasing. "Or—" his thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, "are you getting scared now?"

A pause.

"That would be a shame," he murmured. "I was looking forward to a battle."

Your breath hitched — partly from the closeness, partly from the way embarrassment curled warm in your stomach. The parade should've left behind nothing but exhilaration, but instead it dissolved into a storm of nerves and butterflies.

Because suddenly—, a single realization replayed in your head.

You winced.

You forgot one teenie, tiny, minor detail...

You missed qualifying.

And not the cute "oops I ran late because I lost track of time" kind.

More like: "a literal typhoon decided to cosplay as a clingy ex and block all airplanes from leaving your country which caused you to miss qualifying... and free practice one.. two....... And three." Kind.

Talk about Perfect timing.

And sure, you were used to being late — chronically, unapologetically late — but this time it wasn't your fault. Mother Nature choosing  your debut weekend to unleash a typhoon wasn't exactly something anyone could pencil into their calendar, all you could do was silently crash out while being trapped in an airport miles away while free practice and qualifying went on without you.

Porsche HQ had lit your phone up like a slot machine with notifications, each one containing some variation of:

What happened? Where are you? PLEASE ANSWER. your family, Patricia, engineers, logistics, PR, strategist, the weather department—possibly even your dentist. Who knew anymore. Messaging you like it was the end of the world.

You could still hear Patricia's disappointed sigh echoing in your skull when you called her to explain.

"You're a magnet for disaster, my dear."

"Maybe call Zeus and tell him to fuck off with his thunder...?" you had stiffly offered, fighting back a pained laugh.

Patricia didn't laugh. She spun on her heels and marched straight to the FIA, heels clicking a death sentence as she begged—no, demanded—that you be cleared to race.

You didn't sleep a wink on the plane. Not when the fate of your first race hung in the balance.

When you finally landed, she was waiting, tapping her foot so aggressively you feared it might crack the pavement, she'd dragged you off the jet bridge and, with strength of a woman who had not slept in 48 hours and was running purely on rage and coffee, shoved you into a van for a meeting with race officials.

The meeting with the race director was a blur. You vaguely remembered nodding, apologizing, and trying not to fall asleep upright. Honestly all you could feel at the time was pure exhaustion and frustration.

It took everything in you to hold back a snarky remark that might have been something like "the fuck you want me to do turn into a god and control the weather?"

Despite this, with the fluorescent lights shining down on your tired face, and prayers whispered into your sleeve.

—somehow,

miraculously, you got the green light.

You could race.

Back of the grid... but still on it.

P-Last

Not ideal. But hey— at least you weren't missing your debut.

It was a win in its own way.

"Earth to little troublemaker," Alex laughed as he shook your shoulders, snapping you back to reality. He was one of the few who knew about you before your surprise livestream debut, and he immediately picked up on your expression and connected the dots fast.

He laughed, recognizing the exact expression of someone realizing they'd be starting at the complete back of the grid.

"You're realizing it now, huh?" he teased. "Starting from dead last?" As he draped himself over you like an emotional support scarf. (You clearly needed one)

Your face crumpled with the realization, equal parts shock and despair. Alex found it utterly adorable, coaxing a softly laugh of endearment to find its way out. "Cheer up, sweetheart. Start the season with a bang, yeah? Imagine the headlines if you pull off something insane."

Curious George, who'd pretended not to listen but definitely was, frowned.

"What're you two on about?"

Alex turned to the brit, all too thrilled to share your suffering, tightened his hold on you. "If any of you guys noticed she was not here Friday AND Saturday, meaning this little lady right here missed quali. Our girl is P-last."

Your nose scrunched. A pathetic little whine slipped out of you a noise that could only be described as a deflating balloon of despair. —a sound that made several drivers freeze.

"Why me..."

Several drivers stared. You sounded heartbreakingly cute—

... And  mildly concerning, but cute nonetheless

George practically teleported over to you, sliding his hand to the small of your back to pull you toward him.

"Don't worry, darling. You'll be brilliant, Starting last just means you get to make a dramatic entrance. Very main-character."

His voice was so gentle it made Alex roll his eyes behind your head.

Oscar snorted at George's comment "I'm pretty sure she's already made a dramatic entrance considering what we just witnessed in the parade."

Alex laughed at this "Drivers parade? More like simp parade."

Lando joined the growing circle, arms folded, an incredulous smile tugging at his lips. "How did you even manage to miss half a race weekend?"

Oscar leaned in too, brow raised just as curious as the rest of the grid.

Still clinging to Alex like a limp tree branch, you pouted.

"I didn't miss it on purpose! A damn typhoon trapped me, I swear Mother Nature is out to get me, I bet it’s because I forgot to water my plant before I left.”

Lando laughed at your odd but cute hypothesis. He genuinely felt bad about your situation but also saw it as a chance for a free hug. "Oof... rough… Well— if it makes you feel better" he held out his arms, a smug look being thrown to the Thai driver that was currently hugging you.

"I definitely give better hugs than Alex."

You instantly moved into his arms, because who would reject a hug from Lando?

He puffed proudly, chin resting lightly on your head as he muttered into your locks.

"Show these muppets how it's done."

Behind him, Alex gasped.

"Hey I wasn't done!"

You mumbled miserably into his papaya colored hoodie "actually they... almost made me start from pit lane. Patricia fought tooth and nail just to get me on the grid."

Your voice rumbled through him—Lando's cheeks turned pink as he felt the vibrations as he hugged you tighter, absolutely refusing to make eye contact with Oscar, who was most certainly staring holes into his back.

Carlos eyebrows shot up, he then crossed his arms. "Of course they did."

He leaned closer, voice dropping. "If they ever give you unfair penalties, come to me, cariño." He gently patted your head, warm and protective. "I will fight for you."

Lifting your head from Lando's chest to look at the Spaniard, His fingers brushed your hair, gentle, comforting. You melted just a bit.

"Now, as cute as you look with a pout, I much prefer to see your smile."

Your face erupted in pink as you huffed out a straggled noise as you burried your face back into Lando's chest. You then murmured a shy "thank you Carlos."

He was quick to chuckle at your shyness as he gave you one last pat on the head.

"cute."

"As your newly appointed grid father," Alonso added, chiseling a superhero pose as he pointed to you, "I support this child."

A successful attempt to make you laugh.

Nico nodded firmly, adding "we'll back you up, Go out there and kick ass, kid." as he too struck a superhero pose, causing several of the rookies to laugh at the two uncs antics.

Their words bolstered you — warmth pooling in your chest, spreading slow and sweet, wrapping around your ribs like a held breath finally released. The nerves didn't vanish, but they loosened, softened by the way everyone stood a little closer, spoke a little gentler, looked at you like you belonged here.

Confidence stirred.

You suddenly sprang upright like a malfunctioning toaster, nearly bumping into Alex as you thrust a finger dramatically toward the rest of the rookies.

"Watch out, rookies!" you declared, voice bright and bold. "You're eating my dust! I'm coming for your asses!"

The reaction was instant.

Several of them jumped — shoulders jolting, startled laughs slipping out before they could stop themselves.

Ollie barked out a laugh, shaking his head as he glanced between you and Isaack. "Did you just jump Isaack? She's too cute to be terrifying, mate."

Isaack snapped back immediately, ears already turning pink. "I didn't jump!"

"You absolutely jumped," Ollie said, grinning.

"You jumped too!"

"No idea what you're talking about," Ollie replied smoothly, hands raised — the picture of innocence.

Jack leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief. "He one hundred percent jumped."

Franco smirked, crossing his arms as he studied Isaack. "Bro," he said, amused, "you're like twice her height."

Isaack groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You're all piling on me when every single one of you jumped like little girls too!!”

You planted your hands on your hips, chin tipping up just slightly — a deliberate move. A challenge. You caught the way a few of them stilled, attention locking onto you despite themselves.

"I'm terrifying," you insisted.

Kimi drifted closer, unhurried, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth as he stopped just inside your space. He looked down at you, eyes bright with something playful — something intrigued.

"Not really feeling the scare factor right now, shortcake," he said lightly, lightly squaring his shoulders, trying to look taller.

Before you could respond, Gabi chimed in, glancing between the two of you. "You're barely taller than her, Kimi."

A ripple of laughter passed through the group.

You narrowed your eyes at the Italian boy, a slow smile tugging at your lips.

Then you stepped closer.

Close enough that Kimi's grin faltered — just a fraction. Close enough that he had to straighten instinctively, shoulders squaring as you entered his space without hesitation. Heat crept up his neck, blooming pink along his ears as his eyes flicked down to you, then back up again.

You lifted a finger and pressed it lightly into his chest.

Not hard.

Not aggressive.

Intentional.

"You'll feel it," you said quietly, voice low and steady almost sultry, confidence curling through every word, "when I overtake you."

For half a second, Kimi forgot how to breathe.

His lips parted — then closed. A laugh escaped him, but it was different now, softer, surprised, just a touch flustered as his cheeks darkened.

"...Okay," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes lingering on you far longer than before. "That was—" he cleared his throat, "yeah. Point taken."

Isaack made a strangled noise. "Oh gosh yeah no I won't be okay if she keeps this up.”

Jack stared. "Yeah, no, I don't like what she just did there."

Franco wheeze a bit. "Guys were doomed she's only been using 10% of her power on us"

Ollie whispered to Gabi "that was hot" with the Brazilian nodding frantically "I want my turn" as his eyes followed the way you stood there — calm, composed, completely unbothered by the effect you'd just had. He scoffed under his breath, folding his arms, possibly jealous of the way Kimi got said treatment.

You stepped back, satisfied, lips curved into a small, knowing smile — not smug, not shy. Confident.

The kind that lingered.

The kind that made the air feel warmer.

The teasing wasn't just playful anymore.

It was charged.

Maybe starting from the back wasn't going be so bad.

A deep chuckle came from behind you.

Max.

"That's my girl."

The words landed warm and solid, like a hand to your back when the ground felt unsteady. His voice was low, amused — but there was something else threaded through it now. Pride. Familiarity. Certainty.

You turned just as he reached you.

His hand settled on your head, slow and deliberate, fingers splaying gently through your hair. Not rushed. Not careless. Like he had all the time in the world. The warmth of his palm lingered, thumb brushing absentmindedly near your temple as if he'd done this a hundred times before.

You let out a small, indignant grumble, half protest, half contentment.

"Hey—"

He smiled wider.

Not smug this time. Soft.

"She's getting her edge back," he said, eyes crinkling as he looked at you — really looked at you — like he was taking stock, like he liked what he saw. He nudged Kimi with his shoulder without ever taking his hand off you. "Feel that? The hunger for battle. It's radiating off her."

Kimi laughed, but you barely heard it.

Max's gaze dipped, just briefly, catching the way you were still standing tall, chin lifted, confidence glowing faintly under the teasing. His thumb brushed once more through your hair — grounding, reassuring.

"Good," he murmured, quieter now, meant only for you. "Stay like this, it's when you're at your best."

Your heart skipped — stupidly, traitorously.

Kimi, grinning, reached out and set his hand on your head too, copying Max's motion. "Yeah," he said lightly. "I can feel the battle aura."

"Oiii," you whined, finally swatting weakly at them, cheeks warm. "I get it, I'm smiling — you can stop nowww, my hAirrrr."

Max laughed, low and fond, but his hand lingered a second longer than necessary before he finally pulled it back. When he did, his fingers brushed down the side of your head, almost a caress, before falling away.

"Don't lose that smile before lights out," he added, voice softer again. "I want to see it when you're carving through the field."

Like it was a given.

Like he had no doubt you would.

Kimi, unfortunately, chose that moment to mumble under his breath, "...Your hair is soft..."

You blinked. "Pardon?"

Panic.

"Soft—uh—tires," he blurted. "Great grip."