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Statistically, Cabo Verde wasn’t supposed to be here.
And yet… here they are.
The World Cup always gives us one story we’ll never forget. 🇨🇻⚽
Somewhere in Cabo Verde, kids who never thought they’d see their flag in a World Cup knockout match are getting ready to watch their country face Argentina.
Now an entire nation gets to dream for 90 more minutes.
I see no one is calling the English xenophobic , they were burning the homes of people they believe are illegally in the UK just yesterday.
i just think demanding SA be removed from the WC because they are removing undocumented immigrants from here in attempts to rectify the economic state yet allowing Israel to participate in qualis and friends is beyond me….
wave the flag of morality but allowing rapists & child porn distributors into national teams? cut the cameras immediately.
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So like the FANTASTIC law student I am, I was doing my reasearch and one thing led to another and she is PRAISING and GLAZING Drake, standing behind the Dj booth and all that and she was in deep hey. But idk her from a bar of soap so like....
Does this not just count as me stalking tho? And it's not even out of jealousy. Imagine being jealous time mosetsana yo is just not making sense🧍🏽♀️
Long story short, last year, my last year in high school got HECTIC and I basically used the whole of December and January to catch up on all the relaxation I lost. Now, I'm in uni and studying LLB (KILL ME) and yoh I'm already tired. It's been 2 months.
Maybe I'll come back to writing for F1 but lowkey... I wanna also do football now but I'm scared so like 🧍🏽♀️
I wanna do my black queens well so I will be taking a break from doing the drivers as fathers and tap into my South African melaninated skin and share it with yall or whatever.
For everyone who was checking in on me during the year, thank you. That drama I got involved in was a waste of my keyboard time so yeah. I am POSSIBLY back, I'm not too sure but I need something to take off my stress from watching F1 and Sunderland play in Prem.
I also think yall deserve better quality to read and not the slop I was posting so I am gonna work on that too. Now lowkey, yall can ask for footballers too, SMAU but eish, nothing too much yeah?
Exam stress is something Lily and Oscar never want to see from their daughter. So they do what they can. They help her.
The house was quiet — not peaceful, but tense.
Upstairs, the only sound was the furious scratch of a pen on paper, the occasional frustrated sigh, and the muffled thud of a textbook being slammed shut.
Y/n Piastri-Zneimer sat hunched over her desk, hair piled into a messy bun, eyes darting over formulas and facts that refused to stick. Her room looked like a war zone — colour-coded notes scattered across her bed, flashcards stuck on the wall like battle plans, and a half-finished mug of tea that had gone cold hours ago.
It was exam season. The final exam season.
The one that decided her future.
University applications were around the corner, and her grades this year would carry the most weight. And though Y/n had always been a steady, self-motivated student, the pressure had started pressing in on all sides like a slow tide. Her highlighters were running dry. Her sleep was inconsistent. And she hadn’t smiled — not really — in days.
Oscar had noticed.
So had Lily.
They had heard the small, tired voice from behind her door whenever they checked in. Had seen her rubbing her temples at breakfast, eyes still glazed over from late-night revision. Oscar had even found her dozing off on the couch with her physics notes stuck to her cheek one evening after a study break turned nap.
That night, as Lily stirred pasta in the kitchen and Oscar leaned against the counter with a quiet frown, they exchanged a look.
“She’s going to burn out,” Lily said softly, voice laced with concern.
Oscar nodded. “I keep telling her to take a break, but she won’t listen. Says she doesn’t have time.”
“Then maybe we make the time for her.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Operation Parental Intervention?”
Lily smiled. “Exactly.”
It started small the next morning.
Oscar brought her breakfast in bed — toast, berries, and a soft-boiled egg with a silly little smiley face drawn in sharpie.
Y/n blinked at the tray. “Dad… what’s this?”
He shrugged casually. “Brain fuel. Straight from the Piastri pit crew. You’re the car, exams are the race, and you can’t win if you don’t refuel.”
Y/n laughed softly despite herself. “That was so cheesy.”
“I aim to please.”
Later that afternoon, Lily walked into Y/n’s room with a stack of hot chocolate, fluffy socks, and a candle that smelled like vanilla and old libraries.
“Okay,” she said, clapping her hands. “Five-minute breathing session, followed by a twenty-minute reset walk with your very stylish mum. No negotiation.”
“But I have—”
“Y/n.”
Y/n looked up and saw the gentleness in her mum’s eyes. The kind that didn’t push too hard, just held space. Slowly, she closed her textbook.
“…Fine. But only because I’m starting to smell like exam stress.”
They walked around the neighbourhood, talking about everything but school — their dog barking at leaves, the colour of the sunset, how Lily once fell off a Segway in front of a busload of tourists.
And just like that, some of the weight fell off Y/n’s shoulders.
But the big move came the next evening.
Y/n was hitting a breaking point with her maths exam. Graphs and derivatives blurred together, and nothing made sense. Her hands trembled from too much caffeine. Her chest was tight.
“Stupid curve,” she muttered, eyes burning. “I don’t get it, I just… don’t get it.”
A knock sounded on her door.
Oscar poked his head in. “Hey, I need you for something.”
“Dad, I’m really not—”
“Y/n.”
She sighed, standing reluctantly.
But when she followed him downstairs, she blinked in confusion.
The living room had been transformed.
A blanket fort — a giant one — took over the couch, twinkly lights draped along the top like constellations. A projector lit the wall with her favorite movie’s opening scene. Popcorn sat in a bowl shaped like a racing helmet. On the floor was a handwritten sign:
“NO EXAMS ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT.”
Lily popped her head out from under the fort flap. “Come on in, Professor. Time to shut off that brain.”
Y/n stared, eyes wide. Then she let out a choked laugh.
“You guys are ridiculous.”
Oscar beamed. “And you love it.”
She crawled inside, curling up between them under a mountain of pillows. Her hand found Oscar’s and squeezed.
“Thanks, Dad.”
He squeezed back. “One page at a time, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
That night, after the movie ended and Y/n had fallen asleep against her mum’s shoulder — breathing finally even and calm — Oscar looked down at her peaceful face and smiled.
She’d be okay.
Because she didn’t have to carry the pressure alone.
Not when she had them in her corner, cheering her on — no matter the grade, no matter the result.
Just like he’d always wanted to be for her.
Another piece of work done :)
I'm heading to bed now. I can't wake up upset or anything or I'll miss the bus, since I have school and all.
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i have an exam tomorrow so i was thinking can you write oscar and lily daughter who have an exam and she is stressing about it and both oscar and lily help her?
Heyyy :)
Don't say too much, I got you babes.
Also don't get me started on exam stress. DEATH OF ME!!! My exams start in the next two weeks but the pressure?!?!? Unbearable.
The saying "The apple doesn't fall from the tree" has never been so clear every time Lando had his daughter at the paddock.
If there was one thing everyone in the Formula 1 paddock knew about Y/n Norris, it was this:
She had two modes:
A full-on, sugar-fueled tornado of giggles and squeaky Crocs.
Fast asleep, dead to the world, in the strangest places imaginable.
It was an uncanny talent passed down from her father — Lando Norris — who had once been caught napping in a tire blanket during a rain delay. The drivers never let him live it down. Now, his daughter had taken the title of "Grid’s Best Sleeper" and turned it into an Olympic sport.
It was a typical race weekend — sunny skies, fans screaming, engines revving — and Y/n was zipping around the McLaren hospitality like she owned the place.
“Y/n, slow down before you crash into someone’s knee!” Lando called, only mildly concerned as he watched her zoom past with a cookie in one hand and a mini helmet in the other.
“Can’t catch me, Daddy!” she yelled gleefully before darting behind the coffee station.
Lando chuckled, sipping his drink. “She gets it from my mum. Swear.”
Oscar Piastri, walking by, raised an eyebrow. “Mate, she gets it from you. That kid has your energy — and your lack of an off-switch.”
“Please,” Lando snorted, “I have an off-switch.”
“Yeah. And it kicks in when you sit still for more than three minutes.”
They both laughed.
Twenty minutes later, chaos ensued.
Y/n had somehow made her way to the Mercedes motorhome, where George Russell found her sitting cross-legged in a chair, asking his engineer questions about the buttons on the steering wheel.
“She was very curious,” George said to Lando later, “and alarmingly knowledgeable about DRS.”
Then, when Carlos Sainz tried to lift her off the ground to return her to McLaren, she announced she was “on a scientific mission” and couldn’t leave.
Eventually, Charles Leclerc found her trying to get Leo, his dachshund, to talk to her like a human.
And then… silence.
Which, for Y/n, was unusual.
Too quiet.
“Where is she?” Lando asked suddenly, looking up from his tablet.
Oscar looked around. “She was literally here five seconds ago.”
A paddock-wide Y/n Hunt™ began — which, by now, was just part of race weekend tradition.
Max Verstappen checked under tables. Alex Albon opened a cupboard in the Williams hospitality. Jack Doohan searched behind one of the team trucks. Even Sebastian Vettel, visiting that weekend, chuckled and joined the search.
Until finally, Isack Hadjar found her.
In the Red Bull simulator room.
Asleep.
On the fake car.
Her small body was curled up neatly in the seat of the sim, one hand still loosely gripping the steering wheel like a tiny future world champion. Her mouth was slightly open, drool starting to threaten the upholstery. Her mini McLaren cap had slipped over her eyes.
Isack took a photo.
Then another.
Then texted Lando:
Isack 🥖: “Found her. She’s napping in Max’s sim. 😂”
Lando 🧡: “Classic. Be there in 2.”
When Lando arrived, he stepped into the room and paused.
His little girl — his firecracker, his chaos monster — completely knocked out in the Red Bull simulator like it was her crib.
He bent down, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead. “You wore yourself out, didn’t you, baby?”
She stirred, mumbled something about cookies and “being the fastest,” then went right back to sleep.
Oscar peeked over his shoulder and whispered, “She’s going to run the grid one day.”
Lando smiled, eyes soft. “She already does.”
They didn’t wake her — no one dared.
Instead, Max, despite his initial horror, let her nap undisturbed.
“For the record,” Max told Lando, “this is the only time I’ll allow a McLaren person in my sim.”
“Appreciate it, mate,” Lando chuckled. “She’ll repay you with crumbs and glitter stickers, probably.”
Later that day, the sim was dubbed “Y/n’s Throne” by the grid group chat.
George posted a photo of her sleeping with the caption:
“Queen of Chaos, Princess of Power Naps 👑”
Lando simply added a sticker on the photo:
#LikeFatherLikeDaughter
And from that day on, a small plaque was taped inside the Red Bull simulator:
“In honour of Y/n Norris, age 5 — fastest giggle in the paddock, deepest sleeper in the world.”
Done!!
I had to add some rookie appreciation in here somehow and still make it seem normal. Onto my last request.
could you do one of landos daughter (any age!) where she takes a lot of naps like lando, and everyone on the grid find her (or her and lando) taking naps in random spots. much love!! 💕
Hi!!
Imma try and do this ASAP. I really wanna get through my requests before I go to bed but rest assured, it will be done.
With a bunch of thoughts swimming in Lewis' head, his closest person is always there to remind him that he's still himself.
Abu Dhabi Grand Prix – November 2016
Lewis had just lost the championship to Nico Rosberg.
Despite winning the race, it wasn’t enough. Nico’s consistent season had paid off. The tension in the Mercedes garage was thick, electrified with everything unspoken. Lewis had deliberately backed Nico into Vettel and Verstappen to try and salvage a last chance at the title — a move that left the team divided.
He exited the garage quietly, helmet still on, visor down, avoiding cameras, reporters, even Toto.
He didn’t need applause. He didn’t need questions.
What he needed was silence — and maybe someone who understood.
He ducked into a quiet hallway behind the Mercedes paddock, where most people wouldn’t wander. The sun was setting in Abu Dhabi, casting long orange shadows across the walls. He sat on a concrete step and finally removed his helmet, setting it beside him. Sweat clung to his curls, his jaw clenched in silence.
Everything that year had felt like a fight — not just on the track, but behind closed doors. With Nico. With the team. With fate.
He was still staring at the floor when he heard soft sneakers echoing down the hallway. He didn’t look up.
Only one person had that particular footstep — soft, uncertain, and deliberate.
“Lewis?” a voice called gently.
It was his little sister, Y/n. Sixteen, just barely done with school exams and flown in just to support him — as always.
He didn’t answer.
She spotted him hunched on the step and padded over, dropping down beside him without a word. For a moment, neither said anything.
Then, “You okay?” she asked, almost whispering.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Not really.”
She glanced at him, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her oversized Team LH hoodie — the one he gave her years ago, now soft and worn.
“They’re all cheering for him now,” Lewis said flatly. “Like I wasn’t even in this fight.”
Y/n blinked slowly. “But you were.”
He huffed. “People think I was petty for backing him into Vettel. Like I was the villain.”
“You were fighting. That’s what drivers do.”
He looked at her now — really looked. His little sister, who had grown up in his shadow, who sat on pit walls with him since she was 8, who once told reporters to back off when he lost in Brazil.
“You’re not mad at me?” he asked softly.
“For what? Trying?” she said. “You’ve been fighting since the start, Lewis. Since karting. You never gave up, not once — not even when they doubted you. Not even when Nico stopped being your friend and started being your rival.”
Lewis stared at the wall, his jaw tightening again.
“It wasn’t about the title for you,” she continued. “It was about proving you're still you. And you did.”
His throat felt thick.
“Remember when we were kids,” she said, bumping his shoulder, “and I cried when I lost the school race? You said, ‘You either win or you learn. But you don’t lose unless you quit.’”
He smiled faintly. “Sounds like something I’d say.”
She shrugged. “You still believe that?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Then today wasn’t a loss, Lewis.”
A long pause.
Finally, he let his head fall against her shoulder, quiet and heavy. She rested her head against his.
“I know it’s hard,” she whispered. “But you still have me. Always.”
He closed his eyes. “Thank you, Y/n.”
She grinned, holding out her pinky. “Swear you’ll come back and get that title next year?”
He hooked his pinky with hers. “Swear on it.”
And in that tiny quiet corner of a chaotic paddock, Lewis Hamilton remembered what mattered most — not headlines, not politics, not the points.
But love. And a sister who never stopped believing in him.
There we go :)
I hope you enjoy it, I did my best. I have two more requests that I really wan to get to before I go to bed so imma do my best.
I have a request, I don't think anyone has requested it before. The request is Lewis Hamilton (either a brother or father) comfort/fluff. I was thinking the scenario could be the brocedes situation.
Hope you have a wonderful day/evening.
Omg anon <33!!! AAAAAAHH!
Let me do this for you babes. It's nice to hear from you again :)
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Ollie never has to look too far when looking for his number one supporter as she is always willing to make sure the knows.
It had been a tough weekend for Oliver Bearman.
He sat quietly in the Prema hospitality unit after the race, elbows on his knees, race suit tied around his waist, the red top of his fireproofs clinging to his back. The result hadn’t gone the way he hoped. He’d qualified poorly, gotten tangled in traffic, and finished outside the points. Again.
He scrolled aimlessly on his phone — mostly ignoring the well-meaning texts from his engineers and trainers. His feed was filled with highlight reels… none of which included him.
And it stung.
He barely noticed when a small figure slipped through the curtain at the back of the unit, blonde hair tied in two messy pigtails, a lanyard bouncing on her chest with a badge that read: “Y/n Bearman – Paddock Guest.”
“Hi, Ollie,” she said in her soft voice.
Oliver looked up, surprised. “Y/n? What are you doing back here?”
“Mum said I could bring you a snack.”
She held out a little plastic box with grapes and two mini cookies, proudly decorated with a lopsided smiley face made from chocolate chips.
Oliver chuckled quietly. “Did you decorate these?”
She nodded. “The cookie is smiling ‘cause I wanted you to smile too.”
He gave a half-smile and set the box down, pulling her up onto his lap with a gentle grunt. She curled into him like she always did when he was younger — before the racing got serious, before the pressure.
“I didn’t do great today, Y/n,” he said finally. “Didn’t really feel like anyone was cheering.”
She looked up at him, confused. “But I was.”
Oliver blinked. “You were?”
“Always,” she said matter-of-factly. “I had your shirt on and your hat, and I made a sign. Want to know what it said?”
He nodded slowly.
“It said: ‘Go, Ollie! Even when the car is silly!’” she giggled, pleased with herself. “I waved it really big when you went past.”
His heart softened.
“You saw all the fans waving for the other drivers,” she said, resting her head against his chest. “But I waved for you. Because I’m your biggest cheerleader. Even when it’s not the best day. Even when you’re not on TV.”
Oliver tightened his arms around her.
“Thanks, monkey,” he whispered into her hair.
She pulled back, eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t have to win every race to make me proud. You just have to be you.”
He laughed. “You sound like Mum.”
“Mum got it from me,” she said confidently.
Oliver finally smiled — really smiled. The kind that reached his eyes.
He kissed the top of her head and whispered, “Then I’m winning already.”
Just a little something short and sweet since so far this week has been... hectic.
Ollie is everything coded omds!!! and also WHAT THE SIGMA IS GOING ON IN ALPINE?!?!!?
“ I asked a question. I wasn't trying to be a bitch but if you feel that way, I'll take your criticism.”
“I really didn't want to apologize and I won't lie ans say it's fully sincere to everyone I've mentioned but I am willing to swallow my pride and do so.”
both statements from you but your not “trying to be a bitch”, im not defending the people sending hate your way but are you seeing the correlation here, the secondary statement was completely unnecessary. very much not excusing rude behavior, but the tone in which you reply to things is whats causing rude behavior. people respond to harshness with more harshness and the language and tone you use is just condescending and rude.
the way in which you react to people asking genuine questions is also incredibly rude
“Does it bother you that I use the hashtag??? Is there a reason??? Also you don't have to say sorry to lessen the blow (which isn't much of a blow anyway) and do people really need to make deals to use hashtags? But apology accepted I guess...”
your tone is so incredibly defensive, instead of trying to understand where the genuine concern and questioning is coming from, you respond with hostility
authors have made their own tags for their blogs, in order to make fic search easier for people who want to read things specifically from them
My main point was that I'm not the only one who uses the tag.
I have realized that I was too harsh on the person who called me out of using the hashtag, but if the creator of the tag does not have a problem with it, why drag me for 1. Using the tag and 2. My rude response to the one user?
I get your blog is all about calling out rude bloggers, and that's fine. I'll take it as it is and move on. Nothing else could be said, and if the user who first called me out still feels hurt by my rude response, then they can always message me, I'm not going to lash out on them. Even you can if this really bothers you.
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