f1 grid (1/2) | two string bathing suit
୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri (click here for part two) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : your f1!boyfriend reacting to you showing him two strings as a bathing suit (tiktok trend - click for reference)
୨ৎ : genre : romance comedy ୨ৎ : tws : slightly suggestive ୨ৎ : word count : 2073
୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ
ᡣ𐭩 a/n : a rare wednesday post that isn't a solo story !! also i will be putting a pause on request bc my inbox is flooded, but once i have released a majority of the stories (within the next few weeks everyday there will be a new post in honor of 10k) they will open up again ty guys so much for the support <3
ʚ・max verstappen
“max,” you called from the bathroom, biting your lip to keep from laughing. “don’t freak out.”
he barely looked up from his phone. “that’s the worst way to start a sentence.”
you stepped out, deadpan. wearing… if you could even call it that… a “swimsuit” made of two threads, three knots, and maybe half a square inch of material. total. it looked like it was crocheted by a sleep-deprived spider. you posed with a straight face.
max blinked. then blinked again, slower.
“no,” he said, setting his phone down with almost religious care. “absolutely not.”
“what do you mean?” you said, fighting to keep a straight face. “it’s trendy. minimalist.”
“that’s not minimalist. that’s missing.”
you twirled, the strings shifting dangerously. “it’s high fashion.”
max stood up like he was about to perform an exorcism. “that’s not fashion. that’s barely science. you could sneeze and the whole thing would combust.”
“i think it’s cute.”
“i think it’s… illegal.”
you walked over slowly. he didn’t move, just looked absolutely offended by the garment clinging to your body with the hope and optimism of dental floss. “so… i can’t wear it on the yacht?”
he stared at you, stunned. “if you wear that on the yacht, i’m jumping into the ocean and letting nature take me.”
you burst out laughing, and he immediately buried his face in his hands. “who sold you that? who allowed this to exist?”
“i made it myself.”
his head snapped up in horror. “what.”
“yarn. patience. emotional damage.”
max grabbed the nearest towel and threw it around your shoulders like he was shielding your soul. “you need help. professional help.”
you leaned in, still grinning. “so that’s a no?”
he groaned. “i love you. but you’re grounded.”
ʚ・lewis hamilton
you stepped out slowly. wearing… well, calling it a swimsuit would be legally questionable. two strings of yarn tied together with the optimism of a third-grader’s friendship bracelet. honestly, it looked like you raided a kindergarten art bin and called it couture.
lewis lowered his sunglasses.
paused.
stared.
“be honest,” he said, slowly standing up. “did you lose a bet? or is this, like, a charity stunt i don’t know about?”
you fought to keep a straight face. “it’s my new swimsuit. do you like it?”
“do i like it?” he walked in a slow circle around you, studying it like a museum exhibit. “you look like someone gave a hamster a crochet hook and no supervision.”
“be serious.”
“oh, i am.” he waved a hand at the barely-there strings. “you’re out here dressed like a cursed macramé project.”
you pouted. “it’s artistic.”
“it’s traumatic.”
you posed dramatically. “but imagine this on the beach… champagne… sun setting…”
“yeah, and a full-blown scandal.” he crossed his arms. “you’re gonna flash everyone.”
you smirked. “so you’re saying it’s a little much?”
“i’m saying it’s one wardrobe malfunction away from me throwing my entire body over yours like a security guard.”
you grinned, stepping closer. “but you’d still let me wear it?”
he paused.
then? “yes. but only indoors. with the curtains closed. and a blanket.”
you laughed as he wrapped you up in the nearest hoodie and muttered, “i need a drink. and therapy. and maybe a glue gun.”
ʚ・george russell
you walked into the living room with the fakest innocent smile on your face and the largest box you could find on amazon. george was sitting on the couch, laptop open, looking like a ceo of something important.
“i got something for the trip,” you said sweetly.
he looked up. “that box is huge. did you order a tent?”
you beamed. “bikini.”
he blinked. “that’s not a bikini-sized box. that’s an appliance-sized box.”
you set it down and started dramatically peeling off the layers — tissue paper, unnecessary foam, even a fake ribbon — while george just watched in mild horror.
“is this an unboxing video?” he asked, deadpan. “should i film this for content? are we reviewing the manufacturer’s efficiency?”
you reached the final layer.
and pulled out the swimsuit.
or… the two lonely strings of yarn and a prayer that you were calling a swimsuit.
george stared.
and stared.
“…where’s the rest of it?” he finally asked, voice cracking ever so slightly.
“that’s it!”
he shut his laptop slowly. “that’s not it. that’s… that’s not a garment. that’s yarn.”
“it’s cute!”
“it’s nonexistent.”
you turned it around, holding it by the strings like it was a spider you weren’t sure was dead. “you don’t think it’s cute?”
he stood up like he needed to physically confront the reality of the situation. “how did you even find this? who sold it to you? did you blackmail someone? did it come with a warning label?”
“i packaged it myself.”
he blinked. “you what.”
“it’s a prank, babe.”
silence.
then, he slowly sank back onto the couch, covered his face, and mumbled, “you’re the reason i have stress dreams.”
you dropped the string bikini on his chest and smiled. “but you love me anyway.”
“i do,” he sighed. “i just… wish you loved fabric.”
ʚ・carlos sainz
carlos was lying on the bed, one arm behind his head, scrolling his phone while you rifled through your suitcase.
“i got a new swimsuit for the trip,” you said casually, pulling out a folded towel to fake wrap the "swimsuit" in.
he hummed. “another one?”
you smirked. “this one’s special.”
he turned his head just in time to see you dramatically unwrap what could only be described as two strings of yarn connected by stubbornness and delusion.
carlos sat up.
paused.
blinked.
“…dios mío.”
you fought to keep a straight face. “it’s cute, right?”
he stood up slowly, like his body was moving while his brain was buffering. “that’s not a swimsuit. that’s—that’s a trap. you wear that, and i’m fighting everyone.”
you held it up by the strings. “it’s kind of artistic.”
“it’s kind of criminal.”
you twirled it once. “it’s technically wearable.”
“it’s technically two pieces of string and a death wish.”
you laughed, tossing it onto the bed. “so you’re saying you don’t want me wearing it at the hotel pool?”
“hotel pool?” he gave you an incredulous look. “you can’t even wear that in our apartment without risking emotional damage.”
“too much?”
“i’ve seen paper towels with more coverage.”
you walked over and looped your arms around his neck, grinning. “jealous?”
he rested his forehead against yours, sighing dramatically. “no. i’m concerned. for your safety. and my blood pressure.”
you leaned in close. “you’re just mad because you know i’d steal the show.”
he kissed your cheek. “i’m mad because i know i’d get arrested for public indecency by association.”
you laughed into his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around you like a man who had just stared into the abyss.
“i’m hiding that,” he muttered. “i don’t even trust you to prank me with it again.”
ʚ・charles leclerc
“charles?” you called sweetly, stepping into the hotel room with a mischievous grin and a suspicious little shopping bag.
he glanced up from the bed, where he was sitting with his ipad and airpods, one brow raised. “yes, amour?”
“i got a swimsuit for this weekend. want to see it?”
he smiled, setting the ipad aside. “of course.”
you pulled it from the bag slowly, two strings. only strings. it might have once been a swimsuit, but now? it was a scandal waiting to happen.
charles stared.
then blinked once.
then smiled. slowly.
“mon dieu…” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “is that legal?”
“technically,” you shrugged, holding it up. “there’s a front. and a back. i kind of wish it was thinner.”
he tilted his head, eyes trailing the string in your hands with the fascination of a man watching his entire moral compass short-circuit. “and you plan to wear this in public…it's already thin enough?”
“maybe. why?”
he stood, crossing the room in three slow, measured steps. “because, chérie… if you wear that outside, i will never survive it.”
you smirked. “you hate it?”
he leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. “no,” he whispered. “i want you to wear it. but only where i can see you.”
you blinked.
“put it on,” he said, voice low, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. “let me see everything.”
you burst out laughing, hitting his chest lightly. “charles!”
he laughed too, pulling you in by the waist. “you’re evil,” he said against your neck, voice playful. “you come in here with two strings and expect me to be normal?”
“you seemed pretty into it.”
“i am,” he said shamelessly. “but mon amour… if you wear that out, i’ll have to start swinging. and i don’t want to go to jail in monaco.”
ʚ・lando norris
you stood in front of the mirror, struggling to keep a straight face as you unwrapped the tiny bag you’d stuffed the “swimsuit” into. two strings. one knot. less coverage than a shoelace.
“baaaabe,” you called sweetly. “i got a new swimsuit. wanna see?”
“yeah, sure!” lando shouted from the other room. “wait—should i come in there or—?”
you opened the door slowly, string bikini dangling from one finger like it was a precious artifact. “no need. just look.”
he turned.
froze.
squinted.
then: “what is that?!”
you fought a grin. “it’s my new bikini.”
“that’s not a bikini,” he said, already walking toward you like he needed to inspect it up close for safety reasons. “that’s—that’s a joke, right?”
you turned it around like a qvc host. “front and back. simple.”
he gaped at you. “it’s a crime scene.”
“very fashion-forward.”
“it’s barely forward! it’s not even forward-adjacent!”
you were shaking with laughter now as he waved his arms in genuine disbelief. “where did you even buy that? why did you buy that? how did they ship it? in a matchbox?!”
“i thought it’d be cute on the beach.”
he took the swimsuit carefully, like it might bite him, and held it up with two fingers. “there is more fabric in a tea bag.”
“i think you’re being dramatic.”
“i think you’re being dangerous.”
you stepped in close, resting your hands on his chest. “so you don’t want me to wear it?”
lando looked at you. then at the strings. then back at you.
“i want you to burn it.”
you grinned. “too late. i packed it.”
“i’m not letting you leave the hotel room.”
“promise?”
his jaw dropped. “you’re the worst.”
you winked. “and yet.”
he groaned into your shoulder, muttering, “i need therapy. and a one-piece. for you.”
ʚ・oscar piastri
you didn’t warn him.
you just walked into the hotel room, holding what looked like a piece of yarn with a dream. no dramatic intro, no buildup — just straight chaos.
“new swimsuit,” you said casually, tossing it onto the bed like it wasn’t about to destroy him.
oscar turned from his laptop, expression as flat and unreadable as always… until he saw it.
he stared.
blink.
longer stare.
“…that’s it?”
“that’s it.”
he sat back in the chair slowly, arms crossed. “that’s not a swimsuit.”
you raised an eyebrow. “you don’t like it?”
he took a very long pause. processing. buffering. internally screaming.
“i… don’t disapprove,” he said finally, choosing his words like they were part of a hostage negotiation. “but… i’m trying to understand where the rest of it went.”
you held it up by a single string. “it’s trendy. daring. very… cute.”
“it’s barely thread.”
you grinned. “so you do disapprove.”
he didn’t answer right away, just tilted his head, looking you up and down like he was trying to calculate structural integrity. “…if it makes you happy to wear that, then it’s fine.”
you squinted. “but you’re dying inside.”
he blinked. “a little.”
you walked closer, draping the swimsuit over his shoulder like a sash. “you don’t think i’d look hot?”
“that’s not the issue,” he said immediately, not even blinking. “the issue is physics.”
you burst out laughing, and that finally cracked a smile from him — soft, a little resigned, but full of affection.
“i trust you,” he added, voice quiet but firm. “i just… don’t trust gravity. or wind. or humanity.”
you kissed his cheek. “so private pool only?”
he nodded. “preferably with no windows.”
you leaned back, watching him eye the bikini like it was a cursed relic. “you’re kind of obsessed with me.”
he smiled again, this time without hesitation. “obviously.”
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