#f3

i just learned about arshia akhtar, the first pakistani woman to make it to f3. so now i have to talk about her!

she has been karting as a child aged 11, when she lived in riyadh, KSA, and has kept up with it now that she's based in the US. she is also a physician with an accomplished career in clinical research with academic publications! she's been funding her motorsports career herself which is SUPER impressive, we've all heard about how difficult and expensive it is! and her hard work's been paying off - she is the first (and so far, only) pakistani woman to get an FIA license. she is currently working towards her grade B license, and then eventually, the super license.

she's currently in f3, which as we know is above f1a in the feeder series ladder (and that's why we haven't seen here there). it speaks to her talent that she's made it this far while juggling a full time job, and i cannot wait to see the heights she reaches in the future. i'm genuinely so so proud of her already. she is thriving despite the fact that she's the first pakistani woman in a male- and west-dominated sport. i'm so proud to say she's from my country!

“We make our own norms,” she said. “If you truly believe that something should be normal and you do it… then it will become normal.”

Home tasted like the sausage rolls eaten on the grandstand chairs at Silverstone, and the clouds looming over the track, forcing them into cozy hoodies in a vain attempt to warm up a bit. It knew about stepping onto the track with no real goal—just to let her have some fun, to bring her along while he did a few laps ahead of the upcoming British Grand Prix, after a few weeks spent apart because of their schedules.

Some said she was the female version of him. The clothes, probably once hanging in Lando’s wardrobe; the way she adjusted her hair—not the pilot’s curls, but her own, soft and feathery; the way she burst out laughing at something silly and couldn't stop clutching her stomach for a while. It might’ve been annoying, how alike they were—if it hadn’t been so spot-on. And over time, they’d become a duo people loved: Lando always wanting her around whenever they were filming something for Quadrant, bringing her from behind the camera—with her sweet smile—into the spotlight, something she still wasn’t quite used to.

That time, the Brit had convinced her to go for a spin on the track with him, in the two-seater that the team had prepped just for the occasion—almost identical to the car he raced in during the season. And so she ended up stuck in one of the circuit’s garages.

She was wearing one of Lando’s old race suits, patched up along the ribs and probably stitched by his grandmother, while the helmet in her hands had been handed to her by his dad, who’d spent the past few days rummaging through the attic of their countryside house looking for one that would fit her. He’d found one Lando had used at the start of his career, his name stitched in white along the jawline, standing out against the blue shell.

Home knew about that, too. The bright lights in the garage, team members explaining what would happen and handing her forms to sign, insisting on taking some pictures, while she braided her hair at the nape of her neck and tucked it into the old suit.

“Sure you’re ready for this?” the Brit asked, running his fingers over the fabric she was wearing, like he was reliving old memories in that suit—chasing a dream that now sat squarely in his hands.

“What, sitting still and trusting you with my life? Seems overdue,” she smiled, watching as he avoided her gaze, lost in the scent of rain and the familiarity of the moment.

“I’ve driven you before,” he looked up at her, one of his signature smirks on his face as he grabbed the helmets, handing her the older one. The mechanics were already prepping the harnesses to help them into the car.

“You’re literally paid to drive,” she teased, as he slipped the helmet onto her head, waiting for her curious eyes to peek out from the visor, his large hands on either side.

They’d done hot laps together before, and far riskier things on regular roads—but this was the first time he’d take someone like her in the car that carried him across the world, that in many ways made him the Lando Norris. And he knew she hadn’t quite processed yet that she was about to ride in a Formula 1 car, but he could see in her eyes—and in her slightly trembling hands—that she was nearly as excited as he was.

Lando got in first, mechanics making sure he was strapped in tight and clicking the steering wheel into place, then Adam offered a hand to the girl. She paused in front of the driver, not missing their little tradition they did every time he drove. A small fist bump—his rougher, worn hand meeting her smaller, softer one. So familiar.

“If you need anything, I’m right behind you,” she joked, before climbing into the cockpit behind him. A team member gave her a last-minute rundown of the buttons in front of her and the lap Lando would take, while another tightened her belts.

“You good?” the driver asked once he got the green light to exit the garage, pressing the radio button with his thumb. The engine already roared as photographers snapped a few shots—not that she noticed, too caught up in the scent of the garage and the feeling of being inside that car.

“For now, yeah,” her smile could be heard in her voice.

“Right. Got it. So no screaming when I hit 300, yeah?”

“If I scream, it’s because you’re doing that little laugh after every apex. You sound like a cartoon villain every time we’re in a car together,” she answered, her voice slightly muffled by the radio. Engineers on the pit wall laughed, knowing exactly how true that was, as Lando finally aligned with the pit lane exit.

“How is it that I’ve been in your car on actual roads, and I still feel less safe right now?” she asked, grinning as he started to accelerate toward the first corner, hands firm on the wheel as he did his thing.

“Because on the road, I’m chill.”

The first lap was a thrill—just a taste of what he could really do. She started picking up on his moves before he even turned the wheel or feathered the brakes to perfect a line. Lando wasn’t one for radio chatter—unless he was winning or fighting for crucial points—but when it came to talking to her, he was all ears. She let out a few “woah”s here and there, especially in the high-speed corners, and when she took her eyes off the road ahead to look around, realizing how different the view was from the driver’s seat compared to what you saw on TV.

“Still alive?” Lando was clearly having the time of his life, knowing that—even if she’d scold him later—she loved seeing him like this.

“And thriving,” she replied, lost in the feel of the suit against her skin, the gloves too big on her hands, their helmets cutting through the cold Silverstone air that was slowly beginning to clear.

“Welcome to my office.”

“You’re so smug. I can hear you smirking,” she laughed into the radio, eyes focused ahead, the green helmet of the driver slightly blocking her view.

“Maybe I am.” That little smirk was always on his face, and the fact that she knew it was there made him smile even more.

“Do your engineers know you do this little smirk thing while pulling Gs?”

“Laughs, smirks—what are you up to?” Lando asked as he entered Copse. “But I’m glad you noticed.”

The nerves of the first few laps had given way to the kind of adrenaline the driver thrived on—and now, it was running through her veins too. The engineers were grinning back in the garage, quickly learning to love her energy almost as much as Lando did. Adam Norris sat nearby, more and more surprised by how different his son was when she was around.

“Okay, this might be the coolest thing I’ve ever done. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“I’m telling everyone. Immediately.” He teased, flooring it down the straight.

“Why do you look so pleased with yourself right now?”

Hearing her on the radio transported him to a place where he could imagine her voice during every race—after a perfect pit stop, a flawed strategy, urging him on or grounding him after a mistake.

“It’s a talent,” Lando laughed.

Corner after corner, straight after straight, those two didn’t seem inclined to stop. The Brit gestured with his head at the seating he’d had installed to create his own little fan section, and explained how to use Silverstone’s curbs to beat the competition. As they passed the pit wall, engineers spoke into the radio, while mechanics sat on the concrete beside the track, watching them fly by, knowing full well what those two were feeling in their seats.

After a few more laps than planned, Lando finally pulled into the pit lane, stopping the car in front of the garage. He unbuckled himself and jumped out first, telling the crew he’d handle the rest. He knelt to meet her at eye level, lifting his visor to look directly into her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, and that smile beneath her helmet couldn’t be hidden. He gave a gentle pat right where his name was embroidered on her headgear.

Then he helped her out of the car, standing in front of her once they were both on the ground, unfastening the strap under her chin with those large hands of his and lifting off the helmet more gently than he’d braked all afternoon.

She sat down on one of the stools in the garage, next to Adam, who handed them both steaming cups of hot chocolate while the team packed up the car and chatted with the two of them.

But when Lando took off his own helmet, she gasped.

Not because the balaclava had left marks on his cheeks that made his light eyes pop, or because that smirk of his made him look even more impossibly handsome than usual. But because something was missing.

“Wait a second. Hold on. Did you—did you cut your hair?”

Lando raised his eyebrows, watching her look him over like a detective who knew she had the right suspect.

“…What?” he asked, confused. “Wait, wait. Are you telling me you saw me yesterday and didn’t even notice?”

“The curls. The mullet. My entire personality. Gone. And you didn’t say a thing.” She lifted her chin, mock offended like it truly wounded her.

“Oh my god. You did cut it.”

The driver looked over at his dad, crossing his arms.

“She finally sees me. After twenty-four hours of being... normal-haired.”

“I swear you had it yesterday! Didn’t you?!” She was laughing now—the kind of laugh he loved, the one that scrunched up her eyes and puffed her cheeks before she doubled over, clutching her stomach.

“Did I though?”

“Yes! I would’ve noticed if it was gone! I love that stupid thing, I talk about it all the time—how did I not—this is a conspiracy.”

Lando and that girl brought who they were with them wherever they went—a burst of fresh air that not everyone had noticed yet.

“You didn’t say a single thing. Not even a raised eyebrow.” He laughed now too, the fake-offended act falling away as he stepped closer to her, still holding his helmet in one hand.

“I’m grieving, Norris. Let me process.”

“You’re the one who didn’t even notice.” He ruffled her hair, grinning.

“Don’t you throw that back at me.”

She loved the British guy’s haircut.

The way his curls poked out from under the balaclava when he was getting ready for the podium, how they brushed against the collars of white shirts at events, or how they simply added coolness to him, making everyone talk about that irreverent mullet.

And Lando was amused by the fact that she had known him for years—before the haircut—but was now turning it into a national debate.

And Max liked that. A lot.

So, a few weeks later, when the British Grand Prix rolled around on the Queen of Motorsport’s summer calendar, he took advantage of the fanbase she had built up—thanks to a few smiles and her talent as a photographer—and the new content coming to the Quadrant channel to start a petition to bring the mullet back.

She had arrived at the circuit with Max and Pietra, while the driver headed to the paddock early that morning for briefings. She got ready to carry around one of the team’s cameras to film what the other British guy had asked her to do. Removing her paddock pass from around her neck and hooking it to a belt loop on her jeans to blend in better with the fans she’d be talking to, she headed into the fan zone and up into the stands to chat, flashing a friendly, disarming smile to everyone she met.

Pietra joined her after a while to help with filming, and the two of them ended up looking like just a normal pair of friends trying to capture memories and hang out with fellow fans—carefully hiding their true mission and the Quadrant stickers on the mic and camera.

Their first “victim” was a little boy on his dad’s shoulders, holding a red toy car and wearing a Ferrari cap, humming a song while waiting for the feeder series driver interviews to start in the fan zone.

And there they were, enjoying the rare good weather at Silverstone, moving from stand to stand, looking for people to interview for the video and soaking in the atmosphere outside the paddock and garages.

"Hey there, can I ask you a fun question? Who’s this guy?" she asked, pushing her sunglasses up to keep her hair off her face.

“He drives the orange car. Number four,” the boy answered, tilting his head slightly as if wondering how she didn’t know, trying to give her as much info as possible without revealing who he was rooting for.

“You nailed it! And… did he look cooler with the curls?” Pietra laughed, knowing full well that as soon as the first interview started, her friend couldn’t resist bringing up the mullet.

“I liked the curls. He looked faster.” The little boy looked almost scared of betraying his favorite team by suggesting that McLaren’s curly-haired driver might have been quicker, and his terrified expression made the two girls smile.

“You might be my favorite person today.”

“You too, you have a Lightning McQueen tee,” he smiled, pointing to her shirt with the famous Pixar car on the front and back, making her melt under the sun.

They strolled around some more, looking for people to talk to, enjoying the rare English sunshine, while rivers of fans showed support for all the teams and drivers, each living and breathing their shared passion.

“All right, you three look suspiciously like you know too much about motorsport,” the girl said, spotting a trio of girls sitting on the grass, hands in their hair, a blanket laid out beneath them with flags and signs scattered everywhere.

“That’s... probably accurate,” laughed the first girl, sitting up cross-legged and inviting her to join them.

“Dangerous territory. Who’s your current F1 favourite?”

“Charles for chaos. Oscar for calm. Lando for… the vibes,” said the second girl, resting her chin on her knees, dressed in an unmistakably McLaren orange shirt.

“Specific. I like it.”

“He’s actually a crazy good racer once you get past the memes,” the trio explained.

“Also the only driver who can turn a haircut into a cultural movement,” added the last girl, leaning on the first while stringing colorful beads onto a fishing line with a sweet smile.

She, in turn, pretended to be confused and not understand what they were talking about, while Pietra was clearly having the time of her life, still not quite believing Max had come up with this idea—and that her friend had actually agreed to go through with it.

“You know exactly what we’re talking about. We want the mullet back,” said the second girl, dead serious.

“Your words, not mine,” Lando’s friend laughed.

Pietra and the girl took a little break, lying back on the grass and chatting for a while, accepting a few friendship bracelets from the trio they’d just interviewed, while nearby Max Verstappen fans were shouting as the drivers cycled around the track waving to the crowd.

They eventually returned to the fan zone, passing through the parking lot and park surrounding the circuit, chatting with other fans—some with families, others with friends.

“All right, I’m going to guess your favorite driver just based on vibes… is it Lando?”

“Yeah. He’s fast. And funny,” replied a teenage boy leaning against a lamppost, adjusting his blonde fringe and revealing striking blue eyes he had probably inherited from his mom standing beside him.

“Solid combo. What’s your favorite track?”

“Spa. But also Silverstone. I like the corners.”

“Maggotts and Becketts?” she asked, smiling.

“Oh, the snake! I love how fast they go through there.”

The boy’s little brother held a gorgeous poster asking Lewis Hamilton to sign his mini helmet, and she found it so heartwarming to see. After all, she still hadn’t quite gotten used to being by Lando’s side with an all-access pass to the garage whenever she wanted.

“You’ve got a proper fan here,” she told their mom.

“They know more than I did at their age,” the woman replied, making the girl raise her eyebrows and imagine just how fashionable this mom must’ve been back in the day.

“Did you like when Lando had long hair?” she asked the younger brother, leaning on another post and holding out the mic.

“He looked like one of those racers from movies. Unstoppable.”

She nodded, feeling satisfied.

As she wandered through the crowds, she heard it all—Ferrari couples complaining about poor results, young fans cheering for their favorite drivers, people snapping photos to hold onto the memory of that day.

“You’ve seen it all, huh?” she laughed, chatting with two elderly gentlemen in vintage merch from the early 2000s, still just as passionate about the sport as when they first watched it together.

“Still love the sport. The strategy, the chaos, the tire gambling.”

Then two girls, with their boyfriends in tow, came up to her, eyes wide in recognition, ditching the food stand line they were in—clearly sacrificing any chance of lunch before nightfall just to talk to her.

“No freaking way. Is that her? Like—her her?!” “the power she holds.”

“You’re talking like I’m Beyoncé,” she laughed, turning to hug them, listening as they introduced themselves, wondering what exactly made her so beloved by Lando’s fans—and others—when she was just a regular person who hated the spotlight.

“You’re basically his left arm. I don’t know why you’re even pretending to be undercover,” one of them said, as the guys chuckled behind her.

“You’re literally half the reason I watch Quadrant. Like, he’s funny, sure—but you’re the one who roasts him right,” added the other.

“They say if you’re not at every race, he drives weird. They literally have spreadsheets,” said one of the guys, shaking her hand, a Mercedes cap shielding him from the sun as he gazed out at Silverstone.

“You have spreadsheets?” she asked, shocked, while Pietra nearly cried with laughter—realizing Max’s plan had backfired and there would be more footage to delete than keep. Even the entrance of the GB3 drivers on stage didn’t distract anyone from her.

“Oh my god, you’re even prettier in person. Lando’s taste is insane,” more fans chimed in, making her raise an eyebrow and rethink every life choice, unsure whether to be flattered or terrified by how many people recognized her despite her best efforts.

One of the last fans she met was wearing an epic T-shirt with Lando’s mullet-face and the words “let him cook” in bold. She complimented him on the choice and asked if she could have one. She was in her element—even if she hated the attention—because she was surrounded by people just as passionate as she was, at one of the most iconic tracks on the F1 calendar, stepping out of her comfort zone and showing how fun and friendly she could be.

“You’re like if serotonin had a voice.”

“What’s the most dramatic moment you’ve had at a race weekend?” a girl asked, as she tucked her hands into her jeans pockets, chatting like it was nothing—trying to forget just how many people now recognized her.

“Once I told Lando he couldn’t have ice cream before quali, and he glared at me like I’d cancelled Christmas,” she smiled, thinking of the one thing she could safely share with fans without starting a media storm.

“Remind me never to argue strategy with you,” a guy laughed, fist-bumping her, well aware of how much she knew about the sport.

“You know, I always thought he was the motorsport nerd. But you’re the one who told him to brake earlier into Turn 9 last year, right?” asked the same girl, recalling the hot lap she and Lando had done in a McLaren road car in Miami the year before.

“Gotta keep the man alive somehow.”

“It’s like being the guardian of a very chaotic, very fast golden retriever,” she grinned, and soon after, she and Pietra headed back to the paddock, laughing about every line fans had said to her, as the Portuguese girl looked at her friend’s shocked, pale face—now split by the most beautiful smile.

Max and Lando were sitting in the McLaren motorhome, two bottles of sparkling water and some snacks in front of them. The driver wore a black sweater, arms crossed, watching his friend like he was analyzing whatever plan was brewing in his head.

“What’s with the smirk? Did you win a staring contest with your cat or something?”

“No, I just had a brilliant idea.”

“Last time you said that, I ended up duct-taped to a sim seat,” Lando replied, skeptically watching the people passing by outside, occasionally waving at familiar faces and checking his phone for messages.

“You know how people still won’t shut up about your mullet?”

“It’s been months. I cut it. I moved on. Even she did. Society should too,” he laughed.

“What if she—” Max gestured, pouring them both some water as music played from the speakers behind them, “—went undercover and asked fans about you… and the mullet?”

“Everyone would think she’s gone rogue. Or she’d end up in a meme compilation.”

Max nodded, confirming that was exactly the point—watching as Lando’s expression softened the moment she was mentioned.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“She’s got the charm. She’ll survive.”

And just then, walking down the path Lando had been watching, the girl and Pietra appeared, the Portuguese girl still laughing, her friend walking like a runway model while clearly still processing what had just happened, hands in her pockets, sunglasses in her hair.

“I need to lie down,” she said as they joined the guys, dragging over two chairs to the table.

“Your people are feral,” she said, dumping all the signs, bracelets, and the T-shirt she’d asked for onto the table as she collapsed into the chair. Lando laughed, reading the slogans.

“Yeah but… you had fun, didn’t you?”

“I got offered snacks. And stickers.”

“…do you think I should grow it back for Monza?” he asked, giving her that look—the one all the girls had mentioned, the one that made her smile every time. The slight head tilt, direct eye contact, then that big hand ruffling her hair.

“Make it count,” she sighed, reaching over to put one of the bracelets on his wrist. “They really do love you, you know.”

“Only if I’ve got you out there making me look cool.”

“You don’t need me for that,” she laughed as he playfully nudged her shoulder.

“You know, the mullet kind of made you look like trouble.”

“Maybe. But you never stayed away.”

“I physically needed to mess it up. This fade just doesn’t cut it.”

puppys !and bat hhhhhhh

extremely loud incorrect buzzer.

Happened to my buddy Charles Leclerc.

Oh, but don’t worry, you did manage to clinch the Rookie Championship that weekend, so you got forced to go on the podium and take a picture even though your race weekend was abysmal :)

I’ve loved your fica for a while, and thought I should just man up and request.

Could I get an Ollie (F1) fic, where his partners older siblings are super protective when they first meet him? Something like that would also be ok, take creative liberty with however you want to make it :)

Much love from the great white north 🤍

Gimme the Key (Ollie Bearman X Leclerc! Reader)

Fandom: PRF/Formula 1

Requested: Clearly (I took me too long to realize where the great white north was but I got it now lol Much love to you <3<3)

Warnings: None (I think)

POV: Second Person (You/your)

W.C. 1308

Summary: Your family likes to barge in at the worst times, but the most recent time made them lose their privileges.

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(^Pinterest)