#x driver!reader

She just passed the gates to the paddock, readying herself mentally for today's Friday and its practice session, when red bull's own social media team approaches her. "Hi (Y/N), how are we feeling ahead of the weekend? Excited to be back in the car after three weeks off?" The guy holding the phone slows his walking speed, being just a step ahead of her, while filming.

The young driver adjusts the straps to the backpack she's carrying, thinking about her answer. "I can't wait to finally be in the car again. The engineers are working very hard right now to put the new upgrades on. I'm itching to see how the new rear wing works with the downforce of this track. I've seen the simulations and I am always so amazed with everyone back at the factory and their commitment to the project." She smiles at the camera and the social media personnel, shielding her eyes from the sun that just started to beat down. Today will be a sweaty day for sure.

Satisfied with her answer, the filming crew leaves her alone. She resumes her walk to the garage to meet with her engineers to discuss the plans for the practice sessions. On the way, Max joins her strut. "If you continue being this nice, they will never stop asking for your opinions", he informs her. (Y/N) rolls her eyes playfully. "You know that I can't be mean in English."

After entering the garage, he turns into her direction before splitting towards different briefing rooms. "You gotta learn. I don't understand how you can have such a potty mouth in German, but don't curse once in English. It's just a different language, you aren't a new person." Max is technically right, but his younger teammate isn't open to giving him a point. That has to do with the healthy competitive nature they keep between themselves to keep it clean on track.

Some playful teasing feeds towards a non-toxic friendly bond. (Y/N) learned this from her blond, German mentor. The divorced one. Not the farmer.

"It is a different vibe. German is meant to be used to curse. That's the beauty of the language. You can wedge love on Goethe's and Schiller's poetry—who totally had something homosexual going on between them—and then cuss someone and their whole bloodline in the most brutal way out. English is a different vibe. It's posh, cleansed. You know?" To be honest, this have been an ongoing discussion between those two.

Max doesn't understand her aversion to cussing in English, (Y/N) doesn't understand how he can keep his brutally honest personality through all the different languages he can speak. Together, they make up one average speaker.

Soon after, first practice is underway. Today, several non-f1 rookie drivers from lower classes participate in the session, looking forward to collect experiences and points for their super-licenses.

"Okay boss, you want me to come in to do a quali simulation after the long run?" (Y/N) asks her race engineer over the radio. He confirms, "Yes, please. You'll get new shoes." "I hope they have red bottoms." She quips back.

As (Y/N) steers towards the pit entry, one of the rookies in a Mclaren zap past her dangerously close. "Oh, that was not nice", she says on the radio. After closing the channel, she mutters to herself "Junge, was ein Arschloch Move. Also wirklich, wir fahren Formel 1 und nicht Auto Scooter aufm Jahrmarkt in irgendeinem Kack-Dorf am Arsch der Heide." (Man, was an asshole move. Be for real, we are driving in F1 and not bumper cars at a carnival in a small shit village in the middle of ass no where)

Her race engineer confirms that this will be taken to the stewards while her car gets wheeled in to prepare for a qualifying simulation. With new softs, she taxies the car back on track and takes a warm up lap before turning up the speed.

"Check the balance", she tells her engineer, "especially in turn-" Her sentence is cut off as her car gets t-boned into the barrier.

The world is askew for several seconds. It's eerily quiet. (Y/N) shakes her head, trying to find her bravado again.

Suddenly, all the noises come back at once. Like a second slam, she is back in her body, feeling the pains from the impact. (Y/N) lifts her head, spotting the papaya colored car from earlier. "Das ist jetzt nicht sein scheiß Ernst." She growls. "Das kann nicht wahr sein! Zuerst fahren als hätte man den Führerschein auf der Rückseite einer Cornflakes Packung gefunden und dann auch noch andere mit ins verschissene Verderben reißen. Junge, wenn ich den in die ,Finger kriege, dann hoffe ich, dass er eine weitere Unterhose dabei hat, ey. Der wird sich so einscheißen vor Angst, das wird der ganze Paddock riechen. Weiß der Idiot überhaupt, was die Mechaniker heute leisten müssen, nur weil er meint, wie ein Arschloch fahren zu müssen? Kann der froh sein, dass ich nicht auf Mutter gehe!" She punches her steering wheel in frustration.

"Are you okay?" The voice of her race engineer cuts through the brief silence she leaves after her freak out. "Yeah, I'm okay. I am so sorry to the mechanics. Coffee and lunch will be on me." Her voice is quiet, breathy but calm. What (Y/N) didn't know is that she actually never closed her radio channel between the shunt and the check in from her engineer. While two medical cars come by to collect her and the Mclaren rookies as well, Nico Rosberg sits in a very uncomfortable position in the commentary box for Sky Sports England.

His seat itself isn't what makes it so bad. The high prices for subscriptions pay for actually very good desk chairs with amazing lumbar support. What really brings him between a rock and a hard place is Martin Brundle turning towards him, asking for translation of the biggest on radio crashout of the season so far. Since it happened in German, to him it only sounded sharp and angry.

"You know, Martin", he awkwardly adjusts his already perfectly good laying collar. "This, I mean. I can sum it up, it's just the adrenaline speaking really." Nico himself doesn't know if he does it to protect the young woman or himself when he tries to dance around the literal translation. But it seems like there is a consensus on wanting him to retell what (Y/N) said verbatim between the other commentators.

He clears his throat, despite having had no previous problems with it today. "Okay. (Y/N) said something along the lines of, and I am quoting here. Those aren't my actual words, it's all hers. He can't be serious—sprinkled with some curses like shit—At first driving as if you got your drivers license from the back site of a cereal box and then pulling others with you into the shitty ruins. Man, when I see him, I hope he packed extra underwear. He- Do we really need the rest? I think we got the gist- okay okay." The blond lifts his hands up in surrender upon getting glares from his colleagues. "He is going to shit himself so badly out of fear, the whole paddock will be able to smell it. Does the idiot even know what the mechanics need to do now, just because he thinks he needs to drive like an asshole. He should be thankful that I'm not coming for his mom."

There is an awkward silence following Nico's translation. He tries to bring some light to the situation. "I mean, she's not wrong. Both garages, Red Bull and Mclaren, will have their hands full until the second session. I hope the cars are salvageable for the teams."

(Y/N)'s outbursts is making the rounds on social media and the paddock while she's getting checked out in the medical center. It's just a precaution due to the g-forces she sustained during the shunt, but so far she hasn't complained about anything gravely. Except for some stiffness of course.

Meanwhile, Nico Hülkenberg stands in the media pen, weathering the questions of the press. Someone has played him the audio of the radio. His grin widens with every word, looking like a proud dad as he tries to tame his sweaty helmet hair. "Nico, can you give us a comment about what (Y/N) said?" The journalist asks the driver.

"I need to ask her if she kisses her mother with that mouth. But you know, I'm just happy that the rest of the world now finally knows how much of a potty mouth she is." He grins. He has been waiting for everyone else to realize that her good girl persona is not actually as good as the illusion hints at. After all, Nico has been subjected to her true form countless of times. He knows how (Y/N) actually articulates herself.

About exactly that, the same reporter asks the young driver later, after she returns to the paddock with clearance from the doctor that she will be sore, but ready to still drive. As her radio gets played back to her, she gets hot in the face. "I, I must be honest. I'm not able to cuss in English. It feels wrong to me. But, if someone cuts my way on the high way, I call them an SOB. In German. There are studies that saying the actual curse words is giving you actual relief over the watered down version. I promise, I'll continue to keeping my interviews as clean as possible."

(Y/N) scratches her neck. "Though, I will apologize to Britney. I heard that he blushed harder than a teenage girl when Martin pressed him to translate what I said. If this happens again—which I never hope will, because a shunt like this one sucks for everyone—I'll make sure to repeat everything in English right after. To spare him the embarrassment."

Max catches up to her during the interview, asking if she is alright. He knows that the crash wasn't gravely dangerous from the looks of the recordings, but in a sport like this one, you can't never be too sure.

The interviewer also asks for a comment from him. Being able to get an instant reaction from the Dutchman to a topic like this must be the same to a lottery win in the journalism world.

He grins proudly to, similar to Nico earlier. "I just hope that (Y/N) is able to drag that energy into English too. God knows she needs to bring her actual personality into it. Our little fire cracker." He wrestles her into a headlock, using his knuckles to destroy her hairdo. The cameras are still filming.

"Fuck off, Verstappen. Bruder, ich schwöre, ich gebe dir 'nen Roundhouse kick in die Nüsse." She grunts while trying to get out his grip. "Halfway there, kid. Halfway there."

The red lights went out.

The engine screamed.

And in that instant, you were everything Ferrari had been praying for.

A rookie, yes, but one with ice in her veins and fire in her blood. The kind of driver who didn’t flinch, didn’t doubt, didn’t wait for permission to overtake.

You raced with that same brutal honesty that made people compare you to Max, and that cold, measured silence that reminded them of Kimi.

When you won, you didn’t celebrate.

When you lost, you didn’t weep.

You just looked at the telemetry, shook your head, and muttered, “Next time, I’ll fix it.”

And Daniel Ricciardo, your mentor, your manager, alternated between being proud and absolutely terrified of you.

The paddock was chaos that day.

You’d just finished P3, but the frustration in your voice on the radio said everything. “This car could’ve taken P1. If strategy didn’t fuck me over again, I would’ve had it.”

When you pulled into parc fermé, your jaw was locked, every step sharp and purposeful.

Cameras tried to catch your expression, but you kept your helmet on a moment too long, hiding the storm that raged underneath.

Daniel met you at the door of your driver room, that usual sunshine grin dimmed with irritation.

“Y/n,” he said, following you inside, shutting the door behind him, “you can’t talk like that on the radio. You’re driving for Ferrari, not some backyard go-kart team.”

You peeled off your gloves, tossing them onto the table. “I was honest.”

“Yeah, but honesty doesn’t mean you burn the whole paddock down while you’re at it!” Daniel snapped, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. “You sounded like, like a damn ticking bomb out there.”

You turned on him then, eyes blazing. “I am a bomb when people waste my laps, Daniel! I had the pace. You saw it.”

“I did see it,” he shot back, stepping closer, “but you also saw the fuel warning and ignored it. You can’t keep acting like you’re untouchable.”

“And you can’t keep treating me like a kid you have to babysit!” you yelled, fists clenched at your sides. “I’m not here to smile for cameras. I’m here to win.”

The air thickened.

You were both breathing hard, standing too close, too stubborn to back down.

Daniel’s voice dropped low, a dangerous calm. “You sound just like Max when he was your age. You know where that got him?”

You tilted your head, unbothered. “World championships.”

He blinked, caught off guard for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to push past him toward the mirror, still seething, still burning.

“I’m not gonna apologize for wanting more,” you muttered, grabbing a towel and wiping your face. “If you can’t handle that, maybe you’re not the right person to manage me.”

The towel slipped from your hand when he stepped forward again, his reflection appearing behind yours in the mirror, eyes dark, unreadable.

“Careful,” he murmured, “you’re starting to sound like you don’t need me.”

You turned around, meeting his stare head-on. “Maybe I don’t.”

And that was the spark.

The argument wasn’t even about racing anymore, it was everything unspoken between you, all the tension, all the sharp-edged affection that neither of you dared to name.

Daniel’s voice broke the silence. “You drive like the world’s ending. You scare the hell out of me sometimes.”

“Good,” you whispered, stepping closer. “Maybe you’ll finally stop trying to slow me down.”

He laughed under his breath, a short, disbelieving sound. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“No,” you said, barely audible. “Do you?”

And then his hand was on your jaw, firm and trembling all at once, his breath hitting your cheek.

The next second, he kissed you, hard, desperate, like the argument had finally found its only possible conclusion.

You kissed him back with the same ferocity you raced with, fierce, fearless, all or nothing.

His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging slightly, drawing a soft growl from his throat.

When you finally broke apart, both gasping, both wide-eyed, you stared at each other like two people who had just crossed a line they couldn’t uncross.

“...We shouldn’t have done that,” he breathed, though his thumb still brushed your cheek.

“Then why,” you murmured, voice rough, “do you look like you want to do it again?”

He smiled then, the smallest, most dangerous version of his usual grin. “Because I’m an idiot.”

You leaned forward, your lips barely ghosting over his. “Then we’re both idiots.”

Daniel finally kissed you again, his hands ghosting over your waist, like he's scared he'll break you if he touched how he wanted.

A gasp left you as he finally grabbed your waist and lifted you up to the desk.

"I've wanted you for so long, you and your stupidly tight fireproofs", he mumbled, slightly licking down your neck, leaving marks to worry about later.

He tugged on your fireproofs, pulling them off you in one swift motion.

"You look so beautiful."

Your body trembled when he unclipped your bra, the air cold on your hot skin.

You bite back a moan when he suddenly latched onto your nipples. Your back arched as he flicked his tongue on the sensitive bud, his free hand rubbing circles on the neglected nip.

Your moans were desperate as Daniel continued to tease you. His free hand wondered down your stomach and worked on removing the rest of your suit.

He groaned when he struggled to do so, frustrated he pulled off of you and yanked your suit down, leaving you in your underwear. " So pretty for me", he growled at you.

You jolted as you felt him harshly pressing his face against your clothed cunt. His tongue gently lapping over your covered clit. It was lazy and sloppy.

Daniel finally pulled your underwear to the side, revealing your arousal, "you smell so good."

His words made you feel all warm and tingly.

Your lips brushed together again, it wasn't like before, it was gentle and sweet. The kiss was interrupted by you crying out as you felt two fingers slip into you.

His fingers frantically worked on opening you up, as his mouth left hungry kisses all the way down to your stomach. You bite back a moan as you felt him gently sucking on your clit.

The pleasure was overwhelming – the feeling of him was overwhelming.

"You're doing so well, baby and so wet for me", he cooed

You couldn't think anymore, with his tongue flicking on your sensitive bud and his fingers pumping in and out of you.

You needed him... desperately.

"Please Danny... please...", you choked out.

Daniel smirked and slowed down his fingers, making you whine even more, "Please what?"

You whimpered as he continued to tease your folds. " Please...I want you...I want you in me", you begged out.

Daniel, satisfied with that answer, pulled fully away, and pulled his pants down with his underwear.

His cock was already leaking and painfully hard. He connect your lips again, it was messy and full of lust.

Your teeth were clicking together. You and Daniel both moaned loudly as he started sinking into you, lips barely brushing each other. " Fuck, you're so tight...", he gasped out, his hands frantically grabbing at your waist.

Your breathe hitched as Daniels hips snapped, his pace wasn't neat or had a rhythm, it was messy and desperate.

You hooked your legs around his waist, the new angle causing him to hit that sweet spot repeatedly.

His fingers were digging into your waist as he pounded into you.

"You feel so good... should have fucked you earlier", he mumbled against his neck. His breath hot against ear.  Your brain was all foggy from the pleasure.

Your hand in his hair, slightly pulling on his brown locks.

Your eyes rolled back as he started rubbing your clit in frantic, but gentle circles.

Daniel absolutely loved how you looked.

Eyes huzed, with no thoughts behind them except him, mouth slightly open, tears prickly to escape.

In his eyes, you were the most beautiful women he's ever seen.

The sight of you so ruined, made him snap his hips faster, he knew you were close with how much you were squirming and how tight your legs got around him.

His free hand traced up your belly to your breasts and he flicked the sensitive nips. Loving how you reacted even more.

You whined as your high came crashing down on you. The pleasure was to much. You groaned as he kept thrusting in and out of you, but more gently.

You couldn't take it anymore.

Daniel flinched at the feeling as he slowly pulled out.

He gently tapped your legs, removing them from his waist.

"You were so good for me, baby, so good", he gently whispered in your ear.

You groaned as you realised he hadn't come yet. "What about you?", you softly whimpered.

Daniel only shrugged it off saying you shouldn't worry about him.

You didn't like that answer and slowly got off of the table and pushed him against it.

He gasped at the feeling of your hands against his waist, the feeling unusual but so gentle.

You eagerly got on your knees, the tiles cold on your flushed skin.

Daniel protested, saying that this wasn't necessary, but you desperately wanted to make him feel good as he did with you.

You started by softly kissing his thighs, satisfied by the way they were slightly shaking already.

Amused by the effect you had on him, you kissed his pinkish tip, the taste was salty, still covered in your juices. Daniel groaned at the sight, locking eyes with you as you sucked on his tip. Your hands were eagerly touching were your mouth couldn't reach.

He swears he saw stars as you started taking him deeper, his hands finding your hair in instinct. He formed an messy ponytail with his hands to have some sort of grasp on you.

He started fucking into your mouth, causing you to gag. Your lips was swollen and puffy.

You swirled your tongue all over his tip, his thrusts getting more sloppy and messy.

His legs were shaking, his breathing was heavy, his moans were desperate and his grasp on your hair was gentle.

It wasn't long before Daniel was releasing into your mouth, making you swallow every drop.

"Fuck...that was...that was perfect" he groaned at the loss of your touch.

You only smiled at his fucked out state, impressed by your own work, "It was good"

Daniel nodded and slowly started getting dressed, (remembering that you two are still in a semi public place), but froze as he heard you giggling.

"What?", he asked confused

You said it's nothing but as he continued to get dressed you couldn't help it anymore and full on laughed.

"Okay! What is it?"

You let out a slight giggle, but tried to cover it up, "Race cars?"

"What? You dont like them? I thought they're pretty cute"

You just nodded along as he pulled his underwear on.

“ok ok everybody, thank you for joining us for the very first annual driver’s presentation night, hosted by yours truly, george russell. a connoisseur of powerpoint presentations, if i do say so myself,” george grinned.

the driver’s spare meeting room, which had been earlier crammed with spinning wheelie chairs and long white desks, had been replaced with the comfort of some old beanbags and blankets, as you, max, george, lando, oscar, charles, and alex settled in for a very long evening. as the last words left george's lips, a round of uncoordinated cheers erupted from the drunken audience. max let out an especially loud whoop before nearly faceplanting into a beanbag. 

"you're all welcome," he said with exaggerated politeness. "now then, without further ado, let's dive right into our first presentation of the evening!"

he gestured grandly towards you, nearly losing his balance in the process. "everyone, please welcome the one the only, the illustrious and femioone-feminonnena…blimey…” he cackled, tossing you the screen remote, “oh you know who it is…y/n! welcome yourself up to the stage,” 

"thank you, georgie poo. and hello everyone, i'm very very happy to be here tonight to present a special look back at the goat’s fashion choices. i would’ve rather regaled you with tales of his other…talents, but george made me promise to keep it pg, cause there are children here,” you giggled in front of all your friends, with a pointed look at lando and oscar, who seem to look mildly offended.

“obviously as the stunning wife of formula 1's golden boy himself," you continued, clicking onto the first slide, which showed you and lewis posed together for his recent dior collection, the boys hooting and hollering appreciatively, “i am the best and the only person able to give such a presentation, so make sure you’re listening,”

more applause and whistling followed as you clicked through to the first slide of lewis from the 2024 met gala, “of course, we gotta start off with a newfound lewis hamilton classic, the 2024 met gala. simple, classy, a great message and followed the theme, unlike so many others,” you rolled your eyes at the last bit, as the boys laughed.

“i can’t believe he disses my fashion sense, when his older met gala looks are questionable,” charles groans, swiping to show the group a photo pulled up on his phone. you sigh when you see lewis’ zig zag suit from 2019; definitely not camp enough for you or 2024 lewis.

“hey cut the man some slack,” alex laughs, seeing your pouting face, as you continue to click through the slides showcasing his various looks. the room continues to fill with laughter and playful jabs both at your commentary and the well-meaning yet snarky comments from the other drivers.

on the seventh slide, a photo of lewis in a see-through mesh top from the early 2021 season appeared on the screen, which definitely caught the drivers’ eyes. his chiseled features were highlighted with the bright backdrop, and the material of the shirt definitely emphasised his broad shoulders and toned physique. as well as the absolutely sinful tattoos criss-crossing his biceps, yummy…

"he looked absolutely dashing here, didn't he?" you purred, voice dripping with admiration. pausing the presentation, you let the image linger on the screen as you continued, "and trust me, he cleaned up even better in private that night..."

the room erupted in good-natured eye-rolls and chuckles at your suggestive remark. lando, never one to miss an opportunity, quipped, "well, we all knew lew was a total “stud”,"

oscar snorted, "yeah, until he decides to show up to the races in a black shirt and pants with hummingbirds on it," the others groaned in agreement, recalling lewis' infamous (amongst the drivers) outfit choice from several years prior. you laughed, unfazed by the teasing, "okay, okay, i get it. but this look right here? classic lewis - sophisticated, stylish, and undeniably sexy,” pointing once again to another showstopper lewis look.

you continued to advance the slideshow to the next image, another candid shot of you and lewis leaving a glamorous red-carpet event hand-in-hand. george leaned in to whisper something to alex, both of them grinning mischievously. 

george, still smitten with his own awaiting powerpoint prowess, decided to inject some competitiveness into the situation. "alright, let's not forget why we're really here, shall we? fashion, schmashion - who still really wants to hear more about y/n's insightful analysis of lewis's wardrobe choices?"

the room erupted in laughter, as you shot george a stern look, "hey now, my presentation is far more interesting than your mediocre slide designs, george!"

undeterred, george retorted, "oh yeah?” 

your face grew warm at the snide remark, but a spark of competitiveness ignited in your eyes. "oh, i think i can handle whatever you throw my way, george! don’t mess with the best," with a dramatic flourish, you clicked the remote to advance the slideshow featuring a collage of george's most...questionable outfits from past casual outings events. the drivers gasped in unison, their jaws dropping at the sight of george sporting everything from neon-colored blazers to patterned socks that clashed with his trousers. even the most tame of them were at least questionable to the discerning eye.

max let out a low whistle, while lando and oscar burst into uncontrollable laughter. with a sly grin, you continued, “i wouldn’t get ahead with the insult boys…george ain’t the only one who needs to pay for fashion crimes,”

"let's start with you, maxie," you sighed, pulling up one singular image on the presentation, the red bull racing suit, “unfortunately, your one fashion weakness is that you have no variety. did you know out of almost all the media pictures people get of you, it’s like a 1 in 500 to get one of you not in your suit, let alone anything fashionably interesting. you really need to convince pr to dress you in something else. how else am i supposed to critique you?" you humph.

max held up his hands in mock defense, laughing along with the others. "clearly, it was a stroke of genius."

as your merciless fashion critiques continued, the room descended into a fit of giggles and playful jabs. even george couldn't help but crack a smile, impressed by your preparations. lando shouted as you ripped his metaphorical fashion career away from him, "you know, if you're going to tear us apart like this, maybe we should just let you design our outfits from now on."

"oh, i think i've got enough on my plate with being mrs. hamilton already. besides, i have a feeling everyone might object to me dressing up the entire f1 grid in matching juicy couture tracksuits." the group erupted in laughter once more, and max raised his glass in a toast.

"to y/n, the only person in this room brave enough to call us out on our questionable fashion choices," max declared, his voice laced with humor and appreciation, "may her sharp tongue and keen eye for style forever keep us in check," the others echoed the toast, clinking their glasses together.

“but don’t worry i’ve saved an absolute treat for last,” you giggled, clicking towards the next slide, and the drivers, not for the first time tonight, were speechless.

there, plastered across the screen was a very…tasteful selection of lewis’ best pics. and the title: best clothes = no clothes.

being mrs hamilton was so much fun ;)

permanent f1 taglist (comment or msg me to join)

@charlesgirl16 @tallrock35 @sweate-r-weathe-r @unlikelystay @alex-wotton

@daisyfreecs @euphorihan @louloucs @oikarma @dying-inside-but-its-classy

@fadingcloudballoon @princessminjikwon @nina-or-anna-or-nora

Coincidentally, they sit next to each other on that awful white leather couch. The kind where you can’t wear shorts and sit on it, because when you get up you feel like the skin of your thighs rip off, sticking better to the material than any kind of glue could ever mimic.

George is the third in their bunch, having made podium after Charles got an unlucky five second penalty for erratic driving. He just tried to make it over the finish line with failing breaks. But that seems to come with the territory of driving for the prestige prancing horse team. Maybe they should need to think about a rebrand, a sad horse for example. It is more fitting to their drivers’ mental state, after all. As well as the rest of the personnel. 

After everyone has given a brief summary of how they felt during the race, the floor is free for the journalists to ask questions. They all seem very fair, asking about strategy, tyre degradation or opinions on the way the FIA handled certain decisions. (Y/N) is making jokes with Max until a journalist from her home country asks her a question. “(Y/N), your battle with Max for the win was quite close. How do you feel about only getting second place today, even though there was clearly more in the car to give? After all, second place is the first loser.”

All three drivers on the couch halt. Even though the inquiry was only addressed to the female between them, all three grab for their microphone to answer. George beats the other two to the first word. “What kind of question is that?” Max adds to it: “How do you know that there was more to give? Did you sit in the car or (Y/N)?”

The young woman gives them a grateful smile. “Does that answer your question?” The journalist looks like he wants to answer with a firm No, but seeing the glares he’s getting, he wisely decides against it and just nods. With a schooled expression on his face, he puts his hand back down, giving the floor back to his colleagues.

After that interaction, there are some similar spicy questions, which, even though getting shot down quickly, doesn’t hurt the young rookie any less.

With a ruined mood, she listlessly follows Max towards the Red Bull garage to go through the rest of the motions that take place following a successful race.

After interviews, filming clips for the fans on social media and spraying the mandatory red bull drinks instead of champagne during team photos, (Y/N) sits down with her race engineer. Maybe the journalist was correct and there has been a little extra something left in the car and herself. Something that she could have used to overtake her teammate at some point.

The debrief ends in frustration for her and a lack of understanding in her point from her engineer. On paper, she did everything right. There wasn’t anything she could have given more.

After he has left for some time already, the young rookie still continues to pour over the numbers. Counting out hundredths of a second. Comparing racing lines. Tyre temperatures. Adding every small mistake into a pile titled “wrong”.

Her eyes fly over the sheet until someone new takes the seat next to her. “This was your best race to date. Your third podium this season. Give it a rest.” Max’s voice is warm, brotherly even. (Y/N) shakes her head. “You showed that the car was capable of a win. So why wasn’t I capable of winning?”

He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t start to get self doubts over a stupid journalist. Like I said, he didn’t drive the car. You did. And you got your current maximum out of it.”

That elects him a frustrated groan from her. “But it wasn’t good enough! You won in the same car.”

The Dutchman takes his time before responding. He skims through the papers laying in front of them. “See what I did here? I saw it in 2016 when I was racing against Rosberg, he pulled that move on me. It took me a year and hundreds of crashes in the sim to get it the same way he did, digitally. Then it took me another two years to nail it in a real car. It took me three seasons to replicate a single move. A useful one, but still three years of continuous work. There are some things you can only learn with time. You have to give yourself that time. Yeah, maybe diamonds are made under pressure. But dough rises when you give it rest. You drove your heart out today. You gave me a really hard time, too. Take this achievement today without a bad taste in your mouth.”

(Y/N) follows Max’s gestures, seeing what he means. She gives him a defeated look. “The press isn’t giving me that time.” He shakes his head. “Fuck them. They have their British bias and try to make everyone else look bad.” “That’s the problem, Max!” The young woman rises from her seat. Her voice takes on a louder pitch. “He was from my home country! That journalist is from my country!”

She lets the info set in before continuing, gesturing wide with her arms. “Yeah, we all get shit from British media for not having the right passport, but at least everyone else’s home press is on their side. Sky sports wants to get a rise out of you while De Telegraaf wedges poetry on your name. Carlos and Fernando get shit for the way they talk, but the Spanish news outlets fight for them tooth and nail. While Franco’s results are the laughing stock for some tabloids, the Argentinian press celebrates him and calls him a home hero.”

Max looks like he wants to say something, maybe a sentimental “Don’t listen to those assholes” or “You got us!”, but his younger teammate doesn’t give him time to cut into her rant.

(Y/N) lets out a humorless laugh. “My own home media acts like I made it my mission to drive worse every weekend. When I score points, it is called a duty. When I make a fantastic overtake and make it stick, it is called a lucky punch. When I get a podium, they ask me why I didn’t win! At least everyone has someone in their corner to back them up. I don’t even have feminist news sites, because F1 is a too dirty sport for the environment. Let’s rather cover golf and talk about how powerful someone else is while I am here, trying to understand what I did wrong!” She lets out a breath after her outburst.

There is a long moment of silence. The kind that follows after someone wore their emotions on their sleeve while the other one has to process their meaning. The silence that’s neither good nor bad. It is just… there.

The air between those two shifts to a form of understanding.

“I am deeply sorry that you are having a hard time from all sides with no reprieve. I understand that these media outlets must be, for lack of a better phrasing, worse than actual hell.” The Dutchman apologizes for the behalf of… mankind? “You just wanted to become a racing driver, and while achieving your dreams, building your legacy and paving the way for other women in motorsports, you have to deal with more assholes than the average male driver has to.”

(Y/N) sits back down. Her gaze swipes over the data. “You are right. I did everything perfectly to the best of my current abilities. I’ll improve with time.” Her voice is quiet. Not in a defeated way. Her tone is more sober than anything else.

Max looks at her, a proud smile forming on his lips as he clamps a hand on her shoulder and shakes her slightly, like a proud dad who just started therapy and works on expressing his emotions in a healthy but still clumsy way.

The rookie nods, thankful for his kind words. Those come far and few in their career. She knows to soak up any advice he’s willing to give her, too valuable to actually put a price tag on it.

The following weekdays that happen before the last race of the double header is exactly what she needs to calm down from the post race incident. (Y/N) takes time off instagram and touches some gra–lies.

She sits her ass down in the simulator and works through the notes she and her race engineer made in preparation of the next race.

Funnily, the first thing that is scheduled for Thursday was not any usual press conference between drivers and the media. The GPDA has called for a meeting between all members. Topic? “The Handling of our Drivers by the Press”

As they sit, (Y/N) stares daggers at Max. He acts like nothing is happening, smiling at her before whispering something to George. A weird picture after their public divorce. Maybe they try to be good co-parents to the rookie they seemingly adopted together.

When everyone is seated, the Brit starts his opening speech: “It has come to my attention that in recent times our fellow drivers have been harassed by several media outlets based on matters that are out of their hands and only determined by the birth lottery.” Several murmurs in agreement are let out, especially from the drivers of Spanish descent. Their temperament is evident.

“We, as the GPDA,” He continues ”don’t stand for that kind of low standard journalism. I’ve talked to other members and we came to the agreement to hold a vote on whether or not we boycott all kinds of media related responsibilities with the exception of those from our own teams. It’s time to take back control over the narrative and show them that our weekends are all about racing and racing adjacent themes, not about race, heritage, gender or age. They don’t get to fish for clickbaiting headlines while treating us with disrespect.”

A loud wave of applause thunders through the room. The vote is just a formality, it’s clear that not a single person has any objections against the protest. Except for–

“What are we doing about fines?” (Y/N) asks. “The other rookies and I are not able to pay 250.000 € or more.” A groan goes through the rows. Right. Fines.

Max clears his throat. “I’ll pay any fine that comes up. I am done with the media’s bullshit. We gotta strike back where it hurts them by giving those vultures nothing. I will gladly go bankrupt to stick it to the man.” Lewis also offers to pay the fines. “We can share man, it won’t hurt us. But boycotting them will change their attitudes.”

With that, the decision is made. The GPDA puts out a statement on Instagram, announcing the boycott and outlining their reasons.

The post goes viral immediately. Most people commend the drivers, praising their stance. A very small number of people criticize that dealing with media and journalists is a part of motorsports. That fans are some type of boss you have to justify your actions and thoughts to. But due to the protest, no one answers that question when asked during the pre-race press conference.

It is very awkward for all the journalists to sit in such a quiet room, essentially talking to the walls more than to the drivers.

“Is this protest grown from questions being asked to (Y/N) that are based on her capability as a driver in combination with her gender?” Silence coupled with a few coughs is the only answer this reporter got.

It goes on for the whole weekend, across all press conferences and media related commitments with the exemption of team related press. Of course, as a consequence, it rains fines for everyone. The F1 CEO puts out a statement, claiming that press is an essential part of the job as a driver. Max cleverly points out that the job title is driver and not press officer in a clip on red bulls tiktok account. The FIA president laments that giving the cold shoulder is childish. No one gives him the time of day to even formulate a jab back to that, the audacity of talking about maturity coming from him is too… yeah.

At the end of the week, while media outlets lost money due to the sheer inability to report anything related to the drivers’ and their opinions, thus being unable to generate traffic on their sites to shove ads down the fans’ throats, they announce to work on a guideline for “respectable contact between drivers and journalists”. Carlos, as part of the GPDA presidency, retorts that the silent protest goes on until those guidelines have been made public and been negotiated with the drivers themselves.

In the span of two weeks, a handbook has been written, cleared by the GPDA, the FIA, F1 and anyone else who has to say something half important, printed and distributed between what feels like everyone on how to talk to each other in official press settings.

With that, the number of questions (Y/N) gets asked that are only based on her gender drop to zero. She no longer dreads press conferences because of the questions she’ll get asked. No, now the young girl dreads them just because they bore her to no end. But she rather has that than thinly veiled misogyny brought to her by men with egos greater than the Burgj Khalifa.

“You know,” He starts, “You may not have any media outlets on your side. But you got 21 drivers backing you. And every single one of them has more balls than any journalists hiding behind his laptop.”

After a post race press conference, Max and (Y/N) walk back to the garage. He puts his arm around her shoulder, more in a way a brother does while wanting to have a heart to heart conversation without the pressure of holding eye contact, than a teammate that wants to help carry the burden of the job.

The girl giggles, pinching Max’s side. “Never, ever ever mention anyone’s balls again. I have pictures in my head that will haunt me until the end of my days now.”

But the Dutchman is right. You rather have 21 dudes, who drive recklessly for a living, on your side than people, who hunt you down for a quote. In the end, she also has someone.

the roar of the engines echoed through the pit lane as you stepped out of your comforting blue and red racing suit, sweat-dampened hair clinging to flushed cheeks. you had followed this routine to perfection before, as a once promising young driver in the red bull junior program. but life had taken an unexpected turn - marrying your childhood sweetheart sebastian vettel had come at the expense of the seat which was once yours, falling through after intense media backlash and a lack of sponsors.

until today - mark had fallen ill at the last minute - red bull had no other choice but to throw open the door for you to reclaim your place. your heart had raced with a mix of excitement and trepidation at christian’s phone call. this was a chance to prove yourself all over again, to show everyone what you were capable of.

following the free practice session, you strode confidently through the bustling paddock, the flashing cameras and eager reporters and fans swarmed around you like a whirlwind. despite the chaos, you held your head high, a dazzling smile plastered across your face as you basked in the spotlight.

"y/n, how does it feel to be back in the hot seat?" a journalist called out, their microphone thrust forward, "and tell us what this means for your relationship with sebastian - you are both finally racing against each other…”

you laughed affectionately, slinging an arm around sebastian, who had sidled up beside you, "we of course work well together with each other and the team…" you replied, resting a hand on his arm affectionately.

"but well we all cant be the red bull golden boy,” you smirked playfully at your comment, while sebastian stuck out his tongue at you. "your wife’s got to keep you humble, huh" you retorted, poking him in the chest, "can't let that ego of yours get too big now, can we?"

he chuckled, shaking his head fondly. "with you around, i doubt that's possible." his gaze drifted to the throng of fans still calling out your name, snapping photos and waving eagerly. "they really love you, don't they? my little celebrity."

with a blush creeping up your neck, you waved at the adoring crowd, their enthusiasm infectious. you preened under the attention, reveling in the admiration. being in the limelight, having people look up to you... it was exhilarating. addictive, almost. you knew sebastian understood that pull all too well.

"you’re starting another cult. you bitch," sebastian teased fondly.

you laughed, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him close. "guilty as charged," you purred, your lips brushing against his ear. "but you know you love it. being married to the most popular driver on the grid has its perks, doesn't it?"

“don’t let lewis here you say that,” sebastian muttered gravely, “speak of the devil…”

you both turned to see lewis approaching, his signature grin wide and charming as ever. he waved at the gathered crowd before zeroing in on you and sebastian. "well well well, if it isn't the couple of f1," lewis drawled, pulling you into a friendly hug, before shaking hands with sebastian. "good to see you back in the game, y/n. those red bull boys must be thrilled to have you filling in."

sebastian rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "careful what you say, lewis. y/n might start a bidding war at mercedes."

lewis winked at you conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. "oh, i think she'd be worth every penny. just imagine the sparks flying between us on track... the whole world would be talking about the 'hamilton-y/n show'."

you giggled, batting your eyelashes coyly at the suggestion "are you trying to flirt with me? maybe we should stage a mock battle during qualifying to give the fans a real spectacle." lewis grinned, “is it working?” sebastian groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose as the two of you bickered.

leaving lewis chuckling to himself, you and sebastian made your way back towards the garage, the sound of busy team members growing louder with each step. the air was thick with the scent of gasoline and rubber, mingling with the hum of anticipation that always seemed to permeate the atmosphere in the hours leading up to a race.

you glanced around at the garage, soaking in your place at the helm of the team, finally, just finally able to put yourself out there and onto the track. "all this time waiting for a chance to get back behind the wheel, and now i get to share it with you," you murmured to sebastian.

our heart pounded in your chest, adrenaline surging through your veins. this was it. the moment you'd been longing for. sebastian led you over to the sleek car, its livery gleaming in the bright lights. he placed a hand on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "you've got this, babe. just like old times."

leaning in, you wanted to give sebastian a kiss, but you teasingly pulled away as he leant back towards you, “hey!” he called out indignantly, trying to wrap his arms around your waist. 

"the problem is, if i kissed you, i don't think i'd be able to stop. and as much as christian loves you, i dont think he wants his star driver fucking his wife against their multimillion dollar cars,” you giggled, as sebastian pinned you against your car.

“we’ll do it after the race then,” he eagerly asserts, planting one last kiss on your forehead before heading into his car.

as the lights went out, you felt a surge of energy coursing through your body. the rush of adrenaline was intoxicating, the roar of the engines drowning out everything else. this was what you lived for - the thrill of competition, the challenge of pushing yourself to the limit. 

and you had finally, finally reclaimed that chance for yourself.

sebastian pulled alongside you as you navigated the first lap, exchanging a glance filled with competitive fire. the two of you had always pushed each other to be better, both on and off the track. and now, with the entire world watching, the stakes were higher than ever. as the laps ticked by, you found yourself locked in a fierce battle with him, the two of you trading places and fighting for every inch of track. the tension between you was palpable, an bubbling undercurrent that threatened to boil over at any moment.

your earpiece crackled to life, the voice of the engineer piercing through the din of the engine and the crowd. "y/n, horner wants you to back off on sebastian," he urged. "we don't want to risk damaging the car or jeopardising our chances at either championship." but even as the words registered, you couldn't bring yourself to let up on your lead. the urge to win, to prove yourself superior to both your husband and the team, was too strong. you ignored the warning, focusing instead on maintaining your narrow lead.

as if fate itself had intervened, sebastian's car suddenly locked up, causing him to clip the barrier and sending him careening into the wall. the crowd gasped in shock, watching sebastian climb out of the smoking wreck of his redbull, your car sailing off into the distance.

you hurriedly asked your engineer if your husband was ok, frantically trying to peer into the mirrors to see if you could see any sign of him walking out of the wreckage. you breathed a heavy sigh of release when he reported that sebastian was in fact ok, and heading back to the garage, but urged you to continue on and win the race.

you were now desperate to win, lewis’ mclaren approaching faster than you hoped from behind. you needed to do it. for yourself. for sebastian. but fuck redbull, you cheerfully giggled, clenching your hands harder against the wheel.

you were going to win it.

your heart raced as you crossed the line, the checkered flag waving triumphantly above you. you had done it. finally. you had become a grand prix winner. the first woman to win a grand prix in formula 1 history. the elation was overwhelming, a rush of power and dominance that left you breathless, as you sat in the car, your head in your gloved hands. 

with the roaring crowd, you leapt into the arms of the mechanics, your name finally being shouted across parc ferme, the joyous sound ringing in your ears as hands slapped against your back in glee. 

but sebastian wasn’t there among the team's well-wishers. only as you finally stepped on top of the winner’s podium besides lewis and fernando, your heart pounding in your chest, did you catch his eye from below, a tight smile plastered on his face.

after the ceremony, you found yourself alone in your- well mark’s driver’s room, the bustle of activity fading into the background. the ache in your muscles from the physical exertion of the race mixed with a different kind of tension, one that seemed to vibrate through every cell of your being. the tension between you and sebastian was palpable, the usual banter and playful jabs were absent, replaced by a heavy silence that hung in the air like a challenge. you could sense the unspoken words, the simmering resentment, but you refused to back down.

sebastian stood in the doorway, his usually confident and loving stride tempered by a hint of frustration. "congratulations," he said, his tone measured. 

you met his gaze head-on, refusing to back down, "what’s with the attitude? i drove my ass off out there. you know as well as i do that i earned this win." his eyes narrowed, the air between you growing thicker with unspoken hostility. "maybe so, but we're teammates today. we're supposed to support each other, not sabotage each other's chances. i’m in it to win the title this year, you’re not,"

“say that to my fucking face vettel. just try me,” you snarled, pulling your husband into the room. sebastian stumbled forwards, catching himself against the bed. his eyes widened in surprise at your sudden aggression, but a smirk soon curled his lips. "oh, so now you want to play rough?" he taunted, straightening up and closing the distance between you.

before you could react, he grabbed your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "after all this time, and you still can't look me in the eye. you think you can handle me, babe?" his thumb brushed against your lower lip, sending a shiver down your spine despite the anger burning within you.

without breaking eye contact, he leaned in, his hot breath washing over your face. "because i'm more than happy to show you exactly what happens when you cross me.” with a growl, you wrenched free from sebastian's grasp, spinning around to face him fully. your chest heaved with pent-up fury, the fabric of your racing suit straining against your breasts. "you think you're so much better than me, don't you?" you spat, hands clenched into fists at your sides.

sebastian chuckled darkly, the sound sending a chill down your spine. "better? no, i just know how to handle a brat like you." he took another step closer, his presence dominating the small space. "you want to play dirty? fine. let's see who comes out on top." in a flash, he pinned you against the wall, his body caging yours in. you struggled against him, but his grip was unyielding. "you're mine, y/n," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. 

"i don't want to be able to walk tomorrow. bet you can’t do it," you hissed, grinding your hips against sebastian's thigh in defiance. the friction sent sparks of pleasure through your core, despite the anger fueling your actions.

sebastian's eyes flashed with desire at your boldness, his grip tightening on your wrists. "is that so?" he purred, leaning in to nip at your earlobe. with a wicked grin, sebastian released your wrists, only to grab a fistful of your racing suit and yank it down, exposing your bare skin to the cool air of the garage. he muttered dirty things, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip before dipping lower to cup your sex through the damp fabric of your underwear.

you bit back a moan, your body betraying your resolve as his touch ignited a flame of lust within you. "fuck, sebastian," you breathed, arching into his palm. "you always knew how to push my buttons." he chuckled, the sound husky with arousal. "that's because i know you, darling. i know exactly what gets you going." with a swift motion, he tore your panties aside, his middle finger plunging deep into your slick channel without preamble.

"ah, fuck yes," you groaned, your inner walls clenching around sebastian's invading digit. the sudden intrusion sent a jolt of pleasure through your core, making your knees buckle slightly. sebastian's grip on your hips steadied you, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing firm circles around the sensitive nub.

"you're so wet for me already," he praised, pumping his finger in and out of your dripping pussy. "i bet you've been thinking about this all day, haven't you? wondering what i'd do if you beat me." his words struck a chord, and you nodded frantically, unable to deny the truth. "yes, goddammit! i wanted to win, but...but i also wanted you to punish me for it."

sebastian's grin was pure sin as he added a second finger, stretching and filling you further.

"punish you?" he repeated, his voice low and husky with desire. "oh, i intend to, darling. but first..." withdrawing his fingers from your soaked cunt, he brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with relish. "mmm, you taste even better than i imagined."

your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and arousal as you watched him savor your essence. when he finished, he grasped the hem of your suit and pulled it down further, exposing your pert nipples to the chilly air. they pebbled instantly, begging for attention.

"beautiful," sebastian murmured, cupping your breasts and rolling the hardened tips between his thumbs and forefingers. "just like i remember." he leaned in, capturing one nipple between his lips and suckling firmly, sending shocks of pleasure straight to your throbbing clit.

moaning, you threaded your fingers through sebastian's hair, holding him close as he lavished attention on your breasts. the dual sensations of his tongue and fingers working in tandem had you teetering on the edge of climax, your body trembling with need.

but sebastian wasn't done yet. with a final, possessive kiss to your nipple, he released it and straightened up, a wicked glint in his eye. "time to put your money where your mouth is, darling," he purred, reaching for the zipper of his own racing suit.

you watched, breathless, as he revealed his chiseled physique inch by delicious inch. his cock sprang free, hard and thick and beautifully erect, the tip glistening with pre-cum. your mouth watered at the sight, and you licked your lips unconsciously.

sebastian's eyes followed the movement of your tongue, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "look what you do to me, sweetheart," he said, his voice heavy with lust. "you have no idea how long i've fantasized about bending you over and taking you right here, in front of everyone."

with that, he stepped forward, pressing you harder against the wall. his hand slid down to grip your throat, applying just enough pressure to assert dominance while still allowing you to breathe. "tell me you want it," he commanded, his cock brushing against your stomach, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. "tell me you need me inside you, claiming you as mine."

the roughness of his touch, combined with the raw desire etched on his face, left you weak in the knees. you nodded frantically, desperate for release. "yes, goddamn it!" you choked out, your voice strained from both his grip on your throat and the intensity of your arousal. "i want it, i need it. please, sebastian, fuck me!"

emboldened by your submission, he released your neck and spun you around, pinning you face-first against the cold metal of the bed. you felt the press of his muscular body against your back as he reached around to spread your thighs apart, baring your dripping sex to his hungry gaze. "mmm, look at you," he groaned, his fingers trailing through your slick folds. "so ready for me. you're going to feel every inch of my cock, darling."

you whimpered, pushing your hips back in an attempt to impale yourself on his thick member. sebastian chuckled darkly, enjoying your desperation. "patience, sweetheart," he cooed, his breath hot against your ear. with deliberate slowness, he pushed forward, the broad head of his dick parting your slick folds. you cried out at the sensation, your walls clenching reflexively around the intrusion. sebastian paused, giving you time to adjust, before gradually sinking deeper, inch by glorious inch.

"fuck, you're so tight," he grunted, his pace increasing as he filled you completely. once he was buried to the hilt, he stilled, letting you acclimate to the feeling of being so thoroughly stuffed.

you panted heavily, your mind reeling from the sheer size of sebastian's cock inside you. it stretched you to the limit, the slight discomfort only adding to the intense pleasure coursing through your veins.

after a moment, sebastian began to move, withdrawing until just the tip remained nestled within your entrance before surging back in, driving deep once more. the rhythm was relentless, each powerful thrust sending shockwaves of ecstasy rippling through your core. "take it, darling," he growled, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "take every fucking inch of my cock."

you could only moan in response, lost to the primal sensations consuming you. the slap of flesh against flesh echoed through the room, punctuating the obscene sounds of your bodies coming together in carnal union.

"i know for a fact that you can be a hell of a lot louder than that.” he smirked, the bench creaking beneath your combined weight, the metal frame straining against the force of his thrusts. you braced yourself against the surface, your fingers digging into the cold steel as he drove you closer to the brink of climax with every stroke.

suddenly, he shifted his angle, hitting that sweet spot deep within your pussy that made stars explode behind your eyelids. "sebastian!" you wailed, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. your inner muscles spasmed wildly, milking his cock as waves of intense pleasure washed through you.

through it all, sebastian didn't relent, continuing to rut into you with abandon, chasing his own release. "fuck, i'm gonna cum," he snarled, his movements becoming erratic as he neared the edge.

with a final, brutal thrust, sebastian pushed himself fully inside you, his cock pulsing as he spilled his hot seed deep into your fluttering channel. you could feel each thick spurt painting your insides, marking you as his. "fuuuck, take it all," he groaned, grinding against your ass as he emptied the last drops of his essence into your well-used pussy. the sensation of his warm cum filling you, combined with the aftershocks of your own intense orgasm, left you boneless and trembling.

“ughhhh still fuck you seb, you could’ve at least cut your wife some slack for racing you. after all, who else was going to,” you huff, trying to tug back on your racing suit, fingers brushing against your now soaked mound, as sebastian smirked behind you.

“i know you love me, my partner in crime,” he teased, sweeping you into a hug, as you grinned back.

permanent f1 taglist (comment or msg me to join)

@charlesgirl16 @tallrock35 @sweate-r-weathe-r @unlikelystay @alex-wotton

@daisyfreecs @euphorihan @louloucs @oikarma @dying-inside-but-its-classy

@fadingcloudballoon @princessminjikwon @nina-or-anna-or-nora

The reporter is not hesitating, jumping into his explanation right away, as if he had chosen the words he wanted to say beforehand. “Well, you participate in a male dominated sport, being currently the only female on the grid line up. You are never seen in typically female clothing. You even wore a suit to the last FIA gala. We have yet to see you in makeup outside of festivities. That’s why I am asking what you want to be perceived as. A man? A woman? Or something in-between?”

Silence has never been so loud. Nobody really knows how to respond to such an audacity.

(Y/N) pulls her microphone another bit closer before murmuring into it: “I rather be not perceived at all. Thank you for the question, I wanted to clear that bit up for quite some time now.”

Her answer brought a booming laughter out of the one and only Daniel Ricciardo, effectively breaking that spell of awkwardness that has been cast over the room by Mr Audacity. Everyone relaxes and joins in the laughter.

As the media representative is about to call onto the next journalist, Max asks a question. “Can we all answer this? Because I want to make it clear, I identify as a problem and want to be perceived as that.”

“Yeah”, Daniel interjects,”of course you do. I want to be perceived as a menace to human kind, please. What about you, Lando?”

“Number 1 Fish Hater, certified and trademarked already,” he answers with a cheeky smile.

Charles breathes “I’m a hot mess” into his microphone before the media representative is able to call onto the next person.

The following race weekend the drivers stand in the media pits with their PR managers, hopping from interviewer to interviewer like at a speed dating event.

“-overall I would say we have a good pace. I’m confident in the team to help us through this race in spite of the unpredictable weather conditions this weekend.” (Y/N)’s answers the usual questions that are thrown at her after sessions.

The journalist smiles at her. “I am sure of that. Now, onto my last question: Last week you have been asked what you want to be perceived as and you never really answered that. Why is that?”

(Y/N) throws a not amused look towards the woman. “I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t want to answer a question that is just a poorly disguised attack towards my femininity. I can like fast cars and dress however I want without having to answer something like that. I’m secure enough in my own gender identity as a woman to be able to express myself in all the ways I want without having my actions impede on my identity or expression of my gender. I will put on a dress when I feel like it, I will get the brushes out for a glam makeup when it is convenient for me and I don’t have to do ‘typically female’ things just to please the public opinion.

Instead of going around and judging, just work on why you have this urge to comment on my expression of gender in the first place, because your insecurities surrounding my gender don’t look cute on you.”

After that (Y/N) is practically dragged away from the media pit by her PR manager, who probably already has a headache thinking about the mess that will follow on social media and certain online magazines.

But the few drivers who stood around them, having media duties to follow themselves, just stared impressed and with deep respect after the young woman. She usually is softer spoken and obviously went through bootcamp media training. This was the first time they witnessed speaking her true mind in an interview.

Back in her driver's room, where she gets ready for the debrief, (Y/N) realizes the kind of mistake she just made.

Her little outburst will definitely get more of a reaction than it would if a Max Verstappen would have said something along these lines.

Before her inner eye she sees the headlines. Something about women being too emotional for motorsports. Her being too young, too hot headed, too much of everything and somehow not enough of everything.

The team will replace her, the negative PR not leaving them any other choice. The pressure on them is too much, they already took a big chance on her by giving the driver a seat in Formula 1 in the first place.

With the news of her sudden contract ending, at least one news outlet will write “The little experiment failed”, paving an even more difficult path for other women trying to prove themselves in motorsports.

And all that just because she wasn’t able to let this stupid question roll right off her back.

A sudden knock on her door breaks (Y/N) free from her downward spiral of thoughts. Max enters the room with Daniel on his tail. “This was amazing. How you told this interviewer off on life camera? And her face? After you went out, we just had to clap. It was so cool. You were so right, too. I’m so proud you finally spoke your mind. The audacity of these people.”

It seems like Max doesn’t need to breathe, judging from his rant.

Daniel has a much softer approach. He puts a hand on her shoulder, making her look up at him. “I hope you know that you had to say that back there. Even if you are ‘only’ a rookie this season, the questions you got the last couple of weeks were anything but ok or nice. Sometimes you need to be loud before it can be quiet.”

(Y/N) shoots him a thankful smile, squeezing the hand on her shoulder with her own. “You are right. It was just a bit overwhelming at first. But I can see the appeal now. I think I have to take a few classes with Max, because the concept of saying what you think got a new fan and that’s me. It’s the best thing I have done in the context of handling media duties.”

“No, you won’t do that”, (Y/N)’s PR manager stands in the doorway, probably to fetch her for the debrief. “In this case it was a good thing to do. Important, too, of course. The fans are eating this up on social media. They already made edits with the clips. But I don’t get paid what Max’ or Lando’s managers get, so you will return to your media trained good girl roots.” With that (Y/N) gets pulled out of the room by her. Max throws her a subtle nod, to which she smiles.

“Please, just stop talking. It’s only the ass crack of dawn, how can someone be so chatty?” (Y/N) puts her head onto the table, effectively stopping any further conversation with the Spaniard. He looks a little bit lost into his fruit bowl, not sure how to handle this situation adequately. 

“Top of the morning, my sunshines,” a smiling Daniel Ricciardo strolls into the room. The happiness radiating from him reaches (Y/N) even through her closed eyes.

Just as Daniel arrives at their table, she gets up with the most sluggish motions a sober person can muster. “Coffee” is the only thing mumbled, answering to the confused looks around her.

Shortly after, she sits down again with a cup in her hands, not even bothering to try to follow the chatting between Daniel and Carlos. (Y/N) just stares into space, wondering where she went wrong in her life to have to sit in between two morning people. Surely, this is a punishment of some kind.

“Ok, what is up with you? You look like you are about to murder everyone in this room if someone just dares to breathe in the wrong direction,” Daniel observes. (Y/N) takes another sip from her coffee. “Because it’s true.”

Carlos can’t wrap his head around it. “But what happened to the sunshine-in-person-(Y/N)?” “How am I supposed to be a sunshine, when I’m barely a person at this moment?” Well, that is not a lie. She does look pretty rough. Not everyone can wake up and look perfect like Florence Pugh. Some people have to look more like Merida herself in the mornings.

“Why are you talking to this woman during the early hours?” Charles, who just entered the breakfast hall, fears for their lives. “Because this is what people do? They talk when they sit together?” Daniel is confused. What is so bad about making conversations?

Charles steps closer to their table and (Y/N) immediately latches onto him, burying her face into his stomach.

“Don’t you value your life? A tired (Y/N) in the morning needs quiet and some hugs.” The young woman mumbles something, making the Monegasque laugh. “Yes, and coffee. This is the recipe to get the sunshine person you know and love.”

Confused, the other two drivers blink. Did they miss the manual that came with the rookie?

“And you know all of this, because?” Carlos asks the question that popped up in both their heads. “Because (Y/N) and Arthur were together in F2 and he had been ‘chewed out by her like a pack of gum by a class of elementary schoolers’, his words, not mine. She is not all bark and no bite, isn’t that right?” (Y/N) nods, her head still buried into his front.

“Do you want to catch a ride to the paddock with me? I plan on leaving in five minutes.” (Y/N) nods again and quickly gathers her things before waving the other drivers goodbye.

The ride is filled with silence, Charles even leaves the radio turned off. This lets the female drive in and out of a state of half-asleep until they arrive at their destination. At the same time a certain papaya wearing aussie his own car not far away from Charles’ Ferrari.

“Oh, is it still too early?” He asks her with a small smile. Just like Arthur, Oscar is aware how much of a night owl (Y/N) is, having witnessed her outbursts first hand several times during his own career in F2.

The driver nods as she throws herself into his embrace. A tired (Y/N) turns into the most cuddly person. “Let’s get you a cup of coffee, can’t have you go around screaming at people. You will scare everyone off.”

Oscar is pretty much the only smiling person she tolerates in the morning. Whenever another human being dares just grinning in her direction during her own waking up phase, she is ready to jump their throats. But Oscar is different. He doesn't do it out of mocking or pitiness. He is genuinely happy and wants to show and share it. Also, he radiates a nice calm aura, which is the complete opposite to what she experiences during the days of a race weekend.

When Carlos passes (Y/N) by later, he walks up to her with caution, keeping his teammates' warning in mind, “Hey Carlos, have you heard the rumors about the newest Taylor Swift album? Do you think it will feature a song about Nando?”

The woman in front of him has nothing in common with the one he interacted with just an hour ago. She somehow even looks completely different from her. It’s the kind of freshness that doesn’t come with a shower.

“Uhm, no I did not. Are you ok? You seemed… a bit out of it this morning.” There is a hesitation in his voice, not wanting to accidentally offset her.

But (Y/N) just laughs it off. “Oh yeah, that. I’m sorry for being a grump back there. Just like Charlie said, I’m absolutely not a morning person. During the first hour of being awake I’m an absolute monster. Just, don’t talk to me or only when it’s absolutely necessary during that time. I apologize for my behavior, it wasn’t nice. Today was particularly bad, because I do my best work at night and I have been pouring over some data until 2 am. I’ll try to give you a warning next time!”

With that she is off, looking for her partner in crime aka her teammate to start some kind of mischief with the social media team.

Carlos is just flabbergasted. The duality of some people and how a small cup of caffeine can bring that out of them is astonishing.

Just remember to never fuck with night owls during the early hours of the morning.

Bonus Scene

During a free week some drivers set a date to play a private paddle tournament together in Monaco. Daniel enters the court with a big smile. After all, it is a fresh, sunny morning. This day is a promise of having a good time with his friends and colleagues, playing their favorite game and having lunch plans together.

What sets the Australian off are the three frowning faces, sitting on a bench nursing each a can of Red Bull solemnly. “What happened to you?”

Max answers his question first with a grumpy voice. “I had to leave my cats cuddled up in my bed alone.” “My alarm woke me up while the first number on the clock was still a single digit.” Landoo sounds about as tired as (Y/N) next to him looks like.

“Life”, Daniel answers for the young woman already, who just nods and pulls the strings of her hood closed, hindering someone else to make more conversations with her until the caffeine has kicked in.

“Have you seen what they did to Big Bird from Sesame Street? They made him tiny for the past week!” Lando complains loudly to Carlos while scrolling through his twitter feed. But the Spaniard is confused.

“I don’t know who you are talking about, mate.” He thinks for a second. “Oh, do you mean Caponata? They made her small?!” Carlos’ face lights up, remembering the bird fondly. It’s not something you think about every day, isn’t it?

Lando looks at his friend with a befuddled face . “No, you muppet! Big Bird is a yellow bird that is very tall.” Max, who heard the conversation involuntarily, because the Brit speaks passionately loud about this subject, turns towards the other two drivers.

“I don’t know what kind of off brand Sesame Street you two have watched, but the real name of the tall bird is Pino and Pino is pale blue.” His matter-of-fact voice sets something in Lando off. It just doesn’t sit right with him that Max acts almighty and knowledgeable about a topic he read something himself with his own two eyes.

He gets up from his seat, taxing the Dutchman with a belittling up and down look. “If I was you, I would get my eyes checked, because Big Bird is a bright yellow! Watch out for color blindness.” Max also squares up, getting toe to toe with Lando, getting ready to shoot back. “I can show you how good my eyesight is the next time I’ll drive an orange car with the number four off the track.” “It’s papaya!” Lando pulls up the sleeves to his hoodie, getting ready for a fight that goes beyond spoken words.

“No!” Checo intervenes, putting himself between the two drivers. In the meantime the majority of the remaining people in the room put their attention on the, for now verbally, fighting men. “The name of the bird is Abelardo Montoya and the colors are green, red and a bit of pink. Stop arguing about stuff you know nothing about. Also, I’m older. So I'm right.”

His confident statement attracts the arguments from Max and Lando. “You are absolutely wrong!” “Big Bird is not green!” “No, because Pino is a beautiful blue color!” “Shut it, Verstappen, or I’ll show you the way your skin will bruise a beautiful blue!” “Step away, Norris. You are like 12 and build like a stick. You have not the strength to show me anything.”

“Are you sure? Let’s take this outside and I shove a stick up you a-” “What is going on in the house of commence?” (Y/N)’s voice cuts through the noise sharply. The room falls silent for several seconds until everyone tries to explain themselves at the same time.

“Big Bird is yellow!” “No, his name is Pino and he is pale blue!” “No, she is orange and yellow and is called Caponata!” “No, it’s a green bird, you all know nothing!” “Sh, be quiet, Checo!”

(Y/N) sits down on her chair again and waits for them to get finished scrambling to find an excuse to defend their ego. “Did you ask Pierre what Big Bird looks like for him?” She smirks.

Pierre also smiles knowingly, all eyes on him. “We call our Big Bird Toccata and he is white.” Especially Lando tries to defend himself and his Big Bird another time very loudly. But (Y/N) is having none of it. She put her hand over his mouth, muffling his protests while starting an explanation of her own.

“Did you know that Big Bird has eight international cousins? They are part of Sesame Street from other countries all around the world.” While she starts explaining, Lando’s face drops. “While most versions have a yellow bird like the Big Bird Lando references the whole time, they call them different names. In German he is named Bibo, ask Hülkenberg. In the Netherlands, Brazil and France, they got some versions of Big Bird’s cousins. I think in China they changed his name to the literal translation of Big Bird, but he still counts as one of the cousins. They explain it by calling them identical cousins.”

She throws a look to Zhou, who nods in confirmation and adds “His name is Da Niao”. “The cousins also live in Spain, Portugal and Turkey. Did you not know about this? I thought it was common knowledge. It was all over Twitter a couple of years ago. Now I see the threat every now and then again on tiktok with some minecraft gameplay in the background playing.”

Max mulls over the new information. “This explains everything.” Meanwhile Lando is a bit more shocked. “So I nearly got into a fist fight with Max Verstappen, because someone in some writer’s room decided to give Big Bird cousins and never said anything in the show?”

(Y/N) throws him a confused face. “What do you mean you nearly got into a fist fight? Those are muppets from a kids show! How can you pick a fight over muppets in different colors? They are not even real? In what way does this warrant to get physical?”

Well, if you put it like that, it sounds a bit irrational. Maybe silly even. Of course, no one says this outloud, but the faces all around are enough confirmation for the female driver.

“Gosh, that’s childish. But on the topic of Sesame Street: Have you seen the tweets about Big Bird being shrunk? I need justice for Big Bird!” And so a new discussion starts about the sense behind Big Bird being tiny.

A few hours later the track is cleared again after the storm eventually cleared up. Qualifying can finally start.

The interviews after are relaxed in a way no one expected and most of the newer drivers have never experienced before. Maybe it is the collective relief that qualifying is over without any more delays due to the weather or other problems.

“Coming to the last question,” the journalist closes up her post quali interview with (Y/N), “How did you pass the time until today’s session started? Did all the drivers have another Fifa tournament? Or was it Mario Kart this time?”

The female driver laughs a bit about the joke. “Oh no, not this time. I wouldn’t play Fifa with them anyways, I’m too competitive for that and not good enough at this game at the same time. But I’ll keep the Mario Kart idea in my head for the next skyfall rain. But today I was able to educate the boys on some Sesame Street lore, specifically about Big Bird’s eight international cousins.”

The reporter has a bemused face on. “I never heard of them.” “There is a link on the wiki page regarding Big Bird, dedicated to them. It’s amazing and super cute. Look it up!” (Y/N) winks into the camera.