😂😂

ashton: *admires luke being an idiot*

how it started vs how it’s going

mclaren a special place to visit to @.herendporcelain. ✨🎨

Woop Fist Pump!! http://ift.tt/1GMNnyg

❤️❤️❤️

Something good in this world…

XD

Fashion Show X George Russell (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Request: George Russell x Reader The Reader is a model and they meet at a fashion show and become the fashion couple of the grid. 

The backstage chaos of a fashion show is a unique kind of madness stylists with scissors in their mouths, interns sprinting in heels, and makeup artists dabbing last-minute gloss on lips already trembling with nerves. I was used to it. I'd walked a dozen runways, been shot by the best, and worn gowns stitched in silence by names no one dared mispronounce.

But I wasn’t prepared for him.

George Russell, of all people, standing backstage in a perfectly tailored suit like he’d walked straight out of a GQ cover shoot which, to be fair, he probably had. He was chatting to someone from the design house, all polite smiles and blue-eyed charm. And then he looked at me.

Not just looked. He noticed.

I tried to play it cool. Adjusted the strap on my heel and glanced away like I hadn’t just felt my stomach flip.

“You’re Y/N, aren’t you?” he asked a few minutes later, after I’d strutted down the runway in a sleek black number that hugged all the right places. He was waiting by the refreshment table, holding a sparkling water and looking annoyingly relaxed for someone causing minor havoc in my chest.

“I am,” I said, reaching for a bottle myself. “And you’re George Russell. The driver with the perfect posture.”

He laughed, a proper, belly-deep one. “I’ll take that. Though I’ve been told I look more like a mannequin than a man sometimes.”

“Well,” I said with a smirk, “you’re in the right place, then.”

That was how it started. A shared joke, a quiet moment among flashing lights and fabric. The next week, he invited me to a Grand Prix. I wore red. Ferrari red, despite him being a Mercedes man. He teased me about it the whole day.

Before long, the press had latched onto us. F1’s Fashion Couple. We became the unexpected duo that people didn’t know they needed me in couture, him in sharp suits that made headlines. We weren’t just walking red carpets; we were setting trends.

But behind all that, George was just… George. Sweet and supportive, always sneaking me chocolate after long fittings, always sending “good luck” texts before shoots. I returned the favour with calm pep talks on race weekends and silly superstitions we pretended worked.

Tonight, he was waiting for me after a Paris runway show, holding a single white rose and looking like a dream.

“Knocked ‘em dead again,” he said, pulling me into a hug that melted every inch of tension from my body.

“You think so?”

“Absolutely. They should build a statue in your honour outside the Louvre.”

I laughed, resting my head against his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only for you.”

And just like that, we walked hand-in-hand past flashing cameras, the click of shutters chasing our every step not that we noticed anymore. Because being the fashion couple of the grid wasn’t about the headlines or the hype.

It was about him and me. Runways and race tracks. And a love that somehow fit better than any designer gown.

Jet Black Heart