Crash Into My Life - Lance Stroll X Civil Servent! Reader

Can you please do driver reader is literally the absolute Angel of the paddock and everyone adores her, she’s the cutest sweetest little bean that you can’t help but love, she’s a Redbull driver and Christian always fawns over her and talks about his ‘daughter’ ( it’s clear she’s the favourite ). Even the older drivers love her e.g kimi, jenson, Seb, mark. Platonic pleaseeee

Omg, that is such a sweet idea. I did the format a bit differently, hope you don't mind.

Enjoy reading and send me some requests!!!

-XoXo

The Redbull Princess

YN YLN was a known name in the motor sport world. Not only was she the youngest driver currently on the grid - only 19 years - but she is the first female to ever drive for RedBull. Not oy that, but also the only woman on the grid.

Despite having a different gender, the other drivers never treated her bad. In fact, one could say that YN got the whole "Princess Treatment" from the drivers and teams. Each driver has taken a special place in her life.

Exhibit A: The protective one

The paddock was buzzing with energy, reporters swarming like bees near the Red Bull garage. YN was prepping for her media rounds, already feeling the weight of the spotlight on her. As she stepped into the press pen, a group of journalists immediately approached, firing off questions.

"YN, how do you feel about the pressure of being the youngest driver? Do you think it affects your performance?"

Before she could answer, Max appeared out of nowhere, slipping between her and the reporters with a grin that was anything but friendly. "I think that's enough for now," Max said, his blue eyes narrowing. "She’s got a race to focus on. Back off."

The reporters, visibly intimidated by the reigning World Champion, quickly shuffled away. YN let out a breath of relief, nudging Max with her elbow.

"You know, I can handle them."

Max chuckled, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, steering her away from the crowd. "Yeah, but why would I let them bother you when I can have fun scaring them off?"

"You're impossible," she laughed. "But thanks."

Exhibit B: The gossip King

YN walked into the Ferrari garage, still buzzing from practice. She found Charles leaning against his car, drinking water. His face lit up when he saw her.

"Charlie! Did you see that move I pulled in turn 9?" she said, excitedly plopping down next to him.

Charles grinned, instantly slipping into gossip mode. "I did! Smooth as butter. But did you hear about Fernando's radio message? He was furious about the tire degradation. Drama!"

YN's eyes widened. "No way! Spill all the tea, Leclerc."

Charles leaned in, whispering. "Apparently, his engineer told him to manage his tires better, and Nando snapped, saying, ‘I am managing them!’" He mimicked Fernando’s accent, making YN burst into laughter.

Exhibit C: The helping hand

The young RedBull driver just exited her car, when she felt someone grabbing her Birking Bag. When she quickly turned her head, she was meat with the sight of Carlos not only caring her bag in his hands and her coat on his arm, but carring his own stuff as well.

"Carlito, what are you doing? You don’t have to carry all my stuff for me." she told him, after they started walking towards the entrance.

Carlos mate an irritated sound, before responding to her. "Nonsense, hermana. Your job is to win this weekend. So let me help you with all the other things, comprende?"

Before Carlos could get an answer, she threw her arms around him, whispering a small thank you in his ear.

Exhibit D: The personal chef

YN sat in the Red Bull hospitality area, poking at her plate of food with a discontented look. Yuki walked over, noticing her lack of enthusiasm.

"Not good enough for you, huh?" Yuki teased, sliding into the seat across from her.

YN scrunched up her nose. "I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t eat this."

Without missing a beat, Yuki stood up. "I’ll make you something. What do you want?"

Her eyes brightened. "Yuki, really? You don’t have to!"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, you’re picky. I know that. What do you want? Miso soup? Onigiri?"

YN tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Onigiri sounds perfect."

Within minutes, Yuki was back, placing a plate of freshly made onigiri in front of her. YN took a bite and sighed contentedly. "You're the best, Yuki."

He grinned. "I know."

Exhibit E: The "annoying" prankster

YN was busy trying to make sure her helmet and gear were ready when suddenly, her entire backpack fell off the counter with a loud thud, spilling everything.

"Lando!" she yelled, spinning around, catching the British driver grinning like a mischievous child.

"What?" Lando said, feigning innocence, hands up. "It slipped."

YN gave him a look but couldn’t help the smile creeping on her face. Lando always knew how to lift her spirits, even if it was through relentless pranks.

"One day, Norris, one day!" she warned, pointing a finger at him.

"I’ll be waiting," Lando chuckled, before helping her pick up her things

Exhibit F: The shoulder to cry on

"I just can't believe it. I was so close. How did I manage to bin the car into the wall on the last corner" muttered the 19 year old. Her face pressed in Oscars neck, who was busy stroking her hair. He knew better than to interrupt her during her rant. Knowing it would help her when she got everything of her chest.

After a moment, she shakily breathed out. Oscar knew that the only thing he could do now was to let her fall apart while he would catch every piece of her.

And that's what he did. While she cried her heart out, Oscar held her close to him, rocking them slowly in a soothing matter. It felt like nothing could happen to her in Oscars arms. He would protect her from the outside world as long as she needed

Sometimes actions speak louder than words

Exhabit G: The fashionista

Lewis stood beside YN, eyeing her racing suit critically before smirking. "That’s not gonna work."

"What do you mean?" she asked, confused.

He pointed at her boots. "Those shoes? No way. They don’t match the rest of the suit."

YN raised an eyebrow. "I'm not trying to walk the runway, Lewis. I’m racing."

Lewis rolled his eyes. "You can do both. Come on, let’s get you a new pair of shoes. You’ll thank me later."

And true to his words, YN received a new pair of racing shoes only a few hours later. They certainly looked better than her old pair.

Exhibit H: The mother-hen

George was hovering near the buffet in the paddock, watching YN closely as she piled food onto her plate. He narrowed his eyes as she bypassed the salad section.

"YN, you need to eat more greens. And have you had any water today?" George asked, his tone dangerously close to motherly.

YN groaned. "George, I’m fine. I had water this morning."

"That’s not enough," he replied sternly, filling a glass and handing it to her. "Drink. Now."

She pouted but took the glass. "Okay, Mom."

Exhibit I: The proud dad

During a press conference, Christian Horner stood beside YN, smiling at the reporters. "You all know my daughter here is the star of the show," he said, gesturing towards YN.

YN blushed at the comment. "Christian!"

The reporters laughed, but YN knew Christian wasn’t entirely joking. He had taken her under his wing from day one, treating her like family. And she couldn’t have been more grateful.

Exhibit J: Bwoah

In a rare quiet moment, YN had somehow convinced Kimi Räikkönen — the Iceman himself — to do a TikTok trend with her. As the camera rolled, Kimi deadpanned his way through the trend, barely moving but somehow nailing it.

"Thanks for doing this, Kimi," YN said, grinning as they finished.

Kimi shrugged. "Bwoah, don’t mention it, kid. But don’t tell the other drivers that you are my favourite"

YN laughed. "Deal."

"Focus, George. Focus"

Sir with that voice?!

Lando 🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🎉🎉🍾🍾🍾🍾

Oscar like: 🤨🤨🤨~🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️~😒😒😒

“No, no, no! 𝕷𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖔, I can’t let u do that”

"You're not breaking this one!"🏆

I mean

He is not ugly but he is not that handsome... But he has the charm, got it?

Races Shouldn't End Like That - F1 Grid

Request from @rj10109 - could I please request a f1 grid x driver reader where reader kinda passes out from heat exhaustion in the qatar grand pix and the grid acts like protective older brothers, or the reader gets into a crash and gets injured and everyone just dotes on her

I did write something similar to this based around Charles dating the reader, but I actually quite like this idea tbh.

Alfa Romeo driver!reader

Y/n's head felt like her brain was melting, it wasn't just a headache, it actually felt like there was fire all over her. Her skin prickles from the heat as her suit clings to her skin, saturated in her sweat. Every breath out hurts.

Talking on the radio takes up so much energy when they finally tell her she's over the finish line, she actually feels like she's going to be sick.

"Y/n, do you copy?" Y/n's race engineer calls out making her snap out of her.

Whatever Jamie said, she just wasn't listening.

"Copy." She coughs out completely breaths.

Sweat is blurring her vision and has been for a while, she feels like shit and the idea of hauling herself out of the car is just too exhausting.

"Y/n? Are you feeling ok? We've had reports of other drivers unwell and Logan retired due to feeling unwell."

That was an option?

"Y/n?"

"I don't feel good." Y/n finally chokes out.

"You don't feel good? Do you need to stop?"

"No. I can make it back, I just..." Her voice trails off into a dehydrated cough.

"Alright, just bring yourself back. Don't talk."

When she pulls in she turns off the car and just sits. Not even sure how she's meant to get out the car.

"Hey, hey, baby girl. Let's get you out of there." Jamie smiles appearing with her trainer Gordie who reaches in undoing her helmet and pulling it off. The drenched inside soaked so much with her sweat that it drips out of it. "Jesus."

"That bad?" Y/n jokes as her balaclava is peeled from her skin. "Fuck."

"Ok, we're going to get you out."

"I'm...I'm...it hurts. Everything hurts." Y/n admits making Jamie look at her in worry.

They manage to position themselves to pull her body from the heat of the cock pit and with a couple of the mechanics there pointing the fans at her as they quickly peel the upper part of her suit off.

"Let's get you to weigh in. Media can wait. I want you checked at the medical centre." Gordie states making her nod. "Come on, we got you."

"No. I'm fine. I'm good. No one else is being carried-"

"Trust us. Some of the others haven't got away from their cars." Jamie states making her look around to see Alex is still very much on top of his car looking just as bad if not worse than her.

Y/n sighs heavily before she stands up feeling her legs wobble but she holds her hands out to keep the men from aiding her.

"I've got it."

Y/n makes it to the weigh bridge where she doesn't even want to know how much weight she lost before she moves to change quickly into something at least a little less sweaty with Gordie's help.

They get her to the medical centre where she is quickly told she has heat exhaustion to which she replies it feels like she was boiled in her own blood throughout the race.

"I'll do media pen, then can you make sure there's an ice bath to drown myself in?" Y/n asks making her trainer nod as she sees the teams comms personnel waiting for her to get her to the media pen for her post-race interviews.

Y/n ends up waiting a few minutes because she's came in a rush of drivers coming in late.

"Y/n, you look..." Charles grimaces making her shake her head at him.

"Don't." Y/n states quickly as he looks at her in pity. "I thought I was going to die. You look fine though."

Charles' expression speaks loudly in ways he clearly doesn't want to.

"Y/n...Here, have this." Charles states giving her his ice pack vest and helping her into it.

"You don't have to-"

"You need it more." Charles shrugs before moving over to another interview while she finds herself with Esteban suddenly appearing.

"You joined Ferrari?" Esteban jokes making her laugh then wobbling a little as she tries to shift her weight. The sudden coolness is a bit more of a shock to the system and is seemingly making her head floor with all the hot blood as if it's running from the ice pack jacket. "I thought I was bad. I was sick in my helmet if that helps at all."

"I'm not sure it helps...are you ok?"

"Better now. I look better than you...how much weight did you lose?"

"You should never ask a lady that." Fernando states appearing suddenly as he moves to hug y/n who sort of takes the rest of not quite supporting her own weight. "Ah, y/n. You are burning."

"My-"

Y/n stumbles pushing past the Spaniard and out the media pen only, dropping onto her knees as the small amount of water she'd managed to get into herself after the race spills out of her.

"Y/n?" Max calls out suddenly making her shake her head.

Her head feels like her brain just exploded from the strain and pressure of heaving and the world is spinning around her.

"On three."

Two people have locked onto her arms and lifted her up just enough to shift her away from the puddle of sick. She's in a bad way.

Max and Lando are the ones to lift her and carry her to a table. Where Lando came from she doesn't know, she just sees the flash of orange with curly hair.

"Hey...they're getting the medics." Lando smiles crouching in front of her while Max fusses over her trying to get a cold towel around her neck.

She's broke out in a new sweat and there's seemingly not enough to cool her down.

"You guys aren't this bad." Y/n hiccups making the slowly gathering crowd of drivers, trainers and other team members exchange looks between themselves.

"The ones who aren't here, are this bad." Max states before the medics appear and everyone divides.

-

Y/n ended up being given some pretty strong painkillers and taken for an ice bath before being rushed to the hotel.

With the news of her in a pretty poor condition meaning that she couldn't leave as soon as she'd planned to, a few of the drivers grouped together to make sure she knew that she certainly wouldn't be alone.

"Y/n...you have some guests." Gordie smiles having disappeared about half an hour ago and now reappearing with a group of drivers behind him.

Among those, Oscar, Max, Charles, Carlos, Lando, Logan, Alex, Lewis, George, Pierre, Esteban, Liam, Yuki and Fernando. More than half the grid joining her.

"We're having a day all squished together." Carlos smiles as he climbs onto the bed that she's set up on and hugs her. "Poor baby."

"You are so lucky you didn't have to do that race." Y/n pouts leaning onto him.

Even now her temperature is a little high, Gordie has been trying to get her to eat some breakfast but they're about to destroy his efforts with a much more effective method.

"We bring ice cream cake!" Max states presenting the cake with Yuki.

"As long as I'm not expected to eat it all."

"Yeah, we're still waiting for her appetite to come back." Gordie smiles as the drivers each find a spot to place themselves. Most fitting on the bed, some dragging the spare seats and sofa over to the bed so they can all be close.

"I think we got it from here mate." Lewis states patting Gordie’s shoulder.

Her trainer had stayed up through the night essentially nursing y/n and making sure she didn't suddenly need medical assistance again.

"Did you guys really all come here just for me?" Y/n pouts as Yuki takes charge of dividing up the cake.

"You scared us yesterday." Max comments making her grimace.

"So Alex and Logan." George assures her but when she looks at the Williams drivers, she's isn't given much comfort. They've both laid down on her bed towards the end and look like they each need another 20 hours of sleep.

At some point Max sets up a games console and they begin playing video games. Though y/n is still far too fatigued and achy to take part. She decides to team up with Lando who had sat himself on the other side of her to Carlos.

And that's how she spends the day, some of which she is dozing in and out of sleep leaning either on Lando or Carlos till Lando moves and swapped out with Liam who apparently decides to nap with her for a while as the others bicker about a certain game.

Eventually they all fall asleep and when Gordie returns in the evening he manages to wake them all for a meal then leaving them to sleep again. Which they all do more than happily.

Even Carlos and Lewis are just happy to be involved, despite their lack of involvement in the race over all.

It's already been decided the drivers will be having a meeting with the FIA to discuss the matter of the race and conditions in which it's acceptable to allow a race to go forth. Obviously they have rules in place for wet weather. But there seems to be blurry lines about the safety of hot and cold and where the line lies when the temperature is simply too high or too low. But they'll tackle that after some recovery time.

Taglist: @namgification @hiireadstuff @jsjcue @geniusalpaca @itsjustkhaos @llando4norris @partyinpitlane @lpab @xoscar03 @harrysdimple05 @mellowarcadefun @cixrosie @scopeiguess

Paddock Princess

Formula 1 (literally half the grid) x Vettel!Reader

Summary: when the drivers find out that you’re planning to have a baby all by yourself, they offer to help out by playing sperm roulette … the results are surprisingly wholesome

The buzz of excitement fills the air as the paddock comes to life on a sunny morning. Drivers, team personnel, and media representatives mill about, but there’s a palpable sense of anticipation among a particular group of racers gathered near the Ferrari motorhome.

Max leans against the sleek red structure, his eyes darting around nervously. “Has anyone seen her yet?” He asks, his voice tinged with a mix of excitement and anxiety.

Charles shakes his head, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Not yet. But she should be here soon, right?”

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” Lando chimes in, bouncing on his toes. “It’s like something out of a movie.”

Carlos nods in agreement, a grin spreading across his face. “A very strange movie, but I’m here for it.”

George glances at his watch, his brow furrowed. “She’s usually here by now. You don’t think she’s having second thoughts, do you?”

“No way,” Oscar says confidently. “You know her. Once she sets her mind to something, that’s it.”

Lewis, standing slightly apart from the younger drivers, offers a reassuring smile. “Oscar’s right. She’s one of the most determined people I know. If this is what she wants, she’ll see it through.”

Logan, the newest addition to the group, shifts nervously. “I still can’t believe you guys talked me into this. My mom would freak if she knew.”

Alex pats him on the shoulder. “Relax, mate. It’s all anonymous, remember? Besides, think of how happy she’ll be.”

Fernando, leaning against a nearby barrier, nods sagely. “Exactly. We’re doing this for her, because she deserves it.”

Lance, who’s been quiet until now, suddenly straightens up. “Heads up, guys. I think I see her coming.”

The group falls silent as you approach, your press pass swinging from your neck and a warm smile on your face. “Morning, boys,” you greet them cheerfully. “Why do you all look like you’re up to something?”

Max clears his throat, trying to sound casual. “Us? Never. Just, uh, enjoying the nice weather.”

You raise an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Uh-huh. And I suppose you’re all gathered here by pure coincidence?”

Charles steps forward, his charm on full display. “Can’t we just be happy to see our favorite reporter?”

You laugh, the sound lightening the mood. “Alright, alright. I’ll play along. But seriously, what’s going on? You’re all acting weird.”

The drivers exchange glances, silently debating who should speak first. Finally, Lewis takes the lead.

“We heard about your decision,” he says gently. “About wanting to have a baby.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Oh. I didn’t realize ... I mean, I only told a couple of people.”

Lando grins sheepishly. “Word travels fast in the paddock. Especially when it’s about you.”

You look around at the group, a mix of emotions playing across your face. “Okay, so you know. But that doesn’t explain why you’re all acting like you’re planning a heist.”

Carlos steps forward, his expression earnest. “We want to help.”

You blink, confusion evident in your eyes. “Help? How?”

George takes a deep breath before plunging in. “We’ve all agreed to donate sperm. To give you options, you know?”

Your jaw drops, and for a moment, you’re speechless. “You ... what?”

Oscar jumps in, his words tumbling out in a rush. “We know you said you were thinking about using a sperm bank, but we thought, well, why not use someone you actually know?”

“And trust,” Alex adds quickly.

You look around at the group, your expression a mix of shock, confusion, and something that might be amusement. “Let me get this straight. All of you,” you gesture at the assembled drivers, “want to donate sperm so I can have a baby?”

They nod in unison, and you can’t help but laugh. “This is ... I don’t even know what to say. It’s incredibly sweet, but also completely insane.”

Fernando steps forward, his expression serious. “We know it’s unconventional. But you’re important to all of us. We want to support you in any way we can.”

You shake your head, still trying to process the situation. “I appreciate that, truly. But guys, this is a huge decision. It’s not just about me having a baby. One of you would be a father.”

Max nods, his face set in determination. “We’ve thought about that. A lot, actually.”

“And we’re okay with it,” Lando adds. “Whatever level of involvement you want, we’ll respect that.”

You look at them, your eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait a minute. How exactly would this work? I can’t exactly pick one of you. That would be ...”

“Awkward,” Lance finishes for you. “We know. That’s why we came up with a plan.”

Logan, who’s been quiet until now, speaks up. “We’d all donate, and then the clinic would mix the samples together.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “So it would be like ... artificial insemination roulette?”

Carlos grins. “Exactly! That way, no one knows who the father is. It could be any of us.”

You shake your head, a disbelieving laugh escaping you. “This is absolutely crazy. You know that, right?”

Lewis steps closer, his expression gentle. “Maybe. But we all care about you. We want you to be happy, and we know how much you want this.”

You look around at the group, taking in their earnest expressions. “I don’t know what to say. This is ... a lot to process.”

George nods understandingly. “Of course it is. We don’t expect you to decide right now. Just ... think about it, okay?”

You nod slowly, still looking a bit dazed. “Okay. I’ll think about it. But guys, this is a huge thing you’re offering. Are you sure you’ve really thought it through?”

Alex speaks up, his voice calm and reassuring. “We have. We’ve talked about it a lot, actually. We know it’s not a decision to make lightly.”

“But we’re all in agreement,” Oscar adds. “If this is what you want, we want to help make it happen.”

You take a deep breath, looking around at the group. “I need some time to think about this. It’s ... a lot to take in.”

Max nods, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder gently. “Take all the time you need. We’re not going anywhere.”

As you turn to walk away, still looking a bit shell-shocked, the drivers watch you go with a mix of hope and anxiety.

“Do you think she’ll go for it?” Lando asks, nervously fidgeting with his sleeve.

Charles shrugs, his eyes still following your retreating figure. “I don’t know. It’s a big decision.”

“We’ve done our part,” Fernando says sagely. “Now it’s up to her.”

The group falls into a contemplative silence, each lost in their own thoughts about the potential consequences of their offer.

Several days pass, and the paddock is abuzz with speculation. The drivers have managed to keep their offer under wraps, but your contemplative mood hasn’t gone unnoticed.

You find yourself cornered by the group once again, this time in a quiet corner of the paddock after qualifying.

“So,” Max says, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “Have you, uh, given any thought to our offer?”

You look around at the expectant faces surrounding you and take a deep breath. “I have, actually. I’ve thought about little else, to be honest.”

The tension in the air is palpable as they wait for your decision.

“I’m still not sure this is the right thing to do,” you begin, and you can see their faces fall. “But ... I can’t deny that the idea has a certain appeal.”

Hope blossoms in their expressions, and you can’t help but smile at their eagerness.

“Before I say yes,” you continue, holding up a hand to stave off their excitement, “I need to know that you’ve all really thought this through. This isn’t just about me having a baby. One of you will be a father, even if we don’t know which one.”

Lewis nods solemnly. “We understand. We’ve talked about it a lot, believe me.”

“And you’re all okay with the possibility of having a child out there that you might never know is yours?” You press.

They exchange glances before nodding in unison.

“We know it’s not a conventional situation,” Charles says. “But we’re all willing to accept whatever comes of this.”

You look at each of them in turn, searching their faces for any sign of doubt. Finding none, you take a deep breath.

“Okay,” you say finally. “If you’re all sure about this ... then yes. I’d be honored to accept your offer.”

The reaction is immediate and overwhelming. Cheers erupt from the group, and before you know it, you’re engulfed in a group hug.

“This is going to be amazing,” Lando exclaims, his face lit up with excitement.

“You’re going to be an incredible mother,” Alex adds, his smile warm and sincere.

As the excitement dies down, practical considerations start to surface.

“So, how do we do this?” Oscar asks. “Do we all just show up at the clinic or ...”

You can’t help but laugh at the mental image. “I think it might be best if we handle this discreetly. I’ll talk to the clinic and set everything up. They can give you instructions on how to make your ... contributions.”

George nods, looking relieved. “That sounds like a good plan. We don’t want this getting out to the media.”

“Agreed,” you say firmly. “This stays between us. No one else needs to know the details.”

The group nods in agreement, and you feel a wave of affection for these men who are willing to go to such lengths for you.

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” you say, shaking your head in wonder.

Fernando smiles, his eyes twinkling. “Believe it. In a few months, you could be on your way to motherhood.”

The reality of the situation starts to sink in, and you feel a mix of excitement and nerves. “This is going to change everything, isn’t it?”

“Change can be good,” Carlos says, giving you a reassuring smile. “And you won’t be alone. We’ll all be here to support you.”

You look around at the group, feeling overwhelmed by their support and affection. “Thank you. All of you. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for this.”

Max grins, lightening the mood. “Well, naming the kid after me would be a good start.”

The group erupts in laughter, and you roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Nice try, Verstappen. But I think we’ll be steering clear of any names that might give away paternity.”

As the laughter dies down, a comfortable silence falls over the group. The magnitude of what you’ve all agreed to hangs in the air, but it’s accompanied by a sense of excitement and possibility.

“So,” Lance says, breaking the silence. “I guess the next step is to set up appointments at the clinic?”

You nod, feeling a flutter of nervous excitement in your stomach. “Yeah, I’ll get that sorted out and let you all know the details.”

“And then ...” Logan trails off, looking a bit overwhelmed.

“And then we wait,” Lewis finishes for him. “And hope for the best.”

You look around at the group of men surrounding you, each one ready to potentially become a father for your sake. It’s an unconventional situation, to say the least, but as you take in their supportive smiles and excited eyes, you can’t help but feel that you’re embarking on something truly special.

“Well, boys,” you say, a smile spreading across your face. “I guess we’re really doing this. Let Operation Make A Baby commence.”

***

The hospital waiting room crackles with nervous energy as eleven Formula 1 drivers pace, fidget, and attempt to distract themselves. The air is thick with anticipation, and every time the door opens, heads snap up in unison, hoping for news.

Max runs a hand through his hair for the hundredth time. “How long has it been now?” He asks, his voice tight with tension.

George checks his watch. “About six hours since we got here. But labor can take a while, especially for first-time mothers.”

“I still can’t believe this is really happening,” Lando says, his leg bouncing incessantly. “One of us is about to become a father.”

Charles nods, his eyes fixed on the door. “It’s surreal. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and find out this was all a dream.”

“Not a dream, mate,” Alex says, patting Charles on the shoulder. “Very much real.”

The door swings open, and a nurse steps out. The drivers collectively hold their breath, but she merely smiles apologetically and heads down the hallway.

Carlos groans. “This waiting is killing me. How are we supposed to just sit here?”

“We could place bets on who the father is,” Logan suggests with a nervous laugh.

Lewis shakes his head, a small smile on his face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We agreed we wouldn’t try to figure it out, remember?”

“Lewis is right,” Fernando says sagely. “What matters is that the baby and the mother are healthy.”

Oscar nods in agreement. “Exactly. We’re all in this together, regardless of biology.”

Lance, who’s been quietly observing until now, speaks up. “Do you think she’s scared? I mean, we’re all nervous wrecks out here, and we’re not the ones giving birth.”

The group falls silent, contemplating Lance’s words. It’s a sobering thought, reminding them of the magnitude of what’s happening just beyond those doors.

“She’s strong,” Max says finally, his voice filled with admiration. “Stronger than all of us put together. She’ll be fine.”

As if on cue, the door swings open again, and this time, a doctor steps out. The drivers scramble to their feet, forming a semicircle around her.

“Gentlemen,” the doctor says, a smile playing at her lips. “I’m happy to inform you that both mother and baby are doing well. It’s a healthy baby girl.”

A collective cheer erupts from the group, followed by a flurry of hugs and backslaps. The tension that’s been building for hours finally breaks, replaced by jubilant relief.

“When can we see them?” Charles asks eagerly.

The doctor holds up a hand. “The mother is resting now, but she’s asked to see you all in about an hour. She wants you to meet the baby together.”

As the doctor leaves, the drivers look at each other, a mix of excitement and nerves on their faces.

“A girl,” Lando says, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “We have a daughter.”

“She has a daughter,” Lewis gently corrects. “We’re ... well, I’m not sure what we are exactly.”

“We’re family,” Fernando says firmly. “All of us and the little one.”

The next hour passes in a blur of excited chatter and speculation. Finally, a nurse appears to escort them to the private room where you and the baby are waiting.

As they file into the room, the sight that greets them renders them momentarily speechless. You’re propped up in the bed, looking tired but radiant, cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in a soft pink blanket.

You look up as they enter, a soft smile on your face. “Hey, guys. Come meet your daughter.”

The drivers approach cautiously, as if afraid they might break the spell. You adjust the blanket, revealing a tiny face with rosebud lips and a button nose.

“She’s beautiful,” Max breathes, his eyes wide with wonder.

“She’s perfect,” Charles adds, his voice choked with emotion.

You beam at them, your eyes shining. “Want to hold her?”

After a moment of hesitation, Lewis steps forward. With practiced ease, he gently takes the baby from you, cradling her carefully in his arms.

“Hello, little one,” he coos softly. “Welcome to the world.”

The other drivers crowd around, each wanting a closer look. As Lewis passes the baby to Carlos, the scrutiny intensifies.

“Is it just me, or does she have Max’s nose?” Lando asks, peering closely at the tiny face.

Max leans in, his brow furrowed. “I don’t see it. But those ears ... they look like yours, Lando.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Boys, she’s about one hour old. I think it’s a bit early to be playing guess the father, don’t you?”

The drivers have the grace to look sheepish, but their curiosity is far from satisfied.

As the baby is passed from driver to driver, the observations continue.

“She has a strong grip,” Alex notes as tiny fingers wrap around his thumb. “Definitely going to be a racer.”

“Look at those long eyelashes,” Oscar marvels. “Those have to be from Charles.”

Charles preens a bit at this, while the others roll their eyes good-naturedly.

When it’s Fernando’s turn to hold the baby, he studies her with a thoughtful expression. “You know,” he says slowly, “I think she has your smile.”

You raise an eyebrow. “She hasn’t even smiled yet.”

He shakes his head, a mysterious smile on his face. “Trust me. I can tell.”

As the baby makes her way back to you, the drivers settle into chairs around the room, their eyes never leaving the tiny bundle.

“So,” George says, breaking the comfortable silence. “Have you thought about names?”

You nod, looking down at your daughter. “I have, actually. I was thinking ... Nessa. It means miracle. I thought it was fitting, given how she came into our lives.”

“Nessa,” Logan repeats, testing the name. “I like it. It’s beautiful.”

The others murmur their agreement, and you feel a wave of relief. Naming a baby is hard enough without having to consider the opinions of eleven potential fathers.

“Nessa it is, then,” you say, smiling down at the sleeping infant.

Lance, who’s been quiet until now, speaks up. “Can I ask ... how are you feeling? About all of this, I mean.”

You take a moment to consider the question. “Honestly? I’m overwhelmed. Excited, terrified, grateful ... all at once. But mostly, I’m just in awe. Of her, of this whole situation, of all of you.”

The drivers exchange glances, a mix of emotions playing across their faces.

“We’re the ones who should be in awe of you,” Carlos says softly. “You’ve given us an incredible gift.”

“He’s right,” Max adds. “No matter which one of us is her biological father, we’re all going to love her. And you.”

You feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Thank you. All of you. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

As if sensing the emotional moment, Nessa chooses that moment to wake up, her tiny face scrunching up as she lets out a wail.

“Oh boy,” Lando says, his eyes wide. “That’s quite a set of lungs she’s got there.”

You laugh, adjusting Nessa in your arms. “Well, she is a paddock baby. Got to make herself heard over those engines somehow.”

As you soothe the baby, the drivers watch in fascination. It’s clear that despite their earlier bravado, the reality of a newborn is a bit daunting.

“So, uh, what happens now?” Oscar asks, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

You look up from Nessa, who’s settled back into sleep. “Well, we’ll be here for a couple more days. After that ... I guess we figure it out as we go along.”

Lewis nods thoughtfully. “We’ll need to work out a schedule. Make sure you have support, especially during race weekends.”

“And we’ll need to baby-proof our garages,” Alex adds. “Can’t have her crawling into a stack of tires.”

The conversation turns to practical matters — childcare arrangements, safety considerations, and how to balance their racing careers with their new roles as ... well, whatever they are to Nessa.

As they talk, you can’t help but marvel at the scene. Eleven of the world’s most elite drivers, discussing diaper brands and the merits of various baby carriers with the same intensity they usually reserve for tire strategies and aerodynamics.

“You know,” you say, interrupting a heated debate about the best brand of baby formula, “I think Nessa might be the luckiest baby in the world.”

The drivers pause, looking at you quizzically.

You smile, looking around at each of them. “She’s got eleven of the most dedicated, passionate, and competitive men in the world looking out for her. Plus, she’s guaranteed to have the coolest bring your parent to school day ever.”

The room erupts in laughter, the tension of the day finally breaking.

“Just wait until she’s old enough to drive,” Max says with a grin. “We’ll have her in a kart before she can walk.”

“Oh no,” you groan, though you’re smiling. “I’ve created a monster, haven’t I?”

“Eleven monsters,” Charles corrects with a wink. “Don’t forget, we’re all in this together.”

As the laughter dies down, a comfortable silence falls over the room. Nessa sleeps peacefully in your arms, blissfully unaware of the extraordinary circumstances of her birth and the unique family she’s been born into.

Fernando breaks the silence. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “in many ways, this little one embodies the spirit of Formula 1.”

The others look at him curiously, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Think about it,” he continues. “She’s the product of competition, of pushing boundaries, of taking risks. But she’s also about teamwork, about coming together for a common goal. Just like us on the track.”

The drivers nod, considering Fernando’s words.

“Plus,” Logan adds with a grin, “she’s already got a better sleep schedule than most of us during a race weekend.”

Another round of laughter fills the room, and you feel a surge of affection for these men who have become so much more than colleagues or even friends.

As visiting hours come to an end and the nurses start to shoo the drivers out, there’s a reluctance to leave. Each of them takes a moment to say goodbye to Nessa, promising to return soon.

Before they go, Lewis gathers everyone into a tight circle around your bed.

“I think we need to make a pact,” he says solemnly. “No matter what happens, no matter how our careers go or how life changes, we stick together for Nessa. She’s part of all of us now.”

The drivers nod in agreement, their faces serious.

“For Nessa,” Max says, placing his hand in the center of the circle.

One by one, the others follow suit, until all eleven hands are stacked together.

“For Nessa,” they chorus, and in that moment, you know that whatever challenges lie ahead, you and your daughter will never face them alone.

As the drivers file out, casting longing glances back at the sleeping baby, you settle back against your pillows, exhausted but content.

Looking down at Nessa’s peaceful face, you whisper, “Welcome to the world, little one. You’ve got quite the adventure ahead of you.”

And as you drift off to sleep, you can’t help but smile at the thought of the unconventional but loving family waiting just outside those hospital doors, ready to take on the world for the tiny girl in your arms.

***

The paddock rushes with activity as teams prepare for the upcoming race weekend. But between the usual hustle and bustle, an unusual sight catches everyone’s attention: you, pushing a stroller with a now six-month-old Nessa, surrounded by a protective circle of drivers.

Max hovers close, his eyes darting around warily. “Are you sure this was a good idea? Bringing her to the track?”

You laugh, adjusting Nessa’s sun hat. “Max, she’s been coming to races since she was born. This is nothing new.”

“Yeah, but now she’s old enough to attract attention,” Charles points out, cooing at Nessa as she gurgles happily.

Lando nods in agreement. “People are starting to ask questions. Did you see that article in Autosport last week?”

You sigh, remembering the speculative piece about Nessa’s parentage. “I saw it. But we knew this day would come eventually.”

As the group makes their way through the paddock, heads turn and whispers follow. The sight of eleven of the world’s top drivers fawning over one baby is certainly not an everyday occurrence.

Carlos leans in, speaking softly. “Maybe we should have come up with a cover story. You know, pick one of us to pretend to be the father.”

George shakes his head. “No, we agreed from the start — no lies. We’re all in this together, remember?”

“Easier said than done,” Logan mutters, noticing a group of journalists eyeing them curiously.

As they approach the Mercedes garage, Lewis spots a familiar face and freezes. “Uh, guys? We might have a problem.”

The others follow his gaze to see your older brother, striding purposefully towards the group. His expression is a mix of confusion and growing anger.

“Seb!” You exclaim, trying to sound casual. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Switzerland.”

Sebastian ignores your greeting, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene before him. “What’s going on here?” He demands, his gaze sweeping over the assembled drivers.

The group exchanges nervous glances, each silently hoping someone else will take the lead.

Finally, Fernando steps forward, ever the diplomat. “Sebastian, my friend. It’s good to see you. Perhaps we could discuss this somewhere more private?”

But Sebastian is having none of it. His eyes lock onto Lewis, who instinctively takes a step back. “Lewis?” He says, his voice dangerously quiet. “Care to explain why you and half the grid are hovering around my sister and a baby?”

Lewis swallows hard, looking to the others for support. Finding none, he takes a deep breath. “Seb, it’s not what you think. Well, it is, but also it isn’t. You see-”

“Lewis?” Sebastian explodes, his face reddening. “I thought better of you!”

The outburst draws even more attention, and you can see team personnel and journalists alike straining to hear what’s happening.

Lewis, caught off guard by Sebastian’s reaction, blurts out, “In my defense, I thought I would get to fuck her!”

A collective gasp goes up from the group, and you bury your face in your hands, mortified.

Sebastian’s eyes widen in shock and fury. “Tha- what? How would that make it better?”

Realizing his mistake, Lewis backpedals frantically. “No, no, that came out wrong! I didn’t mean-”

But Sebastian is beyond listening. He lunges forward, only to be held back by Alex and Oscar.

“Let me go!” Sebastian growls, struggling against their grip. “I’m going to kill him!”

Nessa, startled by the commotion, begins to cry. The sound seems to snap everyone back to reality.

“Enough!” You shout, your voice cutting through the chaos. “All of you, into the motorhome. Now!”

Chastened, the drivers file into the nearby Red Bull motorhome, with Alex and Oscar still keeping a firm grip on Sebastian. You follow, pushing Nessa’s stroller and trying to soothe her.

Once inside, with the door firmly closed against prying eyes and ears, you turn to face the group. Sebastian stands at one end, still glaring daggers at Lewis, who’s wisely put Max and Charles between them.

“Alright,” you say, your voice tight with frustration. “I guess it’s time we explained everything.”

Over the next hour, you and the drivers take turns recounting the story — from your decision to have a baby, to their unconventional offer, to Nessa’s birth and the months since. Sebastian listens in stunned silence, his expression cycling through disbelief, confusion, and finally, grudging understanding.

When the tale is finished, Sebastian slumps into a chair, running a hand over his face. “So let me get this straight,” he says slowly. “You,” he points at you, “decided to have a baby on your own. And you lot,” he gestures at the drivers, “thought the best solution was to play some kind of ... paternity lottery?”

Lance nods hesitantly. “When you put it like that, it does sound a bit mad.”

“A bit?” Sebastian laughs incredulously. “It’s completely insane!”

“But it worked,” Carlos points out, gently rocking Nessa, who has calmed down and is now contentedly chewing on his finger. “Look at her, Seb. She’s perfect.”

Sebastian’s expression softens as he looks at his niece. “She is beautiful,” he admits. Then, turning back to the group, he adds sternly, “But that doesn’t excuse the fact that you all took advantage of my sister!”

“They didn’t take advantage of me,” you interject firmly. “This was my choice. They were just ... supporting me.”

“By offering to impregnate you?” Sebastian retorts, his protective big brother instincts in full force.

George steps forward, his expression earnest. “Sebastian, I know how this looks. But we care about your sister. All of us. We just wanted to help make her dream come true.”

“And create the world’s most confusing family tree in the process,” Logan mutters, earning a sharp elbow from Lando.

Sebastian sighs, looking around at the assembled drivers. “I still can’t believe you all agreed to this. Do you have any idea what you’re getting into? The media frenzy when this gets out?”

Fernando shrugs philosophically. “Life is full of challenges. This is just another one.”

“Easy for you to say,” Max grumbles. “You’re basically past retirement age. Some of us still have our whole careers ahead of us.”

The room falls silent as the reality of their situation sinks in. The secret they’ve managed to keep for over a year is on the verge of exploding into the public eye.

“So what do we do now?” Oscar asks, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

You look down at Nessa, who’s drifted off to sleep in Carlos’ arms, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing around her. “We tell the truth,” you say firmly. “Or at least, as much of it as we’re comfortable sharing.”

Sebastian raises an eyebrow. “And what exactly does that mean?”

Lewis, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet since his earlier outburst, speaks up. “We could say that we all agreed to help you have a child, but keep the details private. No need to mention the ... um, method.”

“You mean the part where you thought you would get to fuck her?” Sebastian growls, causing Lewis to wince.

“I really am sorry about that,” Lewis says sheepishly. “It came out all wrong.”

You shake your head, exasperated. “Focus, boys. We need a plan.”

Over the next hour, the group hashes out a strategy. They decide to release a joint statement explaining that you had chosen to become a single mother, and that the drivers, as your close friends, had offered their support. The exact nature of that support would remain private.

As they finalize the details, Sebastian watches the interactions with growing amazement. The way the drivers instinctively work together, finishing each other’s sentences and anticipating potential issues, speaks to a bond that goes beyond mere friendship or even shared paternity.

“You know,” he says finally, interrupting a debate about whether to use the phrase ‘unconventional family’ in their statement, “I think I owe you all an apology.”

The room falls silent, all eyes turning to Sebastian.

He continues, his voice softer now. “I reacted badly earlier. But seeing you all now, how you’ve come together for my sister and for Nessa ... it’s actually kind of beautiful.”

You feel tears pricking at your eyes as you move to hug your brother. “Thank you, Seb. That means a lot.”

As you pull away, Sebastian turns to address the group. “But let me make one thing clear,” he says, his tone becoming stern once more. “If any of you ever hurt my sister or my niece, you’ll have me to answer to. Understood?”

The drivers nod solemnly, a mixture of respect and residual fear in their eyes.

“Good,” Sebastian says, a small smile finally breaking through. “Now, who’s going to let me hold my niece?”

As Carlos carefully transfers the sleeping Nessa to Sebastian’s arms, the tension in the room finally dissipates. Watching your brother coo over your daughter, surrounded by the unconventional family you’ve built, you feel a sense of peace wash over you.

“Well,” Lando says, breaking the moment, “I guess the hardest part’s over. Now we just have to explain this to the rest of the world.”

Alex laughs, shaking his head. “Mate, I think that might actually be the easy part. It’s raising her that’s going to be the real challenge.”

As the group dissolves into laughter, discussing potential future scenarios (“Who’s going to teach her to drive?” “All of us, obviously!” “God help us all.”), you can’t help but marvel at the strange and wonderful turn your life has taken.

Looking around at the men who have become so much more than colleagues or friends — who have become family in the truest sense of the word — you know that whatever challenges lie ahead, you’ll face them together. And really, with a support system like this, how can you possibly fail?

As the laughter and chatter continue around you, Nessa stirs in Sebastian’s arms, her tiny hand reaching out. Without hesitation, eleven hands reach back, each driver gently touching a finger or offering a thumb for her to grasp.

In that moment, watching the most competitive men in motorsport melt over one tiny girl, you know that no matter what the future holds, Nessa will never lack for love, support, or, undoubtedly, speed.

***

The sun beats down on the jam-packed karting track, the air thick with the scent of fuel and the buzz of excitement. Amid the crowd of nervous parents and eager young racers, one group stands out: eleven men, a mix of current and former Formula 1 drivers, clustered around a small kart where an eight-year-old girl sits, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and her face a mask of determination.

“Remember, Nessa,” Max says, kneeling beside the kart to look the girl in the eye, “smooth on the throttle, late on the brakes.”

Charles leans in from the other side. “But not too late, mon chou. You don’t want to lock up in the corners.”

“And watch your lines,” Lewis adds, adjusting Nessa’s helmet. “The racing line isn’t always the optimal when you’re being pressured.”

Nessa nods solemnly, taking in every word. “I know, I know. We’ve been over this a million times.”

Lando grins, ruffling her hair. “That’s our girl. You’ve got this, kiddo.”

Around them, other parents and children stare in disbelief. Whispers ripple through the crowd as people recognize the famous faces surrounding the young racer.

“Is that really Lewis Hamilton?” One mother hisses to her husband.

“And Max Verstappen!” The man replies, his eyes wide. “What are they doing here?”

A nearby father shakes his head in amazement. “I heard rumors about that kid, but I didn’t believe them. How can she have so many ... well, fathers?”

Meanwhile, you stand slightly apart from the group, watching the scene with a mix of pride and amusement. Your brother sidles up beside you.

“You know,” he says with a wry smile, “when I imagined my niece’s first race, I didn’t quite picture this circus.”

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow. “Oh come on, you love it. Besides, you’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

As if to prove your point, Sebastian’s eyes narrow as he spots Carlos making a last-minute adjustment to Nessa’s kart. “Hey!” He calls out, striding over. “What are you doing to her suspension?”

Carlos looks up, startled. “Just a small tweak. The track’s a bit bumpy on turn three.”

“It’s fine as it is,” George interjects, crouching down to inspect the kart. “Any softer and she’ll lose responsiveness in the chicane.”

“Actually,” Fernando chimes in, “a slight adjustment might help. But not too much, Carlos.”

As the debate over suspension settings intensifies, Alex notices Nessa’s growing nervousness. He kneels beside her, speaking softly. “Hey, little racer. How are you feeling?”

Nessa bites her lip, her eyes darting between her arguing fathers and the other young racers preparing for the race. “What if I let them down?” She whispers. “They’re all so excited.”

Alex’s expression softens. “Oh, Nessa. You could never let us down. We’re proud of you no matter what happens out there.”

“He’s right,” Oscar adds, overhearing the conversation. “We’re here because we love you, not because we expect you to win.”

“Although winning would be nice,” Logan quips, earning a chorus of groans and eye-rolls from the others.

“What Logan means,” Lance says, shooting a glare at his fellow driver, “is that we want you to do your best and, most importantly, have fun.”

Nessa nods, a small smile finally breaking through her nervous expression. “Okay. I’ll try.”

As the call comes for racers to take their positions, the group reluctantly steps back, allowing Nessa to maneuver her kart to the starting line. You move forward, leaning in to give your daughter a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Remember,” you say softly, “you’re amazing, no matter what happens out there. And we love you more than anything.”

Nessa beams at you, her earlier nerves seeming to melt away. “I love you too. And all my dads,” she adds with a giggle, looking at the assembled drivers.

As you step back to join the others, the atmosphere around you changes. The playful bickering and nervous energy give way to a focused intensity that you recognize from countless race weekends. Eleven pairs of eyes are locked on the small figure in the pink and white kart, second row on the starting grid.

The lights begin their sequence, and you can almost feel the collective intake of breath from the men around you. Green! The karts surge forward, and Nessa makes a good start, holding her position into the first corner.

“That’s it, ma princesse!” Charles cheers, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Hold your line!”

“Watch your inside on turn two,” Max mutters, as if Nessa could hear him. “There’s space if you need it.”

As the race progresses, the commentary from the drivers becomes a constant stream, analyzing every move, every overtake, every defensive maneuver. Other parents cast bewildered glances their way, clearly overwhelmed by the level of scrutiny being applied to what they had assumed would be a casual children’s race.

Midway through the race, Nessa makes a bold move, diving down the inside of the leader into a tight hairpin. The karts touch slightly, and for a heart-stopping moment, it looks like both might spin.

“Steady!” Lewis calls out, his body tensing as if he could somehow influence the outcome through sheer will.

But Nessa manages to control the kart, emerging from the corner in the lead as the other driver runs wide.

The group erupts in cheers, their earlier promises of “it’s not about winning” seemingly forgotten in the heat of the moment.

“Did you see that move?” Lando exclaims, practically bouncing with excitement. “That was pure Norris!”

“Excuse me,” Charles interjects, a proud grin on his face, “I think you mean pure Leclerc. That finesse under pressure? All Ferrari.”

“Oh please,” George scoffs good-naturedly. “That was clearly a Russell special. Calculated risk with perfect execution.”

As the friendly argument over whose racing style Nessa has inherited continues, Sebastian leans in close to you. “You know,” he says, his voice a mix of amusement and resignation, “I’m starting to think we created a monster.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, we definitely did. But look how happy they all are.”

Indeed, as you watch the men who have become your family over the past eight years, you’re struck by the pure joy radiating from them. Their focus is entirely on Nessa, their own achievements and rivalries forgotten in their shared pride for this little girl who has somehow become the center of their world.

As the final lap approaches, Nessa is still in the lead, but with another driver close on her tail. The tension among the group reaches fever pitch.

“Come on, Nessa,” Fernando murmurs, his eyes never leaving the track. “You’ve got this. Stay focused.”

“Defend the inside line,” Carlos advises, as if she could hear him. “Don’t give them any space.”

The last corner approaches, and the second-place kart makes a desperate lunge for the inside line. For a moment, it looks like Nessa might be overtaken at the last second.

“No, no, no,” Alex mutters, his hands clenched into fists.

But Nessa holds her nerve, taking a slightly wider line and using her momentum to slingshot out of the corner and across the finish line, just ahead of her rival.

The eruption of cheers from the group of F1 drivers drowns out even the sound of the karts. They jump, hug each other, and pump their fists in the air as if Nessa had just won the World Drivers’ Championship.

As Nessa brings her kart to a stop in the pit area, she’s immediately surrounded by her fathers, each clamoring to be the first to congratulate her.

“That was incredible, little love!” Lewis exclaims, helping her out of the kart.

“You drove like a champion,” Max adds, his face split by an enormous grin.

“I’m so proud of you, mon petit champion,” Charles says, pulling her into a tight hug.

The other parents watch in amazement as Nessa is passed from one racing legend to another, each offering praise, analysis, and suggestions for improvement in equal measure.

“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” one father mutters to his wife. “How is this fair? That kid has a whole F1 pit crew!”

His wife shushes him, but nods in agreement, her eyes wide as she watches the scene unfold.

Meanwhile, you make your way through the crowd of excited drivers to reach your daughter. As you approach, the men part to let you through, their chatter dying down.

You kneel in front of Nessa, taking in her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. “How do you feel, sweetheart?” You ask softly.

Nessa’s face breaks into a wide grin. “That was amazing! Did you see when I overtook on the hairpin? And the last corner, I thought for sure he was going to pass me, but I remembered what Papa Fernando said about late apexes, and it worked!”

You laugh, pulling her into a hug. “I saw it all, baby. You were incredible.”

As you release her, Nessa looks around at the circle of beaming faces surrounding her. “Did I make you proud?” She asks, a hint of her earlier nervousness returning.

“Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Sebastian says, ruffling her hair affectionately.

“You exceeded all our expectations,” Fernando adds with a warm smile.

“And trust me,” Lando chimes in with a wink, “our expectations were pretty high to begin with.”

As Nessa basks in the praise and attention of her unconventional family, a race official approaches, looking slightly overwhelmed.

“Excuse me,” he says hesitantly, “but we need to do the podium ceremony now.”

The drivers reluctantly step back, allowing Nessa to follow the official to the makeshift podium. As she takes her place on the top step, her face beaming with pride, you find yourself surrounded by eleven grown men, each looking as proud as if they had just won a world championship themselves.

“You know,” Oscar says softly, his eyes never leaving Nessa as she receives her trophy, “I think we might be in trouble.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, turning to look at him.

He grins, a mixture of pride and mock fear in his eyes. “If she’s this good at eight, can you imagine what she’ll be like at eighteen? We might be out of jobs.”

The group chuckles, but there’s a note of truth in Oscar’s words. As you watch Nessa on the podium, her small hands raised in triumph, you can’t help but wonder what the future holds for this extraordinary little girl with her eleven F1 driver fathers.

But for now, as the sound of applause fills the air and you see the pure joy on Nessa’s face, you push those thoughts aside. There will be time enough for worrying about the future later. For now, you’re content to bask in this moment of triumph, surrounded by the most unconventional and wonderful family you could have ever imagined.

As Nessa runs back to the group, her trophy clutched tightly in her hands, she’s enveloped in a group hug that threatens to lift her off her feet. And in that moment, watching the pure love and pride radiating from these men who have given your daughter so much more than just their DNA, you know that no matter what challenges lie ahead, Nessa will always have the strongest support system imaginable.

After all, with her fathers in her corner, how can she possibly fail?

Through The Looking Glass

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Lea Willems - Verstappen (OC)

Summary: Max Verstappen and his wife’s relationship as told by Twitter. 

Notes: So this came about, because I was on Instagram and looked at pictures from Alexandra Saint Mleux and was like…so what if a driver’s girlfriend looked more like me and less like her? 

Then it became a whole thing, and I went down a rabbit’s hole about people online boyshaming athletes’ wives and girlfriends. This is the result. Also, it’s incredible difficult to even find aesthetic pictures to use in a smau that depict women that are even just mid-size, not even plus size. As a in-between girlie, I tried my best.  

(Also I finally made a nice Lea 😂 I know somebody who will be very glad about that.)

Warnings: The internet being a horrible place. Nikita Mazepin bashing, but like…he is canonically a horrible person, so is it even bashing? Bodyshaming, fatphobic comments and the media being horrible. If I missed something, please let me know. 

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

@/gridarchives: The most underrated long game in F1 history is how everyone thought Max Verstappen’s marriage wouldn’t last. 

How Max and Lea Verstappen went from “mad max mistake” to “paddock’s power couple”. A thread: 

@/gridarchives: Let’s start with the basics: Max Emilian Verstappen, born 30 September 1997 in Hasselt, raised in Maaseik, Belgium. Lea Willems, born 12 April 1997, raised in Maaseik. 

@/gridarchives: They met as kids. Both came from racing families — Lea’s older brother ran the local karting rink where Max used to train. They were inseparable. They met at 8. Were dating by 14. Married at 18.

@/gridarchives: 2015 — Max’s F1 debut. Lea’s still in school. Doesn’t follow him to every race. Doesn't start an Instagram. Doesn’t chase a spotlight.

They do long-distance. Quietly.

And when he gets his first victory in 2016, she’s the one waiting in the garage. Not in the VIP suite. Just… there.

@/gridarchives:  max is 18. Fresh off a win in Barcelona. Deep in his Mad Max era—aggressive on track, icy in interviews, throwing elbows and collecting penalties like candy.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, He marries his high school girlfriend.

And announced it on Instagram: 

@/gridarchives:  Red Bull had no idea. Reportedly, Christian Horner found out when the rest of the world did.

 Max showed up to the next debrief wearing a ring.

 When asked about it, he just shrugged and said, “We got married.” Like it was no big deal.

@/gridarchives:  Cue chaos. The media ripped it apart.

“Too young.” “Too fast.” “Is she pregnant?” “He’s ruining his focus.” Lea was called everything from clingy to irrelevant. She never said a word in response.

@/gridarchives: The Internet:

“This won’t last” “teenage hormones” “he’s too immature” “What is he even doing getting married?” “career suicide” “She’s just a karting fling, right?”

@/gridarchives:  After the announcement, the backlash wasn’t just about the when. It became about the who.

 The internet took one look at Lea Willems — now Lea Verstappen — and collectively lost its mind.

And not in a good way.

@/gridarchives: She didn’t look like what people expected. She wasn’t tall and wafer-thin. Wasn’t a size 0. She didn’t wear designer brands. She wasn’t a model, or a socialite, or someone famous in her own right. Wasn’t doing sponsored beauty campaigns or sitting front row at fashion week. She was a normal teenage girl who had the audacity to exist beside the fastest boy in the world. And that wasn’t enough for some people.

@/gridarchives: They called her fat.

They called her plain.

They called her a phase. 

They called her “a distraction.” They said she was “a mistake made by a hormonal teenager.”

@/gridarchives: Some actual headlines from 2017:

“The Wife Verstappen Doesn’t Want You to Know About” Like she was a scandal, not a person.

“Not Exactly A Model Marriage” “Can Verstappen Do Better Off Track?” “Too Much Wife, Not Enough Wow”

because she wasn’t a size 0, because she didn’t wear makeup, because she had hips and curves and didn’t fit the “WAG” mould.

@/gridarchives: It wasn’t just tabloids.

Comment sections. Fan forums. Reddit threads.

People picked apart her weight, her clothes, and her posture. Zoomed in on photos to circle “problem areas.” Compared her side-by-side with other girlfriends in the paddock like it was a contest.

@/gridarchives:  And she never defended herself. Not once. She didn’t clap back. Didn’t give an interview. Didn’t even post a Notes app statement. She just stayed by his side. Quiet. Steady. Private. Which, of course, only made them nastier.

@/gridarchives:  Comment sections were disgusting. Fashion blogs ripped her apart. Paddock gossip accounts used blurred photos of her in jeans and sneakers with headlines like:

“This is the woman who tamed F1’s hottest young star?” It was sexist. It was fatphobic. It was constant.

@/gridarchives: Two headlines from 2017:

“Not Quite Paddock-Ready: The Woman Behind Verstappen’s Downfall” Another: “The Weight of Love: Can Max Stay Focused With Her Around?”

It was cruel. Dehumanizing. And relentless.

@/gridarchives:  She wasn’t flashy. She didn’t care about glam paddock fashion. She wore baggy Red Bull hoodies and old Adidas. She didn’t post bikini pics. She didn’t post at all. She still doesn’t even have an Instagram account.  And for some reason, that made people furious.

@/gridarchives:  And it all came to a head in Malaysia. 2017. Max won his second career race. It was one of his best weekends. And then… that interview happened.

@/gridarchives: The interviewer, midway through what was supposed to be a fluff piece, decided to get clever.

“Now that you're a more high-profile name, have you ever thought of… upgrading the wife situation a bit?”

“I mean, she’s not exactly the grid’s most glamorous, is she?”

@/gridarchives:  Max went completely still. Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. The silence lasted a full 5 seconds—uncomfortable, searing.

Then he stood up. Took off the mic. And walked out.

Didn’t say a word.

@/gridarchives:  Red Bull PR went into meltdown. The outlet tried to backpedal, claiming it was a joke. But Max? He was done. Hasn’t given that outlet a single interview since. Won’t speak to that journalist. Won’t allow access. Nothing. Complete blackout.

@/gridarchives:  When asked about it later, he said only: “I’ve tolerated a lot of things in this sport. Insults. Pressure. Hate. But you don’t get to insult my wife. Ever.”

And that was that.

@/gridarchives:  For nearly three years afterwards, Max refused to answer any questions about Lea. No interviews. No comments. If asked, he would shut it down with the same two words:

“No comment.” Sometimes cold. Sometimes biting. Always final.

@/gridarchives:  At one point in 2018, a reporter tried to ask about Lea’s “lack of media polish” during a press conference. Max didn’t flinch. Just stared them down and said: “Keep my wife’s name out of your mouth.” The room went silent.

@/gridarchives:  He wasn’t just protecting her—he was making a point. If the world couldn’t treat her with basic respect, it didn’t get to know her.

@/gridarchives:  Max Verstappen might be aggressive on track. But when it comes to her? He’s pure protection. No compromise. No apology.

@/gridarchives: Till this day, Max rarely posts about Lea on his Instagram.  And when he does, he shuts the comments off. Not for the attention. Not for the aesthetic. But because the internet has never deserved her.

@/gridarchives:  Once a year. Maybe twice. Usually on her birthday. Or their anniversary. Or something small and intimate—like a quiet photo of her walking ahead of him, holding their son’s hand, not even looking at the camera.

@/gridarchives: And the comments? Disabled. Every time.

 Not to avoid backlash. But to cut it off before it starts.

@/gridarchives: A fan once asked in a Q&A why he disables comments.

Max said, “Because she didn’t ask for this. And if you’re going to look at her, you’ll do it with respect. Or not at all.”

@/gridarchives: He protects her like he protects his lead on the final lap— With focus. With fire. With zero margin for error.

Because that’s love, in Max Verstappen’s language.

Not public declarations. But boundaries.

@/gridarchives: And then came one of the wildest moments of the 2021 season that never made Drive to Survive:  

@/gridarchives:  mid-2021. Tensions are sky-high. Max and Lewis are locked in one of the most intense title battles in F1 history. Every race is war. Every point counts. And through all of it, Lea is quietly there. Present. Steady. Visibly keeping her distance from the media.

@/gridarchives:  But as the summer break ends, rumours start. Whispers online. Tabloids are posting unflattering shots of Lea in the paddock. Comments like:

“Max’s wife letting herself go?” “Not paddock pretty.” “What happened to her figure?” And then… Nikita Mazepin opens his mouth.

@/gridarchives:  Overheard at a hospitality lounge, according to multiple sources: Mazepin, laughing with some junior sponsor rep, said: “No wonder Max is driving angry. Imagine going home to that every night.” Gesturing toward Lea.

Someone told Max.

@/gridarchives:  That weekend, Max cornered Mazepin. Not at the press. Not on camera. But behind the motorhomes. Multiple witnesses said you could hear him yelling. But the only quote that’s ever been confirmed?

“Talk about her again, and I’ll end your career before your car does.”

@/gridarchives:  Mazepin reportedly tried to laugh it off. Max didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. Just turned and walked away—straight back to Red Bull. Team management never commented.

@/gridarchives: And then came the Instagram post: 

@/gridarchives:  The internet went feral. F1 media tried to scramble for quotes. But Max didn’t say another word. Not about the incident. Not about the pregnancy. He just showed up at the next race and put the car on pole.

@/gridarchives: And then? Abu Dhabi 2021. The title fight went down to the wire. 

@/gridarchives: According to multiple team sources, Lea stood quietly at the back of the garage the entire race. Didn’t pace. Didn’t panic. Just watched. Hands on her baby bump. When asked if she was nervous, she reportedly said:

“Why would I be? He was born for this.”

@/gridarchives:  A Red Bull mechanic was overheard saying, “I’ve seen engineers cry. I’ve seen Horner nearly faint. But Lea? Lea stood there like it was a normal Thursday.”

@/gridarchives:  When Nicholas Latifi crashed and the safety car came out, most of the paddock erupted into chaos. Lea? Sat down. Ate half a banana. Said, “He’ll take it. You’ll see.” Then leaned back like she knew something the universe didn’t.

@/gridarchives:  After the race, everyone was losing their minds. Celebrating. Crying. Lea? Still calm. Still glowing. Walked through the crowd, straight to Max. Hugged him. Kissed him. Whispered something in his ear.

No one knows what she said. But he started crying.

@/gridarchives:  Someone once asked Max what got him through that day. He said, Seeing my wife. Knowing she was there. If she was calm, I had no excuse not to be.”

@/gridarchives: Two months later, Max did maybe the funniest thing he has ever done:  announcing he became a father during a random team redline stream like it was a tire strategy update.

@/gridarchives:  February 2022. pre-season. Max is on a team redline stream.  Chat is flying. Comms are chill. He’s driving like a demon. And then someone asks why he missed the previous session.

@/gridarchives:  And Max, completely calm, goes: “Yeah, sorry, I was a bit busy. My son was born that day.”

Another driver on comms:

“Wait—WHAT?” “You had the baby?”

max: “Yeah. His name’s Kai.” casually overtakes three cars

@/gridarchives: Someone in the background (probably Jeffrey Rietveld) goes:

“Max, did you just soft-launch your child mid-race??”

Max:

“He’s perfect. Looks just like his mum.”

Icon. Legend. Zero chill. Zero Press. Just vibes.

@/gridarchives: Chat went FERAL. Clips instantly went viral. F1 Twitter lost its mind. Red Bull PR had to play catch-up for days.

@/gridarchives:  Barcelona 2022. Two months after Max casually announced the birth of his son mid-sim-racing stream, he walked into the paddock in black sunglasses, a Red Bull hoodie, and a baby carrier.

@/gridarchives: Inside the carrier: a tiny, snoozing Kai Verstappen, 8 weeks old. Wearing noise-cancelling headphones and a Red Bull baby onesie. Strapped to Max’s chest like the calmest accessory in the world.

“My son’s first race,” Max said. “He should get used to the noise early.”

@/gridarchives: Lea was right beside him. Soft jeans, a linen shirt, hair up, a tote bag with what was presumably enough diapers to survive a national emergency. No makeup. No fuss. The quiet core of a very loud world.

They looked like a family on a casual stroll. Not the title favourites in the middle of a high-stakes season.

@/gridarchives: The media tried to swarm. Max didn’t stop walking. Lea didn’t even blink.

@/gridarchives: A Sky reporter asked if he was more nervous racing now that he had a kid. Max said, “No. I’ve always raced to win. Now I just get a hug either way.” 

And then he smiled. Like a real one. And the internet broke.

@/gridarchives:  He won that race, btw. Then went straight back to the garage to take Kai out of the headphones and kiss his forehead.

“He slept through the whole thing,” he told Sky Sports, grinning. 

@/gridarchives: But Max wasn’t done for 2022. When the FIA banned jewellery in 2022, Max Verstappen responded by getting his wedding ring tattooed on. 

@/gridarchives:  So the FIA updated their rules: no jewellery in the car. No earrings. No chains. No rings. Supposedly for safety. Cue half the grid complaining, Lewis dragging them in interviews, and Max just going radio silent.

For about a week.

@/gridarchives:  Then someone spots it. On the Thursday of the next GP. A thin, clean tattoo around Max’s ring finger. Black ink. No embellishments. Just a simple band.

Someone asks about it, and Max goes: “The rule said I had to take the ring off. Didn’t say I couldn’t make it permanent.”

@/gridarchives:  Someone else asks if it hurt. “Not as much as leaving it off.”

@/gridarchives: Bonus: Christian Horner was reportedly told after the fact: 

“Max walked in, took his gloves off, and I saw the ink. I said, ‘Is that what I think it is?’ He said, ‘FIA can’t ban skin.’”

@/gridarchives: Let’s also talk about how much Max’s family loves Lea: 

@/gridarchives: Let’s start with Jos Verstappen. A man who, famously, trusts no one. But when asked once in a Dutch interview about his son’s success, he said:

“Max has two advantages. His talent. And Lea.” “She makes him better. She makes him calm.”

from Jos. That’s practically a sonnet.

@/gridarchives: Sophie Kumpen, Max’s mum, was the first to believe in Max & Lea. Sources say she knew from the start that Lea was “good for him.”

In a rare interview, Sophie said: “She’s grounded. She sees Max for who he really is—not the driver, not the number. The boy. The man. She’s calm. I like calm.” Mothers know. Mothers see.

@/gridarchives:  Then there’s Victoria Verstappen, Max’s sister. Fashion, fitness, mama of three—loved by fans. Has repeatedly said that she considers Lea a sister, not an in-law.

“She’s my family. Has been since we were teenagers. We grew up side by side. I trust her with everything.”

@/gridarchives: And they were all fiercely protective of her during the years. According to a Dutch journalist, Jos once called an editor directly and said, “Write another headline about her weight, and I’ll see you in court.” #DadEnergy

@/gridarchives:  Victoria has posted maybe a dozen photos with Lea in the past decade—quiet, untagged, casual: 

@/gridarchives: And every single time, without fail, the comments are a mess. Bodyshaming. Comparisons. “She’s not hot enough.” “Why does she look tired?” The usual sexist, vile garbage.

@/gridarchives: But Victoria? She’s not having it.

“You don’t get to speak about my family that way.” “If you wouldn’t say it about yourself or your sister, don’t say it here.” “Delete this comment and never come back.”

“Take your body issues elsewhere”

“You must be exhausted being this bitter online”

That’s in the comments. Publicly. Repeatedly.

@/gridarchives: At one point in 2021, she even posted a story about it: 

@/gridarchives: I am not done. Lea Verstappen is as much a part of Red Bull Racing as any race engineer or strategist.

Here’s what the people behind the scenes have said about her

@/gridarchives: Christian Horner (2017) – early days: “Max keeps his private life very private. We respect that. I’ve only met Lea a few times, but she seems like a lovely, grounded young woman.” (translation: Who is this girl and where did she come from?)

@/gridarchives: Christian Horner (2023) – post-Kai, post-3 world driver’s championship titles: “Lea’s been the calm in Max’s storm. She doesn’t need to be in front of the cameras to make an impact. She’s the reason he’s still sharp. Still here.”

@/gridarchives: Gianpiero Lambiase (GP), Max’s race engineer: “Lea is Max’s reset button. I’ve seen him go from zero to rage and back to calm in under a minute because of one text from her. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.” Iconic.

@/gridarchives: Helmut Marko (2023): “I thought she’d be a distraction when they got married. I was wrong. She’s the opposite of a distraction. She made him… sharper. More dangerous, in a good way.” (yes. Helmut Marko said that.)

@/gridarchives: Red Bull comms team (2022), anonymously: “Lea has never, not once, asked for press management. No image control. No story spin. Her only request was: Don’t use Kai for content. And she said it so kindly, we printed it and taped it to the media room wall.”

@/gridarchives: Jonathan Wheatley (2022), Former Red Bull Sporting Director:  “She’s the one person I’ll never say no to in the garage. She brings us banana bread and keeps Max from threatening to move to endurance racing when he’s moody.”

@/gridarchives: One mechanic from Red Bull’s pit crew (2020): “When the media was tearing her apart in ’17, she brought us coffee in the garage.  No cameras. Just said, ‘Thanks for looking after him.’ I’ve worked 200+ races. That’s the only thank you I still remember.”

@/gridarchives: And the thing is? None of these quotes comes from trying to promote her. Lea has never once been part of the brand. She’s not a Red Bull ambassador. Not an image. Just a quiet presence who everyone, from Horner to the interns, has come to respect.

@/gridarchives And it’s not just Red Bull. Ask around the entire grid, and the way people talk about Lea Verstappen is with quiet awe.

@/gridarchives: Lewis Hamilton (2022): “She doesn’t show up for the cameras. She shows up for him. You can tell—there’s real love there. Real quiet. Real strong. I respect that.”

@/gridarchives: Daniel Ricciardo (2023): “Lea’s been around longer than most of the guys on the grid have even had race seats. She’s part of the Verstappen firmware. Comes with the engine. And her banana bread is terrifyingly good. Like… disarm-a-grown-man good.”

@/gridarchives: Charles Leclerc (2021):  “She used to sit on the karting fences next to my mum. Always quiet. Always watching. People talk about Max changing over the years, but I think the best parts of him were always there. She just kept them safe.”

@/gridarchives: And then there’s Kai. Lea and Max’s son. Now a paddock regular with noise-cancelling headphones and strong opinions.

@/gridarchives: A little boy who adores his parents… and who calls Daniel Ricciardo “Uncle Danny”.  Who calls Oscar Piastri “Car” and hugs his leg when he’s tired. (Oscar panics every time.) Who once tried to drive Lewis’s scooter, and Lewis let him.

@/gridarchives: It’s been almost ten years since Max and Lea Verstappen got married. They’ve weathered the spotlight. The storms. The silence. The wins.The losses The noise. The pressure. And through it all, they’ve never wavered.

@/gridarchives: Lea has never given an interview. Never done a press tour. Never gone on a podcast. There is no tell-all memoir. No YouTube vlog. No WAG content series.

Just: banana bread, Red Bull hoodies, and a quiet kind of grace that broke the mould.

@/gridarchives: Lea Verstappen didn’t come to the paddock to be famous. She didn’t come to be seen. She came to stand beside the boy she loved at 14— Who became a man. A world champion. A father.

And she never once let the world shake her.

@/gridarchives Max Verstappen doesn’t perform love. He protects it. And Lea Verstappen? She’s not just the woman behind the champion. She’s the reason he stayed human in a sport that tries to turn people into machines.

@/gridarchives: People tried to ignore her. Then tried to ridicule her. And when that didn’t work, they tried to erase her.

But she’s still here. Still Lea. Still standing exactly where she always has— Right next to Max.

@gridarchives Power couple doesn’t even cover it. Max & Lea Verstappen? They built something that lasted.

And in Formula 1? That’s rarer than a clean lap around Monaco in the wet.

Brake Balance

Charles Leclerc x mafiosa!Reader

Summary: something about the brake issues that Charles had to deal with in Bahrain just seems off … so you take matters into your own hands while your boyfriend is none the wiser

Warnings: depictions of violence and minor-character murder

You make your way through the paddock of the Bahrain International Circuit, weaving between team members and mechanics as they go about their pre-race routines. The energy in the air is electric, everyone buzzing with anticipation for the first race of the season later tonight.

You flash your paddock pass at security and head into the Ferrari garage, eyes scanning the organized chaos for the familiar mop of brown hair.

There he is, sitting in his red race suit that matches the iconic color of the Ferrari he drives, focused intently as his mechanics make some last minute adjustments. You walk up behind Charles and place your hands over his eyes.

“Guess who?” You say playfully.

Charles reaches up and removes your hands, a smile breaking across his face as he turns in his seat. “Ah, mon cœur! My favorite surprise.”

You lean down and kiss him softly. “How are things looking for today?”

“Good, good,” he nods. “The team had to change the left front brake duct exit deflector earlier, just as a precaution. But I’m feeling optimistic, the car has been solid all weekend. I think I might even be able to challenge Max for the win if everything goes to plan.”

His confidence makes you smile. Charles has been working so hard, both physically and mentally, to start this season strong. You know a win today would mean the world to him.

“I’ll be cheering the loudest when I see you on that top step today,” you say.

Charles grins. “We’ll see. Still have a race to get through first.”

You lean in to give him a quick kiss and head to the back of the garage so you’re out of the way. The mechanics are in full focus mode now, choreographing their dance around Charles’ car with practiced precision.

Charles goes through his usual pre-race routine — sips of water, reviewing data on the screens, and loosening up his muscles. He’s the picture of calm, but you know him well enough to see the coiled adrenaline thrumming just under the surface, ready to be unleashed once he settles into the cockpit.

The time comes to head out to the grid. Charles pauses before he puts his helmet on, meeting your gaze. You close the distance between you and cup his face in your hands, kissing his lips sweetly. Then you take the helmet from him and slide it gently into place, brushing your lips over the smooth surface where his would be.

“Be safe out there,” you say softly.

He nods, face disappearing behind the tinted visor, and climbs into the Ferrari. You watch as the car pulls away, weaving between other vehicles making their way to the starting grid. With a deep breath, you head deeper into the garage and take a seat next to Charles’ performance coach, Andrea. He hands you a headset so you can listen to Charles’ radio during the race.

“Let’s hope for a good one today,” Andrea says.

You nod, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you fit the headset over your ears. On the monitors, you see Charles lining up on the grid in P2 after the formation lap, Max Verstappen’s Red Bull beside him on the front row in P1. The lights go out and the cars leap forward, engines roaring to life. Charles gets a good start, but Max keeps the lead through the first few turns.

The pack of cars higher up on the starting grid stays bunched up through the first few turns, but then you notice Charles starting to fall back little by little. His lap time slows as Max opens up a gap in front.

“The car doesn’t feel right, something with the front end,” Charles says. Your brow furrows in concern.

Only a lap later, George Russell in the Mercedes overtakes Charles on turn 4. Then Perez in the other Red Bull breezes past not long after.

“Come on Charles, stay focused,” you murmur under your breath. But things only seem to be getting worse. Carlos battles with Charles and eventually gets by, which frustrates you to no end. Charles fighting his own teammate for position is the last thing you want to see.

“Something felt very wrong with this set, the fronts were locking up like crazy,” Charles reports over the radio. Your heart sinks. Andrea shakes his head, equally perplexed.

The issues continue to persist. “What’s going on with my front left?” Charles asks, audible tension in his voice. “I just cannot get out of front locking. Everywhere ...”

Xavi, his race engineer, replies calmly, “We have temperature imbalance, higher front left.”

“How much is the imbalance?” Charles asks.

“Around 100 degrees.”

You grimace. That kind of discrepancy could make the car undriveable. Sure enough, Charles continues to struggle. It’s clear he’s fighting with the car now rather than racing the drivers around him.

“My car is fully going to the right when I am braking. With this I cannot fight, it’s dangerous,” Charles says, frustration seeping into his tone. You chew your lip anxiously. The rational part of you wishes Charles would just retire the car before he gets himself hurt trying to wrestle with it. But you also know that’s never been in Charles’ nature — he’ll keep fighting until the very last lap, no matter what.

Lap after lap, Charles battles to keep the car under control. “I think we can forget about driving now. It’s pulling everywhere,” he finally concedes. For a brief moment, you wonder if he’ll pull into the pits and call it a day. But no, your boyfriend is never one to simply give up. After the radio, through sheer force of will, Charles somehow overtakes George to reclaim P4. You can only imagine how hard he must be having to fight to keep the car in the track.

In the end, it’s a disappointing P4 for Charles while his teammate makes it on the podium in P3. As Carlos is lead to the cooldown room with Max and Checo, you watch Charles, frustration etched across his face as he tugs off his helmet and balaclava. He doesn’t even glance your way before the mechanics descend on him to start looking over the car.

Clearly the brake issues have cost him any chance at challenging for the win today. Most other drivers would have given up even trying to reclaim P4. But not your Charles. Never your Charles. Your heart aches for him.

Charles gets led away swiftly for the usual post-race weighing and interviews. You know from his body language that he’s utterly deflated by today’s results.

While the reporters pepper him with questions, you pull out your phone and scroll through your contacts. Enough is enough — something is clearly not right with Charles’ car and you want answers.

Your finger hovers over the call button as you contemplate who to reach out to. The last thing you want is for Charles to have to fight against his own machine again. A solution needs to be found immediately, and you know just the person who can help.

With a determined nod, you press call and lift the phone to your ear, ready to get to the bottom of these brake issues once and for all.

***

The phone only rings once before a gruff voice answers. “Boss?”

“Hello, Gianluca,” you say. “I need you to do something for me.”

You go on to explain in detail the brake issues Charles faced during the race, how the problems started right after they replaced the left front brake duct exit deflector.

“I don’t think it was just bad luck,” you say. “Something seems off about the whole situation. I want you to look into it, see if anyone on Charles’ side of the garage could have tampered with his car.”

Gianluca is quiet for a moment. “Sabotage, you think?”

“Possibly. I just … I can’t shake this feeling that someone meant for this to happen to Charles’ car. He truly thought he could at least try to challenge Max for the win, then suddenly it’s like he’s driving an entirely different machine. Too much of a coincidence for my liking.”

“I’ll look into it boss, don’t you worry,” Gianluca says. “I’ll go through the team with a fine tooth comb, see if anything seems out of the ordinary. If someone did intentionally compromise Charles’ car, I’ll find out who and how.”

You let out a breath. “Thank you, Gianluca. Let me know as soon as you learn anything. Charles can’t afford issues like this again.”

“You got it. I’ll be in touch.”

The call ends and you lean back against the garage wall, gaze fixed unseeingly out across the pit lane. Your mind turns over the events of the race, Charles’ baffled frustration over the radio. He’s worked too hard for too long to have valuable points stolen away by something like this. If there is sabotage afoot within the team, you’ll get to the bottom of it.

A few days later you’re back in your study after flying home from Bahrain. A knock at the door interrupts your work and you call for them to enter. Gianluca steps in, an uncharacteristically grim look on his face.

“Boss,” he greets you. Wordlessly, he steps forward and places a thick manila folder on your desk. You flip it open, eyes scanning over photos, documents, even what looks like stills of CCTV footage. Gianluca remains silent, allowing you to take it all in.

“I went over every inch of security camera video from the Bahrain paddock and garage,” Gianluca finally says. “And I found something.”

He leans over your desk and flips to a page in the folder, tapping a finger on a freeze frame showing one of Charles’ mechanics.

“This is Tomaso, one of the brake technicians,” Gianluca explains. “I noticed him acting strange all race day. Fidgety. Nervous. He was trying to hide it but his body language gave it away.”

Your eyes narrow as you study the photo. There is a shifty, almost guilty look about the man as he glances over his shoulder.

“I watched him like a hawk after that,” Gianluca continues. “When the team went to change the brake duct exit deflector, that’s when I saw it happen.”

He flips to another page, this one showing screen captures of CCTV footage in the Ferrari garage a few hours before the race start. You can make out Tomaso slipping the replacement deflector into his pocket before taking out another piece and installing it in Charles’ car. Your blood turns cold.

“He tampered with the part,” Gianluca confirms grimly. “There’s no doubt in my mind he switched that deflector with a compromised one. Sabotage, just like you suspected.”

You sit back, shaking your head in disgusted disbelief. “Why? Why would he do this?”

Gianluca shrugs. “Hard to say for sure. Could be someone paid him off, wants to see Charles fail. But what I know for certain is that he meant to damage Charles’ car.”

You drum your fingers on your desk, thinking hard. This level of betrayal from someone Charles trusts, it’s unthinkable. An affront you won’t let stand.

“You’ve done excellent work, Gianluca,” you finally say, meeting his gaze. “Thank you for getting to the bottom of this. I’ll handle it from here.”

Gianluca nods. “Of course, boss. Let me know if you need anything else.”

He turns and leaves your study, closing the door quietly behind him. You lean back in your chair, fingers steepled under your chin. Your expression is stone, but internally your thoughts roil with anger. Tomaso will pay for this, you’ll see to that.

Charles has enough challenges to face without sabotage from his own team. Your resolve hardens — you won’t stop until justice is served and he can race with full confidence again. The treachery ends now.

***

After Gianluca leaves, your mind turns over what to do about Tomaso. The team flew straight from Bahrain to Saudi Arabia to prepare for the next race, so he’s out of your reach for now. Still, you won’t let him slip away that easily. You pick up your phone and call a trusted associate, instructing him to organize a surveillance team to keep constant eyes on Tomaso until you arrive in Jeddah yourself.

The days crawl by painfully slow as you wait to confront the saboteur. You resist the urge to call Fred Vasseur and have Tomaso removed from the team immediately — better to handle this yourself. Finally, it’s time to fly out for the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix. Upon landing, your associate meets you at the airport.

“We have eyes on the target,” he reports. “He’s currently at the hotel bar, quite intoxicated.”

You nod curtly. “Good. Let’s pay him a visit.”

You’re led to the hotel and pointed towards the bar. Sure enough, there’s Tomaso, stumbling drunkenly out the door into the night. Now is your chance. You follow him down the street, waiting until he turns into a shadowy alley to make your move. In a flash you have him by the collar, shoving him against the brick wall.

“What the hell, let me go!” Tomaso slurs, trying to shove you off. But drinking has made him clumsy and weak.

“I don’t think so, Tomaso,” you reply coldly. “We need to have a little chat.”

His eyes widen in fear and confusion. You press on before he can respond.

“Let’s see, Tomaso Barbieri, born May 5th, 1992 in Turin. Moved to Maranello in 2021 to begin work as a mechanic with Scuderia Ferrari. Parents Lucia and Giacomo Barbieri, both schoolteachers. Sister Cecilia studying abroad in London.”

As you rattle off details about his personal life, Tomaso’s eyes grow wider and wider.

“What the hell, how do you know all that?” He stammers. “Who are you? Does Charles know the ugly truth about his girlfriend?”

You fix him with an icy stare. “Who I am doesn’t matter. What matters is that I know exactly who you are, Tomaso. A mechanic for Ferrari … and apparently a master of espionage and sabotage in your spare time.”

Tomaso’s eyes dart wildly, still trying to make sense of the situation in his inebriated state. He attempts an unconvincing laugh.

“What are you talking about man? Sabotage? I think you’ve had too much to drink ...”

Your response is to slam him hard against the wall, causing him to grunt in pain. You lean in close, anger simmering in your eyes.

“Let’s cut the bullshit, Tomaso. I know what you did in Bahrain, switching out the brake duct deflector to sabotage Charles’ car. Did you think you could get away with it? That there wouldn’t be consequences?”

Up close, you can see the color drain from his face, eyes wide with fear. He tries to retain some composure.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeats weakly. “I would never sabotage Charles’ car, I want him to win ...”

You slam him against the wall again, cutting off his lies.

“I said, enough bullshit!” you snarl. “We have you on video. We saw everything. We know you pocketed the real deflector and installed a defective one instead.”

He is trembling now, any hint of drunkenness replaced by sobering fear.

“Please,” he whimpers pathetically. “I’ll do anything, just please let me go. I made a mistake ...”

You shake your head in disgust. “A mistake? You betrayed Charles’ trust and tried to ruin his race out of what? Jealousy? Greed?”

Tomaso says nothing, eyes downcast in shame. You take a breath and continue in a low, menacing tone.

“Here are your options. One: you go directly to Vasseur first thing in the morning and resign from Ferrari immediately. You will leave the team and ensure you are never so much as in the same country as Charles again. Two: I deal with you myself, in a much less pleasant manner. The choice is yours, Tomaso. What’s it going to be?”

He meets your steely gaze again, jaw clenched. “I can’t just quit,” he says hoarsely. “My job is my life. You might as well just kill me.”

You purse your lips and shake your head. “I was afraid you’d say that. Very well.”

In one swift motion you draw your gun from its concealed holster and press the barrel firmly under Tomaso’s chin. He recoils in terror, plastered back against the wall.

“Last chance,” you say calmly. “Walk away from Ferrari and never look back, or your days end tonight in this alley.”

Sweat drips down his brow as the gun digs harder into his throat. His eyes are saucers of fear, flitting between your steely gaze and the weapon poised to end his life.

“Well?” You ask after a long silence. “What’s it going to be?”

Tomaso swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against the gun barrel. When he speaks, his voice is a terrified croak.

“I … I won’t quit. I can’t.” He closes his eyes in resignation, awaiting his fate.

You click your tongue in disappointment. “That’s unfortunate. I wish it hadn’t come to this.”

Your finger tightens almost imperceptibly on the trigger …

“Wait, wait!” Tomaso cries out, hands raised in desperation. “I’ll do it, I’ll quit! Just please, don’t hurt me!”

You pause, gun still aimed steadily at his throat. “And why should I believe you now?”

He swallows hard, eyes brimming with tears. “I swear, I’ll resign first thing tomorrow. You’ll never see me near the team again. Just let me go, I’m begging you!”

You consider him coldly for a moment before lowering the gun. Tomaso sags back against the wall in relief. But you’re not done with him yet.

“Who paid you?” You demand. “Who put you up to sabotaging Charles’ car?”

The blood drains from his face again. “I can’t tell you that. They’ll kill me, and my family ...”

In a flash the gun is back at his throat, your grip like iron on his shirt collar.

“I assure you, I can do much worse than they ever could,” you say menacingly. “Now give me a name, or you can say goodbye.”

Tomaso shakes uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. You can see the internal struggle, debating which is the lesser evil — defying you or those he conspired with. Finally, he slumps in defeat and leans in close, voice barely a whisper.

“It was ...”

He utters a name directly into your ear. Your eyes widen briefly in surprise before narrowing again. You release Tomaso and take a step back, processing this new information.

“I see,” you say slowly. You nod over your shoulder and two of your associates emerge from the shadows.

“Get him out of my sight,” you order. They grab Tomaso roughly by the arms. He sags between them, the fight gone out of him completely. You fix him with an icy stare.

“My men will escort you to the airport,” you inform him. “You will be on the first flight out of this hemisphere. And you are never to go near Ferrari or Charles again — don’t even think about trying to contact the team to explain yourself. As far as they will be concerned, you simply resigned. Am I clear?”

Tomaso nods wordlessly, defeated. The men begin dragging him away towards a waiting black SUV.

“Oh, and Tomaso?” You call after him. He glances back warily. “If I ever see or hear of you so much as setting foot in a paddock again, you won’t get a second chance. You’ll simply disappear. Permanently.”

The color drains from his face one final time. Then he is shoved into the back of the SUV, the door slamming shut behind him. You watch impassively as the vehicle drives off into the night, carrying the saboteur away for good.

Or so he thinks.

Unbeknownst to Tomaso, you have contacts everywhere, including at his destination. The second he steps off the plane, thinking he’s escaped your wrath, your local associates will be waiting. And his life will be ended swiftly and permanently, as promised. You don't make idle threats after all.

Betrayal of this magnitude must be punished, no matter how far Tomaso runs. The message will be clear — cross you, and nowhere on Earth will be safe. You've given the order, and your associates are nothing if not ruthlessly efficient. By the time the sun rises, there will be one less threat to Charles’ success. The sabotage ends here and now. You'll see to that personally, no matter the cost.

For a moment you simply stand alone in the dark alley, processing everything. This is bigger than you initially realized. Tomaso was clearly just a pawn, the sabotage orchestrated by someone higher up the chain — someone with enough power and influence to scare a man into risking his career and life.

Your jaw clenches as you think about Charles being targeted like this, not only being robbed of a deserved finish but also put in danger as collateral. Well, it ends now. The shadowy orchestrator thinks they can get away with playing games in the dark? They’re about to realize just how big of a mistake they’ve made.

Now that you have a name, you can start unraveling the web, tracing every thread back to find where it leads. And when you do find the spider at the center? You’ll make sure they can never endanger Charles again. For good.

Satisfied with this plan, you straighten your dress and exit the alley onto the brighter streets. Time to put your considerable resources to work. Phone records, financials, travel records — you’ll dig through it all, leave no stone unturned.

And you have a feeling the name Tomaso gave you is only the first thread. This goes deeper. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve dealt with far more dangerous criminal elements before. These shadow games don’t scare you. You’ll keep following the threads until you reach the source, uprooting the entire enterprise in the process.

By the time you reach your car, your phone is already buzzing with incoming calls and updates from your associates. They know the drill by now — when you give the word, they mobilize into action immediately, utilizing the full extent of your influence and power.

For you, they’ll tap every resource, call in every favor owed. Because you protect what’s yours at all costs. And Charles? He’s under your protection now, whether he knows it or not. So for his sake, you’re going to find the ones trying to undermine him, and you’re going to tear out the threat root and stem. Permanently.

Let them keep playing their games for now, oblivious to the axe hanging over their heads. They’ll find out soon enough that nobody crosses you and gets away with it. And when that time comes, no mercy will be shown. No loose ends left to unravel.

Time to remind them exactly why your reputation precedes you in certain circles, why your name is uttered only in hushed whispers. They’ll regret the day they dared threaten someone you care about. You’ll see to that personally.

With your jaw set in determination, you climb into the idling car. Time to go hunting.

***

Two days after dealing with Tomaso, you make your way through the Jeddah Corniche Circuit paddock towards the Ferrari motorhome.

Your stiletto heels click along the pavement and you glance down, frowning slightly at the flecks of blood still staining the pointed toes of your red soles. Such a shame about these Louboutins, you really love this pair. But a bit of blood is a small price to pay for protecting Charles, especially after personally dealing with the orchestrator who had been paying Tomaso off.

You had tracked them down and made sure they could never threaten Charles’ success again. Subtly, you crouch down and wipe at the stains, managing to remove the worst of it.

Satisfied, you straighten and continue on your way. The familiar bright red motorhome comes into view and you sweep inside, immediately spotting Charles standing with some team members. His face lights up when he sees you, excusing himself to rush over.

“Mon amour, you made it!” He exclaims, enveloping you in a tight hug. You melt against him, breathing in his familiar scent.

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss seeing you race for anything,” you reply, pecking his lips sweetly.

Charles takes your hand, leading you to a quiet corner where you can talk. “I missed you so much while you were away,” he says. “But I’m so glad you’re here now.”

You smile and stroke his cheek. “Me too, darling. But I’m here now and I’ll be cheering the loudest for you all race.”

Charles’ grin falters a bit. “It’s been a strange few days actually. Tomaso, one of my mechanics, just up and quit in the middle of the week. No explanation or anything.”

You school your features into a look of surprise. “Really? That’s so odd.”

Charles nods. “Very weird timing to just resign like that. But maybe it’s for the best if his heart wasn’t fully in it anymore.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” you agree. “The team is better off without any negativity.”

Before Charles can reply, Andrea enters the motorhome. “Charles, time for some quick physio before the race.”

Charles sighs but nods, giving you a swift kiss before following Andrea out. You watch him go fondly before making your way trackside to the Ferrari garage. The mechanics are in race mode, voices terse and movements precise as they make final adjustments on Charles’ car.

You stay back, letting them work, thoughts drifting back to everything you did to get to this point. A small price to pay to ensure Charles can race with a fair chance again.

Finally it’s time for Charles to get in the car. You approach as he’s putting on his helmet and balaclava, stealing a tender kiss that he returns happily. Then you lift the helmet and slide it gently into place, brushing your lips softly over the smooth surface where his lips would be. Your ritual.

“Be safe out there,” you murmur. Charles squeezes your hand, then lowers himself into the cockpit. You watch tensely as the car pulls away, the lights of the circuit glittering against the dark night sky.

In the garage you pace anxiously throughout the race, listening to the radio chatter. Again Charles qualified P2, behind Max Verstappen’s Red Bull. But this time, you have no sabotage to worry about. The Ferrari proves fast and consistent all race, not quite keeping pace with the Red Bull but allowing Charles to maintain P2 smoothly.

The SF-24 doesn’t have the speed to challenge Max, but there’s no issues, no sudden grip loss or components failing. Your shoulders finally uncoil with relief as Charles crosses the line to take P2, securing a podium finish.

The garage explodes into cheers and applause as Charles pulls into parc fermé. He’s beaming as he climbs from the car, pulling off his gloves and balaclava. You run over to the barriers and throw your arms around him ecstatically as soon as he nears.

“I’m so proud of you!” You exclaim. Charles hugs you back tightly.

“Thank you, mon cœur,” he says warmly. “It felt good to finally have a clean race again.”

You just smile knowingly, heart bursting with joy at seeing Charles on the podium where he belongs. During the celebrations, he keeps meeting your gaze in the crowd, smiling and pointing down to you in the crowd of red. As he sprays champagne with Max and Checo, he looks utterly elated and at peace. No frustration or disappointment, just the satisfaction of a hard fought race with the result he deserved.

Afterwards, in the privacy of Charles’ room, he takes you into his arms again. “I don’t know what changed or why, but the car just felt right this weekend,” he says. “It makes me so optimistic for the rest of the season.”

You stroke his face gently. “You deserve it. All your hard work is paying off.” Inside, you allow yourself a small, satisfied smile. Charles doesn’t need to know just how much work went on behind the scenes to get here. He only needs to focus on driving his heart out, and securing the championships you know he’s destined for. The rest is simply details.

“Thank you again for being here,” Charles murmurs, pulling you close. “Having your support means everything to me.”

You rest your head on his shoulder contentedly. “Always, my love. I’ll be right by your side.” And you mean that with every fiber of your being. No matter what happens going forward, whoever tries to interfere or stand in Charles’ way, they’ll have to go through you first.

You won’t let anyone toy with Charles’ performance and safety again. The lesson has been sent — Charles is untouchable now. Dare to threaten the success that is his, and you’ll come for what’s theirs.

But Charles doesn’t need to carry that burden. He just needs to keep his head held high and drive his heart out. You’ll handle the rest. It’s the least you can do for the man you love more than life itself.

So as Charles holds you close, you silently promise to always shield him from the ugly underbelly that lurks beneath the glitz and glamour of Formula 1.

He gives so much of himself already in pursuit of greatness. Let others vie for power and influence through dirty tricks and mind games. That’s not Charles’ way, which is why you’ll ensure he remains untainted. For him, you’d walk through fire without a second thought.

So really, what’s a little blood on your Louboutins in the grand scheme of things? A man like Charles Leclerc deserves that and so much more. And you’re going to give it to him, no matter the cost.

Let them keep playing their games in the shadows. Little do they know, you’ve already checkmated them all.

Imagine Hangman Being Caught Leaving Your Room

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader

Request: Could you write a cute oneshot of hangman x reader where the team catch him coming out of her room one morning after they went home together and they all think they had sex, Hangman plays into it because he doesn't want to admit they were watching cringey reality tv shows all night and the team finds out they have actually been dating for like 6 years? Thank you <3

Genre: Adventure / Fluff

Maybe Rooster had over done it at The Hard Deck tonight. He was feeling that last drink and was vaguely aware that he’d probably regret it in the morning.

Normally, he turned in early and would leave his fellow pilots at The Hard Deck to get a good night’s rest. But tonight they were celebrating. Rooster, Phoenix and Bob were able to successfully shoot Warlock down during a practice dogfight today. The other pilots had cheered for the trio when they landed earlier that afternoon. Rooster smiled as he remembered the triumphant high five you gave him. The best part was seeing Hangman’s nod of approval. 

Now, as he walked back to his room, Rooster smiled at Phoenix and Bob. The three of them were the last to leave The Hard Deck that night and they remained quiet as they walked toward the Top Gun dormitories. 

A small handful of pilots were recalled back to Top Gun for a brief detachment that no one was worried about. It would only be a week of training before the mission, so Rooster told himself that he would try and enjoy every moment of his friends’ time. It wouldn’t be long before everyone was shipped back to different corners of the world. 

From down the hall, Rooster heard someone cursing. Judging by the way Phoenix and Bob straightened, they also heard it. The group tiptoed down the hall until they could poke their face around the corner. The dim lights cast eerie shadows along the hallway of doors. Rooster didn’t have time to think about the creepy hallways, though. Instad, his attention was immediately pulled to Hangman, who was leaning on the doorway of your room. 

Hangman was speaking in a near whisper to someone inside the room, Rooster could only assume it was you. Rooster was suspicious by Hangman's loose pair of pants and a casual shirt. Maybe they were pj’s, but Rooster was more interested in the way Hangman was holding his bicep, a small scowl on the arrogant pilot’s face. Rooster guessed that he had been the one to curse just a moment ago. Had Hangman tried to worm his way into your room? Did you punch him for it? Rooster wished he could have been a fly on the wall to watch Hangman attempt to seduce you. Rooster would have punched Hangman, too.

Sure, you and Hangman were close but the endless teasing between the two of you hardly counted as flirting. If anything, Hangman would flirt with you but you would only toss insults back at him. It was one of the reasons Rooster liked you: the only person that could keep Hangman’s ego in check was you. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t-” Bob began, but Phoenix shot him a glare that could only mean “shut up”. 

Rooster rolled his eyes as he saw Hangman flash his award winning smile. You stepped out into the hall, your chest nearly flush against Hangman’s and Rooster waited for you to tell the pilot to politely fuck off. But Rooster almost fell over when he saw you grab a fistfull of Hangman’s shirt and pull him in for a kiss. With too much familiarity for Rooster’s comfort, Hangman wrapped an arm around your waist and his other hand slid into your hair. 

The kiss was over as soon as it began. You pulled away and pushed Hangman toward his own room. Hangman winked over his shoulder at you before you shut your own door.

The feeling of whiplash was beginning to settle over Rooster. Phoenix waited until Hangman’s door was closed before breaking the silence. 

“I must be dreaming,” she muttered. 

“I know I’m drunk…” Rooster said, running a hand over his face, “but I’m not that drunk.” 

The hangover that Rooster had the next morning was nothing compared to the confusion he felt while watching you and Hangman. He found himself reading into every little inside joke the two of you shared or the way you two would argue with one another. And Rooster knew he wasn’t the only one. Phoenix had her eyes laser focused on you while you traded snide remarks with Hangman. 

The two of you sat next to one another nearly every day. This morning was no exception. Rooster assumed that you two were friendly because you were stationed together. Being near one another for a couple of years could do that to a pair, despite one of them was as insufferable as Lieutenant Jake Seresin. But even being stuck on a remote island with Hangman wouldn’t lead to… what was this? Romance? A crush?

“They touched hands during Warlock’s lecture,” Phoenix whispered over lunch. Rooster and Bob leaned in and tried to talk between bites. 

“They didn’t touch hands,” Rooster answered, “she punched him.”

“Well what about-”

“-when Hangman fixed her flight uniform?” Rooster finished for Phoenix. She nodded, a grin on her face. 

“They were just being friendly,” Bob said, rolling his eyes. “They’re not doing anything illegal. What if they just… I don’t know… what if we don’t know what we saw?” Bob looked between Phoenix and Rooster. No one notice you or Hangman approach.

“What did you see,” you asked sweetly. Phoenix and Rooster nearly jumped out of their skin when you took a seat at their lunch table. Hangman took a seat next to you and the two of you looked around at the table. Bob looked down at his food. 

“Is everything okay?” You didn’t know what was happening but you knew enough to tell that something was happening. 

“Do you fly this afternoon?” Bob asked, finally breaking the silence. 

“Yep,” you answered, “I’m going up with Fanboy and Coyote.” 

The rest of the lunch passed amicably. However, that didn’t stop you from catching strange glances from your friends. You couldn’t tell if Hangman noticed, but you tried to push the thought out of your mind. You told yourself that you should focus on the coming dogfight. 

Hangman also notice that the others were acting strange but he chose to bring it up later. He didn’t want to distract you from your job. And Hangman knew that your head would be stuck on the coming dogfight. You didn’t need any drama.

But after lunch, you said goodbye to everyone and left for the tarmac. Coyote and Fanboy laughed with you as you strolled down the hallway. Hangman smiled at the sound. He knew that Coyote and Fanboy had your back.

Hangman left the lunch room and made a few jokes with some of his fellow pilots as they all walked to the rec room. Rooster, Phoenix, and Bob were walking with him and were good company.

Passively, the group listened to your dogfight over the radio while Rooster and Bob played a game of foo’s ball. Bob was losing, but Hangman and Phoenix cheered him on. Even with one ear on the radio, Hangman was able to give Bob a couple of tips. 

“Hangman, I thought you were on my side!” Rooster said as he almost let Bob score a point. 

“Since, uh, when?” Hangman crossed his arms and smiled at Rooster. It was enough of a distraction for Bob to score a point. Hangman gave Bob a high five and Phoenix clapped. 

“You’re off your game today, Rooster,” Hangman said with too much glee, “in fact you’ve been acting weird all day.”

“What do you mean?” Rooster looked up, meeting Hangman’s eyes. 

“Did they put something in the water yesterday at The Hard Deck?” Hangman looked between Rooster, Phoenix, and Bob. “Because the three of you have been… off all day.” 

“We’re fine,” Rooster said with a shrug. His eyes slid to the floor and Hangman scoffed at them. Phoenix and Bob exchanged a look and Hangman almost laughed at how guilty the group seemed. 

“What is it?” Hangman was distantly aware of your dogfight coming to an end. He heard the missile lock tone beep over the radio and he heard you and Coyote begin the landing procedure. Hangman threw his hands up at the ridiculous silence the group was giving him. Not even Rooster was rising to the challenge. 

“Do you have a thing for y/n?” Phoenix said, her words coming out too fast. Rooster’s head shot up and Bob pressed his lips into a tight line. Hangman blinked at Phoenix. Some of the other pilots in the rec room turned their attention towards the group. Hangman let out a laugh. 

“Y/n?” Hangman looked around at the people that were listening. “I mean, she’s fine, she’s cute, I think-”

“Are you blushing, Bagman?” Rooster interrupted. A smile widened on Rooster’s face as Hangman spluttered to silence. The blonde pilot ran a hand through his hair.

“No,” Hangman finally said, “I mean, I do like her. But I’m not going to do anything about it.” Hangman set his jaw and looked at Rooster, who had the biggest smile on his face. 

“Oh, but Hangman,” Phoenix said with false sweetness, “what were you doing by y/n’s room last night if you’re not going to do anything about it.” Rooster wanted to laugh when he saw Hangman’s face pale. The arrogant pilot froze where he stood, eyes locked with Phoenix’s. Phoenix, like Rooster, was grinning like a mad woman. 

“You calling me a liar?” Hangman said, a corner of his lips turning up. He heard footsteps down the hall and knew he needed to make a decision before you came back. 

“I wasn’t that drunk last night,” Rooster added, “I know what I saw. Are you trying to tell me it was someone else outside of y/n’s room last night?” 

“I mean,” Hangman said slowly, “I was safe in my room all night.” As if Hangman planned it, you strolled into the room, followed by Coyote and Fanboy. The three of you still wore your flight suits and smelled like sweat and oil. You took one look at everyone in the room and knew something was happening. 

“But if there was someone outside of her room last night,” Hangman said, standing beside you, “I’d have to show him who she belongs to.” Rooster’s mouth fell open as he watched Hangman wrap a large hand around your throat. He used his thumb to tilt your head toward his and planted a swaying kiss against your lips. 

After a shocked moment of silence, Coyote let out a whistle. Hangman pulled back from you and Rooster could see the blush on both you and Hangman. 

“They know,” Hangman said to you before you could say anything. 

“Did Bob tell them?” You turned your head toward Bob who mutely opened and closed his mouth as he fished for words. Phoenix punched Bob’s arm. 

“You knew?!” She glared at Bob who rubbed his sore arm. 

“I mean, I saw them once-” Bob tried to explain before Phoenix tried to punch him again. The room erupted in gossip and accusations. You and Hangman stayed quiet as the others talked over one another. 

“Just wait until they find out how long we’ve been together,” Hangman said, his lips against your ear. Your toes curled and you leaned into him. You kissed him again and enjoyed the chaos around the room. It felt good to kiss him so openly. 

"Wait until I tell them you're addicted to watching Love is Blind." You raised an eyebrow at Hangman.

"We can finish the season tonight, right," Hangman asked without shame. You rolled your eyes.

"As long as we aren't up as late as we were last night," you said. Hangman only laughed and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Maybe it was good that the others finally knew.

A/N: thank you for reading this little one shot! It took a little longer than I thought to get this one out.

Thank you, @barbiegirlbaby for the request!

𝓓𝓪𝓭𝓭𝔂!!!!! 😈😈😈😈

Why does he always look so good???

🥵🥵🤤

Boss 😎❤️👀