Daniel + Tattoos

Better Than Melatonin

Kinktober Day 1 → Cockwarming 💋 Toto Wolff

Warnings: 18+ content

Kinktober Masterlist

The room is dark, lit only by the dim, golden glow from the bedside lamp. Toto sits on the edge of the bed, watching you as you toss and turn. The sheets tangle around your legs, and your face is scrunched up in frustration.

“Can’t sleep?” He asks, his voice low, almost a rumble.

You freeze for a second, not expecting him to still be awake. “I’m fine,” you reply, though it’s clear that you’re anything but.

Toto raises an eyebrow, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ve been moving around for the last hour. You’re not fine.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I don’t know … I just can’t seem to get comfortable.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, just continues to watch you, eyes narrowed as if he’s trying to figure something out. It’s unnerving, the way he studies you, as if you’re a puzzle he’s determined to solve. Finally, he speaks, his voice a deep, soothing timbre.

“Come here.”

You hesitate, unsure of what he’s planning. “Toto, I don’t-”

“Come here,” he repeats, more insistent this time. There’s a tone in his voice that makes it clear he’s not going to take no for an answer.

Reluctantly, you scoot closer to him, feeling the mattress dip under his weight. He’s so much larger than you, a wall of muscle and authority, and yet, there’s something undeniably comforting about his presence.

You rest your head on his chest, his steady heartbeat thrumming beneath your ear. For a moment, the world seems to settle, the chaos in your mind quieting down just a little.

But then you shift, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel so … awkward.

“You’re still tense,” he murmurs, his hand coming to rest on your hip.

You nod, biting your lip. “I guess … I guess I’m just not used to this.”

“This?” He prompts, his hand sliding up your side, his fingers trailing along your skin in a way that sends shivers down your spine.

“Sharing a bed,” you admit, your voice barely more than a whisper. “With someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” He echoes, and there’s a hint of amusement in his tone.

You huff, frustrated by your own inability to explain. “You know what I mean. You’re … you’re Toto Wolff. And I’m just … me.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through your entire body. “You’re not just anything, Häschen.” His hand cups your chin, tilting your head up so you’re forced to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, intense, and for a moment, you feel like you’re drowning in them. “You’re mine.”

The words send a thrill through you, a mix of excitement and nerves. “Toto …”

“Shh,” he hushes you, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”

You want to argue, to tell him that you’re fine, that you don’t need him to take care of you, but the words die on your tongue as he shifts, his body pressing you into the mattress. There’s no urgency in his movements, no rush, just a slow, deliberate claiming of space. His hands are everywhere, warm and sure, and before you know it, he’s positioned himself between your legs.

Your breath catches in your throat as you realize what he’s doing. “Toto, wait, I-”

“Trust me,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He’s so close now, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers, “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

But you don’t want him to stop. You want this, want him, even though you’re still nervous, still unsure. There’s something about the way he touches you, the way he looks at you, that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world.

So you nod, giving him permission without words. He understands, of course he does, and slowly, carefully, he presses into you, filling you in a way that makes your mind go blissfully blank.

You gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders as he settles deep inside you. He’s so big, so overwhelming, but it’s not painful. It’s just … intense.

“Easy,” he soothes, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Breathe.”

You do as he says, focusing on the rise and fall of your chest, the steady rhythm of your breathing. He stays still, just holding you, filling you, and somehow, that’s enough to calm the frantic thoughts racing through your mind.

After a moment, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression softening in a way that you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. “Better?”

You nod again, feeling a little dazed. “Yeah … better.”

“Good,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Now sleep.”

You blink up at him, confused. “Sleep? Like this?”

“Exactly like this,” he replies, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The idea of falling asleep like this, with him still inside you, is strange and yet … comforting. It’s as if he’s claiming you in a way that’s both physical and emotional, a silent promise that he’s not going to let you go.

“Okay,” you whisper, your body relaxing against him. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple.

You close your eyes, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his body surrounding you. Slowly, the tension drains from your muscles, your mind drifting into a pleasant haze. It’s strange, but for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel safe. Safe and … loved.

Toto doesn’t move, just holds you, his hand resting on your hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. You can feel him still inside you, a constant, grounding presence that lulls you into a sense of peace.

“Sleep, Häschen,” he whispers again, and this time, you don’t fight it.

You let yourself drift, the world fading away until there’s nothing left but the steady beat of his heart and the feeling of him, warm and solid, holding you close.

***

The soft, rhythmic click of the keyboard echoes through the dimly lit room. Toto’s office is a sanctuary of sleek modernity — glass, steel, and leather, with the subtle hum of computers creating a low, constant backdrop.

His eyes are glued to the screen, sharp and focused, his mind immersed in the layers of data that demand his attention. But despite the intensity of his work, he’s aware of the time — late, far too late for you to be awake.

And yet, there’s a soft creak of the door opening behind him, barely perceptible but enough to make him pause, his hands hovering over the keyboard. He glances up, his eyes narrowing as they adjust to the sight of you standing in the doorway, hesitant and small in the oversized t-shirt you’ve borrowed from him.

“Häschen?” His voice is gentle, but there’s an edge of concern. “What are you doing up?”

You shift on your feet, unsure how to explain. Your eyes are heavy with exhaustion, but there’s something else there too — a need, something unspoken but clear in the way you linger in the doorway. “I … I couldn’t sleep.”

Toto sighs, his expression softening as he leans back in his chair, taking in the sight of you. You look so vulnerable, standing there with your arms wrapped around yourself, as if you’re trying to ward off some unseen cold. He knows exactly why you can’t sleep — why you’ve been struggling on nights when he’s not in bed beside you.

“Come here,” he says, his tone a mixture of command and tenderness.

You hesitate, still unsure, but the pull is too strong. Slowly, you pad across the room, the cold hardwood floor making you shiver as you approach him.

Toto watches you carefully, his gaze never leaving yours as you finally reach his desk. He reaches out, taking your hand and pulling you closer until you’re standing between his legs, his warmth already seeping into you.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were having trouble sleeping?” He asks, his voice low as his hand comes up to caress your cheek.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you murmur, your eyes downcast. “I know you’re busy.”

He frowns at that, his thumb brushing against your lower lip in a gesture that’s become all too familiar. “You’re never a bother to me, Häschen. You should know that by now.”

You nod, but it’s clear you’re still holding back, your body tense despite his reassuring words. “I just … I can’t sleep without you.”

The admission hangs in the air between you, heavy with the weight of your vulnerability. Toto’s eyes soften, a mix of pride and concern flashing through them as he pulls you closer, his hands firm on your hips. “You need me that much, hm?”

You bite your lip, embarrassed but unable to deny it. “I guess I do.”

His response is immediate. Without a word, he lifts you effortlessly, turning you so that you’re perched on his lap, your legs straddling his hips.

You let out a small gasp, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders as he settles you against him. The warmth of his body, the solid feel of him beneath you, it all works to ease some of the tension from your muscles, but it’s not enough.

Toto seems to understand, his hands sliding under the hem of your shirt, finding purchase on your bare skin. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push, just holds you there, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine. “Tell me what you need, Häschen.”

You close your eyes, leaning into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. It’s a simple request, but it’s one that fills you with an odd mixture of longing and shame. “I need … I need you.”

His grip tightens ever so slightly, a reassuring pressure that grounds you. “I’m right here.”

“No,” you shake your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need you … like before.”

Toto’s hands still on your back, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve pushed too far. But then, he shifts, his hand coming up to cup your chin, tilting your face so that you’re forced to meet his gaze. “You want me to fill you, Häschen? Is that what you need?”

There’s no judgment in his tone, only understanding and a deep, unyielding care that makes your heart ache. You nod, feeling a tear slip down your cheek, more out of relief than anything else.

“Then that’s what you’ll have,” he murmurs, wiping the tear away with his thumb before capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

He doesn’t rush, doesn’t demand. Everything he does is with a deliberate slowness, an assurance that he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere. His hands slide down to your hips, lifting you just enough so that he can position himself against you. You feel the hard length of him pressing against your entrance, and there’s a moment of hesitation, a brief flash of nerves that makes you tense up.

“Shh, relax,” Toto soothes, his lips brushing against your temple. “I’ve got you, Häschen. Let me take care of you.”

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to relax as he slowly lowers you onto him, filling you inch by inch until he’s buried deep inside. It’s a stretch, a fullness that’s overwhelming and yet, it’s exactly what you need. The tension that’s been keeping you awake, the restless energy that’s been gnawing at you, it all melts away the moment he’s inside you.

“There you go,” Toto whispers, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

You can only nod, your face buried in the crook of his neck as you cling to him, your body trembling with relief. He doesn’t move, doesn’t thrust or push, just holds you there, letting you get used to the feeling of being so completely filled by him.

Toto’s hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair as he rocks you gently in his lap. “You’re doing so well, Häschen. Just let go. I’ve got you.”

You close your eyes, focusing on the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body surrounding you. His hands are everywhere, holding you, grounding you, and it’s not long before you feel the exhaustion creeping back in, your body finally relaxing against him.

“That’s it,” Toto murmurs, his lips brushing against your forehead. “Just sleep, Häschen. I’ll be right here.”

You try to fight it, try to stay awake, but it’s a losing battle. The combination of his warmth, his scent, the steady rhythm of his breathing — it all works together to lull you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Toto doesn’t move, doesn’t shift even an inch as you drift off. He stays still, his hands keeping you anchored to him, his eyes softening as he watches you finally find the peace that had been eluding you all night.

The minutes tick by, the silence of the room only broken by the soft sounds of your breathing, the occasional rustle of the sheets as you shift in your sleep. Toto continues to work, his fingers moving deftly over the keyboard, but his focus is only half on the screen. The other half is on you — on the way your body relaxes completely against him, on the way your lips part slightly as you breathe, on the way you trust him so implicitly to take care of you.

It’s a feeling that stirs something deep inside him, something protective, something possessive. You’re his, in every way that matters, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re safe, that you’re happy, that you know you’re loved.

Time slips by unnoticed as Toto works, the hours stretching out as the night deepens. Every so often, he glances down at you, checking to make sure you’re still comfortable, still resting peacefully. Each time, he finds you just as he left you, your body still pressed close to his, your breathing even and calm.

It’s only when the first hints of dawn begin to creep through the windows, the sky lightening to a soft, pale blue, that Toto finally lets out a breath, his work done for the night. He looks down at you, still asleep in his lap, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Carefully, so as not to wake you, he shuts down his computer, the soft whir of the machines fading into silence. Then, with the same gentle care, he shifts you in his arms, lifting you as he stands, cradling you against his chest.

You stir slightly, a soft murmur escaping your lips, but you don’t wake, your head resting against his shoulder as he carries you out of the office and down the hallway to the bedroom. The bed is still unmade from earlier, the sheets a tangled mess, but Toto doesn’t care. All that matters is getting you settled, making sure you’re comfortable.

He lays you down carefully, his movements slow and deliberate as he pulls the covers over you. For a moment, he just stands there, watching you sleep, a strange sense of peace settling over him. You look so small, so fragile in the big bed, and yet, there’s a strength to you, a quiet resilience that he admires more than he can put into words.

Finally, he slips into bed beside you, his arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you close. You instinctively curl into him, seeking out his warmth even in sleep, and Toto can’t help but smile as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

As he settles beside you, he gently lifts your leg over his hip, positioning himself against your entrance. With a slow, careful motion, he slips back inside you, filling you completely once more.

You sigh in your sleep, a contented sound that melts into a soft moan, and your body instinctively curls closer to him, seeking his warmth and strength. Toto holds you there, his presence filling you completely, a sense of belonging settling over both of you. He strokes your back, soothing and slow, his own eyes growing heavy with sleep as the night finally gives way to dawn.

With you nestled in his arms, warm and secure, Toto allows himself to drift off, knowing that you're exactly where you belong — in his arms, perfectly content and loved.

No but why can I see Checo and Leclerc! sister sending the overprotective brothers updates while they're on holidays or everyone sending pictures of Leclerc! Sister when she falls asleep in most random places.

Why do I feel so called out about the part where Leclerc!reader falls asleep at the most random places???

Since you’re the only female daughter of Pascale, your brothers tend to be overly protective of you, even when you got married to the point that they threatened Checo to send updates of you whenever you’re both on vacation or just together outside. So Sergio had no choice but to make a group chat of him together with your three brothers.

Your significant other and brothers kept this a secret from you as to not worry you or think that they don’t trust you. They do trust you, with their whole life, but they’re scared to lose you. After all, in their eyes you’re the princess, the lady Leclerc of the family aside from your mother, so they held great pride when it came to you.

It was summer break for both you and Checo so the two of you decided to getaway from the same place and go to Maldives. Your brothers didn’t know about this, but you had told your mother about it which she was okay with. When Charles was looking for you the next day, Pascale only shrugged saying she had no idea where you are. And that only left Charles to message the groupchat with Checo about your whereabouts.

When the notification popped up on Sergio’s phone, you were both having lunch in a bungalow. Checo looking at his phone, immediately saw Charles’ message, and when you weren’t looking, he snapped a photo of you sending it to the groupchat. When Charles received the photo, he nodded to himself before sending a “have fun” to Checo.

When three hours has passed, you decided to drag Checo and go scuba diving. While your significant other protested and thrashed, you were having none of it explaining to him that what was the purpose of having a vacation in Maldives if you weren’t going to scuba dive. Checo knowing that he won’t be able to argue anymore, let himself get dragged by you.

As he enjoyed himself getting pulled by you to the ocean, he took another candid photo of you, smiling to himself. He then sent it to the groupchat with the caption, “scuba diving” before leaving his phone at the given cupboard.

When Sergio saw you standing at the edge of the dock waiting for him, he smiled softly to himself as he admired you. He watched you as you basked in the warm, ethereal glow of the setting sun. The sun's gentle caress highlighting every contour of your face, casting long, romantic shadows. Your eyes sparkle, reflecting the hues of the sky, and your smile radiates pure happiness. In that fleeting moment, time seems to stand still, and Sergio was once again reminded of the beauty of love and nature coming together in perfect harmony.

When he was only an inch left away from you, he leaned down and captured your lips, pulling you into a soft and affectionate kiss. You were astounded by what he did, but you didn’t protest instead you pulled him closer wrapping your arms around his neck before pulling him with you to the ocean.

You both fell in the cold waters, and when you both got up to the surface, your husband was looking at you with furrowed eyebrows. You let out a gentle laugh as you swam closer to him, fixing his soaked hair and putting it to the side before pulling home into a kiss again, this time no more joking.

When he pulled away, he gave a cheeky grin then splashed your face with water. And let’s just stay instead of actually doing the itinerary, you and Checo instead just swam around the ocean, enjoying each other’s presence.

When the sun has set and the moon shone brightly on the dark sky, Checo decided that it was time for both of you to get out and have dinner. Hearing your stomach grumble, you followed him out the water, grabbing yourself and drying yourself up.

Checo noticing your shivers, covered you with his own towel before wrapping his arms around your shoulder, warming you up. You leaned yourself on him as he guided you to the bungalow.

When he saw you comfortably on the chair, he went up and grabbed dinner for the both of you. But when he sat down and arrived on your table, he was starstrucked at how you managed to fall asleep with your posture still fixed.

Holding back his chuckle, he took another photo and sent it to the group chat, this time the one with Pascale. Almost all of them immediately sent a reply, laughing and talking about how you’re always sleeping anywhere any time possible.

Checo knowing how tired you must be, tapped you softly on the shoulder and asked if you wanted to go rest instead of having dinner. You groggily shook your head, grabbing your utensils as you let out a gentle yawn making Sergio smile.

As you both finished eating, your husband took both your plates and placed it in their respective places before returning to you and helping you up. He guided you so that you were standing behind him before he crouched down and helped you get on his back while you half-sleepily wrapped your arms around him.

Carrying you in a piggyback ride, he slowly walked to your shared hut, humming quietly as he smiled to himself while thinking of those wholesome moment with you. It never ceases to amaze him how you have the ability to fall asleep anywhere, anytime as long as you’re exhausted. It doesn’t matter how uncomfortable it would feel after or what body part of you will ache, you will still fall asleep anyway.

When he arrived at your room, he gently placed you in the middle of the bed before disappearing into the bathroom and appearing again with a wet face towel. He went to your side and cleaned you up, removing your swimwear and replacing it with his own clean shirt. Finishing up with you, he covered your lower extremities with the thin blanket provided before taking one last photo of you then sending it to the groupchat and saying good night to your brothers as well as he cleaned himself too.

*fast forward after break*

As mentioned, it has been a weird habit of yours to fall asleep anytime and anywhere. And it’s no secret to your significant other, family members, and even co-drivers on how you are able to do that. In fact, even your fans know about that peculiar habit of yours and they adored you more ever since.

Since you were driving for Ferrari, you are team mates with your brother and let’s say the both of you are quite unstoppable when working together. But today, it seemed like none was going to your plans as two red flags have already occured and it’s just the second free practice.

The first red flag occured when Hulkenburg crashed into the barriers because of a break issue and that caused around 20 minutes of the first free practice to be wasted. What you did, however, was you asked your engineer to play soft classical music before dozing off in your car as you waited for the session to continue. When the cameras showed a display of you, everyone watching chuckled and shook their heads, clearly aware of your silly antics.

Now for the second time around, the red flag happened because even thought it was just the second free practice, everyone decided to play bumpy cars and crashed into one another, and by everyone you meant George, Max, and Lando.

But now instead of staying in your car, you went out of your car, and you sat beside your race engineer, deciding to talk about the upgrades brought into the car before you left and went to the Red Bull garage, specifically your husband’s garage.

On the way you greeted, Hugh Bird, Checo’s engineer and asking him where your significant other was. Hugh only shrugged, mentioning the last time he saw your husband was on his way to relieve himself. And upon deciding that you’ll wait for him, you sat at the little corner of his garage’s side.

Holding your knees to your chest, you leaned your forehead on top of your knees before even realising that you were falling into slumber. You only woke up from your power nap when you felt someone sit beside you. Looking up, you saw your husband, a wide cheeky grin plastered on his face before he kissed your cheeks.

“Nice nap, amor? No stiff necks?” He asked teasingly.

Scoffing, you nudged him softly and you rolled your eyes which made him laugh. And when he was done with his laughing fit, you leaned your head on his shoulder. Checo realising what you were doing, he guided your head on his shoulder before kissing the crown of your head.

“You can nap more, comfortably this time. I’ll wake you up when the session is green flagged.”

Yawning to his statement, you gently nodded your head to at least let him know you understood. He once more planted a kiss on your head before he took your hands in his and caressed it gently.

The next time you woke up, Checo was poking your legs and opening your eyes, you were greeted by the cameras of F1 medias and your brother, Charles.

Squinting as the flash hits your eyes, you looked at Checo who only gave you a sheepish grin as he stood up and helped you up too.

“Recharged again, mi cielo?” He asked softly and you nodded, stretching your body as you fixed your race suit.

Charles impatiently waiting for you, said good bye to your husband and grabbed your hands, dragging you outside your team’s rival garage and bringing you to your home turf.

Laughing to his childish behaviour, your laugh only disappeared when you saw the screen replay the video of you and Checo in the corner. Now it was Charles’ turn to laugh at your reaction, not until you punched him on the arm gently.

When your race engineers said that the session was resumed, you got ready and went into race mode.

MY GOD THIS TOOK FOREVER 😭

to absolutely no one's request: an updated and expanded revision of the a ship chart I made back in august

ramblings about my thought process and clearer definitions of the catergories below the cut :3

plus a blank for your scientific purposes!! I'd honestly love to see other people's charts this was so fun to do

main - self explanatory, these are pairings I'm actively deranged about. always (actively seek out fic etc)

bros - non-romance category, these are pretty much the most prominent "main pairing's friendgroup" lines (plus carjack because I didn't want jack to be lonely lmao)

mentour-mentee - self explanatory (although you can't see it that well on the graph mb) most of these have to do with nationality and teammateship

real - I had a bit of trouble defining where the line between this category and "silly" would be, what I settled on at the end was "would you find this in my reblogs like, more than once" which has a large but not 100% overlap with "pairings I've actually read fic about"

silly - pairings I enjoy in the bg of fic, but wouldn't neccessarilly read about (with the exception of the Banger fic, which has a chance of tipping the pairing over into the "real" category

missing: Simi (would be in the "silly" category) I cannot believe I fucking fucking forgot them but I also could not be arsed to redo the 2nd graph entirely

I split the more negative category into two subcategories:

1. in romantic contexts no but as bros yes

I get it, but no - self explanatory, I can very much see the appeal but personally not interested for whatever reason

neutral/? - either just don't have feelings on it (but see it around enough that I'm not completely blank) or mixed feelings (lots of these didn't end up on this list ex: jendo and jondo. for the sake of entertainment sure but nah)

2. not my thing

NOT for me - I wouldn't say there's any pairings I "hate" per se but some just feel a bit icky (age differences + carlando lmao. I think the latter has more to do with carlos' typical portrayal in landoscar fics)

not convinced - self explanatory, just not compelled by their dynamic as I understand it (I am however, easily swayed)

A Sip of Sweet Speed

paring: Zhou Guanyu x fem!reader

summary: You always wanted a peaceful life, so how did you end up with an F1 driver who dragged you into his upside down, unpredictable world where every race start was an adrenaline-pumping adventure?

warning: a bit angst, descriptions of crash scenes, heiress!reader

note: The entire story is just a plea for Guanyu to secure a seat… In my previous fanfics, I didn't describe the reader's race or appearance, but in this one, the reader is at least depicted as someone who can speak Chinese. Enjoy:)

You first met Zhou Guanyu at the milk tea shop. London always attracts people from all over the world, so a handsome Asian boy wasn’t that surprising.

Until he hesitated for a long time without ordering and finally decided to ask if you could speak Chinese.

You said yes, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Great,” he said, and then asked if you had any recommendations.

You recommended your favorite combo: brown sugar boba tea smoothie with less ice and half sugar. Based on your half-year experience working at the milk tea shop next door, you guaranteed that it’s the kind of “not too sweet dessert” that Chinese people would love.

He praised your recommendation and brought a friend with him the next day. It was a curly-haired boy with an Australian accent who insisted he was 1/16th Chinese. When you served them their drinks, both round faces looked up at you and said “thank you” in Chinese.

You had a rare chance to chat with them during your break in the afternoon and learned their names: Oscar and Zhou Guanyu. Zhou wrote his name on a napkin for you, explaining that “Guan” means champion and “Yu” means universe.

A universal champion. The typical East Asian desire for one’s son to become a big name seemed to carry a certain lightness in him. As you were lost in thought, he suddenly bowed his head toward you, which made you a bit nervous: Oh my Goddess, is he about to talk about unmet expectations or childhood trauma? Is this moving too fast? You pinched your thigh, trying to make your expression on your numb workaholic face look warm and understanding.

“Do you think this hat looks good?” He still had his head down, pointing to the racing car, bubble tea cup, and rabbit on his cap. “I designed it myself.”

Well, well, well.

“You’re a pretty good designer.”

“If I weren’t a racing driver, I’d want to be a designer.”

These two gentle-looking young men shyly told you that they were race car drivers, met on a French team, and now both lived in London. Zhou said he might invite you to watch one of their races someday. You realized they were likely some born with a silver spoon who were no longer satisfied with what money could buy and were drawn to the raw adrenaline rush of underground racing.

Yet you still exchanged phone numbers with Zhou and started casually dating. Most of the time, he’d come alone to your milk tea shop, order a drink, and chat with you if you weren’t busy. When you were busy, he once tried to help but ended up wasting a lot of ingredients, so you kicked him out of the bar counter.

However, his cooking was unexpectedly good. One evening, after you planned to watch a movie together, it naturally progressed to having a late-night snack at his apartment.

He skillfully started the fire, boiled water, and cooked noodles. He took some scallions from the fridge and evenly sprinkled them in the bowl. Just as the noodles in the pot were perfectly cooked, the boiling soup immediately scalded the scallions. He fried an egg to a golden hue in a pan. You took the steaming bowl of noodles, cradled it in your hands, and ate heartily at his dining table, asking why he wasn’t eating.

Sitting across from you, he rested his face on his hand, smiling slightly as he watched you. “I can’t eat late at night; I have to watch my weight.”

“But you drink bubble tea all the time?”

He hesitated for a moment, his smile deepening with an unusually sweet and direct statement: “Because I want to see you.”

You stood up, leaned over, and kissed him lightly.

Before summer arrived in London, you became his girlfriend. He would drive you to work while he was in town, using some lane-switching and drifting techniques if you overslept and were nearly late. This almost made you vomit your breakfast.

“It’s my fault,” he said, rubbing his hands, “in rush hour my skills are actually good. I’ll take you for a spin after work as an apology.

You wanted to ease the tension with a light-hearted joke, but his dark circles hinted that oversleeping was a shared responsibility.

In short, men may have an obsession with proving their “skills”. That night, he drove you home in an Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio.

You never linked your boyfriend’s frequent trips with his racing career. In your mind, he was probably just an underground racer until he invited you to watch his race at Silverstone.

You listened in a daze as he rambled about how his request for a pass application was late and he couldn’t get you into the garage with his family, but he had bought you tickets for the whole event. Silverstone wasn’t far from London, and he really wanted you to support him.

“I’m almost a VIP at your shop; could you come and support me too?”

You thought about the countless silly questions you’d asked him about racing, which he had patiently answered, and it took a long time before you found your voice: “So you’re an F1 driver?”

“Yes.” He grinned, showing more than eight teeth, like a mischievous rabbit.

Neither of you expected Silverstone to unfold as it did.

After the cars passed through turn two, a red and white car — a car from Alfa Romeo — flashed by in an unusual posture. All you could see was George Russell jumping out of his Mercedes and running towards the trackside.

There was no broadcast footage.

You knew something major had happened. Soon, you confirmed it was Zhou’s name that quickly dropped in the standings on the screen.

Everyone in the stands took out their phones, trying to get the latest news from social media.

Your mind was blank. His name kept falling, and each drop tugged at your nerves. Fear overwhelmed you like a tidal wave: Will you lose him? In those few seconds, memories of him involuntarily flashed through your mind: how he spoke slowly, liked to hold your hand while walking, the thin calluses on his hands, and how he passionately and earnestly declared his love for bubble tea, racing, and you.

About half an hour later, the official broadcast resumed with video footage, and replayed recordings from various angles began to appear on the screens.

Zhou’s car had been hit by another car from the side and rear, causing it to flip over and slide along the track upside down for a long time, sparking and raising dust, heading toward the trackside barriers before a violent collision. This still didn’t stop the car, as the massive impact propelled it over the tire wall, hitting another higher barrier and getting wedged in the narrow space between the barrier and the grandstand.

The car was severely damaged, with wheels flying off and the intake duct worn flat.

Tears blurred your vision as you watched the big screen and couldn’t help but smile at the term intake duct which he had taught you.

News finally came from the control room that Zhou was conscious and undergoing further checks, and a round of applause erupted from the crowd.

Soon, you received a message from him: “I’m ok, sorry for worrying you.”

You looked at the white text box and couldn’t help but cry.

Soon, he sent another message: “Why are you leave me on read? :( I begged the PR for a long time to get my phone.”

“Babe? Are you mad at me? I’m really sorry.”

With trembling hands, you replied, “I love you.”

Later, you met him in the garage. He seemed fine, wearing his team gear and jeans, apparently unaffected by the incident. You felt your heart still racing, wondering how he remained so calm after such an event. He reached out and hugged you quietly. In that moment, all your thoughts vanished, and it was enough to be able to hold him.

Back in London, he asked if that “I love you” was due to the suspension bridge effect. You made yourself a bubble tea, bit into a pearl, and slowly said, “I don’t think so; I just regret not saying it sooner. Fortunately, it’s not too late.”

He reached out and held your hand. “I love you too.”

The F1 schedule didn’t give the drivers much time to rest. He was back on the track in Austria a week later. During his absence, you finally had time to seriously think about your relationship.

You always wanted a peaceful life, so how did you end up with an F1 driver who dragged you into his upside down, unpredictable world where every race start was an adrenaline-pumping adventure?

You liked him a lot, to the point of loving him, but you didn’t want to live a life full of uncertainty, constantly on edge and floating in a void, just for the sake of love. You imagined scenarios of breaking up and silently disappearing from his life, but when you opened your photo album and saw pictures of you two together, your emotions, which you had numbly suppressed for days, surged like a flood. You curled up on the bed, clutching his sweatshirt left behind at your place, and broke down in tears.

In the end, you couldn’t bring yourself to break up with him.

You made a phone call.

He understood your unease. He assured you he would be careful, that the FIA had comprehensive rules to ensure his safety, the halo, VSC, and ongoing updates to the car's crash structures.

You asked him why he didn’t become a designer instead. He thought for a moment and then said that the first time he watched an F1 race was at the 2004 Chinese Grand Prix in Shanghai. At that time, his parents didn’t know they needed a parking pass, so they had to park their car far away. Yet, the five-year-old him didn’t complain at all and walked almost an hour to watch the race.

For know his world better, one of your favorite pastimes was sitting on the sofa together under the same blanket, your legs draped over his, watching F1 races. Even though you still found driving in circles a bit dull, you had the world's cutest commentator right next to you.

He tried to help you understand team strategies and the differences between undercuts and overcuts, while you commented on how pretty Alpine's pink livery was, how beautiful the night view in Singapore looked, and how the aerial shots of the chase in Monaco seemed like they were straight out of a movie.

“If I were the FIA, I’d make all 24 races street circuits,” you said.

You watched as his eyes widened in surprise.

You then asked him if he wouldn’t want to race on the Shanghai Bund, with sparks flying against the dazzling Huangpu River nightscape. How romantic would that be?

He seemed to seriously consider this scenario, “I think I’d be happy just racing on the Shanghai circuit.”

In 2024, you and he returned to Shanghai. You thought there couldn’t be a more thrilling moment than this: the whole audience cheering for his every overtake, and after the race, when his car stopped at the starting grid, 200,000 people shouting his name, Zhou Guanyu, as if he really were the champion of the universe.

You thought that hometowns were always special. This boy, who had gone through many setbacks to stand here and remained calm and polite no matter what he faced, was in a way having a conversation with the younger version of himself, the boy who walked an hour just to watch an F1 race. It was both a "say hi" and a "see you later."

When you wiped away his tears, you thought to yourself that you might truly fall in love with this sport because of this boy.

He rarely drank bubble tea during the races. It wasn't until the summer break that he made himself a cup of brown sugar bubble milk tea smoothie with light ice and half sugar, but he still didn’t look particularly happy sitting by the window.

You asked him what was bothering him lately, saying that not even sugar could make him happy. You really weren't interested in racing, and the little attention you did pay was because he was racing. But you couldn’t stand seeing him unhappy.

After hesitating for a moment, he finally confided in you: “I might not be able to race in F1 next year.”

“What do you plan to do then?” you asked.

“I might become a reserve driver for a team or maybe switch to Formula E. You know, FE has a race in Shanghai, too, so I could still participate in my home race—” he tried to sound relaxed and forced a smile.

“But isn’t F1 the pinnacle of motorsport or something?” You knew that F1 had been his dream ever since he started karting, and choosing another series would be more about the profession and less about the dream.

“Yes, but two rookies are entering the starting line next year, and you know, the car's been struggling this year. I'm certainly not the best one out there—” he paused.

“Oh, don’t say that. Is there any way to secure your seat?”

“Unless the C44 suddenly becomes competitive and we start scoring points, or I get a big sponsor.” He wasn’t the type of driver to vent his frustrations on the team or the engineers. Even when talking to you, he would just say, “This car is way too slow”.

You tentatively asked, “Which option do you prefer?”

“The latter. It’s more realistic,” he replied patiently, as he always did.

You nodded, indicating that you understood, “I’m going to make a phone call.”

He seemed puzzled but didn’t question you. As the conversation progressed, you could see his eyes widening. Your words were filled with so many familiar yet strange terms.

“How can I buy a team? Yes, like Lawrence Stroll. Okay? Then sponsoring a driver shouldn’t be too difficult, right? Porsche? No F1 team, not happening. TotalEnergies? Citibank? Can’t you just buy me some Ferrari shares?”

After hanging up, you sat across from him, holding his hand.

“Sweetheart, take a deep breath. I know you have a lot of questions right now, but listen to me first. Tomorrow, my investment advisor will contact your team to offer you a sponsorship of around $10 million. More can be added if needed. They also hold some shares in TotalEnergies, not a lot, maybe about 8%, but I think it could help in talks with Alpine. If you want to drive a fast car, give them some time; we can acquire a team. Do you prefer a Mercedes engine or a Ferrari one?”

He followed your instructions and took a deep breath, then tried to remain calm as he asked, “Milk tea shop owner?”

You nodded, “That’s right.”

“A peaceful life?” His voice trembled a bit.

“Opening a milk tea shop is quite peaceful.” You smiled.

“Parents passed away?” He cautiously asked, trying to piece together a complete story.

“Correct, but they left me a trust fund.” You patted his hand to calm his nerves, “Are you happy? You’re going to have a seat. For many years to come. Even if you're not happy, it won’t help; you're set to race in F1.”

“You never told me you were so wealthy.” His voice finally carried a hint of disbelief.

“Well, you didn’t tell me you were an F1 driver at first, so we're even.”

“That’s different!” he protested loudly, which was rare for him.

“Didn’t you notice? I live quite well in London, open and close stores as I wish, go to your races whenever I want. How could I sustain my lifestyle without some savings?”

“We don’t call money that can buy an F1 team ‘some savings’. Anyway, I thought at most you owned this shop... No wonder you refused when I offered to invest.” He rarely complained, and you loved his subtle humor.

“Oh, I own the whole building, sweetheart.”

Your dream was to open a milk tea shop, and you achieved it long ago. Now, it was time to help your boyfriend fulfill his dream. You were content with that thought.

“As long as you don’t make all 24 races street circuits, I’ll agree to whatever you say.”

Many years later, when Zhou Guanyu was frequently scoring points, standing on podiums, and eventually winning a race, he would find himself in a daze: how did he become the driver with the most stable seat in the F1 paddock?

Many years later, you looked at the bustling crowd in the milk tea shop and complained to your husband sitting across from you, “Could you please stop recommending my milk tea shop to the fans? Where is my peaceful life?”

He pulled his hat down a little, didn't even look up as he continued scribbling and designing the new menu. “But the brown sugar boba tea smoothie is really delicious, babe.” he said.

the fastest driver part 1

summary: you are a young and talented driver, who begins your journey in Formula 1 with Ferrari. despite your undeniable ability, you are constantly relegated to the background due to the Scuderia's strategies, which always favor your teammate, Charles Leclerc.

warnings: nothing for now

word counter: 9026

author's note: english is not my first language, this is from an amazing request

You grew up in a small town where dusty streets were your first track, and the only kart your parents could afford became an extension of yourself. You spent years perfecting your skills under the blazing sun, your hands always stained with grease, while dreaming of the big leagues. Your determination and talent didn’t go unnoticed for long, and by the age of seventeen, you were already competing in Formula 3, winning races, and building a reputation that few could ignore.

However, the transition to Formula 1 was no fairy tale. Despite your achievements in the lower categories, many doors remained closed. You were a woman in a sport dominated by men, and while you hated admitting it, you knew the battle to prove yourself extended beyond the circuits. But when Ferrari came calling, you realized all your sacrifices had been worth it. Ferrari, the team with the most history and prestige in Formula 1, had set its sights on you.

The first time you set foot in Maranello, Ferrari's heart, you felt a mix of nerves and excitement. The walls of the main building were adorned with iconic images: Lauda, Schumacher, Vettel... all the greats who had raced for the Scuderia. And now you were there, ready to make your mark in history.

They introduced you to Charles Leclerc, your teammate. Tall, charismatic, and with a smile that could disarm anyone, Charles greeted you politely but with a reserved attitude. It was clear he wasn’t going to let his guard down around you.

The technical team showed you the SF24, the car you’d be driving that season. It was beautiful, a machine designed to fly on asphalt, and when you finally sat in the cockpit for the first time, everything felt right. This was your place.

Preseason testing in Barcelona was your first big challenge. The media was eager to see you in action, and the headlines were as varied as they were predictable: some hailed you as a breath of fresh air for Formula 1, while others questioned your ability to handle the pressure.

When you finally hit the track, all the external noise disappeared. It was just you, the car, and the circuit. From the first lap, you proved you belonged in this world. Your times were competitive, sometimes even better than Charles’, which didn’t go unnoticed by the team or the press.

But then, in the middle of your best stint, you received a radio message: “Box, box. We need to check something on the car.” There was nothing to check, and you knew it. But you obeyed. Charles needed more track time, and Ferrari made sure he got it.

The day of the first race in Bahrain was a whirlwind of emotions. Seeing your name on the red cars alongside Charles’ was a dream come true. But you also knew your real challenge was just beginning.

You qualified third, right behind Charles, which left the team satisfied but not surprised. In the race, you had a spectacular start, overtaking Charles at the first corner. Adrenaline surged through your body as you realized you were leading the race for Ferrari. But then the radio crackled again: “Let Charles through. He has better pace.”

You clenched your teeth. You knew it wasn’t true, that you had the pace to fight for the win, but you also understood the unwritten rules of the Scuderia: Charles was number one. So you lifted your foot off the accelerator, watching as Charles took the lead while a bitter frustration built up inside you.

You finished second, a result any rookie would have celebrated, but for you, it wasn’t enough. In the press conference, journalists bombarded you with questions about being relegated to second fiddle. You smiled professionally and replied that it was all for the good of the team, but inside, you were burning.

The dynamics within Ferrari didn’t take long to settle. You were the driver who followed orders, no matter how illogical or unfair they seemed. From the beginning, you had accepted that a place in Formula 1 was a hard-earned privilege and that surviving in such a legendary team required showing commitment and loyalty. But at Ferrari, the price of that loyalty seemed increasingly steep.

You were always the first to arrive at the garage and the last to leave. You immersed yourself in the technical details, analyzing every bit of data from the car and holding long meetings with the engineers. But no matter how hard you worked, there was always an invisible line you couldn’t cross. Every strategy, every race decision, seemed designed to keep you in your place: the perfect support for Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s "star man."

Some moments were particularly frustrating. Like that Sunday in Monaco, when the sky threatened rain and the track conditions were changing rapidly. You were in a strong position, right behind Leclerc, and clearly faster than him at that point. When you asked for permission to attack over the radio, the response was curt:

“Hold position. The priority is to protect Charles’ race.”

That day, you bit your lip and obeyed. You lifted slightly in every corner, letting Charles pull away enough to avoid pressuring him. And, as if it were a cruel joke, Charles’ strategy backfired: he was called to the pits at the wrong time, losing all his advantage. Meanwhile, you got stuck in traffic you couldn’t overcome with the car you had. You finished off the podium.

You could have screamed, could have let out your frustration, but you didn’t. When journalists approached with questions about the strategy, your response was impeccable, the “good girl” answer they expected:

“It’s part of racing. I trust the team and the decisions they make.”

Even when you didn’t feel it, even when it ate away at you inside.

Ferrari, an institution as legendary as it was unyielding, seemed to thrive on your docility. In internal meetings, you weren’t the one to stand up and challenge the strategists or argue over team orders. It was Charles who raised his voice, who demanded explanations or changes. You, on the other hand, nodded, worked harder, and returned to the grind. In the team’s eyes, that attitude made you the perfect driver to support the project. “Predictable,” some would say. “Reliable,” others would call it.

However, there were days when the injustice weighed too heavily. You remembered races like Silverstone, where you led for more than 20 laps, only to receive the order to let Charles through under the pretext that he had better pace. You complied without protest, watching your chance for a first victory vanish with a maneuver that didn’t even make sense to the commentators.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” a journalist asked you in the post race press conference, almost reproachfully.

Your answer was automatic:

“The team has its reasons, and I trust them.”

But inside, you wanted to scream. Of course, you wanted to fight. You wanted to prove you hadn’t come this far just to be a shadow.

Despite everything, you never broke. You kept working, accumulating miles, and learning every step of the way. At Ferrari, you were known as the hardest worker, the one who spent extra hours reviewing data and analyzing races. Sometimes, even Charles joked with you:

“You should relax a bit. You don’t need to prove so much to the team; they already know you’re good.”

But you knew it wasn’t enough. Your place always seemed precarious, as if you were under constant evaluation, always one step behind in the team’s priorities.

Throughout the season, this dynamic became so evident that even some fans began to notice the disparity. On social media, the discussions were constant: some praised your obedience, seeing you as the ideal teammate, while others criticized Ferrari for not giving you a fair chance. You didn’t say anything, but you read the comments. You felt the frustration of those who wanted to see you succeed, and that gave you strength to keep going.

And although that helped you move forward, there were things that got in the way. Spending so much time with Charles Leclerc was inevitable. You shared meetings, strategies, team dinners, and endless travels from one circuit to another. Sometimes, during long waits at airports or motorhome rides, he relaxed enough to drop the façade of being the perfect driver.

It was in those moments that you began to notice him differently. Maybe it was the way his smile widened when you managed to make him laugh with your sarcastic comments or how he looked at you with a mix of awe and admiration when you discussed strategies, showing detailed knowledge of every technical aspect. You found yourself anticipating those small moments, those conversations where the weight of the motorsport world seemed to disappear, even if just for a few minutes.

At first, you tried to ignore it. You told yourself it was nothing, simply a side effect of being so close to someone for so long. But little by little, that feeling began to grow. You found yourself watching him during meetings, noticing details that had previously gone unnoticed: the slight accent in his English, the way he ran a hand through his hair when frustrated, his easy laughter when something truly amused him.

Reality hit every time you remembered that, to him, you were just his teammate. Maybe a friend, even a sort of younger sister, but nothing more. Charles had a natural way of making you feel comfortable but also reminding you of where you stood in his life.

One night in Suzuka, after a long day of training and meetings, you both ended up in the small lounge of Ferrari's motorhome. You had gone to get a cup of tea to clear your mind and found him sitting on the couch, looking at something on his phone. He looked up when he saw you and smiled.

“Long day?” he asked, setting his phone aside.

“As always,” you replied, pouring hot water into your cup. Then you turned to him. “And you? I haven’t seen you since the last meeting.”

Charles sighed and stretched. “I was trying to reply to some messages, but I don’t even know where to start. Family, friends, everyone wants to know how I’m doing all the time. It’s exhausting.”

You smiled, sitting in a chair across from him. “Must be tough being Charles Leclerc.”

He laughed. “Don’t believe it. You’re a Ferrari driver too. You must have your own endless list of messages.”

“Yeah, but the difference is that I’m not seen as the team’s big star. I only have to worry about my parents and a couple of close friends.”

He tilted his head, as if evaluating your words. “Don’t think we don’t notice. The whole team knows how dedicated you are. Maybe they don’t say it all the time, but they know how much you bring to the table.”

Your heart skipped a little. You hadn’t expected that kind of recognition from him. You tried to stay composed.

“That’s... good to hear. Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way, but thank you.”

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you. Charles looked at you with curiosity.

“And you? How do you handle it? Being here, under so much pressure, one of the few women in this sport... It can’t be easy.”

You lowered your gaze to your cup, letting your thoughts swirl.

“It’s not. But I don’t expect it to be. I grew up knowing I’d have to work twice as hard to get here. So, I do. Sometimes it’s frustrating, especially when it feels like no matter how much I try, things don’t change.”

“Are you talking about the team orders?”

You looked up quickly, surprised he mentioned it. He was watching you with that intensity of his, as if trying to unravel your thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a half smile. “I know. It’s not fair.”

“Then why don’t you say anything?” you asked, almost without thinking.

He seemed to ponder this for a moment. “Cause this sport isn’t fair. It never has been. You know that as well as I do.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier.”

Charles nodded, as if he understood perfectly what you meant. Then, to your surprise, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Look, I know it doesn’t always seem like you’re valued, but believe me, you’re incredible. You’re fast, smart, and more hardworking than anyone in this paddock. You don’t need Ferrari to tell you that because you’re proving it every time you get in the car.”

His sincerity left you speechless. For a moment, the noise of the outside world disappeared, and all you felt was the warmth of his gaze and the weight of his words. You wanted to say something, but the lump in your throat stopped you.

Finally, he broke the silence with a smile that seemed to lighten the atmosphere.

“Besides, if you start beating me, I’ll have to work harder. And I don’t want that,” he joked.

You laughed, grateful that the moment had turned lighter.

“Don’t worry. You still have a bit of an advantage... for now.”

You both laughed, and the moment passed. But as you walked back to your room that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about what you had felt. No matter how much you tried to deny it, your feelings for Charles were there, silently growing. And the worst part was knowing that, to him, you were just a teammate, a friend, maybe even that younger sister he joked about in meetings.

But you wanted to be more than that. And you had no idea how to handles.

The conversation with Charles left you more affected than you wanted to admit. His words echoed in your mind like a constant refrain: “Your incredible,” he had said. Did he really mean it? Or was he just trying to motivate you, like an older brother would with a younger sister? You couldn’t shake the feeling that, while he valued you, he didn’t fully see you. Not as an equal, not as a true rival, and certainly not as anything more.

That, combined with the weight of the team orders and the constant feeling of being a shadow in Ferrari, began to wear you down in ways you couldn’t ignore. The following races only reinforced your frustration. In Austin, you were once again told to hold position behind Charles, even though you were faster. In Interlagos, you were excluded from a key strategy that could have landed you on the podium. Every time you received the order over the radio, you obeyed, because that was what was expected of you. The “good girl” who didn’t cause trouble. The obedient driver who always put the team above herself.

But inside, something was breaking.

It was in the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, the last race of the season, that you reached your limit. At the Yas Marina Circuit, the sun was sinking into the horizon, bathing the paddock in golden and orange hues as the tension filled the air. For Ferrari, this race was crucial: the team was still fighting to secure second place in the Constructors Championship, and every strategic decision was made with that goal in mind.

But for you, this race meant something else. After months of following orders, of being relegated to a supporting role, you knew this was your moment. There would be no next time. Ferrari had made it clear that their priority was Charles Leclerc. You’d heard the rumors that, regardless of the results, your seat was at risk. You had nothing left to lose.

You had qualified fourth, right behind Charles, while the Red Bulls occupied the front row. You knew you would have to play your cards smartly to have a chance, but you also knew you weren’t going to follow orders that hurt you again.

As you adjusted your gloves in the cockpit, you heard your engineer’s voice over the radio:

“Remember, the priority is to maintain positions and support Charles if necessary.”

You bit your lip to keep from responding. Instead, you simply said:

“Understood.”

But this time, you didn’t understand. You weren’t willing to sacrifice yourself again.

When the lights went out, your reaction was flawless. You held your position, avoiding an aggressive attack from a Mercedes. Charles was trying to keep pace with the Red Bulls, but it soon became clear he didn’t have enough speed to catch them.

By lap 15, you were right behind him. Your tires were in better condition, and you were clearly faster in the technical corners. You tried to put pressure on him, but the order came over the radio before you could attempt an overtake.

“Hold position. Repeat: hold position.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. This was the moment. You could obey, as always, or you could risk it all.

On lap 18, down the main straight, you moved out of Charles’ slipstream and went for the overtake. The maneuver was clean, an impeccable move that left the team speechless. The protests came immediately over the radio.

“What are you doing? Give the position back, now.”

But you ignored the orders. You didn’t respond. Your only answer was to push harder.

From the pit wall, the tension was palpable. You could imagine the strategists shouting, the engineers exchanging nervous looks. Charles tried to reclaim the position, but his worn tires didn’t allow him to get close enough. You focused on your pace, pushing to the limit in every corner.

By lap 40, the critical moment arrived. A safety car came out after a crash, and Ferrari called Charles in first to change tires. However, you ignored your order to pit on the next lap, staying out to maintain the strategic advantage. When the safety car period ended, you were in third place, with the Red Bulls ahead and Charles behind.

The final laps were a battle of pure instinct. Max and Checo fought for the victory while you defended your podium spot tooth and nail. Charles attempted an aggressive overtake on the penultimate lap, but you blocked him with a move that was clean yet firm.

The checkered flag waved, and you crossed the finish line in third place. You had achieved your first podium in Formula 1. Emotions overwhelmed you as you heard the commentators’ cheers and the fans’ applause. It was the moment you had dreamed of your entire career.

But the celebration was short-lived.

When you arrived at parc fermé, the faces in the Ferrari team were telling. Charles stepped out of his car and gave you a look you couldn’t decipher. There was no anger, but no joy either. You removed your helmet and walked toward the podium, feeling the mix of joy and tension around you.

The podium was a whirlwind of emotions. You allowed yourself to enjoy the moment: the champagne, the cheers, the feeling of proving what you were capable of. But when you returned to the motorhome, reality hit you like a punch.

The team principal was waiting for you in the meeting room, his expression cold as steel.

“What do you think you were doing out there?” he asked, his voice restrained but loaded with anger.

You looked him straight in the eye.

“I was racing to win.”

“You disobeyed direct team orders, jeopardizing our strategy and our relationship with Charles. This is unacceptable.”

“What’s unacceptable” you said firmly “is that I was never given a fair chance. Today, I proved that I can compete. That I deserve to be here.”

A tense silence followed. Finally, the team principal sighed, as if carrying a massive weight on his shoulders.

“This cannot continue. There is no place in Ferrari for someone who doesn’t follow the rules.”

And so, the decision was made. You were fired from Ferrari that very night.

As you packed your things, you felt a mix of emotions. Sadness and anger, yes. But also pride. You had shown that you weren’t just another cog in the system. You had fought for yourself, for what you believed in.

Before you left, Charles approached you.

“That was a great podium” he said with a small smile. “I knew you had it in you.”

“Thanks” you replied, feeling a pang of emotion.

“What are you going to do now?”

You looked at him, letting a defiant smile cross your face.

“I’m going to keep racing. Wherever, with whoever, but I’ll keep racing.”

And with that, you walked away.

After your departure from Ferrari, there was no time for regrets. You had barely stepped out of the motorhome at Yas Marina when the motorsport world began to react. News of your dismissal spread like wildfire, and the controversy dominated every headline: “The rebellion that shook Ferrari,” “A driver fired for disobedience but with talent to shine,” “Was Ferrari’s decision fair?”

At first, you tried to escape it all. You hid at home, turned off your phone, and avoided social media. But you soon realized the world wouldn’t leave you alone. The story had become too big, and to your surprise, the public was mostly on your side. In every interview, in every analysis by the experts, the same argument arose: Ferrari had wasted undeniable talent.

It didn't take long before the calls started coming in. First, they were from midfield teams: Aston Martin, Williams, even Alpine. They all saw you as a golden opportunity, a talent Ferrari had let slip away. But there was something about those offers that didn’t quite convince you. After fighting so hard to prove your worth, you didn’t want to take a step back in your career.

One day, while you were having breakfast at home, your agent arrived with an expression you had never seen before a mix of disbelief and excitement.

“Red Bull is interested in you.”

You almost dropped your coffee cup.

“Red Bull? The world champion team?”

“Yes, them. They called me this morning. They want to meet with you.”

The news was surreal. Red Bull, the most dominant team on the grid, the one that had won championships with Max Verstappen, was now interested in signing you.

A few days later, you traveled to Milton Keynes, where the team’s headquarters were located. From the moment you walked into the building, you felt the difference. Here, there was no solemn, almost monarchical air like at Ferrari; Red Bull was modern, fresh, with an energy that was palpable in the atmosphere.

You were greeted by Christian Horner and Helmut Marko. During the meeting, Horner got straight to the point.

“We’ve been watching you all season,” he said with a confident smile. “What you did in Abu Dhabi was risky, but it showed you have a hunger for victory, and that’s what we’re looking for in a driver.”

“We know Ferrari didn’t give you the opportunities you deserved,” Marko interjected in his characteristic serious tone. “You won’t have that problem here. We want you to compete at the highest level.”

The proposal was clear: you would be part of the Red Bull team as the second driver, alongside Max Verstappen. It wasn’t an easy seat. Verstappen was the undisputed champion, and competing alongside him meant facing one of the greatest in history. But it also meant a golden opportunity to prove you belonged in the elite.

“What do you say?” Horner asked, smiling expectantly.

You looked at your agent, who gave you a slight nod, as if to say it was your decision. You took a deep breath and then responded:

“I accept.”

The news of your signing with Red Bull was announced during the winter break, just before Christmas. The official statement included words from Horner praising your talent and fighting spirit, highlighting that you would be a key piece in maintaining the team’s dominance.

The public reaction was explosive. Social media was flooded with messages of support and surprise. Some criticized the decision, arguing that Verstappen didn’t need internal competition, while others celebrated it as a victory for a driver who had earned her place against all odds.

Even Charles Leclerc reacted in an interview:

“I’m happy for her. She’s a great driver and deserves this opportunity. Red Bull is an incredible team, and I’m sure she’ll do well.”

The first day at the Red Bull factory was completely different from what you had experienced at Ferrari. From the beginning, they treated you like part of the team. The engineers showed you the progress on the new car, and Max, though reserved, gave you a professional welcome.

“It’s not easy here,” he told you during lunch at the factory canteen, “but if you’re here, it’s because you have what it takes.”

The buzz reached its peak after the announcement of your signing with Red Bull. While the whole world debated your arrival at the most dominant team on the grid, you were only beginning to process what this new chapter in your life meant. However, something kept crossing your mind. At first, the excitement and thrill of the new opportunity kept you busy, but when things calmed down, one question arose strongly: What had happened to Checo?

Checo had been Max Verstappen’s teammate for the past few seasons, and although he hadn’t reached the Dutchman’s level, he had been a key pillar in the team’s success. You had seen how he fought on track, defending positions with a ferocity few could match. So why had they terminated his contract?

Rumors about Checo’s departure started surfacing even before your arrival was announced. Some said his results hadn’t been enough for Red Bull, especially compared to Max’s absolute dominance. Others suggested that the internal atmosphere in the team had deteriorated and that Checo was tired of living in the champion’s shadow.

However, there was no clear statement. Red Bull, true to its style, had handled the situation discreetly. Even during your first weeks with the team, no one directly mentioned Checo. The engineers, mechanics, strategists… everyone seemed focused on you and Max, as if the past had been erased in one fell swoop.

One day, while you were in the simulator at Milton Keynes, you ran into Horner. You had finished an intense testing session and were wiping off sweat when he approached.

“How are you feeling so far?” he asked in his usual relaxed tone.

“Good, I think I’m adapting quickly,” you replied, though deep down you knew you still had a long way to go to reach Max’s level.

Horner nodded, but you noticed something in his expression. As if he knew there was something else you wanted to ask. You decided to take the chance.

“Christian, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

You took a deep breath before speaking. “What happened with Checo?”

Horner looked at you for a moment, as if deciding how much to say. Finally, he sighed.

“Checo is an incredible driver and was fundamental to many of our successes. But the level of demand here is very high. This year, he didn’t meet the expectations we had set.”

“Was it just that?” you asked, doubtful.

“He felt he deserved more support, and I can’t blame him for that. But in the end, we decided it was best for both parties to go separate ways.”

You nodded, though Horner’s words didn’t resolve all your doubts. You had seen Checo give it his all on the track, and it was hard to believe that simply hadn’t been enough. But at the same time, you knew how ruthless this sport could be.

A few weeks later, while scrolling through the news on your phone, you finally found out about his future. Checo had signed with Aston Martin, a team that wasn’t at Red Bull’s level in terms of performance but offered him the opportunity to be the undisputed leader.

You looked at the photo of his announcement on social media: Checo in his new green and black suit, smiling in front of a car that would hardly compete with the leaders. There was something in his expression you couldn’t quite decipher. Resignation? Or perhaps relief?

You caught yourself wondering how he must have felt being displaced. Although you hadn’t made the decision, your arrival at Red Bull had been the catalyst for his departure. For a moment, you were overwhelmed by a sense of guilt.

The preseason began, and with it came the tests in Bahrain. It was there that you saw Checo for the first time since the announcement. You were walking towards the Red Bull hospitality when you saw him coming out of the Aston Martin garage. You hesitated but finally decided to approach him.

“Checo,” you called out, trying to sound casual.

He turned and looked at you with a friendly smile.

“Hey! How’s it going?” he responded, as if nothing had happened.

“Good… I think,” you said, a little nervous. “I just wanted… well, I wanted to tell you that I really admire what you did at Red Bull. You’re incredibly talented, and I know it wasn’t easy.”

Checo looked at you for a moment, then slowly nodded.

“Thank you. That means a lot. But don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Aston is a new challenge, and I’m excited to lead a project.”

You nodded, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders.

“I know you’ll do amazing things.”

He smiled, and for an instant, you saw the determined and proud driver who had fought so hard on track.

“And so will you. You’ve got a great opportunity. Don’t waste it.”

You said goodbye with a handshake, feeling strangely at peace. You had feared there might be resentment, but Checo seemed to have found his path.

After the first day's testing and your conversation with Checo, you were in the circuit's canteen, reviewing your engineer's notes. It was a quiet night; most of the drivers had already retired to rest. However, when you looked up, you saw Charles walk in. He hesitated for a moment upon seeing you but then walked over to your table with his hands in his pockets.

“Can I sit?,” he asked, his tone more neutral than usual.

You nodded, surprised.

“Sure.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Charles fiddled with a napkin between his fingers while you waited, unsure of what to say. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Red Bull isn't an easy team.”

“I know,” you replied, keeping your gaze fixed on him.

Charles nodded slowly, as if carefully choosing his words.

“Max is... complicated. Not because he's a bad person, but you know how he is. He's the favorite, the team leader. And Red Bull isn't exactly forgiving with those who don't meet their expectations.”

“Are you worried I can't handle the pressure?” you asked, feeling a slight sting to your pride.

“That's not it” he replied quickly, his tone softening. “I know you can handle the pressure. What worries me is that you'll have to deal with an environment where you won't always be supported, where everything you do will be scrutinized to the smallest detail.”

You looked at him in silence. There was something about his words, the sincerity of his tone, that disarmed you. Charles, always so focused on his own career, was taking the time to warn you about the challenges you would face.

“It’s not so different from what I experienced at Ferrari, don’t you think?,” you finally responded, trying to sound confident.

Charles let out a faint smile, but he didn’t seem convinced.

“Maybe. But at Ferrari, there was... balance. Even when it didn’t seem like it, you knew there were people who believed in you, even if they didn’t say it outright. Red Bull is different. They’re all or nothing. And Max... he doesn’t share easily.”

You knew he was right. From day one, you’d felt Verstappen’s presence like a shadow that dominated everything. But it didn’t scare you.

“If there’s one thing I learned at Ferrari, Charles, it’s that I don’t need everyone to believe in me. I just need to believe in myself.”

He looked at you intently for a few seconds, as if evaluating every word. Finally, he nodded, though his eyes reflected something you couldn’t quite decipher.

“Just don’t lose yourself in all this, okay?.”

“Lose myself?.”

“Yeah. In the politics, the pressure, the constant need to prove something. Don’t let that define who you are.”

When Charles stood to leave, he left his crumpled napkin on the table. For a moment, you wanted to say something, maybe thank him, but the words didn’t come. Instead, you simply watched him walk away.

There was something unusual about that conversation. Charles had always been direct and competitive, but this time, there seemed to be something more. Genuine concern, perhaps even something deeper he wasn’t ready to express.

You stayed in the canteen for a while, thinking about his words. You knew he was right in many ways. But you wouldn’t dwell on that now.

Despite Charles’ warnings and your own fears about joining Red Bull, things started off better than you expected. Max Verstappen, the man who dominated the grid with a mix of raw talent and relentless confidence, surprised you from the very beginning.

You had assumed he’d greet you with reluctance or, at least, a certain coldness. After all, you were taking the seat that had belonged to Pérez. However, from the first day, Max was open and genuinely friendly.

That day, you had arrived early, nerves on edge. You were reviewing your notes in a meeting room when Max walked in with his characteristic relaxed stride.

“Hi, how are you?,” he said, smiling as he took a seat across from you.

“Good, thanks” you replied, feeling a bit awkward about the formality of the moment. “And you?.”

“Surviving the winter. I always miss being on the track.”

His tone was light, almost casual, and it helped you relax a bit. You briefly talked about the upcoming season, the regulation changes, and the expectations for the new car. Then, Max abruptly changed the topic.

“I know this might be tough for you. Joining a team like this isn’t easy, especially when everyone expects you to measure up to me.”

You looked at him, surprised by his candor.

“I suppose so, but I’m not here to measure myself against anyone. I’m here to do the best I can.”

Max nodded, clearly satisfied with your response.

“That’s what I wanted to hear. Don’t worry about me. I get along with everyone who works hard and is honest. And from what I’ve seen, you’ve got both.”

His words left you slightly taken aback. You had expected a more distant relationship, but it seemed Max had no intention of turning this into an uncomfortable rivalry.

As preseason progressed, you started working more closely with him and the team’s engineers. Max proved to be surprisingly collaborative, sharing information and advice without hesitation. There was something refreshing about his attitude: you didn’t feel like he was constantly evaluating you or trying to assert dominance.

“If the car feels weird in fast corners, try adjusting the differential. Sometimes it gives a more stable feeling,” he told you during a simulator session while you were reviewing your laps.

You tried it, and to your surprise, it worked.

“Thanks” you said, smiling.

“No problem. Just don’t thank me too much if you end up beating me on track,” he replied with a light laugh.

Many journalists speculated whether Max would try to "psychologically crush" you or if Red Bull would relegate you to the role of second driver. However, within the team, the reality was completely different.

Max seemed to understand that, while you were new to the team, you weren’t a rookie. You had proven your worth at Ferrari and didn’t need to show anyone you belonged at this level.

“The key here is to enjoy the process,” he told you one day while waiting in the paddock during testing. “Everyone’s going to criticize you, no matter what you do. So, just do it your way.”

His words resonated with you. They weren’t condescending advice or a lesson from an experienced driver to a younger one; they were the words of someone who understood exactly what you were facing.

Over time, you discovered a side of Max that few saw. Off the track, he wasn’t the aggressive and dominant driver everyone knew. He was relaxed, even humorous, and had a genuine passion for racing.

One day, while waiting for a meeting, he asked you:

“What made you fall in love with racing?.”

The question caught you off guard. It wasn’t common for someone in this world to talk about emotions so directly.

“I guess the freedom,” you answered after thinking for a moment. “The feeling that, when you’re in the car, everything depends on you.”

Max nodded, smiling slightly.

“Exactly. That’s the best part. Sometimes I think the teams, the sponsors, everyone forgets that. But in the end, we’re here because we love racing.”

It was at that moment that you understood something crucial: Max didn’t see you as a threat or an intruder. He saw you as someone who shared his love for the sport, someone who understood what it meant to live to compete.

When the first Grand Prix in Bahrain arrived, your relationship was solid. Max was still the undisputed leader of the team, but he had also become someone you could rely on. During pre-race meetings, he encouraged you more than once.

“Remember, the first race is always the hardest,” he told you as you walked towards your cars. “But once you start, everything else will feel easier.”

You nodded, grateful for his support.

The race itself was intense, but the atmosphere within the team was surprisingly positive. You finished in fourth place, right behind Max, who won the race in his dominant style. When you returned to the garage, he was the first to congratulate you.

“Good job. Not bad for your first race with us.”

His smile was genuine, and for the first time in a long while, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Despite your initial doubts, your relationship with Max turned out to be much easier and more rewarding than you had expected. You knew things could change quickly in this sport, but for now, you were enjoying the process.

Although you had the skill and determination needed, you knew that joining such a dominant team meant adapting to a completely new level of demands. Max, with his experience and ability to squeeze every fraction of a second out of the car, quickly became someone you admired more than you anticipated.

What you hadn't expected was for Max, the four time world champion, to take on the role of mentor with you. From the beginning, he seemed determined to share everything he knew, not just about the car but about how to survive and thrive in such a competitive team.

Max didn’t just give you technical advice; he also taught you how to navigate team dynamics and the stress of the season. During a testing session, he took the time to show you how to better analyze the car's telemetry.

“When you're looking for time, don’t obsess over what others are doing. Compare your laps against yourself. Sometimes, the small mistakes aren’t in the big corners but in the transitions, in how you shift the car's weight.”

You sat next to him as you analyzed a lap together. Max pointed out details you hadn’t even noticed, like slight steering corrections or changes in throttle pressure.

“You have good instincts,” he said, pointing to a particularly fast sector you had achieved. “But with a bit more analysis, you can be even more precise.”

His words motivated you. It wasn’t common for Max to give compliments, and whenever he did, you knew they were sincere.

More Than Technique: The Mentality

One afternoon, after an intense day of testing in Barcelona, Max invited you to his motorhome to chat. There was a relaxed atmosphere as you both shared a cup of coffee.

“Let me tell you something that took me a long time to learn,” he began, with an unusual seriousness. “Formula 1 isn’t just won on the track. Half the battles are up here,”

he said, tapping his head. “If you let criticism or politics affect you, you won’t have the clarity you need when it matters.”

“And how do you make sure it doesn’t affect you?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“I don’t always succeed,” he admitted. “But I’ve learned to focus on what I can control. It doesn’t matter if someone says you’re not good enough, or if the team doesn’t seem to support you. In the end, the only judgment that matters is your own.”

Those words stayed with you. Max wasn’t just a master at driving; he had also developed a mental strength that made him practically unbeatable.

Max helped you understand the trickiest circuits, manage tires in changing conditions, and anticipate other teams strategies. Whenever you had a question, he was there, willing to explain, no matter how busy he was.

In Japan, during a strategy meeting, one of the engineers suggested a setup you weren’t entirely convinced about. Before you could say anything, Max intervened.

“I think she’s right,” he said, gesturing towards you. “With that setup, the car will be more unpredictable in fast corners. Let her try what she suggests.”

It was a small gesture, but it meant a lot to you. Max wasn’t just helping you improve as a driver; he was also teaching you how to make yourself heard in an environment where you had often been silenced.

The mutual respect between you grew with each race. While Max remained the undisputed leader of the team, he never made you feel inferior. On the contrary, he seemed to enjoy watching you progress.

After a Grand Prix in Japan, where you achieved your first podium with Red Bull, Max was one of the first to congratulate you.

“I knew you’d do it,” he said, patting you on the shoulder as you walked up to the podium.

In that moment, you understood that his support wasn’t just professional. Max genuinely wanted you to succeed, not because it benefited the team, but because he recognized your talent and believed in you.

Your progress within the team was evident: you had earned podiums, improved your lap times, and, most importantly, found your place within the team hierarchy. Max had become more than a teammate; he was a key figure in your professional and personal life. As the months went by, something else began to grow between you, something you both knew but neither dared to acknowledge.

The bond you shared was solid, forged on the track but also in those moments away from it. The long talks after races, lunches with the engineers, jokes, and knowing glances it felt natural, almost inevitable, to feel so comfortable around each other. Max had taught you so much, not just about driving a Formula 1 car, but about handling the pressures of life in the paddock. He had shown you his vulnerabilities, sharing stories of his career, frustrations, and fears, as only someone close would do.

But that closeness began to blur the lines between professional and personal. And you started to realize that the emotions you felt for him were more complicated than you had anticipated even more than they had ever been with Charles.

It was in Monza, after one of the most intense races of the season. The track was wet, making the race even more challenging. Both of you had fought to the end, and while Max won, you finished an impressive second. On the podium, the smiles were genuine, but there was a tension in the air, something neither of you could deny.

After the race, Max approached you to congratulate you. When he hugged you, it felt different this time. There was a palpable energy, something neither of you could ignore. A lingering touch, a soft and almost imperceptible whisper that made time stop for a moment.

“You were amazing today,” he said, his face just inches from yours.

The eye contact between you was intense, as if you were seeing something in his eyes you hadn’t noticed before. Suddenly, you became acutely aware of his closeness, the warmth of his body, the softness of his voice, the way his hands rested on your shoulders differently than before. Something in his demeanor had changed.

Max was the first to pull away, as if he had felt the same unease you had.

“Let’s celebrate,” he said quickly, smiling, but his tone sounded slightly strained.

You looked at him, but for a moment, the words caught in your throat. You knew what had just happened, and you knew Max did too. Yet neither of you said anything.

The celebration that night was lively, full of laughter and joy, but the atmosphere between the two of you remained marked by that unresolved tension. You were happy with the result, but there was something else on your mind. You couldn’t stop thinking about that hug, the way Max had looked at you, the closeness that had felt so different from any other interaction you’d had with him.

As the night ended and you returned to your room, doubts began to creep in. What did it all mean? You had worked so hard to be in this position, to be part of such a prestigious team, and now, it seemed like something was threatening to destabilize it all.

The next day, Max didn’t come down for breakfast as he usually did. His room was empty when you passed by his door. You decided to wait until the afternoon to talk to him, but when you found him on the track, the conversation was distant. He wasn’t rude, but there was something about his posture that told you he was also trying to process what had happened.

"Everything okay?" you asked, trying to sound casual.

Max raised an eyebrow, as if considering whether to answer or not.

"Yeah, sure. I just... felt a bit tired this morning." He shrugged. "But everything’s fine."

You knew it wasn’t just tiredness that had caused his silence. There was a lingering discomfort between you two. Something you couldn’t easily shake off.

By nightfall, the two of you were sitting on the hotel terrace, looking out at the sea. The cool breeze from the Italian coast made everything feel calmer, but the atmosphere between you was far from it. Max was silent, and so were you. Finally, he broke the silence with a phrase that felt much heavier than it seemed on the surface.

"You know, things get really complicated when you start mixing emotions with work."

You looked at him, surprised by the frankness of his words. You knew exactly what he was referring to, but you also knew it was a conversation neither of you wanted to have.

"I know," you replied in a low tone. "But it’s not that easy to control what you feel, is it?"

Max sighed, running a hand through his hair, something he often did when he was uncomfortable.

"No, it’s not." He was silent for a moment. "But there are lines we can’t cross, especially in this team. You know that I... I have Kelly."

That mention of Kelly hit like a bucket of cold water. Although you knew Max was in a steady relationship, you had never thought it would affect you so much. Acknowledging that reality, that he was committed to someone else, left you feeling a mix of guilt and confusion.

"I understand," you said, your voice barely a whisper.

But inside, you questioned whether you really did. How could you control something that felt so natural, so undeniable between the two of you? The attraction, the chemistry, that connection that had grown over time. You knew Max felt it too, even if he wouldn’t say it out loud.

After that conversation, it was clear that neither you nor Max were willing to cross a line that could cost you everything: your careers, your mutual respect, and the team’s stability. However, the attraction between you didn’t go away. If anything, the tension became more palpable. It was a constant game of restraint, a delicate balance between what was right and what wasn’t.

In public, everything seemed normal. Both of you maintained impeccable professionalism, working together as the team Red Bull needed. Max continued helping you as a mentor, and you kept learning from him, impressing the team and fans alike with your progress. But behind closed doors, things were very different.

One day at the Milton Keynes factory, during a simulator session, Max entered the room while you were finishing a run. When you stepped out of the simulator, he was reviewing your data, as he often did. His expression was calm, almost indifferent, but the way his eyes followed you as you approached the monitor said otherwise.

"You’re improving in the slow sectors," he said, not taking his eyes off the screen. "But you’re still losing a bit of time in the fast corners."

"Any advice?" you asked, trying to keep a casual tone.

Max looked at you for a moment, and that look lasted a second longer than it should have. It was enough to feel that spark of electricity between you, the one you both tried to ignore.

"Yeah, sure," he finally replied, turning to the screen to point something out. "Here, in Turn 5, you need to be more aggressive with the throttle. Don’t be afraid to use the full width of the kerb."

You leaned toward him to get a better view of the screen, and for a moment, you were too close. You could feel his breath, and the tension in the air was almost tangible. He was the first to step back, realizing that such closeness only complicated things further.

"Try it on the next run," he said quickly, breaking the moment.

Over the course of the races, that tension only grew. There were lingering glances during strategy meetings, accidental brushes in the garage, and prolonged silences that made it even clearer what you were both thinking. Max remained just as committed to helping you progress, but his behavior was sometimes contradictory. There were days when he seemed to deliberately keep his distance, and others when his closeness was unmistakable.

One night, after a team dinner in Monaco, you both ended up in the hotel elevator. It was late, and most of the staff had already gone to rest. The silence between you was almost deafening as the elevator ascended slowly. You could feel his presence, every movement he made, even if he didn’t look at you directly.

"Good job today," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Thanks. You did well too. As always."

Max gave a small, sideways smile but said nothing more. When the elevator stopped on your floor, you both hesitated for a moment. You felt like he wanted to say something, something he was struggling to contain, but in the end, he simply nodded and let you exit first.

What surprised you was that, even though you tried to keep your distance, it seemed like Max was the one closest to crossing the line. There were moments when you caught him watching you from across the garage, with an expression that made you wonder what he was thinking. And then, in meetings, he always found a way to be by your side, even when it wasn’t necessary.

One day, during a technical meeting in Zandvoort, Max made a comment that, although it seemed innocent, had an undertone you couldn’t ignore.

"You know, sometimes I wonder if you do this on purpose," he said with a slight smile, pointing out a minor mistake in your data.

"Do what?" you asked, confused.

"Be so... persistent. It’s like you want everyone to notice you."

You knew he was talking about your determination on track, but something in his tone made you think he meant something more. You held his gaze, trying to decipher him, but before you could respond, someone else entered the room, cutting the moment short.

Despite everything, neither of you mentioned what was really happening. Both of you were aware that crossing that line could destroy everything you’d built. Max had a stable relationship with Kelly, and you were in a delicate position as the team’s rising star. There was too much at stake, and neither of you was willing to risk it.

”Many people don't know this, but at the time I was still suffering with vision problems from my crash in Silverstone.

So the track sometimes started to go really wavy for me, and during that race I was battling, of course, Lewis catching me but at the same time battling myself because I was struggling with my vision.

It was like riding a wave on a boat while going at 300km/h.

So I had to try and control my breathing in a different way to try and get rid of the problem- nothing else was working. For quite a number of laps, I was almost about to stop the car because I couldn't see properly.

It happened at tracks that were very bumby or had loads of advertising boards.

I never told anyone at that point as I had a Championship battle.”

Oh Maxy… ❤️ The fact he felt unwell a long time after Silverstone hurts my heart! Wonder if that was the reason in Jeddah. 💔

send me an angel - deacon kay x reader

Summary: When the reader gets in danger, Deacon needs being protective of her.

Request by @kenzie30david

Warnings: mentions of threat, swearing

English is not my first language and unfortunately it is not proofread (sorry)

Deacon lost ground as soon as he entered the headquarter, looking at the digital table where there were photos of 14 women, all with name for identification and age below. The only picture that mattered was of him, the woman he loved and that made him lose whatever sanity he had left.

“May I know what that means?” Deacon asks trying to sound as professional as possible.

“They are our possible victims, this morning eight of them received death and kidnapping threats and they all have in common a relationship with someone from SWAT.” Hondo responds.

“How are you sure they all have a relationship with someone from here?” Chris asks.

“The information is from the areas responsible for data collection, we are profiling them to find out who exactly they are with to keep them safe.” Hondo says

Deacon takes one last look at the table and leaves the area to try to call you while the rest of the team continues to work on locating each of the girls. After five failed attempts that took him straight to voicemail, he lets out a frustrated sigh and heads back to where he left the team.

“All are identified, only this one is missing.” Lucca says pointing to his picture.

“She must have been deceived among the others. We can call and check.” Street says, making everyone on the team agree.

"It won't be necessary." Deacon is serious. The entire team turns their heads to him, curiosity brimming on their faces.

"Why not? Do you know something?” Chris asks crossing his arms

"She is my girlfriend." Deacon responds with a sigh.

Silence dominated the environment, no one there knew for sure how to react, no one expected that Deacon would have someone after Annie.

“What do you mean girlfriend? You didn't say anything to us.” Luca says in disbelief.

"I know, I should have told you but she didn't want to and honestly I wasn't ready either." Deacon answers seriously.

Deacon's phone starts to ring, which makes his heart pound in his chest. As soon as he turned the viewfinder towards him, he could read his name on the screen.

"Why didn't you answer me?" Deacon asks.

"Because I was busy." You answer.

"I need you to come here now." Deacon says making you take a long breath on the other end of the line.

“What sudden authority is this? You were never like that.” You say worried.

“Babe, please… I need you to come here. You are in danger.” Deacon says, running an idle hand through his hair.

On the other end of the line you didn't know what to do, you just hung up the call and ran out taking the first taxi that passed. As soon as you get to Deacon, the first thing you see is your photo on the digital tablet.

"What is it?" You ask feeling your heart speed up even more.

"Someone is threatening the fellow SWAT members, we are investigating to find out the motivation but so far we don't have much." Chris says.

You blink several times and feel like you would start to hyperventilate. Deacon also notices and walks over to you, guiding you to a chair.

"I'm going to have to be stuck here is that it?" You ask, feeling tears fall.

“No, no way… we will work this out. I will never let anything happen to you my love, I will always protect you.” Deacon says kissing the top of her head. You really hoped that everything would be okay, but despite your fears you trusted Deacon. He was her guardian angel.

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.

Baby Zee, I like to make a request for the headcanon weekend!!

Hear me out Zee, threesome with

the Captain America, Steve Rogers

and

the God of Thunder, Thor.

🥴🥴🥴

Like a Goddess of Worthy au for the worthy boys 💙

With size kink! and breeding kink! of course.

These enormous guys manhadling you to their liking as they make love to you and are both so eager to breed you.

Love-dovey fluffy naughty-smutty nastiness please!! 💗💗

goddess of worthy ; steve and thor

warnings ~ smut, minors dni , threesome, size kink, breeding kink, creampies, overstimulatation, reader being shared, titty slapping, choking, degradation/mocking, shitty writing tbh

my initial reaction to this : Hmmmmmsmsnsbsndsnn them taking turns breeding that pussy 🥵🥵 being full of cum 🥴🥴 it ends with her pussy being sore and dripping with white cream whike the boys kiss all over your body, talking about how pretty you’ll look knocked up…and how sharing isn’t so bad as long as you find someone worthy of being with —that’s you

Steve Rogers and Thor Odinson were two men that put other men to shame, worthy of power no other human, god, or being could hold. They were kind, strong, and they wanted the same thing : you.

How did you end up in the cross hairs of these two beefy men? Well, it had started with a simple internship straight out of college under none other than Doctor Bruce Banner himself.

You were quite dedicated to your science, spending long hours in the lab with your mentor until he finally told you that you needed to get out and experience life. He had invited you to Tony’s next big party, it was only right. You had been working at the compound for months and you had just met the Avengers barely. It was time to socialize, especially if Banner decided to hire you.

This was the night you caught their attention, both of the them with their old aged asgardian liquor sloshing in clear glasses admired you as you took shots with the Black Widow.

“Banner says she’s incredibly intelligent, never said she was…”Steve trailed off, his own gaze sinfully falling on your ass in the leggings clinging to your body.

“Banner says she’s incredibly intelligent, never said she was…”Steve trailed off, his own gaze sinfully falling on your ass in the leggings clinging to your body.

“I saw her first.”

“Don’t…she isn’t a toy, Thor, you don’t get to call dibs,”Steve scoffed, tearing his eyes from you to scold him.”Besides, who says she’ll be interested in you?”

Thor laughed at him,”Oh Captain, she deserves a worthy partner, don’t you think?”

Steve raised a brow, holding his hand out with a smile,”Worthy, huh?”He questioned with knowing tone as Mjolnir flew into his hand. He flipped the hammer with ease in his hand,”I think she’d find me quite worthy.”

“Very funny, Rogers,”Thor huffed, swiping the hammer from his hands. His grip around the hammer tight as an idea popped into his head.”You know…these past few months, I haven’t minded sharing the title of worthy with you.”

Steve looked at him curiously, the dots connecting in his head as they both looked at you with a little smile.

”If she were…open to it,”Thor murmured, his tone hushed so only the super soldier could hear,”I wouldn’t mind sharing such beauty with another worthy man.”

The night it happened…the rest of the team was gone. Thor and Steve had invited you to for a glass of wine, and the past couple weeks you had been showered in both their affections.

Yet, this was different. Thor and Steve are sitting on either side of you, making you laugh at something Thor said as you comfortably sat between them on the couch.

Steve’s large hand rubbed over your thigh, making you hyper aware of the boys’ touch. Thor’s hand is pushing your hair out of your face, a smirk on his face when he sees how you squirmed.

“You are quite a beauty, Y/N,”Thor’s thumb caressed your cheek, admiring how you swallowed thickly with Steve’s hand dipping further up your thighs.

Steve’s fingers are pushing your skirt up, the tingling feeling in your core. The super soldier can smell the arousal leaking into your panties.

You feel so overwhelmed by them, but the rush of excitement makes you forget about all the anxiety.

“Boys…”You whispered, chest heaving as Thor forced you to turn your head to him. His eyes are dark, his desire overtaking the color.

“Do you want this, little dove?”Thor asked, glancing at Steve who had just stopped his hand movements at your soaked panties.

“We both want you,”Steve whispered, his hot breath on your neck.”Seen the way you look at us, can smell how wet you are, pretty girl. You can have both…”

“I can?”You asked, licking your lips as you looked at Thor hesitantly.

“You can have anything you want,” told Thor before surging forward to mold his lips over yours. You immediately tremble against him, two fingers rubbing against your clothed clit. Steve kissed down your neck, ripping the fabric of your shirt to reveal your pretty breasts.

“Look at these pretty tits,”Steve groaned, his large hand dipping into your panties until his fingers were covered in slick.

Thor kissed your breath away as Steve stretched your tight cunt with his fingers, his lips leaving bruises over your neck and jaw while Thor groped your breasts.

The blond soldier had four fingers deep inside you, sweet orgasmic bliss washing over your body with soft angelic moans leaving your lips.

“You want this pretty pussy filled, huh?”Thor whispered, licking his lips as he rubbed his thumb over your wet, swollen lips.”Think you’re worthy of being filled with our seed?”

Steve chuckled, pulling your panties down your legs and pushed your skirt up. Thor squeezed your breasts in his large hands before slapping at the swells, making you whimper his name.

“Thor…Steve…”You moaned wantonly, admiring the super soldier as he slipped his tight shirt off and removed his jeans. His hard cock slapped against his abs, his hand stroking the large cock as he towered over you.”I wanna be…”

“Spread those legs for me, little dove,”Steve commanded, slapping his cock against your sopping pussy. He rubbed the large leaking shaft between your folds, letting your juices to slicken his cock.

Thor grabbed your leg, his hand hold your thighs open. One hand of yours is under your other leg’s knee, exposing your eager cunt to the soldier.

“So obedient, isn’t she?”Thor praised, his lips against your ear before he started to kiss down your neck.”So ready to be taken, fuck, that pretty quim’s gonna look so good covered in cum.”

A loud high pitched gasp escaped your lips when the bulbous head of his dick pushed into your tight hole. Your walls spread around Steve, clinging to the thick shaft as he sank in.

“Oh fuck, dove,”Steve grunted, his hand wrapping around your throat tightly. His raw power makes you gush around him. Steve’s fat cock isn’t even half way in and you’re already squirm around him.

“It’s okay, little one,”Thor comforted, the sound of Steve starting to fuck his cock half way into your cunt. With each thrust, he goes a little deeper.”You like this, don’t you? His big cock filling your cute cunt…tell me, love, have you thought of Steve like this before? Touched yourself to the idea of the soldier fucking you?”

You felt embarrassed, face hot at the accusation. You nodded in shame,”Yes, yes, I have…both of you…you’ve been…oh fuck, Captain, it feels so good to be full…”

Steve leaned down, his lips taking over yours until his tongue was exploring your mouth. Thor grunted, his hands going to rub over the massive bulge in his trousers.

“So fucking tight,”Steve muttered, harshly driving his hips into your heat. The wet squelching noises echo from how his massive cock slides right in and out of your tight walls.

Thor’s calloused fingers rubbed down your body, his mouth trailing down to your tits as two fingers circled around your engorged clit. His wet tongue flicked over your perky nipples, biting and sucking until you were a whiny mess.

“You wanna cum, baby?”Steve taunted, vigorously thrusting into you and pushing your legs further apart. He pressed your legs towards your chest where Thor sucked on your tits. He just continued fucking and fucking hard, the pulsing wet pussy milking his cock.

“Yes, yes, yes can I cum? Please, Captain, I-I need it.”

You quivered under his large body, his cock obliterating your cunt as his seed flowed into you. He spurts copious amounts of cum into your heat, drinking up the moans that left your mouth.

“She’s all yours, Thor.”

Thor smirked at the imagery of your cream filled pussy, flipping you over on your hands and knees with Steve laying under you. Cum oozes between your folds, but Thor pushes the super soldier’s cum back into your sensitive cunt.

You nearly collapsed on top of Steve, who just admired the view of you bent over him with Thor pressing into your pussy. You thought Steve was big, but he was just stretching you out…preparing you for the massive length and girth that was Thor’s mighty cock.

You cried out when his fat cock stretched your over sensitive cunt, using your slick and Steve’s cum as a lubricant to push deep inside you.

“Oh, little dove, this pussy is perfect,”Thor groaned loudly, his hands encompassing your hips and pulled you ass back against his cock. Your pussy fluttered around him, pulsing around the massive intrusion.”You’ve been fucked by the Captain, and yet…this sweet cunt just wants more…squeezing me like a fucking vice.”

You placed your hands on Steve’s chest, eyes rolling back as Thor’s gripped grew harsher with each thrust. His cock squelched in the wet heat, cum and slick dripping down from your pussy and his cock onto Steve’s thighs.

“Oh my gods…I-I-oh…”You feel weak already, arms shaking before you collapse onto to Steve. His hands rub over your sides, your hands clawing are his chest with your face hovered over his.

“Is Thor’s cock too much, dove?” Steve mocked, smacking both of his hands over your ass. Thor moaned at the sight, pounding into your core with godly strength. You tremble, his cock rearranging your guts with each thrust.

“It..feels so good…”You mewled, Thor’s harsh thrusts jolting your body against Steve. You kissed the blond soldier passionately as Thor squeezed your ass in his palms.

“Look at you, precious dove, so wrecked and ruined,”Thor smacked down on your ass, driving forward even more aggressively as he chased his own pleasure.”Gonna cum around my cock, since it’s made you so dumb, baby.”

“Yes yes yes,”You cry, tears streaming down your face from the immense pleasure burned through you. You squirt around his massive cock, soaking Steve’s abs in the process.

Thor yanked your hips back hard, his cock throbbing and spilling his godly seed inside your weeping cunt. You feel so full, you’re absolutely dripping and it’s driving Thor wild as he fucked his cum inside of you.

“That’s it, you took us so well, you’re such a good girl, doll,”Steve praised, kissing your lips and brushing your tears away.

“So good, fuck, this little pussy was made for us, made to be bred and taken care by the mighty Thor and Captain Rogers,”Thor licked his lips, tilting his hips just slightly to make you whine.

Thor pulled out, picking you up and motioning for Steve to follow along to his bedroom so they can lay you out on the bed and praise you. They smother you in affections and sweet words.

Your pussy is sore, dripping with white hot cum as Thor and Steve kissed over every inch of your body. You can’t help the gasps that leave your lips, and you just know how they aren’t really done with you.

“Such a pretty girl,”Steve murmured, his lips dancing over your breasts while Thor kissed over your thighs, licking and biting marks into the soft skin.”Our girl looks so good with a messy pussy, just soaking up our cum…”

“We’ve should’ve been breeding this cunt a long time ago, Captain,”Thor grunted, licking his lips at the sight of their mess leaking out of you.”Just think about how pretty she’d look with more cum, should fuck her till she’s swollen…just so full of cum that there’s no way she isn’t with child…”

It’s so feral, the way he says it like it’s his deepest desire and you just know you’re about to be filled over and over again.

”You know, Thor,”Steve smirked, caressing your face softly in thought before kissing your lips,”sharing…isn’t so bad when you find someone worthy…”

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?