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From the moment you stepped onto the grid, you were a problem.

Twenty-one. Deadly. Irresistibly hot. Red Bull's first female driver. Max Verstappen's new teammate. A factory-suited menace with perfect winged liner and a habit of unzipping your race suit down to the waist just to piss off the sponsors.

The media called you a prodigy. The grid called you dangerous.

And you? You just smiled and kept winning.

From Bahrain to Baku, you'd rattled the entire sport. Fourth on debut. Podium in your second race. A pole in Monaco that had Christian Horner clapping like a trained seal in the garage while Max stared at the timing screen like it had personally betrayed him.

But it wasn't just the driving.

It was the interviews. The smirks. The catwalk walks through the paddock in miniskirts and sunglasses, licking an ice pop while pretending not to hear Logan calling your name. It was the way you sat in the media pen like a popstar, legs crossed, chewing gum, answering every question with a wink or a threat.

"You've been a real disruptor this season," said Karun in Canada.

You tilted your head. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

When they asked about your dating life, it got worse. You smiled. Every time.

"I don't date anyone on the grid," you said, over and over again.

And they believed you. Because how could someone like you belong to anyone?

"She's fucking unreal."

That was Lando, whispering to George as you walked into the driver briefing room in Miami wearing a cropped fireproof top and low-slung trousers that made half the grid forget what they were arguing about.

"She's going to ruin my life," said Pierre.

"She already ruined mine," mumbled Oscar, clutching his water bottle like it was a holy relic.

Even Max was twitching by Spain. He'd stopped joking about your pace. Stopped smirking when you breezed past him in the cooldown room. Stopped looking at you like you were a rookie.

Started looking at you like a threat. But you didn't care. Because you weren't trying to win their approval.

You were trying to win the championship.

And nothing, nothing got in your way. Until the leak.

It dropped mid-season. Quiet Wednesday. No race. No reason.

Until that photo hit Twitter like a fucking bomb.

You. In Red Bull uniform. Arms wrapped around someone. Kissing him like you'd done it a thousand times. Like you meant it.

His hands were on your waist. His face was mostly hidden. But not entirely. There was enough. A jawline. A wristwatch. The faintest shadow of a tattoo.

And just like that, the illusion shattered.

You were taken. And the world lost its fucking mind.

Pierre was the first to text the grid group chat.

Pierre: who the FUCK is that

George: she said she doesn't date drivers???

Lando: is he a driver??

Charles: the watch looks vintage

Oscar: he's sitting down. she's on his lap. I feel nauseous

Max: shut up

Logan: guys. GUYS. what if it's a principal

Yuki: IT'S HORNER

Pierre: I hate this group chat

Red Bull PR blacked out. Christian Horner started throwing around the phrase "photoshop" like it was 2008. Helmut Marko refused to comment. Meanwhile, every media outlet on the planet began dissecting the image like it was the Zapruder film.

Your fire suit was unzipped. Your eyes were closed. You looked happy. And that was the problem.

Because for the first time, the paddock realised you weren't just an untouchable goddess with a perfect race line and an even better ass.

You were someone's.

And that someone? Still unknown.

The fans were feral. Conspiracies erupted. Reddit threads overflowed.

She's dating a billionaire. No, it's an actor. Wait, is that Daniel Ricciardo's hand? I think it's her trainer. That's Christian's Rolex. No way, that's not a recent photo. She's lying. She said she doesn't date the grid.

You didn't post. You didn't comment.

You just turned up to the next race, Silverstone, in a pair of low-rise jeans, a tiny white tank top, and a glazed lip combo that made the McLaren engineers drop their coffee.

Christian was pacing when you arrived at the garage. "Don't say a word about it," he hissed under his breath.

You put your sunglasses on. "Say a word about what?"

Max appeared five minutes later, twitching with irritation. He didn't speak. Just stared at the floor while you stretched your arms overhead and chatted with Yuki about the weather.

And still, no one knew. No name. No identity. Just a grainy photo. And your smile, smug and untouchable, as you walked through the paddock like nothing happened. Like your whole private world hadn't just been blown wide open.

Silverstone. Friday morning. Cloudy skies. Buzzing paddock. Sky Sports cameras tracking every movement like bloodhounds. Rumours still rabid from the leaked photo. And not a single person had figured it out.

Until now. You arrived late. As always. Fashionably, devastatingly late.

Black halter top with an open back. Low-rise cargo pants with a Red Bull logo stitched along your hip. Glossed lips. Cat-eye eyeliner sharp enough to puncture egos. That slow, confident strut that said I know exactly what I'm doing.

And beside you? Kimi motherfucking Räikkönen.

White t-shirt. Leather jacket. Dark jeans. The man had crow's feet and zero fucks left to give. He held your hand like he'd done it a hundred times before and didn't give a single shit who saw it.

You didn't look at the cameras. You didn't have to. Because in one step, the illusion of mystery died, and the chaos began.

The silence was so loud you could hear Christian Horner's soul exiting his body.

Your phone buzzed instantly.

Charles: you're joking. Lando: I THOUGHT THAT WAS HER DAD AT FIRST GLANCE Oscar: does this mean older men are back in?? Pierre: what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck Max: no. George: he's FORTY FIVE Carlos: I need to lie down Yuki: I'm calling my therapist

Toto saw you walking past Mercedes hospitality and physically stopped breathing.

He stared. Stared harder when he recognised the man beside you. Blinked once. Then again. Then raised a hand like he was about to intervene before realising he had absolutely no legal grounds and was just... flustered.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple.

"Isn't that Kimi?" one of the junior engineers whispered.

Toto didn't answer. Just muttered something in German that sounded a lot like oh god, she's a child.

Inside the Red Bull garage, Christian was pacing like a man possessed.

"She said she doesn't date drivers," he hissed.

"She doesn't," murmured a poor intern.

"HE'S RETIRED," Christian snapped. "AND MIDDLE AGED."

Helmut said nothing. Just stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

You and Kimi stopped for an interview outside the Red Bull motorhome. 

"Can we just ask, how long has this been going on?" the reporter dared.

Kimi didn't answer. You took off your sunglasses. "Two years."

A beat.

"Wait. You were nineteen?"

Another pause. Then your lips curved into a sweet, weaponised smile. "Legal. Consensual. And very, very good."

The cameraman choked.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, a few of the team principals slipped directly into father-mode panic.

Fred Vasseur pulled you aside after FP1.

"You know I like you," he began, tone gentle. "You're electric. You're young. But this thing with Kimi-"

"Is not your business," you cut in, still smiling.

"It is when he's old enough to be your father," he grumbled.

"Then you'd better tell half the internet to shut up," you said. "Because they think he's my daddy."

Fred short-circuited.

Zak Brown caught Christian muttering to himself in the paddock and offered a half-hearted joke.

"Well, at least she's not dating Lando."

Christian glared at him. "Lando is twenty-four. That would've been better."

The drivers were worse.

Oscar asked if this meant he had to start dressing like a divorced rockstar to have a shot with women.

Pierre kept saying "twenty-four years" under his breath like he was doing the fucking math over and over again.

George stared at Kimi every time they crossed paths and then looked away like a scolded schoolboy.

Charles just said, "She's so young," like a broken record. Then paused. "But also... I get it."

Max? Silent. Fuming. When you passed him in the garage, you smiled sweetly. "Everything okay, Maxie?"

"Why him?" he snapped. "Why Kimi fucking Räikkönen?"

You shrugged. "He doesn't wear skinny jeans and Red Bull merch every day."

The silence after that could've killed a man.

Kimi, for his part, was completely unbothered. He watched FP2 from the garage with his arms crossed. Didn't speak. Didn't flinch. Just nodded once when your lap times came up purple and muttered "good girl" under his breath.

The camera caught it.

The internet exploded.

Christian nearly fainted.

That night, you posted one final nail in the coffin.

An old photo. Blurry. Private. You and Kimi on a dock somewhere, shirtless and smiling, a glass of something in his hand. You on his lap. No makeup. No pretense. Just quiet intimacy.

Caption: "He taught me how to drive. I taught him how to feel."

The comments were carnage.

@f1obsessed: I'm going to scream @kimiswife: do we... ship this? @mclaren4ever: CAN SOMEONE CHECK ON MAX @totoapproved: Fred and Toto definitely had a panic call about this @raikkonensexual: I need to lie down

Christian staged an unofficial intervention Sunday morning. Sat you down. Closed the door. "You're 21."

You stared.

"He's 45."

You smiled.

"You understand why people are... concerned."

"Because I'm smart, hot, and completely in control of my own decisions?"

He paused. "Also because the age gap is nearly the same as if you dated Toto."

"Well now you're giving me ideas."

Christian's soul departed.

You won the race. Of course you did.

And when you stepped onto the podium, champagne still dripping down your chest, your eyes scanned the pit wall until they landed on Kimi.

Arms crossed. Sunglasses on. Smirk barely visible.

You raised your trophy to him.

And he nodded once. A king recognising his queen.

The next thing? It happened in Hungary.

Two races after Silverstone. One week after the photo of Kimi kissing your bare shoulder in a Monaco cafe hit every major outlet. Three days after your new campaign with Balenciaga went viral. Forty-eight hours since Kimi was caught on live TV mouthing something definitely-not-safe-for-broadcast to you on the pit wall.

Christian Horner had had enough.

He called Fred Vasseur and Toto Wolff into a private meeting at the Paddock Club, no cameras, no mics, just sheer panic and two full-grown men drinking espresso and looking like they'd rather be shot.

"This is delicate," Christian had said, pacing like a divorced man with a rage disorder. "She respects you both."

Fred squinted. "She flipped me off in Baku."

"Affectionately," Christian snapped. "She flipped you off affectionately."

Toto sighed. "What do you want us to do, Christian? Forbid her from dating someone twice her age?"

"No," Christian muttered. "Just... talk to her."

Fred groaned. "We are not her fathers."

"You're the closest thing she's got."

You got the text from your assistant mid-afternoon. "Hey babe. Fred and Toto want to talk. Said it's 'important.' Christian may have orchestrated it. They're waiting in the Merc motorhome. xoxo"

You smiled. Tossed your phone in your bag. Adjusted your sunglasses.

Oh, this was going to be good.

The hospitality suite was quiet. Air conditioned. Curtains drawn. Fred was sipping an espresso. Toto was leaning against the table like he was preparing to interrogate a Russian double agent.

You sauntered in, all long legs and smugness, wearing a Red Bull mini-dress and white sneakers, hair slicked back, lipgloss glinting under the lights.

"Gentlemen," you greeted, voice silk. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Fred cleared his throat. "We are here... on behalf of Christian."

"I figured."

Toto spoke next. "He's concerned."

You perched on the edge of the table. "About my driving?"

"No."

"My PR?"

Fred frowned. "No."

You smiled. "Then I don't care."

Toto ran a hand down his face. "It's about Kimi."

You fake-gasped. "What about my sweet, ageless, beautiful Finnish boyfriend?"

Fred sighed. "He's not ageless. He's forty-five."

You blinked. "Is he?"

Toto raised an eyebrow. "You're twenty-one."

You tilted your head. "Legal. Consensual. And very, very good at what he does. Want details?"

Fred choked. "God, no."

Toto tried again. "We just think, maybe, it's a bit... much."

You crossed your legs, slow and deliberate. "A bit much for who?"

Fred looked pained. "For you. For the sport. For our blood pressure."

"I'm not asking for your blessing," you said sweetly. "And I sure as fuck don't need your approval."

"You're one of the best drivers we've ever seen," Toto said, voice gentler now. "You're fast. Strategic. Focused."

"And?"

"And we're worried you'll lose control," Fred admitted.

You laughed. Genuinely. "Lose control? Because I'm dating a man who listens more than he talks? Who doesn't try to outshine me? Who's not intimidated by the fact that I'm younger, faster, and louder?"

Toto frowned. "You think he's not intimidated?"

"I know he's not. That's why he's the only one who can touch me."

Fred groaned again. "I'm begging you not to say things like that."

"Too late," you said brightly. "Also , he brings me water before quali, rubs my shoulders after sessions, and has a standing 'fuck everyone else' clause in our relationship. He's the only person who doesn't treat me like I'm going to combust."

Toto blinked. "He rubs your shoulders?"

"With his teeth sometimes."

Fred stood up. "Nope. I'm done. I'm tapping out."

Outside the motorhome, Christian was pacing again. The door opened. Fred and Toto emerged looking mildly traumatised.

"Well?" Christian demanded. "Did you talk some sense into her?"

Fred looked at Toto. Toto looked at Christian.

Then he said flatly, "She said Kimi uses his teeth on her shoulders."

Christian turned white.

When he puts his hand around your throat to kiss you in front of everyone during the first dance.

When his hand has been on your ass all night, pulling you close every time someone tries to steal you for a drink/picture/small chat.

When he lifts your dress and fucks you against the sink without ever fully taking his tux jacket off.

When he keeps mumbling mine under his breath while he makes you look at yourself in the mirror.

When he tells you he’s been hard since the vows and finally gets to do something about it.

When he fucks you so good you return to the reception on shaky legs, and he just winks while handing you another glass of champagne.

You feel Emily tense as you wrap your lips around her left nipple. You bring your hand to her right, playing with her piercing.

“You okay, Em?” You mutter, pinching her nipple quickly, to which she lets out a gasp.

“M-mhm!” She squeezes her eyes shut, hoping you think she’s focusing on the movie.

You move your mouth to her other nipple, running your tongue over the cool metal. You suck softly, dragging your teeth over her chest.

You feel her muscles squeeze tightly, and then release. Suddenly her body relaxes, slumping against the couch cushions.

“Em..” You laugh, “Did you just..?”

Logan was horrible at drinking water, Max had come to find out. Or rather, was horrible at remembering to carry water around. If it was in his hand, he’d remember it and drink it. If it wasn’t though, forget it.

It was surprisingly endearing the way Logan would just forget water existed as soon as his water bottle was out of his hands. Max knew it drove Pan crazy, he had seen the way she pushed water into his hand constantly, but now, and he can’t help but grin, that was his job.

Passing a bottle of water to Logan, he pats the younger on the shoulder before joining him on the sofa. It was a relief to be right at the end, Logan next to him, then Lando, Esteban, and Kevin. The latter two drivers had made his nose wrinkle a bit when his press officer told him his schedule.

As the interviewer begins with talking to Kevin, Max lets himself zone out, looking at the rest of the people in the room, observing them.

He briefly registers Esteban beginning to speak, when the very quiet muffled sound of Lando laughing hits his ears. It makes his eyebrow raise and he glances to look at him. Lando’s face is slightly pink as he tries to stifle his laugh. Max has to give him that’s doing a somewhat good job at it. Better than he ever did last year, at least.

As he looks at Lando, wondering what made him crack up, the corner of his eye catches on Logan and his attention immediately shifts.

The younger was frowning at his lap, and Max looks down and sees him staring at the water bottle in his hands, his dominant hands fingers struggling with the cap.

Max looks over at Esteban as the Frenchman says his name, nearly rolling his eyes at the shit joke of him winning everything.

“Well,” he begins, reaching over grabbing the water from Logan. “It’s the car and the team really. I mean, the car just feels excellent. How is the car for you Esteban?” He asks, passing the now opened water back to Logan and cap, giving a small tap to the bottom of the bottle and smiling when immediately Logan takes a drink.

His attention refocuses on Esteban only to see him looking at him slack jawed.

“What?” He asks, confused. But as he looks at Kevin, the interviewer and the other people in the room, they all have the same response. Lando even is no longer laughing, having the same expression as everyone else. Looking at Logan, the American shrugs, just as confused as him. “Did you,” the interview starts. “Did I what?” The interviewer’s mouth opens, then closes. “Did you just open Logan’s water for him?” Max looks at Lando in confusion. “Yes. Why? What’s the problem?” The Brit continues to look at him, slack jawed. “Mate,” he finally manages to say. “What?” Max shrugs. “Can we go back to questions about Australia?” He sends a sorry look to Logan, who just shrugs. And Max in response can’t help but ruffle his kid's hair. One of these days he really was going to go into Williams garage and strangle James Vowles, one of these days, he sighed.

“That was only in F3 when he was still racing for Sauber. He hasn’t been back since.” You said, pouting.

 “In my defense, I didn’t think Charles would actually offer to adopt me. But hey, I’ll gladly accept it if it means I get another home race.” Oscar said. 

“If Logan and I manage to get a driver to adopt both of us, we’ll still have more home races than you.” You said.

 “I’d like to see you guys try.” Oscar said. Logan turned to you.

“Maybe we can ask Charles to adopt us?” Logan said.

 “No, he’s my grid dad. Go find your own current driver to adopt you.” Oscar said before starting to walk away.

 “Where are you going?” You asked as the Aussie was walking away.

“To go meet my new little brother Leo!” Oscar said. “I’ll send you guys lots of pictures.”

You huffed in frustration as you and Logan watched Oscar walk away.

“If Lewis adopted me, do you think I’d be able to consider Rosco my brother?” You asked Logan.

 “It’s possible. Speaking of grid dads, you want to go photobomb Jenson while he’s doing interviews for SkySports?”

“Oh absolutely.”

~~~

It seemed the media thought Charles’s recent adoption of Oscar was humorous enough to be brought up during the driver’s press conference. One interview had asked Charles about it as he sat on the couch with Logan, Alex, George, and Zhou.

“I think I’m the only driver to have adopted another driver while on the grid.” Charles said. 

 “I don’t think that’s true.” George said. The interviewer and Charles turned to him.

“Why do you think that George?”

“Well me and Alex have practically adopted Logan. I’d say he’s actually been my grid kid since I started mentoring him in F3.” George said. Logan sat up a bit straighter and peaked his head out from Alex, who was sandwiched between the Brit and the American.

 “Would you actually adopt me if I asked? So I can one up Oscar?” Logan asked George. A cheeky grin appeared on George’s face

“Absolutely! Scratch what I said about practically-Logan is now mine and Alex’s adopted son.” George said, earning a laugh from the various reporters and a smile from Logan.

 “Shouldn’t I get a say on whether we agree to adopt my teammate?” Alex asked as he looked between George and Logan. George patted Alex’s shoulder. 

“I know you would say yes either way.” George said. Alex reluctantly nodded his head.

 “Yea you’re right.”

“I fear what I may have started.” Charles said, earning more laughs from around the room.

~~~

“How come you get to have two grid dads from the current grid?” Oscar asked Logan as the three of you stood around the paddock before Free Practice.

 “Cuz I’m just better.” Logan said. You lightly punched his shoulder while Oscar rolled his eyes. 

“This is so unfair.” You said.

 “Why don’t you just go ask Max to adopt you so you don’t feel left out.” Oscar said.

“Are you kidding? I’m still intimidated by him.” You said. “I’d rather ask someone who’s approachable.”

While the three of you were talking, your eyes landed on Fernando, who was walking back to the Aston Martin garage and an idea popped into your head. 

 “Hey Fernando!” You called to the Aston Martin driver and jogged over to him.

“Hey (Y/N). What can I do for you?”

 “Um, I don’t know if you heard about Charles adopting Oscar…” Fernando let out a chuckle.

“I did. I also heard about Sargent apparently getting adopted by Russel and Albon.”

“Yea. Me and Logan got kinda jealous of Oscar since his grid dads are always at the races so we may have been going around seeing if we could get adopted as well…” You told the older driver.  “This isn’t meant to be taken seriously but…would you adopt me? As your grid kid? Oscar and Logan already have grid dads and I’m feeling left out”

Fernando smiled and patted your shoulder.

 “Of course niño. I missed out on the opportunity to mentor a younger driver like Webber and Vettel, so I’ll happily consider you my grid kid.” Fernando said. You smiled.

“Yes! Thanks dad!” You said before jogging back over to Logan and Oscar.

 “See, that wasn’t so hard.” Oscar said.

“I think I win in terms of grid dads.” You told them.

 “It wasn’t a competition.” Logan said. 

“But if it was, I think I would win by having three former world champions as my “adoptive” fathers.” You said. Logan and Oscar rolled their eyes. 

The little “adoption” scheme had soon spiraled to the point where even the official Formula One broadcast was getting in on the joke. To you and Logan, it seemed like a miracle that you and him managed to join Oscar at the top 3 of Free Practice 3. What made the moment even better was the graphic that was displayed during the broadcast that sent various social media platforms into chaos. 

Oscar Piastri-Leclerc

(Y/N) (L/N)-Alonso