#wolff!reader

Yet, she haunts Mercedes with vengeance. Her presence is felt above the deafening roar and below the absolute silence. She lives in the unsettled tempers and the cold rain.

She exists in the phantom number on his family tree, the only one whose name never reaches the public. She exists in the vague recollections of Lewis Hamilton, Peter Bonnington, Andrew Shovlin, James Vowles, and any other senior Mercedes figures, who remember working for him in the early days.

She exists in the date forever circled in red on his calendar. She exists in the signed music albums he never allows dust to touch.

She exists around him, but never with him since she boarded Flight OZ731 and chased a dream he didn’t approve of.

Now, twelve years later, Mercedes is abuzz with whispers they don’t yet understand: the custom VIP pass they had only heard of just scanned into the paddock.

"I feel like I should fix myself up a bit," one of the mechanics fidgets with his standard-issue uniform. "How’s my hair?"

"Hey, can I hang out here for a bit?" Another finds himself at a different motorhome, seeking refuge. "Mercedes is a jittery hub right now. Something about a ghost visitor."

The air crackles with a nervous energy, a tense anticipation that hangs thick and heavy. They stand on the precipice of a moment they can’t possibly prepare for, holding their breath.

Then, in a single, heart-stopping instant, the wait is finally over.

The fabled VIP access pass swings from the neck of a visitor, catching the light as she moves. A ghost of the man she came from haunts her features, from the determined set of her jaw to the stoicism in her gaze. She's surrounded by thirteen men who move as an impenetrable, well-oiled unit. She’s not their leader, nor their youngest, but their protective wall around her is unmissable.

The whispered "hana, dul, set" halts the paddock's murmurs just in time for the authoritative start of a group introduction. "Say the name—"

"SEVENTEEN!" Fourteen voices echo in the paddock hospitality, synchronized in every beat—down to the humble bow. "Hello, we are— SEVENTEEN!"

As she offers a blinding smile to the murmuring crowd, it's a silent declaration: she belongs to both worlds, yet it's the men standing beside her who truly bring her home.

Toto Wolff can only watch. The world around him blurs, the seemingly ceaseless chatter of the crowd fades into a distant hum. His vision tunnels, narrowing until all he can see is her.

Her—the phantom of a child he once held, a ghost of a daughter who exists only in his memories, superimposed over the woman standing on the makeshift stage. He doesn’t know her.

For a fleeting, agonizing moment, he feels the stoic mask he prides himself on almost shatters. He doesn’t like the thought that just crossed his mind, but her twelve-year absence is a physical weight he can’t ignore. He doesn’t know her.

An F1 staffer purposely hands her a microphone, their hidden agenda as secret as Mercedes’ loud whispers. She accepts it with an inaudible "thank you" before skillfully passing it down the line until the microphone eventually lands on someone who owns it. The familiar, practiced gesture of teamwork makes his chest tighten.

"How does it feel to be here at the F1 paddock?" The interviewer asks.

"Honestly surreal," a clear American accent booms from the foamed microphone. "We’ve been fans of Formula One since our YN—" the possessiveness preceding her name stings, especially with the soft, adoring chuckles the rest directs her way— "introduced us to the sport back in our trainee days. We all came from different backgrounds and had some language barriers then, but watching the races together really brought us closer."

Toto takes every cut each word makes. "Our YN" twists in his gut, a stark reminder that she belongs with them now.

"It’s a dream come true to be here," another member continues succinctly, with a short nod. There’s a slight tremble in his voice, but it fades away when she taps him encouragingly. "It feels like everything’s come full circle."

The ease of their existence around each other pierces through him. He doesn’t know these men whose hearts beat the same way as hers, just like he doesn’t know her.

"Yeah, we just want to say a big thank you to Formula One for having us here," a third member adds on. His American accent sounds more casual than the first, "especially during the year of our tenth anniversary. It really means a lot."

"Congratulations on your tenth anniversary! That’s a huge milestone." The assembled crowd watches as the members pass around the two microphones—almost playing hot potato with them. "Are there any special plans to celebrate the occasion?"

"Thank you," the fourth member unlucky enough to hold a microphone responds. The rest nod along in supportive agreement. "As this is our tenth year as a group, we planned to celebrate the whole year." He chuckles lightly, some chuckling along with him. "But so far we’ve released our fifth full-length album and held a birthday concert with our CARATs."

"We’re actually filming something special while we’re here," her sudden interjection catches a number of people in the crowd off-guard, including him, "but we’ll try our best to stay out of everyone’s way."

Unlike her members, her response is curt and dry. She doesn’t have the playful and friendly undertone the rest had—just professionalism through and through. Even if she tried to smile it off in an attempt to add humor, it’s obvious she says the last part for someone in particular.

Her gaze finds and holds his for a split second, and in that fleeting, devastating connection, he understands. She isn’t there for him.

It makes the most logical sense, yet it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Toto’s ears ring. The air around him thins. His entire world narrows to a single point: her—the phantom of his little girl who loved music more than she loved him.

The interviewer tries his best to bring the energy back. "Since you’ve mentioned you guys have been watching races since your trainee days, which teams or drivers are you guys rooting for this season?"

The one with a clear American accent immediately obliges to his mission. "Oh, we’re all rooting for the same team."

The rest corroborate with a solemn nod—before a cacophony of answers erupts.

"Ferrari."

"Williams!"

"McLaren!"

"Haas."

"Red Bull!"

"Sauber."

"Aston Martin."

"Mercedes!"

"Racing Bulls."

"Alpine!"

The thirteen men name all ten teams at once, effectively making the crowd laugh. It’s a comedic timing perfectly executed. They are cogs of one machine—and he feels the sting of knowing his eldest completes them.

The interviewer chuckles. "It sounds like you guys are a little divided! So which team is the true favorite here?" he asks, looking directly at her. It’s the perfect set-up he must’ve been waiting for.

The entire assembled crowd holds their breath. He finds himself swept up in the silence, his own breath held tight in his chest.

She takes the bait with a nonchalant shrug. Her gaze, cold and steady, finds his, looking away just before her answer changes their lives. "My heart has always belonged to Mercedes."

The backrooms of the Mercedes garage is relatively the quieter part of the entire building, with its padded walls meant to keep the chaos of the paddock out. Toto, as the Team Principal, gets the luxury of occupying the quietest corner, the furthest room from all the action.

In there, he’s just Toto—no decorations attached. Still a boss, a father, and a husband with responsibilities, but with a lifted pressure to perform and be seen. The sterile, white walls of the room serve as a canvas—not an extension of his public persona, but a private space where he can simply exist. It's a sanctuary where he can momentarily step away from the relentless demands of his role and just be.

A knock resonates from the door, breaking his concentration just enough to respond. "Come in!"

He already knows who entered before he looks up. After all, he exists in the fast-paced world of Formula One—his usual visitors start talking as soon as they enter.

His eldest’s silence is purposeful, a deliberate pause between musical notes meant to build anticipation. Her presence, too, vibrates in a frequency distinct from the high-energy rhythm of Formula One—resembling a softer, more complex melody he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t meet her eyes right away. Instead, he looks up and watches as she scans the room with mild interest, taking in the minimal personal touches he's added. There are photos of his wife, Susie; Lewis and Bono celebrating one of their championships; George and Kimi; Benedict and Rosa at Benedict's university graduation; and Jack with his kart.

"I just wanted to drop this off," she eventually says, her voice clear and professional as she places a white-and-green album on his desk. "For your collection."

"Thank you," his response sounds as disconnected as she did despite his sincerity. "I’ll put it with the others."

He sees her gaze linger on a specific empty spot on his desk, where a frame of them during one of her science fairs once stood.

He catches the second a flicker dies in her eyes—and how quick it was for her shoulders to drop ever so slightly and for the determined set of her jaw to harden.

The blow hits him like a Formula One car coming at top speed. He almost tells her about the custom-made, dust-proof cabinet at his office in Brackley where he keeps his favorite childhood photos of her and all the music albums she has sent. He almost tells her how he doesn’t allow anyone else to see them because he doesn’t have the strength to talk about her without being reduced to tears. He almost— but he doesn’t.

And almost is never enough.

"I won’t keep you, Vater." There’s no warmth, no flicker of emotion in her professional tone. "Thank you for having us."

Without waiting for a response, she turns and walks out, leaving him alone with an echo of "Vater"—a title so foreign it contaminates his memories of a little girl who used to call him "Papa."

His eldest earned the nickname "nightingale" early. She was always singing— performing whenever she had the chance. Her favorite toddler toys were a xylophone and a singing contraption, which were later replaced by a toy microphone and a guitar. Eventually, there were formal lessons. Throughout it all, their home never knew true quiet—and he didn’t prefer it any other way.

Toto was proud of her musical talent, but he saw it as just one of her many skills. She was equally gifted in science and never shied away from working with him on projects. He encouraged the music, believing it was important for her to be a well-rounded person, but he never mistook it for her true path.

He never would’ve thought his well-intentioned encouragement would eventually backfire on him.

YN barreled into his office, vibrating on her feet. A Mercedes hat sat proudly on her head, a VIP access pass comfortably resting around her neck. "Papa!"

"Yes, YN?" He looked up, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips as he met her sparkling eyes.

She could barely contain herself. She squealed, "Ich habe eine Zusage von Pledis bekommen!" ["I got an acceptance from Pledis!"]

He gestured for her to sit down, secretly afraid she’d start bouncing off the walls if he left her standing. "Pledis?"

She obliged, humming in affirmation. "Remember I told you about that one judge in my last competition? The one that said she liked my performance so much, she sent a video of it to her boss in Seoul?"

He took a moment to think. He stopped attending her music-related activities when she turned ten, so he was left to rely on her relays and debriefs since. Admittedly, it was more difficult to riffle through memories of her retelling than of her actual performances. "The one that said you might be a good fit to train to be a performer in South Korea?"

"To be an idol, Papa," she corrected, her voice filled with undeniable reverence, "but yes, that. Apparently, the company she works for is Pledis."

He considered it with a slow, thoughtful nod. "Herzlichen Glückwunsch, schatzi." ["Congratulations, darling."]

"Danke, Papa," ["Thank you, Papa,"] she beamed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ich überlege, ihr Angebot anzunehmen." ["I’m thinking of accepting their offer."]

Toto froze at that. He wasn’t versed in what training to be an idol entailed, but the mere fact that she would have to be in South Korea—where he wouldn’t be—was already an unpleasant thought. "Willst du ein idol werden?" ["You want to be an idol?"]

"Well . . . ja, mach i." ["Well . . . yes, I do."]

He couldn’t believe his ears. Not when he had a photo of them during one of her science fairs framed on his desk. Not when two more hung on his office walls: one of her mid-laugh after an experiment exploded on her face; another of her grinning, covered in soot and grime, with a wrench in her hand.

She wasn’t supposed to be a performer. She was supposed to be a problem-solver. An engineer.

"I hob glaubt, du willst Ingenieur werden?" ["I thought you wanted to be an engineer?"] He blurted out, the words tasting like ash laced with desperate hope.

"I hob des nie gsogt." ["I never said that."] YN quickly rebuffed, words sharp. "I hob nur gsogt, 'Ingenieurwesen mocht Spaß.'" ["I only ever said, ‘Engineering is fun.’"]

"Ingenieurwesen mocht Spaß" burn him like a soldering iron. Fun. Not a calling. Not a passion. Not the life he had so meticulously—and silently—planned for her. Just fun.

The foundations of his world began to crumble beneath him, but he persevered like a driver pushing old tires to the checkered flag. He had to make her understand. He needed her to know she’d be making a mistake if she pursued that fleeting path. "Becoming an idol . . . Des is ned praktisch, YN. Des is ka sichere Karriere." ["Becoming an idol . . . That’s not practical, YN. It’s not a stable career."]

He almost took it all back when he saw the light in her eyes dim, with her shoulders tensing and her jaw tightening. A short, desperate plea for her to smile again was already on the tip of his tongue, but his fear for her future was far stronger than his immediate regret.

"Owa du host gsogt, i kann do whatever makes me happy." ["But you said I can do whatever makes me happy."] Her voice was quiet, but heavy with accusation.

"Jo, und i man's ernst," ["Yes, and I mean it,"] he confirmed, his voice a touch softer. "But I didn’t mean this."

"Then what did you mean?"

It wasn’t the first time he and YN didn’t see eye-to-eye. It had been an occasional occurrence since she reached thirteen. Still, it was the first time he felt their relationship was truly on the line.

It didn’t help that this was something he wasn’t prepared to discuss with her, either. Frankly, he didn’t even think he would have to. He thought—

Toto sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose, "Let’s talk about this later, after dinner."

YN didn’t move right away, her body a statue of disappointment, but eventually stood. "Okay."

He hated how the conversation went. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. A part of him was convinced he’d have to thread carefully, else he’d risk completely fracturing his relationship with his eldest. He didn’t want that.

"I hob di liab," ["I love you,"] he called after her, subtly seeking a signal that they were still okay.

YN paused by the door, a small smile returning to her features, "I di a, Papa." ["(I love) You, too, Papa."]

Toto blinks, returning to the reality far removed from what it once was. He’s still behind his desk—in same the office, under the same pin on the map—but nothing else stayed the same. Not the scattered decorations serving as peeks into his personal life. Not the title that still rings in the silence he’s left alone with. Not the distance—chasm—that separates him and his eldest.

It’s difficult to believe he was once, as she put it at seven years old, her "most favorite person in the entire universe."

Now, she can’t even look at him for more than three seconds.

The white-and-green album she left mocks him. The bold, emerald green title blazes like a neon sign—screaming at him with an irrefutable taunt that it knows more about the woman his eldest grew up to be than he ever will.

It jeers him—daring him to look at the woman he created a stranger of.

Toto reaches for the album, fingers tentative as if he’s touching thin glass.

He sees a handwritten letter first. He doesn’t recognize the handwriting, but he identifies the capitalized block letters of a budding engineer before the familiar script of "Papa" does.

She always wrote "Papa" on the music albums that found their way to him.

Papa, As we cross ten years since our debut, I want to extend my utmost gratitude to you. I know this isn’t the life you wanted for me. You raised me to be someone else—someone with a stable career, someone who builds things and solves problems, someone who follows the path you laid out. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the person you wanted me to be. I’m sorry I used the blueprint you drew to follow a path that took me away from you. I used every lesson you ever taught me—to trust myself, to work hard, to stand back up every time I fall—because I was too afraid to hold onto you. I couldn’t bear the thought of being a burden or of you regretting letting me go. They were all I had. It wasn’t easy reaching ten years. As the only girl in a group with thirteen boys, there were moments I wanted to quit, to find someone who could contact you and just take me home. But every time I almost did, I remembered what you told me once: failure is a necessary part of the journey. You said a true champion’s mark isn’t in their wins, but in their ability to keep going. I never forgot that. It’s probably not what you want to hear, but a part of you is the reason I made it this far. So, thank you, Papa. Really. With love, Your YN P.S. I hope it’s not too much to ask for a hug when we meet.

Toto’s eyes blurs as the stoic façade he has fought hard to maintain fractures with a hot, single tear. He doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

He stares at the last lines like they’re his lifeline.

His breath shudders, hands suddenly unable to hold the feather-light paper.

For twelve years, he had foolishly believed his little girl merely haunted him because he refused to let her go. His secret, dust-proof cabinet was a shrine to a time he couldn't get back and to a person he had lost. He had convinced himself that the albums bearing her name and face were just artifacts, not messages.

Worse, he had assumed she was gone because he didn't recognize her in the woman before him. She didn't smile or laugh the same. She didn't look at him the same. She no longer addressed him the same.

But that wasn't the case.

His little girl hadn't left; she had simply learned to protect herself and be self-reliant because she thought she couldn't count on him. She was still here, hidden under all the calluses and the wounds she had endured alone in twelve years.

It was all his fault.

Toto lifts his gaze in a futile attempt to discourage another tear from escaping, but it merely lands on the empty spot on his desk, where a frame of them during one of her science fairs once stood.

His eldest— YN came to his office with a hope for reconciliation, eyes searching for a sliver of love, and found herself completely erased from his life.

She walked out the door thinking he didn’t love her—and he let her.

It’s strange to be back at the paddock where she received the email that changed her life forever. She was only fifteen years old then; now, a lifetime later in her late twenties ("Practically thirty," as she and her members would joke whenever their muscles strained a little too much), she’s a stranger to her own life.

Being back in this domain of her childhood with her members is a surreal full-circle moment. She had first introduced them to this world when a language barrier stood between them. Now, she’s finally sharing its magic with a group that understands her beyond words.

Frankly, she was excited when their staff told them Formula One had allowed them to film here. She would have assumed a working race week would be off-limits for a film crew, but a part of her suspected her birth surname had something to do with the special permission.

Alas, as she just realized, it couldn’t be a string her father pulled.

YN tries not to think about it, but she sees the empty spot on his desk every time she blinks.

"Excuse me," a voice breaks her out of her thoughts just before she reaches the front of the Mercedes garage. She halts. It’s George Russell.

She guards her expression to mask her confusion. Why is an F1 driver approaching her? "Yes?"

"Do you mind if I tag along to the tour for you and your mates?"

She fights hard to not squint at him suspiciously. "Mr. Russell—" she sees no need to pretend she doesn’t know who he is— "with all due respect, don’t you have more important things to do than follow along to a tour of your workplace?"

"Just George, please," he offers an easy smile with his polite request. "And technically, yes, I do. I’m between debriefs and simulator sessions, so I’m free to roam."

She doesn’t buy the flimsy excuse. The paddock is a hive of activity, and an F1 driver doesn’t just "roam." Her eyes flickers to the closed office door she just left, a clear accusation forming on her tongue. He sent you, didn’t he? As his spy, his proxy?

She bites the thought back, in the name of her SEVENTEEN, and reminds herself can’t afford to burn a bridge when she’s a ghost so thoroughly erased. Right now, she’s not just an unwanted reminder of the past her father had apparently buried, she’s also a shield for her thirteen brothers, and she won’t let this man—or the man who sent him—breach her defensive wall. "It’ll be in Korean."

George doesn’t let it deter him. He merely shrugs, his natural charm oozing through, "It’ll be fun."

YN is really contemplating asking if he knows her, because why else is he insisting on tagging along with a bunch of foreign strangers? He doesn’t look like he knows Kpop, much less SEVENTEEN. Alas, she isn’t mentality available to hear any of his possible answers to that, so she just sighs. "I’ll ask."

After all, as her brothers often remind her, she isn’t alone—and SEVENTEEN makes decisions together.

Before either of them can say anything else, she feels her members’ presence before they appear in her line of sight. It's a low hum of energy, a familiar, chaotic rhythm that her body instinctively relaxes into. It's the same feeling she gets just before a show starts or a song drops.

Kimi Antonelli is in front of them, looking every bit like a guide assisting a lost group, his politeness is a stark contrast to the boisterous energy that radiates from the thirteen men behind him. "Here we are," he says with a wide, polite gesture, "the Mercedes garage."

"Thank you, Ki—"

"YN!" Mingyu’s polite gratitude is effectively interrupted by Soonyoung’s unrestrained glee. The sound of her name, shouted in pure excitement, releases endorphins in her brain—dissolving the armor further hardened by her cold encounter with her father.

A smile immediately decorates her features, starting from the corners of her lips and reaching her eyes. Relief visibly spreads through her entire body, relaxing her posture from a tightness she didn’t even realize.

She excuses herself to George with a slight bow, her feet already closing the gap between her and her members. "멤버들!" ["Members!"]

"우리 Max Verstappen 만났어!" ["We met Max Verstappen!"] Her older brother excitedly reports, his voice still filled with awe, as soon as she approaches.

The pure, unadulterated joy on his face is contagious. "Max 만났어?" ["You met Max?"] She asks, her own voice full of genuine, wide-eyed wonder. "와아. 대박! 너희 사진 찍었어?" ["Woah. That’s awesome! Did you guys get a picture?"]

Jihoon hums, his usual dry humor making her smile even wider. "우리도 순영이만 같이 사진 찍게 했어." ["We also got him to pose for a photo with just Soonyoung."]

"순영이형 Max한테 호랑해 시켰어," ["Soonyoung made Max do Horanghae,"] Minghao reports, a hint of playful accusation in his voice. He grins at her, knowing she’ll get the joke.

YN laughs at that, the sound warm and genuine. The heavy weight of her father's disapproval and her own painful memories falls away, replaced by the simple thrill of her members' happiness. She’s the one who told them that Soonyoung and Max should take a picture together, because he's SEVENTEEN’s tiger and he’s F1’s lion.

For a moment, surrounded by the familiar comfort of her brothers, she feels a profound sense of peace—and utterly forgets where she is. "나 그거 좀 봐야 돼." ["I need to see that."]

Unfortunately, it’s not meant to last long, for Chan unknowingly brings her back to the reality. "저 남자가 자꾸 쳐다봐, 누나." ["That man keeps staring at you, YN."]

Her brothers’ expressions change in an instant, sharpening with a promised threat. Twelve older wolves follow the youngest’s line of sight, eyes already narrowed, before she can even comprehend.

"그 남자가 우리 YN 좋아해?" ["Does he like our YN?"] Jeonghan questions for the rest, voice dangerously low and almost conspiratorial.

YN’s sensitive ears picks up Kimi’s amusement from somewhere behind her. "They’ll eat you alive."

The air around her cackles as thirteen pairs of eyes cage George Russell.

YN can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up from deep within her, melting the tense cage of eyes into endeared looks.

George Russell joins the tour, in the end. Not because YN vouched for him, but because Kimi did. She is yet to hear how her members unanimously approved of the younger Mercedes driver and his judgement, but she has no complaints. It’s just a shame that his word landed opposite of what she was hoping for.

She could’ve vetoed it, but her curiosity about George’s endgame is a stronger force than her apprehension, so she simply lets it happen.

George doesn’t fight to be their tour guide, but he doesn’t question why she wants to be, either, instead of getting a Mercedes team member to do it. Unfortunately for him, that doesn’t help loosen up her apprehension—if anything, it just strengthens her suspicion that he does know who she is; that he’s sent to her way with a mission.

YN decides to give him a show. After all, she is a performer, and she knows how to play a part.

"Alright, 여러분." ["Alright, everybody."] She claps once, perfectly mimicking the opening of her group’s iconic set opener "Clap." It doesn’t resonate as loudly as Seungcheol’s, but it does its job. "들어가기 전에: 프라이버시 문제로 촬영은 불가하다는 점 다시 한번 말씀드립니다. Capisce?" ["Just a heads-up before we go in: filming is not allowed due to privacy concerns. Capisce?"]

"Capisco!" Her members and George reply in unison. She grins, satisfied. She’s the one who taught her members that, back when Italian was still strong on her tongue.

"Yeah! Let’s go!" Seokmin cheers, visibly—and audibly—excited. "여행 가이드 Wolff!" ["Tour guide Wolff!"]

On any other day, she wouldn't have even blinked at the sound of her own surname. Her members call her "Wolff" so often, on- and off-camera, that it's become their special nickname for her. Her representative emoji is a gray wolf, too, so even their fans—CARATs—sometimes call her "wolf," even though they don't know her birth name. She’s simply too used to the name.

Unfortunately, today is different. Today, she's at the paddock, surrounded by the past she traded away for a future in a field she loves. Today, she's carrying the heavy weight of being erased by someone she'd held onto for twelve long years.

She doesn't even notice her own flinch at the sound of her surname, but she prays it was quick enough that her members missed it.

YN decidedly nods before guiding them towards Mercedes’ F1 cars for this season, signaling the official start of her special tour. "In front of you is the W16—"

She goes to describe the car in great, easily digestible detail, in a mix of Korean and English. She continues to do the same even as she continues on with tour and guides them deeper into the Mercedes garage, often also relating things to what her members understand best. She doesn’t shy away from their—nor George’s—technical questions, either, and actually relishes them.

"Over here are the offices for the team engineers," she gestures to the closed doors around them. "We have race engineers—걔네들은 완전 지훈이랑 범주 같아! 그리고 순영오빠! They make sure all the parts are working properly, and the 최종 제품 is 무대에 오를 준비가 되었는지 확인해." ["We have race engineers—they’re like Jihoon and Bumzu! And Soonyoung! They make sure all the parts are working together properly, and the final product is ready for the stage."]

"The performance engineers are," she pauses to think of a new analogy, but comes up short, "also like 지훈오빠 and 범주오빠. They’re like songwriters—all the data를 보고 driver한테 차를 최대한 잘 쓸 수 있게 얘기해주는 거지." ["The performance engineers are also like Jihoon and Bumzu. They’re like songwriters—they look at all the data and tell the driver how to get the most out of the car."]

YN’s pride bubbles up from her stomach. The utter fascination in her members’ faces is the exact reason why she denied the tour guide Mercedes offered them. Their guide had to be her—not because she spoke Korean, but because she’s one of them.

Besides, she has been waiting to introduce them to the world she grew up in beyond the limitations of a television screen and a yearly subscription. They have immersed her into the contrivances that led them to her throughout their ten years together, and today’s simply her turn. Never mind that she discovered herself nonexistent in what she had considered her home.

"You should say your name, too, YN," Jihoon—the member who has constantly seen her post-11 AM self under neon lights for the past twelve years—pipes up, voice clear despite being in a language he’s not confident in. "You’re our engineer, too."

Heat rises up from the back of her neck to the tip of her ears. She may be used to receiving compliments in her idol life, but one from her members always weighs more than others. Especially one from Jihoon, whose affections rarely escape outside the form of a song.

"Yeah, Producer NIGHTINGALE," Joshua chimes in with a grin.

YN lets out a soundless, slightly embarrassed laugh. Her members have absolutely no idea how much their words mean to her right now, while she’s surrounded by a world that didn’t love her back.

"You flatter me," she playfully waves away their indirect compliments before flashing them a bright smile. "고마워요, but let’s go back to the tour." ["Thank you, but let’s go back to the tour."]

However, before she can continue with her descriptions of the different engineers in the team, one of the doors behind her opens. Her idol manners immediately kicks in, and she turns to greet whoever it is. "Hello!"

It’s Peter Bonnington, the very man she looked over telemetry and data with more than a decade ago. "Oh, hello! I’ve never seen you around here before."

She smiles through the pang that she felt in her chest. "Oh, no, no. I’m not from here." She quickly gestures to the group behind her, unwilling to have the mistaken belonging on her shoulders for longer than necessary. "I’m with them."

"Hello!" She hears her members greet in not-so-perfect unison. She doesn’t need to turn around to know most of them smiled politely.

Bono greets them back, returning the polite gesture. He turns his attention back to her, eyebrows slightly scrunched. "But you’re leading a tour?"

The lie spills out too easily, her voice laced with the conversational professionalism she mastered in the ten years. "My father used to work here, so I remember my way around." But, then again, is it really a lie if the father she met today isn’t the same one that drove her to the airport twelve years ago? "I just wanted to give my members a more personalized tour."

She doesn’t miss how he tried to catch a glimpse of her pass, presumably to get her name. Unfortunately for him, she intentionally wore it the wrong way around. "You must’ve been in here a lot."

She opts to give a non-answer, starting with a half-hearted chuckle. "We’ll try to keep it down, Mr. Bonnington."

YN knows she can just introduce herself. Yet, she has concluded it inappropriate. Not because she’ll be using her birth surname to validate her return, but more so because she has obviously been removed in this world for a reason. She may not know why, but she wants to try and respect that—regardless of it hurting like she has been ran over by an F1 car on a straight.

"Right, well," he takes one hesitant step away without taking his eyes off of her. She tenses under his analytical stare. "I’ll leave you kids to it, then."

She only relaxes once Bono disappears in a corner, full attention returning to the crowd curiously looking at her. For a second there, she was frightened by the thought of being recognized. "You probably recognize his 목소리. That was—" ["You probably recognize his voice. That was—"]

The Mercedes tour continues without any more surprise interruptions. Eventually, she finally leads them to a hidden corner of the garage. Its door is unassuming, perfectly blended with the surrounding walls. There’s also a trick to opening it—something that only a few people back then knew how to do.

And, by the looks of it, that still holds true to this day.

The room looks almost exactly like how she last saw it, with a singular tire at the bottom of the tire rack and a cushioned nook seat. There’s no sprinkle of dust.

"여기서 낮잠 잤었어요," ["I used to take a nap here,"] she says, her voice thick with emotion, looking at the cushioned nook. A familiar, sharp ache blooms in her chest. "Pledis 합격 통보 받았을 때, 여기 있었어." ["I was here when I received the acceptance from Pledis."]

She catches Seungcheol share a look with Junhui, and she takes it as a sign to disperse them and let them explore the room. There’s admittedly not a lot going on in the room, with it being the most uninteresting part of the garage, but—it means something to her, and she knows her brothers can appreciate that.

George slides next to her the second they disperse. For a moment, neither of them says anything. The quiet of the room weighs between them, a stark contrast to the distant rumble of the garage.

"How did you know about this place?" He asks, his voice a low, awed murmur that barely breaks the silence.

YN keeps her eyes trailed on her members, a small, sad smile playing on her lips. She doesn't look at him, but she can feel the weight of his stare. "I used to be here a lot," she replies, her voice softer now, echoing Bono's words like a ghost.

At her peripherals, she sees him turn fully to look at her. The expression on his face is a raw, unguarded look of awed confusion. It’s a look she doesn’t understand, as if her simple answer has shaken his entire perception of this place.

"I didn’t even know about this place," He says, the disbelief in his tone palpable. "And I’ve been here for years."

She finally turns to him, a hint of her old self-assurance returning in a wry smile. She shrugs, pushing back a comment about him being a terrible spy. "Now you know."

You’re a good actor, but not quite as good as me.

She walks away to join her members, the wall between them back in place.

YN almost makes it through. She just has to guide her members and George back to the front of the Mercedes garage, and give her closing remarks. She just has to fall back to her place next to her members before they address the crew for a general thank you—for their hard work, for letting them momentarily invade. She just has to do those three things.

But she doesn’t make it.

Because she made the critical error of freezing as soon as she spots the model car for the W04, Mercedes’ F1 car for the 2013 season. It's the very same model car she last saw in person, the very same one she had asked her father if she could put in the display.

It might’ve been a split-second freeze, but a split-second is enough for them who understand each other beyond words.

The corners of YN’s eyes start to burn.

"Ow!" She hears Seungkwan somewhere behind her, effectively snapping out of her trace. She’s next to him within a blink, as are the rest of their group. "I— I think . . . Too much coffee . . ."

Her personal sorrow is immediately forgotten, having been replaced with worry for a younger brother. "어디가 아파?" ["Where does it hurt?"]

She mentally goes through the paddock blueprint in her head. She needs to calculate the quickest way to the medical center. Perhaps if they—

"아이구!" ["Ugh!"] Seungkwan almost doubles over, but is saved by Wonwoo who steadies him.

"잠깐만, 승관아," ["Hold on, Seungkwan,"] Seungcheol’s leader tone is tainted with concern. "YN—"

She doesn’t wait for him to finish. "어디로 가야 할지 알아." ["I know where to go."]

"알았어—" ["Alright—"] Wonwoo takes that as his cue to lead Seungkwan out the door, with Seokmin hovering on the other side in case he needs extra support. YN follows, with Mingyu’s hand on the small of her back.

"It was wonderful meeting you, George!" Vernon calls over his shoulder. She’s glad her brother did that courtesy for her, because she certainly doesn’t feel like extending it to her father’s proxy herself.

She doesn’t look back as she guides Mingyu’s hand to hold hers instead.

SEVENTEEN doesn’t relax their protective wall around Seungkwan until they’re halfway to the Mercedes motorhome. Despite their extreme proximity barely giving them enough room to walk, their formation—unconsciously formed as it may be—never breaks.

That is, until YN tries to take a turn to the medical center . . . just for Mingyu to tug her back.

"이쪽으로 돌자," ["Let’s turn this way,"] she instructs, lightly gesturing with her head.

Her eyebrows immediately touch when her same-age brother merely lets go of her hand to put an arm around her shoulders. "아니." ["No."]

"근데 승관이—" ["But Seungkwan—"]

"—는 연기를 너무 못 해!" ["—Is terrible at acting!"] Junhui completes her sentence from the back. He sounds incredibly offended, somehow.

YN suddenly stops in her tracks, causing those behind her to stumble on their feet. No one falls, thankfully. "뭐라고?" ["What?"] Her disbelieving eyes search their faces.

Seungcheol intercepts before she can say everything else that’s on the tip of her tongue. "먼저 들어가자." ["Let’s go in first."]

She knows better than to argue with her leader.

Once Joshua finally closes the door to their assigned guest room inside the Mercedes’ motorhome, YN wastes no time. She finds Seungkwan, her gaze still edged with concern amidst her confusion. "승관아, 괜찮아?" ["Seungkwan, are you okay?"]

Seungkwan gives her a thumbs up, his smile a little sheepish. "나 괜찮아, 누나." ["I’m okay, YN."]

"그랬으면 왜—" ["Then why did you—"] She halts, thoughts racing. She thinks back to the garage, to the exact moment she heard her younger brother shout in agony— "Oh."

"‘Oh,’ indeed," Vernon echoes with a short nod.

It’s not the first time one of them feigned an illness to get out of a situation. They’re not exactly proud of it, nor the number of times they’ve resorted to it, but some situations are just too difficult to escape using different methods. Truthfully, they continue to be amazed that they’re still finding new kinds of situations they desperately need to get out of.

Had she been in the right state mind, she would’ve effortlessly seen through the act. She would’ve remembered that such dramatics are reserved for what they codenamed as ‘last resort.’ But, alas.

Her relief manifests in an audible breath. "우리 차 빌려야 할 줄 알았어." ["I thought we’d have to borrow a car."] Unfortunately, that relief also comes with weakened knees and opened tear ducts. "괜찮아서 정말 다행이에요." ["I’m really glad you’re okay."]

There’s already a crowd around her before a tear even escapes. YN’s cries intensified the more seconds passed—starting with a mere silent waterfall on her cheeks, to a loud, sobbing mess. She clings to the closest member—Joshua, judging by his perfume and built—and buries her face.

"미안해." ["I’m sorry."] She apologizes hoarsely, voice breaking with every syllable, overwhelmed with emotion. "I ruined—" her words slips in English, suddenly too emotional to translate them into Korean— "I can’t—"

As always, her brothers understand before she even expresses herself correctly. "괜찮아, YN아, 영어로 말해도 돼. 우리가 이해하려고 노력할게." ["It’s okay, YN, you can talk in English. We’ll try to understand."]

And, right now, that’s all YN needs.

When the program Seventeen TV welcomed its sole female trainee during its third season, her brothers gained a sister who would one day teach them the quiet tragedy of a man’s loss.

She joined them with no Korean they could understand, but they understood her heart all the same. They saw the fire they all had, burning bright and glowing hot. They understood that her passion wasn’t just a dream; it was a lifeline. It was a purpose that gave her strength, a drive that gave her a future, and a dedication that gave her a new life.

Her words might’ve been foreign and broken, but her actions bared her heart—and that was enough.

She was their sister, their YN, from there on out.

YN introduced them to the fast and furious world of Formula One. With table napkins and nearly ink-less pens, she drew them into the horrifying wonders of high-speed corners and the bewildering ballet of strategy. Soon, she hooked them with the blurred colors of dangerous speed, and before they knew it, they were eleven teams and a thousand questions deep. Practices didn’t just end with replays of their final take; they ended with replays of races they were too busy to watch on time. Their performances weren't just powered by sheer energy and passion, but by the lingering thrill of high-speed chases and team rivalries as well. Formula One gave them a drive on nights when all else failed.

While YN introduced them to the vast and open ocean of Formula One, her personal life remained a quiet island they could not reach. The only map they had was an ‘all about me’ worksheet meant for grade schoolers, a single page full of conversation starters that never did.

They learned every detail of her talents, from the formal lessons that taught her piano, guitar, and violin to the raw, self-taught passion behind her every dance. They knew her favorite pieces to play and which choreography was her favorite to perform. They had heard her offer elaborate explanations for her chosen lyrics and composers, yet they had never once heard her utter her father’s name. They knew the names of her favorite fictional characters, the titles of songs that made her cry, and which movie she had seen a thousand times, but they did not know the name of her favorite person in the world: her Papa.

Over time, the surface of her quiet island became charted territory, but the secrets beneath it remained a mystery. Her heart, once a closed off cove, began to open its shores only after their debut. The secrets she carried were not hidden behind grand, fortified walls, but would slowly surface with the rising tide of their trust.

For a long while, the word "Papa" only existed on the ‘all about me’ worksheet she had to fill out during their trainee days—right next to My favorite person is.

Then, there was the "My Papa would’ve liked this" after she had the taste of the Korean dish they made her try during their strictly timed breaks. Back then, it held no real weight, but they agreed it must’ve been a compliment, based on how she went for seconds.

Next was her nonchalant "I used to do this a lot with my Papa" as she expertly loosened lug nuts, her movements quick and precise, the afternoon one of their group vans suddenly needed a tire change on their way back from a television program. Their driver/manager then didn’t know how to do it himself, and she was already on it before he could call for assistance. She didn’t elaborate, even when she said the same thing on a separate morning when their van broke down on their way to a schedule, and she correctly identified the issue after taking a short good look under the hood.

Their curiosity almost overflowed that day, with their own knowledge of cars limited. Thanks to Wonwoo’s cheers ("우리 YN이 가는 것 좀 봐!" ["Look at our YN go!"]), they were able to start building sandcastles on her island’s shore. For her equally nonchalant "별거 아니에요" ["It’s not a big deal"] told them everything they needed then.

The sandcastles of their assumptions were built from those nonchalant, unelaborated statements. The best they could do, given the very limited information, was assume that YN was very close with her father and that he had probably passed before she moved to Seoul. It made sense, consistent with her unwillingness to share anything else. They didn’t want to push through her tides, with the uncertainty of death, so they just let the waves take them adrift.

However, that sandcastle was ransacked by a powerful wave almost a year into their debut. They had just gotten their first music show win for "Pretty U" in Show Champion. Their emotions were high—they had cried on stage, on camera. They were on calls with their parents almost as soon as they were able. Even Joshua’s mother in Los Angeles and Minghao’s parents in Anshan celebrated with them through a video call. Thirteen calls, fourteen members—and YN just shrugged off their expectant looks with, "My Papa hasn’t attended any of my music-related activities since I was ten years old," before asking them if they were up for watching the replay of the F1 race last weekend to celebrate.

Mercedes got a 1-2 in that race, with Nico Rosberg ahead of Lewis Hamilton. They only remember that factoid because YN’s reaction to the win mirrored her reaction to their own. (That, and because Jihoon broke off of the Red Bull Alliance™ with Seungcheol to pledge his loyalty to Mercedes.)

It was difficult to warp their heads around the new information they heard about her Papa. How could he and YN be so close, but he stopped attending something important to her a whole five years before she became a trainee? Is he really dead like they’ve been assuming?

The half-formed new sandcastle crumbled when Chan innocently asked, awestruck, "Mercedes가 네 Papa 팀이야?" ["Is Mercedes your Papa’s team?"]

". . . 네." [". . . Yes."]

It didn’t disprove the strengthened ‘death’ theory, but it did give them a new angle to ponder. Suddenly, her western surname felt heavier than a mere coincidence. Suddenly, her choice to keep it hidden felt heavier than a mere plea for privacy. Suddenly, her body language whenever Mercedes’ Team Principal appeared on screen felt heavier than they ever noticed before.

Suddenly, the new sandcastle was a walled fortress caging a thought: What if YN Wolff is actually Toto Wolff’s daughter?

They collectively hated that thought. Because it’d mean something they couldn’t help her with; something that they couldn’t even begin to understand.

Time helped them to be fluent in silence with each other. Along with that silence came a quiet recognition of the pain and sadness that subtly manifested in YN’s every move, and a growing comfort in knowing their presence hopefully offered enough.

When their managing staff gathered them for a meeting about an offer from Formula One, they were equally ecstatic and skeptical. While it was an honor to be recognized by the very sport that played such a big part in their lives, they were also collectively concerned about how YN would take the offer.

"네 생각은 어때, YN아?" ["What do you think, YN?"] Joshua had innocently asked then, after he sharing a subtle look with the others within his line of sight without moving his head.

It was only appropriate. After all, she was the one who introduced them to the sport. It would be uncontestedly more important to her than it’d ever be for them. "내 생각에 . . . 우리 그 제안을 받아들이는 게 좋을 것 같아." ["I think . . . We should accept the offer."]

"정말 좋은 기회라고 생각해," ["It is a good opportunity,"] Minghao supported slowly, his voice almost dipping, Is that what you really want?

"우리 기념일에 좋을 것 같아." ["It’ll be great for our anniversary."] Yes.

They didn’t contest. They couldn’t. Their concern might’ve been a lingering whisper in their minds, but the sheer, unfamiliar light on her eyes was a resounding promise they had to keep. They supported the choice because it was hers to make.

The members' months were a blur of Caratland, a comeback, and a dozen other packed schedules. YN's anticipation, however, was a steady, quiet beacon they learned to read. They didn’t need her to mention the upcoming schedule; they were fluent in her subtle cues. They saw her joy in the ghost of a smile that seemed to etch itself at the corner of her mouth, in the extra spring in her steps, and in the way she needed less of her usual creative fuel to keep her focused during long nights in the studio.

Up until they saw her with George Russell by the entrance of the Mercedes garage, they had been convinced they made the right choice.

Then they saw her flinch at her own surname, caught her lying to her favorite driver's old race engineer, heard her voice break while talking about her Pledis audition, and witnessed her freeze in front of the car models. (Not to mention her forgetting about their years old ‘last resort’ and believing Seungkwan’s poor execution.)

They didn’t have time to confer, but their shared conclusion was immediate. The team YN loves with her whole heart—Mercedes—is the heart of her pain.

And now, YN’s crying in Joshua’s arms like she hasn’t cried for twelve years.

It’s supposed to be an inside joke between them and CARATs that she has thirteen useless brothers, but in this moment, those words have never felt truer.

The feeling of helplessness is brief, however, because the group’s response is a swift and practiced choreography. Only Minghao and Seungkwan remain, a quiet barrier against the rest of the world as YN leans into Joshua. The others splitup, each with an unspoken purpose: Junhui, Seokmin, and Mingyu go to find something for her to eat; Jihoon and Vernon, in a bittersweet effort to bring her comfort, go to get the Red Bull she drinks like water; and Soonyoung and Chan go to fetch her actual water.

This leaves Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and Wonwoo to do what they do best. This is a crisis, and it is time to strategize.

"우리 여기 오지 말았어야 했어." ["We shouldn’t have come here."] Wonwoo’s observation perfectly encapsulates the unspoken consensus. His voice is a soft whisper, yet firmly absolute.

Jeonghan, who hasn’t found the strength to look away from YN’s shaking form, rebuts with a fact they’ve forgotten as soon as her tears started flowing. "근데 걔 너무 기대했었어." ["But she was so excited to go."] His voice, too, is heavy with the same sadness as the younger one. "걔가 하고 싶었던 거야." ["It’s what she wanted."]

Seungcheol’s shoulders are heavy with self-inflicted blame. As their general leader, and her unit leader, he feels the full weight of their decision. "그리고 우리 더 잘 알았어야 했어. 우리 그랬어야 했는데 . . ." ["And we should’ve known better. We should’ve . . ."]

"아니." ["No."] Wonwoo doesn’t let the eldest continue. He acts as a voice of reason, leaving little room for argument. "그럴 수 없었어. 그때는 그냥 추측뿐이었잖아." ["We couldn’t have. All we had then were assumptions."]

Seungcheol shakes his head, his face an indescribable mix of frustration and sorrow. "봐, 결국 이렇게 됐잖아. 우리 YN만 더 힘들어졌어. 지금 너무 슬퍼하고 있어. ["Yeah, and look where they landed us. Our YN’s worse off. She’s mourning."]

The word mourning hangs in the air, a vacuum of silence. Across the room, Seungkwan and Minghao halt their efforts to soothe YN, their hands freezing in mid-air. They both look at Seungcheol, but say nothing; they, as Jeonghan and Wonwoo, know he’s right.

This isn’t the first time they’ve witnessed YN cry, but it is the first time they have heard her wail—a raw, gut-wrenching sound that tore from her very soul. It was a grief so complete, so all-consuming, that mourning was the only word that could describe it.

No one can blame the other seven who thought of ways to leave the room in a fragile hope of alleviating her sorrow.

"그녀가 여기까지 온 데에는 이유가 있었어요." ["There was a reason she came here."] Jeonghan is the first to break the latest wave of silence. His eyes, still fixed on YN, are glossy—not with tears, but with memories the rest can’t see. He swallows, a quiet effort, before adding, "어 . . . 뭔지는 모르겠는데, 걔는 여기에 와야 했어." ["I . . . I don’t know what it is, but she needed to be here."]

YN’s eyes are swollen and bloodshot by the time half of SEVENTEEN comes back with the physical offerings of their fragile hope.

On the floor of their borrowed room, a modest feast is laid out just for her. There are apparently no foldable tables in the Mercedes motorhome, and she refuses to move from her post-cry state.

She sniffles into her newly cooked ramyeon, the steam a poor comfort against the remnants of her heartbreak. With the blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, she looks feverishly sick, a poster-child for a pain that has nothing to do with a fever.

On any other day, this scene would have been material for a photo, a joke, a birthday post. But her current state was too far from amusing, her stillness too heavy with what she carried.

This isn’t stress, and it isn’t something a few days off can fix.

She has lost a love, and she needs to mourn it.

They cannot fix a loss so fundamentally irreversible, but they can be her home while she navigates it—no matter how long it takes.

YN chews the ramyeon with a faraway look in her eyes, her movements mimicking a machine running on autopilot low on oil. Her voice, light and hoarse, ripples through the weighted silence. "He erased me."

The acceptance in her voice is jarring, as if she has finally surrendered to a fight she had been fighting alone for years. Her resignation needs no translation.

There is no question in their minds who she’s talking about. After all, after the thirteen of them, there is only one "he" they associated with her. Her Papa.

Her Papa who has enough power and influence to never lose touch—and chose to erase her instead.

All twelve members look at Seungcheol, a wordless understanding passing through their gazes. His blink serves as a discreet nod. "갈래?" ["Do you want to leave?"]

YN’s mechanical movements abruptly shudder to a stop. She doesn't flinch, but her gaze, which had been lost in some distant, private world, snaps back to focus on Seungcheol. The gears in her mind slowly begin to turn, and her response, when it comes, is not quick. "못 가—" ["We can’t—"]

The Miami night is thick with heat, champagne, and victory. Outside, the city hums neon and bass, but here, in the private lounge tucked above the club, it’s all velvet couches, expensive bottles, and the low hum of voices that should be far too loud to feel this intimate.

You’re there because of George’s win. A night of celebration, one your father would have hated you attending. But Toto isn’t here. And the drivers around you, Max sprawled casually with a glass of whiskey, Charles and Carlos laughing in rapid French and Spanish, Lando snapping photos that will never see Instagram, Alex pouring another round, don’t see you as the team principal’s daughter tonight. They see you as something else entirely.

George is the first to make it obvious.

He leans in, his suit jacket brushing your bare arm, his voice low enough to coil straight into your spine.

“You’ve been staring at me all night,” he murmurs, eyes glittering with the same smug confidence he wore on the podium. “Careful, love, or the others will notice.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. Not from him. Not when his hand slides to your knee, firm, testing.

“Maybe I wanted them to notice,” you whisper back.

The room stills in that subtle way that means everyone has noticed. Max smirks over the rim of his glass, Charles’s brow arches, Lando actually laughs, and Alex just shakes his head like he’s not surprised at all.

George doesn’t give you time to blush. He grabs your jaw, tilts your face, and kisses you — hard, deep, reckless. The taste of champagne and salt lingers as the lounge goes quiet, except for the muffled thud of music through the walls.

When he breaks the kiss, your lips swollen, his smirk widens. He glances at the others with shameless pride, his hand still cupping your thigh.

“She’s mine tonight,” George says, voice rough, triumphant. “And I don’t give a damn if you all watch.”

The words land like fire in the air.

Max sets down his glass with deliberate calm, his eyes never leaving you. Charles leans forward, curiosity flickering. Carlos mutters something under his breath in Spanish, grinning. Lando whistles low, already restless. Alex only tips his head, studying you, heat hidden behind his usual calm.

The shift is palpable, an energy darker, sharper than champagne and laughter.

You should move. You should stop this. You’re Toto Wolff’s daughter, for God’s sake. But your thighs part anyway when George’s hand slides higher, his fingers brushing silk and skin.

And when you hear your own voice break the silence, breathless, daring:

“Then don’t make me wait”, the room is no longer about victory. It’s about you.

George doesn’t give you a second to breathe. His fingers rip the straps of your dress down, tugging the fabric until it pools at your waist. Your breasts spill free, nipples hard under the hungry stares of six men.

“Fuck, look at her,” Max mutters, his voice low and sharp, already palming his cock through his jeans.

George’s grin is wicked as he hooks his fingers in your panties, yanking them down your legs. The air is cool on your soaked pussy, but his mouth is hotter — greedy, wet, merciless as he buries himself between your thighs. His tongue drags over your clit, sucking hard, making you cry out, your hands clawing at his hair.

“Christ, she’s dripping,” George groans against you, his voice muffled. “She tastes like fucking sin.”

Across the room, Charles exhales shakily, unzipping himself, his cock already hard in his fist. Lando’s laugh is breathless, nervous, as he strokes himself, eyes locked on your body. Carlos mutters “joder, qué puta vista” under his breath, his hand working fast. Alex just watches, quiet, deliberate, his cock out, stroking slow, like he’s savoring every second.

The sight makes your whole body quake, the filthy reality of it, men you’ve only known from the grid, stroking themselves raw while watching you unravel.

George pulls back just long enough to smirk up at you, his mouth glistening with your wetness.

“You’re soaked for all of us, aren’t you? Fucking needy little thing.”

Before you can answer, he’s on his feet, undoing his zipper with brutal speed. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, and in the next second he’s slamming into you without warning.

You scream, nails digging into his back as he drives himself in to the hilt.

“Fuck! So tight,” George snarls, his breath hot against your ear. “And you’re mine tonight. Hear me? Mine. While they all watch you take every inch of my cock.”

Behind him, Max growls, his fist working faster.

“Stretch her out for us, Georgie. I want to see her begging before I ruin that pussy myself.”

The words, the eyes, the raw hunger circling you, it’s too much. And you don’t want it to stop.

George's cock is filling you completely while his mouth hovers over yours, his words hot against your lips.

“Look at you,” he groans, thrusting hard enough to make the couch creak. “Taking me in front of all of them… my sweet little prize.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, your moans rising shamelessly as he pounds into you. Every sound echoes in the lounge, every wet slap of skin reminding you that you’re being watched. And that thought makes you even wetter.

It doesn’t take long, he’s still drunk on adrenaline and victory. With a growl, George buries himself deep, spilling inside you. You whimper at the heat of it, feeling his cum leak out around his cock as he holds you down, panting against your mouth.

But there’s no pause.

Max is already there, standing over you. He grabs your chin, forcing your lips open, and shoves his cock past them with no ceremony, no patience. His voice is sharp, cruel amusement laced into every word.

“Wider,” he snaps, thrusting into your throat until your eyes water. “Show me if those lips can take more.” His hips slam forward, gagging you, but his smirk only grows darker. “Of course they can, you’re Toto’s daughter. You should be able to handle all of us.”

Your muffled moans vibrate around him, spit dripping down your chin as Max uses your mouth like it belongs to him.

At the same time, Charles kneels beside you, his lips closing around your nipple, sucking hard until you cry out around Max’s cock. His other hand slides down, spreading George’s cum over your swollen pussy, his fingers teasing, circling, dipping into the mess between your thighs.

“You taste like sin,” Charles murmurs against your breast, tongue flicking over your sensitive skin. “So sweet… so filthy.”

Max groans above you, hips snapping as he fucks your mouth harder, Charles plays with the cum dripping from your cunt, and you realize, you’re theirs now. Every single one of them.

Max’s cock slammed deeper into your throat, each thrust brutal, relentless, until your eyes watered and drool spilled down your chin. His hand was iron at the back of your head, holding you open for him, using you like you were nothing but his toy.

“Swallow it all,” he growled, his voice dark with triumph. “Show me you can take me like the good little whore you are.”

The first hot pulse hit the back of your throat before you could even brace yourself. Thick, heavy ropes of cum flooded your mouth, choking you, burning your lungs as you gagged around him. He held you there, groaning low as every drop spilled inside you.

“Don’t you dare waste it,” Max hissed, his hips jerking as the last spurts coated your tongue. “All of it. Down that pretty throat.”

You forced yourself to swallow, gulp after gulp, the taste sharp and salty, until your mouth was empty. When he finally pulled out, your chin was slick, your lips swollen, your throat raw.

He smirked down at you, stroking himself slowly, deliberately smearing your spit over his cock. Then his hand grabbed your jaw, forcing your mouth open, making you show him your empty tongue.

“Good girl,” he muttered, satisfaction dripping from every word. He bent just enough to slap his cock against your cheek, smearing the mess across your skin. “Didn’t think you could take me that deep. Guess I was wrong.”

But you don’t even have time to breathe before Carlos is there. His hands are rough, pulling you onto your knees and bending you forward over the couch. He doesn’t waste a second, his cock pushes into your pussy, forcing George’s cum to spill down your thighs as he fills you from behind.

“Dios mío,” he groans, gripping your hips so hard you’ll bruise. “So fucking tight, even after him. You were made for this.” His thrusts are brutal, pounding you against the couch, every slap of his hips echoing. “You like this, don’t you? Being passed around like a toy.”

You choke on a moan, your voice breaking, and that’s when Lando slides in front of you. His grin is wicked, playful, but his eyes are dark with hunger. He strokes himself once, then taps your lips with the head of his cock.

“Open up, princess” he teases, his tone light but sharp. “Come on... prove you can multitask.”

Your lips part, and he pushes inside, slower than Max but no less demanding. His cock slides deep into your throat as Carlos fucks you from behind, and the double stretch makes your eyes roll back.

Charles hasn’t moved far, he’s still kissing and sucking your breasts, his teeth scraping your nipples as he slowly fists his cock, stroking himself while his other hand circles your clit in maddening, deliberate strokes.

The combination makes your whole body tremble.

“Too much?” he whispers against your skin, though his fingers never stop. “Non… never too much. You were born for this, ma belle.”

Carlos pounds into you from behind with brutal force, each thrust shaking your body forward. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, dragging you back onto his cock again and again.

“Take it,” he growls, sweat dripping onto your back. “Take every inch of me.”

At the same time, Lando fists your hair and drives his cock deeper into your throat. Your lips stretch wide, spit running down your chin as he uses your mouth like it was made for him, his groans mixing with your muffled cries.

Charles is still latched onto your chest, sucking hard at one breast, his teeth scraping, his tongue flicking until your nipples are raw and burning. One hand kneads your other breast, twisting and pinching while he mutters in French about how perfect you taste.

The combination is devastating, your throat full, your breasts devoured, your pussy pounded so deep you can feel Carlos in your stomach. Heat coils low, unbearable, your body trembling.

And then it hits, your climax ripping through you violently. You scream around Lando’s cock, gagging as the orgasm crashes, your cunt squeezing Carlos like a vice.

“Fuck—sí, just like that,” Carlos snarls, slamming into you harder. His hips stutter, and with a guttural groan he spills deep inside you, hot and thick, pumping you full until you’re overflowing.

You collapse forward, still shaking, sucking him in with every spasm of your pussy, milking him dry as he curses against your spine.

Carlos pulls out with a groan, his cum spilling down your thighs in messy streaks. You barely have a second before another body moves in behind you. Alex.

“Move over, mate,” he mutters darkly, already stroking himself as he lines up. His hand spreads you wide, thumb smearing the slick mess dripping out of you. “Still dripping, still hungry. Perfect.”

And then he’s in, no hesitation, no mercy. His cock slides into your soaked, overstretched pussy, filling you again, his hips slamming against your ass in quick, punishing thrusts. You cry out, the sting mixing with unbearable pleasure, your body convulsing around him.

“Fuck, you’re ruined already,” Alex groans, his fingers digging into your waist as he pounds deeper. “But you’re still gripping me like you need more.”

In front of you, Lando is still using your throat, fucking your mouth with sharp, shallow thrusts. His cock hits the back of your throat again and again until your eyes are watering, spit running freely down your chest.

Charles doesn’t let up either, his mouth sucking hard at your breasts, tugging at your nipples until they’re swollen and raw, his tongue flicking mercilessly as he pinches the other between his fingers.

Your body is filled, every inch of your body claimed. The overstimulation is unbearable, yet addictive.

Alex growls behind you, snapping his hips harder, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the room.

“Come for me,” he snarls, slapping your ass sharply. “Come on my cock while I fuck you full.”

Lando is still buried in your throat, his pace quickening as he curses above you.

“You look perfect like this,” Lando gasps, gripping your hair tighter. “Taking all of us. Fuck, I could watch this all night.”

Max’s voice cuts through, sharp and taunting: “Careful, mate. She still has to take me again after you’re done.”

Alex’s thrusts turn erratic, his groans growing louder as his nails dig into your hips. He slams deep one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his cock throbs inside you.

“Fuck!” he snarls, spilling hot and thick, his release flooding you until it mixes with the mess already dripping down your thighs. The heat of it makes you cry out around Lando’s cock, your body clenching tight as another wave of orgasm rips through you.

Alex holds you there, his forehead pressed to your back, groaning as he empties every last drop inside you. Then, with a sharp exhale, he drags out of you slowly, deliberately, watching his cum spill freely from your swollen cunt.

By the time he steps back, your body is wrecked — thighs trembling, skin slick with sweat, spit, and cum. But the hungry looks around you tell the truth: they’re not done. Not even close.

Lando finally drags himself out of your throat, your lips swollen, your chin wet with spit and cum that never made it down. He wipes his cock across your cheek, smirking at the mess he’s left, then gives a sharp tug on your hair so you look up at him.

“Not done yet,” he pants, stroking himself, the head flushed and dripping. “I’m gonna finish in another hole, princess. Want to feel me there when I blow.”

The words barely land before Max is shoving you down, flipping you over so your stomach is pressed to his chest, his grip bruising on your hips as he hauls your ass into the air. His cock grinds up through the slick mess between your thighs, smearing cum everywhere, the thick head pressing against your raw, wet entrance.

“You’re mine now,” Max snarls, and with one brutal thrust he’s inside your pussy, splitting you open again, burying himself to the base. The stretch is overwhelming, your scream muffled as your face presses into his chest.

“Gonna fuck you until you can’t remember your own name.”

Your voice cracks, broken pleas spilling from your lips, but they only laugh.

Max pounds up into you from below, his cock spearing deep, every thrust brutal and unrelenting. You’re screaming into his chest, your nails raking his skin, but it only makes him groan louder, his hands bruising your hips as he slams you down harder.

Then Lando moves in behind you, spitting into his palm before slicking himself quickly. His hand grips your ass, spreading you wide, and the blunt head of his cock presses right against your other hole, already sensitive and messy.

“Fuck! So tight back here,” he hisses, voice trembling with need. “Gonna stretch you wide open.”

You sob when he pushes, slow at first, then harder, until the burn makes your whole body shake. Max growls under you, holding you still so you take every inch. Lando groans when he bottoms out, both of them buried inside you now, your body stretched to its limit, stuffed so full it’s almost unbearable.

“Scheiße, look at her,” Max snarls, fucking up into your pussy even harder. “She was made for this.”

Before you can even beg for relief, Charles is there, grabbing your chin and shoving his cock into your swollen mouth. His hand grips the back of your head as he pushes deep, your lips stretched around him, spit already spilling down your chin again.

“Ma belle…” he groans, thrusting into your throat, his other hand squeezing your breast hard. “So perfect like this. Taking all of us. Born to be ruined.”

Pinned between all three of them — Max rutting into your pussy, Lando pounding your ass, Charles using your throat — your body convulses helplessly, every hole filled, every nerve on fire. You can’t even scream, your moans swallowed around Charles’s cock, your body wrecked, shaking, and desperate for release.

Every nerve screams, every thrust pushing you higher until you can’t breathe, can’t think, can only take what they give you.

“Good girl,” Charles pants, his cock sliding deep down your throat, spit dripping from your lips onto his hand as he holds you there. “Ma belle… so beautiful when you choke on me.”

Max grunts beneath you, his thrusts brutal, cock pounding up into your pussy, the sound of your wetness echoing with every snap of his hips. His palm cracks against your ass again, the sting mixing with the burn of Lando inside your other hole.

“Greedy little slut… this is what you fucking want. All of us, stuffing every inch of you.”

Lando leans over your back, his chest pressing to your spine, his hips driving forward with every filthy roll. His hand grips your waist tight, his lips brushing your ear as he groans. “So tight back here… fuck, you’re going to milk me dry. You feel perfect, every inch of you. I’m never letting you go.”

The room is thick with groans and curses, but it’s the ones not inside you that make you clench even harder.

George sits close, his fist wrapped around his cock, stroking fast as he watches your body bounce between the three of them.

“Fuck, look at you… you’re incredible. All of them inside you and still begging for more. My perfect girl.”

Carlos mutters in Spanish, his voice dripping filth as he fists his cock hard, precum dripping from the tip. “Mierda… look at her, fucked open like this, dripping with all of us… Qué puta más deliciosa. I want my turn again.”

And Alex — calm, steady Alex — just tips his head back with a dark smirk, stroking himself slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving the way your body convulses under them all.

“Take it all, pretty girl. Show them you can handle six cocks, not just three.”

Charles’s hand tightens in your hair as he forces himself deeper down your throat, your gagging moans only spurring him on. “Oui, choke on it. Swallow every drop when I give it to you.”

Max snarls under you, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he slams you down harder. “You’ll come on me again before I’m finished. You’re going to scream for me.”

And Lando, already shaking, his pace erratic, groans into your ear, his words a broken cry.

“You’re going to make me come so deep in your ass… fuck, I can’t hold it..”

Your whole body breaks, every nerve lit with fire, every filthy word, every brutal thrust dragging you under.

And then you break. Again.

The orgasm tears through you violent and overwhelming, your cunt spasming tight around Max, your ass clenching hard on Lando, your throat convulsing around Charles’s cock. Tears stream down your face, spit and drool dripping from your lips as you choke on him, your whole body trembling, wrecked, undone.

Max groans beneath you, his hips snapping one last time as he spills hot and deep inside your pussy.

“Scheiße... made for me...” he growls, holding you down on him as his cum leaks out around his cock.

Lando follows, his rhythm breaking as he shoves deep in your ass, his face buried in your neck.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m coming... take it, take it all...” he gasps, emptying himself into you until you’re stretched and dripping.

Charles snarls above, his grip bruising on your hair as he forces himself deeper down your throat. Your gagging moan vibrates around him, pulling his climax out in harsh spurts that spill straight into your mouth.

“Swallow, ma belle. Every drop,” he hisses, groaning as he holds your head still until you do.

But it doesn’t end there.

Carlos, fist pumping fast, finally gives in with a guttural curse, painting your bare back and shoulders with hot streaks of cum, the mess dripping down your spine.

“Mierda… look at you... perfect little slut,” he pants, watching it slide down onto your ass.

Alex strokes himself with steady precision until his composure shatters, his release joining Carlos’s, covering your lower back and the curve of your ass.

“God, you’re ruined for anyone else,” he mutters darkly, smearing it over your skin with his hand.

And George, still seated, stroking himself slow and deliberate, watches it all with eyes dark and hungry. His chest heaves, his cock twitching in his fist, but he doesn’t finish yet. His voice is rough, low, vibrating with restraint.

“Best fucking victory party ever,” he mutters, licking his lips. “But I’m not wasting it on your skin… I’ll finish inside where I belong. After they’re done, you’re mine.”

Your body is wrecked, every nerve fried, cum dripping from your pussy, ass, and lips, your back streaked white with Carlos’s and Alex’s release. You’re trembling, weak, your voice hoarse from moaning and crying out, but George is watching. Waiting.

He finally rises from his chair, cock flushed and aching in his fist. His eyes are dark, feral, fixed on the sight of you ruined by his rivals. He strokes himself once, twice, then grabs your hair, yanking your head back so you meet his gaze.

“My turn,” he rasps, his breath ragged. “I told you, I’m the one who finishes inside first and last.”

He shoves Max aside, not caring about the mess still leaking from your pussy, and pushes you flat onto the couch. Your legs are shaking, spread wide, slick and filthy, but George doesn’t hesitate. He kneels between your thighs, lines himself up, and with one brutal thrust, he’s inside.

You scream, your back arching, the stretch unbearable after everything, his cock sliding through the cum left by Max and others, fucking it deeper inside you. George groans, his head falling back, his hands gripping your hips so hard you know there’ll be bruises.

“Jesus Christ… so full of us, and still so fucking tight. You’re mine now.”

He pounds into you with reckless hunger, each thrust sloppy with the mess of the others, your body spasming around him. You sob his name, broken and desperate, and he only growls, leaning over to bite at your throat.

“Say it,” he snarls against your skin. “Say I’m the one you need. Say it while they watch.”

Your nails claw at his shoulders, your voice breaking.

“Yes! George...I need you!”

His rhythm grows frantic, hips snapping brutally as he slams deeper, chasing his end. One hand slides to your clit, rubbing mercilessly until you break again, your pussy clenching down hard on him as you come for what feels like the hundredth time.

“You did so well,” he whispers, possessive and proud. “Taking all of us like that. But don’t forget...” he thrusts deep, his release quick, sharp, filling you again “...you’re mine.”

With a guttural groan, he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you, hot and endless, filling you on top of the mess already dripping out.

When he finally pulls out, cum gushes from you, spilling down your thighs, soaking the cushions beneath. George leans back, chest heaving, watching it leak out with a crooked, satisfied grin.

“Look at that,” he pants, wiping sweat from his brow. “All of us in you. Exactly how it should be.”

The others are still watching — Charles smirking, Max grinning darkly, Carlos and Alex catching their breath, Lando smiling. But George leans down, kisses your swollen lips hard, possessive, and whispers:

“Remember, no matter how many of them touch you... you finish with me.”

Your body is trembling, every nerve raw, slick with sweat and seed. Cum still drips messily from between your thighs and back, sliding down onto the ruined velvet cushions. You can barely keep your eyes open, overstimulation leaving you dizzy, wrecked.

That’s when George moves.

He lifts you effortlessly into his arms, ignoring the whistles and half-laughed comments from the others, and carries you toward the private bathroom tucked inside the lounge. The sound of the faucet running is almost jarring after the chaos outside.

He sets you gently on the counter, his hands steady despite the wreckage he helped cause. With a warm cloth, he begins to clean you, slow strokes down your thighs, careful wipes where you’re most sore, his touch nothing but reverent.

“You were perfect,” he whispers, his voice low, nothing like the arrogant man who claimed you in front of them all. He presses a kiss to your temple, to your damp hair. “Better than perfect. My good girl.”

You shiver at the contact, overstimulation making every touch too much, your thighs trembling as he parts them again to wipe away the thick mess. He notices, and his hand pauses, stroking your hip instead.

“Easy,” he soothes, his accent softer now, warm. “I’ve got you. No more tonight. Just me taking care of you.”

The words make your chest ache, tears threatening for no reason you can name. You nod weakly, leaning into him, letting him hold the cloth and press kisses across your shoulder.

When he finishes, he lifts you again, wrapping a spare towel around your body like it’s fragile. His lips find yours — gentle, unhurried, almost tender.

“They’ll laugh about it,” he admits, carrying you back toward the couch, his breath warm against your hair. “But I don’t care. You were mine before, and you’re mine now. Always.”

And even as your body still throbs, still shakes from too much, you believe him. Because in his arms, even after all of them, you still feel claimed.

*

By the time George settles you back onto the couch, wrapped in a towel and tucked against his chest, the others are already dressed again, sipping from their abandoned glasses as if nothing happened. The air reeks of sweat, sex, and champagne — your skin sticky, your thighs still messy despite George’s careful hands.

Lando whistles low, his grin wicked.

“If Toto ever finds out…” He trails off, shaking his head with mock horror. “Mate, he’d fucking kill us all.”

Max smirks, leaning back with his drink.

“Kill you, maybe. I’d like to see him try with me.” His gaze drags deliberately over your ruined body, still trembling against George. “Imagine his precious daughter, dripping with all of us at once. Fuck, he’d lose his mind.”

Charles chuckles, his accent smooth as silk. “Mon dieu, he would never look at us the same again. Not after seeing her like this. Covered, filled, ruined.”

Carlos mutters something sharp in Spanish, grinning as he zips up his trousers.

“He’d probably ban you from the garage forever. Or worse, make you sit through one of his strategy meetings as punishment.”

Even Alex, calm as ever, shakes his head with a dry smile. “I don’t think ‘furious’ would cover it. More like apocalyptic.”

Their laughter fills the room, half-teasing, half-taunting.

You hide your face in George’s chest, your cheeks burning, but his hand strokes your hair as his eyes cut to the others.

“Say what you like,” he says evenly, his tone steady, possessive. “But none of you touched her without me letting you. She’s mine. Toto or no Toto... she’s mine.”

The silence that follows is sharp, charged. Then Max laughs again, raising his glass.

“To George,” he mocks lightly, though his smirk is approving. “And to his girl, who takes more than anyone thought possible.”

The toast is met with clinks and laughter, but George only holds you tighter, his lips brushing your damp hair. Low enough for only you to hear, he murmurs, “Don’t listen. You were perfect. My perfect girl.”

And despite the mess, the teasing, the shameful thrill of it all, you believe him.

—

♥ Tagged readers list: @sainzandsin | @omgsuperstarg | @neatlyslyphantom

(ask to be added/removed)

Y/n wasn't necessarily aware of the fact she held such appeal to drivers. But one thing that was obvious was Toto's intentions for y/n to date George and George was honestly on board with the idea.

The only problem is that Lando moved to Monaco 3 years ago and unbeknownst to Toto, he had some intentions to completely destroy the "arranged" relationship between George and y/n.

He's not sure why he was so determined to be in the way of the near perfect plan. Maybe because Monaco is actually a very boring place, maybe because y/n deserves someone more exciting than George, maybe it's just rivalry gone rogue.

Lando doesn't care all that much about his own motives. He just likes doing something that disrupts someone else's plans and distracts them from their goal in F1.

Y/n is thankfully naive and clueless to Lando's underhanded play, using her as a toy for entertainment and to work to his advantage beyond just that.

"My dad said he wants to invite you for dinner." Y/n comments as she lies in bed with Lando who is focused on his phone, typing away as he messages some of the team for Quadrant about their newest launch.

"Your dad...Toto?" Lando smirks knowing that he has no approval from the Austrian man so for Toto to want to have dinner it means he's trying to assert him. Probably trying to intimidate Lando away from his daughter since his reputation precedes him and Lando knows George is especially happy to poke at Lando about his choice of lifestyle.

"You don't have to. I know it could be awkward."

Y/n might be naive and blinded by her feelings with Lando, but she's more than aware that Toto really wanted her to date George. In fact it's no secret to anyone, the media even knows and they also know that Lando shamelessly flaunts that he's got y/n wrapped around his finger.

"No, I think it's time we had a dinner together and I got to really spend time with your dad." Lando smirks making her look at him brightly, none the wiser to his ulterior motive.

-

Lando found it no surprise to see Toto found a way to get them alone in the guise of a house tour. As if Lando hasn't fucked y/n on every surface of the place when Toto and Susie had been out of Monaco.

"I know what you're doing. Trying to bring some sort of pain to me by exploiting my daughter. She will find out." Toto states casually and in truth Lando knows the amount of power Toto holds over him.

But Lando has the ace with knowing Toto won't hurt y/n and y/n loves Lando.

"I'm glad you brought this up. I know it's been...in the works for a while now." Lando starts watching Toto perk up thinking he's about to get a confession. "Because I'd love you blessing in asking y/n to marry me."

Now admittedly, y/n was initially a move out of spite but he can't deny he's fallen for the girl and there's good reason in his mind that he's kept her around. She's sweet and she's loving and he can see a long and happy life with her. But the sheer rage on Toto's face is something he's pretty sure should be in his nightmares but instead it's just the best thing he's seen in a while.

"You aren't marrying y/n. She is not going to have a fraud of a marriage ruin her life because you think it's funny to mess around with her. This has gone too far."

"Toto." Susie's voice states making both the men turn to find y/n and Susie looking at them, clearly they heard more of what Toto said than what Lando said.

"What's going on?" Y/n asks looking between the two men.

"Your dad doesn't support us." Lando states in a hurt tone that contrasts the confident smug attitude he'd had when the two men were alone.

"Dad." Y/n mumbles with a small frown.

"Y/n, he does not love you he is doing this out of spite and from a bad place." Toto tries watching Susie shake her head at how badly this is all going.

"I'll leave you to the family meal. Text me when you need picked up." Lando states watching her look completely devastated as he walks closer to her.

"I'm sorry." Y/n whispers earning a quick head shake.

"Don't worry about it. I'll come get you later."

Lando lets himself out and unsurprisingly y/n turns to her dad giving him a lecture on how disappointed she is and how she will be staying with Lando no matter what his approval on the matter.

They do endure a high tension dinner of which Susie attempts to diffuse the uncomfortable silence but at the end of it, y/n practically jumps out her seat to clear up and wash the dishes after sending Lando a message to come pick her up in 10 minutes and with the dishes done. She exits giving Susie a hug and her dad a side-eye before she's gone.

"She might see sense."

"She won't. She's in love." Toto grimaces wishing he was talking about someone else.

-

Lando wasted no time, he had a ring on y/n's finger by the next day and the announcement came as a shock to everyone but Toto.

The F1 community was shocked because everyone had known about Lando and y/n but there was always a bit of a love triangle and it always seemed like George was the "right" choice for her but Lando was just getting involved to stir the pot and make George's life difficult.

Everyone expected the fling to be exactly that and never lead to anything more serious.

Lando didn't hold back either, he get a weighty diamond that she can feel on her hand at all times.

"Congratulations." George states as himself Lando walk into the waiting area for the drivers parade. "I know what you're doing when it comes to y/n...I just hope you don't break her heart."

"You've been spending too much time with Toto.” Lando scoffs shaking his head. “Or did you really think that y/n actually had an interest in an arranged relationship?”

"It wasn't arranged...not like you're saying." George argues but he knows really Toto was pushing for it.

"If she wanted you then I'm sure she'd have said no when I proposed." Lando shrugs before moving away from George towards Max for a more refreshing conversation.

-

Despite Toto trying his best to not let his daughter become estranged from him and not let it effect his work but he's failing and while he's by no means the only person Mercedes relies on, he's the boss and he's the final say.

McLaren has had the best time taking advantage of that weakness and Mercedes has dropped away with no chance of being a threat.

"Do you really think this is right?" Y/n asks making Lando look at her with a raised eyebrow. "I don't really want to lose my dad but if I have to so we can be happy then...that's what I'll do."

"We only need each other baby. If you dad doesn't want to support you then I'll provide everything you could possibly need." Lando promises softly making him tilt her head a little. "I know you don't want it to be like that but sometimes people can't accept what makes other people happy-who makes other people happy."

"You are the best thing that's ever happened to me." Y/n whispers making Lando smile brightly at her before he looks at her for a moment. "Thank you so much."

"You're so welcome." Lando chuckles then moving his hand to her own and rubbing the knuckle above the large stone. "I'm not going anywhere without you there."

"Good, because I don't want to go anywhere without you." Y/n smiles leaning in and kissing the man softly. "I love you."

GQ 10 things Y/n Wolff can’t live without

“Hi GQ, I am Y/n Wolff and here are my essentials.” The young woman opens her arms looking at the objects displayed on the table, before looking up and smiling to the camera.

# Sugar

“My trainer may not agree. My coaches may not agree. My performance coach may not agree. My parents definitely don’t agree.” She points out, “But I need sugar.” The young woman brings to the centre of the table a small pile of sweets, a tall cup of caffeinated drink and a can of Red Bull, “I live of sugar and… sugary things…”

“My day starts with this lovely peppermint iced mocha sweetened with vanilla sugar… a ton of vanilla sugar.” Y/n laughs taking a sip of her drink “I am weirdly obsessed with mint and chocolate combinations…” She comments looking at the camera, “I drink perhaps two or three of those per day,” The young woman then places her hand over the top of the Red Bull can, most people who follow her already know that she is an athlete sponsored by Red Bull, “sugar-free Red Bull, which ironically is sweeter than the regular one.” She puts her hand on the pile of chocolates, “Milk-chocolate, I am not going to lie and say that I eat the healthy stuff, I don’t, I have the taste buds of a child,” the tennis player smiles mischievously at the camera, “right now I am really into this Finnish chocolate, Geisha and the blue Fazer, daddy always keep those in his offices for me.” She wrinkles her nose a little, giving the camera a lovely—childish—smile.

“Aero Mint bar, Chocolate Orange, Maltesers, Bounty, Kinder, truffles…I'm honestly starting to wonder how we managed to get through customs.” She laughs looking at her entourage behind the cameras. “This is like… a fraction of what I usually travel with, this is more like what I have in my bag for the day.”

#Photos

Y/n played a little with a golden square object in her hand.

“I travel a lot, I am on the road from January to November playing at tournaments around the world, so I can’t always be surrounded or in touch with the people that I love,” she says in a slightly more serious tone, taking the golden case in her hands and pressing the button to open, showing pile of polaroid photos, “those are mini Polaroids, so I can bring them with me wherever I go, I keep them inside this vintage cigarette case that belonged to my maternal grandmother, she was a absolute rockstar and I miss her very much.”  The camera takes a close-up on the golden case with rope motif and small colourful stones. “As I don’t smoke, I had to find another use for it.”

The first photo she shows is five adults together, smiling around a table, in what appears to be a ski resort.

“I have a very patchwork family, and somehow the adults in my life made it work…which I am very grateful for, not everyone is lucky to have so many amazing parents…so here I have my mum and my two other mothers, Stephanie and Susie, papa and my other father, Phillippe,” the second photo is her with a boy not much younger than her, two teenage girls and a small child in front of a Christmas tree, “my siblings, I have four, I am the eldest whatever way you go, huge flex,” the photo is followed by one of a pyjama party with several girls in matching pyjamas, and another of the tennis player with a blonde in front of the Eiffel Tower, “My gurls! This is my best friend, she is also my PA… so amazing to have someone I trust so much with me all the time…” a golden cocker spaniel with a crystal necklace, silk bows in its ears and a Gucci sweater appears on the screen, “this is Éclair Wolff, my emotional support dog aka my child, she actually goes with me mostly everywhere, but sometimes I leave her with my mum so she won’t be stressed by the long flights.”

She points to the next three photos, the first has the Mercedes drivers in Tommy Hilfinger, posing for the photo. “Lew and Georgie, the adopted older brothers I never asked for, but I love them.” The second photo has three other familiar faces making faces at the camera, “C2, my Ferrari boys, feat Pear, there is something wholesome about good looking men looking so silly, I love those guys and I love this picture, it is very on brand with them.”  The tennis player smiles at the camera. “Sharls, Carlitos and Pear are three of the nicest guys I have ever met, it is truly a blessing be able to call them friends and having them in my life.”

McLaren driver Lando Norris, in his third or fourth season, apparently not even realizing he was having his photo taken, it's a spontaneous photo, the soft sunlight highlighting the driver's profile as he smiles.

“Because of karting, I’ve known Lando since I was a head taller than him, he was my first crush…he was so shy, so adorable, so babygirl coded.” Y/n blushed a little as she shows the photo.

“I think most of the current grid is in here…oh, look, it’s Lance! Friends from life, from tennis…” She quickly changes showing another photo. “I think I easily have about sixty photos here..."

#Camera

“I don’t have a specific camera I like more than the others, but as a rule, I prefer vintage cameras just for the beauty of the final result, I inherited a few, I bought a few, I usually develop the photos when I'm at home for longer periods of time, edit the videos, digitalize a few…” She points to the cameras in front of her, a Bolex, a Digital Bolex, a very iconic Rolleiflex and a Super 8, “It is a very nostalgic experience to just go through a year worth of memories…” She says resting her face in her hand, “I have a hundred boxes with pictures and film rolls.”

“I love going through old pictures with my mom and Cass, my younger sister, from when we were babies, my parents in the 90’s, my mom when she was young, the wonderful life my grandparents lived, and is such a lovely moment to share with my mom.” Y/n has a soft smile on her lips. “One day, when I have my own kids, I want to have those moments with them, and not just scrolling through a phone or an iPad.”

#Journals

“I keep journals since I was a child, I get a new one every year,” She holds up the leather hardcover notebook, a deep indigo blue, a little worn around the edges, “after I turned thirteen years old, I started to get it in this specific shade of blue, with my initials in gold,” The girl opens the journal, leafing through it briefly, “I am never going to write an auto-biography, it’s kind of a little bit too egocentric to my taste,” She knocks it closed, but keeps it up, looking at the camera as she speaks , “but if someone ever write about me, fifty years from now… the facts will be straight, at least from my point of view… but even if no one ever writes about me… when I am old and grey and memory starts to fail me, I will be able to come back to the thoughts of twenty years old me…”

There is a moment of silence.

“That was kind of dark.” Y/n laughs to break the tension.

#Art Supplies

“I love to draw and paint, it eases the anxieties of life,” The tennis player shows the large sketchbook, a small aluminium case with the watercolours, and the rolling leather case with pencils and brushes, “I always bring a watercolour travel kit with my sketchbook wherever I go.”

She displays for the internet some of the landscapes she painted during her travels around the world.

#Hoodies

“I like to be comfortable after a match,” she spreads her arms across the perfectly folded hoodies on the table, “and nothing is more comfortable than a hoodie, feels a little bit like home.”

“I have my collection of hoodies with Adidas, they always provide me with new cool colours to try out and see if I want to add to the next collection,” Y/n opens sage green hoodie, running her hand over her initials and the Adidas logo. “Enchanté by Dani Ric, I have a bunch of those, Daniel is always kind enough to drop them at my house in Monaco, VIP treatment baby.” She points to the white hoodie. “Quadrant hoodies, Lando’s merch, ridiculously comfy, I would really like them in pastel colours or dusty rose… just putting out to the universe…” Y/n smiles and winks at the camera. “Valtteri, MV1… those all came with me for the US Open.”

#Skincare

“This is part of my daily routine.” The girl opens the toiletry bag, taking out the products inside, “I am always in different countries and different hotel rooms, so is nice to have this little sense of routine.”

She lines the pearlescent bottles with opaque round lids on top of the table.

“I launched Muse when I was seventeen years old, it is my skincare brand, and it is very me. I wanted it to be un-complicated and complete,” The young woman explains passionately looking at the camera, “skin is the body’s largest organ, and it is not only your face.” It affects the hair on your face, tucking it behind your ear before going back to the product bottles. “The line goes from body wash to suncream to night-time routine.”  

#Travel Pillow

“If I mess up my neck and shoulder, I am f***ed, my match is over and possibly the tournament.” She holds up a medium-sized pillow to the camera, the pillowcase light pink silk with red buttonholes around the edges and her initials in the corner. “So, this baby goes with me everywhere, it is a memory foam pillow with a silk pillowcase. Best sleep, best hair.”

#Sport Gear

“I generalized here, sport gear, I travel heavy, always,” she points to the array of equipment on the table, “this is my racket, I go to each tournament with around ten of those, just in case I wreak one on the ground,” Y/n passes her hand over the racket, “those are custom Yonex Ezone 98, they made it in Mountbatten pink with some cool pattern and my initials,” she smiles as she pulls the helmet close to her chest, “my helmet, also custom Mountbatten pink, with my initials in rose, I love to try new karting tracks, most people don’t know I used to race karts when I was younger, won a couple of trophies, went as far as F3 before I choose to go pro with tennis, car racing is a huge thing in my family…my dad used to race, my stepmom was a driver, my little brother probably going to be a F1 driver,” she recounts with a smile, “I joked once with my dad that we are at a window that if I have a kid in the next year or two, in twenty years we can have a Wolff’s drivers line-up for Mercedes.” The young woman smirks to the camera. “My dad almost passed out, and now I am not allowed to date until I am thirty.”

#Headphones

“Those are custom made for me, again, they are Mountbatten pink and rose with my logo, super comfortable on the ears, I usually have problems with headphones due to the piercings and earrings, but these didn't give me any problems, they fit well, and I can spend the whole day wearing them." She takes the gadget out of the case, showing the details. “It's not wireless, because I always forget to charge it, so it has a wire, they made this lovely, thick cord that is durable and super resistant,” Y/n wraps the rope around her fingers, “it is noise cancelling and it is always with me before every match as an essential part of my pre-match rituals.”

“The right music kind of puts you in the right mood, I usually go with Eminem in 80% of my matches, I feel like it unleashes my inner fighter, these are matches where I'm not really worried about my opponent, it is just raw and a little bit thoughtless, I just play,” she comments, “when I know that my opponent is going to be hard on the mind games, which is not an uncommon move in tennis, I tend to listen to calmer and more melancholic music, piano, it keeps me in a more peaceful zone, I don’t get pumped up and full of adrenaline, my game tends to be far more calculated…”

 #

“That’s it. Those were my ten essentials,” the young woman smiles, “thank you, GQ, for allowing me to share my essentials, much appreciated, and thank you guys for taking the time to watch it! Much love and see you next time!” The athlete says, blowing a kiss and winking to the camera as the credits shows up.

__________________________________________

2,109,963 views   Aug 29, 2022

978 Comments

 userone

i was todays yrs old when i found out that tennis superstar Y/n Wolff is the eldest child of THE Toto Wolff

            user1

            From what little she talks about her dad here, u just get the vibes that Merce boss Toto is a softie girl dad, he keeps her favourite candy in his offices and forbids her to date until she’s thirty, this is so sweet

haterone

a billionaire’s nepo baby, talking about her millionaire friends and her unrelatable lifestyle and things

usertwo

Y/n’s hair is probably the healthiest hair i ever seen i need her hair routine

userthree

I am so obsessed with her career! I want to see her continue to succeed and be one of the biggest tennis players of all times. She deserves it. Such a talented, humble kid.

userfour

i loved hearing her talk about her family and friends!!! it is so crazy that she is close friends with a bunch of F1 drivers.

            hatertwo

            Not so crazy since she’s literally a f1 nepo baby, her daddy is part owner of Mercedes.

userfive

She's like that one super popular chick in school who's actually a total sweetheart.

usersix

I totally relate to her being a sweet tooth

@userseven

I love that she was not talking to the camera. She was actually talking to the people there behind the scenes

usereight

i love how a lot of these items are usually a stereotype of being pretentious—a vintage cartier cigarette case, a film camera, a leather bound custom hermes journal, art supplies--but she talks about all of them with such genuine interest and attachment that it doesnt seem pretentious at all

usereighteen

U r the one name dropping the brands she uses…

usernine

Her nicknames for Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr and Pierre Gasly… I died dead…

            user9

            The fact that she’s gushing about lando and being so sweet about her childhood crush on him oml

            user10

            Omg it is so cuuute!!! Like, she had a crush on little Lando and not McLaren glow up Lando Norris

            user11

            I used to be so conflicted shipping her with the drivers, because she dates that tennis player, but her insta has a bunch of her and Charles and her and Pierre and her and Lance and it is so cute and kind of gives such soft vibes, those boys look half in love with her in most pictures, also ...the chemistry. but seeing the way she talks about Lando… they r my new diehard ship…

userten  

Are we going to ignore that she confessed that Lando Norizz was her first crush???

            user1

            They would be so cute together… and they ate both single now… at the same time… we can dream…

            user12

            i went ten steps further and in my head, they are already getting married and having cute future Mercedes world drivers’ champions…

user13

 Can we already dream of Lando at Mercedes???

usereleven

Ok… but didn’t Lando once commented like, very briefly, in a McLaren video, that he used to have a crush on a girl that used to go karting with him??? The girl who wore red ribbons in her hair… do you guys know who uses red ribbons in heir hair since she was an actual baby?? Y/n! There is a pic in her insta of her in a karting track with her dad, and she has red bows in her hair…

            user11

            Not gonna lie… It would be kinda of cute if they actually had a mutual childhood crush and then eventually end up together as adults…