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Adopt Me, Alonso! ⛐

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Summary: Y/N Alonso is the paddock’s unofficial mum. She brings snacks, gives hugs, and somehow knows when you're sad before you do. Everyone loves her. But Lance Stroll? He gets pancakes, blankets, and kisses on the helmet. The rookies aren’t having it. Suddenly they're all sick, limping, and dramatically collapsing for her attention. Fernando sees through it. And Y/N? She just wants to know why six boys are fighting over soup.

Pairing: Fernando Alonso x Wife!Reader x Platonic!Grid

Content: Fluff, weaponized clinginess, petty rookie drama, emotional fake illnesses, pancake favoritism, soup bribery, Fernando losing the will to live, Lance thriving, and six rookies auditioning for adoption like it’s The Bachelor: Grid Mum Edition.

Author’s Note 🏎️: This story was pure chaos from start to finish and honestly... I don’t even know what happened. I just had the image of Lance eating pancakes in fuzzy socks while six rookies fake-coughed for attention and it spiraled from there.

It’s dramatic, it’s ridiculous, it’s soft and unhinged at the same time. If you’ve ever felt violently jealous over someone getting the last pancake, this one’s for you.

Thanks for reading and enabling my nonsense 💚

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Formula 1 had accepted that Y/N Alonso was more than just Fernando’s wife.

She was the paddock’s comfort person. The one who brought snacks to debriefs. The one who carried spare tissues in her bag and always noticed when someone looked tired. She once hugged Ollie after a rough quali and accidentally made him cry into her shoulder for seven whole minutes. She gave Isack a cookie during a media day meltdown and he nearly proposed.

To the rookies? She was Mother. Capital M.

If you were sick, tired, sore, dramatic, hungry, overwhelmed, underwhelmed, or just needed a hug, Y/N was there. Always warm. Always smelling like jasmine and clean laundry. Always calling you sweetheart and making you feel like you hadn’t just knocked over a $25,000 front wing in FP2.

So naturally, they clung to her like ducklings.

She wasn’t a team principal. She wasn’t even a member of the pit crew. But because she was always around Fernando and Aston Martin, and because her smile made everything feel slightly less terrifying, the rookies started hovering near their garage like moths.

Until they noticed something strange.

Lance.

Lance Stroll, the actual driver for Aston Martin, was getting… extra attention.

“Did she just tuck a blanket around him?” Franco whispered from behind a stack of tires.

“She fed him a grape,” Gabriel replied, eyes wide.

“No. I swear. She just…she just told him he was ‘so brave’ for driving in the rain.”

Ollie, hiding behind a pit board, gasped. “She’s never called me brave.”

Kimi was silent. Which was suspicious in itself, because Kimi was only ever quiet when he was either deeply focused or deeply offended.

“…did she just ruffle his hair?” Kimi asked flatly, blinking like his whole world had been a lie.

The breaking point came when they accidentally overheard something behind the team motorhome.

Y/N was crouched in front of Lance, fixing his helmet with practiced hands. “Alright, baby, go out there and show them hell, okay Lancy poo?” she said sweetly, pressing a kiss to the top of his helmet.

The rookies collectively gasped.

“Did she just call him—”

“She kissed his helmet,” Franco hissed.

“Oh my god,” Ollie whispered, stunned.

Then, somewhere inside the motorhome, someone muttered under their breath, “I’m telling you, Lance has to be their son from another life. That’s why they’re so attached.”

The silence that followed was immediate and devastating.

“We’ve been replaced,” Liam muttered.

“Lance is the golden child,” Ollie said.

“Not on my watch,” Isack declared, eyes glinting with mischief. “We fake sick. All of us.”

———

Phase One: Operation Baby Duck

It started small. A sniffle here. A quiet “I think I’m running a fever” there. Y/N was immediately concerned.

“Oh sweetheart, sit down! You look flushed. Fernando, get the thermometer!”

Fernando, halfway through his espresso, stared at Isack.“You look fine.”

Isack let out a soft, tragic cough that sounded suspiciously like a fake cat hairball.

Y/N gasped. “Don’t be mean, Nando! He’s obviously struggling.”

Struggling to hold in laughter, maybe.

The next day, Liam showed up to the paddock wrapped in a scarf, hoodie, and blanket. In Singapore.

Y/N blinked. “Honey, you’re sweating.”

“I’m battling,” Liam whispered, eyes watery. “Let me hold your hand. It helps.”

By the end of the week, the rookies were limping, coughing, sneezing, and making dramatic groaning noises every time they stood up. One of them even requested homemade soup in the middle of a press conference.

Kimi took it a step further and made Fernando help him limp down the paddock hallway like he had a war injury. When asked what happened, he said “emotional fatigue.”

Fernando had had enough.

“They were literally playing football twenty minutes ago,” he muttered, watching the group pile onto Y/N’s lap like Victorian children dying of the plague.

“No they weren’t,” she said, gently stroking Isack’s hair.

“Yes. They were. I saw it. Isack was doing bicycle kicks. Kimi slide tackled Liam.”

Behind her back, the boys made faces at him. Stuck their tongues out.

Fernando pointed violently. “That! Did you see? They’re mocking me!”

She turned.

Instantly, all five looked like they were five seconds from fainting. Isack weakly held up a tissue. Ollie moaned. Franco blinked very slowly. Kimi closed his eyes like he was awaiting death.

Y/N turned back to her husband. “Fernando. They can barely stand.”

Fernando looked like he aged ten years. “I’m going to commit a crime.”

———

Phase Two: Lance Finds Out

Lance was slow to catch on. For a while, he just thought the rookies were weirdly into heating pads and asking for foot massages.

Then he walked into the driver’s lounge and saw Gabriel curled up under his team jacket, sipping tea with extra honey.

“What… are you doing?”

“Shhh,” Gabriel whispered. “Y/N said I need rest.”

“She knit me socks,” Franco announced proudly from the couch.

“They’re faking,” Lance said, backing away.

“You would say that,” Isack muttered, turning to cough delicately into Y/N’s scarf. “Golden child.”

———

Phase Three: Annoy the fck out of Fernando

Fernando eventually reached his breaking point. Again.

He walked in on five grown boys all dramatically collapsing onto Y/N’s lap like a litter of fainting goats.

“Not this again.” Fernando sighed “This is getting out of hand.”

“They’re sick, Nando!”

“They just ate six pizzas in catering.”

“They’re growing boys.”

“They were playing Mario Kart and screaming three minutes ago!”

Kimi peeked up from under a fuzzy blanket. “That was for morale.”

Isack raised a limp hand. “I need soup.”

Fernando pinched the bridge of his nose. “You said that yesterday.”

Y/N turned to him, concerned. “Do you think I should buy more tissues?”

Behind her back, Ollie dabbed his face with a napkin and whispered, “Bless me.”

Franco fake sneezed directly at Fernando.

Kimi reached out and grabbed Fernando’s pant leg. “Tell my story.”

Fernando stared at the ceiling like it personally offended him. “First it was Max and Charles. Then Lando. Then Pierre. Even Lewis did it once. I thought we were past this.”

“They were trailblazers,” Liam said weakly.

“I’m going to burn the entire hospitality unit down,” Fernando muttered, already turning to leave. “And salt the ashes.”

And yet, the next day, Y/N arrived with six fresh thermoses of homemade soup, custom fluffy socks with their names on it, and a giant blanket shaped like a duck.

“Because you’re my babies,” she smiled.

Fernando watched as six suddenly-healthy rookies fought over who got to hold her hand first.

Lance stood beside him, arms crossed.

“They’re faking.”

“I know.” Fernando hissed.

“They’re just jealous I’m the favorite.”

Fernando sipped his coffee. “You absolutely are.”

From the corner of the room, six boys screamed, “WE HEARD THAT!”

Y/N turned, startled. “Heard what?”

Immediately, Ollie gasped. “Nothing, nothing. My ears are just really sensitive from the fever. It’s probably the... wind.”

“We’re inside,” Fernando muttered.

“I need to sit down,” Liam added, dramatically lowering himself onto the floor like a dying Shakespeare character. “My legs are trembling.”

“You just jogged here.” Lance deadpanned.

“No. That was my twin.” Liam nodded gravely. “He’s much healthier.”

Y/N gently helped him up, worried. “Oh sweetheart, maybe you should lie down.”

“I love lying down,” Ollie chimed in, flopping backwards so dramatically he knocked over a chair.

“Jesus Christ,” Fernando hissed. “It’s like watching a low-budget play.”

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It started with a minor incident.

Just a casual Thursday morning at their home. Peaceful. Birds chirping. Coffee brewing. Fernando, just out of the shower, towel over his shoulder, walked into the kitchen to find…

“What is this?”

Y/N was standing at the stove. In a fluffy green robe. With her hair clipped up. Whisking pancake batter.

She looked up, cheerful. “Morning, love. I’m making Lance pancakes.”

Fernando blinked. “Lance… who is currently sleeping in our so-called guest room?” He air quoted guest room because, let’s be honest, it was basically Lance’s room at this point.

“Yes. He asked for banana chocolate chip with extra crispy edges. So I thought—”

“I thought we had a driver, not a 14-year-old on summer break.”

Y/N kissed his cheek. “He’s both.”

Just then, Lance walked in, wearing Fernando’s old shirt and Y/N’s fuzzy socks. Hair sticking up. Sleepy smile. “Mornin’.”

Fernando stared. “You’re still here?”

Lance yawned. “Yeah. I was too tired to drive after game night.”

Fernando narrowed his eyes. “You’re planning to stay here for race week again?”

“Let him,” Y/N said brightly. “He thrives here.”

Lance nodded solemnly. “Also, the Wi-Fi here’s better.”

Fernando sighed into his coffee mug.

———

It was supposed to be a quiet morning. A simple media debrief in the drivers’ room, nothing more.

And yet, here they all were: Max lounging with his feet up, Charles stealing Oscar’s coffee like it was a blood sport, Yuki arguing with Pierre over which hotel served better eggs, and Lewis humming something old-school under his breath while braiding friendship bracelets he swore weren’t for anyone specific.

All were present and accounted for.

Except one team.

“Where’s Aston Martin?” Oscar asked, looking around with a raised brow.

There was a collective shrug. The Aston Martin duo being late wasn’t new, but for some reason, this time, it had everyone's attention.

“Probably still at home,” Max said, sipping from his smoothie. “Wouldn't be surprised if Lance overslept again.”

“Or maybe,” Pierre smirked, “Lance begged for another game night. Or made them watch that weird documentary about mushrooms again.”

“Bet he asked for Y/N’s pancake recipe this morning,” Carlos added. “She always makes them for him when he’s stressed.”

“She made me chamomile tea once,” Charles sighed dreamily, completely derailing the original topic. “When I had that sore throat. Wrapped the mug in a little napkin like it was a gift.”

“I stubbed my toe before a race and she brought me an ice pack wrapped in a duck-shaped cloth,” Oscar mumbled. “I still have it. I call him Duckward.”

“She once patted my head,” Esteban said solemnly. “I had never felt peace like that.”

Lando nodded gravely. “It’s like… getting hugged by a warm Sunday.”

George walked in right then and blinked. “Are we reminiscing about Y/N again?”

“She’s literally married,” Lewis muttered, sipping his tea. “To Fernando.”

“Yeah, but she’s like… the paddock’s mum,” Nico added. “Except to Lance. He gets the deluxe treatment.”

Max grunted. “I saw her fix his hair once before qualifying. I think she licked her thumb like a real mum.”

Lando burst out laughing. “One time, I saw her pull his hoodie strings tighter because ‘he might catch a chill.’”

Someone asked. “Wait. He sleeps over?”

“Sleep over?” Ocon scoffed. “That guy basically lives with them. He has his own room”

That was it.

A small gasp came from the far side of the room. Six rookies, previously flopped like tired cats on the couch, were now upright with laser focus.

“What do you mean he lives there?” Franco said sharply.

“I thought they just liked him best because of his sad little Canadian eyes,” Liam whispered.

Kimi narrowed his eyes. “Own room?! Has his own room?!?!?”

“Wait. They got heart pancakes?” Ollie whispered.

“Strawberries?” Kimi added with the kind of betrayal usually reserved for soap operas.

Gabriel clutched his chest. “They played board games together?”

Liam clutched the arm of the couch like it had betrayed him. Gabriel blinked at the floor like he’d just discovered the meaning of life. Kimi pouted so aggressively.

“Why do you all look like kicked puppies?”

“He’s the favorite child,” Ollie declared, pointing accusingly at a wall as if Lance might be eavesdropping from behind it.

Charles blinked. “He is their only child.”

“We are too,” Franco said indignantly, like this was a known fact.

Max laughed. “You guys are just getting the kindness treatment. Believe me, we all did what you’re doing now.”

The rookies turned, six heads snapping in unison.

“We all faked it,” Pierre said. “Once I claimed I had shin splints and she massaged my legs for twenty minutes while humming a lullaby.”

“I lied about a fever and got tucked in on the motorhome couch,” George said wistfully. “Two blankets. Cinnamon tea. She kissed my forehead.”

“Kissed your—” Liam choked.

Lando leaned back smugly. “One winter test, I coughed once. Got soup, a throat spray, and got to wear her scarf for the rest of the week.”

“I once pretended I forgot how to open a water bottle,” Pierre admitted.

“I claimed I couldn’t walk straight,” Oscar added.

“I was genuinely sick once,” Yuki muttered. “Didn’t even get a text. She was too busy wrapping Lance in three blankets and calling him her baby boy.”

“He is her baby boy,” Oscar deadpanned.

“Bro,” Franco whispered. “What if… what if we’ve only scratched the surface.”

Gabriel nodded slowly. “We need to go deeper.”

Kimi suddenly gasped. “We fake amnesia.”

“No,” Liam said, deadpan. “Too far. We start with fainting.”

“I want the duck towel,” Ollie declared.

“You can’t just ask for Duckward,” Oscar said, horrified. “Duckward chooses you.”

Fernando walked past the open door just then, paused, looked inside, and slowly narrowed his eyes. “You’re all planning something.”

“No, we’re not,” the rookies said in terrifying unison.

Fernando squinted at them. “Don’t even think about it.”

“They’re sick,” Max said mockingly, nudging Charles.

“They’ll be sick if they try to touch Duckward,” Oscar muttered.

At that moment, the door opened.

Y/N walked in first, carrying a bottle of syrup, a fork, and gently guiding someone behind her with a warm hand on their back, like a proud mum dropping her kid off at school.

Then came Lance, well-rested, smiling, holding a plate of pancakes she’d clearly made for him, and wearing a knitted beanie with Lancey stitched across it in cursive.

Complaints

“There’s the pancake,” Ollie hissed.

“He has a nickname beanie,” Kimi said, near tears.

Ollie, muffled under a blanket, muttered, “I want a nickname.”

“You can be Sicky Ollie,” Max offered.

Liam stared. “She made him pancakes.”

“She made him a custom beanie?” Gabriel whispered, scandalized.

“That’s it,” Franco hissed. “Life is really unfair.”

While staring at Y/N, Who handed him the fork first. Pancakes stacked neatly, syrup already drizzled in a perfect swirl.

He beamed at her and immediately scanned the room for a spot, clearly aiming for the floor, as usual.

And just before Y/N turned to head back out and return the syrup bottle to hospitality, she paused, looked over her shoulder, and said very casually, too casually…

“Sit at the table, Lance. I refuse to have my son act like he was raised in the woods.”

As soon as Y/N left the room, chaos erupted.

The room froze.

Fernando blinked slowly. “Oh no.”

“Son?! Son?! Soooooon?!?” Franco shouted.

“You’re not even the youngest!” Kimi pointed out.

Ollie, voice trembling, whispered, “So he really is the favorite…”

“We’re not even second best,” Gabriel mumbled.

“You’re stealing our sick points!” Isack accused

“I’m her son,” Lance said through a mouthful of pancake. “Cry about it.”

“Stop being dramatic,” Fernando sighed. “She’s literally… oh, for the love of… Franco, get off the floor.”

“No. This is my villain origin arc.”

Y/N returned to see six devastated rookies staring at her like she just announced she was disowning them. Kimi looked like he might cry. Ollie clutched Liam’s sleeve.

Fernando stood in the corner like a man who had seen war. When she turned to him with raised brows, he just gestured at the chaos.

“They heard that,” Fernando muttered. “You called him your son. Now look…back to fake coughs and tragic little expressions.”

“They are sick,” Y/N scolded lightly without looking.

“They were just running down the paddock ten minutes ago.”

“They’re pale now.”

“They’re making faces at me behind your back. Again.”

Y/N turned around. The rookies, with Oscar-worthy performances, had gone limp and lifeless. One gave a weak cough. Another moaned.

Fernando stared. “You’re all little demons.”

Kimi cracked an eye open. “We prefer emotionally neglected children.”

Y/N gasped. “Fernando! Look at them. They can barely sit up straight!”

“They’re lying.”

“They’re adorable.”

“Unbelievable,” Fernando muttered as six clingy “patients” clung tighter to his wife.

Max passed Fernando a protein bar without looking up. “Told you. It’s a phase.”

“I hate this phase,” Fernando muttered. “I want a refund.”

“You got a wife and seven sons,” Charles said. “Congratulations.”

“I’m going to burn that beanie,” Franco whispered to Isack.

“Right after I get my forehead kiss,” Isack muttered back, pulling the blanket tighter.

And Fernando, surrounded by his fake-sick adopted sons, pancake-eating favorite child, and far-too-kind wife, sighed.

He was never going to win.

And thus, the hierarchy was clear.

Lance was the son. The rest were pretending not to be auditioning for adoption.

And from that day on, the fake illnesses doubled in frequency, dramatically increased in flair, and Fernando started carrying a laminated “They’re Faking” sign that he held up every time someone groaned near Y/N.

END.

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