im here to harrow you.
thinking about f1 minghao crashing out on radio…. idk why… its burned in my mind…
crash and burn 📟 minghao x reader.
★ mercedes driver!minghao x reader ┆ word count: 1.8k ┆ includes: profanity, slight Trivia 承: Love reference. ┆ footnotes: oh, you are CRUEL for preying on my hyperfixation like this. how i ended up writing this much is anybody's guess.
For a moment, the entirety of Mercedes falls quiet.
You could hear a pin drop. The pit wall, the operations room, the garage. Deathly silent.
Xu Minghao never swore on the radio.
He could have. He’s certainly had his fair share of instances where a cuss or two would have been acceptable. The time he crashed into Williams’ Vernon on the final lap of the Australian Grand Prix, for example. Or the Singapore race where he ended up in the barriers after battling his teammate, Wonwoo, for podium position.
Minghao hadn’t cussed then. Everybody liked to joke that his face often did the talking for him— his expressions post-race landing him on the front page of every sports media outlet.
The Chinese racer was calm, cool, and collected under pressure. Critical without being cruel. Demanding without being demeaning.
And yet, today, in Monaco—
“Why do I have the penalty?” Minghao screeches, his voice crackling over the radio. “Hello?”
“Track limits, turn nine,” his race engineer says, voice carefully measured.
“You’re kidding!” Minghao downshifts aggressively as he rounds the next corner. The tires wail, the car jolts, and the telemetry lights up with data that makes the pit wall wince. “I stayed within the white line! You saw it, everyone saw it!”
The pit wall scrambles. Engineers replay the footage frame by frame, dissecting every pixel of the contentious corner. The commentators speculate wildly, cameras cutting to Minghao’s onboard view. Sky Sports plays the radio message on repeat, the words for fuck’s sake! echoing through living rooms worldwide.
But Minghao doesn't care about the broadcast. Doesn't care about the headlines already being written. His pulse hammers, hands locked around the steering wheel like a vice.
“Box this lap, Hao. Serve the penalty,” the team calls. “Then push. We can still fight for points.”
Minghao murmurs something incoherent, though it doesn’t take a genius to guess that it’s probably another curse. He lifts off the throttle, coasts through the last sector, and dives into the pit lane. The Mercedes crew swarms the car, stoic and efficient, every second ticking down with excruciating slowness.
The lollipop stays down.
Ten seconds feel like an eternity.
Minghao slams the throttle as soon as he’s released, launching back onto the track with a cloud of tire smoke.
“Gap to P10?” he demands, his tone unusually biting.
“7.3 seconds to Boo. But DRS is enabled—”
“I can catch him,” Minghao decides on his engineer’s behalf.
Nobody doubts it, really.
Minghao takes the next lap like a man possessed. Nailing apexes, brushing curbs, deploying battery in the perfect spots. Purple sector times flash on the screen; the crowd roars as he slices through the field like a scalpel.
Clean. Precise. Ruthless.
Minghao pushes right past Alpine’s Seungkwan, who screeches into his own radio about this reckless man, trying to kill him with the way he faked to the outside. It doesn’t matter to Minghao. Not when he’s through.
“P10, Hao,” his engineer says, relief bleeding into his voice. “Keep it up.”
“Don’t—” Minghao cuts himself off. Everybody can more or less guess what he was about to say. Don’t tell me what to do, he had planned to snap, and it only drives the team into a deeper state of confusion.
It’s even worse in the press room.
Minghao sits in the middle, flanked by Aston Martin’s Seokmin and Red Bull’s Jihoon. Minghao’s Mercedes suit is still speckled with sweat, and his jaw is tight, hands clasped in front of him on the table.
The moderator introduces them. “We’ll start with questions for the drivers. First, to Mercedes’ Xu Minghao. P9 after serving a 10-second penalty. Can you walk us through your race?”
A muscle in Minghao’s jaw ticks. Not a good sign.
Minghao leans into the microphone and very simply states, “It was bullshit.”
Again, that stunned silence. Seokmin balks like he had been physically struck. Jihoon fights back a grin.
The moderator blinks. “Uh,” she stammers. “Could you elaborate on that?”
“The penalty,” Minghao says plainly. “It was bullshit. I’ve seen the footage. I stayed within track limits. And even if I hadn’t, we both know there were other drivers exceeding limits all race who didn’t get penalized.”
A reporter from BBC Radio pipes up. “You’ve been known for keeping a cool head in difficult situations, but we heard your radio messages. Do you regret your reaction?”
The question draws a humorless laugh from Minghao. Today, his wit is razor-like in its sharpness. The claws are out, so to speak, as Minghao answers the query.
“Regret? No. I regret not pushing harder after the penalty. I lost ten seconds and still clawed my way back to points.” He pauses, letting the fact sink in. “What does that tell you?”
Somebody from Fox Sports pushes the envelope. “Are you implying bias in the stewarding?” the journalist calls out.
Minghao’s eyes flash, making even the most fearless of the media personnel shrink back a bit.
“I’m saying there needs to be consistency,” he hisses. “That’s all.”
Mercedes’ PR manager shifts uncomfortably in the background; one can assume they’re already drafting damage control statements in their head. The list of people to apologize to only grows when a ballsy ESPN journo dares to ask, “Do you think this will affect your relationship with the FIA?”
There’s no reason for the FIA— the Formula One’s governing body— to be dragged into this. Or maybe there is, with the way Minghao is crashing out in public.
The racer smiles coldly. “Maybe,” he answers, “but I’m not here to make friends.”
“Okay,” the moderator interjects. “I think it’s time for us to move on—”
Minghao concedes, leaning back into his chair and pushing the microphone over to Jihoon. There’s the slightest of miscalculations, though, when Minghao grumbles something to the Red Bull driver.
The microphone catches Minghao’s snide side comment, supposedly meant solely for Jihoon’s ears. “You should ask the FIA why they’re so scared of drivers who fight back,” the Chinese driver huffs.
The room explodes. Minghao doesn’t flinch.
Mercedes’ PR manager accepts that it’s going to be a long, long night.
Even Wonwoo doesn’t have an answer for his co-driver’s uncharacteristic behavior. The driver frowns when the team principal brings it up.
Wonwoo runs a hand through his dark, sweat-slicked hair, as if reviewing what he witnessed pre- and post-race. “Hao was already a bit… off when he came in this morning,” Wonwoo admits. “Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed or something.”
“Drivers like Minghao don’t just wake up one morning and decide they’re going to be the devil reincarnated,” the team principal says tentatively.
Wonwoo takes a moment to contemplate. “Trouble in paradise, maybe?”
“Drivers like Minghao—”
“Don’t let their personal lives affect their racing,” Wonwoo finishes before waving his hand dismissively. “Well, I don’t know, then.”
Except— for once— Wonwoo is right.
The team doesn't press Minghao to celebrate, not when he’s a walking PR disaster in a foul mood. He heads straight back to his apartment, shedding all his rage on the way home.
It’s the only reason he manages to gently open the front door. He toes off his shoes at the doorway and shrugs off his hoodie, each action deliberate in its intent and slowness.
He finds you in the kitchen.
You’re seated at one of the bar stools, forearms leaning against the island. Minghao doesn’t come close. Not at first. He lingers a couple of steps away, stock still as the two of you lock gazes.
You open your mouth. Minghao beats you to the punch line.
“I know,” he says, his voice the most gentle it’s been the entire day. “Trust me, I know.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you off.”
Minghao lets out a derisive snort of laughter, though he’s quick to look chastised when he catches the shift in your expression. “Alright,” he says tiredly. “What were you going to say, then?”
You hop off the stool. Minghao holds his breath.
He still feels like he isn’t breathing by the time you’re standing right in front of him. Where others might hesitate, you don’t.
Your hand reaches up to cup Minghao’s face. Your palm is warm against his cheek, but your words are much warmer.
“I was going to apologize,” you say slowly, enunciating each word, “for breaking rule number three.”
Rule number three. To have it brought up now is comedic. Minghao thinks of the restaurant tissue framed in the living room, the one bearing the silly list the two of you had jotted down when you first started dating.
The very rule you’re referring to right now had been in Minghao’s loopy handwriting, underlined twice to emphasize its importance.
#3: No fights on race weekends.
It had come with an asterisk, a couple of caveats. Still, it was one of those ‘rules’ the two of you tried to see through the most. For not only Minghao’s sanity, but Mercedes’ as well.
Minghao sighs, the tension in his shoulders easing with the heavy exhale. He can’t help it; his cheek nuzzles into your palm, seeking the familiarity of your touch after being without it last night.
(That was his choice, admittedly, after he opted to sleep in the guest room instead of your shared bedroom. He left in the morning without all of his usual routines— his 30-minute guided meditation, his good luck kiss from you.)
The fight— God, what was the fight even about? Minghao is embarrassed to admit he can barely remember.
By the way you’re looking at him, though, it looks like you’re also ready to put it past the two of you.
“Did you watch?” he asks.
The corners of your lips twitch upward. “What’s the right answer?” you shoot back, half-teasing as Minghao’s arms gingerly wrap around your waist.
“I think I’d prefer that you say ‘no’,” he says wryly. “I was a monster out there. I’ve got so many people to apologize to.”
You give a low hum of approval. Minghao tugs you into his space until he can bury his face in the top of your head.
For a moment, the two of you bask in the aftermath. The bittersweet race, the shaky reconciliation. Minghao breaks the silence.
“I said fuck,” he mumbles, horrified, “on the radio.”
“You did,” you confirm. “Twice, actually.”
Minghao groans. “And at the press conference—”
“You told the FIA they could take it up their a—”
“I did not,” your boyfriend says shrilly, “say that!”
You break out into giggles. Minghao can’t help it; his arms tighten around you, and he holds you like he’s trying to erase the past 24 hours through touch alone.
Tomorrow, Minghao will be back to his usual self. He’ll play the PR game— waxing poetics about mental pressure, apologizing to the FIA for his conduct. He’ll pay the fines and promise to do better, be better.
Tonight, Minghao softens all his edges and loves you.
