F1 Grid x Platonic!Driver!Reader
Genre: Humor, Found Family, Slice of Life, Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: Mentions of neglectful parents, casual sexism, implied family favoritism, but mostly soft chaos and protective drivers
Word Count: 1146
A/N: You guys wanted this as soon as posible.
The Grid Has Questions.
It started with Lewis Hamilton, of course.
He leaned against the hospitality unit after FP2 in Barcelona, sipping his coconut water with the effortless grace of someone who’d been in F1 longer than Y/N had been legally allowed to drive. He watched Y/N jog past—helmet in hand, hair sticking to her forehead, grinning like she’d just set pole instead of a P6.
And that’s when he realized.
“...Wait,” Lewis murmured, narrowing his eyes. “I’ve never met their parents.”
George, beside him, perked up. “You’re right. I’ve seen Max’s dad, Lando’s mum, Carlos’ entire family tree at some point—but Y/N? Nothing. Not even a cousin.”
Oscar overheard, because Oscar always overheard things when Y/N was involved. “Oh, yeah. I asked once. They just kind of shrugged it off.”
Lewis hummed thoughtfully, which was basically code for: I’m going to interrogate the child.
Hospitality Unit, Later That Night
The rookies were busy play-fighting over who got the last pack of Oreos, while Y/N sat cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through her phone.
“Hey, kid,” Lewis said casually, sliding into the seat next to her.
Y/N blinked up. “I’m literally 22.”
“You’ll still be a kid when you’re 30. Anyway.” He sighed as he leaned closer. “Where are your parents?”
The room went silent. Like—too silent. Even Ollie stopped mid-bite of his stolen Oreo.
Y/N blinked. “What do you mean?”
Lewis gave her the patented Big Brother Squint™. “I mean… I’ve never seen them. Ever. Not in karting clips, not in junior formulas, not even on the broadcasts. What’s the deal?”
Y/N hesitated, eyes flicking to the others. Oscar, Ollie, Kimi, and Isack had all leaned in like nosy meerkats. Max, from across the room, pretended to be on his phone but was absolutely listening.
“...They don’t come,” Y/N said finally, tone flat.
“Don’t come? Like, what—too busy?” Lando asked, frowning.
Y/N snorted humorlessly. “Try not interested.”
That earned a collective silence. Even Max set his phone down.
Y/N’s Story (aka the accidental therapy session)
“Look,” Y/N started, twirling her phone nervously, “I’ve got four siblings. All boys. Two older, two younger. Sports-mad family. My brothers play football and rugby, and my parents never miss a match. They’ve got the scarves, the chants, the whole deal.”
She laughed a little, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I started karting when I was a kid. Paid for it by working extra shifts at a café, getting sponsors wherever I could. My parents didn’t think it was worth it. ‘You’re a girl, why bother with cars?’ That kind of thing.”
Daniel—who had wandered in with a Red Bull and overheard the worst part—looked personally offended. “Excuse me?! You’re literally in Formula One. You’re pulling overtakes on world champions.”
“Yeah,” Y/N said, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter. They still don’t come. Never did. I just… kind of blend in, you know? Middle kid. Easy to forget.”
The drivers exchanged a look. A dangerous one. The kind of look that usually meant trouble for the FIA—or in this case, maybe Y/N’s parents.
The Protectiveness Kicks In
“You’re joking,” Lando muttered, raking a hand through his hair.
“Nope.”
“They didn’t even come to your first win?” Oscar asked softly.
Y/N shook her head. “I called them after. They said congrats, then asked if I’d seen my brother’s rugby try. He got featured in the local paper.”
The room exploded.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” — Daniel
“That’s actual insanity.” — Carlos
“They should be bragging about you every day.” — George
“Y/N, you literally overtook me into Turn 1 in Bahrain. That was art. If I were your parent, I’d have that replay framed.” — Charles
Max, who had been quiet, finally said: “That’s their loss. You don’t need them. You’ve got us.”
And just like that, Y/N’s throat tightened. Because damn it, she wasn’t going to cry in front of them.
Chaos Ensues (Because Feelings Make the Grid Uncomfortable)
Of course, because this was the grid, the heartfelt moment didn’t last long.
“Right,” Daniel clapped his hands together. “New rule. Y/N officially has 19 parental figures. Actually, scratch that. 19 chaotic older siblings. We’re adopting you.”
“I’m not sure if that’s better or worse,” Y/N muttered.
“Better,” Carlos said firmly. “Much better. My father would agree.”
“I call dibs on being the cool uncle,” Lando announced immediately.
“You’re literally two years older than me.”
“Uncle. Dibs.”
Fernando strolled in at that exact moment, heard none of the context, and just said: “I’ll be the grandfather.” Then he walked out with an espresso.
“See?” Daniel grinned. “Family sorted.”
Over the Next Few Weeks…
The grid collectively decided that Y/N’s lack of parental support was a personal offense.
Lewis started inviting her to dinners, casually dropping wisdom like it was spare change.
Sebastian Vettel (back in the paddock for a consultancy role) began sending her little notes of encouragement. “Proud of you. Keep going.”
Max started threatening to “have a word” with her parents, which everyone knew would probably involve terrifying silence and one raised eyebrow.
Oscar became her automatic partner in track walks. “If your parents won’t watch you race, I will. Every lap, every turn.”
Lando obnoxiously cheered her name into the radio during cooldown laps: “LET’S GOOOO, Y/N, THE OVERTAKE QUEEN!”
Daniel tried (and failed) to FaceTime her parents after a podium, demanding they “show some respect.”
Y/N pretended to be annoyed. But secretly? She’d never felt more seen.
Monaco Grand Prix Weekend
Quali was a nightmare—traffic, red flags, the usual Monaco chaos. Y/N barely scraped into Q3.
Back in the garage, she slumped against the wall, helmet still on. Normally she’d text her family, maybe get a half-hearted “good luck.” Instead, her phone buzzed with messages from—
Lando: P10? That’s nothing. Watch you make magic tomorrow.
Charles: Don’t worry, the streets love an underdog. Trust me 😉
Max: Stop overthinking. Just drive.
She grinned despite herself.
Race Day
Lap 48. Y/N made a daring double overtake into the chicane—clean, precise, the kind of move that had commentators screaming and fans climbing over barriers. She finished P4, just behind the podium.
She pulled into parc fermé, ripped off her helmet, and was immediately engulfed by Lando and Oscar. Then Daniel, then Charles, then Lewis.
It wasn’t her family waiting at the barriers. But maybe… this was better.
Post-Race Interview
A reporter asked, “Y/N, your family must be so proud watching from home. Any message for them?”
Y/N paused, smile flickering. Then she looked over at the drivers crowded nearby—cheering, clapping, holding up homemade “OVERTAKE QUEEN” signs they’d scribbled during quali.
“Yeah,” she said finally, eyes soft. “I just want to say… thanks to the people who do show up. The ones who see me. You know who you are.”
Her voice cracked just a little. And when she walked away, Lewis slung an arm around her shoulders, murmuring: “That’s family, kid.”
I just realized that with all the rookies entering the sport next year, Fernando Alonso will have been in F1 longer than 5 of his fellow drivers have been ALIVE
Alonso has more F1 experience than Piastri, Lawson, Doohan, Bearman, Antonelli, and Colapinto have life experience.
He will have spent more time in F1 than 25% of the grid have spent breathing. Bro really is HIM
author's note: This one kinda just happened. I’d been holding onto the idea for a while, inspired by something very close to a dear friend of mine, and today it just… came out on its own. Sometimes the best stories are the ones you don’t plan at all. Hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it 💚
summary: It’s moving day for Fernando and his wife, and of course she refuses to sit still even though she’s pregnant. Cue bickering, stubbornness, bad jokes about underwear, and Fernando being an overprotective grump. Between boxes, TV shows, and late-night confessions, they remind each other just how much this little miracle means.
genre: Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship
warnings: domestic fluff, pregnancy after infertility / IVF struggles, established relationship / marriage, banter + softness, comfort, tenderness, hope
word count : 1475
“Put down that damn box!” Fernando’s voice echoed behind you as you rolled your eyes for the millionth time.
“Fer, I can…” but before you could even finish the sentence Fernando grabbed what you were holding and placed it on the floor.
“Stop it,” he told you, staring.
“You’re exhausting,” you commented without lowering your gaze.
“And you’re pregnant,” he replied.
“Exactly, but I still have the use of my legs and arms to do something during this move!” you exclaimed, spreading your arms wide.
“No,” he repeated, “Sit down and cut it out,” he continued peremptorily, while you huffed and went back into the house, dodging a couple of people who were arranging your things in the apartment you were finally moving into.
“Grumpy old man,” you muttered, annoyed.
“You’re just as old as me,” came Fernando’s quick reply, while you mimicked him with an exaggerated face, anything but serious. “Even though right now you look about twelve,” he added.
You gave up and dropped onto the enormous couch you had convinced him to buy, even though he thought it was oversized, but you had already imagined the evenings spent in front of the TV watching your beloved shows, with Fernando ready to complain about your teenage-girl choices.
“There are about ten boxes left and then we’re done, they’ve already put the kitchen stuff in the cupboards, and almost all of my wardrobe,” Fernando told you, watching you.
“Can I at least put away my underwear, or should I let one of the movers do it?” you asked with an insufferable grin.
“I want a divorce,” he exclaimed, turning around.
“Too late, I’ve got your child in my belly,” you answered, unable to hold back a laugh.
“I know, and what terrifies me is that he might be born with your personality,” he commented.
“Oh well, but if he’s as stubborn as you then we’re fine, aren’t we?” you shot back.
“I’m not the stubborn one, you are,” he exclaimed, turning to look at you.
“Yeah, sure… Look, even that guy holding the bathroom box is laughing, he doesn’t even know you but he doesn’t believe you either!” you replied while the guy in question quickly walked away to avoid being dragged into your argument.
Fernando looked at you with a mix of exasperation and a desire to strangle you, then shook his head helplessly.
“I’m hungry,” you exclaimed, standing up. “Can I eat by myself? Do I have to wait for the chef to arrive or can I grab a packet of crackers?” you asked, stopping in front of him.
“I hate you,” he said with a smile.
“Oh, I know, my love,” you laughed, cupping his face in your hands and giving him a kiss. “I’m driving you crazy, aren’t I?” you laughed softly, pulling back just a little.
“A bit…” he smiled, hugging you, right there in the middle of the living room that had finally taken shape and from that night would officially be your home.
“Sorry, but…” you began to say.
“I don’t want you to take risks, okay?” he interrupted, staring at you. “We have… we’ve wanted this so much, okay?” he said more softly, caressing your belly, and you couldn’t stay annoyed.
“Hey, we’re really fine,” you said, stroking his face.
It hadn’t been an easy path to get there, you had been trying for that pregnancy for almost three years, and the appointments, the treatments, the consultations had been exhausting, for you but also for Fernando, who had had to go through it himself and also support you when you collapsed.
Your age hadn’t helped, forty-three is not a small number, nor had your hormonal imbalances.
Two failed IVF cycles, the conviction that it was enough, that you couldn’t do it anymore, the decision to give up, and then, a year later, when you had both come to terms with it: the miracle.
“I know I’m over the top,” he said, “But…”
“…but this might be our only chance, maybe,” you interrupted him gently. “I know, amor, don’t worry, okay? I’ll go to the kitchen, eat something and I won’t lift another thing,” you reassured him while he hugged you and kissed your head.
“Thank you…” he said with a smile. “Do it for me, okay? For your grumpy old husband,” he laughed while you laughed too, your eyes wet because in the end his tenderness in that moment moved you.
“But my underwear in the drawer, I’ll put those away myself,” you added, making him burst out laughing again.
“Okay, granted,” he said, letting you go, turning around to start giving instructions again about where to put furniture and boxes.
-
The house was finally silent, the city lights spilled through the huge windows and everything, more or less, seemed to be in its place, except for the storage room where you had piled up boxes containing not-so-well-identified things.
Fernando sat on the couch next to you, handing you a cup of chamomile tea, and looked at the screen in despair.
“Are we really going to watch another episode of that stuff?” he asked, alluding to The Summer I Turned Pretty.
“Oh yes, Team Jeremiah all the way,” you laughed. “Come on, I know it’s silly but I need to see how it ends,” you continued, resting your chin on his shoulder and watching him.
“As if I could ever say no to you,” he smiled, giving you a kiss.
“Give me your hand…” you then said, placing the cup on the coffee table in front of you and taking his hand to put it on your belly, where the baby was doing somersaults and throwing some kicks a little too strong for your taste.
The smile that spread across Fernando’s face was one of those images that can turn a day from beautiful to indescribable.
“Hello to you too, little one,” he said softly, stroking your belly. “Feel that? You had sugar, didn’t you?” he asked, looking at you as you nodded with a guilty expression, bursting out laughing.
“A couple of candies, maybe…” you laughed and Fernando laughed too without even bothering to scold you, not in that moment.
He lay down on the couch with his head on your legs and kissed your belly. “Sometimes I’m afraid it’s not real,” he said softly.
“I know, me too,” you answered, running your hand through his hair. “I’m scared every single moment, but I try… I don’t know, I don’t want to live it like that, in constant fear… It’s too beautiful.”
“I had made peace with it, you know?” he said. “That I wouldn’t…” he let the sentence trail off.
“…Fer, you always…”
“…stop it, don’t start again,” he interrupted peremptorily, sitting up to look at you. “I would never have wanted a child without you,” he repeated, as he had already done too many times, especially that night, after yet another failure, when you had told him the problem was you, not him, that maybe he should think about moving on and having his family with a woman who could give him one.
It had turned into a terrible fight, maybe you had never seen your husband so angry, enough to sleep in the guest room while you sank into the sheets of your bed.
Only the next morning he had lain down behind you, telling you he never wanted to hear such a thing again, that his family was you, and that he didn’t want a child, but your child.
“I don’t want to start again,” you said softly. “We’re here, the two of us, and in three months he’ll be here too,” you smiled.
“Yeah…” he smiled, lying back down, giving a long kiss to your belly and receiving in return a direct kick to the nose.
You both burst out laughing. “Seriously, little one?” Fernando laughed. “Isn’t your mother enough, kicking me while she sleeps?” he joked playfully.
“Can I paint the room tomorrow?” you asked, while he looked up at you. “I sketched how I’d like it,” you continued, picking up the tablet next to you. Fernando sat up and you showed him a drawing: the sea, a small beach, pale-colored little animals, many colorful boats on the horizon.
“It’s wonderful,” he smiled, kissing your shoulder. “Do you already have everything?” he asked.
“Yes, I had the studio bring me brushes and paint, I had already done things like this for Althea and also for Alex,” you replied with a smile.
“They came out great, and I can’t wait to see his room finished,” Fer went on.
“Not long now, daddy” you smiled, cuddling against him.
“Come on, press play, let’s finish watching this stuff so that the next series I get to choose,” he sighed, holding you close, while you picked up the remote and pointed it at the TV.
