#soft!lewis hamilton

[ijustwannabecool]

Drive to Survive – Episode 3: Family Mode

Lewis Hamilton x Wife!Reader

Summary... The world knows Lewis Hamilton for his speed. But in Monaco, Drive to Survive captures a side no one’s ever seen before: the chaotic, adorable magic of the Hamilton family—through the voices of his three biggest fans.

Trigger Warnings: Pure fluff, children with microphones, soft dad Lewis, emotional overload, very light language from the kids that will make you giggle.

A/N: hope you guys enjoy this fic. Please let me know what you guys wanna see next. Request are open!! Happy reading and have a beautiful rest of your day!!

Like, share, comment, reblog!

-----

The paddock is buzzing with race-day energy—teams in motion, engines roaring, broadcasters perched, cameras flashing. But Y/N’s entire world is bundled on the couch of the Mercedes suite.

Mateo is hanging halfway off her lap, Leo is sitting cross-legged on a beanbag in front of the screen, and baby Sofia is snuggled to her chest in a wrap, a pacifier bobbing gently as she hums.

Netflix producers are circling, politely attaching clip mics to the boys' shirts.

“I don’t know if I love this,” Y/N murmurs to Lewis, who is already half-suited and crouched next to them, one hand balancing Sofia’s head for a kiss.

“You don’t have to do it,” he says immediately, his voice low and warm. “One word from you and I’ll tell them to shut it down.”

“No, no,” she smiles, brushing his curls from his forehead. “I’m just being protective. This is the first time people are going to see them. Like... really hear them.”

Lewis leans in, nuzzles the side of her face and whispers, “They’re gonna love them. They’re gonna see what I see every day.”

She rolls her eyes, but it softens into a grin.

“Alright,” he says, standing up and pressing kisses to all three of their heads. “Wish me luck, superstars.”

---

MIC’D UP CHAOS: “THE HAMILTON KIDS AT MONACO GP”

Leo (7): “Mum, is Daddy gonna beat Verstappen today?” You (laughing): “You say that like it’s a video game.” Mateo (4): “I beat Max in Mario Kart yesterday.” Leo: “That was me, Teo.” Mateo: “Liar.”

---

Leo (pointing at the TV): “Look! Daddy’s waving! That’s for us!” Mateo (squinting): “No it’s not. That’s for the tires.”

---

Mateo (gasps): “Why did Daddy say that word! That’s a BAD word!” You (whispering): “Yeah, and we don’t repeat it.” Leo (grinning): “He only says it when he’s behind someone slow.” Mateo: “So Max is slow?” You: “Oh my God.”

---

Sofia (9 months): [happy squeal] Mateo: “Sofiiiiii, stop yelling. I’m listening to Daddy’s car.”

---

Leo (dramatically): “If Daddy doesn’t win, I’m never eating broccoli again.” You: “Wow. Revolutionary protest.” Mateo: “I already don’t eat broccoli. I’m winning.”

---

Mateo (whines): “Mum, Leo took my popcorn!” Leo: “You dropped it!” Mateo: “IT’S THE PRINCIPLE!”

---

Sofia (fusses quietly) You: “I know, I know. You miss Daddy too.” Leo (softly): “He always kisses her forehead before he races. Maybe she knows.”

---

AFTER LEWIS’S LAST-LAP OVERTAKE FOR P2

Leo (standing): “GOOOOOOO DADDY!” Mateo (screaming): “ZOOM ZOOM ZOOMMMMMMM!” Sofia: [Claps] You (cheering): “That’s it! That’s our guy!”

But the cheering turns to panic for a split second when Lewis swerves on the final corner to block a late overtake.

Mateo (voice trembling): “Is Daddy okay? Is his car broken?” You (squeezing his hand): “He’s fine, love. That was just… some spicy defending.” Leo: “Daddy’s got the grip of God, that’s what Uncle Nico said!”

---

POST-RACE: THE REUNION

Lewis skips press. Walks right past the crew. The helmet comes off, the smile is tired but real—and it grows tenfold when he sees them.

He jogs to the suite, rips off his gloves.

Leo runs straight into him, launching into a hug. Lewis swoops him up, spins once before grabbing Mateo in his other arm. Sofia is still wrapped on your chest, and he presses a kiss to her cheek before kissing you right on the mouth—sweat, adrenaline and all.

“You’re insane,” you whisper, breathless.

“I know,” he says, grinning. “But did you see that move?”

“They all saw it. And heard your entire potty-mouth symphony too.”

Leo: “Daddy, you said the F-word three times!”

Lewis: “Three? That’s all?”

Mateo (serious): “I’m telling Grandma.”

Lewis (laughing): “You traitor.”

---

CUT TO THE FINAL MOMENTS OF THE EPISODE

The family is on the couch later that evening in the motorhome, Netflix crew wrapping up.

Sofia’s finally asleep.

Leo is laying half-on Lewis’s chest. Mateo is holding the remote like it’s a championship trophy.

The race replay is on. The audio is off.

But the family noise? Oh, it’s all still there.

Mateo: “Next time, can I wear Daddy’s helmet?” Lewis: “Only if you want to get helmet hair.” Leo: “He already has helmet hair.”

You (laughing): “He was born with helmet hair.”

Lewis looks at all of them—his wife, his kids, this moment. And he whispers it low so only the mics can catch:

“Best podium I’ve ever had.”

---

BONUS SCENE: THE LAST CLIP OF THE EPISODE

“MIC CHECK: LEO AND MATEO ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS” (Filmed post-race, aired during the closing credits)

The screen fades from the on-track footage to a quieter room inside the paddock hospitality area. Two chairs. A backdrop with the Ferrari logo. Two small boys—Leo and Mateo—sit with juice boxes, clip mics still taped to their shirts, legs swinging in rhythm.

-

A Netflix producer off-screen asks, “Okay boys, ready?”

Leo (nodding seriously): “We’re always ready.”

Mateo (confused): “Ready for what? Are we fighting?”

---

Producer: “What’s it like having Lewis Hamilton as your dad?”

Leo: “He’s just… our dad. He makes pancakes on Sundays. They’re okay.”

Mateo: “He lets me eat cookie dough when Mum says no.”

Leo: “He also yells a lot when people drive slow.”

---

Producer: “What does he say when he’s mad?”

Mateo (smirking): “I’m not allowed to say.”

Leo: “But it starts with F.”

---

Producer (laughing): “Who do you think is his biggest fan?”

Leo: “Me.”

Mateo (gasps): “No, it’s me!”

Leo: “You didn’t even know what DRS was until last week!”

Mateo: “Well you cried when he lost in Baku!”

Leo (shrugs): “It was emotional.”

---

Producer: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Leo: “Race engineer. I want to help Daddy win.”

Mateo: “I wanna drive faster than Daddy.”

Leo: “That’s impossible.”

Mateo (grinning): “I’m gonna do it in reverse.”

---

Producer (last question): “If your dad could hear you right now, what would you tell him?”

Leo: “We’re proud of you.”

Mateo: “Love you, Daddy. You’re the best vroom vroom.”

Both (together): “And can we get ice cream now?”

The camera lingers on their faces for just a second longer—Leo’s confident grin, Mateo’s wide-eyed innocence—before the screen fades to black and the episode credits roll to the sound of a faint baby squeal in the background.

[brittany-and-lewis]

really got me giggling how much we talk about the magic of first teammates and how special that relationship is (lando and carlos, yuki and pierre, basically max and daniel) and then there’s 2007 rookie lewis hamilton who entered the sport and immediately pissed off his first teammate, fernando alonso, a TWO TIME WORLD CHAMPION so much they became one of the most infamous purely toxic and intense teammate rivalries of all time.

[strawberryblue-blog]

A to Z —Lewis Hamilton.

Summary: NSFW Alphabet with Lewis.

Warning: Yes. +18. Smut, headcanon.

Words count: +900.

A - Aftercare

After sex, he pulls you close, your body molded to his, whispering soft words against your skin. He kisses your hair, tucks you under the covers, and strokes your back until you fall asleep safe in his arms.

B - Body Part

His favorite part of your body? Your eyes because he can see your soul in them. Yours on him? His hands strong, warm, always capable of making you feel wanted and worshiped.

C - Cum

He loves feeling you lose yourself first and only when he knows you've fallen apart in his arms does he let himself go, while you are on birth control pills, he would definitely finish inside you.

D - Dirty Secret

His dirty little secret? Sometimes he dreams about taking you somewhere semi-public, where only he knows how wrecked you are under your clothes, keeping you close and pretending nothing is happening while he whispers filthy things in your ear.

E - Experience

He’s experienced, yes but not just in touch. In patience. In reading you. In knowing when to go slow and when to lose control because with you, it’s never just about sex, it’s about devotion.

F - Favorite Position

Any position where he can see your face. He wants to watch you fall apart, memorize every little gasp and shiver you gift him.

G - Goofy

There are moments when he can't help but chuckle like when your hair gets wild or you both knock into each other clumsily. But when it gets intense, when you're trembling under him, he becomes deadly serious, worshipping every breath you take.

H - Hair

He keep it natural down there, maybe trimmed a little, maybe not but he loves it either way. In you, he really doesn't care at all, you decide.

I - Intimacy

During sex, it feels like the world falls away. He talks to you, praises you, tells you how beautiful you are with every movement, until you forget where you end and he begins.

J - Jack off

He doesn’t do it often not when he can have the real thing, not when he can taste your skin and hear you moan his name. When he does, he thinks of you: your mouth, your laugh, your scent.

K - Kink

His secret kink? Power exchanges not about controlling you but about seeing you trust him completely, giving yourself to him knowing he’d never, ever hurt you.

L - Location

Anywhere you feel safe. But he dreams about lazy Sunday mornings in the kitchen, or late nights on the balcony when only the stars are watching.

M - Motivation

You. Always you. The way you look at him, the way you breathe his name, the way your fingers curl into his shirt when you need him closer.

N - No

He would never hurt you. Never humiliate you. Never treat you like less than the universe he’s lucky enough to hold.

O - Oral

Giving or receiving? He loves giving more. Watching you fall apart under his mouth is one of his favorite things slow, relentless, until you beg without words.

P - Pace

He loves starting slow, savoring every kiss, every sigh but when you pull him closer, whispering that you need him now, he gives in without hesitation, losing himself in you completely.

Q - Quickie

He loves long, slow lovemaking but sometimes, when he’s desperate for you, when he can't wait another second, a quickie against the wall or the kitchen counter leaves you both shaking and laughing.

R - Risk

He’s willing to take small risks a hand under your dress in public, stealing kisses that linger too long but only when he knows you're just as breathless for it as he is.

S - Stamina

He’s the kind of man who doesn’t just stop after one round. He wants to see you wrecked, see you blissed out, again and again and he'll keep going until you're too tired to whisper his name.

T - Toy

He’s curious, open if you want to use toys, he’s all in. Anything that makes you moan louder, anything that leaves you glowing with satisfaction.

U - Unfair

He loves teasing you tracing slow, maddening circles along your thighs, kissing every inch except where you ache for him. He loves making you beg... just a little.

V - Volume

You’re the louder one, gasping, crying out his name, and he adores it. He’s more controlled low, rough grunts and whispered promises only you are allowed to hear.

W - Wild Card

One night, he surprised you by lighting candles everywhere, soft music playing, sheets still warm from the dryer. He undressed you like unwrapping the greatest gift he’s ever received and spent hours just loving you until you were too dazed to do anything but cling to him.

X - X-ray

He’s blessed thick and heavy but more than anything, he knows how to use it, how to take his time, how to listen to your body more carefully than any words could ever tell.

Y - Yearning

His desire for you never fades. Even when you’re apart for days, even after fights or long, exhausting days, one look from you can undo him completely.

Z - Zzz

After sex, he doesn’t just fall asleep. He wraps you in his arms, pulls you onto his chest, and breathes with you until your heartbeats slow together, like two halves of the same soul finally finding peace

[princemick]

[LEWIS] japanese grand prix 2025 // post race

[slipmams]

charles leclerc headers.

[lewistoferrari]

new season, new passes ✅

[emotionaldamages]

soft launch or hard launch - max verstappen

in which shes in a secret relationship with a certain redbull driver

social media au

part one| part two

note- this is my first time writing so it might not be as good, but hope you enjoy♡

masterlist

Liked by lewishamilton,maxverstappen, and 1,132,753 others

lando.jpg wild vera on a train @verahamilton

comments

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lando.jpg shes currently emotional about that

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username I KNOW YALL SEEN THAT

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liked by charles_leclerc, pierregasly, and 3,898,753 others

verahamilton vacation with my love♡

comment

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verahamilton pls dont

*pretend it says vera and not rihanna

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comments

username mother.

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landonorris yall some horny fuckers

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maxverstappen ♡♡

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georgerussell63 Y'all hear something

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@verahamilton

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landonorris bitch

username lando singing that one song rn

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username not possible, vera is taller than lando, that dude is taller than vera

georgerussell63 why are you the only one who knows who it is

landonorris I caught them making out in my house😔

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verahamilton bitch I told you not to walk in the room

landonorris LIAR, oh wait.. you did

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username I screamed to loud

lilymhe OH MY OH MY DEAR

kikacgomess my heart is broken💔

pierregasly do I not just exist

kikacgomess no you dont not when vera is around

@landonorris tired of these people hiding

comments

username this has ruined me wtf

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username SHUT THE FUCK UP. NO WAYYY

username vera ur paying for my therapy sessions

danielriccardo VERA AND MAX WHAT.

lewishamilton oh..

username lando is so dead

verahamilton I'm going into hiding

maxverstappen let me go with u

username THEIR SO CUTE

username I want what they have

georgerussell63 I just heard lewis yell at the top of his lungs in the paddock

username someone check if max is alive

username oh myyyyyyyyyy

verahamilton SEE YALL LATER

carlossainz55 cuties

username are yall breathing ok??

[spectralish]

printed out

[stillitshammertime]

even EYE am not this delusional

[katelovesit]

[ijustwannabecool]

Just Like Him - All Drivers

Dad!Drivers x Reader

Summary... Genetics are wild — and a little bit magical. They say kids get their genes from both parents. But Y/N’s pretty sure hers got 97% dad, 2% chaos and 1% mom.

A/N: Just a little blur of dad!fluff and cuteness overload. This one has Max, Lewis, Charles, Carlos, Lando, and Danny. If you want to see more drivers let me know!! I hope you guys enjoy this one.

Like, comment, reblog, enjoy :)

Have a lovely day today!!

If you loved this story and want to support more F1 comfort chaos like this, feel free to buy me a coke.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Max Verstappen

You catch it the first time when Isa is just shy of two.

She’s strapped into her high chair, smearing avocado across her tray like she’s painting a masterpiece. There’s a soft lull of music playing from the speaker, and Max is leaned over beside her, trying to coax a spoonful of rice into her mouth. She ignores him completely, staring off into the distance, tapping one tiny hand on the tray in a steady rhythm.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Y/N blinks. Because that—that—is exactly what Max does when he’s annoyed but trying to hide it. When he’s in a meeting and the strategy isn’t making sense. When he’s trying to stay polite. When he’s being patient but barely.

She doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

Max finally sighs and puts the spoon down. “She’s stubborn.”

“She’s you,” Y/N says under her breath.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she hums, already storing the moment away in that secret part of her heart labeled reasons I love you.

--

The second time, Leo’s barely one. A warm, heavy baby who loves cuddles and hates shoes. He’s napping in their bed after a long morning of teething tears and clinginess, and Y/N comes in with her phone, planning to snap a quiet photo.

And then she sees it.

The scowl.

He’s frowning in his sleep. Like full-on deep Verstappen forehead crease frowning. Lips pressed tight. Eyebrows drawn in. All of it.

Y/N actually snorts. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Max walks in behind her, towel slung over his shoulder, fresh from a workout. “What?”

“Look at him.”

He squints. “He’s sleeping.”

“No. Look at his face.”

Max shrugs. “He’s probably dreaming about milk. Or getting overtaken.” He says it so casually and then kisses her cheek and walks away.

Y/N just stands there, staring at this frowning baby. “You’re not real,” she whispers to Leo. “You’re literally his clone.”

--

When Isa’s five, she builds an entire Lego village on the living room floor. Carefully. Methodically. Quietly.

Y/N is folding laundry in the hallway when she hears it.

“Ugh. No one listens to me.”

Soft. Mumbled. Annoyed.

She freezes.

Because those are the exact words Max said three weeks ago, after his radio calls got ignored during a wet qualifying.

She peers around the corner. Isa’s trying to explain how the Lego airport works to Leo, who is eating the red bricks and not listening at all.

Y/N presses her lips together to keep from laughing. “She really said that, huh?”

“What?” Max walks by, sipping coffee.

“She’s your daughter.”

“She’s our daughter.”

“Mhm. Keep telling yourself that.”

--

Leo’s four when it happens again. It’s a rainy day, and Y/N’s pulled out a big wooden puzzle to keep them busy while Max’s away at the factory.

Leo crouches over the pieces like a man on a mission. He studies the edges. Frowns. Runs his hand through his hair dramatically — a move Y/N has definitely seen during race weekends.

Then he starts pacing.

Pacing.

She’s leaned against the doorway in disbelief. Her mouth is actually hanging open.

Leo mumbles, “This doesn’t make sense,” under his breath and throws himself down on the couch like it’s the end of the world.

She laughs. Out loud. Can’t help it.

He looks up, blinking. “Mama?”

“Nothing, baby. You’re doing amazing. Just like Papa.”

--

It hits her one night when everything is still.

Max is home. The kids are finally asleep after a chaotic bedtime full of bubble beards, mismatched pajamas, and Leo insisting Isa stole his favorite sock.

She walks into the living room to find all three of them piled onto the couch. Max is half-asleep with both kids flopped on top of him like puppies. Isa is curled into his chest. Leo is on his stomach, tiny hand fisted in Max’s shirt. They’re all breathing the same way — slow, deep, synchronized.

She just stares for a second. Heart in her throat.

Max cracks one eye open. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

He lifts a hand and wiggles his fingers until she walks over and kneels beside them.

“What is it?” he murmurs, brushing her cheek with his knuckles.

She smiles. “You don’t even see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“You made two tiny versions of yourself.” She smooths Isa’s curls, brushes Leo’s lashes. “And they have no idea how much they’re just like you.”

Max blinks, half-asleep. “That good or bad?”

She kisses his hand. “It’s the best thing in the world.”

--

It’s a Sunday morning when she catches it again — and this time, she gets proof.

The kitchen smells like cinnamon and butter. Isa’s standing on a stool stirring pancake batter. Leo’s at the counter pressing blueberries into already-cooked pancakes with sticky, purple-stained fingers. Max is manning the pan, flipping like a pro.

Y/N walks in, still sleep-rumpled, mug in hand — and stops dead in her tracks.

Because all three of them are standing exactly the same way.

One hip popped. Left foot slightly forward. Right hand resting lazily on the counter. Even their heads are tilted at the same angle as they concentrate.

She doesn’t say a word. Just sets her mug down silently and grabs her phone.

Click.

Max glances up at the sound. “What are you—?”

She flips the phone around to show him the picture. “Look.”

He squints. “Okay…?”

“Look, Max.”

His eyes flick between the photo and the real-life lineup in front of him. Then he blinks. “What the hell.”

“I told you. You’re not raising children. You’re multiplying.”

Isa looks up. “Mama, what’s multiplying?”

Max just shakes his head, laughing softly as he flips another pancake. “That’s terrifying.”

Y/N smiles into her mug. “That’s love.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Charles Leclerc

Mila is six the first time Y/N really notices it.

She’s sitting at the kitchen table, coloring a Ferrari red car with the kind of focus usually reserved for real race engineers. Her little tongue pokes out between her lips. Her eyebrows are knitted. Every few seconds, she mutters something under her breath in French — barely audible, but deeply unimpressed.

Y/N pauses, spatula in hand. Because that face? That concentration? That muttering?

It’s so Charles.

She watches for a moment longer before calling out, “Mila?”

Her daughter doesn’t even look up. “I told you, Mama, this line isn’t straight. I have to fix it.”

Y/N grins. “Of course you do.”

---

Luca and Jules — age four, chaotic energy personified — are building a blanket fort in the living room. Or, more accurately, Luca is building it and Jules is providing dramatic commentary and helpful criticism.

At one point, the blanket slips off the top.

Luca gasps, drops the pillow he’s holding, and stomps his foot. Actually stomps it.

Y/N blinks.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she murmurs.

Because that’s exactly what Charles did last week when he lost a board game to Mila. Same frustrated stomp. Same “I will fix this” energy.

She sneaks a photo from behind the couch.

---

Later that week, they’re at a birthday party and Jules is asked if he wants cake or ice cream.

He frowns, thinks, and says in a tiny but dramatic voice, “That’s too much pressure.”

Y/N nearly spits out her drink. Because what.

She grabs Charles’s sleeve. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That’s too much pressure. That’s what you said when we had to pick a Netflix movie last week.”

Charles laughs, clearly delighted. “He listens, huh?”

“He absorbs,” Y/N corrects. “Like a sponge. A dramatic little sponge.”

---

That night, Charles tucks Mila in.

She pulls the covers up to her chin and says, very seriously, “Can we work on tire strategy for my soapbox car tomorrow?”

He freezes. “Tire—strategy?”

She nods. “Papa, we’re losing time on the corners. I have ideas.”

He walks back into the bedroom with wide eyes. “Mon amour, I think we might be raising a future world champion.”

Y/N smirks. “I think you’re raising yourself.”

---

But it’s not all Charles.

Sometimes it’s her.

And Charles sees it — quietly, when no one else is watching.

He catches Jules humming while folding laundry. The tune is one Y/N always hums when she’s focused — soft, familiar, warm.

He sees Mila do her “thinking face,” the one where she looks up and bites the inside of her cheek. Just like her mama.

He watches Luca walk away after getting told “no,” muttering under his breath in exactly Y/N’s cadence, “That’s fine. I didn’t even want it.”

And sometimes it makes him laugh, sometimes it makes him melt — but every time, it makes him fall a little more in love.

---

One evening, all three kids are sitting around the kitchen island, coloring and munching on fruit.

Charles walks in from a call and stops. They’re all hunched forward, elbows on the counter, chewing pens as they draw — the exact way Y/N sits when she’s journaling.

He pulls his phone out and snaps a photo.

Later, he shows her.

“You see it now, don’t you?” she teases.

Charles nods. “They’re just like me.”

She smiles.

“And just like you.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Carlos Sainz

Camila is three when Y/N first catches it.

They’re in the kitchen, and Y/N has just said the forbidden phrase: “No more cookies.”

Camila gasps. One hand flies to her chest. The other reaches out in despair. She staggers backward like she’s been wounded.

“Mamá,” she says with a trembling voice. “You break my heart.”

Y/N stares.

Carlos, across the room, doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Maybe just one more for after lunch,” he mumbles.

Y/N narrows her eyes. “Carlos.”

He glances up. “What?”

“She’s you. That was you in toddler form.”

He squints at their daughter, who’s now slumped dramatically over the kitchen chair. “She’s just expressive.”

“She’s you. And you don’t even see it.”

---

Later that week, they’re at the park and Camila trips on her shoelace. It’s a tiny stumble — no injury, just a scrape — but she collapses to the ground and groans.

Not a cry. Not a whimper.

A full-bodied, frustrated, Carlos Sainz on team radio after a bad pit stop groan.

Y/N runs over. “You okay, baby?”

Camila lays flat on the grass. “I’ll never recover.”

Y/N covers her mouth to keep from laughing. “Oh my god.”

Carlos, jogging up behind them, doesn’t bat an eye. “She’ll be fine.”

“She just said she’ll never recover,” Y/N hisses.

Carlos shrugs. “She’s dramatic.”

“She’s you!”

---

Nico’s only ten months, but he’s already in on it.

He sighs. All the time. Little dramatic baby exhales whenever he doesn’t get picked up immediately or if someone dares to interrupt his snack time.

Once, he actually rolled over, stared at the ceiling, and let out a moan like life had defeated him.

Y/N caught it on video.

She showed Carlos.

He laughed. “He’s a passionate boy.”

“You’re raising a baby telenovela, Carlos.”

“He is Spanish.”

“So are you!”

Carlos just winked. “Exactly.”

---

One night, they’re reading bedtime stories, and Camila interrupts to dramatically whisper, “Mamá, if I had to choose between cake and Papa… I would cry.”

Y/N blinks. “You… what?”

“I love cake. But I love Papa.”

Carlos kisses her forehead proudly. “Mi niña romántica.”

Y/N stares at him. “Do you hear yourself?”

Carlos frowns. “What?”

“She’s literally you.”

---

The final straw comes on a lazy Sunday.

Carlos is on the couch, watching football. Camila is sitting next to him with a play microphone, pretending to do interviews.

“Mila Sainz,” she announces in a posh voice, “do you think you are the most handsome driver in the world?”

She pauses. Flips her hair.

Then replies to herself, “I do. But I also want to be remembered for my heart.”

Carlos gives a thumbs up. “That’s a good answer.”

Y/N walks in with Nico on her hip and just stares.

“She did your post-race interview voice.”

Carlos shrugs. “It’s a good voice.”

“You’re impossible.”

He grins. “And apparently, so are they.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Lando Norris

Ollie talks nonstop.

Y/N counted once — he asked seventeen questions before she’d finished her coffee. Seventeen. Before 8 a.m.

He narrates everything. His thoughts. His snack choices. The way his sock feels “sad” because it’s the wrong color. It’s so Lando it’s ridiculous.

Lando denies it, of course. “He’s just curious,” he says, as Ollie launches into a passionate TED Talk about worms.

“You literally talked through our entire first date,” Y/N replies.

“Yeah, but I was charming.”

Y/N gestures to their son, who is now taping two juice boxes together with painter’s tape. “So is he.”

---

Mornings with Ollie are… loud.

It starts in the bathroom.

Lando’s brushing his teeth, shirtless, hair a mess, doing a little shuffle dance to the music playing off his phone.

Ollie climbs up onto the stool next to him, toothbrush already hanging out of his mouth like a pro.

They lock eyes in the mirror.

And then it begins: synchronized chaos.

They both brush like it’s a sport — dramatic arm movements, mouth foam everywhere, wiggly hips and head bobs.

Ollie spits. Lando spits.

Ollie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Lando does the same.

Y/N walks in just as both of them slap cold water on their faces at the same time — and then both yell “AAAAH!” like it’s so refreshing and totally not freezing.

She stares. “You guys good?”

Lando gives her a toothpastey grin. “Mornin’, babe.”

Ollie copies him perfectly. “Mornin’, babe.”

Y/N presses a hand to her mouth to hide the smile. “I’m leaving. I can’t parent two of you today.”

“Technically,” Lando calls after her, “you created this.”

---

It’s the little things, too.

The way Ollie laughs — full belly, nose scrunch, falling-over kind of laughter.

The way he claps when he thinks he’s made a good joke (which is every time).

The way he races everything — his scooter, his cereal, his toothbrush. “It’s lights out and away we go!” is heard daily in their house.

Y/N once caught him giving himself a pretend podium interview using a banana. “I think I could’ve gone faster if Mum let me eat cake for breakfast.”

Lando just beamed. “He’s got media training already.”

---

And then there’s the livestream.

Lando’s mid-sentence, talking sim setups and gear ratios, when the door creaks open behind him.

“Ollie—” Y/N says off-camera. “He’s working.”

“I am working,” Ollie insists, popping into frame.

Lando turns around just as Ollie climbs onto his lap like he owns the stream.

“Say hi,” Lando mutters, adjusting his mic.

Ollie leans in, dead serious. “Hi. I’m his boss.”

Lando snorts. “You’re not my boss.”

“I am, because I said so.”

Then he slaps Lando’s cheeks between his palms and says, “Focus, Lando. You’re losing concentration.”

The chat explodes.

THE LITTLE YOU OMG 😭 He’s got the same attitude I can’t breathe NOT THE “YOU’RE LOSING CONCENTRATION” I’M GONE I swear I’ve heard Lando say that on team radio apple didn’t even fall. it’s still attached.

Lando scrolls through the comments, eyes wide.

Y/N walks by in the background, completely unfazed. “I told you.”

That night, they’re curled up on the couch.

Ollie’s passed out on Lando’s chest, mouth open, hand fisted in his shirt.

“You know,” Y/N whispers, brushing a curl off Ollie’s forehead, “he’s just like you.”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “He’s louder.”

“He’s you, baby. Just… uncensored.”

Lando looks down at his son and grins.

“Poor world.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Lewis Hamilton

Lewis is in the studio, pinky finger against his lip, focused on the track in his headphones.

From the kitchen, Y/N watches five-year-old Sofia on the floor with a coloring book. Head tilted, one arm propped on her knee, pinky tapping her bottom lip — exact same posture.

Not imitating. Just being.

“Lew,” Y/N says softly. “Come here.”

He leans out. “What—?”

She points.

He stares for a long second, then quietly laughs. “No way.”

“You do that every time you’re deep in thought.”

He watches her for another beat. “She’s got my thinking face.”

“She’s got you, period.”

---

In Lewis’s mum’s backyard, three-year-old Mateo crouches near a bee on the porch.

“It’s okay, little guy,” he says, calm and careful. “You can fly by me. I’m just watching.”

Lewis pauses mid-step. Y/N sees it — the soft smile, the little catch in his breath.

“That’s you,” she whispers.

He clears his throat. “We respect all creatures.”

“You once whispered ‘sorry’ to a snail for moving it off the sidewalk.”

“I mean… it was in the middle of its journey.”

Y/N grins. “So is he.”

---

Lewis is on a call, pacing, only half-listening when Sofia looks out the window.

“Papa,” she says, “why do the clouds look like they’re holding their breath?”

Lewis freezes.

Y/N turns from the sink. “Did she just—?”

He nods slowly. “I said that once. About heavy skies.”

“She remembered.”

“She listens?”

“She sees you, Lewis. Even when you don’t see yourself.”

---

It’s been a long day. Y/N is quiet, curled up on the couch.

Without saying a word, Leo (now two) walks over with the Bluetooth speaker, pressing the exact button Lewis always does. Lo-fi jazz fills the room.

Y/N blinks hard. “Lew…”

Lewis is frozen, eyes wide.

“I didn’t teach him that,” she whispers.

“I did,” Lewis says, voice cracking. “I just didn’t know he was watching.”

Y/N reaches for his hand. “He was.”

---

Sofia’s drawing again. Galaxies. A rocket ship. A microphone. Earth in gentle colors.

“What is it, baby?” Y/N asks.

“My future,” Sofia says. “I want to sing. And go to space. And fix the world.”

Lewis is quiet.

“I used to say that,” he murmurs. “People laughed.”

Y/N brushes her fingers through his curls. “She doesn’t even think anyone would. Because in this house, dreams are sacred.”

Lewis swallows. Kneels beside Sofia.

“Can I come to your concert?” he asks.

Sofia beams. “You can sit in the front row.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Daniel Ricciardo

His son, four-year-old Rafi, wins a race at the go-kart track (against imaginary competition — he was the only one racing).

He hops out of the kart, rips off his helmet, throws both arms in the air and yelps, “YEEEW!” before spraying juice everywhere like it’s champagne.

Y/N is frozen on the sideline. Daniel is cheering like it’s a world championship.

“He didn’t even race anyone!” Y/N laughs.

Daniel shrugs. “A win’s a win.”

She just points. “That was literally you in Monza.”

Danny grins. “He’s got taste.”

---

Two-year-old Evie walks into the kitchen, sees Y/N holding pancakes, and does a slow-pointing double finger-gun gesture while saying, “Ohhhh yeahhh.”

Daniel almost drops his coffee.

“What was that?” Y/N whispers.

Danny shrugs, too fast. “She’s enthusiastic.”

“You did that at the airport last week. To customs.”

“She cleared me quickly.”

“She’s two.”

“She’s iconic.”

---

Rafi lets out a wild, cackling, snorty laugh at a cartoon — the kind that doubles him over and ends with a wheeze.

Daniel literally stops walking.

“That’s… that’s my laugh.”

Y/N pats his back. “Yes, babe. Your exact laugh. Pitch, rhythm, everything.”

“She didn’t even hear me laugh just now!”

“She didn’t need to. It’s coded into her DNA.”

---

Evie is explaining something to her grandma — arms flailing, eyebrows lifting, dramatic pauses, a fake gasp — like she’s doing a full one-woman theater piece about how the neighbor’s cat sat in the flower bed.

Daniel’s mum turns to Y/N and just wheezes.

“Oh my god,” she says. “She’s Daniel. She’s baby Daniel. That’s how he explained spaghetti sauce at age five.”

Daniel protests from the kitchen, mouth full of toast. “It was very good sauce.”

---

They’re at the playground. Rafi falls off a tiny climbing wall and lands on his bum.

He hops up and yells: “I’M GOOD. JUST ADDING CHARACTER.”

Y/N freezes. So does Daniel.

“That’s… that’s what I said when I broke my toe last year,” Daniel mutters.

She side-eyes him. “You say it all the time. You spilled milk last week and said that.”

Rafi shrugs like it’s no big deal and keeps playing.

Daniel turns to his mum.

She sips her coffee calmly. “You’re not raising children, darling. You’re raising Ricciardos.”

---

Family photo day.

Evie grins, throws a peace sign over one eye, tilts her head and sticks out her tongue like it’s a Red Bull era classic.

The photographer pauses. “That’s a very… specific pose.”

Y/N doesn’t even flinch. “It’s Daniel’s 2018 media day face.”

Daniel just blinks. “No it’s not—”

Y/N whips out her phone. “Side-by-side, Ricciardo. Don’t make me do it.”

His mum leans in. “You really did copy/paste yourself.”

Danny finally groans. “I didn’t even try to do this!”

Y/N just smiles. “Exactly.”

---

The end.

[leclercskiesahead]

H e i g h t d i f f e r e n c e

[whiteraven87]

The Unstoppable Series - Masterlist

PART 1: DRIVEN BY SPEED: A diamond among stones

"Born of pain. Fueled by fury. Saved by speed."

Miriell Joschke had no right to survive in a world that was never meant for her. But instead of breaking, she climbed into a kart — and started winning.

Haunted by shadows of the past, by trauma and distrust, she crosses paths with Susie Wolff — the woman who changes her life — and Toto Wolff, the man who will one day mean everything to her.

This is the story of a legend in the making.

And of the first title… that cost her more than she could ever imagine.

Driven by Speed. A Diamond among Stones is Part 1 of The Unstoppable series — a slow-burn journey through trauma, ambition, and the kind of love that sneaks up when you least expect it.

------------

The Unstoppable Series - Masterlist

"Because when fire meets steel, something unstoppable is born."

Discover the story of Miriell Joschke, a girl from Poland, who chasing her dreams, became the first woman to claim the Formula 1 World Championship and during her lifetime became a legend. And about an unexpected and forbidden love that changed her life.

A four-part saga of speed, ambition, pain, and a love that refuses to be silenced.

Part 1: Driven by Speed - A Diamond Among Stones

Part 2: Driven by Success - Golden Girl

Part 3: Driven by Love - Rebirth from the Ashes

Part 4: Driven by Desire - Fire and Speed

==================

Dear Reader!

This story is written with a mature audience in mind.

If you're looking for slow burn, emotional depth, healing after trauma, love forged through loss, and characters who carry scars but still choose to love — you're in the right place.

The relationship between Miriell and Toto grows slowly, honestly, painfully — and beautifully.

This is not a fast romance. This is a story about survival, rebuilding, and the power of human connection.

The series is already written and I will upload new chaptares daily.

If you like it please comment, subscribe, like... and of course enjoy!

Cheers!

WhiteRaven87

--------------------

The Unstoppable Series | Song Playlist on Spotify:

----------

--------------------------------------

Warnings: long (very long) slow burn, age gap (23 years), woman racing in F1, boss/driver relationship, difficult and painful past, death, anxiety,

-------------------------------------

Driven by Speed. A Diamond among Stones:

Prologue

F1 start

Loss and Pain

Calm after the storm

First victory

Unbreakable

Unexpected blow

The Secret

Beginning of New Era

The Burden of a Leader

Sad Anniversary

Unexpected feelings

Hungry Eyes

The Infernal Race

Kiss from A Rose

I shouldn't

Wicked Game

They would be Proud of You

Unstoppable

This is the Beginning

Epilogue

-------------------------------------

Prologue

My whole life, I’ve been racing forward. Speed was my language, my only truth, the one thing I understood without hesitation. In the silence of the cockpit, between one breath and the next, I found myself — raw, flawless, free. The track was my home, a place where nothing existed but the fight, where loneliness didn’t hurt, and the hunger for victory was the only law I knew.

I always knew that the path I chose left no room for weakness. A woman in a man’s world has to be tougher than them all. She has to pretend she doesn’t feel, doesn’t long for anything, that her heart is made of iron and her soul is coated in fireproof armor. That’s the version of myself I created—perfect, undefeated, unstoppable, but also closed off to anything that could slow me down.

And yet, he was like a storm in my world—silent and relentless—tearing apart everything I had built for years. I never asked for this. I never wanted it. But it only took one look, one conversation, for something inside me to crack—something that was never supposed to break.

Now I stand at a crossroads. In front of me lies the future I know—racing, adrenaline, the solitude that has long since become a part of me. Behind me is the past I cannot change, and a feeling that should have never taken root. And somewhere in between is him—silent, patient, waiting.

But can I allow myself to love when I’ve spent my whole life learning how to reject it, knowing it could break me? Can I stop running when speed is all I’ve ever known?

The wind carries the scent of rain. In the distance, I hear the roar of engines—the sound that has always meant home. I clench my fists and fix my gaze on the horizon, leaning against the barrier as I look at the track that is my entire life—or is it?

"Miriell?" The voice of a Mercedes engineer pulls me from my thoughts. The race briefing is about to begin—the final race of the season, the most important of my career. I’m fighting for the Formula 1 World Championship title, as the first woman in the history of the sport.

I don’t yet know how my story will unfold, but one thing is certain—whatever I choose, whatever happens on the track, I will never be the same again.

Twenty Years Earlier

First Loss

I remember the sound of the rain tapping against the window that night. Soft, steady, like the heartbeat of the world—unwavering, even though my life had just shattered into pieces. I don’t remember what the people at the hospital said, how their voices sounded, or what their faces looked like. All that remained in my memory was the emptiness, spreading through me like an endless darkness.

I was seven years old when the world took my parents away. They died in a car accident.

I didn’t understand what it meant. I couldn’t grasp why they weren’t coming back, why my mother wouldn’t hold me goodnight, why my father wouldn’t lift me into the air, laughing with that deep, warm voice of his. I remember staring out the window, waiting for their silhouettes to appear, as if they would walk through the door at any moment and tell me it was all just a bad dream. But the door remained closed.

It was my grandfather who held me then. Eryk Joschke—a man with work-worn hands, capable of taking apart any engine and putting it back together so that it ran better than before. He smelled of grease, old wood, and the cigarettes he always kept in his pocket but never smoked around me. He didn’t say much. He was just there, and I, small and lost, clung to his presence like the last anchor keeping me afloat.

His house stood on the outskirts of a small town in western Poland, where the asphalt turned into a gravel road leading to his workshop. That was where I learned to listen to the world in a different way—not through words, but through the sounds of engines, the scent of heated metal and gasoline.

“Do you hear that?” he once asked, bending over me when I was about eight years old, allowing me to touch the inside of a car for the first time. “The engine is the heart of the machine. If you listen carefully, it will tell you how it feels.”

I didn’t understand back then, but I learned to listen.

Long after I stopped believing in fairy tales about princesses and knights, I believed in the symphony of mechanics, in the precision of pistons moving in harmony, in the rhythm of the drivetrain.

Grandfather took me to racetracks. I would sit on his shoulders as we watched the cars fly past, leaving only the echo of speed behind. He never asked if I wanted to be a driver. He just let me love this world in my own way.

I sat behind the wheel of a go-kart for the first time when I was eight years old. It was too big for me; my hands barely wrapped around the steering wheel. But when I pressed the gas pedal, I felt something beyond words.

The wind tangling in my hair.

The feeling that I was part of something bigger, that I could reach for anything if I only dared to push harder.

That was the moment everything began.

I didn’t yet know the price I would pay for speed. I didn’t know that the track would become both my home and my prison, that it would teach me how to win but also take more from me than I ever wanted to give.

But back then, in that moment, I was just a little girl who, for the first time, felt truly alive.

Tomboy

Growing up was like racing on a wet track—unpredictable, slippery, full of moments when I felt like I was losing control. I never quite fit in anywhere.

At school, I was the odd one out. Not because I wanted to be. I simply never learned to speak their language—the whispers about boys, the talks about clothes and makeup, the secret glances girls exchanged when older boys walked by. Their world felt distant, as if it existed alongside mine but never touched it.

I lived among the sounds of engines, the smell of oil and burning rubber on asphalt. I preferred spending time in my grandfather's workshop, learning how to take apart a carburetor, rather than going to house parties where alcohol tasted like forbidden fruit and girls did everything to be part of the pack.

I wasn’t one of them. I didn’t wear dresses, I didn’t paint my nails. My hands bore grease stains, and my clothes smelled of gasoline. As I walked through the school hallways, I felt their stares—some mocking, others indifferent.

"Tomboy," the girls would say, shaking their heads. "What’s the point of all that racing? No normal guy will ever look at her."

The boys didn’t accept me either. I wasn’t a rival, nor was I someone they could flirt with. When I talked about engines, they looked at me with pity, as if I was trying to step into a world where I didn’t belong.

"Crazy," they laughed when I sat alone, sketching drivetrain diagrams in my notebook. "Only guys understand this stuff."

The world was full of invisible boundaries I couldn’t cross. Girls had their secrets and giggles in front of the mirror, boys had their rivalries and constant need to prove who was stronger. And I was somewhere in between. Alone.

My grandfather saw it. He didn’t say much, but one day, when I came home in silence, he tossed me my helmet.

"Come on."

I didn’t ask where. I knew he would take me where everything made sense.

On the track, things were different. It didn’t matter if I was a girl or a boy. It didn’t matter that no one at school wanted to sit with me during breaks. When I got into the machine, I was just a driver.

I remember the first time I beat all the boys in a karting race. Their faces when I stood on the podium, holding the trophy. They didn’t congratulate me. Some looked at me in disbelief, others with anger.

But I knew. This was my place.

Maybe I would never be part of their world. Maybe I would always be different.

But on the track, none of that mattered.

For the first time, I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Loneliness

Leaving for Germany felt like jumping into the unknown. I had no choice—if I wanted to move forward, I had to leave everything I knew behind. My grandfather’s workshop, the track that had become my second home, and the small space where I could just be myself.

Studying automotive engineering in Stuttgart was my ticket to the world I dreamed of—a world where machines spoke their own language, and I was learning to understand it more and more each day.

But the farther I was from home, the more I felt like I was losing something inside me.

Germany felt foreign. It wasn’t the language—I knew it well, spoke fluently—but among the students, I felt like an outsider. I was still different. Their parties didn’t amuse me, their small talk about everyday life didn’t interest me. I couldn’t be part of their reality, where it mattered who had the best internship, the most expensive watch, who went skiing in the Alps.

I spent my evenings in the university workshop, bent over engines, in the silence where I could finally breathe. There, among the smell of grease and the glow of fluorescent lights, I felt closer to home, closer to my grandfather.

He called me every day.

"How’s it going, girl?" he asked in his thick German accent, and I could hear the pride in his voice, even though he never said it outright. "Don’t wear yourself out. You’ve got talent, but even talent needs to be respected."

I laughed, shaking my head, even though I knew he was right.

He was my anchor. The only family I had.

And then… one day, he stopped answering.

At first, I thought he had just forgotten, maybe he was busy, maybe something had come up.

But the silence lasted too long.

I remember that phone call.

I remember the voice of the woman from the neighborhood, her careful words, as if she was afraid that if she said them too quickly, my world would shatter.

Heart attack.

Alone in the workshop, surrounded by what he loved most.

I made it back in time for the funeral, but I felt like I was too late. Like I had missed something I could never get back.

I stood by his grave, among the few people who had known him—mechanics, old customers, a few friends he still had. The wind was cold, whipping through my hair, and I still couldn’t believe it was happening.

That I was alone.

No one was waiting for my calls anymore. No one was waiting for me.

I remember coming back to the empty house. Sitting in the workshop, touching the tools that still bore the marks of his hands.

And then it hit me. There was no going back. I had nowhere to return to.

There was only the track.

And the promise I once made to myself… That I would never stop.

Trauma

That was the day that marked my life for years to come. It was supposed to be just another night at the track. We had raced before—a group of guys from the polytechnic who had money, fast cars, and too much confidence. I liked their challenges because, on the track, we were all equal. Or at least, that’s what I thought.

I don’t remember who suggested we go to an old, abandoned airfield on the outskirts of the city. I didn’t think twice. Adrenaline was the only thing that made me feel anything at all.

I won, and they were furious. I don’t know when the game changed. I don’t know when they stopped being my rivals and became my tormentors.

I remember their hands—too strong, too brutal. I remember how they held me down, how they tore at me, how their laughter cut into my skin like a blade. I remember the pain, the blood, the helplessness.

But most of all, I remember the moment I realized that no one was coming to help me, that I was completely alone.

When they left me, I lay naked in the darkness, on the cold, wet asphalt, in a place that just moments ago had been my arena. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. I just stared at the sky.

I remember there was fullmoon.

I don’t know how I made it home. I treated my wounds, the cuts... I stood in the shower for a long time, trying to wash everything away, but it didn’t help. The pain, the suffering, the feeling of being dirty, defiled—it stayed with me for years.

I didn’t go to the police. I didn’t tell anyone.

What good would it have done? I knew how these things worked. They had names, money, status. I was just a girl who shouldn’t have been there. No one would have believed me, so I learned to stay silent.

The next day, I got up, put on my gloves, walked into the workshop, and started working on the car. The track was the only place where memories couldn’t reach me. Everything else became irrelevant. People stopped existing. Relationships didn’t matter. Friendships were a luxury I couldn’t afford.

Only the asphalt mattered, the speed, the moment when the line between life and death blurred in the blink of an eye.

In that rush, there was no room for pain, no room for the past.

There was only me and the machine.

The Fight

I lived like a shadow of myself, and the days passed in a mechanical rhythm—waking up, classes at the university, working in the garage, hours on the track, races, night shifts in workshops to make enough money for another month. I slept little, ate even less. I pushed my body to the edge, to the point where it no longer had the strength to resist.

It was easier when I was exhausted. Then I didn’t have to feel or think.

The nightmares didn’t let go. They came back every night, brutal, relentless, suffocating me in the darkness. I woke up screaming, trembling, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst.

No one could see it. I built a wall around myself—high and impenetrable. People tried—professors, mechanics, drivers who saw my talent and wanted to help—but I let no one in. I was alone.

And then I heard about the accident.

Death came for them quickly. A wet night, too much speed, one mistake—and they crashed into a concrete wall at the highway entrance. Their bodies burned in the car before anyone could react.

I felt no relief, no satisfaction. Nothing changed.

Their deaths didn’t give me back what they had taken. They didn’t erase the pain, didn’t fill the emptiness they had carved into my soul and heart.

Only the track kept me alive. Every second behind the wheel, every corner taken at the edge of grip, every moment when speed blurred the line between reason and madness—only then was I free. Only then did I forget.

I became a driver that couldn’t be broken. I felt no fear. I felt nothing.

I only felt speed, the fight, and the track.

Meeting Susie

I was used to whispers. To the looks that followed me as I walked through the paddock. To the sarcastic smiles of men who believed my place was anywhere but on the track. To the envy of those I defeated and the quiet admiration of those too afraid to show it. But that day, something was different.

I felt someone's gaze on me—sharp, observant, evaluating, but without a trace of disdain. I turned around. And that’s when I saw her.

Susie Wolff.

I had heard of her. A woman who paved the way, who dared to fight in a world that had no place for her. She was someone to be admired—but I didn’t allow myself to admire anyone. I didn’t believe in heroes.

During a break between sessions, she found me in the garage.

"Miriell Joschke." she said, and I raised an eyebrow. Not everyone knew my name. I preferred to be remembered for my results, not for the letters in a table.

"If you're here to invite me to some motorsport program for women, I’ll pass." I said coldly.  "I don’t need special treatment."

She smiled slightly, but there wasn’t even a hint of condescension in her eyes.

"I know" she replied calmly. "That’s why I’m not here to comfort you, but to offer you something that might interest you."

I narrowed my eyes, intrigued despite myself.

"I’m listening."

Susie leaned against a workbench in the garage as if it was her natural environment.

"I know you race anything with four wheels and an engine, and that no matter how bad the car is, you still win. I also know you don’t have support."

I didn’t respond.

"And I want you to have it."

All the warning lights in my head flashed at once.

"I don’t need anyone."

"Everyone needs someone who believes in them." she said softly.

Those words hit a place I thought had long died in me.

I looked at her for a long time, searching her gaze for deception, hidden pity, an ulterior motive. I found none of those things. I found someone who truly understood.

Someone who had once been me.

"What do you mean?" I asked, though I already felt my path shifting.

Susie smiled slightly.

"I have a few doors I can open for you. The question is: are you ready to walk through them?"

I didn’t know then that this conversation would change everything, that it would be the beginning of something that would lead me into a world designed to swallow me whole, to test me, and nearly break me.

But in that moment, I said just one word:

"Yes."

The Opportunity

Mercedes—a symbol of power in the world of motorsport. A place reserved for the few, the most talented, those whose futures were already written in the stars.

I was not one of them.

I had no sponsors, no connections, no big name. I was not a young boy who had trained in academies under the guidance of the best specialists since childhood. I was not a promising junior who only needed refining.

I was a woman, and I was a nobody.

I was twenty-one—too old, in their eyes, to be just starting.

"She’s good, but too old." I heard whispered at meetings. "She has no experience in F3, F2. She’ll fall behind."

"She’s too aggressive."

"She won’t adapt to teamwork."

"A woman? In Formula 1?"

That last one I heard the most.

Susie saw those looks, knew those arguments. She was the only one who fought for me like a lioness, but even she couldn’t change the rules of this world. I had to do it myself.

I was the first to arrive at the garage. And the last to leave.

While other young drivers completed their required sessions and lazily glanced at telemetry data, I sat with engineers and mechanics, learning everything—every screw, every millimeter of the car.

I had to know it inside out.

I couldn’t afford uncertainty, hesitation. I couldn’t afford even the smallest mistake.

Day by day, I proved that I wasn’t there by chance. I was perfect in analysis, in understanding the car, in fighting for every tenth of a second. My driving style was uncompromising—hard, precise, aggressive, but not chaotic.

I was not someone they could ignore, and yet they still did.

I still heard them writing me off. Treating me like a novelty, something that would soon fade away.

Susie saw it. She saw my determination. She saw me returning to the garage past midnight to go over data one more time, how I left myself no way out. She saw how I never allowed myself weakness.

And then she started protecting me.

At first, subtly—small gestures, her presence, support when others looked away. Then, more openly.

Once, after yet another meeting where my place in the academy was questioned, she told me something that stayed with me:

'You’re like a knife, Miriell. Those who don’t know how to hold you will eventually cut themselves."

She was closer to me than anyone. She became more than a mentor.

She became the sister I never had. Susie was the anchor I didn’t know I needed.

For the first time since my grandfather’s death, someone was there—not out of duty, not out of pity, but because she wanted to be.

She saw more in me than just a driver, more than a machine built for racing, more than someone locked in a shell of determination and perfection.

And though I never said it out loud, I knew she felt it.

Then she got pregnant.

And suddenly, I was the one taking care of her.

It came naturally to me, instinctively. Maybe because I had never had a family, and she became mine. Maybe because, for the first time in my life, I felt that someone wouldn’t leave me, wouldn’t walk away.

Or maybe simply because I wanted that child to be born into a world that wasn’t as cold and brutal as the one I knew.

Meeting Toto

At the Mercedes Academy, I was noticed quickly.

Not just because I was a woman—though that alone was controversial enough.

Not just because I was winning, but because I lived this sport in a way rarely seen. Testing. Hours in the simulator. Data analysis. Engineering studies. Mechanics. Everything was equally important. I wanted to know everything about the car—every screw, every reaction, every tiny detail. If I was going to fight, I had to know my weapon better than anyone else.

And then Susie invited me to dinner.

"I want you to meet Toto."

Toto Wolff.

A man even the greatest figures in motorsport feared. A strategist, businessman, and team principal of Mercedes—one of the most powerful teams in Formula 1. A man who held the future of this team and the sport in his hands. Intelligent, charismatic, ruthlessly effective.

It intimidated me. I wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it did.

Susie invited me to their apartment in Monaco, and suddenly, I realized that even though I was a tough girl with a sharp tongue, someone who could talk back to anyone on the track, here—in these elegant interiors, among people who had ruled this world for years—I felt out of place.

Toto Wolff could be intimidating at first sight. A very tall, broad-shouldered man with piercing dark eyes that seemed to look right through you. There was something about him that pulled me in like a magnet from the very first moment. But Toto wasn’t what I had expected. He didn’t look at me as if I were a girl who had stumbled into his world by accident. He didn’t see me as a curiosity, as his wife’s project, as someone who would disappear soon.

He watched me carefully. He analyzed, but he didn’t judge.

"I’ve heard a lot about you," he said as a greeting.

"I hope only good things," I shot back confidently, trying to hide how uncertain I felt.

"Only good. And impressive ones."

I didn’t know what to say, and then I heard him speak to me in Polish.

Not perfectly, but well enough that I understood he knew the language quite well.

"My mother is Polish" he explained with a slight smile, as if he had noticed my surprise.

And suddenly, everything became easier. We talked. About racing, about engineering, about everything that drove me. We quickly found common ground—literally and figuratively.

I didn’t know yet how much that evening would change my life.

I didn’t know that this man would one day lay the world at my feet… and that he himself would become my whole world.

--------------------

NEXT -> 2. F1 start

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"I put my armor on, show you how strong I am."

Read the story here:

AO3 Unstoppable Series

Wattpad: Part1 I Part 2 I Part 3 | Part 4

🇵🇱 Dla Polskich czytelników [for Polish readers] [PL]:

Seria Niepowstrzymana AO3

Wattpad PL: Part1 I Part 2 I Part 3 | Part 4

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[jallisonenthusiast]

audacious☝️

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leclerc x piastri x hamilton headers.

[insolatingmyself]

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