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a-bbles · 19 days ago

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The Outfit? Offensive ⛐

Summary: The paddock thought race day was intense. Then a five-year-old showed up with glitter sunglasses and a clipboard. Chaos followed.

Content: cuteness, chaos, toddler logic, paddock drama, fashion crimes, soft dad moments, glitter-level confidence, and even retired or inactive drivers somehow getting dragged into the drama

Author's Note 🏎️:

I’ve always liked writing cute stuff, especially with some of the drivers or team principals as dads since a few of them are older now and it just fits so well. This one was super fun and chaotic to write, so I hope it made you smile. If you have any requests or ideas you want to see written, my DMs and request box are always open!

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Security didn’t question her. Probably because she looked like she owned the place.

By the time the first batch of drivers had checked into the paddock, she was already seated outside the motorhomes in her tiny foldable chair, glitter sunglasses on, clipboard in hand, and a sign (written in crayon) that read:

FASHION CONTEST. WINNER GETS HUG + CANDY. + and maybe sumthin else if u dress rilly rilly good ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

The “judge” was Y/N. Age five. Future fashion dictator. Also known around here as “Toto’s kid.” Which explained how she had clearance before sunrise and knew exactly where to set up for maximum drama.

Max Verstappen was first in. Walked through security. Barely two steps in and—

“Minus three! AGAIN with the Red Bull shirt? BORING.” You scribbled with flair, then flipped your whiteboard. “You get a zero.”

Max blinked. “It’s part of my job?”

“Not my fault you picked the boring work shirt,” you pouted. “Why no sparkles or colors or fun?”

He walked away muttering something about unfair systems and needing a stylist.

Then came Oscar, pink hoodie and all.

“POINTS for pink! You’re automatically higher than Max!” she cheered.

Oscar blinked. “Thank you…?”

The others trickled in like lambs to the fashion slaughter. Charles got a 6.5 and was already arguing about it.

He blinked. “But this is Dior.”

“I’m five,” you replied flatly.

Lando got a 4.25 because of his mismatched socks. “A four point what?” he repeated, stunned.

You raised your board. “Four. Point. Two, Five. Don’t argue with the system.”

Carlos came next, looking a little too confident in pastel colors and suspiciously clean shoes.

“Mmm. 7.4,” you said, scribbling on your whiteboard. “Points for the matching socks.”

George looked scandalized. “Wait, he gets a 7.4?”

“You’re not up yet,” you warned him.

As more drivers arrived and got judged, the area around your chair became less a walkway and more a pit lane of chaos.

“I better be higher than Carlos,” George muttered, peeking at your notes.

“You’re not,” Gabriel said from behind him.

“You got a five,” Kimi added helpfully, “and a note that says ‘pants are too tight.’”

“They are!” you shouted.

At one point, Lance walked up wearing Crocs. The judging panel went silent.

“Crocs?” you asked, peering over your whiteboard like a judge on TV. “Two out of ten.”

Lance looked like you personally offended his ancestors. “They’re limited edition!”

Pierre came back holding the ice cream like a peace offering. “I brought you something, look.”

You squinted. “Is it chocolate?”

“No…”

“Then it’s a 5.5.”

Valtteri arrived next, holding a protein bar and a juice pouch like he was paying tribute. You took the juice and sipped dramatically.

“You’re now a 6.2,” you announced with a proud nod.

Fernando, ever the opportunist, approached with a bag of chips. “What if I throw in a selfie?”

“I can’t eat a selfie,” you said.

“She’s right,” Nico Hulkenberg muttered. “Give her the chips.”

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By mid-morning, the judging line was done.

But instead of going to their garages to get ready like professionals, the drivers started hovering behind Y/N’s chair like she was hosting the paddock version of the Met Gala.

Then it happened. Someone, probably Lando, pointed at a poor, unsuspecting crew member just walking by with a headset and clipboard.

“What does he get?”

You looked up. Squinted. “His jacket’s cool. 6.6.”

“6.6?” Ollie nearly choked. “That’s higher than me!”

“He has a lightning bolt on his arm,” you said proudly. “That’s awesome.”

Some poor team staffer walked by with a coffee tray and got hit with:

“Okay, why does he get a 5?” Alex pointed aggressively. “He’s literally wearing beige. Like, beige on beige. He looks like a bread roll.”

“BEIGE SNEAKERS TOO,” Nico gasped.

“I think he’s just doing his job,” Zhou said gently.

Another guy walked past wearing skinny jeans and a massive team jacket.

Oscar pointed. “That jacket’s so big it has zip codes. Why does he get an 7.2? And I got a 4?”

“I like big jackets,” Y/N said.

Fernando pointed at another staff member passing by. “Okay, and why does she get a seven? What did she do?”

You tilted your head. “She smiled at me before.”

George looked personally betrayed. “That’s not fair! I smiled at you all morning.”

“You also wore pants that looked like they couldn’t breathe,” Yuki muttered.

Someone else walked by, probably a logistics guy.

“0,” you said.

“Finally,” Max muttered.

“Wait, no. 3,” you said, thinking hard. “He gave me gum yesterday.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Are we really losing to people just walking by?”

You looked at him. “You wore that hoodie yesterday. And yesterday was not fashion day.”

Someone else passed, this time pushing a catering cart. “6.7,” you decided. “The food smells yummy.”

“Unbelievable,” Nico muttered. “Outscored by a sandwich guy.”

“Sandwich guy has style,” you added, chewing a gummy worm.

Another poor soul walked by with a clipboard and two phones, just trying to do his job.

Liam pointed. “Him. That guy. Why does he get a six and I got 4.5?”

“Because I like his phone case,” Y/N said, totally confident.

Everyone turned to stare.

“What’s on his phone case?” Logan asked.

“A duck. In a hat.”

Liam dramatically collapsed. “I lost to a duck.”

“Don’t say that sentence out loud,” Franco said, wheezing.

“I’m judging the judge now,” Oscar announced. “This whole system’s rigged.”

“You’re just mad you peaked at 4,” Pierre smirked.

“I bribed her,” Oscar said. “She took the Oreos. She took them.”

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Somewhere else in the paddock, a reporter hesitated mid-question and glanced at his earpiece.

“Sorry, Toto,” he said carefully. “There’s… a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“Your daughter’s judging the drivers.”

“She’s what?” Toto blinked.

“It was cute at first. But now the drivers have formed a line, and they're heckling anyone who scores higher than them.”

Toto stared.

“They’re terrorizing innocent staff,” the reporter added. “One guy just walked by holding cables and got a 6. George is demanding a recount. And someone might’ve cried. We don’t know who. We just know one of them walked off muttering, ‘I got a two. A two.’”

Toto closed his eyes for a second. “Where is she now?”

The reporter just pointed. “Follow the chaos.”

With a sigh, Toto turned and started walking. As he stepped outside, he was immediately hit by the sound of complaints.

“I got a three? Can you believe that?” an engineer said loudly, holding a banana like it had failed him.

“Look at me. I got a two,” someone else muttered. “She said my shoes look like ‘marshmallow blobs.’”

“She’s not wrong,” another voice chimed in.

Toto paused, slowly dragging a hand down his face.

This... was going to be a long weekend.

—

And things were only getting worse.

The bribery escalated fast. Isack came with gummy bears. Yuki offered a big bag of Cheetos. Franco brought stickers. Zhou offered gum. You accepted everything like a tiny goblin hoarding treasure.

You pointed suddenly, like you just saw a crime. “Wait. He has Crocs.”

Lance looked like he was about to cry. “You already rated me!”

You blinked. “I did?”

“Yes! You said two out of ten. In front of everyone!”

“Oh.” You stared at his feet. “Yeah. Now you get a 1.6. The socks made it worse.”

Lance threw his hands in the air. “They’re also limited edition!”

“They’re limited ugly,” you said, munching on your Tim Tam like nothing happened.

Off to the side, the drivers had started judging each other.

“Why is he a seven?” Alex pointed at Zhou. “He’s literally wearing that.”

Zhou folded his arms. “This is Balenciaga.”

“Yeah,” you said. “But I like purple.”

“I have purple socks!” George yelled from the back.

“Too late,” you replied, taking another bite of Tim Tam without even looking at him.

—

After all the snacks, and panicked sock changes, the board had definitely changed. And now? Everyone wanted to know who climbed, who fell, and who got pity points.

“I better be higher than YOU,” Lando muttered under his breath.

“You wore mismatched socks,” Yuki pointed out.

“I changed them! I literally ran back to my room!” Lando yelled.

Pierre leaned in smugly. “She said my outfit had ‘French flavor!’”

“You got a 4.8!” Franco yelled. “How is that flavor?”

“It’s called ✨style✨,” Pierre replied, flicking invisible dust off his shoulder.

“Bro, you’re wearing boat shoes!”

“She said they were yacht-core!”

"She gave me a sticker and told me to 'try again later," Logan added, offended.

"Huh. I got bumped up to a 6,” Oscar muttered to no one in particular.

"That's solid. That's decent."

"You're lucky," Alex said "She looked at my pants and said “what's happening here?'"

“Bet I look better than Nico,” Carlos added smugly.

“He got a four,” you muttered. “Because I said his shirt looks like a couch.”

“Hey!” Nico protested from the back. “It’s vintage!”

“She gave me a 5.2,” Esteban muttered. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re five-point-two out of ten,” Yuki said. “Be grateful.”

Then George came storming back, holding your scorecard like it was a trophy.

“I got an eight,” he announced, waving it in the air. “Eight! Highest so far. I am literally winning Fashion GP.”

He turned like he expected applause. There was none.

“You bribed her,” Alex said flatly.

“I did not! I matched my socks and wore pastel. I’m a fashion icon.”

“She said your pants were too tight earlier,” Yuki muttered.

George pointed at you. “Yeah, but she said they’re tight but committed. That’s growth.”

“She just gave you pity points,” Pierre said.

George scoffed. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

Carlos raised a brow. “You really think you’re winning?”

“Obviously. You got a 7.4. I got 8. Highest score. I’m unbeatable.”

Right on cue, Lewis strolled by, humming to himself.

He was in full chill mode, wearing a silk bomber jacket with hand-painted flames, tailored trousers, silver chains, and reflective sunglasses. The grid might as well have been his runway. Everyone else just looked underdressed.

He paused when he saw the crowd. “Hi? Is there a meeting I forgot about?”

Your eyes lit up. “Lew Lew!”

He blinked. “Oh no. Am I being judged too?”

You stood up, arms wide. “You get a hundred out of ten!”

The crowd gasped.

George actually dropped his scorecard.

“That’s not even allowed!” he cried. “You said the limit was ten!”

“You’re just mad you peaked too early,” Lando said, wheezing.

“He gets more than a candy and a hug,” you declared. “I will spend my whole race weekend with you.”

Silence. Shock. Betrayal. Emotional damage.

George stood in stunned silence, watching all his fashion dreams crumble.

“She WHAT?” Yuki gasped.

“No, no, no, hold on,” Pierre cut in. “That was not in the prize list.”

“Had I known that,” Charles muttered, “I would’ve worn the leather pants. The ones I saved for Monza.”

Oscar blinked. “I gave her my last pack of Oreos and got a six. Lewis just exists and gets her soul?”

Max looked around, offended. “If I knew that was on the line, I would’ve worn a full suit!”

Isack scowled. “Should’ve told us. I would’ve ironed my shirt.”

Carlos crossed his arms. “Why didn’t anyone say that? I literally brushed my hair today. That should’ve counted for something.”

Fernando raised a finger. “Where was the memo that spending time with the cutest kid on the grid was on the table?”

You wrapped your arms around Lewis’ legs. “You always dress good. Not like Maxie. He wears Red Bull every day.”

Amidst the chaos, just as George’s soul visibly left his body, Toto turned the corner and found you proudly holding up a whiteboard.

You grinned and pointed directly at him. “Papa! You get the same as Maxie. Zero out of ten… but plus one because you’re my dad.”

Toto blinked. “I get a one?”

“Yup. Same uniform. Same boring.”

“How is it boring? We’re literally at work!” Max yelled, gesturing at his team gear like it made perfect sense.

Toto nodded. “He’s right, though. We have to wear it.”

“See?” Max said, pointing at Toto like he’d just won a case in court. “It’s mandatory!”

You shrugged. “Still boring. Papa, you should wear a fun hat or something.”

Toto looked down at his black team jacket, then at Max. “Maybe we are the problem.”

Lewis crouched beside you, his grin far too satisfied. “By the way,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “she told me the prize for winning is spending the rest of the day with her.”

There was a collective groan from the grid.

Toto sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You’ll be spending the rest of the day in the Merc garage, young lady.”

“No,” you said immediately, pointing at Lewis. “He won. I go with him. You better start dressing good.”

Toto blinked like she’d cursed him.

Lewis just smiled and held out his hand. “Guess I have a co-pilot this weekend.”

The grid was devastated.

Oscar looked like someone stole his snacks (the oreos). George was still trying to argue about scoring criteria. Pierre quietly whispered “bro…” under his breath.

Somewhere in the background, Lance was still yelling about his crocs.

And your fashion reign?

Had only just begun.

By the time you walked away with Lewis, bag of Cheetos in one hand, whiteboard in the other, the grid was still recovering from the fashion carnage you left behind.

And next time? They’d better dress like their contracts depended on it.

END.

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