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ijustwannabecool · 20 days ago

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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.”