“why Are You Doing This?”

hiii how are you ?

can I request a dad Charles where his daughter tells everyone that she French instead of Monegasque (just like Arthur) and Charles is just losing it every time she says it

She's Monegasque, not French

It started innocently, as most things with toddlers do.

Charles was sitting in the Ferrari motorhome, his three-year-old daughter Yn nestled comfortably in his lap, her tiny hands clutching a crayon-streaked drawing of what she insisted was “Papa’s race car.” The sun was bright, the paddock buzzing with media and mechanics and laughter as the summer European leg of the season carried on in full swing.

And then it happened.

“Papa,” she said sweetly, tilting her head up at him, eyes wide and so heartbreakingly sincere, “I’m French.”

Charles blinked.

“Quoi?” he said, pulling back slightly, eyebrows lifting in gentle confusion. “Ma chérie, no, you’re not French. You’re Monegasque, like Papa.”

Yn looked at him, lips pursed, deep in thought. And then she gave a little shrug. “Non. I’m French, like Uncle Thur.”

Charles groaned softly and let his head fall back against the couch. “Not this again.”

From across the room, Arthur—lounging lazily in a chair, eating grapes like he was Caesar in a past life—choked on his laughter.

“I didn’t teach her that,” Arthur said through wheezes. “She came up with it on her own. Genius, really.”

“You encourage it!” Charles accused, pointing an indignant finger at his younger brother. “You always say you’re French!”

“Well, I am French,” Arthur said with a grin. “Monegasque passport and everything. And clearly, Yn has excellent taste.”

“Excellent taste in traitors. And Monaco is not France,” Charles muttered, pulling Yn closer as if cuddling her tightly would somehow absorb her back into Monegasque pride.

But it didn’t stop there.

No, Yn had decided. French it was.

She told the Ferrari PR team she was French when they asked where she was from. She announced it proudly to the camera when someone tried to film a cute moment with her and her dad. She whispered it solemnly to Carlos while sitting in his lap eating strawberries.

“Papa’s sad ‘cause I’m French,” she told Carlos.

Carlos, eyes sparkling with mischief, leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s okay, Princesa. I’m Spanish, and he still talks to me.”

“Does he love you?” Yn asked, dead serious.

Carlos blinked. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Then maybe he’ll still love me even if I’m French.”

Behind them, Charles face-palmed.

The drivers got wind of it quickly—because of course they did.

By the next day, the jokes were relentless.

“So,” Lando said at breakfast in the hotel, stirring sugar into his coffee like he was preparing to deliver a monologue. “Do I address her as ‘Mademoiselle Yn’ now or...?”

“She’s not French,” Charles groaned.

“She told my engineer she wants her birthday cake in the shape of the Eiffel Tower,” Max deadpanned, walking by and tossing Charles a sympathetic look. “Good luck with that.”

Even Seb, who was visiting that weekend with his kids, gave Charles a comforting pat on the back. “At least she’s not saying she’s German. Yet.”

And then there was Esteban.

“Oh, this is fantastique,” Esteban beamed, scooping Yn up in the paddock one afternoon. “You’re French, just like me!”

Yn squealed and threw her arms around his neck. “Oui!”

Charles practically melted into the tarmac. “Mon dieu…”

But it was Arthur who reveled in it most.

He started wearing a beret. A beret, for god’s sake.

One afternoon in the hospitality tent, he presented Yn with a baguette and a small fake mustache. “For my fellow French citizen,” he declared proudly.

“Merci, Uncle Thur!” Yn beamed, sticking the mustache crookedly on her nose.

“I am living in a cartoon,” Charles mumbled into his hands.

No amount of explaining helped.

“But Monaco is in France,” she argued one night while Charles tucked her into bed in the team’s motorhome. “It’s right there.”

“No, chérie,” Charles said gently, brushing her curls back. “It’s close, but it’s its own country. Like Papa said before, remember?”

“I like France better.”

He sighed and tried the next best tactic: bribery.

“If you say you’re Monegasque again,” he whispered conspiratorially, “Papa will buy you ten ice creams tomorrow.”

Yn narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “What kind?”

“Any kind. Strawberry. Chocolate. All of them.”

“Hmm…” she tapped her chin with exaggerated thought. “I still wanna be French.”

He clutched his chest. “Traitor.”

The situation hit a new peak during the Saturday driver briefing. Yn, accompanied by Carlos and Charles, had been allowed to come along briefly before things got official. She toddled in wearing sunglasses way too big for her face and a little Ferrari cap.

Yuki crouched down to her level with a big smile. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Yn.”

“I’m French!” she declared proudly, striking a pose.

Yuki laughed. “That’s so cool! Then you must know that Uncle Pierre is also French!”

Yn froze.

All the drivers went still.

Charles raised his head slowly, eyes narrowing.

Yn’s nose scrunched up.

“…Uncle Pierre?”

“Yes,” Yuki chirped, unaware he was about to break the world’s most stubborn three-year-old. “He’s very French. Like super French.”

The silence that followed could have swallowed a pit lane.

Charles watched her face shift—concentration, confusion… and then determination.

She took off her sunglasses, turned to her father, and declared solemnly, “Papa. I’m not French anymore.”

Charles blinked. “You’re not?”

“I’m Monegasque now.”

“...Why?”

She folded her arms. “I don’t wanna be the same as Uncle Pierre.”

“WHAT?!” Pierre shouted from across the room, utterly betrayed.

Arthur was on the floor, laughing so hard he nearly cried. “Nooo! The French alliance has fallen!”

Carlos, barely holding it together, whispered, “Monaco wins.”

Charles scooped Yn up with the biggest grin he’d worn in days. “You have made Papa so proud.”

Yn patted his cheek. “Do I still get ice cream?”

He laughed, hugging her tight. “You can have all the ice cream you want, mon amour.”

Behind him, Pierre was muttering in disbelief, “What did I do? What did I do?”

And from that day on, Yn was proudly, defiantly, loyally Monegasque.

Until next week, when she decided she wanted to be Italian because “Papa’s car is red like Italy.”

And Charles just sighed into his espresso.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

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AD 24 | Saudi 22 | AusGP 24 | 🌌 | All The Stars - Kendrick Lamar, SZA | Inspo

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And They Were Soulmates - Ben Hardy! Roger Taylor

Summary: Whenever your soulmate sings a song, the lyrics would appear on a random place on your body, and disappear soon after the song ends. For you, your soulmate sings a lot, like A LOT, and it’s always Queen songs. So, you set off for a Queen concert, hoping to run into your soulmate. And when you finally find your soulmate, there’s only one thing you could do.

Word Count: 3064

Warnings: Swearing

A/N: So I know Roger doesn’t the whole time during concerts cause you know he’s up there drumming but we’re going to pretend he sings along the whole time while he’s drumming (although not in the microphone) for the purpose of the fic. I am devoted okay I looked up the set list for A Night At the Opera Tour so I could be accurate. Please tell me if you liked this because I’m genuinely not sure about it, so please please please give feedback. Also, it’ll be a bit boring in the beginning just bear with me :)

You smoothed out your white floral dress as you looked the mirror, and zipped up your knee-high tan suede boots. Your hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, with tiny curls sticking out. You were wearing minimal makeup; you had to look perfect tonight. You took one last look in the mirror, playing with the silver butterfly necklace that hung around your neck. “How do I look?” You turned around with a grin on your face.

Your best friend, Kathleen, frowned as she sat on the bed. “Don’t get me wrong, you look amazing but… We’re going to a rock concert Y/N.” She said.

“I know I know, but what if I see him there? It’ll be his first time seeing me and I’ve got to look amazing.” You sighed. “Maybe I shouldn’t go, maybe I’m just getting hopeful… I just feel stupid” You said, sitting down sadly on your bed, right next to her. You had gotten ready together at your apartment before leaving. Kathleen turned to you, and grabbed your hands.

“Y/N, you’ve been so excited to go, and you’re not stupid for wanting to find your soulmate. I’ve been talking you into going to this concert for weeks, trust me, you’re going.” Kathleen said, determined. “Now,” she held out her hand to you as she stood up. “We have quite the drive to the venue, so let’s go.”

With an eye roll, you took her hand and she pulled you up. You followed her out to the car, the cold Chicago air nipped at your exposed legs. When Kathleen saw your slight shiver, she laughed, “Told you not to wear that… Although… You do look cute, your soulmate is going to go crazy.” She smiled.

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