Oscar W A Feral!gf Who Fully Believes That She Could Fight A Kangaroo. Idk, It's Kind Of A Shit Prompt

𝙶𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 | 𝙼𝚅𝟷

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: max verstappen x reporter!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where max and his reporter wife accidentally adopt five chaotic rookies and become the unofficial grid parents

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: sweet disposition - the temper trap

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The paddock was a hive of noise and motion as the sun began to dip over the circuit, golden rays catching the sweat on mechanics’ foreheads and the gleam of carbon-fiber wings. Post-race buzz hummed in the air—victory for some, frustration for others—but at the very center of it all stood the one woman who could command the attention of five energetic, half-exhausted rookies with nothing more than a look.

“You are not skipping cool down, I don’t care how much your legs hurt,” she said firmly, arms crossed as she stood just outside the Mercedes hospitality unit. “And Jack, stop trying to convince Gabriel to trade media slots with you.”

Jack Doohan blinked innocently. “Worth a try.”

Max, leaning a few feet away with his arms folded and an amused tilt to his lips, watched the scene with the same fondness someone might have when watching a cat try to wrangle five puppies. His wife—ever composed, ever commanding—had somehow become the gravitational center of the rookie pack, and Max had long since accepted his role as the silent co-pilot in their little operation.

“We need a whiteboard,” you muttered as Isack Hadjar arrived, hair still damp from his post-race shower. “I need a whiteboard. And a whistle.”

“You want a whistle?” Max asked.

“I want a bullhorn.”

Oliver Bearman arrived next, tugging off his cap and brushing sweat-damp curls back. “Are we doing interviews first or eating first? I swear I might pass out if—”

“You’ll eat after you give me one sentence that isn’t ‘the car felt good’ or ‘we take the positives,’” you cut in, tapping your iPad. “No bland quotes. I want actual thoughts.”

Gabriel Bortoleto offered him a protein bar from his pocket. “Here, you can survive five minutes.”

“You’ve had that in your pocket for two hours,” Oliver recoiled. “That’s like a biological weapon now.”

Kimi Antonelli, fresh from a P3 finish and visibly trying to act cooler than he felt, walked in just in time to see Oliver shoving the protein bar back at Gabriel like it was radioactive. “Children,” Kimi muttered under his breath.

Max straightened from the wall, clapping a hand lightly on Kimi’s shoulder. “Congrats, by the way. Good race.”

Kimi perked up at the rare praise from the four-time world champion, nodding once. “Thanks. Felt good after last weekend.”

Max didn’t say more, but the nod he returned carried weight—and Kimi caught it, posture squaring slightly.

You were already directing the boys into a loose circle outside the Red Bull hospitality tent, setting up for your impromptu group media debrief. The usual reporters had already swarmed them post-race, but yours was different—somewhere between an interview and a therapy session, half professional, half familiar. The boys trusted you. And Max… well, Max mostly observed, speaking when necessary, stepping in when the chaos got too loud or the mood shifted too dark.

Like now.

Isack had slumped onto the couch, jaw tight. He’d DNF’d—again. Three times in five races. The media had already started with the “overhyped” murmurs, and even though you hadn’t asked him to speak first, you noticed the way his leg bounced, eyes fixed on the floor.

You gave Max a look.

Without a word, he moved to sit beside the younger driver, not pressing, not announcing himself. Just… there. Solid. Real. Isack noticed, of course. Everyone did. It was rare for Max to show warmth like this outside the Red Bull bubble—but when he did, it hit hard.

“Tough race,” Max said simply.

Isack let out a breath. “Felt like I was driving blind. Car didn’t respond. Almost clipped the wall.”

“You didn’t.”

“But I might next time.”

“You won’t.”

There was no false encouragement in Max’s tone—just certainty. That unshakable Verstappen steel. Isack didn’t say anything, but his shoulders dropped a little, the tension leaking out.

You watched it happen, heart softening.

God, how had this become your life?

You—the paddock reporter who used to get mistaken for an intern. Max—the closed-off, stone-faced champion who’d once swore he’d never babysit rookies. And now here you both were: grid mum and dad, sitting on uncomfortable couches with five boys who had no idea how deeply they were cared for.

You cleared your throat. “Alright. Rapid-fire. Best moment of the race—go.”

“Overtaking Jack,” Gabriel said immediately.

“Hey!”

“Jack’s reaction, then,” Gabriel added.

Kimi smirked. “Probably my start. Got the jump on Piastri.”

“Oliver?”

“When I didn’t pass out from heat stroke on Lap 42.”

You nodded. “You hydrated?”

“Define hydrated.”

Max groaned. “You’re getting electrolytes now.”

“You sound like my physio.”

“I’m scarier than your physio.”

“He’s right,” you said. “He once threatened to throw Lando in a lake because he wouldn’t stretch properly.”

“It was a very shallow lake,” Max defended.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two nights later, the paddock chaos traded its background of engine whines and pit lane screeches for the quieter hum of your home — though “quieter” was a stretch with five young drivers crammed into your kitchen like it was a race briefing gone feral.

“I’m telling you, the mushroom ones are not real tortellini,” Jack insisted, poking at a package of fresh pasta like it had personally offended him.

“They are,” you sighed, pushing him gently out of the way as you balanced two saucepans and a tray of garlic bread. “They’re gourmet.”

“Italians would riot,” Kimi muttered from the dining table, scrolling through his phone.

“Then they can come over and cook,” Max deadpanned from the stovetop, where he was fiercely focused on carbonara like it was an FIA directive.

“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” Oliver asked suspiciously, leaning over Max’s shoulder.

Max didn’t even look up. “I’ve watched like six Gordon Ramsay videos.”

“That’s not the same as cooking.”

“I beat two of you last week,” Max said, stirring the pasta. “You really want to test me on this, too?”

You hid your smile behind your wine glass. There was something inexplicably funny about watching your world-champion husband in sweatpants and socks, bickering with young adults over parmesan cheese.

And even funnier watching the rookies actually respect it.

Dinner, somehow, made it to the table in one piece — pasta, garlic bread, salad (which no one touched), and three types of fizzy drinks because “we’re not hydrating with water off-duty, Mum.”

Plates clinked. Conversation overlapped. Gabriel told a wild story about nearly missing a flight. Jack roasted Kimi for accidentally texting “love u” to his race engineer. Isack, now with a better result under his belt, looked lighter, laughing easily between bites.

It was loud. It was messy. It was perfect.

At one point, Max leaned back in his chair, just watching them. The dim kitchen lights caught in his hair, and his arm brushed against yours beneath the table.

“This is insane,” he murmured.

“This is our insane,” you whispered back.

Halfway through dessert (store-bought tiramisu because you were not a miracle worker), Oliver spotted the old Nintendo Switch docked to the TV.

“Oh hell yes,” he gasped. “Do you guys have Mario Kart?”

Max blinked. “Yeah, but—”

“I’m calling dibs on Yoshi,” Jack declared, jumping up.

“No fair! You always play Yoshi!” Isack protested.

You blinked. “Wait, you guys… actually want to play a game here?”

Gabriel grinned. “We’ve literally been waiting for an invite.”

Kimi, still cool as ever, shrugged. “Let them embarrass themselves.”

You stood with your empty plate. “Max hasn’t lost a Mario Kart game in five years. Good luck.”

“Five years?” Oliver echoed. “Challenge accepted.”

And just like that, a Mario Kart tournament was born.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two hours, three arguments, and one broken Joy-Con later, the living room looked like a war zone.

Jack had screamed loud enough during one of the rounds that your neighbor’s dog had barked. Isack got so invested he’d physically ducked during a turn. Oliver tried to cheat by leaning over to press Gabriel’s buttons. Kimi sat straight-faced the entire time and still won twice. Without Max playing of course.

Max, of course, held his crown with quiet smugness, holding his controller like a weapon of war.

You sat curled up on the arm of the couch, watching it all unfold, your heart full.

Because they weren’t just rookies. They weren’t just kids with team uniforms and talent and pressure pressing against their ribs. They were yours in a way that no one outside this circle would ever really understand.

You remembered how scared Oliver had looked when he’d been called up mid-season. How Isack had cried quietly after his third crash. How Gabriel had pulled you aside after a brutal interview, asking, “Do I actually belong here?”

How Kimi — calm, quiet, composed — had once confessed during a late media day, “Sometimes I think I’m boring. Like I’ll never be more than a name.”

And you’d been there. Max, too. Quiet in different ways, but always present.

You looked over at Max now. He had his arm slung along the back of the couch, eyes focused on the screen but clearly aware of the way you were watching him.

“You’re soft,” you whispered.

He gave a low laugh. “Don’t say that in front of them. They’ll never let me live it down.”

You leaned in. “Too late. I already told Kimi you teared up during that baby penguin documentary.”

“You what—”

You pressed your fingers to your lips. “Shhh. Grid dad’s gotta keep his edge.”

From the floor, Oliver shouted, “Okay but seriously, can we do this every week?”

Jack added, “I’ll bring dessert next time!”

Isack: “I’m bringing my own controller. I don’t trust these ones.”

Kimi, dry as ever: “Just admit you suck.”

Gabriel, mouth full of more tiramisu: “This is better than half the sponsor events we do.”

Max gave you a look.

You smiled.

“Every week?” he repeated, voice low, wry.

You looped your arm through his. “Every week.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The door clicked shut on the last of them just before midnight, leaving behind only the echoes of footsteps, laughter, and a faint smell of burnt garlic bread.

You stood in the hallway, arms crossed, staring at the living room like it had personally betrayed you.

“Did Jack really spill soda on the couch again?” you asked, voice exhausted.

Max wandered in behind you, barefoot, rubbing the back of his neck. “At least he didn’t put the controller in the freezer this time.”

You blinked. “He what?”

“Long story.”

You groaned and collapsed onto the couch—carefully avoiding the suspiciously damp spot—and tossed your head back with a dramatic sigh. Max stood over you for a second, as if deciding whether to help clean or collapse next to you. Predictably, he picked the latter.

He sat with a grunt, thigh brushing yours. The room had settled into that warm, familiar silence that followed a day well spent—TV off, dishes drying, the chaos of earlier fading into the comfort of shared space.

“Do you ever wonder how the hell we got here?” you asked.

Max tilted his head toward you, brow raised. “Here as in… couch stained with soda and Mario Kart casualties?”

You gave him a dry look. “Here as in… being the unofficial grid parents to five emotionally chaotic, underfed children in motorsport.”

Max smirked and looked up at the ceiling. “Sometimes. But I think I’d miss it if it stopped.”

You fell quiet, surprised.

“I used to think I was done with caring about anything outside my races,” he added after a beat. “Media, the circus, the drama. But now…” He glanced sideways. “You care. So I guess I started caring too.”

Your throat tightened.

“You do more than care,” you said softly. “You show up. Even when it’s quiet. When they need something and don’t know how to ask for it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “So do you.”

You leaned into him slightly, shoulder pressing to his.

There was a pause.

Then: “You think Oliver’s okay? He seemed distracted tonight.”

“Yeah,” Max said. “I caught him staring at his phone a lot. Could be pressure.”

“Or homesickness,” you said. “He mentioned something about his sister’s birthday.”

Max nodded. “I’ll talk to him at the track.”

You blinked. “You just volunteered for emotional labor.”

“I didn’t volunteer. I just said I’ll talk.”

“Which counts as—”

“Don’t.”

You grinned, sliding your hand into his. His palm was warm, calloused, familiar.

The two of you sat like that for a while. Just holding hands in a room that smelled like pasta and bad decisions, with a broken Joy-Con on the coffee table and your collective future somehow resting in the ability to balance mentorship, love, and motor racing chaos.

You hadn’t meant to become this. You hadn’t planned for the jokes about “grid mum and dad” to stick. But somewhere along the line—somewhere between media sessions and debriefs, late-night calls and race weekend dinners—it had turned real.

And despite all logic, it felt… right.

“I swear if Kimi calls me mum in public again, I’m walking into the ocean,” you muttered.

Max snorted. “I think he does it just to make you flinch.”

“I think he does everything just to make someone flinch.”

Silence again. Comfortable.

Then Max said, “You think they’re gonna be okay this season?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“They’ve got each other,” you said. “And they’ve got us.”

He nodded.

And that was it. That was the truth of it. The unspoken contract written in pasta dinners and post-race pep talks, quiet hallway chats and raucous living room tournaments. The family you never saw coming—but wouldn’t trade for anything.

Not even clean furniture.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The group chat was cursed.

You knew this the moment Jack renamed it “Grid Orphans Anonymous” and Kimi promptly changed it back to “Grid Children of Max & Mum.”

You groaned as the notification pinged at 2:12 a.m. on a race week.

Gabriel:

jack you absolute maniac you left your fireproofs in my hotel room

Jack:

I panicked! we swapped bags after the media thing remember???

also why is there a half-eaten protein bar in the pocket

Isack:

can we please just have one week without emergency?

Oliver:

guys max saw me spill my drink on the simulator

he didn’t say anything

just gave me the look

Kimi:

may God have mercy on your soul

You closed your phone and rolled over to Max, who was half-asleep and glaring at the ceiling like he could feel the idiocy through the walls.

“Tell me again why we let them have our numbers,” he mumbled.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, pulling the duvet up to your ears. “This is your fault. You made eye contact with Oliver once and now you’re legally his father.”

“They need a manager,” he muttered.

“They need a babysitter. A live-in one. With military training.”

Max exhaled. “I’m not old enough to be a dad.”

You rolled onto your side. “Max, you yelled at Gabriel for not bringing a jacket in the rain. And earlier today, you said the phrase, ‘You’ll catch a cold like that.’ You are thirty.”

He blinked into the darkness. “That’s not that old.”

“You also made Kimi take a nap before media day.”

“He was cranky!”

“Oh my God.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two days later, at a sponsor event, it happened.

You were mid-conversation with a McLaren comms rep when you heard it—clear as day, across the crowd of journalists, VIPs, and crew.

“Hey, Dad, can I borrow your pen?”

Max visibly froze. The world slowed. Cameras clicked. PR reps turned.

Jack was holding out a Sharpie and looking at Max like nothing was wrong with the words he’d just said out loud, in front of dozens of people.

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. Max turned so slowly you thought his neck might snap.

“Don’t—call me that,” he said through clenched teeth.

Jack blinked. “But you are?”

“I’m not your dad, Doohan.”

Jack grinned, unbothered. “Sure, dad.”

You wheezed behind a camera rig.

Later, Max hissed in your ear, “He’s dead. I’m removing him from the will.”

“You’re not even his real father!”

“Exactly!”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The final straw came at 7:04 AM on a blessedly rare day off.

The doorbell rang.

Twice.

Max, still shirtless and half-asleep, cracked the door open to find Oliver and Gabriel standing on your porch with smoothies and matching expressions of deep panic.

“…Why?” was all Max said.

“There’s a sponsor Q&A at nine,” Gabriel said. “They changed the location last night, and our hotel’s shuttle won’t get us there in time.”

Oliver held up a phone with the email. “We’re begging you. We didn’t know who else to call.”

Max looked like he aged ten years in five seconds. “Do I look like an Uber to you?”

You emerged in his hoodie and pajama shorts, took one look at the situation, and sighed like a saint.

“Get in the car,” you said. “No talking. If I don’t get coffee first, I’m leaving you in a parking lot.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Later that day, after the boys had been safely dropped off (with strict instructions not to text before 10 a.m.), Max and you sat in the Red Bull motorhome, sipping your respective drinks in complete silence.

Max finally spoke. “We could’ve had another cat.”

You snorted. “We have enough cats.”

“So?”

“I think you secretly like this.”

“I don’t.”

“You like being the dad.”

“I don’t.”

You leaned over and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You do.”

He didn’t argue.

Just laced his fingers with yours under the table, silent and soft.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Somewhere across the paddock, five rookies sent the same text to the same chat:

Oliver:

race weekend dinner at yours again?

Gabriel:

i’ll bring snacks if Max promises not to cook

Kimi:

i’ll win mario kart again. just letting you all know.

Isack:

we should do a team quiz or smth. losers do pushups.

Jack:

do we think mum and dad will ever realize they adopted us

You smiled at the messages as they came in.

Max didn’t even look up from his phone.

“They’re coming for dinner again, aren’t they?”

You grinned. “Yup.”

He sighed. “Fine. But if Jack calls me ‘Dad’ again, I’m unplugging the Switch.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

Heat [Lando Norris x reader]

description: You almost pass out in the heat, but Lando helps you out.

It was a brutally hot race weekend. You weren’t used to this kind of heat. Besides, you were on your period, and the combination of these two made it difficult to eat a proper breakfast or lunch. You had no appetite, and you weren’t even feeling quite right all day.

Still, you knew Lando had it way worse. He was the one racing. The least you could do was not to complain. You didn’t even tell anyone how strange you felt, not wanting to make a fuss while your boyfriend had to sit in a burning hot car and drive.

You took a walk in the paddock with Lando’s best friend, Max Fewtrell. He also complained about the heat, but now he seemed fine, chugging a bottle of cold water and chilling in an air-conditioned room, waiting for the race to start. The two of you were chatting for a while, but now he was editing something on his phone, so you decided to scroll through social media to pass the time.

No, you weren’t feeling well. Everything started to blur a bit around the edges. Your vision dimmed for a second, and you could hear your heart drumming in your ears. You placed the phone on the table you were sitting at and buried your face into your palms, taking a few deep breaths.

 “Hey, Y/N, are you okay?” You felt someone touching your shoulder. Your brain felt foggy, but you had a vague guess that it was Max. You didn’t have the energy to reply.

 Your lack of response worried Max. “Uhm, do you want to grab a bottle of water from the cafeteria or something? You are so pale.”

 “I’m not sure,” you mumbled, your voice sounding foreign to your ears.

 “What do you mean? Come on, let’s go get something to drink. We have like twenty minutes before the race starts,” Max answered, and he grabbed your arms to help you up. He didn’t want to leave you unattended in a state like this. However, you lost your balance, so Max lowered you back on the barstool before the two of you would draw unwanted attention. “Come on, Y/N, Lando is going to kill me if you pass out on me,” he mumbled nervously.

That was when Lando decided to check on the two of you in the five spare minutes he got. When he spotted you in the corner of the room, he quickly realized that something was wrong. He walked over to the two of you. “Everything okay over here?” he asked, eyeing you with a mix of worry and confusion.

 “I don’t think so, mate,” Max answered, biting his lips. “I wanted to take her to the cafeteria, but I’m not sure she can walk- Or something.”

Lando saw how pale you were. Then he noticed that your hands were shaking slightly. His heart sank in his chest. It wasn’t the first time that you started feeling off at the beginning of your period, and the heat wasn’t helping you either. He wondered how much you ate all day.

He pulled out the barstool beside you and sat down, placing a comforting hand on your back. “Max, can you get her a bottle of water and a granola bar or something like that?” he asked, not taking his eyes off you for a second. He took your hand, his finger hovering over your wrist to feel your pulse.

Max sighed in relief as Lando finally took over the situation. He nodded and rushed off.

Lando gently squeezed your hand. “Come on, you’ll be alright,” he muttered softly. “Max will be here with something for you soon, alright?”

You heard his words, but you couldn’t register what he was saying. Lando hugged you to prevent you from falling off the barstool, and you leaned against his chest. He held you close and kissed your forehead. He tried to ignore the fact that you were in a public space, and there were probably plenty of eyes, maybe even cameras, watching the two of you.

You felt limp in his arms. He knew you were conscious, but he wasn’t sure how long you would be. He smoothed the hair out of your face. “Come on, you silly little thing,” he spoke gently. “Don’t pass out on me like this.”

Max was back in a couple of minutes, and he handed over everything to Lando. Your boyfriend took the water immediately, and he opened the bottle while still hugging you close to his chest. Then he placed the bottle to your mouth and tipped it lightly.

 “Just drink a little bit, okay? Small sips…” he said after realizing that you didn’t respond. As you felt the cool water on your mouth, you finally swallowed. Lando sighed in relief. For a second, he was sure you would pass out right there in his arms.

After you drank a few sips, the colour finally started to return to your face. Your vision slowly cleared up, and you realized you were leaning against Lando, so you pulled away. He was there, sitting next to you, his suit halfway zipped, watching you intently. He handed you the water bottle, seeing that now you were able to sit up somewhat straight.

 “Hey there,” he smiled a little as he reached out to rub your back. “You scared me for a second.”

That was the point when Lando’s engineer decided to find him personally when he didn’t return after the promised five minutes. “Man, everyone is looking for you,” he frowned at Lando.

 “I know, I’m sorry, mate. Y/N was a little unwell, I couldn’t leave her like that,” Lando turned away to answer.

Your cheeks heated up now that you were in the centre of attention.

Lando’s engineer didn’t seem convinced by your pale expression. “Does she need medical attention?”

 “I don’t think so,” Lando shook his head, and then he focused back on you. He opened the granola bar and placed it between your fingers. “Take a few bites. Do you think you’ll be able to get back on your feet?”

 “Why?” you frowned, confused. You had no intention to go anywhere.

 “I need to get back to work. Will you be fine with Max?” he asked. He didn’t want to leave you yet, but he knew staying wasn’t an option when the race was just about to start.

You nodded.

 “Good. Just eat your snack, drink the water, and stay in here. I’ll get you after I’m done.” He patted your knee and stood up. He took one last look at you before he hurried away.

You sighed as you watched him get in the car. You knew he was trained to deal with the heat, yet you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. It wasn’t the first time you managed to almost pass out while he was doing perfectly fine.

You took a bite of the granola bar he handed you and watched him go.

Catching Strays ! LN04

SUMMARY 𝄡 There's a stray child in the McLaren garage, and of course, Lando is the one who has to deal with it.

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Single Mother! FemReader

TAGS 𝄡 Fluff.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 1k.

NOTE 𝄡 The cutest thing I've ever written ( yet ). This drabble is about another pairing I had in mind... <33

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Something tugged at Lando’s race suit.

Amid the paddock frenzy, that subtle touch⏤so gentle he first thought he’d imagined it⏤startled him enough to abandon his pre-race ritual.

He looked down.

And found himself nose-to-nose with a pair of big amber eyes.

Lando blinked.

The child blinked back.

“What the—?” he murmured before crouching to her level. “What are you doing here, muppet? Where are your parents?”

She let go of his leg, stuffed her fist into her mouth—long enough for drool to glisten down her chin and wrist—and dropped onto the ground with a soft oomph.

She smacked her lips a few times—undoubtedly mimicking someone—and then clapped her hands, giggling.

“Mama!”

Lando cast a desperate glance around him, but the engineers and mechanics paid him no mind, wholly absorbed in their final adjustments to the car.

“I don’t know where your mama is.”

He ran a hand through his curls as stress began to rise. The girl looked at him with wide, hopeful eyes, only fuelling the tsunami building in his chest.

Of course it had to happen to him.

“Well... what am I supposed to do with you now?”

For a fleeting moment, he considered calling Oscar, who was probably still holed up in his room, but the Aussie driver was just as hopeless in situations like this—if not worse. His mother’s face flashed through his mind, and he suppressed a shiver at the thought of her scolding him.

That’s when he noticed it.

Tucked between the girl’s overalls and t-shirt, a lanyard.

Carefully, Lando pulled it free and let out a sigh of relief when he saw the pass. He flipped it over, softened momentarily at the ID photo, and read the name printed in bold.

“Apolline L/N? Well, at least we know you're not a paddock intruder, muppet.”

She giggled as if she understood him, then tipped forward—still figuring out her balance, clearly. Lando caught her before she hit the ground, muttering a quiet thanks for his fast reflexes.

As he resumed reading, he absentmindedly rubbed her back. Shaken by her near tumble, she had settled her head against his chest, sucking on her thumb.

Apolline L/N VIP ACCESS A guest of: SCUDERIA FERRARI

“Well, I guess your mama’s probably over at Ferrari. What do you say, Apolline?” He leaned back to meet her gaze. “Shall we go for a walk?”

He stood, a child in his arms and tiny fingers clinging to his fireproofs.

Together, they set off.

Eyes lingered on the duo as they passed by. Whispers soon followed. What was Lando Norris doing with a small girl in his arms? Was that his sister? His daughter from a past fling?

He could already imagine the headlines, always eager to twist the narrative. Watching warily as a cameraman aimed his lens at them, he tucked Apolline's head into his neck and tightened his embrace before quickening his pace.

He passed Williams, then Mercedes—ignoring George’s raised eyebrow—and finally stopped in front of the red garage.

The usual Monaco frenzy took on a different flavour here. Lando could almost taste the tension soaked into every inch of the garage.

Ferrari wasn’t swept up in Monaco mania, no; they were drowning in Chaos.

A Charles in full race gear paced, his phone pressed to his ear, while a flustered Alexandra—so far removed from her usual elegance—tried to comfort a woman in tears.

Her sobs drowned out the frantic conversations of the team, whose faces all wore the same expression: that of pure dread.

In his arms, Apolline began to wriggle.

“Mama!”

At the sound, the woman spun around. She tore herself from Alexandra’s arms and ran to Lando.

The latter remained frozen as he took in the woman before him. His eyes darted between her sparkling gaze and her intoxicating mouth. They would have travelled further down—drawn to the delicious lines of her figure in that dress—had she not spoken, brows furrowed.

“May I have my daughter back?”

Her French accent nearly made him faint.

“What? Your daughter… Oh—uh—yeah! Of course!” he stammered. “She’s yours. Right. Obviously.”

Clumsily, he transferred Apolline into her mother’s arms. She hugged the girl tightly before setting her down and checking her over.

“Mon ange! You scared me to death! Don't ever do that again. If you want to go wandering, we’ll go together. Understood?”

The little girl just laughed, unfazed by the turmoil she’d caused, and dashed off into the garage. Lando watched her wrap herself around Alexandra’s legs, and then—

Vanilla.

Lando instinctively hugged the woman back. He buried his nose in her hair and breathed in the sweet scent as his hands tightened on her back.

“Thank you,” she whispered with the kind of gratitude only a mother could convey.

When she stepped back, Lando was already mourning the warmth of her body against his. Flushing, he rubbed the back of his neck to chase the thought away and shrugged.

Control yourself, she has a child.

“It’s nothing. Anyone would’ve done the same.”

“Still. It means a lot.”

She offered her hand.

“I’m Y/N.”

“Lando.”

Alexandra called her over. Y/N gave him a small, apologetic smile—one that did something strange to his chest—and turned to walk away, tossing a final “thank you” over her shoulder.

Lando stayed there, a little dazed.

A throat cleared, breaking the spell.

Fred Vasseur stood in front of him with his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. Only then did Lando realize half the garage was staring at him.

Knowing he had overstayed his welcome, he turned on his heel and headed back toward the McLaren garage—but not without grabbing Charles by the collar. The Monegasque struggled against his hold before freezing as Lando leaned in and whispered:

“Give me Y/N’s number, or I’m crashing into you at turn one, constructors’ championship be damned.”

♪ — 𝗟𝗢𝗔𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗘𝗡 max verstappen x finace! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . max had never thought you had spoken dutch, not a day throughout your long relationship and engadment had you mentioned speaking his language, and when he finds out at a gasstation, max.exe has successfully stopped working (683 words)

( main master list | more of max verstappen ) ( requests )

The hum of the car filled the air as you and Max cruised down the highway, the Dutch coastline fading in the rearview mirror. The road trip from Zandvoort to his home in Belgium was mostly smooth, save for Max’s insistence that he was the designated driver for the entire journey.

Somewhere along the way, the fuel gauge dipped low, and you made a quick stop at a gas station off the highway.

"I'll go in and grab some snacks," you said, stretching as you stepped out of the car.

"I'm coming with you," Max declared, unbuckling himself hastily.

You raised an eyebrow. "Why? You scared I'll leave you here?"

Max shot you a flat look. "Not funny."

You instantly regretted the joke. You knew about that story—how his dad had left him at a gas station when he was younger. Max didn't talk about it much, but it wasn't exactly a mystery.

"Sorry," you murmured.

Max sighed, shaking his head. "It's fine. Let’s just get snacks."

Inside the small convenience store, you browsed the aisles, grabbing a couple of things—a pack of stroopwafels, some chips, and, of course, a can of Red Bull. Max trailed behind you, throwing in his own choices (which were essentially the same as yours but his version).

At the counter, the cashier greeted you with a polite smile.

"Dat wordt twaalf vijfennegentig," she said, scanning your items.

You handed over a bill, offering a casual, "Dank je wel," as you waited for the change.

Max, beside you, went completely still.

Frozen.

As if someone had hit pause on his entire existence.

You barely noticed at first, stuffing the snacks into a bag. But then you glanced over—Max hadn’t moved an inch, eyes wide, brain clearly buffering like a bad WiFi connection.

"Max?"

No response.

Sighing, you grabbed his shirt by the collar, dragging him towards the exit while he remained utterly unresponsive.

"Kom op, Verstappen," you muttered, shoving him into the passenger seat.

The silence stretched as you got back onto the highway, but you could feel him staring at you, completely stunned.

Then, out of nowhere—

"JIJ SPREEKT NEDERLANDS?!"

You nearly swerved off the road.

"Uh . . . I did? You were there?"

Max made a strangled noise, somewhere between disbelief and betrayal. "SINDS WANNEER?!"

You shrugged. "My whole life?"

"Mijn God." He ran a hand down his face, shaking his head. "Al die jaren…"

You side-eyed him. "What?"

"Al die jaren heb ik tegen je gepraat in het Engels terwijl ik gewoon Nederlands kon gebruiken?!" (All these years I've been talking to you in English when I could’ve just used Dutch?!)

You snorted, amused. "Well, yeah, but I didn't think it was important."

"NIET BELANGRIJK?!" (Not important?!) His voice cracked in sheer frustration. "Weet je hoeveel makkelijker mijn leven had kunnen zijn?!" (Do you know how much easier my life could have been?!)

You grinned, biting your lip to keep from laughing. "I mean… you never asked if I spoke Dutch."

"Waarom zou ik vragen?! Ik dacht dat je het niet kon!" (Why would I ask?! I thought you couldn’t speak it!)

You drummed your fingers on the steering wheel, the smugness in your expression only fueling his meltdown. "And?"

"EN?! EN?!" (And?! And?!) He threw his hands in the air. "Ik heb zoveel gênante dingen in het Nederlands over je gezegd!" (I’ve said so many embarrassing things about you in Dutch!)

Now that caught your interest.

You glanced at him. "Oh ja? Wat precies?" (Oh yeah? What exactly?)

Max clamped his mouth shut immediately, face flushing.

"Nee, laat maar." (No, never mind.)

"Oh, nu wil je Engels praten?" you teased.

"O mijn god, dit is de ergste dag van mijn leven," (Oh my god, this is the worst day of my life) Max groaned, slumping dramatically into his seat.

Grinning, you reached for your Red Bull and took a victorious sip. "I think it's the best."

Max Verstappen x friends to lovers!reader

Always Walk Me Home // You and Max are keeping things casual. Sooo casual. You can be casual. Right?

Someone Sane // You and Max have a shared love for strawberry wine. The rest of your friends think you’ve got bad taste.

Empty Space // Max wakes up alone. He finds himself wishing the night before had been a bad dream.

On The Horizon // Like a sunrise over the ocean, there are nothing but good things on the horizon for you and Max.

Love Of My Life // Four moments leading up to the big day, and the moment you and Max have been dreaming of.

the extended universe (blurbs):

the 1 // an alternate ending to Empty Space

slip away // part 3.5 max feels you start to pull away again. this time, he puts his foot down.

honey honey // honeymoon antics! need I say more

lover // their first valentine’s day as a married couple

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ Lucky Charm 

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Slow Burn, Light Angst

Word Count: ~3.1k

Summary: You’ve just started your dream job as a performance analyst at McLaren, determined to stay professional. But when Lando starts treating you like his personal good luck charm, lines blur, and feelings get complicated.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Your first month at McLaren is a whirlwind of data reports, race simulations, and trying not to trip over your own feet in the garage. You’ve worked too hard to get here—countless nights spent studying telemetry, endless practice interviews, a degree that felt like it stretched a lifetime. And now? Now you’re standing in the middle of the paddock, heart pounding as the team rushes around you before qualifying.

You’re supposed to be focused, analyzing Lando’s sector times, but then—

“Hey.”

You look up just in time to see Lando grinning down at you, still in his race suit, hair damp from the heat. His blue eyes flick over your tablet screen before settling on your face. “Anything good in there?”

You clear your throat, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is. “Uh—yeah. Your Turn 3 exit is a bit sketchy, but overall, you’re—”

“Fast?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes, shoving the tablet against his chest. “Decent.”

He laughs, bright and carefree, before giving you a casual tap on the shoulder. “I’ll prove you wrong.”

And he does.

Lando qualifies P2.

After the session, he finds you again, a little breathless, still in his suit, curls sticking to his forehead. “Told you.”

“Alright, alright.” You shake your head, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe you’re not completely hopeless.”

The next time he talks to you before a session, he places P3.

The time after that? He wins a race.

It becomes a thing. A ritual.

Before every session, Lando seeks you out. A quick chat, a joke, sometimes just a simple fist bump. And every time, he performs well. The team jokes about it, calling you his good luck charm. At first, you play along, chalking it up to coincidence. But then—

“You know,” Lando says one evening after a particularly chaotic race, “I think it’s actually working.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “What is?”

“This.” He gestures between the two of you. “Talking to you before a race. Feels… right.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, but you force a chuckle. “So what, you’re just using me for luck?”

His smile falters for half a second—so quick you almost miss it. Then he shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, softer this time. “I think I just like talking to you.”

And suddenly, it doesn’t feel like a superstition anymore.

It feels like something else entirely.

Something real.

⸻

Lando’s words linger in your mind long after he’s left.

“I think I just like talking to you.”

It shouldn’t mean anything. He’s a driver, you’re an analyst, and the garage is always buzzing with adrenaline and post-race emotions. But something about the way he said it, the way his voice softened, makes your heart beat just a little too fast.

You try to shake it off. Professional. You need to be professional.

But Lando doesn’t make that easy.

⸻

The next race weekend in Monza is a blur of heat, strategy meetings, and endless streams of data. You tell yourself to keep your distance, but Lando doesn’t get the memo.

“Where’s my lucky charm?” he calls out before FP3, scanning the garage until his eyes land on you.

The team laughs. You roll your eyes. “You realize this isn’t real, right? Your performance is based on skill, not—”

“Blah, blah, blah.” He waves you off with a smirk before leaning in slightly, just enough to make your breath catch. “But just in case, got anything for me today?”

You huff but play along, pretending to inspect him. “Mmm… helmet’s a bit crooked.”

His hand flies up instantly, adjusting it. “Better?”

“Perfect.”

“Good.” He grins before jogging off to his car.

The worst part? He takes P2 in qualifying. Again.

⸻

By Sunday, the entire paddock seems to be in on the joke. Every time Lando does well, someone—whether it’s a McLaren engineer, a journalist, or even another driver—mentions you.

“Guess we know who to thank if Lando gets another podium!”

“You traveling to every race now, or just the ones where he wants to win?”

You laugh it off, pretend it doesn’t affect you, but Lando? He leans into it.

After a chaotic race, he finishes P3. Instead of celebrating with the team first, he finds you. Sweat-soaked, grinning, energy still buzzing from the adrenaline rush.

He stops right in front of you, eyes bright. “Told you it works.”

Before you can respond, he pulls you into a hug—quick, warm, and entirely unexpected. Your breath catches as his arms tighten for just a second before he pulls away, still grinning.

“Thanks, lucky charm.”

Your face is burning, but before you can say anything, he’s pulled away by his engineers.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just Lando being Lando.

But then, later that night, your phone buzzes.

Lando: Dinner? Just us? No luck involved.

Your stomach flips.

Maybe… maybe this is more than just a superstition after all.

⸻

Your fingers hover over the screen, heart hammering.

Dinner? Just us? No luck involved.

Lando’s text stares back at you, casual yet completely not casual at the same time. You should say no. You should remind him that you work together, that you’re supposed to keep things professional.

But your thumbs betray you.

You asking as a friend or as a driver trying to secure another podium?

The response is almost instant.

Lando: What if I’m asking as a guy who just really wants to take you out?

Oh.

You swallow, staring at the message for longer than necessary before typing back:

Fine. But if you lose the next race, I’m blaming your bad dinner choices.

Lando: Deal. Pick you up at 8?

Pick me up? We’re literally in the same hotel, Norris.

Lando: Details, details. See you soon, lucky charm.

⸻

You spend way too much time trying to figure out what to wear. It’s not a date. It shouldn’t be a date. But when you open the door at 8 p.m. sharp and see Lando standing there—hoodie, jeans, hands stuffed into his pockets, but with that ever-present grin—you start to think maybe it is one.

“Ready?” he asks.

“As I’ll ever be.”

He takes you to a small, tucked-away Italian restaurant, far from the usual tourist spots. It’s dimly lit, cozy, the kind of place where the staff greets him like they’ve known him forever.

“You’ve been here before,” you note as you slide into the booth.

He shrugs, smirking. “I like to keep my secrets. Besides, had to impress you somehow.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flutters anyway.

Dinner is… easy. Surprisingly so. Lando makes you laugh more times than you can count, telling ridiculous stories from his karting days, his voice animated, hands gesturing wildly. You talk about work, sure, but also about everything but work—movies, music, the worst travel mishaps you’ve ever had.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and Lando dramatically recounting the time he almost missed a race because he lost his passport (“Listen, I had one job, and I still screwed it up”), you realize something.

This is dangerous.

Not because of the job, not because of the jokes about being his good luck charm. But because this feels natural. Too natural.

And natural things have a way of turning into something real.

⸻

As you leave the restaurant, the cool night air hits your skin, a welcome contrast to the warmth still lingering in your chest. You walk side by side, and for once, Lando isn’t filling the silence with jokes.

He nudges you lightly with his elbow. “So… does this mean I get extra luck next race?”

You shake your head, laughing. “I don’t think it works like that.”

“Hmm.” He pauses, then looks at you, more serious this time. “What if I just wanted an excuse to take you out?”

Your breath catches.

“You wouldn’t need an excuse,” you admit softly.

Lando’s eyes search yours for a moment before a slow smile tugs at his lips. “Good to know.”

And then, without thinking—without overanalyzing like you usually do—you reach for his hand.

Maybe this is more than superstition after all.

⸻

Lando doesn’t let go of your hand.

Not when you weave through the quiet streets back to the hotel. Not when you step into the elevator, the air between you thick with something unspoken. And definitely not when you reach your floor, lingering in the hallway like neither of you really wants the night to end.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles absentmindedly, and you wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it.

“So,” he says, voice softer now, “are you gonna admit it?”

You blink up at him. “Admit what?”

His grin is lazy, teasing—but there’s something else beneath it. Something real. “That maybe, just maybe, I was right about you being my good luck charm.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart isn’t in it. “I think you just like having an excuse to talk to me.”

Lando steps in just a fraction closer, the space between you vanishing. “Maybe,” he murmurs. “And maybe I don’t need an excuse anymore.”

Your breath catches.

This is it.

That tipping point between something playful and something real, between superstition and whatever this is.

And then—

The sound of distant voices echoes down the hall, a group of engineers heading toward their rooms. Lando takes a small step back, exhaling like he’s resetting himself.

“Guess I should let you sleep,” he says, but he still doesn’t let go of your hand.

You squeeze it lightly before finally pulling away. “Night, Norris.”

“Night, lucky charm.”

You don’t miss the way he watches you as you walk away.

⸻

The next morning, the paddock feels different.

Maybe it’s just you. Maybe it’s the way your skin still tingles where Lando’s fingers brushed against yours, or the way your mind replays the moment in the hallway over and over again.

Or maybe it’s the way Lando keeps looking at you.

It starts early. During the strategy briefing, he sits directly across from you, chin resting on his hand, watching you with an infuriating little smirk. When you finally glare at him, he just winks.

Then, during practice, he makes a beeline for you the second he hops out of the car, barely even acknowledging the engineers first.

“Alright, how’d I do?”

You glance at your tablet. “You lost three-tenths in Sector 2.”

Lando groans dramatically. “Maybe I should’ve held your hand before the session.”

Your breath stutters, but before you can respond, one of the mechanics chimes in. “Careful, mate. If you start relying on her too much, you’ll have to bring her on the podium with you.”

Lando’s grin is immediate. “Not a bad idea, actually.”

The team laughs, but you can’t shake the way he’s still looking at you. Like he’s already decided something.

Like this is more than just a joke to him.

⸻

Race day comes faster than you expect.

You tell yourself to focus, to push aside whatever’s happening with Lando and just do your job. But then—

“Lucky charm!”

You barely have time to turn before Lando jogs over, race suit half-zipped, curls slightly damp from the heat.

“You’re really sticking with that nickname, huh?” you tease.

“Obviously. It’s science at this point.” He leans in slightly, voice lowering just for you. “Besides, it’s the best excuse I have to talk to you before every race.”

Your chest tightens.

“Lando—”

“Just—wait here a sec.”

Before you can ask why, he jogs off. You watch, confused, until he returns seconds later—this time holding his spare driver’s cap.

“What are you—”

He lifts it, placing it carefully on your head. His fingers linger at the brim as he tilts it slightly, like he’s adjusting it just right.

“There,” he says, stepping back to admire his work. “Now it’s official.”

You blink up at him. “Now what’s official?”

His smile is softer now. “You’re part of the pre-race ritual.”

Your heart is definitely beating too fast now.

“You better win, Norris,” you manage to say.

Lando just grins. “For you? Always.”

And then he’s gone, jogging toward his car, leaving you standing there in his cap, completely and utterly screwed.

Because if it wasn’t obvious before…

It sure as hell is now.

This isn’t just a ritual anymore.

This is real.

⸻

Lando wins the race.

Not just a podium—a win.

You barely register what’s happening when he crosses the finish line first, the team around you erupting into cheers, engineers shouting, mechanics throwing their arms in the air. The McLaren garage is a blur of orange, people hugging, champagne already being popped somewhere.

And yet, in the middle of the chaos, all you can think about is him.

The moment Lando climbs out of the car, he’s swarmed—by the crew, by cameras, by the world. But then his eyes find you, and it’s like everything else disappears.

You barely have a second to react before he’s running toward you, still breathless, still high on adrenaline.

“Lando—”

But you don’t get to finish, because suddenly, his hands are on your waist, lifting you off the ground, spinning you in a dizzying circle.

“You’re actually insane,” you laugh, gripping onto his race suit.

“Insanely fast,” he shoots back, grinning.

When he finally sets you down, his hands linger—one resting against your back, the other still holding onto your arm, like he’s making sure you’re real.

His voice lowers, just for you. “Told you it works.”

Your heart stutters. “Lando—”

“Let me have this moment first, yeah?” he murmurs, eyes flicking between yours. “Then we’ll talk.”

There’s something unspoken in his gaze, something that makes your stomach flip. But before you can respond, the team is pulling him away, dragging him toward the podium.

You stand there, dazed, as you watch him climb to the top step, the anthem playing, the trophy lifted high. The whole world is watching him—but he keeps looking at you.

And you realize, in that moment, that this was never just a superstition for him.

Not even close.

⸻

The celebration lasts all night.

The McLaren team floods the paddock club, drinks flowing, music blasting. Lando is in the center of it all—laughing, dancing, letting everyone pour champagne on him. But every so often, his gaze flickers to you across the room, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

You try to keep your distance. Not because you want to, but because you don’t trust yourself. Not after what happened in the garage. Not after the way he held you like that.

But Lando doesn’t let you avoid him for long.

“You’re hiding,” he accuses, sliding into the seat next to you.

“I’m sitting,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “Why are you sitting alone?”

“Just needed a breather.”

His lips twitch. “From me?”

“From everything,” you say, but you both know that’s a lie.

Lando leans in slightly, his voice quieter now. “You remember what I said earlier? About talking after the race?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Still want to avoid that?”

You hesitate. “I just… don’t know what you want me to say.”

Lando exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. For the first time all night, he looks nervous. “I don’t need you to say anything,” he admits. “I just need to know if I’m the only one feeling this.”

Your stomach twists.

“Lando…”

“You don’t have to give me an answer right now,” he continues quickly. “I just—I need you to know that this isn’t just some joke to me. Or a lucky charm thing. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Your breath catches.

He watches you carefully, as if bracing himself for rejection. But there’s no hesitation when you finally reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers.

“You’re not the only one,” you say softly.

Lando’s grin is immediate, relief flooding his face. He squeezes your hand, pulling you just a little closer.

“Good,” he murmurs, eyes shining. “Because I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to fake another superstition just to keep talking to you.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “But you like me anyway.”

And for once, you don’t argue.

⸻

Lando doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

Not when the team drags him back onto the dance floor. Not when champagne is spilled (multiple times). Not even when he’s pulled into photos, making sure you’re right there beside him, his arm slung around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And the thing is? It is.

By the time you both escape the party—slipping out onto the quiet hotel balcony overlooking the city—it’s well past 2 a.m. The celebration is still raging downstairs, but up here, everything feels still. Peaceful.

Lando leans against the railing, exhaling deeply. “Think I still have champagne in my hair.”

You grin, reaching up instinctively, fingers brushing through his damp curls. “Yeah, you do.”

He watches you carefully, eyes flickering between yours. “You gonna fix it for me, lucky charm?”

You roll your eyes, but your heart stutters all the same. “You have to stop calling me that.”

Lando hums. “Mmm… nope.”

Before you can protest, he turns slightly, facing you fully. The teasing fades just a little, replaced by something quieter. More serious.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmurs.

You know exactly what he’s talking about.

“I know.”

Lando shifts, his hand finding yours again, playing with your fingers absentmindedly. “You still sure I’m not imagining this?”

Instead of answering, you take a small step closer. You don’t know if it’s the leftover adrenaline, the buzz of the night, or just the fact that you’ve wanted this for far longer than you ever let yourself admit.

But when you finally tilt your chin up and press your lips to his, none of that matters anymore.

Lando freezes for half a second—like he can’t believe it’s actually happening—before he melts into you completely, his free hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer. The kiss is slow, unhurried, like neither of you are in any rush to let go.

When you finally break apart, his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven.

“Yeah,” Lando whispers, a grin tugging at his lips. “Definitely not imagining this.”

You laugh softly, fingers still curled into the fabric of his hoodie. “Good.”

He presses another quick kiss to your forehead before pulling back slightly, eyes twinkling. “So, does this mean I get extra good luck now?”

You groan, shoving him lightly. “You cannot make this a racing superstition.”

Lando just grins, catching your hand again. “Too late. You kissed me before the next race weekend. Pretty sure that means I’m winning again.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he says, voice dropping, “you kissed me anyway.”

You huff, but you don’t deny it.

Because, well… he’s not wrong.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Hi, I was wondering if you could write something for this ask please. You’re the social media manager and with Red Bull recently promoting yuki you’re trying to make Yuki comfortable and get h to film content. So yuki is attached to your hip basically and then other members of the grid have taken a liking to you. One day will filming content on the grid max was passing and saw how close you and yuki were and got jealous. At the same time Carlos came up and was trying to ask you out. You can write something about how jealous max confronts you.

Thank you 😊

"Problem?" "Not yet"

Summary: As Red Bull’s social media manager, you’ve become Yuki’s safe space—and now everyone on the grid wants your attention, including one very possessive Max Verstappen.

Max Verstappen x pr!reader

Navigation

You weren’t expecting to become Yuki’s emotional support human, but ever since Red Bull promoted him, that’s exactly what happened.

“I don’t want to film this alone,” Yuki said for the third time that day, arms crossed like a stubborn child as the videographer set up behind the hospitality tent.

You smiled, tugging your headset down around your neck. “You won’t be. I’ll stand just off-camera, alright?”

“Too far,” he grumbled.

You laughed, bumping your shoulder against his. “Then I’ll stand barely off-camera. Deal?”

Yuki looked up at you with those impossibly wide eyes. “Fine. But if I mess up, it’s your fault.”

You didn’t mind. In fact, over the last few races, Yuki had become like a little brother—always hovering near your desk, asking what kind of TikToks were trending, or stealing your snacks during media days. You chalked it up to the stress of the promotion. New team. New pressure. New expectations.

And maybe… the comfort of someone who never saw him as just a driver.

What you didn’t expect was how many of the other drivers suddenly noticed you.

You blamed the behind-the-scenes video that went viral last week—where Yuki refused to let go of your arm during an interview setup, and fans lost it over the way you patiently helped him adjust his mic.

Now your DMs were a minefield, and every other person in the paddock wanted to “film content” with you.

Including Carlos Sainz.

It was a sunny afternoon in Melbourne, just before qualifying. You were walking with Yuki through the paddock, prepping for a “Rate That Grid Fit” video. Yuki, as usual, was glued to your side, tossing sarcastic commentary your way while you adjusted your camera settings.

Then Carlos appeared.

“Hola, Y/N,” he said, flashing that annoyingly charming smile.

You blinked. “Hey, Carlos. Nice fit today—”

“Gracias,” he said smoothly, then turned to Yuki. “Mind if I steal her for a second?”

Yuki narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

You snorted. “Yuki—”

“I don’t trust the William drivers,” he mumbled.

Carlos rolled his eyes. “I’m not trying to sabotage her.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Yuki muttered, arms crossed.

Carlos ignored him and looked at you again, this time more serious. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d want to get dinner later tonight. After quali.”

You froze.

Yuki blinked up at you. “Dinner?”

You stared at Carlos. “Are you serious?”

He smiled again. “Completely.”

Before you could answer, a third voice cut in—low, flat, and laced with irritation.

“You’re pretty popular today, huh?”

You turned, heart jumping slightly.

Max Verstappen stood a few feet away, arms crossed, unreadable expression on his face.

Oh boy.

You hadn’t interacted much outside of race weekends and Red Bull content. Max was always professional, quiet, intense. But lately… something had shifted.

You’d caught him watching you a few times when you were with Yuki. Lingering glances. Sharp stares. Silent brooding from across the garage when you laughed too hard at one of Daniel’s jokes.

You raised an eyebrow. “We’re filming content, Max. Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he said coolly, though his eyes flicked to where Carlos still stood—too close for Max’s liking.

Carlos lifted a brow. “Problem?”

“Not yet,” Max said flatly.

You exhaled, annoyed. “Okay. Testosterone break over. Carlos, I’ll get back to you. Max—Yuki and I have a shoot to finish.”

But Max didn’t move.

He just stared you down with those piercing blue eyes until the others slowly drifted off—Carlos with a wink and Yuki muttering something about “drama queens.”

Now it was just you and Max behind the media pen, the noise of the paddock muffled by the tent walls.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded.

His jaw flexed. “You tell me. You’re the one letting half the grid line up to flirt with you.”

“Letting?” you echoed, stepping closer. “I’m working, Max.”

“With Yuki hanging off your shoulder like a puppy?”

“He’s adjusting to a new team. I’m helping him feel comfortable. That’s my job.”

Max scoffed. “You do that with Carlos too? Over dinner?”

You stared at him, stunned. “You’re actually jealous.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t have to.

You saw it all over his face.

The clenched fists. The tightened jaw. The way his eyes dropped to your mouth when you spoke—hungry and frustrated, like he wanted to bite the words off your tongue.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you said quietly. “Not when you’ve never once made your feelings clear.”

“I didn’t think I had to,” he growled.

Your pulse spiked. “Well, you do. Because I’m not a mind-reader, Max. And if you’re going to stand there acting like I’ve wronged you somehow, you better say what you really mean.”

He stepped forward, crowding you until your back hit the tent post.

“I don’t like seeing other drivers touching you,” he said lowly.

“Then do something about it.”

There was a long pause.

Then—

He kissed you.

Hard.

One hand cupped your jaw, the other gripping your waist as he kissed you like he’d been holding back for months. You gasped against his mouth, your fingers curling into his shirt, and he groaned into the kiss like he was finally breathing again.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark.

“I should’ve done that the first time I saw you,” he muttered.

You were breathless. “You’re lucky I don’t slap you for being an ass.”

“I’d deserve it,” he said with a smirk. “But then I’d kiss you again.”

You laughed, head spinning.

Max Verstappen. Jealous. Possessive. Hungry.

And apparently, very done with watching from a distance.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane

Notifications and Nervous Glances (L.N)

Lando Norris can't help but smile when fans tease him for continuously checking his phone for a certain someone to message.

The midday sun hung lazily over Monaco, casting golden stripes of light through the open balcony doors of Lando’s apartment. The sea beyond glittered like a jewel, but Lando was inside, hoodie half-zipped, hair fluffed in every direction from running his hands through it too many times. He was mid-Twitch stream, headset on, fingers flying over his controller.

“Alright, alright, I swear this is the last race,” he laughed, eyes flicking toward the live chat as messages scrolled faster than he could read. “If I win this, you all have to stop saying I'm washed, deal?”

“Yeah right, mate!” came Max Fewtrell’s voice through the headset. “If anything, you’re gonna rage quit before we even hit the third lap.”

Lando grinned. “Not this time.”

But just as the race loaded, a soft chime rang out—his phone, buzzing on the desk to his right. His hand twitched toward it instinctively before pulling back.

He kept his eyes on the screen. Focus. Except now he wasn’t focused at all.

The chat noticed.

"👀 not you checking your phone AGAIN" "who you waiting for, loverboy?" "she texted yet???" "just CALL HER YOU COWARD" "lando’s in his 'will she text me' era"

He blinked, trying not to smile. Tried and failed.

“You guys are so annoying,” he muttered, adjusting his mic. “Can’t a guy check the time?”

“Time?” Max said dryly. “Mate, your phone’s been lighting up like a Christmas tree and you haven’t stopped sneaking glances since we started.”

Lando flushed. “It’s not—okay, shut up.”

The chat went wild again.

"GUILTY!" "he's so whipped and it's not even official" "bet it’s that girl from the paddock 👀"

And okay, maybe they weren’t wrong.

You’d met during the chaos of the last race weekend—some mutual friends, a few too many drinks, and the kind of conversation that left him grinning long after it ended. You weren’t a celebrity. Weren’t chasing fame. Just... smart, grounded, and funny in a way that disarmed him.

You’d left the next day for a work trip, but you’d been texting every day since. Nothing flirty, not exactly. But something was there. At least, he hoped so.

The last message had come a few hours ago—“Landing soon. Might be off the grid for a bit, but I’ll message you when I can! :)”—and he’d been low-key checking his phone ever since.

Just in case.

As the race ended (he came second, to Max’s eternal smugness), Lando leaned back in his chair, pretending not to care as he casually picked up his phone.

Nothing.

He dropped it again, face slightly warm.

“You know,” Max said, his tone teasing but not unkind, “you could just text her first. Say hi. Ask if she landed okay. You’re allowed to show interest, mate. It's not a crime.”

“I know,” Lando mumbled.

But still, he didn’t.

The chat rallied again, this time with emojis and messages of encouragement and chaos in equal measure.

"we believe in you 🫶" "text her or we riot" "lando, you’re literally a Formula 1 driver and you're scared to double text???"

“Alright, that’s it,” Lando said, throwing his hands up. “This stream is bullying now.”

He was laughing though, eyes crinkled in that way his fans loved, cheeks dusted pink.

“I’ll text her,” he added under his breath, like it was a secret he couldn’t help but share.

And he did. Right there, in front of thousands of people.

“Hey, just checking in—hope your flight went okay :)”

He hit send, then instantly tossed his phone onto the sofa like it had burned him.

“I’m done for today,” he declared, stretching with a groan. “That’s enough emotional damage.”

“Emotional damage?” Max repeated. “You texted a girl ‘hi.’ Are you twelve?”

“I hate you.”

The stream ended not long after, fans flooding Twitter and Tumblr with screencaps and memes: Lando’s face mid-phone-check, the exact moment he blushed, the chat going absolutely feral.

But Lando barely noticed.

Because twenty minutes later, while he was lazily scrolling through delivery apps and wondering if gelato for dinner was socially acceptable, his phone buzzed again.

“Just saw your message—landed safely :) stuck in traffic now but excited to finally be home. Also, I missed talking to you. ❤️”

Lando stared at the screen, lips parting in a slow, dumb smile.

Then, with a quiet laugh, he typed back:

“Welcome home. Wanna come over later?”

And this time, he didn’t throw the phone away. He held onto it, just in case the reply came quickly.

It did.

hihiiii carlos + 43 maybe? 😊

43. giving them a piggy-back ride

pairing: carlos sainz x friend!reader

DISCLAIMER: YOU ARE NOT A FAN OF HIKING.

It’s solid as a fact. Unmovable. Unchangeable. You simply cannot find the appeal of waking up in the crack ass of dawn to go on an uneven trail, only to reach the top, and then have to do it again. So, yeah, not a fan.

Carlos Sainz, however—childhood friend, sportsman, Formula One driver, annoying pain in the ass—is a fan of hiking.

And this wouldn’t normally be a problem. Carlos is an avid enjoyer of many things you don’t particularly have a fondness for, but it’s never been an issue. The problem here is that Carlos… he knows you too well. Because while you may not love hiking, he’s well-aware you do love taking pictures of pretty things.

Every time the two of you go out—regardless of whether it’s the city, the beach, the streets—he’s always stopping besides you, patiently waiting as you pull out your phone to snap a quick picture of whatever had caught your attention. Clouds, sunsets, birds on wires, pretty signs— you name it. Your phone’s storage is crying out for help.

And the truth is, you are weak. Because the pictures Carlos showed you of the view from the top were breathtaking. Truly, you caved way too easily.

(Beautiful sights and Carlos leaning close to you with those dumb, pretty, stupid doe eyes of his? It’s not like you’re made of ice.)

And while the sights awaiting you ahead were somewhat motivating, the climb certainly wasn’t.

“I hate you.”

Carlos chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I do. I really hate you.” You huff, feeling cold sweat between your shoulder blades. “Actually— no, I hate myself.”

Carlos rolls his eyes. “Stop being such a baby. You’ll get over it.”

“I’m dragging you to one of my dissertations next week— see if you love it as much.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Ass.”

Carlos laughs, stepping over large roots that poke outside of the earth. He’s fast— why is he so fast?

“Watch your step.”

He gets a few paces ahead quickly, as if he’s doing it on purpose. Always so goddamn competitive. Your lips part to shoot something, but whatever you were gonna say dies on your tongue. You don’t mean to do it— it just happens. And before you can help it, your eyes are on Carlos’ ass.

Damn.

“Enjoying the view yet?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. Your head snaps up. “Huh?”

“The view,” Carlos repeats, stopping as he turns to face you. You think you see the corner of a smirk on his lips. There’s mischief in his eyes that’s gone in a blink. “You can start to see the city from here.”

“Ah,” you manage, clearing your throat. “The city. Yeah.”

Carlos chuckles, shaking his head at you. “Come on,” he throws his head to the upcoming trail. “Only a little more to go.”

“Only a little,” you repeat under your breath. Your jaw twitches. “I’m Carlos Sainz, I’m so sporty and fit and I don’t even sweat,” you mutter in a high-pitched voice.

“What was that?” he calls from up ahead.

“I said you— SHIT!” you yelp, sneaker snagging on an overgrown root, sending you tumbling onto the dirt. You think you swallow a handful of twigs on your way down.

Great. Fantastic, actually.

“I told you to watch your step,” Carlos says helpfully.

“Okay, I’ve had about enough of you and your little—” You try to stand up, but pain shoots up your ankle. You promptly stay on the ground.

Carlos laughs, watching you slump onto the dirt. “Come on, bonita. You agreed we’d get to the end of the trail.”

You shake your head, rolling down your sock a little to get a better look. You grimace. “No, Carlos—fuck, I think I sprained my ankle.”

Carlos stares at you with a disbelieving look, mirth evident in his half smile. But then, the longer you stay on the ground, the faster his smile drops, and concern festers in its place.

“Ah, really?” He mutters a curse you don’t really catch. You hear him rush towards you before halting besides you. He kneels down, gesturing with his hand to bring your leg closer to him. “Okay, let me see.”

He presses the pads of his fingers onto your ankle, feeling around when his brows furrow. Whatever one-sided mischief he’d been enjoying earlier seems to be long gone. He gently presses against a sore spot, making you wince.

Carlos exhales. “Yeah, it’s definitely sprained. Come on.”

You watch as he turns his back to you, still crouching. You huff. “Carlos, I’m not getting on your back on a trail like this.”

“You are, because I don’t want you putting any more pressure on your ankle.”

You fold your arms over your chest. “Right, then you trip and we both end up injured? I don’t think so.”

He exhales loudly. “Preciosa,” he says, a warning in his tone.

You hate the warmth you feel in your gut whenever he calls you that. Bonita, preciosa, guapa. Even if it’s some dumb joke from when you were younger. Feeling flustered when your gorgeous friend calls you pretty as a nickname? Who’s gonna sue you, huh?

You shake your head. “I’m all sweaty and gross. You’re gonna drop me.”

His face twists as he looks at you over his shoulder. For a moment, he actually looks offended. “What? I am not gonna drop you.” You open your mouth to protest, but Carlos beats you to it, his jaw twitching. “Can you stop being stubborn for two minutes and just get on my back?”

“Fine. Moody.” You limp a little as you climb onto Carlos’ back. You breathe deeply as you place your legs around his buff torso, your arms around his neck.

“Hold on tight, okay? I don’t want you falling off,” he says quietly. You nod, even though he can’t see it. Carlos’ big hands curl around your thighs, and you have to swallow a squeak. You hold on to him a little tighter.

Carlos braces himself as he starts stepping down the trail. Your brows knit together. “Are we not reaching the top?”

“No.” There’s a finality to his voice, a sternness he so rarely uses with you. “We should get that ankle checked out as soon as possible. Make sure it’s nothing too serious,” Carlos says, tone indecipherable.

Your hand squeezes his shoulder, and Carlos tenses beneath you. “But—” You press your lips together. “It’s not that bad, I promise.”

He huffs, shaking his head. “You’re not even walking.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you decided to pick me up and throw me on top of you,” you retort, and you can feel heat crawling up Carlos’ neck.

His voice feels hoarser when he protests, “That’s not what I—”

“We came all this way already,” you interrupt. “I didn’t just break my leg to just see trees.”

“You didn’t break your leg,” Carlos says, rolling his eyes. You can hear a small smile forming on his lips.

“Exactly! Now, if you think you can carry me to through the last stretch…” you trail off. You’re tilting your head against his shoulder, feeling a breath that rumbles beneath his skin. Your hands around him tighten slightly. “I think I wanna see what the view looks like,” you murmur, a quiet admission.

Carlos stops his descend, as if weighing his options. You feel him swallow sharply.

You smile against his back, teasing. “Unless, of course, you think you can’t carry me all the way up and then down. Which, I mean, Carlos Sainz Jr, sportsman extraordinaire— Mr. I am amazing and competitive at every sport I—” You yelp as Carlos turns around sharply, making his way back up the trail.

“You told me you didn’t watch that interview,” he grumbles.

You grin. “I lied.”

You laugh into his shoulder as he mutters a string of words under his breath, fixing your arms around his neck. He adjusts his grip on your thighs, pushing you higher on his back.

“Joder. Las cosas que hago por ti.”

You bite down another laugh. You don’t know what gives you the confidence— maybe it’s the ridiculousness of the situation, the fact that Carlos’ thumb is unconsciously drawing small patterns on your leg, or the strange physical closeness. You’re still stifling your laugh when you lean into his ear and whisper, “You’re too easy.”

Carlos scoffs a laugh, a deep, rumbling sound beneath his skin. He turns his face near imperceptibly. Beautiful brown eyes glance at you with unbearable fondness. “Only for you.” He looks away just as quickly, and you pray to whatever god is up there that he can’t tell just how much those three words got to you.

“Let’s go get you that picture.”

a/n: yeah i’m sorry my biggest pet peeve in carlos fics is when spanish isn’t used appropriately (ESPECIALLY in terms of nicknames) so this is vindication :)

translations: bonita — pretty / preciosa — beautiful / guapa — gorgeous / joder. las cosas que hago por ti — fuck. the things i do for you.

second chances — masterlist.

mob boss! lando norris x reader

summary: Lando Norris runs his empire with precision. As the head of The Reaper's Circle —the most influential mob in Monaco— he must be ruthless, untouchable, and always ten steps ahead.

But when a chance encounter at a quiet coffee shop leads to an unexpected connection, he finds himself treading dangerous ground. She’s ordinary and completely unaware of the world he operates in. Yet, he keeps going back. It starts as an indulgence, a curiosity—until suddenly, it’s not.

Because while Lando may be watching her, he’s not the only one.

status: ongoing

one: wrong place, wrong time ↘ trivia

two: hush, hush baby

three: clean up ↘ fun fact

four: a familiar stranger

five: devil's in the details

six: don't blink ↘ characters & cameos

seven: invisible string ↘ characters & cameos

eight: midnight meets ↘ trivia

nine: friendship is magic

ten: three's a crowd ↘ characters & cameos ↘ characters & cameos

eleven: somebody's watching me

twelve: the watcher ↘ fun fact

thirteen: passenger princess

fourteen: mask on, mask off

fifteen: creature of habit

sixteen: what could've been, and what will be

seventeen: dream a little dream of me

eighteen: the things we don’t say ↘ fun fact

nineteen: the talk ↘ fun fact

twenty: you've been made

twenty one: hypothetically

twenty two: balancing act

twenty three: all the stars

twenty four: dinner, but like, in a friend way ↘ fun fact ↘ fun fact

twenty five: here in spirit ↘ characters & cameos ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

twenty six: distance

twenty seven: margot

twenty eight: that funny feeling

twenty nine: blind spot new!

thirty: time to rest [coming on April 18th]