#childprodigy!reader

[rosiel-leclerc04]

Hi my stars! Finally done with this, I am currently in the feels :( this kinda hits home so hopefully yall like it.

Open for Request and Asks!!! request open for any F1 drivers, can do F2, F3, Indy, Motorgp but I need to check them out before doing them so I actually know them. No smut cause I can't write smut to save my life.

Dad? Whats that I only know Papa.

BioDad!Max Verstappen x AbandonedDaughter!Reader x Dad!Ranpo Edogawa

-Max Verstappen had a daughter in his teenage years from a one-night stand, but to protect his reputation, she was publicly introduced as his younger sister. He never acknowledged her as his child, on or off the camera until years later when an unexpected encounter at the Monaco Grand Prix revealed the truth to the entire Formula 1.

You came into the world because of a one night stand a mistake choice Max Verstappen made when he was still just a teenager.

From your earliest memories, he was never the one to guide you, to hold your hand through scraped knees or sleepless nights. Instead, you watched him from the sidelines, a distant figure you desperately wanted to reach.

You tried everything to catch his attention, frkm perfecting school projects, to winning small competitions, even learning about the sport he loved- hoping each time that this would be the moment he noticed you. But the moments never came. If his eyes did linger, they carried no warmth, only a polite, detached acknowledgment before drifting away again.

From the very beginning, you were unlike the other children in your neighborhood. Your mind worked quickly, always several steps ahead of everyone else.

You could solve puzzles meant for adults before you even started school, and by the time your classmates were still learning multiplication, you were already reading university-level books with ease. It was not a matter of being taught, it was simply how your brain worked.

Knowledge was not something you chased; it was something that came naturally, effortlessly, as if you were born already knowing how to learn.

Yet, intelligence alone could not earn love. Max Verstappen, the man who was your father only by blood, never showed interest in knowing you beyond your name.

He didn’t ask what subjects you liked, didn’t attend your milestones, and never once gave the kind of praise that a child quietly hopes for from their parent. The only reason he tolerated your presence at all was because of his mother’s insistence.

She was the one who made sure you had a roof over your head, meals at the table, and clothes that fit. She was the one who stood between you and the cold dismissal of a father who had no desire to be one.

Years of silence and shadows left their mark on you. You learned early how to stand on your own, how to keep your heart guarded, and how to measure your worth without waiting for someone else’s approval.

On the surface, you carried yourself with confidence, sharp words, a steady gaze, and an almost effortless independence. But beneath it all was a quiet yearning, the part of you that still wondered what it might have been like to grow up loved openly, without secrets.

The world saw you as self-reliant, someone who didn’t need anyone.

In truth, you had simply learned not to expect anyone to stay. That lingering ache made you careful with attachments, yet fiercely loyal to those who earned your trust.

And though Max remained a distant presence, a part of you still caught glimpses of him on the television or in the paddock and wondered not if he knew you, but if he ever wanted to.

To the public eye, you were not Max’s daughter. You were his younger sister, a careful lie maintained for years, polished enough that it became part of the family’s story. You were “his younger sister,” a carefully crafted truth told to protect reputations.

His mother became your mother in all the ways that mattered, her hands steady in every storm, though you could feel the weight of the unspoken truth pressing down on both of you.

And even as the years passed, you carried the quiet ache of knowing your place in his life was hidden, almost erased.

It was easier that way. Easier for him, easier for the image he wanted to keep, and easier for you to stop hoping that one day he might claim you as his own.

His mother, in truth, was the one who raised you, and she was the only parental figure you could rely on.

Her hands were the ones that braided your hair in the mornings, her voice the one that reminded you to eat when you were too busy studying to notice the hours pass.

You were always aware of the truth. You knew why he kept you at arm’s length, why he spoke to you in short, polite exchanges, and why there was no warmth in his eyes when they met yours.

You understood the politics of family image far earlier than any child should. And though the knowledge hurt, you learned to adapt.

You carried your intellect like armor, speaking carefully, presenting yourself with poise, and never letting him or anyone else see that a part of you still longed for recognition.

Your early graduation was just another fact of your life, another step forward in a path you built entirely on your own merit.

You had stopped expecting Max to care, stopped waiting for the day he might be proud. Instead, you learned to live as though his absence was inconsequential, even if, deep down, it never truly was.

It was a Sunday afternoon, one of those rare moments when Max was not traveling for races.

You had been sitting quietly in the living room, a book open on your lap, pretending to read while keeping him in the corner of your vision.

You had learned over the years to be silent around him, hoping that if you didn’t push too hard, he might be the one to start the conversation.

The door opened, and Kelly walked in with Penelope perched on her hip, her small hands curled around Kelly’s neck.

Max’s face lit up instantly, his entire posture softening in a way you had never seen directed at you.

“There’s my girl,” he said warmly, stepping forward to lift Penelope into his arms. She giggled, burying her face against his shoulder as he bounced her gently.

His voice turned playful, full of an ease you had never heard when he spoke to you.

He asked her about her day, her favorite toys, whether she had eaten yet. She answered between bursts of laughter, and he listened intently, smiling at every word.

When she pointed to a toy car on the coffee table, he crouched down beside her, helping her race it across the floor, making engine noises that drew another round of squeals.

You sat still, watching. It wasn’t jealousy that rose in your chest, it was something heavier, something colder.

You realized, in that moment, that you had been chasing a version of him that already existed… just not for you.

The warmth, the patience, the care, it was all there, but reserved for someone else.

That night, you didn’t say anything to your grandmother, but your mind was already made up.

If Max could not see you here, you would make yourself so brilliant, so untouchable, that even from the other side of the world, he would have no choice but to notice.

Tokyo wasn’t just an opportunity anymore, it was an escape.

Tokyo greeted you with a whirlwind of sound and color, the clatter of train tracks, the chatter of street markets, the bright glow of kanji signs stacked high above the streets.

It felt like stepping into another world, a place loud enough to drown out the memories you left behind.

The youth program wasted no time testing you. They put you through advanced mathematics, multi-step logic chains, language decryption, and simulated crisis-solving exercises.

You moved through each trial with calm precision, almost bored by the pace. They were designed to challenge gifted students, but to you, they felt like gentle warm-ups.

It was during one of these evaluations that a stranger slipped into the observation room.

A tall man with disheveled hair, a long tan overcoat, and a bandaged neck leaned casually against the wall, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips.

You didn’t know it then, but this was Dazai Osamu of the Armed Detective Agency.

“You’ve got quite the brain on you,” he remarked afterward, tone light but eyes sharp. “We could use someone like you. Interested in an internship?”

You almost said no, but then another figure appeared behind him, stepping forward with an air of complete self-assurance.

Edogawa Ranpo. His gaze swept over you in a single glance, and you could tell immediately that he wasn’t seeing just a child.

“She’s smart,” Ranpo announced without hesitation, his voice cutting through the room. “Not smart like the rest of them say. Really smart. Sharp. Quick. Knows exactly where to look before anyone else even thinks of it. I like her.”

From that moment on, Ranpo took it upon himself to test you in his own way riddles disguised as casual questions, seemingly meaningless observations that turned into full deductions.

And for the first time in your life, someone wasn’t surprised by your intellect… they matched it, step for step, and even pushed you further.

The Agency became your unexpected home.

Dazai teased you constantly but kept a watchful eye on your well-being.

Atsushi treated you like a younger sibling, always remembering small things about your day.

Yosano made sure you ate properly, even if it meant dragging you from your desk.

And Ranpo- Ranpo who became your anchor, a fellow mind that understood exactly what it meant to see the world in patterns and solutions before anyone else noticed the problem.

Here, you weren’t someone’s hidden secret or a carefully maintained lie.

You weren’t Max’s “younger sister” you were simply you valuable not just for what you could do, but for who you were. And for the first time, you began to believe that maybe family wasn’t just something you were born into.

Sometimes, it was something you found.

Fast forward to 2025...

Five years passed in silence.

You left for Tokyo in 2020, your small figure disappearing beyond the airport gates without so much as a backward glance.

Max didn’t come to see you off, he told himself it was because you were only going for a program, that you would be back in a few months. In truth, he never asked when you’d return.

But months became a year, and a year became five.

By 2025, the world had changed around him, championships won, records broken, celebrations held, but not once had you appeared in the periphery of those moments.

It was only after an offhand remark from Kelly about “how long it’s been since anyone’s seen her” that something lodged itself in the back of Max’s mind.

One night, sitting alone after a race, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through old family photos.

You were there in the background sometimes, a child with curious eyes, standing slightly apart from the group. And then, nothing.

The next morning, he called his parents. His voice was steady at first, casual even, as he asked, “Where is she now? She never came back from that program.”

The silence that followed was telling.

His mother’s voice came firm, almost cold. “She’s in Japan. She’s doing well. And no, Max, you don’t get to just walk back in now because you’ve finally noticed she’s gone.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” he pressed, a hint of anger in his tone.

“Because you didn’t ask,” she snapped. “I begged you to be involved. I begged you to care. You chose not to. She left because she knew there was nothing here for her — and I will not let you disrupt her life now. She has built something for herself, something without you.”

Max sat there with the phone pressed to his ear, feeling the weight of the truth sink in. Five years. He had no idea what you looked like now, what your voice sounded like, what you’d done with your life.

You weren’t a child anymore, you were a stranger. And it hit him, cold and sharp, that this wasn’t just distance. This was absence. This was him having no place in your world.

For the first time, Max realized how badly he had misjudged everything. And there was no easy way to fix it.

Meanwhile...

The conference room at the Agency was quieter than usual, save for the faint rustle of papers and the slow, deliberate tapping of Ranpo’s lollipop against the table.

You sat across from him, legs crossed, scanning the preliminary report Kunikida had placed in front of you.

Dazai strolled in late, as always, twirling before leaning back on a chair like this was all a casual chat. “So,” he said with a lazy grin, “who’s ready for a little trip to Europe?”

Kunikida adjusted his glasses. “The Principality of Monaco has contacted us through our international network. They suspect an organized sabotage attempt targeting the Monaco Grand Prix. It’s not only a major sporting event, but also a gathering of influential political and financial figures. If something happens there, the repercussions will be international.”

He set three folders down on the table, one in front of you, one in front of Dazai, and one in front of Ranpo.

“You three will be the field team,” Kunikida continued. “Dazai for operational adaptability, Ranpo for immediate deduction, and Y/N for infiltration and observation. Your job will be to identify and stop whoever is behind the threat before they can act.”

Ranpo’s grin widened as he glanced at you and ruffle your hair as he offer a bag of chips to you that you accepted. “See? Even Kunikida knows you’re sharp enough for something this big. Monaco’s going to be easy for us.”

“Easy?” Dazai mused, lacing his fingers together. “I don’t know, Ranpo. Sometimes the easiest jobs are the ones hiding the messiest surprises.” He tilted his head toward you, his eyes glinting. “Especially when the past might be waiting on the other side of the world.”

You didn’t answer, but you knew exactly what he was implying.

The Monaco Grand Prix wasn’t just any race, it was one of the crown jewels of Formula One. And standing on that grid would be Max Verstappen, the man who had once been a distant shadow in your childhood.

Kunikida slid the final page of the mission brief across the table. “Your credentials and cover identities are already prepared. You’ll be flying out in two days. Try not to cause an international scandal.”

Dazai smirked. “No promises.”

"I'm only talking about you Dazai" retorted Kunikida

Ranpo leaned back in his chair, giving you a knowing look. “Guess we’ll see if you’re faster than the cars, huh?”

You met his gaze evenly. “I don’t need to be faster than the cars. Just faster than whoever’s trying to ruin the race. I have a big feeling this... Case might be an easy one” as you shrug.

And in the back of your mind, you added silently, and faster than the man who might finally realize you’ve been gone all this time.

During the friday of the Monacco Grand Prix...

The midday sun cast sharp shadows across the Monaco paddock, the air alive with the sound of engines warming up and the chatter of teams preparing for the weekend. Max was heading toward Red Bull’s hospitality suite when a flicker of movement caught his eye.

You.

For a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, that the crowd had conjured a ghost from five years ago. But there you were, unmistakably older now, walking in the opposite direction alongside two men.

One of them, lanky and relaxed, spoke with an animated wave of his hands, his words rolling off his tongue like he was narrating a grand story.

The other strolled lazily with one hand in his pocket, the other holding a packet of snacks he munched on without breaking stride.

You walked between them with your hands laced casually behind your head, posture loose and easy, as though you were strolling down an empty street instead of one of the most high-profile sporting venues in the world.

The corner of your mouth quirked in amusement at something the tall one said, and you laughed, not forced, not guarded. Just natural. Happy.

Max froze mid-step, his breath catching before he even realized it. In all the years you’d been gone, he’d never seen you like that. So open. So… free.

He started forward, unsure of what he would even say when he reached you, but before he could take more than two steps, a man in an FIA blazer approached your group.

“Ah, the Agency team!” the official greeted warmly. “Right this way, we’ve been expecting you. We’ll brief you in the office before letting you tour the circuit.”

Without breaking formation, your trio followed the official. Dazai kept talking as though nothing had changed, hands moving in wide gestures to emphasize his point, his voice carrying easily over the noise

Ranpo added small, almost absent remarks between bites of his snacks, completely unbothered by the stares from passing crew members.

You didn’t glance around, didn’t check the crowd, just leaned a little more into your relaxed stride, eyes forward, content in the moment.

Max stopped where he was, the distance between you stretching with every step you took toward the FIA offices.

He’d been too slow. And for the first time in years, he felt the sharp, undeniable truth settle in his chest, you weren’t the same child who had left. You weren’t waiting for him anymore.

In the FIA office...

The FIA official ushered the three of you through a narrow corridor, the bustle of the paddock fading behind closed doors.

The office you entered was cool and orderly, with polished wooden desks and a wall lined with circuit diagrams and event schedules. A faint scent of coffee lingered in the air.

You dropped into one of the leather chairs with the same laid-back posture you’d had outside, your hands resting once again behind your head as if this was a routine meeting rather than an assignment halfway across the world.

Dazai leaned lazily against the corner of the desk, still mid-story, the lilt in his voice making it hard to tell if he was being serious or just entertaining himself.

Ranpo didn’t bother with chairs at all, instead wandering toward the table where complimentary snacks were laid out, plucking a small pastry and inspecting it like it was part of the mission.

The FIA official smiled politely but with a note of urgency. “We’re glad the Armed Detective Agency accepted our request. The Monaco Grand Prix attracts… a certain variety of guests, and we’ve been alerted to a potential security risk. Your job will be to remain discreet, identify the threat, and neutralize it without disrupting the event.”

Dazai’s lips curved in a playful smirk. “Oh, discretion is my specialty. Isn’t that right?” He tilted his head toward you.

You only gave a lazy nod, your gaze calm but attentive. “We’ll get it done.” Your tone held a quiet confidence, one that came from years of being trusted with high-stakes work.

Ranpo, his mouth full, spoke around a bite of his snack. “I’ll find them before the second practice session. Probably before lunch. Can we keep the pastries?”

The official blinked, unsure whether to answer seriously, but Dazai waved him off with a grin. “Don’t worry, he’s always like this. Highly effective, but always hungry.”

The meeting wrapped up quickly, a few more details, a stack of passes and security clearances handed over, and an understanding that the three of you would blend in with the crowd until the time came to act.

You rose from your chair with an easy stretch, slinging your lanyard around your neck.

Photographers darted between teams, the smell of burning rubber mixing with expensive cologne. The air thrummed with anticipation for the race, but for you, Ranpo, and Dazai, it was just another mission.

“Remember,” Dazai said, voice light but eyes sharp as he adjusted his tie, “we’re just another group of tourists with VIP passes. Smile, wave, don’t stab anyone unless necessary.”

“I never stab anyone,” you replied casually, though your eyes were already sweeping the crowd, noting exits, security points, and faces that didn’t belong.

Ranpo ambled beside you with his usual unbothered stride, holding a paper bag of snacks like it was part of his cover.

Every so often, he’d slip something into your hand without looking, and you’d eat it without breaking focus. To anyone watching, you were just a slightly clingy young woman with her eccentric father and his overly friendly colleague.

The three of you blended seamlessly, drifting near the back of a cluster of VIP guests. You had your hands folded behind your head in that lazy way you liked, head tilting from side to side as you scanned the area.

That was when you saw him.

Max Verstappen stood a short distance away, helmet tucked under one arm, talking briefly to a Red Bull crew member. His eyes wandered, then froze when they landed on you. It was like time punched the breath out of him.

At first, you didn’t notice until Dazai, with an almost mischievous tone, murmured, “Oh? Someone’s looking at you like you’re a ghost.”

You turned your head and your eyes met his. The air between you went taut. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then Max started walking toward you.

You felt your shoulders tense instinctively, but Ranpo’s hand landed lightly on your head, ruffling your hair. “Relax,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”

Max slowed as he reached you, his gaze darting between you, Dazai, and Ranpo. “...It’s you,” he said, voice quieter than you expected. “I— I didn’t even know where you went...”

You blinked at him, tilting your head just slightly. “Hello, Max,” you said evenly, no warmth in your voice, your eyes stare at him with the same eyes as his. You didn’t call him father.

He glanced at Ranpo and Dazai, who had effortlessly positioned himself between you and Max without looking threatening. “And… who are you?” Max asked, confusion knitting his brow.

“Papa,” you said suddenly, tugging lightly at Ranpo’s sleeve. “I’m tired.” wanting to leave this interaction.

Max’s expression faltered, the word hitting him like a physical blow. “...Papa?” he echoed.

Ranpo glanced down at you opening his eyes, giving you one of his rare, soft smiles. “We’ll take a break soon,” he said, not even glancing at Max as if he were a stranger asking for directions.

Dazai, grinning like he’d been watching a stage play unfold, finally stepped forward. “Pleasure meeting you, Max Verstappen. We’re just here for the race… and maybe to deal with some other matters.” His tone was deliberately vague, his smile unreadable.

You shifted your weight and looked back at Max, your expression unreadable. “Enjoy your race,” you said, and without waiting for a response, you walked off with Ranpo and Dazai at your side, disappearing into the crowd before Max could gather his words.

A few days later...

The sharp bang cut through the lingering hum of engines and equipment. Monaco’s glittering lights reflected off the metal barricades as the pit lane crew turned toward the source of the noise.

In the middle of the cleared space, a young girl- barely twelve, twisted away from an attacker’s grasp, her converse scraping against the asphalt.

She was smaller, but her movements were practiced, quick, and precise. Her loose white longsleeves and tie swayed with each motion, hair messy from the struggle yet eyes razor-sharp.

Four other subdued culprits were already restrained a few feet away, guarded by two men whose appearances seemed wildly out of place in the post-race paddock.

The taller one wore a light brown trench coat, its hem brushing the ground as he stepped forward with the ease of someone strolling through a park.

His messy dark brown hair framed a face half-shadowed by lazy amusement, and pale skin contrasted with the white bandages wrapped around his neck and forearms.

Osamu Dazai looked more like a man walking toward an old friend than someone who had just taken down criminals.

Beside him stood a man of average height, pale-skinned, his black hair slightly ruffled beneath a dark green newsboy cap. Light green eyes gleamed sharply under the brim, contrasting with the casual smile on his lips.

He wore a black dress shirt with a white cravat tucked neatly beneath a brown checkered vest, a long brown overcoat draped over his frame, and white gloves that looked far too clean for someone who had just been in a fight.

Ranpo Edogawa reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a wrapped candy as though the chaos around him were an afterthought.

The girl huffed, dusting her hands, then walked up to Ranpo without hesitation. “Papa, can we go now? I’m tired.”

Ranpo popped the candy into his mouth and patted her head. “You did good. You can go first, we'll deal with the rest.”

Around them, FIA security hesitated, unsure whether to step in.

The remaining pit crews and drivers, including Max Verstappen, simply stared, frozen, at the surreal scene.

For Max, the sight of the girl sent a sharp jolt through him. She looked far older than the child he remembered, yet something in her expression was unmistakably his daughter.

Max stood frozen, helmet in one hand, as Ranpo and Dazai walked away with her, his daughter.

He barely had time to process before a voice cut through the low hum of the paddock.

“Max… was that your kid?” Lando’s voice was hesitant but laced with disbelief.

The noise spread like wildfire. Mechanics paused mid-pack, crew radios went silent, and drivers who had been heading toward their motorhomes turned their heads.

“Wait, wait, wait,” George said, stepping closer, his brows knitting. “You have a kid?!”

A chorus of voices followed.

“Since when?”

“Mate, is this for real?”

“That was your daughter?”

Max felt the heat crawl up his neck, his jaw tight. Cameras from lingering media crews began to swing in his direction, lenses snapping like gunfire.

The once quiet, post-race paddock became a chaotic mess of whispers and stares.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His eyes stayed locked on the empty path where she had vanished with them, the sound of her calling someone else Papa still echoing in his head.

And now, the entire Formula 1 wanted answers he didn’t have.

This took several changes lmao, I was thinking of a techy reader with Izaya Orihara, but I barely know the guy or the anime so yuh went with dazai and ranpo considering they themselves are like top 3 smartest in Bungou Stray Dogs.

The playlist

I really do want to ramble about coding and stuff with the old idea but goddamn I'm not gonna write about a character I barely know huhu

Xoxo thank you to my dad who made me love all these found family fics

Also another note sorry if this fic is mostly about reader, for some reason thats how I write? I don't even notice, kinda self centered pov ig...