I just thought of something platonic Max verstappen x Rookie reader( the reader reminds max of himself as rookie but the reader is close to burning out and max steps in before the reader does)
I just thought of grid dad Max
GRID DAD MAXXXXX i love this!
Open for Request and Asks!!!
request open for any F1 drivers, can do F2, F3, Indy, Motogp 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.
Redbull Golden Duck
Platonic!Max Verstappen x Rookie!Reader
-Where a redbull rookie finds herself following the 4-world champion around like a duck, absorbing knowledge and learning. You finally claim your first podium in Austin, with wholesome chaos following the two redbull drivers.
You are a rookie in the second Red Bull seat, a rare talent recruited straight into Formula 1 much like Carlos Sainz and Max himself.
The Baku Grand Prix was supposed to prove your raw speed, and for a moment it did.
You were right behind Carlos Sainz, pushing every sector. But the race turned ruthless.
First Kimi Antonelli slipped past with his precision, then Liam Lawson capitalized on the chaos.
You fought tooth and nail to reclaim your position, but no matter how hard you pushed, the streets of Baku refused to forgive mistakes.
Crossing the finish line left a hollow pit in your chest, your jaw clenched beneath the helmet.
Max noticed. He had been there once, a rookie thrown into the fire, burning with frustration when the car or the circumstances did not bend to willpower.
After the cooldown room and press duties, he found you sitting in the garage still in your race suit, eyes locked on the timing screens as if staring hard enough would change the result.
“Hey,” Max said, his voice steady but firm. “You did good. Don’t let one race get into your head. Baku bites everyone, trust me.”
You shook your head, muttering, “I should’ve fought harder. I lost it too easily.”
Max crouched to meet your eyes, the way an older brother might. “No. You fought. You finished. That’s what matters. What you don’t see now is that every lap you survived out there is experience. And that’s something you can’t train on a simulator.”
The frustration simmered inside you, but his words carried weight.
He had lived this path, and had once been the angry rookie tearing himself apart over mistakes.
“You’ll get them back,” he added with a small smirk. “And when you do, you’ll make it stick.”
People start to notice it slowly at first.
During media day you are never far from Max, trailing after him like a duckling while your PR handler tries to usher you along.
He answers his questions with the same calm tone as always, but whenever you stumble or hesitate, he glances over and gives you a small nod that steadies your nerves.
By free practice it becomes impossible to ignore.
Most rookies are left to figure out their own rhythm, but Max keeps checking on you over the radio, sliding small tips between his own feedback.
When you climb out of the car, helmet still in hand, he is always the first to walk over, speaking quietly so the cameras do not catch everything.
“Brake a little earlier into Turn 3. The walls come quick here,” he says, tapping your shoulder lightly.
“Your exit out of 12 was good. Keep that line, don’t second-guess yourself.”
It is not the usual cold, calculated advice he gives to outsiders.
Around you, Max softens.
Reporters joke about it, engineers smirk, even other drivers raise their brows. Antonelli teases that you are Red Bull’s “golden duckling.”
You try to brush it off, but it is true that in the paddock you feel safer when you are next to him.
He guides you through the chaos of media pens and sponsor events, keeping you close when the crowd presses in.
Sometimes he even takes your water bottle or helmet from your hands without asking, as if it is the most natural thing in the world.
Others whisper about favoritism, but you know the truth.
Max sees pieces of himself in you, the rookie who was thrown straight into the fire.
And while he cannot erase the pressure, he can give you something he never had when he started: someone in your corner.
The checkered flag waves and your heart nearly bursts out of your chest.
P3.
Podium.
You are grinning so hard your cheeks hurt as you scream into the radio.
“Tell me Max saw that! Did he see? Please tell me he saw that!”
Your engineer laughs in your ear, trying to calm you down as you keep cheering all the way through the cooldown lap.
The roar of the Austin crowd follows you, but all you can think about is whether Max was watching.
When you pull into parc fermé, you spot him instantly.
Max is already surrounded by the Red Bull crew, celebrating another P1. But the moment you climb out of the car, he looks up.
The grin on his face is unmistakable.
You do not even hesitate.
You run across the space, helmet still in hand, and launch yourself at him.
He catches you without missing a beat, arms locking tight around you as you shout, your voice cracking with joy.
“Pa! Did you see? I’m in P3! I did it!”
Max laughs, actually laughs, the sound warm and proud in your ear as he squeezes you like you’re his daughter. “I saw. I told you, didn’t I? You’d get there. And look at you now.”
The team around you cheers louder, some clapping, some shaking their heads with fond smiles at the sight of Red Bull’s champion holding his rookie like she just won the title.
For you, though, it feels just like that.
A first podium, and the one person you wanted to see it most was right there waiting.
The microphones and cameras catch it instantly.
The way you leap into Max’s arms, the way you shout with your whole chest, “Pa! Did you see? I’m in P3! I did it!”
The word echoes through parc fermé, louder than you realize, and the media pounces.
Fans in the grandstands erupt, some cheering at the wholesome display, others laughing in disbelief.
Within minutes, social media lights up with clips. Did she just call Max Verstappen “Pa”?!
Memes spread faster than fire: side-by-sides of a duckling following its parent, edits of you glued to Max’s side all season, captions like Red Bull’s father-daughter duo.
Cameras zoom in on Max’s reaction.
Instead of brushing it off, he just laughs, tightening his hold on you as if he does not care who hears it.
His smile is wide and unguarded, the kind of softness people are not used to seeing from him.
The paddock reporters are already whispering, microphones crackling with excitement. “That’s not something we’ve heard before, did she really just call him Pa?”
By the time you both head to the cool-down room, you are still buzzing from the podium finish, completely oblivious to the fact that your words are already trending worldwide.
Max only shakes his head with a grin.
“Well,” he teases, “looks like the whole world knows now.”
You tilt your head. “Know what?”
Oscar chuckles and ruffle your hair. “You called Max, Pa”
This made you turn red and tried to put your helmet back on to hide but Max soften and tell you. “It’s alright schat, You can call me pa any time.” which made you lay on the cool-down room floor with the two asking why are you laying down.
“Max Verstappen, my childhood hero, told me I can call him pa, I can die happily.” You said with a dramatic flair.
Hiya this is my first request ever so I’m a little bit nervous.but I was wondering if I could ask about a max verstappen fic with his little sister who comes to the paddock but gets hurt and all the drivers and tp help her please. If not all good.
Hello anon! I hope you like this! It's fun making this, it took a while cause I'm still busy cause we just started our capstone research in my college so yeah.
Open for Request and Asks!!!
Request is open for any F1 drivers, can do F2, F3, Indy, Motogp 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.
She's Back
Platonic!Max Verstappen x Sister!Reader
-Where you return to the paddock after years away, instantly thrown back into chaos when you trip in Ferrari hospitality.
You never thought walking back into the paddock after years away would feel this surreal.
The smells of fuel, the hum of engines, the chaos of mechanics moving around, it all hits you like muscle memory.
You had grown up here, a constant shadow to Max when he first debuted.
The little sister clinging to his sleeve, trailing behind him with wide eyes while he stormed through the sport.
Now, after years buried in schoolwork, you’re finally back.
Of course, the first thing you did was find Max, throwing your arms around him before he could even put his phone away.
He laughed, ruffling your hair, muttering something about how you hadn’t changed at all. But as soon as you were sure he was okay, the old restlessness pulled at you.
You had to see everyone else again, especially Lewis and Charles.
The Ferrari hospitality looked exactly how you remembered: polished red and glass, people weaving in and out with espresso cups and laptops.
You were so focused on the sight of it that you didn’t notice the cable snaking across the floor until it hooked your foot.
Your stomach lurched as you stumbled forward, the ground rising up faster than you could stop it.
You hit the floor hard enough to jar your teeth, your palms scraping, your elbows taking the worst of it.
The sting was immediate, hot and sharp, and when you tried to push yourself up, blood welled across your skin.
The chatter around you died.
Eyes turned.
For a moment, the whole hospitality froze, people staring at the girl who had just face-planted in the middle of the Ferrari setup.
Heat flooded your cheeks, mortification pressing down on your chest as you tried to stand without looking completely pathetic.
But before you could gather yourself, two familiar voices cut through the silence.
“Hey, hey, are you alright?”
Lewis practically barreled toward you, Charles right at his heels.
You barely had time to mumble something before Lewis crouched down and swept you up like you weighed nothing, cradling you in his arms bridal style.
Gasps rippled through the crowd, and if your face wasn’t already burning, it was now.
“I can walk,” you stammered, though your arm throbbed with every twitch.
“You’re bleeding." Lewis said firmly, his grip steady as he carried you without hesitation. His face was all focus, no room for argument.
Charles leaned close as he walked beside you, his expression soft with concern. “Don’t move your arm too much, it’ll sting worse. Just breathe, yeah? We’ll get it cleaned up.”
Every instinct screamed at you to disappear into the floor, to pretend this wasn’t happening. But with Lewis holding you securely and Charles murmuring reassurances, the humiliation dulled into something else, something unexpectedly safe, as if maybe falling back into this world wasn’t so terrifying after all.
Lewis and Charles didn’t waste time getting you patched up, sitting you down while someone scrambled for a first aid kit.
You tried to keep your face neutral, but your cheeks still burned under the weight of all the curious stares.
The younger drivers in particular lingered nearby, whispering as though trying to piece together who you were.
It didn’t take long for Max to storm in. “What the hell happened?” His voice was sharp enough to make half the hospitality flinch.
He crossed the space in seconds, crouching in front of you with eyes darting straight to your elbow. “You’re bleeding.”
“I tripped over a wire,” you muttered, trying to sound casual.
Max exhaled through his nose, muttering something in Dutch under his breath before glancing at Lewis and Charles. “Thanks. I leave her alone for five minutes…” He shook his head, but when he looked at you again, his expression softened.
He still looked like the same big brother who had pulled you through paddocks by the hand years ago. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll live,” you said, giving him a small smile.
By now, a small crowd had gathered. Lando, George, and a few others exchanged confused looks before Oscar finally asked, “Wait… who is she?”
Charles was the first to answer. “Max’s little sister.”
That caused a ripple of disbelief. Kimi blinked. “No way. You’ve never been here.”
“She has,” Lewis cut in, almost amused. “You just weren’t around then. Back in 2016 the whole grid kind of… adopted her.”
George frowned, clearly skeptical. “Adopted?”
“Pretty much,” Charles said with a shrug. “She was always here with Max, always trailing after someone. It didn’t matter what team, what garage, she was like everyone’s little sister.”
The newer drivers still looked doubtful, as if this was some elaborate inside joke.
That was when Fernando appeared.
He walked in briskly, spotted you instantly, and all that legendary composure cracked into pure concern.
“Are you hurt badly?” he asked, kneeling down beside Max as if you were his own family.
Before you could answer, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small packet of spanish grape candies, pressing it into your hand.
Your face lit up without you even meaning to. “You still have these?”
Lewis laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You still have those?”
Fernando gave a small, almost smug smile as he leaned back. “Just in case she visits again. And I was right.”
The room shifted instantly.
The doubtful glances from the younger drivers softened into something else, curiosity, awe, maybe even a bit of envy.
The weight of humiliation you had been carrying since your fall seemed to melt away, replaced with something warmer.
You were lingering at the back of the media area, half-hoping no one would notice you, when Nico’s sharp eyes caught you instantly.
He excused himself from the group he was talking to and strode right over, grinning wide.
“There she is! I was starting to think you were just a rumor,” Nico announced, throwing an arm around your shoulder. “Everyone’s been talking about you since you tripped in Ferrari hospitality.”
Your cheeks burned, but before you could defend yourself, another familiar voice chimed in.
“Wait, wait- hold on. Did she trip again?” Jenson appeared out of nowhere, laughing as he joined Nico at your side. “Unbelievable. I leave for a few years and some things never change.”
You groaned. “It was one time.”
“One time today,” Nico corrected smoothly.
Jenson smirked, nodding. “Exactly. See, this is why the 2016 grid adopted you. You were chaos wrapped in a paddock pass.”
Nico chuckled, tightening his arm around you as though to keep you from escaping. “Remember when she interrupted my interview just to ask if I liked strawberries?”
Your face flushed hotter, and Jenson perked up immediately. “Oh, I remember! And then she stole my water bottle right after. She was like our little mascot, bouncing between garages.”
“I was not a mascot,” you tried to argue, but both men were already laughing, trading memories over your head.
“Sure you weren’t,” Jenson teased. “Tell that to the thirty drivers who used to fight over who got to babysit you between sessions.”
You couldn’t stop the embarrassed laugh that slipped out, shaking your head as both of them kept grinning at you like proud, sassy uncles who’d just uncovered your most mortifying secrets.
I had an idea platonic max verstappen x (Toto and Susie wolf’s child) reader she’s like 13 and quiet and reserved but she gets along with all the drivers but she is intimidated by max until Baku c:
-🧊🎀
This is so cute 🧊🎀 anon, I hope you like what I made for this request!
Open for Request and Asks!!! request open for any F1 drivers, can do F2, F3, Indy, Motogp 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.
Not So Scary
Platonic!Max Verstappen x Wolff!Reader
-Where she learned in Baku that the drivers she feared most weren’t always the ones who would hurt her.
You were used to being invisible.
Not in the literal sense, your pastel outfits had a habit of going viral every time you stepped into the paddock, but in the way that everyone’s eyes always drifted to your parents first and you like it that way, less camera on your face.
Toto’s towering frame, Susie’s sharp poise, the kind of presence that filled entire rooms.
Compared to them, you felt like a whisper, soft colors in a world full of harsh edges.
Most of the drivers never made you feel small.
Lando always cracked silly jokes to get you to smile, Charles sometimes teased you about your fashion, and George treated you like a younger sibling. But Max Verstappen? You avoided him. He was too intense, too sharp around the edges.
His reputation on track matched the fire in his eyes, and you did not want to accidentally get burned.
That was why sitting alone in Baku’s paddock felt safe until a shadow fell across you.
“You’re by yourself?” a voice asked.
You looked up, and your heart nearly stopped.
Max Verstappen stood there, hands in his pockets, blue eyes catching yours.
He wasn’t scowling, not exactly, but his expression was serious enough to make you sit straighter.
“My parents are in a meeting,” you said quickly, wishing your voice didn’t sound so small.
Max tilted his head. “You look nervous. I’m not going to yell at you.”
That startled a tiny laugh out of you, more out of shock than amusement. “I just thought you were scary.”
Max blinked.
Then, to your surprise, he laughed, short and real, not mocking. “Scary, huh? I guess I can be. But only when I’m racing. Off track, I’m just me.”
You hesitated, fingers smoothing the fabric of your pastel skirt.
He noticed, and his mouth curved in a small, almost shy smile. “You don’t really look like your dad,” he said. “Mercedes and intimidation. You’re the complete opposite.”
Heat crept into your cheeks. No one ever said it so directly. “I like colors. Pastels feel calm.”
“Fits you,” Max said simply.
For a moment, silence settled between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable anymore.
He asked what you liked to do outside of the races, and you told him about reading and sketching.
He actually listened, nodding, making the occasional comment.
The nervous knot in your stomach slowly untangled, and you realized something you hadn’t expected.
Max Verstappen wasn’t scary at all.
When your parents finally came back, you stood, smoothing your skirt again.
Max gave you a small nod. “See you around, Wolff.”
And for the first time, you believed it.
After Baku, something shifted.
You no longer avoided Max in the paddock.
It wasn’t as if you suddenly became best friends, but you found yourself drifting toward him more often, your steps almost unconsciously carrying you closer.
The other drivers noticed.
“Thought you were scared of him,” Lando whispered one afternoon, nudging you when you stood near Max during a media day break. “Now you’re practically glued to him.”
You blushed and shook your head. “I’m not glued.”
But when Max came back holding two water bottles and casually passed one to you, Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
Charles was more teasing. “Of all people, you pick Max? I would have bet on you being friends with Oscar since both of you are introverts.”
You had no way to explain it to them.
It wasn’t that Max was soft, not in the way Charles or Lando were.
He didn’t go out of his way to make you laugh or treat you like a kid to fuss over.
He was steady, solid, present without demanding anything from you.
He reminded you of home.
He reminded you of your father.
Toto could look like a wall of stone to the rest of the world, but you knew how he would stoop down to fix the bow in your hair, or how his voice softened when he asked if you had eaten.
Max carried that same duality, intimidating to the world but quietly attentive when it mattered.
Once, you admitted it in passing, your voice low as you walked beside him in the paddock. “You remind me of my dad.”
Max glanced at you, eyebrows raised, but didn’t laugh.
He only asked, “Is that good or bad?”
You smiled faintly. “Good. My dad looks scary, but he’s really doting. You’re kind of like that too.”
For a long moment, Max didn’t say anything.
Then he gave a small huff of a laugh and muttered, “Don’t let your dad hear that comparison. He might kill me.”
You giggled, and when Toto later came into view, Max only gave you a slight nudge forward, as if returning you to where you belonged.
People might not have understood why you gravitated to Max, but you did.
Hi my stsrs! I just made this small socmed for funsies hope yall like it!
Open for Request and Asks!!!
request open for any F1 drivers, can do F2, F3, Indy, Motogp 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.
Tornado Trio
Platonic!Kimi Antonelli x Platonic!Ollie Bearman x Platonic!Reader
-Where your Kimi's childhood bestfriend and when He and Ollie became friends, you all became a Trio. A friendship seen under instagram post and stories.
kimiantonelli
Liked by olliebearman, georgerussell, etc...
kimiantonelli Grocery Run!
Tagged: olliebearman yourusername
Top Comments:
yourusername: HEY! WHY DID YOU ADD THE LAST 2 PICS
olliebearman: 🥺 you look cute there
kimiantonelli: 🥺 yeah
yourusername: sybau 🫶
georgerussel: why are you all running with the grocery carts?
lewishamilton: What does sybau means?
isackhajar: 🫶 you don't wanna know
lewishamilton:?
lewishamilton: oh...
charlesleclerc: you three are giving me and george white hair early
yourusername: so your admitting your getting old?
kimiantonelli: omg old man
olliebearman: haha 🫵🫵🫵
charlesleclerc: Im disowning you @olliebearman
olliebearman: WHAT NOOOO PLS I TAKE IT BACK YOUR NOT OLD YOU HAVE A VERY LUXURIOUS BEAUTIFUL BROWN HAIR
oscarpiastri: I'm the only child finally
olliebearman: 😓😓😓😓
User1: This is peak chaotic energy and I’m here for it
User2: Not the oranges 😭😭
User3: Ollie in the cart is sending me
User4: Kimi hoarding snacks like he’s preparing for the apocalypse 💀
User5: Reader with the toilet brush hat is my Roman Empire
User6: Whoever took the blurry cart chase photo deserves an award
User7: Imagine walking into the store and seeing THIS group
User8: This is why they shouldn’t be allowed out unsupervised
User9: Reader’s beer face close-up is a masterpiece
User10: The definition of “we’ll be quick” but 3 hours later
yourusername
Liked by kimiantonelli, maxverstappen, etc....
yourusername since kimi decided to post my unflattering pics, sleepover but they burnt the toast so we had to order pizza that night, i had to cook that morning and thank you to papa for teaching them how to cook 🎉
Tagged: kimiantonelli olliebearman
Top Comments:
papay/ln: Kimi can cook pasta atleast
kimiantonelli: 😔😔😔
olliebearman: yeah yeah pasta boi
yourusername: @olliebearman you can't really say anything when you didn't even know how to boil a pasta much less mistaking salt for sugar that we had to rebake.
olliebearman: 😢😢😢 I didn't mean to!
kimiantonelli: im just glad I'm not the WORST cook here.
olliebearman: wow i see how it is
georgerussell: did..
georgerussell: did kimi burn the toast?
maxverstappen: its okay kimi we burn toast sometimes
yourusername: @/maxverstappen pls it was his second burnt toast
kimiantonelli: DON'T TELL THEM THAT😢
carlossainz: remind me not to make the kids cook
lewishamilton: @/yourname's father to the rescue
yourusername: Real!
landonorris: you burnt a toast?!
oscarpiastri: i know your "I ate expired food" is talking
landonorris: why am i catching strays😓
User1: When’s the cooking show debuting? “MasterMess with Kimi & Ollie” coming soon! 😂
User2: Burnt toast? Kimi’s just unlocking new flavor dimensions! 🔥😜
User3: yourname be like: “Who let these two near the oven again?”
User4: ollie’s secret ingredient is definitely chaos and friendship 😅
User5: Pizza party ft. burnt toast by chef kimi
User6: Someone please tell Kimi eggs don’t scramble themselves!
User7: Baking or breaking the kitchen? Either way, love you guys!
User8: I swear, you three could burn water and I’d still stan 🥲
User9: Caught in 4K, team bonding over kitchen fails!
User10: Why does it look like a recipe for disaster and fun at the same time?
olliebearman
Liked by carlossainz, yourusername, etc...
olliebearman sleepy time!
Tagged: yourusername kimiantonelli
Top Comments:
yourusername: YOU TWO DRAW MARKER ON MY FACE!
olliebearman: 😁 you look awesome yourname
kimiantonelli: very pretty 🥺
yourusername: i will get revenge...
georgerussell: 🥺 my gridkids
charlesleclerc: what am i a roach?
maxverstappen: clearly I'm their grid dad
charlesleclerc: when did you get to that conclusion ollie is my kid
yourusername: Kimi is Max and George kid, while Ollie is Charles and Max kid
charlesleclerc: @/maxverstappen after all we have been to you have a kid with another?! does lestappen not mean anything to you?!
maxverstappen: Charles please its just an inchident!
georgerussell: Hey! why am I between this two?!
lilymhe: @/georgerussell your clearly @/alexalbon's wag
georgerussell: WHAT
alexalbon: 😔 i thought we had something george
georgerussell: time to delete instagram 🥀
User1: This is not a friend group, this is a public menace
User2: The swing flip is INSANE omg
User3: not them knowing how to braid 👁️
User4: Reader being carried mid-cartwheel is sending me
User5: Kimi with the face mask looking like he’s about to drop a skincare line
User6: That last pic of someone passed out with doodles on their face is pure art
User7: Why do I feel like half these photos were taken at 3AM
User8: The energy here is unhinged but wholesome
User9: This looks like a Netflix series called “Don’t Let Them Out”
User10: Imagine explaining these pics to your parents
yourusername
Liked by kimiantonelli, olliebearman, etc...
yourusername Me and the supporting cast
Tagged: kimiantonelli olliebearman
Top Comments:
georgerussell: princess kimi 💅
carlossainz: why is the 2 of you on top of a tree branch
yourusername: wouldn't you like to know weatherboy?
kimiantonelli: 😔 i thought we are fam 🥀
olliebearman: SIDECHARACTER?! excuse me I'm the main character in this trio.
yourusername: sure jan your excused
kimiantonelli: 🥀 wow even you think I'm a side character what happened to bearnelli?
olliebearman: wait-
yourusername: couldn't be me hshahshdha
User1: Why is Ollie in a tree like he’s auditioning for Planet of the Apes 😭
User2: trio in sunglasses look like they’re about to drop the hottest mixtape of 2025
User3: The crown pic is proof kimi is secretly the princess of the group
yourusername: true
olliebearman: true
kimiantonelli: whatttt
User4: Whoever handed them money and a karaoke mic needs jail time
User5: This dump is 80% chaos, 20% questionable life choices
User6: The guys with beanie over their heads… fashion icons or fugitives? You decide
User7: Ollie squishing yourname is everything
User8: Reader’s side eye could end careers
User9: Looks like the prelude to a news headline starting with “Three F1 drivers were spotted—”
User10: i guess kimi is a princess now-
this was less stressful to make lmao but I had fun making this but fr I have 2 fics to make 🥀 this was my relaxation cause 2 of them are angst
I don’t know if request are open or not but a idea struck me and I can’t write to Save my life at all. I kinda want a older brother max verstappen fanfic like the reader she’s in a similar age as kimi maybe a year older and she’s like @bxllajames and it’s her first f1 Grand Prix and she’s gets interview with max and other f1 drivers maybe even some team principals and retired drivers idk (you don’t have to write this I know it’s silly)
Hi anon! I hope you like this, it's a little short but here it is! I couldn't really think of anything more to add.
Open for Request and Asks!!!
request open for any F1 drivers, can do F2, F3, Indy, Motogp 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.
Big Girl Job
Platonic!F1 x Brother!Max Verstappen x Sister!Interviewer!Reader
-Where you, Sister of Max Verstappen, grew up in the paddock, now a Big Girl with her big girl job. Having a reunion with the retired drivers and a little insight of the young you in the paddock.
You step into the press room for the first time with a badge around your neck and a microphone in your hand.
The bright lights, the hum of chatter, and the faint whiff of fuel carried over from the paddock wrap around you in a way that feels both foreign and familiar.
It is the same world you grew up in, only now you are not the kid running through the motorhomes but the journalist assigned to stand at the front.
Your first sit-down is with Max, and he greets you with that smirk you know too well.
“So this is what it takes for people to believe you’re professional now,” he says. “They let my annoying little sister ask the questions in her first grand prix interview.”
You raise your eyebrows and fire back before he can get too comfortable.
“At least I know how to answer questions without being sarcastic.”
The room bursts into laughter, the tension lifts, and suddenly it feels natural.
Max rolls his eyes, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch.
Later, you take your seat in front of the panel of legends. Jenson Button, Mark Webber, Sebastian Vettel, and Kimi Räikkönen sit in a neat row, each with a microphone, each with the weight of history behind them.
Yet when Jenson looks at you, he does not see the new interviewer.
“I remember you running around the motorhomes asking for snacks,” he says with a grin. “Now you’ve got the microphone instead of begging for sandwiches.”
The room laughs, and your cheeks warm, though you keep your smile steady. Mark leans in with that unmistakable twinkle in his eye.
“Max must be thrilled,” he says. “Finally a Verstappen who actually does media.”
You catch Max’s laugh from somewhere off-stage and shake your head. “He actually ask me to substitute for him, like do I look like a max to you?” you said as you do a hair flip.
Sebastian speaks next, his voice softer but filled with warmth.
“I’m proud of you,” he says. “It’s good to see you using your voice in the sport. Just remember, I once carried you on my shoulders at Monza. Don’t think we’ll let you forget that.”
The laughter returns, and you feel your throat tighten with a mix of nerves and gratitude. Kimi leans forward at last, his expression unreadable.
“She always talked too much,” he says in his usual flat tone. “Now she gets paid for it.”
That earns the loudest laugh of all, as you give a playful annoyed look then start laughing with them.
Once the teasing subsides, the questions flow.
You ask about their thoughts on the current grid, about Max’s dominance, about advice for the new generation of drivers.
They answer with a balance of serious reflection and sly jokes, always slipping in a glance your way as if to remind you they have known you far longer than your colleagues have.
The audience leans in, the cameras capture every smile, and the whole thing feels less like an interview and more like a reunion broadcast live.
When the session ends, you exhale in relief. Just as you lower your microphone, Max’s head pokes through the doorway.
“Don’t let it go to her head,” he calls out. “She’s been bossy since day one.”
You roll your eyes, but Jenson, Mark, Sebastian, and Kimi all chuckle and clap you on the shoulder as they rise. The cameras catch the moment, a snapshot of respect and history layered together.
You stand a little straighter. For the first time, you are not just the paddock kid. You are here in your own right, and you belong.
Charles joins in with a warm smile. “I remember you running around the paddock back when Max first joined,” he says. “Seeing you up there today… It feels right. Like it was meant to happen.”
From the back, Kimi Antonelli shifts slightly, hesitant but sincere.
“It’s inspiring,” he admits. “To see someone who grew up here finding their own way. Makes me think it’s possible for the rest of us too.”
Before you can even respond considering Toto already recruited him at a young age and you're just a year older than him, a tall figure approaches.
Speaking of the devil, he shall appear.
Toto Wolff gives you a firm nod, his voice steady but carrying pride.
“You handled yourself incredibly well,” he says. “Getting Button, Webber, Vettel, and Räikkönen to laugh freely is no small thing. That shows presence. That shows you belong.”
The words land heavier than you expect, settling somewhere deep.
Then another voice cuts through, one far too familiar.
Gianpiero Lambiase, known as GP smirks as he walks by, hands in his pockets.
“Now I know why Max never listens to me,” he says. “Stubbornness clearly runs in the family.”
You laugh, but GP’s tone softens as he looks at you. “He won’t say it out loud, but he’s proud of you. He smiled there. For Max, that’s all you need to know.”
When the group starts to disperse, you spot Max leaning against the doorway, arms crossed and smirk firmly in place. “Not bad,” he says. “For your first time.”
You roll your eyes at him, but the warmth spreading in your chest refuses to fade.
For the first time, you are not just Max Verstappen’s sister or the paddock kid everyone remembers.
You are your own voice in Formula 1, and you belong here just as much as he does, your own place in this chaotic motorsport.
Hi I would like to request a 2009 era kimi Raikkonen x Indian descent (she was born in Vancouver Canada but like ethnically Indian )reader (she is a intern journalist for sky news and about 20-22) since Kimi is the iceman and can she be the opposite still introverted but like more emotional
(It can be romantic or platonic your choice)
Have a great day/night :]
Hi! I hope you like this! I had a ton of fun making this, had to check the timeline of the circuits for this lmao. I love kimi raikkonen heheheh.
Open for Request and Asks!!!
request open for any F1 drivers, can do F2, F3, Indy, Motogp 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.
Ice Man's Journalist
Kimi Raikkonen x Journalist!Reader
A young Sky News intern surprises Kimi Räikkönen in 2009 with sharp, thoughtful questions, sparking the start of an unexpected connection between the blunt Iceman and the soft-spoken journalist.
Vancouver had been rain-soaked and loud, but nothing compared to the sharp chaos of the Formula One paddock.
The clamor of mechanics, reporters, and cameras pressed in from every side, yet you moved through it quietly, notebook tucked against your blazer, red tie hanging loose at your collar.
At twenty-one, you were the Sky News intern, young, unproven, and painfully aware that most people did not expect you to last long in this world.
But you had grown up balancing both sides of yourself: the soft-spoken Indian daughter raised in a Canadian city that demanded sharp elbows, and the girl who preferred listening over shouting.
You did not fight for space with noise. You fought for it with focus.
Your editor had told you not to worry about making headlines. Just observe. Learn. But you had no interest in wasting time with fluff.
If you were going to be here, even as an intern, you wanted to ask the right questions, the kind that showed you understood racing instead of chasing drama.
And that was how you found yourself standing in front of Kimi Räikkönen, the Iceman himself, recorder in one hand, pen in the other.
The first time you pointed a microphone at Kimi Räikkönen, you expected him to brush you off.
After all, you were the Sky News intern, twenty-one, barely trusted with live questions, and you had seen him give short, clipped answers to seasoned reporters without hesitation.
But instead of brushing you off, he actually looked at you when you asked.
“Given the setup changes since Friday practice, do you feel more confident in the balance through sector two?” you asked, voice calm despite your pulse thundering in your ears.
For a moment, Kimi did not say anything. Then, in his flat, deliberate tone:
“Car is better. Still not perfect. But good enough if I keep it on track.”
Straightforward. Useful. Not headline-chasing. You nodded, jotting it down quickly. When you looked up, his gaze lingered.
“Better question than the usual,” he muttered.
You blinked. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess.”
The corner of his mouth twitched like the faintest ghost of amusement, and then he walked away.
By Monaco, the paddock had noticed.
You were the quiet one who did not ask about contracts or rumors, who never tried to corner a driver into soundbites about rivals.
You asked about tire temperatures, aero tweaks, whether the track evolution surprised them.
And Kimi answered.
Not always at length, but longer than the six words he usually gave.
Sometimes, he even stopped at the edge of the scrum, waiting for your question.
“Your car seemed stable through the hairpin today. Was it a setup change or just confidence with the track?” you asked one afternoon, notebook poised.
He shrugged. “Maybe I am just good.”
You shot him a flat look, lips curving despite yourself. “Right. Because Monaco is easy, of course. Anyone can do it.”
That earned you a dry chuckle. “You are cheeky for someone who speaks so softly.”
You froze for half a second, then looked down quickly, pretending to adjust your pen. He had caught you, cheeks warming.
And from the way his eyes glinted under his cap, he knew exactly what he had done.
Silverstone was worse.
You were waiting outside the Ferrari garage when he appeared, helmet still in hand, sweat on his brow from practice.
The other journalists were swarming Massa, which left you with Kimi.
“The car felt twitchy on the exits today. Was that the wind or the rear balance?” you asked.
Kimi tilted his head, considering you.
Then he stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough that it felt private.
“Maybe you just like watching me wrestle the car.”
Your pen nearly slipped from your fingers. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” he said flatly, expression unchanged. But you could see it, the tiniest flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.
You cleared your throat, fighting to stay composed. “Balance. Rear balance. That is the answer I was looking for.”
“Mm,” he hummed, finally taking pity. “The rear was sliding too much, yes. They will change it.”
When he walked away, you were left scribbling notes furiously, trying to ignore how warm your ears felt.
By Spa, it had become a game.
Your colleagues teased you for being the only journalist Kimi seemed to actually tolerate.
You did not bother explaining.
They would not understand that your questions were not about tolerance at all, that he respected you because you cared about racing, not the circus drama.
But he also clearly enjoyed toying with you.
“Good question,” he said one day after you had asked about his tire strategy. Then, after a pause, he leaned closer. “Good voice too. Easy to listen to.”
You nearly choked on your own breath. “Kimi.”
“Yes?” He blinked at you innocently.
“You cannot just say things like that in the middle of an interview.”
“Why not? I said it.”
And there it was, that infuriatingly calm tone, like he had just stated the weather.
Meanwhile, your heart was battering against your ribs.
The confession came at Suzuka.
The paddock was quieter than usual in the evening, reporters gone, engines silent.
You were finishing up your notes when you noticed him standing nearby, hands in his pockets, eyes on you instead of the car.
“You always ask about racing,” he said suddenly.
“That is the job,” you replied softly, not looking up from your notebook.
“No. Most ask about gossip, contracts, drama. You do not.”
You raised your head then, meeting his gaze. “I am not interested in stirring things that are not mine to stir. Racing is what matters.”
Something unreadable flickered across his face. Then, in the same flat tone he used for everything else, he said:
“I like that. And I like you.”
Your pen froze against the page. “What?”
Kimi stepped closer, expression calm as ever, as if he had just announced tomorrow’s weather. “I like you. You are not annoying. You do not ask stupid questions. You are different. Better.”
You blinked at him, your heart climbing into your throat. “Kimi, are you saying-”
“Yes. I am asking you out.” He tilted his head, almost impatient. “We can eat. Or not eat. Whatever. Just come.”
The bluntness of it left you stunned.
No flowers, no grand speech.
Just Kimi Räikkönen, saying exactly what he meant.
And despite the heat rushing to your cheeks, you found yourself smiling. “You really do not waste words, do you?”
He shrugged. “No point.” Then his lips curved just slightly. “So yes or no?”
You laughed softly, shaking your head in disbelief. “Yes, Kimi.”
The iceman gave nothing more than a small nod, as if it was already settled.
But as he turned to walk away, you caught the glimmer of something rare, satisfaction, maybe even warmth, in his eyes.
And you realized that behind all the ice, Kimi Räikkönen had chosen you to melt for.
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...
Hi my stars! Just finished this, also please don't mind I erased Max in the Zandvoort pole, I didn't wanna remove Isack haha.
Driver or Choreographer? Why not both?
Platonic!F1 Grid x Choreographer!Driver!Reader x Brother!Martin
-Where Martin, a young song writter and producer asked his F1 Driver Sister to help Cortis with their Choreography for their song “GO!”
Martin is debuting with Big Hit under HYBE, His whole group is very self reliant with 2 of them as their producers and song writters, but with the song they made for debut he really wanted his sister’s touch, Reader an F1 driver with Porche, also the only female driver in the grid, has background in dancing and choreography.
So now his annoying his sister by following you around like a lost puppy trying to rope you into choreographing their debut song GO!
“Please! Noona! Just this once!” Martin pleaded as he followed you around.
“Martin… You do realize I have so little time, I have places to race.” You pinch your nose in exasperation at his insistence, but he just looks at you with pitiful eyes, you sigh. “Okay, If I do this for you what do I get?” you asked.
Martin brightened up and proceeded to tell you all about their song “GO!”, you listen inquisitively, loving the way your brother’s eyes sparkle talking about his passion.
you let out a big sigh and dramatically tell him. “Alright, Alright you win… I’ll choreograph GO! for your group”
As time passes, you finish choreographing the whole song, in the middle of your busy schedule and send it to Martin so he can show it to his management.
This is accompanied with good news, Most of your choreography will be used, especially the chorus which you both rejoice at the news.
As Martin gets ready for his Debut with his group Cortis, You are busy being a Full time F1 driver.
You realize doing choreography on the side is your way of relaxing, like how Carlos does his biking, or with Max with sim racing, for you it’s dance.
You think of thanking your brother for reminding you of your old passion but then remember he's probably going to hold on to this information to his advantage, so you keep quiet.
It wasn’t long till Cortis debut, during the summer break of F1 so you are out there supporting your brother, and helping them polish their choreo, Porsche your F1 team knowing this, decided to post a TikTok of you dancing with Cortis for their song GO! and it went viral all over the kpop and f1 fandoms.
The practice room is buzzing when you walk in, music echoing faintly from the speakers. Cortis are lounging around, catching their breath from another run-through.
Martin immediately perks up. “Guys, she’s here!” he calls out, waving you over with that proud grin of his. “Our secret weapon. My noona.”
You shake your head at his theatrics, but the rest of Cortis brightens when they see you.
They’ve known you through Martin for months now, so they all slowly surround you missing you.
“Noona, finally!” Keonho groans dramatically. “Do you know how long we’ve been waiting for you to save us?”
“Don’t exaggerate,” James laughs. “But seriously, thank you for squeezing us into your F1 schedule.”
“You’re basically double-timing as our seventh member,” Juhoon chimes in.
You grin, hands on your hips. “Seventh member? Does that mean I get lines too?”
They all laugh, and Martin claps his hands. “Not lines, but TikTok. Management said it’s perfect promo if we film with you. Especially since Porsche already aproved it.”
There’s a ripple of excitement.
Phones are set up, the music cued.
You take your spot in the middle, with Cortis flanking you on both sides.
The younger members keep stealing glances like they’re trying not to laugh.
“Don’t mess up just because noona’s here,” Martin warns, though his grin betrays him.
“Don’t worry,” you shoot back, “I’ll carry you like I always do.”
The beat drops, and all at once you’re in sync with the moves you created flowing effortlessly through their bodies.
The chorus hits, the part you’re most proud of, and you feel the energy shift as everyone shouts along with the song.
By the time the music ends, you’re all out of breath, but the room bursts into cheers.
“That was so clean!”
“Noona, you looked like you belonged on stage!”
“Wait until the fans see this. F1 who? She’s a Cortis member now.”
Martin is already checking the recording, nodding with approval. “Perfect! Noona you should just be a Cortis member now.”
You flop onto the practice room floor, laughing. “Great. Now if this blows up, you all owe me your concert ticket when you all become famous.”
The boys laugh and agree instantly, and you have no doubt they’ll keep that promise.
The whole summer you're taking care of Cortis like you do with Martin, which they all took you as their big sister too.
What began as a simple promotional clip turned into a storm overnight.
At first, people were impressed that Cortis pulled off such a sharp performance, but it didn’t take long before the spotlight shifted.
The realization that the woman dancing with them was you, an active F1 driver ignited both fandoms at once.
K-pop fans were astonished at how seamlessly you blended in, while motorsport fans were floored to see someone they recognized from podium interviews executing choreography with idol-level precision.
The two communities collided, sharing and resharing the video across every platform.
Then came the turning point: confirmation that you weren’t just a guest in the performance, or just Martin’s sister.
You were the main choreographer of GO!. The narrative flipped instantly; this wasn’t just a crossover moment, it was a revelation.
Headlines spread across fan forums and news outlets alike:
“F1 Driver Revealed as Choreographer Behind Cortis’ Debut Track”
“Racer by Day, Choreographer by Night: The Dual Life of Porsche’s Star Driver”
“Cortis’ Debut Dance Crafted by F1’s Only Female Driver”
The checkered flag fell at Zandvoort, and you crossed the line first. A surge of euphoria hit you as the radio crackled with your engineer’s voice shouting congratulations.
Helmet off, you climbed out of the car, punching the air as the crowd roared. Normally, you would have run and jumped straight into your crew’s arms, but something sparked in your head-
GO!
You slowed your pace as you walked toward the Porsche pit wall.
The team was already waiting, arms wide, chanting your name.
Instead of breaking into a sprint, you let the rhythm guide your steps.
One, two, your feet hit the choreography, subtle at first, then sharper, bolder.
The same moves you had drilled into Cortis’ debut track now carried you down the lane toward your crew.
At first, the mechanics just laughed, surprised, but then one of them shouted over the noise, “GO! GO! GO!”
And like wildfire, the chant spread.
“I just gotta get it!
Watch me go, go, go, go, go, go!
I just gotta get it!
Watch me go, go, go, go, go, go!”
The Porsche team sang the chorus at the top of their lungs, clapping as you danced your way closer.
By the time you reached them, you threw yourself to the team as the final move, grinning so wide your cheeks hurt.
They caught you instantly, arms wrapping around you, lifting you off the ground as the chant carried on.
It wasn’t just a celebration of a race win anymore,it was your win, their win, and a little nod to the passion your brother had reminded you of.
The cameras flashed endlessly, capturing the surreal image of Porsche mechanics chanting a K-pop debut track in sync while their driver, fresh from P1, danced her way into their embrace.
The roar of the crowd still rang in your ears as you stepped into the cooldown room, helmet tucked under your arm.
The air was heavy with heat and adrenaline, water bottles scattered across the small table.
Oscar was already collapsed on the couch, breathing hard but grinning. Isack, still standing, was pacing with a towel around his neck, the weight of the moment written all over his face.
You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips as you looked at him. “Isack,” you called, and he froze mid-step. “First pole, first podium. That’s huge. Congratulations.”
His head snapped up, eyes wide for a second before softening into the biggest grin you’d seen on him yet. “Thank you, yourname” he said, almost shyly, but the pride in his voice was unmistakable.
You gave him a playful nudge on the shoulder as you passed by to grab a water bottle. “Knew you had it in you. Welcome to the pole sitters.”
Oscar chuckled from the couch, tilting his head at you. “Honestly, I thought the craziest part of today was Isack on pole. But nope. You had to dance your way into P1 like it was a stage debut.”
You nearly choked on your sip of water. “Don’t you start.”
Isack laughed, shaking his head. “No, he’s right. That was… insane. Everyone’s talking about it already. The Porsche team chanting your brother’s debut song? That’s next-level.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I’m never living this down, am I?”
“Not a chance,” Oscar teased, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Give it a few hours and you’ll be trending with Cortis. Again.”
Isack’s grin widened. “Honestly, I think it suits you. Driver by day, Choreographer by night, it’s like your own brand now.”
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was undeniable. These two, fresh-faced and brimming with potential, made you feel a bit like a proud older sibling yourself.
“Fine,” you said at last, lowering your hands. “But if I’m stuck with this, I'll drag both of you into a TikTok with me next time.”
Oscar groaned dramatically, flopping back on the couch. “Great. Can I at least stand in the back?”
Isack, however, perked up instantly, a sparkle of curiosity in his eyes. “Wait- are you serious? Because I’d actually do it. I’ll drag Liam too.”
You smirked. “Careful what you wish for, rookie.” as you ruffle his hair.
The cooldown room filled with laughter, the teasing melting into the comfortable camaraderie that only came after a hard-fought race.
I am loving cortis' GO! so much, I think I typed that like so many times in this fic but anyways hope yall like it!
