The Pretty Interviewer

Rained Out

Toto Wolff x pregnant!Reader

Summary: a series of unfortunate events pushes Toto’s protective side to the surface

Based on this request

The rain drums steadily against the pavement, creating a shimmering curtain that obscures the bustling Canadian Grand Prix paddock from view. You stand just outside the entrance, one hand resting protectively on your swollen belly, the other clutching your useless paddock pass. The security guard eyes you sympathetically but remains firm.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t let you in if your pass isn’t scanning,” he says, his voice barely audible over the downpour.

You bite your lip, frustration and discomfort warring within you. “Please, I’m Toto Wolff’s wife. I’m sure this is just a technical glitch. If you could just call him-”

The guard shakes his head. “I’ve already radioed in. Mr. Wolff is in a meeting and can’t be disturbed. I’m truly sorry, but rules are rules. You’ll have to wait until we can verify your identity.”

A shiver runs through you as the wind picks up, sending icy droplets cascading down your neck. Your thin jacket, hastily thrown on before leaving the hotel, offers little protection against the elements. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shield your unborn child from the chill.

Time crawls by at an agonizing pace. Other team members and officials hurry past, sparing curious glances at the very pregnant woman standing forlornly in the rain. You try Toto’s phone again, willing it to ring.

Finally, after what feels like hours but is likely only thirty minutes, a familiar voice cuts through the monotonous patter of rain.

“Schatz! Oh mein Gott, what are you doing out here?”

Toto appears, his tall frame moving with surprising speed. His eyes are wide with concern as he takes in your bedraggled state.

“The pass ... it wouldn’t scan,” you manage through chattering teeth. “They couldn’t reach you.”

Toto’s face darkens as he turns to the security guard. “How could you leave my pregnant wife standing in this weather? Do you have any idea-”

You place a gentle hand on his arm. “Toto, don’t. He was just doing his job.”

The anger in Toto’s eyes softens as he looks at you, replaced by guilt and worry. He shrugs off his team jacket and wraps it around your shoulders, ushering you quickly through the now-open gate.

“Come, let’s get you inside and dry,” he murmurs, his arm protectively around your waist.

As you enter the relative warmth of the Mercedes garage, the bustle of pre-race preparations momentarily halts. All eyes turn to you and Toto, taking in your drenched appearance.

“Somebody get some towels!” Toto barks, his accent thickening with stress. “And find some dry clothes!”

You lean into him, grateful for his solid presence. “I’m okay, really,” you assure him, though your voice wavers slightly. “Just a bit damp.”

Toto’s eyebrows shoot up. “A bit damp? Liebling, you look like you’ve been swimming in your clothes.”

Despite your discomfort, you can’t help but laugh. “Well, I always did want to try synchronized swimming. Though I imagined a pool, not a parking lot.”

Toto’s lips twitch, a reluctant smile breaking through his worry. “Your sense of humor remains intact, I see.”

A team member approaches with a stack of fluffy towels and what appears to be team-issued sweats. Toto takes them with a nod of thanks.

“Can you manage changing by yourself?” He asks quietly. “Or do you need help?”

You consider for a moment. While you’d normally insist on independence, your sodden clothes are clinging uncomfortably, and your fingers feel numb from the cold.

“I ... might need a hand,” you admit sheepishly.

Toto nods, guiding you towards a more private corner of the garage. He helps you peel off the wet layers, his touch gentle and reverent as it skims over your rounded belly.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs as he helps you into the dry clothes. “I should have made sure your pass was working properly. I should have answered my phone.”

You cup his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Hey, none of that. It was just a silly mix-up. No harm done.”

Toto’s brow furrows. “No harm? You were standing in the freezing rain for God knows how long! You could get sick, or the baby-”

“The baby is fine,” you interrupt, placing his large hand on your stomach. As if on cue, there’s a strong kick against his palm. “See? Still doing somersaults in there.”

Some of the tension leaves Toto’s shoulders, but concern still lingers in his eyes. “Still, I want Dr. Müller to check you over, just to be safe.”

You nod, knowing arguing would be pointless. “Alright, if it will make you feel better. But first ...” You glance meaningfully at the bustling garage around you. “Don’t you have a race to prepare for?”

Toto hesitates, clearly torn between his professional duties and his desire to fuss over you. You give him a gentle push.

“Go on. I promise I’ll sit quietly and drink something warm until the doctor arrives.”

He searches your face for a moment, then nods. “Alright. But you call me immediately if you feel even slightly unwell, verstanden?”

“Verstanden,” you echo with a smile. “Now go be the big, scary team principal everyone expects.”

Toto chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I love you, you know that?”

“I had an inkling,” you tease. “Now scoot!”

As Toto reluctantly returns to his duties, you settle into a chair, gratefully accepting a steaming mug of tea from a hovering team member. The garage slowly returns to its normal frenetic pace, though you notice several concerned glances thrown your way.

You’re halfway through your tea when a familiar face appears at your side. Lewis crouches down, his expression a mix of worry and amusement.

“I hear you tried to stage your own wet race out there,” he says with a grin.

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “What can I say? I was feeling left out of all the excitement.”

Lewis chuckles, then his face grows more serious. “You alright though? For real?”

You nod, touched by his concern. “I’m fine, truly. Just a bit waterlogged. Though I think Toto might spontaneously combust from worry.”

As if summoned by his name, Toto appears behind Lewis. “Yes, Dr. Müller, thank you for coming on such short notice. She’s right here.”

You shoot Lewis an exasperated look that clearly says ‘see what I mean?’ He responds with a sympathetic pat on your shoulder before rising.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says. “Try not to give the old man a heart attack before the race, yeah?”

Toto scowls playfully at Lewis’ retreating back. “I heard that!”

As Dr. Müller begins her examination, Toto hovers anxiously nearby, his eyes darting between you and the various race preparations happening around the garage.

“Toto,” you call softly. “I can practically hear you thinking from here. What’s wrong?”

He runs a hand through his hair, a telltale sign of stress. “I just ... I can’t stop thinking about you standing out there in the rain. What if something had happened? What if-”

“But nothing did happen,” you interrupt gently. “I’m fine, the baby’s fine. It was just a bit of rain.”

Toto shakes his head. “It’s not just that. I should have been there. I should have made sure you were taken care of. What kind of husband, what kind of father am I going to be if I can’t even-”

“Stop right there,” you say firmly. “You are going to be an amazing father, Toto Wolff. You already are. Do you know how I know?”

He looks at you questioningly.

“Because you care this much,” you explain. “Because even in the middle of one of the biggest race weekends of the year, your first thought is for me and our baby. That’s what matters, not some silly mishap with a security pass.”

Toto’s eyes soften, and he moves to kneel beside you, taking your hand in his. “How did I get so lucky?” He murmurs.

You smile, squeezing his hand. “I ask myself the same thing every day.”

Dr. Müller clears her throat, reminding you both of her presence. “Well, I’m happy to report that both mother and baby are perfectly healthy. No signs of distress or illness from the exposure to the cold.”

The relief on Toto’s face is palpable. “Thank you, Doctor. That’s wonderful news.”

As Dr. Müller packs up her equipment, you turn to Toto with a mischievous glint in your eye. “So, now that we’ve established that I’m not about to melt from a little rain, what do you say we focus on winning this race?”

Toto laughs, the remaining tension finally leaving his body. “Always keeping me on track, aren’t you?”

“Someone has to,” you tease. “Now, go lead your team to victory. Your very pregnant, very proud wife will be cheering you on from right here.”

Toto leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “I love you,” he murmurs. “Both of you.”

As he straightens up, resuming his role as the formidable Mercedes team principal, you can’t help but smile. Come rain or shine, paddock pass or no paddock pass, you know that you and Toto can weather any storm together.

Crazy Cravings

Max Verstappen x wife!Reader

Summary: pregnancy cravings can make you (and your husband) do crazy things … neither of you particularly minds

Warnings: 18+ content and pregnancy

You sit in the Red Bull Racing garage, feeling the warm Spanish sun on your face through the open door. The roar of engines and whirring of power tools surrounds you as the mechanics prepare for the race.

Your eyes are drawn to the iconic blue and silver cans scattered around the garage. Those tantalizing cans of Red Bull that everyone else seems to be drinking so casually.

Everyone except you and Max, that is.

You rub your rounded belly, feeling your precious cargo kick and squirm inside you. At six months pregnant, your cravings have been … intense, to say the least. But none more powerful than your longing for the crisp, fizzy taste of Red Bull.

The caffeine is off limits, of course. You would never dream of jeopardizing your baby’s health. But oh, how you crave that sweet, energizing flavor that used to be such a routine part of your life.

Max emerges from the back room, his bright grey eyes instantly finding you. He strides over, that effortless confidence and raw athleticism making your heart flutter, even after all these years. His gaze drifts to the Red Bull can in a mechanic’s hand and a grimace crosses his face.

“Liefje, are you alright?” He murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “I know how much those are torturing you lately.”

You force a smile, not wanting him to worry. “I’m fine, Maxie. Just … ignoring the siren call of carbonated temptation.”

His thumb strokes your cheek as he studies you, clearly not convinced. Max has been so incredibly supportive during this pregnancy, abstaining from Red Bull himself in solidarity. Cutting out his biggest vice, just so you don’t have to be tormented by the sight and scent of it everywhere.

“We should get you out of here,” he says, looping an arm around your waist to help leverage your bulk out of the chair. “The smells can’t be helping those crazy cravings.”

You open your mouth to protest, not wanting to pull him away from his work, but a fresh wave of dizzying desire hits you as a mechanic cracks open another can. The fizzing hiss and unmistakable scent make your mouth water uncontrollably.

“Max ...” you whisper, feeling your throat tighten with barely restrained craving and hormonal tears prickling your eyes.

He follows your yearning gaze to the Red Bull can and understanding dawns. “Oh, liefje ...” Scooping you into his arms, he strides from the garage, shooting an apologetic look at his crew.

Once outside in the fresh air, you bury your face against Max’s shoulder, inhaling his familiar, comforting cologne as he carries you to the motorhome. He eases you onto the couch, brushing kisses along your forehead and temple.

“I’m so sorry, schatje,” he murmurs, anguish lining his handsome features. “I hate seeing you suffer like this. If there was any way I could make the cravings stop ...”

You catch his hand, lacing your fingers through his calloused ones. “Max, you know I would never actually ask you to give up Red Bull, right?”

He shakes his head fiercely. “Not being able to have it for nine months is nothing compared to your sacrifice, carrying our baby. I don’t deserve you.”

Pulling him down beside you, you cup the chiseled line of his jaw, making him meet your gaze. “I happen to think you deserve the very best, Mr. Verstappen. And right now, the very best for both of us would be ...” Your voice cracks with fresh longing. “A damn Red Bull.”

Max’s eyes blaze with sudden determination, that iron willpower that has made him a champion coming to life. “Then that’s what I’ll get you. If those tossers at Red Bull Company won’t make a safe, caffeine-free version for pregnant women, I’ll personally make them regret it.”

You laugh shakily. “Max, you can’t just bully a corporation into creating a new product line for one person’s weird craving!”

“You’re not just one person,” he growls, tangling his fingers in your hair and bringing his forehead to rest against yours. “You’re my everything. And our baby deserves for its mother to be happy and have her cravings satisfied.”

Pressing a fierce kiss to your lips, he adds, “I’m calling them right now. And then straight to the CEO, if I have to. I’ll get you that Red Bull if it’s the last thing I do.”

True to his word, the indomitable Max Verstappen spends the next several days working every possible connection and calling in every favor. You catch bits of conversations, his clipped tones making it clear just how serious he is about this bizarre quest.

“No, I don’t care if it’s not ‘cost-effective’. This is for my very pregnant wife ...”

“She’s risking her health to grow an entire person! The least your company can do is make a freaking caffeine-free energy drink ...”

The crew quickly learns not to open any Red Bull around you, lest they face the wrath of an overprotective Max. Which is slightly embarrassing … but also incredibly sweet.

Your hormones most definitely approve.

Finally, there’s a break in the stalemate. Helmut Marko himself shows up at the motor home, those bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows furrowed.

“Max, this is ridiculous. They will not reconfigure an entire product line just because Y/N is having a little … craving.”

You brace yourself for the explosion, but Max just levels Helmut with that intense stare. “If you could experience these cravings yourself, you would be singing a different tune. Y/N is sacrificing everything to have our baby. The least Red Bull can do is give her a safe option to have the flavor she misses so much.”

Helmut’s expression softens slightly at the obvious devotion in Max’s voice. “You know that corporate will never go for it. Not for just one person ...”

“Then make it for all the other pregnant women dealing with the same issues,” Max returns, unruffled. “Or is a company that plasters ‘Gives You Wings’ on every can really too cowardly to follow through on empowering people?”

You suck in a shocked breath at his daring play. But the flicker of anger and resigned capitulation in Helmut’s eyes shows that it worked.

“Fine, you little shit,” the older man growls. “I’ll talk to product development. But I’m not making any promises!”

Except somehow … Max’s sheer bullheaded tenacity eventually batters through all the corporate resistance and red tape. Three weeks later, an unmistakable bright blue can appears on the counter, the iconic Red Bull logo stamped across it.

“What’s this?” You ask in confusion.

Max slides an arm around your waist, beaming proudly. “Open it and see.”

You crack the seal, sniffing cautiously … and almost melt at the nostalgic, beloved scent of Red Bull. But just as you start to panic about caffeine, you notice the slightly different flavor.

“Max, is this ...”

He nods, grinning. “Zero caffeine but all the taste you’ve been craving. No more tears over those damn energy drink cans, okay?”

Throwing your arms around him, you yank his head down to capture his mouth in a grateful kiss. “Have I mentioned lately how incredible you are?”

“Once or twice,” he jokes, then sobers, cupping your belly. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make you and our baby happy.”

“You’re giving me everything I ever wanted and more.” You take a long pull of the perfectly flavored liquid, sighing in blissful satisfaction. “We hit the jackpot with you, Max Verstappen.”

He kisses you again, reveling in your obvious enjoyment. “The only jackpot I need is right here.”

***

Your baby bump has popped out to truly impressive proportions now at eight months along. What started as an innocent craving for Red Bull has escalated into an all-out physiological war.

Nothing seems to satisfy you for long — you’re a walking bundle of hormones and insatiable desires.

From the plush solitude of the Red Bull hospitality suite, you try not to gaze wistfully toward the Ferrari encampment. But you can’t resist fixating on the tantalizing cones of rich gelato constantly streaming from their hospitality tent.

Watching a couple of Ferrari mechanics stroll by, licking at scoops of pistachio and stracciatella, is enough to kickstart a powerful new yearning. Your mouth waters shamelessly as they pass, the creamy dessert leaving you weak in the knees. Before you can overthink it, you’re shuffling toward the entrance, one hand cradling your belly.

“Scusi,” you call out hesitantly as you peek inside. “Mi dispiace … is it possible to get some gelato?”

You half expect to be waved away — it’s well known that the Ferrari team is notoriously insular and protective of their spoils. But the cheerful greeting you receive is instantaneous and overwhelming.

“Madonna mia! Look at this beautiful piccina!”

Suddenly you’re engulfed by a whirlwind of chattering Italian voices, greeted by smiling faces from the team of elderly signoras who comprise the Ferrari hospitality staff. Weathered hands pat your belly and cheeks, clucking sympathetically at your swollen state.

“You poor bambina, absolutely enorme! Of course we’ll get you some gelato to refresh you. And biscotti too! You need to keep up your energy, si?”

You’re ushered toward a plush sofa, various grandmotherly types fussing over you like you’re the most delicate, precious thing. It’s … surprisingly wonderful. They clearly adore babies and pregnant women. You get the sense that indulging a mother-to-be is hardwired into their very beings.

A tray of gelato cups appears, the rainbow of flavors almost dazzling in their variety — chocolate, pistachio, prickly pear, lemon, stracciatella. Before you can reach for one, it’s plucked from your grasp.

“No no no! Leave it to Nonna Maria.” A stout signora with a green paisley dress and frosted silver curls shakes her head sternly. “I’ll start you with the lemon to whet your appetite. Then a nice creamy stracciatella as a proper treat for the bambino.”

The tangy flavor of the lemon gelato hits your craving exquisitely. As soon as you’ve polished off that cup, Nonna Maria presents another brimming with the creamy chocolate chip perfection of stracciatella. You moan in appreciation, unbothered by the chorus of approving noises from your doting new entourage.

Before you know it, you’ve been plied with cups of hazelnut, strawberry, and caramel flavors as well. These hospitable Italian ladies simply won’t be deterred from pampering a future mamma. As you scrape the last smears of gelato from a ramekin, a new grandmother settles on the sofa beside you.

“Now ... tell Nonna Gina what this little maschietto or bambina has been craving, eh?” She pats your belly affectionately. “We have chefs who can whip up anything your heart desires!”

Is it a pregnancy thing, this sudden wave of tears that blurs your vision? Or just being so insanely touched by the kindness and maternal care of these lovely strangers? You blink rapidly, swallowing hard.

“Honestly … gelato has been my biggest craving these past couple days. I don’t know if I can eat another bite.”

A chorus of disapproving gasps and tuts rises from the assembled grandmothers. “Bah! This pregnancy has ruined your appetite, piccina,” one crows, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ll soon get it back to rights, don’t you worry.”

For the next hour, you’re lavished with attention, fussed over and coddled like the most precious jewel. Cold drinks and chilled towels appear to keep you comfortable as the nonnas take turns sitting with you, petting your belly and swapping outrageous birth stories.

Their colorful Italian voices swell and ebb as they bicker over whose recipe for pasta al ragu is most authentic, who has the most grandchildren, and whose first-born grandson is most handsome.

It’s chaos and noise and overwhelming affection … and you’ve never felt so utterly content.

As the afternoon light slants golden through the awning, a familiar figure appears in the entrance, haloed by the fiery rays.

“Liefje? I’ve been looking everywhere ...” Max’s disbelieving gaze sweeps over the scene in front of him — you, surrounded by a veritable coven of grandmotherly Italians who seem entirely absorbed with you. “What in the world ...”

A chubby signora with a bright orange shawl wrapped around her ample form hops up, beaming widely. “Ahh! We have been absolutely spoiling your beautiful wife, of course. Did you know she had a craving for gelato? Well, no problem for us — we have taken her like one of our own bambinas!”

The others cluck and murmur in outraged agreement at his shocked expression.

“We absolutely will not let a piccina in such a state go hungry or uncomfortable! Now you sit down so we can get you a plate of some proper food too!”

Max gapes at you, utterly nonplussed as you grin back at him with unabashed glee, utterly stuffed with Italian desserts and reveling in the indulgent babying. You pat the space beside you invitingly.

“You’ve got to try Nonna Gina’s tiramisu, Maxie. It’ll knock your socks off.”

He settles beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulders and still looking rather dazed. But the instant the first warm smile and pat lands on his arm or knee, Max’s expression melts. This team of fussing Italian grandmothers has clearly adopted you both as their own.

Nonna Maria reappears, shoving a plate stacked with crispy arancini, indulgent risotto alla Milanese, and a creamy slice of tiramisu into your husband’s hands. “Eat up! You need to keep your strength up too, caring for this sweet cosa bella.” She plants bristly kisses on both your cheeks before scurrying off again.

Max watches her go, then turns to you with a bemused chuckle, squeezing you close. “Well, schatje. I have to hand it to you — at least your pregnancy cravings bring you to some … interesting places.”

You hum in agreement, perfectly content as you snuggle against his side. “Can you really think of a better place for me to nest?” You grin as another nonna appears to pat his cheek, welcoming him into the chaotic fold. “I think I may have just found my second family.”

He tilts your chin up, eyes sparkling with warmth. “Anything that makes you happy and keeps our baby healthy.”

As he kisses you tenderly, surrounded by clucking encouragement and rapturous croons of “bello, bellisimo” from your new Italian grandmothers, you know you’ve never felt so blissfully cherished.

You and Max make your way slowly back to the Red Bull motorhome, stuffed to the gills with gelato and trailed by a gaggle of besotted well-wishers calling out farewells and advice.

“I still can’t believe you managed to befriend the entirety of Ferrari hospitality,” Max laughs, helping ease you onto the couch in his driver’s room. He nudges your belly playfully. “This little one is shaping up to be quite the international charmer!”

“Says the man who single-handedly compelled Red Bull to create an entirely new product line,” you point out, patting your swollen middle contentedly. “I have a feeling this baby is going to be the most spoiled child on earth.”

Max settled beside you, gathering you close with a tender smile. “Can you blame all our people for wanting to give the world to you two?” His thumb traced your jawline reverently. “You’re carrying a little miracle, liefje.”

Your breath catches, as it so often did when he looks at you like that. Like you’re his entire universe. With so much pure adoration and love shining in those grey eyes.

“Our miracle,” you correct softly, cradling his calloused hand over your belly. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Not just supporting me … but giving me everything I could ever dream of.”

He opens his mouth like he wanted to protest, but you press on, needing him to understand how treasured he makes you feel.

“You don’t stop until I’m happy. Even when I get these raging, random cravings that probably seem crazy, you move heaven and earth to give me whatever I need. Most people would never ...”

“Neither of us is most people,” Max interrupts fiercely. He presses a searing kiss to your lips, then the swell of your abdomen. “You and our little one are my entire world. I’ll spend every day showing you how much I love you both, how grateful I am to have you in my life.”

Hormones raging, you pull his mouth back to yours, savoring the taste and feel of him surrounding you. When you finally part, you rest your forehead against his.

“In that case, you better rest up for tonight,” you tease. “I have a feeling that someone’s going to get a craving for sardines and waffles right around midnight.”

***

At nine months pregnant, you feel like a blissfully beached whale.

Your belly protrudes so massively that you can barely see your feet anymore. Simple tasks like tying your shoes or rolling over in bed have become awkward geometric obstacles. Max has to help you up from every chair or couch, his strong arms levering your frame into a vertical position.

Lingering in the paddock is no longer an option either. You’ve been gently but firmly ordered back home to Monaco to prepare for the baby’s arrival.

Thank goodness your nesting instincts are going full tilt — otherwise you might go stir crazy waiting for this little one to make their grand debut. You’ve rearranged and re-organized the nursery a dozen times, washed and rewashed all the tiny onesies and miniature accessories, and baked enough lactation cookies to feed an army of nursing mothers.

Really, there’s only one craving occupying your mind now …

The thump of shoes in the hall makes you look up eagerly. Max appears in the doorway of the sunlit nursery, loose waves of brown hair framing his face. The plain white tee stretches enticingly across his chest and shoulders, making your mouth water for an entirely different reason than food.

“Hey schatje,” he greets, eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes in your flushed cheeks. A knowing smirk tugs at one side of his mouth. “Were you just ... thinking about me?”

You shake your head adamantly, wincing as the motion makes your whole body ache in protest. “Maybe just a little. This particular craving is getting out of control.”

Crossing to you in two strides, Max cups your jaw and brings your lips crashing together in a searing kiss. His tongue sweeps demanding and possessive into your mouth, making you whimper faintly. That intoxicating masculine scent of fresh sweat, motor oil, and sandalwood surrounds you in an alluring cloud.

After all these years, just the taste and smell of your husband is enough to drench you in molten wanting. Baby or no baby, Max Verstappen is still the sexiest goddamn thing on two legs.

“Mmm, I know exactly what you need,” he rumbles against your neck, nipping a tingling path along your sensitive skin. “Luckily for you, I’ve got a free schedule all afternoon to help take care of this craving ...”

He scoops you into his arms effortlessly, cradling your heavy weight against his chest to carry you to the bedroom. You twine your arms shamelessly around his neck, luxuriating in the hard strength of his body against yours.

“Aren’t you worried about ... squashing the baby?”

“Not at all,” he deposits you carefully on the bed. Those bright grey eyes darken with blazing lust. “I’m going to take such good care of you and our little one.”

His hands and mouth seem to be everywhere at once — caressing, nibbling, and stroking every sensitive inch he can lavish adoring attention on. You keen softly when he dips his tongue into your navel, rubbing reverent circles over the tight swell of your belly.

“You’re so gorgeous like this,” Max murmurs, lips brushing the crease where your torso and bump meet. “So ripe and round and radiant with our child. My beautiful, strong girl ...”

All you can do is lie there gasping, overwhelmed in the best possible way. He strips you methodically, leaving a trail of scorching, openmouthed kisses over every newly exposed inch.

“My sexy little pregnant wife,” he husks, tongue dragging up the slick crease at the apex of your thighs. “Can’t resist this craving can you, liefje?”

His fingers plunge inside you, curling expertly as his mouth closes over your throbbing bud. You throw your head back shamelessly, mindless with pleasure as Max devours you.

So good, so unbearably good …

He ravishes you thoroughly, sending gushing waves of release crashing through your body over and over again until you’re gasping and quivering. Atoms of blissful satisfaction hum in your bloodstream as you float back into sweet oblivion.

An insistent nudge against your belly slowly rouses you. Max looms over you, hair deliciously rumpled and eyes glittering wickedly. “Did I satisfy that craving sufficiently? Or should I keep going?”

Your mouth curves in a greedy smile, hands gliding over his flexing shoulders and chest. “Again, please ...”

It had long since become a running gag around the paddock and team — before you were advised to stop flying. When you couldn’t be located, someone would joke that you must be off ravaging your utterly besotten husband yet again.

Max took the ribbing with surprising grace, grinning unrepentantly whenever his shirt collar revealed another blossom of lovebites discoloring the skin of his throat.

You really didn’t care about the teasing. You’re indulging an entirely healthy and normal craving — just a wife thoroughly appreciating her man.

“Can you believe people used to call this a punishment?” You giggle breathlessly one afternoon.

Max nips a stinging path along the soft skin of your inner thighs, tracing tantalizingly close to your heated center. He laves his tongue soothingly over the reddened marks, leering up at you from between your parted legs.

“Let them call it whatever they want. I’m just taking advantage of your hormones making you insatiable for me.”

“Mmm, well I can’t seem to resist your obscenely perfect body either,” you admit with a lazy stretch. “Maybe we really are being punished.”

One dark brow wings up eloquently as Max drags his eyes over you in a deliberately insolent perusal. Taking your leg in hand, he licks an achingly slow, filthy stripe up the crease where thigh meets hip.

You choke on a whimper, whole body jolting as he sucks a blossom of wet kisses into the satiny expanse of your inner thigh. Those bright grey eyes hold yours in wicked challenge as his clever tongue massages and swirls over your sensitized flesh.

“This certainly doesn’t seem like punishment to me,” he husks darkly. “Does it feel like punishment when I do this ...” His mouth moves higher. “Or this ...”

By the time he finishes torturing you into a quivering, needy wreck, you’re more than ready to beg.

“Please, Max!” You sob, bucking helplessly against the maddening sensations. “I need you, oh god I need you so bad ...”

He settles heavily over you, nuzzling your hair aside to trail searing kisses along your damp throat. “Then you shall have me. My needy wife can have whatever she craves ...”

It’s midway through one such shattering round of lovemaking that Max’s phone begins to ring shrilly. You try to disentangle, burning embarrassment tinting your cheeks, but he simply growls and clutches you tighter.

“Leave it!” He bites out, surging forward to recapture your mouth in a bruising clash of teeth and tongue between thrusts. “I’m busy ... satisfying … my wife ...”

After, as you lie tangled in a sweaty heap of satiation, you can’t resist asking with a wry smile, “Was that another craving I just demanded you satisfy?”

Max props himself up on one elbow, thumb stroking idly along your abdomen as his piercing gaze roams over your flushed, disheveled form.

“Whatever my wife needs,” he responds huskily. Those burning eyes promise infinite carnal delights to come as they caress your body. “I’ll always crave giving her everything she desires.”

He stretches beside you, a blissful smile curving his lips as you snuggle up against his side to exchange lazy kisses.

You’ve got a sneaking suspicion this is one craving that might outlast the pregnancy ...

Stuck With You || Chapter 2

Warnings: abuse, trauma, lost of parents. very sensitive topics here in this story.

Wordcount; 1k652

Summary: a nice dinner and a little back story 

Story inspired by @sunsoothed​, credits to her for some the scenes and inspiration. Please read her fic ‘after the rain’ which has inspired this story

Chapters: 1 - 2

________________________

“what?” 

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For Her - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: She came to support him. Instead, she was met with hate and a paddock full of people who acted like she didn’t exist. But if there was one thing about Lando Norris, it was that he loved out loud (3.2k words)

content: protective boyfriend, public relationship, public displays of affection, romantic grand gesture

AN: happy new season guys!!! what a race, I hope china will be kinder with my heart :') here's another fic for our race winner! muah <3

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The first race of the season should have been magical.

It should have been the kind of morning you’d always imagined—walking through the paddock with the giddy excitement of someone witnessing greatness up close, feeling the electricity in the air, the intoxicating mix of tire smoke, adrenaline, and champagne already waiting for its moment in the podium spray. You had thought of how proud you would feel watching Lando, how thrilling it would be to see him in his element, how belonging you might feel in a world that, until now, had existed for you in stories and through screens.

You had not imagined being denied entry.

"Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step back."

The security guard barely spared you a glance, already moving on to the next person in line, his voice impassive, as if he had done this a hundred times before and you were simply another face in a sea of hopeful girls who had tried to talk their way into the paddock.

You gripped your lanyard a little tighter, your heart skipping slightly. "I have a pass," you said, voice gentle but firm as you lifted it to eye level, the McLaren logo glinting in the sunlight.

The guard exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed. "We've had a lot of fans trying to sneak in today. If you don’t have the right accreditation, I can’t let you through."

Your stomach twisted.

"I do have the right accreditation," you tried again, as kindly as possible, despite the heat creeping up your neck. "I’m with McLaren. My boyfriend-"

"Yeah, that’s what they all say."

The words were clipped, dismissive, and spoken with the kind of flat finality that suggested he had already decided you were lying.

Embarrassment coiled in your chest, wrapping itself around your lungs, making it suddenly difficult to breathe.

You stood there, cheeks burning, as people brushed past you, throwing curious glances your way. The seconds stretched endlessly, each one more excruciating than the last.

It wasn’t until a McLaren staff member recognized you—"Oh, she’s with Lando," they had said offhandedly—that the security guard finally stepped aside, not bothering with so much as an apology.

By the time you walked through the gates, the joy you had carried that morning had dulled into something smaller, something fragile.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

...

The McLaren motorhome stood like a beacon in the paddock, its sleek glass windows reflecting the bustle of team personnel moving inside. You exhaled slowly, shaking off the earlier embarrassment, and made your way toward the hospitality lounge, longing for something warm and familiar.

A latte, perhaps. Something to reset the day.

You stepped up to the hospitality counter with a practiced sort of grace, the kind that had been instilled in you from your childhood—shoulders back, chin lifted, a polite smile even when you wanted to disappear.

The woman behind the counter was stunning in a sharp, effortless way, her McLaren uniform crisp, her dark eyes shrewd, assessing. She barely looked up when you stepped forward.

"Good morning," you greeted, your voice light, pleasant. "Could I get an oat latte, please?"

The woman’s gaze flicked to you then, sweeping over you in a way that wasn’t unkind but wasn’t exactly warm, either.

"Are you with media?" she asked, already sounding bored.

You shook your head, still polite. "No, I’m—"

"Hospitality is for team guests only," she interrupted, her words clipped, a polite but unmistakable dismissal.

There was something about the way she said it, the way her lips curled just slightly, that sent something sharp down your spine.

You held up your accreditation again, your expression kind but unwavering. "I am a team guest. It is my first race though! I'm with Lando."

A pause. A flicker of something in her gaze.

And then, a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

"Ah," she said slowly, like she was only just now realizing. "Of course you are."

There was something else behind her tone, something you recognized.

You had met people like her before, in glittering lobbies, at perfectly curated events, in spaces where perception was everything. People who measured others in careful glances and quiet, ruthless judgments.

The woman tilted her head, her smile suddenly saccharine. "I’m afraid we’re only serving certain guests at the moment."

The words landed with the soft cruelty of a velvet dagger.

She wasn’t saying no outright.

She was refusing you while pretending it was about something else entirely.

You stared at her for a moment, your fingers tightening slightly over the strap of your bag.

You could have fought. Could have pointed out that this was ridiculous, that you had every right to be here, that her behavior was as transparent as it was petty.

But instead, you simply let out a soft breath and smiled.

Not the kind of smile that was warm and grateful.

The kind of smile that veiled the frustration you were feeling.

"No worries," you said gently, dipping your head, your voice smooth, graceful. "I wouldn’t want to trouble you."

And with that, you turned and walked away, back straight, head held high, because if nothing else—you were not the kind of woman who begged.

But it still stung.

...

The hotel room is quiet except for the faint murmur of the city outside. The occasional car hums past beneath the window, the distant noises of Melbourne nightlife drifting in through the small gap in the balcony door. Inside, the glow from the bedside lamp casts soft golden light over the pristine sheets, the half-finished cup of tea you abandoned hours ago, and your phone—face-down, untouched, deliberately ignored.

You had set it aside like it burned you.

And in a way, it had.

You don’t need to look at the screen to know what’s waiting for you there.

A photo. You, walking alone through the paddock, caught at an unflattering angle—your hands adjusting the strap of your bag, your gaze flicking off to the side. Out of context, impersonal, just another frame in someone else’s story.

But the caption beneath it?

That made it personal.

The caption beneath it, however, was anything but subtle.

"Classic gold digger. No personality, no job, just another wag looking for a paycheck."

The replies were worse.

"She looks so full of herself. I bet she spends his money like crazy."

"Lando deserves better. She looks disgusting."

"Does she even like racing or just his wallet?"

You had expected something like this eventually. Being seen always came at a cost.

But expectation doesn’t soften the blow.

It doesn’t make the words less sharp. It doesn’t stop them from settling in the quiet places of your mind, the ones that whisper in the dark when the world is still.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hand over the sheets, willing away the tightness in your throat.

It’s fine.

You were raised to handle things like this with grace, with an understanding that women who stand beside successful men are often reduced to spectators, accessories, footnotes in their own stories.

You know who you are. You know your worth.

And yet, knowing doesn’t stop the sting.

A keycard beeps at the door.

Then, the soft sound of it swinging open, of footsteps—light, easy, carrying a kind of restless energy even now.

"Hi, darling," Lando’s voice fills the space before he does.

You don’t turn immediately, letting yourself blink once, twice, composing yourself in the quiet before offering a small smile as he steps inside.

He looks effortlessly disheveled—his hair still damp from the rain outside, his McLaren polo slightly untucked, the fabric creased like he’d run a hand over it one too many times.

He is still buzzing—from the high of the weekend, from the thrill of being back in the car, from the sheer joy of doing what he loves.

And then he looks at you.

And everything shifts.

His grin falters. His brows pull together.

"Hey," he says again, but softer this time, slower. "What’s wrong?"

You hesitate, fingers brushing against the sheets. "It’s nothing."

Lando stills.

"You’re upset."

It’s not a question.

You exhale, tilting your head slightly, lips curving in something almost amused. "No big deal, this is your weekend."

But Lando doesn’t smile.

Instead, he moves—crossing the room in three long strides, sinking down in front of you, his hands warm against your thighs, his gaze level, intent.

"Tell me," he says, quiet but firm.

All day, you have been ignored, dismissed, treated like an inconvenience. And yet, here he is, giving you his undivided attention, his entire world narrowing down to this moment, to you.

You hesitate. Then, finally, you murmur, "People weren’t exactly kind today."

His grip on your legs tightens just slightly.

"Security thought I was a fan trying to sneak in. Hospitality wouldn’t serve me." You let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "And now there’s a photo of me online. People saying I’m a disgusting gold digger."

Lando doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even breathe.

Then, slowly, he reaches for your phone, flipping it over with careful precision before scrolling. He doesn’t need you to guide him—he finds it immediately.

His jaw tightens.

And then, in a tone so low and steady that it makes your stomach flip:

"Are you joking?"

You open your mouth, but he’s already shaking his head, pushing himself up, pacing now, running a hand through his curls.

"Such bullshit," he starts, turning sharply, voice too controlled, too even, "that after everything—after how much effort you’ve put into being here, after how much of your life you’ve adjusted for me—these people had the nerve to treat you like that?"

You shift under his gaze, biting your lip. "Lando, it’s not—"

"No, no, hold on," he interrupts, hands in the air like he needs a second to process. He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.

"Because from where I’m standing, you’re the easiest person to love in any room, and I genuinely don’t understand how anyone could be that dense."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, jaw tight. "Honestly, I don’t even know whether to be pissed or impressed by their level of dickheadness."

He stops, inhales sharply, then turns back to you.

"Tomorrow," he says, voice steady now, decisive. "We fix this."

You raise a brow. "We?"

Lando tilts his head, giving you a look like you have just asked if the sky is blue.

"Obviously."

...

There are very few things in life that can silence an entire paddock.

Lando Norris walking in hand-in-hand with you is apparently one of them.

The usual morning commotion—the hurried strides of engineers, the murmured strategy discussions, the distant hum of espresso machines—all of it seems to slow, the air shifting as one by one, heads turn.

Eyes follow you as you move through the paddock, curiosity crackling in the air like static before a storm.Conversations taper off, whispers trailing in your wake, phones discreetly lifted, cameras capturing the moment in real time.

Lando, of course, is unbothered.

If anything, he thrives under the weight of their attention. His grip on your hand remains firm, steady, unwavering, his strides unhurried, his smirk bordering on self-satisfied.

He wants them to see.

It’s deliberate—the way he holds you close, the way his fingers brush over yours in soft, thoughtless patterns, the way his head tilts toward you slightly every time you speak, like you are the only thing worth listening to.

There is no question about what this is.

There is no question about where you belong.

He makes sure of it.

And then, with perfect, almost cinematic timing, he steers you toward McLaren hospitality.

Right to the coffee bar.

The barista from yesterday stands behind the counter, the same sharp-cut uniform, the same perfectly applied lipstick, the same calculating gaze.

Only now, it falters.

She sees Lando before she sees you, her posture straightening, professional mask slipping into place like second nature. But then, her eyes flick toward you—toward your hands intertwined, toward the subtle, unspoken intimacy of the way he keeps close.

You watch as realization dawns.

Oh.

Lando leans against the counter, effortless, grinning.

"Two oat lattes," he says, voice bright, easy, amused. "One for me, one for my girl."

The silence that follows is exquisite.

The barista hesitates—just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to see it.

Panic.

"Of course," she says, voice smooth but not quite as sharp as before.

And just like that, there are no shortages, no waiting, no excuses.

The coffees are made within seconds.

Lando watches, humming thoughtfully, tapping his fingers lightly against the counter as she slides the first cup toward him. He lifts it to his lips, taking a slow, exaggerated sip before letting out a long, obnoxiously satisfied hum.

"Mm," he muses, shifting his weight, sparing her a glance. "Tastes better today."

His smirk is dangerous.

"Must be the service."

The barista’s lips press together just slightly.

You take your coffee, cradling the cup in your hands, offering her a soft, serene smile.

"Thank you," you say lightly.

You watch as she winces.

And Lando, the ever-efficient instigator that he is, takes it one step further.

"You know," he muses, as if the thought has just occurred to him, "I think I should make this a tradition."

He turns to you then, eyes bright with mischief, voice just loud enough for the surrounding staff to hear.

"Morning coffee," he says smoothly. "Every race weekend. For the foreseeable future."

The barista looks like she wants to disappear.

You, on the other hand, can’t help but smile.

...

The checkered flag had waved, the roar of the crowd still vibrating through the air, but none of it mattered—not the celebrations, not the flashing cameras, not the McLaren team swarming the pit wall in victory.

Because the moment Lando climbed out of the car, eyes scanning the chaos, he found you.

And then—he ran.

Straight toward you, helmet discarded, race suit half-unzipped, curls a disheveled mess from the heat of the cockpit.

You barely have time to react before he collides into you, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

You shriek—an actual, real shriek—as your feet leave the pavement, the entire world tilting as he spins you in circles,laughter spilling from his lips like he can’t contain it.

And then—he kisses you.

Right there, in front of thousands of fans, in front of cameras, reporters, his entire team.

Hard. Fierce. Like he’d won the race and you in the same breath.

The world erupts around you—cheering, chanting, Oscar groaning dramatically in the background.

"Oh my god. You two are disgusting."

None of it matters.

Because Lando is grinning against your lips, breathless, victorious, yours.

When he finally sets you back down, he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t even try to.

Instead, he beams down at you, cheeks flushed, curls damp with sweat, voice all cocky, all Lando.

"So, did I impress you or what?"

You roll your eyes, fond and exasperated all at once. "Eh. You were alright."

He gasps. Actually gasps.

"You’re joking." He turns toward the cameras, mock-betrayed. "Did you guys hear that? I win a Grand Prix, and she says I’m ‘alright.’"

You bite your lip, pretending to consider. "You were pretty fast, I guess."

"Pretty fast?" he repeats, positively scandalized. "Babe. I am literally the fastest man in Australia right now."

You burst out laughing. "I was kind of rooting for Oscar."

Oscar, mid-drink of water behind you, chokes.

"Lies." Lando pulls you back in, forehead resting against yours, his voice dropping into something softer, something just for you.

"Say you’re proud of me."

You sigh dramatically. "I guess I’m—"

"Say it."

You grin, heart pounding. "Fine. I’m proud of you, Norris."

He hums, satisfied, smug, still absolutely glowing. "Thought so."

...

Lando was still riding the high when he got to the media pen, his race suit unzipped to his waist, curls damp with sweat, and that stupidly charming grin still plastered across his face.

It wasn’t just a ‘first win of the season’ grin.

It was a ‘my girlfriend is here, and I just won a whole-ass race for her’ grin.

The interviewer barely got a word in before Lando pointed directly at you, standing just off-camera.

"Her."

You blink. "Me?"

"Yeah, you!" He turns back to the cameras, nodding enthusiastically. "Let’s just get this straight—I did this for her. Like, entirely. One hundred percent. Full motivation. If she hadn’t shown up, I probably would’ve parked it in a gravel trap on lap ten."

The interviewer laughed. "So, you’re saying she’s your good luck charm?"

"Absolutely," Lando replied, dead serious. "I mean, have you seen her? Look at her."

The camera did not pan to you, thank god. The poor guy running the live feed probably had no idea what to do.

But Lando? Oh, he was just getting started.

"She walked into this paddock today looking like an actual goddess, completely unaware that she is, in fact, the sun incarnate, and people want me to talk about tire degradation? No. I want to talk about her."

The interviewer tried so hard to stay professional.

"You—uh, you had great pace today—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Lando waved him off.

"Lando, I don’t think—"

"Listen, I need to emphasize something." Lando leaned in, tone conspiratorial. "Do you know how lucky I am? Not only is she breathtaking, but she’s also, like, annoyingly smart. Like, did you know she reads all the time? Real books.Not just memes and Twitter threads like me."

He gestured vaguely, suddenly overwhelmed by his own emotions.

"She doesn’t even realize how much people admire her. But I see it. I see everything. And I just think the world needs to start appreciating her at my level."

"That is… very sweet." The interviewer was visibly struggling to keep up.

"Just had to get that out there."

"Well, congratulations on the win, Lando," the interviewer finally managed, skimming over his list of unanswered questions he had prepared.

"Thank you." He nodded seriously, finally letting go of the mic. "And big thanks to the team, of course."

You rolled your eyes from behind the cameras, suppressing a smile.

...

The internet had seen many things, but no one was prepared for Lando Norris using his post-race interview as a full-blown love letter. 

"Lando’s race pace was great, but his girlfriend propaganda was even stronger."

"THE WAY HE JUST POINTED AT HER IMMEDIATELY I CAN’T."

"Lando Norris said ‘this win is for my girlfriend’ and proceeded to recite a romantic sonnet on live TV. My standards are ruined."

Later, as the two of you curled up in the hotel room, finally away from the cameras, Lando buried his face in your neck with a content sigh.

"You know," he murmured, voice sleepy, warm, full of love. "I really did win that for you."

You ran your fingers through his curls. "I know."

"I meant every word, too."

You smiled. "Don't you think it was a bit much?"

"I don't think it was nearly enough," he said, already half-asleep, grinning like he had never been happier.

Reader is secretly married to Lando, and she starts using his sim, she misses him and she wants to feel closer and also really wants to learn (even if she is not ready to admit that she always had a thing for learning how it would feel to be in an actual f1 car). She creates a profile for herself for fun: Mrs Norris (which of course no one thinks it’s actually her). She becomes so good at it that she ends up beating the whole grid one time, and everyone is just wondering who the hell is this person…

👀👀👀👀

Very unrealistic, but well… 😂😂😂😂

Mrs Norris (Oneshot)

Lando Norris x Verstappen!Reader

Summary — It was only supposed to be a bit of fun, but really, what did she expect? Her surname might be Norris now, but she was born a Verstappen.

Notes — This was so fun!!!!!! Em, I will never not appreciate your cute ideas.

Lando had been gone for exactly twelve hours when she caved.

It wasn’t boredom—the Verstappen family didn’t do boredom. Her schedule was packed with gym sessions, influencer brunches, and brand events she had no real desire to attend.

But the apartment felt off without him. Too quiet. Too tidy.

And the sim rig—God, it just sat there. Smug. Taunting. Like it knew she’d eventually give in to its silent, high-tech seduction.

She told herself it was just curiosity. Racing was in her blood, even if she’d had zero interest as a kid. She used to stage silent protests just to get out of karting, sulking until her dad finally let her quit and focus on gymnastics instead.

Still, one harmless session wouldn’t hurt, right?

Just a few laps around Silverstone. Just something to do before bed.

Two hours later, she was red-faced, sweaty, and yelling at an AI Williams for brake-checking her into Turn 1.

She was terrible. Hilariously, painfully terrible.

But she was hooked.

—

By day three, she was watching tutorials, scribbling notes, and fine-tuning the seat and wheel setup like her life depended on it.

She texted Lando under the guise of checking in.

Hey handsome, you okay? Totally random, but what’s the best braking point for Eau Rouge?

He didn’t even question it—just sent a smug voice note with a full breakdown like she was a rookie on his team.

It made her want to destroy his time.

That night, she created a profile.

She debated using her real name, but that was a quick no. The username had to be anonymous… but also funny.

So she picked the most on-the-nose option possible.

@Mrs.Norris

It was meant to be a joke. A bit of fun. She never expected it to go anywhere.

She definitely didn’t expect to get good.

—

Two weeks in, she was holding her own in online lobbies. Four weeks in, she was winning. All of them.

Six weeks in, she entered a public charity sim race and beat George, Charles, and Alex.

The stream chat lost its collective mind.

Who TF is Mrs. Norris???

Actual alien pace.

Lando alt??

Plot twist: it’s Max Verstappen in disguise.

That last one made her laugh so hard she nearly fell out of the rig. The idea that they thought her brother was racing under her married name? Unhinged enough to make her cry.

Then came the text from Lando.

Lando:

Baby, are you using my sim under the username Mrs. Norris?

You:

Yep. And I beat them all.

Lando:

No. Shut up. You did not.

You:

Duh. I might be a Norris now, but I was born a Verstappen.

—

When he finally got home after the triple-header, he walked in to find her mid-race, cursing like a sailor, laser-focused, fire in her eyes.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking.

She crossed the finish line five seconds clear of second place.

Slowly, she removed the headset. Even slower, she turned to face him, cheeks flushed pink.

“Hi,” she said softly, suddenly shy.

He didn’t say anything.

Then he grinned.

“Mrs. Norris,” he drawled, walking over to kiss her forehead, “we are so screwed if this gets out.”

She smiled. “It won’t. They think I’m Max.”

He leaned in, voice low. “You beat my Silverstone time.”

“Your fault for sounding all smug about Eau Rouge.”

He kissed her properly then, holding her like he hadn’t seen her in months.

And neither of them mentioned the way his hands trembled slightly at the thought of her in a real F1 car.

Because if her dad ever found out?

He’d have her in one tomorrow.

Mini Verstappen Series Masterlist

Paring: Single Dad!Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader

At the end of 2020, Max Verstappen gets the surprise of his life when he finds out that his ex-girlfriend had given birth to a son, his son. A year and a half later Max's longtime girlfriend of 8 months finds out about his son Nico.

This is an ongoing series. I'm always adding to it. The masterlist changes often.

I do take requests for this. If there is anything that you want to see happen in this series just message me in my ask box. All of my normal request rules apply.

Reader Face Claim: Hande Erçel

Total Published Word Count: 78,420 Words

Disclaimer: This work below is fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction, so enjoy it as such.

𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑂𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟

0.0. Prologue - [December 10, 2020]

Max finds out that he has a son. And it changes his world.

0.1. Be Something You'll Love and Understand [December 11, 2020] Outtakes

He knew that he should have called his mom yesterday but he was still wrapping his head around the idea of being a father.

0.5. The Moment You Smiled At Me - [December 27, 2021]

The evening that started it all for Max and Reader.

1. Mini Verstappen - [August 15, 2022]

You get a small surprise the first time you visit Max’s apartment.

1.5. Girlfriend? - [November 1, 2022] Request

You meet Nico.

1.8. Caught - [June 4, 2023] 18+ Outtakes

Lando swears he knocked before walking into Max's hotel room, maybe he should have yelled before opening the door.

2. Change - [November 26, 2023 + January 2, 2024]

It’s the end of the F1 season. Some things are changing for the Verstappen's.

SMAU #1. The Secrets Out - [December 31, 2023 - January 1, 2024]

3. A Lioness Protects Her Cub - [May 5 - 9, 16, 23, 2024] Request

Reporters are vultures and Max picks out a ring.

4. Day At The Karting Track - [June 14, 2024]

Nico starts karting. It opens a small can of worms.

4.5 The Engagement - [August 15 - 16, 2024]

He moved his hand over yours, moving the engagement ring that he placed on your finger, side to side.

SMAU #2. Through Max's Eyes - [March 8, July 30 - August 15, 2024]

5. Something Bad, Something Good - [August 17 - 19, 2024] Request

Reader deals with the haters on Twitter, Nico calls Reader Mama. Max claps back at the haters on Instagram like the malewife that he strives to be.

5.5 Time to Move? - [August 25, September 15, 2024]

When Max had brought up moving, it was because the lease on his apartment was going to be up at the end of the year. Maybe it was time to find a new place for all of you.

6. Race Day - [October 20, 2024] Request

Nico tags along with Max during a race day in Monza, well as much as he can.

6.1 White Wedding - [February 2, 2025] Request

Max and the Reader's wedding day. OG Wedding Headcanon with social media from their honeymoon.

6.5. Give and Take (Kind of Love We Make) - [February 28, 2025] 18+ Request (The Morning After)

Max had a plan in his head for the evening. He had mapped out the track before, and intended to keep to his strategy until they got home.

6.7. To Constantly Be Away - [March 9 & 10, 2025]

Second race of the season and Max is already having a tough time with the car. Missing his family only makes it worse.

7. From Three to Four - [April 4, 2025]

Reader tells Max that your expecting, he doesn't have the best reaction at first.

8. Stones To Throw At My Creator - [July 19, 2025]

He wasn't his father. He would never raise Nico like that.

SMAU #3. The Verstappens - [January 8, February 2, May 26, December 3, 2025]

8.7 Give Me Eyes To See - [December 8, 2025]

Nikita's first few days at home. Flashbacks to moments from the reader's pregnancy.

8.8 Nikita's First Christmas - [December 24-25, 2025]

Nico's first Christmas with his baby brother.

8.9 Ghost of Bittersweet Memories - [January 25, 2026]

A few of the drivers visit you and Max for the day, and you end up talking with Charles about a woman that he meets at an FIA event. (This is the conversation I referenced in Part 2 of Bittersweet.)

9. Glass Houses - [February 17, 22, 23, 2026]

When Raymond had called you about going and getting lunch, you should have known that something was going on.

9.5. All That I Can Give - [May 10, 2026]

Another Mother's Day and one of Nikita's firsts.

9.7. On Sleepless Roads, The Sleepless Go - [December 2-3, 2026]

It's the early hours of Nikita's first birthday, and you can't help but look back at the day you brought your son into the world.

SMAU #4. A Year in Moments - [February 10, May 28, August 2 & 27, October 22 & 31, 2026]

10. Redline - [May 25, 2027]

"I'm sorry, mijn leeuwin. I know you were excited to announce it to everyone."

10.5. Mommy and Me - [May 31 - June 6, 2027] Request

Late one evening after dinner Y/N brought up the idea to Max for her to take Nico out for the day.

11. X3 - [July 8-9, 2027]

“Hallo, kleine welp,” Max said.

11.5. She's Not Acid Nor Alkaline - [December 8, 2027]

Max and Reader have a night away from the kids in Santorini for the 2027 FIA Prize Giving Gala.

SMAU #5. Welcoming Another Verstappen - [2027]

12. Hey, Little Sister - [March 27 - November 20, 2028]

“You wanted this Max. You wanted her.”

SMAU #6. A Year to Celebrate - [2028]

12.5. Of Father’s and Children - [June 18, 2029]

Father’s Day 2029

13. The End of An Era - [November 2030]

The days leading up to Max retiring from Formula 1. The Article announcing his retirement. And the last race of his F1 career.

14. No Time To Die - [2031]

Max goes racing at Nürbergring and it doesn't end well.

15. Right On Track - [2036]

Checking in with the Verstsppens in 2036.

16. Letters From The Past - [November 17, 2038]

Max and Reader sit down to read the letters that Amelia (Nico's birth mom) wrote.

𝐸 𝒳 𝒯 𝑅 𝒜 𝒮

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DON'T LEAVE ME

Ollie Bearman X fem!reader

Summary: When Ollie accompanies Y/n to her endoscopy. The anesthesia can make her say funny things, but also, some questions that make Ollie's heart break.

Words: 3.0K+

Warnings: Mention of the hospital, surgery (but nothing serious), Y/n under anesthesia, cute, funny, a bit of insecurity, mention of Y/n's almost profession, anguish, but romantic and happy ending.

Author: English is not my first language, so apologies for any spelling mistakes and slang that may be in the story. ❤️🇧🇷

MASTERLIST

Ollie wasn't the type to pass up any opportunity to take care of Y/n—not even when she said, with all the firmness in the world, that everything was fine, that it was just an endoscopy check-up, nothing serious.

But for him, there was no such thing as "anything major" when it involved her.

"What if I let you go alone and you, numb, start telling me everything we do in a room? No, no! I need to be there to ensure my reputation!" He said with a mischievous smile, drawing a rolled, but amused, look from her.

Now, a few hours later, Ollie was alone in the room where Y/n would recover. He was sitting in an armchair in the corner, his cell phone in his hands, but his eyes fixed on the screen without really taking anything in. His leg was bouncing up and down, fast, as if his body reflected the silent whirlwind of his mind.

He knew, rationally, that it was a simple procedure. She herself had explained it a thousand times. But the most idiotic and unwanted thoughts insisted on going around in his head, creating catastrophic scenarios.

It was disgusting how anxiety acted like that.

The door opened with a soft creak and a friendly nurse smiled at Ollie. Right behind, the doctor was pushing a wheelchair where Y/n was sitting, her head resting on her hand and her eyes blinking slowly, completely groggy.

Ollie smiled the moment he saw her. He jumped up from his chair, his heart relieving just seeing that familiar, yet somewhat lost, face.

"She's still under the anesthesia." The doctor explained, stopping beside the bed. "The procedure went excellently, we didn't find any abnormalities, everything was clean.

Ollie let out a sigh of relief, resting his hands on his hips.

"Thank God." He murmured with a tender smile.

The nurse began to help Y/n out of the chair and put her on the bed. She snuggled into the pillow almost immediately, with that lazy and cute movement of someone who just wanted to go back to sleep.

"She may say some nonsense because of the anesthesia, but it should pass within 30 minutes to 1 hour." The doctor completed. "If she exhibits anything else out of the ordinary, notify the nurses' desk down the hall."

"Okay, I'll do that if I need to." Ollie nodded. The doctor and nurse left the room, closing the door behind them.

Ollie stood there for a few seconds, watching Y/n lying there, her eyes heavy. A warm relief filled his chest. He approached carefully, arranging the blanket about her. He sat down next to her, again in the armchair, holding her hand between his, observing every detail.

Y/n slowly opened her eyes and frowned when she saw him. "Where am I?"

"Hospital."

She looked around.

"Hospital?"

Ollie nodded, trying to hold back his laughter.

"Damn... I wish I was in a diamond castle like Barbie's and had a prince charming as my chauffeur."

"Look, this isn't a diamond castle and I'm not a prince, but I can be your private driver."

She smiled, still a little dazed, with a small smile. "As long as there's music in the car and you buy me a milkshake later..."

"Deal" Ollie said, chuckling and patting her hand lightly.

Y/n looked at their intertwined hands and frowned.

"Hey, you can't hold my hand like that... I have a boyfriend and I love him so much." She let go of his hand and ducked under the covers. Ollie laughed.

"Wow! Passed the loyalty test and everything. Wow!" Y/n made a confused face, and he leaned in with a smile. "It's me, Y/n. Oliver. Your boyfriend."

She pushed herself up a little, supporting herself on her elbows, and Ollie stepped closer to make sure she didn't fall over.

"My boyfriend? You?"

"Myself. Your boyfriend. With a ring and an apartment."

Y/n smiled as if she had won the greatest prize in the world.

"Ah... then I chose well."

Ollie's heart melted. He chuckled softly as she lay back down, gripping his hand more firmly.

"Do people live together?"

"Yes, we recently bought an apartment."

Her eyes widened. "Wow! That's really cool... how long have we been dating?"

"Let me think... about five or six years?"

"Wow, a really, really long time..."

"It's just that when I love, I stay." Ollie said with a sweet smile.

"If we've been together for so long... have you asked me to marry you yet?"

Ollie's eyes widened and he burst out laughing. "My God, you're really rude with these questions right now."

Y/n smiled, turning to him.

"How many times have we kissed? Do you remember the first time you saw me without makeup? It was horrible, wasn't it?"

Ollie laughed, confused by the bombardment.

"Okay, princess of the diamond castle! One question at a time!" He held up his hands. "Here we go: we've kissed more times than I can count, but I remember the first time—it was after the movies, you were wearing that silly strawberry sweatshirt. And the first time I saw you without makeup? It was perfect. Because you were just...you."

Y/n nodded slowly, looking around.

"Have we ever... you know... done adult dating things?"

Ollie coughed in surprise. "OH MY GOD, Y/N! You're putting me in a very unfair situation here!"

She chuckled softly. "Just scientific curiosity."

"Yeah, scientist, of course! I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, crazy doctor." He said, squeezing her hand affectionately.

"If we had a child, do you think it would have your nose or mine?"

"Probably yours. Mine's kind of boring."

"Your nose is cute... it looks like an elevator button." She wrinkled her nose, smiling.

Ollie frowned, laughing. "What?"

"Cute... makes you want to squeeze it."

"Now I'm scared you'll try to use my nose to get to the 12th floor."

Y/n smiled and began to blink slowly, looking at the ceiling. Ollie thought she was going to sleep and began to caress her hand and her brown locks lightly, lulling her to rest. But she opened her eyes again.

"Did you know that octopuses have three hearts? And that they dissolve if they get too sad?"

Ollie arched an eyebrow.

"That explains why you cry when you watch margarine commercials. You're an octopus!"

"It's not because of the margarine... it's the warm bread..."

"Of course, the drama of warm bread." He replied, smiling.

"You know what else? I once read that sleeping in a spoon position helps with immunity..."

"So we'll live to be a hundred years old."

"Yes..." She stirred happily in bed. "Or until the bones turn to fairy dust."

"That's it, love. Until our bones turn to Tinker Bell dust."

Her eyes lit up at that reference. "I remember I really wanted to be Tinkerbell when I was little..."

"Did you wish you had wings?"

"No. I wanted to throw magic dust at others and fly away when they scolded me."

Ollie laughed.

"Fair enough. Very emotionally healthy."

"I also had a phase where I thought Peter Pan was my boyfriend. Sorry, my love."

"No hard feelings. I'll just keep an eye out if he shows up in a green leotard."

She laughed, still a little groggily, and then turned around, a fond smile on her face.

"You're so beautiful, you know that?"

"Thanks, honey... do you still think I'm cute? I've been up all night and my hair is all messed up."

Y/n squeezed his hand lightly.

"Yes... looks like an angel... tired... but an angel."

"An angel on duty?"

"Exactly." She smiled, her eyes closing. "And you smell nice... like home... like my favorite pillow."

Ollie squeezed her hand and murmured, "You're my favorite pillow too, for the record."

The room was silent, muffled by a soft light that filtered through the window. And Y/n sighed, tired, her eyes fixed on a random spot on the wall.

"Back to talking about marriage..."

Ollie's eyes widened slightly, surprised by the sudden change of subject. But she continued, calmly, as if it had been on her mind for some time.

"Do you think if we got married, we should get a dog or a turtle?"

Ollie smiled, letting his body sink a little deeper into the chair.

"Hmm... dog, but only if he likes sleeping late and eating leftover pizza."

"What if we had a house with a balcony? One of those with a hammock..."

"And a giant couch, with room for your cold feet," Ollie added, still smiling.

She let out a muffled chuckle.

"And the walls would be yellow." Y/n hums.

"I didn't approve of that, calm down." Ollie said, amused.

Y/n paused for a moment, her eyes still on the wall, and she became serious. "Okay, okay, love. I'm sorry..."

Ollie held back a laugh. It was so like her to apologize for the silliest things.

And silence filled the room again. She closed her eyes, relaxing, almost giving in to sleep. Ollie reached out and began to gently stroke her hair. The only sound she could hear was the muffled rumble of the city.

Suddenly, she began to laugh softly, as if she had heard something that only she could understand.

"Listen, listen..." Ollie looked at her curiously. "My heart is singing..." She laughed again, softly, delighted with her own sentence.

Ollie frowned and laughed along.

"Are you sure you're just numb or did you end up drinking alcohol in there?"

Y/n didn't respond, she just kept laughing as if the world was lighter. Then he hummed some made-up tune.

She opened her eyes and saw Ollie smiling at her goofily. Suddenly, her eyes widened, as if a penny had just dropped.

"OMG, I REMEMBER! You're a Formula 1 driver!"

Ollie laughed, delighted.

"Yes, and you fell in love with a crazy guy who runs at 300 Kilometers per hour"

"Have you ever wanted to honk your horn in the middle of a race?"

"Love, there's no horn on an F1 car."

"So how do you curse others?"

"With the hand and with the radio."

Y/n laughed, finding that the funniest thing in the world.

"Are you the type to swear nicely or swear badly?"

"It depends. If it's Verstappen, I'll swear badly."

She put her hand over her mouth, feigning shock. "OLLIIIEE!"

"You just asked me!"

She blinked slowly and murmured, her eyes dreamy, "Have we ever taken a bath together? Like, a real bath..."

Ollie couldn't contain his laughter and closed his eyes.

"Bath? What do you mean 'a real bath'?"

"I really do. With shampoo, conditioner and everything..."

"We've drowned in soap suds a few times."

Y/n blushed. "That sounds a lot like us."

"Yeah!"

She turned slightly in bed.

"I'm really weird, right? Kind of silly, kind of lost..."

"You look beautiful."

"You are obliged to say that."

"No. I'm your boyfriend. And your number one fan. I say that by choice."

Y/n smiled, her eyes slightly teary. "I like it when you talk like that. It makes my heart stop hurting."

"Was it hurting?" Ollie asked cautiously.

"No..."

Ollie laughed. But she frowned.

"But would you love me if I were a worm?"

The pilot's eyes widened. "A worm?"

"You wouldn't love it, right?..." Y/n began to cry silently. Ollie leaned over, concerned, and gently wiped her face.

"Hey, hey. I would love you if you were a worm, okay? I would make a garden just for you to roam free and eat dirt..."

"Thank you..." She sniffs.

"You're welcome, love!" The pilot smiles, holding back his laughter.

The room became quiet again. Ollie continued to caress her hair, and Y/n settled down, curled up, warm under the blanket. She seemed to have fallen asleep. He smiled, relieved, and picked up his phone, scrolling slowly.

But then, in a low voice, she spoke again,

"Have you seen the other pilots' girlfriends? I mean... they're beautiful, aren't they?"

Ollie lowered his phone, alert.

"Beautiful...? In what sense?"

"They have these amazing jobs, like model, businesswoman, artist... You know? And me... I'm just an aeronautics student."

Ollie looked at her, surprised.

"Just an aeronautics student? Y/n, do you realize that? You're literally an airplane pilot! You're a thousand times more amazing than any of them!"

Y/n smiled slightly, hesitantly.

"But they always seem so confident, so collected. Beautiful. Elegant. I'm just... me."

Ollie leaned closer, his voice softer, "Are you just you? Y/n, you've always been true to who you are. And that's what made me fall in love the most. You have this light... this way of seeing the world with rocket eyes and a marshmallow heart."

Y/n chuckled softly, groggily.

"Rocket eyes, Ollie?"

"Yes! You see everything with intensity, passion. And even when you feel small, you keep trying. That is much bigger than any standard."

Y/n looked at him, still with tears in her eyes.

"Do you really think so?"

"I'm sure. And if one day you forget... I'll repeat it a thousand times. Because you're my standard." She reached for his hand. "I'm here reminding you that you're perfect and that I love you."

Her voice came out as a whisper lost in the sheets. "They have blonde hair... blue eyes... haven't you ever wondered if you'd be happier with someone like that?"

Ollie felt his chest tighten so much that it hurt to breathe. This wasn't just silly jealousy. It was insecurity, raw and alive, and he felt every crack of it echo through him.

Before he could respond, she continued.

"Do you think you'll ever get tired of me? Because... if you look at it, the other pilots' previous girlfriends were just like me. Simple. Students. From small families. And they traded them for powerful women... with blonde hair and eyes the color of the sea..."

The tears flowed soundlessly. Only then came a sniffle and a whisper. "I'm scared, Ollie..."

He felt his heart shatter. The air seemed trapped between his lungs. The pain of seeing her like this, so fragile, so overcome with fear, made him wish he could take every single one of those doubts away from her and cast them away forever.

Ollie sat up straighter, his eyes fixed on her. His voice was firm but thick with emotion.

"Honey, listen to one thing: I am NOT them. And you are NOT replaceable. I didn't fall in love with you because of the color of your eyes or your hair... I fell in love because when you talk about airplanes, your eyes light up. Because you dance barefoot around the house, with incredible energy. Because you are a captivating person who wins over everyone around you. Because you are a determined, strong woman who fights for her dreams. Because you make me laugh even when the world seems heavy. Because you ARE and always will be my best friend... And because, even when you are scared, you are the bravest person I know..." Ollie held back his own tears. "Because you, my love. Are the person I always waited to spend the rest of my life with. I love you so, so, SO MUCH. These last six years that I've been with you have been the best of my life, and I know that we will still have many happy years ahead of us. Because I want to marry you, build a family, travel the world and conquer the moon!"

Y/n cried helplessly, her eyes red. "Please, don't leave me..."

Ollie couldn't keep his distance any longer. He got up from the chair and lay down next to her, pulling her gently into his arms. Her body fit against his, her sobs still shaky but beginning to calm.

He hugged her tightly, feeling her heart beat fast against his chest. He kissed the top of her head, whispering.

"I will never leave you. Nothing in this world would make me change you. Because you are my home, Y/n. It's where my heart rests. Where my laughter lives. Where I am whole. And even if one day the whole world changes, I will continue to choose you. Every day."

Y/n closed her eyes, still sobbing softly, but holding tightly to his shirt, as if holding on to a promise. Ollie hugged her tighter, stroking her back slowly.

The room, previously illuminated by light, now seemed enveloped in the melancholy she exuded. He took a deep breath, pulling her closer and resting his chin on the top of her head.

"You don't need to be a model, or have eyes the color of the sea..." He began, his voice low and full of sincerity. "Because you are already all I need to see the sky."

Y/n, even with wet eyes, looked up at him, as if that affection was slowly sewing together every broken piece inside her. Ollie wrapped her even tighter, and with a slight smile on his lips, he continued.

"All I can think about is our future. I know how much you love making plans, so listen to mine..." His palm gently caressed her back, his fingers tracing a comforting path. "I want to be with you when you take your first solo flight." Ollie said, looking up at the ceiling as if he could see their sky there. "I want to be in the audience, screaming louder than everyone else, when you get your diploma. I want our house, with kids running around the yard, knocking over flowerpots and staining the walls."

Y/n smiled, even with tears in her eyes, and he noticed. He took advantage of the moment, pressing his forehead against hers.

"I want to be the guy who holds your hand when you think you can't... and reminds you that you can do anything, anything at all."

A softer sob escaped Y/n, as if her heart was being carefully cradled by his words.

"Besides..." Ollie chuckled, lowering his tone to a conspiratorial whisper. "Blue-eyed blondes? Pff. None of them look as good in army uniforms as you do."

Y/n let out a muffled chuckle, hiding her face in his neck, blushing.

"Because let me tell you..." He said with a smug smile. "You look extremely hot and sexy in them!"

She actually laughed now, still shy, and he took the opportunity to kiss her cheek affectionately, a long and secure kiss.

"Here it is..." Ollie murmured against her skin. "My favorite sound from the person I love the most."

Author: I would probably never be chosen, I'm a tall brunette, with brown eyes and from a small family hahahahah Just kidding.

The Apartment Games | Series Masterlist

pairing: ot7 x f!reader (platonic?)

genre: crack, humour, smau

warnings/tags: non-idol!au, college!au, roommates!au, player!taehyung, literature student!namjoon, fashion student!hobi, comp-sci student!jin, music student!jungkook, sound production student!yoongi, business student!taehyung, veterinary student!jimin, communications student!yn, more warnings in individual parts

disclaimer: this smau crack fic is just for fun (that said, i’m probably going to put in way more time and effort than warranted) and since this is a wip, everything here is pretty much subject to change. also don’t ask me how the age differences work, there were No Thoughts

summary: when y/n’s roommate moves out, an opening at the nicest apartment complex on campus becomes available – and highly coveted within the crowded bangtan dorm. with seven chances to prove who can be the best roommate, the boys are prepared to do just about anything for some privacy and freedom. and y/n certainly intends to make the most of that desperation willingness. welcome to the apartment games.

index

>. character profiles

i. the end of an era pt.1

ii. the end of an era pt.2

iii. the list

iv. ground rules

Some medical charts I made were I explore fictional diseases and phenomenon

I’m planning on making a small zine featuring these fictional disease charts, which will be available as a preorder bonus for when my art book gets published!

oh my god.... this is sooo beautifully written.... i am in love💜💜

His Muse

Pairing: Taehyung x reader

Word count: 2,466

Genre: The fluffiest of the fluff, dark academia, art and art history

Summary: Taehyung’s life isn’t all that special. It’s boring, it’s meaningless, and dull. But then he meets you…his muse

Warnings: One small paragraph with suggestive content. Descriptions of boobies

A/N: Another repost and perhaps one of my favourite things I’ve written! Not proofread but I hope you guys love it regardless<3 

Taehyung never really went to the library to study. If work needed to be done, he would work in the confines of his small apartment or the coffee shop across the university campus. However, this wasn’t one of those instances as he needed a change in scenery from his meticulously tasked life, an added plus of having an endless amount of art books for his disposable.

Walking from one shelf to the next, he was trying to find the perfect book, giving him insight on how to display emotions on a canvas, something he’d been endlessly struggling with. Craning his neck back to see the works on the top shelf, he spots a book he thinks will help him. Taehyung reaches for it and just as he’s about to grab it, his hand comes in contact with a small, well-manicured one.

“Oh! I’m awfully sorry.” The owner of the voice pulls her hand back. Taehyung’s hand is still in the outreached position, slowly turning his head to look at the girl.

One side of his mouth turns upright as he lazily pulls his arm down, taking his time looking at the girl. “I suppose we’re both fans of Monsieur Francois Boucher, no?”

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