😂

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.

❤️❤️❤️

Something good in this world…

😂😂😂

A strong independent dog who don’t need no man

😂😂

LOOK THEY ACTUALLY DO HAVE TOASTERS WITH LITTLE WINDOWS SO YOU CAN WATCH YOUR FOOD GET TOASTED

He starts at cute cupcake TO FUCKING FUCK ME PLEASE LIKE HOLY SHIT

So I found this caterpillar on my way to class

We’re bros

Fashion Show X George Russell (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Request: George Russell x Reader The Reader is a model and they meet at a fashion show and become the fashion couple of the grid. 

The backstage chaos of a fashion show is a unique kind of madness stylists with scissors in their mouths, interns sprinting in heels, and makeup artists dabbing last-minute gloss on lips already trembling with nerves. I was used to it. I'd walked a dozen runways, been shot by the best, and worn gowns stitched in silence by names no one dared mispronounce.

But I wasn’t prepared for him.

George Russell, of all people, standing backstage in a perfectly tailored suit like he’d walked straight out of a GQ cover shoot which, to be fair, he probably had. He was chatting to someone from the design house, all polite smiles and blue-eyed charm. And then he looked at me.

Not just looked. He noticed.

I tried to play it cool. Adjusted the strap on my heel and glanced away like I hadn’t just felt my stomach flip.

“You’re Y/N, aren’t you?” he asked a few minutes later, after I’d strutted down the runway in a sleek black number that hugged all the right places. He was waiting by the refreshment table, holding a sparkling water and looking annoyingly relaxed for someone causing minor havoc in my chest.

“I am,” I said, reaching for a bottle myself. “And you’re George Russell. The driver with the perfect posture.”

He laughed, a proper, belly-deep one. “I’ll take that. Though I’ve been told I look more like a mannequin than a man sometimes.”

“Well,” I said with a smirk, “you’re in the right place, then.”

That was how it started. A shared joke, a quiet moment among flashing lights and fabric. The next week, he invited me to a Grand Prix. I wore red. Ferrari red, despite him being a Mercedes man. He teased me about it the whole day.

Before long, the press had latched onto us. F1’s Fashion Couple. We became the unexpected duo that people didn’t know they needed me in couture, him in sharp suits that made headlines. We weren’t just walking red carpets; we were setting trends.

But behind all that, George was just… George. Sweet and supportive, always sneaking me chocolate after long fittings, always sending “good luck” texts before shoots. I returned the favour with calm pep talks on race weekends and silly superstitions we pretended worked.

Tonight, he was waiting for me after a Paris runway show, holding a single white rose and looking like a dream.

“Knocked ‘em dead again,” he said, pulling me into a hug that melted every inch of tension from my body.

“You think so?”

“Absolutely. They should build a statue in your honour outside the Louvre.”

I laughed, resting my head against his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only for you.”

And just like that, we walked hand-in-hand past flashing cameras, the click of shutters chasing our every step not that we noticed anymore. Because being the fashion couple of the grid wasn’t about the headlines or the hype.

It was about him and me. Runways and race tracks. And a love that somehow fit better than any designer gown.

Lando's smile 🥹🥹

😂😂😂