Lando Norris X Reader - Blog Posts

how i wish i knew how to write fics, because i had an amazing ideia for a plot, i was listening to taylor swift (of course) and started to play dress, i just imagined a whole fic about lando norris or oscar piastri with this song and now i'm dying because i need that right now

(sorry if there's any mistakes english isnt my first language)

Okay so like, I Never seen some one write an f1 driver with a belly dancer reader like, if you see their performances it’s actually pretty, also if anyone decides too can it be max or Charles or Lando??? And also possibly no instagram, just like them seeing one of her and her group’s performances and being like “wow” LOVE SICK

5th member

It’s a F1 x reader/oc fanfic it’s not real

Blackpink’s 5th member is trying to leave her past that left her not remembering her old friends, so after years of her being an idol, her interest in F1 is starting to grow. What will she do when she will start to remember?

Stage name: Reyna

Birth name: Park Eun-Jeong

English name: Reyna Kaiser Asteria Harmonia Ervin Loera Astern

Birthday: August 20, 2000

Zodiac sign:Leo

Nationality: Korean

Languages: Korean(100%), English(90%), French(90%) , Japanese(100%), Chinese(80%), Portuguese(95%)

Debuted: August 8th, 2016

Group: blackpink

Voice: Jung Eun Ji, Apink 10/10

Rap: Le, Exid 9/10

Dance:Jihyo TWICE 9/10

Visual: 10/10

Love interest :

Net worth: 200 million from solo productions 3.6 billion from group

Modeling: 8 million

Branad ambassador: Prada, Louis Vuitton, Alexander McQueen

Likes

Chocolate, Books, Her sisters, Going out, Staying up at night watching her favorite shows(The originals, TVD, Stranger Things, , The witcher, The flash, or all DC shows,wandavision, and all marvel), loves food, Gaming .Anime this women LOVES Jjk because of Gojo satoru, Watching f1

okay so i lowkey sound like a beg but please send me requests because i wanna write but i physically cannot come up w ideas! so if you could help out that would be really appreciated i love you guys!! 🤍

i’m officially done w my current requests so please feel free to send more !! xx

ღ - WHO I WRITE FOR. 💕

okay so like the title is quite deceiving but also i wanna say like i will write for any footballers or f1 drivers (i love being a tifosi) anywho so i hope this helps when requesting bc i know some of you have been hesitant bc ydk who i write for!! 💓

ღ - WHO I WRITE FOR. 💕

okay so like the title is quite deceiving but also i wanna say like i will write for any footballers or f1 drivers (i love being a tifosi) anywho so i hope this helps when requesting bc i know some of you have been hesitant bc ydk who i write for!! 💓

TRUE LOVE OF MINE

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes / You who bares all your teeth in every smile" - Lady Lamb, Dear Arkansas Daughter

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 5.5K ᝰ GENRE: best friends to lovers (we cheered!), reader = ex karting driver + med student, you have loved lando since the day you met etc etc etc ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: fun fact - the colors used in the title/headings on this post are actually the colors of lando's eyes from this post // this was a behemoth of a fic to write and i'm still nto entirely pleased, but the people yearn for lando norris ꨄ requested by anon!

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

The first time you see Lando Norris, he’s face-down in the mud, crying because someone called him a posh baby in the paddock, and you think he’s the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.

There’s mud crusted on his cheek like it belongs there, curls pressed damp to his forehead, and his whole face is crumpled like paper in a storm. He’s got one sock half off and a fresh scab on his shin, and still, somehow, he looks like he belongs in a painting. The messy kind. Watercolor, probably. Something soft and bleeding at the edges, impossible to frame.

He’s eight and you’re eight and a half, which means you get to say things like “it’s okay, babies cry,” even though you don’t really mean it. He wipes his face on his sleeve and looks up at you with blotchy cheeks and kaleidoscope eyes, like someone spilled a little too much green into blue, and says, “I’m not a baby.” You believe him.

You sit next to him on the curb, knees knocking together, watching his kart like it’s some sacred thing. The sky is gray, threatening rain, and he’s all flushed skin and scraped palms and frustration. 

“They’re just jealous,” you mutter. He doesn’t look at you. “Of what? That I cry like a baby?” “No,” you say. “That your eyelashes are stupid long and you drive like the kart owes you money.”

That gets a huff out of him. Half-sob, half-laugh.

You offer him your juice box. He doesn’t smile, but he bares his teeth when he takes it, all crooked and endearing and real. That’s the thing about Lando. He’s always been real.

He holds out a sticky, dirt-streaked hand.

“I’m Lando.” “I know,” you say. “Everyone knows.”

You shake his hand anyway.

A month later, you beg your parents to sign you up for the junior karting class — not because you like cars (you don’t, really), but because you like him. Or maybe just the way he lights up when he talks about apexes and engine sounds like they’re things that breathe.

You come home smelling like oil. Your knuckles blister from gripping the wheel too hard. You cry once when you spin out and hit the barriers; but he’s there, pulling your helmet off like you’re made of glass, telling you, “You looked cool, though. Like, action movie cool.”

He makes you want to win. So you start trying.

When you’re eleven, he wins a race with his hair slicked back by sweat and wind, curls flattened into chaos. He leaps from the kart like he’s weightless, helmet swinging from one hand like a trophy of its own, and the grin he throws at you — all teeth, no restraint — nearly knocks you over.

“Did you see that?” he shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Did you see?”

You did. Every lap. Every line. You saw the way his hands tightened before the last corner, the way his shoulders settled like he’d already decided to win.

You hand him his water bottle.

“You were okay.”

He gasps. “Just okay?”

“You’ll be cooler when you stop smiling like you’re showing your teeth to the dentist.”

He grins wider. Shoves you lightly with the back of his hand.

“Admit it. I looked sick.”

He did. He always does. Even like this, eyes stormy and pale all at once, flushed with the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be explained. He’s not handsome yet, not in the way the magazines will call him later. But there’s something about the way he holds a moment. The way you can’t look away when he’s in it.

Later that summer, you win.

It’s not a big race. Junior category, barely a crowd —but he’s there. Leans so far over the barrier during your final lap the marshal tells him to get down before he falls in.

You don’t hear the cheering. You don’t even feel the medal when they hang it around your neck. All you feel is Lando barreling toward you at the speed of light, helmet in one hand, arms wide, like you’re the one who gave him wings.

“You were flying,” he breathes, practically vibrating. “You were magic.”

You pretend to scoff. “Guess I’m not just here to hand you water bottles.”

He pulls you into a hug anyway. No hesitation. Just heat and sweat and the faint scent of petrol and whatever soap he uses. His heart’s pounding against your shoulder like he’s the one who just won.

Later, when you look at the photos, you don’t care about the trophy in your hands. You care about the boy behind you — curls wild, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts.

At fifteen, you start noticing the way other girls notice him.

It starts in Italy, or maybe Spain. Somewhere with sunburnt afternoons and the scent of burnt rubber curling off the asphalt like smoke. The girls linger after his heats now. They lean too close and laugh too loudly. Twisting their hair, asking if he’s going to the after-party, the lake, the whatever.

You stand beside him in the hoodie he gave you two summers ago: faded navy, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. It smells like sunscreen and old fabric and something unnameable that has always just been him. You pick at the hem while they talk, eyes on his profile.

The same boy you’ve known since he was sobbing on a curb with gravel in his socks has started to shimmer, like something just out of reach. Something made of light and speed.

His hair’s longer now, curling wild at the edges of his helmet. His smile’s the same, though. All teeth, all instinct. It still takes up half his face like he hasn’t learned how to hide anything yet.

But he doesn’t smile at them. He never does.

He looks at you. “You’re quiet,” he says, tugging at the drawstring of your hoodie. You shrug. “I’m always quiet.” “Not with me.”

He says it like a secret. Like he likes that about you — that there’s a version of yourself reserved just for him. You don’t say anything back, because you're not sure your voice would work even if you tried.

That night, you find yourselves walking the hotel parking lot, drinking vending machine soda that tastes faintly like metal and sugar. The sky's a navy bruise, and everything hums: the street lamps, the asphalt, your pulse.

“You’re kind of becoming a big deal,” you say, finally.

He laughs, low and a little shy, like you’ve caught him off-guard. “Don’t say that,” he says. “I’ll get cocky.”

“You already are.” You bump his arm with yours. It’s too dark to see his face clearly, but you know he’s smiling wide, teeth and all, like he’s baring it just for you.

And maybe he is.

Because even now, even with sponsors circling and flights booked across Europe, even with interviews and mechanics and the way his name sounds over loudspeakers, he still comes to your races.

He’ll show up between practice sessions with a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that don’t do much to hide him. You’ll spot him first, sitting on the pit wall like he’s always belonged there, one leg swinging like a kid with too much energy.

“Why do you still come?” you ask him once, after you’d placed second and felt like it wasn’t enough.

He shrugged. “Because I like watching you win.”

You think about that now, under the flicker of a buzzing lamp, watching the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks when he looks at you. His eyes are still that strange in-between — not quite blue, not quite grey, always shifting like skies about to storm.

Like watercolor left out in the rain.

You look away first.

You always do.

At sixteen, you run until your lungs burn. You don’t stop until your fists hit his front door, nails bitten down to nothing and eyes already stinging. He opens it in a hoodie three sizes too big, and the second he sees your face, he doesn’t ask.

He just pulls you in.

You’re crying too hard to speak at first, shoulders shaking, throat raw. He closes the door behind you and guides you to the stairs like it’s muscle memory, like this has happened before, and maybe it has, in smaller ways. Skinned knees. Lost heats. Bad days.

But this is different.

“They’re making me quit,” you finally get out. “They said— they said I have to focus on school. On real life.”

You say it like a curse. Like “real life” is something you never asked for.

Lando’s quiet for a moment. His hand curls around your wrist, thumb brushing a soothing rhythm over your pulse. His eyes — moss green in the dark — watch you without blinking. Always watching. Always knowing.

“Come on,” he says.

You frown. “Where?”

“Just— trust me.”

He doesn’t wait for you to agree. He just grabs his keys and your hand and pulls you out into the night. The wind has teeth. The sky hangs low, indigo and velvet. When you realize where you’re going, your heart breaks all over again.

The track sits behind the hill, silent and sleeping.

Lando hops the gate first, then turns and offers you his hand. You take it, fingers cold in his. He pulls you over like it’s nothing.

The lights are off, but the moon’s enough. It glints off the asphalt, pale and silver, the same way the sun used to gleam on your helmet when you’d throw it off at the end of a race, breathless and laughing. Back when your name had a number next to it and your dreams had engines.

Lando walks the edge of the track, then steps aside, gestures toward the start line like he’s offering you a crown.

“One more,” he says. “For old time’s sake.”

You laugh, watery and shaking. “There’s no kart, idiot.”

He shrugs. “Run it.”

So you do.

You take off, sneakers slapping the track, heart thudding like it’s trying to break through your ribs. Your hair whips behind you, tangled and wild, and you run like you used to race: reckless, full tilt, like the only thing that’s ever made sense is forward.

The wind hits your face and the tears dry on your cheeks and the world blurs around the edges. You run with everything you are; for every lap you’ll never finish, every podium you won’t stand on, every flame they’re trying to snuff out of you.

When you make it back to him, gasping and breathless, Lando is watching like he always does, with something quiet and fierce behind his eyes. Like he sees not just you, but the version of you the world won’t let exist anymore.

You collapse next to him, panting. He says nothing for a long time. Just sits beside you on the track, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.

“You’ll come back to it,” he says eventually, soft like the curve of a turn. “I know you will.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He glances over, and for a moment, he looks like a boy again: the same boy with curls damp from rain, whose smile could split the sky. A boy who’s watched you win, lose, burn, rebuild. A boy who’s carried your dreams in the quiet way he carries everything.

“Besides,” he says, nudging your knee, “I’m still gonna win stuff. Someone’s gotta keep me humble.”

You laugh, finally — a real one. It cracks through the ache like sunlight through smoke.

“Always with the fast mouth,” you murmur. “And an ego the size of an engine.”

He grins. All teeth. Unashamed. Something ancient flutters in your chest, something that’s always been there but has never had the nerve to speak.

You don’t say you are the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, but you think it. You don’t say I’ve loved you since I was eight and a half, but maybe he knows.

Maybe he always has.

By eighteen, Lando’s face is in magazines. He’s a headline now, a profile shot under stadium lights, a name that doesn’t need explaining anymore. He smiles with his whole face — wide and unguarded — and sometimes you see a photo that feels so much like him you have to close the tab and sit with your hands in your lap, breathing slowly.

You still see the boy who once spilled chocolate milk all down his overalls at Silverstone and sobbed so hard he hiccupped for twenty minutes. The one who used to braid daisy chains into the laces of your boots between heats. But now there are articles that say things like rising star and British darling, and he fits in their glossy pages better than he should.

He FaceTimes you after qualifying P1 for the first time. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re still in the library, alone but for the hum of the vending machine and the ache behind your eyes. You almost don’t pick up.

But then you see his name flash on the screen — 🚦LAN-DON’T CRASH🚦 — and your stomach flips like it used to before lights out.

He’s still in his race suit, curls a mess of damp ringlets, cheeks flushed like he’s been running. There’s something in his eyes, too: watercolor green, vivid and blurred around the edges, like adrenaline and disbelief have soaked into his skin.

His smile breaks the second you answer. Wide and wild and so familiar it stings.

“Did you watch?” he says, already breathless.

“Obviously,” you say, tipping your phone back so he can see the chemistry notes scattered across the desk. “Had it up on mute during organic synthesis. You’re lucky I didn’t scream when you took the final sector.”

“You think I was okay?”

“You were sick.”

He pumps a fist and flops back onto some impossibly white hotel bed, still grinning like a kid who’s snuck past curfew. The camera wobbles, then steadies on his face again: flushed and freckled, sweat still clinging to his jaw. He looks happy.

You used to know that feeling. That kind of high. The kind that only came with rubber and gasoline and the blur of corners taken clean.

Your helmet lives in the back of your closet now, tucked behind winter coats and forgotten notebooks. You’ve traded it for lab goggles and timed exams, for ink-stained hands and the quiet sort of excellence no one applauds. Your medals sit in a shoebox beneath your bed, and you haven’t opened it in over a year. You tell people you’re pre-med now. That it’s what you’ve always wanted.

Two years have dulled the ache. Sandpapered it down from a blade to something you can live with. Sometimes you still dream of the track, of the smell of rubber and the scream of engines, but you wake up and make coffee and keep studying until the want quiets again.

Lando watches you for a second. He sees things other people don’t — always has.

“You good?” he asks, voice soft now, like it used to be when he’d sneak out to meet you by the tire stacks after dark.

You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “What are you working on?”

You sigh and flip your notebook toward the screen. “Chemical compounds. I’ve got a practical on Monday. Enantiomers, ketones, the whole gang.”

He makes a face. “Nerd.”

“National treasure,” you correct, dryly. “And future doctor, maybe.”

He lights up at that. “Sick. You can be my medic when I crash.”

You roll your eyes. “So I’ll see you, what, every weekend?”

“Exactly,” he says, smug. “We’re soulmates, remember?”

You want to say, you with the stupid grin, you with the disaster curls, you with the heartbeat I could always find in the noise.But instead, you shake your head and say, “God help your insurance.”

He laughs, throws his head back, bares every tooth like he always does. There’s a soft curve in the center of his front two that never straightened out, even after braces. You used to tell him he looked like a Labrador when he smiled like that. You still think it now, but it feels like something tender and sacred, like a memory you keep pressed between pages.

“I miss you,” he says, quieter now.

You don’t say I miss the version of me that only exists around you.You just whisper, “Yeah. I know.”

The call ends eventually. It always does. But you sit there for a while after, your notebook untouched, watching the ghost of his smile in your screen’s reflection.

You’re twenty-one and a half when Lando sneaks into your college graduation. You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy sweating in your robe, clutching your diploma like it might disappear, wondering if your cap looks stupid in photos. Your parents wave from the stands, your friends cheer, and you try to hold still long enough to soak it in — but it never lands quite right. Everything feels too big, too loud, too fast.

Until he finds you.

Until he hugs you from behind and says, low in your ear, “Told you you’d look cool in a cape.”

You twist around, and there he is, in a hoodie pulled low over those unmistakable curls, sunglasses at night like the world’s worst disguise. His smile is crooked, tired. Familiar.

“What the fuck,” you whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”

He grins wider. “I skipped media day.”

Your jaw drops.

“Shhh,” he adds, holding a finger to your lips. “I’ll get yelled at later. Worth it.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or hit him. So you do both —thump his arm, then drag him into a hug, still warm from the sun and whatever it means to grow up.

He stays through the party, tucked into the background, stealing finger food and smiling like he’s always belonged. He doesn’t pull attention the way he does on track. Here, he just… exists beside you. Quietly. Constantly. Every time you turn around, he’s already looking.

Later, long after the music dies and your parents have gone to bed, the two of you end up on the grass in your front yard, barefoot, robes ditched, diplomas crumpled somewhere behind you. The stars are blurry, a little from distance, a little from everything else.

He lies flat on his back, arms spread like a kid making snow angels, and says, “I’ve got a flight in two hours.”

You hum. “FP1?”

He nods.

You both fall quiet. The silence between you has never been uncomfortable. It stretches like elastic, worn in with years of knowing — from tire stacks and afterschool karting, from night tracks and vending machines, from every version of growing up that had the other curled into its corner.

“I’m scared,” you admit, finally. “For med school.”

Lando turns his head to look at you. You’re lying close, your hair fanned out against the grass, fingers plucking gently at the blades. You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel them on you. The color of seafoam, soft in the dark. The kind that still knocks the breath out of you when you're not bracing for it.

“You’ll be great.”

You scoff. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

There’s a rustle of denim and hoodie fabric, and then he’s sitting up, pulling something from his pocket. A worn-out square of photo paper, crumpled and soft at the edges. He presses it into your hand.

You blink. It’s a picture of the two of you, age nine, arms thrown around each other in the pit lane. His curls are messy and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks stretched in a grin so big you can count every tooth. You’re buried in his side, beaming up at him like he hung the sky. Lando’s holding a trophy, but even then, he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at you.

“You gave me your gummy worms right after that,” he says. “Said I earned it.”

You run your thumb over the crease down the middle. The image is faded now, but you remember the moment like it’s stitched into you.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like gravity. “Because we’re soulmates. And I feel it in my bones.”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t.

The stars above you scatter like sugar across navy velvet. Your eyes sting.

“You know,” you say after a while, voice low, “If you crash, I’ll be the one stitching you back together.”

He grins. Not his media-trained one — not the sharp, rehearsed smile he wears under paddock lights — but the real one. The one that splits across his face without warning. That bares all his teeth like he’s never learned to hold anything back. That’s lived on every page of your memory since you were old enough to chase him across a track.

“That’s hot,” he teases.

You roll your eyes. “You’re a nightmare.”

“But I’m your nightmare.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

It’s always been him. Him with eyes that shift with the light, that catch everything, that still find you first.

You with your goggles and your notebooks. Him with his fireproof gloves and nowhere to land.

You, who traded circuits for classrooms.

Him, who never stopped circling back to you.

He looks at you like he always has, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. You think maybe you believe him.

That you’ll be okay.

Because he said so. Because he always shows up. Because he’s flying across the world in an hour, but somehow, you’ve never felt more grounded.

At twenty-three, he invites you to Monaco.

You’re dead on your feet when he calls. It’s nearly midnight and you’re cramming for your pathology exam, cross-eyed from the fluorescent lighting in your apartment. You don’t even remember what you said exactly; something like “med school is killing me and I swear to God I haven’t seen the sun in four days.” Laughed it off with the tired grin he knows too well.

You forgot it by morning.

He didn’t.

Now, a week later, you’re barefoot on his balcony, letting the gold-tinged air sink into your skin as the sun sets over the Riviera. The track lies sprawled beneath you like a secret. The sea beyond it glints like something ancient, something wild.

Your breath hitches without meaning to.

“I used to dream about racing this track,” you say, barely above a whisper. “When I was fifteen, I’d watch the onboard cams on my laptop and try to memorize every corner. I knew the lines like poetry.”

Beside you, Lando is quiet. But when you glance over, there’s a glint in his eye, the one that always spelled trouble. Or magic. Or both. His curls are pushed back haphazardly, like he ran a hand through them too many times on the flight, but there’s still that boyishness, untamed and familiar.

“What?” you ask warily.

He doesn’t answer. Just grabs your wrist. “C’mon.” “Lando—” “No time. Let’s go.”

You barely have time to yank on your sneakers before he’s dragging you out the door, past the sleepy concierge and down the quiet streets like he’s done it a thousand times. He takes sharp turns with muscle memory, his fingers tight around yours.

Only when the city’s noise has thinned and the streetlights spill onto the famous asphalt do you realize where you are.

“Lando,” you whisper. “We can’t—” “We’re not driving,” he grins. “Just running it. Like when we were kids, remember?" “FIA—” “Would fine me until my hair turns gray.” He pauses. “Still worth it.”

Your heart kicks against your ribs, but your legs are already moving.

You run.

Past Sainte Devote, hair flying behind you. Past the casino, your laughter ricocheting off elegant facades. You’re breathless by the tunnel, aching by the chicane, but he’s still pulling you like he did when you were kids and he insisted you could make it to the top of that hill if you just didn’t stop.

The air smells like salt and speed.

By the time you reach the harbor, your lungs are burning and your face is flushed and he’s glowing, cheeks pink, smile wide, teeth bared like he’s daring the night to find a brighter joy than this. He looks every bit like the boy you fell in love with fifteen years ago.

The one with grass stains on his overalls. The one whose curls never obeyed a comb. The one who grinned like mischief itself. The one whose eyes — not blue, not quite green — shimmered like someone had taken watercolors and washed them into something soft and stupidly beautiful.

You stop, breathless. He does too.

And for a second, it feels like everything’s still. Like the world just pressed pause.

Later, you sit at the edge of the marina, legs swinging over the water. Your shoes are abandoned on the dock. The air is heavy with the scent of engine oil and sea spray. The waves slap gently against the boats, like applause winding down after a show.

Beside you, Lando says nothing. But you feel him watching. And when you turn, he’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before.

But of course he has. He’s seen you in worse light: that post-rain haze in your old garage, your hair frizzed to hell and braces catching on your lower lip, oil on your jeans and mud on your ankles. He’s seen you bleary-eyed on FaceTime at 3AM. He’s seen you panicking over exams, crying in the paddock, snorting over bad pizza and better jokes.

Still, he looks at you now like he forgot the color of your laugh until this exact moment brought it back. His hair hangs loose over his forehead, still damp from the run, and the way his mouth twitches — almost a grin, almost not — makes your stomach turn over.

He bumps your knee with his.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Better than okay.” “You looked happy back there.” “I was happy back there.” “Good.” He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I miss that.”

You glance at him, surprised.

“Miss what?”

“You. Like that.” He exhales, eyes trained on the moon's reflection on the water. “Laughing. Running. Being ridiculous with me.”

You don’t say anything.

He does.

“I miss you all the time,” he says, voice low. “Even when I’m with you.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re always somewhere else now. In your books. In your head. In hospitals I can’t pronounce.”

Your heart tugs at the edges. He doesn’t sound bitter. Just tired. Honest.

“I get it,” he adds. “It’s important. It matters. But sometimes I think about that summer when we were fifteen, and you stole my hoodie, and we made fake pit passes just to sneak into the garage.”

You laugh, quiet. “We were so stupid.”

“We were so happy.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s full. Like the city’s holding its breath.

You look over at him. Really look.

His lashes are darker now. His jaw’s sharper. A lock of hair curls against his temple, untamed. But he’s still him. Still the boy in the mud, the boy who taught you how to drift on your cousin’s farm, who shared his Capri-Sun at the track because you forgot yours, again. Still the one who taped your wrist when you wiped out in the rain and told you you’d make it to Monaco someday.

And here you are.

“Lando,” you murmur. “Yeah?” “I missed you too.”

He doesn’t wait this time.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting years to remember how.

And maybe he has. Maybe you both have.

The world blurs for a moment: the moon climbing higher, the boats bobbing gently below, the buzz of the city dissolving behind you, and all that’s left is him.

All sun-warmed skin and trembling fingers and eyes the color of every good memory — soft-washed, warm, like light bleeding through a window at golden hour.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.

“I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” he whispers.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

You both laugh. Just a little. Just enough.

You’re twenty-five when you catch him watching you from across a hotel room in Japan. There’s a storm outside, low thunder rolling through the glass, and Lando’s shirt is damp from the run to the lobby. His curls are still wet, clinging to his forehead in loose, chaotic swirls. He should be tired — hell, you’re tired — but he’s watching you like you’re something new.

It’s not the first time he’s looked at you like this. Not by a long shot.

He’s never been subtle about it, not when he warms your hands in his pockets on cold walks back from the paddock, not when he lights up the second your name shows up on his phone. He’s the kind of boy who leaves his heart in plain sight, who grins with his whole body, who never learned how to want quietly.

You feel his gaze before you meet it. The kind that makes your chest go a little soft, like the edges of a photograph curling with time.

“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your textbook.

“I’m allowed to,” he replies. “I’m in love with you.”

You blink. Not because you didn’t know — he’s never been subtle — but because of how easily he says it. No drama. No orchestra. Just him. Lando, who once stuck gum in your hair during a twelve-hour drive to Wales. Lando, who whispered you’ve got me into your hair the night your grandmother died. Lando, who still trips over his own shoes in hotel corridors and grins like a child when room service arrives.

You toss a pillow at him. “Say it prettier.”

He catches it one-handed, kaleidoscope eyes glinting in the dim light. Smirks. “You make me want to write poetry, but all I know how to do is drive.”

That shuts you up.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, a blue-green haze in the lightning glow, and he grins wider, like he knows he’s just won something. Like he’d lose a thousand races and still call this the prize.

“Told you,” he murmurs.

There are races, years, chapters.

Seasons where you barely see each other, where you wake up to hotel ceilings and unfamiliar time zones and forget what city you’re in until he kisses your shoulder and mumbles something in a sleep-heavy voice like, It’s Thursday. We’re in Austin. His curls are flattened from sleep, his voice rough at the edges, and his arms still warm from whatever dream he was having.

Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t. You never love him any more or less.

He still gets grumpy when he’s hungry, still laughs at memes from 2014, still buys you the weird flavored gum at petrol stations because you used to love this stuff, remember? Still leans into your space like gravity’s something personal. Still has a grin that cracks through your worst moods like sunlight.

There are cameras. Headlines. Speculations. But you’ve always known who he was.

You know the versions of him that never make it to the press: the quiet frustration of a red flag, the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s nervous, the silence he sinks into after a loss. The way his curls flop over his forehead when he finally takes off his helmet. The way he says your name when he’s scared. The way he finds you in every crowd like it’s instinct. How his eyes — storm-colored, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp — flick to you the second anything starts to feel too loud.

And you’ve always let him. You always will.

He’s thirty-one when you find an old photo in a drawer: the two of you, muddy and grinning, barely ten years old. His curls are a mess, more fluff than form. You’re wearing his jacket, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. Neither of you have front teeth. You’re both sun-drenched and ridiculous.

“God,” you mutter, holding it up to the light. “We were a disaster.”

From the kitchen, he says, “Still are.”

You hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The rustle of his socks on the tile.

“You still love me?” you call, teasing, but not really.

He appears in the doorway, hoodie half-on, spoon in his mouth. He’s older now — jaw more carved, eyes a little softer around the edges — but the grin he gives you is the same one from every memory that matters. That lopsided, toothy thing like he’s always one second from bursting into laughter. A single curl falls against his temple, and for a moment, it’s hard to tell what year it is.

He swallows and says, “I’ll love you even when we’re bones.”

You believe him.

You always have.

A Soft Place To Land - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she came for the quiet—early mornings, silence, and a chance to find herself again. he came to disappear for a while, to bike through villages and forget what his name meant to other people. they weren’t looking for each other. but somehow, they kept meeting in the middle. (7.8k words)

content: slow-burn, mutual pining, found peace, simple life in a cmbyn type town off the grid <3

AN: so guess whose laptop died this weekend lmao :') nice excuse to treat myself to a MacBook finally! I feel like it makes me look extra sexy and mysterious now writing in my local cafe so bet I'm gonna be writing a lot upcoming days as I love looking sexy

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You arrived on a Wednesday. The kind of day that couldn’t commit to a forecast—sun, then shadow, then sun again—like the sky was tired of having an opinion. You came by car, winding your way through soft green hills and sleepy lanes until the town blinked into view, all shuttered windows and ochre rooftops tucked into the countryside like it belonged there before anyone decided to name it.

The cottage was waiting—slightly crooked, painted the kind of pale yellow that looks prettier in late afternoon. Ivy curled around the doorframe like it had been choreographed. Inside, there was no television. No WiFi. A teapot that wheezed when it boiled. A single mirror with cloudy edges and the kind of honest lighting that didn’t forgive. You liked that.

You weren’t fleeing anything dramatic. No messy breakup. No scandal. Just noise—the exhausting static of always being visible but never quite seen. Your old life had grown too curated, too performative. Lately even your laughter felt like it needed approval.

You wanted to be a person again. Quietly. Without audience.

The village made that easy.

It was the kind of place where mornings came slow and honest, dusted in that early golden light that made even the postboxes look charming. You wandered. Bought plums. Forgot your phone. The locals mostly left you alone, except for one old man who kept offering you pickled eggs. You politely declined. Twice.

That’s where you found the bike shop. Not a shop, exactly—just an open garage at the end of a lane. A few rusted frames leaned against the wall like retirees. One of them had lavender handlebars and a charm to it. You reached out.

So did someone else.

There was a brush of fingers—yours and his—and you both flinched.

“Oh—” you said, blinking up.

He was wearing sunglasses too scratched to be functional and a hoodie that looked like it had lived a full life. His sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, and his forearms were tanned and freckled like he hadn’t worn SPF since March. He didn’t look like he was trying. He just... was.

“No, no,” he said quickly, backing up with his palms raised. “Go ahead. You were there first.”

You tilted your head. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, like the thought of arguing offended him personally. “I’ve had my eye on that one for days. But to be fair... I don’t trust the brakes anyway.”

“Ah so you’re just setting me up for an accident.”

“Small town. I could use some entertainment.”

You smiled—just a little. The kind that surprised even you.

He answered with a grin of his own. Slightly crooked. Not polished.

The handlebars were warm in your hands. Sun-soaked. Familiar, somehow.

“Thank you,” you said.

He gave a small nod. “I like the colour. Suits you better.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you didn’t. You wheeled the bike out toward the road, a little unsteady but determined.

He chose a different one—red, with one working pedal and a chip in the paint that gave it character. You glanced over your shoulder once, halfway down the lane.

He was already pedaling the other way.

His hair caught the wind. He tilted his head to the sky like he was letting it carry him.

You didn’t know his name.

…

You spend your time wandering the narrow lanes, sketchbook tucked under your arm, buying odd fruit from crooked stalls, sitting in patches of sunlight like a cat. You don’t know what time it is most of the day. You don’t care.

And you see him.

Always in motion, always a little removed—like he belongs here but hasn’t quite let the place claim him. Sometimes he bikes past humming under his breath, the wire of his headphones tucked messily into his shirt. Other times, he’s walking, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh like he’s thinking through something he’ll never actually say.

You’ve spotted the slim outline of a scratched iPod in his back pocket. The bracelet on his wrist—faded thread, sun-softened red and blue—looks handmade and not in a curated, aesthetic way. Just... worn in. Familiar. Like it was given, not bought.

You catch each other’s eye now and then. Not deliberately. More like the way birds nod at each other from separate fences. A lift of the hand, a small smile. It becomes a rhythm. Not daily. Not planned. Just... familiar. Like heat rising off cobblestones. Or the first scent of bread in the morning.

On the third day, the weather turns.

You wake up to a sky stretched thin with heat. The shutters rattle faintly in their hinges when you close them behind you, and the gravel path crunches with the lazy sound of summer under your shoes.

You head into the village and buy a small paper bag of figs and a loaf of bread still warm enough to make your fingers curl. There’s no rush. No plan. You pause at stalls for longer than usual, breathing in lavender and dust, turning over tomatoes like they might tell you a secret.

Eventually, you duck into the café near the edge of the square just as the first fat drops begin to fall.

It’s barely more than a room. One wall all windows, curtains tied back with string. Five tables, each with a different chair. A counter lined with baskets of sugar cubes and a chalkboard that always says something vague like le soleil revient toujours.

The woman behind it—silver hair twisted into a knot, hands like poetry—gives you a slice of carrot cake without asking.

“Fresh,” she tells you. “C’est bon pour les jours tristes.”

It’s good for sad days.

You sit by the window, the cake warm and sticky with cinnamon. It tastes like something soft inside you remembers.

The bell above the door chimes.

And he’s there.

Hair damp from the rain, curls darker now. His shirt clings slightly at the collarbone, sleeves wrinkled like they’ve been rolled and unrolled all morning. He has his iPod in one hand, the headphones wrapped around it in a way that says he got distracted midway through.

He sees you.

And something about his face stills, but doesn’t change.

You smile first.

This time, he smiles back—full and quiet and entirely sincere.

He glances around—just you, the rain, the hum of a far-off radio. Then he walks over.

“Mind if I...?” he gestures to the chair across from you.

You shake your head. “Please.”

He sits like someone who’s trying not to be in the way. Like he knows how to fold himself small when needed.

The café woman appears without a word and sets down a glass of apple juice in front of him. He blinks. “Wow. Okay.”

You raise a brow. “Apple juice?”

He takes a sip, eyebrows lifting like he’s tasting something from a different era. “Sexy. Mysterious. A little bit fruity.”

You snort into your fork. “That your review or your Tinder bio?”

He grins. “Bit of both. Gave up Tinder though, I just go to tiny cafés now.”

A faint blush creeps on your cheeks and you take another bite of your cake.

“I’m Lando by the way.” He holds his hand out for you to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Lando.” You answer smiling.

The rain tickles the windows like it’s trying to join the conversation.

“So,” he says, leaning his arms on the table, “there’s like 20 people in this town, us included?”

You smirk. “Yesterday, I bought plums from someone who called me la petite perdue, the little lost one, and gave me a free one out of pity.”

“Rough.” He nods gravely. “I asked a guy where to find the best croissants and he told me to ‘go home and learn how to bake.’”

You wince. “Brutal.”

“French.”

“Did you learn how to bake, though?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You both laugh. It’s the kind that hums in your chest, easy and bright and not at all forced.

He glances at your plate. “So? This cake—is it actually good or just charming-village good?”

You study it for a second. “It's like something an aunt makes when guests come over and she wants to pretend she isn’t trying.”

“That’s the best kind.”

You push the plate toward the middle of the table. “Go on.”

He takes a bite without hesitation. Chews. Nods. “Annoyingly comforting.”

“It’s the cinnamon.”

“It’s like crack.” He sits back, tilting his head. “You staying long?”

You lift a shoulder. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I keep waking up feeling a little more like myself.”

He looks at you for a moment longer than is strictly polite.

Then: “Yeah. I get that. Same for me.”

You tilt your head. “Really? What’s your escape-from-the-world backstory?”

He lets out a theatrical sigh. “Was hoping to be reborn as a goat, but mostly I’ve just been eating bread and avoiding my Australian colleague.”

“A noble quest.”

He lifts his juice like a toast. “To secondhand bikes and rainy mornings.”

You clink your fork against his glass. “To language barriers and stale croissants.”

And just like that, the café feels warmer. The space between you looser.

When the rain finally began to slow, the world outside looked washed and reflective. You stood. So did he. The chairs scraped gently against the tile floor, and the café owner gave you both a little nod as you passed.

Your bike was still leaning against the wall, looking the same as it always had: slightly crooked, unapologetically stubborn.

“Still doesn’t brake properly?” he asked, nodding toward it.

You glanced at the frame. “Keeps me on my toes.”

He grinned, eyes a little too knowing. “I respect that.”

You swung a leg over the bike, adjusted your cardigan. He didn’t move. Just watched you like he didn’t really want to leave the frame of this scene yet.

“Well,” he said.

“Well.”

“I’ll see you around, then?”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with something lighter in your chest than before. “You usually do.”

Then you pushed off.

The wheels hummed beneath you as you coasted down the glistening lane, droplets flicking up from the tires, the wind lifting your hair. For a moment, everything—the air, the street, even the puddles—seemed to glow.

…

You wake with the early light, when the shutters spill pale gold across the floorboards like paint from an open jar. The air smells faintly of honeysuckle and the soft charcoal tang of chimney smoke drifting from somewhere higher up the hill. You boil water, steep tea in the chipped mug you brought from home, and walk barefoot across the uneven tiles while the kettle wheezes like an old dog trying to gossip.

Then, tea in hand, you go to the bench.

It’s not much—just a wooden seat with flaking paint, half-swallowed by long grass and perched at the edge of a field where the light always seems to move slower. Like the morning itself hasn't decided what kind of day it wants to be yet. You sit there every day with your sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand, the silence soft and obliging. It doesn’t ask questions. It just keeps you company.

Sketching doesn’t demand anything. It’s a way of looking that feels gentler. Less about perfection, more about presence. It pulls you back when your thoughts drift too far forward or behind. It reminds you—you’re still here.

And almost always, he bikes past.

You’ve learned that his Airbnb is further uphill, on a narrow, winding road that loops lazily through the back of the village. He cycles into town most mornings, allegedly for fruit or pastries, but often—he’ll admit—it’s for nothing at all. 

The conversations started small. Breezy things. Half-thoughts, half-jokes. The kind of talking that fills the air without crowding it.

One morning, Lando pulled up beside the bench and asked—with complete seriousness—what your favourite film was. You said Before Sunrise. He said Fantastic Mr. Fox.

“That tracks,” you murmured, and he cracked a grin—bright and boyish and slightly crooked. You thought about that laugh for the rest of the day.

Lately, he lingers.

He slows down more, even when he doesn’t plan to stop. Sometimes, he leans his forearms against the back of your bench and watches your pencil move, offering oddly specific commentary like, “That tree looks like my mate Oscar,” or “This cloud feels like it would judge me in a job interview.”

You never look at him when he says silly things like that. But you always smile.

Some mornings, he brings you things. Once, a bruised nectarine. Another time a wrinkled leaflet for a jazz concert that had happened last year. One day, you asked what he was listening to on his iPod and he just said, “Early One Direction. But like, the deep cuts.” before cycling off with a wink.

You learn his rhythm. The way he hums on the downhill stretch. The way he says bonjour to the same grumpy cat outside the bakery. The way his hair curls at the nape of his neck when it’s humid. The bracelet he always wears—faded thread, frayed at the edge. How he never finishes a full pastry but always offers you the last bite.

You don’t know what to call it yet. This something. This him. But you’re starting to notice how much softer the mornings feel when he’s part of them.

And how strange it is to miss someone you never planned to see at all.

Then, one morning, he surprises you.

You’re sketching the tree line again, pencil balanced between your fingers, when a shadow lands softly over your knees.

You glance up.

He’s standing beside the bench, holding something in both hands—a mug. Not new, not pristine. Blue glaze around the rim, a daisy painted off-center. It looks like it came from a kitchen where the cupboards don’t match and no one minds.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just offers it out, his fingers curved gently around the handle.

“I saw this at the market,” he says, casual. “Figured it looked close enough to the one you chipped.”

You blink once, then again. It’s too early for your guard to be all the way up.

“You bought me a mug?”

Lando shrugs, like it’s not a thing. “Didn’t want you drinking out of something that might slice your lip open. Don’t even know if they have a doctor in this little town.”

You take it slowly, letting your fingers brush his just slightly. It’s warm.

“You’re very committed to my safety.”

“Some might say I’m an empath,” he says, trying to keep a straight-face. “You don’t have to look so surprised.”

You crack a smile.

He sits beside you, completely uninvited. Just like that. “Brought one for myself too, if you don’t mind”

His knee knocks yours as he shifts to grab another mug and a thermos from his bag. Neither of you adjust.

The breeze moves through the field, brushing the tall grass flat for half a second before it lifts again. You raise the mug to your lips and take a slow sip.

It tastes a little better than usual.

“Do you always make that face when you’re sketching?”

You didn’t look up. “What face?”

He coasted to a slow stop in the grass and launched straight into an over-the-top impersonation—lips scrunched, brows furrowed, eyes slightly crossed.

You glanced sideways. “Is that supposed to be me?”

He kept going. “I must... channel the essence of this leaf. I must suffer... for texture.”

You snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”

He grinned. “Come on, you do have a whole look. Very funny. I respect the commitment.”

You shook your head, pencil still moving. “Right. Says the guy who bikes around looking like he’s in Call Me By Your Name.”

He leaned on the back of the bench, smug as anything. “I can’t help it if I look like a movie star, darling.”

You gave him a side-eye. “So humble.”

“I don’t hear you disagreeing with me.”

You laughed, soft and unwilling. He didn’t say anything else—just stayed close, quiet, easy in your orbit. And your pencil kept moving, but the corners of your mouth hadn’t stopped lifting since he arrived.

He leans back, his arm resting casually along the back of the bench. His bracelet slides a little on his wrist, thread faded in the center.

A few minutes pass like that—his presence quiet but close, your pencil moving in soft lines. He smells faintly of laundry powder and sunscreen.

…

You are secretly thrilled to see him that morning.

You’re at your usual bench, sketchbook open, tea warm in your hands, the sun already softening the edges of your linen trousers. The field hums. You’re halfway through the slant of a tree that never quite sits still when you hear tires crunching over the path.

You look up.

It’s him.

Same bike. Different shirt. Canvas bag slung over one shoulder, baguette sticking out the top like he’s been personally styled by a charming cliché. He squints through the light, already grinning.

“Still terrorizing that poor tree?” he calls.

You glance at your page. “It has character.”

He rolls to a stop beside you. “It’s been, what—four days?”

“It has a lot of personality,” you say, straight-faced.

“Oh, well then. If that’s what you are looking for, I’ve got loads of personality for you.” He says with a cheeky wink.

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Sit still long enough to be sketched? Please.”

He swings a leg off his bike with flair. “I could try. But I’d probably get hungry halfway through.”

He lifts the canvas bag like it’s a grand prize. “Speaking of—come with me.”

You eye the baguette. “That your sales pitch?”

“Bread and charm. I’m working with what I’ve got.”

“And where exactly are we going?”

“That wildflower field past the creek. You need new inspiration. This tree deserves a break. I need breakfast.”

“You’ve been watching me sketch long enough to have opinions now?”

“I’m observant. It’s a hidden skill. I’ve built a whole career out of reading lines and curves.”

You catch it. The quiet drop of something—easy, offhand, like he assumed you already knew.

But you don’t ask. You just stand, close your sketchbook, and tuck it under your arm.

Lando watches you with a flicker of curiosity—like he’s waiting for the question that never comes.

“And you’re getting me there how, exactly?”

He pats the cross bar of the bike. “Hop on.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious about snacks. And this blanket’s not going to carry itself.”

You hesitate, heart skipping—not with fear, but anticipation. You jump on the bar.

“Hold tight,” he says, kicking off.

“Oh my God.”

He laughs, arm instinctively sliding around your waist. “Relax. Worst case, we fall into a bush.”

“You’re not even holding the handlebars properly.”

“I’m multi-talented,” he says, steering with one hand, humming under his breath.

The path dips and curves. Wind brushes your face. And for the next five minutes, you feel like you’ve been dropped into the part of a summer film right before the music swells.

…

The wildflower field is even beautiful and bright.

He rolls the bike into the grass like it’s muscle memory, drops the bag beside it, and pulls out a folded blanket with the confidence of someone who’s done this before.

“I’m genuinely impressed you remembered a blanket,” you say, eyeing the setup.

He shrugs, casually smug. “Some of us come prepared.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a planning-ahead kind of guy.”

“Among other hidden talents,” he says, casually flicking a grape your way. “Thought you might’ve Googled me by now.”

You catch the grape, just barely. “Wild to think I find you that interesting.”

He grins. “What if I’m a fugitive criminal and that’s why I’m out here, hiding.”

You hum. “I’ll think I prefer to remain in the dark about that.”

His eyes catch yours, teasing but quieter now. “You’re not even a little bit tempted to look me up right now?”

“Even less than before. For all I care you are the crown prince of Denmark, you are still an annoying little shit.”

He grins amused and grabs another grape.

You kick off your shoes and sit beside him, brushing your hair behind your ears.

“You ever bring anyone else here?” you ask, eyeing the setup—peaches in syrup, cheese, a suspiciously artisanal jar of jam.

He hands you a napkin. “No one. Only few get to experience my special seduction peaches.”

You almost spit your tea. “You did not just say that.”

“Oh, I absolutely did. You compared me to that Timothée movie the other day—so really, this is on you.”

Before you can respond, Lando plucks a flower from the grass and tucks it behind his ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he looks at you, smug and unbothered.

“What do you think? Suits the vibe, right?”

You give him a slow once-over. “You’re pushing it.”

“Sure,” he says, adjusting it with mock precision. “I think it makes my eyes pop quite nicely though, don’t you?”

You snort. “You always fish this hard for compliments?”

He shrugs, casual as ever. “Only from you.”

You roll your eyes at him but fail to hide your smile.  

Lando unpacks slowly, casually—like this is all just something that happened to him, not something he planned. You let him talk about how he once tried to make focaccia and accidentally started a small kitchen fire. He lets you tell the story of the time you asked a Parisian barista for a boyfriend instead of a straw.

“Did he offer his number?”

“No. He laughed and said ‘bonne chance.’”

He tips his head back and laughs, a full sound that seems to ripple out into the field.

You lie back beside him, full of cheese and sunlight. The grass is soft, the breeze lazy, and for the first time in ages, you feel completely still.

Your fingers rest close but don’t touch. His eyes are closed, lashes long, expression relaxed. There’s a smudge of jam near the corner of his mouth. The bracelet on his wrist has slid halfway down his forearm.

You look at him—not because he’s objectively handsome, though he is—but because being around him doesn’t feel like something you have to manage. He doesn’t need anything from you. He just shows up. With jokes. With peaches. With warmth.

You’re not used to that. But you’re starting to think maybe you could be.

You turn your face toward the sky.

And for a second, you let the quiet hold you both.

…

You don’t sleep that night.

Not for lack of trying. You go through all the motions—face washed, teeth brushed, window cracked open just enough to let the breeze curl across the floor. You even do the thing where you flip the pillow to the cooler side, hoping your body will take the hint.

It doesn’t.

Your legs still feel sun-drunk and grass-damp. Your hands remember the weight of the baguette you both pretended not to take seriously. Your chest, somehow, still echoes with the sound of his laugh—low and delighted and very much not meant for anyone else.

And your mind won’t stop showing you that moment again.

Lando. The field. His shoulder just barely brushing yours. That ridiculous flower tucked behind his ear. The way he looked when he wasn’t talking—just… there. Loose-limbed and open. Hair a mess. Bracelet slipping halfway down his arm. Eyes closed like the sun belonged to him.

You shift under the covers. Still no good.

Eventually, you slip out of bed.

Barefoot and quiet, you cross the tiles to the kitchen. The lamp above the stove gives off a soft yellow glow. The house creaks once as if noticing you’re up.

Your sketchbook is right where you left it—on the nightstand, corner bent slightly from use. You carry it with you like muscle memory and sit at the little table with your legs tucked under, pencil already balanced between your fingers.

You don’t plan what you’re going to draw.

You just start.

It begins with his posture. Easy. Familiar now. Then the curve of his neck where the sun had kissed it pink. The line of his mouth—not posed, just relaxed. And that flower. Silly and lovely. You add it carefully, even though it makes you laugh under your breath again.

You sketch the hills in the background, the fold of the blanket, the half-bitten baguette lying next to him like a punchline.

Your hand moves without asking your permission. Your pencil seems to know the parts of him that mattered. The crinkle near his eye when he made you laugh. The line of his jaw when he leaned back and said something that made your chest buzz in that quiet, dangerous way.

You sit back when it’s done, but you don’t close the book.

You just look at him.

Something in your chest lets go a little.

And then—without really meaning to—you start flipping through the older pages.

Tree trunks. Hills. Sunlight. Quiet things. But now you’re noticing shapes that weren’t the focus at the time. A shadow leaning against a bench. The outline of a bike resting just off-frame. Coffee mugs.

You frown a little. Then smile, too.

Because he’s been showing up longer than you thought.

And now he’s here, on the page in front of you, taking up space like he always belonged there.

…

You didn’t sleep—not really.

One of those nights where you lay still for hours, heart too loud, sheets too warm, brain spinning in loops you couldn’t name. You kept thinking of the field, of the flowers brushing your ankles, of the way his laugh curled around your spine. And of his knees—close, brushing yours like it didn’t mean anything. Like it meant everything.

When morning finds you, it does so unkindly.

The light is too sharp. Your limbs are stiff with something leftover from the night before—restlessness, maybe, or the quiet ache of wanting.

You sit up slowly. The room smells like warm wood and the tea you didn’t finish yesterday.

You skip the kettle.

Too gentle. Too slow. You need caffeine. 

You pull on whatever’s nearby—a linen shirt, a pair of sandals—and grab your bag from the hook. Your sketchbook is tucked inside, the top corner of the latest page still slightly curled from where your hand lingered too long the night before. It’s warm from the sunlit table. Warm from you.

It’s quiet in the village. That early, golden hush that only comes once the birds have tired themselves out and the people haven’t started yet. Everything smells like stone and heat and thyme. You walk without much thought. First slow, then a little faster. Like maybe if you keep moving, your thoughts won’t catch up.

The café is open. It always is.

You go straight to the counter and order an espresso without looking up. Your voice is quieter than usual. Automatic. The barista nods. The machine hisses.

You shift your bag on your shoulder. Fumble in the front pocket for coins.

The sketchbook slips.

You don’t hear it.

You’re too busy remembering the shape of his grin.

You pay. Say merci. Take your espresso and go.

Behind you, the sketchbook lies open on the counter, a breeze flipping the top page like it wants someone—anyone—to look.

…

You take the long way home. Not on purpose. Not really.

Your legs just keep going—past the chapel with the wonky bell, past the grocer unloading crates of apricots that smell like sun, past the bakery with its windows fogged from the morning batch.

You sip slowly. The espresso is sharp and bitter and unkind but also everything you needed.

When you pass the bench, it’s empty. You don’t stop. You don’t even glance toward the road that loops up the hill.

But halfway home, you freeze.

That ache in your chest returns—low, pulling. Something’s off.

You reach for your bag. Dig past your wallet, the folded napkin from yesterday’s market, a spare pencil.

No sketchbook.

You stop walking.

Check again.

Slower this time. More methodical. Like maybe it’ll appear if you’re careful enough.

It doesn’t.

Your stomach drops.

You whisper to yourself, trying to backtrack. “I had it. I know I had it. I remember taking it.”

And then it hits you.

The café.

You’re already running.

…

The bell above the café door jangled sharply as you burst in. The barista looked up, startled.

“Excusez-moi,” you said, slightly out of breath.  “Vous auriez trouvé un carnet, par hasard ? Je l’ai peut-être oublié ce matin.” (Excuse me, did you happen to find a notebook? I might’ve left it here this morning.)

She blinked, then frowned slightly. “Un carnet… genre un cahier ?” (A notebook… like a journal?)

You nodded. “Oui, un carnet à dessin. Noir. Je l’ai sûrement laissé sur le comptoir.” (Yes, a sketchbook. Black. I probably left it on the counter.)

She glanced around, lifted the napkin holder, checked behind the coffee machine. “J’ai rien vu, désolée. Mais y’a eu pas mal de monde après vous.” (Didn’t see anything, sorry. But there were quite a few people after you.)

Your stomach dipped.

“D’accord… merci quand même,” you murmured. (Alright… thanks anyway.)

“Pas de souci,” she said gently, already returning to the machine. (No worries.)

Your eyes scan the tables. The chairs. Every quiet shadow. But it’s gone.

Really, truly gone.

You step outside slowly. The sun is too high now, the village too awake. The world feels like it’s pressing in from all angles.

You sit on the stone step outside the café, espresso forgotten. The cup sweats in your palm.

You don’t drink it.

You just... sit.

Your breath is shallow. Not panicked, exactly. But cracked at the edges.

You think of the pages—your pages.

Not just trees or windows or bowls of fruit. But him.

The slope of his neck. The way the sun hit the side of his face when he laughed. The soft curve of his hand resting near yours.

The flower behind his ear. That ridiculous moment he wore it like a crown and said something about giving you something to look at.

And now someone else might be looking.

You walk home in silence.

You check the house. The table. The windowsill. Your bed. You check the chair you always leave it on, like maybe—maybe—you forgot and imagined everything else.

But you didn’t.

It’s not there.

…

After the café, you try to reset.

You tell yourself it’s just a notebook. Just paper. Just lines and impressions. You’ve lost things before. It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s not everything.

You throw on your sandals, tug your bag over your shoulder, and head for the market—not because you need anything, but because standing still might make your chest cave in. You need noise. Fruit stalls. Shouting. Old men debating over melons. Something that reminds you how to be in your body.

The sun is already high, painting your shoulders gold. The rhythm of the stalls is comforting in its own strange way—baskets rustling, paper bags crinkling, the clink of coins and easy bonjours. You watch someone tear a baguette with their teeth. You buy a peach.

It’s soft in your palm, a little too ripe. You brush your thumb over the fuzz, trying to ground yourself in something small.

That’s when you hear it.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here this early," someone says behind you, casual like he’s been here all along.

You turn.

Lando’s leaning on his bike one-handed, an apple in the other, already half-eaten. He’s in a worn navy tee, curls pushed up by his sunglasses, grinning like he’s not even trying.

You blink at him. "I could say the same. You don’t strike me as a morning person."

He shrugs, taking another bite. "Very true. Thought I’d do something different today. Blend in. Be a local."

You eye his trainers and canvas bag. "Yeah. Totally inconspicuous."

“The very British sunburn really sells it,” he says, pointing to his red cheeks.

You snort. Keep walking. He pushes the bike beside you like it’s second nature now.

"You doing the full lap?" he asks.

"Haven’t decided. Just needed to move."

"Same. Mostly I’m out here hoping something vaguely interesting happens."

"And?"

He holds up the apple. "Might’ve peaked already."

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. He bumps your shoulder, just barely.

The breeze catches the hem of your dress. A tomato vendor yells something in French about someone’s parking spot. Lando steals a grape off a display like he owns the place.

You’re halfway past the cheese stand when he glances at you. “So you’re not sketching today.”

Your whole body goes still.

“Lost it,” you say, like it’s no big deal. “My sketchbook. Think I left it at the café. Was gone when I went back.”

Lando stops walking.

Then, slowly, he pulls the tote around from his shoulder and fishes something out.

“It looked something like this, right?”

Your eyes land on it—your sketchbook, worn at the edges, a smudge of charcoal on the corner.

You freeze. “No way.”

He flips it once in his hands. “Way.”

You reach for it, but he takes a step back, grin deepening. “Oi, snatching? Not even a thank you first?”

“I was getting there,” you say, eyes narrowing.

“Sure you were,” he says, flipping the cover open. “Let’s see all those trees you’ve been staring at in the past week.”

“Don’t—”

“Oh, I’m already in.” His grin stretches wider as he glances down. But then it falters—just slightly. Like the air shifts.

And then he looks up at you.

The teasing’s gone now, folded away somewhere beneath the warmth in his voice. He closes the sketchbook gently, hands holding it like it might bruise if he let it fall. “I just wanted to see if you drew the wildflowers already.”

You don’t say anything. Not because you don’t want to—but because something about the way he’s looking at you makes the words wait.

Soft confusion. A hint of something quieter underneath. A flicker of disbelief, maybe.

“I can’t believe you actually drew me,” he says, like it’s only just hitting him.

You want to joke. Deflect. Say something casual and light. But your throat feels too full. Your fingers fidget near the edge of your skirt.

He reopens it and looks down at the page again, as if he was expecting it to have disappeared.

“Not just a little sketch either,” he adds, thumb brushing the edge of the paper. “You didn’t just... doodle me. You saw me.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“You’re kind of hard to miss.” You half joke, trying to lighten the thick and heavy air that had dawned between the two of you. 

He breathes out—half-laugh, half-question. “I didn’t know I looked like that.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Like what?”

He squints down at the drawing again, shifting the sketchbook in his hands.

There’s colour on his cheeks now. His voice is softer. “You got everything. My awful posture. The weird way I hold my hands. Even the mole I always forget is there.”

He smiles faintly. “It’s kind of weird, how much that gets to me.”

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. Because it’s written in the line of your shoulders, in the way your breath catches and holds still.

He straightens a little, pressing a palm flat over the closed cover like he’s anchoring it.

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat like he needs a reset, “That’s enough vulnerability for one market morning.”

You raise a brow.

He nods solemnly. “Look at me, being cool and composed and absolutely not affected.”

You laugh, finally.

He grins like he’s been waiting to see that. Then he shifts his bike with one hand, the sketchbook still tucked in his other arm like it’s something he's meant to carry.

You walk slowly now, shoes scuffing along the uneven stones. Your shoulder bumps his once. Then again. Neither of you pulls away.

You look up just as he glances over, lashes low, smile lazy, that tiny smug tilt creeping back in.

But now you know what’s underneath it.

And maybe he’s glad you do.

…

The walk to his cottage that evening is quiet.

You take the long route through the trees, basket swinging at your hip. The sky is blushing, the whole village exhaling after the heat of the day. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes, louder in the hush that settles around you. The afternoon still lingers on your skin. So does the sketchbook.

His door is ajar when you reach it.

You knock once.

“Come in,” he calls, a clatter following—a pot lid, probably, hitting the floor.

You step inside.

His cottage is smaller than yours, but warm in a wonky, lived-in way. One wall leans slightly. The light is golden, catching on the edges of hanging mugs and cluttered spice jars. There’s a low hum of wordless music playing from a vintage speaker in the corner. Something soft and jazzy. Something that matches the air.

Lando appears barefoot, damp curls still tousled from a shower, grey sweatpants slung too casually low, a t-shirt faded at the seams. There’s a smear of flour near his wrist. The towel on his shoulder has a questionable stain on one corner.

“You’re exactly on time,” he says, tossing the towel at the counter. “I was just ruining dinner.”

You lift an eyebrow. “I can see that.”

He waves a wooden spoon. “Rude. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn to salvage things.”

You join him by the stove. There are garlic skins everywhere and one tomato that looks like it’s been crushed in a fit of rage.

“Wow,” you say. “It looks like a proper crime scene in here.”

He grins, handing you the spoon. “It’s artisanal. You wouldn’t get it.”

You fall into step beside him—chopping, stirring, nudging each other out of the way. It’s chaotic in a way that feels easy.

“Is that jam? In the pasta sauce?”

He stirs, unfazed. “Might be. Might not. Who’s to say?”

You sigh. “You’re ridiculous.”

He winks. “Ridiculously sexy, though.” 

“You would be in jail in Italy for this.”

He nudges you with his elbow. “No way. It will be super good."

You raise an eyebrow trying to contain your laughter.

"If I mess this up, you’ll have to come over again. For redemption dinner.”

You laugh under your breath. “So this is a trap?”

“Obviously,” he says, smiling like it’s already worked. 

You shake your head, fighting the grin. “I’m just here to file the incident report.”

He laughs—easy, boyish. “Sure. That’s why you’re here.”

You nudge him with your hip, but you’re smiling now, and so is he.

There’s a beat where everything feels suspended—like the world’s trying to decide whether to lean in or let go.

Dinner, somehow, becomes edible. Better than edible, actually. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth. Or maybe just him.

You eat perched on the stools at his narrow counter, knees bumping, plates resting on mismatched placemats. The music hums low. The wine he poured earlier—without asking—sits mostly untouched between you.

You scrape the bottom of your bowl, trying not to admit how good it all is.

The conversation drifts. Then slows. The air thickens, not in a heavy way—just... heavier than before.

You run your finger along the rim of your plate.

“I like this,” you say, quieter now.

“The failed pasta?”

You shake your head. “This. The whole thing. With you.”

He leans his elbow on the counter, watching you. There’s something less cheeky in his eyes now. But not serious, not exactly. Just a different kind of focused.

“I don’t even know when everything started feeling like a performance,” you murmur. “I don’t know. It’s nice to be here and not worry if I’m being too much or not enough.”

He sets his fork down. Fingers loose, gentle. 

“I get that,” he says. “Sometimes I walk into a room and feel like half of me’s already there. The one people expect. Loud, easy, fast. And then someone says something like ‘I feel like I know you,’ and I want to ask them which version.” 

You glance at him, a smile tugging at your mouth before you finish. “It’s nice to really let go and not having to try so hard.”

His gaze doesn’t move. “You don’t have to try at all.”

You blink.

“And that’s not me being smooth,” he adds, lips curving. “Okay, mostly not me being smooth.”

You nudge his leg lightly with your knee. “Mostly?”

He shrugs, letting it sit.

“You are so wonderful. I could watch you like this for hours,” he says. “And still feel like I’m missing something.”

You finish eating slowly, forks scraping the last of the pasta as the music hums behind you, low and warm. Neither of you rushes to clear the plates—there’s something easy about sitting there, knees bumping, the last of the wine forgotten between you.

Eventually, you both get up, brushing shoulders as you move around the narrow kitchen. He rinses the dishes. You dry. There’s a rhythm to it, quiet and unspoken.

And then—he reaches for a bowl at the same time you do.

Your hands brush. Not by accident.

You look up.

He’s close now. Closer than before. The counter feels smaller suddenly. The music softer. The room warmer.

He doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

His voice is low, playful, but there's something underneath it. “That thing you do with your rings... is that a tell?”

Your brow lifts slightly. “Do what?”

“You’re fidgeting, darling,” he says. “And have been for the past couple of minutes.”

Your mouth curves despite yourself. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.” His fingers skim lightly over yours, still damp from the sink. “You’re a terrible liar.”

And then—he stands straighter. Like a decision’s just been made.

He lifts a hand to your cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair back, his knuckles warm where they linger.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb moves gently, tilting your chin. “You make me a bit nervous too.” he murmurs, grinning just enough to be trouble.

“Tell me to stop.”

You breathe in. Just once.

Then, “Please don’t.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Slow. Like he’s not in a hurry, but also like he’s been thinking about this every night since the first time you smirked at him from that bench.

You sink into it.

His other hand finds your waist, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you need to hold on to something solid.

His lips part slightly. So do yours. He exhales into you, and the air around you shifts again—fizzing, slow-burning, like a spark finally catching.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, he doesn’t move.

Just rests his forehead lightly against yours.

“You good?” he asks, voice somewhere between careful and cocky.

You nod. “Still think you’re terrible at pasta.”

He grins. “Fine. But undeniable at kissing.”

“Cocky,” you say, smiling against his mouth.

“Only when I’m right.”

He kisses you again—deeper this time, more sure. One hand still at your waist, the other slipping behind your neck.

And you let yourself have it. The heat of him. The weight of it. The way his body presses into yours like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

Because maybe it is.

…

You wake in his arms.

Not in some cinematic, sun-drenched way—no birdsong, no breeze gently billowing the curtains. Just warmth. Slow and steady. The hush of his breath tucked against the back of your neck, the weight of his arm heavy across your waist, the sheets tangled somewhere near your knees. The room smells like sleep mixed with his cologne. 

You stretch slightly, and his grip tightens instinctively.

“You awake?” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Mm.”

You shift, slowly, until you’re facing him. His eyes open, half-lidded and soft, focus still finding its way. And then—there it is. That lazy little smile, the kind that feels more like a secret than a greeting.

“Morning,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Hi.”

The quiet between you isn’t awkward. It’s padded. Safe.

“I think,” you say, eyelids still heavy, “your pasta disaster got redeemed.”

He lets out a sleepy huff. “Told you. Charm and chaos. Balanced recipe.”

You smile, tucking yourself closer. He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him until your head fits into the crook of his shoulder. His fingers trail lightly down your spine, just under the hem of the hoodie you’re still wearing—his hoodie, which he definitely hasn’t asked for back and is definitely not mad about seeing on you.

You stay like that a while. No talking. No rush. Just letting the morning hold you.

“I get why people never leave places like this,” he murmurs eventually.

You tilt your chin up, just slightly. “Because of the views?”

He pauses.

“Because of the mornings.”

And he doesn’t say more than that—but the quiet lingers with meaning, like maybe this is new for him too. Not just the waking up like this, but the wanting to.

Then—because of course—there’s a doorbell.

He groans into the pillow. “This place doesn’t even have a doorbell.”

You’re already pushing yourself upright, sleeves covering your hands. He swings his legs over the bed, the light catching the lines of his shoulders, his chest. It’s kind of rude, honestly.

You throw him a look. “You’re going down there like that? Just underwear?”

He shrugs, already walking. “If it’s the postman, he’s earned a little joy.”

You follow barefoot, hoodie sleeves tugged over your knuckles, hair messy, heart full of something that’s just starting to make sense.

He opens the door.

Oscar.

Holding his phone, keys dangling from his fingers, and an expression that sits somewhere between unimpressed and deeply unsurprised.

“There he is,” Oscar says flatly. “The missing child.”

Lando blinks. “Hi.”

“Hi. Zac says hi, too. You’ve gone full ghost mode for a week and a half now, and considering you’re allergic to not being online, we assumed you’d fallen down a ravine.”

Lando leans against the doorframe, completely calm. “Define fallen.”

Oscar opens his mouth—but then he spots you.

And you, still half-tucked behind Lando, offer the kind of smile that says: yes, this is awkward. No, you’re not sorry.

Oscar squints. His gaze drops to the hoodie. He exhales through his nose.

“Knew you had to be sticking around for a reason.”

Lando smirks, unapologetic. “Takes one to know one.”

Oscar sighs like he’s aged a decade in two minutes. “Anyway. Testing starts. Sim sessions are racking up. You missed three already, and if you keep slacking, I might actually beat you this year.”

Lando’s still looking at you when he says, “Any more room in the car?”

Oscar raises a brow. “For you?”

Lando doesn’t look away. “No. For us.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something almost fond on Oscar’s face.

“God,” he mutters. “Fine.”

Lando turns to you, grin a little too confident now. “You into sketching race cars?”

You raise a brow. “That depends. Are they prettier than the trees?”

“They are,” he says, tugging you gently toward him. “Especially when I’m driving them.”

You let him. Smile blooming as your fingers curl around the fabric of his sleeve.

“Guess I’ll find out.”

✨First Win✨

← Masterlist

Lando Norris

#ln4

← Main Masterlist

Formula 1

• Max Verstappen

• Charles Leclerc

• Lando Norris

• Daniel Ricciardo

• Carlos Sainz

• Oscar Piastri

• Nico Rosberg

• Jules Bianchi

• Oliver Bearman

• Logan Sargeant

• George Russel

• Lewis Hamilton

• Yuki Tsunoda

• Pierre Gasly

Twilight

• Bella's Lullaby

Harry Styles

• Grapejuice

• Woman

• Music For A Sushi Restaurant

• Cinema

• Daylight

• TPWK

Aesthetic

• Pink

• Brown

• Green

• Green 2.0

Stranger Things

• Eddie Munson

• Jonathan Byers

• Friday Lando

• DJ Lando

• Ice Cream Lando

• Let's Go Lando!

• Rollercoaster Lando

• ln4

• First Win

← Main Masterlist

DJ LANDO

Lando Norris

#ln04🍣

Lando Norris

Ln4

Lando Norris

Lando Norris

← Main Masterlist

Ln4

← Main Masterlist

Lando Norris

← Main Masterlist

DJ LANDO

← Main Masterlist

Lando Norris

#ln04🍣

← Main Masterlist

me the entire race weekend

you just know jack frost is nipping at that nose HARD

Flop Era

I want to start off by saying my latest 3 fanfics I have written for Charles, Lando, and Oscar have been FLOPS, not a lot of engagement so I don’t know if I should “retire” or not.

BUT I have one last idea that could decide if I retire or not.

Based off an instagram reel that my friend sent me of Sebastian Rulli and Angelique Boyer. The couple were on a Mexican late night talk show called De Noche Pero Sin Sueño where Angelique and two other women pero in boxes that had holes where they would stick out their hands. Sebastian would have to guess which of these hands belonged to Angelique BLINDFOLDED, they have the same nail length, shape, and nail polish! Sebastian was between woman 1 and woman 3, ANGELIQUE WAS 2! He takes the blindfold off, his final answer was 3, then Angelique made hand gestures like “are you serious?” And his eyes WIDENED and was like “oh fuck, I messed up”

So I’m thinking Y/N would be a Latin superstar, makes music in Spanish, has appeared in some popular telenovelas and broke out in the American market as well, starting in blockbuster movies. Think Eiza Gonzalez, and she’s dating an F1 driver, they met at a Grand Prix, she was invited by the team, they are literally the talk of Hollywood and F1. Y/N says they’ve been invited to Mexico to be guests in the show and the same thing that happened to Sebastian and Angelique, happens to Y/N and the driver you voted for.

IF VOTING CLOSES WHEN YOU SEE IT, YOU CAN STILL COMMENT UNTIL APRIL 24TH

Wouldn’t Change A Thing

Pairing: Lando Norris x Latina! Reader

Summary: they are perfectly imperfect

Warning: angst (?), spelling and grammatical errors, inaccurate F1 GP schedule

A/N: inspired by the Camp Rock 2 song, also I put that you’re studying medicine because I know how demanding that career path is. I’m lowkey going down that path, but it’s Healthcare administration, so it’s businessy

Dating an F1 driver is never easy, especially when you don’t have the luxury to travel with him all over the world. You were studying for your finals, you needed a really high mark so you could get into medical school and finally become a doctor. You were in your apartment and all of a sudden you’re stomach growled. You turned your phone on and saw it was a little after 1am.

“Shit, I forgot to eat.” You grumbled before placing a bookmark in your textbook to grab something from the kitchen. As you were walking to the kitchen, you heard the sound of keys jingling. You thought it was just neighbors until you heard your door opening. Quickly, you grabbed a kitchen knife just in case it turned out to be an intruder but the lights were turned on and there stood your boyfriend, with a duffel bag.

“Surprise, darling! Why are you holding a knife?” Lando asked.

“Damn It, chico fresa, i thought you were going to kill me.” You said, putting the knife down to hug him. Lando wrapped his arms around you, rubbing your back. “What are you doing here?”

“I have a 2 week break between races so I came to see you. Why are you up so late?” Lando asked,

“I’m studying for my finals.” You replied.

“Baby, your finals aren’t for another 2 months,” Lando said.

“Amor, i love you, but there is so much I need to know. I have tests every 2 weeks, I need an 80 to just PASS the class. What if my grades are so bad I can’t get into medical school? I need to be valedictorian, I won’t accept anything less.” You said.

“In that case, you should go to sleep, don’t you have class tomorrow?” Lando asked, you played with the hem of his sweater, not wanting to answer.

“It’s in the afternoon.” You mumbled. Lando laughed.

“Alright, Let’s have a quick snack and get you into bed.” Lando said, walking to the fridge to find something edible.

“You could have called, you know.” You said.

“But then it wouldn’t be much of a surprise. Now, there’s tortillas and cheese, want to make quesadillas?” Lando asked.

“Never thought you’d be the one to suggest quesadillas, let me get the comal out.” You said.

The first 3 days with Lando were interesting. You didn’t really go out much because you had classes to go to, homework to do, and finals to study for. Lando noticed how stressed you were, barely eating, Lando had to remind you to eat, you were beyond stressed. So the muppet had a plan.

Now that it was Saturday, he has the brilliant idea to hide your school stuff (laptop, backpack, textbooks, notebooks, literally everything you need) when you went out for coffee with a classmate. When you came back to your apartment, you noticed Lando was holding a bag.

“Lando, mi amor, what’s going on?” You asked, looking around the living room.

“We are going on a date. Well, a double date, Oscar wanted us to go somewhere and I asked if you could come. He said yes and that he’ll bring Lily along too, it will be fun, let’s go.” Lando insisted

“I can’t, I have to study.” You said, walking back to your room but you noticed your desk was empty. You ran out of your room. “QUE CHINGADOS HICISTE?!?” Lando outs his hands up.

“I still don’t know Spanish, sweet thing.” Lando said and you rolled your eyes.

“Don’t ’sweet thing’ me, payaso, where’s my stuff?” You asked.

“Baby, you need a break, I want to spend time with you before I go off to another GP.” Lando said.

“Well you should have asked if I was free before coming, Lando.” You said. Lando looks hurt.

“Why do I have to give you notice about me coming over? I can’t visit my girlfriend now?” Lando asked, he’s very confused about why you’re acting this way.

“Lando, you can’t just come in and expect me to drop everything for you! I’m in school, this is very important to me, I wasn’t lucky enough to have rich parents, I have to work hard.” You said and Lando was shocked but what you said.

“You’re saying I don’t work hard?” Lando asked incredulously.

“Of course you work hard, Lando! I’ve seen how much training you do for McLaren but this is different. You don’t understand how difficult this is for me, you think whenever you don’t have a race, it’s time to goof off, well it’s not like that for me! After I take a test, I study for the next one, and I take that test, then study for the next one, it’s going to be an endless cycle until I actually become a doctor so sorry for being pissed that you hid my stuff, which, by the way, is so fucking childish of you.” You said

“In childish? Really? Look who’s throwing a tantrum because he doesn’t have her things.” Lando said.

“Those things are important to me, Lando! It’s like you don’t understand what I am trying to accomplish with my life. I don’t want to be known as Lando Norris’s girlfriend, okay? I’m not pretty enough or skinny enough to be a WAG like Rebecca, Alexandra, or Kika, I want to have a career and if you can’t understand that then…” you said and Lando shook his head and got closer.

“Of course I understand about wanting a career and to make something of yourself but you are going to burn yourself out before you even become a doctor if you keep going like this.” Lando said, rubbing your arms in intent to comfort you but you moved away, causing Lando’s heart to break a little.

“I’ll stop studying when I get into medical school.” You said. Lando shook his head.

“Fine, have it your way, I’m going out with Oscar, your stuff is in the oven, I’ll be back later, don’t wait up.” Lando said, leaving your apartment and slamming the door, causing you to flinch a little. It wasn’t like Lando to get angry like that. But you definitely didn’t help him calm down during your argument.

You got your stuff out of the pantry and began studying, but it was hard to concentrate because of how you left things with Lando. You decided to call your bestie because if anyone was going to give you an unbiased, unfiltered opinion, it would be her.

“Hey, what’s up? I thought you’d be studying.” Your bestie replied after 2 rings.

“I can’t concentrate, I got into an argument with Lando.” You said.

“What for? Did that bastard cheat on you?” She asked, ready to get a baseball bat.

“What? No! He just…ugh, he hid my laptop and textbooks, basically everything I needed to study was hidden.” You said.

“Okay…do you know why he did that?” She asked.

“He said so i can take a break and go on a date with him.” You said.

“Well you study a lot, Y/N, I don’t think that’s healthy, especially because I KNOW you forget to eat.” Your bestie scolded.

“But it’s like he doesn’t hear a word I say.” You argue.

On the other side, Lando is talking to Oscar and lily about you.

“Lan, you did show up to her apartment unannounced.” Oscar commented. Lando looked at him as if he was insulted.

“In her boyfriend, I believe in entitled.” Lando said.

“Sorry, what’s the problem with Y/N wanting to study for her classes?” Lily asked, very confused as to why the couple is fighting.

“She’s way too serious, she’s always in a rush and makes no time for us, it’s like she doesn’t even care.

💛You and your bestie💛

“All he wants to do is chill out! I’m fine when I actually make time for us but since he showed support unannounced, his behavior makes me want to pull my hair out, and I love my hair.” You commented.

“Alright, if he gets you so frustrated, then why don’t you break up with him?” Your bestie asked but you looked at her as if she had three heads.

“I love him despite these little ‘flaws’ you could say, he wouldn’t be him without them.” You said, she thought about it a little more. “Which is exactly what you wanted me to say. You’re an evil genius.”

“What can I say? Anyway, gotta go, study a little more and PLEASE take a break.” Your bestie asked hung up the phone.

🧡Lando and Oscar🧡

“And she tried to pick a fight earlier today, she’s so stubborn, I can’t sometimes, you know.” Lando said. Oscar and lily looked at each other, both having the same idea.

“You know, Lando, if you guys keep having problems like this, maybe it’s better if you break up with her.” Lily commented.

“Looks like you’re headed there anyway.” Oscar said. Lando was shocked by their input.

“But she makes me happy, I love her, her stubbornness is what I love most about her, she challenges me, I wouldn’t change a thing about her.” Lando said and Oscar and lily smiled. “You muppets…” Lando said.

“We had to get you to realize that this fight is just a little bump in the road. You 2 are good together.” Oscar said.

“Thanks.” Lando said.

Later that day, it was almost 10pm when you finished cooking dinner for you and Lando and that Lando came through the door, greeted with a lovely surprise.

“Hey, fresita.” You greeted.

“Hey, baby girl, what’s all this?” Lando asked, closing the door and giving you a kiss on the forehead.

“I wanted to apologize, I shouldn’t have picked a fight when I know you were only looking out for me.” You said, looking up down at your shoes, feeling embarrassed about the events that have transpired earlier today. Lando put a finger under your chin so you would have to look up at him.

“I wanted to apologize too, it’s unfair of me to come into your apartment without letting you know first, expecting you to drop everything to spend time with me.” Lando said.

“But i know why you did. With you racing around the world and living in Monaco, we don’t see each other much.” You said,

“Yeah but your studies should come before your incredibly handsome boyfriend.” Lando said, causing you to giggle.

“No seas payaso, you forgot to say you’re humble as well.” You teased.

“That too. You may drive me crazy, but I wouldn’t change a thing about you.” Lando said, putting his hands on your hips, playing with your belt loop.

“I wouldn’t change a thing about you either, Lando, I love you.” You said, interlocking your hands behind his nape.

“I love you too.” Lando said, leaning in to kiss you.

The End

I wrote the majority during my work shift, but I hope y’all liked it!

Like A Winner

Pairing: Lando Norris x Hispanic/Latina!Reader

Summary: Lando gets to spend time with his girlfriend…like a winner!

Warning: spelling and grammatical errors

A/N: in honor of Lando winning the first GP of the season, just something quick because I do work today sadly.

Y/N was watching the GP from the McLaren garage and practically hugged all the engineers because Lando won, even after spinning out. Y/N was watching the podium celebration and once Lando spotted her, he winked, making her giggle, not used to Lando being so openly cheeky.

Once the celebration was finished, Lando got down and walked for Y/N, wrapping him arm around her waist to kiss her.

“You were great, mi vida, I’m so proud of you.” She said, once Lando pulled away from the kissed.

“Well you were watching, I had to win.” Lando confessed.

“Okay then, mi Chico fresa, what would you like to do now that you have won the Australian Grand Prix?” Y/N asked.

“What do you say to watching a movie in the hotel room?” Lando asked

“What movie did you have in mind?” Y/N asked.

“10 things I hate about you.” Lando said.

“Sounds good. What about food?” I was thinking sushi.” Y/N said and when Lando made a disgusted face, Y/N laughed. “I’m teasing, geez, you pick.”

“You know what? Just for that, we’re going golfing.” Lando said.

“Ay, fine, as long as I get to drive the golf cart.” Y/N bargained.

“Sweet thing, I’ve seen you drive, I think you’re meant to be a passenger princess.” Lando teased and Y/N smiled.

“Alright, let’s go before it rains again.” Y/N said.

“Yeah, I don’t think I want to drive in the rain again.” Lando says.

The couple walk to Lando’s car hand in hand.

“You coming with me to the Chinese Grand Prix?” Lando asked

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Y/N responded truthfully

“Good, I think you bring me good luck.” Lando said.

“You bet your ass I do.” Y/N said, making Lando laugh.

The End

Just a little blurb, hope it was sorta entertaining

Valentine’s Day Headcannons pt. 1

summary: how the drivers would celebrate Valentine’s Day with you

Drivers include Charles leclerc, lando Norris, Oscar piastri, Logan Sargeant, Lewis Hamilton

A/N: SO SORRY, I have 2 part time jobs which equals to a full time job and I only have one day off so…your girl has been busy. Part 2 with Carlos Sainz, Max Verstappen, and Daniel Ricciardo will be released in a few days and I’ll tag anyone who’s interested

Charles Leclerc

Charles asks you to be his valentine on February 1st, the man was READY. I believe he would have Leo wake you up and there would be a card pinned to his little sweater telling you to go to the kitchen.

You go into the kitchen and there are a bouquet of flowers and a few heart balloons. You then feel Charles’s hands on your waist as he hugs you from behind.

“Be my Valentine.” Charles said and of course you agree, thanking him for the surprise.

On the actual day, you’ll go somewhere pet friendly to include Leo. If it’s not too cold, you’ll go on the yacht, spend the day out in the ocean, he would have prepared (ordered) food for the two of you to eat, and maybe when it’s night time, you two stay out and there would be fireworks on display over the water.

“Did you plan that?” You asked, carrying also so he can see as well.

“Maybe. What’s the good of money if you can’t use it?” Charles asked rhetorically, making you giggle.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” Charles said. He leaned in to kiss you only to get Leo licking his face. He laughed, took Leo out of your hands to place him on the floor. He leaned in to kiss you again but you stopped him.

“Im not kissing you like that.” You tell him. Charles then sprints to the yacht bathroom to wash his face. He Comes back with his face slightly damp but he grabs you by your waist to kiss you.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, mon coeur.” Charles said.

Lando Norris

With Lando, i believe he’s the type to surprise you the day of. If you work a 9 to 5 office job (like me), you get up, get dressed, and go to work. You and lando don’t live together but he knows your schedule.

Lando has paid for a flower delivery service to send a beautiful bouquet of your favorite flowers to your office at 9:10. By that time, you’re all settled in your desk, you’re logged into your computer, and all of a sudden you hear…

“Delivery for Y/N.” The delivery guy said.

“That’s me.” You get up from your desk to greet the man that’s carrying the bouquet thats already in a vase.

“Sign here.” You do so. “Thank you.” He leaves. You place the bouquet on your desk and read the note inside.

Happy Valentine’s Day, darling. More surprises to come, i love you.

You smiled reading the card and called Lando immediately.

“Hello, sunshine.” Lando greeted after one ring.

“You remembered.” You said

“Of course I did, I can’t forget Valentine’s Day now that i have a Valentine, now can I? You like the flowers?” Lando asked.

“Yes, oh my gosh, they’re beautiful.” You say with a smile on your face.

“That’s good to hear, you’ll be getting more surprises.” Lando said and hung up before you could ask.

20 minutes later there was another delivery but it was your favorite coffee order and a pastry from the cafe you always go to. When it was your lunch break, you got a delivery from your favorite restaurant. You called Lando to thank him.

When you went home after work, there he was in your apartment, wearing a suit, holding a single rose in one hand, and a dress bag in the other.

“What’s all this?” You asked him, putting your stuff down.

“We are going out to eat. The reservation is in 2 hours so that gives you enough time to shower of you want, and shower.” Lando said and you kissed him.

“You’re the best.” You took a shower before getting dressed in what lando bought you. It was the dress you were eyeing that one time you went out shopping with him for a new dress shirt to wear for the FÍA ceremony. You stepped out of the bedroom fully dressed and made up. Lando’s jaw dropped when he saw you.

“How do i look?” You asked

“Breathtaking. How did I get so lucky?” Lando asked before kissing you. “Let’s go.”

Oscar Piastri

Like Charles, he’ll ask you to be his Valentine like a week before the date, you woke up to Valentine’s Day cookies that Hattie definitely convinced him to make for you. Since you guys love together, you keep asking him where he’s taking you.

“It’s a surprise, darling.” Oscar would said and that makes you roll your eyes because you hate surprises.

Y’all live in London for work so Oscar had the great idea to take you to Pooh Corner in Hartfield, somewhere you always wanted to go but en ever found the time to. So he told you to put on a cute but casual dress, which you agreed to. He walked you to the car and told you to put on a blindfold.

“You’re kidding, right?” You asked him. Oscar shook his head.

“Nope, put it on, I told you it was a surprise.” Oscar said, handing you over the blindfold. You hesitantly put it on and when Oscar drove to Hartfield, you were fast asleep (car rides make me sleepy). When the cat stopped, Oscar gently woke you up

“We’re here, darling, you can take it off.” Oscar said, you stirred awake and took of the blindfold, the Sign saying “Pooh corner” directly in your face.

“Ah, no way, I can’t believe we’re here. Oh it’s gonna be so cute, thank you, sharkbait.” You said and he chuckled at your nickname for him.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Love. Let’s go in, I’m starving.” Oscar said and they got out of the car, he obviously opened up the door for you, and helped you out. He was ever the gentleman.

Logan Sargeant

The beloved frat boy asked you to be his valentine over a game of pool when you were hanging out with his friends and their girlfriends. Because of the way he asked you, you’d think that Valentine’s Day with him wouldn’t be like a big deal to him.

You were wrong. As soon as you woke up, he was making breakfast for you, even learned to make a Frappuccino so you can have your morning sweet treat.

“Aw babe, you didn’t have to.” You said as you looked at the heart shaped pancakes.

“I wanted to, baby.” Logan said, giving you a quick peck on the lips before serving himself scrambled eggs.

When lunch time rolled around, he made you a panini to hold you over until he was finished cooking the Valentine’s Day dinner. He still had to buy the ingredients because he was busy looking for the recipe to your favorite meal. Once he bought it, he started prepping.

“Do you need help, babe?” You asked him.

“I got it, princess. Have a glass of wine.” Logan to,d you.

“Ooh, glass of wine while I watch you cook? Don’t mind if I do.” You said before you served yourself wine. It took Logan about 2 hours to prep and cook but it was worth it because he even lit a candle. “This is so romantic.”

“Only the best for you. Happy Valentine’s Day.” Logan said, kissing you over the counter.

Lewis Hamilton

Now Lewis is glamorous, okay? We love him for that, the man asked you to be his valentine while y’all went shopping. It was very casual too, but you loved it.

“Hey, while we’re here, why don’t you get your nails? I’ll give you the money.” Lewis said,

“Why would I get my nails done?” You asked because you usually don’t do it, preferring to paint your nails yourself.

“Don’t you want pretty nails when I take you out for Valentines Day?” Lewis asked. It took you a second to realize what he said but you smiled.

“I’d love to be your valentine, honey.” You said, giving him a peck on the cheek before taking his money to get your nails done. Obviously Lewis picked what color nails you should get, choosing a Ferrari red,

2 days before valentines day, he surprised you with hotel reservations in Paris. You were going to spend Valentine’s Day in Paris with Lewis and you were beyond excited. Lewis already packed your bag and all you needed to do was go downstairs because there was a car waiting to take you guys to the airport.

When you guys were in Paris, you went to the louvre, the Eiffel Tower, did all the touristy things because you never been to Paris. Later that evening, he took you to a restaurant, very good, the food was delicious, and over dinner, he gifted you a necklace.

“Oh my god, Lewis, it’s beautiful.” You said, kissing him. You pulled out your gift for him as well, it was a watch with a matching ring. “I know you have a lot but..”

“I love it, thank you.” Lewis said. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, it was the best one I could ask for.” You told him.

I love each and every one of your stories! 🥰

I have an idea where the girl pranks her boyfriend that her friends were having a “Christmas party” and pretended she was going to wear sexy lingerie as an outfit and I would totally love to read how the F1 guys would react to that. I don’t know how you feel about that 🙈

Love the idea!

A Nonsense Christmas Prank

+18: Minors Do Not Interact

Summary: How the drivers react to you “leaving” the house in lingerie

Warning: sexual content (in a way, I guess)

A/N: drivers include Charles Leclerc, Lando Norris, Logan Sargeant, Oscar Piastri

For Reference, this is the lingerie (it’s the cutest one I found on a mannequin)

Y/N stepped out in lingerie and strappy heels, talking on the phone with her friend.

“Yes, Miranda, im heading out right now.” Y/N made it a point to talk loudly to get the attention of her partner, making them look up and seeing her in the scandalous attire. “When have I ever been late? It’s not like I’m gonna be late for wine and gossip, I’m practically out the door.” Y/N hung up the phone

Charles Leclerc

“Where are you going like that, Mon ange?” Charles asked.

“Oh, my friend Miranda is having a nonsense Christmas party. Yes, it’s inspired by Sabrina Carpenter, don’t ask.” Y/N said.

“I thought this little set up was for my eyes only, I don’t know how I feel about other men looking at what’s mine.” Charles admitted, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“Oh haha, there won’t be any men there.” Y/N said, tying up the rob she was wearing.

“Okay, but I’ll feel better if I’m taking you to Miranda’s apartment, where does she live, again?” Charles asked, getting his coat out of the closet and getting his keys.

“Are you crazy? I’m not going to her Christmas party like this.” Y/N said. Charles had that confused puppy look on his face.

“What do you mean?” Charles asked, putting his keys back on the hook.

“I mean, yes, it’s a Christmas party, but I’m wearing this.” Y/N said pulling out a more winter appropriate party outfit.

“Oh thank god.” Charles said with his hand in his chest. “I’m still taking you though, get dressed.”

“Yes sir.” Y/N said teasingly.

Lando Norris

“Are you planning on wearing a coat with that outfit?” Lando asked.

“Yes, Lando, I’m going to be wearing the parka you bought me for my birthday (December babies UNITE), how do I look?” Y/N asked, holding the rob open.

“You look Great, so Great in fact, you should cancel on your friend Miranda and spend the night with me.” Lando said.

“Thank you, baby, but i am not canceling on Miranda.” Y/N said.

“Do you think she’ll mind me crashing the party?” Lando asked, playing with the string of Y/N’s robe.

“Probably, it’s more of a girls’ night.” Y/N said,

“Damn…are you sure you can’t stay with me tonight?” Lando asked with a pout.

“Positive. Can I go now?” Y/N asks.

“Yes, you can go, but i need updates about the party. And you need to bring leftovers.” Lando said, giving Y/N a kiss on the forehead. Y/N giggled. “What’s so funny about being sweet to my baby girl?”

“No, it’s not that, but do you actually think I’m leaving the apartment in lingerie? Of course not, I’m wearing jeans, your quarter zip, and the uggs you got me for Christmas.” Y/N said, giving Lando a quick peck. “But I do love you for not telling me to change.”

“Trust me, I really wanted to, but I didn’t want to sound like a dick. Think I can drop you off at the party? Do you need to bring anything?” Lando asked.

“Just let me change and you can take me.” Y/N said.

Logan Sargeant

“Babe, Florida is not that hot.” Logan said, looking at Y/N’s outfit,

“I’m going to my friend’s place, she’s having a Christmas party.” Y/N said.

“Your ‘clothes’ don’t really seem christmassy to me. It’s more of a Valentine’s Day getup, or my birthday.” Logan said.

“Well Miranda thought it would be fun.” Y/N said.

“And im sure it will be. But you sure it’s a good idea to go dressed like that?” Logan asked. “There’s nothing wrong with what you’re wearing! But I want you to be safe.”

“I’m a big tough girl, I tie my own shoes and everything.” Y/N said.

“Don’t quote Hercules to me, this is serious. At least let me take you.” Logan said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Y/N said. “Im just gonna change real quick.”

“Wait, you’re not wearing that?” Logan asked.

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous, it was a prank. Just give me a minutes.” Y/N said because she got dressed in a cream colored long sleeved Henley with a red plaid skirt, sheer black stockings, and cream colored heeled booties.

“You look beautiful.” Logan kissed Y/N. “Let’s go.”

Oscar Piastri

“Where are you going darling?” Oscar asked

“While we’re in Australia, my friend invited me to a Christmas party.” Y/N replied.

“I didn’t know you had any friends here.” Oscar said.

“Yeah, she moved her in September for her job.” Y/N said.

“That’s good, have fun with her then.” Oscar said. Y/N looked at him. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re not going to say anything about what I’m wearing?” Y/N asked.

“You look beautiful, darling. I’ll take you, let me text my mom though.” Oscar said.

“I am so concerned that you are not saying anything about me wearing lingerie to a Christmas party, Shark Bait.” Y/N said.

“It’s just a girls night, right? That sounds perfectly fine. Besides, I can’t tell you how to dress, I know how much you hate being told what to do outside the bedroom and work.” Oscar said and Y/N slapped his chest playfully.

“Well I’m glad you know I hate being told what to do. I’m gonna change.” Y/N said.

“Wait, you weren’t going out like that?” Oscar asked,

“Babe, it may be hot here, but definitely not hot enough to dress like this.” Y/N said before she changed into an emerald green V-neck top with a black shorts and sneakers. “Next time, can we please stay in England for Christmas? Or at least go to New York? It feels weird to have Christmas during the summer.”

“Well for me, it’s weird to have Christmas in the winter.” Oscar said.

“Whatever, New York Christmas is iconic, argue with the wall, let’s go.” Y/N said.

“Yes ma’am.” Oscar replied.

The End

Not the best but lmk if you want part 2 with Lewis, Daniel, Carlos, and Max.

F1 Edits

Summary: How the F1 drivers react to Y/N watching edits of a different driver

Warning: Spelling and grammatical errors.

A/N: Drivers include Charles Leclerc, Lando Norris, Logan Sargeant, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz, Max Verstappen, and Daniel Ricciardo

Charles Leclerc

Charles and Y/N were leaving an APM Monaco event, they are dressed up, Y/N had her makeup done very beautifully, Charles got his car from the valet, opened the door up for Y/N, closed it behind her, got in himself, and drove off.

When they made it to their apartment, Y/N and Charles were in the kitchen, Y/N was sitting at the table and opened up TikTok.

"Ma belle, you want something to eat? There is some leftover ravioli." Charles asked.

"Yeah, sounds good, babe.” Y/N said as she started scrolling on TikTok and landed on a Lando Norris edit to “Freak” by Doja Cat (@ am3vr)

"What are you watching, Mon coeur?” Charles asked, heating up the leftover ravioli in the microwave.

“Oh, just an edit, muñeco.” Y/N said, liking the edit.

"An edit of who, mon ange?” Charles asked, getting closer.

“Lando.” Y/N admitted. She was going to shut her phone off but Charles got the phone out of her hand. “Ay muñeco, don’t be like that.”

“I just have a question, babe, why are Lando Norris edits showing up on your fyp?” Charles asked.

"You know I like McLaren, they’re my second favorite team, I usually get funny moments of Lando but I must admit, I am not mad about getting this edit on my fyp. Can I get my phone back, muñeco?” Y/N asked pouting. The microwave dinged so Charles sighed before giving Y/N her phone back and took the food out of the microwave.

"I’m surprised you don’t get edits of me on your fyp.” Charles said, handing Y/N the plate of ravioli.

"Oh I do, but those edits get saved to a TikTok folder.” Y/N said and Charles smiled. “Oh, the other day Lando wanted to do a quadrant video where he tastes candy from (your parents’ country/countries), can i go to his apartment tomorrow?” Y/N asked.

“Absolutely not.” Charles said stone faced and Y/N laughed.

“I love you, muñeco.” Y/N said.

“I love you too.” Charles said, kissing her.

Lando Norris

Y/N was waiting in the car while Lando picks up their food order. She was listening to music when Lando opened the door.

“Okay, I got spring rolls, chicken wings with pork fried rice, chicken broccoli with white rice, and chicken and vegetables gyoza. Ready to go, sweet thing?” Lando asked.

“Yep, let’s go.” Y/N said. Lando kissed Y/N on the cheek before starting the car. Y/N was scrolling through TikTok and she landed on an edit of Carlos Sainz with the song Lockjaw by sir mix-a-lot (@ velosbalkan). She liked it and was rewatching for quite some time. Lando was curious.

“What are you watching, baby girl?” Lando asked.

“Just an edit, fresita, don’t worry about it.” Y/N said. Lando nodded to himself but as soon as there was a red light, he look over her shoulder to see the edit.

“Really, baby?” Lando asked chuckling, driving now that it’s a green light.

“What? What’s so wrong with appreciating your friend?” Y/N asked.

“Nothing, nothing at all, but Carlos?” Lando asked.

“Hey, I loved him before you joined F1.” Y/N said

“Okay, but when we go home, I’m gonna remind you who’s your boyfriend.” Lando said, smirking.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, babe.” Y/N said, smirking as well.

Logan Sargeant

Y/N and Logan were watching a movie on the apartment.

“You want more popcorn, babe?” Logan asked.

“Sure, mi vida.” Y/N said, kissing his cheek. Logan paused the movie to get popcorn and Y/N took the chance to scroll on TikTok and she found an edit of Lewis Hamilton to mayores by Becky G (@ lewisxamilton). Y/N was so enthralled by the edit that she didn’t hear Logan walk back to the couch until she felt his hand on her shoulder, scaring her and causing her to throw her phone in the air. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry, didn’t want to distract you from thirsting over Lewis Hamilton.” Logan said passing her the popcorn and sitting beside her.

“I wasn’t thirsting.” Y/N said.

“Babe, you were practically drooling.” Logan said,

“Was not.” Y/N said,

“Whatever, all I know was that I kept hearing the chorus to that song while I was pouring more popcorn in the bowl.” Logan said,

“I like the song. Plus, you already know I have a thing for older men, exhibit A, my obsession with Aaron Hotchner on criminal minds and Dean Winchester from Supernatural.” Y/N said.

“Yeah, but they’re fictional, you actually met Lewis.” Logan said.

“But I love you, baby. I love you so much, come on, let’s finish the movie.” Y/N said,

“Can you bake cupcakes for my birthday?” Logan asked.

“Of course, mi príncipe.” Y/N said, kissing him.

Oscar Piastri

Oscar was getting ready for bed while Y/N was already in bed, scrolling through TikTok.

"Darling, if you have trouble sleeping, I don't think TikTok is going to help." Oscar says, stepping into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

"Ugh, you sound like my father." Y/N groaned.

"I'm just saying." Oscar puts his hands up in surrender before brushig his teeth. Y/N was scrolling happily and she landed on a Daniel Ricciardo edit to Naughty Girl by Beyonce (@ russtapen). After hearing the same verse of the song multiple times, Oscar begins to question it. "What are you watching, sweetheart?" He said poking his head out of the bathroom, after spitting out.

"Just an edit, go brush your teeth, tiburoncin." Y/N said.

"An edit of who? Is it Spencer Reid again? Babe, he's not going to be in the new season of Criminal Minds, let it go." Oscar said, washing his hands.

"First of all, Matthew Gray Gubler is going to be in an episode of the new seaosn, thank you very much. And it is not an edit of him, its of Danny Ric." Y/N said.

"Danny Ric? Let me see." Oscar said, leaving the bathroom an getting on the bed, reaching for Y/N's phone.

"Fine, don't tease." Y/N said, letting Oscar take her phone. Oscar watched the edit in silence.

"The edit os not bad actually, do you watch edits of me?" Oscar asked.

"Of course i do. I even repost some to make the fangirls go crazy." Y/N admitted and that made Oscar laugh.

"Okay, now its time to go to sleep." Oscar said.

"Goodnight, baby." Y/N said, Oscar kissed Y/N and they went to sleep.

Lewis Hamilton

Y/N and Lewis were in his home gym, doing cardio.

"Bombón, I can't do it anymore, i need a break." Y/N said, slowing down her treadmill.

"Come on, love, i just don't want you to be 'hot girl fit', cardio is good for you." Lewis said.

"Never say 'hot girl fit' ever again, please. I do pilates, and you know my favorite kind of cardio to do, and its not running." Y/N said.

"We will do that kind of cardio later tonight, but i still need to run so I am ready for ferrari." Lewis said.

"Whatever you say, bombón." Y/N said, getting off her treadmill to sit on a weight bench and scroll on TikTok. Lewis didn't mind and then Y/N landed on a very good Charles Leclerc edit to the song PORNSTAR by Nessa Barrett (@ 16chleclerc).

"What are you watching, darling?" Lewis asked.

"A Charles Leclerc edit." Y/N answered truthfully. Lewis stopped his treadmill. "Oye, why did you stop? You still have 5 mintues on the timer." Y/N reminded him.

"You're watching an edit of my future teammate?" Lewis asked, getting a towel to wipe the sweat off his face.

"It just appeared on my feed. Not mad about it, I can see why people say his face card doesn't decline." Y/N said.

"What?" Lewis asked, confused by the phrase.

"I'm saying that i see why people fawn over him, saying he is so fine, oh my gosh, you know what hot girl fit is but not a face card?" Y/N asked.

"Just for that comment, you are not going to the Ferrari garage with me." Lewis said.

"Oh thats not fair, I really want to go." Y/N said pouting. It took Lewis 45 seconds to give in.

"Fine, but you are not meeting Charles, I don't want him to take you away from me." Lewis commented.

"Oh please, Charles has a girlfriend and he's just a boy, you, however, are a man, and i need a man." Y/N said, Lewis smirked and kissed her roughly.

"Alright, time to do your favorite type of cardio, you deserve it." Lewis said.

Carlos Sainz

Y/N was playing with Carlos and his dog.

"Chulito, I'm gonna head inside, I'm getting cold." Y/N said.

"That's fine, princesa, abrigate bien, okay?" Carlos said before kissing Y/N and she walked inside. She put on Carlos's Ferrari hoodie and sat on the couch to scroll on TikTok. He landed on an edit of Oscar Piastri to ride or die pt. 2 by Sevdaliza, Tokischa, and Villano Antillano (@ am3vr). Y/N didn't notice Carlos come in until Piñón jumoed on the couch to sit next to her.

"What were you watching, princesa?" Carlos asked.

"An edit." Y/N said.

"Of me or of someone else?" Carlos asked, he sees Y/N look away. "Now you have to tell me, querida."

"it's of Oscar." Y/N said.

"Oscar? Seriously, Oscar? I would have been fine if you said Lando." Carlos said.

"Well this creator also makes Lando edits if that makes you feel better. It's not even Oscar that is attractive, it more like the song choice plus certain clips she chooses. You know you're my chulito precioso, I love you." Y/N said.

"I love you too, hermosa. You want to go get burgers?" Carlos asked.

"Sure, let me change." Y/N said, getting up but Carlos stopped her.

"Nope, I like you wearing my hoodie, that way everyone will know you're with me." Carlos said.

"Everyone already does." Y/N said, they kissed and left Piñón at home."

Max Verstappen

Max was sim racing while Y/N was scrolling on TikTok with Jimmy and Sassy on his bed.

"Are you sure you don't mind me on the simulator?" Max asked.

"Guapetón, i assure you I am fine. This is your job, you’re good.” Y/N said. Max smiled at the nickname and continued gaming. After awhile, Max paused the simulator enough to hear a song playing from Y/N’s phone. She was watching an edit of Logan Sargeant to Kiss Me by Sixpence (@ chzrro).

“What are you watching, schatje?” Max asked.

“An Logan Sargeant edit, I’m watching him on Indy Car by the way.” Y/N said,

“You’re not gonna watch F1 anymore?” Max asked.

“Of course I’m still going to watch F1 but I miss Logan. He was the only American, he deserved to finish the season.” Y/N said,

“Let me see the edit.” Max said and Y/N passed him the phone. “This is cute, maybe when I retire, there’ll be edits of me like this.” Max said,

“You bet your ass there’ll be edits of you. You, my darling, are very loved.” Y/N said, wrapped her hands over his chest to kiss his cheek.

Daniel Ricciardo

Daniel and Y/N were in a country bar with a mechanical bull.

“You think I can ride it?” Daniel asked.

“You were the honorary American in F1, you could totally ride it and stay on.” Y/N said,

“Record me?” Daniel asked.

“I got you, go.” Y/N said. She took Daniel’s phone to record him on the bull, he stayed on the whole time, he gets off and Y/N cheered. “Ese es mi vaquero!” Daniel approached the table.

“You want another beer? I Can get us some wings too.” Daniel suggested.

“Sounds good, cariño.” Y/N and Daniel kissed before he went to the bar to order food and drinks. Y/N scrolled on TikTok while she waited and landed on a Max Verstappen edit to ride or die pt. 2 by Sevdaliza, Tokischa, and Villano Antillano (@ enszns). Daniel approached from behind and saw the edit.

“Baby, why are you watching an edit of Max?” Daniel asked. Y/N jumped and Daniel laughed.

“That’s not funny, honey.” Y/N said. Daniel put the food and beer on the table. “It just appeared on my feed.”

“Mm, you were watching that edit a little too long.” Daniel said, sitting down.

“The song is catchy, and yeah the edit is good, I can appreciate Max’s looks, sue me.” Y/N said. Daniel laughed.

“Alright, alright, I won’t say anything about it.” Daniel said, there was a paused. “So what other edits of drivers have you seen?” Daniel asked in a teasing tone.

“Shut up.” Y/N lightly pushed him and he laughed louder.

The End

Did you missed this type of posts? Hope y’all liked it!