keepyoureyesonmeboy

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

type 4 ✦ the individualist moodboard ✦ the story ✦ overview

what if we already are who we’ve been dying to become in certain light i can plainly see a reflection of magnificence hidden in you maybe even in me ♫

✦ out of the shadows ✦ enneagram series

✦ summary a story of lando norris as an enneagram four, from self-loathing and longing, through mistakes and doubt, to finally finding wholeness in vulnerability and authenticity

✦ content mental health struggles (self-doubt, guilt, low self-worth), alcohol use, media scrutiny/pressure, references to depression & unhealthy coping, self-critical inner dialogue

✦ 7,6 k words

The music thumped so hard it rattled through his ribs, a low bassline vibrating the boat itself as it drifted down Amsterdam’s canals. Orange flags snapped overhead, tangling in the wind, confetti floating down like burnt-out fireflies. Someone shoved another drink into his hand — he didn’t even see who, didn’t care — the rim already sticky from someone else’s fingerprints.

“Lando!” Martin’s voice cut through the noise, half-drowned in laughter. Martin had his sunglasses on, hair damp with beer someone had sprayed earlier. He leaned close so Lando could hear: “You’re already gone, man.”

“I’m fine,” Lando shouted back, grinning too wide, words slurring at the edges. He raised the glass in mock salute and tipped it back, letting the burn carve a line down his throat. The canal blurred for a second, the city lights doubling themselves. He blinked hard.

Martin just laughed and shook his head, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re gonna regret this tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Tomorrow there would be pictures. Tomorrow there would be headlines. He’d wake up with the ache in his skull and that hollow pit in his stomach that whispered, why did you do it again? why can’t you just be enough? But that was tomorrow’s problem. Today he didn’t want to think.

Another drink. Another burst of music. The boat rocking under his feet. Someone handed him a neon orange hat and he shoved it on, laughing with strangers whose names he’d already forgotten. Their words blurred together — Dutch, English, drunk syllables crashing over him in waves.

He stumbled against the rail, nearly dropped his glass. Martin caught his arm, steadying him. “Careful, mate.”

“I’m fine,” Lando said again, but his voice cracked on it this time. He hated that — the way his mask slipped when he was drunk, the truth leaking through between the laughs. His chest buzzed with that familiar mix of exhilaration and emptiness. This was supposed to feel good. This was supposed to make him forget.

Another drink. The world smeared at the edges, like someone had dragged a thumb across the lens of a camera. He remembered flashes: Martin leaning in to shout something about Miami next week. Someone else pulling him into a photo. His own laughter, too loud, bouncing back against the water.

Then the stumble, the sharp pain across his nose as he went down, the metallic tang of blood blooming in his mouth. A hand reaching to help him, but he shoved it away, gritting his teeth. “I said I’m fine.”

He pressed a hand to his nose, blood smearing across his fingers, and laughed anyway. Because what else was he supposed to do?

The laugh came out too loud, too sharp, and he felt Martin’s hand on his shoulder again, pushing him down onto one of the bench seats along the side of the boat. His drink sloshed over the rim, sticky across his knuckles. He clutched it like a lifeline anyway.

“Sit down before you kill yourself,” Martin muttered, but he was grinning in that way he always did, like this was just another story to tell later.

The music pounded, muffled and far away now, like someone had stuffed cotton in his ears. The whole boat seemed to rock harder, not with the water but with his own uneven breathing. And then someone knelt in front of him.

Not a blur this time. Not just another face in the crowd. You.

The orange hat sat crooked on your head, eyes steady on his even though his own were glassy. Your hands fumbled with the gauze, not practiced but careful, like every move mattered.

“Hold still,” you murmured, laughter caught in your throat but softened by something else. Something gentler. “You’re going to scar yourself if you keep throwing yourself around like this.”

He winced as the fabric pressed against his nose, eyes watering.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled, words thick and slurred. He tipped the drink back with his free hand, liquor burning down like punishment. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” you said, smiling at him like you could see right through the bravado. The gauze tightened, your fingers tying a knot at the back of his head with more patience than he deserved. “Just… be careful, yeah?”

A camera flash lit the corner of his vision, Martin’s voice floating somewhere nearby about how it would look like a battle scar tomorrow. Lando laughed, hollow, stomach twisting.

Battle scar. Another joke. Another mask. Another night he wouldn’t remember properly. Except — maybe he would. The sting in his nose, the taste of blood, and the way you smiled at him, telling him to be careful in a different way then anybody else.

The cut across his nose healed rather quickly, but the story didn’t.

By Monday morning, the pictures were everywhere. Grainy phone videos on Twitter of him laughing too loud, stumbling on the boat. Headlines dressed up in concern but sharpened like knives: “Party Boy Lando? Norris risks reputation ahead of Miami.” “Focused enough to win, or distracted by nightlife?”

The tabloids loved it, drunk on a canal, nose bloodied, grinning like nothing mattered. It didn’t take long for podcasts to pick it up, commentators asking if he was “really serious about F1.” Clips of him with a drink in hand cut against footage of Verstappen in the simulator, or Hamilton in the gym. Side by side, as if the narrative had already been written: one is dedicated, the other is careless.

He read too much of it. Couldn’t stop himself. Twitter threads dissecting his body language, TikToks captioned “this is why he’ll never be world champion.” Every swipe on his phone pressed the knife deeper.

And inside, the voice was merciless. They’re right. You’re not focused. You’re not disciplined. You don’t deserve it. You’ll never deserve it.

He thought about how, on the boat, he’d laughed through the blood, told everyone he was fine. He thought about the look on Martin’s face — joking, yes, but tired too. Everyone laughed because that was what he gave them. The clown. The careless one. The one who never took anything seriously.

It didn’t matter that he trained harder than people knew. That he spent nights in the sim until his back ached, that he carried the weight of his own expectations everywhere. The outside perspective dictated the story: party boy, not serious enough, not like the others, Lando Nowins. And no matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to rewrite it.

But he also remembered you. The way you’d knelt in front of him, steady hands pressing gauze to his nose while he slurred out another “I’m fine.” The way you smiled — not mocking, not amused, but soft, like you cared whether or not he actually was. In the blur of lights and music, that moment stood out sharper than anything else.

That week, every time he closed his eyes, he saw it all in flashes — the orange flags, the sticky rim of the glass, the taste of blood, the camera flash. He wondered if he’d handed the world proof of what he feared most: that he wasn’t enough, and never would be.

He could hear the crowd before he even unclipped his belts. The roar was thunderous, rolling over the barriers and straight into his chest. His hands shook as he tore off the steering wheel, the car still ticking hot beneath him. He’d crossed the line. First. He’d actually done it.

“YES, LANDO! YES!” Will’s voice was breaking over the radio, almost drowned out by his own ragged laughter. Tears burned behind his visor, and his breath came in short, messy bursts. The nickname — Lando No-Wins — was gone.

When he climbed out of the car, the world went white-hot with flashes. McLaren orange spilled out from the pit wall, a tidal wave of mechanics and staff running toward him. And then he was in the middle of them, swallowed whole, their hands on his shoulders, helmets banging against his head in rough hugs. He let himself go limp in the celebration, letting them carry him, chanting his name like it was holy.

He jumped. Straight into their arms, like a stage-dive. They caught him, lifted him, threw him up. For a moment, he wasn’t Lando Norris, meme of the grid, butt of every commentator’s joke. He was a champion — the boy who had finally silenced the noise.

The podium blurred past in fragments: The weight of the trophy in his hands — heavier than he imagined, sharp edges digging into his palms. The champagne exploding, spray catching the Miami sun, glittering like liquid gold. Max clapping him on the back, Carlos pulling him into a hug, even Lewis leaning close with a smile and a word he couldn’t hear over the crowd. And then his own laughter — loud, unstoppable — echoing off the stands as he tossed the trophy high into the air, reckless, trusting the universe to let it land back in his hands.

He felt careless. Free. Whole. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he was reaching for something just out of his grasp. He was here. The dream wasn’t some phantom anymore.

The night spilled into blurred snapshots: Drinks pressed into his hand until he lost count. Other drivers leaning across tables, tapping their glasses against his, “finally, mate” repeated like a mantra. Dancing, bodies moving, the bass shaking the floor while he stood on a couch, trophy in hand like a beacon. Everywhere he went — cheers, hugs, the flash of phones, someone slapping his back. Everyone was happy. Everyone was his.

And through it all, he let himself believe.

Lando woke up with the sun clawing at his eyelids. His head throbbed, pulsing in time with the faint bass that still seemed to echo in his ears. Someone had shoved him into a hotel bed at some point. Shoes still on. T-shirt half twisted. He could taste stale champagne and smoke on the back of his throat.

For a second, he smiled anyway. Eyes closed, replaying it — the car flashing under the chequered flag, the crowd swallowing him whole, the trophy gleaming in his hands. He’d finally done it. He’d broken the curse. The nickname was dead.

But then, almost instinctively, his hand groped for his phone. Hundreds of unread notifications. Thousands. Headlines lined up in little glowing rectangles.

“Norris Finally Breaks Through — Can He Keep It Up?” “McLaren Gamble Pays Off, But Was It Luck?” “The Party Boy of F1 Celebrates Like He Won the Championship.”

He scrolled, thumb numb. Every photo showed him laughing, trophy raised, beer in hand, champagne dripping down his shirt. A few framed it as triumph. More framed it as indulgence, as though he’d proved the doubters right just by enjoying himself.

“Not focused enough. Reckless. Distracted.” The words crawled out of the headlines, lodged themselves under his skin.

He pressed the phone flat to his chest and stared at the ceiling. The room felt suddenly too quiet, too big. The glow of the win dimmed under the weight of expectation he could already feel pressing down again. If he didn’t win the next one, this would just be a fluke. If he partied again, it would be a distraction. If he laughed too loudly, someone would say he didn’t care enough about the work.

Even when he did win, it wasn’t enough. Not really.

He rolled onto his side, phone screen glaring up at him. One tab open on Twitter. Someone had already clipped his stage-dive into the crowd of McLaren staff and captioned it “Lando No-Wins acting like he just won the title.” Thousands of likes. Thousands of laughing emojis.

He let the phone slip from his fingers onto the floor. Pressed his palms over his eyes until colors bloomed in the darkness.

It didn’t matter how high he climbed, someone would be waiting to drag him back down.

The weeks after Miami blurred into a cycle of almosts.

Imola: the car alive under him, snapping at Max’s heels. He could see the Red Bull just ahead, closer every lap, the taste of another win on his tongue. But the flag fell too soon. P2. So close the headlines practically wrote themselves: “Norris catches, but cannot pass.”

Canada: another glimpse of glory. He led for a handful of laps, the world glowing papaya-orange, until strategy tore it away. P2 again. The cameras caught him smiling in the cool-down room, but his chest ached with the weight of what-ifs.

Spain: pole position. The crowd chanting his name, the adrenaline thrumming so hard it nearly drowned out his doubts. But at the lights, he faltered. Lost the start, lost the win. A podium, but hollow.

Every weekend, it was the same story. Podium after podium. Near-perfect drives. Close, so damn close. But never quite enough. The nicknames crept back in — whispered this time, half in jest, half in truth.

And when Monaco came, Oscar’s papaya flashing just ahead of his. His own car crossed the line in P4, the sting sharpened by the fact it was his rookie teammate on the podium instead. He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself he was still in the fight. But in the mirror, under the lights of the motorhome, he couldn’t ignore how much it burned.

Austria hurt worse. A real shot, wheel-to-wheel with Max himself, a battle that lit up the track. For a heartbeat, he felt like he belonged at the very top. Then contact. Then gravel. A DNF. Headlines: “Too aggressive, too desperate.”

By the time Silverstone came, the pressure pressed down like lead. Home race. The chants of “Lando! Lando!” filling every grandstand, papaya flags waving like a fever dream. He fought, he clawed, he stood on the podium again — P3 — but everyone talked about the strategy he and McLaren had botched. Even in triumph, the story was about mistakes.

The pub was loud, hot with bodies pressed together, the kind of place Max Fewtrell always managed to drag him to after a race. Silverstone had left him raw, another home podium, another strategy slip, the kind of “success” that still tasted like failure. He was half a mind to ghost and head home when Max clapped him on the back.

“Come on, mate, meet some actual people for once.”

That’s when he saw you.

Max leaned across the table, grinning. “This is my friend. Thought you two might get on.”

Something in his chest jolted, sharp and unexpected, when your eyes met his. Like he already knew you.

“Hey,” you said easily, like you weren’t staring at a Formula 1 driver, like you weren’t fazed by the noise or the crowd or the history that clung to him. “I know you.”

He blinked, caught off guard, words tangling on his tongue. Of course you know me, he thought. Everyone did. But the way you said it wasn’t about headlines or race wins. It was personal. Direct.

You stepped closer, close enough that he caught the faintest trace of your perfume, close enough that your hand hovered near his face. For a heartbeat he forgot to breathe.

“I told you not to move so much,” you murmured, smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. Your finger traced just shy of the faint line across his nose, the one the gauze hadn’t quite hidden months ago. “Now you’ve got a scar to prove it.”

Amsterdam. The boat. The music, the blood, the way he’d laughed too loud and told everyone he was fine. He remembered blurred lights and sticky drinks, Martin’s tired eyes — but also the way someone had tied the gauze across his nose and told him to be careful.

It had been you.

His mouth opened, but no words came. For once, Lando Norris — always ready with a quip, a joke, a deflection — was speechless. All he could do was stare, heartbeat pounding like he was back on the grid.

You just laughed, soft and easy, like his silence didn’t scare you. “What?” you teased. “Not used to people recognizing your face and not your name?”

He swallowed hard, finally finding his voice, though it cracked around the edges. “Yeah… something like that.”

His chest was still buzzing from the scar comment, the way your fingertip had hovered just shy of his skin. Silverstone still clung to him — the crowd, the strategy mess, the bitter taste of “almost.” He’d walked in carrying that weight, ready to drown it in noise and drinks. But now, with you in front of him, it was slipping away.

You leaned against the table, sipping your drink like the chaos of the bar wasn’t even there. “So,” you said casually, eyes flicking back to his, “do you ever stop frowning when no one’s watching, or is that just your default setting?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I wasn’t frowning.”

“You were,” you countered, smiling now. “When Max introduced us, you looked like someone had told you your dog just ran away.”

That pulled a laugh out of him, sharper than he expected. “Tough crowd.”

“Not really,” you said. “I just think maybe you take yourself a bit too seriously.”

For once, no mention of the race. No “good job” or “tough luck.” No dissecting of pit calls or tyre choices. Just you, needling him lightly, like you cared about the person standing in front of you more than the driver the world had just spent all weekend analyzing.

You asked him about music — what he listened to when he was alone. You asked him what his favorite food was when he was home, not on the road. You asked him if he actually liked streaming or if he just did it because it was expected now.

And somehow, he told you. About the random playlists he made that never saw daylight. About late-night pasta disasters in his flat. About how Twitch started as a laugh with mates but became something he actually looked forward to, something that made him feel less alone.

Hours passed before he even realized he hadn’t thought about Silverstone once. Not the strategy, not the podium, not the headlines he knew were already writing themselves. You hadn’t asked him about any of it.

Instead, you looked at him like he was just a guy, sitting in a noisy bar, trying to figure out what to say to the girl who smiled at him like he wasn’t broken.

And then came Hungary.

Heat glassed the sky, and the roar of the Hungarian crowd was a distant echo compared to the rising tension in his mind. He’d started from pole. Oscar was next to him. Both in McLaren orange. Both hungry. Both racing but only one was supposed to win.

The radio crackled:

WJ: Ok Lando, Oscar had just pitted. He’ll likely come out behind you. We’d like to re-establish the order at your convenience.

WJ: Radio check Lando? LN: Loud and clear

WJ: We need you to save your tyres… we do want to let Oscar through. LN: Well you should have boxed him first then surely no? WJ: Doesn’t matter. LN: I mean, it does, to me maybe

WJ: .... I know you’ll do the right thing.

WJ: ... Just remember every single Sunday morning meeting we have.

Stubbornness rose in him. Tell him to catch me, then, he shot back. He tried to convince them: He doesn't deserve it without earning it.

Behind the scenes, McLaren’s pit wall imploded. The team insisted the championship was a collective effort. Every Sunday meeting preached the same: team first.

WJ: Ok Lando he can’t catch you. You’ve proved your point.

By lap 68, the impossible choice sat heavy on his chest. The radio barked again, persistent, unyielding.

In that moment, Lando felt it — not defeat, but fracture. He backed off. Let the gap open. Oscar shot through, taking the lead and the win.

LN: Yeah you don’t need to say anything.

When it was over, Andrea Stella would say he always knew Lando would obey and would have been "extremely concerned" if he hadn't.

In the cool-down room, Lewis offered a polite nod. Lando cracked a joke about fast cars. Somewhere, the press breathlessly dubbed the result: Piastri’s maiden win overshadowed by team orders.

Later, the images would flood the screen: Lando with forced smiles, Oscar tasting victory. The headline didn’t ask if he deserved it, the team decided he didn’t. He’d admitted he could’ve “done things a bit differently,” said everything was “clear” in post-race talks, but the fracture stayed.

Behind closed doors, Oscar insisted there was “no lingering tension.” He even joked about how they celebrated, but the narrative had already branded Lando as “too nice,” too obedient to be a real threat.

What the world saw was a calculated sacrifice. What Lando felt was the weight of not being enough.

In the days after Hungary, the headlines did their work. Endless debates about “team orders,” endless replays of him lifting to let Oscar through. Interviews clipped down to soundbites: “Norris admits he didn’t deserve it.” He watched them once, twice, then stopped altogether. The words didn’t sting the way they should. They just sat there, heavy, like lead in his stomach.

What haunted him wasn’t the win he’d lost. It was the way Oscar’s maiden win felt muted, drowned in the noise of him. Every interview Piastri gave, every photo of him holding the trophy, the caption carried the shadow of Norris. Overshadowed. Controversial. Handed to him.

Lando saw it in Oscar’s face too. The kid smiled, laughed, gave the right answers, but there was a stiffness in the edges. No one wants their first win to come with an asterisk. And Lando couldn’t shake the guilt that it was his fault. That his refusal to just make it clean, his hesitation, his stubbornness, had poisoned the moment for both of them.

He replayed it in his head — the laps he held on, the pit wall begging him to move. He’d thought he was fighting for himself, but in the end, he’d stolen the simplicity of Oscar’s triumph. The memory wasn’t just defeat; it was shame.

That night, when the hotel room finally fell silent, his phone buzzed.

You: i was watching with max today… you had a great race

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering. His first instinct was to deflect, to laugh it off, to tell you he hadn’t. But instead, he typed back:

Lando: didn’t feel like it You: doesn’t mean it wasn’t. you fought hard. we saw it.

He exhaled, shoulders dropping a fraction.

Lando: not sure anyone else did You: then they’re not looking properly

For a long moment, he just held the phone in his hand, the glow of your message cutting through the dark. Outside, headlines screamed. Inside, for a second, it was just your words — simple, steady, untouched by politics or press.

The weeks blurred together after that. Another race, another podium, another press conference where he smiled too wide and said the right things. He felt like he was moving through it half-asleep. The highs didn’t feel like highs anymore. Every good result was shadowed by what it wasn’t. Every laugh felt staged.

When Oscar celebrated, Lando clapped the loudest, but the voice inside him whispered: you ruined it for him too.

That was the part that sank deepest. Not losing the win. Not the memes, not the media. But the thought that his own teammate’s first taste of victory had been soured because of him. That his presence made it worse, not better.

It was the kind of guilt you couldn’t outrun on track. It followed him back to the hotel rooms, onto the planes, into the empty spaces between races. And each time he thought about it, the same hollow thought curled tighter in his chest:

What if all I ever do is ruin the moments that should matter? For me. For others. What if that’s all I’m good for?

When he admitted it to you — haltingly, words catching like gravel in his throat — you didn’t laugh, and you didn’t rush to fix it. You just listened, phone pressed warm against your cheek in the middle of the night.

“I ruined Oscar’s first win,” he muttered once, voice low. “It should’ve been simple. Clean. And now it’s always going to have… me in it. That’s what I do, apparently. Mess things up.”

There was a long silence on the other end, and for a second he thought maybe the line had gone dead. Then you said, softly, “Do you ever notice how much space you take up in other people’s stories? Not because you ruin them. Because you matter in them.”

He scoffed. “Doesn’t feel like that.”

“That’s because you only ever look at yourself through the headlines,” you said. “But I saw you fight that day. Max saw it too. You gave people something to watch, something to feel. That’s not ruining. That’s… part of why they remember you.”

Something loosened in his chest. He didn’t believe you fully — not yet — but he wanted to.

Little by little, there were moments.

One night in his flat, the city lights pooling across the desk, he opened a sketchbook. Not to design helmets or liveries, not for a sponsor brief. Just for himself. Lines and shapes, messy and uneven, until the page was covered. He wasn’t good at it. That wasn’t the point. For an hour, he wasn’t a headline or the guy who gave up Hungary — he was just a kid with a pencil, putting feelings somewhere safe.

Family and friends helped too. When he went home, when he let himself actually be home, it was different. His mum fussed over him like he was still fifteen, his dad slipped racing stories into dinner conversation, his siblings teased him until he couldn’t stop grinning. With Max and the boys, there were no headlines, no lap times, no “Lando No-Wins.” Just inside jokes, late-night Tarkov raids, stupid dares, laughter echoing in someone’s kitchen at 2 a.m.

And then there was Seb.

The message came after Hungary, quiet and private. Sebastian Vettel — the man who had once carried his own weight of expectation, who had seen the worst and best of this sport. The words weren’t dramatic, just steady: Don’t let them define you. Wins are moments. Who you are lasts longer.

They met once between races, away from the cameras. Lando had braced for advice, strategy, maybe a lecture. But Seb only asked him how he was. Really was. The kind of question that felt dangerous, because if he answered honestly, the dam might break.

Still, he told him. About the nickname, about Hungary, about feeling like he’d ruined Oscar’s moment as much as his own. Seb listened without interrupting, then said simply: It’s not selfish to want. And it’s not shameful to care. That’s why people love you.

The words settled in him like warm embers. Small. Fragile. But glowing.

For the first time in weeks, he let himself believe that maybe his intensity wasn’t just a curse. That maybe the longing, the hunger, the need to mean something — maybe those were gifts too.

The guilt didn’t vanish. The hollow didn’t disappear. But now, in the quiet moments, there were sparks. A sketch on a page. A fan message in the flood of Twitch chat: We’re proud of you no matter what. Seb’s voice reminding him he wasn’t broken.

And for the first time since Hungary, the thought crept in — tentative, trembling, but real: Maybe I don’t have to carry this alone.

McLaren’s car was fast — blisteringly fast — and Lando felt it every time he dropped the throttle. The hollowness of Hungary still clung to him sometimes, but the results began to pile up, and with each one the noise around him changed. He wasn’t “too nice” or “too distracted” anymore. He was a contender.

The rain never let up in São Paulo. It fell heavy and relentless, slicking the asphalt until the track gleamed like glass. He’d started on pole, helmet visor fogged with his own breath, the papaya lined up ahead of everyone. For a moment — before the chaos, before the rain turned cruel — he believed.

But when the lights dropped, Russell jumped him off the line. The sting was instant, sharp as ice. Still, he fought back. By lap 30, he was through, papaya ahead, leading on merit. For a heartbeat, it was his.

Then the race unraveled. Red flag. Strategy loopholes. Verstappen’s car surging like a phantom through the spray. Lando locked up, slid off, recovered but fell back. Another lock-up, another slip, the seconds bleeding away. By the time the chequered flag waved, Max had stormed from seventeenth to first. Lando — pole to sixth.

The headlines were merciless: “Norris crumbles under pressure.” “Pole to P6: Another chance wasted.”

He sat in his hotel that night with the rain battering the windows, helmet on the desk still streaked with spray. He thought about how, for a few brief laps, he’d had it. How it had slipped through his hands, not stolen but squandered. And he thought about Max, inevitable, untouchable, proving once again that no matter what he did, it wasn’t enough.

Brazil cracked him. Two weeks later, the Strip glittered like a fever dream. Neon lights flashing, crowds pressed against the barriers, the desert night cold against the tarmac. The city was loud, electric, a circus built for spectacle. And for a moment, under the glow of it all, he let himself believe again. The championship was still alive — just barely — and if there was a place to claw it back, why not here?

The race was chaos from the start, sparks cascading under the streetlights, tyres screaming in the cold. He pushed, he fought, the papaya biting into every corner. The car felt alive, humming under his hands, as if it knew how much he needed this.

And then, in an instant, it was gone.

A twitch. A snap of oversteer. The wall rushing up faster than he could react. The car slammed sideways, metal shrieking, carbon scattering across the neon strip. The world spun, lights and barriers blurring, until it stopped in a heap of smoke and silence.

“Are you okay, mate?” the radio crackled, voice steady, almost gentle.

He said yes. He wasn’t.

From the medical car he watched the race continue, the crowd roaring, the city alive. He watched Max climb the podium again, champagne spraying against the Vegas sky. And with it, the math became final. The WDC was gone.

Later, in the hotel, the Strip still flashing outside his window, he sat on the edge of the bed, helmet beside him, tracing the gouges scratched across the visor. They looked like scars. Proof of how close he’d come. Proof of how far he still was.

Brazil had cracked him. Vegas broke him.

For weeks he’d told himself he was a contender, a rival, that the dream was within reach. But now, the thought returned, merciless and cold:

I’ll never be enough. Maybe I’ll never be the one.

------

By the time they reached Yas Marina, the fight was already over.

The desert air was hot, but flat. The paddock buzzed with the usual end-of-season frenzy — mechanics packing boxes, engineers talking about next year’s upgrades, journalists chasing closing-line quotes. For everyone else, this was an ending. For him, it felt more like an echo.

Vegas had broken the championship open and left him with nothing but splintered pieces. He carried the weight into Abu Dhabi like a passenger, heavy and immovable. The WDC was already Max’s. All that was left was to finish the year.

He drove well — clean laps, quick enough, another podium. On paper, it was respectable. A season of highs, of breakthroughs, of consistency. His best yet. But as he stood on the rostrum, champagne in hand, the fireworks exploding across the marina, he felt none of it. The cheers sounded far away, muffled. The bottle slipped in his grip, and for a second he thought about letting it fall.

The trophy they handed him gleamed under the floodlights, polished and perfect. He turned it in his hands, heavy and hollow, thinking about the one he hadn’t touched. The one that still belonged to someone else.

Back in the garage, the team celebrated — music, laughter, a toast to progress. He smiled for them, clapped along, hugged Oscar, but the joy never reached his chest. When the cameras left and the noise dimmed, he changed out of his suit in silence.

The season tally said success. Five podiums after Miami, points stacked high, McLaren back where they belonged. To the outside world, it was proof he was a contender. To him, it was proof of how close he’d come and how easily it had all slipped away.

On the flight home, he sat by the window with his headphones in, sketchbook unopened in the seat pocket, watching the black desert fade into sunrise. The others slept, laughter trailing off into snores. He pressed his forehead to the glass, eyes half-closed, and let the thought turn over in his head like a stone he couldn’t put down:

You’re good. But not good enough. Maybe you never will be.

The fireworks of Yas Marina still burned faintly in the back of his eyes. Bright, beautiful, empty.

After the season ended, he thought the emptiness would follow him everywhere. He packed his bags in Abu Dhabi, boarded the plane home, and expected the same voice to keep whispering: not enough, never enough.

But then came the quiet.

No engines. No headlines. No endless carousel of press conferences and cameras. Just December. Just days where he could sit at his kitchen table with a mug of tea and no schedule, sketching idly in the margins of old notebooks. At first, the silence scared him. But slowly, it started to heal.

The fans didn’t go quiet, though. They filled every timeline with orange hearts and inside jokes, reminding him of Miami, reminding him that to them he wasn’t “Lando No-Wins” or “too nice to fight.” He was just Lando. Letters arrived, some messy with marker drawings, some long and heartfelt. “We love you because you’re you. Not because of trophies.” He kept a few folded on his desk, reading them on the nights when the old doubts still knocked at the door.

His friends kept him grounded too. Martin dragged him to gigs, insisting that standing in a crowd, sweating under lights, was therapy in its own right. The music was deafening, the bass vibrating in his chest, but with Martin laughing beside him, it felt like oxygen instead of noise.

Max Fewtrell was just as relentless. He’d FaceTime out of nowhere, drop into his flat with takeout, shove a controller in his hands before Lando could even complain. “You need reminding you’re not actually as boring as you think you are,” Max would say, grinning like it was the easiest truth in the world.

It was stupid, simple, and it worked. Slowly, the weight in his chest loosened. For a few hours at a time, he wasn’t Lando Norris, almost-champion, headline fodder. He was just Lando. The kid who liked cars and music and laughing until his stomach hurt.

And then, unexpectedly, there was you.

It happened quietly, without the noise of engines or headlines and it had happened for a while now. Step by step.

And then there was you, making your way into his life step by step.

You made him laugh in a room where he had been sure he could not. Then a coffee that was not really a date, just two people who happened to be free at the same time. You asked if he slept better with noise or quiet. He said quiet. You said you liked rain sounds. That night he tried a rain playlist and woke up rested for the first time in weeks.

You started showing up in small places. A text before races. Drink water. A photo of a crooked orange hat with the caption found this in my cupboard, any idea why it makes me think of you. You never sent long speeches. You sent anchors. He did not drown on the days you wrote first.

Martin noticed when he dragged Lando to a gig. The lights went up, the bass hit, and you pressed earplugs into Lando’s palm without a word. He grinned like an idiot. Max rolled his eyes and mouthed whipped across the crowd. Lando shrugged and kept the earplugs. Later you stood on the pavement sharing chips from a paper cone, steam curling into the cold. You told him the song you liked best and why. He told you what it feels like when a car hooks into a corner just right. You listened like it was poetry.

You learned his little things. The way he hates cold hands. The way he chews the inside of his cheek when he is thinking. You started keeping mints in your pocket for him. He started keeping a spare scarf in his car for you. On a Tuesday that felt empty you came over and cooked badly on purpose, flour on the counter, smoke in the pan, laughter in the ceiling. He forgot to check his phone for hours.

When Brazil tore at him, you did not tell him to move on on facetime. You asked what part hurt the most. He said the part where he had it and lost it. You said then you know you can have it. He looked at you like the sentence had never occurred to him.

When Vegas broke him, you called at the hotel so he did not have to be brave for the cameras anymore. You did not ask if he was ok. You told him you were there. He breathed. You stayed on the line until morning, traded silence and comfort, made him list five things in the room, asked what the sheets felt like, kept him in the present until the panic let go.

You slipped into the spaces his friends had kept open for him. Max swung by with takeout and you stole the chips, told Max his playlist needed help. Martin sent a voice note from a stage somewhere and you played it on speaker while you both did a puzzle on the floor. Lando started sending photos of sunsets from the sim window, not lap times.

By December you knew the door code and where the mugs lived in the Monaco apartment. You did not touch the helmets, you asked about the sketches. He showed you the messy pages. You pointed at your favorite one and said frame that. He said it was not good. You said it was honest. He did frame it.

He still had bad days. On those, you made tea, walked with him in the cold, asked him to name three things that were true. I am cold. You are here. I can breathe. Each time the knot in his chest loosened. Not because the world changed. Because you did not try to change him.

By the time January came around, he could feel it in his bones. The doubts were still part of him, but they did not run the show. He had his people. He had you. He had a life that was bigger than headlines and smaller than stadiums. He liked that. He liked himself in it.

The winter had carved him out. The boy who left Abu Dhabi was hollowed by doubt, but the one who arrived at testing in February walked differently. Not lighter exactly — the scars of Brazil and Vegas still clung to him — but steadier. As if he’d stopped trying to outrun them and learned to wear them instead.

He was still emotional. Still Lando. But now, when he laughed, it reached his eyes. When he smiled for the cameras, it didn’t feel like a mask. His team noticed it first, the easy banter with engineers, the way he clapped Oscar on the back in the garage instead of retreating into himself.

The first race of the season was always a blur of nerves and noise, but when the chequered flag dropped in Melbourne, Lando was the one in front.

The papaya screamed across the line, arms in the air, his team flooding the pit wall. The roar from the grandstands shook him to the core. A win — first race of the season, first stamp of authority.

Last year, a win had felt like desperation, like clinging proof he wasn’t broken. This time, it felt different. This time, it felt like expression. He wasn’t proving. He was showing. This is who I am. This is what I can do.

And when the cameras came close, when the champagne sprayed, he grinned with that wide, reckless smile that made the whole team laugh, and said it simply: “What a way to start. We’re just getting going.”

Monaco was magic. The glittering harbour, the sound of engines bouncing off the walls, the impossible glamour of it all. It was the race every driver wanted to win, the one that meant more than points or standings.

And that Sunday, it was his.

The narrow streets swallowed him whole, tyres inches from the barriers, every lap a tightrope. Pressure was everywhere, but he thrived on it. Each corner was painted with confidence, every lap a canvas.

When he crossed the line, when the flag waved, it wasn’t just victory. It was poetry.

His radio exploded — engineers screaming, the team howling, his own voice breaking with emotion. “Monaco, baby!” His chest felt cracked open, not from longing anymore, but from fullness.

On the podium, with the Mediterranean sun on his face, he looked out at the harbour and thought: This is the win that will never be taken from me. No team orders, no caveats, no asterisks. Just me, my car, my team, my moment.

And when reporters asked him what it meant, he didn’t deflect or self-deprecate. He smiled, steady and honest, and said: “This one… this is special. This is what you dream about. I’ll remember this for the rest of my life.”

But before all that, the first thing he did after climbing out of the car was find you in the crowd. You were standing with his parents — your face glowing with pride, his mum already clutching your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. He tugged off his helmet, sweat-slick hair falling into his eyes, and without hesitation he blew you a kiss. Cameras caught it, the team laughed about it later, but in the moment it was just for you.

His mum squeezed your hand tighter, pulling you into her arms as though you’d always been there. She kissed your cheek, voice thick with emotion. “I knew it,” she whispered, eyes never leaving her son. “I knew he could do it. And I knew you’d be here for this. You’re part of us now, you know.”

You’d met them a few times before, but this was different. This was the first race you were here with Lando, not just for him. His family didn’t hesitate — his mum treating you like one of her own, his dad grinning as if the victory belonged to all of you.

And for Lando, standing on that podium, the champagne still sticky on his suit, it didn’t feel like a solitary triumph. It felt like coming home.

Montreal was chaos — five cars, eight seconds apart, the fight for the podium like a knife’s edge. The papayas were locked together, Oscar ahead, Lando pressing.

On lap 66, he made the dive at L’Epingle, daring and bold. For a second it worked — then it didn’t. He ran wide, Oscar snapping back alongside, the two of them locked wheel-to-wheel down the Casino Straight. At Turn 13, Oscar edged ahead.

Lando stayed hungry. Out of the final chicane, he lunged left, inside for Turn 1. But he misjudged it. The front wing clipped Oscar’s rear tyre, and in a blink he was in the wall, front-left suspension snapping, sparks showering the pit straight. The papaya sat broken, race over.

The safety car rolled. He climbed out, chest heaving, helmet under his arm. The crowd roared, cameras flashing, the story already writing itself: Norris crashes out fighting his teammate.

The old Lando would have crumbled — sarcasm in the press pen, self-loathing eating him alive, retreating into silence.

But this Lando was different.

When the microphones came, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t joke it off, didn’t spiral. He said it plain: “That one’s on me. I wanted too much, I misjudged, and I took myself out. Oscar drove brilliantly, and he deserved that position. I’ll learn from it.”

No excuses. No self-hate. Just responsibility. The words carried weight not because they were polished, but because they were real.

And this time, he didn’t need anyone to remind him of that truth. Not the team, not his family, not even you. He saw it himself. A mistake was just that — nothing more, nothing less. Not a curse, not proof he was broken. Just part of the story.

Later that night, he texted Oscar himself: ��Sorry, mate. That one was on me. Proud of the way you drove.”

And then he shut his phone, pulled you onto the couch, and laughed about the way he’d somehow managed to lose Mario Kart to you again. The crash still stung, but it didn’t define him. Not anymore.

Because he knew, deep down, he could win. He had already proven it — in Australia, in Monaco, in himself. Mistakes weren’t proof he wasn’t enough. They were part of the art.

By mid-2025, Lando Norris wasn’t running from his shadow anymore. He was driving with it, growing with it, laughing with it.

The transformation was complete: despair into self-expression, doubt into confidence, vulnerability into strength.

The Individualist had become whole.

i appreciate your interactions with this post 🤍

@trisharee @sk3tchb00ks @understeeringirl @leclercsluvs @mara1999 @random-movie @diorrgrl @lifesass @norrisjpg @sparklepiastri @spikershoyo @urmomsgirlfriend1 @l4ndoflove

@keepyoureyesonmeboy @ravensofblack

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

SAFFU MENTIONED ME I FEEL FAMOUS

chapter 41 (and literally every other chapter) is so incredibly beautiful my english teacher would implode and i am currently also imploding.

anyways I am so hyped to see more of your work it makes me so happy to see such amazing writing just out here for free

"my english teacher would implode and i am currently also imploding"

in @keepyoureyesonmeboy's universe where second chances is a book, this is the testimonial thingy i want on the back cover like officially

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

so… second chances blurb ideas you said 👀👀

perhaps one where they end up together and they’re super happy and have 2 puppies. I think that will be good. 🙂‍↕️

on a real note, maybe a little flashback with some fluff. my school is starting in two days give me something. I’m begging you.

so in honor of @pookie2355 starting school, here's what i came up with. hope you like it!

intruder

word count: 712

warning: unedited. also might make you miss the second chances-verse. i speak from experience - you have been warned.

It had been a long day — not terrible, not dramatic, just one of those stretches of time that seemed to tumble from one thing to another and then yet another, wearing her nerves thin. The café had been busy, her classmates wouldn’t stop bombarding the group chat about outlines and exam prep, and all she wanted was ten minutes where her brain didn’t have to sprint.

When she finally got home that night, she turned to grab her apartment keys from her bag, only to look up and find the door open. Actually it looked more like someone had made a lazy attempt at closing it, unbothered by whether it actually closed or not.

Y/N distinctly recalled closing the door before she left.

Carefully, slowly, silently – she nudged the door open only to find Liam already stretched across her couch like he owned the place. Shoes kicked off, hair a mess, scrolling through his phone, totally at ease as if it was her who had entered his home (and not the other way around).

“You have got to be kidding me. Seriously?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed.

He looked up at her, looking far too innocent. If anything, he looked confused, as if he couldn’t possibly conceive what was wrong about this situation. “What? You left it unlocked.”

“That doesn’t make it an invitation!”

He shrugged, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth. “Oi, could’a been a burglar. You should be grateful it was me.”

“Oh yes, thank God,” she mumbled, rolling her eyes as she set her bag down on the countertop. “Instead of losing my TV, I get… this. Lucky me.”

“This is premium company, actually.” He sat up, gesturing to himself before patting the cushion next to him. “Come on. You look wrecked.”

“I am wrecked.” But she still sank down beside him, letting her body sag into the cushions. She hadn’t realized how tense her shoulders were until they melted against the armrest.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. He didn’t fill the silence, didn’t press her for small talk — just shifted closer, slipping an arm behind her so her head fell naturally against his chest.

It startled her, how good it felt. Like the world had been blaring static all day and now someone had finally turned the volume down.

“You always do that,” she murmured.

“Do what?” His voice was low, the vibrations humming through her cheek.

“Show up when I need you. Like you’ve got some kind of… radar thingy.”

He laughed softly, a real one, muffled into her hair. “Maybe I do.”

“Stalker.”

Silence settled over the room like a sheet, enveloping everything. She tilted her head up, catching the way his mouth curved even though his eyes stayed on her ceiling like he couldn’t quite look at her. That was him all over — bold when it came to everything else, cautious when it came to her.

Her chest tightened.

“You’re annoying, you know,” she whispered.

“Yeah.” His smile widened, with a hint of that boyish charm she’d come to associate with him. “But I’m your kind of annoying.”

She rolled her eyes, but her hand still found his, her fingertips brushing against his knuckles. His thumb twitched, hesitant for only a second before it threaded through hers, holding on like he’d been waiting all night for that tiny bit of permission.

And God, it was so simple, so small — her head on his chest, his hand tangled with hers, the steady rise and fall of his breathing under her ear — but it felt unfair how much she wanted to stay there forever.

She thought, just for a fleeting moment, that maybe she could. That maybe the rest of the world could pause for them to exist like this – interdependent, intertwined.

“Oh, n’ your out of those pretzel things.”

“The chocolate pretzels? No, I just got a new pack on–”

“...Well, you’re out now.”

"Liam! I swear to god—"

"Hey, hey! There's no need to get violent! This is a good time to remember how good lookin' you think I am—"

"Actually, I'm gonna kill you in your sleep. Tonight, actually. Matter of fact, I could just smother you with this pillow right now—"

"But you love me!"

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

HOT NEIGHBOR PROBLEMS

You moved to Monaco for peace and quiet but ended up with Lando Norris — loud, annoying, and ridiculously cute. Between his terrible taste in music and constant chaos, you were pretty sure he was trying to drive you insane. Problem was, you kind of liked it.

pairing. Lando Norris x neighbor! fem! reader.

warnings. enemies to lovers, 9,1k words, forced proximity- ish, slowburn, implied age gap (20/25), student! reader; automotive engineering, 2nd year. neighbor war, teasing, pet names (love, sweetheart), profanity, alcohol use; drunk confession (kind of).

IT WAS HALF PAST THREE IN THE BLOODY MORNING.

You were still wide awake. Not because you wanted to be, but because your neighbor had decided it was the perfect time to blast loud British rap through the walls. You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the music that had been playing nonstop for hours. The lyrics were full of slang you barely understood, and the accent was so strong it made your head hurt. You were pretty sure your eye was starting to twitch from the stress.

Your neighbor? None other than Lando Norris. The infamous Formula 1 driver, McLaren’s rising star, and a guy who seemed to collect ego-driven nicknames and attention like it was his job—which, to be fair, it kind of was. Unfortunately, you had the unlucky honor of living right next to him. And while Monaco was supposed to be peaceful and fancy, your apartment felt more like a front-row seat to chaos.

You’d run into him a few times in the hallway. He was always acting like he owned the place—confident, loud, and just a little too full of himself. He tripped over things more often than you’d expect from someone who drives cars at 300 kilometers per hour. Let’s just say he was really questionable. Questionable mostly because of the parade of different girls slipping out of his door every week. You didn’t say anything, but you definitely noticed. And yes, you judged. Hard.

You let out a deep sigh, wishing you could just hide under your blankets and pretend the loud music wasn’t shaking the walls. But there was no chance of falling asleep—not with whatever mess Lando called a playlist blasting through the night. The bass was pounding like a drum right next to your head, and it felt like your entire apartment was vibrating.

After another minute of the noise, you couldn’t take it anymore. You threw off the covers, got out of bed, and marched straight to the wall that separated your apartment from his. You hit it with your fist, hard, hoping he’d get the message.

Nothing. Of course.

You tried again, louder this time, your knuckles stinging from the impact. Still no reaction. It was like he couldn’t hear you—or just didn’t care.

Frustration boiling over, you turned and stormed out of your apartment. If he wasn’t going to listen through the wall, then you’d make sure he heard you face to face. You didn’t care if it came off as rude. You were tired, annoyed, and ready to fight for your sleep. You had an exam in the morning—something about engine design, though at this point you barely remembered. What mattered was that you needed rest. And Lando Norris, with his loud music and zero awareness, clearly didn’t.

You hit the door harder than you probably should have, fists slamming against the wood with all the frustration you’d been holding in for hours. You didn’t care if it was dramatic. You were exhausted, fed up, and completely done with the noise.

After a few seconds, the door opened.

Lando Norris.

Hair a mess like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. He wore a hoodie, but it was hanging open, showing off his bare chest like he hadn’t bothered to get dressed properly. And of course, he had that same smug, lazy grin on his face. Like this whole thing was funny to him. Like you showing up at his door in the middle of the night was just another part of his entertainment.

You didn’t give him a chance to speak.

“It’s three thirty in the morning,” you said sharply, your voice low but firm.

Lando blinked, then tilted his head slightly. “Shit. Is it? Already?” he said, completely unfazed, that smirk still glued to his face.

You narrowed your eyes. “Didn’t care to check between all the terrible roadman songs?”

His grin stretched even wider, and you could feel your blood pressure climbing with every second. It was like he was enjoying this—like your frustration was just another game to him.

“Not really,” Lando said, voice casual and smug, as if the pounding music and your sleepless night were no big deal. He leaned against the doorframe, looking far too relaxed for someone who’d just been confronted in the middle of the night.

You took a slow breath, trying to keep your cool. You didn’t want to yell, but you were dangerously close. “I have an exam tomorrow,” you said, keeping your voice steady. “Can you please turn the music down?”

He tilted his head slightly, pretending to be curious. “You’re still in school?”

Your eye twitched again. You weren’t sure if it was from the stress or the sheer disbelief that this was your life now.

“Turn. It. Off,” you said, each word sharp and clear.

Lando didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He just stood there, looking you up and down with that same annoying grin that made your skin crawl. It was like he thought this was funny—like you were just another part of his late-night entertainment.

“Didn’t realize I live next to a schoolgirl,” he said, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe like he had nowhere else to be. “Do your parents know you’re out this late?”

You stared at him, jaw tight. Idiot. Absolute idiot.

“I’m asking one last time,” you said, voice low and sharp. “Can you turn it off?”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

You didn’t flinch. “Or do you want me to ruin your whole reputation online?”

That wiped the smirk off his face—just a little.

“Okay, no need to be dramatic,” he said, finally turning away and disappearing into his apartment. A moment later, the music stopped completely. Just like that.

Then he reappeared in the doorway, arms crossed, that smug look still lingering. “Satisfied?”

You didn’t bother with a thank you. “Very much,” you said flatly, turning on your heel and heading back into your apartment.

You slammed the door behind you, letting the sound echo through the hallway. For a moment, there was silence. Then, faintly, the music started again—lower this time, but still there.

Asshole.

───

School that day was a complete disaster. Every class felt like it lasted forever, and you couldn’t focus on anything. You forgot your part of the group project, stumbled through a presentation, and you were pretty sure you failed that exam. By the time you finally made it back to the apartment complex, you were running on fumes. So when you saw Lando’s usual parking spot sitting empty—no flashy McLaren in sight—you didn’t even think twice. You pulled right in, parked, and didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty.

Upstairs, you dropped your bag the second you walked through the door and collapsed face-first onto the couch. You didn’t even bother changing or grabbing food. You were already halfway to sleep, your body sinking into the cushions like it was the only safe place left in the world.

And then the banging started.

Knock knock knock.

Bang bang bang.

You froze, groaning quietly into the pillow. Of course.

Then came the voice—loud, annoyed, and way too familiar.

“Hey! You parked in my spot!”

You didn’t move. Maybe if you stayed perfectly still, he’d go away. Maybe if you pretended to be asleep—or dead—he’d give up.

More knocking. Harder this time.

“I know you’re in there!”

You groaned again, louder this time, wondering if ignoring him counted as self-care.

You dragged yourself off the couch, every muscle in your body protesting the movement. With a tired sigh, you shuffled to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open just enough to show your face. No way were you giving him the satisfaction of a full dramatic entrance.

And there he was—Lando Norris in all his glory. Hoodie thrown on like he hadn’t bothered with anything else, curls sticking out in every direction, and a look on his face like you’d personally ruined his entire week. His arms were raised like he was about to start a protest right there in the hallway.

“Seriously?” he said, voice full of disbelief. “My spot?”

You stared at him, completely unfazed. “It’s not labeled.”

He scoffed, clearly offended. “Everyone knows that’s my spot.”

You leaned against the doorframe, too tired to argue but not willing to back down. “Well. Guess everyone includes me now.”

His jaw dropped slightly, and you could see the gears turning in his head. But you weren’t about to give him more of your time—not today.

Lando narrowed his eyes, clearly not amused. “Are you trying to start something?” he asked, voice low and sharp.

You gave him a sweet smile, the kind that didn’t reach your eyes. “No. Just finishing it,” you said calmly, leaning a little more into the doorframe.

He stepped closer, clearly not ready to let it go. “Move your car.”

“No.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Why not?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think about it. “Because I’m tired,” you said, voice slow and steady. “And there’s not any free spot anyway.”

For a second, he just stared at you, mouth slightly open like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was the kind of look people gave when they weren’t sure if you were joking or just completely serious.

“Are you for real right now?” he asked, still trying to process your answer.

You shrugged, not even pretending to care. “You kept me up all night,” you said. “I consider this balance restored.”

Lando didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at you, lips parted, eyes squinting slightly, like he was trying to figure out whether you were completely insane or just the most annoying person he’d ever met.

“You want war?” Lando asked, eyes narrowing with a mix of challenge and amusement.

You didn’t even flinch. You just gave a small shrug and nodded, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You were too tired to play nice, and honestly, part of you was starting to enjoy pushing his buttons.

He turned away, but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder. He walked backward down the hallway with that same cocky swagger he always had—like he owned the building, the street, maybe even the whole country. It made you want to throw something at him. Something hard.

“Careful,” he called out, voice lazy but sharp. “Wouldn’t want your little student car to get mysteriously towed.”

You raised an eyebrow, not missing a beat. “Wouldn’t want your gifted sport car to get mysteriously keyed.”

That made him pause. His mouth twitched, and for a second, you saw something flicker in his eyes—maybe surprise, maybe amusement. It was quick, but it was there.

Then he smiled. No, he grinned. Wide, smug, full of teeth and trouble. “You wouldn’t,” he said, like he was daring you.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart still pounding from the argument but refusing to show it. “I absolutely would.”

He stared at you for a moment longer, like he was locking this memory away for future use. You could almost feel it—him filing it under “reasons to annoy you later.” Then he spun around and walked off, muttering something under his breath. You didn’t catch all of it, but you were pretty sure it included the word “psycho.”

You didn’t care. You were too tired, too done, and honestly? You kind of liked the chaos.

───

It had been a long, exhausting day filled with lectures, lab work, and way too much caffeine. Your brain felt like mush, and your feet were dragging with every step. The only thing keeping you going was the thought of finally getting your hands on the package you’d been waiting for all week. A brand-new set of calipers for your engine design class. Not exactly thrilling for most people, not for you either, but it was the key to finishing your project—and not failing the class.

As you reached your apartment door, you pulled out your phone and checked the tracking info. Delivered at 3:33 PM. You looked down, expecting to see the box waiting for you.

But there was nothing.

You frowned and glanced around the hallway. It was completely empty. No package, no note, nothing. That didn’t make sense. You were sure you’d entered the right address, and the delivery time matched perfectly.

Feeling a little uneasy, you started pacing near your door, phone pressed to your ear as you called the delivery guy. Maybe he left it somewhere else. Maybe it was a mistake.

“Yeah, I left it with a guy who said he was your friend,” the delivery driver said over the phone. “Curly hair, dark hoodie. He said you asked him to pick it up.”

You stopped pacing. Your eyes narrowed, and your jaw clenched.

Of course.

There was only one person who fit that description. One person who would have the nerve to take your package and pretend it was totally normal. Lando Norris. Your charming, chaotic, pain-in-the-ass neighbor.

Without wasting another second, you spun around and stormed down the hallway. Your footsteps echoed off the walls, fast and angry. You didn’t hesitate—you raised your fist and banged on his door, hard. So hard the hinges probably rattled. You didn’t care.

Lando opened the door with that same smug look he always wore—like he’d been waiting for this moment. His smile was full of fake innocence, and the way he leaned casually against the doorframe made your blood boil.

“What’s up, neighbor?” he said, voice light and teasing, like he hadn’t just stolen something important.

Your eyes flicked past him and landed on the package sitting on his kitchen counter, plain as day. That was it. Your calipers. The thing you’d been waiting for all week. The thing you needed to finish your project. And there it was, in his apartment.

“Give it to me,” you said, your voice cold and sharp. You didn’t have the energy for games. Not today.

Lando raised an eyebrow, pretending to be confused. “What?” he asked, like he had no idea what you were talking about.

Oh god. He was really going to play dumb.

You felt your patience snap. “Don’t act even more stupid than you already are, Norris,” you said, stepping forward. “I know you have my package.”

Your heart was pounding, not just from anger but from the sheer disbelief that he’d actually done this. You didn’t know if he thought it was funny or if he genuinely didn’t care, but either way, you weren’t going to let it slide.

“I might have it,” Lando said slowly, dragging out the words like he was enjoying every second of this. His voice was calm, almost playful, but you could see the spark of mischief in his eyes. He was loving this—holding your package hostage like it was some kind of game.

“But the thing is…” he continued, stepping back just enough to make you feel like you were chasing him. “I’m not sure I should just hand it over. You haven’t exactly been very neighborly lately.”

Your jaw clenched, and you felt your frustration spike. Was he seriously doing this? After everything—after the music, the parking spot, the constant teasing—he was now trying to make you feel guilty?

“Lando!” you snapped, your voice rising before you could stop it. “I need it for class!”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, his grin grew wider. His eyes sparkled with that same annoying confidence, like he knew exactly how far he could push you.

“Well then,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “how about some manners, love? Say please.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, torn between screaming and laughing at how ridiculous this was. He was impossible. Absolutely impossible.

“What?” you asked, blinking like you couldn’t possibly have heard him right. Surely he wasn’t serious.

But Lando just stood there, arms crossed, that smug grin still plastered across his face. “Say please,” he repeated, calm and firm, like he was asking for the most reasonable thing in the world.

He didn’t add anything else. No explanation. No joke. Just those two words.

You stared at him, your pride screaming in protest. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Not after everything. But you also needed that package. You needed those calipers. And you were too tired to keep fighting.

So you gave in. Just barely.

“…Please,” you muttered, voice low and reluctant, like the word physically hurt to say.

Lando raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Not enough,” he said, still smiling, still enjoying every second of this power trip.

You felt your eye twitch again. This man was going to be the reason you lost your mind.

“Please, Lando,” you said, louder this time, clearer. And just like that, you felt your dignity slip right through your fingers. It was gone. Completely. You’d begged—begged—your annoying neighbor for a package that was rightfully yours.

Lando’s eyes lit up like Christmas. He looked absolutely delighted.

“Wow,” he said, grinning wide. “Wasn’t even that painful, was it, sweetheart?”

You narrowed your eyes, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. “More painful,” you muttered, stepping forward, “is going to be my foot if it accidentally ends up in your—”

But before you could finish the threat, he casually reached behind him and handed you the package.

Just like that.

You stared at it for a second, almost surprised he gave it up so easily. Then you snatched it from his hands, resisting the urge to throw something at him on your way out.

───

You remembered overhearing Lando complain about sushi once—loudly, dramatically, and with way too much passion. He’d gone on and on about how it was disgusting, slimy, and probably should be illegal. Honestly, it was the kind of rant that stuck with you. And now? It was the perfect opportunity to use that little detail against him.

With a wicked grin, you opened your food delivery app and started scrolling. You didn’t just pick any sushi—you chose the most extravagant platter you could find. Shrimp, salmon, tuna, eel, and every fishy thing imaginable. It was colorful and absolutely something he’d hate. You carefully typed in the shared building address, his name, and his door number—C55. That number was engraved into your brain after all the passive-aggressive sticky notes you’d slapped on his door over the past few weeks.

It didn’t take long. Maybe twenty minutes later, you heard it—the sound of confusion echoing down the hallway.

“What is this? I didn’t order anything—”

You practically sprinted to your door, pressing your ear against it like a nosy neighbor in a sitcom. Yes, you were that curious. And yes, you were already giggling.

The poor delivery guy sounded exhausted. “Mate, are you Lando Norris? It was ordered under your name, to your door. Obviously it’s for you.”

You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing out loud. The plan had worked perfectly. And the best part? You hadn’t even left your apartment.

“But I hate sushi!” Lando whined, voice high and dramatic, eyes wide like a kid who’d just been told he couldn’t have dessert. He stared at the platter like it was some kind of personal attack.

The delivery guy didn’t flinch. He’d clearly dealt with worse. “It’s paid in full,” he said, already turning to leave. “Enjoy. Have a nice day.”

You could’ve paid good money—millions, honestly—to see the look on Lando’s face. The mix of horror, confusion, and pure betrayal was priceless. You waited until the delivery guy was gone, then quietly cracked your door open, just enough to peek out.

Lando was still standing there, holding the box like it might explode.

“It’s sushi time, Lando,” you said with a grin, lifting your own takeout bag like a trophy. You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped out. This was too perfect.

He turned toward you, eyes narrowed. “You think this is funny?”

You leaned against the doorframe, completely unbothered. “Hilarious, actually.”

───

You were probably never going to get a peaceful night’s sleep in this building. That much was clear. One moment, you were finally asleep—no music shaking the walls, no shouting, no awful British rap rattling your brain. Just quiet. Blissful, uninterrupted quiet.

And then the fire alarm went off.

It was loud. Painfully loud. Your ears rang as you shot upright, heart pounding. You cursed under your breath, grabbed your phone, keys, and the nearest pair of slippers. No time for a hoodie, no time for anything, really. You were wearing a thin tank top and shorts that barely counted as clothing, but there was no way you were staying inside to change.

The moment you opened your door, chaos hit you like a wave. People were running in every direction—neighbors clutching handbags, jewelry, pets, even a potted plant. Someone was crying. Someone else was yelling. It was like a scene from a disaster movie, only louder and more confusing.

And then you saw him. Lando.

“This you again?!” you shouted over the blaring alarm, eyes locked on him.

He turned, looking just as confused as you were—but somehow still managing to look annoyingly good in sweats and messy curls. “Why the hell would I even do this?!” he yelled back, voice full of disbelief.

You opened your mouth to throw something sarcastic at him, but before you could, he rushed forward and grabbed your wrist.

“Don’t just stand there like an idiot!” he snapped, pulling you along through the chaos.

Your heart jumped—not just from the alarm, but from the sudden touch. And as you stumbled after him, half-dressed and half-awake, you couldn’t help but think: This building is cursed.

The blast of cold night air hit you the second you stepped outside, and it was brutal. Goosebumps spread across your skin instantly, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold in whatever warmth you had left. Your teeth were already chattering, and the thin tank top and shorts you’d rushed out in were doing absolutely nothing to help.

You dropped onto the curb, pulling your knees close, shivering as the fire alarm continued to scream in the background. Around you, neighbors milled about, some still in pajamas, others wrapped in blankets or clutching their pets. And then there was Lando—of course—wandering around like he owned the building. He was chatting with the older residents, probably fishing for gossip or just soaking up the attention like he always did.

He glanced over at you once, then again. The second time, his eyes lingered a little longer, and you could tell he’d noticed how miserable you looked.

“You’re literally shaking,” he said, like it was some kind of shocking discovery.

Before you could respond, he pulled his hoodie over his head and tossed it straight at you.

“What are you—” you started, but the warm fabric hit you square in the face, cutting off your words.

You stared at him like he’d just handed you a live grenade. The hoodie sat in your lap, warm and soft, but you weren’t sure if accepting it would feel worse than the cold. “Is this some kind of pity thing?” you asked, voice tight.

Lando didn’t even blink. “It’s called being decent, believe it or not,” he said, smirking like he knew exactly how much this was messing with you. “But if it really hurts your pride, I can always take it back.”

You hesitated. The cold wind bit at your skin, and your arms were already numb. As much as you hated the idea of accepting anything from him, freezing to death wasn’t exactly a better option. With a quiet curse under your breath, you pulled the hoodie over your head. It was instantly warm, wrapping around you like a blanket—and unfortunately, it smelled like him. Clean, a little musky, and way too nice for someone who drove you insane.

Damn it. That was… annoyingly attractive.

“Thanks,” you muttered, the word tasting like defeat.

Lando turned, clearly enjoying every second of this. “What was that?” he asked, leaning in slightly. “Didn’t quite catch it.”

You shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut steel. “Fuck off.”

He laughed, and you hated how good it sounded.

Lando dropped down onto the curb beside you, settling in like he had all the time in the world. He rested his elbows on his knees, glancing sideways at you with that familiar, easy grin.

“So,” he said, like he was delivering some kind of breaking news, “turns out some genius on the third floor burnt fucking toast.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. Of course. That was it? All this chaos, the freezing cold, the panic—for toast?

“You’re joking,” you said, voice muffled but amused.

“Wish I was,” he replied, shaking his head. “Whole building evacuated because someone couldn’t figure out a toaster.

You peeked at him through your fingers, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Honestly, I’m surprised it wasn’t you.”

He laughed, and for once, it wasn’t smug or teasing. Just real. Warm. And weirdly nice.

───

Finally, a few days off. After all the chaos, the sleepless nights, and the endless schoolwork, you’d earned this. You and your best friend had picked one of Monaco’s trendiest restaurants—fancy, stylish, and just far enough from your apartment to feel like a proper escape. You were ready to relax, eat something overpriced, and forget Lando Norris even existed.

You were mid-rant, swirling your drink as you told your friend the latest drama. “And then he gave me his hoodie,” you said, shaking your head. “Like, I took it, sure, but seriously—who does he think he is?”

Your friend nodded, already rolling her eyes. “Yeah, like, sorry, but I’m not falling for—”

Suddenly, she froze. Her eyes widened, and she kicked your shin under the table so hard you nearly dropped your glass.

“Shut up! Shut up!” she hissed, whisper-shouting like her life depended on it.

You blinked, confused. “What?!”

“Turn around,” she whispered, eyes locked on something behind you.

You turned slowly, already bracing yourself—and there he was.

Lando. Lando motherfucking Norris. Strutting into the restaurant like it was his personal runway, with some girl practically glued to his side. She was laughing at something he said, leaning in so close she might as well have been sitting in his lap.

You groaned, loud enough to earn a few curious glances from nearby tables. “Why is this asshole literally everywhere I go?”

Your friend tried to hide her laugh behind her menu, but you could tell she was loving the drama.

Of course. Of course they had to walk right past your table.

Lando’s steps faltered the moment his eyes landed on you. He stopped mid-stride, eyebrows raised, that familiar smirk already forming. “Well, if it isn’t my overachieving engineering neighbor,” he said, voice loud enough to turn heads. “I thought you were busy collecting textbooks, not splurging on fancy dinners.”

His hand was wrapped tightly around the girl’s waist, holding her close like he was trying to make a point. She glanced at you with a look that could only be described as judgmental—like she already decided you weren’t worth her time.

You leaned back in your seat, unfazed, and gave him a slow smile. “Yeah…” you said, dragging the word out. “Kind of harsh coming from someone who collected more girlfriends than race wins so far.”

Your best friend nearly choked on her drink, snorting so loudly it made the couple at the next table glance over.

You turned your attention to the girl beside him, eyes sharp. “Third one this week, right? Sorry to shatter your perfect image, girlie.”

Lando’s grin faltered. Just slightly. His jaw tightened, and you saw him swallow hard, clearly caught off guard. “Don’t listen to her, gorgeous,” he said quickly, pulling the girl even closer. “She’s a bit… unwell.”

He started to walk away, but not before turning back one last time. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and furious, and without a word, he raised his hand and gave you a slow, deliberate middle finger.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just Lando being Lando—cocky, smug, always with someone new hanging off his arm. It was his thing. His brand. And you weren’t supposed to care.

But deep down, it bit a little.

Not that you’d ever admit it out loud. Not even to yourself. Still, watching him walk in like he owned the place, all casual and confident, with that girl practically glued to his side—it poked at something inside you. Something you usually kept buried under sarcasm and eye rolls. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly. More like irritation with a side of… something else. Something you didn’t want to name.

Your best friend nudged you under the table, snapping you out of it. “You okay?” she whispered, her eyes sharp and knowing.

You forced a laugh, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Yeah, fine. Just… tired of his shit.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

You watched him disappear into the crowd, his arm still around the girl, his swagger still intact. And for a split second—just a flicker—you wondered what it would be like if he wasn’t such an infuriating asshole. If maybe, behind all the ego and teasing, there was something real.

Then you rolled your eyes, shoved the thought away, and took a long sip of your drink.

Back to reality.

───

“Fuck, no! No, no, no! Fuck!” you shouted, twisting the faucet in every direction like it might suddenly change its mind. But no matter how many times you turned it, nothing came out. Just a sad, dry hiss. Of course. Life had a way of kicking you when you were already down, and today was no exception. The water had decided to quit on you—right when you had a cute tennis hangout planned with your girls.

You stood there, staring at the useless faucet, sighing so hard it felt like your soul was trying to escape. You were seriously starting to question every decision that led you here. Especially moving to Monaco. Monaco—the glamorous tax haven, the playground for the rich and famous. And here you were, stuck in a fancy apartment with no running water, no backup plan, and no patience left.

You didn’t want to do it. You really didn’t. But you had no one else in this building to turn to. No one who’d even bother answering their door.

Except Lando.

You groaned, already regretting the idea before you’d even moved. But desperate times called for desperate measures. And unfortunately, your most annoying neighbor might be your only hope.

You grabbed everything you’d need—towel, change of clothes, toiletries—and marched straight to Lando’s door, trying not to think too hard about what you were about to do. Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if he slammed the door in your face. You had kind of wrecked his date a few days ago, and you hadn’t exactly been subtle about it.

Still, desperate times.

You rang the bell, heart thudding a little harder than you wanted to admit.

“Just a second!” he called from inside, voice casual. He probably didn’t even realize it was you.

A moment later, the door swung open—and his eyes widened when he saw you standing there, arms full, looking slightly frazzled and very much not in the mood for games. “You? Again?”

“Look,” you said quickly, before he could say anything smug. “My water’s out. I need to shower. Can I? Please?”

You hated how rushed and awkward it sounded, but you were too tired to care.

Lando leaned against the doorframe, arms folding across his chest, that familiar smirk already forming. “Now suddenly I’m useful?” he said, voice teasing. “I don’t know… you kinda ruined my date last time.”

You groaned internally. Of course he’d bring that up.

Fair. I guess.

“She looked boring anyway. Total gold digger. I probably saved you,” you muttered, rolling your eyes with theatrical flair.

Lando laughed, that familiar, effortless sound that always made your chest tighten just a little. It wasn’t fair how easily he brushed things off, how quickly he found humor in everything—even when you were being deliberately annoying.

He shot you a sideways glance, one brow arched, lips twitching with amusement. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

You smirked, but something in his tone made your stomach flip. There was affection buried in the insult, and it threw you off more than you cared to admit.

Still, he stepped aside, his body language relaxed but watchful. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” he said, pointing with a casual flick of his hand.

You hesitated for half a second before stepping inside. His apartment smelled faintly of cologne and something warm—coffee, maybe. It was messy, but not in a gross or careless way. More like the kind of mess that came from someone who lived fast and didn’t have time to slow down. A hoodie draped over the back of a chair, racing gloves tossed on the counter, a half-eaten protein bar abandoned on the coffee table. It was chaotic, but it made sense. It was him.

You felt strangely out of place, like you’d stepped into a part of his life you weren’t supposed to see. And yet, he’d let you in. No hesitation. No questions.

As you walked toward the bathroom, you couldn’t help but wonder what that meant.

After your shower, dressed and slightly more composed, you stepped back into the living room. Lando was sprawled across the couch, phone in hand, looking completely at ease—like he hadn’t just let you borrow his bathroom, like you weren’t standing there awkwardly wondering what came next.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound casual. “So… how’d the date go? Even after what I said?”

Yeah, you were curious. More curious than you wanted to be. And maybe you shouldn’t have been. He was still Lando—the boy who drove you absolutely insane. The boy who made your blood boil with every smug comment and cocky grin. In the bad way, you reminded yourself. Right?

He looked up, that familiar cheeky grin already forming. “Oh, you mean the ‘boring gold digger’ one?” he said, clearly amused. “Let’s just say you weren’t wrong. She spent half the night talking about how many Labubu she bought. I didn’t even know what those were. It was like listening to a shopping list with no end.”

His eyes flicked over you briefly, and you felt it—just for a second. That quiet tension. That awareness.

He chuckled, leaning back. “Honestly, I think she was more into my car than me. Not much competition there.”

You smirked, arms crossed. “Told ya.”

He gave a soft laugh, more genuine this time. “Yeah… thanks for saving me.”

You shrugged, but something about the way he said it stuck with you. Maybe it was the warmth in his voice. Maybe it was the fact that, for once, he wasn’t teasing. Either way, it left a strange flutter in your chest.

───

Those few precious days off had vanished faster than your will to live during a Monday morning meeting. One minute you were sipping wine and admiring the Monaco skyline like a civilized human being, and the next you were neck-deep in chaos, somehow wearing Lando’s hoodie he gave you and you forgot to return it, hunched over your tiny balcony table like a gremlin with a deadline.

Crumpled notes covered the floor like fallen leaves, half-sketched drawings of a stubborn front wing mocked you from every angle, and the pile of empty Red Bull cans beside you looked like it could sponsor an entire race team. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the city, but you barely noticed. You were too busy spiraling.

“Why won’t you just work, you piece of shit,” you muttered, dragging your hands down your face in pure despair. The laptop screen blinked back at you, frozen, uncooperative, and evil. You weren’t sure if you were closer to crying… or yeeting the damn thing straight off the balcony and watching it explode on the street below.

Either option felt valid.

“Watcha doing?”

Of course. That voice. That smug, pain-in-your-ass voice that had haunted your hallway, your peace, and now apparently your balcony.

You rolled your eyes toward the sky like it might offer divine intervention, but no—there he was. Lando Norris, leaning dangerously over the railing like some nosy sitcom neighbor, craning his neck just enough to peek into your chaos. There was a perfectly good wall between your balconies, yet somehow, he still managed to invade your personal space with ease.

“Something your tiny little brain couldn’t possibly understand,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to—but not sorry enough to take it back.

He didn’t even flinch. Just tilted his head, annoyingly calm. “No, seriously. What are you doing?”

You hesitated, fingers twitching over your mess of notes. As much as you hated to admit it, there was a tiny voice in your head whispering that maybe—just maybe—he could be useful. F1 driver. Front wings. Aerodynamics. It was literally his job to know this stuff.

You sighed, defeated. “Uh… front wing design,” you muttered, gesturing at the disaster zone around you. “Doesn’t work, though. At all.”

Lando’s eyes scanned the mess, and for once, he didn’t look smug. He looked curious.

“Maybe I can help,” he offered, voice casual, but with just enough confidence to make your pride bristle.

You froze for a second, caught in the crossfire between your stubborn ego and the harsh reality that you’d been staring at the same sketch for three hours straight with absolutely nothing to show for it. The lines blurred, the math didn’t math, and your brain felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry.

You sighed, dragging a hand through your hair, rolling your eyes like the very idea of accepting his help physically hurt. “Door’s open,” you muttered, already regretting the words the moment they left your mouth.

He didn’t move right away, just stood there with that maddening smirk—the one that said I know you need me, but he was too smug to say it out loud. From the look on his face, you knew he heard the unspoken warning loud and clear: Don’t make me regret this.

A few seconds later, he was in your apartment—just like that. No hesitation, no knocking, no second thoughts. He stepped onto your balcony like he’d done it a hundred times before, eyes scanning the mess of notes and sketches with surprising focus.

“Move,” he said, nodding toward the spot on the couch where you were sitting.

You raised an eyebrow but shifted over, giving him space. He dropped down beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, and immediately leaned in to study your laptop screen.

“So here’s your problem,” Lando said, grabbing a pen and the nearest scrap of paper. He started sketching with ease, his lines confident, his explanation smooth. “This curve sends the air around the tyre instead of straight into it. Reduces drag, gives you more grip into the corner—”

You blinked, caught off guard. Not just by how quickly he understood the issue, but by how professional he sounded. Focused. Sharp. And stupidly hot while doing it. His brows furrowed slightly as he worked, and you realized you were staring more at his face than the sketch.

He didn’t seem to notice.

“—and if you adjust the flap angle like this,” he continued, scribbling a quick fix, “you’ll actually be able to turn without ending up in the wall.”

You swallowed, nodding slowly, trying to focus on the paper and not the fact that your heart had picked up speed for reasons that had nothing to do with aerodynamics.

“You actually know what you’re talking about,” you said, surprised by how genuine it sounded. “I like that.”

His eyes met yours, and for a second, everything stilled. Shit.

There was something different in his gaze now—less smug, more focused. And it wasn’t just on the sketch. It was on you.

“Well, I drive it,” he said, voice low, a hint of pride threading through. “I should know how it works.”

He was still looking at you, and you were still looking back, and suddenly the air between you felt heavier than it had any right to.

Then came the nickname. That damn nickname.

“Look, sweetheart,” he said, flashing that signature grin. “Just change this, this—” he pointed to a few key areas on your sketch, “and this, and I guarantee you’ll get the best grade.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips tugged into a reluctant smile. He was cocky, yes. Infuriating, absolutely. But he wasn’t wrong. And worse—he was kind of charming when he wasn’t being a complete menace.

“Thanks, Lando,” you said, your voice softer than before, the smile tugging at your lips more genuine this time.

He glanced at you, and for once, there was no teasing in his expression. Just something quiet. Something real.

“No problem,” he replied, and it wasn’t smug or sarcastic—it was easy. Honest.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The sketches sat between you, the Monaco skyline glowed behind, and the silence felt… comfortable.

───

Few days later, you finally finished the project—thank god for Lando. Words you never thought you’d say, let alone mean. But if he hadn’t pointed out what was wrong, you’d probably still be hunched over your balcony table, muttering threats at your laptop and drowning in Red Bull.

You leaned back in your chair, exhausted but victorious, letting the Monaco night breeze cool your skin. Relief washed over you in waves. It was done. Finally.

Then your phone buzzed.

You glanced at the screen—and froze.

Lando’s name lit up.

Right. You had his number. For, uh… neighbor emergencies. Like fire alarms. Or broken plumbing. Or, apparently, aerodynamics crises.

But it was past midnight.

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering. What the hell could he want now?

“Hm? What’s up?” you said as the call connected, rubbing your eyes and already bracing for whatever nonsense Lando had gotten himself into.

But the voice on the other end wasn’t his.

“Uhm, hey Y/n—it’s Max here. Lando’s friend,” the guy slurred slightly, clearly mid-party. “We’re at Jimmy’z club and, uh… yeah, Lando is past gone. Like, completely wrecked. All he’s done for the last hour is talk about you. Says he needs you. Can you come pick him up?”

You blinked, sitting up straighter. “Wait, what?”

Max chuckled awkwardly. “I know, I know. It’s weird. But he’s not letting anyone else take him home. Keeps saying you’re the only one who won’t leave him in a bush or something.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. Of course he’d pull something like this. You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, but deep down, you knew you couldn’t just leave him there.

He helped you. You owed him a safe ride.

“Tell him I’m on my way,” you muttered, already reaching for your keys.

The ride didn’t take long. Monaco was quiet at this hour, the streets bathed in soft golden light and leftover party glitter. You pulled up to the curb outside Jimmy’z, spotting two figures immediately—one swaying slightly on his feet, the other… well, horizontal.

Lando was lying on the sidewalk like he’d just given up on life. Arms sprawled, head tilted back, one shoe missing. Classic.

You stepped out of the car, eyebrows raised. “Hey.”

Max turned toward you, clearly buzzed but still functioning. “Hey, Y/n,” he said, offering a slightly wobbly handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

You took his hand, amused. “Yeah, what a situation to meet someone,” you said, glancing down at Lando with a sigh.

He groaned dramatically, one arm flung over his face like the streetlights were paparazzi flashbulbs. “My love, you’re here,” he mumbled, voice thick with alcohol and theatrical desperation.

You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. “Unfortunately.”

Max snorted beside you, clearly entertained by the whole scene. You crouched down, crossing your arms. “Let’s go, Lando. Can you imagine all the photos of you like this? Monaco’s golden boy passed out on the sidewalk? That’ll look great on your next sponsorship deal.”

That got him moving—barely. With a few groans, some muttered nonsense, and Max’s help, you managed to wrangle him upright and shuffle him toward the car. He leaned heavily on both of you, mumbling something about how soft your hoodie was and how you smelled like victory.

You shoved him into the passenger seat, buckled him in like a toddler, and sighed as you closed the door.

Max gave you a grateful smile. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You glanced at Lando, who was now humming to himself and poking the window like it was a touchscreen. “Yeah,” you muttered. “Not sure he’s worth saving.”

But deep down, you knew you didn’t really mean it.

You slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and barely had time to adjust the mirror before Lando turned his head toward you with dramatic flair, eyes glassy and grin lazy.

“You’re so hot when you’re focused,” he said, voice low and slurred, like he thought he was being smooth.

You didn’t even glance at him. “Shut up or you’ll throw up,” you warned, gripping the wheel tighter, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest.

But he wasn’t done.

“Or when you’re mad?” he continued, eyes drifting over you. “Oh damn… I remember when I stole your package and you looked at me like that—like you wanted to kill me. Oh fuck, I thought I—”

You cut him off before he could finish whatever disaster was about to leave his mouth. You could already tell where it was headed. Something inappropriate. Something very Lando.

“Lando!” you snapped, shooting him a warning glare.

He blinked, then smirked, clearly pleased with himself—even in his drunken haze.

You groaned and pulled out onto the road, silently praying he’d pass out before saying anything else you’d have to pretend not to remember.

Lando didn’t flinch at your warning. If anything, it seemed to egg him on.

He slumped deeper into the seat, head tilted toward the window, but his eyes stayed on you. “You looked at me like I was the only idiot in the world,” he murmured, voice softer now. “But also like… I mattered. I dunno. It was kinda hot.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your fingers tightened around the steering wheel, heart thudding a little harder than before.

He let out a breathy laugh, almost to himself. “I think I like it when you hate me. But… I would rather you to actually like me.”

That one hit different.

You glanced at him, just briefly, and found him staring out the window now, the smirk gone. Just a boy too drunk to filter his thoughts, and maybe too honest for his own good.

You didn’t say anything. But the silence between you felt heavier than the night air.

You finally pulled into the building’s garage, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound between you. Lando had slumped sideways during the ride, his head resting against your shoulder like gravity had given up on him. You didn’t push him off. Not this time.

By the time you reached his door, he was leaning heavily into you, his weight warm and familiar. You stood in front of the entrance, bracing him with one arm. “Lando, keys,” you said, trying to keep your voice firm.

He fumbled through his pockets with the grace of a toddler, muttering curses under his breath until he finally produced the keyring and dropped it into your hand.

You unlocked the door, guided him inside, and helped him into his bedroom. He collapsed onto the edge of the bed with a groan, and you knelt down to tug off his shoes, tossing them aside.

“So,” you said, brushing your hands off on your jeans. “You want water? Bucket? Just in case you throw up?”

Lando blinked at you, eyes hazy but locked onto yours. “I want you,” he mumbled, voice low and unfiltered.

You didn’t miss a beat. “So… water.”

He let out a soft laugh, already half-asleep, and you turned toward the kitchen, heart pounding harder than you’d ever admit.

In the kitchen, you leaned against the counter, gripping the glass of water like it might anchor you. The silence felt louder here—no engines, no sarcastic banter, no distractions. Just you, the hum of the fridge, and the echo of I want you still ringing in your ears.

You told yourself he was drunk. That it didn’t mean anything. That it was just Lando being Lando—reckless, impulsive, always toeing the line between charming and infuriating. But something about the way he’d said it… quiet, unguarded, like it slipped out before he could stop it… it stuck.

And the worst part? You didn’t hate it.

You took a deep breath, grabbed the water, and headed back to his room.

He was still awake, barely. Propped up on one elbow, eyes half-lidded but searching for you the moment you walked in.

You handed him the glass. “Here. Sip slowly or I swear I’ll let you drown in your own mess.”

He took it, fingers brushing yours, then set it down on the nightstand without drinking. “Stay,” he said, voice rough and low. “Just for a bit.”

You hesitated in the doorway, heart thudding, walls rising instinctively. But something in his face—something soft, something real—made you pause.

You didn’t answer right away. But you didn’t leave either.

You hovered in the doorway for a moment longer, debating whether to listen to your instincts or your heart—neither of which had been particularly reliable lately. But then you sighed, walked over, and sat beside him on the edge of the bed.

He shifted slightly, just enough that your knees brushed. The room was dim, the only light coming from the hallway, casting soft shadows across his face. He looked tired. Not just drunk-tired, but worn. Like something had been weighing on him long before the alcohol.

“You didn’t have to come get me,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

You shrugged. “You helped me with my project. Consider it even.”

He turned his head toward you, lips twitching into a faint smile. “That’s not why you came.”

You didn’t respond. Not right away. Because maybe he was right. Maybe you had wanted to see him. Maybe you’d been thinking about him more than you should.

“I didn’t want you to end up in a bush,” you said finally, trying to keep it light.

He chuckled, then winced. “Max probably would’ve left me there.”

You glanced at him, studying the curve of his jaw, the way his hair fell messily across his forehead. “You always act like you’ve got everything figured out,” you said softly. “But you don’t, do you?”

He looked at you then—really looked. “Not even close.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, but in a way that felt honest. Like something had shifted, just slightly.

“You’re not as annoying when you’re like this,” you murmured.

He smirked. “You’re kinda sweet when you’re not trying to murder me.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered.

───

You sat curled up on the couch, laptop balanced on your knees, the Monaco sun spilling through the windows like it was trying to calm your nerves. The final message from your professor was supposed to come any minute now, and while you weren’t exactly panicking… your heart had other ideas.

You’d triple-checked the submission. You knew the design was solid—thanks to a certain infuriating F1 driver—but still, the waiting gnawed at you. You weren’t the type to fall apart over grades, but this one mattered. You’d poured yourself into it. You wanted it to mean something.

Then, suddenly, the notification popped up.

“100%. Congratulations. Best grade in the class.”

You blinked. Reread it. Then stared at the screen like it might vanish if you breathed too hard.

“YESSS!! OH MY GOD!” you shouted, leaping off the couch like the floor had just turned into a trampoline. Your laptop nearly flew off your lap, but you didn’t care. You were too busy spinning in a circle, arms flailing, heart pounding with pure, unfiltered joy.

You’d done it. You nailed it.

And you knew exactly who to tell first.

Without even thinking, you bolted out of your apartment, adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. You crossed the hallway in a blur, feet barely touching the ground, and banged on the door with both fists like your life depended on it.

“Lando!” you called out, breathless and grinning. “Open up!”

You didn’t even care if he was asleep, shirtless, or halfway through a race on his simulator. He needed to hear this.

He opened the door, still groggy and shirtless, clearly not expecting a hallway ambush. But before he could get a single word out, you burst forward, eyes shining.

“I got a hundred percent!” you shouted, practically launching yourself into his arms.

It was instinct—pure, electric joy—and somehow, his reaction was just as automatic. His arms wrapped around you tightly, lifting you slightly off the ground as he laughed, loud and genuine.

“No way!” he said, spinning you once before setting you down. “I’m so fucking proud of you!”

He kicked the door shut behind him, still holding you close, the grin on his face brighter than you’d ever seen it.

You pulled back slightly, breathless, cheeks flushed. “Couldn’t have done it without you,” you admitted, voice softer now, more honest.

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the celebration paused—just long enough for something unspoken to settle between you.

“Don’t say that,” he said, smiling at you—soft, sincere, the kind of smile that made your chest ache in the best way.

You laughed breathlessly, heart still racing. “I’m just so happy I might—”

You didn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t need to.

Your hands moved before your thoughts could catch up, reaching for his face, fingers curling gently against his jaw. His eyes widened just slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Not even close.

You pulled him closer, and your lips met his in a rush—fast, warm, a little messy, but real. Like all the tension, all the teasing, all the late nights and quiet moments had been building to this one spark.

He kissed you back instantly, arms tightening around your waist, grounding you as everything else fell away.

You’d never imagined kissing your annoying, insufferably smug neighbor. Not in a million years. He was the guy who stole your packages, teased you relentlessly, and somehow always knew how to push your buttons.

But there you were—wrapped in his arms, lips still tingling, heart pounding like it was trying to catch up to the moment.

And the wildest part?

You were happy.

Genuinely, stupidly, unexpectedly happy.

You pulled back slowly, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. His eyes were still on you—wide, searching, like he was trying to figure out if that had really just happened.

It had.

Neither of you spoke for a second. The silence stretched, warm and electric.

Then Lando broke it, voice low and a little breathless. “So… that just happened.”

You let out a soft laugh, nerves bubbling under your skin. “Yeah. It did.”

He tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Was it the grade? Or all the Red Bulls? Or have you secretly wanted to kiss me this whole time?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “Don’t push it, Norris.”

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! it’s here…IT’S HEREEE!! omgg <3 this was so fun to write i was giggling the whole time. ALSO SOMBR JUST ANNOUNCED HIS DEBUT ALBUM OH MY GOD I WAS BORN READY FOR THIS

tag list. @haniette @l4ndoflove @gossenabitur @clovermoters xx

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

HIGH ALL THE TIME (TO GET YOU OFF MY MIND!)

PAIRING: drug dealer!lando norris x f!reader DESCRIPTION: your plug might be slightly infatuated with you and gives you special treatment. oh, and a continuation to this fic WARNINGS: mentions of recreational drugs (weed), smut, car sex, lando is pussy whipped, protected!p in v, oral f!receiving, sex for 🍃, come eating/swallowing, shy!lando A/N: long awaited part two is finally here!!! they fuck in the car again in this one but i will probably be making this a series so i'll switch it up

It had been almost two weeks since you'd last seen Lando. Not that you were keeping track.

Two weeks since you'd sat in his battered, old Golf with the windows fogged up, your jacket abandoned somewhere in the backseat, his hair a complete mess from your hands running through it.

Two weeks since you'd walked away with a free baggie and the kind of smug satisfaction you really shouldn't feel about trading sex for weed. You knew it was wrong.

You weren't going to overthink it, though.

It wasn't like you made a habit of it.

Sure, maybe you'd thought about it a few too many times to call it casual. You thought about the way he looked at you afterwards— dazed, almost grateful, and you never really understood the term 'puppy eyes' until you looked into his.

But you've been busy. By busy, you meant that you barely had a penny to your name. Life didn't just stop because you'd rattled the local dealer in his own car. You were running dangerously low on your stash, but you had no real means of paying him even if you wanted to.

He hadn't reached out to you, either. You figured he'd just chalked it up to an unexpected bonus in his week and moved on.

Until your phone buzzed at 10:47 on a random Thursday night.

Lando: you need more ?

You were sprawled on your bed, phone balanced on your knee, half-watching something on Netflix you'd stuck on as background noise. The message sat there on the screen like it was trying to act non-chalant, but you could practically hear the nervous tone in his voice.

You stared at it for a second, then typed back.

You: im broke

You: like so broke im considering selling a kidney tbh

It took him thirty seconds to reply.

Lando: i don't care

Lando: same deal as last time if you want

You actually laughed out loud at that, the sound echoing off the walls.

You: oh my god

You: and here i thought u werent that type of guy

There was a longer pause this time, like he was either embarrassed or trying to word his response without sounding like the world's most desperate plug.

Though he couldn't be asking you because he needs the money, so who's really the desperate one?

Lando: im not

Lando: i can be for u tho

Lando: so yeah. if u want

You chewed your lip, smiling at your phone.

You: bit forward isn't it

Lando: only a bit

You: what if i say yes

Lando: ill park at the bottom of ur street and you can meet me when ur ready

You: ok

You: give me 15 min

Lando: sweet

You shook your head in pure disbelief, tossing your phone aside to dig out some clothes from your wardrobe.

It wasn't like you were excited to see him. You definitely weren't the one sitting there waiting for a text for the past two weeks. You definitely weren't the one grinning at your phone like a lovesick idiot.

But there was something satisfying in knowing that he reached out to you first.

He suggested doing this again. That made it sort of okay to do, right?

You pulled on your trainers, threw your hair into a lazy knot, and grabbed your phone and keys. You purposefully didn't grab your purse this time, not needing to pretend.

You both knew exactly what this was.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The night air was cool as you stepped out, locking the door behind you. Your street was quiet, the amber glow of the street lamps spilling across empty pavements.

You shoved your hands into your pockets, strolling down to the end of the road and trying your best to look inconspicuous.

You spotted him before you reached the corner— the faint gleam of headlights and the scratched bonnet of his car, parked just far enough way to draw less attention.

He was in the driver's seat, one arm hooked casually over the wheel, the other scrolling through his phone. From a distance, he could've been any other lad just killing time in his car.

If only they knew the true reason for him being there.

Up close, you noticed the way he sat up straighter when he clocked you walking up to the passenger side. The way his eyes flicked over you like he was checking that you hadn't changed your mind.

You quickly slid into the seat, the door shutting behind you with a familiar thunk. The inside smelled the same as before— faint petrol, his aftershave, and a hint of something sweet lingering in the air.

Probably the remnants of whatever he'd been smoking earlier.

Lando sat with both hands resting on the wheel at ten and two, his curls spilling out from beneath his hood.

He quickly glanced at you like he wasn’t ready for you to actually be here already. “Alright?”

“Alright,” you replied, settling into the seat properly.

You didn’t miss the way his fingers flexed on the steering wheel before he reached down to start the engine. The car spluttered into life, headlights bouncing off the row of terraced houses as he pulled away from the kerb.

“So,” you said, leaning back and smirking. “What's this? Your chauffeur service now?”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Don't really know if it counts as chauffeuring when you’re sitting up front.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to watch the scenery slide by outside. “You always drive your customers around, or am I special?”

There was a pause. You could see him biting his lip in your peripheral vision.

“Special,” he said finally, almost too quiet.

That one word hung between you like a cloud, though you weren't really sure if it was a dark one. You let it linger for a second before answering, keeping your tone breezy. “Careful. Sounds like you’ve been thinking about me.”

His hand came up to rub the back of his neck— there it was, the nervous tic. “Maybe I have.”

You turned to look at him fully now, grinning. “You're obsessed.”

He gave a low laugh under his breath, shaking his head like he was trying to play it off. “Don’t start.”

“Why? You embarrassed?”

“Not embarrassed,” he muttered, eyes on the road. “Just don’t fancy sitting here looking like a mug who’s been waiting for a text from you for the past two weeks.”

You laughed outright at that. “Have you, though?”

His ears went pink, and you had your answer without him saying a word.

The streets grew even quieter as he drove, the glow of shop fronts and street lamps giving way to longer stretches of dark road. The occasional car whizzed past in the opposite lane, their headlights cutting briefly through the dim interior of the Golf.

You let the silence sit for a moment, just the low hum of the engine filling it. Then: “So where exactly are you taking me? You planning on dumping me in the middle of the woods?”

That got a snort out of him. “Yeah, cause I look like the sort of guy who could be arsed with burying a body.”

“You do have the vibe for it,” you teased. “Hood up, dodgy car, shifty eyes.”

“Oi,” he said, glancing at you with mock offence. “This is a sick car, thank you very much.”

You looked around at the scratched up dashboard, the faint crack in the windscreen on the passenger side, and the tape holding the glove box shut. “Mhm. Yeah. Real fancy.”

He grinned despite himself, shaking his head. “You’re cheeky.”

“So I’ve been told,” you said, smirking.

He reached down to flick the indicator, turning off onto a narrower road lined with hedges and trees either side. “We’re nearly there anyway. There’s a spot just past the park. It's always empty.”

“Empty sounds ominous,” you said lightly, but you could feel the air in the car shifting. He was fidgeting with his sleeve as he drove, but you could sense the anticipation under his every movement.

The road opened up into a small lay-by tucked off to the side, hidden from the main road by a line of overgrown bushes. He pulled in slowly, tyres crunching over loose gravel, and killed the engine.

The sudden silence felt heavier than you expected.

You turned your head to look at him. His hood had slipped back a little, messy curls framing his flushed face.

“What, no grand tour?” you teased, breaking the tension first.

He chuckled under his breath, finally meeting your eyes. “Don’t need one. You’re the main event.”

You let that line hang there, your smirk curling slow. “Getting smooth on me now, Lando?”

His cheeks pinked again, but he didn’t look away this time. “Maybe I'm just trying to keep up with you.”

You tilted your head, watching him yet again fidget with the sleeve of his hoodie. His leg was bouncing, the highly strung energy clearly still coiled inside of him.

Whatever cocky edge he tried to put on his words, it didn’t hide the way he was wired tight from just being this close to you.

“Relax,” you said softly. “You suggested this. You’re acting like it’s your first time all over again.”

He huffed a laugh, leaning back in his seat. “Feels like it with you.”

You raised an eyebrow at that. “What a line. Bet you’ve used it before.”

“Nah,” he said, and for once, he sounded entirely serious. “Not really had any reason to.”

The silence between you after that was different — heavier, but warmer somehow.

You sat back, letting your gaze drift over him one more time. He was trying so hard not to stare outright, but his eyes kept flicking to your mouth, your hands, and then back up again.

You could take it or leave it, and he probably knew that. But you could also see exactly how much he wanted this — how much he’d been thinking about it since the last time. And maybe that was why you were here after all.

Not because you'd been thinking about it equally as much. He didn't need to know that.

You watched as his hand left the wheel. It hesitated halfway like he wasn’t sure if he should. You didn’t give him the chance to overthink it— you reached across, curling your fingers lightly around the back of his neck and pulling him in.

The kiss was tentative, his lips warm but barely pressing in, like he was testing the shape of you against him again. The moment you deepened it, opening your mouth just enough for his tongue to brush yours, he exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand landing awkwardly on your thigh.

You slid closer, seatbelt digging into your side until you unclicked it without breaking the kiss. He caught on a beat later, fumbling for his own before twisting in his seat to face you more.

You teased his lips with your tongue, and he let you, opening up for you without a fight. When your tongue slid against his, his fingers tightened just slightly on your leg, dragging you closer.

His breathing was ragged already, his mouth chasing yours like he couldn’t get enough, like he might drown if you pulled away. When you caught his bottom lip between your teeth, he groaned into the kiss.

You swore that the sound made you melt.

It was a clumsy feat trying to get over the centre console — your knee knocked the gearstick, your zip-up jacket caught on the handbrake — but he didn’t care. His hands found your waist the second you were close enough, guiding you into his lap like he’d been thinking about exactly how you’d fit there.

“Easier in the back,” he murmured against your mouth, already shifting toward the space between the seats.

The scramble into the backseat was all elbows and knees, his hand catching your ass once to steady you when you nearly slipped. You landed facing each other, your knees on the seat either side of his, breath mingling in the warm air.

He didn’t waste any time— he leaned in, kissing you harder now, hands sliding under the fabric of your jacket, bunching your top up until his palms found the skin of your waist. His hold on you wasn’t tense, but there was a certain possessive edge to it.

Like he was trying to touch as much of you as possible.

You broke the kiss just long enough to slip out of your jacket and pull your top up over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes dropped immediately, drinking you in, his chest rising quicker.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, hands covering your bra like he couldn’t help it.

His palms skimmed up your back, fingers splaying wide, holding you close. You could feel him already hard under you, the heat of him burning even through the layers. His hips shifted, pressing up into you without him meaning to.

Then his mouth left yours, trailing down your jaw, over your throat, wet and open and hungry. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your jeans.

“Wanna taste you,” he breathed.

You leaned back enough to look at him. Even in the poorly-lit setting, you could see the gleam of his eyes. “How is that payment for you?”

He looked almost frustrated that you’d even asked. “I dont fucking care about that.” His hands fiddled with the clasp of your bra behind your back. “I’ve been thinking about it since last time. Every fucking night. Please, just—”

He broke off like he was about to say something more, but ultimately decided against it. “Please, let me.”

You tilted your head teasingly, watching his reaction. “You’re really begging?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately, no shame in the admission, though his voice cracked slightly. “Please.”

The sheer need in his tone made you pause— not because you were unsure, but because you quite liked watching him squirm. Then you nodded once. “Alright.”

The relief on his face was instant.

“Lie back,” he murmured, his hands already guiding you back.

You did exactly as he said, stretching out along the seats as he knelt down between your legs. The cramped space didn’t seem to bother him— if anything, it made him look more intent, like he’d crawl over you if that’s what it took.

He unbuttoned your jeans with impatient fingers, dragging them and your underwear down together. The sound of the fabric scraping along your skin seemed loud in the closed car, even over the sound of your rapid breathing.

The moment you were bare, spread out oh so beautifully for him, he hooked his arms under your thighs and pulled you closer in one rough, determined movement.

He started slow— one long, deliberate lick from bottom to top — and then settled in like a man starved. His tongue worked over you with a focus that made your breath catch, every flick and press purposeful. Testing what made you shiver, what made your hips twitch, and then doing it over and over again.

There was nothing tentative about it anymore. He growled against you like the taste alone was enough to undo him. His grip tightened, keeping you right where he wanted you.

He was tuned in with your body, chasing every reaction— if you sighed, he repeated it; if you gasped, he pressed harder.

His own noises gave him away. Every few seconds, a low sound slipped out. Something akin to a muffled whimper, sometimes a groan. And the longer he went, the more those noises changed.

You felt the faint, steady roll of his hips against the seat. Subtle, almost hidden, like he was trying not to make it obvious. His chest pressed into your thighs each time he shifted forward, his breath hitching in a way that didn’t quite match the rhythm of his mouth.

It clicked slowly, somewhere between the third and fourth time his groan deepened into something rougher: he wasn’t just eating you out.

He was getting off on it.

The thought sent a jolt of arousal through you. You tightened your grip in his hair, pulling him closer to your pussy, and he groaned again— a sound that vibrated against you and made your toes curl.

Your orgasm built faster than you expected, each flick of his tongue drawing you higher. Your thighs tried to close around his head, but he held them apart easily, one hand pressing down on your abdomen to keep you from thrusting upwards.

When it finally hit, it was euphoric.

Despite his best efforts, your back arched off the seat, a broken squeal leaving your throat. He didn’t let up— if anything, he pressed in faster, licking you through every pulse of it until you were shuddering underneath him.

You slumped back, catching your breath, and only then did you notice the slight tremor in his arms.

“Jesus Christ,” you managed, voice hoarse.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His lips and chin were slick, his hair the messiest you'd ever seen it. He was breathing harder than you, his pupils blown wide.

And that’s when your gaze dropped lower.

The front of his grey joggers had a clear, darkening patch spreading over the obvious shape of him beneath.

You blinked, then looked back at him. “Did you…?”

He looked down and the flush of his cheeks was unmistakeable.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, almost like he didn’t want to admit it. “Fuck, I didn’t—” He broke off, shaking his head, his hair falling into his eyes. “Sorry.”

You stared for a second, then let a slow smile build at the corner of your mouth. “I haven't even touched you.”

He winced a little, looking away. “You just taste so good. I couldn't— I didn't mean to—” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, clearly flustered.

You reached down between you, pressing your palm to the damp front of his joggers. The heat there was obvious, and when you cupped him, you felt the hardening of his cock again.

“I'm flattered,” you said simply.

His eyes flicked back to yours, uncertain. “You’re just saying that.”

“No.” You slid your hand inside the waistband, your fingers wrapping around him. The mess coated your skin immediately, warm and thick. “It's a compliment.”

His breath stuttered, his head tipping back as you stroked him slowly.

Then you lifted your hand, holding it up between you. His gaze followed, dark and fixed, and without looking away you brought your fingers to your mouth and licked them clean.

The whimper he let out was almost pained. His hips jerked up into the air, searching for any contact.

“What the fuck,” he trailed off, shaking his head, breathless. “You're unreal.”

You glanced back down and saw the way his cock had already hardened again fully in your hand.

“You want more?” you asked softly.

The grin he gave you was desperate and wrecked all at once. “You’ve got no idea.”

You’re still sprawled across the seats with him leaning over you, the taste of him still faint on your tongue. He was watching you like he’s not sure whether to wait or grab you right now, eyes glassy, chest rising and falling fast.

You didn't move straight away. Partly because you like the way he looks when he’s trying to hold himself together, partly because it's amusing to see the control you have over him.

He doesn't even know it.

When you finally slid your hand back into his boxers, he flinched, sucking in a sharp breath. You wrapped your fingers around him properly this time and he moans like it’s too much already.

“You’re so sensitive,” you murmured, stroking him slowly.

“Yeah,” he managed to get out, voice rough, “but please— don’t stop.”

How could you ever deny him?

You started off with a leisurely pace, almost teasing, feeling the way he twitched in your grip. His head tipped back against the window, eyes squeezing shut for a second like he’s trying not to lose it again.

“Condom?” you asked, though you spot him already reaching to find one.

“Pocket,” he said, a little too quick.

You took it off him, tearing the foil with your teeth before rolling it on for him yourself. His hips shifted involuntarily under your hand at the touch, biting his lip like that might help.

When you moved to straddle him, he grabbed your waist to steady himself. You could feel the tension in his hands, the way he’s bracing for your pussy to wrap around him.

The tip brushed against you in such a delicious way and his breath stuttered. “Wait,” he said, voice strained, “Go slow. I don't know how much I can take.”

You nodded, because there's nothing hotter than a vocal man, and you positioned yourself over him before sinking down slowly, inch by inch. The first push inside made his whole body quiver, his grip tightening almost painfully.

“F-fuck,” he gasped, and it came out almost helpless, like he couldn't hold it back.

You took him slowly like he asked, letting him feel every second of it until you’re fully seated. His eyes were open now, locked on where you're joined together.

His mouth fell open like he was trying to say something but couldn't find the words.

You stayed still at first, letting him breathe through it. His thumbs rubbed over your hips in small, distracted circles.

You thought it's adorable how he needs to be touching you to keep himself grounded.

When you finally started to move, it’s shallow and unhurried. You rocked yourself against him, steady enough that he can feel every drag of your wet pussy on his cock, every squeeze.

His hands slid up your sides, nails catching on your skin, then back down to your thighs.

You leaned forward, rolling your hips in a deeper grind. A strangled sound escaped his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Too much?” you asked quietly.

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Just don't go any faster. Not yet.”

You smiled at how wrecked he sounded for you, keeping your movements measured and deliberate. His hips spasmed underneath you now and again, like his body wanted more even if his brain was still trying to process the sheer intensity.

Every time you dropped down fully, his breath caught. Every time you lifted up, he followed you ever so slightly, chasing the friction without even thinking about it.

“You’re so loud,” you teased softly.

“Can’t help it,” he admited, flustered, though his voice was cut off by the low groan that slipped out right after.

You bent down to kiss him, needing to feel his filthy mouth on yours. He kissed you back carelessly, mouth opening up for you, the taste of you on his tongue spurring you on further.

You watched the way his face contorted between pleasure and something close to overwhelm.

He wasn't trying to take control. You don't think he could even if he wanted to. He was just letting you work him, letting you decide how much he can take.

And you made him take all of it.

His head fell back again, his neck exposed, and you could see the crimson flush creeping down his throat, all the way to the tips of his ears.

You slowed your actions down even more, grinding instead of lifting, keeping him buried deep as long as possible each time.

“Feels so good,” he whispered, almost like he was talking to himself.

“Gonna make me lose it,” he said eventually, voice cracking halfway through.

“Good,” you whispered back, leaning down so your mouth brushes the curve of his ear. “That’s the point.”

He shivered.

You could tell he was close by the way his breathing changed again, and the tightening of his stomach with every thrust. His eyes were on you, desperate, like he was silently asking permission for something he doesn’t even need to ask for.

You give it to him anyway. “Cum for me, baby.”

He let out a shaky whine as you felt him throb inside you, the tension in his grip peaking as he spilled into the condom. You kept moving through it, riding him gently until the shudders faded.

When you finally stopped, he was panting like he'd just ran a marathon. His head pushed back into the seat, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. His hands were still on you, holding you in place like he wasn't ready for you to move yet.

You leaned in, brushing your lips over his jaw. “You took that so well.”

He laughed once, the breathless state he was in not allowing for much more.

At some point you realised that you had to move, your thighs trembling, the heat between you making the cramped space feel almost suffocating.

You were both a royal mess— skin damp with sweat and god knows what else, your clothes heaped on the floor, the faint smell of sex hanging heavy.

You reached for your underwear first, finding it bunched up with your jeans. Your fingers fumbled with the elastic, making a right show of putting them back on.

He leaned forward, dragging his joggers and boxers back up, wincing slightly as the fabric brushed against his spent cock.

Neither of you spoke for a moment, the quiet thick with that strange intimacy that comes after. The only sound was the shuffle of fabric and the occasional rustle of the car’s upholstery when you shifted.

You found your top, pulling it back into place as he reached for your hoodie, holding it out for you.

Such a gentleman.

The movement lifted his shirt just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach before it disappeared beneath the fabric again.

It felt absurdly calm after what had just happened. No music, no conversation, just the muted thud of your own heartbeat in your ears.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and looked over at you.

“You good?” he asked finally, voice softer now.

You nodded, making sure your jeans were buttoned before reaching for your bag. “Yeah.”

He didn’t press any further. Just reached out to grab his keys from the front seat, the metal clinking faintly.

You followed him into the front, climbing over the centre console with a little more ease and control than last time. He smirked faintly when you almost caught your knee on the gear stick, his hand automatically steadying your hip as you dropped into the passenger seat.

That one touch— casual, nothing suggestive — still sent a little spark straight through you.

The engine rumbled back to life with the twist of his key, and the car eased out from its spot. The glow of streetlamps rolled across his face as you passed them, catching on the sharp line of his jaw.

His hand rested loosely on the wheel, the other on the gearstick, and you found yourself watching the way his fingers moved.

The first few minutes of the drive were spent in comfortable silence.

His hand brushed your thigh lightly when he changed gear, and neither of you shifted away from the delicate touch.

You glanced at him once, expecting to find him looking out at the road. Instead, you caught him glancing at you in return, his mouth twitching into a tiny, knowing smile before his eyes flicked back to the street.

“You’re quiet,” he said finally, his voice low but not accusing.

“So are you.”

He smirked faintly, eyes still forward. “I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

His lips quirked further, but he didn’t answer right away. The car slowed at a red light, and he finally looked over at you fully.

“You.”

You looked away before you could let him see the heat creeping over your face. The light changed, and the car rolled forward again.

By the time he pulled up at the end of your street, you could already feel the change in atmosphere— the shift from that small, private bubble in his car to the reality of your front door being just a few steps away.

He killed the engine and reached into the side door pocket, pulling out a small ziplock bag and holding it out to you.

You took it, expecting the usual amount. But the second you looked at it properly, you realised it was heavier. Fuller.

Easily double than what you’d asked for.

“This is…” Your eyes flickered between the baggie and him. “This is a lot more than I paid you for.”

He shrugged, leaning back in his seat like it was nothing. “Yeah. Just take it.”

You frowned lightly, not used to such kind gestures from a dealer. He could have easily made good money elsewhere. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to,” he said simply. No smirk, no ulterior motive in his tone. Just that.

You snorted under your breath, shaking your head. “With this much, I probably won’t need to see you for a while.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You saw it instantly— the tiny drop in his expression, the way his mouth pressed together for a split second before he smoothed it over.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t point out that maybe he’d given you more because he wanted to give you and incentive to see him again, not less.

Instead, he just nodded once, like he was agreeing, though his eyes told a different story.

You hesitated, the bag warm in your hand, the weight of it more than just what was inside.

He finally broke the silence, voice low enough that you almost missed it. “So… when am I seeing you again?”

You swallowed, your first instinct to repeat what you’d already said — about the stash, about not needing to — but something in the way he looked at you stopped you.

Still, the truth slipped out. “I don’t know.”

That same flicker of disappointment flashed again, even if he tried to hide it. This time, he didn’t cover it with a smile.

The car felt smaller suddenly, the air thicker. You wanted to say something else, something lighter, but the words never came.

So instead, you opened the door, the cool night air rushing in to fill the space between you.

“Thanks,” you said finally, holding up the bag slightly.

His eyes stayed on you, unreadable now. “Yeah. Anytime.”

You stepped out, the slam of the door feeling final in a way that you didn’t expect.

You glanced back once as you walked away.

To your surprise (or lack thereof), he was still there. Watching you as you disappeared behind a row of cars, blocking his view entirely.

You made a promise to yourself to try and smoke a bit more than usual, which is probably the complete opposite of what most people would say.

Anything to wipe that disappointed look from off his face. Anything to see him again— the sooner the better.

a/n: im lowkey more excited abt this than u guys 😭 i love writing this au the words just flow out of me (rip to me this past month ive had the biggest writing/reading block) — please leave suggestions about where you'd like me to take this series, and yes they'll smoke together at some point 😏

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

it was supposed to be missed you oml alternative works though-

AHHH I KISSED YOU HOW WERE THE LSATS

woah, take me out to dinner first—

jk but like actually the lsat was such a logistical shit show?? i ended up starting the exam almost an HOUR LATE bc the proctor kept disapproving the room i was testing in bc ‘there’s glass’ like tf?? the proctoring service was actually such a pain in the ass that i wanted to cry but at least the upside of it is that i was so focused on finishing the exam on time that i didn’t have time to second guess any of my answers lmao 😭

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

STOP MY HEART CANT TAKE THE FLUFFINESS

5 Times Lando Norris Was Close to Exposing His Feelings (and 1 Time He Finally Did) LN4

word count: 1393

pairing: lando norris x reader

warning: contains themes of mild language, emotional themes, romantic tension

Image of Us masterlist

rese notes: back from the college dead! had to welcome the freshies and etc but dw will soon post next chapter of our fav oblivious and GOD LET THEM KISS couple <33 enjoy this small snippet of them

1. The Girl in the Polka Dot Dress He was still in karting then, and she’d sometimes come to support him—with her parents’ approval, of course. Lando hated how the other boys would look at her and shyly talk to her, while she’d just stare at them weirdly, gripping the strap of her bag and mumbling, “I don’t know,” before walking away and heading straight toward him.

One time, he was too busy glaring at a boy who was talking to her to notice his dad nudging him. Adam Norris had already figured it out—his son fancied the girl in the polka dot dress. She even helped Lando with homework sometimes.

“Glare harder, son. Maybe the boy’ll melt,” Adam said with a smirk.

Lando blinked, then quickly looked away. “She doesn’t like boys like that… they’re too loud and a bit…” He made a vague gesture, describing everything opposite of what Y/N liked, but stopped himself before saying too much.

“I’m just saying that as her best friend, Dad,” he added quickly.

Adam only hummed, nodding like he didn’t believe a word.

2. Superman to the Rescue One thing she was terrible at? Predicting the weather.

She was stranded at the bus stop, nearly drenched from the rain, having forgotten her umbrella again. No cabs in sight, her phone close to dying, she wrapped her jacket tighter and muttered, “Please… someone, anyone, show up. I promise I’ll finish my homework, stop slacking off—”

That’s when a car pulled up in front of her. The window rolled down.

“Always in trouble, huh?” Lando grinned.

She looked like a sad, wet puppy. “Are you just going to laugh at me?” she huffed.

He chuckled. “No. Get in before you catch a cold.”

The ride was mostly her mumbling that she could’ve handled it, to which he said, “Then why’d you let yourself get soaked?”

She shot back, “Then why did you pick me up?”

He wanted to say, Because I wouldn’t let my dearest darling get soaked in the rain.

But instead, he blurted out, “Gut feeling, you know.”

She looked at him, then away. “Gut feeling... okay.”

He bit his lip, close—so close—to confessing. But not yet. One day, he promised himself.

3. Snoopy Lover Lando knew how much she adored Snoopy. She had all kinds of Snoopy merch, but there was one she desperately wanted: an F1-themed Snoopy plushie. Sadly, it was always sold out.

One day, when he visited her apartment in London, he found her looking particularly upset.

“Snoopy didn’t come home?” he asked casually.

She sighed. “Snoopy’s always sold out, for Christ’s sake.”

So, for Christmas, he got her something special. She warned him that if the box contained a rock again, she’d throw it at him. (It happened once. She nearly strangled him.)

When she opened the box, she froze.

“You’re joking…”

Their families looked at her nervously. Then she screamed.

“SNOOPY IS HOME!”

She cradled the Snoopy plushie in a McLaren kit like it was her child, gushing over how cute it looked.

Lando just smiled.

She didn’t notice the small note tucked inside the box, at least not at first. It read: To my darling wife who loves Snoopy more than she loves me.

A joke… for now.

4. His Lucky Charm He always kept anything she gave him. She’d hand it over with a quiet, “It’s a charm—to keep bad luck and bad energy away from you.”

That’s why he was now tearing apart his driver’s room, searching for the small note she’d once given him. He always kept it tucked away, a reminder that someone was waiting for him to come home safe.

“Where is it…” he muttered, panic rising. He couldn’t lose it.

Finally, he found it and let out a relieved sigh. Carefully, he placed it inside his helmet, close enough to feel like she was with him as he prepared for his race.

He didn’t notice her walking in—until she spotted it.

“I didn’t know you kept it all this time,” she said softly.

He jumped a little, startled. “Of course I kept it,” he replied, clearing his throat. “It… grounds me, I guess.” He tried to make it sound casual, to mask how close he was to saying it meant she grounded him.

She tilted her head, a teasing smile forming. “That’s a foolish thing to keep. I only gave you that note as a silly good-luck thing.”

“Well, maybe,” he said, holding his helmet a bit tighter, “but it makes me feel safe. At some point, that’s more than just luck.”

Her smile faltered for just a second, her eyes flicking to the helmet before she looked away, pretending not to read between his words.

5. If the Whole World Starts to Overwhelm You, I’m Here She didn’t mean to turn their apartment into a sudden sad, cloudy storm.

It just happened—one moment she was fine, and the next she was curled up on the couch with a pint of cookies-and-cream ice cream, her thoughts spiraling. Was she doing the right thing? Were her parents proud of her work? Was she even on the right path?

The weight of it all made her want to go back home—not to a place, but to the comfort of curling up in her mother’s arms.

She didn’t hear the door open or Lando’s cheerful greeting as he stepped inside after a long meeting. He stopped mid-step when he saw her sitting quietly on the couch, ice cream in hand, staring out toward the balcony.

Her expression was distant. Sad.

He dropped his keys on the counter and walked over slowly, concern written on his face. “Hey… what’s going on?”

She blinked and looked at him, her eyes glassy. “Just… thinking,” she murmured.

Without another word, he sat beside her, took the ice cream from her hands, and pulled her into his arms. “If the whole world starts to overwhelm you,” he said softly, “I’m here. Always.”

She let out a shaky laugh, leaning into him. “You’re really bad at ice cream theft, you know that?”

“Yeah, well… I’m better at making sure you don’t go through storms alone,” he replied, meaning every word—even if he didn’t say the other thing that had been stuck in his chest for years.

And One Time He Finally Said It The night was cool and quiet, the only sound in the apartment the faint hum of the city beyond their window.

Lando lay awake, unable to sleep, his gaze fixed on her sleeping form beside him. She was curled slightly toward him, her breathing slow and steady, strands of hair brushing against her cheek.

He’d seen her in so many moments—laughing, frustrated, tired, stubborn—but there was something about seeing her like this, peaceful, that made his chest ache in the best way.

Leaning closer, he whispered so quietly it was almost a thought instead of words. “Someday… we’ll get those things you want. Whatever you want, love. The house you’ve always talked about, all the little things you’ve dreamed of… I’ll make sure you have them.”

His eyes softened as he reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “I’ll follow you anywhere, as long as you’re comfortable. And when I’m your husband… I’ll be a good one. I promise.”

He hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding, before adding in a voice even softer than before, “Just wait… I’ll give you the most beautiful ring you wanted and… and I’ll love you. I really would.”

It wasn’t just a promise—it was his truth. He had already planned for it, already imagined her smile when those dreams became real.

And for the first time, the word slipped out without hesitation—love. Not in a joke, not hidden behind a grin. Just the truth, spoken into the quiet night.

He let out a slow sigh, closing his eyes at last, the tension in his shoulders finally easing as sleep began to claim him.

She stayed still, her breathing steady, but her eyes slowly opened just enough to see him beside her. She had heard every word.

“I would do things for you as well,” she whispered into the dark, so quiet that only the night could hold her reply.

taglist: @n3versatisfied, @alana4610, @boocmarks, @areej003, @coolpeanutchaos, @plotpal, @fightclubendingscene, @bellabarnes1378, @chimchimjiminie16, @trisharee, @emneedshelp, @dramallama9, @samriddhisingh, @ernegren, @midnight-and-books, @keepyoureyesonmeboy. @obxstiles, @jolixtreesunn, @bakubub, @edgyficuselastica, @jaydensluv, @heevenom, @lex2205, @thechosen-neo, @formulawhore

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

STOP IT OMG THE ENDING WAS ADORABLE

green light ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

r/aita · @piastriprincess asked, “aita (m25) for hating all my best friend’s boyfriends?”

ꔮ starring: lando norris x best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 7.7k. ꔮ includes: romance, angst, hurt/comfort. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. flashbacks, max fewtrell (<3) haunts the narrative, yearning…,  best friends to lovers. title inspired by both lorde’s (i’m waiting for it, that green light, i want it) and tate mcrae’s (i’m still waitin’ at the green light to tell you what i feel like) song of the same name. ꔮ commentary box: confession time—i’ve always felt a bit hit-or-miss when writing for lando, but this one… i reaaally like how it turned out 🚦 everybody say ‘thank you, lily’ for the banger prompt!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The McLaren P1 isn’t exactly designed for emotional turmoil. 

It’s low to the ground and louder than sin. Not the kind of car you want to be brooding in. But here Lando is, idling at the curb outside your flat in Bristol, watching the rain tattoo the windscreen and trying to pretend he’s not bracing for whatever weird tension you’ve decided to lace this car ride with.

You appear in the rearview mirror like a final boss. Hoodie up, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, looking like you’re headed to war rather than a birthday party.

Lando presses the button to open the door. You hesitate, which you never used to do. You slide into the passenger seat like it physically pains you. He half-expects you to bring holy water.

“You know,” he says, because silence is worse than bad jokes, “most people would be thrilled to be chauffeured in a million-pound hypercar. You look like you’re entering a hostage negotiation.”

You don’t laugh. You do that half-smile thing that doesn’t reach your eyes, and suddenly Lando wants to kick himself for knowing the difference.

“Thanks for the lift,” you say, polite enough to pass for normal. 

It isn’t. It really, really isn’t.

Lando flicks the wipers on. The rain makes a rhythmic hiss against the windshield. It used to be that rides like this meant music and shared snacks and you yelling at him for taking corners too aggressively. Now, it feels like he has to tiptoe around your mood as if it's an open flame.

He eases the car away from the curb. “So, Birmingham,” he says. “Home of Fewtrell’s yearly descent into unchecked ego.”

You huff out a laugh through your nose, barely audible. It should make him feel triumphant; instead, it makes his chest tight.

What’s a spark when you used to light up around him? No matter how many people crowded your lives—teammates, friends, plus-ones at dinner tables—you were always his person. That one human who saw him beyond the grid, who didn’t care about lap times or social media engagement.

Lando knows something broke. He just doesn’t know when.

The car hums beneath him, taut with energy it can’t release in Bristol traffic. Maybe it’s a metaphor. Maybe everything is.

“You doing okay?” he asks, too casually.

You look out the window. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

There it is. He could write a dissertation on your avoidance techniques. In fact, he probably should. Title: How to Be Ghosted by Your Best Friend Without Them Technically Leaving the Chat.

He lets it go for now. Because the motorway is long, and the rain’s getting heavier, and there’s still two hours between here and the truth.

Lando doesn’t know when the silence between you became a living thing.

It’s not just still. It’s tense. It’s textured. It breathes like it’s third-wheeling from the back seat, wedged between you two with crossed arms and a wisenheimer expression.

He fiddles with the volume knob, turning the music down so low it’s practically just rhythm. Normally, you’d complain that it’s criminal to listen to music and not let it play properly. You’d grab his phone and queue some obnoxiously long indie playlist called something like orange show speedway and make him admit that you have taste.

Today, nothing.

He risks a glance sideways. You’re staring out the window like you’re auditioning for a breakup scene in a rainy film.

You used to talk to him about everything. 

Shared inside jokes. Shared chips. Shared one toothbrush once on a trip to Mallorca, which he’s never quite recovered from. Every girl he ever liked, you sized up with terrifying efficiency. Every victory lap, you were the first person he texted. Every racing-related heartbreak, you were the one who told him to shut up, cry it out, then get back in the car.

He doesn’t remember a version of his life that doesn’t include you in the passenger seat.

So what the hell happened?

His car purrs along the motorway, cutting through the wet roads with the kind of grace only British engineering can pull off. They pass a familiar neighborhood and Lando slows a little, almost unconsciously.

He recognizes it before he wants to. The red-bricked semi with the peeling paint and the tragically optimistic garden gnome. He looks towards you, forces a grin.

“You remember this place?” he asks, way too chipper. “Your first boyfriend lived there. What was his name again? Something that sounded like a bootleg Marvel villain.”

You sigh. “Connor.”

“Right. Connor. God, he had the personality of a paper towel.”

You don’t smile. You just go back to looking out the window, past the brick house and the neighborhood that once felt like Lando’s entire world. 

The silence, smug bastard that it is, stretches its limbs and settles in again.

Lando grips the wheel tighter. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe he should’ve driven straight through and pretended the past wasn’t sitting in the backseat, wearing a stupid letterman jacket and reminding him of everything he didn’t say back then.

He can’t help but add, “He was an idiot, by the way. Never deserved you.”

That gets a flicker. Not a response, exactly, but a shift. A pause. A breath caught in your throat.

For a second, Lando remembers it. That summer. The start of all this. The spark, the fester, the personal betrayal of the friendship that was never quite enough for a man who wanted it all.

The first time Lando meets Connor, he’s already mentally uninstalling him like a glitchy app.

It’s some after-school club thing. Yearbook, or debate, or something equally cursed. The point is: Lando doesn’t belong here. He’s there because you asked him to walk you home, and you insisted he wait until the meeting ended. Which would’ve been fine, if the meeting hadn’t devolved into social hour and you hadn’t suddenly started radiating this stupidly obvious crush energy toward a guy in a rugby hoodie.

Connor.

The name alone sounds like someone who owns too many types of protein powder.

He’s tall in the way sixth-formers think is impressive. Smiles like he’s waiting for a camera to flash. And he talks—God, does he talk. About running drills. About his coach. About, and this is not a joke, a recent dream he had where he was chosen as the face of a sports drink campaign.

“He said, ‘I think I have the jawline for it,’” Lando recalls later in a whisper, as if traumatized.

Back in the moment, Lando tries to be polite. He stands there, hands in pockets, nodding like he’s buffering. “Right. That’s cool,” he mumbles, after Connor launches into a story about a pulled hamstring.

You glance over, eyes bright, clearly hoping Lando will be nice. So he tries again. “Do you, like, play matches every weekend, then?”

Connor nods solemnly. “Unless I’m injured. But I usually push through it.”

“Cool,” Lando says, tone flat as a pancake. He considers throwing himself out the nearest window.

He checks his phone. Fifteen minutes of this. That’s longer than he lasted in his first karting endurance run. He’s about to make a quiet escape—fake a text, mumble something about dinner, the works—when you touch his wrist.

“Stay?” you ask.

You say it soft, barely audible over the buzz of the room, and it derails his exit plan completely. He sighs. Dramatically. Just enough so you know he’s suffering, but not enough to actually mean it.

“Fine,” he grits out. “But if he brings up Real Madrid again, I’m eating the fluorescent lightbulb.”

You beam at him like he just agreed to co-sign your mortgage.

He stays for another twenty agonizing minutes. Listens to Connor talk about macro splits. Lets you giggle at jokes that barely qualify as sentences. Pretends not to notice the way your foot inches closer to Connor’s under the table.

Lando doesn’t know it yet, but something inside him knots that day. Small and quiet. Tight enough to notice. Deep enough that it’ll take years to unravel.

Connor lasts six months.

Six months of bland texts, gym selfies, and Lando resisting the urge to stage a small, tasteful intervention.

He suffers through it all like a war veteran. Group hangs where Connor brings up creatine unprompted. School events where Connor stands behind you like a security detail. One truly cursed double date to the cinema where Connor clapped at the end of the movie.

Lando logs every moment like evidence for a trial that never comes. Until one Tuesday afternoon, when you text him the four most beautiful words in the English language.

I dumped him lol.

Lando shows up at your door within the hour, snacks under one arm, self-righteousness under the other.

You look strangely relaxed. Legs curled under you on the sofa, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, as if the breakup lifted a fog you didn’t know had settled.

“Turns out,” you say, accepting a bag of crisps from him, “dating someone who talks about himself in third person isn’t actually fun.”

Lando gasps, hand to chest. “Lando is shocked. Who could’ve predicted that?”

You roll your eyes. “Bug off.”

“I’m just saying,” he grins, sinking into the cushion beside you, “some of us knew from day one that Connor was a human rice cake with delusions of grandeur.”

You snort, the laugh bubbling out of you before you can stop it. “Fine, fine. You were right.”

“Finally.” He makes a show of looking to the heavens. “It only took six months, three public arguments, and one extremely awkward bowling night.”

“Never again,” you groan, tossing a crisp at him. “No more athletes.”

Lando recoils like you slapped him. “Excuse you. I’m an athlete.”

“You’re an exception. You’re, like, emotionally literate.”

“That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever received.”

You laugh again, easier this time, and Lando feels something shift. It’s a small, prideful flicker of knowing: Connor probably never made you laugh like that.

He watches you tip your head back against the sofa, eyes fluttering closed. The late afternoon light spills across your face, and for once, there’s no boyfriend shadowing your smile.

It’s just you and Lando. 

And just like that, Boyfriend Number One is out of the picture.

The wipers fight a losing battle, flailing side to side in frantic arcs, trying their best to keep the view ahead from turning into an impressionist painting. The P1 glides through it all with the confidence of a car built to outrun lightning, but even Lando—lover of speed, master of circuits, alleged adult—has to admit.

This is not exactly ideal driving weather.

You’ve been silent for most of the ride. The kind of silence that has teeth. It presses against the back of Lando’s neck, daring him to say something dumb.

Then, finally—

“Lando,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “it’s getting really bad.”

He blinks, snapped out of the existential spiral he’d been mentally free-falling through. Turns slightly toward you, brow cocked in mock offense. “Have you forgotten who I am?”

You give him a tight, unimpressed look. “A man who once rear-ended a shopping cart at Tesco car park.”

“That was one time. I was seventeen. And it came out of nowhere.”

“It was stationary, Lando.”

“It was aggressively stationary.”

Your knuckles go white against the armrest as another gust of wind slams against the car. Your worry hangs thick in the space between you, louder than the rain. Lando feels it like static beneath his skin.

He huffs, puffing up with the defensive pride of a man desperate to impress someone who already knows every version of him, embarrassing stories and all.

“I’ve driven Spa in a thunderstorm, you know. This?” he gestures with one hand. “This is drizzle with a flair for the dramatic.”

Cue cosmic timing.

The car hydroplanes.

It happens in an instant. A slick patch, a twitch of the wheel, the rear kicking out just enough to raise the hair on his arms. The tail of the car fishtails right, then violently left, the P1 tilting off center in a slow-motion ballet of oh-god-oh-no.

Lando reacts on instinct. Years of karting, racing, muscle memory firing like it’s just another corner at Silverstone. He counter-steers, stabilizes, corrects. The car obeys, just barely. But what he doesn’t think about is the way his arm flings across your chest, holding you in place.

It’s ridiculous. There’s a five-point seatbelt system. The car is practically a carbon-fiber cocoon. All the same, his body makes the decision before his brain does: protect you first.

The tires grip. The fishtail stops. The car straightens.

His heart tries to break the sound barrier.

You’re both silent, the only noise your unsteady breathing and the rhythmic thump of his heart echoing in his ears. He doesn’t wince when you practically screech, “What the hell was that?!”

“It was a save,” he mutters, as if saying it in a smaller voice will make it sound more reasonable. He grips the wheel like it personally betrayed him.

You round on him as if he just tried to murder you with style. “A save? I thought I was about to become modern art on the side of the M5!”

“I had it under control.”

“You swore it was drizzle!”

“Water is water, babe!”

Your hands go to your face in pure exasperation. “You absolute bellend.”

For some reason—maybe the adrenaline, maybe just you finally sounding like you again—Lando laughs. It starts low, then builds, bubbling up like he’s been holding it in for weeks. 

He watches you from the corner of his eye. You’re alive, irritated, breathing. For the first time in what feels like forever, your voice has weight. You’re not tiptoeing around him. You’re calling him out. Loud and unfiltered and exactly as you used to be.

“Missed that,” he says, almost to himself.

“What?”

He keeps his eyes ahead, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His grin is trying to stay small but refuses to be ignored. “The sound of you telling me off,” he says, plain and simple and honest to a fault. 

In the thick of rain and tension, there’s a crack of warmth. The silence that follows isn’t the old silence. It’s not angry or tense or drowning in things unsaid. It feels like the kind that comes after something.

Maybe not a full repair, but a start.

Lando pulls into the gas station. You’d asked him politely but firmly to pull over, just for a bit, to wait out the rain. And for once, he doesn’t argue.

The fluorescent lights hum above as he shifts the car into park. Rain still drums on the roof, but the chaos outside feels farther away now. Muted. Contained. It gives the illusion of control, even if everything still feels slightly sideways.

You unbuckle and stretch, exhaling like you’ve been holding your breath since the near-spin. Maybe you have. Lando watches you from the corner of his eye, trying not to make it weird. Failing a little.

It’s this station. Your station. Not legally, but in spirit. 

He remembers all the times you’ve dragged him here over the years: late-night snack runs, dares to buy the weirdest item on the shelf, one very ill-advised slushie taste test that ended with blue tongues and a stomach bug. This place has been witness to everything from your worst hangovers to your best impressions of cursed TV ads.

He glances at the flickering store sign, then at you.

“Remember when you dated the cashier here?” he says, because clearly he has a death wish.

You groan. It’s visceral. From the chest. “Can we not talk about Tom?”

“Oh, Tom now. We’re using names.” Lando grins, all teeth and zero mercy. “He sold you expired milk on your third date.”

You cover your face. “I’m going to open this car door and let the rain take me.”

“And abandon me here? In the sacred land of lukewarm sausage rolls and scratch cards?”

You laugh. You actually laugh. And even if it’s mostly directed at your own poor decisions, Lando will take it.

“God,” you grumble, still hiding behind your hands. “I was so dumb.”

“No,” he says. “You were just hopeful. With tragically low standards.”

You peek at him through your fingers, eyes narrowing. “Is that your version of comforting me?”

He shrugs, fighting a laugh of his own. “I thought it was pretty accurate.”

You’re still smiling when you turn your face back toward the rain-blurred window. Lando watches the way your expression fades into something softer. More distant.

He thinks of the way you used to look at Tom. And the way you looked after it all went to shit.

The memory creeps in, uninvited. The same way that godforsaken ‘boyfriend’ did.

Tom was a phase.

Lando says it then, says it now, says it like a mantra. A phase. Curtain bangs, the keto diet, Vine. 

He never meets Tom properly. Not in the same way he met Connor, all tight smiles and passive-aggressive protein talk. No, Tom appears in your life like a Wi-Fi outage: disruptive, inconvenient, and wildly inconvenient at the worst possible time.

Lando’s already racing in the lower formulas when it starts. Barely home. Living out of suitcases and duffel bags, counting time in flights and practice laps. He sees it unfold from the periphery. A flicker of chaos just off-track.

He catches glimpses of it in your Snapchat stories. Blurry concert videos. Gas station selfies. One particularly haunting Boomerang of you and Tom doing shots with a caption that just says YOLO in Comic Sans font.

That was the first real red flag.

The second comes from Max, in a text that just says: Why is your best friend dating the guy who once tried to pay for gum with a Greggs coupon.

Lando doesn’t even respond. He only closes his phone and exhales like he’s been personally wronged.

Tom is a lot, from what he can tell. The kind of guy who thinks sarcasm is a personality trait and only follows meme accounts. He wears those tiny sunglasses ironically. Calls himself a ‘creative entrepreneur’ because he once made a custom iPhone wallpaper in Canva.

Lando doesn’t get it.

He doesn’t get why you’re laughing so hard in those stories, or why your texts to him have started thinning out, shorter and more sporadic. He doesn’t get how this man—this man who lists “vibes” as a core value—has managed to take up space where Lando should be.

But he tells himself it’s just a phase. 

You’ve had them before. The Twilight obsession. The time you tried to become a minimalist and nearly cried getting rid of a shoebox of concert tickets. This is the same thing, just with more snapbacks and ‘u up?’ texts.

And so Lando watches from a distance. A blur of airports and circuits and hotel rooms, tuning into your life in fifteen-second increments.

He tells himself not to get worked up. Not to overthink it. It’s just a phase.

The thing about phases is they leave a mark when they pass.

After God-knows-how-long of on-again, off-again, the end comes in the form of reliable gossip from Max. 

Lando doesn’t hesitate. Max barely gets the words out—“She’s really done this time. Like, done done.”—and Lando’s already pulling up the British Airways app with the grace of a man who’s been waiting for this moment since Tom entered your life. 

The flight to Bristol is boring. The snacks are stale. The woman beside him spends forty minutes playing Candy Crush with her volume on full blast and a grim determination Lando hasn’t seen since the Monaco GP. But none of it matters, because his leg is bouncing with a rhythm only anxiety or maybe anticipation can tap out.

He hasn’t seen you in three months. Not properly. Not since the last time Tom slithered his way back into your life like a parasitic vine, and Lando watched helplessly as you got tangled again. Like you were boarding a ship headed straight into a hurricane with a neon sign that read this is fine.  Lando, from the shore, had to wave and pretend he didn’t want to light that ship on fire.

Now he’s here. Rented car. Cap tilted low. Heart wired.

He texts Max to stall, tells him to play dumb if you ask questions. Pulls into your driveway like it’s any other Wednesday, not a dramatic friendship intervention wrapped in emotional whiplash and British Airways peanuts.

You open the door, and both of you balk at the sight of each other. 

“You flew here?” you breathe. 

“You dyed your hair?” he counters immediately, because yeah, you look different. 

Still you, but brighter around the edges. Like maybe the weight of Tom has finally stopped sitting on your chest. You’re in a hoodie he hasn’t seen in a while. The grey one you used to steal from him back when you were neighbors and everything was stupid and easy.

“You flew here?” you repeat, incredulous. There’s a defensive slant to your tone, like you’re not sure if you’re allowed to feel touched.

He shrugs, stepping past you into the hallway like he hasn’t just crossed countries to make sure you’re okay. “Was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d pop by, insult your ex, steal your biscuits.”

You smile. A real one. Tentative, but real..

He follows you to the kitchen, where the kettle’s already half-boiled and the air smells like tea bags. You sit, curled into the chair like you’re trying to fold yourself down to a more manageable size. Lando hates that. Hates that you look like you’re bracing for the next hit, hates that you think you had to be anything but yourself in this devastating situationship. 

“Max said you were done,” he says outright.

You nod. “I am.”

“Good,” he says, voice thick with something unspoken. “Because if I had to pretend to like him one more time, I’d have developed a stress twitch.”

You laugh, and it feels like sunlight breaking through a cloudy week. Broken and bright. It does something to Lando’s chest. A little lurch. A little click. A puzzle piece slotting into place.

“Remember when he said Manchester was in Scotland?”

“God, or when he thought almond milk came from baby almonds?”

“Or when he tried to fight that goose?”

That one breaks you. You snort, full-on wheeze, laugh so hard your shoulders shake and your face disappears into your hands. Lando watches you like he’s trying to memorize every second. Like if he stares hard enough, he can bottle the sound of your joy and take it with him when he’s fighting for his life on Sundays.

You look up, cheeks flushed, eyes finally shining with something other than sadness. “He really did try to fight a goose, didn’t he?”

“He lost,” Lando deadpans. “To a bird with a vendetta and no moral compass.”

You giggle again, softer this time, settling into it. Into him.

Lando lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding since the plane took off.

This. This is what he came for.

To see you smile like that. To make you laugh again. To remind you who you are outside of the storm cloud that was Boyfriend Number Two.

Even if it’s just for a little while.

Lando’s staring straight ahead when it blurts out of him: “Why have you been avoiding me?”

The words hit the windshield just as hard as the rain does, fast and sharp and impossible to ignore. Yobegu stiffen in the passenger seat.

“I haven’t,” you say, too fast. Too rehearsed. Lando can see you in your bathroom back home, preparing for the conversation in front of your mirror. 

Lando scoffs. Loudly. Dramatically. Because what else is he meant to do with a lie that transparent?

“Right. So all the unanswered texts, the missed calls, the five-second voice notes that end with ‘Sorry, gotta go’ even though I can literally hear you not going anywhere—,” he pauses, takes in a breath, goes on, “that’s just you being, what? Efficient?”

You cross your arms. Classic defense stance. He sees the way your jaw tenses, the way you shift your weight as if you’re prepping to run a marathon. Or escape a conversation.

“I’ve been busy,” you offer.

“With what, a monastic vow of silence?”

“Lando.”

“Don’t ‘Lando’ me,” he snaps, turning toward you now, fully, anger prickling beneath his skin. Not white-hot fury. A low, aching kind. The kind born of hurt. “You disappear on me for weeks and think I won’t notice?”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

He laughs, humorless. “Jesus. Just say it, then. Whatever it is you’re clearly trying not to.”

“There’s nothing to say,” you argue.

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

Silence, heavy and cloying, stretches between you like something physical. And then you reach for the door.

Lando blinks. “Are you serious? It’s pissing it down outside.”

You push it open anyway.

“Oh my God,” he groans, reaching across to try and stop you, but you’re already halfway out. Rain slapping hard against your hoodie, the wind catching your hair.

“This is so unnecessarily dramatic,” he shouts over the downpour. “Even for you!”

You flip him off without looking over your shoulder. Lando exhales like he’s just aged ten years.

Of course this is happening.

Of course you’re trying to escape a deeply emotional conversation by drowning yourself in goddamn weather.

And of course, he’s about to go after you anyway.

Lando has chased you through paddocks, airports, and one ill-advised IKEA on a bank holiday weekend. But this? This is a new low. 

You’re walking down a rain-slicked road like it’s a runway, soaked to the bone, one arm stretched out like you’re auditioning for a 90s road trip comedy.

“Will you please get in the bloody car?” Lando yells, jogging a few paces behind you, hoodie already useless against the downpour. 

Rain pelts his face. His trainers are definitely ruined. There are probably frogs watching from the ditch with more dignity than he currently possesses.

You don’t look back. You just wave your hand in a vague go away gesture and keep walking as if the pavement’s not a slip hazard waiting to happen.

“What are you even doing?” he calls again. “Trying to get kidnapped? Start a new life in Wales?”

“I’m proving a point!” you shout over your shoulder.

“What point?” Lando throws his arms up. “That you’re allergic to staying in a parked car with me for more than five minutes?!”

You stop walking long enough to turn. Hair dripping, mascara smudged, and cheeks pink with cold and fury. “I’m not letting you deflect like you always do.”

“I’m the one deflecting?” Lando screeches. “Who’s the one playing out the third act of a Nora Ephron film on the side of the A38 right now? The one you watched with—”

“Don’t.”

You narrow your eyes. He knows that look. That look has preceded at least two near-misdemeanors and one regrettable shared tattoo.

“Don’t what?” he bites out anyway. 

“Don’t make this about him.”

Lando stops short. The wind shoves water into his face. 

You cross your arms, jaw tight. “That’s a low blow, Lando,” you say tersely. 

He sighs, remembering himself. Runs a hand through his dripping curls. “Okay. Yeah. That one might’ve been on me.”

You glance away, lips pressed tight. 

Even now—even drenched, and stubborn, and maybe seconds from catching pneumonia—you look heartbreakingly familiar. 

Lando doesn’t say it. Doesn’t even think it too loud.

He only watches the past creep back in like a drizzle.

His name is Matthew. Not Matt. Not Matty. Not some delightfully ridiculous hybrid nickname you’d shout across a car park. No, it’s Matthew. 

Like a grown-up. Like a man who knows how to fold a fitted sheet and use words like ‘conscientious’ in casual conversation.

Lando hates him immediately.

Not for any real reason. Matthew is tall, polite, and somehow always smells like eucalyptus. He wears jumpers with elbow patches and irons his jeans. He volunteers on the weekends. Max meets him once and texts Lando, bro he’s NICE nice, which somehow makes it worse.

Because Matthew is nice. Objectively. Irritatingly. The kind of nice that doesn’t even flinch when your gran asks invasive questions or when your dog throws up on his shoes. Lando tries to catch him out—waits for a bad joke, a sarcastic smirk, a single out-of-pocket comment—but Matthew plays a clean game. Doesn’t even double dip.

It drives Lando mad.

And what’s worse? You’re happy. Genuinely happy. 

Glowing in a way that makes Lando’s stomach twist, because it’s not for him. It never has been, not really. Not in the way he wants. Sure, he’s had his chances. He’s danced around it for years, leaving breadcrumb jokes and half-hearted flirtations in your path like you might trip over them one day and fall into his arms.

You never did. You fell for Matthew, and for all the right reasons.

Lando tries. God, he tries. Plays the supportive friend card with a smile stretched too tight. Tells you he’s glad for you, then goes home and grumbles to Max about how Matthew probably has a sock drawer organized by color.

It’s not that he wants Matthew to be awful. He just wants something—anything—that makes this ache in his chest easier to justify. Some glaring red flag. Some hidden flaw. But all Lando’s got is a deep, gnawing sense of falling behind, of watching the credits roll on a film he thought he was starring in.

He’s not happy for you. Not in the way you might want. That, somehow, is the most infuriating part of all.

Matthew stays in the picture for a whopping three years.

Long enough to survive two surprise party meltdowns, a full flat renovation, and a group trip to the Dolomites where Max nearly dies trying to ski backwards. Matthew’s in every photo, every inside joke, every weekend plan. He’s at your side in Instagram posts and tagged stories, smiling like he belongs there. 

Matthew helps Max fix his sink. He gets Lando a birthday gift without needing a reminder. He has a spreadsheet for your shared groceries. He knows your order at five different coffee shops. He does everything right.

Lando hates, hates, HATES it. Not because there’s anything wrong with Matthew, but because there isn’t.

Because every day you seem a little more out of reach.

Because you don’t text him at midnight with weird thoughts anymore. Because you cancel plans, rebook dinners, drop conversations halfway through. Because now Lando only hears about your day in secondhand summaries at group hangouts. 

When he does finally get a one-on-one lunch, you’re distracted. Checking your phone. Smiling at something you won’t tell him about.

It drives him insane in that quiet, gnawing kind of way. The slow unravel. The you-shaped silence growing wider each week.

Then Matthew asks him.

Lando’s in line at a coffee shop, still wearing his hoodie from a bad simulator session, phone in hand. Matthew taps him on the shoulder, all pleasant charm and water-repellent outerwear.

“Hey, mate. Sorry to bother, but—um—do you happen to know her ring size?”

Lando balks. “What?”

“Her ring size,” Matthew laughs nervously. “I’m thinking of… you know. Eventually. Not now-now. But sometime.”

He says it all casual, like it’s a weather update. Like he’s not detonating a landmine in the middle of Lando’s soul.

Lando laughs. Loud. Too loud. The barista glances over.

“Sorry, erm, just… had a flashback to when she got one of those mood rings from a vending machine and insisted it meant she was dying,” he stammers. “No clue on size, though.”

Matthew chuckles. Thanks him. Moves on.

Lando, meanwhile, forgets what he came here for. Leaves without coffee. Gets in the car and sits there for twenty-three minutes, hands gripping the wheel like he might snap it off.

He doesn’t cry. 

But he does punch the steering wheel once. Then again. “Fuck,” Lando grits out through his teeth, fist landing the steering wheel a third, softer time. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Matthew thinks it’s end game. You probably do, too. Lando’s the only one who hasn’t gotten the memo. 

It sneaks up on him. The ensuing distance. Not yours, for once, but his.

It’s subtle at first. Missed texts, delayed replies, a string of excuses that sound convincing even to him. You, ever gracious, ever unbothered, don’t push. Until one day you ask, plainly, with that look that always cuts straight through him: “Are you avoiding me?”

Lando—cornered in the world’s most dangerous trap, your honesty—says the worst thing possible. He lies.

“What? No. Just busy.”

You nod, but your eyes hold there, suspicious. He changes the subject so fast it practically leaves a skid mark.

He tries afterwards. God, he really does. Makes more effort to be a better best friend. Starts sending you memes again. Asks about your week. Makes jokes about your taste in romcoms like he’s not the one who’s watched Notting Hill six times. With you. Voluntarily.

But it’s like trying to balance on ice. Because every time Matthew’s name comes up—when he picks you up from dinner, or when you show up in one of those blouses Lando knows weren’t your taste until someone else said they liked them—Lando short-circuits a little.

Matthew’s a man-shaped Post-it stuck to every part of you Lando doesn’t get to touch, and it all but kills him for those three years.

Lando’s terrified of becoming the footnote in your story. Of standing at your wedding someday, raising a glass and making a joke about how he always knew, when really he never wanted to know.

You’re the one who shows up this time. 

No warning. No text. Just the doorbell to his apartment, and you, and eyes that look a little red, and a voice so small he almost misses it when you say: “Can I come in?”

Matthew’s not with you.

Matthew’s not coming.

You sit on his couch. You take your shoes off and set them aside. You don’t speak right away. You curl your knees up and hold a pillow against your chest like a shield. Lando doesn’t ask questions.

You say, “We ended things.”

He waits for the joy. For the surge of self-righteous relief. For the I told you so itching to leap off his tongue.

None of it comes.

Instead, you cry. 

For the first time—really cry over a breakup in front of him. Shoulders shaking. Silent tears at first, then the full-body, rib-wracking kind. Lando just sits there. Not joking. Not speaking. Only shifting closer until you fold into his side like muscle memory.

He holds you.

All he feels is this: sadness. Yours, his, collective.

No more pretending. No more pretending this doesn’t hurt. No more pretending he’s only ever been your best friend.

Lando kisses the top of your head. 

“I’m sorry,” he says into your hair, and he means it. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Please,” Lando calls, already drenched through. “I don’t want to die for Max, of all people.”

You don’t even look back. Just keep walking, thumb out like you’re genuinely trying to hitchhike. In the middle of nowhere. In the pouring rain.

“Oh, come on,” he yells. “This is not the moment to recreate the climax of your favorite romcom.”

You spin on him. “Why? Scared you’ll end up in the headlines?”

He stops short, blinking water out of his eyes. “No, I’m scared you’ll actually get in some random stranger’s van and I’ll have to chase it down like an idiot!”

You huff, cross your arms. “I don’t need saving.”

“I never said you did!”

“Then what do you want, Lando?”

What does he want?

What does he want?

A World Driver’s Championship, dry clothes, a dog. Most of all—

“I want you to come back,” he says, and it’s not just about the car anymore. 

His voice cracks on the words, like his lungs are tired of holding the weight in. He thinks of the distance, the years, the boys. He thinks of what it was like when it was just you and him against the world. 

“Come back to me,” he breathes, “Just—come back.”

In the back of his mind, he adds: Pleasepleaseplease. I’ve never begged for anything and I’ll be horrible. Don’t make me do that. Come back to me, please. 

You look at him like he’s just punched you in the chest. And for a second, he thinks he’s messed everything up. Again.

A laugh escapes you, but it’s not happy. 

It’s bitter, and broken, and fraying at the edges. “That’s always been the problem, hasn’t it?” you spit. 

“What?” he asks, throat tightening.

“You,” you say, voice sparking now. “You’ve always been the problem.”

He recoils like you’ve physically hits him. “I—I don’t understand.”

You step closer, jabbing a finger into his hoodie. “You want to know why no man’s ever lasted? Why every boyfriend I’ve had eventually walked away, or I did?”

Lando doesn’t speak. Can’t.

“It’s you,” you seethe. “Even Matthew, for all his perfection, for all the ways he was kind and patient and stupidly good at making pancakes—he knew. He knew there were parts of me that didn’t belong to him. That never would.”

You slam a fist to Lando’s chest, and he stumbles backward despite it not being all that forceful. 

“Because those parts belonged to you,” you sob, and something in the silence cracks open. “So much of me—’s all with you.”

Lando doesn’t realize he’s crying until the rain can’t account for the salt.

He stands a few feet in front of you on the shoulder of the road, headlights casting long shadows, mist curling at his knees like the world’s stage crew is setting up a very dramatic Act Three.

Maybe this is Act Three. Or Act Twenty-Five. Whatever. He’s tired. And wet. And done being careful.

He thinks about all the times you’ve asked him—offhand, casual, never really casual—what he thought of the guy you were dating. The little glances after a joke, a compliment, a moment you hoped he’d noticed. He always pretended he didn’t.

About how you once skipped a two-year anniversary dinner because he’d binned it in Q1 and couldn’t even make eye contact in the garage. You showed up with pizza and no expectations, just sat with him until the world felt less unbearable.

About how every year, without fail, you still get him a birthday card and write the same stupid inside joke in it. How your playlists have songs he said he liked once. How there’s always a seat saved for him, in every version of your life.

He moves before he can think better of it.

Closes the distance, rain pouring off his curls, hands cupping your face like you’re a flame he’s terrified of snuffing out. You blink up at him, stunned, lips parted to protest, or breathe, or remind him of something impossible.

“God, you’re such an idiot,” he breathes, and then he’s kissing you.

It’s too wet. Too much nose. Possibly some teeth. But it’s real, and it’s him, and it’s you, and he’s been dying to do this since the moment he realized you were the only person who’s ever made him feel like more than just a wheel in motion.

He pulls back a fraction, mouth brushing yours, breath ragged. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, the words spilling out of him in a stream. “I can’t settle for just parts of you. I want all of you. All the stupid parts. The loud parts. The ones that break things just to fix them better. You. I want you.”

Turns out Lando Norris knew how to beg after all. 

Your eyes are shining now, but not from the rain. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

You fist the front of his hoodie and kiss him again. Like you’re furious he didn’t do this sooner. Like you’re scared he’ll stop.

Like there’s no such thing as bad timing, or broken umbrellas, or boyfriends who came before. Just this moment, and this road, and the sound of everything finally falling into place.

You finally, finally give in. Lando manages to herd you toward the car with all the finesse of a wet sheepdog, wet curls plastered to his forehead and shoes squelching with every step. You duck inside the passenger seat, and Lando shuts the door behind you with a thud that feels suspiciously like relief.

He cranks the heater, grabs a towel from the back, and starts dabbing at your arms before realizing that’s probably weird. You snatch the towel from him with a soft scoff and wrap it around your shoulders.

“I hate you,” you say heatlessly.

Lando snorts. “You kissed me like you were trying to win a bloody Oscar. Hate’s a strong word.”

You roll your eyes. “I was cold and emotionally compromised.”

“You still are.” He reaches over to adjust the vents so they’re aimed directly at you. It feels too domestic, too tender, as if this is just a normal night and not the latest installment of your mutual slow-burn, star-crossed, soap opera.

But then you laugh.

Not the quiet, breath-through-your-nose kind you’ve been rationing for the last few weeks. No, this one bubbles out of your chest like champagne, loud and undignified, echoing around the car like a challenge to the storm outside.

Lando glances at you, startled. “What?”

“You’re being weird,” you accuse, grinning. “Like—boyfriend weird. Hovering. Fiddling with the heater. Are you about to offer me your hoodie next?”

He shifts in his seat, brows furrowing. “I mean… yeah?”

“Seriously?”

“I just kissed you in the rain like a Nicholas Sparks protagonist. I think I deserve to be called your boyfriend.”

You stare at him, towel clutched around you. He stares back, every nerve ending in his body doing laps. Then, slowly, you lean across the center console and kiss him.

No preamble. No hesitation. Just your mouth on his, warm and sure and rain-slicked and a little desperate.

He groans, half in disbelief, half in oh thank fuck, and immediately fumbles for your waist, pulling you over the console and into his lap.

“Lando,” you protest into his mouth, breathless, “your seats—”

“Fuck the seats,” he mutters, kissing you harder, both hands tangled in your damp hair. “Fuck the car.” 

And fuck all the boys before, too, he nearly adds, but you’re kissing him back before he can bitch about it. It’s a welcome way to be shut up. 

Max opens the door to find you and Lando shivering on his doorstep. 

It’s not exactly how he envisioned this moment going down—less triumphant reentry, more drowned rats with trust issues—but then again, with you two, it was never going to be smooth.

“Look who finally made it out of the wild,” Max deadpans, stepping aside to let you two in. “Welcome to Birmingham. Population: two soggy disasters with no sense of direction.”

Lando mutters something about missed turns, a road that may or may not exist on modern maps, and sheep with murder in their eyes. You chirp out a very sincere, very breathless, “We’re so sorry we missed the party,” as you toe off your wet shoes, leaving a trail of puddles like you’re starring in a very damp Hansel and Gretel reboot.

Max lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Uh-huh. You missed the party, the group photo, the snacks, my DJ set, and my famous mini quiches. Tragic, really.”

“There were quiches?” Lando asks, eyes wide with betrayal.

“There were never quiches,” Max says dryly. “But if there had been, you’d have missed them. Along with the firework display and the ice sculpture of Toto Wolff.”

You and Lando shuffle inside like two kids caught sneaking back after curfew, still damp despite the towels draped around your shoulders like battle-worn cloaks. You look like someone who’s cried, laughed, kissed, and threatened murder all in one afternoon. Lando looks like a boy who’s finally gotten what he wanted and is now terrified of losing it. 

Honestly, Max has never seen the pair of you look better.

You nudge Lando with your shoulder. He elbows you back. You squawk something about fragile bones. He mumbles something about delicate drama queens. It’s like watching a tennis match, if tennis involved way more bickering and accidental flirting.

Friends again, Max notes. But also…

It’s in the little things. The way Lando brushes a strand of wet hair off your cheek, his eyes tracing your face with a reverence that borders religion. The way your hand lingers at his back, fingers resting there like it’s instinct. The way you press a kiss to his cheek when Max turns to grab a towel, clearly forgetting that he lives here and has functioning eyeballs.

“Right,” Max says, chucking a fresh towel at Lando’s head. “Don’t get my couch pregnant. It’s the only thing in this flat that hasn’t betrayed me.”

Lando sputters, towel smacking against his face, while you laugh so hard you nearly fall onto the aforementioned couch. “You love us,” you say, beaming up at Max from where you’re sprawled.

“I tolerate you,” Max corrects, but he’s smiling.

Lando flops beside you, damp clothes making a half-hearted squelch against the upholstery. You both look like chaos wrapped in human skin, but for the first time in weeks, maybe months, there’s a weird sort of peace between you. The kind that comes after a storm, literal and emotional.

Max leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you two settle in like you haven’t been emotionally exhausting all week. He scrolls through his phone and quietly closes the Weather app.

There was never any party.

Just a text thread, a fake group chat full of complicit friends, and one extremely coordinated schedule that might strand a stubborn driver and his emotionally constipated soulmate in the middle of nowhere.

Max smiles to himself.

Sometimes, you really do have to drive people into a storm to get them to admit they’re in love. ⛐

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

babe come back home the kids miss you (it's okay if you have writers block, we just want little updates you're alive 💔)

tell the kids to bring mama a redbull babe💔

BUT I AM ALIVE AND WELL GUYS!!!

The draft for the next chapter of pick up the phone is being written as it's definitely the most popular and then I'll try to update all the other ones because I've been neglecting them💔

So I'll be honest, there might not be a post this week because I'm struggling real bad with motivation, sorry if you're new here i disappear for weeks without saying shit💔 but I do want to say thank you for all the likes, reblogs and follows! The support means everything and it helps motivate me to write smmmmm, you're all amazing

Take care of yourself lovely!

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

you were the first female driver in formula one in decades. found by an older max verstappen, now team principal of verstappen racing, the team he founded after his retirement from f1. he wanted young talent and you exceeded his expectations. but it wasn't just how you raced cars that caught his attention. you two were drawn to one another, and while you became his racing superstar. you also became his intimate lover.

driver!reader & the sexual exploits with her boss/team principal, max verstappen

pole position - MV1 🔥

Masterlist

summary: you were his golden girl — the first woman on the Formula 1 grid in decades, handpicked by max verstappen himself. to the world, he was your boss. your mentor. the man who gave you your seat. but behind the walls of verstappen racing, max made sure you knew the truth. you were his. and he was going to fuck the world’s next f1 star into something helpless, obedient, and owned.

warnings: explicit smut (18+), dom!max verstappen, fingering, spanking, office sex, unprotected vaginal sex, power imbalance, age gap, possessiveness, mild corruption kink, public/private dynamic, intense tension, dirty talk, degrading praise, borderline dubcon (consensual but morally grey), reader is a female driver

He discovered you on a wet Silverstone track, three years after his retirement. One look at the split sector times. One glance at the cockpit footage, the way you took Copse with the throttle down, the blur of your hands on the wheel, the calm in your eyes like you weren’t seconds from death.

That was it. He didn’t need more. He chose you.

You weren’t just the first female F1 driver in decades. You were his driver. And Max Verstappen had never liked sharing.

The paddock adored you. Sponsors lined up. Engineers followed you like puppies. Toto fucking Wolff offered you a seat on day three of testing and you turned it down with a smile and a thank-you and a quiet, “I already have a team.”

But they didn’t know what you really meant. Not a team. His.

His name on your firesuit. His team colours in your hair. His branding on your car. His eyes on you, all day, every session, every debrief. Watching. Waiting.

Training became tension. Contract meetings became whispered orders. Then came the travel. The nights. The hotel rooms booked side by side. The gazes held too long.

Then came the first time. After Bahrain. Post-qualifying. Pole.

“Do you even realise what you are?” Max’s voice is low, unreadable. “Do you have any idea what you look like out there?”

You’re in his office, still in your race suit, flushed and jittery from the high of qualifying. His fingers are tight around your jaw, forcing you to look up at him.

“Fast,” you whisper, heart pounding. “Consistent.”

Max’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like a warning. “You’re dangerous.”

You part your lips, to argue, to beg, you don’t know, but Max doesn’t give you the chance. His mouth crashes against yours, hands already unzipping your suit.

“Want you,” he growls against your throat. “Wanna fuck the future world champion raw before anyone else can touch her.”

“Max-”

“You’re mine.” He bends you over his desk. The second your suit’s around your knees, he’s got two fingers shoved inside you. Testing. Stretching. Getting you slick and ready and open, like this is still a performance metric. Like he’s fine-tuning your body the same way he fine-tunes a car.

“Dripping already,” he mutters, dragging his wet fingers up your back. “Knew you liked the pressure.”

You grip the desk. Moan. “Please-”

He slaps your ass. “Say my name.”

“Max- fuck-”

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t give you time to think or blink or breathe. Just pulls his cock free, lines himself up, and drives in like it’s his goddamn job.

You cry out. Hands claw at the desk. The stretch is brutal. It always is. Max is big and mean and angry with it, like every fuck is a punishment. A reminder. A way to claim the fastest girl he’s ever seen and turn her into something soft, obedient, his.

“Thought you were hot shit today, didn’t you?” he growls, dragging his cock out inch by inch, then slamming it back in. “Pole sitter. Fastest sector three. Everybody clapping. But you know what you are, really?”

You’re crying, panting, nodding as your body clenches around him.

He leans down. Bites your shoulder. “You’re mine. My fucktoy in a fireproof suit.”

Your orgasm hits like a crash.

After, he pulls out slowly, dripping with your slick, cum on your thigh and bruises on your hips. He wraps a hand around your throat and forces you to meet his eyes. “You race for me,” he says. “You come for me.”

You nod.

“Say it.”

“I race for you.”

He kisses your jaw. Soft, this time. Almost sweet. Then he pulls the Verstappen Racing jacket off the back of his chair and drapes it over your shoulders.

“You’re wearing this to the press conference.”

You blink. “You want people to know?”

He grins. Cold. Possessive. “No. I want them to wonder.”

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

all i'm getting from this is that lando needs to pierce his ears

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

Hi I love your writing. Could I please get a Lando and fan smut request.

youre staying - LN4 🔥

Masterlist

summary: you've been a fan of his for years. never thought you'd meet him, let alone have him pressed between your thighs whispering your name like a prayer. one night in monaco changes everything. turns out, lando norris doesn't just notice you — he ruins you. warnings: dom!lando, fan x driver dynamic, intense eye contact, fingering, oral (f receiving), mirror sex, unprotected sex, praise kink, possessiveness, public teasing, rough softness, light choking, hair pulling, aftercare, overstimulation

You're not supposed to be here. That's the thought spinning in your head as you lean against the bar at Lily's, drink in hand, trying to look casual while your entire body screams F1 drivers are here.

You'd flown to Monaco with your best friend for the Grand Prix weekend, half expecting to spend most of it watching from fan zones and refreshing Twitter. You hadn't expected a VIP pass. You hadn't expected to get invited out.

You definitely hadn't expected him. Lando Norris. Leaning back in a velvet booth, drink in hand, grinning like sin itself. Your eyes meet across the floor. And suddenly, the music fades.

He doesn't glance away. Just smirks. Then crooks a finger. Come here.

Your legs carry you before your brain can catch up. He's close. Too close.

Lando slides over in the booth, making space beside him like he's been waiting all night. "You don't look like you belong here," he murmurs in your ear, voice hot against your skin.

Your throat is dry. "Neither do you."

He laughs. "Touché."

You take a sip of your drink to hide the flush rising in your cheeks.

He leans in again, palm resting casually on your thigh. "I've seen you before."

You blink. "No, you haven't."

"I have." His voice drops. "In the paddock. Last season. Austria, I think. You were wearing McLaren orange. Little crop top."

You nearly choke on your drink. He saw you? You'd barely been three rows back. Just another face in a crowd of fans. "You remember that?"

He hums, sliding his thumb up and down your leg. "I remember all the pretty things."

The Uber to his place is a blur. You don't remember leaving the club. You just remember the way his hand stayed on your thigh, the way he whispered in your ear like you were already his.

"You're not gonna regret this," he says against your neck in the elevator.

You're already dizzy. Already wet. Already gone.

His flat is dim, lit only by the glow of the marina outside. You don't make it to the bedroom at first. Your back hits the front door as he kisses you, fingers slipping under your dress with ease.

"Wanted to do this all night," he mutters.

You whimper as his hand slides into your panties. He groans.

"So wet for me already."

You nod, gasping.

"Good," he says. "Because I'm starving."

He drops to his knees right there in the hallway. Spreads your legs. Pulls your panties aside. And devours you. No teasing. No warming up. Just tongue and lips and fingers, filthy and focused, like a man on a mission.

You come in less than three minutes. Gripping his curls. Whimpering his name. He wipes his mouth and stands, lifting you in one motion. You wrap your legs around him.

"I haven't even started," he whispers.

He carries you to the bedroom. Lays you down on crisp white sheets. Kisses your inner thighs.

"Fan since F2?" he teases, rubbing his cock against your soaked entrance.

You nod, face burning.

"Then you've had years to imagine this."

You can't even answer. You just moan as he pushes in. He fucks you slow at first. So slow it's torture. "I want you to feel every inch," he says. "Wanna ruin you for anyone else."

You wrap your arms around him, clutching, needy. "Please," you whimper.

His thrusts deepen. Harder. Faster. The headboard starts to slam. The air is thick with moans and breathless praises.

"So tight," he groans. "So fucking good for me."

He flips you onto your stomach. Pulls you up by the hips. Fucks you deeper. "Look," he says, nodding to the mirror on the opposite wall. "Look how good you take me."

You watch your own reflection, mouth open, eyes dazed, Lando behind you with wild curls and flushed cheeks, holding your hips like he owns you.

"Say my name," he growls.

You do. Over and over. Until your voice cracks. Until your body gives in again, legs trembling, back arching. You come around him with a broken sob. And he doesn't stop.

You lose track of time. Lose track of orgasms. You're wrecked, ruined, gasping. He slows only when you're shaking too hard to move.

Then he kisses your shoulder. And pulls out. Wraps you in a blanket. Kisses your forehead. "You okay?"

You nod. Barely coherent.

He smiles. "Good. Because you're staying."

The next morning, you wake in his bed. He's watching you. Coffee in hand. Shirtless. Smirking. "Morning, pretty girl."

You blink. "Did we...?"

"Oh yeah," he says. "Multiple times."

You flush. He tosses you a hoodie. "Put this on. You're not walking out of here without wearing something of mine."

You hesitate. He cocks his head. "Unless you'd rather just stay?"

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

the fan sign the reaction

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

Lando ruining the reader and the guys on the grid see the marks on her. So they start asking you two about your s3x life. I loveeeed the choking kink fic btw!

property of: lando norris - ln4

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader (no Y/N, 2nd person POV) word count: ~3.9k rating: explicit (18+ only) summary. Iit’s sweltering in the paddock. your tank top was supposed to help you survive the heat — not draw five pairs of very nosy, very suspicious eyes. the bruises? the bite mark? yeah. subtlety was never lando’s strong suit. warnings explicit sexual content (18+), mentions of rough sex, visible bruises/hickeys/bite marks, possessiveness, public teasing/embarrassment, cocky behavior, suggestive flashbacks (biting, marking, manhandling), reader getting relentlessly teased by the grid, lando being smug and unbothered, reader being wrecked and flustered, casual dirty talk, emotionally charged tension, mild degradation/praise kink implications author’s notes:i fear this is just 4k words of pure consequences of your actions energy. reader got absolutely wrecked and thought she could walk into the paddock like nothing happened. girl be so serious. everyone sees the bite mark. lando is smug. oscar is annoying. chaos ensues. i regret nothing. enjoy the mess <3thank you to whoever sent the request and hope you like it!

You should’ve worn something else.

The heat presses down like a physical weight — thick, humid, relentless. It's the kind of oppressive summer swelter that clings to skin, seeps into clothes, and refuses to let go. Post-race haze shimmers off the tarmac, reflecting harshly off metal and glass, a distorted mirage of light that makes every breath feel heavier than the last.

You haven’t even made it through the paddock gates before sweat beads at your spine, and your tank top — light, loose, effortlessly breathable — had seemed like the only sensible choice.

At the time.

But now?

Now, with five very specific sets of eyes lingering far too long, tracking your every breath, shift, and twitch?

It’s not the sun making your face burn.

You catch Alex first — gaze flicking, lingering, narrowing — his head tilted slightly like he’s analyzing a scene in slow motion. Then Carlos, whose eyes dip down, track upward again, then lower a second time. He doesn’t even bother pretending not to look. George stutters a glance before doing a double take. Max lifts his chin, subtle but sharp, like he's trying to get a better angle. And Oscar — usually the picture of subtlety — just stares.

Your tank top had felt harmless this morning. Loose-cut, thin-strapped, skimming your collarbones and flaring at the sides — innocent enough for the heat. You’d barely glanced in the mirror on your way out, distracted, half-late.

You didn’t notice the bruises until it was far, far too late.

A deep, angry mark blooms just beneath your collarbone, dark plum and rusted red, already curling at the edges into sickly yellow. It catches the light each time you shift. And the one on your neck — smaller, rounder, unmistakably from teeth — peeks out just beyond the reach of your concealer, the makeup already losing the battle to your sweat. Another lingers under your jaw, softer but spreading, a fingerprint turned flower, imprinted like a signature.

You’re barely moving.

And yet you can feel their eyes.

What they don’t see — what no one sees, thank god — is the handprint wrapping your upper thigh. A full one. Clear as day. His. Pressed there last night with purpose, with possession, with the kind of bruising grip that makes your knees weak remembering it now.

Carlos cracks first.

“Dios mío,” he mutters, stepping in closer, eyes locked on your neck as he hands you a water bottle like a white flag. “What happened to that?”

You flinch — too sharp, too quick. “What?”

Oscar leans over your shoulder, casual in that way that’s anything but. He squints, lips twitching.

“Ohhh,” he says, voice thick with amusement. “Ohh, wait. No way. Is that a—hold on—is that a bite mark?”

You twist instinctively, trying to block his view with your shoulder. “It’s not—no. It’s not a bite.”

George calls out from a few steps away, abandoning even the pretense of tact. “That’s definitely a bite. And that—” he gestures broadly at your collarbone, “—that’s a full-blown bruise. Jesus. Did someone fight you?”

In the chair beside you, Lando sits like he’s got all the time in the world. Legs spread, can of Monster dangling from his fingers, expression maddeningly unreadable — save for the faintest twitch of his mouth. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word.

But he watches.

And when he raises a single eyebrow — just barely — it’s enough to make your heart hiccup.

“What do you think we were doing?” he says, voice low, lazy, and far too innocent.

Max nearly chokes on his drink. Alex lets out a low whistle, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. “I mean... not sleeping, clearly.”

Oscar’s still examining you like you’re part of a science experiment. “The one on your collarbone? That’s serious. Like someone meant that.”

You groan and drag a hand down your face, hoping — foolishly — that maybe they’ll get bored. “It’s nothing. It’s hot. Everyone’s sweaty. Nothing is happening.”

Carlos, ever the half-hearted savior in moments like these, leans in slightly. “You sure you don’t want, like… a jacket or something?”

You squint at him. “Carlos, it’s thirty degrees.”

He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Just offering.”

But Lando — Lando — hasn’t stopped watching you. Not for a second. He’s lounging like a man with a secret and every intention of keeping it. Except you both know that secret isn’t really hidden. Not with the evidence written across your skin like a map of last night’s sins.

His gaze travels — slow, deliberate, unapologetic — over your throat, your collarbone, your bare shoulders. It lingers at the spot just above your chest, where the bruise darkens visibly when the light catches it right. He watches it like it’s something he made.

Because it is.

He hasn't said it. He hasn’t had to.

But you feel it — his pride, quiet and burning. The memory in his eyes. The claim.

And as his gaze settles back on your face, your body reacts before you can stop it — a small shift, a squeeze of your thighs, a breath caught too high in your chest.

Oscar sees.

“Oh my god,” he says with a grin. “Confirmed. She’s ruined. Lando’s ruined her.”

Lando finally smiles — slow, crooked, utterly self-satisfied.

His eyes never leave yours.

And you remember exactly how he made that mark — the way he bit down and sucked, the way his voice rasped your name just before his mouth moved lower, the way his hands pressed you down and pulled you apart in the same breath.

Your cheeks flush hotter.

You shift again, uselessly.

And you don’t have to look at him to know.

He’s remembering it, too.

He’d had you on your back, sprawled across the bed, skin flushed and slick with sweat, thighs trembling from the second orgasm he’d pulled out of you with just his mouth and two fingers.

You were still panting when he moved up your body — slow and predatory — pressing kisses across your stomach, your ribs, your chest. Soft at first. Then rougher. Then something else entirely.

When his mouth found the hollow of your collarbone, he didn’t just kiss. He bit.

A sharp suck, teeth dragging against skin, tongue following after to soothe it — but the sting stayed.

You gasped, hips twitching up into his, and he groaned like he felt it everywhere.

“I want everyone to see it.” he murmured against your throat, breath hot.

His voice was low. Possessive. A little dangerous.

“You’re insane,” you whispered, but your body arched for him, begging.

“No,” he said, pressing another mark beneath your jaw. “I’m obsessed.”

His hand slid down your thigh, fingers gripping tight — tighter — until he squeezed, and you felt the full heat of his palm claim the flesh just above your knee.

You whimpered.

“You want them to see it too,” he added, lifting his head to look at you. “Don’t lie to me.”

His pupils were blown. His curls were damp. He looked like he’d crawl inside you if you let him.

You didn’t answer. You just pulled him down by the back of the neck and kissed him like you needed him more than air.

And he gave it to you.

He rocked into you slow at first — hips grinding down, cock thick and deep, making you feel every inch. His hand stayed clamped on your thigh, holding you open, pushing you wider with every thrust. The pressure made your skin sting, but you didn’t care. You wanted it. You wanted him to take, to mark, to make you his.

“You’re perfect like this,” he groaned into your ear.

His voice made your whole body tighten. Made your thighs shake around him. And when you came again — dizzy, sobbing, completely undone — he didn’t slow down.

He just gripped you harder.

Left a full, perfect imprint on your skin — each finger pressed deep into the curve of your thigh — and chased his own high like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

"Is she okay?"

Alex’s voice slices clean through the low buzz of conversation, loud enough to draw glances but laced with amusement rather than genuine concern. He’s lounging sideways across a bench with his sunglasses perched on his head, one leg swung lazily over the other. His gaze is fixed on you — narrowed, curious, and entirely too smug.

“You look like someone just unplugged your brain.”

You freeze, caught mid-sip of your water bottle. Blink once. Then again. As if that’ll somehow short-circuit the reel of images currently projected across your skull like a cursed cinema. It doesn’t help. They’re burned in — seared hot behind your eyelids. Lando’s breath on your skin. His hand in your hair. Back arched, his voice low and filthy in your ear as he whispered—

Nope. Not going there.

You sit up straighter, clearing your throat, ignoring the way your face feels like it’s literally radiating heat. “I’m fine,” you say, way too fast. Your voice pitches upward like you’ve just been accused of murder. “Just tired. And, y’know... staying hydrated.Super important."

Oscar doesn’t even look up from his phone. He just raises an eyebrow — slow, arched, devastatingly unimpressed — like he’s already clocked exactly what you’re trying to hide and is just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

“Hydrated,” he repeats, with a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t believe a single word coming out of your mouth. “Right. That’s what we’re calling it now.”

Your skin prickles, hot and flushed. You glance to your right, silently begging Lando to say something — anything — that’ll shift the spotlight. He’s seated beside you, one ankle crossed lazily over the opposite knee, sunglasses on, expression unreadable. He hasn’t said much since you sat down. No teasing, no smirking, no subtle digs.

But when he finally speaks, it’s like a grenade tossed casually onto the table.

“It’s not my fault she bruises that easy.”

You choke — violently — on your drink. A full splutter. Water dribbles from the corner of your mouth, and you have to slap a hand over your face to avoid full-on coughing it into your lap.

Around you, chaos erupts.

Oscar doubles over, gasping for air as laughter explodes out of him like a pressure valve. Alex slaps a hand over her mouth like he’s just witnessed a car crash in slow motion. Carlos physically recoils, muttering something in Spanish that sounds vaguely like a prayer.

“Mate,” Oscar wheezes between breathless laughter. “Jesus Christ.”

You’re still coughing, your face now a brilliant shade of red, part heat, part mortification. “Lando,” you hiss through gritted teeth, voice strangled. “Oh my god.”

He doesn’t even flinch. Still lounging, still perfectly at ease, like he didn’t just commit social murder in broad daylight. He tilts his head, and without missing a beat, adds, “Don’t blame me. She said — and I quote — ‘I want to feel it tomorrow.’”

The entire group groans in unison.

Carlos pushes his chair back with both hands like the very air around you has become hazardous. “Okay. No. Nope. I’m leaving. You two need to burn some sage or something.”

Alex fans himself dramatically with her hand. “I need a priest. I need therapy. I need to delete the last ten seconds from my brain.”

Oscar’s practically crying now, swiping at the corners of his eyes. “Honestly? I’m just impressed she can walk.”

You turn to Lando, horrified. “I whispered that,” you snap, eyes wide. “That was supposed to be private.”

For the first time, he turns to look at you — really look at you. And his expression is... infuriating. Smug. With that infuriatingly smug expression that makes you want to throttle him or kiss him — maybe both. Slow-burning. Eyes dragging over your face like he’s still got you in his bed, like the bruises you’re trying to ignore are signatures he left on purpose. That same look from earlier — the one that says you liked it and you’re thinking about it right now and I know because I am, too.

He shrugs. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “And I listened.”

You make a strangled noise and bury your face in your hands. “I hate all of you.”

Carlos is already halfway out of his seat. “I’m genuinely leaving. I can’t be here for this.”

You groan into your hands. “You are the worst.”

Beside you, Lando leans in again — closer this time, so close his voice slides against your neck like a secret, low and unmistakably smug.

“No you don’t.”

And he’s right.

Unfortunately.

Because every time he so much as looks at you like that, your thoughts fall straight back to the heat of his mouth, the press of his hands, the way he’d made you say his name over and over like it was the only word you remembered.

So yeah.

You don’t hate him.

Not even close.

thank you for reading!

likes and reblogs are super appreciated — they help more than you know <3

please don’t repost or copy my work anywhere. if you’d like to reference it, just ask first!

requests always welcome in my inbox 💌

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

* JUST KEEP WATCHING / part 1

pairing: lando norris x y/n fewtrell summary: lando finds out you have an onlyfans and debates whether or not he should subscribe warnings: 🔞minors dni!!!! 18+, mentions of mature content below the cut. nothing explicit though x notes: just hope it's ok :) it's very long and wordy before we even get where he finds out, i'm sorry lol. please let me know what you think and interact with it if you want part 2!!! maybe a pre-singapore meetup or the singapore race weekend? btw she is theo's twin sister

SET IN EARLY AUGUST 2024

It had been months since Lando had actually seen Y/N in person. And whenever they did cross paths, there was always something new or different about her. He never knew what to expect anymore, but it was kind of interesting. A new piercing here, a fresh little tattoo there; one time he and Max nearly walked right past her because she'd dyed her hair blonde and hadn't warned anyone. Y/N's decision to move to London seemed to have been the right one. She just seemed much more confident in herself, having had the opportunity to experiment and explore, to bloom.

But living in the same city as her big brother didn't mean they were in each other's company often. In fact, Max had barely seen her these last few months because if he wasn't him off travelling around the world, then she probably was. Or she was just busy with other plans, other people. Max liked to joke that she'd become too cool for him... but these days, he was actually starting to believe it was true. And Lando had no idea how it happened. How "Baby Fewtrell" wasn't so little anymore, but a fully grown woman. Sometimes he'd catch her stories on Instagram and it felt like he was observing a stranger.

But she'd never be a stranger. She was still his best mate's baby sister; the same girl who had a huge fear of being struck by lightening, that cried when Max surprised her with Harry Styles tickets, that once consumed a Solero smoothie too quickly and almost threw up on Lando's shoes and that definitely thought Carlos Sainz was stupidly sexy, which the lads teased her mercilessly about.

Lando was not known for being punctual. But for once, he was arriving early to a function because Lando knew that if he waited around in his hotel room any longer, he was going to end up falling asleep and turn up late. They'd concocted a plan to surprise Max at his birthday barbecue, acting like Lando couldn't make it to the bash. And technically, Y/N said he could arrive anytime after midday and it was now midday. Max and Pietra (who was in on the surprise) were due to arrive in a few hours, giving everyone plenty of time to be ready.

One could argue that this was a housewarming party too, with Y/N and five of her friends renting a house together to share the burden of rent and stay local in London to their jobs and studies. Their end-terrace in Chelsea was perfect, it had a small but comfortable garden and a self-contained little apartment in the basement which their friend and his partner shared, while the other four were spread over the two upper floors in various sized bedrooms. And although Y/N hadn't managed to snag the biggest room, she'd lucked out the bedroom that was connected to a cute little roof balcony space.

Lando wasn't at all surprised to see the front door was painted some loud colour, and wondered if it was Y/N's idea. She always said one of her favourite things about London was the doorways. He was facing a bright shade of teal, with a ring of coloured flowers hand-painted around the garish brash door knob. He gave it a good knock and made awkward eye contact with the Ring doorbell camera, waiting for a few seconds before pulling out his phone. But just as he was about to hit send on his message to tell Y/N he'd arrived, the door swung upon. Lando found himself greeted by the biggest smile.

Her hair was cut in some sort of shaggy hairstyle that he didn't know the name of (wolfcut) but it really suited her. Lando couldn't tell if her freckles were real or not but those suited her too.

"Oh my god, is that race winner Lando Norris??" she giggled, clearly excited to see him. She hadn't actually congratulated him in person since his Miami win in May. And although the last few races had been difficult (Hungary especially), he was still riding the high of achieving his first Formula 1 win. His mouth immediately expanded into the widest grin, his eyebrows doing a little dance above his interesting eyes. "Come 'ere, you!" Y/N squealed, throwing her arms open and inviting him into a hug.

He couldn't help but notice; her baby tee was so fitted and so light coloured that it was impossible not to see it. Not only was she braless right now, she appeared to have pierced one of her nipples. Lando's eyes did the quickest flash, impossible for her to notice that he'd looked. Right? God, he hoped so. "Hello, BF." he teased, knowing she was most likely rolling her eyes.

As the pair embraced, her hands resting on his back as she pulled away from him mid-hug. "I'm almost 22!" Y/N pouted, bored of this long-running "Baby Fewtrell" joke. She let go of Lando and looked down at her Cherry Kitten t-shirt, frowning slightly. "Shit, sorry. I've got a little bit of jam on my shirt... it's not got on you, has it?" she asked, placing her fingertips to his chest as if to investigate, searching for any stickiness. He glanced down at her nails, peach coloured with colourful little daisy-like flower designs which stood out against his dark green t-shirt so perfectly.

"Oh, it's alright. Can't see it anyway." Lando replied, trying to remain as nonchalant as possible. But he was feeling very chalant right now. Particularly when she turned around and revealed the text on her shirt. On the front was some cute vintage-style illustration of a kitty. On the back it said "my mental health isn't great but my pussy is"

Y/N didn't even realise, she'd just chosen the first shirt she didn't mind getting dirty while working in the kitchen. She liking cooking and loved to bake, and had made a Victoria sponge from scratch to accompany the classic butterfly cakes she'd prepared yesterday. "Right well, come through and I'll introduce you to everyone. I was just finishing the potato salad when you knocked so excuse the mess." Y/N explained she closed the door behind Lando and gestured to a nearby internal door. "Let me give you a quick tour! This is our living room," she began, opening the door and flicking the lights on.

He didn't expect to see a man staring back at him in the mirror that was fixed above the fireplace. So much so that he let out a weird startled noise, voice cracking out of fright. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry! It's... hold on..." Y/N disappeared behind the door only to return with the offender. "Sorry, that's just... Paul?" she explained, so casually as if this wasn't nothing out of the ordinary, holding onto the cardboard head of the life-sized cut-out of Paul Mescal that was currently living behind their living room door. Lando could see a bright pink feather boa appeared to be hanging around his neck. He didn't even know what to say, only that his heart still thumping loudly in his chest. And Y/N could tell that Lando was thoroughly confused by his bewildered expression. "Yeah, sorry. I wish I could explain but it's... he's like our mascot. Anyway it's just Paul, don't panic!" she laughed, leaving Lando even more bewildered than before.

They trapsed through the lounge and into the dining area, which was separated by what appeared to be a double-doorway with no doors. Compared to the dark vibes of the living room, Lando was pleasantly surprised by how open-plan and light the kitchen was with it's conservatory-style extension and roof. The doors were wide open, leading to their small garden area and he could smell the charcoals were already burning. The kitchen wasn't in a mess at all, in Lando's opinion. Music played at a low volume from a bluetooth speaker on the kitchen, almost drowned out by something louder being played outside. She'd been in the zone, in her own little world. A creative bubble of chopping, mixing and various timers set on her phone for the grill and oven. "Do you need a hand with anything?" he asked, slotting his phone back into his back pocket.

Y/N shook her head vigorously, hands resting on her hips. "No, I'm pretty much done now. Thanks though! Just gotta put things away to keep cool and ready to go. You know you're like, really early, right?" she asked, wondering if he'd got mixed up with the time. He travelled to so many different timezones throughout the year and lived an hour ahead of her in Monaco that she wouldn't blame him if he had.

"Oh yeah, I know. Is that alright? If I spent too long sitting down at the hotel, I'd end up taking a nap and you know how that goes." laughed Lando, as he knew Y/N was well aware of his ability to fall asleep anywhere, at any time and in any situation. If Lando Norris needed a nap, Lando Norris would find a bloody way.

Y/N smiled knowingly and gestured to the roof. "If you want to have a kip for an hour or two, I don't mind. I'll wake you before Max gets here."

He'd love to, actually. He was coming off a race weekend and had spent the last day at the MTC for debrief and media duties. He'd been working through emails and taking phone calls about various projects and brand commitments all morning. A nap sounded fabulous right now. But he shook his head and tucked his hand into the pocket of his dark jeans. "Oh, no, I'm good." Lando replied, and watched as Y/N tilted her head ever so slightly.

"Honestly, Lan. You're more than welcome to, no one is going to be here for at least another hour and I've gotta shower and change anyway. Are you sure?"

He didn't want to seem rude to her friends, rude to her as the gracious host and his best mate's little sister who he hadn't seen in so long. But Lando knew that she was genuine, that she wouldn't offer if she knew it would cause a problem. Although he also knew that she'd do the same even if it did upset somebody. He knew she only cared about his wellbeing.

So when he asked, almost timidly, if she was sure no one would mind, Y/N rolled her eyes at him in an overdramatic fashion. "Yeah, course! Christ, no one wants to deal with you in 4 hours when you're grumpy 'cause you're tired. You become a right gremlin." she joked, pointing her index finger at him accusingly before flicking the same finger to the doorway. "Let me just introduce you real quick to the gang and then I'll take you up."

Everyone was congregating in the small yard, which had a patch of fake grass down and a picnic table with a garden parasol that looked suspiciously like it belonged in a pub beer garden. There were several ashtrays dotted around the place and a shelving unit that had been turned into a makeshift bar with a dozen or so bottles of booze, mixers and empty glasses all lined up. Her friends looked like your typical mix of arty London fashion types. She'd once described them on Instagram as her "girls, gays and theys" and he didn't really understand that last bit but he tried not to judge. "Ok so guys... guys!" Y/N barked, interrupting their conversation (or debate) to introduce her guest.

And they all immediately went quiet, eying the newbie in the garden. Which wasn't daunting at all. "This is Lando, Max's friend that I've been telling you about! He's gonna go have a quick nap before Max gets here but I wanted to bring him over first very quickly. So we've got Julian," she began, gesturing to the impossibly handsome and tall sandy blonde guy sat on the picnic table with a Lost Mary in hand. Lando gave him "the nod" and a small, barely audible greeting. "He lives downstairs with his boyfriend Marco. Then we have Peachy," she pointed towards her friend that Lando assumed was the aforementioned "theys" part of the group because he couldn't actually tell if Peachy was a him or a her but Max had pre-warned him not to ask. Max also mentioned that he knew Peachy's real name was Olivia Peach, if that helped. Which it didn't... but as advised, Lando wasn't going to ask. "And I think you've met Zia and Keeks?" Y/N referring to the set of girls sitting on outdoor beanbags on the ground, gazing up a him behind sunglasses.

Both greeted him with a synchronised "hi" and he smiled down at the pair before acknowledging that he remembered meeting them, albeit very briefly, on some night out last year. He remembered one of them definitely got very drunk and expressed a great interest in putting her tongue down his throat. But he wasn't sure if which one of them it was and he sure as fuck hoped that no one remembered it. Y/N knew that with all the attention on him, Lando would be feeling awkward and shy which is why she made it brief.

A chorus of nice to meet yous and see you laters could be heard as they re-entered the kitchen, with Y/N guiding him from behind towards the hallway. "Come on, I'll just grab my stuff and set you up in my room. Follow me." she said, overtaking him to trudge the first set of stairs. "Be glad I'm on the first floor!" she huffed, as she glanced towards a second set of stairs. "This is my lil room, I actually cleaned it yesterday so you're welcome." cooed the brunette, entering the room first and quickly hooking her finger through the strap of the bra hanging from the back of her computer chair, holding it behind her back as if it was a dirty secret. "The sheets aren't clean on though, sorry. I can change them if you want?" she blurted out, realising that Lando was very used to crisp white hotel linens and not her Ikea ditsy floral set, however cute and whimsical they were.

But he adamantly shook his head, holding up his hand. She always did this, starting fretting about little details and thinking something wasn't right or adequate. "Nah, don't be silly. It's only for an hour. This is fine, thanks Y/N." Lando said softly, and Y/N knew he was being genuine when he used her name like that.

She nodded her head and glanced around for a few items that she needed to get dressed and do her hair. "I'll go upstairs to shower so if you need the toilet, the bathroom is the door with the laundry basket outside. Ok?" And when she was satisfied that he was ok, Y/N left him to snooze in her sanctuary, hoping that she'd moved anything embarrassing or potentially incriminating well out of sight.

Because as suspected, Lando couldn't help but have a little look around, as if he was trying to get to know a bit more about this version of her. She had quite the array of Instax mini Polaroids on the wall, framed by toadstool string lights and other delightful little embellishments. It seemed like she had a thriving social life, judging by photos and the sheer amount of old wristbands in the glass bowl on her shelving unit. It made Lando smile. He always thought of her as that shy little 12 year old who was obsessed with saving caterpillars from being squished. This particular caterpillar had evolved into such an interesting butterfly.

On top of the shabby chic white chest of drawers were so many trinkets, a collection of bits and bobs that she'd collected over the years that obviously meant something to her or just looked cute. There was an interesting amount of candles in various shapes, sizes and colours, that had yet to be lit. Did she collect them? There were at least two that were the shape of a women's body. And, when he peered towards the back, he realised one of them was shaped like a cock and it was set in front of a really small red notebook with "A Tiny Sex Diary" written in gold lettering on the front. Huh.

The computer desk was fitted with a fairly decent camera and lighting setup, and it had Lando pondering if she was into streaming or something. He couldn't actually recall what she was doing at university, he just knew it was fashion related. But he couldn't remember the specifics, and he wondered if maybe she was doing content creation. Her Instagram was certainly well-curated, plenty of dumps with well-taken shots and she liked to showcase her style. Maybe he'd delve into it later with her, ask for an update on what she's doing these days. She worked part-time at Urban Outfitters, last time he checked. And this was confirmed by the staff lanyard he'd just noticed was hanging on the left knob of the top drawer. Lando almost missed it, too consumed by the sight of pastel purple coloured lace underwear peeking said top drawer, which was stopping it from closing fully.

The man puffed his cheeks up and turned away, forcing his feet out of his trainers without untying the laces and sitting down on the bed. He really had to stop falling into that place in his mind, allowing himself to think about her in ways that were disrespectful to her or to Max. He wasn't even sure when it started happening, it just crept in so slowly that he didn't notice it at first. All of a sudden, she was there and she was different. But nothing was different between them, their dynamic hadn't changed at all. They really didn't spend a lot of time around each other anymore and only interacted in messages and on social media.

It was social media's fault, he had decided. Catching all these glimpses of her life over the last few years and witnessing her transition into adulthood through Instagram stories set for close friends only and her silly little drunken Snapchats. Maybe that's why it felt weird. Because Max still thought of her as a teenager and so they all referred to her as such. She was still Baby Fewtrell to their friendship group, but she wasn't a baby anymore. And he can't have been the only one who noticed, yet none of their friends mentioned it.

The pillow smelled so heavily of her, all perfume and shampoo. It reminded him of sweeties, like Parma Violets. He was on his side with his arm tucked under it and it didn't take him long to fall asleep. It didn't feel like he'd been out for long when he felt the weight of someone's hand on his chest. One eye peeped openly lazily, reacting to the sound of someone softly repeating his name. "Ayy, there he is..." he heard a familiar feminine voice say, and opened his eyes fully this time to see Y/N's face smiling down at him. "Fuck me, this is like trying to raise the dead." Y/N giggled, one knee and her other hand pressed into the mattress next to him, as if she was crawling onto the bed. And that made his sleepy brain short-circuit for a millisecond, glimpsing down at the way her thigh was dangerously on show through the slit in her animal print satin skirt. "You need to get up, mate. The birthday boy is on his way!" Y/N told him, getting off the bed and turning to look at herself in the mirror on her dresser, satisfied with her effort.

He sat up, forcing the heels of his hand into his eyes to give them a rub. "Sorry, I was knackered." Lando said, voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat and looked at Y/N, who turned to look at him.

"I know, that's why I left you for a bit." she replied and Lando scrunched his eyes before forcing them open in a wide stare.

She watched as Lando did his best to force himself to wake up properly. "What time is it?" he asked, concerned that Max was already on his way and he was still in bed.

"Almost 2:30..." was her reply, to which he groaned loudly and swung his legs off the bed and on the floor, reaching down for his shoes.

Lando furrowed his brow. "Why didn't you wake me?" he whined, huffing as he fiddled with the laces that he'd left knotted.

"Because, I knew you needed it." Y/N told him in the same stubborn matter-of-fact tone that Max used when he did something for Lando's own good. "Besides, you don't have to come down as soon as he arrives. He's due in about 15 minutes and you can take another 10 to wake up. God, look at the state-" she started to laugh, reaching out to try and tame the way his hair was stuck up. Lando swallowed hard, ignoring the way her hands in his curls made his tummy feel funny. "Maybe use those 10 minutes to sort whatever is going on with your barnet." She playfully pushed his head to the side and he smirked, watching as she moved away and towards the door. "But for real: t-minus 15 mins according to P's text."

When Lando realised how low his battery was, he left his phone on Y/N's beside table to give his phone a quick charge and made his way to the bathroom to finger-brush his hair and use a bit of water to control the coils if necessary. He trudged back to Y/N's bedroom to wait for his mate's arrival and busied himself on his phone, glad that Y/N had one of those cables with multiple chargers attached. The music downstairs was playing a little louder now and he was fairly sure he could hear the familiar voices of Tom and Connor chatting with Y/N. He assumed their girlfriends were also in attendance, to keep Pietra company more than anything.

Soon he heard Max enter the house, heard the group greet him with a variety of different happy birthday wishes before moving towards the back of the house. Y/N's bedroom had very small roof patio, which partially overlooked the garden. He leaned to look through the door which lead to it, unable to see over the fence. Lando wondered when he was supposed to make his entrance, if he was meant to sit here and wait for Y/N to come and get him. He chewed on the skin next to his thumbnail, anxiously scrolling on his phone when there was a knock on the door. Lando froze for a moment, only relaxing when a familiar choppy hairstyle swung around the door. "Just making sure you've not gone back to sleep. You can come down now if you want!" she whispered excitedly, proud of the way she'd pulled this off for Max.

It couldn't be easy, not seeing your best mate very much throughout the year unless you were jetting off to a race weekend (where you still wouldn't get to see him) or some all-expensed paid holiday for a few days when he had the downtime. It certainly had to suck that you couldn't spend important days together very often, like birthdays. So Y/N did her best to make sure the stars aligned for this one. She knew he'd be in the country after his race weekend debrief and she didn't have to beg Lando to show up for Max because even if he had a tight schedule, he'd have made the time anyway. Thankfully, Lando had some time off before the Dutch race but they lied to Max, saying that McLaren had him working on something for one of their sponsors.

Max was in the garden, already holding a glass of something and coke with his back to the kitchen. Lando knew that P would have her phone out ready but secretly he hoped she wouldn't, because not everything needed to be filmed. Y/N stood in the doorway, using the back door's step to her advantage, still having to get on her tippy toes (which wasn't easy to do in chunky Doc Marten sandals), throwing her arms around her brother's shoulders to cover his eyes with her manicured fingers. "I almost forgot, I've got something for you..." she said quietly, feeling Max lean slightly to put his glass down on the nearby table.

"Oh God, what else have you bought?" Max asked, flustered and slightly paranoid he was about to be embarrassed by some gag gift in front of his mates. She had already gifted him a nice pair of trainers in a style he liked, and he thought that was it. He didn't like Y/N spending her money on him, not when she was a student and always arranging her little Euro trips; she was probably perpetually broke. And he was so thankful for the spread she'd put on, he knew she was trying to impress him, trying to prove that she was a grown up now too.

"Relax, it's nothing scary." Y/N reassured her brother, who was now doing some sort of awkward lean back to accommodate her shorter height.

When she let go and placed her hands on his shoulders, it didn't register immediately that the hands were bigger, heavier. He opened his eyes and expected there to be something in front of him. He was looking at the faces smiling back at him, confused as hell. "Happy birthday, you muppet." Lando grinned, and Max whipped his head around so fast that his neck made a quiet crack.

"Fucking hell, mate!" Max yelped, clearly startled. Lando cackled and Y/N beamed, hands clasped together and tucked into her chest. Lando was considered family in their household, and the bond he had with her brother made her heart so full. She watched as the boys embraced, before Max was pushing Lando and ranting about the little fibs he'd been fed over the last few weeks and days. Y/N asked him more than once if he really had no idea, if there wasn't an inkling that maybe they were up to something and Max confirmed each time that he really thought Lando was busy shooting for yet another advertising campaign.

Music bumped in the background as conversations flowed easily, as food was eaten and as glasses were emptied, with the group singing Happy Birthday to an bashful Max before he blew out the colourful candles on his cake. "Can't believe you made this yourself, for me." Max said quietly to her, one arm around Y/N's shoulders and giving her a squeeze while she was removing the candles. "You know you didn't have to do all this." he added, leaning to give her a quick kiss on top of her head. She smiled, the kind that caused her eyes to crinkle because the apples of her cheeks were being pushed so high. She knew he wasn't only referring to the food or for hosting the gathering.

"But I wanted to. I mean, it's not every day that you're second favourite brother turns 25." Y/N joked, as Max rolled his eyes at her.

"Theo isn't even here, you could at least make me the favourite this one time!" he protested and Y/N cackled.

"What is Sam, chopped liver?"

The pair laughed and Max gave her shoulder another squeeze as she cut two pieces of cake for him and P before dishing out more pieces onto a collection of mismatched small plates for people to take. As Lando stood next to her, Y/N attempted to unlock her phone while avoiding getting cake residue on the screen, presenting it to Lando with a mix of jam, cream and crumbs of sponge on her fingertips. "Can you hold this for a sec?" she asked, and Lando obliged, looking away as Y/N used her knuckle to type her PIN. "Will you find something?" she asked, referring to the Spotify app open on her phone. They'd turned the music off while they sang to Max and now they needed the tunes back on while she handed out plates.

"Yeah, yeah, let's have a look..." Lando replied, tongue resting in the corner of his lips as he browsed the playlists she had, some of which weren't even saved under actual titled. She had so many that were just named with a few letters or the default Playlist #5. What a mess, how could she find anything? He'd hate to see what her Liked Songs looked like. Scrolling through the playlist that they'd been listening to already, he saw something by Wilkinson and selected it and was about to see if the Smart Shuffle was on because it should be, when an Instagram message notification popped up.

He was attempting to swipe it away but ended up clicking on it by mistake. Shit. He couldn't help but clock the last message sent, his light eyes widening at the sight. Lando planned to exit the message before he could read anything, not wanting to invade Y/N's privacy. But he didn't know how to use her fucking phone; so instead of leaving the app, it just went back to her inbox which was full of unread messages. It didn't escape his notice that this definitely wasn't the Instagram account he knew of and followed. The profile picture she had was very different and the username was one that Lando didn't recognise at all.

What felt like an eternity, was really it was only 15 seconds of fumbling to figure out how to exit the app entirely. Lando set the phone down on the dining table as if holding it burned him and left the scene of the crime as quickly as possible. While he stood nearby Max and their friends, trying to look as though he as definitely paying attention to the conversation, his thoughts were elsewhere. His brain felt like it was going at warped speed, overthinking every little thing he'd just seen. Why did she have a secret Instagram that he didn't follow (when she followed his finsta) and more importantly, why she had she sent a link that looked suspiciously... familiar?

It had been so big and bold in her message, too obnoxiously obvious to ignore. And now he was obsessing over it. He had to be mistaken. Surely it was just something very similar. Because why the fuck would Y/N be sending someone an OnlyFans links on a secret Instagram? What on earth was going on right now? Had he fallen into an alternate dimension? Was this the Upside Down? Had he hit his head and this was all an elaborate hallucination? Was he having a fucking stroke?

Seeing Y/N in the corner of his eye made him stiffen. He dared not look in her direction, paranoid that she could read his thoughts, scared that she'd figured out what he'd seen. He mumbled something about going to the bathroom and dipped back into the house. "You alright, mate?" Someone asked as Lando made a beeline past them for the hallway and he tried not to stammer in his response.

"Yeah, mate yeah. Just dying for a piss." Lando replied, a little too quickly, before he legged up the staircase and into the sanctuary of the first floor bathroom. Locking the door behind him, Lando perched himself on the edge of the tub and whipped his own phone out. It had to be a misunderstanding. There had to be a logical, reasonable explanation for this. It couldn't possibly be what it seemed like. He was desperately trying to remember the format of the username from the inbox. There was some full stops involved and he was currently searching variations of what he recalled until he saw it - the same profile picture. It was the red and white gingham off-the-shoulder bikini top with white frills, like something you'd expect Sabrina Carpenter to wear and while you couldn't see her face as she lay on the bed, he recognised the background as the bedroom he'd been in earlier. Her small tattoos was visible too, but the thing that was really on show was her pert bum.

Lando's hammering heart had gone well past his stomach and was currently in arse.

The fizzy cocktail-from-a-can mix that he'd forced down his throat 5 minutes ago was threatening to come back up. He was scared to scroll, scared to move his thumb on the screen in case he accidentally interacted with something and revealed his presence. So he just sat there, staring at the screen below him, mouth ajar as he documented every little thing. The pepper and flame emojis next to a linktree url, the selection of Instagram-friendly reels and photos posted. And the alias she appeared to be using was "Bambi" and that alone sent a shiver ricocheting up his spine. Wasn't that something they jokingly called her, after ice skating at the Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park? Y/N could barely keep upright anytime they tried to skate towards the middle of the rink and so she refused to move away from the wall, irrationally terrified of "slicing off her fingers" if she fell.

Knowing it was pissing her off, they teased her for weeks afterwards. Lando even updated her name on WhatsApp to include a deer emoji and they'd occasionally drop a Disney's Bambi gif in their group chat just to annoy her.

He felt sick.

And not because Lando judged her for it or because he was disappointed. How could he, when he'd subscribed to various OF models in the past? He probably still had some subscriptions ongoing that he'd forgotten to cancel. No, Lando felt sick because his immediate reaction hadn't been disgust or disappointment and it hadn't been discomfort, like perhaps it should have been. It had been intrigue. It had had been curiosity.

It had been arousal.

And now he couldn't stop thinking about it. Not when he returned the party downstairs, not when he helped Y/N's housemates clean up empty bottles and cans into bags for recycling and not when he hugged Y/N goodbye and thanked her for having him at her home. Not when he sat in the back of the taxi, nor when he returned to his hotel room. Not even later, in the shower, could he get Y/N and her spicy link out of his head. It wouldn't be the first time that he'd rubbed one out to the thought of her, and he was realising quite quickly that it wasn't going to the last time either. Regardless of how guilty he felt about doing it, how dirty and dishonest it made him feel. It didn't stop him from having a quick wank in the luxury bathroom of the luxury hotel, before climbing into the luxury bed. If only he could get some luxury fucking sleep.

It would be disrespectful to check it out, Lando knew that. Disrespectful to Y/N, to Max, to Theo. To the whole family, really. He knew their grandma, for fuck's sake. He'd stayed at their house and eaten at their dinner table. Lando was a part of the family. And yet, here he was at 11pm, contemplating the ethical implications of checking out his best mate's little sister's Only Fans page. He absolutely hated himself right now for even considering it. But Lando knew that he couldn't let it go until he'd scoped it out, even briefly. He wasn't going to subscribe. No way. That would be beyond messed up, a truly unforgivable act. But a little peak couldn't hurt. Just to sate his sick sense of curiosity.

He regretted it immediately.

It was real. It was actually not a sick joke being played on him. Baby Fewtrell really had an OnlyFans account, with a list of what she offered, with a profile picture that knocked his socks off, with over 2 thousand likes logged. Lando had no idea about what he was supposed to do with this information. How was he supposed to be proceed? Did he tell Y/N that he knew? Did he tell Max about it?

Fuck. That.

He knew what he shouldn't do. The fact that he even considered it made him feel so guilty, so that was a good sign, right? Lando closed the tab before he could talk himself into subscribing and lay his phone down on the bed beside him. This was so surreal. Earlier they had talked about her plan to come and watch him race in Singapore as a birthday treat to herself, and he had already sent off requests for paddock passes so that she and her friend could accompany Max. He point blank refused to hear her argument, wanting her to enjoy the full experience as his guests instead of the GA tickets the girls had intended to use for the Sunday only.

How was he supposed to just pretend he didn't know, and look her in the face in a few weeks time? Act like he wasn't wondering about the webcam setup that he saw in her bedroom earlier. About the bed that he'd slept in today; was that the backdrop for her content? Did she work alone? Did she collab with other creators? Did someone film for her? Did her housemates know? Did they do online sex work too? It that why they could afford that fucking house? Was it actually an OnlyFans pad? Those Polaroids of Y/N kissing all her friends. Did she make content with other girls? Where was the safest place to masturbate in a 5 star hotel room?

He was exhausted just thinking. Lando didn't want to think about anything anymore, he just wanted to go to sleep and have very bland, ordinary, unseasoned dreams about cars or puppies. Absolutely no steamy, sensual nudie rudie thoughts about someone he'd known for almost 12 years which was more than half of her whole bloody life. Hand reluctantly sneaking under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, thumb hovering dangerously close to that subscribe button. He paused briefly at the sound of a text and nearly knocked himself out with how fast his hand moved out of those boxers at the sight of her name. Lando's heart skipped several beats. It was like she knew. He swallowed thickly, unlocking his phone and reading the message quickly.

y/n: thanks for coming today, it all went just how i pictured it 🥹 y/n: and it was so great to see you!! 🥰 hopefully see you again some time before singapore? but if not, can't wait to come and see you race in september x

He'd send her passes to every race if Y/N wanted them. Hell, he'd invited her on holiday with him this week if he thought Y/N would say yes. He'd probably invite her over to his hotel room right now if that wasn't the most absurd thing in the world.

You know, if she wasn't Y/N fucking Fewtrell.

[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

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[keepyoureyesonmeboy]

He really is 😈 irl

But also god damn, he looks so beautiful.