kiyawritesforf1

[kiyawritesforf1]

PADDOCK PROPOSAL - LANDO’S POV

Much appreciated imagine with Lando’s POV

Carlos POV here

⸻

Lando’s not saying he trained his son for this exact moment… but he is saying the kid’s clearly inherited his taste in women and his sense of drama.

It starts off as just another sunny afternoon in the paddock, mechanics humming around, chatter buzzing through the garages, and somewhere in the chaos, his three-year-old tornado of a son is off playing with Carlos’s daughter again.

No surprise there — those two have been inseparable since they were old enough to waddle. Today, though? Today is special. Because his son, his legend of a three-year-old, just took a plastic diamond ring from the hotel jewelry box and gave it to Isabella Sainz.

Lando sees it from across the paddock — her tiny hands waving the ring in the air, curly hair bouncing as she runs toward her parents.

“Mamá, mamá! Look what Theo gave me! We’re getting married!”

Lando chokes on his water.

Carlos turns like he’s just been told Ferrari’s making him team principal — slow, stiff, and with a face already halfway between confusion and cardiac arrest.

Lando sets his bottle down and folds his arms, biting back the smug grin crawling onto his face. His wife leans in slightly beside him.

“Is that… the fake ring from my nightstand?”

“Yup,” he says proudly. “That’s the one. He nicked it this morning while I was brushing his hair. Slipped it in his pocket like a pro.”

Carlos is spiraling now — trying to make sense of the toddler-sized proposal, pointing at the ring, mumbling to Y/N, and glancing around like someone’s about to jump out and tell him it’s all a prank.

It is not a prank. It is, in fact, the best thing Lando’s ever witnessed.

“God, I hope there’s a photographer around,” Lando murmurs, already pulling his phone out just in case.

From a few feet away, Isabella’s still twirling, flashing the plastic ring on her tiny finger like she just left a Tiffany’s. And Theo? Theo is standing there with his hands on his hips, chest puffed out, beaming like he just sealed a contract with Mercedes.

Lando’s heart practically melts.

“That’s my boy,” he whispers. “Look at him. Cool. Confident. Committed. Kid’s three and already got a future wife lined up.”

His wife’s trying not to laugh. “Carlos looks like he’s going to pass out.”

“He’ll survive,” Lando grins. “Barely.”

He strolls over casually, just in time to hear Isabella say it again — louder this time, to Carlos’s face.

“Look, Papa! Theo gave me this ring! I’m his girlfriend now!”

Carlos’s expression is priceless. A mix of horror and denial with a generous splash of dramatic suffering. The man looks like he’s been hit with a rogue tire.

Lando can’t help himself.

“Well, well, well. Looks like we’ve got a wedding in the works,” he says, all innocent-like, arms folded as he takes in the chaos.

Carlos whips his head toward him, eyes wide. “A wedding? Lando, are you kidding me?”

He shrugs. “She said yes. What am I supposed to do — stop true love? I raised a respectful, romantic king.”

“You raised a menace,” Carlos snaps.

“Tomato, tomahto.”

He steps closer to Theo and ruffles his curls. “Proud of you, bud. You picked an amazing girl. Smart choice.”

Carlos looks ready to throw him into the McLaren hospitality fridge. “She’s three, Lando!”

“So is he. They’re perfectly matched.”

Carlos lets out a slow, dramatic breath through his nose. “This is your fault.”

Lando raises a brow. “Oh? And how’s that?”

“You bring him to the paddock. You let him run wild. You’re letting him propose to my daughter!”

Lando turns to Theo. “Did you ask her nicely, mate?”

Theo nods. “I said ‘you’re the prettiest girl ever, wanna be my wife?’”

Lando puts a hand on his heart. “Iconic.”

Carlos is spiraling again. “She’s calling him her boyfriend now! You’re not taking this seriously!”

“Oh, I’m taking it very seriously,” Lando says, all mock-gravitas. “I’m already picturing the guest list. Zak can officiate. Max can drive them to the reception in the RB20.”

Carlos groans.

Lando grins wider. “And obviously, Isabella will walk down the paddock with a bouquet made of tire warmers.”

“You think this is funny?” Carlos mutters, eyes closed in defeat.

“I think it’s beautiful. Childhood sweethearts. Paddock royalty. You should be honored, mate. They’re going to have fast kids.”

Carlos pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need a drink.”

Lando claps a hand on his shoulder, smirking. “Make it a double. It’s going to be a long engagement.”

He glances back at Theo and Isabella — now holding hands again, giggling like they’ve just conquered the world. And yeah, sure, it’s probably not legally binding or whatever, but Lando doesn’t care.

Because in this moment? He’s never been prouder.

His son is in love, Carlos is unraveling, and the paddock has never been more entertaining.

Best race weekend ever.

⸻

End.

[kiyawritesforf1]

THE FAN-FICTION SAGA

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

It started innocently enough. Max had never been the type to pry too much into Y/N’s hobbies. She was always so effortless and easygoing, a balance of sweet and sassy, with a warmth that made him feel at ease. But as their relationship deepened, Max started noticing something peculiar: Y/N spent an unusual amount of time reading on her phone—almost obsessively, as if there was some hidden world he wasn’t a part of.

At first, Max didn’t think much of it. She was a reader, and he’d always admired how much she loved books. But it wasn’t long before he realized that the content of her reading material wasn’t exactly what he expected. It wasn’t literature in the traditional sense—there were no classic novels or even contemporary thrillers. No, what caught his eye was the number of tabs open on her phone, filled with websites he'd never heard of, and a very specific genre: **fanfiction.**

Now, Max was no stranger to fandoms—he'd heard stories from his friends about the deep, sometimes obsessive nature of fan communities. But he had never actually met someone who was so deeply immersed in it. His curiosity got the best of him, and one lazy Sunday afternoon, he finally decided to ask.

They were lounging on the couch, sipping on coffee, the soft hum of their playlist playing in the background. Y/N had her phone in her hand, her eyes glued to the screen, a wide grin spreading across her face as she scrolled through yet another chapter of something that seemed to hold her attention more than anything else in the room.

“Y/N…” Max began, leaning over the armrest and trying to get a peek at her phone. “What exactly are you reading?”

She glanced up, her face lighting up with a mischievous spark. “Oh, just a little something.”

Max raised an eyebrow, feeling a little more intrigued than he probably should. “A little something, huh? This has been going on for weeks now. What is it? Some kind of secret novel?”

Y/N giggled, her eyes flickering back to the screen. “No, not a novel. It’s… fanfiction.”

“Fanfiction?” Max repeated, unable to suppress the confusion in his voice. “As in, like, those stories people write about their favorite TV shows or movies?”

Y/N nodded enthusiastically. “Yep! It’s amazing! You’d be surprised at how much better some of these stories are than actual TV shows.”

Max blinked, trying to process this new information. “Wait, you’re telling me you’ve been reading stories written by fans? Like… not even official writers? That’s what you’ve been so hooked on?”

Y/N shrugged, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “What can I say? They’re creative. They’re fun. Plus, there’s a certain magic to them, you know?”

Max let out a small chuckle, his mind whirring. This was definitely not what he had expected when he asked Y/N about her hobbies. “Okay, but… what’s the appeal? I mean, I get the whole escapism thing, but isn’t it kind of… well, weird?”

Y/N shot him a teasing glance, her eyes dancing with amusement. “You’re just not *getting* it. It’s not about weirdness, Max. It’s about creativity, passion, and sometimes—just sometimes—a little bit of *delusion.*”

Max blinked at the word. “Delusion?”

She nodded, her grin widening. “Yeah, like the delusional shipping, the alternate universes where the characters do things they *never* would, and the wild romantic scenarios that leave you questioning your entire life. It’s fun! It’s… it’s just the world I get to immerse myself in, you know?”

Max couldn’t help but laugh. This was not the woman he thought he knew. “So, basically, you’re living in your own fanfiction world?”

“Exactly,” she said, looking back down at her phone. “And you’re part of it.”

“Wait, *I’m* part of it?” Max asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “How?”

Y/N didn’t answer immediately. She just kept scrolling, her fingers tapping quickly across the screen. Then, she looked up at him, her eyes twinkling. “I’m reading a fic about this hot, mysterious guy who’s really into racing. I’m just saying, you might fit the role quite well.”

Max blinked, a deep blush creeping up his neck. “Wait, hold on. You’re reading fanfiction about me?” he asked incredulously.

Y/N shrugged again, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. “Maybe. Maybe not. You’ll never know.”

Max let out an exaggerated sigh, though part of him was secretly flattered. “This is… so weird. I had no idea this was such a big part of your life. I’m dating a *delusional* girl, huh?”

Y/N laughed, her voice sweet and light. “Normal girl, Max. Just a normal girl living her best delusional life. You should try it sometime.”

As Max tried to process this new layer to Y/N, he couldn’t help but feel more drawn to her. The way she embraced her passions, her quirks, without any shame or hesitation. It was charming in its own way, and honestly, kind of adorable.

But then, of course, Daniel—Max’s teammate and longtime friend—decided to pop into the conversation, his timing impeccable as always.

“Hey, I’m back from the track. What’s going on here?” Daniel asked, dropping his bag by the door and heading toward the kitchen.

Y/N grinned, clearly sensing an opportunity to tease Max. “Oh, just explaining to Max how *normal* I am. You know, reading fanfiction, living in my own little world, shipping people who don’t even exist.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow as he grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. “Fanfiction, huh? You really have him hooked on that, don’t you?”

Max, looking thoroughly exasperated, turned to Daniel. “Apparently, I’m part of some *delusional* shipping universe now. I had no idea what I was getting into.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh. “See, Daniel gets it! You’re just not ready for the wonderful world of *delulu* yet.”

Max groaned dramatically. “I feel like I need a crash course or something. This is all way too much for me.”

Daniel chuckled, sitting down next to Max. “So, wait, you’re telling me you’ve been reading *fanfiction* about Max?”

Y/N’s eyes twinkled. “Maybe I’ve written a few stories here and there.”

Max turned to her, raising both eyebrows. “You’ve written fanfiction about me?”

“Maybe,” she said, her voice dropping to a mock whisper. “You’ll never know. My writing skills are top secret.”

Max shook his head in disbelief, though part of him was secretly intrigued. “I never knew dating a girl could be this complicated.”

Y/N leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “But that’s the fun of it, Max. Every day is an adventure. Who knows what you'll find next?”

As if on cue, Daniel raised his bottle in mock salute. “Here’s to being part of the delusional world. I think I’ll stay out of it, though. But, you know, if you ever want to introduce me to any of your *fanfic* buddies, I’d be happy to take a look.”

Max laughed, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I’m ready to dive that deep into the madness.”

Y/N shot him a knowing look. “You’d be surprised, Max. Sometimes the madness is exactly what makes everything fun.”

As the night wore on, the three of them continued to laugh and chat, Max becoming more and more fascinated by Y/N’s love for fanfiction and her playful, quirky nature. Despite the absurdity of it all, there was something endearing about her willingness to embrace the weird, the wonderful, and the *delulu*.

Max realized that maybe, just maybe, he had been underestimating the complexity of his feelings for her. She wasn’t just the girl he thought he knew—she was layers upon layers of passion, quirks, and humor. And he couldn’t help but fall for her even more.

As they all settled down for the night, Max looked at Y/N with a soft smile. “You know, I might just start reading some fanfiction myself. But only if I can be the ‘mysterious racer guy’ in your stories.”

Y/N grinned, her eyes lighting up. “Deal. But no promises about how romantic it gets.”

Max leaned in close, his voice low and teasing. “I’m counting on it.”

END

[kiyawritesforf1]

TINKLING TEMPTATIONS

Pairing: Lando Norris x Indian!Reader

Words: 4k

1. The Nose Ring That Started It All

Monaco’s McLaren Technology Centre buzzed with pre-season prep, engineers darting between laptops and car parts. Lando Norris, fresh from a sim session, was meant to be focusing on telemetry data, but his eyes were elsewhere—on Y/n, the new PR manager, briefing the media team across the room. She was a vision: tailored blazer, high-waisted trousers, hair in a sleek ponytail, and a tiny silver nose ring with a diamond stud that caught the fluorescent lights like a flirtatious wink.

Lando’s coffee cup froze halfway to his mouth. He’d seen nose rings before, sure, but on her? It was… different. A nod to her Punjabi roots, subtle but bold, sitting perfectly on her flawless skin. His brain short-circuited, imagining her picking it out in some vibrant Delhi market, her laugh echoing as she tried it on. Bloody hell, Norris, focus.

“You alright, mate?” Oscar Piastri, his teammate, nudged him, smirking. “You’re staring like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Lando snapped out of it, cheeks pink. “I’m not staring,” he mumbled, spilling coffee on his hoodie. “Just… her nose ring. It’s… shiny.”

Oscar snorted. “Shiny? Mate, you’re gone. That’s Y/n, the PR wizard. Good luck—she’s way out of your league.”

Lando groaned, wiping the spill, but his eyes drifted back to Y/n. She caught his gaze, raising an eyebrow, the stud glinting again. “Lando, you need something?” she called, her voice teasing but professional.

“Uh, no! Just… nice… ring!” he stammered, face flaming as the media team chuckled. Y/n’s lips twitched, amused, and Lando sank into his chair, muttering, “Kill me now.” Oscar clapped his back, laughing, but Lando was already planning how to accidentally-on-purpose bump into her later.

2. The Spicy Lunch Surprise

The Bahrain Grand Prix was a scorcher, and the McLaren garage was a sweaty hive of activity. Lando, between practice sessions, was starving, his stomach growling louder than the V6 engines. Y/n was at her usual post, managing press queries with cool efficiency, her sundress a bright contrast to the grease-stained chaos. She’d been with the team a few months now, and Lando’s crush had only worsened—especially since he’d overheard her joking in Punjabi on a call, her voice melodic, confident, hot.

He was rummaging through the catering table—same old sandwiches—when Y/n walked over, a Tupperware in hand. “Hungry, Norris?” she asked, popping the lid to reveal a steaming pile of chana masala, the spicy chickpea dish wafting cumin and chili.

Lando’s mouth watered, but not just for food. She was eating this herself, a little piece of home in the desert, and the casual way she offered him some—like it was nothing—made his heart skip. “Is that… Indian?” he asked, voice a pitch too high.

“Yup,” she said, handing him a spoon. “Punjabi soul food. Careful, it’s got a kick.”

He took a bite, and whoa. The flavors exploded—tangy, spicy, warm—and he grinned, eyes wide. “This is unreal,” he said, then, without thinking, “You’re unreal. Like, how do you just… make this? And look like that?”

Y/n blinked, caught off guard, then laughed, a sound that hit him harder than the chili. “Easy, tiger. It’s just chickpeas, not a love potion.”

His face burned, spoon halfway to his mouth. “I didn’t mean—well, I did, but—” He stopped, noticing Daniel Ricciardo nearby, eavesdropping with a grin.

“Go on, Norris, dig that hole deeper,” Daniel called, winking at Y/n, who smirked and handed him a spoonful too. Lando watched, jealous of the spoon, muttering, “Mate, get your own.” Y/n’s eyes sparkled, oblivious to his inner meltdown, and Lando swore he’d learn to cook chana masala if it meant eating with her again.

3. The Bangle Blunder

Silverstone was home turf, and Lando’s family joined him for the weekend, turning the McLaren hospitality suite into a Norris family reunion. His mum, Cisca, was fussing over his hydration, while his dad, Adam, and siblings, Flo and Oliver, teased him about his P4 qualifying. Y/n was in her element, managing media chaos with a clipboard and a smile, her floral skirt and blouse combo hugging her curves in a way that made Lando’s focus slip.

Then he heard it—a soft jingle, like tiny bells. Y/n was wearing bangles, a stack of thin silver ones on her wrist, a nod to her Punjabi heritage that clinked as she gestured, explaining something to a journalist. The sound was hypnotic, tying her modern vibe to something timeless, and Lando was gone, imagining her dancing at some vibrant Indian wedding, bangles flashing.

“Lando, you’re up for interviews,” she said, walking over, the bangles jingling louder. He stared, mouth dry, brain stuck on jingle-jingle-hot.

“Uh… yeah, cool,” he managed, tripping over a chair as he stood, earning a laugh from Flo. “Your… bracelets. They’re… loud.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow, shaking her wrist to make them clink more. “Loud? You mean musical. It’s a Punjabi thing—keeps the vibes festive.”

“They’re… really festive,” he said, cheeks pink, scratching his neck. “Like, distracting. In a good way.”

Cisca, watching, whispered to Adam, “He’s smitten,” and Adam chuckled, nodding. Y/n tilted her head, amused but clueless, and said, “Focus, Norris. You’ve got Sky Sports in five.” She walked off, bangles singing, and Lando groaned, muttering, “I’m doomed.”

Carlos Sainz, grabbing a coffee nearby, smirked. “Mate, just ask her out. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Shut it,” Lando hissed, but he was already daydreaming about those bangles, wondering how they’d sound if he held her hand.

4. The Holi Havoc

McLaren hosted a pre-season team-bonding event in Monaco, and Y/n, ever the creative PR genius, suggested a Holi-inspired party—color powders, water balloons, and music to celebrate her culture’s festival of spring. The paddock was transformed into a rainbow riot, drivers and staff laughing, covered in pinks and blues. Y/n was in a white crop top and jeans, modern but ready for the mess, her nose ring sparkling as she tossed a handful of yellow powder at Oscar.

Lando, in a white tee, was meant to be strategizing with Zak Brown, but his eyes were on Y/n, laughing like a kid, her skin dusted with color, her energy infectious. When she grabbed a water balloon and lobbed it at him, soaking his shirt, he yelped, then chased her, grabbing a fistful of red powder.

“Gotcha!” he shouted, smearing it across her cheek, his fingers lingering a second too long. Her laugh was electric, her face glowing under the color, and Lando’s heart did a double take. She’s a bloody masterpiece.

“You’re dead, Norris!” she teased, tossing more powder, her Punjabi spirit shining through in her playfulness. He caught her wrist, pulling her close, their faces inches apart, colors swirling around them.

“You’re… so pretty,” he blurted, voice soft, face redder than the powder. Her eyes widened, a smile tugging her lips, but before she could respond, Max Verstappen doused them both with a water gun, cackling.

“Oi, lovebirds, save it for later!” Max yelled, and Lando groaned, letting her go, his shirt clinging to his chest, his crush painfully obvious. Y/n laughed, brushing powder from her hair, and Lando muttered to himself, “I need to stop saying stupid things.” But he was already planning to steal another balloon fight with her.

5. The Diwali Glow

It was November, and Y/n invited the McLaren team to her Monaco apartment for a low-key Diwali celebration—her way of sharing her roots without making it a big PR stunt. Lando jumped at the chance, dragging Oscar and Daniel along, his nerves jangling worse than race day. Her place was warm, lit with diyas, a small rangoli at the door, and the smell of sweets—gulab jamun, barfi—filling the air.

Y/n wore a simple anarkali dress, gold and peach, not heavy like a traditional outfit but flowing, modern, hugging her just right. Her hair was loose, her nose ring catching the candlelight, and Lando nearly walked into a wall when she opened the door.

“Welcome!” she said, handing him a diya to light. “It’s for good vibes—don’t burn my place down, Norris.”

“No promises,” he joked, but his hands shook as he lit the lamp, his brain screaming she’s unreal. She explained Diwali—light over darkness, family, hope—and he hung on every word, charmed by her passion, her ease blending cultures.

When she offered him a gulab jamun, her fingers brushing his, he took a bite and groaned, loud enough for Daniel to snicker. “Mate, it’s a sweet, not a proposal,” Daniel teased, but Lando’s face was flaming.

“It’s amazing,” he said, eyes on Y/n. “You’re amazing. Like, this whole… Indian thing. It’s… wow.” He cringed, words tumbling out wrong, but Y/n smiled, soft, oblivious to his heart doing cartwheels.

“Thanks, Lando,” she said, passing him another sweet. “You’re sweet too.” He choked on the jamun, Oscar thumping his back, laughing, and Lando swore he’d die of embarrassment—or love—before the night was over.

+1. The Confrontation and the Date

The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix was the season finale, and McLaren was riding a high—Lando had clinched P3 in the championship, a career best. The team party was at a beach club, fairy lights twinkling, music pulsing. Y/n was in a navy dress, sleek and elegant, her nose ring glinting as she laughed with the media team, coordinating last-minute posts. Lando, in a rare suit, couldn’t stop glancing at her, his crush no longer a secret to anyone—drivers, his family, probably the entire paddock.

His mum, Cisca, was there, visiting, and nudged him. “Lando, love, just tell her. You’ve been mooning over her all year.”

“Mum,” he groaned, cheeks pink, “she doesn’t even notice. I’m a mess around her.”

Cisca smiled, patting his arm. “She notices more than you think.”

He wasn’t so sure. Every time Y/n’s bangles jingled, or she cooked something spicy, or her nose ring caught the light, he fell harder, babbling like an idiot—yet she stayed cool, professional, friendly. Untouchable. But tonight, with the season done and champagne in his veins, he was done hiding.

Y/n was by the bar, sipping a mocktail, when he approached, heart pounding. “Hey,” he said, voice shaky, “can we… talk?”

She turned, smiling, that damn stud sparkling. “Sure, Norris. What’s up?”

He swallowed, noticing Daniel and Charles lurking nearby, pretending not to eavesdrop. “I, uh… you’re amazing,” he started, then winced. “Not like, work-amazing—though you are—but… you. Your nose ring, your food, your bangles, the Holi thing, Diwali… all of it. I’m kind of obsessed with you.”

Her eyes widened, lips parting, and for once, she looked flustered. “Wait—obsessed? Lando, are you saying…?”

“I’m a disaster,” he rushed on, face red, “but yeah, I fancy you. Like, a lot. Every time you do something… Indian, I lose it. The jingly bracelets, the spicy stuff—it’s all so you, and I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to take you out. Like, a proper date. If you’ll let me.”

Silence. His stomach dropped, expecting rejection, but then she laughed—not mocking, but warm, delighted. “Lando Norris,” she said, stepping closer, her voice teasing, “have you been blushing over my nose ring this whole time?”

“Maybe,” he mumbled, scratching his neck, the drivers snickering behind him. Charles gave a thumbs-up, Daniel mouthed “Go for it,” and Cisca watched, beaming.

Y/n tilted her head, studying him, her smile softening. “I noticed, you know. The way you stare when I wear bangles, or when I brought that dal to the paddock. I thought it was cute, but I didn’t realize it was this.” She gestured at his flustered self, grinning. “You’re adorable when you’re nervous.”

“Adorable?” he groaned, but his heart lifted, hope sparking. “So… is that a yes?”

She nodded, eyes sparkling. “Yes, Lando. Take me out. But—” she leaned in, whispering, “you’re gonna have to handle spicier food than you think.”

He laughed, relief flooding him, and grabbed her hand, the crowd cheering—Daniel loudest, yelling, “Finally!” Lando pulled her close, not caring who saw, his grin wide.

“First date,” he said, voice low, “I’m picking somewhere with curry. And you’re wearing those bangles.”

“Deal,” she whispered, squeezing his hand, her nose ring catching the light, sealing his fate.

END

P.S. I am liking these 5+1 fics

[kiyawritesforf1]

TANGLED HEARTS

Pairing - Carlos Sainz x Norris!Reader

Words - 3.2k

The Monaco sun blazed down on the paddock, a chaotic swirl of mechanics, media, and the occasional rogue seagull eyeing someone’s sandwich. Y/N Norris, younger sister of McLaren’s golden boy Lando Norris, strutted through the chaos like she owned it. Her oversized sunglasses perched precariously on her nose, and her trademark smirk screamed I’m about to cause trouble. She was a classic Norris—charming, a bit bratty, and utterly incapable of thinking three steps ahead. If Lando was the family’s lovable goofball, Y/N was the human equivalent of a sparkler: bright, unpredictable, and likely to set something on fire.

Today, her target was Carlos Sainz. Ferrari’s smooth-talking Spaniard was everything Y/N wasn’t: measured, sensible, and infuriatingly good at keeping his emotions on a leash. They’d been dancing around each other for months, ever since a blurry, tequila-fueled night in Miami where a hotel room and questionable decisions had left them both flustered and avoiding eye contact for a week. Y/N wasn’t one to let things slide, though. She wanted Carlos, and when Y/N Norris wanted something, she’d move heaven and earth—or at least annoy everyone in a 10-mile radius—to get it.

Carlos, on the other hand, was playing the long game. He liked Y/N—more than he’d admit to himself—but the idea of dating his best friend’s little sister was a minefield he wasn’t keen to cross. Lando was protective, and Carlos valued their friendship too much to risk it over what he kept telling himself was a fleeting crush. Except Y/N wasn’t making it easy. She flirted relentlessly, in private with teasing whispers and in public with winks that had the F1 gossip blogs buzzing. Carlos was holding strong, but his resolve was cracking like a cheap phone screen.

The Paddock Shenanigans

It was Friday, free practice day, and the paddock was buzzing. Y/N lounged against McLaren’s hospitality suite, sipping an iced coffee and scanning the crowd for Carlos. Lando was nearby, chatting with Oscar Piastri about tyre strategy, oblivious to his sister’s scheming. Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo were loitering nearby, Max scrolling through his phone while Daniel tossed a stress ball at anyone who looked bored.

“Oi, Y/N!” Daniel called, grinning. “You causing trouble yet, or are we still in the warm-up lap?”

Y/N smirked, flipping her hair. “Danny, I don’t cause trouble. Trouble just finds me. It’s my magnetic personality.”

Max snorted without looking up. “Yeah, magnetic for chaos. Didn’t you crash Lando’s golf cart into a fence last month?”

“That was an artistic statement,” Y/N shot back, unfazed. “And anyway, Carlos fixed it. Didn’t you, Chili?” She spotted Carlos walking past with Charles Leclerc, and her voice took on a syrupy edge.

Carlos froze mid-step, his brown eyes narrowing. “Don’t drag me into your crimes, Y/N,” he said, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing the vibe but too polite to comment.

“Crimes? Me?” Y/N pressed a hand to her chest dramatically. “I’m an angel. Tell him, Lando!”

Lando, distracted, glanced over. “Yeah, sure, angelic as a tornado. Carlos, mate, don’t let her rope you into anything. She’s got a knack for disaster.”

“Too late,” Y/N muttered under her breath, winking at Carlos. He shook his head, but his ears were turning pink—a dead giveaway he wasn’t as immune as he pretended.

The flirting wasn’t new. Y/N had been at it for weeks, dropping innuendos in team meetings, brushing past Carlos a little too closely in the garage, and texting him memes at 2 a.m. with captions like “This could be us but you’re playing hard to get.” Carlos would reply with a single emoji—🙄—but he never told her to stop. That was her green light.

The Miami Flashback

The Miami night was a hazy memory, but it haunted them both. It had been post-race, the air thick with champagne and bad decisions. Y/N, tipsy and bold, had cornered Carlos at the bar, her usual bratty confidence dialed to eleven.

“Carlitos,” she’d slurred, poking his chest. “You’re too serious. Live a little.”

He’d laughed, his guard down after a few drinks. “And you, pequeña, live too much.”

One thing led to another—banter to dancing, dancing to wandering hands, and suddenly they were in his hotel room, giggling like idiots and kissing like they’d been starving for it. Morning came with a pounding headache and mutual panic. Carlos had bolted upright, muttering about Lando killing him, while Y/N sprawled across the bed, smirking.

“Relax, Sainz,” she’d said. “It’s not like we robbed a bank. Just a little fun.”

But it wasn’t just fun. Not to her. And, if she was reading him right, not to him either. The problem was getting him to admit it.

The Flirting Escalates

Back in Monaco, Y/N wasn’t backing down. During a drivers’ briefing, she slid into the seat next to Carlos, ignoring Lando’s raised eyebrow from across the room. As the FIA droned on about track limits, she leaned closer, whispering, “You look good in red, but I bet you’d look better in my hotel room.”

Carlos choked on his water, earning a curious glance from George Russell. “Y/N,” he hissed, “behave.”

“Make me,” she shot back, batting her lashes.

He glared, but his hand lingered a second too long when he passed her a pen later. Progress.

That evening, the drivers hit a bar to unwind. Y/N, in a dress that screamed trouble, was in her element, laughing with Pierre Gasly and Yuki Tsunoda while keeping one eye on Carlos. He was at the bar with Lando, looking like he was trying to solve world peace instead of enjoying his beer.

“Mate, you alright?” Lando asked, clapping Carlos on the shoulder. “You’ve been weird lately.”

Carlos forced a smile. “Just tired, amigo.”

Lando didn’t buy it, but he didn’t push. Y/N, however, saw her chance. She sauntered over, leaning between them to grab a cherry from the bar. “Carlos, you gonna sulk all night, or are you gonna dance with me?”

Lando groaned. “Y/N, leave him alone. Not everyone wants to deal with your chaos 24/7.”

She stuck her tongue out at her brother. “You’re just jealous because I’m more fun than you.”

Carlos’s lips twitched, but he stayed silent, sipping his drink. Y/N’s patience was fraying. She’d been flirting for weeks, and while Carlos wasn’t shutting her down, he wasn’t biting either. It was driving her up the wall.

The Breaking Point

By Sunday’s race, Y/N was done playing nice. She’d tried subtle, she’d tried bold, and Carlos was still dodging her like she was a DRS zone he didn’t trust. So, she did what any self-respecting Norris would do: she went nuclear.

Post-race, the paddock was a zoo. Lando had finished P3, Carlos P5, and the media was swarming. Y/N, in a McLaren cap and a devilish grin, cornered Lando by the motorhome while Carlos was nearby, signing autographs.

“Hey, big bro,” she said loudly, ensuring Carlos could hear. “You know how you’re always saying I need to be honest? Well, guess what? Carlos and I have been sleeping together.”

The world stopped. Lando’s jaw dropped. Carlos dropped his Sharpie, spinning around so fast he nearly tripped. The fans nearby gasped, phones already recording.

“Y/N!” Carlos barked, his face a mix of horror and fury. “What the hell?”

Lando blinked, processing. “You… what? With Carlos? My Carlos?”

“Your Carlos?” Y/N scoffed, hands on hips. “He’s not your property, Lando. And yeah, we hooked up. Miami. Great night. He’s just too stubborn to do anything about it.”

Carlos dragged a hand down his face, muttering in Spanish. “Madre de Dios, this is a nightmare.”

Lando rounded on him. “Mate, is this true? You and my sister?”

Carlos opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at Y/N, who was staring him down, daring him to deny it. “It… happened,” he admitted, voice low. “Once. We were drunk. It was a mistake.”

Y/N’s bravado faltered for a split second, hurt flashing in her eyes. “A mistake? Wow, okay. Good to know.”

The tension was thicker than Monaco traffic. Lando looked between them, torn between betrayal and confusion. “You’re my best mate, Carlos. And you—” he pointed at Y/N—“you’re my sister. What am I supposed to do with this?”

Daniel, who’d wandered over because he smelled drama, piped up. “Mate, sounds like they need to sort their shit out. Maybe lock ‘em in a room till they figure it out.”

“Great idea,” Charles added, appearing out of nowhere. “But maybe not during a race weekend. Ferrari needs Carlos focused.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “I’m done chasing you, Carlos. You want to pretend it meant nothing? Fine. But don’t cry when I move on.”

She stormed off, leaving Carlos staring after her and Lando muttering, “I need a drink. Or therapy.”

The Aftermath

Carlos found her later, sitting on a balcony overlooking the harbor. The sun was setting, painting the sky pink, and Y/N looked smaller than usual, her usual fire dimmed.

“You’re insane, you know that?” he said, sitting beside her.

She didn’t look at him. “Worked, didn’t it? You’re here.”

“Not because you told the entire paddock we slept together,” he snapped. “That was reckless, Y/N. You could’ve ruined my friendship with Lando. Your relationship with him.”

She shrugged, but her voice was softer. “I don’t think before I act. It’s kinda my thing. And I was tired of you ignoring me.”

Carlos sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was trying to do the right thing. Lando’s my brother, Y/N. You think I want to hurt him? Or you?”

Her head snapped up. “You think you’re protecting me by pushing me away? Newsflash, Sainz, I’m a big girl. I know what I want. And it’s you.”

He stared at her, the weight of her words sinking in. She was a whirlwind, a liability, everything he wasn’t. But God help him, he was crazy about her.

“I’m gonna kill you one day,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it.

“Promise?” she teased, scooting closer.

He laughed despite himself, and when she leaned in, he didn’t pull away. The kiss was slow, tentative, nothing like Miami’s frenzy. It felt like a beginning.

The Paddock Reacts

By the next race, the news had spread like wildfire. Lando was still grumbling, but he’d grudgingly given Carlos his blessing after a long talk—and a threat involving a golf club. The other drivers were having a field day.

“So, Norris Jr. and Sainz,” Max said, smirking. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“Liar,” Daniel countered. “Everyone saw it. They were practically eye-fucking in the paddock for months.”

Charles grinned. “As long as Carlos doesn’t crash because he’s distracted, I’m happy.”

Y/N, true to form, didn’t care about the gossip. She walked into the paddock hand-in-hand with Carlos, her smirk back in full force. When a reporter asked about their relationship, she winked. “What can I say? I always get what I want.”

Carlos rolled his eyes but squeezed her hand. “She’s impossible,” he told Lando later.

“Yeah,” Lando said, clapping him on the back. “But you’re stuck with her now. Good luck.”

[kiyawritesforf1]

PADDOCK PROPOSAL

Nothing just two cutieeesss being cuteee 🥰🥰✨✨

Pairing : Carlos Sainz x Wife!reader

You’ve just finished a long day of pre-race preparations in the Williams garage. The hustle of the paddock has settled into a hum as teams make their final checks, drivers prepare to head to their cars, and family members and friends mingle around, catching up in between the madness of race weekend.

You and Carlos are standing near the pit wall, chatting with a couple of engineers about car setups. Your 3-year-old daughter, Isabella, has been playing with Lando’s son, Theo, while their parents work. It’s not unusual for the kids to run around in the paddock, giggling and causing a ruckus as everyone else prepares for the race.

You can hear their laughter even as the roar of the engines fills the air. Isabella and Theo have become fast friends over the past couple of years, often seen holding hands and whispering secrets, though their conversations mostly consist of giggles and playful nonsense.

And then, just as you and Carlos are about to finish up, you feel a tiny tug at your leg.

You look down, expecting to see Isabella grinning up at you, as usual. Instead, she holds out her little hand, beaming with pride.

“Mamá, mamá, look!” she says, her voice filled with excitement. You kneel down, her big eyes sparkling as she opens her palm to reveal a dazzling diamond ring. You blink for a moment, stunned, before breaking into a giggle.

“Oh my gosh, what is this, little one?” you laugh, trying not to laugh too loudly.

Isabella is practically bouncing on her heels, eager to show you her “treasure.” “Theo gave me this! We’re going to get married! Like you and daddy!” she exclaims, holding the ring up proudly.

At that moment, Carlos walks over, his brow furrowed in concentration as he chats with one of the engineers. His eyes soften when he sees Isabella, but when they land on the ring she’s holding, a flicker of concern crosses his face.

“What’s this, amor?” Carlos asks, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. His eyes go straight to the ring, then back to Isabella.

You can’t help but laugh. “Carlos, it’s just a little toy ring—Theo’s ring from his mom. They’re just playing around.”

But Carlos isn’t laughing. He’s staring at the ring as if it’s a bomb about to go off. You can see him fighting to keep his composure. His hand unconsciously tightens around his clipboard, his eyes narrowing.

“Who gave you this, Isabella?” he asks again, his voice dangerously calm.

Isabella, blissfully unaware of the growing tension, looks up at him with a huge grin. “Theo, daddy! Theo is my boyfriend, and we’re going to get married and live together!”

Carlos freezes. His jaw clenches. He looks at you as if asking for some kind of confirmation that this is all a joke. But the twinkle in Isabella’s eyes and the innocent excitement in her voice make it clear that she’s completely serious about this “engagement.”

You can’t help it. You burst into laughter. You cover your mouth, trying to hide your amusement, but it’s no use. The sight of Carlos’s face—a mixture of confusion, shock, and maybe just a little heartbreak—is too much to handle.

Carlos looks back at you, his protective instincts kicking in. “I... I just... What do you mean, ‘boyfriend’? The boy is *English*, Y/N. English,” he mutters, clearly in a state of disbelief.

You laugh even harder, trying to stifle it. “Carlos, it’s just a game! They’re three and five years old. They’re pretending, cariño.”

Carlos’s gaze is fixed on Isabella and Theo as they happily dance around, oblivious to his internal panic. He watches, his hands crossed in front of him, his protective nature taking over.

“An English boy,” he repeats, as if it’s some kind of tragedy. “Does he know how to make a proper *paella*?” He shakes his head, more concerned about the boy’s culinary skills than anything else. “*Muy educado*, I’m sure. But does he know how to make a real *tortilla española*?”

You almost choke on your laughter. “Carlos, seriously?”

Carlos looks back at you, his face trying to maintain some sense of dignity. “He has no business giving my daughter a ring. And what’s this ‘marriage’ talk? She’s three!”

Before you can respond, you hear Lando’s unmistakable laugh from a few feet away. You turn to see him, casually leaning against a nearby workbench, his arms crossed with an infuriatingly smug expression plastered on his face.

“Well, well,” Lando says, stepping into the conversation like a man who’s enjoying every second of Carlos’s discomfort. “Looks like the wedding is already in the works. I mean, the kids have made up their minds, right?”

Carlos shoots him a glare, but Lando isn’t phased in the slightest. He walks over, his grin widening. “Theo’s already got the ring. What are we waiting for? Should we start planning the *boda*? I can handle the RSVP.”

Carlos turns his full attention to Lando now, his arms folding across his chest, his lips pressing into a thin line. He’s trying so hard to maintain composure, but it’s obvious that Lando is enjoying every minute of this.

“You think this is funny, Lando?” Carlos growls, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice despite the tension.

Lando shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m just saying, Carlos... Theo’s got great taste. He’s got the ring, he’s got the moves. I mean, Isabella is already the most beautiful girl in the paddock, so I think they’re off to a good start.”

Carlos, now fully frustrated, glances at you for support. You can’t help but laugh again, shaking your head. “Carlos, it’s adorable. Theo’s a *kid*. They’re just playing. And if they do end up together, it’s not like we’re going to stop them, right?”

Carlos looks at you with that familiar look—half-exasperated, half-smiling. “I just don’t know if I’m ready for this. I mean, an *English* boy? What if he starts teaching her the wrong things?”

Lando, ever the cheeky one, leans in with a grin. “You mean like how to *drive* a Formula 1 car? Yeah, that would be a shame.” He laughs at his own joke, clearly enjoying Carlos’s discomfort.

Carlos lets out a heavy sigh, trying not to show how much the whole situation is bothering him. He looks at Isabella, who’s spinning around with Theo, both of them laughing in delight. His expression softens just a little.

“Well,” Carlos mutters, looking at the ring in Isabella’s hand, then back at Lando, “I suppose if the boy knows how to make a good *paella*... I’ll consider it.”

Lando raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Looks like we’re one step closer to a paddock wedding.”

Carlos looks at you, his protective nature slowly fading into reluctant acceptance. “I’ll let them play... for now.” He pauses, glancing back at Isabella and Theo, a small, resigned smile on his face. “But no *paella* until he’s learned the basics.”

You step closer to Carlos, smiling softly as you place a hand on his arm. “Carlos, she’s growing up, and someday she’ll find someone who’ll treat her right, whether they’re Spanish or English. And for now... let her have this.”

Carlos, still a little unsure, watches Isabella, who runs over to him with her tiny hands outstretched. “Papa! Look at my ring! Theo gave it to me! We’re getting married!”

He smiles, albeit reluctantly, and takes the ring from her hand, gazing at it for a moment before looking back at you with a deep sigh.

“You’re right, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice softening. “But I’m not ready to give her away just yet.”

Lando chuckles in the background, clearly relishing the moment. “Don’t worry, Carlos. We’ve got plenty of time before the big day. I’ll be sure to save you a seat at the wedding.”

And with that, Carlos gives Lando a look that could melt steel, but there’s no hiding the soft smile on his face as he hugs Isabella close.

Maybe, just maybe, he’ll come around to the idea of his little girl getting married someday—*just not yet*.

---

**End.**

---

[kiyawritesforf1]

ORANGE HEARTS AND ACCIDENTAL CONFESSIONS

Pairing : Lando Norris x Reader

Words : 2.1k

The roar of engines buzzed in the air like electricity, the familiar vrrrrrooom rattling through Y/N’s chest as she stood just inside the Silverstone paddock. It was her first time at a Grand Prix, and it just so happened to be her 20th birthday.

She could hardly believe it.

The Silverstone GP. The home race. McLaren country. And she was actually here.

Well—technically, she was mostly here because of her little brother, Eli, who had a surprising amount of charisma for a 7-year-old and had begged her to take him after winning a radio contest. She couldn't say no. Not when he looked at her with those eyes. And not when it involved McLaren.

She tugged nervously at the hem of her papaya-orange hoodie, the one with a subtle Lando Norris logo stitched near the pocket. She told herself it wasn’t because of him—it was just a cool hoodie. Comfortable. Good color. That was it. Totally not because Lando was, like, ridiculously cute or anything.

"Eli," she whispered, crouching beside her brother as he waved frantically at the crowd of fans nearby. "Remember, we’re just here to watch. No chaos, okay?"

He grinned, teeth missing in typical 7-year-old fashion. “No chaos. Got it. But can we still find the McLaren drivers?”

Y/N’s stomach flipped. “I mean… maybe? Don’t get your hopes—"

Before she could finish, a cheerful paddock assistant called them over.

“Hey! You’re the radio contest winners, right? Come on, you get a quick meet-and-greet with the McLaren drivers before qualifying!”

Y/N froze.

Meet. The. Drivers.

She turned bright red on the spot. Her brother, on the other hand, fist-pumped the air and yelled, “LET’S GO!”

The McLaren hospitality area was cooler, quieter, but somehow even more intimidating. Y/N could barely focus. There were crew members zipping by, fans waving politely, and cameras everywhere. She tried not to shrink into her hoodie.

Then came the moment.

Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri walked in casually, like they weren’t internationally loved racing drivers. Lando had a charming grin plastered on his face, curls slightly messy, while Oscar looked more chill, nodding politely as they approached.

Eli whispered, “They look way cooler in real life.”

Y/N had lost all ability to breathe. Or blink. Or function.

“Hey there!” Lando greeted, crouching slightly to Eli’s height. “You the big fan we’ve been hearing about?”

Y/N opened her mouth to answer, but Eli was faster. “Well, actually—she said I was the fan. But it’s not true. I like Oscar more. She’s the one who’s obsessed with you.”

Y/N nearly died.

Lando’s eyebrows shot up, and his grin widened. “Oh really?”

“I—he—I didn’t—I meant like—” she stammered, face the shade of a ripe tomato.

Oscar chuckled. “You throwing her under the bus already, mate?” he asked Eli, who nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Yup. She even watches your Twitch streams. And when you crashed in Austria last year, she nearly cried. She talks to the TV during races.”

“Okay,” Y/N gasped, “you’ve made your point.”

But Lando looked delighted. He leaned in slightly, his voice low and teasing. “So, you’re my secret biggest fan, huh? And here I thought it was Eli.”

“I’m not—well I am—but not—like that—I just really like—your driving—” she winced as the words fell out. “I should stop talking.”

“Nah,” Lando said, smirking, “This is fun.”

Eli beamed. “You should see the poster in her room.”

“Eli!” Y/N squeaked.

Oscar leaned toward Eli, mock-conspiratorial. “Does she have one of me too?”

Eli shook his head solemnly. “Nah, sorry. She says you’re cool, but not Lando cool.”

Oscar placed a hand over his heart. “Tragic.”

Lando was trying not to laugh. “Well, now I’m definitely signing something for you, Y/N.”

Y/N peeked up at him through her lashes. “You don’t have to…”

“Oh, I want to,” he said, handing her a sharpie with a wink. “Where should I sign? Hoodie? Poster? Phone case?”

She practically combusted on the spot.

The rest of the meet-and-greet was a blur. Oscar and Eli got along weirdly well, both sharing a deadpan sense of humor that made Y/N question if her little brother had been swapped at birth. Meanwhile, Lando kept finding ways to make her flustered—offering her papaya-colored snacks, nudging her arm when she got too quiet, casually calling her “my favorite fan.”

She’d never felt so seen. Or so teased.

As they were leaving, Lando suddenly leaned over.

“Hey, before you go,” he said. “Can I ask something?”

Y/N blinked up at him, suspicious. “Maybe?”

“If I signed something else… like, I don’t know… your ticket stub or a coffee cup… would that count as a birthday gift?”

Her heart nearly exploded. “H-how did you know it was my birthday?”

Eli, once again, unhelpful: “She told me not to mention it so you wouldn’t feel like you had to do anything. But she hoped you would.”

Y/N covered her face with both hands. “I can’t take him anywhere.”

But Lando just laughed, taking the cup from her hand and scribbling on it. When he handed it back, it read:

Happy Birthday to my #1 (but totally not) fan. Coffee sometime? - Lando :) + his number.

She stared.

“Did you just—give me your—?”

“Only if you’ll use it,” he said, a little quieter now. “You don’t have to. But… I’d really like it if you did.”

Oscar clapped Eli on the back. “Hey, what do you think? Should she go on a date with him?”

Eli crossed his arms, thinking. “Only if he lets me drive the simulator next time.”

Lando grinned. “Done.”

Eli gave a thumbs up. “Then it’s a yes.”

Y/N groaned, but smiled. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Believe it,” Lando said, bumping her shoulder. “See you soon, birthday girl.”

They walked out of the paddock into the sunset-pink sky, the sound of engines fading behind them.

Eli was skipping beside her, chattering about Oscar’s jokes and simulator promises, completely unaware that his matchmaking might’ve just changed Y/N’s life.

She looked down at the signed cup in her hand, cheeks still pink.

Yeah. This was the best birthday ever.

End of Part 1

————

It will be random snippets from their life nothing too serious

[kiyawritesforf1]

What should be posted next ?

Carlos Sainz

Max Verstappen

Lando Norris

[kiyawritesforf1]

RUN FROM THE SPOTLIGHT (PART 1)

Pairing : Lando Norris x Reader

Daniel Ricciardo x Platonic!reader

TW : Sexual Assault (not detailed but engage at your own risk)⚠️

Words - 3k

The rain in Paris was relentless, a silver curtain that blurred the city’s edges and soaked Y/N to the bone as she stood outside Matteo Rossi’s atelier. Her umbrella sagged, dripping onto the uneven cobblestones, her pulse a staccato against her ribs. His text had been a command disguised as an invite: New campaign. Tonight. My suite. Don’t disappoint. She’d hesitated—Matteo’s vibe had soured lately—but the gig was too lucrative, and he’d been her ladder to the top since she was a raw nineteen-year-old with a cheap portfolio and big dreams.

The suite was a cocoon of dim light and luxury, the air heavy with his cologne and the faint musk of leather furniture. Matteo greeted her with a glass of red wine, his silver hair glinting, his grin sharp as a blade. “Cara mia,” he said, pressing the glass into her hand. “You’re late.”

“Rain,” she muttered, setting the drink aside. “Can we start?”

He smirked, gesturing to a rack of gowns—bold, shimmering things that screamed his name. She stepped into the first, a deep sapphire piece that clung like water, and he circled her, his gaze a physical weight. She’d weathered his flirtations before—“You’re my muse, Y/N”—but tonight, his eyes stripped her bare in a way that churned her stomach.

“Exquisite,” he said, too close, his fingers grazing her collarbone. “Though I’d argue you’re wasted in clothes.”

She flinched, masking it with a tight smile. “Let’s keep this professional, Matteo.”

His laugh was low, predatory. “Oh, cara, we’re past that.” He stepped in, his hand sliding to her hip, then lower, and the room tilted. She pushed him back, firm but civil—“Stop it”—but he didn’t budge. The click of the lock registered too late; he’d bolted the door when she wasn’t looking. Panic surged as he shoved her against the sofa, his bulk pinning her, his breath sour with wine.

“Get off!” she yelled, clawing at his face, nails drawing blood. He cursed, recoiling just enough for her to twist free, her blouse tearing as she lunged for the door. She fumbled the lock open, his voice slicing through her escape.

“Run all you like,” he said, holding up his phone. The screen glowed—a shaky video of her struggling, half-undressed, his shadow looming. “Talk, and this buries you. Your pretty racer boy, your little F1 brother? Gone.”

She stumbled into the storm, the rain washing away tears she didn’t let fall, the video a shackle she couldn’t break.

Milan’s charity gala was a fever dream of light and sound, the runway a polished stage where Y/N moved like a phantom. Matteo’s emerald gown hugged her frame, its fabric a silent taunt of that night. The crowd—dripping in wealth and good intentions—cheered, blind to the tremor in her hands, the fragility of her smile. She was still their “Heart of the Runway,” but the heart was cracking.

Lando Norris slouched in the fifth row, his McLaren cap pulled low, his tie a crumpled mess. He’d flown from Spa to Milan on a whim, chasing the spark of her—his girlfriend of thirteen months, the girl who’d steal his hoodies and mock his driving over late-night calls. She’d been off lately, a shadow creeping into her texts, her laughter dimming. Tonight, her glance slid past him, empty, and his chest tightened.

“She’s not herself,” he said to Daniel Ricciardo, who lounged beside him, twirling a straw in his drink.

Daniel squinted, studying her. “She’s smashing it, mate. What’s your glitch?”

“No wink. No nothing. She’s… gone.”

“Probably knackered,” Daniel said, shrugging. “Our sis has been grinding—charity gigs, fittings, the lot.”

Backstage, Y/N peeled off the gown, her skin prickling where Matteo’s eyes had lingered. He’d hovered, all charm and menace—“You’re radiant, cara”—and she’d nodded, mute, fleeing to her hoodie like it was armor. Lando and Daniel waited in the hall, their voices a tether to a life she was losing. Lando pulled her into a hug, his warmth a balm she couldn’t keep, and she pressed her face to his chest, memorizing him.

“You good?” he asked, his lips brushing her hair.

“Yeah,” she lied, the word ash in her mouth. “Just tired.”

Daniel mussed her hair, grinning. “You’re a legend, Y/N. Food? I’m buying.”

“Next time,” she said, stepping back. “Promise.”

Lando’s eyes lingered, worried, but he let her go. She walked to her hotel alone, the echo of Matteo’s threat a drumbeat in her skull. In her room, she locked the door, slid down the wall, and let the sobs rip free—silent, shuddering, a storm she’d held too long.

The fracture spread slow and deep. Matteo’s presence was a virus—his hands brushing her at fittings, his whispers a constant blade: “Keep quiet, or they all see.” She played along, smiled for cameras, but the mirror betrayed her—gaunt cheeks, eyes like bruises. Lando’s texts piled up—Miss you. You sure you’re okay?—and she’d dodge with emojis, her voice too brittle to call. Daniel’s FaceTimes went to voicemail, her excuses flimsy: Busy. Swamped. Soon.

Paris haunted her, a wound festering. Then, a week before Milan, the nausea hit—sharp, relentless, blamed on nerves until a test in her London flat showed two blue lines. Pregnant. The truth landed like a punch, stealing her air. Matteo’s face flashed—his hands, his sneer—and revulsion mixed with something softer, fiercer. This baby was hers, not his—a boy, she decided, picturing dark hair like hers, a life untainted. She couldn’t end it, couldn’t punish him for her scars. Her savings, fat from years of runways, could buy a new beginning. She’d run, shield him, start clean.

Milan was her farewell. She walked that runway with a ghost’s grace, her decision made. Back home, she packed a duffel—clothes, cash, a burner phone—sold her flat in a blur, and smashed her old life to pieces. Her final text to Lando was a knife twist: I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. Don’t call. She burned every bridge and disappeared into the night.

Lando’s Miami hotel room was a cage of silence, the Grand Prix’s roar muted by the text searing his screen. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. Don’t call. He stared, willing it to shift, to explain itself. He called—voicemail, cold and final. Texts died, undelivered. By dusk, her digital footprint vanished—Instagram, Twitter, gone. Her number was a dead line. He sank onto the bed, hands shaking, the world unmoored.

Daniel stormed in, summoned by Lando’s broken voice. “What’s happening?”

“She’s gone,” Lando said, throat raw. “Dumped me. Vanished.”

Daniel scrolled their last chat—her ribbing him about a karting fail, five days back. “This isn’t her. She doesn’t ditch us.”

“She did.” Lando flung his phone, a Silverstone photo glaring up—her in his cap, laughing, him nuzzling her neck. “She’s been fading, Dan. I missed it.”

Daniel paced, digging through memories. “Monaco—she barely ate, kept twitching at every sound. Said she was fine when I pushed.”

“Paris,” Lando rasped. “She came back hollow. Wouldn’t talk. I let it slide.”

They clawed for answers. Her agency offered fluff: Y/N’s on a break. Her flat was sold, the landlord mute. Friends were baffled, some stung by her silence. The internet spun tales—Lando’s affair! Her secret fling!—but they rang hollow. She wasn’t running to someone; she was running from something.

Daniel unearthed a text, weeks old: Matteo’s a sleaze. Too grabby lately. Lando’s blood iced. “Him?”

“Could be,” Daniel said, jaw tight. “She’d hide it if it was ugly. Protect us.”

Lando stood, fury and fear coiling. “We’re finding her. She’s out there, broken, and I’m not losing her.”

St. Ives was a jagged edge of Cornwall, cliffs biting the sea, the town a tangle of stone and salt. Y/N landed there, her platinum hair dyed chestnut, cropped short, her runway poise swapped for a slouch in thrift-store coats. Her savings bought a cottage—peeling paint, creaking floors, hers. A job at “Pages & Pints,” a bookshop with a beer tap, paid the rest—quiet, cash-under-the-table work stacking novels and pouring pints.

Three months in, her belly swelled, a boy kicking beneath her ribs. She named him Finn, after a fisherman’s tale she’d read, a nod to the sea that hid her. She’d forged a brittle peace—tea at sunrise, walks where the wind drowned her thoughts. Matteo’s video loomed, a guillotine he could drop, but here, in this nowhere, it felt distant. She’d left Lando’s voice, Daniel’s warmth, her old self, to save Finn from her ruin.

Nights carved her hollow—dreams of Lando’s touch, Daniel’s grin, waking to a cold bed. A McLaren sticker on a tourist’s bag would jolt her, grief slicing fresh. But Finn was her anchor, his tiny heartbeat her reason. She’d stay lost, a ghost with a purpose, and they’d never find her.

END OF PART 1

[kiyawritesforf1]

WEIRD VIBES ONLY

Pairing : Lando Norris x Reader

Words : 2.5k

The 4+1 times people overheard Lando and his Girlfriend’s weird conversations.

1. The Pit Crew Misadventure

Lando Norris was fresh off a practice lap, helmet still tucked under his arm, when Y/N bounded into the McLaren garage like a caffeinated squirrel. She’d swiped a wrench from a toolbox—because of course she had—and was twirling it like a baton. “So, if we’re doing it in the cockpit,” she said, voice low but not low enough, “I say we go full throttle. Maximum chaos, no holding back. I want sparks flying.”

Lando grinned, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Yeah, but I’d need to adjust the seat first. Can’t have you slipping around when I hit the apex. Precision’s key.”

Dave, a lanky mechanic with a permanent oil smudge on his cheek, was lugging a tire past them when his ears caught the exchange. Cockpit? Full throttle? Slipping around? Sparks? His brain short-circuited. He pictured Lando and Y/N sneaking into the car after hours, doing unspeakable things on the carbon-fiber seat, probably breaking half a dozen FIA regulations in the process. The tire slipped from his grip, bouncing once before rolling into a stack of toolboxes with a clang.

“You alright, mate?” Lando called, eyebrows raised.

Dave didn’t answer. He bolted for the break room, where he found his buddy Pete sipping a lukewarm coffee. “Mate,” Dave hissed, “Lando’s about to defile the car in ways I can’t unsee. Send help. Or a priest.”

Pete choked on his coffee. “What, like, in the car?”

“Full throttle,” Dave whispered, eyes wide. “Sparks and everything.”

Meanwhile, back in the garage, Y/N tossed the wrench onto a workbench. “So, confetti cannons in the sim rig—yes or no?”

“Yes,” Lando said, “but we’re blaming Oscar if it jams.” They high-fived, oblivious to the existential crisis they’d just triggered.

2. The Supermarket Scandal

It was a rare off-day, and Lando and Y/N were prowling the aisles of a Tesco near Silverstone. Y/N, in a hoodie that swallowed her frame, held up a box of Frosted Flakes like it was a sacred artifact. “Okay, but if we’re doing it with the tiger,” she said, “we’ve got to time it perfectly—right when the sugar hits. That’s the sweet spot.”

Lando, pushing a cart with one wobbly wheel, nodded with the seriousness of a race strategist. “Timing’s everything. Too soon, and it’s just messy. Too late, and we’re sticky for hours. I’m not dealing with that again.”

A middle-aged woman in a sensible cardigan—let’s call her Janet—was browsing the oatmeal section nearby. She froze, her hand hovering over a box of Quaker Oats, as her imagination ran wild. Doing it with the tiger? Sugar hits? Sticky for hours? She envisioned some depraved, cereal-mascot-fueled roleplay, complete with Lando in a Tony the Tiger costume and Y/N wielding a can of whipped cream. Her basket trembled in her grip as she backed away, abandoning her oats to escape the depravity.

Later that night, Janet regaled her book club with the tale. “I don’t know what’s wrong with kids these days,” she said, clutching her tea. “That racer boy and his girlfriend are freaky. I’ll never look at Frosted Flakes the same way.”

In reality, Y/N was already rigging their Roomba with a cereal bowl while Lando filmed, cackling as the vacuum skidded across their flat, flinging flakes everywhere. “This is gold,” he said, dodging a stray piece. “TikTok’s gonna lose it.”

“Next time,” Y/N replied, “we add milk.”

3. The Hotel Lobby Horror

The night before the Monaco Grand Prix, Lando and Y/N were sprawled across a plush couch in the hotel lobby, surrounded by marble floors and overpriced chandeliers. Y/N kicked her sneakers off and propped her feet on Lando’s lap. “If we’re using the feathers,” she said, “I want them everywhere—total coverage, no gaps. It’s gotta be epic.”

Lando smirked, poking her foot. “Fine, but I’m not cleaning up after. Last time, I was picking them out of weird places for days. My socks were shedding for a week.”

Behind the reception desk, a concierge named Philippe—crisp suit, impeccable mustache—nearly dropped his tray of complimentary sparkling waters. Feathers? Total coverage? Weird places? His mind conjured a scene straight out of a risqué rom-com: Lando and Y/N tangled in a pile of plucked pillows, feathers drifting through the air like some avant-garde sex ritual. He coughed, adjusted his tie, and spent the rest of his shift warning coworkers to steer clear of Room 312. “They’re… creative,” he muttered. “Very creative.”

Upstairs, Y/N was sketching a feathered dinosaur costume on a napkin while Lando scrolled through gaming forums. “Think we can get it done before the next stream?” she asked.

“Only if we bribe Carlos with pizza,” Lando said. “He’s got the hot glue gun skills.”

4. The Paddock Panic

The paddock at Spa was buzzing with pre-race energy when Y/N sidled up to Lando near the McLaren hospitality tent. She lowered her voice, but the wind carried it just far enough. “I’m telling you, the harness is key. Strap me in tight, and I’m good for at least twenty minutes.”

Lando chuckled, tossing an energy drink can between his hands. “Twenty? Bold. I’d say fifteen tops before you’re begging to get out. You’re not built for that kind of endurance.”

A journalist from Racing Weekly, lurking behind a potted plant with her notebook out, perked up like a bloodhound. Harness? Strap her in? Endurance? She scribbled furiously, her pen practically smoking. This was it—the scoop of the season. She could already see the headline: “Exclusive: Norris and GF’s BDSM Secrets Revealed!” She pitched it to her editor that night, claiming she’d uncovered the spicy underbelly of F1’s golden boy.

Back at the tent, Y/N adjusted the straps on a go-kart harness, grinning at Lando. “Twenty minutes around the track, and I’ll smoke you,” she said. “Loser buys dinner.”

“You’re on,” Lando replied, “but when you tap out at fifteen, I want extra garlic bread.”

+1. The Truth Comes Out

It all came to a head at a McLaren team dinner after the Italian Grand Prix. The restaurant was cozy, all dim lights and clinking wine glasses, with the team sprawled across a long table. Dave the mechanic was there, still haunted by the cockpit fiasco. Janet, who turned out to be Oscar Piastri’s aunt, had tagged along with a friend. Philippe the concierge, off-duty and visiting a cousin in Monza, sat at the bar. The Racing Weekly journalist hovered near the dessert cart, hoping for more dirt.

Lando and Y/N were at the end of the table, heads bent together as usual. Y/N tapped her fork against her plate. “Lando, if we’re doing the whipped cream thing tonight, we need to prep the tarp. I’m not scrubbing the ceiling again.”

Lando nodded, chewing a breadstick. “Yeah, last time it got everywhere—total disaster. Took me an hour to unstick my shoes.”

The eavesdroppers leaned in, senses tingling. Dave whispered to Pete, “Whipped cream in the cockpit?” Janet clutched her pearls, imagining a dairy-drenched tiger romp. Philippe pictured feathers and cream, while the journalist scribbled, “Kinky Dessert Fetish Confirmed.”

Then Y/N pulled out her phone and shoved it in Lando’s face. “Look, here’s the vid from last time,” she said, loud enough for the table to hear. The screen showed their kitchen, a tarp on the floor, and a towering, wobbly whipped-cream sculpture that collapsed mid-build, splattering them both. Lando’s shriek of “MY HAIR!” echoed through the restaurant as Y/N doubled over laughing on the video.

The table erupted. Oscar snorted into his pasta. “You two are idiots,” he said. Zak Brown shook his head, grinning. “I don’t even want to know.”

Dave dropped his fork. Janet blinked, her scandal evaporating. Philippe coughed into his wine, and the journalist snapped her notebook shut, muttering, “Well, that’s not printable.”

Y/N caught the stares and smirked. “What? It was for a charity bake-off livestream. We raised, like, two grand.”

Lando leaned back, arms behind his head. “Next time, we’re building a spaghetti catapult. Way less sticky.”

The eavesdroppers slunk away, red-faced, as Lando and Y/N clinked glasses, already plotting their next absurd adventure. Their dynamic was weird—borderline unhinged—but it was theirs. Cute, chaotic, and definitely not what anyone thought. Best to just leave them to it.

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[kiyawritesforf1]

THE SILENT TREATMENT

Pairing - Oscar Piastri x Reader

It had started as a casual idea. Y/N had been lounging on the couch one evening when the thought occurred to her. What would happen if she just ignored Oscar for an entire day? Oscar, who was usually so easygoing and chill, might actually take it in stride, right? But Y/N wasn’t so sure. She’d been itching for a little harmless mischief, and who better to prank than her ever-patient boyfriend?

So, she casually floated the idea past Max one evening when the two were hanging out in the kitchen, sipping wine.

“You should totally do it,” Max said, grinning ear to ear. “Oscar won’t know what hit him. I bet you he cracks within a few hours.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You think so?”

“Absolutely,” Max replied. “He’s usually so calm, but he’s not used to being ignored.”

That was all the encouragement Y/N needed. The plan was set: she was going to completely ignore Oscar for an entire day and see how long it took for him to crack. And so, Y/N spent the rest of the night laughing to herself, imagining Oscar’s reaction when she pulled the silent treatment on him.

The Morning of the Prank

It was a Saturday, the perfect day for a little chaos. Oscar had been up early, making them both coffee and starting on breakfast while Y/N pretended to sleep in. She heard him moving around in the kitchen, but instead of getting up and joining him like she usually would, Y/N pulled the covers over her head and sank into the warmth of the bed.

Oscar, ever the thoughtful one, brought her a coffee in bed as usual. He entered the room, the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air.

“Morning, babe,” he said softly, placing the mug on the nightstand.

Y/N, pretending to be still asleep, didn’t even acknowledge him.

Oscar paused, watching her for a second, then gently nudged her arm. “Y/N? You okay?”

No response.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not… still asleep, are you?”

Still nothing.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Oscar was no stranger to Y/N’s quirky side, but this was different. “Alright, then,” he muttered, not really sure what to make of it. “I guess I’ll let you sleep.”

He walked out of the room, but Y/N could feel his eyes lingering for a moment, no doubt wondering if something was off. She tried her hardest not to laugh. This was going to be so much fun.

Mid-Morning – The First Test

By 11 a.m., Oscar was starting to get suspicious. He’d noticed Y/N hadn’t come downstairs, so he brought her some breakfast—a couple of croissants and some fruit. As he entered the living room, he found her on the couch, scrolling through her phone. She hadn’t even looked up at him.

“Hey,” Oscar said, trying to keep his voice casual. “I brought you breakfast.”

No response.

Oscar’s eyebrows furrowed. Was she still mad at him for something? Did he forget their anniversary or something? He racked his brain, trying to figure it out, but nothing came to mind.

He cleared his throat. “Y/N?”

Still nothing.

“Alright, if you’re trying to be funny, it’s not working.” He sat down beside her, nudging her with his shoulder.

She didn’t even flinch.

Oscar leaned in closer, squinting at her phone screen to see if it was something distracting her. “Are you seriously ignoring me?” he asked, his voice tinged with amusement and a hint of frustration.

Y/N just glanced at him briefly, her expression cool and unaffected, and went right back to scrolling.

Oscar stared at her, trying to decide if he should just go along with it or call it out. He couldn’t figure out whether she was pulling some weird prank on him or if she was just genuinely annoyed.

“Okay,” he said, his voice getting a little more firm. “This is getting ridiculous.”

Y/N didn’t even look at him.

Oscar stood up, pacing a few steps away. He was beginning to feel an odd mixture of confusion and concern. “Y/N, you’re really not going to say anything?”

Y/N finally put her phone down, but instead of acknowledging him, she leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes, as if she were perfectly content. Oscar let out a frustrated sigh.

“Alright, fine,” he muttered, grabbing the breakfast tray from the table and heading back to the kitchen.

Y/N couldn’t hold it in anymore. She had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing.

Early Afternoon – The Turning Point

By 2 p.m., Oscar had had enough.

He’d gone about his usual routine, pretending like nothing was amiss, but it was getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that Y/N was acting unusually distant. She wasn’t responding to his texts, his calls, and every time he tried to engage in conversation, she gave him nothing but silence.

At first, he thought maybe she was just in a bad mood. Maybe something had happened that he hadn’t picked up on. But by now, the silence was starting to feel deliberate.

“Alright, what is going on?” Oscar demanded, as he stood in front of Y/N, who was lounging on the couch, flicking through a magazine. He placed his hands on his hips, staring down at her. “You’re really going to keep this up?”

Y/N didn’t even look at him. She didn’t acknowledge his presence. Instead, she casually turned a page, as if he wasn’t even there.

Oscar blinked in disbelief. “You know, I really thought I was the patient one in this relationship, but this… this is something else.”

Still nothing.

“Oh, for god’s sake, I’m going crazy,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair. “What did I do? Did I say something wrong? Are you mad at me?”

Y/N leaned back and finally gave him a quick glance, but it was all calculated. She wasn’t giving him an inch. Oscar’s eyes widened in frustration.

“Y/N,” he said through gritted teeth. “I swear to god, if you don’t talk to me, I’m going to lose it.”

That was when she finally cracked a smile.

Oscar’s eyes lit up. “Wait… you were pranking me?”

Y/N bit her lip, trying her hardest to hold back her laughter. “Maybe.”

Oscar blinked, looking absolutely exasperated but also completely amused. “Are you seriously telling me that I’ve been ignored all day for a joke?”

Y/N gave him an exaggerated shrug, still trying to suppress her grin. “You have no idea how hard it was to keep a straight face.”

Oscar shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “I’m so going to get you back for this. You have no idea.”

Y/N chuckled, feeling victorious. “I’d like to see you try. But I think you’ve just met your match, babe.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’ll get you. Don’t you worry.”

He leaned in to kiss her, playfully pinning her down on the couch. “But you know what? That was pretty funny.”

Y/N laughed, finally breaking character. “I’m glad you think so. It was worth it just to see your face when you cracked.”

Oscar rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop grinning. “I’ll get you back. You can count on that.”

End.

[kiyawritesforf1]

ATTENTION - part 1

Pairing Lando Norris x Reader

Charles Leclerc x Reader

The ballroom glowed under a canopy of chandeliers, dripping with wealth and ambition. You adjusted the neckline of your dress—crimson, daring, the kind that made a statement—and scanned the room. The gala was alive with the clink of glasses, the murmur of power plays, and the occasional burst of a camera flash. You were here with Lando, your boyfriend of six months, whose arm was slung around your shoulders as he regaled a group of sponsors with some wild story. He was all energy tonight, curls bouncing as he gestured, his grin wide and infectious. But your eyes weren’t on him. They were on Charles.

Charles Leclerc stood by the bar, one elbow propped on the counter, a glass of something dark in his hand. His tuxedo was impeccable—tailored to perfection, tie loose just enough to hint at rebellion. His dark hair was swept back, and those piercing green eyes caught the light as he laughed at something a journalist said. He was smooth, effortless, the kind of guy who could charm a room without breaking a sweat. You hated how it got under your skin. Hated how your heart stuttered when he glanced your way, holding your gaze for a beat too long before turning back to his conversation. Jerk.

“—and then I told him, ‘Mate, you’re not catching me on the straight,’” Lando was saying, his voice pulling you back. The sponsors chuckled, and you flashed a smile, nodding like you’d been tuned in. Lando’s hand slid to your waist, a casual claim, and you leaned into it. He’d been buzzing all week about this event, ever since he’d heard Charles would be here. The rivalry between them was the stuff of F1 legend—a clash of styles, Lando’s chaotic aggression versus Charles’ cool precision, fueled by a tangle of on-track battles and off-track jabs. The media had eaten it up, and when you started dating Lando, they’d dragged you into the feud. Lando’s girl vs. the Ferrari prince. You’d played your part, tossing snide remarks about Charles whenever a mic was near. It was all for show. Or so they thought.

“Look at him,” one of the sponsors said, nodding toward Charles. “Thinks he’s God’s gift to racing.”

Lando snorted, pulling you closer. “Yeah, well, God forgot to gift him a personality. Right, love?” He grinned at you, waiting for the assist.

You didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, totally,” you said, loud enough to carry. “Charles Leclerc wouldn’t know charisma if it lapped him in Monaco.” A ripple of laughter spread, and Lando squeezed your hip, pleased. Across the room, Charles’ head tilted, like he’d caught the dig. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, that polished facade cracked—something raw flickered there, intense and unreadable. Then he smirked, raising his glass in a silent toast before taking a sip. Your stomach flipped. Smug bastard.

The night wore on, a parade of schmoozing and snapshots. Lando kept you by his side, all loud laughs and playful banter, while Charles worked the opposite end of the room, all quiet smiles and calculated charm. But the air between you and him buzzed. It was in the way his fingers brushed yours when you both reached for the same tray of canapés, the way his shoulder grazed yours as he passed through the crowd. Tiny, electric moments no one else noticed. You kept the act up, though—when a reporter asked about Charles, you rolled your eyes and said, “He’s just a pretty face with a fast car,” loud enough for Lando to hear and cackle. The fans would love it.

By midnight, the gala was winding down, and Lando was deep in a debate about tire strategy with some McLaren exec. You slipped away, stepping onto the balcony for a breather. The night air was crisp, the city lights sprawling below, and you leaned against the railing, letting the noise fade. You didn’t hear the door, but you felt him—Charles, all quiet intensity, stepping out behind you.

“Nice one tonight,” he said, voice smooth as silk, tinged with that Monaco accent. You turned, and there he was, hands in his pockets, strolling closer. “The charisma line? Brutal.”

You crossed your arms, smirking. “Had to keep the story alive. You make it too easy.”

He chuckled, low and warm, stopping just close enough that you could smell his cologne—something woody, expensive. “You’re good at this game, I’ll give you that.” His eyes flicked over you, lingering on the dress. “Lando’s a lucky guy.”

“Jealous?” you teased, tilting your head.

He didn’t flinch. “Should I be?” His voice dropped, soft but edged with something dangerous. You didn’t answer, just held his stare, the tension coiling tight. Then he moved—quick, decisive—grabbing your wrist and pulling you into the shadowed corner of the balcony, out of sight. Your back hit the wall, and his hands framed your face, his lips crashing into yours.

It was fire, instant and consuming. You kissed him back, hard, fingers curling into his jacket, tugging him closer. His mouth was hot, insistent, tasting faintly of whiskey, and his hands slid down to your hips, gripping like he’d been waiting all night. “You’ve been driving me crazy,” he murmured against your lips, breath ragged. “Parading around with him—”

“You’re one to talk,” you shot back, nipping his lip. “Flirting with journalists.”

“Had to,” he said, smirking. “You’re the only one I see.” His lips found your neck, teeth grazing, and you arched into him, stifling a gasp. The risk—Lando inside, the crowd just beyond the glass—it made every touch sharper, every kiss deeper.

It started months ago, after a race in Spa. Lando had dragged you to the paddock, all proud grins and showboating, while Charles had finished P2, all quiet frustration. You’d bumped into him at the hospitality suite, alone for once, and the snark had flown—until it hadn’t. He’d kissed you against a counter, rain still dripping from his hair, and you’d told yourself it was a fluke. But it kept happening—hotel rooms, dark corners, stolen moments between races. The public feud was the perfect cover; every “I can’t stand him” was a lie you both lived.

Now, his hands were under your dress, tracing up your thigh, and you grabbed his wrists, breathless. “We’ll get caught.”

“Let them,” he growled, but he eased back, eyes dark with want. “Not here. Follow me.”

“Where?”

He didn’t answer, just took your hand and led you back inside, weaving through the thinning crowd. Lando was still engrossed, oblivious, as Charles guided you to a side door. You slipped into a quiet hallway, the gala’s hum fading, and he pushed open a door labeled “Private.” It was a small office—empty, dimly lit—and the second it shut, he had you against it, hands roaming, mouth on yours like he couldn’t wait another second.

“God, you’re impossible,” he said, tugging at your dress. “All night, watching you with him—”

“You’re the one playing prince charming,” you countered, yanking his tie loose.

“Only for show,” he murmured, kissing you again, slow and deep. He lifted you onto a desk, stepping between your legs, and it was all heat and chaos—his hands possessive, your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. When he whispered your name, it was raw, desperate, and you felt it in your bones.

Later, panting and tangled, he pressed his forehead to yours, a rare softness in his eyes. “You’re going to ruin me,” he said, half-laughing.

“Good,” you replied, and he kissed you again, tender this time, a secret sealed between you.

Back at the gala, you’d smooth your dress, fix your lipstick, and slide back into Lando’s arm, all smiles and excuses. Charles would return to his orbit, that cool charm intact, and no one would know. Enemies in public, lovers in private—it was your dance, and you played it to perfection

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[kiyawritesforf1]

AGAINST THE ODDS

PART 2

Pairing : Lando Norris x Single Mom!Reader

Against the odds (Part 1)

Theo was safe at home with a sitter, and for once, she wasn’t exhausted. Dressed in a sleek black dress that hugged her figure, she sipped on her drink, letting the warmth of it spread through her. But even as she stood in the middle of it all, she felt apart from it. Like she didn’t quite belong anymore.

And then she saw him.

Lando Norris.

He was leaning against the bar, laughing at something Max Verstappen said, looking like he hadn’t changed at all in the past three years. Maybe a little older, maybe a little sharper around the edges, but still the same Lando who had once kissed her breathless under Monaco’s starlit sky. The same Lando who had promised her the world—only to walk away when things got too real.

Her heart clenched, but she forced herself to look away. She wouldn’t let him ruin this night.

But Lando had already seen her.

His laughter died mid-sentence, his hazel eyes locking onto her across the room. His expression shifted—shock, recognition, something unreadable in the way his lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say her name but didn’t quite dare.

Y/N turned on her heel, heading toward the VIP section, determined to avoid him.

But she should have known better.

“Y/N.”

His voice stopped her in her tracks.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment before exhaling sharply and turning around. “Lando.”

He was closer now, standing just a few feet away, looking at her like he couldn’t believe she was real. “I—I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said, as if that made any difference.

She gave him a tight-lipped smile. “And if you had?”

His jaw tensed. “I would have still come.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Of course, you would have.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words, until Lando finally broke it. “Can we talk?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Y/N, please.” His voice was softer now, almost pleading. “Just five minutes.”

She hesitated. Every part of her screamed to walk away, to not give him even a second of her time. But there was a part of her that needed this—needed to hear what he had to say so she could finally put it behind her.

“Fine,” she said. “Five minutes.”

They moved to a quieter corner of the club, away from prying eyes. Lando ran a hand through his curls, exhaling heavily before he spoke. “I fucked up.”

She let out a humorless laugh. “No kidding.”

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you,” he said quickly. “Or because I didn’t care about Theo.”

She flinched at Theo’s name coming from his lips. “Don’t.”

Lando swallowed hard. “I was scared. I was twenty-five, my career was finally taking off, and suddenly, I was in love with a woman who had a kid. I didn’t know how to handle it. And instead of trying, I ran.”

“You didn’t just run, Lando,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. “You abandoned us. You left without an explanation, without even a goodbye. You let a three-year-old boy wonder why the man he looked up to just disappeared.”

Regret flashed across his face. “I know. And I hate myself for it.”

She folded her arms. “Why are you telling me this now? What do you want?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I just… I saw you, and I realized that I still—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, her voice firm. “Don’t say it.”

Lando blinked, taken aback.

She took a deep breath. “You don’t get to do this, Lando. You don’t get to walk back into my life and expect things to go back to the way they were.”

“I’m not expecting that,” he said quickly. “I just—God, Y/N, I miss you.”

She felt the sting of those words, but she didn’t let it show. “You miss me?” she repeated, tilting her head. “Do you miss Theo too? Do you even know what you did to him?”

His expression crumbled. “I think about him all the time.”

She clenched her jaw. “He doesn’t think about you.”

That was a lie. Theo had asked about Lando for months after he left, his little heart struggling to understand why someone he loved was suddenly gone. But she wouldn’t give Lando the satisfaction of knowing that.

Lando’s gaze dropped. “I deserve that.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Silence settled between them, heavier this time.

Finally, she sighed. “I used to think about this moment,” she admitted. “What I’d say if I ever saw you again. And now that I have, I realize I don’t care anymore.”

Lando’s head snapped up. “Y/N—”

“No,” she cut him off. “You hurt me. You hurt my son. And we moved on. We don’t need you, Lando.”

His eyes were filled with something that looked like desperation, but she didn’t let it affect her.

She took a step back. “This is closure, Lando. For me, at least. I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for, but it’s not with us.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving him standing there with nothing but his regret.

______

When Y/N got home from the party, she found Theo curled up on the couch with his favorite stuffed toy, his tiny brows furrowed in deep thought. He looked up as she walked in, his big, expressive eyes searching hers.

“Mommy,” he started, his voice unusually serious for a four-year-old. “Uncle Max called.”

Y/N froze, her heart skipping a beat. “Oh?” she asked cautiously, slipping off her heels.

Theo nodded. “He said you saw Lando.” His lips pressed into a pout, the same stubborn expression he’d worn the first time he refused to eat broccoli. “Why?”

She sighed, rubbing her temples. Damn Max and his big mouth. She should’ve known he’d say something.

“It was just a party, Theo,” she said gently, crouching to his level. “I didn’t know he’d be there.”

Theo crossed his arms, his little face set with determination. “Did he talk to you?”

Y/N hesitated. She could lie, but Theo was too smart for that. “Yes. But only for a little while.”

His frown deepened. “Did he say sorry?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “He did.”

Theo stared at her for a moment, then huffed. “Too late.” He climbed onto the couch, turning his back to her with a stubborn little grunt. “I don’t like him, Mommy.”

Her chest ached as she sat beside him, brushing his curls back. “I know, baby.”

He leaned against her, small but full of so much understanding beyond his years. “You’re not sad, right?”

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Not anymore.”

Theo studied her face, then nodded, satisfied. “Good.” And just like that, he nestled into her side, trusting her completely, the only man in her life who truly mattered.

[kiyawritesforf1]

Prescription : LOVE

Pairing : Single Dad!Pierre Gasly x Reader

Summary : Pierre Gasly’s four-year-old daughter, Amélie, decides she wants to be a doctor after meeting you—and she’s not taking no for an answer! Between adorable “checkups” and a stubborn race car driver afraid of his own feelings, love might just be the best prescription of all.

Words : 1k

Pierre Gasly had been through a lot, but nothing in his life compared to raising his four-year-old daughter, Amélie, on his own. It was exhausting, rewarding, and at times, terrifying. He’d learned to manage, to juggle his career with fatherhood, but there were moments when he wished he wasn’t doing it alone.

When he brought Amélie to the doctor’s office for a routine checkup, he wasn’t expecting much. He just wanted to make sure she was healthy. But then you walked in, and everything changed.

Amélie sat on the exam table, legs swinging as you checked her vitals. “Are you a real doctor?” she asked, her big brown eyes studying you curiously.

You smiled. “What do you think?”

“You don’t look like one,” she said thoughtfully. “You’re too pretty.”

Pierre coughed, suddenly very interested in the floor. You chuckled, brushing it off.

“Well, thank you, Amélie. But I promise, I’m a real doctor.”

She narrowed her eyes, as if deciding whether to believe you, then nodded. “Okay. But do you fix everything?”

You softened, recognizing the curiosity of a child who had already faced too much uncertainty. “I try my best.”

Pierre watched as Amélie hung onto your every word. It was rare for her to trust strangers so quickly. When you handed her a toy stethoscope from the desk, her eyes lit up.

“Want to be my assistant?” you asked.

Amélie gasped. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirmed, showing her how to listen to Pierre’s heartbeat. She pressed the toy against his chest, giggling.

“Papa, your heart is going super fast!”

Pierre groaned. “That’s because you two are making fun of me.”

You grinned. “She’s got great observational skills. Maybe she’ll be a doctor one day.”

Amélie’s eyes went wide. “I can do that?”

“Of course,” you said. “You can be anything you want.”

Pierre expected her excitement to fade quickly. Instead, she spent the rest of the checkup asking you questions—about medicine, hospitals, and even your favorite part of being a doctor.

By the time they left, Pierre could already tell. Amélie had found her new hero.

A week later, Pierre found her sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by her stuffed animals.

“What are you doing, mon ange?” he asked, crouching beside her.

She adjusted a tiny plastic stethoscope around her neck. “I’m playing doctor!”

Pierre smiled. “Oh yeah? Who taught you?”

“Dr. Y/N!” she chirped. “She said I can be a doctor too. Look, Papa, Teddy has a broken leg.”

Pierre chuckled as she carefully wrapped a napkin around her stuffed bear’s paw.

“Amélie, are you sure you don’t want to be a race car driver like Papa?” he teased.

She scrunched her nose. “No, I want to help people like Dr. Y/N.”

Pierre’s heart softened. He wasn’t sure why, but hearing your name so often in his house was… nice.

But it wasn’t until Amélie got sick that Pierre realized just how much you meant to her.

He woke up to soft whimpers coming from Amélie’s room. When he rushed in, he found her curled up in bed, cheeks flushed with fever.

“Papa,” she whimpered, tears brimming in her big brown eyes.

His heart clenched. “I’m here, mon cœur.”

He tried everything—cold compresses, medicine—but her fever barely budged. Feeling helpless, he did something he never thought he’d do at two in the morning.

He called you.

You answered groggily. “Pierre?”

“Hey, uh, sorry for calling so late,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “It’s Amélie. She’s burning up, and I—”

“I’ll be right there.”

Pierre blinked. “Wait, what? I didn’t mean—”

But you had already hung up.

Twenty minutes later, Pierre opened his front door to find you standing there in sweats, a messy bun on your head, medical bag in hand.

“You actually came?” he asked, surprised.

You rolled your eyes. “Of course I did. Where’s my little assistant?”

Pierre led you inside, and you immediately knelt by Amélie’s bed. She blinked up at you, dazed.

“Dr. Y/N?” she murmured weakly.

“Hey, sweet girl,” you said softly, brushing her curls back. “I heard you weren’t feeling well.”

She sniffled. “You came to help?”

“Always,” you assured her.

Pierre stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you work. The way you checked Amélie with such care—gentle yet focused—made something tighten in his chest.

“She’ll be okay,” you finally said, glancing up at him. “Just a virus, but she needs rest and hydration. I’ll leave some extra meds for her fever.”

Pierre exhaled in relief. “Thank you.”

You smiled at him, and for a moment, the exhaustion on his face softened.

As you packed up, Amélie tugged weakly at your sleeve. “Can you stay?” she mumbled.

Pierre stiffened. “Amélie—”

But you just smiled. “For a little while.”

So you sat beside her, humming softly as she drifted to sleep. And for the first time in a long time, Pierre didn’t feel so alone.

A few days later, Amélie was back to her usual, energetic self. But something had changed—for Pierre.

He found himself thinking about you more than he should. And that scared him.

So when Amélie asked to see you again, Pierre hesitated.

“Mon ange, Dr. Y/N is busy,” he said.

Amélie frowned. “But I miss her.”

Pierre sighed. “She’s a doctor. She helps a lot of people, not just us.”

“She likes us,” Amélie argued. “She stayed when I was sick.”

Pierre’s heart clenched. He knew she was right—but that didn’t mean he could allow himself to get attached.

When he saw you at the next race weekend, Charles Leclerc was quick to notice. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” Pierre muttered.

“That ‘I’m in trouble’ look,” Lando Norris chimed in.

Carlos Sainz smirked. “Sure. And I drive for Red Bull.”

Before Pierre could argue, you walked past, giving him a small wave. His heart skipped a beat.

But when he found you laughing with another doctor, he panicked. He did the only thing he knew how to do—he pushed you away.

“You don’t have to keep checking on us,” he said abruptly.

Your smile faltered. “What?”

“I mean, you’ve done enough. Amélie’s fine. You don’t need to—get involved.”

You swallowed hard. “So instead, you hurt me first?”

Pierre let out a shaky breath. “I know. And I hate myself for it.”

You whispered, “Just because you’re scared doesn’t mean you have to be alone.” Then you walked away, leaving Pierre with an ache in his chest.

Later that night, Amélie crossed her arms. “You made Dr. Y/N sad.”

Pierre sighed. “Mon ange, it’s complicated.”

“No, it’s not,” she huffed. “You like her.”

Pierre stared at her. His four-year-old had just called him out better than his friends.

With a deep breath, he called you. “I messed up.”

Amélie grabbed the phone. “Dr. Y/N? I miss you.”

You hesitated, then whispered, “Okay.”

When you arrived, Amélie hugged you tight. Pierre swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I want you, Y/N.”

Tears pricked your eyes. “Just don’t push me away again.”

“I won’t,” he promised, sealing it with a kiss that felt like home.

Amélie giggled. “Finally!”

And for the first time in a long time, Pierre Gasly wasn’t afraid of the future.

Because finally, he wasn’t facing it alone.

[kiyawritesforf1]

IMPORTANT !!!

Anyone interested in anything specific can request!!!

Requests are open!

[kiyawritesforf1]

Love in the Blind Spot

Pairing : Lando Norris x Sainz!Reader

Summary : Y/N spent a year hiding her identity as Carlos Sainz’s sister while dating Lando Norris, but when the truth finally comes out, chaos—and a very protective older brother—ensues.

Y/N had spent years keeping her life separate from Formula 1.

She loved her brother, but she hated the attention that came with being Carlos Sainz’s sister. The cameras, the headlines, the way people treated her differently once they knew her last name—she wanted none of it.

So when she met Lando Norris outside of the F1 world, she saw an opportunity.

He didn’t know who she was.

And she didn’t tell him.

For a year, she let herself be just Y/N. No paddock, no press, no constant questions about Carlos. Just her and Lando, existing in their own little world.

But secrets don’t stay hidden forever.

And this one was about to come crashing down.

Carlos Realizes

Carlos Sainz was a patient man. But something wasn’t adding up.

Over the past year, he had noticed the changes in Lando. The hushed phone calls, the unexplained grins after texting someone, the way he sometimes disappeared on off-weekends without telling anyone where he was going.

Carlos wasn’t stupid. Lando was obviously dating someone.

But when he caught Lando FaceTiming someone late at night, smiling in that dopey, affectionate way Carlos had never seen before, a strange feeling settled in his stomach.

Then, one day, while scrolling through Instagram, a picture caught his attention.

A group shot from a café in Monaco. A familiar café.

And right there, barely noticeable in the background, was his sister.

Carlos frowned. She had never mentioned going there. She never mentioned anything about her personal life these days.

But what made his heart stop was the way Lando’s hand was resting on hers under the table—small, subtle, but undeniably intimate.

Carlos stared at the photo. His brain refused to accept it.

No. No way.

But once the thought was in his head, he couldn’t ignore it.

The little things started making sense. The secretive smiles. The way Lando had accidentally called him “bro” one too many times recently. The way Y/N had been avoiding family gatherings, always with a vague excuse.

It felt like a punch to the gut.

His teammate.

His friend.

Had been dating his little sister.

And never told him.

Carlos was already dialing Y/N’s number before he could think twice.

The Confrontation

“You have two seconds to explain,” Carlos said the moment Y/N picked up.

Y/N froze. “…Explain what?”

Carlos let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Don’t play dumb, hermana. You and Lando.”

Silence.

Then, a quiet sigh. “…How did you find out?”

Carlos clenched his jaw. “So it’s true?”

Y/N hesitated before whispering, “Yes.”

Carlos closed his eyes. He didn’t even know what to feel. Anger? Betrayal? Confusion?

“How long?” he asked, voice tight.

“…A year.”

Carlos nearly dropped his phone.

“A YEAR?!”

Y/N winced. “Carlos, please—”

“A whole damn YEAR, Y/N?” Carlos’s voice was rising now. “And neither of you thought to tell me?!”

“I wanted to,” she admitted. “But I knew how you’d react.”

Carlos scoffed. “Oh, you knew? So you just decided to keep me in the dark?”

“I didn’t want you to make a big deal out of it.”

Carlos ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “Of course it’s a big deal! You’re my sister!”

“I know,” Y/N said softly. “But that’s exactly why I didn’t tell you. I wanted to be just me, not ‘Carlos Sainz’s little sister.’”

Carlos sighed heavily. He understood, but that didn’t mean he liked it.

“Does he—” Carlos swallowed. “Does he treat you right?”

Y/N smiled a little. “He makes me happy, Carlos.”

Carlos groaned. “That’s not an answer.”

“Yes, he treats me right. He loves me.”

Carlos let out a long breath. He still wanted to strangle Lando. But more than that, he wanted to hear it from him directly.

Because if Lando Norris had been secretly dating his sister for a year?

Then the next conversation was going to be a lot worse.

Lando’s Worst Nightmare

Lando had faced high-pressure situations before. Last-lap battles, tricky tire strategies, press conferences filled with impossible questions.

None of them compared to this.

Carlos had asked to “have a chat” after the team meeting, and Lando had never felt his stomach drop so fast in his life.

Now, here he was, standing in the McLaren motorhome, watching as Carlos crossed his arms, his expression unreadable.

Lando swallowed hard. “Hey, mate.”

Carlos didn’t return the greeting. He just tilted his head slightly. “You’re dating my sister.”

Lando forced a nervous chuckle. “So, you’ve heard.”

Carlos blinked slowly. “I heard it directly from her. You, on the other hand, never thought to mention it?”

Lando scratched the back of his neck. “In my defense… I didn’t know.”

Carlos arched a brow. “For a year?”

Lando sighed. “I swear, if I had known, I wouldn’t have kept it from you.”

Carlos exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Lando, do you have any idea how weird this is for me?”

Lando grimaced. “I can imagine.”

Carlos took a step closer, his voice dropping slightly. “Tell me something, Lando.”

Lando tensed. “Yeah?”

Carlos held his gaze. “Are you serious about her?”

Lando’s breath caught slightly at the directness of the question.

This wasn’t just a teammate talking. This was an older brother who loved his sister more than anything.

And Lando had only one answer.

“Yes,” he said, no hesitation. “I love her.”

Carlos stared at him for a long moment, reading him, weighing his words.

Then, finally, he sighed. “Good.”

Lando blinked. “Good?”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “You think I’d let you off that easy?”

Lando gulped. “Uh—”

Carlos smirked, but it wasn’t comforting. “Just know, if you ever hurt her…”

Lando nodded quickly. “Yeah. Got it. Loud and clear.”

Carlos clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing just a little too hard. “Welcome to the family, Norris.”

Lando wasn’t sure if he had just won or signed his own death sentence.

The Paddock Chaos

Y/N had successfully avoided the F1 paddock for years.

But now, she was walking through it hand-in-hand with Lando Norris.

And everyone was staring.

Charles smirked. “So, you’re real.”

Daniel slung an arm around Lando. “When’s the wedding?”

Y/N and Lando nearly choked.

Carlos’s eyes darkened. “Absolutely not.”

Lando held up his hands. “Let’s get through today first, yeah?”

The teasing continued all day, and Y/N quickly realized that dating an F1 driver—while also being related to another—meant there was no escape.

But that night, curled up with Lando, she knew one thing for sure.

She wouldn’t trade this for anything.

[kiyawritesforf1]

Part 2 of against the odd ?

Lando Norris x Single Mom!Reader

[kiyawritesforf1]

Against the Odds

Pairing : Lando Norris x Single Mom!Reader

Summary : Six years after walking away from love, Y/N finds herself drawn back into Lando Norris’s orbit—but with a son to protect and a heart still healing, risking it all again might be the hardest race she’s ever faced

Words : 2.5k

PART 2

The Monaco sunset painted the marina in hues of gold and pink, the air thick with salt and the hum of luxury. Y/N stood near the yacht’s railing, her sundress hugging her curves as she kept an eye on her three-year-old son, Theo, who waddled dangerously close to the edge. “Theo, buddy, stay back here with Mommy, okay?” she called, her voice a mix of warmth and exasperation. At 31, Y/N carried herself with a quiet strength—six years of life beyond Lando Norris had sculpted her into a woman who knew her worth, a single mom who’d fought for every inch of her independence.

She hadn’t planned on being here, surrounded by Formula 1’s elite at this post-race party. A friend in the paddock had insisted, promising Theo would love the cars and the vibe. He’d been buzzing all day, his tiny McLaren cap—a gift from that same friend—tilted adorably on his head. Y/N didn’t know much about racing, but the names floated around her: Verstappen, Leclerc, Norris. Especially Norris. She’d seen him earlier, laughing with his team, all boyish charm and reckless energy. At 25, he was too young, too wild—yet her eyes had lingered longer than they should’ve.

“Need a hand with the little man?” a voice broke through her thoughts. She turned to find Lando Norris leaning against the railing, a beer dangling from his fingers. His dark curls were mussed by the breeze, and his hazel eyes glinted with something playful yet piercing. He was shorter than she’d imagined, but his presence was magnetic.

Y/N tilted her head, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I’ve been wrangling him for three years. I think I’ve got it, Norris.”

He grinned, crouching down to Theo’s level. “Hey, mate, you like McLaren?” Theo nodded, clutching his toy car tightly. “I gots a car too!” he chirped, holding it up proudly.

Lando’s face lit up. “That’s a fast one! Faster than mine, I bet.” He ruffled Theo’s hair, then glanced up at Y/N, his gaze catching on the curve of her neck before meeting her eyes. “He’s a cool kid. Takes after his mom, I reckon.”

Her pulse quickened, but she kept her tone light. “Flattery’s cute, but I’m not here to be charmed by a racer six years my junior.”

He stood, unfazed. “Good thing I’m not just any racer, then.”

The air shifted, a spark flickering between them. She should’ve laughed it off—should’ve remembered the life she’d built, the responsibilities that anchored her. But there was something in his stare, a hunger that mirrored a part of her she’d buried long ago.

The party pulsed around them, drivers and guests mingling under the stars. Max Verstappen cornered Lando near the bar, his voice cutting through the noise. “P3 today, mate. You’re off your game—too busy eyeing the scenery?”

Lando smirked, glancing at Y/N as she sat with Theo asleep in her lap. “Some scenery’s worth it.”

Max followed his gaze, then snorted. “She’s got a kid, Norris. You sure you’re ready for that kind of lap time?”

Y/N caught the exchange, sipping her wine. Max’s eyes met hers, and he gave a nod—half warning, half amusement. “Watch out for him,” he said, loud enough for her to hear. “He’s a handful.”

She arched a brow. “I’ve handled worse.”

Nearby, Charles Leclerc joined in, his charm effortless. “Lando, she’s out of your league, mate. That’s a woman, not one of your grid girls.”

“Shut up, Charles,” Lando muttered, but his eyes stayed on Y/N, a quiet intensity simmering beneath his playful exterior.

She shifted Theo’s weight, her mind churning. They were right—he was young, reckless, a world apart from her. She’d clawed her way out of a broken relationship, built a life for her and Theo. Lando was a fling waiting to happen, a headline in the making. Yet the way he looked at her—like she was more than a mom, more than her past—stirred something dangerous.

“Mommy, I sleepy,” Theo mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“Okay, baby,” she whispered, brushing his hair back. She glanced at Lando. “Know anywhere quiet on this floating circus?”

He nodded, stepping closer. “Follow me.”

Below deck, the cabin was small, the hum of the party muffled. Y/N laid Theo on the bed, tucking a blanket around him as he curled up with his car. Lando watched from the doorway, his presence filling the tight space.

“You’re good with him,” he said, his voice softer now. “It’s… I dunno, impressive.”

She straightened, brushing her hands on her dress. “Three years of practice. You get used to it.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s easy.” He stepped closer, the air thickening. “You’re not what I expected, you know. Six years older, a kid, and you’re still—”

“Still what?” she challenged, her heart thudding.

“Still the hottest woman I’ve ever seen.” His voice dropped, raw and honest.

Her breath caught. “Lando, I’m not some fantasy. I’ve got baggage—real baggage.”

“I don’t care.” He was close now, too close, his hand hovering near her arm. “I’ve been thinking about you all night.”

She should’ve stepped back. Theo was right there, her life was right there, and Lando was a risk she couldn’t afford. But her body betrayed her, leaning into the heat of him. “This is a bad idea,” she whispered, even as her hand found his chest.

“Then why does it feel so good?” He tilted her chin up, and their lips met—slow at first, tentative, then hungry. His hands slid to her waist, pulling her against him, and she melted, her fingers tangling in his curls. He tasted like danger, like freedom, and she hated how much she craved it.

Theo stirred, a soft “Mommy?” breaking the spell. She pulled away, breathless, guilt flooding her. “I can’t do this,” she said, stepping back. “Not with him here. Not with… us.”

Lando’s chest heaved, but he nodded. “I’ll wait.”

The next day, the McLaren garage buzzed with pre-race energy. Y/N had reluctantly agreed to bring Theo—her friend’s idea, a treat for his car obsession. He tugged her hand, eyes wide. “Mommy, look! Big cars!”

“Yeah, baby, they’re super big,” she said, smiling despite the knot in her chest. She hadn’t slept, replaying that kiss, the war inside her. Lando was a fantasy, a reckless dream. She was a mom first—always.

Then she saw him, race suit tied around his waist, grinning as he spotted them. “There’s my VIPs!” He scooped Theo up, spinning him around. “You ready to see my car, mate?”

Theo squealed, “Yes! Vroom vroom!”

Lando set him down, leading them to his McLaren. “This one’s mine. Fastest car here, right, Theo?”

“Super fast!” Theo clapped, bouncing on his toes.

Y/N watched, her heart twisting. He was good with Theo—too good. It made it harder to push him away. “You don’t have to do this,” she said quietly.

“I want to.” His eyes locked on hers, steady and sure. “Both of you.”

Daniel Ricciardo strolled over, smirking. “Lando’s playing dad now? Mate, you’re in deep.”

“Shut it, Dan,” Lando shot back, but his cheeks flushed.

Daniel winked at Y/N. “He’s smitten. You’re trouble, though—MILF vibes. Poor kid doesn’t stand a chance.”

She laughed, but the word trouble echoed in her mind. That’s what this was—trouble she couldn’t afford.

That night, Theo was asleep in their hotel room, his toy car clutched in his hand. A soft knock pulled Y/N from her thoughts. She opened the door to find Lando, hair damp, eyes searching hers.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said, stepping inside as she shut the door. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

She crossed her arms, defenses up. “Lando, I’m a mom. I don’t get to be reckless. Theo’s my world.”

“I know.” He closed the gap, his voice low. “But you’re still a woman. You deserve to feel that, too.”

Her resolve wavered. She’d locked that part of herself away—desire, need—after Theo’s dad left. Lando saw it, saw her, and it terrified her. “You’re too young. This can’t work.”

“Age doesn’t mean shit,” he said, cupping her face. “I’ve dated girls my age—none of them were you.”

She kissed him, hard and desperate, pouring every doubt, every fear into it. He groaned, hands roaming her back, her hips, pulling her flush against him. They stumbled to the couch, her straddling him as his fingers traced her thighs, slipping under her dress. “You’re driving me insane,” he murmured, lips grazing her neck.

She arched into him, heat flooding her, but guilt clawed at her mind. “Lando, wait—what am I doing?”

He stilled, breathing hard. “What do you want, Y/N?”

She didn’t know. She wanted him—God, she did—but the stakes were too high. “I need time,” she whispered.

He nodded, kissing her forehead. “Take it. I’m not going anywhere.”

Weeks passed, their connection growing in stolen moments. Lando called after races, his voice a lifeline. “Theo asked if I could drive him in my car today,” he’d laugh, and she’d hear Theo in the background: “Lando, go fast!”

One weekend, he showed up at her place with a toy steering wheel. “For my co-driver,” he said, winking at Theo, who shrieked, “Me! Me drive!”

Y/N watched them play, her heart aching. Theo adored him, and Lando fit too easily into their lives. But the world noticed—paparazzi caught them at a park, headlines screaming: Norris and the Mystery Mom. Her phone buzzed with judgment, friends warning her: “He’s a kid, Y/N. This won’t last.”

She confronted him one night, Theo asleep upstairs. “This is insane, Lando. You’re 25. You should be out there, not tied to us.”

He grabbed her hands. “I don’t want ‘out there.’ I want you—both of you. I don’t care what they say.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “I do. I can’t ruin your life.”

“You’re not.” He pulled her close, kissing her slow and deep. “You’re making it better.”

She surrendered, their bodies tangling on the couch, a slow burn of need and love. His hands worshipped her, her doubts fading in the heat of him. When they lay spent, he whispered, “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

And for the time being she believed. But was it really the truth ?

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