#oneshots:ln4
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Note
Hi ! As a pescatarian girly and as someone who has recently started to like Lando, I kept thinking about him with pescatarian!reader, because you know opposites attracts and also it made me think of the olive theory from 'How I met your mother', can be fic or smau
(also I'm the anon who requested the Charles fic and I was wondering if you gave names or emojis to your anons 🤔)
ahhh hi😇😇 thank u sm for sending another ask in. verrryy into this! ive never watched himym but i HAVE heard of the olive theory and genuinely think it can be so true. i also think like sharing food/giving certain parts of ur meal to ur partner is so sweet so i loved this a lot🥺🥺
also, tbh i have never had a consistent enough anon to name them/give them an emoji so i would loveee LOVE to do that🙏🏻 pls let me know what i should call u❤️ (and if anyone wants to be a regular/semi-regular anon and give themselves an emoji/name pls do!!!) ANYWAY alright i hope u enjoy— it’s a just a short ficlet 😌💖
LN: quid pro quo
pairing(s): lando norris x reader [read on ao3]
word count: 1.2k
“Eugh,” Lando says, feigning a gag as he looks at the plate of food set in front of you, “That’s disgusting. I don’t understand how you can put that in your mouth.”
Slowly, you raise an eyebrow at him, looking between your plate and Lando’s screwed-up expression; you point at your food, “Salmon? You think salmon is disgusting? Are you joking right now?”
He shakes his head fervently, a grimace still stuck on his face, “It’s gross.”
A laugh, loud and guffawing erupts from your mouth as you realise he’s being entirely serious. He’s fixated on your meal, frowning as if the fish has severely insulted him in some way. Quickly, you clap your hand over your mouth, concerned you’ll offend him if you keep laughing like that. This is one of a handful of dates you’ve been on together— clearly the first you’ve ordered seafood on— and you’re still trying to make a good impression on Lando.
“Wait,” you collect yourself, breathing deeply so you don’t fall into a fit of giggles again, “You’re not allergic are you?”
“No,” he shrugs, “I just hate fish. You’ve never heard that?”
You snort a little indelicately, already going back to eating your salmon, “‘You’ve never heard that?’,” you tease, “Do you think I stalk you on the internet, Norris?”
He grins that small sheepish grin you like so much as a light blush blooms on his cheeks. You’re very fond of him really. He’s cute in a scrappy kind of way; he’s funny and charming, a little bit dumb sometimes; and he’s into you, which is always a bonus. You’re not together— not quite— just seeing each other when you both have time, but it’s been going very nicely if you do say so yourself.
You like him.
He likes you.
Lando rolls his eyes, and purses his lips in an attempt not to let you see the smile that he’s trying to hide, “Don’t you? Stalk me on the internet?”
“Never,” you answer resolutely, thinking blatantly of that night after you’d first met him when you fell down a rabbit hole, spending a good hour watching thirst traps of him on Instagram before coming to your senses, “Not once.”
He hums, unconvinced, “Alright.”
Alright. You make a face, almost stick your tongue out at him but think better of it at the last second. He laughs— giggles— at you. You look away from him, down at your plate, trying to hide the smile that spreads and spreads behind your hair. God, you like him. You’re trying not to let it get away from you. You get the impression that he’s not huge on relationships, and you’re trying hard to be casual about him. It’s difficult— mostly because everything feels so easy when you’re together.
“So,” you start as you push a forkful of salmon and leafy greens around your plate, “Hate to break it to you, but I’m a pescetarian.”
“Um,” Lando asks around a mouthful of half-chewed food, “What’s that mean?”
You stifle a laugh, “Like a vegetarian, but I eat seafood.”
He swallows and makes another face, similar to the earlier one. You can see this is hard for him to process, he clearly dislikes seafood to a degree that you hadn’t quite understood until now. It’s funny. It’s another thing to add to the growing list of reasons you fancy Lando Norris. Though you would think that as a pescetarian you’d want him to like fish, but you suppose by not eating them he’s just saving all the sea animals that you’re not— quid pro quo.
“What about, like,” he waves his fork around, evidently still wondering why you’d eat seafood voluntarily, “just being a vegetarian?”
You shrug, “Vegetables are boring.”
“Right. Better than eating fish though.”
“I like fish.”
He shakes his head, “I don’t get it… It’s— they’re slimy and they smell and they’ve got fucking beady little eyes. It’s not natural.”
“Okay,” you laugh brightly at his despondent expression, “I do need to eat them, unfortunately. Otherwise, I’d probably die of malnutrition, or I dunno, scurvy.”
He groans, hanging his head so that all you can see of his face is that mop of brown curls. You think of your second date when you’d kissed him for the first time in your stairwell and how you’d threaded a hand into it— and they were soft and not heavy with product the way that you hate. The way he’d smelt like expensive cologne and tasted both smokey and sugary at the same time, just like the whiskey and cokes he’d been having at the bar. There’s a soft smile playing at your lips when he finally looks up.
“Does it bother you?” you ask, “That I eat fish.”
He shrugs, shakes his head in a non-committal way that could be either answer and does that little grin again. The one that means he’s going to say something that you’ll find either unbearably cute or embarrassingly funny.
“Yes,” he says, grin not subsiding, “How am I supposed to kiss you when you’ve got fish breath.”
Your eyebrows shoot up and a shocked laugh bubbles from your mouth, you try to ignore the stirring feeling in your gut at the words how am I supposed to kiss you in favour of responding to his lack of tact Try, being the keyword there. It somersaults in your head, how am I supposed to kiss you he said, like he was thinking of doing it again. Which, okay, of course, he’s thinking of doing it again. You understand what this is— but there was an unmistakable fondness there that you just can't shake.
Anyway, you push thoughts of kissing him aside, he’d still accused you of having fish breath, “Wow,” you say dryly, with no malice at all as much as you try to feign it, “You say that to all the girls?”
He blushes, his tan cheeks turning a very pleasant red as he properly realises what he’d said, “Shit. No— oh my god— I’m sorry. I just meant—”
You wave him off, laughing, “I know what you meant. You’re good, Lando.”
“Phew,” he lets out a breath of relief, his nervous laughter punctuating the air between you, without meaning to he says, “God, I thought I’d just fucked it.”
You furrow your brows and frown, confused, “No. You couldn’t.”
You watch him scrub a hand over his face, embarrassed, before it falls away and he gives you a sheepish little grin that says he’s happy to hear that. Toothy, eyes squinted and carving dimples into his cheeks. Your face feels warm and you smile back, biting your bottom lip on the smile so it doesn’t grow and grow to cover your whole face.
Later, after you’ve finished lunch and spent too much time talking over a too-sticky table in your favourite pub, Lando kisses you up against a tree in the park by your apartment. You put your hand in his soft curls and you smell cologne and taste what he’s been drinking as he presses his tongue into yours. The coarse hair of his moustache brushes against your lips and you kiss back with equal gusto. You pull away when it feels like you two are veering into too inappropriate territory for this public park. He chases you, but you laugh softly, pressing a perfunctory closed-mouth kiss to the corner of his mouth. He groans, laughs, and puts his forehead against yours.
You hum, “I guess my fish breath doesn’t bother you so much, huh.”
“Fuck,” he breathes, “You’re never going to let that go are you.”
You shake your head ever so slightly, “Not as long as I live, Norris.”
#this made me really crave salmon but i cant have salmon because salmon COSTS $42 AUD PER KILOGRAM#lando norris#f1#formula 1#lando norris x reader#f1 x reader#f1 fanfic#🍓anon#oneshots:ln4
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
i promise i'm writing my max oneshot CURRENTLY but i had to get the sillies out about this really badly. australian spring/summer i love u i love u i love u!!!! also at this point i think the difference between a one shot and drabble on this account is non existent and simply based on vibes. this is only a one shot bcs it feels a bit more coherent i suppose?
LN: australia street
pairing(s): lando norris x piastri!reader, oscar piastri & piastri!reader
word count: 1.3k+
It all feels very familiar, nostalgic even— though you've never been in quite this situation before. With Oscar sure; you always rope your brother into doing things when you're in Australia again. But this is the first time that Lando's joined you.
It's nice, to be home.
Not that it's yours or Oscar's home anymore (that's not true. It always will be, no matter where in the world you jet off to). It's certainly not Lando's. It's hard to put words to the feeling, you just know it's nice.
You're driving, of course, because Oscar and Lando can never decide which of the two of them should drive. So you'd snatched the keys to the Piastri family '96 Holden Commodore and slammed the driver door behind you before either of them could say boo. Lando had snagged the passenger seat in a mad dash that you'd watched play out in the rear-view mirror, while Oscar had complained all the way to the backseat.
"Whered'ya wanna go?", you half turn your head to ask Oscar, checking your blind spot at the same time.
Oscar hums as he thinks. You can feel Lando's eyes burning a hole into the side of your face.
"Do you remember that fish and chips shop—"
You do, "Where Dad used to take us? Yeah, it closed down," then you add, "Besides, Lando hates fish. Jeez, Osc."
"Ah fuck," Oscar groans, "That sucks."
Lando makes a noise, indignant, "I can't believe you forgot. It's my one thing."
Oscar rolls his eyes, "It's not your one thing, Lando. You have plenty of things."
They start to bicker, devolving into an argument that you only understand about half of, about pet peeves and the things the other one does that get on the other’s nerves. You chime in a few times to agree about Oscar’s annoying habits, the things you'd grown up complaining to your Mum about. Quietly to yourself, you decide on a route to an old Italian place you know is still kicking around— they won't mind.
You roll your window down, feel the balmy spring breeze in your hair, on your face. It smells like the bloom of jasmine flowers, of warmth, of the smoke of people BBQ-ing in their backyards. You breathe deeply, absently aware of the petered-out conversation. Oscar dozing in the backseat like he always does. Lando looking out the other window, watching gum trees and bottlebrush on the sides of the road. 'M looking for koala’s he'd said the other day, which had made you laugh. You'd been tempted to tell him about drop bears, but you're sure that Daniel had already warned him of the dangers.
"Do you miss it here?", Lando asks suddenly.
"Mm," you affirm, "I do."
"A lot?"
You shrug at the question, not sure why he's pressing it, "Sure, Lan."
"Then why do you travel with Oscar?", you spare a glance at him, he's fiddling with a bracelet on his wrist, the one you'd made him that matched the one you'd made Oscar that matched the one you wore, "Don't you want to, y'know, settle down here?"
You raise an eyebrow, scoff a little, "God, I'm not an old maid, dude. I'm not ready to pop out babies yet. Far out."
"No, no," he's blushing, you know he is, you don't even need to check, his tan cheeks growing a little darker, redder, "Fuck. That's not what I meant. You know what I meant."
You snicker. You do. But Lando is fun to rile up.
A latent sigh leaves your mouth, "I dunno," you admit, "It's my favourite place. But I have the rest of my life to come back, and besides, it's more special like this. I appreciate it more when I'm only here for a short time."
Lando hums, turning your words over in his head. You think he may be about to say something else—
"Do you like it here, Lan?"
You're not sure why you ask. No, you are. There's this fantasy that keeps floating around in your head. Little bits of it have been coming true on this trip. Lando standing in the garage with your Dad, talking about project cars and then showing him grease covered parts, explaining where they'll eventually end up. Your Mum roping you, Lando and Oscar into helping her cut vegetables at the kitchen counter. Your younger sisters giving you loaded looks behind Lando's back, you trying to pretend you have no idea what they mean by them. It's a pipedream, it's weird and you need to stop doing it.
But you can't. Sometimes, you look at Lando and your thoughts just pick up and run away with themselves.
Lando nods in answer to your question, "'Course. It's very," he trails off, fingers finding the beads on his bracelet again, he hums, "It's very you. Hm, does that make sense?"
You feel warm all of a sudden. Something creeps up your neck, settles at the base of your skull. You blink a few times, remind yourself to focus on the road.
You skitter out a laugh, an awkward thing, you're trying not to look at him, your hands tight on the wheel, "Yeah— uh— it does. I s'pose."
You lapse into silence for a short while. The sky is eggshell orange and purple and red, stretching out in front of you. Punctuated by the star-brightness of the street lights, terracotta tiled roofs and the shadowed branches of towering Eucalyptus trees. It fills you with a feeling you can't name— there's nothing else quite like it out there. Not in London, not in Monaco, not in any of the many other cities you've traveled to or lived in for a stint.
They're all gorgeous and interesting in their own right, but they don't live up to the special peculiarities of suburban Australia. The flash of a possum's eyes where it's skittering across a powerline. The faint sounds of kookaburras laughing as dusk falls. The glow of families watching TV in living rooms coming through screen doors left unlocked. Old men tinkering in wide open garages. Wheelie bins with red and yellow lids out on the curb— cricket stumps painted on the sides.
It’s special. In the way that home is always special.
Then Lando says, apropos of nothing, “Pretty.”
“Huh.”
He shrugs, gestures around at the neighbourhood, “It’s pretty. Warm too. I can see why your parents live here. Raised you guys here. I can see myself doing that.”
You decide not to tell him about the bipolarity of Melbourne weather. Cold to hot to wet to dry to gusty all in a few hours. You let him enjoy the rare consistent spring day. And you try not think about what he’s saying, what he’s admitting. You try not to think about what you might be admitting, driving him through streets you used to play in, to places you used to go with your family, talking about settling down, like it’s on the horizon anytime soon.
It’s not— you’ve not met anyone to settle down with.
At least you don’t think you have.
It’s certainly not Lando, in the passenger seat of the old family car, fresh off a day of meeting your grandparents for fuckssake and taking a tour of your childhood bedroom. Laughing at your old boyband posters and the teenage girl shrine you’d kept to Niki Lauda. It can’t be Lando, who you turn to when you can’t turn to your brother, who gives you his hoodies when you’re cold even though he’s colder, who’s come on a bloody trip to Australia in his four week break because you’d said you wouldn’t know what to do without him for that long.
It can’t. It’s not.
He’s talking in hypotheticals and you’re getting carried away with yourself again. Like you always do.
listened to this playlist while writing😌
514 notes
·
View notes