#wroetolando

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where lando crashes during a race, and you’re the first person he calls from the hospital, leading to the world discovering your relationship and realizing just how much you mean to each other

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: control - halsey

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: crash?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The moment Lando’s car spun out, your heart dropped into your stomach.

The race had been tense from the start—too many close calls, too many drivers fighting for positions that didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Lando had been holding his ground, P4 with only a few laps to go, when suddenly—disaster.

One second, his car was stable. The next, the rear tires lost grip, and the McLaren was skidding sideways at high speed. The impact with the barrier was sickening, the sound of carbon fiber shattering ringing through the speakers of the live feed.

Your breath caught in your throat as the commentators fell silent for a moment before scrambling to process what had just happened.

“Big crash for Lando Norris!”

The camera panned to the wreckage—his car sat crumpled against the barriers, front wing completely destroyed, one wheel hanging at an unnatural angle. But you weren’t looking at the car. You were searching for movement. Searching for Lando.

Seconds felt like hours.

Then, finally, relief—Lando’s helmet moved. His hands gripped the steering wheel before he slowly, painfully, started to unbuckle himself.

“He’s moving,” someone in the McLaren garage muttered, but it wasn’t enough. Not for you.

You needed to see him walk away. You needed to hear his voice, to know he was okay.

Marshals and medical staff were at his car within moments. The camera showed him trying to get out, but something was wrong. He hesitated, gripping his side as if in pain. That was when the medical team stepped in, helping him out of the cockpit and guiding him toward the ambulance.

Your phone buzzed with messages. You ignored them all.

All that mattered was getting to him.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and stress.

You practically ran through the halls, only stopping when you spotted the familiar papaya-colored jacket outside one of the rooms. McLaren’s team principal looked up, eyes heavy with concern.

“He’s okay,” he said quickly, holding up a hand to stop your panic. “Bruised ribs, mild concussion. They’re keeping him for observation, but he’s stable.”

The breath you’d been holding finally escaped, but it didn’t stop the shaking in your hands. “Can I see him?”

“He asked for you.”

That was all you needed to hear.

Pushing the door open, you found Lando sitting up in bed, looking far too smug for someone who had just been pulled from a wrecked F1 car. His hair was messy, a cut visible on his temple where his helmet must have pressed too hard.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite emergency contact,” he teased, voice slightly hoarse. “Took you long enough.”

You didn’t say anything. You just crossed the room in three steps and wrapped your arms around him—gently, careful of his injuries, but firmly enough that he knew just how scared you had been.

His breath hitched. Then, his arms circled your waist, holding you just as tightly. “Hey, I’m okay.”

“You weren’t moving,” you whispered into his shoulder. “I thought—”

“I know,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

You pulled back just enough to cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

He grinned, despite the exhaustion in his eyes. “No promises.”

You smacked his arm lightly, making him wince. “Ow. Injured man, remember?”

“Then stop making jokes and rest.”

Lando just sighed, leaning back into the pillows. “Stay?”

You didn’t even hesitate.

Climbing into the narrow hospital bed beside him, you carefully curled up against his side, mindful of his bruised ribs. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together as his breathing evened out.

For the first time since the crash, you felt like you could finally breathe too.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The world found out about Lando’s injuries almost immediately. Social media exploded with concern, fellow drivers sent messages of support, and McLaren released official updates.

But what people didn’t expect was the blurry photo of you curled up beside Lando in the hospital bed, posted to his Instagram story with a simple caption:

“Best medicine.”

The internet lost its mind.

Until now, your relationship had been private—close friends and family knew, but the public had been none the wiser. That changed overnight. Suddenly, fan edits, speculations, and messages flooded in.

Carlos was the first to text.

Carlos: “So this is how I find out you have a girlfriend? After a crash? Dramatic.”

Lando: “Now is not the time, Sainz.”

Oscar wasn’t much better.

Oscar: “At least tell me you scolded him properly.”

You: “Oh, he got an earful.”

And then, of course, there was Max.

Max: “I knew it. Only someone special would put up with his nonsense.”

Lando read the messages over your shoulder, laughing even though it made him wince. “I think they approve.”

You rolled your eyes. “They’re lucky I didn’t strangle you for scaring me like that.”

His expression softened. “I really am sorry.”

“I know,” you murmured, squeezing his hand. “Just… be more careful, okay?”

He nodded, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I promise.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two Weeks Later

Lando had never been one to enjoy sitting still. Recovery was torture for him—forced rest, limited movement, no racing. But if there was one upside, it was that he finally got to spend uninterrupted time with you.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he grumbled as you forced him to stay on the couch, a blanket draped over him.

“Enjoying making sure you don’t injure yourself further? Absolutely.”

He huffed. “I feel fine.”

“You’re still bruised, your concussion isn’t fully healed, and you wince every time you try to move too fast,” you listed off, arms crossed. “Sit still and let me take care of you.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “You like taking care of me?”

“I like making sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

“Same thing.”

You sighed, exasperated, but he just pulled you down beside him, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “For being here. For worrying. For everything.”

You smiled against his lips. “Always.”

And in that moment, as he pulled you closer, you knew—no matter how scary the crashes, how stressful the races, you’d always be right here, waiting at the finish line.

Because loving Lando Norris was always worth the risk.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where the world doesn’t know you’re an amputee, but lando does—and he helps in all the little ways that matter, until one day, a fall at silverstone reveals everything

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: apocalypse - cigarettes after sex

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You never expected Lando to treat you any differently when he found out about your prosthetic leg. You’d been prepared for hesitation, for awkward questions, maybe even for pity. But you got none of that.

Instead, you got Lando Norris—the same goofy, teasing, fiercely protective man he always was. The one who made you laugh until your stomach hurt, the one who knew exactly how you liked your tea, and the one who never, not once, made your prosthetic feel like a limitation.

The fans didn’t know. Not because you were ashamed, but because it wasn’t something you talked about publicly. To Lando, it was just a part of you—something he adapted to without hesitation, in all the little ways that mattered.

They didn’t see those moments.

They didn’t see the way he naturally adjusted his pace to match yours when you were walking through the paddock. Or how he always carried a small first-aid kit in his backpack, just in case your prosthetic irritated your skin. They didn’t see how he looked at you—not with pity, but with absolute, unwavering love.

But one day, the world found out.

And everything changed.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The Way He Walked

Lando always walked on your left side.

At first, you thought it was a coincidence. He never brought it up, never made a show of it, but it was always the same. Whether you were strolling down pit lane, navigating a crowded paddock, or walking through an airport, he positioned himself so he could be closest to your prosthetic.

In case you lost your balance. In case the ground was uneven. In case you needed just a little extra stability.

One day, you finally called him out on it.

“You always walk on my left,” you mused as you strolled through London together, your fingers laced with his.

Lando glanced down at you, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. So?”

“So,” you echoed, narrowing your eyes playfully. “You do it on purpose.”

He shrugged, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “It’s just instinct now. I like knowing I’m there if you need me.”

Your heart melted right there on the pavement.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The Airport Routine

You hated airport security.

The extra steps, the awkward stares—it was exhausting. You’d gotten used to it over the years, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.

Lando made it easier.

Whenever you traveled together, he had a system. He held both of your passports, carried your bags, and kept an arm loosely around you as you approached security. He knew the drill—how you had to remove your prosthetic sometimes, how the metal detectors would go off, how TSA agents could be unpredictable in their reactions.

One time, in Miami, an agent asked you to walk through without it.

Lando tensed beside you, his protective instincts flaring, but he didn’t say anything. Not yet.

You steadied yourself, taking a slow, practiced step forward, trying not to let the discomfort show. But Lando saw. He always saw.

And before you could even reach for your prosthetic, he was already crouched down, lifting it gently, handing it back to you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The agent stared. You sighed. Lando just smiled.

“All good, love?” he asked, helping you adjust.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He pressed a quick kiss to your temple. “Always.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Race Weekend Adjustments

Lando’s world moved at 300 km/h. Yours didn’t.

Race weekends were chaotic—crowds, cameras, endless walking. You adapted, of course, but Lando adapted with you.

He always made sure McLaren had a seat for you nearby. If you were standing for too long, he noticed before you even said anything. If you were walking too much, he suggested a “spontaneous” coffee break. If your prosthetic was irritating your skin after hours on your feet, he disappeared and returned with bandages and cooling gel like he’d been preparing for it all week.

One time, in Austria, you didn’t even realize you were limping slightly until Lando gently steered you toward a private hospitality lounge.

“Sit,” he said simply, nudging you onto the couch.

You started to protest, but he knelt down in front of you, hands ghosting over your leg. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” you admitted. “It’s just rubbing weird today.”

Lando nodded, already digging into his backpack. “Good thing I came prepared.”

You blinked as he pulled out a small roll of bandages and a cooling spray. “You just… carry that around?”

He smirked, tapping his temple. “I’m a man of many talents.”

Your chest ached in the best way.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The Day the World Found Out

It happened at Silverstone.

You were in the McLaren garage, standing behind the engineers, watching as Lando prepared for his home race. The energy was electric, the fans chanting his name just outside.

Then it happened.

One second, you were fine. The next, your foot slipped on a slick spot near the garage entrance. Your balance wavered, your body tilting before you could react—

And suddenly, you were on the ground.

It wasn’t dramatic, but it was noticeable. The people around you turned, startled.

Lando was at your side instantly.

“Hey, hey—are you okay?” His hands were firm but gentle as they helped you sit up, his voice tight with worry.

You nodded quickly, cheeks burning as you adjusted your leg. “Yeah, just slipped.”

But then you saw it—the way people were staring. The way their eyes flickered from you… to your prosthetic, which had become slightly visible in the fall.

The realization hit like a tidal wave.

They knew.

Lando knew it too. And he didn’t hesitate—not for a second.

Instead of brushing it off, instead of acting like it was something to be hidden, he crouched beside you, blocking out the cameras, his focus entirely on you.

“Here,” he murmured, adjusting your prosthetic for you before wrapping an arm around your waist and helping you stand. His grip was steady, reassuring. “You good?”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah.”

Lando smiled, squeezing your hand. “Then let’s go.”

And just like that, it didn’t matter.

The moment went viral before the race even started.

“Lando helping his girlfriend after she slipped… my heart.”

“Wait, was she wearing a prosthetic?? That’s amazing.”

“The way he didn’t even flinch. He just helped her like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

“She’s incredible. We need to hear her story!”

For the first time, the world saw what Lando had always known.

That you were strong. That you were capable.

And that, to him, you were more than enough.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where lando finds a hornet mid-stream, panics, and calls you to save him—only to realize there are two

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: help! - the beatles

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: language

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The first sign that something was wrong came in the form of Lando’s sudden silence.

You had been sitting on the couch, lazily scrolling through your phone while his stream played in the background. His usual stream banter filled the apartment—occasional bursts of laughter, the sound of his wheel clicking as he drove, and random mutterings under his breath.

But then, out of nowhere, dead silence.

You frowned, glancing up from your phone. “Lando?”

A beat. Then—

“It’s bigger than a hornet,” Lando’s voice came, his tone filled with absolute terror. “It’s like a bird, man!”

Your head snapped up in time to see him pushing his chair back so violently it nearly tipped over. He was standing now, his headset still on but slightly lopsided, his wide eyes locked on something off-screen.

“Lando, what—”

Then he bolted.

You blinked.

The chat exploded on his screen. Messages flew in at lightning speed, all variations of:

WHAT IS HAPPENING??

LANDO ARE YOU OKAY??

“LIKE A BIRD”??????

And then he screamed.

Lando Norris, the Formula 1 driver, a man who routinely threw himself into high-speed battles at over 200 mph, screamed at a pitch so high that you were sure dogs were perking up in confusion across the neighborhood.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, standing up to investigate.

By the time you entered his streaming room, you were met with the sight of pure chaos. Lando had somehow acquired the vacuum cleaner, wielding it like an ancient warrior preparing for battle. The nozzle was raised toward the ceiling, trembling slightly in his grip.

“Ooh, it’s moving! It resists!” he yelped, his voice cracking.

You followed his gaze and finally spotted the enemy—a single, admittedly large, hornet clinging to the ceiling.

You bit your lip, trying desperately not to laugh. “Lando, are you—”

“Oh, she’s too big!” Lando shrieked, his hand tightening around the vacuum like it was a lifeline. “What the fuck! It’s resisting the Hoover! It’s just—oh my god, it’s looking at me! IT’S LOOKING AT ME!”

That was it. You lost it.

Doubling over, you laughed so hard that tears pricked at your eyes.

Lando, however, did not find the situation nearly as funny.

He turned to glare at you, betrayal written all over his face. “THIS ISN’T FUNNY, Y/N!”

You struggled to catch your breath. “I—I’m sorry, I just—”

“NO, BECAUSE LOOK AT IT!”

You did. The hornet, completely unfazed, was just chilling on the ceiling, probably wondering what the hell was wrong with the screaming human below.

“I swear it’s planning an attack,” Lando muttered.

You wiped at your eyes, still chuckling. “You’re actually ridiculous.”

Before he could retort, the hornet suddenly twitched.

Lando screamed.

It was loud. It was dramatic. And it was followed immediately by the loud thud of the vacuum hitting the ground as he scrambled away.

“Fuck. Oh—oh my god, I’m SCARED!”

The chat was going insane. You could see messages popping up on his second monitor.

LANDO THIS IS THE FUNNIEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN

THE WAY HE THREW THE HOOVER LMAOOOO

SOMEONE PLEASE CLIP THIS

Lando, oblivious to the internet roasting him in real time, now had a shoe in his hand. He looked at you, wild-eyed.

“This is it,” he muttered. “I’m going in.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“No. But I have no choice.”

And with that, he launched the shoe at the hornet with the kind of determination that should’ve guaranteed success.

It didn’t.

The shoe missed entirely.

And then—because the universe apparently had a sick sense of humor—another hornet appeared.

Lando froze.

His voice dropped into a whisper. “There’s two.”

You blinked. “What?”

His hands trembled.

“There’s TWO.”

A pause.

Then, absolute pandemonium.

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

Lando sprinted across the room, tripping over the fallen vacuum in his haste. You barely had time to register his sheer level of panic before—

“There’s TWOOOOOOOOOOO.”

His voice cracked violently, sending you into another uncontrollable fit of laughter. You had never seen him this distressed before.

“I TOLD YOU!” he wailed. “I TOLD YOU!”

At this point, he had climbed onto his gaming chair like it was a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean.

“Alright, alright, I’ll handle it,” you said, still laughing.

“No—Y/N, don’t! You can’t just—”

You ignored him, grabbing a rolled-up magazine and stepping forward. Lando let out a strangled noise of protest, but he was too frozen in fear to physically stop you.

With one swift motion, you swatted at the first hornet. It immediately darted toward the open window and disappeared.

One down.

Lando let out a small, hopeful gasp.

You turned to the second one, waiting for it to settle. Then, just as it landed, you struck again.

It was over in seconds.

Silence filled the room.

Lando stared at you in awe. “…You’re actually insane.”

You rolled your eyes, tossing the magazine onto the desk. “You’re welcome.”

Without warning, Lando lunged at you, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding on for dear life.

“You saved me,” he mumbled dramatically into your shoulder. “You’re my hero.”

You laughed, patting his back. “I hope you know the internet is never going to let you live this down.”

He groaned. “I already know. I’m gonna be seeing this for the next five years.”

You pulled back slightly, tilting your head. “You do realize that if you’d just let me handle it earlier, you wouldn’t have just humiliated yourself in front of thousands of people?”

Lando frowned, his lips pursing in thought. Then, with all the wisdom in the world, he said, “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

You smacked his arm.

He grinned.

The chat was still exploding. Clips were already being shared. Memes were being made in real-time.

And you?

You couldn’t wait to watch them.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where lando grows from a childhood friend to a famous f1 driver

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: 7 years - lukas graham

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: short mention of grief and loss

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Seven Years Old

“Once I was seven years old, my mama told me, go make yourself some friends or you’ll be lonely.”

The first time you met Lando Norris, he was covered in dirt.

He had just fallen off his bike—again—but instead of crying, he simply picked himself up, brushing off his scraped knees. You, always the quiet observer, reached into your pocket and pulled out a band-aid, sticking it onto his leg without a word.

Lando blinked at you, then grinned, showing off a missing tooth. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

You shrugged, your eyes still averted, focused on your hands as you fiddled with the end of the band-aid.

“That’s okay,” he said, grinning even wider. “You’re my best friend now.”

You didn’t argue.

Lando wasn’t like the other kids in your neighborhood. He wasn’t loud or brash, but he was relentless, always in motion, constantly seeking something. His energy was contagious, and even though you preferred the quiet of your own thoughts, something about him drew you in.

Every afternoon, Lando would knock on your door, bike helmet in hand, asking if you wanted to join him for another adventure. You would always go, and before you knew it, you were inseparable.

He wasn’t just a friend; he was your constant.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Eleven Years Old

“I only see my goals, I don’t believe in failure, ’cause I know the smallest voices they can make it major.”

By eleven, Lando had made up his mind—he was going to be a race car driver.

“I’ll be in F1 one day,” he told you confidently, his hands gripping the handlebars of his bike like it was a steering wheel.

You kicked a rock near your feet. “And what if you don’t?”

He gasped dramatically, as if you had just insulted his entire existence. “How dare you?”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “I’m just saying, it’s not easy.”

“I don’t care,” he huffed. “I’m going to make it. You’ll see.”

You rolled your eyes but could see the fire in his eyes. He wasn’t joking. He was determined. And you admired him for it.

But deep down, a part of you feared what would happen when he actually made it.

You were happy in your own world, grounded in the simplicity of home and friends. But Lando? He was destined for bigger things. You could see it, even then.

Would he forget you when he was famous? Would the friendship fade like so many others? Or would it remain—unbreakable and constant, just like it had always been?

But Lando was steadfast, and every time you had those thoughts, he would look at you and reassure you with a simple, “I’m not going anywhere.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Eighteen Years Old

“I always had that dream like my daddy before me, so I started writing songs, I started writing stories.”

Lando made it to Formula 1 at eighteen.

You were sitting on your couch, watching him line up on the grid for his debut race. The anticipation in the air was palpable, and your heart pounded harder with every passing second. You could almost feel the rush of the engine in your chest, like a heartbeat.

Lando was about to live his dream, something he had worked for his whole life.

And you? You were still here. Back home. The quiet life you had grown accustomed to.

It should have been enough—seeing him succeed, watching him become the person he had always wanted to be.

But there was a quiet ache in your chest. The boy who had been your best friend was now racing among the best in the world. And you had to admit, part of you didn’t know where you fit into his new world.

He had made it. You were still trying to figure things out.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Twenty Years Old

“Once I was twenty years old my story got told, before the morning sun when life was lonely.”

Lando was famous now. Everyone knew his name, his face, his victories.

But despite the cameras and the flashing lights, despite the fans screaming for him, he called you late at night—just like always.

“I miss you,” he admitted one evening, his voice quieter than usual.

You swallowed hard. “You’re the one who left.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I didn’t think it’d be this hard.”

He was still your Lando—the same boy who had scraped his knees and promised you forever. But now he was racing in F1, the world at his feet.

There were moments when it felt like you were living in two completely different worlds. His was filled with fame and endless opportunities, while yours was stuck in place. The feelings of longing were difficult to ignore.

Silence stretched between you.

Then, in a move that surprised even himself, Lando showed up at your door the next day.

When you opened it, he was standing there—hood pulled over his head, hands buried in his pockets, eyes tired but searching.

“I don’t want to do this without you,” he confessed. “I don’t care how crazy my life gets. I just… I need you in it.”

Your breath hitched.

And before you could stop yourself, you reached for him, pulling him inside—pulling him home.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Twenty-Three Years Old

“I got my boys with me, at least those in favor, and if we don’t meet before I leave I hope I’ll see you later.”

The Formula 1 world was now Lando’s world.

Carlos, Daniel, Oscar, and Max were his teammates, his competitors, his family. They were a constant presence in his life, and the camaraderie they shared made the loneliness of the race track feel a little less heavy.

But even then, there were moments when you could see the fatigue in his eyes—moments when he would glance at you, like he needed to ground himself again.

It was after one particularly difficult race that he showed up at your door.

The night was quiet, the usual noise of race cars and city streets a distant hum. But there he stood, knocking softly on your door, his hoodie pulled over his head, his eyes tired.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, stepping into your home as if it was the only place he could truly breathe.

You didn’t ask any questions, didn’t push for an explanation. You just opened your arms and let him in.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he confessed as he sat on the couch, his head resting against the back of it.

You sat beside him, placing your hand on his. “You’re doing your best.”

“But it’s not enough,” he murmured.

“You’re enough.”

It wasn’t just about racing. It was about the uncertainty, the weight of always having to be something more, and sometimes feeling like he was losing himself in the process.

But you were there, as you had always been. And that was what mattered most.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Twenty-Five Years Old

“Soon we’ll be 30 years old, our songs have been sold, we’ve traveled around the world and we’re still roaming.”

Lando proposed to you in Monaco.

It wasn’t some extravagant gesture—no cameras, no grand speeches. Just the two of you, standing on a quiet balcony overlooking the harbor, the city lights reflecting in his eyes.

“I don’t want anyone else,” he told you, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t care where life takes me. As long as you’re there, that’s enough.”

Your heart pounded as he dropped to one knee, a small velvet box in his hands.

“So… will you marry me?”

You laughed, already crying as you nodded. “Almost, always.”

Lando chuckled, shaking his head as he slid the ring onto your finger.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Thirty Years Old

“My woman brought children for me, so I can sing them all my songs and I can tell them stories”

Life had changed.

You were married now, your last name matching his. The walls of your home were filled with laughter—tiny footsteps running through hallways, giggles echoing in the rooms.

Lando was still racing, still chasing podiums, still traveling the world. But now, he always had something to come home to.

Your kids—his greatest trophies.

“My boys are still with me,” he mused one night, watching a race replay with his son on his lap. “Carlos, Oscar, Max… They’re still out there, still fighting for glory.”

His voice turned softer.

“And Daniel?” you asked, knowing exactly where his mind had wandered.

Lando swallowed hard, eyes distant. There was a hint of sadness in his smile, a flicker of a memory.

“Some I had to leave behind.”

Daniel had been Lando’s closest friend for years. But life had a way of taking people in different directions. Daniel’s departure from F1 had hit hard, and Lando’s emotions were still raw, even after all these years.

He was grateful for the memories, the times they had shared. But the empty space left by Daniel’s absence was undeniable.

The silence that followed was heavy, but you didn’t press him. You simply nestled closer, resting your head against his shoulder.

Some people, no matter how much you love them, aren’t meant to stay forever.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Sixty Years Old

“Soon I’ll be sixty years old, will I think the world is cold, or will I have a lot of children who can warm me?”

Lando was retired now. His body had slowed, his hair had silvered, but his heart—his heart was still the same.

Your children were grown, building lives of their own. The house was quieter, but it was never empty.

Yet, as sixty-one loomed closer, Lando grew restless.

“I don’t want to go yet,” he admitted one evening, sitting beside you on the porch. “My dad was sixty-one when he passed. What if…”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “You’re not him, Lando.”

He exhaled shakily. “I’m scared.”

You turned to him, pressing a kiss to his weathered knuckles. “You have nothing to be scared of,” you whispered. “You’ve lived. You’ve loved. And no matter what happens next… you’re not alone.”

Lando looked at you then, his blue eyes still filled with the same love they held when he was seven years old.

“Almost, always?” he murmured.

You smiled, squeezing his hand.

“Always.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where she's the only mechanic who truly understands his car, and he's the only driver who truly sees her

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: formula - labrinth

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The McLaren pit was a flurry of motion, a carefully choreographed chaos of engineers, mechanics, and pit crew members working in perfect harmony. The air reeked of oil and rubber, the sound of impact wrenches and radio traffic blending into the background cacophony that had long ago faded into background noise for you.

But in the noise, in the dozens of people who collaborated to make McLaren's car able to fight at the front, your attention was always on one person.

Lando Norris.

Not because he was the star driver. Not because his face was plastered on billboards or millions of supporters chanted his name every race weekend.

But because he was yours. Though neither of you ever said it out loud.

You'd been with McLaren's team for three years, rising from junior mechanic to become one of the lead engineers on Lando's vehicle. You knew that car inside and out like the back of your hand—every shudder, every subtle imbalance in the suspension, every adjustment that would make it hum through the corners just the way he liked it.

And Lando knew that too.

That's why, when something did not feel right, he relied on you to fix it.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Thursday – Media Day

The weekend was yet to start, but the paddock was already buzzing. Fans swirled around the entrance, cameras snapped as drivers came in, and reporters filled the media pen, waiting to get their soundbites.

You were concealed in the garage, reviewing the setup notes, your hands already smudged with grease despite the fact that it was early in the day.

You felt his presence before you saw him.

Lando had always possessed this energy—a presence that filled a room even when he had nothing to say. He strode into the garage in his McLaren polo, sunglasses perched on his head, and an effortless smirk on his lips.

"Look busy," he teased, resting against the workbench beside you.

"Unlike some people, I actually do work," you shot back, not looking up as you double-checked the tire pressures.

He clutched his chest in feigned indignation. "Excuse me, I do work extremely hard."

You finally looked at him, an eyebrow lifted. "Oh yeah? Sitting through media commitments and signing posters is exhausting, huh?"

"It's brutal," he theatrically sighed. "You wouldn't understand."

You rolled your eyes, but a little smile was playing on your lips. This was how it always was with Lando—teasing, banter, effortless back-and-forths that had started the moment you'd met.

But something was off today.

You noticed it in the way he lingered a moment longer. The way his fingers drummed against the table, a restless energy building in him.

"You good?" you asked, head tilting.

He hesitated.

It was only for a moment, but you caught it.

And then, in a flash, the smirk was back. "Always."

You didn't believe he meant it. But you let it go—for the moment.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Friday – Free Practice

Something was off with the car.

You knew it before Lando even said anything over the radio.

You watched the telemetry, how the speed traces weren't lining up properly, how he was losing time in the high-speed corners. Then his voice crackled over the comms.

"Yeah, something doesn't feel right. Rear's not stable through Turns 8 and 10."

You exchanged a glance with another of the engineers as you grabbed your tablet and walked towards the garage door. You were waiting there by the time Lando pulled in and climbed out of the car.

He ripped off his helmet, running a hand through his sweaty curls, and scanned the room looking for you immediately.

"Talk to me," you called out over the noise of the garage.

"Feels like the rear's stepping out more than usual. Can't get the rotation I need."

You nodded, already running through possible causes in your head. "Okay, let's check the suspension setup. Could be a balance issue."

Lando didn't argue. He never did with you.

Because he knew you'd get it right.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Saturday – Qualifying

Tension was palpable in the air.

This was what it had all been building toward. The entire garage was locked in, eyes fixed on the timing screens, heart rates rising with each lap.

Lando was on fire.

You were on the pit wall, headset on, fists gripped on your tablet as he stitched the track together immaculately. His sector times were improving. If he could keep this up, he'd be in the fight for pole.

Then—

"!"

His voice came over the radio as the car nipped at the exit of Turn 14.

Your heart missed a beat.

The McLaren wobbled, taking the slide, but it had lost him time. He crossed the line—P4.

Good, but not good enough.

You ripped off your headset, exhaling sharply. He could've been on the front row. That mistake had cost him.

As he climbed out of the car, his jaw was tight, annoyance clear in the way he tore off his gloves. But as soon as his eyes locked with yours, some of that tension eased.

You didn't say anything immediately. You just kept looking at him, unspoken comprehension between you.

Then, finally—

"We'll get them tomorrow," you whispered.

His shoulders relaxed. He nodded. "Yeah. We will."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Sunday – Race Day

The Monaco Grand Prix was ruthless.

Year after year, it was chaos. Crashes, strategy gambles, pit stop drama—it was never an easy race.

And today was no different.

You were on the pit wall, gripping the rail as Lando fought lap after lap, hanging onto P3 for dear life. His tires were going. The Ferrari behind him was closing in. Your heart was in your mouth each time he came through the tunnel.

Five laps to go.

Three.

Final lap.

He took the line—P3. Podium.

The garage erupted. Cheers, hugs, high-fives. But you barely heard any of them since you were already heading towards parc fermé.

By the time Lando emerged from the car, champagne still dripping from his suit, his eyes were only looking for one person.

You.

And once he saw you, he didn't waste any time.

Helmet off, curls wet with sweat, race suit undone at the top—he didn't care about the cameras, the thousands of people watching. He just walked right up to you and pulled you into his arms.

It was quick, barely a second, but the way he held on to you—his forehead against yours, his breathing rough with adrenaline—you knew.

"Thank you," he whispered, voice rough.

"For what?" you whispered in return.

He pulled back slightly, only enough to be able to look at you properly. His hand was still at your waist, fingers drawing along the fabric of your team uniform.

"For believing in me," he said simply.

Your heart missed a beat.

And in a moment, it did not matter that you were before the world. That the cameras were capturing this moment. That there were rules governing how close a driver and a mechanic could be.

Because this?

This was yours.

And nothing—not even Formula 1—could ever take that away.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

𝗮/𝗻: hey guys! so sorry I haven’t been posting recently. I’ve been super busy with school with finals and graduation coming up! will be a lot more stories being posted during my spring break! april 7-11!

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x chronically online! reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where the chronically online reader gets publicly exposed by lando, roasts him on stream, and swears they’d never fold

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: cloud 9 - beach bunny

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You had a reputation. Not in a bad way—at least, not to you. Some people called you “chronically online,” but that was just a fancy way of saying you were really, really good at the internet. You were the first to catch onto memes before they went mainstream, you knew every streamer’s latest drama, and your Twitter feed was a masterclass in unhinged yet somehow lovable posts.

Lando, however, did not fully understand the depths of your internet obsession. He was online, sure, but in a different way—his world was filled with F1 updates, Twitch streams, and the occasional chaotic group chat with his fellow drivers. Meanwhile, you lived in a universe where knowing whether a brand was about to get canceled was as essential as breathing.

And yet, somehow, he was absolutely in love with you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

It started with a joke. Or, more accurately, it started with a tweet.

@yourhandle: “if lando norris ever called me babe i would simply evaporate”

He saw it. He saw it, and you knew he saw it because his little gremlin self had the audacity to like the tweet. He didn’t reply, didn’t quote it—just a simple like that sent your notifications into a frenzy.

Your friends went feral.

BESTIE, HELLO??

Did he just acknowledge your existence???

This is basically a marriage proposal.

You tried to act normal. Failed. DMed him something casual like, “did you just publicly expose me?”

To which he responded:

“Just testing a theory. Should I call you babe and see what happens?”

And that was the beginning of the end.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

It wasn’t long before you found yourself in Lando’s world—whether that meant sitting on his stream, half-distracted while scrolling your phone, or joining his Discord calls just to roast his gaming skills. The internet loved your dynamic.

“Lando getting cyberbullied by his own girlfriend is my Roman Empire.”

“Y/N being a menace online and Lando just going along with it is peak relationship goals.”

“Her: ‘He’s so dumb but he’s my dumbass.’ Him: ‘I just work here, man.’”

You two were a content goldmine, even when you weren’t trying to be.

One particular night, you were both curled up on the couch, Lando setting up for a Twitch stream while you scrolled mindlessly through your phone. You weren’t paying attention until you heard your own voice.

“Guys, I have a very special guest today,” Lando said in his usual mischievous tone. “My girlfriend, who is currently ignoring me for Twitter.”

You didn’t even look up. “That’s crazy. What’s Twitter saying?”

Chat immediately erupted.

“SHE DIDN’T EVEN LOOK UP LMFAO.”

“Peak chronically online behavior.”

“Lando, blink twice if you need help.”

Lando fake pouted. “See? She doesn’t love me, chat. She loves her parasocial relationships more.”

You finally glanced at the screen. “Why would I need a parasocial relationship when I already have you to annoy in real life?”

The clip went viral within minutes.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Despite all your time spent online, you did, in fact, exist in the real world. And the more time you spent with Lando, the more you realized how much you liked his world too.

There was something peaceful about watching him work on his racing sim, focused and determined, even when he was grumbling under his breath about understeer. There was something nice about walking into the McLaren garage and seeing how the team operated, how much they adored him.

And there was something absolutely dangerous about the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

Like right now.

You were at a race weekend, standing just outside his driver’s room, eyes glued to your phone. He was supposed to be reviewing data, but you could feel his eyes on you.

“Lando,” you said without looking up, “why are you staring at me like that?”

He didn’t even try to deny it. “I think I’ve figured out how to get you off your phone.”

That made you look up. “Oh? Do tell.”

A smirk curled at his lips. “No.”

You narrowed your eyes. “No?”

Instead of answering, he took two long strides forward, gently plucking your phone from your hands and placing it on the nearest table. Before you could protest, he had you backed up against the wall, his hands resting on either side of you.

Oh.

Oh, he was serious.

“Lando,” you said, a little breathless, “are you—”

“I like your little internet world, I do,” he murmured, voice warm and teasing. “But sometimes I think you should focus on this world. On me.”

You swallowed. “That so?”

He nodded. “Yeah. And right now, I want your undivided attention.”

Mission accomplished.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You weren’t going to lie—you had expected the internet to roast you once they realized that your whole brand was being chronically online, and yet Lando had somehow turned you into a simp.

And they did roast you.

“So you’re telling me Y/N was ‘if he calls me babe I’ll evaporate’ and then Lando hit her with a real-life slow burn fanfic moment???”

“POV: You thought she was a keyboard warrior but she’s actually a simp in disguise.”

“Lando pulled a ‘look at me, I’m the main character now.’”

Lando, of course, thrived off the reactions.

You were sitting next to him on the couch when he turned his phone toward you. “Look at this one—‘Y/N has spent her entire internet existence roasting men, and yet all it took was one good wall pin for her to fold.’”

You glared at him. “I hate you.”

He grinned. “No, you don’t.”

You groaned, shoving his face away playfully before burying your head in your hands. “I will never live this down.”

He pulled you into his side, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Nope. Never.”

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the need to check your phone.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where netflix interviews you about your relationship with lando

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: you are in love - taylor swift

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The room hums with quiet anticipation as the Netflix production team makes their final adjustments. The bright white walls and minimalist décor give the space an almost clinical feel, but the warmth of the overhead lights makes it slightly more inviting. A few feet away, the interviewer shuffles through her notes, her well-rehearsed smile never faltering.

You sit in the plush white chair, Lando’s hoodie draped over your frame like a protective shield. You hadn’t meant to wear it—well, maybe you had. It had been an early morning, and in the rush to get ready, you grabbed the first thing that felt comfortable. Now, as the cameras adjust focus, you wonder if people will notice, if fans will recognize it from the countless Twitch streams and Instagram stories. They probably will.

The cameraman counts down from three with his fingers.

“And… rolling.”

The interviewer’s smile widens. “Alright, let’s get started.” She flips open her folder, her pen poised between her fingers. “You’ve been around the paddock for quite some time now. Fans have seen glimpses of you, but you’ve managed to stay relatively low-key despite being in a relationship with one of the most talked-about drivers on the grid. How has that been for you?”

You shift slightly in your seat, keeping your hands clasped together in your lap. “I don’t really think about it too much,” you admit. “I mean, I know people are curious, and I understand why, but I’m not here for the attention. I’m here for Lando.”

The interviewer tilts her head slightly. “That’s interesting because, whether you like it or not, you have become a figure in the F1 world. From being spotted in the McLaren garage to celebrating podiums with Lando, the cameras have taken notice.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that too.”

She flips to the next page of her notes. “Let’s go back to the beginning. When did this all start? How did you and Lando first meet?”

A soft smile tugs at your lips. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. It wasn’t like some dramatic love-at-first-sight thing. We were just… friends for a long time. It was always easy between us, you know?”

“Friends to lovers?”

“Yeah.” You nod, the memory of it still so vivid in your mind. “It just sort of happened over time. I don’t think there was ever a moment where we sat down and said, ‘Okay, we’re in love now.’ It was just us, and at some point, we realized we couldn’t imagine life any other way.”

The interviewer smiles. “That’s really sweet.” She glances at her notes again. “Now, Lando is obviously a very public figure. His fanbase is huge and passionate, and with that comes a lot of attention—not all of it positive. How do you handle being in that world?”

You take a slow breath, choosing your words carefully. “It can be overwhelming sometimes,” you admit. “I try not to let it get to me, but there are days when it’s harder than others. Some people are really supportive, but others…” You pause, debating how honest you want to be. “Let’s just say not everyone is kind.”

There’s a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “Does that ever affect your relationship?”

You shake your head. “No. At the end of the day, I know Lando, and he knows me. That’s all that really matters. It’s easy to get caught up in the noise, but when we’re together, none of that exists.”

The interviewer leans forward slightly. “So, let’s talk about race day. You’ve been in the paddock for some of Lando’s biggest moments, including his first podium and some really close battles. What’s that like for you?”

You let out a small laugh, already feeling your heart rate pick up at the thought of those high-stakes races. “Stressful,” you say with a grin. “Really stressful. I trust him completely, but watching him go wheel-to-wheel at 300 km/h? Yeah, that’s terrifying.”

“I imagine it’s quite an emotional rollercoaster.”

“Oh, absolutely.” You nod. “There are days when he’s on top of the world, and there are days when it’s devastating. And you feel all of it with him.”

The interviewer watches you carefully. “And how do you support him through those tough days?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the fabric of his hoodie. “I just remind him that one race doesn’t define him. He’s so hard on himself sometimes, and it’s easy for him to forget how incredible he is. So, I try to be the voice that tells him it’s okay to have bad days.”

She smiles. “That’s beautiful.” There’s a brief pause as she flips to the next question. “Now, fans have picked up on how he looks at you, how protective he is. There was even that one moment on Twitch where chat thought it was adorable how he made sure you were okay. Do you ever notice those things?”

Your cheeks warm slightly. “I mean, yeah, I notice,” you say with a soft laugh. “But that’s just him. He’s always been like that, even before we were together. It’s just who he is.”

The interviewer grins. “Well, fans love it. And speaking of fans, you’ve gained quite a few of your own. Do you ever think about that?”

You blink in surprise. “Not really.”

“Well, you should. People adore you.”

That makes you smile. “That’s nice to hear.”

She sets her notes aside. “Alright, last question—where do you see this going? The future?”

Your gaze flickers toward the door, where you know Lando is probably waiting just outside. Then, you smile, your answer coming easily.

“Wherever he goes, I’ll be right there with him.”

The cameraman signals that the recording is over. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The interviewer offers you a warm smile before thanking you for your time, and as soon as you step out of the interview room, Lando is there, leaning casually against the wall.

“How’d it go?” he asks, pushing off and slipping an arm around your waist.

“Not too bad.” You glance up at him. “They asked a lot about you, obviously.”

He smirks. “Well, of course. I am pretty great.”

You roll your eyes, but before you can retort, he tugs you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thanks for doing it,” he murmurs. “I know it’s not your thing.”

You lean into him. “It’s worth it for you.”

And as the cameras pack up behind you, fading into the background, you realize that no matter how many interviews come your way, no matter how bright the spotlight gets, this—being here with him—is what matters most.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where lando gives you endless racing-inspired nicknames, from DRS to soft tyres, but checkered flag is the one that truly makes your heart race

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: happier than ever - billie eilish

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You should’ve known better than to date a Formula 1 driver and expect a normal relationship.

But normal had never really been Lando’s thing, and honestly, you wouldn’t want it any other way.

It started as a joke. The first time he called you Speedy, you were running late for a dinner reservation in Monaco. You had just finished getting ready when Lando, already leaning against the doorframe in his usual hoodie and joggers, tapped at his watch with exaggerated impatience.

“Oi, Speedy, hurry up! You walk like you’re on a cooldown lap.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved his shoulder on the way out, but he only laughed, slipping his fingers between yours as he pulled you down the steps.

That was months ago, and somehow, it had only gotten worse.

It didn’t matter where you were—at home, at a race weekend, FaceTiming while he was away for back-to-back Grands Prix—Lando had an endless supply of racing-inspired nicknames for you.

Some were sweet, some were ridiculous, and some made you question how his brain even worked.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

DRS

“DRS, pass me the remote?”

You blinked at him from your spot on the couch, curled up in one of his oversized hoodies. Lando was sprawled beside you, legs stretched out, barely paying attention to the Netflix episode playing in the background.

“Did you just call me DRS?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Mhm. You’re my DRS—always giving me that extra boost when I need it.”

“That’s awful.”

“But cute.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” you muttered, tossing the remote at him anyway.

The worst part? He actually started using it more. If he was tired before an early morning flight, he’d mumble a sleepy “Activate DRS and get me coffee, love?” If he was nervous before a race, he’d squeeze your hand and whisper, “Give me that DRS boost, babe.”

It was both infuriating and adorable.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Soft Tyres

The worst one, though, had to be Soft Tyres.

It had been a lazy Sunday morning, the kind where neither of you wanted to get out of bed. The sun was barely peeking through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the room. You had been arguing—halfheartedly—about who was going to get up and make tea, neither of you willing to leave the warmth of the blankets.

“Please,” you begged, nudging his leg. “You’re closer to the kitchen.”

“But you’re soft,” he mumbled into his pillow, his voice still thick with sleep. “Like soft tyres. Fast, but high maintenance.”

You gasped, smacking his arm. “Excuse me?”

“It’s true!” He grinned, finally opening one eye to look at you. “High maintenance, but worth every second.”

“You’re so lucky I don’t kick you out of this bed.”

“You won’t.” He shifted closer, arms wrapping around you as he buried his face into your neck. “You love me too much.”

And damn it, he was right.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Pole Position

Not all of his nicknames were ridiculous, though. Some were softer, spoken in moments when the world around you felt quiet.

Like Pole Position.

“You’ll always be my number one,” he had whispered one night, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. It had been a rare weekend off, just the two of you tangled in bed after a long day at the beach. The only sound was the ocean outside the open window and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

You had laughed at first, thinking he was joking. But when you looked up, he was watching you with that look—the one he only ever gave you, the one that made your chest feel too small for your heart.

“I mean it,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Always.”

You never made fun of that nickname.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Slipstream

Some of them were just Lando trying to be annoying.

Like Slipstream, which he only used when he was trying to weasel his way into getting what he wanted.

“Baby,” he would say, drawing out the word like it was some sort of negotiation tactic.

You wouldn’t even look up from your laptop. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

You sighed, setting your work aside. “Fine. What?”

He grinned, moving to sit beside you, his arm draping lazily over your shoulders. “You should go make me a snack.”

You deadpanned. “Absolutely not.”

“C’mon, you’re my Slipstream,” he teased, nudging you with his shoulder. “Always pulling me closer. No resistance at all, love.”

You scoffed. “Lando, I swear to God—”

“—And you’re so fast at getting things! It’s like you’re on fresh mediums.”

“You’re on your own for food,” you huffed, standing up.

And just when you thought he’d finally given up—

“Wait,” he pouted. “Where are you going?”

“To take myself out of your DRS zone.”

That shut him up real quick.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Checkered Flag

The one that made your heart race the most came after his latest podium.

You were waiting for him in the McLaren hospitality suite, still buzzing with excitement when he walked in, sweaty, exhausted, but grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. Before you could say anything, he grabbed you, lifting you off the ground as he spun you in a circle.

“You, my love,” he said, voice breathless against your ear, “are my Checkered Flag.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, confused. “What do you mean?”

Lando smiled, softer this time. “Because no matter what, I’m always coming home to you.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

For a moment, all the noise faded—the celebrations outside, the distant roar of the crowd, the sound of champagne bottles popping open. None of it mattered.

It was just you and him.

And suddenly, every ridiculous nickname, every groan-worthy racing pun, every moment he had teased you about Slipstream or Soft Tyres—it was all worth it.

Because at the end of the day, Lando Norris loved you.

And that was the only title that really mattered.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・