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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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The Stonewall Inn
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@moeyynorris
Moeyy’s Master List
Welcome to my collection of works. I post for a variety of fandoms, including Formula 1, Supernatural, and The Walking Dead. Warnings are posted in each individual fic. My work is 18+, so minors DNI. Any and all feedback is appreciated!
Formula 1
Series:
Charles Leclerc
Let’s Make Trouble in the Dream World
Prelude
Part 1 - Let’s Talk About Chemistry
Part 2 - Chokehold
Part 3 - I Feel My Shadow Dissolving
Part 4 - Do You Wish That You Loved Me?
Part 5 - Are You Really Okay?
Part 6 - Coming Soon!
One-shots:
Charles Leclerc
Stop Laughing
Lando Norris
Private Conversation
Streaming and Daydreaming
Reunited
She Tastes Like Home
CHARLES AND FERRARI LUCE ✨✨✨
Ferrari luce YT
lando at the paddock with some little fans 🤏
monaco e prix 2026
monaco prince (real)
Dress || LN4/1
🧡 In which you wore a dress that nearly broke your “best friend”.
🧡 warning: none.
🧡 chilli note: I’m nowhere near over Abu Dhabi so you are going to see more based on it… I have two more ideas😭 Based on Dress by Taylor Swift ✨ PLEASE, SEND ME REQUESTS I’M BEGGING YOU😞
Support me with a reblog, like, or comment🤍
•
You didn’t mean to torture him. You really didn’t.
But when you stepped into the Abu Dhabi paddock wearing that dress—thin straps, low back, absolutely no chance of a bra surviving under it, the fabric hugging you like it was stitched directly onto your skin—Lando felt the ground under him tilt.
He literally stopped mid-sentence with Oscar.
“Mate? You good?” Oscar asked.
“No,” Lando whispered like he’d just witnessed a crime. “I’m not good at all.”
Because there you were—his best friend—the girl he’d loved so carefully, so quietly, for years. The girl he would kill for, win for, burn for. The girl who hugged him like she didn’t know she was his religion. The girl who always wore sneakers and team shirts and ponytails on race weekends.
And now?
Now you were his own personal hell walking on two legs.
Lando marched straight to you before he even knew he was moving. You turned when you heard him approach, your smile bright and soft and absolutely not helping him survive this moment.
“You like it?” you asked, doing a little spin that nearly put him into cardiac arrest.
He blinked. “Do I—? Are you—? Why would you wear that?”
Your smile faltered. “I… liked it? It’s Abu Dhabi… it’s warm?”
“No. No. Absolutely not,” he muttered, eyes refusing to behave as they tracked the line of your… yeah. “This is illegal. You’re—this is sabotage.”
You raised a brow. “Are you saying I look bad?”
“BAD?! You look—” He broke off, dragging a hand hard down his face. “You look like you want me to lose the championship.”
Your laugh was breathy, confused. “Lando, it’s just a dress—”
“It is not just a dress.” His voice dropped, tight, almost pained. “It’s… the kind of dress that people write songs about.”
You blinked, caught entirely off guard.
He swallowed hard, trying to regain some level of sanity. “My whole family is here. Our friends are here. Every camera on the planet is here. And you show up—looking like that—on the most important day of my career?”
Your lips parted. “…I didn’t think you’d care that much.”
“I always care,” he said quietly.
You stared at him, throat working. He had never used that voice with you—not the joking, flirty one. Not the playful best friend one. This was lower. Honest. Bare.
Almost… desperate.
He took a slow breath, eyes darting away for a moment, like he needed to reboot his brain or else burn the paddock down. Then his gaze slid back to you, softer but no less intense.
“I need to focus today,” he murmured, leaning in slightly. “And you—showing up in a dress that looks like it was designed to personally destroy me—is not helping.”
Your heart stumbled. “You’re being dramatic—”
“I’m being honest.”
You had no idea what to say. No idea what this meant. So you did what you always did—you teased him.
“Maybe I wore it for someone else,” you shrugged.
His jaw clenched. Hard. “No,” he said simply.
“‘No?’”
“No. It wasn’t for someone else.”
“How would you know?”
He stepped closer—close enough that you felt the warmth of him even in the heat of the Abu Dhabi sun. “Because,” he whispered, “no one looks at you like I do.”
Your breath hitched. He froze. You froze. That was… not supposed to come out.
Lando cleared his throat immediately, stumbling back like he’d touched fire. “Okay! Right! I—uh—I should go. Car. Race. Championship. Yup. Lots to do.
He spun around so fast he nearly tripped into a photographer.
You stood there, stunned, the sound of your heartbeat so loud you almost didn’t hear him mutter one more thing under his breath, barely audible as he walked away—
“God, that dress is going to ruin my life…” But it didn’t ruin him. It pushed him. It lit him up.
He drove like a man possessed, like someone had stolen the world from him and he was racing to win it back. Every lap was sharper, cleaner, more aggressive. Zak kept yelling about strategy over the radio, Oscar kept complaining, his engineer kept telling him to calm down—but Lando didn’t hear anything except the echo of his own words: No one looks at you like I do.
And then he crossed the line. Champion. Everything he’d ever dreamed of.
He was shaking when he climbed out of the car, adrenaline and victory and something dangerously close to love crashing through his veins.
And when he found you—same dress, same soft smile, same impossible gravity—he walked straight toward you like he didn’t even know he was moving.
You opened your mouth to congratulate him, but you didn’t get the chance. He pulled you into him, arms tight around your waist, forehead pressed to yours.
“Not fair,” he murmured, breathless. “Not fair that you’re the first person I want after winning. Not fair that you wore that dress. Not fair that you make everything feel like—like this.”
Your hands shook on his shoulders.
“Lando…”
He looked down at you, the kind of look that made your stomach drop right out of your body.
“I meant what I said earlier.”
Your throat tightened. “About what?”
His thumb brushed your cheek—gentle, terrified, sure.
“No one looks at you like I do.”
The world around you roared—cameras, cheering, fireworks—but none of it mattered. Because for the first time in years… He wasn’t hiding it. And neither were you.
•
Champagne was everywhere.
On the cars, on the floor, on Zak, on Oscar, on literally anyone who made the mistake of standing within three meters of Lando Norris—the newly crowned World Champion who had the energy of a golden retriever who’d just been told he owned the house now.
He was high on adrenaline and disbelief and you. Especially you.
You were laughing—glowing—eyes bright as you watched his team lift him on their shoulders. He kept looking back at you like he couldn’t help it, like your face grounded him more than the trophy in his hand.
Then the crowd swallowed him again. Reporters. Cameras. Engineers. Papaya everywhere.
You stayed back—not wanting to steal attention, not wanting to complicate what had happened between you two earlier. You had no idea what it meant. You didn’t even have time to replay it yet. But he kept searching for you. Over the reporters’ heads. Over his trophy. Over the champagne spray.
Until finally—finally—your eyes met again.
And that was all the permission his reckless, love-drunk, high-on-victory brain needed.
He broke away from whatever interview he was halfway through and ran at you—actually ran—laughing with pure, stupid joy.
“Oh god—Lando—wait—”
You didn’t even finish the sentence before he grabbed your waist with both hands and lifted you straight off the ground. You squeaked—full, shocked, undignified—and he only laughed harder, spinning you in a messy, champagne-wet circle.
“LAN—Lando! Put me—!”
You didn’t get to finish that sentence either. Because as he spun you one last dizzying turn and set you back down— He kissed you. Not a soft kiss. Not an accidental brush. Not a hesitant “maybe this is a mistake” moment. A real one.
A hungry, messy, impulsive, mine-before-I-can-think kind of kiss that stole the breath right out of your chest. Champagne everywhere, your hands gripping his shoulders in shock, his mouth warm and certain against yours. It lasted three seconds. Maybe four. But it changed everything.
But then he froze, pulling back. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Champagne dripping from his curls. You stared at him, stunned, breathless. Heart racing so hard it was painful. He blinked once. Twice.
“Oh my god—shit—sorry—SORRY!”
He backed up half a step, hands raised like he’d accidentally set something on fire.
“I didn’t— I mean— I did— but I didn’t, like, mean to— it just— YOU— and the dress— and I’m literally a champion right now so my brain isn’t working—”
You just stared. “You kissed me,” you managed quietly.
He winced. “I know. I know. I’m so—so—so sorry. That was—uh—not planned. Definitely not planned. Blame the dress. Definitely the dress. Your dress did it. Not me.”
“…My dress forced you to kiss me?”
“Yes.” He nodded vigorously. “Exactly. Wait—no. Not exactly. That sounds terrible. I’m making it worse. Oh my god.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I’m too happy to function.”
You tried—tried—not to smile, but you failed. Spectacularly. And he saw it, and his whole expression transformed into something soft and stupidly bright.
“You’re smiling,” he whispered.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“It’s adrenaline.”
“It’s me.” Your mouth opened—then closed—because he wasn’t wrong. He stepped closer, voice dropping. “I’ll really apologize if you want me to,” he murmured, sincerity threading through the chaos. “I mean it. I got carried away. But I’ll only say sorry if you’re upset.”
You met his eyes. You weren’t upset. Not even close.
“…It wasn’t the dress,” you said quietly.
His breath hitched. And for a second—for one brief, suspended moment—he looked like he wanted to kiss you again. Then Zak threw champagne directly at his head.
Lando yelped, you burst into laughter, and the moment dissolved into chaos again. But the damage was done. And he knew it. And so did you.
•
The celebration eventually burned itself out—not emotionally, but physically.
People peeled away to shower, change, breathe. The noise thinned. The chaos scattered. The paddock lights softened into that strange late-night calm that only ever happened after a race had wrung itself empty.
And someone finally shoved Lando toward his driver room with the urgent instruction:
“Go change, mate, you smell like a brewery.”
Which was how you ended up here—leaning awkwardly against the small counter inside his room while he rummaged through a duffel bag, hair damp from a rushed shower, skin still flushed from adrenaline and champagne and victory.
And from kissing you. Probably. Hopefully? Maybe?
Silence sat between you, thick but not heavy. Charged. Not uncomfortable—just… waiting.
He cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder, shirt half-unbuttoned. “So,” he started, voice more cautious than you’d ever heard from him, “about earlier.”
You felt your pulse tick up but forced your voice to stay steady.
“Yes. Earlier.”
He rubbed the back of his neck—nervous. Actually nervous.
“I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“It’s not weird.”
“Are you sure? Because I kinda jumped you. In public. On international broadcast. In front of half the grid. And my mum.”
Your lips twitched despite yourself. “You did.”
“And I’m… sorry.” He mumbled. “But also not sorry. Which is—really confusing.”
You exhaled a laugh. Quiet. “It was a big moment.”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t the moment.”
You blinked. “Then what was it?”
Lando stepped closer—slow, deliberate—until he was right in front of you, still slightly damp, smelling faintly of soap and champagne and exhaustion and something warm and nervous.
“It was you.” He said softly. “I’ve been trying not to—” he broke off, swallowing, searching for the right words. “Not to ruin things. Not to mess up our friendship. Not to make you feel like you owed me anything. But when I saw you out there in that dress and you were smiling at me like you were proud and happy and like I—like I mattered to you…” He shook his head helplessly. “I just snapped.”
Something in your chest softened—dangerously, beautifully. “And now?” you asked quietly.
“Now I’m still snapping.” He smiled, small and crooked. “Just more politely.”
You laughed under your breath, and the tension in the room shifted—lighter, warmer. He took one more step, close enough that his knee brushed yours.
“Can I…?” he asked softly. You nodded.
He reached up first, gently brushing his thumb over your cheek like he was testing reality, and then he leaned in and kissed you. Slow. Warm. Intentional. Nothing like the desperate, champagne-soaked spin-kiss from earlier. This one was careful, deliberate—like he wanted to memorize every second.
Your fingers found the fabric of his still-unbuttoned shirt, lightly gripping. He made a quiet sound in his throat, deep and surprised, and pressed a little closer.
His hand slid to the back of your neck, thumb stroking your skin, grounding and tender. He kissed you again. And again. Until both of you forgot how to breathe properly.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breath unsteady, voice a whisper.
“God,” he murmured, “doing that sober is so much worse for me.”
“Worse?” you teased breathlessly.
He grinned. “Yeah. Because now I know exactly what I’m doing. And exactly how badly I want to keep doing it.”
Your cheeks warmed in a way you couldn’t fight. He took your hands lightly in his, lacing your fingers together.
“So…” he said softly. “Can I take you out tonight? Like—properly? Or as properly as a world championship party allows?”
You smiled. “You don’t even have a shirt on.”
He looked down, horrified. “Right. Clothes. Yes. Good idea. I should—uh—finish that.”
But instead of going back to his bag, he leaned in and kissed you once more, quick and sweet, like he physically couldn’t walk away without doing it.
“Just… don’t leave,” he whispered.
“I won’t.”
He smiled—relieved and glowing—and finally turned to finish getting dressed.
Outside the door, the world buzzed and celebrated. Inside, everything had just begun.
TWO FOR TWO
synopsis :: what happens when Lando Norris decides winning the world championship isn't enough?
warnings :: none just fluff
word count :: 2k
pairing :: lando norris x childhoodfriend!reader
f1 masterlist
The Yas Marina Circuit was a blur of artificial lights, screaming engines, and the deafening roar of tens of thousands of people. But for you, standing behind the parc fermé barriers clad in Papaya orange, the world had narrowed down to a single, blurry monitor and the crackle of the team radio.
"Lando Norris, you are the World Champion! The 2025 World Champion!"
The voice of his race engineer, Will Joseph, cracked with emotion.
Then, the scream. It wasn't the polished media voice Lando usually used. It was raw, guttural, and tear-filled. "We did it! Oh my god, we did it!"
You let out a sob you didn’t realize you were holding, your hands flying to your mouth. Around you, the McLaren mechanics were jumping, hugging, and crying. Zak Brown was already sprinting toward the fence.
You stood frozen. You remembered the beginning. Not the karting beginning, or the Formula 3 beginning. You remembered preschool. You remembered a four-year-old Lando with messy hair, struggling to tie his shoelaces, asking if you wanted to share his snack. You had been inseparable since before he knew what a racing line was. You were the keeper of his secrets, the calm to his chaos, and for the last few years, the person silently, painfully in love with him.
The sleek MCL38 pulled into the world champion board.
Lando didn’t just climb out of the car; he erupted from it. He stood on the halo, arms wide, soaking in the fireworks exploding over the marina. When he jumped down, he was mobbed by the team.
You stayed back near the media pen entrance, giving him his moment. You watched him hug his dad and mum, hug Zak, and wipe tears from his eyes with his balaclava still in his hand. His hair was a mess of sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline and exhaustion.
Then, the cameras swarmed.
David Coulthard stepped up with the microphone, the broadcast going out to millions of people worldwide. Lando leaned against the rear wing of the car, trying to catch his breath, a mixture of disbelief and pure joy on his face.
"Lando Norris," Coulthard’s voice boomed over the PA system. "World Champion. The words you’ve been waiting to hear your whole life. Talk us through the emotions right now."
Lando laughed, a breathless, high-pitched sound that made your heart ache. He ran a hand through his damp curls. "I... I don't even know what to say. It’s been such a long season. The team has been incredible. Every single person back at Woking, my family..."
He paused. His eyes scanned the crowd behind the barrier. He wasn't looking at the camera anymore. He was searching.
"But, you know," Lando continued, his voice dropping an octave, becoming suddenly serious. "Everyone talks about the sacrifice of racing. But I think the people around us sacrifice more. And there’s... there is one person specifically."
The crowd quieted down slightly, sensing the shift in his tone. You felt your breath hitch. He was looking in your direction, though the glare of the floodlights made it hard to tell if he could actually see you.
"She’s standing right over there," Lando said, gesturing vaguely toward the garage entry. "We’ve known each other since preschool. Literally, since we were four years old. She was there before I knew what a steering wheel was. She was there when I was losing in karts and crying in the car home. She was there when I moved to Monaco and felt lonely. She’s been the one constant thing in my life when everything else was moving at two hundred miles per hour."
Tears pricked your eyes again. He never talked about you like this in public. You were usually just his "best mate."
"I honestly don't think I’d be standing here, holding this title, if she hadn't held me up all those years," Lando said, his voice wavering slightly. "So, this isn't just mine. It’s—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
The interviewer looked confused. "Lando?"
Lando was staring right at you now. You had stepped slightly forward, out of the shadow of a mechanic.
Your eyes locked. In that split second, amidst the chaos of the biggest achievement of his career, something seemed to snap in his mind. The adrenaline of winning the championship had stripped away all his defenses, all the fear of ruining the friendship, all the hesitation.
"Hold on a second," Lando said abruptly. "There's something I really have to do."
"Lando, we're live—" the interviewer started, but Lando was already moving.
He abandoned the interview. He abandoned the car. He broke into a run, dodging a cameraman and hopping over the low barrier separating the parc fermé area from the team personnel.
"y/n!"He crashed into you. It wasn't a hug; it was a collision. His fireproof race suit was soaked with sweat and smelled of champagne and rubber, but you didn't care. You grabbed the front of his suit to steady him, but he didn't stop.
Before you could say congratulations, Lando cupped your face with both hands, his gloves rough against your skin, and smashed his lips onto yours.
The world stopped. The screaming crowd, the fireworks, the engines—it all turned into white noise.
It was a deep, desperate kiss. It was twenty plus years of friendship, five years of pining, and the overwhelming high of victory all pouring out at once. He kissed you like he was trying to breathe you in, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones frantically. You melted into him, your arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him back with everything you had kept hidden for so long.
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, both of you gasping for air. His eyes were wide, shining with tears and a smile that eclipsed the lights of the track.
"I love you," he breathless, loud enough for the nearby mechanics to hear. "I am so in love with you. I couldn't wait another second to say it."
You laughed, a watery, joyful sound, running your thumb over his cheek. "I love you too, Lando."
"Took me long enough, yeah?" he grinned, that cheeky sparkle returning to his eyes.
"Just a bit," you whispered.
Suddenly, the roar of the crowd surged again. You both looked up to see the giant screens broadcasting the two of you, zoomed in, high definition. The entire world had just watched the new World Champion run away from his victory interview to kiss his best friend.
Lando looked at the screen, then back at you, his grin widening. "Oops. Think I interrupted the interview."
"Go," you pushed him gently back toward the car, though you didn't let go of his hand. "Go finish it. You’re the World Champion."
He squeezed your hand, looked at you one last time as if to anchor himself, and ran backward toward the baffled interviewer.
"Sorry!" Lando yelled into the microphone as he picked it back up, breathless and beaming brighter than the trophy waiting for him. "I just... I really needed to win that one, too."
The minutes following the podium ceremony were a blur of flashing cameras, heavy gold medals, and lukewarm champagne. You watched Lando navigate the official media line—the triumphant press conference, the sponsor obligations—all with a goofy, slightly stunned smile plastered on his face. Every time he glanced your way, standing discreetly near the back with Zak and the rest of the team principals, he’d wiggle his eyebrows, a silent acknowledgement of the giant, beautiful mess he’d created.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the mandatory duties ended. You slipped away from the main celebratory crush and found your way toward the smaller, quieter area reserved for drivers—the cool-down room, used for medical checks and post-race wind-downs.
When you pushed the door open, the contrast was jarring. It was cool, sterile, and silent compared to the cacophony outside. Lando was sitting on a padded bench, stripped down to his fireproof leggings, gulping from a bottle of water. The World Champion cap was set aside, and he looked utterly exhausted, but his eyes were still bright with residual adrenaline.
He looked up, saw you, and the exhaustion melted into a wide, relieved grin.
“There she is,” he murmured, standing up quickly. He dropped the bottle and walked toward you, stopping just inches away.
You didn't move to hug him, instead crossing your arms with a playful sternness. “You know, Lando Norris, that was arguably the most stressful five minutes of my entire life. And I watched you nearly crash in Spa three years ago.”
He chuckled, a low, tired sound. “Yeah, well, kissing the girl you’ve been terrified of losing for half your life on live TV is a little more high-stakes than a gravel trap, honestly.”
You dropped the act, your heart melting, and stepped into his space. This time, the hug was soft and desperate. No champagne, no sweat, no cameras—just the two of you, breathing each other in.
“Congratulations, Champ,” you whispered into the damp fabric of his undershirt. “You did it. The World Championship.”
He squeezed you tight. “I did. And I still can’t believe it. But that was only the second best thing that happened tonight.” He pulled back slightly, his thumbs tenderly tracing the curve of your cheekbone.
“Oh? What was the first?” you teased, though you knew the answer.
“You tell me,” he said, his voice dropping low. “Did I completely ruin our entire twenty plus years of friendship, or did I...did I actually do the right thing?”
You smiled, resting your hands on his bare, muscular forearms. “You did the right thing. You idiot. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to realize that I’m completely and utterly in love with you?”
Lando stared at you, his eyes wide with a triumphant realization that eclipsed even the moment he crossed the finish line.
“You are?” he breathed.
“Of course, I am! Why do you think I’ve spent every other weekend of my life flying around the world just to be near you? It wasn’t just for the free hospitality, you muppet.”
He threw his head back and laughed, a genuine, joyful release of sound that echoed off the white tile walls. He leaned in, his gaze serious now.
“It wasn't a championship adrenaline high, y/n. I meant it,” Lando confirmed, his breath warm on your ear. “I love being your best friend, but every time someone joked we should just get together, it was torture, because I wanted to. I’ve known since you came to Silverstone that year with me, and you were standing right there in the garage, and I realized I cared more about you seeing me win than actually winning. I just really want you for worse or for better. And trust me, I would wait forever and ever if I had to.”
He pulled back, his hands framing your face once more, but this kiss was different from the public, explosive one. This was quiet, tender, and promised a lifetime. It was the confirmation that no matter how fast his life moved on the track, you were the safe, steady harbor he always returned to.
When he broke away, he pressed his forehead to yours, his eyelashes fluttering closed.
“So,” he mumbled, his lips brushing yours. “I won the World Championship, and I got the girl. Not a bad Sunday, huh?”
“Definitely not a bad Sunday,” you agreed, pulling him in for a tight hug. You felt his heart hammering against your chest, still racing from the mixture of racing glory and sudden, terrifying, beautiful love.
“We need to talk about the PR nightmare we just created, though,” you pointed out.
Lando just shrugged, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you securely onto the bench beside him. He rested his chin on the top of your head, the World Champion letting himself simply rest for the first time all year.
“They can talk all they want,” he yawned contentedly. “They can’t take either one of these away from me. I just got two for two.”
em speaks!
i had this written before the abu dahbi race and was only going to post it if Lando won. And so the words don't quite match up to what he said nor was the celebration but that's ok lol
p.s. I'm still very much emotional after that race. If anyone so much as says the words "Lando", "Mclaren", or "F1"....I will probably start crying again. I couldn't be prouder of Lando 😭😭😭
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One Golden Ring
Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader
Warnings: None
Authors Note: I wrote this two months ago, for the record
Word Count: 3.2k
Summary: You and your beautiful (but secret) boyfriend attend your friend’s annual Christmas charity gala. But it seems that your boyfriend is hiding more than just your shared secret.
In hindsight, it’s too cold for the dress you’re wearing.
It’s off the shoulder, the silk so thin that it wouldn’t be doing anything to keep away the cold even if it did cover your skin.
You hadn’t expected to be so chilled by the walk from the car into the building.
But, with every step you take and with every click of your heels against the concrete, you get colder and colder until you’re slightly worried you’ll turn purple before you even get inside.
Luckily, your respite comes with the opening of the front door. You’re quick to step inside, sending a small wave to the doorman who nods politely at you.
Looking past the chill still lingering in your skin, you’re excited, all in all.
The room you step into is opulent, to say the least.
The ceiling is high, over three stories above you. The ivory stone is decorated with lights and ivy and garlands, shining brightly above it all. There’s a large tree in the corner, taller than any tree you’d seen before. Ornaments glimmer against the green needles, an array of presents overflowing out from the base, all perfectly wrapped and finished with luxurious bows.
People mingle around. Friends, strangers, reporters. All dressed more than nicely and all here for the same purpose.
For the uninitiated, the room you’re currently standing in, marveling at the decor of, is home to Lewis Hamilton’s annual charity christmas gala, an event he’s thrown for as long as you have known him, benefiting underprivileged children for the holidays.
You slowly make your way across the room, methodically adjusting your hair and hoping the goosebumps on your skin aren’t too obvious. You pace quietly, doing more watching than anything else. You pass by people you know, passively greeting an already-rowdy Daniel Ricciardo sipping from a class of spiked apple cider, and giving a quick side-hug to Neymar who sends you a million-dollar grin. You hadn’t seen the Brazilian since he crashed a club set your at-the-time DJ boyfriend was working.
You try not to remember the DJ boyfriend.
You pass by a waiter, grabbing a glass of champagne that he’s carting around and raising the liquid to your lips, humming softly at the feeling of the alcohol slipping down your throat.
Your eyes slip back to surveying the room as you settle into the crowd. They flick to the entrance as the door opens and someone quietly steps inside. A man.
He looks good.
All-black suit, sans tie. The blazer and pants fit him perfectly, having been tailored just for this. The fabric of his blazer is velvet, although it’s not obvious from across the room. You only know because your hands had been clutching the sides of it while you kissed him earlier.
His black shirt is half-unbuttoned under it, revealing the skin of his tanned chest. There's a small sprig of holly in his breast pocket that you’d convinced him to include.
He looks good.
You don’t react, though, taking a larger sip of your champagne. You watch Lando glance around the room, adjusting his blazer slightly. Then, his eyes meet yours. There’s a hundred things you could do in that moment but, instead, you just smile. He pauses, but then he smiles back.
You glance away, trying to hold your smile back as much as you can. You end up digging your teeth into your lip, eyes flickering to the floor as you step back to walk back into the crowd, back to mingling.
You make your way around the room, greeting Max Verstappen, drunk off expensive champagne, and you hug Taylor Swift, who’s accompanied by her overly-large fiance, both wearing matching emerald fabrics.
Eventually, your gradual pacing around the room leads you right to where you really wanted to be.
“Well, hello there,” a familiar charming voice greets you.
You smile warmly, all shining teeth and sharp beauty, “Hello, charmer.”
“Careful,” he replies, grinning, “If you keep talking like that people might think you love me.”
You hum, leaning against the wall next to him, “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”
Lando snorts, shaking his head and leaning next to you, “Of course we wouldn’t.”
With that, you both drop some of the charming demeanor and you smile genuinely, leaning forward at the same time he does to wrap your arms around your neck, giving him a quick hug,
Before he pulls away, Lando quickly whispers against your neck, “I missed you.”
You pull away, laughing slightly, “You saw me half an hour ago.”
“Worst thirty minutes of my life,” he replies, pulling a fake frown, grinning when he sees you laugh.
“You’re such a dork,” you laugh, letting go of him and taking another sip from your glass.
“Ah, I’m your dork,” he replies, relaxing back against the wall next to you.
You hum, glancing towards him, eyes shining, “That you are.”
You both stand there for as long as you can without catching the attention of the reporters in the room and ostensibly outing your relationship to the hungry wolves of the media circle.
When you part, you make your way to the bar, passing by Shakira, who kisses your cheek, and settling into a barstool next to Oscar Piastri who sends you that awkward smile he sends to everyone.
“Can I get a glass of eggnog, please?” you ask the bartender, who nods and moves smoothly to make you a glass.
“You seen your Romeo yet, Juliet?” the familiar bored voice twinged with an Australian accent rings out from next to you.
You laugh slightly, glancing at the sharply-dressed driver next to you, “Yeah, just left him, actually.”
Oscar hums, taking a sip of his old fashioned, “Can’t keep away, can you?”
You laugh, bumping your shoulder against his, “Can you blame me?”
Oscar shifts, a small smile on his lips, “Guess I can’t.”
From there, you and Oscar fall into a comfortable rhythm, the kind of flow that only comes with having been one of the people introducing him to this world.
You’d known Oscar since he got his seat at McLaren. You and Lando had been…something at the time so you were always in the garage. When you’d seen the shy little Australian with what seemed to be a permanent frown wandering around Woking, you’d decided he had to be your friend. Three years later, he's one of your closest ones.
“You have Christmas plans?” Oscar asks as the bartender walks over with your drink. You smile gratefully as you accept it.
“Yeah, I do,” you reply, taking a small sip from your glass before setting it down, “Going back to England with Lando’s family.”
“Uck, you’re adorably sweet,” the Aussie shakes his head, downing his drink, “Makes you wonder when he’s gonna pop the question.”
Your stomach drops but you try not to show it on your face.
Of course you’ve thought about Lando proposing. You’ve been together for three years, close friends for even longer. You moved in with him over a year ago and it had been sixteen months of you tiptoeing around his monaco apartment while he’s streaming and posting pictures that crop out his oh-so recognizable neon hoodie. You know that Lando wants to marry you, he’d told you multiple times. But, somehow, someone saying it out loud makes your stomach turn.
You just hum in response, taking a sip of your drink.
It does make you wonder what Oscar knows, though.
“What are your Christmas plans?” you ask in response, quickly pivoting the conversation.
“Going back to Australia with my girlfriend,” he responds, smooth as ever.
“Sounds fun,” you respond, eyes glancing around the room. They skirt over Lewis Hamilton laughing next to Brad Pitt and Miles Chamley-Watson and land on Lando speaking to Charles Leclerc with a serious expression on his face. You falter, but glance away anyway, “Tell Lily I love her…and that I miss her.”
“I’m sure she knows,” Oscar replies with a small smile, glancing over your shoulder and beginning to stand up from his barstool, “But I’ll tell her again anyway.”
With that, Oscar nods and begins to turn to walk away. Your eyes follow him for a few seconds but quickly drift off when you feel someone settle behind your shoulder. You glance up, eyes landing on your beautiful boyfriend, a smile on his lips doing little to conceal the obvious tension in his brows, “Hi, darling.”
You trace his face with your gaze, “Hi. You alright?”
Lando nods, relaxing his features, his hands coming up to rest on your shoulders, sliding up and down your skin slowly. You try not to be surprised at his public display of affection, especially considering he was the one who recommended you don’t tell anyone about your relationship in the first place.
“I’m perfect, actually.”
You narrow your eyes but smile softly anyway, “Okay.”
“Come dance with me,” Lando says quickly, reaching his arms out to grasp one of your hands in his and to take the glass out of your hand and place it on the bartop with the other.
He isn’t waiting for an answer as you take one last desperate sip of your drink, stepping off the barstool, or moreso, not resisting Lando’s pulling you off the barstool. Before you can even blink, he’s pulling you to the dance floor where couples are waltzing politely to the music being played by the classical band in the corner.
“Lando!” you laugh, hustling to keep up with him and not topple in your heels, “Slow down!”
Lando glances back with a small grin, only stopping once you’re in the middle of the room. You attempt to pause and take a breath but, before you can, his arms wrap around you pulling you close. He rests one hand around your ribs and moves the other one to grasp yours and reach both out toward the side, successfully falling into waltz formation. You’re suddenly very aware of how many people, strangers specifically, are in this room.
“You know how to waltz, right?” he asks, kind of breathless but still smiling widely like an idiot.
“I mean, yeah. But, Lando-”
“Great!” he replies, starting to move you both in a circle, “Teach me?”
“Lando!” you laugh, soon relaxing into his hold and taking the lead as you dance, “What has gotten into you?”
“Something about the holiday season, I guess!” Lando replies, eyes flickering between your face and something over your shoulder, “Feeling very festive.”
“Yeah?” you ask, “Lando, I think-”
Before you can continue, Lando’s eyes widen and he spins you around quickly, turning your back to where you would have been facing.
“What was that, sweetheart?” he asks, teeth shining as he looks back at your face, “Don’t think I heard you.”
“I was just going to say that, Lando-”
This time, he drops one of your hands and spins you with the other one, bringing you back into his grasp afterward.
“Sorry?”
“Was that necessary?” you ask, the amusement starting to turn into vague frustration.
“It was part of the song,” Lando replies like it’s the most obvious fact in the world, his eyes still stuck looking over your shoulder, “Sorry darling, I’m learning. Couldn’t just not do it.”
You sigh, head leaning back slightly before you straighten up, “Alright, but Lan-”
Right then, he dips you, effectively silencing you. You come back up, hair shaken and eyes wide. Lando pulls you back close to him.
“Charles told me it’s about to start snowing,” your boyfriend muses, eyes flickering anywhere but your face.
“Lan-!”
Before you can continue talking, Lando’s eyes seem to catch on something over your shoulder and he drops your outstretched hand, instead choosing to pull you forward by your hand tangled in his own.
“Come on,” he says, clearly jittery, “I want to see the snow.”
You sigh, accepting that whatever Lando has going on isn’t going to be explained to you. Instead, you just trail behind him, willing to trust whatever is wrong with him.
He leads you back through the crowd who ogle at your intertwined hands. You try not to notice.
You follow him as he winds his way across the room, eventually reaching a quieter section of the hall, away from the hustle and bustle.
There’s a door in front of you. Nondescript, not particularly interesting. But Lando approaches it with a kind of wavering nervousness he doesn’t even have before races.
He takes a small breath and then pushes it open with his free hand, stepping out into the cool night air.
You follow, careful where you place your heel as the ground changes from the perfectly placed tile to a bumpy cobblestone.
The first thing you realize is that it’s snowing.
The second thing is that Lando has been up to something.
The ground at the end of the stairs below, laden with fresh white snow, has rose petals scattered across it, a stark contrast of color. A patch of snow right in the middle has been carved out, leaving the cobblestone visible. Candles line the edge of it. A path to get to the circle has also been cleared of snow.
“Lando…”
He just looks up at you from his position a few steps down, a soft look painted on his features.
“Come on,” he says softly, pulling gently on your hand.
You do your best to step down the granite stairs without slipping while also trying to process what’s in front of you.
Lando guides you as you navigate the slippery ground, leading you slowly toward the middle of the snow.
As soon as you’re both standing securely in the circle, he turns toward you, pure giddiness painted on his features. The skin on his cheeks and nose is starting to turn a light shade of red, the cold making itself known. A few flakes of snow land on the shoulders of his black blazer. The same blazer you had chosen.
“Love,” he starts, making you look up at his face, a certain shy look he hadn’t had with you since you first met, “I never thought I’d ever love someone quite like how I love you.”
With that, he drops down onto one knee, pulling a small box out of his pocket and flipping it open.
Inside lies the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen. It looks so much like the ones you remember pointing out in passing at a jewelry store but somehow one hundred times better than all of them combined. You can’t even imagine how much it must have cost.
But, for a moment, you’re not concerned with the ring, “Lando, your pants-“
Lando laughs softly, cutting you off. When you glance away from his knee against the wet cobblestone, his eyes are staring at your face, soft and unguarded.
“See, even when I’m trying to propose, you still care so much about me,” he says with a small laugh, “That’s the kind of thing that made me realize you’re the only one for me.”
You can feel tears welling up in your eyes. You try to blink them back, not wanting mascara streaks down your face.
“Darling, you’re my favorite person I’ve ever met,” he says with a kind of mystified expression, like he still can’t believe it even as he says it, “No one has ever felt so much like they were designed so perfectly for me to be so in love with. Every day that I have you, I wake up and am just astounded at how lucky I am to get to spend my life with you.”
He blinks for a moment, sniffing quietly before glancing back up at you, “You are the kindest, smartest, most beautiful person I have ever met. I used to think I was destined to spend my life alone. But then I met you and I couldn’t believe I had ever imagined a life without you in it.”
“I love you so much,” he whispers softly, a warm grin stretching across his lips, “Will you marry me?”
You can’t help it when the tears fall. A grin of your own breaks out on your face. You feel like you’re at a loss for words.
So, you nod.
“Of course I will, you muppet.”
The second the words leave your lips, Lando is shooting to his feet and scooping you up in his arms, spinning you around in an overjoyed circle.
“I get to marry the most beautiful woman in the world!” He laughs loudly as he spins you around.
You can’t help the loud, joyous laughter that echoes from your lips, “Lando!”
You’re both laughing now and, a few seconds later, he places your feet back softly against the slippery cobblestone, carefully pulling the ring back out to slide it onto your finger.
It really is the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen.
You glance up at the man in front of you, all tan skin reddened by the cold and messy curls decorated with snowflakes and you think, “how did I get so lucky?”
Here you are, with the man you love more than life, newly engaged, happier than you’ve ever been. Just inside, your closest friends mingle, reveling in a life many dream of.
How did you get so lucky?
“Come on,” Lando starts, sticking out his hand for you to grab, “Need to show off my beautiful stunning fiancée.”
You laugh, but when you both turn around to head inside, you notice that the path back to the stairs has been mostly snowed over.
Before you can even think about trying to traverse the snowy path in your heels, Lando is scooping you up into his arms, holding you bridal style and setting off through the snow.
“Lando!” You gasp, mostly shocked at the sudden departure from the ground.
“What?” He asks with a sharp grin, glancing at your face, “Couldn’t let my fiancée get hurt trying to walk through the snow.”
You laugh, then you glance over his shoulder at the circle of rose petals in the distance.
“Did you plan all this yourself?” You ask softly.
“Had some help,” Lando shrugs with a smile, “Oscar’s in the bushes with a camera.”
You blink in shock, quickly looking back to the snowy garden. True to form, you can see Oscar climbing out from behind a tree, brushing snow off of his suit jacket and clutching a camera in his hands.
“Oscar?” You call out toward the Aussie.
He glances up, waving slightly at you and Lando’s receding form.
“Congrats! I’ll see you guys inside!” He shouts back, starting to walk through the snow.
You laugh loudly, wrapping your arms around Lando’s neck.
When you glance away from Oscar, Lando is already staring at you.
“I love you,” he says suddenly, his voice dripping with a soft kind of warmth.
You stare at him for a few seconds with a slight smile before it turns into a grin, “I love you too, Lan.”
He stops walking to lean down and press his lips against yours.
In that moment, you’ve never been more grateful. And never more in love.
He pulls back.
“I love you forever, darling.”
“I love you forever and more, Lando Norris.”
——
Taglist: @evie-119 @casperlikej
austrian gp 25 qualifying | lando p1
Home Race Victory
Moeyy’s Master List
Welcome to my collection of works. I post for a variety of fandoms, including Formula 1, Supernatural, and The Walking Dead. Warnings are posted in each individual fic. My work is 18+, so minors DNI. Any and all feedback is appreciated!
Formula 1
Series:
Charles Leclerc
Let’s Make Trouble in the Dream World
Prelude
Part 1 - Let’s Talk About Chemistry
Part 2 - Chokehold
Part 3 - I Feel My Shadow Dissolving
Part 4 - Do You Wish That You Loved Me?
Part 5 - Are You Really Okay?
Part 6 - Coming Soon!
One-shots:
Charles Leclerc
Stop Laughing
Lando Norris
Private Conversation
Streaming and Daydreaming
Reunited
She Tastes Like Home
© world athletics
Charles Leclerc attends the 76th annual Monaco Red Cross Ball Gala Charity Event. (Photo by Valery Hache).
Chinese GP '25 // Thurs Interview
"It's only the first race of the season, we've learnt many things since then, and I'm sure that we'll put all the bits together for this weekend and we'll do a step forward. I still remain convinced that the potential of the car is much better than what we have seen for that first weekend. But now we need to show that on track..."
There is no stronger force than that of a girl’s desperation to write about her male hyperfixation.
Mon amour
Lando today. We're so fucking back.
