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02. THE COLLECTION
FIND ALL ARTICLES HERE ! the archive
FRESH OFF THE PRESS: lover, you should've come over (ii) / sugar! honey! love! (ln1)
EDITOR'S PICKS: sienna (mv1) / always you (ln1)
soooo apologies for disappearing LMAO. promise i'm working on stuff! here are some snippets to make up for it. tell me which one you want out first so i can prioritize it!!
mystery of love
— lando norris x fem!reader
IT’S SUMMER IN ITALY.
The kind of summer that feels good on your skin, that makes you wake up to watch the sunrise and stay up late because it’s still warm.
Lando turns over in his bed, hair sleep-tousled, sheets half off and draping down to the hardwood floor. The window is open, late morning sunlight seeping through the thin linen curtains. Downstairs, people are talking, plates and cutlery are clattering.
He can hear Max, his best friend, say something, followed by a round of laughter. Spending the summer break in Italy was his idea, and Lando, being the people pleaser he was, hadn’t objected.
“To get your mind off the last few races,” Max had said, a mere two days after the biggest fuck up of Lando’s career. “Relax, y’know? Disconnect from the world for a little while.”
Lando had suggested Spain—Portugal, maybe. A week at his house in Costa Terra. Max had complained they always went to Costa Terra during the season anyway, so renting a two-story house in Italy it was.
The bedsheets slide against his bare skin when he sits up. He can smell breakfast already, coffee, the scent of the world waking up while he’d still been asleep.
“Look who’s awake.”
Lando’s barely down the last step of the staircase before Max’s voice reaches his ears.
“Thought you’d never get up.”
“Funny,” Lando mutters, trying to fix his hair as he steps into the kitchen. “This is supposed to be a holiday, is it not? Cut me some slack.”
He catches a glimpse of the dining room, the amount of people in there (too much for his half-asleep brain to deal with), and sighs.
“Pietra says there’s a lake around here,” Max says, passing Lando a plate of toast. “Five minute walk or something.”
“A lake?” Lando repeats, glancing up at him. “We’re swimming?”
“We’re in Italy,” Max says, like it’s obvious. “And it’s summer.”
“Right,” he says, sifting through the multitude of spreads on the kitchen counter. He finds one, spreads it with a knife that looks like it was made hundreds of years ago. “I’m going back upstairs.”
“You’re not gonna say hi to everyone?”
“Later.”
He picks up the plate before Max can say anything else, slipping past the dining room and up the stairs.
His bedroom smells like wood, like a fireplace that hasn’t been lit for years. It’s only been a few days in Italy, not enough for his own Ralph Lauren cologne to take over instead. He almost doesn’t want it too.
After the last few races, after that one mistake that altered the direction of the season—that could cost him his world championship, he hated anything familiar. He hated people recognising him—shouting his name from across the street followed by ‘this championship is yours!’. He hated seeing anything remotely close to racing, which was something he never thought was possible.
But that was why he was here. In Italy, in a house that didn’t belong to him, in an environment where he could get his shit together for the rest of the season.
He takes another bite of the toast, setting it down on top of the wooden dresser. His phone starts ringing on his bedside table. Probably someone from the team, trying to figure where he is and why he hasn’t shown for the past week.
He should be back in Monaco. He should be training, should be preparing for the next half of the season to win. He shouldn’t be in Italy, fucking up his sleep schedule, toying the edge between drunk and hungover every night—
“Lando!” he hears Max call from downstairs. “We’re leaving in ten!”
He shouts something back between a mix of okay and got it, snatching up clothes, his phone forgotten on the bedside table behind him.
✦
The lake is exactly four minutes away from the house. It’s hot enough outside that he’s unsure if he even needed to wear a shirt in the first place.
Pietra, Max’s girlfriend, is jokingly arguing with him at the edge of the water. Lando’s sitting on the grass a few meters away, shirt already discarded beside him, sipping on an ice-cold coke because he reserved any alcohol for after five pm.
The guys beside him are talking about something football related, arguing over teams, over scores. Lando, frankly, doesn’t want to talk about any sport—or quite literally anything.
“You’re not gonna go in?” one of them asks when they’ve dropped football, moving onto the lake instead. “It isn’t that cold.”
“I’m good,” Lando answers, watching as Max pushes his girlfriend into the water, only to be dragged in himself a second later. “Maybe later.”
He thinks the guy mutters suit yourself, but he doesn’t care enough to listen.
There are other people scattered around the lake, a group of teenagers opposite him, a couple sitting on the edge, an older man picking fruit at one of the trees.
It’s a good reminder, he thinks, that so many people have other lives. Lives that go on without ever knowing the name Lando Norris. It might’ve been an egotistical thought, if not for the fact he’s just glad all these people hadn’t seen him fuck up so badly a few weeks ago.
“You’re not going in?”
He blinks, glances up to his side. The voice is feminine, light, the faintest accent at the edges. He thinks he’s dreaming, that he’s finally gone so insane he’s hallucinating someone.
“No,” he answers, praying that he doesn't look like a lunatic. “I’m not.”
You smile, sitting beside him, adjusting the strap of your tank top, “Fair enough. The water’s cold.”
Lando stares. He stares at your hair, cascading down your back, your skin that looks like it’s been warmed by the sun, your perfect face that might’ve been the reason he thinks he’s dreaming.
“You’re…” you trail off, looking at him to fill in the blank. He blinks again, clearing his throat.
“Lando,” he says, offering his hand like an idiot. He wants to take it back immediately, curse himself for being so awkward. “Lando Norris.”
“Lando Norris,” you say, smiling. It sounds like you’re testing the name, like it’s new material. You take his hand, your skin smooth against his rough palm. “That’s nice.”
You let yourself linger there for a few seconds, before letting go, reaching up to brush hair behind your ear.
“What are you doing in Italy, Lando Norris?”
He clears his throat, looking away to the lake, “Vacation. A break kind of thing.”
“Break from what?”
“Work. It’s supposed to be relaxing.”
“And is it?”
He turns the words over in his head a few times.
“No,” he answers, truthful. “It isn’t.”
You don’t push like he expects you to. You only nod, following his gaze, legs stretching out in front of you. It drags Lando’s attention back again, makes him start studying you like he can’t help it.
“Are you from here?” he asks before he can stop himself. “Italy?”
“Somewhat,” you say, still staring in front of you. “I travel.”
“Right.”
“You’ve got an interesting accent, you know,” you smile, looking over at him again. “British, but not quite. Makes me think you travel a lot too.”
“Yeah?” he says, fingers tapping on his bottle of coke. “I do. Travel a lot, I mean.”
“For work?”
He nods, taking a sip. Your eyes track him, his hand as it raises, his throat as he swallows. It feels like you’re turning him inside out, reading every unspoken bit of him without even moving an inch.
“What do you do, then?” you say, leaning back on your arms, the embodiment of casual. “For work?”
He doesn’t want to tell you.
Usually, it slips off his tongue so easily. I drive, he’d say with a cocky smile, the knowing that he’s one of the only twenty-something people who get a chance to do what he does. He’d relish in the realisation, the gasps in response. Looking at you now, at your curious expression, one that isn’t expecting anything major, he doesn’t want to say.
“It’s complicated.”
He watches you smile, watches you understand.
“It’s that important then, huh?” you say, and his gaze flickers to your bare collarbone, the straps of your bikini beneath your top. “Give me something broad, then. Finance?”
“Sport.”
“Ah,” you nod, looking away again. He admires the way the sun lights up your skin, the way it molds and shapes itself on the lines of your figure. “I see. So this must be your break.”
“I guess so.”
“But you aren’t enjoying it,” it doesn’t sound like an accusation as you say it. It sounds like you’re questioning him, trying to get to know him better. “Looks like your friends are. They aren’t athletes too?”
“No,” he says, looking again at Max, at the way him and Pietra are laughing, her arms thrown around the back of his neck. “Not really.”
He reaches over, grabs another bottle of coke out of the cooler and hands it to you. You smile, fingertips grazing his as you take it.
“What do you do for work, then?” he asks, also stretching out his legs, leaning back on his forearms. “Do you live here?”
“It’s complicated," you repeat, and he laughs. “Seriously.”
“Give me something broad.”
You smile, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you think.
“Art, you could say.”
“Seems fitting.”
“Does it?”
He glances over at you, “You’re gorgeous, you speak english despite living in a remote, Italian town, and you’re mysterious—I don’t even know your name.”
“I guess I won’t tell you, then. To keep up the persona.” you laugh, and heat rises up his neck. “And does being gorgeous have anything to do with art?”
“Might,” he says, and you take a sip of your drink, still smiling. “But you don’t live here, do you?”
“Just for a few weeks,” you say, smile fading a little. “It’s a shame. It’s beautiful here. Barely any internet connection—like it’s permanently stuck in the past.”
He hears someone shout something, something that makes you glance up in the direction of the lake again. There’s another group of girls that wave, and you smile and wave back.
“You’re not here alone?” he blinks. He’s not sure why you ever would be, but asks the question anyway. “Does that sound creepy? Shit, I’m—”
“No,” you answer, tone warm and amused. “I’m with friends like you are. You looked lonely, though, so I came and said hi.”
“So you’re here out of pity?” he jokes, and you smile, rolling your eyes. “Gee, thanks.”
“I’m here because no one’s supposed to be sad in Italy,” you say. “It’s summer. You look lonely despite being surrounded by people. I got curious.”
He wants to know how you notice these things, how you word it, how you string thoughts together and make each one mean something. He wants to know where your accent is from, what countries shape each sound.
You set the drink down, toying with the plastic that’s peeling off the edge, “How long are you here for?”
“Another two weeks.”
You nod, like you’re thinking again. Lando downs the rest of his drink, waiting, though he doesn’t know for what.
“You’re not gonna go in the water?” you say. “Not even once?”
“Not really in the mood for it.”
“It’s good weather.”
“The water’s cold.”
“Lando,” you say, and he stills, his own name in your voice cutting his thoughts short. “C’mon.”
Lando.
He lets you tug him up and off the grass, watches you shrug off your tank top and reveal the bikini beneath. Your skin looks sun-kissed, the definition of summers spent in Italy.
“You can swim, can’t you?” you smile, taking his hand again, leading him down the small slope of grass towards the water. “Or is that the reason why—”
“I can swim,” he says, defensively. “I—”
“I’m kidding,” you laugh, stopping right by the edge. Your hand moves from his hand, trailing up his arm to his shoulder. “Loosen up. You’re tense.”
Your palm is cool from the bottle of coke, yet your touch burns. He hopes his face isn’t red, that you can’t see how stupidly flustered he is.
“Finally stopped being boring?” Max calls, and Lando flips him off. He feels your hand fall back to your side, your gaze as it flickers between him and Max.
“You ready?” he asks, just because he doesn’t know what else to. “Fuck. I’m scared.”
Your laughter is sweeter this time, more carefree.
“Scared?”
“It’s cold.”
You grab his hand again, fingers brushing against skin. His heart is loud in his ears, partially because he is scared, mostly because you’re right next to him, fingers laced with his, smiling like you’ve known him for years.
“Fuck.”
“Lando.”
“Yeah?”
Your smile widens, and before he knows it you’re jumping, pulling him down with you.
2. extra credit
— oscar piastri x fem!reader (college au)
IT'S NO SECRET YOU'RE FAILING.
Oscar knows it, the entire campus knows it, the whole of Monte Carlo probably knows it.
As he sits at a table in the corner of the campus library staring at you, he wonders why someone would bother coming all the way to Monaco, spend an outrageous amount of money for tuition, just to throw it all away for what seemed like no reason at all.
You’ve got the hood of your hoodie over your head, sunglasses covering your eyes though it’s inside and the lights aren’t exactly bright, a can of what looks like a hangover drink clutched in one hand. Your friends are around you at the table, laptops out and open to what looks like plane tickets rather than lecture reviews.
Oscar frowns, turning back to his own laptop that has in fact got his professor’s last lecture on full screen.
“She isn’t here for education, Osc,” Lando, his roommate, had told him once when he’d brought it up, halfway through his bar of kinder. You and Lando were friends, and Oscar was sure Lando had just come back from a party with you. “Honestly, I don’t think anyone is.”
“I am.”
“Yeah, but you’re you.”
He didn’t know what that meant, and hadn’t cared enough to ask. Lando was exactly the same as you anyway—here under the ruse of education, when in reality the only thing he was learning was how to fake sobriety to professors.
Oscar taps his pen mindlessly on the table, the soft thud of it against the wood background noise to his ears.
The first time he’d seen you was in his own dorm room, when Lando and him were in their first year. You’d waltzed into his room like it was your own, smiling at Oscar sitting at his desk. He remembers what you’d been wearing—a miniskirt that barely reached your midthigh, a top that dipped low enough your tits almost—
He shifts in his chair, pen dropping onto the table, instinctively glancing over to the other side of the room as if you could hear his thoughts. You were still sipping your drink, lazily leaned back in your chair, and Oscar deems it safe.
“Hi, Osc,” you’d said to him, draping yourself over the back of his chair in a hug. “What’cha up too?”
Osc.
A nickname only Lando used, and now you too apparently. Not that he was complaining one bit.
“Just,” he’d gestured in front of him, at the mess of papers. “Studying.”
“Mm,” you’d pulled away, one hand resting on his shoulder. “Lando tells me you do a lot of that.”
“Studying?”
“You should come out with us sometime,” you’d said, manicured nails gently sliding over his skin. “Might be fun.”
Lando had walked out of the bathroom a second later, loud and complaining about something as he usually is, and you’d given Oscar another smile before whisking Lando away to whatever house party you’d found for the night.
That short-lived moment replayed in his head more than he wanted to admit.
Your voice, the teasing lilt to it, the scent of something so sweet when you’d hugged him. It isn’t like that was the only and last time he’d talked to you, but for some reason, it felt like the most significant.
Oscar frowns, dragging his chair closer to the table and picking up his pen, pressing play on the recording of his last lecture.
It was just a crush. A harmless little spark of admiration, like everyone else who saw you probably had.
But they didn’t talk to you almost every day, as short as the conversation may be. They didn’t have a nickname that—
What was he doing?
He shuts his laptop, gathering everything off the desk and shoving it into his bag. You were distracting him, immensely, and you weren’t even sitting near him. It wasn’t your fault, he reminds himself, it was his own fault for letting his thoughts spiral so easily.
Still, when he rushes out of the library, he risks another glance back at you.
Your sunglasses are discarded on the table, drink lazily resting on your thigh.
And you’re looking straight at him.
✦
“On a scale of one to ten, how bad is fucking your professor?”
You’re lying on the couch of Lando’s dorm, heels kicked off to the side, when you ask the question. There’s a bag of candy open, sitting haphazardly on the edge of the couch so he can reach, an empty bottle of absolut against the pillows. It’s the aftermath of another night out—a typical tuesday night for the two of you.
“Like, socially, probably nine,” Lando answers, lying on the rug next to you. “For this college specifically, a two.”
“Seriously?”
“Who hasn’t done it?”
You prop yourself up on your forearms, reaching for the bag of candy. Sugar gets on your fingers, making you feel even more sticky then you already feel.
“But there’s a difference between fucking your professor for grades, and fucking them because you find them attractive,” you say, popping a sour candy into your mouth. “Like, what if I found one of my professors really attractive and actually fell in love or something?”
Lando sits up, frowning. His hair is tousled, shirt unbuttoned, face as gorgeous as ever. You’d probably have fucked him by now if not for the fact the two of you were so close.
Fucked with actual feelings, you mean.
“Which professor?”
“It’s hypothetical,” you say, slumping against the pillows, the bottle of vodka knocking over onto its side. “You know who isn’t bad?”
“Who?”
“My political communications professor."
You aren’t lying. He’s got dark features, an intense stare, a deep, commanding voice that’d be so good in bed. Lando fake gags, and you let out a dramatic whine, turning onto your stomach.
“But he is!”
“Disgusting.”
You throw one of the pillows at his face, and he laughs, flopping back onto the floor again.
It’s three in the morning at this point. You’re still in makeup, the buzz of alcohol heavy in your head. Lando’s dorm is quiet, the big lights are off but the lamps and glow of the TV casting the room in a dim orange.
It’s quiet with absence. The absence of Oscar Piastri, Lando’s shy, nerdy roommate that’s usually always here at night.
You pop another piece of candy into your mouth, glancing over at his closed room.
Lando and Oscar’s dorm is the perfect mix of chaos and calm, apart from their bedrooms.
Oscar’s is so neat it’s uncanny. There aren’t any clothes spilling out of the closet, his bed is made perfectly, his desk is piled up with a multitude of books perfectly arranged like an IKEA showroom. Lando’s however, had clothes strewn on every surface, empty kinder wrappers thrown on the floor, loose, crumpled papers littering the space.
Polar opposites, and yet for some reason, Oscar was the one out late tonight.
“Where’s Osc?” you ask, turning back to Lando. “Finally let loose for once?”
“Think he’s got a project,” Lando answers, yawning. “Some assignment due tomorrow. Fuck, I think I’ve got one too.”
“Wrapping someone’s ankle in tape?” You slide your leg off the couch, near him. “Practise on me.”
He snorts, batting your leg away and sitting up.
“Gonna take a shower,” he says, slowly getting to his feet. “You staying tonight?”
“For a little longer,” you say. “Might steal some clothes then head back.”
He hums, shirt already half-way off as he disappears into the bathroom.
The door shuts, shower turning on a minute later, and you slump back onto the couch.
You wouldn’t consider you and Oscar friends. More like acquaintances—honorary roommate-in-laws, if that even existed. You were always here for Lando, and Oscar was always in his room, completely focused on doing whatever was required of an engineering student. Sometimes you’d sit nearby, peppering him with questions that he somehow had unlimited patience for. Sometimes, you’d flirt too, just for fun, trying to coax a response other than a quiet, mumbled answer.
You never got one, but you’d quickly learnt that Oscar Piastri blushed easy.
The faintest touch on his arm, a hug, a kiss on the cheek when he helped you with the most mundane tasks. You looked forward to it every visit to his and Lando’s dorm. Maybe that was why the absence of him felt so heavy.
What assignment could have someone out so late?
You shift to look at Oscar’s room again, mindlessly adjusting the hem of your dress.
Sometimes, you wonder what he even does during his free time. Read, maybe? Collect those figurines that line his shelves?
You finish off the candy, chucking the bag on the coffee table. Just as your feet hit the floor, the door swings open, and lo and behold, Oscar Piastri walks in.
He’s in joggers, a hoodie, bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes, beautiful honeycomb eyes, look exhausted.
He’s so tired he doesn’t even notice you first, shutting the door behind him, sighing through his nose.
“Hey,” you say, soft, still on the edge of the couch. “You’re home late.”
Oscar blinks, freezing. You take a second to study his features again—the pretty curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose.
He’s gorgeous. Not hot like your useless flings and hookups, gorgeous, as if he were handcrafted with the precision of a porcelain doll.
“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. His gaze drags over your dress, the neckline of it, pink dusting over his neck. “Had an assignment thing. Didn’t want to leave the library till I was done.”
“Right,” you answer, amused. “Tired?”
“Kind of.”
You smile, pushing yourself off the couch, gathering your heels off the floor and moving to Lando’s room. You hear the creak of the door to Oscar’s bedroom that’s directly opposite, the thud of his bag on the floor.
Lando’s closet is a mix of button ups, plain shirts, gym clothes, the occasional formal piece here and there. You go for what you usually do—one of the comfy hoodies he always has, until a grand, great idea forms in your head.
“Hey, Osc,” you call, and you hear his movements pause. “Do me a favour?”
“Sure.”
“Got a sweater I could borrow?” you ask, turning the doorway. “Lando’s out of them. Probably either hasn’t washed any or he’s been giving them to other girls.”
Oscar’s frozen, half bent at his desk, a binder clutched in one hand. You lean against the door of Lando’s room, fingers tapping against the wood rhythmically, waiting for an answer.
“Yeah—I mean,” he practically scrambles, binder dropping onto the table. “Might be big on you.”
“Lando’s fit fine.”
“I’m a bit—um,” he gestures at himself. “Bigger. Than Lando.”
Your smile widens, and you step into his bedroom. You know he isn’t lying, you’ve noticed the waist difference between the two, how Oscar’s shoulders seemed broader, biceps rigid every time you’ve teasingly touched them.
“Bigger?”
“In clothes.”
“Nothing else?”
There’s blush rising up the back of his neck, and he hastily pulls out a navy hoodie, one with the typical cars on the back and a brand name. You wait for a second before taking it, hand grazing against his, lingering for just a beat too long.
“Thanks,” you say, turning away to shrug it on. “I’ll give it back tomorrow.”
“No rush.”
The hoodie smells like fresh laundry, like linen and the faintest hint of caramel. It suits him—clean, simple but somehow incredibly addicting.
When you turn around again, in his hoodie that almost covers the entirety of your minidress, the blush on his neck spreads to his face.
“Suits you,” he mutters, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Real well.”
You smile, leaning forward to hug him. His hands instinctively go around your waist, and you pull away to kiss him on the cheek.
“Thanks again, Osc,” you say, slipping on your heels. “Catch you later.”
“Sure,” he breathes. “Night.”
You give him another smile, the perfect mix of genuine and teasing, before disappearing out the door.
3. ACROSS THE HALL
— neighbour!lando norris x fem!reader
MONACO IS STUPIDLY HOT IN SUMMER.
It’s the one thing you’d quickly learnt after moving here years ago, after realising your french lessons from high school would not help you at all.
You’re in a halter neck, strings tied around the back of your neck, shorts stopping just before midthigh. You’d never wear it out in public of course, considering it’d probably make the nearest Monegasque auntie faint, but you were safe in your apartment, where the only other apartment opposite you was empty.
The TV in your living room is playing some soap opera, background noise as you try figure out how the new blender you bought works in the kitchen. The buttons are all in french, incredibly unhelpful considering the fact this was supposed to be one of your first steps to ‘self-improvement’.
“Eat healthy,” one of your friends had told you a couple days ago. “Or drink healthy. Helps with stress.”
She’d downed a shot of vodka a second later, so you weren’t sure why you’d taken her up on her advice.
Maybe it’s because you were getting desperate. Moving to Monaco was supposed to unlock new opportunities, especially considering the fact you’d scored a contract with one of top modeling agencies in Europe. Your family and friends thought you were doing well—if your Ferrari sitting downstairs in the underground car park wasn’t indication enough, and in financial terms, sure.
But you were stressed, loosing any kind of love you had for your career, and currently really wanted to figure out how to work this stupid, overpriced blender.
A fresh wave of mediterranean air breezes in through the open window. You frown, blindly reaching across the kitchen counter for the instructions again. Your arm knocks over the lid in the process, sending it tumbling to the herringbone floor with a loud clatter.
“Fuck me,” you mutter, running your hands through your hair. The TV is still playing—you think the lead has just confessed her love to the love interest, and the noise starts to turn overwhelming.
Just as you’re about to snatch the lid back up from the ground, a sharp knock pierces through your apartment. You’re almost grateful for the interruption, the excuse to leave the blender behind and shove it away in the back of your cupboard.
You smooth out your shorts, trying to make them look a reasonable length, fiddling with the strap of your top. It was probably another delivery guy, delivering yet another impulsive purchase you’d made to make yourself feel better.
You swing the door open.
Fuck.
“Hey.”
There’s a man standing there, someone who isn’t in the typical delivery guy getup like you’re expecting. He looks your age, relaxed, familiar. Familiar in the way you know you’ve seen him somewhere, maybe passing by on the street, on an advertisement, maybe. He looked like he could model too.
You tilt your head, leaning against the doorframe.
Yeah, he could definitely fucking model.
“Need something?” you ask, and your voice comes out harsh, still not over the shitty day you’re having. It doesn’t click in your head that he’s a new face, standing on your apartment floor that only has one other, unoccupied, apartment on it.
“No—yeah,” he blinks, and you let your gaze stray, surveying his plain, white shirt, the grey joggers. “Was just saying hi.”
You look up at his face again. He’s got tan skin, brunette, curly hair, a small scar on the bridge of his nose.
He looks really fucking good, but you’re too annoyed to care.
“Why?” you ask, frowning. You see him give you a once over too, eyes dragging up from your thighs, all the way up to your face again. “Bit creepy, no?”
“I was just—” he moves aside, and that’s when it clicks. You see the luggage, the open apartment door with boxes strewn about inside. “We’re neighbours now. There’s only two apartments on every floor. Probably going to see a lot of each other.”
Some of the annoyance simmers, realisation settling in.
“Oh,” you say, and he smiles, but it’s more of a smirk. “Right.”
“Lando,” he says, offering his hand. “Norris. Lando Norris.”
“Have we met?” you ask, shaking his hand. “I know you from somewhere.”
“Probably work.”
“What do you do?”
“Cars,” he shrugs, and you shift on the spot, head tilting. “I work with cars.”
You watch his gaze stray again. You watch it stray to your chest.
“I—”
“Are you fucking staring at my tits?”
He freezes, eyes snapping back up to your face.
“Well—”
“Seriously?”
“They’re right there.”
“What?!”
“How do you expect me not look? You’re hot, and you’re in shorts and a freakin’—”
“Have some decency!” you say, already moving to walk back inside your apartment. “Jesus. Men.”
“No, wait,” he catches your wrist, pulling you back. “C’mon. I’m sorry. What’s your name?”
“I’m not telling you. Not after that.”
“Then what do you want me to call you?” you tug out of his hold, and he grins, like this is the funniest thing in the world. “Baby? Gorgeous? Prettiest girl I’ve ever—”
You slam the door shut.
His footsteps don’t retreat for a good few seconds, though you hear a low laugh before it does. It’s silent after that. Silent enough you could pretend that some ignorant, asshole hasn’t just moved in opposite you.
You glance at the TV, that’s moved on from the soap opera, onto what looks like a recap of the latest sporting fixtures.
“And onto Formula 1. Lando Norris, who won the—”
There’s a faint ringing in your ears. One that’s screaming in a mix of horror and disbelief.
That’s where you know him from. Lando Norris. A fucking Formula 1 driver, who’s picture you’ve probably passed countless times on the street. You hear him now, in an interview, that same laugh filling your apartment.
You look at the TV, the door behind you, and at the blender lid that’s still on the ground, and decide your life really couldn’t get worse than this.
✦
The next time you run into Lando is in the elevator, at 12 in the morning.
You’re in heels, a short minidress, head buzzing with alcohol from a post-shoot dinner. He’s in jeans, a hoodie, the hood pulled over his head. You look like polar opposites.
The elevator doors open with a quiet ding.
He’s leaned against the wall, phone in hand when you walk in. You see him see you. You see his gaze drag over the hem of your dress, your sides, then back up to your face.
Heat prickles at the back of your neck, and you stop next to him, pointedly staring straight ahead.
“Hey,” he says, and you hear the grin in his voice. “How are you?”
“Good,” you answer, short, sinking further back against the wall. “You?”
“You’re not angry anymore?”
“At you? Yes. I am.”
“For what? Staring at your tits?” he crosses his arms, frowning. “I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
He laughs again, and it sends something fluttering down your stomach.
“Where’d you go?” he asks, and you glance at the elevator panel. You and him lived on one of the top floors, one you’d specifically chosen because of the gorgeous view. You were regretting it now though, more every second as you feel his gaze burning into your skin. “You look good.”
“Just out,” you choose to ignore the compliment. “Why do you care?”
“I’m curious.”
“Why are you out this late? Don’t you have some kind of strict, training regime to stick to?”
His eyebrows raise in a way that makes you want to take back the words.
“So you know who I am.”
“Hard not to. Monaco loves cars.”
“And what do you think?”
“About what?”
“Living next to a Formula 1 driver. A good Formula 1 driver. A hot one.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, shifting on the spot, adjusting your purse on your shoulder. “You’re not that good.”
“Yeah? Who won the last race?”
“How would I know?”
“Don’t lie to me, babe,” he grins, hand tapping against the metal railing around the elevator. “You’re a bad liar.”
You hate the way the nickname makes your skin prickle, the way it makes heat crawl up your neck. Like he senses it, he moves closer.
“You never told me your name. What else am I supposed to call you?” he says, amused. “No, that’s a lie. I asked the girl down at reception.”
“You what?” you frown, turning to look up at him. “Surely that’s got to be illegal or something.”
“Not when you promise her an autograph,” he shrugs. “Easy work.”
“You’re a prick.”
“Am I?”
The doors open with a quiet ding, and you rush to walk out, heels clicking on the marble flooring beneath you.
“But seriously, where’d you go?”
“I said out,” you fumble for your keys, the sudden movement after a few minutes of staying still making your head hurt. “Dinner.”
“You’ve been drinking,” he observes, leaning against the wall. “Are you drunk?”
“Get inside your apartment, Norris,” you say, managing to get your key into the lock. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”
“Mm,” he hums. “No.”
You look up at him again, just before you open your door.
He’s smiling. Of course he’s fucking smiling. He smells like cologne, probably that Ralph Lauren one—you passed his advertisement on the way home for it. You’ve been seeing him everywhere now. Advertisements, posters, his last win replaying on screens.
“Fine,” he says, pushing off of the wall, moving to his own door. “Night, gorgeous.”
You scoff out a laugh, turning the key and slipping into your apartment.
You don’t listen to him go this time. You drop your bag on the kitchen counter, kicking off your heels in the living room, before falling onto the couch.
You probably could have a civil relationship with him if you wanted. Something proper and professional. It wasn’t too late, considering the fact this was only the second time you’d seen him in the four days after he’d moved in.
“Morning.”
The thought is completely gone when you run into him the next day.
He’s shirtless, in black joggers this time. You’re no better—in a tank top, shorts similar to the ones you’d first met him in.
“Sleep well?” he asks, watching you chuck something into the rubbish chute near both of your doors. “Looks like it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, dusting off your hands. You glance over at him, eyes narrowing at what looks like a protein shake in his hand. “Why are you even out here? Do you just listen and wait for me to walk out then follow?”
“I’m not that obsessed,” he smiles, taking a sip. “Do you wish I was?”
“No.”
“Shame.”
You look past, at his open apartment door. It looks well furnished for the short amount of time he’d spent living there. You catch a glimpse of marble countertops like your own, a pictureframe off to one side of a Formula 1 car, clothes lazily thrown over the back of the couch. Cleaner than you expected for a cocky millionaire-status athlete.
“Wanna come in?” he opens the door wider, voice teasing. “I see you staring.”
“I’d rather drink acid.”
“Liar,” he calls when you turn away again. “You know what we should do? Go out or something. Get to know each other."
“Why would I ever do that?”
“I’ll give you an autograph.”
“That doesn’t work on me,” you glare, moving to your door. “Go get to know some other girl.”
“I’m not offering because you’re hot, sexy, and gorgeous,” he says, making you pause at the threshold of the door. “I’m asking because you’re my neighbour. I don’t plan to move anytime soon and I don’t think you do either.”
“Are you calling me hot, sexy, and gorgeous?”
“You are,” he says, then he smirks. “And I can say that without looking at your tits. I’m a changed man.”
The laugh that comes out of you is real. As real as it can be. Lando smiles wider at that, his hand mindlessly sliding up to rub at his shoulderblades.
“I can’t,” you say, and his smile falters slightly. “I’ve got work.”
“Work?” he frowns, like he’d forgotten it existed. “Right. What do you do?”
“That’s personal.”
“Oh c’mon,” he says, dragging out the syllables. “That’s unfair. You know what I do.”
“Everyone in the world knows what you do, Norris.”
“So?” he steps closer, hand falling back to his side. “I’ll guess. Surely it’s something big if you can afford an apartment like this.”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Finance? Or Daddy’s money?”
You let out a laugh of disbelief, leaning against your doorframe.
“Modeling.”
“Oh?” he says. “Go figure.”
He cocks his head, taking a sip of his protein shake and glancing over you like he’s observing, “You’re probably the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Makes sense you model.”
Your eyes narrow, arms crossing. He sounds genuine, but you know better.
“Are you being serious? Or do you just want to have sex with me?”
Lando blinks, mouth opening, closing, before opening again.
“Well—you can’t—” he lets out an exasperated noise. “Obviously I want to have sex with you. But I swear I’m—”
“Unbelievable.”
“Baby, c’mon.”
“I’m going to be late.”
You turn away, and he lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh.
“When will you admit you like me?” he calls after you, and you scoff, stopping before you close the door. “Have a good day, gorgeous.”
You smile, saccharine, before slamming the door shut in his face.
sienna is so hauntingly beautiful—that max served as a mentor to the reader, keeping her physically and mentally healthy, while he at her age never had one and had to experience the tedious roads of growing up alone. the invisible subtext is making me feel things. such a beautiful fic 🩷
thank youu!! this makes me so unbelivably happy omg 😭 sienna was one of the first fics i put out on here. i still love it so much and i'm so glad you do too <333
LOVER, YOU SHOULD'VE COME OVER (part II)
— charles leclerc x ex!gf reader
“it's never over.”
part 1
SYN: you've convinced yourself you've moved on. you haven't. it's been a year and a half since that night, since charles' win in monaco, since that drunken confession. he's engaged now, to someone who looks like everything he's ever wanted. he's moved on—or at least you think he has. you refuse to acknowledge the fact that you hope he hasn't.
CONTENT: still slightly angsty, fem!reader, cheating (i don't condone but it's fiction guys), more confessions, zero hate on alexandra i love her and charles this is for the plot </33, charles MIGHT be considered a piece of shit..., cute little epilogue moment at the end!
WC: 3.6k
RADIO CHECK: ib the song by jeff buckley. so DID end up doing a part 2 for the people who wanted a happy ending!! hope you guys like this one as much as you liked the first <3
A year and a half passes by quick. Quicker than usual.
You don’t live in Monaco anymore. You live in Italy, in Milan, in an actual house, not an apartment. It’s so much bigger than your old place, and yet it feels nowhere near as empty. The garden is full, well kept and beautiful, the driveway is so much longer than it needs to be, but perfect nonetheless. It’s fit for someone who has their life together, someone you hope is you.
You’ve kept yourself busy. You’ve made a name for yourself here in Italy. You’ve built businesses, managed companies, barely given yourself time to rest solely because you didn’t need to.
A year and a half of work, of dedication and patience, and now, you find yourself right back where you started. Standing in a Formula 1 paddock, cameras pointed at you, whispers following your every move.
“Charles Leclerc’s ex—how do you think she’s feeling now that he’s engaged?”
You’ve heard the sentence in more variations than you could count.
Charles Leclerc, your ex, the man who’d showed up to your apartment drunk and desperate—the man who’d dedicated his first ever home race win to you, was engaged to someone else.
She’s gorgeous. Half mexican, half french, all elegance and soft smiles. They look good together, at least on all the pictures you stumble across on social media. Alexandra Saint Mleux—even the name sounded perfect, and you knew it’d sound good with his last name attached to the end instead.
He’d moved on.
Sometimes, when you’re halfway through a bottle of wine, his words from that night in Monaco replay through your head.
“I’ll pretend like I’m moving on. I’ll pretend I don’t think about you every second of my life. I’ll do it if that’s what you want me to.”
And he’d done it. He’d moved on. You just weren’t sure if he was still pretending or not, and the smallest part inside you, the part you’d covered up with work and stress, hoped he was.
“Is this your first time in the paddock?”
You blink, tearing your gaze away from the expanse of familiarity, focusing on the woman next to you instead. She’s got a nametag, the brand that’d invited you written across the top, and is staring at you.
“I can show you around. Got any interest in a particular team? Most start with Ferrari. You might know Charles. Charles Leclerc. He’s quite popular, especially in Italy.”
You think she’s joking. A longer study of her expression tells you she’s dead serious.
“I—” you stop, searching for the right words. “No. It’s alright.”
“Not your first time?”
“Not really.”
“I see,” she says, turning back to her phone like she’s checking something. “We’ll start with Mercedes then. Maybe—”
“Actually,” you say, already walking past her. “I need to do something. Catch up with a few people. I’ll meet you up at the paddock club later. Thirty minutes?”
You don’t hear her answer.
It was partially a lie. You just needed space. Space to figure out what you were really doing here, to figure out if you wanted to leave halfway and make up with it by donating a shit ton of cash.
The paddock is as busy as it always is. A reporter almost crashes into you, a mechanic pushing a trolley of tyres cuts through your path, someone’s shouting what sounds like ‘Charles!’, but you don’t want to listen and prove yourself right. It smells like burnt rubber, like fuel, like something so familiar that it hurts.
You don’t know why you accepted the invite. You could’ve chosen something else—the Italian open, maybe, or even golf, instead of something with so much emotional baggage attached to it.
The steps to Ferrari’s motorhome come into view.
“—and what are your thoughts on how this weekend might go? Any concerns? Mercedes looks strong, are you worried?”
You turn the corner, still debating why you were even here, when a crowd of journalists crash into you. Your heels catch on the concrete beneath you, a camera knocks into your side, and a string of curses escapes you before someone pulls out of the way.
“Fuck, thank you,” you say, swiveling around, tugging at your dress. “I—”
The world stops.
You recognise the hand that’s enclosed around your arm, the rough skin from gloves, the warmth that something insides you aches for late at night. You recognise the cologne, the scent that makes you think of an apartment in Monaco, a shattered wine glass on the floor and the sound of victory in the background.
“What are you—” Charles stops, hand falling away from arm. “You’re here.”
His voice makes your heart stop—makes the blood in your veins turn cold. Maybe it’s because the last words you’d heard in that voice were I don’t regret it, any of it. All of it, the last expression on that perfect face being betrayal.
When you look up at him again, it still is.
Did he regret it now? Dedicating the most important win of his life to you?
“I am,” you answer, carefully, wary of the crowd around you. “And so are you.”
He laughs at that, quiet, “I’m…yeah. I’m here too.”
The paddock is always loud, always moving, and yet it now falls hushed. Microphones are pointed at the two of you, trying to pick up any conversation, the fans are a mixture of realisation that you’re here, or not knowing who you are at all.
You watch him study you. You watch him take you in, the new hair length, the lines of your face, the smallest changes to the way you hold yourself. He looks the same, you decide. Still in red, still as handsome as ever. The only change you focus on is his finger, like you can see the wedding band that’ll sit there in a few months.
You’re still in love with him. The stark, realization slams into you like a tidal wave.
“How’ve you been?” He asks, like he’s noticing the cameras. “Heard you live here now—in Milan.”
“Yeah,” you say, fixing your hair, trying not to say too much but give too little. “I moved a year and a half ago. April.”
You can see him do the math in his head, figuring out the dates, what had happened a month prior.
“Right,” he lands on, nodding slow. “Yeah, that—”
He stops again, and you smile, quietly repeating another yeah.
“You look good,” he says, and the two of you glance to the cameras, the people surrounding you. “Like you’re doing well.”
“I am.”
“Of course you are.”
“You seem like you’re doing well too.”
“I’m trying.”
His gaze flickers behind him, to Ferrari’s motorhome.
I can’t talk here.
You know that’s what he’s saying. You know because it’s the same look he’d give you during interviews, the same look through crowds, at events. You haven’t forgotten—that silent language he’d only ever let you learn, the small touches that meant more than they seemed.
You wondered if she’d learnt it too. His fiancée.
“Were you heading in?” he asks, cocking his head. “Or are you—”
“No, yeah,” you say, moving aside, causing reporters and fans to stir again. “I was.”
“Right. Me too.”
He raises his hand slightly, like he’s motioning for you to go first, so you do. You keep your head down as the crowd follows, as Charles catches up and holds the door open.
The door shuts just as someone shouts, “Charles! Where’s Alexandra?”
The silence after hurts. It’s heavy silence, the kind that’s filled with anticipation.
“I’m—”
“You’re—”
You both stop. Charles runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath like he’s going to start pacing. Your fingers clench beside you, itching to do something. Reach for him, run them through your own hair, you don’t know.
“Not here,” he mutters, turning away again. “There’s windows.”
“You’re being so cautious—”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he answers immediately. Defensively. “I’m—of course I’m cautious. My girlfriend—”
You watch him pause at the word.
“Your fiancée,” you say, quietly, and he looks at you again. A camera flashes, and the two of you instinctively turn away again. “Charles.”
The name, for the first time in your life, is foreign on your tongue.
“No,” he says. “No, fuck, you can’t be here.”
“Charles—”
“You can’t be here. Fuck—I can’t—”
Another camera flashes, and then you’re moving. He doesn’t even hesitate when he follows you down the hallway, to the door you know is on the left with his name on it.
“Why are you here?” he asks when his driver room door slams shut. “After what? After a year?”
“A year and a half.”
“Why?” you stay by the door while he paces. “I’m engaged. I’m fucking engaged and you decide to finally show up and I—”
“I’m not here for you.”
He stops.
Your nails dig into the side of your thigh, your heart is loud in your ears.
“I was invited. By a brand that I’m doing a—” you smile, bitterly. “I’m not here for you, Charles.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m—”
“You could’ve said no. You could’ve gone somewhere else—I know you’re rich enough to decline a brand invite with no bad press.”
“Am I not allowed here anymore?” you ask, fingers stilling. “Just because of you? I’m never allowed to step near a Formula 1 paddock again?”
“That’s not what—”
“It might as well be.”
Your eyes stray to the room. It’s the same as it always is. His helmet in the corner, race suit hung in the specific way you taught him because he used to just throw it over a chair. There’s a tube of lip gloss sitting on the table, a fur coat folded in the corner.
He watches you notice.
“Is she here?” you ask, dragging your gaze back to him. “Today?”
“What?”
“Your fiancée.”
He looks at the lip gloss, the coat, the flowers on the table like they belong to her too.
“She’s somewhere else. Williams garage, I think.”
“With Carlos’ girlfriend.”
“Yeah.”
You think he’s about to ask you how you knew. You see him remember—remember how it used to be you.
“What about you?” he asks, leaning against the table. “Your boyfriend.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” you scoff. “You know that.”
“I don’t.”
“You still follow me on Instagram.”
“You don’t, and you know I’m engaged.”
“Hard not to know when Vogue Italy does an article on it.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. You look away again, leaning your head against the door like it’ll protect you.
There are so many things you want to ask him.
Did you mean it? Have you moved on? Do you love her? Do you miss me like I miss—
“Why’d you leave?”
He asks a question first, one that makes you want to ask ‘Why didn’t you?’.
“You know why.”
“Tell me.”
If you focus hard enough, his drivers room could be your apartment back in Monaco. It feels the same. The tension, the constant reminder of you shouldn’t be here playing through your head. The only difference is this time you’re by the door.
“I couldn’t stand it,” you say. “Being in the same place as you. Knowing I could run into you—knowing I might do it on purpose.”
“So you left.”
“I left.”
“And yet here we are.”
You smile again, “Me being here doesn’t mean anything. You know that.”
“Do I?”
“It shouldn’t. You’re engaged, Charles. To a woman that’s so unbelievably perfect.”
“Alex isn’t—” he sighs again. “She’s beautiful. Perfect, if that’s what you want to call her. But she’s not—”
You know what the next words are.
“Did you mean it?” you ask, before he can finish. “The things you said to me that night? That you’d pretend to move on?”
“I meant everything I said that night.”
“Even now?”
“Especially now.”
He stands up properly, and you think you can’t breathe when he moves closer.
“I miss you,” he mutters, so quiet as if he’s scared someone will hear. “I miss you so much.”
You close your eyes, looking away again. His hand ghosts over your jaw, tilting it back towards him.
“We can’t.”
“I miss you.”
“I know.”
“I meant it. I meant every word. I told you I’d pretend—I meant it.”
“I know that.”
You open your eyes when his thumb traces your cheek.
“Why are you here?” he asks again, still quiet. “Please.”
“Because I miss you too.”
The words feel like a confession. Like a secret, a sin that’s spilling out of you before you can stop it.
“I’m—fuck,” you say, laugh, because you don’t know what else to do. “It’s been a year and a half, and I still miss you. You’re moving on—you will eventually when you marry her.”
“I’m not moving on.”
“You’re engaged, Charles!” you say, and his hand drops. “You’re engaged to a girl who loves you, and you might not love her as much as she loves you but you will. You will later.”
“When? When I’m older? When I’ve got kids or when I’m on my deathbed regretting the fact it wasn’t you?”
“You and her are good together.”
“You and I are good together.”
“No, we aren't,” you say, and he moves away. “We were never good together. You haven’t changed, have you? Since that night?”
“What is that supposed to—”
“She’s someone who understands. Who understands she’ll come second. I can’t come second, Charles.”
“You won’t come second.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He studies you again. The look on your face, the hand that’s itching for the door to leave before you’re trapped again. Trapped in the whirlwind of him.
“I love you.”
“I know you love me.”
“I’ll leave her.”
“Charles.”
“If you love me back, I’ll leave her.”
“That isn’t fair. You’re engaged—you’ll break her heart.”
“It’ll be worth it if I get to have you.”
“You’re going to leave her for a chance. For a possibility. What if it doesn’t work? What if we break up and it’s over for good and you’re wishing you had—”
“Then I’ll do it all over again. Love you all over again.”
It’s stupid. It’s the most stupidest reasoning you’ve ever heard, and yet the words you’ve been aching to hear for a year and a half.
“You can’t.”
“I will.”
You think you might be crying. He reaches for you again, hand around your waist, fingers warm on your skin.
“I love you,” he says again, like a plea. “I’ll always love you.”
He’d said that to her too. On one knee, ring in hand, promising a life together that’s shattering every second you stay here. Maybe it’s pity holding you back, your morals, your fucking common sense. Maybe it’s the fact you’re in his drivers room, the paddock, with all those cameras waiting for the second you step into view again.
“I can’t,” you say, and it’s barely a whisper. “Fuck. I can’t.”
He physically shudders, leaning forward, his head resting on your shoulder.
“Please,” he mutters, and you stand there, turning over his words in your head. “Fuck. Please—”
“You can’t leave her.”
“I will.”
“How?” he pulls away, wipes your tears with his thumb. “She’ll hate you.”
“It won’t matter," he mutters. "I don’t care how long it takes. I need you.”
It’s so full of truth it makes you sick.
“Do you mean it?” you ask, and he’s already nodding. “I—”
“I mean it. If it doesn’t work, fine, but it will. It’ll work. I know it’ll work.”
His eyes are wide, waiting for those three words, searching for an answer in your expression.
You give it to him.
“I love you,” you say—pratically gasp, and he shuts his eyes. “I love you so much, and I don’t know why.”
He goes quiet, like he’s savouring it, like he’s realising what it means.
“I have to go,” you mutter, and he only holds you tighter. “I’ll be here. I’ll—I’m not leaving. Leaving this. I need time.”
He waits a few seconds before answering.
“Yeah—I’m,” he pulls away. “Yeah. Okay.”
“I’ll talk to you after.”
After the day ends, after the weekend, after he leaves her, you don’t know. It seems to be enough for now.
“Yeah. After.”
You reach up and fix your hair, the smudges of your makeup, to make it look like you haven’t just changed your life and ruined someone else's.
He stays there when you turn the door handle. Even when you close it, you know he’s still staring, still waiting.
“Fuck,” you mutter, pulling at your dress and walking down the hallway.
The motorhome is fuller now, with new mechanics, new engineers and faces you don’t recognize. The doors open, and a face you do recognize walks through the door.
“Hi,” Alexandra, his fiancée, smiles when you pass her. “How are you?”
“I’m good, thank you,” you answer, and she nods, continuing past to the hallway you’d just walked out of. You don’t turn around and watch, like you’ll be able to see her life falling apart because of you. You don’t turn and apologize though she won’t know why.
You keep walking, out of the motorhome, out of the gates of the paddock. As soon as you’re home, you pay an absurd amount of money to the brand that’d invited you, the kind of amount that has them apologizing to you instead.
The first knock comes at exactly one in the morning, a week later. You aren’t drunk this time. Neither is he when you open the door.
He looks tired. Tired because of work, because of the media, because of the news that ‘Charles Leclerc and Alexandra Saint Mleux break off their engagement due to undisclosed reasons.’
“You’re here,” you say, leaning against the doorframe.
He smiles, moving closer, hands already sliding around your waist, “I’m here.”
You hope he never leaves.
Monaco is exactly how you remember it.
It takes months for Charles to convince you to move back. You refuse to live in an apartment, so he buys a house in Monte Carlo, one that overlooks Port Hercules and has a stupidly long driveway like your house in Milan.
You’re expecting scandal, whispers when you walk past, glares as they remember you were the one who broke up the supposed to be ‘marriage of the decade’.
“I’ve always loved her,” Charles says instead, to the public, the press. “I’m not denying it. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life sitting in regret that I never tried making it work.”
So instead, Monaco had welcomed you back with open arms.
You wake up to him, to mornings where he’s there, and not off training. You fall asleep to him, his phone and all those lap times far away, left charging in the kitchen.
“Do you regret it?” you’d asked him once. “At all?”
“Regret what?”
You’d shrugged, “Any of it. All of it.”
“I don’t regret anything when it comes to you. Fuck, actually—I just regret letting you go the first time.”
It feels so familiar, yet so different. It feels right.
You’re back in Italy now, in a holiday house near Lake Como. He’s sitting out on the back deck, hot chocolate in one hand because you’d forced him to get rid of his caffeine addiction. It’s already dark outside, cold enough that you have a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.
“Do you think we’ll ever move out of Monaco?” he asks when you sit beside him. “In the future.”
“When we’re married?”
He glances at you, “you want to get married?”
You consider it. The weight of the words, the life it’ll bring after.
“Maybe,” you say, bringing your knees up to your chest. “Yeah. I think so.”
You hear him set down the cup, but you keep your eyes ahead of you, at the lake, the light reflecting off of it.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
He moves closer, shoulder bumping against yours, and you look at him.
“You’re not about to propose here, are you?” you smile, stealing the cup and taking a sip. “Romantic, but probably not what a girl would dream of.”
“No. Of course not,” he answers, scoffing out a laugh. “I’ve got it all planned.”
“Do you?”
“I do,” he says. “I’ve had it planned for ages. For years.”
You know he isn’t lying.
“Tell me.”
“No, that would ruin the surprise.”
“You’ve already told me you’re planning on doing it.”
He smiles, leaning over and kissing you on the forehead, “I’m not telling you.”
“Do you plan everything?” you tease. “Your proposal, where the wedding will be, how many kids we’ll have—”
“Two.”
“Two?”
“Boy and a girl if we’re lucky,” he shrugs. “Anything at all I consider lucky if it’s with you.”
You laugh, and he thinks it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard.
“Could’ve had this sooner,” he says. “You. Us.”
“You have me now.”
“I just wish we hadn’t lost all those months.”
“Charles,” you say, and this time it’s you who’s reaching for him, for his face to tilt it towards you. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.”
He practically melts into your touch, eyes shutting.
“I love you too.”
Your fingers graze over his skin, before you pull them away.
“Come inside,” you say, standing. “It’s cold.”
He watches you go, still wrapped in that blanket. Your hair is slightly messy, your face is bare, and yet you look so beautiful it’s devastating.
“Charles,” you call, and he’s moving, following you like it’s second nature. It was—it is.
“You’re thinking,” you say, as he wraps his hands around your waist, blanket falling to the floor while you fuss over something in the kitchen. “What’re you thinking about?”
“You. Always you.”
And when you laugh again, kissing him, letting him prop you up on the kitchen counter, it feels perfect.
You are a nobody who is obsessed with an kind of live she will never have. MOVE ON you will never date an F1 driver. Why don’t you try getting you’re live together and re arrange you’re expectations instead of posting this stupid fics🙄
sugar honey love have all the elements I love in a fic - smau, hidden marriage, baby hard launch. great story & editing! Thank you for cooking such a masterpiece~
wld love to see a pt2 eventually in adgp or smth along that line of them living their private lives as a family ✨ but no pressure ofcc thank you for the fic!!
sooo tempted to do a p2 as well...i think i'll do a timeskip?? maybe when their daughter is slightly older like 2 or 3 i think it'd be so cuteee, lando as a girl dad would be the cutest. and thank you sm for reading!! so glad you enjoyed it <33
hi lovee, I was just reading your last smau with lan it’s gorggg, just a little thing (maybe you didn’t notice) the comments on the back home post are in black, instead of white like the rest of the text and at least for me is imposible to read since my background is black as well 🥺 just letting you know :) 🫶🏻
heyyy! thank you sm for telling me <33 i think it's fixed now :)))
Lando x Yn had been together for a while. She was very private on social media so no one knew who she was. A lot of people assumed she was just part of his family due to her always being with his family at the races. No one thought twice about her and lando being in a relationship because they didn’t act like it, but in a post race interview he lets it slip up he’s in a relationship and people start trying to connect the dots, but what people don’t know is that you and lando are actually married and have a baby on the way
hi mlll!!! this was the cutest ever omg. posted here! i hope you enjoy and i'll do your other reqs soon!
— you and lando have been together since you were in high school. you've never seen the need to tell people, to have to deal with the publicity that it'd get you. people think you're some kind of family member—a cousin, maybe, or just a really good family friend. one interview, one little slip up, and lando accidental reveals that you're a lot more than just that.
INCL. fem!reader, smau, marriage, pregnancy, lots of fluffy stuff! reader has a mini daschund called gigi, magui corceiro pics used, hard launch, lando's SO in love
RADIO CHECK: based on this req! ugh this was the cutest ever!!! loved this plot, hope you enjoy reading <3
liked by lando, flo_norris_showjumping and others
ynln some of the latest <3
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lando hi gigi
ynln she misses you!
lando i'll come see her soon :))
flo_norris_showjumping too cute!
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username1 you're gorgeous
liked by creator
username2 awh her and lando's friendship!! so cute.
username3 GIGI!! the cutest dog i've ever seen
username4 are you and lando dating?
username5 she's just a really close family friend there's pics of them together when they were rlly young
username6 she's already got a boyfriend/husband'm pretty sure!
liked by ynln, oscarpiastri and others
lando mega week + gigi
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ynln awwww my baby
lando she loves me
ynln 🙄
username7 OSCAR CAMEOOO
username8 YESS AUSTRIA WIN
username9 landgoat
username10 WHOS DOG IS THAT
username11 @/ynln ‘s. she’s a family friend! really close w lando and his family
username12 oh she's gorg
username13 would've shipped them if not for the fact she's taken already. maybe even married? apparently a ring on her finger the last time she came to the paddock but she's so private no one knows anything
username14 good for her actually!!
view all story replies:
to @/ynln:
lando sneaky
ynln but you look so good
username15 you're so lucky you get to go to races!! ugh i wanna be childhood friends with an f1 driver
username16 WHERE'S GIGI!!
ynln had to leave her at home 😔
to @/f1updates
username17 is she with lando's family?
f1updates looks like it!
username18 do we know who she's dating?? heard rumors she's married
f1updates she's very private! no one knows anything other than she's with someone
username19 she's SOO gorg ugh
f1updates shame she isn't a wag…would've been one of the most popular there is
username20 rlly curious why no one's ever suspected the two of them dating. i mean i don't either but usually any other girl associated with a driver is automatically ‘dating’ them.
f1updates i think it's cause she's so close with his family it seems like she's more of a family member herself. if they were dating it'd be a different kinda vibe ig…
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ynln back home!
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lilyzneimer 😍
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username21 THAT RINGGG
username22 her husband must be rich asf
username23 HUSBAND REVEAL THIRD PIC???
username24 omg finally hinting at your relationship
username25 GIVE US MOREEE
username26 no gigi pic </3
ynln she's spending the day with her ‘other parent’ lol
username27 missed you at the paddock last race :(
ynln unfortunately don't think i'll be at any races for a long while 😔 very veryyy busy
liked by ynln, mclaren and others
lando monster, gigi and kinder can life get any better
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ynln is she my dog or yours?
lando both!
mclaren can't get better than that!!
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username28 mr worldwideeee
username29 AWWW THE DOG
username30 not the kinder
username31 someone ship lando monster to me pls
username32 LANDO WDC THIS YEAR
[transcript: lando norris post-race interview, british grand prix]
int: lando! congratulations on your win today. how're you feeling?
norris: yeah—thanks, it's pretty amazing, of course, winning my home race. really thankful to the team, and everyone who's here to support me tonight. would be better if my wi—um. yeah, nevermind.
int: awh, c'mon. don't be shy.
norris: nah, it's fine. just wish someone was here right now, would've made it even better. i know she's watching though, so…
int: oh? are you hinting at—
norris: anyways. yeah, that's it. thank you.
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username33 OMG?? IS HE NOT SINGLE?
username34 WAS HE ABT TO SAY GIRLFRIEND?
username35 NO SOUNDED LIKE A W. LIKE A NAME OR SOMETHING
username36 wife? perhaps??
username37 SURELY LANDO NORRIS CAN'T HAVE A WIFE THAT NO ONE KNOWS ABT?!??!
username38 omg surely not? who could it even be??
username39 ‘i know SHE'S watching' guys. lando norris isn't single omg
username40 WHO'S THE GIRLLL
username41 HARD LAUNCH NOW
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ynln @/lando
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lando ❤️
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f1 CONGRATULATIONS!
mclarenf1 Incredibly exciting!! Congrats you two 🧡
max_fewtrell just about given the entire world a heart attack revealing it like this
ynln oops…
lando my fault!
oscarpiastri congrats!
carlossainz55 what a way to hard launch
alexandramalenaleclerc awh too cute!!
username42 WHAT.
username43 HELLO WTAF? GOOD MORNING??? HELLO
username44 okay so not only is lando norris TAKEN, he's got a wife and a baby?!
username45 WITH THE GIRL WE THOUGHT WAS JUST A FAMILY FRIEND
username46 oh my gosh it was so obvious looking back on it. we knew she had a ring why didn't we think it was lando???
username47 HOW DID YOU MANAGE TO HIDE THIS FOR SO LONG?
username48 all of you are talking abt the baby i wanna see the wedding pics
username49 WHO KNEW ABOUT THIS?? I SURE AS HELL DIDN'T.
username50 there's gonna be a mini lando running around the paddock in few years omg </3
lando a mini version of my wife you mean
[transcript: lando norris hungarian grand prix, media day interview]
int: lando! so great to have you back, especially considering the recent news. home race and the birth of your daughter. how are you?
norris: speechless, honestly. words cant describe it. i want nothing more than to be with her—my wife, and my daughter, of course. i would if time let me.
int: speaking of your wife, how long has it been? what's the story?
norris: we've been dating since high school. got married a year and a half ago, in may. never really needed to tell anyone, i guess.
int: who knew?
norris: only family, really. my close friends. some of the drivers like oscar.
int: well, we're estatic you decided to reveal it now. will we be seeing your wife and daughter in the paddock?
norris: not anytime soon. maybe abu dhabi? i don't want to push her—my wife, or my daughter. might be a little loud for her.
int: that's sweet. again, congratulations, and best of luck for this race weekend. any messages for those back home?
norris: i love you. so much. you and gigi and our little girl. i wish you were here as always, and i'm winning this one for you.
hii! may I ask if u could make headcanons ?) where reader is famous but kinda controversial, in media day some journalist ask them about the controversy and they defend her
sorry for my english 😞
heyy! it's posted here! hope you enjoy <33 (and dw your english is totally fine!!
F1 DRIVERS DEFENDING YOU AGAINST CONTROVERSY ! headcannons
— you're a model, one known for your love of motorsport and for being controversial. your ex makes a fake rumor that you cheated, and your boyfriend doesn't hesitate to defend you.
incl. lando norris, oscar piastri, charles leclerc, lewis hamilton, max verstappen, george russell
RADIO CHECK: based on this req! i hope this is what you meant haha, i didn't just do media day to give it a little bit of variety. also wasn't sure if you meant gridfic or individual drivers, and if you wanted the whole grid/specific drivers send me a message and i'll do that too! <3 enjoy reading!!
the day that the headline comes out is no different from any other. you’re with your boyfriend, everything perfect, as it should be, until you see it.
y/n l/n — the model who cheated on her ex-boyfriend, who's now dating a formula one driver. what is she plotting next? who is she plotting next? should we be worried she'll cheat like she did before?
#1 LANDO NORRIS
you're in his apartment when you find out, sitting at his kitchen counter while he's leaning against it, opposite you. he notices the drop in your face immediately, stopping midway through his sentence with a frown.
“is something wrong?” he asks, leaning over to look at your phone. “did something happen?”
“no,” you answer, putting it face down on the counter. “everything's fine.”
the next day, at the paddock during media day, a journalist shouts something over the crowd of other reporters.
“how are you feeling about your girlfriend, now that everyone knows that she's just a cheat? we all knew she was controversial, but are the two of you still together?”
lando doesn't even hesitate when he snaps his head towards the journalist, glaring.
“what kind of fucking question is that?” he says, and his pr manager winces beside him. “have you ever stopped and talk to her— have you ever even met her? she's the kindest girl i've ever met, and yes, she's still my girlfriend. she'll be my wife someday—”
“lando,” his pr manager cuts him off, shaking his head. “not here.”
“get him out of here,” lando answers, turning away. “and make sure he doesn't come near me again.”
later, when he gets home, with you already in the living room with the moment playing on your phone, he sighs and collapses into your arms.
“i'm sorry, baby,” he says, kissing your jaw. “you should've told me—you should've said something yesterday.”
“i didn't think it mattered that much. you've got more important things to focus on.”
“i'd drop everything else if it came to you,” he says, wrapping his arms around your waist. “i love you. don't listen to that bullshit, we both know how fake it is.”
you smile, relaxing against him, “you said i'd be your wife.”
“of course. who else could it ever be?”
#2 OSCAR PIASTRI
you find out about the article just as oscar leaves to mclaren's garage. you're sitting at one of the tables in the paddock, phone open, staring at it blankly. oscar's still completely unaware, and you want to call him, but decide against it.
oscar's halfway out of the paddock when a swarm of fans and reporters surrond him.
“oscar! is your girlfriend here with you? have you seen the recent news about her? will you stay with here even though she's a liar and a cheat—”
“a what?” oscar repeats, stopping in the center of the pathway. “what'd you say?”
“she cheated on her—”
“she never cheated,” he says, and the reporter goes quiet. “where'd you even hear—she never cheated, she's not a cheater. do you not realise how bad her ex was? he cheated on her.”
“but—”
“you've got no clue what you're talking about,” he says, pushing past the crowds with the singular thought of finding you.
he finds you exactly where he'd left you, sitting at that table, phone still open though you're not looking at it. there are tears in your eyes, and you scramble to stand when you see him.
“it's not true—osc, i'm sorry, i didn't cheat on—”
“i know,” he says, soft, soothing as he hugs you. "i know you didn't. i know you would never."
“it's just so unfair,” you say, tears spilling down your cheeks. “i don't get how he still manages to fuck me over when we're not even together anymore.”
oscar pulls away, just to cup your jaw and wipe your tears with his thumb.
“i love you,” he says. “i believe you. don't waste your time over this, it's not worth it.”
you smile, and he kisses you, right there out in the open, where the two of you both know cameras are in every direction you look.
#3 CHARLES LECLERC
charles is asleep beside you when you find out. it's one in the morning, and the light of your phone and the word cheater is bold across your screen. you don't wake up and tell him, you shut your phone and hope it'll be gone by the morning.
charles notices that you're on edge the next morning. he doesn't understand why, until the two of you step outside your apartment, and people are rushing towards you with cameras and mics in their hands.
"are you still together?! after the news? she's a cheat—you should leave while you can!"
charles almost completely freezes, and when he glances over at you, your head low and trying to avoid all the cameras, anger flares deep in his chest.
“do you hear yourselves?" he says, hand sliding around your waist and pulling you closer. “you're talking about my girlfriend. my girlfriend who's right fucking here—does she look like a cheater to you?”
“but her ex—”
“her ex is a piece of shit. if all of you like shitty gossip so much go and invest your time into him. he's done plenty. leave my girlfriend out of it.”
he helps you into his car, shutting the door. you can hear his voice, harsh, and the reporters desperate voices. cameras flash, and you flip down the window shade to hide yourself.
when charles gets into the car, he blows out a breath, running a hand through his hair.
“i'm sorry,” you say instantly, and he blinks, looking over. “i didn't, i—”
“you don't have to apologize,” he says, reaching for your hand. “it isn't your fault. you didn't do anything wrong.”
“it feels like i did.”
“you didn't,” he says, squeezing your hand in reassurance. he leans over the console, kissing you. “i promise.”
you smile, relaxing. the next day, the headlines are washed out, pictures of the two of you replacing them instead.
#4 LEWIS HAMILTON
lewis had always hated the media. it's the reason why when you stumble across the article, calling you a cheat, a dirty liar, you don't tell him. you were scared he'd make things worse—or just tell you to ignore it without a second thought.
“lewis,” he's at a post-race interview, racesuit pulled halfway down, drinking water as the journalist speaks. “congrats on p2 today. we all thought you wouldn't perform well today considering the recent news.”
the journalist laughs, but it falters when lewis doesn't.
“what news?” he says, slowly. “news about what?”
“your girlfriend.”
“my girlfriend? what place does a comment about my girlfriend have in a post-race interview?”
“no, but she—”
“i don't care what she did. you're talking about my girlfriend here—my girlfriend who i'd much rather be with right now instead of standing here for an interview.”
the journalist goes silent, and lewis turns away, walking straight out of the media pen.
he finds you in the safety of ferrari's garage, in the corner, headphones around your neck and your head leaned against the wall.
“hey,” he says, softly. “are you alright?”
“i'm okay,” you answer, but by your tone, your body langauge, lewis knows your lying. “of course i'm okay.”
“a journalist said something weird just now.”
your head snaps up, eyebrows furrowing. he gently pulls you close to him, kissing your cheek.
“it's alright,” he mutters, and you rest your head on his shoulder. “i don't care what it is. i know it's some shitty rumor, and you know i don't believe in that kind of thing.”
“i'm sorry,” you say, and he quietly shushes you. “i'm really really sorry.”
“you've got nothing to be sorry for.”
by the time you've calmed down, walking out of the garage with his arm protectively around you, you don't know why you ever hesitated telling him in the first place.
#5 MAX VERSTAPPEN
max knew something was up the second he'd left for media duties. usually, he'd always complain about them, and you were the one who'd convinced him to go with the reassurnace of ‘it’s only a few minutes. just smile and answer.'. this time, when he complains, you don't tell him to go. in fact, you don't say anything at all but ‘stay if you want to.'
as soon as he's asked the first question of the day, he understands why.
“max! how are you and your girlfriend? is something wrong? she looked upset when you left—did you get into an argument over recent news?”
“a what?” he mutters, reaching for the mic. “repeat that. why would we—”
“the article that came out outing her as a cheater. would you still want to stay with someone like that? after she lied to everyone?”
“a cheater?” max repeats, laughing in disbelief. “you can't be serious.”
“it's clearly true.”
“you don't get to comment on shit you have zero clue about,” he says, already fed up. “i mean—fuck, what proof do you have? an article and the word of her ex who's the shittest guy on the planet? and you call yourself journalists?”
“but it's—”
“if i brought her here, right now, would you have the nerve to repeat everything you said in front of her?” max leans forward, eyebrows raising. “would you?"
when the journalists doesn't answer, he laughs again, putting down the mic.
“you've completely lost me for the rest of the day,” he says, and the room goes into an outbursts of frustrated murmurs. “just because of that. see you next race weekend."
you're sitting in red bull's hospitality, staring at nothing when max comes back.
“back early?” you say, glancing up. “i need to tell you—”
“i know,” he says, sitting down next to you. “i know and i'm sorry about it. i should've known going in.”
“it's my—"
“it's not your fault. jesus. this just reminds me how much i hate the press. idiots.”
you smile, and he leans over, kissing your forehead.
“don't stress,” he says. “i'll sort it out.”
he refuses to do any interviews for the next two months.
#6 GEORGE RUSSELL
you're walking into the paddock with george when the first question is thrown at you. you'd been sent the article countless times on your way to the track, but had muted your phone and shoved it in your bag so george wouldn't get stressed over it.
“george! are you aware of what your girlfriend did? why is she here today?”
george frowns, glances over at you, then to the reporter.
“what?”
“george,” you say, but he ignores you, focused on the reporter. “i—”
“she cheated on her last boyfriend. aren't you worried she'll do the same thing to you?”
“you're talking about her as if she isn't right here,” he says, hand reaching for yours. “and she's my girlfriend. what kind of ignorant gossip are you reading? must be pretty shitty if you think it's okay to yell questions like that about someone's girlfriend.”
you keep your head down, and he reassuringly brushes his thumb across your hand.
“i don't believe them,” he mutters in your ear. “and you shouldn't either.”
the reporter yells something else that you block out, making george glance towards him again.
“how about you piss off and—”
“george.”
“we just got here and you think it's okay to start asking questions about personal life.”
the reporter ends up scrambling off, and just when you want to get into mercedes' garage and hide from all the cameras, he tugs you close and kisses you.
“if anyone ever comes up to you and asks about this tell me,” he says, and you nod. “just remember i don't believe them, and i love you.”
“i love you too,” you answer, and he kisses you one more time before running off to do his other driver duties.
no one else approaches you about it for the rest of the day, and later you find out it's because he's threatened to blacklist any reporter or journalist who does.
#7 CARLOS SAINZ
it's during a night out when the article pops up on your social media. carlos is drunk, you're tetering on the edge of being drunk, and he's got his arm slung around your shoulder, laughing about something stupid. you slide your phone into your purse, smiling, the effects of alcohol seemingly wearing away with every one of your panicked thoughts.
“—and then he fucking tripped and fell and no one even—”
“carlos! is that your girlfriend? the one who cheated?”
he stops dead in the center of the walkway, blinking, whirling around to find the voice. it looks to be a journalist, with a cameraman right next to him, pointed at the two of you.
carlos blinks in confusion, then stands straighter, his amusment completely vanishing.
“are you fucking serious?” he says, and you tense, looking away. “right here of all places? you choose to come at me—at her, with stupid gossip here?”
“well, we thought—”
“no,” he says, pulling you closer. “fuck off. go away. you're fucking up my night with my gorgeous girlfriend who's never cheated in her life.”
he looks pissed. he is pissed, and as soon as you mutter his name he looks over.
“don't worry about it,” he says, gently tracing circles into your shoulder. “ignore them. they're just desperate for a headline and a story. you know i love you and believe you over anyone else.”
the reporter says something inaudible, but then speaks up louder, “when you get cheated on by her, i hope you think about—”
“fuck you,” carlos says, starting to walk with you again. he waves a dismissive hand. “go bother someone else with your fucking gossip.”
the reporter doesn't follow, and when you're in the safety of another alleyway, you lean against him and sigh.
“thank you,” you say, and he smiles, brushing back your hair. “for that.”
“of course," he answers. “you're my girlfriend. i love you, and i'll always defend you against rumors like that.”
you laugh, weight lifting off of your shoulders.
he nudges you, “i wasn't finished with that story.”
when you wake up the next morning, head buzzing, the whole event fuzzy in your brain, the article is gone. everyone is bashing the reporter instead, and carlos leans over, kissing your jaw.
“made sure he's blacklisted,” he said. “won't ever have to see him again.”
