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@randombugg
6th for lando and 9th for oscar in the championships!
5th and 6th for the last race respectively!
probably not the best results they were expecting considering how the mclaren twins have been in the past few races. but thinking about how the season started off, i think it’s good to say how amazing the two of them have been.
the amount of podiums this season was a highlight. not to mention oscar’s achievements in his rookie year.
goodbye MCL60👋🏻
see you guys in the next season!
boyfriend duties never end ✶ ln1
2025 : you're currently sick, but lando was hoping to stream; however, the boyfriend part of him can't leave you alone in your bedroom, so he comes up with an idea to have you join him in his stream. even if you're off camera.
lando norris x f!reader ୨୧ word count : 2.2k ୨୧ warnings : language, being sick (cold/flu), mentions of sex (but nothing happens), lando carries you at one point ୨୧ mdni ୨୧ requested: yes!
part of the lando's heart series.
lando was suppose to stream today. he had it all lined up for weeks now, planning to stream with max and connor. and you originally planned to stay in the living room, watching the great british baking show on netflix which is what you usually watched when lando streamed.
key word: originally.
because somehow over the last day you got sick. and it wasn't pretty. coughing, runny nose, body sore. lando was basically your nurse on demand. getting you medicine, checking your temperature, making you soup (making is a term used lightly). you looked and felt absolutely pitiful.
One final goodbye
hi lovies I’ve gotten dms on a sort of part two to the fic I’d just posted so here it is :)
ok so i LOVED the new lando fic and i was wondering if you could do smth similar except lando and reader have 2 kids but its the reader who ends up dying!!
LOVE YOUR WORKS SM @taylorrrrrrrrrrswiftttt
so what if we use an uno reverse card for "everything you touch surely dies", instead of lando's death, y/n dead. I cant explain myself but I hope you get it. Amd also I love your writings!
The pregnancy was supposed to be easier.
That was what everyone said you and Lando had already done this once before. You already knew what sleepless nights looked like. You already knew how terrifying it was to become parents. You already knew how much your entire life could change because of one tiny person. The first time around there had been panic and uncertainty and hundreds of mistakes. This time was supposed to be different.
Instead it felt wrong from the very beginning.
Not wrong enough to stop smiling when you saw the positive test. Not wrong enough to stop Lando from lifting you off the ground and spinning you around the kitchen while both of you laughed like idiots. Not wrong enough to stop your son from proudly telling every stranger he met that he was getting a baby sister.
But wrong enough that every appointment ended with another warning.
Another risk.
Another complication.
Another doctor speaking in careful voices.
You learned very quickly that fear sounded different when it came from a medical professional. Fear sounded calm. Fear sounded gentle. Fear sounded like people trying not to scare you while quietly preparing you for the possibility that something could go terribly wrong.
The doctors worried.
You worried.
Lando worried most of all.
So you lied.
You got very good at it.
You smiled when he asked how you were feeling. You laughed when he noticed you moving slower. You brushed off the headaches and the dizziness and the pain that seemed to live permanently beneath your ribs.
Because every time Lando looked scared something inside you shattered.
You had been together long before marriage. Long before children long before responsibilities and mortgages and school applications. You remembered the version of him that existed before any of that. The boy who had shown up late to your first date because he got lost the boy who spent an hour talking about things he loved because he got excited and forgot to stop. The boy who had kissed you outside your apartment for the first time and looked just as shocked by it as you were.
You remembered all of it.
The tiny apartment.
The cheap furniture.
The years where it was just the two of you.
The lazy mornings.
The spontaneous trips.
The nights spent tangled together on the sofa because neither of you wanted to move.
Back then it had felt impossible to love him more.
Then your son was born and suddenly everything changed.
You had never forgotten the first time you watched Lando hold him.
The room had been quiet the baby had only been minutes old Lando sat in the hospital chair staring down at the tiny bundle in his arms with tears running down his face.
Not dramatic tears.
Not loud tears.
The kind of tears that simply appeared because a heart could not physically contain that much love.
You remembered him looking up at you.
Looking completely overwhelmed.
“I made this.”
You had laughed.
“We made him.”
But Lando had shaken his head.
“No. Look at him.”
As though he genuinely could not believe something so perfect existed.
Parenthood softened him.
Everyone saw the racing driver.
You saw the man who cut sandwiches into shapes because your son thought dinosaurs were cool. The man who learned every single bedtime story by heart. The man who woke up in the middle of the night because he thought he heard a cough from across the house.
The man who loved his family so fiercely it bordered on painful.
Maybe that was why you hid so much.
Because you knew him.
You knew if he understood how dangerous things had become he would never sleep again.
So you carried the fear alone.
At least you tried to.
One night when you were seven months pregnant you woke up and found him sitting upright beside you. The room was dark. The house was silent. His hand rested gently against your stomach.
You smiled sleepily.
“What are you doing.”
His eyes immediately met yours.
“Nothing.”
The answer came too quickly.
You frowned.
“Lan.”
His gaze dropped.
For a moment he looked heartbreakingly young.
“I had a nightmare.”
Your chest tightened.
“What happened.”
He swallowed.
“I couldn’t find you.”
The words were barely above a whisper.
You stayed quiet.
“I knew something was wrong and I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
His voice cracked.
“I kept looking for you.”
Tears filled his eyes before he could stop them.
You reached for him immediately.
He leaned into you.
The way he always did when life became too heavy and you wrapped your arms around him despite the ache in your body.
“I’m right here.”
You kissed his forehead.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The promise settled somewhere deep inside him.
A promise that would eventually destroy him.
The labour started three weeks early.
Your son was sitting at the kitchen table colouring when the first contraction hit.
Pain ripped through your abdomen so suddenly you had to grip the counter to stay standing.
Immediately Lando was beside you.
Fear already written across his face.
You hated that look.
You hated being the reason for it.
The drive to the hospital felt endless.
Your son hugged you before leaving with his grandparents.
A bright crayon drawing clutched in his little hands.
Four stick figures.
One family.
“Mama.”
You crouched down despite the pain.
“Yeah baby.”
“Can you show baby sister my picture.”
Your throat tightened.
“Of course.”
His tiny arms wrapped around your neck.
“I love you.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Because suddenly tears threatened to spill.
“I love you too.”
You didn’t know those would be the last words your son would ever say to you.
The labour lasted nearly twenty hours.
Twenty hours of pain.
Twenty hours of exhaustion.
Twenty hours of Lando refusing to leave your side.
He held your hand through every contraction. Wiped tears from your cheeks pressed kisses against your forehead told you over and over that you were doing amazing.
Neither of you realised those hours were becoming your goodbye.
Then your daughter arrived and for one beautiful moment the world felt perfect.
Her cry filled the room.
Loud and healthy and alive.
Lando immediately burst into tears.
The nurses laughed.
You laughed.
Even he laughed.
“Oh my God.”
His voice shook.
“Oh my God.”
The baby was placed in his arms and the look on his face.
God.
The look on his face.
Pure love.
Pure joy.
Pure disbelief.
You had never seen anything so beautiful.
For one perfect second you thought you had made it.
Then everything went wrong.
The bleeding started.
At first nobody panicked.
Then everybody did.
Doctors moved faster.
Machines became louder.
Voices sharpened.
The atmosphere shifted so suddenly it felt like somebody had stolen all the oxygen from the room.
You saw it happen.
You saw the fear.
The urgency.
The panic nobody was managing to hide anymore.
And then you looked at Lando.
You would spend the rest of his life haunting him with that single look.
Because he saw the moment you realised.
He saw the understanding settle across your face.
You weren’t scared of dying.
You were scared of leaving.
Leaving your son.
Leaving your daughter.
Leaving him.
“Lando.”
Your voice sounded weak.
Broken.
Immediately he grabbed your hand.
“I’m here.”
The words came instantly.
“I’m right here.”
Tears were already falling down his face.
Doctors surrounded the bed.
People shouted.
Someone tried to move him.
He fought them.
Actually fought them.
His voice cracked.
“No.”
You squeezed his hand weakly.
You wanted to tell him everything.
That you loved him.
That none of this was his fault.
That he had made your life beautiful.
That marrying him had been the easiest decision you ever made.
That every version of your future had always included him.
But there wasn’t enough time.
There was never enough time.
So instead you just looked at him.
Memorising him.
The freckles.
The tears.
The panic.
The love.
And suddenly he was the first boy you ever kissed again.
The man waiting for you at the end of the aisle.
The father holding your newborn son.
The husband asleep beside you every night.
Every version of him at once.
You loved him so much it hurt.
Then the room started fading.
The voices became distant.
The lights became blurry.
And the last thing you saw was Lando.
Crying.
Begging.
Holding your hand so tightly it hurt.
As if loving you enough could somehow keep you alive.
Then everything disappeared.
The next thing Lando remembered was screaming.
Years later he would never remember exactly what he said.
Only that his throat hurt afterwards.
Only that people were trying to hold him back.
Only that somebody kept saying they were sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
As though that word could fix anything.
As though that word could bring you back.
The days after your death passed in fragments.
Funeral arrangements.
Condolences.
Flowers.
People everywhere.
People crying.
People speaking.
Lando remembered none of it.
Because every time he closed his eyes he was back in that hospital room.
Watching the colour drain from your face.
Watching life leave your eyes.
Watching his entire future disappear.
The nights were worse.
Every single night he woke up gasping for air.
Drenched in sweat.
Heart racing.
Hearing the monitors.
Hearing the doctors.
Hearing himself begging.
Then instinct would take over.
His hand would reach across the bed searching for you.
Always searching.
Only to find empty sheets.
And every single time it felt like losing you all over again.
His daughter inherited your eyes.
That nearly killed him.
The first time she smiled he had to leave the room.
Not because he didn’t love her.
Because he loved her too much.
Because for a split second it felt like seeing you.
His son asked about you constantly.
“When is Mama coming home.”
The question never changed.
Neither did the answer.
And every time Lando watched disappointment settle across his little boy’s face he felt something inside himself break.
Years passed.
The children grew.
Life continued because life is cruel enough to keep moving even when you don’t want it to.
But Lando never stopped looking for you.
In crowds.
In dreams.
In memories.
In the sound of laughter that almost sounded like yours.
Sometimes he would wake up convinced you were beside him.
For a few perfect seconds he would believe it.
He would believe you were still alive.
Still asleep beside him.
Still his.
Then reality would return.
And he would lose you all over again.
The cruel truth was that grief never became smaller.
He simply grew around it.
Because loving you had become part of who he was.
And there was no version of Lando Norris that existed without loving you.
The tragedy wasn’t that you died.
The tragedy was that you were supposed to stay.
You were supposed to watch your daughter grow up.
You were supposed to embarrass your son when he became a teenager.
You were supposed to grow old beside him.
You were supposed to have decades.
Instead you got one final goodbye.
And Lando spent the rest of his life carrying all the love that should have belonged to those missing years.
Hi I loved the story.
I have another if your looking for more ideas.
Lando x reader (again childhood friend)
While lando is away for f1 reader gets hurt and lando doesn't find out until after the race as max f doesn't tell him on her orders.
Maybe lando finds out live during post race press. Worries, crashes out and then leaves etc.
Im sure whatever you do will be amazing.
The price of a podium
Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader(y/n)
Warnings: car crash, big lie, scared lando, fluff
Summary: When a violent car accident leaves you hospitalized in London, you force Max and Pietra to hide the truth from Lando so he can focus on the Australian Grand Prix. After securing a podium, Lando learns the terrifying truth and rushes across the world to confront his guilt and care for you.
Requested: Yes/ @shannonannegan
Masterlist
The rain in London didn’t fall so much as it drifted, a heavy, gray mist that blurred the red tail lights of the traffic ahead. It was the kind of evening where the world felt small, muffled, and slick. You had the radio turned down low, just background noise to compete with the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers. Lando was on the literal opposite side of the world, Melbourne, where the sun was either just rising or just setting, your internal clock always scrambled by his travel schedule. You’d spoken to him only three hours prior, his face pixelated on a FaceTime screen as he walked the Albert Park track, squinting against the Australian sun, complaining about a blisters from his new trainers.
Then, the world shattered.
It happened in the span of a single heartbeat. A delivery van, rushing to make a late drop-off, blew through a flashing amber light at the intersection. You didn’t even have time to gasp. There was the blinding glare of high beams illuminating the interior of your car, the deafening screech of locked brakes on wet asphalt, and a violent, catastrophic impact that spun your compact vehicle like a top.
The sound was the worst part, the sickening crunch of metal folding in on itself, the explosive pop of the airbags deploying, and the instantly suffocating smell of gunpowder and burning rubber. When the world finally stopped spinning, everything was dead quiet except for the pathetic, distorted honk of your own crumpled horn.
You sat there, pinned against the seat, your breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Your left shoulder throbbed with a white-hot intensity, your ribs ached where the seatbelt had sliced into your chest, and a warm trickle of blood was slowly making its way down your temple from where your head had clipped the side window. But as the adrenaline began to spike, your very first thought wasn’t about the pain.
It was about Lando.
“He has qualifying in less than twelve hours,” your brain wired itself to think with terrifying clarity. “He can’t know. If he knows, he’ll drop everything.”
By the time the flashing blue lights of the emergency services arrived, casting a surreal rhythm over the shattered glass on the tarmac, you had managed to fish your phone out of the footwell. The screen was spiderwebbed with cracks, but it still buzzed. You didn't call emergency contacts. You called Max Fewtrell.
The hospital room smelled of industrial bleach and cheap floor polish. By the second day, you had come to utterly despise the rhythmic, mechanical *beep... beep... beep...* of the heart monitor attached to your finger. The diagnosis wasn’t as bad as it could have been, a moderate concussion, three cracked ribs, a dislocated left shoulder that had been popped back into place with agonizing precision, and a colorful constellation of deep bruises that made moving feel like wading through setting concrete. They were keeping you for three days for observation, mostly because of the head injury and a small pocket of fluid near your lung that the doctors wanted to monitor.
The door to the private room clicked open, and Max Fewtrell slipped inside, followed closely by Pietra. Both of them looked pale, their eyes wide with that distinct, panicked anxiety that only hits when you see someone you love in a hospital gown.
"Oh my god, Y/N," Pietra breathed, instantly rushing to the right side of your bed, careful not to touch your heavily bandaged left arm. She pressed a gentle hand to your cheek, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Look at you. We came as soon as the police called us from your phone."
Max stood at the foot of the bed, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looked completely out of his depth, his eyes tracking the IV lines and the purple bruising along your jawline. "Jesus, Y/N. You look like you went twelve rounds with Tyson. What the hell happened?"
"A van decided stop signs were optional," you said, your voice cracking. It sounded raspy, a byproduct of the smoke inhalation from the airbag. You forced a weak, reassuring smile. "I'm okay. Really. Nothing is permanently broken. Just... structural damage."
Max let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh of relief, running a hand through his hair. "Right. Well. I'm calling Lando. He’s probably just waking up over there, but he needs to-“
"No!"
The sudden sharpness of your voice caught in your throat, triggering a harsh cough that sent a searing spasm straight through your cracked ribs. You gasped, pressing your good hand flat against your chest as Pietra instantly leaned over you, rubbing your shoulder.
"Don't call him, Max. Please," you squeezed out, your eyes watering from the pain.
Max stared at you like you’d lost your mind. "Y/N, are you insane? He’s your boyfriend. He's in Australia. If he finds out we hid this from him, he will literally murder me. He’ll use my sim rig as a weapon."
"Max, listen to me," you pleaded, reaching out with your uninjured hand to grab the sleeve of his hoodie. "It’s Thursday night there. Practice starts tomorrow. Then qualifying, then the race. You know how he gets before Melbourne. The pressure is already sky-high with the new car updates. If you tell him right now, what is he going to do? He’s going to withdraw. He’s going to board a twenty-four-hour flight back to London, losing his mind the entire time, unable to help me, completely ruining his weekend."
"He wouldn't care about the weekend, Y/N," Pietra pointed out softly, though her eyes showed she understood your logic. "He'd only care about you."
"And that’s exactly why he can’t know," you insisted, looking directly into Max’s eyes. "I am safe. I am in a hospital bed surrounded by doctors. There is absolutely nothing he can do from an airport lounge in Singapore or on a plane over the Indian Ocean except panic and put himself in danger. Promise me, Max. Pietra, please. Do not tell him until the checkered flag drops on Sunday. Promise me."
Max looked torn, a deep, conflicted frown marring his forehead. He looked at Pietra for backup, but she was looking at you with a mixture of immense pity and profound respect. She knew the brutal, uncompromising reality of the motorsport world. She knew how easily a driver’s focus could be shattered, and how dangerous that could be at two hundred miles per hour.
"She’s right, Max," Pietra said quietly. "If he flies back now, he’s useless here and useless there. We are here. We can take care of her."
Max groaned, throwing his head back against the wall. "This is a terrible idea. A historically bad idea. The fallout from this is going to be radioactive." He lowered his gaze back to you, pointing a stern finger. "But... if you swear to me you're not hiding a worse diagnosis, I won't call him. But the second that race ends, the second, I’m dialing his number."
"Deal," you whispered, sinking back into the stiff hospital pillows, a profound wave of exhaustion washing over you. "Thank you."
The next forty-eight hours were a masterclass in psychological warfare. Because you couldn't tell Lando the truth, you had to maintain the illusion of absolute normalcy across an eleven-hour time difference while completely incapacitated.
Your phone became your greatest enemy and your only lifeline. You couldn't do FaceTime calls; the background of a hospital room, the sterile white walls, and the glaring telltale sign of an IV pole would give you away instantly. When Lando called before his FP1 session, you didn't answer, instead typing out a quick, pre-written text with your right hand: “'Out with friends for drinks, super loud in here! Good luck in practice, text me when you're done. Love you x”
You hated lying to him. Every character you typed felt like a tiny betrayal, especially when he replied with a string of hearts and an enthusiastic update about the car's balance.
On Saturday, the concussion symptoms peaked. The light from the window made your skull feel like it was cracking open, and the nausea kept you from eating more than a few spoonfuls of gelatin. Pietra stayed by your side the entire time, painting your nails with a soft, steady hand, helping you sip water through a straw, and acting as your ultimate shield. When Lando texted after qualifying, he had secured P4 on the grid, ecstatic but exhausted, you had to dictate a text to Pietra.
"Tell him I'm so incredibly proud of him," you whispered, closing your eyes against the glare of the room. "Tell him I had a bit of a migraine so I'm sleeping early, but I’ll be watching the race."
"Are you sure you want to watch it?" Pietra asked softly, her thumb hovering over the screen.
"I have to," you said. "If I don't, I'll go crazy."
Sunday arrived with a heavy, suffocating tension. The nurse had adjusted your bed so you were sitting up slightly, the TV mounted on the wall tuned into the pre-race broadcast. Max sat in the vinyl armchair in the corner, his phone already clutched firmly in his hand, his thumb hovering over Lando’s contact profile. He looked more nervous than he usually did when he was racing virtually.
The five red lights went out, and the Australian Grand Prix began.
For the next hour and a half, you forgot about the dull, throbbing ache in your ribs. You forgot about the stiff collar around your neck and the IV bruising on the back of your hand. You only watched the papaya car. You watched Lando defend his position fiercely, watched him navigate a chaotic safety car restart, and watched him execute a breathtaking overtake into turn six that had Max jumping out of his chair with a loud, echoed shout that brought a stern look from a passing nurse.
When the checkered flag finally waved, Lando crossed the line in P3. A podium. His first of the season.
On the screen, you watched him pull his car into the pit lane, leap out onto the nose of his vehicle, and throw his arms up in pure, unadulterated triumph. He hugged his mechanics, poured champagne over his team principal, and grinned that wide, boyish smile that always made your heart skip a beat. He looked so deliriously happy, so utterly unburdened.
A single tear slipped down your cheek, cutting through the dried ointment on your bruised cheekbone. You had preserved that smile. You had given him that podium.
Max didn't wait for the cool-down room interviews to finish. He stood up, his face hardening back into an expression of sheer dread. "He’s walking into the media pen right now. He’s going to have his phone in his pocket or with his press officer. I'm calling."
You nodded weakly, your heart hammering against your fractured ribs."
In Melbourne, the adrenaline was still pulsing hot through Lando’s veins. His race suit was soaked through with sweat and sticky champagne, his hair plastered to his forehead. He was laughing with a Spanish television reporter, holding his third-place trophy tightly under his arm, when his press officer, Jon, stepped into his line of sight.
Jon didn't look happy. In fact, he looked incredibly pale, holding Lando’s personal phone out toward him.
"Lando," Jon interrupted smoothly, offering an apologetic nod to the reporter. "Sorry, we need to cut this short. You need to take this."
Lando blinked, his brow furrowing as he took the phone. "Jon, I’ve still got three more TV pens to do, what’s-" He looked down at the screen. Max’s face was flashing on the display. He smiled, expecting a loud, chaotic FaceTime from his mate screaming about the podium. He pressed answer and put it to his ear. "Maxy! Did you see that start? The grip on the medium tires was absolutely-“
"Lando. Stop talking and listen to me."
Max’s voice wasn't celebratory. It was flat, deadly serious, and vibrating with an undercurrent of intense anxiety.
Lando’s smile instantly vanished. The noise of the paddock, the shouting mechanics, the roar of the crowds, the whir of air guns, seemed to drop away into a dull hum. "Max? What's wrong? What happened?"
"Y/N was in a car accident on Thursday night," Max said, delivering the news like a surgical strike, knowing there was no soft way to break it. "A van hit her side-on in London. She’s been in St. Thomas’s Hospital since then."
Lando felt the world tilt violently on its axis. The heavy silver trophy slipped from his grip, clattering loudly against the concrete floor of the paddock, denting the base, but he didn't even blink. His lungs suddenly felt empty, as if the air had been violently sucked from his body.
"What?" Lando’s voice was barely a whisper, a choked, terrified sound. "Is she... Max, is she alive? Tell me right now."
"She’s alive, she’s stable, she’s going to be completely fine," Max said quickly, rushing to de-escalate the sheer terror in his friend's voice. "She has a concussion, some cracked ribs, and a messed-up shoulder. But she’s awake, Lando. She’s okay."
"Thursday?" Lando’s mind was racing backwards, a frantic, agonizing timeline stitching itself together. "Thursday? Max, that was three days ago. Why the fuck am I just finding out now? Why didn't you call me?!"
His voice cracked into a desperate, furious shout, drawing shocked looks from nearby team personnel and journalists. Jon stepped closer, putting a grounding hand on Lando’s shoulder, but Lando violently shook it off, pacing like a caged animal.
"Because she made us promise not to," Max said, his own voice cracking under the weight of the secret he’d kept. "She knew you had the race. She knew you’d drop out and fly home. She wouldn't let us tell you until the race was over. She literally threatened to fire us as friends, Lando. She did it for you."
Lando closed his eyes, a hot, searing wave of anger, guilt, and profound love crashing over him so hard he felt physically sick. “She lay in a hospital bed for three days while I was driving a car in circles.” He remembered the texts. The 'migraine'. The fake drinks with friends. She had done all of that while broken and bleeding, just so he could stand on a plastic podium and spray champagne.
"I’m going to the airport," Lando snapped, his voice trembling violently. "I'm leaving now."
"Jon is already arranging a flight," Max told him. "Just... get back safe, mate. She’s waiting for you."
Lando hung up without saying goodbye. He turned to Jon, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and completely frantic. "Get me a flight. Now. I don't care if it's private, commercial, a cargo plane, get me out of this country."
The twenty-four hours that followed were a waking nightmare for Lando. Because of the nature of international travel from Australia, there were no direct magic flights. He spent the first leg to Singapore staring blankly out the window of a first-class cabin, the luxury around him feeling like a sickening mockery.
He had managed to FaceTime you briefly during his layover. The sight of you had broken something deep inside him. Your face, usually so bright and full of life, was discolored by dark purple and yellow bruising. A stark white bandage sat over your left eyebrow, and you looked so incredibly small in that massive hospital bed, your left arm strapped securely to your chest in a heavy black immobilizer.
"Lando, don't look like that," you had whispered through the screen, trying to smile, but the movement clearly hurt your face. "I'm okay. Look, I can move my fingers. I’m fine."
“You lied to me," he had choked out, sitting in a secluded corner of the lounge, tears streaming down his face, completely unbothered by anyone who might recognize him. "You were hurt, and you lied to me."
“I don't care about the stupid trophy, Y/N," he had cried, pressing his forehead against the cool glass of his phone. "I care about you. I should have been there."
The second leg of the flight was worse. The Wi-Fi on the aircraft failed over the ocean, leaving him completely cut off from you for twelve hours. He couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he envisioned the twisted metal of your car, imagined you trapped in the dark, cold London rain, terrified and alone, while he was eating dinner with his engineers and laughing at telemetry data. The guilt was an physical weight, pressing down on his chest until he could barely breathe. He paced the aisles of the plane until the flight attendants gently asked him to sit down, his hands trembling, his mind a chaotic loop of what-ifs.
By the time Lando arrived at St. Thomas’s Hospital, it was Tuesday morning in London. The sky outside was still a miserable, dripping gray. He hadn't showered, hadn't slept in over a day, and was still wearing the McLaren team hoodie and sweatpants he’d traveled in, now wrinkled and smelling of airplane cabin air.
He practically threw himself through the heavy double doors of the ward, his sneakers squeaking loudly against the linoleum. He didn't ask the front desk; Max had texted him the room number hours ago.
When he reached Room 412, he paused, his hand hovering over the silver handle. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to compose himself so he wouldn't scare you, and pushed the door open.
The room was quiet. Pietra and Max had gone home a few hours prior to let you rest. The only sound was the low hum of the television playing a morning talk show on mute.
You were propped up on the pillows, staring out the window at the London Eye in the distance. The bruising on your face had blossomed into deep, terrifying shades of plum and green. When the door clicked, you turned your head slowly, careful of your neck, and your eyes met his.
"Lando," you breathed.
In two strides, he crossed the room. He didn't care about the IV lines, he didn't care about the stiff hospital chair, he dropped to his knees right beside the bed, his hands instantly reaching out, hovering over you frantically, terrified of touching you and causing pain.
"Y/N," he choked out. The sight of you up close was infinitely worse than the phone screen. The raw vulnerability of your state broke the last of his composure. He collapsed forward, burying his face in the mattress right beside your right hip, his shoulders shaking violently as he broke down into deep, sobbing gasps.
"Oh, sweetheart. No, don't cry," you whispered, your heart aching worse than your ribs at the sound of his distress. You reached out with your good right hand, burying your fingers into his messy, unwashed curls, gently stroking his scalp. "I’m here. I’m okay."
"I was so scared," he sobbed into the bed sheets, his voice muffled and thick with tears. "The whole flight... I thought... I thought what if something went wrong? What if there was internal bleeding? What if you died while I was driving that fucking car?"
"Hey," you said, your tone shifting from soft comfort to a gentle firmness. "Look at me, Lando. Pull it up. Look at me."
He slowly lifted his head, his blue eyes red-rimmed, bloodshot, and swimming with tears, his nose pink. He looked completely stripped of his usual boyish armor. He looked like a boy who had almost lost his entire world.
"I didn't die," you said softly, using your thumb to wipe away a hot tear that was tracking down his cheek. "I’m right here. The doctors said I can go home tomorrow. The car did exactly what it was supposed to do to protect me. I am safe."
"Why did you do it?" he asked, a hint of that raw, frantic anger returning to his voice, though it was entirely driven by pain. "How could you let me sit there, completely clueless? I was celebrating, Y/N. I was spraying champagne and laughing, and you were here. Do you know how sick that makes me feel? The team was posting photos of me smiling, and you were in a hospital bed!"
"Because I know how hard you worked for that podium," you said, your own eyes filling with tears now, the emotional weight of the past few days finally cracking your own facade. "I know the stress you’ve been under. I know what Melbourne means to you. If I had told you, you would have hopped on a plane, and you wouldn't have been able to fix my ribs or heal my concussion. You would have just suffered in the air. This way... you got what you deserved. You got your trophy. And now you’re here."
"I don't care about the trophy!" Lando cried out, his voice cracking as he gripped your right hand with both of his, pressing his lips to your knuckles, over and over again. "I would throw every single trophy I have into the Thames if it meant keeping you safe. I don't care about racing if I don't have you to come home to. Don't ever do that to me again, Y/N. Please. I am begging you. No more secrets. No matter how big the race is."
The raw intensity of his words hung in the sterile air of the room. You looked at him, seeing the absolute truth in his eyes. He wasn't just a racing driver; he was your person, and you had underestimated just how deeply your pain would wound him, regardless of geography.
"I promise," you whispered, a tear escaping your eye and tracking down into your hair. "No more secrets. I'm sorry I made you go through that."
Lando let out a long, shaky breath, leaning his forehead gently against your uninjured right shoulder, careful not to put an ounce of his weight on your chest. "You're a idiot," he mumbled into your skin, the first trace of his usual humor finally peeking through the trauma.
"An idiot who saved your race weekend," you countered, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through the pain on your face.
"Shut up," he breathed, turning his head to press a soft, lingering kiss to the unbruised skin of your neck. "I’m never letting you drive again. I’m hiring you a permanent chauffeur. Or buying you a tank."
"A tank sounds expensive on insurance."
"I don't care. I'll pay it."
The transition from the hospital to Lando’s apartment in London was a clumsy, painful, but ultimately fiercely comforting affair. Lando had completely transformed from a panicked, crying mess into an aggressively attentive, borderline overbearing nurse.
He had refused to let anyone else drive you home. He drove his own car at exactly five miles under the speed limit, treating every single pothole in the London streets as if it were a landmine. Every time the car dipped slightly, his right hand would fly across the center console, hovering over your lap to brace you, his eyes darting anxiously between the road and your face.
"Lando, if you drive any slower, the cyclists are going to start overtaking us," you teased gently, leaning back against a mountain of pillows he had brought from the flat to pad your passenger seat.
"The cyclists can mind their own business," he muttered, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror as if expecting a rogue van at any second. "We are practicing safe driving. Defensive driving."
When you finally reached the flat, he wouldn't even let you walk from the underground garage to the elevator. Despite your protests that your legs worked perfectly fine, he insisted on lifting you into his arms. He whimpered slightly with anxiety, murmuring a stream of “Sorry, sorry, did that hurt? Tell me if that hurts," as he carried you bridal-style, careful of your strapped left arm, and kicked the front door open.
The apartment was spotless, Max and Pietra had clearly gone in ahead of time to clean up and stock the fridge, leaving a massive bouquet of lilies on the kitchen island with a note that read: “We survived the wrath of Lando. You owe us dinner. Glad you're home.”
Lando carried you straight to the master bedroom, where he had already changed the sheets to your absolute favorite, ultra-soft silk ones. He lowered you onto the mattress with the structural precision of a mechanic fitting a fragile front wing onto a car.
"There," he said, stepping back and wiping a nonexistent bead of sweat from his forehead. "Are you comfortable? Do you need more pillows? Water? The pain meds? I have the schedule written down on my phone, the doctor said the next dose is at 2:00 PM but we can do it ten minutes early if—"
"Lando," you interrupted softly, reaching out with your right hand. "Come here."
He stopped his frantic pacing, looking at you with wide, eager-to-please eyes. He walked over to the side of the bed and sat down gingerly on the edge.
"I don't need pills right now," you said, pulling him down by the collar of his hoodie. "I just need you to lie down with me. I’ve missed you for a week."
His expression softened, the last remnants of the past week's high-alert anxiety finally melting away. He carefully kicked off his trainers and climbed into the bed beside you. He lay on his right side, facing you, sliding his arm under your head to serve as a pillow while his other hand came to rest incredibly gently on your hip, avoiding your ribs entirely.
You shifted closer, resting your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring, fast-paced rhythm of his heartbeat. The familiar scent of him, a mix of his expensive cologne, laundry detergent, and just him, instantly acted better than any painkiller the hospital had given you.
"I'm sorry I yelled at you at the hospital," Lando whispered into the quiet room, his fingers tracing small, soothing circles on your hip. "And I'm sorry I wasn't there when it happened."
"We're past that now," you murmured, closing your eyes, the warmth of the bed and his body finally allowing your tense muscles to relax. "You're here now. That’s all that matters."
Lando was quiet for a long moment, his chin resting on the top of your head. "I spoke to Zac and the team today," he said softly. "I'm skipping the simulator sessions this week. I told them I’m completely unavailable until the next race weekend."
You blinked your eyes open, looking up at him. "Lando, you don't have to do that. I have Max and Pietra, I can manage—"
"No," he said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. He leaned down, pressing a soft, slow, deeply tender kiss to your lips, careful not to press too hard against your bruised jaw. When he pulled away, his eyes were soft, fierce, and entirely devoted. "I missed the first three days. I’m not missing the rest. I'm staying right here. I’m going to make you awful tea, burn some toast, and watch whatever terrible reality TV shows you want."
You let out a soft laugh, the slight ache in your ribs entirely worth the feeling of absolute safety wrapping around you. "You promise the tea will be awful?"
"Abysmal," he grinned, that familiar, goofy dimple finally returning to his cheek. "I might even put the milk in first just to spite you."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me," he whispered, kissing the top of your head again, pulling the heavy duvet up over both of your shoulders, shielding you from the cold London rain outside.
For the first time since the headlights had flashed in the dark intersection, the phantom smell of smoke and shattered glass completely vanished from your mind, replaced entirely by the warmth of the boy beside you, whose heart beat entirely for you, podiums be damned.
It Could Be - LN
Summary: Y/n randomly starts getting sick in the mornings and Lando gets it in his head that it can only mean one thing. He's about to be a dad.
Word count: 1.7k
Has She Got It All? - LN1
Request from anon - can you write something where the reader and lando have been dating for a while (not so long but long enough) and reader is well educated, has a well-paying job that's enough to support her, knows how to take care of stuff that people wouldn't expect a woman to do (like repairing stuff and whatever) and lando feels like he's got nothing to offer her and she'd be just the same if he wasn't in her life at all. but once he finds out that reader doesn't have a license and can't drive to save her life he thinks he finally has something to give her and decides to teach her how to drive.
Author's note: No age mentioned for reader, but probably an unrealistic job for the age range I usually write for...so just ignore that and pretend she's just a super advanced bad ass lawyer
Edit: I just reread that request and realised I fucked up...I didn't do the part where she's taught to drive...I just made Lando her chauffuer 🤣 That's so my bad, ngl I wrote this in a post binge watching of Heated Rivalry and I just was not thinking straight. May have to write a fic of Lando teaching to drive separately as an apology, but so sorry 😭
Word count: 2k
Summer Break
Summary: You get sick during a grand prix and you tried to hide it until you get to Monaco but fate had other plans.
Song: Thinking Bout You by Frank Ocean
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! <3
Word count: 5.8k
MASTERLIST - F1
apparently lando is sick this weekend 😭 could we get some fluff about that? hope you’re well kait!
i have my thoughts on the race that i won't go into but he drove very well for someone who's been fighting sickness this weekend!! poor guy :(
lando norris x reader, 1.6k. mentions of illness but nothing descriptive. don't mind the lack of capitalization i wrote this on my phone lol
"baaaabe!"
you poke your head into the bedroom part of the hotel room at lando's hoarse voice.
curls a riot, tan skin rosy with sleep, eyes squinted half shut, he looks like he's just had a nice, long nap. well warranted, after touching down a few days ago and getting straight to work, even through the jet lag.
he'd fallen asleep on top of the covers as soon as he faceplanted on the bed a few hours earlier, full team kit and trainers still on, exhaustion evident after two practice sessions in the grueling singapore heat. those trainers had been kicked across the room at some point, but his papaya jumper looks significantly more rumpled now.
you lean against the doorway with a soft smile at his sleepy state. "what's up, love?"
he frowns, rubbing at his eye furiously. "i think i'm sick."
shit.
through the night - ln4 - epilepsy
❀ pairing: lando norris x fem!reader
❀ word count: 1.4k
❀ summary: lando's girlfriend has a seizure during the night and lando helps her through it
❀ warnings: reader has epilepsy, description of a seizure
❀ authors note: requested by @nickie-amore
endurance masterlist
epilepsy - a neurological condition where abnormal brain activity causes recurrent seizures of varying types and severity
The night before a race was always the same. Lando liked the routine, something predictable to balance out the chaos of the track. Dinner with the team, a short debrief, then back to the hotel where he could unwind before bed.
Tonight was no different. He sat cross-legged at the end of the bed, laptop open and headphones half on as he pretended to be immersed in onboard footage. But every so often, his eyes flicked up towards her.
She was curled up against the pillows, blanket draped over her legs, reading her book. At first glance, nothing seemed unusual. But Lando noticed the little things, how her grip on the book was slack and how her eyes glazed over like she was forcing herself to concentrate.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said gently, closing the laptop so he could give her his full attention.
She glanced up, blinking as though she had been caught. “Just tired.”
It was an answer she’d given before, one that usually worked. But Lando tilted his head, studying her. “The kind of tiredness where you want to sleep, or the kind where something’s off?”
Her lips twitched into a half-smile. “Since when did you get so good at telling the difference?”
“Since you.” He leaned closer, brushing a hand over hers. “You can’t hide it from me, love.”
She wanted to reassure him, to say that she was fine, but the truth pressed against the ribs. She had felt strange since dinner, she felt light headed and like her body was trying to warn her of something. And though it had been months since her last seizure, the unease made her nervous.
But she also knew how important tomorrow was. His first race back after the summer break. She couldn’t bear the idea of making him worry now.
“I just need some rest,” she murmured, squeezing his hand.
Lando searched her face for a long moment. He didn’t push her on it. Instead, he kissed her forehead, letting the moment rest. “Alright, get some sleep. But I’m keeping an eye on you.”
He said it lightly, teasing, but the weight of his words wrapped around her like a quiet promise.
~~~
Lando has fallen asleep with his arm draped protectively across her waist. The only sounds in the room was the light hum of the air conditioning and their soft breathing as they slept.
It was sometime past midnight when the shift came. At first, it was just the twitch of her fingers, then a jerk of her leg that stirred Lando awake. He blinked groggily, disoriented, until the realisation hit him like a punch to the chest.
“Love?” His voice was low and urgent. He reached for her but her body had already gone stiff. A second later, the seizure took hold.
Panic clawed at him, but instinct cut through. He rolled onto his side, guiding her gently onto hers so she wouldn’t choke, moving pillows out of the way. His hands hovered, careful not to restrain her, but ready to stop her from knocking into the bedside table.
“Breathe, baby, I’ve got you,” he muttered, his voice shaking though he knew she couldn’t hear him. “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’m right here.”
Seconds dragged like hours. Her body convulsed, harsh and unrelenting, and all Lando could do was keep her safe through it. He counted in his head, forcing himself to stay calm, even as his chest ached from helplessness
And then - finally - it eased. The tension drained from her muscles, leaving her exhausted and still, her breath ragged against the pillow.
Lando wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, exhaling a shaky breath. He tucked the blanket gently around her, brushing damp hair from her face with trembling fingers.
Her eyelids fluttered open, her lashes clumping slightly with sweat. She blinked as she tried to piece together the fractured haze of what had happened.
“Lando?” Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
He was instantly leaving over her, his thumb brushing lightly over her cheek. Relief poured through his expression like a dam breaking, though his jaw was tense. “I’m here. I’ve got you, love.”
She swallowed hard, her body heavy and uncooperative, every muscle aching as though she’d run a marathon. The dull throb in her head made it hard to focus. “I… I feel awful,” she admitted weakly, her chest tightening with the effort of speaking.
“I know.” His voice softened, though the crack in it betrayed just how much the last few minutes had shaken him. “Just stay still, yeah? Don’t push yourself.”
She closed her eyes briefly, a tear slipping down her temple. “I didn’t want this to happen tonight. Not before your race.”
Lando’s heart twisted, he pressed a kiss to her damp hairline, his hand steady on hers. “Don’t you dare apologise. The only thing that matters is you. Not the race.”
Her lip trembled at the certainty in his tone. The way he said it like it was the simplest truth in the world. She wanted to argue, to tell him that he couldn't just brush aside what tomorrow meant for him, but her body felt too heavy and drained.
Lando pulled the water bottle closer, unscrewing the cap and gently coxing it to her lips. “Small sips,” he murmured. When she managed it, he tucked her back against the pillows, adjusting the blanket around her like she was fragile porcelain.
He laid down beside her again, his arm sliding carefully across her waist. His forehead rested against her temple as if to anchor her there. “Sleep baby. I’m not going anywhere.”
~~~
The morning sun crept through the thin curtains, tugging her out of a restless sleep. Her body still felt heavy, as though the night had drained every ounce of energy she had left. Beside her, Lando was already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching her with that same worried softness he’d carried since the night before.
“Morning,” she croaked, her voice rough.
His hand brushed lightly over her arm. “Hey, love. How are you feeling?”
She shifted, wincing at the dull ache in her head. “Like I’ve been hit by a truck.” A weak smile tugged at her lips. “But I’m here.”
Lando’s eyes softened further, but a frown lingered. “You don’t have to come today. You know that right? I’ll get you whatever you need and stay with you until you feel stronger.”
Her chest ached at the offer. “I want to be there. It’s your race day. I don’t want to miss it.”
He hesitated, torn between his instinct to wrap her up in blankets and his understanding of what it meant for her to choose to be there. Finally, he nodded. “Alright, but I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
By the time they arrived at the paddock, the usual bustle and noise of a race day felt sharper against her lingering exhaustion. Mechanics hurried past, the media hovered at every corner, and fans shouted from the barriers. She kept close to Lando, his hand firm at her lower back, guiding her gently through the chaos.
“Easy,” he murmured, leaning down so only she could hear. “Tell me if you feel even the slightest bit off.”
“I will,” she promised, though her legs wobbled faintly as they walked.
In the garage, Lando introduced her to one of the team’s medics with quiet seriousness. “Just in case,” he explained when she shot him a look. “I need to know someone is close when I am on the track.”
She touched his hand, squeezing gently. “You don’t have to worry so much.”
“Yes, I do.” His tone left no room for argument, but there was no frustration in it, only ove.
Throughout the morning, he kept glancing her way. While pulling on his racesuit, during the engineers’ chatterm even while fiddling with his gloves. Each time their eyes met, his expression softened like a silent reassurance.
As the lights went out and the roar of engines filled the circuit, she sat in the team’s suite, bundled ina blacked one of the staff had slipped her with a kind smile. Her body still ached, but every time Lando’s car shot past the main straight, she felt steadier and anchored by the knowledge that he’d glance towards the hospitality windows when he could, just to make sure she was there.
And when he crossed the line hours later, his first question wasn’t about the race at all. It was about her.
taglist: @zzz000eee, @moonlightphilosopher, @drs-and-daisies, @butchoscar, @nickie-amore, @papaya-on-top, @cedartwig, @todoyaexiste, @dreaming-starlet, @chronic-pain-and-positivity, @tarenm, @lxndology, @thisdoesntexsist-cherry, @cs-jj-firebug
can you…write more lando x deaf!reader please?? 🥹🥹🥹🫶🫶🫶 loud and clear was sooo good 🫶🫶
A/N I am so sorry this has taken me 6,000 years to answer this, but I have a fat list of ideas for lando x deaf!reader so if there's a spam don't question things. Anyways, I hope you enjoy!
WORLD OF WHISPERS ; LN4
pairing: lando norris x fem!deaf reader
summary: in which lando quickly adapts to having a deaf girlfriend or in which she loves nothing more than lando's little whispers
warnings: none i don't think, reader is written to have cochlear implants, just an fyi, not exactly a warning.
you had no idea when he had actually started doing it, the little ritual that lando had, but it slowly but surely became one of your favorite things that lando did.
lando had slowly come to realize that whereas his life was chaos certain days your life was chaos everyday, but even in the middle of that chaos he would lean close, and whisper, quiet enough to not overwhelm but loud enough for your implants to pick up. something just for you, not some loud declaration that was meant for the entire world to hear, or jokes for someone else's amusement, just small, tender words that were meant for you and you alone.
♪ — 𝗚𝗢𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗛𝗢𝗠𝗘 lando norris x ! girlfriend! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . A cosy night in with Lando takes a playful turn when you decide to pull a prank and test just how much he wants you to stay. (0.4k words)
( my master list | more of lando norris ) ( requests )
the moment ── .✦ LN4 requested! thank you. ♡
content: lando x reader, fluff, soft romance, the moment he knew you were it
It wasn’t fireworks. Not some dramatic, movie-worthy gesture. It was quieter than that — softer, so ordinary it almost didn’t feel real.
Rain tapped against the windows of Lando’s flat, the sky outside heavy and gray. He padded into the kitchen, hair messy from sleep, hoodie hanging loose around his shoulders. He stopped short in the doorway.
You were there. Barefoot on the tiles, wearing one of his oversized hoodies, sleeves too long as you pushed them up your arms. Your curls were messy from sleep, your voice low as you hummed along to the song playing faintly from your phone on the counter.
You looked… at home. Not like a guest. Not like someone passing through. But like you belonged there, woven into the space, into him.
He leaned against the frame quietly, watching as you poured cereal into a bowl. You frowned when some of it spilled, muttering something under your breath that made him grin. Then, without hesitation, you reached for his mug — his mug, the one he always used — and filled it with coffee exactly the way he liked. You didn’t even ask. You just knew.
When you finally noticed him, you smiled. Sleepy and soft, like the whole morning was only meant for the two of you. “Morning,” you murmured, sliding the mug toward him.
And that was it. That was the moment.
His chest tightened, his throat went dry, and it felt like the entire world narrowed down to you in his kitchen with your messy hair and bare feet. It wasn’t some lightning bolt — it was steady, sure, undeniable. She’s it. She’s the one.
He crossed the room in three long strides, wrapping his arms around you from behind. His face pressed into your neck, curls tickling your cheek.
You laughed, light and surprised. “What’s gotten into you?”
He didn’t answer at first. He just held you, grounding himself in the warmth of you against him. He could feel your heartbeat, steady under his palm, and his own matched it like a rhythm he’d always known.
Finally, his voice came out rough, quiet, against your hair. “Nothing. Just… realized how much I love you.”
You turned in his arms, cupping his cheek with your hand, your thumb brushing the faint stubble there. Your eyes were soft, like you knew exactly what he meant even if he didn’t say it outright. “I love you too, you sap.”
But Lando knew it was more than love. It was forever. In the quiet of a rainy morning, with coffee between you and your laughter filling the room, he knew he’d found his always.
©landosgfr
Pitter Patter
Pairing — Lando Norris x afab!Reader
Summary — Lando loves having an easily flustered partner that could handle everything but receiving affection without twitching out of your skin...
Genre — fluff, established relationship
Wordcount — 0.8k
Warnings — a lil cursing, banter
Rating — pg-13
A/N — Just sumn short today but oh well. Dialogue was a bit inspired by the Monza Quali yesterday
Disclaimer: this fic is written and copyrighted by ©kattheogcat on tumblr. do not rewrite or repost on any other plattforms without my permission.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED!
Lando Norris, Formula driver, Mclaren pilot and one of the two contenders for the WDC was many things.
Talented, sassy, honest, upfront, funny, dramatic, flirty, charming, a golden retriever in human form.
quiet nights ── .✦ - FLUFF
The weight of the day always falls off you the moment Lando pulls you into bed. He’s sprawled across the mattress in an oversized tee, hair a mess, cheeks still warm from brushing his teeth too fast, and he instantly drags you into his chest like he’s been waiting all day just to breathe again.
“Don’t move,” he mumbles against your hair, voice already dipped in sleep, arms wrapping tighter around your waist. You giggle, but let him cage you in, your body melting into the warmth of his. The TV hums softly in the background, some documentary neither of you are really watching.
Your fingertips trace the lines of his arm lazily, his breathing syncing with yours. “Comfy?” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his jaw. He hums, eyes closed. “Mhm. Too comfy. Might never let you out of bed again.”
You laugh, shaking your head, but he only nuzzles deeper into your neck, his curls tickling your skin. Within minutes, his body grows heavy with sleep, his hand twitching where it rests over your hip. And you think—if every night could end like this, tangled up with him and nothing else to worry about—you’d never need more.
©landosgfr | requests are open!
in your arms tonight ── .✦
content: fluff, comfort, girlfriend!reader, post-race sadness, cuddles, reassurance, softness.
He didn’t say much when you found him after the race.
Helmet still tucked under his arm, suit half unzipped, his hair plastered down from the sweat and the weight of the day, he looked less like the boy you knew and more like a shadow of him. The garage had already emptied out, most of the crew busy breaking down equipment, hiding their own disappointment in routine. But him? He was just there. Standing still.
You touched his arm lightly, and only then did his eyes flicker up to you. Red around the edges, glassy but stubbornly holding the tears back, like he refused to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing how much it hurt.
“Hey,” you whispered.
He shook his head, voice low, cracked. “Don’t. Not now.”
But you ignored it, because you knew him. You closed the space and wrapped your arms around his waist, your cheek pressing into his chest. For a second, he didn’t move. Just stood there rigid, like even this kind of love felt too heavy to bear. But then his whole body softened, collapsing into you with a sigh that broke your heart in two.
“It’s not fair,” he mumbled, muffled against your hair. “I worked so hard for this one, I—” He cut himself off, throat catching. “And it just… went. Just like that.”
“I know, love. I know.” Your fingers rubbed gentle circles over his back. “But you didn’t lose you. You’re still everything you were before the motor gave out. Nothing changes that.”
You felt him shake his head again, but he clung tighter to you, burying his face in your shoulder. His weight was warm, almost too much, but you let him sink into you until his breathing steadied, the sharp edges of frustration dulled by the comfort of being held.
Later, when you got him back to the hotel, he barely touched the food waiting in the room. Instead, he showered quickly, changed into a soft hoodie and sweatpants, and crawled straight into bed. You followed, curling right into him like you were built to fit there.
The sheets smelled like clean cotton and him. His curls were still damp against your fingers as you threaded them back, watching his lashes flutter shut.
“You know what I said after?” he murmured suddenly, half-asleep. “That I just wanted a burger and to go home?”
You smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I know. Everyone’s already quoting it online.”
He huffed a small laugh, but it was tired, aching. “I meant it. I just wanted something normal. Something that makes me feel… not broken.”
“You’re not broken, Lan,” you whispered, your lips brushing the dimple in his cheek as you spoke. “You’re just tired. And sad. And you’re allowed to be.”
He didn’t answer, but his hand found yours under the blanket, squeezing once. Then, softer than ever, he whispered, “I’m glad I’ve got you.”
You kissed that dimple again when he finally drifted off, your thumb brushing over the curve of his jaw. You stayed awake a little longer, watching the rise and fall of his chest, promising yourself that tomorrow you’d remind him again — that he was more than a race, more than a motor, more than all of it. He was yours.
And in your arms, at least for tonight, he was home.
©p1girlfriend | requests are open!
Taking Care of You - LN
Summary: Lando always worries and cares about his anaemic girlfriend
This was a request! I lost the request but I think it was anon anyway (so sorry if it wasn't). I wanted to make sure I looked into being anaemic as I know a bit (I'm like borderline anaemic but the doctors said to just pop some over the counter iron pills and I'll be set). Also it' is another short one, I know I've been writing a lot of short ones but honestly, I kind of like quick little ones to read personally. If you hate the short fics tho, let me know and I'll try to lengthen them.
Lando is certainly no certified doctor or anything close to. But he has actually made such an effort to monitor y/n making sure she takes her iron pills and just sort of take notice of whether she looks a little more tired or needs something extra to help her get her iron a little higher.
Please could you write a Lando fic where the reader is a part of a huge family, who doesn’t know she is dating Lando and they go on holiday together. Lando joins them halfway through.
Very much imagining an uncle walking into the villa saying “Why is Lando Norris making eggs in the kitchen”
scrambled secrets - LN4
Masterlist
Summary: You’re on a big family holiday: cousins, aunties, uncles, the whole lot. They don’t know you’re dating anyone, much less a Formula 1 driver. When he decides to join you halfway through the trip and casually starts making breakfast in the villa kitchen, your family find out in the most chaotic way possible.
Warnings: secret relationship, fluff, a touch of suggestive intimacy but nothing explicit, chaotic family.
You’d been dreading this holiday since the moment your mum announced it. Two whole weeks in Spain, stuffed into a rented villa with your siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, and every extended family member who thrived on gossip. Two whole weeks of sharing bathrooms, sitting through long dinners, answering questions about when you’d finally “settle down.”
No one in your family knew about Lando. Not your parents, not your siblings, not your nosy aunt who had an extra sense for sniffing out secrets. You’d kept him tucked away like it would kill you, partly because you were protective, partly because the thought of your uncles grilling him about football or your cousins pestering him for selfies made your skin crawl.
