iliveinyourwalls

i like ducks f1 and 1d are my fav but open to anything! she/her

[wowzees]

crying real tears cause i miss kika

[wowzees]

hi everyone! I just wanted to let y'all know that requests are open! if you do send them in, it might take a while for me to see and respond, but I will acknowledge it once I see it. anything is allowed!

[softnwonderful]

after qatar, I think it's obvious that if mclaren has a favorite, it has to be max bc wtf was that.

[gattyswriting]

for all the complaining i do about boring races, i genuinely hope abu dhabi 2025 is the most uneventful, predictable snoozefest ever created

[worldchampignon]

My brain is still just landocroptop.gif

[themultifanshipper]

You may think I'm a psycho after reading this, but here goes.

After extensive studies of Max's anatomy (toes and thumbs) I have concluded beyond a reasonable doubt that that very specific pattern of toes does in fact belong to Max, and that wonky left thumb is also Max's wonky lefft thumb. There is also his posture, tits and belly button that are all identical to Max. His stance is also particular, when Max is standing still he is very much duck footed and in one of the pics you can clearly see his foot is almost parallel to his fucking body 😭

There are other details that, as someone who has had to draw the son of a bitch, are just too weird to be coincidences like the height/shape of his nipples, down to the damn hair pattern of his happy trail (I told y'all I'd be thorough...).

Therefore the video of him jorking it is real, he is definitely a grower, and one can assume it was for a grindr match, possibly at the german grand prix 2016 or 2018 (but that's a working theory don't take it as gospel, need to do more research on the his body around that period)

I will not be posting the pics/video (for obvious fucking reasons) but you can dm me if you're curious.

In the meantime, it is 3:25 AM. Goodnight.

[wowzees]

queen behavior

giving the people what they want

[wowzees]

ok why were literally staring at landos and Oscar’s crotch for 50% of the post quali debrief vid

[themultifanshipper]

Max (or Lewis) dragging those glorified bricks to pole would be the highlight of my damn month

[wowzees]

damn this aged well

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Epilogue

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, time jumps, slice of life.

Notes — There are no words, really. I hope you cherish all of the tiny, specific details I added here. I spent a lot of time on it. Yes, I will possibly write some additional snapshots/oneshots of their future.

2025

Autism, Womanhood, and the Mechanics of Belonging by Amelia Norris

Autism presents itself in females in many ways.

Sometimes invisibly. Often misdiagnosed. Frequently misunderstood.

In me, it’s always looked like this: a difficulty with eye contact. An inability to read the curve of someone’s mouth or the sharp edges hidden beneath their tone. I learned early how to catalogue expressions the way other girls my age collected dolls — not for fun, but for function. A survival skill. A flash of teeth? Friendly. Or hostile. Or forced. Raised eyebrows? Surprise. Maybe judgment. Maybe not.

Memorising made things manageable. Predictable. Less scary.

Sarcasm took longer. I still miss it, sometimes. I can design a suspension system from scratch, but I’ll still turn to my husband after a conversation and ask, “Was that a joke?”

It used to bother me. It doesn’t anymore.

Touch has always been strange, too. I don’t like uninvited contact. Hugs feel like puzzles with warped edges — familiar in theory, but always a little off. It’s not dislike. It’s friction between my nervous system and the world. I used to think that meant something was wrong with me.

I was wrong.

I’m not broken. I’m just calibrated differently.

And then there’s the focus.

When I was a child, it was Formula 1. Not the drivers, not the glamour — the systems. The telemetry. The pit stop choreography. The physics. The math hidden inside motion. While other kids learned to swim, I was memorising tyre degradation patterns. While girls my age planned birthday parties, I was building aerodynamic models from cereal boxes.

I didn’t understand how to be part of the world I’d been born into.

But I always understood how cars moved through it.

That obsession became a career — eventually. But not right away.

My father, Zak Brown, became the CEO of McLaren Racing. I thought that would be an advantage. I was wrong again. He loved me, but he didn’t know how to take me seriously. I brought ideas. He catalogued them without thought. I handed him data. He passed it off to other people without remembering I’d written it.

He didn’t mean to hurt me — but he did. In a hundred careless ways. 

Enough to make me leave.

I was already seeing Lando, quietly. It was early. Tentative. I was cautious because I didn’t always understand people. He was cautious because he was getting advice, loud, well-meaning advice, not to date the boss’s daughter.

He disappeared on me for a while. And I didn’t understand why.

I remember thinking: I must have done something wrong and not realised it.

But I hadn’t.

Eventually, he came back. Explained. Apologised. We learned each other slowly, and not always easily — but deeply.

Around the same time, I left McLaren. I took a job at Red Bull. Not for revenge. For recognition.

Max Verstappen didn’t care who my father was. He cared that I understood race pace like a second language. We won two championships together.

And in the meantime — Lando and I kept finding our way back to each other. Every time, more solid than before.

Eventually, I came back to papaya. But on my terms. Not as Zak’s daughter. As a lead engineer. With Oscar by my side and Lando in a car I had helped design, shaped precisely to fit his hands, his shoulders, his driving style.

Then I had my daughter. Ada.

And the hyper-focus I’ve carried my whole life shifted again — narrowed, but deepened.

It’s still data. Still equations and airflow and lap deltas. But it’s also Lando, who stopped having to ask to touch me years ago. Who doesn’t need explanations but still listens when I give them.

It’s Ada — glorious, curious, sticky. Who throws glitter onto my schematics and insists I help her fix the broken boosters on her cardboard spaceship with grunts and wife, pleading eyes.

It’s both of them.

And the quiet, terrifying vastness of being truly understood.

My autism didn’t vanish when I became a wife. It didn’t soften when I became a mother. I am still who I have always been: meticulous, sensitive, blunt. I still script my voicemails. I still shut down when I’m overstimulated. I still have meltdowns. I still need more sleep than most people and can’t fucntion in rooms with flickering lights.

But I’ve grown. I’ve adapted. I’ve made peace not just with structure, but with chaos. With change. With soft interruptions. With a life I never thought I’d be able to build.

I’ve created a life where I don’t have to perform.

I just get to be.

And for the first time, I’m letting people see me. All of me.

Which is why I’m writing this.

Because I know I’m not the only one.

Because somewhere, there’s a teenage girl memorising lap times and scared she doesn’t belong in a world that moves too loud, too fast, too unclearly.

Because I wish I’d known sooner that I wasn’t alone.

Today, I’m proud to announce the launch of NeuroDrive — a foundation dedicated to mentoring, supporting, and funding autistic young women pursuing careers in motorsport.

We’ll be offering scholarships. Internships. Mentorship. Resources. Community.

From engineering to analytics to logistics to aero to comms — every role that makes this sport move.

I want these girls to know that their focus is a gift.

Their precision is power.

Their minds are brilliant.

I want them to know they don’t need to hide.

There’s room for them here. There’s room for all of us.

And they belong — fully, loudly, exactly as they are — in motorsport.

With hope, Amelia Norris

—

Amelia sat back from her laptop screen.

She hadn’t meant to write it all in one frantic breath. It had just… unfurled. A loose thread tugged gently free at the edge of the day, unraveling steadily until it wove itself into something whole.

She stared at the last line. Her hands hovered over the keyboard, then lowered to her lap. She exhaled.

Behind her, the wooden floor creaked softly.

A moment later, familiar arms wrapped gently around her waist — warm, unhurried. Lando pressed a kiss just behind her ear, right in that small, quiet space that always made her flinch less than anywhere else.

“She’s asleep,” Lando murmured, voice low and amused. “Finally. Made me sing the rocket song. Twice. And do the hand movements.”

Amelia huffed a small, warm laugh but didn’t turn. “You hate the hand movements.”

“I hate them passionately,” he said, bending slightly to press a kiss to the space just behind her ear. “But she likes them. And I happen to love her enough to tolerate them.”

She could feel him smiling against her skin.

The sea air had slipped in through the open balcony doors behind them, warm and salt-tinged, carrying the gentle hum of nighttime Monaco. 

Lando’s arms slid comfortably around her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder and peered at the screen. “Let me read it?” He asked after a pause.

“You already know all of it,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” he replied, nudging her temple with his nose. “But I like hearing it in your words.”

She didn’t answer, not with words anyway. She just leaned into him, letting her body relax in increments. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment longer before dropping quietly to her lap. Her pulse, which had been buzzing all evening, finally slowed. The cursor blinked in the corner of the screen — steady, patient, waiting.

She would post the piece eventually. Maybe not tonight. But soon. She’d promised the women helping her build NeuroDrive that the launch would be personal, rooted in something real — something true. And this essay… it was all of that. Raw and oddly fragile. But hers.

Behind them, the linen curtains shifted in the breeze.

“I think she likes it here,” Lando murmured, after a few minutes had passed in quiet. “Monaco.”

Amelia blinked, surfacing. “Ada?”

“Yeah. I had her out on the balcony earlier. She liked the sun.”

“She gets that from you,” Amelia said, dry as ever.

He laughed softly. “She does like the heat. More than I expected.”

“She likes everything here,” Amelia admitted, watching the night settle over the marina. “The boats. The water. Max’s cats.”

“She said ‘cat’ three times yesterday,” Lando said proudly.

“She’s five months old, Lando. It was probably just gas.”

“No,” he insisted. “She looked right at Jimmy and said it. Loudly.”

“Well, Jimmy did bite her toy rocket.” She said, her lips twitching at the memory of her daughter’s appalled face as the cat attacked her beloved stuffy. 

Lando huffed a laugh. “Valid reaction.”

They both fell quiet again, lulled by the rhythm of the moment. Amelia let her gaze drift across the open-plan living space of their Monaco apartment; all soft neutrals and clean angles, intentionally simple. 

This was Ada’s first real stretch of time here. The first time Monaco would ever feel like home to their daughter, not just a temporary stop between England and wherever Lando was racing next. Amelia had worried about that — the splitness of things. Of belonging to multiple places but never fully resting in one. But Ada, with all her glittering confidence and stubborn joy, didn’t seem to mind.

“She doesn’t mind the change,” Amelia said quietly. “She just… adapts. Quicker than I do.”

“You’ve been adapting longer,” Lando said simply. “She’s still new. You had to learn the hard way.”

“I’m still learning,” Amelia admitted.

He brushed his lips against her cheek, slow and careful. “I love how your mind works,” he said. “I loved it when I didn’t understand it, and I love it even more now that I do.”

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight in the familiar, unwieldy way that happened when someone saw her too clearly. “It’s almost done,” she said, nodding toward the document. “Just a few more edits. Then I’ll post it. The site’s ready. The social channels are scheduled. The first mentorship emails go out next week.”

He squeezed her waist gently. “You built a whole new system, baby.”

“I built a team,” she said, glancing at the screen. “It’s not just going to be mine.”

He nodded. “You’re going to change lives, baby.”

“Hopefully not just change them,” she said. “Build them. Design them. Like a car.”

He grinned into her hair. “You and your car metaphors.”

“I don’t use them that often.” She frowned. 

“Mm. You’re right. Only four times a day.”

He was teasing her. The lopsided smile, squinty eyes and tiny red splotches on his cheekbones told her so. 

She rolled her eyes but leaned back into him anyway. Lando’s arms around her. Ada safe and sleeping. The sea just a five minute drive from their inner-city apartment. 

It didn’t matter that the cursor was still blinking on her screen.

She’d found her place in the world; or built it, piece by piece.

And she was going to help other girls do the same.

—

@/NeuroDriveOrg Today, we’re launching NeuroDrive: a charity organisation formed to empower autistic women in motorsport — because brilliance comes in many forms, and it’s time we celebrate every one of them. Find out more and discover how to get involved by clicking the link below. #NeuroDriveLaunch 

Replies:

@/f1_galaxy

OMG AMELIA???? This is so crazy but I’m so here for it!! #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/racecarrebel

Autistic and a gearhead? That’s me lol. Signing up right now!

@/sarcasticengineer

wait so I can geek out about torque and not pretend i get social cues? literally a dream 

@/cartoonkid420

*gif of a car drifting sideways* When you realize your fave F1 engineer is actually a real-life superhero  #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/chillaxbro

Amelia Norris (CEO) IKTR

@/maxverman

Yk honestly big ups to @/AmeliaNorris for making this happen. What a woman. 

@/indylewis

This being the first post I see when I open this app after my diagnosis review? CINEMA. 

@/f1mobtality

BEAUTIFUL. INCREDIBLE. AMAZING. BREATHTAKING. #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/notlewisbutclose LEWIS ON THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS? IKTR MY KING 

@/LewisHamilton Proud to see and have a hand in making initiatives like NeuroDrive happen. It’s about time that we start making strides to pave the way for real diversity in motorsport. Change is coming, and it’s about time. #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/landostrollfan99 PLS I KNOW LANDO IS CRASHING OUT BC HE’S SO PROUD OF HIS WIFEY RN 

@/NeuroDriveOrg Thank you everyone for all the love! Our virtual mentorship program opens next week; sign up to be part of the first cohort! Over 18’s can sign up themselves, but anyone younger must have parental consent. Thanks, Amelia. 

@/AnnieAnalyst

My mom has been a hardcore motorsport fan for decades. She’s on the spectrum. She’s found such joy in watching Amelia Norris take the F1 world by storm over the past eight years. I know that she’s going to be so happy about this. Can’t wait to tell her. 

@/samliverygoat

This is sick. I’m a guy, but my sister is eight and autistic and wants to be a mechanic. I’m gonna tell my mum about this and get her signed up. Big ups your wife @/LandoNorris 

—

Lando woke slowly, the Monaco morning sun spilling in through gauzy curtains and casting pale gold across their bedroom. The room was still, quiet in that delicate way that meant someone had been awake for a while already.

He blinked, then turned toward the warm shape beside him; and stopped, his breath catching slightly at the sight.

Amelia was sitting upright against the headboard, hair pulled into a messy knot, one arm curled around Ada who was nestled into her chest, half-asleep and nursing. Her other hand held her phone, screen dimmed low. She was speaking quietly — not in a cooing baby voice, but in her normal cadence, clipped and slightly analytical.

“…recognises familiar people, understands simple instructions, imitates gestures, like clapping or waving; well, I’ve literally never seen you wave unless it’s to say goodbye to your own socks.” She frowned.

Lando smiled into his pillow, eyes still half-closed.

Amelia glanced down at Ada, who blinked up at her with wide eyes and a dribble of milk on her chin.

“That’s fine. You’re spatially efficient already.”

“Are we reading milestone checklists?” Lando’s voice was thick with sleep, rough-edged and fond.

Amelia didn’t jump, didn’t even look away from her screen. “It’s her birthday. I thought I should make sure she’s not developmentally behind.”

“She’s licking your elbow,” he pointed out.

“Which is not on the list,” she sighed. 

Lando scooted closer, propping himself up on one elbow to see them both better. Ada detached with a soft sigh, then yawned, full-bodied and squeaky. Amelia adjusted her shirt without ceremony and let Ada rest against her, one hand gently stroking her hair.

“She’s perfect,” he said, leaning over to kiss the crown of Ada’s head, then Amelia’s shoulder. “Milestones or not.”

Amelia hesitated. “She’s not pointing at things. That’s apparently a big one.”

“She screamed at Max’s cats until they moved out of her way, does that count?”

Amelia hummed in thought. “I suppose we could classify that as assertive communication.”

They sat like that for a minute, wrapped in the warm hush of early light and baby breaths. Monaco in June was hazy and beautiful, a perfect little jewel box of a day already unfolding around them.

“Do you think she knows it’s her birthday?” Lando asked, voice still low.

“No,” Amelia said simply. “Probably not. But we do.” She glanced down at their daughter again, something unreadable, almost too tender, flickering behind her eyes. “I know it’s been a year since I stopped being one version of myself and started being another.”

Lando’s hand found hers where it rested on Ada’s tiny back. “Yeah, baby?”

Amelia tilted her head, considering. “Maybe. I feel… broader. Like I can stretch in more directions now.”

He smiled. “You’re perfect.”

Ada, half-asleep, made a soft gurgling sound and grabbed Amelia’s Lando necklace in one surprisingly strong fist.

Lando leaned in again, voice warmer now. “Happy birthday, sweet little pea,” he whispered to Ada, then kissed Amelia’s jaw. “And happy birth-day to you.”

Amelia made a face. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is,” he insisted. “You did all the work. You should get recognition too.”

“I suppose.” She considered it for a minute. “Does that mean I should congratulate you on the anniversary of her conception?”

She was being serious — which was why he just smiled instead of laughing the way he desperately wanted to. “If you want to, baby.” 

She nodded and catalogued that away in the small corner of her brain that contained a long list of dates that mattered most to her. 

She think about it like this: dates she will never forget. Not because she wrote them down, but because they’re carved into the soft machinery of who she is. 

October 9th — Her mother’s birthday. 

November 7th – Her father’s birthday. 

December 12th, 2021 – Max’s first championship win. 

July 5th, 2022 — Her wedding day. 

July 2nd, 2023 – Oscar’s first Grand Prix start. 

May 5th, 2024 – The day Lando won his first race. 

June 30th, 2024 – The day Ada was born. 

She’s always catalogued things.

It made the world digestible.

But those dates don’t need charts or colour codes.

They live in her like heat. Like heartbeat. Like gravity.

Later, there would be cake. Balloons. Chaos. Max will appear with sacks full of wrapped gifts. Ada will probably eat something that she isn’t supposed to. 

Lando takes Ada into his arms and lifts her above his head, blowing a bubble at her with his lips. 

She drools sleepily, and Amelia winces when milky bile spills from her mouth. 

Yeah. Not a good idea to jostle a well-fed baby. 

Lando made a face and then used his t-shirt to wipe their little girls’ lip clean. 

She stared at him. 

And at their small, wondrous girl. 

A year old. 

—

Seventeen Years Later

The sky was brightening in soft lavender layers over the marina. Monaco looked almost quiet for once — like it was holding its breath.

Ada sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, her back pressed to the base of her mother’s old desk. The drawer had stuck for years, warped with sea air, but today it had slid open easily. Like it had been waiting for her.

Inside: one neatly folded sheet of thick paper. Her name was written in the corner in her mum’s handwriting. Clean, sharp letters. 

She unfolded it carefully, even though part of her already knew what kind of letter this would be. Not sentimental. Not flowery. Not emotional in the ways people expected. But honest. 

My beautiful Ada,

I’m writing this on your first birthday.

You’re asleep right now — finally — with vanilla frosting in your hair and a purple sock on one foot and not the other. Your daddy’s asleep too, mouth open, curled around the giraffe that Maxie gave you today. I should be sleeping. But I’m here, writing this. That probably says a lot.

I don’t know who you’ll be yet. Not really.

Maybe you’ll love numbers the way I do. Maybe you’ll throw yourself into art, or animals, or flight, or noise. Maybe you’ll carry the softness your father wears so easily. Maybe you’ll burn hot like me and never quite know how to dim it.

Or maybe, hopefully, you’ll be entirely your own: unshaped by us, unafraid of being too much or not enough.

All I know is this: whoever you are, whoever you become, I will love you without condition and without needing to fully understand.

Because understanding is not a prerequisite for love. It never has been.

I want to get everything right. I won’t. I already know that.

But I promise I will try. Fiercely. Unrelentingly.

I will learn what you need from me, over and over again, as you change and grow and outpace me. I will listen — even when I don’t know what to say. I will ask you what you need, and believe you the first time.

Love isn’t easy for me in the way it is for your daddy. I don’t always say the right thing, or give affection in the way people expect. But please know: I love you with everything I have. In every way I know how.

It may not always look loud or obvious. But it will be real. And it will never leave you.

I will always be in your corner. 

Even if I’m quiet.

Even if I’m late.

Even if I’m gone.

Always.

— Mum

The letter smelled faintly of ink and something older; lavender, maybe, or the ghost of her mum’s favourite perfume. Ada folded it carefully along the worn creases and slid it back into its envelope, fingers tracing the edge before getting up and going back to her bedroom, tucking it inside the drawer of her nightstand.

The light from the marina hadn’t reached this side of the house yet, but the sea breeze had — soft and salt-laced through the open windows. Ada padded barefoot across the wooden floor, familiar as the lines on her own palm, and moved quietly into the hallway.

The balcony door was already ajar.

Her mother was there, as she always was on mornings like this — perched in her usual chair, legs tucked under her body, a latte cradled in both hands. Her hair was scraped back in a low twist, pale in the early morning light, and she hadn’t noticed Ada yet.

Amelia was humming. Softly. Tunelessly. A little stim she’d done for as long as Ada could remember.

Ada hesitated in the doorway, just for a moment.

Then she stepped forward, slow and quiet. Climbed into her mother’s lap without a word, curling against her like she was still small enough to belong there.

Amelia stilled for half a breath. Then she shifted, just slightly — letting her daughter fit against her without comment or tension. One hand settled over Ada’s spine. The other stayed wrapped around the ceramic heat of her cup.

She didn’t ask questions.

She didn’t need to.

Instead, she kept humming. A low, constant thread of sound that vibrated in Ada’s ribs as she pressed her cheek to her mother’s shoulder.

They watched the sun climb over the harbour. The light came in slow and sure, brushing over the rooftops and catching on the water in amber fragments.

Amelia didn’t speak. She just held her daughter. One hand stroking the same pattern — left shoulder to elbow, up and back again.

And Ada breathed. Steady. Whole.

She was older now; too big, probably, to sit in her small statured mum’s lap like this. But not today. Not just yet.

In her mother’s arms, she was still allowed to be small.

Still allowed to be quiet.

Still allowed to simply be.

And Amelia, in the language she had always known best, presence over words, held her through it.

As the light shifted across the sea, the only sound between them was the soft hiss of foam against porcelain. The familiar hum. The heartbeat of love — silent, constant, and entirely understood.

— 

2025

It was impossible to sum up the 2025 season in any cohesive way. 

There were days she felt like she was balancing on the tip of a needle. 

Her car was perfect. That much was undeniable. For the first time since she’d begun clawing her way through every door that had once been locked to her, the machine under her boys wasn’t just competitive — it was untouchable. Fast on every compound. Nimble in the wet. Ferocious in the hands of a driver who knew how to take it to the edge.

And she had two of them. Two.

Oscar and Lando.

Her driver. Her husband.

It would have made a weaker team combust.

But McLaren hadn’t combusted. Not yet, anyway. Not under her watch.

Oscar had grown into himself in ways that still caught her off guard — all lean control and precision, carrying the ice-veined patience of someone who had watched others take what he knew he was capable of. He drove like someone with nothing left to prove and everything still to take.

And Lando... Lando had grown, too.

There were days he was still impossibly frustrating — still too harsh on himself, too reactive on the radio, still hurt in ways she couldn’t always patch. But he was stronger now. Calmer. Faster. And he trusted her. Not blindly, not because he loved her — but because he believed in her. Her mind. Her leadership. Her.

Every race had been a coin toss. Oscar or Lando. Lando or Oscar. Strategy calls had to be clinical. Unbiased. And every week she made them with the knowledge that whatever she chose could cost someone she loved the chance at something immortal.

She wouldn’t let herself flinch.

Not when the margins were this razor-thin.

Not when the car was finally everything she’d spent her life trying to build.

When the upgrades landed and they locked out the front row, she didn’t smile. She just stared at the data until the lines blurred, heart thudding, and told herself she’d allow joy when it was over.

When they took each other out in Silverstone; barely a racing incident, but brutal nonetheless, she didn’t speak to anyone for two hours. Just shut herself in the sim office and breathed through the silence until the tightness left her hands.

When they went 1-2 in Singapore, swapping fastest laps down to the final sector, she didn’t even hear the cheers. She just watched the replay of the overtake again. And again. And again.

Precision. Patience. Courage.

They had everything. And they were hers — in the only ways that mattered in this arena. Oscar, her driver. Lando, her husband. Both brilliant. Both stubborn. Both driving the car she had finally, finally perfected. 

In the garage, she never played favourites.

In the dark, she ached with the weight of both of them.

Now, the season was nearly over. One race to go. One title on the line. Between them.

And Amelia?

She felt something not quite like calm. Not quite like pride.

Something vaster.

She didn’t know who would win. She truly didn’t. She wasn’t even sure if she had a preference. Her love for Lando, loud and chaotic, as real as gravity, lived beside her fierce loyalty to Oscar, who had never once asked her to earn his trust, only to maintain it.

She loved them differently. But she loved them both.

And whatever the final points tally read, whatever flag waved first in Abu Dhabi, it would not change what she’d built. What they’d built. A machine so complete, so purely competitive, that the only person who could beat it was someone inside of it.

That, she thought, was the mark of something enduring.

And in the quiet before the finale, Amelia allowed herself a breath of pride so deep it nearly broke her open.

It wasn’t about the trophy anymore.

It was about the fact that the world had doubted her. Them. 

And now they couldn’t look away.

—

2026

Amelia had been keeping a spreadsheet. Of course she had.

A private one — just a simple, tucked-away Google Sheet with six columns: Developmental milestone, Average age, Ada’s age, Observed behaviour, Paediatricians’ notes, and Feelings (which she almost always left blank).

She updated it weekly. Sometimes daily. Just in case.

And she knew, clinically, that speech development wasn’t one-size-fits-all. That some children talked at eight months and others waited until twenty. That it was normal, even healthy, for some toddlers to take their time.

But normal never did much to soothe her.

Especially not when the silence had started to feel louder than it should.

Ada babbled — just not much. She gestured, pointed, tugged their hands, grunted with specific frustration when her needs weren’t met. She understood them. That wasn’t in question. But her lips hadn’t shaped a word yet. Not one.

At twenty-two months, Amelia was trying not to spiral. But her spreadsheet had too many empty cells. Too many quiet mornings.

“Maybe she just doesn’t have anything she feels like saying yet,” Lando said one night, rolling onto his side to face her in bed. Ada had gone down late and Amelia had spent the evening researching speech therapy assessments and second-language interference. 

“She should have at least one word by now,” Amelia muttered, eyes on her screen.

“She’s got plenty. She just hasn’t said them out loud.” Lando reached out, nudged the laptop closed. “She’s fine. You know she’s fine.”

Amelia sighed. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

She wanted to believe him. She really did.

—

The next afternoon, Ada was with them in the garage — tucked into her earmuffs and her tiniest McLaren hoodie, perched in her playpen while Amelia ran final aero checks on a new floor configuration. Lando had stopped by between simulator sessions and was now crouched beside Ada, offering her a padded torque wrench like it was a teddy bear.

Amelia looked up from her laptop, distracted by a little squeal.

Ada had pressed both palms against the concrete floor. And a smudge of oil had made its way across her hand.

She looked at it, then at Lando, wide-eyed.

Then she scrunched up her nose, a perfect mirror of her mother’s expression, and said, clearly and without hesitation, “Yucky.”

Lando blinked. Froze. Then looked up at Amelia, stunned.

“Did you—? Did she just—?”

Amelia’s heart felt like it missed a step. Her head jerked up so fast she hit the underside of the wing she’d been crouched under.

“Ow—shit—”

Lando was already lifting Ada out of the playpen, laughing in disbelief, oil smudge and all.

“Say it again,” he coaxed gently. “Yucky? Yucky, bug?”

Ada just beamed at him and smacked his cheek with her dirty little hand, leaving a streak behind. “Yucky,” she declared again, giggling like she knew exactly what she’d done.

Amelia didn’t know whether to cry or pass out.

She walked over in a daze, eyes locked on her daughter. “She said it. She actually said—”

“Yeah,” Lando said, grinning. “You heard it too, right? I’m not making this up?”

“No,” Amelia said, soft and stunned. “I heard it.”

Then she reached for Ada without hesitation. Let her daughter press her messy little face into her neck and pat her collarbone with smudged fingers.

Yucky.

It wasn’t what she expected.

But it was perfect. 

—

2027

Grid kid.

Ada Norris was a grid kid.

Not the official kind, with a lanyard and uniform and carefully timed steps. She wasn’t old enough for any of that. She wasn’t even tall enough to reach the front wing of her father’s car without climbing onto someone’s knee.

But she was there — always. Like a mascot, a comet, a little bit of joy wrapped in neon.

At three years old, Ada had developed a sense of style entirely her own. This week, it was neon pink. Head to toe. From the glittery bucket hat she refused to remove, to her sparkly tulle tutu layered over orange papaya leggings, to the pink Crocs decorated with star-shaped charms.

She stuck out like a sore thumb against the rest of the paddock; all matte branding and fireproof greys. But nobody dared to comment.

She was Ada.

Everyone knew Ada.

She’d grown up within the walls of paddocks. Learned to walk behind the McLaren hospitality motorhome in Hungary. Her first solid food had been a biscuit stolen off Oscar’s pre-race snack plate. Her mini paddock-pass gave her access to every team’s motorhome, just in case she got lost and needed a soft place to land.

By now, she knew the names of every mechanic, every engineer, and every race director on the rotating FIA schedule. She greeted them all by name. Correctly. And she remembered who liked what kind of sweets.

The media barely saw her. That was a conscious boundary. Amelia — razor-sharp, unbothered by PR expectations — had drawn the line early and made it immovable. No up-close photos of Ada’s face. No intrusive questions. If Ada wanted to be public someday, that would be her choice — not something sold for a headline before she could spell her name.

But within the paddock itself, Ada was a fixture. A streak of colour and mischief. Fiercely protected. Fiercely loved.

And she had routines. Rituals, really.

One of them involved storming onto the grid like she owned it (Amelia walked slowly behind), pushing past engineers and camera rigs, and beelining toward two very important people.

The first: her uncle.

“Ducky!”

Oscar turned the moment he heard her voice, already crouching down with open arms. He was in his race suit, grinning like he hadn’t just been pacing with nerves ten seconds earlier.

“Oi,” he said, “that’s not my name, trouble.”

“But it’s what Mummy calls you!” Ada argued, already climbing into his lap like a koala. “I remember!”

“She’s got you there, mate,” Lando called from a few feet away, amusement curling through his voice.

Oscar rolled his eyes but leaned forward for his good luck kiss. Ada planted a dramatic one on his cheek, complete with a mwah sound effect, then hopped off and marched across the grid to Lando.

Her daddy.

He crouched before she even reached him. She barrelled into his arms with the enthusiasm of a girl who had never once doubted she would be caught.

“You ready, Ada Bug?” he asked as he scooped her up.

“Ready!” she chirped.

“Gonna give me a boost?”

She nodded solemnly, then leaned forward to kiss him right on the tip of the nose — her signature move. Soft, sticky-lipped from the fruit pouch she'd insisted on finishing on the way in. Then she whispered, very seriously, “Be fast. And be smart. Love you, Daddy.”

Amelia, standing just behind them, caught Lando’s expression shift; just a fraction. A sudden, raw quiet behind his eyes. He pulled Ada closer, briefly, wordlessly. Pressed his nose into her hair.

Then, carefully, he passed her back to Amelia.

Amelia took her easily — muscle memory now — resting Ada against her hip like a second heartbeat. She adjusted the strap of her crossbody bag with her free hand and took a long sip of her iced coffee.

“Drive fast,” she said evenly, meeting Lando’s eyes.

He smirked faintly, already turning back toward his car.

“Be safe,” she added.

He nodded once, familiar rhythm.

And then, casually, almost too casually, she added, “I’m pregnant.”

He froze. One step from the car. “What?”

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, softer this time. No smile, no build-up — just fact, like announcing the weather.

They hadn’t expected it. Not exactly. They’d been trying for a few months, hopeful but guarded. Amelia had been tracking everything — methodical as ever — but refusing to let herself get too wrapped up in the outcomes. Lando had taken a more gentle approach. Faith over control. He’d just kept telling her, It’ll happen when it happens. We’re already a family.

And now it was happening.

For a heartbeat, Lando didn’t move.

Then he turned fully — slow, like gravity had stopped working — and blinked at her.

Ada, oblivious, was babbling about how she wanted to wave the checkered flag today and if Max’s cats could come to the garage next time.

But Lando only stared at Amelia.

“Oh,” he breathed, voice cracking wide open. “Holy shit.”

Amelia’s mouth tilted upward. Barely.

He was already in his race suit, just minutes from lights out, about to hurtle into one of the most competitive qualifying sessions of the season — but suddenly, he looked younger. Dazed. Entirely undone.

His hands hovered in the air like he wanted to reach for her — didn’t know where to begin.

And Amelia, ever precise, ever composed, leaned in and kissed him. Quick. Solid. Grounding.

“We’ll be fine,” she murmured against his lips. “We always are.”

“Another baby?” he whispered, reverent.

She nodded.

Lando let out a breath. One hand came up to his chest like he needed to physically hold it all in — the awe, the fear, the quiet wonder of it.

Then his comm crackled: “Two minutes to final call.”

He blinked. Straightened. Looked at his wife. Then at his daughter. Then back again.

“Okay,” he said, drawing in one last steadying breath. “Right. Fast. Clever. Safe.”

“Love you,” Amelia told him.

“Love you,” he echoed, already stepping toward Will, adrenaline and awe carrying him forward.

Ada tugged gently on Amelia’s shirt.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“Can I go and tell Maxie you’re gonna have a baby?” she asked, eyes wide and serious.

Amelia bit back a laugh and turned them toward the edge of the grid. Her mum was already waiting near Lando’s garage to take over babysitting duty.

“Not yet. Your daddy drives better with adrenaline,” she said, adjusting Ada’s ponytail with one hand, “but your Uncle Maxie gets distracted. We’ll tell Maxie another time, okay?”

“When?” Ada asked, frowning a little.

“I think… we’ll tell him next week. At the wedding.”

Ada’s face lit up. “I can’t wait to wear my pretty dress, Mummy!”

Amelia kissed her forehead, pulling her a little closer as they weaved between team personnel.

“I know, baby,” she said softly. “You’re going to look beautiful.”

—

202X 

He did it.

The air was electric. No — it was charged, like the world itself had paused mid-spin to catch its breath.

Lando stood on the top step of the podium, champagne in one hand, heart in his throat. There were tears in his eyes — real ones, wild and stinging, completely unfiltered. His face was flushed, soaked from the spray, but his grin was a thing of pure, stunned wonder.

He’d done it.

World Champion.

A cheer rolled across the circuit like thunder. The fireworks lit up the sky behind him in great booming waves, streaks of orange and silver and gold — and below, just past the glittering wall of photographers, she was there.

Amelia.

The crowd blurred. The moment blurred. But she didn’t.

She stood at the base of the podium steps, her hair tousled from wind and chaos, arms crossed tightly across her chest like if she didn’t hold herself together she might simply combust. Her eyes were glassy. Her face unreadable — until it wasn’t.

Until he stepped down and reached for her.

Until she moved without hesitation.

He caught her with the kind of ease that didn’t need choreography — years of knowing her weight, her stillness, her everything. His arms wrapped around her middle, and before she could say a word, he spun her. Under the lights. Under the fireworks. Under the full, beating heart of a decade in the making.

Her laugh cracked open the noise. Her legs curled up instinctively. Her hands dug into the back of his fire suit.

She said his name, just once. No title. No superlatives. No team radio.

Just him.

Lando.

He set her down slowly, like she was fragile, like the moment might shatter if he moved too fast — but she leaned forward and kissed him, hard, on the corner of his mouth, where the champagne had pooled and the smile wouldn’t quite leave.

The world spun again.

And somewhere, behind it all, Ada was being passed from Oscar to George to Max to Amelia’s mother, hands raised above the crowd as she screamed, “Daddy, daddy, daddy!”

@/f1

Lando Norris is the 202X Formula One World Champion.

What a season. What a finish. What a moment. 🧡👑 #WDC #LandoNorris #F1

@/mclaren

No words. Just joy.

Congratulations, Lando. You’ve earned every second of this.

And yes — that podium was everything. No, we’re not crying, you’re crying. 🧡🧡🧡

@/formulawivesclub

There is NOTHING more powerful than a man who wins the WDC and immediately spins his wife under literal fireworks. Iconic. Romantic. Cinematic. I am unwell. 😭😭😭

#WifeOfTheChampion #AmeliaNorris #PowerCouple

@/uncleducky44

the most magical WDC celebration this sport has seen in decades. maybe forever. PAPAYA ON TOP

@/maxverstappen1

*photo of Ada asleep on his shoulder post-podium, wearing her dad’s cap*

she said she had to stay up to see the champion. i think she made it to the fireworks. ❤️

— 

202X

Final lap.

The sun was setting in streaks of copper and violet. Floodlights cast the track in electric brilliance, shadows long and sharp. And the world was holding its breath.

Oscar Piastri led by six seconds.

Not enough to coast. Not when Lando was behind him.

Not when the championship hung in the balance — years of sweat and heartbreak and razor-wire precision culminating in this.

From the pit wall, Amelia’s voice came through steady and clear.

“Final sector. No traffic. You’re clear. Bring it home, Ducky.”

No theatrics. No screaming. Just her voice, the one constant he’d had for the entirety of his F1 career. Focused. Fierce. Full of something rare and warm and undiluted: belief.

“Copy,” Oscar said, breath hitching.

And then, in the most un-Oscar voice imaginable — thick with feeling, stripped raw, “…I don’t think I’m breathing.”

She laughed. A beautiful, cracked little sound. The comms team didn’t mute it. No one could. “Please breathe.”

He crossed the line a moment later. P1.

The fireworks hit the sky immediately; red and gold and brilliant. The pitman and garages erupted. McLaren, orange-clad and screaming, split open with euphoria.

And then Amelia’s voice again; louder this time, breaking apart at the edges: “Oscar Piastri. You are a Formula One World Champion.”

Silence.

Oscar didn’t reply. He just let out one long, disbelieving breath, and you could hear the hitched sound of someone trying not to cry and failing anyway. “We did it, Amelia.”

“You did it,” she corrected.

“No,” he said, firm now. Fierce. “We did. All of it. Every lap. You’re the best engineer and best friend I could’ve ever wished for. God, I love you so much.”

The audio went everywhere. Uploaded by the team, by fans, by rival engineers who had no choice but to respect it.

Two minutes of radio. Intimate. Impossible.

It was the most-streamed F1 clip of the year.

Because there he was — Oscar, still barely in his mid-twenties, helmet resting on the halo of his car, chest heaving as the gravity of it sank in.

And there she was; Amelia, halfway to the pit barrier, shoving her headset at a stunned junior engineer, sprinting.

He met her halfway. 

She didn’t usually hug. But she did then. Tight and wordless. Face buried in his chest. Years of partnership and pride wrapped into that single, silent second.

And when they pulled apart, he knocked his forehead against hers, grinning like a boy again. “Told you I’d win it.”

“I never doubted you.”

—

The footage of the podium showed Amelia next to the team, arms crossed, blinking hard. Oscar had to compose himself twice during the anthem. And when he raised the trophy, he pointed straight at her.

No words.

Just… pride. 

—

2028 

It started with coffee.

Not just any coffee — her coffee. The specific roast she loved from that tiny roastery near Lake Como. Brewed in silence while she slept in. No baby monitor, no toddler noise, no midnight feeding schedules. Just the steady hush of morning, and Lando moving through the kitchen like a man on a mission.

Amelia stirred around 9:00 a.m. — a luxury in itself.

There was a note on the pillow next to her.

Happy anniversary, baby. Today is yours. We’re doing it your way. Uncle Ducky has both of our babies today. Yes, willingly. Yes, I’m sure. No, you don’t need to check in on them.

Come downstairs when you’re ready. I’ve got step one waiting for you.

Love you forever,

— Lando

She blinked. Then smiled. Then got up without rushing — another gift.

When she padded downstairs, wrapped in one of his old t-shirts, she found him barefoot in the kitchen with a table set for two, sunlight spilling through the open balcony doors.

"Happy anniversary," he said softly, crossing to her with a hand on her cheek and a kiss that lingered. "Sit. Eat."

There were croissants from her favourite bakery in town. Raspberries and whipped butter. Her coffee, perfect. And Lando — already looking at her like the day was made.

“The kids?” She asked eventually, narrowing her eyes.

“Totally fine. They always are with Oscar. He made me promise not to call unless someone was bleeding. He said that you deserve a proper day off.”

“I don’t need a day off from my children,” she muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “But it’ll be nice to be able to kiss you without tripping over one of them.” 

“Exactly,” Lando said.

Breakfast faded into a walk — hand-in-hand along the coast, slow and sun-warmed. No schedule. No pushing. Just the faint hush of waves licking the edges of Monaco and the occasional squeeze of Lando’s fingers in hers.

They didn't talk much, and that was deliberate.

Afterward, instead of a spa or anything tactile, he drove her twenty minutes out to their favourite low-key golf course — a hidden gem tucked against the edge of a hill, quiet in the off-season.

It had started a few years ago, this habit of hers. Her golf-ball collection was ever-growing, each one labeled and tucked into a little wooden tray above the fireplace. A more serious, tactile comfort that had slowly morphed into a silly, sentimental thing. 

Lando had never once questioned the golf ball. Not in the beginning, not in the middle. 

He just brought her to find the next one.

They played nine holes. She beat him on five.

He whined. She smirked. It was perfect.

She picked out a new ball from the pro shop (green) and tucked it into her coat pocket. 

“You’ll label that one later?” Lando asked, swinging her hand between them as they walked back to the car.

“Yeah,” she replied. “It's Ada’s favourite colour.” 

“This week.” He said. 

She smiled fondly. “Yeah. This week.” 

—

Lunch came after.

A rooftop place they both loved but hadn’t been to since before Ada was born. White tablecloths, soda on ice. Her favourite risotto, his ridiculous stack of truffle fries, two hours of soft conversation without a single interruption from a baby monitor or a toddler needing to pee.

No baby wipes in her bag. No cutting food into tiny, manageable pieces.

Just them.

—

The sun was setting when they got back to their place.

Amelia kicked off her shoes by the door and reached for her hair tie. Lando caught her hand before she could disappear upstairs.

“One more thing,” he said, almost shy. “Come with me.”

They climbed to the top-floor balcony; her favourite spot in the house. There, waiting: a blanket. Two glasses of wine. A bowl of green olives (Amelia’s vice). And a tiny projector already humming against the far wall.

She raised an eyebrow.

Lando pressed play.

Clips started to roll. Grainy little moments he’d stitched together over months — Ada’s first steps down the hallway at the MTC, the hospital selfie when Amelia had delivered their second baby (Lando’s eyes red from crying, Amelia’s thumb still smudged with blood), lazy footage of her asleep on the couch with both kids curled up on her chest.

Her laugh in the background of a hundred quiet seconds. The clink of teacups. The sound of a little voice calling, “Mummy, look!”

Then his voice — low, warm, recorded late at night from the quiet corner of their bed, “I’m so in love with this life.” 

Amelia said nothing. She was biting her lip a little too hard.

Lando didn’t push. He just shifted behind her on the blanket, pulling her gently between his legs and wrapping his arms around her waist — not too tight, just enough to say I’m here.

“You always make things perfect for everyone else,” he said into her shoulder. “So I wanted to make one perfect day for you.”

She swallowed once. Then leaned her weight back into him, just a fraction — a silent thank-you.

The sun dipped lower.

The stars began to nudge through.

And finally, softly, “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Impossible, I think.” She admitted, truthfully. 

Lando smiled into her hair and didn’t let go.

—

Later that night, Oscar sent a photo of Ada fast asleep on a pile of couch cushions in the middle of his flat, a cereal box half-open in the background.

Amelia texted back a blurry photo of her and Lando curled up on the balcony under a blanket, the projector still casting shadows across the wall.

Perfect day complete.

—

2030

The meltdown crept in slowly.

It always did.

Amelia had been trying to hold it back for hours — maybe days, if she was honest. The world had gotten too loud again. Too bright. Too many textures and demands and interruptions.

The fridge was humming wrong. Ada had spilled orange juice and then cried when her leggings got wet. The baby had been colicky all night. Lando was out doing media. Someone had moved the coffee mugs and none of them were in the right order.

She was standing in the kitchen, clutching the edge of the countertop so hard her knuckles were white, when it all finally crashed down on her. 

Her chest seized. Her eyes blurred. The sound in her ears turned to static.

Everything felt wrong. Too much. All at once.

And she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

She slid to the floor, knees curling up, hands covering her ears. Her breathing shortened. She rocked back and forth. Tears leaked out — not from sadness, but from pure sensory overload.

Across the room, Ada, six years old, in a T-shirt covered in glitter paint and crumbs, froze where she stood.

For one long moment, she just watched.

Not afraid.

Just... thinking.

Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and sprinted down the hallway.

She found her daddy in the bedroom, changing the baby’s nappy. He’d only come home a few minutes ago. Her little hand tugged at the hem of his shirt urgently.

“Daddy,” she whispered, breathless. “Mummy needs you.”

Lando paused. His head whipped up instantly. “What’s wrong, little-pea?”

“She’s on the floor. She’s crying with her hands on her ears. She’s not talking.”

Lando’s jaw jumped, but he kept his cool and handed Ada her baby brother. “Stay here, okay? You hold him and don’t move. I’ll go help Mummy.”

—

Amelia was still in the same spot, crumpled in front of the dishwasher, the noise of the appliance now too sharp, like claws dragging through her skull.

Lando knelt slowly beside her. Not touching. Not speaking yet. Just breathing in sync.

A beat passed.

Then two.

“I’m here,” he said quietly.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“I knew the dishwasher was making a weird noise,” he added gently, knowing exactly what she was hearing. “I’ll call someone to fix it tomorrow.”

Her shoulders twitched.

Still too much.

He sat down properly beside her, close but not touching, and began counting out loud.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five…”

The rhythm gave her something to hold on to.

He kept going. Soft. Steady.

“…twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

When he finally reached forty, her hands lowered. Just a little. Her breathing slowed.

Lando waited.

And when her eyes finally fluttered open — puffy, red-rimmed, exhausted — he reached out with one hand, offering it but not insisting.

She took it.

No words, just pressure — fingers threading through his, grounding herself.

“I hate this,” she rasped, barely audible. “I was fine. I should’ve been—”

“Nope,” he said. “No rules. No shoulds. You just were. And now you’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Amelia blinked. Let out a breath that stuttered on the way out.

From the doorway, a soft voice, “Mummy?”

They both turned. Ada was peeking in, barefoot and clutching the baby monitor against her chest.

“I put the baby in his chair,” she said proudly. “And I put my light-up shoes away so they won’t hurt your eyes.”

Lando smiled faintly. Amelia just blinked again, overwhelmed by the careful compassion of a six-year-old.

Ada padded over, crouched carefully beside her mum, and offered a tiny, glittery toy dinosaur — the kind she usually kept in her backpack for comfort.

“You can hold this if it helps,” she said seriously. “Sometimes it helps me.”

Amelia took it with shaking fingers.

Then, finally, finally, she opened her arms.

Ada climbed into her lap.

And Lando wrapped them both up in his arms, squeezing tight. 

—

Later that night, when things were quiet again and the world had shrunk back to something manageable, Amelia whispered into the crook of Lando’s neck, “She went and got you. She knew.”

Lando kissed her hair. “She always knows,” he said. “She’s yours.”

Amelia smiled, small and raw. “No. She’s ours.”

— 

2033

They were sitting under the shade of an umbrella, barefoot and sun-drowsy, watching their children build increasingly complicated sandcastles twenty feet away. Ada had her arms bossily crossed, giving instructions like a forewoman. Her little brother — all curls and slightly sunburnt cheeks despite the copious layers of SPF50 — was digging trenches with his hands. 

Lando passed Amelia a cold can of peach iced tea.

She took it, absently, eyes on their kids.

Lando leaned back on his elbows, sighing. “Is it Thursday or Friday?”

Amelia didn’t answer immediately. Her sunglasses were halfway down her nose. Her hair was damp at the ends from her swim. “Friday,” she murmured. “Pretty sure.”

He nodded, squinting toward the sun. “Days have been blurring. If it’s Friday, it’s already the twelfth.”

He was right. The days had all started to melt together. Long mornings. Naps tangled in hotel sheets. Late dinners with sticky fingers and endless laughter.

Amelia sat up a little. Not sharply — but enough to catch her husbands attention. “Oh,” she said, very quietly.

Lando stared at her. “What, baby?”

She furrowed her brow. Like she was doing mental arithmetic. Calendar math. Gut instinct. “I’m… late.”

He blinked.

“…Like, how late?”

“Four days?” She said it more like a question. “Maybe five. I didn’t notice. With travel and the kids and— I don’t know.”

Lando sat up straighter, heartbeat suddenly louder in his ears.

They looked at each other.

Neither of them moved.

Down by the water, Ada shrieked with delight. “Mummy! We made a castle for the sea princess!”

Amelia waved back, mechanically, then turned back to Lando. “I didn’t bring a test.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Should we go find a pharmacy?”

She hesitated. Then shook her head. “No. Not yet.” She reached for his hand, threading her fingers between his, palm warm. “Let’s just sit. Just for a minute. I want to stay here a little longer, before everything changes again.”

His grip tightened on hers. “Is that okay?”

Amelia nodded. “I’m happy. Just… surprised.”

Lando exhaled, gaze flicking back to their children. Ada was crowning her sandcastle with a plastic fork she’d found. Their son was diligently filling a bucket with sea foam.

“I think we’re gonna be outnumbered,” he said softly.

“I think we already are,” Amelia murmured, smiling faintly. “But that’s exactly what we wanted, isn’t it? Three of them. A couple of years apart. It’s perfect.” 

And they sat there. Under the umbrella, hand in hand, watching the beginning of their forever shift again.

The ocean kept talking, its waves crashing against the rocks at the other end of the beach.

So did Ada — ever the chatter-box. 

Amelia smiled. “Three is a good number.” 

“Three of them. Two of us. Five total.” He murmured. “We’re missing four.” 

“No we’re not.” She whispered. “You’re right here.” 

He blinked, then he leaned in and kissed her. 

—

2034

Ada slammed the front door shut with the theatrical force only a ten-year-old could manage.

“Mummy!” She yelled before she was even properly out of her shoes. “Mummy, I have to tell you something very important!”

Amelia looked up from the kitchen table, where she was re-assembling a snapped pencil sharpener and ignoring the half-eaten apple Ada had left on the kitchen bench to rot that morning.

“In here,” she called calmly.

Ada thundered in, socks half-falling off, her backpack barely zipped. Her cheeks were pink. Her plaits were lopsided.

“I’m in love,” she declared.

Amelia blinked once. “You’re what?”

Ada flopped dramatically into the chair opposite her. “I’m in love, Mummy. With a boy in my class. His name is Ethan and he wears Spider-Man socks and he let me use his sparkly blue gel pen for colouring even though he really likes it. He said I was clever.”

Amelia stared at her daughter for a long beat.

Then, she said plainly, “You’re ten.”

Ada sighed. “Yes, mummy. I know that.”

There was a pause.

From the hallway, the sound of keys jingling, the front door opening again.

Lando’s voice: “Where are my girls?”

“In the kitchen!” Ada called sweetly. And then, switching gears with dizzying emotional agility, she leaned in and whispered to her mum: “Don’t tell Daddy. He’ll make it weird.”

Amelia frowned. “I don’t lie to your dad. You know that.” 

Ada just sighed because yeah, she did know that.

Lando appeared in the doorway a moment later, freshly back from sim training. “Why do I feel like I just walked in on a crime?”

Ada beamed. “No crime! Just secrets!”

“Oh, cool, that’s comforting,” he deadpanned, kissing the top of her head. Then he gave Amelia a suspicious side-eye. “What’s happening?”

“Well,” Amelia said, “your daughter thinks that she’s in love.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “I leave her at that school for six hours—”

“Daddy!” Ada groaned, flinging her arms dramatically over her face.

“—and now she’s in love?” He leaned over her chair, mock-serious. “Who is he? What does he do? What are his qualifications?”

“He’s ten!” Ada squeaked.

“That’s not a qualification,” Lando said, faux-grave.

Amelia was biting back a smile now, watching them.

“Daddy,” Ada said solemnly, peeking at him through her fingers, “his name is Ethan, and he gave me the good gel pen. The sparkly one. That’s basically marriage.”

Lando clutched his heart. “God help me. Wait until I tell Max about this.”

“I knew you’d make it weird,” Ada whined.

“I am weird, Bug,” he replied, scooping her up despite her protests. “That’s your legacy.”

He spun her around like she weighed nothing. 

Amelia smiled as she watched them. 

But when Ada caught her eyes mid-giggle, cheeks flushed, safe and loved and full of her first little crush, Amelia just smiled at her.

And Ada smiled right back.

—

Nine Years Later

She doesn’t marry Ethan.

Of course she doesn’t.

He moves to Devon at the end of Year 6, and she forgets the way his name made her stomach flutter by the time she’s twelve.

The next crush is taller. The next one after that plays guitar.

None of them stick. None of them feel right.

But she never says anything. Because… she’s Ada Norris.

And Ada Norris grew up being known. Watched. Treasured.

She keeps the sacred things close to her chest.

Until one day, fourteen years after her dramatic kitchen confession, she finds herself in the back of the paddock in Monaco, barefoot and suntanned, her hair in a braid, with a camera slung over her shoulder and dust on her jeans.

She’s nineteen.

She’s laughing.

And in front of her, sitting on a pile of stacked tyres, grazed knees tucked up under his arms and ice cream dripping down his wrist, is him.

Ayrton Verstappen.

One year younger than her.

A lifetime of familiarity.

She’s known him since before either of them could talk properly.

They played tag between hospitality units. Swapped Pokémon cards in Red Bull’s simulator room.

He once peed in her toy car. She once cut his hair with nail scissors because she thought it would make him less ugly. 

She never thought about marrying him.

Not seriously.

Not until she did.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

It’s the way he listens. The way he gets it — the legacy, the pressure, the strange ache of being a paddock kid with a famous surname and the expectation to become someone.

It’s the way he defends her when people assume too much.

It’s the way he doesn’t flinch when she stim-rambles or tells him she needs exactly ten minutes of silence.

It’s the way he waits — patient, steady, eyes bluer than any sky she’s ever seen.

She’s Ada Norris.

And someday soon, someday when the dust settles, and the stars line up just right, she’ll be Ada Verstappen.

And damn… it does have a nice ring to it.

—

2035

Amelia sat in the doorway of Sienna’s nursery, back pressed to the frame, coffee cooling in her hands. The house was quiet — unusually so. Ezra was napping. Ada was at school. Lando had taken a rare moment to go for a run.

And Sienna… Sienna was asleep. Peacefully. A soft halo of curls pressed into her muslin blanket, one fist curled beneath her chin like she’d already begun dreaming of something secret and important.

Amelia watched her, and breathed.

Three children.

Ada, her first, her fiercest, had taught her what love felt like when it broke you open.

Ezra had come quieter. A gentle soul with his father’s smile and a knack for slipping into people’s arms like he’d always belonged there.

And now… Sienna.

Her last. Her littlest.

Her loudest silence.

Almost entirely deaf. Diagnosed at three weeks old.

Amelia hadn’t cried — not then. Not when the results came in. Not even when the specialists had spoken gently about cochlear implants and early language support and accessibility.

She’d just… stilled. Absorbed. Pivoted.

It wasn’t grief.

Not exactly.

It was adjustment. Recalibration. Learning a new language — not just in signs, but in patience. In pace. In how to prepare for a life she didn’t know how to predict.

Sienna would be fine.

Better than fine. She had her father’s stubbornness and her mother’s ability to see patterns in chaos. 

She had a sister who’d already started practicing fingerspelling at the dinner table, and a brother who kissed her ear every time she blinked up at him. She had grandparents, uncles, a paddock full of honorary aunties and mechanics and engineers ready to build her whatever she needed.

She had love. The whole, complex, unshakable kind.

Still, this baby, this challenge, this gift, it had made Amelia stretch in ways she hadn’t before.

And there, on the floor, in the hush of a warm afternoon, she finally let herself feel it all. The fear. The wonder. The sheer magnitude of how much she loved these children — all three of them. So differently. So fully. So irreversibly.

Sienna shifted in her sleep.

Amelia didn’t move.

Just smiled. Tired. Whole.

“Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “We’ll figure it out together.”

And they would.

They always did.

—

2038

The garden behind their Monaco home wasn’t large, but it was theirs.

The sea glittered just beyond the hedges, and the sunlight slanted golden through the lemon trees. There were chairs set out in uneven rows, a makeshift arch wrapped in white linen and fresh lavender. No press. No guest list politics. Just the people who mattered — their parents, their siblings, a few of their closest friends, and the three children who had rewritten their lives in the best possible ways.

Ada was fourteen and refused to wear anything but the pink dress she’d picked herself. Ezra, five, clung to Oscar’s leg until Lando knelt and whispered something that made him laugh. And Sienna — three and a half, curls pinned back with daisy clips, cochlear implant nestled behind one ear — was already signing “cake” to anyone who made eye contact.

Amelia stood barefoot in the grass, holding her bouquet with one hand and Sienna’s palm with the other.

Her dress wasn’t new. She’d pulled it from the back of the closet — the pale ivory one she’d worn to a gala years ago, the one Lando had stared at like he’d forgotten how to speak. Soft and silky against her skin, it still felt like him.

Lando met her halfway up the path, smiling like he always had.

“Hi,” he said, taking Sienna’s hand too. “You look beautiful.”

“You look sunburnt,” Amelia replied, then softened. “But handsome.”

Beneath the lazy sway of the breeze and the quiet murmur of waves, Lando took both her hands and said, “I’d marry you a thousand times in a thousand different lives. But I’m really glad I got this one. With you. With them. With all of it.”

Amelia, ever spare with her words, just said, “You’re the love of my life, Lando Norris.”

Later, while the kids played under the fairy lights, Max and Pietra poured champagne, and Oscar stole cake straight from the platter, Lando found her standing off to the side, heels dangling from one hand.

He wrapped an arm around her waist. Kissed the top of her head.

“That felt special,” he murmured.

“It did,” she said.

Because it only confirmed what they already knew. 

They had each other. They had their home. 

And their love had only deepened with the quiet weight of time.

The rest — as always — was just radio silence.

[wowzees]

thank you for taking us on this journey- I can confidently say that I have never been as attached to characters as I am to Amelia and Lando. I genuinely cannot express how much I loved this series.

for those who haven’t, I hope you read it at some point it is a beautiful story - one that will live in my heart forever

thank you peach ❤️

[supreme-mango-deactivated202506]

frankie didn’t have a chance to post her goodbye message before she deactivate, so im doing it for her!

she’s been on this app since February 2024, she loved it here. it was her safe space where she could write things and makes friends, and then things went downhill.

not asking people to hate or anything but the environment around her has been built up of death and r*pe threats, incredibly harsh sexist language, wishing death on her unborn child, and worse, more unmentionable things.

she loved it here, she really did, and it’s a shame she’s had to go, but behind the account, there was a girl who could only take so much.

no matter what she did, the threats she got, no one would wish in anyone in real life.

she did enjoy writing, she used to, but it’s become like an unmentionable for her now, something she doesn’t wanna do ever again, and she won’t.

she’s not coming back, there is no possibility, she isn’t going to download this app again.

so, im posting this for her it’s her old tags so you can say your bye and she can see it from the people who did care :)

[ficsbyfrankie-reblogs]

ohmygod frankie!!!!! send her infinite hugs please, oh my godddd that poor girl :(

[wowzees]

nooooo poor girl

we love you Frankie and for the time that I was on here, you made me feel so damn welcome it was nuts

wishing you all the best in your future with you family

I hope your happy now and know you are loved

[mcdolans]

every single person who reblogs this

every

single

person

will get “doot doot" in their ask box

[semememes-blog]

HOW

[lexiwestiiee]

I WANT TO KNOW YOUR SECRET

[takemewherethewildthingsare]

SERIOUSLY THOUGH WHAT ARE YOU

[knifetalk]

hell, lando could be putting that dumb orange car in the wall every damn week and i’d still support the ever loving fuck out of him, a little p7 won’t scare me away 😆

[suffering-asthmatic-tifosi]

TAKE MY UQUIZ (If You Dare hehehehheheh)

In front of me is a box of Crayola Crayons from 2017. I am listening to Noah Khan, get ready for mildly deep stuff :)

[wowzees]

yay! take the quiz if you can!

[sanikercasillas]

saw on reddit that (allegedly) lando's, charles' and carlos' home addresses got leaked. not sure if thats true because i have not pressed the matter further (for obvious reasons), but if it is i am begging you all, if you come across a post with their personal info REPORT IT AND MOVE ON. do not engage further, do not argue with the op do not give it any more visibility!!!!! i don't think i need to spell out why that is batshit insane behavior and you should never seek such info out even out of harmless curiosity.

[wowzees]

sad that this has to be said

[frankie-norris-deactivated20250]

I'll be fr I'm not the nastiest person out there so the only thing I can offer you is:

Very sweaty Lando, we're talking about dripping over you, him spitting in your mouth, doggy + headlock, multiple orgasm over you, like covered in him you know? Idk I Just want him to tell me how good I am for him

— DON’T BLINK !

warnings: smut, 18+, mdni, spitting kink, choking, slapping, degradation, sloppy fuck, praise, crying, dacryphilia, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, oral (fem and male receiving) fingering

driver: lando norris

a/n: I LOVE IT 👅💋🫵 but me wanted a yacht scene so i did standing up but from the back instead of doggy🫦

3K WORDS

Lando’s car pulled into the P1 spot like a goddamn king, the car rolling to a halt with a final, smug purr.

Hie helmet was still on, visor down, but Y/n could feel his eyes on her, she knew it - he always found her first.

She didn’t wait for the helmet to come off, instead, pushing past the engineers, past the chaos of celebrations and basically launched herself over the barrier, like he was only goddamn man left on Earth.

“That was filthy,” she breathed, her arms wrapped tightly round his neck, the muscles of his back stretched taut beneath his race suit.

His helmet came off in one swift motion, curls damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead after what had been a superb victory win, but Lando?

He stared at her like she was the trophy.

“You ruined them, Lando,” she muttered into his hair, her voice quiet, not heard by anyone else as her boyfriend’s lips curled slightly, the hint of a smirk across his face.

Y/n saw how his jaw tightened, his mind racing with ideas of the things he wanted to do to her, the things he was going to do.

And then the words he spoke-

“You’re next,”

-God, she could feel those words right where she wanted to.

The win.

That’s all everyone was talking about - understandably - but Lando didn’t care, not when Y/n was standing on the deck of his yacht in a dress so tight, it looked like it had been sewn together by sin itself.

His jaw ticked.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off of her since she walked into that decking, trying her absolute best to avoid his gaze, to make sure her hips swung as she walked.

Y/n knew what she was doing.

Lando moved across the deck swiftly, the wooden boards creaking ever so quietly as he moved, not a word spoken.

The race had been hours ago, yet he could feel the adrenaline building up higher in his veins.

“You’ve been fucking teasing me,” he finally spoke, his voice rough, low, coarse - a straight contrast to the gentle swaying of the boat.

She said nothing, her hands tightening round the bar, slowly moving up and down the metal rail.

Tease.

Lando could feel his cock twitch in the joggers he had changed into earlier, the bulge growing proudly between his legs.

“Didn’t mean to,” Y/n shrugged, even the movement of her shoulder somehow sparking his lust-filled feelings.

She sounded innocent. Too innocent.

“Liar,”

“Think I didn’t know what a fucking filthy-,” his hand came to her ass, taking a handful of her supple flesh and squeezing, “-girl you are? Had your thighs squeezed together by lap fifteen, didn’t you?”

Y/n opened her mouth - to argue or to beg, she didn’t know - but his lips smashed against hers before she could.

Her sobbing folds were already sticking to the cotton of her underwear, all from some words and watching her boyfriend crush his opposition.

Crazy.

His hands cupped her face, and then slid into her hair, curling the strands round his fingers as he pulled her deeper, not an inch of dominance on her part.

“I won Monaco, Y/n,” Lando sneered, his voice thick with lust, “now I want my prize,”

Y/n barely had any time to react, Lando’s hands quite literally tearing the material clean from her body, the material in a crumpled pile round her ankles.

Lando looked almost insane, his pupils blown wide, eyes dark, lips swollen from the harsh kiss.

The cold air billowed round the pair, a shiver running through Y/n’s body as she stood in her bra and panties - it was humiliating, yet so, so good.

“On your knees,” Lando spat, his voice hoarser than it should be, “on your fucking knees,”

His wrapped round her throat before she could even register it, her windpipe crushed beneath the firm grip of his hand as he pushed her down, his other hand sliding his joggers to his ankles.

To say the least, he wasn’t exactly trying to score points for being gentle.

His tip was an angry red, the salty pre-cum leaking from his tip smeared across her cheek, every ridge and vein evident in hie thick member.

“Suck,”

Lando’s voice snapped her out of her trance-like state, fixated on the weight of length in her palm.

But Y/n had other plans.

“Y/n, fuck…” his voice was almost dreamy.

Instead, she stared right up at him through her lashes as her hand moved slow - torturously slow - palming him gently.

Her hand barely ghosted over him, his dick twitching against her palm as his lip curled into a sneer as she pumped him.

“Don’t,” his hips involuntarily jerked against her hands, desperate for some friction, “don’t fucking- I swear to fuck, Y/n-,”

The girl just laughed, teasing, mocking, belittling.

Y/n’s eyes widened when his hand came firmly to the back of her head, the other on the base of his cock as he yanked her forwards.

His hand dragged through her hair, tightening the strands round his fingers and twisting it, her head locked in place against the side wall of the boat, his dick hard against her cheek.

“Lando-,”

He wasn’t hearing it, slapping his leaking tip against her lips.

“Open,”

Y/n knew better than to argue, her lips parting.

Instantly, she was met with his dick sliding straight into her mouth, no warning, every last inch stretching through her mouth.

“I’m fucking sick of you talking,” he scoffed, “you never shut up,”

His skin was velvet smooth against the roof of her mouth, a harsh contrast to actions as he tipped her head back, angling it so he could push more of him into her throat.

“You’re taking the piss, Y/n,” Lando sneered, pulling her head further back so she could look at him.

“Not so much of a tease are you?” his cock nestled into the warmth of her mouth and throat, his hand giving her head a small shake as she coughed.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, her throat constricting as her salvia coated him, from his shaft to his tip, gagging.

And then he moves.

The sudden act caught Y/n off guard as she shrieked against him, his hips snapping suddenly against her, her nose hitting his abdomen, again, and again, like a perfectly set rhythm.

“Not so bitchy now, huh?” he taunted, head falling back.

His cock dragged against her tongue, her head hitting the railing of the boat as he moved his legs further apart, angling himself deeper.

Y/n’s salvia dribbled down her chin as Lando rocked his hips, the muscles in his thighs tightening with every movement.

Her chest and neck shone with the filthy mixture of his pre-cum and her salvia.

His cock bulged in her throat, thick and strained, moving fast, hips snapping against her face, her lashes pressing to his thighs ever time.

Finally, he pulled out, his dick pulling from her mouth with a wet ‘pop’ as Y/n gasped for breath, her cheeks flushed red, eyes glazed over.

Lando stood above her, his member in his hand as he slowly pumped himself, just watching.

“You’re a fucking joke,”

The girl flinched as she felt his salvia splatter against her cheek, warm and sticky, her hand moving to smear it into her skin.

Just as her fingers met with her face, Lando’s hand returned to her hair, yanking her to her feet in one painful, yet damn hot move.

“Did I fucking-,” he paused to slap her other hand off of his wrist, “did i tell you to do that? Did I?”

Y/n shook her head, her eyes glazing with tears once more - not that she didn’t like it.

God, she loved it.

“So don’t fucking do something without permission,” Lando sneered, “d’you understand?”

She nodded frantically, Lando’s grip loosening in her hair as he leaned down again, his hand squeezing her face between his fingers.

The air was hot, Lando already sweating as his bare chest pressed to hers, his warm breath against her face as he spat into her mouth, the warm salvia landing on her tongue.

She kept her mouth open, not daring to move, as Lando gave her head a mocking little shake.

“Good,” he said, probably the only praise Y/n would get, as he watched her swirl it round her mouth, her tongue lapping around.

“Swallow,”

She swallowed.

“So it is possible to train a bitch like you,” Lando hummed in mock-wonder, his eyes wandering over her face.

“Fucking disgusting,”

Y/n whimpered, the all-too-familiar feeling of tears in her eyes once more, a wave of shame and something else deep in her chest.

“Look at yourself,” a smirk filled his defined features, his lips curling upwards, “covered in your own salvia…you really ain’t no better than a fucking bitch, are you?”

Every bit of humiliation hurt, yet felt so good at the same time, her core burning with ill-disguised need.

The wet patch between her thighs was almost painful, and she swore it was probably dripping down her legs.

And Lando had noticed too, his gaze dropping to her quivering thighs. “Proving my point,” he muttered, pushing her back against the yacht side.

Y/n whimpered as the cold met her warm skin, Lando moving to kneel in front of her.

His fingers hooked under her panties, pulling the material down to her ankles, the cold air immediately hitting her exposed pussy.

“Its this fucking pussy,” he paused to press a warm, open-mouthed kiss to her sweet lips as she gasped, hips twitching, “this dirty, fucking pussy…I’m fuckin’ addicted,”

Lando’s hand was pressed flat on her stomach, his thumb resting on the hood of her cunt, pulling it up slightly, her throbbing clit meeting the cold air as she shivered.

His tongue swirled round his mouth before he pushed between her legs, spitting onto her entrance, pushing his middle and index finger into her hole to keep the liquid in.

“Lando- fuck,” she gasped, her body shuddering as he curled his digits, stretching her hole, “it feels so good…please,”

“Shut up,” he hissed, lips ghosting over her shoulders as his hips slid in and out of her tight hole with well-practised harshness, “I don’t care how good it feels, you better not cum until I tell you too,”

Y/n whimpered, a flood of warmth spinning through her body as she clutched at the railing, holding herself up.

Lando’s other hand came to her face, no warning, sliding his fingers into her mouth, pressing down on her tongue as she coughed.

“Take my fingers so fuckin’ well, shame you’re too much of a slut to behave,”

She said nothing, her mouth falling open in a silent gasp.

The orgasm building up in her stomach was rapidly increasing - fuck - she couldn’t stop it.

The knot tightened, her mind focused solely on his fingers ramming into her pussy, exposed to the cold air, before her stomach unravelled.

“Control yourself, Y/n,” Lando sneered, pulling his fingers from her mouth as her salvia dribbled down her chin, but she couldn’t.

Her thighs spasmed slightly, lines buckling as her orgasm hit like a bullet, her pussy dripping with heat as Lando’s lips curled.

He pulled his fingers from her pussy, covered in her juices, his clean hand pulling her head level with his by her hair.

“What did I tell you?”

Y/n whimpered.

“What did I fucking tell you?”

“D-Don’t cum,”

“And did I fucking stutter?”

Y/n could feel the shame (mixed with horribly disguised lust) in her heart as her cheeks burned.

She gasped as his grip tightened in her hair, giving her head a little shake, batting her hands away from his wrist as he pulled her closer, his warm breath splaying across her cheek.

“Do as you’re fucking told,”

The girl nodded, feverishly, desperately, as Lando hummed, almost in content.

His hand came to her jaw, a harsh contrast to moments before, his thumb trailing across the bone structure, taking in just how beautiful she looked, covered in a mixture of their liquids.

“Taste yourself,” he spoke, tapping her cheek with his index finger as a sign to open, before sliding the two fingers he’d used to finger her into her mouth.

Y/n was quick to act, enveloping his fingers in warm salvia, the taste of her sweet nectar filling her mouth.

“Dirty girl,”

Her cheeks turned a soft shade of pink, eyes licking with his as she bobbed her head, taking him deeper down her throat.

“Suck my fingers better than my fuckin’ cock,”

His hand came to her waist, fingers digging into her hips as she turned her round, her bare stomach against the railing once more, his semi-hard cock against her thighs.

“Not finished with you,” he spoke, taking his cock into his hand, one pump, two pumps, before he slammed into her in one harsh, brutal thrust.

Y/n gasped, and she swore the boat shook when he rammed into her, his cock nestling against her velvet folds.

His dick twitched inside of her, throbbing as he started moving, no time for her to adjust, just quick, harsh slams of his hips.

“Everytime I think you’ve learnt your lesson,” Lando leaned forward, his arm wrapping tight round her, her neck nestled in the crook of his elbow, “you go and act all bratty,”

She could feel her windpipe crushing in the headlock, her airways constricted as her hands came to his arm, trying to loosen his grip.

“It doesn’t suit you,” he ignored her, “being such a fucking pain in the ass…you’d look better behaving,”

Y/n moaned, the sound squeezing out of her mouth as the sound of skin on skin echoed.

“Think about it…fucking anyone could see you, and you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Bet the whole of Monaco can hear you,”

His cock plunged deeper into her pussy, slamming into her sore g-spot, her orgasm building up faster because of the first.

“Maybe I should leave you like this, that way anyone who wanted to use you could have a go with you. You’d fucking like that, wouldn’t you?”

Ouch.

“Lando-,” the girl gasped, her vision going blurry round the edges, but God, it felt amazing.

“Got my cock all wet and I’ve barely fucked you, bunny,” his other hand pulled her hair back, her head tipping back, neck strained as she gasped.

Her back curved, damn perfectly as he gave her cheek a slight slap, stinging against her sore skin,

His tongue swirled round as he gathered his salvia, leaning down and slowly letting it land on her tongue.

“Keep it there,”

Y/n coughed, but the salvia remained where he left it, moving round mouth as he let go of her hair.

Lando moved his legs slightly further apart, angling himself deeper into her, his hips rolling against her ass.

“If you’re gonna act like a little brat,” he sneered, “I’m gonna treat you like one,” his hand came to her ass, squeezing the supple flesh between his fingers before he let go, raising his hand.

Y/n squeaked, flinching as his hand came down on her sore backside with a harsh ‘thwack’ - that was gonna bruise.

Sweat covered the pair of them, his own covering her back as he leaned forwards, the cold metal of his chain against her skin,

Her body ached all over, his cock moving at a bruising pace, her thighs quivering.

“No dont-,” Lando’s hands came to her waist, holding her up as he knees almost gave way, “don’t move, baby. This way, we can watch the sun set,”

Y/n could feel her head go light as he tightened his grip round her neck, forcing her head up to stare at the sky, a flood of orange, purple, pink and crimson.

Her orgasm came more expected this time, her legs quivering as she felt her release again, coming with a muffled shriek, her thighs sore and shaking.

But Lando didn’t stop.

Shit.

Her pussy ached, but in a good way, clenching round him, milking his cock as he groaned, his cheeks, neck and chest flushed pink.

She wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye for weeks without thinking of this moment.

“I wanna see you,” he mumbled, pulling himself out as she gasped, her cunt tightening round nothing.

“Easy, bunny,” Lando rolled his eyes, turning her round so her back pressed to the metal, “wanna see your dirty fucking face when I cum,”

“Lando, p-please, I can’t-,”

“I can’t, I can’t,” he mocked her, putting on a pathetically high pitched voice, “you fucking can and you will. Cum on my dick, Y/n, it’s what you do best,”

The girl’s hair stuck to her face, her face and neck still covered in his cum and her salvia, head tipping back.

“Back here,” he tapped her cheek, pulling her head forward and giving it a shake, “look at me,”

Lando was close too, his thrusts sloppy as Y/n’s stomach tightened for what felt like the hundreth time.

She was sure she’d pass out from this one, his head slamming into her, his tip aching between her soft walls.

One thrust, two thrusts - the pair came in sink, Lando’s seed spilling into her as his cock shuddered, splitting her sweet, sore pussy open.

His dick hung deep inside of her, keeping his cum deep inside of her as they stood there, Lando holding her up.

No words were spoken, Y/n’s chest rising and falling.

The effects of the last hour or so were evident on Y/n’s face, his warm cum trickling down her thighs.

She was covered in him.

“Y’alright?” Lando finally dared to break the silence after the harsh session earlier, his voice softer in comparison to his insults.

Y/n nodded.

“Sure?” he promoted, still holding her up - he was convinced she’d drop like dead weight if he didn’t hold her.

“Sore,”

“Mmmm…sorry,” he whispered, his chin resting on her shoulder, and assortments of bites and love bites across her shoulders and neck.

He stood there for a moment still, before he hooked an arm under her knees, holding her bridal style, inside the yacht.

“We’ll come back for it,” he mumbled as she looked at the clothes on the decking.

The bed in the yacht was comfortable with new sheets, cold and unslept on, as he laid her down on the mattress, naked and pretty.

“I’ll be a second, okay?”

She didn’t move.

Y/n’s eyes watched his body as he moved, his muscles taut and defined - like he was some Greek God.

She’d always valued her boyfriend as man of great…gracefulness.

Was that the word? She didn’t care. She was too tired to care.

Lando returned a few seconds later with a towel dampened with warm water, slowly gliding it over her face, and then her neck, then her chest and then her thighs.

“There,” he mumbled, thrusting it onto the floor as he climbed onto the bed beside her, “all clean, bunny,”

“Sleep, my pretty,” he whispered, brushing her hair from her face, his warm lips pressing the softest of kisses to her forehead, then her temple, then her cheek, her nose, and then her lips.

“Sleep,”

THE END

a/n: do i like this fic? not in the slightest - i kinda hate it, but hell yeah :)

© 2025 all rights reserved — frankie-norris. do not modify, repost, plagiarize, or claim my work as your own without permission.

[wowzees]

holy moly i never thought someone would match my freak then frankie comes out and puts out this ABSOLUTE MASTERPIECE

the writing is seriuosly great

GOOD JOB

[frankie-norris-deactivated20250]

DON’T BLINK

category: smut

driver: lando norris

TEASER - OUT ON 31ST MAY, 15:00 UTC - Please comment to show you’re interested (not as a tag list, I just need to know if it’s worth doing!)

UPDATE: the fic coming out is HEAVY on a lot more degradation than I usually do!

Lando’s car pulled into the P1 spot like a goddamn king, the car rolling to a halt with a final, smug purr.

Hie helmet was still on, visor down, but Y/n could feel his eyes on her, she knew it - he always found her first.

She didn’t wait for the helmet to come off, instead, pushing past the engineers, past the chaos of celebrations and basically launched herself over the barrier, like he was only goddamn man left on Earth.

“That was filthy,” she breathed, her arms wrapped tightly round his neck, the muscles of his back stretched taut beneath his race suit.

His helmet came off in one swift motion, curls damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead after what had been a superb victory win, but Lando?

He stared at her like she was the trophy.

“You ruined them, Lando,” she muttered into his hair, her voice quiet, not heard by anyone else as her boyfriend’s lips curled slightly, the hint of a smirk across his face.

Y/n saw how his jaw tightened, his mind racing with ideas of the things he wanted to do to her, the things he was going to do.

And then the words he spoke-

“You’re next,”

-God, she could feel those words right where she wanted to.

The win.

That’s all everyone was talking about - understandably - but Lando didn’t care, not when Y/n was standing on the deck of his yacht in a dress so tight, it looked like it had been sewn together by sin itself.

His jaw ticked.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off of her since she walked into that decking, trying her absolute best to avoid his gaze, to make sure her hips swung as she walked.

Y/n knew what she was doing.

Lando moved across the deck swiftly, the wooden boards creaking ever so quietly as he moved, not a word spoken.

The race had been hours ago, yet he could feel the adrenaline building up higher in his veins.

“You’ve been fucking teasing me,” he finally spoke, his voice rough, low, coarse - a straight contrast to the gentle swaying of the boat.

She said nothing, her hands tightening round the bar, slowly moving up and down the metal rail.

Tease.

Lando could feel his cock twitch in the joggers he had changed into earlier, the bulge growing proudly between his legs.

“Didn’t mean to,” Y/n shrugged, even the movement of her shoulder somehow sparking his lust-filled feelings.

She sounded innocent. Too innocent.

“Liar,”

“Think I didn’t know what a fucking filthy-,” his hand came to her ass, taking a handful of her supple flesh and squeezing, “-girl you are? Had your thighs squeezed together by lap fifteen, didn’t you?”

Y/n opened her mouth - to argue or to beg, she didn’t know - but his lips smashed against hers before she could.

His hands cupped her face, and then slid into her hair, curling the strands round his fingers as he pulled her deeper, not an inch of dominance on her part.

“I won Monaco, Y/n,” Lando sneered, his voice thick with lust, “now I want my prize,”

[wowzees]

WOAH

IM SO EXCITED

[uglyducklingofthe2000s]

In Your Presence - OP81

@wowzees prompt request #4 - Non-sexual/casual dominance fic

Summary: Oscar has a dominant presence around y/n and there's ways that he maintains it.

Word count: 950

There is no doubt that Oscar oozes with calm control even outside of his relationship. So maybe it's no surprise that he also holds a dominance over his girlfriend in the most casual ways.

"No." Oscar states as y/n appears in her dress and deflates a little. "Wear the blue one. It looks good on you."

Oscar doesn't often flat out say no to her wearing something so when he does, y/n knows not to fight about it and make a fuss. Not only because Oscar would simply say that they just won't bother going if he doesn't approve of her outfit.

For some people it's too controlling but Oscar only speaks up in disapproval when he really doesn't want her going out in that outfit.

"Ok." Y/n smiles though Oscar gives her a pull over for a kiss.

"This dress is for an at home date night, ok?"

"Mhm." Y/n hums knowing Oscar isn't all that fond of non-verbal responses.

But she does as he tells her and that's enough for him to be content with the matter.

-

Y/n frowns a little as she listens to someone talk at the table, an investor who is not particularly of a nice nature and seems to speak quite negatively of women in general. He's also eyeing y/n with a continuous flicker over to her as he looks at her.

Oscar's hand has been resting on her thigh out of habit anyway, a means of comfort for her and his relaxed body language would almost be easy to mistake that he's not staring daggers at the man in question. A silent warning to the man before he leans forward taking hold of the bottle of water pouring some into her glass for her. But he can feel y/n has relaxed under his touch tightening slightly as a reminder of.

He uses his free hand to gently put up the glass and hand it to y/n encouraging her to drink since she's not been focused on her food or drink throughout the meal.

Finally the man seems to redirect his attention elsewhere and y/n looks at Oscar gives her thigh another squeeze as a means of reassurance.

He'll protect her and take care of her by any means even if it means pissing off or insulting an investor. He's too good a driver for them to threaten his contract. Other investors would protest it and so would the team. Which is what makes him realise he doesn't have to sit here and make y/n

"Excuse us." Oscar smiles moving his hand up to y/n's back before he stands then holds his hand out for her to take making her move, sending a polite smile around the table as she stands, sliding her hand into Oscar's and walking only for him to stop grabbing her bag and making sure they have all her stuff before walking to the exit.

"Where are we going?" Y/n asks in a whisper making Oscar look at her.

"Home, baby."

-

Getting away for a trip that isn't work related is all that rare because Oscar knows his girlfriend like a cheeky weekend away from everyone.

However, he prefers a limit to the cheekiness in public. So when he steps out, having slept in a little longer while y/n left for the beach, unbeknownst to him. He's not surprise to find her sunbathing topless with bikini bottoms that are hardly hiding much.

She's lying on her stomach reading a book leaning up on her elbows, eyes hidden under sunglasses and she doesn't even flick her gaze away when he appears walking towards her.

He throws a towel over her ass and picks up her abandoned bikini top from her bag. He climbs over her, kneeling as he loops the strings over her head and begins to tie it around the back of her neck.

"Baby, tan lines." Y/n groans but she shifts allowing Oscar to pull the bikini into place and tie it around on her back before he leans down and kisses her neck.

"It's a good way to know how much you've tanned." Oscar states as he stands up and moves over to the other sun bed and lays down while y/n looks over pulling her sunglasses down.

"You're topless...feels a bit sexist."

"Sadly for you I wasn't born with boobs that other men would dream about."

"No, but women will drool over you." Y/n states bookmarking her page and moving to straddle him, sighing when he places another towel around her waist and over her thighs. "How many towels you go?"

"Enough to keep you covered." Oscar smirks while y/n sighs a little. "You look beautiful."

"Yeah, you would say that." Y/n before she sighs softly drawing some shapes on his exposed skin.

"Next time wake me up."

"Ok." Y/n mumbles since she knew that was coming. Oscar doesn't really like her being without him especially when they're travelling just the two of them.

"Have you eaten?"

"Not yet, I was waiting for you."

"Lie down and read, I'll grab us something. Stay put."

Y/n smiles as he lifts her up and places her back on his bed, putting her back on her seat and kissing her before placing the towel over her ass again.

"Leave that there."

"Yes, sir." Y/n smiles knowing those two words are only said as a means to provoke him and they work since he pauses and sucks in a breath, shooting her a learn of warning to behave before he continues walking making sure he has his phone on hand.