norrisradio

[norrisradio]

but i'll do it for you ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

oscar has a soft spot for you. (or: the one where oscar does karaoke for the first time.)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 0.8k. ꔮ includes: fluff, romance. profanity. title from keshi's soft spot. ꔮ commentary box: wrote this in one sitting after i saw this sportbible video. obsessed with the prospect of a mini-series on drivers' soft spots, but that's for me to figure out later on lmao. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“You’ve got no idea what you’ve done, have you?” 

You’re usually much more adept at seeing through Lando’s bullshit. Today, though, you’re thrown off by the suddenness of his accusation. You shoot Lando a look of mild exasperation, and he responds by jerking his head in the direction of his co-driver. 

“He’s never done that before,” says Lando. 

“Done what?” 

“Karaoke.” 

Your eyes flit over to Oscar, who’s in the middle of re-filling his water bottle. A disbelieving laugh escapes you. “You’re kidding,” you say to Lando. “Who the hell lives this long without doing karaoke?” 

“Oscar fuckin’ Piastri, it seems.” Lando sips from the drink, his lips curling around the mouth of his glass. He’s always had a penchant for joking around, but there’s something about the sharp glint in his eye that tells you this might not be one of those instances. 

“Well, he’s done it now. Y’know, he wouldn’t do it for me—” The Brit pauses. Lets the words sink in. “But I guess he’s willing to do it for someone.” 

The implication isn’t lost on you; Lando Norris wasn’t really known for his subtlety. The tips of your ears burn red as you mumble a low “sod off,” refocusing your attention on the McLaren race engineer now belting an Adele song. 

Gracefully, Lando takes your advice and leaves you alone. He shoots you a final conspiratorial wink. You resist the urge to flip him off.

As much as you don’t want to read into it, you can’t help the way your mind whirrs with thoughts. Oscar Piastri— for all his straightforwardness— was a puzzle that you’ve yet to complete, and all the scattered pieces lay out in front of you now. 

How Oscar hadn’t really been keen on going out tonight, but you asked once and he booked the two of you a cab. (Not without sighing about it, though, and mumbling on the entire car ride to the venue. The point still stands: He came out tonight. 

For you? No. You shake your head. That’d be stupid to assume.) 

Oscar, who seemed a bit flustered when you asked him for his go-to karaoke song. Oscar, who spent an arduous amount of time scrolling through his phone before finally even trying to pick something out of the book. (Lando claims that his co-driver had been Googling ‘Songs To Sing At Karaoke’, but you’ve never really trusted Lando when it came to things like this.) 

Oscar hadn’t really known how to navigate the song book— kept mixing up the index system, not knowing what to look for. He took too long, too, when it came to punching in the numbers on the machine. Like each digit was a step towards a death sentence of some sorts. 

And when he eventually did come up to the microphone, the room had gone crazy. You thought everybody was just being supportive, but it had struck you as odd. The way everybody filmed the entirety of Oscar’s off-tune rendition of The Final Countdown; the entire five minutes, immortalized on everyone’s phones like he were some popstar you all paid money to see. 

You look up, look for him. He’s still across the room, chugging water like his debut karaoke performance had taken the breath out of him more than any race. 

But when he catches your gaze, that hint of a smile tugs at his face. The one not everybody is privileged to be on the receiving end of. 

As Lando jumps up to the microphone for a Kendrick Lamar track, Oscar walks back over to you. The couch is big enough for him to sit a little further down, but he opts to be negligibly close. His side against yours; your knees pressed together. He gingerly takes one half of the song book, resting it between both your thighs. 

“Have you picked a song yet?” he asks, pitching his voice low. It’s just quiet enough that you have to lean in a bit to hear him, undoubtedly making it look like the two of you are in your own bubble. 

The pieces of his affection, the ones you’ve denied to acknowledge until now—

“We should do one together,” you blurt out. 

Oscar pauses in the middle of leafing through the song book. His thumb absentmindedly rubs at the corner of the page, like he might somehow find the answer to everything in between Maroon 5’s She Will Be Loved and keshi’s Soft Spot.

“Is that something you… want?” he stammers. (As if he’s scared to get his hopes up.) 

“Is it something you want?” 

At your question, Oscar turns to look at you. Really look at you. You feel his gaze despite the dimness of the karaoke room.

His eyes linger on your face as he answers. “It is,” he says softly, “something I want.” 

— the puzzle falls into place. ⛐

[norrisradio]

a good run ⛐ 𝐋𝐇𝟒𝟒

♫ you swore that you loved me, but where were the clues? i died on the altar waiting for the proof.

ꔮ starring: lewis hamilton x ex-girlfriend!reader. ꔮ social media au. ꔮ includes: angst. silverstone race [merc!lewis], post-breakup dynamics, heavily inspired by taylor swift's so long, london. ꔮ commentary box: this one goes out to @binisainz, who matches my freak on so many levels. i love you (and i'm sorry). i promise to dedicate happier work for you in the near future. x 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

lewishamilton Silverstone weekend. 🏠🇬🇧 Send good vibes ~ Liked by olliebearman, francolapinto, and others

user1 IT'S SILVERSTONEEE LFG!!! user2 lock in g you got this ❤️🙌👏 georgerussell63 Best of luck mate 👊 ⤷ user3 great day to be a mercedes fan ⤷ user4 y'all act like they aren't co-drivers user5 is nobody going to talk about the elephant in the room ⤷ user6 wot m8 ⤷ user5 user6 isn't it hamilton's first time back in GB since. You Know ⤷ user7 user5 user6 OMG Just say it outright??? Since HIS BREAK UP.

from: +44 *** ***** ****** Hi, it's Lewis. I don't actually know if you still have my number, sooo. Should I still be introducing myself? from: +44 *** ***** ****** Anyway that's obviously not why I'm texting. I'm sure you know what this weekend is. from: +44 *** ***** ****** That's probably not how I should have started. I just mean to say I'm in London this week and I'd love if we could meet up. Coffee, maybe? Let me know ✌🏾

yourusername i'm just getting color back into my face / i'm just mad as hell 'cause i loved this place Liked by lewishamilton and others user8 youch that caption... 🤕 user9 OMG lewishamilton LIKED?! ARE THEY BACK TOGETHER ⤷ user10 Wasn't Lewis seen with someone else at Monaco??? user11 Can y'all please leave this poor girl alone. Lol. Being an ex-WAG is hard enough. gmz Hamilton's Former Beau Gets Cryptic Ahead Of Silverstone?! Link to read in our bio 🔗 ⤷ user11 yo gmz get a life maybe ⤷ user12 The link isn't working! user13 yourusername will you be at silverstone 🥺 we miss seeing you trackside, queen

from: +44 *** ***** ****** Hi, Lewis again. I'm not sure if you're getting my texts but they are going through so I assume they're still fine? This is a bit out of the blue but I saw some comments on your recent post. from: +44 *** ***** ****** I know when we broke up you said you wanted it mostly lowkey, so that's why we haven't really done much outside of that first press release. But I just want you to know that if you want me to say anything else about the people camping out on your page, I can. In a heartbeat from: +44 *** ***** ****** I mean, least I could do right? Haha from: +44 *** ***** ****** Would still love to grab coffee with you. Or anything, really. Is Shack-Fuyu still any good out there in Soho? I remember how much you loved that place. Hope to hear back from ya

Excerpt from TMZ's Hamilton's Former Beau Gets Cryptic Ahead Of Silverstone?!

... The long-term couple officially headed to Splitsville last year, confirmed via an Instagram story Lewis posted! The story, which featured a black and white photo of the former WAG, bore the heartbreaking caption:

yourusername and I are two best friends who have decided to part ways as a couple. We had a good run of six years that I personally would not trade for anything in the world. yourusername remains to be one of the best things that has ever happened to me, bar none. Please respect our privacy during this time; we do not intend to comment any further on this matter. Thank you.

The announcement came as a shock to the entire grid; the two had just bought a London apartment months prior, sparking rumors that wedding bells were on the horizon.

A source with direct knowledge tells TMZ that Hamilton initiated the breakup, citing plans to focus on his career. The Brit reportedly wasn't very enthusiastic about the split despite being the one to pull the plug; why, we'll never know. A man of his word, Hamilton has remained tight-lipped on the details of the split.

Looks like this is just another symptom of being on the top of the world. Can't be a champion and in love! — FIN.

from: +44 *** ***** ****** Silverstone won't be the same without you. from: +44 *** ***** ****** I'll stop now. I'm sorry. I really am.

to: +44 *** ***** ****** race safe, lewis. Seen

lewishamilton 945 days since the last win and it's finally come home. There's no crowd that deserves this more. Means so much. Silverstone, I'm all yours. Always and forever. Liked by mercedesamgf1, yourusername, and others

user14 I'M NOT CRYING YOU ARE user15 The Greatest Of All Time 💜🐐 user16 not to be that person, but yourusername liked this post and now i'm sobbing ⤷ user17 mama y papa :( scuderiaferrari ❤️ ⤷ user18 BRO CHILL WE STILL GOT TIME

from: +44 *** ***** ****** Did you see? to: +44 *** ***** ****** :) to: +44 *** ***** ****** through goes hamilton. from: +44 *** ***** ****** Through goes. from: +44 *** ***** ****** I did more than race safe. from: +44 *** ***** ****** I raced for you.

yourusername ★ Only people on your Close Friends list will be able to see this story.

Seen by yourfriend, lewishamilton, and others

from: +44 *** ***** ****** Where to? from: +44 *** ***** ****** Actually, you don't have to answer that. You don't owe me anything. from: +44 *** ***** ****** I apologize for the way I've behaved this whole weekend. I suppose I just missed you. from: +44 *** ***** ****** *Miss you. Still. Sorry. from: +44 *** ***** ****** The old landlord actually told me about you moving out. I didn't know how to broach the topic with you or if I was allowed to. But I guess this is it, huh? I'm going from knowing you're in England to not knowing where you are at all. from: +44 *** ***** ****** I suppose I'll have to do my absolute best in every race now. Just in case you're at that one. from: +44 *** ***** ****** I'm running out of things to say.

to: +44 *** ***** ****** take care of yourself, lewis. from: +44 *** ***** ****** You, too.

+44 *** ***** ****** Maybe: Lewis

Block this Caller

You will not receive phone calls, messages, or Facetime from people on the block list. Block Contact

For so long, London Had a good run A moment of warm sun But I'm not the one So long, London ⛐

[norrisradio]

almost

⚡︎ pairing: yuki tsunoda x chef!reader | ⚡︎ wc: 1.1k ⚡︎ genre: fluff, angst, humor ⚡︎ recommended listening: midnight city, m83 • fine line, harry styles • the archer, taylor swift • talk, khalid & disclosure • adore you, harry styles ⚡︎ incoming radio: my first ever fic on this account has to be dedicated to my the love of my life @tsunodaradio . if i was the one to get them into F1, they were the one who gave me my love of writing.

⚡︎ summary: It was a tradition. A secret. A fleeting thing that only existed within the neon-lit haze of race week.

The first time you met, he was stealing food.

Or at least, that’s what it looked like.

It was just past midnight, and you were stacking chairs when you caught him—ballcap tucked under his arm, hoodie pulled low over his face, fingers curled around a skewer of chicken satay that wasn’t his. You’d left it sitting on the counter for less than thirty seconds, meant for a post-rush snack, but now it was halfway to his mouth, his expression frozen somewhere between guilt and shamelessness.

"Technically," he said, chewing as he spoke, "this was unattended."

"Technically," you echoed, crossing your arms, "you’re an entitled asshole."

He grinned at that, like you’d passed some kind of test, and then tossed a crumpled bill onto the counter—far more than what a single skewer was worth. "Keep the change, chef."

And that was that.

The next time he showed up, it wasn’t to steal food. Not really.

He came back the following year, race week in full swing, stepping into your kitchen like he belonged there. This time, he waited until you handed him a plate before taking a bite. "Better service than last year," he mused, mouth full. You only rolled your eyes. But you let him stay.

It became a thing.

Every Singapore Grand Prix, without fail, he found his way to you. Always late at night, always when the world had quieted down. He never told you when he was coming—never texted, never called—but somehow, he was always there.

You’d hear the creak of the door, feel the shift in the air before you even looked up. Sometimes he’d lean against the counter like he owned the place, sometimes he’d slip onto a stool and watch you work, sometimes he’d take a skewer straight off the grill like it was his God-given right.

A few drinks sometimes lingered in his system, but never too many—just enough to soften the sharp edges, to make him stay a little longer. You never asked if he was coming from a party or a meeting or some late-night walk meant to clear his mind. He never asked why you stayed so late at the restaurant.

It was just understood.

And you liked him best like this—loose-limbed and a little reckless, spinning a chopstick between his fingers, commenting on your technique like he knew a damn thing about food.

"Too much salt.""You’re eating for free. Shut up.""You love me."

He said it like a joke, like he was testing the weight of the words in the air. You rolled your eyes, shoving a bowl toward him, watching as he took the first bite. But you never said no.

And maybe you did.

But neither of you said it. That wasn’t the point of this.

It was a tradition. A secret. A fleeting thing that only existed within the neon-lit haze of race week.

Until this year. Until now.

Until tonight, when Yuki stands in your doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, and—for the first time—doesn’t move.

The air between you feels heavier than usual. Maybe it’s the race. Maybe it’s the exhaustion dragging at his limbs, the adrenaline finally burning out. Or maybe it’s the fact that, this time, he didn’t just show up to eat.

This time, he lingered.

Dinner had stretched longer than usual, silence slipping into spaces that used to be filled with easy conversation. He’d eaten slower, eyes flicking to you between bites, like he was trying to memorize something. You caught him staring once, and he didn’t look away.

Now, in the doorway, you see it again—that almost hesitation. Like he wants to say something he never has before.

"Do you ever get tired of leaving?"

You don’t know why you ask it. Maybe you already know the answer. Maybe you just want to hear him say it.

Yuki exhales, the ghost of a laugh passing through his lips. "Do you?"

You tilt your head. "I don’t leave. You do."

And there it is—the truth of it. The thing neither of you have ever acknowledged.

His fingers twitch at his sides. He looks back—just once, like he’s considering staying. Like, for the first time, he’s wondering what would happen if he didn’t walk away.

And then he steps forward. It’s almost like a reflex—he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. His hand finds your jaw, his thumb pressing into your skin as he pulls you close, his lips crashing against yours like this has been waiting for years.

It’s fast. Hungry. Full of things that neither of you have said out loud. His kiss tastes like spice, like the long hours of work and the briefest hint of something more. You pull him closer, fingers knotting into his hoodie, and for the first time, neither of you think about the morning.

Your back hits the counter. His hands slide down, gripping your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, like he’s afraid this is just another thing that will disappear when the night is over. You don’t stop him. You let him have this—let yourself have this—because for once, there’s no audience, no cameras, no pressure to be anything but what you are.

There’s just you. Just him. Just this.

When the kiss breaks, you’re both breathing heavily. His forehead presses against yours, his eyes wide, searching yours like he’s looking for something. For permission, maybe. Or an answer.

"We don’t have to talk about this," he says, voice quiet. "But we can’t pretend it didn’t happen."

You can’t say anything. You don’t need to. There’s something heavy in the air, but it’s not fear. It’s anticipation.

The night stretches on, tangled between the quiet moments of touch, of words unspoken, of almost.

But as the first light of dawn seeps through the kitchen window, Yuki is pulling on his jacket, zipping it up with slow precision.

"I should go," he says, the weight of it more present than ever. You want to tell him to stay, to make him stay, but you don’t.

He glances at you one last time before stepping toward the door. But as his hand rests on the knob, there’s that pause again. That fleeting moment where he could do something different. He could walk back to you. He could kiss you again.

But he doesn’t.

"See you next time," he says, the words thick with meaning this time.

And then he’s gone.

You stand in the stillness of the kitchen, the smell of spices lingering in the air, and you wonder—maybe for the first time—if you’ll ever stop saying goodbye.

Because you know how this goes.

Yuki Tsunoda always leaves in the morning.

But maybe, just maybe—

One day, he won’t.

[norrisradio]

pick your poison, babe (i'm poison either way) ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

♫ and i'll tell you one thing, honey: i can tell when somebody still wants me. come clean.

ꔮ starring: lando norris x dj!reader. ꔮ word count: 2.8k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff. profanity, mention of alcohol consumption. unspecified monza race win, feelings realization/denial, lando has a crush. title from taylor swift's imgonnagetyouback. ꔮ commentary box: feels apt to dedicate my first post on this blog to the person who introduced me to F1, @norrisradio. papaya forever, baby. this feels like something that could be part of a bigger story, but for now! enjoy a down bad lando. <3 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The Monza podium still feels like a fever dream. The kind of night he should be spending at an over-the-top afterparty, champagne showers and all, with people yelling his name like he hadn’t just spent two hours driving for his life. 

Instead of basking in the glow of P3 with the rest of the grid, Lando finds himself tugging the brim of a McLaren cap lower over his eyes, slipping past the bouncer of an underground rave.

He mumbles something unintelligible when the bouncer glances at him for a beat too long, and the guy doesn’t press. Maybe he doesn't care, or maybe he just thinks Lando’s another kid trying too hard to look mysterious. Either way, Lando is grateful. 

Lando hurries down the narrow hallway, his trainers squeaking against the concrete floor as the bass rattles through the venue like a pulse.He tells himself he’s here for the music. That he’s been desperate for a proper night out, a way to blow off steam without the whole world watching. 

But the truth is, he knows exactly who’s playing tonight. He’d seen the lineup on Instagram— your name sandwiched between two other local DJs— and something in him short-circuited.

You’ve met a couple of times, exchanged a handful of words over mixing decks at a mutual friend’s house party in Monaco. He picked up DJ-ing as a hobby a few years back, a way to kill time between races. 

He had become painfully aware of how much of an amateur he was the moment you’d started playing. You made it look effortless. 

He’d been hooked since.

Not in a crush way, obviously.

That would be ridiculous.

Lando shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and follows the glow of LED lights deeper into the venue. The air smells like sweat and cheap liquor, the crowd a chaotic mess of limbs and blurry faces. People bump into him, and Lando mutters apologies swallowed up by the music.

He clocks you at the DJ booth almost immediately.

It’s embarrassing how quickly he finds you. How his eyes cut through the sea of bodies like they’ve been trained on you this whole time. 

You’re lit up in shades of red and blue, fingers dancing across the soundboard with a kind of swagger that makes Lando want to rip his cap off and run straight back to the paddock.

He tells himself he won’t get too close. That he’ll hang back, maybe grab a drink and nod along like he’s just here for the vibe. But then you glance up from the decks, and your gaze flickers through the crowd like you can sense him there. 

Lando panics, jerking to the side and bumping into someone holding a full cup of beer. “Mate,” the guy groans, shaking liquid off his arm, but Lando doesn’t even register it. 

His pulse is hammering, a bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck. Must be the heat, he thinks to himself. 

He’s not nervous. 

He’s not.

Lando leans against a graffiti-splattered wall, heart in his throat as the bass thrums through his chest. He’ll stay for a bit. Maybe until your set ends. Maybe until you step off the stage, and he can casually, accidentally cross paths with you.

Just to say ‘hi’. 

Nothing else. 

The beat thrums through the floor, reverberating up Lando's spine like the aftershock of a race. Bodies move in synchronized chaos under the strobing lights, but he only sees you.

You, perched behind the DJ booth, fingers deftly turning dials and sliding faders. Your hair is damp with sweat, the glint of neon catching on your skin. You look like you belong here— like the music isn't just something you play, but something you breathe.

Lando tells himself he’s just appreciating the artistry, the technical skill. 

It has nothing to do with the way his chest tightens every time you flash a grin at the crowd.

His feet start moving before his brain can catch up. He snakes through the crowd, heart hammering harder than it did on the podium. He angles himself perfectly— or so he convinces himself— lingering just by the side of the stage. 

When you descend, your set concluded, your shoulder brushes his chest. Lando executes the most intentional accidental bump in history.

“Oh, shit— sorry!” 

He barely registers your words. The second your eyes meet his, he knows he’s completely screwed. 

Recognition blooms on your face like a firework. When you smile at him, it feels like the entire world tilts.

“Lando Norris?” you laugh, incredulous. “What are you doing here?”

He tugs his cap lower, hoping it might shield him from how devastatingly charming you are. “Just thought I’d check out the music scene,” he lies, his voice failing to land anywhere near casual.

You cock your head, suspicious but amused. “And you just so happened to end up at my set?”

Lando swallows, throat tight. “Just my luck,” he says, the words brittle on his tongue.

You laugh, the sound bright and sharp despite the dozens of other noises warring for his attention. The music hums through Lando’s body like a second heartbeat, but it dulls to a murmur the longer he stands next to you. 

He’s keenly aware of every movement you make. The way you tuck loose strands of hair behind your ear, the lingering adrenaline in your smile, the subtle shift of your weight as you rock on your heels.

“You here with anyone?” you ask, voice still pitched a little louder from your set. “Want anything? A drink?”

Lando shakes his head so quickly he almost gives himself whiplash. “No, I’m good. Thanks, though.” He licks his lips, nerves writhing in his chest like live wires. And because he’s a masochist, he asks, “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Here with anyone.”

You tilt your head, brows lifting. For a second, Lando thinks he’s made a mistake, that you’re about to brush him off, but then you shake your head with an easy grin.

“Nope,” you say. “Just me.”

The knot in Lando’s stomach loosens, and the relief is instant— almost shameful in how palpable it is. He feels a little steadier now, a little more like himself. The familiar tinge of confidence edges its way back into his voice.

“Well,” he starts, just on the right side of teasing, “I hope I’m not keeping you from anything.”

Your gaze lingers on him, contemplating. Lando swears his pulse stutters.

After a beat, you shrug. “Nowhere better to be.”

A small, smug smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but he bites it back. “Guess that makes two of us,” he says, just loud enough for you to hear. 

The bass thumps back to life, rippling through the crowd like a living thing, and you tilt your head at Lando, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Do pretty little drivers like you even know how to rave?” you ask, voice raised over the music.

Lando scoffs, the sound drowned out by the beat. He lifts his chin, his usual cocky edge peeking through. “Do pretty little DJs like you know how to drive?” 

You laugh; Lando thinks he could live off the sound. Before he knows it, you’re tugging him back into the crowd, bodies pressing in on either side as the music surges. The neon lights flicker across your skin, and Lando, without really meaning to (or maybe meaning to a little too much), lets the crowd shift him closer to you. Shoulder brushing shoulder, arm to arm, fingertips grazing as you both move to the rhythm.

It’s a flimsy excuse to touch you, and he’s pathetically grateful for it.

You notice the way his eyes flicker to the occasional flash of a camera, the way he subtly angles his face down to keep the shadow of his cap in place. You lean in, close enough that your lips nearly graze the shell of his ear. Instinctively, he tilts his head down so you can reach him without straining too much. 

“Tell me, Norris,” you tease, your voice a low hum that curls through his chest, “are you still racing?” 

“What?” he sputters out with a laugh. 

“Answer the question,” you insist, unable to hold back your own laughs. “Are you racing away from something? Racing towards something?” 

Lando knows the answer. That doesn’t make things any easier. And so he does what he does best— play it off, be incorrigible. “Pardon?” he asks, feigning the hardness of hearing. “You have to speak up!” 

You roll your eyes, the expression making you look a lot cuter than Lando cares to admit. “Nevermind,” you holler, pulling away. 

The pang of loss he feels is incomparable to his relief. For the next hour or so, that’s how he dodges your more invasive queries. 

“Why are you really here, Norris?” you ask at one point, voice raised to cut through the noise. 

Lando cups a hand around his ear and squints at you like he’s struggling to understand. “Sorry, what did you say?”

You shake your head but try again. “Why are you here?”

“Did you just ask if I’ve got hair in my ear?!”

You smack his shoulder, but he only grins wider, reveling in the way your touch lingers just a little longer than necessary. “You’re impossible,” you huff, but your smile softens the words.

A beat passes, and then you add, quieter, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Lando’s chest tightens. For a second, he forgets how to breathe. He recovers fast, though, leaning closer until his forehead nearly bumps yours. “Yeah,” he says, voice low but clear despite the music. “That’s what I thought you said.”

Your eyes narrow in suspicion, catching him out. “So you can hear me!”

He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, feeling very much like he won for a second time that night. 

The night wears on. Lando could keep going, really, but then your hand grazes his wrist. A fleeting touch before you beckon him with a tilt of your head. Lando follows without a word, the warmth of your fingers lingering on his skin like a brand.

He keeps his head down, tugging his cap lower as you weave through the venue. He glances around often, wary eyes flitting to clusters of people, to the occasional glint of a camera lens reflecting the strobes.

“I promise you’re not going to have dating rumors come tomorrow,” you say, catching his unease. Your voice is low, teasing, but there’s a sincerity beneath it that makes his chest ache.

“Promise?” he asks, trying to match your tone, but his voice wavers.

You smile, throwing a casual look over your shoulder. “Swear on it.”

Lando doesn’t know how you manage to navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the venue, weaving through bodies and shadowy hallways with practiced ease. You take him through a side door and up a flight of stairs, the clatter of your footsteps echoing in the narrow space.

At the top, you push open another door. Suddenly, you’re outside. The rooftop stretches out before you, bathed in the glow of the distant city lights. The air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers and lingering smoke. From up here, the music is a distant hum, the chaos below reduced to a quiet murmur.

You walk over to the edge, resting your elbows on the ledge. “Better?” you ask, looking at him out of the corner of your eye.

Lando exhales all the tension in his body before settling next to you. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Better.”

The view is breathtaking. Monza sprawls out beneath you, a patchwork of golden lights against the darkened landscape. Lando watches you tip your head back to look at the sky, the faint sheen of sweat on your skin catching the glow from the streetlights. 

You’re radiant. 

It’s not fair. 

“Is this your usual post-set ritual?” he asks, leaning his forearms on the ledge.

“Kinda,” you answer vaguely. “Helps me clear my head.” 

Lando hums in agreement, though his head feels anything but clear. His heart is still pounding— not from the dancing, not from the adrenaline of sneaking around, but from being this close to you.

You half-turn to face him, your shoulder brushing against his. “So,” you start, playful but quiet. “Are you finally going to tell me why you’re really here?”

“Ah.” Lando laughs at your attempt to double down. “So that’s what this is. A trap.” 

You arch a brow. “I mean, it’s a fair question. Podium finisher skips team dinner to go rave in Monza?”

Lando squints at you, a slow grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Wait,” he starts slowly, “you knew I podiumed?”

“Everyone knows,” you deflect, looking back out over the city lights.

He inches closer, eyes gleaming. “You checked.”

You don’t even hesitate, barreling on where Lando might’ve sidetracked. “Of course I did,” you say. “I wanted to know if you’d win.”

Lando blinks, caught completely off guard. The rush of exhilaration that barrels through him is almost disorienting. “You were rooting for me?”

“You act like that’s weird.” You glance at him again, the corner of your mouth twitching upward. “I may not know much about racing, but I know enough to hope you’d end up on top.”

Lando’s throat bobs with a hard swallow. He doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know how to process the fact that you— the person who makes him feel like he’s spinning out even when he’s on solid ground— had been watching, keeping tabs.

He clears his throat, feigning nonchalance. “I guess I had to come celebrate with my number one fan, then.”

You snort. “I never said I was your number one fan.”

He clutches his chest like you’ve physically wounded him. “Ouch. Brutal.”

You laugh, the sound echoing into the night, and Lando fears it’s becoming his new favorite noise. Much better than the squeal of tires, the roar of crowds, the electronic dance music that’d been spun downstairs. 

“So?” you prompt, turning to face him fully. “Why are you here, Mr. P3?”

He tilts his head, mouth curling up in a sly smile. “What was that?”

Your eyes narrow. “Don’t start.”

“Couldn’t hear you,” he quips, cupping a hand to his ear. “Something about my heart?”

You push off the railing. “I swear, Norris—”

"Okay, okay!" He laughs, hands raised in surrender.

The second your expression softens, though, he falters. 

The truth sticks to the roof of his mouth like honey, too sweet and too heavy to spit out. He glances down, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the concrete. “I just… wanted to unwind. Long weekend. And…” 

Fuck it. Lando swallows. Scratches the back of his neck. “Maybe I wanted to see you play.”

The words slip out like he’s admitting a felony. He doesn’t dare look at you, afraid of what he might find in your face. Amusement, pity, or worse— understanding. Because you’re smart enough to figure it out, figure him out. Because you probably already know what he’s danced around this entire evening.

He risks a glance, and his heart stutters.

You’re smiling.

Not in a way that mocks or patronizes, but something softer. Something that knots him up inside.

“Maybe?” you echo, tilting your head.

Lando exhales, rubbing a hand over his face like he can physically scrub the embarrassment away. He takes a careful step closer, shrugging like the confession doesn’t carry the weight of the world.

“Okay, probably,” he relents. “But, like, only a little.”

You hum, pretending to think it over, and Lando swears his heart is trying to punch a hole through his chest.

“I can live with that,” you say after a moment. 

It’s not much. It’s not a denial, not an acceptance, but it’s not like Lando is asking for anything, either. 

He could, he realizes. Ask what you have planned after this, ask if you’d like to chase each other through Monza’s streets like one of those old romantic comedies his mum would make him sit through. 

Instead, he only manages a soft, almost breathless, “Yeah?” 

The hope in his tone is a dangerous, treacherous thing. It’s almost as damning as the way he shifts just a little bit closer to you, the two of you leaning back against the railing. 

Lando isn’t going to kiss you tonight. He knows that much. 

Not tonight, but maybe—

“Yeah.” Your voice sounds just like his. Tender, hopeful. A whisper of I don’t mind seeing you, a promise of next time. Wherever and whenever that might be.  

Your shoulders press against each other. 

Neither of you pull away. ⛐

[norrisradio]

dj got us falling in love | lando norris social media au

pairing: lando norris x dj!reader

a new hobby can sometimes open many new avenues, sometimes even lead to love

landonorris

liked by yourusername, carlossainz55 and 604,446 others

landonorris: the morning after the night before

view all comments

user1 lando really be on his hobby game rn

maxverstappen1 so that's where you were the entire night?

landonorris i saw you dancing your heart out so don't complain maxverstappen1 you are overestimating just how much of last night i remember

user2 dj!lando unlocked ... does this mean photographer!lando is dead?

user3 he's so so sexy oh my

user4 the backwards cap is WORKING

danielricciardo so how long is this one gonna last?

landonorris i swear this is the one for me

yourusername

liked by landonorris, arianagrande and 1,204,556 others

yourusername: life recently... check out my boiler room set in the link in my bio it was super fun xxx

view all comments

user5 eating up the dj game i am obsessed with her

user6 i need to be at her next set or i'll become a threat to national security

landonorris sick set y/n !!

user7 bro what are you doing here? GET OUT OF HERE

danielricciardo ah i now see where the new inspiration came from ...

landonorris i need you to shut the fuck up yourusername awww thanks lando, send me some of ur stuff we can compare x landonorris on it 🫡 maxverstappen1 i don't know how you've pulled this off but i am impressed

user8 what actually is going on in this comment section

landonorris added to their story

[caption: bestest teacher in the world]

yourusername

liked by landonorris, danielricciardo and 1,437,892 others

yourusername: life recently

view all comments

user6 ALERT ALERT MALE ALERT

user7 heavy emphasis on the mug rn

danielricciardo @maxverstappen1 whoa that hand looks super familiar

maxverstappen1 you're right daniel that hand does look familiar .... yourusername yall crack me up user8 lando you gonna let them do you like that? landonorris my pr officier said not to reply carlossainz55 bro... landonorris oh shit

user9 mclaren really keep all his brain cells i can't

silverstone

liked by yourusername, landonorris and 55,128 others

tagged: yourusername, f1

silverstone: big announcement coming in fast ! y/n y/ln will be headlining the silverstone main stage for this year's british grand prix - the dj will take the stage for the sunday evening slot. see you all there!

view all comments

user10 idc this is fuelling my lando x y/n agenda

user11 i'm so fucking excited

landonorris i'll be there

oscarpiastri you are contractually obligated to be there mate landonorris let me be supportive !!! user12 oscar is done with the pining

yourusername thank you so much for having me !! i won't let you down

carlossainz55 by all accounts you're too good to do that user13 have they all just collectively given up on the secret? maxverstappen1 yes too much effort

landonorris

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri and 1,209,677 others

landonorris: P2 in quali at home !! super, super happy, lets see what we can do on sunday

view all comments

user14 I AM LOSING MY MIND

user15 this is crazy i'm so proud

yourusername lets go landoooooooooooooooooooooooooo so sick

landonorris blah blah blah something about a certain someone being a lucky charm ;) yourusername does this mean paddock passes for life? landonorris it might have to

user16 they're so cute

user17 the crowd cheered when they showed her in the garage silverstone is ROOTING for this relationship

oscarpiastri let's get this bro

mclaren

liked by landonorris, yourusername and 663,201 others

tagged: landonorris

mclaren: LANDO TAKES HOME P2 AT HIS HOME RACE

view all comments

user20 OMG THAT OVERTTAKE AT THE START I AM GAGGED

yourusername unbelievably proud of you lando

landonorris love you too babe user21 BABE? user22 LOVE YOU TOO?

danielricciardo i saw that shoey man i'm so proud 🥲

landonorris miss you danny danielricciardo i miss you more yourusername am i a joke to you? landonorris i'm sorry i love you yourusername love you too ❤️

user23 why is danny always at the scene of the crime?

yourusername

liked by landonorris, maxverstappen1 and 1,660,351 others

tagged: landonorris

yourusername: best weekend ever!! silverstone you're the best, my favourite crowd ever !! p.s. lando i am so so so so proud, though if you try to kiss me after a shoey again we're breaking up.

view all comments

user24 CONFIRMATION CONFIRMATION OMG

user25 them saying i love you under mclaren's post wasn't enough for you?

landonorris noted.

landonorris ALSO YOU WERE SO SO GOOD I LOVE YOU SO MUCH yourusername i love you more, thanks for the gig baby xx

maxverstappen1 do you take bookings? my birthday is in october

martingarrix i see how it is yourusername i'm not getting involved in this domestic you're on your own max

user26 god when is it my turn

landonorris

liked by yourusername, maxverstappen1 and 1,774,871 others

tagged: yourusername

landonorris: dj got us falling in love or something like that, love you baby.

comments are disabled on this post.

note: I'M BACK - so my absence was a lot longer than expected, i graduated uni (with a first, i'm so stoked) and my housing has been a whole mess. i worked at silverstone, hence the inspo for this imagine... ENJOY !!!

[norrisradio]

IT'S LIGHTS OUT AND AWAY WE GO !

❝ tara here ! ❞ / she/hers / 20s / ln4 2025 wdc truther

⏲ writing for... LN4, OP81, LH44, GR63, AA23, CS55, YT22 norrisradio is a sideblog ! masterlist and tag guide under the cut. come say hi, inbox is open !

MASTERLIST !

YUKI TSUNODA • [YK22] ˋ°•*⁀➷ almost | ⚡︎ chef! reader | f, a, h | 1.1k

TAG SYSTEM !

ˋ°•*⁀➷ #⚡︎ race day, writing | #⚡︎ pole position, reads | #⚡︎ media circus, tara yaps | #⚡︎ box box, asked and answered | #⚡︎ podium, media and misc

DON'T FORGET MY CO-DRIVER ⚡︎ @tsunodaradio