norrisradio

[norrisradio]

no one ever speak to me again pls and thx! i am not ok! the double header was great 👍

[norrisradio]

going to be closing requests for lando ! i’ve gotten so many requests for him and i’m so excited to write them <33

LINE BY LINE - A FOLLOWER MILESTONE EVENT

I hit a follower milestone (!!), and what better way to celebrate than with words that have stuck with us?

📖 i n s t r u c t i o n m a n u a l : send me a driver + a quote from a movie/TV show, a book/poem, or a song for a drabble! here's an example:

can i have oscar + 'i love you, i want us both to eat well' by christopher citro OR can i have lando + 'to make yourself feel nothing so as not to feel anything. what a waste.' from call my by your name if you have any ideas for scenes/settings/dialogues, feel free to share!

📝 a n n o t a t i o n s : any genre of driver x reader requests are welcome. if you request a suggestive drabble, your age must be listed on your blog.

✍️ s t a t u s : requests are open !

[norrisradio]

Hi, I’m the Anon that requested the Lando + La La Land quote. Just wanted to say thank you so much for sharing your writing with us, I love your work so much. Also, Lando’s skysports interview yesterday broke my heart, I’m glad you gave him a happy ending ✨

ahhh thank you for requesting, and thank you for reading! i’m glad you liked it <33 definitely agree that lando deserved a happy ending, and i’m glad he got one this weekend, both on the track and in my fic :’)

[norrisradio]

WOULD ALSO LIKE TO SAY: MY MANIFESTATION FIC WORKED… IT WORKED… HE GOT P3… LANDO NORRIS THE MAN YOU ARE…

[norrisradio]

OSCAR PIASTRI FIRST MCLAREN WINNER IN BAHRAIN

fucking gorgeous drive by him. literally not a single mistake. 50th race + pole + win!!! a perfect drive in a perfect weekend by a perfect driver.

super drive from norris, p6 -> p3 -> penalty -> p3… with a GORGEOUS move on charles… phenomenal racecraft

idk what was going on with drs with merc and ferrari but DAMN they had PACE

(everyone bow down to tyre whisperer george russell who did an AUDACIOUS 24 laps on SOFTS)

[norrisradio]

ALMOST, ALWAYS

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “I’m always going to love you.” - La La Land (2016)

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x race engineer! reader | ᝰ WC: 1.4K ᝰ GENRE: situationship-to-lovers, as the title says: when the almosts turn to always, lando and mc are both down horrendous, a little bit of angst in the form of lando (as usual) being hard on himself ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: this was written in one manic session after lando's post-quali skysports interview - this is part desperate prayer and part manifestation for tomorrow's race ꨄ︎ requested by anon ! (i'm so sorry - i know you asked for a bittersweet ending but after quali, writing lando not getting the girl at the end would have been psychological torture for me)

send me an ask for my line by line event .ᐟ

Lando Norris knows what destiny feels like, because he's spent his entire life trying to snatch it from fate’s cruel hands.

It’s the way he tightens his grip on the steering wheel when the car jolts over a curb. The way he bites back the sting in his voice when the radio crackles with numbers that don’t match the effort. It’s a god he doesn’t believe in, teasing him with glimmers of greatness, only to pull them away with a shrug and a yellow flag.

It’s also you.

Not because you’re a superstition or a lucky charm—but because you’re the one reading fate’s data. The one in the back room, eyes scanning a dozen screens, voice steady over comms even when the world is burning down. You're not just part of the team. You're his engineer. His brain when emotion runs too hot. His breath when his lungs forget how to work.

But even gods fall short.

And today, so did you.

P8.

You’d gone aggressive on the tire plan. Bet on track evolution. A gamble, one you both signed off on with twin nods in the pre-quali briefing—his jaw tense, your hand gripping your tablet too tight.

You don’t remember walking out of the debrief. Don’t remember the words you said to the engineers or the drivers. You just remember his fingers almost brushing yours when you stood up, papers rustling between you. A breath held. A touch dodged. The same silent question hanging between you that’s been there for months.

You were never his. Not really. Not officially. But you’ve spent late nights pouring over lap deltas with your feet kicked up on his coffee table. Shared hotel breakfasts where your knees touched and neither of you moved away. You know the way his voice shifts when he’s pretending he's okay. He knows the exact moment your voice falters on the comm, even when no one else can hear it.

You both know what it feels like to almost cross a line.

And now, hours later, you’re asleep in your hotel room—lap charts open beside you, headphones still in—when your phone buzzes.

Lando.

You answer on the third ring, already sitting up.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice wrapped in sleep and regret. “You okay?”

“I bombed it.” His voice is quiet, but cracked. “Absolutely fucking bombed.”

You don’t correct him. Not yet.

Instead, you exhale slowly. “Talk me through it.”

“I don’t know. Didn’t hook it up. Rear end was loose, tires didn’t feel ready. Got traffic in S2. I should’ve—” He chokes on the words, and there’s a silence that says: I should’ve trusted something else. Someone else.

You bite your lip, guilt curling in your stomach. “It wasn’t all on you.”

“I know,” he says, but it sounds like a lie.

You shift under the covers, flicking your laptop closed. “One quali doesn’t rewrite the whole season.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, voice distant. “But it still fucking sucks.”

You let the silence stretch. Not uncomfortable—just true.

Then, quieter: “I woke you up.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, lips curling into a soft smile, “but I’d rather be awake with you than sleep without you.”

He breathes out a laugh. It’s small, but real.

You talk for a while. About nothing, about everything. You tell him the cat at the paddock hospitality tent tried to follow you into the sim room today. You tell him one of the interns mistook your race notes for a coffee order. You tease him about how he still hasn't figured out how to work the printer back at the factory.

And he listens. Let's himself breathe.

Eventually, it fades into quiet.

“You still there?” he mumbles.

“Still here,” you say gently. “You getting sleepy?”

“A little.” His voice is soft. Barely there. “You make everything feel lighter, you know that?”

You smile into the phone. “That’s the goal.”

There’s a beat. Then:

“I’m always going to love you.”

He says it like a secret, like a truth he’s been holding inside his chest so long it’s bruised.

It’s not the first time he’s almost said it. But it’s the first time he lets it breathe. Let’s it be.

And you—you feel it. The weight of it. The ache. The fear and the want and the exhaustion.

You don’t say it back. Not yet. Because you’re still his strategist. And he’s still the boy chasing destiny with a race suit and a number on his back.

So instead, you stay.

You stay on the line until he falls asleep, quiet breathing soft in your ear like static.

Race day.

The sun blazes down on the circuit like a spotlight. Lando starts P8, jaw clenched, hands shaking in his gloves.

You’re in the garage, headset on, every sensor live. Your voice calm over radio, but your heart is a snare drum.

The lights go out like gunfire.

The start is chaos—front wheels locking up into Turn 1, one of the Ferraris darts wide, someone’s radio explodes with static and frustration. But Lando? He doesn’t flinch. He’s already shifting inside out, folding himself into that familiar headspace where nothing exists but the blur of corners and your voice cutting through the noise.

“Car ahead’s vulnerable into Turn 6,” you tell him, cool and clipped through the headset. No panic. No overthinking. You’re holding it together even though he knows your stomach’s in knots. He knows, because it’s his stomach too.

He trusts you. He always has. Even when you make bold calls. Even when the quali gamble didn’t pay off. Even when you won’t quite let your fingers brush his after a strategy meeting.

Lando dives down the inside of the Alpine into Turn 6. Tires shriek. He holds it.

P7.

The laps fall like dominoes.

“Gap ahead, two seconds. You’re quicker in this chicane.” “Box opposite Russell. We’re watching his undercut.” “Next two laps are critical. You can do this.”

He eats into the delta like it’s his last meal. When the tire drop-off comes, your call is perfect—box, outlap, traffic-free window. He rejoins behind one of the Aston Martins but doesn’t wait. Doesn't need to.

DRS open. Straight-line speed sings. Late on the brakes.

P5.

By lap 42, his gloves are soaked through. His neck aches. His visor is streaked with sweat and G-force. But he doesn’t lift.

“Rain maybe in the last five. Category 1 only,” you say, and even that—even that—lands like scripture.

You’re right. You always are.

Spots on the visor. Just a shimmer. Just enough to make it a test of nerves.

The Merc in P4 twitches into Sector 2. Lando capitalizes, flicks it up the inside with the kind of confidence you’ve been begging him to believe in.

He’s on the podium now.

P3.

The last few laps are a blur of tire management, double-checks, and defensive lines, but by the time he crosses the finish line, there’s only one thing he hears:

Your voice. Breathless in his ear. “Well fucking done, Lando.”

He rips the helmet off after parc fermé, hair plastered to his forehead, adrenaline running hotter than the engine. The champagne hasn’t even dried on his suit by the time he’s shoved past press officers and camera crews, giving the post-race interview answers half-distracted.

Smiles for the cameras. Nods at the questions. Grins when they ask about the race. But it’s all white noise.

Because you’re in the garage.

And destiny—destiny’s not on the podium. Destiny’s in black team-issue fireproofs, standing near the telemetry screens, trying to hide the fact that your hands are shaking.

He doesn’t call. He doesn’t wait.

He finds you.

You barely have time to smile before he’s running. His arms wrap around your waist, lift you clean off the ground. Your headset nearly flies off, but you’re laughing, holding onto his shoulders like gravity forgot its job.

He spins you in a tight, giddy circle, and the garage blurs behind you—engineers, mechanics, screens, all of it disappearing under the sound of his laughter.

“You did it,” you whisper, breath caught in your throat.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, hair a mess, eyes wild. “We did it.”

You stare at him. Just stare.

And this time—this time—there’s no almost.

He leans in, forehead to yours, voice so soft only you can hear it, even with the noise around you.

“I meant what I said last night.”

You already know. You felt it in every overtake. Every corner he trusted you to guide him through.

You nod, lips trembling. “I love you too, Lando.”

He kisses you like it’s the last lap of the race. Like he’s already won. Like destiny finally stopped running, and turned around to meet him halfway.

[norrisradio]

lando’s skysports interview fucking ruined my life nobody ever talk to me again. fuck me sideways he sounds DEFEATED.

[norrisradio]

“yeah baby :]”

oh oscar piastri i love u so bad…. 50th gp on POLE!!!!!!

no one talk to me abt norris i will crash out. but JESUS do those mercs have pace… kimi antonelli u will be a world champion i said

[norrisradio]

just to know you've alive ⛐ 𝐂𝐒𝟓𝟓

THIS IS: FORMULA ONE, A MILESTONE EVENT 📀 sooner or later, it's over— carlos just doesn't want to miss you tonight.

♫ starring: carlos sainz x ex-girlfriend!reader. ♫ word count: 2.1k. ♫ includes: angst, hurt/comfort, romance. williams!carlos (contrary to the header photo, soz), breakup dynamics, character study -ish, exes to friends, yearning/pining. @hello-car-fandom requested iris by goo-goo dolls. ♫ commentary box: i'm a firm believer that iris is one of the best songs in existence. this one is short but bittersweet. :] 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

They once called him el matador. 

It was first given to Carlos’ father. The fearless rally driver who changed the game, the one who passed down his name like a wordless prayer for success. 

En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo. May Carlos Sainz Jr. inherit greatness. Amén. 

And Carlos felt like he did. For a while, at least. 

When he was called in for Toro Rosso. When he moved to Renault, then McLaren. 

When he got the call from Ferrari. The maiden win, the points he clawed through hell to get, and oh. The one-two finish. 

El matador, they had called him. What strength. Facing the last curve! El matador, el matador.

It’s been a while since Carlos has felt like he deserved the title. 

They had warned him, of course, that trading red for blue would sting. There were certainly worse places to end up, worse teammates to have. But the move still sometimes felt like a papercut. One that existed just above the surface of the callouses he thought he had done such a good job of building.

The pain never drew blood, but it came close a couple of times. 

When he crashed in the Melbourne rain. When he was slapped with a grid penalty. When the commentators with their sharp teeth and fake sympathy cooed about el matador, the killer, being sent to an early grave. 

Carlos has tried to tune them out. He goes through the motions; he plays his part. He is the good driver in a midfield car, one he had yet to learn how to wrangle. Given time, he will don his overcoat and irons once again to reclaim his birthright. That is the script, the prayer, his destiny. 

Tonight, though, he is dead on his feet, and there is nowhere else in the world he can think to be. 

He shows up at your doorstep, unannounced but not unwelcome. At least that’s what he hopes as he rings the doorbell. 

Nevermind the fact he knows you keep your spare key underneath the third pot on your porch. Once, he might have had the right to break and enter. He is no longer Carlos Sainz, the boyfriend, though. 

You open your door, looking half-awake and groggy and like the most beautiful thing Carlos has ever lost. 

“Sainz,” you croak, one balled fist rubbing the sleep away from your eyes. “Am I dreaming?” 

He almost smiles. Just the sound of your raspy voice is a balm that can soothe the deepest of his worries. Even now— one failed relationship and a tentative friendship later. 

“You’re not dreaming, mi vida.” He catches himself at the last moment. It’s too late; he can’t take it back. 

Mi vida. 

His life.  

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He has the hood pulled up, just in case someone might notice him. It’s unlikely. There’s no reason for Carlos to be paying this neighborhood a visit, not when he has a triple-header ahead of him. 

He had asked his team for one night. Just one night, no questions asked, and they had let him. They had seen the fractures in his façade. They had known about the only thing that could fix it. 

You, standing in your doorway, slowly coming to your senses. You, surveying Carlos’ face like you’re searching for injuries, even though you know his aches are rarely on the surface. 

“It’s late,” you say, gaze briefly flicking over his shoulder. 

“It is.” 

“Where were you before this?” 

“Miami.” 

You let out a low sound of disapproval, one that reminds Carlos he truly has no business being here. The hour is ungodly. The invitation is nonexistent. He’s virtually nothing to you beyond an ex-boyfriend who had needed to call things off for the sake of maintaining a much more valuable friendship. 

When you hesitate and stall, your fingers curling over the door frame, he’s struck with the irrational fear that has always simmered right beneath his skin. There’s another man inside. Someone else in your life, taking up the spaces he once carved out for himself.

He wants you to be happy. Of course he wants you to be happy. If that involves finding somebody else, though— he’d much rather not know. 

In the end, you step aside, giving him just enough room to walk into the entryway. It’s cruel, but Carlos breathes a little bit easier because of it. There’s no ‘somebody else’; at least not for tonight. 

Not much has changed. Most of your furniture is still in the same place. Even the scented candles you use seem to be the same brand. “I’ll get you something to drink,” you mumble, padding barefoot into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home.” 

Carlos nearly jokes that he doesn’t have to be told twice, but the jab dies in his throat. He’s caught up by the simple act of being here, of what always feels like stepping back into a time portal. Which is to say: It is not the first time Carlos has come running to you like this. 

He’s busy scrutinizing your living room couch when you emerge with a cup of tea. “No coffee,” you say before he can protest. “It’s the middle of the night. You don’t need to be even more awake.” 

He rolls his eyes and takes the proffered cup. It bears something light and fruity, something with notes of citrus and lavender. 

“This is new,” he says, the words both innocuous and loaded. 

You stand at his side, staring at the couch as well. “I wanted to give it a try,” you respond. 

It’s not a metaphor, Carlito, he thinks to himself as he sips a little longer. It’s just a new kind of tea. 

He can’t help himself. “I liked the old one better,” he says, immediately wincing at how petty he sounds. At how ungrateful he comes off. 

You don’t dignify him with a response. It is both a blessing and a curse. 

For a long moment, the two of you just stare at the couch. There’s a lot that Carlos wants to say. Do you remember when we first bought it, how you sent me in to haggle with the vendors? Do you remember when we made love on it— for science, you had said, to test its springiness? 

He bites his tongue. He sips his drink. He mumbles a ‘thank you’ before setting it down on the coffee table, taking extra care to slide a coaster underneath the teacup. It had always been one of your pet peeves. While he’s not sure if you’ve grown out of it, he’s not about to take his chances. 

Carlos feels it, even without having to look at you. The moment you gear up to ask the question, like you’re physically pulling your arm and reeling back to punch him. It certainly feels a bit like that. Like the question you pose is the equivalent of getting socked in the gut. 

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

He doesn’t respond right away. He sorts through all the possible answers, but they all feel insufficient. I don’t want the world to see me. I didn’t want to go home tonight. Even the joke he could get away with— a cheeky You know why I’m here— trips on its own announcement. 

Carlos eventually settles on “I needed a friend.” 

Off the bat, there are two lies. Friend, he had called you, like he could somehow go from calling you the love of his life to his ‘friend’ without so much of a blink of an eye. 

And needed, past tense. Like he has ever stopped needing you. 

You reward his half-honesty with a hand to his elbow. 

It’s a chaste thing, one that barely holds a candle to the dozens of touches you shared from before. The linked arms, the intertwined fingers, the mouth to heated skin. 

But Carlos has already lost so much, and he will take what he can get— 

He wordlessly rests his hand on top of yours. Doesn’t say anything. Just stands there with you in the middle of your living room, focusing on the ratty couch like it might hold answers to questions he hasn’t even begun to ask.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” you ask gently, ever so gently. “Something to eat? A change of clothes?” 

It’s laughable, how you treat Carlos like he’s something delicate. The myths and legends of his career had never phased you that much. Sometimes, he wonders what his parents might think if they were to find out that el matador could be brought to his knees by you. 

“I’m not hungry,” he manages, “and I’ve got clothes.” 

“You know where the bathroom is.” 

He does. He knows where everything is, from the toothpaste to the facial wash to the spare towels. A couple of things trip him up. A new brand of conditioner, a change to the shower curtains. But, for the most part, Carlos knows this is a soft place to land.

He wouldn’t go so far as to call it a home. It would be unfair to dub it a vacation place. 

It’s just— the closest to heaven that he’ll ever be. 

After freshening up, he makes his way to your bedroom. He vaguely feels like he’s pushing his luck, but hours ago he was halfway across the world, in a room full of people who didn’t know the first damn thing about him. And now he’s here. If it’s luck, or divine providence, it doesn’t matter; Carlos will hold on to it until it has the indents of his nails as a reminder of how badly he has wanted. 

You’re already underneath your duvet, form curled around a pillow. Back then, you were incapable of falling asleep unless you were hugging something. When it was possible, that something would be Carlos. When he was away, it had been a life-sized teddy bear he got you from IKEA. He wonders, briefly, if it’s collecting dust somewhere in the attic. 

He lingers by the door, wondering just how long he can keep getting away with this. For a heartbeat, he considers making a run for it. Being the bigger person, deleting your number, forgetting your address. 

But then you glance at him over your shoulder, your eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion. “Come to bed, Sainz,” you call, and his body moves to comply like he’s hard-wired to give you everything you could ever ask of him. 

He takes up the other half of the bed. The pillow stays between the two of you, which is something he can live with. He might call it necessary, even. 

Carlos dares to mimic you, to wrap his own arms around the pillow so that his fingers are just barely brushing against whatever part of you that he can reach. When you don’t pull away, he lets go of the tension in his shoulders. 

It feels like a scene ripped straight out of a movie. The former lovers sharing a bed. The shooting star who always landed on the ground. The affection that pulses like a living, breathing thing. 

If this were a movie, Carlos might have kissed you. 

Might have gently pulled the pillow away, closed the distance, pressed his lips against yours. It would make for a pretty picture. The salt of his tears mixing with the taste of you. The exhaustion of the years, folding somewhere in between your mattress and your sheets. 

But this is no blockbuster film, and Carlos is not the leading man everybody thinks he is. 

Instead, he’s just a man— a boy, even— hiding from the world that has broken him down. 

Take away everything, and Carlos thinks he’s still just a coward who can’t even hold your hand properly. 

This is where el matador goes to die. Not on the track. Not in front of the media. Here, with you.

The silence stretches. He assumes you’d fallen asleep, only to hear you break through the quiet as he tries to catch some sleep himself. 

“You’ve done well,” you murmur. 

He cracks open one eye. Your face is mushed into the pillow, your expression hidden from his view. He knows it’s not sleeptalk, not some random platitude to appease him. 

You mean it. 

You believe it. 

It makes him want to do the same. 

Tomorrow, Carlos will try to make amends. He will treat you to lunch. He will tell you the lavender tea was not that bad after all. He will leave as quietly as he came, with no empty promises of a return or half-hearted attempts at ‘trying again’. 

He will love you his whole life, because you once called him mi vida, too. ⛐

[norrisradio]

spf and other soft confessions ⸻ 𐙚 ⸻  lando norris x reader .

word  count.   0.8k feat.   fluff,  established  relationship,  roundabout  ways  of  saying  i  love  you author's  note.   sue  me  ,  i  saw  that  one  video  at  the  fan  stage  where  lando  says  he  should've  used  sunscreen  and  six  hours  later  i  come  out  with  this.  i  write  so  much  for  lando  i  fear  i'm  having  fun  here  ln4  nation  !!!  anyway  ,  as  per  usual  ,  in  my  head  ,  all  my  lando  fics  take  place  in  the  does  this  feeling  go  both  ways?  universe  .  u  don't  have  to  do  that  ⸻  this  oneshot  works  great  as  a  standalone  as  well  !!

lando’s already halfway to burnt.

( you had warned him, too — warned him before you even left the hotel, tossing the bottle of sunscreen into your tote bag with the kind of deliberate, pointed eye contact that said don’t make me use this like a weapon.

he had kissed your cheek and said i’ll be fine, all boyish grin and charm, which in lando-speak translated directly to i will absolutely forget to apply anything and you’ll have to fix it later. )

and now here you are, on a sun-warmed patch of sand in some overpriced corner of the world, watching lando on his back with his arms flung out dramatically as if he’s trying to make a snow angel out of sand — a sand angel? whatever. his curls are damp with seawater, his chest is rising slow and easy, his cheeks are already flushed pink, and your heart is doing that dumb thing where it softens like butter left out in july.

you sit beside him, cross-legged, bottle in hand, and when you pop the cap open with a quiet click, he cracks one eye open, squinting at you like you’ve just interrupted a very important dream.

“baby…” he mumbles, voice warm and slow, “m’comfy.”

“you’re also halfway to lobster,” you reply, squirting sunscreen into your palm. “arms up.”

he groans but obeys, stretching like a cat, and you roll your eyes even as you bite down a smile. you smooth the lotion over his chest first— slow, gentle strokes, fingertips gliding over sun-warmed skin and the moles scattered across his collarbone.

“this is so domestic,” he says, voice muffled by the crook of his elbow.

you laugh. “this is basic skincare, lan.”

“feels like love.”

your hands still for a second, just a beat. just long enough for your chest to catch up to your ears, which have gone suspiciously hot. it’s as if your body knew before your brain did, as if it heard something you weren’t ready to admit you needed to hear out loud.

he says it so lightly, too, barely a murmur, and you — stupid, sun-dazed, deeply down bad — you don’t know what to do with it, not really. because things are still new. technically, you’ve only been officially dating a few weeks, right at the start of the season’s summer break.

and yeah, okay, you said a thing in february. a Very Big Thing. you told him, voice cracking and hands shaking, that you’d been in love with him the whole time. and then you kicked him out of you flat and you stopped talking for a few months which is — really, not your best work. but you haven’t said it again. not really. not in a way that could be folded neatly into the space between a joke and a compliment. not in the daylight, not like this.

you keep moving. not because you want to brush it off, but because your brain is already spiraling in seventeen directions, trying to see if he meant it or if it was just a stupid, heat-drenched thing to say while he’s shirtless and floppy and getting doted on by the girl he maybe, probably loves.

“don’t forget my shoulders,” he adds, teasing, tilting his head toward you, eyes still closed. “those are premium. top-tier shoulder real estate.”

you snort but oblige, running your hands over the curves of them, thumbs dipping lightly into the groove where muscle meets neck.

he exhales. soft, content. “this is the dream,” he mumbles, eyes still closed, voice drifting. “you, sun, sea, you rubbing sunscreen into my chest like i’m a greek god.”

you roll your eyes, but your chest aches in that dumb, ridiculous way that means you love him and it’s all too much. “greek gods probably weren’t this annoying.”

“'m not annoying,” he says. “just emotionally attuned to physical affection.”

you roll your eyes, lean down, press a kiss to his forehead. “you’re gonna be emotionally attuned to SPF 50 in a second.” you say as a comeback, almost childishly, even if it doesn’t make any sense.

he grins anyway, still sun-drunk, still basking in it — not just the warmth above, but you, too. like you’re sunlight in its purest form, like you’re something he wants to get drunk off of again and again.

you finish rubbing in the last bit, then sit back on your heels, wiping the excess sunscreen on your thighs — you can never be too safe out in the sun!

he peeks one eye open again, smile slow and soft. “thanks, baby.” he says.

you lean over, kiss the tip of his nose, and try to ignore the quiet thrum of your chest. feels like love.

“first and last time i’m doing this, by the way.” you warn, but there isn’t a hint of anything serious in your voice.

and, okay, maybe it’s stupid, how sweet this is. how easy. how much you feel for him over something so small. but maybe that’s the point, like how some kinds of love arrive like lightning — others just look a lot like sunscreen.

[norrisradio]

kalamantina ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

you find yourself exactly where he asked you to be— on your knees in front of him.

ꔮ starring: lando norris x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 1.5k. ꔮ includes: smut. established relationship. cussing, oral [m receiving], lando is a bit mean. ꔮ commentary box: title from the saint levant song of the same name. 100% for @norrisradio. no further comments. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

When qualifying is good, it’s good.

Lando is happiest when the car performs well, when he’s in tune with it like it’s some sort of second skin. He’s always the sweetest when he’s riding on the high of a pole position— throwing his arms around your shoulders, cheekily asking Did you see, love? Were you watching? 

When qualifying is bad, though— 

It’s rare, but not unheard of. You feel the disappointment thrumming in the garage when Lando is knocked out of Q2, slated to start 15th. In a circuit like Monaco, it’s as good as a death sentence. 

All the reasons blur together. Oversteer, floor damage, shitty tyre strategy. 

The team will tell you later that he yelled. Told everyone to get the fuck out and give him a fucking moment. 

You weren’t there. See, he’d never yell at you. Everybody else, they were subject to his blistering rage and his cutthroat critique, no questions asked. 

You get the texts. 

Today, it’s sweet and simple. 

make me feel better, baby. 

Not a question. Not an offer.

It’s not hard to find Lando; the team points you to his driver room. The first thing you notice is that he hadn’t even bothered to turn on the lights. You wordlessly close the door behind you, the click of the lock resounding in the otherwise quiet space. 

Your eyes adjust to the darkness. He’s still in his black fireproofs, lounging on the room’s sole couch. The back of his head remains pressed against the mirror behind him, and he looks vaguely like he’s trying to get his breathing under control. 

The silence stretches for a bit. You don’t dare break it.

Lando cracks open one of his eyes to finally glance at you. He only says your name— his voice low and raspy and devoid of the saccharine affection you’re used to. 

“Hi, baby,” you greet him back. 

You know better than to try coddling him, to give him platitudes or dissect his fall from grace like a science project. No, you’re here for one reason and one reason only. 

To make Lando feel better. 

He gives the slightest jerks of his head. You move forward, your steps careful and your gaze scrutinizing. 

The rage rolls off him in waves. You know where this is going, and it’s made abundantly clear in his next command. 

“On your knees,” Lando barks. And then, after a heartbeat. Softer, a hint of the boy you knew and loved: “Please.” 

(You would’ve done it even without the plea.)

You find yourself exactly where he asked you to be— on your knees in front of him. His pants and underwear have been pulled to his ankles, the clothing just barely restraining him from spreading as much as he wants to. 

You plant a kiss to the inside of his bare thigh before tentatively licking a stripe up to his center. He stays quiet, but his body reacts accordingly. His knee bounces. His cock twitches against his stomach. 

“Are you sure about this, baby?” Your voice is barely above a murmur; your breath, warm over his heated skin. 

“I asked for it, didn’t I?” he grits out, and you decide to put him out of his misery. 

You start off slow. Hollowed cheeks as you bob your head up and down his length. Your fingers, wrapped around whichever part of him you can’t take in. Lando stays eerily quiet for the first couple of minutes, and so you resort to watching his face for any possible yellow flags. 

A muscle in his jaw jumps when your eyes meet. His gaze is heavy-lidded and his pupils are blown out, darkened in a way that has little to do with the lack of light in the room. 

It spurs you on to sink down a little lower onto him, to flatten your tongue against the underside of his cock. That move has him entangling his fingers in your hair, his grip bruising on the get-go. 

“Again,” Lando demands. 

You try to replicate what you’d just done, but your boyfriend’s nails scraping over your scalp throws you off-kilter. You’re distracted for a moment— a moment too long, in your boyfriend’s opinion. 

He clicks his tongue and tugs at your hair from the roots, drawing a surprised whimper from you. It takes you a moment to register that he’s pulled you off his cock, leaving you gulping for air. He tilts your head back until you’re looking straight at him. 

“I thought you wanted to make me feel good, baby,” he says, injecting just the perfect trace of disappointment in his tone. 

“I do,” you whine as your fingers dig into his thighs. “Wanna make you feel better.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Then get me off properly.” 

He doesn’t give you the chance to respond. He uses his grasp on your hair to practically shove you back down, the head of his cock slamming the back of your throat. A sound of surprise escapes you, but it comes out more as a strangled gasp. 

“There you go,” he praises. “Don’t piss me off, yeah?”  

This time, Lando guides your head’s movements, each thrust calibrated to have you gagging on his cock. You cough and sputter but you take it like a goddamn champ, knowing this was something your boyfriend needed. And when it came to each other’s needs, the two of you would always be more than willing to give. 

At least Lando is a little more vocal now. You can make out the faint grunts he’s trying to keep under control, though you don’t know if it’s for the rest of the team’s benefit or the dominant front he’s trying to put up for you. 

When your teeth accidentally grazes sensitive skin, he lets out a tsk of disapproval. Immediately, his hand in your hair loosens; he moves to the lower half of your face instead. He yanks, pulling your jaw slack until your drool is pooling at the base of his cock. 

“Do I have to do everything out here?” he asks exasperatedly. 

It’s a rhetorical question, you’re sure. There’s no way for you to answer when Lando decides to take full control, to use your mouth in pursuit of his pleasure. He pistons into you, his hips pressing into your face with every forceful shove.

The tempo is a little more rough than you’re used to, but it’s not something you can’t handle. At least that’s what you tell yourself as you let Lando fuck your mouth, his litany of heated cusses not necessarily directed at you. 

“Terrible fucking day,” he hisses, “but at least I get this pretty little mouth at the end of it all.” 

The sheer obscenity of his words has you clenching around nothing. You rub your thighs together to chase some semblance of friction. Lando notices, unfortunately for you. 

He lets out a breathless laugh, the sound bordering cruel. “Need something, baby?” he taunts, delivering a particularly sharp thrust that makes you feel like the breath had been punched out of you. “Tell me, and I’ll give you what you need.” 

It’s downright pathetic, how tears have started to edge at your lash line. You’re not about to tell Lando anything, not with the way he’s ramming his cock down your throat. 

“Can’t speak?” he coos, his grip at your jaw tightening. “Guess you don’t want it enough.” 

He punctuates the jeer with a more punishing pace, one that has you clawing at the sides of his thighs. Not in protest— the two of you have rules set for that sort of thing— but as a silent plea of your own. 

Lando gets the message. 

“Should I finish down your throat?” he purrs.

You barely manage to bob your head up and down in a nod. He laughs again, though this one catches in his throat as his cock twitches in your mouth. He’s close, you can tell. Barely hanging on. 

“Take it,” he grunts. “Every last drop, baby, ‘cause next time I’m filling up that cunt of yours—” 

He breaks off into a loud moan. You feel the hot ropes of his release coating your tongue, flooding your mouth with the taste you swallow unquestioningly. 

Lando slows his thrusts and evens out his breathing. After sufficiently gathering his bearings, he releases your jaw to grab your shoulders instead; gently hauling you up off the floor until you’re half-seated on his lap and the couch. 

Immediately, he’s kissing you, his tongue licking into your mouth. You whine lowly at the prospect of him tasting himself, at how filthy and shameless this was turning out to be. Neither of you pull away until you have to, both your chests heaving from a shortage of air. 

Your tongue darts out to trace your swollen lips. “Are you feeling better?” you ask shakily, pressing your sweat-slick forehead against Lando’s. 

“Much better,” he responds as his hands run over your sides in a soothing gesture. 

He pauses, thoughtful, before leaning in for a much more languid kiss. He murmurs the next words against your mouth, that familiar affection making a reappearance now that the worst of the storm has passed. 

“I’m the fucking best,” he whispers reverently, “all because of you.” ⛐

[norrisradio]

say it first! ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

THIS IS: FORMULA ONE, A MILESTONE EVENT 📀 this is something that demands the truth that oscar has spent years running from.

♫ starring: oscar piastri x ex-girlfriend!reader. ♫ word count: 3.3k. ♫ includes: romance, humor. mention of food. reader is a mclaren social media admin, exes to friends to ???, bad-at-being-exes, everyone is sick of your shit. anon requested any role model song (my choice: say it first). ♫ commentary box: this was in my drafts for too long. i'm pretty sure i overthunk it, but now... have whatever this is <3 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Oscar is the one who slips up. On your first day of work, he unceremoniously blurts out a “bye, love you.” 

It’s just three words, but it’s three words that has the entire McLaren team short-circuiting. Lando chokes on the marshmallow he’d been chewing on for the video challenge. Your fellow social media officer nearly drops her phone. 

Oscar— well, Oscar freezes for just a second.

And then he’s moving, walking out of the driver room like it never happened. There are small signs, though. How the tips of his ears burn red. How his pace is a little quicker than usual. How he barely glances over his shoulder when Lando sputters out, “Hey, hey, wait a second! What was that?!”

You try to keep your expression neutral. It’s hard, though, when you know exactly what caused the ‘mistake’. 

It’d been the typical ending to all of your conversations back when the two of you conversed on the regular. Bye, love you. While it’s been years since, it seemed like Oscar was still a man of routines. 

Old habits always did die screaming. 

When you run into him in the McLaren hospitality later on— after a free practice he dominates, to no one’s surprise— you can’t help but bring it up. 

“Hi,” you greet cheekily, sliding into the seat across from him. ���Love you.” 

He levels you with an unamused glare. 

“It’s your first day,” he deadpans. 

“And here you are, already declaring your love for me.” You nudge his foot under the table. “What happened to keeping it on the down low, huh?” 

It was something you both agreed on, after all. You weren’t cruel enough to show up at the McLaren headquarters without a word to Oscar; when you’d gotten the acceptance letter, he was one of the first people you told. 

I didn’t show up in any of the background checks?, he had responded. Congratulations, though. 

The two of you settled on being lowkey. It wasn’t like you got the job because you were Oscar Piastri’s ex-girlfriend. You’d bagged the social media marketing role completely by your own merit; being Oscar’s ‘the one that got away’ (his joking words, not yours) was an entirely different chapter altogether. 

Present-day Oscar runs a hand over his face. Despite the frustration rolling off him in waves, you feel some semblance of relief at the recognizable gesture. Despite the coveted orange polo and the thousands of adoring fans, this was still, even just a little bit, the same Oscar from back in boarding school. 

“I don’t know why I said that,” he says, his tone a touch distressed. “It just came out.” 

“It’s alright if you still love me, Osc,” you coo. 

The taunt earns you another glare, though there’s something softer underneath it. If you squinted, it might look a lot like hope. 

But that flicker of softness is gone in an instant, replaced by Oscar nudging your foot in retaliation. “Boundaries,” he chides. 

“I wasn’t the one who said bye, love—” 

“Okay, okay. I got it!”

You laugh. It’s a bright, warm sound. The closest Oscar will get to a verbal confirmation of I missed this. I missed you. 

And when you notice Oscar watching you, when you see him fighting back a smile, you have some idea of his unspoken response. The quiet, tender, I missed you, too. 

Oscar already knows he’s going to hate whatever this is.

It’s written all over his face, probably, because Lando keeps side-eyeing him like he’s waiting for Oscar to say something snarky. Which he might, if he wasn’t using every last ounce of patience to get through this brainstorming session without visibly disassociating.

“And then we can do the ‘who’s most likely to’ challenge,” one of the social media girls chirps, scrolling through a doc on her tablet. “Like, who’s most likely to cry during a movie, or forget a teammate’s birthday.”

Oscar doesn’t sigh, but it’s a near thing.

They’re seated around one of the conference rooms tables, the kind usually reserved for media interviews and PR obligations, but today have been carved out for social media content. Content that, apparently, involves getting through as many TikTok-style gimmicks as humanly possible.

Lando, to his credit, looks amused by all of this. The man thrives on chaos.

Oscar? Not so much.

“That’s not really my thing,” he says mildly, which is the diplomatic version of, I’d rather not.

It’s then that he hears your voice. “We’ll keep it quick.”

Oscar looks up.

You’re standing just behind the admin with the tablet, your tone curt, your smile a little conspiratorial. There’s a glint in your eye he remembers well— from late-night debates in the common room, from dares whispered under breath, from that first time you kissed him behind the science block just to prove he wouldn’t chicken out.

And just like that, he’s toast.

“Fine,” he says, too fast. Crap, he thinks. He clears his throat, tries again. “Yeah. Okay. If we keep it quick.”

Lando lets out an exaggerated snort. “Wow. Alright, then.” 

Oscar doesn’t dignify that with a response, doesn’t attempt to scrutinize his co-driver’s knowing look. He’s too busy watching you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, pleased. Too busy noticing the way your shoulders relax now that he’s said yes.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s just content. Just a bit for the team page. Just another post in the endless stream of media obligations. 

The way you look at him— like you still get him, even after all these years—makes it feel like something more, though.

Oscar presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, schooling his expression. He’s not getting ahead of himself. He’s not.

But when you glance back at him and wink, the act just discreet enough to go under everyone else’s radar? Oscar knows old habits aren’t the only thing that die screaming.

Hell, it looks like there are some things that don’t die at all.

The paddock is buzzing even hours after the checkered flag. McLaren’s 1-2 finish has everyone riding high, which is great— for morale. Not so great for the person stuck editing half the day’s content while the rest of the team flits between press obligations and celebration drinks.

You’ve posted the podium shots, clipped the best soundbites from the post-race interviews, and now you’re in the process of syncing audio over one of Lando’s Instagram stories when someone’s shadow blocks the light from your screen.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” comes Oscar’s voice, exasperated. “Why are you crouched in the corner like some kind of content goblin?”

You don’t even look up. “Because every other surface in hospitality is either sticky with champagne or covered in people celebrating. I needed quiet.”

Oscar huffs, clearly unimpressed with your chosen hideout. Wedged between a drinks cart and a flight case, your laptop balanced on your knees, headphone cord tangled like your patience. “You know there are desks. Actual ones. With chairs.”

You glance up. “And coworkers who won’t stop asking me for post copies or tagging me in memes when I’m trying to sync reels. Let me have my shady little corner, Piastri,” you say, the slightest hint of annoyance edging your tone. 

He crosses his arms. You had to give him credit. Oscar had always known when to push and when to back down. “Fine,” he says. “Just don’t electrocute yourself when someone spills Red Bull back here.”

“Thanks for the concern, champion.” 

He turns like he’s going to leave, but you call after him before he’s taken more than a few steps.

“Hey. Congrats on P2.”

Oscar pauses. Looks over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” he says, and for a moment, he looks like he might stay.

It’s not a look you’re particularly accustomed to. You’re used to his leaving, to his coming-and-going’s, so you’re unsurprised when he walks away. 

A few minutes pass. You’re just syncing the final cuts when he returns, this time with a paper plate in hand, stacked with food from the driver’s party. He sinks down next to you, legs bumping yours slightly as he sets the plate between you.

You shoot him an amused look. 

“Don’t say I never bring you anything,” he mutters.

“Didn’t peg you as the sharing type.”

“I was taught to always give to the needy.” 

You pinch his arm. He swats your hand. You don’t say it out loud, but it’s written all over your face— your gratitude for the gesture. 

For a moment, there’s peace. The buzz of the paddock fades behind the drone of your laptop fan and the occasional clink of a fork. Oscar picks at a spring roll, and you quietly nibble a mini quiche, your shoulders brushing every now and then.

A passing teammate does a double take. That’s the night that sparks the rumors; everything else before that had been negligible. The bye, love you had been chalked up to the moral equivalent of accidentally calling your teacher ‘mom’. The easy acquiescence had been blamed on Oscar just wanting things to end faster. 

This one, though, where podium-finisher Oscar Piastri is squeezed into a corner with you instead of celebrating his win? 

Well, there are some things people can’t deny. 

The sun’s high, the court’s dusty, and Lando’s just served another shot with too much spin for Oscar to return cleanly. He grunts, scrambling to his left, barely getting the edge of his paddle on it.

“That’s 4–2,” Lando calls, smug.

Oscar wipes his forearm across his brow. “Only because you cheat.”

“Please. I’m just better.��

Oscar shoots him a glare, but Lando’s already sauntering back to position, twirling his paddle like he’s auditioning for Wimbledon.

Then—

“So, what’s your actual score with her?”

Oscar misses a step. "What?"

Lando grins. "You know. You and our lovely new social media admin. Are you, like… just awkward exes or awkward exes with unresolved tension and late-night texting?"

Oscar serves without answering. Lando returns it easily.

“I’m not wrong.” Lando catches the ball and tosses it back lazily. "You've been weirder than usual. And you’ve been normal-weird since you joined the team."

Oscar exhales. This was bound to come up one way or another. There was no use dancing around it. “We dated,” he answers tersely. “In boarding school.”

Lando whistles. “Serious-serious, or school-serious?”

“Four years.” 

“Damn. That’s basically a marriage.”

Oscar shrugs. Lando hits another shot across the court, which Oscar barely scrapes back.

“So,” Lando calls as he skids across the court, “why’d you break up?"

“Picked racing,” Oscar shoots back. 

It’s the short story. The long story is fraught with evenings spent in Oscar’s dorm, the two of you turning over and over the prospect of the relationship surviving his climb through the ranks. A part of him knows he could say it was mutual, that the two of you called it quits and both simply grew around your first love. 

That would be a lie. You had let him go; he had reluctantly walked away. He knows, he knows it’s why he got as far as he did, and he’s grateful. But sometimes, he can’t help but think— 

“Shit,” Lando huffs as he narrowly misses the padel ball. Whether he’s cussing out Oscar’s lackluster answer or his own shitty reflexes, Oscar doesn’t bother to find out. 

They rally for a few beats in silence, the rhythm filling in what words don’t. Lando, inevitably, is the one who asks the million-dollar question. 

“And now?” Lando presses. “You getting back together?”

The question comes while Oscar is turning mid-swing. 

He promptly trips over his foot. The ball sails past him, and Lando whoops excitedly. 

“Game,” Lando announces gleefully.

Oscar groans from the ground.

You’re elbow-deep in editing footage when Oscar finds you again. 

The McLaren media room is unnaturally empty; you’ve tucked yourself into a corner desk near the window, headphones in, focus locked on syncing B-roll to Lando’s commentary about tire degradation. You don’t hear Oscar approach, but you definitely feel the stare.

He’s the last person you want to see right now. 

Earlier, the two of you had gotten into some petty spat. Oscar was known to buck on producing social media content, but this one he’d felt particularly strongly against. And maybe you had pushed, gotten upset because you were used to his easy acquiescence. 

He stormed off to free practice. You nearly cracked the McLaren-mandated phone’s case. 

Your expression is flat as you focus on the screen in front of you. “If you’re here to complain about the TikTok trend again—”

“I’m not.” Oscar’s tone is no-nonsense. “I’m here to apologize.” 

That gets your attention.

You pause the video, swiveling in your chair to face him properly. Oscar is still in his race suit, a towel slung around his neck, damp hair curling at the ends. There’s a smear of dried sweat along his jawline, and a kind of crumpled look about him, like someone who’s spent most of the afternoon spiraling through self-recrimination.

His FP1 results weren’t the best. P12 raised a couple of eyebrows, especially with Lando setting the fastest lap. For the most part, commentators just assumed Oscar was holding back ahead of qualifying. (The rest of the team figured it might have to do with your little tiff.) 

“You didn’t have to be so dramatic about it, y’know,” you say lightly, picking at a thread on your sleeve. “I wasn’t asking you to dance. It was one trending audio. Lando did it.”

Oscar exhales, slow and steady. “I know. I was just— frustrated. With myself. Not you.”

You shrug, feigning indifference. “You were a dick.”

“I was a dick,” he agrees immediately, and his sheer desperation to get back in your good graces almost has you folding. 

Silence stretches between you for a few beats. Then, he awkwardly stutters, “Can I…?”

“Can you what?” 

He opens and closes his mouth once. Then, as if powering through sheer muscle memory, he leans down and gives you the most stilted, painfully tentative hug you’ve ever received. His arm hooks over your shoulder like a coat hanger. His chin grazes your temple for a split second before he’s already pulling away.

You frown up at him, the annoyance from earlier replaced by an annoyance at this. “What was that?” 

He looks at you like you’re the insane one. “A hug,” he snipes. 

“That was not a hug. That was a hover,” you huff, arms crossing over your chest. “Try again.” 

You’re pushing it, you know. It’s the type of petulance he got a front-row seat to when the two of you were dating, and if things truly haven’t changed, then Oscar would still be a little weak to it. 

He mumbles something under his breath, but steps forward again. This time, he actually commits— arms around your back, chin resting on your head. The kind of hug that feels like a home you forgot you missed.

You don’t uncross your arms, giving some semblance of distance between the two of you. It’s all you can do to keep yourself from returning the embrace and never letting go. 

Just as he’s about to pull away, he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. It’s so natural, so familiar, that neither of you realize what’s happened until it’s already done.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he. 

To say something would be to acknowledge that the two of you fall in to old routines when it comes to each other— bickering like an old couple, seeking touch like you’re starved for it.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are flushed. And unfortunately for you, the blush does not go unnoticed. 

He blames it on the heat. You say it’s because it’s cold. 

The McLaren team glance at their weather apps— the perfect, lukewarm temperature glaring up at them— and heave out heavy sighs. 

Oscar hears the door click before he really registers that it’s shut. 

It’s a distinct click, sharp and final, like the punctuation on a sentence you didn’t realize was ending.

He twists the handle. Then tries again.

Locked.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters.

You look up from where you’re half-sprawled on the lounge, phone in hand. “What?” 

Oscar jerks his head toward the door. “Locked.”

Your brows shoot up. “Locked locked?”

He tries the handle again, harder. “Locked locked.”

And then, as if summoned by tension, a text chimes on your phone. You glance at it, snorting before you angle it towards Oscar. He barely has time to feel a pang of jealousy for Lando’s contact name, which features an absurd amount of emojis, because he’s too fixated on the taunting text: 

no one comes out until a move has been made. don’t bother calling. this is zak approved. 😋

Osca’s eyebrows raise. “He did what?”

“Apparently, it’s a team-building exercise now.”

Silence follows. The kind that’s so heavy it could tip over into something else, something messier, if you let it. Gracefully, you don’t— not when you lead with “They’ll have to let us out eventually. Wanna play 20 Questions while we wait?” 

The mention of the game actually makes Oscar wince. He doesn’t remember the last time he played it, though it was probably all the way back in school. Hell, it’s what had gotten him the courage to confess to you in the first place. How, as a teenager with sweating palms, he had sprung the penultimate query at question 18. Is there anybody you have a crush on? 

He buries the memory and forces himself to come back to where the two of you are right now. He could tease you, could joke about it being a trap and a ploy. Instead, he sighs out, “Sure. Why not.” 

“You go first.” 

He thinks for a moment. “What’s your favorite city on the calendar?” 

“Singapore.” You stretch your legs out toward him, socked feet nudging his knee. “My turn. Question two: Do you think we should get back together?”

Oscar freezes.

For once, the quick reflexes honed by years of racing fail him.

His eyes search yours like he’s looking for the catch, the punchline. There’s none. Just you, sitting there like you hadn’t just sent the entire emotional scaffolding of his world tilting sideways.

He licks his lips. “Is this part of the game?”

You shrug, but there’s something vulnerable in the gesture. “I just figured… we’re stuck. They want us to make a move. Might as well be honest.”

Oscar lets out a shaky breath. The question hangs between you like something sacred and dangerous all at once. Outside the driver room, he hears laughter— probably Lando and the others camped outside, pretending to look for a key. But here, it’s quiet.

Too quiet. The kind of quiet where what’s unspoken will stay just that— unspoken— unless a voice is given to it. 

This isn’t the flirtations of the past couple of months, isn’t the slips of the tongue and the affection that runs far deeper than what’s propriety. No, this is something that demands the truth that Oscar has spent years running from. 

He reaches for the words slowly. 

“Yeah,” he says, “I think we should.” 

Your eyes widen slightly. He fights the urge to call you out; it’s not like it’s unexpected. He hasn’t said anything out loud, sure, but he hasn’t been hiding either. 

Oscar had missed you. Oscar still loves you. 

He didn’t think he had to say it, not until he notices the way you try to tamp your giddy smile. This had always been Oscar’s way— love you, bye had been his thing, because he never said the words first, but he was going to make damn sure he said them last. 

He clears his throat. Tries to not smile too wide, either. “My turn,” he chirps. “What’s your favorite song right now?” 

“We are not changing the topic!” 

Oscar can’t help it. He lets out an affectionate laugh, a laugh that only you can pull out of him. 

It sounds an awful lot like I love you, I love you, I love you. ⛐

[norrisradio]

IN THE DETAILS

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "Don't you think that maybe they are the same thing? Love and attention?" - Lady Bird (2017)

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.6K ᝰ GENRE: a case study: to be loved is to be known ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: requested by @princesspiastri007 ꨄ babe you have given me so many phenomenal ideas but this one.... grabbed my by the neck and didn't let go. sometimes, love is in the details...

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

Oscar knows you’re having a bad day before you do.

It’s not in the way you sigh or shut your laptop a little too hard, not even in the bite of your voice when you say you’re fine—though he catches all of that too. It’s in the way you make your tea.

Usually, you let it steep for three minutes. He’s timed it—curiosity at first, then just habit. You add just a little honey, enough to coat the spoon but not drip. Oat milk, two swirls, no more. But today, you dunk the teabag three times and toss it. No honey. Milk straight from the carton like it doesn’t matter.

Oscar watches all of it from the kitchen doorframe, shoulder leaned against the wood, still in his hoodie from media day, the one you stole two nights ago and returned this morning with a yawn and a kiss.

You don’t notice him at first. You’re too busy staring into the mug like it holds some kind of answer.

He doesn’t say anything. Just slips past you and pulls out the jar of honey, the spoon, the milk from the fridge that’s been open too long. You let him take the mug. You don’t ask questions when he remakes it properly. Three minutes on the clock. He hands it back to you warm and right, and that’s when you finally breathe.

“Thanks,” you mumble, curling into the corner of the couch.

He sits across from you, ankles brushing yours, arms folded loosely. He doesn’t press. You’ll talk when you’re ready. You always do.

Oscar has learned to read you in the quiet.

You chew your lip when you’re solving something. You bite your straw when you’re bored. You fiddle with your ring when you're overthinking, and you wear his hoodie when you miss him but don’t want to say it out loud.

He keeps an eye on how your playlist changes depending on your mood. Bon Iver when you’re homesick. That one ridiculously long Taylor Swift mashup when you need a cry. You claim you’re not predictable, but he’s learned your patterns like racetracks—memorized them turn for turn, heartbeat for heartbeat.

Oscar knows you hate crowds but love airports. You like being picked up from arrivals because it makes you feel chosen. He shows up every time, even when you insist you’ll get an Uber. He gets there early, waits with a sign that always says something different—once it said “Hot Person I Missed a Lot.” You blushed the whole ride home.

He watches how you always tuck your left foot under your right thigh when you're cold. How you pull your sleeves over your hands when you're overwhelmed. He carries spare hair ties in his pocket just in case. Buys extra lemon sherbets because you get weirdly nostalgic for them once every few months. He keeps your favorite lip balm in the glovebox of his car because you once forgot it before a long drive and sulked for two hours.

Oscar knows when you’re happy because your whole face goes quiet. Not loud like the movies say. Not bright and grinning and explosive. No, your happiness is softer. It's in how your shoulders drop a little, like you’ve let the day go. It's in the way you hum under your breath, off-key and careless, usually something stupid like the jingle from that grocery ad you hate but sing anyway.

He hears it before he sees it—that little tune trailing from the bathroom while you brush your teeth or fold laundry. It always makes him smile, even if he doesn’t know the words.

When you’re happy, you talk to things. The cat that always sits on your windowsill even though it isn’t yours. The kettle. The plants you insist are thriving, even though they’re mostly brown.

“Don’t give me that look,” you’ll mutter to a cactus, and Oscar will peek over the rim of his book, just to watch you argue with a plant. That’s when he’s sure: you’re okay.

But when you’re mad—

Oh, he knows.

There’s a difference between being mad and being mad at him, and Oscar has mapped that line like a tightrope.

When you're just mad, everything gets fast. You clean like it’s an Olympic sport. You open drawers like you’re trying to win a fight against gravity. You text your group chat aggressively and then toss your phone face-down, muttering “Ugh, whatever,” as if that clears the air.

Oscar stays out of your way on those days. He keeps your favorite snack stocked and says things like, “Want to yell into a pillow?” which you’ve actually taken him up on more than once.

But when you're mad at him? That’s different. That’s colder.

You go quiet—not calm, but too still. You answer questions with one word. You say “Oscar” like it’s just a name, not his. And you do this thing where you don’t close doors all the way—just enough to not be open. That’s the part that kills him.

He’ll sit with it. With the silence and the space and the ache. He’s not someone who pushes. But later, when the worst of it has thawed, he’ll crawl into your space and bump his nose against yours and whisper, “Still mad?” like a secret, like an offering.

(He always lets you win, even when you're not keeping score.)

And when you’re getting sick—

God. He catches it before you do.

You get stubborn about it, like your body could be tricked. You’ll insist you're just tired or cold or definitely not getting a sore throat, while Oscar is already grabbing the lemon and the cough drops and setting your favorite blanket out on the couch.

You get clumsy when you’re coming down with something—drop your phone, bump into corners, forget where you put your glasses. Your nose twitches when you sniff, and your voice gets this quiet rasp to it, like you’re speaking from underwater.

He never says I told you so.

He just bundles you up like you’re made of paper, presses a kiss to your forehead, and says, “You always get like this right before the rain,” even if there’s not a cloud in sight.

He reads you in the way people read their favorite novels—by heart, by instinct, by the dog-eared pages and the parts where the spine is softest.

Because you don't need to say it out loud.

You never really have.

He knows.

And that’s the point, isn’t it? Love isn’t in the big declarations. It's in the noticing. The remembering.

It’s in all the things you don’t have to ask for.

And Oscar knows when you’re in love. 

You don’t say it either. Not much, anyway. Not in so many words. But you do all the little things.

He notices. Of course he does.

You set your alarm ten minutes earlier when he’s home, just so you can make him tea the way he likes it. Something floral, but not overpowering. Strong, but not bitter. You pour it into the mug he always reaches for, the chipped one from Melbourne with the faded logo and the worn handle that fits his grip like it was made for him.

You let him ramble about tire degradation and strategy calls and wind tunnels, even when you have no idea what he’s talking about. You nod, lean in, ask questions. Sometimes you draw little race tracks on the corner of your grocery lists, and he finds them stuck to the fridge and stares at them longer than he should.

You pack snacks in his carry-on, even when he tells you not to fuss. Always the same ones: the protein bars he pretends not to like but always finishes. The mints he chews during press. The weird sour candy from your hometown that he claimed was “mid” the first time but now hoards in his glovebox.

He knows you always fold his hoodie and tuck it beside your pillow when he's away. You try to hide it, like you don’t want to seem too soft, but he’s seen the way you bury your face in it when you think he’s not looking.

And when he’s stressed—after a race that went sideways, after a flight delay or a wrong headline—you don’t ask if he’s okay. You just sit beside him, legs tangled up in his, and let him be quiet. You bring him orange slices, his favorite vinyl, your hand resting on his knee like a promise. Like I know. I’ve got you.

You kiss his shoulder when you pass him in the hallway. You whisper things like “drive safe” and “text me when you land,” and you mean it like prayers.

You don’t say I love you every day.

But you wait up for him every time. You press kisses to the back of his neck when he’s brushing his teeth. You memorize his schedule. You ask how he’s really feeling, even when he’s trying to hide it behind a half-smile and a shrug.

Oscar knows you’re in love because you see him.

The way he sees you.

You once asked him what he thought love looked like.

He didn’t know then. Not really.

Now he thinks maybe it looks like remembering. Like paying attention. Like making tea the way someone likes it, even when they forget how to make it for themselves.

Oscar doesn’t say I love you often. He’s never been great with words. But he watches you like you’re the only thing that makes sense in a loud, fast world.

And maybe that’s the same thing.

Maybe it always was.

[norrisradio]

HALFWAY HOME

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "I guess I was running from something / I was running back to you" - 5 Seconds of Summer, Outer Space / Carry On

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.9K ᝰ GENRE: a study on something to everything, fluff, angst, some suggestive scenes ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: god i miss u 5sos. i could fill a library with the number of situationship!lando ideas i have but i digress ꨄ requested by anon !

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

The first time Lando kissed you, it tasted like he was trying to forget something.

It was Monaco, of course. Everything always began there—the city of sunlight and shadows, champagne-slick smiles, and nights that never seemed to end until they bled into morning. You weren’t supposed to meet him. You weren’t supposed to stay. And yet, you did both.

You met on someone else's yacht. Someone with too much money and not enough personality. You were there for a reason you couldn’t remember now—something about a friend of a friend and needing a break from your own life. He was leaning over the rail, drink in hand, face tilted toward the wind like he was hoping it would carry him away. When he turned and saw you watching, he smiled like he’d been waiting for you.

And maybe, in a way, he had.

That first night was laughter and fingertips brushing in the dark, the thrill of someone seeing you in a place where you didn't belong. He looked at you like the world wasn’t loud for once. You let him.

It was easy at first. That’s the dangerous part.

It was late-night texts that buzzed against your thigh like a secret.

You up?

Come over.

And you did. Even when you knew better. Even when you told yourself this was the last time, that you wouldn’t fall back into the same gravity.

His hotel room always felt like a suspended world—half-lit, half-dream, the kind of place where time slipped between your fingers and consequences didn’t exist. He'd answer the door in joggers slung too low on his hips, hair tousled like he hadn’t really slept since you last saw him, a ghost of a grin playing on his lips like he already knew you weren’t going to say no.

You never said no.

There were no pleasantries, not really. Just the heat of his mouth on yours before the door even clicked shut, your back pressed to cool walls or warm sheets, hands in each other’s clothes like you’d both been starving. It was teeth grazing skin, fingers threaded through hair, the sharp sting of need wrapped in laughter and breathless curses.

You’d lie tangled in the aftermath—his hand tracing idle patterns along your spine, your leg thrown over his like it belonged there. Sometimes he’d whisper things in the dark, half-jokes, half-truths. 

You drive me insane.

This was a bad idea.

Stay.

And you always did, curled into him like it meant something.

For a while, it was easier to pretend that it didn’t.

He told you things he didn’t tell anyone else—like how sometimes he felt like he was driving in circles, chasing something he couldn’t name. And you told him things you’d buried years ago, things you didn’t even remember knowing about yourself.

But still, you never called it love. Not then.

Lando was the kind of boy who said I miss you without meaning I need you, and you were the kind of person who pretended that didn’t hurt. You called what you had a thing. A situationship. Like naming it would make it easier to lose.

You started keeping track of the cities like notches on a belt—Barcelona, Montreal, Budapest. He’d fly you out, and you’d come running, telling yourself each time that this would be the last. But it never was. Not when his hand fit so perfectly at the small of your back, or when he said your name like it meant home.

There were silences, too. Days where he disappeared into the noise of the world he belonged to. You watched him on your screen, smiling that familiar smile, your name buried somewhere between the lines. You’d tell yourself not to care. You never listened.

You broke it off on FaceTime, halfway through the season.

He’d just finished a press day—still in his fire suit, hair a mess, jaw flexing the way it always did when he was tired but wired, running on adrenaline and caffeine and whatever else kept him going. You were curled up on your couch, blanket around your shoulders like armor, pretending it didn’t make you feel pathetic that you'd waited all day for him to call.

He grinned when he saw you. “You look cute.”

You didn’t smile back. “Don’t.”

“What?” He tilted his head, playful. “I’m not allowed to compliment you now?”

“Lando.”

His smirk faltered. Just a little. “Okay… what’s up?”

You stared at the little box of his face on your screen. Thought about all the nights you'd spent falling asleep to the sound of his voice, all the mornings you woke up alone. Thought about what it felt like to watch him post and perform and glow for everyone but you.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

“But we’re not together, baby,” he said, like this was some joke, like maybe you were just feeling a little too much and he could charm you out of it.

You exhaled, slow and quiet. “Exactly.” 

There was a beat of silence, long enough for your stomach to twist.

He laughed. A hollow sound. “So you’re breaking up with me… from something that doesn’t exist.”

“I know it doesn’t.” You folded your arms tighter. “That’s the fucking problem.”

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at you like he was trying to figure out whether this was real or not, like maybe if he said nothing, you’d take it all back.

You didn’t.

“I need space,” you told him. “I need to feel like I matter to someone who doesn’t just want me when it’s dark and convenient.”

Still nothing.

You ended the call before he could hang up first.

He didn’t call for three weeks.

You didn’t breathe for four.

And then—Brazil.

The track was slick with rain, the paddock quiet except for the hushed shuffle of crew and cold wind. You weren’t even supposed to be there. You’d come with a friend, told yourself it didn’t matter if you saw him.

But when he saw you, something broke open in his face.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked up, wrapped his arms around you like you hadn’t been gone at all. You stiffened, then melted. Because you always did.

“I thought you hated me,” he murmured, voice low against your temple.

“I did,” you said. “I still might.”

He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You found yourself in his hotel room again, familiar and strange. He kissed you like he’d been starving. You kissed him like you were scared it would be the last time.

It wasn’t.

The next time he texted you, it wasn’t at 2 a.m.

It was a Thursday afternoon, and your phone buzzed with a quiet, cautious How’s your week been?

No winky face. No follow-up demand for a photo. Just that. Like he was knocking instead of barging in for once.

You stared at the message for a while before answering.

The shift was slow, almost unspoken—like he was trying to rebuild something without naming what had broken. He started calling at odd hours. Not just when he was lonely or half-drunk in a hotel room, but in the middle of the day while waiting at the airport, or on the drive back from the track. The conversations stretched longer. Silences didn’t feel like landmines anymore.

Sometimes he just wanted to hear your voice.

“Tell me something boring,” he said once, voice muffled through the speaker. “Like… what you had for breakfast.”

You laughed. “Lando—”

“I’m serious. I wanna hear the stupid stuff. The everyday stuff.”

So you did. You told him about your run-in with the woman who always blocked the elevator with her dog, how your coffee machine made a noise like it was possessed, how you accidentally sent a flirty email to your boss. He listened like it mattered. Like you mattered.

Then there were the cities.

He started showing up in ones he had no business being in. You’d look up from your table at a café in Rome, and there he was across the street, sunglasses pushed into his curls, grinning like he hadn’t just flown five hours on a whim. Once, he knocked on the door of your Airbnb in Copenhagen with a bag of pastries and no explanation except, “I had a free weekend.”

“You raced yesterday.”

“Yeah. And I wanted to see you today.”

You stopped questioning it. Not because it made sense—but because it started to feel like something you could believe in.

He never said what changed. You didn’t ask.

But he started saying goodnight instead of send a pic, and I miss you with a kind of softness that didn’t try to cover its teeth.

Then, one night—London, rain glossing the streets until the streetlights looked like they were floating—he knocked on your door again.

London was cold that week. The kind of cold that crept into your sleeves and settled in your bones no matter how many layers you wore. The rain hadn’t stopped in two days—it tapped against the window in a steady rhythm, soft and insistent, like it was trying to lull the city to sleep.

He hadn’t meant to stay long. He was supposed to drop by, grab the charger he left the last time, and leave. But now it was past midnight, and he was still there, cross-legged on your floor, eating crisps out of the bag with one hand and scrolling aimlessly with the other. His hoodie was damp at the cuffs, his curls flattened from the drizzle, and he looked so soft like that—disarmed, a little tired, almost real.

You sat on the couch above him, your fingers absently carding through his hair. You didn’t mean to. You just started and never stopped, and he didn’t ask you to.

The silence had stretched long and comfortable, but he broke it.

“I always felt like I was running from something.”

You paused. Your hand stilled in his hair.

He didn’t look up. Just kept staring ahead, like the truth was easier to say if he didn’t have to see your face. “Turns out I was just running back to you.”

Your breath caught.

He said it so simply, like it wasn’t everything. Like it hadn’t been gnawing at the edges of both your hearts for months.

Your fingers slipped from his hair. He finally turned his head, resting his cheek against your thigh now, eyes lifted to yours.

The rain filled the space between your heartbeats.

“This still isn’t perfect,” you said. Your voice was low, careful.

You watched the way his jaw tensed, the way he swallowed like he was bracing himself for the worst.

“I don’t want perfect,” he said.

He leaned forward just slightly, enough for his palm to find your knee, warm through the fabric of your joggers. His thumb brushed the curve of it, grounding.

“I want you.”

There was a pause—not dramatic, just true—where you realized he meant it.

All the nights he hadn’t called. All the times he held you like a secret. All the versions of him you tried to make peace with.

And still—him, here. You, here.

You didn’t answer. You just leaned down and kissed him, slow and certain, like maybe this time, it would mean everything.

And maybe, for once, it did.

[norrisradio]

the  spider-society  is  an  elite  force  founded  and  led  by  binisainz  and  @tsunodaradio.  they  are  an  organization  of  spider-people  from  different  alternate  dimension  whose  mission  is  to  preserve  the  multiverse  from  any  possible  threat.

under  the  cut,  you  will  find  the  files  of  piastri,  norris,  hamilton,  and  russell.  for  data  on  tsunoda,  sainz,  hadjar,  and  albon,  check  out  tsunodaradio’s  masterlist  here.

🕷️ 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐   𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎   𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖   ...  EARTH-81

spider  !  oscar   ft.   journalist  reader   ⸻   mistaken  identity-ish , oscar is also an amateur photographer  ,  romantic  comedy  ,  social  media  au

🕷️ 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐   𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎   𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖   ...  EARTH-04

 spider  !  lando   ft.   guy  girl-in-the-chair  reader   ⸻   childhood  friends  to  lovers  ,  waiting  on  who  confesses  first  ,  kind  of  a  derivative  of  my  does  this  feeling  go  both  ways?  series

🕷️ 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐   𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎   𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖   ...  EARTH-44

 spider  !  lewis   ft.   ex  -  superhero  reader   ⸻   extremely  divorced  ,  unresolved  tension  , second chance romance ,  angst  with  a  happy  ending

🕷️ 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐   𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎   𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖   ...  EARTH-63

 spider  !  george   ft.   third-iteration-of-hawkeye  reader   ⸻   roommates  trying  to  hide  their  secret  identities  from  each  other  ,  misunderstanding  ,  romantic  comedy  with  sliiight  angst 

into  the  f1-verse  is  genuinely  something  kae  and  i  have  been  brewing  for  a  while  …  we  are  crazy  but  we  are  free !!!!  so  , so  much  love  and  care  into  this  series  +  collab  !  kae  already  said  that  their  titles  are  from ricky  montgomery  ,  and  mine  are  song  lyrics  (or  derived  from  song  lyrics)  as  well  !!  part  of  you  knew  is  a  play  on party  4  u  by  charli  xcx, black  box  warning  is  by  leanna  firestone, i  love  you,  i’m  sorry  by  gracie  abrams,  and brutal  by  olivia  rodrigo !!  

[norrisradio]

into the f1-verse ⛐ 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣

the spider-society is an elite force founded and led by @binisainz and tsunodaradio. they are an organization of spider-people from different alternate dimensions whose mission is to preserve the multiverse from any possible threat.

under the cut, you will find the files of tsunoda, sainz, hadjar, and albon. for data on piastri, norris, hamilton, and russell, check out binisainz’ masterlist.

📁 line without a hook 🕷 earth-22

𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘺𝘶𝘬𝘪 𝘹 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 🏷️ childhood best friends, dorks in love, romantic comedy.

there’s only two things you want in life: to find out who spider-man is, and to get a goddamn boyfriend. your best friend yuki swears he can help you out on both fronts.

📁 one way mirror 🕷 earth-55

𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘹 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 🏷️ established relationship, carlos is a girl dad, angst with a happy ending.

it’s hard to save madrid and make it home right before bed time. carlos balances on a tightrope of parenthood and power— both of which carry great responsibility.

📁 talk to you 🕷 earth-6

𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘹 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 🏷️ neighbors, misunderstandings, isack is bad at feelings.

spider-man is the bane of your existence. the guy who moved in next door, though, is the guy of your dreams. it’s a shame that you run into spidey more often than your new neighbor.

📁 get used to it 🕷 earth-23

𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘹 𝘹 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 🏷️ rivals to lovers lite, moral dilemmas, feelings realization/denial.

misery loves company, and nobody is more miserable than bangkok’s neighborhood heroes and villains. you and alex are sworn enemies on paper— but it’s never that simple, is it?

footnotes 🕷 stories will be linked to this masterlist once completed. most fics will be rated T due to typical superhero-verse themes of crime, violence, etc. all titles are from ricky montgomery songs. major shoutout to birdy for sharing in this insanity with me! we are crazy, but we are freee.. ‹𝟹

[norrisradio]

PRESSED BETWEEN PAGES

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever." - Lord Alfred Tennyson

ᝰ PAIRING: yuki tsunoda x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.4K ᝰ GENRE: fluff!!! mention of one (1) fight, yuki is in love ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: turns out me and a have a shared favorite quote! i'm a big lover of the language of flowers so this one is special to me ꨄ︎ requested by @hello-car-fandom !

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

Yuki doesn’t say much when you change the flowers.

It happens quietly, usually on a Sunday. The kind of slow morning where the sky hangs low and the light in the apartment turns golden for no reason at all. Sometimes he’s just getting back from a run, shoes damp with dew, shirt clinging to his back. Sometimes he’s on the couch, scrolling through lap data, one leg tucked under him and his hair still damp from the shower.

You move through the room like it’s something sacred—plucking limp stems from glass jars, fingertips stained with water and wilting green. On the kitchen counter. By the window. Once, tucked inside a toothbrush cup by the bathroom sink.

You never make a big deal out of it. Just hum under your breath and hum again when the new bouquet unfurls its petals under the faucet. It’s the only way you really keep track of the seasons, you told him once, hands full of lilacs and eucalyptus. When you don’t have time to notice the air changing or the daylight shifting, you trust the florists to do it for you.

He listens to that in the back of his mind, files it away. Like how tulips mean spring. Daisies mean rain is coming. Marigolds mean you’re starting to sleep with the fan on again.

He never says anything when the old ones go. Just watches as you slide them from their vases, one by one, and lay them gently into the compost bin. The petals fall apart in your fingers sometimes, thin and papery. The stems bend too easily. They’ve softened with time.

But when you leave the room—off to take a call, or switch on the kettle, or pull laundry from the dryer—he moves.

Softly. Like it’s a secret. Like he’s doing something wrong, though it never really is.

He reaches into the bin, fingers threading through damp coffee grounds and orange peels until he finds the stems. Not all of them. Just one. Maybe two. The ones still holding their shape, even if their color has started to fade.

❀˖° THE TULIP - APRIL °˖❀

The front door creaks open with the soft click of a key turning too carefully, like he’s afraid to wake the walls.

Yuki drops his duffel bag quietly just inside, his shoulders stiff from the flight, neck aching from hours spent tilted awkwardly against the seat. Tokyo rain clings to the sleeves of his hoodie, tiny dark circles blooming where it soaked through.

He’s barely taken a step inside when he sees you—curled up on the couch, arms folded tight against your chest, knees drawn in like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. You’re asleep, mouth parted just slightly, hair falling across your cheek. The TV flickers with the low hum of some late-night rerun, casting moving shadows over the blanket tangled around your legs.

He moves quietly, kneeling beside the coffee table. That’s when he sees the bouquet—still wrapped in brown paper, tulip heads peeking shyly from the fold, pale pink and a little bruised around the edges.

The receipt is folded underneath it, timestamped from hours ago. You must have picked them up right after your shift. You must’ve waited.

Yuki swallows around something that tastes too much like guilt and gratitude and everything in between. He should wake you. He doesn’t.

Instead, he touches one of the tulips lightly, presses the soft edge of its petal between his fingers. He smiles, just a little. Then he stands, pads over to the kitchen, and pulls an old mug from the cupboard. Fills it halfway. Snips the stems like you always do.

By the time you stir awake, groggy and blinking through the television static, the tulips are standing tall in the center of the kitchen table, catching the soft, early light of dawn.

You don’t even notice the single tulip missing from the bunch.

But Yuki does. He presses it between the pages of an old notebook that night, the faintest scent of your waiting still clinging to its petals.

❀˖° THE DAISY - JUNE °˖❀

The clouds break with no warning.

One second it’s thick summer air, heavy with sun and the low buzz of heat, and the next it’s thunder cracking over the buildings and rain hitting the pavement like applause.

You don’t even flinch.

Yuki’s still drying his hair from a post-run shower when he hears the balcony door slide open. The curtain lifts with a gust of wind, carrying the scent of wet concrete and ozone.

When he walks into the living room, towel draped over his shoulders, he freezes at the sight of you—barefoot, already soaked, arms outstretched like you’re trying to catch the sky in your hands.

You laugh—head tipped back, eyes closed—spinning once on your heel like a kid. Your white T-shirt clings to your sides, and your hair sticks to your forehead in wet strands, but you don’t seem to care.

“It’s raining,” you say, like he hadn’t noticed.

“I can see that,” he replies, deadpan—but he doesn’t pull you back inside. He leans on the doorframe, watching you twirl barefoot on the slick tiles, lightning stitching its way across the clouds.

There’s a tiny jar by the railing with a single daisy, already sagging under the weight of the water. You must’ve grabbed it from the little garden box, some spontaneous, sunlit moment made permanent in glass.

He’ll take it inside later—after the sky clears, after you’ve come back in, dripping and radiant, tugging him by the wrist to dance with you in puddles.

That night, while you’re brushing your hair out, back turned to him in the mirror, he plucks the daisy from its jar and slips it between the pages of a half-filled journal.

Even months later, it still smells like summer rain.

❀˖° THE MARIGOLD - LATE AUGUST °˖❀

The silence after the argument feels like its own kind of noise.

Yuki sits at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers knotted in his hair. You’re in the kitchen, pretending to do dishes, though all he hears is water running and not much else.

Neither of you meant for it to go that far. The fight was stupid—about groceries, or maybe laundry, or maybe the way he sometimes shuts down when things get hard. You’d raised your voice. He’d left the room.

Now it’s sunset, and the apartment glows with that soft, golden hush that only comes once a day, like the light is trying to forgive everything it touches.

When you appear in the doorway, your expression isn’t angry anymore. You’re holding something in your hands—a marigold, still bright, pulled from the vase on the table.

You walk up to him slowly and offer it out, wordlessly.

He looks up, meets your eyes. Then he laughs—quiet and a little embarrassed—and takes the flower from you, twirling it once between his fingers.

“I was an ass,” he says.

“You were tired,” you reply. “So was I.”

He tugs you down beside him, your thigh pressed against his. The marigold rests between you on the bedspread, its orange glow catching the last of the sun.

Later, he pretends to be asleep while you make dinner. He slips the marigold into a folded napkin and places it gently in the spine of his notebook.

It smells like apologies and soft light and the feeling of coming home again.

Each flower is carefully flattened between the pages of an old notebook he keeps zipped up in the lining of his suitcase. He doesn't need to label them. He remembers. Which flower came from which Sunday. Which week you couldn’t sleep. Which day you laughed so hard you spilled water all over the counter.

Sometimes, he tucks one into his pocket before a flight or race weekend. It crumbles a little each time he does, but it’s still enough. Just a whisper of the color, the shape—of you.

You never notice.

Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s why you started tying the stems with twine now, something softer and easier to unwind, like you’re giving permission. Like you’re saying, go on, take this one too.

And he does.

Quietly, always.