Chapter Text
The hallway was still warm with the remnants of sunset when Lando flopped face-first onto his hotel bed and let out a groan that could’ve raised the dead.
Beside him, Franco laughed—unhelpfully, traitorously—and stole one of the hotel pillows like it belonged to him now. (Which, if Lando was honest with himself, it probably did.)
Their phones buzzed and buzzed and buzzed, the group chat going absolutely feral in real time. Max was sending voice notes in his weird half-muttering tone, Charles was threatening a photo edit collage for Instagram, and Oscar was asking if it was too late to start a friends-to-lovers series in real time.
Lando turned his head just enough to glare at Franco. “You planned this, didn’t you?”
Franco had the audacity to look smug. “If I had planned it, there would’ve been background music. Probably a sweeping orchestral score. Maybe fireworks.”
Lando snorted. “You really are a drama queen.”
“You kissed a drama queen under the moonlight,” Franco reminded him. “You don’t get to act superior now.”
More buzzing. More screaming messages from Charles in all caps.
Franco picked up Lando’s phone and read aloud:
“Charles says ‘IF YOU TWO DON’T MAKE IT OFFICIAL ON INSTAGRAM IN THE NEXT 48 HOURS I’M STARTING A FANCAM WITH TAYLOR SWIFT AUDIO.’”
Lando grabbed the phone and threw it into a nearby chair. “I hate them.”
“No you don’t.”
“I hate that they’re right.”
Franco laughed again. It was stupid how good that sound made Lando feel. Like every sleepless night spent pining had been worth it just for this: tangled sheets, aching cheeks from smiling, and Franco looking at him like maybe, just maybe, he was worth writing stories about.
The chat pinged again.
Then again.
And again.
Lando rolled back onto his stomach. “What now?”
Franco glanced at his own phone this time, then went very, very still.
“…Franco?” Lando asked, slowly.
Franco blinked. “Oh no.”
Lando sat up. “What do you mean ‘oh no’? What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Franco.” Lando grabbed his phone and stares at the group char
Oscar:
guys
Oscar:
GUYS
Oscar:
I FOUND A FIC WRITTEN BY FRANCO
Charles: NO YOU DID NOT.
Max: Prove it.
Oscar: AO3 user: “ArgentinianRacer43.” Guess who has that name on his F1TV profile.
Lando blinked. “Wait—what?!”
Franco slid further down the bed like he could disappear under the blanket. “I can explain.”
Lando grabbed Franco’s phone and started scrolling. “You wrote fanfiction?! ABOUT US?!”
“It wasn’t about us at the time!” Franco yelped, now fully under the blanket. “It was like—what if two drivers had tension and one of them was a sarcastic British idiot and the other was a confused Argentine with a crush and a tendency to cry in hotel bathrooms! It was a metaphor!”
Lando scrolled. “YOU MADE ME PLAY GUITAR?!”
“It was SYMBOLIC, okay?! It represented vulnerability and unspoken longing!”
Lando turned slowly. “And the part where I—quote—‘sat on the edge of his hotel bed and said, tell me to stay and I will, even if it ruins everything?’”
Franco groaned. “That scene has won a comment award. Do not mock it.”
Oscar:
HEY I JUST FOUND “Soft Rain on Cold Asphalt”
Oscar:
THE PIER SCENE WAS IN THIS ONE
Oscar:
YOU FORESHADOWED YOUR OWN KISS
Oscar:
FRANCO. YOU MANIFESTED THIS.
Charles:
He wrote it into existence.
Charles:
That’s some witchcraft.
Max: This is honestly impressive.
Lando stared at the screen, open-mouthed. “You wrote a coffee shop AU… where I own a bookstore… and we argue over latte art?”
“It was supposed to be cozy enemies-to-lovers!”
“There’s a tag that says #lando wears reading glasses and #Franco has an apron kink.”
“I never said it was accurate!”
Max: This explains the entire arc of this season.
Oscar: Franco I want you to know I cried at ‘The Only Thing I Didn’t Say Was Your Name.’
“God. I regret everything.” Franco said out loud
Lando was already cackling, open-mouthed, falling sideways on the bed.
“Oh my god,” he wheezed, scrolling through more tags. “You called me ‘sunset boy’ in four different fics!”
“It’s a motif!”
“You are SUCH a fanboy!”
Franco buried his face in a pillow. “I was processing my feelings in a healthy outlet.” he texted a minute later
Max: “Healthy”? Bro you gave yourself a dream sequence in chapter seven of that fic where Lando dies and comes back to life in a hospital bed and confesses love via heart monitor.
Oscar: THAT WAS HIM????
Charles : I cried at that one.
Lando: GUYS. STOP READING MY BOYFRIEND’S FANFIC IN REAL TIME.
Oscar: NOPE.
Franco finally peeked out. “Okay. So I maybe wrote a couple of things.”
“You wrote a whole goddamn emotional trilogy!”
“It was slow-burn,” Franco muttered. “It required time.”
Lando tackled him with a pillow. “You’re the worst. I’m dating a fanfic author.”
Franco beamed. “And I’m dating my number one reader.”
And that was true, wasn’t it?
Because the whole time, even when he’d been confused or scared, Franco had been seeing something worth believing in. Worth imagining. Worth writing.
And now—now it wasn’t fiction anymore.
Now it was them.
Lando had survived chaotic races, nerve-wracking press conferences, Max’s terrifying overtakes, and the horror of being forced to wear Crocs for a bet once in Monaco. But nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared him for the psychological warfare of the group chat discovering Franco was a fanfiction writer.
The buzz of his phone was constant.
He and Franco were still curled up in bed, the duvet pulled up lazily over their legs, a laptop playing some half-watched Marvel movie that neither of them were paying attention to. Lando had one hand on Franco’s thigh, fingers lazily tracing patterns. Everything felt warm. Safe. Until the very not-safe ping of:
Oscar: GUYS. “ArgentinianRacer43” JUST POSTED A NEW CHAPTER.
Lando blinked. Franco choked. Then it hit.
“No,” Franco whispered, sitting up too fast. The laptop slid off his lap with a thud.
“What does he mean?” Lando said, eye narrowing with suspicion. “Franco. Please tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it means.”
Franco tried to pull a pillow over his head. “I was going through something.”
Charles:
Oh yeah! It's called “Blizzard Hearts and Broken Wings.”
Summary: “When you’re stranded in the Swiss Alps, sometimes the coldest nights lead to the warmest feelings.”
This is so dramatic. I love it.
Max: I can’t believe I’m reading Franco’s prose about Lando in thermal gear.
Oscar: . it’s so romantic I CAN’T BREATHE.
Lando grabbed his phone.
“ARGENTINIANRACER43,” he read aloud. “Franco. Did you seriously name your alter ego after your country and a racing number?!”
“It wasn’t supposed to blow up!” Franco wailed. “I thought—who would ever find me on AO3?”
“EVERYONE.” Lando gestured around them. “Everyone in this chat is chronically online , Franco!”
“I write for me , not for them!” Franco argued. “It was a coping mechanism!”
“Were you coping by giving me a tragic backstory where I lose my voice in a skiing accident?”
“It’s symbolic !”
Lando stared at him.
Franco pulled the blanket up over his face. “This is the worst day of my life.”
Oscar:
Chapter 3 is called “Snowdrifts of the Soul.”
That’s—poetic. You’re a menace.
Charles:
Did you draw the cover image yourself?
IT’S SO GOOD.
Max:
Wait. This author also wrote “Crash and Yearn.”
THAT WAS YOU TOO??? That fic made me cry in Spa.
I WAS IN SPA. YOU MADE ME CRY AT MY OWN TRACK.
Franco:
I’m logging off forever.
Of Ao3 and this group chat
Oscar: Too late. You’re our collective AO3 god now.
Lando: I’m reading this out loud. Right now.
“Don’t you dare,” Franco said, lunging for the phone. Lando scrambled backward, holding it above his head like a schoolboy dodging a spitball.
“Ahem,” Lando began in his best dramatic voice. “Lando’s hands were cold from hours buried in the snow, but his heart—his stupid, infuriating, traitorous heart—beat faster every time Franco so much as looked at him.’”
Franco buried his face in the mattress. “I’m breaking up with you.”
Lando grinned. “‘And when Franco finally pulled off his helmet, curls damp with sweat, eyes shadowed by regret, Lando thought: Maybe I’ve been freezing just to know what warmth feels like. ’”
“Lando,” Franco groaned.
Lando blinked at the screen. “Is this how you actually think I talk?”
“...Maybe?” Franco whispered.
“‘Eyes shadowed by regret’?! Franco!”
“I was being poetic!”
“I’m offended on behalf of my eyeballs.”
Max: Please tell me there’s smut.
Charles: DON’T SAY THAT. I WAS DRINKING TEA.
Oscar: There is a tag that says “suggestive hot springs scene 👀”
Lando: Hot springs?? Franco!!
Franco looked absolutely betrayed. “Oscar has too much time on his hands.”
They laughed for what felt like hours, long after the group chat had devolved into memes and dramatic quotes from Franco’s own fics. By midnight, Charles had changed the group name to “F1 (fiction one)” , and Max had declared himself Head of AO3 Surveillance.
Franco tried to be mortified. But even under the covers, even with a pillow over his head, he was smiling. Because Lando was laughing beside him, real and warm and there.
“Lando?” he said after a while.
“Yeah?”
“You’re not actually mad?”
Lando paused, then looked over and kissed his temple. “Mad? Franco. I’ve never been more impressed.”
Franco snorted.
“You predicted our entire relationship arc like six months ago,” Lando said. “That’s some serious manifestation power.”
“It wasn’t meant to be serious,” Franco said, cheeks flushed. “I was lonely. I just wanted to imagine a version of you who’d… see me.”
Lando’s smile softened. “Hey. I do.”
Franco blinked. “Yeah?”
Lando nodded. “I do. You’re mine now. Fic or no fic.”
They didn’t say much after that. Just curled together under the blankets, the phone still buzzing softly beside them with Charles’s increasingly unhinged memes.
Lando hadn’t stopped reading fanfiction since the group chat revelation. Except now, it wasn’t just a guilty, anonymous spiral at 2am. Now, it was personal. Very personal. His boyfriend was a published AO3 author. A multi-chapter, slow-burn, metaphor-wielding, tag-abusing menace. And Lando was spiraling in full 1080p.
The next morning, after the memes had finally calmed, he rolled over in bed, grabbed his laptop, and stared at the blinking cursor on a blank document.
Franco was still asleep, hair messy against the pillow, his lips slightly parted. Adorable. Peaceful. Mockable.
Lando smirked.
Title: “Pole Position (In My Heart)”
Summary: Two rival drivers. One shared hotel suite. Unlimited chaos. And maybe, just maybe, something softer underneath.
Tags: accidental bed sharing, mutual pining, emotional constipation, hurt/comfort, enemies to something more, Charles Leclerc is a menace, Oscar Piastri is the voice of reason, Max Verstappen knows everything
By the time Franco blinked awake, Lando had written 1,200 words of what could only be described as AO3 revenge art .
Franco rolled over with a yawn. “Morning…”
Lando didn’t even look up. “Don’t talk to me until I finish this angst paragraph.”
Franco blinked. “You’re writing?”
“Fanfiction,” Lando said solemnly. “My legacy begins now.”
“Your what ?”
Lando turned the screen dramatically. “Behold. Chapter One: ‘You Keep Leaving Your Race Suit On the Floor, and I Keep Leaving My Heart.’”
Franco squinted. “Is this—wait— is that me ?”
“You’re the grumpy one,” Lando said. “I’m the sunshine idiot.”
Franco sat up, rubbing his eyes. “You made me grumpy??”
“You are grumpy.”
“I am brooding ,” Franco corrected, indignant.
Lando laughed. “You say that like you didn’t write me crying in a blizzard for three chapters straight.”
Franco lunged for the laptop. Lando dodged, giggling, until they both tumbled back onto the bed in a heap of blankets and fake outrage.
Meanwhile, the group chat was back online.
Oscar: Charles is making a pinterest moodboard for your fic, Lando.
Charles: I call it “Monaco Mood Melt.” It has dock lighting, velvet, and a single slow-dancing gif.
Max: How long until we get Chapter 2?
Lando: I’m workshopping the title: “DRS = Desperately Realizing Softness”
Franco: I am in hell.
Oscar: This is the best timeline.
Max: I will not rest until there is a scene where you cry and say, “He’s my home.”
Lando: Already written. Franco tucks me into bed after I crash emotionally in Baku.
Franco: …that’s not unrealistic
Charles: Are we going to ignore that Franco put himself in seven fics with Pierre?
Oscar: YOU DID WHAT ?
Lando: …Franco?
Franco buried his face in the nearest pillow. “I was going through something!”
“You went through Pierre??” Lando said dramatically.
“He has nice hair! And he bought me a drink!”
Lando gasped. “ Canon event. ”
Later that day, Oscar sent them a PowerPoint presentation titled: “Fanfic Tropes That Apply to You (A Visual Analysis).”
Slides included:
- “Accidental Bed Sharing: A Timeline”
- “Only One Brain Cell Between Them: Evidence Log”
- “Pining: A Side-by-Side Comparison of Race Weekend Eye Contact”
Charles added a soundtrack. Max requested a fanfic where he’s the emotionally damaged mentor figure. Oscar wrote a one-shot about Lando calling Franco “baby” during a post-race interview and forgetting the mic was live.
Franco considered deleting the internet.
Lando considered printing and framing every fic written by “ArgentinianRacer43.”
That night, Lando posted his first fic.
He used the username PapayaAndPining .
It was a soft, chaotic, 3k one-shot called “The Crash Before the Confession,” where Lando and Franco accidentally locked themselves in a hospitality closet and had to confront their feelings.
It got 76 kudos in two hours.
Franco left a comment from his alt account: “Whoever wrote this clearly understands the tension of touching someone’s elbow in a confined space. 10/10.”
Lando replied: “Thank you. The elbow was the real main character.”
They lay in bed that night, screens glowing softly, their AO3 tabs open, feet tangled under the sheets.
“You know,” Franco murmured, “I think we might be the most online relationship on the grid.”
Lando grinned. “Absolutely. And now it’s canon.”
Franco smiled, heart warm. “I like being canon.”
Lando leaned in, kissed him gently. “Same.”
Franco was still catching his breath when Lando rolled over him, their clothes already halfway scattered across the floor, the hum of hotel A/C barely cutting through the heat building in the room.
“I can’t believe you actually wrote—”
“Don’t,” Franco groaned, tossing a pillow at him. “We had a moment. A whole cinematic arc. Can we not ruin it with citations?”
Lando caught the pillow, smirking. “It’s not ruined. It’s inspiring. In fact…” He reached for his phone on the nightstand, tapping the screen with a devilish grin. “Do you remember that one fic where you—” He paused, eyes gleaming. “—where you crawl under the desk during a press day?”
Franco blinked. “You’re not serious.”
“I am extremely serious.”
“You said you read that for trauma.”
Lando slid closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “And now I want to recreate it.”
Franco opened his mouth—probably to object—but Lando was already kissing down his throat, one hand slipping beneath the waistband of his briefs, the other pushing Franco back onto the bed like he owned it.
“Jesus,” Franco whispered, shivering. “What happened to soft slow-burn moonlight kisses?”
Lando grinned against his collarbone. “That was Part One. This is the sequel.”
His fingers curled around Franco’s cock, teasing and slow at first, like he was daring him to act cool. Franco failed. Badly. His hips bucked into the touch, breath catching in his throat, fingers twisting into the sheets.
“You’re so responsive,” Lando muttered, pumping slowly now. “Just like in your fic.”
Franco groaned, half-laughing, half-dying. “You can’t keep saying that—”
“You wrote it,” Lando purred. “I’m just living the dream.”
He shifted lower, dragging Franco’s briefs down, leaving wet kisses along his thighs. Franco’s breath hitched sharply when Lando finally licked a stripe up his length, lips wrapping around the head with deliberate, obscene slowness.
“Fuck,” Franco hissed. “Lando—”
Lando sucked gently, pulling off with a lewd pop. “What’s the line?” he teased, eyes bright. “ ‘He made a sound like the ocean finally tasting the shore?’ ”
Franco’s eyes rolled back. “You’re a menace.”
“You love it.”
He went back down, deeper this time, hand curling around the base, his mouth hot and greedy and so smug about it. Franco’s legs trembled, every muscle tight with anticipation.
Lando was good—almost too good—changing rhythm just when Franco thought he could keep up, dragging it out until he was gasping, begging, thighs shaking.
“Lando—please—”
Lando looked up with an infuriatingly innocent expression. “Please what? Be specific. You’re the writer.”
“God, I hate you.”
“Do you, though?”
Franco grabbed his curls and tugged, hard.
Lando moaned. “You are so keeping that in your next chapter.”
They didn’t make it to the desk. Not yet.
But Lando did push Franco onto his stomach, gripping his hips and trailing kisses down his spine. His voice was rough now, the teasing edge melting into something darker. Hungrier.
“Next scene,” he murmured against the dip of Franco’s back. “You remember the one where we fucked against a mirror and you said I looked like I wanted to ruin you?”
Franco’s laugh turned to a gasp when Lando spread his legs, trailing fingers down his crack, thumb grazing over his hole. “I said that you looked like you wanted to ruin me ,” he corrected, voice strained.
“Guess we’re both right,” Lando whispered, reaching for the lube already on the bedside table.
(He hadn’t planned to use fanfic as a script, but clearly his subconscious had made preparations.)
Lando slicked his fingers and pushed in gently, working him open with patient precision—soft kisses to Franco’s neck, whispering filth in his ear like he was narrating a scene.
“Tell me how you want it,” he breathed. “You write so well. I want to hear it.”
Franco choked on a sound somewhere between a whimper and a curse. “Hard. Deep. I want to feel it tomorrow.”
Lando groaned. “Fuck, okay.”
He lined up, pushing in slow. They both moaned—Franco from the stretch, Lando from the tight heat around him, fingers digging into Franco’s hips like he was grounding himself.
“Perfect,” Lando gasped, rocking forward.
Franco’s breath hitched, hands scrabbling at the sheets. “God—you’re—shit, that’s—”
Lando snapped his hips.
Franco howled .
The room became nothing but skin and sound. Lando fucked him like he had something to prove—like he’d read every single fic and was trying to prove every version of him right.
He whispered lines from the fics, things Franco had written in the dark when he thought no one would ever see them.
“You want to be seen,” Lando growled, thrusting deeper. “You want someone who knows how to fuck you and read between the lines.”
Franco keened.
“I read everything ,” Lando said. “You’re mine now.”
“Yours,” Franco gasped. “I’m yours.”
Later—much later—they collapsed in a mess of sweat and tangled limbs, both of them grinning like idiots.
Lando reached for the phone again, still panting. “Oscar’s going to lose it when I send him that update.”
Franco buried his face in the pillow. “Don’t you dare .”
Lando laughed, kissing the top of his spine. “ArgentinianRacer43, I swear to god, if you don’t start a new series based on this , I’m divorcing you.”
“We’re not even married.”
“Not yet,” Lando said, already opening the AO3 app. “But if you think I’m not commenting on all your fics now, you’re delusional.”
Franco groaned.
Lando kissed his shoulder again.
“And don’t think I’ve forgotten the one where I had a tongue piercing.”
Franco yelped.
To be continued...
( Maybe on AO3. )