strawberryys-stuff

[strawberryys-stuff]

this brought tears into my eyes. holy shit. my eyes have been blessed

NO BABYSITTER NEEDED | LN4

an: i have this delusion that i could 100% change his bad habits because i work as a personal assistant and have experience in childcare. so enjoy this. also if you struggle with mental health, always know im here to talk <3

summary: lando norris, f1 golden boy who hasn’t slept properly in months and lives off protein bars gets assigned a carer by max who reminds him to eat, sleep, and maybe feel something other than anger or guilt. she brings flowers into his sterile flat and hides his gym clothes so he’ll actually rest and he lets her. and somewhere between her gummy vitamins and his races, he realises he doesn’t just need her, he wants her too.

wc: 10k

“ABSOLUTLEY NOT.”

Lando stood in the middle of his sparsely furnished flat, arms folded, jaw tight. The overhead light flickered once, as if in protest too. Max, seated on the battered grey sofa with a cup of tea he’d made himself, simply raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve not eaten today, have you?”

“I had a protein bar.”

“That doesn’t count, mate.”

Lando’s eyes flicked to the side. He knew Max was right. The protein bar had been from the stash he kept in his gym bag, a dry, tasteless thing that barely passed as food. Still, admitting that would mean giving ground, and he wasn’t in the mood.

“I don’t need a bloody babysitter,” he muttered, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “I’m not eighty-five.”

Max sighed, setting down his tea with the sort of calm that only long-suffering best mates could master. “She’s not a babysitter. She’s… a carer. Technically.”

“Oh, brilliant. Even worse.”

The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable. Outside, the steady hum of Monaco traffic drifted through the slightly ajar window. Somewhere below, someone shouted about bin day. Lando raked a hand through his curly brown hair and paced towards the kitchen. Max didn’t need to follow him to know what he’d find.

The fridge opened with a creak. Lando grimaced. A carton of milk two weeks out of date. Half a wilted bag of spinach. One lonely caprisun.

“See?” Max called from the living room. “You need someone to help.”

Lando shut the fridge, harder than he needed to. “I’m not broken.”

“I didn’t say you were. But you’re not exactly in one piece either.”

That one landed. He leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. His eyes were tired, darker than usual, with the tell-tale puffiness that came from pushing through sleepless nights. After a bad race, it was always the same: the silence, the self-punishment, the long hours in the gym until his arms shook, or the empty buzz of late-night gaming until sunrise blurred into morning.

Lando wasn’t cruel, not to others. But he was brutal to himself.

Max stepped into the kitchen, soft-footed. He opened the cupboard, plucked a cereal bar, and tossed it to Lando. “Just give her a week. One week. If it’s hell, I’ll back off. You can go back to forgetting to eat and dying slowly. Deal?”

Lando caught the bar, didn’t unwrap it. He stared at it like it might explode. After a long moment, he gave a non-committal grunt.

“Fine,” he said at last, eyes flicking up. “But just a week.”

The doorbell rang at exactly ten o'clock.

Lando was on the sofa, one leg slung over the other, arms crossed, face unreadable. He hadn't shaved that morning. Or the one before, probably. Max, already halfway to the door, shot him a look.

“Try to smile, yeah?” he muttered.

Lando didn't answer. Max opened the door.

“Hiya,” came a warm, bright voice. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure which buzzer it was. I guessed.”

“You guessed right.” Max smiled, stepping aside. “Come in.”

She stepped over the threshold with a kind of lightness Lando noticed but didn’t comment on. Trainers, jeans, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t look like a carer, whatever that meant. But then again, what did he expect? A clipboard and scrubs?

Her eyes flicked to him on the sofa and lit up with a friendly smile.

“You must be Lando.”

“I must be,” he said, dryly.

Max shot him a warning look. She didn’t seem fazed, though. Just walked in like it wasn’t a battlefield.

“I’m here for the trial week,” she said cheerfully, pulling out a small notebook. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take over your life. Just nudge it in a slightly healthier direction.”

Lando snorted. “Great. Can’t wait to be nudged.”

Max coughed to hide a laugh.

She sat on the armchair across from him, perching rather than settling, like she didn’t want to assume too much. Lando appreciated that. A bit.

“So,” she said, flipping open the notebook. “What’s your usual routine, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Train. Race. Gym. Repeat.”

“And food?”

He shrugged. “When I remember.”

“Sleep?”

Another shrug. “When I can.”

She smiled, scribbling something down. “Right. Noted.”

Lando tilted his head. “You’re very… upbeat.”

“Would you rather I was miserable?”

“No, just…” He waved a vague hand. “You’re in a flat with a stranger who clearly doesn’t want you here. I’d be a bit put off.”

“Well,” she said, closing the notebook, “I’m not easily put off. And you don’t scare me.”

That surprised a breath of laughter out of him, more exhale than anything, but it was the closest he’d come to smiling in days. Max looked between them, pleased.

“She’s good,” he said to Lando. “Give her a day. You’ll be grateful by tonight.”

Lando leaned his head back on the sofa, eyes half-closing. “We’ll see.”

She stood up. “I’ll pop to the shop, then. I’m sure the fridge is crying for help.”

Max dug into his pocket, handed her twenty euros. “Get whatever you think he won’t argue about eating.”

“Right,” she grinned. “Crisps and biscuits, got it.”

She left with a wink. Lando opened one eye, watching her go. Max gave him a look that was both smug and fond.

“You like her.”

Lando didn’t reply.

But he didn’t protest, either.

He didn’t last long after Max left.

He didn’t announce it, didn’t say goodbye, just grabbed his keys, mumbled something about “needing air” and left her alone in the flat. It wasn’t meant to be rude, not really. He just didn’t know what to do with her being there, so full of smiles and softness and trying. It made his skin itch in a way he couldn’t explain.

So, he went to the gym. Again. Even though his arms still ached from last night. Even though he’d barely slept. He didn’t care. Pushing himself until the edges blurred was easier than sitting in silence with a stranger who was supposed to fix what he wouldn’t admit was broken.

He stayed out longer than he planned. Took the long way home. Wandered a bit, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the fading light. He even stopped off at the corner shop and bought a bottle of water he didn’t want, just to delay the inevitable.

But eventually, the sun started dipping below the Monegasque skyline, and he had no more excuses.

When he opened the door, he paused.

The flat looked different.

Not massively, not like she’d moved furniture or painted walls, but nicer. The blinds had been tugged all the way open, letting the warm orange light of evening spill in. The windows had been cracked open too, letting out the stuffy, lived-in gym-sweat air he’d become nose-blind to. On the kitchen counter sat a small bunch of flowers in an old pint glass, cheap daffodils, probably from the shop down the road, bright yellow and unapologetically cheerful.

And she was cooking.

He blinked.

She hadn’t heard him come in. She had music playing quietly from her phone and she was humming under her breath as she stirred something on the hob. She’d tied her hair up, sleeves rolled, apron on that definitely wasn’t his.

He hovered at the doorway like a ghost.

“I won’t eat fish,” he said, voice flat.

She jumped slightly, then turned to him with a grin, unbothered. “Good thing I’m not making fish then.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I know,” she added, casually flipping something in the pan. “And you don’t like raw tomatoes. Or coconut. Or mushrooms unless they’re chopped so small you can’t see them. I did my homework.”

He folded his arms, suspicious despite himself. “Homework?”

“Max told me what he could, and the rest I found in old interviews. You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

He had no idea what to do with that. “Right.”

She nodded towards the side counter. “There are some vitamins over there if you fancy. They’re the gummy ones, so they’re fun to eat.”

Lando turned his head slightly. Sure enough, there was a bottle of multivitamin gummies sitting next to a clean glass of water. He squinted at it like it might bite.

“You think that’s going to fix me?”

“Nope,” she said, flipping off the hob and plating something. “But you’ll taste strawberry and get a vitamin boost, and that’s two good things. Two’s better than none.”

He watched her carry the plate to the table, proper food, he realised. Real stuff. A bit of grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, some sort of green that didn’t look like it came from a packet. She’d even set out cutlery.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered, but his voice had less edge than before.

“No, but your fridge did. Loudly.” She smiled. “Sit down, Lando.”

It was the first time she’d said his name. It startled him, how easily it came out of her mouth, no weight, no judgement, just lightness.

He didn’t move right away. But the flat smelled warm for the first time in… he didn’t know how long. It smelled like food, and flowers, and something gentle he couldn’t place.

Eventually, he sat.

And he took the bloody vitamin.

He started eating without saying much, though to be fair, the food shut him up quickly. It was annoyingly good. Not fancy, not trying too hard, just cooked well. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the first bite, and now his fork barely paused between mouthfuls.

While he ate, she moved around the kitchen, wiping down surfaces that were already pretty clean, rinsing the chopping board, putting away the little packet of daffodils that had come with the flowers. She was humming again, soft and almost tuneless, like it was more for her than anything else.

He watched her from the corner of his eye.

After a few minutes, he frowned.

“What about you?” he said, voice low. “Are you not going to eat?”

She looked up from where she was drying a mug. “I eat after work.”

He stopped chewing. “That’s weird.”

She laughed, not offended. “Not really. I’m used to it. I don’t like eating in other people’s homes unless I’m invited to.”

“Well… I’m inviting you now.”

Her eyes softened a little. “Thanks. But I’m alright, honestly.”

He stabbed a bit of potato. “Can you at least sit? You’re making me feel like I’m in a restaurant.”

That seemed to surprise her. She blinked, then nodded, pulling out the chair opposite him.

“You’re on edge,” she said gently, not like she was accusing him, just stating it.

He didn’t deny it.

She leaned back in the chair, folding her hands on the table, not trying to fill the silence with too much. Just being there. He hated how much of a relief that was.

After a beat, she tilted her head. “So… do you actually enjoy racing? Or is it just something you’re brilliant at?”

He looked up, fork halfway to his mouth.

“No one’s ever asked it like that before.”

She smiled. “Well, everyone knows you’re brilliant at it. But enjoying it that’s something else.”

He chewed, swallowed, shrugged. “I used to. When I was a kid. I’d sit in front of the telly with my dad and pretend I could hear the engines. I used to think the drivers were invincible.”

Her smile didn’t fade, but it did soften into something more thoughtful. “And now?”

“Now I know they’re not,” he said simply. “Now I know I’m not.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Didn’t rush to fix it or tell him he was, in fact, invincible. Just let it sit there.

He liked that more than he expected.

“You know,” she said after a quiet moment, “I watched last year's Brazil race before I came. The one where it rained.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “That bloody race.”

He didn't think of it fondly, until she spoke again.

“You made that turn like it was nothing. Everyone else looked like they were wrestling their cars, and you just… glided.”

He looked at her properly for the first time that evening. “You watched it for research?”

She nodded. “Had to see what I was dealing with.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re very strange.”

“Thank you,” she grinned. “I take that as a compliment.”

He picked up the glass of water next to his empty plate, holding it in both hands. He didn’t know how to name the feeling in his chest, tight and loose at once. Like something had shifted half a centimetre to the right.

He didn’t say thank you.

But he didn’t ask her to leave, either.

The flat had gone quiet again and before he knew it, he’d finished his food and she’d taken the plate.

Lando sat there a while after she’d gone to tidy up again, not quite ready to move. His limbs were warm and heavy with food, his stomach full for the first time in, God, he couldn’t remember. The corner of his eye still caught the flash of yellow from the daffodils. Even the clutter on the coffee table had been gently rearranged, like someone had lived here instead of just existed in it.

He stood eventually, dragging a hand through his hair.

He didn’t say goodnight. But as he passed her, kneeling to organise something ridiculous like the cereal cupboard, he gave her a small nod.

“Night,” she said softly, like she knew he wouldn’t say it first.

By the time he got to his room, he felt it creeping in, the kind of sleep that didn’t come with punishment. Not exhaustion, not collapse. Just rest.

He changed half-heartedly, dropped into bed without bothering to pull the duvet straight.

And for the first time in what felt like months, he didn’t lie there for hours staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t toss or turn or drag himself back up to check his phone, or throw on joggers and go for another run he didn’t need.

He just closed his eyes.

And slept.

Deep. Still. Undisturbed.

He was that comfortable with his sleep he hadn’t even heard her leave.

The trial week came and went, and with that came his little scheduled meeting with Max.

“So,” Max said, leaning back in the café chair, hands wrapped around his coffee. “How’s life with Mary Poppins?”

Lando rolled his eyes, sipping slowly from a mug of hot chocolate that was somehow still hot.

“She doesn’t float in with a brolly, if that’s what you mean.”

“But she’s working, isn’t she?”

Lando didn’t answer straight away. He watched a dog trot past outside the window, nose down, tail wagging. The streets of Monte Carlo were busy with the usual Sunday bustle, people with tote bags full of veg, couples bickering gently over directions, someone playing guitar near the kerb.

He shrugged. “It’s less shit.”

Max smirked. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever heard you give anyone.”

Lando looked down into his tea. “She’s just easy to be around. Doesn’t treat me like I’m a problem. Or fragile. She just makes dinner and talks about stupid things and leaves vitamins on the counter like it’s no big deal.”

“And you like that?”

“I don’t not like it.”

Max grinned. “So you’re keeping her?”

Lando huffed. “She’s not a goldfish.”

“You know what I mean.”

He didn’t answer at first, and Max let him have the space. There was something behind Lando’s eyes, quieter than before, but still guarded. Except now, the edges weren’t quite so sharp. He looked a little less hollowed out. A little more present.

Lando stirred the drink absently, then said, “I think she’s staying another week.”

Max didn’t say I told you so, but he smiled like he’d already said it a hundred times.

Over the next week, a rhythm began to form.

It wasn’t a schedule, exactly, Lando hated those, but there were now patterns. Gentle ones. He’d wake up to the faint clatter of pans and the smell of food. She never made him breakfast outright, but there was always a plate of something on the side, covered with a tea towel, like it had just happened to be left there.

He’d find his gym gear washed and folded in the same place on the sofa each morning. Not spoken about, just done. Vitamins still by the sink. Her music always low. The flowers in the pint glass had been swapped out for fresh tulips.

He didn’t say thank you. But he noticed.

And he started sleeping better.

Not every night, but more than before. Enough that the dark under his eyes wasn’t as heavy. Enough that the fridge had actual food in it now, and it wasn’t all hers.

By Monday night, she was packing up her bag to go home like usual when he spoke up.

“I leave for Barcelona tomorrow.”

She looked up, bright as ever. “Yup, I know. Made you an airport snack.”

She reached into the fridge and pulled out a tupperware container, sliding it across the counter towards him. The lid was already labelled in biro, ‘Do not open until bored at terminal gate’.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know I fly private, right? They’ve got catering.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “And what are the odds you didn’t reply to the email asking about your dietary preferences?”

He paused.

She grinned.

“Thought so. It’s just a wrap and some fruit. No tomatoes, no weird mayo, no drama.”

He huffed, but he didn’t push it. He picked it up and tucked it under one arm.

“Oh, and,” she added, wiping her hands on a tea towel, “I put a few things on your bed. Clothes you might consider packing. You don’t have to. Just thought I’d save you standing in your pants tomorrow morning wondering what the weather in Barcelona will be, and yes I know you like to dress warm.”

He let out a proper laugh, low and unexpected.

“You’ve done two of my most hated tasks in one night,” he said, eyes warm for a moment. “That’s impressive.”

She shrugged, light as always. “It’s what I’m here for.”

He stood in the doorway, still holding the tupperware, gaze lingering on her longer than he meant to. She didn’t make anything of it, just smiled and went back to packing her bag.

Race weekends were always a blur.

Even after years of doing it, Lando never really adjusted. The heat, the noise, the cameras, the pressure. Spain in May was dry and heavy, the kind of heat that sat on your shoulders and made your helmet feel three sizes too small. Qualifying had been a disaster, traffic, a lock-up, something just off with the rear grip. He was starting further back than he liked. Further back than the car deserved.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the cool-down lap.

His engineer had been cautious over the radio, Max had texted a brief ‘rough one. you’ll fix it.’ and that was about it. Lando stayed in his suit too long, helmet off but gloves still on, sitting at the back of the garage with his jaw clenched and a bottle of water sweating in his hand.

Later, after media duties and a cold shower and a half-hearted poke at some pasta, he was lying on the hotel bed, one leg still on the floor, staring at the ceiling when his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it out of habit.

It was a photo.

She was in a little French bar somewhere, low lights, strings of flags, telly mounted high on the wall with the F1 coverage paused mid-graphic. He recognised his own face in the corner, frozen mid-interview. She was holding up a pint of something cloudy, face half in frame, smiling like she’d just bumped into an old mate. A bowl of crisps sat in front of her.

The caption followed a second later:

That quali looked tough. Make sure to have enough electrolytes or a banana. 

Lando stared at it for longer than he meant to. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth.

She hadn’t asked how he was.

Hadn’t said you’ll get them tomorrow or you’re still the best or any of the usual platitudes.

Just, looked tough, take care of yourself.

Simple. Uncomplicated.

He let out a small breath of something that might have been a laugh. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second, then tapped out a reply.

They only gave us oranges.

A few seconds passed.

That’s alright. Oranges are just citrusy bananas in disguise.

He shook his head, grinning now, properly.

There was still noise in his chest, frustration, the echo of tyres locking up, but it didn’t feel quite so loud anymore.

And for the first time after a bad Saturday, Lando didn’t feel like running from it.

The flight back to Monaco was uneventful. He slept for half of it, sprawled inelegantly in the reclined seat, his cap pulled low and earphones in with no music playing. His body was tired in that hollow, post-race way, blood still buzzing faintly, muscles tight, but his brain was quieter than usual.

P2 wasn’t bad. Not a win, but solid points. Still, it ate at him.

He arrived home just after midnight. The flat was dark, blinds drawn, the sea outside nothing but soft black noise.

Lando dumped his bag by the door and kicked off his shoes. It should have felt like relief, home, bed, no media duties, but it didn’t. It felt still.

He flicked on the light in the kitchen, expecting nothing.

Instead, there it was on the counter.

A piece of white printer paper, creased slightly down the middle, folded like a school certificate. Hand-drawn, with glitter gel pen of all things.

P2 – WELL DONE, CHAMPION 

Underneath, in all-caps block letters, it read:

REDEEM THIS FOR 1 (ONE) FAVOURITE CHOCOLATE BAR, TO BE EATEN IMMEDIATELY.

And there it was. His favourite. Not the obvious one either, the one he used to buy from the corner shop when he was fifteen and couldn’t afford imported Swiss stuff with his pocket money. He hadn’t had one in years.

He picked it up, staring at it like it might disappear.

Beside the certificate was a folded note, written in her loopy handwriting:

I figured you’d want some space after the weekend, so I’m giving you the night off from me.

BUT. Your favourite meal is in the fridge. I expect to see the container empty when I’m back at 7am. I will be checking the bins. I’ve taken the power cable for your PC and hidden your gym clothes, so don’t bother looking. Please sleep. Properly. You’ve earned it x

He read it twice, then once more for good measure.

There was no teasing smile in the room, no hum of music or smell of herbs in the air, but her presence was there, in every corner. Quietly looking after him without needing him to admit he needed it.

He opened the fridge. The meal was there, labelled, still warm enough to be reheated. He didn’t even question how she knew it was his favourite. He just took it out, turned on the oven, and sat at the counter with the chocolate bar already half-eaten.

The flat was silent.

Normally he hated the silence. It stretched and scratched at him until he had to fill it. TV, weights, anything. But tonight it was different.

Tonight, the silence felt... safe. Like something was waiting just out of frame.

And though he’d never say it aloud, not even to himself—

He missed her. Slightly.

Just enough that 7am didn’t feel all that far away.

The first light slipped through the half-open blinds, soft and pale against the dark wood floor.

Lando was already up.

He didn’t mean to be. He’d woken sometime in the small hours, restless, but then the smell of coffee brewing pulled him from the blur of sleep. He found himself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, the warmth of the oven still humming softly nearby.

The meal was gone. The container clean.

He smiled a little to himself, small victory, at least.

The kettle clicked off, and she appeared in the doorway, hair tied back loosely, eyes bright but gentle.

“Morning,” she said quietly, like she was trying not to wake the flat.

He met her gaze, caught in the calm.

“Morning.”

She reached for the coffee pot and topped up his mug, then poured one for herself.

They stood there for a beat, just the two of them and the quiet hum of the morning.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

Lando shrugged, but there was something different in his tone. “More than I usually do.”

“That’s good.”

He nodded, watching her move around the kitchen with that effortless ease, putting the chocolate wrapper in the bin, tidying the dishes.

He felt it again. That small, stubborn flicker of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before: contentment.

She looked over her shoulder, catching his eye.

“Race weekend’s done,” she said softly. “You’re home now.”

He gave her a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes just yet, but was close.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

She blew on her coffee, then glanced over at him with a curious tilt of her head. 

“So what do you usually do on days like this? After a race?”

Lando paused, mug halfway to his lips.

“Usually?” he said. “Try not to think.”

She gave a small nod, like she understood exactly what he meant. 

“Right,” she said lightly. “So why don’t we go to the beach?”

He blinked. “The beach?”

“Yeah. You know, sand, sea, a bit of fresh air. It’s 27 degrees, the water will be decent. You’ve done all the not thinking bit, now you can do the part where you feel like a person again.”

Lando looked at her like she’d just suggested skydiving. In the rain. Naked.

She met his stare head-on, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile.

“I’m not saying we have to go swimming,” she added. “Just sit. Maybe with a drink. Or ice cream. I’ll bring snacks if that helps.”

He huffed a small laugh. “You’re relentless.”

“I prefer the term optimistic.”

He glanced out the window. The sun was already climbing, a shimmer of gold across the buildings. Monaco in May didn’t waste time. It was exactly the kind of day he’d usually spend in a dark gym or glued to his screen with a headset on.

And yet.

“Okay,” he said at last, surprising even himself. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

Her smile lit up, bright and immediate. “Brilliant.” He turned to head for his room. “I’ll grab my stuff.”

“I’ll meet you back here in thirty,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Just need to pop home, get a few bits.” He nodded. “Alright.”

And then she was gone, the flat felt quieter without her, but not in the lonely way. More like a held breath, waiting.

Lando glanced around, bemused at himself.

The beach. On a Monday.

He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “What am I doing?” 

But he was already reaching for his sunglasses.

When she came back, the sun was even higher in the sky and so was something in Lando’s chest. He’d opened all the windows while she was gone, and the breeze drifting through the flat was warm and salt-tinged.

He heard the door go and turned, halfway through stuffing a towel into a backpack.

She stepped into the kitchen in a light summer dress, sunglasses perched on her head, a bag slung over her shoulder. It was nothing dramatic, just something simple and floral, but it suited her. She looked soft, golden in the sunlight, like she belonged exactly in that moment.

Lando’s brain hiccuped. He didn’t say anything but he looked, really looked, and quietly thought to himself. 

God, she’s pretty.

She caught his gaze, raised a brow. “What?”

He blinked. “Nothing.” 

He slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded towards the door. “We’ve got to go somewhere that’s not Monaco, though.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “People’ll see. Paparazzi, fans, someone’ll clock it. Me. Us”

Her smile curled. “Us?”

“I just mean—” he started, but she was already grinning wider.

“I know what you meant, so where then?” “We’ll have to drive into France,” he said, completely serious.

She laughed.

He looked at her. “What?”

“Nothing, sorry,” she said, still smiling. “Just the way you said it like it was just us popping down to the shops.” He gave her a look, lips twitching. “It sort of is.”

She shrugged, following him down into the garage. “Alright then, France it is.”

The garage was cool and dim after the heat of the morning. Rows of sleek cars sat like sleeping beasts under soft overhead lights. She slowed as they walked, eyes wide.

“Bloody hell,” she murmured. “Is this all you?” He chuckled, unlocking one of the quieter looking models. “Some are mine. Some are team perks. Some are just there.”

She ran a hand along the bonnet, clearly impressed. “Not bad for a day at the beach.” They set off, the coast unfurling beside them like a painting. The drive was easy, winding roads and open skies, her hair dancing in the breeze as music played low from the speakers. She sang along quietly to bits she knew. He didn’t join in, but he listened.

And he smiled.

The beach was quieter than expected, a little cove tucked away from the road, shaded by cliffs and speckled with driftwood. They laid their things on the warm sand, and she kicked off her sandals with a sigh.

Lando was laying out the towles when she pulled her dress over her head in one swift motion, revealing a bikini underneath.

He didn’t stare, or at least he told himself he didn’t.

But he did definitely notice.

Something in his stomach dipped for a second, caught between admiration and the very sudden awareness of who he was and who she was.

She stretched like she’d been waiting all day to do it, hair tied up now, skin kissed golden by the sun.

Lando barely had time to take off his own shirt before she looked over her shoulder, grinning wickedly.

“Race you!”

And before he could respond, she was already sprinting towards the sea, feet kicking up soft clouds of sand.

He blinked, startled, then swore under his breath, grinning.

“You little—”

He chased after her, heart thudding, not from the sun. Something lighter than adrenaline, freer than pressure. The breeze bit at his skin, the salt stung his eyes, and the sound of her laugh carried over the waves. 

And for the first time in a long time, he felt light.

The sea was warmer than he expected, cool at first touch, then refreshing against his sun-warmed skin.

She was already thigh deep when he caught up, turning to glance over her shoulder with a grin that said you’re too slow. 

Lando launched at her.

She yelped, laughing as he caught her around the waist and they both stumbled deeper into the water, waves breaking around them.

“Alright! Alright! Truce!” she shouted, breathless.

But he didn’t let go, just held her steady against the current for a second too long. She looked up at him, cheeks pink from the sun and smiling so wide it almost knocked the breath out of him.

Then, without warning, she dunked him.

His head went under with a surprised splash and he surfaced with a splutter, hair slicked to his forehead and eyes narrowed.

“Oh, you’re done for,” he said, grinning through the water dripping from his lashes.

They splashed and shoved and laughed like children, the kind of silly, harmless chaos that left his chest aching, but not in the bad way.

Eventually, soaked and smiling, they drifted into a quiet stretch of the cove, water up to their waists, the sun casting long golden streaks across the surface. 

They talked a bit, nothing too heavy. Favourite ice creams. Embarrassing childhood stories. He learnt she hated the sound of polystyrene, and she learnt he once fell asleep in a bin lorry by mistake during a school trip (real story from me lol). 

Time stretched in that slow, delicious way that only seemed to happen when he was with her. 

The rest of the day passed in sun-drowsy contentment. 

They dried off on the towels, eating snacks and reading bits from a tatty magazine she’d brought on how to impress your manager. She dozed for a while with her arm flopped across her eyes. He sat beside her, knees pulled up, watching the tide roll in and out, trying not to overthink how much peace he felt in that exact moment. 

Later, on the drive back, they stopped for ice cream from a stand near the harbour. She ordered something fruity. He got mint choc chip, mostly so she’d stop teasing him for being too grown up and choosing something like coffee.

By the time they were halfway home, the sun had dipped below the hills and she was fast asleep in the passenger seat, head turned gently towards him, mouth parted slightly.

Lando glanced at her, then back at the road. His grip on the wheel softened. 

When they got back to the flat, he didn’t wake her.

Instead, he slipped out of the driver’s seat, came round, and unbuckled her gently. She stirred slightly as he lifted her into his arms, warm and still faintly smelling of suncream.

Her head dropped to his shoulder. He didn't say a word, he didn't even breathe.  

The lift ride up was quiet. His flat even quieter. 

He nudged the door open, padded through the hall, and carried her straight into his bedroom. The sheets were still crisp from the morning, untouched.

He laid her down carefully, brushed a bit of hair from her face. She sighed softly, turning into the pillow like she belonged there.

Lando lingered for a moment.

Then he backed out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

He crashed on the sofa, limbs heavy but heart oddly light. His damp curly hair pressed against the cushion, and for once, the silence didn’t bother him.

He could still hear her laugh echoing in the waves. 

The following morning she woke with a start.

It took her a second to realise where she was, the unfamiliar softness of the duvet, the crisp linen, the faint scent of him on the pillow. Definitely not her flat. And definitely his bed.

“Shit.”

She sat up quickly, heart thudding, scanning the room for her jacket or bag or anything that proved that she hopefully hasn’t slept with him.

The flat was quiet except for the faint sound of something clattering in the kitchen. Not exactly a disaster, but not quite peace either.

She pulled a random hoodie over her head, ran a hand through her tangled hair, and padded out into the main room, bracing herself.

He was in the kitchen. Barefoot, curls a mess, concentration furrowed into his brow as he flipped a pancake that looked… questionably thick.

The pan hissed. The pancake landed mostly where it should’ve.

She crossed her arms, trying not to laugh. “Are you… cooking?”

Lando turned, startled. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, more from the warmth of the kitchen and the fact he hadn’t expected her to be awake.

“Sort of,” he muttered, glancing down at the half-stack on the plate. “They’re edible. Just about.”

She looked at him, messy-haired, in an old hoodie, trying to figure out if the one in the pan was burnt or just dark golden.

She couldn't help it. She smiled.

“I’m meant to be the one looking after you,” she said, shaking her head.

He rolled his eyes but there was no bite to it. “You fell asleep. I wasn’t going to wake you just to supervise me making average pancakes.”

“Below average.”

“They’re fine,” he defended, lifting one with the spatula. It folded in half on itself. “Okay, they’re character-building.”

She stepped closer, nudging him with her shoulder. “Look at that. First meal you’ve cooked yourself in how long?”

Lando scoffed, but the back of his neck went pink. “Dunno. Ages.”

She tilted her head, eyes soft with something he couldn’t name. “Domesticity looks good on you.”

He froze for a second but he felt the words settle somewhere in his chest.

Domesticity.

Her, here. His hoodie. Pancakes. Morning light.

He looked at her, really looked, and for once didn’t feel the urge to run from the quiet.

Instead, he flipped the final pancake with a slightly smug smirk. “Told you I didn’t need a carer.”

She raised an eyebrow. “One half-decent breakfast doesn’t mean you’re cured, sweetheart.”

He smiled despite himself. Sweetheart.

And just like that, he knew the rest of his day was going to be warm.

She grabbed a plate and scooped a pancake onto it, then passed it over with a cheeky grin.

“Here, try not to burn it.”

Lando took it, biting into the warm, slightly uneven stack. It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was pretty good. The kind of good that made you forget about the mess of your last few days.

He looked up at her, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“Not bad for a carer’s breakfast, huh?”

She laughed, sitting down at the small kitchen table. “I might have to upgrade you to sous chef.”

He shook his head, but the smile stayed. “You sure you want to get stuck with a bloke who can barely boil water without a minor disaster?”

She reached across the table, nudging his hand lightly.

“I think I can manage.”

There was a pause, comfortable and easy. The sunlight caught her eyes, making them shine in a way that made Lando’s chest tighten just a little.

“So…” she said softly, “how are you, really?”

Lando swallowed, the question catching him off guard. Usually, he brushed it off or changed the subject.

But today, he let it hang in the air.

“I’m… better than I was,” he admitted, voice low. “Being with you, well, it’s different. Less noise upstairs.”

She smiled gently, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the table.

“That’s good,” she said quietly. “You deserve that.”

He met her gaze, a flicker of something like hope stirring beneath the usual mess.

Maybe this was the start of something, not just a routine or a distraction, but something real.

He didn’t know what it was yet.

But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wanted to find out.

A few days passed in the way only good days do, quietly, comfortably, and all at once.

They fell back into their routine with ease. She was there every morning, bright and soft and organised, keeping him on track without ever making it feel like a chore. Meals appeared when he forgot he was hungry. She swapped out the expired yoghurt in the fridge without saying a word. She scribbled reminders onto post-it notes and stuck them in ridiculous places. On his phone, the bathroom mirror, his steering wheel.

And somehow, despite everything, he was sleeping again for more than 4 hours.

The flat no longer felt too quiet.

He met Max at their usual café down in the port the morning before he flew out to Austria.

Lando slumped into the chair opposite him, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky.

Max gave him a look. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. You dress like a celebrity in hiding but show up to the same café every time.”

Lando smirked, pulling down his glasses. “Creature of habit.”

Max took a sip of his coffee, eyeing him properly now. “You look better.”

Lando blinked. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, you’re not half-dead,” Max said bluntly. “You’ve got colour in your face. You’ve shaved. I don’t see a Monster can fused to your hand.”

Lando huffed a laugh. “Thanks, mate. Proper confidence boost, that.”

Max grinned. “So she’s working, then.”

Lando paused. Thought about the pancakes. The post-its. The quiet sound of her humming in the kitchen. The way she made the flat feel like something more than just a place he slept in between breakdowns.

“She is,” he said, nodding. “More than I thought, actually.”

Max raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Told you. She’s got that stubborn kind of sunshine thing going on.”

Lando looked out at the boats bobbing gently on the water. “It’s weird. I don’t feel like she’s fixing me. It’s just… I want to keep up. For once.”

Max leaned back in his chair, smiling like he already knew.

“You’ve got someone in your corner now,” he said. “And you like it.”

Lando didn’t answer straight away.

But he didn’t deny it either.

Austria should’ve felt like business as usual.

The team was buzzing, the garage busy, the hotel sleek and sterile in that forgettable sort of way. He’d done this so many times he could go through the motions with his eyes shut, briefings, media, gym, sleep. Repeat.

But something was different this time.

His room was too quiet. His meals, though catered, tasted like cardboard. He’d forgotten to bring his vitamins, and the note she’d once stuck to the inside of his wash bag, remember to be a person, not just a machine, was no longer there.

He missed her. Not just her reminders and routines, but her. The way she’d talk at him while he made coffee, narrating her morning like it was the most important story on earth. The way she hummed while folding laundry. The way she looked at him, not like he was a driver, or a mess, but just… him.

The ache surprised him.

By Saturday night, he was holed up in his hotel room, lights dimmed, race prep done. But instead of watching footage or scrolling, he stared at his phone.

Then, almost on a whim, he opened their chat.

Would you ever come to a race?

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then came back.

That’s quite a question. Is this your subtle way of inviting me to Austria?

He smiled. Tapped back.

Austria’s a bit mad. But Silverstone’s next. Thought you might like it. Home race and all that.

The typing bubble came and went again. Then,

We can talk about it when you’re home.

And there it was, that word.

Home.

He stared at the screen longer than he meant to.

It did something to him. Knocked something loose. Not because she’d said it. But because she meant it. Like his flat wasn’t just a stopgap anymore. Like him being away wasn’t permanent.

They’d talk when he was home.

He stared at her last message a moment longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

I’d like you to be there when I get back Sunday night. If you’re free, I mean.

He regretted sending it immediately. Read it back twice. It looked desperate. Or worse, uncertain.

But a reply came a few minutes later.

I’ll be there.

That was it. Simple. Certain.

He smiled. Couldn’t help it.

And for the first time on a race weekend, he couldn’t wait for it to be over, not for the result, but because it meant he’d get to see her again.

Sunday night came fast.

The flight was smooth, the car from the airport quick, but Lando felt that weird tug of nerves all over again as the lift doors slid open to his flat. His bag thumped against his leg. The hallway smelt faintly of fresh linen and vanilla.

She was there.

He could feel it even before he saw her.

When he stepped inside, the lights were low, and something warm flickered in the corner of the living room, a couple of candles, set along the windowsill. The blinds were open, showing off the Monaco skyline in soft golden hues.

She looked up from the sofa, dressed in cosy joggers and a big jumper, her hair tied up, a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap.

“There you are,” she said, smiling like he hadn’t just spent three days thinking about her.

Lando stepped in, shrugging off his jacket, suddenly very aware of the domesticity he'd walked into. A blanket was draped across the back of the sofa. Two mugs sat on the coffee table, one clearly his, already filled with hot chocolate.

“I wasn’t sure what kind of mood you’d be in,” she said, shifting slightly to make room, “so I picked three films. Comfort, distraction, or dramatic sobbing, dealer’s choice.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked around at the quiet little world she’d built for him in his absence.

His shoulders dropped.

“This is nice,” he said, finally. “Really nice.”

She grinned. “Well, I figured if I’m going to keep pretending to be your carer, I might as well offer full post-race recovery packages.”

He laughed, genuinely, the kind that shook a bit of the tension from his chest.

She patted the seat next to her. “Come on then. Sit down before your hot chocolate gets cold.”

And he did, just like that. Kicked off his shoes, slouched onto the sofa, and let his body fold into the warmth of it all. Her shoulder brushed his as she pressed play, and he didn’t move away.

He hadn’t realised how much he needed this.

Not just the quiet, but her quiet.

And as the film played and her head gently tipped onto his arm, Lando let himself enjoy it, just for a while.

Home.

It really did feel like that now.

The following morning he woke with a crick in his neck and the faint scent of her still clinging to the blanket draped over his chest.

The telly had switched itself off at some point in the night. His hot chocolate was long cold. And she was gone, left sometime after the credits had rolled, quietly, without waking him.

But the flat didn’t feel empty.

It felt like she’d just stepped out.

He pulled the blanket closer, burying his face in it for a second longer than necessary. Lavender and laundry powder. Familiar. Her.

Later that morning, she came by as usual, letting herself in with a chirpy “Morning!” and two coffees in hand.

He was already up for once, hair still rumpled from sleep, hoodie creased.

“Sleep on the sofa?” she asked, amused.

“Mm.” He took the coffee gratefully. “Didn’t make it very far after you left. Blanket was too warm.”

She gave him a knowing look but didn’t tease.

They settled at the kitchen table, a shared croissant between them, her notebook open to a new page.

“So,” she said, flicking the cap off her pen, “Silverstone. Talk to me.”

Lando took a slow sip of his coffee. “I meant what I said. I want you there.”

She glanced up, smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. “I know. I just didn’t want to assume.”

“You never do,” he said, honest and quick, before he even realised it.

That earned him a small look, soft, appreciative.

“So,” he continued, shifting slightly in his seat, “you’ve got two options. I can get you a pass for the paddock, proper team kit, blend in, pretend you belong.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Pretend?”

He smirked. “You’re bossy enough, you’d fit right in.”

She grinned. “Flattering.”

“Or,” he went on, “you can watch from the grandstands. Might be a bit calmer, but I’ll know you’re there either way.”

She looked at him properly now, pen stilled in her fingers. “And you want me there even if it’s chaos?”

He shrugged, suddenly a bit shy. “I don’t know. Just when you’re around, it feels like less of a mess.”

That quiet settled in again. Not awkward. Just true.

She nodded, scribbling something in her notebook. “Alright. I’ll come. You’ll have to get me a kit that doesn’t drown me, though. I’m not showing up looking like I borrowed it off a rugby player.”

Lando laughed. “Deal.”

And as she tucked her notebook away and moved to put the kettle on, he watched her like he was seeing the start of something he hadn’t quite had the words for yet.

But he knew this much.

He didn’t just want her there.

He needed her there.

They flew out on the Thursday morning.

Private jet, naturally, something Lando barely registered anymore, part of the machine that came with the job. But watching her take it all in was another story entirely.

“Wait,” she whispered as they pulled up onto the tarmac. “This is yours?”

He shrugged, smirking. “Well, not mine mine. But yeah. Team flight.”

She stared up at the sleek plane like it had dropped out of a film set. “Right. Okay. No big deal. Totally normal. Not freaking out.”

Lando chuckled as he grabbed her bag from the boot. “You’re allowed to be impressed, y’know. You don’t have to be cool all the time.”

“I am cool,” she insisted, following him up the steps with wide eyes. “Just also wildly unprepared for this level of luxury.”

Inside, she settled into one of the leather seats like she was afraid she’d break it, eyes darting around at the polished surfaces and perfectly folded blankets.

He sat opposite her, grinning like a fool.

“You alright there?”

She looked at him over the rim of her paper cup. “Lando, they offered me a mimosa and I said no because I panicked. I’m not alright.”

He burst out laughing, tipping his head back. “You’ll get used to it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

By the time they reached Silverstone, her nerves had settled into excitement.

The team garage was already buzzing, and when she stepped out in the McLaren kit he’d had waiting for her, a proper fit, not some oversized leftover, Lando had to look away for a moment just to get himself together.

She fit in effortlessly.

Wearing the colours, she didn’t look like someone tagging along. She looked like she belonged.

And it was oddly comforting, more than he’d expected.

She was laughing with one of the engineers before he’d even finished debrief. Swapping notes with his physio. Keeping a watchful eye on the water bottle in his hand like it was her full-time job.

And for once, when he walked through the paddock, he didn’t feel like he was floating above it all.

He felt anchored.

Between sessions, she found him sat outside the motorhome, cap pulled low, headphones around his neck.

She passed him a banana and a look. “Don’t roll your eyes. You skipped breakfast.”

Lando took it, peeling it slowly. “You just like bossing me around.”

“Absolutely,” she said brightly. “Now eat it, number four.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You calling me by my driver number now?”

She grinned. “Only if it motivates you.”

And as she sat beside him, cross-legged and chatting like they were just two mates at a park somewhere, Lando realised this didn’t feel like chaos.

It felt… right.

Later that day, the two of them found themselves in the motorhome again, half-drawn blinds, casting warm strips of light across the small lounge space. Lando had pulled off his boots and fireproofs, now in team joggers and a loose t-shirt, legs stretched across the sofa while she sat on the carpet in front of him, back resting against the edge of the seat, her hair still slightly windswept from being trackside.

His hand dangled loosely near her shoulder. Not touching. But close.

She was humming, some random tune from the playlist she’d put on while he cooled down, and carefully peeling the corner of a protein bar wrapper for him.

“Do you know you hum constantly?” he said, watching her with that quiet, lopsided sort of amusement.

She glanced up. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Like, properly. All the time.”

“Well, maybe you’re just always around now.”

He smiled, then laughed softly when she tossed the protein bar at him without looking.

They fell into that easy silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. She reached up to tug a hairband from her wrist, redoing her ponytail absentmindedly. His gaze lingered.

“You alright?” she asked, craning her neck slightly to look at him.

He nodded. “Yeah. You just make all this feel

less mental.”

That earned her softest smile, the kind she didn’t even have to think about. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at her like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

Then the door creaked open and Oscar stepped in with a knock-knock gesture and a raised brow. “Sorry, didn’t realise this was occupied.”

Lando blinked, quickly sitting up, hand retreating behind his head like he hadn’t been close to her at all. She turned slightly, offering Oscar a warm, unapologetic smile.

“Hi,” she said, chipper as ever. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lando’s carer.”

Oscar grinned, clearly amused. “Oh yeah?”

Lando shrugged, slumping back into the sofa like it was no big deal. “Yeah. She cares so I don’t have to.”

Oscar snorted. “Nice work if you can get it.”

She laughed, then added, “To be fair, he’s more work than a pensioner with a sugar addiction, so I earn every bit of it.”

Oscar shot Lando a mock-sympathetic look. “She’s got you nailed, mate.”

Lando just shook his head, lips tugging into the smallest of smiles as Oscar backed out of the room with a wink and a wave.

Once the door shut again, she turned and looked up at him from the floor.

“Too much?” she teased.

He leaned forward, still smiling. “Not at all.”

And for the rest of the hour, with her back pressed to his knee and the quiet buzzing of the paddock beyond the walls, everything felt settled.

Like maybe this was becoming the new normal.

Race day came with its usual noise and nerves. The low thrum of engines in the distance, the hiss of tyres on tarmac, the sting of adrenaline thick in the air.

Silverstone buzzed with the kind of energy only a home race could bring.

And Lando had never driven better.

Every lap was clean, calculated, ruthless. No mistakes. No self-doubt. Just grit and instinct and a car that, for once, felt like an extension of himself.

When he crossed the finish line in P1, the roar from the grandstands felt deafening. Team radio crackled with cheers, engineers shouting down his ear, someone nearly in tears.

He barely heard it.

All he could think, where is she?

Pulling into parc fermé, he yanked off his helmet and looked around like a man on a mission.

“Where is she?” he asked one of the mechanics, already half out of the car.

The guy blinked. “Who?”

“Uh” He gestured vaguely. “My uh carer, she’s in the team kit, she was in the garage earlier. Has anyone seen her?”

Shrugs. Shaking heads. No one knew.

His jaw tensed, nerves he hadn’t felt all race prickling in now like static. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. All of this meant less if she wasn’t here to see it.

Still, he went through the motions: hugs with the crew, the sweaty TV pen interviews, the slow walk down the corridor lined with monitors and back-slaps. The moment was his, but it felt a bit empty.

Then he stepped onto the podium.

The crowd was thunderous. British flags everywhere, people chanting his name, flashes going off like strobes.

And there, down below, tucked between a few McLaren pit crew, cap pulled low and grinning up at him like he’d just done the impossible, there she was.

Her face lit up when he spotted her, and the tension in his chest just dropped.

He grinned, grabbed the champagne bottle, and with precision honed from years of celebration, arced the spray right in her direction.

She squealed, laughing, trying to duck behind someone’s shoulder but getting caught in it anyway.

He laughed too, and when the moment calmed, he looked down again and caught her eyes.

She mouthed something at him, something small, like ‘well done’, and he mouthed back.

Go back to the motorhome.

She gave a little salute, still smiling, and disappeared into the crowd.

And suddenly, the day felt complete.

The moment the press duties were done, Lando didn’t waste a second.

Still damp from champagne, hair sticking to his forehead, race suit tied at the waist, he all but jogged back through the paddock. Past cameras, past well-wishers, barely nodding as people tried to offer congratulations.

He needed to see her.

The motorhome was quiet when he pushed open the door, the rest of the team still caught up in the chaos outside. But she was there, sat on the sofa, McLaren cap now off, holding a bottle of water and staring out the window like she was waiting for him too.

“Hey—” she started, but didn’t finish.

Because he was already across the room, already scooping her up into a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of both of them. She gave a soft little laugh of surprise, arms winding round his neck as he held her like he’d just won her.

Which, in a way, he had.

“You were incredible,” she said against his shoulder.

“I didn’t care about the win,” he murmured, voice muffled in her hair. “Not until I saw you.”

She pulled back slightly to look at him, eyebrows drawing in. “Lando…”

“No, I mean it,” he said, heart racing now for entirely different reasons. “When I crossed the line, I should’ve felt everything. But I couldn’t think about anything except the fact that you weren’t there. Not at first. It felt, empty.”

Her expression softened, smile faltering at the edges.

“That’s the adrenaline talking,” she said gently, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “You’re on a high, people say all sorts when their heart’s going.”

“No,” he said firmly, eyes locked on hers. “I know it’s not.”

She stilled.

Lando took a breath. “My heart’s been on fire before, after wins, crashes, everything in between. But it’s never felt as empty as it does when you’re not near me. I didn’t know it at first, I didn’t have the words for it, but I do now.”

She blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

“I don’t just want you here when I’m falling apart,” he said quietly. “I want you here when I’m winning. When I’m okay. When I’m tired. When I’m not.”

Silence fell like a held breath.

And then she smiled, soft, shaken, and real. The kind that said she’d been waiting to hear those words without even realising it.

“I was always going to stay,” she whispered.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”

They stood like that for a moment, bodies close, breath mingling, the silence between them full of everything that had been left unsaid for too long.

She tilted her chin ever so slightly, and his nose brushed against hers. Neither of them moved beyond that, like they were afraid to disturb something fragile.

Then she whispered, “You smell like champagne.”

He gave a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath. “You smell like bananas and home.”

She smiled at that, small and warm and a little bit shy.

And then, like gravity had finally caught up with them, he leant in.

Their lips met softly, tentative at first, the kind of kiss you give when you’ve been thinking about it for far too long and you want to get it right. It wasn’t hurried, or heavy, or anything like what the world outside might’ve expected from a Formula One driver fresh off a win.

It was slow. Careful. His way of saying he didn’t want this to be over too soon.

Her hands curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, and he held her like she might disappear if he let go. When they parted, barely an inch between them, neither moved away.

She blinked up at him, dazed in the gentlest way.

“That wasn’t adrenaline,” she said quietly, as if to confirm it for herself.

“No,” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. “That was me. Just me.”

Her nose scrunched in that familiar way, eyes glinting with something fond. “Good.”

He smiled again, this time slower, fuller. And in the soft hush of the motorhome, with the noise of Silverstone still echoing somewhere in the background, Lando finally felt what peace might look like.

It looked a lot like her.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132

[strawberryys-stuff]

A teaser

I'm just gonna leave this snippet here 🤭

But his irresistible charm had you worshiping the ground he walked on. It taught you how to sin, how to violate the rules of Heaven, how to deceive.

You strove for the forbidden.

His faults and flaws meant nothing compared to the depth of who he was. A fallen angel. A misunderstood creature.

you aren't ready for this and tbh neither am I

[strawberryys-stuff]

Love Interest

[strawberryys-stuff]

A SECRET | OP81

Red bull!Oscar Piastri x fem!reader

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lando I📍Barcelona

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tagged yourusername

lando her forever #1

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oscarpiastri commented

iMessages

Fav human 🥐

what the hell was that?

What?

idk maybe THE COMMENT??

What about it?

OSCAR JACK PIASTRI

YOU'RE GONNA LOSE YOUR SEAT

Because.. of a comment?

...

you commented "confident much?"

Yeah, I know what I wrote.

oh Oscar..

you're gonna bring Christian to the grave

10 YEARS EARLIER

I'm sure he'll survive, love.

don't 'love' me 😠 this is a serious matter

Look, sweetheart, I know you're upset, but you can't ask me to act like I'm not utterly smitten with you.

you have to. For your seat, Oscar

Christian scolded us once for

not being careful enough

Fuck Christian and his stupid rules. You are mine and the world will hear.

Lose that McLaren badge. You're getting a new one.

yourusername posted a new story!

f1

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f1 OSCAR WINS IN BARCELONA

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mclaren definitely deserved!

redbullracing

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redbullracing FIRST EVER F1 WIN @.oscarpiastri 🎉

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TWITTER

username @.username • 1 Jun 24

I CANNOT 😭

💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️

username @.username • 1 Jun 24

Replying to @.username

HE DIDN'T EVEN GLANCE AT THE TEAM AND WENT STRAIGHT FOR HER 😭😭

username @.username

Replying to @.username

she started sobbing so much when he crossed the finish line

💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️

username @.username • 1 Jun 24

Replying to @.username

and let's not forget this moment as well

💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️

username @.username

Replying to @.username

OMG YES I SCREAMED AT MY TV WHEN I SAW IT

💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️

yourusername |📍Barcelona

❤️573k 💬3,538 🔃 2,081

yourusername my fav human just won a Grand Prix. no big deal. MY LOVE JUST WON A GRAND PRIX!

AND LANDITO IN P3!!

Couldn't be prouder.

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username THEY'VE BEEN FRIENDS THIS WHOLE TIME?!?

username what else did you expect? 😂 them to hate each other?

arthur_leclerc ahh I can finally BREATHE IN YOUR COMMENT SECTION 😁

yourusername ARTHUR 😭

arthur_leclerc I've been waiting for this since f3

username COME AGAIN??

username HOW LONG??

lando congrats mate! 😁

danielricciardo and the Australian genes live on

❤️ by yourusername

oscarpiastri it's the accent

danielricciardo sure is

username just a question @.yourusername how long have you been together?

yourusername for 7 years

[strawberryys-stuff]

A SECRET | OP81

Red bull!Oscar Piastri x fem!reader

I had a dream about Oscar in Red bull and just had to shape it into something, anything

no warnings, enjoy some fluff

next part

INSTAGRAM

yourusername |📍Japan

°°°

°°°

❤️ 135k 💬 484 🔃 2,879

tagged lando and danielricciardo

yourusername papaya on top!

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mclaren papaya on top!

lando u did me dirty with the 5th pic

yourusername showed the world the true you

username he seriously can fall asleep anywhere

yourusername he sure can

lando well at least I CAN sleep

yourusername DON'T BRING MY INSOMNIA INTO THIS

username DANNY RIC

danielricciardo should've added the pic of him eating a whole pack of biscuits

yourusername damn I should've

lando you better not

username he ate the whole thing? 😭

username he took 'ate & left no crumbs' too seriously

redbullracing |📍Japan

❤️ 205k 💬 108 🔃 573

tagged maxverstappen1 and oscarpiastri

redbullracing what a weekend #JapaneseGP

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redbullsimracing truly magical 👏

username what a ride from oscar!

username frr I was sitting on the edge of my seat

username awesome win from max

username oscar should've won

username now there is a team..!! ❤️

oscarpiastri started following yourusername!

TWITTER

gossipf1 @.gossipf1 • 7 Apr 24

The red bull f1 rising star, Oscar Piastri, started following Lando Norris' friend, yourusername, on Instagram last week after the Japanese Grand Prix.

Could this duo have potential in the future? 👀

💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️

username @.username • 7 Apr 24

Replying to @.gossipf1

imagine they start dating 🤭

💬 43 🔃 603 ❤️ 2k 🖇️

username @.username

Replying to @.username

No bro. She's loyal to Lando and McLaren

username @.username

Replying to @.username

that doesn't mean she can't be friends with a red bull driver

username @.username • 7 Apr 24

Replying to @.gossipf1

Lando better keep her away from the enemy

💬 4 🔃 50 ❤️ 1k 🖇️

username @.username

Replying to @.username

More like Red bull should keep Oscar from following random McLaren girls lol

💬 2 🔃 96 ❤️ 3k 🖇️

username @.username • 7 Apr 24

Replying to @.gossipf1

I think they would be kind of cute together

💬 481 🔃 173 ❤️ 2k 🖇️

yourusername posted a new story!

oscarpiastri posted a new story!

yourusername |📍Barcelona

°°°

°°°

❤️ 28k 💬 854 🔃 3,091

yourusername my fav place & my fav human ☀️

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lando 🤨🤨🤨

username THEY'RE DATING

username there's absolutely no way that's not Oscar

username girl you're not slick 😭 we know who this is

username I SWEAR IF OSCAR POSTS HER TOO

username they hinted it in their stories yesterday too 😭

mclaren 😲

username THE PASTRY COME ON

username WHAT IS THIS??

arthur_leclerc why wasn't I invited?

yourusername who is you? 🤨

username ARTHUR??

danielricciardo you know where to look for men

yourusername it's the accent

danielricciardo 😂

username EXCUSE ME?? NUH UH

redbullracing |📍Barcelona

❤️ 60k 💬 174 🔃 99

tagged oscarpiastri and maxverstappen1

redbullracing Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya here we come 🇪🇦

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[strawberryys-stuff]

UNDRESSED.

“I don't want the children of another man to have the eyes of the girl I won't forget.” — Lando said he didn’t care about you seeing Oscar—but it hurt. More than he admitted. More than he expected. Because deep down, he did care. Maybe he always had.

pairing. Lando Norris x ex! fem! reader // (bonus: Oscar Piastri x fem! reader)

warnings. a lot of angst, 8,4k words, dual pov, exes to lovers, soulmates, lando and oscar being jealous of each other, complicated dynamics, mean oscar, oscar is the other woman here (sorry but I promise we love oscar in this house).

music. Undressed by Sombr // Somebody Else by The 1975.

LANDO HAD NEVER BEEN GOOD AT ADMITTING FAULT. Not to the world, not to himself. He had spent years being seen as untouchable, as brilliant, as someone who could do no wrong—not just in racing, but in everything. And maybe that was part of the problem. When things fell apart, when his own choices pushed you away, he couldn’t bring himself to say I messed up. Because he was flawless. At least, that’s what his fans saw. That’s what the world believed. And if enough people believed it, maybe he didn’t have to face the truth.

But did he know? Of course he did. He knew exactly what he had done, how his distance, his sharp words, his inability to give you what you needed had built the wall between you. He had watched the moments slip by, had felt the shift, had sensed the inevitable—and still, he had done nothing to stop it. Maybe he thought you would stay anyway. Maybe he assumed that no matter how careless he was with your heart, you wouldn’t walk away. But you did. And that was something he hadn’t prepared for.

Then he saw you with Oscar.

It wasn’t just surprise—it was something deeper, something raw. Something bitter and sharp and impossible to ignore. The moment his eyes landed on you, standing beside him, something inside him twisted. He could barely breathe past the weight of it. And the worst part? He wasn’t surprised. Maybe he had even expected it. Because Oscar was everything Lando wasn’t—steady, thoughtful in ways Lando had never mastered, quiet in his confidence rather than reckless. He was what Lando could never quite be.

And Lando hated it. Not just seeing you with him, but knowing that you had made the right choice. That after everything, you had walked away—not because of some dramatic final fight, not because of some unforgivable betrayal, but because you were done waiting.

─── 29 days after the break up.

Lando hadn’t expected to see you—not this soon, not like this. It had been just a few weeks since the break up, and he had convinced himself that he was fine, that the frustration had dulled enough for him to move on. He had been waiting for Max, leaning against a wall, phone in his hand, scrolling absentmindedly in an effort to distract himself from the lingering exhaustion of the race weekend. The world around him was routine—background noise, meaningless movement.

And then, that feeling.

It struck fast, sharp, sudden. A tight pull in his chest, instinctual, like something was about to happen. He glanced up, brows furrowing slightly, scanning the street without knowing exactly what he was looking for. He saw a blur—a bus passing by, pedestrians moving along the sidewalk, the usual hum of Monaco. But then, as the bus rolled forward, his stomach twisted.

Because the moment the road cleared, there you were.

Standing across the street, roses clutched in your hands, your smile wide, effortless, the kind of smile he hadn’t seen in a long time. It was the way you looked at him—not him, but Oscar—the softness in your expression, the light in your eyes, the way your laugh carried just faintly over the distance between you.

And Oscar.

Lando felt his grip tighten around his phone. His teammate. His supposed closest friend. Standing beside you like he belonged there, like it was normal for the two of you to be together. His stomach tightened, a bitter taste settling at the back of his throat.

“They’re so beautiful, Osc,” you murmured, your voice barely carrying over the street, soft and grateful.

Lando rolled his eyes without thinking, a sharp exhale escaping his lips. Idiot. Oscar didn’t even know you liked meadow flowers.

That night, Lando did what every young, rich man does when faced with the unbearable sting of losing the girl he thought he would marry—to his teammate, no less. He drowned it out.

He let the alcohol consume him, glass after glass, convincing himself with every sip that it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter. He laughed too loudly, drank too quickly, let his frustration bleed into recklessness, fueled by the voices around him—cheering, encouraging, oblivious to the storm raging inside him. It was easier this way, pretending like none of it had gotten under his skin. Like seeing you happy—seeing you with Oscar—hadn’t cracked something inside him that he didn’t know how to fix.

He didn’t care, he said. He had repeated it so many times that the words lost their meaning, but that didn’t stop him from saying them again. To himself. To others. To anyone who might have dared to question why his grip on his glass was just a little too tight.

And yet, when his lips met another girl’s, her hands running through his hair, her laughter warm against his skin—it wasn’t her he imagined.

It was you.

Your smile. Your voice. The way you had looked at Oscar, full of something bright, something real. Something that Lando hadn’t seen from you in far too long.

The kiss felt empty. It tasted like whiskey and denial.

But still, he chased it.

Pulled her closer. Let himself sink into the distraction of it, the mindlessness, the temporary relief. The room spun, the music blurred into nothing, and yet, somewhere in the back of his mind—where the alcohol hadn’t quite reached—he wondered if this was how it felt.

To be the one left behind.

─── 36 days after.

A week had passed, but the restlessness hadn’t.

Lando told himself he didn’t care—that it didn’t bother him, that he had moved on just as easily. He repeated it to himself like a mantra, like if he said it enough, maybe it would become true. But then, in a moment of weakness, his fingers hovered over your name, the muscle memory of scrolling through your Instagram too familiar to resist. The temptation won, his thumb hovering for only a second before pressing down, opening your profile. He clicked on your story without thinking, expecting meaningless snapshots of your day—things that didn’t involve him, things that wouldn’t sting.

But then, the picture.

You and Oscar.

By the sea, golden sunset washing over you, arms wrapped around each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. There was nothing forced about it, nothing performative. Just a simple, effortless kind of happiness, caught in a frame and broadcasted for the world to see.

Lando twitched, a sharp jolt of irritation sparking in his chest, his grip tightening around his phone. It wasn’t the picture itself that got to him—it was you. The look on your face, the ease in your posture, the way you stood beside Oscar like this was where you were meant to be. He hadn’t seen that version of you in a while. Not with him.

Without a word, he turned his phone toward Max, handing it over like he needed a second opinion, like he wanted someone to confirm that this was as ridiculous as it felt. “Look,” he muttered. “She moved on so fast, that’s crazy.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, laced with something bitter he couldn’t quite control.

Max barely glanced at the screen before shrugging, his response immediate, casual. “Well, you treated her like shit. I would too.”

Lando froze.

Treating you like shit?

The words hit him harder than the picture itself, sharper than the image of you wrapped in Oscar’s arms. Like something solid, something undeniable, something that didn’t leave room for argument.

Lando’s expression hardened, his jaw clenching as he stared at Max, searching for some kind of reassurance, some kind of validation. But it wasn’t there. Instead, Max just sat there, completely unbothered, scrolling through his phone like he hadn’t just shattered Lando’s entire defense.

“What are you on?” Lando demanded, voice edged with irritation. “You’re supposed to be my best friend, not—” He gestured vaguely at the screen, where your picture with Oscar still sat open, taunting him. “Not her damn therapist.”

Max exhaled through his nose, still unmoved. “I am your best friend,” he said simply, tossing his phone onto the table before leaning back against the couch, arms crossed. His gaze met Lando’s, steady, unrelenting. “That’s why I’m telling you the truth.”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head. “I always gave her everything she wanted.”

Max rolled his eyes, not even attempting to hide his annoyance. “Maybe in a materialistic way,” he said, tone dry, unimpressed. “But that’s not what she needed from you, was it?”

The words hit harder than Lando wanted them to. He opened his mouth to argue, to throw out some kind of excuse, but nothing came.

Because deep down, he knew.

─── 37 days after.

The notification sat there, glaring at you like it was demanding your attention. Among the usual names in your story viewers, one stood out—one shouldn’t have been there.

Lando.

The verified checkmark beside his name confirmed it, but it wasn’t like you needed proof. Your pulse had already kicked up the second you saw it, and suddenly, everything else on the screen blurred. It wasn’t the thousands of other viewers, the casual acquaintances, the strangers who followed you just to watch—it was him. The one person who had no reason to be here, the one person who should have been too proud, too indifferent, too over it to be lingering on your page.

You blinked, staring at it, unsure whether to feel irritation, amusement, or something in between. A scoff left your lips as you turned your phone towards Oscar, shaking your head like the absurdity of it all was something worth laughing at.

“Look who’s stalking me,” you muttered, voice laced with forced amusement, though even you weren’t sure if you fully meant it.

Oscar barely glanced at the screen before snorting, shaking his head with an easy grin. “Idiot,” he chuckled. “Seems like he finally realized what he lost.” His tone was light, effortless, like this was just another passing observation, like Lando’s presence in your viewers was nothing more than predictable.

You tried to laugh too. Tried to match Oscar’s ease, to brush it off, to shove away the thought of him sitting there, clicking on your name, watching your moments through a screen. But the sound never quite made it past your lips.

Instead, your gaze lingered on the notification.

Maybe he did miss you. Maybe, after all the pretending, all the indifference, there was still something there—something unresolved, something neither of you had fully let go of.

And even though he wouldn’t admit it—hell, even though you wouldn’t admit it—you missed him too.

─── 51 days after.

The paddock buzzed with its usual energy—mechanics rushing to prepare for the session, engineers hunched over screens, team personnel exchanging quick words, all moving with purpose. Conversations overlapped, engines roared in the background, and the air smelled of fuel, sweat, and determination. It was familiar, chaotic, loud. But in the McLaren garage, the atmosphere felt different. A little tighter. A little heavier.

Because Lando was standing there.

Watching you.

You felt it immediately—the weight of his stare, the unspoken tension pressing against your skin like something tangible. You tried not to care, tried to focus on Oscar beside you, his hand resting securely on your waist as he spoke with the team, his voice smooth, easy, unbothered by the lingering stares. He was calm, steady, unaffected by the fact that, for the first time since everything had fallen apart, you were back here.

But somehow—your gaze always drifted back to Lando.

It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t something you wanted to do. But there he was—leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his race suit tied around his waist, the fitted undershirt clinging to him in ways that made avoiding his presence impossible. He looked good. Too good. Annoyingly good.

And that alone was infuriating.

Because the last thing you needed was to let him have any power over you again.

Yet the moment his eyes met yours, something flickered in his expression—something unreadable, something tense, something that made your stomach tighten. A subtle shift, a fleeting moment where neither of you looked like people who had moved on.

The weight of it pressed against your chest, heavier than you expected.

You weren’t supposed to feel bad. This was exactly what needed to happen—distance, space, separation. Being here with Oscar, standing next to the man who had chosen you, the man who treated you right, was supposed to feel right. It was supposed to feel like the closure you had needed, the final step in proving to yourself that you had moved on, that the past no longer had its hold on you. And yet, as Lando stood just feet away, as the silence between you grew louder, something inside you twisted in a way you couldn’t quite ignore.

You could feel his presence like gravity, an unspoken pull that made the air feel heavier, thicker, impossible to ignore. The way he lingered nearby, the way the tension between you settled into the space like something tangible—it was suffocating. It was surreal. You couldn’t help but think about how strange it was, how unnatural it felt to be near someone who had once been everything to you and now be reduced to mere avoidance. No words. No acknowledgment. Just pretending like the past didn’t exist. Pretending like he didn’t exist.

And maybe, in theory, that was how it was supposed to go.

Maybe this was the reality of moving on, of letting go. The idea that time would pass, that you would find someone new, that the wounds he had left would heal, and that, eventually, he would become nothing more than a familiar face in a familiar place. That was what you had told yourself over and over. That was what you had convinced yourself would happen.

But in practice?

It felt wrong.

The moment Oscar stepped away, the space between you shifted.

It felt heavier, charged with something unspoken, something unresolved. You had been doing fine—avoiding, ignoring, convincing yourself that whatever existed between you and Lando was long gone. That there was nothing left to untangle, nothing left to dissect. But then, his gaze found yours, and suddenly, fine didn’t feel so certain anymore.

Lando took a slow step forward, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should be doing this. His posture was relaxed, but there was something restrained in the way he moved, like he was testing the waters, unsure if you would let him in even a little. His expression gave nothing away, though his eyes—those damn eyes—held something softer. Something careful.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual, barely above the hum of the garage. Like he was waiting for some kind of sign, some kind of confirmation that this wasn’t completely wrong.

Your breath caught for just a second, and then—it slipped.

“Uhm hey, Lan.”

The nickname tumbled from your lips before you could catch it, before you could stop it, and immediately, you regretted it. A name too familiar, too casual, too comfortable. It felt like muscle memory, like instinct. Like no time had passed at all. You weren’t supposed to fall into old habits. You weren’t supposed to make this easy. But here you were, slipping back into something you swore you had walked away from.

If Lando noticed your slip-up, he didn’t react. He only tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was trying to figure something out, like he wasn’t sure what to make of this moment.

“So, you two are like… a thing?”

Wow. Straight to the point. No hesitation, no careful wording, just pure honesty—Lando’s specialty.

Your pulse spiked slightly, heat creeping up your neck. You weren’t really together. Not officially. Not yet.

“Uh, not really,” you said, the words leaving your mouth before you could think them through.

Idiot. What did you just say?

And judging by the way Lando’s brows raised slightly, his expression shifting just enough to show he wasn’t going to let that answer slide—you were about to find out exactly why that was a mistake.

Lando’s expression shifted—subtle, but noticeable. A flicker of curiosity, something unreadable in his eyes as he watched you carefully. He wasn’t letting that answer slide so easily.

“Not really?” he echoed, eyebrow raising slightly, his tone laced with something that felt dangerously close to amusement. Like he knew exactly what kind of trap you had just set for yourself.

You swallowed, suddenly wishing you could rewind time and say literally anything else.

“I mean, it’s not official yet,” you clarified, but even as the words left your lips, you knew they weren’t strong enough. They didn’t shut the conversation down. They didn’t make anything clearer. If anything, they left more room for questions—for interpretation.

Lando tilted his head slightly, like he was mulling that over, like he wasn’t sure if he believed you.

And suddenly, standing this close to him, with his gaze locked onto yours, with the weight of everything hanging in the air between you—it felt like you weren’t sure either.

Lando’s voice was casual—too casual.

“And Y/n, you still have things at my place,” he reminded, his tone effortless, like this was just an innocent observation. Just a simple fact.

Lando’s words hung in the air, dripping with something just a little too smug, a little too knowing. His tone was casual, almost careless, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something intentional.

Your stomach twisted.

You hadn’t thought about that. About the clothes left in his drawers, the little pieces of yourself scattered around his apartment—your favorite hoodie tucked in the corner of his couch, the forgotten pair of earrings on his nightstand, the book he never returned. The traces of you still lingering in his space, despite everything.

“You should pick ’em up if you’re starting a new relationship,” he added, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Cocky. Unbothered.

─── 52 days after.

The garage hummed with activity—mechanics moving efficiently, screens flashing with data, the smell of fuel lingering in the air. It was routine, familiar, just another race day. But for Lando, there was something unsettled in the atmosphere, something that had nothing to do with strategy or tire degradation. Something personal. Something heavier than anything a race engineer could fix.

He hadn’t meant to ask. Not really. The words had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for days, lingering in the back of his mind every time he saw you with Oscar, every time he overheard something about you, every time he tried—failed—to ignore the fact that you were now a presence in his world again. It wasn’t supposed to matter. But it did. And before he could stop himself, the question slipped out, carried by something instinctual, something unresolved.

He glanced toward Oscar, keeping his tone casual, effortless, like the words meant nothing. Like they weren’t loaded with everything unsaid. “How’s things with Y/n?”

Oscar barely looked up. “Yeah, good,” he replied quickly, too quickly.

Lando caught the hesitation immediately, the slight break in Oscar’s usually steady voice. Interesting.

But then, just as Lando was about to push further, Oscar added, “I like her so much.”

The words were simple. Straightforward. But Lando knew—he knew Oscar had chosen them carefully. Had let them hang in the air just long enough to twist the knife a little deeper. To remind Lando that he wasn’t the one who got to say those words anymore. And it worked.

The thought of you with Oscar still hurt.

More than Lando wanted to admit. More than he should still let it.

And maybe that was the worst part—not that Oscar was with you, not that you had moved on, but that somewhere in the back of his mind, in the places he never spoke about, Lando couldn’t stop picturing a future that had never happened.

Lando could handle losing races, missing podiums, falling short of expectations.

But the thought of another man’s children carrying your eyes—the eyes of the girl he loved more than he ever loved himself.

That was unbearable.

Because no matter how much he tried to push it away, ignore it, pretend it didn’t matter—deep down, he knew.

He knew he couldn’t stand to watch you build a life that didn’t include him.

─── 60 days after.

The music from the afterparty still pulsed faintly in the distance, the bass reverberating through the warm Monaco air. Laughter spilled from the rooftop venue, voices mingling, champagne flowing freely. But out here, on the quiet pavement beneath dim streetlights, the atmosphere was entirely different—charged, tense, teetering on the edge of something fragile.

You weren’t even sure how you ended up here. One moment, you had been inside, smiling at familiar faces, pretending everything was fine. The next, Oscar had pulled you aside, his grip firm, his face tight with something that looked dangerously close to frustration.

“What’s wrong with you, Oscar?” you asked, arms crossed as you tried to keep your voice steady, tried to act like this wasn’t unraveling into something bigger than it should’ve been.

Oscar scoffed, running a hand through his hair before looking at you—really looking at you—like he had been holding this in for too long and now, it was spilling out whether you wanted it or not.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?!” His voice was sharp, edged with something raw. “I see the way you look at him, Y/n.”

“I am so done with this, Oscar.” You said it too quickly, too forcefully, like the words alone could make this moment disappear, could undo the frustration in his voice, the hurt in his eyes. But the second they left your lips, you realized how empty they were—how much they lacked the conviction you wished they had. Because deep down, under all the denial, all the forced pretenses, all the carefully constructed distance—you knew.

You knew he was right. But admitting it? That was something you weren’t ready for.

Oscar shook his head, a humorless laugh slipping past his lips, short, bitter, full of disbelief.

“You don’t understand how hard it is to move on from someone you loved for so long, so much!” Your voice cracked, frustration pouring out, raw, unfiltered. You shouted. Literally. It wasn’t measured, wasn’t restrained—just desperate. Because how could he not understand? How could he stand there, looking at you like this, like you were someone who had done something unforgivable, when all you were trying to do was heal?

But Oscar didn’t soften. Instead, his expression hardened, his jaw tightening as something inside him finally snapped.

“Y/n, I’m done with you.” The words hit like a slap—sudden, sharp, cruel. “I’m done being a replacement for your little Lando, who treated you like shit!”

His voice was loud, edged with something final, something irreversible. And just like that—the pretense, the patience, the quiet understanding he had always carried when it came to you—was gone.

You never saw him like this.

You never heard him say something so unforgiving.

But it was true.

You had treated Oscar the way Lando had treated you.

The weight of everything sat heavy in your chest, pressing down, curling itself into something suffocating, something immovable. The ache in your throat, the sting in your eyes—it wasn’t just from the argument. It was from the realization, from the truth settling into place in a way you could no longer ignore.

Oscar was gone. You had reached for him, barely, pathetically, but he had pulled away without hesitation—without looking back. The finality in his steps, the way his shoulders squared, his pace steady as he walked away—it told you everything. He wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t going to turn around. He was done.

You hadn’t thought you were that horrible. You hadn’t realized until now, in the quiet aftermath, how much damage you had done. It was never supposed to go like this. You had convinced yourself that you were trying, that you were healing, that things would eventually settle.

But now, all you could do was sit. Your body folded onto the curb, knees pulled close, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed away the tears that refused to stop falling. The world around you was still moving—cars rolling past in the distance, laughter spilling from the party, voices rising and fading like background noise. But for you? Everything felt paused.

And then—footsteps. Slow, deliberate, closer. Your breath hitched, panic flickering in your chest before you even looked up, because you already knew. When you finally lifted your gaze, your stomach twisted. Lando. Oh my god.

He stood there, hands shoved into his pockets, watching you for only a second before lowering himself onto the curb beside you. He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t ask if you were okay. He didn’t try to comfort you. He just sat, looking ahead at the empty street, at nothing in particular.

The quiet stretched, thick and heavy, settling between you like something fragile. You wiped at your face again, the dampness lingering, your breath still uneven. You swallowed hard before you finally dared to ask, voice fragile between your sobs. “What did you hear?”

A pause. And then—“Everything.”

You exhaled shakily. Neither of you looked at each other. You just sat there, side by side, staring forward, like there was too much between you to even begin to unpack.

The realization settled deep in your chest, heavier than anything you had felt before. It wasn’t about making the right choice, or even about fixing the mess you had created. It was about knowing—truly knowing—that nobody was ever going to save you the way he would.

Lando wasn’t perfect. He had hurt you, more times than you wanted to admit. There were moments you swore you would never let him back in, moments where the distance between you had felt permanent. But despite everything, despite the history, despite the way he had failed you—he was still here. Sitting beside you, quiet, steady, the only person who hadn’t walked away.

Slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him, your movements tentative at first, like you weren’t sure if it was the right thing to do. But as your head rested against his shoulder, as you felt the warmth of him beneath you, as the quiet stretched between you—it felt right. It felt like something you needed.

Your breath was uneven, shaky, the weight of everything pressing against your ribs as the words slipped out, soft, fragile, barely above a whisper.

“You really hurt me, Lando.” The admission stung, but there was no anger in it, no accusation. Just honesty. Just exhaustion. Just the truth of everything that had been left unspoken for far too long.

Lando exhaled slowly, eyes still fixed ahead, his posture tense, his words weighted with something that didn’t quite make sense.

“I know,” he said, and somehow, that simple admission felt heavier than anything else. Because he did know. He knew the ways he had hurt you, the ways he had failed you, the reasons you should have walked away and never looked back. But knowing it didn’t mean fixing it. And maybe that was the problem—he had spent too much time knowing instead of doing.

Then, almost too soft, too contradictory—“I’m sorry. You deserve someone better, love.”

The word hung in the air, almost unintentional, almost instinctual. Love.

You swallowed hard, your head still resting on his shoulder, your breath uneven. How could he say that—tell you to find someone better and then call you something so familiar, so his? He was confusing, infuriating, stuck somewhere between pushing you away and pulling you back in. And yet, here you were. Still sitting beside him. Still choosing him.

“But I don’t want someone else,” you murmured, voice delicate but sure, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his shirt. “I want you, Lan.”

The words slipped out, unguarded, vulnerable, carrying the truth you had spent too long denying. You weren’t looking for better. You weren’t looking for new. You were looking for him.

─── 71 days after.

The silence between you and Oscar had stretched over the last few days, filled with apologies that felt more like band-aids than real solutions. He had been the first to say sorry, his voice calm, controlled, like he was carefully threading the words into something that could hold you both together just a little longer. You had followed, not because you believed everything would heal, but because pretending was easier. Even though the cracks in your relationship were impossible to ignore, Oscar still held on. He wasn’t ready to lose you.

And Lando? That was a different story.

You had both slipped seamlessly into the act, pretending like that night never happened, like your whispered confession hadn’t been real. Like you hadn’t told him you wanted only him. He played along effortlessly, not questioning, not pushing, just falling into the same rhythm as you—one where the truth was buried beneath unspoken things.

So when Oscar told you he was heading to McLaren headquarters, when he casually invited you to come along, you hesitated. Not because it was unfamiliar—it wasn’t. You had been there before. You had walked through those halls with Lando, laughed in the corridors, listened to him talk about cars with an enthusiasm that made you smile without thinking.

But this time was different. This time, you were walking through the doors with Oscar.

Oscar pressed a light kiss to the side of your hair, his touch fleeting, absentminded, like his thoughts were already elsewhere. “I’ll find you in a minute,” he murmured, voice calm, steady, effortless. “You can look around.”

You nodded, offering him a small smile before turning away, letting your feet carry you through the space, past the sleek cars, past the championship-winning machinery, past the carefully displayed rows of gleaming trophies that reflected the overhead lights in shimmering waves. You paused in front of them, fingertips hovering over the edges of the plaques, tracing the engraved names without thinking.

Lando’s name. Over and over. It was impossible not to notice.

Your lips parted slightly as you stared, remembering the moments behind them—the victories, the podium celebrations, the sheer joy that had once lit up his entire face when he won. You had seen it up close, had felt it, had been part of it in ways you weren’t supposed to think about anymore.

But then, a voice. Familiar. Unmistakable. “You like my trophies, huh?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really.

Your breath hitched, pulse spiking before you even turned around.

And when you did, your stomach twisted.

Lando stood there, leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. His smirk was subtle, his gaze unwavering, like he had already predicted this moment, like he had expected to find you here—standing in front of pieces of his success, surrounded by the reminders of who he was, who he had always been.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to act normal, to pretend like this wasn’t him, like this wasn’t the first time you had seen him like this since that night.

“They’re impressive,” you said simply, your voice steady, even, though you knew he wouldn’t believe it.

Lando’s voice carried through the quiet space, steady but laced with something heavier, something unspoken, something that lingered between the words like an echo of a past neither of you could fully escape.

“Do you remember how we used to celebrate here together?” The question was simple, deceptively light, but it held a weight that settled deep in your chest. You could hear the memories inside it, the laughter that had once filled these halls, the champagne that had spilled over the edges of glasses, the victories that had felt like more than just his—they had felt like ours. You could see it all as if it had been yesterday, the electricity, the excitement, the way his arms had always found you in the middle of the celebrations, pulling you close like he never wanted to let go.

But that was a different lifetime.

One you weren’t supposed to think about anymore.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening at your sides, willing yourself to stay composed, to pretend like none of this mattered. Like seeing him here, standing in the place that had once meant so much, wasn’t unraveling something inside you.

“Now you’re here with him,” Lando said it without accusation, without anger, just fact. Just something to acknowledge, something to force into the space between you. But his voice—steady, controlled—didn’t match the sharpness in his eyes.

He was looking at you, really looking, as if trying to figure out how this had happened. How you had gone from him to Oscar, from champagne-soaked podium nights together to standing in front of his trophies like just another visitor passing through.

You turned to him fully, inhaling sharply, trying to steady yourself. “Lando, stop.” Your voice was firm, but there was a tremor beneath it, one you hoped he wouldn’t catch. “Me and Oscar are good now.”

Lando’s expression didn’t change—not immediately. He stood there, quiet, still, watching you like you had just said something completely incomprehensible. Like he was trying to understand how, not long ago, you had wanted him, had only looked at him, and now—now you were here, standing next to his trophies, with someone else.

Lando’s words hung in the air, stretching the silence between you, thick with frustration, edged with something deeper—something neither of you wanted to admit outright.

“I don’t understand you, Y/n.” His shrug was casual, effortless even, but the weight behind his voice betrayed him. “You want me, but you’re with him.”

It was clear he didn’t understand. But the truth was—you didn’t either. You had no answer for him, no explanation that made sense, not even to yourself. You had convinced yourself that you had made a choice, that Oscar was right for you, that everything had fallen into place the way it was supposed to. But standing here, caught in the gravity of Lando’s presence, his voice, his gaze locked on you like he was searching for something—it didn’t feel so simple anymore.

You wanted to push back, to tell him he was wrong, that things weren’t as complicated as he was making them seem, but you couldn’t. Because that same conflict—the one reflected so clearly in his eyes—was alive inside of you, clawing its way to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged.

“I know you, Y/n,” Lando said, quieter this time, but no less certain. There was something deeper in his voice now, something careful, something that felt almost fragile, like he was trying to steady something between you before it slipped away completely.

If he knew you, then he should know your decision. He should know why things had played out the way they did, why you were here with Oscar, why he had been left behind. He should know that you had chosen differently, that you had moved forward, that things between you weren’t supposed to exist in this space anymore.

But did he really know you?

Your throat tightened as you shook your head, forcing the words out, forcing yourself to hold onto the anger that had kept you steady all this time. “No, you don’t, Lando.” The statement felt sharp as it left your lips, cutting through the air between you like something final. “If you knew me, you wouldn’t have hurt me so many times.”

Lando inhaled sharply, his posture stiffening slightly, his jaw clenching in a way that told you he didn’t like that response. He wanted to argue. He wanted to fight it. You could see it in the way his shoulders squared, in the way his fingers curled into his palms. But something stopped him—maybe the truth in your words, maybe the exhaustion that had settled between you after all this time.

“I know you better than anyone, Y/n.” The conviction in his voice was impossible to ignore.

The words hit harder than they should have, sinking deep, settling in a place inside you that had never really healed, no matter how much you tried to pretend otherwise.

Because deep down, where you didn’t want to admit it, where you had buried the truth beneath layers of careful distance and quiet denial—he wasn’t wrong.

Even though you had chosen Oscar, even though you had told yourself this was the right thing, even though you had walked away— You still wanted Lando.

You always did.

─── 77 days after.

You hadn't thought much about it at first, dismissing the missing pieces of your life as minor inconveniences—an old sweater, a pair of AirPods, little things that weren’t supposed to matter. But the longer they stayed gone, the more noticeable their absence became, little reminders of a place you hadn’t been in far too long, of someone you had tried to leave behind. And yet, despite everything, they were still there, waiting, untouched, proof that some things weren’t as easily forgotten as you wanted them to be.

So finally, after too much hesitation and too many second guesses, you made up your mind. You had to pick them up. You had to close this lingering door, tie up the last loose thread, end whatever remained unspoken between you and him. That was the plan—the logic you clung to as you stood outside his apartment, fingers curling against your palm, steadying your breath before pressing the doorbell.

It took only a few seconds for the door to swing open, but somehow, those seconds stretched longer than they should have, enough time for doubt to creep in, for your pulse to pick up, for memories to stir in places they had no business being.

And then— Lando.

Messy hair, white t-shirt, grey sweatpants— Dear God— so effortlessly casual, so unbelievably familiar, so frustratingly him. He blinked at you once, then twice, as if confirming that you were really standing there, that this wasn’t just something he had imagined would happen. And yet, despite the obvious knowledge that you would come, the moment still carried an awkwardness neither of you could escape.

“Hey,” he said first, his voice lower than you remembered, smoother somehow, unreadable in the quiet space between you.

“Hey,” you forced out, an awkward, hesitant smile pulling at your lips, like it was supposed to soften whatever this was, like it was supposed to make it easier.

Lando’s smile lingered for a moment before he stepped aside, wordlessly inviting you in. The apartment still carried the same chaos, the same familiarity—clothes scattered across furniture, team merch stacked in corners, the faint scent of cologne and something inherently him filling the space. It hadn’t changed since the day you shut the door behind you, since the moment you decided to walk away, and yet, standing here now, it felt like the past had never fully left.

Your gaze drifted across the room, scanning over the clutter, the details, until it landed on something that made your breath catch—the framed photos.

They were still there.

Still displayed, still untouched, still holding pieces of something you both pretended wasn’t real anymore. But the one that stood out, the one that pulled at you the most, was the picture from Miami—the moment after his first win. Lando, smiling wildly, pure joy radiating from his face, the trophy held firmly in one hand while the other wrapped around your waist. You were pressed close, your lips against his cheek, frozen in a moment that had felt perfect, untouchable.

Your fingers reached out instinctively, barely grazing the edge of the frame.

“That’s my favorite one,” you murmured, the words slipping out naturally, quietly, like an admission you hadn’t meant to make.

Lando’s smile faltered slightly, his expression shifting, something quiet passing through his features that he didn’t try to hide. “Yeah, it was the best day of my life,” he admitted, but there was something softer about the way he said it, something that carried more weight than just nostalgia.

Your gaze lingered on the framed photo, fingers tracing the edges without thinking, as if touching it might somehow bring back the moment, might somehow remind you of how simple things had been. “We were so happy,” you murmured, exhaling deeply, the kind of sigh that carried more than just exhaustion—it carried regret, longing, unanswered questions. “Wondering when it all went wrong.”

The words stilled Lando, stopping him mid-thought, mid-movement, making him look at you in a way that felt different, heavier. He had thought about it too, hadn’t he? Wondered the same thing. Because you had been happy together. You had been the couple, the ones everyone talked about, the ones who looked untouchable, unbreakable. And yet, here you were—standing apart, speaking like strangers, trying to pick up pieces that had been left behind without knowing if they still fit.

Stepping into the bedroom felt like walking straight into the past. Nothing had changed, not really. Your favorite plush still sat on the bed, right where you had left it, like it had been waiting for you all this time. The makeup on the table remained untouched, scattered in the same way it always had been, like no one had dared to move it, like the space had frozen in time. It was as if your presence had never truly left, only lingered in the air, waiting for the moment you might return.

You swallowed, avoiding Lando’s gaze as you traced your fingers over the edge of the dresser, hesitant, careful, unsure if you should ask the question that had suddenly formed in your mind. “Lan?” Your voice was quiet, uncertain, fragile in a way you didn’t mean for it to be. “Can I ask you something?”

He hummed in response, a lazy sound, one that meant go ahead, even if he wasn’t sure what was coming.

You hesitated, fingers tightening slightly against the wood, mind racing as doubt crept in. You weren’t sure why you wanted to know—why this felt important, why the answer might matter more than it should. Maybe you needed reassurance. Maybe you just wanted proof that you hadn’t been the only one struggling with the weight of what had been lost.

“Do you ever miss us?” The words left you before you could stop them, shaky, uncertain. “Me and you together?”

Silence.

Lando didn’t answer right away. His posture shifted slightly, his fingers curling loosely at his sides, his gaze locked onto you like he was searching for something—like he was waiting to see if you were ready to hear the truth.

Then, his voice, steady but quiet.

“All the time.”

Your breath hitched, the world around you momentarily freezing as the warmth of his lips pressed against yours, firm, desperate, real. Your pulse hammered beneath your skin, your fingers gripping onto nothing, as if trying to steady yourself against the sudden rush of everything that had been left unsaid. The kiss wasn’t careful. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t something either of you had time to think through. It was raw, unfiltered, filled with every emotion that had been buried beneath forced distance, packed bags, and quiet goodbyes.

Lando’s grip on your wrist tightened, grounding you, pulling you closer, his touch firm yet hesitant, as if he was afraid that if he let go for even a second, you would disappear. His body was warm, solid, familiar, and suddenly everything—every single moment that had led to this—felt like it had been pulling you back to this exact place, this exact feeling, this exact person. His other hand found the small of your back, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of your shirt like he needed something to hold onto, like he wasn’t ready to let go yet, like letting go meant losing something he wasn’t willing to lose.

And maybe—for just a moment—you let yourself forget. Forget why you came here. Forget why things had ended. Forget why you were supposed to leave. Because in this moment, with his lips pressing harder against yours, with his touch begging you to stay, with his heart pounding just as wildly as yours, there was only this. Only him. Only the truth neither of you could ignore anymore.

Lando’s hands travelled down to your waist, pressing his fingers firmly against your skin like he needed proof that you were still there, that this moment wasn’t slipping through his fingers. His breath was uneven, shaky, filled with something raw, something desperate. The words fell from his lips between kisses, quiet but pleading, the weight of them settling deep into the space between you.

“Please don’t go, stay here tonight.” His voice was barely above a whisper, thick with something he wasn’t trying to hide—need.

You knew he meant it. You could feel it in the way his lips moved against yours, in the way his hands refused to let go, in the way his heart pounded against your own like it was trying to sync up, like it was trying to hold onto something neither of you wanted to name.

“I need you here with me.”

The words shouldn’t have made your chest tighten the way they did, shouldn’t have made your breath catch, shouldn’t have made your resolve flicker for even a second. But they did.

You stopped, just for a moment, just long enough to meet his gaze again, eyes locking, searching, understanding. And in that second, you knew—he wasn’t asking. He was begging.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, pulling him back in, refusing to let space exist between you. Your lips crashed into his again, and this time, there was no hesitation.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

───78 days after.

The morning light spilled softly across the room, golden and warm, painting everything in delicate hues of peace. You blinked against it, stretching slightly, sinking deeper into the sheets as the feeling settled in—happiness. It was quiet, simple, effortless, the kind of happiness that didn’t need justification, that didn’t come with doubts or hesitation, that just existed.

Your gaze drifted to the man beside you, his breathing steady, his body curled slightly into the pillow, his messy brown curls sprawled across the white fabric like they belonged there. Lando. He looked different in the morning—so unguarded, so soft. And as you stared, as you traced the familiar lines of his face with your eyes, something inside you shifted.

You were falling for him again.

Just like before. Just like years ago. But this time—this time—it didn’t scare you. There was no impending fear, no walls built to keep feelings at bay, no need to tell yourself it was temporary or fleeting or something you needed to run from.

It was just love. Pure, honest, uncomplicated.

“Good morning, darlin’,” Lando murmured, his voice still thick with sleep, rough and deep, the kind of tone that made warmth spread through your chest without warning. His green eyes met yours, blinking slowly, soft and steady, filled with something you weren’t sure he even realized was there.

You let your gaze linger, taking him in, letting the silence stretch before breaking it softly. “How did you sleep?” Your voice was quiet, gentle, carrying something unspoken beneath the simplicity of the question.

“With you by my side?” His eyes met yours, green and steady, filled with something unguarded. “Better than ever.”

A small smile found its way onto your lips, and as he reached out, fingers brushing softly against your arm, you let yourself sink deeper into the warmth of the morning, of him, of the quiet realization that maybe—just maybe—you didn’t need to fight this anymore.

Lando’s fingers brushed softly against your cheek as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle, lingering, like he wanted to savor the moment, like he wanted to make sure you knew—really knew—what he was about to say. His lips parted slightly, no hesitation, no filter, just raw honesty spilling out before he could second-guess it.

“I love you so much.”

The words settled between you, heavy with meaning, thick with something deeper than just affection—something that had always existed, something neither of you had ever fully let go of.

Your heart swelled, the warmth spreading through your chest, the kind of comfort that came from finally knowing you were where you were supposed to be. A slow smile pulled at your lips, effortless, unshaken. “I love you too.” The truth felt good, freeing, like you had finally stopped running, like you had finally let yourself feel everything you had been afraid to for so long.

Lando exhaled softly, studying you, searching for something in your expression before speaking again. “So, it means you’ll give me a second chance?” His voice was steady, but there was something fragile in it, something cautious, something that told you he needed to hear your answer.

And it wasn’t like you hesitated. You trusted him. You trusted that he could change, that things could be different this time, that whatever had broken before could be rebuilt.

“Yeah.”

─── 2 months later.

Two months in, everything felt different—lighter, easier, right. You and Lando had always found your way back to each other, like gravity pulling you together no matter how much distance or time had tried to intervene. There was no denying it anymore—you were soulmates, bound by something deeper than just history, something unshakable, something that had been there all along.

Lando had changed—not completely, not in ways that made him unrecognizable, but in the ways that mattered. In the ways where he used to be reckless, where he used to be careless with things that deserved more attention. You couldn’t help but wonder if Max had had a serious talk with him at some point, maybe knocked some sense into him, maybe taught him things he should’ve learned a long time ago. Whatever had happened, it had worked. And somehow, you loved him even more for it.

Things with Oscar had turned out better than you had expected. You talked, openly, honestly, and despite everything, he understood. He had seen it in you, maybe even before you were ready to admit it yourself—that you loved Lando, that you always would. There was no anger, no bitterness, just a quiet acceptance that sometimes, love didn’t follow logic, didn’t follow rules, didn’t always make perfect sense. And in the end, everything had worked out.

In the end, the pain had been worth it.

This is my longest fic yet<3 Hope u love it just as much as I do! @haniette <3

[strawberryys-stuff]

AHHH I LOVE LOVE LOVE

funny you come back to me, my dear. ⸻ 𐙚 ⸻  lando norris x reader .

“when  i  was  ten,  i  used  to  write  your  name  in  the  margins  of  my  notes.  with  your  last  name  after  my  name.  hyphenated,  of  course  but  ohmygodi’mjustrememberingnow—”  you  pause,  wide-eyed,  voice  dropping  to  a  conspiratorial  whisper.  “and  then  my  sister  found  them,  and  i  freaked  out  so  bad  i  tore  out  the  pages  and  ate  them." or,  you've  known  lando  norris  for  forever.  you  have  also  loved  him  just  as  long.

word  count.  1.8k feat.  established  relationship,  childhood  friends  to  lovers,  both  of  them  are  so,  so  in  love  it  hurts,  reader  is  insane  levels  of  unhinged  but  we  support  losergirls  🧡,  she  falls  first  +  he  falls  harder author's  note.  felt  like  da  perfect  time  to  post  a  lando  oneshot  …  happy  lando  pole  in  monaco  szn  !!!  anyways,  as  per  usual,  i  fear  all  of  my  ln4  fics  are  offshoots  of  my  does  this  feeling  go  both  ways?  series,  though  i  always  make  sure  all  my  fics  don't  need  you  to  read  it.  dedicated  once  again  to  @tsunodaradio  ,  who  loves  drunken  confessions  and  also  gave  me  an  entire  list  of  songs  when  i  asked  for  title  ideas.  title  is  from  bad  habit  by  steve  lacy.   read  more  of  my  work  here  !!

you’re a little too drunk, and you know it.

you’re at some hole-in-the-wall bar in some city that neither of you will remember as anything more than the place we drank too much on a random thursday night, but right now it’s perfect. the music is too loud, the lights are too warm, but your laughter is bubbling up in your throat like it’s carbonated. like sprite. or something.

it’s not your fault, technically. it’s just in the way lando kept pressing his thigh against yours, the way he mouthed you’re so pretty tonight against your jaw in that low, amused voice that made your head spin. you’ve spent the last few hours nursing half-drunk long island iced teas and feeling stupidly warm every time his hand lands on your waist or he leans in to say something in your ear.

“babe,” he says, voice low and warm and so lando it kind of makes you dizzy— though whether it’s the alcohol or the nerves is anybody’s guess. “you’re not even listening to me.”

you blink up at him, lips parted, brain about three drinks behind. “i’m listening.” you murmur, except you’re definitely not. you’re too busy thinking about how close his mouth is to yours, about how you can see the way his pupils have blown wide, about how your whole body feels like it’s made of jelly when he laughs.

“liar,” he teases, nose brushing your temple. “what was i saying, then?”

you grin, because you have no idea. “something about… tires?”

“tires?” he laughs, head tilting back. “babe, i was talking about the bartender’s mullet.”

you snort, tipping your head against his shoulder. “yeah, you’re right, it’s a good mullet.”

“i said it’s a terrible mullet,” he corrects, but he’s laughing again too, and it’s the kind of easy, tipsy laughter that feels like an inside joke. like you’ve known each other forever. and you have, sort of.

the world tilts when you stand up, a little too quickly, your hand gripping the edge of the sticky bar counter for balance. lando’s already steadying you with one hand at your waist, the other grabbing your bag from the floor.

“whoa, easy there,” he says, and he’s still smiling but his voice has that note of softness, that way he only ever speaks to you. like you’re precious. like you’re his.

“i’m fine,” you insist, though your knees feel like they’re made of rubber bands. “just… need air.”

“air, huh?” he grins, but he’s already guiding you out, and suddenly you’re outside, now, and you’re leaning into him because it’s easier than standing on your own. easier than pretending you don’t want to be this close, all the time, always.

you clutch his jacket tighter as the cool night air hits your flushed cheeks. “lando,” you sigh, all breathy bravado, “lando, did you know——”

“what, baby?” he asks, soft, amused, one hand on your waist to steady you as you trip over the threshold. “what do i need to know?”

“i’m dating you,” you announce, like it’s news to him. like it’s the most important thing in the world. “i’m dating you, lando norris.”

he snorts, but he’s grinning wildly— not in the way that’s condescending, but in the same way that feels like he can’t believe it either. “i know! you’ve been dating me for months now!”

“no, but—” you tighten your hold on him, fingers curling into his collar. “you don’t get it. you don’t get it.” you’re too close, forehead pressed to his jaw, words spilling out in a rush. “when i was ten, i used to write your name in the margins of my notes. with your last name after my name. hyphenated, of course but ohmygodi’mjustrememberingnow—” you pause, wide-eyed, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “and then my sister found them, and i freaked out so bad i tore out the pages and ate them.”

lando’s laughter rumbles through his chest, warm and real, and he tries to pull back to see your face, but you don’t let him.

your hands are on his cheeks now, squishing them together like you’re trying to keep him right here, in this moment, in your orbit. “you ate them?” he manages, the words garbled by how hard he’s smiling.

“i had to!” you insist, indignant. “she would’ve told you. and i couldn’t let you know because i was ten and you were like… the sun. and i was just me. and i had this stupid, embarrassing crush on you and now—” you hiccup, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes because you’re so drunk and so overwhelmed and so in love in ways you’re still learning how to say out loud. “now you’re my boyfriend and you’re real and i don’t know what to do about it.”

you’re trying so hard to be serious. you can feel the weight of it in your chest, the way your heart is thumping so hard it’s almost painful.

you want him to understand that this isn’t just a silly drunk confession; that it’s the most important thing you’ve ever felt. that if you could go back and tell that ten-year-old girl that one day she’d be here, pressed to his chest, drunk and giddy and safe, she would’ve lost her mind.

“landooooo——” you say again, voice wobbling. “lando, i’m trying to tell you something serious.”

he cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, and his eyes are so soft it almost makes you dizzy. “okay,” he says, quiet now, all teasing gone. “tell me.”

you swallow. drag in a shaky breath. “i used to think you were… i don’t know. something i could never have. like— i’d be lucky to even see you. and now you’re here and we’re together and also i’ve got this bangin’ dream job, and i’m just—” your voice trails off, mouth pulling into a helpless, wonderstruck smile. “i’m just really… really happy.”

he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. “i’m happy, too.” he murmurs, voice low and warm and a little rough around the edges. “you don’t have to act like you’re not obsessed with me, you know. i like it.”

you groan, burying your face in his shoulder. “you’re the worst.”

“nope.” he presses a kiss to your hairline, arms wrapping tighter around you. “you’re dating the lando norris, remember? best boyfriend in the world.”

“shut up,” you mumble, but you’re smiling so wide it hurts, your heart beating too fast and your fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re afraid he might slip away if you don’t hold on tight enough.

lando grins, presses a soft, chaste kiss to your lips, warmth against the cold air. he pulls back only enough to say, “come on, let’s get you back to the hotel.”

you cling to him, head resting on his shoulder as you start the walk back to the hotel. you’re giddy, flushed, and a little bit embarrassed by how easily you confessed all of that.

but there’s a part of you that’s also so… relieved. because it’s out there now. because he knows. because he’s got his arm around your waist guiding you down to your hotel, his lips pressed to your hair, and you think— no, you know— that ten-year-old you would be absolutely losing her mind.

you’re still tipsy, still giggling into his shoulder, but you’re so… safe. so sure. and as he guides you through the quiet night, you let yourself believe it: that this is real, that you’re allowed to have this, that you’re allowed to be the girl who used to dream and the girl who has him, both at once.

and when he finally sets you down, back at the hotel, he cups your face and says, voice low and tender, “still think you’re obsessed with me?”

you roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “shut up and kiss me again.”

and he does. like he’s been waiting all night to, like he’s been waiting years.

the next morning, you wake up to the sun too bright through the half-drawn curtains and the unmistakable pounding in your skull that tells you you should have stopped drinking three cocktails ago. your mouth tastes like regret and whatever demonic combination the bartender put in the five-or-so long island iced teas you drank last night. you groan as you bury your face deeper into the pillow.

lando, of course, is fine. infuriatingly chipper, even. he’s propped up against the headboard, hair tousled in a way that’s almost too perfectly messy, scrolling through his phone like he’s not even aware you’re dying beside him.

“good morning, mrs. norris.” he says, waayy too brightly.

you freeze. the memory slams into you with the force of a freight train. your face goes hot, stomach dropping straight through the mattress.

oh. my. god.

you push yourself up, wincing at the pounding in your temples. “don’t.”

“don’t what?” he asks, eyes glinting with mischief.

“lando…” you say, voice low, as if in warning.

he just grins wider, completely ignoring the threat. “you know, kit-kat, i didn’t realize i’d already been betrothed for over a decade. you could’ve told me.”

“lando.” you say again, more desperate this time.

“i just think it’s so sweet, baby,” he teases, leaning down to press a kiss to your shoulder, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “all those little notes with mrs. norris scrawled in the margins…”

and that is when you shove him. hard. he topples sideways off the bed with a yelp, the sheets tangling around his legs as he lands on the floor in a heap.

“you’re an asshole.” you groan, collapsing back into the pillows and covering your face with both hands. you’re mortified. mortified.

you’d been so careful not to let on just how badly you’ve always wanted him, how long you’d loved him, how those childhood daydreams still lived somewhere deep in your chest even now. but apparently, five long island iced teas and one too many hours in his arms had been enough to crack it all open.

he pops his head back up over the edge of the mattress, hair a mess, cheeks flushed with laughter. “you’re so cute when you’re embarrassed,” he says, smug as hell.

“i hate you.” you grumble, but there’s no real venom in it. you’re too busy trying to bury your face in the pillow. “i’m so fucking embarrassing.”

“no, you don’t, and no, you’re not.” he says, pushing himself back onto the bed, sheets still half-wrapped around him. he nudges your side until you peek out from behind your hands, and then he’s there, right in your space again, stormy eyes soft. “i love drunk you. she’s honest.”

you groan again, but this time there’s a laugh under it, bubbling up despite yourself. “i can’t believe i told you that.”

“believe it, baby,” he says, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “best thing i’ve heard all week.”

[strawberryys-stuff]

VENGEANCE | OP81

Oscar Piastri x reader

summary: You swore to avenge your father, no matter the cost. Along the way, someone began leaving clues—each marked with the same initials: OP. You don’t know who they are, only that they’re leading you closer to the one who pulled the trigger

contains: violence, detailed descriptions of death, blood, heavily inspired by The Last of Us

The floorboards creaked under your boots as you stepped into the remains of what used to be a shipping warehouse — now nothing more than rusted beams, cracked cement, and shadows that refused to move even when the wind howled through the broken rafters. Rain pattered down from the holes in the roof, cold and constant, soaking through your threadbare jacket and plastering your hair to your forehead.

You were standing over a corpse with your blade slick with blood and hands trembling—not from fear, but from the adrenaline that hasn’t left you in weeks. Their pleas for mercy hung heavy in the air, long after they took their last breath under your sharp, unforgiving, gaze. You had pleaded too. You had sobbed in front of them when their leader, Abby, had your father at gunpoint. You were an innocent child, a fifteen-year-old, who was forced to watch a bullet pierce his skull.

Your father was a master of survival, hardened by a world that left no room for mercy. He did whatever it took to keep you safe—even if it meant crossing lines others wouldn’t dare approach. His choices weren’t always clean, and more than once, they left ripples in the lives of those around him. And Abby was one of them.

She had been just a face in the crowd once—a soldier, a follower, someone with orders. But your father’s actions had touched her life in a way that festered, a wound she couldn’t let scab over. He had made a decision that saved you and cost her everything. And when she stood over him, gun shaking in her grip, it wasn’t war or infection that brought him down. It was vengeance.

You still saw the way she looked at him—not with rage, but with something colder. Purpose. The same purpose you now carried in your bones like marrow.

You remembered your father’s last breath, the way his blood soaked the floor as you screamed and fought and begged. You remembered the stillness that followed, like the world itself had stopped spinning. And then Abby turned and left, her boots echoing in the silence, leaving you broken but alive. Maybe that was her final cruelty—letting you live with it.

But she made a mistake.

Because your father taught you everything he knew. How to track, how to survive, how to stay alive when the world wanted you dead. And now, with that same fire in your veins, you moved through what was left of the world like a shadow sharpened into a blade. You were going to find her.

You were going to find all of them.

You knelt beside the corpse and pried a folded map from its vest pocket. Circled in red ink was a town five miles east. Just beneath it, scrawled faintly:

"She’s heading here next. For supplies. —OP."

You folded the map slowly. It didn’t occur to you to question why OP was helping you. Not yet. All you felt was heat. Raw, seething heat under your skin, in your ribs, pulsing behind your eyes. Abby’s face lived in your memory like rot—sharp, furious, victorious. You saw her every time you blinked.

The journey took two days on foot. You slept in a barn the first night, curled under a moth-eaten coat that still smelled faintly of horses. Rain pounded the roof until dawn, leaking through the boards and into your hair. You didn’t dream. You hadn’t in a long time.

By the time you reached the outskirts of the town, your boots were soaked and your fingers numb. It was quiet—too quiet—and that only sharpened your senses. The main street had been hastily barricaded, trash bins turned over and a burned-out car pushed into the middle of the road like a warning. You stepped around it, careful not to disturb the stillness.

And then you found the second sign.

On the cracked window of an old pharmacy, someone had drawn a circle with ash. Inside, two crossed lines. The symbol OP used when a building was safe—or, more often, watched. You ducked inside, blade already drawn.

There were more of them here—Abby’s people. Some older, one barely out of her teens. They didn’t recognize you until it was too late. The first went down with a single swipe of your knife. The second screamed before you silenced her. The third... begged.

You remembered her. She had laughed when Abby pulled the trigger.

"Please," she sobbed, crawling backward into the corner, blood dripping from a gash in her leg. "I didn’t want to—she made us—"

You didn’t answer. Your hand was steady as the blade found her throat. The sound she made wasn’t much of anything.

Outside, the wind picked up. You stood still, letting it whip through your hair and wash the blood from your face like baptism.

You headed north.

The road narrowed into wilderness. Asphalt broke apart under your boots, giving way to weeds and roots and silence. The trees had a way of swallowing sound here. Even your breath felt muffled. Birds didn’t sing anymore. Nature had learned to stay quiet, too.

You moved fast during the day and barely slept at night. Each hour stretched long and taut, held together only by rage and the thought of her face. You’d replayed that day a thousand times: the sound of the gunshot, the warmth of your father’s blood on your face, the way Abby didn’t even look at you after pulling the trigger.

Like you were nothing.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until your cheeks felt cold.

Two nights later, you found one of them.

He was alone, limping, holding his side like something inside had torn loose. He had a hunting knife but didn’t use it. Maybe he saw your eyes and knew there was no point.

He recognized you.

"Shit... it’s you," he whispered.

You didn’t speak. He tried anyway, eyes wide with panic.

"Please. Please. I didn’t shoot. I—I just watched—"

"Exactly," you muttered.

And then he stopped talking.

His blood soaked into the earth, mixing with the moss. You stayed there a while, staring at his body, your fingers still curled around the handle of your blade. His backpack had a map. You took it, tracing the faded ink with shaking fingers.

Next stop: an old ski lodge in the mountains. Remote. Hard to access. Perfect for regrouping.

You folded it and tucked it into your jacket. The cold wind hit your face as you stepped out of the trees again, but you barely noticed it. You couldn’t stop now. You wouldn’t.

She was close.

And you had promised yourself—sworn it, in blood and fire and memory—that you would erase every single one of them.

Even if it killed you.

The mountains looked like the spine of some old god, jagged and dusted with snow. You weren’t dressed for the cold, not really, but you barely noticed it anymore. The wind bit through the seams of your jacket, and your fingers were numb inside your gloves. Still, your grip on the rifle never loosened.

The trail had grown quieter the higher you climbed. No infected. No birds. Just wind and the sound of your boots crunching over ice. And then—finally—tracks.

Boot prints. Not fresh, maybe two days old, but deep and staggered like someone was dragging a limp leg. You recognized that step. You had seen it in the blood-slick hallway of a burnt-out hospital a week ago. He was still alive then. Maybe still was. You didn’t care. He was one of them.

You followed the trail to a ridge that overlooked a cluster of buildings. There, nestled between snow-covered trees and crumbling ski lifts, was the lodge.

It looked abandoned at first—windows boarded, snow piled against the doors. But the smoke curling up from the metal chimney told a different story. You dropped to your stomach in the snow and pulled out a pair of binoculars taken off a corpse four towns back. Through the cracked lens, you saw movement—a shadow passing by the second-floor window. Two people talking in low, tense gestures.

Your stomach turned. One of them had broad shoulders, hair outgrown and curling at the ends. You didn’t recognize the face, but the way he moved—defensive, alert—told you everything. Soldiers. Survivors. Killers.

Her people.

You crouched low, moving through the underbrush toward the back of the lodge. Your boots barely left a print on the fresh snow, the world around you muffling the sounds of your approach. You didn’t even glance at the blood stains marking your path from the last town.

You waited until the sun dipped low and the snow turned the color of ash.

That’s when you saw it: scratched into the bark of a pine tree near the back entrance.

OP.

A small arrow below it, pointing right.

Your breath caught. You hadn’t seen his signature in a week—not since the broken bus on the highway. You almost thought he had died.

But you didn’t have time to wonder. The arrow pointed to a break in the lodge’s fencing, half-hidden behind a collapsed snowmobile. You slid through the gap, hugging the wall, counting heartbeats and checking windows.

Inside, the hallways were dark. Someone had killed the power—intentionally. Your boots didn’t make a sound on the old carpeting. Your gun was loaded, safety off, but you didn’t want to fire unless you had to.

You passed a cracked mirror and saw your reflection. You didn’t recognize yourself.

Hair wild. Skin too pale. Lips split. A smear of dried blood on your cheek you hadn’t bothered to clean. Your father would’ve hated this version of you—then again, maybe he would’ve understood.

The silence pressed down on you like a weight. The lodge felt alive with tension, as though it were holding its breath, waiting for the storm to come.

The stairs creaked beneath your boots, narrow and steep, each step vibrating with a tension that had been coiled in your spine for weeks. Your fingers curled tighter around the cold metal of the pistol in your hand—heavy, scratched, and reliable.

At the top of the stairs, you paused. The hallway was dim, lit only by the soft, flickering glow of a fire leaking through the cracks beneath a door at the end. The air smelled like smoke, damp wool, and something older—sweat and blood long since dried into the wood.

The sound of murmurs reached your ears—a low, muffled conversation from the room at the end of the hallway. There were two voices. One low and gruff, the other careful—measured like someone was choosing their words too deliberately.

You crept forward, your movements a blur of practiced stealth. The hallway stretched out before you, the floorboards creaking softly beneath your weight as you neared the door. You pressed yourself against the wall, listening again. Their voices had quieted, but the silence that followed only amplified the thundering pulse in your ears.

You nudged the door open with your shoulder.

Inside, a fireplace flickered weakly, throwing trembling shadows across the room. Two figures stood near the window. One turned sharply at the creak of the floor under your boot.

Recognition stabbed into your gut.

He had been there the day your father died. Not center-stage, not the one holding the gun, but he had watched. You remembered the shape of his face in the firelight, remembered how he didn’t blink when Abby pulled the trigger.

You gripped your gun tighter, your heart hammering in your chest. The pain of what had been taken, what had been stolen from you, surged forward like a beast breaking free of its cage. The rage boiled in your veins, hot and unrelenting.

The other man moved—fast. His hand flew toward a rifle propped against a table.

A gunshot cracked through the lodge like thunder.

You flinched.

The other man jerked violently as the bullet struck him square in the temple. He collapsed, dead before he hit the ground. The rifle clattered from his limp hands.

Your eyes snapped to the shooter. He held the pistol steady for a moment longer before slowly lowering it, the muzzle still faintly smoking.

You raised your own in return, finger tense on the trigger, heart thundering in your ears. "Who are you?"

He licked his lips, jaw tight. "Oscar. Oscar Piastri."

Your heart stilled.

Oscar Piastri.

OP.

The clues. The marks. The scratched initials left beside burned-out campfires and carved into collapsed doorframes. The scavenged maps with circles in red ink. Every single one signed with the same two letters: OP.

A long silence passed. The air felt heavy. Dust floated lazily in the thin strip of light cutting through the window. The lodge was too warm, stifling almost, like the building itself was holding its breath.

"You left the clues," you said slowly. "Why?"

His voice dropped, quieter than the fire. "Because I want her dead too."

You stared at him, gun still trained on his chest, arms aching. Oscar stood in front of you, silent, hands loose at his sides.

"Why should I believe you?" you asked, your voice rough—shaken, but not weak. "You stood there while she murdered him. You did nothing."

His jaw clenched. "I was new. I didn’t know what she was going to do—"

"That’s bullshit," you snapped, taking a step forward, lifting your gun higher. "You saw it. You watched. And now you expect me to believe you're on my side?"

The fire crackled behind him, shadows dancing along the walls. His features flickered between hardness and something else—guilt, maybe. Regret. You couldn’t tell. You didn’t want to tell. You wanted to hate him.

“I didn’t stop her,” he said quietly. "I wanted to. I thought I might. But I was too fucking scared."

You laughed bitterly. "And now you want forgiveness?"

He shook his head. "No. I just want her dead."

The words hung heavy between you.

Your finger hovered near the trigger.

Your breath came in short bursts now—not from fear, but from the tidal wave of memories pressing against your ribs. Your father’s voice. His blood on your hands. The weight of his death carving itself into your spine. And this man—this stranger with a familiar face—standing right in front of you...

You hesitated. The shaking in your hand had crept into your shoulders now, into your chest. You hated how calm he was. You hated that a part of you—deep, buried—wanted to believe him.

The silence hung thick in the air, broken only by the muffled groan of the wind outside and the creaking bones of the old lodge. The corpse between you had stopped bleeding, but the red smear on the floor looked fresh enough to crawl.

You finally lowered your gun.

Oscar turned and knelt by a worn backpack resting beside the broken bed frame.

"I didn’t pack much," he spoke, voice low, like he was afraid the sound might break whatever thin understanding had just formed between you. "Didn’t think I’d still be breathing."

You didn’t answer. Your hands were shaking—still from the adrenaline—and you busied them by checking your own gear. Bullets. Knife. Water flask, half-frozen. The faded photograph of your father, creased and frayed at the corners. You tucked it back into your pocket.

"We can cut through the backwoods. Less patrols that way."

"We?" you repeated, sharpening the edge of the word as you walked over to the corpse, nudged the shoulder with your boot, then crouched to pull off a side holster and extra ammo belt.

"I don’t trust you," you revealed unashamedly, voice sharp and cold.

"I wouldn’t, either."

"But I need her dead."

He nodded once. "So do I."

You stared at him for a long time. And for once, it felt like someone understood your motive—understood the way grief could ferment into obsession.

[strawberryys-stuff]

BACKYARD BARBECUE | LN4

Lando Norris x reader

summary: Lano is your brother's favorite person for certain reasons: he joins in on his adventures and comes over with strawberry-flavored gummy bears. And not only is Lano fond of him, he also adores his big sister

pure fluff. that's it. Lano gets a little baby fever

Your youngest brother was a menace—a whirlwind of energy with eyes that sparked with mischief and wonder. The kind that ran around in mismatched socks, demanded chicken nuggets for breakfast, and somehow always had stickers stuck in his hair.

He had an uncanny ability to turn every room into his personal adventure zone—launching himself from the top of the stairs in a daring leap, only to land in a pile of cushions with a proud, victorious grin on his face no one could resist. Or scribbling masterpieces that looked like a hurricane had hit, yet he would proudly display them as though they had been painted by the hands of a professional.

He had a talent for turning peace into absolute chaos. But for some reason, Lando adored him.

It started small—a quick hello during a FaceTime call, a laugh at the way your brother mispronounced his name.

His vocabulary wasn't perfect yet, but he wore his mispronunciations like badges of honor, proudly calling his favorite dinosaur "Grr-nado" instead of T-Rex, and every superhero was "Spidey-Men".

But most importantly, there was Lano, his closest friend in the world. He would say it with such seriousness, as if his version of the name was the only one that truly mattered, and Lando would never correct him, just ruffle his fuzzy hair with a laugh.

The nickname stuck, much to Lando’s delight—and your suspicion that they were secretly plotting to overthrow your entire household grew. He didn't just tolerate the chaos—he became part of it. Piggyback rides through the hallway, endless rounds of hide and seek, and improvised dance battles in the living room.

The first time Lando came over after years of traveling was memorable. That morning, your brother had launched himself at Lando the second he walked through the door—no hesitation, no shyness, just pure toddler enthusiasm.

Lando caught him mid-leap with a startled laugh, nearly dropping the bag of gifts he had bought. "Mate," he smiled, lifting your brother high into the air, "you've grown! What've they been feeding you—jet fuel?"

Both of them laughed like pirates who had just discovered a hidden treasure chest full of juice boxes and chocolate milk.

You watched them from the hallway, leaning against the doorframe, one foot propped over the other. It was hard not to smile at the way Lando let your brother climb over him like furniture. He was wearing the hoodie you had stolen from him once, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, curls a little messy from the wind outside. He caught your eye, then grinned—bright and easy—and that was it.

Yeah, you were ruined.

The morning of the barbecue started in the kitchen, quiet except for the chopping of vegetables and the soft hum of the radio playing some old indie song from the early 2000s. The window above the sink was cracked open, letting in the scent of fresh grass and distant grill smoke from a neighbor two houses down. A fly buzzed lazily near the fruit bowl and your mom swatted at it halfheartedly with a rolled-up magazine.

You were standing at the counter, slicing cucumbers into neat little coins for the salad, and trying not to roll your eyes as your little brother zipped through the kitchen on a plastic ride-on car that sounded like it was powered by bees and chaos. He crashed gently into your mom’s leg, giggled, then took off again.

Your mom, unfazed, stirred the marinade and cleared her throat. “We’re doing a barbecue tonight. Last-minute thing. Family, a few friends.”

You didn’t look up. “Oh?”

“Thought you could invite Lando,” she added casually, like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb.

You blinked and looked at her. “Why?”

She shrugged, but she had that look in her eyes—the one that said she noticed more than she let on. “Well, he has been around here more than the mailman lately. Figured it would be rude not to invite him.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could speak, your dad strolled into the kitchen in socks and cargo shorts, carrying a half-finished cup of coffee and looking entirely too smug for 10 am.

“Did I just hear someone say Lando?” He looked between you and your mom like he was waiting for someone to confess a crime.

Your mom didn’t even glance at him. “We’re inviting him to the barbecue.”

Your dad squinted. “The same Lando who taught our three-year-old how to call the blender ‘the tornado machine’?"

You snorted. “That’s the one.”

Your dad sipped his coffee. “He’s under strict surveillance."

“I’m pretty sure he’s more scared of you than the race stewards,” you muttered.

“I better be scarier than the stewards.”

Your mom just hummed in amusement and went back to the marinade, while your brother zoomed past again, trailing a ribbon he must’ve found god knows where. The radio changed songs—something slow and nostalgic, the kind of tune that made everything feel like a memory even as it was happening.

You texted Lando before you could overthink it.

you busy later? we’re doing a barbecue bring yourself. maybe snacks. or a fire extinguisher idk

He answered five minutes later:

on my way are you the fire or the thing that needs extinguishing?

You didn’t reply. But your cheeks warmed all the same.

The backyard buzzed with the soft hum of conversation and the crackle of the grill, the air thick with the smell of sizzling meat and buttered corn. Fairy lights were strung along the fence, swaying gently with the breeze. The late afternoon sun dipped low, casting everything in a golden haze that made the moment feel a little too perfect to be real.

Your dad stood by the grill, one hand flipping burgers while the other held a juice pouch your brother had insisted he guarded. He wore a ridiculous apron your mom had dug out from the back of a drawer—Kiss the Cook, in faded letters—and while he pretended to hate it, he hadn’t taken it off once.

And your mom was holding court at the food table, defending her potato salad recipe like it was a state secret. Folding chairs, some slightly rusted from years of use, dotted the lawn like a disorganized army, and an old Bluetooth speaker blasted a playlist that veered wildly between a mix of 2000s throwbacks and cartoon theme songs.

Lando arrived just before sunset, dressed in a worn hoodie and jeans, a bag of chips and strawberry-flavored gummy bears tucked under one arm and a juice box in the other.

Your little brother—who had already downed two cupcakes and a fistful of grapes—screamed, “LANO!” and ran full-speed into Lando’s knees, giggling.

You stood on the porch, watching with your arms crossed and a helpless sort of smile stretching across your face. Lando glanced up and caught your eye, giving you a lopsided grin. “Guess I made the invite list?”

“Barely,” you called back. “You bribed the boss with strawberry-flavored gummy bears.”

The backyard had fallen quiet.

The last of the guests had trickled out with sleepy goodbyes and half-eaten desserts wrapped in foil. The speaker had long since died, leaving only the gentle buzz of crickets and the soft clink of empty glasses being collected in the kitchen. Somewhere inside, your dad had fallen asleep on the couch with the TV still on, casting flickering blue light across the hallway.

You stepped out onto the porch barefoot and spotted Lando sitting cross-legged on the grass with your brother fast asleep in his lap, marshmallow still clutched in his tiny fist, a faint smudge of chocolate on his chin. Lando’s arms were wrapped securely around him. He was humming something under his breath—soft, tuneless—and his eyes followed the flicker of fireflies blinking lazily in the warm air.

You knelt beside them, quietly, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off Lando but not quite touching.

“He’s out,” Lando whispered, glancing at you. “Full system shutdown.”

You smiled, brushing a stray curl off your brother’s forehead. “He didn’t stand a chance.”

You caught the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of Lando's lips—quiet, tender, and completely undone by the small boy knocked out cold in his arms. “Here—” you said softly, reaching forward. “Let me take him.”

There was something in the way he looked at you then—something quiet and meek, like watching someone light a candle in the dark, like you were the last piece of his puzzle—the one he hadn't even realized he was missing until it clicked into place.

Gently, he passed your brother into your arms, and the little one sighed sleepily, curling into you without even waking. Your hand found the back of his head, fingers threading through his curls.

Lando didn’t say anything right away. Just sat there, watching the two of you with his hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, smile soft.

“You’re really good with him,” he muttered eventually, voice barely above a whisper.

You looked over at him. The way the fairy lights caught in his lashes, the pink warmth still lingering in his cheeks. There was something so open in his face now—something that hadn’t always been there when you were younger.

“I like watching you with him,” he added quietly. “It makes me… I don’t know. Want things.”

You blinked. “Like chicken nuggets at 2 am and sticky handprints on the walls?”

He laughed. The kind of laugh that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and his shoulders shake a little, unfiltered and genuine.

Suddenly, he felt a flush creep up his neck. Saying it out loud—that he had imagined a child of his own, cradled in your arms—felt too intimate, too raw. As if he had accidentally cracked open a door to something he wasn't sure he was supposed to want just yet.

"Yeah," he breathed out, soft and fragile. "Especially that."

[strawberryys-stuff]

𝔽𝟙 𝕄𝔸𝕊𝕋𝔼ℝ𝕃𝕀𝕊𝕋

LANDO NORRIS | LN4

PRETTY WHEN YOU CRY | Lando Norris x reader

summary: Lando hates when you are upset but loves how you look when you cry

-> CRY FOR ME | Lando Norris x reader

summary: Lando secures yet another win but craves something more—something a trophy cannot provide. Maybe you can, but will you?

BACKYARD BARBECUE | Lando Norris x reader

summary: Lano is your brother's favorite person for certain reasons: he joins in on his adventures and comes over with strawberry-flavored gummy bears. And not only is Lano fond of him, he also adores his big sister

BITE MARKS | Lando Norris x reader

OSCAR PIASTRI | OP81

VENGEANCE | Oscar Piastri x reader

summary: You swore to avenge your father, no matter the cost. Along the way, someone began leaving clues—each marked with the same initials: OP. You don’t know who they are, only that they’re leading you closer to the one who pulled the trigger

A SECRET | Red bull!Oscar x fem!reader

-> A SECRET (2)

TANGLED CONSTELLATIONS | Oscar x fem!reader

UPSIDE DOWN | Spiderman!Oscar x reader

[strawberryys-stuff]

CRY FOR ME | LN4

Lando Norris x reader | part 2

summary: Lando secures yet another win but craves something more—something a trophy cannot provide. Maybe you can, but will you?

contains obsessive behavior again, I felt dirty writing this ngl—it's kind of nasty guyss but ENJOY ;) and let me know what you think

previous part

Cloaked in papaya orange and carbon black, the McLaren F1 car glistened in the parc fermè with specks of rubber and triumph, battle-worn and glorious.

The engine released its last breath, a faint growl that echoed with dominance. Each scratch and scuff was a badge of honor, a testament to every corner conquered, every straight devoured.

With a grunt, Lando crawled out of the cockpit, first one leg, then the other. His neck ached, his muscles stiff from the strain of the race, but the adrenaline lingered in his veins.

After hours cocooned within the suffocating shell of the car, he allowed the world—drenched in reality and chaos—to pour over his weary frame like a long-forgotten exhale.

Cameras swarmed like moths to a flame, their flashes stuttering like lightning. Microphones surged forward, each one an arrow tipped with questions he wasn’t looking forward to answer.

Each step felt heavier than the last, his racing boots muffled against the concrete as he crossed the threshold from solitude into frenzy. A journalist murmured something into their microphone, but he barely registered it. His ears rang with the ghost of your voice.

Yet he still smiled for the cameras, savored the praise as well as the harsh criticism with quick, sharp nods. But behind his eyes, he saw a precise image of your contorted, tear-stained face.

Your sorrow had burned itself into him, left a mark deeper than victory ever could.

Another journalist asked about the tire strategy. He responded on autopilot, but inside, his thoughts bled elsewhere—to the soft crack in your voice when you tried to speak. To the ache in your throat when you cried over an immature man.

The heavy door to his driver's room clicked shut behind him, muffling the chaos of the paddock—champagne-soaked mechanics, blinding camera flashes, the distorted sound of his name chanted by a hundred different voices. All of it faded as soon as his eyes found you—perched on the edge of the low leather bench, legs pulled up, hands clasped around an untouched bottle of water.

He dropped his gloves on the floor and crossed the room to stand in front of you. He crouched down slowly, resting his forearms on his knees. For a moment, he just watched you with a hunger that had nothing to do with victory.

Your gaze flicked up. And there it was.

That same look—half anger, half ache—nestled behind your lashes. Lando reached for you, thumb brushing beneath your eye like it was the most sacred place in the world.

"Cry for me," he breathed, leaning in so slowly it was maddening. You didn't move an inch. Maybe you should have. Maybe it would have been easier to scoff at the twisted, fragile way he chose to adore you. But instead, you tilted your head into his palm, eyes fluttering shut.

A singular tear rolled down your cheek. And he watched, attentively. Too attentively. Its path remained etched on your skin, leaving behind a faint shimmer.

"This is wrong, Lando. Unhealthy."

"It is," he agreed, brushing away that single tear with the gentlest edge of his thumb. "And I hate it. But God, you look like a goddess every time you cry."

You drew in a sharp breath at his confession. The meaning of his words was heavy, almost unbearable, impossible to swallow. He brought his hand to the back of your neck, fingers sliding into the strands of your hair.

But he stopped when the tip of his nose brushed yours—close enough to burn, close enough to tempt. He wanted to provoke you, to unravel the armor you wore, all with the weight of his gaze.

You gave in with the faintest lean, an unspoken yes twirling in the space between. He was the one who erased the inch that kept him from tasting you.

“You are beautiful,” he muttered repeatedly into your mouth like a forbidden prayer that threatened to rip his tongue out. You felt the sharp tips of his teeth graze your bottom lip as he withdrew from you with a huff. “And it's insufferable.”

You refused to move, heart hammering against your ribcage.

“I try not to look. God, I try.” His laugh was hoarse, haunting. “But your sadness—it’s the most violent thing I’ve ever seen. And I just can’t stop watching. I want to drown in it. I want to worship it.”

You exhaled densely, searching his eyes for lies, a tad of doubt, but there wasn't any. Just straight-up obsession, longing. "Why do you love my tears?"

His shoulders remained stiff with every breath he took. “I love everything that breaks you open and gives me access to your heart."

There was something obscene in the way he said it—like devotion laced with desire. A confession no god would approve of.

Your eyes fluttered shut, suddenly finding it difficult to hold his gaze.

A part of you—a secret part—thrived under the intensity of it all. You swallowed hard, feeling the heat rush up your neck. You couldn’t bring yourself to ignore the way he made you feel—like you were the center of something dark and magnetic. Something he couldn’t let go of.

The attraction was fatal. Excruciating.

"You are mad, Lan. Insanely mad," you sighed.

It was too much. The close proximity, his intentions, his whole existence swirling around you like a dangerous storm. You needed space, needed to regain some control, but even the idea of stepping back felt like a betrayal.

Lando didn’t even flinch at your words. If anything, he leaned closer, a dangerous glint in his eyes. His breath was warm against your face, and his hand reached up to trace the line of your jaw—so gentle, as if his self-control wasn't quietly shattering.

“I’m mad about you,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Can’t you see it? I can’t stop. I try. I do. But you…” He paused, his gaze flickering over your face, your trembling lips, before landing on your eyes. “You drive me insane, and I fucking love it.”

You swallowed, searching, as if waiting for him to crack, to show some sign that it was all a game, a lie, something you could laugh off later. But there was nothing there. No cracks. No hesitation. Just a man utterly consumed by you.

He was unraveling, and with every second that passed, you felt yourself unraveling with him.

“You think you’re the only one who’s mad?” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

His eyes darkened, and his hand slid from your jaw to your neck, gripping with just enough pressure to make your heart race. “No,” he said softly, but there was a fire in his voice. “I know you feel it too. And I know you want it as much as I do.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. He was right. God, he was right. You hated the way you didn’t want to let go of the madness, how the pull toward him was so strong it felt like gravity itself was conspiring against you. But you couldn’t—

“I don’t…” You began, but your words died in the air, swallowed by the loud hunger in his gaze. You stared at him, fighting the urge to give in—allow him to own you and spoil you with passion and long-sought pleasure.

You craved it so bad it was becoming intolerable.

"Fuck it," you whispered, your defense cracking, closing the space between you until there was nothing left but the heat of his body, the thrum of your pulse between you.

His hands immediately found their way to your waist, pulling you flush against him, as if the air between you both could no longer exist. You could feel the tension in his muscles. Every thought he'd been holding back, every ounce of restraint he’d been fighting—gone in that moment.

His lips were relentless, tracing the curve of your mouth before pressing deeper, claiming you in a way that made your head spin. You’d never felt anything like this before. The heat, the pull, the way his touch seemed to ignite every part of you that you had tried to keep under control.

His hands slid under your shirt, fingers grazing the soft skin of your lower back, pulling you deeper into the destructive mess you had created together.

When he finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, his eyes were wild, glassy with satisfaction. “You don’t get it, do you?” he muttered, voice low and rough, like the words themselves were weapons.

His fingers dug into your hips—a silent promise, a raw primal need. “You’re mine now,” he whispered below your ear, the words sinking deep into your chest, marking you in a way you didn’t know was possible.

But something in you, something you hadn’t known was there, wanted it. Wanted him. In all his madness, all his glory.

[strawberryys-stuff]

Girll you need to do more lando ones , the last one was perfect <3

glad you like it ❤️ part 2 is in the works! and many more on the wayy

[strawberryys-stuff]

PRETTY WHEN YOU CRY | LN4

Lando Norris x reader

summary: Lando hates when you are upset but loves how you look when you cry

includes a bit of obsessive behavior

next part

Lando never said it out loud—not to you, not to anyone—but there was something about you when you cried that left him utterly, disturbingly entranced. It wasn’t concern that gripped him in those moments. It wasn’t empathy. It was desire. Deep, hungry, and hard to look away from.

He hated himself for it—truly, he did. Because it wasn’t fair. Not to you. Not when you were hurting, unraveling, barely holding yourself together.

But fuck, the way you looked when you were breaking—it undid him.

He’d never seen anything more painfully beautiful.

You didn’t know, of course. How could you? You never noticed the way his breath hitched when your voice wavered, or how tightly he gripped the edge of the couch to keep from brushing your tears away with his thumb, just so he could feel them. You never caught the way his gaze lingered on the curve of your mouth when it trembled, the rise and fall of your chest when your sobs shook through you.

Your face, flushed and damp with tears, transformed into something almost otherworldly. Your lashes clumped together, casting soft shadows against your cheeks. Your skin, streaked with salt and glistening under the softest light. Your lips parted just slightly, swollen with the weight of words you couldn’t say. Your voice, thick and cracked, lingered in his mind long after you fell silent.

But it were your eyes—those red-rimmed, glassy eyes—that did him in. So full of emotion. So undone. They weren’t eyes that begged for help or comfort. They were eyes that stripped him bare, left him unsettled and hot. He’d catch himself staring, transfixed, tracing the path of a tear from your lash to your jaw with his gaze, imagining what it would feel like to follow it with his finger, or his lips.

You never knew that he saw you as art in your worst moments. And not the kind you hang proudly in a hallway—but the kind locked away, hidden, because it made people feel too much.

You looked breakable when you cried. And maybe that’s what made it worse—what made it feel so wrong and yet so irresistible. Because in those moments, you weren't polished or composed or hiding. You were raw. Unfiltered. And beautiful in a way you never were when you smiled. He didn’t want to fix your sadness, he wanted to watch it. Memorize it. Be close to it.

There were times he would imagine it again later, alone—how you looked with your face crumpling, your breath hitching, your hands trembling in your lap. He’d remember how your mascara smudged faintly beneath your eyes and how your voice dragged like velvet soaked in wine. Sometimes, he swore you didn’t even realize how devastatingly pretty you were in those moments. How intoxicating.

And maybe you didn’t. Maybe that’s what gave him permission, in his own mind, to look. To want.

He knew it would shatter something if you ever found out—not because he was cruel, but because it was the kind of truth that tasted like sin. A quiet addiction he never meant to nurture, but couldn’t let go of. Because when you cried, Lando didn’t want to fix you. He wanted to keep you that way.

Just for a moment longer.

It was nearing midnight when you showed up at his place, knuckles white around a half-empty bottle of vodka. There was a heavy flush to your cheeks, the kind that came from alcohol and cold.

Clearly another pathetic attempt at a date.

Lando stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame in a tight black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, not even pretending to hide the way his gaze flickered over your face. Your clothes were soaked, as well as your hair, strands clinging to your skin and water dripping from the sleeves of your jacket. However, he didn't move aside to let you into his warm, cozy apartment.

His eyes were busy tracing the paths of tears and raindrops, unashamedly savoring the view. That gaze was unholy, exhibiting eagerness to cause trouble, irreversible damage. His hand reached for your cheek, a place he loved to caress with utmost delicacy.

But instead of drowning your skin in gentle touches, he grasped your chin to pull you forward.

"God— you look so fucking pretty when you cry."

His lips crashed against yours in desperation, his composure crumbling. You tasted of salt and cheap booze. His other hand hugged the bottle neck of the forgotten vodka as soon as he felt you melt into the kiss, your body suddenly growing heavy. And you let him take it, mind occupied with something else entirely.

He pulled you inside his apartment and shut the door with his foot, refusing to separate your lips now that he had you right there, finally satisfying his filthy little desires.

It was twisted—you were highly aware of that—but you just couldn't resist. It was addicting, thrilling. You sought the need to be seen, worshipped, in the wrong places. You chose to chase men who refused to see beyond your appearance.

You chose to ignore the one man who was willing to tear the world apart, just for you.

How stupid of you.

[strawberryys-stuff]

i'm discontinuing this story, i am so sorry. i haven't had the time to write anything for the past year and i also don't have the motivation to continue.

i'm really sorry. i know you guys have been waiting for an ending since it came out.

Hiiii sorry if this seems rude ir anything...not intending for it to but...is part 3 to aonungs fic still in the works? I got super hooked on it and i just need to know

it's not rude at all ☺️ but yes, part 3 is still in the works! my life got a bit hectic but i promise it's coming soon

and i'm glad you like it

[strawberryys-stuff]

Hiiii sorry if this seems rude ir anything...not intending for it to but...is part 3 to aonungs fic still in the works? I got super hooked on it and i just need to know

it's not rude at all ☺️ but yes, part 3 is still in the works! my life got a bit hectic but i promise it's coming soon

and i'm glad you like it

[strawberryys-stuff]

FOOLED || Ao'nung x Sully!reader

part 2 | part 1

change of plans; i'll have to write yet another part for this request bcs i realized i can't write lmao 🥲 i forgot how to do it, so i apologize for this never-ending wait i'm putting u through

enjoy my poor try to write!

Ao'nung could tell the image of the breathtakingly stunning healer was clouding your mind and found your abrupt bursts of frustration whenever she waved at him with a toothy grin decorating her sparkling turquoise skin quite humorous, attractive even.

Mireya was certainly a beauty among the Metkayina tribe but she was fragile. Your sharp glares and silent growls damaged the unguarded shield around her gracious heart, which forced her feet to carry her sobbing frame inside Ao'nung's marui pod every evening. Despite his warnings and frequent eye rolls, Mireya continued to visit the boy who was clearly becoming irritated by her unannounced appearances outside his home.

He was desperately trying to peel her hands off his muscular arms everytime you were passing by with your sisters, allowing his thick tail to show his annoyance. He would gift you precisely wrapped presents almost every week to reveal his tiny attempts to court you - it started with shimmering seashells that eventually turned into luminescent bouquets - but it was never enough for Mireya as she continued to follow him around like a lost puppy.

Ao'nung wanted your undying love, not hers. He even mentioned it to you during your nightly strolls along the shore, stating that he would rather suffer in solitude than experience mating with Mireya, who basically owned his mother's blessing.

Ronal wished only the best for her firstborn and saw rich, successful future in the Metkayina girl. And the fact that you managed to build an unbreakable bond with Ao'nung in such a short period of time was something she just refused to accept. The idea of seeing Ao'nung with a hybrid, someone who had pure demon blood flowing through their veins, disgusted her.

She observed the way her son seemed to be left breathless everytime you walked away from his tall figure after a polite farewell, which often ended up with Ao'nung chuckling and firing some teasing words after your swiftly moving body. She even caught the way her son spoke highly of you during every dinner, lunch, breakfast - you name it.

She noticed how affectionate her eldest child was whenever he had you by his side, how protective he was over you - she noticed how you were able to handle his childish behavior with ease, no evident struggle present, and yet, she still refused to accept your relationship.

"I am not having this type of conversation, mother." Ao'nung pinched the bridge of his scrunched nose, silencing his growl in deepest part of his throat before it managed to roll off his obnoxiously bold tongue.

He was standing in front of you, shielding your defeated spirit from his stern mother with his lean body. His other hand was keeping you close alongside his tail that robbed you of any escape. Ronal was holding her chin high to display her disapproval once more, but all she received from her firstborn was a disappointed sigh.

Ao'nung brought your intertwined fingers up and proudly pulled you out from his cold shadow. Your drastically different form entered the afternoon sunbeams and blinded Ronal for a split second. Your thin tail was flickering nervously behind you as she inspected the position you were in.

It was awfully obvious what happened during the unusually uneventful eclipse last night, she could sense the abrupt change in the middle of her ribcage - you were officially sharing a neural connection with her son.

The woman began to circle the two of you with a creased forehead and allowed her fingers to wrap around the base of your tail. You hissed through clenched teeth when she left a painful tug behind before her hand moved to your tense shoulders. She spotted a bite mark in the crook of your neck, stifling a snarl.

"Not fully mated." She slapped your precisely knitted braid aside and received a warning growl from your lover. "Just marked," Ronal taunted with a huff, quickly placing one of her hands over her growing belly when your tail twitched her way. "Disappointing."

"That is enough." Ao'nung bared his fangs at the pregnant woman as his hand pushed you forward to create some space between you and his mother. You licked your chapped lips and let your ears fall, trying to ignore her harsh words about your mixed blood and the title people had been using to address you and your younger brother for several years. "She is not an outcast, mom! Quit listing her differences, for Eywa's sake! She is a fucking Metkayina now, accept it!"

"Her rites of passage are unfinished," Ronal reminded her son with a click of her tongue, ignoring his usage of the inappropriate language. "She is not one of us-"

"-yet." Ao'nung interrupted her upcoming remark with a growl and temporarily released your hand to point to his mother's rapidly beating heart. "As for now, I need you to respect my partner - whether you like it or not."

Before the spiritual leader could interject, your furious mate captured your hand once again and dragged you away from the cold-hearted woman, muttering an apology to his younger sister who had to witness the conflict. You bowed to Tsireya quickly and followed Ao'nung out of center of the lively village with flattened ears.

part 3 coming soon! i'm so sorry 😭

[strawberryys-stuff]

posting a bit of my Percy Jackson x Ares!oc at 4am instead of going to sleep.. i wanna cry 🥲

i also know this is going to flop so..

anyways, if u decide to read this tho, enjoy the angst 🥰

sorry if it has grammatical errors, i can barely keep my eyes open

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

Alexis hissed through clenched teeth when the tail of the enormous beast collided with her abdomen and knocked her off her feet. Her watercolor eyes widened when she felt cold wind caress her back.

Despite his worsening condition and weakening muscles, Percy leaped after her falling frame with his hand outstretched. He seized her wrist and at the last moment grabbed a piece of metal that was sticking out of the side of the hole the mother of monsters created with a grunt.

Echidna approached the dangling demigods with a mocking smile, the chimera growling beside her. "I must say, I am kind of disappointed."

Alexis looked up at the mother of monsters with fury sparkling behind her eyelashes, knowing the comment was aimed at her. She cracked her lips open to argue but was silenced by Percy, whose strength was decreasing. His hands were becoming clammy and slippery.

"Please," he breathed out with droplets of sweat rolling down his paling face, allowing desperation to come to the surface. His grip was loosening, he could feel it. "Don't do this."

The chimera snarled, showcasing its sharp teeth in the process. Echidna placed her hand on the side of its neck and tilted her head, fighting the urge to laugh. She fed off their fear.

"Percy.." Alexis shuddered, feeling her fingers beginning to slip out of his hand. The struggling blonde glanced down at the auburn-haired girl, his chapped lips quivering. "You have to let go-"

"No," he interjected harshly, refusing to let go of her wrist even though he knew he wouldn't be able to hold onto her much longer. "I am not letting you fall."

"You have to," Alexis insisted, her locks flowing like the waves of a calm sea in the harsh wind. Percy stared distressingly into the depths of her cool grey eyes as his began to flood with tears. "It's okay," she assured, droplets of salt water shimmering in her gaze.

Before Percy could object, Alexis wiggled her wrist out of his grasp, their fingertips grazing. A wrenching scream bolted out his throat as he tried to get ahold of her again, but his hand passed through a fluffy cloud instead.

"What a shame," the mother of monsters snickered as she squatted down to the dangling young boy, whose eyes welled up with rage and raw emotion. "I expected more from you, lighting thief."

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

if you would like to see more, let me know!

i'd also appreciate it if you could help me 'spread' this around

thank u! have a great day ❤️