lnracer

[lnracer]

reminder that whilst yet another premiere of the F1 movie hits the world with its misogynistic representation, today June 23rd we celebrate the International Women in Engineering Day🤍

[lnracer]

my brain has been nonstop thinking of mafia lando ever since those suit pics dropped. anything mafia lando and my life is yours

➵ Pairing: Mafia! Lando Norris x Undercover Rival Spy! Female Reader.

➵ Warnings: Mild sexual content/suggestive themes, power imbalance, mild verbal degradation/humiliation.

➵ Word Count: 2.525k.

➵ a/n: Clove!! tysm for preaching Mafia! Lando, honestly 😫 I had a lot of fun writing it and got a little out of my romance comfort zone for this one...😶 I hope it turned out well and that you like it!! ☺️🧡

Also, please forgive me if the suggestive part is not so well written, it is not normally what I write, so it may have become repetitive, but I tried! 😓

She knew she looked out of place. Not in a bad way — no, she looked perfect for the role she was playing. Dressed in a silky champagne slip dress that clung to her in all the right places, her lips red, her hair loose. Effortlessly seductive. She looked like she belonged to someone rich and bored.

Which, technically, she did.

Carlos had given her the job, tired of Lando outmaneuvering him in territory deals and black-market shipments. There was something hidden in Lando’s vault, something Carlos wanted badly enough to send her.

He’d chosen well. She could melt into any room with mastery.

Lando’s mansion throbbed with bass and laughter that night. The guest list was all killers in suits and models with smiles too sharp. Men clinked glasses of vintage scotch while eyeing one another with thinly veiled suspicion. The women did the same, only with better posture.

She floated past all of them like smoke.

Her first objective was simple: get close to Lando. Closer than anyone else.

And it worked almost too well, he noticed her the moment she stepped onto the balcony.

She’d timed it perfectly — arriving late, alone, aloof. She sipped from her glass like she wasn’t watching him through her lashes, but of course, he was watching her.

She caught him smirking before he said anything.

“You’re not on the list,” Lando said, sliding right beside her, voice smooth like aged whiskey. “I’d remember someone like you.”

“That’s a shame,” she murmured, twisting her mouth into a small pout. “I was hoping to go unnoticed.”

He leaned against the railing, cocking his head. “Why?”

“Because I like to watch before I play.”

Lando liked that. She could tell by the twitch of his lips, the way his fingers tapped his glass once. He wasn’t subtle, eyes roaming over her figure like he was calculating something. She let him look.

“You have a name?” he asked.

She offered a fake one. "Estelle."

He didn’t believe her — that much was clear — but he let it slide. "Pretty name. Doesn’t suit someone who walks like she’s hiding something."

She almost laughed. Sharp.

And yet, when he took her hand and offered her a private tour of the house, she didn’t hesitate. That was part of the plan, after all. The office was her target, Lando was just the key.

They flirted down the marble halls, every step echoing with something dangerous. At some point, his hand found the small of her back and she smiled up at him sweetly — innocent even — as her eyes darted towards the door at the end of the corridor. The one with the biometric lock.

He caught the glance.

“You want to see that room?” he asked.

She tilted her head. “Should I?”

“I don’t usually bring party guests into my office,” he said slowly, “but I suppose I can make an exception.”

The door hissed open after he scanned his thumb and entered the code.

Inside, the room was cleaner than she expected — dark wood, shelves of leather-bound books, a decanter tray in the corner. The desk looked untouched — too untouched. Hidden beneath, there had to be a vault. She was sure of it.

He didn’t close the door. Instead, he walked to the liquor cabinet, poured two glasses. She used the moment to drift toward the shelves, pretending to admire a sculpture while memorizing the placement of everything.

Lando walked up behind her, handed her a glass. “I still don’t believe you came here for the drinks.”

She turned to face him. “I didn’t.”

He took a step closer, the space between them shrinking into nothing.

“Then what did you come for, Estelle?”

She tilted her head, smiled — a soft, dangerous one. “Maybe I just wanted to meet the infamous Lando Norris for myself. See if the rumors were true…”

“And what do they say?”

“That you’re ruthless. Unpredictable.” She took a sip. “Hard to resist...”

Lando grinned, then leaned in and brushed a kiss just behind her ear, his breath hot and slow. “They forgot ‘paranoid.’”

Then, just like that, he pulled away.

Her heart skipped — she’d been caught.

But he didn’t confront her. Instead, he glanced at his phone and let out a small groan.

“Duty calls. Important guest just arrived. Try not to touch anything while I’m gone.”

She nodded with practiced calm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And then he was gone. The door closed behind him.

And she should have known better.

This wasn’t just any mafia man. This was Lando Norris. A man who smiled like a devil and played three steps ahead.

Still, she turned toward the desk. It was time.

She dropped to her knees, pried open the panel beneath Lando’s desk, her fingers trembling slightly as she bypassed it.

Carlos had said the safe would be hidden — biometric trigger, old-school mechanics behind high-tech glamour. She didn’t have much time, but her fingers were sharp and precise. Almost there. Almost—

Click.

Just as she started to feel the rush of access, to sense the adrenaline of unlocking something she wasn’t meant to touch, the door behind her shut.

Not slammed. Not loud. Soft. Purposeful.

Her entire body went still, hand frozen mid-movement. Slowly, she turned.

And there he was. Lando. Leaning against the door with his arms crossed over his chest, no more fake charm in sight — just cold amusement. The kind that made her stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with attraction anymore.

He tilted his head at her. That smirk was razor sharp.

“Told you not to touch anything.”

She straightened fast, trying to find an out. “I— I was just curious! Thought I’d—”

“Save it, Y/N.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t given him that name, not once.

He pushed off the door slowly, taking a few steps towards her, dress shoes heavy against the polished floor.

“Bit disappointing,” he said, voice low and cruel. “You were doing so well pretending to be someone you’re not. I almost believed you were just another party girl with a knack for eye contact and fake interest.”

Y/N’s eyes darted towards the window. No exit. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.

“But you know what’s really disappointing?” he went on, now circling her like a wolf. “I was actually considering taking you to bed tonight. Could’ve made your little spy fantasy come true.”

He let out a dark, humorless laugh. “What a fucking shame.”

“Lando—” she started, panic blooming in her chest.

“No. Don’t ‘Lando’ me now,” he snapped, smile still etched on his face, eyes deadly. “Don’t pretend to be scared when you came into my home, tried to rob my vault, all for that bastard Carlos.”

He leaned in closer, whispering now.

“Did he promise you something sweet if you succeeded? Hm? Let me guess—” he dragged his gaze over her body, slow and mocking. “A week of being the one he fucks while calling you ‘mi reina’? Or just a few pathetic scraps of praise for doing his dirty work?”

She didn’t answer. Her silence screamed.

Lando grinned wider.

"God, you're good at looking guilty."

He reached behind her, opened the hidden compartment she’d been fumbling with seconds ago — so effortlessly it made her want to scream.

“I left you here on purpose, Y/N. You really think I’m that fucking stupid?”

Her knees almost buckled.

Before she could move, his hand wrapped around her wrist — not rough, but firm — and he guided her around the desk, right to the leather chair facing the vault. Her breath hitched as she realized what was coming.

“Sit.”

She didn’t. He shoved her — gently, but with finality.

“Don’t make this worse than it needs to be.”

And somehow, she listened.

The ropes came out of his suit pocket like they’d been waiting for her all along. As he tied her wrists to the arms of the chair, Lando kept talking — soft and venomous.

“You wanted to play a role? Fine. You’ll sit here and watch what real power looks like.”

When she tried to speak, his finger pressed to her lips.

“Shhh. You had your chance to lie. Now it’s my turn to enjoy the truth.”

He walked towards the vault. The air between them was heavy with humiliation, rage, and the bitter sting of betrayal turned personal.

She should’ve known. He was always three moves ahead.

But she never expected him to take it so damn personally.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖

The room was dim now, a single overhead light flickering faintly, casting long shadows over the walls like specters. She sat in his leather chair — the one behind the infamous office desk she’d been trying to hack into just minutes earlier. Her arms were bound to the armrests with soft rope — tight enough to restrain, but not enough to bruise.

Carlos had warned her. Told her not to underestimate Lando Norris. Said he was charming, sure, disarmingly polite even — “Looks like a fuckin’ altar boy with a gold chain,” he’d muttered with a bitter laugh. “But don’t forget, he plays the fool. He’s not.”

She should have listened, but she didn't. Now here she was.

Lando stood before her, sleeves rolled, black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, gold chain glinting against his skin. But it was the faint smear of red near his knuckles that made her stomach turn.

She hadn’t even noticed it until now.

She remembered the guest that had arrived — the one he left her alone for. He hadn't lied, just handled things his way.

"You really thought you could snoop through my office without me noticing?”

His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of quiet that comes right before something breaks.

She straightened in the chair, jaw set. “I wasn’t snooping.”

He scoffed — one dark laugh, sharp and short — and stepped forward, lazy in the way predators are when they know their prey isn’t going anywhere.

"You’re going to lie to me now, sweetheart?" He crouched in front of her, looking up with mock pity. “That’s adorable.”

His fingers grazed her knee, drifting up her thigh in a path that made her breath catch. She hated that her body responded. Hated it more that he noticed.

“You always breathe like that when you’re lying, or is it just what I do to you?”

He pushed her legs apart without asking, slow and methodical, like he wanted her to feel every inch of surrender. She squirmed against the ropes, but he only smiled wider.

"You’re not in a position to act brave, sweetheart," he murmured, trailing his fingers along the soft skin of her inner thigh. “You want me to stop?”

She hesitated. “No.”

His grin turned razor sharp.

“Didn’t think so.”

He rose and stepped behind the chair, looming. His hand wrapped lightly around her throat — a warning, not a threat — while his other slipped beneath her skirt, playing at the edge of her underwear. His touch was maddening, not quite enough, not quite nothing.

"I know why you were in my office," he whispered. "And you’re gonna tell me everything.”

He pressed a kiss to her neck — slow, almost sweet — then another, right below her ear. His teeth scraped the skin, sending a shiver down her spine. She was still trying to find her voice when his fingers slid over the thin lace between her legs, making her jolt in the chair.

“Still not ready to talk?” he asked, brushing the lacy fabric with the back of his fingers.

She bit her lip. “Make me.”

He let out a low, cruel laugh — one that made her entire body tighten.

“Oh sweetheart… you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

And then he moved.

Her underwear was shoved aside in one quick flick of his wrist and his fingers slid into her heat, dragging the digits through her folds — slow, deliberate, filthy.

She gasped.

“Mmm,” Lando hummed against her neck. “That’s better. Knew you’d sound good when you’re not lying through your fucking teeth.”

He didn’t rush. No, he took his time with feather-light touches that made her grind her hips into his hand without realizing it.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Tied up in my chair, squirming. How desperate are you, sweetheart?”

His fingers teased her entrance, then moved away. Teased again, never giving enough. Her thighs trembled.

“You wanted to stop me?” he taunted. “You think Carlos gives a fuck if you live through this?”

He slid two fingers inside her and she moaned — unfiltered, broken.

“Say it.”

“I—I wanted to find proof!” she choked out. “Wanted to stop you...”

That earned a laugh, mean and rich with satisfaction.

“Sure you did. And now you’re soaked in my chair, begging for me to keep going. Doesn’t look like you’re 'stopping' anything, sweetheart.”

He pressed deeper. Her head fell back, a gasp escaping her lips.

“You still want me to stop?” he asked, cruel and cocky.

She shook her head fast. “No. Please—don’t.”

“Oh, now we’re being polite.”

He drove his fingers in slow and deep, curling just right. She cried out. Her body arched as he worked her open, unraveling her thread by thread, dragging her right to the edge but never letting her fall.

Every moan from her lips only fed his ego.

He leaned down and whispered, “Moan for me again, sweetheart. Let Carlos hear how fucking useless you are.”

And she did, her release hitting like a storm. She came undone with a broken sob, legs trembling, chest rising and falling like she’d been dragged through a war zone.

Her head fell back, breath catching on the edge of something humiliating and euphoric, tied and helpless as he pulled every sound from her throat.

When her breathing finally slowed, Lando pulled back, slowly removing his hand like it was nothing. Like she was nothing. No softness. No warmth. Just smug quiet as he slowly untied her wrists, rubbing the marks like he was erasing evidence.

“Good girl,” he murmured, brushing a kiss over her jaw. “See? You’re better at moaning than lying.”

He stood, calm as ever, turned away and started walking towards the door.

She swallowed, barely able to lift her head. “Is that it?”

He paused, hand on the doorknob, then looked back at her, eyes gleaming with amusement and something dangerous, mouth curled in that wicked, cold smirk.

“No, sweetheart,” he said, voice dripping with dark promise. “That was just the first round.”

Then, with the sharpest grin he’d worn all night, he added:

“Gotta hand it to Carlos. After all the traps he’s sent me over the years, you’re the only good little gift he’s ever delivered.”

And when the door clicked shut behind him, she realized the truth — the gut-deep, bone-cold truth — as she sat in his chair, used, undone, and trembling in his territory: She hadn’t walked into the hands of a man. She’d walked straight into the lion’s den.

And Lando Norris didn’t return gifts.

Especially the pretty ones.

[lnracer]

➵ Pairing: Lando Norris x Female Reader.

➵ Warnings: Angst, insecurity/self-doubt, jealousy and vulnerability.

➵ Word Count: 3.239k.

➵ a/n: First of all, sorry for the delay in posting 😞 I've been extremely busy but I've had this in my drafts for a while and I finally had time to finish it. I hope you like it! ☺️🧡

Lando Norris had always made bad habits look good.

Always been the one to leave, the one who gets bored fast, parties faster. Fast cars. Fast girls. Fast love, if you could even call it that.

He was fun — a handsome disaster dressed in a McLaren fireproof suit and with a smirk that promised nothing real.

He was the kind of man who knew how to lean just right against a bar, glass in hand, wearing a grin that made girls feel like they were the only ones in the room — right before he forgot their name the next morning.

He’d stroll into parties like he owned them, sharp jaw, loose curls and just the right amount of cockiness. It always ended the same — someone’s number in his back pocket, lipstick smeared on his collarbone.

That night wasn’t supposed to be any different.

The rooftop in Monaco was crowded with people, champagne was flowing like water, speakers thumping bass that rattled the marble tiles. The Mediterranean sea glimmered dark below them, and the sky above was split with stars and cigarette smoke.

Lando was half-listening to some girl with red nails talk about how she used to model in Paris when he saw her.

He didn’t even notice he’d stopped breathing.

She was across the patio, backlit by warm golden light, laughter falling from her lips like honey into whiskey. There was something old-Hollywood about her, like a screen siren who accidentally wandered into the modern world and decided to wreak havoc just for the thrill of it.

She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t trying. But somehow, every molecule in the room had shifted around her.

She wore midnight blue like a second skin, the hem of her dress swaying softly around her thighs as she walked barefoot across the marble, heels dangling from two fingers like she couldn't care less.

He watched as she leaned into someone and giggled, head tilted, eyes crinkling with mischief, glossy locks cascading down her back and her perfume — though she hadn’t come near him yet — felt like it was already in his lungs.

“Earth to Lando,” the girl beside him said, waving her fingers in front of his face.

He blinked, slowly, his gaze dragging back to his drink. Too late. The red-nail girl was already walking away, muttering something about "typical."

He didn’t notice.

Because her laugh cut through the air again, and Lando looked back just in time to catch her eyes briefly meeting his.

Soft, curious, amused. Like she already knew exactly what he was and wasn’t impressed.

Lando’s stomach dropped. He hated that.

He’d never had to chase anyone before.

They usually came to him — with fluttering lashes and sugary giggles, fingers trailing over his forearm, whispers of “I’ve never done this before” while already tangled in his sheets.

But her?

She disappeared before he could get close.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖

The next time he spotted her that night, she was halfway down a hallway, swiping a glass of champagne from a silver tray on her trail. Lando didn’t realize he was following her until he was already halfway through the crowd.

“Hey,” he said, catching up, cool grin in place. “Didn’t catch your name.”

She looked up at him, lashes thick, expression unreadable.

“That’s because I didn’t give it to you.”

And then she walked right past him.

He turned around slowly, lips parted in disbelief, gaze trailing her like gravity had a favorite. She didn’t look back, didn’t slow. Just vanished into the dark corners of the party, her perfume the only thing left clinging to the space around him.

It was infuriating.

It was hot.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖

Y/N — he discovered her name after incessantly pestering a mutual friend of theirs. They met again a few nights later — same city, different rooftop, more exclusive this time. One of those parties with whispered names at the door and waiters who judged your shoes.

Lando found her sitting on the edge of a velvet couch, legs crossed. She saw him before he could pretend not to notice her.

“Still chasing ghosts?” she asked lazily.

“Only the beautiful ones,” he replied, settling beside her without invitation.

She hummed. “Flattering. I bet that works on girls who don’t know better.”

“And you do?”

She turned, eyes locking with his — those soft irises lit up under the chandelier, reflecting light like some kind of mirage. “I know boys like you.”

He smirked. “Charming?”

“Reckless, bored and addicted to attention.”

He let out a low laugh. “Well, damn. Are you going to psychoanalyze me now?”

“Depends,” she murmured, leaning in just slightly. “Are you going to keep trying winning me over?”

That made him pause, but before he could answer, she stood, smoothing her dress down.

“You’re not used to this,” she said, glancing at him over her shoulder.

“What?”

“Being the one chasing.”

And then she was gone. Again.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖

It was Milan this time.

A designer afterparty somewhere in the hills, far enough from the city that no one came unless they were meant to be there. The music was soft and sinful, wine poured like water, and Lando was feeling dangerous.

She was there — of course she was. Leaning against a stone balcony wrapped in ivy, glass in hand, the city lights flickering behind her like a backdrop meant only for her silhouette. Her dress was satin, clinging in the right places, hair wild from the wind. She looked like a painting.

And this time, he didn’t hesitate. He slid right beside her, close enough to graze her arm, wearing that crooked smirk that usually got him kissed.

“You always look like you’re trying to break hearts,” he said, fingers tapping the rim of his own drink.

She glanced at him, lazy and slow. “And you always look like you’re asking for yours to be broken.”

That made him chuckle, breathless. “I can handle you.”

“Oh, baby,” she murmured, smile slicing sweet across her lips. “You think you can.”

Her voice dipped on the last word, just enough to make his skin pull tight.

Still — she didn’t walk away. Not this time.

He leaned a little closer, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his knuckles grazing her cheek. “Let me take you out. Just once. No games.”

“No games?” she echoed, amused. “From you?”

He nodded, sincere for once. “Just dinner. No pressure. No chasing.”

She studied him for a second, then — smiled. A real one. And something about that smile lit up his chest like a fuse line.

“Alright,” she said softly. “One dinner.”

And just like that, he felt proud, like he’d cracked something, like maybe he was special, maybe he’d broken through the mirror she held between herself and the rest of the world. He thought he’d won.

But she didn’t feel cracked. Didn’t feel caught.

As she turned back to the view, sipping her wine, she gave him one last look over her shoulder. Lashes low, lips soft, voice like silk dipped in honey.

“You’re cute when you think you’re in control.”

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖

The dinner never happened.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the way she looked at him — lazy, amused, like she already knew how the night would end — plans unraveled. Quite literally.

His hotel suite. Crisp sheets. Shadows dancing across candlelight. Her legs over his hips, her lips curved into something smug and breathless. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask, it told. Her hands mapped his skin like she wasn’t curious — like she already owned it.

And Lando? He thought he’d won. Thought the way she tangled her fingers in his curls meant she was falling. Thought the soft gasps she made were a secret slipping through the cracks. He didn’t usually stay after — not really — but this time? He wouldn’t have minded.

His heart thudded hard in his chest when it was over, adrenaline and satisfaction melting together like warm wax. He let out a quiet breath, head resting back against the pillow, arm outstretched toward her side.

But she wasn’t there. She was already out of the bed.

His head lifted. “Wait— hey, where are you going?”

She stood by the window, slipping her dress back on, calm and untouchable, like what had just happened was a commercial break. A sweet intermission.

She glanced over her shoulder, all lipgloss and flushed skin. “That was fun.”

Fun. The word hit him like a punch to the ribs.

She wasn’t blushing or clinging. No sleepy smiles. No twirling his curls between her fingers. She looked… pleased. Polished. Like he had been the detour.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, propped on an elbow, voice rough with disbelief.

She smiled — that smile. The one that made his chest tighten for reasons he couldn’t explain.

“Don’t pout, Lando,” she purred. “I’ll see you around.”

And then she was gone.

The door clicked softly shut, leaving nothing behind but her perfume and the hollow echo of everything he thought he’d just earned.

He laid there, staring at the ceiling, a strange weight curling low in his gut, because he wasn’t used to this. He was the one who slipped away, the one who called it fun and meant forgettable. He was the storm, the addicting mistake.

But this time? He was just another page in her story, and he didn’t like the way that felt.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖

He hadn’t slept well in days.

Not because of jet lag or the late nights — but because she haunted his mind like a ghost. Her voice, the way she’d said fun and left without a backward glance.

He’d never been one for feelings, never got tangled in the mess of emotions, never chased anything more than a good time. But with her? He was unraveling.

His phone lit up with her name on the screen and he’d hesitate — then tap the call button like a fool. When she didn’t pick up, he’d send a string of texts, trying to sound casual.

“Had a good time. Hope you did too.”

“Hey, I’m around if you want to talk.”

“Just want to see you again.”

Lando clenched his jaw, swallowing down the strange ache that was settling deep in his chest. He was the playboy, he pulled the strings, he was on the loose.

But she’d trapped him — tangled him in a web he couldn’t break free from.

And now all he wanted was the scraps of her attention, even if it was pathetic.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖

The low hum of the city outside was a soft contrast to the storm inside the room.

Lando sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twitching, eyes restless like a caged animal. His phone had been silent all day — no message, no call, nothing —but he’d convinced himself she would reach out.

And then, like a breath of smoke curling through the door, she was there.

Y/N. She didn’t knock, didn’t apologize, just leaned in the doorway, that angelic face framed by loose waves, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Missed me?” she purred, voice low and teasing.

Lando’s chest tightened. He nodded, words stuck somewhere between pride and need.

She smiled — too sweet, too knowing — then crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. Her presence was magnetic, dangerous.

“You’re pathetic, you know,” she whispered, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “messaging me like a lovesick fool.”

He swallowed hard, wanting to protest, to tell her it wasn’t like that — but the truth was written plain on his face.

She laughed softly with a hint of mocking. “I could leave right now, and you’d still be begging.”

Her hands slid down his neck, warm and intoxicating. Then she dropped onto the bed beside him, pulling him close.

Their bodies tangled with the kind of reckless intimacy that only comes when walls crumble and truth lies bare.

She kissed him slowly, like she was savoring the control, the power in his helpless surrender.

When the sheets twisted around their skin, when breath mingled and fingers mapped familiar territory, she whispered against his ear, “You’re mine tonight.”

And for a moment, Lando believed it. But when sunlight crept through the curtains, so did the cold distance. She was gone before he woke — quiet as a shadow slipping from the room — leaving behind the scent of her perfume and a bed still warm with promises unkept.

His hand reached out for where she’d been — empty. The cruelest part wasn’t that she left. It was that she could leave.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was the one who pulled the strings, who left hearts tangled and tossed aside. But now—

Now he was the one caught — falling. Hard. Lando, the playboy, the untouchable, was unraveling in the private hours no one saw.

“You okay?”

“Missing you.”

“I’m here if you want.”

Each message felt more desperate than the last, the tone shifting from confident charm to raw, exposed need.

And Y/N? She was a master at the game.

Her responses were like razor — sharp, cutting through his facade with honeyed venom.

“You’re exhausting.”

“Grow up, Lando.”

“I’m not your trophy.”

Yet, every time she fired back, she left just enough space to keep him coming — craving her approval, her attention.

He felt it knot in his chest, a raw, suffocating ache that no amount of charm or bravado could mask.

He thought back to their last night together — the way she looked at him afterward, that faint, cruel smile as she muttered how fun it was, then walked away without a backward glance.

He clenched his fists, the pain breaking through his carefully constructed armor. She never wanted more. He had been so used to being the hunter, never the one hunted.

The realization hit like a punch to the gut: she was playing him with his own game, using his moves against him, stripping him bare. And for the first time, Lando couldn’t keep it together.

He sank back onto the pillows, the dam breaking. Tears slipped free — raw, unfiltered — blurring his vision. The playboy was gone.

All that remained was a man, lost in the cruel gravity of falling for someone who never saw him as anything more than a passing thrill.

He whispered her name into the darkness, a prayer and a curse all at once.

“I’m fucked.” he breathed.

And for the first time, he meant it.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖

Lando wasn’t quite sure when it had started feeling like humiliation. Maybe it was by the third time she left his bed with nothing but a smirk. Maybe the fourth when she ignored his messages for days, only to respond with a careless “Sorry, was busy.” like she hadn’t been his entire world in the meantime.

But tonight? Tonight was hell, all because she had walked in with someone else.

Taller, older — confident in a way Lando used to be — Y/N on his arm, her head thrown back in laughter, lips stained in red, wearing the same black slip dress Lando once peeled off of her like religion.

She didn’t even glance at him at first. But of course, eventually — she did.

Lando’s breath caught the moment her gaze found him from across the room. And God, she smiled. Not the sweet, bashful smile she gave him that first night, no. This one was deliberate — mean.

Her new guy leaned in to say something, and Y/N’s hand graced his chest, just the way it used to linger on Lando’s.

He downed another drink, then another. By the time she approached, glass in hand, chin tilted in amusement, Lando was somewhere in between drunk and devastated.

“Rough night, Norris?” she asked, voice dipped in sugar and poison.

He scoffed, blinking away the sting in his eyes. “Are you trying to break me?”

“Trying?” she laughed, breathy and cruel. "Something tells me I already have.”

He stared at her. The way she glowed. The way her cruelty was wrapped in silk and perfume.

“What did I ever do to you?”

She leaned in, too close, that damn scent of hers fogging his brain.

“You made the mistake of thinking I was something soft. That I’d fall for you just because you flirted pretty.” she dragged her eyes down him, as if unimpressed. “You’re not the first man who thought he could tame me. But you...” she paused, voice dipping lower, “you’re the first one I let think he could.”

“Why?” His voice cracked. “Why me?”

She gave the kind of smile you give someone before lighting the match.

“Because you always got away with breaking hearts, Lando. I thought maybe it was time someone broke yours.”

She walked away after that, trailing fire in her wake, back into the arms of the stranger.

And Lando? Lando stood there, hollowed out. A party boy turned pathetic, begging behind screens, crying in rented cars. Waiting for a girl who never even looked back.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖

He wasn’t expecting anything. Not anymore.

His friends had stopped trying to talk him out of it. Stopped asking who she was or why he kept letting her ruin him like this. And truthfully, he couldn’t even give them an answer.

But then — Bzzz. A message lit up the screen.

Y/N:

“Alone tonight.”

Image attachment: 1

He didn’t need to open it, although he eventually did, of course. The photo was grainy but deliberate — lingerie black, hair a mess of soft waves over one shoulder, lips parted just slightly, as if she were about to sigh his name. She looked bored. Beautiful. Dangerous.

Below the picture, just three words:

"You coming over?"

He stared at it, jaw locked. His throat was tight.

And then — he laughed. Not the kind of laugh that came from something funny. Not even the kind that came from surprise. It was bitter, hollow, tired. A soft, broken thing slipping from his lips.

“Fuck…” he muttered to himself, thumb hovering over the reply button. “You pathetic fucking idiot.”

But he was already pulling on his jacket.

Because he knew it, every time. Every goddamn time. He would keep coming back.

To the messages. To the picture-perfect destruction. To her.

And that was the worst part of it all. She knew it, too.

[lnracer]

oscar meets a new girl at hotel, and the reason why she got his attention was because she didn't watch F1 so she didn't knew him, which made him feel interested since she definitely knows 0 about him (sorry for any typo😭 English isn't my first language and it's like 4am here but I hope you understood what I said)

➵ Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Female Reader.

➵ Warnings: None.

➵ Word Count: 1.555k.

➵ a/n: Ahh, tysm for your request! Also, don't worry, I was able to understand your vision (and loved it btw!) I hope you like it and that I was able to write what you imagined! ☺️🧡

Oscar stepped through the revolving glass doors of the grand hotel in Barcelona, the energy that only a Grand-Prix weekend could provide already in the air. Cameras flashed from a distance, teams hurried by, and somewhere nearby, the pulse of the city mixed with the hum of engines and anticipation.

As he adjusted his backpack, moving through the lobby, a sudden soft collision made him stumble slightly.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” a sweet voice said, warm and apologetic.

Oscar looked down to see a girl, probably early twenties, with effortless elegance — polished but approachable. She smiled politely, cheeks faintly flushed.

“It’s alright.” Oscar said smoothly, steadying himself. He glanced at her again and noticed something strange — she didn’t have that spark of recognition in her eyes, no hint that she knew who he was.

Curious, but not wanting to seem rude, he said nothing about it. Instead, he offered a small smile and moved on, the question quietly lingering behind his gaze.

“I’m really sorry,” she said again, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear with a sheepish smile. “It’s just— this weekend is insane. Formula One’s in the building, so everyone’s walking around like they’ve had three espressos and a panic attack.”

Oscar huffed a quiet laugh, shifting his weight. “Yeah, I’ve heard it tends to have that effect.”

She smiled at him again, kind and genuine, then glanced around as if remembering she was supposed to be somewhere else. But something made her stay a beat longer.

“You don’t look like you’re here for it either,” Oscar said, tone casual as he slung the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder.

Her brows lifted slightly. “F1? No, I mean— I do know it’s the reason most people are here, but I wouldn’t recognize anyone if I tripped over them.” She gave a tiny laugh.

Oscar quirked an eyebrow, amused — Oh, the irony. “So what brings you here then? Just visiting?”

She blinked once, then tilted her head. “Oh. No, I actually live here.” She said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He blinked. “In the hotel?”

“Top floor,” she said with a proud little grin. “My dad owns the place. So… yeah, I’m kind of the live-in plant whisperer-slash-chaos manager.”

Oscar let out a soft, surprised laugh. “Right. That’s… not what I was expecting.”

“Most people think I’m lost,” she said, eyes twinkling as she rocked slightly on her heels. “But I’m usually just hiding from someone asking about towels or logistics.”

Oscar found himself lingering, even as staff passed by with walkie-talkies and guests bustled in behind him.

She didn’t recognize him. Not even a flicker of familiarity. And somehow, that made her stand out more than anyone else had all week.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃

The next morning, the buffet hall buzzed with quiet luxury — clinking cutlery, the soft hum of conversation, and the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee and buttery pastries. Oscar had managed to get up early enough to beat the rush, but not early enough to avoid it completely.

He was pouring himself orange juice when a familiar voice drifted in from behind.

“Hey, it's you! The guy I nearly tripped over yesterday.”

Oscar turned, a half-smile tugging at his lips as he found her standing beside him, this time in a soft cream cardigan and satin lounge pants that somehow still looked expensive. Her hair was loosely tied, and there was a barely-there sleepiness in her eyes that made her look even sweeter.

“Guilty,” he said. “You back at it again, terrorizing hotel guests?”

She let out a chuckle. “Only the ones who don’t watch where they’re going.”

They both reached for the same slice of chocolate cake, and she let him take it, lifting her hands in mock surrender. “Please, go ahead. Guests first.”

He arched a brow, amused. “That sounds oddly official.”

“Well,” she teased, “I do live here.”

Oscar laughed under his breath and offered his hand, finally. “I’m Oscar.”

“Y/N,” she said, slipping her hand into his. Warm. Light. “Nice to meet you, officially.”

They walked together toward the fruit section, plates in hand.

“So,” she said, glancing sideways, “have you had a chance to explore the city, or are you here for...?”

Oscar hesitated, eyes flicking down for a split second. “Kind of here for work.”

“Oh?” she asked, genuinely interested. “What do you do?”

He scratched the back of his neck, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “I, uh… drive. Professionally.”

Her brows furrowed for a second, then softened again. “Oh! Like a chauffeur?”

He chuckled. “Not exactly.”

She tilted her head, eyes curious but still gentle. “Then what kind of driving?”

Oscar paused, then gave a shrug. “It’s complicated.”

Her laugh bubbled up again, not pressing him any further. “Alright, mystery man. Keep your secrets.”

He glanced at her, slightly stunned by her lack of insistence. No asking for selfies, no sudden realization. Just... her.

And for some reason, that made breakfast taste better.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃

Oscar had barely made it through the revolving door before he tugged at the collar of his McLaren team shirt, exhaustion clinging to his limbs like humidity. Free Practice had been long, the media duties even longer, and all he wanted was a shower and something that didn’t involve the word “sector.”

The hotel’s lobby was quieter now — low golden lighting, soft piano music in the background, staff moving at half-speed as the day began to wind down.

And yet, just as he rounded the corner toward the guest elevators—

Thud. A soft bump into a familiar shoulder.

Again.

She gasped softly, stumbling back a step. “Oh my god— you again?”

Oscar let out a tired chuckle. “At this point, I think the universe is doing it on purpose.”

Y/N stood there in a silky slip dress layered with a cardigan, barefoot in fluffy slippers. She looked like midnight comfort and candlelight — like warmth.

Her eyes fell to his shirt, and her gaze lingered.

McLaren.

The logo. The colors. The sponsors.

Something clicked.

Her lips curved into the most knowing, gentle smile. “So... you are part of the buzz this weekend.”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, lips twitching upward. “Busted.”

“I knew that ‘I drive professionally’ line was suspiciously vague,” she teased, a soft giggle slipping out. “Let me guess… you’re not the guy who parks the Aston Martins out front?”

“Not unless I really mess up my race on Sunday,” he said dryly, and she laughed, full and free.

“Well, Mr. Mystery Driver,” she said, looking up at him with sparkling eyes, “I hope Barcelona’s treating you well.”

He tilted his head, something softer passing over his expression. “It is now.”

There was a beat of silence between them, light and open. Then she gave him a small, playful nudge with her elbow.

“Good. Just try not to run me over next time, yeah?”

He smiled, stepping into the elevator as the doors opened behind him. “No promises.”

As they closed, she gave a little wave with the tips of her fingers — and he found himself already wondering when they’d bump into each other again.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃

The elevator doors had just started to close when Oscar’s hand darted out, stopping them with a soft ding. Y/N had already turned to head back towards the lobby when she heard it.

“Wait— Y/N.”

She paused, glancing over her shoulder.

He looked suddenly less composed than usual — one hand on the edge of the door, hair slightly messy from the long day, voice just a little rougher from hours of talking. But his eyes? Still warm. Still soft.

“If you’re ever curious about the whole Formula One thing,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “I wouldn’t mind showing you a bit of it. Y’know. Explaining the chaos. Only if you’re interested, of course.”

Y/N blinked, the offer catching her off-guard for half a second before a smile broke across her lips, wide and genuine. “I think I could be convinced.”

Oscar’s shoulders relaxed, his own smile curling quietly at the corners.

She took a small step closer, tilting her head thoughtfully. “And I’m pretty sure I could sneak us a plate of leftover pastries from the kitchen. Just in case the lesson needs snacks.”

He laughed under his breath, something easy and unguarded. “Now that sounds like a good deal.”

“Then it’s a date,” she said breezily, but her eyes lingered with a softness that suggested something more than casual.

Oscar watched as she walked off through the hallway, her slippers making no sound on the polished marble. He stayed there for a second, the elevator forgotten behind him, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.

Funny, he thought. He came to Barcelona for speed, engines, and lap times.

And yet, the best part of his weekend so far had just offered him stolen pastries and her time.

And he couldn’t wait for both.

[lnracer]

With the F1 Movie release lingering closer and closer, it’s time to have an uncomfortable conversation.

Forgive me for going all feminist on you (I’m not sorry), but have a seat and let’s chat, yeah?

Let’s discuss the negative impact this movie is going to have on women in motorsport as well as female fans, shall we?

Of course the obvious conversation is about the women working in motorsport. Imagine how poorly the plot is going to reflect on them. Why? Oh, well let’s see. You’ve got an entire plot that revolves around the main character (who’s played by a misogynistic wife beater, by the way, great casting choice!) sleeping with his fucking female engineer.

Now bear in mind how that’s going to negatively affect the PR of women working in motorsport. Especially Laura Mueller, who is the sport’s first ever female race engineer in its entire 75 year history. Who literally already has incels on the internet saying the only way she got her job is because she slept with someone.

And of course, consider the female fans.

There are so many of us out here every day fighting with male fans who think we “don’t know anything” and “only watch F1 because the drivers are hot.” We are constantly ostracized in this fucking sport and feeling like we have to prove that we’re even allowed to like it.

Can you imagine how poorly the F1 Movie will reflect on us?

All this movie is going to do is push the harmful, negative stereotype that F1 is a “man’s world.” It’s just going to make women feel like they don’t belong in a sport where they already feel shoved aside.

So, and maybe I’m being a little dramatic here, but if you happen to know a female F1 fan, please be kind to her. Please check on her.

And to all my ladies, we do belong in this sport. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. 💜💜

[lnracer]

gossip in the paddock

[lnracer]

— stella.

she/her. 🇧🇷. f1. tennis. fashion. books. vinyls. movies. poetry. oil painting. literature. sabrina carpenter. fleetwood mac.

🏁 ln⁴. op⁸¹. cl¹⁶. ka¹². gb⁵. jannik s. 🦊 carlos a. 🎾

©LNRACER, 2025. All rights reserved. Do not steal, respost and/or claim these works as your own.

— FICS:

ln⁴.

the bloom room.

not a god, but a boy who loved.

falling for you, objection overruled.

honeytrap.

interrogation room.

op⁸¹.

love, unscheduled.

you, by surprise.

cl¹⁶.

haunt me gently.

ka¹².

half a recipe, full heart.

the gap between us.

rome wasn't revised in a day.

— THE GF'S CAMERA ROLL SERIES MOODBOARDS:

norris's gf.

piastri's gf.

antonelli's gf.

bearman's gf.

verstappen's gf.

hamilton's gf.

sainz's gf.

[lnracer]

Ooh ok ok so for an Oscar fic I’ve been so obsessed with the idea of Oscar as reader’s best friend’s brother. As in, she’s besties with his sister and spends a ton of time over at the Piastri household. He gives such older brother vibes, like I could totally see him coming home from training all strong and sweaty and cool and reader gets all stuttery and blushy and has to hide her crush from her best friend. Maybe he’s on summer break in Australia, so it’s all slow burn and tension and jealousy and sneaking around trying to “accidentally” run into each other, ending up in 4am kisses in pyjamas in the kitchen or in the garden or in his car.

I genuinely adore your writing style omg it’s so addictive 🥺😫🥺😫

➵ Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Hattie's Best Friend! Reader.

➵ Warnings: None.

➵ Word Count: 3.879k.

➵ a/n: Ahh, I loved your request! I hope I was able to meet your expectations! And also, tysm for the compliment on my writing, I'm really happy to hear that, you're very kind! ☺️🧡

Every summer, like clockwork, she found herself spending more time at the Piastri household than her own. It wasn’t unusual — she and Hattie had been inseparable since primary school, practically attached at the hip. Pool days, movie marathons and last-minute sleepovers, it all seemed to orbit around their easy, unshakable bond. And Nicole? Nicole treated her like one of her own. She never left the house without a warm hug, a plate of something sweet, and an offer to stay for dinner — no matter the hour. It was easy, natural, and comforting.

Except when Oscar was home.

She never really knew how to act when he was around. He had always been Hattie’s older brother, the quiet genius with quick wit and easy charm — but he’d become Oscar Piastri, the F1 driver, the national treasure, the boy with eyes like he’d already seen every corner of the world. And yet, every time he came home for summer break, he was still just...Oscar.

Still the boy who teased Hattie for stealing his chargers. Still the guy who remembered her favorite flavor of icy poles. Still the one who gently nudged her knee under the dinner table if she got nervous talking in front of everyone.

He was soft-spoken and observant — maybe that’s why he noticed how she always tucked her hair behind her ear when she was flustered. Maybe that’s why he never made a big deal out of how she blushed when he offered to drive her and Hattie to the beach. He treated her with a quiet kind of care, like he knew she didn’t like being in the spotlight, but deserved attention anyway.

Around him, she was quieter than usual. A little more careful with her words. A little too aware of the way her heart tripped when he smiled at her across the kitchen island. But she was still her sweet, bookish self — offering to help Nicole with the dishes, asking Oscar if he needed a break from training, listening intently when he spoke about his races like it was a dream he still couldn’t believe he was living.

He never treated her just like Hattie's best friend. He treated her like herself.

And maybe that was the thing that made her feel so dizzy in the middle of summer.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃

Late Morning, Piastri Household.

The kitchen was quiet, warm with late morning sunlight pouring through the windows and pooling across the tiled floor. She liked it like this — just her, barefoot in one of Hattie’s oversized t-shirts, pouring orange juice into a glass while Nicole was out running errands and Hattie was still upstairs half-asleep.

She hummed under her breath, focused on not spilling anything, when the back door swung open with a soft click.

Then he walked in.

Oscar, fresh from the gym, towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp with sweat and pushed back in that lazy way that made him look more like a magazine cover than someone who’d just done deadlifts. His black training shirt clung to his chest and arms like second skin, and when he looked up and met her eyes—

The orange juice nearly slipped out of her hands.

“Oh— uh! Hi— hi, Oscar!” she stammered, clutching the glass like it was a lifeline as she willed herself to look anywhere but at his arms. Or his jaw. Or the way he was looking at her with that soft, knowing smile.

“Hey,” he said, voice still gravelly from exertion. He opened the fridge behind her, brushing a little too close as he reached in for a bottle of water. “Didn’t know anyone else was up yet.”

“I— I just came down,” she murmured, cheeks warming at the sound of his voice so close. “Thought I’d get some juice. I mean, obviously. You saw. Um. Yeah.”

Oscar chuckled, low and gentle. He wasn’t making fun of her — he never did. He just had this calmness about him that made everything feel both worse and better.

“You okay there?” he asked, glancing at the tight grip she had on the glass.

She nodded too fast. “Yup. Perfect. Totally fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” She took a sip, nearly choked on it, and turned away to hide the color rushing to her face. God, she was so obvious. If Hattie came downstairs now, she’d take one look and know.

Oscar leaned against the counter, still watching her with that unreadable expression. Not teasing. Just... patient.

“I know it’s weird,” he said softly, like he could read her thoughts. “Me being your best friend’s brother and all. I get it.”

Her fingers fidgeted around the glass, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He smiled, small and sweet. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”

Her heart skipped. He didn’t push. He didn’t laugh. He just turned back to the fridge with that easy grace of his and added, “By the way... cute shirt.”

She looked down and realized — oh no, she’d grabbed Hattie’s tee with Piastri printed across the back in big block letters.

As he walked out, water bottle in hand, she heard his voice drift back over his shoulder:

“Looks better on you.”

She nearly dropped the juice again.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃

He was halfway out of the kitchen when the words left her mouth — reckless, impulsive and entirely not thought through.

“Do you— do you want a glass too?”

Oscar paused mid-step, turning just enough to glance back at her. One brow lifted, amused. “Of orange juice?”

She blinked. “Yeah. I mean— yeah. If you want. You don’t have to, I just thought, like, maybe. I’m already pouring things. So.”

He smiled again, slower this time. And it was dangerous. Not in a sharp or smug kind of way, but in that quiet, melting way he had — like he could see right through her and was choosing, very gently, not to say anything about it.

“Sure,” he said. “That’d be nice.”

And just like that, he turned back and walked toward her again.

It was a vision. There was really no other word for it.

She busied herself with grabbing another glass, trying to keep her hands steady, but her brain was nothing but static. He was back in the sunlight now, arms crossed casually, watching her like she was doing something far more interesting than pouring juice. She didn’t dare look up — but of course she did. She always did.

And when their eyes met, she knew she was done for.

She looked at him like he was the first man she’d ever seen. Not consciously — but it was in the softness of her gaze, the awe in it. In the way her breath caught just a little at the line of his jaw, the easy way he leaned against the counter like he didn’t know the effect he had on her.

But he did.

He clocked it. All of it. Silently. Subtly.

But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t tease, didn’t smirk. Instead, he looked at her with the same gentle warmth she’d come to crave in the quiet. Like he was flattered. Honored, even. And he took the glass from her hand with a soft, “Thanks.” fingers brushing hers for just a second longer than they needed to.

Her heart was an orchestra.

And when he took a sip and gave her a quiet, “Perfect.” she didn’t know if he was talking about the juice or her.

Probably both.

Without thinking, her fingers gently twirled a strand of her hair, a small, unconscious gesture that she did when she was nervous. Her heart was beating faster now, her palms a little clammy. She tried not to let her gaze wander to him too often, but he was right there, so close now, and she couldn’t help the way her body leaned just slightly toward the balcony, as if she could escape to the fresh air if it got too much.

But in Oscar’s mind?

It was like she was leaning toward him instead, and God, if she wasn’t so shy, he was pretty sure she'd jump on him right here and now. That thought nearly made him chuckle.

Instead, he took another casual sip of the juice she’d given him, savoring the coolness as he observed her from where he stood. His eyes flicked over her in a way that he wasn’t hiding — this time, he allowed himself to take in the little things: the way she bit her bottom lip, how she shifted uncomfortably when he caught her staring for just a second too long. He could see how she wanted to close the space between them, could feel the unspoken tension hanging in the air, and it made his pulse quicken in a way he wasn’t expecting.

She was absolutely gorgeous in the softest way, the type of girl who wore shyness like armor. Oscar could tell she wasn’t fully aware of how much she gave away with every little movement.

And it was... adorable.

“Hmm,” he began, his voice lighter now, teasing. “You sure you’re okay?”

Her eyes snapped up at his words, startled, her cheeks going from pale to crimson as she hurriedly cleared her throat. “Yeah! I mean— yeah! I’m fine. Just, uh—” She cut herself off, taking a step back as if the distance between them could somehow cool the flush on her face.

Her hands were fidgeting now, her fingers brushing over the edge of the countertop like she didn’t know what to do with them. Her body was still leaning toward the balcony as if she wanted an escape, but in Oscar’s mind, it was clear she wanted to do something much, much different.

And then, in the midst of the almost unbearable silence between them, he couldn’t help himself. He leaned in slightly, just enough to close the gap between them, and his voice dropped to a soft murmur.

“You know, if you’re nervous or something, you could just…” He paused, just for effect, letting his words sink in. “...say so.”

Her breath hitched in her throat. Her eyes flicked to his lips and then darted away, as if looking at him for even a moment longer would make it impossible for her to keep her composure.

Oscar watched her, his gaze steady, not moving an inch, letting the moment linger.

It felt like an almost kiss was hovering in the air. He could see it in her eyes — the way her lips parted just slightly, like she was about to say something, but couldn’t find the words.

Just as their faces inched closer, the sound of Hattie’s voice pierced the quiet.

“Y/N!” she called from upstairs, her voice echoing down the hall. “Come up here for a second!”

Y/N froze, her heart nearly leaping out of her chest. She took a step back, hastily wiping her hands on her shirt, as if it would erase the warmth creeping up her neck.

Oscar, ever the gentleman, only smiled. He let the moment go, but his eyes — his eyes were alive with that same soft, teasing look. The one that was both affectionate and knowing, like he knew exactly what had just happened and was perfectly okay with it.

With a soft shake of his head, a small, smug smile tugging at his lips, he raised his glass in a mock salute before taking another sip of his juice.

“Go on,” he said gently, watching her practically scramble toward the kitchen door. “I’m sure Hattie needs you.”

She fled, her heart still racing as she scrambled up the stairs with her cheeks burning brighter than ever.

And as her figure gradually disappeared up the stairs, Oscar allowed himself to chuckle softly to himself, shaking his head. Damn.

He took another sip of his juice, savoring the taste of it just a little longer as he waited for his mind to stop buzzing.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃

Late Afternoon, Oscar’s car.

Oscar was driving, one hand resting casually on the wheel, the other adjusting the air. Hattie sat in the passenger seat, babbling about their plans for the evening, while Y/N was tucked quietly in the backseat, lip-glossed and flushed in that way that made Oscar check the rearview mirror more than once.

He wasn’t sure why he felt...tight-chested about it.

Maybe it was the fact that she looked unreal tonight in her denim mini skirt and that floaty top that tied on her shoulders — hair up in one of those claw clips, perfume faint but sweet — and she wasn’t even going out out. Just going over to a friend’s house. A friend with a brother. A brother who Hattie had casually mentioned couldn’t stop texting Y/N lately.

Oscar hadn’t said anything then. But now, as he pulled into the long driveway of that exact house, he felt something cold and slow press into his stomach.

Because there he was — tall, confident, grinning already as he came down the porch steps to greet them. The other brother.

“Thanks for the lift, O.” Hattie said, already hopping out.

Y/N lingered for a second longer. “Thanks, Oscar.” she said softly, eyes flicking up to meet his in the mirror.

He offered a tight smile, nodding. “Have fun.”

But as she opened the car door, her hand still on the handle, he added, just a touch too casually. “Let me know when you want to be picked up. Don’t wait for him to offer.”

She blinked. “Oh— uh— okay, sure.”

“Seriously.” His tone was light, but his jaw was a little clenched. “I don’t mind.”

She gave a small nod, cheeks pink again — not just because of the heat, maybe — and then she was gone, skipping up the steps to where Hattie and the boy were waiting.

Oscar didn’t drive away right away.

He sat there a second too long, watching the boy lean a little too close when he said hello to her. Watched her tuck her hair behind her ear in that way she always did when she was nervous. Or shy. Or — God help him — flirting.

He told himself to look away. Told himself this was fine. Normal. He had no right to feel whatever this was.

But the thing was: he’d never seen her do that for anyone else other than himself.

And it made his grip on the wheel a little tighter.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃

Late Night, Piastri Household.

The house was still. It was the kind of quiet that only came with the late hours of the night, everything slowed down, shadows stretching long over the walls. Everyone was asleep — or at least that’s what they wanted to believe.

But somewhere in the quiet corners of the house, two people were wide awake.

Oscar had just finished an exhausting training day, his muscles sore and his mind still buzzing. He wasn’t tired enough to sleep just yet, but he didn’t want to risk waking his mom or Hattie, who were both deep into their dreams. So, he quietly made his way to the kitchen, slipping out of his room in his loose sweatpants, hair tousled and messy from running his hands through it too many times.

He wasn’t looking for anything but water, a simple way to wind down. But when he entered the kitchen, there was something unexpected in the air.

There she was. Y/N.

She was standing there, her back to him, and the soft glow from the fridge illuminated her like she was the only thing that mattered in the entire house. Her cute VS pajama set, with the lace trim and tiny satin ribbons on the shorts, made her look so effortless, so beautiful, that he nearly forgot how to breathe.

As he reached for the water, he heard her softly shuffle, the faintest of footfalls as she took a step toward the fridge, her movements more fluid than she probably realized. He could sense it before she even turned around. She wasn’t going to just let this moment go. Not this time.

It wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t fate — no, they both knew what they were doing. Trying to sneak around in the dead of night, hoping to “accidentally” run into each other.

He watched as she turned, her gaze meeting his. Her cheeks immediately flushed, but there was something in her eyes. A little spark. That same tension they’d shared earlier in the day, that warm, unspoken thing, was still there, and it had only grown.

"Hey," she whispered, awkwardly adjusting the strap of her top as if that would make everything less obvious. But Oscar could see right through her.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice a little husky from the quiet.

She nodded, biting her lip nervously. “Yeah…thought I’d get a glass of water.”

The words hung in the air, both of them trying to seem casual as if this wasn’t completely intentional.

But then the silence between them thickened. There was no pretending now. She was staring at him, and he was staring at her, and he realized, with a slight chuckle, that the situation was a bit ridiculous.

“Water,” he repeated slowly, smiling, eyes lingering on her lips.

She couldn't help it. She took a deep breath, her voice coming out more quietly this time. "I...I don't think I need water anymore." Her words hung in the air, and the undercurrent between them was undeniable.

Oscar’s gaze dropped, and that’s when he realized she wasn’t just staring at him because she was shy.

It was because she wanted him. And he wanted her, too.

Without another word, he crossed the space between them.

Her breath caught in her throat, but she didn’t pull away as he reached for her, his hands gentle but firm as they landed on her waist. His chest brushed against hers, and for a moment, he simply held her there, letting her feel the steady beat of his heart, the heat of his skin under the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

Then, slowly — carefully — his lips met hers.

It was a soft kiss at first. But God, the moment his lips touched hers, everything else fell away. She melted into him, her hands slowly rising to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, pressing her body flush against his. And that was it.

It wasn’t just a kiss anymore.

It was everything. It was relief. It was desire. It was them finally giving in.

And as their kiss deepened, things started to get heated — the way his lips moved against hers, the way she tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to get closer, needing him. But then, just as he slipped his hands down to her hips, she pulled away.

She took a step back, laughing breathlessly, though her heart was still racing in her chest.

“Wait, wait,” she giggled, her eyes wide in realization. “We’re about to...get frisky in your kitchen...with your mom and sister upstairs?”

Oscar blinked, his chest still heaving, trying to catch his breath. “I mean, if you’re into that,” he teased, his voice rough, but the smirk on his face was pure mischief.

Y/N shook her head, laughing as she tried to collect herself. “Oh my god, I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

Oscar, still grinning, wiped his lips with his thumb as he reached for his water again. He glanced at her, eyes soft but playful. “I think we’re past the point of pretending this is a mistake.”

But even with the chaos of their emotions, they both knew one thing: this wasn’t just a moment. It wasn’t just a stolen kiss in the dead of night. This was something real, something worth taking their time on.

And as they pulled apart, their shared smiles spoke volumes more than words ever could.

𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃 ˖ 𓇬 ˖ 𓂃 𓈒𓈒 𓂃

After that night, something shifted.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic. There wasn’t a grand confession or some big change in how they acted in front of others. But behind closed doors — when the house was quiet, when the stars were out, when the world felt like it was just them — they stopped pretending.

There were 4 a.m. kisses in the kitchen, her sitting on the counter while Oscar stood between her legs, arms around her waist, stealing sleepy kisses between sips of water.

There were soft, secret makeout sessions in the garden under the fairy lights Nicole had hung up years ago, her fingers playing with the hem of his hoodie while they kissed like time wasn’t ticking down on his summer break.

Sometimes, when they really couldn’t sleep, they’d sneak out — barefoot and quiet as shadows — to sit in his car parked just around the corner. The windows fogged up more from their kisses than the cool night air, her legs folded up on the seat, his hand resting possessively on her thigh, neither of them willing to speak about how soon he’d be leaving again.

They weren’t exactly reckless, but they also weren’t as careful as they thought.

One afternoon, after yet another failed attempt at keeping their distance around the house, Oscar kissed her goodbye in the hallway — just a quick one. A forehead touch. A soft smile. She giggled and swatted his chest, whispering, “Stop— someone’s going to see.”

Turns out, someone already had.

Later that day, when Hattie dragged her upstairs for something completely unrelated, she turned around with a raised brow and a smirk that said she’d been waiting.

“So…you and Oscar?”

Y/N froze, her heart dropping to her stomach.

“I— I don’t— what?” she tried to laugh it off, eyes wide, hands fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

But Hattie just burst out laughing.

“Oh my God, relax.” she said between cackles. “Babe, I clocked it ages ago. You’ve been in love with him since, like, forever. Honestly, it was only a matter of time before he started looking at you the same way.”

Y/N stared, stunned. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” Hattie snorted. “Please. Do you know how annoying it was watching you two tiptoe around each other every summer? If anything, I’m just mad it took this long.”

And just like that, the fear melted away. All the worry, the guilt, the dread — it was gone.

Later that night, when Y/N snuck into the kitchen and found Oscar already there waiting for her, she kissed him with a new kind of ease. One that said this doesn’t have to be a secret anymore.

Still, part of them kept their little moments quiet. Not because they had to. But because there was something beautiful in the way it all began — soft, stolen, and undeniably theirs.

[lnracer]

Hii babe, I have another little request if you’re taking them!

Could you write something Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader where she’s super stressed because she’s about to take her final exams (like the French bac) and she hasn’t started revising at all?? It’s literally in a month, and she feels completely overwhelmed and behind.Like she’s spiraling a bit, maybe crying over highlighters and making dramatic “I’m gonna fail” speeches while Kimi just tries to calm her down and support her. Maybe he helps her organize her revision or just stays with her through the stress, reminding her that she’s smart and capable even if she doesn’t feel like it. Basically soft academic panic + golden retriever boyfriend energy. Only if it inspires you of course!! But I’d love that dynamic.

Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x High Schooler! Female Reader.

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 1.190k.

a/n: Thank you very much for the request! From my interpretation of your text, I understood that you mentioned the French BAC just as an example, so I took the liberty of changing it to the Italian exam just to make more sense with the narrative I put together (But if it was indeed a specific request, then I'm really sorry 😔).

Also, I don't know anything in depth about this exam so ignore everything here and take it as just narrative progression (In case I wrote something that doesn't match reality 😅) Anyway, I hope you like it and that it met your expectations! ☺️🩵

The table was a war zone.

Papers everywhere, half-empty water bottles, pastel highlighters tossed like grenades across her notebook. Her laptop screen blinked mockingly with a half-finished Word document titled "Philosophical theories I don't understand."

“I’m gonna fail,” she declared dramatically, one hand in her hair, the other holding a yellow highlighter like a weapon. “Like properly. Publicly. It’ll be humiliating. I’ll go down as the girl who cracked during Maturità and died in a pile of her own flashcards.”

Kimi leaned against her bedroom door frame, arms crossed, watching the scene with raised brows and soft amusement. She hadn’t noticed he’d come in.

“Is that how you want your legacy to go?” he asked gently.

She whipped her head up, red-eyed and flushed from stress. “Don’t tease me, Kimi. I haven’t even touched physics. Or Dante. Or that one stupid math module I swear I never learned because my professor went on maternity leave!”

“I’m not teasing,” he said quickly, crossing the room to crouch beside her chair. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re not about to commit a highlighter-based crime.”

She let out a weak laugh through her sniffles. “You think this is funny now, but wait until you’re dating a Matura dropout who has to live in the countryside and raise goats.”

“Okay,” Kimi said, grinning, “one, you’d be a very glamorous goat girl. And two—”

He gently pulled the yellow highlighter out of her hand, tossing it onto the table.

“—you’re not going to fail. You’re panicking. Which is fair. But you’re not stupid. You’re just overwhelmed.”

She let herself fall forward onto his shoulder, muffling her next dramatic sigh into his hoodie. He held her tightly, pressing a kiss into the crown of her hair.

“I’ve never felt this behind before,” she murmured. “Like, I don’t even know where to start. I feel like I should’ve started months ago.”

“Okay,” he said, brushing a hand down her back. “So, what if we start right now? We make a plan. You and me. I’ll sit with you while you go over stuff. I’ll quiz you. I’ll even learn Dante if it means you stop crying over neon pens.”

She let out a snort, leaning back to look at him, eyes still watery but a little brighter.

“You’d suffer through Dante’s Inferno for me?”

“I’d suffer through Purgatorio too,” he said solemnly, placing a hand over his heart.

She smiled properly now, finally. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But I’m also your boyfriend. Which means I believe in you, even when you think your future is goat-herding.”

He stood up and clapped his hands once, all energy.

“Alright. We make a study plan, you shower, I make you pasta, and we get through this. Deal?”

She nodded, wiping her face. “Deal.”

And as he kissed her temple and picked up the scattered flashcards, she couldn’t help but think that maybe — just maybe — she’d survive this exam season after all.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

It was past midnight and her bedroom smelled faintly of lavender tea and ink.

Textbooks were stacked in little towers across the floor, the lamp dimmed low to match the quiet. Her eyes were drooping as she tried to re-read the same line from her literature notes for the fifth time.

“Okay,” Kimi said softly from beside her on the bed, “last question. Then we sleep. Promise.”

She whined, flopping sideways into the pillows. “No, I have to finish this chapter. I haven’t even touched Manzoni yet.”

“You’re literally blinking in slow motion.”

“I’m not!”

“You just tried to highlight your own hand.”

She blinked down at her palm and groaned. “Betrayed by muscle memory.”

Kimi grinned, pulling the notes gently from her hands and setting them aside.

“Alright. Look at me.”

She turned her head slowly, cheek squished against her pillow, eyes glassy with exhaustion. He leaned on one elbow, face soft in the low light.

“Tell me one reason you’re gonna pass this exam.”

She blinked. “Because you’ll dump me if I don’t?”

He laughed. “Wrong. I’d proudly date a goat farmer if that’s where this goes. Try again.”

“…Because I’ve studied hard?”

He tilted his head.

She exhaled. “Because I’m smart. Even when I feel stupid.”

“Exactly.” he smiled like she’d just solved the world’s hardest riddle.

“Ugh. You’re so disgustingly wholesome when I’m spiraling.” she buried her face in his chest, muffling a little groan.

“Someone has to balance us out.” he stroked her hair, slow and rhythmic, as her breath evened out against him.

“Can you sleep here? For the rest of the night, I mean…” she mumbled.

“Will it make you feel more at ease and not secretly go back to studying later even though you're tired, like I know you would if I left?” his voice dropped into a whisper against her temple.

“Yeah. Stay.”

So he did.

And in the quiet hum of late-night pages, sleepy comfort, and the boy who never once doubted her, the weight in her chest lightened — just a little.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

A few months after that stressful but nonetheless comforting night — all thanks to his crucial presence in preventing eventual deaths caused by pastel highlighters — Kimi's screen lit up with her name, and he didn’t even wait for the second ring. He answered instantly, flopping back onto the crisp hotel sheets, hair damp from a post-sim session shower, cheeks still a little flushed.

“Ciao, amore.” he said, voice warm with familiarity.

Her face appeared, still slightly flushed too — but from sun and nerves and residual adrenaline. The backdrop was her bedroom, but her smile was something brand new.

“Well?” he asked quickly, eyes scanning her for signs. “How’d it go? Are we moving to the mountains to start goat farming or—”

“I have a question first,” she interrupted, leaning into the camera with a smug, tired little grin. “Do you think you can score points this weekend in Imola?”

Kimi blinked. “Uh… I mean, yeah? I’ll try my—”

“Because I think we should both do something in honor of our country,” she said, eyes gleaming now. “Since, you know, I basically just slayed the Maturità.”

He sat up like she’d thrown a trophy at him. “Wait— wait. You did well?!”

She nodded, grinning now. “Really well.”

Kimi’s jaw dropped for a second, and then he lit up — fully, like sunlight breaking through clouds. He fist-pumped the air with both hands, nearly knocking over his water bottle.

“YES. YES. LET’S GOOOO.”

She laughed so hard her phone shook.

“You’re making this feel like I won a race, not passed an exam.”

He pointed at the camera. “You beat Italian literature. You deserve a podium.”

“Only if you get one too,” she teased.

“Deal. Countrymen on the rise.”

There was a pause — soft and lovely — before his voice dropped.

“I’m so proud of you.”

Her throat tightened a little.

“I wouldn’t have made it through the panic without you, you know.”

“Good,” he said softly, “because I’d sit through a hundred crying-over-highlighters nights if it meant this face right now.”

She smiled — tired and radiant.

“Go win in Imola.”

“I’ll try. For Italy. And for the smartest girl I know.”

[lnracer]

Hey babe, I have a little request if you’re open to it !!

Could you maybe write something Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader where she’s still in high school and doesn’t come from money at all? Like she feels super out of place in his world — all the hotels, race weekends, the fancy people, and she kind of feels like she’s not “enough.”

But he’s just… soft. Gentle. The kind of guy who makes her feel safe, like she does belong, even when everything feels overwhelming.

I’d love something comforting, maybe with a tiny bit of angst because… identity crisis hits hard sometimes. I just feel like we don’t get enough of that dynamic. Golden boy driver and the girl who still takes the bus to school. No pressure at all! But if it ever inspires you… I will cry. In the best way.

Thank you so much if you do fill my request and of course I understand if you don’t. Have a lovely day!

Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x High Schooler! Female Reader.

Warnings: Mild angst with a happy ending, emotional arguments, self-doubt/insecurity, class difference/social disparity and hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 2.164k.

a/n: Ahh, thank you so much for the request! 🥹 It's really not the kind of dynamic I usually see around here, but I loved writing about it and I hope I was able to capture what you imagined (even the saddest and most complicated parts) I hope you like it! ☺️🩵

Her heels clicked softly against the pristine pavement of the Monte Carlo paddock, the sound nearly swallowed by the hum of engines and a buzz of conversation laced with designer perfume. She tugged at the hem of her floral sundress — a soft, pretty thing she’d found on sale weeks ago — and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying not to flinch under the eyes that passed over her.

They weren’t cruel. Not exactly. Just curious. Polished. Intrigued.

She knew how she looked next to them — tall women with sleek blowouts, tailored blazers thrown over slinky minidresses, legs that disappeared into Louboutins. Everything about them screamed expensive.

And then there was her. Pretty, sure. But simple. Sweet. A soft pink lip gloss in a sea of sharp red lips.

Kimi noticed. He always noticed.

“Hey,” he said as he reached her side, sunglasses pushing up into his curls. His hand found her waist like it was muscle memory, warm and easy. “You okay?”

She nodded quickly, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just… not really used to all this.” Her voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the luxury around them. “It’s a lot.”

Kimi’s jaw tensed, just slightly. He saw the way her gaze dropped whenever another glamazon strutted by, saw the way she folded inward, like she was trying to shrink herself.

He leaned in, voice low so only she could hear. “You don’t have to be like them. I don’t want you to be like them.”

She looked up at him, surprised.

“I like your dress,” he added, brushing a finger down the strap of her sundress. “I like that you’re here, even when it’s not easy. I know this world is loud. But you make it feel quiet.”

She blinked, heart stuttering at the way he looked at her — like she was calm in the chaos.

And in that moment, even surrounded by gold watches and camera flashes, she started to believe that maybe… she was enough.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Until she didn't think so.

It was past 6 p.m. by the time they got back to the hotel suite — lavish, towering above the harbor, too many mirrors and far too much silence. Kimi was in the shower, washing away the sweat and stress of qualifying. She was curled on the edge of the bed, phone clutched tight in her hand, screen glowing with a headline that made her stomach twist:

“Kimi Antonelli’s mystery girlfriend spotted in the paddock — pretty, but painfully out of place?”

Her cheeks burned. Her jaw clenched. And the comments were worse — anonymous, faceless words from strangers, dissecting her like she was a novelty.

“Looks like she wandered in from a flower shop in the countryside.”

“She’s cute, I guess, but she looks like a schoolgirl next to those women.”

“Sweet, but not really WAG material, huh?”

She locked the phone and dropped it onto the nightstand like it burned. It wasn’t new — she’d felt the stares. She’d felt the way some of the grid girls looked her up and down. But seeing it written out, confirmed, cemented in black-and-white — that hit different.

When Kimi stepped out of the bathroom in a t-shirt and sweats, towel-drying his curls, he spotted her right away — still, quiet, distant.

“Hey,” he said gently, moving to sit beside her. “You okay?”

She looked at him, eyes glassy. “I saw something.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

She didn’t answer right away, just reached for her phone, handed it to him. Kimi read the headline, then the comments. His expression hardened. “This is bullshit.”

She gave a soft laugh, bitter and barely there. “Is it?”

He turned to her, eyes sharp. “Yes.”

“You didn’t think that the moment you brought me here? That maybe… maybe I don’t fit?” Her voice cracked. “Kimi, I’m still doing high school homework while you’re out there in an F1 seat. I don’t own a single designer anything. I smiled at Susie Wolff earlier and she looked at me like I was sweetly delusional.”

The air thickened. Kimi stood, pacing for a moment, frustration simmering under his skin. “I’m doing homework too. I’m your age too. Just because there’s money and cameras doesn’t mean I’m not still figuring things out.”

She shook her head. “It’s not the same. You’ve been groomed for this world since you were a kid. I… I still have to ask if we can split dinner when I go out with friends. I don’t come from anything, Kimi.”

He crossed the room in two strides. “I chose you. Out of everyone. And I don’t give a damn if you don’t have a designer bag or if you do homework in my hotel bed — I love that about you.”

She blinked at that. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to say it.” His voice was low. “Because it’s true. But if you keep looking at yourself through their eyes — those people who don’t know you — you’ll ruin us before they ever could.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Her eyes were glassy again. “I just… don’t want to hold you back.”

“You don’t.” He stepped closer, hand brushing her jaw, tilting her chin up. “You keep me grounded. Don’t push me away because the world doesn’t make room for girls like you. I’ll make room.”

He was genuinely sincere — he always was — she knew he really meant it, what she wasn't sure about was whether it would be easy in practice.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Barcelona, Spanish Grand Prix – Saturday Night

The air in the hotel suite was warm, heavy with humidity and tension. She sat on the window bench, knees pulled up, trying not to cry. Again.

Kimi stood near the dresser, pulling off his team hoodie with too much force, like it had personally offended him. “You didn’t even come to the garage today.”

She flinched. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped, turning to her. “You’re avoiding me.”

She lifted her eyes to meet his, voice low. “Because every time we talk lately, we fight.”

Silence. Harsh and sudden.

He ran a hand through his curls, exhaling hard. “So what? You just give up?”

She stood then, too fast. “I didn’t give up. I’ve been trying so hard, Kimi. But it’s like I’m never enough for this world. And now I’m starting to wonder if I’m not enough for you, either.”

His face twisted — hurt and anger flickering in equal measure. “Don’t put that on me.”

“Then what do you want from me?” she said, voice shaking. “To keep pretending I’m okay when the comments get worse, when I feel like your accessory instead of your girlfriend? When I’m expected to smile next to women who have million-dollar contracts and ten-year media training? You have no idea how hard it is to stay in a world that constantly tells you you’re out of place—”

He cut her off, sharp. “You think this is easy for me as well? Balancing racing, press, you—”

“Oh, I’m a burden now?”

He froze. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But you said it.” Her voice broke. “You said it and you meant it.”

Kimi looked down, breathing hard. “I didn’t. I swear.”

But it was too late. The damage had been done.

She stepped back like he’d physically struck her, arms folded across her chest like armor. “Maybe we should take a break.”

His eyes snapped up, wide with disbelief. “No.”

“Kimi—”

“No,” he said again, voice rough. “You don’t get to walk away just because things got hard.”

“I’m not walking away,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “I’m just… trying to protect what little of me I have left.”

He stared at her then, quiet, wrecked, and helpless. Like a boy lost in a world that was suddenly too big for both of them.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them knew how.

And in the silence between them, it was suddenly obvious:

They were still in love.

But maybe that wasn’t enough anymore.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

They barely spoke in the car that morning.

He asked if she wanted coffee. She said no.

He reached for her hand. She pulled her sleeve over her fingers.

It wasn’t cold in Spain, but something between them was frozen.

She didn’t make it to the paddock that day. Said she had homework to catch up on. He didn’t argue. He just nodded with a tight smile, then left.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

The post-qualifying press conference was routine until it wasn’t.

A woman with too-white teeth and a smug smile leaned into her mic. She wasn’t with F1 media. Not really.

“Great quali, Kimi,” she purred. “You’ve been quite impressive this season. Seems like you’re adapting quickly to the F1 lifestyle — fast cars, jet-setting, glamorous weekends…”

He nodded once. She continued, voice light but loaded.

“…Just wondering, with all the attention and, let’s say, expectations around young drivers and their image, do you ever feel pressure to — hm — upgrade your personal life to match the brand?”

A few chuckles from the room. Microphones crackled. The other drivers turned to look at him.

He knew what she meant.

She meant her.

He sat up straighter. Calm. Still. But his voice cut like a blade.

“Are you asking if my girlfriend doesn’t fit the aesthetic you expect?”

The woman blinked. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“Because that’s what you just implied.”

“No, I—”

“She’s not the one who needs upgrading,” he said, firm and deliberate. “She's smart. She’s grounded. She reminds me that there's more to life than this bubble. And if that doesn’t match your ‘brand,’ then maybe it’s your idea of success that needs to be rethought.”

Silence. Heavy and uncomfortable.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t offer a wink or a joke to smooth it over.

He just sat there, eyes locked on her like he dared her to speak again.

The moderator quickly moved on, but the damage — or maybe the justice — was done.

Clips went viral before the press conference ended.

And later that night, when she opened Twitter and saw the clip — Kimi Antonelli, eyes sharp, voice unwavering — defending her against the world she feared…

She didn’t call him.

But she showed up, cheeks pink from the cold, and whispered, “Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything, just pulled her into his arms like he’d been waiting all week.

“You didn’t have to do that, Kimi,” she said softly. “I didn’t ask you to defend me like that. I never wanted to cause you any trouble…”

He took a deep breath, shaking his head, guilt creeping into his chest. “I didn’t do it for trouble. I did it for you.” His hand brushed her arm, soft but desperate. “You’re not a distraction. You’re not a burden. You’re… you’re everything. You make me feel alive.”

The tears she’d been holding back slipped down her cheeks, and Kimi’s heart twisted in his chest. She looked so small, so vulnerable in this big, overwhelming world she didn’t ask to be a part of.

“I told you once,” he murmured, voice rough. “I don’t care if you don’t fit this world. You fit with me.”

She shook her head, sniffling. “But… I’m not like them. I don’t know how to… how to be the girlfriend you’re supposed to have. I’m just—”

“Stop.” Kimi wiped away a stray tear from her cheek. “You’re everything I need. You’re exactly who I need. And if I have to fight every damn person in this world to keep you — then that’s what I’ll do. I’m not in this for the ‘perfect’ girlfriend. I’m in this for you.”

She collapsed into his chest then, shaking as sobs wracked her body. Kimi held her close, his arms wrapping around her like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I never meant to make you feel like you didn’t belong. I just… I just wanted to protect you. I didn’t want you to think you were alone in this.”

She squeezed him tighter, the tears soaking into his shirt, but for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t feel so alone.

“I don’t need anyone but you, Kimi,” she whispered against his chest, voice muffled. “I never did. I was just scared... I was scared I wasn’t enough for you.”

Kimi pulled back slightly, cupping her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You’re more than enough. You’re exactly what I need. Don’t ever doubt that.”

For the first time in weeks, they were both quiet — no more doubts, no more words left unsaid. They simply stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, letting everything else fade away.

And when she finally looked up at him, her eyes swollen but sincere, Kimi knew:

It didn’t matter if she fit into his world or not.

They fit with each other.

And that was all that ever mattered.

[lnracer]

I have a requesttttt lately I’ve been thinking about Lando and I kinda think it would be so fun if he was with someone totally opposite to him SO my vision is:

Badass girlboss Reader (I personally imagine an Elle Woods-esque corporate trial lawyer or something) and Lando have been sneaking around but out in public they look like just friends and they’re kind of dating around but they end up getting jealous bc Reader thinks Lando wants the influencer/models he’s surrounded by and Lando thinks Reader wants a serious academic type. How it ends is up to you — maybe they work it out or maybe they just belong in different worlds :’)

Pairing: Lando Norris x Corporate Lawyer! Female Reader.

Warnings: Mild miscommunication, mild angst with a (very) happy ending and jealousy (mutual, a little petty).

Word Count: 3.601k.

a/n: Ahh, I just loved your vision so much! It was really easy to write and play with this dynamic (I don't think I've ever had so much creativity to write something so fast, but I ended up staying up all night writing this because I was genuinely so entertained 😅) but anyway, thank you for the request and I hope it meets your vision in the best way possible and that you like it! ☺️🧡

By day, she was the powerhouse trial attorney — the kind who walked into courtrooms in heels that could kill and left with verdicts that made headlines. The fashion magazines loved her almost as much as Forbes did. She was the youngest partner in her firm, a Harvard Law alumni with a Chanel addiction and a sharp tongue. Men underestimated her. Judges respected her. And juries? They adored her.

By night — well, lately, her nights often involved sneaking out of an apartment in Monaco, wearing one of Lando’s hoodies over her silk blouse.

Lando knew what the world thought. That they were “just friends.” That maybe she was his lawyer or his PR advisor or some business connection. The paddock shots of her standing beside him, sunglasses on, whispering something that made him smirk? Oh, the fan theories were relentless.

But behind closed doors? Their situationship was toeing the line of something real. No labels. No pressure. But a lot of stolen glances, late-night phone calls, and moments that felt too intimate for friends.

The problem? She was the type to keep her heart padlocked. Lando was used to people chasing him — but she didn’t chase. She leaned against his car in the McLaren garage and made fun of his post-race hair. She kissed him like he was hers, then told him she had court in the morning and disappeared in a plane.

Still, she wore his hoodie in her post-run selfies. And he kept saving seats for her in the paddock.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

They met at a charity gala in London — her firm was sponsoring, McLaren was donating, and neither of them wanted to be there. She was bored out of her mind, cornered by a finance bro pitching her crypto nonsense, when Lando swooped in like a cheeky, curly-haired lifeline.

“Sorry, mate,” Lando had said, slipping an arm around her waist with perfect ease. “I promised her the next dance.”

She had raised an eyebrow, amused and intrigued. He was only a year older than her, maybe a little cocky, but charming in that boyish, slightly-messy way. She didn’t dance, of course. Not at galas. But she let him lead her away anyway.

“You don’t look like a lawyer,” he’d said under his breath once they were out of earshot.

“And you don’t look like someone who reads contracts,” she fired back, her smile sharp.

That was the start of it. Flirty texts turned into late-night calls. Then came dinners in quiet places where no one recognized them. Then weekends in cities where she happened to be trying a case, and he happened to have a break in the calendar.

There was no official talk. No defining the relationship. But every time she passed through the paddock, Lando’s eyes would find her like muscle memory. And every time he showed up at her apartment with coffee after a red-eye flight, she didn’t send him home.

They didn’t owe each other explanations. Not when she was knee-deep in legal warfare Monday through Friday. Not when he was crossing continents chasing trophies. But there was something magnetic about them. Something they didn’t touch too closely for fear of setting off fireworks they couldn’t control.

He brought chaos into her perfectly curated life. She brought calm into his whirlwind. They weren’t each other’s type, and yet — they were exactly what the other kept coming back for.

Addictive in the best way. Dangerous if it ever tipped too far.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

It had been a week since the last time they’d spent time together. She was in New York for a deposition, Lando was in Italy for the race. Their texts had been sparse — just the typical “miss you” and “good luck” messages, but nothing too personal. It was their thing, keeping things light when the world was heavy.

But tonight, something felt off. She had just wrapped up a ten-hour workday and was about to dive into a pile of case files when she got a text from him:

Lan:

Can we talk?

She frowned at the screen. It wasn’t unusual for him to reach out like this, but there was a seriousness in the tone that made her stomach churn.

She stared at her phone for a few moments before typing back:

Y/N:

Of course, what’s up?

Seconds later, the phone buzzed again, this time with a FaceTime request. She hesitated, then answered, putting on the usual mask — cool, composed, business-like.

Lando’s face filled the screen, but it wasn’t the warm, mischievous grin she was used to. His brow was furrowed, eyes heavy, like he hadn’t slept well in days. She sat up straighter, her lawyer instincts kicking in, trying to gauge the situation.

“Hey,” she greeted, her voice carefully neutral.

“Hey,” he said, his voice tight. “I’ve been thinking.”

Her heart rate spiked. Thinking wasn’t good. When Lando thought, things got complicated. And she didn’t need anything complicated.

“About what?” she asked, her tone even but laced with caution.

“About us.”

There it was. The words she had known were coming, but hearing them still felt like a slap.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in front of her, the walls going up instinctively. “What about us?” she asked, her eyes narrowing, though she tried to keep the edge out of her voice.

Lando sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. “You know this whole thing… whatever it is… it’s killing me, Y/N.”

Her jaw clenched. “What are you talking about? You knew what this was when we started. No labels. No promises. Just… us. And if you didn’t like that, you should’ve said something earlier.”

“That’s the thing,” he snapped, frustration creeping into his voice. “I never wanted it like this. I thought maybe… maybe we could actually figure it out. But you’re so damn cold. You keep me at arm's length, and it’s like I’m not even real to you when we’re not together.”

Her breath caught. She was used to the cold, used to compartmentalizing her emotions, but this wasn’t a courtroom. It was Lando. And as much as she hated admitting it, it stung.

“I’m not cold,” she said, her voice tight, but the walls were beginning to crack. “I just… I don’t do messy. I have a career to focus on. And you have the entire world chasing after you. I’m not the type to play these games.”

“Games?” Lando repeated, his eyes flashing with frustration. “This isn’t a game, Y/N. I don’t get it. One second, it’s like I mean something to you. The next, I’m just some guy who’s filling space until the next big thing comes along.”

Her chest tightened. “You think I’m stringing you along?” She could feel the heat rising in her face. This wasn’t just an argument. It felt like it was unearthing something deeper — something they hadn’t dared to look at yet.

“I don’t know what I think anymore,” Lando shot back, leaning closer to the screen, his expression hard. “I’m asking you to be honest with me for once. What the hell is this? Because I’m not just gonna sit here pretending like it’s nothing while you keep everything locked up.”

Her pulse raced, the words threatening to spill out before she could stop them. “You think I’m the one who’s afraid of this? Of us? Lando, I don’t have time for games. You want someone who’s all in, someone who will follow you around and pretend that this is normal? It’s not. And I’m not some girl who’s gonna throw my life away for—”

“For what?” Lando interrupted, his voice sharp, cutting through her words. “For someone who you don't even give a damn? For someone who you treat like a casual fling when everyone’s watching?”

She froze, the hurt in his words hitting her harder than she expected. “That’s not fair,” she whispered. “You don’t get to do that. You know what my life is like. You don’t get to judge me for how I handle things. I’ve worked too damn hard to get where I am, and I won’t throw that away for anything or anyone.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched long between them, heavy and tense. Finally, Lando broke the quiet, his voice softer but laced with frustration.

“You don’t have to throw it all away. I just… I just want to know if I matter, Y/N. If I mean anything to you.”

Her throat tightened, the words suddenly stuck. “You do,” she said, barely above a whisper. “But it’s not that simple.”

“Then make it simple,” Lando pleaded, his eyes searching hers through the screen. “Stop hiding from me.”

She stared at him, her heart racing, the emotional walls crumbling faster than she could rebuild them. “I can’t promise you what you want,” she said finally, her voice shaking just a little. “But I’m not walking away. Just… just give me time.”

Lando sighed deeply, his expression softening. “Time. Yeah. Okay. But I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I’m fine with this.”

She didn’t have an answer for that. Not yet.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

The next couple of weeks after their argument were… strange. Awkward. Almost like both of them had hit a wall they didn’t know how to scale.

She kept herself busy. Ridiculously busy. Court cases, meetings, contracts — anything to keep her mind off the tension that still clung to her thoughts. She buried herself in work, refusing to admit to herself that something about Lando was starting to haunt her, even if she wasn’t ready to admit that out loud.

Lando, on the other hand, was everywhere. In the paddock. At fashion shows. With influencers, models, and people who seemed to have everything in the world but didn’t seem to be doing anything. They laughed, they posed for the cameras, they made it look easy.

It drove her insane.

She wasn’t supposed to care. She wasn’t supposed to get jealous over him. But when she saw a photo of Lando and a famous Instagram model sharing a laugh at a recent charity event, it felt like a punch to the gut.

It wasn’t that she was jealous. No, of course not. She wasn’t like that. But… they were so perfect for each other. Gorgeous, carefree, and living in a world where appearances were everything. The kind of world she didn’t belong to.

So, she did what she did best: she pretended it didn’t bother her.

She posted a few pictures from her latest trial, looking fierce in a tailored suit, with her caption reflecting the confidence she wanted to project: “Court’s in session. Winning isn't a choice. It's a guarantee.”

Her phone buzzed almost immediately with messages — friends, colleagues, even a few family members. But the one that made her stop was from Lando.

Lan:

Looking good in court. You know, you should wear a suit more often…

She stared at the message, blinking as the words sat in front of her. Was it a compliment? Or was it just a casual comment, like he always sent? Either way, she couldn’t ignore the gnawing feeling in her gut that told her he was distracted by something — or someone — else.

So, she ignored his text. Just for a few hours. Maybe she was being petty. But she couldn’t help it.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Meanwhile, Lando had his own demons. He’d been thinking about the conversation they had, replaying it over and over in his head. Make it simple. She’d said that to him. But the more he thought about it, the more complicated it seemed.

He'd been surrounded by people, sure, but all these models, influencers, and socialites? They didn’t fill the space she left behind. They never could.

Still, seeing her posts — those posts — with all her academic accomplishments, her sleek, polished persona… it made him second-guess everything. He knew she was fierce. She was a force. But sometimes, he wondered if he was the right match for her. Was he really what she wanted? Or was she just pretending, keeping him at arm's length like she had from the start?

He'd seen how she interacted with the serious academics — those suave lawyers, those well-dressed business types she surrounded herself with at galas. People who played the game of life like it was a chess match, making calculated moves every step of the way. People who probably looked better on paper than he did. Lando couldn’t help but think, Does she need someone like that? Someone more… professional? More grounded?

The thought twisted at his insides.

A couple of days later, his answer came when he saw her with one of those very types at an event — a tall, dark-haired man in a crisp suit. He was talking to her, laughing at something she said, clearly enjoying her company.

Of course she likes someone like him, Lando thought bitterly, as he watched from across the room. The man was everything Lando was not — serious, calculated, and mature. He didn’t need to be the center of attention, and he certainly didn’t have to make himself a spectacle for people to notice him.

Lando’s grip tightened around the flute of champagne in his hand. He turned away, trying to shake off the unease bubbling in his chest. But the feeling stuck with him. All night.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

The next day, he texted her again, his message half-accusatory, half-playful:

Lan:

So, who’s the guy? Looks like a lawyer from here. Thought you were into people who could keep up with your… complicated life.

She read the message and snorted. Was he really going to throw that at her? The jealousy card? Really?

She quickly typed back, biting her lip.

Y/N:

He’s just a colleague. Someone from work. You know, not everyone revolves around F1 or the latest influencer trends.

The words stung even as she typed them. She hated that she was putting walls up, but she was so tired of constantly second-guessing herself.

Lan:

Right. And I suppose I’m the one who’s into those trends?

Y/N:

I mean, you’ve been hanging around them enough.

There. She said it. She was being petty, but jealousy was eating at her.

Lando’s response came quickly, almost instantly.

Lan:

Yeah, because that’s exactly what I want, more Instagram followers and pretty girls with no substance.

Her eyes narrowed at the text. She read it twice, the sharp edge in his words cutting deeper than she expected.

Y/N:

Then why do you keep surrounding yourself with them?

His response came even faster this time.

Lan:

I don’t know, Y/N. Maybe because I’m tired of wondering if you even want to be with me or if you’d rather be with someone who looks like he has it all together.

She froze, her heart dropping.

The tension between them had reached its peak. It was a tangled mess of insecurities, unspoken fears, and silent accusations. They both thought the other wanted something they weren’t ready to give. They were both fighting to keep a part of themselves that the other couldn’t touch.

But maybe… just maybe, it was time to tear down the walls and face it.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Monza had been a whirlwind for Lando — racing, media events, and the pressure that always seemed to come with the spotlight. But that wasn’t what weighed on his mind. No, it was her.

He had tried to act like he was fine, ignoring the nagging feeling in his gut, but deep down, he knew things were slipping. Every moment without her felt like they were growing further apart, despite how hard they tried to convince themselves otherwise. The jealousy, the silence — it was building up, and he couldn’t take it anymore.

So, without a second thought, he packed his bags and boarded a plane. Destination: New York. The city that never sleeps, or so they said. But for him, it was the city where he would finally have it out with her.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Lando stood outside her apartment building, his heart racing. He wasn’t sure how he got there, just that something in him had snapped. The confusion, the doubt — it was all consuming. The thought that they could end like this, with all the words left unsaid, made him angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the situation. And angry at her for shutting him out, even if she didn’t realize it.

He hit the buzzer.

A moment later, her voice crackled through the speaker. "Yes?"

He didn't even give it a second thought. "It's me. Lando. Open the door."

There was a pause. He could almost hear her hesitation through the intercom. Then the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

She stood there in front of him, looking stunned, her hair disheveled from a long day of meetings and calls. But despite the exhaustion, the moment their eyes met, everything else seemed to disappear. The anger, the confusion, the jealousy — it all melted away in that instant. But she didn’t move. She didn’t speak.

Lando stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice tight with emotion.

She crossed her arms, not backing down. “I didn’t think you’d show up.”

“You didn’t think I would?” Lando’s voice cracked, and the rawness of it hit her like a punch to the chest. “I’ve been standing on the edge of this whole damn mess for weeks. Watching you pull away, acting like I don’t even exist. And then I see you with some guy at that gala, acting like I’m nothing but a distraction. So yeah, I came here to figure this out once and for all.”

Her face flushed, but she refused to back down. “You think I want to be with you, Lando? You think I’m the one pulling away? I saw you with all those models and influencers. You think I can’t see what’s right in front of me? You want someone who fits your world — someone who doesn’t have a career that takes up all her time, someone who doesn’t get tangled up in complicated lawsuits and corporate contracts.”

Lando shook his head, walking toward her, his frustration mounting. “No! That’s not it at all! I don’t want someone like that. I want you.” He stepped closer, his voice rising. “But you keep acting like I’m not good enough for you. Like you don’t want someone who’s just... here. You want someone serious, someone who can sit in boardrooms and talk numbers and contracts all day. I’m just some guy who drives cars.”

“Lando…” She started, but he cut her off, his words tumbling out faster now.

“You don’t get it, do you? I’m in this world, yes, but I don’t care about that crap. I care about you. I care about us. But every time I try to get close, you push me away, like you’re afraid I’ll screw it all up. And you’re right, I’ve been surrounded by people who don’t care about anything. But you— you’re different. You’re smart. You’re ambitious. You’re real. And that scares me, okay? It scares me because I’ve never had someone like you before. And I don’t want to lose you because I’m too scared not being enough.”

She stood there, silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. Her gaze softened, the tension in her shoulders releasing as she let out a long breath.

“I’m scared too,” she admitted quietly, almost in a whisper. “Scared that I’m not the kind of person you need. I’ve seen how you are around those people— how easy it is for you to just... slip into that world. And I thought, maybe, that’s what you wanted. Someone who can play that game better than I ever could.”

Lando shook his head vehemently. “No. No. I don’t need that. I need you. You’re the one who makes me want to get out of bed every morning, who pushes me to be better. Not some model or influencer with a perfect smile and a million followers. I need someone who knows who they are and isn’t afraid of what the world thinks. And that’s you. I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Her lips parted as if she was about to argue, but something in his eyes stopped her. She took a step forward, looking up at him.

“Lando... I don’t know how to make this easier. But I can’t keep pretending that everything’s okay when it’s not. I’ve been so wrapped up in what I think you want, and I forgot what I need. I want us. I just need to figure out how to stop being so damn scared.”

Lando reached for her hand, his voice softer now. “Then let’s figure it out together. No more pretending. No more games. Just us.”

She smiled, the weight lifting off her shoulders. She finally closed the space between them, letting her arms wrap around him.

“I’ve never been good at this,” she murmured, her face buried in his chest. “But I want to try.”

Lando squeezed her tighter. “Me too. I’ll do whatever it takes, even if it means figuring out how to play the long game with you.”

They stood there for a long time, just holding each other. The silence between them felt different now — like they were both finally on the same page, after all the chaos.

And as the city buzzed around them, they finally understood: sometimes, the best relationships weren’t the ones you planned out. They were the messy, complicated ones you couldn’t live without.

[lnracer]

Summary: When literature professor Charles Leclerc sees ballerina Y/N Lockwood perform as Odile, something dark reawakens in him. What begins as fascination turns to obsession, drawing him back into habits he swore he'd buried. But Y/N, gentle and starved for affection, may not be as untouched by darkness as she seems.

Pairing: Literature Professor! Charles x Ballerina! Female Reader.

Warnings: Psychological obsession/obsessive thoughts, unreliable narrator (Charles), mentions of stalking/following, internal spiraling and compulsive behavior, mild violence (protective outburst).

Word Count: 3.301k.

a/n: Originally supposed to be a single chapter with an open and ambiguous ending, but I ended up liking the idea enough to write more. Hope you like it! 🖤

ACT I: Obsession Takes Root.

The theater was old. Ornate. Gilded in ways that felt almost garish in their decay. The velvet was wine-red, cracked along the armrests, the golden filigree curling inward like dead petals. Charles adjusted himself in his seat in the back row, away from the center, away from the spotlight.

He hadn’t wanted to come. Not truly. But Beatrice had insisted — practically pleaded to him after lectures, her voice high-pitched and bright with the kind of hope he had long forgotten how to reciprocate. She was beautiful in the way one expects a ballerina to be: soft, poised, every line of her crafted with effort disguised as grace. She would be dancing as Odette, the gentle, tragic white swan.

He was here to honor her. A colleague. A friend.

But then she stepped on stage.

Her.

The first time Charles saw her emerge under the hazy, gold-washed light — her neck elongated like a blade, her back taut with tension, the eerie precision of her pirouette — he forgot Beatrice existed at all.

She was Odile. The Black Swan. The imposter. The temptress. The beautiful, dark thing that didn’t ask for love, but took it like a theft in the night.

Her eyes didn’t search the crowd. She looked above them, beyond them. Unreachable.

Untouchable.

And yet Charles felt seen. Stripped. Like the character she portrayed had crawled out of the stage and settled inside him, just beneath the skin. And it wasn't romantic, no — no, it was something far more ancient. Like some pagan memory, unearthed and awakened.

His pulse ticked at the edge of his jaw. The sensation at the nape of his neck — prickling, alert, feral — returned, the same feeling he thought he'd buried when he locked away the notebooks.

The ones that whispered.

"It’s admiration," he told himself.

"Artistic appreciation."

"Aesthetic curiosity."

Lies.

It was obsession, and it had teeth.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

He doesn't breathe.

Not really.

Not as she moves.

It’s as if she’s carved from smoke and steel — sharp and elusive, a contradiction dressed in midnight tulle. Her limbs slice through the air like they were born for violence masked as elegance. She isn’t dancing; she’s haunting the stage, dragging every eye to her like a spell cast in silence.

Charles leans forward.

He hates himself for it.

He hates the way his spine curls instinctively, like some creature being summoned by an unseen string. His fingers twitch around the cuff of his sleeve, nails digging half-moons into the soft cotton. There’s a whisper of shame in his chest, but it’s buried quickly under something darker. Something he doesn’t name.

She moves like she knows she’s being watched.

Not just by the audience — by him.

As if she feels him. As if she’s feeding on it.

His heart gives a traitorous thump.

He should be watching Beatrice. Sweet, talented Beatrice. He remembers the curve of her handwriting on the note she left in his office — “I saved a seat for you, don’t make me regret it.” A playful heart drawn at the end. Her swan is gentle. Delicate. She loves love. She probably believes in destiny.

But the woman before him doesn’t believe in anything.

She devours it.

And Charles — God help him — wants to be devoured.

He wonders what her voice sounds like. Wonders if it’s low, rich with velvet smoke, or if it’s sharp and mocking like her eyes. He pictures her speaking in riddles, pressing her fingers to his chest and calling him by his name without ever having learned it. He imagines her barefoot on marble floors, blood-red lipstick smeared from a kiss that meant nothing to her but would ruin him.

His jaw tightens.

What would it feel like to write her? Not just observe her — but capture her in ink. The curve of her spine mid-arch, the glint of teeth behind a smile too cold to be kind. Could he do it? Could he trap her between pages the way she traps him in this theater seat, unable to look away?

He thinks of the notebooks.

The ones with locks. With keys. With secrets.

This is how it starts, isn’t it?

The aching. The hunger. That itch behind the eyes.

Beatrice had called his writing intense. “Brilliant, but… a bit unsettling, sometimes.”

She doesn’t know he wrote her into a character once — only to kill her off halfway through.

He swallows the thought.

The music swells. The performance nears its crescendo. Her body becomes an extension of the orchestra — wild, vicious, so breathtakingly precise he feels sick.

And just before the final turn, she flicks her gaze — just for a moment — in his direction.

His breath stutters.

She didn’t see him. She couldn’t have.

And yet…

He knows then, irrevocably:

He’ll never be the same.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

The dreams started softly.

First, they were mere flickers — her silhouette behind a curtain of fog, movements half-finished, arms poised but never landing. Then came the full choreographies, only they were wrong. Twisted. Performed not on stages but in cathedrals, empty lecture halls, libraries with flickering chandeliers.

And then came the other dreams.

The filthy ones.

In them, she didn’t wear the feathers or the crown. She wore his dress shirt, black ink smeared along her collarbone, red pointe shoes dancing across his mahogany desk. In those dreams, she whispered things in French — his mother tongue — but made it sound profane. In those dreams, she bled on his papers. Smiled while doing it.

Charles would wake up gasping. Sweating. Hard.

He started keeping a notebook by his bed again. Not the notebook — the one in the locked drawer in his office. This one was...safer. Tamer. He convinced himself of that.

Still, he wrote:

Y/N Lockwood, spine like a bowstring, mouth like violence dressed in silk.

He hadn't meant to learn her name. But there it was — Y/N Lockwood — printed elegantly beneath the program’s synopsis. It curled on the page like a secret meant only for him.

He read it aloud sometimes, when alone.

Y/N.

Lockwood.

Like a charm. Like a sin.

And then the research began.

For context, he told himself. For a new manuscript, perhaps. Something exploring the allegorical dimensions of performance art. Innocent. Academic.

He scoured YouTube. Found shaky handheld clips from old recitals, gala performances, and student showcases. The quality didn’t matter. She moved like a ghost in all of them, and ghosts didn’t need HD to haunt.

Her Giselle was the one that undid him.

She wasn’t Odile in that piece — wasn’t dark, wasn’t teasing, wasn’t seductive.

A girl driven to death by betrayal, then reborn in moonlight to dance, ethereal and doomed, with the man who’d shattered her.

She was love. She was grief. She was madness.

Charles watched it twelve times the first night. Five the next. By the third day, he had to cancel his faculty dinner. He said he had a migraine.

And the dreams only worsened.

Sometimes she danced.

Sometimes she sat in his lap, reading aloud from his books, with her lips on the shell of his ear.

Sometimes she cried.

Once, she slit his throat and called it art.

He started leaving campus later. Staying behind in his office long after the last student left, the scent of chalk and paper mingling with rain against the windows. He liked solitude. It made it easier to think.

Sometimes, he imagined her there with him.

Bent over his desk.

He would lose hours like this.

His psychiatrist, Dr. Fontane, raised a brow during their latest session.

"You’re dissociating again, Charles."

He’d smiled politely, fingers twitching against the notebook hidden in his coat pocket.

"No, Doctor. I’m inspired."

She didn’t look convinced. She never did.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

The lecture hall had emptied hours ago. Only echoes remained — chalk dust, the smell of old leather, a half-drunk espresso cooling beside his annotated copy of Anna Karenina. He should go home. Should stop searching her name like a prayer, should stop watching pirated clips of her rehearsals like they were surveillance tapes.

But instead, Charles was watching her again.

This time, not Odile. Not even Giselle.

A video from a behind-the-scenes interview. She was in sweatpants and a faded hoodie, hair pulled back, no makeup, face flushed and laughing — that soft, breathless kind of laugh that made him feel like he'd been punched behind the ribs.

“I try not to bring the character home,” she said. “Otherwise it starts living inside you, and you forget who you are.”

Charles stared.

That couldn’t be right.

How could something so gentle house something like Odile? How could someone so shy — so bright-eyed — move the way she did onstage? That wasn’t talent. That was alchemy.

She was a contradiction.

A walking paradox.

He found himself smiling — grinning, almost — until the image flickered and died. His laptop battery gave up its ghost. The screen went black.

And then the daydreams began again.

They didn’t need screens anymore.

In one, she knocks on his office door after hours. She’s soaked from the rain. Apologetic. Timid. “I’m sorry, I got lost. I didn’t know where else to go.”

She’s holding Giselle. The novel, not the ballet. A coincidence, of course. But Charles knows better.

He always knows better.

In another, she’s in the front row of his literature seminar. Twirling a pencil between elegant fingers. Biting her lip when he speaks.

She lingers afterward.

Always lingers.

And in the darker ones…

Well.

He’s still her professor.

Still her intellectual superior.

But there’s breathless curiosity in her eyes. An almost reverent awe. She lets him quote Dante to her in the dark. Lets him tuck a curl behind her ear before asking, in that honeyed voice — “Is this part of the lesson?”

He'd wake with ink-stained fingers. Pages torn from his hidden notebooks. Words he barely remembered writing.

She haunts me differently now.

Not like Odile. Not like death. Like a mercy I don’t deserve.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

And then he sees her.

Not on a stage. Not in his dreams. Not from behind a screen.

But at the pharmacy.

Of all places.

She’s in line. Holding a small paper bag and a bottle of ginger ale. No makeup. No entourage. Just soft, quiet Y/N Lockwood, with her hair in a loose braid and dark circles under her eyes, like she hadn’t slept well.

She doesn’t see him. Of course she doesn’t. Why would she?

But Charles…

He froze.

His heart thundered. It’s her. It’s her.

Not Odile. Not Giselle. Not the fractured goddess of his midnight hallucinations.

Just a girl. A bit tired. A bit flushed. Real.

And she’s beautiful.

In a human way, not a mythic one.

He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until she catches his eye briefly — then quickly looks away with a polite, awkward smile. The kind strangers give when they’re being watched for a beat too long.

She doesn’t know him.

Doesn’t know the hours he’s spent devouring her art.

Doesn’t know she’s been living in his notebooks.

Doesn’t know that his fingers tremble in his pockets, not from nerves — but restraint.

When she exits, he follows. At a distance, of course.

Just to see where she goes.

For context.

For...study.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

She stepped into the grey drizzle without an umbrella, arms folded around her chest, clutching the paper bag to her side like a secret. The kind of rainy day most people rushed to escape. But she didn’t. She moved slowly. Softly. As if the world wasn’t rushing at all.

Charles hesitated for half a second.

Just half.

And then he followed her.

He told himself it was just a walk. Just observation. She’d fascinated him for months — no, not months. Weeks. Days. Time warped where she was concerned.

He kept his distance. A careful six paces behind. Close enough to watch her reflection in the storefront windows, far enough to vanish if she ever turned around.

The heels of her boots clicked softly against the wet pavement.

God, even her walk is graceful.

She stopped to check a poster on a bulletin board. Something about an open arts festival. Tipped her head as she read. Charles caught the curve of her profile, the slope of her cheekbone. Delicate. Almost fragile.

He shouldn’t be doing this.

He knew that.

Knew it with the same certainty he reserved for things like death and gravity.

But that didn’t stop him.

Because it felt like falling, and he’d always had a weak spine for self-destruction.

It was happening again — the blur between fascination and fixation. Between knowing someone and constructing them in the hollows of your mind. He told himself he was researching. That it was academic. That genius required intensity.

But there was a trembling deep in his bones that said otherwise.

It wasn’t just Odile that haunted him now.

It was her laugh in that interview.

It was the image of her sleeping, imagined from the gentle heaviness of her lids.

It was the way her name — Y/N Lockwood — looked in cursive, scrawled into the corners of his most private notebook like a carved obsession.

And now she was turning. Slowly. About to cross the street.

Charles ducked slightly, lowering his head as if the rain alone could shield him from being seen.

What are you doing?

You promised yourself—

He gritted his teeth.

This wasn’t the same as before.

She wasn’t like her.

This wasn’t like Berlin. Or that teaching assistant two years ago. Or the girl from the gallery opening who’d found one of his stories by accident and cried. Cried because she thought it was beautiful.

And it was beautiful.

Wasn’t it?

Except no beauty had ever kept him sane.

The streetlight flickered overhead.

Y/N crossed the street.

And Charles Leclerc — professor, writer, obsessive collector of his own sins — followed, silently swallowing the guilt he would write about later and lock away with all the rest.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Charles had just taken a step back — just one — when he saw it.

A shadow. Lurking, too close behind her.

It wasn’t like him to dramatize fear, but something about the man’s posture, the way he slowed down as Y/N paused to check her phone, wasn’t right. Charles’s gut twisted — sharp, primal.

No. No, no—

The man said something. Low, slurred. Charles couldn’t hear it clearly, but he saw the way Y/N’s shoulders stiffened. She stepped to the side, uneasy, trying to keep walking. The stranger matched her pace.

And then he reached out.

Charles was across the street before he had time to think. Instinct, rage, obsession — whatever ruled his blood then, it silenced everything else.

“Hey!” Charles’s voice was sharp. The kind of sound that cuts through noise like glass.

The man turned, startled — but not enough. He snarled something, sneering, stepping toward Charles like he was the problem now.

Wrong move.

Charles’s fist connected with the man’s face in one clean, hard motion. There was a sickening crack — the crunch of cartilage, the quick spill of blood.

The man crumpled, groaning, curling into himself on the wet pavement.

Charles stood over him, heart pounding. Fists clenched. Teeth bared. He was still breathing like he’d run a marathon. He wanted to kick him. Hard. Again and again. But then—

“Are you okay?”

Her voice.

Soft. Frightened. Grateful.

Charles turned, quickly smoothing the tension from his face, adjusting his coat like he hadn’t just tried to obliterate a man’s skull.

“Yes,” he said, quieter now. “Are you?”

She nodded, hair damp, trembling slightly. “I… I think so. He followed me from the station. I didn’t— thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide and shimmering with something like admiration. Trust. She trusted him.

If she only knew.

Charles forced a smile, trying to calm the riot inside him. “Of course. I couldn’t just stand there.”

“You’re very brave,” she whispered, a faint pink rising to her cheeks. “Most people would have ignored it. Walked the other way…”

Charles swallowed. The world tilted slightly.

She thought he was brave.

Gentle.

Good.

Oh, he could feel it — feel the flicker of that old thing rising again, hot and electric behind his ribs. The euphoria of being seen as the savior. The rush of justification. The lie dressed as honor.

He wanted to protect her. Yes. But not like this.

Not again.

Not like before.

His pulse thundered in his ears. He had to walk away. Now.

But instead he asked, “Can I walk you somewhere? Make sure you get home safe?”

She hesitated for a second before nodding.

And just like that, he was beside her. Her pace slower now. Her trust poured into the silence between their steps.

And Charles — oh, Charles — felt heroic.

He smiled faintly as he watched her from the corner of his eye, and a single thought echoed through his head:

It’s starting all over again, isn’t it?

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

They walked in silence for a few minutes. Her flat wasn’t far — she’d mentioned that, half-apologetically, as though the walk was a burden. But Charles didn’t mind. He was too busy memorizing the way her voice lilted at the end of questions. The way she pressed her lips together when she was nervous. The way her shoulder brushed his every so often, and she’d glance up as if to see if she was too close.

She wasn’t.

Not nearly close enough.

The streets were quieter now. The city curled in on itself at this hour — lamplit and misted with rain, the kind of setting his favorite novels had always opened in. Except this time, the girl wasn’t a character. And he wasn’t just a man reading in the dark.

They stopped at a small iron gate. Her building loomed just beyond it, warm light in a single window flickering like a hearth.

“This is me,” she said softly, tucking a strand of damp hair behind her ear.

Charles lingered, hands tucked into his coat pockets.

“Thank you again. I— really. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t been there.”

He could see the words forming before she said them. Her brows drew together. A small crease between her eyes.

“What’s your name?”

There it was.

His name. His real name.

She wanted to know him.

Charles blinked. For a terrifying moment, he considered lying. An alias, a fake story, a shadow of himself. But something deeper overruled it. Something greedy. Something that wanted her to say his name sweetly, to remember it. To dream it.

“Charles,” he said finally, voice steady. “Charles Leclerc.”

She smiled.

A soft, sweet, pure little smile.

“Thank you, Charles.”

It was the way she said it — gentle, unknowing — that made his stomach twist. His name had never sounded so…innocent. She had no idea what she’d just given power to. No idea who she’d invited into her world.

She thought he was safe.

That was the problem.

That was always the problem.

He watched her disappear behind the door, watched the lock click in place. He didn’t move for a long time.

The rain picked up again.

So did the noise in his head.

You should’ve followed her upstairs.

No. No, that’s not who you are anymore.

Isn’t it?

You helped her. You saved her. She needs you now.

She doesn’t even know you.

Yet.

Charles clenched his fists inside his coat.

That old feeling… it was back. Uncoiling in his spine. Waking up like it never really slept. The same ache, the same desire to possess — not just the body, but the being. To archive someone in your soul. Forever.

But she’s not like the others.

No. No, Y/N Lockwood was not like the others.

She was soft. She was grateful. She was his.

Even if she didn’t know it yet.

[lnracer]

➵ Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x Female Reader.

➵ Warnings: None.

➵ Word Count: 1.244k

➵ a/n: A little something after Kimi's pole in the sprint. Hope you enjoy it! 🍝 𖹭

She wasn’t expecting much when Kimi invited her over for dinner.

“I’m not really a chef or anything,” he had said over the phone, voice a bit shy. “But I’ll figure something out. Just... don’t expect Michelin star.”

So naturally, when she walked into his apartment and was hit with the smell of simmering tomato, fresh basil, and garlic, her eyebrows shoot up.

“Kimi, are you... seriously cooking?”

He glanced up from the stove, cheeks already tinged pink. “Trying to. Nonna’s recipe. Might have called her six times.”

She hid her smile as she wandered into the kitchen. He looked so out of place in an apron — barefoot, curls a little messy, a streak of flour on his jaw — but also completely adorable.

“Do I get to taste test?” she teased, leaning in.

“Only if you promise not to judge the sauce too hard.”

She dipped a spoon in and hummed at the taste, eyes widening in genuine surprise. “Wait — Kimi. This is actually amazing.”

His blush deepened. “You think?”

“I know.” She poked his side gently. “This is, like, dangerously boyfriend behavior.”

Kimi cleared his throat, not-so-subtly turning back to the pot. “Yeah, well... maybe I’m trying to impress someone.”

She smiled softly. “It’s working.”

He didn’t look at her, but his quiet smile was all the confirmation she needed.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

He was finishing up plating the pasta, focused on twirling the strands just right, when his voice came out quieter — half a murmur, half a question he had been holding in for weeks.

“So... when you said that thing about ‘boyfriend behavior’ earlier…” He didn’t look up. “Did you, um... mean it?”

She froze for a second, her heart giving the tiniest skip.

He finally glanced at her, cheeks flushed a deeper red than the marinara. “I mean, not that you have to or anything, but like, if you did mean it, that’d be… cool. I guess.” A beat. “I sound like an idiot. Just ignore—”

She walked over slowly, silently, until she was right in front of him.

“Kimi,” she said softly.

He looked up, and she saw it all written on his face — nerves, affection, a dash of hope. There was still a smudge of flour on his cheek, his curls hopelessly messy from fussing over the stove, and she thought he never looked more kissable.

So she lifted a hand, cupping his face with all the tenderness in the world. His breath hitched, just slightly.

“I meant it,” she whispered, brushing her thumb gently against his cheek. “Every word.”

And before he could spiral into another flustered monologue, she leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft — like warm Sundays and fresh pasta and the slow realization that that was always meant to happen. His lips tasted like tomato sauce, and he froze for a beat, like his brain short-circuited, then melted into it with a quiet sigh, hands resting uncertainly on her waist.

When they pulled apart, she was smiling, and he looked dazed.

“I think you’re definitely boyfriend material,” she said, voice playful, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth again, right where the sauce still lingers.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

They settled on the couch, plates balanced on their laps, the pasta still warm and filling the room with the cozy scent of garlic and basil.

She took a bite, letting out a small, content sigh, and immediately dived in for another forkful.

Kimi watched her from the corner of his eye, trying not to stare, but failing miserably. There was a soft smile tugging at his lips, like he didn't even realize he was wearing it. Like the sight of her enjoying something he made was his new favorite thing.

“This is seriously incredible,” she mumbled around a bite, eyes lighting up like he had just handed her the moon. “Like, real chef vibes. Are you sure you’re not hiding a secret culinary degree?”

He shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I dunno... just followed the recipe. Might’ve winged a little.” His tone was casual, but there was a subtle spark in his eyes — just a flicker of pride he was trying (and failing) to hide.

She grinned, nudging his knee with hers. “You’re totally smug about it right now.”

“I’m not smug,” he lied, stuffing a forkful in his mouth to avoid smiling any wider. “Just relieved you’re not faking it to be nice.”

She tilted her head, studying him fondly. “You could burn toast and I’d still brag about your cooking.”

He choked on a laugh, mouth still full. “That’s not comforting.”

“No, but it’s real.” She reached over and brushed a bit of flour still stuck to his cheek, her fingers lingering. “You could serve this in a restaurant, Kimi. Honestly.”

And he didn't say anything, but the way his gaze lingered on her — soft, adoring, a little overwhelmed — said everything.

In his heart, he was already memorizing this: the glow in her cheeks, the hum of contentment, the way she looked at him like he was something warm and wonderful.

He didn't said it, but he thought it: He would find a way to make something new in the kitchen every day if it meant seeing her like this again.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

The plates were long forgotten, empty and stacked on the coffee table, when she ended up curled against him — her head tucked beneath his chin, his arm wrapped around her like it was always meant to be there. They’d kissed again after dinner, slower this time, lazier, in that way people do when they have all night and no intention of letting go.

At some point, the kisses turned into quiet laughter, and the laughter melted into silence — comfortable and full. Now, she was fast asleep in his arms, her breath steady against his collarbone, her fingers curled into the front of his sweatshirt like she was claiming it for herself.

Kimi didn't move for a long time. Just watched her. Listened to the soft rise and fall of her breathing. Let himself fall even deeper into whatever this was — whatever they were now.

Then his phone buzzed.

He winced at the screen. Nonna.

With a sigh that was more amused than annoyed, he carefully, so carefully, eased out from under her. She mumbled something incoherent and shifted, her hand catching his shirt for just a second before letting go. He tucked the blanket tighter around her before slipping into the hallway.

He answered with a sheepish smile. “Ciao, Nonna.”

Her voice was instant and bright, even through the phone. “Kimi! Allora, did you burn the sauce or make me proud?”

He chuckled under his breath, glancing back towards the bedroom. “No fires, I promise. She loved it.”

“Aha! I told you! What did I say? Girls don’t need fancy things — just good pasta and a boy with a kind heart.”

He leaned against the kitchen counter, eyes soft, voice lower. “She fell asleep in my arms after dinner.”

There was a pause on the line, followed by the quietest sound of Nonna melting. “Oh, Kimi…”

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to fight the smile that crept up. “Yeah. I think... things went even better than the pasta.”

“Bravo, amore mio. You used your heart, not just the recipe.”

He swallowed, still glancing towards the bedroom, voice almost reverent now. “I think I might be in real trouble with this one, Nonna.”

“Good. That’s how you know it’s the right kind.”

[lnracer]

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

'carlos's gf camera roll' moodboard. 💌 𖹭

[lnracer]

Pairing: Son of Apollo! Lando x Daughter of Aphrodite! Reader.

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 1.501k.

a/n: Set in the PJO universe, hope you like it! 📜𖹭

Lando’s gaze flickered to her across the campfire, the golden light catching the angles of her face, the way her lips curved as she spoke to someone else. He couldn’t help it — his heart skipped, his mind scrambled. But as always, that sharp, familiar bite of self-doubt followed.

She must think she’s untouchable, he thought, watching her laugh, effortlessly perfect in a way that made everyone else fade into the background. She was like one of those people who are just used to being loved. Who expect it, even. Who think being loved by someone is some kind of privilege. Like it’s a favor.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. That’s it, right? She never even notice people like him. Just someone to look at and move on from. Like it’s nothing.

Lando forced himself to look away. To not let his mind run circles, to not let himself get lost in the illusion that someone like her would ever look at someone like him.

But gods, the way she smiled when she did.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

The sun cast golden light through the Camp Half-Blood training arena, glinting off Lando’s curls as he leaned against the railing, carelessly twirling a celestial bronze dagger between his fingers. He wasn’t paying attention to the sparring session in front of him — how could he, when she were there?

She stood in the shade, casually tossing her hair over her shoulder, her laughter like honey. Daughter of Aphrodite — of course she was ethereal, captivating, the kind of beauty that made people forget their own names. But it wasn’t just that. Lando saw something else in her — sharp wit behind her glossy lips, kindness in her eyes, and this grace that moved through her like a secret.

She was poetry, and he was a song too scared to start.

He was hooked. Completely, pathetically entranced. And she had no idea.

Or so he thought.

Truth was, she knew. Gods, she knew.

Every time he walked by, golden and smiling like he belonged on a chariot, she felt the blush rise in her chest. Her fingers twitched at her side. She bit her lip, too proud to let anything show — because being a daughter of Aphrodite meant people always assumed she was already in control. Like she couldn’t possibly be flustered.

But she was.

When he laughed at something she said, she had to stop herself from staring at his lips for too long. When his fingers brushed hers — by accident, during campfire cleanup — she spent the whole night rolling over in bed, replaying the moment over and over again.

She tried to act normal. Polished. Refined. Goddess-forbid he ever knew what really went on in her head when he smiled at her like that — when his voice dipped low and sincere, when he looked at her like she was the only person in the world.

Just like the way mortals once looked at dawn — like she was something holy, something kissed by light itself. There was a stillness in him whenever she walked into the room, as if the world slowed just to let him memorize the way she moved. And though he was born of the sun, heir to Apollo’s fire, it was her glow that warmed him most. To Lando, she wasn’t just beautiful — she was his sunlight. A softness he never thought he deserved, yet couldn’t help but reach for.

Lando didn’t think he had a shot. How could he? She was untouchable. People looked at her like a dream. He looked at her like she hung constellations with her hands. And he figured she didn’t even know he existed, not really — not in the way he wanted.

Too caught up in self-doubt.

He didn’t see the way her gaze lingered when he walked away. The way her breath caught when his arm brushed against hers in the corridor. The way she burned with wanting, silenced by fear that wanting too loudly would scare him off.

That night, at the campfire, their legs brushed beneath the log they shared, and her eyes flicked to his. His breath hitched.

The silence was electric.

He whispered, “You always look like you’re thinking something you’re not saying.”

She looked at the flames, heart thudding like a war drum. And with a slow smile, she answered:

“Maybe I am.”

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

She couldn’t sleep.

Maybe it was the way Lando’s eyes had lingered too long on hers at the fire, or maybe it was just the thick summer air at Camp Half-Blood, buzzing with tension she couldn’t shake off. Whatever the reason, she found herself wandering, the moon painting silver over the grass.

That’s when she heard it.

A voice, low and half-laughing, somewhere near the Apollo cabin gardens — quiet enough that he must’ve thought no one could hear. She crept closer, careful, heart pounding for reasons she didn’t dare name yet.

And there he was: Lando. Sitting on the steps, knees drawn up, a crumpled piece of parchment in one hand, muttering something to the night air.

At first, she thought it was a song. But as she drew closer, she realized — no. It was a poem.

For her.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

"O daughter of the foam and rose,

Whose footsteps sow the earth in bloom,

What temple could I build to house

The ruin of my heart for you?

A throne of gold? A silver tomb?

Or only this: a nameless ache,

A prayer not meant for gods to take—"

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

He broke off there, chuckling bitterly under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face.

“So pathetic, mate,” he muttered to himself. “Like she’d even look at you.”

She stood frozen, air thick in her lungs, the words sinking into her skin like molten gold.

He meant it. All of it. And he thought he didn’t have a chance.

Her heart cracked wide open.

Without thinking, she stepped into the light. “You should finish it,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Lando’s head snapped up, horror flashing across his face when he saw her. The parchment nearly slipped from his fingers. “I—I didn’t know anyone—”

She crossed the space between her with measured steps, heart hammering in her chest. Don’t be scared, she told herself. Don’t hide.

When she stood in front of him, close enough to see the flush rising along his cheeks, she smiled — soft, real, no Aphrodite glamour needed.

“I think,” she said carefully, “you should finish it. Because if you don’t…” She paused, gathering her courage the way a goddess might gather her silken robes. “...you’ll never find out that you’re not the only one who lies awake thinking about all the things they’d do.”

For a heartbeat, Lando just stared at her, uncomprehending.

And then her hand brushed his, tentative, anchoring.

His breath stuttered out of him.

“Are you—” His voice broke, rough. “You’re serious?”

She smiled wider. “I won’t deny it,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”

The parchment fluttered to the ground between them as Lando surged up, the space snapping shut like it had never been there at all.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

Lando’s hands hovered at her waist, like he still didn’t quite believe she was real, like if he touched too hard she might dissolve into mist.

“You’re sure?” he whispered, voice cracking slightly at the edges.

She tipped her chin up, so close now she could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. “I’m sure.”

That was all it took.

Lando closed the distance in a breathless, reverent kind of way — as if kissing her was a sacred act, something he might be punished for daring. His lips brushed hers lightly at first, tentative, like the first brush of sun over the horizon.

But when she threaded her fingers into his curls, pulling him closer, something broke loose in him. He kissed her deeper then, a sunburst kind of kiss, golden and warm and desperate with all the words he hadn’t said.

She sighed against his mouth, melting into him like it was the most natural thing in the world, the whole camp — the whole world — fading into nothing but the two of them.

And in that moment, she realized something so deep it felt written into the marrow of her bones:

Maybe it had always been leading here.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

The daughter of Aphrodite, born of foam and longing, who carried beauty like a weapon and a shield, had found her match not in a warrior, nor in a prince, but in a son of Apollo — he who bore the sun in his veins, who crafted songs out of longing, and poems out of hope.

It was not conquest that tied them, nor flattery, nor even fate. It was something simpler, older: beauty drawn to light, longing drawn to warmth. The heart, ancient and new, recognizing its echo in another.

The goddess's daughter and the god's son became one — not in temples or battles, but in a kiss under the silver eye of the moon, where beauty at last found a place to rest in the arms of the sun.

[lnracer]

Pairing: Single Dad! Lando x Flower Shop Owner! Reader.

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 1.200k.

a/n: Of a little scenario that came into my mind. I hope you like it! 💐𖹭

The bell above the flower shop door chimed softly, announcing a new visitor.

She looked up from the arrangement she was working on, tucking a loose strand of one long, shiny lock of neatly arranged hair behind her ear. The warm, rich scent of roses and fresh greenery filled the shop, mingling with the sunbeams pouring through the windows.

It was in those simple but meaningful moments that she found comfort in the vivid flowers; in that almost secret garden that seemed like a lucky find amidst so many sophisticated restaurants and designer stores on the busy avenue.

A man stepped inside — young, maybe mid-twenties — tall, with messy, honey-brown curls, sharp but kind features, and that almost nervous demeanor she’d recognize anywhere: someone who wasn't used to buying flowers.

At his side was a little girl, no older than four, clutching the hem of his jacket shyly.

She wiped her hands on her khaki apron, with a small daisy flower embroidered in cream on the front — as well as the name of the store — and approached with a warm smile.

“Hi there! Welcome to The Bloom Room. How can I help you today?”

The man returned a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck. “Hey. Uh, I was hoping to get some flowers for my mum’s birthday. I’m... not exactly an expert, as you could probably tell.”

His voice was soft, a little raspy, and charmingly unsure.

She felt a soft warmth bloom in her chest. This, unfortunately, was not a very common occurrence these days — men buying flowers for their mothers. It was sweet.

Crouching by a bucket of freshly misted peonies, she looked up at him, her hazel-green eyes crinkling with a kind glow.

“You seem like a really good son,” she said lightly, the soft but subtly appreciative tone, meaning every word. “Not many men walk in here for their moms anymore. She’s lucky to have you.”

She caught the way his gaze lingered on her — not in a way that made her uncomfortable, but like she was a painting he couldn’t stop studying.

Lando felt a little stunned, honestly. The moment he saw her — crouched among the blooms, rosy-cheeked, soft smile lighting up her whole face — it hit him square in the chest. She was beautiful. Ethereal even. Like she didn’t quite belong in the real world.

Before he could muster a proper response, a tiny voice piped up.

She turned slightly, noticing his daughter had tiptoed closer to her, her big blue eyes wide with wonder.

Lily clutched the hem of her skirt shyly, and in the sweetest little voice, whispered,

“You look like a Disney princess...”

Her heart completely melted.

Setting the peonies aside, she crouched lower so she was on Lily's level, smiling so softly it felt like the whole shop glowed.

“Well, that’s just about the nicest thing anyone’s ever told me,” she said, gently offering her hand for a high-five. “And you, young lady, must be my favorite customer today.”

The little girl giggled and gave her a tiny, proud high-five, before quickly scurrying back to her dad’s side, hiding her face against his jeans.

Lando let out a low chuckle, ruffling her hair.

“She’s not wrong,” he said, his voice rougher now, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

She looked up at him — cheeks pinker now, lips curved shyly — and Lando swore the peonies weren’t the only things blooming in the room.

She helped him pick out a bouquet — peonies, soft garden roses, and a sprig of eucalyptus — all the while sneaking little glances at each other, sharing shy smiles whenever their hands brushed accidentally.

When he left, a bouquet carefully wrapped in brown paper and tied with a satin ribbon, Lily waved a tiny hand at her, her smile missing two baby teeth.

“Bye, Princess!”

And Lando, glancing back over his shoulder one last time, thought maybe he’d just found the perfect excuse to come back to The Bloom Room — again and again.

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It had only been three days since Lando and his daughter had first walked into The Bloom Room, but here they were again — the bell chiming as they stepped inside.

She looked up from behind the counter, immediately brightening when she saw them.

"Back so soon?" she teased lightly, wiping her hands on a cloth. "Forgot something?"

Lando gave a boyish, slightly sheepish grin.

"Sort of. Someone," he said, nudging Lily gently, "decided she needed flowers in her room too. Couldn't say no to that."

She smiled wider, heart already melting all over again.

"Well, we absolutely must fix that, then," she said warmly, coming around the counter.

Her luscious waves framed her face as she crouched again — always meeting Lily at her level — showing her a colorful selection of daisies, tiny pink spray roses, and little sprigs of baby's breath.

Lily’s eyes sparkled with excitement as she picked carefully, her little hands hovering over each bloom with great consideration.

Meanwhile, Lando watched — or tried to, when he wasn’t hopelessly distracted by her.

The way she spoke so gently — clearly a natural with children, he mentally noted — her voice soft and encouraging.

The way she handled the flowers like they were delicate little secrets.

God, he was done for.

As she wrapped the tiny bouquet for Lily in a lilac colored tissue paper — handpicked by the little girl herself — and twine, Lando moved to the counter to pay. His wallet was already out, tapping the card against the reader.

But before he could finish, he felt a little tug at his jeans.

He looked down to see Lily holding up a single, perfect red rose in her small hand, standing on her tiptoes, stretching to reach him.

"You want this too, munchkin?" he asked, amused, reaching for it.

Lily shook her head seriously, brown curls bouncing.

“No, Daddy. It’s for you... to give to the princess!” she said in a loud, earnest whisper, glancing bashfully towards her.

Lando froze for half a second, caught so off-guard that his mouth actually dropped open a little.

She, meanwhile, had heard every word, cheeks turning a delicate shade of rose that rivaled the flowers around her.

She ducked her head, pretending to busy herself with Lily’s little bouquet to hide the giddy smile blooming across her face.

Clearing his throat, Lando crouched down slightly, still holding the rose.

"You sure, Lily?"

She nodded, big, serious eyes staring back at him.

There was no saying no to that.

When Lando straightened up, he turned to her — and before he could let himself overthink it — he held the rose out, a crooked, boyish grin on his face.

"For the princess," he said, voice a little shy, a little rough.

She giggled softly under her breath, heart skipping a beat, and took the rose from him delicately, her fingers brushing his for a moment too long.

"Thank you, my brave knight," she said, playing along with a warm, teasing twinkle in her hazel-green eyes.

Lando swore, right then and there, that he'd find a reason to come back to The Bloom Room every single week — if only to see that smile again.

And maybe — just maybe — the princess would let the knight stay.

[lnracer]

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'oscar's gf camera roll' moodboard. 🍁 𖹭