꒰ masterlist • marvel • 03/30/26 ꒱ one I two II gif @/flopugh
ᝰ.ᐟ key: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I ~S- implied smut I H/C -comfort
☆ he’s trying to kill me ── @literaila I
☆ muse ── @foreverrogers I
peter has no idea how you keep showing up every week with the best pictures of spider-man he's ever seen.
☆ under the mask ── @/foreverrgoers I
you reluctantly befriend spider-man and slowly feel it becoming more until all is spilt one night at the top of the empire state
☆ next time ── @/foreverrogers I
you and peter have done everything under the sun except have sex. aka the three times you almost do the deed and the one time you finally get it right
☆ smokey mirrors ── @stresslessbaaby I
spider-man was a mystery, despite spending so much time with him – until fisk’s device has you both thinking without your heads
☆ the sky is falling ── @/stresslessbaaby I
you’re at your wits end with your boyfriends secrets
☆ bandaids and kisses ── @bartxnhood I
after a few encounters with the friendly neighborhood spider man, you let him in on a little secret. your crush on your best friend, peter parker.
☆ happy birthday ── @blooming-violets I
Peter missed his girlfriend’s birthday. She has yet to learn of his secret identity. It might be time to tell her.
☆ misery loves company ── @supernovafics I
in which you see your ex-boyfriend with his new girl at a party looking happier than ever. you leave the party feeling upset and somehow run into a person who has recently gone through some similar things as you
☆ a lie of omission ── @/supernovafics I
in which the night you spent with peter was already a memory you genuinely cherished, because for the first time in a long time your life didn’t feel completely complicated. things should’ve gotten even better from there, but they didn’t. instead, it was the complete opposite.
☆ one night stand ── @selfcarecap I
Peter has his first one night stand. He catches feelings
☆ swing by ── @sunshinesteviee I
peter is a fellow teacher, and is also your best friend at work. he helps you bring spider-man in to meet your class, but something about it seems a bit suspicious
☆ things that look like nothing ── @justapurrcat I
As if getting caught up into the cliché trap of falling in love with your best friend and having to watch as he falls for someone else wasn’t enough, the universe has decided to take a step further in punishing you, turning your existence in a not-so-figurative life or death situation. Your closest confident is now the reason behind your pain, your anchor the very thing that’s dragging you down...
☆ crush ── @shellshocklove I
you accidently learn peter parker's secret
☆ and then there was you ── @ptersparkers I
secrets come to light when peter parker breaches the universe’s threshold and the last thing you expected was to fall for a stranger.
☆ i swear i don't know who this man is ── @webslingingslasher I
you got wasted and called peter to pick you up, you also don't realize it's him right away.
☆ the only one ── @shawnxstyles I
you go on your first date with peter, and it ends even better than you could have ever expected.
☆ i'll cry if i want to ── @waitimcomingtoo I
you get stood up on your birthday and Peter attempts to cheer you up despite your feud
☆ uranus ── @/waitimcomingtoo I
you fix Peters science project while he’s out on a date with another girl
☆ merry christmas, please don't call ── @/waitimcomingtoo I
Peter is all on his own for Christmas and you both know why
☆ imagine me and you ── @/waitimcomingtoo I
you and Peter have feelings for each other but can’t act on them since he’s your friends ex-boyfriend
☆ symbiote!peter blurb ── @hanasnx I
☆ “better find a mop, it’s gettin’ sticky in this bitch”── @/hanasnx I
☆ “do you remember how it felt when i touched you”── @/hanasnx
☆ web bondage ── @little-miss-dilf-lover I S
☆ it’s not a costume ── @msmk11 I
You mess around in your boyfriend’s suit even though you’re not supposed to
☆ tasm!peter ── @moonstruckme I
☆ tasm!peter ── @/moonstruckme I
☆ approach shift ── @psithurista I
Peter Parker is a weirdo. A hot, distracting, irritating weirdo. And you can’t afford distractions right now. So there’s only one thing to do.
☆ bed side drawer ── @yasministration I
when Tony finds a box of condoms in Peter's bed side drawer, he doesn't expect Peter's girlfriend to walk into the room, causing an awkward interaction.
☆ want you to stay ── @/yasministration I
peter is absolutely appalled when he sees you beginning to leave the party when his frat brother yells "if you're not a brother or fucking a brother, get out!"
☆ request ── @arpicityandneed I
☆ could it be? ── @oswildin I
You lost your universes’ Peter. Never did you think you would ever see his face again…
☆ last breath ── @sacredsorceress I
You and Peter have been best friends for years, fighting alongside each other as Avengers. When you nearly die, the true feelings you and Peter have for each other come to the surface.
☆ bend an ear ── @atlabeth I
your boyfriend doesn't listen to you. good thing your friendly neighborhood spider-man does.
☆ i saw nothing ── @ellecdc I
☆ journalist!reader ── @/ellecdc I
☆ bingo ── @/ellecdc I
☆ sex pollen ── @/ellecdc I S
☆ sweet stuff ── @anon-188 I F
business is slow, you’re losing hope. so peter does what any reasonable guy would do—sends spider-man on a bakery rescue mission.
☆ dealers choice ── @earlgreylatte I S
A game of strip poker goes exactly where you think it would.
peter parker’s never kissed anyone, and pretending to do it in a closet was just to spare him the humiliation. teaching him the basics? innocent enough. until he starts learning how to touch, how to beg, and how to make you forget it was ever pretend (completed)
genres: college au, fake-dating, friends w. benefits
notes: contains smut! block the tag below to not get it on ur feed! but whew. tony stark and the avengers are alive i say as they drag me back into the white room… set around christmas time bc i like the vibes lol
✧.* fluff ⋆ | ˚꩜｡ series | ⚠︎ angst | ✪ g's star reads | 🔞 smut below the cut
@luveline
✧.* not known or seen ✪
Things between you and Peter change with the seasons.
@filmjules
SPIDER-BOY
✧.* where peter parker’s best friend starts calling him by a silly nickname, not knowing how true it is. aka peter has a hopeless crush on his best friend who has a small habit of drawing on his hands and arms. who also may have a crush on spiderman.
@thollandsgirl2013
✧.* Suit Up, Buttercup
You blackmail Peter into letting you try on his Spider-Man suit. It fits too well, leading to making out—and Tony walking in.
@ptergwen
✧.* out of sight, on his mind
warnings: making out, suggestiveness, drinking, like one swear
@loverangels
✧.* webbed in desire
Peter really likes your Spiderman pajama pants
@anon-188
✧.*sweet stuff
business is slow, you’re losing hope. so peter does what any reasonable guy would do—sends spider-man on a bakery rescue mission.
@shortnspidey
✧.* SLIM PICKINS
Safe to say your love life was nonexistent. You’d tried everything, swiping through dating apps like it was your part-time job, smiling at strangers on the subway, even letting friends set you up with guys. Still, nothing. Just awkward dates, ghosted messages, and a lingering sense that love might just be a myth. But maybe, just maybe, the problem wasn’t you. Turns out, slim pickins didn’t apply when the best option was right under your nose.
@gossameres
˚꩜｡ spin the lie
peter parker’s never kissed anyone, and pretending to do it in a closet was just to spare him the humiliation. teaching him the basics? innocent enough. until he starts learning how to touch, how to beg, and how to make you forget it was ever pretend (completed)
@wokeupinmars
⚠︎ Remedy
Peter believes you stood him up for his work event, but his hurt feelings subside when he gets home and finds you sick.
@waitimcomingtoo
✧.* Built A Fire Just To Keep Me Warm
you and Peter are in the same friend group but never got along. That doesn’t keep him from making sure you never get cold
@yasministration
✧.* want you to stay
peter is absolutely appalled when he sees you beginning to leave the party when his frat brother yells "if you're not a brother or fucking a brother, get out!"
@thceseus
✧.* he does melt!
seeing if he melts into a kiss' trend with your best friend, Peter Parker.
@ironinc
🔞 Distracted
You decided to take a break from your day and play a online game with your friends, but before you can even start, it's impossible to concentrate when your boyfriend, Peter Parker, is being so distracting. He offers to let you sit on his lap while you play, not realizing his intentions aren't nearly as innocent as he pretends they are.
@boxofbonesfic
🔞 Play Pretend
You play dumb to get help from some nerd in your Stats class, but end up biting off more than you can chew.
@thollandsgirl2013
🔞 Love Stained
You surprise Peter with kisses to test your new lipstick, leaving him covered in maroon marks.
🔞 His Favorite Breakfast
Peter wakes up horny and needy in the morning and he takes you on the kitchen counter.
🔞 No Nut November Challenge
It's November, Peter and Ned decided to join no nut November, it's a disaster for Peter.
@yasministration
🔞 am i doing this right?
could i request summer, smut with peter. and the prompt “am i doing this right”
@alsofoundinpeas
🔞 A Little Tied Up
When Spider-Man offers a surprisingly unconventional alternative to an ice pack, you find yourself agreeing, only to discover there's more to his touch than just superhuman strength.
@uhhhj13iguess
🔞 what you asked for
teasing peter parker while he's patrollingggggg
🔞 the stages of us
peter parker starts an internship at oscorp, matched into a robotics team led by you — you, who has peter believing in love at first sight. and despite every instinct in his body, peter can't help but fall further and more helplessly in love with you... even if you happen to have a boyfriend.
@iridescentparkers
🔞 lessons in sexting
warnings: very suggestive! (18+)
hey! can i ask you one where the reader and Landonare parents, and then they have an argument over… idk whatever you want, then the kid is slept and the reader says she’s gonna shower and Lando follows to apologize and then there’s smut in the shower pls
Steam-Soaked Apologies
Lando Norris x Wife!reader
Synopsis: You and Lando bicker after a long day with your kid, but once the little one’s asleep, the silence makes the argument feel small. You head for a shower to cool off; Lando follows to apologize, and the steam turns the tension into something tender and intimate.
Warning: small angst, smut, shower sex, happy ending
Patreon - Exclusive Content
The sound of your voice echoes through the Monaco apartment, sharper than you intended. "You can't just swoop in after being gone for two weeks and undermine everything I've been working on with him, Lando!"
Your husband stands across the kitchen island, still in his McLaren team shirt from the flight back, his jaw tight. Those usually warm eyes flash with frustration. "I'm not undermining you. I'm his father. I have a say in how we handle this."
"A say, yes. But you don't get to waltz in and tell him it's fine that he hit another kid at school just because you think 'boys will be boys!'" Your hands grip the marble countertop, knuckles white.
"That's not what I said!" Lando's voice rises to match yours. "I said we need to understand why he did it before we just punish him. There's a difference between excusing it and trying to understand our son."
"I've been here, Lando. I've been dealing with the calls from the school, the meetings with his teacher, the other parents giving me looks. You were in Singapore, then Japan, then—" You stop yourself, taking a breath. This isn't about the racing. You knew what you were signing up for when you married him. But right now, with your five-year-old son having pushed and hit another child on the playground, it feels like you're parenting alone.
"You think I don't wish I was here more?" His voice cracks slightly, and you see the guilt flash across his face. "You think I like missing bedtimes and school events? But this is my job, and you knew—"
"Don't." You hold up a hand. "Don't make this about your career. I support your career. I've always supported it. This is about you coming home and immediately questioning how I've handled things."
Lando runs both hands through his curly hair, a gesture you've seen a thousand times when he's frustrated. "I wasn't questioning you. I just think taking away his tablet for a month is harsh when we don't fully understand what happened."
"He hit someone, Lando! Another child! What's to understand beyond that being completely unacceptable?" Your voice breaks slightly. You've been holding this stress for days, trying to figure out the right way to handle it, second-guessing every parenting decision.
"Maybe that he's acting out because his dad is gone all the time!" The words explode out of Lando, and the moment they're in the air, you both freeze.
The silence that follows is deafening.
From down the hallway, you hear a small sniffle. Your heart drops.
You both move at the same time, rushing toward your son's bedroom. When you open the door, he's sitting up in his racing car bed—a gift from Lando's team—with tears streaming down his face.
"Baby," you breathe, moving to his side immediately. Lando is right behind you.
"I'm sorry," your son hiccups. "I'm sorry I hit Jacob. I'm sorry Daddy's gone because of me. I'm sorry—"
"No, no, no," Lando drops to his knees beside the bed, taking his son's small hand. "None of this is your fault, buddy. None of it. Daddy's job has nothing to do with you."
You stroke your son's hair, your heart breaking. "We're sorry you heard us fighting, sweetheart. That wasn't fair to you."
It takes twenty minutes to calm him down, both of you working together—the way you should have been from the start. You read him his favorite story about race cars (of course), and Lando does the voices that always make him giggle. By the time his eyes are drooping, the tension in his little body has released.
"Love you, Daddy," he mumbles sleepily. "Love you, Mummy."
"Love you more," you both whisper in unison, kissing his forehead.
You leave his door cracked open with the hallway light on, just how he likes it. In the corridor, you and Lando stand in the dim light, the weight of the evening pressing down on both of you.
The anger has burned out, replaced by exhaustion and guilt. You can't even look at him right now—not because you're still angry, but because you're ashamed of how you both handled it.
"I need to shower," you say quietly, your voice flat. "I need to cool off."
You don't wait for a response, walking toward the master bedroom and into the ensuite bathroom. Your hands shake slightly as you turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature. The bathroom begins to fill with steam as you strip off your clothes mechanically—leggings, t-shirt, bra, underwear—leaving them in a pile on the floor.
You step under the spray and close your eyes, letting the hot water cascade over your shoulders. The tension you've been carrying for days sits like a knot between your shoulder blades. Tears mix with the water on your cheeks, and you're not even sure when you started crying.
You're so lost in your thoughts that you don't hear the bathroom door open. Don't hear the soft sound of clothes being removed. It's only when the shower door opens that you startle, turning to find Lando standing there, naked and vulnerable.
"Can I join you?" he asks softly.
You should probably say no. Should probably tell him you need space. But you're so tired of fighting, so tired of being strong, so tired of doing this alone.
You nod.
He steps in, closing the glass door behind him. The shower is spacious—one of the luxuries of the Monaco apartment—but suddenly it feels intimate with both of you in it. The water hits his shoulders now, and you watch the droplets run down his chest, following the lines of muscle earned from years of training.
"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is rough with emotion. "You're right. I came home and immediately questioned your judgment when you've been here handling everything. That wasn't fair."
You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling exposed despite years of marriage. "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have thrown the travel in your face. I know you're doing your best to balance everything."
"I hate that he thinks my being gone is somehow his fault." Lando's voice cracks. "I hate that I missed the signs that he was struggling."
"We both missed them," you admit. "I was so focused on the behavior that I didn't stop to think about what was causing it."
Lando reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want. When you don't, his hands settle on your shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the knots of tension. You let out an involuntary sigh.
"Let me," he murmurs, turning you gently so your back is to him.
His hands work into your shoulders with practiced ease. He's learned over the years exactly where you carry your stress, exactly how much pressure you need. You let your head drop forward as he works, the combination of his touch and the hot water finally allowing your muscles to release.
"I missed you," you whisper. "Even when I'm angry at you, I miss you."
His hands still for a moment, then continue their massage, moving down your spine. "I miss you every second I'm gone. You and him. It never gets easier."
You turn in his arms, finally meeting his eyes. They're red-rimmed, and you realize he's been crying too. Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing away a water droplet—or maybe a tear.
"We're a team," you say firmly. "Even when we disagree, we're a team. I need to remember that."
"So do I," he agrees, leaning into your touch. "I'm sorry I made you feel alone in this."
"I'm sorry I made you feel like an outsider in your own family."
The water continues to fall around you, creating a cocoon of warmth and steam. Lando's hand comes up to cover yours on his cheek, then he turns his head to press a kiss to your palm. The gesture is so tender, so full of love, that you feel your breath catch.
"I love you," he says, his eyes locked on yours. "Even when we fight, even when it's hard, I love you so much it terrifies me sometimes."
"I love you too," you breathe. "Always."
He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull back, but you don't want to. You need this—need him. Your lips meet in a kiss that starts gentle, almost hesitant, like you're rediscovering each other. His lips are soft and warm, tasting like water and home.
Your arms wind around his neck as the kiss deepens, his hands sliding down to your waist and pulling you closer. The feel of his skin against yours, slick with water, sends electricity through your body. It's been two weeks since you've touched him like this, and your body has missed him desperately.
Lando's tongue traces your lower lip, and you open for him, the kiss turning heated. One of his hands slides up your back, tangling in your wet hair, while the other grips your hip. You press closer, feeling him hardening against your stomach.
"I missed this," he groans against your lips. "Missed you. Missed touching you."
"Show me," you whisper, emboldened by the desire coursing through you. "Show me how much you missed me."
His eyes darken with want, and he walks you backward until your back hits the cool tile wall. The contrast of temperatures makes you gasp—hot water, cool tile, and Lando's warm body pressing against yours.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, more demanding. His hands roam your body like he's memorizing it all over again—the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, the softness of your breasts. When his thumb brushes over your nipple, you arch into him with a moan.
"So responsive," he murmurs, his lips leaving yours to trail down your jaw, your neck. "So perfect."
His mouth finds your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he takes it between his lips. Your hands fist in his wet curls, holding him to you as pleasure sparks through your body. He lavishes attention on one breast, then the other, until you're squirming against him.
"Lando," you breathe. "Please."
"Please what?" He looks up at you through his lashes, a hint of that playful smile you love so much. "Tell me what you need, love."
"You," you say simply. "I need you."
His hand slides down your stomach, between your thighs, and you spread your legs to give him access. When his fingers find you, sliding through your wetness, you both groan.
"So wet for me already," he says, his voice rough with desire. "Did you miss my touch, baby? Miss my fingers?"
"Yes," you gasp as he circles your clit with just the right pressure. "God, yes."
He works you expertly, knowing exactly how you like to be touched after years of learning your body. One finger, then two, slide inside you while his thumb continues its maddening circles. You're already close, wound tight from the emotional intensity of the evening and the two weeks without him.
"That's it," he encourages, his free hand bracing against the wall beside your head as he watches your face. "Let go for me. Want to feel you come on my fingers."
His words push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you, and you cry out his name, your body clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure roll through you. He works you through it, only slowing when you start to come down, trembling in his arms.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, kissing you softly. "So beautiful when you come for me."
You're still catching your breath when you reach down to wrap your hand around his length. He's hard and heavy in your palm, and when you stroke him, he groans into your neck.
"Your turn," you whisper, working him with firm strokes.
"No," he says, catching your wrist gently. "Want to be inside you. Need to be inside you. Need to feel close to you."
You nod, understanding completely. This isn't just about physical release—it's about reconnecting, about being as close as two people can be.
He lifts one of your legs, hooking it over his hip, opening you to him. The position is familiar, one you've done countless times, but it never gets old. He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.
"Ready?" he asks, always checking, always making sure.
"Yes," you breathe. "Please, Lando."
He pushes in slowly, and you both moan at the sensation. He's thick and fills you perfectly, stretching you in the best way. He pauses when he's fully seated inside you, his forehead dropping to yours.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Missed this. Missed being inside you. You feel like heaven."
"Move," you urge, your body already adjusting, already craving more. "Please move."
He starts with slow, deep thrusts, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. The angle has him hitting that perfect spot inside you with every stroke, and you cling to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.
The water continues to cascade over you both, adding to the sensory overload. The sound of skin on skin, the steam, the feeling of him inside you—it's almost overwhelming.
"Harder," you gasp. "I need more."
Lando adjusts his grip, one hand under your thigh, the other braced against the wall, and he picks up the pace. His hips snap against yours with more force, driving deeper, and you cry out in pleasure.
"Like that?" he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "This what you need?"
"Yes! God, yes, just like that!"
He pounds into you, the sound of your bodies coming together echoing in the bathroom. It's primal and raw and exactly what you both need. You can feel another orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly.
"Touch yourself," Lando commands, his eyes locked on yours. "Want to feel you come on my cock."
You slide your hand between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. The added stimulation has you climbing fast, your inner walls starting to flutter around him.
"That's it, baby," he encourages, his thrusts becoming less controlled. "Can feel you getting close. Come for me. Come on my cock."
Your second orgasm hits you like a freight train, even more intense than the first. You scream his name, your body clamping down on him like a vice. The sensation triggers his own release, and he buries himself deep with a guttural moan, his cock pulsing as he fills you.
You stay like that for a long moment, both of you trembling and gasping for breath, the water still falling around you. Slowly, carefully, he lowers your leg and slips out of you. You both wince slightly at the sensitivity.
Lando cups your face in his hands, kissing you with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting with tears. "I love you," he says against your lips. "I love you so much."
"I love you too," you whisper back. "We're going to be okay, right? All of us?"
"Yeah," he says with certainty. "We're going to be okay. We'll figure out what's going on with him together. We'll talk to his teacher together, maybe find a child psychologist who can help us understand what he's going through. And I'll talk to the team about adjusting my schedule where I can."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," he interrupts gently. "You're right that I've been gone a lot. Maybe there are some appearances I can skip, some sponsor events that aren't mandatory. My family comes first. Always."
You nod, emotion clogging your throat. "And I'll try to be better about not taking on everything myself. About asking for help when you are here."
"Deal," he says, smiling softly.
He reaches for the body wash, squeezing some into his hands. "Let me take care of you," he says, and proceeds to wash you with gentle, loving touches. You do the same for him, the act intimate and caring. By the time you're both clean and the water is starting to run cool, you feel more settled than you have in days.
You step out together, and Lando wraps you in a fluffy towel before grabbing one for himself. You both dry off in comfortable silence, the kind that only comes from years of being together.
In the bedroom, you both dress in comfortable pajamas—you in one of his old t-shirts and shorts, him in just sleep pants. Before getting into bed, you both pad quietly down the hall to check on your son.
He's sprawled across his bed, one leg hanging off the side, his favorite stuffed race car clutched to his chest. He looks so peaceful, so innocent. Lando's arm comes around your waist, pulling you against his side.
"We made that," he whispers in awe, like he still can't quite believe it.
"We did," you agree, leaning your head on his shoulder. "And we're going to help him through whatever he's dealing with."
"Together," Lando confirms.
You both kiss his forehead gently, careful not to wake him, then retreat to your own room. In bed, Lando pulls you against his chest, your head resting over his heart. The steady beat is soothing, familiar.
"Thank you for following me into the shower," you say quietly into the darkness.
You can hear the smile in his voice when he responds. "Thank you for letting me in. In every way."
You tilt your head up to kiss his jaw. "Always. Even when we fight, even when it's hard—you're my person, Lando Norris."
"And you're mine," he says, squeezing you tighter. "My wife, my partner, the mother of my child, the love of my life. You're everything."
You fall asleep like that, wrapped in each other's arms, the argument forgotten and your connection stronger for having weathered the storm. Tomorrow you'll tackle parenting challenges together, but tonight, you're just two people in love, finding your way back to each other the way you always do.
Outside, the lights of Monaco twinkle against the dark Mediterranean, and inside, your little family sleeps peacefully, ready to face whatever comes next—together.
Hi! If it’s possible I’d like to request Peter Parker x Stark!reader. People knew reader and spidey are dating. But someone spotted her with Peter looking unusually intimate. Then, people began to assume she was cheating.
Hi! Thanks for the request!
｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★
𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐲
Parings → Peter Parker x Stark! Reader
Warnings → PDA, Fluff, Social media/viral drama, cheating mentioned.
Summary → Y/N Stark got caught kissing Peter; media assumes she's cheating on Spider-Man.
Gif not mine
It started with a photo.
A single, blurry, slightly angled photo that looked like it had been taken in a rush. Probably from across the street, probably by someone who thought they’d just caught the moment of the year.
And, well… they kind of had.
You were pressed against a brick wall outside a quiet café in Manhattan, your fingers tangled deep in Peter Parker’s hair, pulling him down into a kiss that was anything but subtle.
His hand was firm on your waist, fingers curled like he didn’t plan on letting go anytime soon. Your body leaned into his like it was second nature, like you belonged there.
Like he belonged to you.
It wasn’t just a kiss. It looked intimate.
By the time you woke up the next morning, it was everywhere.
News articles. Gossip blogs. Twitter threads. TikTok edits with dramatic music. Every kind of social media.
You didn’t even need to unlock your phone fully, notifications were already flooding your screen.
“Y/N STARK CAUGHT CHEATING ON SPIDER-MAN?”
“MYSTERY MAN IDENTIFIED AS PETER PARKER”
“WHO IS THE GUY STEALING SPIDER-MAN’S GIRL?”
You blinked at your phone, still half-asleep.
“…you’ve got to be kidding me.”
From beside you, Peter groaned, face buried in your pillow. “What?” He mumbled, voice rough with sleep
Instead of answering, you turned your phone toward him. He squinted at the screen. Then blinked. Then sat up so fast he nearly knocked foreheads with you.
“Oh my God.”
Silence.
A heavy, stunned silence filled the room as both of you stared at the photo again. This time with full awareness of what it looked like.
To the public, it was simple:
Y/N Stark = dating Spider-Man
Y/N Stark = making out with some random guy
Conclusion = cheating
Peter ran a hand through his already messy hair.
“I mean…” he started, weakly, “technically… you are making out with your boyfriend—”
“Peter.”
“—who is also Spider-Man—”
“Peter.”
“—so like, morally, we’re in the clear—”
You smacked his arm.
“This is not funny.”
“I’m not laughing,” he said quickly, even though there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
“I’m panicking internally.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, then grabbed your phone again, scrolling through the chaos.
Comments. Thousands of them.
Some are defending you. Most… not.
“Poor Spider-Man.”
“She fumbled so hard.”
“Imagine cheating on a literal superhero???”
You sighed, dragging a hand down your face.
“This is so stupid.”
“Yeah,” Peter muttered. “I mean, I’m literally right here—”
You shot him a look.
“Not helping.”
“Right. Sorry.”
The silence didn’t last long. Because the next thing that exploded was your bedroom door.
“Y/N STARK!”
You winced before Tony Stark even fully stormed in, his voice echoing through the room like a warning siren.
Peter froze beside you.
“…I’m going to die,” he whispered.
“You’re already dead,” you muttered back. “Just sit still.”
Tony didn’t even knock. He never did, but this time? There wasn’t even the illusion of patience.
He walked in, tablet in hand, glasses pushed up, face tight with irritation.
“Care to explain why the entire internet thinks my daughter is cheating on Spider-Man with—” he glanced at the screen, “—Peter Parker?”
Peter raised a hand slightly.
“…hi.”
Tony stared at him. Then back at you. Then back at him.
“Don’t ‘hi’ me.”
Peter slowly lowered his hand.
“Yeah, okay.”
You rubbed your temple.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
Tony let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
“Oh, really? Because it looks like you were eating his face in public.”
You closed your eyes for a second.
“…we got carried away...”
“Carried—” Tony repeated, incredulous. “Carried away? In the middle of Manhattan? In broad daylight??”
Peter cleared his throat awkwardly, “In our defense—”
“There is no defense!” Tony cut in immediately.
You sighed. He wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part.
---
You and Peter were careful.
Always.
No public dates as Peter and Y/N. No unnecessary risks. No lingering touches where cameras could catch.
Spider-Man and you? Public enough to be believable.
Peter Parker and you? Practically strangers in the public eye.
That was the system. It worked. Until yesterday.
Until one stupid, impulsive moment outside a café where Peter had said something dumb, you had laughed, and then he kissed you. And you didn’t stop him. And now this.
---
Tony turned the tablet toward you, “Do you see this?
Memes.
So many memes.
Side-by-side comparisons. Dramatic edits. Headlines in bold fonts. People zooming into the photo like it was a crime scene.
“SPIDER-MAN DESERVES BETTER”
“WHO EVEN IS THIS GUY??”
“PETER PARKER WHEN I CATCH YOU—”
You grimaced, “…wow.”
Peter leaned over your shoulder, “…okay, that last one feels threatening.”
Tony swiped again. Comments flooded the screen. Sympathy for Spider-Man. Hate for you. Even more hate for Peter.
“You see the problem?” Tony asked sharply.
“Yes,” you said flatly. “The internet is stupid.”
“The internet is not the problem,” Tony shot back. “The problem is that you two forgot basic survival instincts.”
Peter winced, “Yeah, that’s fair.”
Tony started pacing, “I’ve already contacted legal. We’re working on taking the photos down, flagging reposts, limiting circulation—”
Peter nodded slowly, “Yeah… I mean, people already saved it, reposted it, made edits, there’s like… fifty versions of the same photo.”
Tony stared at both of you. Then dragged a hand down his face.
“I hate the internet.”
“Same,” you and Peter said at the same time.
Another notification buzzed on your phone. You glanced down. Then snorted softly despite yourself.
Peter looked at you.
“What?”
You turned the screen toward him.
A TikTok edit. Dramatic music. Zoom-ins. Slow-motion kiss.
Text overlay:
“THE BETRAYAL 💔”
Peter blinked.
“…I look kinda good though.”
You elbowed him.
“Focus.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Tony pointed at the screen, “This is exactly what I’m talking about.” Then, more quietly, “This doesn’t just go away.”
The room fell silent again. Because he was right. This wasn’t some small rumor. This was you.
Y/N Stark.
Anything involving your name didn’t fade; it multiplied.
You exhaled slowly, thinking.
“We fix the narrative.”
Tony looked at you.
“How?”
You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you looked at Peter. He already knew that look.
“…no,” he said.
“Yes.”
“No.”
Tony frowned.
“…why does this feel like I’m missing something incredibly stupid?”
You ignored that.
“Peter, it’s the cleanest way.”
He pointed at himself again.
“You’re asking me to go out there—as Spider-Man—and say you and I weren’t serious.”
“Yes.”
“That it was just a fling.”
“Yes.”
“That you’re actually dating… me.”
“Yes.”
Tony blinked. Once. Twice. Then slowly turned his head toward Peter.
“…run that back.”
Peter sighed.
“I’m Spider-Man.”
Tony stared at him, “…I know.”
“I mean—I’m Spider-Man.”
A pause.
“Oh,” Tony said.
Another pause.
“…ooohhh.”
You watched the realization settle.
Then Tony looked between the two of you, expression shifting from confusion to something dangerously close to impressed irritation.
“So let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “The solution… is for Spider-Man to publicly say he got dumped… by himself.”
You nodded.
“Yes.”
Tony let out a short laugh, shaking his head.
“Did you two just talked telepathically?? That is the dumbest smart plan I’ve ever heard.”
“I’ll take that as approval,” you said.
“I didn’t approve anything,” he snapped.
But he wasn’t shutting it down either.
Peter leaned back slightly, running a hand through his hair again, “I would be publicly humiliating one version of myself.”
“You’d be saving me,” you said simply.
That shut him up. Then he exhaled, “…I hate how easily that works on me.”
Tony scoffed, “Of course it does. You’re a teenager.”
“I’m eighteen.”
“Exactly.”
Silence settled again. He looked at you. You held his gaze. You trusted him. That was clear.
And Peter?
Peter would burn down the internet if it meant you didn’t have to deal with this.
So this? This was an easy decision.
He sighed, “…fine.”
You relaxed slightly.
Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, “I cannot believe I’m agreeing to this.”
“You’re not agreeing,” you said. “You’re just… not stopping us.”
“That is not better.”
Tony turned away, already pulling up something on his tablet again, “If you’re doing this, you do it fast. Control the narrative before it spirals again.”
Peter nodded, “Yeah. Short statement. No drama.”
“Good,” Tony muttered. “For once.”
As Tony stepped out to make a call, the room quieted.
Just you and Peter again.
You glanced at him, “…you okay?”
He looked at you. Then smiled, small but real, “Yeah.”
A pause.
“You owe me, though.”
You raised an eyebrow, “Oh?”
“Yeah,” he said, leaning a little closer. “I’m literally getting dumped by my own girlfriend.”
You smirked, “Tragic.”
“Devastating,” he agreed.
---
The next day felt… quieter.
Not outside, God, no. The internet was still loud, still messy, still obsessed, but inside the compound, things had settled into something more controlled.
You were sprawled across your bed, laptop open, phone in hand, refreshing the same page for the hundredth time while Peter paced near your window.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
“Sit down,” you said without looking up.
“I am sitting,” Peter Parker replied without thinking.
You glanced up. He was very much not sitting.
“…you’re literally walking.”
“I’m walking with purpose.”
“You’re pacing.”
“I’m—” he stopped, exhaling, then dropped onto the edge of your bed. “Okay, yeah, I’m pacing.”
You huffed a small laugh, then turned your phone toward him, “Comments are still bad. Not as bad as yesterday, but still bad.”
He leaned in slightly, scanning, “Yeah… people really love Spider-Man, huh?”
“Yeah,” you said dryly. “And they really hate ‘the guy who stole his girl.’”
Peter winced, “Yeah, that’s… unfortunate for me.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I better. I just publicly upgraded myself.”
That pulled a smile out of you.
---
Tony had made it very clear. One statement. Clean. Simple. No rambling.
Peter had written it. Deleted it. Rewritten it. Deleted it again.
Now his phone sat in his hand, the post ready, caption typed, video attached, thumb hovering over the button.
You watched him for a second, “Nervous?”
He glanced at you, “…a little.”
You tilted your head, “Why?”
He hesitated. Then shrugged, “I don’t know. It’s weird.”
“Mm.”
“Like… I know it’s fake,” he continued, “but I still have to say it.”
You softened slightly, “That we weren’t serious?”
“Yeah.”
You held his gaze. Then, quietly, “Well… you know that’s not true.”
Something in his expression eased. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”
You nodded toward his phone, “Do it.”
He took a breath., “…okay.” And tapped post. It spread instantly. Of course it did.
Spider-Man’s official account wasn’t just popular, it was global. Millions of followers. Every post dissected within seconds.
You both leaned in, watching as the views climbed.
1k.
10k.
50k.
100k.
Comments started pouring in.
The video itself was simple.
Spider-Man perched casually on a rooftop, camera angled slightly up, city stretching behind him.
“Hey,” he started, voice steady. “I’ve been seeing a lot of stuff online, so I just wanted to clear something up.”
A small pause.
“Y/N and I—we weren’t really in a relationship. It wasn’t serious. We were just… hanging out.”
Another pause.
“She didn’t cheat on anyone.”
“She’s with someone now. His name is Peter Parker.”
A slight shift, almost like he was adjusting his stance.
“And he’s a good guy, works for Tony Stark.”
You snorted at that.
Peter shot you a look.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a noise.”
Back on screen, Spider-Man continued:
“We’re still friends. So… yeah. That’s it. Just—leave her alone, okay?”
The video ended.
Silence.
You and Peter stared at the screen as the numbers kept climbing. The comments refreshed. And refreshed again. And again.
“OH????”
“Wait so she wasn’t cheating???”
“Okay respect for clearing it up”
“That kid works for Stark???”
“She downgraded tho 👀”
“Spider-Man is so mature for this”
“Never thought Spider-Man would have a fling...”
You blinked.
“…that was fast.”
Peter let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“Yeah.”
More comments. More reactions. The tone had shifted. Not completely, there were still a few haters, a few people clinging to the drama, but the majority?
They were moving on.
You leaned back against your pillows, shoulders relaxing.
“Well,” you said. “That worked.”
Peter nodded slowly, “Yeah… yeah, it did.”
Something in his expression changed. Peter looked at you. Really looked at you. A small smile tugged at his lips.
“What?” You asked.
He shook his head slightly, “Nothing.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Peter.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, then leaned back on his hands.
“…I can take you out now.”
You blinked, “What?”
“Like—actually take you out,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “In public. As Peter Parker.”
Oh.
Oh.
That hadn’t even hit you yet. No more sneaking. No more carefully timed entrances and exits. No more pretending not to know each other in public spaces.
You sat up a little straighter.
“…you’re right.”
“I know,” he said, clearly pleased with himself.
Your mind started running ahead.
Walking down the street together. Sitting in cafés. Holding hands and kissing without worrying about cameras catching something they shouldn’t.
You looked at him again, “…that’s actually really nice.”
His smile softened, “Yeah.”
You smirked, “So technically…”
He groaned immediately, “Don’t.”
“I’m dating Peter Parker now.”
He dropped his head back, “Oh my God.”
“Spider-Man got replaced.”
“By myself.”
“Still replaced.”
He turned his head to look at you, unimpressed but fighting a smile, “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Nope.”
He pushed himself up slightly, shifting closer to you. His knee bumped yours. “You’re annoying,” he said.
“You love me.”
“I do,” he admitted easily.
Your expression softened just a little at that.
Outside, the world was already moving on. New headlines. New drama. New distractions. The scandal that felt so huge yesterday?
Already fading.
Peter’s hand slid over yours. You glanced down at your joined hands. Then back up at him.
“…we can actually do this now.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
He squeezed your hand once.
And for the first time since that stupid photo went viral—
lando x verstappen!reader
time flies by. people around you change, but there's no doubt that lando is the one for you—or so you think, and so does he.
forbidden taste — @haniette 🦢🪷🪽🫧🩰
brother's bestfriend!lando
you grew up watching him from across the room— always out of reach. he was the one person you weren't supposed to want, the forbidden taste. but when Ibiza strips away everything but the heat between you, the line Max drew and limits he set start to blur. and crossing it was only ever a matter of time.
hot neighbor problems — @verstarris 🦢🪽
neighbor!lando
You moved to Monaco for peace and quiet but ended up with Lando Norris — loud, annoying, and ridiculously cute. Between his terrible taste in music and constant chaos, you were pretty sure he was trying to drive you insane. Problem was, you kind of liked it.
not quite us — @trashytracktales 🪷🪽🫧
childhood friends to strangers
A cold winter fight shatters their friendship, but it’s the heat of the Portuguese sun that brings them back together, months later.
on call — @landoslog / @landologged 🦢🪷🫧🩰
lando x personal assistant!reader
You're Lando Norris's personal assistant, which means your job description includes three things: fixing his disasters, answering his calls at ungodly hours, and definitely not thinking about kissing your boss. The first two you're great at. The third one? That's becoming a problem.
my girl — @ver-lane 🫧
friends/roommates to lovers
"those guys," he murmured, his hand sliding higher, his fingers played on your inner thigh. "...they're missing out on something great." his gaze locked on yours, daring you to look away.
party 4 u — @norrisxcx 🦢🫖
fratboy!lando
You meet frat boy Lando Norris at a party once. He forgets your name and starts throwing parties hoping you'll come back—while you assume there's no way it's about you.
i think he knows — @mickyschumacher 🦢
fake dating
a fake and curated date in italy on valentine's day is no one's idea of fun except a publicist's. but all it does is take a walk around monza to know the difference between what's real and what's fake.
the perfect match — @tsunodaradio 🦢🩰🫖
lando x matchmaker!reader
lando norris is convinced he’s unlovable. it’s your literal job to prove otherwise.
it’s nice to have a friend — @luvstappen 🦢🪷🪽🩰🫖
lando x reader isn't the main pairing here but is heavily featured, so i would still highly recommend, especially if you love a long smau series!
lando x fewtrell!reader; oscar piastri x fewtrell!reader
lando is one of your closest friends… until he sleeps with you and ghosts you.
honestly, a majority the authors i've tagged have plenty of lando fics worth reading. i just chose my fav from each account, but would recommend more of their work for sure!
let me know what you think! also, every time i reblog a fic i like i use #nessa recommends, so in the future look out for that too!
warnings » fluff and smut, the usual things you’d expect from me
disclaimer » this verse is 18+ : unsuitable for minors
status » two parts only
this summer, you promise yourself no messy hookups while you work at your granny’s beach rentals business. also this summer, Tom’s working at his mum’s coffeehouse before he takes the biggest leap of his life. when your paths cross, will either of you dip more than just your feet in the sand?
~~
b’s note » hey everyone! so here’s a summer romance that i decided to conjure up for you. it’s almost a coffee shop au except most of the action doesn’t really happen there. all installments can be read as a oneshot.
Synopsis: After a chance encounter with the one girl who still knows his name, Peter decides to take a chance and reveal not only his identity, but the cosmic catastrophe that has left him utterly alone. [Part One: Here // GIF Creds: linusbenjamin ]
CONGRATULATIONS, YALL, YOU OFFICALLY CONVINCED ME TO MAKE A PART 2!! As for a whole series with multiple chapters, that’s still up for debate because I’m currently just not that creative 💀
But, with that being said… enjoy the sequel (could also be read as a standalone) with a little bit more comfort and a lot more angst
『••✎••』
The small campus cafe was crowded as usual, the air thick with the scent of burnt espresso and toasted bagels. Peter sat across from you at the tiny corner table near the window, his hands wrapped around a paper cup that had gone lukewarm ten minutes ago.
He’d spent the last couple of days quietly memorizing your schedule—not in a creepy way, just careful observation from rooftops and hallway corners—until he found the perfect window: right after your morning lecture, before the lunch rush really hit. This was the moment.
You were exactly where he hoped you’d be, highlighter poised over notes, earbuds half in, that familiar stack of books balanced on the chair beside you. Sunlight filtered through the glass, catching the edges of your focused expression and making the whole scene feel strangely peaceful despite the storm raging inside his chest.
He’d barely slept since the sidewalk. Two nights of all-nighters—one spent swinging through the city in a blur of red and blue, the other hunched over his laptop and the single physical yearbook he still kept hidden in the back of his closet. The one that should have shown his photo, his name listed under the science club, the decathlon team, even a blurry candid from homecoming. But when he opened it under the harsh glow of his desk lamp, the pages were wrong. Clean. Empty of him.
Every reference to Peter Parker had been scrubbed. Group shots where he should have been standing between Ned and MJ now showed gaps or different faces. The honor roll list skipped his name entirely. Even the faded ink of teacher signatures in the margins seemed to skip over the kid who used to fix the AV equipment. It was like the universe had gone back with a giant eraser and redrawn the year without him in it.
And yet… you remembered.
You’d said his name like it was the most ordinary thing. Like he’d always existed in your world the same way he existed in his own memories. The contradiction had kept him awake, heart hammering with a hope so sharp it hurt. He couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t let you go.
Now, sitting here in the noisy cafe, he could feel it through his spider-sense—the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way your pulse had picked up just a fraction when he approached. Confusion. Concern. A quiet wariness, like you were trying to figure out if the guy from your old high school was having some kind of breakdown.
You were kind-hearted; he could already tell from the soft way you’d checked on him yesterday. Introverted, too—preferring the quiet corner and your books over the louder tables full of laughing groups. And of course, if the organic chemistry textbook wasn’t already a sign in itself, you were intelligent but in a steady, thoughtful way that felt different from his own chaotic, hyper-focused genius.
It’s why he had to be strategic about this. He knew if he started rambling about spells and multiverses and everyone forgetting him, you’d politely nod and find an excuse to leave. He had to start with something he could prove. Something undeniable.
He took a steadying breath and leaned forward slightly so his voice wouldn’t carry.
“What if I told you… the world is different for me than it is for you?”
Your highlighter paused, leaving a small pink streak on the white page. You slid your earbuds out, giving him your full attention. The concern was back, knitting your brow. “Different how?”
Peter’s gaze darted around the cafe before landing back on you. He lowered his voice even more, a near-whisper. “You see that salt shaker over there? Next to the napkin dispenser?”
You glanced at it, then back at him, a little bemused. “Yeah…?”
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he flicked his wrist in the smallest, subtlest motion. A thin strand of webbing shot out from the web-shooter hidden beneath his sleeve—fast, precise, and nearly invisible in the bright cafe light. The strand caught the salt shaker, lifted it smoothly into the air, and deposited it gently right in front of you on the table.
Your eyes widened. The highlighter slipped from your fingers and clattered onto your notebook.
Before you could speak—before you could laugh it off or call him crazy—Peter leaned in closer, his voice urgent but soft.
“I’m Spider-Man.”
The words hung between you for a heartbeat. Your lips parted, but no sound came out at first. Instead of the scoff or nervous laugh he’d half-expected, you stared at the salt shaker now sitting innocently in front of you, then back at his face. The wariness in your expression shifted—still concerned, still confused—but there was a spark of something else now. Openness. Curiosity winning out over disbelief, at least for the moment.
The noise of the cafe faded into a dull hum.
“Peter… what—” you whispered.
“No one else remembers me,” he cut in, the words tumbling out in a desperate, messy rush. It was the most important part, the core of everything. “No one. My best friend, Ned? He doesn’t know who I am. My… my girlfriend, MJ. She thinks I’m just a random, friendly neighbor. My aunt… May’s…” He choked on the name, the grief raw and fresh as the day it happened. “My aunt is gone, and it’s like… It’s like I was never her nephew.”
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, hot and stinging. He hadn’t let himself cry about it, not really. There hadn’t been time. There was always a car to stop, a cat to rescue—something to keep him moving, to keep the silence at bay. But now, sitting across from the only person on the planet who knew his name, the dam finally broke.
“I exist. I’m right here. But to everyone else, it’s like I was erased.”
He looked at you then—truly looked at you. Not as a clue or a potential solution, but as a person. A person he had sat behind in history class. A person he’d never bothered to know. A person whose quiet existence had somehow, miraculously, survived a cosmic rewrite.
“I’m sorry,” he added, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry I’m unloading this on you. It’s just… it’s been a year. A year of… this. And then I randomly run into you, and you say my name like it’s nothing. I just… I have to know. Why you? Why is it you remember when the people who loved me most… don’t?”
Silence stretched for so long that Peter was sure you were going to get up and walk away. He braced for the polite rejection, the slow, careful retreat. He’d scared you. He was a freak.
But you didn’t move.
Instead, you reached across the table, your movements slow and deliberate, and gently picked up the salt shaker. You turned it over in your hands, fingers tracing its cool glass surface as if it held all the secrets of the universe. Your focus was absolute.
Then you looked up, eyes clear.
“Okay,” you said. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t disbelief. It was acceptance. A starting point. “Okay. I believe you.”
Peter’s breath hitched. He stared, utterly poleaxed. That was it? After everything he’d just confessed, after the impossible demonstration… you just… believed him?
“You… you do?” he managed to croak out.
“Kinda, sorta,” you affirmed, setting the salt shaker down with a soft click. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’m honestly still processing the fact that you snatched a salt shaker with a… spider-string thingy. But I believe that you believe it. And honestly?” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “This entire situation is so far outside my understanding of the world that I’m more inclined to believe the weirdly intense guy from my high school is a forgotten superhero than I am to ever understand organic chemistry. So, yeah. I believe you.”
He didn’t realize you were being sarcastic, a little, until the ghost of a smile touched your lips. It was so genuine, so unforced, that it brought back a flood of memories of MJ—of the way she’d looked at the world, at him, with that same dry, sharp humor.
Your gaze softened as you took in his tear-streaked face, the raw grief etched around his eyes. Pity. He used to hate pity, but coming from you, it didn’t feel condescending. It felt like… empathy.
“Do you want a hug?” You asked softly, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it over the hiss of the espresso machine. “You look like you could really use one.”
Peter flinched. Physical contact. It had been so long. His last real hug had been May. Since then, any touch was accidental, fleeting—a bump on the subway, a handshake when re-introducing himself to his best friend. It all felt like being touched through a thick pane of glass.
But you were just… there. Offering. Like the kind of person who gives their umbrella to a stranger in a downpour. It made him wonder why he never really noticed you in high school, why he was always so wrapped up in his own drama that he missed the quiet kindness radiating from the girl two rows ahead.
“Yeah, actually,” he whispered, the words catching in his throat. “That… that would be nice.”
You stood up without a word, walked around the tiny table, and put your arms around him. It was awkward—you half-bent over him while he sat, your books and bag taking up the spare chair. It wasn’t a perfect embrace. But it was warm. And it was real.
He rested his forehead against your shoulder, the worn denim of your jacket scratchy against his skin, and for the first time in a year, the crushing weight of solitude didn’t feel like it was going to break him.
He felt your hand awkwardly pat his back in a gentle, rhythmic motion. He took a shaky breath, inhaling the faint scent of your laundry detergent and old paper from your books. It was grounding.
For the first time since the world forgot him, Peter Parker no longer had to carry it all alone.
Even if you only believed a sliver of the impossible truth right now, that sliver felt like the entire world.
Synopsis: He believed the entire world had forgotten Peter Parker, until the girl he never spoke to in class said his name. [Gif Creds: manny-jacinto]
WC: 1026
Category: Slight Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
First Peter Parker fic in celebration of the trailer drop ✨💃
『••✎••』
His face changed in an instant.
The easy, half-apologetic smile Peter had been wearing—sorry, my bad, let me help—froze, then cracked. His brown eyes widened, pupils blowing out like he’d been hit with a flashbang. The color drained from his already pale cheeks, leaving the faint acne scars and the sheen of nervous sweat stark against his skin. His mouth parted, lips forming a silent what? before any sound could escape.
You blinked up at him, crouched on the grimy New York sidewalk, one hand steadying your precariously tall stack of books, the other hovering over the scattered ones at your feet. The world kept moving—the rumble of the subway beneath the pavement, the wail of a distant siren, the shuffle of pedestrians flowing around the two of you like water around stones. But in the sudden, suffocating vacuum between you and him, all of that noise simply dissolved.
"Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry," he’d been saying just a second ago, a familiar, breathless rush. He’d bumped into you—a classic traffic jam on the sidewalk—and your world had tipped sideways. Physics took over. Textbooks on organic chemistry and literary theory splayed out across the concrete like a fan.
He remembered you. He was sure of it. You sat two rows ahead and one to the left in Mr. Harrison’s history class. You never spoke, but he knew you were one of the smartest kids in the room, your hand perpetually in the air while he was usually trying to calculate if he had enough web fluid for patrol later that night. He’d seen you in the halls—a quiet, focused presence that never seemed to intersect with the chaotic orbit of himself, MJ, and Ned.
You smiled, a small, polite curve of your lips as you both reached for the same copy of The Great Gatsby. Your fingers had brushed.
"It’s okay, happens all the time." You had said, gathering the last book and tucking it into your stack. Then you looked him in the eye, a brief, friendly glance of acknowledgment, and said the words that had just short-circuited his entire nervous system.
"See you around, Peter."
And just like that, the universe tilted on its axis.
You’d pushed yourself to your feet, adjusting your bag, giving him another polite smile before turning to merge back into the river of people on the sidewalk. The moment was over—a simple, forgettable bump with a vague acquaintance from high school.
Except it wasn’t.
Wait.
His lungs seized. The name echoed in the hollow of his chest, a ghost of a sound, but it was the most real thing he’d heard in an eternity. Peter. Not "hey, kid" or "that guy" or the frustrated sigh of a landlord who never knew his renter’s name. Peter. Said with the casual familiarity of someone who had always known it.
A frantic, desperate energy seized him. He couldn’t let you go. He couldn’t let you walk away and vanish back into the faceless crowd, leaving him to wonder if he’d finally, truly lost it.
"Wait!"
He shot forward, a burst of speed that felt more like a spider’s leap than a human’s jog. He caught your arm just above the elbow. It was a gentle touch, barely any pressure, but you stopped instantly, turning back to him with a look of surprise, your brow furrowed. Your books wobbled in your arms.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in a silent room. He leaned in, not caring that he was blocking the flow of foot traffic, that a businessman had to sidestep him with an annoyed grunt. All that mattered was your face, your confused eyes, and the five letters he needed to hear again.
"Wait," he repeated, his voice raspy, thin. "What… what did you say?"
Your confusion deepened, a small line creasing between your brows. You glanced from his wild-eyed face down to where he was still touching your sleeve, then back up again.
"Uh…" you hesitated, clearly thrown by the intensity of his reaction. "I just said, ‘see you around’?"
"No, before that. The… the last part." He could barely breathe the words out. Please. Please say it again. Let him know he wasn’t hallucinating, that the loneliness hadn’t finally cracked him open.
You blinked, slow and deliberate, as if trying to decipher a foreign language. A flicker of something like concern crossed your features.
"Peter?" you said, his name a soft, questioning thing in the city noise. "Are you okay?"
The world shattered around him.
It wasn’t a question of how. He didn’t care how. Not yet. The sheer, overwhelming fact of it crashed over him like a tidal wave. The weight of a year’s worth of invisibility, of nonexistence, suddenly lifted. Air rushed into lungs that had been starved for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to breathe. A tremor ran through his entire body—a violent, shuddering release of tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding.
He didn’t answer your question. He couldn’t. All he could do was stare, his grip on your sleeve slackening until his fingers just brushed the fabric of your jacket. He was looking at you, but he wasn’t seeing a college student with a stack of books anymore. He was seeing an anchor. A lighthouse in a fog that had swallowed him whole.
A shaky, disbelieving laugh escaped his lips—a broken sound that held the ghost of a sob. He stared at you as if you’d just handed him the entire universe, piece by precious piece.
You, completely unaware of the magnitude of the moment—of the dam you’d just broken—just stood there. You took in the dazed look, the trembling hands, the way he was looking at you like you were a miracle.
And you just looked… concerned. Worried for the weird guy from your old high school who was currently having some kind of meltdown on a public sidewalk.
"Peter," you said again, a little firmer this time, reaching out a hesitant hand. "Seriously. Are you alright?"
And he was. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was more than alright.
Lando Norris told his family he had a girlfriend. The only problem? He didn’t. With his brother’s wedding coming up, he asked you, his neighbor, to pretend for the week—but fake dating got complicated the moment it started feeling real.
pairing. Lando Norris x fem! reader.
warnings. romance, humor, fake dating, forced proximity, implied smut, 11,9k words. profanity, light jealousy, the norris family <3, alcohol use, pet names (babe, darling), title from/based on private by the neighbourhood.
LANDO NORRIS HAD A REPUTATION FOR TWO THINGS: making reckless decisions and coming up with truly terrible ideas. Well—three things, if you were being generous. His driving talent was undeniable, but if you asked anyone who actually spent time with him, they’d say the first two showed up far more often than the third.
He also had another unfortunate skill, one that tended to appear exactly when it shouldn’t: he panicked, and then he lied. Instinctively. Effortlessly. Like his brain hit a big red button labeled make it worse.
And this time, he’d really done it.
Because Lando had told his entire family that he had a girlfriend.
The only issue?
He absolutely did not.
With Oliver’s wedding only four days away, the lie had grown teeth. The whole Norris family would be there—parents, siblings, cousins, and probably a handful of distant relatives who still pinched his cheeks and called him “Lando-bear.”
Every single one of them would be bringing a plus one.
Everyone except Lando.
It had been a running joke in the Norris family for as long as he could remember. His parents loved bragging about their children’s accomplishments, his siblings took every opportunity to tease him about his chaotic (and scandalous) dating life, and somehow every family gathering—birthdays, holidays, even Sunday lunches—ended with the same question: why Lando never seemed to have a serious girlfriend.
Usually he brushed it off with a laugh, a shrug, some half‑hearted joke about being too busy or too picky. It never bothered him enough to do anything about it.
But this time, when the question came up again—“So, Lando, are you bringing anyone to the wedding?”—something in his brain simply… snapped. Short‑circuited. Went offline.
And before he could stop himself, he heard his own voice answering.
Yes.
Yes, he was bringing someone.
Not just anyone, either. He’d doubled down, told them he had a normal, stable girlfriend. Someone grounded. Someone real. Someone who absolutely did not exist.
Now there were less than four days until Oliver’s wedding.
And Lando Norris still didn’t have a girlfriend.
Lando sat at the table in his apartment, staring at the wall like it might suddenly offer him a miracle. His brain was running laps, trying to find a way out of the mess he’d created, but every possible solution felt dumber than the one before it.
There had to be something.
Some kind of brilliant, last‑minute, save‑your-own-ass idea.
Except… nothing he came up with even came close.
For a brief, unhinged moment, he wondered if he could convince Oscar to throw on a wig and pretend to be his date.
Yeah. No. Absolutely not. Oscar’s girlfriend would murder him before they even reached the venue.
He let out a long, miserable groan and dragged both hands down his face.
Okay. New idea.
Maybe he could just tell his family that his girlfriend—his very real, very fictional girlfriend—had suddenly fallen ill and couldn’t make it. That sounded believable enough… in theory.
But in practice? His mum would immediately start asking for her address so she could send homemade soup. His sisters would demand details. His dad would suggest rescheduling the introduction for the next family gathering.
Which meant he’d still be trapped in the same problem, just with more lies stacked on top of the original one.
And the truth was painfully simple: girlfriends were not something you could conjure out of thin air, no matter how desperately you needed one. Not even when you were the Lando Norris.
He slumped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling now, wishing the universe would hand him a solution.
Or a person.
Preferably both.
But then—
Yes.
God, yes.
The idea hit him so hard he actually sat up straighter, eyes going wide, lighting up like someone had plugged him directly into a power outlet. It was brilliant. Completely ridiculous. Potentially life‑saving. And, most importantly… actually possible.
Because as he sat there, staring at the blank stretch of wall in front of him, he finally remembered who lived on the other side of it.
You.
You, with your soft smile and your quiet kindness. You, who he wasn’t close to—not really. You weren’t friends, you weren’t even acquaintances. You were neighbors in the most literal sense. Sometimes you shared an elevator. Sometimes you exchanged a polite “hi.” Sometimes you held the door for him when his hands were full.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing meaningful. Nothing that suggested you were about to become the answer to the stupidest problem he’d ever created.
And yet… in the middle of his panic, you suddenly seemed like the perfect solution.
Of course, that led him straight into the next problem—one he faced every time he stumbled onto an actually good idea: how the hell was he supposed to ask you? What if you laughed? What if you slammed the door in his face? What if you said no and he had to return to his table, sit back down, and accept that he was still girlfriend‑less with a wedding in four days?
He groaned, dropping his head into his hands.
What were his other options? Post an Instagram story asking for volunteers? Hold open auditions in his living room? Pray someone magically appeared on his doorstep?
No. Obviously not.
You were the only choice he had.
And now he just had to hope you didn’t think he was completely insane.
Lando paced his apartment for a grand total of three and a half minutes before reaching a very scientific conclusion: pacing solved absolutely nothing. All it did was make him more aware of how sweaty his palms were and how loudly his heart was trying to escape his chest.
So the next step became painfully, horrifyingly clear. He had to go ask you. In person. At your door. With his whole panicked, malfunctioning self on display.
He grabbed his keys like they might give him courage and muttered under his breath, “This is fine. Totally fine. Nothing terrifying happening here.” It sounded unconvincing even to him.
By the time he reached your door, whatever flimsy confidence he’d managed to build had dissolved completely, leaving him standing there like a man about to face a firing squad. He knocked once. Then twice. Then, because he was Lando and panic was his brand, he knocked three more times in a frantic burst.
“Too much. Too much,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut and praying the universe would show him mercy.
The door opened.
And there you were—looking perfectly normal, perfectly calm, perfectly unaware that your evening was about to take a dramatic turn.
“Hey,” you said, head tilted, curiosity softening your expression.
“Hi,” Lando managed, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to keep his head attached. He looked like a lost puppy who’d wandered too far from home. Mostly because he was one.
“You need something?” you asked, giving him a quick once-over. “You don’t look great. You’re really pale. Come in, sit down.” You stepped aside, warm and worried and gentle in a way that made his stomach twist.
Lando swallowed hard and perched on the very edge of your couch, like sitting normally might somehow make this whole thing worse. His knee bounced, his fingers twisted together, and he looked one deep breath away from passing out. “Right… so… um…”
You raised an eyebrow, watching him fidget like a kid who’d been caught doing something he absolutely shouldn’t have been doing.
“I know this is gonna sound completely insane,” Lando said, voice wobbling in a way you had never heard from him. “I… I need a—big. Huge. Gigantic favor, Y/n.”
Your confusion only grew. This was Lando Norris—confident, charming, annoyingly magnetic Lando—now sitting on your couch like a drenched stray dog someone had forgotten to bring inside. He couldn’t seem to look at you for more than half a second, and his hands were practically tying themselves into knots.
“Lando?” you said softly, nudging his knee with yours. “Just talk. You’re scaring me a little.”
Lando’s hands wouldn’t stay still. They fidgeted in his lap, fingers tapping against each other like he was trying to summon courage through sheer friction. “Okay… so… this is gonna sound completely ridiculous, but just—just hear me out,” he said, his voice pitching upward in panic.
“My… my brother—Oliver—he’s getting married in, uh… four days. Four days, Y/n. And… um… well… I kinda… told my family I had a girlfriend.”
You stared at him, confusion knitting your brows. “And…? What does that have to do with me?”
“Well—I don’t have one!” Lando blurted, the words bursting out like they’d been trapped in his chest.
You blinked. Hard. Because… what? Lando Norris didn’t have a girlfriend? Lando Norris, who always seemed to have someone on his arm, someone texting him, someone laughing at his jokes?
“You don’t have a girlfriend?” you repeated, eyebrows shooting up. “You always have someone around.”
“Ha. Ha. Not helpful,” he muttered, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. His eyes darted everywhere—your bookshelf, the floor, the ceiling—anywhere except your face, like looking at you might make this whole thing even more humiliating.
His knee bounced. His throat bobbed. And for the first time since you’d met him, Lando Norris looked genuinely, painfully out of his depth.
Lando threw his hands up, breath coming too fast, like his brain had officially abandoned ship. “I lied! They’re always making fun of me for being the only sibling without a ‘stable love life’!” His gestures got bigger, more frantic. “So I lied! I told them I finally have a normal girlfriend! I told them she’s the right—”
You cut in before he could spiral any further. The amount of information he’d just dumped on you was… a lot. Especially coming from someone you’d only ever exchanged elevator small talk with. “Lando… breathe. You’re kind of having a panic attack.”
He froze mid‑wave, arms suspended awkwardly in the air. His chest rose and fell too quickly, eyes wide and unfocused, like a startled animal trying to decide whether to bolt or faint.
And something in you softened.
Before you could overthink it, the words slipped out. “I can do it. I can pretend to be your girlfriend—if that’s what you need.”
Lando blinked at you, stunned into silence. For a moment he just stared, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly.
Then his whole face lit up, relief crashing over him so visibly it was almost endearing. “Really?!” he burst out, voice cracking with disbelief and something dangerously close to joy, like you’d just handed him the winning ticket to his own rescue.
“Yes,” you said, a small smirk tugging at your mouth. “You don’t deserve to be humiliated by your entire family. Not this week, at least.”
“Ha-ha, hilarious,” he muttered, but the grateful smile pulling at his lips gave him away. “But seriously… thank you. Jesus, Y/n, you’re actually saving my life here. What do I owe you?”
You lifted a brow, pretending to think. “Hmm… maybe start by not panicking every two seconds?”
He nodded so fast it was almost comical. “Right. Yeah. I can do that. I’ll try.”
And then—naturally—he let out a loud, shaky exhale, his fingers immediately twisting together again, looking like a man who was absolutely not succeeding at the whole “not panicking” thing.
It made you smile, just a little, because for all his charm and confidence, Lando Norris was clearly a disaster in need of rescuing.
────────────
You and Lando sat at your dining table, both of you silently questioning every decision that had led to this exact moment. Well… you were. Lando looked like he was still trying to remember how to breathe. You had just agreed to pretend to be the girlfriend of a man known across Formula 1 for his charm, his speed, and—most famously—his impressive track record of short-lived romances.
“So,” you said, aiming for calm even though your pulse was doing laps, “if I’m going to fake-date my neighbor—who I barely know—I think we need some rules.”
“Rules?” Lando repeated, brows lifting, confusion flickering across his face. For once, he didn’t look cocky or confident. He looked… unsure. Almost nervous.
“Yes. Rules,” you said, holding up three fingers. “Only three. I promise they’re not complicated.”
He leaned in, elbows on the table, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and mild panic—like a student bracing for a pop quiz he definitely hadn’t studied for. “Okay. Tell me,” he said quickly, already trying to memorize them before you’d even opened your mouth.
His eagerness made you smile despite yourself.
“Rule number one: no disgusting pet names. Like… honey, light of my life, or whatever. I hate those. Babe, darling, and love are fine,” you said, keeping your voice as steady as you could.
Lando nodded immediately. “Yeah, no, same. Anything too cheesy makes my skin crawl.”
“Rule number two: no hooking up. No sex.” You said it firmly, maybe a little too quickly. It was mostly for your own safety—your heart’s safety. You’d heard the stories. You’d seen the headlines. And you had absolutely no intention of becoming another one of Lando Norris’s charming little footnotes. (Not that you weren’t already halfway there.)
Lando blinked at you, eyes widening in a mix of shock and exaggerated offense. “I would never.”
You gave him a look that said please, I know exactly who you are.
He cleared his throat.
You continued, “and the most important, absolutely non-negotiable rule: no falling in love.”
“Right,” Lando said, nodding like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Simple.”
But the way his knee bounced under the table, the way his eyes flicked to your mouth for half a second, the way your stomach twisted at the thought of just hearing him say love—you both knew it wasn’t going to be simple at all.
Not even close.
Lando looked far too pleased with himself for someone who had been on the verge of a full emotional collapse less than twenty‑four hours ago.
“Do we even have a solid backstory?” you asked, giving him a look that said you already doubted the answer.
“Oh, we do,” he said, leaning back in his chair with the smug confidence of a man who absolutely should not have any.
You narrowed your eyes, waiting.
He lifted his hands in surrender, grinning. “Okay, fine, I just came up with it. But don’t worry—it’s a good one.”
You crossed your arms, unimpressed. “Alright, genius. Let’s hear it.”
“We met in the elevator,” he announced instantly. “Which is technically not a lie.”
You stared at him. “Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got? They’ll never buy that.”
Lando looked genuinely offended, like you’d just criticized a work of art he’d spent years perfecting.
“Hey, it’s realistic,” he insisted, chin lifting. “People meet in elevators all the time.”
“Yes,” you said slowly, giving him a look that could only be described as are you hearing yourself right now? “And then they say hello, maybe smile awkwardly, and go to their own apartments. They don’t magically start dating.”
Lando waved a hand like you were being dramatic. “Details.”
You leaned back in your chair, trying to piece together something that didn’t sound like it had been written by a twelve‑year‑old. “Okay, so maybe I dropped something and didn’t notice when I left the elevator. You picked it up and returned it to me later—”
“We got stuck together in the elevator!” Lando declared, pointing at you with the enthusiasm of a man who believed he had just cracked the Da Vinci code.
You stared at him. Blinked once. Twice.
“Lando.”
“What?!” He threw his hands up like you’d personally offended him. “You’d be surprised how often elevators get stuck in this building!”
“It happened, like, twice,” you said, crossing your arms. “And I live next door, remember? I think I’d know.”
“And it happened to me both times!” Lando shot back, jabbing a finger at his own chest as if that somehow strengthened his argument. “Suspicious, right?!”
You couldn’t help it—you laughed.
Because you remembered. Oh, you remembered exactly how that last incident went. The entire building had known within minutes that Lando Norris was trapped in the elevator. Neighbors had gathered in the hallway. The building manager had been sweating bullets. And Lando—poor, panicking Lando—had been shouting through the metal doors that he was “perfectly calm,” while sounding anything but.
Honestly? The story was ridiculous.
But believable.
Painfully, hilariously believable.
“Right. So… we were stuck, and then what? Fell in love while panicking?” you asked, skeptical.
“We talked,” Lando said with a grin, leaning back casually. “Found out we’re neighbors, started seeing each other more, and realized we’re both charming, funny, and attractive people.”
“Funny?”
“Absolutely.”
You grabbed the nearest napkin from the table and tossed it at him.
Lando laughed, easily dodging it. “See? Perfect. The chemistry is already there.”
“Oh my God,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Your poor family.”
“My family will love you,” he said confidently. “You’re kind, you’re funny, and you already tolerate me—which is honestly the hardest part.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward anyway. Just a little.
────────────
Warm air wrapped around you the moment you and Lando stepped out of the airport in Sicily, the kind of soft heat that made your shoulders drop and your lungs loosen. It felt like the whole island exhaled around you. Thank God it was Sicily—you’d spent the entire flight quietly panicking that he might’ve dragged you to rainy England instead. At least here, if everything went horribly wrong, you’d have sunshine.
“My brother’s gonna pick us up,” Lando said, tugging his suitcase behind him as he wove through the crowd with the confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times.
You hurried after him, trying to match his long, impatient strides. Your heart was already beating too fast, and not just from the travel. “Wait—what are your parents’ names? You haven’t even told me!”
Lando barely slowed down. “My mum’s Cisca, my dad’s Adam. My brother is Oliver, and his fiancée is Sav. My sisters are Flo and also Cisca.”
You blinked, your brain scrambling to keep up. The names felt like someone had thrown a handful of puzzle pieces at you and expected you to assemble them mid‑run.
“That’s… a lot of names,” you said, breath catching a little. You were suddenly very aware that you were about to meet all these people—people who believed you were dating their son. People who probably asked a lot of questions.
Lando shrugged like this was all perfectly reasonable, even though your pulse had started doing gymnastics. “It’s not that bad.”
“It is when I’ve met exactly zero of them,” you shot back. “And in, what, ten minutes? I’m supposed to convincingly pretend I’m dating you in front of your entire family.”
“Relax,” he said, dragging his suitcase along like he wasn’t dragging you straight into chaos. “My family is nice. A bit chaotic, but mostly nice.”
“Chaotic?” you repeated, the word landing in your stomach like a stone.
“They’ll probably ask a lot of questions,” he added casually, like he was telling you the weather forecast.
Your heart dropped.
Questions.
Of course they’d ask questions.
You’d known Lando for—what—three days? Four? And that was being generous. Sure, he’d lived next door for years, but elevator small talk and awkward hallway smiles did not prepare you to play his girlfriend in front of people who had known him his entire life.
“Not helping, Lando,” you muttered, shaking your head as you tried to keep up with him through the crowd.
Then another thought hit you so hard you actually stopped walking.
“What if they ask how long we’ve been dating?!”
Lando turned around and stepped closer, the warm Sicilian breeze ruffling his curls as if even the weather was more relaxed than you were.
“Five months, babe.”
Your eyes narrowed so fast he actually flinched.
Too soon. Way too soon for that word.
“Don’t call me that,” you warned. “Yet.”
He lifted both hands in surrender, though the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He was enjoying this way too much for someone who had begged you for help less than four days ago.
“We’ve been dating for five months,” he said, slipping back into that calm, annoyingly confident tone. “Long enough for it to seem serious, but short enough to explain why they’ve never met you.”
You let that settle in your mind. Five months. Not too long, not too short. Enough time to know each other, but not enough time for family introductions. It actually… made sense.
“…Okay,” you admitted slowly. “That’s not terrible.”
But then something clicked. The way he said it. The ease. The certainty. The fact that he hadn’t even hesitated.
You looked at him again, suspicion creeping in. “Wait—you already thought about this?”
Lando’s smirk widened, soft but undeniably smug, like he’d been waiting for you to catch up.
“Of course I did.”
And for a moment—just a moment—you saw the truth behind the grin:
he’d been thinking about this way before you ever agreed.
The car behind you honked—sharp, impatient—and you jolted like someone had poked you with a live wire.
“That must be Oliver,” Lando said, already turning toward the parking area with that casual confidence you absolutely did not feel.
You followed his gaze and spotted a dark car rolling up to the curb, sunlight bouncing off the windshield. The driver leaned out just enough for you to see him squinting through the Sicilian glare.
“Lando!” he called out.
“Yep. That’s him,” Lando confirmed, far too calm for someone about to introduce his fake girlfriend to his real brother.
Your stomach tightened.
This was it.
The first test.
The first family member.
The first person who could look at you and immediately think, Nope. She’s not his type.
“Just greet him,” Lando murmured quietly, noticing how stiff you’d gone. His voice dropped, softer than usual. “You don’t have to say much.”
Oliver climbed out of the car with an easy, warm smile—the kind of smile that made you understand instantly why people liked him. He had that same Norris charm, just steadier, more grounded. Older brother energy radiated off him.
“Finally,” Oliver said, pulling Lando into a quick hug. “You’re late.”
“Blame the airport!” Lando shot back, grinning like he hadn’t been panicking for days.
Then Oliver’s gaze shifted to you.
And suddenly you were hyper-aware of everything—your hair, your clothes, your posture, the way your hands were awkwardly gripping your suitcase handle.
“You must be Y/n,” he said warmly.
“Yeah, that’s me,” you replied, smiling even though your heart was thudding against your ribs.
“I’m Oliver,” he said, offering his hand.
“I’m Y/n… but you already know that,” you added with a small laugh. The words came out a little too confident, and you immediately prayed it sounded playful instead of arrogant.
Oliver chuckled, clearly unfazed. “Nice to officially meet you, Y/n.”
And just like that, some of the tension in your chest loosened. He didn’t look suspicious. He didn’t look confused. He didn’t look like he was about to interrogate you.
He just looked… kind.
Which, honestly, was almost worse—because kindness made it harder to lie.
Oliver drove with the kind of calm confidence that made you wish you felt even half as steady. Warm Sicilian sunlight spilled through the windows, turning the dashboard gold. Outside, the world looked soft and bright and easy.
Inside the car, Lando was talking like he’d been plugged into a power source.
He and Oliver were deep in race talk—corner speeds, tire degradation, strategy calls—Lando gesturing wildly, Oliver chiming in with that older‑brother mix of teasing and genuine interest. It was like watching two people speak a language you’d only ever heard in passing.
“You saw that last corner from Russell, right?” Oliver asked, glancing at Lando with a grin. “Absolutely insane overtaking maneuver.”
“Yes!” Lando lit up instantly. “But the tires, the line he took—it was borderline genius. I mean, I would’ve done it slightly differently, obviously.”
You sat in the back, hands folded tightly in your lap, nodding along like you understood even a fraction of what they were saying. You caught words—Monza, grip, strategy—but they floated past you like puzzle pieces from the wrong box.
Then Oliver’s eyes flicked to you in the rearview mirror.
“What about you, Y/n? What did you think of the race?”
Your brain blanked.
Completely.
Utterly.
“It… uh…” You tried to sound thoughtful, like you were recalling something meaningful. “I thought it was… exciting?”
Lando snorted under his breath. “She’s very diplomatic.”
Oliver laughed, warm and easy. “Fair enough. Hard to argue with that.”
You sank back into your seat, cheeks warm, trying not to overthink the fact that you were already improvising. Already lying. Already pretending to be someone who fit into this world.
And Lando—of course—kept glancing back at you with these tiny, amused smiles. Like he could see every thought running through your head. Like he knew exactly how flustered you were and found it… cute.
You weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.
The car wound through the narrow Sicilian roads, sunlight flickering across your lap, and with every turn your nerves pulled tighter—like someone was slowly winding a string inside your chest. This was only the warm‑up. The easy part. The real performance waited at the end of the driveway, where an entire family believed you were in love with their son.
Oliver parked smoothly and stepped out, probably to gather the rest of the Norris clan. The moment the door shut behind him, the car felt too quiet, too warm, too full of everything you were suddenly terrified of messing up.
“Relax,” Lando said, glancing over at you with a half‑smile. “You look like you’re about to meet the mafia.”
“I kind of am,” you muttered, rubbing your palms against your thighs. “Did I say something bad? About the race? I feel like I said something bad.”
Lando laughed softly, leaning back in his seat like he had all the time in the world. His grin was easy, warm, annoyingly reassuring. “Calm down. You were fine.”
You followed his gaze out the windshield—and your stomach dropped.
The whole family was already gathered at the end of the driveway. Talking. Laughing. Waiting. A cluster of people who knew each other inside out… and were about to meet the stranger pretending to be part of their world.
Your breath caught.
Lando noticed. Of course he did.
He reached over, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with a touch so light it barely registered—except it did. It settled something in you. Or maybe it unsettled everything. Hard to tell.
“You’ve got this,” he said, voice low, teasing, but steady in a way that made your pulse slow just a little.
You took a deep breath, trying to believe him. Trying to believe yourself.
Then the car door opened, warm air rushing in, and there was no more time to think.
It was showtime.
Lando’s arm slid around your waist like it had always belonged there—easy, natural, practiced in a way that made your breath catch for half a second. It wasn’t tight, just enough pressure to say mine without actually saying it. Enough to make you look like a couple. Enough to make your heart do something stupid.
“My dearest family! Your best son is back! Even with a girlfriend!” Lando announced, laughing like this was all a big joke he’d been waiting to deliver.
“Move, Lando, I want to see your lovely girl,” his mum, Cisca, said, gently shoving him aside with the confidence of a woman who’d been doing it his whole life.
You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. Lando pretended to be offended, hand over his heart, but then shot you a mischievous smirk—like he was enjoying this way too much.
Cisca stepped closer, warm and bright, the kind of person who made you feel welcome before you even spoke. “Y/n, I’m Cisca, and this is my husband, Adam. My daughters, Flo and Cisca, my soon‑to‑be daughter‑in‑law, Sav, and my sons, Oliver and… well, you know, Lando.”
She reintroduced everyone as if Lando hadn’t rattled off their names in the car, but you smiled anyway, greeting each of them—twice, just to be safe. Your cheeks were warm, but no one looked suspicious. If anything, they looked excited. Curious. Happy to meet you.
“Lando told me a lot about you,” you said, smiling—and immediately realized how that could sound. “Only the best things, of course.” You let out a nervous laugh, hoping it landed somewhere between charming and believable.
“See?” Lando said, his smirk widening into something almost proud. “Perfect son—and now boyfriend.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was a tiny spark of warmth in your chest at how confidently he said it. Like he’d imagined this moment before. Like he’d rehearsed it. Like he’d been waiting for you to step into this role long before you agreed.
And that thought… well, that was dangerous.
Lando’s arm stayed around your waist as Sav led you down the hallway, her voice bright and cheerful, completely unaware that your heart was doing somersaults. You and Lando exchanged a quick look—yours full of are you kidding me?, his full of that infuriating, smug confidence he wore like a second skin.
“C’mon, lovebirds, I’ll show you your room,” Sav said, swinging open a door with a flourish.
You stepped inside, taking in the soft lighting, the open window, the warm Sicilian breeze drifting through the curtains. It was a beautiful room—cozy, airy, romantic in a way that made your stomach twist.
And then your eyes landed on the bed.
One bed.
A big one, sure. But still one.
Sav didn’t seem to notice your internal meltdown. “Dinner’s at six! Don’t be late,” she chirped before disappearing down the hall.
The door clicked shut.
You turned slowly toward Lando, raising an eyebrow so high it practically left your face. “There’s only one bed.”
He didn’t even blink. Didn’t even pretend to be surprised. He just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“We are a couple, remember?” he said, voice low and annoyingly smooth.
You let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Right. Almost forgot.”
But the truth was, your pulse had picked up. Just a little. Because the room suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. And Lando—smirking, relaxed, completely unfazed—looked far too comfortable standing there like he belonged in this space with you.
You still stood there, arms crossed, staring at the bed like it had personally wronged you. It sat in the middle of the room—big, soft, innocent—and yet somehow the most stressful piece of furniture you’d ever encountered.
Meanwhile, Lando looked like he’d just walked into a hotel suite he’d booked himself. He pushed off the doorway, wandered in, and dropped his bag by a chair with the ease of someone who had absolutely no shame.
“You’re overreacting,” he said, tone maddeningly casual.
You turned your head slowly, like a horror movie character realizing the killer was behind them. “Overreacting? Lando, there is one bed.”
He glanced at it, then back at you, completely unfazed. “Yeah. I can see that.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And where exactly do you plan on sleeping?”
He shrugged, all innocence. “In the bed?”
The pillow was in your hand before you even thought about it. You launched it at him. He caught it mid‑air, laughing like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week.
“Relax, I’m kidding—kind of.”
“‘Kind of’ is not reassuring,” you snapped, brushing past him to your suitcase because you needed to move before you strangled him.
Lando watched you for a beat, then let out a dramatic sigh worthy of an Oscar. “Fine. We’ll figure something out. I’m a gentleman.”
You paused, turned, and raised one eyebrow. “You?”
He clutched his chest like you’d stabbed him. “Wow. That hurt.”
“Good.”
────────────
You stepped out of the bathroom for what felt like the third time, maybe the tenth, maybe the hundredth—time had stopped meaning anything somewhere between outfit number four and the moment you realized Lando was absolutely no help at all.
He was sprawled across the bed like a cat in a sunbeam, scrolling through his phone, not a single worry in sight. Meanwhile, you were one bad outfit away from a full emotional collapse.
“What about this?” you asked, voice tight with the kind of stress only family dinners and fake‑dating could create.
Lando looked up.
And for a moment—just a heartbeat—he didn’t move. His eyes dragged over you slowly, like his brain had forgotten how to function. You shifted under his stare, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of fabric on your body.
“What?” you asked, trying to sound annoyed instead of flustered.
He blinked, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Hot.”
Your eyes narrowed instantly. “Lando.”
He sat up a little too fast, rubbing the back of his neck, that small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. It softened him in a way you weren’t prepared for. “I mean—you look nice. Really nice. That’s all.”
The words hung in the air, warm and a little dangerous. And even though you rolled your eyes, you felt your stomach flip, just once, like it was testing the waters.
Lando definitely noticed how stiff you were, how your fingers kept twisting together like you were trying to wring the nerves out of them. He sat up a little, the teasing fading from his face, replaced by something softer.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice low in a way that made it hard to pretend you were fine.
“Just… stressed,” you said with a shrug, trying to make it sound small even though it felt huge in your chest.
“Hey,” Lando said, pushing himself off the bed so quickly it almost startled you. “Stop stressing, Y/n. They already love you.”
You let out a breath, shaking your head. “They don’t even know me.”
“They don’t need to,” he said, stepping closer like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re kind, you’re funny, you didn’t run away the second you met my family—honestly, that’s already impressive.”
A tiny laugh escaped you, but your shoulders stayed tight, your pulse still too fast. And of course he noticed. He always noticed.
“Come here,” he said suddenly.
You frowned. “What?”
“Come here,” he repeated, gentler this time, like he wasn’t asking—just quietly waiting.
You hesitated, then stepped closer.
He reached out, fingers brushing lightly against your hair as he tucked a strand behind your ear. Then he smoothed it down, slow and careful, like he’d done it a hundred times before. His touch was warm, steady, nothing like the loud, chaotic version of him everyone else saw.
“There,” he murmured, eyes lingering on you for a beat too long. “Perfect.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it, a tiny hitch you hoped he didn’t hear.
“You’re surprisingly good at this,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips before you could hide it.
“At fake dating?” he asked, eyebrow lifting in that way that always made him look like he was two seconds from trouble.
“At not being a completely insufferable asshole,” you shot back—though the laugh that slipped out ruined any attempt at sounding annoyed.
Lando let out a soft huff, shaking his head. “Wow. I’m really raising the bar here, aren’t I?”
“Bare minimum,” you teased.
“Rude.”
“But accurate.”
He stepped closer, just enough that you felt the warmth of him, his voice dropping into something lower, softer—something that felt like it was meant only for you.
“And yet,” he murmured, a hint of a smirk curling at his mouth, “you still agreed to be my girlfriend.”
You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t move away. If anything, your feet stayed rooted, your pulse doing that stupid fluttery thing again. “Fake girlfriend.”
“Right,” he said, nodding slowly, eyes lingering on yours. “Keep telling yourself that.”
For a second, neither of you moved. The air felt thick, warm, charged with something you weren’t ready to name. His hand was still close to yours. Too close. Close enough that if either of you breathed wrong, your fingers might brush.
Then reality snapped back into place.
You cleared your throat, stepping back just enough to break the moment. “Come on. Your family’s waiting.”
Lando grinned, falling into step beside you like nothing had happened—except his eyes were brighter, and his smile was a little too pleased.
“Let’s go, babe.”
You shot him a look.
“…We said that one was allowed,” he added quickly, hands raised in mock innocence.
You didn’t reply—just shook your head and walked out of the room with him, your hand still resting lightly on his arm. It felt steady there, even though nothing inside you felt steady at all.
The closer you got to the dining area, the louder everything became. Laughter spilling over laughter. Voices overlapping. Cutlery clinking. Chairs scraping. A whole family in full motion.
Chaos.
Warm, loud, overwhelming chaos.
You slowed down without meaning to.
Lando noticed instantly.
“Hey,” he murmured, leaning closer so only you could hear him. “Breathe, remember?”
“I am breathing,” you whispered back.
“Barely.”
You shot him a look—half glare, half panic—but before you could argue, you stepped into the dining room.
And immediately—
Every head turned.
“Oh, there they are!” someone called—Flo, you were pretty sure.
“What took you so long?” Sav added, wearing a smirk that said she absolutely thought she knew the answer.
You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. “It takes him forever to get ready,” you said, jerking your thumb toward Lando.
The table erupted with laughter.
And for the first time since you’d arrived, the tension in your chest loosened. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was the noise. Maybe it was the way this whole thing was starting to feel… weirdly doable.
“Oh?” Lando turned to you, smirking, clearly not expecting you to fire back so quickly. “That’s interesting, considering you changed your outfit, what—four times, love?”
You rolled your eyes again, but there was no heat behind it. Just a spark of something lighter.
“Dinner’s getting cold! Sit, sit,” Cisca urged, waving you both toward the table with the kind of warmth that made it impossible not to smile.
You slid into your seat, Lando taking the chair beside you like he’d been doing it for years. His knee brushed yours under the table—light, accidental, but steady enough to make your pulse jump. You didn’t move it away. Maybe you couldn’t.
Adam reached for the wine bottle. “Wine?”
“Yes, please,” you said a little too fast, and Lando’s quiet laugh beside you didn’t help.
Glasses filled, plates passed around, and for a few minutes everything felt almost… normal. You smiled, nodded, laughed when everyone else did. You were doing it. You were blending in. You were surviving.
Then Sav leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. “So. Tell us everything. How did you two meet?”
There it was. The question. The one you’d been dreading since the airport.
You glanced at Lando for half a second—barely long enough for anyone else to notice, but he caught it instantly.
“We got stuck together in the elevator,” he said smoothly, like he’d been waiting for this moment.
You exhaled quietly, picking up the thread. “For two hours,” you added with a small laugh. “Very, very long two hours of my life.”
“Speak for yourself, darlin’,” Lando cut in, not missing a beat. “Best two hours of mine.”
The table erupted with laughter—Flo snorting, Sav shaking her head, Cisca smiling like this was the cutest thing she’d ever heard.
And you… you felt your face warm, but not from embarrassment. More from the way Lando said it—light, teasing, but with a softness underneath that wasn’t entirely fake.
Cisca leaned in, eyes bright with curiosity. “So what happened after? You got out and just… what? Went on a date?”
You froze for half a second.
Lando didn’t.
“I asked for her number,” he said smoothly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Your head snapped toward him.
Oh.
That was new.
And dangerously believable.
“And I said no,” you added quickly, because your brain clearly decided honesty‑but‑not‑really was safer than silence.
Lando looked at you, eyebrows lifting. “You did not.”
“I absolutely did.”
“You hesitated,” he corrected, pointing at you with his fork. “And then gave it to me anyway.”
You rolled your eyes, a small laugh slipping out. “I didn’t trust you.”
Adam chuckled, shaking his head. “Smart girl.”
The table laughed, the moment loosening—until Lando spoke again, his voice dipping just slightly, the teasing softening around the edges.
“But,” he said, glancing at you, “she eventually said yes.”
Your eyes met his.
Just for a second.
Just long enough for something warm to settle low in your chest, something you weren’t prepared for.
“…Eventually,” you echoed, quieter than you meant to.
And the strange part?
It didn’t feel like a story anymore.
Not a script.
Not a lie you were both juggling.
It felt like something that could’ve happened.
Something that almost did.
Lando looked away first, but not before you caught the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—soft, knowing, like he’d just read your mind and liked what he found.
You talked for another three hours, and somehow—it was suspiciously easy.
No interrogation. No awkward pauses. No slip‑ups. No one trying to poke holes in your very real, very not‑real relationship. If anything, they just… welcomed you. Laughed with you. Pulled you into conversations like you’d always been there.
And that almost made it worse—because it felt natural. Too natural. Like you weren’t pretending at all.
Eventually, plates were empty, wine glasses half‑full, and the warm Sicilian night hummed softly through the open windows.
“I think we’re gonna head to our room,” Lando said casually, stretching an arm around your shoulders like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. “Y’know, get some rest.”
Damn.
He was good at this. Too good. The kind of good that made your stomach flip, because he didn’t even have to think about it—his voice warm, his touch easy, his smile soft enough to sell the whole thing without trying.
And the worst part?
For a split second, you didn’t feel like you were acting either.
As you stood, his hand slid down your arm, fingers brushing yours in a way that felt almost accidental—except it wasn’t. Not with the way he glanced at you, just briefly, like he was checking if you were still okay… or maybe checking something else entirely.
You stepped into the room and the door clicked shut behind you, sealing off the noise from downstairs like someone had dropped a blanket over the world.
Silence settled—thick, warm, a little too intimate.
Your eyes drifted immediately to the bed.
One bed.
Again.
You turned slowly toward Lando.
He was already staring at it too, hands in his pockets, jaw shifting like he was trying not to laugh.
“…Right,” you said.
“Yeah,” he replied.
A beat.
Another beat.
The kind of beat where you could practically hear both of your brains screaming.
“You’re not seriously telling me this is becoming a pattern,” you muttered, crossing your arms.
You didn’t even bother hiding the disbelief in your voice.
“We are dating, babe.”
“Fake dating, babe.”
“Still counts for logistics.”
“There are two chairs,” you said, pointing at them like you’d just discovered a legal loophole.
Lando didn’t even look. “You want one of us to sleep on a chair?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
“…No.”
“Exactly.”
You dragged a hand down your face. “This is insane.”
Lando flopped back onto the edge of the bed, bouncing slightly, looking far too relaxed for someone who had just detonated your entire nervous system for the day. “It’s not that bad.”
“It’s literally one bed.”
“And?” he asked, glancing up at you with that maddeningly calm expression.
You stared at him.
He stared right back.
Then, slowly—dangerously—that familiar smirk crept in. “We behaved perfectly fine tonight, didn’t we?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” he continued, voice infuriatingly casual, “if we can survive interrogation over dinner, we can survive sleeping in the same bed.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It kind of is.”
You stared at the bed like it might magically split in half if you glared hard enough.
“Fine,” you sighed. “But if you’re snoring, I’m kicking you out.”
“I don’t snore,” Lando said instantly—way too instantly.
You turned your head slowly.
He blinked.
“…I don’t,” he repeated, much quieter now.
You raised an eyebrow. “That was way too fast for someone telling the truth.”
He scoffed, kicking off his shoes like he lived here. “I’m an athlete. I’m basically engineered for optimal sleep conditions.”
“Sure,” you nodded, deadpan. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
Lando grinned, grabbing his suitcase. “Well, Your Majesty, feel free to take the left side of the bed.”
“There are sides now?”
“There are always sides.”
You hesitated for half a second, then crossed the room and sat on the edge of the mattress. It dipped under your weight, soft and warm, and you watched him move around the room—unpacking, stretching, tossing his hoodie onto a chair—like he’d done this a thousand times.
Like he belonged here.
Which was the annoying part.
He made everything feel… normal. Easy. Like sharing a room, sharing a bed, sharing this whole ridiculous lie wasn’t a big deal at all.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” you muttered.
Lando glanced over his shoulder, smirk already forming. “Too late.”
────────────
The washed dishes weren’t even dry yet when the Norris family was already on their feet again, buzzing with the kind of chaotic energy only they could produce. Someone— definitely Sav—clapped her hands together like she was kicking off a national broadcast.
“Okay! We’re playing How Well Do You Know Your Partner!”
Instant groans. Instant cheers. A chorus of excitement and dread rolled across the terrace.
You slowly turned your head toward Lando.
“…We are fucked,” you mouthed.
Lando didn’t even blink.
He gave you a calm, reassuring nod that was so painfully unconvincing it almost made you laugh.
“We’ll be fine,” he mouthed back.
You narrowed your eyes at him.
Liar.
Because even as he said it, his mouth twitched—just a tiny, traitorous twitch—like he was already regretting every life choice that had led him to this exact moment.
Around you, chairs scraped against the floor as everyone moved back toward the table. Pens appeared, paper was handed out, and suddenly it looked way too official for something that was supposed to be “just a game.”
Flo was practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing in her seat like she’d been waiting all night for this exact moment.
“First question!” she announced, pausing dramatically like a game‑show host.
Everyone leaned in.
You braced yourself.
“What is your partner’s biggest pet peeve?”
Of course.
Of course that was the first question.
Lando immediately bent over his card, writing like this was the easiest thing he’d done all day. No hesitation, no thinking, no panic—just pure, irritating confidence. He even tapped his pen against the table afterward, relaxed, smug, like he already knew he’d get it right.
You stared down at your blank paper.
Biggest pet peeve.
You barely knew your own biggest pet peeve, let alone his. Your mind went completely empty, like someone had unplugged your brain and walked away with the cable.
You risked a sideways glance.
Lando was done.
Done.
Already leaning back in his chair, looking like he was waiting for the rest of the class to catch up.
Show‑off.
You sighed quietly and wrote the first thing that made sense: people driving too slowly.
It wasn’t a wild guess. More like a logical conclusion. He drove fast cars for a living, lived fast, talked fast—slow drivers probably felt like a personal attack on his soul.
Hopefully.
You set your pen down, trying to look confident.
You absolutely did not feel confident.
And beside you, Lando’s knee brushed yours under the table—light, steady, like he was silently saying we’ve got this.
Flo practically vibrated with excitement. “Ready?”
Everyone flipped their papers.
Lando’s answer: cheesy nicknames.
You blinked.
Right.
That one barely counted—he only knew because you’d ranted about it earlier. Still, Sav burst into laughter.
“You hate nicknames, Y/n?”
“Hate,” you said instantly, no hesitation at all.
“Especially ‘light of my life,’ right, Y/n?” Lando added, laughing like he wasn’t actively trying to get himself murdered.
You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.
“Don’t push it.”
He only grinned wider, the menace.
Then his eyes dropped to your board.
He read it.
And his whole expression shifted—slowly, deliberately—into a smug, satisfied smirk that told you he was about to be insufferable.
“Oh,” he said, dragging the word out like he was unwrapping a present.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
He leaned in just a little, enough to make it feel like he was invading your personal space on purpose. “Not bad.”
You glanced down at your own paper.
people who drive too slowly.
Lando let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head like he was both impressed and personally offended.
“That’s actually kind of good,” he admitted, still smirking. “Like… annoyingly accurate.”
You shrugged, trying to look casual even though your stomach did a tiny, traitorous flip. “At least I didn’t embarrass us.”
He nudged your knee under the table—light, warm, intentional.
“You could never embarrass us, darling.”
That nickname sent shivers down your spine.
And the worst part?
The part you refused to acknowledge?
For a moment, you almost believed him.
Flo clapped her hands again, absolutely delighted with the chaos she was creating. She looked like someone who’d been waiting her whole life to host this exact moment.
“Okay! Next question!”
She paused dramatically, eyes sparkling.
“What is your partner’s most annoying habit?”
You felt Lando shift beside you immediately—pen already in hand, posture straightening like he was preparing for a qualifying lap. He didn’t even hesitate. He just started writing, confident and focused, like he had a whole list ready to go.
Meanwhile, you stared at that damn paper again.
Most annoying habit.
Where were you even supposed to begin?
He had so many.
You risked a glance at him.
He looked calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that made you want to throw your pen at him. Of course he was confident. Of course he thought he knew exactly what you’d write. He lived for this.
You exhaled slowly and wrote the first thing that felt right: leaving cabinets open.
It was oddly specific, but it fit him. He had that chaotic energy, the kind that probably left a trail of half‑open cupboards behind him like breadcrumbs.
“Ready!” Sav announced.
Everyone flipped their papers.
There was a half‑second of silence.
Then—
Cisca gasped, pointing at your answer like she’d just discovered buried treasure. “Yes! Y/n! Thank you—finally! That has driven me mad ever since he was a kid!”
The table erupted into laughter.
Lando whipped around to his mum, offended. “Traitor!”
“I’m sorry,” she said through her laughter. “It’s true!”
You couldn’t help it—you laughed too. And as the noise settled, you felt Lando nudge your knee under the table, a tiny, wordless I can’t believe you just exposed me like that.
You didn’t look at him.
But you smiled.
You looked at Lando’s board.
overthinking and stressing over everything.
You blinked.
Oh.
For a moment, the laughter around the table dimmed, like someone had quietly turned the volume down. The terrace was still full of noise and warmth and clinking glasses, but it all felt a little distant—like you’d stepped half a beat out of sync with the room.
Because that answer…
That wasn’t a joke.
That wasn’t a throwaway guess.
That was painfully, uncomfortably accurate.
Your eyes lifted to him.
He wasn’t smirking this time. No teasing, no smugness, no dramatic flourish. Just Lando watching you with this quiet, steady kind of awareness that made your chest tighten. Like he’d seen it. Not just tonight, but before. Like he’d been paying attention in ways you hadn’t realized.
You let out a small breath, something caught between a laugh and disbelief. “Okay… that’s a bit too accurate.”
Lando shrugged lightly, but there was something softer in his expression now—something that didn’t belong to the game or the performance or the lie you were both maintaining. “You make it kind of obvious.”
The words weren’t mocking. They weren’t even teasing. They were gentle, almost careful, like he was trying not to push too hard.
And for a second, you felt it again—that strange, unsettling shift.
The one where the line between fake and real blurred just enough to make your heart stumble.
A few hours later, the noise from inside had finally faded, replaced by the soft hum of the evening—warm air brushing against your skin, distant laughter drifting from somewhere down the hill, the faint rhythm of waves rolling in and out like the night was breathing with you.
You leaned against the balcony railing, letting your shoulders drop for the first time all day. It had been… a lot. Fun, chaotic, terrifying, weirdly comforting—a mess of emotions you hadn’t sorted yet and weren’t sure you wanted to.
“Enjoying your victory?” a familiar voice drawled behind you.
You didn’t even turn. “We did not win.”
“Debatable,” Lando said, stepping out onto the balcony like he belonged there, like he’d been waiting for this quiet moment.
You glanced at him over your shoulder. “We survived. Barely.”
He came to stand beside you, leaning his elbows on the railing, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. “You were good.”
You let out a soft snort. “I guessed half of it.”
“And still got it right,” he pointed out, like that settled the matter.
You shook your head, staring out at the dark horizon. The sky was a deep blue, the kind that made everything feel softer, slower. “That’s not the point.”
You looked at him now, really looked, the balcony light catching the edges of his face in that soft, golden way that made everything feel a little too intimate.
“You, on the other hand… what was that?”
Lando blinked, all faux‑innocence. “What was what?”
“That whole ‘overthinking and stressing over everything’ thing?” you said, narrowing your eyes at him. “Bit personal, don’t you think?”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect.
Instead, he gave a small shrug, gaze drifting out toward the dark horizon for a moment, like he was choosing his words carefully.
“It’s true.”
You crossed your arms, partly defensive, partly trying to keep your heartbeat from doing something stupid. “You don’t even know me.”
He turned his head then, slow and deliberate, meeting your eyes with a steadiness that made your breath catch.
“I know enough.”
It wasn’t flirtatious.
It wasn’t teasing.
It was quiet, honest, and it hit you harder than you expected.
You looked away quickly, pretending to focus on the waves you couldn’t actually see. “You got lucky.”
“Twice?” he said, the teasing finally slipping back into his voice.
You rolled your eyes, grateful for the shift. “Don’t get cocky.”
He smiled to himself, that small, private kind of smile that told you he was enjoying this far more than he should.
After a moment, he nudged your arm lightly with his elbow. “You were good too, by the way. The cabinet thing? My mum’s never going to let that go now.”
You laughed under your breath, the sound easing some of the tension in your chest. “I take pride in that.”
“You should,” he said, turning back toward the view. “You’ve officially turned my family against me.”
“Part of the job,” you replied, but your voice softened without your permission.
And for a moment, the two of you just stood there—side by side, warm air brushing past, the night settling around you—feeling something that didn’t quite fit the definition of fake anymore.
There was a brief pause—one of those rare, quiet moments where everything felt suspended in warm night air. Comfortable. Too comfortable. The kind of comfort that made you forget, for a second, that none of this was real.
Then, almost at the same time, your eyes drifted downward toward the garden.
And froze.
His entire family was there—clustered in little groups, pretending to chat, pretending to admire the flowers, pretending to do anything other than stare directly up at the balcony. Sav was leaning against a tree like she was undercover. Adam had his hands on his hips. Flo was perched on a lounge chair, chin in her hands. Cisca was the only one trying to look subtle, which somehow made it worse.
They were all waiting.
Watching.
Expectant.
“Oh my God,” you muttered under your breath, heat rushing to your face.
Lando followed your gaze, and the moment he saw them, his shoulders dropped in exhausted disbelief.
“…They’re insane,” he said quietly, like he was afraid they’d hear him.
“They’re waiting,” you whispered, because there was no denying it. They were practically vibrating with anticipation.
“I can see that,” he murmured, jaw tightening like he was trying not to laugh or scream.
A beat passed.
Then another.
The kind of beat where your heart started doing something stupid in your chest.
Lando shifted closer—just a small movement, but enough that his shoulder brushed yours, warm and steady. When he spoke, his voice dropped low, soft enough that only you could hear it over the hum of the night.
“Can I kiss you, please?”
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, and for the first time all night there was no smirk waiting for you, no teasing spark, no playful challenge. Just something softer. Something careful. Something that made your chest feel too tight.
“You’re asking?” you whispered, your voice barely carrying over the warm night air.
“Figured I should,” he murmured back, his tone low and steady. “Consent and all that.”
Despite everything—your nerves, the audience below, the fact that this was supposed to be fake—a small smile tugged at your lips. You couldn’t help it.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t want to break the moment. “But can I?”
You hesitated for half a second. Not because you didn’t want to. Not because you were scared of the kiss itself. But because suddenly, terrifyingly, it didn’t feel like part of the act anymore. It felt like something else entirely—something real, something fragile, something you weren’t sure you were ready to name.
Still, you nodded.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t rush. He didn’t joke. He didn’t turn it into a performance for the garden below. He just leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His hand brushed your arm, light and warm, like he was checking—are you sure, are you sure, are you sure?
You didn’t move.
And then—
His lips met yours.
Soft. Careful. Warm.
It was meant to be quick, just enough to convince the family watching from below. Just enough to sell the story.
But neither of you pulled away right away.
Not even close.
For a moment, the world narrowed to the quiet press of his mouth against yours, the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of his hand still resting against your arm. Everything else—the balcony, the night, the family waiting below—faded into a blur.
And all you could think was:
This wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
────────────
The pre-wedding party was… a lot. The kind of “a lot” that filled every corner of the villa with noise and warmth and movement. Music spilled across the garden in waves, loud and bright, mixing with the clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter that rose and fell like the night had its own heartbeat. Fairy lights stretched overhead, soft and golden, blurring slightly at the edges—or maybe that was just the alcohol. Hard to tell anymore.
Still, even with all the warmth and noise and celebration, something felt a little off.
Everyone here seemed to have their place. Their people. Their easy conversations and inside jokes and familiar rhythms. Sav floated from group to group with the kind of glow only a bride‑to‑be could pull off. Flo was dancing with someone’s aunt. Cisca was deep in conversation with a cluster of relatives you couldn’t keep straight. Everywhere you looked, there was a sense of belonging—woven into the air, into the laughter, into the way people leaned into each other without thinking.
And you… well. You were here. Present, technically. But not quite part of the current.
You took another sip of your drink, leaning against the bar, letting the cool glass steady you. Fourth drink? Fifth? You’d lost track somewhere between the speeches and the second round of music. It didn’t matter. The night was warm, the lights were soft, and the alcohol made everything feel a little easier to float through.
Across the garden, Lando was surrounded by his cousins, animatedly talking about F1, hands moving as he laughed at something one of them said. He looked completely at ease—comfortable in a way that made sense. This was his world. His people. His history.
He looked at home.
And you—
You just stood there, watching him for a moment longer than you meant to, feeling that small, quiet ache of being close to something without quite belonging to it.
You were still leaning against the bar, letting the music and chatter blur into a soft background hum, when someone stepped into your space from the side—close enough that you felt the shift of air before you heard the voice.
“Hey.”
You turned slightly.
One of Lando’s cousins stood there with an easy smile. Will—probably. Or Ben. Honestly, after your fourth drink, all the cousins had started blending into one tall, friendly blur of Norrises.
He offered his hand like you were meeting at a business conference instead of a pre-wedding party. “Will.”
“Y/n,” you replied, shaking it briefly.
He didn’t let go right away.
“Oh, trust me, I know,” he said with a small smirk, finally releasing your hand but not stepping back. “You’re kind of the main topic of conversation.”
Your brows lifted, a mix of amusement and mild alarm. “That’s concerning, considering this is Sav and Oliver’s wedding.”
He laughed softly, shoulders relaxing. “Fair point.”
Only then did he give you a little more space—though not much. Just enough to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Relax,” he added, tone light. “It’s all good things.”
You gave him a look that said you weren’t convinced. “That’s not very reassuring.”
He grinned, hands sliding into his pockets. “Okay, I’ll rephrase. They like you.”
“That’s better,” you said, though you weren’t sure if the warmth in your chest was the alcohol or the words.
Either way, it was nice to hear.
Will’s smile lingered a little longer than it should have, the kind of smile that tried to look casual but didn’t quite land that way.
“You know,” he said, leaning one elbow against the bar so he was angled toward you, “I’m still trying to figure out how someone like you ended up with him.”
You let out a small laugh, swirling what was left of your drink. The ice clinked softly against the glass. “Wow. Straight to insulting him. Nice.”
“I’m not insulting him,” he said quickly, hands lifting in a harmless gesture. “Just… surprised.”
“Because?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, though your tone stayed light.
He shrugged, eyes flicking over you in a way that felt a little too assessing. “He’s Lando. And you seem… normal.”
That actually made you snort. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is,” he said, and this time his gaze lingered a beat too long. “I just mean—you could do better.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and awkward, settling between you like something you didn’t want to touch. You opened your mouth—ready to defend Lando, or correct him, or shut the whole thing down before it got any weirder—
“Hey, babe. Is everything okay?”
Lando’s voice cut cleanly through the moment.
Before you could even turn, his hand slid around your waist, warm and steady, pulling you gently but unmistakably toward him. The movement was instinctive, protective, and just a little too sure of itself.
You blinked up at him, caught off guard by how close he suddenly was.
But he didn’t look at you first.
His eyes were locked on Will—calm, unreadable, but with an edge underneath that you hadn’t heard in his voice all night. Or ever.
Will straightened immediately, hands dropping from the bar like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Yeah, just talking.”
Lando hummed once—a low, controlled sound that wasn’t quite agreement. It wasn’t loud, but it carried weight. Like he had a sharper response sitting on the tip of his tongue and was choosing, very deliberately, not to use it. His jaw tightened for a second before he smoothed it over, the kind of restraint that said more than any raised voice could.
Then he finally looked down at you.
“You okay?”
There was something in his tone—lighter than the look in his eyes, softer than the tension in his shoulders. It was a question meant for you, not for the audience around you. A check‑in, not a performance.
You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
A small beat passed.
His hand was still at your waist, warm and steady, fingers resting just firmly enough to make it clear he wasn’t letting go until you told him to. And without thinking, your own hand had settled against him too, holding on like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Good,” he said simply.
Then his gaze slid back to Will.
“Not sorry, Will,” Lando said, voice calm, almost casual—but with a quiet edge underneath. “I need to talk to my girlfriend.”
The emphasis was subtle, but unmistakable. A line drawn. A boundary set.
Will blinked once, caught between surprise and a laugh he didn’t quite commit to. “Yeah, alright.”
He lifted his hands in a small gesture of surrender. “Didn’t mean anything by it, man.”
“Cool,” Lando replied, smooth and final.
No warmth. No invitation to keep talking. Just a clean end to the conversation.
Then, without another word, he guided you away from the bar. His hand stayed firm at your waist, steering you through the garden, past the clusters of people, past the fairy lights and music and noise. You didn’t resist. You didn’t even think about resisting. You just let him lead you, the warmth of his touch grounding you in a way the alcohol never could.
He didn’t loosen his grip once.
Only when you were finally inside the villa—away from the crowd, away from Will, away from the eyes and the noise—did he slow down. His steps eased, his hand softened, and the air between you shifted into something quieter, heavier, waiting.
The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind you, the noise of the party vanished like someone had cut the power. No music, no laughter, no clinking glasses—just silence. Thick, heavy, the kind that settled over your skin and made the room feel smaller than it was.
Lando finally let go of your waist, but only so he could turn toward you fully. His movements were sharp, controlled, like he’d been holding something in since the moment he saw you at the bar.
“What was that?” he asked immediately.
You blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. “What was what?”
“That guy,” he said, jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. “The way he was talking to you.”
You scoffed, trying to brush it off, trying to keep the moment light. “It’s literally your cousin. He was just talking.”
“He is the biggest idiot of all of them,” Lando shot back, voice low, “and he was not just talking.”
“Oh my God,” you laughed once, shaking your head, trying to defuse the tension. “Are you serious right now?”
“Yes,” he said instantly.
And that—more than anything—made you stop.
He wasn’t teasing.
He wasn’t playing the part.
He wasn’t performing for anyone.
He was actually annoyed.
“You’re overreacting,” you said, quieter now, because suddenly the space between you felt charged in a way you didn’t know how to handle.
“I’m not,” he replied, and there was no hesitation, no doubt.
A beat passed—quiet, heavy, stretching just long enough to make your pulse stumble.
Then Lando stepped closer again, closing the space you’d tried to keep between you. His voice dropped, low and rough around the edges. “I didn’t like it.”
Your breath caught, sharp and involuntary.
“You don’t get to say that,” you whispered, even though the words didn’t come out nearly as steady as you wanted them to.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s fake,” you reminded him, but your voice wavered, softening at the end like even you didn’t fully believe it anymore.
The word fake landed between you like something sharp. Something that should have pushed him back.
It didn’t.
Lando looked at you for a long second—long enough that you felt it everywhere. Like he wanted to argue, like he had a dozen things he wanted to throw back at you, but none of them made it out fast enough.
“Right, fake.” Lando laughed, but it was dripping with sarcasm and bitterness. “You looked like you didn’t want me there,” he said finally, quieter now, but somehow more honest.
The words hit harder than they should have. Harder than you were prepared for.
“I did,” you shot back, heat rising in your chest. “I just didn’t need you to—”
“To what?” he cut in, stepping closer again. “To act like I care?”
Silence.
Thick. Electric. Unavoidable.
Your chest tightened, breath catching somewhere high in your throat.
“Lando…” you warned softly, but it didn’t come out like a warning. It came out like something fragile. Something unsure.
And he was already too close again—close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, close enough that stepping back didn’t even cross your mind.
This time, you didn’t move at all.
“I care,” he said, and the words were so quiet, so steady, so painfully real that they seemed to settle right under your skin.
That changed everything.
Your breath stuttered, catching somewhere high in your chest. For a moment neither of you moved, like the air between you had turned solid.
Then—
Something in you snapped.
You grabbed the front of his shirt, fingers curling tight in the fabric, and pushed him backward. He didn’t resist. He barely even blinked. He just let you guide him until the backs of his legs hit the bed and he fell onto it with a soft thud, eyes wide, breath unsteady.
You climbed over him before he could say a word.
And kissed him.
Not careful this time. Not soft. Not measured.
This kiss was messy, urgent, horny, full of everything you’d been holding back. No hesitation. No pretending. No audience to perform for. Just heat and frustration and something that had been building for far too long.
Lando’s hands were on you instantly—gripping, grounding, pulling you closer like he needed you right there, right then. His breath was warm against your mouth as he managed a half‑laugh, half‑groan.
“…So that’s how we’re resolving things now?”
“Mhm,” you mumbled against his lips, refusing to pull away.
He did, just barely, just enough to look up at you with that infuriating, familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“What happened to rule number two, darling?” he teased, voice low, eyes bright with something that made your pulse jump.
You didn’t even think.
“Fuck rule number two.”
His smile widened—slow, wicked, knowing.
And then he pulled you back down.
────────────
The wedding had been beautiful.
Perfect, actually—the kind of perfect that made your chest ache a little if you thought about it for too long. Everything glowed. The flowers, the lights, the people. Sav looked like she’d stepped out of a dream, and everyone cried at least once. Even you, even though you barely knew half the people in the crowd. Oliver was nervous in a sweet way, stumbling over his vows, and Lando… well. Lando was the prettiest best man anyone had ever seen, all soft smiles and quiet pride, looking like he belonged in every photo taken that day.
But you hadn’t really been thinking about the wedding.
Not the ceremony.
Not the speeches.
Not the dancing.
You’d been thinking about last night.
About the way he’d looked at you.
About the way he’d said I care.
About the way you’d grabbed him, kissed him, lost yourself in something that wasn’t supposed to be real.
Which was exactly why you’d spent the entire day avoiding him.
You kept yourself busy—helping Sav, talking to Flo, pretending to be deeply invested in the seating chart, slipping away whenever you felt his eyes on you. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t graceful. But it was the only thing you could manage, because every time you caught even a glimpse of him, your stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the memory of his hands on you, his voice in your ear, his breath against your mouth.
You weren’t ready to face him.
Not yet.
Not when everything inside you still felt unsteady.
So you smiled, you mingled, you clapped during the speeches, you danced when someone pulled you in—but underneath all of it, there was this constant hum in your chest.
A reminder. A question.
And no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, you could feel him somewhere in the crowd, watching you like he was waiting for you to stop running.
After the ceremony, everyone drifted inside, swept up in dancing and champagne and the kind of joy that filled every corner of the villa. Music echoed off the walls, laughter spilled across the room, and the whole place felt warm and alive in a way that should have pulled you in.
But instead, you found yourself outside, sitting at the edge of the pool with your legs tucked close, staring at the water like it might offer some kind of clarity.
It didn’t.
Obviously.
The surface just rippled gently, reflecting the lights strung above you, turning everything into soft, shifting colors. It was peaceful, almost too peaceful compared to the noise inside. And maybe that was why you stayed out here—because the quiet made it easier to breathe, even if it also made it harder to ignore the thoughts you’d been trying to outrun all day.
You heard footsteps before you saw him.
Of course you did. You always knew when he was close, even when you didn’t want to.
“Here,” Lando’s voice said gently.
You didn’t turn around.
“I brought you water,” he added after a second, like he wasn’t sure if you’d accept it.
A small sigh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
“Thanks,” you said, finally glancing over your shoulder.
He was standing there like he hadn’t been the reason you hadn’t slept properly, eaten properly, or thought about anything else properly since last night. Casual. Too casual. Like he hadn’t been in your head every hour of the day.
He sat down beside you—not too close, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. He placed the bottle next to you instead of handing it over, giving you space you weren’t sure you wanted.
Silence stretched between you.
Comfortable for him.
Unbearable for you.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said finally, his voice quiet but certain.
You let out a small, humorless laugh. “Have I?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, eyes still on the water. “You have.”
And there it was—the thing you’d been trying so hard not to face.
You kept your eyes on the pool, tracing the slow, gentle movement of light across the surface. The water shimmered in soft blues and golds, shifting every time the breeze touched it. It was easier to look at that than at him. Easier to pretend you were calm. Easier to pretend you weren’t unraveling a little.
“…I’m not avoiding you,” you said finally, though the words felt thin, like they didn’t quite hold their own weight.
Lando let out a quiet breath—one of those soft, almost-sighs that told you he didn’t believe you but wasn’t ready to push too hard. Not yet. He sat there with his hands loosely clasped, shoulders relaxed, but there was something in the way he watched the water that gave him away. He was waiting. He was listening.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Then what are you doing?”
The question landed heavier than it should have, settling somewhere deep in your chest. You swallowed, eyes still fixed on the ripples in front of you.
“Thinking.”
“Dangerous,” he muttered under his breath.
Despite everything—despite the tension, despite the nerves, despite the way your heart had been doing somersaults since last night—your lips twitched. Just a little. Just enough to betray you.
Another pause stretched between you. Not the comfortable kind from earlier. This one felt more honest, more fragile, like the air between you had thinned and you were both trying not to break it.
You hugged your knees closer, pulling them tight to your chest. “I just… didn’t expect it to feel like this.”
That made him turn his head toward you. Slowly. Carefully. Like he wasn’t sure what you were about to say but knew it mattered.
“Like what?”
You hesitated, because there were too many answers. Too many feelings you didn’t have names for yet. Too many moments from last night still echoing in your head.
“Complicated,” you said at last, the word slipping out on a breath.
A beat passed.
Then he nodded, slow and thoughtful, like that made sense to him too. Like he’d been carrying the same word around all day.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Same.”
It was full of everything neither of you were saying out loud—heavy, warm, impossible to ignore. The kind of silence that pressed against your ribs and made your pulse feel too loud in your own ears.
You picked at the hem of your sleeve, eyes still on the water. “We were supposed to be fake dating,” you said quietly, almost like saying it again might rewind everything, might pull you both back to the safe version of this. The version with rules. The version where your heart wasn’t involved.
Lando let out a short laugh—soft, breathless, almost disbelieving. “We were really bad at that.”
The corner of your mouth lifted before you could stop it. A small smile, but a real one.
“…Yeah,” you admitted.
Another pause settled between you, heavier this time, like the night itself was leaning in to listen.
Lando shifted beside you, just enough that you felt the movement through the air. “Do you regret it?” he asked again, but this time his voice was quieter, stripped of all the bravado he usually carried so easily.
You frowned a little, turning your head toward him. “What?”
He hesitated—actually hesitated—and that alone made something tighten low in your stomach. Lando never hesitated. Not with you. Not with anyone.
“You know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flicking away for a second. “Last night. Us. Sleeping together.”
Oh.
Right.
Your fingers went still against your sleeve. The world seemed to narrow to the space between you, to the way he was looking at you now—no smirk, no teasing, no easy confidence. Just Lando. Waiting. The real version of him, the one he didn’t show to many people.
You looked at him properly then, really looked, and your breath came out slower than you expected.
“I don’t think I do,” you said quietly.
A beat passed, soft and fragile.
Then, even softer—almost like you were testing the truth of it as you spoke—
“I don’t think I regret it at all.”
The words hung there between you, warm and terrifying and honest.
Lando looked at you for a second longer than usual, like he was trying to read the truth behind your words, trying to see if you meant it the same way he did. Something in his expression softened—barely, but enough.
“Same,” he said quietly.
A beat passed, stretching out between you like a held breath.
You let out a nervous exhale, trying to steady whatever was spinning too fast inside your chest. “Let’s not break rule number three, Lando,” you said, aiming for lightness, but your voice didn’t quite make it there.
His mouth twitched, but it didn’t turn into a smile. Not really. “You’re making it very hard,” he admitted.
That made you glance at him again, your pulse skipping. “Hard how?” you asked, careful, cautious, like you already knew the answer but needed to hear it anyway.
Lando exhaled slowly, eyes dropping to the water before lifting back to you. “Pretending this is just… nothing,” he said. “Pretending it was just a mistake we can laugh off in the morning.”
Silence settled over you—thick, heavy, honest. The villa noise felt distant now, like it belonged to another world entirely.
You swallowed. “We agreed on no falling in love.”
He let out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then he shook his head slightly, like he was frustrated with himself, like he’d been fighting something he’d already lost. “That rule’s kind of pointless now,” he said softly.
Your breath caught.
“Lando—”
But he didn’t let you finish.
He turned toward you fully, closer than before, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him even with the space still between you. His voice was quieter now, but steady in a way that made your heart stutter.
“I think I’m already there,” he said.
Everything in you stopped.
The pool light rippled across his face, catching in his eyes, making them look impossibly open, impossibly vulnerable. He wasn’t hiding behind jokes or smirks or bravado. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t pretending.
He was just telling you the truth.
And then, like it was the simplest thing in the world—even though you could hear the fear tucked beneath it—
“I love you,” he added.
The words hung in the air between you like they had weight.
I love you.
No jokes followed.
No smirk.
No quick escape route disguised as humor.
Just silence.
Your heartbeat felt too loud in your ears, like your body was trying to catch up to what he’d just said. You searched his face, hoping—maybe—that you’d find some hint of exaggeration, some playful twist you could latch onto and turn this into something lighter. Something easier to handle.
But there wasn’t anything like that.
Lando didn’t look away.
He just waited.
And for once, he didn’t look like he was performing anything at all. He looked real. Open. A little scared. A lot sincere.
Your throat tightened.
“I—” you started, but the word broke apart before you could finish it. You let out a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, trying to make sense of the way everything inside you felt like it was shifting at once.
This was supposed to be fake.
This was supposed to be simple.
This was supposed to be safe.
You swallowed hard.
“I didn’t plan for this,” you admitted quietly, the truth slipping out before you could stop it.
A small, almost sad smile flickered across his face. “Neither did I.”
Something in your chest loosened at that—just a little, just enough to breathe again. You looked back at the water, watching the lights ripple across the surface, but it didn’t help. It didn’t make anything clearer.
Because the truth wasn’t complicated.
It was just terrifying.
“…I think I do too,” you said finally, the words soft but steady.
Lando went completely still.
You turned your head toward him again, your voice gentler now, more certain even if your hands weren’t. “I think I’ve been trying not to say it all day,” you added. A breath. “Probably longer than that.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore.
It felt different.
Settled.
Like something had finally clicked into place.
Lando exhaled slowly, almost like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until that moment. “Yeah?” he asked quietly.
You gave a small, nervous nod. “Yeah.”
A beat passed.
Then he let out a soft laugh under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe either of you. “We are so bad at rules.”
That pulled a laugh out of you too—quiet, shaky, but real. You wiped at your face quickly, as if that would fix anything, as if that would make you feel less exposed.
babsie radio ! heyy….. how are you….long time no see….sorry if this is bad, i tried to overcome my writers block somehow… also I (re)discovered bella kay’s iloveitiloveitiloveit and sombr’s canal street so im in mood for some angst….
Peter made false promises to himself. He'd walk past the coffee shop and think, Today. I'll see them today. Then he'd “forget” and make it tomorrow's problem and the cycle would repeat until he actually becomes a man of his word.
That coward. He'd rather let his misery rot him from the inside out then let your kind hands tend to the wounds and touch his cursed form.
He believes himself to be cursed but that boy would rather it be him than anyone else, and that was his tragedy.
And at night, when he's exhausted himself from taking his daily beating from the world and lies in his cold, hard bed— he dreams of a world before this. He dreams of attending college with his best friends and talking to his aunt on the phone everyday. He dreams of holding your lovely face in his hands and letting his eyes have their fill of you.
“It'd be a nice life.” He whispers, like saying it coherently would make it remain a fantasy. And with Peter's luck, it probably would.
So he watches from far away. He observes the boy he used to call his best friend laugh and talk with someone else the same way he used to with him. Peter eyes MJ wave to someone out of his view but he feels in his heart that it's you. He watches you hand her a coffee and laugh at something she said.
He checks up on you once a month as Spider-Man and will even talk to you when he can. Nothing lengthy, just a greeting. And if he’s feeling bold, a passing comment.
As Peter, he'll sit a couple rows behind you but always looks at you before passing by. It's out of instinct! He's too nervous to look into your eyes, afraid you'll see him for who he truly is: a coward. But in his cowardice, he peers up at you and allows your face to grace him before trying to forget it for the next fifty minutes.
It makes him smile knowing you're all doing well but it breaks his heart too. This loneliness, it aches. To willingly choose to be lonely is a hard choice, but they all are for him.
It's better this way. They're safer without me.
Except it's quite the opposite. During the day, you smile and step out into the real world and complete your assignments but at night when you were all alone in your room, you'd try your best not to sleep.
It's strange, but you gave yourself no other option. Therapy was too expensive, shadow-work didn't give results quick enough, and talking about it had you at risk of looking schizophrenic!
Every night since the attack by the Statue of Liberty, you've been having weird visions.
Well, you don't know what to call them. They're not dreams because you don't feel fulfilled but they're not nightmares because they're not scary. Whatever they are, they always start the same; a hazy, watercolor of emotions that leave you wanting more.
There's a man, a stranger or someone you used to know? Whoever he may be, you feel this intense connection that vibrates through your being. It makes you feel loved by him, cared for. He touches your soul with his voice, speaking to you so gently with nothing but affection. You feel the warmth radiating from him fill your heart. You respond to his jokes in a familiar manner, like you know him. He talks to you as if you've always been in his life for many years.
Every night it feels as though you're living a life you've never known, a past life.
But you never see his face, or... you don't remember it? Something inside you made you write down everything you remember the previous night in a journal and you're so glad you've kept up with it. It seems you remember every detail, every word hangs on your fingertips as your fingers race to catch up with your mind. But that man, his face remains a blur. He's a mystery.
You would remember these feelings, this man, had this been a part of your life. Who wouldn't? It was something straight out of those fantasy books you used to read as a child. It's truly something— lack of a better word— magical. It's impossible to forget something that surreal and wonderful happening to you, and yet.
You told MJ and Ned once and they didn’t mock or tease you. They were also experiencing similar “dreams” at least twice a week. Especially Ned, he got them more than MJ but less than you.
The three of you stuck to relying on each other when it came to those kinds of things and for the better part, it worked. Your bond became stronger and no one felt alone in this.
You rationalized the images to indeed be memories of a past life as nothing else made sense. Even that didn't make sense but after everything you've researched and read, it's the safest bet.
And you weren't far off.
Every Monday and Wednesday morning you had a class at eleven-fifteen. It wasn’t that bad of a walk from the parking deck and you always make it to class on time. But today was different.
You enter the oddly empty elevator but don’t think much of it, until—
“Hold it, please!”
Your hand shoots out in front of the closing doors and you hold it open for the voice.
That voice you think. Where have I heard that before?
The owner of it makes his appearance and you’re left staring.
Brown hair that curls at the ends, doe eyes with chocolate pools, and a faint red hue painted over his soft face.
Out of breath, probably.
He looks a bit spooked, like he wasn’t expecting to see you enact this kind action.
“Which floor?” You ask, your finger hovering over the keypad.
The boy blinks and suddenly realizes his bewildered state. “Oh, right. Sorry. Um,” He gingerly clears his throat while stepping inside. “Four.”
That button’s been pressed for your floor so you nod, leaning back into your spot and whipping out your phone to ignore the growing awkwardness.
There’s something nagging at the back of your head, telling you to talk to him— this stranger.
You ignore the instinct but it only serves to grow stronger the more you resist.
“Peter, was it?”
The boy looks at you like a deer in headlights. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, that’s me.”
“Yeah, I think I remember you.”
His heart jumps up his throat but he gulps it down. “Y-You do?”
You nod. “Venti espresso with vanilla cold foam.”
Oh.
“Right.” He blinks. “Right, yeah. I did order that.”
You make some more small talk
You didn’t realize this before, but he’s in your class, and he sits all the way in the top left corner towards the back.
Many times throughout the class, you almost turn your head to see him. To see what he’s doing, how he really looks.
Peter’s eyes land on your form a few times, just itching to see your face and hear your voice again.
To want something he can’t have, that’s the curse of the spider.
Ever since that day, you’ve been… aware.
Aware of the fact that the boy who sounds freakishly similar to the boy in your dreams is real and in your class and sits behind you all the way in the back. Aware that your dreams have toned down quite a bit ever since that run-in that seems fateful, and aware that maybe you’ve been thinking about this guy way too much lately.
MJ waves her hand in front of you, a mildly weary look on her face.
It snaps you out of your thoughts. “Hm?”
“Didn’t mean to bore you, my fault.”
You giggle lightly at her. “No, you’re not and I’m sorry. It’s just that—”
“Is it that guy again? Because I swear, I feel it too.” Ned says.
You tell them about your interaction and the effects afterwards and they tell you to continue talking to him.
“Maybe it'll explain the gaps in our memories.”
MJ has a valid point (when doesn't she?) but you're afraid talking to this guy will open up a can of worms you can't put back in.
Ned agrees with her and it's all up to you now, even though you wish it wasn't.
All it took was a project to get you to talk to him.
The words “find a partner” left Dr. Banner's mouth and it took you right back to high school. At least back then, you had someone that genuinely wanted you to be their partner. Here, you don’t know anyone in this class and it wouldn’t surprise you if no one had a genuine curiosity about you.
Well, almost no one.
The boy who sits behind you all the way in the back also didn’t have anyone to partner up with. Maybe it’s fate.
“Do you wanna be partners?”
You look up immediately and find him peering down at you nervously, eyes darting around your face like he knows you might turn down his offer and work the assignment alone.
But you don't. You say yes and he looks visibly surprised. He blinks, a small smile takes over his lips as he moves to sit next to you.
The project is a great opportunity to get to know him and once you do, you realize that you actually like talking to him. You find the two of you to share similar interests, you both listen to some of the same music artists and love movies and pop culture. You actually had to bite down your tongue to resist quoting a meme from tiktok.
You notice this look of warmth on his face every time he sees you. Like the first rays of the sun have chosen to shine on him first.
Peter doesn't show it but he's beyond happy. In fact, he doesn't remember the last time he looked so forward to something.
You used to be his motivation for coming to class every Monday and Wednesday but now that he's crossed this level of formality with you, Peter dares himself to picture that life he always dreams of.
Ned and MJ come and hang out with you and him sometimes and even they admit that they've stopped getting those weird memory-like dreams.
With it feeing like the problem's solved, you still can't help but think about what's happened since. How could everything just go away when you're with him?
Chalking it up to one hell of a coincidence is one way to go about it, but maybe that's because you like how you feel when you're with him and are scared of what you'll find if you dig too deep.
Whatever, everything's fine now and it's like you've gotten back to a life before all of this so it's alright.
How naive you were, which brings you to be in the protection of the Jessica Jones and The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.
They approached with you with quickness and left no room for argument as they spoke. “Your life is in danger and if you don't come with us right now, you will die.”
Well, that was actually just Jessica doing the talking but in her defense, it was short and straight to the point.
Which brings you to the present, in front of Peter's apartment.
Otherwise, you'd have no problem being here but what the private investigator and horned vigilante forgot to mention is the fact that The-motherfucking-Punisher is also here, and he's standing right in front of you.
You see his straight face and blink down at your shoes.
You may be scared of him but very few people aren't, Jessica Jones being one of them. “Step aside, Frank.”
Frank moves one step to the side, giving room to slide right past him. He watches you shift forward nervously and backs off from his brooding, shutting the door behind you after checking the hallways.
The owner soon makes himself known, his hands on your shoulders instantly. “Hey, you okay?”
Uh, no, you're most certainly not okay.
He looks flushed, eyes nervous and darting behind you at the door's peephole. He wordlessly moves you away from it.
“What is happening right now?” Ah, it seems like you've found your voice.
“The less she knows, the better.” The ex-military man’s gruff voice shoots bullets down your spine, still disbelieving of the fact that he's here in your friend's apartment who doesn't seem to have a problem with that.
Peter ignores him. “I'll explain everything, in fact... I should've done this a long time ago.” He then steers you to his bedroom, letting you out of his sights momentarily as he looks outside his own bedroom window for the umpteenth time.
Giving you his attention now, he pulls out a chair from under him to sit in front of you. “What I'm about to tell you is gonna sound crazy but, hear me out.”
If it's crazier than him having some kind of vigilante convention in his home, you're gonna start betting money on what can't happen.
Peter darts back and forth between your eyes, taking a deep breath in an effort to cool his nerves.
You look on expectantly, not believing the night you're having but if you're here, that has to count for something.
“...I'm Spider-Man.”
Well that was really anticlimactic. “Oh, yeah, I already know that.”
Peter scrunches his eyebrows together. “You... already know?”
You tilt your head. “Did you really think you could dip out whenever Spider-Man was needed, and no one would put two and two together?”
His whiplash is replaced by a fond look, one that may very well be taken as pride. “You figured it out. Like you said you would.”
“When… did I say that?”
The one time he doesn't have that letter he keeps buried in his pockets. “...Something happened the night of the attack at The Statue of Liberty.”
You recall the night. “We never figured out what really happened.”
“I can help with that.” He blurts out. “It was because of me, actually.”
The sound of a pot hitting the floor followed by a frustrated fuck steals your attention momentarily.
Sighing, he gets up. “I'll be right back.”
Maybe you were wrong. Maybe he is a direct link to you and that overwhelming yearning inside you.
This longing, sometimes it’s so intense, you feel like it’ll kill you. It drove you insane up until you met him for that third time.
How could he know this entire time and not say anything? Up until now? What makes right now the perfect time to give you this missing piece of the puzzle that is your life?
The anger in you simmered the more he wasn’t here.
As soon as he came back, you didn’t waste any time.
“What are you, to me?”
Peter’s heart is pounds in his chest, ready to jump out and run away as fast as it can.
“Ever since that night, I've been feeling like I'm missing something... Something so important but I can't remember what it is no matter how hard I try— i-it's like a roadblock on my mind.”
He looks at you apologetically, eyes repenting.
“Something happened to me… right? I was in some kind of really bad accident, and no one wants to talk about it because of how triggering it might be for me?”
“No, no, you weren't—”
“Then what's wrong with me?! Why do I feel this way?”
You know you're borderline shouting but you can't bring yourself to care. He doesn't know what it feels like to be living this way. He doesn't understand your frustration, your anger.
Peter's eyes are glassy as he looks at your own shine under the light. “Nothing’s wrong with you, I...I made the whole world— including you, Ned, and MJ— forget who I am.”
Somehow, that made so much sense to you. Of course he was the missing piece, he was the one thing missing from your life. But why?
“Why would you do that?” Your voice, a touch above a whisper.
“Because you'll never be safe with me.” He guiltily reveals. “There will always be something going wrong in your lives because of me and I can't risk that.”
“So, that gave you the right to take our memories?”
You feel for him, of course you do. He's so young and has so much life to live, and what's he doing instead? Making sure you and Ned and MJ have a better life than him.
“I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, I-I shouldn't have done that. All I wanted was to keep you safe and if that was the way then...” He looks defeated as he shrugs.
Suddenly, your visions come to mind and you think back to the last conversation you had before the spell.
“Why didn’t you come find us?” You ask. “You said you’d make us remember, Peter. You promised.”
“I know, I know I promised, but—” He cuts himself off because really, what was he supposed to say after that? Yeah, I promised, but then I saw how good you guys were doing without me so I self-sabotaged myself into thinking you guys were truly better off without me.
You couldn’t believe him. Sure, not getting into college was a really bad consequence of his identity being revealed but that wasn’t anyone’s fault but Mysterio’s! Why should he have to pay for someone else’s mistake?
“But what? Peter, no one remembers you. All those years you spent in school just—” You make a gesture with your hands. “Gone? Just like that? And what about May, doesn’t that mean she also doesn’t remember you?”
“…She's dead.”
Your heart drops. “What?”
“She um, died in the hospital… her injuries were too severe.”
The metallic smell of the iron and the deep red color that stained his hands were the last physical things remaining of her. Though, it seems as if he can never get it off no matter how much he washes them.
In that moment, all of your remaining anger and frustration for him vanished. He wasn’t the culprit, he was the victim.
There was only one thing on your mind, and it was to comfort him. To be there for him now when you couldn’t before.
And it’s all Peter’s wanted as well; to feel your arms come around him and connect your heart to his.
“I’m sorry.” You say into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
He hugs you back and squeezes his eyes closed, trying to stay in his body and in this moment.
The more you hugged him, the more you thought about what his life looked like before this moment. Without the Avengers, without his aunt. He was all alone and still showed up everyday as Spider-Man.
You pull back slightly and look into his eyes like the first time. You see how much he’s grown, how much he’s matured since.
He shouldn’t have had to, he deserved to grow and mature like everyone else.
But that’s just it, he’s not like everyone else. This responsibility comes with a price not everyone can pay, but he is the only one who can keep going.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you then.” You murmur. “But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re not… mad at me?”
You snort softly at his train of thought. “No, Peter. I’m not mad at you.”
He nods, a smile of his own spreading across his face as he tucks some hair behind your ear. “Okay.”
“Just please, please don’t make us forget you again, okay? It was hell this first time.”
Peter may not know what that feels like, but he’s sure it was just as painful for you to not see what was right in front of you, as it was for him to not tell you.
He leans his head against yours, prompting another memory to rise from the depths of your mind. “I won’t. I promise.”
hey y’all ! i’ve compiled a full masterlist of all my spider-man writings - the series, the blurbs, all of it - so that it’s easy to find everything ! hope this is helpful ! my recommendation for reading is though there are blurbs that are in chronological order of the series, i would recommend reading the whole series first & then going & reading the blurbs. so maybe read ‘far from you (home)’ first & then the pre & post ‘far from you (home)’ blurbs before reading ‘something sinister’ enjoy ! - marlie b
* * *
SERIES MASTERLISTS
PART I — FAR FROM YOU (HOME)
SUMMARY: y/n stark is really not here for this european school vacay because in this post-endgame world, she’s mourning the loss of her dad. but one (1) sticky boi peter parker is just trying to be the friend he once was while also trying not to flirt too much because if she rejects him (which she wouldn’t, not that he knows that) while they’re in venice holy hell he’ll just pitch himself off the gondola right then and there. basically, y/n has been distancing herself & peter misses her & this school trip is a great way for him to coax her back into the real world & y/n really loves peter but is super sensitive and scared to lose him & also mysterio shows up at some point ugh @ nick fury leave ned leeds alone
PART II — SOMETHING SINISTER
SUMMARY: y/n stark & peter parker are finally dating & they are all about it. senior year is only barely underway but they are ready to party hard with their friends, sneak around the compound to make out, & enjoy the last year before their future begins with college & more schooling. the future is unknown, but one thing is for sure - y/n & peter just want a freaking break. that field trip was a shit show & things are finally back to normal. but they’re both avengers & powerful ones at that, so they have to make some idiot enemies along the way that are obviously going to try & wreck their lives. villains really have no class anymore; can’t they see that peter just wants to snuggle his girlfriend?
PART III — SECRET WARS
SUMMARY: all peter & y/n want to do is graduate college & get to work in the real world without any distractions. they just want to hang out with their friends, redecorate their apartment, & finally go on the spring break trip they’ve planned now for four (4) years that always ends up not happening. but of course when some weird stuff starts happening & avengers start going missing, the two youngest avengers have to get their shit together & figure out what the hell a beyonder is & where all their teammates are disappearing to. not to mention y/n is really done with the human torch trying to flirt with her boyfriend literally right in front of her like wtf does she have to do shove her tongue down peter’s throat in front of him? maybe.
* * *
BLURBS
just some pre & post fics blurbs about our fav webby boi peter p & his girl y/n stark living their best lives asked about by our fav readers (they’ve been placed in chronological order, not the order in which they were written just fyi)
* PRE - FAR FROM YOU (HOME): *
Fruit Salad Showers - peter falls asleep on the ceiling, y/n goes out on her first patrol & steve can’t turn down a challenge from tony
Weight of Your Fingertips - peter needs some cuddles & y/n decides her bed isn’t her own anymore because bodies are better than pillows
Spidey Code Sleepover - peter & y/n go on their first mission, tony cannot believe how stubborn his daughter is & cap is tired of babysitting
Five Pizzas & A Secret - tony is on a rampage & y/n saves peter’s ass while kicking steve’s in chess & tony ends up buying dinner
The MJ of it All - y/n realizes for the 1st time that peter might have feelings for mj, & steve rogers goes into true dad mode
Team Stark - peter said hell yeah to fighting for team stark in civil war but he never said which stark he was fighting for
Little Angst Babies - harry osborn is the new kid in town, y/n loves pineapple on her pizza, & peter is a lost baby boy with too many emotions
Busy With Kisses - peter & y/n return from their impromptu monte carlo vacay & tony is such a dad about it good lord
* POST - FAR FROM YOU (HOME) / PRE - SOMETHING SINISTER: *
The New Normal - y/n suffers from the chemical effects of mysterio’s attack & peter suffers from being secretly head-over-heels in love
Bedtime Confessions - peter’s nightmares cause y/n to spill some secrets & peter breaks into bruce’s computer just for funsies
Sweaty Palms Season - just some first date jitters, peter steals some rosé from rhodey, & no one can make out in a car in peace anymore
Honey Sunrise Time - y/n is recovering from mysterio being an asshole, peter does therapy & a steamy monte carlo flashback we’re dying over
Senior Year Reveal - peter literally kisses y/n once in the cafeteria & everyone loses their shit & flash starts a group call about it
Chicken Curry Soup - peter has a real bad cold but just wants to make out with y/n at a party so life is just real hard you guys
That Kind of Way - peter is ripped in gym class, y/n’s horniness suffers in silence, and senior year is getting sexy baby
* POST - SOMETHING SINISTER / PRE - SECRET WARS: *
Mommy Issues - peter meets an unexpected visitor, everyone goes for a long weekend at the lake post-grad, & you tan so nicely peter might die
Bulletproof Future - the gang is back together freshmen year of college, gwen stacy flirts with peter & flash bestow wisdom on y/n
Homage to Heartbreak - the small breakup peter & y/n go through doesn’t feel too small when gwen stacey tries to swoop in
Pineapple Pizza Fanatics - mj has a mean roundhouse kick, y/n & peter have a war on ham & harry osborn is just so tired plz give him a break
Weekend Retreat - y/n’s kidnapping her sophomore year of college trends on twitter, peter is a lost puppy with a motorbike
Bagels, Bruises & Broken Thongs - peter almost chooses robotics over sex, y/n blackmails peter with bagels, & gracie calls it like she sees it
Sexy Sloppy Secrets - the 2 times peter & y/n try to get it on & the one time they do, also peter’s roomie totally knows he’s spider-man oops
* POST - SECRET WARS: *
Wedding Crashers Ltd. - betty rants, y/n & peter teach their high school friends fun drinking games, flash gets married, & no one likes samantha
Through Peril & Peace - peter visits an old friend, mj teaches morgan the importance of bribery, & peter & y/n finally get married
Little Auntie Morgan - peter almost gives may a heart attack & bucky ruins a perfectly good pregnancy announcement goddamn it
Kids These Days - the teen avengers are doing their best, kids forget to wear seat belts & peter is so done with babysitting
Baby Curls & Sandy Toes - baby benji parker has two grandmas and they are both so in love and obsessed with him
Baby Freckles - benji asks 1000+ questions, there’s a new baby parker in town, & 11 o’clock is a great time for ice cream
Banana Bread & Baby Bargaining - peter knows how to tease his wife, may knows how to bribe her grandkids, & y/n wins best ceo mommy
The Stark-Parkers - peter & y/n get their happy ending, benji has a crush, tony is smarter than all the parkers combined & stevie just rocks
ꨄ︎ synopsis: you’ve known peter since you were fifteen, shortly after you were both bitten by the same spider. it was too obvious that you’d end up loving him. as you drift apart during your first year of college, you’re not sure how much longer you can keep dancing in circles with him.
ꨄ︎ genres: best friends to lovers, angst, idiots in love, slowburn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort
ꨄ︎ tags: rated explicit/18+ (smut), alcohol usage, mention of drug usage, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), characters are 19, mild violence, gun violence (there is a school shooting in the beginning but there aren’t too many details)
ꨄ︎ wc: 13.8k
ꨄ︎ notes: omg. happy valentine’s day y’all. i’ve been working on this Big Bertha for literal MONTHS and i’m so happy to finish it and share it with you. thank you for being around even though i haven’t been the most active; this is a gift to you <3
ꨄ︎ listen to the playlist!
The spider bit you first.
It isn’t until you’re fifteen that someone else finds out about it.
In many ways, you should’ve known. The symptoms, the hypervigilance, the strange, gradual transition of filling out your body. You blame puberty first, but this feels more than abnormal. It’s almost as if it’s bursting through your skin. The only other person who seems to mirror your coming of age is Peter Parker, whose twitchy nature exacerbates the longer high school goes on.
You keep your head low because there’s no reason for you to tell anyone about your powers. Not even the boy about whom you’re positive shares the same curse as you.
But then the videos come out. Red and blue lycra flying through buildings, a blurred figure saving cats from trees, webs shooting and swaying as onlookers stare like it’s a circus act. He calls himself Spider-man and you think it’s awfully corny.
꒰ none of this fics are mine. this is a compilation of readings i’ve enjoyed from amazing writers. please look at the warnings/tags before you read and don’t forget to like/comment/reblog to let the writers know you enjoyed their work ꒱
whatever you say, beautiful ── @chillipeppersainz | 🪭
In which Lando loves whenever you speak Spanish.
moving too fast to catch ── @lap90 | 𖦹 + 🥢 + 🪭
At twenty, Lando was told that love was a distraction. Under the immense pressure of his debut seasons and the "well-meaning" advice of his family, he walked away from Y/N. Four years later, the silence is shattered by a legal call to McLaren. Y/N is in a coma, and Lando is the only emergency contact left on a years-old lease. When he arrives, finds a three-year-old girl with his eyes and a folder full of letters his family made sure he never saw.
order forty-seven ── @ecemsgarden | 🪭
One of your regulars whom you call 'Order Forty-Seven' always asks for a discount on his mocha latte, of course his jabs about a discount is just a front to flirt with you.
juno ── @ivywritesfanfiction | 🍓
When Lando gets home and hears you moaning through the bedroom door, he immediately assumes the worst. He makes a dramatic entrance… only to find you red-faced, very alone and holding a sex toy.
good luck charm ── @weoris | ❀
Lando’s fans believe his camera-shy girlfriend is his good luck charm or all he wants to do is show off his girl, and doesn’t even bother to be subtle about it.
voicemail ── @uglyducklingofthe2000s | 🪭
Lando always leaves y/n a voicemail when she's sleeping and they're spending the night apart so he's the first thing she hears when she wakes up.
marry the night ── @f1atelier | 🍓 + 🪭
Your and Lando’s daughter, maeve, wants to spend the night at her grandparent's house for the first time. lando reluctantly agrees on the upside that you and him get some much needed alone time.
all the things you said ── @elaezz | dark themes + ✰
He realized he would do anything for you. Anything. Even if it meant bending the rules, risking it all… just to help his girl.
what if ── @slutforvoldy | 𖦹
lando is suddenly haunted by what-ifs after seeing the reader again years after their breakup.
party 4 u ── @norrisxcx | ❀
You meet frat boy Lando Norris at a party once. He forgets your name and starts throwing parties hoping you’ll come back—while you assume there’s no way it’s about you.
everywhere the duke of bristol went, heartbreak trailed behind. (everywhere but here, it seems.)
ꔮ starring: duke of bristol!lando norris x childhood best friend!reader.
ꔮ word count: 3.9k.
ꔮ includes: humor, friendship, romance. alternate universe: non-f1, alternate universe: regency au. childhood best friends, fake dating lite, feelings realization.
ꔮ commentary box: ahaha. so heyyy.. i have nothing to say except that, sometimes, we have to drop the fic nobody asked for in hopes that it will get us back on track. this is a very late celebration for LN1. tumblr is finally no longer banned in my country (long story) and i’m hoping to be around a lot more often again. always & forever, every lando i write is for my darling, dearest @norrisradio. you’re the wdc of my heart, t. love ya.
You slip out of the ballroom just as the applause reaches its most unbearable pitch.
Inside, the Queen has just declared Lando Norris, Duke of Bristol, the diamond of the season.
The diamond.
You still cannot decide whether the court applauds because they are delighted or because they are too shocked to do anything else. Lando—whose reputation for scandal travels faster than most carriages—now stands crowned as the most desirable prize of the London season.
If irony were audible, the ballroom would be deafening.
The corridor outside the ballroom is mercifully quieter. Candlelight flickers along the paneled walls, carrying the faint scent of beeswax and roses from the arrangements inside. The music seeps through the doors in polite, muffled waves. You lean against the window, grateful for the cooler air drifting through the cracked glass. You are granted peace for all of four minutes.
“If you are hiding,” grumbles a voice behind you, “I must congratulate you on your excellent instincts.”
You do not have to turn to know who is speaking so frankly. You’ve heard that voice in your dreams, for better and for worse. You look anyway, and sure enough, there stands Lando—looking as though he has just survived a naval battle rather than a royal announcement.
His cravat is slightly crooked. His curls, which society ladies spend entire evenings praising, appears as though he has run a hand through it repeatedly. There is a wild, haunted look in his eyes that would be deeply concerning if it were not also extremely familiar.
“Your Grace,” you say with a polite incline of your head. “How fortunate. I was just reflecting on the Queen’s decision.”
“Were you,” he says flatly.
“Yes.”
You pause, studying him. “I wondered,” you hum, “whether Her Majesty had perhaps mistaken you for someone else entirely.”
His eyes narrow. Then, he groans and drops his head back against the wall. Gone is the man that half the ton’s mamas regarded a ‘waste’, a ‘rake’. Instead, there is the same boy who used to bitch and gripe to you about trivial, menial things, like the weather ruining his plans to play in the courtyard.
“You see?!” he huffs. “This is exactly what I feared.”
“What, honesty?”
“Betrayal,” he corrects. “From my own childhood ally, no less.”
You fold your arms, unimpressed. “Lando,” you say.
It works instantly. He stills. The dramatics drain from his posture with almost embarrassing speed. He has always been like this; capable of terrifying half of London with his reputation, yet strangely manageable the moment you say his name in that particular tone.
He exhales slowly. His endeavor to be a mature person does not last too long. “I am ruined,” he groans, entirely incapable of shutting up for even a moment.
“You are a duke,” you shoot back. “Your definition of ‘ruin’ lacks credibility.”
“No, truly.” He gestures vaguely toward the ballroom doors. “Do you know what awaits me in there?”
“Adoration,” you say.
“Ambush,” he corrects.
You cannot help the small laugh that escapes you. It startles him into smiling, just briefly.
For a moment, there it is again. The boy who used to appear at your family’s garden gate with mud on his boots and an entirely unreasonable plan for the afternoon. He had been ten the first time he tried to teach you how to climb the old oak behind your house. He fell halfway up, landed in a rose bush, and insisted with great dignity that it had been a descent fit for a king.
He had always possessed a flair for dramatics.
“You should be grateful,” you muse. “Many gentlemen spend entire seasons hoping to be noticed.”
“Yes,” Lando sighs heavily. “But most of them are not me.”
You raise a brow. Before you can call him something deserving of his demeanor—perhaps ‘self-absorbed git,’ if you could get away with it—he barrels on.
“I am not meant to be the diamond,” he says, as though this should be obvious to any reasonable person. “I am meant to be the cautionary tale.”
As if he isn’t already, you bite back from saying. Lando often existed outside the fringes of society despite his title. Some might have even dubbed him as a disgrace, considering all his dalliances. How his bed always stayed warm; how he pranced around without a care in the world.
Everywhere the Duke of Bristol went, heartbreak trailed behind. (Everywhere but here, it seems.)
“How tragic,” you murmur, if only to indulge him.
“Exactly!” He points at you as if you have proven his argument. “Someone understands.”
You study him again. Despite the theatrical despair, he looks... unsettled. Truly unsettled.
The ballroom doors open briefly behind him, spilling a wave of music and laughter into the hall. Several curious faces peer out before the doors close again. Lando watches the doors as though they might lunge for him. Then he glances back at you.
“You always did know where to hide,” he says, affection tinging the lilt of his tone.
“I am not hiding.”
“You slipped out the moment the Queen finished speaking.”
“Pure coincidence.”
“Cowardice,” he amends.
“Self-preservation,” you snap in return.
He gives you a proper laugh this time. The sound warms the corridor like sunlight; it has been years since you heard it so easily.
For a brief moment, he simply observes as you bite back a grin of your own. There is something thoughtful in his expression now, something quieter beneath the humor.
(Unbeknownst to you, he has spiraled into his own nostalgia. He remembers how many evenings ended exactly like this when you were children, both of you escaping gatherings of dull adults to sit on the garden wall and trade observations about the world.
You had always possessed the unnerving ability to see through him immediately. Everyone else saw the future duke, but you saw the boy attempting to impress people he did not particularly like.)
“You are staring,” present-you says, and Lando forces himself out of his memories to sport a grin.
“I am reflecting,” he replies.
“That is a poor excuse for staring.”
“Do you know," he says abruptly, “that you are the only person in London who has not congratulated me tonight?”
“Would you like me to?”
“Absolutely not.” He shudders. “I might expire from embarrassment.”
You smile slightly. “Very well. In that case, I shall offer my condolences instead.”
“And I would thank you for them.”
A silence falls between you then—comfortable, but not entirely simple. From the ballroom, the orchestra begins a waltz. Lando glances toward the doors again. “If I return in there,” he says, morose in a way unbefitting of a twenty-something-year-old, “I will be hunted.”
“You exaggerate, my lord.”
“I do not. I saw three mothers sharpening their smiles the moment the Queen finished speaking.”
“How horrific.”
“Precisely.”
He looks at you again. “You could help me,” he says, as if the idea has just occurred to him.
You have to force yourself not to grimace. He is looking more and more like the boy next door by the second. “That sounds dangerous,” you grunt.
“Only slightly,” he assures you.
“Which means extremely.”
He grins. “Dance with me.”
It is the world’s most foolish idea. You, who so preferred to be on the sidelines of these events, would be in tomorrow’s papers if you were to so much as box step with the season’s diamond. “That will not help you escape,” you point out.
“No. But it will delay the inevitable.” His smile grows sheepish. He adds lightly, “If I must face the entire ton as the Queen’s unfortunate jewel, I would prefer to do so with someone who remembers me falling out of trees.”
How cruel of him to pull out this card. To know that you would do nothing for the sake of capital-s Society, but you are at the beck and call of your childhood friend and his watercolor eyes.
“Your Grace,” you start.
“Lando,” he corrects immediately. “You—I will always be just Lando to you.”
“Very well,” you say benevolently, as if your heart had not done something particularly treacherous amid the abandonment of formalities. “Lando. If this ends in scandal, I shall remind everyone that it was entirely your idea.”
“Naturally.”
He extends his arm; you take it. Gloved hand in calloused one. The contact is brief, proper, and yet somehow startling all the same.
The ballroom swallows you whole the moment the doors open.
Music spills outward in a bright, lilting waltz. Candlelight multiplies across mirrors and polished floors until the room glitters like a jewelry box overturned. Silks whisper, jewels flash, and conversation rises in careful, eager waves.
And then the room sees him.
It happens almost physically. Heads turn. Fans pause mid-flutter. A murmur travels across the floor like wind across water.
The Queen’s diamond has returned.
You feel Lando stiffen beside you. “Ah,” he says quietly. “They have spotted me.”
“Shocking,” you mutter through clenched teeth. “A duke freshly declared the most desirable man in London. Who could have predicted such attention?”
“Your sarcasm is poorly timed,” he hisses.
It begins immediately.
A trio of ambitious mothers pivots in perfect formation across the ballroom. Two debutantes glance in your direction, whisper, and then begin drifting closer with the slow determination of hunting cats.
Lando exhales like a man watching enemy ships approach the harbor.
“Do not panic,” you say calmly.
“I am not panicking,” he says, panicking.
“You look as though someone has informed you of an impending duel.”
“This is worse than a duel,” he says grimly. “In a duel only one person wishes to marry you afterward.”
You laugh under your breath, but the advancing crowd grows noticeably thicker. Names begin to float toward him.
“Your Grace!”
“Duke Norris!”
“My lord, what an honor!”
Fans flutter like startled birds. Smiles settle with frightening efficiency. Lando’s hand tightens slightly around yours before he seems to remember himself and releases it with suspicious haste.
Too late. Three matrons have already noticed.
“Oh,” he says faintly.
“What?”
“They saw that.”
“Saw what?”
“The hand,” he says. “Our hands were visible.”
“Lando,” you say patiently, “holding hands does not constitute a scandal.”
“It does when you are the Queen’s freshly polished jewel,” he grumbles.
The crowd closes in another step. A young lady with very determined curls edges forward, guided by a mother whose smile resembles military strategy. Lando glances at the approaching formation. Then he looks at you.
You recognize that look immediately. It is the same expression he once wore before attempting to ride the vicar’s horse backwards during a summer fair.
“No,” you say, even though he hasn’t said anything yet.
“Yes,” he says, then he tacks on a quick “sorry!” like it might solve whatever he is about to spring on you
“Lando—”
But he has already turned to the room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he calls out, his voice carrying with alarming clarity.
The nearby cluster pauses. You stare at him in horror. He is smiling. It is the sort of charming, reckless smile that has caused half of London’s gossip columns to speculate whether he had illegitimate children.
“I fear,” Lando announces, “that I must beg your indulgence this evening.”
Several hopeful mothers lean forward. In contrast, you contemplate how far away you can bolt.
“You see,” he says, “I have already resolved to begin a courtship.”
The silence that follows is so complete you can hear the violins falter for half a note. You know what is coming; it does not take a scholar to guess where he is heading.
Still, like a fool, you hope he could be wise for once.
Lando gestures directly to you. No wise men here.
“I wish to court my neighbor and oldest friend,” he says cheerfully.
The ballroom explodes. Gasps ripple outward like thrown stones. Fans snap open. Heads turn. Somewhere behind you a glass is dropped with a delicate crash.
You stare at him.
“My lord,” you say through a perfectly pleasant smile.
“Yes?”
“What,” you continue sweetly, “do you think you are doing?”
“Surviving,” he whispers back, the shite-eating grin never leaving his face.
Across the room, several mamas are already recalculating their strategies with visible disappointment. Unfortunately, the rest of the ton appears even more interested now—because nothing delights society quite so much as a surprise romance.
Lando, apparently satisfied with the chaos he has created, offers you his arm once again. “Shall we,” he murmurs, “before someone asks inconvenient questions?”
You do not move. “You just announced a courtship,” you hiss.
“A temporary one,” he assures you.
“You did not say temporary!”
“Details,” he shrugs.
You should have left him for dead when he was being chased by stray dogs way back when. You’re convinced you’re about to blow a fuse when you notice the complicated way his expression has shifted.
For all the dramatics, for all the reckless charm, there is a flicker of something tender in his gaze. It is fond and hopeful all at once, and it is far from the first time you’ve fallen for it.
It is deeply inconvenient.
“You are insufferable,” you inform him.
“I am aware,” he says.
The orchestra, perhaps sensing drama worth encouraging, launches into a brighter waltz. Several onlookers have already begun whispering with gleeful enthusiasm.
Lando leans closer. “Please,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, “tell me you will not abandon me to them.”
You glance toward the watching crowd. You really ought to leave him in the lions’ den. Instead, you find yourself gingerly muttering, “You owe me.”
Lando’s shoulders relax instantly.
“But,” you add, “you will spend the rest of the evening explaining exactly how you intend to escape the consequences of your own stupidity.”
He beams. “I was hoping you would help me think of something.”
You slip your hand through his arm. The orchestra swells as though it has personally been waiting for this show. Which, given the enthusiasm of British musicians, is entirely possible.
Lando leads you onto the dance floor before you can reconsider your life choices. The movement is swift, decisive, and—most irritatingly—perfectly elegant. His hand settles at your waist with practiced ease, warm even through the layers of silk and propriety.
Around you, the ballroom watches. Not casually nor politely. No, the ton watches the way astronomers might observe a comet; certain something dramatic is about to happen and determined not to miss a moment of it.
“Smile,” Lando hums.
“I am smiling,” you reply through perfectly arranged teeth.
“You look as though you are planning my murder.”
“Give me time,” you say, saccharine as always, as the waltz begins.
He spins you smoothly into the first turn. The movement is fluid, graceful, and entirely infuriating given that he declared a courtship less than two minutes ago without consulting you.
“Plead your case,” you challenge mid-sidestep.
“I panicked,” he says simply.
“You announced a lifelong social development to the entire aristocracy.”
“Yes. A momentary lapse in judgment.”
“Momentary,” you repeat, barely resisting the urge to snort.
You glide past a cluster of whispering debutantes. Fans snap open. One lady nearly walks into a pillar while staring.
“They are writing our wedding announcement already,” you mutter.
“Talk about efficiency,” Lando cackles gleefully.
“Lando.”
“Yes, my darling, dearest?”
“You have created a disaster.”
“I prefer the term ‘solution’.”
“And you dragged me into it!”
“You were already there,” he says reasonably. “I simply made it official.”
Was it not the case for most of your lives? The only times you have run into trouble, it has been because of Lando. Before he was considered ‘bad’ for any man or woman who breathed, he was bad for you. Always drawing your parents’ ire, always dragging you into adventures that ruined your skirts and distressed your chaperones.
The dance carries you across the center of the ballroom, where observation becomes unavoidable. The Queen herself sits elevated at the far end, her stern gaze following every step.
“She is staring,” you whisper as Lando expertly twirls you.
“I know,” Lando whispers back.
“You ruined her plans.”
“I suspect I did.”
You complete another turn. His grip tightens slightly—steady, guiding, entirely too natural. The crowd murmurs approvingly.
Unfortunately, the two of you dance very well together. You always have. Another memory flickers through your mind without warning.
You, age thirteen, standing barefoot in the grass while he attempted to teach you a proper waltz before your first local assembly. You stepped on his boots repeatedly and informed him that dancing was a ridiculous social ritual invented by people with too much time.
He had laughed so hard he forgot the steps entirely.
You step neatly through a turn now. You like to think you are not the same teenager who would do anything to make Lando Norris laugh.
The dance ends. Polite applause ripples across the room. It would be flattering if it were not accompanied by intense speculation and three dozen whispered theories about your secret romance.
Before either of you can escape the floor, a royal attendant appears. “Your Grace,” the man says carefully. “Her Majesty requests your presence posthaste.”
You and Lando exchange a look.
The Queen’s private chamber is quieter than the ballroom, and also considerably more dangerous. Her Majesty stands near the window when you enter, hands folded behind her back with the posture of someone restraining significant irritation.
“Your Grace,” she says coolly.
“Your Majesty,” Lando replies with a bow.
You curtsy beside him. The Queen studies the two of you with visible skepticism.
“How convenient,” she muses, “that the diamond of my season has already selected his bride before the festivities have properly begun.”
Lando clears his throat. “Fortunate timing,” he says, his voice cracking ever so slightly in his attempt at light-heartedness.
Her Majesty does not appear amused. “You realize that I had several very thoughtful matches in mind,” she sniffles.
You remain silent, which is perhaps the most prudent thing to do. Lando does not have the same sensibilities.
“Your Majesty,” he says suddenly, “with the greatest respect—”
You glance sideways, raring to reel Lando in. No one who starts a sentence with that actually means to accord respect. You are thoroughly convinced you are about to watch your best friend put his head on a chopping block.
“I assure you this was not an act of defiance,” he continues earnestly.
The Queen arches a brow. Lando draws a breath.
Then, to your complete astonishment, he launches into what can only be described as a speech.
“Your Majesty,” he says, “I have spent years avoiding the expectations of society with every tool available to me. Scandal, poor reputation, dramatic exits—”
“We noticed,” the Queen interjects dryly.
“—but none of that was ever meant as disrespect,” he presses on. “I simply never met a circumstance that felt… right.”
His voice softens. “Until her.”
You freeze. Lando was known for his dramatics, not his honesty. As he goes on, though, a bit of the latter seems to bleed in.
“She has known me since childhood,” he continues. There is a quality to his voice that was not there before. It sounds dangerously like affection. “She has witnessed my worst ideas, my most embarrassing moments, and several ill-advised attempts to impress people I did not even like.”
The Queen watches him carefully. “And still,” Lando says, “she remained.”
He gestures slightly toward you. “Your Majesty, the idea of losing that to some calculated courtship arranged for appearances would be nothing short of agony.”
The word hangs in the air. Agony.
Lando trips over the word as if realizing the gravitas of it, and then he clings to it with the earnestness of a man who had just found what he meant to say.
“It has been agony to restrain my affection all these years,” he says, earnest in a way that makes your chest ache. “It has been agony to pretend I am anything but a helpless, hopeless man who aspires to grovel at her feet. I have agonized, and agonized, and agonized, and I only bear it because it has been for her.”
He takes in a deep, fortifying breath. “If I must be in agony,” Lando exhales, “let it be in her name.”
Silence follows. A long, twisting one. It is so quiet that you fear the chamber might hear the steady thump, thump, thump of your heart that has ticked upwards since Lando started speaking.
His eyes remain on the Queen, while your gaze never wavers from the side of his face.
Her Majesty exhales slowly. “You are either very sincere,” she says, “or very persuasive.”
“I hope for both,” Lando replies breathlessly.
Her gaze shifts to you. “And you?”
And you? You, with your disdain for society and all that it entails? You, whose pulse races every time Lando calls for you?
You, who—perhaps in some alternate universe that were not England’s conniving ton—would have loved to be the object of Lando Norris’ affections?
Alas, these are the cards you have been dealt. A ruse with a friend. Another one of the duke’s infamous pranks, albeit with higher stakes. You manage a composed smile.
“I am still recovering from the announcement, Your Majesty,” you say evenly. “And… er… the duke’s rather shocking revelation.”
For the first time, the Queen almost smiles. “Very well,” she says with a dismissive wave. “If this courtship is genuine, I will not interfere.”
Lando exhales quietly.
“However,” she adds sharply, “I will be watching.”
His shoulders stiffen again. The duke is no stranger to an audience, but to have a royal one is an entirely different tale altogether.
“If I discover this is merely a performance,” the Queen warns, “I shall personally arrange the most inconvenient marriage possible for you both.”
“Understood,” Lando says immediately.
“Best of luck,” the Queen says. She sounds like she very much means it.
The hallway outside feels significantly less threatening.
You and Lando walk in silence for several steps. You are the first to falter in your stride; Lando follows suit, looking over his shoulder before turning to face you completely.
The end of the eventful night is drawing to a close. You can feel it in your bones. Still, your heart races for reasons you dare not speak into existence.
“Well,” you say breathlessly.
Lando offers you half a smile, and says in agreement, “Well.”
You fold your arms over your chest as if it might protect you from some invisible, emotional blow. “That speech,” you say.
“Yes?”
“You were very good at pretending.”
A soft, strangled laugh breaks from the back of Lando’s throat. “Pretending?” he echoes, and oh, the genuine confusion in his tone is the thing of fairytales.
This is not supposed to be a fairytale. This is your life, and in your life, you are meant to be married off to some halfway decent marquess with whom you might live a perfectly boring life.
“The agony,” you sputter. “The childhood loyalty. The heartfelt declarations to the Queen.”
Lando looks at you for a long, long moment. The realization dawns on you both in the very same second.
It is in how his brow furrows, how your breath hitches. You have spent years running from the very truth that is just now catching up to your agonized, oblivious duke.
Solemn as a vow, Lando whispers with awe, “I do not think I was pretending at all.” ⛐
⇔peter parker, tom Holland And co, Arvin Russel, Bucky barnes
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