Prelude - Chapter 1
Prelude - Chapter 2
Prelude - Chapter 3
Prelude - Chapter 4
Prelude - Chapter 5
Prelude - Chapter 6
Arc I - Chapter 1
Arc I - Chapter 2
Arc I - Chapter 3
Arc I - Chapter 4
...and going on
🔥 Landoscar (Lando Norris x Oscar Piastri)
Loosening Up (Smut)
One-shot | NSFW Summary: Tension turns into release when Oscar finally lets Lando go. 🔗 Read here
Blue Orchid (Angst)
One-shot Summary: Beauty blooms in pain. A story of longing and loss. 🔗 Read here
The Moment That Broke Us(Angst)
One-shot | Angst Summary: One moment. One mistake. Everything changed. 🔗 Read here
In a Moment, We Lost a Lifetime (Angst)
One-shot Summary: A fleeting second that shattered forever. 🔗 Read here
Last on The Break (Angst)
One-shot Summary: Fiances. Secret Identities. Politics and Sacrifice🔗 Read Here
💋 Carlando (Carlos Sainz x Lando Norris)
Mine to Use, Mine to Pleasure
One-shot | NSFW Summary: Possession, pleasure, and a night neither will forget. 🔗 Read here
👑 Lestappen (Charles Leclerc x Max Verstappen)
The King, The Heir and the Warehouse
One-shot | NSFW Summary: Power plays and secrets behind closed doors. 🔗Read here
🧡 Lando and Oscar facts
A series of facts and funny instances that many might not know, not the usuals but the ones you get when you surf deep into their old videos. And trust me its worth it
Ok I am freaking out becuase WHAT IN THE WORLD !!!!!
I saw people sayign that they heard the word darling and I was like perhaps its our Landoscar nation hyperfixation again but then I watched the video for the first time and without any arning heard the word.
OSCAR CALLED LANDO DARLING !!! THATS OSCAR !! Also it just seems so natural !! Also what was Lando doing with his hands the whole time
ME AGAIN (the bengali req) you cooked so good with that one, may i perchance request another❓🙈🥴 bengali reader(maybe soem bangladeshi traits as well) and any driver of your choice or maybe multiple like you did before, where they hear reader talk in bangla and their reaction to it basically ORRRRR them meeting reader's family for the first time mAYHAPS🙏🏼 ily gurl youre the best😽 feel free to make any changes and take your timeeeee
There was something technically wrong because of which I couldn’t respond to your other response. But here’s what i had written (I edited the response e accordingly 😅):
Glad you liked the post, I was actually quite scared because it was my first F1 request. Be as annoying and as dramatic and as Bengali core as you want, you are always welcomed with open arms, rosogulla and mishti doi 🤭. Also, you’re my first emoji anon 🥺
I love love love this ideaaaaa. Also, I added tinges of Saraswati Pujo and Dugga Pujo elements to it because I am honestly missing the Pujo time already 😭, and a bit more Bengali to the scenes more than the last one.
Also, I wrote the Dugga Pujo according to 2025 calender that is 28 Sept. to 2 Oct.
Mishti Doi and Mishti Language
Formula One Drivers x Bengali!Reader
Includes: Carlos Sainz • Oscar Piastri • Charles Leclerc • Lando Norris • Lewis Hamilton • Max Verstappen
Warnings: All fluff. I got a bit emotionally charged for Oscar’s and Lewis’s part explicitly states that Reader is a lawyer (just a little gift for myself). Nothing else.
55. Carlos Sainz
Carlos was not prepared for this.
And he had trained for Monaco in the rain, survived Singapore humidity, and sat through more Ferrari strategy meetings than he cared to count — but this?
This Navami madness?
This was on another level.
“Mi amor,” (my love) he called out over the sound of drums — dhak, she’d told him — “are you sure this isn’t a full-blown wedding?”
The sheer number of people crammed into the Kolkata pandal, all dressed to the nines, should’ve been overwhelming. And yet, she looked like she belonged there — no trace of her usual quietness or introverted shyness. It was like the moment she stepped out of the cab in her red-and-white cotton saree and alta-adorned feet, something in her switched on.
She was glowing. Literally and figuratively.
Her eyes sparkled with childlike excitement, hands gripping his wrist as she dragged him through the crowd. “Come on! They’ll start the pushpanjali in ten minutes— if we’re late, Ma won’t forgive us.”
Carlos blinked. “Ma?”
“Dugga,” she said over her shoulder, her bangles clinking, gold jhumkas swaying with each step. “The goddess. My actual boss.”
Carlos wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t.
Because he’d never seen her like this before — fully alive. No filter. No hesitation. She was speaking fast, switching between English and Bengali, greeting strangers like old friends, directing him with one hand and holding her saree pleats with the other.
He could barely keep up — and he was a Formula 1 driver.
They reached the inner sanctum of the pandal, and suddenly she stopped short, frowning at a group of teenage boys blocking the way.
And then he heard her speak Bengali for the first time. Properly. Fully.
“Ae, dushtu chelegulon, soro ekhan theke! Dekhte pacho na dada asche?” (Hey, naughty boys, move from here! Can’t you see he is coming?)
Carlos blinked, and then laughed in disbelief. “Did you just threaten a bunch of kids for me?”
“They were in my way,” she said innocently, dragging him to the front with practiced ease. “And you were about to get trampled by that lady with the big tray of flowers.”
He was about to respond when the priest began chanting, and she turned to him quickly. “Fold your hands. Close your eyes. Just follow me, okay?”
And he did.
Standing beside her, surrounded by incense smoke and a sea of murmured prayers, Carlos folded his hands like she’d shown him. He peeked once — she had her eyes closed, lips moving quietly in a language he still couldn’t understand, but suddenly wanted to learn.
She looked… not just beautiful, but sacred.
After the pushpanjali, as the crowd shuffled out for prasad, she leaned in with a grin and whispered, “You did good.”
Carlos smirked. “You were yelling at people. In Bengali.”
“Only a little.”
“You’ve never spoken it around me before.”
She shrugged, cheeks flushing a little. “I don’t know… I guess I just keep my worlds separate sometimes.”
Carlos reached out, brushing some vermillion dust off her nose. “Well, I like this world. Especially when you yell at people to make room for me.”
She laughed, tilting her head. “Want to try saying something?” He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Only if it’ll get me extra sweets.”
She rolled her eyes, but he saw the smile pulling at her lips.
“Say Shubho Navami, cariño. That’s all.”
“Shu…bo? Nava-mi?”
She giggled, correcting his accent with a nudge. “Close enough. Come on, let’s get luchi.”
As they walked hand-in-hand toward the food stalls, a couple of aunties leaned over to whisper, loud enough for Carlos to hear:
“Ei meyeta toh jackpot peyeche! Bideshi chele, kintu aato bhodro!” (This girl hit the jackpot! A foreigner, but what a gentleman!)
Carlos leaned closer. “Did she say something about me?”
She smirked. “Maybe.”
He tugged her in. “Tell me.”
She grinned, resting her head briefly on his shoulder. “Later. First, luchi.”
81. Oscar Piastri
Oscar didn’t really understand what “Sindoor Khela” meant.
He’d read about it — a ritual where married women bid farewell to Durga by smearing each other with vermillion, like one last burst of red before the goddess returned to her celestial home. But she hadn’t explained much. Just told him it was Dashami, the final day, and asked quietly if he’d go with her to the little makeshift pandal at the Bengali community centre in Melbourne.
He had said yes instantly.
Mostly because she’d looked like she might cry if he didn’t.
Now, standing barefoot in a small hall scented with incense and flowers, watching her walk slowly toward the idol of Dugga — he felt like he was witnessing something sacred. Not religious, not even ceremonial — just… personal.
She looked beautiful.
Not the Instagram kind. The real kind.
A white saree with red borders, the laal paar, her hair pulled into a bun with a few strands already escaping from the coastal wind. No jewelry except for little gold jhumkas he’d seen her wear once before. And her hands — her fingers — were stained red from the small bowl of sindoor she held in one palm.
But what made him freeze was her voice.
She was talking softly to an elderly woman — one of the aunties who had welcomed her with a kiss to the forehead and an emotional “Tor maer motoi dekhte lagchis re!” (You look just like your mother!)
And then she replied. For the first time. In Bengali.
“Maer shonge ekhono video call e kotha hoye ni. Bujhte parchhi na, bhishon kharap lagchhe.” (I haven’t even spoken to Ma yet on video call. I don’t know, I just feel really off today.)
Oscar didn’t understand the words. But he heard the weight.
Something about the way she said “Ma” made his throat tighten.
He watched from the edge as she touched the idol’s feet gently with her fingertips, then her forehead — lips moving in silent prayer. And then she stood, took a deep breath, and smiled softly at the aunty who dipped her fingers into the sindoor bowl and touched the bright red powder to her parting.
The moment the vermillion met her skin, something broke open in her — and Oscar saw it.
She laughed suddenly, through tears.
A laugh that trembled, like it had been waiting days to come out.
Oscar had seen her quiet. Introverted. Bookish. He’d seen her eyes light up during late-night coding sessions, and her hands fly when she was passionately describing a recipe from home.
But this?
This was her in full bloom.
Red, glowing, rooted.
When she finally turned and saw him watching, her cheeks already streaked with red and her fingers covered in vermillion, she looked momentarily sheepish. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I forgot you were waiting.”
Oscar shook his head, smiling gently. “Don’t apologize. I think I just… saw a whole new side of you.”
She tilted her head. “Is that a good thing?”
He stepped closer, brushing his knuckle over the corner of her cheek where a smear of red lingered. “It’s beautiful,” he said honestly. “I didn’t understand what you were saying. But… you looked like you were home.”
Her smile faltered, just for a second. “I’m not,” she whispered. “But this… helps.”
Oscar leaned in, resting his forehead lightly against hers. “Then we’ll make this feel like home next year, too. And the one after that.”
She closed her eyes. “You’d come again?”
“Only if I get smeared with red too,” he teased.
She grinned, eyes sparkling. “That can be arranged.”
Before he could respond, one of the aunties yelled from behind her, “Ei meyeta! Bideshi chele ke sindoor lagabi na?” (Hey girl! Won’t you put sindoor on your foreign boyfriend?)
Oscar blinked. “Did she say what I think she said?”
She burst into laughter. “Yup. You’re not leaving here clean.”
And before he could protest, she dipped her fingers into the bowl, and with playful, reverent care — smeared a red streak across his cheekbone.
“Now,” she said, laughing, “you’re officially part of Dashami.”
Oscar kissed her temple softly. “And you’re officially part of my everything.”
16. Charles Leclerc
Charles wasn’t supposed to be awake yet.
It was a rare quiet morning in Monaco. No meetings, no simulator work, no training session breathing down his neck — and yet he’d stirred awake at the soft rustling sounds coming from the living room. At first, he thought it might just be her moving around. But then… he heard something.
Words. Rhythmic, melodic. Nothing he could understand.
Not French. Not English. Definitely not Italian.
Bengali.
Charles padded out into the living room, still shirtless, hair a chaotic mess of bed curls, and leaned against the doorframe.
There she was. Sitting cross-legged on a floor cushion, phone pressed to her ear, speaking softly but animatedly, her words flowing like a song he didn’t know the lyrics to but still wanted to hum along to.
He didn’t say a word. Just… watched.
She was dressed in a soft yellow cotton saree — traditional, but still so distinctly her. The pleats were slightly uneven, probably draped in a rush, and her hair was pinned half-up with marigold clips she’d picked up from an Indian store weeks ago. Her bare feet rested on a towel, and in front of her sat a tiny bowl of alta — the deep red liquid glinting like liquid rubies.
The moment made his heart feel still. Reverent. Almost holy.
He didn’t even breathe too loudly, afraid of breaking the spell.
“He, maa, ami pore khichuri banao,” (yes, maa, I will make khichuri later) A pause. Then she rolled her eyes fondly. “Na, Charles khe nebe. Orr toh bhalo lage.” (No, Charles will eat. He likes it)
He smiled.
She hadn’t noticed him yet, too focused on her call. Gently, with a practiced ease, she began applying the alta — slowly brushing the red onto the curves of her feet with steady fingers, biting her lip to get the shape right.
Charles had never seen anything like it. Not in Monte Carlo. Not on race tracks or podiums or in the glow of champagne showers.
There was something sacred about her like this.
Effortless. Rooted. Beautiful in a way he didn’t fully understand — but wanted to.
Eventually, she looked up — mid-sentence — and froze.
Her voice caught in her throat. “M—oh, Charles,” she said quickly into the phone, “wait, I’ll call you back.”
She hung up in a flustered rush, eyebrows raised. “You’re up?”
He nodded slowly. “I… yeah. I woke up and then I heard you. Speaking… Bengali?”
Her cheeks flushed. “Oh god. I didn’t mean to wake you, I was just— It’s Saraswati Pujo today. I usually talk to my mum and sister and do some of the rituals and…”
He kept staring, and she grew more nervous.
“What?”
Charles walked over, crouching in front of her and gently picking up her alta-stained hand, holding it between both of his like it was something precious.
“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard,” he murmured.
She blinked.
“I don’t know what you were saying,” he added with a sheepish smile. “But your voice sounded like music. Like poetry. I didn’t want you to stop.”
Her heart melted instantly. “You really liked it?”
He nodded. “I love hearing new parts of you. The ones that don’t translate.”
She softened completely, brushing a bit of alta onto his fingertip before he could protest. He looked at the red stain with fascination.
“What does this mean?” he asked.
She smiled. “Tradition. Femininity. Blessings. Some say it’s to honour the goddess. Others say it’s just…beautiful.”
He held up his stained finger with pride. “Then I’m honoured.”
She giggled, and the sound was brighter than any pujo lamp.
“I’ll teach you some words,” she offered, brushing his messy hair back.
“Only if you promise to keep speaking them,” he said, tugging her closer, “especially when you think I’m not listening.”
04. Lando Norris
Lando had seen her in a lot of colors before — but never like this. Yellow.
She was all yellow — from the soft cotton saree with a golden border to the delicate flower tucked behind her ear, to the small round bindi that sat perfectly between her brows. Not the bold red she wore during Durga Puja. This one was gentle. Thoughtful.
Saraswati Pujo, she had called it.
“The nerdy one,” she’d said with a shy grin. “For students. We pray to the goddess of knowledge, and we’re not supposed to study that day. Like… officially.”
Which, in Lando’s opinion, was the best kind of holiday.
She’d invited him over to her apartment, where a little corner had been transformed into a soft yellow shrine — a printed photo of Maa Saraswati, her veena and swan visible even to his untrained eyes, framed by marigolds and candles. A few books, a fountain pen, and a single white rose were placed neatly at the goddess’s feet.
He sat on the couch, watching as she moved around barefoot on the floor, adjusting things in a very “don’t-mess-with-the-vibe” sort of way. Her usually quiet demeanor had shifted — she was humming a Rabindra Sangeet under her breath, her fingers brushing across the spines of her favorite books like they were sacred.
She looked… at peace.
And then her phone rang.
Lando didn’t mean to eavesdrop — but she picked it up on speaker and said, bright and soft all at once: “he maa, boshe gachi. Sob sajiye niyechi! Tumi dekhle khoob khushi hobe.” (Yes maa, I have sat down. I’ve set everything up! You will be very happy to see it.)
Lando blinked.
He hadn’t ever heard her speak Bengali before.
She spoke so fast — her voice lifting with every sentence, casual but full of affection. He watched as her fingers unconsciously traced little swirls in the floor with the end of her saree while her mother’s voice crackled over the speaker.
“Tui London e pujo korchis—bhabhte hi pare na ami toh.” (I can’t believe you’re doing Pujo in London.)
His heart did this stupid fluttering thing.
Because this wasn’t just her voice — this was her. Unfiltered. Rooted.
She giggled suddenly, replying: “Ar amar shonge ekta aro keu aache!” (And there is someone with me!)
Lando leaned forward. “Wait — was that about me?”
She jumped slightly, clearly having forgotten he was within earshot. “Maa, ami pore call korchi!” (Maa, I will call later!)
He only raised an eyebrow at her squeaky reply while she rushed to cut the call. “Maybe,” she said, cheeks flushed pink. “Don’t tell my mum you heard, or she’ll start planning your wedding.”
He grinned. “That bad, huh?”
She shook her head with a fond little smile, placing the phone face down as she joined him on the couch. “Not bad. Just… Bengali mums don’t mess around.”
Lando’s eyes wandered from her yellow bangles to the small tray she’d brought over with mishti and a diya still flickering gently.
“So,” he began, voice quieter, “what were you saying to her?”
She hesitated. “Just… that I was celebrating Pujo. And that I did it for me, and… a little for you.”
He looked at her, eyes soft. “Why for me?”
She tilted her head. “Because I wanted you to know this side of me. Not just books and music and tech stuff. But this. My Ma, my rituals, my language.”
Lando took her hand. “Then I think you should speak it more around me.”
She blinked. “You wouldn’t understand it.”
“No,” he said, “but I’d learn. Because I’ve never heard you sound like that before — and I’d like to know what makes you glow like that.”
She looked at him for a long moment before saying softly, “Tui amar jone onek special.” (You are very special for me.)
He raised an eyebrow. “That one better have been nice.”
“It was,” she said, smiling. “Promise.”
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Then happy… what do you call it? Sara-swati Poo-ja?”
She giggled, correcting him: “Soros-shoti Pujo.”
He gave her a mock salute. “Soros-shoti Pujo it is. Now pass me the sweets before I pass out from cultural overload.”
44. Lewis Hamilton
Lewis had always loved her mind.
From the moment they met — her wit, her command over language, her no-nonsense courtroom presence — everything about her had fascinated him. She wasn’t flashy. She was deliberate. Calm. Controlled. The kind of woman who used silence as a weapon and words like velvet-gloved knives.
But that morning, in the quiet of their London apartment, he saw a side of her he’d never witnessed.
She stood by the window, the early sunlight slipping in as she adjusted the pallu of her white and yellow saree — a simple handloom one that looked almost ceremonial. He noticed the gold rim of her glasses, the tiny white flower tucked behind her ear, and the soft hum under her breath. Something lilting. Classical. Unlike her usual playlists.
There were books on the low table. Law journals. A copy of The Constitution of India. Her worn-out copy of Tagore’s Gitanjali. A few were stacked neatly, with a single white rose placed on top. Next to them, a diya flickered faintly.
“Saraswati Pujo,” she said, sensing his gaze. “The goddess of wisdom. We put our books at her feet today. It’s not about praying, really. It’s about remembering where we come from — intellectually. Spiritually.”
Lewis approached, quietly admiring how centered she looked. “And you’re not supposed to read or write today?”
She nodded, smiling. “Technically, no. But cross-examining billionaires doesn’t count.”
He laughed. “You’re unbelievable.”
She shrugged, tugging at her bangles. “You knew I was dangerous before you fell.”
Just then, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the caller ID and answered — this time, not in English. “He maa, ami thik acchi. Tumi ekhuno amar chinta korcho? Ami kore niyechi pujo.” (Yes maa, I am fine. You are still worrying about me? I have done the pujo.)
Lewis froze mid-sip of his tea.
The shift in her voice was instant. She spoke Bengali with such confidence, such rhythm — quick, rich, melodic — her tone suddenly full of warmth and teasing. She paced slowly while talking, eyes crinkling, hands gesturing with ease as she rattled off something about the weather, shondesh, and “court e aajke ekta bhaari boka chhilo” (there was a proper idiot in court today).
Lewis had never heard her like this.
So unguarded. So free.
He stood there, holding the mug, watching her laugh into the receiver like she wasn’t the woman who routinely eviscerated opponents in litigation. Like she was just someone’s daughter, celebrating a sacred day a continent away from home.
And speaking a language that held her roots so closely he felt lucky just to witness it.
When she finally hung up, she looked over and blinked, slightly startled. “You okay?”
He nodded, smiling softly. “I just… I’ve never heard you speak like that before.”
“In Bengali?”
“Yeah. It suits you,” he said honestly. “You sound… softer. But also like someone I haven’t met before. Like… the version of you that only exists back home.”
She came closer, fiddling with her bangles again. “I don’t speak it often. It’s too intimate, almost. Makes me feel… fifteen again. Makes me miss my mum’s cooking. Makes me remember who I was before the courtroom made me steel.”
Lewis gently took her hand. “I like hearing her. The fifteen-year-old. The lawyer. All of it.”
She looked at him for a moment, then whispered with a small grin: “tumi amar jeebon er sobse sreshto anso.” (You are the best part of my life.)
Lewis blinked. “What does that mean?”
She brushed her fingers against his jaw. “That I didn’t expect you… but I’m glad you stayed.”
He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Then remind me to mess with your expectations a little more often.”
She laughed, the lawyer and the daughter and the girl in yellow all folding into one.
Saraswati would’ve been proud.
01. Max Verstappen
Max woke slowly.
It was one of those rare mornings — no flights, no media, no pressure to be anywhere. Just sunlight slanting through the Monaco windows and the soft rustling of someone moving around in the apartment.
He blinked once. Twice. And then smiled.
She was already up.
He stretched lazily, expecting to hear the clinking of mugs or maybe the quiet hum of music, but what greeted his ears instead was something… completely unfamiliar.
Bengali.
A language he’d never heard her speak before.
She was always introverted, guarded in quiet ways. Max had known her voice in whispers, in laughter tucked into the crook of his neck, in the sleepy murmur of his name against his chest. But this? This was different.
She was speaking quickly — not harsh, not rushed, just… rhythmic. Fluid. Like a stream that had always been flowing, just out of earshot, and now he was finally being allowed to listen.
He padded toward the source, barefoot and curious.
The scene he walked into made his heart catch.
She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, right in front of their little makeshift altar — flowers, incense, and a tiny idol of Maa Dugga she’d picked up from London last year. The fragrance of sandalwood and marigold hung in the air. A soft red-and-white cotton saree hugged her figure, traditional but effortless — the drape slightly off her shoulder, the folds pooling around her like a second skin.
In one hand, her phone — pressed to her ear. In the other, a silver bowl of dhuno, the sacred smoke curling upward.
And she was smiling. Wide, bright, home in a way Max had never seen before.
“He, maa, ami aonjuli diye dichi,” (yes, maa, I’ve offered anjali) she said into the phone, laughing lightly.
Pause. A teasing roll of her eyes.
“Na, o toh ekhuno ghumuche—aaj toh orr jonmodin,” (no, he is still asleep—it’s his birthday today)
Max blinked in surprise. He didn’t understand what was said, but he knew that it was about him, and his birthday. He hadn’t even expected her to remember. The last few days had been hectic. And yet, here she was — already awake, already honouring something sacred to her and thinking about him.
She looked up then, finally noticing him, and nearly dropped the phone.
“Max!” she gasped. “I didn’t know you were up—”
He smiled, slow and warm. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
She stood quickly, tucking her phone away and smoothing her saree. “I was just… It’s Ashtumi today. Big day back home.”
He walked toward her, gaze never leaving her face. “That was Bengali, right?”
She nodded, almost shy now — as if she hadn’t just lit up the entire apartment with her presence. “Yeah. I usually talk to my mum in the morning on days like this. And… pray.”
“I’ve never heard you speak it before.”
She looked down, a little awkward. “I guess I just never… thought you’d understand.”
Max reached out, brushing a bit of ash from her wrist.
“I didn’t need to understand the words,” he said softly. “You looked happy. And peaceful. And so damn beautiful I nearly forgot it’s my own birthday.”
Her face turned a shade of pink deeper than her alta.
“Sorry, I didn’t even—”
“You remembered,” he interrupted gently. “I heard you. You were talking about me.”
“Complaining, actually,” she teased, half-grinning. “Said you were still asleep on your birthday like a spoiled prince.”
He laughed, pulling her closer by the waist. “And what does the princess want to do today? Pujo and cake?”
“I already prayed for you,” she whispered, placing her forehead lightly against his. “For peace. And wins. And maybe slightly better strategy calls.”
He chuckled. “I’ll take all of those.”
She tilted her head. “Want to do something Bengali with me today?”
“Like what?”
“Wear a panjabi, come to the pandal, eat luchi and mishti, let my aunties pinch your cheeks…”
Max raised an eyebrow. “That sounds dangerous.”
She smirked. “You race at 300km/h every other weekend.”
“True,” he admitted. “But this? This might actually kill me.”
She swatted his arm, laughing. He caught her wrist and pressed a kiss right where the red alta had dried.
“Teach me how to say something in Bengali?” he murmured against her skin.
“Like what?” “Something sweet.”
She paused. Then: “Ami tomake bhalobashi.” (I love you)
He repeated it slowly, with that low Dutch lilt that made her knees weak. “Ami tom…ake bhalu…bashi?”
She nodded, biting back a laughter at the way he botched the pronunciation. 
“What does it mean?” he asked.
She looked him dead in the eye. “Find out after your birthday lunch.”
I have never felt such pure emotions reading any f1 x desi!reader I think. The immense devotion and emotion layered through every imagine is understatedly true and real for us Bengalis.
I would truly recommend anyone reading my post to read this once. To feel the pureness. And if you are not Indian or are Indian but not Bengali, just read it once to know my culture.
To the author, thank you for bringing this at such a level. Truly honored to be part of my culture and I am so grateful for you writing this piece
Anchor - What's one thing that people get wrong about you ?
Lando - I think I am not too fussed whether I say things that are wrong or right in the time. I'll say things that I think a lot of people will disagree with, but in times its always correct.
Oscar - I think one thing that people might get wrong about me, but I have probably said it enough, but I am more emotional than people think, both happy and unhappy.
I feel sad can I say that they have to say this thing. Like people calling Oscar emotionless still is heartbreaking. Liek what do you want from the guy. The genuine belief throughout people that Oscar piastri is a robot and that he was gifted a car and thus doing all the magic is very wrong.
As for Lando, God, I don't know what I would have done if I got as much hate he gets on a daily basis. He is a normal guy perhaps yes privileged but you can't say not talented at all. The worst part is he is a World Champion but people won't regard him as one because they think he is not worthy. But again if he is not worthy then why is he given the title. He proved it but well um yeah, sometimes people get too fussed up about other's words no matter even checking once if they are even 1 % better than him
The "Vantage Global Headquarters" is currently a second-floor walk-up in Shoreditch that smells perpetually of soldering iron, over-taxed server fans, and the damp brick of a London autumn. It is a space of jagged edges and exposed wires, much like the twenty-three-year-old Alpha currently hunched over a triple-monitor setup in the corner.
Oscar Piastri is a study in monochromatic focus. He’s wearing a grey cashmere sweater that costs more than the three servers humming beside him—a gift from his mother that he treats with clinical indifference—and his petrichor and cinnamon scent is sharpened into a thin, metallic needle of concentration.
"Osc, if you stare at that candle-chart any harder, you’re going to set the curtains on fire," a voice calls out from across the room.
Logan Sargeant is sprawled in a swivel chair that has lost most of its stuffing. He’s a Training Officer at the Academy by day, but by night, he’s the muscle and the hardware specialist for Oscar’s burgeoning empire. He’s a Beta-leaning Alpha, his sandalwood and pine scent a steady, grounding presence that usually keeps the room from feeling like a pressure cooker.
"The volatility in the Hong Kong opening is irrational, Logan," Oscar murmurs, his fingers flying across a mechanical keyboard with a rhythmic click-clack-click. "It’s not following the macro-trend. It’s like the market is... nervous."
"The market is always nervous. It’s a Thursday," Logan counters, spinning his chair. "What’s irrational is that you haven't eaten anything since Tuesday's cold toast. You're spiking, mate. Your scent is starting to smell like a literal lightning strike."
Oscar doesn't blink. "I’m optimizing the bridge. Four milliseconds, Logan. If I get the four milliseconds, we win."
"If you pass out from low blood sugar, the four milliseconds won't matter because I’m not carrying your dead weight down those stairs."
The heavy industrial door at the top of the landing suddenly bangs open. It doesn't have a sensor, it has a personality. And the person who just kicked it open has even more of one.
The sterile, electric air of the loft is instantly, violently colonized.
It starts with a peppery burst of fresh lavender, followed immediately by a wave of warm, golden honeysuckle. It’s an Omega scent that shouldn't be here—it’s too bright for the grey walls, too soft for the hum of the machines. It’s the scent of a summer afternoon in the middle of a digital winter.
"Alright, clear the runway! Carbs incoming! This is a high-priority delivery for one grumpy Alpha and his long-suffering sidekick!"
Lando Norris strides into the room, looking like a neon-green highlighter come to life. His hoodie is three sizes too big, his curls are a catastrophic mess of brown tangles, and he is carrying three brown paper bags that are already translucent with grease from the local chippy.
Oscar’s shoulders, which had been hiked up to his ears for six hours, drop instantly. The sharp cinnamon of his scent blurs into something softer, something that smells less like a storm and more like a hearth.
"You’re late," Oscar says, though he finally, finally moves his hands away from the keyboard.
"I’m not late, I’m strategically delayed," Lando chirps, dodging a pile of tangled ethernet cables with the grace of a dancer. He stops at Oscar’s desk, ignores the 'Do Not Touch' aura Oscar usually projects, and drops a bag of hot chips directly onto a stack of financial journals. "The lab had a minor crisis. Apparently, E. coli doesn't respect my dinner plans. Who knew?"
He leans down, invading Oscar’s personal space and puts a quick peck on his dry ,chapped lips. Because Lando is wearing a scent dimmer rather than a full blocker, his presence is an intoxicating, localized cloud. He presses his nose into the crook of Oscar’s neck, taking a deep, exaggerated sniff.
"Oof," Lando muffles into Oscar’s sweater. "Petrichor and... grumpy spice. You’ve been staring at the 'voices' again, haven't you?"
Oscar’s ears turn a vivid shade of pink. He tries to look stern, but it’s hard when an Omega who smells like a sun-drenched garden is currently vibrating with energy against his side. "I was working on the latency bridge, Lando."
"The bridge can wait. The chips cannot," Lando says, pulling back just enough to flash a lopsided, gap-toothed grin. He reaches out and purposefully ruffles Oscar’s perfectly styled hair, turning it into a chaotic mess. "There. Now you look like a human and not a statue."
"Logan, help me," Oscar mutters, though his hand is already reaching for a chip.
"Not a chance," Logan says, walking over and snagging a bag of fish. He looks at Lando with genuine curiosity. "So, you're the famous microbiologist. The one who actually got Oscar Piastri to answer a text message during market hours."
Lando beams, extending an ink-stained hand. "Lando Norris. I study tiny things that kill people. And you must be Logan. Oscar says you're the only one who knows how to fix the servers when he yells at them too hard."
"Pretty much," Logan laughs, shaking his hand. "I’m also the one who has to hear about Oscar’s ‘Lando – the omega with the sweetest scent and softest hair’ every time a trade goes well. It’s a lot of pressure, Lando."
"Logan," Oscar warns, his scent flaring with a hint of embarrassed cinnamon.
Lando’s eyes light up with pure mischief. He turns back to Oscar, leaning his hip against the desk, right next to a multi-million dollar trading terminal. "Oh? Is that so? Do you tell him about my hair, Osc? Do you tell him how I make your 'circuit boards' look like finger paintings?"
"I said you had an interesting perspective on data visualization," Oscar says, his voice dropping into that low, guarded Alpha register he uses when he's trying to maintain his dignity.
"Liar," Lando sings, reaching into the bag and holding a chip up to Oscar’s mouth. "You think I’m a genius. Admit it."
Oscar looks at the chip, then at the sparkling, hopeful eyes of the boy in the green hoodie. He sighs, a long, defeated breath that smells of rain-slicked earth. He bites the chip out of Lando’s fingers, his lips brushing Lando’s skin just a second longer than necessary.
"You're a menace," Oscar murmurs around the potato.
"A genius menace," Lando corrects, sliding into the seat next to Oscar and pulling a notebook out of his pocket. It’s covered in chemical structures and what looks like coffee stains. "Now, move over. While I eat these, I’m going to show you why your 'liquidity pool' looks exactly like a viral outbreak in a closed system. It’s all about the host-to-host transmission, Osc."
For the next two hours, the "Fortress of Fintech" becomes a picnic blanket.
They sit on the floor of the loft, leaning against the humming server racks. Lando talks with his hands, his honeysuckle scent blooming as he explains the parallels between microbiology and market mechanics, drawing diagrams in the grease on the paper bags. Oscar watches him, not the diagrams. He watches the way Lando’s curls bounce when he gets excited, and the way he uses his scent—bright, peppery lavender—to nudge Oscar out of his stoic shell.
Logan eventually retreats to the other side of the room, seemingly to work on a router, but really just to give them space. He watches his best friend—the most guarded, clinical Alpha he knows—laugh at a joke about mitochondria.
"You know," Lando says, leaning his head on Oscar’s shoulder as the night deepens and the London rain begins to drum against the roof. "If you ever get tired of the money stuff, my lab needs a guy who can handle big numbers. The pay is rubbish and the smell is mostly agar, but the company is excellent."
Oscar reaches out, his large hand finding Lando’s smaller, ink-stained one. He interlaces their fingers, the petrichor of his scent finally settling into a deep, contented thrum that blankets the Omega.
"I think I’ll stick with the money stuff," Oscar says softly, his thumb tracing the back of Lando’s hand. "Someone has to buy the chips."
"Practical," Lando murmurs, closing his eyes as the scent of cinnamon wraps around him like a heavy blanket. "I like that in an Alpha. Very optimized."
"Shut up, Lando."
"Make me, Piastri."
Oscar does. He leans in and kisses him—a slow, lingering press of lips that smells like lavender, salt, and the beginning of a world they were supposed to build together.
The silence that follows their embrace is heavy, broken only by the frantic whir of a cooling fan on the main server rack.
“Oi, Piastri!”
The voice cuts through the tension like a blunt blade. Sarah steps in from the adjoining room, a clipboard tucked under her arm and a lecture already halfway to her lips. She’s the anchor of this place, the only one who can tell Oscar to sit down and shut up without getting fired.
Then she sees the neon-green hoodie. She stops dead. Her professional mask doesn't just slip; it shatters.
“Oh,” Sarah breathes. “Lando?”
Lando, who was halfway through a second chip, freezes with his hand in the bag. His peppery lavender and honeysuckle scent spikes with a sudden, sharp note of "busted."
“Aunt Sarah?”
The silence that follows is absolute. Marcus, who had been quietly entering data in the background, actually chokes on his water. Logan looks between the two of them, his eyebrows migrating toward his hairline.
Oscar, for his part, looks like he’s trying to mentally recalculate his entire life. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his petrichor and cinnamon scent flaring with pure, unadulterated confusion.
“...What?” Oscar manages. “You’re related.”
“Yes,” Sarah says, her voice regaining its "Managing Director" steel.
“No,” Lando says at the same time, his voice a frantic squeak.
They glance at each other. Lando winces, his curls bouncing as he shakes his head. “Okay, yes, but not weirdly.”
“It’s not weird,” Sarah says dryly, crossing her arms and fixing Oscar with a look that says she’s already mentally reorganizing his HR file. “It’s a little weird,” Lando insists, waving a greasy chip for emphasis. “She used to check my ears for dirt before Sunday roast, Oscar. You can’t date a guy whose ears your PA has inspected!”
Oscar exhales something dangerously close to a laugh—a rare, low sound that rumbles in his chest, making the cinnamon in his scent turn warm and sweet.
“Well,” Sarah says, regaining her composure with terrifying speed. She looks at Oscar, then at the way Lando is practically draped over his shoulder, and finally at the bag of chips sitting on the mahogany desk. “That explains a lot.”
“It does?” Oscar asks, his voice cautious.
“You’ve been impossible for a week, Piastri. Beyond your usual baseline of 'difficult,'” Sarah says, checking a note on her clipboard. “You’ve been distracted. You’ve been... smiling at your phone. It’s unnerving for the staff.”
“I have not been smiling,” Oscar mutters, though the pink at the tips of his ears betrays him.
“You left a board meeting halfway through yesterday because someone texted you a picture of a sandwich,” Sarah counters, her eyebrow arched.
“It had a face, Sarah,” Oscar mutters, his gaze dropping to the floor. “The olives were eyes. It was... unexpected.”
Lando beams, his honeysuckle scent blooming with a surge of pure, chaotic joy. He leans even heavier into Oscar, his shoulder bumping against the Alpha’s expensive sweater.
Marcus snorts into his sleeve. Logan just shakes his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looks at his best friend. The 'Silent Sovereign' has finally met his match, and it’s a microbiologist in a neon hoodie who happens to be the nephew of the woman who runs his life.
“Right,” Sarah says, turning back toward her office. “Lando, if you’re staying, make him eat the protein. Oscar, if you’re staying, stop looking at the olives and look at the Tokyo opening. I’m going to go find a gin and tonic.”
As the door shuts behind her, Lando turns to Oscar, his eyes dancing with mischief. “So... technically, I have inside access now? Does this mean I can get you to cancel the 4:00 AM trades so we can watch movies?”
Oscar looks at him—at the ink-stained fingers, the messy curls, and the scent of a garden in the middle of a London rainstorm—and realizes he is completely, utterly doomed.
“No,” Oscar says, his voice soft but certain. “But you can stay for the chips.”
PRESENT DAY
Oscar is sitting behind his obsidian desk, the Patek on his wrist ticking away the silence. The tea Sarah brought him is cold.
The internal chime sounds—a crisp, professional note.
"Mr. Sargeant is here to see you, Oscar," Sarah’s voice comes through the intercom. There is a weight to her tone today, a lack of her usual teasing. She knows that when Logan visits the office instead of the penthouse, it isn't for a social call.
"Send him in," Oscar says.
He taps a command on his desk. With a soft, synchronized whir, the heavy polarized curtains sweep shut, orphaning the room from the London skyline. The office plunges into a moody, artificial twilight. Oscar reaches into a hidden compartment beneath the desk's surface and pulls out a physical file—thick, weathered, and filled with two years of jagged notes, blurry CCTV stills, and forensic reports that officially don't exist.
The doors slide open. Logan Sargeant walks in.
He’s no longer the lanky training officer in a neon-lit loft. He wears the dark, heavy coat of a man who spends his nights in the rain. His sandalwood and pine scent is clamped down tight behind a professional blocker, but there’s a tension in his frame that no chemical can hide.
"You look like you haven't moved since the markets opened," Logan says, his voice low as he occupies the chair opposite Oscar.
"I move when I need to," Oscar replies, his voice the 'Silent Sovereign' again—cold, precise, stripped of the fatherly warmth he showed Sienna. "How is the Yard?"
"Same as always. Red tape and paperwork," Logan says, leaning back. He pauses, his eyes softening for a fraction of a second. "How’s Sienna? Sarah said she’s started asking about Lando’s stuff again?."
Oscar’s jaw tightens. "She’s observant. Too observant. She has his eyes, Logan. She sees the patterns before I even explain them." He pushes the file across the desk. "Give me something better than 'observant.' I’m paying for progress, not small talk."
Logan’s expression shifts. The friend vanishes; the investigator takes over. For two years, Logan has been Oscar’s shadow at Scotland Yard, funneling classified leads into this private room. Two years of chasing a ghost that left behind nothing but a broken warehouse and a void where an Omega used to be.
"We’ve known for eighteen months that it was a high-level trafficking syndicate," Logan starts, his fingers tapping the file. "But they’re a black box. No digital footprint, no chatter, no paper trail. Until now."
Oscar leans forward, the petrichor of his scent flaring, a sharp metallic tang of cinnamon cutting through the sterile air. "What changed?"
"The Yard is moving tomorrow night," Logan whispers. "A coordinated raid on the Wapping Docks. We got a tip-off about a major shipment—not just goods, but people. High-value assets."
Oscar’s pulse thrums against his collar. "And the hierarchy?"
"That’s the lead," Logan says, leaning in closer. "Word on the street is that they’re sending a closer to oversee the transfer. Someone high up in the ring’s inner circle. Esteban Ocon."
Oscar’s eyes sharpen. The name is a ripple in the water. Ocon was a ghost—a whispered name in the underworld, associated with the logistics of 'disappearances.'
"If Ocon is there, the leader isn't far behind," Oscar murmurs, his mind already running the variables, mapping the docks like a giant, lethal circuit board.
"The raid is set for 0200," Logan warns. "The Yard is going in heavy. If you want to be anywhere near that site, you can’t be 'Oscar Piastri, CEO.' You have to be a shadow. If my Super sees you, we’re both done."
Oscar looks at the file, then at the darkened windows. The machine in his head isn't just analysing markets anymore. It’s calculating a trajectory toward the truth.
"I’ll be there," Oscar says, his voice a chilling promise. "Make sure the cameras in that sector have another... technical glitch. I don't want a record of what happens when I find him."
FLASHBACK - 2 YEARS AGO
The world was no longer measured in seconds, but in the rhythmic, wet thud of the Thames hitting the pilings beneath the floorboards.
Lando lay on a rusted cot, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches that rattled in his chest. The air in the warehouse was a chemical wasteland—thick with the scent of industrial bleach and cold, clinical iron. It was designed to do one thing: strip him of himself.
He could hear other omegas, same like him bundled up or chained to the wall. His lavender and honeysuckle scent, once a vibrant garden, was now a dying ember.
"The Alpha... he’s persistent," a voice murmured from the shadows. It was melodic, devoid of heat, and carried the sharp, biting scent of ash.
Lando didn't look up. He didn't have the strength to lift his head. His eyes were fixed on the only thing that mattered—the small, silver rattle tucked into the waistband of his torn trousers. He’d managed to hide it when they’d dragged him from the park. It was his anchor. His proof that she existed.
"Oscar will find you," Lando croaked, his throat feeling like it had been scrubbed with glass. A soft, dark chuckle vibrated through the room. A figure stepped into the sliver of moonlight filtering through a high, cracked window. Esteban Ocon looked down at him, his face a mask of professional indifference. He wasn't a monster; he was a technician. And that was infinitely more terrifying.
"He is looking for a kidnapping, Lando," Ocon said, kneeling beside the cot. He reached out with a gloved hand, tilting Lando’s chin up. "He is looking for a ransom. He doesn't realize he’s looking for a revolution."
Ocon pressed a small, pressurized cylinder against the scent gland at Lando's neck. A cold, numbing sensation flooded Lando’s system, turning his blood to lead.
"Why?" Lando gasped, his vision fracturing into a thousand points of light. “Why me?”
"Have you looked at you Lando?," Ocon whispered. "There are hundreds of people who wants you, have a taste of you. Look at you and devour you. You are one of the most beautiful omegas on earth.” Chuckle “Even Forbes says it. We kept our part did’nt we? I let you keep that girl in that church. Isn’t that enough?”
Lando felt his heart stutter—a mechanical, uneven rhythm. With the last of his strength, he reached into his mind, trying to visualize the penthouse, the bedroom curtains he and Oscar had joked about in that rainy Shoreditch pub. He saw the satin, the cotton and the wool of Sienna’s crib
Save her, Oscar.
He didn't say it aloud. He whispered it into the code of his own biology, a final, desperate prayer sent out into the London fog. “You have made a lot of enemies, Mr Norris” Another unfamiliar voice said it.
The warehouse went silent as Lando faded into darkness.
The camera glides over the slate-grey surface of the Thames, cutting through a thick layer of London fog that clings to the base of the skyscrapers in Canary Wharf. It ascends rapidly, scaling the sheer, seamless glass face of Vantage Global HQ. The building is a jagged needle of blue light piercing the low-hanging clouds.
On the plaza outside the soaring glass monolith ,a news crew is already live. The reporter, huddled in a trench coat against the London wind, speaks rapidly into a microphone as the camera pans up the sheer, silver face of the building.
"…it’s been called the 'Fortress of Fintech,'" she says, gesturing to the structure behind her. "Since its founding six years ago, Vantage has effectively rewritten the rules of the London Stock Exchange. In an industry defined by volatility, this building remains the only constant. And at the center of it all is a man the media has dubbed the ‘Silent Sovereign.’ At just twenty-eight, he’s not just participating in the market—he’s defining it."
The scene shifts. The noise of the reporter’s voice fades, replaced by the pressurized silence of the sixty-second floor.
Keyboards and mouses clicking, a soft murmur around as colleagues talk on their data, the sound of the coffee machine and beeping clicks of the printer swiftly printing sheet upon sheet.
The elevator doors slide open with a hushed chime, a different one as silence settles upon the floor.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Handmade leather boots strike the polished obsidian floor. The frame stays low, tracking the relentless, rhythmic pace of a man walking. Behind him, a phalanx of junior analysts and harried executives scramble to keep up, their soft-soled shoes squeaking in a frantic contrast to his steady lead.
"Good morning, sir."
"The Frankfurt projections are in, Mr. Piastri."
"Sir, the Board needs a signature on the merger by ten—"
A hand enters the frame, adjusting the cuff of a crisp, white dress shirt. On the wrist, a Patek Philippe Nautilus (5711)watch glints under the recessed LED lights, its second hand ticking with surgical precision.
"The Board can wait," a voice says. It is low, melodic, and entirely devoid of heat. "If they haven't read the risk assessment I sent at 4:00 AM, they aren't ready to sign. Cancel the briefing. Tell the London desk to freeze the liquidity pool until I see the diagnostic."
"But sir, the volatility—"
"Volatility is just a lack of data, Marcus." The man doesn't turn his head. "Find the data, or find a new department."
They pass the reception desk. Another chorus follows.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Morning, sir.”
“Good morning—” It blends into background noise.
The entourage stops abruptly at the heavy glass doors of the executive suite. They don't follow him inside. No one does.
The man enters the office and the doors seal with a soft, magnetic click. He walks toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Thames. The Shard and the Gherkin rise out of the fog like jagged teeth, but from this height, even the giants of London look small.
This is Oscar Piastri.
He finally turns, his face a study in chilling, stoic composure. There is no wasted movement in the way he sheds his charcoal suit jacket or the way he rolls his sleeves up his forearms. His dark eyes are fixed on a transparent glass display embedded in his desk, where cascading pillars of green and red code reflect in his pupils.
A chime sounds as the side entrance joined to his PA’s office opens up.
“Good Morning , Mr Piastri”
Sarah enters.
She doesn't carry a tablet or a frantic list of projections. She carries a ceramic mug, steam curling from the top, and a stack of physical mail that looks out of place in a room made of glass and light. She is middle-aged, her elegance grounded in a way that the younger staff can’t replicate. She moves with the ease of someone who has seen Oscar Piastri at his most vulnerable—not as the billionaire, but as the boy who once worked out of a two-room flat in Shoreditch.
"You’re late," she says.
Her voice isn't the practiced professional tone of the office. It’s warm, steady, and carries the weight of five years of shared history. She is the only person in the building who doesn't call him sir.
Oscar doesn't look up from the data cascading across his desk, but his jaw relaxes by a nearly imperceptible margin. "The traffic near the Embankment was congested."
"The traffic is always congested, Oscar. You just stayed in the nursery five minutes longer than you planned," Sarah counters.
She walks right past the "No Entry" line of his desk and sets the tea down precisely where his hand will find it. She doesn't wait for a thank you. Instead, she moves to the coat rack, adjusting the charcoal jacket he had draped there with a motherly tsk. "You’ve creased the shoulder. Again."
Five years ago, Sarah had been the first person Oscar hired when Vantage Global was just a fever dream of algorithms and ambition. She had seen him through the frantic nights and the cold morning trades. But more importantly, she was the bridge to the life he lived outside this tower. She is Lando’s aunt—his only family in London—and she is the living tether to the man who used to nag Oscar about his posture and his penchant for skipping breakfast.
"I need the forensic audit from the Canary Wharf branch, Sarah," Oscar says, his voice regaining its professional edge, though it lacks the bite he used on Marcus.
"You need a carbohydrate and a nap," she fires back, finally stepping into his line of sight. She crosses her arms, looking at him with eyes that see past the 'Silent Sovereign' and straight into the tired twenty-eight-year-old underneath. "I’ve sent the audit to your private server. I’ve also cleared your one o'clock. You’re going to sit there, drink that tea, and call the nanny to check if my honeysuckle ate her fruit. Am I clear?"
"I don't have time for a break," he says softly.
"You're not on a break, Oscar. You're recalibrating," she says, her tone softening as she reaches out, briefly squeezing his forearm—a rare, grounding touch in a building made of cold surfaces. "He wouldn't want you to run yourself into the ground before the day has even started. Lando always said you were a genius, but a stubborn one."
The name hangs in the air, a quiet ghost in the high-tech sanctuary. Oscar’s gaze drifts to the Patek on his wrist. The second hand sweeps forward, marking a time that feels increasingly hollow.
"He was right," Oscar murmurs, reaching for the tea. The heat of the mug seeps into his palms. "About the stubbornness, at least."
Sarah watches him for a moment, her expression a mix of pride and a deep, aching sympathy. She is the keeper of his secrets and the protector of his humanity.
"The car is downstairs whenever you're ready to head to the lab to check on the research team," she says, moving back toward her office. "And Oscar? Drink the tea. It’s the blend Lando liked. It’ll do you good."
The door seals with that familiar magnetic click, leaving Oscar alone in the grey London light. He takes a sip, the familiar scent of bergamot and honey filling the sterile air, a small, organic mercy in his empire of glass.
The shift from the high-decibel pressure of Canary Wharf to the quiet, elite corridors of One Blackfriars is seamless. As Oscar’s black armored SUV pulls into the private subterranean garage, the Silent Sovereign begins to shed his corporate skin.
Oscar steps out of the car. His bodyguard and driver, Viktor, a man with a military posture and a face that rarely betrays a thought, nods once. Viktor doesn't just drive; he monitors the encrypted perimeter of the building 24/7. He lives in the suite directly below Oscar’s, a constant shadow in the elevator and the lobby.
He scans his keycard at the private lift. The elevator is a glass capsule that ascends the exterior of the tower, offering a dizzying view of the London Eye and the Parliament buildings, but Oscar keeps his back to the view. He watches the floor numbers climb.
The doors chime and slide open directly into the foyer. The air here doesn't smell like ozone and server fans; it smells of expensive vanilla candles, Honeysuckle , and the unmistakable scent of a toddler’s play-dough.
Oscar steps into the foyer, his movements fluid as he sheds the charcoal armor of his blazer. He doesn’t drop it on the floor; he hangs it with a mechanical precision that belies the exhaustion in his shoulders.
"Daddy!"
The shout comes from the sunken living area. Oscar’s entire face changes. The cold, analytical sharpness in his eyes melts into a look of such profound, raw devotion it would leave his Board of Directors speechless.
Sienna is a blur of movement. She’s three, dressed in a soft yellow jumper that makes her look like a stray sunbeam against the minimalist cream furniture. She’s currently being "chased" by Viktor, the hulking bodyguard who looks entirely out of place crawling on his hands and knees, and Elena, who is laughing as she pretends to be a "barrier" for the toddler.
Oscar crouches just as she reaches him, catching her mid-flight. He doesn't just pick her up; he pulls her into a crushing, desperate cuddle, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He breathes her in—the smell of home, of the only thing left that is purely theirs.
"There’s my girl," he whispers, his voice thick and private. "Have you been good for Mrs. Halloway?"
"I drew a dinosaur!" Sienna announces, pulling back to frame his face with her small, sticky hands. She looks at him with an intensity that mirrors his own, her dark curls falling over her forehead. "But it has wings. Like a bird."
"An optimization," Oscar murmurs with a faint, genuine smile, kissing her forehead. "Very smart."
He carries her toward the center of the room. The staff adjusts around them like a well-oiled machine. Chef Aris emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a white apron. "Dinner is roast chicken tonight, Mr. Piastri. Sienna helped me ‘season’ the vegetables."
"Which means there is salt everywhere," Mrs. Halloway adds with a wink. She stands by the window, the nanny-midwife who had been there for the very first breath Sienna took. She watches Oscar with a gaze that is both protective and deeply sad.
Oscar settles onto the oversized sofa, pulling Sienna into his lap. He doesn't care about the suit trousers or the schedule for tomorrow. He begins the nightly ritual—the cuddles, the tickles, the whispered stories about her day. He showers her with a softness that is almost overcompensating, as if he can fill the physical space of two parents with the sheer force of his love.
Sienna leans back against his chest, her head resting right over his heart. She looks up at the ceiling, her eyes wide and thoughtful.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, Bug?"
"I like the lights," she says, pointing at the glowing London skyline. Then, she tilts her head and looks at him with a cheeky, lopsided grin that stops the air in his lungs. "It’s a giant circuit. All the bits…talking”
The world tilts. Oscar’s heart doesn't just skip a beat; it dives into the deep memories residing there.
FLASHBACK – 6 YEARS AGO
The rain is lashing against the windows of a cramped, overcrowded university pub in South Kensington. The air is thick with the smell of cheap beer, damp coats, and the frantic energy of post-grad students.
Oscar, a twenty-two-year-old finance prodigy with a scholarship and a scowl, is sitting in a corner booth, staring at a spreadsheet on his laptop. He’s trying to ignore the noise until someone slides into the seat across from him without asking.
"You look like you're trying to solve the universe, and the universe is winning," a voice says.
Oscar looks up. A boy with a mop of unruly brown hair and a bright, neon-green hoodie is grinning at him. He’s holding a pint in one hand and a notebook covered in chemical structures in the other. He looks vibrant, chaotic, and entirely out of place in Oscar's structured world.
"I'm working," Oscar says flatly.
The boy doesn't leave. Instead, he leans over, squinting at Oscar’s screen. He points at a complex data visualization of the morning's market trades.
"It’s like a giant circuit board, isn't it?" the boy says, his voice full of genuine wonder. "All the little bits talking to each other, trying to find a way to survive the surge."
Oscar blinks, startled. No one had ever described high-frequency trading as a biological system before. "I'm Oscar," he finds himself saying, closing his laptop.
The boy reaches out, his hand warm and slightly stained with ink. "Lando. I'm a microbiologist. I study viruses. Basically, I look at the things that try to break your circuit boards." He winks, a cheeky, lopsided flash of white teeth. "Wanna buy a nerd a drink and tell me why you're so grumpy?"
Oscar’s grip on Sienna tightens, just enough to feel her heartbeat against his ribs. The echo is so sharp it feels like a physical sting in his chest.
"Yeah, Sienna," he whispers, his voice cracking. "It’s a big circuit. Everyone is just trying to find a way home."
He pulls her closer, burying his face in her hair. Outside, the London fog swallows the tower, leaving the two of them alone in the amber glow of the living room.
From the kitchen, the soft clink of a ceramic plate signals that dinner is ready. Elena and Marcus are moving quietly in the background, dimming the lights to a soft, golden hue. Viktor stands by the door, a silent sentinel, while Mrs. Halloway approaches with a gentle smile, reaching out to take Sienna so Oscar can finally stand up.
"Come on, little bird," the nanny coos. "Time for the roast chicken you helped Aris make."
Oscar stands, his legs feeling heavy. He looks at his hands—the hands that trade billions, the hands that are now stained with the memory of a neon-green hoodie and a rainy Tuesday night.
"I'll carry her," Oscar says, his voice firm but soft. "I've got her."
In the corporate offices of Vantage Global, the air is chemically pure. It’s a requirement of the modern professional code—scent blockers are as mandatory as a suit and tie. Oscar spends his days in a vacuum, his natural petrichor and cinnamon stifled by a high-grade pharmaceutical patch behind his ear.
But here, in the sanctity of the penthouse, he peels the patch away.
As he settles onto the sofa with Sienna, his true nature bleeds back into the room. The sharp, grounding scent of rain on dry earth begins to circulate, warmed by the spice of cinnamon as his Alpha biology reacts to the safety of his home. It’s a heavy, commanding scent that usually anchors the entire apartment, providing a wordless "all is well" to the staff.
Elena, Aris, and Marcus—all Betas—move around him with a comfortable ease. They aren't affected by the territorial spikes of an Alpha, which is exactly why Oscar hired them. They provide the steady, scent-neutral foundation his life needs to function.
And Sienna? She is too young to have presented, her secondary scent still a mystery locked in her DNA. But her primary pup-scent is already blooming: a fragile, sweet burst of honeysuckle. Because she hasn't reached the age for blockers or dimmers, she is the only thing in this glass fortress that smells like the truth.
And the truth smells like Lando.
FLASHBACK – 6 YEARS AGO
The Prince of Wales is a chaotic soup of suppressed biology. Most of the students are wearing standard-issue blockers, creating a strange, sterile tension in the crowded pub. Oscar, even at twenty-two, is disciplined; his petrichor scent is locked behind a professional-grade patch, making him appear even more distant and cold than he already is.
Then, Lando slides into the booth.
He isn’t wearing a blocker. He’s wearing a scent dimmer—a lighter, more social version used by Omegas who don't want to disappear entirely. It’s supposed to keep the scent "polite," restricted to a three-foot radius.
But as Lando leans over Oscar’s laptop, the radius vanishes.
The air in the booth is suddenly flooded with crushed lavender and honeysuckle. It isn't an aggressive spike; it’s a soft, insistent invitation. It’s bright and peppery, slicing through the stale smell of the pub like a sunbeam.
Oscar’s pupils dilate instantly. His Alpha biology, usually so well-behaved, begins to thrum against the constraints of his own blocker.
"You’re wearing a dimmer," Oscar says, his voice coming out lower, more gravelly than he intended. It’s an observation that, in a different setting, might have been an insult.
Lando just laughs, the sound as bright as the neon-green of his hoodie. He doesn't seem bothered by the ancient power dynamic. He leans in closer, his scent deepening as he gets comfortable.
"Blockers make my head itch," Lando whispers conspiratorially, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Besides, why would I want to hide? I like how I smell. Don't you?"
He winks, and the scent of honeysuckle surges—warm, golden, and devastatingly sweet. It’s a direct hit to Oscar’s central nervous system. For a man who lives his life by the numbers, the sudden, unquantifiable pull of this Omega is the first variable Oscar can't account for.
"It’s... distracting," Oscar manages to say, though his body is leaning toward the source of the heat.
"Good," Lando chirps, taking a long sip of his pint. "Distracted people are much more interesting than statues. Now, tell me about these 'voices' in your math, Oscar."
Present Day
"Daddy, you smell like the rain," Sienna says, burying her face in the crook of his neck.
Oscar’s heart gives a painful, hollow thud. He holds her tighter, his own petrichor scent flaring with a protective intensity that fills the living room.
"And you smell like a garden, Bug," he murmurs.
Mrs. Halloway steps forward to pull out his chair. She is an Omega herself—older, retired from the intensity of the field, her scent dim and steady like old parchment. She is the only one who can meet his gaze when his Alpha instincts are this raw.
"She’s had a good day, Oscar," she says softly, her voice a calm anchor. "She’s ready for her favorite story tonight."
Oscar nods, sitting down as Aris places a perfectly roasted chicken in the center of the table. The steam rises, mingling with the complex layers of scent in the room, a domestic ritual that feels like a fragile shield against the world outside the glass.
New fic !! Go check it out pls. Its a mystery/thriller with romance too. It involves death of a character though, deceased in the background but shown constantly through flashbacks.
I wanna know if people are interested in a fic with past Landoscar like Lando is dead now, Oscar is alive with their daughter. Its omegaverse so Omega and Alpha will be there but not that much, just ot enable so that Mpreg is valid.
And the story is gonna be a detective kinda mysterry thriller drama. Or something, not spooky but heartbreaking perhaps with Oscar doing secret investigations on lando's death.
Also their presence will be through flashbacks, constant so Lando is there in the story.
I love you Oscar !!!! Fantastic race YESSSS. Amazing amazing. just amazing. So cool headed and dodging real bullets.
Also never change. The last radio, "Wow seems like when you start these things, it's pretty good"
George fans wishing for George to win the championship bc Kimi was only there for 2 seasons and it's unfair to win in an already fast car. Meanwhile i try to understand the difference to last years same situation at McLaren??? Like Lando was longer in the team and worked (with Carlos and Daniel) to develop the cars to the point to win again and then came Aussie for Aussie, and suddenly they are hating Lando for doing nothing, destroying the cars, having DNFs and so on??? Like where is the differences????
I mean people say that Lando this that, Lando is washed. Lando isnt deserving. he is nowins.
yeah well that man has been fighting for this since 2019 with absolutely trash cars, tractors, heartbreaks. His own team unable to give him a car that suits him and his talent and when he does get it, the championship he did so much for. People still hate him saying he isnt a champion
Well you know what people, no matter what you do , the world whenever asks who is the 2025 world champion? It will always be Lando Norris
Yeah well Lando's car is really badly messed up as of now. Our boy cant catch but stray unlucky potions thrown at him time to time.
His car is facing electrical issues since start of this weekedn and still he manages to qualify p5 with that shitty car filled with gremlins. Then a great start that puts his to P3 but if Mclaren did a better strategy perhaps he could have been higher up the roster as of now. They pitted him too soon I believe.
I am hating on McLaren so bad this race again. You are ruining my boy's race. He is racing beautifully with all you have given.
A fastest lap? Yes. But you snatched that podium, from him I feel like. He could have had a podium or even P4 if you did the strategy correct
