`alexia

ambassador of cinnamon & passive aggression & music

[kisslexa]

playlist: snow patrol — «chasing cars», aquilo — «you there».

ㅤlestappen × firefighters au, in which:

ㅤfire station 121 in los angeles runs on a wire stretched to its breaking point. not because of the calls – they've handled worse – but because of the duo that is captain max verstappen and his best firefighter, who also happens to be his biggest headache.

ㅤmax is a man of procedures and statistics. to him, protocol isn't just another chapter in the handbook – it's the only thing standing between his crew and a line-of-duty funeral. his face permanently wears the expression of someone who's 'too old for this shit', despite the fact he isn't even thirty.

charles leclerc couldn't be more different. he's sunshine wrapped in soot-stained turnout gear. after the shift, he can usually be found at the station piano in the day room, quietly playing while the rest of the crew winds down. somehow, his smile is enough to lift everyone's spirits, even after the third callout of the day.

out on the fireground, though, that same sunshine becomes a walking chain-of-command violation. charles isn't suicidal – not even close. he simply seems to have been born without the instinct for self-preservation. if someone is trapped inside, he'll charge straight into the hottest part of the fire without a second thought, regardless of what orders he's been given.

the entire station has seen max lose his voice, tearing into charles beside the engine after a call, one soot-blackened gloved hand gripping his chin while everyone else quietly pretends not to watch. and yet no one can understand why the captain has never filed the paperwork to have him pulled from active duty.

the answer reveals itself long after the shift is over. the locker room is silent except for the metallic clatter of lockers. charles peels off his sweat-soaked t-shirt, exposing a fresh bruise blooming across his ribs. max looks away. he isn't angry that charles broke protocol. he's angry because one day he might not reach him in time. because one day, that reckless little ray of sunshine might disappear into the flames and never come back out.

— you think diving in headfirst while the roof is collapsing is heroism? no, leclerc. It's fucking negligence. and when it gets you killed, I'm the one who's going to sit behind that desk filling out the nfirs report. not you. I'm sure as hell not writing ‘cause of death: clinical stupidity complicated by a chronic need to be liked.’ you either operate within protocol as part of this crew, or you operate outside of it – and then you're a dead man. I don't need a fallen hero. I need my firefighter alive.

by kisslexa

!english isn’t my native language & i genuinely love first responder shows. 9-1-1 is my absolute favourite, i swear. i'm literally buck. and... top 5 unforgivable things: #1 killing off bobby nash. sorry.

[kisslexa]

playlist: andra day rise — «rise up», novo amor — «from gold».

ㅤf1 racers × medical au, in which:

four freshly qualified junior doctors — walking disasters in white coats — have just started their fy1 posts in the nhs and somehow manage to create problems faster than anyone can fix them. their supervising consultant, dr russell, never misses an opportunity to regret not going into private practice instead. and yet, somehow, he finds something familiar — and, if he's honest, almost endearing – in every single one of them.

ㅤ‘you told him he has broken heart syndrome?’

oscar freezes, tablet in hand, staring at lando with the sort of expression usually reserved for particularly hopeless cases. not patients —colleagues.

lando shrugs, making no attempt to hide his self-satisfied grin.

‘well, technically, it's true. takotsubo cardiomyopathy. he's going through a divorce, plus the classic chest pain. I just translated the diagnosis into plain english.’

‘you made a fifty-year-old man cry in the treatment room,’ logan says flatly, taking a sip of coffee from a paper cup with the air of someone commenting on the weather rather than the emotional crisis unfolding thirty metres away. ‘carlos is sitting with him now. has been for the last fifteen minutes.’

‘carlos volunteered!’ lando throws his hands up in mock innocence. ‘I merely asked whether he'd like to practise on a real-life case. empathy, therapeutic communication, all that.’

‘what you actually said was, “oi, carlos, fancy being mr hargrave's emotional support while I salvage my reputation?”’ oscar corrects him.

‘well... more or less.’

oscar sighs — a short, defeated sigh that somehow says more than any lecture ever could. he's already opening his mouth to deliver something mercilessly precise when the treatment room door swings open and carlos steps out.

he looks exhausted, but victorious. behind him stands mr hargrave, still sniffling, though now wearing the beginnings of a smile.

‘everything's sorted,’ carlos announces, straightening the sleeves of his scrubs. ‘we talked about his feelings, looked through photos of his dachshund, and now he's decided life is worth carrying on with. I've booked him into cardiology next week,’ he adds pointedly, looking straight at lando.

‘see?’ lando beams, clapping oscar on the shoulder without noticing — or choosing not to notice — the way oscar flinches at the contact. ‘I didn't create a problem. I created an opportunity. for teamwork. for personal growth.’

‘you created chaos,’ oscar replies, though the corner of his mouth betrays him with the faintest twitch.

naturally, lando catches it. his grin only widens.

‘you like chaos, piastri. you're just not ready to admit it yet.’

‘I don't like chaos. I tolerate it. there's a difference.’

‘tolerance is the first step towards love.’

logan, who has been watching the exchange over the rim of his coffee cup, turns to carlos.

‘does that count as flirting?’

‘oh, absolutely,’ carlos replies with a nod, not bothering to lower his voice. ‘they do this all the time. I'm keeping observational notes.’

‘we are not flirting,’ lando and oscar say at exactly the same time, though in completely different tones.

lando sounds theatrically offended. oscar sounds profoundly, terminally exhausted.

‘of course not,’ says a fourth voice — calm, dry, and saturated with sarcasm down to the molecular level. ‘flirting requires free time, which you all clearly have in abundance, seeing as you're standing in the corridor discussing your romantic — or platonic, I really couldn't care less — relationship while bay four has been waiting seven minutes for the ward round.’

dr russell is standing by the nurses' station, clutching two sets of patient notes in one hand and a mug that reads 'world's okayest doctor' in the other. he looks as though he's just come off a thirty-hour shift, despite it being only tuesday and barely past midday.

‘we were just—’ lando begins.

‘I've heard quite enough,’ russell says, raising a hand and cutting him off mid-sentence. ‘mr hargrave, I'm pleased to see you looking considerably better — and only slightly tearful. I trust my fy1s haven't exhausted you too badly. sainz, would you mind escorting mr hargrave out? and then you, lando, come and see me. I'd like to discuss the difference between 'creative patient communication' and 'conducting an unscheduled psychotherapy session during working hours'.’

‘why am I getting singled out?’ lando protests, blinking with the sort of wide-eyed innocence that has never once worked on russell.

he keeps trying anyway. every single time.

‘an excellent question. In the meantime, perhaps you could consider how you'd explain your innovative approach to the trust board if mr hargrave decides to write a complimentary letter and we're forced to add 'psychological support, lando norris method' to the official clinical guidelines.’

oscar lets out a quiet snort.

lando turns to him with the expression of a man who has just been betrayed by his closest friend.

‘you're laughing. you're actually laughing at me!’

‘not at all,’ oscar replies with a perfectly straight face, despite the unmistakable tremor still running through his shoulders.

george takes a sip of tea, surveys the scene — lando wearing the expression of a tragic hero, oscar hiding a smile behind his tablet, logan with his now-empty coffee cup, and carlos already leading mr hargrave away while speaking to him in the calm, reassuring voice of someone born to de-escalate crises — and exhales.

It's more than a sigh. It's the sigh of a man who made peace with his fate somewhere between their second and third week on the ward.

‘I need a new group of trainees,’ he informs the ceiling. the ceiling remains silent. It seems sympathetic.

‘you say that every tuesday,’ logan observes.

‘vecause every tuesday you lot give me a reason to.’

‘It's wednesday,’ oscar corrects him.

russell fixes him with a long, unreadable look. then his gaze shifts to lando — who has already opened his mouth, almost certainly about to say something catastrophically inappropriate — before returning to oscar.

‘piastri,’ he says, his voice carrying an icy authority softened only by the faintest trace of something almost paternal, ‘you are my last remaining hope that at least one of you won't send me to an early grave. don't disappoint me.’

‘I'll do my best.’

‘now then — ward round,’ russell declares, sounding like a man announcing his own execution. ‘let's all do our very best to resemble competent doctors rather than contestants on a reality show I've somehow been unwillingly watching for the past three months.’

george turns and heads down the corridor towards the ward.

the four younger doctors exchange a glance. It contains everything: apologies, promises, the anticipation of future disasters, and a silent agreement that perhaps — just perhaps — they'll try to behave themselves today.

‘he'll forgive us by friday,’ carlos murmurs as he catches up with the group.

‘by friday we'll have given him something new to forgive,’ lando replies just as quietly, though with considerably more enthusiasm.

walking beside him, oscar nudges him in the ribs with his elbow.

lando smiles — not his usual cocky grin, but something softer, warmer, and altogether more genuine — and nudges him back.

ahead of them, dr russell keeps walking without looking over his shoulder. still, for the briefest fraction of a second, he slows his pace. just enough to let them catch up.

by kisslexa

!english isn’t my native language & warning: zero knowledge of medicine, let alone the uk's. all i know from medicine is that activated charcoal saves you from everything (that's the basics, guys, you gotta know this xd), and i myself am an ibuprofen ambassador, but i fell so in love with these silly boys while writing this au :(

[kisslexa]

playlist: klaus nomi — «the cold song», kxllswxtch — «haha».

ㅤf1 racers au, in which:

in a corrupt coastal town, four teenagers revive an archaic code of dueling as a way to enforce justice. what begins as a moral experiment soon escalates into a deadly system they can no longer control.

ㅤin a small coastal town, where old traditions and unspoken laws of corruption intertwine into an oppressive hierarchy, live four teenagers: charles, nicknamed poet; george, sheriff; lando, joker; and carlos, saiga. they are bound by friendship, but even more by a shared sense that the world around them is unjust and deaf to their struggles.

it all begins with charles: a restrained romantic, raised on literature and convinced that a higher justice still exists, one rooted in an old-fashioned code of honor. when someone close to him becomes the victim of public humiliation and manipulation, charles proposes a radical solution — duels conducted under a 19th-century code.

thus, a secret society called 'the black spring' is born: a place where honor stands above the law, a word matters more than consequences, and a duel becomes the only acceptable way to resolve conflict. at first, it feels almost like a game — a desperate attempt by teenagers to build their own justice in a world adults refuse to see. until the first death.

from that moment on, each new duel pushes the group further into danger.

the idea, teetering on the edge of madness, is quickly picked up by lando — charismatic, unpredictable, and reckless. he transforms charles’s fragile concept into a system of furious retaliation, challenging anyone who crosses a line to a duel. george, the sheriff’s son, sees more clearly than the others what is coming, but finds himself powerless to stop the mechanism already in motion, torn between duty to the law and loyalty to his friends. carlos, whose life has long been entwined with the town’s grey dealings, retrieves antique dueling pistols from his father’s arsenal — relics that the man had kept in the house for many years.

over time, the duels stop being about honor and become instruments of revenge, power, and control. lando drives the system deeper into chaos, charles begins to question his own beliefs, george desperately tries to prevent collapse, and carlos sinks further into consequences from which there is no escape without loss.

charles: so we don't end up with total anarchy, we need our own code.

carlos: yeah. what, the criminal code ain't enough for you?

charles: we need a code, saiga, so that... 'cause tomorrow you'll say: 'i wanna duel.' bet you've already got a candidate. you do, right?

carlos: 'course i do. a rat, lead singer, nicked my setlist. i'm gonna whack him for sure. i swear to god.

charles: see? told you. joker, your turn now.

lando: yeah, there's this one dude. nicked my trainers from the changing room. no proof, but it's like everything points to him.

charles: alright, no need to ask sheriff. he's got no enemies.

george: well, not yet, anyway.

charles: in the code we gotta lay down that no personal scores – like 'nicked my setlist' or some even pettier material crap – none of that flies. all that small-time stuff has got to be crossed out.

lando: oh, come on, poet, just tell us how it's meant to be. we answer for all the crybabies and to hell with it? live short but bright, right, lads?

charles: what about a club?

george: like what?

charles: like fight club, but a dueling one.

lando: whoa, yeah, that's dope! what do we call it?

carlos: 'gentlemen officers.' or maybe, just 'gentlemen,' get it? no?

george: no. absolutely not.

charles: i say we call ourselves 'the black spring'.

by kisslexa

!english isn’t my native language & inspired (mostly based) on the series, with some changes.

[kisslexa]

ㅤ──ㅤㅤ« the middle of adventure is such a perfect place to start »ㅤㅤ

by kisslexa

[kisslexa]

ㅤ──ㅤㅤ« you're my cold frost. awaken me with the northern wind. teach me to live without you, so that, having met again many years later, I would say that you are my infinity. »ㅤㅤ

by kisslexa

[kisslexa]

playlist: girl in red – «we fell in love in october», beabadoobee – «apple cider».

ㅤbearnelli coffee shop au, in which:

in a rainy london coffee shop, steeped in cinnamon, there lingers the spirit of soft sweaters, quiet jazz, trembling fingers on paper cups, and a crush that begins with «the usual for you?».

ㅤlondon was unbearably gray in the mornings. the sky hung low, the streets gleamed after the night rain, sleepy students hurried across the road toward the university buildings, wrapped in scarves with their hands shoved deep into their pockets, while the little café on the corner already glowed with warm amber light, as though it existed separately from the rest of the cold city.

kimi opened it every morning.

he arrived before everyone else — at half past six, when the underground was still nearly empty and the air smelled of wet stone and the dampness of the thames. Inside the café, it was always quiet: only the soft music from old speakers, the hiss of the coffee machine, and the gentle glow of the lamps above the wooden counter. he liked that silence. he liked slowly arranging pastries in the display case, labeling cups, straightening the books on the shelves by the window, and watching the street beyond the glass gradually come to life.

and perhaps that was exactly why he started noticing oliver far too quickly.

at first, just as one of the regulars. a boy with perpetually tousled chestnut hair who almost always came into the café at the same time, so obviously late for his lectures that it became amusing. then kimi memorized his order. then — the way oliver awkwardly smiled every time he approached the counter. the way he took off his rain-soaked scarf and shook out his hair after coming in from the rain. the way he absentmindedly tapped his fingers against the lid of his cup whenever he was lost in thought.

and then things became truly bad. because one day kimi caught himself glancing at the clock.

8:11.

and for some reason, anxiety twisted inside him whenever the little bell above the door failed to ring exactly a minute later. but it always rang.

oliver would burst into the café along with a gust of cold air, slightly breathless after running across the street, and from the doorway would ask guiltily.

‘am I late?’

and every single time kimi rolled his eyes, though he still had to hide his smile.

‘for your lectures? definitely.’

‘I wasn’t asking about my lectures.’

after comments like that, it became impossible to work properly. kimi started mixing up cups, frothing milk for far too long, and getting angry with himself for how easily someone else’s smiles and fleeting glances could throw him off balance.

and oliver seemed to notice it perfectly well. he lingered by the counter longer than necessary, asked stupid questions just for the sake of conversation, and almost never left right away. usually he would sit by the window with his notes, warming his hands around a cup and pretending to focus on studying, though every few minutes he would glance up at kimi.

sometimes their eyes met. and then both would immediately look away, so quickly and in such perfect unison that it seemed almost ridiculous.

the café smelled of cinnamon, chocolate, and rain carried in on the visitors’ coats. outside the windows, buses rumbled past and people hurried along with their business, but inside, everything seemed to slow down — especially in those moments when oliver laughed quietly at something or lazily spun his cup in his hands while watching kimi from behind his book.

one day, he didn’t come.

at first, kimi told himself that it was normal. then — that he didn’t care. then he accidentally ruined two orders in a row because every few minutes he kept looking toward the door. and when the bell finally jingled close to nine, kimi lifted his head far too quickly.

oliver stood in the doorway, even more disheveled than usual, his coat hanging open and guilt written plainly across his face.

‘sorry. I overslept.’

kimi exhaled before he had time to think.

‘I’d already decided you weren’t coming.’

the silence after those words felt unbearably loud. for a few seconds, oliver simply looked at him intently, almost with surprise, and then slowly smiled. not the way he usually did. softer. warmer.

‘you were waiting for me?’

and suddenly kimi realized it was already too late to retreat.

by kisslexa

!english isn’t my native language & rewritten thirty times, still hate it.

[kisslexa]

ㅤsilver skates / landoscar au, in which:

vienna, the eve of 1900.

lando norris, the son of a lamplighter, finds himself in a trap of despair: he loses his job as a delivery boy at a bakery, and almost at the same time a doctor pronounces a verdict — only an expensive clinic in germany can save his father, who is fading away from consumption.

at this very moment, at the very bottom of misfortune, he is found by oscar piastri, known as osc — a daring repeat-offender thief, leader of a pickpocket gang, and an inspired interpreter of marx, skillfully justifying his trade with the idea of expropriation.

lando, gifted since childhood with the ability to glide over frozen canals on the antique dutch blades given to him by his father, grows with frightening speed into the dashing icy world of theft — a world wrapped in an illusion of brotherhood and the struggle for truth.

he becomes osc's 'close one', finding in him a mentor and that special friendship, forged by shared risk.

— and how long have you been doing this?

— doing what?

— stealing.

— It’s not stealing. you can't steal something that doesn't belong to them. what belongs to everyone, belongs to no one.

— who’s 'them'?

— the usurpers. those who live off others – merchants, landowners, officers, officials, the nobility of all persuasions and ranks. their name is legion. everything they think they own can't rightfully be theirs. they merely have it in for temporary storage.

by kisslexa

!english isn’t my native language & not fully canon-compliant (different country).

[kisslexa]

ㅤlandoscar au, in which:

the choice of priorities destroyed everything in one moment. or a story in which tension hung between once friends and teammates after the news that mclaren had placed its bet on lando. and now, for the drivers of the mclaren team, formula 1 has ceased to be merely a racing sport between teams and drivers. It has become a personal battle of oscar against lando, where one is driven by deep resentment and the other is slowly devoured by guilt.

— it wasn't my choice, and you know it.

— i know. but i can't do otherwise.

by kisslexa

!english isn’t my native language & fake news

[kisslexa]

student bearnelli au, in which:

ㅤafter an exhausting day that wore them both out, oliver unceremoniously crashes at kimi's place. with a relaxed exhale and a solemn 'to hell with everything, this is a sleepover,' the older one occupies the couch in the living room and the console. while bearman plays, calling the younger one over to brag about himself after every win, antonelli, the one in charge of cooking in their couple, skillfully works his magic in the kitchen.

by kisslexa

!english isn’t my native language & no divorced bearnelli in this house

[kisslexa]

young royals × landoscar au, in which:

ㅤtrying to avoid a scandal involving oscar, the royal family sends the crown prince to the elite boarding school hillerska. there he meets lando – a scholarship boy from the working class, who turns out to be a kindred soul and forbidden love for the heir to the throne. and now oscar struggles with the choice between his own happiness and duty to the crown.

« I've found it out. you see, everything is fake. everything is fake. everything in the world is fake. It's, like, you know... the grass on the football field isn't even grass. It's... it's plastic! It's like bright but at night. It's night! I know that much. but why is it bright? all the people are fake. they're made out of metal. but I like you. and that is not fake. »

by kisslexa

!english isn’t my native language

[kisslexa]

ㅤ──ㅤㅤ« if only for a second, let me have you. tell me all your secrets, let me know you. paint me all your pictures, hang them on my wall. show me all your colors, show me all. »ㅤㅤ

by kisslexa