#formula one fluff

[seonghrtz]

ㅤ THE OTHER KIMI , aka12

𝒮 YNOPS𝑖S,ㅤㅤwhen they got kimi's surname wrong, you saw an opportunity to poke fun at the situation.

【 𝐀𝐌𝐘’𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐎 】 kimi antonelli 𝖝 𝒇𝒆𝒎 raikkonen!reader smau fluff ᡴꪫ cw. strangers to lovers not-proofread implicit time skip ⸻ fc: girls from pinterest

yourusername

liked by kimimatiasraikkonen, kimi.antonelli and others

yourusernameㅤi just found out that my dad won the chinese gp while he's retired!!!

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kimimatiasraikkonenㅤ👍ㅤ𖹭 by author

⤷ yourusernameㅤso proud of you dad 🎉🎉

⤷ username1ㅤgirl— 😭😭

username2ㅤwait but wasn't it antonelli who won the chinese gp??????

⤷ username3ㅤyes!! but when he went up to the podium they called him kimi raikkonen

⤷ username2ㅤyou're kidding me

⤷ username3ㅤno lol even mercedes posted the video with the commentator saying the wrong name!!

username4ㅤsince when does raikkonen have a daughter?

⤷ yourusernameㅤ since i was born??? 🤨

⤷ username4ㅤOH 😶

kimi.antonelliㅤcongrats 🥳ㅤ𖹭 by author

⤷ username5 ㅤ ARIANA, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE????

username6ㅤnot kimi commenting 'congrats' 😭😭

⤷ username7 ㅤ not him embracing the joke

kimi.antonelli

liked by georgerussell63, yourusername and others

kimi.antonelliㅤon my way back home, in good company 🏆 (i had to return it to the real winner 😔)

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landoㅤ congrats dude! very deserved 👏ㅤ𖹭 by author

mercedesamgmotorsportㅤ you deserve this kimi! 🥹

sennabrasilㅤ incrível, kimi! 👏ㅤ𖹭 by author

⤷ username1 ㅤ ❤️🇧🇷🇮🇹

yourusernameㅤ thank you for returning my dad's trophy 😊ㅤ𖹭 by author

⤷ kimi.antonelliㅤ at your service, miss raikkonen 🫡

⤷ username2 ㅤ why are they like this???? 😭😭

⤷ username3ㅤ this is probably going to be my favorite niche joke 🤭

yourusernameㅤ congrats on the win btw!! u deserved ㅤ𖹭 by author

⤷ kimi.antonelliㅤ thank u bella 🤍

⤷ username4 ㅤ BELLA??????

⤷ username5ㅤ OH- kimi is shooting his shot

⤷ username6ㅤ they're so cute 💕

username7ㅤ kimi liking everyone who is congratulating him and only replying to ﹫yourusername 👀👀

⤷ username6 ㅤ AND he didn't even like mercedes' comment

⤷ username7 ㅤ my boy has his priorities straight and i respect that 🙇🏽‍♀️

yourusername

liked by kimi.antonelli, kimimatiasraikkonen, bestfriendusername and others

yourusernameㅤfeels like a romcom from the 2000s 🇮🇹🤍

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kimimatiasraikkonenㅤ👏👏ㅤ𖹭 by author

⤷ yourusernameㅤ🤍🤍

username1ㅤ it's so funny that raikkonen only comments with emojis

⤷ yourusername ㅤhe's just a simple man 😔

⤷ username1ㅤ OMG HI GIRL 👋🏻

bestfriendusernameㅤmy pretty girl!!

⤷ yourusernameㅤ🤭🤍

username2ㅤ she's so aesthetic 😍

username3ㅤnot kimi being the first one to like this 🤣

⤷ username4ㅤbro is desperate!!!

kimi.antonelliㅤ italy suits you well ㅤ𖹭 by author

⤷ yourusernameㅤoh do u think?? ☺️

⤷ kimi.antonelliㅤ yes miss raikkonen 🤍

⤷ username5ㅤthis is flirting??? are they flirting???

⤷ username6ㅤoooh i see 🤭🤭 kimi is getting bold!!

username7ㅤ she's so pretty ㅤ𖹭 by author and kimi.antonelli

⤷ username7ㅤ KIMI WHY DID U LIKED??????

kimi.antonelli

liked by yourusername, georgerussell63, maxverstappen1 and others

kimi.antonelli 🇮🇹☀️🌊

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username1ㅤwait didn't ﹫yourusername post the same photo on her dump???

⤷ username2ㅤwhat photo??

⤷ username1ㅤthe one on the second slide!!

⤷ username2ㅤOMG it's literally the same photo

username3ㅤi will pretend i didn't notice 🙈

mercedesamgmotorsportㅤ🇮🇹🤍

georgerussell63ㅤlooking good, mate!ㅤ𖹭 by author

username4ㅤgrande kimi 💪🏽

yourusernameㅤoh wowㅤ𖹭 by author

⤷ kimi.antonelliㅤ🤍

⤷ username5ㅤ👀👀

⤷ username6ㅤi don't know if they're doing it on purpose or if they just don't care about hiding it......

f1gossip

liked by georgerussell63, lando, username1 and others

f1gossipㅤ Kimi Antonelli has interacted several times with Y/N Raikkonen (Kimi Raikkonen's daughter) since joking about commenters getting his surname wrong when he won the 2026 Chinese Grand Prix. Fans are speculating that the two may be in a relationship, as they posted the same photo on their recent posts!

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username1ㅤwhy did george and lando like a post on a gossip page?

⤷ username2ㅤ i have a feeling they know something!!!

username3ㅤi think we'll all have to pretend to be surprise when they make their relationship public 😔

username4ㅤthey kind of look good together

⤷ username5ㅤ RIGHT??? they're so cute

username6ㅤi'll never get over kimi calling her miss raikkonen 💔

username7ㅤbwoah

username8ㅤkimi and y/n being in italy and posting the same photo... it really doesn't seem like much of a coincidence to me

⤷ username9ㅤbro... it's destiny

username10ㅤ to think it all started because they got kimi's name wrong

username11ㅤ and y/n saying that being in Italy made her feel like she was in a 2000s romantic comedy.......

kimi.antonelli

liked by yourusername, kimimatiasraikkonen, maxverstappen1 and others

kimi.antonelli date night with ﹫yourusername 🍝🤍

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yourusernameㅤuuh i thought we had an agreement not to post that picture of me 🤨

⤷ kimi.antonelliㅤbut u look so cute 🥰

⤷ yourusernameㅤyou're lucky you're cute and that i like you 🙄

⤷ username1ㅤSHE LIKES HIM??!!?!!?

username2ㅤGUYS GUYS PRETEND TO BE SURPRISED 😱😱

⤷ username3ㅤOMG 😱😱

⤷ username4ㅤOH WOOOW I CAN'T BELIEVE IN WHAT I'M SEEING 😱😱😱😱

kimimatiasraikkonenㅤ👏👏

⤷ yourusernameㅤdad???

⤷ kimi.antonelliㅤthis means you approve of me???

⤷ kimimatiasraikkonenㅤ👍ㅤ𖹭 by author

⤷ yourusernameㅤdad— 😭😭

maxverstappen1 congrats on your date, mate 💪ㅤ𖹭 by author

olliebearmanㅤyou didn't even invite me to the date 😔 i thought we had something 💔💔

⤷ yourusernameㅤoh hi ollie!!!

⤷ olliebearmanㅤoh HI Y/N 👋🏻👋🏻

⤷ username5ㅤguys wtf is this 😭😭

⤷ username6ㅤbearnellikonen 💕

username7ㅤnever thought i'd be alive to see kimi antonelli dating kimi raikkonen's daughter

⤷ username8ㅤas madonna once said "life is a mystery"

⤷ username9ㅤomg madonna mentioned ‼️

username10ㅤ they look so cute togetherㅤ𖹭 by author

yourusernameㅤbest date night!!!ㅤ𖹭 by author

⤷ kimi.antonelliㅤonly because it was with you bella

⤷ yourusernameㅤ🤍🤍

⤷ username11ㅤomg 😭😭

⤷ username12ㅤwhe he calls her bella >>>>>

𝒂𝒎𝒚'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 hii everyone! hru?? this is the first smau i have ever written, so please forgive me if there are any mistakes! i hope you enjoyed it! <3

© seonghrtz, 2026. all rights reserved, please do not copy / steal / translate / modify any of my works!

[rex-rambles]

➤ THE (OTHER) COSTUME | LANDO NORRIS

pairing: lando norris x single mom!reader

summary: after lando surprises your son for his birthday, you decide to surprise him by dressing up for silverstone, only this time, it's not spider-man: milo dresses up like lando himself. 

wc: 7.6 k

warnings: none!

authors note: okay so the love 'the costume' has received has been wild?? y'all are fantastic

➤ MASTERLIST - part one - part three - part four(ish) - part five - part six

You wish orange were a more common colour for clothes. After all, it could be bright and colourful or muted and rusty, a nice warm tone to add to your everyday wardrobe. 

It totally didn't have anything to do with the fact that you and Milo had nothing to wear to Lando's race next week.

Not remotely.

"You could dress like a car?" Milo says, running his hands along a display of dress pants, much to the disdain of the shopping attendant. 

"We want to wear Lando's team colours, silly." Despite all the time you had spent with the driver, you had yet to have a real piece of McLaren merch, or Lando's, or anything even remotely F1 related. If Lando were currently in England, you fantasize about the idea that you could call him up and ask him to borrow something of his, a daydream of wearing something that he'd worn before. 

It's the kind of thought that makes you blush in the middle of the store, the ridiculousness of it all getting to you. It's a childish thing, the sort of act a teen would blush over, but you couldn't help it. Lando had returned you to a youthful, bubbly sort of romance that you had thought you'd never get the chance to experience again. Well, you hope it's a romance, at least, and not just another doomed infatuation.

After all, it was hard to call something a romance when you hadn't seen the man in two weeks.

Lando hadn't been back to England since the birthday party, which was expected of someone like an F1 driver. A race in Austria, a movie premiere in New York. You, on the other hand, were a single mom halfway across the world. You had kissed him, sure, but that wasn't anything concrete. You knew how whirlwind romances could end, what those quick kisses could turn into. 

The evidence of it was currently trying to sneak his way into a rack of coats. "Milo, I don't think we're finding anything in there." You hold out your hand, and he happily runs to grab it. "How about we try another store?" 

"Won't Mr. Norris have things for us at the race?" He asks as you lead him out of the store, and it's a fair question. Lando certainly could surprise you with merch, but seeing as you have a week until the race, and that he's off travelling the world with far more important people, getting McLaren hats and shirts for you and Milo wouldn't be top of his list. 

Well, perhaps not for you. After all, despite the connection you hoped to grow with the racer, it was obvious he already loved Milo. He'd come dressed as Spider-Man, got Milo gifts, babysat when he could, hell, he was paying for you to go to Silverstone!

Really, the fact that he kissed you almost takes a back burner to just how involved he is in Milo's life. So, who's to say he wouldn't be thoughtful enough to remember merch?

Then, just as soon as the thought arises, it leaves a strange feeling in your stomach. Lando was an unfathomably wealthy person, compared to your situation. How could you possibly want more?

Oh, you don't have something orange to wear to support him, so you need whatever ridiculously expensive merch he has? 

You don't want him for his money, and more than anything, you don't want him to think you're ungrateful. Milo tugs at your hand, breaking you out of your thoughts, and he grins so wide that for a moment, you forget what you were thinking of entirely. "Mum, look!" He says, pointing to a charity shop. "A race suit!" 

And, because maybe miracles do happen, or some parent was cleaning out their kids' clothes, there's an old Lightning-McQueen race suit costume slung over the back of a chair in the shop's display, with a five-pound note sticker attached to it.

All you need now, you think, is some black dye, some orange paint, and some white paint markers. 

-

Lando makes it exactly three weeks before he cracks. Well, that's not exactly true. He sends you an Instagram reel on Wednesday night, questions about hotel preferences on Saturday morning, train times the following Tuesday. 

However, he hadn't talked about the party, or the aftermath, or the fact that he kissed you at all, and it was sort of driving him mad. He was given a glimpse of the domestic life, of what his days could look like off the road and off the track, and it was eating him away inside. 

How do you not fall in love like that? 

Well, love might be a strong word, but Lando was feeling things for you he'd never felt this fully before, and he had no way of knowing if that was a pity kiss, or a kiss with no strings attached, or if maybe, just maybe, you did like him back, and Lando had to consider a lot of things about his future if you did. 

However, none of that mattered right now, because Lando was slightly tipsy, and he just really, really wanted to see your face. FaceTime rings twice before you pick up, looking at him rather confused. "Lando? Everything alright?" 

"M' perfect." He says, sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, loosening the tie around his neck. "You?" 

"I'm doing alright," You say with a laugh, and as Lando squints down at his phone, he realizes you have a streak of orange paint near your chin. "Busy getting ready for the race this weekend." 

"Is that Mr. Norris?" Lando hears faintly, and he perks up instantly. 

"Milo! Can I say hi?" You pause, glancing down to where he imagines Milo stands by you, and something stutters in his chest. Did he do something wrong? 

Do you not want him to see Milo? 

He fully well could've overstepped some boundaries, tucking you both in like that, reading, invading your personal space. It had felt right for Lando to have been part of that equation, but it didn't mean-"You can, but you're not allowed to say anything. It's a surprise." 

"A surprise? For me?" With a slowly easing heart, you pass off the phone, and Lando laughs so hard he has to fall back on the bed. 

Milo is just covered in orange paint. It's on his hands, smudged on his face, splattered on an old t-shirt he's wearing. It was very obviously a surprise for the race, probably a sign, he thinks, and he takes screenshots as he stares at Milo grinning at him. "Hello, Mr. Norris!" 

"Hey, you muppet. Did you get into some paint?" Milo nods, turning to show him something, and your hand covers the camera. "Aw, come on!" 

"It's a surprise, sweetheart." Lando knows you're talking to Milo, not him, but god, does the name do things to his insides. "You can't show him yet." 

"Oh," Milo says, as his face returns to the camera. "Mum says you can't see." 

"I'll just have to wait. You excited for the race?" Milo nods excitedly, once again trying to show the camera something, but your hand covers it once more as you laugh, an unexpected sound. 

"Milo, what did I just say?" 

"I was just going to show how excited I am! Here." Milo steps back from the camera, and he spreads his arms super wide. Rather than focusing on the cute moment, however, Lando's gaze drifts to the background of Milo's bedroom. His McLaren Lego car box is proudly on display, however, all the Spider-Man decor is not. Or, at least some things were missing from when he tucked Milo and you in. Not that he memorized the room, or anything, but simply that he'd been replaying that memory in his head so often, it felt like he knew what the decorations should be.

"Wow, that's pretty exciting." He says, tuning back into the conversation. When you flip the camera around to show yourself, you immediately catch the furrow in Lando's brow. 

He's sure it's just from you being attentive to your own child's needs, but something is telling in the way that, just from looking at him, you know what he's thinking. "Everything alright?" 

"Where's all the Spider-Man stuff?" It couldn't have been long enough that Milo had changed interests. Sure, kids go through different interests, but Lando had got Milo web shooters, he had posters on his walls, comic books on the shelves. Now, it was oddly bare, and Lando's immediate first thought, his first fear, is that you could be moving, and he refuses to allow it to take root in his brain. 

You would have a nice and simple and not scary explanation. You had to. "He's going through a bit of a phase, right now." You explain, turning the camera back to Milo, who is still grinning up at you, gap-toothed and all. "Milo, who's your favourite hero?" 

And there, Milo says the one sentence that makes Lando wonder if he should abandon everything to fly home early just for you, and more importantly, just for Milo: "Mr. Norris!" 

"Me?" Lando squawks out, words caught in his throat. "But I'm not a hero." 

"Well, you are in this house." You'd just shot him in the heart, he thinks. He can't imagine an appropriate response, just staring at Milo, who keeps grinning. In this house, which means Milo and you. Lando was his favourite hero now, for reasons even Lando didn't quite understand. Sure, he was a F1 star, a celebrity, but he wasn't anything important. He wasn't a hero, by any means, but with Milo staring at him like that? He just might believe it. "He wants to do another birthday party Lando-themed." 

"Can Milo hear me right now?" You shake your head, and Lando dramatically throws an arm over his face, trying to cover his growing blush and crack a joke, because if he doesn't, he might cry. "So I dressed up for nothing?" 

"Lando!" You're laughing in unison now, and he wishes, above anything, that it wasn't just over the phone. Seeing you in person might ease the ache in his heart or the anxiety growing in his head. Honestly, it could just make it all ten times worse, but all Lando can think is that you had to like him back. Even if there were concerns of how Milo might fit into the equation, or his racing career, or your own past, you had to.

He was a hero in your household, anyway. 

Which meant he might be a hero to you, and really, Lando would give anything to be that knight in shining armour, whisking you away to experience the finer things in life, to give you and Milo the happiness you deserve. 

He just sort of has to get off of Facetime and into your life to make it happen. 

-

"Mum," Milo whispers up to you, "Why are they taking our picture?" 

The cameras flash around you as you enter the Silverstone track, however, even as your heart rate picks up, and the fear sets in of what Lando's world means, you know exactly why the cameras are flashing: because a little Lando Norris just walked in, decked out in a little McLaren racesuit, made as accurately as you could. "Because they love your costume, sweetheart." 

"I made it myself." Milo then says up to one of the photographers as you pass. "Mum helped." 

"I'm sure mum helped a lot!" The woman says with a laugh, and you offer her a warm smile. You're sure, if people knew you were here at Lando's request, after he dressed up as Spider-Man for Milo's birthday, they'd be acting much differently. 

But, for now, you're fairly invisible, able to walk through the paddock with Milo and enjoy the morning for what it is. Lando had told you to message him when you arrived, but had so far been MIA. It was qualifying today, so he was probably just swamped with media, or training, or getting ready to race, or more important people. 

Milo, however, very obviously notices Lando's disappearance. "Where's Mr. Norris?" 

"I'm sure he's getting ready," You say, stopping under the shade of an umbrella. It was a ridiculously hot time for England, and coming in an all-black outfit wasn't the best decision, but it was the nicest thing you owned for this kind of event. "We'll see him later, sweetheart." 

"I want to show him my suit." Milo says, tugging at your hand toward the bright orange McLaren hospitality. You were a guest of McLaren, technically, so if you were to be anywhere, you think this might be it. Milo, marching his way toward the building, draws the attention of even more cameras, and even more people. In your eyes, Milo truly was adorable, and deserved to be the centre of attention, but even this was a bit much.

"Look, it's a mini you." Someone says, and to your surprise, you look up to see the other McLaren racer standing by the doors. 

"Oh, wow." Oscar says, offering a little wave to Milo, who, for some reason, immediately hides behind your leg. You squat down to his height, gently carding your hand through his curls, as you try to figure out how he'd become so shy so fast.

"Look who it is!" You say, as Oscar approaches with even more flashing cameras, and Milo stares up at him, wide-eyed. "Can you say hi to Mr. Piastri?" 

Oscar crouches to also be Milo's height, which helps somewhat, but the boy is obviously wary. "Hello," Milo says shyly. "Mr. Pias-tri." 

"Hi there," Oscar says, holding out a hand for a high five. Much to your horror, Milo leaves him hanging. "I like your race suit." 

"It's for Mr. Norris." Milo says, pulling at the front of it. "We made it at home." 

"You must be Milo," Oscar says, and for a moment, your heart stops. Lando spoke about Milo. And, probably not just Milo, but you, and you're not sure what to do with that information. "Lando told me you were coming today. Are you having fun?" 

Milo nods, turning to look at you with a strange sort of look in his eye, and you still can't figure out why. Sure, it's not Lando, but Oscar is just as impressive! "It's okay, sweetheart. Mr. Piastri is also a pretty cool car driver." 

"Lando and I are teammates," Oscar says, and Milo shoots him an unimpressed look. After all, considering the little racing fan Milo was turning out to be, he seemed to believe Oscar was underestimating him.

"I know." He says defensively, and Oscar cracks a smile. "I saw you on TV." 

"Do you want a photo?" Someone says from above, and Oscar shifts to kneel beside Milo as you rise, giving the two of them space.

Milo finally seems to warm up to Oscar, offering a little smile, and without much thought to the action, Oscar takes off his hat and puts it on Milo's head. Milo gasps, grabbing the brim as he tries to look up at the hat, and ends up pulling it over his eyes. The small group laughs, including Oscar, who folds in on himself as he rises. "He's adorable," He says, reaching down to gently pat Milo's head. "I get why Lando loves him so much." 

Loves. 

I get why Lando loves him so much. "Oh, well, thank you," You manage to stutter out. "Milo, what do you say to Mr. Piastri?" 

"Oscar," Oscar says, extending a hand. "You don't have to call me Mr. Piastri." 

You shake his hand, and somewhere in the universe, you feel a change you can't describe, a cord unplugged from something too early. You turn to your right instinctively, where you find Lando a few steps away, out of breath and panting, staring you down, like a man who'd just spotted his lost love coming home from war. 

At least, that's what you hope that expression means. "Mr. Norris!" 

-

Lando's going to fucking die, and so far, there's at least like three potential reasons for it. He missed your text of your arrival, missed sending his attendant to gather you to bring you back to his drivers room and the paddock early, and then couldn't find you. He'd run around, probably looking a little mad, until he thought to stop by the McLaren hospitality, where he finally did find you. 

However, you were looking at Oscar and blushing and stuttering out something before shaking his hand, and his heart turned into something he could only describe as shrivelled. You were supposed to look at him like that, like when he stopped to help you bring groceries in, or fix your wifi router, or when he held the door. That hand you were shaking, even if it was just Oscar, wasn't right. Oscar shouldn't have been the first person to greet you, it should've been him. Lando should've been here, for you, and he wasn't, and how did that show he was dependable? That he cared? 

However, all of that sort of went out of the window when he heard Milo call his name, and then his shrivelled heart exploded, because all the orange paint made sense now. 

It wasn't for a sign, it was for an outfit. Milo was stood in a perfect little replica race suit, running at him full tilt with his arms spread out, and Lando wasted no time bending down to scoop the boy up, happily holding him in his arms as he babbled on about something, but Lando was sort of too far gone to hear it. 

You had made Lando's race suit. You got all the details right, even the little sponsor names, the little British flag and the name Norris on his hip, and for a moment, Lando has the realization that if, one day, you took his last name, Milo would too. Milo Norris, he thinks, is a perfect name for a perfect kid. 

Then, Milo pulls the hat off his head, and Lando gets a glimpse of the number on it. "What! 81?" He says, taking the hat and happily tossing it at Oscar, who catches it with a laugh. "That's betrayal! That's-that's enemy territory, Milo. What number should it be?" 

"Four!" Milo says as Lando reaches up to take his own hat off his head and place it on Milo's. 

"Exactly. 81's for ass-" Well, that's certainly not a word you would approve of him saying in front of Milo. "Uh, Australians." 

"Nice catch." You tease, coming to stand beside him, and there really must be something wrong with him, there's got to be. Because with you at his side, adjusting Milo's hat, smiling at him like that? All he can picture is this one day being his, and he's only kissed you once. "Did you just come from a work out?" 

A work out? 

Oh, him being out of breath and sweating. 

"Yeah, getting ready before qualifying." Totally not because he ran here. 

Not at all. "Can mum have the hat?" Milo asks, and Lando blinks a couple times before realizing he's never given you any merch, and for a moment, he just sort of hears ringing in his ears. 

Because how could he have never given you merch? Both McLaren or his own? How could he have never seen you in his shirts, wearing his number, god, maybe even just some of his own worn clothes? It's all he can picture, of you curled up beside him, repping him, and he has to think about rather terrible things to keep his body from reacting. "You know what? Let's take a trip to my store." 

"Lando, you don't have to-" Lando holds up a hand, cutting you off, and he then beckons you to follow. 

"I hope you brought a bag," He says. "Cause you're getting everything." 

-

Lando gets it, now. 

Why the guys like having their partners at races. It's sweet to have anyone come to watch, to celebrate, but coming off third, a not-so great result, coming back to his drivers room, and coming back to you? 

Oh, it takes so much restraint not to just kiss you senseless, because you're in his jersey, grinning at him with Milo in your arms, the image of perfection. Who cares about third when you have this?

Lando gets it, now, as you wrap an arm around him in a hug, squeezing Milo between the two of you as you laugh. 

He gets why guys put everything on the line to come home to something like this. 

-

McLaren having a partnership with Hilton is, you think, maybe one of the best perks Lando comes with. Sure, there are the fancy cars and free t-shirts, but a two-room hotel suite for you and Milo? At no cost at all? 

Well, that's the sort of thing you could see yourself getting used to, and as you wrap yourself in one of the comfy, complimentary robes, the thought doesn't bring about giddiness of the future, or of Lando, but a strange unease. This was a whole new world, where things were just handed to you on a silver platter when before, you had to fight tooth and nail for the same kind of respect. You got the free merch, the complimentary food and drink, the beautiful hotel suite, and it was all because of Lando. 

Lando was out there wearing watches more expensive than your apartment, and Milo was in a charity shop jumpsuit that you hand-painted. It was a very new world to step into, and one you're not sure exactly how to adjust to. There's a soft, tentative knock on the door, and you press your face to the peephole to spot Lando with a plastic bag in hand. 

"I hope I didn't wake Milo?" He says as you open the door, gesturing to the bag. "Just wanted to drop off something." 

"I just put him down," You say softly, letting him in. "Poor guy fell asleep on the way home." 

It was also a stupid thing to get caught up on when you and Lando had only kissed once. He probably had made out with countless women and let them go in a single night. Doesn't mean you didn't value his presence, or that you didn't miss the absence he filled. The empty side of the bed, the empty plate at dinner. Lando had played that role only once, and yet it had just felt so right. It was delusion, probably. Having fallen so quickly, after a single day, but you can't forget how right it felt, how much you wanted it, how long you'd seen him with Milo before it finally tipped over the edge. 

"You're something else, you know that?" Lando says, sitting down on the edge of your bed with a grin. "For dressing him up like that. Think it might've stopped my heart." 

You come to stand between his open legs, and somehow not quite getting the message, Lando extends the plastic bag. "It was all his idea," You say, taking the bag. "He wanted to dress up like his hero, after all." 

"Oh, you can't say that!" Lando covers his face and leans back on the bed as you crack open the bag. "I'm not a hero, I'm just-" He props himself up on his elbows when he hears the crinkling of the bag. "Oh, that's for you." 

In hand is a worn McLaren sweater you're pretty sure you've seen Lando wear at least ten times, which isn't a lot, but considering how little you saw him? It was a staple piece of his wardrobe. You must turn bright red, because Lando turns a matching shade as he quickly gets up, leaving little space between you. 

"It's just-I thought it might be a better everyday colour than the...the green." He tries to take it from your hand, and you pull it away from him, much like a child refusing to share. "If you don't want-" 

"Oh, you're never getting this back now." He gave you. 

His sweater. "I thought it matched you more." Then, because saying you matched an old worn hoodie, more than you did brand new, expensive merch might not exactly be taken the best, you watch his face fall in real time. "Because you should be comfortable! And it's like, the most comfortable thing I own! I-" 

"Lando." He immediately shuts his mouth, and sits back down on the bed, and you can't help but laugh, coming to sit beside him. So maybe you weren't alone, in how new this all was, the strange territory you toed the line on. "It's very sweet." 

"You're laughing! I gave you my jumper and you're laughing." He lets out a low breath, but you can see the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting his own smile. "And to think I flew you out here." 

"We took the train, actually." You correct, folding the sweater up and leaving it beside you. "Which I never got to thank you for. All this has been...so much." And as much as you hate to admit it, you need to start being honest at some point. "Maybe too much." 

Lando pauses as he watches you, you fiddling with the tie of your robe as you wait for his response. Telling him this was too much, to his face, was probably an idiotic decision, but this was all so foreign. The glamour, the respect. People didn't just do these sorts of things for you, didn't do anything anywhere near as close. 

But Lando? He came dressed as Spider-Man, and invited you to races, and for the first time in a long time, made you feel something in a heart normally reserved for Milo and Milo alone. "I couldn't tell you the last time I went on holiday." You finally say, just barely above a whisper. "Had someone pour me champagne, got more free, fancy things than I could ever name. And I'm so grateful for all of it. For you, Lando. I just..." 

"It's a lot." Lando finishes for you, rubbing his hands together. "It's okay, if I'm too much too." 

"You?" You turn to look at him, and Lando refuses to meet your eye, staring a hole into the carpet. "I don't think I could ever get enough of you, honestly." 

"I just really want this to work, you know." Lando suddenly blurts, cheeks tinted pink from your comment. "And I don't know how to do that without just fucking going crazy. Like the Spider-Man suit, paying for you to come to a race? Who does that?" Lando Norris does, apparently. "I just...I want you, and I want that little guy at all of my races, in that little suit, cheering me on." It all sort of comes out in a tumble of a confession that just keeps going. "And not just at races. I want to come home to this, to the Spider-Man webs on the walls, reading him a bedtime story, and I want to come home to you. Wearing my jersey, or my jumper, being with me, kissing me over the backs of couches." Lando looms nearer, then, and in another life, you might grab his face and kiss him, if it weren't for that little, minuscule fear that held everything back. Your words, your future, your feelings. "I think I'm sort of going crazy about it, actually." 

"Oh." You were supposed to be confessing your feelings of inadequacy to him, not him confessing actual feelings for you, but you truly don't mind the flip in conversation. However, he looks on the edge of something, a word that he just can't quite get out. "But?" 

He drops his head into his hands, raking his fingers through his curls. 

It's something he doesn't want to say, and it's something you've had to face for the past four years. "But having that is more than just races and little orange track suits." You fill in for him this time. 

"It's a lot of travelling, and a lot of away days, but...other drivers do it?" 

"With their own kids, Lando. That's a bit different." You break slowly,  because it's the truth. 

Lando adored Milo. It's one of the things that made the man so dear to you, but there was a difference between being good with kids and being good at raising kids, between being a babysitter and a potential father. "Milo's pretty much mine, if you want him to be." Lando admits quietly. "D'you see what number he was wearing? Whose name you put on that suit?" 

There's a part of you that wants to yell at him to be realistic. His world is so far from yours, with so much more to offer. There must be models and actresses and others cut out for this, not you, not Milo. But when he says things like that? When he looks at you like that? It's a lot harder to make that argument believable. "Kids are a lot of responsibility, Lando. There's more than one heart at stake here. I need you to think about this seriously." 

"Mum?" Both of you jolt at the sound of Milo's voice, somehow having gotten out of his room without either of you noticing. You have half a mind to put some distance between you and Lando, considering how close you're sitting, but Milo doesn't seem to care, scrambling up the other side of the bed to sit near you. 

"Missing out?" Lando says, turning to sit cross legged on the bed, and letting Milo join the little huddle. It's an act that shouldn't be as heartstopping as it is, but it was Lando, and it was Milo. 

It was the realization that you could have someone else to turn to on those sleepless nights, someone at your side who accepted Milo, not rejected him. It was someone in your corner, who wanted you, and it was the first time, in a long time, that anyone's made you feel so...whole. You'll cry about it later, you decide, when both your boys aren't present. 

"You should be in bed, love." You whisper, gently pressing a kiss to Milo's forehead. "So should Mr. Norris." 

"Sleepover?" Milo asks behind a yawn, and Lando laughs softly, shaking his head. 

"We've got a big day tomorrow. We can't stay up." Lando pats the pillow at the head of the bed, and Milo crawls up to lie against it. "How's that?" 

"I'm sure it's great, stealing my bed." You tease, coming to lie on one side of Milo, tickling his stomach as he cackles with laughter. Lando falls onto the bed on the other side of Milo and looks over at you with a grin.

As much as you would like to continue your conversation, some things in life are just more important. Seemingly tired of your presence, Milo rolls away from you, and plants his head on Lando's chest. Lando doesn't move, freezing immediately as the boy curls up into his side. "Picking favourites, are we?" You ask softly, and Milo yawns into Lando's ribs. 

"I am a pretty good pillow." Lando says, shooting you a wink, and you move onto your side, your arm splayed over Milo and onto Lando's chest. Your palm flattens against him to feel his pounding heart, the movement quick enough to convince you that he'd just run a marathon, or maybe won a race, instead of lying next to you. 

It would be a more intimate moment if Milo didn't wipe his drool on Lando's t-shirt, who luckily takes it in stride. "I should take him to races more often," You say absentmindedly, stuck between watching Milo and watching Lando. "He's pretty tuckered out." 

"You can come to every race," Lando says softly, rolling his head to the side to look at you. "I'll pay for every one." 

"Lando..." The thing is, when he said things like that, you knew he meant it. You knew that this could be your future, such an opportunity for both you and Milo, but it shouldn't be yours to take. At least, it shouldn't be yours to take, unless Lando considers all the little repercussions that come with dating you. "I just want you to think about this." You peek down at Milo, whose eyes are fluttering, still fighting sleep. You move your hand from Lando's chest to gently rub at his back, and in seconds, he's finally dozing. Only when you're sure he won't wake from your whispers do you continue. "You mean more to me than you know, so if we're doing this, I don't want...I just, I need you to know that I need all of you." 

"You have all of me." Then, because he knows it's not a fair thing to say, "I'll think about it." 

As gently as you can, you pull Milo back off Lando's chest and onto the bed. Lando's face falls at the loss, and you have to steel yourself to stop from confessing something catastrophic then and there. Despite all the doubts you have, the way Lando looks at Milo stirs something deep in your heart. "Don't worry about it at the race, either." You warn, knowing how he might stew over this long enough to hurt his performance tomorrow. "Just...when you know, tell me." 

Lando leans over, and you expect him to say something, but instead, he presses a kiss to your cheek. "Trust me," He says, "You'll be the first to know. Goodnight." He then gently places his hand on Milo's head and whispers, "Goodnight, Mini-me." 

-

So, maybe Lando's love confession didn't exactly go as planned last night. He had gotten the two-room suite for a reason: Milo goes to bed, you stay up, he confesses everything he's been dying to say, maybe you kiss him, it all works perfectly. 

However, that sort of love confession wasn't realistic, and he'd ended up not beginning a relationship with you, but he did kiss you on the cheek, and got a reminder to think about the relationship, you, and Milo. Despite your warning, it's all he can think about the entire time he's in the car, which most certainly isn't helpful. 

He wanted this. 

He wanted you. And Milo. 

And despite what those around him might think, it was realistic. It could be, anyway. He was young, he was well aware, but he had the energy to be a father. Other people had kids at his age! I mean, Milo wasn't exactly a teenage pregnancy, you were both in your twenties. You could handle this. He could handle this. Or, at least, he was pretty sure he could. 

He had already cornered Max in the Red Bull Motorhome to annoy him with enough questions about being a step-dad that the man now refused to answer his texts. He had done the research. He'd seen Milo in that race suit. He knew how his own father raised him, the kind of kindness that he couldn't believe others never received. 

That was enough. You were enough. And, as he overtakes Max, he hopes you know that. He hopes that you delaying this wasn't coming from your view of yourself, because he knew what the media could be like. You weren't what most people might expect from him, but that didn't make it wrong, didn't make you any less of a partner. Milo was a glorious part of this, not something for you to ever feel ashamed about. 

He had meant it, when he said Milo was his. He might not know exactly how to be a dad, but he knows how to be himself, and everytime he is himself, around you, around Milo, it feels right. It feels like he belongs, like that kid was always supposed to be his, like you were always supposed to be his. 

Mr and Mrs Norris, and Milo Norris. 

As he pits, he wonders where you're watching from, if you'll get to the Parc Ferme in time, or get to the barrier. It's cocky to think of, halfway through a race, but he can't help it. It's his home race; he might die if he loses, especially now that you're here. His mind drifts, as he takes off, wondering if he'll get to kiss you.

Then, as Lando gets back out on the track, weaving his way back to first, he lets himself wonder, just once, if this is the right decision. 

Because what if he did make a mistake? What if he screwed up? What if he messes up Milo? If he messes up what you have? He'd never forgive himself. A child is such a large commitment, and honestly, if he ignores Milo, a very hard task to do, you're a big commitment too. Lando's not sure what happened to you in the past, to leave you with Milo and no one else, but he couldn't fathom hurting you further, seeing you hurt at all.

God, if he fucked this up, he could never-

"Message for you, Lando." A voice cuts through his earphones as the worst of the thoughts spiral, giving him just enough of a branch to cling onto. 

"Mr. Norris?" Milo says, "There's a-what is it? Oh, there's rain expected in ten minutes." 

Lando has to suck in a breath to respond, his mind going blank. "Yeah?" 

"If you win, will you give the trophy to mum?" And there, on the Silverstone track, Lando realizes he could never screw up. 

Not with Milo or you on the line. Not with this. He might be young, and this might be new, but he knows he'd give everything up in a heartbeat to have this at every race. 

To have someone to give his trophies to, to have someone to come home to, to have you, and Milo. To have a happily ever after that didn't depend on a race car, or winnings. One that simply depended on you saying yes in a white dress someday. And, long before that, of you meeting him at the barrier after this race. "Of course, you muppet." 

-

When Lando wins, because of course Lando wins, Silverstone goes ballistic. It's the sort of celebration you'd never witnessed before, all the mechanics, all the orange staff, all the fans in the stands, they all erupt in cheers and hugs, a morphing, crushing mob that rushes towards Parc Ferme with a speed that forces you to pick up Milo to avoid him getting trampled.

"The trophy!" He says, smacking against your shoulders as you join the rush, jogging to keep up. "He promised you his trophy!"

"I think I'll keep it in the kitchen," You say with a soft laugh, taking off your earmuffs to let them hang around your neck, settling nicely against Lando's jumper. It might not be the prettiest of things to wear to an F1 race, but who else could say they were wearing Lando Norris's clothes when he won his home race? "We can serve pasta out of it."

"Or sweets!" Milo says, trying to get up out of your arms to see over the crowd as you approach. "Or apple juice!"

Lando stands on top of his car, and for a moment, you regret not keeping the earmuffs on, because the screams around you are deafening, your own included. It's the sweetest possible sound of victory, Lando jumping up on his car and shaking his fists in the air, a ball of energy that belonged there.

He makes his way around the crowd, throwing himself at mechanics and other staff, embracing family and friends, celebrating like he deserves to. As he takes off his helmet, you watch him pause, jumping up on the tips of his toes to try to scan over the crowd, and it's Milo who figures it out before you do.

"MR. NORRIS!" He screeches, startling the few people in front of you. They awkwardly shuffle to the sides to let you and Milo through, and Lando is instantly reaching for the boy, swinging him over the barrier and hoisting him on his shoulders.

It's the sort of view you don't think you could ever get tired of. In fact, it's the sort of memory you want burned into the back of your eyelids to see every time you blink, or sleep, or dream. It's Milo and Lando, matching suits and curls and grins, stretched from ear to ear. The crowd keeps chanting, hollering at the two of them, but all the noise sort of fades as you watch.

That, you think, is how you want Milo to look at a man, at someone who might be your partner. That's the kind of care you want your partner to have, holding Milo like his own, spinning around in circles as the cameras flash and the world applauds them. At least, you think, the world sees your boys as you do.

Absolutely perfect. Lando catches your stare as he ends his celebratory dance, stopping a few feet away as he watches you right back. And that smile, that ridiculous, contagious smile, only grows.

"I thought about it!" He has to shout, words barely heard as he approaches.

"What?" You ask, leaning against the railing to try and make out the meaning.

"I said," He repeats, ducking forward to hover just above you, "I thought about it."

His lips are on yours before you can even react. To some, it probably isn't the most pleasant kiss in the world, with the sweat and the heat and the crowd crushing in, but you find there's not a single thing you could ever complain about as your hands come up to cup his cheeks. It's Lando, in the clearest declaration you've ever seen, calling you his, in front of Silverstone, in front of everyone, in front of Milo, in front of you. It's not a soft thing over the back of the couch in a Spider-Man costume, but it's so much more real, heavy and yet somehow lightening all the weight on your shoulders, all the worries preying at the edge of your mind.

This is how it should feel when you kiss someone. This is how it feels when you know it'll last, when that love extends past you and into the boy resting on Lando's shoulders. It's how it feels when you know, and he knows, and there's nothing else to say about it. "You won!" You say against his lips with a smile, and he pulls back to practically cackle at you.

"I won!" Later, when you tell him there were tears in his eyes at this moment, he'll deny them, but you watch the way they shine, all that hard work and effort paid off. "I've got my good luck charms with me. Now you have to come to every race."

"Oh, we'll be there." Lando reaches over the railing to pull you somehow closer into him, bending his head to press a kiss to your cheek, and whisper something without the world to hear.

"Thank you," He says, almost choking on the words. "I'll make this work, I promise."

"I believe you, Lando." You say, and you'd say more, but the moment gets interrupted by a certain someone.

"Mr. Norris!" Milo says, pulling softly at Lando's hair. "You kissed my mum."

Lando freezes, realizing that, as much as you might be happy about this relationship, Milo might not be. "That okay?"

Milo thinks for a moment. "Can I get your trophy?"

"I'll give you all my trophies from now on," Lando says, letting the boy down and back into your arms. "Do we have a deal?"

"Deal." Lando laughs, a pure, bright thing, and heads back to do whatever it is he does after a race, and you let reality settle in. There are cameras, and people staring, and questions to be asked, but you find that they don't quite matter, because you can't stop grinning like an idiot.

This, you think, was how it should feel, being in love. 

It's the way your heart calms, watching Lando get up on that podium, accept his award, knowing he deserves it all and more. It's you screaming until your lungs are raw in celebration, watching him spraying champagne, holding his trophy high, beaming down at you.

It's the Lego trophy that's in Milo's hands mere minutes after it's given to Lando, who, in his post-race celebration, hoists the boy back up on his shoulders, looking more proud of the boy above him than he was to win. They match, in their outfits, and their trophies, and their smiles, and their curls, and the way you're so utterly smitten for both of them. 

It's the sort of joy you hope will never fade, and after it's all done, and the fans go home, and the energy wears off, you doubt it ever will, as you discover Milo and Lando passed out together in his little en-suite room. The man had insisted on coming over to read Milo a bedtime story, but it seems the two never got that far, the book still open in Lando's lap.

Without much thought to the action, you press a kiss to Lando's temple and Milo's forehead, close the book, and turn off the light. 

It's this sort of love you hope to experience every day for the rest of your life.

a/n: i tried so hard to balance cute and realistic in this one, so i really hope i did them justice <3 (also i rewrote the ending eight times.)

[tsunodaradio]

red flag, huh? ⛐ 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙙

your boyfriend declares something you do as a red flag. he faces the consequences. (𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri, isack hadjar, lando norris, carlos sainz, alex albon, george russell. ꔮ word count: 3.9k. ꔮ includes: romance, humor/crack, fluff. mention of food. established relationships, the drivers grovel!!!, reader is rightfully petty (#isupportwomenswrongs). references to F1 Drivers Decide Their Personality Red Flags. ꔮ commentary box: look. i’m not fond of writing grid fics, but when george in the video said “i think my girlfriend does that, hang on,” my ass kicked into high gear. finished this in one deranged sitting because, sometimes, the stories truly do write themselves. they’re all just men, dawg 🤥 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

OSCAR P. ⸻ 🚩 PHOTOGRAPHING THE MEAL BEFORE ALLOWING PEOPLE TO EAT.

Oscar first clocks you somewhere around week three.

At first, it didn't register. There are plenty of other photos in your latest dump: a blurry sunset, your sock-covered feet tangled with his on the couch, some artistically chaotic overhead of your cluttered nightstand. 

But not a single photo of the mille-feuille from last Tuesday. Which is strange, because the plating was obnoxiously good. Food magazine good. The kind of good you usually made everyone wait to eat so you could get the angle just right. He ate it without pause, and you didn’t say a word.

He tells himself not to overthink it. Maybe you just didn’t like the lighting.

A week later, it’s ramen. A new spot. Big ceramic bowls and frosted glass dividers and lanterns that would’ve made for a great moody backdrop. You sit down, murmur something appreciative about the soft-boiled egg, and then just—dig in.

Oscar blinks. He waits for you to stop him. You still don’t.

It’s not until he scrolls through your camera roll on a flight to Austria, looking for a photo you took of his hoodie on your desk chair, that it really hits him. Because there are still photos of food, sure. Just… not his. One sad little snap of a half-eaten bao bun, probably taken when he went to the bathroom.

No more overheads. No more rearranging the table for composition. No more sighing at shadows or holding up menus for bounce lighting.

The worst part is, he knows exactly when it started.

He can picture it perfectly. How he, the genius, the romantic, the absolute idiot, had laughed and said, As soon as that plate's on the table, I’m eating it. So if anyone’s stopping me... 

He hadn’t thought twice about it. Not until now, anyway.

By the time he books dinner for the two of you at the trendy bistro in Notting Hill, he’s borderline subtle about it. It’s got a tiled floor. Terracotta plates. A whole skylight situation. He figures, if anything’s going to tempt you into propping your elbow on the table and telling him to wait, it’s this. Instead, you just smile, thank the waiter, and start on the roasted carrots like it doesn’t hurt your soul to leave that burrata unrecorded.

When he finally brings it up, it’s less a confrontation and more of a low-stakes science experiment.

“Did the food get uglier, or did I say something dumb?”

You stare at him from across the kitchen island. You’re in your pajama shorts and one of his old team shirts, chopping strawberries. He watches your mouth twitch. “Be more specific,” you say.

Oscar gestures toward the pan on the stove, which still smells faintly of vanilla and burnt sugar. “You made crêpes. They’re perfect. Where’s the Instagram story?”

You glance at the pan. Then at him. Then back at the strawberries. “Oscar,” you say sweetly, “you once said—and I quote—As soon as the plate’s on the table…” 

His face folds into a groan before he can stop it. “You’re still mad about that?”

“Not mad,” you say airily, slicing another berry. “Just respectful of your dining philosophy.”

He leans his elbows on the counter, eyeing you. “You’re telling me you gave up a six-year food photography streak because of a side comment I made?”

You hum noncommittally, but the corners of your mouth are doing something very close to smug. Oscar lets out a short laugh, half in disbelief. “Unreal,” he mumbles. “I miss it, you know. The hovering. The adjusting of cutlery. The way you used to bully me into not breathing on the plate.”

“You said it was a red flag.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “Turns out I like your shade of red.” 

You pause mid-chop. It only lasts a second, but he catches it—that soft hitch in your breath, the way your gaze flickers up to meet his. “You liked being told not to eat yet?”

“I liked watching you fuss over things that made you happy,” he says, voice steady and firm. “Even if I had to pretend my pasta wasn’t going cold.”

You set the knife down. Walk around the island. Slide your arms around his waist, your cheek pressing against his chest. Oscar wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head. “Just take the photos, okay?” he sighs, holding you like you might slip away from him in the face of his sheer stupidity. 

Your voice is muffled against his shirt. “I’m going to take a dozen of the crêpes.”

ISACK H. ⸻ 🚩 SLOW WALKING IN BUSY PUBLIC AREAS.

Isack used to joke that your natural walking pace was somewhere between a daydream and a scenic detour.

Not that he minded. He liked it, actually. Liked the way your fingers would slot into his, how your pace slowed time down. Sunday markets, grocery store aisles, even airport terminals. You never walked like you had anywhere to be. He used to tease you about it, but secretly, he enjoyed that you made the world feel less urgent.

Lately, though, he feels like he’s dating an Olympic speed walker.

He has to jog to catch up to you outside the baggage claim in Barcelona. You’re weaving between people like a salmon upstream, carry-on bag in tow, jaw set in quiet determination. He reaches out to grab your hand, but misses. Again.

“Do you have a flight I don’t know about?” he calls out, the frustration edging his tone ever so slightly.

You glance back at him over your shoulder, barely slowing. “The cab queue fills up fast.”

He huffs a laugh as he tries not to get shoulder-checked by a tourist group. “You used to take pictures of the floor tiles,” he bites out. 

“They were nice tiles.”

“They’re still there, you know! They didn’t run off!”

You flash him a grin but don’t slow down. He frowns, adjusting the strap of his backpack. He doesn’t know when this started, exactly. Just that his arm feels colder without your hand in it.

It gets worse in Heathrow. The terminal is chaos, all metallic ceilings and garbled announcements and snaking queues. You’re ahead of him again, fast-walking toward passport control like it’s a competitive sport.

Isack’s about to tell you to slow down when you trip.

It’s not graceful. Your bag wheels the wrong way and your ankle buckles. The slap of your hands on the tile echoes, and so does the word you mutter under your breath. He’s at your side in an instant, crouching next to you, heart doing something unpleasant in his chest.

“Hey, hey. What the hell. Are you okay?”

You nod, but you’re wincing. “Think I twisted it.”

He checks your ankle gently, jaw tight. There’s already a faint redness blooming, and you hiss when he presses lightly against the bone. “You were practically sprinting,” he mutters.

“I was not sprinting.”

“Mon coeur, you were drafting off an old lady with a cane.”

You let out a pained laugh. “It’s fine. I’ll walk it off.”

“The only thing you’re walking is slowly, beside me, like a normal person,” he snaps, pulling a pack of instant cold compresses from his bag.

You go quiet, watching him shake the pack and press it gently to your ankle with a kind of exasperated care that only makes your cheeks burn. Eventually, in a voice barely above a whisper, you murmur, “You said it was a red flag.” 

He pauses, hand still pressing the pack to your inflamed ankle. “What?”

You look everywhere but him. “In that video. They asked about red flags. And you said slow walkers in busy places.”

Isack stares at you. Then: “You changed your entire walking speed because of something I said in a video?!”

“I just didn’t want to annoy you.” 

He groans. Loudly. Like he’s being haunted by his own past stupidity. “Mon coeur,” he says, pressing the cold pack a little firmer, “you could be moving backwards on a conveyor belt and I’d still want to hold your hand.”

You look like you’re biting back a grin. Progress, he supposes. 

He sighs, brushing your hair back from your face. “I said something dumb. I’m allowed. I was raised in a paddock. But if you think I care more about getting to the taxi stand than walking next to you, you’re an even bigger idiot than me.”

You sniff, leaning your head against his shoulder. He shifts a little to accommodate you, wraps one arm around your waist. “You sure?” you ask, just for good measure. 

“I’d wait light years for you,” he says. “Just maybe not in Heathrow ever again.”

You laugh, soft and sheepish. He smiles against your hair.

“Now let me carry you to the taxi queue before you try to walk again and ruin both our lives,” he declares, one arm already snaking around your waist. 

“Romantic.”

“You know it.”

LANDO N. ⸻ 🚩 INSTANT TEXT REPLIES.

Lando tells himself you’re just busy.

That’s all it is. Bad Wi-Fi. Time zones. A dead phone. You’re not ignoring him, not really. Your texts still sound like you, peppered with emojis and the same dry jokes. It’s just the timing that’s off. 

Where you used to reply within minutes, now it’s hours. Sometimes half a day. Sometimes he checks his phone and there’s nothing, and then he keeps checking, like maybe the notifications are delayed.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just refreshes your chats more than he should, tells himself he’s being clingy. It’s not a big deal. You’re allowed to have a life. Except when it happens for the fifth day in a row, he rereads your last message six times trying to decide if there’s some kind of shift in punctuation.

After two weeks, he’s convinced you’re slowly breaking up with him.

He books a flight the next morning.

You open the door in sleep shorts and an old hoodie. There’s a dent in your cheek from your pillow. “Lando?” you say, voice rough with sleep. 

He doesn’t say anything for a second. He just stands there, backpack hanging off one shoulder, trying to read your expression. “Hi,” he breathes. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought we were breaking up.”

You stare at him in that way that makes him want to melt, or go stupid, or both. “What?”

“Or you were about to,” he blurts out. “I don’t know. You weren’t texting back. I thought maybe I said something, or forgot something, or—I dunno, babe.”

You squint at him. “You flew across countries because I was texting slower?”

He shifts on his feet. “...Yes?”

You drag him inside by the wrist, as if the answer itself is proof you don’t hate him. He doesn’t let go. Your apartment smells like laundry and mint tea. There’s a blanket balled up on the couch and your laptop still open on the dining table.

“I didn’t want to seem too keen,” you say plainly, dropping onto the couch.

Lando drops his backpack by the door and draws his eyebrows together as he tries to process your words. “Pardon?” he says, only because it makes absolutely no sense to him. 

You reach for your tea and take a sip. Then, as if it’s obvious: “You said instant replies were a red flag. In that video. I didn't want to come off too clingy.”

He stares. Then he laughs. Sharp, breathless, stunned.

“You were trying to not seem too keen? Have you met me?” he says incredulously. “I check our chat thrice an hour. I’ve reread your ‘good night’ texts like they’re Pulitzer material.”

Your eyes widen behind your cup. “You what?”

“Shut up,” he groans, flopping down next to you. “God, you’re such a menace. Do you know how many times I checked to see if your read receipts were broken?”

You lean into his side, smugness radiating off you in waves. “So you’re saying you’re the clingy one?”

“I’m saying we can both be keen. Equally keen. Keen as hell.” He pauses, then adds, just on the right side of desperate: “Just text me back like before. I don’t care if it’s in under ten seconds. Fuck being nonchalant; I want us to have all the chalants about each other.” 

“That’s not—” 

“You know what I mean, numpty.” 

Your smirk melts a little. “Okay, okay.” 

He presses a kiss to your temple, then mutters, “I flew across Europe like a complete loser. You better reply with at least two heart emojis next time.”

“Four,” you bargain, “if you buy us lunch today.” 

He grins, cheek pressed to the top of your head. “Deal.” 

CARLOS S. ⸻ 🚩 TAKING A GYM MIRROR SELFIE.

Carlos never thought he’d become someone who looks forward to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. But here he is, eyeing his phone like a teenager, waiting for that familiar notification.

You at the gym: ponytail messy, cheeks flushed, smile cocky. Sometimes it’s a mirror selfie with your shoe on the bench. Sometimes a blurry video of your form mid-rep, with music blasting in the background and your caption reading something like form check or thirst trap?

He doesn’t care which it is. He opens them all immediately. Saves every single one. Watches the videos at least twice; once to appreciate your form, the second time just because.

Lately, though?

Crickets.

You still text after your workouts. Little things. Done for the day, or PR’d squats, almost cried, or Leg press almost killed me. But no photos. No clips. Nothing to tide him over while he’s stuck at media days or pretending to listen in debriefs.

Carlos gives it a month. A month of maturity. And then he decides that maturity will get him nowhere.

Carlos: So who is he? You: ? Carlos: Your new gym boyfriend. Must be hot if u are not sending me anything anymore :) You: 🚩🚩🚩

Carlos immediately hits call. You pick up on the third ring. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” he says, deadpan. “Do you know how many Tuesdays I’ve had to go without your gym face? I’m wasting away.”

“Carlos—”

“Don’t Carlos me. You’re punishing me because I made one comment. One! And I was clearly talking about the guys.”

“You literally said gym selfies were a red flag. You called it icky.” 

“From men! From other drivers!” he says frantically. “Not from you, mi vida, who has the best gym selfies in the known universe!”

You go quiet for a second. He can hear you breathing, the soft shuffle of fabric like you’re sitting back on your couch. “So you’re saying my gym selfies aren’t cringe?” you ask, and even though Carlos knows you’re just fishing at this point, he rises to the bait. 

“They are elite content,” he declares. “They are the highlight of my week.”

You hum. “Maybe I want that in writing.”

“Text or handwritten? I can send a notarized statement. I can tweet it from the Williams account if you want. Just send me the mirror pics again. Please.”

He hears you laughing now, amused and soft. “You’re ridiculous,” you tsk. 

“No,” he exhales, sighing like he’s Atlas bearing the weight of the world. “I’m deprived of my girlfriend.” 

The call ends with a promise to check his phone in ten minutes.

He lasts seven.

The selfie hits his inbox at minute eight: your face glowy, sports bra matching your nails, the gym mirror smudged like always. He grins so wide, the engineer across from him gives him a look.

All is right again in Carlos’ world.

ALEX A. ⸻ 🚩 TALKING DURING A MOVIE.

Alex had really thought this one would get you.

It’s a Friday night. The lights are dimmed, the couch is a mess of blankets and limbs, and the opening credits of the rom-com he swore was actually good are rolling. He’s already chucked a pillow at your legs for trying to guess the twist too early, but he’s grinning when he does it. It’s the kind of movie night that’s become a ritual by now.

Fifteen minutes in, he’s already whispered two jokes into your hair. You’ve smiled. You’ve laughed, even. But you haven’t said a word about the plot, and that’s when Alex starts to feel a little off-kilter.

Because you’re quiet.

Suspiciously quiet.

You’re not doing your usual commentary—no side remarks, no scoffing at the over-the-top meet cute, no delighted gasps when the soundtrack hits. You’re sitting curled up next to him, expression warm, sure, but the running commentary? The back-and-forth he usually loves? It’s missing. 

Alex, idiot that he is, keeps trying to coax it out. He makes a joke about the best friend’s eyebrows, nudges your arm when a line is especially cheesy, even points out a continuity error like a gift-wrapped invitation. Still nothing.

You chuckle when appropriate, lean your head against his shoulder like the world’s coziest silent film date. But it’s not the same. By the time the credits roll, Alex is pouting in that half-dramatic, half-serious way of his, picking at the popcorn bowl like it’s betrayed him.

“So you hated it.”

You blink before frowning at him. “What?”

“The movie. I thought you’d like it! I’ve been saving it for a month. But you barely said anything.”

You blink again, incredulous, like he’s grown a second head. Then slowly, very calmly, you say, “Alexander Albon. You literally said talking during movies was a red flag.”

It’s Alex’s turn to frown. “Yeah, but that’s—”

You raise your eyebrows, challenging him to go back on his word. He groans and sinks lower into the couch. “I was talking about, like, loud talkers. People who explain the plot as it happens. You’re—you’re different. I’m colorblind to your red flags.”

You narrow your eyes, sinking your teeth into something new entirely. “Red flags. Plural?”

Alex’s expression stutters.

You shift forward, eyes narrowed in mock interrogation, cornering him against the armrest with the casual menace of someone about to win an argument and enjoy it. “What else, Albon?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, voice going a bit high-pitched like a cartoon character under pressure. “I love all your weird little traits. Every single one. Especially the one where you interrogate me like a detective from a teen drama.”

“Mhm.” You fold your arms. “Is that another one?”

“No, no,” Alex says, voice cracking with laughter now. “That’s my favorite one, actually.”

You let him stew for half a second longer before lunging. Alex tries to climb over the back of the couch, but you pull him back by the hem of his hoodie. He tumbles against you with an oof, limbs tangled, laughing as you trap him under your weight. You poke at his side until he squirms, cheeks warm, grin helpless.

“I really thought you lost your personality for two hours,” he says, flipping you onto your back. “Turns out I just red-flagged myself out of the best part.”

You reach up to tug at his hair, fingers threading through soft strands. “That’s what you get for being fake deep in interviews.”

“I’ll never recover.”

“You’ll live.”

Alex kisses you once, twice, lingering the third time. The TV is still softly playing previews in the background, forgotten. He pulls back just long enough to rest his forehead against yours. “Next time,” he says, “talk through the whole thing. I want every thought. Every gasp. Every rant about pacing.”

You smile against his lips. “Even when I complain about how they kissed too early?”

“Especially then.”

He kisses you again. That one, in his humble opinion, is just on time. 

GEORGE R. ⸻ 🚩 LIKING ALL PHOTOS ON YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA FEED.

George doesn’t notice it at first.

Which is, in his opinion, fair. He doesn’t obsessively track notifications like some people. He’s a busy man. He has training schedules and simulator runs and six different WhatsApp group chats muted for mental health reasons. He doesn’t exactly sit around checking who’s liked his most recent Instagram post.

After the third post in a row goes without your name popping up, though, he starts to feel it.

It’s not even a proper jealousy thing. He’s not spiraling. It’s just that—well. You always like his posts. You react to the Mercedes team reels with unrepentant bias. You comment the most cursed memes under his podium photos. You once made a slideshow on Facebook called George Russell: The People’s Princess and tagged him in it.

So yeah, maybe George’s ego has grown used to the digital affection. Maybe it expects a little fanfare from you. 

Maybe it sulks when it doesn’t get it.

He holds out for a bit. Tells himself you’re just swamped with work. Tells himself the algorithm’s being weird. Tells himself anything but the thought that’s slowly growing louder in the back of his mind: that you’re doing it on purpose.

It all comes to a head one lazy Sunday afternoon. He’s draped across your lap like a Victorian heroine with a fainting spell, scrolling through his phone while you absentmindedly rake your fingers through his hair.

“Hey,” he says, angling his screen up at you. “Did you see the photo I just posted?”

You hum, glancing down. It’s him standing next to his AMG ONE, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, all long lines and smug satisfaction. It’s the kind of photo he knows you usually clown him for.

You smile. “Very dreamy. Should I be worried you’ve found someone hotter than me?”

He snorts. “It’s a car.”

“You’re not denying it.”

George grins and elbows your thigh. Then, more casually, “So, you liked it?”

“I said you looked dreamy.”

“No, I mean—you liked it?” He waggles the phone meaningfully. “With the little heart button?”

You blink. “Oh. No. I don’t do that anymore.”

His head lifts off your lap. “You don’t—what do you mean you don’t?”

You pause. Shrug. “You said in that video that it was a red flag.”

George looks personally victimized. “I meant people who like every single post, like bots. Not you. You’re allowed. You’re grandfathered in.”

“Too late,” you say dismissively. “I’ve reformed. No more Instagram validation for you.”

“But—but that’s not fair!” he splutters, sitting up fully now. “You’re taking it seriously? That interview was mostly me taking the piss!”

You raise an eyebrow. “I don’t know, love. Seemed pretty sincere.”

He looks scandalized. Like he’s been hoisted by his own curated online persona. “You mean to tell me I’ll be doing this season without your moral support?”

“You’ll be winning even without it.”

“That’s not the point,” he grumbles.

You lean over and kiss his cheek. “Don’t pout.”

“I’m not pouting.”

He falls dramatically backward into the couch, muttering something about betrayal. For a few minutes, he’s quiet, phone in hand, frowning at the screen like he’s planning a very slow, very petty war.

Then your phone buzzes.

And buzzes again.

And again.

The Instagram notifications pop up in a steady stream across your lockscreen. 

George Russell liked your photo from last week. George Russell liked your photo from 23w ago. George Russell liked your photo from 103w ago. 

You glance over. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps scrolling, jaw set. “I can keep going,” he huffs. “I’ve got time.”

You start laughing. “George,” you wheeze, “are you liking my entire archive out of spite?”

“Out of principle,” he corrects. “Equality in red flags. If I have to be loved embarrassingly, so do you.”

You reach over and muss his hair. He lets you. “Fine,” you acquiesce. “I’ll go like your car thirst trap, you lunatic.”

George finally looks satisfied. “Good,” he says. “I deserve it.” 

He keeps scrolling until your very first Instagram post, and then he switches on over to Facebook. ⛐

[formulaaddict14]

Colour Changing ( SMAU )

Oscar Piastri x Reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summary : Reader loves colouring her hair and fans seem to like her more than her boyfriend, Oscar

Warnings : just fluff!

Author Note : Sooo I will be taking a small break ( until the 3rd of October ) as I’m super tired from school already and I don’t want to fall behind, but after that i’ll be posting for 12 days straight for Taylor Swift’s new album!! ( kind of like every song inspires a new SMAU )

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

yourusername just posted :

Liked by urbsf, oscarpiastri and 530,192 others

Pink hair is 4 me 💕🦄

user : Might have just convinced me to dye my hair pink…

oscarpiastri : Suits you well 👍

| yourusername : High praise 😒

| oscarpiastri : Suits you VERY well 😊

urbsf : Might need to recommend me your hairdresser…

| yourusername : supermarket box dye and a boyfriend who’s willing to ruin his white shirt!

user : The way Oscar looks at herrrr 🥹🥹

user : can Oscar have pink hair next?

landonorris : Pink hair 4 Life 🧡

| oscarpiastri : Pink hair, 81 life 😒

user : I cannot with Oscar’s comments 😭😭😭

yourusername just posted :

Liked by oscarpiastri, urfriend2 and 459,037 others

Hair damage is a foreign concept! 😋💙

user : Hair damage doesn’t exist when you don’t acknowledge it!!!

oscarpiastri : The bathroom tub is still stained blue btw…

| yourusername : I think blue is a lovely colour! 😍

user : The fact that Oscar is her hairdresser 😭

user : Blue hair suits you so well oml

user : I’m OBSESSEDDDD

urfriend2 : Your hair IS beautiful 🤤🤤🤤

| yourusername : Thank you loveee 🥹

user : Love how she is obsessed with her hair and he probably doesn’t even own a hairbrush 😭

yourusername just posted :

Liked by urfriend1, oscarpiastri and 502,983 others

3rd hair colour in 2 months ( I’m going insane )

user : ARIEL IS THAT YOUU?

usre : Girl please keep red it looks amazing ( It will be gone in 2 weeks 😓 )

oscarpiastri : I’m an amazing photographer 😚

| yourusername : Okay you did do well today 😒

user : How does every hair colour suit her so well 😭😭😭

user : Oscar being the designated photographer yupppp

urfriend1 : Did you perchance give your voice up to a sea witch? 👀

| yourusername : Shhhhhh….

user : I need to know the hair colour brand!!!

yourusername just posted :

Liked by urbsf, oscarpiastri and 610,283 others

Papaya it is 🧡🏎️

user : AHHH THIS IS SO CUTE

landonorris : I think papaya is 4 you 😉

| yourusername : 81 is a much cooler number 🧡

user : Literal couple goals

urbsf : Papaya hair here to stay? 👀

| yourusername : I have green dye next to me rn but I promised Osc to keep it till the end of the season 😭😭😭

user : I need me a dynamic like these two have

user : THE WAY SHE CALLS HIM “ OSC “ ????

oscarpiastri : Might be my favourite hair colour yet…

| yourusername : 😋🧡

user : My parents btw

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[niki-phoria]

it's all for the sake of love / it's all for you

(gn reader / fluff / 748 words) after a race, oscar kisses you on the paddock

OSCAR PIASTRI is not a fan of pda. it was somewhat of an open secret - oscar was reserved. private. he rarely went clubbing; his social media was filled with posts about podiums and trophies; in interviews, he spoke vaguely of his partner, though details were always missing. oscar piastri did not partake in public affection.

until he did. 

the paddock was still buzzing with the excitement that only comes after a tough race. bottles of champagne had been popped, leaving everyone smelling of fruit and florals. interviewers wandered in and out of various garages as they danced between drivers, all desperate for an exclusive comment. mechanics and engineers chatted idly behind oscar. their words faded into obscurity, nothing more than background noise. 

“osc!” you’re already bounding towards him as he turns his head. there’s the unmistakable light of a camera flash from somewhere nearby but he doesn’t even flinch. oscar turns, already greeting you with a chaste kiss pressed against your cheek. you throw your arms around his neck as his hands find their place against your hips. 

you hide your face into the crook of his neck as you pull him even closer to you. your bodies are pressed together so close that you can’t tell where you end and oscar begins. if you hold your shaky breath for long enough you can hear his heartbeat rattling against his chest through your ear. “hi, babe,” he murmurs against your hair.  

there’s another flash - this time the click of a phone camera. the sudden light makes you blink in surprise. oscar rubs miscellaneous shapes against your skin as an apology. 

you pull back just enough to cup his face between your hands, running your thumbs against the tips of his cheekbones. your fingertips trace against freckles that mirror constellations and faded acne scars. oscar’s breath hitches. he flushes as he leans into your palm. “i’m so proud of you,” you say, still breathless. “you mean more to me than i know how to express.” 

oscar whispers your name like a prayer. his grip tightens around your body like you’re the only thing keeping him sane. he lets out something between a sigh and a laugh, already pulling you closer. one hand slips from your waist just enough to cup your face, holding you steady as he pulls you into a sweet kiss. 

his lips are only slightly chapped when they meet your own. oscar cradles your body gingerly as if you’re something he’s afraid of shattering. he shuffles to the side, twisting your bodies so you’re mostly blocked from the view of photographers in one smooth motion. your fingertips curl into the fabric of his racesuit. 

you’re both nearly breathless by the time you pull away. oscar smiles sheepishly when he meets your gaze. his eyes shine the color of caramel in the setting sun. his blush has spread, now tinting the tips of his ears a soft shade of pink. you chuckle but remain silent, unwilling to break the tranquility of the moment. 

oscar’s hand slips into yours as he turns, guiding you through the crowded paddock. he intertwines your fingers together with ease, not missing the way various cameras follow you both. he simply offers your hand a reassuring squeeze as you wander back through the garage and down a series of winding hallways until you find yourself back in the privacy of his driver’s room. 

the door closes behind you with a soft click! oscar’s arms are around you once again almost immediately. you laugh loudly as his arms slip around your waist from behind. oscar leans down, perching his chin against your shoulder. “thank you,” he says quietly. 

you turn, only catching a glimpse of oscar as he smiles softly at you. you rest your hands over his as you trace your fingertips against his knuckles. “for what?”

“for loving me.” the words are quiet; they come out as a whisper muffled against your skin. still, they make you shiver. oscar’s grip tightens around your waist as he nuzzles himself even closer to your body. “even when i don’t feel like i deserve it.” 

“you mean everything to me, osc,” you say, still tracing your fingertips against his hand. he peppers a kiss against the exposed skin of your neck like a promise. he holds you like he’ll never let go. “please don’t ever forget that.”

oscar piastri is not a fan of pda. but for you, he’ll never let go of your hand.

notes: please leave feedback if you enjoyed!! f1 requests are still greatly appreciated <3 taking my finals on the day this is posted pls wish me luck, title from sleeping with sirens - the bomb dot com v2.0

if you enjoyed this fic, please consider leaving a like, comment, or reblogging!! and if you want to support me, consider checking out my f1 masterlist <3

[mclarengf]

rien n'a autant d'importance running into lando norris— your ex— at a party gives you the perfect opportunity to remind him that there really is only one girl for him.

[4.3k] - ¡18+ mdni!

cw: kinda toxic/possessive relationship, handjob, oral (m receiving), praise kink, dacryphilia, edging, fingering, semi public sex, cheating undertones, manipulation (tiny bit), whiny!lando, sub!lando (ish), mean!reader

note: hi nonnie! thank u so much for this request omfg i was literally soaked just imagining it. i hope its ok that i did change the slightest bit cause (due to personal experience— ew i know, so lameee ugh!) i don’t 100% love cheating. i hope u enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it<3 

original request:

thinking about ex boyfriend! Lando finds reader in a party, he’s already with another girl and she knows that, so they both ended up in the bathroom and she gives him a blowjob, being all cocky because only she knows how to do it well, and she’s trying to act all innocent and telling him it’s only to teach his other girl so she makes him film her so the other girl can ‘learn’

“does she make you feel this good?” 

the party is raging on happily beyond the bathroom door, but neither you or lando take particularly great notice of the bass thumping through your bones or the constant stream of chatter in the other room, getting louder and louder as people keep drinking. 

you and fewtrell were still friends; a silly breakup didn’t change that. so, just like he’d done with all his other friends, he’d invited you to his party. it wasn’t for some big event or anything; "just because,” he’d told you with a smile. 

his little apartment was crammed full of people, some of whom you didn’t recognise, more of whom you did. everyone had greeted you excitedly; you hadn’t really turned up to these things for a couple of months. you’d used work or school as excuses, but everyone knew the real reason. 

your friend had been the one to show you the post; a fan account sharing a photo they’d found of lando with some girl on a date, sat in the shade at a cafe table.

you’d smiled brightly and told her you were “so over him,” as he clearly was you. she’d matched your smile and given you a big hug and told you how proud she was of you and that, “i know it hasn’t been easy, but he’s such a scumbag anyway. you’re so much better without him.”

you’d raised your coffee mug and cheersed her, laughing at getting away from him unscathed, but on the inside, you were absolutely fuming.

“i’m sorry, angel. i’m just getting too busy; i have so many things on, and i feel so exhausted all the time. i want you to have everything you deserve, but i just don’t have the time anymore to make that happen,” and then here he was, not even two months later, sharing this random girl’s fucking drink; a bright lipstick stain on the rim of the cup right under where his mouth was placed. 

“don’t look fucking busy to me,” you’d hissed as you scrolled through the fanpage’s feed later that day.

post after post was dedicated to sightings of him. press events, races, selfies with fans, merch photoshoots, and that stupid date. you'd stalked through the account until you recognised the pictures as being screenshotted from your own stories, and told yourself that was that, and there was nothing else to be done.

you hadn’t expected lando to be here tonight. from the way he’d paled when you made eye contact, then darted off, hoping you wouldn’t follow him, he hadn’t either.

of course, because you didn't live to appease him, you’d trailed behind him from room to room, keeping a healthy distance until he was alone. then you’d cornered him and dragged him into the closest room that would provide you both privacy— the guest bathroom. 

one thing had led to the next, and you find yourself in the position you’re in now; on your knees in front of him, one hand stroking along his weeping cock, the other pressed against his thigh for support.

“i was trying to move on…” lando manages, throwing his head back with a groan as you press a kiss to his tip, right on the slit. you lick your bottom lip as you pull away and taste salt.

“is that why you went on that date? to move on?” 

your hand keeps stroking him as you talk, your eyes trained on his face as he struggles to articulate himself. 

“use your words, lan.”

a few tears fall from his eyes as he whines for you to keep going. 

“i’m sorry!” bursts from his lips, “oli set it up; he said i needed to stop moping! i didn’t know there would be paps; i think she called them herself, i-“

he cuts himself off with a choke at a particularly sharp flick of your wrist.

“she’s pretty, lan.”

he doesn’t reply, eyes wide and brows scrunched together as he tries to figure out where you’re going with this. you don’t stop fisting his cock, sticky precome dripping down your hand.

“did you fuck her?”

he shakes his head desperately, tears rolling down his cheeks at the stimulation you're giving him. 

“lando, words.”

“i didn’t!”

really? you stop all of a sudden, contemplating the new information he’s just revealed to you. 

“…have you fucked anyone else since me?”

he sniffles at the question and shifts on his feet.

“lando.”

god, it’s getting exhausting having to constantly remind him of his manners.

“yes.”

his reply is so quiet that if you hadn’t been listening with pricked ears, you might’ve mistaken it for just a breath passing his lips.

“was that a yes?” 

to be fair, you have as well. and you’re not going to punish him for taking advantage of being single, but he doesn’t have to know that.

“did you enjoy it?”

he frowns, then shakes his head gloomily. god, this is getting more interesting by the second.

“and why not, lan?”

lando hesitates, biting down on his tongue as he mentally debates himself on whether to tell you or not. the part of him that still wants to be a good boy for you wins out. 

“no one else’s been able to make me come; there’s something wrong… i-i  don’t know.”

he averts his gaze, almost shamefully, missing the smile that creeps along your mouth.

“oh, you poor thing, lan. that must be really hard, huh?”

he sniffles again, pitifully. 

feeling sorry for him, your hand resumes stroking up and down, and you take pleasure in watching the emotion on his face contort from shame to satisfaction. he opens his mouth to reply to your last question when the doorknob rattles, followed by a series of hard knocks. 

“hello?! i need to take a shit!”

lando’s eyes widen even more at the sound of one of his friends’ voices on the other side. 

your hand doesn’t stop moving up and down; lando’s flies up to his mouth to muffle himself, eyebrows knitting together at the prospect of being caught. you reach up and push it away, probably more forcefully than you needed to. 

“don’t even think about it,” you hiss, before licking a wet stripe up the underside of him, balls to tip. his mouth drops open at the feeling of your warm tongue, then you’re taking his cock in your mouth and sucking hard.

you can hear his nails scratching at the wood of the door as he scrambles for purchase; something, anything to ground himself as your head bobs up and down on his cock. 

the doorknob rattles once more, then falls silent. you pull off with a ‘pop’ and smile up at him.

“good boy, lan. so good.”

his eyes are still shut tight, but a small, proud smile appears on his face at the praise. you reward him by returning to his cock, trying to suppress your gag reflex each time he hits the back of your throat. 

he’s assumed he’s allowed to be loud now, breathy moans leaving his perfect lips as he throws his head back, overwhelmed by pleasure.

an idea pops into your head and your mouth is moving before you can contain it, pulling off him to rest your cheek against his flushed tip. 

“why don’t you film this, honey?” 

lando’s eyes fly open, taken aback by your suggestion.

“yeah,” you’re rolling the idea around in the back of your mind.

you decide you like it and you want to keep going, “get your phone out, lando; let’s film this for the next girl you go out with. show her how to make you come like i do, yeah?” 

he’s shaking like a leaf, poor thing, but you don’t let up. one hand comes up to stroke just the base of his cock, knuckles brushing against your cheek as you do so.

“i mean, you’re moving on from me. if you fuck her, you should at least come in her, right, honey? so let’s help her learn. give her a lesson on how to treat you properly, lan.”

you’re pretty convinced your words are going in one ear and going out the other. he seems more focussed on not busting prematurely to properly take in what you’re saying.

you’ve had enough of his disobedience.

“lando, do you want to come?”

it’s not so much a question as it is a threat, and lando recognises it, eyes flying open as your words finally get through the thick fog of pleasure. 

he nods desperately, tears pricking at his eyes again. what a crybaby.

“yes— fuck, yes, please; don’t just leave me here!” 

it’s not illogical for him to be so worried; you can recall many a party in the past, just like this one, where you’d left him hard and leaking on a whim. 

you pull your hand away now and he chases after it with his hips before whining, defeated.

“get your fucking phone out, lando.” 

he fumbles around in his pants pocket for his phone and passes it to you obediently. you reward him with another kiss to his cock. he shudders at the contact.

staring at his lockscreen, you type in the passcode he’d had during your relationship— your birthday—, not necessarily expecting it to work. the screen slides up and you find yourself on his homescreen. 

“i thought you were moving on, honey. what’s this?”

blush coats his cheeks as he glances away from you and the unlocked phone you hold in your hand.

“i haven’t changed it yet. was gonna… just got used to it.”

how cute. 

“you wanna be good for me? you wanna help your girl learn?”

he nods again, though he’s slower to agree, like he doesn’t like everything what you’re saying. it’s funny; how he thinks his opinion matters. 

you start off jerking him slowly, watching as he draws his lip between his teeth, his hands shaking as he struggles to press record. you hear the little ding sound and the flash shines in your eyes as he finally starts filming, and you feel yourself get wetter than you should at the knowledge that you’re on camera. 

you start by mouthing slowly at his head, enjoying how much he struggles to maintain any semblance of composure. he squirms as your tongue passes over his tip, hands flexing as he fights the incessant urge to rush you. 

you know the exact moment his patience runs out; he pushes his hips forward, forcing himself past your lips. you glare up at him from the base of his pelvis, mouth split open by his thick cock, but don’t make any move to stop and scold him. 

instead, you take it in stride, taking a deep breath through your nose before pulling off almost all the way, then back down again. lando lets out a heavy sigh as your mouth moves around him, warm and hot.

you glance up and notice the phone drifting off-course, filming more of the bathtub than you, so you stop, balls-deep, and frown at him through the camera until he gets the memo. when he points it back at your face, you smile as best you can, wide-eyed and innocent like this is something casual for you, before returning to the task at hand.

he keens at you and thrusts his hips forward, desperate, and you gag as he hits the back of your throat. this earns him a hard swat to the thigh, to which he babbles out a, “sorry, fuck-,” before you take him even deeper.

you take his free hand and hold it against your neck, pushing his palm flat against the bulge that appears as his cock slides down your throat over and over. 

“oh fuck- oh my god...”

his cock twitches in your mouth as he feels you take him entirely.

you kind of regret the whole filming thing now; you can’t see his pretty face anymore when you glance up, just a blinding light in your face and a dark lens staring at you. 

he’s squirming more and more, and you know he’s close; he’s getting so loud. his moans are becoming more choked as he nears his peak, and he sets the phone down with a slam against the marble countertop; his hands fly down to grip at your hair. you almost think to stop and tell him off, but this is a special occasion, you suppose. 

“fuck, please let me come; please, please,” he begs you.

you pull off him just enough to murmur at his tip, “i don’t know, honey. do you deserve it?” 

he nods pathetically, pushing his hips forward to get the slightest bit of stimulation from you, ignoring the sensitivity of your lips mouthing at his head.

you decide to be cruel. 

a sob escapes him as you lean back on your heels, away from him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“but what about your girl, lando?” 

you glance towards his phone, abandoned on the edge of the sink, probably still rolling. 

“fuck, she’s not my girl; i don’t care about her. fuck her- fuckin’- please!”

your head tilts to the side, and your eyes drift up, pretending to think about it. 

“mm, no. that’s not very fair to her, is it?”

the tears start up again; this time out of frustration. his brain isn’t working nearly hard enough for him to think of what the right thing to say is. instead, when he opens his mouth, what comes out is a pitiful, ragged gasp. 

“what are you gonna do to convince me you deserve it, lan? ‘cause… i don’t think you’re doing a very good job of it right now.”

his eyes squeeze shut as he racks his brain for what you want to hear. 

“move back in with me. i’ve missed you so bad, angel— fuck!”

you thumb swipes over his leaking slit, smearing precome over his sensitive head. still not good enough. he hisses and whines again.

“please-, i can’t live without you. i need you. i need you, angel!“ 

his lip is raw from biting down on it, his lashes wet from crying. 

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry. i was wrong; i was so wrong to end it! i miss you all the time, i regret it every day; i’m so sorry, please come back, please, please-“

you hum, finally satisfied with his grovelling, and hollow your cheeks as you take all of him in your mouth again. hands in your hair holding you in place, lando’s hips take over as he chases his own pleasure, bucking forward, forcing his cock down your throat. your jaw goes slack and you finally allow him take what he wants from you; just a hole for him to empty his balls in. 

“thank you, thank you, thank you-“ he’s babbling as he gets closer, like he always does, “fuck, angel; love you, thank you, love you-”

he finally comes with a broken cry, hot come spurting in your mouth. his hips don’t stop, prolonging his orgasm for as long as possible after months of being unable to. your pussy clenches on nothing as he pulses against your tongue.

you manage to swallow half of his seed, coating your mouth in the bitter taste of him. the other half oozes out of the corners of your mouth, and you jerk your head to the side to avoid getting any on your dress. his cock slides out of your mouth easily, leaving a soreness in the back of your throat when you swallow.

you look up at lando. his legs are shaking and his eyes are trained on you, following your every movement like a dog would it’s master. 

“such a good boy, lan. come here, honey.” 

at your command, he slides down to the ground to meet you, and when his knees settle against your own, you kiss him finally. 

a relieved whine escapes him as he melts into your touch, shoulders sagging and body leaning towards yours. he’s kissing you desperately, trying to communicate months of dissatisfaction with his tongue as he pushes it into your mouth, running along your teeth. his hands grab at the front of your dress, trying to pull you closer, ever closer. 

he tilts his head down and away from you, so your lips end up on his cheek. you open your mouth to complain until you feel his tongue dart out and licks up his own come from your chin. you smile against his stubble. maybe he hasn’t lost all his manners after all.

his mouth returns to yours and the taste gets mixed in with your saliva and his. you can’t help but moan as everything familiar sinks in, and you realise lando’s back. he's here, with you. emboldened by your noises, his teeth nip at your lip; not hard enough to draw blood, but not softly either. his arm sneaks around your waist, settling at your hip. 

it stays there for not even five seconds.

he trails it slowly down, drawing little patterns on your thigh as he edges towards your cunt, trying to be inconspicuous. you only notice subconsciously his fingers dancing along your panties, light against the wet spot right on the front of them, or your hips canting up, aching for him to touch you like he used to do. 

your hands fly up to either side of his face as lando pulls your panties to the side and pushes his index in in one go. his mouth stills against yours once he’s buried up to the knuckle, waiting for you to stop him. when you don’t show any signs of wanting to, he curls his finger up tentatively. a sigh leaves your lips as even just one of his fingers fills you up in the way you’re used to.

taking your sounds as permission to continue, he pushes his tongue back past your lips as he drives his thick finger in and out of your sopping wet pussy. his teeth clack against yours as he swallows down all the noises you’re making. 

he pulls out suddenly, and his mouth leaves yours again; this time to take his slick-covered finger in his mouth, tongue swirling around his knuckle as he licks up every trace of you. you pant heavily, taking the opportunity to catch your breath as you watch him with half-lidded eyes, on his knees in front of you. your tongue runs over your swollen bottom lip, feeling every mark left by his teeth, and your pussy clenches, wanting him back in her now. 

you reach out for him, and his hand drops from his mouth as you near. you pull him towards you by the chin, tapping at his lips— still wet from a mix of your slick and his saliva— when you're happy with how close he is.

his jaw hangs open on command, and his eyes dart down to your lips expectantly. pleased with his retained obedience, you kiss the tip of his nose gently before prying his mouth open wider, and spitting. 

he moans happily as his tongue rolls your saliva around his mouth, before he swallows and shows you. 

“mm, such a good boy, aren’t you?” 

you don’t mean to say it out loud, but lando hears all the same. his pupils get impossibly darker, and he all but lunges back at you, pushing you against the side of the tub as he connects your mouths together again. 

your fingers find his hair and pull, earning a desperate whine from him just as his index and middle fingers push back into you with no resistance. his hand starts pumping in and out and you gasp into his open-mouthed kisses, back arching off the porcelain skirt as he hits your g-spot like he never forgot how to. you can feel his hardening cock against your hip, eager to fuck you again after so many months.

as much as you also want that, you tear yourself away from him as the amount of time you two have spent in this bathroom suddenly occurs to you. any longer and either someone will get max to unlock the door because they really need to piss, or max himself will find you as he’s cleaning up the apartment afterwards.

a string of spit connects your mouths still, until your finger comes up and twists itself around it, breaking as it gets too thin. his fingers slip out of you with a wet squelch and your cunt mourns being full already. you push yourself off the ground, brushing your knees of imaginary dirt. lando remains where he is, crumpled on the ground, chest heaving.

“come on, clean yourself up.”

you grab a towel, neatly folded by the sink, and throw it at him. he takes a moment to get to work, but does as you say, rubbing at his face first, then cleaning the excess amounts of your slick off his hand, and finally drying off his spit-covered cock. you smooth your hair down in the mirror, and pull your dress down, trying to look like you haven’t just hooked up with your ex in your friend’s bathroom. 

lando gets up slower than you had, and pulls his trousers back up his hips. another little ding from his phone as he picks it up tells you that, like you had suspected, it had been recording even after lando had tossed it aside.  

“you okay?”

lando sniffs one more time to compose himself, and nods, taking your hand in his as you unlock the door and step out.

there’s no one lingering around the bathroom, thank god— they would surely ask what the two of you were doing in there, but as you make your way through to the living room where everyone else is, you don’t miss the shocked looks the two of you get from the other partygoers, each of whom knows about your messy breakup. 

“lando! i’ve been looking for…” max’s sentence dies off in his throat as takes notice of who lando’s with. 

“max! isn’t this great? you always throw such a good party; thanks for the invite, babe.”

you let go of lando’s hand to wrap your arms around max’s neck. he hugs you back just a second too slow. 

“hi love. i, uh… i didn’t know this was a thing again?” he gestures to the two of you when you step back to lando’s side. 

lando smiles cockily, an aura of confidence around him, and entwines your hand with his again, the whiny boy in the bathroom completely gone from sight.

“well, we ran into each other earlier and got to talking and, honestly, mate? i didn’t realise how bad i missed my angel.” 

he presses a kiss to the side of your head as he says the last part, making you blush at the attention. max eyes the two of you suspiciously, like he knows something, but shrugs and decides to drop it. 

“well, as long as you’re both happy, i’m happy.” 

you nod eagerly at him, then at lando, who’s doing the same as you. you’re sure you both look goofy as hell, like a couple of bobbleheads.

max looks weirded out. whether it’s from the sudden rebirth of your relationship or the way the two of you are acting, you’re not sure.

you make your escape before things get even more awkward tonight. 

“bye, max! nice to see you again; i’m sure lando can fill you in later! love you!” you push lando in some random direction, speaking quickly so max can’t interrupt. 

his hand raises in a half-arsed wave, and you think you hear an affectionate, “weirdos,” before you’re out of earshot.

taking charge once you’re both around the corner, lando grabs your hand and clears a path to the kitchen, where he rummages around in max’s cupboards for two glasses and pours you a drink before doing the same for himself. 

you take a sip, the first thing you’ve tasted that’s not lando in at least an hour and a half, and sigh happily. he leans against the counters, watching your throat bob as you swallow down the alcohol. 

“you know we’re gonna need to have a proper talk,” you posit, glancing at him over the rim of your glass. 

he nods, a serious expression on his face very unbefitting him.

“and you should probably delete that video.”

lando pretends to think about it, before his face splits with another cheeky smile.

“mm… nah.”

“lando.”

he pulls you in by the waist and presses another kiss to your cheek. he dwells for a second, breathing in your scent before carrying on.

“it’s really hot. i might keep it for when i’m alone at a race and missing you, angel.”

you roll your eyes before realising how happy you are to be falling back into a familiar dynamic with him. lando seems to come to the same realisation at the same time, smiling softly down at you as his arm comes up to rest on your shoulders. 

“will you come over tonight?” he murmurs into your hair. 

you make a face at him, “…what?”

lando shrugs at you like it’s obvious, “saves you having to drive tomorrow morning.” 

“okay… um, remind me again why i’m coming to your place at all tomorrow?”

“well, we have to talk, right? might as well get it out of the way as soon as possible. plus, we wouldn’t have to do it in a bathroom at mine.”

he waggles his eyebrows as he says the last bit, clearly looking forward to continuing where you’d left off earlier. you respond to his confidence with a pat on the arm, and take another sip of your drink.

“let’s just see how the night turns out, okay?” 

it’s not a no, and from the way you catch him grinning into his drink, he knows it just as much as you. 

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[chocolans]

❛❛ 𝓪ll i do is dream of you ౨ৎ and here's the thing: you love lando in any situation, with all your heart. but something about the way he wears pure ambition (and those beautiful helmets) on his face when racing just has you swooning. little do you know, he’s not much better about your dancing ｡ ｡ 

wc⠀4.8k───lando norris x fem! ballerina reader 🦢 est. relationship. fluff , maybe a lil freaky at times (they're down bad, your honor) radio what the fuck is this? pure word vomit. i... i have no excuse. pls don't let this flop 🤞🏻 masterlist

IN THE EYES OF THE RACING GODS, the smell of chewed up rubber, burning exhaust and vitriol is what seems to fuel these drivers. Or they're particularly ambitious magpies who get tunnel-visioned imagining themselves on the decked up podium with a shiny trophy in their arms.

That must be it! Because otherwise, only a madman would willingly want to boil inside a cockpit, tussling with doom at every corner for a chance at overtaking while an unforgiving sun beats down upon Pest County, just outside the capital city of Hungary.

Not that you are particularly bothered about the heat at the moment.

Not when your boyfriend decided to give everyone in his side of the garage a heart attack on the first lap, dropping some places in an attempt to get past his own teammate. And most importantly yet, is currently leading the race with five laps to go, aforementioned teammate right up in his mirrors with Lando nursing over thirty lap-old tyres.

The events leading up to how you ended up in the garage are interesting enough, if an oversight on both your parts.

With VIP access to the paddock, Lando did initially suggest for you to watch from the air-conditioned hospitality suite—a blessing you took for granted, you're realising.

Oh, but then he'd gone all rosy and hesitant as he murmured, “You know, this might be one of the handful of races where there's less buzz around the garage. The lads are fine with having you there, if you'd like…?”

And the giddiness you felt creeping up at the fact that he remembered how bummed you were watching the hubbub in the pitlane on the Monaco weekend, the last race your schedule had permitted you to attend, was overwhelming.

It's not that Lando is particularly against showing you off to the world. But past experiences and your weariness of the cameras—or rather, the constant scrutiny they welcome into your personal life—led both of you to shelter most facets of your relationship from the public eye.

Needless to say, dating someone like Lando means getting to know the biggest contributor in how he sees and lives life. The one thing he enjoys wholeheartedly despite the performative side to it: racing.

Admittedly, you were a novice at understanding the sport when you and Lando first began going out. Track progressions and lap deltas flew over your head, through the stratosphere.

Your dreams were bound to the stage and spotlight, fighting physical strain to stay en pointe for hours to make a variation look as effortless and graceful as possible, teetering on the edge of a human body's limits. While Lando was raised with an affinity for trailblazing through circuits across Europe at breakneck speeds, chasing foremost the thrill of competition.

In theory, your worlds were never meant to overlap.

But feelings rarely ever listen to logic.

One random afternoon at a seaside restaurant in the Spanish coast found you stranded alone in a country whose tongue you were barely learning to speak. Meanwhile your more adventurous friends went cliff diving or paragliding.

The only company you had was a stranger with curls that did not seem to stay in place no matter how many times he ran his hands through them, and a shiny new camera nestled in his obnoxiously large palms.

Thanks to your new year's resolution being accepting socialising with open arms, and the pity you felt for the bloke stuttering through ordering a jamón ibérico de bellota and bunch of other dishes he'd later reveal his friend from Madrid had put him up to try, you decided to help a fellow english-speaker out of his misery. Blind leading the blind, in all honesty.

Conversation flowed easily from there, past the sunset and into more than a few drinks at the bar. One thing let to another, and by the end of the night, you had the stranger's number saved under ‘Lando Norris 🌻🐡’ with plans of introducing your friend groups to each other come morning.

That had been two summers ago.

Months down the line, you'd have grown fond enough of him for voice calls to switch to ritualistic facetimes, that lasted well into the night given how often he changes timezones.

Your first ‘I love you’ was through a screen, but Lando was there with a mountain of a teddy bear in his arms for your next birthday. An ode to a forced fess up about your adoration for collecting plushies on your first video call with him: splayed over the mattress, in pyjamas, hair wet and kicking your feet like a schoolgirl with a crush.

“As if the tiny army on your bed wasn’t a dead giveaway. But sure, baby, we can say you told me,” he teases now when you recall that memory, rolling his eyes.

You also came to be clued in on his—frankly ridiculous—life as a Formula One driver.

The idea seemed daunting at first. Dating a celebrity means egregious media exposure. And, even if there isn’t a clause in your contract as a prominent first soloist for The Royal Ballet and Opera outright denying you the luxury, it would not have reflected well if you got yourself tied up in any PR meltdown.

That said, Lando is nothing but a disarming son of b– ahem, a truly lovely, lovely woman.

When he sat with you through re-watches of old races—you have an inkling that Lando chose only the ones he put great performances in—he would patiently point out every rule and meaning behind every action. You aren't ashamed to admit that at first you found it terribly boring. But watching Lando break off into winded tangents, explaining flag colours, tyre compounds, strategies, it was evident how he just… lit up.

And sure, it's a basic necessity to have passion and respect for your career. Perhaps every driver is like that in their own mannerisms.

You still consider yourself lucky. To be one of the select few who get to witness the fond shine in his gaze when Lando goes through past data and gets a revelation. Like hearing an engine roar to life, full throttle and unapologetically so.

All that to say, how could you not fall in love with the thing that holds your love's undivided awe?

Hence your current spot on a foldable chair near a swarm of mechanics inside a sweltering garage right by the tarmac, watching the chaos from close quarters and chewing off your thumbnail in the process.

The radio around your head crackles with the back and forth between Lando and his race engineer as he's given the green light to push freely in an attempt to fend off Oscar who is still in his DRS range.

Your heart once more threatens to spill into your mouth when the car behind him locks up and nearly rear ends him, hair's width away from ruining both their races. Lap counts tick up agonisingly slow as your hands subconsciously join in silent prayer.

Then it happens.

You're wholly unprepared for the deafening roar that washes over the garage when the chequered flag falls. Floodgates of relief officially open as papaya blooms every which way you turn.

Jon comes to crush you in a side hug, pearly whites bared, jostling you. “He did it! Another win before summer break!”

“Even after all the drama! He actually pulled it off!” You can't help the stupid wide grin frozen in place, letting yourself get engulfed into the celebrations as the pit crew rush towards Parc Fermé.

When the crowd finally spits you out at the edge of the barriers, shuffling you forward with easy smiles and knowing looks, you brace yourself for it. Lando has already fastened his steering, after completing the outlap and hopping out of the car.

He sways slightly on his feet, and you are reminded once again that it can't be easy sitting in a steaming rocket on wheels in this weather. Even then Lando makes the effort to congratulate his direct competitors, the fluorescent yellow bulk bobbing atop his shoulders.

It's oddly fitting as a personal brand: loud and easily noticed from a distance. Even if it's a loose tribute to a childhood idol, it has become quintessentially ingrained with Lando's image. Sue you for thinking it's only a little tacky and a lot more hot. Him, all suited up in fireproofs and that damned bright helmet, so in his element. Glorious.

Unfortunately the things your mind conjures would give some poor grandma an aneurysm.

Lando has to keep the helmet on for the weigh in and you feast your eyes right until he pulls it off and rips away the balaclava along with it. Before he twists the cap on a bottle of water, adam's apple bobbing prominently with each gulp.

And, okay– you desperately wish to believe you're normal.

Because every normal person totally short-circuits at the sight of their boyfriend drenched in sweat, a ripe flush painted across his whole face. Lando ruffles his hair, fighting it into some semblance of order. You're only slightly jealous that you're not the one dragging your fingers through his messy curls.

Ugh. Time and place, you trollop.

There are a bunch of people who take precedence in greeting him: the CEO, the team principal, the array of engineers and mechanics who made the win possible. An entire debrief with Hinchcliffe. You wait with a proud smile, leaning on the divider, until Lando finally looks up and catches your eye. Then he's walking in your direction without hesitation.

It's easy to open your arms as he rushes to slot himself into your bubble, hands trailing up to cup your face when he kisses you. He’s not one bit discreet about it, so you reciprocate eagerly till the faint exaggerated coughs and wolf whistles pull you apart.

Lando rolls his eyes at his crew, thumb gently tracing the apple of your cheek where his sweat had smeared, making you laugh. It should be disgusting, but god, you're hopeless about him.

He notices your giddiness and squints playfully, “Baby, at this rate you're going to vibrate out of your skin.”

And he's not wrong. The adrenaline rush you get just from watching him drive is enough to have you buzzing like a livewire. You can't imagine how Lando deals with actually being at the helm.

“Seriously Lan, well done! That was insane,” you express your disbelief with a shake of your head. Because he is unbelievably talented. Making a one-stop strategy work when half the grid had ruled the race as a sure two-stopper. A mad lad, your boyfriend is. You push up on tiptoes to kiss under his jaw, nosing at the faint scratch of stubble. “Have I told you winning looks lovely on you?”

You can relish in the way Lando lets out an airy chuckle, probably to hide his inability to take a singular compliment head-on. His tongue swipes over his lower lip on habit. “Huh, that's new. Did you really watch the whole thing?”

“Uh-huh, I paid attention.” Too preoccupied by ogling at the way Lando endearingly fidgets in his spot, toying with the ends of your hair to ground himself, your reply comes off dazed.

“Yeah? Is that right?” With a smirk curling over his lips, his voice dips lower, almost sultry and entirely inappropriate for the size of audience you have. “So, if I take a surprise quiz based on it, you'll ace it?”

And there he goes.

You swat at him, faking offense. “You're a real gremlin, Norris.” Unfortunately for you, you catch the impatient stance of an event manager hovering behind Lando, brows shot up into her hairline. You smooth a hand over his fireproofs, “Go on, love. You're going to miss the cooldown room.”

Lando is plainly grinning now. In that pretty gap-toothed way of his. “I'll see you in my driver's room, okay? Tell Jon to walk you inside. I'd hate to lose my girlfriend—who thinks I'm so lovely—to a rabid crowd.”

“Don't get too cocky,” you huff.

If there is another thing that comes with dating Lando Norris, it's your newly learned disregard for keeping up appearances. You squeeze him once more with your arms around his shoulders while his hands settle at your waist.

“You look so fucking fit with the helmet, by the way. We are definitely keeping it on in the bedroom next time,” you whisper into the crook of his neck

Lando audibly groans, head thrown back, heat spreading up to his ears. He's a vision like this, an obscene one at that. Suddenly he's pinching your side, making you stifle a yelp at the ticklish feeling before you both devolve into giggles.

“Who's the little gremlin now?”

THE FIRST BEST THING ABOUT a dimmed theatre is the welcome anonymity it provides the audience. It hides the way Lando always feels slightly out of place among a sea of well-dressed faces, fiddling with the cuffs of his dress shirt or the creases on his winter coat.

Before you had decided to go public with your relationship, Lando often booked the seats inconspicuous enough where people wouldn't give a shit about him even in a grossly misplaced baseball cap and mask. At the cost of his own experience of the show, of course.

Nowadays he finds himself in the first row of the Grand Tier—when he can weasel his way out of some sponsor obligation if the stars align—engaging in casual conversation during intermission with the people seated around him, sometimes entertaining an autograph or picture when a kid wanders towards him.

The guilt is always the worst to shake off when he does deny a fan, ushering them to their own seats before they disrupt those behind him as the auditorium falls into a hush in anticipation for the second act.

Above all else, he doesn’t want to take away from a night that's solely focused on your entire company's hard work.

Really, who in their right mind wants to stare at his stupid face instead of focusing on the glamorous, all-stops-pulled production of The Nutcracker, performed by the Royal Ballet two days before Christmas?

The light soon dips the auditorium into obscurity before the velvet curtains fly open to reveal the over-the-top decorations portraying the Kingdom of Sweets.

Ballet is such an otherworldly experience, it's easy to get transfixed by the elegance and bling in its exterior. Lando has some idea about how much work goes into that: intentional flick of limbs, controlled turns and poised lifts that demand physicality as well as trust. In your own body and that of your scene partners’.

The movements go by one after the other, showered with applause and the changing tunes of the opera. The instruments echo like gongs in his ear, only much more pleasant to listen to. But Lando, like most spectators he assumes, is waiting for one scene in particular.

And when the familiar music to the Sugar Plum Fairy starts, everyone is in high spirits. It is only a little weird how fast his pulse flutters, when the first time he sees you in weeks has you both on opposite ends of the theatre. But holy shit, he actually sighs wistfully.

Case in point, Lando never sighs wistfully. Usually. In matters unrelated to his girlfriend.

There you are, dancing into centre stage dressed in a pale pink costume that glitters like actual fairy dust under the harsh stage lights. Your hair is in a complicated bun, settled under a crown headpiece. Even with a multitude of amazing props in the background, nothing more beautiful has graced the stage tonight. In Lando's humble opinion.

Watching you go through the piece with a perfect smile plastered on your face, he is mesmerised. You might really be a mythical creature, the way you glide and twirl to the exact rhythm of the string quartet.

It's the loud clapping that breaks Lando out of his reverie, reminding him to pick his jaw off the floor like he hasn't already made a fool of himself for somebody somewhere recording his reaction.

Well, he thinks it is a justified reaction to watching you dance.

You're expectedly breathless, soaking in the cheers with a happy smile. That only encourages Lando to clap till his hands are red and he is getting a few concerned looks from people nearby.

He could not care less, not when he sees the glimpses of pain you endure daily just to do the one thing you love.

Before meeting you and getting to know the complexity of ballet, Lando was part of the crowd that brushed it off as just another pretty display. Predictable, rigid, uninteresting.

He cannot be more regretful for that now.

Especially since you're one of the strongest people he knows, both physically and mentally. You deal with the bone-deep exhaustion, every painful blister, cramp, sprain, and the constant expectations of enduring with a literal smile on your face. Always keeping your body in top shape.

Despite all of that, you still show up to practice every day with enthusiasm for improving your craft—make guest appearances in other well known companies as well as local academies, teach the junior lessons if you have time.

That's a level of dedication everyone should acknowledge, if not outright praise.

Lando is not ashamed to admit that he blinks through Divertissement and the Waltz of the Flowers, by a lot of impatient waiting. It's not that the other dancers aren't great. But if you ask him, you're the obvious star of any show you partake in. As one of the many ghost girls—what the hell are they called, again?—in Giselle or as the lead in a super popular holiday classic.

It seems like that is a popular opinion, seeing as the auditorium bounces back to life the moment the first notes of Grand Pas de Deux float through the speakers. Then you're back on the stage with your lovely smile; this time with your partner, The Prince. Lando begrudgingly concedes that you two are a solid match, aesthetically speaking.

When he started regularly searching up your performance playbacks after you dropped the bomb about your profession, he felt a twang of jealousy every time you shared space with a guy in the corps.

He knows it was childish—hell, Lando felt so guilty afterwards that he had to tell you himself, even at the risk of you clocking him as a possessive git and moving on. You never let him dwell on his insecurities, assuring him he can always speak to you if he feels that way again.

“I'd be pretty concerned if you weren't a bit obsessed with me,” you smiled at him coyly before it sobered. “I can't and will not change that part of my job, but we should tell each other these things anyway. Helps to get it off your chest, trust me.”

Months later, when you got comfortable enough to broach the ‘exes’ topic, he would learn that the last guy you dated developed a nasty complex about your duets. Lando knows he's better than that. Most importantly, he knows you are nothing but strictly professional.

Still, every so often, the friction would spark irrationality leading you to talk things out.

Most things are like that with you. Comfortable.

If he's having a shitty day, he wakes up to a sweet message paired with his good morning texts. You say you can read it in his tone if something's off. Lando is more grateful for them than he would admit.

He has picked up on your habit of sending random selfies throughout the day: the two ducks you saw on your way to the studio captioned ‘us ^♡^’ or the burnt outcome of some fancy dinner recipe you followed from youtube ending with him ordering food to your flat.

Lando is acutely aware of the crazy life he leads, far removed from normality. His friends are there to occupy holidays and rare leisure times. But they all have their own routine to return to eventually.

You, on the other hand, choose to make him a part of your normal. Softening your edges to soothe his jagged ones, and both compromising where the puzzle pieces don't always fit perfectly. There is love. So much, in fact, that it feels like he can bleed it from open wounds.

It's sweet and warm and dazzling, just like you.

As the swell of the orchestra builds, you are thrown into a bunch of fact-paced pirouettes and high lifts over the Prince's shoulder. It's dizzying to look at yet Lando couldn’t look away if he tries. It's blurry from where he is sitting but the practiced ease in your movements make it clear how much you enjoy it.

Ballet has been the most important part of you since you were a baby. He's seen that in the grainy videos your mother has of your first recitals, living on through an old camcorder. Lando loves to see how much you cherish dancing. And given the choice, he wants to be in the audience for your every performance until the last of them. For a long, long time.

The thought isn’t anything new. Lando is headstrong like that. He knows his own future, and he knows he would like to share it with you.

But having said thought in the middle of a packed opera house where nobody else is none the wiser still turns him bright red.

Lando drags a hand down his face, and then doesn’t blink for the last minute of the pas de deux. You're made for the stage, really, hitting that high arabesque and a string of poses in quick succession and effortlessly. Meant to be showered in the loudest cacophony of applause.

The other best thing about a dark auditorium, is the leeway it gives Lando to bolt for the exit moments after curtain call—and after taking a million badly zoomed-in pictures of your cast and one selfie you will hundred percent call dork behavior—to prevent getting stuck behind a large swarm of people.

He's been to this place enough times to know the grand stairwells and maze of corridors like the back of his hand, and makes it to the terrace bar in no time. It’s unsurprisingly empty right now, as opposed to the restaurants some floors below.

Lando shoots you a text and waits.

Twenty minutes and one impromptu game of virtual Uno later—he cannot drink with an expensive car and very precious girl to drive home—he feels a tap on his shoulder. Lando looks up and the smile blooming on his face is immediate, dropping his phone on the table, “Hi, baby.”

You're standing beside him, practically beaming, hair free from the ratty old weave and no stiff, expensive tutu which belongs in a history museum knocking everything over within a five foot radius. All things considered, you're glowing.

Lando immediately shifts to the chair by the wall, leaving you his own warmed seat. He waits until you are comfortable, legging-clad legs tucked under your thighs, body angled towards him as he brushes his palm over the fabric. “You were amazing today, but that's nothing new.”

Your cheeks flush even more under the shimmery rouge. He feels the urge to pinch them. “Thank you, love. Oh, and for these! It was the biggest bouquet any of us got, even more than the flowers from opening night.”

It's adorable how you keep holding onto the arrangement of pink lilies and yellow roses like it is something priceless.

“What’d you expect?” Lando quips, rather smug. You sigh dramatically, probably at his expense. “Alright, do you want to get drunk first or eat?”

Your fingers drum on the glass tabletop as you make a show of contemplating. Lando knows your answer long before you speak. “I'm pretty sure we could get reported for being public nuisances if I get shitfaced. Plus, I am starving.”

He tuts in mock disappointment, “Food it is, your highness.” He's up on his feet instantly, grabbing your duffle bag across the table before you can think of reaching for it. “We should eat here unless you want to get stuck in traffic for a few hours.”

“Did you park in Swinton again?” You groan, weaving through tables and the drinks counter to spill into a hallway. “Why the hell would you do that to us? Rookie mistake.”

Lando laughs. “Well, I can't exactly carry around a McLaren in my pocket, can I? Next time we can take the bus.”

“And risk getting mobbed?” You're completely deadpan. “Ha! No, thank you.” Then almost subconsciously your hand ghosts over his, lacing your fingers together and swinging them back and forth.

Lando quirks an eyebrow but holds his tongue at the obvious nervous tick. Eventually, you stop worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, walking down a flight of stairs. “Lan, can I tell you something? You have to promise not to freak.”

“Way to make a guy feel prepared,” he jokes and you roll your eyes. He's grateful that some of the tension lifts from your shoulders. “Go ahead, spill.”

“I… may or may not have been promoted to principal.”

Lando Norris, one of the most prominent names in a sport known for inhumane reaction times, fucking bluescreens.

If not for your half-frowning half-eager face coming into view as your turn to face him, fully halting your pace, he would still be wide-eyed, buffering. “Wha— Are you serious?”

A metaphorical dam breaks. “The director came backstage and I for sure thought I messed something up big time. But then she dropped it so casually. Like business as usual–” your rambling gets cut off by a surprised wheeze as he tugs you into him, lifting your feet off the ground and twirling you around.

“Lando! I just got thrown in the air twenty times,” you giggle, gripping his shoulder before your feet finally touch the ground and you're immediately in a bear hug.

Truth is, he can't figure out what to focus on.

Lando knows pride like an old friend, having stood on the absolute peak of his career just some weeks ago. But never in his life has he felt such overwhelming amounts of it for another person. Never been this floored by someone else’s success.

It's simultaneously easy—because, what the hell, his girl is a legend!—and a lot to process.

So, he resorts to the only way he knows how to provide an outlet to that feeling. Cupping your face gently, uncaring of the remnants of contour and powder, and kisses every inch of it.

“You're just so fucking talented, sweetheart! It was bound to happen sooner or later.” He pulls back to find your eyes closed, basking in the affection. “You deserve it, all of it.”

When your lashes flutter open, bright eyes melting into his blues, the biggest smile crinkles around them. “Thank you. For coming here tonight, and for listening to me complain about the show for months.” You reach up to turn his wrist, pressing your lips to his palm. “I love it when you're watching. Even if I feel jittery enough to throw up.”

“And they say romance is dead,” Lando gasps jokingly, and finally leans down to kiss you where you both need the most. It's tender but not careful, honed by years of holding each other through good times and the bad. It's home.

Lando does not mind if home smells like cakepops and coffee, and one too many sugar rushes. He's always had a sweet tooth anyway.

He pulls away when the need to breathe becomes overbearing. But there is nothing that can snatch the grin permanently stuck to his face. “As much as I'd love to show you how amazing you are, preferably with less clothes between us,” he rasps, “I'd rather not do it in an open hallway.”

You snort once and then, for some reason, you are both cackling like you just won the lottery.

“Spoilsport,” you lament playfully, catching your breath and moving away from the base of the stairs.

Not long after, you've launched into an in-depth analysis of everything that went to hell in the show. “You know, during that one turn where I had to spin into Gio for the lean back thing? I ditched an entire turn because I went into passé too late! God, it was embarrassing.”

Lando chuckles, rubbing the back of your neck. “I don't think I could tell even if I knew the steps by heart.” He smirks, swinging an arm around your shoulders. “You're just that good, babe.”

Your nose scrunches up. “Mmh, no. If you keep saying that, I'm going to develop an ego problem. Between the two of us, that's your job.”

Maybe Lando is a little obsessed. With you, with this life you share. He's more than okay with that.

© CHOCOLANS, 2026. do not copy, repost or modify my fics. this work is exclusively posted on tumblr.

[cursedbybang]

❝my sister’s favourite person❞

pairing: kimi antonelli x florist!reader

summary: a chatty girl starts showing up at your family flower shop every single day and, for some reason, decides you'd be the perfect match for her older brother.

warnings: fluff, love at first sight, maggie playing cupid, gorgeous kimi (obviously), brief mention of annoying men 🙄

word count: 3.2k | arvid version (coming soon)

a/n: i loved every single second of writing this 🤭 i really hope you all enjoy it too.

ଓ english is not my first language, be kind.

All you ever wanted was to rest your head on the counter and have a three-hour nap.

Your family’s flower shop is on a completely deserted street corner. Seriously, nobody ever passes by there. And when the bell above the glass door finally rings, signalling some sign of life, ninety per cent of the time the scene is the same: a man, his eyes fixed on his mobile screen, clearing his throat before asking for ‘anything red that looks expensive’. They never buy them out of affection. They buy out of guilt, after forgetting their wedding anniversary, or to avoid spending the night on the sofa. And, to make your mood even worse, they almost always complain about the price of the roses or spend the five minutes whilst you’re cutting the stems venting about how ‘women are far too complicated’.

You simply smile, tap the card machine, hand over the bouquet, and silently hope those women break up with their partners.

Then she appeared.

At first, she was just a passing figure after school hours. A little girl, no older than ten or eleven, clutching the straps of her heavy rucksack with both hands, slowing her pace until she came to a complete stop in front of the shop window. She'd stand there with her nose almost pressed against the glass, utterly mesmerised by the yellow tulips.

On the third day, she finally gathered the courage to push the door open. "Do they need lots of water?" Was the very first thing she asked, without even saying hello, pointing straight at the yellow tulips.

You couldn't help but smile. Patiently, you explained how much water they needed, how to keep the soil moist, and how much sunlight they liked.

The next day, she came back with more questions. The day after that, you decided to cut a particularly vibrant pink dahlia and held it out to her.

"A little gift for my most loyal customer of the week," you said.

The girl's eyes lit up so brightly that you thought she might actually jump with excitement.

From that moment on, your own little desert found its soundtrack.

Her name was Maggie.

Maggie was a force of nature — chatty, endlessly curious, and bursting with energy that never seemed to run out. Yet she was remarkably polite, with a level of manners you rarely saw in children her age these days. She looked you straight in the eye when she spoke, asked for the scientific name of every plant in the shop, and wanted to know why rose thorns grew the way they did.

Quickly, Maggie’s visits became the highlight of your day. Her parents, realising that their daughter had found a safe and wholesome refuge amongst the flowers and conversation, gave her permission to spend that sacred hour there after school. The arrangement worked perfectly: she would walk in, fill the shop with stories about her teachers, her lunch and her history essays, and at half past five sharp, a car would turn up to pick her up.

It wasn’t just any car. It was always a luxury sports model, a car far too posh, far too expensive for your circumstances — or for anyone you knew. The driver, the girl’s father, would simply give a gentle double-beep from the kerb; Maggie would give you a tight hug and rush to get into the back seat.

​On a mild Tuesday afternoon, Maggie's stream of words was moving even faster than usual. She was perched on the tall stool beside the till, swinging her legs as she watched you arrange a bouquet of lilies.

"…and then mum said I couldn't have chocolate before dinner, but my brother secretly gave me a piece because he's the best, even though he can be a bit grumpy when he has to wake up early," Maggie rattled on, only pausing to take a breath. She rested her chin in her hands, staring at you with an almost comically serious expression as she studied your face.

"You know something? You're really pretty. Like… really, really pretty."

You let out a quiet laugh, wiping the sap from your hands with a cloth.

"Thank you, Maggie. That's very kind of you."

"No, I'm serious. You look like a model," she insisted, with the peculiar certainty only she could have. Then, completely out of nowhere and as naturally as if she were asking about the weather, she leaned forwards.

"Do you want to date my big brother?"

You nearly dropped the bunch of lilies onto the floor. Your eyes widened, and you blinked a few times, trying to process what she'd just asked.

"What? No…?"

"Why not?" Maggie pressed, pouting in genuine confusion at your immediate rejection. "He'd think you were beautiful! And he's not dating anyone right now, so there's nothing stopping you from dating him. He's really nice, I promise."

You smiled awkwardly, shaking your head at your little friend's boldness.

"Maggie, sweetheart, I don't even know your brother. And I don't think people just start dating because someone's little sister decides to play cupid."

"But he's famous!" She argued, as though that were the final piece of evidence that settled the matter. "Everyone knows who he is. If you look him up online, there are loads of pictures of him wearing those weird racing clothes and holding trophies."

You simply shrugged, returning to tie a satin ribbon around the stems of the lilies. You'd heard her chatter before about her brother being a racing driver and famous, but you'd never paid much attention. You didn't watch motorsport, you didn't follow celebrity news, and since you didn't have social media, the name Kimi meant absolutely nothing to you.

Well…

Other than the fact that he was the older brother of this adorable girl.

"Famous or not, I don't really care about those things, Maggie," you said gently, a smile tugging at your lips. "Your brother probably has far too busy a life to be pushed towards the florist by his very chatty sister."

Maggie didn't look remotely convinced.

She hopped off the stool, adjusted her rucksack as the familiar, elegant horn of a luxury car echoed from outside the shop window. She walked to the door, but before pushing it open, she turned back to you with a mischievous, determined grin.

"Fine. Have it your way," Maggie sang, holding the handle. "But I'm going to introduce him to you anyway. One day I'll bring him here, and you'll see I was right! Bye!"

♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡

Two weeks had passed, and you had almost forgotten the solemn promise Maggie had made at the shop door. After all, the days remained grey, the counter continued to accumulate dry leaves, and the customers were still the same men buying roses out of sheer guilt and complaining about the price.

Until that Thursday.

The clock struck exactly five o’clock in the afternoon when the bell above the door not only rang, but seemed to herald an event. Maggie came in first, practically skipping, her brown hair swinging and a grin from ear to ear that gave away the fact she was up to something.

"I told you I’d bring him!" She exclaimed, her childish voice echoing through the silent room.

Just behind her, the glass door was pushed open by a large hand with long fingers. A boy stepped into the flower shop, and when he looked in your direction, it felt as though the air had been sucked out of your lungs for a whole second.

You tried to remain professional, but the shock was inevitable. He really was handsome. His honey-coloured eyes mesmerised you. He was dressed simply, in a dark jacket and a plain t-shirt, but his bearing and the way he filled the room made it seem as though he belonged somewhere completely different from that plywood counter.

What you didn’t realise, however, was that the shock on the other side was exactly the same.

Kimi stopped a few steps away, his eyes fixed on you. For weeks, he'd had to listen to Maggie chatter nonstop over breakfast about "the perfect flower girl", who gave her dahlias as gifts and seemed to know everything about the world. He had expected to find a kind elderly woman or, at most, an ordinary girl. But seeing you standing there, surrounded by green leaves, with a few loose strands of hair falling out of place and a genuinely surprised expression, completely disarmed the driver. You were breathtakingly beautiful, with a natural, fresh beauty that felt completely removed from the world of appearances and plastic he was used to living in.

For a moment, silence filled the flower shop, broken only by Maggie's attentive, eager gaze as she looked back and forth between you and her brother, waiting for the magic to happen.

"Hi." Kimi broke the silence. "I'm Kimi, this little brat's older brother."

You let out a genuine laugh, immediately feeling your cheeks grow warm. To your own despair, you felt your heart jolt inside your chest, beating much faster than normal. You felt silly, like a teenage girl having a meltdown over a handsome guy, but his presence was far too magnetic to ignore.

"Nice to meet you, Kimi." You replied, stepping out from behind the counter to stand closer to them. "I'm ____. Your sister is adorable."

"I suppose she is." Kimi gave a small, relaxed smile.

The conversation flowed with a surprising ease for both of you. There was none of the irritating rush of the men in suits who usually came into the shop, nor any need to impress one another. While you talked about how Maggie had learnt to take care of tulips and how she had become the shop's most important customer, Kimi simply watched.

He was completely enchanted. Not only by your voice or your beauty, but by the way you moved through the space, with a gentleness and calmness that seemed to numb the exhaustion of his day. But what truly meant the most to Kimi — what genuinely warmed something inside his chest — was the way you treated Maggie. You looked at the little girl with genuine affection, answered all of her ridiculous questions without the slightest hint of condescension, and treated her like a real friend. In his world, where everyone either wanted a piece of his fame or only came close because they wanted something from him, seeing someone treat his little sister with such purity and devotion felt almost like a miracle.

Maggie, meanwhile, was on the verge of bursting with excitement. She folded her arms, narrowed her eyes at the two of you with a knowing smile, analysing every exchanged glance and every shy laugh. In her mind, Cupid's plan was working perfectly. You were going to fall in love — she was absolutely certain of it.

"Well," Kimi finally said, clearing his throat softly, although he clearly didn't want to end the conversation. He looked around at the buckets of flowers surrounding you. "Since we're here, I suppose I should buy something. I don't want to leave Maggie's favourite flower shop empty-handed."

"What were you thinking of getting?" You asked, walking over to the displays of fresh flowers.

"I'd like a really beautiful arrangement for my mum." He said, pointing towards a few classic flowers that matched the style he had in mind. "And…" He looked down, meeting his little sister's bright eyes. "…what would you recommend for my tiny co-driver?"

Maggie let out an excited squeal, wrapping her arms around Kimi's waist. You laughed at the sight, feeling that pleasant flutter in your stomach all over again.

"For Maggie, today it'll be yellow tulips… They suit her." You said, carefully picking the prettiest flowers from the bucket and trimming the stems to the perfect length.

You arranged the bouquets with practised skill, feeling Kimi's eyes burn into your hands as you tied the ribbon around them. When you handed over both bouquets — the elegant one for his mother and the tulips for the little girl. Kimi's fingers brushed against yours as he passed over his bank card. It was only a brief touch, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

Kimi didn't complain about the price. He paid with a grateful nod, slipped his wallet away, and looked straight into your eyes.

"Thank you for the flowers. And… for looking after her every day." He said, with a sincerity that made your heart skip another beat.

"You don't have to thank me. It's the best part of my day." You replied, and you weren't lying.

Kimi gave you another one of those crooked smiles, gently patted Maggie on the shoulder to signal it was time to leave, and walked towards the door. Maggie followed straight behind him, but before stepping outside, she turned back, pointed at her brother, then at you, before making an extremely obvious heart shape with her hands and winking. Kimi, slightly embarrassed, simply tugged her away by the back of her rucksack.

The door closed, and the sound of the luxury car's engine echoed outside as they drove away. You remained standing behind the counter for several long minutes, still holding the tea towel, wearing a hopelessly silly smile that simply refused to disappear.

The following days took on a completely different colour from the usual grey that surrounded your little corner of the street. Kimi kept showing up. Almost always at the same time, parking his luxury car outside. But unlike his father, he didn't simply honk the horn. He got out, pushed open the glass door, making the bell chime overhead, and stepped inside to tell his sister it was time to go home.

Later on, somewhere between conversations with the little girl, you eventually discovered why he had been around so often: formula one was on a short break in the racing calendar. That was why he was home, enjoying some time with his family before travelling the world again to race fast cars.

And it was on one of those mild afternoons that your routine changed completely.

"Please, please, pleeease!" Maggie begged, leaning over the counter with both hands clasped together, her wide brown eyes wearing the most perfectly calculated pleading expression an eleven-year-old could possibly manage. "It's just a trip to the shopping centre! Kimi will drive, we'll have some gelato, and you can help me choose my new trainers… Please!"

You glanced at the clock on the wall, then out at the empty street. The flower shop was completely dead, just as it usually was. You hesitated, looking over at Kimi, who was leaning against the tiled wall beside the ferns with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He wasn't saying anything to pressure you, but there was an amused sparkle in those absurdly expressive eyes as he watched his little sister's performance.

"Maggie, I still need to close the shop, tidy the buckets…" you began, stumbling over your words as you desperately clung to your safe little bubble.

"I'll help carry the boxes if you promise you'll come." Kimi interrupted, his gentle voice carrying an almost teasing challenge, accompanied by a crooked smile.

Looking at Maggie's impossibly adorable face, your resistance crumbled completely. You let out a defeated sigh, laughing at your own lack of resolve.

"Alright. You win. I'll close early today."

Maggie's victorious squeal almost made the gerbera petals tremble.

The outing turned out to be surprisingly light-hearted, with nothing awkward or uncomfortable about it. At the shopping centre, you found yourself immersed in Maggie's pre-teen world. You spent well over an hour wandering from rack to rack through department stores, helping her put together outfits that were stylish but still appropriate for her age, and the three of you spent ages debating which pair of trainers was the perfect one — eventually settling on a beautiful pair that was colourful without being over the top, making Maggie practically strut through the shopping centre afterwards. Kimi walked just behind the two of you, carrying all the shopping bags without a single complaint, simply watching the dynamic between you with that attentive, genuinely warm look that kept making your stomach flutter.

After shopping, you all headed to a gelateria. Sitting by the window, sharing different flavours of gelato, conversation flowed effortlessly. Kimi laughed at Maggie's sarcastic comments about school, and every now and then he'd tease her just enough to make her stick her tongue out at him. More than once, you caught yourself watching his profile beneath the shopping centre lights, the way he seemed so relaxed away from the spotlight, and you still couldn't believe just how handsome he was.

The highlight of the day, however, came as you were walking towards the car park. Maggie stopped abruptly in front of a jewellery shop window, pointing excitedly through the glass.

"Look at that one!" She exclaimed, nearly pressing her nose against the display. It was a delicate necklace with a tiny butterfly pendant, its wings shimmering softly in a colour that shifted depending on how the light caught them. Maggie turned to you, completely enchanted. "It matches your eyes perfectly. Doesn't it, Kimi?"

Kimi stepped closer, narrowing his eyes to study the necklace in the display before shifting his gaze directly to your face. His stare lingered long enough to make your cheeks burn.

"It does." He agreed, his voice coming out a little quieter, never taking his eyes off yours. "We'll take it."

"No, honestly, you don't have to…" you began, instinctively taking a step backwards as your shyness took over.

But Kimi was already pushing open the jewellery shop door. It took a long time before you finally agreed. You argued that it was too expensive, that it was unnecessary, that you couldn't possibly accept such a gift, but the combined persistence of the two siblings proved impossible to resist. Maggie used every pout and promise of good behaviour she had, while Kimi simply handed his credit card to the shop assistant with infuriating calmness, saying only, "She's taking it." In the end, you gave in, holding the little gift bag with trembling hands and your heart beating in your throat.

Later that night, the silence of your bedroom felt like the perfect setting to process everything that had happened. You placed the bag on top of your chest of drawers, took a long shower, and changed into your pyjamas.

Before going to bed, your eyes drifted towards the little black jewellery box, now resting outside the bag. Carefully, you unclasped it and lifted the butterfly necklace out. Standing in front of your wardrobe mirror, you gathered your hair with one hand and, with some difficulty thanks to your returning nerves, fastened the clasp behind your neck.

The pendant settled just below your collarbone.

You let your hair fall back into place and simply stood there in silence, looking at your reflection beneath the soft glow of your bedside lamp. Your fingertips brushed the cool metal of the butterfly. Maggie had been right, and so had Kimi. The subtle shimmer of the butterfly's wings truly brought out the colour of your eyes in a way you'd never noticed before.

You smiled foolishly at your own reflection, your mind replaying the image of those honey-coloured eyes looking at you…

The smile.

God, you couldn't possibly be falling in love.

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divider by @dollywons