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lilliezzzzz-fics · 2 days ago

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Cupid's Chokehold !

pairing: oscar piastri x male!rockstar!reader author's note: this idea has been in my mind 4 so long lol, reader is british in this. also! first smau so it might be shit lol. songs + artists in order: garbage truck by sex bob-omb, as seen on tv by my buddy eric, the love i lost by fried by fluoride, just by radiohead, boys dont cry by the cure, so long by james marriott + cupid's chokehold / breakfast in america by gym class heroes warnings: use of y/n, callbacks/mentions to a break up, talks about toxic relationships (briefly), mentions of drinking and alcohol, homophobic comments, thats it i think word count: 2.1k (including social media parts)

ynmusic streetlite officially out, performing in local pubs soon

user481 LET'S FUCKING GO!!!

user481 wait WHAT THE FUCK SIR DID U GO THROUGH A BREAKUP??? WHY THE HELL IS TS SAD

↳ user044 STOP REAL like this is SOO a break up album 💔

↳ user228 ur joking im not ready to sob hello

↳ user044 damn uh how do we break this to you?

↳ user228 DONT SAY THAT

A beat-down, smoke-ridden pub wasn’t the place that Oscar expected to find himself in when Lando had invited him out to Britain. And yet, here he was—slouched at the end of a sticky bar counter, his head in his hands and muttering something about better tastes and being rich.

The lighting was uncomfortably weak, a broken neon sign buzzed in the corner of his eye, barely illuminating the peeling wallpaper surrounding him.

He glanced over to Lando, who in his opinion, looked far too comfortable—like the pub was a second home—his laugh already reeking of cheap booze.

“Mate,” Oscar sighed, shoulders sagging, “you’re actually serious about this place being good?”

At the sound of his friend's voice, Lando turned to face him, a crooked smile playing on his face. With a tilted head, and a grin like no other—he slung his arm around Oscars shoulder, pulling him into a one-armed (and one-sided) hug.

“It’s absolutely brilliant,” he drawled, already a little gone, “you’ve gotta see the performance—they’ve got a new guy singing tonight.”

Lando’s pitch wasn’t that convincing, what with his hiccuping, swaying state. Still, he stayed, muttering a dejected “alright”.

After a few moments, though, the lights in the bar dimmed, and other lights from an open area with a stage turned on. Red lights bled across the walls—glaringly bright at first—before dimming low enough for Oscar to make sense of the stage.

You stepped out in front of a small, still forming crowd, wearing a leather jacket perfectly fitted—tattoos crawling up your neck and twisting down your wrist—you looked every bit the rockstar.

The mic squealed as you leaned in, tapping it once with your finger.

“My name is Y/N,” you began—your voice rugged in just the right way, “and I’ll be performing my new album, Streetlite, for you all.”

Oscar spent the next fifteen or so minutes fully tuning out Lando’s slurred speech—eyes trained on you and only hearing the music that you played. A gritty, grunge-leaning setlist pulsed through the pub. He hated to say it, but Lando was right in making him stay.

He couldn’t deny the pang of disappointment washing over him as you took a bow, exiting off the stage, but begrudgingly he turned to look for Lando.

It seemed like his friend hadn’t paid the performance any attention—too focused on chatting to (or up, he wasn’t sure) the bartender serving him.

Oscar was too busy daydreaming to notice the sound of footsteps behind him, as well as the creak of a barstool when a man sat beside him.

“A Guinness, please.” The man spoke, a familiar gravelly sound—one that Oscar recognized. He blinked, head twitching toward the sound.

There you were. Up close. The singer.

He whipped his head back around as quickly as he could muster, a dull feeling of dizziness following suit, then a warmth. Heat blooming at the tips of his ears—embarrassment, probably.

His brain felt like it was sizzling, and it had no reason to be. He wanted to limp away like a wounded animal in fear—because the man beside him scared him more than he should.

He’s just a man, Oscar told himself. You’re just a man too.

But when he turned to face you, cheeks flushed and heartbeat loud in his ears, that thought didn’t help much at all.

“You’re starin’ mate.” You spoke. Accent latching onto your words, and your eyes lingering elsewhere.

And when you spoke, oh Oscar would swear his heartbeat thrummed through every bone in his body. Fumbling, stuttering over his words—he apologised. Incoherent, awkward—an apology nonetheless.

“Sorry,” he croaks, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

You laugh. Rough. But it carries a warmth that Oscar keeps in his chest.

“There’s no need, was jus’ pointing it out,” You smiled, finger tracing the rim of your glass, “name’s Y/N—not sure if you were listening but it was me performing up there.”

“I was.” Oscar affirms far too quickly—which he only realises half-way through, “ah, uhm—you could call me Oscar.”

You repeat his name, softly—letting it play on your tongue as you speak it, “Oscar. Fits you.”

A silence stretches between the two of you as Oscar scrambles for something to say. His thoughts are a mess, so he settles for a half-hearted smile, cheeks tinged pink.

Then his phone buzzes.

Fishing it out of his pocket, he squints at the screen—Lando.

Sorry m8 i left w/o u LMSO. ill pay for ur uber tho, followed by a notification: money sent.

Oscar sighs, brows knitting together. He should’ve expected it—but that doesn’t stop the pang of irritation. Of course Lando had wandered off. Drunk bastard.

He shrinks into himself a little, already dreading the awkward solo trip back to the hotel. Damn it, Lando.

“You alright?” Your voice cuts through the moment, steady and low. You lean on your palm, eyes watching him with a curious kind of calm.

He turns to you, albeit a bit irritated, “My mate just left me. He’s my guide so it’s a bit—I dunno. Shit?”

Once again he lets out an annoyed groan, dragging his hands across his face then letting it drop into his palms.

“How ‘bout I buy you a consolation drink?” You offered, this time your tone is a little softer. Then, adding on, “Besides, I wanted to buy you one anyway—if you want one, of course.”

In any normal circumstance Oscar would know better than to accept. However, a drink does sound good. So, against his better will, he accepts.

“Sure, yeah. A drink sounds good.” He nods, and you smile.

Conversation after that flows smoothly. Short sentences exchanged about your jobs, personal experiences, about everything that came to mind. You talk about how you juggle your day jobs with your pub gigs, and Oscar furrows his brow, bringing up your songs.

“So,” he starts, eyes flickering to his glass with a slight uncertainty, “Your album—it’s kind of all over the place. Like, at first I thought it was a love album but then… it turned kind of sad.”

You don’t answer right away and Oscar internally panics. He probably shouldn’t have asked—maybe the drinks were making him just a little too loose. Should he apologise?

“Well, initially it was a love album. Somewhat, anyway,” you paused, twirling your glass, “then me and him hit a rocky spot. Realised he was kind of a shit person—and I left. It kinda fucked me though. Coped a lot through my music, and I scrapped tons of songs.”

Silence settles between you, and the ambient pub noise suddenly feels too loud—cutlery clinking, laughter echoing from across the room. Oscar watches you, quiet. Patient.

There’s something unreadable in your eyes—appreciation, maybe. Or maybe it’s just the liquor. But you give him a small smile and keep going.

“So, it’s a relationship—the album, I mean. Going through a, toxic relationship for a lack of a better word.”

He hums, nodding slowly.

“It’s good.” He speaks, treading every word carefully, “you showed it well.”

You smile in return, stealing a glance towards a watch sitting on your wrist—then looking back up at him.

“It’s getting late. I’ll head out—but uhm,” quickly, you fumble a piece of paper out of your pocket, lending a pen from the bartender, writing something down.

“Here. I’ll talk to you another time. Have a good night.”

You give Oscar a wave, and a bell chimes as you leave the pub—with Oscar looking at the paper.

Your number. As well as a message: ‘text me later <3’

♬ Y/N ∙ Garbage Truck

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oscarpiastri Win in Austria. Can’t complain

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user481 my worlds colliding… oscar posted to Y/N’s song

↳ user091 idk who the artist is but this music is lwky fire 🔥

user119 P1 HELL YES

user001 LETS FUCKING GOOO

user671 so he listens to gay artists now??? and i fucking liked him too

(this comment has been deleted by the author)

user782 mega job mate!

user059 THIS IS WHY UR THE GOAT!!!

ynmusic m8 i think i recognise this guy

↳ user481 HOLY SHIT THEY'RE INTERACTING STAY CALM

The engines were loud, and so was the chatter amongst people in the McLaren garage—strategies floating around and bouncing between engineers—and honestly you felt like a black sheep in a herd. You grab a headset out of the hands of an engineer with a grateful smile, and quickly put it on—and the noise grows silent.

Of course, it’s not completely quiet—that’s nearly, if not completely, impossible with so much happening. Especially in a sport like this one, or at least you assumed so. But now, at least, it’s filtered. Contained behind the layers of comms, buzzing static, and urgent voices murmuring to each other.

A clearer voice cuts through the static and interferes the team radio, interrupting your thoughts.

“Box this lap.” He speaks. You weren't sure of his name, but you knew that he was Oscar's engineer.

“Copy.” This time it was Oscar's voice, calm, focused—incredibly different from how he was in the pub with flushed cheeks and a boyish smile.

It was like a stranger wearing his voice when he spoke, even if it was only one word. Tone clipped, precise, and unfamiliar to you. No longer the man who was fumbling with his words, but instead the trained athlete he is.

You watch the screen, a flash of orange (or papaya, as the internet, or the team itself insisted) flying past and pulling into the pits. Slowing down as it approaches you, he stays for merely a second before he once again pulls away to the track.

If you were being honest, you really had no clue on how it worked. Sure, a few things made sense, and you knew it was racing, but you had no idea of what it were beyond the surface. But when the McLaren car passed the red Ferrari one, and a few scattered cheers erupted, you couldn’t help but smile.

The rest of the race was smooth—the car you knew to look for keeping its place in first, no need for overtaking nor intense defending. Before you knew it, it passed the finish line and the entire garage erupted in loud, echoing celebrations.

Your heart beats in your chest. Hard, heavy—for no reason at all—or a reason you’re too afraid to admit. Heading out of the garage, and towards the car, you catch a glimpse of the man himself in between the engineers.

Hair and face drenched in sweat as he takes off his balaclava, he has a smile so sweet on his face as he jumps into the the gathering of McLaren staff. Face flushed as he steps back from the crowd—and for once second, just one second, he smiles at you.

The next moment you see him he’s on top of the podium accepting a trophy that’s well deserved. Goofy music playing in the background, the other drivers grab the champagne bottles and spray each other—you can’t help but laugh at the sight.

Interviews take place after the champagne spray, and then, finally, you see him walk towards you. Your heart skips a beat—maybe two—and when you’re face to face you can only give him a smirk.

“So much for, I drive cars, huh?” You tease, a warmth bubbling beneath the smirk on your face.

Oscar laughs a bit sheepishly, a hand reaching up to the back of his neck, “I mean, it’s not a lie,” he gives you a tilt of his head, “but maybe ‘I drive cars fast’ works better?”

You raise a brow, “Bit of an understatement, eh?”

He smiles again—more boyish, rather than bravado—and for a moment, for just a second, he looks like the boy from the pub again, with flushed cheeks and filled with something unsaid.

And god, the urge to kiss him bubbles up in your chest like a kettle ready to boil over. You let out a heavy exhale, smiling so brightly that you have nothing to say.

But he does.

“I have a question,” he asks—suddenly more serious, and you hum, his voice barely audible over the celebrations in the background, “go on a date with me? Not a shitty pub this time. Something proper.”

There’s a pause—a brief silence, the butterflies in your stomach and fuzz in your head overpowering your ability to mutter an answer.

You let out a breath—half laugh and half exhale—and nod.

“Yeah,” you stammer, giving him a stupid grin, “I’d like that.”

♬ Y/N ∙ Cupid’s Chokehold

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ynmusic cupid’s chokehold out now. dedicated to the love of my life.

tagged: oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri ❤

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©lilliezzzzz-fics: please don't copy or distribute my work on any platform

credits: @/cafekitsune for the dividers <3

author's note again: sorry if this wasnt the greatest, still dont know if i like the look of the posts. hope u enjoyed it despite that! <33

#♬ snapshot #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 imagine #f1 x male reader #formula 1 x male reader #formula one x male reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x male reader #formula 1 social media au #x male reader

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jypsyvloggin · 2 years ago

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Courtney Cox Reacts to Aging Filter on TikTok, ohh f***

@courteneycoxofficial Stay in the moment! ♬ original sound – Courteney Cox In a recent TikTok video, Friends alum Courtney Cox tried out the viral aging filter. The filter, which is available on the app TikTok, takes a snapshot of your face and then ages it by a few years. Cox’s reaction to the filter was both humorous and honest. When she saw her older self, she exclaimed, “Whoa! How many more…

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blogstudent469 · 4 years ago

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lilliezzzzz-fics · 13 days ago

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Dear Noisy Neighbour, !

pairing: streamer!lando norris x insomniac!reader author's note: so, i'm sorry for my abscence, this fic caused me problems and also i've been busy with art stuff!! sorry for being gone for... a month. but!! i hope you enjoy this fic!! gn!reader, no use of y/n warnings: one liiittle (🤏) sex joke, sleeping problems, neighbours-to-something, one flirty remark, that's about it i think word count: 1.8k

You’ve had many sleepless nights, far too many to count. Though none of them were quite as loud as this one. What sounded like banging coming from the wall right beside you, with uncontrollable laughter following suit. Some muffled words that you were too tired to make sense of, more laughter, and clicking on a keyboard.

You turn in your bed, groaning into your pillow. You assumed that the… Friendly ruckus was caused by your newly moved-in neighbor, who you only knew of because of the endless amount of moving boxes placed in the building's corridor. The mess was no problem, you knew moving would always be a messy process, so you thought nothing of it. On the contrary, you somewhat looked forward to meeting the mystery neighbor.

But now you couldn’t say those positive feelings remained. Not when he was yelling at the top of his lungs at 2 in the morning. You couldn’t even fathom why he was even up now. Quite frankly, you don’t want to either. With his yelling and groaning, only two things were coming to mind, either he was getting killed, or he was… Well, honestly you’d rather not think about it.

The darkness in your room is a familiar comfort, although you always swear there’s movement hiding beneath it somehow. Groggily, you sit up, swinging your legs off of your bed. Your feet search the floor underneath them, trying to find the warm slippers usually placed there. Once you find them, you messily slide your feet into them, almost putting them on the wrong way.

Your steps are slow, almost dragging your feet across your bedroom floor to find the lamp sitting on your desk. Your hand feels the cold surface, finding the button to turn it on. Soon the room is slightly illuminated by its warm glow, a yellowish light brushing the walls. Though it wasn’t peaceful, still, with your neighbour yelling clear enough that you could hear it. He’s yelling at some guy, Max, about some… Enemy?

Perhaps you should give him a knock. Like a friendly not-so-friendly reminder that he doesn’t live alone in this building. Or maybe that’s too rude.

You find yourself grumbling in the chair, unsure of what to do. You couldn’t go to bed just yet, since he was still awake, but you didn’t want to just sit around. Also, you really wanted to do something about the noise. You don’t think you’d live another day if this continued for days on end. However, you had no clue how to tell him off. You could of course just confront him, but you didn’t have the energy to potentially get into an argument at this time of night, so that was out of the question. Maybe you could get your landlord to tell him off? No, actually. That’s probably a bit too harsh.

A sigh escapes you. You had zero clue on what to do. You slide open a drawer, rummaging through it for something to keep you entertained for the night. It’s unorganized, with different junk and scrap scattered amongst the material stored there.

In the drawer, your eyes land on a bright yellow notepad, which gives you an idea of how to tell your new neighbour off without being too rude.

You take out the notepad, as well as a pen you found lying inside the drawer. The pen gives off a soft click as you pop the cap off. It takes you a while to figure out what to write, and multiple attempts or ideas are quickly scrapped and thrown into the bin placed beside your desk. Eventually, you land on a note that goes as follows:

Dear Noisy Neighbour,

I hope you find your new place to your liking! It’s nice to have someone new in the building, but you’re causing quite a ruckus. There are a lot of people who are trying to or are currently sleeping, so please tone it down! - your new neighbour :)

You grab the note, shuffling out of your chair and out of your bedroom. You had to squint as you made your way towards your front door, making sure not to trip over anything, or yourself for that matter. You unlock the door, reaching for the handle and creaking the door open. The corridor was dark, almost tranquil, as you stepped out into it. Although it’s kind of cold.

Though, loud laughter interrupts the short peace you had, reminding you why you were out here in the first place. You turn to his door, stepping around the boxes placed at your feet like you’re finding your way through a maze. You stop in front of his door, the noise even louder now that you’re up close. His British accent is far clearer, and you can somewhat distinguish what he’s talking about.

For a moment, you just stand there as if you’re unsure of what to do. Honestly, you feel kind of silly standing here in the dark and telling someone off via stationary. The pitch-black of the corridor envelops you in a brief silence—until your neighbour's yelp makes you nearly jump out of your skin.

You steel yourself as you press the bright yellow note onto his wooden door, the bottom curling upward slightly. You press down on the note, flattening it with your palm. His boisterous laughter once again rings through the silent night and you physically flinch, stepping back from the door to calm your beating heart. Your eyes narrow, and your nose crinkles at his unashamed volume.

You take a step back, eyes scanning over the bright yellow patch now present on his front door. It stands out even in the dark of the night, and you’re honestly a little afraid. You couldn’t imagine how he would reply to it. Maybe he’d be pissed. Well, you’re already here; better not to regret anything.

Lando wasn’t sure what to make of the passive-aggressive note stuck to his front door. The letters were smudged and it was slightly crinkled in the corners, with a smiley face in the corner trying its best to show some friendliness. It usually would amuse him, but this time for some odd reason, it didn’t. If he were honest, he only felt bad. Clearly, he hadn’t made a good first impression on whoever made it.

Gently, he peeled the note off of the door and put it in his pocket. He’ll have to put it up somewhere so he remembers to keep quiet during streams. His steps back into the apartment are sluggish; his mind drifting off. The blue light from his computer screen makes his eyes hurt as he retreats to his bedroom. He winces, stepping towards his screen and pulling out the note—pressing it to the top left corner of his middle monitor.

He doesn’t think of it at the moment, but his hand rests lingering—fingertips brushing against the slightly crumpled paper. His raised arm falls to his side as he crumbles into his chair like a man defeated.

Staying up too late like this isn’t good for him; his mind won’t stop running. He shouldn’t let a small note affect him like this, especially not when it’s something as easy to fix as this. Hell—he’s a streamer—he’s used to things like this. People who he didn’t know commenting on how obnoxious he was. He shouldn’t care. But he does.

It’s stupid, really. But as he sits in his chair he can’t help but run scenarios in his head, playing out different ways to apologise. Maybe he could get his neighbour a gift? Maybe he should put all the boxes that’d been left in the hallway into his apartment (which he should’ve done the moment he got here, it’d slipped his mind—he swears). Maybe he could even bake them something—or well, not with his baking skills—he has to do something.

The clock ticking in his room turns into background noise as time slips through him; no longer aware of the passage of the time. Minutes turn into hours as guilt continues to reside in his body like a leech, sucking away all his other thoughts. He only realises how long he’s been awake when the birds chirping outside his window brings him back.

He sighs—not of relief—but of an overwhelm he can’t seem to describe. The slight creak of his chair when he leans back seems louder than ever—his curls that tickle the back of his neck feeling like it’s giving him a rash, despite them being so soft.

His hands reach into the drawer he’d left open for some reason, hands brushing over the notebook that he intended to use as a journal; however that intention didn’t last. But now he thought of something else he could use it for. Shuffling it out of the already filled drawer, he slips it in front of the keyboard. He slips out a pencil and hovers it over the open notebook. He thought of something to write, but then—it doesn’t fit. Writing, scrapping, then re-writing. Over and over til he finds something that fits. And eventually, he does.

A script that he thinks that he could rehearse to the person complaining, a formal apology. He rises a little too quickly out of his chair, stumbling when he stands. Shuffling through his bedroom, in the same pajamas he put on when he thought to sleep, he exits into his main living area; rehearsing the scripted apology in unintelligible mumbles.

With his eyes still on the paper—and his handwriting that looks closer to incoherent scribbles—he steps into his slippers and opens his door.

The loud creak that the door emits when he exits usually would put him off, but he doesn’t pay attention, his mumbles sounding like the ramblings of a madman. His steps are deliberate as he walks through the maze of boxes and he’s just a few steps away from his next-door neighbours apartment when he hears the cough of a person a bit too close for comfort.

His eyes drift up to find yours.

The man in front of you looks messy. Not the clean type of messy that you’d expect, no, but a messy that only a rugged, distressed man could be. He looks only a breath away from breaking down. His pupils are dilated and theres a flustered expression on his face as his eyes meet yours, and he mutters an: “oh fuck”.

A curl springs in front of his face as he stumbles to start speaking, “I, uh- shit. Uhm, I’m sorry for being noisy, I didn’t realise that- uhm, I didn’t realise my impact on the others in the building-”

You can’t help but laugh—his expression is a little pitiful as his lips tremble with something you could only call guilt.

“You don’t need to be so formal,” you smile, hand brushing the back of your neck, “I only wanted you to be a bit quieter.”

God, he was incredibly cute.

“Ah.” His cheeks reddened as he breathed out. Long and heavy, “Well, I’m sorry.”

His mouth opens to probably say something else—maybe another dumbfounded apology—or maybe something else, but he closes it once again with a small smile on his face, and red brushing his cheeks.

“Well, just keep the note in mind, for future nights, okay?” you flash him a grin, “I’ll see you around, cutie.”

©lilliezzzzz-fics: please don't copy or distribute my work on any platform

credits: @/cafekitsune for the dividers <3

#♬ snapshot #lando norris x reader #lando x reader #lando norris x gn!reader #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 imagine

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lilliezzzzz-fics · 3 months ago

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Birdbath !

pairing: lance stroll x male!reader synopsis: you pamper your bird boyfriend n help him take care of his wings!!! birdbath!!! (not proofread ,,, just a silly drabble !!) warnings: none, I think! word count: ~950

Lance had always been meticulous when it came to his wings. They’re quite literally a part of him, so he takes incredible care of them and automatically that includes taking care of his feathers. He has special shampoos and soaps that he uses only for his wings. Though, he also has to be so gentle on his wings, since they’re so sensitive. Focused yet soft scrubbing on wash days, and intensive preening after races; it was all so much to handle. But now? He doesn’t feel the same.

He used to find washing his wings as such a bore, something he only did because he needed to, but now they’re soft and domestic moments he can spend with you. You, sitting on the bathtub’s rim and rinsing cold water through his feathers, making sure his plumage looks perfect; that’s one of his favourite moments. Having his boyfriend run his fingers through his wings, patting them dry afterwards; it was comforting, nice—it’s something that he looks forward to now.

Though, of course it feels kind of silly with him sitting in a huge bathtub with his wings spread out and you taking care of him, doting over him like a parent. And with the size of his wings, he could easily splash you from time to time but most oftenly it was just a calm, nice moment between him and you.

“You look like a drowned puppy.” You snicker at Lance, his feathers and hair soaked.

A glare is thrown at you, although no real malice is behind it, “shut up.”

You hum, rolling your eyes at his comment. You sit on the rim of the bathtub, as usual, your hands in Lance's hair and massaging his scalp with shampoo. Although his response was gruff, you know that Lance enjoys these moments—this simple, peaceful routine where you pamper him as much as you’d like.

“You know you don’t want me to though,” you tease, running your hand through his wet hair, coaxing the knots out of the strands.

Lance merely lets out a huff, his wings twitching and splashing a little water on you. “Whatever,” he pouts.

You can't help but smile at his pout, the sight of Lance looking so begrudgingly cute tugging at your heart. You continue massaging his scalp, fingers working through his hair as you hum a soft tune under your breath, relishing the quiet hum of the bathroom and the warmth from the steamy water.

Lance sighs, a little more relaxed now as the tension melts away, his wings folding slightly against the sides of the tub, feathers damp and clinging together in places.

“You have that smile on your face again,” he mutters, “like- you’re makin’ fun of me or something.”

You glance down at him, chuckling a little at his words. "What, you don’t like the look of your boyfriend pampering you?"

Lance huffs again, turning his head so as to not face you. His feathers shimmer in the dull light of the bathroom, and you let your hands wander through his hair as you finish washing it, the gentle scent of his shampoo clinging to your skin.

“Okay, babe," you say, now turning your attention over to his wings, "you’re gonna have to help me out a little here. You know I can’t reach the tips of your wings from this angle.”

Lance gives a lazy tilt of his head, looking a little disgruntled still, but there's a softness in his gaze, one that only you were allowed to see; one filled with love, warmth and intimacy

“Fine,” he mutters, shifting slightly, adjusting his wings so you can reach the edges more easily. "But you better be careful.”

You roll your eyes with a smile before you begin gently running your fingers through his wet feathers, combing through them with careful attention. You make sure to avoid spots that are sore from his earlier race.

"Of course, I wouldn't dream otherwise." you reply, with a soft smile tugging on your lips.

Lance sighs in contentment, his muscles releasing tension under your touch, and you see his eyelids flutter for a moment and you can’t help but giggle at his sudden relaxation.

“Thanks,” he murmurs after a while, voice muffled and slow, his wings drooping a little. “I know it’s kind of a hassle, but I do appreciate you helping out.”

You chuckle softly, looking down at him. “It’s not a hassle. I think the only thing making this difficult is you, baby.”

Lance groans dramatically, pulling his head back and giving you a look that clearly says he’s not going to admit anything more than that. "Yeah, yeah... Whatever. Just finish already before I fall asleep here."

You shake your head, laughing a little. “Fine, you’re so demanding. But I’ll take care of you, since you want it that bad.”

“Good,” he mutters, sinking further into the tub, a content sigh escaping him.

The rest of the bath goes by in silence, save for the occasional splash of water from his wings as you finish drying and fluffing his feathers. The whole experience is peaceful, serene, and filled with quiet understanding. It’s these small, domestic moments that you’ve come to cherish the most with Lance.

Finally, you step back, eyeing your work. Lance’s wings are neatly preened and dry, his hair fluffy, and there’s a calmness about him that you can’t help but admire.

You reach down, gently brushing a hand through his damp hair one last time. “All done, birdie. You’re good to go.”

Lance opens one eye, his usual cocky smirk making a slow return as he sits up with a stretch. “You really do spoil me,” he grins.

You chuckle, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Anything for my prince.”

©lilliezzzzz-fics: please don't copy or distribute my work on any platform

credits: @/cafekitsune for the dividers <3

author's note: winged!lance, winged!lance my beloved !!! the art that inspired this is on my main @/lilliezzzzz , hope u like (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

#♬ snapshot #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #lance stroll x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 x male reader #lance stroll x male reader

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lilliezzzzz-fics · 3 months ago

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Coffee and Sunshine !

pairing: kimi raikkonen x reader author's note: written w/ male reader in mind + reader is intended to be a driver, its gender neutral though, slightly autistic coding in kimi, this is v much not how I usually write though warnings: a little ooc sorry >_> word count: 1.5k

The morning sun gleams down at you as you walk toward the busy Ferrari stall, bathing in the warmth it provides. You let out a contented sigh as you enter the building, a comforting scent of coffee fills the air. The room is filled with chatter and people, although not uncomfortably so. You walk through the locale, eyes scanning around to find your teammate, Kimi, though to no avail. Unsurprisingly, he’s not present. You honestly expect him not to be. Social interactions, especially crowded places, was never quite his thing.

With your thoughts enveloping your mind, you walk towards the coffee machine, the bitter scent growing stronger as you approach it. You grab a mug and slide it underneath the machine. With a press of a button, the machine whirrs to life, spitting out the caffeinated liquid into your cup.

Once it’s finished, you grab the mug with both of your hands. It’s warm in your grasp, spreading said warmth throughout your entire body. You let yourself enjoy it for a mere moment before you begin to walk away. You walk to find Kimi.

Your shoes clack against the marbled stairs as you make your way up to the top of the building. An eerie quiet accompanies your steps, unsettling in a way you can't quite place. Perhaps you’ve grown to enjoy the chatty atmosphere of the Ferrari staff. Not that it’s worth thinking about now.

You reach the end of the staircase, greeted by a door with windows, a dimmed light shining through them, casting a streak of yellow onto you. You creak open the door, the light breeze welcoming you outside. As you step out, you tighten your grip around your mug, the door closing behind you. You glance around the roof, finding it empty, but one person catches your sight.

“Kimi! Here you are,” You exclaim brightly, a smile decorating your face. “I thought you’d disappeared.”

You walk toward him, he’s seated on a lonesome chair, his head leaning on his palm. He lets out a soft huff at your exclamation. He remains silent as you drag a chair to sit beside him, not complaining or even greeting you.

“Is this where you spend your time before races? Before driving?” You ask, your eyes resting on his face.

“Yeah.” He replies dryly.

“You should bring coffee next time. Like, coffee and sunshine.” Now, you let your eyes flee to the sky, absorbing the scenery in a way you hadn’t before. Admiring the calm atmosphere before the chaos of the race.

“Maybe.” His replies remain one-worded, his eyes as far away as you’d usually see them.

You don’t feel the need to fill the space with conversation, letting the two of you bathe in the silence; the calm and serene that felt unusual, yet welcome.

Once again you find yourself searching for Kimi’s presence, your coffee cup in hand as you creak the rooftop’s door open. Your eyes scan the place, the chilly breeze grazing over your cheek in greeting. You let the wind embrace you for a while longer til you let your gaze drift around. The rooftop is as empty as the first time, save for one person sitting by the railing—Kimi. This time, you saw his hands cupping something that looked like a mug.

Your shoes thump softly against the rocky flooring beneath them, your steps almost inaudible in contrast to the words of the wind. You walk up beside Kimi, sitting yourself on a chair placed perfectly beside him.

“You took my advice; you have coffee with you this time.” Your words cut through the silence, yet they’re welcomed by the Finn.

“Yeah. It’s nice.” He spoke in response, his hands comforted by the lingering warmth emanating from the cup.

“I thought so.” You reply. A smile is evident in your tone as you do.

A huff escapes him at your words, and your smile grows into a grin.

“You don’t mind me sitting here with you, do you?” You ask, even if it’s a stupid reason. You knew he wouldn’t turn you away—you wouldn’t be here at all if he did. Yet, you ask either way.

“I don’t mind.” His reassurance comforts you, like he wants you there.

You smile and nod, turning your head to the sky once again. Today it is painted a beautiful pink, tainted with yellow and red, which drips into the horizon, fading into the morning. It’s accompanied by the crisp air that greeted you moments earlier, a chilly cold that feels welcome in moments like these. In moments where you had coffee accompanying the sunshine.

Today you were first to the rooftop, the meetings weaving into routine rather than off-hand moments interrupting it. Your coffee cup sits resting on a table you’d dragged close to the railing, a thin layer of dust covering its top moments earlier. The outside had grown even colder as of late, with you having to bring sweaters as thick as pillows to keep warm. Steam spirals from the cup, leaving faint ghostly trails behind it before the wind steals them away.

You sigh softly, contented, and happy. You grab the mug, letting it warm your palms. You sit there in silence until you hear the door to the roof creak open. Curiously, you turn your head around to find Kimi’s eyes. They’re a bit widened, his nose tinted a peachy red—presumably from the cold—and he speaks:

“You’re already here?” His voice is almost uncharacteristically soft, with small sniffles escaping him occasionally.

You can’t help but smile at the faint surprise in his voice before nodding.

“Yeah.” You affirm, bringing the cup up to your lips, sipping at it and the warmth spreading through you in a warm embrace. “Thought that since I’d come up anyway, I’d come up a bit earlier than usual.”

He hummed, walking towards you and sitting down on a chair you’d placed beside you. His rhythmic breathing left vapor in its tracks. Calm, steady breaths. He sips his coffee, his grasp on his mug tight; as if he’s deep in thought.

His eyes remain on the sky. The light blue reflected in his irises, his gaze ever so gentle.

“You okay?” Your voice interrupts his solace, concern tinging your words.

“I’m okay. Don’t worry.” He drawls, his voice slightly rasping.

Finally, the mornings had grown warm once again, and you no longer needed to bury yourself in prickly sweaters to keep yourself from freezing. Your breath no longer left trails of mist, and your fingertips or tips of your ears were not hot at every moment when you were outside either. It was relieving, with the breeze. It’s not the same kind of cold that left one shivering, but it did not leave you sweating either. It was the perfect weather for coffee.

So here you were, on the rooftop again. Your eyes closed as you let your mind drift into ease. The soft hum of the world below, mixed with the occasional flutter of wind grazing your cheek felt cozy and comforting. You took another sip of your coffee, the warmth of the liquid settling into your chest.

You’re so engraved in your own thoughts that you fail to notice the creak of the door behind you opening. Kimi walks up behind you, and his voice, although quiet, manages to startle you.

“Oh my god!” You jump slightly, your heart thumping in your chest. You look at Kimi, whose eyes also widen at your sudden jump.

“Sorry, god, you startled me.” You sigh a little bashfully, and he mutters an unintelligible apology before sitting down beside you.

The usual quiet settles over the two of you, but it’s a bit different this time. This time it feels as if it’s there to contain something unsaid, and Kimi’s tapping on the side of his mug almost confirms your suspicions.

“Is something troubling you, Kimi?” You ask, your eyes not moving from the sky.

He had been acting… Odd, as of late. The meetings on the roof were far quieter than usual, his mind always far away.

“I suppose.” His tone clipped.

“Care to share your worries?” You hum, this time turning around to face the man.

He nods, “Yeah.” It’s like he ponders what to say for a moment, opening his mouth only to close it again. Finally, he speaks up, “Wanna go out with me?”

You feel surprise fill your body, and it’s clear you don’t have a poker face either, because Kimi narrows his eyes, as if bracing for something. Heat rushes to your cheeks and you stumble over your words, spluttering out mere noises for a moment.

“I- Yes, I’d like that.” You finally string together something coherent, “Sorry, you- you caught me off-guard.”

“Oh.” He sighs, relieved, “I thought you were gonna reject me.”

You shake your head, laughing softly, “Well I didn’t. There’s no need to worry.”

He hums, nodding. “Do you still wanna do this? Will you continue to have coffee and sunshine with me?”

“Forever.”

©lilliezzzzz-fics: please don’t copy or distribute my work on any platform

credits: @/cafekitsune for the dividers <3

author's note (again): i actually enjoyed writing this one a lot! i hope u enjoyed reading it just as much :) I want to say that I do take requests so pls feel free to send one in if u have anything in mind!

#♬ snapshot #formula 1 x reader #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 one shot #formula 1 imagine #f1 x gn!reader #kimi raikkonen x reader

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lilliezzzzz-fics · 3 months ago

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The Heir's Keeper | Chapter I

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pairing: lance stroll x reader synopsis: you arrive at Stroll Corp. HQ, this time not for a meeting, but to work! how exciting, really! yet, it seems that the one you're working for doesn't find it as exciting as you do. word count: ~3.5k

It’s been about two days since you had the meeting with Mr. Stroll, since then your nerves have been through the roof. Now you were in an uber on the way to Stroll Corp. HQ—the same place where the interview had taken place, only now you were there to work. The ride there was short, yet it felt like ages as the heaviness in your chest only grew. After paying the uber, you step inside the HQ, the glamorous lobby just as overwhelming as last time.

You walked up to the receptionist from last time, giving her a wave and a smile, “Hi! I’m here for Lance Stroll—where is his office?”

“Oh, Lance’s office is on the fourth floor,” she hummed, her hair once again tied up in a neat bun, “it should be right down the hall there, very easy to spot.”

“Alright, thank you.” you nodded, walking over to the elevator.

The small elevator was engraved in your mind, the small gold detailing and the mirror at the back—you recognised it all. Although, it was still your first day actually working here, so your nerves were still skyrocketing as you pressed the button labeled four. The ride was smooth and only a few seconds, but your mind still raced at a million kilometers a minute. The elevator ding brought you back down to earth, and you cleared your throat as you stepped out.

The office layout was the same as on the fifth floor, the door down the hallway labeled with Lance S. You approach the door, your shoes thumping gently against the carpeted floor. You give the door a knock, and a voice echoes out.

“Give me a moment,” he says, his voice a deep and rich one—very twangy, “alright, come in.”

You step into his office, the room similar to his fathers, yet the furnishing was very personalized. Instead of the modern and elegant design Lawrence had, his was more warm—natural, home-y if you could say so.

There’s a few framed pictures on his desk, as well as a few papers scattered around on there. You can even spot a few empty coffee mugs that haven’t been put away; it’s messy, yet it doesn’t feel too cluttered. Though, you wouldn’t imagine it would be nice to work with this much junk all over.

As you look up, your eyes land on the man sitting in front of you, his appearance familiar. His slicked back, dark brown hair—the small lock of hair curling up right above his brow, his half-lidded eyes and his expression unreadable, just like it was when you first saw him by the elevator.

“Hi, excuse me,” you spoke up, flashing a smile, “I’m your new Personal Assistant, I’m sure Mr. Stroll sent you my information already. It’s a pleasure to be working with you, sir.”

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, not bothering to glance up. “Right, right,” he said, his tone clipped. “I’ve got some work for you to get started on; your office is next to mine, outside on the left.”

Your gaze flickered to the stack of papers he nudged toward you—a mix of printed emails, meeting notes, and what looked suspiciously like half a grocery list. You raised an eyebrow but bit back any remark.

“Alright, sir. I’ll get back to you once I’m finished with... this.” You hefted the stack of papers, already mentally sorting what could possibly need his immediate attention.

“Good.” Is all he responds with, his gaze drifting from you to his computer, “off you go then.”

You nod, even though he can’t see, before turning on your heel. The door clicks shut behind you as you step into the eerily quiet corridor. You turn to your left, finding a door bearing a plaque with your name on it, the Stroll Corp logo affixed right above.

With a sigh—whether from relief or an uncomfortable overwhelm—you push the door open. As expected, it’s empty. The room’s lifeless, the white walls bearing no decoration and the lack of furnishing other than the small desk placed in the middle of the room’s uncanny; it’s functional, of course, but it's not inviting. Your shoulders relax slightly as you take in the sparse space.

You let the stack of papers fall, landing on the desk with a dull thud. You wince a little, your brows furrowing at the sudden noise, but you quickly regain yourself again.

A frown falls upon your lips as you skim through the work Lance had piled up for you. It wasn’t anything particularly difficult, but it was a lot—especially since you quite literally just had gotten here. You knew that you’d signed up for something demanding, but you can’t help but think that it was some sort of weird test.

Mr. Stroll’s words echo in your mind: “My son can be quite a handful,” You lean back in the chair, your lips pressing into a thin line. Was he actually warning you about the workload, or was there perhaps something else that you don’t know about yet? Another sigh escapes you, the thought only burdening you further.

You shake off the concerns and you grab a portion of the papers and straighten your back, your eyes scanning over the documents. Time to get started.

After about an hour you’ve mowed through about a half of the stack; that consisted of fixing his schedule for this week, notes from some prior meetings and some information about some upcoming events from the PR department. You slump onto the desk, your head on the polished surface. You really regret not getting that coffee earlier this morning, because you were already exhausted after a mere hour of work.

With an exasperated sigh, you push yourself up from the chair, walking out into the corridor and looking at the floor plan. Your eyes search the map, finding the break room to be closer than you thought initially.

So, you make your way over there, getting somewhat lost while walking there but you still manage to find it after a few minutes. The room is much more warm and inviting than how you found your office; the layout is open and spacious with a coffee machine right to your right. The entire left wall is a window, the city’s landscape beautiful in the afternoon sun.

You redirect your attention over to your original mission; to get coffee. You open the cupboard above the machine, grabbing a cup and placing it underneath. It’s one of those automated machines, so you look at the options for coffee. Latte, espresso, mocha—your finger hovers over the buttons before clicking the option you want. The machine lets out a whirr, starting up.

You lean back against the counter, looking out into the landscape. The view is gorgeous, and it’s much more nice here in the break room than in your new office too. Now that you’re here, in the quiet solace with your only company being yourself—you can’t help but be amazed. At the building, at the work and at the fact that you’re here, and working under the CEO’s son nonetheless. Although, you can’t deny the fact that he's odd, like, he didn’t even address you properly when you introduced yourself. It’s downright rude. Yet he’s sort of, I don’t know… Magnetic? Even if he’s rude or ignorant, you feel drawn to him somehow.

Leaning your head back, an exasperated groan escapes you. You’ve been here for a mere day, no—not even a day yet, for a bit more than an hour, and somehow you’re acting odd already? You seriously need to get it together.

The coffee machine thankfully interrupts your inner turmoil with a mechanical beep. You grab the mug, the warmth sort of calming. You sit down at a table by the window, sipping on the coffee and burning your tongue. It’s bitter, but it’s good for office coffee—and it’s not like you’re drinking it for the flavor anyway.

You hear footsteps behind you, as well as some clicks and the coffee machine once again whirring to life.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it? The view, I mean.” A rough voice speaks out, his spanish accent heavy.

“...Yeah, it is.” You hum, turning your head around to catch a glimpse of the man. He’s a bit older, in about his late-thirties or mid-forties maybe? Rather average in height, brown hair and gentle, yet demanding eyes.

The coffee machine beeps and he takes his mug, sitting himself across from you. His expression is neutral, or maybe just unreadable—but he seems nice.

“You’re new, right? I haven’t seen you around before.” He speaks up, eyes latching onto you.

“Yeah,” you chuckle softly, “I’m new, just started today actually.”

“Which department?”

“Oh, none. I work as a personal assistant for Lance Stroll.”

You look over to him as you speak, his eyes widening a little at your words; surprise evident in his expression. Though it quickly fades into some sort of amusement.

“He must’ve given you a hard time, then,” he laughs, “don’t take it personally, he’s a rather busy man. He’s not very social either. Give him some time, I’m sure you’ll grow on him.”

You hum, nodding along slowly to his words, “sounds like you know him well.” is what you say after a short while, gazing softly at the city beneath you; the streets crowded and busy, with cars lined up in queues far too long.

“I suppose,” he replies, his voice a soft tone, “I’ve worked with the Stroll family ever since Lance was little, so I’ve been around. My name’s Fernando, by the way.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” you smile, reaching out with your hand for him to shake, which he does—his hands calloused and rough against yours.

The two of you sit in a comfortable silence for a while, the only sound being heard is the city outside, the clock ticking and the occasional sip of coffee. You do engage in small talk for a moment before you glance over at the time.

“Gods, time’s gone faster than I thought,” you sigh, pushing away from the table and the chair scraping against the floor, “I think I have to get back to work, it’s been nice chatting though; I hope we can do it again sometime.”

“Alright, good luck kiddo. Oh, and before you go?” He speaks out, making you turn on your heel to once again face him.

“Lance means well, he does—though his expectations of himself are… how do I put it? They’re extreme, and they can easily be pushed for you to handle. Just don’t take any harsh words to heart.”

You make your way back to your office and you stop right outside your door. You were only now actually processing Fernando’s words. Lance has extreme expectations? On himself, too. It’s normal in this business, but he seems so… nonchalant.

You return to earth and sigh, you creak the door open to your office, and entering it feels like rain on your parade. It’s so dull and cold in comparison to the break room, it’s a very stark contrast. You’ve got to have a makeover or something along those lines once you’ve settled in a bit more. The chair squeaks a little as you plop yourself into it, leaning back and letting your head fall onto the headrest.

You scan over the leftover work, which includes: writing an abysmal amount of emails (it’s actually just three, but who needs to know that?), making a phone call to another company for an event and lastly, his groceries? Are you reading that correctly?

Indeed, you are. On your first day of being his personal assistant, he’s making you run errands. You let out an annoyed sigh. Well, perhaps you’ll get to that after making the phone call and writing the emails. You grab your laptop which had been sitting on the side of your desk, the screen faded but it was still on. It slides to sit in front of you, and you click a few times and with a soft sigh, you open gmail.

A painstaking 40 minutes later, you’d finished both the emails and the phone call. It wasn’t enjoyable. The person on the other line of the phone call was kind, but they had gotten off-topic far too many times, and they’d dragged it on for 10 extra minutes. You rub your temples, leaning on your desk. You’re honestly just thankful that you’ve finished the work.

Quickly you gather the documents you’ve fixed, his schedule, the notes from the meetings—everything you’ve finished. You look at the pile you’d gathered and pride fills your chest. Incredibly, you’d finish a day's work in two and a half hours, and that includes your 15 minute break. What are you, superhuman?

Before you heave the pile up, you grab Lance’s grocery list because you figure you’ll need it. You lift the papers up and walk out of your office and to Lance’s. You knock, or well, knock as well as you can with a pile of papers in your hold, and you enter once you hear his hum from the other side.

You gently put down the stack of papers on his desk before closing the door behind you, “Hi sir, I’ve finished the work you gave me, but I’ll get your groceries after my lunch break if that’s fine.”

He looks up at you, then over to the pile, then back to you. His eyes are a bit widened; though he quickly fades back into his normal, stone-faced demeanor. “Huh.”

You furrow your brows, a bit confused. What does he mean ‘Huh’? Does he have nothing more to say? Though, you keep yourself quiet, because arguing with your new boss—or is it client in this case? Oh, no matter- arguing with him isn’t gonna look good for you, and you don’t wanna give up such a well paying position just yet.

“Yeah, you can get my groceries after your lunch break, I honestly forgot I put it there,” he replies after a short moment of silence, “you’re surprisingly efficient- perhaps I’ll have to give you more work next time.”

“Oh- there’s no need,” you wave your hand almost frantically, “this was a good amount.”

“Ah, I wasn’t serious—don’t worry about it. I won’t bombard you with more work than necessary,” He doesn’t quite look at you while he speaks, his gaze drifting around on his desk, “although if you’re up for it, I do have more work for you later. You can take it easy for now, your lunch break is soon anyway.”

You blink a few times, not expecting the sudden warmth from him—it’s appreciated though, so you give him a smile.

“Yeah. Okay, thank you sir,” you hum, “I’ll… get back to you after my lunch break.”

He gives you a nod before letting his gaze return to his laptop, immediately starting to type something out. You take that as your cue to leave, so you turn around and leave his office. Once the door closes behind you, you let out an elongated sigh. What… just happened? One second, he’s all cold and dismissive and now—now he’s much more kind?

Honestly, you don’t really have the energy to care as much, so you decide to return to your office and check if there’s any way to lighten up the place. Perhaps, with your first paycheck, you could get some furnishings. Well, you don’t get paid until the end of the month, but thinking about the future never really hurt anybody, did it?

After scrolling on Ikea’s website for about 10 minutes, you leave for your lunch break. You leave HQ with Lance’s grocery list tucked comfortably in your pocket. The scent of car fuel enters your nose as you walk the streets, finding your way to the closest and best food place.

It only takes you like 5 minutes of walking til you find a little corner coffee shop, it’s nothing fancy but it looks sweet, so you enter. The melodic chime of the bell signals your enter, the scent of freshly baked goods and coffee surrounding you as you walk up to the counter, and a short asian man comes running up to greet you.

“Hi! This is Tsunoda’s, how may I help you today?” He greets you from behind the counter.

“Uh,” you start, glancing up at the menu above you, “I’ll take the parmesan focaccia, and the iced coffee.”

“Alright! It’ll be done in a moment,” he smiles before disappearing into the kitchen.

A smile creeps up on your face before you nod and make your way over to a table in the corner, the chair and table cold from no use. The locale is not that large, and not too busy either—the only other customer being someone in the opposite corner, reading a book. If this is the usual atmosphere of the café, you’ll perhaps become a regular. There’s a speaker not too far away, with soft jazz music playing and a clock accompanying the sound, you find yourself at ease.

You hadn’t even realised how tense you were from work. That damned workload, and your damn persistence to prove yourself—what a morning. Now that you were thinking about work… Did you have the card to pay for the groceries? You’ll have to get back to Lance’s office and grab that, then.

You hear some quick footsteps approach you, and you turn to face the barista who has your order in hand.

“Your focaccia and your iced coffee,” he places down a cup and a plate, “enjoy!”

You murmur a thanks before unwrapping the focaccia, the scent absolutely divine. You lift the bread which is warm in your hold and you take a bite. The flavor is strong, yet not in the way that stays in your mouth—and the sandwich is just filling enough. You thoroughly enjoy the sandwich and coffee, and you stay in the chair for a few minutes longer before you take your leave.

You pay at the register and bid the barista adieu, you manage to catch a glimpse of his wave as you leave the shop and you make your way back to HQ.

After a sort-of-not-really awkward talk with Lance and about using the Company card for groceries (which seems sort of odd, but he’s the boss’ son, so you don’t question him), you find yourself lost in a grocery store.

The hum of freezers and distant chatter blend into a low buzz, making the place feel far busier than it actually is. You glance down at the list, the first item’s organic almond milk, fancy. Although, you’re not one to search out for it—it’s a little too bougie for you—but it can’t be that hard to find.

You walk into the refrigerated section, the chilly hum of the coolers making it feel colder than it actually is. You glance around before spotting the milk, tucked between the regular milk and the oatmilk. Wait, was there anything else he needed from this area? Oh, right—greek yogurt. Plain, of course. You grab that as well before moving on.

Next on the list is some mixed nuts and dark chocolate. You pluck a bag of mixed nuts off of the shelf. You look over at the chocolate section, with an astounding amount of different brands all over. 70% cocoa, sea salt infused, chili—who eats chili flavoured chocolate? Sighing, your shoulders sag and you settle on the most expensive one, that’s probably more his taste, right?

You finally finish up and make your way to a cash register. The cashier starts scanning your items with practiced ease, and you let yourself drift off for a mere moment. It’s a little odd, isn’t it? The fact that you’re doing all… this. Buying groceries for Lance—the heir to a massive company—as a job. On your first day, nonetheless.

The total appears on screen, pulling you out of your thoughts. You swipe the company card and grab the receipt as well as the bag, thanking the cashier and walking out of the store. The late summer sun gleams harshly into your eyes, blinding you for a split second.

You start walking back towards HQ, the bustle of the streets a comforting background noise. A sigh once again escapes you as you think over the day thus far. It’d been pretty uneventful—but your mind keeps drifting to that warmth Lance had shown you; contradicting his first interaction.

The doors to the lobby slide open, and you head straight for the elevator. You press the button for the fourth floor—there’s no way you’re bringing these groceries back to your office. At least there’s no more work for now. What did you sign up for, exactly?

credits: @/cafekitsune for the dividers <3

author's note: part one to the heir's keeper, served and plated o7 hope u enjoyed !!! <3

#♬ snapshot #f1 x reader #lance stroll x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 imagine

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lilliezzzzz-fics · 3 months ago

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The Heir's Keeper | Prologue

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pairing: lance stroll x reader synopsis: you’d been offered a position in the stroll corporation; the big-shot of all business companies. exciting and thrilling, but you can’t help but wonder, what does this position entice? word count: ~1.3k

You never thought this day would come, the day where you’d be hired by a huge company like Stroll Corp. The lobby itself felt way too luxurious for you; decorated by sleek gold details. You’d worn your best suit for this, yet you still felt under-dressed - that’s how grand this felt. You clear your throat, walking up to a receptionist.

Her eyes land on you and her gaze is composed, she’s dressed in a beautifully tailored black blazer and her hair tied up in a neat bun. She gives you a slight wave as she speaks, “Hi there! How may I help you today?”

“Hi, I’m here for the meeting with Mr. Lawrence Stroll, is he here at the moment?” you speak, trying to radiate confidence, but you still feel a slight tremble in your voice.

The woman sitting by the reception gives you a nod, pushing up her glasses with a warm smile.

“He should be available, let me check…” she hums, her hands reaching for a cable phone, “Hi, yes, is Mr. Stroll available at the moment? Yes, I have someone who has a meeting scheduled with him. Yes, alright. Thank you.”

She nods along as she talks, hanging up after a minute or so, a pleasant smile tugging at her lips, “Yes, Mr. Stroll is ready and waiting - his office is on the fifth floor, it’s labeled with his nameplate. You should see it straight down the hall.”

“Alright, thank you ma’am.” You give her a nod as you head towards the nearest elevator.

The elevator was not that spacious, fitting about 5 people - luckily, you took the ride alone, pressing on the button numbered 5. You couldn’t help but feel your nerves, this wasn’t a small thing after all. You were gonna be hired at one of the biggest corporate workplaces in the entire world - this is a huge step. Maybe college was worth it, after all.

The elevator dings as you arrive on the fifth floor, someone else standing outside the elevator. He’s tall, his dark hair neatly styled, falling just above his brow in a subtle wave. His sharp features and well-tailored suit give him an air of confidence, though there's something oddly familiar about him, like he belonged in the magazines in the lobby. It was as if he radiated richnessーlike wealth was quite literally woven into his very being.

He only gives you a nod as you step out of the elevator and he steps in. You return the favor right before the door closes. You could’ve sworn that there was something magnetic about him, the way he carried himself or maybe the way his eyes were focused and half-lidded and expectant, as if waiting for something only he could anticipate.

Who was that? It’s quite literally like he stepped out of a book or somethingーmaybe he’s an exec? Maybe even worse, someone you should know.

You dismiss the short interaction though, turning around to find Mr. Stroll's office, and like the receptionist said, it’s right down the hallway. You make your way down, giving the door a slight knock and you hear Mr. Stroll's muffled voice behind the door, giving you permission to enter.

You creak the door open feeling your heartbeat increase and you step in, the room's design was sleek and spacious, beautifully decorated with the wall behind him being made of glass to not only give a view of the city but to let in natural light as well. You could only dream of how beautiful the view would be at night.

Your focus then returns to Lawrence, giving him a small bow and reaching out your hand. You felt a little embarrassed, you for sure had just stood there admiring his office for a good 5 seconds; but you paid it no mind.

He gives you a pleasant smile, shaking your hand delightedly, “You must be the one my assistant reached out to, pleasure to meet you. Sit down.”

You do as he says, sitting yourself down in the chair in front of him - your posture straight, “Yes, it’s a pleasure Mr. Stroll. I’ve heard amazing things.”

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t,” he laughs, though his tone doesn’t sound very humoured, “I had my assistant reach out to you for a good reason, your previous work and your credentials caught our attention almost immediatelyーimpressive I must say. Though you must be used to hearing that by now.”

There’s a short pause and you can’t help but hold your breath - your heartbeat increasing and a lump forming in your throat. You fiddle with your thumbs underneath the table, a nervous habit that you couldn’t seem to get rid of. It wasn’t hard to be nervous, his praise should have put you at ease, but the intensity of his gaze did the opposite. It felt like he was appraising you—measuring you against some unseen standard. Maybe it was the fact that he’s the CEO or maybe it was just your nerves tricking you.

“The reason I had her reach out was because I’d like you to be my son's manager and personal assistant.” His tone is firm, yet still gentle.

“Your son? I’m afraid I’m not too familiar, sir.” You let go of the breath you were holding, more confused now than nervous.

“My son, Lance Stroll,” he looks into your eyes, his gaze sharp and intense, “He’s the heir to this company—exceptional in his own right, but the responsibilities he carries are immense. I believe he’d benefit from someone like you to help manage them.”

Your eyes widen slightly, your posture straightening. You’d be the personal assistant of Mr. Stroll’s son? The pay—how much would it be? You clear your throat, regaining your composure.

“This is quite the position, sir - but if I may ask, what would this position mean? What would I do?” You ask, your eyes not breaking contact for a single moment.

“Well, you’d be his right-hand so to speak; you’d manage his schedule, PR presence, meetings and so forth,” He spoke, leaning forward on the table, “you’ll be someone who makes sure he stays on track.”

You give him an affirming nod, “Alright, and how much does this pay?”

He let out a hearty laugh at that, a warm smile spread on his face, “A fair question—it would pay around 5 thousand a month, competitive of course.”

You feel your eyes widen at this, too. Five thousand a month? The figure echoed in your head, playing on loop like a broken record—not only does this mean that the stakes are high, but so are the expectations.

You try to hide the tremble in your voice as you speak, “Five thousand is very generous, sir—may I ask why the pay is this high?”

“Well, there are certain… Difficulties that might come up during your working hours. My son can be quite a handful, the pay is fair; let me tell you that.” Mr. Stroll's words weighed heavily.

“Don’t get me wrong, Lance is brilliant,” Mr. Stroll continued, his voice softened as he spoke, “But him and his circumstances—they’re unique. Balancing his personal and professional commitments takes a special kind of person. This isn’t just about managing his schedule, it’s about understanding him and earning his trust.”

You sigh as he finishes speaking; your body stiffening a little at the realization of how real this really is—but the pay and the position? Still like a dream, and dreams don’t just achieve themselves, there’s always some sort of challenge or difficulty. So you shake off the nerves and give a determined smile to Mr. Stroll.

“This opportunity is very well appreciated sir, I won’t let it go to waste—when can I start?”

credits: @/cafekitsune for the dividers <3

author's note: this is my first (posted) work, and my first post!! ahhhhh i'm so nervous haha, hope you enjoyed it!

#♬ snapshot #lance stroll x reader #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula one x reader

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