#readerinsertromance

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ / ᴜɴʀᴇꜱᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ᴄᴏɴꜰʟɪᴄᴛ

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛʀᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴜɴɪᴏɴ

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛɪɴɢ / ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ

ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴡᴇᴀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ʜɪɴᴛᴇᴅ

ᴄᴏʟᴅɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜᴘᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ

ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴍᴀꜱᴋɪɴɢ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ᴘᴀɪɴ

ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ

There was something almost cruel about routine, the way it lulled people into thinking time healed everything.

The days had grown familiar again, full of sponsors, circuits, press obligations, and ever-growing expectations. Between sim sessions and flights, Lando had tucked away the ache. He’d taught himself how to walk past the memory of her name, how to nod and smile like nothing had changed. As far as the world knew, he was fine.

He had to be.

So, when Zak strolled into the hospitality unit with two black garment bags slung over his shoulder and a devilish grin on his face, Lando already knew what was coming.

“Another gala,” Zak said without preamble, tossing one of the bags to Oscar. “You’re both on the guest list. High-profile event. We want you looking like the face of McLaren, not two exhausted twenty-somethings with helmet hair.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “So… back to Madam Cho again?”

Zak nodded. “She’s expecting you tomorrow. And be nice this time, don’t mess up her carpet with those trainers.”

Lando forced a chuckle, fingers curling tightly around the armrest of his seat. The name hit like a stray pebble to the ribs—not enough to break, but enough to sting. He hadn’t thought about Madam Cho in weeks, hadn’t stepped foot in her atelier since the last time.

Since she was there.

But he nodded. “Sure. We’ll go.”

The following afternoon, they found themselves back at the towering building tucked away in one of London’s quieter streets. The entrance still smelled of expensive fabric and soft florals. The grand piano still stood in the middle of the marble-floored lobby, polished to a mirror-like sheen.

But this time, no music floated through the air.

This time, no melody wrapped around Lando’s ribcage like a memory come alive.

He stepped inside with Oscar, his pace even, his face unreadable. He didn’t scan the room. He didn’t look for her.

But she was there.

(Y/n) stood near the back of the lobby, her frame slightly thinner than before, draped in a soft beige knit and slacks that hung a little looser at the waist. Her hair was tied up in a practical bun, face bare of makeup, eyes focused on the fabric samples in her hands.

Still her.

Still her.

But something was different.

There was a slowness to her movements, a kind of caution in the way she stood, as if her bones remembered pain her voice refused to acknowledge.

And when she looked up—when their eyes met, just for a flicker—she smiled. Just barely.

But Lando didn’t smile back.

He looked away.

And just like that, the air shifted.

(Y/n) swallowed, quickly turning her attention to Oscar instead. She greeted him warmly, even teased him about how quickly his shoulders had bulked since their last visit. Oscar laughed, playfully flexing for effect.

Lando stood by in silence, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes carefully trained on anything but her.

“Madam Cho will be with you shortly,” (Y/n) said, gesturing toward the hallway. “If you’d both follow me, the fitting room’s already set.”

Her voice was even. Smooth. Practiced.

Not once did she falter.

She led them down the corridor with the same grace she always had. Inside the fitting room, she adjusted the lights, fluffed the cushions, poured glasses of water, and made sure every pin and measuring tape was in place.

She didn’t ask how he’d been.

She didn’t mention the silence.

She didn’t explain.

Because he hadn’t asked.

Because he hadn’t cared to hear it.

Not anymore.

Madam Cho entered moments later, her presence as commanding as ever. She greeted the boys with her usual no-nonsense tone, immediately moving to take their measurements.

Oscar chatted easily with both women, unaware of the undercurrent that had settled between Lando and (Y/n) like dust on an untouched shelf.

(Y/n) moved around the room quietly, assisting Madam Cho, fetching fabrics, holding sketch pads. She never stood too close. Never lingered near Lando. Her fingers were steady. Her steps precise.

But her eyes were tired.

Lando noticed.

He told himself it didn’t matter.

She was a stranger now.

And if she wanted to disappear, then return as if nothing had happened, then so be it. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of asking why.

He wouldn’t let her see that he still thought about her. That he’d waited.

He kept his gaze elsewhere. Let Oscar fill the space with jokes. Let the silence between them grow roots.

And (Y/n)? She didn’t break either.

Even when her chest tightened. Even when she wanted nothing more than to explain—to tell him about the hospital, the IVs, the fluorescent lights that never dimmed. About Madam Cho sitting by her bed, about the fear that had gripped her when her body betrayed her again.

But she had begged Cho to say nothing.

Because if she was going to face Lando again, she wanted it on her terms. Strong. Composed. Professional.

Not as a ghost of the girl who once pulled him from the edge.

Eventually, the fitting wrapped. Madam Cho clapped her hands, satisfied, and said the final alterations would be ready in two days.

Oscar high-fived (Y/n), thanking her with that bright, easy grin of his. She returned it.

Lando didn’t say goodbye.

He turned and walked out the door.

And (Y/n), standing in the quiet aftermath, let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

Still her.

But not the same.

To be continued...🧡

🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 8: ᴛʜᴇ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ᴀᴄʜᴇ🛏️

Pairing: Clark Kent (Smallville) x Reader Word Count: 780 words Prompt: @fluff-cember day 8: sparkling snow Summary: Clark surprises you with a moonlit walk through the snow-covered Kent farm, creating a magical moment under the stars. As the snow sparkles around you, he takes a leap of faith and asks the question that will change both your lives. Content Warnings: None—fluff, romance, and a proposal.

The air is crisp, biting at your cheeks, but the warmth of Clark's hand in yours keeps the chill at bay. His fingers curl around yours, strong and steady, a silent promise in the winter night. Snow blankets the Kent farm, transforming the familiar fields into a glittering wonderland under the silver moonlight. Each step you take crunches softly in the fresh powder, and your breath fogs the air like wisps of smoke.

Clark glances at you with a crooked smile, his blue eyes catching the moonlight in a way that makes your heart flutter. His scarf is slightly askew, and you resist the urge to adjust it. "You okay?" he asks, his voice low and full of affection.

"I'm perfect," you reply, and it's true. The night feels like something out of a dream, and the way he looks at you makes you forget the cold entirely.

He leads you further into the fields, away from the barn's warm lights and the gentle hum of the farmhouse generator. The world feels still here, hushed by the snow, and all you can hear is the faint rustle of the wind and the rhythm of your heartbeat.

"Close your eyes," Clark says, stopping abruptly.

You laugh softly. "Why? What are you up to, Kent?"

"Trust me." His voice is gentle but insistent, and when you look up into his earnest expression, you can’t help but comply.

You close your eyes, and his hands shift, one of them cupping your cheek while the other moves to your waist. The cold dissipates for a moment, replaced by the soothing warmth of his touch. You hear the faintest whoosh, almost like a breeze, and then feel the gentlest brush of something cool against your nose.

"Okay," he says, his voice softer now. "Open them."

When you do, you’re met with a scene so breathtaking you almost forget to breathe. Snowflakes are falling around you, twinkling like tiny diamonds in the moonlight. They drift lazily, shimmering as if kissed by starlight. You look up and realize the sky is clear, every star burning bright.

"How did you...?" you ask, trailing off as you turn to Clark.

He grins, a little sheepish but impossibly proud. "I might’ve run to the mountains," he admits, scratching the back of his neck. "I grabbed a handful of fresh snow and scattered it. Took a few tries to get it just right."

Your laughter bubbles up, warm and delighted, and you throw your arms around his neck. "Clark Kent, you are unbelievable."

His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. "You make me want to be," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, you’re both silent, standing in the softly falling snow, surrounded by the quiet beauty of the farm. The world feels infinite and intimate all at once, just the two of you.

Then he steps back, just enough to reach into the pocket of his coat. Your brows knit in confusion as you watch him pull out a small velvet box.

"Clark..."

He kneels before you, the snow catching in his dark hair, his breath clouding the air. Your hands fly to your mouth, your heart hammering as you realize what’s happening.

"Y/N," he begins, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "You’ve been my best friend, my partner, my anchor, and my light. Every time I think I know what it means to love you, you prove me wrong and show me it’s even bigger than I imagined." He opens the box, revealing a ring that sparkles just as brightly as the snow around you. "I want to spend every day proving to you how much you mean to me. Will you marry me?"

Tears prick at your eyes, and for a moment, you can’t speak. The words catch in your throat, but you don’t need them. You nod furiously, dropping to your knees in the snow to kiss him, your hands framing his face.

"Yes," you finally manage, breathless against his lips. "A thousand times, yes."

His laugh is pure relief and joy as he slides the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly, and you marvel at how it catches the moonlight.

Clark lifts you effortlessly, spinning you once before setting you down gently. "You’ve just made me the happiest man in the world," he says, his grin wide and unguarded.

"And you’ve made me the happiest woman," you reply, resting your forehead against his.

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏꜱꜱ

ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ / ɢʜᴏꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴘᴀʀᴀʟʟᴇʟꜱ

ꜱᴜᴘᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ꜱᴜꜰꜰᴇʀɪɴɢ

ᴄᴏᴘɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴍᴜᴛɪɴɢ/ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇꜱ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅᴇᴛᴀᴄʜᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴʀᴇꜱᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴜʀᴇ

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ

It was the silence that did it.

Not the sharp, sudden kind that follows a fight, nor the muffled quiet of someone too busy to reply. This was different. It was the kind that stretched long and thin across days, heavy with unanswered questions, until it no longer felt like waiting—it felt like grieving.

Two weeks.

Fourteen days.

Over two hundred hours.

Lando had counted them all, even when he told himself he wasn’t. Even when he promised he had let it go.

At first, he kept looking for signs. Maybe she’d post something—an Instagram story, even just a reposted quote. Maybe Madam Cho’s studio would drop a teaser from one of their new collections, and he’d see (Y/n) in the background, hunched over a design table, alive and well.

But there was nothing.

Her feed went dark. Her profile stayed untouched. Her inbox sat quiet. It was as if the world had swallowed her whole.

He tried not to spiral.

He filled his time with everything else. He buried himself in simulator sessions, media shoots, interviews, sponsorship events. Zak noticed the extra polish in his answers, the extra focus during meetings. He even scored a podium in Bahrain.

Everyone thought he was doing better.

But Lando was just performing—smiling on cue, laughing when required, nodding when expected. At night, when the noise faded and the rooms emptied, he found himself returning to the same thought.

She’s gone.

She didn’t even say goodbye.

Oscar tried to lift his mood, cracking jokes and dragging him out for dinner more often. The team praised his form, unaware that the clarity came not from joy—but from heartbreak.

And one morning, in a hotel room that smelled like fresh linen and nothing else, he sat at the edge of his bed and stared at her name one last time.

Still no replies.

No updates.

No ghost of her lingering in the void.

So he exhaled. A long, shallow breath. The kind people take before a plunge. Or a surrender.

Then, slowly, he did it.

He pressed down on her thread. Held it until the menu appeared.

Muted.

Archived.

He didn’t delete her. He couldn’t. That would feel cruel, final. But he needed to breathe again. He needed to stop waiting for something that wasn’t coming.

It hurt. More than he expected. Like losing something he never even had a name for.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t shatter.

He simply closed his phone, set it aside, and told himself that it was okay. That she must’ve had her reasons. That maybe she found someone else, or simply outgrew what they had.

People move on. That’s life.

That’s what he told himself.

And outside the walls of that hotel room, life did go on.

The world kept spinning. The season marched forward—Saudi Arabia, Australia, Japan. Flights blurred into each other. Circuits blended. He racked up points, nodded through press conferences, and posed beside Oscar, who was quietly dominating the championship again.

And through it all, (Y/n) remained a ghost in the back of his mind. A question left unanswered. A melody that no longer played.

Some nights, he still thought about her. The way she had looked that first evening—standing on that hill, fire in her voice, fury in her hands as she pulled him back from the edge. The way she spoke like she knew pain. Like she had danced with despair and lived to tell the tale.

And maybe that was why it hurt so much. Because she had saved him when he was at his lowest. And he would’ve done the same for her, without hesitation.

But she didn’t let him.

She left without a word.

So, he let her go.

At least, that’s what he told himself when he stood before a crowd in Melbourne, champagne drying on his race suit, flashes from cameras burning bright in his periphery. He smiled. He answered questions. He laughed.

And when he returned to his hotel that evening, he scrolled past her name like it didn’t matter anymore.

Like it never did.

To be continued...🧡

🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴛʜᴇ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴏᴍ🛏️

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ

ᴀɴxɪᴇᴛʏ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍɪꜱᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ, ꜰᴇᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏꜱꜱ

ᴄᴀʀᴇɢɪᴠɪɴɢ/ɢᴜᴀʀᴅɪᴀɴ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ

ʜɪɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏɴɢ-ᴛᴇʀᴍ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇꜱ

It began with a missed call.

Then a day passed without a reply. Then two. Then four.

At first, Lando didn’t think much of it. (Y/n) had mentioned her schedule tightening, something about fittings and fabric shipments arriving earlier than expected. It wasn’t unlike her to go silent during peak stress—when the work piled high, when deadlines pressed too close to breathe. She was meticulous, tireless, deeply woven into every detail of the clothes she helped bring to life. He understood that. He respected it.

But when the fifth day slipped past with no word—not a text, not a voice note, not even a like on the meme he sent at three in the morning—he began to wonder.

By the seventh day, concern rooted deeper.

He scrolled through their message thread, looking for signs, anything she might’ve said that he’d missed. Had she hinted at a trip? A campaign? A creative retreat? No, nothing. The last message was his: a blurry photo of a dog he saw in Monaco with eyes as wide as dinner plates. Looks like me when DRS fails, he’d written.

No response. Just read. Or maybe not even that.

Oscar noticed.

“Mate,” he said, throwing a towel over his shoulder after debrief. “You’ve been weird all week. You keep checking your phone like it owes you money.”

Lando brushed it off with a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was good at being casual, at hiding nerves beneath sarcasm. But inside, a quiet panic was taking root.

Was she okay?

Did she… lose interest?

The thought tasted bitter.

He knew what it was like to be forgotten, left behind. F1 was a world that demanded your soul and offered little in return unless you won. He’d built walls to protect what little of himself existed outside the sport. But (Y/n) had slipped past them. With her soft laughs and clever comebacks. With her sketches and silly piano videos. With her stubborn refusal to treat him like a superstar.

And now, she was gone.

Unreachable.

Across the continent, in a quiet hospital tucked behind the hills of Provence, (Y/n) Hwang lay still beneath sterile sheets.

The machines around her blinked and hummed in rhythm with her heart—irregular, strained. The doctors said it was a flare, that her heart had been quietly struggling for months. The long hours, the caffeine-fueled nights, the endless deadlines—her body had warned her. She didn’t listen.

Madam Cho had.

She noticed the shadows beneath her eyes, the tremble in her fingers, the way she clutched her chest on bad mornings. Cho had seen her collapse once—years ago, back when (Y/n) was still a student barely surviving on instant school and ambition. She’d sworn then that she would protect the girl like her own blood ever since she adopted her when she was still little.

So, when (Y/n) failed to show up for the Monday meeting without a word, Cho didn’t call. She drove. And when she found her unconscious in her flat, pale as porcelain, lips tinged blue, she didn’t scream.

She carried her. Wrapped her in wool and fury.

In the hospital, the doctors told her the truth she already feared: (Y/n)’s heart was faltering again. It needed rest, recovery, and quiet. No screens. No stress. No overwork. Not even a phone. Complete digital silence.

“She’s not going to like this,” Cho muttered, crossing her arms.

“She’ll be fine,” the nurse assured. “If she stays off her feet and follows the plan.”

So, the days passed slowly. The windows bathed the room in soft sunlight. The nurses played classical music in the mornings. Cho brought her magazines, peeled oranges, and spoon-fed soup like a mother hen.

But (Y/n)?

She hated it.

Not the food. Not the quiet.

But the not-knowing. The not-telling.

She tried, the first day, to ask for her phone. Just a few minutes. Just to send one message. Just to let him know she hadn’t disappeared. That she wasn’t ignoring him. That she hadn’t forgotten him.

But the nurses refused. Firmly. Sweetly. “No, dear. You’ll thank us later.”

So, she lay in bed, eyes fixed to the ceiling, guilt a stone pressing against her ribcage.

She could picture him, Lando, wherever he was. Sitting in a hotel room, maybe. Drinking bad coffee before a briefing. Looking at his phone. Waiting.

She missed him.

More than she wanted to admit.

But she had to rest. Had to live. The doctors said this wasn’t just a pause, it was a warning. One more episode like this, and her heart might not forgive her again.

Back in Monaco, Lando sat alone on a balcony, the city glittering below, his phone cold in his palm.

He thought about texting one last time. Just something simple. Not demanding. Just a check-in.

Hope everything’s alright. No pressure. Just thinking of you.

But he didn’t send it.

Instead, he sighed. Put the phone down.

Maybe she was just busy.

Maybe she was tired.

Maybe she forgot.

And maybe, just maybe, she was gone.

To be continued...🧡

🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɢᴏ🛏️