cherry

devoted to the cause

[5s4ocon]

𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆 | 𝘴𝘩𝘦/𝘩𝘦𝘳 | 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 20𝘴 | 𝘪 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘻𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘪 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘦 | 𝘭𝘦𝘰'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 | 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯 | 81 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙

𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖

𝘼𝙡𝙚𝙭 𝙅𝙖𝙘𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨, 𝙈𝙊𝙉𝘼𝘾𝙊, 2024

[loosergremlincore]

nothing just Oscar and neck

[noknowshame]

resurrected dead wife watching her own montage: wow I looked so hot in that

[furiouswitchducky]

Daniel Ricciardo watching edits of himself from his F1 years

[nghtwngbbg]

Hot Questions

pairing: lando × f1 academy driver reader

summary: you convince your boyfriend lando to do Hot Ones Versus with you, expecting nothing more than some laughs and a few tears from the hot sauce. except the tears end up coming from both the spice and all the things the two of you have never had the courage to say out loud.

contains: established relationship, crying, secrets, lots of emotion, humor, sappiness, comfort

pics from pinterest

requests open!

masterlist

The lights on set were aggressively bright, the kind of industrial illumination that made everyone look slightly overcooked. Lando squinted against them, already regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. Across the narrow table, Y/n sat with the serene confidence of someone who had never once in her life made a bad decision, which was categorically untrue, given that she was dating him.

"You're already sweating" she observed pleasantly.

"It's the lights." he shrugged

The "Hot Ones Versus" set was deceptively cheerful. Red and yellow branding everywhere on the table as between them sat two rows of chicken wings, five each, arranged in an ominous gradient from golden-brown to weaponized red. The bottles of hot sauce lined up behind the wings looked less like condiments and more like evidence for an about-to-happen murder.

Lando had watched this show exactly once, seen a grown man weep into a glass of milk, and clicked away.

He had no one to blame for being here but himself, and possibly his PR team, and definitely Y/n, who had said "come on, it'll be fun" with the kind of smile that made his brain temporarily stop working.

The host settled into his chair out of the camera's field of view with the calm demeanor of a man who had watched hundreds of celebrities destroy themselves on camera.

"Welcome to Hot Ones Versus" he said. "Today we've got one-time Formula 1 World Champion Lando Norris, and F1 Academy driver Y/n L/n. How are we feeling?"

"Great" Y/n said.

"Terrified"

"That's the correct answer, Lando" the host glanced at the cards against the table. "Rules are simple. Our team has prepared some questions for you. You'll take turns drawing a card and asking the other person what's written on it. You don't get to see the questions beforehand. If you don't want to answer, you eat the wing in front of you. The other person eats nothing, they just have to watch you suffer" He pointed at the cards in front of Y/n. "Y/n, you're up first. Draw a card and ask Lando."

Y/n took the top card from her stack. She read it, and her expression shifted, something flickering behind her eyes that Lando couldn't quite read. Amusement, maybe. Or anticipation. With Y/n, it was often hard to tell the difference.

"Wing one" she said. "When was the last time you lied to me, and what was it about?"

The host let out a low, appreciative sound. "Starting strong. Our team doesn't mess around."

Lando's hand, which had been reaching casually for his water, stopped mid-air. He looked at his first wing, barely orange, practically innocent and then back at Y/n.

"We're starting with that?" he said.

"The card says what the card says."

"I thought the first one was supposed to be easy."

"The spice is easy. The question is a different story." She settled back in her chair, arms crossed, one eyebrow slightly raised. "Answer or eat."

Lando calculated his options. The wing was mild. He probably could just take one bite but eating the first wing felt like admitting defeat before the battle had even started. On the other hand, telling Y/n about the last time he'd lied to her, on camera, in front of the entire internet, was a door he didn't particularly want to open.

"I told you I liked the pasta you made," he said, very quietly.

Her expression didn't change. "The spaghetti?"

"It was very salty."

"I asked if it was too salty. You said no. You said, and I quote, 'it's perfect, babe, restaurant quality.'"

"In my defense-"

"You ate two bites and then said you weren't hungry."

"I'd had a big lunch."

"You'd had a protein shake at eleven am."

Y/n shook her head slowly. "You could have just told me. I would have ordered pizza."

"I didn't want to hurt your feelings."

"So you let me think I'd nailed it, and then I made it again for your mother."

"I know" he said miserably. "I know."

The host cleared his throat, visibly pulling himself together. "Lando, your turn. Draw a card."

Lando drew a card from the stack and when he read it, his stomach dropped. The production team was not playing fair. They were not even in the same zip code as fair.

"What does it say?" Y/n asked.

"Wing one" Lando said. "Same level. Have you ever been embarrassed to be associated with me?"

The smile faded from his girlfriend's face. Just a little. Just enough for him to notice. The host noticed too as he leaned forward slightly in his chair, his pen going still.

Y/n looked at her wing. The chicken wing glistened under the lights, harmless and golden. She didn't reach for it.

"Can I have some context?" she asked.

"The card doesn't come with context."

"Right." She took a breath. "Yes."

The word landed like a stone in still water. Lando felt it in his chest, a small, sharp impact.

"Okay" he said. "When?"

"Our third date. You took me to that restaurant in London, the one with the name no one can pronounce. And you were wearing those shoes."

"Which shoes?"

"The white ones. The ones with the gold buckles."

"I love those shoes."

"Everyone loved those shoes. That was the problem. People kept looking at us, and you kept waving at them, and I didn't know how to exist in that kind of attention yet." She paused. "I wasn't embarrassed by you. I was embarrassed because I felt like I didn't belong there. At that table. In that restaurant. With someone everyone wanted a piece of. That's not the same thing."

"Isn't it?"

"No. It's not." She held his gaze. "I worked through it. I'm not embarrassed anymore. I'd walk into any restaurant in the world with you now. Even in those hideous white shoes."

"I'm not eating the wing" Y/n declared. "I answered."

"You did," Lando said, his voice was softer now. "You did."

"Y/n, draw another card," the host straightened in his chair "Wing two. Spiciness is stepping up."

"If you had to choose" she said "between winning the World Championship this year and me winning the F1 Academy title, which would you pick?"

Lando didn't move. The question hung between them, heavier than the heat, heavier than the lights, heavier than anything that had come before.

"That's not a fair question," he said.

"The card-"

"I know what the card says." he murmured

He looked at his second wing. The sauce was a deeper orange now, flecks of chili visible in the glaze. His tolerance for spice began and ended at black pepper. But the alternative was saying something that would either be a lie or a wound.

He ate the wing.

The heat hit him immediately and his eyes began to water. He could feel his sinuses opening in protest. He quickly reached for his water and drank it in three desperate gulps, which did absolutely nothing except spread the burn across his entire mouth.

"Oh no" he breathed out, very quietly.

"Lando?" Y/n was watching him with a concerned expression.

"I'm fine. I'm completely fine."

"Your face is red."

"It's the-" He coughed, a harsh sound. "The lights, again."

The host pushed a glass of milk toward him. "You're going to need this."

Lando grabbed it and drank. The relief lasted approximately half a second before the burn came roaring back. His eyes were streaming now, actual tears tracking down his cheeks.

"You could have just answered" Y/n said.

He looked at her through the tears. "I couldn't. There's no answer to that question that doesn't make one of us smaller. I'm not doing that. Not even for a hypothetical."

Y/n's expression shifted, the teasing fading into something softer, something that looked a lot like the reason Lando had fallen in love with her. She didn't say anything, she didn't need to.

"Lando, your turn" the host reminded him, pulling him back to reality

Lando wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffling. The burn was still there, lurking at the back of his throat. He drew a card and read it, and his stomach dropped further.

"What's the biggest fight we've ever had?" he read aloud.

Y/n went very still. The kind of still she got on the grid before a race start. She stared at her second wing, then at Lando, then at her wing again.

"I'm eating the wing" she said.

"That bad?"

"It wasn't a fight. It was a-" She stopped. "I'm eating the wing."

She took a bite. The reaction was immediate. Her eyes widened. She chewed, swallowed, and reached for her water with the controlled urgency of someone who was trying very hard not to show pain.

"That's so hot" her voice was tight.

"You didn't even think about answering,"

"Because I'm not answering it. The wing is eaten. The question is dead."

The host leaned forward, clearly interested. "For the record, whenever someone eats the wing that fast, we know it was about something serious."

"It was just something about the air conditioning," Y/n muttered. "And also some other things. And we resolved it. Moving on."

The wings were now visibly spicier at this level. Once Y/n took a card, her expression flickered as some weirdly complicated feeling plastered across her face.

"Lando" she started "what's the worst thing you've ever said about me behind my back?"

"That's easy" he replied instantly

"That fast?" the host's eyebrow rose

"Because it's bad?" Y/n tried

"Because I've never said anything bad about you behind you back"

"You've never said anything bad about me?" Y/n asked. There was something in her voice, disbelief, maybe, or something softer.

"Never" Lando's eyes met hers across the table. "Not once. Not to anyone."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why?" his eyebrows furrowed "Because there's nothing bad to say."

Y/n stared at him for a long moment. Then she reached across the table and pushed her own glass of milk toward him, adding it to the collection.

"You're a disaster" she said quietly.

"I know." he smiled and soon drew another card

"If we broke up" he read "what's the thing you'd miss most?"

Y/n didn't reach for her wing. She didn't even look at it. She looked at Lando, just Lando, and the set went very quiet.

"I'd miss the way you make coffee," she replied simply "You don't even drink it. You think it tastes like dirt. But you learned how to make it exactly the way I like it, and every morning you're at my place, there's a cup waiting on the nightstand. Still hot. You've timed it to my alarm." She paused. "That's not a metaphor. I'd literally just miss the coffee. Everything else would be too big to even begin thinking about."

Lando made a sound that was almost a laugh. "The coffee."

"You make terrible coffee. It's somehow too strong and too weak at the same time. But you make it for me."

"The coffee" he said again, and his voice cracked on the word before pulling himself together. "Wing four. This is going to hurt."

Y/n drew a card. Read it. Her whole body went still.

"Have you ever been jealous of one of my successes?" she asked. "Not just uncomfortable. Actually jealous."

The silence that followed was the heaviest yet. Lando felt the question settle into his chest like a weight.

"Yes" he replied, his voice low.

Y/n blinked. "Okay."

"Not recently, but early on, before we were serious, when we were just two drivers who happened to be dating. There was a race where you won and I didn't. I'd had a terrible weekend, the car wasn't right, the setup terribly wrong, I qualified badly and finished even worse while you won. You stood on the top step and you looked so happy, and I was happy for you, but I was also..." He stopped. Swallowed. "I was also standing in my driver's room looking at the results and feeling something ugly. It passed. But it was there."

"Thank you" Y/n said quietly.

"For what?"

"For telling the truth."

Another smile bloomed on his lips at her words. He then nodded and drew a card.

"What's something you've never told me because you were afraid of how I'd react?"

Y/n's hand moved toward her wing. Stopped. Moved again.

"Don't" Lando stopped her "Just answer."

"I was afraid you'd leave" she said. Her voice was very quiet. "Not because of anything you did. Because of me. Because I have this voice in my head that tells me I'm not supposed to be here, not in racing, not in your world, not anywhere that matters. And I was afraid that if I told you about that voice, you'd realize it was right. That I wasn't enough. So I didn't tell you. For months."

"Y/n... love..."

"I know it's not true. I know the voice is wrong. But I was still afraid."

Lando reached across the table and she instantly took his hand. Her fingers were trembling slightly, or maybe his were. It was hard to tell.

"I'm not going anywhere"

"I know, Lan."

"I really mean it."

"I know." She squeezed his hand reassuringly

The host was very quiet. The cameras were still rolling, but no one was paying attention to them.

"Y/n, draw" he said eventually. "Wing five. Last one before the final."

Y/n drew a card as she read it, something in her expression shifted to something close to wonder.

"Lando, when did you know you loved me?"

"Monaco," he instantly started, the thought of eating the wing not even crossing his mind "The first time. Not the race. After. We were on my balcony, and you were telling me about your early karting days, and you did this thing where you used the salt shaker and the pepper grinder to explain a corner you'd struggled with. I don't remember the corner. I don't remember what you said. I just remember watching you move the salt shaker and thinking, 'I want her to explain things to me for the rest of my life.'"

The set was very still.

"That's a good answer" Y/n blushed slightly, touched by his confession

"It's a true answer."

"Lando, your turn" the host announced

Lando read the card. "Same one, when did you know you loved me?"

Y/n looked at her wing. Then at Lando. Then at her wing again.

"I knew about three weeks after we met," she blurted out. "I was in my apartment, and you'd just left, and I found one of your stupid socks under my coffee table. Just one. You'd walked out wearing one sock and hadn't even noticed. And I sat there holding this sock, and I realized I was smiling like an idiot, and I never told you because it sounded insane. It is insane, after all. Just three weeks... I didn't know anything, but I for sure loved you."

Lando stared at her. "Three weeks."

"Crazy, huh"

"I knew at two weeks."

Y/n's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "You did not."

"I did. I was in the garage at Monza. You'd sent me a voice note about a driver who'd blocked you in qualifying, and you were so angry, and so funny, and so completely yourself. And I thought: 'There it is. That's it. That's the thing I've been looking for.'" He laughed, a small broken sound. "I didn't tell you because it sounded insane, but that's when I realised this was love for me. Then in Monaco, I knew you were forever for me"

"We could have saved so much time," Y/n chuckled

"We got there eventually."

The host exhaled, mentally pushing away all that sappiness. "I've got one more card. This is the final round. Here's how it works. I read this question. One of you answers. The other eats the final wing with extra hot sauce. It has been clinically proven to make people question their existence. Who answers and who eats is up to you."

He placed the final bottle on the table. It was matte black with a screaming skull on the label. The sauce inside was the color of regret, dark, viscous, absolutely terrifying. This was the one Lando had seen in the compilations. This was the one that made professional athletes weep.

The host dramatically held up the final card.

"The question is this. Y/n's career is taking off. In the next few years, she'll likely have opportunities to race in series outside of the F1 ecosystem such as IndyCar, WEC, maybe Formula E. Those opportunities might take her away from the paddock. Away this shared space you two have found. If she gets an offer, what would you two do?"

The silence that followed was absolute.

Lando looked at the final wing. It sat there, unassuming, coated in a sauce that looked almost pretty under the lights. He knew it wasn't pretty. He knew it was going to destroy one of them. He was already in so much pain from the previous wings that his entire body was sending abort mission signals.

"I'll eat it" Y/n said immediately. "He can answer."

"No" Lando said. "You've eaten enough."

"I've eaten exactly as much as you."

"You're not eating that"

"Neither are you. Look at you. You're still crying"

"I'm not crying. My eyes are... Just fine" He waited until she met his eyes. "Let me do this"

"Lan, please. Trust me. Plus, we both know I have a better spice tolerance"

Lando looked at the host and let out a deep sigh "Fine, I'm answering."

Once the host nodded, Lando turned to face Y/n. Not the camera. Her.

"If you get an offer to race somewhere else, somewhere amazing, somewhere that makes you happy, somewhere you can win, I'm going to tell you to go." His voice was rough from the barely concealed emotion, but it didn't waver. "And I'm going to mean it. I'll come to your races. I'll fly sixteen hours on a rest day. I'll learn time zones I didn't know existed. I'll watch your onboards in a hotel room at three in the morning if that's the only time I have. But I'm never going to ask you to stay. I'm never going to make you smaller so I can feel bigger. I know what you are. I knew it the first time I watched you drive. You're not supposed to stay in one place. You're supposed to go."

Y/n's eyes were wet. She wasn't trying to hide it.

"That's... beautiful" she whispered.

"It's just what I truly think, love"

"Then I'm eating the wing."

"You don't have to-"

"Yes I do." She pulled the final wing toward her. "You answered the hardest question. You told the truth in front of the entire world. It's my turn now"

"Y/n, it's the spiciest thing I've ever seen."

"I know." She picked up the wing. "Team solidarity."

"You'll struggle-"

"I love you. Shut up."

She bit into the wing.

The reaction was immediate and terrible and beautiful. Her whole body seized for a moment. Her eyes squeezed shut. Tears spilled down her cheeks, not the controlled watering of before, but actual crying. She made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and then she was reaching for the milk, drinking it in desperate gulps, coughing, laughing, crying, all at once.

"Oh my god" she gasped. "Oh my god, that's... why does this exist... who invented this..."

The host pushed another glass of milk toward her. "You're doing great."

"I'm dying."

Lando was on his feet. He didn't remember standing. He was around the table, kneeling beside her chair, one hand on her back, the other reaching for her hand.

"You absolute menace" he said. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yes I did." She looked at him, face flushed and blotchy and tear-streaked, and she was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "You answered. So I'm eating the wing. That's the deal."

"That's not the deal. There's no deal."

"There's a deal now. I just made it."

The host leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile. "I've done this show for six years and mo one has ever voluntarily eaten that out of solidarity."

"We're very competitive" Y/n said, her voice still hoarse.

"We're not losing to chicken" Lando added.

He was still holding her hand. She was still crying a little bit. The cameras were still rolling. Somewhere in the editing room, someone was already figuring out which moment would go viral. But right now, it was just the two of them, hands linked across a table covered in bones and empty milk glasses and the screaming skull of the hot sauce's bottle.

"Final thoughts?" the host asked, wrapping up. "Life lessons? Regrets?"

Lando looked at Y/n. Y/n looked at Lando.

"Learn not to lie about how my food tastes," she said, glaring at Lando

"Don't ask trap questions about World Championships" he countered.

"And don't" she added, squeezing his hand "eat the world's hottest wing ever again"

Lando then helped her to her feet. She was still unsteady, from the heat, from the emotion, from everything, and she leaned into him as they stood together under the aggressively bright lights.

"You know what I just realized?" he said quietly.

"What?"

"I'm still going to marry you."

She looked up at him. "Good, you better"

"I was trying to be romantic."

"You were crying four minutes ago. Everything is romantic after that."

[5s4ocon]

outrageous what they just asked these 2

[trashytracktales]

Achilles’ Heel ✶ LN⁴ & OP⁸¹

✶ summary ──── Caught between old wounds and the fear of what lies ahead, she must revisit the love she cannot let go of, while trying to keep close the one who brought light into her life when she needed the most.

✶ pairing ──── Lando Norris & Oscar Piastri x she/her reader

✶ rating ──── explicit

✶ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, action moves between present and fragments of the past, complicated relationship dynamics, teammate’s ex trope (no cheating involved), breakup scenes, swearing, angst, arguing and verbal tension, guilt, internal conflicts, toxic patterns + unhealthy attachment, emotional dependence, mentions of smoking as a coping mechanism, alcohol consumption, conflicted loyalties, character flaws, reader has sex with both love interests (separate timelines), teasing, power dynamics, possessive!Lando, unprotected sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms.

✶ word count ──── 14.1k

✶ date ──── Jul. 1, 2026

✶ a/n ──── This was originally requested by @biancathecool in December of last year, but by the time I finished writing it (what a ride, I’ll tell you that much), it had sunk somewhere towards the bottom of my inbox. Lovey, I am sooo sorry, hope this was worth the wait. For everybody else, enjoy the tragedy 🩵

📍 Monaco, April 2026

LANDO MADE SURE to disappear before any of his friends noticed.

Downstairs, some of them are singing terribly over the music, causing an eruption of laughter. A glass breaks somewhere near the kitchen and it’s followed by more laughing that only rich, very drunk young people seem capable of producing. In this world, carelessness isn’t followed by consequence because everything can be replaced.

Anyone can be replaced, if anything.

The cigarette trembles faintly between his fingers as he pushes through the balcony door upstairs. Not from the cold, since April has been kind with the weather so far, but from the exhaustion of pretending not to look over his shoulder every few minutes. He had come to the party with every intention of forgetting himself for a few hours. To drink, maybe, to have a good time with his friends, and to finally shake off the pressure that had been clinging to him for months now.

Seeing her there had not been part of the plan, but luckily, she hadn’t noticed him, which gave Lando enough time to swallow the immediate pull of old feelings before they surfaced too obviously on his face. Unfortunately, the fragile balance he’d manage to build up until then, cracked like eggshells the moment he realized she hadn’t arrived alone. Standing beside her, all lean and far too comfortable in her orbit, was his teammate, of all people.

That way, the very mood he’d come here to escape settled back over him, twice as heavy.

His teammate, of all people.

Looking somewhere far in the distance, he presses his forearms against the iron railing and inhales deeply, until the smoke scratches the back of his throat. It feels like punishment, as it should. He’s aware it is a disgusting habit and he keeps meaning to quit, but in the months since December, he has found himself collecting various, ugly little addictions: the occasional nicotine, insomnia, memories.

So many memories.

The balcony door remains slightly cracked open behind him, letting the noise spill out in tiny fragments; the bass is vibrating through the walls, there’s too much shouting, then someone calling for tequila.

He realizes it’s a terrible idea to close his eyes only when her image materializes underneath his eyelids. For the life of him, Lando can’t think of how she was at the end, sad and exhausted, with mascara smudged under her furious eyes. That’d still hurt, but it would be a favor to him, and his mind is crueler than that. It offers him the good versions instead, the ones that he should’ve hold on to more when he stormed out of the conference room, without looking back.

Her, asleep on his chest during a flight to Singapore.

Her hands fixing his crooked collar before every boring event.

Her laugh echoing through hotel hallways at two in the morning.

He takes a couple more absent drags from his cigarette, mostly habit than intention, the smoke dissolving into nothingness in the night air. The same thoughts pull him under too quickly, spiraling in places he’d rather be, until the sting of heat against his fingers jolts him back to reality. He looks down blankly at how it burned nearly to the filter but then, as he decides to go back inside, the door to the room swings open hard enough to rattle in its frame.

Someone stumbles through it in a mess of laughter and half-whispered giggles, their voices disturbing the semi-quiet he’s harvested in the past few minutes.

“Are you sure?” asks the first voice, causing Lando’s entire body to react to the Australian accent he grew to know so well.

His heart starts slamming inside his ribcage, breath caught midway in his lungs. Fuck, no.

“Yes,” her unmistakable voice answers right away. “What, are you afraid?”

“No. Should I be?” Oscar shoots back.

The corner beside the balcony wall is dark enough to hide him as long as neither of them looks too carefully. Which turns to be his only salvation since he cannot move. Although he tells himself he should just walk back in, force the door open wider or make enough noise for them to notice they’re not alone, he simply can’t move. So he stays still, while the hushed sounds land one after another like premeditated blows.

Every kiss and every murmur makes her giggle all over again. It is torturous the way Lando remembers those sounds, but how can he not, considering they once belonged to him?

A rustle of fabric, then the sound of lips meeting fills the silence that follows. Lando presses his back against the nearest wall, thinking that even now, it is still not too late to save himself. He could clear his throat and let them see him. He could step out now.

Right now.

Now!

The door is still ajar, they haven’t looked out yet, and his legs won’t. Fucking. Move.

“There’s no one else I would trust,” she tells Oscar.

Sick to his stomach, Lando stops breathing.

The confession warns him of what is to come; there is another kiss, deeper than the last, that leaves her breathless and forces him to press the heel of his palms against his eyes. Mortified, he knows that now it’s too late and there will be no version of this in which he keeps his dignity. They will look at him in horror, then pity, and that would kill him faster than anything else ever could.

Punished by timing, he remains in the shadows and, behind him, the girl he once saw spending the rest of his life with, moans softly his teammate’s name.

OSCAR INHALES HER breath like he’s a sick man and it has healing properties. He feels her lips curl against his mouth, all the desire inside him snapping loose at once. He’s already used to the soft contours of her face, the way she looks up at him, right before standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. It’s a silly thought, ridiculous even, but he’s convinced that he would recognize her among billions of stars. All she has to do is stand there, just as she is, and Oscar would still be able to point at the night sky in her direction. Blindfolded.

His hands tighten around her waist as he walks her backward toward the bed, stumbling together in fits of laughter and half-finished kisses until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. She falls onto it with a breathless sound, consumed by his sole presence, and he follows right away, bracing himself above.

“Are you sure?” asks Oscar.

The girl nods. “Yes,” she replies, “What, are you afraid?”

He lets out a strained chuckle, his back stiffening in anticipation at the thought. “No. Should I be?” it comes out like a joke meant to lighten the mood, but it still sounds like he’s at least somewhat concerned.

She nods again, then laughs at the way his eyes widen, his pupils so dilated that the ring of his brown irises is barely visible around them anymore.

There is a strange freedom in the way everything panned out for them. It wasn’t out of hatred, revenge, defiance, or even carelessness. The night that brought them close was a different kind of honesty that none of them knew how to handle at the time. It was stripped clean of any trace of hesitation because, for her, there was nothing left to lose. And Oscar didn’t believe there was anything to gain from it either.

After that, they have spent weeks of circling one another carefully. Restrained by timing, encouraged by a new-found friendship and oblivious to the consequences that might catch up with them, they managed to build their own rhythm.

“There’s no one else I would trust,” her words come out quietly, a little heavier than she initially expected.

With Lando in the back of her mind, she’s aware that Oscar would never risk the fracture that a reckless fling could cause, so it has to go deeper than that. It has to. Plus, it’s not in his blood to gamble people’s trust in such way.

In turn, Oscar hears it for what it is: more honesty. And acknowledgement that whatever this is, it already exists on borrowed time. At some point, they will have to speak up. Despite that, neither gives it language but the truth lingers there, always present, and even though no one dares, they both know the fall is inevitable. Tragic in its context, but beautiful in the way it feels in the moment.

With his heart racing, Oscar lowers his head, kissing slowly beneath her jawline while she tangles her fingers in the soft waves at the nape of his neck. It’s different from anything she’s ever known, but finding out how quiet he gets when he wants someone warms every cell in her already heated body. The silence that settles over him doesn’t come from uncertainty, though. It’s too intense for that. It’s rather concentration, every thought focused toward touch.

And gods, his hands.

They move over her in a brush so gentle, as if he had suddenly gone blind and now he must learn a new language through memory alone. His fingers start skimming the line of her neck, thumb caressing the rapid pulse underneath. Pushed by instinct, they curl around it just to make her breath catch, and the muffled sound she lets out through her parted lips is enough to rouse the last of his dormant senses.

“Oscar…” she breathes hot over his cheek, the name surrounded by longing from all directions.

With his hand around her neck, he hums in response but doesn’t give her more, which forces her to melt beneath him with embarrassing ease.

She catches him before his mouth drifts lower, impatient to get rid of his shirt. Quick with the buttons, Oscar shrugs it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. His chest is lean, carved from hours in the gym and the constant stress of forces that aims a driver’s core; she can’t help but run her hands over his skin, his collarbones, down to the dip of his waist.

The moment he kisses her again, minds go quiet. She reciprocates it with a whimper that only deepens the desire. His tongue slides against hers, tasting the last remnants of a classic Shirley Temple and her cherry lip balm. One of his hands moves back to her neck, forcing a gasp from her mouth, then right into his. The other one finds her blouse and the incredibly tiny buttons decide to test his patience, but Oscar allows himself to pull at it a little harder, his knuckles grazing her sternum with each attempt.

It makes her shiver because for one fleeting second, she catches another trace of his being. A sharper side, hidden right under the surface. Although it’s not supposed to be violent in any way, what makes it exciting is the fact that the danger comes from keeping that edge under control at all times. So, he must be aware of it.

Without meaning to, Oscar reveals himself to her over and over again, and she’s able to understand that if someone pushed him far enough, wherever that line truly lives, he could be aggressive with the same terrifying precision he applies to everything else. And somehow, she thinks, that might just be the most intoxicating thing about him.

The air is cool on her skin while he finally parts the fabric, exposing the white lace of her bra. Instead of removing it as she expects him to, Oscar pushes the cups aside with his thumbs, only to tease. Next thing she knows, he kisses a trail across her chest, then lower.

When his mouth closes around her nipple, her fingers go back to threading through his hair, slightly arching her back to push herself more into him. His mouth is warm and wet and sucks just as gently as his touches, tongue circling the peak until it’s tight and aching. His right hand mirrors the motion on her other breast, squeezing and rolling the sensitive flesh between his thumb and index finger. The sensation drivers her right up, lifting on her elbows in order to see what he’s doing to her.

Worship, that’s what it is. His eyes are darker than usual, heavy-lidded and secured entirely on her; she stops breathing just to observe. The defined line of his jaw is still noticeable in the poor light that comes from the balcony windows. It’s the way his shadow almost looks like it’s moving in slow motion that leaves her transfixed, and the fact that Oscar possesses the kind of beauty that is so devastatingly painful, solely because he never seems aware of it.

“What are you staring at?” he asks, studying her. His cheekbones are sprinkled with a pale shade of pink that spreads quickly up to the tip of his ears and down his neck.

She smiles, and Oscar can swear the room just got a little brighter.

“You’re very pretty like this,” the girl admits.

He makes a small noise that sounds like a laugh, but not quite. “Shut up,” he mumbles before adding a in a silky voice, “Please.”

She chuckles when she feels a palm suddenly plastered on her stomach, pushing her back onto the bed. She obeys him with no protest, letting herself fall into the mattress, the skirt she wears bunching around her hips. Oscar follows, crawling over her with an unexpected familiarity, as though he had done it a thousand times before and this is just muscle memory to him.

His body is complete heat and has a foreign weight to it. It’s heavy enough to make her aware of him, to grow attached to the comfort of being held down so effortlessly. When her eyes close shut, somewhere behind her eyelids, the unavoidable thought that she will miss it the moment it’s gone appears in a flash that forces her to open them back up immediately. Just to witness him.

Far too patient, Oscar kisses her neck, her jaw, the hollow behind her ear. At this rate, there won’t be a single inch of skin left that his mouth hasn’t touched. The thought gives her goosebumps that only intensify once his hand slides down her side, over the curve of her hip, then under the skirt.

He grips her waist and lifts her exactly how he needs in order to position himself where she wants him.

Her hands fly to the button of his jeans with a reaction that surprises Oscar. She manages to work it open, pull down the zipper and slide her hand inside in record time, finding him warmer there, semi-hard and heavy against her palm. He hisses once she wraps her fingers around his cock, letting a sharp intake of breath breaking against her neck.

It’s easy for her to learn the shape of him, allowing herself to take in the rigid length and the way he twitches when she squeezes. She does it just as patient as he kissed her earlier, finally understanding Oscar’s need to take his time. Why every touch from him feels unbearably calculated. Now, she gets to watch it happen in reverse; she sees the subtle change in his expression, notices the tension gathering along his jaw and the way pleasure begins to reshape the composure he wears so smoothly. Being at the receiving end of it only leaves her wanting more. And once she starts building a rhythm, his hips roll into her hand like they have a mind of their own.

“Fu…ck,” he sighs, the word half-swallowed at the way she runs her thumb over the head, pressing into the slit to feel the tremor that travels through his entire body.

He buries his mouth further into the crook of her neck and, next time Oscar groans, it comes out on the verge of desperation, which encourages her to do it again, sliding her thumb over the slick tip. He can’t stay passive for long, though. His hand moves between her legs to push her panties aside and, sliding his middle and ring finger through her folds, he finds her already soaked.

The girl gasps, the rhythm faltering once her senses are invaded by a new force. Luckily, Oscar pushes her hands away in order to take the lead. Unable to look away, he fucks his fist once, two times, then three, his eyes glued to hers in a moment of pure connection as he’s gently guiding himself to her entrance.

They both hold their breath while he teases her hole, letting her adjust to the pressure first. But it’s not what she needs, so she bucks her hips in instant reaction, trying to take him in.

A smirk ghosts across his lips. “Tell me,” he begins slowly, “You’re always this eager or just for me?”

Her voice cracks on his name, the only word she seems to have left in her once vast vocabulary, now reduced to just that, plus a small collection of onomatopoeic sounds.

Oscar pushes in on her next inhale, just the head to stretch her. She writhes in his arms with a silent cry caught in her throat that makes him pause. At that, he gives her body a few moments to fine-tune to him then sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried inside all the way.

From there on, pure bliss.

His patience starts slipping away in quiet increments once he’s finally feeling her properly around his length. She’s also aware, noticing it in the way Oscar exhales deeply, in the loss of that measured control and, ultimately, the way she feels him throb inside her, without ever moving. But even with want steadily overtaking him, he’s still able to observe a tiny shiver that runs through her.

“You’re shaking.”

“So are you,” she whispers back, snaking her arms around his neck.

Oscar smiles, then leans in to press a kiss to her cheek. A kiss so small and airy that she barely has time to feel, let alone to process. Instead, she sighs in a failed attempt to say more, the noise able to weaken the knees of the strongest of men.

“All this time…” his voice is huskier when he speaks again. There’s a hesitation in it too, as though he’s weighing the exact moment to admit something he’s already decided. A while ago, actually. “I couldn’t help but wonder how you’d sound like if you were full of me. I thought about it every time I saw your face. And every time I closed my eyes. When I was trying to sleep.”

A shaky laugh escapes through her lips. “That’s a lot of thinking.”

“Right?” he agrees, dipping his head to place more kisses all over her shoulder. She moans in return, her fingers tangling back in the hair at the back of his head. “But I’m glad it’s you.”

Slowly, he begins to retreat, the head of his cock touching tiny euphoric mines inside her on its way out. The stretch is maddening, a fullness that steals her breath when she moves with it. Halfway through, she can still feel him pulsing, a solid presence that makes every cell in her body cry out for more. The slick embrace of her channel tries to cling to him, but the moment it slides out catches them both whimpering at the loss.

Oscar doesn’t waste a second after that. His hand slips down between them to tug at the lace of her panties, working them down her thighs while being careful to steal more not-so-accidental touches on the way. She lifts her hips without being asked, then in the same manner, her legs wrap around his waist, hooking at the ankles to yank him closer.

“Easy there,” he breaths deeply, followed by a satisfied chuckle.

Taking her in, he can’t help but go still: the glistening sheen of her pussy, then the way her body invites him in, promising that it’s ready. His eyes move up to search for hers, needing further reassurance that she wants this and him, specifically him. She can practically see the thoughts moving behind his gaze in real time, she can feel the restraint he’s carried for weeks cracking under relief, the disbelief that this is finally happening.

She can’t name the feeling she catches on his face, but understands how tender it is. Without breaking eye contact, Oscar grips her hip with one hand, the other guiding himself back to her opening. His lips part, a sign of absolute focus, then he drags the tip through her folds to tease her.

She whimpers, impatient to let him fill the void.

“What do you need?” he asks before moving another inch.

“This… you.”

Oscar’s eyebrows arch in a challenging manner. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

Need is a curious thing. In their case, it pulls at everything that could complicate their lives, everything Oscar is trying not to acknowledge, especially the shadow of her with a particular curly-haired teammate.

“Then I need your eyes on me the entire time,” his gaze holds hers with intensity. “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” she repeats, just as eager.

“Of course you can,” he nods, the hand on her thigh squeezing lightly, knowing that if he can anchor her attention for long enough, nothing else will exist in this room but the two of them.

He pushes forward in one thrust, sinking back into her welcoming heat. The tension she’s carrying is blinding, his girth stretching her as he goes, meeting new spots deep within. The girl lets out a broken whine that’s half pleasure, half relief, legs shaking around Oscar’s waist while struggling to pull him even deeper.

“That’s it,” he praises in a rich accent. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he adds more quietly, stilling for a beat.

Her brain turns to mush at his words and all she can do is clutch at him, nails raking across his back, her breath coming in short gasps. “Please, move,” she barely manages.

Oscar grunts at her sweet demand, then begins to move. Initially, his thrusts are meaning to collect as much information as possible. He uses slow strokes that grind against her walls at the same time he’s studying her face like it’s scripture, registering every reaction: her eyes rolling back when he reaches a certain angle, her mouth falling open when he picks up the pace, her hands squeezing at his shoulders when he circles his hips. Like that, he’s able to learn her body as he goes, making sure to check in with her after every change in movement.

“Right there?” he asks, hitting a spot that makes her whole body arch off the bed.

“Yes, there. Don’t stop,” she begs, bringing one of her hands to cup his cheek.

Leaning into her touch, Oscar fucks her with more life he’s ever felt. The sound of their bodies meeting is wet yet able to keep alive the flames that are threatening to swallow them both as the bedsprings creak in protest. He’s on another level aware of how far he’s sinking into her, how his entire cock disappears into her heat with each thrust, how she sucks him in, deeper with every clench of her inner muscles. She feels too good, so perfect that he knows he won’t last much longer.

But she isn’t far behind either. Her hand clenches somewhere where his jawline meets the carefully sculpted muscles of his neck, breath catching every time he drives inside. Each time with more force than before. It’s so good that she has to bite her lip to keep from screaming at him to fuck her harder.

She closes her eyes instead, so that all she feels is him.

“Stay with me,” Oscar whines, snaking a hand between them, thumb finding her clit to rub tight circles that match his thrusts. “Please,” he breaths, “Eyes on me.”

“Holy shit, Oscar…”

He shifts onto his knees, pulling her with him, and the new angle drives him deeper. In response, her orgasm builds like a wave, cresting and crashing under his relentless touch.

She shatters with a cry, body shuddering through the convulsions. Oscar watches the ecstasy twist her features, urging himself to memorize every second of it in the time that he follows her over the edge. The sensation makes him grunt, derailing his rhythm as he fills her in hot pulses.

He stays inside, collapsing on top and unwilling to break the connection until she pushes him away, if that’s what she needs. Apparently not. His lips brush her temple in a kiss that gives them more time to come back from the high. But after he finally pulls out, she turns her head, a big smile decorating her face. It’s the image of him that causes it. His skin is flushed, changing color from the exertion, from the pleasure. From the peace. She loves how open he looks, how undone and how… relieved.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” she speaks quietly. “I needed to get out of my head for a sec,” the girl explains, reaching out to trace the line of his jaw.

Oscar catches her hand, pressing his lips to her palm, just to keep them there for a moment. “Did you?”

She laughs. “I’m still out, yeah.” She shifts closer to place one last kiss to his lips before she gets up; this one’s tamed, with no urgency left in it.

The absence she leaves behind in his space is immediate, making the bed feel larger without her weight beside him. Looking around, she leans over to gather her panties and Oscar’s shirt from the floor, throwing the latter lightly at his chest.

“Gotta clean up,” she informs him, smoothing her skirt back into place. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

Oscar is still in a trance, a half-dazed expression still lingering in his sharp features. When he smiles, it softens his whole face. “Okay,” he says.

Her heart grows a little in size at the sight of it and how easy it is for him to simply exist like this, with messy hair falling into his eyes, resting his broad frame on the mattress, half-naked and pants still undone.

He stays seated for a moment, looking down at his shirt as his ears pick up on the sound of her steps fading down the corridor. Only then does he move, pulling the fabric over his shoulders, threading himself back into order, piece by piece. It feels a bit strange, like he has to come back to his body, returning to a version of himself that doesn’t quite fit this world anymore. There is a particularly noticeable before and after her in the air now.

Halfway through buttoning his shirt, Oscar pauses at the sound of someone sneezing outside. The noise is dull enough that he almost dismisses it entirely, until he turns on instinct and sees that the balcony door is slightly ajar. A thin slice of crisp air and lingering smoke is cutting through the room, moving the curtains back and forth.

It is almost absurd how quickly it happens, how the warmth still clinging to his skin seems to evaporate once the instant cold air meets him. It’s just posture at first, but he senses stillness where there should not be stillness. Then, the recognition comes in pieces, the outline of a man he knows too well taking shape right before his eyes.

Oscar’s mouth goes dry at the memory of what he just walked away from.

“Bless you,” he says unsure, the words coming out too polite. And wrong, in every possible way, which is why his jaw clenches at the sound of it.

Lando doesn’t answer. If anything, he looks like he doesn’t want to acknowledge his teammate’s presence yet. Awkwardly, the Aussie positions himself a few paces away, mirroring the posture unconsciously, with forearms resting on the railing, fixing his gaze on the dark horizon as though the void of the night has suddenly become the most interesting thing in existence.

“Looks like I’ve missed quite the chapter,” he finally hears Lando speaking. “Is that normal occurrence now or?”

“It’s not… like that,” replies Oscar, carefully sorting through his brain, yet no matter how hard he tries, what explanation would be appropriate in this situation?

“Aha,” the Brit seems lost in thought, “Piece of advice,” adds Lando, continuing to avoid looking anywhere near his teammate, “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Oscar frowns, turning to look at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I know how fucking good it gets with her,” Lando admits. “You think you won’t ever need anything else. But the second it gets bad…” he trails off, but doesn’t finish his sentence. On purpose. Instead, he insists, “Because it will. Get bad, I mean.”

The Aussie listens in silence while Lando talks with infuriating certainty. Behind the warning, he believes history alone gives him permanent insight into the way she loves, breaks, then leaves. A cycle that she’s endlessly repeating, according to his insinuation.

Oscar knows they had years together. He knows their relationship started not long after he and Lando became teammates, therefore long enough for habits and scars and intimate knowledge to root deep into both of them. He understands all of that. But on the other side of the spectrum, he doesn’t think it’s fair to simply assume that whatever he has with her now is somehow lesser, simply because it’s newer.

Lando is only speaking about it like some kind of prophecy, firing his experience like it’s a loaded gun just because he once knew how to survive her worst days. Despite that, Oscar remembers what the last few months with her have looked like, especially the past few weeks. He knows about the softness that she hides from people, the trust she places carefully into his hands, and he definitely feels the way she reaches for him like she means it. And maybe he’s an idiot for believing that matters, but he refuses to let Lando reduce her to a disaster waiting to happen, only because he can’t imagine his ex becoming something entirely different with someone else.

“But maybe you’ll succeed where I failed, who fuckin’ knows, mate,” Lando shrugs, tilting his head and extending his arm to pass Oscar what seems to be a third cigarette, judging by the bits scattered on the ground.

Oscar shakes his head, politely disregarding him. “Yeah, well. She’s not a fucking mission on a video game, mate,” he makes sure to accentuate the last word, which catches Lando’s attention for a brief second. Careful, is what Oscar means with it.

“She’s not,” Lando’s jaw works as he thinks, then continues, “When you fuck up in a video game, they tell you exactly what you did wrong. You get feedback and you can adjust. With her, I was constantly supposed to guess.”

Oscar’s hand curls around the railing, an involuntary gesture he only notices when his knuckles start hurting. “What, you mean she played you?”

Lando’s expression turns shallow, the exhaustion clearly visible behind his eyes. “I’m saying, if she decided that we were going to fight, that’s what we did. She didn’t even need a reason most of the times. Not one worth sharing, at least.”

“Well, I’m not you,” says Oscar almost as if he has to remind himself that.

“Exactly,” Lando points out. “I vividly remember you saying she wasn’t your type.”

“She wasn’t,” the Aussie agrees, half-nodding. He swallows a small lump in his throat, turning his gaze back on the horizon.

Lando laughs, but there’s no amusement behind the noise that comes out. “What changed?”

A good question, that takes Oscar by surprise. He realizes he never actually stopped to ask himself that. It hadn’t feel like a single moment nor a conscious decision. It was simply a slow, apparently irreversible shift that happened while he wasn’t paying attention, until she had become threaded into his routines and thoughts.

Oscar opens his mouth to answer, but finds nothing clean enough to explain it. You fucked up, he thinks to himself.

📍England, December 2025

“DON’T BE FUCKING selfish,” Lando grunts while keeps driving into her, hips snapping forward without pause even as her walls clamp down around his cock in the aftermath of her second orgasm. “So close, come on,” he breathes roughly, tightening his jaw at the way she squeezes him.

Before hands start sliding lower, he grips her waist a little harder from behind and the simple gesture steals the air from his lungs. His wide palms settle against the curve of her hips as though they were made for that exact purpose, making him painfully aware of how naturally she fits there, full of him; the simple visual sends his heart ricing in a wild beat beneath his ribs.

His, his, his.

The girl moans into the pillows, any rational thought long gone, at the same time her body jerks with every brutal push. Her thighs started trembling minutes ago and haven’t stopped yet, overstimulation sparking in quick electric vibrations through her core. She chokes on a gasp when he reaches down to slide two fingers through the mess between her legs, then circles her swollen clit only to see if she’s got one more for him. The sensation is too much, forcing her to twist away even though her body craves that exact touch.

With a restrained whimper and enough force in one hand, Lando manages to hold her steady; it’s the familiar possessiveness that has her voicing his name, the sound breaking in breathless fragments.

“Stay right there,” he orders calm yet commanding, a tone that she could recognize anywhere. “You can take it, see?” he continues rubbing, faster, every new thrust sending a fresh gush of arousal down her thighs that manages to struck her endlessly. 

She finds comfort in being known so thoroughly because, in time, Lando has learned how to read her reactions before she fully understands them herself. With that, the same feeling starts building inside once again.

Behind her, Lando’s breathing turns heavier, grumbles punching out of his chest with each drive of his hips. Lately, he’s noticed that it takes more out of him to reach that blissful release, as though his mind insists on holding onto every thought until the very last second. He can’t tell whether he’s prolonging the moment out of greed for a few more beats of it, or whether the destination itself has drifted away because she did.

Questioning himself like that only leaves Lando exhausted in ways he can’t quite explain, wringing him out completely before finally letting him to rest.

The aftermath is worse: he spends long minutes staring at the ceiling, limbs heavy and uncooperative, while a restless energy continues to hum beneath his skin. The perception alone has him suspended somewhere between satisfaction and longing, too drain to move but too awake to truly settle.

“Come on, fuck,” he says out loud, urging himself.

He shifts his angle, dragging the head of his cock over her sensitive spots on every stroke.

“Lan…do,” she pants, voice keep breaking several times more on his name.

He leans over her back to press his lips on the curve of her shoulder. “Gonna come again?” asks Lando, punctuating the words with three hard thrusts in a row. His free hand slides up her body to palm her breast, while the other keeps teasing her clit, never letting the pressure ease.

A third orgasm erupts quickly under the assault, walls fluttering tighter this time.

“Yeah, that’s it. Show me how greedy I’ve made you.”

Lando changes the angle again, keeping her exactly where he wants her, tilting her hips so his cock drags against her front wall with every stroke. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, grinding deep before repeating the motion, each one forcing another sweet cry from her throat. He manhandles her easily, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades as her body shakes under him, overstimulated and dripping.

“Touch yourself,” his words are followed by panting, and she obeys.

Together they work the swollen nub, and the combined pressure makes her vision blur with tears.

Lando’s thrusts get shorter, harder, more desperate once he nears the edge.

“Baby, please,” she whines in a hoarse voice, her weeping plea enough to make his pace falter.

He drives in deep one more time and stays there, cock throbbing as he spills thick inside her. His final groan is loud and long, hips twitching with each spurt.

When the last wave subsides, he stays buried, tickling the skin of her back with his sharp exhales. Now that he’s taken what he needed, one hand strokes slowly down her spine, then presses a wet kiss between her shoulder blades.

“Lan?” she calls out in a whisper, turning her head slightly.

Lando lets out a heavy sigh that seems to pull from the depths of his chest while his eyes close briefly. “Yeah, baby. Just a bit tired,” he replies, the worn-down cadence of his voice sounding more like he speaks from reflex rather than genuine reflection.

He shifts his weight off her, pulling out in a slow drag that makes her breath catch in her throat one final time. He slips free, half-softened and slick with the evidence of their release, and lets it rest above the curve of her ass before he slaps it against her skin, the wet sound ricocheting against the bedroom walls. A playful smack follows, the flat of his palm connecting with the swell of her ass cheek. It’s a gesture that might have once felt charged with mischief, an invitation for more, but tonight it lands in a strange space between habit and afterthought.

Without another word, Lando swings his legs over the side of the bed, the mattress moving in time with his weight. He doesn’t look at her as he reaches for the bunched-up covers, pulling them back in order to slide underneath. The sheets rustle as he settles, his back pressing against the headboard, his arm already reaching toward the nightstand.

Blindly, his fingers find his phone and the screen blazes to life in a cold glow that cuts through the obscure room like a scalpel. She watches him patiently, her gaze tracing the familiar lines of his profile as the light from the screen paints purposeful shadows across his features. His jaw is tight, the muscle there ticking faintly as he scrolls, his thumb moving in a mechanical swipe-swipe-swipe.

Entranced by his figure, the girl pulls the covers over her chest and rolls onto her side to face him better.

The small light catches on the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheekbone and the stubborn lock of hair that keeps falling into his eyes no matter how many times he pushes it back. That always happens after he showers, when his curls are much softer than when they’re loaded with hair product. 

In the silence, she notices, she can find it deeply unfair of how fond she used to be of these quiet moments. But tonight, more than anything, she wishes he would simply give in to sleep. After all, Lando said he was tired. She can easily imagine him abandoning whatever has captured his attention, setting the phone aside with a sigh before shifting closer until his head comes to rest on her stomach. She would thread her fingers through his curls, slowly untangling it one strand at a time, feeling him grow heavier beneath her touch as exhaustion finally claimed him. It is such a small thing to think of, yet it fills her with a strange nostalgia. 

A lump forms in her throat when she realizes she actually misses him, even though Lando is sitting only a few centimeters away from her.

What happened to them?

He has never stopped calling, never stopped reaching for her hand in crowded rooms, never stopped looking for her first after a race. However, she can feel a tiny shift in the tides, almost as if the moon had moved one millimeter farther away and, over time, the distance had grown large enough to violently stir the waters. 

Lando used to orbit her naturally, bringing every single one of his thoughts, every frustration, every victory and loss back to her as though she were his true north. Now, there are moments like this when she catches him retreating in places she can’t follow, simply because he won’t invite her there.

The strange thing is that none of it feels like a lack of love or negligence. If anything, those parts remain painfully unchanged. He still looks at her with the exact same expression he wore the first time they met. The same look from the first trembling I love you. Whatever is changing between them, it is not that. She knows it with the same certainty she knows that the sky is blue. So maybe, after almost four years together, the routine of being with each other has finally caught up and this is how it looks like.

Or maybe it’s all in her head.

Lando acknowledges her again the moment the screen finally goes dark, the harsh light replaced by the softer amber glow of the streetlamp filtering shyly through the curtains. He places the phone back on the nightstand, then turns toward her with a tired smile. His hand hovers in the space between them, leaning in to lightly press his lips to her forehead — a perfunctory touch that lands and lifts in the span of a heartbeat; a goodnight kiss; a sacred ritual reduced to muscle memory — then he rolls away, settling on his stomach.

Don’t be fucking selfish, she wants to say, the memory from minutes ago invading her mind. Quietly, she moves closer instead, sliding an arm around his waist to remind herself he is there.

SHE WAKES UP to an empty bed the next day. Vaguely, she remembers that last night Lando had told her there was something he needed to take care of, but promised he’d be back in plenty of time for the Christmas party at the MTC. That’s why she doesn’t think much of it. Still, she instinctively reaches across the sheets anyway, fingertips brushing the cool fabric where his warmth should have been.

With a sleepy sigh, she rolls onto her back to stare at the ceiling for what it feels like a small eternity.

The morning stretches into afternoon, and the afternoon slips quietly toward evening. Much to her growing irritation, the apartment remains empty in the meantime. Each passing hour leaves behind a strange residue of unease she can’t and doesn’t want to justify yet. Her stubbornness had often disguised itself as faith whenever it came to Lando. If he’s running late, she’s convinced he has a good reason for it.

It doesn’t make the wait easier, though.

She’s standing in front of the mirror, fastening earrings with increasingly impatient fingers when he finally replies to her texts.

Even though she would have so much more to say, she eventually stops replying. Especially after noticing how her phone screen lights up every few seconds, taunting her, announcing more messages crowding her notifications. 

The temptation is there, but the quiet dissonance that settled inside her acts like a STOP sign, preventing her to potentially make things worse when, maybe, it’s not the case.

With every little misunderstanding that accumulated lately, she knows she’s prone to no longer react to the actual situation but to weeks of bottled discomfort. And resentment, she believes, is far more dangerous than anger. At least that burns fast, but resentment roots itself in spaces where love is supposed to live and, without noticing, it could poison them from the inside out. That’s why, despite the growing sense that something has drastically changed right under their noses, the last thing she wants is to become someone who looks at Lando and sees a collection of grievances instead of the man she fell for.

When he finally makes it back home, he doesn’t come in with excuses or explanations ready. He simply stands by the window, waiting, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. Under different circumstances, he would have smiled and told her how beautiful she looked. Would have teased her for spending too long getting ready and would have crossed the room just to steal a kiss before they left. 

Tonight, the compliments die before they manage to reach his lips, deciding at the last moment to keep them locked in the mental drawers of his brain. On the other side, she’s just as quiet, letting the silence stretch between them, expecting Lando to break it first. 

“Can you stop being so difficult?” he asks at last, but it’s not at all the sound of regret she expected to hear from him. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

Her eyebrows arch in surprise. “Oh? I’m difficult?”

“Yes, you are. I said I was sorry, alright? Can’t you just believe me? We won’t be too late if we leave now, so let’s just get this over with.”

The girl shakes her head in disbelief and, with a frustrated exhale, she pushes herself off the bed to turn toward the door, concluding that maybe the distance between them is now a blessing and it’s better than letting the discomfort break into actual anger on both sides.

She barely makes it two steps and Lando’s right there, blocking her path in a heartbeat, close enough that she has to stop. 

Letting another breath out, she chews on the inside of her cheek before lifting her gaze to his face. It’s the only way she was always able to find answers. This time is no different: his eyes are slightly unfocused in the same cloudy look he gets after a few drinks. The realization unsettles her more that anger would have because it means that, whatever that foreign feeling might be, he is aware of it too, and at least at some subconscious level, he tries to suppress it because it is just as uncomfortable.

“Have you been drinking?”

“No…” he closes his eyes, then rectifies, “Just a couple of shots, I’m fine. Stay,” Lando insists.

A humorless laugh escapes through her lips. “You’re gone the entire day, you come back late, drunk, then you expect me not to be difficult?”

“I’m not drunk. And I said I was sorry,” he repeats and, before he can continue, she cuts in.

“I genuinely don’t have to put up with any of this,” the girl scoffs, her voice growing louder, “But I’m trying to be here for you, so how about help me a little!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me,” he raises his voice in return. “I get it.”

“Do you?”

She rolls her eyes at how ridiculous the situation is, then instead of shooting more remarks, she walks back into the room with a determination that’s more instinct than a decision per se. She grabs her bag from the chair and starts throwing things inside without any real order. Realistically, she knows that finding a flight this close to Christmas will be nearly impossible, that the airport will be packed and every reasonable option has probably disappeared hours ago. When she was waiting for him.

Suddenly, the thought of staying for another night feels unbearable. 

What happened to them?

“I feel so stupid,” she murmurs to herself.

“You’re not, don’t talk like that,” he steps toward her, closing the tiny gap once again. “What are you doing?”

“Going home,” she replies simply, as if ‘home’ is right next door and not over a thousand kilometers away.

Lando’s jaw clenches. “Come on, you’re not serious.”

“I’m afraid I am,” she counters. “I really don’t have the energy to deal with this.”

“Right, me neither,” he agrees. “It’s fine if you don’t want to go, I’ll make something up. But quit this shit, alright? I’m sorry that I wasn’t back sooner. If it were the other way around, I’d be mad too. I’m sorry, baby.”

Against her better judgment, she feels herself soften. In the end, meeting Lando halfway when every instinct tells her to run has kept her exactly where she is now. Loving him has taught her that grace comes easy if it’s the right person. It is second nature to make excuses for him, to extend patience long after it has stopped being returned in equal measure. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like middle ground but compromise.

He takes the opportunity immediately, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “I’m sorry,” he repeats quieter, understanding that this isn’t about being late or unanswered calls but all the little moments that led them here. “I’ll do better. Let’s just go, please.”

She turns to look up at him then, frustration becoming harder to hold onto. There is so much familiarity in his face that holds her back from staying mad for too long. At the same time, she can’t bring herself to look away. Ultimately, the same person that argues with her is also the person who still looks at her like she’s the most precious thing, even when they are falling apart.

Eyes don’t lie.

Glaring back at her, she understands with painful clarity that Lando Norris is, and perhaps will always be the one weakness capable of undoing every defense she has ever built. The one person she has never learned how to protect herself from. What frightens her most is the realization that the foreign, burning feeling that lives now in the pit of her stomach is not temporary. It will not disappear with time or sleep or another difficult conversation. The one person able to put an end to it it’s him. For all her pride, stubbornness and all the promises she makes to herself in moments of anger, she knows she’s not strong enough to walk away from him first. If they were ever to end, the final page will have to be written by Lando himself. 

Hesitantly, she closes the remaining space until she’s pressed against him. The girl rises enough to reach him properly, leaving a kiss on his lips. Lando melts into it, his arms tightening around her small frame, but she pulls away before he can chase after more, since there’s no time.

“This isn’t over,” her voice sounds weird in her own ears. “Now go wash your face to sober up.”

“You sobered me up,” he shoots back, the corners of his mouth curling into a boyish smirk.

At last, they manage to leave, but not before snapping some pictures first.

In one of them, Lando stands behind her, his body close enough that she can feel his warmth. The height difference between them is comically obvious as he looks down at her while she tries to keep a straight face.

The second one is a little softer, his hand finding its way around her neck, fingers resting there naturally. She looks up at him this time, smiling.

He’s on his knees in the third one, with arms around her waist while resting his head against her hip. She catches it mid-laugh, capturing a piece of happiness to which she’ll find herself returning to, times and times again in the upcoming weeks.

She takes the last picture outside, while they wait for their car to arrive. Snow has started falling around them. Standing beneath the streetlights, little flakes catch in their hair, melting against their skin.

Everything in the near vicinity feels impossibly quiet despite the endless thoughts that are running at 300kph in her mind.

We’re fine, she tells herself as she captures the two of them kissing, then turns around to wipe the gloss that transferred to his lower lip.

Would they have held on a little longer to that kiss if they had known it was their last?

BY THE TIME they arrive at the MTC, the party is already in full swing, exactly as she expected. The enormous glass-fronted building glows like a star against the darkness outside, every floor illuminated with strings of Christmas lights reflected in the polished surfaces. 

She can already hear the hum of conversations from the door, each punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional clink of glasses. Employees from every department are crowding the space, from engineers, mechanics and marketing staff to factory workers and executives. Role is not as important inside a team like McLaren because, at the end of each year, they either mourn or celebrate together. Always together.

Lando slips away the moment they step inside. He’s one of the main characters in pretty much every room he enters and here, more than anywhere else, it’s impossible to keep him glued to one spot; people are greeting him from all directions, lifting their hands in recognition and calling out for him.

Leaning over, he squeezes her hand briefly. “I’ll go say hello to everyone. Stay close, yeah?” he instructs her before he gets trapped in dialogues elsewhere.

She nods and, within seconds, Lando is swallowed by the crowd, disappearing into a cluster of bodies eager to congratulate him for the season he’s had, joke with him, or simply claim a moment of his attention. How she’d love that for herself, too.

Left to her own devices, the girl drifts toward the buffet tables lining on one side of the room, grateful she has an excuse to occupy herself. The spread looks extravagant, laden with festive desserts, canapés and enough alcohol to ensure nobody remembers the end of the night. She picks up a drink, then adds a few snacks to a plate, determined to at least enjoy the food, since she skipped dinner. 

For a long while, she simply watches the room around her, taking in the sea of semi-familiar faces. Then, just as she’s reaching for another canapé, a voice she knows well enough to make her turn appears right beside.

“They actually outdid themselves with the food this year.”

“Yeah, they did,” she agrees.

Oscar’s mouth is already curved into a smile when she looks up. Somehow, despite the hundreds of people surrounding them, he manages to make the crowd feel a little less overwhelming with his sole presence.

“Why are you alone? Where’s Lando?” he asks, more conversational than actual interest.

She returns the smile, abandoning her plate on the table, pushing it into a corner. “He’s…” she trails off, looking around to see if she can spot her boyfriend, “Somewhere.”

The Aussie nods, understanding all too well how easily a room like this can consume someone. Being one of the main faces of the team means that a simple greeting rarely remains just that. People will always pull them from one conversation to the next, eager to share a story, to ask questions or reminisce about a particular race weekend. Before they realize, hours can pass. Still, part of him thinks it’s unfair to leave her alone at a party. In this case, the distinction between responsibility and intentionally forgetting is small, perhaps insignificant to her at the moment, but it’s enough to keep Oscar from judging his teammate too harshly.

They exchange a few words after that, falling into an effortless banter, joking and commenting about sports, until he eventually notices the way she keeps glancing around. 

“Alright,” he says, stepping back, “I’ll let you enjoy the night. Don’t want to steal you away.”

“You’re not,” she assures him, making room for him to pass. “But thanks for the company.”

Collecting a full glass from the table, Oscar lifts it in her direction. “I’ll see you around, then. And if Lando’s still lost in half an hour, maybe put him on a leash.”

She laughs, nodding. “I’m considering it.”

Later in the night, after wandering around, she finally finds Lando upstairs, tucked away in one of the quieter rooms where the noise isn’t that disturbing. He is surrounded by a small group of work friends and a couple of girls she vaguely recognizes from previous events. They’re all gathered around a table with cards spread between them, completely absorbed in their own small papaya world, arguing over rules, accusing each other of cheating and jumping from debates about golf to cars to video games.

He made space for her in the meantime, and now they’re close enough that their shoulders touch every time he shifts next to her. Somehow, though, she feels further away than she has all night. Lando laughs at something someone says, his unmistakable giggle making it impossible for her not to notice how his attention moves around the room, never quite settling on her. 

It makes her wonder: if she quietly disappeared downstairs, would the game continue?

Her mind answers that too fast for her liking, but it’s the way Lando reaches across the table to take the deck of cards, and his hand lingers for a second too long above one of the girls’ fingers that pushes her over the edge of her patience. She’s aware that it’s barely even a moment. However, she tried to overlook everything he did in the past twenty-four hours, maybe even past month, and this is simply the final thread snapping.

“I want to go, I don’t feel well,” she leans closer, lowering her voice so only he can hear.

Lando turns to face her, surprise flickering across his face. “Now?” he asks; there is no accusation in his voice, but he sounds hesitant. She already knows. “We’re in the middle of the game.”

Exactly.

She looks at him for a few seconds, waiting for something she isn’t even sure Lando can give her right now. A sign that he understands. That he notices her, and she’s not helplessly blending somewhere in the background of his busy life. 

“I want to go,” she insists.

“Baby, come on…”

Shaking her head and without stopping to explain herself, she gets up and steps away, leaving the room just as she entered it: alone. The door closes behind her, taking with it the last bit of patience she had left. But the peace doesn’t last long enough for her to gather her thoughts. A few moments later, Lando’s footsteps catch up.

The man who appears beside her is nothing like the one who had been laughing earlier, leaning back in his chair and throwing words around like it he had no worries. The warmth has vanished, his expression is tense, with jaw tight and irritation already plaguing his stance.

“What the fuck is wrong with you today?”

His question makes her stop abruptly. “Excuse me?”

Lando exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve been in a mood all day. You barely talk to me and now you leave without saying anything.”

“First of all, you were away all day, so it’s impossible for you to know how my mood has been,” she reminds him, then copies his tone, barely holding it together, “And without saying anything? Lando, I said I wanted to go.”

“Yeah, after sitting there looking miserable for like an hour.”

She scoffs. “So you do notice me, after all. Yes, I am miserable.”

Her affirmation makes the corridor suddenly feel too public for the conversation Lando knows they’re going to have in the next few minutes. 

“Can you blame me? I’ve been constantly waiting for you,” she tells him, voice shaking a little despite her effort to keep it steady. “I had to wait for you to come home, wait for you to come find me here, wait for you to finish your stupid card game!”

Lando’s eyes sparkle with disbelief. “Don’t put in on my back like that,” he says, tensing his shoulders. “I told you I could have solved this with a phone call. You insisted we come.”

She glances up at the ceiling with a sigh, avoiding to look at him. “Because I didn’t want to ruin your night, and I don’t want to fight with you either. But you’re making it really, really difficult for me right now.”

The silence that follows isn’t as easy to read as it used to be. Lando cannot understand it in a glance, and she’s just too caught up in her side of the story to explain it to him better. Arguing is the last thing he wants to be doing, but from his perspective, every word she throws at him seems to gather every disappointment from the past few weeks and lay it at his feet. As if he alone is responsible for the growing distance neither of them has been brave enough to acknowledge yet.

Perhaps that is what frightens him most: the realization that they are no longer fighting about their current situation but something much larger.

For a heartbeat, Lando looks like he might make it all better — he always do, when he tries to —, but then he steps closer so his voice won’t echo against the walls. “Can we not do this here?”

She shrugs, pressing a hand to her chest. “Why? Because your friends or bosses might hear?”

Deliberately ignoring her question, Lando’s hand reaches out, gently catching her by the elbow. “Come on,” he says.

Her eyes fall straight on the spot where they’re making contact, then back at him. It feels more like a warning, and Lando seems to decipher the message, loosening his grip.

“Please,” he gestures toward the nearby conference room.

It’s not like she has a choice but to do as he says, letting him guiding her inside. 

After closing the door behind him, Lando leans against the sleek glass table, his jaw clenched, eyes searching her with a mixture of his earlier frustration and now concern. 

“Tell me what this really is about,” he demands, massaging the back of his neck.

There is a bitter smile curling at her lips when she replies, “You’re a smart boy. I’m sure you can figure it out.” Even though her voice drips with sarcasm, her eyes are weary, shadowed with exhaustion.

“Humor me,” argues Lando, exhaling through his nose. “Just… talk. Please, talk to me.”

Her shoulders drop. “Alright, you want the whole list?” the girl asks rhetorically before adding, “You barely look at me anymore unless you’re horny. Last night you came home, fucked me into oblivion, then went straight to your phone like I wasn’t even there. The week before, you canceled dinner twice because ‘work ran late’, but I know what work means to you when you’re with those guys. Plus, last time I checked, you were supposed to be on a break, but what the fuck do I know, right?”

Lando winces, his face draining of color. “You think I’m avoiding you on purpose?”

“I’m not done,” she talks back. “Turns out, you can find time to attend all these superficial events, but I have to beg for your attention. I mean, yeah,” she lets out a laugh, “You’re there, but not really there.”

“You’re so fucking unfair, you know I’ve been drowning in work ever since the season ended,” he explains. “I’ve got millions of deadlines stacking up, a business to run, meetings, then racing, which you know damn well it’s a nonnegotiable to me. Sometimes I’m exhausted, but I still come home to you every night. And every night I still consciously want you. It’s not like we haven’t been through all this already. You know how the pressure gets, so what exactly bothers you so much this time?”

“Pressure,” she parrots, her voice rising an octave. “Is it really pressure or is it just you getting bored? Because I see you don’t even bother lately. I orbit around you to fill a space and that’s about it. You used to text me stupid shit in the middle of the day when I knew you were busy, but you were making an effort because you wanted to. The only time you initiate anything now is when your dick’s hard, and I’m tired of pretending it’s all just in my head. Do you even remember what it’s like to be with me?”

Lando’s eyes darken, hurt flashing through his expression. “Yes, I do. But you’re not the same either. This used to be fun before you started turning every conversation into a fucking interrogation. That when you want to talk, of course. Otherwise, you shut down the second I walk through the door. How the fuck am I supposed to try to fix anything when you already decided I’m the villain?”

“I didn’t say you’re the villain.”

“Well, I’m not the hero, so I’m just assuming, yeah? If you weren’t so distant, I wouldn’t feel like I’m losing you.”

Her eyes flash with surprise. “Losing me? Why would you even go there?”

“You send me there,” Lando accuses her. 

She shakes her head, pointing a finger at him. “No, you send yourself there because you feel it too,” her voice is trembling with tears she refuses to shed. “This is not… I love you, but this is not what I want. I don’t like us anymore. Not like this.”

Her admission is enough to silence the argument entirely. 

Lando stares at her, anger dissolving into a softer feeling. He never doubted her love, but hearing it now doesn’t feel like reassurance. His mind races through late-night calls, plans cancelled at the last second, conversations spent discussing logistics and how can they make it better without compromising what they have.

But what do they have, really? 

He thinks about how often he misses her and how that missing has slowly but surely become the foundation of their relationship. Sure, they knew the costs from the beginning, but loving each other was effortless, therefore inevitable. 

Was.

Across from him, she feels the weight of her own words settle like a mountain on top of her chest. It sounds cruel when spoken out loud, but she’s not sure she wants to take it back.

Lando’s breath catches, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions, feeling as though something inside him just fractured. “So… what? You want me to drop everything for you all of a sudden, just so you feel like you have a boyfriend?”

No.

“Yes,” she ends up saying with a frown, “That’s exactly what I want. I want your life to revolve around me.”

The sarcasm is very evident in her voice, yet hearing Lando reduce her feelings to something so simple and selfish forces her to dive in, head first. It hurts that, after all the years they’ve had together, he could look at their relationship and think that poorly of her.

“Tough one there, then,” he replies quickly. “You know exactly what I can and can’t do for you. And every time I feel like I’m doing enough, it turns out I’m not,” his voice looses some of its sharpness. “No matter what, I’m the bad guy. I miss a call, I don’t prioritize you. I’m exhausted after a twelve-hour day, I’m selfish.”

Her jaw tightens in frustration, not understanding how is it possible for them to keep circling around the same point without actually touching it.

“Stop making it about whether you’re a bad person,” she says. “I’m not saying you are, Lando.”

“Then what are you saying?”

She pauses for a heartbeat, then glares at him with teary eyes. “I’m saying I miss you when you’re right next to me. How fucked up is that?”

Lando stays quiet, watching her carefully. Suddenly, he can’t figure out where the line is anymore. Whenever he thinks he has finally understood what she needs, whether it’s space, reassurance, patience or simply showing up, the ground shifts beneath his feet, leaving him uncertain all over again. He isn’t sure if they are changing or if he’s only now beginning to notice all the ways he stopped paying attention. 

“I genuinely don’t know what you want from me,” he admits, his eyes dropping to his shoes. “Whatever this bullshit is,” says Lando, vaguely gesticulating at the space that separates them, “It feels like you’re just looking for reasons.”

“Reasons?” she echoes. “You think I want to break up?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, you just don’t know how to ask for it. And you won’t do it because you don’t want to hurt me. So, I guess I have to be the bad guy one last time.”

She takes a small step toward him, voice filling with panic. “Don’t do this, Lando.”

He pushes himself off the table, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. 

Her face falls, a single tear finally slipping down her cheek.

“Lando,” she calls out, but he’s already at the door, closing it behind him with a force that neither of them expects.

The slam echoes through, her whole body reacting even though she cannot move. She just stares at the door, heart racing, hoping, waiting for him to walk in. In all those instances one of them has left angry before, they always found each other, in the end. But seconds turn into minutes, the hallway remains silent, and it is only then that she understands Lando isn’t coming back this time.

She exhales shakily, then presses the heels of her hands over her eyes, wiping away the tears. Turning her head, she checks herself in the darkened conference room window, pinching the skin beneath her eyes, willing the redness to fade before anyone notices.

She barely reaches the staircase when she nearly walks straight into Oscar. He slows immediately, his expression changing the moment he takes in her features.

“You alright?” he asks, a little hesitant.

Her voice isn’t as convincing when she replies, “Yeah.”

“I just saw Lando… if you’re still looking for him?”

“No, I found him,” she says, letting the words hang between them.

“Oh, okay. I thought he looked…” Oscar searches for the right one before settling on, “Upset.”

The girl forces a smile, trying not to make a big deal out of it. “We had a disagreement, it’s nothing.”

Oscar studies her as she walks past him. He has never been particularly intrusive, but he has always been observant and insanely good at noticing things people hope will go unseen. Like the slight tremble in her voice, the shine in her eyes and the way she keeps blinking rapidly, as if trying to push something back.

Instead of insisting that she tells him what’s wrong, he tilts his head toward the stairs leading back downstairs.

“My mother sent me some homemade Christmas cookies,” slightly croaky and uneven, Oscar’s voice catches her off guard.

She turns around reluctantly, finding him standing in the same spot with an expression that she would rather ignore. She considers pretending she didn’t hear, but he holds her gaze. There is no pressure in it, no expectation for her to explain herself or open up or talk about it. 

He isn’t trying to pry into a situation that clearly isn’t his to fix, but is simply giving her an option. 

Caught between wanting to disappear and a strange relief of not having to be alone, she ends up nodding. “Okay.”

Oscar offers her a quiet smile before falling into step beside her, saying nothing else as they descend the stairs together. 

Sometimes, he has learned, silence is far kinder when it is shared. Also, the cookies taste better that way too.

📍 Miami, May 2026

DROPLETS OF WATER are still tracing paths down Oscar’s chest and arms after he steps out of the steaming bathroom with a white towel slung low around his hips. His hotel room carries the scent of his body wash mixed with the evening breeze drifting through the half-open balcony door. The noise coming in is much louder than at home, but it won’t be a problem for him to fall asleep, considering what a busy Sunday he had.

He settles onto the edge of the bed with a sigh and props his phone against a pillow, waiting for the FaceTime call to connect. A couple of beeps later, her face fills the screen, all sleepy yet happy to see him.

“Hey, you,” says Oscar, reciprocating the smile. “I’m sorry it’s late, just got out of the shower. Were you asleep?”

“No,” she replies with a yawn, leaning closer to her own screen. “I was waiting for you to call. Congrats on the podium!”

He chuckles quietly, rubbing a hand over his damp hair. “Thanks, very nice to be up there after the quali I’ve had.”

“Then what are you doing inside? Podium in Miami and you’re choosing room service instead of celebrating?”

Oscar shrugs, shifting to lie back against the headboard. The towel slips a little lower, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. “I’d rather be talking to you, I’m too tired anyway.”

He hears her hum on the other end, the sound landing right between his lungs, stealing the air from his chest.

They talk about anything but racing after that, asking what she ate for lunch and whether her meeting ran late. The screen shows her looking slightly off to the side, fingers tracing the edge of her phone.

He watches her for a long moment, unsure, then clears his throat to ask: “Was I wrong to tell you about it?” Her eyes flick back to the camera once Oscar continues, reluctant but determined to get to the bottom of it. “You’ve seemed a bit in your head when I left and if it’s me, I’d rather know.”

“No, Oscar,” she closes her eyes for a moment, “It’s not you. It’s…”

It’s Lando. Around everyone else, she knows where her boundaries begin and end. She knows when to walk away, when to protect her peace and when to choose reason over emotion — that’s exactly what she did with Oscar all this time. Of course, he told her about the conversation he had with his teammate on the balcony, two weekends ago. About the warning that Lando had fired at him about her.

He was quick to brush it aside, assuring her that nothing about it changes the way he sees her. That she has done nothing to diminish his respect for her. Still, Oscar recognizes the gray cloud that settled above her head, draining the light from moments that should be theirs. He recognizes it because he has seen it before: the same distant look, the same careful smiles that never quite reach her eyes, the same invisible weight pressing on her shoulders. She wore it for weeks after the Christmas party, convinced that if she ignored it long enough, it might eventually go away. But it never truly did.

“I know,” says Oscar at last. “I wish you found me when you weren’t still waiting for him. Would’ve been easier.”

The screen goes black without warning, the call still active, but the video feed cut. Oscar hears the muffled rustle of sheets as she sets the phone face-down on her pillow, so he stays silent for a while, listening to the soft sounds of her breathing.

Placing a palm over her chest, she can’t help but feel the shift inside.

Oscar has never asked her to sail toward him. Just like a lighthouse, he stayed in one place, casting light without demanding that she follow it. He didn’t rescue her from the sea but reminded her that there is still shore beyond it. For a short while, she was lost. Perhaps that is why she was so drawn to him in the first place. But a lighthouse doesn’t chase ships through violent waters, nor does it promise calm seas. Its purpose is not to save, but to guide. 

“I’m so sorry,” it’s all she says, picking the phone up again. 

Oscar exhales, shoulders loosening for a fraction. “Are you okay? I hate that I can’t be there.”

“I just… I wonder if I’m dragging you into something you don’t deserve.”

“This isn’t about protecting me, you know that,” he says, voice going up just a notch. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

She shifts on the bed, the camera tilting with her. 

There is nothing to dispute about that. They are both adults. She and Lando have been over for months and no lines were crossed. But it would be foolish of them to believe their lives could remain untouched forever. They do not exist in a world where relationships stay private for long and, the moment it goes public, they will become a headline.

“Maybe not, but I don’t know how to stop feeling like this,” she whispers.

Oscar doesn’t rush to fill the silence after her confession. He knows she needs him to simply exist with her in the same space, to stay. On his screen, he moves around slightly, resting his head back on the pillows.

“I think,” he begins carefully, “You’re still trying to find the exact moment where everything went wrong.”

She lays on her side, facing him. “And?”

“And maybe there isn’t one.”

“There must be,” the girl counters, “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here, having this conversation right now.”

Oscar sighs, suddenly looking uncertain, which is rare enough that it catches her attention. “Look, I’ll be back tomorrow night. Could I come over?”

The question is so gentle it almost breaks her heart. Even now, when she feels like she has spent weeks trying to understand where she truly belongs, Oscar is willing to give her the space she needs, regardless of whether her response might hurt him.

“You’re asking?” she teases.

“Yeah,” the corners of his mouth curve upward a little. 

A fondness she cannot hide softens her expression. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” his smile widens.

Twenty-four hours later, Oscar is sitting on the couch in her living room. The TV plays a show on the background, its volume turned down so low that the sound is barely filling the empty spaces neither of them feels obligated to occupy. 

Dinner is simple: takeout, hastily ordered after Oscar arrived from the airport. They speak about inconsequential things like his flight, the race weekend and the last book she read. Only once the last wrapper has been folded in half does reality begin to slowly creep back into the room.

Oscar gathers everything into a neat pile before standing, carrying the empty containers into the kitchen. She picks up the sounds of the cupboard opening, the bin closing, then the tap running for a few seconds, finding an odd comfort in how ordinary all of it is.

When he returns, he doesn’t immediately sit; he feels content to linger behind the couch, one hand resting on the back of it as if deciding whether to disturb the peace they’d managed to build over the last hour. From the moment they ended the call yesterday, his mind started running. He imagined every version of the conversation they’re about to have, every time coming to the same conclusion. 

Eventually, he lowers himself beside her.

“How are you feeling?”

She exhales, fixing her eyes on the TV screen where people laugh at jokes neither of them can hear. “I’m not sure.”

She finds it very difficult to make sense of the flood of emotions that overwhelms her. There are too many feelings gathered in the same space inside her to separate one from the other; relief, guilt, love, affection, grief, hope, fear. They all exist together in a knot, so tightly woven that tugging on one only seems to tighten the rest.

Oscar’s thumb absentmindedly brushes over the seam of the cushion beneath his hand. Next time he speaks, his voice is careful which makes him sound disturbingly reserved. “I’m not saying this to put any pressure on you. It’s the last thing I want, and I know that we’re both equally involved, so it’s not that I don’t want to take any blame for it.”

The girl turns to look at him, their knees touching as she shifts.

“But I hope you know,” he pauses, searching for the right words instead of the easy ones, “Us… this only works for as long as you want it to.” Oscar smiles, but she notices the sadness tucked into its corners. “The circumstances won’t ever let me fight for you the way I’d like to,” he continues, gaze dropping to his hands. “Because I know you’ll always love him. I can’t hold that against you, I don’t think anyone could.”

She looks away before she can answer. “Yeah, but all that love… it’s just a burden if I have nowhere to put it.”

“Maybe it’s better if you try, and then you’ll know,” says Oscar, nodding. “You were together for a long time,” he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, “So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, I know this will probably come back to bite me, but I think you should start putting it somewhere else. Starting with yourself.”

The simplicity of it catches her off guard. So much that it makes her laugh through her emotion, already sensing where their night is going to end.

“Are you breaking up with me too, Piastri?”

There is nothing selfish about what he’s asking of her. Nor can she blame him for refusing to become the person she turns to every time she finds herself running from Lando. If anything, she understands that it is the kindest thing he could have done for her. For himself too, and for whatever this peaceful, unexpected, beautiful thing between them has quietly become. 

He chuckles. “It’s really fucking hard. I don’t know how Lando did it.”

It would have been easier for Oscar to ignore that gray cloud. To accept the pieces of her she was able to offer and hope that, one day, they would be enough. But choosing honesty over convenience makes her admire him more. It reminds her that Oscar has never loved by possession. He’s the type of guy that does it by presence, by giving without demanding.

With a sigh, she lets herself drift closer, until the weight of her head comes to rest against his shoulder. Her hand, lying beside on the couch, searches for his instinctively, and Oscar doesn’t hesitate before intertwining his fingers with hers as though they have always known the shape of her hand. A moment later, she feels his body relaxing, his head settling atop hers.

“He’s a good guy,” says Oscar, no bitterness in his voice. “And a constant part of my life for as long as we’re teammates. If…,” he trails off, squeezing her hand for a fraction, “If we keep doing this while you’re not completely here, then eventually every day at work becomes about avoiding each other.”

She nods, thinking back at what he told her the night before. “Maybe I did find you while I was still waiting for him, but I also found you when I needed someone beside me the most. And for that…”

The moment he looks down at her, every conviction he has spent the past twenty-four hours painstakingly assembling begins to crumble. The urge to take it all back is so strong; he wants to tell her that he doesn’t care how complicates it is, that he’ll gladly endure every awkward glance, every impossible circumstance if it means having the chance to choose her anyway. He wants to close the small distance, kiss her and spend however long it takes proving that it can work. Not perfectly, but close enough. 

The thought dies before reaching his lips, though. For the first time all night, the words that usually come so effortlessly abandon him completely. He can only look at her in silence, carrying everything he cannot bear to say in the softness of his gaze, hoping she understands that choosing this version of the story is the hardest kindness he has ever offered.

“I don’t regret you,” she adds, reaching to cup his cheek in the palm of her hand.

Gently, she presses a tiny kiss in the corner of his mouth, an expression of gratitude more than affection.

Oscar’s jaw tightens as a new thought starts to take root in his mind right away. Mostly because of what it reveals about him. He thought he understood the boundaries, the risks, the impossible timing of it all and, ultimately, he thought he understood himself. He knew Lando was her Achilles’ heel, but he never, for one second, expected her to become his.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2026

[kichona-s]

dont worry hes exactly where he wants to be

ref:

[trashytracktales]

‼️ IMPORTANT NOTICE REGARDING SCAM ACCOUNTS IMPERSONATING ME ‼️

This is a post I didn’t think I would ever have to make, but here we are...

It has come to my attention that some people are receiving messages form an account pretending to be me, claiming to offer free Tumblr Premium and asking users to click on links in order to get it. THIS IS NOT ME. I will never contact anyone offering anything, let alone ask you to click on random links or request personal information through DMs.

If you receive something similar to this:

DO NOT CLICK ON THE LINK

DO NOT ENTER ANY PERSONAL INFORMATION

REPORT IMMEDIATELY AND BLOCK IF NECESSARY

At the moment, I have also been informed that there may be a report or ticket associated with my blog that is allegedly set to go into motion within the next 12 hours. What makes this particularly frustrating is that I have not personally received any email, notification nor an official communication from Tumblr regarding such matter. The person who contacted me claims they received information about it and provided some screenshots, but I currently have no way of verifying its legitimacy. Therefore, I choose not to file an appeal at this time, mostly for privacy reasons.

That being said, guys, in case my blog ends up being suspended because of a scam operation, I’m gonna lose my shit. This is my safest place on the internet, no creator should have to deal with such consequences.

Until further notice, please please please be careful, double-check usernames before interacting because they will make the accounts look exactly the same, and always assume that any blog contacting you about free stuff is fraudulent unless explicitly stated otherwise by me through my one and only account, which is this one: trashytracktsles.

Stay safe and I really hope this isn’t the last time I post on here, I swear to god.

[trashytracktales]

Maybe a freaky agenda with Franco, sorry for being to generic lol, my brain is constantly fried tbh

Franco is a very distinguished flirt, which means I had to sit my ass down and imagine 8247 different scenarios before I was somewhat satisfied. But one thing, however, was clear from the very start: he is one freaky fella.

𝗧’𝗦 𝗙𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗞𝗬 𝗙𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗢 𝗔𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗔

𝗜𝗻 𝗯𝗲𝗱

✦ Loves pinning and sloppy kissing while his hands roam everywhere at once, grinding against you until you’re both equally desperate.

✦ Starts with a slow fuck, whispering filthy praise about how tight and perfect you feel around him every time, then switches to pounding when you least expect it.

✦ Has relentless stamina and it takes a lot to tire him out. When you eventually do tire him out, remember he’s also big on falling asleep pronto, so don’t take it personally if he starts catching Z’s while he’s still inside you.

✦ And yes. He’s not pulling out without rocking gently a few more times first, obsessed with the feeling of you stuffed full as he keeps kissing anywhere he reaches.

✦ Flipping you over mid-thrust for sport. No warnings when he smacks your ass either.

✦ He’s always aiming for absolute performance and gets off on making you cum multiple times; fingers & tongue in every combination until you start begging for his cock.

✦ Turns into a human weighted blanket post-orgasm. Although he’s heavy and spent, his hands never stop teasing.

✦ Two words: morning sex. He’s likely to wake up with a boner 99% of the times, because mornings wrapped up in your warmth before the world wants anything from him are the highlight of his day.

𝗧𝘂𝗿𝗻-𝗼𝗻𝘀

✦ Starting with the smallest things, like seeing you blushing or maintaining eye contact.

✦ Hearing you confess your dirtiest thoughts during foreplay.

✦ When you wear his racing number => the simplest, most effective way to make him hard. Bonus points if it’s the only thing you’re wearing ;)

✦ Moaning his name in a needy voice and begging for more when he’s already balls-deep into wrecking you.

✦ Feeling your pussy throbbing when he’s eating you out.

✦ When you get a little possessive and start marking him in places only he can see. On the same note, the line between possessive and territorial is very thin with him, so crossing it will often end up with him dragging you somewhere to fuck you senseless and remind you he’s yours.

✦ Your post-fuck glow.

𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘀

✦ Overstimulation and edging that goes both ways. He loves pushing past the limits, but wants (and needs) to be pushed just as much. Hearing you beg is one thing. But the moment he starts begging... 👅

✦ Public teasing *gasp*, act surprised. He will hint and speak with double meaning in front of any camera like it’s the very AND ONLY thing that fuels him. He also runs at 100% knowing he can get caught, and fingering or eating you out in risky places gets him ten times more excited.

✦ Cum play. He can’t get enough of it, actually. Watching his load drip out of you, pushing it back inside with his fingers or making you taste it off his cock. Freak 🤪

𝗙𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀

✦ Mating press as his go-to, because it’s allowing him to sink deep while locking eyes and yapping about how perfectly you take every inch.

✦ Reverse cowgirl (I) on the edge of the bed. It’s the control he has for this one, gripping your hips as you bounce on it and yanking you back against his chest afterwards, only to thrust from below with more force.

✦ Reverse cowgirl (II) on his face, when he’s craving your taste. Has the perfect mouth to devour you with slurping tongue thrusts, and is his favorite way to make him stfu.

✦ Spooning from behind, usually in the mornings. Lazy, deep thrusts that turn intense the moment he hooks your leg over his waist and reaches to rub your clit until you’re shaking.

𝗘𝘅𝘁𝗿𝗮 𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗰𝗲

✦ He has a secret talent for edging himself without anyone noticing. Will also keep you on the brink for ages, just because he can be mean like that.

✦ The type to sneak vibrators into public dates; remote in his pocket, buzzing your clit during dinner with friends until you have to excuse yourself to the bathroom. He’s conveniently following you minutes later, only to fuck you over the sink because, again, dealing with the thrill of almost getting caught has him in a chokehold.

✦ One of his favorite power moves is sliding a finger into your mouth to watch you suck at it on instinct. During sex, right? Um, yeah, that too 😁🤞🏻

Check out my MASTERLIST for more freaky agendas 🫶🏻

[5s4ocon]

Try to guess who just walked by...

[5s4ocon]

And I won’t elaborate.

[vivineed2sleep]

one shitpost per sometimes

[trashytracktales]

hey lovely i love your works so much especially the angsty one shots they're jusy chef's kiss 💞💞😭 i was wondering if you could make a series of angsty lando texts? not ex reader maybe they just took a break but it's really bad because he did something petty to get her attention. and so then afterwards he manages to convince her to meet up........ im blanking now but i trust you with the ending

even though i shouldn't after what you pulled on delayed gratification. lol.

- 💞

Let’s call it | LN⁴

.✦ ݁˖ summary ──── In which two weeks apart and a public scandal it’s enough to bring them back together. Sort of.

.✦ ݁˖ pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

.✦ ݁˖ rating ──── explicit

.✦ ݁˖ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, fake texts, angst, tension, descriptive language, swearing, push-and-pull behavior, arguments and heated conversations, implied emotional manipulation, unclear relationship status, longing, ‘right person, wrong time’ vibes, soft intimacy, internalized conflict, emotional dependency, toxic relationship dynamics, power dynamics, graphic descriptions of sexual acts, light marking, oral and manual stimulation, huge hands Norris™, unprotected sex, fingering, teasing, overstimulation, intense orgasms, messy bodily fluids, elements of aftercare.

.✦ ݁˖ word count ──── 7.3k

.✦ ݁˖ date ──── Apr. 16, 2026

.✦ ݁˖ a/n ──── This one haunted every corner of my brain for at least a month straight and it was a BITCH to edit. I have nothing left to say except lower your screen brightness if you’re reading it in public. Kachow ✌🏼

It was like I was a tree attracted to axes.

Steve Maraboli

LANDO IS ALREADY there when she rolls in, the purr of her engine cutting through the silent parking lot. The headlights sweep across the concrete walls in a smooth arc, landing on him by the time the car stops. She thinks it’s borderline idiotic how quickly her heart reacts at the sight of him, but she hasn’t seen the man in weeks, and the fact that he’s on time for her makes it all a bit harder than it already is. Mainly because Lando was rarely on time, and that used to annoy her a lot.

Whatever this might be, she understands right away that it’s far from casual, because it’s not one of their usual attempts to apologize and move on. It’s serious than it’s ever been, since it’s the first time they actually kept the distance, even though it didn’t last as much they’ve agreed on.

Seeing that Lando chose to listen before a single word is spoken, makes her chest tighten with a cautious kind of hope. Because of that, maybe, beneath all the damage and missteps, they still know how to meet each other halfway when it actually matters. Which is good news and danger zone in one.

He’s dressed accordingly, too: dark trousers, clean sneakers, and a coat pulled close against the cold, with its collar turned up to shield his neck from the bite of the night air. He leans against the edge of the curb, hands shoved into his pockets, breath fogging a little when he exhales. Once he notices her, Lando straightens and nods, then pushes off from where he’s standing, circling the front of the car instead of cutting close.

Opening the passenger door to slide in, he lets a quiet ‘hey’ slipping through his lips.

“Hey,” she copies his tone. “All good?”

Lando nods again. “Yeah, let’s go.”

A few minutes later, Monaco slides past in blurred reflections and the occasional flash of the darkened sea. Inside the car, the heater is turned on minimum, yet the space between them stays as cold as the winter air. Her hands move smoothly on the wheel, precise without being tense, even when another car noses in too close, or a horn snaps too loudly behind them. She has industrial quantities of patience when she drives, which forces Lando to bite his tongue at the thought because it’s true, and because she’d never let him live it down: she is, in fact, a better street driver than he is.

Where Lando gets restless when someone cuts him off, she stays composed, and when adrenaline needles under his skin, she remains calm. She’s everything he isn’t behind the wheel in places like this, yet somehow that doesn’t bruise his ego. It makes him smile, instead. There’s something very particular about the way she owns it, confident enough to be loud and proud without ever needing to prove herself, and he realizes he’s always trusted her most when her hands are right there, steering them both forward.

Both literally and metaphorically.

“You look good,” he says, searching to break the heavy silence.

The girl doesn’t look at him, but still has to point out his failed attempt, “I’m in sweats three times my size.”

The conversation dies where it stands and, luckily, Lando gets the hint. He presses his lips in a thin line, turning his head toward the window on his side with a sigh. If he had the slightest idea where the night was heading at before he got in the car, now he has no clue. She’s colder than he expected and suddenly, the memory of what he’d done hits him with embarrassing clarity: trying to win by playing games won’t work when the other person chooses not to play. Simple as that.

He ends up resting his chin in his palm, elbow braced against the door, pretending he is interested in the succession of images that passes them. Soon, his fingers tap a few times before he starts fidgeting, absently brushing the edge of the console, or tracing the seam of the leather in order to anchor himself in the texture of the car instead of the rejection.

He clears his throat on the verge of exasperation, looking back at her. “So, how are you?”

“Small talk? You wanna do that?”

“I’m trying, alright,” says Lando with a hint of frustration finally cracking through.

“What? To be civil?” she signals, turning onto a quieter street.

He frowns. “To be with you.”

Her grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles paling before she forces them to relax. “We’re way past that, don’t you think?”

“I don’t,” thunders Lando. “I’m here, with you. And I assume you’re here with me because, at least on some extent, we still want the same thing.”

She lets his words get cozy in the space between them, turning the affirmation over on each possible and impossible side in the private chambers of her mind. Of course, Lando is not completely wrong. She came for the same exact reason: she wants the version of them that feels like home instead of a sudden crash. Or at least some version that doesn’t feel like a civil war. But wanting that home and wanting him has always come with a cost she can’t quite approximate.

Most of the times, Lando doesn’t even have to try. He’s just existing and then, out of nowhere, she finds herself bending her own rules and rewriting them in order to accommodate him. Perhaps he’s not even aware of how strong his gravitational pull is, but whether he means it or not, he still takes advantage of it. In that case, how can one balance love against self-preservation? How can she separate genuine effort from the familiar rhythm of him saying exactly what she needs to hear?

Naturally, their scale can’t and won’t simply settle. It keeps tipping toward him, then away, until she doesn’t know which side is instinct and which is self-sabotage.

Impatient, Lando shifts in his seat, knee bouncing before he stills it with his hand. He hates how confined it feels, how close she is and how unreachable at the same time. Driving would’ve helped him right now, giving him a sense of control. She knew that and decided to strip him down of it.

Smart girl, he thinks, biting on the inside of his cheek.

She notices his quiet inability to settle and, deep down, she wishes she could reach out and reassure him that eventually, things will clear up. Maybe not right now, but sometime in the near future, when the fog lifts and they won’t be as blinded by resentment as they are now.

Her eyes sparkle the moment she glances at him briefly, then back at the road. “Did she see the photos?”

One of Lando’s eyebrows arches. “What?”

“Your ex,” she clarifies, “Did she see you getting papped in it?”

“Yeah,” he replies after a quick pause, fingers flexing against his thigh.

Lando can’t help but glance at her profile and watch how her jaw sets a bit harder. He’s not really sure if it’s jealousy since she already told him last night that she’s mostly furious. At him or at the situation, at him and at the situation, at him only — just some options he’s considered. However, he also can’t ignore the way her lips press together as she nods once, like she’s already made a scenario about it in her head. One that he knows it’s going to be hard to fight with.

“So, she reached out,” the girl concludes right away, understanding that it’s the only way Lando would know in the first place.

“Yeah,” he repeats.

“What did she say? Bet she had a good laugh.”

He scoffs, leaning back against the headrest, his eyes tracing the line of her neck, where a stray strand of hair has escaped her ponytail. He can definitely sense the undercurrent here and the subtle way she’s testing the waters without diving in, but he won’t give her the chance to steer the conversation in that direction.

Shaking his head, Lando turns his gaze out the window to the blurring coastline. “Dunno, I deleted the text before looking at it.”

Her tone is horrifyingly clinical next time she asks, “Why?”

“What do you mean? Because it doesn’t matter, that’s why.”

The girl studies him for a fraction longer than she wants to, then focuses back at the road. Her foot eases off the accelerator as they ascend higher, the path narrowing.

“But it does, since you wore it to get a reaction. Now you’ve got my attention, hers, and to top it nicely, the internet is having a field day with it as well,” she explains, sarcasm creeping in. “At our expense, may I add. Which is always so, so fun.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” he corrects it at last. “You know I don’t give two fucks about what anyone says. You matter and that’s about it.”

She squints at the rearview mirror, then continues driving, keeping another sarcastic comment she’s prepared for herself. The road curves gently upward, climbing toward the hills that overlook the Mediterranean.

“But it’s a bit weird, isn’t it? How people can instantly pick on your breadcrumbs,” the girl continues contemplatively, after biting her tongue for too long.

His expression softens even though there’s still a spark of frustration in his eyes. “It’s none of our business. I think it’s clear where I stand, and you’re smart enough to see it.”

“Well, I think it’s just the fact that I know you too well, Lando,” she affirms, accelerating before slowing again. “Besides, it doesn’t take a genius to see how incredibly stupid you were, either. And if you wanna do that, don’t involve me.”

Without a second thought, “You make me that way,” says Lando.

She veers onto a forgotten access path next, the gravel crunching under the tires as the car jostles over uneven terrain. The engine cuts off immediately after she parks. Below, the dark waters churn against jagged rocks, white foam flashing intermittently under the moon’s pale gaze, while far in the distance, the principality’s lights twinkle like a constellation brought too close to earth.

Impatient with anger, she unbuckles her seatbelt then pivots to face him fully. “Can you own your mistakes for once? Why is it always someone else’s fault? Why do you have to deflect responsibility like it’s a reflex?”

Lando’s body jerks back against the door, her questions landing like an invisible blast wave. “That’s not…” he stammers, hand rising in a placating gesture that falters midway. “I do own it,” he continues, the same anger transferring to him. “You just don’t believe me when I do.”

The girl scoffs theatrically. “Because it always comes with a justification. You don’t want the middle ground, Lan. You just want to be right all the time. And you’re not.”

The restrained frustration simmers in the set of his jaw and the way his hand grips the door handle like he’s plotting an escape. It would be so much easier to leave right now than trying to make sense of any of this. But the thought doesn’t really hold. He already knows what waits on the other side of that choice: an empty apartment he’s already sick of, silent mornings and meaningless nights out.

Although his fingers don’t turn the handle, lingering there between impulse and hope, their grip is still strong.

“No, you just expect me to get it right immediately. What I don’t understand is how the fuck am I supposed to do that if you won’t even talk to me. These couple of weeks without you…” at last, the same hand drops to his lap, body easing back into the seat with a subtle retreat. “It got to a point where I had to distract myself just so I wouldn’t… lose it.”

He doesn’t say the word cry, but the way Lando’s voice thins towards the last sentence says enough for her to mirror his stance instinctively, gaze drifting to the dashboard.

The fragile silence after brings with it a kind of emotional exhaustion that settles over them both. A bone-deep weariness that tames the nerves, making a bit more room for acceptance. Honesty. Or resignation, they still can’t figure out which is which yet.

When she speaks again, it sounds like hope dipped in disappointment. “You need to stop with the childish behavior.”

“You need to stop pushing me away when things get tough,” he counters.

The need in question is not even a need. A break concluding with a breakup would spare them the cycles and the exhaustion of always finding each other, over and over again. They don’t need to go through any of it at this stage. Maybe the best version of their story is the one where they finish the chapter here and close the book before it gives them paper cuts. And yet neither of them moves toward that abrupt ending. There is no reaching for THE ENDs or periods, only commas, where no final decision rests on the tip of a sentence.

That’s why, despite the heaviness, their mutual refusal becomes its own kind of answer.

“You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

Lando shrugs. “And you’re not exactly flexible either.”

“I don’t like how you always leave your shoes scattered by the door,” she continues, completely off-topic. “It trips me up in the morning.”

Staring out the windshield, Lando shoots back, “I don’t like how you fold the fucking towels.”

A faint curve touches the corners of her mouth, then she adds, “I hate that you check your phone during meals.”

Lando shifts again, his shoulder brushing the door. Their voices are flat, like they’re cataloging facts rather than flaws. And for some reason, it works this time.

“I don’t like how you hoard those travel mugs, filling the cabinets until there’s no room for anything else. And I don’t appreciate you stealing the blankets at night.”

The confessions flow gently back and forth; a simple stream of unvarnished truths spilling into the space they share, each one landing without accusation.

The girl turns her head a little, but her eyes remain fixated out at the olive trees bending in the breeze. “Don’t bring my mugs into this. I started collecting them after you made me coffee for the first time. I love how you make coffee,” she says honestly, certain that if she closes her eyes, she can taste the bitterness of it on her tongue.

His eyes drift to the curve of her cheek in the shadows. “I love that you get so excited about it.”

“Mhm,” the girl hums, “It’s mostly because I like watching your hands… doing stuff,” she says, mentally slapping herself at the admission.

Displaying a shy yet knowing smile, Lando extends his hand into the space between the seats with his palm up, waiting. She catches the movement in the corner of her eye and, even though she still avoids looking at him, her own hand moves to settle on top of his. His long fingers curl around hers, enveloping them in a warm grip.

“I love how you challenge me. You push me to be better,” says Lando, his thumb begining to ghost-brush the back of her hand. “I want to be that,” he admits. “For you.”

His statement manages to silently alter the storm inside her, and the scale that wobbles between two sides, eventually tilts a little more in one direction this time around. It doesn’t stabilize right away, but that’s because it’s too early. She’s not so naive to believe that a single confession, no matter how sincere, could repair everything they destroyed together. But it’s moving, and that motion matters. The burning desire to become a better person, even if the initial impulse is someone else, has always meant more than people realize.

For her, it means that Lando has look inward long enough to notice his own flaws. At the same time, it means that he acknowledged that change is necessary and, for now, she is satisfied with that; the reason may start with her, but it won’t remain limited there. In time, it’ll spread to the rest of him, from how he manages anger to how he treats himself when no one is watching. That is why, in her mind, there is no truly negative outcome in a promise like this, even though at first glance it seems absurd. Ultimately, if he becomes better, the world around him will follow, regardless of whether they survive it or not.

After what feels like an eternity, she finally turns to look at him. “Lando…”

“I mean it,” he talks so low that she can barely hear him. “As long as we both try.”

“What does trying again even look like?” she asks, fear mixing with the uncertainty behind her words.

“Right now,” replies Lando thoughtfully, “It looks like dinner. I’m starving.”

“PUT THAT AWAY,” Lando’s voice is raspy with sleep once the repetitive tapping on the screen is slowly pulling him back. “Five more minutes, yeah?” he doesn’t fully opens his eyes, just tilts his head enough to press his face further into her shoulder.

The morning rays filter through the half-drawn curtains in his living room, bringing light to the quiet mess they’ve done last night while watching a ‘quick movie’ before she was supposed to leave: two nearly empty water bottles on the coffee table next to some barely touched snacks, coats resting on the back of a chair, and a blanket half-slipped onto the floor where it couldn’t quite contain them.

She didn’t drink, so she remembers driving him home and agreeing they both deserved a couple of hours to switch off. Now, they’re tangled together, unplanned yet still intentional, Lando’s arm draped heavy across her waist, with one leg hooked loosely over hers ever since he found her in his sleep and decided not to let go. It aches a little, the way she doesn’t want to disturb him nor the heat they make in the space they share, which means she ends up closing the link to the article her friend sent her earlier, then puts the phone away.

“We have to get up, though,” she huffs a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh when she tries but fails to push him off.

Lando groans in protest, burying his hand underneath her lower back, tightening the embrace there. “No, we really don’t.”

“Landooo,” she insists, “Yes, we do. Come on, get up,” her free hand hovers for a moment before settling against his arm, absentmindedly tracing along the sleeve of his shirt, right where the tanned skin of his bicep meets the soft material.

Time itself freezes and stays like that, suspended somewhere between sleep and waking, between what they were yesterday and whatever they’re supposed to be today. She’s convinced that the human touch is healing, because the weight of him on her and his light breathing tickling her neck is able to neutralize every bad thought she’s ever had. Suddenly, everything is worth fighting for, no mistake is big enough to walk away, and there is nowhere they can go from here but up. High enough that no bad thing will ever happen to them again.

Finally cracking his eyes open, Lando shifts to glance up at her. His hair is a mess of soft curls that frames his sleepy face, and despite the calmness in her body, she can’t help the way her pulse jumps in her veins.

“Five,” he repeats, as if he’s meeting her halfway with some sort of compromise.

The girl looks back at him, at the way he’s wrapped around her like letting go isn’t an option he’s considered yet. She wants to argue, but since this might be it, she allows herself to pretend for a little while.

“When are you leaving?” she whispers a few minutes later, cautious, in case he fell back asleep.

Lando inhales deeply, feeling like he’s waking up in stages. “Next week,” he mumbles, pausing for a breath before adding, “Gotta go back to MTC first. Thursday, I think.” He tilts his head to look at her properly, blinking away the last of his sleep. “Why?”

She can’t answer right away, even though it sits at the edge of her tongue. If they’re going to fix anything, they need time. Real, physical, actual time together. Not texting sessions, late nights, or stollen hours between his meetings. In order for something to work, they need to be purposeful about it. Yet he’s already halfway gone again.

“No reason,” she finally replies, one of her hands getting lost into his curls, tucking it away from his eyes.

He studies her for a second. It comes out light and it’s hard for Lando to believe she can sound so careless about it, especially when she touches him the way she does. He knows there’s more she’s not saying, but he can’t push yet. Instead, he moves closer, resting his forehead on her shoulder.

“Did we even finish the movie?” he changes the subject for her sake, the inquiry coming out like a light bulb moment.

“Don’t think so,” she admits, “Last thing I remember is Mia and Sebastian pretending it won’t all fall apart at the jazz club.”

“What jazz club?” asks Lando, managing to steal a small chuckle from her, the sound traveling straight to the deepest parts of his soul.

She sighs in fake disappointment. “Lando…”

“Look, I’ll drive you home, if you want,” he continues gently, “Or we could just have breakfast here and finish what we started.”

It’s the way he says it that makes her lungs scream in agony because of how long she’s holding her breath after that. Feels like the choice he’s offering has nothing to do with the movie at all, but it’s not accompanied by the pressure to agree.

He’s simply making space for her and, for once, she doesn’t overthink it when he asks if she’s staying.

“Yeah,” she nods, letting the air out, “I’m staying.”

LANDO BLINKS AND it’s somehow the night before he has to leave. They didn’t speak after he dropped her off, days ago, and now there’s an open suitcase on the bed with all his clothes, some half-folded, most half-abandoned. He sits right next to it, on the edge of the mattress, pressing the screen of his phone to his forehead as if it can make him think faster. Better. Come up with solutions that stick.

The messages sit there on delivered for a minute, then five. Five turns to ten, ten to twenty.

Being the one left in the in-between can be frustrating, especially waiting for a decision that isn’t completely his to make. He didn’t have high expectations to begin with, but he’s held on to the belief that she’ll have an answer by now. Worst thing is that he knows he can’t blame her for the silence, because he’s aware of how complicated this is. How easily they can slip from something good into something that hurts.

Still, it leaves him with a couple of WHAT IFs.

There is no clear moment that points to where hope disappears, it just feels like it’s slowly dimming, like an engine finally running out of fuel. It’s not like Lando can simply decide to let go, but the space where he’d imagined her starts to feel emptier with every passing minute, until he’s left with the uncomfortable realization that maybe now is not their turn. But even though the biggest part of him agrees that the timing has never quite aligned for them, accepting that now isnt’t their time doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Lando watches a series of bubbles appearing and disappearing in front of his eyes, over and over, toying with his patience. Each time it shows up, his chest grows stiff; each time it vanishes, another wave of frustration washes over him. The lack of control sends him reeling, caught between please! and fuck it!

His jaw sets harder, frustration rising fast enough to turn into anger and, for a weak moment, he’s ready to throw the phone across the room. Until it buzzes in his hand, causing his heart to skip a beat, then drop straight to his stomach.

Their eyes lock immediately once the door is yanked open. His are wild, filled with disbelief and hungry, hers flicker with nerves. Three heartbeats pass in the space that separates them, until Lando’s hands shoot out to close the gap, fingers curling firmly around her waist. It doesn’t matter what else they might have to say in the moment, words are redundant now. He pulls her inside with an ease that speaks to how effortlessly he can handle her small frame against his lean one. Then the same door slams shut behind her, Lando’s mouth crashing into hers, desperate, with no time to test the waters.

It’s a kiss he’s put on hold ever since they woke up together on his couch, last week, messy in the way their lips slide together. Feels as though it’s the last time they’ll get to do it, and they both know it. She tastes like candy, making him groan into her mouth as soon as he remembers the sweet drops she chews whenever she feels anxious. His grasp almost leaves her breathless, combined with the way his mouth moves in sync with hers, thumbs pressing into the soft give of her hips to keep her in place.

Her entire body ignites under his hands, heat spreading like wildfire to the inside of her thighs, making her knees weaken and her skin prickle with goosebumps. She wasn’t ready to discover just how much her body had longed for his touch, and now she’s paying the price by revealing to Lando just how bad she needs him to claim her again. It’s like every nerve ending starts singing, her breasts heaving against his chest with labored breaths, nipples hardening beneath her shirt from the friction alone. She responds with the same urgency, her fingers fisting in his messy curls, tugging him closer until there’s no room left betweent them, not even for a speck of dust.

Saliva slicks their lips, a strand of it breaking when the girl pulls back to gasp for air, only for Lando to dive back in the next second, sucking on her lower lip hard enough to make her moan in protest. However, her legs part instinctively at the way he presses his hips forward, the hard line of his cock already straining against his sweatpants, grinding into her core through her jeans.

It gets overwhelming when he reaches this state, manhandling her like she’s weightless, his arms lifting her slightly off the ground to align their bodies better, her back arching on the door behind as a result. He sighs loudly when she presses back into him, sound that sends pure need between her legs. Like in a chain reaction, a rush of wetness soaks her panties, her clit throbbing in time with the pulse pounding in her ears.

Everything happens so fast, so she barely has time to snake her legs around his waist, locking her ankles at the small of his back without breaking the kiss. Lando stumbles forward a step, then another, his hands sliding down to cup her ass, fingers digging into the flesh there as he kneads it possessively. The shift makes his erection rub directly on her, sparks flying out of a body that’s undulating against his, itching to feel more of it.

Halfway to his room, Lando remembers the suitcase sprawled open on the bed with his clothes scattered everywhere. He breathes her in, a muffled nuh-uh coming from the back of his throat, then veers into the living room instead, lowering her feet to the floor but keeping her close.

“Fuck, wait,” he speaks over her lips, breathless; his hands are already working at her shoes, crouching slightly to tug off one, then the other.

She smiles, kicking them aside, her own hands yanking at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head in the shortest time, like she’s racing against the clock. His skin is burning, the defined lines of his abs flexing under her soft palms the second she starts tracing them all over, greedily.

“What are we doing?” she exhales heavily, inebriated by the assault of his mouth, the words tumbling out just for the sake of it and not because she’s interested in the answer.

Feeling her nails scraping lightly down his chest, Lando straightens with a small whimper. “You know what we’re doing,” he looks at her long enough to make a point, then immediately drops to his knees before her. “Do you wanna stop?” the question comes out in a low voice as his hands slide up her calves, thumbs pressing into the spot behind her knees.

Fixing her gaze on the way he unzips her jeans, the girl simply shakes her head. Lando’s is more wicked and it stops at the damp spot on her panties, peeling the denim down her legs. She steps out of them trembling at the anticipation, every square inch of her skin hypersensitive to his contact. His mouth follows the path, lips brushing her inner thigh until she brings him higher by threading her fingers through his curls a second time.

He takes his time though, hooking his fingers into her panties and dragging them to expose her slick folds to the cool air. The scent of her arousal hits him like a memory, sending his senses into overdrive next time he inhales sharply, his cock twitching in his sweatpants. It’s like a switch flipped in his brain. There’s no thought or logic behind it anymore, and although he’s aware of how it conditioned him over time, what follows is simply a knee-jerk reaction: his shoulders tense, pulse kicks up in his arteries, then he’s hit low in the stomach with an undeniable surge of want.

Rising, Lando sheds the useless fabric in a rush, his erection springing free with impatience, involuntarily putting on a show for her. It’s only fair she reaches for him without thinking twice, wrapping her hand around his length to stroke firmly from base to head, eliciting a weak whine from his chest.

“Holy shit,” his whine ends in a chuckle, “Your hands are so cold,” says Lando, capturing her wrists gently, guiding her hands to her own shirt instead. “Off, please.”

She can’t help but let a laugh escape through her lips but still complies, stripping it over her head, her bra following as her breasts spill free, begging for attention. “Sorry, I walked here.”

“No, you didn’t,” he insists, not past the disbelief that she’s here yet.

“Yes. I went out for a walk to think, and the next thing I knew, I was here,” the girl explains before they collide again, skin to scorching skin.

His mouth latches onto one nipple, sucking hard while his hand kneads the other. Her head tips back to give him space, a tamed sob announcing the exact moment when pleasure arrows straight to her core, her pussy suddenly aching to be filled. In order to stay strong up against his gentle attack, her hands open wide to cover as much of his broad back as possible, urging him on by squeezing his shoulders.

Lando lowers her slowly, but misses the couch, their bodies sinking together down onto the soft rug on the floor, her back hitting the plush surface with a whoosh of breath. He’s all over her in an instant, caging her with his arms, his cock nudging earnestly at her entrance. Every point where they connect catches on fire, but the burn doesn’t hurt; instead, it envelops them in a protective dome, their own world, as it spreads.

“Look at me?” he’s close to whispering, locking his eyes in an intense, soul-baring way that makes her heart grow ten times in size. “I’m always going to need you like this,” admits Lando, making sure she follows. “Together or not.”

She nods, circling her legs around him, digging her heels into his ass to pull him closer.

“Anything else?” she challenges him.

Lando’s jaw clenches before positioning himself, eyes never leaving hers. “I need you to work with me here.” When one of her eyebrows arches, he adds, “Grind down until your thighs shake, yeah? I’ll do the rest.”

Her whiny voice almost breaks him, and Lando takes it as a cue to thrust in gently but deep, burying himself entirely inside her tight heat. The girl cries out at the initial stretch, her walls adjusting rather fast to his thickness. He stills there to give her time to relax around him, both of them panting at the blissful sensation. Then he moves, pulling back only to slam forward again, closely studying her face in order to figure out how to build the perfect rhythm.

Because she’s so wet, that’s not even an issue. She’s so ready to take him after their weeks apart, that each movement sends lewd sounds echoing in the living room, blending in unison with their heavy breathing. Her hands grow restless, one sliding down to cup the taut muscle of his ass and pressing into the flexing flesh as he drives deeper. The other caresses his back, pulling him closer and closer, until his chest brushes her nipples, the contact sending fresh jolts through her.

“You look so desperate for it already,” he reads her at the same time he pulls back for another thrust, aiming deeper so the head of his cock nudges that spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids. “If you needed dick that badly, you could have just told me.”

His left hand braces beside her head, but the right slips between them, fingers splaying her folds wider, holding her open in order to watch himself dissapear into her heat. The sight alone makes him throb harder, impossibly thicker, like his body refuses to soften even for a second in her embrace.

“I almost did,” she confesses, “But then you decided to be a stupid idiot,” her vision darkens at the edges like a vignette effect at the feeling of him splitting her open, leaving but returning with more drive every time.

“I know, baby,” says Lando, watching her facial expressions change with each of his thrusts. “I’m so. Fucking. Sorry.”

She can’t process his words right now, not when the most euphoric wave sweeps over her senses: the stretch of him, sweet yet too much at times; the sounds he makes, mostly guttural, followed by jerky grunts whenever she squeezes him just right; the way he looks on top, heavy, rocking into her with gritted teeth and tensed muscles.

Her breasts bounce every time he grinds, swaying in a rhythm that catches Lando’s eye mid-motion. He lets another groan out through his parted lips, transfixed, focusing on how they shift with each snap of his hips, drawing him in like a magnet.

“Fuckin’ look at you, baby,” he breathes, speeding up only to chase the hypnotic jiggle of her chest, his pace turning more insistent. “So fucking hot.”

He’s careful to build the pressure thrust after thrust, one measured push that bottoms out, grinding his pelvis against her clit before retreating, then plunging back in with a wet smack. Her body dances with his on the rug beneath them, the coarse fibers catching on her skin, leaving behind a subtle burn that heightens everything.

“Lando,” she swiftly grabs at his bicep to catch his attention, making the muscles tense and release.

“Yeah, love. What d’you need?

Hardly managing, she replies between moans that rattle in her throat, “Need to come, I’m so close.”

“Mhm, I can feel it,” Lando assures her, “You’re doing so well for me.”

“Lando…” the girl chokes out his name once more, her hips lifting to meet his.

He understands her desperation, adjusting the angle by a fraction of a millimeter and driving the next thrust upwards. Hearing her whines, his free hand immediately joins the fray between her thighs, fingers rubbing in successive strokes, from firm swirls that match his pace to faster flicks that has her clenching harder around him.

She is lost in it by now, mind emptying to white noise and the relentless pleasure of him filling her over and over. Lando feels it too, as if every time he dives back inside her, his cock gets harder with veins pulsing against her inner walls. One particularly deep plunge has her crying out, his tip pressing so far inside that it steals her breath. But he pulls out abruptly, right before she’s ready to let go, both of them panting at the instant stop.

“Fuck, no!” she hisses, legs going limp around him; she watches him resting his cock on the heated skin of her thigh, slick with her arousal and twitching as he looks back at her flushed face with a grin. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

“Just making sure you cum before I do,” says Lando, sliding two fingers into her without warning, curling them from the first push.

She bucks, her inner walls rippling and squeezing his digits with increasing frevor. It doesn’t take much for her to start convulsing in powerful spasms around his fingers, sucking them in as her release gushes out in rhythmic pulses. He pumps faster for a few more seconds, thumb playing with her swollen clit, the dual assault sending her straight into flow state.

“Oh my god,” she rises to chase his touch in that exact moment, but Lando withdraws his fingers then, replacing them with the blunt head, the thickness difference landing her back on the ground. He teases her hole for a heartbeat, then thrusts back in, timed perfectly with her clench, her greediness pulling at him deep until he’s seated fully again. “You’re so fucking big.”

Lando’s grin widens, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck. “You can take it alright,” he leans in to kiss her jaw, earlobe, anywhere his lips can reach, thrusts turning erratic now. “That’s it. Get your favorite thing,” his voice is strained with lust, long fingers resuming their work on her clit, faster this time around.

Only thing she can still pronounce is his name on repeat, like a chant that fuels Lando. She doesn’t have time to come down when a second orgasm crashes over her, causing her body to go completely limp beneath him due to exhaustion. Her pussy clenches around his length, fluttering contractions drawing him deeper into her heat. In response, his cock swells thicker inside as he fucks her harder through it, hips snapping forward with much more force than before. For a quick second, it feels even punishing, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing louder, his balls tightening as he chases his own peak.

With that, Lando can’t keep his mouth shut anymore; the words spill from his lips in a breathy torrent, accompanied by moans that match his pounding:

“Just like that, fuck, you’re so good for me. Squeezing me so fucking tight,” his praises mix with whimpers from both sides, each one punched out on a thrust. “Ah, yeah, just… just like that,” he repeats, the hand on her clit finally abandoning its assault to brace against the floor, right next to her head.

Caging her there gives Lando leverage to grind deeper, his cock battering that sweet spot until her limp form jolts with aftershocks. Her back slides another few inches across the rug, the friction now a delicious sting that keeps her in the present moment. Though weakened, her arms manage to cling to him, hands trailing feebly up his sweat-slicked back.

“That’s good, baby. Can you hold on like that?”

She answers by nodding with a smile, then his pace changes again, thrusts shortening and sharper, the coil in his gut snapping as he cums with a guttural moan that buzzes through his chest. He paints her walls white but keeps moving, pulling out just on one backstroke for a dribble of their mixed release to leak onto the floor, a pearly strand connecting them before he slams back in, fucking it deeper.

He repeats it again and again, then once more, the obscene squelch of it driving him on.

“That’s fucking it,” he pants, shaky voice breaking on another moan, his cock jerking until he’s emptied himself completely. “Mine.”

Finally spent, Lando sighs, wrapping one hand around the base of his softening cock and pulls out slowly only to watch her face when she clenches in protest, reluctant to let him go. The drag is so sweet, her muscles rippling along his thickness, drawing out a shared hiss of overstimulation. As the head pops free with a wet sound that either of them barely register, he smears it along her lips, coating the puffy, glistening folds, the mess slicking her clit and thighs in shiny trails.

Without a word, he rests it then right between her folds, the warmth of her inner skin cradling him as he collapses fully on top of her. She’s boneless beneath him, eyes closing in blissful exhaustion. Lando notices her sudden silence and dips his head to capture her lips in a tender kiss before she can react, his tongue slipping in to taste her, bringing her back to him. The girl catches up quickly, her mouth moving sluggishly against his.

Neither moves for what feels like ages, bodies cooling on the floor of his living room with heartbeats gradually slowing, syncing to a calm lub-dub.

In the quiet that grows around them, Lando shifts first, propping himself up on one elbow to reach for the tissue box on the nearby coffee table. He cleans her gently, wiping away the sticky trails from her thighs and folds with careful strokes, then himself. She watches him through half-lidded eyes, still too spent to do more than sigh softly at his careful touch. She lets him dress her next, following how his hands slide his loose sweatpants up her legs. He tugs them over her hips, pulling at the strings around the waist to make them fit better.

Leaning down, Lando presses one more kiss to her cheek, lingering there with a nuzzle, his freshly shaved face gliding smoothly against her flushed skin.

“Be right back,” he informs her, standing on shaky legs to grab a clean pair of boxers; he heads to the bathroom next, the sound of the toilet flushing the used tissues following soon after, water running briefly as he washes his hands.

Left alone, she breathes out the last pulses of euphoria, her body humming with residual warmth, pussy still tingling from the thorough fucking. With effort, she pushes herself up, knees wobbling from the fact that she pretty much forces herself to bend down and collect their scattered clothes. Bundling them in her arms, the girl pads barefoot toward his bedroom but stops in the doorway, taking in the chaotic space. It’s the clutter she notices at first but, soon enough, her gaze snags on a flash of a familiar playful logo peeking from a cardboard box labeled ‘DONATIONS’ in sharpie.

A small smile curves at her lips, warming her already heated chest amid the post-orgasm glow.

She still smiles when Lando finds her standing there. Without asking for permission, he wraps his arms around her from behind cupping her breasts possessively to pull her back against his bare chest.

“You smiling at my mess, eh?” he teases, one hand lingering on her breast as the other wraps around her waist.

She leans into his embrace like second nature. “I’ll help you clean.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2026

[thrillformulas]

𝗟𝗘𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗡 𝗔𝗧 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗨𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗧

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒: We’re NOT paying for all this.

𝐌𝐀𝐗: You ordered 42 coffees??

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒: No, I ordered 4 tea 2 coffees.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒, looking back at the waiter: We’re not paying for all this ｡◠‿◠｡

[thrillformulas]

𝐌𝐀𝐗: Noise cancelling headphones aren’t enough. I need everyone to shut the fuck up and die.

𝐌𝐀𝐗, pointing at Charles: He, of course, is the only exception.

[jwaykhey]

he's brighter than the sun itself

[verstarquez]

⎯ε✿з ݁ㅤׅ⠀charles leclerc and max verstappen

media day press conference ★ monaco gp 2019 (edit)