crzy

21+ •Avatar •Formula 1

[itscrzy]

Sooo, i was playing AFOP just now, when i go thru hometree i ALWAYS stop to find Eetu. He’s usually on the ikran landing or in the sleeping den on the 2nd level and rarely have i seen him go down to the first level of hometree where the hearth is.

I cannot explain how hard i laughed when i entered the sleeping den and found him laying on the ground. Hes not even sleeping, he’s literally just laying there going thru it

[the-spicy-sugar]

𝔹𝕒𝕓𝕪 𝔹𝕝𝕦𝕖𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

MV1 / DR3 / LN4 x Reader

Masterlist

Baby Blues Playlist

Summary: It comes to light that Max has been cheating on his wife with Kelly Piquet when an Instagram pregnancy announcement goes viral, shocking Max who’d expected his affair to remain secret. Baby Blues follows the couple through finding out about Max’s infidelity to new romance blooming.

𝕋𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕘𝕖𝕣 𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤:

ᴍɪꜱᴄᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜᴏᴜᴛ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ 18+ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ꜱᴏ ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅɴɪ, ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴠᴇ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ᴜɴᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ, ᴏɴɢᴏɪɴɢ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ

Timeline of Events (non-compulsory read, may not be correct as of new posts, updates every few posts!)

❤️‍🔥 smut

💔 hurt/angst

📸 smau

𝔸𝕔𝕥 𝟙

ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1] - Max knows that his relationship is coming to an end and just wants one final night to be with the love of his life before coming clean.

ᴋɪꜱꜱᴇꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʟᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴠᴀɪɴ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2] - Max doesn’t want to give you another reason to hate him and doesn’t think he’s to blame.

ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴜᴘ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 3] - One final night of passion before Max’s world stops turning. ❤️‍🔥

ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 4] - The truth about Max’s infidelity finally comes to light, resulting in confrontation.

ᴛʜᴇ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴜꜱ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 5] - Painful memories resurface when an envelope with Max’s handwriting appears. 💔

𝔸𝕔𝕥 𝟚

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 6] - A week in Japan is enough to recharge, some kind words from a mother help to bring things into perspective.

ᴛᴜʀʙᴜʟᴇɴᴄᴇ [ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇ] - A run in on the plane with some fans who have a lot to say about Max and Kelly.

ᴀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 7] - A fresh start and a friendsmas Christmas party offers new romance to the story.

ᴀ ɢʟɪᴍᴘꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴜꜱ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 8] - The beginning of recovery after Max’s betrayal, documented in photos and glimpses. 📸

ᴅʀᴀᴡɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟɪɴᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀɴᴅ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 9] - An unexpected discussion comes about while holidaying with Lando and some other friends.

ꜱᴀʏ ɪᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 10] - The full story of what happened with Daniel at the Friendsmas party comes to light after the confession to Lando. ❤️‍🔥

ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ʟɪꜰᴇ ɢᴏᴇꜱ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 11] - Telling Daniel the news turns into a heart to heart about what was lost.

ᴀɴ ᴏʟᴅ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 12] - Max sees Daniel with his ex when he’s in the car with Penelope and Kelly and can’t help but wonder what could be going on.

𝔸𝕔𝕥 𝟛

ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 13] - Max finds out about the pregnancy sooner than he’s meant to (and so does Kelly).

ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴄᴀᴋᴇ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 14] - Max confronts Y/N about the baby after Kelly breaks the news to him about the pregnancy. 💔

ᴘɪᴄᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 15] - It’s finally time for the fans to see a long awaited glimpse of what’s going on in the world of the ex Mrs Verstappen. 📸

ᴛᴡᴏ ꜱɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴄᴏɪɴ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 16] - Max and Daniel find out who the baby’s father is, it would’ve been easier without any unexpected company.

ꜰᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ [ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇ] - A ghost of a little girl appears with questions and a gentle touch.

ᴘᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴀ ꜱʜᴏᴡ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 17] - A bomb is dropped when a Hello Monaco article is posted interviewing Kelly Piquet about her new romance with Max Verstappen.

𝔸𝕔𝕥 𝟜

ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅᴇʀ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 18] - Lando is there to pull away from the noise and the mess of Monaco after Kelly’s magazine interview.

ꜰᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʀ ꜰʟᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 19] - Lando suggests sending a gift of congratulations for the new baby Verstappen’s birth. ❤️‍🔥

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏꜱꜱ [ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇ] - Max receives a phone call after Lily’s birth, filled with hard truths he wasn’t expecting.

ᴡᴀɪᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 20] - It’s pandemonium online when YN goes on a podcast to reveal the truth about the love triangle she was a part of, the internet is rocked. 📸

ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴏᴛʜ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 21] - A soft moment that takes place pre-birth where Lando decides he’d like to be there for Sonny’s birth.

𝔸𝕔𝕥 𝟝

ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ɪꜱ ᴛʜɪᴄᴋᴇʀ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 22] - Lando finally boils over when considering Max’s reaction to Sonny’s birth.

ᴀ ꜰʟᴏʀᴀʟ ᴡᴀʀ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 23 - ɪ] - The world seems to come crashing down with the realisation that something just isn’t right, though nobody could predict what.

ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ʙᴀʙʏ ʙᴏʀɴ ʙʟᴜᴇ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 23 - ɪɪ] - A trip to the hospital leads to a conversation that nobody was expecting as Max steps in to fill Lando’s shoes in his absence.

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴍꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 23 - ɪɪɪ] - After storm prevents Lando from getting to Monaco as soon as he’d like which leads to unexpected insecurity.

ꜱᴇʀᴠɪɴɢ ᴘᴀᴘᴇʀꜱ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 23 - ɪᴠ] - Sonny is finally released from hospital but not everyone feels the joy of the occasion.

ᴀ ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴇʟᴇᴘʜᴀɴᴛ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴏᴍ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 24] - A visit to the Norris household to meet the ‘grandparents’(?) is well overdue for baby Sonny.

ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴxɪᴇᴛʏ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 25] - Lando is hesitant to go back to work, knowing he’ll miss both you and Sonny more than he has before.

ᴄʜᴀᴍᴘɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ [ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇ] - Lando wins the Drivers’ World Championship, 2025.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴɴᴇʀ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 26] - Time passes between the birth of the baby and the season coming to an end, not without some sort of drama. 📸

𝔸𝕔𝕥 𝟞

ᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴇɴɢᴇʀ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 27] - It’s summer break in the 2026 season and Lando is looking forward to a well earned summer break with his favourite people.

[landomain]

NOT-SO-IMAGINARY GIRLFRIEND ✦ lando norris

in which lando protects your peace.

𓃴 · fem ! reader ꨄ lando norris ⌞ ୨୧ ⌝ smau , est relationship , fluff ⌞ ☕️ ⌝ private relationship , loverboy lando , reader is a cat mom ⌞ 🌻 ⌝ warnings. suggestive jokes , parasocial bs , prying fans and media , microaggression ⌞ 🥐 ⌝ bleats. this was originally a fem!oc written fic + smau series, but i dnf'd. one day, i'll have the motivation to write the orginal...maybe. anyway, lmk if you want more from me or if i need to put the pen down — xoxo, doe.

ılıılı Diggin' On You · TLC

liked by maxfewtrell, carlossainz55, and 432,697 others lando tender loving care 💛 view comments

username1 omg when did the kitty start letting lando give her kisses 🥺

lando she's sweet with me as long as i don't bother her when she's cuddled up to her mum username1 the spare human treatment (❤︎ by author)

username2 enjoy the break lando 🧡

username3 lando cooking? lando cooking well 🤯

username4 it's only because his girlfriend is giving him step by step directions

username5 last pic is crazyyy did bro pull up a chair while she was in the bath??? (❤︎ by author)

username6 lando liked! username7 yeah...he liked what he saw in that tub (❤︎ by author)

username8 doesn't he know that she's supposed to be making the sandwiches for him? be a man bro

username9 botcel + lonely + misogynistic username10 only a man would see another man loving HIS GIRL and think it's demasculating

view story replies:

ynpriv it's skill not magic 😅 lando yes, you are very skilled lando but that doesn't mean you're not a magical woman

martingarrix batmans? lando jealous mate 🧐

ynpriv i thought u were putting batman on your keychain but u left him :( lando i left him for you and took yours instead love lando so we could be reminded of eachother when we're apart 😌 ynpriv 😭❤️‍🩹

liked by f1updates, lnfour, oscarsincircles, and 123,766 others fourb0blando this interviewer took it way too far. no other WAG has been questioned like this, and we know why. it was disgusting behavior overall, and should cost him his press pass. it’s very blatant that the media’s issues with lando’s partner are based on racism and the fact that he’s adamant on keeping her identity private. ironically, this only proved that she should stay private. if we never hear lando utter a word about her again, cite this interview as the reason. keep the questions related to racing; not about drivers’ partners and families.

LN: “Max had the better pace today, and he fought hard for it as usual. The Red Bull just has the speed on the parts of the track where we lack, which is the straights.” INT: “…Nothing else?” LN: (He frowns, tilting his head.) “Sorry?” INT: “Excuse me—Were there any other factors that interfered with you finishing 1st today?” LN: (After a beat, he laughs.) “Oh, you mean Oscar? Yeah, he gave me a good challenge for P2 when it was clear that Max was out of reach. Tense for the team probably, but lots of fun for us.” INT: “You wouldn’t say that your not-so-imaginary girlfriend was a distraction this weekend?” LN: (He stares.) “…What?” INT: “Your girlfriend—with the mess she caused you on social media this past week? And how she made you insult one of your own fans to defend her, a woman that we don’t even know the name of. You wouldn’t say she’s a distraction?” LN: (A long pause. He answers sharply.) “No. I wouldn’t. And, she didn’t make me do anything; I chose to defend my girlfriend from a disrespectful comment. Move on, or I’ll do it again.” INT: “Okay, but, is having such a…unique girlfriend what’s best for you at this time? I can’t imagine she’s the best choice in a woman you could have at your side when you have the potential to win your first cham—“ LN: (Glaring, he interrupts firmly.) “That’s enough. ‘Unique girlfriend?’ Are you mad? What made you so bold to think that you could say that about my partner, about anyone for that matter—and say something like that on live TV too? Don’t attempt to disguise your racism as concern about my capability to win. I’ve won all of my races with her support, and I’ll win this championship with her support too. We’re done here.”

view comments

username11 it's so embarrasing to be a fan of this sport as a black woman 🫩

username12 it's hard to be a fan of f1 as any minority fr

username13 "move on, or i'll do it again" + "we're done here" and my clothes are on the floor???

user14 lando overreacted imo i don't think the interviewer was being racist 🤷‍♀️

user15 are you a woman of color? user14 no user15 that's what i fucking thought.

user16 my cousin works as a cameraman for sky f1 and told me that the mclaren legal were just spotted walking to the media center 😬

fourb0blando god i hope he's booted!!

liked by lewishamilton, oscarpiastri, and 900,874 others lando home is with my belle 💛 comments for this post are turned off.

liked by hammert1me, mctwinks, landomain, and 142,916 others f1updates oops 😅 we jumped the start! belle is not ❌ the name of lando norris’ girlfriend. lando cleared up the confusion in today’s post-race podium interview.

INT: “Firstly, Lando, new face here for Motorsport Network. On behalf of my team back at home, I’d like to express a sincere apology for the conduct of our previous journalist. We’d appreciate it if you would extend our apologies to Belle, and let her know we don’t align ourselves with those sort of beliefs.” LN: “I appreciate the in-person apology. It’s nice to know that he was properly handled and removed from the press pen, but—,” (His tone is hesitant.) “—Sorry, who’s Belle?” MV + OP: (Laughing.) LN: (He pulls a face, confused.) “What? Have I missed something?” MV: “Yes, mate. Belle. You know Belle.” LN: (He appears perplexed.) “Mate, I think I’d remember someone named Belle if I knew her.” OP: (He shakes his head, smiling). “Lando’s not been on socials. They mean your girlfriend. After the ‘name reveal.’” LN + MV + OP: (They laugh. The press are quietly confused.) LN: “Sorry—,” (He’s grinning as he fixes his hat.) “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’ve not opened any social media for like, a couple months. ‘Belle’ is not my partner’s name.” INT: “Oh. Uh. Well. The, uh, caption on your most recent Instagram post was: Home is with my Belle..but, her name isn’t Belle?” LN: (Practically giggling.) “No. I do see how you got there though. She just reminds of Belle, the Disney Princess from Beauty and the Beast. Her personality and such. And, the yellow color scheme of the photos—it was just too good to pass up. Sorry for the confusion; you’ll have to return to calling her ‘Lando’s partner,’ unfortunately.” INT: “You know, I figure that was the connection we all should’ve made instead of thinking you’d just decide to finally share her name in an Instagram caption.” LN: “Nah, it would’ve fooled me too if I were a fan or journalist.” MV: “You know who thinks your girlfriend is Princess Belle? P, mate. Ever since she saw her in that yellow dress when you two came over for dinner that night.” LN: “Aw. That’s adorable. I’ll have to tell—oh, wow. I almost just said her name. I’ll tell ‘Belle,’ and she’ll treat P to a tea party in the proper princess dress I bet.” (He laughs.)

view comments

username17 put a piece of bread on each side of my head to complete the legendary sandwich 😔

username18 yeah guys let’s go ahead and reenroll in grade school 🙏🏼

user19 i'm honestly going to keep calling her belle 🤐

user20 no fr !! it's a compliment if anything, since lando said she's like the princess right?? user21 yeah, i think it's okay if we use it as a nickname until we know otherwise. calling her lando's gf all the time feels wrong 🤷🏻‍♀️

transcription | a tik tok filmed during mclaren’s fanstage

FAN: “What’s Belle’s top 3 circuits?” LN: (He snorts.) “Oh—the Belle name is sticking around, is it?” CROWD: (Resounding cheering.) LN: “Alright, alright. Stubborn today, aren’t they Osc?” OP: (Laughing.) “Mate, don’t involve me in this.” LN: “Hmph. Fine. Belle’s,” (He says with a smirk) “—top three circuits. Hmm. She’s a huge fan of COTA or Spa; I’d say she has those tied for P1. Then…I think Suzuka for P2, followed by Interlagos in P3. She’d probably go with Spa over COTA if forced—she absolutely loved being there this year.” CROWD: (Uproar.) LN: "What? That’s a good list! She has taste!" FAN: (Shouting.) “She was at Spa?!” LN: “Yeah.” (Lando crosses his arms smugly.) “She’s been to more races that you lot could probably imagine. And you’ve never even noticed her.”

ılıılı Put Your Records On · Corrine Bailey Rae

liked by landopriv, lilyzzz, peepee_pilao, and 23 others ynpriv yk...belle norris isn't such a bad pseudonym 🔆💐💛👸🏾🌟 view comments

landopriv you realize that's first name belle and last name norris right?

ynpriv i do landopriv oh okay 😁😊😁😊

ynsbestfriend pretty princess 💓

ynpriv u da real princess

lilyzzz i'm so envious of your dress collection 😫

ynpriv gonna send u a few links to my fav online shops lilyzzz omg u are a modern day princess 😲

brucethewombat lando definitely is the beast

landopriv ur one of cinderella's frickin rats mate ynpriv save it for the track and not my aesthetic post maybe ???

peepee_pilao we need another garden frolicking date asap

ynpriv don't even play let's check our schedules rn

view story replies:

ynpriv don't bother getting a car home 😒 ynpriv the locks will be changed 😒😒😒 lando huh? i didn't do anything!!! ynpriv YOU GOT RID OF MY MULLET WITHOUT PERMISSION lando baby…you didn't even like it at first ??? ynpriv but i grew to love him. and you killed him 😔 lando i'll get my barber to give me all the trimmings for a proper burial 🙄

ynpriv actually after a few minutes i do love seeing the fade make a return 😍 landopriv thank god bc i was already dreaming about the nape scratches with ur nails 🤤 ynpriv i will still be holding a weeklong mourning period for the mullet 🤧 landopriv plenty of curls still on top of my head for you to pull ynpriv have fun sleeping at alex’s

ılıılı Latch · Disclosure ft. Sam Smith

liked by maxfewtrell, ciscanorris1, adam_norris_pure_electric, and 1,694,065 others lando happy anniversary, my love. i wish i wasn't away from you for so many days out of the year, so we could make memories like these more often. that's how i imagine our future. me and you, another cat and our first dog or two, and a few tiny humans that are the perfect blend of us—making an endless amount of memories together. i've loved you for another year, the woman who's my sole reason to live life to the fullest, and i can't wait to experience the rest of my years with you by my side. view comments

maxfewtrell when did you become a poet mate?

lando p hasn't turned you into one yet? pietra.pilao good question lando... maxfewtrell 😬

keeganpalmer 🥂 to my parents (❤︎ by author)

username22 happy anniversary lando and belle 💛🧡

flo_norris_showjumping 🥹❤️ (❤︎ by author)

username23 her body coffee because tea ain't strong enough 🤏🏾

lando dw the british are still coming 🤤 username24 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 username25 OVERLY HORNY

username26 omg she's so fucking beautiful man (❤︎ by author)

username27 a suspicious amount of white featured in this post...happy anniversary belle and lando 💛

riabish happy anniversary you two (❤︎ by author)

username28 oh he's in LOVE love. how many years, if you don't mind sharing lando?

lando we've been together for years username28 but like how many tho? in numerals :) lando about years i think username28 boy fuck you 🙄

© landomain 2026

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Lonely paradise (Masterlist)

Sumary: During a holiday with his friends after the World Championship, Lando Norris didn’t expect to find love. He also didn’t expect to like the fact that she apparently had no idea of who he was. At first, it wasn’t really a lie, just an omission, but quickly he buries himself into more and more lies. How will he get himself out of it ?

Pairing : Original female character x Lando Norris

Genre : fluff, love at first sight, miscommunication

Main Masterlist

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

[boxbox81babygirl]

Let the Light in | OP81 x YOU

After seven years with Lily, Oscar isn’t sure he’s ready to try again. It’s left him cautious, careful, and more afraid to open up than he ever thought—or would admit. Then one blind date—with you, a burst of light he can’t ignore—makes him question everything he thought he knew about healing. Can Oscar let the light in, or will lingering hurt and ghostly guilt push him away before it even begins?

▶ TRACKLIST

1: The Blind Date

2: The Second Date

3: The Days Between

4: Cautious 

5: The Third Date

6: Across Time Zones

7: Rollercoaster

8: Home-Cooked

9: Safe Enough

10: Fragile Spaces

11: Texting...

12: Treading Water

13: Limbo

14: Saltwater

15: Privacy

16: It's CANada

17: It's still CANada

18: Lego & Lavender

19: Crossroads

20: Edges of Permancences

21: Rumor Has It

22: Red Heels

23: Not Yet

24: Between the Noise

25: Menances

26: Hattie

27: Green

28: Three More Days

29: Cordially Invited

30: Stay Anyway

31: Gate 3

32: No Cameras Here

33: Spielberg in Papaya

34: Approved (For Now)

35: Suspended In It

36: Past Lives

TAGLIST: CLOSED!

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Collection of ideas/your input 🧠✨️

Also!! Please!! Feel free to slide into my inbox or scream in the comments with ideas, wishes, or unhinged thoughts about what should happen next. I will be reading. I will be influenced. 😌🤍

xoxo babygirl

[jadeittic]

More Than A Driver (Reimagined) Series Masterlist

summary: MotoGP legend joins Formula 1 with Mercedes, entering a season of extreme scrutiny, media pressure, and divided public opinion as she fights to prove she belongs on the grid.

pairing: formula one + female!driver!reader

warnings/tags: smau + irl, mentions about misogyny, cursing here and there

notes: this is my old series also named more than a driver, but reimagined because the original series just could not get out of my privates no matter what i tried. so i thought that rewriting the whole thing is the best thing i could do, and i can explain driver!yn and her experiences in more detail than i did in the original. thank you !!!

reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo

SERIES chapter one — unpleasant welcomes chapter two — private testing chapter three — tension rises in melbourne chapter four — will luck run out in shanghai? chapter five — internal interference chapter six — culprits in paddocks chapter seven — it was who?!

[jadeittic]

More Than A Driver (Reimagined)

Chapter 7 — previous, next

story masterlist — check it out!

summary: it's race day in bahrain and the tension is at the highest. an accidental press to a radio button reveals everything the world has been wanting to hear.

pairing: formula one + female!driver!reader

warnings/tags: protect luca romano!!! paddock drama, protective toto wolff, media scrutiny

reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo

mercedesamgf1 Bahrain International Circuit

liked by f1, valtteribottas, and 7,104,219 others

mercedesamgf1 Let's race. #F1 #BahrainGP #YNLN

view all comments

oscarpiastri Go get em ↳ user4 oscar showing support we love to see it !! 😍 ↳ user79 mutuals supporting mutualsss

user99 i'm a ferrari fan through and through but tonight i'm definitely rooting for Y/N. no driver should ever feel unsafe in the paddock.

lucaromano that's my champ right there ↳ user89 LUCA!!! thank you for protecting our girl ☹️ ↳ user62 get this man a massive raise, the race engineer of the year award, EVERYTHINGGGG

user80 Are we just not going to talk about the literal wall of security standing around her grid slot??? Toto is NOT playing around today ↳ user43 that's good imo. after what happened in that press room, she deserves to feel 100% safe

user77 i've never wanted a driver to win a race more than i do rn. best of luck, yn!!

The dry desert heat of Bahrain did nothing to clear the heavy, suffocating tension hanging over the Mercedes garage.

Sunday had arrived.

Normally, race day followed a perfect rhythm. Mechanics moved with practiced urgency, engineers huddled around laptops, and the distant roar of support races echoed through the paddock.

Today felt entirely different.

The air itself seemed heavy. Every conversation dropped to a whisper whenever someone important walked past. Security guards stood at the garage entrances with crossed arms and sharp eyes, and even the journalists lingering behind the barriers seemed unusually quiet.

You sat in the back corner of the garage, elbow resting on your knees, staring at the telemetry screens in front of you. Normally, you loved this part. You would be asking questions, studying every graph, and looking for tiny advantages. Today, the numbers just blurred together.

The high-pitched hum of generators filled the silence around you, and a wheel gun whirred briefly in the distance. You barely noticed. Instead, your mind replayed the same memory for the hundredth time.

The press room. The crowd. The questions.

And that man. Standing at the back, watching you. Smiling.

You didn't realize you were staring off into space until someone stepped directly into your line of sight.

"Hydration fluid's checked. Radio is ready as well."

It was Luca. He crouched beside you, holding a tablet against his chest. He looked exhausted, the kind of deep tiredness that comes from carrying too much stress for too long.

Yet, the moment he looked at you, he forced a smile. He did it because he knew you needed to see it.

"How are the jitters, champ?"

"They're there."

Luca nodded slowly. "The normal kind?"

You looked away. "No. Every time I look out... I just keep thinking about that guy. The one at the back. The one who smiled at me."

Luca lowered himself on a stool beside you. Around the garage, the mechanics continued working. Nobody interrupted or looked over, but you knew they were listening.

"Look at me," Luca said, his voice calm. "The garage is secure. The FIA have been monitoring every data stream. Toto has private security monitoring the paddock."

He leaned in closer. "And if somebody so much as breathes near this car without authorization about fifteen mechanics, me included, will tackle them before they get within three meters."

The finally earned the smallest hint of a smile from you.

"There she is," Luca pointed out immediately.

"I'm serious."

"So am I." He softened his tone. "Listen carefully, alright? I know this has been hell. I know everyone is talking about investigations, sabotage, and suspects. I know you've spent so long wondering if someone's targeting you."

The knot in your chest tightened because he was right. You hadn't slept properly in days. Every unfamiliar number on your phone made your pulse spike.

"But none of that changes one thing," Luca continued.

"What?"

His smile returned. "You can still drive."

You stared at him. "But what about the investigation?"

He shrugged. "Not your job."

"The FIA?"

"Not your job."

"The police?"

"Definitely not your job."

Luca pointed out toward the open track. "The car out there? That's your job."

Outside, you car sat beneath the garage, ready and waiting. For a moment, all the noise faded. You suddenly remembered why you started racing in the first place.

It was for that exact feeling when the visor drops, the lights go out, and the entire world narrows down to just the next corner.

Luca noticed the shift in your face. "There she is. There's our driver."

You rolled your eyes. "That was cheesy, especially for you."

Luca stood up. "Much better."

You grabbed your helmet from the table, its familiar weight settling in your hands. Luca waited as you pulled on your balaclava, then placed a grounding hand on your shoulder.

"You ready?"

Slowly, you slid your helmet on. The sounds of the garage dulled, replaced by the rhythm of your own breathing. The fear and uncertainty were still there, but underneath it all, your determination had finally return.

Luca grinned. "Let's show them who we are."

Walking out onto the grid felt like stepping directly into a storm.

The grandstands on either side of the circuit were packed tight. Thousands of voices merged into a constant roar that pressed against your helmet. Heat shimmered above the asphalt and distorted the cars ahead into wavering silhouettes.

But the moment you lowered yourself into the cockpit, the chaos outside instantly dulled.

Inside, the noise didn't vanish. It just became background. It turned into a steady, vibrating hum beneath the surface of everything.

And then, a strange calm settled over you.

Toto appeared at the side of your cockpit, his presence cutting through the grid's chaos. He leaned over the halo, his face composed.

"Drive your race, alright?" Toto said, his voice low and steady, carrying easily over the roar of the grid. "Leave the rest to me."

You met his gaze and gave a firm nod. There was no hesitation, and no need for words. He held your gaze for a beat longer, then straightened up and stepped back.

Around you, the grid began to clear. Mechanics moved, ripping away the tire blankets in swift motions and stepping back in unision. Final checks were completed with hand signals and sharp nods.

One by one, the cars came alive, their engines snapping into life nad vibrating the air with aggression.

You exhaled once, slowed and controlled.

Five red lights. Each light held just long enough to stretch the silence into something almost unbearable.

Then—they went out.

Your reaction time was absolutely flawless. The exact millisecond the five red lights vanished, your fingers dropped the clutch with perfect precision.

By the time you reached the heavy braking zone of Turn 1, you had already swept cleanly past the Ferrari on your left. You held your line tight, avoided the chaos of the midfield behind you, and claimed P2, slotting yourself behind the leading Red Bull.

"Wonderful start. Wonderful." Luca's voice crackled loudly over the radio, bubbling with genuine excitement and a massive wave of relief.

"Clean air behind you now. Gap to the leader is 1.2 seconds."

For the next thirty laps, the race became a masterclass. The car felt absolutely amazing, responding to your slightest touch like an extension of your own body.

You were hunting the leader down, corner by corner, lap by lap. The paralyzing fear and anxiety that had gripped you all weekend had completely burned away, replaced by pure competitive fire.

By Lap 34, your patience paid off. You had closed the distance down to just eight-tenths of a second, placing you firmly within the DRS zone.

The granstands erupted into a roar every time you flashed down the main straight, your rear wing snapping open to give you a massive burst of speed.

"You're faster than him through Turn 4 and all of Sector 2," Luca updated you. "Keep the pressure exactly where he is. He's starting to struggle and his rear tires are overheating. The win is on the table today, it's yours for the taking."

"Copy that," you breathed heavily, sweat stinging your eyes beneath your visor as you braced your neck against the force of the next corner. "I see it. I'm setting him up."

What you couldn't see from inside your car was that the Mercedes pit wall had just thrown all racing protocols out the window and descended into absolute chaos.

Halfway through the race, a cyber-forensics unit had finally broken through the final layer of encryption on a hidden server belonging to Alistair, the engineer suspected of messing with your car.

It wasn't done by brute force; it was the result of emergency legal orders that only get issues when something has gone wrong. The data didn't just show a small breach. It revealed something worse.

Back at the garage, a massive header flashed across Luca's secondary monitor: CHAIN OF CUSTODY VERIFIED—FINAL BRIEF ATTACHED.

Luca stared at the screen, his face completely pale as he tried to process the information. There were pages of structured analysis, bank transfers, and secret emails.

It wasn't a messy leak; it was an organized, clear trail that mapped out total criminal intent.

He leaned closer to the monitor, his breath catching in his throat as he traced the filed upward. Pure panic set in. Luca's hand hovered over his radio console.

For the first time in his career, he had no idea who he was supposed to call first. Does his call Toto? The team lawyers? Strategy? FIA?

He decided to open a private line to Toto.

"Toto, I need you—" Luca started, his voice incredibly tight. But as he looked back at the monitor, a final name loaded at the bottom of the document. A signature buried deep under the legal layers came into view, and his stomach dropped.

In a moment of pure reflex panic, Luca moved too fast. His brain was processing something he emotionally couldn't handle, and his hand slammed down the radio console.

But his palm missed the private team button. He accidentally missed the master routing switch, the one that connected the pit wall directly to the broadcast feed.

Inside your cockpit, you only heard a faint click and a bit of distortion in your earpiece, like a door briefly opening. But out in the real world, Luca's raw, unfiltered voice blasted out to millions of fans watching at home and over the live feed.

Crofty had been mid-sentence, his voice pitched high as he narrated your chase. Brundle sat right beside him, eyes glued to the live timing screens.

"—this is not supposed to be on any public feed. Toto, are you seeing this?!" Luca shouted, his voice sharp and fractured.

Crofty cut himself off instantly. "Uh... a bit of crossed wires there from the Mercedes pit wall," Crofty said quickly, trying to smooth it over for the millions of viewers at home. "An accidental broadcast from—"

"Alistair's hardware was routed through a shell company owned by Horner. It was Red Bull. Christian Horner ordered the sabotage on her car. It's right here in the final—"

Suddenly, a loud burst of digital static tore through the channel like a blade. On Luca's console, the audio line collapsed into a flat, dead silence.

Crofty was the first to find his voice, though the usual booming, energetic tone was completely gone.

"Right... well," Crofty stammered. "An extraordinary... unprecedented audio transmission there, seemingly from Y/N L/N's race engineer. We... we apologize for the nature of that broadcast, but Martin, I don't even know what to say to that."

"David, if what we heard is accurate..." Brundle paused. "We are no longer looking at a sporting penalty. We are looking at a full-scale criminal matter here."

"Christian Horner named directly by Mercedes's Luca Romano," Crofty breathe, finally finding his professional footing. "Accusations of deliberate sabotage against the rookie."

Crofty took a breath, trying to bring focus back to the track even as social media began to explode globally.

"An absolute bombshell dropped in the middle of the dessert. We will, of course, bring you updates from the FIA and both teams the exact moment we get them. But for now, Y/N is still hunting down Verstappen for the lead of a race that had just become historical for all the wrong reasons."

Inside the car, the sudden noise of Luca's voice over the radio and the immediate echo of his words sent a literal shockwave through your entire body.

Horner.

You brain completely rejected the information for a split second. The team principal of Red Bull. The man who stood on the podiums with his drivers, who smiled for the cameras, who ran the most dominant team on the gread.

Your hands shook violently against the carbon-fiber steering wheel, your grip slipping against your gloves. You were flying toward the heavy braking zone, but your mind was completely gone, trapped in a terrifying tailspin of horror.

Because your mind was entirely somewhere else, you missed your braking marker by a mile.

You slammed on the brakes in a panic, locking up the front tires violently. A massive, blinding cloud of white tire smoke erupted from the rubber, filling your vision.

Reacting on pure survival instinct, you violently overcorrected. The car spun across, tires screaming, before sliding deep into the dusty gravel trap outside the corner.

By the time you dragged the heavily flat-spotted car out of the gravel and back on the tarmac, four cars had already flashed past you in a blur of engines.

You had dropped from P2 down to P6. Your hands were trembling so hard that you could barely hold the steering wheel straight against the violent vibrations caused by your tires.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Luca choked out over the radio, his voice cracking with an immense wave of guilt, panic, and sheer horror at what his mistake had caused. "I hit the wrong master switch on the panel. I didn't mean to broadcast it. I didn't mean to—"

"Is it true?" you demanded, interrupting hin. Your breathing was shallow and ragged, and tears of pure anger and adrenaline pricked the corners of your eyes. "Luca, is it real?"

Before Luca could even attempt to answer, Toto's voice cut in heavily.

"All of it is true. It is all true," Toto said, his voice steady. "But right now, you focus on the track. You bring that car home. Do not let him take this race away from you too."

The people didn't even seem to be watching the race anymore.

A collective, defeaning uproar surged through the circuit as security vehicles and FIA officials converged directly on the Red Bull garage. The timing was completely surreal: cars were still on track, while right back at the garage, an operation was taking place.

And in that moment, the entire paddock understood. Christian Horner was being formally detained. He wasn't being escorted out for questioning later, and he wasn't quietly removed behind closed doors.

It was happening right there, in front of everyone, in the middle of live Grand Prix.

Mechanics stood frozen. No one spoke. No one needed to. The silence inside the garage was heavier than any engine noise outside could ever be.

On track, the race continued, but it no longer felt like the center of anyone's universe. When the checkered flag waved, it felt entirely ceremonial and empty—an obligation rather than a celebration.

You crossed the finish line in a lonely, exhausting P6. There was no celebratory radio message waiting for you, and no immediate flood of relief from the pit wall.

You rolled into parc fermé and turned the engine off. Instantly, your world shark. The absolute silence inside your helmet made your own breathing sound incredibly loud.

For a long moment, you didn't move. You rested your forehead against the steering wheel, your gloved hands gripping it loosely, just inhaling slowly to try and calm your system.

When you finally climbed out, the paddock felt too bright. You didn't look toward the podium, you didn't look at the giant screens, and you didn't look out the buzzing crowd.

You pulled your helmet off, head damp with sweat, and walked straight into the Mercedes garage.

The entire team was already gathered there, standing in a quiet, tense circle. Luca stepped forward first. He look completely wrecked, his face filled with an immense weight of guilt.

"I am so deeply sorry. The radio broadcast... I ruined your race. I didn't mean to—"

You didn't let him finish. You took one step forward, closing the distance between you and pulled him into a tight, sudden hug.

"You found him, Luca," you whispered against his shoulder. "You found who did it. That's all that matters."

Luca gripped your firesuit tightly, anchoring himself. Behind him, Toto stepped forward. He didn't interrupt, but he placed a large, grounding hand on your shoulder to let you know that situation was finally under control.

Cameras were already pressing against the barriers, their flashes strobing constantly like distant lightning, but Toto subtly shifted his frame to block their line of sight, protecting you from the lenses.

"He's in custody," Toto said. "Horner will never step foot in this paddock again."

There was no triumph in Toto's voice, only pure resolution. Around the garage, engineers exhaled for the first time in hours, while others just stared at the floor, wondering what this meant for the future of the sport.

You stepped out from the garage and looked out at the circuit. The desert sun was brutal and bright, illuminating a paddock filled with historic chaos.

But the paralyzing fear that had followed you ever since your crash in Suzuka—the terrifying certainty that someone was trying to destroy your career from the shadows—was completely gone. It wasn't just delayed. It was permanently removed.

You took a slow, deep breath, and for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like you were breathing under pressure. You hadn’t stood on the podium today, you hadn’t heard your national anthem, and you weren't holding a trophy.

But standing there with your team, you understood something far bigger than a race victory. The race results would fade and the headlines would change, but the truth had finally been dragged into the daylight in front of the entire world.

POST RACE INTERVIEWS

🎙️Lewis Hamilton

[Reporter]: Lewis, the FIA has officially verified the data packet. Christian Horner directly ordered the sabotage on your teammate's car. What is your reaction to this?

[Lewis]: I'm honestly... I'm just sick to my stomach. We talk about rivalry, we talk about the pressure to win, but this is a sport where we risk our lives every single week.

To find out a Horner, someone supposed to be a leader, weaponized technology to sabotage a competitor's vehicle? It's evil. There's no other word for it.

My thoughts go out to Y/N. To have her dreams targeted, to have her safety compromised by a powerful grown man playing sick corporate games... it makes me furious.

🎙️Max Verstappen

[Reporter]: Max, the FIA has just officially confirmed the digital forensic data. Christian Horner had been implicated directly. As he leading driver, what is your reaction?

[Max]: Look, I am completely disgusted. Completely. I am out there racing my heart out, fighting fair and square on the track, and to find out that the head of my own team is behind the scenes doing... doing criminal stuff like this?

What Christian did didn't just sabotage Mercedes; it risked Y/N's life and honestly, it disgraced everyone who wears this Red Bull uniform. I don't care who he is. I have absolutely zero respect for what he did, and I cannot work with someone like that.

🎙️Lando Norris

[Reporter]: Lando, the grid is in complete shock. What is the feeling among the drivers right now?

[Lando]: Honestly, it's just pure disbelief. We joke about drama, we joke about Drive to Survive, but this is real life. Christian literally endangered a driver on the grid.

Y/N has been an absolute breath of fresh air in F1, she's a brilliant racer, and to find out she was being targeted by the head of Red Bull just because they couldn't beat her fairly?

It's pathetic. It ruins the integrity of everything we do. Max [Verstappen] is right to completely disown him. The guy is a monster for risking her safety like that.

🎙️Y/N L/N

[Reporter]: Y/N... I don't think anyone in the history of broadcasting has ever had to ask a driver this question. You have just driven a brilliant, heart-stopping race, all while the global broadcast exposed that Christian Horner is the one in charge of all of this.

What is going through your mind right now?

[Y/N L/N]: To be honest... I'm still trying to process it. When you're in that car, you have to block out the noise. You have to. So to find out that a rival used a shell company to plant something in my car... just terrifies me.

We put our lives on the line the second we're in there. We accept the risks of racing, but we don't accept the risk of being hunted, you know?

I'll let Toto and the police handle Christian. My job is to drive. If Horner wanted to stop me from racing, he should have tried harder, because I'm not going anywhere.

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[chocolans]

TURNING PAGE, lando norris

masterlist

PAIRING : lando norris × grow as we go! reader

SYNOPSIS : on the day he could become World Champion, lando doesn't need luck. he just needs you—his true north star all the way to standing on the precipice of making history.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k (this got out of hand 😞)

NOTES : as promised, the obligatory LN1 WDC fic (that nobody asked for, not this late anyway). i wanted to write something about this phenomenal night and i've seen many writers do it amazingly. here is my tribute to the new champ! sorry if it got a little too dragging and repetitive, i just have a lot of feeling and wordvomited onto my google docs. but i hope you enjoy the read! also, i'm thinking of growing this au with more drabbles and stories. if you have any prompts about these two that you'd want to see, feel free to ask / request!

The morning feels like it's joined you in your sentiment of holding your breath.

The dining area is all pale glass and soft gold chandeliers reflecting off spotless marble floors, and the calm crystal blue of the water in the pool just beyond. Everything feels pristine in that expensive, almost unreal way and your stomach making what is probably the world's most convoluted Scouts knot is not helping.

You’re sat at the long table with Lando’s family, stirring a cup of tea, picking it up and setting it down like it might turn poisonous if you dare a sip.

Every one of you is in a different version of muted chaos. Cis is half-listening to something on her phone and nodding off while Flo is methodically dismantling a gözleme like it personally wronged her, Adam beside her going through what you assume is the day's schedule with an obvious frown. Off to the far edge, Oliver and Callum are locked in a heated debate about footy of all things, with Sav—bless her, she looks exhausted—as the unwilling referee.

And you… well, you've occupied yourself with looking up every time the automated glass doors open.

It is sort of stupid, really. Nobody is holding you back from making your way up the room number you have drilled into your memory after a whole night of twisting this way and that. Flo had surely woken up by you being an incorrigible nuisance more than once but, coming down to eat, she didn't say a word.

You wince, making a note of apologising properly.

“Love, you're going to have yourself a stiff neck by the time we make it to the garage.” Cisca's hand nudging yours from across the table jolts you out of your train of thought. “The tea isn’t to your liking?”

You stare at the swirl of too much milk and sugar and not enough caffeine in disdain and croak, “It's perfect.”

She smiles knowingly. “Being so jittery cannot possibly be good for you.”

You gulp, wringing your fingers together to try and be rid of the feeling of being wound too tight to function normally. “Honestly, how I haven't grown out of it needs to be scientifically studied.”

Before you can get another word in, you spot a familiar figure trudging through the lavish entrance by the breakfast buffet.

Lando is already in the team kit, curls still slightly damp and flattened from a hasty shower. His shoulders are drooping, just a little folded inward—the same way it used to be when he was still a teenager and it was starting to get too real, the possibility of actually making it to Formula One. And now… You shake your head as nostalgia creeps upon you without foresight.

His eyes scan the room, wide and restless, until they land on you.

You’re on your feet before you think about it, moving through tables full of chatter and half-awake people. He meets you halfway, hands finding your waist without hesitation, forehead dropping to yours for a brief, grounding second.

“Morning, bub,” he murmurs.

“Good morning,” you reply softly. Then, because you can’t help yourself, “Big day, huh?”

His lips twitch. “Don’t start. It’s way too early.”

You smile anyway. He smells like lavender soap and cologne he’s used forever, and you thank him internally for being a creature of habit because it works like a balm on your nerves.

You smooth your thumb along his jaw, feeling the tension sitting there like it always does on days like this. “Did you sleep much?”

“Just enough to get by, I reckon.” Which could mean anything between an hour to five. “Next year, we'll just change either of our surnames, yeah? I can't stay in a separate room again, it's torture.”

The implications of that statement is not lost on you, your heart doing a merry flip under your ribs, but you push those meddling thoughts down. There would be time for them later. Possibly after getting soaked in champagne– no, rosewater and happy tears.

When you finally wander back to the table, every head turns toward you both with fond familiarity. Some seven years ago, it would have flustered you to no end. Now it's adoration you wear as second skin.

Adam clears his throat when the pleasantries are over and you hover behind the seat you'd abandoned. “We'll get going. Give you two a minute.”

“You don’t have to—” Lando starts, still in the process of finding a spare chair.

“Shut up, it's fine,” Cis cuts in, with no real bite. “Either sit down and we go, or you get a room to have your moment.”

“It’s not a moment,” Lando pouts, sparing you a playful glare when you chuckle.

“It is absolutely a moment,” Oliver repeats, grinning as Savannah laughs. “You’ve been like this since you were fifteen.”

Case in point, how you still go through the same motions this many years later should be a scientific marvel. Or maybe you've Pavloved yourself into associating the mundane with security.

“That was a rough year,” Lando argues half-heartedly.

You take his hand, ignoring the ocean in his gaze, tides that drag you back over and over. “I'm going to get some grub in this one. Don't wait for us if you finish. Flo, you've got the key card?”

She shoots you a thumbs up right before you turn away, leading your boyfriend towards the buffet. Lando doesn’t speak at all when you let go of him to pile food onto a plate, just silently hanging off your shoulder with one arm. And you get why.

With Abu Dhabi being unusually strict about laws regarding unmarried couples, you cannot kiss or do anything other than hold hands, and even that is scrutinized. With the last time you have properly hugged being on the flight there, you feel like a magnet: inevitably pulled towards him.

Outside, the sunshine is not cruel enough to burn yet and, save for a few overexcited toddlers and fretting parents, the poolside lounges are deserted. It's the best you will get, possibly.

For all his quiet, it isn’t until you tug him to one of the seats that he huffs, “‘M not hungry.”

You blink, tucking your legs under your thighs. “Sit down, Lan.”

Lando hesitates, checking his watch. “I'll get something at the hospitality. Walking into the strategy meeting with an upset stomach will be hell.”

You stare at him, unamused.

He sighs. “You don’t have to do the look.”

“Why, because it works like magic every time?”

He gives in with exaggerated reluctance, letting you maneuver him into an acceptable position beside you, inconspicuous enough to pass off as just overtly friendly but close enough for comfort.

Lando stares down at the plate. You only got the things you know he can handle when he’s a tad overwhelmed and worn thin—toast, fruit, yoghurt. You set it in front of him like it’s non-negotiable.

He merely pokes the toast once.

“You need to eat, sweetheart,” you say gently. “Running on fumes won't do you any good.”

“You sound like my mum.”

“Why, thank you. She taught me everything I know about wrangling your cute arse.”

Lando snorts despite himself, shoulders loosening just a fraction. He leans into you almost subconsciously, head pillowed in the crook of your neck, nose pressed to warm skin and then there is a shiver running down your spine. This is his process, his means of grounding himself. And it's unfair that you have to sneak around to offer him that but he cannot afford any avoidable trouble today.

“I’m fine,” he says quietly.

“I know.” Your fingers brush through his hair in slow, familiar strokes, pulling lightly. “You’re also allowed to be not fine. Just because you're excited doesn’t mean it's not scary.”

You know you've hit the mark dead on when his breathing slowly evens out after a sharp inhale, can feel it in the way he lets his weight settle completely against you. Like your personal weighted blanket.

“It’s just… today,” he admits, hands making a vague gesture at his head. “Up here everything feels too loud.”

“It is loud,” you agree. “But it’s still a race. Yes, the stakes are higher than ever but you just need to drive, baby. Just drive clean and bring it home.”

He glances up at you, wry, chewing on his lower lip. “Sounds simple when you put it like that.”

You trail a hand down his back in soothing circles, wishing more than anything to siphon every bit of his anxiety and making it yours. But that's not possible, and this is his battle to fight. The victory, though he'd shared it with every last person who rooted for him along the way, will be all the more sweeter earned.

“All you have to do is drive like you have been all through the second half. That's the only bit you can control. Everything else is background noise.”

He searches your expression for something only he can make sense of. Then he picks up the toast and takes a bite. Then another quickly after.

You smile. “See? ‘S no marmalade, but strawberry jam makes everything better.”

“Spoken like a proper food critic,” he says around the mouthful. “Considering a change of career, Doctor (L/n)?”

“Finish your breakfast, Mr. Norris,” you click your tongue in exasperation and he laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling—and oh, it nearly drowns you, the pride that swells inside your chest to be calling this man yours, the honor of being by his side every step of the way until he's reached the cusp of making history.

Leaning in and pressing your lips to his cheek you feel the dimples under your touch, then mouthing at his jaw, not having it in yourself to care who might be watching.

Against your thigh, something buzzes, dismissible at first but it grows louder till you sigh and pull away when Lando all but grumbles. He fishes his phone from the pocket of his jeans and you watch the crease between his brow deepen.

“It's Mark. He says the team meeting's happening a lot earlier.” He rolls his eyes, “They also want to shoot some footage for the channel. Go figure.”

You cannot help the snort. “If there is ever any doubt that this is one of the biggest sports, you lot are definitely in contention for being the most dramatic one.”

Lando's face scrunches as he presses his palm over his heart, “You sure know how to make a boy feel special!”

You swat at him. “Who is paying you to be so extra, hm?”

He grumbles, playing up the complaints but his hand finds yours just as he stands up. You crane your neck, beaming at him and before long he's a mirror of you.

“Can you come glare at the media people if they start asking stupid questions again? Because if I hear the line ‘If Oscar is third and you're behind him’ one more time,” he trails off, making a face.

You nod solemnly. “Absolutely. I'll, like, jump straight to barking and biting them. Reckon that'll drive them away for good?”

Lando chuckles, “Wouldn't hurt to try.” His eyes do this thing where they squint before melting into something entirely too soft. It has red creeping up your neck before he even says, “Thank you.”

If not for those beautiful eyes, the earnestness in his voice makes your breath catch. “For what?”

And he might as well be looking at you like you've hung the moon, the stars and rearranged the universe to his whims—heaven knows, you'll do it if you could—as if he isn't about to walk into a world where you've only known to catch your footing in, offering himself on a silver platter to be torn apart by onlookers so they can make a sense of why he deserves that big trophy.

“Look, I'm going to sound like a proper sap but just bear with me, alright? I, uhm… none of this would've happened without you. God, I wouldn't be standing to see this day if you were not there during the worst of it. Just—thank you. Thank you for putting up with this, with me. I'm not egotistical enough to think I deserve all of it. But I love you, I don't care if that makes me selfish.”

To you, it's quite simple really.

But that's neither your job to make clear for them, nor does anyone owe you understanding. So the best you can do is pull him into your arms that cannot even find a use for stupid amount of affection you hold for him.

“You deserve it. You deserve all of it,” you try to sear those words into his neck. “No matter what happens today, Lan. The fact that you're still leading the championship should make those twits put a lid on it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lando giggles, his breath fanning the tears wetting your cheeks. He thumbs at them gently, “You're going to exhaust all the waterworks now or save some for later?”

“I have a separate reservoir for happy tears, promise,” comes out muffled against his shirt. You back off just a smidge to finally see his face, blinking away the damp in his lashes as you cup his jaw, “Go do your thing, bub. I'll try to see you before the driver's parade. But if I can't, you know we are all rooting for you. I know you can do it.”

You don’t wish him luck outright. Not only because it would be undermining him, but years of this routine has done nothing if not cement the fact that no matter where you are, your prayers and heart are always with him.

He smiles. The familiar, crooked smile that’s—quite like you—seen him through wins, losses, near-misses and everything in between. “See you on the other side?” he asks.

“Always,” you say without hesitation.

The air in the back of the orange-drenched garage is thick enough to chew, a static-charged cocktail of stale energy drinks and anxiety. On the screen, the sun-bleached tarmac of Yas Marina Circuit glares back like a brutal chessboard.

P3. The number pounds in your skull with every heartbeat. He only needs a podium, the height of the step doesn’t matter.

Beside you, Max performs a spectacular, stress-fueled transformation into a football dad in the short span of the Formation Lap. He’s just shy of burning a hole through the floor with all the pacing, getting increasingly more impatient with every wonder-laced “what's happening now?" Keegan flings his way.

Lights out is always a violent crush of sound and motion—and your hands are already clenched together before the first lap completes, watching the pack funnel down, blue, papaya and red blurring—

“Oscar’s gone through,” Max cuts into the over the radio transmissions of Turn 9, all the emotional output of a blunt Sky reporter.

Your heart drops.

Then he continues, words tumbling rapidly when he feels every gaze in the vicinity land on him, “That’s good! That’s good. That’s what we want.”

Keegan looks like he might chuck up lunch. “But he’s lost a place!”

“It’s a buffer,” Max explains, running a hand through his hair. “If Lando fights Verstappen for the lead, they could both bin it. Oscar’s up there to try and win it for the team, or at least be a bloody great wall between Verstappen and Lando. It’s chess, mate! Aggressive, 300-kilometer-per-hour chess.”

Pietra, rubbing Max’s arm, nods sagely, though her expression suggests she’s still on checkers. You just grip the edge of your seat, your knuckles white in fear of strangling someone subconsciously and the only one within reach is, well… you like Keegan too much to subject him to that fate.

You hear the logic Max is spewing, but your mind has escaped to Somerset.

The Year 9 common room, a sun-kissed boy with too much confidence shoving you playfully as you try and fail at keeping note of the track positions on the telly. The commentators’ spiel sounds like technical jargon you refuse to understand.“You don’t even know what downforce is, do you?”

“No, but you’re about to force me to shove this textbook somewhere, Norris.”

The pit stop is okay, in every sense of the word. Lando emerges P9, buried in a train of cars. Your hands have gone clammy and blue. The ugly green flickers of headlines—thinly veiled digs or even downright abuses—worsen the dread.

And then he begins. A lunge down the inside into Turn 9, a switchback in the chicane, another DRS pass on the back straight that couldn’t have been cleaner. He carves through the midfield like it’s standing still. P7 and then a double overtake that props him at P4 when Ocon pits. With every successful move, the hope gets louder.

Then, Tsunoda makes a late, desperate dive at Turn 5 and Lando, forced wide to avoid contact with the Red Bull's front, has all four wheels beyond the white line in a downpour of skid sparks. One irrational penalty is all it'd take for everything to go sideways, spiraling out of his control.

A hand slips into yours. Then another. Cisca is standing unusually still to your left, her bright disposition muted by fear so primordial, it reminds you that she has been doing this for much too long. Watching her little boy go out and risk it all for a shot at his dream.

On your other side, your mum's hand is a familiar respite. Your parents have only made it to the UAE after an eight hour long flight following a week of other preoccupations.

When you'd asked them to join you for this race back during Silverstone, they were chuffed. Of course they were, they too had seen your boyfriend grow into his own before their eyes, growing with you. For them to be present at this crucial moment means more than words can explain, to both you and to Lando.

Jumpy as you feel in your own skin, you squeeze their hand back, relishing in the calloused warmth. Finally—finally—the bulletin graphic flashes on the screen:

No further investigation for Car 04.

The collective exhale is almost a sob. Cisca pulls you into a sideways hug, nearly chanting, “He’s okay, darling. He’s okay. He’s brilliant.”

“Well? We ran around the whole park twice, you almost chundered on a roller-coaster—by the way, how is that any different from a ferris wheel?—if you're going to say anything, the golden hour is as good as it's about to get.”

“I… I'm leaving for London.” It comes out of left field, leaving him backpedalling at your upset frown, “I need to be closer to management and there's better local tracks. Dad says it is practical if I'm going to take the F2 seriously. Don't worry, though, I am getting tutors! Reckon they won't consider a complete numpty for a—"

“You're leaving Millfield?”

“Uhm.. yeah, yes,” Lando is freshly sixteen, voice uncharacteristically small, some fifty metres off ground, drowning in a sunset on the eve before testing with his new team.

“Mint,” you nod, drumming your fingers on your thighs. Then, as if you're forecasting the weather, or maybe telling him the sky is blue, “I like you, Lando.”

The final twenty laps are filled with constant worrying over reliability, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Verstappen pits and comes out fourteen seconds clear of Lando. Oscar holds him off valiantly, but the Red Bull is a predator and Oscar's tyres are all but dead. Still, the Ferrari on mediums is equal in pace now, if not slower. All he needs is to bring it past the finish line.

Oscar’s engineer comes over the radio in the penultimate lap, a public message to end a private war: “Lando is provisional P3, Leclerc more than ten seconds clear. He has been told not to try anything reckless.”

The last lap. The final sector and under the tunnel. The orange car emerges out in a long, sweeping parade towards the finish line. And in the end, the chequered flag is a welcome inevitability.

Reality pauses and folds into itself in milliseconds. There is shrieking in the garage, the deafening roar from the McLaren pit wall on the broadcast, it all fades into a distant, watery hum. For you, there is only the fluorescent ‘P3’ next to his name on the timing tower and cotton in your ears.

Everything blooms technicolor—the jostling mob of papaya making their way toward the barricade, the sparkling whir of fireworks that catch fire in the twilight—an out-of-body experience.

World Champion. Lando Norris.

The dam breaks. There is a hurricane of limbs and tears tumbling out onto the cool pit lane tarmac. Mechanics are embracing, cheering, crying. The first you see of him in person, he's still a neon stump cocooned in the cockpit. And you just know. The way his shoulders rise and fall, the slight hesitation before he places his hands on the halo and turns not to the cameras first, but to his car, patting the carbon with a reverent hand. Only then does he haul himself onto the sidepod, raising a fist to the velvet marina sky.

Lando doesn't take the helmet off immediately when he jumps down. He just stands there for a moment, his head bowed, the visor still hiding his face from the screaming world. He’s crying. And he's got every right to.

With still gathering strength, Lando pulls his helmet off, emerging a breathtaking mosaic of glittering tears and the harsh imprints of in-ears, and the most brilliant, disbelieving smile you have ever seen. The victory roar of the crowd is a physical wave, and it has never looked so human.

You watch Cisca and Adam engulfing their son, patting him down and simply holding him as long as he wishes. There is Oliver, pounding his back, teasing, laughing. You hang back, a quiet eddy in the storm, letting his family have him first, passed around like a priceless trophy, his smile so wide it looks like it hurts.

Then Lando’s eyes find yours and the noise all but plummets again.

He extracts himself from his manager's bear hug and takes the few steps towards you. The newly crowned World Champion, at the summit of his life’s ambition, looks at you and his face—so often a mask of bravado or coy deflection—simply crumples. That bright-eyed teen from Millfield Prep is right there in his shadow.

Lando doesn’t say a word, nothing but burying his head into the crook of your neck, his shoulders shaking. Your arms come around him, aching. You sway in the middle of the chaos.

“It's on me, innit? I had to go and wreck it. I don't think I will ever get this close again,” he mumbles after watching his hopes for a win from his first pole slip away.

You feel the dampness of his tears through your top, the shuddering realization sinking in. You pull back just enough to cradle his face, your thumbs brushing away the streaks. His eyes, green and endless, pinned on you and what you see there is not just pride, but also overwhelming gratitude.

“We did it,” he whispers.

“You did, my love. I am so, so proud of you,” coherent words are starting to fail you but it's fine, he’s already leaning in anyway.

The kiss tastes like homecoming. It’s soft, and salty with tears, and infinitely sweet. It tastes of a glorious decade—of banters that spanned from classrooms to the first flat you'd both called home, of awkward first dates and laughing through shy kisses, of a relationship dangling by the frail thread of ill-timed phone calls. It is a seal on a promise made by children and kept by adults.

When you finally part, foreheads resting together, the world rushes back in a colossal wave of noise. You smile, pulling him back in again.

The podium is a shimmering, rosewater-drenched haze. From your spot in parc ferme, right under the raised platform, you watch as Lando, still in his sopping fireproofs, holds his P3 trophy aloft. The real Championship trophy would come later but this one is almost cathartic. This is the trophy that cements him in the legacy of the sport he lives for.

He shakes it, spraying the sticky-sweet rosewater over both his rivals and the mechanic from Red Bull, revving up the roaring crowd, an unadulterated portrait of joy as drops of pink liquid catch the floodlights, falling like glittering snow around you.

The aftermath is the best adrenaline crash you've ever lived, the mosh pit of celebration. Every time you try to give Lando space to breathe, to be swept away by the well-wishers, his hand finds yours or his arm loops around your waist, tucking you back into his side. He is a planet in a new, triumphant orbit, and you his unwavering gravity.

He is hugged by engineers who have been with him since the first day, thrown in the air by mechanics who he cannot stop thanking, eternalized by a dozen tabloids with their cameras out. Through it all, he keeps finding you like a lifeline.

In a rare lull amidst the crush, as someone fetches another bottle of celebratory spray, he bends his head so you can hear.

“It feels weird,” he confesses, his voice low in your ear. A flicker of uncertainty shadowing the glee in his eyes. “This… this was the mountain, you know? The top. Where do I go from here?”

Huffing a laugh, you turn within the circle of his arm, “You have years—decades—to show them what today's World Champion is capable of. This is just the first chapter they’re putting your name on.”

Lando holds your gaze with an intensity that feels almost misplaced, throat bobbing. “And… you?” he asks finally, abrupt. “After all this, what do you want me to be for you?”

The question catches you off guard.

Suppose you haven't really had time to ponder on it. For the last couple months your household ran like the universe was meant to collapse on the first weekend of December. But then again, nobody really plans these things out. There are the highest highs that stand out in life but the in-betweens? You want them to belong just to you. You and Lando.

“After testing tomorrow,” you start tentatively, “I want you all to myself. I want you to live in the now. All the other things, we can improvise along the way.”

“Anything you wish,” he vows instantly, nose brushing you cheek before he plants a soft kiss. “Name it. You know I'll follow you anywhere.”

“When I make it big,” Lando begins, chewing on his thumb and legs swinging carelessly from a tall stack of tyres, “when I’m done winning loads of races, I think I want to go ‘round the world.”

“You already do that ten weeks a year, Lan. And you reckon world famous drivers have the time for backpacking?”

He rolls his eyes, “Would it kill you to be a little sentimental once in a while? Here I am, wishing I can take you to all the bestest places—”

“I'm only teasing. Finish your drink before your dad loses his faith in me, too. You're a lost cause… Oh, and for the record, there is no one else I'd want to see the bestest places with.”

A slow smile curves on your lips, a deja vu warmth in your chest. “I want to go sightseeing.”

He blinks. “Sightseeing?”

You nod, enthusiasm bubbling over, “Proper tourist-traps and also the actually decent bits. Anywhere is good, 's long as it's with you.”

The complexity of it—such a simple want in theory, but it might as well be an onion—flickers in his eyes. It gets thwarted by the determination replacing it.

He grins, “We can pull it off, you and me.”

© CHOCOLANS, 2025. do not copy, repost or modify my fics. this work is exclusively posted on tumblr.

[rh-fanficlover]

The Face of The Cursed

Chapter two: The Fasade Cracks

Vampire!Oscar x elf!Reader x werewolf!Lando

Chapter warnings: threats of force feeding, hints at intimate relationship, Oscar being a bit cold and dismissive in the beginning

Chapter summary: It was time to tell the truth, even if you don't want to share.

Word count: ~14K

Note from me: Thank you to everyone who as sent me kind messages during my exam period🥺 I have just returned home for the summer, and has started working. So I will try to update as often as I can❤️

Taglist: @martys-corner,

@marywantsttobattle

Masterlist

Prev.chapter || next chapter

The transition from darkness to consciousness was no longer like floating on water; it was like being buried in sand. You felt heavy, dry, and terrifyingly hollow. Your first instinct, honed by centuries of elven heritage, was to reach inward for that shimmering pool of light that always sat at the base of your sternum—the wellspring of your power.

​You reached, and you found... nothing.

​It was as if a door had been slammed and bolted in the dark. The silence inside your own mind was deafening. Your eyes flew open, darting wildly around the room until they landed on your wrists.

​The dull, heavy lead of the bracelets seemed to swallow the dim light of the cabin. They weren't just metal; they were anti-magic. You let out a strangled, broken sound and began to claw at them. You dug your fingernails into the edges of the cold metal, prying until your skin went raw, but the bands didn't budge a millimeter. You could feel the hum of the ancient enchantments vibrating against your bone—a cruel, grounding magic that acted as a vacuum for your own.

​The realization hit you with the force of a physical blow: these were forged with Binding Spells. They were tethered to the soul of the one who had locked them. Unless Oscar released them, you were effectively severed from the stars themselves.

​"Hey, hey! Stop that. You're going to hurt yourself."

​Lando was on his feet in an instant, moving toward the bed. He was wearing a dark shirt now, though it was haphazardly buttoned, and his expression was pained. He reached out to catch your hands, but he was careful not to squeeze.

​"Get them off," you rasped, your voice sounding like dry leaves. You didn't recognize the desperate, begging tone in your own throat. "Please. It’s... it’s dark. I can't see the light. Get them off me!"

​"I can't, starlight. I really can't," Lando said, his amber eyes swirling with genuine guilt. He knelt by the side of the bed so he wasn't looming over you, trying to make himself look as small as a man of his size could. "Oscar put them on. Only he can crack the seal. He didn't do it to hurt you—he did it because you are to weak to use your magic without harming yourself."

​You yanked your hands away from him, tucking them against your chest as you curled into a ball, shaking. To an Elf, being cut off from magic wasn't just losing a weapon; it was like losing one of your five senses. The world felt flat, cold, and dangerously silent.

​"You’ve made me a slave," you whispered into the silk pillows, the weight of the lead bracelets feeling like mountain stone on your thin wrists.

​"We made you a survivor," a cool, steady voice interrupted from the doorway.

​Oscar stood there, his presence as imposing as a shadow. He held a small silver tray with a steaming bowl of broth and a cup of water. He didn't look apologetic; he looked resolute. He walked into the room, his movements silent, and set the tray on the nightstand.

​"The bracelets stay until your pulse is steady and your wound is closed," Oscar stated, his crimson-tinged gaze dropping to your frantic, wide eyes. "You can hate me for it all you like, but you will do it while you are breathing."

​He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress barely dipping under his weight, and picked up the cup. "Drink. Or I'll have Lando hold you down while I pour it down your throat. Choice is yours."

"You wouldn't dare," you barked, the defiance in your voice cracking like a whip. Despite the hollow ache in your chest and the leaden weight on your wrists, you didn't flinch. You stared straight into those dark, predatory eyes, your elven pride flare-up like the last embers of a dying fire.

​Oscar didn't growl. He didn't snap. He simply paused, the silver cup held halfway between the tray and your lips. Slow as a winter shadow, he lifted a single, perfectly groomed eyebrow.

​The silence that followed was suffocating. It wasn't the silence of an empty room, but the silence of a predator deciding exactly how much effort it would take to break its prey. His gaze remained cool, clinical, and utterly unimpressed by your outburst.

​"Wouldn't I?" he asked, his voice a low, melodic thrum. "I have lived for three centuries, little elf. I have stared down inquisitors, broken sieges, and outlasted empires. Do you truly believe a sharp tongue and a glare are enough to stay my hand?"

​He leaned in just an inch closer, the faint scent of old parchment and cold night air clinging to his clothes.

​"I have already stripped you of your magic and brought you into my home against your will," he reminded you, his tone devoid of cruelty but heavy with a terrifying pragmatism. "Do not mistake my hospitality for hesitation. I have no desire to be your enemy, but I have even less desire to watch you starve out of spite."

​"Osc, maybe give her a minute," Lando muttered from the corner, shifting uncomfortably. The werewolf’s protective instincts were clearly warring—his loyalty to Oscar clashing with the visible distress on your face.

​Oscar didn't look away from you. "She has had a minute. She has had several hours."

​He held the cup out again, the steam rising between you. "The broth, or the wolf. It’s a very simple equation. Your pride isn't going to heal your wound, but this will."

​You looked at the cup, then back at his unyielding expression. You could feel Lando’s anxious energy behind you, like a heat lamp in the room, while Oscar sat before you like a wall of ice. You were trapped between a force of nature and a force of will.

"No!" you snarled, the sound raw and guttural, a desperate animalistic defiance echoing through the small room. You flashed your teeth at him—a sharp, white warning that might have intimidated a human, but to a vampire, it was merely a spark of dying spirit.

​Oscar’s expression didn't flicker, but the air in the room suddenly grew heavy. "Lando," he said, not even needing to look over his shoulder.

​The mattress groaned as Lando moved. He didn't hesitate this time; his shadow loomed over you, broad and inescapable. He reached out, his large hands moving toward your shoulders with the intent to pin you firmly against the pillows.

The heat radiating from him was stifling, a reminder of the raw, physical power he held over your weakened frame.

​The sight of the werewolf closing in was the final blow to your resolve. Your shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of you as quickly as your magic had.

​"Okay! Okay," you gasped, your voice trembling. You shrank back into the headboard, your hands coming up in a frantic, defensive gesture. "I'll do it. Just... stay back."

​Lando stopped instantly, hovering just inches away. He looked down at you, his amber eyes filled with a flash of apology before he retreated just enough to give you air. He didn't go back to his chair, though; he stayed close, a silent enforcer waiting for Oscar’s next move.

​Oscar didn't gloat. He simply watched you, his gaze unreadable, as he held the silver cup out once more.

​With your hands shaking so violently that the lead bracelets clinked with a heavy, rhythmic chink-chink, you reached out and took the cup. The metal was warm, and the scent of the broth was rich and savory—infuriatingly tempting to your starving body.

You took a small, hesitant sip under Oscar’s watchful eye. The warmth spread through your chest, a cruel contrast to the cold void where your magic used to be.

​"Good," Oscar murmured, leaning back slightly, though he didn't leave the edge of the bed. "See? Not so difficult. If you cooperate, the bracelets will be off sooner. If you continue to fight us..." He let the threat hang in the air, his eyes tracking the way you swallowed.

​Lando let out a long, relieved sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "See, starlight? Not poison. Just Oscar’s 'special recipe' for people who don't know when to quit." He tried to offer a small, lopsided smile, but his eyes remained wary, settled on your pale, haunted face.

You forced yourself to swallow the broth slowly, despite your body’s urge to bolt it down. It was rich, seasoned with wild thyme and a hint of salt that made your parched throat ache with relief. It was easily the best thing you’d tasted in months, but you kept your expression flat, your gaze darting between the vampire’s frozen elegance and the werewolf’s restless warmth.

​You lowered the cup slightly, the lead cuffs feeling like anchors on your thin wrists.

​"So," you began, your voice still a bit raspy but regaining some of its elven clarity. "Will you at least tell me your names? Or am I to refer to you as 'The Statue' and 'The Beast' for the duration of my captivity?"

​Lando let out a sudden, bark-like laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally snapping. He looked at Oscar with an amused glint in his amber eyes. "The Beast? I like that. It’s got a bit of flair, doesn't it?"

​Oscar didn't laugh. He didn't even crack a smile, though the corner of his mouth gave a microscopic twitch. He adjusted the cuff of his shirt, looking every bit the aristocrat he was.

​"I am Oscar," he said, his voice smooth and measured. "And the 'Beast' currently eyeing the rest of your soup is Lando."

​"Hey! I wasn't eyeing it," Lando protested, though he did take a half-step closer to the bed, looking much more like a golden retriever than a predatory wolf. He leaned against the bedpost, crossing his arms. "I'm the one who carried you half the way here, by the way. Oscar did the fast part, but I did the heavy lifting."

​"You did the complaining," Oscar corrected drily. He turned his attention back to you, his dark eyes searching yours with a piercing intensity. "Now that we’ve moved past the introductions, perhaps you can tell us yours? It’s a rare thing to find a High Elf wandering a human market with a gut wound."

​You tightened your grip on the cup, the metal cool against your palms. You knew the weight of a name—how it could be used as a tether or a curse. But looking at the two of them—the vampire who had saved your life while his nature screamed to end it, and the werewolf who looked at you with more pity than hunger—you felt a strange, flickering moment of safety.

​"I’m y/n" you whispered.

​"Well, y/n," Lando said, his voice soft and surprisingly kind. "Welcome to the safest place you’ve been in a long time. Even if it feels like a cage right now."

​Oscar stood up then, the movement so fluid it was almost unsettling. "Finish the broth. Then you sleep. We’ll discuss the terms of your... stay... in the morning."

The clink of the lead bracelets echoed like a funeral knell in the quiet room. As the warmth of the broth hit your stomach, the reality of your situation felt even more suffocating. You dropped the silver cup onto the tray, the liquid sloshing over the side, and reached out toward Oscar’s retreating form.

​"Please," you whispered, your voice cracking, stripped of all its former steel. "Take them off. I can’t... I can't breathe like this."

You stretched your arms toward him, the heavy metal cuffs sliding down your forearms. It was a plea for mercy, a raw display of vulnerability that felt like baring your throat to a blade.

​You saw it then—the way Oscar’s back muscles pulled taut beneath the fine fabric of his coat. He froze, his hand hovering over the doorframe. For a second, the air in the cabin seemed to thin, the silence heavy with the internal war he was clearly fighting. You could almost feel the pull of your blood on his senses, competing with the desperate, hollow ache of your magic.

​"No," he said.

​The word was short, firm, and final. He didn't turn around to look at you. He knew if he saw the look in your eyes, his resolve might fracture, and he couldn't afford to be weak when your life was the stake.

​Lando stood by the bed for a moment longer. He looked at your trembling hands and the raw skin beneath the lead. His amber eyes were swimming with an apologetic warmth, his lips thinning into a line of shared pain. He reached out as if to pat your hand, but hesitated, drawing back instead.

​"Just sleep," Lando murmured softly. "The night goes faster if you aren't awake to count the hours."

​With a final, lingering look of guilt, Lando followed Oscar out. The heavy oak door groaned on its hinges and clicked shut, followed by the unmistakable sound of a heavy bolt sliding into place.

​You were left alone in the soft glow of the hearthfire. You pulled your arms back to your chest, the lead feeling colder than ever. Outside the window, the wind began to howl through the trees, but inside the cabin, the only sound was the frantic, uneven rhythm of your own heart and the mocking silence where your magic used to sing.

The silence of the room wasn't peaceful; it was violent.

​Without the soft, humming background radiation of your magic to buffer the world, your elven biology was overcompensating.

Every floorboard groan sounded like a crack of thunder, and the flickering of the hearthfire was a rhythmic roar. Your ears—exposed and sensitive—twitched at the friction of the silk sheets against your skin. It was overstimulating, a sensory flood that made your head throb.

Desperate to find a focal point, you sat up, leaning toward the heavy oak door. If you could just hear their voices, maybe you could figure out their plan. Maybe you could find a weakness.

​You strained your hearing, tilting your head and focusing every ounce of your sharpened senses on the gap beneath the door.

​Nothing.

​At first, you thought they had simply left the cabin, but then you saw it. Faint, shimmering lines carved into the wood of the doorframe—Silencing Runes. They were etched with a precision that only a vampire of Oscar's age could master. The runes created a vacuum of noise, ensuring that whatever was discussed in the hallway or the parlor stayed between them.

​You slumped back against the headboard, the lead bracelets clashing together with a heavy thud that made you wince.

​The realization was a bitter pill: Oscar hadn't just taken your magic; he had perfectly neutralized your every advantage. He knew exactly what an elf was capable of, even a broken one. You were trapped in a room, left with nothing but the loud, frantic thumping of your own heart and the scent of the healing herbs that mocked your helplessness.

​Outside, the moon was rising, and you knew that for a werewolf and a vampire, the night was just beginning. For you, it felt like an eternity in a lightless room.

The air in the room felt thick, a stagnant pool of silence that pressed against your eardrums. You stared at the flickering runes on the doorframe, their faint blue luminescence mocking you. If they blocked sound from coming in, did they block it from going out? You tested it, letting out a small, sharp intake of breath, then a soft hum.

The sound felt swallowed by the room, flat and lifeless, as if the very air refused to carry your voice out.

​If they couldn't hear you, perhaps they couldn't hear the latch of a window, either.

​Shifting your weight, you slid out of the bed. The movement was a slow, agonizing process; without your magic to dull the physical toll, the wound in your side felt like a hot brand pressed against your skin.

You clutched the oversized linen shirt to your body, the heavy lead bracelets swinging like pendulums, bruising your wrists with every step.

The wooden floor was ice-cold beneath your bare feet, each grain of wood feeling abnormally sharp against your heightened senses.

​You reached the window, your fingers trembling as they hovered near the iron latch. You didn't open it yet. Instead, you pressed your forehead against the glass, peering out into the moonlit wilderness.

​Your heart sank.

​The cabin wasn't nestled in a gentle clearing; it was perched on a jagged rise of stone. You weren't on the ground floor. Looking down, the earth felt dizzyingly far away—at least twenty feet of sheer timber walls and sharp, protruding rock below. On the second floor, you were effectively treed. Even at your peak, a jump from this height would be a gamble; in your current state, with your magic bound and your body broken, it would be suicide.

​The moonlight caught the silver of the forest beyond, the trees swaying in a wind you couldn't hear. It looked like freedom, yet it was entirely out of reach.

​A shadow moved near the edge of the tree line. Your ears flicked, catching the distant, rhythmic thump-thump of something heavy hitting the earth. It was Lando. Even from this height, you could see the massive golden-brown wolf pacing the perimeter of the cabin. He wasn't just out for a run; he was patrolling. Every few paces, he would stop, his snout lifting to the wind, scenting for threats—or perhaps, scenting for you.

​You realized then that the cabin wasn't just a hideout; it was a fortress designed by two of the world's most efficient predators.

You leaned your head against the cool pane of the window, a single tear tracing a path through the dust on your cheek. The lead on your wrists felt heavier than the stone foundation of the house. You weren't a guest, and you weren't just a survivor. You were a captive of the very thing you had spent your entire life running from: the gaze of those who knew exactly how much your life was worth.

The soft luxury of the bed was an insult you couldn't stomach. To an elf, vulnerability was the precursor to the cage, and you had spent too many years avoiding both to simply lie down and wait for morning.

​Moving with the silent, ghost-like caution of your people, you began to scavenge the room. You kept one eye on the bolted door and the other on the window where the golden wolf patrolled below. Your daggers—your beautiful, twin-leaf blades forged in the forest—were nowhere to be found. Oscar was too thorough to leave such masterwork steel within your reach.

​But even the most meticulous vampire can overlook the mundane.

​Near the hearth, tucked into a small wooden box meant for paring fruit or cutting wick, you found it: a small, utilitarian knife. It lacked the balance of your daggers and the edge was slightly dull, but as your fingers closed around the handle, a tiny spark of heat returned to your chest. It wasn't magic, but it was a tool. It was a choice.

​The lead bracelets clinked as you tucked the small blade into the waistband of your borrowed trousers.

​You didn't go back to the bed. Instead, you dragged a heavy, high-backed wooden chair toward the corner of the room furthest from the door but nearest to the window. It offered you a clear view of the entrance while keeping your back to the solid timber wall.

​You slid down onto the floor, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. The heavy cuffs weighed down your limbs, a constant, numbing reminder of your powerlessness, but you gripped the small knife hidden in your lap with white-knuckled intensity.

The fire in the hearth eventually died down to glowing embers, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. Every pop of the cooling wood made your ears twitch; every shift of the wind against the cabin's exterior felt like a footstep.

​You sat in the dark, a small, broken star in a cage of wood and lead. You wouldn't sleep. You wouldn't be caught off guard again. If Oscar or Lando came through that door, they wouldn't find a grateful patient—they would find what was left of a warrior, waiting in the shadows with a sliver of steel and a heart full of defiance.

The voices filtered into your consciousness like smoke, pulling you out of a dreamless, heavy stupor. Your neck was stiff, and your legs had gone numb from being tucked against the cold floor.

​"That looks uncomfortable," a warm, familiar voice murmured. It carried that low, vibrating hum you now recognized as Lando’s.

​"Not as uncomfortable as some of the positions I have put you in," a second voice responded. It was Oscar—cool, dry, and laced with a hint of dark playfulness that made your skin prickle.

​"Oscar!" Lando’s reprimand was followed by a muffled, fleshy thud—the sound of a playful shove or a hand hitting a shoulder—and a burst of quiet, genuine laughter.

The sound of their easy, intimate banter felt jarring in the high-stakes silence of your terror. You blinked, your vision blurry. You must have fallen asleep, you thought groggily, a wave of self-loathing hitting you. You had meant to stay awake, to be a sentry, but your battered body had betrayed your will.

​As your eyes adjusted, you realized the door was open. The silencing runes were dark, the spell deactivated for the morning.

​The two men were standing just inside the threshold. Lando was leaning against the doorframe, now fully dressed in a soft, cream-colored shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves, his curls a mess. Oscar stood a few paces ahead of him, looking as though he had stepped out of a portrait—not a hair out of place, his pale skin luminous in the morning light.

​Their eyes landed on you at the same time. They saw everything: the way you were huddled in the corner, the chair moved to form a pathetic barricade, and the white-knuckled grip you had on the small fruit knife hidden in your lap.

​The laughter died out instantly.

​"Morning, starlight," Lando said, his voice dropping to a cautious, gentle register. He didn't move toward you, sensing the sheer tension in your frame. "You're a stubborn one, aren't you? That floor is stone-cold."

​Oscar’s gaze dropped to the small knife peeking out from your fingers. He didn't look angry; he looked almost disappointed, his brow furrowing in a way that felt more like a lecture than a threat.

​"A paring knife?" Oscar asked, his voice smooth as silk. "I expected better of a High Elf. If you intend to kill me with that, you’ll find my skin is significantly tougher than an apple’s."

​He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his shadow stretching across the floorboards toward your feet. "Put the toy away before you accidentally nick yourself. We have things to discuss, and I prefer my guests to be conscious for the negotiations."

"Stay there," you snapped, your voice cracking with the effort to remain steady. You thrust the paring knife forward, the small blade trembling in the morning light. The lead bracelets felt twice as heavy now, dragging at your wrists as you tried to maintain your guard.

​Oscar didn't stop. He didn't even flinch. He simply watched the tip of the blade with the detached curiosity of a scholar looking at a dull insect. Then, something in his eyes shifted. The dark, wine-colored irises seemed to expand, bleeding into the whites until his gaze became an abyss of ancient, hypnotic power.

​"I told you," he said, his voice dropping into a low, resonant frequency that bypassed your ears and vibrated directly into your skull, "to put it away."

​The effect was instantaneous and terrifying.

​A wave of strange, cold numbness washed over your arm. It felt as though your nerves were no longer your own, but wires being tugged by a master puppeteer. Your fingers, which had been white-knuckled with defiance just a second ago, began to uncurl. You fought it—your mind screamed for you to hold on, to stay armed, to stay dangerous—but your body didn't care.

The knife slipped from your palm, clattering loudly against the wooden floor.

​"That's better," Oscar murmured. The heavy, pressurized weight of his gaze lifted, leaving you feeling light-headed and violated.

​"Oscar, easy," Lando muttered from the doorway, his playful mood gone. He took a step into the room, his eyes darting between your trembling form and Oscar’s cold profile. "She’s already terrified. You don’t need to use your powers on her."

​"I do if she insists on being a danger to herself," Oscar replied, not taking his eyes off you. He reached down and picked up the small knife, flicking the blade shut with a sharp click before tucking it into his waistcoat pocket.

​You sat there, slumped against the wall, your hands resting uselessly on your knees. The lead bracelets hummed against your skin, and for the first time, you realized that even without your magic, you were never going to be on equal footing with him. He didn't need your blood to control you; he just needed you to listen.

​"Now," Oscar said, standing tall and looking down at you. "you are going to move to the table like a civilized being"

The sensation was sickening. It wasn't that your mind had changed, but that your muscles had simply ceased to recognize your own authority. Before a single conscious thought could reach your feet, your legs straightened, lifting you from your huddled position in the corner with a mechanical, fluid grace that felt entirely foreign.

​You watched your own feet move across the floorboards—left, right, left—feeling like a ghost haunting your own skin. The lead bracelets clinked with each step, a heavy metallic rhythm that marked your march toward the table.

​Oscar stood by the chair, his hand resting on the carved wooden back, watching you with an expression of cool, clinical satisfaction. He pulled the chair out just as your body arrived, and your knees bent, lowering you into the seat with a precision that made your stomach churn.

​Once you were seated, the invisible strings snapped.

​The weight of your own body crashed back onto your consciousness. You gasped, your hands flying to the edge of the table to steady yourself, the cold wood a grounding shock against your palms. You looked up at Oscar, your chest heaving, eyes wide with a mixture of fury and genuine horror.

​"Don't... don't ever do that again," you whispered, your voice shaking with the violation of it.

​Oscar didn't flinch. He sat opposite you, his movements slow and deliberate, while Lando lingered behind him, looking deeply uncomfortable. The werewolf shifted his weight, his amber eyes darting to the floor.

​"It’s called 'The Command,' starlight," Lando said softly, his voice full of a pity that felt like salt in a wound. "It’s a vampire thing. It’s... not meant to be cruel, usually. Just efficient."

​"Efficiency is small comfort when your own body betray you," you spat, clutching your wrists. The lead cuffs felt even more restrictive now, as if they were part of the same tether Oscar used to move you like a doll.

​Oscar leaned forward, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers. The morning sun hit the sharp line of his features, highlighting the predatory stillness that defined him.

​"I have no interest in making you a puppet," Oscar said, his voice returning to its natural, velvet smoothness. "But I will not have you lunging at me with kitchen utensils while your side is still held together by hope. Now that you are sitting, and presumably listening, we can discuss why a High Elf is being hunted through a commoner's market by men carrying silver-edged blades."

He paused, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "Because those men didn't want your life, little elf. They had cages in their wagons. They wanted your vessel."

The moment you closed your eyes, the darkness behind your eyelids wasn't empty. It was filled with the smell of wet iron, the sound of heavy wheels creaking over mud, and the sight of those specialized, glass-lined jars the hunters carried—vessels designed to keep Elven blood from losing its potency.

​"I don't know," you whispered, the lie tasting like ash on your tongue.

​You knew exactly what they wanted. To them, you were an investment. A High Elf could be drained slowly for decades, or, if they were particularly ambitious, used to produce more of your kind—a self-replenishing source that would make them the richest men in the kingdom.

​"Don’t lie."

​Oscar’s voice didn't rise, but it grew cold, vibrating with a frequency that made the lead bracelets on your wrists hum. His gaze hardened into something sharp and unforgiving. He didn't just hear your lie; he felt the skip in your heart and the way your scent spiked with fear. He was a predator; he knew the taste of a secret.

​Lando, sensing the shift in Oscar’s temperature, moved closer. He pulled out the chair directly beside the vampire and sank into it with a familiar, easy grace. Without breaking eye contact with you, Lando leaned in, resting his shoulder against Oscar’s and tucking his head slightly toward the vampire's neck. It was a clear display of their bond—the wild, warm energy of the wolf curling around the cold, static power of the vampire.

​Oscar didn't pull away; he seemed to anchor himself in Lando’s presence, though his eyes remained fixed on you like a hawk.

​"We saw the cages, y/n," Lando said, his voice softer than Oscar's but no less serious. He reached out an arm, his fingers brushing against Oscar's sleeve as he settled in. "Those men weren't looking for a thief. They were looking for a prize. If we’re going to keep you hidden, we need to know exactly how high the bounty on your head is."

"They will not stop looking," Oscar added, his hand coming up to rest momentarily on Lando’s knee, a silent acknowledgment of the wolf's comfort. "And if they find this cabin, they won't just be coming for you. They’ll be coming for the monsters who 'stole' their property."

​He leaned forward, his shadow falling across the table. "Were you the only one? Or are there more of you being used as livestock?"

The lead bracelets hit the wooden table with a heavy, hollow thud as you laid your arms out like an offering. The Morning sun caught the intricate runes etched into the metal—the very things keeping you hollow.

​"Take these off," you said, your voice steadying as you met his gaze with a newfound resolve, "and I will tell you."

​For a heartbeat, the room went entirely still. You saw it—a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of Oscar’s upper lip. It wasn't a smile; it was the ripple of a predator being tested. Beside him, Lando shifted, his amber eyes flicking toward Oscar's face, waiting to see if the vampire would bend.

​"No," Oscar said. The word was a flat, cold stone.

​He didn't blink. He didn't even glance at the wrists you were offering. "Your cooperation is not a currency for your safety, y/n. You are alive because we choose for you to be. The bracelets remain until I am certain you won't use that magic to flee into the arms of the very men who want to bottle your soul."

​"Then I won't tell," you snapped.

​You pulled your arms back under the table, the lead clinking against your thighs. You leaned back, mirroring his coldness as best you could while your heart hammered against your ribs. "If I am to be a prisoner regardless, then my secrets are the only things I still own. You can use your 'Command' to make me walk, Oscar, but I'd like to see you try and command an Elven mind to speak what it chooses to hide."

​Lando winced, his hand tightening on Oscar’s shoulder. "Hey, let's not do the 'immovable object meets irresistible force' thing today, yeah? We're all on the same side."

​"Are we?" You looked pointedly at the heavy cuffs. "Because from where I'm sitting, I’m the only one here who can't leave, and you're the only ones who seem to be enjoying the morning."

Oscar’s eyes darkened, the red hue bleeding into the black. He looked at Lando, whose head was still tilted toward him, and then back at you. The air in the room grew heavy again, that pressurized silence returning.

​"You are proud," Oscar murmured, a dangerous edge of respect cutting through his frost. "It is a trait that usually gets your kind killed. But very well. Keep your secrets for now. But remember—when the hunters come knocking on this door, and they will, your silence won't just be your problem. It will be ours."

​He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. "Lando, feed her. I need to check the perimeter wards. Apparently, our guest thinks she's in a position to negotiate."

The suddenness of Oscar's departure felt like the floor dropping out from under you. Without him, there was no release; without his word, the lead on your wrists might as well be permanent.

​"Wait!" you called out, the word tearing from your throat.

​You surged upward, your chair screeching back, but you moved too fast. The jagged wound in your side—the one Oscar had meticulously stitched—protested with a white-hot flare of agony. You doubled over, a sharp, pained hiss escaping your teeth as you clutched your ribs.

​Oscar stopped. He didn't turn immediately; he stood with his back to you, his shoulders set in a hard, uncompromising line. The silence in the room was deafening until he slowly pivoted on his heel.

​His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were like twin embers. He walked back toward the table, each footfall slow and deliberate, until he was standing directly in front of you. He was so close you could feel the preternatural chill radiating off him, a stark contrast to the heat coming from Lando.

​"I am sorry," you whispered, your head bowed, your silver hair falling like a veil to hide your face.

​The apology felt like a physical weight, heavier even than the bracelets. You were a High Elf, a creature of starlight and ancient song, and here you were, bowing to a shadow.

Oscar reached out. For a moment, you flinched, expecting the cold bite of his Command or the grip of a captor. Instead, he placed two fingers under your chin and tilted your head up. His touch was icy, but his grip was surprisingly light.

​"Apologies are easy," Oscar said, his voice a low, smooth vibration. "Truth is much harder. Do you apologize because you regret your silence, or because you realized you are helpless without me?"

​Lando stood up from his chair, hovering at Oscar's elbow, his face etched with concern. "Oscar, leave it," he murmured softly. "She's shaking."

​Oscar ignored him, his gaze boring into yours, searching for the crack in your armor. "If I take them off, do you give me your word—not as a prisoner, but as an Elf—that you will not try to run until your blood is replenished? Because if you run now, you won't make it to the treeline before your heart gives out."

​He let go of your chin, his hand hovering near the etched lead of your left wrist. "Your word, y/n. Is it worth more than your pride?"

The moment the word left your lips, the air in the room seemed to settle. "I promise," you breathed, the vow coming out in a desperate rush. You would have promised him the moon, the stars, or your very lineage just to be rid of the dead weight pressing against your soul.

​Oscar didn’t hesitate. He reached out and encircled both of your wrists with a single, cold hand. His grip was like a band of iron, effortless and absolute, pulling your arms toward the center of the table.

​Lando leaned in, his breath hitching as he watched. He knew the weight of what was happening; a vampire of Oscar's age didn't often undo his own security measures.

Then, Oscar began to speak.

​His voice dropped an octave, losing its velvet charm and taking on the resonance of grinding stone and ancient earth. The language was archaic, a series of guttural, melodic syllables that felt older than the cabin, older than the forest itself. As he spoke, the temperature in the room plummeted.

​The etched runes on the lead began to pulse. A soft, ghostly blue light bled from the metal, casting long, flickering shadows against Oscar’s pale face. You felt a sharp, tingling sensation—like needles pricking your skin—as the magic that bound the shackles began to unravel.

​With a final, resonating word that vibrated in your very teeth, the internal mechanisms of the cuffs groaned.

​Click.

​The heavy metal bands snapped open. Oscar let go of your wrists, and the bracelets fell onto the wooden table with a heavy, final thud.

​The rush was instantaneous. It wasn't that your magic was fully back—your body was still too depleted to call forth a storm—but the connection was restored. The hollow feeling vanished, replaced by the faint, shimmering hum of the world around you. You could feel the life in the wood of the table, the distant pulse of the trees outside, and the overwhelming, thrumming heat of the werewolf sitting inches away.

​You pulled your hands back to your chest, rubbing the raw, red circles the lead had left behind. Your skin felt strangely light, almost as if you might float away.

​Oscar sat back, his eyes returning to their natural, dark state, though he looked slightly more tired than he had moments ago. He tucked his hands into his pockets, watching you with a hawk-like intensity.

​"Your word is given," Oscar reminded you, his voice returning to its calm, aristocratic silk. "The shackles of metal are gone. Do not make me replace them with shackles of blood."

​Lando let out a long, shaky breath, reaching out to slide a plate of fresh bread toward you. "There. Much better, right? Now, eat something that isn't liquid, starlight. You look like a stiff breeze would knock you over."

"Thank you... thank you," you whispered, the words tumbling out with genuine, shaky gratitude. The relief was so immense it felt like a physical weight had been lifted from your lungs, allowing you to finally draw a full breath. You kept your eyes on your wrists, obsessively rubbing the raw, chafed skin where the lead had sat. Without the dampening effect of the metal, you could feel the faint, rhythmic throb of your own circulation again—a tiny, flickering spark of your magic beginning to slowly, painfully knit itself back together.

Lando’s expression softened completely, his amber eyes losing every bit of their previous wariness. He looked like he wanted to reach out and cover your hands with his own to stop the frantic rubbing, but he kept his distance, respecting your space.

​"Eat," Lando urged, pushing the plate of thick, crusty bread and a small crock of golden honey even closer until it brushed against your knuckles. "Your body needs fuel to make magic, starlight. You can’t weave light out of thin air if you’re starving."

​He broke off a piece of the bread himself, showing you it was soft and fresh, the steam still rising from the dough. "Oscar’s right about one thing—you’re far too thin for a High Elf. I’ve seen saplings with more meat on 'em."

​Oscar, meanwhile, had regained his posture of detached elegance. He watched you with a clinical eye, noting the way your pupils reacted to the return of your internal light. He didn't join in on the warmth, but he didn't pull away either.

​"The redness will fade by midday," Oscar noted, his voice smooth and low. "I have a salve made of crushed marigold and beeswax that will take the sting out of the skin. Lando will bring it to you once you’ve finished that plate."

​He stood up, his tall silhouette blocking out a portion of the morning sun. "I will be in the study. Lando, once she is fed, she is to rest. No wandering the gardens, and certainly no climbing out of windows." He paused, his gaze flicking to you one last time. "We have a deal, y/n. I expect you to be ready to talk when the sun hits the meridian."

​As Oscar glided out of the room, Lando leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't mind him. He’s just grumpy because he had to use his 'Ancient Voice' before he had his morning tea. Or... well, his breakfast. Come on, try the honey. I gathered it myself from a hive near the creek."

Your eyes lingered on the door where Oscar had vanished, the air still seemingly vibrating from the weight of his presence. You felt a strange pull—a mixture of lingering fear and a budding, reluctant curiosity about the vampire who held your life in his cold hands.

The sound of crinkling tinfoil snapped your attention back to the table. Lando held a small, folded square of it, revealing a thick, amber-colored salve that smelled strongly of honey, earthy marigold, and a hint of something minty that cleared your senses.

​You hesitated, your fingers twitching toward the safety of your own lap. You weren't used to being touched—not like this. Elves were creatures of distance and grace, and your recent months as a fugitive had made any physical contact feel like a precursor to a blow.

​Lando noticed the flicker of doubt in your eyes. He didn't wait for you to retreat.

​"Easy, starlight. I'm not going to bite," he said with a soft, lopsided grin.

​He reached out and gently took your hands in his. His palms were massive compared to yours, calloused and radiating a steady, pulsing heat that felt like sitting too close to a sun-warmed boulder. Despite his size, his touch was incredibly light.

​As he began to spread the salve over the raw, red circles around your wrists, you felt a cooling sensation wash over the irritation. The sting vanished almost instantly, replaced by a soothing numbness.

​"There," Lando murmured, his focus entirely on his task. He used his thumb to work the cream into your skin with rhythmic, circular motions. "Oscar’s a grouch, but he knows his alchemy. This will have the skin closed up before the sun is high."

​He looked up at you then, his amber eyes searching yours from beneath his messy curls. For a moment, the predator was gone, replaced by a man who looked genuinely pained by the marks on your skin.

​"You're safe here," he said, his voice dropping to a low, sincere rumble. "I know it doesn't feel like it yet. I know we're... a bit much. But nobody is going to put those back on you as long as I'm standing between you and the door. You have my word on that."

​He gave your hands a tiny, reassuring squeeze before letting go, gesturing toward the bread again. "Now, eat. Before I decide to finish the honey myself."

​How long has it been since you’ve had anyone, let alone a man, treat you with something other than greed?

You took a bite of the bread, the crust crackling between your teeth. It was warm and buttery, but your mind was far from the meal. You swallowed, your gaze flicking back to Lando, who was still watching you with that unnerving, warm intensity.

​"What have you done with my things?" you asked, trying to keep your voice level, though a note of desperation slipped through. "My daggers. My pack. You haven't... you haven't thrown them out, have you?"

​Lando let out a low, huffing sound that might have been a laugh if he wasn't trying so hard to be gentle. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his thick arms behind his head.

​"Thrown them out?" he echoed. "Starlight, those blades are masterpieces. Oscar spent ten minutes just admiring the balance on them before he locked them away. He said the steel was 'forged in moonlight and tempered in ice,' or some other poetic vampire nonsense."

​He gestured vaguely toward the hallway, toward the room Oscar had called his study.

"They’re safe. Oscar has them in a glass case in the study—mostly to keep me from touching them, I think. He’s a bit of a collector. And your pack is tucked away in the trunk at the foot of your bed. Everything is there, down to the last silver coin and dried herb."

​He looked at you seriously, his amber eyes settling.

​"We aren't thieves. We took them because you were unconscious and, frankly, you looked like you’d try to gut us the second you saw our shadows. Which, to be fair, you did try to do anyway."

​He reached out and tapped the table near your plate. "You’ll get them back. But Oscar won't hand over those daggers until he’s sure you won’t try to plant one in his heart the moment he turns his back. He’s very fond of that heart, even if it doesn't beat much."

​You felt a small wave of relief wash over you. The daggers were family heirlooms, etched with the names of your ancestors. Losing them would have been like losing your history.

​"Can I see them?" you asked softly. "Just to know they're... intact?"

Lando’s smile widened, a flash of genuine warmth that crinkled the corners of his amber eyes. He didn't have the guarded, calculating air of the vampire; he seemed to operate on a frequency of simple, grounded honesty.

​"Finish your food first," he insisted, leaning back and crossing his massive arms over his chest. "If you have the energy for it after that, I’ll show you around the cabin. It’s better you know where everything is—and where the boundaries are—than for you to go poking around in the dark and tripping over one of Oscar's more... temperamental antiques."

​You were taken aback by how easily he agreed. You had expected another round of negotiations, or perhaps a flat refusal until you’d "earned" their trust. The immediate compliance made your elven instincts prickle with confusion; in the world you had been living in, nothing was given without a steep price. But you didn't voice your suspicion. You weren't about to talk yourself out of a chance to see where your weapons were being kept.

​You began to eat with a much faster pace, the fear of losing the opportunity outweighing the lingering ache in your side. The bread was hearty, the honey rich and floral, and as the nutrients hit your bloodstream, you felt a faint, golden hum of energy begin to return to your limbs. It wasn't the roaring tide of magic you were used to, but it was a start—a flickering candle in a previously darkened room.

Lando watched you with an amused expression, his head tilted to the side. "Slow down, starlight. The daggers aren't going to sprout legs and walk away. Oscar is a man of many faults, but he’s obsessed with preservation. He probably spent half the night cleaning the road grime off your hilts with a silk cloth."

​As you swallowed the last of the bread and wiped the honey from your fingers, you felt a surge of restless vitality. You pushed the plate away, the wood scraping lightly against the table. Your wrists, now coated in the soothing marigold salve, felt remarkably better—the raw, angry red was already fading into a dull pink.

​"I'm finished," you said, your voice regaining some of its melodic, elven strength. You stood up, testing your weight. The sharp pain in your side was now a dull, manageable throb, thanks to the combination of the meal and the removal of the lead dampeners.

​Lando stood as well, towering over you. He moved with a heavy, rhythmic grace, like the shifting of the forest floor. He gestured toward the archway leading out of the kitchen.

​"Alright then. Tour starts now," he said, his voice a low rumble. "We'll start with the main hall. Just... a word of advice? Try not to touch anything that glows blue. Oscar likes his wards, and they aren't always as friendly to guests as I am."

​He led the way out of the kitchen, his presence a shield of heat in the drafty hallway. As you followed, your eyes darted to every corner, every shadow, and every window. You weren't just taking a tour; you were mapping your cage.

​The cabin was larger than it appeared from the outside, constructed of ancient, darkened timber and decorated with artifacts that looked like they belonged in a museum—tapestries that depicted wars long forgotten, and silver-rimmed mirrors that seemed to hold onto reflections for a second too long.

​"Down that way is the cellar—stay out of there, it's mostly Oscar's 'vintage' collection and it smells like a tomb," Lando explained, pointing to a heavy iron-bound door. "And up those stairs is the library and Oscar's study."

​He stopped in front of a pair of double doors made of polished mahogany. He reached out, his hand hovering over the handle, before he turned back to you with a wink.

​"Ready to see your daggers?"

"Yes," you breathed, the word nearly tripping over itself in your haste. The prospect of being reunited with your blades—the last physical tether to your home and your kin—sent a jolt of adrenaline through your veins that even your fatigue couldn't suppress.

​Lando’s smile softened into something almost indulgent. He didn't just point the way; he reached out and took your hand. His palm was a broad, calloused expanse of radiating heat, his fingers curling around yours with a firm but careful pressure, as if he were guiding a fledgling bird back to its nest. The contact was jarring—your people rarely touched so casually—but the warmth was a welcome contrast to the icy memory of the lead shackles. He led you through the hallway, his heavy boots thumping a steady rhythm against the floorboards, while your bare feet made no sound at all, like a ghost following a titan.

​When he reached the mahogany doors of the study, he didn't knock. He simply pushed them open with the easy confidence of someone who knew he was always welcome.

​The air inside the study was different from the rest of the cabin. It was cool, still, and heavy with the scent of old parchment, expensive tobacco, and the metallic, underlying tang of ozone from the various magical artifacts lining the shelves. Sunlight filtered through tall, narrow windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air like tiny, golden spirits.

​Oscar was seated behind a massive desk of blackened oak, his silhouette framed by the sprawling library behind him. He was holding a delicate porcelain cup to his lips, his posture as rigid and elegant as a marble statue. At the sound of your entrance, he lowered the cup with agonizing slowness.

​Your breath hitched in your throat.

​The elegant, aristocratic mask Oscar wore was momentarily stained. His lips were slick with a vivid, visceral crimson, and as he set the cup down on a silver saucer, you saw the tips of his fangs—sharp, translucent, and tipped with wet, ruby-red blood. The sight was a violent reminder of exactly what he was. He wasn't just a savior or a jailer; he was an apex predator who required the life-force of others to maintain his frozen perfection.

​Oscar didn't look embarrassed. He didn't wipe his mouth. He simply stared at you with those dark, bottomless eyes, his gaze flicking from your face to the place where your hand was still entwined with Lando’s.

​"You move quickly for someone who was at death's door twenty-four hours ago," Oscar remarked, his voice a low, melodic thrum that seemed to vibrate the very air. He picked up a silk handkerchief and daintily dabbed at the corner of his mouth, the white fabric blooming with red stains. "I assume Lando has been filling your head with promises of a grand tour?"

​"She wanted to see the daggers, Oscar," Lando said, his voice dropping an octave as he felt the tension radiating off you. He didn't let go of your hand; if anything, his grip tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a silent gesture of protection. "I told her you were keeping them safe."

​Oscar’s gaze drifted to a velvet-lined display case sitting on a pedestal near the window. Inside, resting on a bed of midnight-blue silk, lay your twin blades. They looked beautiful—the silver filigree of the hilts had been polished until they glowed, and the ancient Elven runes along the flat of the blades seemed to pulse with a faint, sympathetic light now that your own magic was no longer suppressed by lead.

"They are remarkable specimens," Oscar said, standing up. He moved around the desk with that fluid, predatory grace that made your heart hammer against your ribs. He stopped a few feet away, his presence a cold front moving in against Lando’s heat. "Most of your kind carry toys. These, however... these have tasted the blood of kings and the shadows of the Void. They are far too dangerous to be left in the hands of a girl who hasn't yet regained her balance."

​He looked directly at you, his eyes narrowing. "Do you feel that, y/n? The way they hum for you? They are hungry. And so are you." He stepped closer, the faint scent of copper clinging to him. "The question is: if I open that glass, will you use them to defend this house, or to try and carve a path through the two men who kept you from the butcher's block?"

The heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the study—thick with the scent of ancient ink and the metallic tang of fresh blood—shattered in an instant. Lando didn't just break the tension; he pulverized it with a casual, devastating grin.

​"Oh, Oscar, stop being such a buzzkill," Lando groaned, rolling his eyes so hard it looked physically taxing. He didn't let go of your hand; instead, he leaned his weight back, looking at the formidable vampire with the kind of playful irreverence that should have been suicidal.

"Honestly, the brooding 'Lord of the Manor' act is getting a bit dusty. Can't you be a bit more of the man I take to bed instead? You know, the one who actually knows how to have a conversation without sounding like a prophecy of doom?"

​The change in Oscar was visceral. The cold, predatory mask he had been wearing—the one stained with blood and sharpened by centuries of detachment—cracked like fine porcelain. For a split second, he looked genuinely stunned, his dark eyes widening as he stared at the werewolf. Then, the silence was broken by a sound you never expected to hear from a creature of his ilk.

​Oscar let out a laugh. It wasn't a cruel or mocking sound; it was a rich, melodic baritone that seemed to start deep in his chest. He shook his head, the terrifying image of the blood-stained aristocrat melting away into something far more human, even as he used the silk handkerchief to finally wipe the last of the crimson from his chin.

​"You are an incorrigible brute, Lando," Oscar murmured, though his tone was now shot through with a warmth that completely transformed his aura. He looked at the werewolf with a mixture of exasperation and deep, undeniable affection. "I am attempting to maintain a certain level of decorum for our guest, and you insist on dragging my reputation into the mud."

​"Your reputation is fine," Lando countered, flashing a cheeky, toothy grin. "It's your personality that needs a vacation."

​You, however, felt as though the temperature in the room had suddenly spiked to a fever pitch. Your cheeks flared with a heat so intense it felt like you were standing too close to an open forge. You were a High Elf, raised in the structured, ethereal courts where even a misplaced glance was considered scandalous, and yet here were your captors—a vampire and a werewolf—discussing their intimate life with the casual ease of neighbors talking about the weather.

​The realization of their bond hit you with the force of a physical blow. It wasn't just a tactical alliance or a shared residence; it was a tangled, living knot of fire and ice. You looked down at your feet, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the floorboards, trying to ignore the vivid images your mind was unhelpfully conjuring.

​"I... I apologize," you stammered, your voice small and thick with fluster. "I didn't realize... that is to say, I wasn't aware of the nature of your... arrangement."

​Oscar’s laughter subsided into a soft, lingering smile—the first genuine one you had seen. He stepped toward the glass case, his movements still graceful but lacking the sharp, lethal edge from moments before.

​"Do not be embarrassed, little elf," Oscar said, his voice now a gentle silk. "Lando simply lacks a filter between his heart and his tongue. It is one of his more... exhausting charms."

He reached into his waistcoat, producing a small, ornate silver key. With a delicate turn of his wrist, he unlocked the display case. The soft click of the latch sounded like music. He didn't take the daggers out, but he stepped aside, gesturing for you to come closer.

​"Come," he invited, his eyes meeting yours with a newfound softness.

"Since Lando has thoroughly ruined my attempt at intimidation, you might as well see your heritage. I have spent the night ensuring they were treated with the respect they deserve."

The moment your fingertips brushed the cool, familiar metal of the hilts, a jolt of recognition hummed through your very marrow. The daggers felt alive, responding to the faint spark of magic now flickering in your veins. They were pristine—free of the mud and dried blood of the market—and for the first time since the hunters had closed their nets, you felt like a person again, rather than a piece of prey.

​"Thank you," you whispered. You meant it. For a collector like Oscar to not only save your life but to tend to your steel with such reverence spoke of a code you hadn't expected from the undead.

​As you turned your head to meet his gaze, the breath you had just found hitched in your throat.

​In the kitchen and the hallway, the space had felt larger, but here, tucked between the desk and the display case, you were trapped in the gravity of two titans. Oscar was a pillar of elegant, frozen shadow, standing a full head and a half taller than you. His presence was cold and refined, like a mountain peak. Then there was Lando, still close enough that you could feel the rhythmic, sun-like heat radiating from his broad chest and heavy shoulders.

​Between the two of them, you felt impossibly small—fragile, like a piece of glass caught between two great stones. The height difference was sudden and overwhelming; you had to tilt your head back just to see the line of Oscar’s jaw.

​The memory of Lando’s earlier comment—about their "arrangement"—rushed back into your mind, making your skin burn. You were standing in the intimate sanctuary of two powerful predators who shared a bed, and the air suddenly felt far too thin.

​Your cheeks flared a deep, embarrassed crimson. You quickly averted your eyes, staring intensely at a stack of leather-bound books on the desk to avoid the amused, knowing glint you were sure was in Oscar’s eyes.

​"I... I think the salve is working very well," you managed to say, your voice a bit higher than usual, desperately trying to pivot back to a safe, clinical topic.

​Lando let out a low, vibrating chuckle that you could feel in your own chest. "Oh, she’s adorable when she’s flustered, Oscar. Look at her ears, they’re practically glowing."

​"Lando," Oscar warned, though his voice lacked any real bite. "Stop teasing our guest. She has had a traumatic few days; she doesn't need you treat her like a new pup in the den."

​He reached out, his long, pale fingers hovering near the glass case, and for a second, you thought he might touch your shoulder. Instead, he simply closed the lid—though he didn't turn the key.

​"Keep your daggers close, y/n" Oscar said softly. "But keep your promise closer. We are going to have that talk now. Lando, get her some tea. He is much better at brewing herbs than he is at being subtle."

The sound of Lando’s retreating laughter echoed down the hallway, leaving a sudden, ringing silence in the study. Without the werewolf’s boisterous warmth to act as a buffer, the air felt twice as charged.

​You frantically tucked strands of your silver hair behind your ears, trying to shield the telltale pink glow of your skin, but your elven physiology was a traitor. Your ears remained stubbornly peaked, twitching slightly with every beat of your heart. You felt like a moth pinned to a board under Oscar’s steady, ancient gaze.

​Oscar didn't move away to give you space. Instead, he watched your clumsy attempt at composure with a small, knowing smile that was far more unnerving than his earlier coldness. It wasn't a predatory smirk; it was the look of someone who had lived long enough to find the innocence of others deeply fascinating.

​"It is a futile effort," he murmured, his voice as smooth as aged wine. "High Elves have never been particularly good at hiding their hearts. Your people were built for truth, not deception."

With a flick of his wrist, he caught the back of a plush, velvet-lined chair and pulled it out from the desk. He didn't use his "Command" this time; he simply held the chair in a silent, courtly invitation.

​"Sit, y/n" he said. "The tea will take a moment. Lando is... meticulous when he wants to impress someone, and despite his rough edges, he quite likes you."

​You sank into the chair, the velvet soft against your back, but you remained on the edge of the seat, your hands folded tightly in your lap. Oscar didn't return to his place behind the desk. Instead, he leaned back against the heavy oak wood, crossing his long legs at the ankles, effectively staying within your personal space.

​"Now," he began, his expression turning serious as the levity of the previous moment faded. "The men in the market. You said you didn't know why they were after you, but we both know that's not true. You aren't just any elf. The way your magic felt against my lead... it was pure."

​He leaned a fraction closer, his dark eyes searching yours. "Who are you running from? Because hunters with silver-edged steel and soul-vessels don't work for mere coin. They work for someone who knows exactly how much you are worth."

The words felt like stones dropping into a deep, dark well. You kept your eyes tightly shut, but the darkness was no sanctuary; it only sharpened the memory of the heavy iron shackles, the smell of cheap tobacco, and the way the hunters had looked at you—not as a living soul, but as a harvest.

​"I don't know who they are," you whispered, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to remain stoic. "But I know what they mostly wanted me for."

​You clenched your hands in your lap, your fingernails digging into your palms as the shame and terror of the realization bubbled up. The lead bracelets were gone, but the phantom weight of them still seemed to ghost over your wrists.

​"They either wanted to keep me as a blood bag," you said, the term sounding like a profanity in the quiet elegance of the study, "to drain slowly, day by day, for the potency in my veins... or to keep me as a breeding mare. To sell off the offspring as if they were nothing more than pure-blooded livestock."

​A heavy, oppressive silence followed your confession. You finally opened your eyes to find Oscar’s expression had shifted. The knowing, playful smile was gone, replaced by a cold, terrifying stillness. His dark eyes didn't just look at you; they seemed to see through you, analyzing the sheer gravity of the cruelty you had escaped. The crimson stain on his lips from earlier seemed more prominent now, a stark reminder of his own nature, yet his outrage was palpable.

​"And," you added, your voice barely audible, "I also know that I was the only elf they were hunting. This wasn't a raid. It was a targeted extraction."

​Oscar leaned off the desk, his shadow stretching long and jagged across the floorboards. He didn't speak for a long moment, the only sound being the distant whistle of the tea kettle from the kitchen and the soft crackle of the hearth.

​"A breeding mare," Oscar repeated, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. "To attempt to commodify the Light of the First Dawn... that is not mere greed. That is a specific kind of sacrilege."

​He began to pace the length of the rug, his movements no longer fluid and relaxed, but sharp—like a wolf pacing the confines of a cage. "If you were the only one, then you were selected. High Elves do not simply 'appear' in common markets unless they are being tracked from the borders of the Sun-Gardens."

​He stopped and turned back to you, his gaze intense. "To hunt a High Elf specifically for the purpose of lineage or blood-harvesting requires someone with deep pockets and a complete lack of fear regarding the Elven Courts. You are more than a fugitive, y/n. You are a stolen relic."

​The door creaked open, and Lando stepped back in, carrying a tray with three steaming cups. The warm, earthy scent of chamomile and honey followed him, but he froze the moment he saw the look on Oscar’s face and the way you were trembling in your chair.

​"What happened?" Lando asked, his voice low and protective. He set the tray down on a side table and moved instantly to the space between you and Oscar, his amber eyes darting between you both. "Oscar, what did you ask her?"

​"She told me the truth, Lando," Oscar replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "She was being hunted for her womb and her veins. And whoever sent those men... they weren't looking for a thief. They were looking for a source."

The air in the room changed instantly. It didn't just get heavy; it became electric, vibrating with the raw, primal frequency of a predator pushed to his limit.

Lando’s posture shifted. His shoulders seemed to broaden, and the easy-going, golden-retriever energy he’d radiated in the kitchen vanished. His eyes didn't just glow; they burned with a terrifying, molten amber light. A low, guttural growl started deep in his chest—a sound that wasn't human, a sound that spoke of bone-crushing jaws and a thirst for the hunt.

​"I will rip them to shreds if they try to come into my territory," he snarled, his lips curling back to reveal elongated, razor-sharp teeth. The "beast" wasn't just a metaphor; it was right there, pressing against the surface of his skin, ready to tear through the floorboards to get at anything that threatened his home.

​Your heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird. For a moment, the memory of the hunters was replaced by the immediate, terrifying reality of being in a small room with a shifting werewolf. You knew the lore: werewolves didn't just protect their land; they claimed everything in it.

​You blinked, and in that split second, Oscar had moved.

​He didn't walk; he simply appeared at Lando’s side, his hand pressing firmly against the center of the werewolf’s chest. The contrast was startling—Oscar’s pale, slender hand against the rough fabric of Lando’s shirt, the icy stillness of the vampire acting as a heat sink for the werewolf’s fire.

​"Easy," Oscar said, his voice a cool, stabilizing anchor. His touch seemed to act like a lightning rod, drawing the frantic energy out of Lando. "You are scaring our guest."

​Lando’s breath was coming in heavy, jagged hitches. He looked up at Oscar, then his gaze flicked to you. Seeing your wide eyes and the way you were pressing yourself back into the velvet of the chair, the amber fire in his eyes began to dim. The growl died down into a frustrated huff.

​"I'm not... I'm not going to hurt her," Lando muttered, though his hands were still balled into white-knuckled fists. He looked at you, a flicker of genuine guilt crossing his rugged features. "Sorry, starlight. I just... I don't like the thought of those bastards putting their hands on you. Not on my watch."

​Oscar didn't move his hand from Lando’s chest immediately. He kept it there, feeling the werewolf’s heart settle. "His protective instincts are... unsubtle," Oscar explained to you, his voice returning to its calm, aristocratic hum. "But he is correct. No one enters this forest without our leave, and certainly no one leaves it if they mean you harm."

​Oscar turned his head slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a chilling intensity. "But we cannot fight a shadow. You say you were the only one. Does that mean your kin are safe in the Sun-Gardens, or does it mean you are the last of a line they believe is extinct?"

You spoke with a hollow sort of pragmatism, a shrug that felt far too heavy for your slight frame. "We are only a few handful of elves left," you said, the words echoing the lonely reality of your people. "None of us has lived in the Sun-Gardens for probably a decade. Elves have been hunted longer than I have existed."

​The admission seemed to drain the remaining warmth from the room.

To the world, the Sun-Gardens were a legend, a golden myth of a lost age. To you, they were a graveyard of memories you weren't even old enough to truly own.

​Oscar’s hand finally dropped from Lando’s chest, but he didn't move away. He looked at you with a profound, quiet gravity. To a vampire, someone who measured time in centuries, the erasure of an entire race was not just a tragedy—it was a personal affront to the history he shared.

​"A decade," Oscar murmured, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over stone. "The world has grown very dark indeed if the High Courts have been reduced to whispers in the brush."

​Lando’s anger had shifted from a jagged, violent heat to a low, simmering ache. He reached for one of the tea cups he’d brought in, his hands still a bit shaky from the near-transformation, and held it out to you. The steam carried the scent of elderberry and honey.

​"Drink this," Lando insisted, his voice thick with a new kind of resolve. He didn't look at you like a "prize" or a "relic" anymore. He looked at you like a pack mate who had been separated from the hunt. "I don't care how many of you are left. In this house, you aren't a 'handful' of anything. You're just you."

​He glanced at Oscar, a silent communication passing between them—the kind that only comes from years of shared lives and shared beds.

​"If the Sun-Gardens are empty," Oscar said, picking up his own cup—the one still stained with that faint, copper rim—and sitting on the edge of his desk, "then this cabin is the closest thing to a sanctuary you have left. But you must understand, y/n, the men who hunt the last of a kind do not stop until the collection is complete."

He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours. "They will track your scent. They will follow the trail of your magic. And eventually, they will find the edge of this forest."

​"Let them," Lando grumbled, finally sitting down on the rug at Oscar's feet, leaning his back against the vampire's legs in a display of grounding comfort. "I've been looking for an excuse to thin the local hunter population anyway."

​Oscar ran a hand distractedly through Lando’s unruly curls, a gesture so domestic it almost made you look away again. "We need to strengthen the perimeter wards. If she is a 'source,' as they believe, her very presence acts as a beacon to those trained to find it."

​He looked at you, his gaze piercing. "Can you mask yourself? Now that the bracelets are gone, can you fold your light inward, or are you still to weak?"

"I need my spellbook to be able to do that," you said, your voice gaining a flicker of its old authority. You looked directly at Oscar, meeting those dark, ancient eyes without flinching this time. To mask yourself is a complex procedure, woven with intricate geometric patterns that required a focus you simply couldn't summon with just your raw, battered will.

​"You placed my backpack in my room, correct?" you asked, leaning forward slightly.

​Oscar nodded slowly, his fingers momentarily stilling in Lando's hair. "In the trunk at the foot of the bed, as Lando said. I found the book within. It is... ancient. The binding is made of star-glass and silver-thread, if I’m not mistaken."

​His gaze drifted toward the door, then back to you. "I felt the hum of it when I carried the bag. It didn't care for my touch. It’s quite protective of its owner."

​"It’s keyed to my bloodline," you explained, the technicality of the magic grounding you. "Without it, my light is like a signal fire in a dark valley. With it, I can become as silent as a stone."

​Lando looked up from his spot on the rug, his chin resting on his hand as he looked at you. "Well, that’s settled then. No sense in leaving a giant 'Eat Here' sign pointing at our roof. Once you’ve finished that tea, we’ll get you back to your room so you can do your... spooky elf-hiding business."

​He reached out and gave your knee a quick, friendly pat—a gesture of pure, pack-level comfort—before looking back up at Oscar. "I'll go check the southern line while she's working. If any of those bastards followed us, they'll be lingering near the creek."

​Oscar’s expression remained thoughtful, his hand dropping from Lando's head to rest on the werewolf's shoulder. "Go. But do not engage unless they cross the threshold. I want to know who they are before we turn them into fertilizer for your garden."

​The vampire turned his attention back to you, his eyes searching. "Will you be able to manage the spell in your current state? Masking one's essence is a draining endeavor, and you have barely managed a piece of bread and a cup of tea."

The shift was so sudden it stole the air from your lungs. One moment, Lando was a man with a cheeky grin and warm hands; the next, a ripple of kinetic energy tore through the space he occupied. There was a sickening, wet crackle of shifting bone and the sound of fabric straining to the point of failure.

​In his place stood a creature of terrifying beauty—a massive, brown wolf with shoulders that nearly brushed the bottom of your shoulders. His eyes remained that same molten amber, but they were now set in a predatory skull designed for crushing. The "beast" didn't just feel like a threat anymore; he was a physical force, his heavy, hot breath misting in the cool air of the study.

​"Yes, I will manage," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the gargantuan wolf now looming at Oscar's side. You looked Lando—the real Lando—straight in those burning eyes. "I have done that spell while being in a weaker state than I am now. Hunger is a familiar companion; it won't stop me from being invisible."

​The wolf let out a low, huffing sound—a canine version of a chuckle or perhaps a respectful nod—and nudged his massive head against Oscar’s hip.

Oscar didn't even flinch at the transformation. He reached down and ran his hand along the wolf's thick neck, his pale fingers disappearing into the dense fur. "He will escort you to your door," Oscar said, his gaze fixed on you. "And then he will hunt. Do not be alarmed by the noise outside. The forest tends to scream when he’s in a foul mood."

​You stood up, your legs feeling a bit more solid with the tea warming your core. As you walked toward the door, the great wolf fell into step beside you. The sheer scale of him was overwhelming; his back was level with your chest, and you could feel the immense heat radiating from his fur, a living hearth on four legs.

​He didn't crowd you. He paced himself to your slower, gingerly steps, his claws clicking rhythmically against the wood. It was a silent, heavy protection that made you feel both incredibly safe and profoundly small.

​When you reached the door to your room, the wolf stopped and sat back on his haunches, watching you.

​"Thank you, Lando," you whispered.

​He let out one final, low rumble—a vibration that you felt in the soles of your feet—before turning with startling speed and disappearing down the hallway toward the back entrance of the cabin.

​You pushed open your door. There, sitting on the trunk at the foot of the bed, was your weathered leather backpack. You hurried to it, your fingers trembling as you unbuckled the straps. Reaching past your spare tunic, you felt the cold, familiar tingle of the star-glass binding.

​As you pulled the spellbook out, the silver thread on the cover flared with a faint, welcoming violet light. You were home, in the only way you could be anymore.

“Occludere lucem, manere in umbra...” As you spoke the incantation, the violet light from the book began to bleed onto your skin, crawling up your arms like cooling liquid. Slowly, the hum of your magic began to dampen, the "beacon" Oscar had described fading until you felt like nothing more than a shadow among shadows.

​You sat cross-legged on the bed, opening the ancient pages to a diagram of interlocking circles. You bit your lip, focusing your intent. You didn't need much power—just enough to pull the veil over your head.

​Outside, a long, mournful howl ripped through the trees, signaling the start of the wolf's patrol. You closed your eyes, clutching your book to your chest, finally hidden.

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Lonely paradise (part 8)

Sumary: During a holiday with his friends after the World Championship, Lando Norris didn’t expect to find love. He also didn’t expect to like the fact that she apparently had no idea of who he was. At first, it wasn’t really a lie, just an omission, but quickly he buries himself into more and more lies. How will he get himself out of it ?

Pairing : Original female character x Lando Norris

Genre : fluff, love at first sight, miscommunication

Word count : 11,2k

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Lando eventually came back to the villa.

For a while after leaving the hotel, he had let the taxi drive without really seeing where it was going, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the window while the island passed in bright, indifferent fragments. Palm trees. White walls. Tourists in linen shirts. The flash of the sea between buildings. A couple on a scooter, laughing into the wind. A little boy carrying an inflatable dolphin under one arm. Everything kept moving with unbearable normality, as if the world had not just taken the shape of his life and cracked it clean through the middle.

He had wanted to tell the driver to keep going.

Not anywhere specific. Just away.

Away from the hotel where she was still, alive and unreachable. Away from the villa where everyone would be waiting with careful eyes and questions he could not survive answering. Away from himself, if that had been possible. But there was nowhere on the island far enough to outrun what she had said. There was no beach, no bar, no empty road that would make the sound of her voice leave his head.

We are just not compatible.

It repeated itself with cruel precision.

Not angry. Not shouted. Not even said to hurt him.

That made it worse.

If she had hated him, maybe he could have used that. Anger gave a person something to hold. But she had not hated him. She had looked exhausted and terrified and heartbroken, and she had still asked him to leave. She had said yes when he asked if she wanted him gone. She had made the decision quietly, carefully, as if saving herself required cutting them both open.

And Lando had gone.

Because she asked.

Because loving her, apparently, meant learning how to obey the sentence that destroyed him.

By the time the taxi pulled up outside the villa, he had stopped crying, at least in the obvious way. The kind of crying that twisted the face and shook the body had passed somewhere between the hotel and the long coast road. What remained was worse. A numb, stunned heaviness behind his ribs. His eyes burned. His throat felt scraped raw. His hands were cold despite the heat.

For a moment he stayed in the car even after it stopped.

The driver glanced at him in the mirror. “Sir?”

Lando blinked.

The villa sat ahead of him, white and beautiful under the late morning sun. The same place he had left with hope in his chest that morning. The same place where his friends had held him together through the night. The same place where, for one stupid second earlier, he had imagined maybe one day Valentina would walk through the door laughing with the girls, accepted and real and part of his life.

That version of the future felt obscene now.

He paid the driver. Too much, probably. He did not check. Then he stepped out and stood for a second with his hand on the car door, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person before walking inside.

He could not stand there forever.

He could not wander the island forever either.

Sooner or later, grief had to enter rooms where other people were waiting.

So he closed the car door, walked up the path, and let himself into the villa.

The second he stepped inside, the house moved toward him.

It happened exactly as he had feared. Footsteps. Voices. The scrape of someone getting up too fast. Max came first from the living room, then Pietra just behind him, followed by Tom and Alissa from the kitchen. Eddie appeared from the terrace, phone still in hand, Keegan behind him with the anxious expression of someone who had been waiting for an outcome he already suspected would not be good.

For a second, they were all talking over one another.

“Lando.”

“Hey, you’re back.”

“How did it go?”

“What did she say?”

“Did she listen?”

“Is she okay?”

“Did she forgive you?”

The questions reached him as sound more than meaning.

Lando stood just inside the door, one hand still near the handle, as if some part of him had not committed fully to being inside the house. His gaze moved over them: Max’s guarded concern, Pietra’s nervous hope, Tom’s quiet dread, Alissa’s softened face, Eddie’s uncertainty, Keegan’s guilt, and all at once the last fragile thread of control inside him pulled tight.

He could not speak.

He only looked at them.

Just once.

That was enough.

Max’s face fell first. Not obviously. Max was too practiced at managing panic around Lando to let it show all at once. But his eyes changed, and then his mouth, and then he went very still.

Pietra’s hand rose halfway to her chest.

“No,” she whispered, before Lando had said anything.

Lando shook his head.

It was such a small movement.

Barely anything, but it carried the whole answer.

His throat worked once, twice, before he found words. When he did, his voice came out rasping, ruined.

“No.”

The word felt like glass.

“No, it’s…” He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “It’s over.”

Saying it aloud was worse than hearing it from her.

It became real in a different way once it existed in his own voice. Not a threat. Not a possibility. Not one of the terrible futures they had argued around. A fact. A thing that had happened. A line drawn across the day.

It’s over.

For a moment no one moved.

The villa itself seemed to hold its breath around him.

Pietra was the first to speak, but her voice was faint and disbelieving. “I don’t understand.”

Lando looked at her.

“She didn’t seem…” Pietra shook her head, searching the memory of the previous night as if it might offer her a different ending. “She didn’t seem like she was there yet when I spoke to her. Angry, yes. Hurt, definitely. But she listened. She really listened. I was sure it wasn’t over.”

Lando tried to answer and found his mouth had gone dry.

“It wasn’t…” He looked down at the floor. “It wasn’t just the lie.”

Max stepped closer, slowly. “What happened?”

Lando gave a small, empty laugh. It sounded wrong. So wrong everyone seemed to flinch from it.

“What happened?” he repeated. “Nothing. She just doesn’t want to continue. That’s it.”

“Lando,” Max said.

“No, that’s it.” He lifted one hand briefly, as if trying to make the whole thing casual, manageable, the kind of disappointment people survived every day without making a scene. “It’s over. People get dumped all the time, right?”

No one answered.

“Well, that’s what happened.” His mouth twisted into something that was supposed to be a smile and failed before it formed. “I got dumped. It’s okay. It’s not the end of things.”

The words hung there, brittle and false.

Alissa’s face crumpled with quiet sympathy. “Lando…”

He looked at her quickly. “What?”

“It seems like it is.”

That sentence, gentle as it was, struck too close.

He stiffened.

“No,” he said. “No, it’s fine.”

“Lan,” Tom said carefully.

“It’s fine,” Lando repeated, louder now, as if volume could give the lie structure. “I’ve known her for what, a few days? It’s fine. It was intense, yeah, and stupid, and obviously I got carried away, but it’s fine. I’m fine.”

Max’s expression tightened.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend.”

Lando’s face hardened with sudden anger. Not real anger, not the kind with direction. The defensive kind, born from being seen too clearly when his skin already felt removed.

“I’m not pretending.”

Pietra took a small step toward him. “You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are, Lando.”

“I said I’m alright.” His voice snapped, sharp enough that the room recoiled slightly. “Why do you all keep saying I don’t look fine? I’m standing here. I came back. I’m talking. Why can't you belived me?”

No one responded for a second.

Then Eddie, of all people, spoke.

Not joking. Not teasing. Not trying to lighten anything.

“Because you're crying.”

Lando stopped.

The words reached him strangely.

As if Eddie had said something in another language and his mind needed time to translate.

Then he lifted one hand to his face, his fingers came away wet.

He stared at them.

For one humiliating second, he looked almost confused by his own tears, as if his body had betrayed him without permission. He wiped at his cheeks harshly with both hands, once, twice, too hard, trying to erase the evidence before it could become pity in the room. But the tears kept coming. Silent. Hot. Uncontrolled now that they had been named.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

The word broke at the end.

Pietra covered her mouth.

Alissa looked away, eyes shining.

Tom’s jaw tightened so hard the muscle moved.

Max looked like he wanted to cross the room and hold him upright by force, but didn’t know if touching him would make him shatter.

Keegan shifted near the wall, pale with discomfort and regret. For once, there was no joke in him. No careless comment. No stupid instinct to cover pain with something crude.

“I’m sorry, mate,” he said quietly.

Lando did not look at him.

Keegan swallowed. “Really. I’m sorry. You two… you really looked good together.”

That almost did it.

Not because of Keegan specifically. Not even because the words were kind. Because for a moment, Lando saw it from outside himself: the way they must have looked. Him and Valentina. Walking into rooms. Laughing. Her hand on his arm. The group already rearranging itself to make space for her. The possibility had been visible enough that even Keegan, who noticed nothing until it was too late, had seen it.

Lando’s breath caught.

He turned away before the sob could come out properly.

“I need to be alone.”

No one stopped him.

Maybe because of the way he said it. Not angry this time. Not defensive. Just emptied. A request from someone who had nothing left to give the room.

Max’s hand twitched at his side, but he did not reach for him.

Pietra whispered his name once. “Lando…”

He shook his head without turning.

“Please, leave me alone.”

She stopped.

He moved toward the stairs.

Every step felt unreal. His body remembered how to climb, how to hold the railing, how to move through a house he knew, even though the rest of him felt as if it had been left somewhere behind a hotel door. The living room disappeared below him. The silence of his friends followed, heavier than their questions had been.

Halfway up, he thought someone might call after him.

No one did.

For once, they let him go.

He reached the landing, walked to his bedroom, opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.

The quiet was worse.

The sudden absence of her hit him harder than seeing it had.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

The same place he had sat that morning before leaving to beg for her. The same place where some stupid part of him had believed there might still be time to prove something, fix something, become whatever she needed him to become.

Lando bent forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped between them. He stared at the carpet. A shirt lay near his foot, white, wrinkled, abandoned from the outfit he had rejected before going to her. It looked absurdly ordinary. Everything in the room did. His watch on the bedside table. His charger half-unplugged. An open drawer. A bottle of water. His suitcase. The small, stupid evidence of a life continuing.

He wished, in that moment, that grief would be dramatic enough to destroy something.

Instead, it just sat inside him.

Heavy. Quiet. Practical.

Like a stone.

Downstairs, voices eventually began again, though muted now. He could hear the low murmur through the floor, not the words, only the shape of his friends trying to understand what to do with each other after watching him come home broken.

Lando didn’t care.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

For one insane second, his heart lurched so violently he nearly choked.

Valentina.

He pulled it out too quickly.

But it was Max.

I’m here when you want to talk.

Lando stared at the message until the letters blurred.

Then another came.

You don’t have to answer. Just don’t disappear.

He closed his eyes.

The phone slipped from his hand onto the bed beside him.

He wanted to disappear.

He wanted to vanish from the immediate shape of being known. From the expectations of answering, moving, breathing correctly, being grateful for comfort. He wanted to become no one for a while. No name. No title. No heart. No world champion. No man who had fallen in love with a woman who asked him to leave because surviving him seemed impossible.

He pressed both palms against his eyes.

Behind the darkness, he saw her.

Not as she had looked at the end, turned away and crying.

Worse.

As she had looked on the beach the night they met, barefoot in the sand with tears in her makeup and no idea who he was. As she had looked laughing at his fear of hiking. As she had looked in the pool, smiling over her shoulder when he touched her waist.

He lowered his hands.

The room blurred.

He lay back on the bed without taking his shoes off, without pulling the covers down, without thinking. Just fell backward, arms limp at his sides, eyes open to the ceiling.

“It’s over,” he whispered.

No one heard him.

That made it worse and better at once.

He said it again, quieter.

“It’s over.”

The words still felt impossible.

Like a sentence belonging to someone else’s life.

And maybe that was the cruelest thing about heartbreak, he thought distantly. Not the screaming moment when it happened. Not the goodbye. Not even the door closing. It was the body’s refusal to understand the new rule. The mind kept reaching for the person as if habit could rewrite reality. Some part of him still expected his phone to vibrate with her name. Still expected a knock. Still expected that if he went back to the hotel and stood outside long enough, she would open the door.

But she had said she wouldn’t change her mind.

She had said she wanted him to leave.

She had said they were not compatible.

Lando turned onto his side, curling slightly around the pain that seemed to have settled in the center of his chest. He did not sob loudly. He had no energy left for that. The tears came anyway, sliding sideways across the bridge of his nose into the pillow. Slow, humiliating, endless.

He had been dumped before.

He had lost people. Been disappointed. Let things fade. Walked away and been walked away from.

This was not that.

This felt like grief for a life that had only existed in flashes, so bright and brief he could almost convince himself he had invented it. But the pain proved otherwise. The pain knew. The pain remembered the weight of her hand in his, the warmth of her body, the sound of her laughing under her breath when he said something stupid.

The pain had evidence.

A while later, there was a soft knock on the door.

Lando did not move.

The door did not open.

Whoever it was, Max probably, maybe Tom, waited a few seconds, then left.

Lando closed his eyes.

He didn’t sleep.

He only lay there while the island moved toward evening outside the windows, while his friends stayed downstairs, while Valentina remained somewhere across town behind a closed hotel room door.

Alive.

Crying maybe.

Gone.

And for the first time since meeting her, Lando could feel the full size of the silence she had left behind.

Lando woke the next morning and felt sick before he even opened his eyes.

It was immediate, almost physical, a nausea that lived somewhere between his ribs and the back of his throat. For one confused second, still half caught in the grey space between sleep and waking, he thought it might be from drinking. Then memory returned with the quiet brutality of a door opening in the dark.

Valentina.

The name came first.

Then the room. Her room. The balcony light. Her face when she told him they were not compatible. The way she could not look at him when she asked him to leave. The sound of the hotel door closing behind him. The elevator mirror. The taxi. The villa. His friends. His own voice saying, it’s over, as if speaking the words might make them less impossible.

It did not come back as one thought, but as many, each of them sharp enough to hurt. He lay still under the sheets, eyes closed, and felt them land one after another. He had lost her. He had left. She had not called him back. His phone had not lit up in the night with her name. There had been no miracle, no second knock, no message written at three in the morning because she had changed her mind. Morning had come anyway.

He opened his eyes.

His room looked unfamiliar in the pale light. Not because anything had changed, but because grief had a way of making ordinary things seem rude. His clothes were still on the floor. The curtains were half drawn. His shoes sat near the bed where he had kicked them off sometime during the night without remembering it. His phone lay face down beside him.

For a few seconds, he did nothing.

Then the thought arrived, simple and terrible.

This is what a heartbreak feels like.

He had thought he knew it before. Not because he was arrogant about it, but because he had lived enough to have been hurt. He had been young once, properly young, and thought a girl in school was the whole world. He remembered that ache, the strange humiliation of realizing that his life was moving away from normal things before he had even learned how to be normal inside them. She had ended it when Formula One had started taking more and more of him, when school stopped being his life and the paddock became the place he belonged to instead. He remembered feeling rejected, lonely, misunderstood.

Then there had been his first real girlfriend, and that had hurt too, in a more adult way. Distance had done its slow, quiet work. Calls became difficult. Messages became smaller. Missing each other turned into not knowing what to say when they finally had time. He had been sad when it ended. Truly sad. But even then, somewhere beneath the sadness, there had been logic. A reason. A thing that made sense.

His last real almost-relationship had been even less clean. A few months, on and off, a girl he had liked, maybe deeply in moments, but not loved. Not like this. His focus had always returned to racing anyway. There had always been a part of him held back, a part still turned toward the car, the next weekend, the next performance, the next thing that demanded more from him than any person ever had.

None of that had felt like this.

This was worse.

This was not just missing someone. Not just the ache of rejection. Not just the bruised ego of being left. This felt like something had been removed from inside him too quickly and now everything around the empty space was bleeding. He barely knew her. That was the absurdity that kept making the pain feel almost humiliating. They had no years between them. No shared apartment. No old photos. No anniversaries. No normal claim to this level of devastation.

And still, it hurt more than all of it combined.

He sat up slowly.

The room tilted for half a second. He pressed one hand against his chest, not dramatically, just because the pressure there was so constant that some part of him wanted to hold it down. His first thought should have been a shower. Food. Coffee.

Instead, Lando reached for the remote.

The television came to life with a soft glow.

He searched her name with hands that felt detached from his body.

There were more results than he expected, and the sight of them nearly undid him before he even clicked on one. Interviews. rehearsal clips. gala performances, ballet fragments filmed from different angles. Her name attached to words he didn’t fully understand yet: principal dancer, pas de deux, Royal Opera House, Giselle, Romeo and Juliet, Swan Lake, La Bayadère. It struck him with fresh cruelty that there was a whole world of her he had barely begun to learn. A whole language, a whole career, a whole version of her that had existed long before he stumbled onto that beach and briefly imagined fate had been kind enough to put her on his path.

He selected the first full performance he saw.

The screen went dark, then opened onto a stage.

Fog. Blue-black shadows. A pale, haunted light. And then her.

She wore a long white dress, the fabric soft and ghostlike around her legs, her dark hair arranged away from her face. The stage looked like a world that existed after death, or before morning, somewhere cold and unreal. Lando had no idea what ballet it was. No idea of the story. No idea who she was meant to be or what tragedy she was moving through.

It didn’t matter.

The second she appeared, his vision blurred.

He didn’t even have time to prepare for it. The tears came as if his body had been waiting for permission and the sight of her had given it. He covered his mouth with one hand, not because anyone was there to hear, but because the sound that escaped him felt too raw to let into the room.

She was mesmerizing.

That was the word, though it felt too small. She moved like gravity had made an exception for her. Every line of her body seemed intentional and impossible, every turn controlled and aching, every extension of her arm carrying more emotion than most people managed with a speech. She was beautiful, yes, painfully so, but it was not only beauty. It was talent. Discipline. A life’s work made visible in a few minutes of movement. All the control she had talked about, all the pain, all the years, all the sacrifice, there it was, transformed into something that looked effortless enough to be mistaken for magic.

Lando watched, and cried harder.

Because the sight of her did not comfort him.

It proved she was real.

That was the unbearable part. She was not some dream invented by loneliness. Not a holiday fantasy. Not a woman made softer by moonlight and grief and coincidence. She existed like this too. On stages. Under lights. In front of people who knew how to look at her properly. She had a whole life he would not be part of now. A life where she would dance, and wake up early, and stretch, and rehearse, and laugh with people backstage, and maybe one day love someone who could sit in the audience.

He watched the video until the image blurred completely.

He did not know how long he sat like that.

Time in grief became loose, useless. The performance seemed to begin again at some point, or perhaps he had pressed something without realizing. Music filled the room, low and aching. Valentina moved through fog and shadow again. He watched her again. Cried again. The same moments hit in the same places. He didn’t care.

A knock came at the door.

He didn’t answer, then the door opened.

Max stepped inside carefully. “Lan?”

Lando didn’t turn.

Max remained near the door for a second, taking in the room. The mess had worsened somehow, though Lando had barely moved. Clothes from yesterday remained on the floor, joined now by a blanket half dragged off the bed, a bottle of water untouched near the nightstand, his phone face down and ignored. Then Max’s gaze found the television.

And then found Lando sitting on the edge of the bed, crying silently while watching her dance.

Max’s expression changed.

He shut the door behind him.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, though Lando still hadn’t looked at him. “I just wanted to check on you.”

No answer.

Max crossed the room slowly, as if sudden movement might break whatever fragile thing was keeping Lando upright. He sat beside him on the bed, not too close, not far enough to feel afraid. For a while, he didn’t speak. He just watched the television with him.

Onscreen, Valentina drifted through a line of dancers in white, her face turned toward something unseen, her body moving with a grief so elegant it almost felt cruel. Max knew nothing about ballet. He didn’t know the names of the steps, didn’t understand what made one movement extraordinary compared to another, didn’t know whether this was a famous piece or a tragic one or both.

But he understood enough.

He understood that Lando was watching the woman who had broken his heart and that looking at her was somehow both hurting him and keeping him alive.

After a long time, Max said, “Lando.”

Lando didn’t blink. “She’s extraordinary, isn’t she?”

Max looked at the screen, then back at him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “She is.”

Lando’s eyes stayed fixed on her. “It’s like she doesn’t touch the floor.”

Max swallowed. “Lan.”

“She makes it look easy. It isn’t, obviously. I mean, I don’t know anything, but it can’t be. Look at the control.”

“Lando.”

He finally moved his eyes, only slightly. “What?”

“We need to talk.”

Lando’s face closed at once. “No.”

“Can you pause it for a second?”

“No.”

“Just for a moment.”

Lando shook his head. “One more minute.”

Max exhaled, and this time there was something close to pleading in it. “You’ve been watching this video on loop for the last thirty minutes.”

That made Lando look at him.

“What?”

“We can hear the music from the living room,” Max said gently. “It restarted twice. Maybe more. I don’t know. Just… talk to me.”

Lando looked back at the screen, confused and embarrassed all at once. He had not noticed. Not the time. Not the loop. Not the fact that the same tragedy had been replaying in front of him while he sat there like a man trying to memorize pain from different angles.

Max reached slowly for the remote.

Lando’s hand tightened around it.

“Lan.”

For a second, Lando looked like he might refuse like a child.

Then he let Max take it.

Max paused the video.

Valentina froze mid-movement, one arm lifted, her face pale in the stage light.

The sudden silence hurt.

Lando stared at the paused image.

Max kept the remote in his hand. “I’m worried about you.”

Lando gave a small, hollow laugh. “I’m fine.”

Max looked at him.

“Okay,” Lando corrected, wiping under one eye with the back of his hand. “Not fine. But, you know. Nostalgic.”

“Nostalgic?”

“Yeah.”

“Watching ballet and crying is not nostalgic, Lando.”

“I’ve had heartbreak before. I know how it works. I just need time.”

Max turned slightly toward him. “This is more than that.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

Lando’s jaw tightened. “Can you not?”

“No.” Max’s voice stayed soft, but he didn’t back away. “Because I think it was more than that even before you met her.”

Lando looked at him sharply.

“This year has been difficult,” Max said. “I know it has. And now this happened on top of it, so of course you’re shaken.”

“It’s not about that.”

“I didn’t say it was only about that.”

“I got dumped by the girl I like,” Lando snapped, though his voice cracked at the end. “Can you let me be sad for one minute, please?”

Max flinched a little, but stayed.

“There’s nothing wrong with being sad.”

“Then let me be sad.”

“I am.” Max leaned forward, elbows on knees. “But this scares me.”

Lando looked away. “Everything scares you lately.”

“Because I’ve never seen you like this.”

That landed.

Lando’s face tightened.

Max continued more quietly. “Even after bad races. Even after losses. Even with the pressure, the anxiety, everything. I’ve seen you frustrated, angry, exhausted, checked out. I’ve seen you pretend you’re okay when you aren’t. But I’ve never seen you sit alone and cry like this.”

Lando’s throat worked once.

He looked back at the screen.

“I miss her.”

The sentence was barely there.

Max’s face softened with immediate pain.

“I know.”

“No,” Lando said. “You don’t.”

“Then tell me.”

Lando shook his head.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Max said. “What did she say?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Lando.”

“She ended things. That’s it. It's simple.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.” He laughed again, bitter and wet. “I can only blame myself. I was a proper idiot. Lied to her. Got caught. Apologized too late. End of story.”

“No,” Max said.

Lando finally looked at him fully. “Why are you pushing this?”

“Because it’s not just a breakup.”

Lando didn’t answer.

Max held his gaze. “Something else happened.”

For a moment, the room was very still.

Then Lando’s face changed, not dramatically, but in the subtle collapse of someone too tired to keep standing guard over every wound.

“She likes me too,” he admitted.

Max went silent.

Lando looked down at his hands. “That’s the worst part. She said it was real. Whatever crazy, unreal thing happened between us in this stupidly short amount of time, she felt it too.”

His voice trembled.

“But she doesn’t want to continue because she thinks it’s doomed. Because of my lifestyle. My schedule. My job. What I represent.” He swallowed hard. “Because of who I am.”

“Lan...”

“She liked me better when I was just some random guy she met on the beach,” he said, staring at the carpet now. “Before the name. Before the articles. Before the world champion thing. Just Lando, without the rest of it.”

Max shook his head.

“She’s afraid I won’t be there. That distance will be too much. That the attention will suffocate her. That she’ll become part of all the noise.” He rubbed both hands over his face. “And I tried. I tried to tell her I could make it easier, that I could move things around, that I could be careful. But she refused to even give it a chance.”

He paused.

His voice became smaller.

“She had bad experiences before. Really bad. My lie triggered all of it.”

Max said nothing.

“If I’d told her the truth on the beach, maybe it never would’ve started,” Lando said. “Maybe that would’ve been better. Prevented all this pain.”

Max looked at him, pained. “Don’t do that.”

“I can’t even hate her,” Lando continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “That’s what makes it worse. I understand. I get why she’s scared. I get why being with me looks like chaos. I get why she doesn’t want to be swallowed by my life when she fought so hard to keep control of hers.”

He lifted his eyes to Max then, and they were full of something that looked dangerously close to surrender.

“Maybe it’s just impossible to be with me.”

Max shook his head immediately. “No, don't say that.”

“Maybe it is.”

“No, Lando.”

“Maybe she saw it before I did.”

Max’s voice turned firmer. “That is not true.”

Lando looked away again.

The paused image of Valentina remained on the screen, white and ghostlike, untouchable.

“I really love her,” he whispered.

Max went still.

“I don’t know how,” Lando said. “I don’t know why it happened so fast. I don’t know what that says about me, or if it makes me pathetic, or if maybe I just needed something to hold onto and she became that. I don’t know.” His voice broke. “But I love her. Simple as that.”

The tears came harder then.

He pressed his palm to his chest as if trying to physically hold the pain in place.

“I love her and I dreamed of more, and now it’s over, and I don’t know how to breathe properly. I don’t know how to just exist without thinking about her. Every thought turns into her. Every quiet second. Every..." His voice break, the crying making talking more difficult, "Everytime I close my eyes, she is here.”

Max’s eyes shone now too, though he blinked it back.

Lando’s voice dropped lower, becoming the confession he was most afraid of.

“And I’m scared because I don’t know if it will stop one day.” He looked at Max then, utterly wrecked. “And I also don’t want the feeling to stop. Because if it stops, then she’s really gone.”

Max breathed out slowly.

For a moment, he did not answer.

He looked down at his own hands, gathering the right words with care because this was one of those moments where saying too much or too little could both become mistakes.

“Heartbreak is brutal,” he said finally. “Especially day one.”

Lando laughed without humor. “Great, thanks.”

“I’m serious.” Max looked back at him. “It makes sense that it feels unbearable right now. I know you didn’t know each other long. I know everyone keeps saying that, and I know you hate hearing it. But it got real fast. Too fast maybe, but real. So of course the crash is brutal too.”

Lando wiped at his face.

“My mum used to say it gets a tiny bit better every second,” Max continued. “Not enough to notice at first. Not enough to feel like anything is changing. But time starts doing its work anyway. Then one day you breathe and realize it doesn’t hurt in exactly the same place.”

Lando stared at the floor.

“It won’t disappear tomorrow,” Max said. “Or next week, probably. It’ll take time. But it will pass eventually.”

“It feels like hell.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

Max nodded slowly. “Maybe not this exact hell. But I know enough.”

Lando was quiet.

Then he said, “Maybe this is the final reality check.”

Max’s body tensed. “What does that mean?”

Lando leaned back slightly, his face emptied by exhaustion. “Maybe I’m not made for relationships.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re hurt Lando.”

“That doesn’t make it untrue.” He looked at Max then, eyes red and miserable. “Maybe there’s a reason I used to do things the way I did. No commitment. No expectations. No one getting close enough to do this.”

Max shook his head. “You weren’t happy then either.”

“At least I wasn’t suffering like this.”

“Yes, you were,” Max said, sharper now. “Just differently.”

Lando looked away.

“Remember the first night at the club?” Max asked. “What you said to me? You were bored. Empty. Lonely in a room full of people who wanted you. And then she arrived, and for the first time in a while I saw you smile like yourself again.”

Lando’s face tightened.

“So no,” Max said. “Don’t rewrite your life into some bullshit where meaningless hookups were peace and love is the problem. You were not fine before her.”

Lando’s jaw worked.

“Love can hurt,” Max continued, softer again. “It can hurt like hell. But that doesn’t make it bad. It means it mattered.”

“I don’t want it to matter.”

“Yes, you do.”

Lando covered his face again. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“I know.”

“It’s over,” he said, voice muffled. “I’m done trying to act like I deserve a happy ending.”

Max looked genuinely alarmed. “Lando...”

“No, it’s okay.” He lowered his hands, and the faint smile on his face was so wrong Max hated it immediately. “Not everyone gets one. Maybe I’ll never have the wife and the kids and the family thing. Fine. I’ve got nieces to spoil. Trophies. Victories. World fucking champion, right?”

“Stop.”

“Maybe that’s the price.”

“Stop,” Max said again, firmer now. “It’s not because one girl turned you down that you don’t get a future.”

“One girl,” Lando repeated, the words breaking. “You still don’t get it.”

“I do get that she matters. But you’re turning heartbreak into a life sentence.”

“She isn’t replaceable.”

“I’m not saying she is.”

“You are.”

“No,” Max said. “I’m saying one day, when you’re ready, there may be someone else. Or maybe there won’t for a long time. But you cannot decide today that your whole future is over because this one ended.”

Lando shook his head slowly.

“I don’t want anyone else.”

“Not now.”

“No.” He looked Max in the eyes. “If it’s not Valentina, then it’s no one.”

Max sighed, pained. “You say that now.”

“I mean it.”

Max did not argue further, not because he agreed, but because there was no arguing with pain at its freshest. Pain wanted absolutes. Pain wanted never, always, no one, forever. It was useless to reason with a wound while it was still bleeding.

Lando reached for the remote.

Max stopped him gently. “Lan.”

“I’m done talking.”

“Please don’t put it back on.”

Lando looked at him.

“I’m asking you,” Max said. “Just take a break.”

Lando’s face closed again. “Leave.”

Max stared at him for a long second.

Lando turned the television back on.

The music returned, filling the room with grief again. Valentina moved from the frozen position into life, pale and floating across the stage.

Lando’s eyes locked onto her instantly.

“Leave, Max.”

Max remained sitting for a moment longer.

“Come out with us later,” he said quietly. “We’re going to the beach. Just dinner. Nothing crazy. No club, no drinking yourself stupid. Just food, air, people who love you. It’s better if you’re not alone.”

Lando did not answer.

“Lan.”

Nothing.

His eyes stayed fixed on Valentina.

Max stood slowly.

“I’ll come get you when we leave,” he said. “You can tell me to fuck off then if you want.”

Still nothing.

Max looked at the screen once more. Valentina turned beneath the stage lights, impossibly beautiful, impossibly far away.

He swallowed.

“At least change the video,” he said softly. “Please.”

Lando shook his head.

“No. I like this one.”

Max closed his eyes for a second.

“Okay,” he whispered. “As you want.”

He walked to the door.

Before leaving, he turned back one last time. Lando hadn’t moved. He sat on the edge of the bed in the half-light, face wet, completely lost in the image of the woman who had left him.

“See you later, Lando,” Max said.

His friend didn’t answer.

Max left and closed the door quietly behind him, carrying with him the music of a ballet he didn’t understand and the image of Lando crying like someone had taken the future out of his hands before he had even learned how to hold it.

A few hours had passed since Max left.

Lando did not know how many.

Time had become something loose and shapeless inside his room, no longer divided by hours but by the moments when the video ended, when the silence pressed too hard, when his eyes burned badly enough that he had to close them, when his phone vibrated and he refused to look. At some point, the ballet had stopped playing. He didn’t remember turning it off. Maybe the video had ended and the screen had gone dark on its own. Maybe he had paused it without noticing. Either way, the room had fallen into silence again, and this time he had not tried to fill it.

He lay on his back across the bed, not under the covers, still in yesterday’s clothes, one arm stretched loosely over his stomach, the other hanging off the mattress. His eyes were open and fixed on the ceiling. There was nothing interesting there. Just a pale surface, the lazy rotation of the ceiling fan, the occasional shifting shadow as the afternoon light changed beyond the curtains. But staring at nothing was easier than looking at anything that might remind him of her.

Everything reminded him of her anyway.

The room was still a mess, but now it looked less like a man had been deciding what to wear and more like someone had abandoned a life halfway through living it. Clothes on the floor. A towel fallen near the bathroom door. His phone facedown beside him. The remote near his thigh. A pair of sunglasses on the nightstand. The faint smell of stale cologne and salt and grief.

His face felt tight from crying. His throat hurt. His whole body had the heavy, hollow soreness that came after too much emotion, as if heartbreak had physical weight and had spent the day pressing him into the mattress.

Then came another knock.

Soft.

Not Max’s. Not Tom’s either.

Lando didn’t move.

He didn’t answer this time either.

For a few seconds there was silence on the other side of the door, and then it opened.

Pietra stepped inside.

She didn’t say anything at first. She only closed the door behind her with a care that made the small click sound almost tender. Then she stood there for a moment, taking in the room, the clothes, the dead television screen, Lando stretched out on the bed with his eyes still on the ceiling and his face still wet in places where tears had dried badly and new ones had come after.

Her expression changed.

Pietra was not gentle by default. She could be, of course, but she was warm in a louder way usually. Teasing. Bright. Dramatic. She filled rooms easily and made people follow her into laughter whether they wanted to or not. But now, as she crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed beside him, there was no performance in her at all.

When she spoke, her voice was the softest he had ever heard it.

“We’re leaving for the restaurant in an hour.”

Lando said nothing.

Pietra looked down at him. “Do you want to come?”

“No.”

The answer came immediately. Flat. Quiet. Without him even turning his head.

She waited, as if giving him space to change it.

He didn’t.

“Come on, Lando,” she said softly. “It might make you feel better.”

“No, it won’t.”

“You need food.”

“Not hungry.”

“And company.”

“No.”

“And fresh air.”

“No.”

“And probably a shower as well.”

That was the place where she tried, carefully, to make him laugh.

It didn’t work.

Lando’s face did not move.

Pietra sighed through her nose, but not impatiently. She leaned back on one hand and looked at him from the side. “You can’t stay in here forever.”

“I can stay in here tonight.”

She watched him for a moment.

Then, because she knew him better than most, and because gentleness alone would not move him, her voice changed.

Not dramatically. Just slightly.

It became sweeter. Warmer. The voice she used when she wanted something and knew the person she was asking loved her enough to struggle against saying no. Lando recognized it instantly, and that annoyed him because it reminded him of his sisters using the same tone when they wanted him to lie for them, cover for them, steal something from the kitchen, or pretend he hadn’t seen them doing something they absolutely were not meant to be doing.

“Please,” Pietra said.

Lando closed his eyes.

“Please, Lan.”

“P.”

“At least do it for us. We want you with us tonight.”

He turned his head slightly, not enough to look at her fully. “I said no.”

“Lando...”

“No.” His voice softened after the sharpness, because even miserable, even hollow, he felt bad being cold to her. “Please. Just leave me alone.”

Pietra didn’t move.

For a second, Lando thought she would argue. Instead, she looked at him for a long moment, then kicked off her sandals and lay down beside him on the bed.

He finally turned his head.

“What are you doing?”

“Being annoying.”

“You are.”

“I know.”

She settled on her back next to him, staring at the same ceiling as if it had answers. Their shoulders almost touched. Not quite. Close enough that he could feel the shift of the mattress under her weight.

After a moment, she said, “Who would have guessed?”

Lando stared upward again. “What?”

“The Lando Norris. World champion. Party boy. Allergic to feelings is secretly a hopeless romantic.”

He let out a tired breath. “Don’t.”

“You are this close,” she said, lifting her hand and holding her thumb and index finger a tiny distance apart, “to writing a sad poem right now.”

“It’s not funny, P.”

“No,” she admitted. “It’s really not.”

She lowered her hand, then bumped her shoulder lightly into his. “But you have to admit, it’s a change of character.”

He said nothing.

“Love made you soft.”

Something moved across his face. Not quite pain. Not quite anger. Closer to defeat.

“Maybe,” he murmured. “It’s over now anyway, so…”

Pietra turned her head on the pillow and looked at him.

“Max told me.”

His jaw tightened. “Told you what?”

“About your little speech. The one where you decided you’re going to be alone for the rest of your life and she’s the only woman you’ll ever love.”

Lando looked away.

“Very romantic,” she said.

“Max said it was stupid.”

“I don't think it is.”

He shut his eyes. “Thanks.”

There was something about Pietra lying beside him like that, not looming over him, not looking at him with the frightened concern everyone else had worn, that made it easier to say things. Maybe because she felt like family in a way that had happened quietly over the years, without announcement. She was Max’s girlfriend, yes, but also somehow his friend in all the ways that mattered here: affectionate, intrusive, impossible to fully push away. She had seen enough of him to know when to tease and when to stop. She knew when he was lying.

So he told the truth.

“It’s strange,” he said, voice low. “It feels like I was made to meet her.”

Pietra stayed very still.

“Like I was made to be with her,” he continued, staring at the ceiling because looking at her would make it harder. “And then reality came in and ruined everything.”

He huffed a small, humorless laugh.

“Well. I ruined it too. Obviously. But you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“I never thought this sort of thing existed.” His eyes burned again, but he kept talking. “I never thought you could meet someone and just… know something. Not know everything, not like some stupid movie where you suddenly understand the whole future, but know that something is different. That they matter. That they’ll matter even if they shouldn’t.”

Pietra was quiet.

Lando breathed in shakily.

“I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I fell in love with someone in four fucking days.”

The sentence came out with a broken laugh at the end.

“Four days,” he repeated, as if the absurdity of the number might eventually make the feeling smaller.

It didn’t.

Pietra turned onto her side, propping her head on her hand now. “Maybe because she is the love of your life.”

Lando’s head turned toward her sharply.

“Don’t.”

“I’m serious.”

“No.” His voice hardened immediately, not because he didn’t want to believe her, but because he wanted to believe her too badly. “Don’t give me hope.”

Pietra’s expression softened. “Maybe hope is what you need.”

“No. What I need is to live with the fact that it’s over.”

“But what if it isn’t?”

He laughed once, sharp and miserable. “She asked me to leave.”

“I know.”

“She said she didn’t want to see me again.”

“She said that because she’s scared.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I saw her,” Pietra said, and for the first time her own voice sharpened. “I talked to her. I saw the way she looked when I said your name. I know fear when I see it.”

Lando sat up halfway, looking at her now with something dangerously close to anger. “Pietra.”

“No, hear me out.”

“No.”

“Just listen.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can,” she said, sitting up too. “Max thinks it’s stupid, and he told me not to say anything because he thinks it won’t help you. But I think differently.”

“Of course you do.”

She ignored him.

“What if you’re soulmates?”

Lando stared at her.

The silence that followed was so absolute that, for one second, it almost became funny.

Almost.

“What?” he said finally.

“Soulmates.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“I am.”

“No.” He sat up properly now, wiping roughly at his face. “This isn’t funny, okay? I know you’re trying to help, but don’t do that. Don’t turn this into some fairy-tale thing to make me feel better. It doesn’t help.”

“I am not trying to make you feel better.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m trying to make you stop acting like the universe personally stabbed you and there’s nothing left to do except stare at the ceiling until you become part of it.”

Despite himself, one tiny breath of laughter left him.

He looked away, but some of the sharpness in his face had cracked.

Pietra leaned closer, her voice dropping into something intense and sincere. “You met her on the beach.”

“I know where I met her.”

“At night.”

“Yes.”

“When you had just left a club because everything felt empty.”

His mouth closed.

“And she was there, lost, crying, with a broken phone, walking the wrong way.”

Lando looked down.

“You didn’t know her,” Pietra continued. “She didn’t know you. She didn’t care about the championship, the name, the money, any of it. You were just two people in the dark, and still something happened.”

He said nothing.

“You’re complete opposites,” she said. “Your life is noise, hers is control. You run from silence, she hides inside it. You avoid commitment, she is terrified of giving too much. And somehow it felt right immediately.”

He stared at her as if she had grown a second head.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “What are you actually saying right now?”

“I’m saying it was fate.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.” He shook his head, almost laughing from disbelief now. “Soulmates don’t exist. Fate doesn’t exist. Karma doesn’t exist. I fell for a girl very quickly because I’m an idiot and because she’s beautiful and kind and brilliant, and then it ended because life is not a film.”

Pietra’s gaze didn’t move from him.

“You asked me to hear you out,” he continued, voice rough. “So hear me. She asked me to leave. She doesn’t want anything to do with me. Even if it hurts, even if I don’t understand, I have to respect that.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do,” she insisted. “I am not saying you should go bang on her door and harass her until she changes her mind. I’m saying maybe this story is not done.”

He looked exhausted. “It is done.”

“You don’t know that.”

“She said it.”

“People say things when they’re terrified.”

“Stop.”

“No.”

Lando stared at her.

Pietra sat up straighter, now fully in the mode of someone who had decided on a plan and would not be moved from it by reason or grief.

“I felt it from the second I saw you together,” she said. “At the villa, when she came in. You were different. She was different around you too. And yes, Max doesn’t believe in these things. He thinks love is schedules and stability and talking properly or whatever.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“No, he’s not. But I believe in more.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic.”

“Yes,” Pietra said without shame. “And so are you.”

Lando shook his head, but the smallest thread of life had entered his face.

“I’m not playing games.”

“This isn’t a game.”

He stared at her.

Then laughed once, disbelieving. “You are insane.”

“Maybe.”

“No, definitely.”

“Then prove me wrong.”

He looked at her, and Pietra could see the competitive part of him wake up unwillingly. Even wrecked, even heartbroken, Lando loved a challenge. Love the idea of proving someone he had been right.

Pietra leaned in.

“If you’re not soulmates,” she said, very seriously, “then fate will not bring you back together. It's the rule. ”

Lando blinked. “There are rules of soulmates now?”

“Yes.”

“Written where?”

“In the universe.”

“That’s convenient.”

He groaned and fell back against the pillow, but he was listening now. She knew he was.

Pietra continued. “You met her on that beach at night, right?”

“Yes.”

“At a specific time?”

“More or less.”

“Then go back.”

He looked at her again.

“Go back to the same beach,” she said. “Tonight. Around the same time.”

Lando went still.

Pietra watched the idea reach him, watched pain and longing and fear all move across his face in quick succession.

“If you are right,” she said softly, “if this was just coincidence and she really is gone from your life, then you won’t see her. You’ll come back here, tell me I was wrong, and you can go back to being miserable with the satisfaction of winning.”

“That sounds horrible.”

“It is horrible. But you like winning.”

He stared at her for a second.

Then his eyes narrowed. “Is that your plan?”

“What plan?”

“To make me take a shower by challenging me to prove you wrong about soulmates.”

Pietra lifted her chin. “Maybe.”

“This won't work”

“Then you’ll be back in an hour telling me I’m stupid.”

“I already know you’re stupid.”

“But you’ll have proof.”

He looked away.

The room went quiet again.

This time, though, it had shifted. The grief was still there, thick and suffocating, but now there was something else too. Not hope exactly. Lando refused to call it hope because hope was dangerous and he had just spent the morning learning how badly it could hurt. But the idea had lodged somewhere in him.

The beach.

The place where it started.

The dark sand. The broken phone. Her long hair. The white dress. Her tears under the moonlight. The way she had looked at him with fear first, then cautious trust. The wrong direction. The walk back. The beginning of everything.

He hated that even imagining it made his heart move.

Pietra saw the fight in him and softened.

“Lando,” she said quietly. “I’m not saying she’ll be there.”

He looked at her.

“I’m not saying this fixes anything. I’m not saying you should ignore what she asked. But you don’t have to knock on her door. You don’t have to call her. You don’t have to force anything.” She shrugged gently. “Just go back to the place. For yourself. To say goodbye, maybe. Or to prove me wrong. Whatever helps you move one inch.”

He stared at her.

That was clever of her.

Too clever.

Because if she had said go find her, he would have refused. If she had said she’ll be there, he would have shut down. But go for yourself slipped past the part of him that needed to respect Valentina’s decision and touched the part that desperately needed somewhere to put the ache.

He looked toward the bathroom.

Then back at Pietra.

“This is stupid,” he said again, but weaker this time.

Pietra held out her hand. “Deal?”

He stared at it.

“No.”

“Lando.”

He hesitated.

That was enough for her smile to return.

“Come on,” she said. “You love proving people wrong.”

He sighed, long and defeated, then reached out and shook her hand once.

“Fine.”

Pietra’s face lit with triumph.

“But when I come back and she isn’t there,” he said, pointing at her, “you are never allowed to say the word soulmate near me again.”

“Deal.”

“And you'll admit you were wrong.”

“Fine.”

“And you stop giving me romantic conspiracy theories.”

“That one depends.”

“P.”

“Okay, okay.”

He sat up slowly, wiping at his face again. His body felt heavy, his chest still bruised from the inside, but movement itself seemed to break the spell of the bed. Pietra watched him stand, watched him look around the wreck of his room like a man returning to a battlefield after losing, and for a second her smile softened into something far more tender.

“Shower first,” she said.

“I know.”

“And proper clothes.”

“Pietra.”

“What? Fate might be watching. You can’t go looking like you died.”

“I’m not going to see anyone.”

“Exactly. You’re going to prove me wrong in a clean shirt.”

Despite himself, Lando almost smiled again.

It vanished quickly, but she saw it.

He crossed to the bathroom, then stopped at the door.

Without turning around, he said, “If this makes me feel worse, I’m blaming you.”

Pietra’s voice softened.

“It won't.”

He nodded once.

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, and a moment later the shower turned on.

Pietra stayed sitting on the bed for a few seconds, looking at the closed bathroom door, at the dark television screen, at the clothes on the floor. Her smile faded slowly.

She wasn’t nearly as sure as she had sounded.

Maybe fate was just a pretty word people used to make accidents bearable. Maybe Valentina would not be there, and Lando would come back with one more piece of hope broken in his hands.

But he had gotten up, for now, that was enough.

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[sweetsugarsassafras]

Etuwa looking absolutely done and speaking to new hunters: "If you see Itu getting yelled at by Tamtey don't intervene.....He's right where he wants to be."

Hunters confused but nodding anyways.

A few weeks later they walk by Tamtey ripping Itu a new one. He looks at them absolutely pleased as punch.

[hayatheauthor]

100 Dialogue Tags You Can Use Instead of “Said”

For the writers struggling to rid themselves of the classic ‘said’. Some are repeated in different categories since they fit multiple ones (but those are counted once so it adds up to 100 new words). 

1. Neutral Tags 

Straightforward and unobtrusive dialogue tags: 

Added, Replied, Stated, Remarked, Responded, Observed, Acknowledged, Commented, Noted, Voiced, Expressed, Shared, Answered, Mentioned, Declared.

2. Questioning Tags 

Curious, interrogative dialogue tags:

Asked, Queried, Wondered, Probed, Inquired, Requested, Pondered, Demanded, Challenged, Interjected, Investigated, Countered, Snapped, Pleaded, Insisted.

3. Emotive Tags 

Emotional dialogue tags:

Exclaimed, Shouted, Sobbed, Whispered, Cried, Hissed, Gasped, Laughed, Screamed, Stammered, Wailed, Murmured, Snarled, Choked, Barked.

4. Descriptive Tags 

Insightful, tonal dialogue tags: 

Muttered, Mumbled, Yelled, Uttered, Roared, Bellowed, Drawled, Spoke, Shrieked, Boomed, Snapped, Groaned, Rasped, Purred, Croaked.

5. Action-Oriented Tags 

Movement-based dialogue tags: 

Announced, Admitted, Interrupted, Joked, Suggested, Offered, Explained, Repeated, Advised, Warned, Agreed, Confirmed, Ordered, Reassured, Stated.

6. Conflict Tags 

Argumentative, defiant dialogue tags:

Argued, Snapped, Retorted, Rebuked, Disputed, Objected, Contested, Barked, Protested, Countered, Growled, Scoffed, Sneered, Challenged, Huffed.

7. Agreement Tags 

Understanding, compliant dialogue tags: 

Agreed, Assented, Nodded, Confirmed, Replied, Conceded, Acknowledged, Accepted, Affirmed, Yielded, Supported, Echoed, Consented, Promised, Concurred.

8. Disagreement Tags 

Resistant, defiant dialogue tags: 

Denied, Disagreed, Refused, Argued, Contradicted, Insisted, Protested, Objected, Rejected, Declined, Countered, Challenged, Snubbed, Dismissed, Rebuked.

9. Confused Tags 

Hesitant, uncertain dialogue tags:

Stammered, Hesitated, Fumbled, Babbled, Mumbled, Faltered, Stumbled, Wondered, Pondered, Stuttered, Blurted, Doubted, Confessed, Vacillated.

10. Surprise Tags

Shock-inducing dialogue tags:

Gasped, Stunned, Exclaimed, Blurted, Wondered, Staggered, Marvelled, Breathed, Recoiled, Jumped, Yelped, Shrieked, Stammered.

Note: everyone is entitled to their own opinion. No I am NOT telling people to abandon said and use these. Yes I understand that said is often good enough, but sometimes you WANT to draw attention to how the character is speaking. If you think adding an action/movement to your dialogue is 'good enough' hate to break it to you but that ruins immersion much more than a casual 'mumbled'. And for the last time: this is just a resource list, CALM DOWN. Hope that covers all the annoyingly redundant replies :)

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Check out the rest of Quillology with Haya; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors!

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[luna-azzurra]

Things Writers do that feel Unproductive but aren't!!!

⟡ Staring out a window for twenty minutes before a single word

⟡ Rereading the same paragraph six times before moving forward

⟡ Lying on the floor thinking about a scene that isn't written yet

⟡ Taking a walk with no phone just to let something untangle

⟡ Reading a book that has nothing to do with your current project

⟡ Sitting in a café doing nothing but absorbing the atmosphere

⟡ Daydreaming about characters like they're real people you know

⟡ Rewriting the first chapter for the fourth time instead of continuing

⟡ Listening to your playlist on repeat until the mood arrives

⟡ Journaling about why you can't write instead of writing

⟡ Reorganizing your notes, your files, your whole system

⟡ Reading your own old work looking for who you used to be

⟡ Researching something minor for three hours because accuracy matters to you

⟡ Sleeping on a problem and waking up with the answer

⟡ Having a full conversation in your head between two characters

⟡ Watching people in public and cataloguing everything

⟡ Cooking or cleaning while your brain quietly solves the plot problem

⟡ Writing the same scene in three different tones just to feel it out

⟡ Abandoning the document and writing by hand for a while

⟡ Reading poetry when prose feels impossible

⟡ Watching a film just to study how a scene transition works

⟡ Making a new playlist because the old one stopped working

⟡ Sitting with discomfort until the scene becomes clear

⟡ Rereading your favorite book and taking it apart sentence by sentence

⟡ Writing a scene you know won't make the final draft just to understand the character

⟡ Doing nothing and trusting that it's filling something up

⟡ Reading the acknowledgements of every book you finish

[thewatcher727]

Writing Description Notes:

Updated 19th October 2025 More writing tips, review tips & writing description notes

Dialogue Tags

Facial Expressions

Masking Emotions

Smiles/Smirks/Grins

Eye Contact/Eye Movements

Blushing

Voice/Tone

Body Language/Idle Movement

Thoughts/Thinking/Focusing/Distracted

Silence

Memories

Happy/Content/Comforted

Love/Romance

Sadness/Crying/Hurt

Confidence/Determination/Hopeful

Surprised/Shocked

Guilt/Regret

Disgusted/Jealous

Uncertain/Doubtful/Worried

Anger/Rage

Laughter

Confused

Speechless/Tongue Tied

Fear/Terrified

Mental Pain

Physical Pain

Tired/Drowsy/Exhausted

Eating

Drinking

Warm/Hot

Cold/Freezing

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Other Words for "Look" + With meanings | List for writers

Many people create lists of synonyms for the word 'said,' but what about the word 'look'? Here are some synonyms that I enjoy using in my writing, along with their meanings for your reference. While all these words relate to 'look,' they each carry distinct meanings and nuances, so I thought it would be helpful to provide meanings for each one.

Gaze - To look steadily and intently, especially in admiration or thought.

Glance - A brief or hurried look.

Peek - A quick and typically secretive look.

Peer - To look with difficulty or concentration.

Scan - To look over quickly but thoroughly.

Observe - To watch carefully and attentively.

Inspect - To look at closely in order to assess condition or quality.

Stare - To look fixedly or vacantly at someone or something.

Glimpse - To see or perceive briefly or partially.

Eye - To look or stare at intently.

Peruse - To read or examine something with great care.

Scrutinize - To examine or inspect closely and thoroughly.

Behold - To see or observe a thing or person, especially a remarkable one.

Witness - To see something happen, typically a significant event.

Spot - To see, notice, or recognize someone or something.

Contemplate - To look thoughtfully for a long time at.

Sight - To suddenly or unexpectedly see something or someone.

Ogle - To stare at in a lecherous manner.

Leer - To look or gaze in an unpleasant, malicious way.

Gawk - To stare openly and stupidly.

Gape - To stare with one's mouth open wide, in amazement.

Squint - To look with eyes partially closed.

Regard - To consider or think of in a specified way.

Admire - To regard with pleasure, wonder, and approval.

Skim - To look through quickly to gain superficial knowledge.

Reconnoiter - To make a military observation of a region.

Flick - To look or move the eyes quickly.

Rake - To look through something rapidly and unsystematically.

Glare - To look angrily or fiercely.

Peep - To look quickly and secretly through an opening.

Focus - To concentrate one's visual effort on.

Discover - To find or realize something not clear before.

Spot-check - To examine something briefly or at random.

Devour - To look over with eager enthusiasm.

Examine - To inspect in detail to determine condition.

Feast one's eyes - To look at something with great enjoyment.

Catch sight of - To suddenly or unexpectedly see.

Clap eyes on - To suddenly see someone or something.

Set eyes on - To look at, especially for the first time.

Take a dekko - Colloquial for taking a look.

Leer at - To look or gaze in a suggestive manner.

Rubberneck - To stare at something in a foolish way.

Make out - To manage to see or read with difficulty.

Lay eyes on - To see or look at.

Pore over - To look at or read something intently.

Ogle at - To look at in a lecherous or predatory way.

Pry - To look or inquire into something in a determined manner.

Dart - To look quickly or furtively.

Drink in - To look at with great enjoyment or fascination.

Bask in - To look at or enjoy something for a period of time.

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[ean-menari]

All the Difference (Freckles)

Part 1 - Your Mother's Guitar

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

Blond version

Neteyam x fem!Omatikaya!reader

Summary: Your father was a Mangkwan warrior who turned his back to their way a long time ago. Your mother was an avatar with fiery aytanhì [bioluminescent freckles]. Ever since she died six years ago, you and your father have been hiding in the forest. But when the Mangkwan destroys your base again, you have to find a new home.

You have faced this trial before, and no clan would have you then. So will they now? Your father seems to know where you need to go.

When you arrive, there's a boy who can't take his eyes off of you ... and it makes you furious.

Chapter warnings/tags: Canon-typical violence, parental death, non-con, canon divergence, fluff, slow-burn, no under-age smut!, minor original characters Story warnings: MDNI 18+, rape/non-con, aged-up characters, explicit smut, assault, psychological trauma, physical trauma, kidnapping, power imbalance, forced tsaheylu, violence, canon-typical violence, blood, loss of limbs, major original character ("Story warnings" are basically what I have planned for the work atm, "chapter warnings/tags" are what is in the chapter.)

a/n: This first chapter is mostly set-up with some fluff and canon-typical violence, hinting at a bit of non-con (not underage!).

Reader and the Sully kids are aged up about a year in the first few chapters, so reader and Neteyam are both 16. In chapter 4, there is a bigger time-skip.

If I'm missing a tag please let me know. Please be kind. I have plans for three parts, several chapters in each. Maybe there can be more in the future.

Story notes: This fic exists in two versions because of reasons. The story is the exact same, except for the depiction of the reader. Please keep in mind that what’s important to the story is not the exact description of the reader, it's that the reader has something that relates them to fire.

I do not use AI in my writing.

Read Blond Version on AO3

Read Freckles Version on AO3

Chapter 1

The smell of ash and melted metal hung thick in the air. You’d barely gotten away in time before they had burnt your home to the ground. The Mangkwan. The ferocious clan from the land of ash had been pursuing you and your father for far too long now, and they had finally found your base. Fortunately, your father had somehow smelled the ambush in the air and gotten you out just in time.

The base had been empty when they attacked, but the horror of it still lingered in your heart. You’d been hiding in the forest, waiting for them to leave, hour after hour. When your father had finally deemed it safe enough to approach, you’d barely been able to stand up on your shaky legs. Your father had supported you as you’d carefully made your way towards the base, quietly stepping on the forest floor, too scared to make any sort of sound. But the sight of your burned-down home had made you both gasp.

Now you were walking through the lab, inspecting the rubble at your feet. What few possessions you had were still burning, the low light of cinder eating through the fabrics and hides. The microscope that your mother had shown you how to use when you were little was destroyed, parts of the metal melted and the glass shattered. The walls of the rectangular lab, however, were mostly intact, probably made of a sturdier material than the rest. Your mother would have known for sure, but it was too late to ask her. Far too late.

Your mother had been a human biologist, sent from earth to participate in the Avatar project seventeen years ago. She had told you stories of that time: How she, Dr. Grace, and the other avatar drivers had travelled out into the forest to research the flora and fauna. How Jake Sully had become lost, been saved, and let into the hometree of the Omatikaya. How jealous she’d been and how she and Norm had been tasked with teaching him about the Na’vi. How they had helped Jake learn the language and the culture, so he could assimilate faster and finally be able to persuade the people to let the rest of them in. And, finally, she had told you about how she herself had become lost in the forest.

She had accidentally walked too close to a cliff while studying a rare flower and the edge had broken off. She had slid down on the muddy cliffside and into a river, and the rushing waves had carried her very far away. 

She had tried to find her way back by following the river upstream. But the night had closed in, and your mother had remembered what they said about overnight missions: nobody had ever gotten back. “There was Jake though,” she had said. Well, of course, but you’d remarked that he hadn’t been alone. The Omatikayan girl had helped him. Your mom had told you then that she indeed had had help too. Your father had helped her.

“Maybe not from the start though … Remember, honey?” your father had said mischievously, with an underlying tone that you hadn’t been old enough to pick up on. But your mom had just laughed and brushed him off. 

He had found her alone in the forest while out on a raid and he had thought that she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. “It was your aytanhì [bioluminescent freckles/stars], honey, shedding their light through the forest like the flaming rays of the sunset. Fire itself walking among the trees. How could I resist?” Your mother had laughed again. “They don’t shine like that. It’s just the poet in you talking, honey. You exaggerate as always.” But he hadn’t, not this time, you had thought. You had never seen another Na’vi with aytanhì [freckles] this fiery and you’d wondered why your mom was different. Your mother had begrudgingly blamed her freckles on a mix-up in the lab when they created her avatar. She’d said that they’d accidentally spilled some extra human genes in her avatar soup. “But, really, it was probably chance, the lottery of life,” she’d also said. 

Your mother hadn’t really cared for her aytanhì [freckles]. She’d thought they made her look too different from the forest clans, and she had worried that it would give her a hard time getting the Na’vi to trust her. But you thought that your father was right. Your mother’s aytanhì [freckles] really did shine like the sunset at certain times of the day, and you were proud to have inherited them.

Ultimately, your father had decided to bring her back to his clan. They didn’t like to go into details of what had happened to make your father come to this decision. But you also hadn’t pried. You had been more interested in hearing about the gruesome Mangkwan clan. The raider clan which struck fear into all other Na’vi clans. Burning down villages, pillaging, murdering, and—maybe worst of all—cutting off the kurus of their victims. The stories of your father’s old clan always managed to send a shiver through your spine, especially when he himself told them.

He had brought your mother back to his clan with the intent of keeping her there as his mate, proud to have brought back a personification of fire, of the sun. But the Mangkwan leader had not accepted their pairing. She had indeed also seen your mother as a personification of fire, with aytanhì [freckles] burning like a roaring flame. But at the same time, she was an avatar, a demon in a false body. Not someone to welcome with open arms. And so, the leader had twisted your father’s words and declared your mother a gift from the ayvrrtep [demons]. A worthy sacrifice for the fires. She would fan their flames with your mother’s flesh and they would become unstoppable. 

Your father had helplessly watched while they dragged your mother away to the cages, sent off to be burned at dawn. 

“That’s when I knew it was over and I finally got out of the pod.” In less than a day, your mother’s whole life had been turned upside down. Ruined by one small misstep. She had told the other scientists what had happened and they had urged her not to go back in. They had said that she needn’t become anymore traumatised than she already was. 

She hadn’t been that excited about knowing what it felt to die, and especially not what it felt like to be burned alive. But the reprimands she would receive for throwing away such an expensive investment, and whatever repercussions came with that, was also something that she didn’t want to go through with either. So she had made her decision. She would try her best to escape. 

Later that night, she’d snuck back into the pod and linked up. “But I was already back in the forest,” your mother had said, mimicking the surprise she had felt at that moment. 

Your father had also been wrestling with a decision that night. Throw away all that he had known—his home, his family, his clan—for the woman he had just met? The woman he had taken as his mate. The woman who glowed like fire. Or watch as she was tortured, got her kuru severed, and then burned alive? No. He had known which decision he could live with and which he could not.

Later that night he had snuck into the prison area, killed the guards and gotten her lifeless avatar body out of the cage. He had run back to the forest, to an area which he knew was safe, and had waited for her to wake up so he could explain. So he could tell her that he was sorry. To beg for her forgiveness, and to make her understand that he might have rescued her from the mess he had created, but in doing so, he had become a traitor to his clan. He had needed her to know that he’d thrown it all away for her, that he could never go back, and that he needed her to stay with him.  

“It took a while to convince me, but … Well, your father is very charming when he wants to be.” So she had agreed to stay with him. 

They had found an abandoned outpost in the forest that the humans had used as a lab before they’d realised it was too close to the Mangkwan clan to be of any use to them. It had taken them a few nights to clean up the place and make sure that the tech was still working, especially the pods that were still left. Then they had devised a plan to get her human body out of the RDA base and to the lab. Your mother had said that it really hadn’t been that hard to get out. “You see, they were so focused on not letting anything in, that they hadn’t thought of someone trying to get out.”

At the night of your mother’s escape, your father had waited in the woods close to the rendezvous point that they had agreed upon. Your father had said that he had also loved her human form from the first time he saw her, rushing through the jungle to find him, the same glow as her avatar radiating from her amber eyes. Together they had hidden away in the forest, at the old base, safe from both the RDA and the Mangkwan. And several months later, your mom’s avatar had given birth to you. 

You remember your childhood clearly. You’d been happy, living a quiet life with your mother and father at the base. You had learned to hunt together with your father, and your mother had taught you English and how to play the guitar. She’d even tried to teach you some science and math, but you’d barely had time to start before she had lost her life.

After she was gone, you and your father had had to find a new home again, seeing as you couldn’t stay in the old base. You’d found another outpost, a smaller one that was just a rectangle in the woods, but it had felt like home for these past six years.

While walking around inside the burnt-down lab you stepped on the glass of the old frame where your family photo used to sit. The only thing left inside the frame was ash and cinder, still eating away at the slivers that were left of the picture. You bent down, panicked at the sight of your mother’s image having gone up in flames. There had to be something left of her—anything. The tears were falling faster and faster from your eyes as you started to dig among the rubble at your feet, furiously scraping the ground for any sort of keepsake, any piece of your mother still intact. As your father laid a hand on your shoulder—to steady you, to keep you grounded, and to comfort—you felt how your heart rendered asunder and you screamed at the top of your lungs.

“Shh, maite [daughter]. Easy.” Your father held you tighter and you felt the pain subside and your breath steady at the sound of his deep voice. A voice that had been there to comfort you more times than you could count. “Easy, maite. See, over there in the corner.” You opened your swollen eyes to see where your father was pointing.

A miracle, that’s what it must have been. The great mother had heard your scream and felt pity. Eywa had left your mother’s old guitar intact, but for a few burnmarks, in the corner behind one of the pods. You didn’t know how it had escaped the fire, but why question fate when you were so overjoyed? You rushed out of your father’s grip to pick up the guitar. 

You inspected it carefully: a string had come loose, but you could fix that easily. Then you sat down to strum a C chord. Apart from the low E string that had broken, it sounded like it always did. 

Next to you lay your own burnt-up guitar, almost unrecognizable … No matter, you could make a new one. The one you held in your arm was the one that was irreplaceable. 

You called to mind a few songs that didn’t require the low E string, and carefully you started playing. Your fingers were sliding familiarly on the strings as you plucked the melody. Your mother’s guitar was too small for you, and usually you misplaced your fingers during the harder parts. But this time, the melody came out clean. “Oh, sempul [father] … I’m … she’s …,” you whispered in an unsteady voice, your throat still choking up with tears. 

“I know, maite [daughter]. I know.” Ever protecting, your father put one hand on your shoulder and the other on the guitar. “She’s still with us.” Carefully, he rose up, and you could see how his legs shook just as much as your own. 

Your father had always been a strong man. Reliable. He had protected you and your mother your whole life. You had only seen him falter one other time in your life—the time your mother died.

“Come now, maite [daughter]. We need to move. Get somewhere safer.”

“Where will we go, ma sempul [father]?” You felt an icy chill spread across your spine. Fear of the rejection you had been subjected to too many times took hold of you again. Sometimes you wondered if your mother’s fears were true. If you really were too different for anyone to accept you. “Nobody wants us.

Your father stopped in his step and sighed. “There is one who might. But we have to travel far, maite [daughter]. Very far …”

You sucked in a breath and held it. Then you nodded.

Through the tsaheylu, you could feel how your own panting was starting to match your ikran’s heavy breaths. You had been flying for days, and your legs were growing numb with the strain. The long flight was taking its toll on both your bodies. But your father had assured you that it was soon coming to a close. Toruk Makto had been hard to find, but your father had been closing in on his trail.

You had arrived at the Hallelujah mountains yesterday evening, but your legs had been killing you and you had begged your father to stop for the night. You had slept restlessly and you were still feeling exhausted from the long journey as you were making your way through the mountains, so you were happy that you had finally reached your goal. However, you were also worried. 

You remembered the time when you and your father had been looking for a new home. The time after your mother’s death had been hard. Still grief stricken from the sudden loss, your father had pressed on to find somewhere you could stay safely. You had travelled from clan to clan to try to find a new home, a place where you could both be accepted. Somewhere you didn’t have to be alone.

But you had had to settle on staying at another abandoned lab, because no clan wanted you. Whether it was for your father’s Mangkwan background or the vrrtep [demon] genes your mother had passed down to you, you had always been seen as outcasts, undesirable, and you had been turned away again and again. 

You were dreading another failure.

“Over there, maite [daughter].” Your father pointed past a floating rock, and when you flew closer to him you could see the other ikran in the distance. They were clearly being ridden judging by their flight pattern. “Stay behind me and follow my lead. We don’t want to get too close.”

Your father was being cautious. He had heard that the only clan living in these parts of the mountains were the Omatikaya, led by Jake Sully. But he wanted to be sure it was them before approaching.

Careful not to be seen, weaving from floating rock to floating rock, you slowly caught up to the caravan. Without a sound you and your father stopped under a canopy on one of the rocks. Looking through the leaves you could see the faint glint of metal from the weapons perched on the warriors’ legs as the caravan flew past above you. Your mother and father had told you about the fire weapons that the ayvrrtep [demons] had brought to this world. But you had only seen pictures of them, having been the first thing your father had disposed of when settling in your old home.

Your father turned his head to you and gave you a curt nod. You returned it: Yes, ma sempul [father]. You were ready.

When you and your ikran pushed off the cliffside and dove after your father, you could feel your heartbeat thumping in your head, in your chest, and in your throat. Nervousness crept in and your head turned foggy when you changed direction and started climbing straight up on the wind, following your father through the cave opening that the caravan had disappeared into.

Inside the cave your father stopped clean in the air, and you followed suit, always a wing’s beat behind him. He waited for the caravan to land and become aware of your presence before he cried out and urged his ikran to circle the cave opening, letting the warriors land and pull out their weapons, signalling that you weren’t a threat; if the warriors had wanted to, they had had time to shoot.

As you landed you could see how they all gathered around you in a half circle. Toruk Makto himself stood proudly in the middle, assault rifle ready in his hand. Your father got off first and with his head in a deep bow, finger touching between his brows and then falling to his side, he approached Jake Sully, the man your mother had told you so many stories about.

You jumped off your ikran, but your heart was still racing. You told yourself that you had had a long flight and just needed to catch your breath. But you knew that it was nerves. Fear lingering beneath your skin. It made you stay with your ikran, hiding behind its large wing. Just for a moment, you told yourself. Just one more breath, then I’ll join him.

“Toruk Makto. Jake Sully. I am Tao’tel. I come to seek sanctuary for me and my daughter. We’ve flown very far to find you.”

“Sanctuary? Oh, come on!” Toruk Makto threw out his hand and straightened his back. “I see what you are, Mangkwan. We have no place for murderers in our clan. Go back to your people.”

It was indeed unmistakable which clan your father had once belonged to. His sinewy, strong body had deep seated scars all across it from where his old piercings had sat. He had even kept a few that he said had brought him far too much pain to remove; two small, sharpened rib bones sat perched on top of each other underneath his broad chest and a polished ring of bone hung beneath his left deltoid. 

However, he had also distinguished himself from his old clan in many ways. Long ago he had washed off the war paint so typical of his clan. And he had grown out his black hair and braided it, letting it fall in long strands along his back. Your mother had also remarked upon how much his demeanor had changed since they had had you. Happier, kinder, and more in touch with nature and himself. He had stepped out of the fire and found his way back to Eywa. 

All in all, you thought he didn’t seem too different from the Omatikaya.

“The Mangkwan are not my people anymore. I chose to leave my clan long ago and they’ve been hunting us ever since. They burned down our home and sent us running. We have no clan to go back to. No home. Please, I beg you to let us stay.”

“Ma Jake. He’s Mangkwan. He can’t be trusted …” Her words cut through the silence like knives. You didn’t know her name, but your father had said that Jake Sully’s wife was rumoured to be a fierce woman.

“Get out.” Jake had pulled up his rifle, taking aim. “I won’t say it again.”

At the sight of the weapon pointed at your father’s head, your feet moved by themselves. “No, don’t shoot.” Having two mother tongues was hard sometimes; in tight situations you didn’t know which language you would blurt out. But Jake immediately lowered his gun at the sound of the English phrase. And at the sight of you.

“Gabby?” Gabriella, that had been your mother’s name.

“Toruk Makto.” Your father bowed again before he urged you forward and put a hand on your upper back. “Gabby was my wife, and this is our daughter.”

You followed your father’s lead and greeted Jake Sully, your mother’s old friend, with a bow. When you looked up again you cowered under the weight of the eyes of the clan. You heard gasps and whispers spread through the crowd that was surrounding you and dread started creeping up your back again. With all eyes on you, you suddenly became very aware of yourself and you forgot how to stand, rocking nervously back and forth on your heels and aimlessly moving your hands.

The recognition on Jake’s face melted into confusion as he stared at you, and then realisation. “Oh … oh, Gabby.” He shook his head. “So that’s where she went.” When he finally broke out into a smile you let out the breath you didn’t notice that you had held. Jake turned to your father: “I see we have a lot to talk about.”

You sighed with relief when Jake took your father’s forearm in his as a friendly welcome and declared that you could stay. The eyes of the crowd turned to Tao’tel and Jake’s conversation as your father started telling the short version of the story of your lives. The long one could wait for later, Jake had said. Neytiri called out to the rest of their clan to keep going about their business, to give the new clan members space. And then, bit by bit, the crowd dispersed and only a few were left. At first you were glad to have a respite from the glaring eyes, until you noticed a pair of them still staring at you. 

Behind Jake, on his left-hand side, stood a tall, handsome boy, not much older than yourself. He had you locked in an intense gaze that you didn’t know how to interpret, nor get away from. You felt the shivers of anxiety bubble up again and you quickly looked away. Trying to focus on your father’s conversation.

But in the corner of your eye, you could still see him staring at you. And it made you furious.

Before you could stop yourself, you looked back at him, challenging his gaze. Each time you had met other Na’vi, you’d always become a spectacle. But no more. Jake had accepted you and your father, and you would stay here with the Omatikaya and make this place your new home. You wouldn’t let this boy make you feel like a freak. Not again. 

Taken over by rage, with your tail swinging in big furious strokes behind you, you bared your fangs and let out a hiss at him, not thinking about any consequences. 

His countenance changed immediately, from intense curiosity to sudden surprise. Mouth agape, he stood there dumbfounded at your hostility. Then he turned his eyes and ears down, as if he’d just realised what he was doing. You scoffed at him. That put him in his place.

“Mawey, maite [calm down, daughter]. What’s wrong?” Your father had put a hand on your chest, both to stop you from doing anymore harm and to calm you down. At his touch, you immediately backed down. But you couldn’t help but glare at the boy you had antagonised.

Jake followed your glare and looked behind him, misbelief in his eyes. “Neteyam? What happened?”

“Nothing, dad.”

Dad …? Oh, no. What had you done?

But before you could apologise or do anything else to smooth over the situation, another boy leapt forward, grabbing your hand with a big smile on his face. He was a bit shorter than the other boy, and yourself for that matter, but he couldn’t be much younger than the both of you.

“Oh, wow! Look Kiri, she’s got four fingers too,” he said excitedly, while holding up your hand for them all to see. 

Too? 

You looked at the hand that was holding your wrist. There were indeed four fingers and a thumb on his hand as well. You hadn’t even considered that there could be other kids with the same vrrtep [demon] hands as yourself. But if you had, by some miracle, inherited your mother’s fiery aytanhì [freckles] and her hands, of course at least one of Jake Sully’s kids would have inherited his extra finger.

However, you were getting annoyed at being the centre of attention again, and you pulled your hand away with another, smaller hiss. “Don’t touch me.” 

“Lo’ak,” Neteyam and Jake said in a chorus. Neteyam was a bit faster on the beat than Jake and got to Lo’ak first to put a warning hand on him, to make sure he kept away from you. 

Lo’ak put his hands up in the air in a surrender and shook off his brother’s grip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean any harm. I mean … I got them too,” he said while gesturing with his hands, and then he grinned. 

He reached out a hand, “I’m Lo’ak,” and pointed a thumb at his brother, “like he said.” 

You didn’t know what the gesture meant. Was it an Omatikaya thing? “What are you doing?” you said while lifting one of your eyebrows, unimpressed. 

“Wait, you don’t know what a handshake is?” You shook your head, and then he quickly grabbed your right hand with his. “Like this.” He shook them up and down. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Lo’ak,” Jake said through gritted teeth, and he let go of you immediately. Then Jake softened up. “Leave her be for a bit, okay, maitan [son]. You’ll get acquainted soon enough.” Addressing you, he asked: “So what’s your name, young lady?”

With his hands placed gently on both your shoulders, your father proudly told Jake your name before you could answer. “Well, that does sound like something Gabby would name her kid, for sure,” Jake said with a laugh. “She always loved that name … You know, I’ve known your mother for a long time, even before we came here to Pandora. Back on earth, she was an old friend of my brother. They’d been coworkers for a very long time, you see …” He sighed. “I was quite a mess when I heard what had happened to her. We thought she’d been killed out in the jungle … But I’m glad it wasn’t so.” 

He touched his finger between his brows and slowly lowered his arm. “Jake Sully. It’s nice to meet you.” 

You returned his greeting, and he broke out into a smile. Then he pointed to two girls standing to your right. One of them was older, closer to your age, and one of them much younger. “Those are my daughters, Kiri and Tuk.” They greeted you happily and you greeted them back. 

“And you’ve already gotten acquainted with my rascal of a son,” he said and put a hand on Lo’ak’s head to rub it, but he pulled away with a little hiss. Laughing, Jake moved on and put a hand on the shoulder of the boy who had been staring at you so intently. 

He had still been looking away from you, focusing on a spot on the ground. But when Jake touched his shoulder, Neteyam straightened up and drew in a breath, as if to prepare himself for something. You wondered if it was because of you. Were you really that horrible to look at, that much of a freak? “And this is my eldest, Neteyam. Should be about the same age as yourself in fact.” 

When Neteyam’s gaze met yours, you suddenly felt very shy. Having his big golden eyes focused on you again made your heart race, and you figured it was the rage still boiling in your veins. But then he smiled. A small, weak, but sincere smile that somehow softened your heart, and you noticed that what you felt was something different, something new. 

Something strange you decided, something you didn’t want to explore right now.

He bowed in the same greeting that Jake had given you, and you did the same, breaking eye contact when you straightened up again.

Then Jake presented his wife and she welcomed both of you with a smile, having known your mother too, even if it was for a short while. Addressing your father, Jake said: “Come, Norm and Max are in the lab. I take it your wife has told you all about them too, right? You should get your things and we’ll find you a marui first. Then we’ll go on a tour. Neteyam, Lo’ak, help them with their ikran.”

You turned around to go back and get what little possessions you had left, so you didn’t see how Neteyam firmly pushed Lo’ak to the side to make sure he was on your heel instead of his little brother. Lo’ak raised his eyebrows at his brother’s back, stunned for a brief moment. Then a smug grin spread over his lips, and he chuckled as he went over to help your father. Jake and Neytiri exchanged a surprised but knowing look.

When you reached your ikran you patted her gently on her head and she squirmed lovingly under your touch. Her blue spots and soft orange streaks glistened in the sunlight on her purple skin, and you had wondered many times if the fact that you both were glowing like embers was why she had chosen you in the first place. Maybe she’d seen something of herself in you.

Your ikran first came to you during the hard times after your mother’s passing. Your father had been incessantly resolved that you would have your own ikran, noticing the strain it took on his own beast to carry the both of you during your search for a new home, and he had consequently sped up the training for your iknimaya [rite of passage]. You had undoubtedly worked even harder to finish your training as soon as possible, but it hadn’t only been because of your father’s nagging; it had also given you something to focus on, something to do except mourn your mother. 

Following your father’s old rites, the training leading up to your rite of passage as a hunter had been different from the stories your mother had told you about the Omatikaya. But the training had still been hard, and you’d almost failed to tame your beloved ikran on your first try. But adrenaline, stubbornness, and sheer will had helped you through it, and now the two of you were inseparable.

Your ikran had worked hard these past few days of non-stop flying, and you could see the exhaustion in her eyes. She deserved a nice long break.

You were just about to go and untie your bag and your mom’s guitar from the saddle when, from the corner of your eye, you saw movement—a hand reaching out to your ikran’s jaw.

“She’s beautiful.” You froze stiff for a second when you saw Neteyam beside you, having expected the younger brother to help you, since he had greeted you with such excitement. “What’s her name?” he asked.

“Tiram,” you answered.

He patted your ikran under her chin, and she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch and letting out a soft purr. At least she seemed to like him. Looking over her wings at her flaming streaks, he smiled. “You kind of match,” he said with a little chuckle.

“Yeah.” You smiled, flustered by the sudden kindness he showed Tiram. “I think that’s why she chose me.” 

He looked over at you for a quick spell, and if you hadn’t been too preoccupied petting Tiram you would have seen how he smiled and blushed, and then quickly focused his gaze on the ground again. “Hey, I’m … I’m sorry for—” but he didn’t have time to finish before his little sister took all your attention.

Tuk had snuck past you and was standing by your saddle, mesmerised by the weird instrument hanging on the side of it. The body of the guitar had been covered in a make-shift casing, but Tuk had already removed it and the rope that had pulled the strings tight to the shaft, so as to make less sound when flying. She had strummed the strings and the sound of it had made you react so fast that you were already behind her before you could think straight.

“No, be careful with that,” you snarled at her, and pulled the guitar from the saddle before she could touch it again. But you immediately regretted the tone in your voice when you noticed how she cowered. 

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh,” you answered and bent your ears down in shame. 

“Maite [daughter], be kind now …,” your father said. Then he turned to Tuk: “She didn’t mean any harm. That instrument belonged to her mother, so it’s very precious to us. We need to be careful with it.”

Tuk seemed to understand and she lit up when you offered her to try it out. You squatted as you put the strap around her shoulder and showed her how she should hold her fingers to play a D chord. “Then you strum the strings gently, only the bottom ones. These four.” The chord came out a bit shaky, but it sounded good. Tuk laughed with delight and you gave her a big smile. “I think it fits you even better than me. It’s gotten a bit too small for me you see,” and you put one of your fingers on a string to show how big they were compared to the slim guitar neck, “but your fingers are still small enough to fit.”

“What do you call it?” Lo’ak asked, having watched the exchange. “The instrument, I mean. What is it?”

“It’s a guitar,” Jake answered before you had a chance to. 

“Oh, so that’s a guitar. Can you play it?” Lo’ak asked. 

But Jake cut in. “I’m sure we can get a performance later, but now it’s time to go. Give the guitar back, Tuk.”

You took it gently when she handed it to you, and you put it on your back. Then she helped you get your bag from the saddle, and you turned around to follow your father. When you did, your eyes landed on Neteyam again.

He was staring at you again, just as before. But now he was smiling, and there was a soft glint in his eyes. 

You couldn’t help but smile as well, not when Tiram was nuzzling hard into his face with light purrs and chirps, but he was just staring at you, seemingly unbothered by the beast. And your smile turned into a light chuckle as Tiram nuzzled her snout right into his left eye and he quickly drew back. 

“Ouch,” he said softly, and stopped petting her in favour of rubbing his eye. Tiram gave a disappointed chirp at the loss of his touch, and she bent her head down to his other hand, looking for more pets.

“I think she likes you,” you said with a giggle.

“Yeah … maybe a bit too much,” Neteyam chuckled, while rubbing his sore eye.

“Maite [daughter], are you coming?” your father said. He was waiting for you next to Jake and Neytiri.

“Yes, ma sempul [father].”

As you went after your father, you looked back one more time at Neteyam. Just to make sure that Tiram wasn’t bothering him too much, you told yourself. Your eyes met again for a brief moment. A moment that you broke far too soon for his liking, as you started hurrying towards your father.

Tao’tel was smiling at you, looking between you and Neteyam. He chuckled lightly, then sighed and shook his head, but you didn’t notice. He put his arm across your shoulder when you caught up to him and gave you a squeeze. 

Then, the both of you followed Jake further into the village. Ready to start your new lives.

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Lonely paradise (Masterlist)

Sumary: During a holiday with his friends after the World Championship, Lando Norris didn’t expect to find love. He also didn’t expect to like the fact that she apparently had no idea of who he was. At first, it wasn’t really a lie, just an omission, but quickly he buries himself into more and more lies. How will he get himself out of it ?

Pairing : Original female character x Lando Norris

Genre : fluff, love at first sight, miscommunication

Main Masterlist

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10