Peter Solarz
art blog(derogatory)
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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@pitsoff1
𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆 | 𝘴𝘩𝘦/𝘩𝘦𝘳 | 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 20𝘴 | 𝘪 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘻𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘪 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘦 | 𝘭𝘦𝘰'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 | 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯 | 81 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳
𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙
𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖
𝘼𝙡𝙚𝙭 𝙅𝙖𝙘𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨, 𝙈𝙊𝙉𝘼𝘾𝙊, 2024
And I won’t elaborate.
one shitpost per sometimes
hey lovely i love your works so much especially the angsty one shots they're jusy chef's kiss 💞💞😭 i was wondering if you could make a series of angsty lando texts? not ex reader maybe they just took a break but it's really bad because he did something petty to get her attention. and so then afterwards he manages to convince her to meet up........ im blanking now but i trust you with the ending
even though i shouldn't after what you pulled on delayed gratification. lol.
- 💞
Let’s call it | LN⁴
.✦ ݁˖ summary ──── In which two weeks apart and a public scandal it’s enough to bring them back together. Sort of.
.✦ ݁˖ pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader
.✦ ݁˖ rating ──── explicit
.✦ ݁˖ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, fake texts, angst, tension, descriptive language, swearing, push-and-pull behavior, arguments and heated conversations, implied emotional manipulation, unclear relationship status, longing, ‘right person, wrong time’ vibes, soft intimacy, internalized conflict, emotional dependency, toxic relationship dynamics, power dynamics, graphic descriptions of sexual acts, light marking, oral and manual stimulation, huge hands Norris™, unprotected sex, fingering, teasing, overstimulation, intense orgasms, messy bodily fluids, elements of aftercare.
.✦ ݁˖ word count ──── 7.3k
.✦ ݁˖ date ──── Apr. 16, 2026
.✦ ݁˖ a/n ──── This one haunted every corner of my brain for at least a month straight and it was a BITCH to edit. I have nothing left to say except lower your screen brightness if you’re reading it in public. Kachow ✌🏼
It was like I was a tree attracted to axes.
Steve Maraboli
LANDO IS ALREADY there when she rolls in, the purr of her engine cutting through the silent parking lot. The headlights sweep across the concrete walls in a smooth arc, landing on him by the time the car stops. She thinks it’s borderline idiotic how quickly her heart reacts at the sight of him, but she hasn’t seen the man in weeks, and the fact that he’s on time for her makes it all a bit harder than it already is. Mainly because Lando was rarely on time, and that used to annoy her a lot.
Whatever this might be, she understands right away that it’s far from casual, because it’s not one of their usual attempts to apologize and move on. It’s serious than it’s ever been, since it’s the first time they actually kept the distance, even though it didn’t last as much they’ve agreed on.
Seeing that Lando chose to listen before a single word is spoken, makes her chest tighten with a cautious kind of hope. Because of that, maybe, beneath all the damage and missteps, they still know how to meet each other halfway when it actually matters. Which is good news and danger zone in one.
He’s dressed accordingly, too: dark trousers, clean sneakers, and a coat pulled close against the cold, with its collar turned up to shield his neck from the bite of the night air. He leans against the edge of the curb, hands shoved into his pockets, breath fogging a little when he exhales. Once he notices her, Lando straightens and nods, then pushes off from where he’s standing, circling the front of the car instead of cutting close.
Opening the passenger door to slide in, he lets a quiet ‘hey’ slipping through his lips.
“Hey,” she copies his tone. “All good?”
Lando nods again. “Yeah, let’s go.”
A few minutes later, Monaco slides past in blurred reflections and the occasional flash of the darkened sea. Inside the car, the heater is turned on minimum, yet the space between them stays as cold as the winter air. Her hands move smoothly on the wheel, precise without being tense, even when another car noses in too close, or a horn snaps too loudly behind them. She has industrial quantities of patience when she drives, which forces Lando to bite his tongue at the thought because it’s true, and because she’d never let him live it down: she is, in fact, a better street driver than he is.
Where Lando gets restless when someone cuts him off, she stays composed, and when adrenaline needles under his skin, she remains calm. She’s everything he isn’t behind the wheel in places like this, yet somehow that doesn’t bruise his ego. It makes him smile, instead. There’s something very particular about the way she owns it, confident enough to be loud and proud without ever needing to prove herself, and he realizes he’s always trusted her most when her hands are right there, steering them both forward.
Both literally and metaphorically.
“You look good,” he says, searching to break the heavy silence.
The girl doesn’t look at him, but still has to point out his failed attempt, “I’m in sweats three times my size.”
The conversation dies where it stands and, luckily, Lando gets the hint. He presses his lips in a thin line, turning his head toward the window on his side with a sigh. If he had the slightest idea where the night was heading at before he got in the car, now he has no clue. She’s colder than he expected and suddenly, the memory of what he’d done hits him with embarrassing clarity: trying to win by playing games won’t work when the other person chooses not to play. Simple as that.
He ends up resting his chin in his palm, elbow braced against the door, pretending he is interested in the succession of images that passes them. Soon, his fingers tap a few times before he starts fidgeting, absently brushing the edge of the console, or tracing the seam of the leather in order to anchor himself in the texture of the car instead of the rejection.
He clears his throat on the verge of exasperation, looking back at her. “So, how are you?”
“Small talk? You wanna do that?”
“I’m trying, alright,” says Lando with a hint of frustration finally cracking through.
“What? To be civil?” she signals, turning onto a quieter street.
He frowns. “To be with you.”
Her grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles paling before she forces them to relax. “We’re way past that, don’t you think?”
“I don’t,” thunders Lando. “I’m here, with you. And I assume you’re here with me because, at least on some extent, we still want the same thing.”
She lets his words get cozy in the space between them, turning the affirmation over on each possible and impossible side in the private chambers of her mind. Of course, Lando is not completely wrong. She came for the same exact reason: she wants the version of them that feels like home instead of a sudden crash. Or at least some version that doesn’t feel like a civil war. But wanting that home and wanting him has always come with a cost she can’t quite approximate.
Most of the times, Lando doesn’t even have to try. He’s just existing and then, out of nowhere, she finds herself bending her own rules and rewriting them in order to accommodate him. Perhaps he’s not even aware of how strong his gravitational pull is, but whether he means it or not, he still takes advantage of it. In that case, how can one balance love against self-preservation? How can she separate genuine effort from the familiar rhythm of him saying exactly what she needs to hear?
Naturally, their scale can’t and won’t simply settle. It keeps tipping toward him, then away, until she doesn’t know which side is instinct and which is self-sabotage.
Impatient, Lando shifts in his seat, knee bouncing before he stills it with his hand. He hates how confined it feels, how close she is and how unreachable at the same time. Driving would’ve helped him right now, giving him a sense of control. She knew that and decided to strip him down of it.
Smart girl, he thinks, biting on the inside of his cheek.
She notices his quiet inability to settle and, deep down, she wishes she could reach out and reassure him that eventually, things will clear up. Maybe not right now, but sometime in the near future, when the fog lifts and they won’t be as blinded by resentment as they are now.
Her eyes sparkle the moment she glances at him briefly, then back at the road. “Did she see the photos?”
One of Lando’s eyebrows arches. “What?”
“Your ex,” she clarifies, “Did she see you getting papped in it?”
“Yeah,” he replies after a quick pause, fingers flexing against his thigh.
Lando can’t help but glance at her profile and watch how her jaw sets a bit harder. He’s not really sure if it’s jealousy since she already told him last night that she’s mostly furious. At him or at the situation, at him and at the situation, at him only — just some options he’s considered. However, he also can’t ignore the way her lips press together as she nods once, like she’s already made a scenario about it in her head. One that he knows it’s going to be hard to fight with.
“So, she reached out,” the girl concludes right away, understanding that it’s the only way Lando would know in the first place.
“Yeah,” he repeats.
“What did she say? Bet she had a good laugh.”
He scoffs, leaning back against the headrest, his eyes tracing the line of her neck, where a stray strand of hair has escaped her ponytail. He can definitely sense the undercurrent here and the subtle way she’s testing the waters without diving in, but he won’t give her the chance to steer the conversation in that direction.
Shaking his head, Lando turns his gaze out the window to the blurring coastline. “Dunno, I deleted the text before looking at it.”
Her tone is horrifyingly clinical next time she asks, “Why?”
“What do you mean? Because it doesn’t matter, that’s why.”
The girl studies him for a fraction longer than she wants to, then focuses back at the road. Her foot eases off the accelerator as they ascend higher, the path narrowing.
“But it does, since you wore it to get a reaction. Now you’ve got my attention, hers, and to top it nicely, the internet is having a field day with it as well,” she explains, sarcasm creeping in. “At our expense, may I add. Which is always so, so fun.”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” he corrects it at last. “You know I don’t give two fucks about what anyone says. You matter and that’s about it.”
She squints at the rearview mirror, then continues driving, keeping another sarcastic comment she’s prepared for herself. The road curves gently upward, climbing toward the hills that overlook the Mediterranean.
“But it’s a bit weird, isn’t it? How people can instantly pick on your breadcrumbs,” the girl continues contemplatively, after biting her tongue for too long.
His expression softens even though there’s still a spark of frustration in his eyes. “It’s none of our business. I think it’s clear where I stand, and you’re smart enough to see it.”
“Well, I think it’s just the fact that I know you too well, Lando,” she affirms, accelerating before slowing again. “Besides, it doesn’t take a genius to see how incredibly stupid you were, either. And if you wanna do that, don’t involve me.”
Without a second thought, “You make me that way,” says Lando.
She veers onto a forgotten access path next, the gravel crunching under the tires as the car jostles over uneven terrain. The engine cuts off immediately after she parks. Below, the dark waters churn against jagged rocks, white foam flashing intermittently under the moon’s pale gaze, while far in the distance, the principality’s lights twinkle like a constellation brought too close to earth.
Impatient with anger, she unbuckles her seatbelt then pivots to face him fully. “Can you own your mistakes for once? Why is it always someone else’s fault? Why do you have to deflect responsibility like it’s a reflex?”
Lando’s body jerks back against the door, her questions landing like an invisible blast wave. “That’s not…” he stammers, hand rising in a placating gesture that falters midway. “I do own it,” he continues, the same anger transferring to him. “You just don’t believe me when I do.”
The girl scoffs theatrically. “Because it always comes with a justification. You don’t want the middle ground, Lan. You just want to be right all the time. And you’re not.”
The restrained frustration simmers in the set of his jaw and the way his hand grips the door handle like he’s plotting an escape. It would be so much easier to leave right now than trying to make sense of any of this. But the thought doesn’t really hold. He already knows what waits on the other side of that choice: an empty apartment he’s already sick of, silent mornings and meaningless nights out.
Although his fingers don’t turn the handle, lingering there between impulse and hope, their grip is still strong.
“No, you just expect me to get it right immediately. What I don’t understand is how the fuck am I supposed to do that if you won’t even talk to me. These couple of weeks without you…” at last, the same hand drops to his lap, body easing back into the seat with a subtle retreat. “It got to a point where I had to distract myself just so I wouldn’t… lose it.”
He doesn’t say the word cry, but the way Lando’s voice thins towards the last sentence says enough for her to mirror his stance instinctively, gaze drifting to the dashboard.
The fragile silence after brings with it a kind of emotional exhaustion that settles over them both. A bone-deep weariness that tames the nerves, making a bit more room for acceptance. Honesty. Or resignation, they still can’t figure out which is which yet.
When she speaks again, it sounds like hope dipped in disappointment. “You need to stop with the childish behavior.”
“You need to stop pushing me away when things get tough,” he counters.
The need in question is not even a need. A break concluding with a breakup would spare them the cycles and the exhaustion of always finding each other, over and over again. They don’t need to go through any of it at this stage. Maybe the best version of their story is the one where they finish the chapter here and close the book before it gives them paper cuts. And yet neither of them moves toward that abrupt ending. There is no reaching for THE ENDs or periods, only commas, where no final decision rests on the tip of a sentence.
That’s why, despite the heaviness, their mutual refusal becomes its own kind of answer.
“You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”
Lando shrugs. “And you’re not exactly flexible either.”
“I don’t like how you always leave your shoes scattered by the door,” she continues, completely off-topic. “It trips me up in the morning.”
Staring out the windshield, Lando shoots back, “I don’t like how you fold the fucking towels.”
A faint curve touches the corners of her mouth, then she adds, “I hate that you check your phone during meals.”
Lando shifts again, his shoulder brushing the door. Their voices are flat, like they’re cataloging facts rather than flaws. And for some reason, it works this time.
“I don’t like how you hoard those travel mugs, filling the cabinets until there’s no room for anything else. And I don’t appreciate you stealing the blankets at night.”
The confessions flow gently back and forth; a simple stream of unvarnished truths spilling into the space they share, each one landing without accusation.
The girl turns her head a little, but her eyes remain fixated out at the olive trees bending in the breeze. “Don’t bring my mugs into this. I started collecting them after you made me coffee for the first time. I love how you make coffee,” she says honestly, certain that if she closes her eyes, she can taste the bitterness of it on her tongue.
His eyes drift to the curve of her cheek in the shadows. “I love that you get so excited about it.”
“Mhm,” the girl hums, “It’s mostly because I like watching your hands… doing stuff,” she says, mentally slapping herself at the admission.
Displaying a shy yet knowing smile, Lando extends his hand into the space between the seats with his palm up, waiting. She catches the movement in the corner of her eye and, even though she still avoids looking at him, her own hand moves to settle on top of his. His long fingers curl around hers, enveloping them in a warm grip.
“I love how you challenge me. You push me to be better,” says Lando, his thumb begining to ghost-brush the back of her hand. “I want to be that,” he admits. “For you.”
His statement manages to silently alter the storm inside her, and the scale that wobbles between two sides, eventually tilts a little more in one direction this time around. It doesn’t stabilize right away, but that’s because it’s too early. She’s not so naive to believe that a single confession, no matter how sincere, could repair everything they destroyed together. But it’s moving, and that motion matters. The burning desire to become a better person, even if the initial impulse is someone else, has always meant more than people realize.
For her, it means that Lando has look inward long enough to notice his own flaws. At the same time, it means that he acknowledged that change is necessary and, for now, she is satisfied with that; the reason may start with her, but it won’t remain limited there. In time, it’ll spread to the rest of him, from how he manages anger to how he treats himself when no one is watching. That is why, in her mind, there is no truly negative outcome in a promise like this, even though at first glance it seems absurd. Ultimately, if he becomes better, the world around him will follow, regardless of whether they survive it or not.
After what feels like an eternity, she finally turns to look at him. “Lando…”
“I mean it,” he talks so low that she can barely hear him. “As long as we both try.”
“What does trying again even look like?” she asks, fear mixing with the uncertainty behind her words.
“Right now,” replies Lando thoughtfully, “It looks like dinner. I’m starving.”
“PUT THAT AWAY,” Lando’s voice is raspy with sleep once the repetitive tapping on the screen is slowly pulling him back. “Five more minutes, yeah?” he doesn’t fully opens his eyes, just tilts his head enough to press his face further into her shoulder.
The morning rays filter through the half-drawn curtains in his living room, bringing light to the quiet mess they’ve done last night while watching a ‘quick movie’ before she was supposed to leave: two nearly empty water bottles on the coffee table next to some barely touched snacks, coats resting on the back of a chair, and a blanket half-slipped onto the floor where it couldn’t quite contain them.
She didn’t drink, so she remembers driving him home and agreeing they both deserved a couple of hours to switch off. Now, they’re tangled together, unplanned yet still intentional, Lando’s arm draped heavy across her waist, with one leg hooked loosely over hers ever since he found her in his sleep and decided not to let go. It aches a little, the way she doesn’t want to disturb him nor the heat they make in the space they share, which means she ends up closing the link to the article her friend sent her earlier, then puts the phone away.
“We have to get up, though,” she huffs a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh when she tries but fails to push him off.
Lando groans in protest, burying his hand underneath her lower back, tightening the embrace there. “No, we really don’t.”
“Landooo,” she insists, “Yes, we do. Come on, get up,” her free hand hovers for a moment before settling against his arm, absentmindedly tracing along the sleeve of his shirt, right where the tanned skin of his bicep meets the soft material.
Time itself freezes and stays like that, suspended somewhere between sleep and waking, between what they were yesterday and whatever they’re supposed to be today. She’s convinced that the human touch is healing, because the weight of him on her and his light breathing tickling her neck is able to neutralize every bad thought she’s ever had. Suddenly, everything is worth fighting for, no mistake is big enough to walk away, and there is nowhere they can go from here but up. High enough that no bad thing will ever happen to them again.
Finally cracking his eyes open, Lando shifts to glance up at her. His hair is a mess of soft curls that frames his sleepy face, and despite the calmness in her body, she can’t help the way her pulse jumps in her veins.
“Five,” he repeats, as if he’s meeting her halfway with some sort of compromise.
The girl looks back at him, at the way he’s wrapped around her like letting go isn’t an option he’s considered yet. She wants to argue, but since this might be it, she allows herself to pretend for a little while.
“When are you leaving?” she whispers a few minutes later, cautious, in case he fell back asleep.
Lando inhales deeply, feeling like he’s waking up in stages. “Next week,” he mumbles, pausing for a breath before adding, “Gotta go back to MTC first. Thursday, I think.” He tilts his head to look at her properly, blinking away the last of his sleep. “Why?”
She can’t answer right away, even though it sits at the edge of her tongue. If they’re going to fix anything, they need time. Real, physical, actual time together. Not texting sessions, late nights, or stollen hours between his meetings. In order for something to work, they need to be purposeful about it. Yet he’s already halfway gone again.
“No reason,” she finally replies, one of her hands getting lost into his curls, tucking it away from his eyes.
He studies her for a second. It comes out light and it’s hard for Lando to believe she can sound so careless about it, especially when she touches him the way she does. He knows there’s more she’s not saying, but he can’t push yet. Instead, he moves closer, resting his forehead on her shoulder.
“Did we even finish the movie?” he changes the subject for her sake, the inquiry coming out like a light bulb moment.
“Don’t think so,” she admits, “Last thing I remember is Mia and Sebastian pretending it won’t all fall apart at the jazz club.”
“What jazz club?” asks Lando, managing to steal a small chuckle from her, the sound traveling straight to the deepest parts of his soul.
She sighs in fake disappointment. “Lando…”
“Look, I’ll drive you home, if you want,” he continues gently, “Or we could just have breakfast here and finish what we started.”
It’s the way he says it that makes her lungs scream in agony because of how long she’s holding her breath after that. Feels like the choice he’s offering has nothing to do with the movie at all, but it’s not accompanied by the pressure to agree.
He’s simply making space for her and, for once, she doesn’t overthink it when he asks if she’s staying.
“Yeah,” she nods, letting the air out, “I’m staying.”
LANDO BLINKS AND it’s somehow the night before he has to leave. They didn’t speak after he dropped her off, days ago, and now there’s an open suitcase on the bed with all his clothes, some half-folded, most half-abandoned. He sits right next to it, on the edge of the mattress, pressing the screen of his phone to his forehead as if it can make him think faster. Better. Come up with solutions that stick.
The messages sit there on delivered for a minute, then five. Five turns to ten, ten to twenty.
Being the one left in the in-between can be frustrating, especially waiting for a decision that isn’t completely his to make. He didn’t have high expectations to begin with, but he’s held on to the belief that she’ll have an answer by now. Worst thing is that he knows he can’t blame her for the silence, because he’s aware of how complicated this is. How easily they can slip from something good into something that hurts.
Still, it leaves him with a couple of WHAT IFs.
There is no clear moment that points to where hope disappears, it just feels like it’s slowly dimming, like an engine finally running out of fuel. It’s not like Lando can simply decide to let go, but the space where he’d imagined her starts to feel emptier with every passing minute, until he’s left with the uncomfortable realization that maybe now is not their turn. But even though the biggest part of him agrees that the timing has never quite aligned for them, accepting that now isnt’t their time doesn’t make it hurt any less.
Lando watches a series of bubbles appearing and disappearing in front of his eyes, over and over, toying with his patience. Each time it shows up, his chest grows stiff; each time it vanishes, another wave of frustration washes over him. The lack of control sends him reeling, caught between please! and fuck it!
His jaw sets harder, frustration rising fast enough to turn into anger and, for a weak moment, he’s ready to throw the phone across the room. Until it buzzes in his hand, causing his heart to skip a beat, then drop straight to his stomach.
Their eyes lock immediately once the door is yanked open. His are wild, filled with disbelief and hungry, hers flicker with nerves. Three heartbeats pass in the space that separates them, until Lando’s hands shoot out to close the gap, fingers curling firmly around her waist. It doesn’t matter what else they might have to say in the moment, words are redundant now. He pulls her inside with an ease that speaks to how effortlessly he can handle her small frame against his lean one. Then the same door slams shut behind her, Lando’s mouth crashing into hers, desperate, with no time to test the waters.
It’s a kiss he’s put on hold ever since they woke up together on his couch, last week, messy in the way their lips slide together. Feels as though it’s the last time they’ll get to do it, and they both know it. She tastes like candy, making him groan into her mouth as soon as he remembers the sweet drops she chews whenever she feels anxious. His grasp almost leaves her breathless, combined with the way his mouth moves in sync with hers, thumbs pressing into the soft give of her hips to keep her in place.
Her entire body ignites under his hands, heat spreading like wildfire to the inside of her thighs, making her knees weaken and her skin prickle with goosebumps. She wasn’t ready to discover just how much her body had longed for his touch, and now she’s paying the price by revealing to Lando just how bad she needs him to claim her again. It’s like every nerve ending starts singing, her breasts heaving against his chest with labored breaths, nipples hardening beneath her shirt from the friction alone. She responds with the same urgency, her fingers fisting in his messy curls, tugging him closer until there’s no room left betweent them, not even for a speck of dust.
Saliva slicks their lips, a strand of it breaking when the girl pulls back to gasp for air, only for Lando to dive back in the next second, sucking on her lower lip hard enough to make her moan in protest. However, her legs part instinctively at the way he presses his hips forward, the hard line of his cock already straining against his sweatpants, grinding into her core through her jeans.
It gets overwhelming when he reaches this state, manhandling her like she’s weightless, his arms lifting her slightly off the ground to align their bodies better, her back arching on the door behind as a result. He sighs loudly when she presses back into him, sound that sends pure need between her legs. Like in a chain reaction, a rush of wetness soaks her panties, her clit throbbing in time with the pulse pounding in her ears.
Everything happens so fast, so she barely has time to snake her legs around his waist, locking her ankles at the small of his back without breaking the kiss. Lando stumbles forward a step, then another, his hands sliding down to cup her ass, fingers digging into the flesh there as he kneads it possessively. The shift makes his erection rub directly on her, sparks flying out of a body that’s undulating against his, itching to feel more of it.
Halfway to his room, Lando remembers the suitcase sprawled open on the bed with his clothes scattered everywhere. He breathes her in, a muffled nuh-uh coming from the back of his throat, then veers into the living room instead, lowering her feet to the floor but keeping her close.
“Fuck, wait,” he speaks over her lips, breathless; his hands are already working at her shoes, crouching slightly to tug off one, then the other.
She smiles, kicking them aside, her own hands yanking at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head in the shortest time, like she’s racing against the clock. His skin is burning, the defined lines of his abs flexing under her soft palms the second she starts tracing them all over, greedily.
“What are we doing?” she exhales heavily, inebriated by the assault of his mouth, the words tumbling out just for the sake of it and not because she’s interested in the answer.
Feeling her nails scraping lightly down his chest, Lando straightens with a small whimper. “You know what we’re doing,” he looks at her long enough to make a point, then immediately drops to his knees before her. “Do you wanna stop?” the question comes out in a low voice as his hands slide up her calves, thumbs pressing into the spot behind her knees.
Fixing her gaze on the way he unzips her jeans, the girl simply shakes her head. Lando’s is more wicked and it stops at the damp spot on her panties, peeling the denim down her legs. She steps out of them trembling at the anticipation, every square inch of her skin hypersensitive to his contact. His mouth follows the path, lips brushing her inner thigh until she brings him higher by threading her fingers through his curls a second time.
He takes his time though, hooking his fingers into her panties and dragging them to expose her slick folds to the cool air. The scent of her arousal hits him like a memory, sending his senses into overdrive next time he inhales sharply, his cock twitching in his sweatpants. It’s like a switch flipped in his brain. There’s no thought or logic behind it anymore, and although he’s aware of how it conditioned him over time, what follows is simply a knee-jerk reaction: his shoulders tense, pulse kicks up in his arteries, then he’s hit low in the stomach with an undeniable surge of want.
Rising, Lando sheds the useless fabric in a rush, his erection springing free with impatience, involuntarily putting on a show for her. It’s only fair she reaches for him without thinking twice, wrapping her hand around his length to stroke firmly from base to head, eliciting a weak whine from his chest.
“Holy shit,” his whine ends in a chuckle, “Your hands are so cold,” says Lando, capturing her wrists gently, guiding her hands to her own shirt instead. “Off, please.”
She can’t help but let a laugh escape through her lips but still complies, stripping it over her head, her bra following as her breasts spill free, begging for attention. “Sorry, I walked here.”
“No, you didn’t,” he insists, not past the disbelief that she’s here yet.
“Yes. I went out for a walk to think, and the next thing I knew, I was here,” the girl explains before they collide again, skin to scorching skin.
His mouth latches onto one nipple, sucking hard while his hand kneads the other. Her head tips back to give him space, a tamed sob announcing the exact moment when pleasure arrows straight to her core, her pussy suddenly aching to be filled. In order to stay strong up against his gentle attack, her hands open wide to cover as much of his broad back as possible, urging him on by squeezing his shoulders.
Lando lowers her slowly, but misses the couch, their bodies sinking together down onto the soft rug on the floor, her back hitting the plush surface with a whoosh of breath. He’s all over her in an instant, caging her with his arms, his cock nudging earnestly at her entrance. Every point where they connect catches on fire, but the burn doesn’t hurt; instead, it envelops them in a protective dome, their own world, as it spreads.
“Look at me?” he’s close to whispering, locking his eyes in an intense, soul-baring way that makes her heart grow ten times in size. “I’m always going to need you like this,” admits Lando, making sure she follows. “Together or not.”
She nods, circling her legs around him, digging her heels into his ass to pull him closer.
“Anything else?” she challenges him.
Lando’s jaw clenches before positioning himself, eyes never leaving hers. “I need you to work with me here.” When one of her eyebrows arches, he adds, “Grind down until your thighs shake, yeah? I’ll do the rest.”
Her whiny voice almost breaks him, and Lando takes it as a cue to thrust in gently but deep, burying himself entirely inside her tight heat. The girl cries out at the initial stretch, her walls adjusting rather fast to his thickness. He stills there to give her time to relax around him, both of them panting at the blissful sensation. Then he moves, pulling back only to slam forward again, closely studying her face in order to figure out how to build the perfect rhythm.
Because she’s so wet, that’s not even an issue. She’s so ready to take him after their weeks apart, that each movement sends lewd sounds echoing in the living room, blending in unison with their heavy breathing. Her hands grow restless, one sliding down to cup the taut muscle of his ass and pressing into the flexing flesh as he drives deeper. The other caresses his back, pulling him closer and closer, until his chest brushes her nipples, the contact sending fresh jolts through her.
“You look so desperate for it already,” he reads her at the same time he pulls back for another thrust, aiming deeper so the head of his cock nudges that spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids. “If you needed dick that badly, you could have just told me.”
His left hand braces beside her head, but the right slips between them, fingers splaying her folds wider, holding her open in order to watch himself dissapear into her heat. The sight alone makes him throb harder, impossibly thicker, like his body refuses to soften even for a second in her embrace.
“I almost did,” she confesses, “But then you decided to be a stupid idiot,” her vision darkens at the edges like a vignette effect at the feeling of him splitting her open, leaving but returning with more drive every time.
“I know, baby,” says Lando, watching her facial expressions change with each of his thrusts. “I’m so. Fucking. Sorry.”
She can’t process his words right now, not when the most euphoric wave sweeps over her senses: the stretch of him, sweet yet too much at times; the sounds he makes, mostly guttural, followed by jerky grunts whenever she squeezes him just right; the way he looks on top, heavy, rocking into her with gritted teeth and tensed muscles.
Her breasts bounce every time he grinds, swaying in a rhythm that catches Lando’s eye mid-motion. He lets another groan out through his parted lips, transfixed, focusing on how they shift with each snap of his hips, drawing him in like a magnet.
“Fuckin’ look at you, baby,” he breathes, speeding up only to chase the hypnotic jiggle of her chest, his pace turning more insistent. “So fucking hot.”
He’s careful to build the pressure thrust after thrust, one measured push that bottoms out, grinding his pelvis against her clit before retreating, then plunging back in with a wet smack. Her body dances with his on the rug beneath them, the coarse fibers catching on her skin, leaving behind a subtle burn that heightens everything.
“Lando,” she swiftly grabs at his bicep to catch his attention, making the muscles tense and release.
“Yeah, love. What d’you need?
Hardly managing, she replies between moans that rattle in her throat, “Need to come, I’m so close.”
“Mhm, I can feel it,” Lando assures her, “You’re doing so well for me.”
“Lando…” the girl chokes out his name once more, her hips lifting to meet his.
He understands her desperation, adjusting the angle by a fraction of a millimeter and driving the next thrust upwards. Hearing her whines, his free hand immediately joins the fray between her thighs, fingers rubbing in successive strokes, from firm swirls that match his pace to faster flicks that has her clenching harder around him.
She is lost in it by now, mind emptying to white noise and the relentless pleasure of him filling her over and over. Lando feels it too, as if every time he dives back inside her, his cock gets harder with veins pulsing against her inner walls. One particularly deep plunge has her crying out, his tip pressing so far inside that it steals her breath. But he pulls out abruptly, right before she’s ready to let go, both of them panting at the instant stop.
“Fuck, no!” she hisses, legs going limp around him; she watches him resting his cock on the heated skin of her thigh, slick with her arousal and twitching as he looks back at her flushed face with a grin. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
“Just making sure you cum before I do,” says Lando, sliding two fingers into her without warning, curling them from the first push.
She bucks, her inner walls rippling and squeezing his digits with increasing frevor. It doesn’t take much for her to start convulsing in powerful spasms around his fingers, sucking them in as her release gushes out in rhythmic pulses. He pumps faster for a few more seconds, thumb playing with her swollen clit, the dual assault sending her straight into flow state.
“Oh my god,” she rises to chase his touch in that exact moment, but Lando withdraws his fingers then, replacing them with the blunt head, the thickness difference landing her back on the ground. He teases her hole for a heartbeat, then thrusts back in, timed perfectly with her clench, her greediness pulling at him deep until he’s seated fully again. “You’re so fucking big.”
Lando’s grin widens, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck. “You can take it alright,” he leans in to kiss her jaw, earlobe, anywhere his lips can reach, thrusts turning erratic now. “That’s it. Get your favorite thing,” his voice is strained with lust, long fingers resuming their work on her clit, faster this time around.
Only thing she can still pronounce is his name on repeat, like a chant that fuels Lando. She doesn’t have time to come down when a second orgasm crashes over her, causing her body to go completely limp beneath him due to exhaustion. Her pussy clenches around his length, fluttering contractions drawing him deeper into her heat. In response, his cock swells thicker inside as he fucks her harder through it, hips snapping forward with much more force than before. For a quick second, it feels even punishing, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing louder, his balls tightening as he chases his own peak.
With that, Lando can’t keep his mouth shut anymore; the words spill from his lips in a breathy torrent, accompanied by moans that match his pounding:
“Just like that, fuck, you’re so good for me. Squeezing me so fucking tight,” his praises mix with whimpers from both sides, each one punched out on a thrust. “Ah, yeah, just… just like that,” he repeats, the hand on her clit finally abandoning its assault to brace against the floor, right next to her head.
Caging her there gives Lando leverage to grind deeper, his cock battering that sweet spot until her limp form jolts with aftershocks. Her back slides another few inches across the rug, the friction now a delicious sting that keeps her in the present moment. Though weakened, her arms manage to cling to him, hands trailing feebly up his sweat-slicked back.
“That’s good, baby. Can you hold on like that?”
She answers by nodding with a smile, then his pace changes again, thrusts shortening and sharper, the coil in his gut snapping as he cums with a guttural moan that buzzes through his chest. He paints her walls white but keeps moving, pulling out just on one backstroke for a dribble of their mixed release to leak onto the floor, a pearly strand connecting them before he slams back in, fucking it deeper.
He repeats it again and again, then once more, the obscene squelch of it driving him on.
“That’s fucking it,” he pants, shaky voice breaking on another moan, his cock jerking until he’s emptied himself completely. “Mine.”
Finally spent, Lando sighs, wrapping one hand around the base of his softening cock and pulls out slowly only to watch her face when she clenches in protest, reluctant to let him go. The drag is so sweet, her muscles rippling along his thickness, drawing out a shared hiss of overstimulation. As the head pops free with a wet sound that either of them barely register, he smears it along her lips, coating the puffy, glistening folds, the mess slicking her clit and thighs in shiny trails.
Without a word, he rests it then right between her folds, the warmth of her inner skin cradling him as he collapses fully on top of her. She’s boneless beneath him, eyes closing in blissful exhaustion. Lando notices her sudden silence and dips his head to capture her lips in a tender kiss before she can react, his tongue slipping in to taste her, bringing her back to him. The girl catches up quickly, her mouth moving sluggishly against his.
Neither moves for what feels like ages, bodies cooling on the floor of his living room with heartbeats gradually slowing, syncing to a calm lub-dub.
In the quiet that grows around them, Lando shifts first, propping himself up on one elbow to reach for the tissue box on the nearby coffee table. He cleans her gently, wiping away the sticky trails from her thighs and folds with careful strokes, then himself. She watches him through half-lidded eyes, still too spent to do more than sigh softly at his careful touch. She lets him dress her next, following how his hands slide his loose sweatpants up her legs. He tugs them over her hips, pulling at the strings around the waist to make them fit better.
Leaning down, Lando presses one more kiss to her cheek, lingering there with a nuzzle, his freshly shaved face gliding smoothly against her flushed skin.
“Be right back,” he informs her, standing on shaky legs to grab a clean pair of boxers; he heads to the bathroom next, the sound of the toilet flushing the used tissues following soon after, water running briefly as he washes his hands.
Left alone, she breathes out the last pulses of euphoria, her body humming with residual warmth, pussy still tingling from the thorough fucking. With effort, she pushes herself up, knees wobbling from the fact that she pretty much forces herself to bend down and collect their scattered clothes. Bundling them in her arms, the girl pads barefoot toward his bedroom but stops in the doorway, taking in the chaotic space. It’s the clutter she notices at first but, soon enough, her gaze snags on a flash of a familiar playful logo peeking from a cardboard box labeled ‘DONATIONS’ in sharpie.
A small smile curves at her lips, warming her already heated chest amid the post-orgasm glow.
She still smiles when Lando finds her standing there. Without asking for permission, he wraps his arms around her from behind cupping her breasts possessively to pull her back against his bare chest.
“You smiling at my mess, eh?” he teases, one hand lingering on her breast as the other wraps around her waist.
She leans into his embrace like second nature. “I’ll help you clean.”
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Thank you for reading!
None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎
© trashy track tales, 2026
𝗟𝗘𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗡 𝗔𝗧 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗨𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗧
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒: We’re NOT paying for all this.
𝐌𝐀𝐗: You ordered 42 coffees??
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒: No, I ordered 4 tea 2 coffees.
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒, looking back at the waiter: We’re not paying for all this ｡◠‿◠｡
𝐌𝐀𝐗: Noise cancelling headphones aren’t enough. I need everyone to shut the fuck up and die.
𝐌𝐀𝐗, pointing at Charles: He, of course, is the only exception.
he's brighter than the sun itself
⎯ε✿з ݁ㅤׅ⠀charles leclerc and max verstappen
media day press conference ★ monaco gp 2019 (edit)
Great Barrier Reef Foundation | Oscar Piastri
Girl no way they made the whole season look like Z*k Brown was actually rooting for Oscar be for real rn 💀
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒: Ugh. How many times would I have to flip a coin to get some head...
𝐌𝐀𝐗: Technically, you have a 50% chance of getting heads, so an average from 1 to 2 times ☝🏻🤓
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒: That's not quite what I meant, you know.
𝐌𝐀𝐗: It's simple statistics, Charles.
My fav Oscar art I've ever done (landoscar if u squint)
Furious Four | LN⁴
「 ✦ 𝗟𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗼 𝗡𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗶𝘀 𝘅 𝗙𝗮𝘀𝘁 & 𝗙𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗔𝗨 ✦ 」
.✦ ݁˖ important mentions ──── check out THIS POST.
.✦ ݁˖ summary ──── Lando lost everything the moment his sister died, a month ago. There’s not much left out there for him but, aside from his girlfriend’s constant support, there is only one thing that keeps him from hitting rock bottom: racing. Only issue is that he’s not driving to win anymore. Winning simply happens to him when he miscalculates how far he can push the limits. Or how close he can get before choosing, again, to keep going.
.✦ ݁˖ pairing ──── Lando Norris x Fem!OC
.✦ ݁˖ rating ──── explicit
.✦ ݁˖ warnings ──── 18+, character death (implied) and grief, internal conflicts, unresolved mourning, angst, graphic sexual content, descriptive language, swearing, smut, praise and dirty talk, unprotected sex, depictions of messy bodily fluids, power dynamics, possessive and dominant behavior with elements of soft-aggression, slight marking, post-sex tenderness, protective!Lando, illegal street racing, graphic violence (fistfights, blood, injuries etc.), mentions of drinking, smoking, and drug use, references to murder.
.✦ ݁˖ word count ──── 12k
.✦ ݁˖ date ──── Feb. 16, 2026
.✦ ݁˖ a/n ──── This started out as a joke, exactly 20 days ago. I stopped laughing halfway through, and now I’m crying in 284 languages because I can’t believe it’s done. Let me know if you guys want more, because I have tons of ideas for this universe, including additional drivers and racing arcs (hihihi 😈).
PLAYLIST
BANKS, Begging For Thread
DOC RAVEN, My Ride Or Die
MC MAZZIE, Saka Saka Saka
POST MALONE, Wow.
JUICY J, Payback
SICKICK, Infected
TROYE SIVAN, Talk Me Down
And I can’t be running back and fourth forever
between grief and high delight.
J.D. Salinger, from Franny and Zoey
📍 Los Angeles, California | 11:04 PM.
“YOU DON’T HAVE to come tonight,” says Lando without looking at her. Freshly out of the shower, he’s facing the dresser, rifling through a half-open drawer.
For almost a month now, the house on E. Kensington Road is quiet. No more people coming over, no more late night dinners in the spatious kitchen, and no more work in the garage. Except for the room he grew up in, everything else remained pretty much untouched. Rather fast, he’s shrunk inward, confined himself to new routines and old habits, because it’s easier to pretend he’s still sixteen and his older sister is just out late. In reality, it’s like everything drained out of the walls and never quite came back ever since Letty died.
Murdered. Lando’s sister was murdered.
Even though time moves in one direction, his mind keeps replaying the memory of the day he looked over her grave from above as if it just happened. His jaw clenches automatically, the unwanted images invading his mind, forcing himself to chase them away as quickly as possible. He has yet to find the perfect formula to make them disappear without coming back, because he cannot afford giving up hope that at one point in his life, perhaps, the fact that he has no family left will not hurt as much. Somewhere deep inside, Lando knows he’s doomed to search for it his whole life though, without succeeding, just like Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill, only for it to roll back down just before reaching the top.
Nonetheless, better than the alternative. Giving up would mean admitting defeat. Accepting a reality where his attempts are futile and he’s all alone.
Well, maybe not completely alone.
Raelyn leans against the doorframe, cautiously following his moves, like a lioness waiting to pounce on its prey. Ironically, not to tear him apart, but to protect him from other predators, from the world and, most importantly, from himself.
“I know,” she replies with a silent sigh. “You tell me every time. Besides,” the girl continues, “I wouldn’t let you have all the fun.”
Lando finally reaches for a clean shirt, the fabric dragging smoothly over his skin. The mirror in front of him catches the dark circles under his eyes and the tension carved into his jaw, showcasing a restless anger that never leaves his gaze anymore. It’s not the first time she’s felt so helpless that it’s turned into guilt. She wants to do more for him, way more than she already does because, just like Lando, Raelyn can’t afford to give up on hope that they will get to see better days. For now, she can only be a mere spectator to how he chooses to mourn, hence she notices everything. Especially the demons he fights so hard to keep hidden from the world. And that takes a lot from him. He somehow looks way older than he did a month ago: he’s more rigid and pale, the lines of his body sharper, his eyes hollow, as if their essence was knocked loose and never put back the right way, regardless of how hard she tries to.
In the course of it, neither of them knows when exactly she moved in, but that’s because there was no conversation about it. She stayed over the night after the funeral and didn’t leave again. He never asked her to. Never asked her to stay, either. Somewhere along the way, Raelyn became the glue that’s holding together something already cracked. They slept together through it all, and he let her in during the nights he couldn’t speak, or the nights he had so much to say. It happened gradually, every single day marking a new milestone: a new toothbrush in his bathroom, a make-up bag on the counter, a change of clothes, then another. Eventually, her presence in Lando’s life stopped feeling temporary, but they’re not sure when it became as permanent as it is.
Not that they need a clear answer, anyway. They’ve been dating since high-school, and moving in together would have happened, sooner or later.
He shrugs into his jacket next, dragging his fingers through his hair in order to tame the wild curls, still slightly damp from a shower he took too fast, like he was raicing the water.
“I also know,” the girl adds carefully, “That if I stay here, you’ll push it harder. Just to prove you don’t need anyone watching out for you. That you’ve got it.”
Lando turns at last, one eyebrow arching in her direction. “You think you’re watching out for me?” he asks, eyes going a shade darker as he fixes his gaze on her; she doesn’t feel threatened in the slightest, but there’s something vicious about the way grief sits on him lately, stripping him down to instinct and teeth.
Raelyn swallows, biting the inside of her cheek. “I think someone has to.”
“I watch out for myself, yeah?” he nods once, taking a few steps toward her, until he closes the space between them and she’s backed up against the wall. “For us.” Lando cages her in without touching her yet, bracing his palms on either side of Raelyn’s head. She has to tilt her chin up in order to maintain eye contact, and he’s so close that she can count the moles dusting his cheek and feel the heat rolling off him, a gentle scent of his body wash and clean skin invading her nostrils.
Only weeks ago, his face looked soft in any light, smile lines permanently etched at the corners of his mouth like proof he laughed often and easily. In such short time, joy has become a foreign language, the creases have smoothed out, his expression changing dramatically from innocence to sudden maturity. Sometimes she’s shooting stupid jokes at him on purpose, just to see if she can coax it back, to watch his lips twitch and eyes warm briefly before the weight settles again. It never lasts, but she’s satisfied that she still has this power.
She memorized every square inch of his face and, recently, she had to learn new features that the grief has brought in. Luckily, there are things it hasn’t taken yet, like the fullness of his mouth, even when it’s set in a hard line. Maybe, if she looks long enough, she can remember him back to himself.
“That’s not what I meant,” she says, hands clawing on either side of his jacket, fingers curling in the worn leather while she pulls him closer instead of pushing away.
His jaw flexes. “I know what you meant, and I’m telling you: I don’t need someone hovering like I’m about to fall apart,” Lando shrugs, tilting his head to the side. “I’m fine.”
“Am I hovering, Lando?” she challenges him, noticing a knowing smirk blooming in the corner of his mouth.
One of the many things he likes about her is that she doesn’t flinch. Ever. She cuts through his bullshit like a knife through butter. Puts him in his place without clearly defining the hierarchy of their relationship, if there is one to begin with. As for Rae, she conditioned herself to find meaning in things that are on the other side of happiness, because she understood from an early age that life is more than that. Right now, for instance, is about knowing exactly how close to the edge they are and stepping forward anyway; she can’t risk getting stuck.
“You are,” he replies, matter-of-factly. There is no accusation behind his voice, maybe just a suddle tinge of frustration. “And you don’t have to be, because I don’t need anyone to watch out for me,” Lando insists.
Raelyn is aware that the source of his shortcomings lies largely in the empty rooms, missing voices, and the fact that his entire family has been reduced to a full house of ghosts. Nevertheless, his words sting just as much.
“Not even me?” she whispers, eyes searching his face.
Lando exhales, forehead dropping until it nearly touches hers. “It’s not about you.”
She can feel his heartbeat under her palm when she presses it flat on his chest. “Lan, there’s no one else left here but me.”
His eye narrow, understanding there is no way he can fight the cruel truth. All he needs to do is take a quick look around to realize Raelyn is right, and it’s not that he’d be all alone without her that wrecks him, but the fact that she must know how much pain she can cause him, if that’s what she wanted to. Love means trusting she won’t.
“You push like that,” he teases quietly, lifting his hand to cup the side of her face, “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”
She holds his gaze without blinking. “With you?”
Lando shakes his head, eyes closing briefly. In spite of what she’s insinuating, he manages to smile a little and, before she can speak again, he presses his lips on hers, kissing her just like he always does: like he’s starving, with a possessive force that’s able to claim every inch of her mouth.
Raelyn melts into him, her tongue sweeping in to tangle with his. From her cheek, his hand drops to her waist, fingers splaying wide over the soft fabric of her black bodycon dress, then lower, gripping the exposed skin of her thigh. With a silky hum rumbling from his chest, Lando lifts her effortlessly off the floor and pushes her back against the wall behind, pinning her there.
A silent whimper escapes her lips right into his mouth, as needy as ever, dancing in circles on his tongue. Her legs snake his waist instinctively, thighs clamping tight around him, heels digging into the small of his back to wrench him close, then closer, until there is no physical space left. The friction of her core against his hardening cock sends an exciting jolt through him, and he takes the opportunity to savor it, grinding gently to tease both of them. Her arms loop around his neck, fingers burying into his curls, tugging with a desperation that matches his own. Then her hands slide down, nails scraping lightly over his skin until they grip the base of his neck, yanking Lando deeper into the kiss, as if she could simply fuse them together.
The kiss intensifies, turning wild and messy and sloppy. Tongues lick everywhere; hers tracing the seam of his lips before diving back in; his swirling against the roof of her mouth, tasting her greedily. He sucks at her bottom lip next, nipping only to hear her little gasp, then captures her tongue again, drawing her breath into his lungs like it’s the oxygen he can’t live without. His own comes out in ragged bursts, hot on her skin, possessive hold thightening even more, not wanting to give her the slightest occasion to break away.
One arm stays locked on her waist, supporting her weight without strain. The other hand roams lower, fumbling with the button of his jeans, the zipper rasping open in the charged air broken only by their heavy panting. The fabric parts, and he shoves it down enough to free his throbbing cock, the length springing out, already leaking from the tip. It’s embarrassing how quickly she can turn him on, but Lando lets her consume him in every possible way.
With Raelyn, every worry has a STOP button, and the buzz in his veins shifts smoothly back to a primal rhythm they both know so well. Impatiently, he rocks his hips forward, the head of his cock nudging against the soft lace of her panties, seeping her heat through the thin barrier. A groan tears from his throat into her mouth, and she ends up swallowing it with a satisfied moan.
“Fucking hell, Rae,” he speaks against her lips, fingers digging into her thigh to hitch her leg higher.
“You can fall apart, you know,” she begins, contemplatively, “That doesn’t mean you’re broken.”
“I am a little broken,” replies Lando, maybe a bit too quickly.
She arches into him, her body language screaming want with every cell, hips rolling to grind her clit on his length, chasing the sweet friction. In the moment, as her eagerness and impatient whimpers vibrate with him, Lando imagines that all that exists is her, dragging him from the edge of darkness back into the burning flames of life. Thus, in retrospect, it doesn’t matter whether he’s broken or not.
“You’re the same to me,” she exhales heavily, as if to emphasize her point.
Lando almost chokes on his next breath, losing his grip only to lower Rae back to her feet, but he doesn’t break the kiss. His mouth lingers on hers, tongues sliding in a messy dance at the same time his hands slide down her sides. Dexterous fingers hook into the waistband of her panties, peeling them off in one desperate motion, the lace leaving goosebumps all over her hips and thighs before pooling at her ankles. She kicks them aside without breaking contact, and once she’s exposed to him, Lando presses her clumsily into the wall again, the edge of the dresser digging into his hip. He manages to crowd her space, his freed cock bobbing heavy between them, brushing along her inner thigh. Rae’s palms curl around his biceps, fingers digging into the taut muscle there for support, feeling the flex as he repositions himself.
“All this time,” he mumbles impatiently, one hand wrapping around his shaft to guide the swollen head to her entrance, “And I still can’t get enough of you.”
“Promise?” she asks, voice cracking a little on the last syllable.
“Promise,” Lando exhales a shaky breath that fans over her cheek, slowly pushing forward.
Her walls part for him with ease, taking Lando in with a gush of wetness that lets him glide blissfully deep. She has to bite her lip at how good the homecoming feels like, eyes closing shut so she can fully focus on the way he splits her on his length. And the moment he starts moving, her inner muscles begin sucking at his cock like it’s second nature. Their heavy breathing fills the room, joining the guttural grunts that come out of Lando’s throat. The rhythm builds gradually, skin slapping on skin in echoing smacks that has her ass hitting the wall with each drive.
In the heat of it, Lando’s lips find the softness of her neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the column, biting lightly at the pulse point that beats wildly under his tongue.
“You really think I don’t need you?” he asks, frenzy evident in his voice. “How can I not? You were made for me, weren’t you?” Lando’s tone is laced with that soft-yet-aggressive edge, one of his hands dropping to her hip again to open her wider, allowing him to plunge deeper. “Fuck. Say yes, I wanna hear you.”
“Yes, baby,” agrees Rae in a high-pitched voice, the words coming out of her mouth like bullets, without being able to stop them. “I’m just scared because I sometimes feel like it’s a matter of time until you slip away” she admits, head falling back against the wall as she rocks her hips to meet him. “Faster. Please,” her voice breaks on the plea, fingers tangling in his curls once again, pulling at them to urge him on.
Processing her affirmation, Lando’s restraint snaps like a revved engine hitting redline. His pace increases with pure need, thrusts turning nearly punishing, hips snapping with a force that shakes her entire body.
“Not gonna happen,” he pants into the crook of her neck, breath breaking erratically against her skin. “With you for the long run, yeah?” his assures her, changing position so one hand braces beside her head, the other gripping her ass to angle her just right, his cock slamming home with every brutal drive.
The girl moans louder, all sounds mixing together into a cacophony that’s ricocheting off the walls. The pleasure is omnipresent, but it exponentially intensifies every time Lando cries out her name. He can’t stay silent even if he wanted to, not as he swells inside her with each thrust, his thick length pulsing, the ridged head dragging along her channel in ecstatic waves that shoot persistently from one body to the other. Her pussy flutters around him, the wetness coating his balls while they slap relentlessly with lewd sounds.
“Yeah,” her voice fades, gasping in time with her legs trembling around his waist. “Shit, I’m so close.”
At this point, Lando’s control is very limited and crumbles along with her failed attempts to speak without moaning. His movements become inconsistent, jaw working hard in order to prolong his own pleasure, while undoubtedly pushing Rae toward hers.
“Good girl, baby,” his voice is utterly wrecked, “Come on then, come on my cock,” he encourages her, the desperate grind of bodies seeking oblivion in each other. “You’re so fucking perfect, let me feel you.”
His thrusts are slowing a little, allowing himself the luxury of watching her face contort in bliss as the orgasm crashes over her. Her pussy spasms in repeated waves that suck at him without stopping, her moans turning into sweet cries that animate the bedroom. Satisfied, he grinds deep, circling his hips to elongate the sensation, feeling her wetness flood around him, coating his length and dripping down her thighs.
Only when she’s riding the peak, body shuddering in Lando’s arms, does he let go. His release hits hard and fast, praising spilling from his lips like a desperate prayer, his cock pulsing as hot spurts fill her to the brim. It’s messier than he expected, cum leaking out around where they’re joined, slicking his balls and inner thighs, the overflow dripping down as he keeps her pinned, with one palm firmly splayed on the wall for leverage and the other holding her steady through the aftershocks.
A few seconds later, he looks down at his girl with a yearning gaze that burns. For some reason, he gets the strange feeling that she’s something that should be out of his reach. Someone he shouldn’t have. Someone he doesn’t deserve. All at once, Lando realizes that her fears aren’t irrational; there were times when even he didn’t recognize himself, and only Rae knows what terrifying thoughts she didn’t share with him, just because she thought it was better not to.
The least he can do now is prove that no matter how many times the world might end around them, she won’t end up losing him.
Lando leans in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering as he speaks, “You have me, Rae. You’re my ride or die, don’t ever doubt that.”
The testimony is not limited to a simple promise made post-orgasm. Promises can be easily broken. The words carry a lot of weight, coming from Lando. It’s what his sister used to say about having that one person that’s yours only. Someone you can trust with your life, but also someone you would die with in a heartbeat. It means commitment that doesn’t break under pressure, not even when helplessness or fear claws at the edges of common sense, ripping it apart. He grew up watching that devotion shape the way Letty loved and the way she fought for the people she cared about. Treating it like a bravado would mean betrayal, especially knowing that she died believing loyalty was worth any cost. Even life itself.
Rae’s arms are still wrapped tight around Lando’s neck, thighs quivering still as he gently lowers her feet to the floor, supporting her weight until she’s steady enough on her own. Her body slides down his, his softening cock slipping free with a wet noise, more of their combined release smearing between them.
“Shit,” he exhales, “Are we okay?” asks Lando with a chuckle that barely leaves his throat, brushing a stray curl from her face.
For the first time in the past month, Raelyn can see vulnerability in his eyes, not just the endless void. She smiles, answering by rising on her toes to kiss him deeply; a silent declaration that they are more than okay, actually. He’s still in there, a little broken, but still hers.
“I’m coming with,” the girl presses a final kiss to his cheek before padding over to the dresser on unsteady legs to grab a fresh pair of panties.
THEY ROLL OFF Alameda Street an hour later, where the Arts District thins out into warehouse rows and dead-end stretches of chipped asphalt that no one takes responsibility for after midnight. Lando pulls in slowly, allowing the wheels to slide through the sea of people like skates on ice, letting the car announce itself through a dense, metallic purr. That makes him easy recognisable, and the shouts are then quick to follow.
His posture is loose yet nervous in an exciting way; the tone it’s always electric in places like this, and the atmosphere around sets his hands tingling with impatience already. When fast cars gather in one scene and people swarm around them like ants in their own colony, he knows he’s made it home. Not because he inherited someone else’s reputation, but because he grew up in this environment, seeking the thrill like some sort of addict.
The lot is pure chaos: lowriders bouncing on hydraulics; tattooed guys in tank tops chugging beers from glass bottles, foam occasionally spilling onto oil-stained ground because of how wildly they’re gesticulating; girls in ripped shorts climb onto hoods, dancing to the thump of hip-hop blasting from massive subwoofers strapped to truck beds; joints are passed around from hand to hand like basket balls, the skunky haze blending with the acrid bite of exhaust and rubber. This tiny bubble is a world onto itself, laughter punctuated by tons of curse words and jokes with just enough innuendo.
Above it all though, the sound of engines roaring is overwhelming. Lando eases the Skyline into a spot near the fence, killing his with a satisfied grin plastered on his face. The sudden quiet inside the car only amplifies the madness outside, and he can’t help but turn to look at Raelyn.
“Let’s make some money,” he says, leaning over the console to press a quick kiss on her lips.
She unbuckles her seatbelt quickly, pulling him back for more before he even has time to turn in his seat. “You’re enjoying this too much,” she points out soon after in a fake accusatory tone that Lando can’t argue with.
Still, “Don’t say it like it’s a bad thing.”
The night air carries a specific scent that Raelyn had never smelled anywhere else but at street races: sweaty men, spilled alcohol and canned energy drinks, hot metal, and motor oil. Lots of it. From where she stands, the strip stretches out like a vein, a long straight of abandoned roadway flanked by derelict warehouses and graffiti walls. In passing, she sees a guy in a bandana stumble from, most likely, too many shots of tequila, one of his arms slunging around a girl who grinds against him to the beat of the music. Over by a jacked-up Impale, a group passes around a blunt, the ember glowing in the space they share as they hype up a driver revving his turbo.
Lando’s hand finds hers once they weave through the throng, and for a moment she’s sure she can feel what he does every time he comes here: an escape.
They spot their crew somewhere near the improvised starting line. Raelyn sees Suki first, her long, glossy hair catching the light that comes from the street lights while she fiddles with the air filter on her Honda S2000, a bunch of tools scattered at her feet. Alex and George, the only mates left from the long-gone days of high-school, greet them with ear-to-ear smiles, cracking open fresh Monsters and ribbing each other about last week’s bust.
“Four, you late ass!” Suki calls out, straightening with a smile on her face at the same time she’s tilting a little to wipe the grease from her hands on her cargo pants. “What took you so long, dude?”
Lando chuckles, fighting the urge to flip her off as he pulls Rae closer to his side. “My lady,” he replies honestly, turning to look at the girl who’s a second away to go key his car for making her blush in front of their friends.
“Ignore him,” Raelyn chimes in, pinching her boyfriend’s bicep.
“Don’t worry, though,” continues Lando, “I wouldn’t miss watching you eat my dust for anything.”
Suki snorts, tossing a rag at him. “Rae, girl, tell this fool of yours to stop dreamin’. See this?” she says, tapping near the intake. “I retuned the throttle response and leaned out the air-fuel mix to sharpen the pickup. She’s breathing cleaner now, which, in simpler terms, means he’s got no chance against me tonight.”
Raelyn laughs, trying to ease the competitive tension that always simmers below the surface between them. “Play nice, you two. Save the trash talk for the line. And you,” she turns in Lando’s arms fully, throwing her hands around his neck, “You better pay more attention to that mouth, yeah?”
“Or else?” he provokes her, knowing well enough that or else she’s going to shut it for him.
And that’s what she does. Her chest presses against his, Lando’s arm tightening around her waist like an instant response. The kiss is more of a reminder that she can be assertive if the situation calls for it, so he’d better not step on her toes. Especially not when she’s wearing her favorite boots.
Their bickering flows easy after that, but it falters when several heads turn toward the same point of interest: a well-known matte black Dodge Charger that causes bodies to shift and scatter under the rich hum of its engine. Instinctively, Lando’s grasp on Raelyn’s waist tightens, jaw clenching involuntarily; just like that, the illusion of a drama-free night shatters under the sound of Dominic Toretto’s car door slamming shut.
A month ago, he would’ve clocked the big man the same way everyone else around him does, untouchable, above all. Maybe he did love Lando’s sister. Maybe he simply didn’t know how to show up for grief, preferring to do it alone. But nothing can excuse his absence when it mattered most. To Lando, the man that approaches their group now isn’t untouchable anymore. He’s human, just like everybody else, which makes him just as vulnerable. Just as flawed and exposed.
And a coward.
His worn jacket hangs open over his frame, moving with him as he closes the distance with characteristic patience, his heavy boots crunching over scattered gravel and discarded bottle caps. The overhead lights catch along the clean lines of his shaved head and the dark stretch of his T-shirt pulled tight across his frame, giving the impression that he owns the place, confident that no one’s going to stop him.
Whereas people’s eyes are glued to him, Suki’s gaze snaps past Dom, to another car that rolls off. To get better look at it, she hops up onto the hood of her car, shading her eyes against the flicker of the headlights. “Yo, Four,” she calls out, jabbing a finger toward a sleek, blacked-out Plymouth Barracuda, “Is that your sister’s old ride?”
Lando shifts his weight, already angled toward the edge of the crowd, because he would rather drag his girlfriend through it than face Dom, not trusting himself to stand in front of him without losing it. But in a fraction of a fraction, his blood starts boiling in his veins, confusion decorating his face.
“What?” he asks with an uncertain voice, mostly to himself, as his eyes lock onto the Barracuda.
The familiar lines of the body close around his throat like an invisible claw. It is, in fact, Letty’s car. The same one she’d poured her entire soul into, turbocharged and lowered. Relief punches through him and, for the shortest second, he’s as pathetic as imagining that she might step out of it. The next one, reality creeps back in, fueling him with anger so sudden it makes his hands curl into fists around Raelyn’s waist.
The car shouldn’t be here. Matter of fact, it shouldn’t exist anymore.
The raid on the Ortiz house and garage flashes in his mind like polaroid pictures thrown one by one on a table right in front of him: DEA agents swarming during the Braga investigation and badges dangling under floodlights, ripping apart their lives under the guise of justice. It makes him sick to his stomach; there was no justice. Letty’s car had been seized as evidence. Dragged away on a flatbed while she was still alive. After the case wrapped, it vanished into impound, ultimately auctioned off for pennies to some faceless bidder that was supposed to tear it apart for pieces.
Or so he’d thought.
Raelyn notices the change in Lando’s body language instantly; he’s gotten stiff beside her. Cold. First instinct is to cling to his torso, pressing her side against his like a shield, opposed to the storm brewing in his eyes. But everything stopped existing, except the scene in front of them. He can’t do anything else but stare while the mass of bodies shifts apart around the Barracuda, voices — now reduced to murmurs shooting from every direction in disbelief — rippling outward as heads keep turning.
The car looks brand new, glittering in the wash of artificial light, but no one needs to take a second look at it to recognize it’s Letty’s signature. By now, Lando’s face is completely drained of color, his hands ultimately falling at his sides.
Pushed by curiosity, or rather madness, he takes a step forward, but Rae reinforces her hold, just as pale as he is. And rightly so, this is just like seeing a ghost.
“Lan,” she speaks with worry, because she’s already deciphered the look on his face, one that just turned grief into rage. “Did you know about this?” the girl asks, careful to give the question a little room to sit bewteen them. It’s not the answer she’s after, but the pause. A tiny chance for Lando’s anger to stall long enough for him to breathe instead of react.
Still, he shakes his head, locking his jaw with such force that she can see the muscle twitch. “No…” he trails off, anchored in disbelief. “Fuck no. I thought it was gone. Scrapped or some shit,” the voice comes out drenched in sudden betrayal, eyes never leaving the car as it finally rolls to a stop.
Dom’s steps died out at a safe distance, arm crossed over his broad chest. Nothing gets through the mask of control he’s currently displaying, despite the fact that, much like Lando, his blood is currently boiling with rage. It’s Raelyn who catches the flicker in his brooding eyes and how subtly his shoulders square. The realization doesn’t surprise her in the slightest, though. Of course he knew. He must have, but decided to keep his mouth shut, probably figuring Lando would go nuclear on whoever had the balls to claim it. And, when the door swings open, the last piece of puzzle falls into place.
Marco Delano, the last idiot alive Lando would want behind Letty’s wheel. He grew up running the same streets as the Ortiz siblings, and their feud is old as time, a result of crossing lines that can’t be erased, envy and selfishness. Letty trusted him once, but she had a gift of seeing through people’s bullshit.
All his life, Marco wanted everything Lando had: his ability to make himself widely liked, the way he didn’t have to earn a seat at the table because he was born at it, his friends, his cars, even his girlfriend. Years ago, when Raelyn chose Lando, that happened to be his last straw. For a guy with a huge ego it was biblical humiliation, so he’s been silently waiting for the perfect moment to strike back. And now, the guy knows exactly what he’s doing, parading the car like a trophy, bragging in front of his best-friend-turned-lifelong-enemy, daring him to look at it without breaking.
As expected, Lando sees red, and Rae’s arms aren’t nearly enough to hold him back anymore.
“Lando, don’t,” she tries to stop him, but he wrenches free, stalking toward Dom with his fists still clenched at his sides.
Suki slides off the hood, coming to hold Raelyn from behind; a small gesture, designed to remind her that someone’s got her back in case things go terribly south.
“What the fuck is this?” Lando snarls, stopping inches from Dom. He’s shorter than the big man, but the anger makes him tower in the moment, his blue eyes blazing. “That’s why you’re here? You fucking knew and you didn’t say a word?”
“I heard about it, yeah,” says Dom, exhaling through his nose, occasionally glancing at the car he knows so well.
Lando squints. “And you didn’t think to tell me?” his voice is almost conversational now, which somehow makes it worse. “You simply let that piece of shit snatch it up like it was nothing?”
“I was gonna handle it.”
That earns a laugh from the youngest Ortiz, but he’s not amused in the slightest. “Handle it?” he points a finger at Dom’s chest, stopping short of contact, body trembling with the effort to hold back a swing. “Are you fucking serious right now? You were gonna handle my sister’s car like it’s some oil change appointment?”
Across the strip, Manny Cruz, known as Ledger, climbs onto the hood of a rusted Tacoma, holding a megaphone close to his mouth, “Alright, people. Before shit hits the fan, listen up!” the man shouts, his deep voice cracking through the air. “We go racing tonight, pink slips only,” he informs the people who are gatherig closer, already discussing among themselves whom to bet on. “You lose, I keep you title. You win, you take theirs. It’s that simple,” adds Ledger, hopping down and starting to walk through the racers with his palm out, collecting folded titles and money like a landlord collecting rent on the first of the month.
In the meantime, Lando doesn’t take his eyes off Dom. “I’m familiar with the fate of the things you care about,” he barks, clearly referring to his sister’s death. “You don’t get to do that anymore.”
“We’re still on the same team, kid,” says Dom with no inflexion in his voice. “I was gonna win it back. Bring it home.”
“You mean your garage?”
“That was family’s car.”
“My family’s car,” Lando corrects him in a heartbeat. “If you think I’m sitting this out while you play hero for my sake, you’re dead wrong, Toretto. I am going to bring it home, so you better stay out of my way.”
By the time Ledger gets to Marco, the guy leans against his freshly polished car with a smirk on his face. He doesn’t even glance around to check what other racers will compete tonight, because there’s only one he wants to beat. The way he sees it, he’s not gambling a car. Rather, he’s using it as a weapon, wagering on Lando’s weaknesses, on the reckless way he’s been driving since his sister died, and on the unshakeable belief that a broken man makes catastrophic errors the moment it gets personal. Finally beating the Ortiz would put Marco way up there, demonstrating once and for all in front of everybody that the name means absolutely nothing without Letty behind the wheel.
Keeping the same annoying grin intact, Marco stands back after dropping the title into Ledger’s hand, watching his rival turn on Dominic in public outrage, satisfied with the knowledge that he’s already turned family against itself before the engines even start.
“This is your fault,” hisses Lando, directing every ounce of indignation towards the man in front of him.
If the accusation affects him, Dom doesn’t let it show. “You don’t want to do this here, kid.”
“What I want is you out of my way,” Lando repeats, shaking his head. “You have the fucking nerve to show up here and tell me you knew that the scumbag had my car. You,” he almost chokes on the words that seem to pile up outside his mouth, “You have the fucking nerve to show up at all, one month after I buried the last member of my family. Where were you then? And where were you when she was murdered?” he keeps shooting, bullet after bullet striking Dom’s chest. “Where the fuck were you, man? Fixing cars in Panama?”
Although Dom exudes quiet command, a facial muscle twitches under his eye. “I took care of the motherfucker, didn’t I?” he pauses, going stiff at the memory. “Everything I did out there was for her, you know that.”
Lando’s face twists. “Alright then, where’s my sister? Row D, Section 4, East Lost Angeles Cemetery, plot 27,” he answers his own question, the exact location tumbling out like a missile. “You didn’t take care of shit, Dom,” says Lando at last. “You were too late then, and you are too late now, so stop walking around like you’re some sort of Good Samaritan.”
Dom’s jaw clenches, but his voice remains steady once he speaks again, “Like it or not, you’re family, Ortiz, not a stranger. And right now, you’re only untouchable because of what we, your sister and I, did in order to protect you,” he states, not in arrogance but naked truth. Where they live, loyalty is armor, nobody has to be lectured about it.
“How about this?” Lando smiles defiantly, leaning in so he makes sure he’s well heard. “Quit acting like I’m your responsibility. I never was, so you better learn to fuck off.”
“You were Letty’s,” Dom reminds him, a flicker of old pain surfacing behind his words. “And she was mine.”
“Fuck off,” Lando says again, louder, shrugging past the hand Dom extends once more in order to stop him. He pivots, storming through the gawking crowd, intentionally shouldering Marco Delano with brutal force. Marco reels, his laugh ending up choking into a grunt.
“Lando!” Rae yells after him one more time, but her voice is barely audible from a distance. Plus, Lando is too overcome with anger to hear anything other than the sound of his own vengeful thoughts anyway.
Blinded by it, he thrusts his own title into Ledger’s waiting palm. “I’m in,” he snarls decisively.
THERE IS NO room for errors on Alameda Street. This is a driver’s strip that demands speed, split-second decisions, and big balls. For more than half the night, Suki burned with impatience to get behind the wheel, but after the earlier drama, she knows better than to get involved in family blood. Plus, she’d rather not compete at all than to do so against the midfield. Like most racers here, she wants Four. Bullet. Toretto. The big names of street racing that could actually challenge her.
“Couple more things,” Ledger’s voice gets lost in the night as he crosses the street from one side to the other, “Jump the start, you’re out. Crash, you’re out.” He lowers the megaphone, pointing down the stretch of Alameda, where the streetlights flicker like they’re about to go out any minute now. “Drag race, quarter a mile ‘till the third intersection past the cold storage plant. You miss it,” he says, lifting the megaphone for the crowd to finish his sentence, you’re out, the words echo from every possible direction. “First to get back here wins. May the fastest motherfucker win.”
Minutes later, Lando’s jaw flexes in anticipation. He stands at the edge of the fray, his silhouette rigid against the chain-link fence. In order to keep himself from punching the concrete walls, he crossed his arms over his chest, wanting nothing more than to hold himself together. At least until his turn comes.
Raelyn sits nearby, avoiding to shower him in too much attention. That’s not what Lando needs right now. He just needs to know she’s there, which is always the case, and her hand brushing against his arm absent-mindedly is enough to remind him that.
His gaze is locked on the starting line, where Marco’s — Letty’s — Barracuda squats low. The supercharged V8 growls teasingly, minimal tweaks to the body keeping its lines familiar enough to taunt Lando. To add more to it, Marco leans out the window to flash a cocky grin, revving once to let the sound of the engine echo off the warehouses.
“Stupid idiot,” murmurs Lando.
Angel Morales alias Crow is right next to him. He finds himself into a gloss-blue Toyota Supra MK4, an iconic Japanese jewel, known for its aerodynamic design and the 3.0-liter 2JZ inline-six engine. The aftermarket modification is built for a relentless top-end speed that can swallow straights like Alameda whole, reaching performance within 4.6 seconds. The minimal decals give it a discreet yet striking appearance for those with eyes to see, Crow’s tattooed hands tapping nervously on the steering wheel.
Trying to capture as much information as possible, Lando chews on his bottom lip, a habit that Rae has teased him about ever since they met. His white Nissan Skyline GT-R R32 waits in the rotation. He put his blood, sweat, and tears into it, from reinforcing internals beneath the hood to a custom ECU tune sharpening its edge, and an all-wheel-drive system dialed for that perfect late bite of traction that launches without sacrificing the chase for top speed. The interior is stripped bare, designed for no distractions and less weight. It is the closest to perfection he has ever driven, and if he loses control, it won’t be the car’s fault.
Across the strip, Dom leans against his Charger with his arms folded across his chest. For Lando’s sake, he’s not competing tonight either, but that doesn’t mean he’s not prepared for the worst case scenario. Bottom line, they’ll get Letty’s car back at any cost.
The flag girl drops her arms and, for half a heartbeat, everybody holds their breath. One heartbeat later, the entire strip erupts, tires biting the asphalt, itching for it.
Lando shifts his weight nervously, feet planted wide like he’s preparing to brace for impact. He’s heard various voices mentioning earlier that Marco’s got a 500-horsepower Hemi under the hood, lightweight chassis tweaks, and sticky slicks for the quarter-mile. His Skyline is a corner-carver at heart, but in a dead sprint, doubt easily finds a way to gnaw deeper. Losing has never crossed his mind before, but losing here would mean capitulating the last piece of his family he can actually fight for.
Rae’s hand drops to curl around his bicep, squeezing gently.
The Supra edges ahead off the line, its lighter weight and clear-cut launch giving it the jump. Crow shifts gears with precision, the transmission whining through its ratios. Marco reacts, not that easily intimidated. The Barracuda surges, its massive torque overwhelming the Supra’s initial lead. By the 100-foot mark, the Plymouth’s nose draws even, exhaust spitting flames from tunes headers. Marco flirts with the throttle, keeping the rear end planted, the car’s wide stance devouring the strip. It pushes Crow to fight back, turbos screaming as he mashes the pedal, but ultimately, there’s no real competition here: Marco knows what he’s got his hands on, suspensions compressing under the G-forces.
He’s toying with it, Lando thinks, a chill racing down his spine. His stomach drops, figuring that Marco Delano came to perform and it’s just a matter of time until he does so, the nitrous bottle untouched, saving the blue flame for later.
Consistent with popular predictions, the Barracuda crosses the line first, clocks flashing a blistering 10.2-second quarter-mile. At last, Crow’s Supra coasts defeated to a stop, the man slamming the wheel in frustration.
Marco’s eyes find Lando’s once he steps out to cheers and backslaps. His smirk widens into challenge, rubbing salt into a wound that has been open for years. He gestures lazily toward his car, as if to say, yours is next.
The night drags on, two more races unfolding in rotation, shadowy figures in souped-up Civics and a Mustang trading pink slips in furious bursts of acceleration. Eventually, the lineup converges and Marco slinks to the starting line again.
Lando feels the inexorable draw that Raelyn makes sure to keep under control, eyes locking onto his with unshakable faith, piercing his fog of doubt. She closes the small space left between them, bringing a hand to cradle his jaw, her thumb brushing the firm edge packed with tension. On her toes, she leans in to meet his lips in a tender kiss, an anchoring gesture amid the chaos. It deepens quickly, cherry gloss combining with the salt of his skin. Lando’s palm settles at her waist and just as she eases back to give him a smile, he decides that he won’t lose anything ever again.
“Smoke him,” she says with finality.
Lando nods, the ghost of a smile cracking his facade while walking backwards towards his car. He drops into the bucket seat, strapping himself in. The twin-turbo inline-six rumbles to life once he twists the key, its vibrations coursing through the chassis and settling into his core. He blips the throttle once, then again, only to feel all the systems awakening, so he can finally roll it nose-to-nose with Marco’s at the starting line. Refusing to look anywhere else but ahead, Lando’s kuckles pale from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel. In record time, all his senses refine, causing him to hear everything, from the noise outside the car to his own heartbeat.
The flags raise again, and the moment they slash downward, each second seems to pass in slow motion.
ONE. The launch detonates in a haze of fury, and it isn’t clean. Lando slams the clutch, floors the throttle, the car rushing with impatience. The tires rebel against him, spinning wildly on the oil-slicked strip scarred around from the earlier battles. A thick smoke chokes the air with the sharp tang of scorched rubber, the car fishtailing as the ATTESA system fights to redistribute torque across all four wheels in the shortest time.
Marco’s Barracuda rockets uninhibited ahead, its engine propelling the heavy muscle car forward in a flash. Lando’s eyes widen in the cockpit, irritation spreading like ivy in his chest.
“Not now,” he spits under his breath, the rearview mirror framing Marco’s vanishing taillights.
TWO. The Skyline manages to scrape for purchase, the rear settling as the turbos begin to spool with a mounting whine that vibrates through the roll cage, but the deficit looms. Marco’s eyes shrink in the distance, and Lando has to close his briefly, sweat prickling his brow. His right foot modulates the throttle, drowning the crowd’s enthusiasm, the entire universe suddenly condensing into a singular point. He bangs into second gear, the transmission engaging with a mechanical snap; he’s gone by now, vision tunneling, any trace of fear and doubt remaining deeply rooted in the past.
THREE. Marco’s car cleaves the air, its broad hood dominating the lane. There are short bursts of flame spitting from the exhaust with every upshift, as if emphasizing his desperate need to choke Lando. But in Lando’s current state, he’s impossible to reach. It looks like he is able to urge the car onward through sheer will, even though his fingers ache around the wheel. The instant inertia hurls him back into the seat with a jolt of G-forces that compresses his spine. He’s not even blinking anymore as he calculates the chasm, twenty feet and closing, agonizingly slow. He pre-shifts into third, a surge of heat taking over any other kind of emotion that might surface.
FOUR. His rival toys with a nitrous feint, azure flickers dancing unused from the tailpipes, baiting the rhythm. Lando’s frustration crests, pulse hammering in his temple as he counters with the subtle pedal work, the Skyline’s sleeker profile and lighter curb weight beginning to assert itself on the straightaway. The speedometer blurs past 80 mph, wind shrieking through the vents like a banshee.
“Fucking fight me!” he wills the machine, the night sky blurring into a cinematic rush outside the windows.
FIVE. The Skyline creeps alongside between one breath and the next, with tires singing at 100 mph over the grooved pavement. Midway down the strip, Marco muscles into third, the V8’s torque cresting in a thunderous peak which Lando forsees, his foot dancing on the pedals to sustain boost without spin.
SIX. That’s when Marco finally commits to the nitrous, a violent hiss unleashing the oxide in a blaze of compressed outrage. Flames erupt in blue hues from the Barracuda’s rear, rocketing it ahead and widening the breach once more. Lando responds promptly, triggering his own system, the bottle venting with a sizzle that feeds the turbos pure fire.
SEVEN. The cars draw closer in a cacophony of noise, clouds of exhaust fumes merging into a thick veil beneath the lights. Lando’s instinct peaks there, encouraging him to tuck into the Barracuda’s slipstream, managing to steal efficiency from the turbulent air. Then darts left to claim clean flow. Marco fumbles a shift, the heavier chassis balking under the strain; Lando seizes it, holding redline before slamming fourth, the gear meshing perfectly thanks to his experience on the streets and, mostly, his sister’s driving lessons.
EIGHT. The 450-horsepower turbos are at full cry, the strip appearing like it’s going to vortex into oblivion. The Barracuda tries to counter aggressively, swerving to steal the lane, but Lando anticipates, easing off the throttle at the same time the tires object with a high-pitched keen yet adhering to the tacky surface.
NINE. Marco’s car weavers, its nitrous ebbing as the early rush melts away. Lando’s aero savvy and unflinching boost control propels him past, the front bumper inching clear.
TEN. Reality crashes back in the moment Lando’s Skyline arrives at the line first, its brakes flaring crimson-red against the night.
He spends the next ten seconds clutching the steering wheel tightly, pure ecstasy washing over him, while the cheers outside are so loud that they seem like they’re gonna break the windows. When he finally steps out of the car, he does it on steady legs and dilated pupils from the adrenaline haze, searching the sea of faces for hers.
After everything, Raelyn launches herself at him, legs wrapping around his waist as her arms lock behind his neck for support. She crashes her lips against his, tongues tangling in a kiss that has the power to kill the chaos around them. Lando’s hands grip her thighs, pulling her impossibly closer. They don’t break apart, not even when hurrahs and whistles erupt louder from the sidelines.
Rae’s fingers thread through his damp hair, tugging at it just to make him groan into her mouth. “That’s my racer boy!” she smiles against his lips, nipping at his bottom one.
It only makes him kiss her harder, one hand sliding up her back, in that same possessive way he does, no matter who’s watching.
Humbled once again, Marco lumbers to a stop in arrears. The moment shatters as the familiar voice infiltrates through, fully dripped in venom.
“Enjoy it while it lasts, Ortiz,” he says, fumbling in his pocket and hurling the keys on the ground, where they skitter across the gravel like discarded trash. “And let me tell you,” he adds, a devilish smirk blooming on his face, “Letty’s ghost in that ‘Cuda…” the boy trails off, pursing his lips before continuing, “Got me jerking off so fast.”
The entire area hushes in an instant, and the only sound in Lando’s ears is the sound of his blood rushing to his cheeks. He gently puts Rae back on her feet, then dives headfirst at Marco with an animalistic roar, slamming into him like a freight train. They crash to the asphalt in a tangle of limbs, the impact jarring Lando’s teeth as concrete bites into his elbows. He rears back and drives his fist into Marco’s face multiple times, knuckles splitting open on the ridge of his cheekbone, blood blooming hot from the gash. As a result, Marco’s head snaps sideways, a spray of bright red arcing under the neon glow of the street lamps. He doesn’t go down easy, though. Twisting like a viper, he hooks a leg around Lando’s and bucks hard, flipping them so he’s straddling Lando’s chest.
People are surging closer, gasps of surprise quickly turning to chanting: “Fight! Fight!” a woman’s voice shrieks in excitement, fists pumping the air, while others shout encouragements.
Marco’s weight pins Lando, his bloodied grin turning demonic as he cocks back and slams a punch into Lando’s jaw, the crack echoing like a gunshot and causing instant fireworks exploding behind Lando’s eyelids. Pain flares underneath his now bruised skin, copper flooding his mouth from a busted lip. It only makes him angrier, and he bolts upright, headbutting Marco square in the nose with a wet crunch, cartilage giving way under the force. More blood gushes from Marco’s nostrils, dripping onto Lando’s shirt as they roll again, grappling in a frenzy of years of repressed wrath.
Lando’s rage unleashes in every swing, his boot stomping down on Marco’s thigh while he claws at his shirt, tearing fabric and skin alike. Marco retaliates with a vicious uppercut to Lando’s ribs, the blow landing with a thud that steals his breath, cracking bone maybe, sending agony lancing through his side.
“That all you got, motherfucker?” Marco spits, blood flecking his teeth, but Lando’s already on him, kneeing his gut and following with a new wave of punches.
“Shut up!”
One glancing off Marco’s ear.
Another smashing into his eye, swelling it shut in seconds.
Then another, sending his head flying backwards.
They trade blows in the dirt, no more words, just grunts and the meaty sound of impact. Unmasked, Lando’s violence overflows through his fists like a dam breaking. It awakens painful memories for Dom who, after the initial shock, finally barrels in like a force of nature, his massive arms wrapping around Lando’s torso from behind.
“Enough, kid!” he thunders, muscles straining as he hauls him off Marco, prying them apart with sheer power despite Lando’s wild trashing.
“Get the fuck off me!” Lando protests. “I’m gonna fucking kill him!”
“That’s enough!” the man repeats, louder, throwing Lando at the side like he weights nothing, pointing at him before turning back to Delano. He pulls his unstable body back on his feet by the jacket, only one hand clawing at the bloody material. “You’re done here,” says Dom, infernal eyes piercing into his soul. “Walk away before I put your head into the asphalt.”
Lando looks like he could lunge again at any second, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. His eyes burn while darting around, scanning the ground. Every fiber of him buzzes with the leftover punch of adrenaline, like the storm hasn’t finished raging yet. Once he finds the keys to the Barracuda, he bends to snatch them, the metal biting cold into his skin, making him fist his palm around it until it hurts.
It only takes a glance at Raelyn, and she’s immediately by his side, worry etching fine lines around her eyes.
“Take my car and go home,” says Lando with an evident rasp in his voice.
Clenching her jaw, Rae doesn’t argue this time. She just nods, chewing on the inside of her cheek, refusing to look around and make eye contact with another person. As for Lando, he doesn’t wait for more. Sliding into Letty’s car, the engine starts purring smoothly beneath him, and he peels out, leaving the lot behind in a cloud of dust.
The city blurs past in shadowed alleys, but there’s no final destination this time. He presses the pedal harder, racing the wind, hoping the speed will do its thing and numb the ache. Unfortunately, even the fastest driver can’t outrun his own thoughts. He spends hours trying to, but when the sky finally hints at the pale edge of dawn, Lando turns onto the quiet suburban street, the driveway materializing in front of him in sweet familiarity. He kills the engine, allowing himself to just exist in his sister’s space without breaking all over again. Sitting there, he’s gripping the wheel until his hands cramp and the skin around his knuckles breaks anew, painting them in a brighter shade of red.
Another half hour stretches into what feels like eternity before he forces himself out.
Inside, the house is still, even if he already knows Rae is probably awake. Their bedroom door stands ajar, a silver of light coming from the lamp in the corner of the room, spilling into the hallway. She looks up from the edge of the bed as he enters, her eyes scanning Lando instinctively: his lip is busted open, bruises are glowing in faint purple shades along his jaw, and his clothes are streaked with blood, dirt and sweat. It hurts her to even look at the crimson crust at the corner of his eye, a shallow cut that Marco’s ring left behind.
Her heart shrinks to a painful knot in her chest, remembering that it’s only been a month of this. A whole month of holding him together while pieces of him, without a doubt, fractured. It’s physically impossible not to question herself, if this is what their life will look like from now on — a vicious circle of mourning the things that could’ve been.
It would be very easy for her to kick and scream, to demand why he keeps throwing himself into the fire, but she understands the why. For this reason, the what and the how long until no longer make any sense. Instead, she rises silently to brush past Lando in the narrow hallway. Her shoulder grazes his arm in a ghost of a contact that sends a jolt through both of them. But they both ignore it.
Just as serene, she rummages for the first aid kit in the bathroom, the plastic clattering against the sink. She allows her hands to shake for a few seconds before she steels them and by the time she’s back, Lando has stripped off his shirt, the dirty fabric discarded in a heap on the floor along with his jeans and jacket, where smoke clings to them still. He perches on the edge of the bed, the same spot where he found her, his bare torso marked with fresh welts and old scars from races that ended badly.
Although it’s the early morning, Raelyn switches the flip on in order to fully see him, the new wave of light flooding over the taut lines of his muscles, highlighting the tension coiled there.
“Move over,” she points at a chair, sounding detached of it all. “I don’t want all that mess in bed.”
Lando doesn’t complain. Sliding off the mattress, he settles into the chair by the window, watching Raelyn setting the kit on the windowsill with a small tap. He can feel the chemical scent the moment she uncaps the antiseptic, already anticipating its sting.
Stillness settles over them for the umpteenth time.
Raelyn starts with his face, tilting his chin up, vehemently refusing to meet his eyes. Despite the fact that she feels his gaze imploring her to look at him, even just once, she cannot do so without being overcome by the urge to punch him herself for the show he put on in front of everybody. She dabs the cotton swab at his busted lip first, the alcohol stinging enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth. At least for now, Rae considers that’s enough of a punishment. However, she doesn’t soften her touch.
Lando keeps his eyes on her, tracking the precise movement of her hands. It’s not the first time she’s patching him up, but this time around, the tension that hums between them is heated with something more brittle. Her breath comes shallow while she wipes away the dried blood from his chin, his skin turning warm under her touch.
The girl moves to his knuckles after that, a flash of surprise crossing her expression. The cuts are deeper than she expected, the flesh around torn and swollen. Skillful, a quality acquired as a result of the many times he had to fix Lando, Rae soaks a fresh cloth in saline, pressing it firmly against the wounds. The liquid trickles down his fingers, pink-tanged, dripping onto the towel she’s laid across his lap. Lando keeps wincing occasionally, his jaw working like he’s stopping himself every time he’s about to say something — to point out how cold and clinical she is, perhaps. But he chooses to swallow his words, thinking now is not the time.
Raelyn wishes she were stronger than that. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop her mind from racing at the speed of light. Powerless, she replays the fight over and over again, the anger in Lando’s eyes catching her attention every time. Marco shouldn’t be able to get under his skin anymore. Yet somehow he did, and he still won, in the end. At least on a mental level, considering that Lando is now battling new demons.
For all that, she can’t let Lando know how much it actually bothers her. If she lets emotion out, she’ll end up sobbing into his chest. Or worse: begging him to stop chasing ghosts. She can’t ask that of him. Not yet, anyway. So she stays cold, her touch efficient as she applies antibiotic ointment, the cool gel melting immediately on his heated skin.
Careful not to disturb her, Lando repositions himself, the chair creaking underneath. For the first time since he sat down, their eyes finally meet, gentle gaze colliding with the strain she’s hiding in hers. He itches to reach out, to pull her close and sit in silence together, just like they did times on end for the past month. Yet, he’s powerless too.
After she’s done with his eye, Raelyn sticks on a pink butterfly bandage, sealing the ring cut in a way that makes the corners of her mouth lift for the shortest moment.
“Come here?” Lando dares to speak, but the girl steps back instead.
She keeps avoiding him, focusing on packing away the supplies, her fingers lingering on the lid, like she can delay the inevitable confrontation forever.
Lando shifts again, rubbing a hand over his freshly bandaged knuckles. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, making an effort to bridge the chasm with levity in order to defuse the tension that surrounds them. “Did you see the other guy? He’s gonna be picking his teeth out of the gutter for a week.”
She freezes with her back to him, shoulders tensing more, ironically. His attempt of a joke lands flat, and Raelyn can’t acknowledge it even with a scoff. All she can think of is how utterly helpless she feels, not being able to absorb the rage that’s become his second skin. Without having much of a choice, frigidity settles in her even though she wants to bridge the gap, to meet him in this fractured life where any win still comes with a loss. Where entourages of gearheads and dealers orbit them like satelits in a doomed orbit.
Part of her aches to wrap him up and carry the weight of his vengeance so he doesn’t have to, while the other part screams at her to collapse. To let the tears finally break through and drown them both in the reality of it all.
“I saw him,” she replies in the end, eyes fixing on the floor where his boots lie kicked off, all caked in dirt. “And it makes me sick that you think this is funny. Any of it.”
Lando’s grin fades, his slightly healthier hand flexing. “Rae, come on. I’m trying to get to you, that’s all. It was bullshit, yeah, but I handled it. We’re good,” his words sound somewhat desperate, still clinging to the adrenaline.
The girl whips around, feeling her nails digging deeper into her palms. “You came home bleeding, Lando. Again. And I’m the one cleaning it up. Again,” her voice cracks on the last word, not loud but intense enough to give him chills. “How can we be good?”
He sits up straighter, wincing once more. “What do you want me to say, hm?” Lando’s eyes search hers, pleading.
Raelyn sinks onto the bed across from him, the space between them fogging with accusations that are waiting in line to be fired like arrows at a moving target. Her hands tremble in her lap, and she clenches them again, fighting the urge to reach out or push away entirely.
Paradoxically, both versions feel wrong.
“I know you miss her,” she whispers, not trusting her voice. “I miss her, too. But can’t you see this life is eating us alive?”
“Baby, hey,” his tone softens into insistence. The confusion on his face morphs into concern as he stands fully, his chest rising with a deeper breath. “What’s wrong?” asks Lando, figuring that whatever it is, it is much more than he thinks. He steps closer so he can drop to his knees in front of her, head lifting to see her tired eyes.
“What’s wrong,” she echoes thoughtfully, close to snapping while gesturing vaguely toward the window, toward the night that swallowed them whole hours ago. “What you did out there,” the girl continues, closing her eyes briefly, “That’s not… I haven’t seen you like that. Ever.”
Lando’s expression hardens, a flicker of defensiveness crossing his beaten up features. “Are you seriously worried about Delano? That piece of shit deserved it,” his words come out as if they don’t need justifying.
She analyzes his face, gaze sliding across the cuts, then the shadows beneath his eyes. “I’m not,” Raelyn shakes her head, “I’m worried about you.”
Next time he speaks, it seems like a reflex he’s clung to for weeks. “You shouldn’t. I’m fine.”
“Clearly,” her laugh is short. “You keep saying that. For a month now, you keep saying that. But I think this,” she cups his cheek in her palm, tracing her thumb across his busted lip, “This is far from fine. You kept it all inside, Lando, and now it’s going to come out in ways I’m not sure I can fix.”
“Fix me, you mean?” his eyes lock onto hers, demanding answers.
They’ve always been equals in their mess, no one fixing the other, just surviving the crash together. Now it feels more like an attack, impaling into the nerve of his grief, the same way Marco’s taunts still burn under his skin. He knows he shouldn’t turn everything into personal matters, but honor is the only thing he has left. He failed to be a protector when it mattered the most. It’s only fair he does everything in his power to be one from now on.
“No,” she dismisses his inquiry with a decisive tone, meeting his upward gaze even though her heart hammers like pistons overheating in her chest. “Ironically enough, it’s not just about you.”
Lando shakes his head, his jaw clenching. “Then what is it? You’ve been looking at me like I’m a thicking bomb since I walked in here,” his voice rises a notch, taking even himself by surprise.
Raelyn exhales, shifting her gaze back at the window. “I’m trying to save what we have left. Because I feel like you’re lying, and I’m not sure when we started doing that, but I don’t like it,” she admits.
“I don’t lie,” he affirms with finality.
“Keeping things for yourself or not saying the whole truth is just as bad,” the girl concedes, cracking open a fear that she’s tried to keep buried for the past couple of weeks: that without complete honesty, they’re just two people careening toward another crash. “You’re not fine, Lando. Downplaying it makes me believe you don’t trust me anymore.”
His eyes soften, hands peacefully landing on each side of her thighs. “Baby, I’m sorry if I scared you, alright? I’m sorry,” he repeats, blue eyes contemplating her face.
“If Dom wouldn’t have pulled you off him…” her words taper off, heavy with the horror of what she witnessed from the sidelines.
“You heard what he said, yeah? I couldn’t let that slide, you know how he is,” Lando frowns, disbelief sharpening his tone.
“That’s not an excuse,” counters Raelyn. “I saw the look on your face, Lando. I believed you when you said you’d kill him.”
Life as she used to know it flashes before her eyes in an instant: stolen moments in the garage, Lando’s high-pitched laugh, the way he’d pull her close after a close call, whispering promises. Suddenly, a jigsaw of moments is flooding her mind, refusing to stay in order: high-school Lando in her bedroom, scribbling schematics for his dream car in the margins of a notebook; late-night drives around the city; take-out dinners on the couch, her legs thrown over his, arguing about a silly TV show; his first race; his first race win; their first kiss when they were only 17. It’d be fascinating to observe how easily it all gets shadowed by a mistake he keeps repeating. If only it didn’t hurt so bad for making her question the man she’s shared her time with up until this point.
Lando’s expression pales under the bruises. “I—” he tries, but the protest dies, replaced by a haunted stare. In the moment, he can’t even admit that he said it just because of the adrenaline and anger. Hours later, he still feels the same way.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Raelyn finally breaks, tears welling up. She wipes at her face with the back of her hand once they spill over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks.
“Why are you even going there, Raelyn?” the full name slips out like a slap, and she freezes above him, her body going stiff at the unfamiliar formality. “You know everything is fucked up, and it’s going to stay that way, regardless of whether you interfere or not.”
“No, it doesn’t have to,” the girl insists, her hands moving to cover his.
His posture slumps, the exhaustion etching deeper lines around his mouth. “Look around, baby. You said it,” Lando reminds her, “There’s no one else here but us. We’ve got nothing else but each other, so let’s not lose ourselves too. Because if that happens, Rae… if I lose you…”
In his head, Lando knows that losing her isn’t an abstract thought. Of course it crossed his mind before, perhaps more often than he would like to admit. He’s already memorized the sound of grief. It’s like a hollow echo with no response, but Rae is the last place he feels safe, the last person who can pull him back. Without her, he has no reason to slow down. No reason to step off the gas at the last second.
Most people are terrified of pain, but that doesn’t scare him. It’s the certainty that he wouldn’t survive what he would become afterward that keeps him frozen in fear.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” she jumps on his unfinished sentence.
“What do you mean?” asks Lando, confusion knitting his brows, one hand reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear.
“This place,” explains Rae, cautious. “What if we leve for a while?” she asks, gauging his reaction, her heart pounding in the silence that follows.
Lando doesn’t dismiss it outright, but he does pause. “What do you mean?” he repeats a little softer. “Leave where?”
Running her hand gently through his tousled curls, Raelyn takes a small breath before asking, “How do you feel about Monaco?”
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
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⤿ @callsign-mirage @zariacore @pitsoff1 @tinas111 @pixiebratz ♥︎
Thank you for reading!
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© trashy track tales, 2026
𝗧𝗘𝗫𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗙𝟭 𝗚𝗥𝗜𝗗
✧₊⁺ prompt ──── Wearing another driver’s hoodie.
✧₊⁺ featuring ──── Lewis Hamilton, Charles Leclerc, Max Verstappen, Isack Hadjar, Liam Lawson, Lando Norris, George Russell. Bonus*: Oscar Piastri & Arvid Lindblad.
*only the first 7 drivers were requested, I added 81 and 41 for aesthetic purposes.
✧₊⁺ warnings ──── jealousy, angst, suggestive and passive-aggressive behavior, slight possessiveness, situationships & non-established relationships, middle names used.
✧₊⁺ date ──── Feb. 12, 2026
✧₊⁺ a/n ──── special thanks to @honeyteaboba who dragged me out of that ln x ff draft, this was a breath of fresh air. Fic is going to be out soon, I just severely underestimated how much research would be required. Spoiler alert: A LOT 😔📉
Omg he’s glowing, this man is so happy to be back in the car
Need I say more… LANDO IN THE NEW PUMA PHOTO SHOOT 😫😫😫😫
He looks like he belongs in this fr
LN x F&F, who’s in ☝🏻🤓
Letty's younger brother WRITE THIS
Oh Mr. Piastri…
