𝑺𝒕✩𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 @slipstreamblues - Tumblr Blog

May 4

DOUBLE TROUBLE

Part 20

A/N: I’m dead serious when I say this chapter took years off me. I wrote it three different ways, scrapped two of them, and landed here because at this point I needed somebody in my life, real or not, to get something that even looks like a happy ending. War’s over, it’s finally up, and we’re at least a little closer to whatever version of happy I decide we’re gonna get. I know it seems like I am writing just for shits and giggles, but it does get so much better after this chapter.

I proofread this one time while I was half asleep, so if you see mistakes, kindly ignore them.

“That… was a lot.”

The therapist exhales, closing her notebook like she’s finally admitting how far off track this whole thing went.

“Not my finest moment,” you say with a shrug. “Silverstone, I mean. Everything after that, with Zak and his band of idiots, I stand by.”

“And you?” she asks, looking at Lando.

He drags a hand down his face. “Yeah. Went a bit mad there for a second.”

“A bit,” you mutter.

Her eyes move back to you. “Earlier, you both mentioned the over sexualisation of your relationship. Publicly and privately. Boundaries being blurred by the both of you. Some incidents happening within the last few weeks.”

You don’t respond.

“And yet you’re still around it,” she continues. “The garage. The paddock.”

“I’m trying to understand how that works,” she says, “if you resigned from McLaren and are no longer present in their space.”

You glance at Lando like he might answer.

He doesn’t. He’s still looking down at your hand, thumb dragging over your fingers like that’s the only thing he’s paying attention to.

“I’m…” you pause, then settle on it, “race adjacent.”

She looks at you. “That’s vague.”

“It’s meant to be.”

“In what capacity?”

“In whatever capacity I’m needed.”

“Officially or unofficially?”

You let out a quiet breath. “Depends who you ask.”

“Who would answer differently?”

You shrug.

“I’ve told you enough.”

She watches you for a second like she doesn’t believe that.

Lando shifts beside you.

“She’s working,” he says. “Just not how she was.”

You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you.

“And that works?” the therapist asks.

“It works,” you say.

She doesn’t look convinced.

She opens her notebook again.

“You can continue.”

You had been in bed long enough that the light had shifted without you noticing when it happened. Your phone was somewhere in the blankets beside you, close enough that you didn’t have to look for it when you reached for it, which you had been doing on and off all afternoon without really thinking about it.

The last two weeks had blurred together in a way that made them hard to separate.

You woke up and stayed there, rolled onto your side, then your back, then your other side, checking the time like it was going to change something, closing your eyes again anyway, doing it a few times before you finally got up.

You caught yourself in the mirror on the way to the bathroom and paused for a second, not long, just enough to look, take it in, then move on.

Some days you ate, some days you didn’t, showered when you felt like it, stood there longer than you needed to when you did, pulled something on after and went straight back to the bed or the couch, turned something on just to have it there, sometimes it held your attention long enough that you didn’t think about anything else, sometimes you just let it run.

You kept losing track of time, looking up and the light was different, the day already gone, the room darker than it should’ve been, that part kept catching you.

You still answered him, calls, texts, whenever it came through, you picked up, you replied, you said you were fine, said you were busy, said whatever you needed to say so it sounded like nothing had changed, like you were still the same girl he met, the one who told Zak Brown to get fucked without thinking about it, the one who didn’t hesitate, didn’t sit around overthinking everything.

You said it like it was still true.

You didn’t tell him about the rest of it, how long it took you to get out of bed, how you’d stand in the kitchen and just not do anything for a minute because you couldn’t decide what came next, how you avoided leaving unless you had to, kept putting things off, stayed in longer than you ever would’ve before.

You didn’t say any of that.

You stayed up there, high enough above everything that it didn’t feel real, like the city was happening somewhere else entirely, far enough removed that sometimes you caught yourself wondering if any of it had actually been worth it.

There were calls that started normally and ended too easily, texts that went back and forth just enough to say you weren’t ignoring each other, but never long enough to turn into anything real, every conversation skirting around the same thing without either of you actually touching it.

“Have you actually thought about how this works outside of this?”

Since you had said it outside of McLaren, neither of you had answered it.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” you could hear voices, footsteps, someone talking too close to him for a second before it dropped off. “You alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, it’s a bit mad,” he added. “They’ve had me in press all morning.”

“Mm.”

You shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around you.

“How is it,” you asked.

“The same,” he said. “Everyone’s everywhere. I can’t really move without someone stopping me.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

You could hear someone call his name, louder this time.

“One sec,” he muttered, not covering the phone. A quick “two minutes” to someone else, then he was back. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“How’s your day been?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You didn’t add anything.

“Alright,” he said quietly, like he knew you weren’t giving him much to work with but wasn’t going to push it.

“I’ve just been trying to get things sorted here,” you said.

“Yeah, same,” he replied. “It’s just… a lot at the minute.”

You could feel it sitting there again, the same thing it had been every time.

“I was thinking about you earlier,” he said, softer now, like he’d stepped just far enough away from everyone else.

You stared at the ceiling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It hung there.

You didn’t take it any further.

“I know you’re busy,” you said.

“Yeah,” he said. “They’re already waiting on me, to be fair.”

You nodded to yourself. “Then go.”

He hesitated for half a second. “I’ll text you later, yeah?”

“Okay.”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“I’ll talk to you.”

“Yeah.”

The line went dead.

You let the screen go dark and dropped it back beside you, rolling onto your side instead, pulling the blanket in tighter like that was going to do anything.

A few minutes passed before you reached for your phone again, thumb already moving before you really thought about it, app store, one after the other, Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, downloading them again like they hadn’t chewed you up and spit you out three weeks ago.

They opened like nothing had changed, your accounts still there, messages still there, everything exactly where you left it.

You didn’t look at anything else, just went straight to him.

His profile came up and you paused on it for a second before opening the first thing you saw, a video, someone else filming, him outside with a club in his hands, lining something up while someone said something off camera, he laughed, shook his head, took the shot anyway.

You backed out and opened another one, media, sponsors, something from earlier that morning, another clip from the same place, different angle.

Nothing about it looked off. Nothing about him looked off.

You tapped into one more and watched him talk, answering a question, smiling like he always did when he wasn’t taking it seriously, and you stayed on it longer than you meant to before stopping it.

You didn’t open the comments, didn’t look at anything under it, just sat there with your phone in your hand, his face paused on the screen.

It took a second for it to land.

Not what he was doing. You knew what his week looked like. You knew where he was, what he’d be pulled into, how it all ran once he was there.

You just weren’t part of it.

You heard from him, calls, texts, enough that you couldn’t pretend he’d disappeared.

But this part of it, this version of his day, this version of him, you were nowhere near it.

You woke up slow the next morning, light already coming through the curtains.

Your phone was still on the nightstand where you left it. His name sat at the top when you picked it up, a few texts from the night before and one from earlier that morning. You opened them and scrolled through properly this time.

Lando: you still upLando: today was a bit of a messLando: they’re still on it

A little later he’d sent another.

Lando: i wanted to call but it was chaosLando: i’ll try you in the morning

And then, more recent:

Lando: you awake

You read it again before you typed back.

You: just woke up

He answered straight away.

Lando: yeah?

Lando: you sleep okay?

You glanced at the time.

You: like the deadYou: you’re busy?

Lando: a bit yeahLando: quali later

You: thought so

There was a pause before the next one came through.

Lando: i’ll call you after yeah

You: okayYou: good luck

Lando: thanks

You set your phone back on the nightstand and got up.

You showered, then pulled on black yoga pants and his hoodie, sleeves falling past your hands when you pushed them through. You went into the kitchen after and made eggs and toast, ate it standing at the counter, then left the plate in the sink.

You rolled your mat out in the living room in front of the windows, the light coming in low across the floor, and moved through it without holding anything too long, shifting from one position to the next before you were really done with it. When you finished, you left the mat where it was.

Laundry after.

You dragged the basket into the living room, dumped it onto the couch, and reached for the remote before you started folding. You put qualifying on, the sound filling the room, commentary running over the engine noise while you worked through the pile, one piece at a time, smoothing things out and stacking them beside you.

You were half watching it at first, glancing up between folds, tracking the times as they came in without really thinking about it. They cut through the usual shots, cars on track, garages, pit lane, and then to him, helmet off, talking to someone just out of frame with one hand braced against the car like he’d been there all morning.

You looked up properly then and didn’t look away when the commentary shifted.

“There were questions about how the Silverstone moment might affect him, but he looks completely settled this weekend.”

Your hands slowed where they were in your lap, the shirt half folded.

“That moment involving the McLaren communications rep has been a talking point over the last couple of weeks.”

You muted it.

The room went quiet, the picture still moving in front of you, him still on screen, still talking, still exactly the same.

You finished folding the shirt in your hands, set it down on the pile, and kept watching.

Your phone sat on the cushion beside you.

And then you grabbed it, opening Twitter before your brain could tell you what a mistake you were about to make.

Your feed was already full of it, his name over and over, clips, screenshots, people talking like they all had something to say. You opened the first one you saw and it was the clip, the same one you’d already watched a thousand times over, just tighter, slowed a little, paused at the worst possible second like that was the only part that mattered.

You backed out and went into the next thing, a thread sitting at the top, thousands of likes, still climbing. Someone had pulled together everything they could find, your name, your job, a screenshot of your LinkedIn with your photo next to it like that explained anything.

You opened it anyway.

Replies stacked under it faster than you could read.

@paddocktalker

mclaren need to get a grip this is embarrassing

@sector3hero

she knew exactly what she was doing don’t be stupid

@papayaburner

imagine risking all that for her

@f1throwaway22 he’s in a title fight and this is what he’s doing

You kept scrolling, more photos showing up the further down you went, things pulled from everywhere, tagged posts, old pictures, angles you didn’t even remember being taken, all of it dragged into one place like it had always been there.

Someone had posted a picture from a work thing, you half turned, drink in your hand, laughing at something off camera, the caption twisted into something it wasn’t.

@gridwatch yeah real professional

@turnoneincident you can tell what she’s like straight away

You hovered on it for a second, then kept going.

Another one, a picture from years ago, something you hadn’t thought about in forever, zoomed in, your face circled like it needed pointing out.

@tyrewarmup

this her??

@maxvbabygirl

no fucking way

@sector2slow

he downgraded so bad

Your grip tightened around the phone as you kept scrolling, more of it, more people talking like they knew you, like they had any idea what they were looking at, reducing it down to something small enough to pick apart. It wasn’t even the same tone anymore, less jokes, less guessing, people had decided. Someone had your LinkedIn open again, your name under it, your title, replies stacked underneath like it explained everything.

@brandriskdaily

this is exactly why teams shouldn’t blur professional lines

@gridethics

she knew the position she was in and did it anyway

@papayaboardroom

mclaren let this get messy and now it’s on her

You scrolled past it, then stopped, then went back to it like you hadn’t meant to. Another one had your photo next to his, side by side, like it was something to compare.

@apexmetrics

you can see the difference in class immediately

@sectoranalysis

this is a downgrade in every sense

@pitstrategyhub

this is going to follow her career forever

That one sat there, you read it twice, then pushed yourself up without really thinking about it, phone still in your hand as you walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, grabbed the first bottle you saw and twisted the cork off before you even closed the door again. You came back and dropped into the same spot on the couch, tucking one leg under you, the laundry still piled beside you like you hadn’t moved at all, and took a drink straight from the bottle before you looked back down at your phone.

You kept going.

More threads, more replies, the same clip in different versions, different captions trying to say the same thing in a new way, your name sitting in all of it like it belonged there. You took another drink, barely registering it this time, your thumb slowing just enough that you were actually reading it instead of skimming past it, letting it sit instead of backing out.

The TV was still on in front of you, muted, him still moving through it, working, focused, exactly where he was supposed to be, and you were sitting there on the couch with your phone in your hand and the bottle resting against your leg, wondering if that one moment had been enough to turn you into this, something people could pass around and pick apart, something that would follow you long after it stopped meaning anything to anyone else.

An hour later, you were past the point of pretending you were fine, the wine sitting heavy, your head off, everything a little slower and a little louder at the same time.

Your phone rang.

You grabbed it too fast, almost dropping it before you got it to your ear.

“Hello.”

“Hey,” he said, and then, “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You shifted on the couch, pressing your fingers into your temple like it might steady you.

“You alright?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

You could hear it in the way he went quiet for a second.

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I am,” you said, but it slipped. “I’m just tired.”

He let it sit there for a second.

“P1,” he said, like he was trying to keep it normal. “Pole. Front row lockout.”

“I know,” you cut in, too quick. “Fastest lap in Q3, pole position, McLaren one two. I watched it. I know.”

“…Okay,” he said. “So what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you said again, quieter this time. “Can we just talk about something else? You’ve got a race tomorrow.”

“No,” he said. “Not if you sound like this. What’s wrong?”

You let out a breath that turned into a laugh and then into something else.

“They’re eating me alive,” you said.

“What?”

You pulled the phone away and put him on speaker, your thumb clumsy on the screen as you opened Twitter again.

“Just listen,” you said.

You didn’t have to look for anything.

“‘This is exactly why teams shouldn’t blur professional lines,’” you read, stumbling slightly as you scrolled. “‘She knew the position she was in and did it anyway.’”

“Hey,” he said, sharper now. “You don’t need to read that.”

You kept going.

“‘You can see the difference in class immediately.’” Your voice started to shake. “‘This is going to follow her career forever.’”

“Stop,” he said. “Stop reading it.”

“They’ve got my LinkedIn up,” you said over him, words starting to blur together. “My job, my face next to it, like that’s enough, like that’s all it takes. They’ve got pictures from years ago and they’re just picking it apart.”

You swallowed hard, your breath catching.

“You’re out there racing,” you said, pushing through it, faster now. “No one is saying anything about you. You’re fine. You’re on pole. You’re doing your job and they’re tearing me apart for the same thing like I’m the only one in it.”

“I know it’s not fair,” he said immediately.

“No, it’s not,” you snapped. “It’s not even close.”

There was a pause.

“Have you been drinking?” he asked, quieter now.

You let out a shaky breath that almost turned into a laugh.

“That is not the point,” you said. “That’s not even a little bit the point.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I’m just trying to understand what’s going on with you.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” you cut in, your voice rising and then breaking. “There’s nothing you can say that’s going to fix this when I’m sitting here by myself with all of it, acting like a completely different person, feeling like a completely different person, and I can’t even go back to work because of it.”

You stopped, your hand coming up to your face, your breathing uneven.

“I don’t even know what we are,” you said, quieter now, and it cracked. “I don’t know what this is and they all think they do and they’re just deciding it for me.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Hey,” he said, softer now. “Just breathe for a second, yeah.”

You shook your head, crying now.

“I am breathing,” you said, words slipping. “I’m sitting here and they’re all just saying it like it’s fact, like this is what I am now, and it’s not fair.”

“I know,” he said. “I know it’s not fair. You don’t have to sit there and read it. Just put it down.”

“I can’t,” you said, your voice breaking again. “I can’t. It’s everywhere.”

“Delete all of the apps again,” he said. “Just get off of them, yeah. Go lie down. I’ll stay on the phone with you.”

You let out a breath that shook.

“No,” you said, quieter now. “Just focus on tomorrow. You have a race. Just focus on that.”

“I’m not hanging up on you like this.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, even though you were crying. “Seriously. Just leave it. I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I’ll talk to you after,” you said, the words running together again. “Just go. It’s fine.”

You hung up before he could stop you.

You sat there for a second, phone still in your hand, then got up, walking back to your room without turning anything off in the living room.

You crawled into bed still wearing his hoodie, pulling the covers over yourself, and it hit all at once, your breathing uneven, your chest tight, everything catching up to you at once.

You didn’t try to stop it.

You just cried until you wore yourself out and fell asleep.

Your phone was ringing when you woke up.

You stayed there for a second, eyes still closed, head heavy, the sound cutting through everything in a way that made you wince.

It kept going.

You reached for it without looking, dragging it closer through the blankets before you got it to your ear.

“Hello.”

“Hey.”

You blinked at the ceiling, trying to get your bearings, and then it all came back at once, fast enough that it made your stomach turn.

“Oh my god,” you said, pushing yourself up, already talking. “I’m sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have said any of that. I don’t even know why I did that, I just… I was upset and that wasn’t fair, especially the night before a race, I just dumped all of that on you and that was completely out of line.”

“Wait a sec—”

You ignored him and kept going.

“I sounded insane. I know I did. I just lost it for a second and I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have said any of that to you.”

“Hey.”

You didn’t stop.

“I mean it, that was completely out of character for me and I know you didn’t need that, not yesterday, I just—”

“I really need for you to shut the fuck up for a second.”

You actually stopped.

“What?”

“Just stop talking for a second,” he said. “Yeah?”

You frowned, still trying to catch up.

“Go open the door.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“The door,” he said. “Go open it.”

You sat there for a second, staring at nothing.

“What are you talking about?”

“Just open the door, okay?”

You pushed the covers off and got up, your head still off, your heart starting to pick up in a way you didn’t understand yet.

“What’s going on?” you asked, already moving.

“Just open it,” he said.

You walked down the hall, phone still pressed to your ear, your hand finding the handle without really thinking about it.

You pulled it open.

He was standing there.

Phone in his hand, looking at you like this had been obvious the entire time.

You just stared at him.

“What are you doing here?”

“I told you,” he said. “Let me in.”

You didn’t move right away.

“The race,” you said, like that was the only part your brain would land on. “What time even is it?”

“P2 and half seven.”

“I slept that long and you’re here?”

“Yeah.”

You stepped back automatically, still holding the door open, still looking at him like if you stared long enough it might make more sense.

He walked past you like it wasn’t a question.

You turned, watching him move through your space like it was normal for him to be here.

“You just flew here?” you said.

“Pretty much.”

“Lando, that’s insane.”

He looked at you like that was obvious.

“You were gone last night,” he said.

“I know, I said I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, I shouldn’t have put that on you before a race, that was completely out of line, I just—”

“Stop,” he said.

You shut up immediately this time.

“Stop apologising,” he said. “Just stop.”

You blinked at him.

“I’m serious,” he added. “I didn’t come here for that.”

Your throat tightened before you could stop it.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you said, even though you were already stepping closer. “You had a race today, you’ve got things to do, you can’t just leave and come here.”

“I can,” he said. “I did.”

You shook your head, but it didn’t really land.

“I’m fine,” you said.

He looked at you for a second.

“No you’re not.”

“I am.”

“You were crying last night and then hung up on me,” he said. “You’re not fine.”

You didn’t have anything to say to that.

Your face just… went.

He saw it happen.

Then he stepped forward, closing the space between you before you could start talking again.

You didn’t even think about it, just went straight into him when he reached for you, your hands fisting into the front of his shirt, your face pressed hard into his shoulder like you needed something solid to hold onto.

He caught you easily, one arm coming around your back, the other up at the back of your neck, steadying you when you leaned your full weight into him.

You didn’t stop to breathe before it came out.

“I miss being Sheela,” you said into his shoulder, the words muffled, running together. “I miss us in Miami, I miss the cats in Italy, I miss us in Italy, I miss the stupid music you blast all the time, I miss the garage, I miss the stress you put me through with your big mouth, I miss the jetlag.”

Your grip tightened.

“I fucking miss you.”

He didn’t interrupt you, just held you there, his hand pressing more firmly at the back of your neck like he was keeping you right where you were.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, “I know.”

He didn’t let you pull away.

You stayed there, face pressed into his shoulder, your breathing uneven, your hands still gripping his shirt like you thought he might disappear if you let go.

His hand moved up your back slowly, not rushing it, just steady, like he was waiting for you to come back to yourself.

“You done,” he asked quietly.

You let out a breath that shook.

“No.”

“Alright,” he said. “Stay there then.”

You huffed something that almost sounded like a laugh, your forehead shifting against his neck, but you didn’t move.

He tilted his head slightly, his cheek brushing your hair.

“I missed you too,” he said, simple, like it didn’t need anything else.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still in his shirt, your face a mess.

“You actually came here,” you said, like you were still trying to catch up to it.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah.”

You searched his face for a second, like you were waiting for him to take it back.

He didn’t.

“Okay,” you said, softer now, like you didn’t quite know what to do with that.

He watched you for a second.

He pulled you back in, tighter this time, his hand settling at the back of your neck again, pressing you into him like he wasn’t letting you spiral off somewhere else.

“All of that you just said,” he added. “It didn’t go anywhere.”

Your grip tightened again.

“Doesn’t feel like that,” you muttered.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

You stayed there for a second, your face still pressed into his shoulder, your breathing not quite steady yet.

Then you pulled back.

Not far. Just enough to look at him.

“You can’t just show up and say that,” you said.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not that simple.”

“It is to me,” he said.

You shook your head slightly, searching his face.

“No, it’s not,” you said. “We said we’d figure it out. Outside of the entire mess we’ve gone through.”

“I know,” he said.

You searched his face, like you were trying to find where this was going before he said it.

“I’m not confused,” he added.

“You should be,” you said. “This is messy. It’s your career, it’s my job, it’s—”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t,” he said again. “I’ve done all of that. I’ve thought about it. I’ve looked at every angle you’re trying to look at right now.”

You went quiet.

“I told you what this was,” he said. “You just didn’t want to hear it yet.”

Your chest tightened.

“You don’t get to just decide that,” you said.

“I didn’t,” he said. “We did.”

“When?”

He let out a short breath, almost a laugh, like he couldn’t believe you were asking that.

“Miami,” he said.

You opened your mouth to argue it and nothing came out.

He watched it happen.

“You think that was nothing,” he went on, quieter now. “You think I just do that and walk away from it like it’s nothing.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It is,” he said. “Every time you try to turn this into something temporary or question how I feel, that’s what you’re saying.”

You shook your head, but it didn’t land.

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

“And I’m telling you I don’t want realistic,” he said. “I want you.”

That stopped you.

He didn’t look away.

“I don’t care about the job part right now,” he added. “I don’t care about what people are saying or what it looks like or how it fits into anything else. I care about the fact that you were crying last night and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Your throat tightened.

Silence sat between you for a second.

“I’m not doing this halfway,” he said again, softer now but no less certain. “I’m not going back to pretending this is just work or just something that happened in a few cities and that’s it.”

You swallowed.

“And you don’t get to miss me like that,” he added, “and then tell me we’re nothing.”

“I’ve been there,” he continued quietly. “ Every time you’re not with me. It’s not the same.”

“I know you’re trying to make it make sense,” he said. “But I’m not interested in it making sense if it means walking away from you.”

There was a second where it could’ve gone either way, where you could’ve said something else, asked another question, tried to pull it back into something that made sense.

You didn’t.

Your hand slid up into his hair instead, fingers tightening just enough to pull him down to you, and you kissed him before you could think about it too much.

It wasn’t careful, it wasn’t slow. It was everything you’d been holding onto for weeks, all of it hitting at once, your other hand gripping tighter at his shirt as you pressed into him like you needed to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere.

He didn’t hesitate, his hand coming straight to your waist, pulling you in properly, closing whatever space was left like he’d been waiting for you to do exactly that.

You made a small sound into his mouth without meaning to, breath catching, and he felt it, his grip tightening in response, his other hand sliding up to your neck, steadying you when you leaned into him harder.

There was nothing hesitant about it, no second guessing, just that same thing you’d both been circling finally landing.

You broke just enough to breathe, your forehead brushing his for half a second, your fingers still caught in his hair.

“Okay,” you said, quieter now, more to yourself than anything else.

He didn’t answer, he just pulled you back in again.

Taglist:

@butwhocaresstillthelouvre

@sassypostpatrol

@idontknowwhatimdoinginlife

@knight-of-flowerss

@f1fantasys

@jana-ramiz

@lilasthoughtss