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sensitivesoulmate · 14 days ago

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wrong? pt. 3

sistersbf! lando norris x fem reader

summary; forbidden. real.

warnings; 18+!!!!, solo fem masturbation, pillow humping, mention of bodily fluids, swearing, angst, panic, guilt, slight age gap, confessions, mention of alcohol, one kiss. (pls lmk if there are more i missed) !

please be cautious of the warnings before proceeding!!

wc; 5.6k

link to part one and two found in my materialist here !

you made it back.

the trailer sat sluggish, like always, at the edge of the clearing, radiating the same tired silence. your boots dangled in the crook of your elbow, caked in creek bed mud, and your bra and panties, still damp, still heavy, hung over your shoulder like a second skin you couldn’t shed. you took the long way. alone.

you told lando it was better this way. walking away from him with a whispered “i'll see you at home.” you needed space. and maybe that was true.

but isn’t it funny, how after all that time spent wanting him, watching him, loving him, from the edges of your life, when he finally reached back….you couldn’t bear to walk beside him without your heart giving you away.

so, every step without him beside you felt like a slow drag. you kept your eyes on the dirt road, but the world still hummed with him, his voice in the rustle of the leaves, his closeness in the heat wrapped into your skin. your words to him had felt like a lie even as they left your mouth. because the distance that you thought you needed didn’t quite meet the wanting. it only sharpened it, pressing it into your ribs with each breath. you were without him once again.

and as the trailer came into view, its tired siding pale against the fleeting sun, you could still feel the weight of what you’d left behind at the water’s edge. you’d thought being alone would let you breathe, let you shake free of the ache crawling through you, but instead, it bloomed larger. every step felt like a retreat you didn’t want to make, a slow surrender to the safety of your own walls.

there was safety in your solitude. or so you thought. you need the stillness of your room, the thin walls and stained carpet that never asked questions. a place where the weight of today, the weight of a wrong moment, might not follow. where you can pretend that nothing has changed and you’re still the doting sister and playful friend.

but it had. and the truth, that fragile and chaotic thing, trailed after you, anyway. whispering in the corners, curling right up beside you like it belonged.

----

the bathroom light flickered weakly above the mirror, casting a yellowish glow on your tired reflection. you stared at yourself, eyes heavy but wide with the kind of restlessness that made sleep feel impossible. your tan skin still smelled faintly of creek water and dirt, mixed with the sharp sting of the sunburn you hadn’t noticed until now.

you peeled off your damp top, the fabric sticking to your skin, and tossed it into the laundry basket overflowing in the corner. your room felt smaller tonight, the shadows cast by lit candles thicker, like it was waiting for you to unravel to swallow you. you traced the lonely cherry tile next to your cabinet with shaky fingers, trying to regulate your breathing.

it didn’t work.

turning the faucet, the cold water hit your wrists, sharp and unwelcome. you cupped your hands and splashed your face, feeling the chill seep through your skin, but not touching the heat inside you. the heat that lando left behind, the hushed confession that made the hairs on your neck stand.

you caught your eyes in the mirror once more and saw the truth you didn’t want to admit. your cheeks flushed from the sunburn or something else, something that tangled your thoughts and refused to let go. you needed him, and he knew. and he wasn’t letting you go; he didn’t push you away in disgust or lecture you about loyalty. he was reaching out, too.

brushing your hair felt more like a punishment than a routine, each slow tug of the brush dragging against stubborn knots courtesy of the creek’s unrelenting waters. every pull caught on a strand felt like a reminder of what happened, what you allowed, of what you wanted so badly you could taste it. the ache in your chest wasn’t sharp; it was deep, spreading low and heavy, settling into the spaces of your heart.

you swallowed against the lump building in your throat, hot and persistent, like it wanted to rise and betray you. you blinked once. twice. but the sting behind your eyes didn’t fade. it wasn’t sadness, not exactly, it was something louder. messier. something that made your pulse spike in your neck and your fingers tremble in your hair.

the room felt small. airless. you set the brush down and exhaled like it might steady you, but it didn’t.

stepping into your pajamas felt like trying to slip back into a version of yourself you barely recognized. the one who didn’t know the sound of his voice when it cracked against the weight of your name or the way the light hit his eyes when the sun bent lower. the thin cotton clung to your skin, but it didn’t comfort. nothing did.

the silence pressed in thick. you could still hear the echo of the creek’s soft current if you tried, and beneath it, the sound of his laughter, the warmth of his gaze. you pressed your palms to your face as if you could scrub it away. the memory, the wanting, but it lingered, stubborn and cruel. the night wrapped around you, heavy and warm, and still, it felt like he hadn’t left your side.

----

the bathroom light clicked off behind you, plunging you back into the world of candlelight and guilt. your room glowed with the flickering warmth, but the corners of your walls twisted, like they knew. like they were holding their breath along with you, shadows pulsing across your shelves, bedframe, and window, angry and distorted. rightfully so, at your need, at your recklessness. at the line that you’ve crossed that you can’t take back.

you crossed the floor barefoot, every step slow like you were walking through the memory of today you wouldn’t let go.

the bed greeted you with loneliness. and you climbed in like you didn’t want it to see you, like it could tell all the wrong you’ve done. you pulled the blankets up and over your body, trying to anchor yourself against the silence. problem with that was that the silence had his voice in it.

your fingers found the heart-shaped pillow without looking. and you pressed your palm flat to the center and dragged it across the satin lace, slow and distracted. the ridges and bows were familiar and sweet, too innocent for thoughts now pushing past your resistance.

the sun. the feeling of it on your back.

the water. his hands.

the way lando looked at you as if the rest of the world had faded away.

the promise in his smile.

the tremble in his voice when he said your name.

and the confession. the words that you shouldn’t have said but did. the ones that he said back.

you press the pillow tighter to your chest, like maybe it can soak up some of the ache.

your heart pounded, thudding violently beneath your palm like it had no interest in playing it safe. you weren’t just thinking of him, you were remembering him. the pull between you, slow and thick and unspeakable.

the way he said he wished he could take it back, but couldn’t. wouldn’t.

the way his voice dipped when he told you what he’d been carrying.

the pause before he said your name like it was already scared.

the way your own mouth parted in reply, words never making it out.

your breath catches on nothing. just air and memory. but your body felt the phantom ache of his weight where he stood too close, too long. where his hand brushed your wrist like it was allowed to.

and you hate the way his name tastes when you think like this, soft and secretive and just for you. you hate that it lives under your tongue now, like an unwelcome guest.

because you couldn’t stop picturing what would’ve happened if you had closed the gap between you. if you had let him kiss you. if you had leaned in and let it destroy you.

you close your eyes hard, like maybe you can wish it away, but instead it plays sharper. like your mind wants to torture you with how close you got.

you're spiraling, and you know it.

but all you can do is just let it have you, and take and take and take until you're all spent.

your skin prickles under the covers. too hot. too tight. your neck is burning where his gaze lingered, feeling it all over again. there’s a need now curling low and slow in your stomach. real and filthy, a molten wanting that hums in your blood. the kind that has nowhere to go.

you roll over, the cotton of your shirt twisting up around your ribs. the ceiling fan clicking steadily above, doing nothing to ease the pulse between your thighs or the way your mouth goes dry just thinking of his hands. big, calloused things, always stained by grease or dirt or paint from whatever he’s been working on. you shouldn't know how they feel. but you do. you’ve felt them brush your shoulder when passing behind you in the kitchen, rest briefly on your back when you trip over your own feet, and even curled casually in your own.

you remember how those hands looked underwater, at the creek—swimming closer toward you. his voice going soft, wrecked in that way you selfishly hoped was only for you, and then he told you.

told you he felt it too.

and now you can’t stop thinking about him.

not sweetly. not innocently.

you shut your eyes and imagine what he might look like if you let him stay in your room after the door has been shut and goodnights have been said, standing by your bed, hair damp from the shower, t-shirt forgotten somewhere, his eyes dark with that same want you’ve buried for years. you imagine him reaching for you, slow and reverent, as if he knows how long you’ve waited.

and suddenly, before you can even register what you’re doing, you're pushing the pillow down between your sticky thighs. its aura of innocence taken away in a second by your insufferable need for him. it was a split-second decision, your brain not registering the vulgarity of it, just acting on instinct.

but you blink, suddenly surprised by your actions. taken aback at how fast you declared you couldn’t stop the chase of pleasure. sure, you’ve masturbated before; you’re a teenage girl with hormones. late nights that ended with you winded and half-satisfied. but never this desperate, never this devastated and lust-fueled.

lando and emery are just a door away; surely they would hear you. and getting caught is another disaster you don’t even want to entertain. you can imagine the awkward silence at breakfast, the elephant in the room never spoken of but unruly known to the three of you. each sipping coffee or juice, silence too loud, and shame written across your forehead.

but even through your confusion and hesitance, the want and raw craving for him diminishes any thought of reason. you deserve this. you’ve sat in the background for so long, and now you have him. he's not close enough, but he’s there and he’s not vanishing anytime soon.

and your white lace has already been soaked through, the sound of his laugh guilty to it. your soft thighs are already clinging to each side, and your cunt is aching.

so, you indulge in it, you give yourself what you need, and sit up and lower yourself down fully, your breath punching out of you the second you make contact with your clit.

it wasn’t just his face. though, god, that would be more than enough. the cut of his jaw, the hairs on his chin he never cared to shave clean, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, softening the sharpness he usually had. it was more than that. it was the way he moved, like he didn’t realize the effect he had when he leaned against your doorframe, arms crossed, gaze too focused. the way his voice dropped when he got serious, low and steady, like he was telling you something only meant for you. how he never looked away first. How he noticed things quietly without needing credit. how he’d mutter something sarcastic and then look back at you to see your smile and to hear your laugh. and you always did. because you couldn’t help it. because he was lando, and even if you didn’t want to, you noticed everything.

so, you sit like that, relishing in the way your pussy pulses against the fabric, your head feeling lighter as seconds pass. the guilt, the anger, the unsaid and said, all are washed away and are replaced with one thought: lando lando lando.

you don’t know what you're doing; all you know is that you can’t stop. so, you allow your thighs to part and roll your hips forward, movement sensual and slow, taking in the way the extra fabric clinging to your core heightens the sensitivity raging under your skin.

every movement is with intention, every breath is faster, and you rock your hips back n’ forth, shivering with the shocks that take over your mind.

you’ve never felt like this, so hungry for anything you can take. it’s ridiculous, the way wanting him feels less like a thought and more like an ache. deep, restless, and impossible to ignore. it sat in you like hunger, and it made your thighs clench and breath stutter. (bars lowkey).

you could pretend that it was just curiosity. what you're doing now, just leftover heat of the day, but you know better. you know that every time your cunt glides across the lace, you were thinking of the way his voice lingered earlier and what you wouldn’t do to have him here with you to watch you lose yourself.

you look down to see the same mess you're making through a broken whimper, watching as your slick paints the white fabric of the pillow until it turns translucent. you shouldn’t be this turned on, but it makes your mind reel at how desperate you are, how hopeless you look.

desperate for him.

hopelessly devoted to him.

and it feels too good, better than your fingers that can never really reach where you need them, and better than your showerhead that never hits right where you need it.

you grab the hem of your shirt and yank it over your head, throwing it somewhere forgotten until the morning. your nipples peak the second they make contact with the air, and it creates a shudder that flows through you, further contributing to the obvious pool of need. that same need makes the glide smoother, wetter, and easier to work with.

so, you pick up your speed, you grind deeper, letting your hands wander over your stomach, your thighs, your tits, imagining that it was lando's hands touching you for the first time. imagining it was him mapping every mole, scar, and dip in your body and kissing each as he passed. how his eyes would take you in for the first time, and how you would sit there watching with a pretty blush and an even prettier grin. thinking about the filth he would whisper in your ear, watching you fall apart for him, and only him.

“just like that, pretty. my girl. all fuckin’ mine.”

“this is what you wanted, isn’t it baby?”

“doing so good for me, angel. such a good girl aren’t you?”

“so desperate for me, look at you opening up so easily for my cock.”

“you like the fact she can walk in here anytime and see what i’m doing to you?”

the last thought pulls a moan from you so sharp you could feel it in your chest, but you're in too deep to care. you want him to hear; you want him to stay up all night wondering what you're doing, and you want it to ruin him the same way it’s ruining you.

it’s all-consuming, starting from your toes to the top of your head; you feel like you're buzzing. each stroke against your cunt feels electric, and the thoughts all connected to him make it that rawer. each pinch to your nipples feels like a sacrifice, and every moan feels like a promise. a promise to him.

you’ll feel guilty in the morning, ashamed and disgusted about how you're so desperate to chase that high. that feeling of utter bliss and pleasure. how you gave little resistance, if any, to your own mind. but you couldn’t care less right now. right now, the only thing you're focused on is coming undone for him, even if he’s not here to witness it.

you remember the day he fixed the busted screen door, cursing under his breath while trying to screw it back into place. summer light pooling at the base of his neck, making his skin look golden, like something holy. his shirt clung to his back with sweat, riding up just enough to show the sharp line of his hip whenever he reached overhead. but it wasn’t that, it was the way he looked over his shoulder when he caught you staring. not smug, not even surprised. just there, eyes steady and unreadable.

you remember the way he laughed and how it got under your skin and stayed there. not the loud ones he gave your sister, not the ones that came easily when others were around. it was the one you caught by accident. it was late on the porch when you said something without thinking, something stupid about the stars not looking real enough. he looked at you sideways, beer bottle loose in his hand, and he laughed low under his breath like he couldn’t help it, like he hadn’t meant to let it out. that laugh wasn’t for show; it was soft, private.

you whimper quietly at the memory, pussy pulsing wildly, picturing how comfortable he looked, feet away from you, smiling handsomely in the starry night.

you remember the way his hands looked one day in the garage, grease smudged into the lines of his knuckles, black crescents under his nails. he’d wiped them on a rag and leaned over the hood of emery’s car, forearms tense, veins pronounced beneath golden skin kissed by sun and labor. you remember wondering what it would feel like if he touched you like he touched that engine. careful, sure, like he already knew every piece of you by heart. every button that needed to be pressed.

you lock your thighs tighter to the pillow, slick with sweat and want, and completely ruined. now marked with something downright sinful and nasty. but your hips rock with only one mission: to cum. and by the thought and memories of him, you’re closer than you thought. closer than you’ve ever been.

with every stroke, your stomach tightens, and your hips grow wilder.

and eventually, your hips catch onto a pace that could be labeled as animalistic, moans and whimpers flowing from your mouth every time your pussy slides against the cotton material. lando’s name escaping you in rushed whispers, the headboard creaking a fraction against the wall, the pillow getting increasingly wet from your own impending orgasm.

you picture the way he would hold your hips down as he fucked into you cruel and deep. pressing down on your abdomen to feel you clench around him until you were milking him. how he would mark you as his, bites and bruises blooming under his touch that would stick with you for weeks.

“please, please, please….” falling from your lips in between choked gasps and half moans, sweat rolling down your back as you beg to whoever is listening to let you cum.

his hands.

his lips.

his tan skin.

his pretty smile that should be a crime.

just fucking lando. and who he is, how he makes you feel.

you cry out again, clutching the pillow with more force, using it more urgently, as you chase what you crave so badly. you sob, your body exhausted and wound tight, but you can’t stop. you can feel yourself reaching that peak, that edge just before the fall, and it brings the sting back to your eyes. tears of desperation and need falling through your eyelashes and down your rosy cheeks.

you hope he’s listening to you fall apart. you hope he’s aching for you just the way you are for him, and you hope that your moans haunt him through the walls as he falls asleep next to your sister.

the forbidden between you and him tips you over the edge.

to an orgasm, undoubtedly. to insanity, maybe.

your hips spasm against the pillow, and you cum. hard and devastating. the moan that tears through your throat will surely get you into trouble tomorrow, but you can’t feel anything, much less think anything as your orgasm shreds through you.

your vision goes white.

your ears ring.

and your pussy clenches around nothing until you are reduced to a pile of pliant bones and mush.

----

the morning bleeds into the edges of the room, gold and quiet, too quiet for comfort. the kind of quiet that makes you feel like the walls are listening. you’d barely slept, not because you were restless in the usual way, but because you kept hearing it in your head.

the way your own breath had stuttered.

the creak of the headboard.

the hushed, bitten-off moans of his name that had slipped out before you could catch them.

the way you shifted in the dark, chasing something you weren’t supposed to.

and now every breath you take feels too loud. shame wraps around you like a second skin, hot and suffocating, sticking in all the wrong places.

the trailer was still. and emery’s car was gone; probably taking another early shift. which is a small mercy. you don’t think you could stomach lying to her over breakfast. not when the guilt is already swirling in your stomach like acid.

you pad to the kitchen barefoot, the cool tiles jolting goosebumps up your legs and arms. your plan is simple: coffee, toast, retreat. no lingering. no unnecessary silence with him in the room.

the kitchen is empty when you step in, except for the hum of the refrigerator and the faint smell of coffee from a fresh pot. the air is still cool from the night, but sunlight is already spilling across the counters in long, lazy stripes.

you move to the sink, rinsing the chipped mug you’d grabbed half-asleep, the porcelain familiar in your hand, smooth in some places, rough where the glaze has worn away. it slips once, just enough to make your pulse skip. your heart thuds unevenly anyway, the anxious kind that makes your breath shallow without realizing it.

it’s one of those mornings that feel fragile. the light feels too soft, the air too easy to disturb, the moment one wrong sound away from cracking wide open. your fingers rest against the cool counter. the coffee steams in its pot, a curl of heat rising into the morning air.

you're halfway through pouring yourself a mug when you hear footsteps. not casual footsteps. the deliberate kind, slow-paced, almost like they’re measuring the space between each step.

and lando appears in the doorway.

he looks like he’s already been awake for a while. hair pushed back but still a little messy at the edges, jaw tight in a way that makes you think he won’t ever stop. shirt forgotten, skin catching the sunlight in warm flashes. his hands are shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, and his shoulders are tense.

you don’t say anything, and neither does he.

instead, he leans there, eyes fixed on how you move around the cramped kitchen with a quiet intensity that makes your skin prick with a mixture of something dangerous and embarrassed.

your hands tremble, the faint scent of his cologne, smoky with a hint of motor oil, drifting toward you every time he shifts. you wanted to remain calm, seem unfazed, pretend this was just a normal morning, but the weight of the night before presses down on your chest, heavy and unyielding. and you know there’s no way he doesn’t feel it too.

“sleep okay?” you ask, though the question felt like it was walking on thin ice.

he tilts his head, considering you for a fraction too long before answering. “not really,” he replies, words scruff.

it wasn’t the answer itself that made your stomach tighten; it was the way he said it. a pause before the words, as though deciding how much he wanted to admit. as though you both already knew what he heard.

you tried to keep your gaze neutral. “bad dreams?”

his jaw shifted. “not exactly.”

the air between you felt too thick. and so, you stir the spoon in your coffee for something to do, watching the swirl of dark liquid and steam as if it's interesting.

“you were loud last night.”

the spoon stops.

you don’t look up at first. you don’t trust what your face will do if you do. but the silence presses, demanding an answer, and eventually you force your eyes to meet his. he’s still leaning in the doorway, still wearing that unreadable expression.

your throat goes dry. “what?”

lando’s gaze doesn’t waver. “you heard me.”

it wasn’t a question. he said it with that same low steadiness; his voice pinched in a way that made the words feel heavier than they were. like they weren’t just about the noise. like they weren’t really about the sound at all.

you swallowed, suddenly wishing you had stayed in your room until he’d left for the day. “i- i didn’t mean-“

“you didn’t mean for me to hear?” he pushed away from the doorway, his steps unhurried but deliberate, the space between you shrinking in slow, careful movements. “or you didn’t mean for it to happen?”

the pause between you is heavy. you can hear the faint tick of the clock on the wall. the hum of the refrigerator again, and the faint drip of the coffee maker.

when he finally reaches you, it is both sweet and cruel. he places one hand on the counter beside your hip, the other bracing himself on the cabinet, effectively caging you in without ever touching you.

your breath hitches.

he leans in, just slightly, just enough that you catch the faint scent of soap, something warm, distinctly his. his voice is low when he speaks again. “i don’t think you know what that fucking does to me.”

your heart is pounding now, your back against the counter, every nerve in your body alert. you wanted to say something, to deny it, to joke it off, to ask him what he exactly means, but the words don’t come.

“last night…” his voice falters in a way you haven’t heard before, softer, uncertain. “was that for me?”

you made the mistake of looking up at him then, and the expression on his face, tense, raw, searching, was enough to undo the cracked wall you’d been building. your chest tightens a fraction more. “you shouldn’t ask me that.”

“but i am.” there was no teasing in his tone, no smirk to hide behind. just the question, and the weight of it between you.

you didn’t answer. couldn’t. your silence was a confession on its own.

“i’m not mad,” he says finally, and his voice has dropped into that low register that makes your thighs tighten for reasons you don’t want to name. “just-“

he breaks off, jaw flexing, then leans in a fraction more. “it's.. frustrating.”

the words land with heat.

you squint, “for you?”

his eyes mirror yours, not in irritation but with something sharper. “you think it’s not?”

the air between you crackles.

you should step back. you should break whatever trance you're in, but then his other hand comes down on the counter, and you realize he’s never quite been this close.

“i’ve been trying not to…” he starts, then stops again, like it’s dangerous to say aloud. “but hearing you say my name like that-“

he cuts himself off, the muscles in his forearms tightening against the counter.

“you don’t get it. it's not just about last night. it’s every fucking time I'm in a room with you.”

the words make you unsteady. you can’t speak. you don’t trust yourself to.

your breath hitches, and he catches it. his eyes drop to your mouth, linger for a beat too long, then drag back up to meet yours.

“lando-“

“do you have any idea how hard it was to not go to you the second I heard my name come out of your mouth like that?”

your chest aches with the words he says. “why are you telling me this?”

his voice drops lower, close enough now that his breath brushes your cheek. “because you should know i heard. and i’m trying-“ he stops again, eyes closing briefly like he was biting back the rest.

“you can’t do that,” he whispers, “and then look at me like nothing happened.”

“you’re with emery,” you whisper back, swallowing down the lump in your throat.

“i know.” his voice cracks around the syllables, like it pained him to admit. “you think that makes it easier?”

you almost laugh, but it comes out breathless, trembling. “you shouldn’t be here. this is complicated. it’s wrong.”

“wrong?” he laughs, sharp and bitter. “you think this is wrong?”

“i do.” your voice wavering, “because she’s my sister.”

“so what? i’m supposed to pretend like i don’t feel anything for you? like i don’t feel everything for you?”

his words hit you like a punch. the anger in his voice was real, but so was the vulnerability.

you meet his eyes, searching for some type of answer or forgiveness. “i can’t hurt her.”

“but that doesn’t change how i feel baby.”

for a moment, you just stand there, the air thick with the weight of your shared emotions. then, almost without thinking, you reach beside your hips, fingers brushing the back of his wrist.

all you saw was him in front of you, his fierce messy curls, the way his dark eyes flickered with something raw and broken, the way his hands tremble slightly as they hovered near your waist.

“you're driving me crazy,” he confesses, voice heavy with frustration. “every damn time you look at me like that, i feel like I'm losing what little control i have left.”

your heart slams against your ribs, wild and reckless.

“you don’t know how long i've wanted this,” you whisper. “how much time i’ve spent wanting you.”

lando’s breath catches, his hands finally settling on your hips, fingers warm and firm against the fabric of your shirt.

“i want you,” you finally say, words spilling out before you could second-guess them. “all of you. even if it’s wrong.”

his fingers curl even tighter around you, pulling you in just a fraction closer, the heat of his body seeping through your pajamas and straight into your bones. “you have no idea how much i want you, sweetheart.”

you swallow the dry lump in your throat and reach up, fingertips brushing against the stubble along his jaw, tracing the line of his neck. his skin was warm, rough in all the right places, and your pulse stutters as you let your fingers linger.

he lifts a hand to cup your cheek with a tenderness that makes your heart ache, a ragged sound punching out of him the second he makes contact with your skin. and it breaks you. it solidifies how badly you care for him.

his other hand slides from your waist to your hip, thumb tracing light circles beneath the waistband of your pajama pants. and your muscles tighten, and you gasp, the space between you collapsing under the weight of what you both wanted.

you can see him shiver as your hands slide up into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft curls.

he leans in slowly, the tension between you fraying, unraveling with every inch closer.

and his lips brush yours in a tentative, feather-light kiss that sends a shockwave straight to your core. your breath mingles, soft and shaky, and then he deepens the kiss, hands pulling you flush against him as if to make up for every moment you’d both held back.

you cling to him, desperate and trembling; the taste of him is exactly what you thought it would be. smoky and real, consuming all your thoughts. you slide your hands from his hair to his stomach, skin on skin, the warmth burning away the last shreds of doubt.

and when you pull back slightly, breathless and wild, his forehead rests against yours, eyes dark and devastating. you close your eyes, letting yourself fall into the chaos of wanting him, all of him.

“please tell me you're not going anywhere,” you breathe.

he smiles then, beautiful and wide. “not without you pretty girl.”

----

hi hi! sorry again for the longer wait. but i hope you enjoyed pt. 3!

i do have to say that i have never written this type of smut before so if its shit you can tell me lol.

shoutout again to my sister for helping me with this chapter. she creates such strong visions for this series and i just write it, so all the credit to her.

thank you for all the love!

b<3

#<3 mwah #littlebtalks #lando norris #lando norris imagine #lando x reader #ln4 #dirtbag!lando #lando x you #ln4 imagine #formula 1 #lando norris x reader #lando norris smut #lando fanfic #formula one imagine #formula one #formula one fanfiction #trailertrashesque

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sensitivesoulmate · 18 days ago

Note

Hey, I just want yo say thank you so much for the wrong series so far - it is one of my favourite fanfics ever I think! I absolutely love the effort you put into it, from the beautiful mood bord to the layouts and everything, you can tell you really dedicate yourself to your writing. I just wondered if there was like a specific state or area you imagined it being set in? because I love the trailer trash deep south vibes so much and I was just interested to know whether it was more specific in ur mind? xx

omg!! stawp im blushinnn <333

to answer your question, i live in rural south ga. so when i write i just pull the vibes from that. dollar generals at every corner, fields of green, dirt roads, yk the gist.

ty for your question hunny!! <3

-b

#<3 mwah #littlebtalks

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sensitivesoulmate · 26 days ago

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lando norris ‘wrong ?’ headcanons

part one and two of the series.

warnings; i think just cursing, lmk if there's more!

wc; 750

lando norris who remembers the small things no one else does. he remembers how you take your coffee, a splash of milk, two scoops of sugar. not because he tries to, but because it stuck. he remembers the chipped bunny mug from when you were twelve. the tiny scar on your elbow from falling off your bike. and the playlist you made once, which he still keeps in a folder on his phone.

lando norris who wears the same pair of boots all year round, even when it’s too hot to. they’re scuffed, nearly falling apart at the heel, from months of garage going, but they’ve molded to him. he calls them his “vroom boots” and gets defensive if you suggest throwing them out and getting a new pair.

lando norris who never finishes a full cup of coffee. no matter how hot or cold, he leaves the last sip in the bottom. it might be suspicion or habit. who knows. he’ll deny it if you point it out.

lando norris who keeps emergency candy stashed in his glovebox. it’s mostly melted gum, caramels, and a roll of lifesavers he pretends isn’t for when he’s stressed. he gives you the good ones when you're quiet too long or your mood is off.

lando norris who thinks lightnin’ bugs are overrated but once caught four of them just to put in a jar and leave on your nightstand. he won’t admit it, but he likes the idea of gentle things. when you asked him about it the next day, he said, “must’ve been emery.” but you saw the smear of grease on the lid. you knew.

lando norris who keeps his favorite shirts even after they stop fitting. still has one from an old gas station job, pale blue, frayed at the collar, “LANDO” patch barely hanging on. he doesn’t wear it, though, but he never packs it away. you once found it folded neatly in the backseat of his truck like a keepsake.

lando norris who can’t really cook for shit but makes grilled cheese like a love language. always two slices of cheddar, one american, perfectly golden. always waits until you take the first bite to start his own. smirking at you like he knows he did well.

lando norris who likes when you read out loud. doesn’t care what, receipts, junk mail, a page from a book (if he’s lucky). he leans back, eyes closed, with hands behind his head, listening. says he likes the sound of your voice. you know it’s more than that.

lando norris who wears the same calvin’s like they're religious robes. they’re too baggy, stained with motor oil, and worn thin at the waistband. claims they’re “lucky” even though he swears he’s the most “unlucky bastard there ever was”.

lando norris who writes shit in the dust on his toolbox. sometimes it’s dumb lyrics, bad jokes, and engine specs. but once you caught the faint outline of your name, half smeared out like he changed his mind. you never brought it up, and he didn’t either. but the next day, it said “forget it” in all caps, underlined thrice.

lando norris who doesn’t say a word a first. if your hand brushed his, if your knees touched under the table for too long, if your voice dropped to a whisper when you said his name, he’d freeze. breath held. you wouldn’t even realize he stopped breathing until he exhaled like it pained him.

lando norris who brings up old memories on quiet nights. out of nowhere, he’ll say something like “remember that time we got caught in the rain outside the garage?” and you realize he remembers everything. even things you didn’t know meant anything. he’ll bring it up like he’s trying to rewind time.

lando norris who hates when you two argue. so, the next time you see each other, he’ll offer you something he doesn’t usually share. the last mt. dew. a cigarette from his personal pack. the aux cord in the truck. something stupid and small, like he’s trying to give you something harmless.

lando norris who lingers. even when he should leave, even when it’s too quiet and the space between you is a little too tense, he doesn’t leave. he stays leaning against the counter or sits on the edge of the porch a little longer. he won’t say it, but it’s because he misses you the second he leaves.

----

he's such a cutie omg. also thank you for the love on the last two chapters! its very much appreciated! <3

b<3

#<3 mwah #lando norris #lando norris imagine #lando x reader #ln4 #dirtbag!lando #lando x you #littlebtalks #ln4 imagine #headcanon #ln4 headcanons #lando norris x reader #mclaren

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sensitivesoulmate · 27 days ago

Text

wrong ? pt. 2

sistersbf! lando norris x fem reader

summary; a day spent with him leaves you changed in a way that cannot ever be brought back.

warnings; swearing, teasing, pet names, guilt, angst, age gap, mention of smoking, illusions of smut (barely), confessions.

please be caustious of the warnings before proceeding!!

wc; 6.5k

link to part one found here !

it was a late afternoon, sun catching the kitchen tiles, golden and alive. the screen door lets in the slightest of breezes from outside, opening and closing in a constant rhythm. somewhere down the dirt road, a lawnmower hums, and it smells like citrus and sugar from the fruit clinging to your fingers. emery sits on a stool peeling a nectarine with chipped fingernails, remnants of laughter still in her throat from the last joke you’ve said. and it’s nice. to have her like this again. to yourself. even if you were her biggest threat in camo.

she looks like she belongs in the golden hour, skin glowing, lips sticky, and laughter soft and raw. her voice has that careless tone, full of wonder and ease, the way it always is around you. you sit on the end of the island; legs tucked under emery’s stool, swirling a melting ice cube in your cola. your tank top clings to your back where sweat collects beneath your braid, and your shorts ride up slightly with every movement. you shouldn’t feel nervous. it’s just your sister, just home, just a late afternoon. but your throat’s tight with guilt that feels like it’s leaking from your pores.

“you know what I was thinking?” emery says, cutting through the silence. “you’re kinda overdue.”

you look up too fast. “huh?”

“for a boyfriend,” she says, grinning. “or girlfriend. or whatever, and don’t give me that face, I'm serious.”

you roll your eyes, but it lacks irritation. “geez, thanks for the vote of confidence, em.”

your sister shrugs, lips curving. “i’m just sayin’, you’ve had what? maybe two weird, almost kinda of things in high school? and you're what- eighteen now?”

“nineteen.” you correct quietly.

“exactly. you’re officially past due.”

she says it like she’s talking about the weather or car maintenance.

you exhale through your nose, fingers tightening around your sugary drink.

“i’m one hundred percent fine.” you aim for peace. “not everyone needs a big romantic arc to feel secure.”

emery groans theatrically, “jesus, don’t do the whole empowered women speech. i’m not judging you, i just don’t want you to miss out and regret not reaching out.”

her words land like a stone in your stomach, because you are missing out, just not in the way she means. you’re missing out on being able to look at lando without feeling shame or being able to be alone in a room with him without feeling your body buzz like a wire. on being able to want him without it feeling wrong.

you swallow and bite your tongue. “i’m not,” you lie.

your sister tilts her head, not believing a word, “so what, you're talking to a lucky guy and not telling me?”

you answer too quickly, shutting her thought down, “no, i mean.. not really, just been busy.”

em arches her brow, disbelief present, “that’s an excuse, you’ve been holed up in your room for weeks watching every movie under the sun.”

you smile shyly, “comfort TV.”

“i don’t get it, you’re smart, pretty, guys would be so into you, you just have to try,” emery responds between bites of sticky fruit.

she has no clue what she just stirred up, doesn’t understand the impact her words had on you, igniting another spark of anger, guilt, and sadness. heavy and thick covering you in lethal shame.

and for one thoughtless moment, you let her in. “you ever had a crush that just gnawed at you?”

you regret the words as soon as they flow from your mouth. mentally cursing yourself for being so careless with your tongue. because now she has something, something to question. and honestly, you weren’t sure how much pretending you could endure. this was emery, the emery who has watched you grow up. she knows you.

however, you pause, because she obviously doesn’t, at least not anymore. just a year ago, she could read your emotions with just a glance, like some type of witch. now, it’s harder to tell her the truth than to lie. because the desperation for her lover strangled your heart every minute of every day, and she had no clue.

emery looks up, surprised, but grinning like she won a prize. “okay, that’s a loaded question,” she says with a small laugh, but continues, “obviously. i dated a few of them, including your friend dakota. remember that disaster?”

you give a distracted nod, but your mind is spiraling, caught in the pull of your question. a crush that eats at you. a crush that occupies your mind and swells up at night and presses into you when you least expect it. a crush that haunts your thoughts, a glance, a shared moment, a stupid inside joke that shouldn't mean anything.

you picture lando's hand resting on the back of em’s chair the other morning at breakfast, the way his thumb rubbed absentminded circles into the mahogany. you hadn’t been able to look away, and when he caught you watching, his gaze lingered, not innocent, curious. just long enough to wonder if he knew.

“he was all over the place,” emery continues. “hot one minute, then ghosting me the next. it drove me up the wall. but at least i knew he liked me. it’s the worst when it feels one-sided, right? like when you can’t tell if they are looking at you or looking through you.”

you flinch, and for a moment, you think you might puke because you know exactly how that feels. you feel it, the agony of every moment with lando. how you see him, too clearly, and you’ll never know what he sees when he looks at you.

if he even looks at all.

you take a sip of your cherry cola to cool the oncoming burn of guilt, but the fizzy drink does nothing but leave your mouth drier.

emery hops off the stool and looks at you pointedly, “okay, serious question now. no lies.”

and you brace yourself, hoping she doesn’t ask the one thing you’ve managed to keep hidden for so long.

however, it seems fate has a grudge because her next words make your insides tumble and your interior crack, showing the version of you try so hard to keep protected in front of her. bare. laid out on a silver platter.

“is this mystery man of yours someone i know?”

and there it is. your pulse jumps, and you scramble to find a lie or make a joke to steer the conversation away from something that she has no business meddling in. but something in you freezes, and your breath falters.

in the next few seconds, you try to uncover when the conversation ended up so close to the truth. and you realize it’s not when you blurted out the confession of a crush, but when you decided to sit with her in the kitchen like everything was normal, as if you were fine enough to talk to her like you weren’t imagining her boyfriend's head between your legs on lonely nights. most nights.

emery’s looking at you now, truly looking into you as if she’s trying to figure you out.

“you're being weird,” she says. not rude or unkind, but observant. “did i guess right?”

“no,” you blurt, panicking. “it's.. no one. it doesn’t matter.”

“hey,” emery says, stepping closer. “look, if you like this person, just like them, don’t worry yourself and tie yourself into knots about it. crushes suck because you feel vulnerable, but they are also supposed to be fun.”

this one is not fucking fun. at all.

this one is guilt and shame and midnight thoughts conjured up with your hand in your panties. this one is watching your sister’s boyfriend fix the sink with his shirt riding up and hating the way you clench your thighs together and the way your breath catches. it’s wanting something you can never have.

“i don’t think this one’s fun,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

your sister softens. “oh no, babe…”

she reaches out to squeeze your hand gently, like that will fix it.

“you’re gonna be fine, okay. whoever he is, if it’s not meant to happen, then something better will come along. or maybe it is meant to. who knows?”

you nod faintly, but your stomach churns.

because the worst part isn’t that you can’t have lando.

it’s that maybe you could, if things were different. if you weren’t emery’s sister. if he wasn’t already taken. if he knew what you felt for him. if he just looked at you once and let himself really see you.

“i'm fine,” you reply, nodding.

em hugs you without hesitation, warm and unbothered, completely unaware of what kind of person she’s wrapped her arms around. and you relish it; you close your eyes and pretend that you’re the kind of sister she deserves.

----

the porch creaks beneath your feet, the wood already warm from the rising sun. there's the hum of cicadas and the occasional chirp of birds sitting on the powerlines just ahead. and a breeze lifts the hem of your old cotton tee and dances at the loose strands of hair unfolding from your braid.

you wrap your fingers around a mug, too hot and still steeping, and you watch as dust swirls in a sunbeam like art.

the screen door groans open.

lando steps out, stretching, shirtless, and sleep still clings to his eyes, hazy and half-lidded. you try not to peek. you fail.

“you’re up early,” he says.

you shrug. “couldn’t sleep.”

his seafoam eyes squint at the sun. “you always like this? head stuck somewhere else?”

you smirk into your cup. “some of us have an imagination.”

he awards you with a half laugh, and something funny happens to your heart.

he steps forward and leans against the railing, close but not too close. “emery’s still out, think she could sleep through a tornado.”

you say nothing in return. it hangs between you two, his girlfriend. your sister.

then: “you doing anythin’ today?”

you look up. “why?”

he shrugs casually. “just figured if you wanted to leave the house, you know, like in the outside world, i've got errands. could use a co-pilot.”

you ignore his not-so-subtle jab. “emery’s not coming?”

“she said she got calls later, needed a day in. wasn’t too interested in junk shop browsing.”

you pause, contemplating whether it was wise to indulge in him even if it was only for a day. but you oblige, you always would when it came to him.

----

the bell jingles over your head as you two step into the thrift store, and it smells like apple candles and someone’s old denim as you breathe in the nostalgia. the AC clicks in the corner, humming like it’s trying its best to keep the heat at bay.

you finger over the sleeves of an old cardigan, lilac with white flowers stitched into the cuffs. and lando drifts behind you, pretending to examine old VHS tapes.

“you ever buy anythin’ in here before?” you ask.

“once,” he replies. “a busted radio, thought i'd put it in the truck. spent hours trynna fix it. turns out one of the speakers was full of dead wasps.”

you laugh, and the sound surprises even you. “that’s disgusting, lan.”

“yeah, haven’t come back since.”

there’s something in his smile, though, not about the wasps. and it freaks you the fuck out. so instead of panicking, you wander over to the book section to try to control your sudden uneasy stomach. it’s like he wants to make your life hell by flashing that gorgeous smile just for you.

“you know, emery used to say that i read too much? Like i'd miss my whole life hiding in fairytales.”

lando follows behind, “honestly, couldn’t tell ya’ the last time i picked up a book, but i think they make life deeper. emery… she likes everything to be upfront. simple.”

“and you?”

he looks at you then, really looks. and your breath catches, heart thudding that much faster. and you used to dream of a moment like this, a moment where he would toss aside the whole brotherly love bravado and look at you as other than emery’s little sister. and now that you have it, it’s not as rewarding as you’ve imagined. because now it makes what you feel for him that much devastating. alarms blaring, your mind screaming over and over again, ‘you cannot have him, let it go, let his stare mean nothing’.

then quietly he responds, “i like the meaningful stuff no one says out loud.”

you swallow hard and look down at the old cookbook in your hand. you can feel his gaze still on you, warm and too much all at once.

he then turns away, “c’mon, there’s a diner down the road. best fries i’ve had in my life.”

you follow, and you don’t realize until later that you never put the book down.

----

the diner is the kind with chipped booths and a waitress who calls you ‘hon’ no matter how old you are. you sit opposite each other, sun filtering through the blinds, throwing streaks across lando’s face.

and with what happened in the thrift shop, how he looked at you like he knew exactly what kind of war you were dealing with; you saw an opening. so, you recklessly ask for more. more of him. even if it blew up in your face, you were willing to dip your toes in to see how much he was willing to give. to see exactly where the line was.

you dip a fry in ketchup. “tell me something you’ve never told emery.”

it was stupid, a question that could’ve gotten you into trouble with how it sounded. like you wanted to talk behind emery’s back. but that’s exactly what you were doing.

lando raises a brow. “you always play this game at lunch?”

“only with people who think they’re mysterious and hard to read.”

he leans back, arms crossed against his chest, “i almost didn’t take the job at the garage.”

you blink, confused. “why?”

“didn’t think i was ready to settle into anythin’. but i needed the money, and then i met emery and everything kinda snowballed.”

you sip at your shake, looking at the diminishing treat. “and now?”

he exhales, looks away, and doesn’t answer right away.

“i think i settled faster than i thought i would. sometimes it feels right. other times…i think about what i've missed.”

your eyes meet again, and it’s too much, too open. and you have to look away.

“you ever think about leavin’?” he asks quieter now.

“every day.”

the silence that follows is thick, the kind that’s final and too deep to delve into at this shitty diner.

----

you don’t understand why you're letting him in, not just through the door but into the quiet places you’ve been guarding like hell. the soft moments you keep tucked into the corner of your brain, the answers to questions no one thought to ask. every step he takes closer, every casual glance and crooked smile, feels like a slow betrayal of everything you promised yourself, not to indulge in him, not to take that step over the threshold. you're guilty, deeply, a sick twist of disgust curling under your ribs at how much you want to hear his voice, how easily you lean towards him when you should be heading in the other direction. but it feels too good, he feels too good, to stop. because for once, you can actually be somewhat honest with him and how you have more to offer than the what-ifs. the way Lando looks at you, as if you're not invisible, the way his voice softens —it's dangerous. and yet, even as your insides knot and throat tighten with guilty tears, you can’t stop. can’t shut him out, can’t shut the door that you opened.

----

you both walk along the worn path to the creek, boots scrunching over old leaves. the sun has dipped slightly, now melting into that color he calls his favorite.

lando throws a stone across the water, and it skips twice before sinking.

it should be peaceful, but the tension between you two diminishes that thought before you can even enjoy the serene view.

“we were here last summer,” you say, toeing at the edge.

“and you stayed on the dock and read. book didn’t even look interesting,” he replies, still looking at the water.

you laugh softly, “it wasn’t.” and you try not to let him remembering that detail of you affect you, but it does, and slowly the walls that you’ve built so high start to chip away, one conversation to the next.

lando finally glances over. “so, why’d you stay?”

you shrug. “ i dunno, i didn’t feel a part of it. felt like.. i was watching a movie i wasn’t in.”

he’s quiet for a beat. then, “i noticed.”

you look at him sharply. “what?”

“you. that day. you were watching everythin’ like it was miles away.”

“you didn’t say anything.”

“didn’t know how to.”

you sit side by side on the dock now, feet dangling over the edge. lightnin’ bugs gleam bright, and a dragonfly skims past.

“you’re not the same,” lando says finally.

“you’ve said that before.”

“yeah, but i keep noticing it. like i missed something. or like somethin’ woke up in you, and i didn’t see it coming.

you turn toward him, breath caught, “do you wish you hadn’t?”

he doesn’t answer, just looks out across the water.

you lean back on your hands, pretending not to notice how lando’s knee brushes yours. pretending like it didn’t make you dizzy.

eventually, he says, “we should head back.”

you don’t protest, but neither of you stands right away.

----

the truck is quiet again, the road unwinding beneath the tires, and lando drives slowly this time. like he’s in no rush to get home.

you watch his profile in the fading light, the way his jaw tenses and relaxes, the way his finger taps the steering wheel when he’s thinking.

“you okay?” you ask softly. not pushing but letting him know you're still there.

he glances at you, eyes unreadable, probably for the first time today. “yeah.”

but there’s too much weight in that word.

you both fall into silence again. however, not the easy kind from earlier, but one wrapped tight around what you didn’t say at the creek. what you avoided saying all day.

finally, you say “thanks. for today.”

lan nods, eyes on the road. “yeah.”

you pull into the driveway, and he cuts the engine but doesn’t move. and it’s suffocating, so you open your door but pause. “see you inside?”

“yeah.”

you walk up the porch steps slowly, aware of everything behind you.

and when you glance back one last time, he’s still sitting there, elbow on the wheel, lost in thought.

something’s changed.

but you both know it’s not wise to name it, not acknowledge it.

and maybe that’s what makes it so dangerous.

----

the house is quiet.

emery’s laughter hums faintly through the walls; she’s on the phone in her room, likely retelling some version of her day that doesn’t include you. but you're grateful for it, for the distance. for the time to breathe. you sit on the edge of your bed, still in your jean shorts and tank top from earlier, your hair a little wind-tangled, your lips still faintly tasting of vanilla milkshake. everything feels dulled and sensitive, like you’ve been burned from the inside out. too much air, too much silence, too much of lan’s voice still stuck in your head.

you stare at your hands.

they’d been in your lap when he said it, “you’re not the same anymore,” and then that pause. that inhale. that something else layered in his tone that wasn’t brotherly, wasn’t safe, wasn’t allowed.

he hadn’t looked at you when he said it, not really. but you felt it. the shift. the slow unravel of something neither of you had words for. or maybe you did, but naming it wasn’t something you could gamble with.

you think back to the thrift ship. the way he held up a ridiculous sweater and wiggled his eyebrows until you laughed. how he didn’t look away when you caught him watching you in the reflection of a cracked mirror. there had been something charged in that look, like you both knew you were playing at something gentle because anything else would be too complicated.

the sweater was still folded at the bottom of your bag, along with the cookbook on your floor.

you haven’t taken it out yet.

then there was the diner. the corner booth with the stag head mounted on the wall. the way his hand had brushed your’s, passing the ketchup, accidental, probably. but he didn’t move right away, and neither did you. and in the moment, the clatter of forks and other hungry individuals felt miles away.

and when he noticed the change in her, he said it like a confession, like maybe he was trying to convince himself he hadn’t noticed before now.

you changed, you knew that. but you wondered if he really had only just seen it today?

or was it the other morning when you laughed over coffee at an old memory in soft tones, like you were sharing a secret?

the creek was the quietest part. not just in sound but in the weight of it. there was something scared in that silence, the way the water caught the sunset, the way your conversation curled around the truths you didn’t say.

it’s dangerous, what you're doing. letting your mind run wild through moments that might not mean what you want them to. but the tension was real. the quiet in the silences between you. the way lando's voice dropped when he looked at you. the way his hands fidgeted when he didn’t know what to say. it was real.

you stretch across your bed, face half-buried in your pillow, trying to slow the ache in your chest.

because it hurts. and it scares you, how fast he’s able to flip your morals.

you don’t know what lando feels. not really. he could just be protective or just being kind, and here you are reading too much into it. maybe the glances, the tension, and half-assed confessions are just delusions you’ve created.

and now you don’t know where to put all of this. all the wanting. all this guilt. all this almost.

because emery doesn’t know, the person you would usually go to with this problem. and maybe she never will. and that’s the safest option, you know that. but it does nothing to stop the ache. it doesn’t stop the way you can still feel the ghost of lando's eyes on your skin. it doesn’t stop the way your name sounded different in his mouth today, gentle. like something precious, he didn’t know how to carry.

you bury your face in the pillow for a moment and let out a soundless breath. not quite a cry. not quite relief, but something in between.

and when you lift your head again, the room is darker, and you still haven’t turned on your light or changed out of the clothes that faintly smell of diner grease, creek water, and lando’s truck.

you wonder what he’s doing right now. probably lying next to emery, or pacing in the kitchen, selfishly wondering if he's trying to shake the same thoughts you're drowning in.

but still, nothing is said. nothing is confessed. but everything alive.

----

the morning arrives slow and bleak.

gray light filters through the blinds, soft and unrushed, like the world itself is trying not to wake you too abruptly. you lie still under the covers, tangled in the same oversized tee you fell asleep in, the floral sheets bunched around your legs. your body feels rested, but your mind is still anything but.

you open your eyes and stare at the ceiling.

the echo of yesterday is still fresh. it lives under your skin, humming like something left unfinished or a moment that can never be more than what it was. you shift onto your side, arm falling across the cool part of the bed, and for a moment, you just lie there, quiet and aching.

you didn’t dream of lando, not of the day before, not that you remember, but the feelings he left behind are the first thing you feel when you wake. like muscle memory. like leftover warmth in a room long since emptied.

eventually, the scent of breakfast drifts from down the hall. someone’s up. maybe em, maybe lando. either way, the house has already started the day without you.

you don’t move.

because you don’t know what you’ll see if you venture into the kitchen. don’t know if you’re ready to face lando, when you're still unsure of what yesterday meant.

did something really shift, or was it just your imagination showing you what you wanted?

you close your eyes, stomach flipping once, then again.

no. you didn’t imagine it.

even if lando says nothing, even if today he acts exactly the same, brotherly, teasing, protective, you know something cracked open yesterday. even if neither of you dares to touch it.

with a heavy sigh, you sit up. your legs are cold when they meet the carpet floor, and your hair mussed from sleep. your eyes catch the mirror in the corner, and you don’t look different. but you feel it. you feel wrecked and raw in ways you can’t name, like someone rewrote a chapter of your life and you're still trying to catch up.

padding softly across the hall to the kitchen, you pause, and a voice drifts towards you, just one.

lando’s.

he’s on the phone, relaxed and low-voiced. something about ordering car parts for the garage. his laugh floats up a moment later, warm and normal, like nothing about yesterday wrecked him like it did you. you linger a second longer, hidden from his view, trying to listen for something deeper. a sigh, a tone to match what you're feeling. but there’s nothing. and that’s the worst part. that it all still lives inside of you, electric and chaotic, but for him, it’s already gone.

still, you force yourself into his space.

he sees you first.

you round the corner into the kitchen and find him by the stove, barefoot, coffee mug in one hand, spatula in the other, phone already tucked in his back pocket. you would swoon at how domestic he looks right now, making pancakes and sipping coffee in the small kitchen, but you can’t. and he looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second there’s that flicker again.

the one you felt yesterday.

he doesn’t smile right away, just studies you for a breath too long. his hair’s messy, and he’s in an old pair of jeans, like he’s not quite ready to start the day. and you would like to imagine it’s because you weren’t with him to do so, but you know that’s not the case.

“mornin’,” he says, low and hoarse from sleep.

you nod, suddenly unsure what your own voice will sound like if you use it. “hey.”

a beat. then two.

“you sleep alright?” lando replies, turning back to the stove, flipping a pancake, like maybe that pause didn’t pulse between you.

“yeah, you?” and this time you don’t lie, because you actually slept well, regardless of what plays in your mind on repeat.

lando shrugs. “didn’t really crash until late.”

you wonder if he was replaying the day the way you were. wonders if he sat on the edge of the couch after emery went to bed and stared out into nowhere, thinking of the creek, your laugh, and the way you looked at him when you thought he wouldn’t see.

he pours a second cup of coffee and sets it on the counter nearest to you, a silent invitation. you take it with a grateful murmur, your fingers brushing just barely.

lando leans against the counter, sipping his own, watching you over the rim. “you were quiet on the ride back.”

you blink. “you were too.”

“yeah.”

and with a laugh, you respond, “yep, that’s about all you said.”

and he laughs, a real laugh, one that you can feel in your chest, and it makes you smile, knowing that you have the power to bring that out of him.

“you had fun, though?” he asks after the last remnants of laughter leave him.

you nod. “yeah, i did.”

something shifts in his jaw. not tension. not regret. just.. awareness. like he’s trying to remember where the lines are, now that they’re not where they used to be. and it’s haunting you, watching him figure it out, watching him go through what you’ve been dealing with for a year now.

for a moment, neither of you speak. the kitchen still hums with morning stillness, the clink of a spoon against your mug, the sizzle of batter on the pan. and under it all, that same unspoken something that’s been growing between you, too quiet to name, too loud to ignore.

you don’t dare say what you’re thinking. that he looked at you like a secret yesterday. that your heart hasn’t been the same since. that you're slowly falling off the edge of something you're not supposed to want.

instead, you ask, “you got plans today?”

lando shakes his head, mouth twitching slightly. “just hangin’ out, emery's working till five.”

a pause.

the implication is unspoken: they’re alone.

the words land softly between them, and he doesn’t move. doesn’t smirk or tease or joke the way he usually would. he just watches you, a flicker in his eyes that betrays more than he’ll say.

he drinks his coffee, you drink yours.

and the silence stretches until the pancakes are eaten, the dishes are done, and you retreat back into your room.

----

you’re bored.

you’ve been stuck in your room for hours, reading page after page, and usually that wouldn’t bother you, but right now it feels like if you don’t shake the energy you're feeling, you might implode. so, you decide to go to the only place that can make the world go quiet. slipping on a tank top and shorts, you grab your boots and head out.

the screen door hisses shut behind you with a whine. nobody sees you leave, and you don’t bother leaving a note. you don’t drive, you walk, arms crossed, head down, even though the sun is warm. the road is familiar, worn into your memory like the soft hum of a tune you never meant to memorize. trees lean in over the path, casting long shadows across the greenery. and the breeze is calm, the kind of hush that only happens between hours, when the day is holding its breath.

the creek isn’t far, not really. just far enough from the trailer to feel like somewhere else.

you know this place in every season. you know the slick of moss on the dock’s edge, the smell of damp wood, and the sound the frogs make when no one is around. you know it in spring when everything is too green, and in winter when the water freezes over. but today it feels different. like the stillness is louder.

by the time you step out into the clearing, the sky has shifted again, pale blue pushing through streaks of pink. you pause for a moment, the dock empty before you, the trees curling close around the water like they’re listening in. a part of you almost expects to see him already there. but you're alone.

you let your boots drop, and peel off your shirt slowly, folding it into the dock bench like you're hiding something fragile. your shorts follow, skin bare beneath the hem of your black underwear and pastel bralette. nothing fancy, nothing for show. but still, for a second, you hesitate. you don’t know why, you’ve done this dozens of times. but it’s something about being truly vulnerable that makes you pause.

you step to the edge of the dock and dive in before you can think twice.

the water is cold at first, all shock and pins. you let it swallow you, let it pull you under with the kind of quiet you can’t get anywhere else. no voices, no looks, no half-meant words. just cold and current and breath.

you stay down longer than usual. and when you finally surface, gasping softly, blinking water from your eyes, the world is still. dragonflies dart across the surface, leaves shift overhead, and a bead of water slips down the edge of your brow.

and then, a creak.

you freeze, water dripping down your chin, and a familiar voice cuts softly through the hush.

“i didn’t think you’d come back.”

you whip around. your heart stutters.

lando. standing at the edge of the dock.

he’s not moving. one hand in his front pocket, another holding a marlboro. he’s not smiling, but he’s not startled either. he’s looking at you like he doesn’t quite know what to say.

and you're suddenly, acutely aware of your bare shoulders, the way your bralette is clinging to your breasts. the slow rise and fall of your breath.

“you followed me.” you sputter out.

he shrugs. “maybe i just knew where you’d be.”

you tread water in silence.

“you didn’t answer your phone,” he adds.

“i turned it off.”

“emery was wondering where you were.”

you blink once. “and you?”

he hesitates; you can tell.

“i just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

you look away towards the trees. “that’s all?”

“i don’t know,” he says honestly. “maybe not.”

you swallow hard.

you nearly faint because he’s now seeing how far he can push, to see where the line is.

“you swim out here a lot?” he asks, after a beat.

you nod, not facing him. “sometimes. when it’s too loud in my head.”

“i get that.”

more silence. the breeze shifts.

“you gonna stand there and interrogate me, or…?” you gesture vaguely toward the bench.

lando smiles, barely, and sinks onto the wood. his boots thud softly against the dock as he leans forward, elbows on his knees.

you watch him warily. he doesn’t leer; he doesn’t smirk. but his eyes, my god, his eyes. they’re different. like they’re seeing something they shouldn’t. like they’ve stopped pretending not to look.

you float backwards a little. putting distance between your body and the dock. between you and him.

but it doesn’t change anything. not really. he shouldn’t still be here. but he is.

“why here?” he asks. “why today?”

you hesitate to let him in. “ i dunno, it felt like everything was pressing in.”

he nods slowly. “and now?”

you consider. “now it’s quiet. and i needed to feel weightless.”

his gaze doesn’t waver, and softly, “you look like you belong in the water.”

that makes your pulse jump, and you glance at him quickly. it’s his first real confession, one that steps over the line of the relationship you once had.

his face is unreadable. almost careful, but not careful enough.

“you gonna jump in?” you ask, voice light and teasing, to mask your oncoming thoughts.

he arches a brow. “would that be okay?”

you don’t answer right away. then: “it’s your call.”

another beat of silence. then he stomps out his smoke and kicks his boots off one by one. pulls his shirt over his head without flourish, like it’s nothing, like you're not both pretending it means nothing.

you look away. but you still see the way his torso moves in the corner of your eye. broad shoulders. the scar across his side you’ve never seen up close. the way he runs his hand through his curls before stepping to the edge.

he doesn’t dive.

he eases in slowly, wincing at the cold.

and you watch as the ripples reach you.

“fuck,” he mutters. “it's freezing.”

you smile faintly, and for a few moments, you both just float. no words. just water.

it’s too quiet again.

he breaks it.

“you didn’t talk much this morning,” he says, eyes on the sky.

“i didn’t know what to say.”

“because of me?”

you can’t say it. you can’t. so, you nod.

his jaw tightens. and after a few breathless moments, he lets go.

“same here,” he admits softly. “i didn’t know how to look at you after yesterday.”

you spin slowly in place. “but you did anyway.”

he doesn’t answer that. instead, he swims closer. not close enough to touch. but close enough that the silence gets heavy again.

“i keep trying to figure out what it is,” he says. “why i feel this pull toward you now. like it just… snuck up on me.”

you watch him carefully, trying not to scare him away, because no matter how much you hate yourself for listening to him, if this is the last time you hear words like this from him, you're gonna take it.

“and?”

“and i don’t have an answer.”

“that doesn’t make it go away, lando,” you reply.

“no,” he says softly. “it doesn’t.”

you drift, and the sun is dipping lower now, making the water gold around you.

“i think i was scared,” you whisper. “not of what i felt, but of what it would change.”

he nods. “everything.”

“and nothing,” you add, “because technically nothing’s happened.”

“but it has,” he replies.

you close your eyes.

“i shouldn’t look at you like this,” he says suddenly, voice rough. “but I can’t stop, and that scares the hell outta me.”

your heart thrashes against your chest and ribs.

“i shouldn’t have followed you out here,” he continues. “but i couldn’t stay away.”

“you didn’t do anything wrong,” you whisper.

“didn’t i?”

you look at him. “lando.”

he meets your gaze. and the tension between you sharpens into something electric. into territory you’ve never been.

“i don’t know what this is,” he says, “but i know that it isn’t just in my head.”

“it's not.”

“and i know i shouldn’t want you.”

you exhale shakily. “then don’t.”

he moves slightly closer.

“but i do.”

neither of you moves. but the air changes.

a pause. a beat. another one.

“say something,” he pleads to you.

“i've wanted you since before i even knew what to call it,” you breathe. “and ive hated myself for it every single day.”

his face twists. agony maybe.

“but i can’t pretend anymore,” you finish.

lando swims within an arm’s reach, water swirling between you. hands underwater. heartbeats loud.

“i don’t know what this means,” he says. “but I'm not pretending either.”

still, you don’t reach for each other. the space is sacred; it’s there to be kept.

just breath, just water, and every truth you haven’t said until now.

you don’t kiss; you don’t cross the line.

but something has already crossed over.

and neither of you wants to go back.

----

hello everyone! part 2 is here! im sorry the chapters have been progressing so slowly, but i wanted to make it perfect for you all.

also shoutout to my sister for helping me on this peice, an absolute baddie with such a creative mind. and no she doesnt have a man, so dont worry. lol.

hope you enjoy! part three coming soon! <3

b<3

#<3 mwah #lando norris #lando norris imagine #lando x reader #ln4 #dirtbag!lando #lando x you #littlebtalks #ln4 imagine #formula one imagine #formula 1 #formula one fanfiction #formula one #lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x you #mclaren

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sensitivesoulmate · 1 month ago

Text

wrong ? pt. 1

sistersbf! lando norris x fem reader

summary; you never meant to want him. with his tanned shoulders and wicked grin. cigarette danglin' from his lips like sin, as he whispered your name. he was your sisters, so untouchabble, it would shake the foundation of your soul, and yet you'd rather be ruined than let him go.

warnings; swearing, teasing, pet names, guilt, angst, age gap, mention of smoking and drinking alcohol.

please be cautious of the warnings before proceeding!!!

wc; 4.1k

the night is humid and hot, the kind of humid that presses against your skin, heavy and thick, making you toss and turn as hours pass by. it clings to your neck, baby hairs stuck like glue, and you pant as hot hair fills your lungs. the window you decided to crack hours before, doing nothing but making looking at the stars feel more cinematic, their shine staring back at you as you contemplate empty promises. and it bothers you how stunning they shine, how free they can be, no responsibility but providing light and beauty. you blink away and run your eyes over the panes. the windows’ paint is peeling, a washed-out blue that clashes too violently with the vine-covered shutters.

the trailer is as unguarded as the rest, forgotten and standing in no order. overgrown weeds scatter across the front yard, overshadowing the pretty gardenias that used to bloom. the front door gets stuck unless you pull the knob a certain way, weight finally folding under the pressure. and the living room is full of empty cans of whatever your father had chosen the night prior, gas station vodka, and cheap beer so that he can forget his responsibilities and the sour sound of his daughter’s laugh. you’ve learned not to wait for the sound of the door announcing his arrival anymore, not to get hopeful for his cold embrace. years of anger and disappointment to hold the care you once had.

the shabby covers have been dismissed hours ago, old sheets clinging to your suntanned thighs, and you lie there, skin sticky and mind full. your conscious, too restless to peacefully turn stoic, and your body cannot simply rest easily with the guilt and anger that feels like it’s crawling up your throat like bile. you know that it’s futile, an issue that cannot be fixed or touched; however, your mind gravitates towards her, the one with whom you share blood, the same laugh, and family.

you think of the memories that make you who you are. every heartbreak, every celebration, every failure, and every achievement, and at the center of every single one of them is her, your god-gifted sister Emery Marie. the beautiful girl who came first, and with a brightness so seen that it makes your ribs ache. all dark hair and tan skin, straight A’s and smiles. you should be thinking of how thankful you are to have a beautiful soul like hers be so connected with yours. you should be thanking whatever is above for allowing you to be loved by her.

you don’t deserve it. god knows you don’t, because she would hate the vile version of you right now. desperate, yearning, and hungry for something that shouldn't have even crossed your mind. however, your mind makes a pitiful fight against your heart, and here you lie imagining how his eyes shine just a bit brighter when he laughs, and how his tan muscles flex when he playfully scolds you for keeping your window open at night, repeating ‘Some creep could climb in! You don’t know!’

lando norris, lan for short, the clumsy boy with a razor-sharp grin and motor oil under his fingernails. your oncoming thoughts tangled with him so deeply, you can’t deny the vigorous pull anymore; you can’t deny your mind and its chaotic ways. and so, you let your thoughts wander to him, regularly so, and you recount the lashes on his devastatingly pretty face from memory, until you lose count. he’s explicitly hers, and it kills you every time he appears greasy and exhausted in the hallways or the driver’s seat of his rusty old Chevy. his laughter like thorns in your side, his playful scolding like a dagger, every time inching closer to your misery, every time a reminder of how you cannot have him for your own selfish needs.

you loved your sister, you really did. the three years senior she had over you, never wedged between you two, and you never would have thought of a life where she wasn’t beside you, making you laugh so hard your stomach hurt. you needed each other, needed the love from one another that was never given from anyone else. not from your mother, not from your father, and not from your grandparents who checked in once a year, claiming ‘you’ve got it good, you know?’ she was your person, and you reminded yourself of that every time you glanced at his perfect smile, freckled face, and unruly curls.

she was there when you scraped your knee at four, gravel stuck to the skin and chin wobbling; she was there when you had first kissed a boy, retelling her the story at least five times to hear what she thought, hoping that she was just as giddy as you were. she was there when your father would rather get some cheap whore and alcohol than some food for the fridge. and most importantly, she was there every time you needed a shoulder to cry on or a hand to hold.

she was the angel that stitched up every wound you had been inflicted by, there to reassure you that everything would turn out okay. and in your heart, you loved her deeply, like any sister would; you loved her smile on dark days, and how she would braid your hair to distract you from the passed-out figure on the couch, and the softness of her hugs. which is why it’s tearing you apart from the inside out when your mind slowly starts to unravel the envy and tart taste of jealousy you felt towards her, seeping in like black ink on an empty page.

not because you stopped loving her, there would never be a more untrue statement, but because she had something you weren’t willing to let go of.

----

at first, it was comical, the way your breath sped up, the pitter-patter of your heart thrumming that much faster, the sweat heading towards your brow line, the sudden darker hue to your rosy cheeks. the way your pulse would flutter when he would rustle your hair, or when he glanced slyly at you after teasing, and you had to clench your thighs together and ignore the heat pooling in your lower belly. laughing it off as teenage hormones or simple curiosity.

at first, it was silly, so much so you could cover your affection with a turn of your head, a polite ‘no thank you, I'll stay in!’, the constant guilt, keeping you from even thinking about crossing that line. and if you were being fully transparent, there was even a time when you disapproved of Lando, when you thought that your sister deserved better, someone else to occupy her mind.

not because he had a foul mouth that had gotten him into more fights than you could count, not because he always wore those baggy Calvins with random oil stains from working on cars all day, not because he smoked on marlboro reds like he had something to prove. it was because he had her, Emery, for the first time; you had to share your sister’s affection, and at sixteen, being the stubborn teen you were, you were jealous. you were used to having your sister there, right next to you, holding your hand as you explored the woods in your backyard, catching fireflies in jars, and pointing out different species of frogs. then, as disappointing as it was, it seemed as if she’d rather lose herself in the back of Lando’s truck. disregarding you as if your company were second to his.

reader 16 , lando 18 , emery 19

“emery, you ready? i don’t wanna be out too late,” voice muffled as you called from the depths of your closet searching for your other boot.

footsteps padded each heavier than the last, and you recognized the pattern of Lando's chunky work boots by heart, and his voice filled the room before you could even turn.

“she ain’t comin’, babyface.”

you turned, frown lines prominent, lip caught between your teeth as you took him in: smoke stupidly close to falling onto your carpet, same baggy clavins, new oil stains, and mop of curls mocking you.

“you're supposed to knock dickhead. where’s emery?”, hope not going unnoticed by either of you.

landos’ eyes flicked to you- one boot in one hand, messy hair, and the other boot already on your foot. he took a drag of the red so deep you wondered if he hadn’t heard you.

“in the truck,” he spoke after seconds, words casual as if he didn’t realize the weight.

and childish hope slipped out before you could stop it.

“we were gonna catch lightnin’ bugs tonight, she promised.” your words small and breakable, and you both caught it.

you watched as his grin fell softer as if he actually felt guilty about it. then, in true lando fashion, he straightened and grinned sharper, turning out of your door down the hallway and calling out,

“sorry little b, guess you’ll have to go without ‘er,” halfway to the door already.

“and shut that window, babyface, who knows what’s out there.”

then he turned with a salute and slammed the door. leaving you stood there in the doorway, clutching the forgotten boot close to your chest as if it could ground you, feeling the betrayal and hate simmer underneath your skin. you realized then in that moment that you hated him, hated him for swooping in and stealing the one person that meant anything worth a damn to you.

and you believed it, with cold glares and indifference, you believed it.

until you didn’t. until it bled into something even more terrifying. something too terrifying to give a name.

----

now, three years blurred by like the smoke falling from his mouth, and the jealousy that you used to have for him turned into something sharper, more personal.

you're not quite sure when the change happened, when you started to see him in a light that was different. all you know is that it was a dangerous but slow progression, a steady rhythm of glances and thoughts. like ivy covering the trailer, slow and unstoppable. The lonely nights where you’d contemplate if it was worth it, even if he would succumb to the sinful desire.

sheepishly tugging your lace down to your ankles, mouth dry and chest pounding, dreaming of how his mouth would trace the soft dips of your stomach and hips, and the filth he’d whisper in your ear. it wasn’t just a sudden need for him and his pretty pink lips that were always in a lopsided smile or wrapped around a red. it happened slowly, like condensation dripping down a bottle or the pleasure heating your skin on lonesome nights.

you do, however, remember the fateful day you realized that you were fucked. that his pearly teeth, smell of smoke, and sun-kissed cheeks had you wrapped around his finger. and there was nothing you could do about it.

1 year ago..

it happened on a hazy Sunday, sun beating down on the pavement, sky so blue you could paint it, and he was by your side, aimlessly speaking to a few of his buddies from the same garage. they laughed, he laughed, and you stared. openly. at the way the corner of his eyes crinkled, the way his teeth seemed sharper, like canines, how his usual mess of curly hair looked almost as if he tried, and how you felt the vibrations of his laugh in your chest. you didn’t mean to be so forward with your eyes, locked in on him as if he were god himself, but you did, and it ruined you. and then he turned away, grabbed your hand, breaking whatever trance you were in, and said, ‘breakfast? Im fuckin’ starvin’.

and right then, you knew that this wasn’t just a silly little crush; this was yearning. pure want and need for him. you wanted his slow mornings and fast nights, you wanted his laugh, you wanted his soft lips, and you wanted what lay beating beneath his chest. you were a jealous person, someone who did not like to share, and the heat crawling and wrapping itself around your mind, body, and soul was his doing. and it was unfair. and all you could do was love him in silence, a secret so fragile that it made you question everything you were and what you cherished.

and guilty, unbelievably so, you promised yourself that while you thought about him more than you could ever admit, a secret you would take to your grave, you wouldn’t do anything about it. not because your relationship with Emery meant more than what his hands would feel like on your thighs, but because he was happy with her, and you wouldn’t jeopardize his happiness for your own sick desires. no matter how much it consumed you from every fiber of your being.

----

you remember it like it was yesterday, a memory so vivid you could measure it second by second. and no matter how many times you replay it, it’s nearing dawn, and your skin is still too sticky to lie comfortably on your poster bed. the rickety fan is still buzzing, and your mind is still racing. you replay what you had for dinner, the artificial cheese still stuck to your tongue, and you listen as a car passes in the distance, the low hum of the engine lulling you into false security.

minutes pass, stringing along like hours, and the warm colors of the sun start to seep into the curtains, painting them a beautiful orange, and you note that it’s his favorite. you remember because he told you one night as the sun was fading, both sitting on the moldy wooden bench on your porch, sharing a miller lite. you close your eyes, a blue so contrasted to the orange in front of your eyelids, and you surrender to the slow and reluctant pull of sleep, uncomfortably so.

----

you wake up later than you meant to, sleep still clinging to your skin like a sheet. your mind caught between strange dreams and the reality pressing in. you stretch your limbs slowly, arms reaching over your head until your shoulders pop, letting out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding. you swipe your hair over your shoulder, neck still damp from leftover heat, and blink sleepily at the old alarm clock on your dresser- 12:09 pm. not so bad, you think, considering you drifted off when the sun was already trying too hard to shine.

your eyes gaze out the open window onto the sky that hangs heavy over the trailer. gray and blue bruises stare back at you, and one look can assure rain all day if you're lucky. if you're not, the whole yard will flood again, mud painting the steps, and water dripping from the leak in the roof your father never fixed. you pull your knees to your chest for a moment and listen to the quiet before the storm, wishing you could stay tangled in the safety of your bed a little longer. however, you know yourself; know that once your eyes open, they won’t close again.

so, you swing your legs off the bed, toes hitting the cold trailer floor that creaks with every movement. the air is heavy, thick enough that it traps in your lungs, and you smell the impending rain mixed with burnt toast coming from the kitchen. you tug on a pair of cotton shorts from yesterday and drag a sweater over your head that’s at least three sizes too big, running your fingers through your hair in a half-attempt to look awake and not still half asleep.

the hallway is darker than it usually is as you open your door, and you pad barefoot through the narrow hall, one hand brushing the worn panels to steady yourself from the remnants of sleep. you hear him before you see him—the quiet clink of a mug, and your chest winds tight. the only people who drink coffee in the house are you and lando, when he’s around. emery claims that it’s not good for your teeth, and your father usually starts the morning with vodka. rounding the corner, you see him, standing by the sink, looking out the window. shoulders hunched a fraction, like the inevitable storm is pressing against him, too.

he's barefoot, one heel bouncing against the cracked tile as he stirs sugar into his coffee with the handle of a butter knife. there are curls of steam that rival his own rising from the chipped mug, and the window is streaked with the first tale of rain. he doesn’t turn when you step in, but you know that he knows it’s you by the way his soft smile ghosts across the reflection in the window.

“mornin’, babyface,” he says, voice soft and rough all at once, like he just opened his eyes, too.

you linger by the fridge, arms crossed against your chest, sweater rising a fraction enough to make you feel uncomfortable, trying to look casual. trying not to let your eyes linger on the smudges of grease on his forearms. trying to look disinterested in the way he looks even more beautiful in the dark.

“wheres emery?” you ask, but it sounds smaller than you meant it to, like you didn’t actually care to know.

lando flicks his chin towards the window, answering, “ran out to get smokes and snacks before it really starts to come down”. and with a fondness that hits you right in the ribs, he continues, “supposed to be back by now, but you know her, has to look at everything”. his words are laced with warmth and ease that makes you sick. and you nearly pale as you realize you're not safe in the kitchen, not with him. not with the drizzle. not with the shared coffee. not alone.

you nod wordlessly, fingers trailing the cracked countertop, and you try not to watch the way his adam’s apple bobs after a sip or the way his hand flexes when he twirls the butter knife between his fingers. you fail. but you try, and you have to give yourself a little props for the tiny respect you still have left for the boundaries that separate you two. so, with the thread of restraint and dignity you have left, you straighten and walk towards the cupboard, reaching for another mug.

it's an old one, probably half your age, and it has two bunnies dancing around each other like they're chasing each other's tails. you barely contain your disbelieved snort, rolling your eyes at the irony. how fitting. you’ve had your share of bullshit for the day, and you’ve been up merely minutes.

“you sleep okay?” he questions, friendly, safe, words careful, that only makes it worse.

the lie slips out before you can help it: “yeah”.

you didn’t; barely got an hour of actual slumber instead of the realm between rest and wide awake. you tossed and turned, stared at the ceiling, and thought of him, the man so close you could feel his body heat. but you didn’t have it in you to be honest this morning. hell, if you were truly honest with him, right in this kitchen, just steps away from each other, you were sure he’d look at you with disgust, and you and your sisters relationship would be severed by nightfall. so instead of being truthful, you pour your coffee.

he hums, and your eyes meet for a fraction of a moment, and he’s looking at you as if he’s assessing you. and you don’t like it, not with all of your unsaid confessions, unreciprocated glances, and wild heart. it makes your skin crawl, and it makes you feel uneasy in the way he knows exactly what you think of him. so, you look away towards a picture hanging on the fridge instead, eyes catching a photo from two summers ago.

his next words were so quiet you could’ve missed them under the heavy rain, but you heard them. of course, you did; you clung onto everything he did.

“rain reminds me of that day, at the creek. remember?”

you freeze for a moment, standing still in the kitchen surrounded by guilt and poisonous infatuation. of course, you remember.

“barely”, you lie, a little too fast, a little too soft.

but you can still feel it in your chest, that early summer day, the sky cracked open without any warning. the way the air had smelled earthy and electric. lando had carried a six-pack of cheap cherry cola under his arm and handed you the first can without asking. he didn’t have to, but he knew it was your favorite. you’d both been walking back from the corner store just ahead of your trailer, and then the rain came down without mercy, soaking through your tank top in seconds, and you both stood there laughing like fools until your stomachs hurt.

you had yelled something stupid like “we’re gonna drown out here!” and lando just grinned, shirt clinging deliciously to his chest, curls dripping in his eyes. and you should’ve known in that moment, should’ve known that this wasn’t just lando anymore. this wasn’t just the lando that ruffled your hair as he walked by. this wasn’t just the lando you’ve seen leave your sister’s room. no, this was lando who you wanted to make yours.

“c’mon,” he said, nodding towards the woods. “let’s see how bad the creek is.”

the water had been angry and fast, rushing high over the rocks. you stood over the edge of it, heart hammering, boots sinking into the mud. and then lando turned to you with that look that only made trouble, all teeth and recklessness, and said, “bet you won’t”.

and you did, of course, you did. because you would do whatever he asked of you, even if you were scared, you would pretend that you weren’t just to hear his laugh.

“you slipped on that mossy rock” he continues with a soft laugh. “thought you broke your nose”.

you laugh despite yourself. “thought you were gonna drown laughing.”

“i might’ve,” he admits.

and for a second, it’s easy again, the banter between you two. just laughter between two people who shared a moment that was weightless and stupid.

but the moment doesn’t last. because that day ended with his jacket draped across your shoulders, hands brushing, his gaze lingering too long. and then you arrived home, where emery was making dinner in this very same kitchen, and you felt landos attention shift to her just as urgent as the tide in the creek, and it hurt you. however, you said nothing. you let it happen because who were you to deny them? and you never brought up the memory, didn’t even think about it until now, and suddenly you both couldn’t look each other in the eye anymore, and your coffee had gone cold.

“gonna nap more?” he asks in that dreadful brotherly tone, soft and kind, and it snaps you out of the fondness lingering from the memory, irritating you.

you lie again. “i don’t know, maybe.”

you both know you won’t, not really. you’ll just lie there listening to the rain, waiting for the front door and the soft laugh that will follow, meaning she’s home and he’s hers, while your doors away, still exactly where you’ve always been. an afterthought.

you set your empty mug in the sink next to his, and he taps his knuckles twice against the counter like a goodbye.

“go on then”, he murmurs, eyes trailing off you and back to the window.

you nod and push yourself away from the kitchen into the hallway, where you finally feel like you can get a breath that doesn’t feel rehearsed. back in your room, you shut the door with your hip and crawl back under the covers that won’t warm you quite like you want them to. the rain picks up, filling the quiet void between your head and heart, and you watch as the trees swing in the wind. and you promise that you’ll forget the way he says babyface like it’s endearing. but the raging storm outside doesn’t care what you promise, and so you stare up at the popcorn ceiling, waiting for the peace that never comes.

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please lmk what you think of this! hope you all enjoyed! more chapters coming soon! - b <3

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