#too close to a loss of control too close to home | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pucksandpower · 4 months ago

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Lost and Found

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: one minute Lando Norris is speeding through the streets of New York City — the world at his fingertips in the days leading up to the United States Grand Prix — and the next his world is spinning out of control, leaving him with nothing except for blank memories and the concerned attention of a stranger who takes him in when he has no one and nothing else

Warnings: descriptions of a car crash and memory loss

The night is cold, and the sharp October wind slips under your jacket as you tug it tighter around you. Your boots slap against the pavement, the rhythm a steady beat on the nearly deserted street. Columbia’s library closed an hour ago, but you stayed later than you should have. Deadlines don’t wait. Law school doesn't wait. Life doesn’t wait.

You tuck your phone into your pocket, your eyes fixed on the glowing windows of the apartment building a few blocks ahead. Almost home. Almost there.

And then-

A car rips past, tires screeching loud enough to make you flinch. It’s moving too fast, way too fast, the engine growling like an animal barely kept on a leash. You freeze for a second as it flies down the street, headlights smearing into long streaks of white. Your breath catches-

It spins. A brutal, violent twist as the car skids into a corner it shouldn’t be taking. The rear fishtails wildly. For a heartbeat, it looks like it might recover. Then it slams straight into a lamp post with a sickening crunch. Metal screams. Glass explodes. The lamp shudders, flickers, and dies.

For a moment, everything is still. Silent, even.

“Shit,” you whisper, your pulse spiking hard and fast.

You stand there, frozen in the chilly air, your brain catching up to what you just saw. The street is deserted — of course it is. This isn’t exactly rush hour. There’s no one around. No witnesses. No help.

Without thinking, you yank your phone out of your pocket and dial. The ringing in your ear seems to go on forever.

“911, what’s your emergency?” A woman asks briskly.

“A car crash,” you say, already moving toward the wreck. Your feet hit the pavement harder now, the soles of your boots slapping in quick bursts. “Corner of … uh, 116th and Riverside. It��s bad — the car’s totaled. I think someone’s still inside.”

“Are you with the driver now?”

“Not yet. I’m — I’m crossing the street.” You dodge between two parked cars and jog to the other side. The car sits under the broken streetlamp, its front end wrapped around the post like it lost a fight it never stood a chance of winning. The glossy surface is crumpled and shattered, shards of glass glittering on the asphalt like broken stars.

“Ma’am, do not approach the vehicle if it’s unsafe.”

You ignore that. “I think the guy’s still in there,” you mutter, holding the phone tight between your ear and shoulder. You grip the door handle and pull hard, but it’s jammed. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your weight into it until it finally groans open.

The first thing you notice is the smell — leather, gasoline, and the acrid tang of burned rubber. Your heart pounds in your throat. You glance at the man slumped in the driver’s seat, and the breath catches in your chest.

“Hello?” You ask, bending down, peering closer. “Can you hear me?”

He groans, shifting a little, but his eyes remain half-closed. Blood trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, carving a red path down the side of his face.

“Hey! Are you okay?” You try again, louder this time. No answer — just a sluggish movement of his head, like he's fighting to stay conscious.

“What's your name?” You keep your voice firm but gentle, the way you imagine an EMT might sound.

The man mumbles something, his voice thick and slurred. You lean closer, your pulse hammering in your ears.

“What? I need your name.”

“Lando,” he whispers, and it’s barely audible, more breath than word.

You frown. The name sounds familiar, but that’s not important right now. “Okay, Lando. Do you know where you are?”

His eyelids flutter, and for a second, it looks like he might pass out entirely. Then he forces them open again, just barely.

“Crash,” he mutters. “Crashed the car.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than him. You glance around the street again, hoping for flashing lights in the distance. Nothing. Just you, him, and the wreckage.

“Can you tell me what hurts?” You ask, trying to keep him talking. Concussions are dangerous — keeping him conscious feels important.

Lando’s head lolls against the seat. “Feels like … everything.”

His voice is thick, heavy with exhaustion. He sounds like someone who’s been through the wringer, someone who desperately needs sleep but can’t afford to close their eyes.

“You hit your head pretty hard,” you say, scanning him for any other obvious injuries. Blood stains the collar of his jacket, but nothing looks life-threatening. Yet.

“Race car driver,” Lando slurs suddenly, like the thought just stumbled out of his brain without permission.

You blink. “What?”

“Race … car driver,” he repeats, slower this time. His accent drags on the vowels, a little British, a little something else.

You raise an eyebrow, convinced now that he’s concussed. “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

He gives a small, incoherent laugh, like your joke made perfect sense in his scrambled mind.

“You're not supposed to be funny,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You glance back at the wreck, taking in the sleek lines and bright logo on the hood — McLaren. Expensive. Stupidly expensive. You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Jesus, you’re one of those guys,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. Rich kid, fast car, bad decisions. You’ve seen this movie before, and it usually ends with someone like him getting bailed out by daddy’s lawyer.

Lando stirs again, his head rolling toward you. “Not … like that,” he mumbles. “I am a race car driver.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. He’s barely coherent — humoring him feels kinder than arguing. “Sure you are, buddy. Sure you are.”

He squints at you, his expression dazed but oddly sincere, like he’s genuinely offended you don’t believe him. “I am,” he insists, as if that settles the matter.

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. It’s absurd — this whole situation is absurd. You crouch lower, resting your hand lightly on his arm. “Just stay awake, okay? Ambulance is on the way.”

Lando hums something that might be agreement, though it sounds more like a sigh. His eyes droop again, dangerously close to shutting.

“Hey.” You give his arm a small shake. “No sleeping. Talk to me.”

“‘Bout what?” He murmurs, his head lolling to the side.

“Anything. Tell me …“ You scramble for something. “What’s your favorite color?”

He blinks slowly, like it’s the most confusing question anyone’s ever asked him. “Blue. No, wait … orange.”

You snort. “Make up your mind, race car driver.”

Lando makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Can’t.”

“That concussion is doing wonders for your decision-making skills,” you say dryly, glancing toward the street again. Still no lights. You tap your foot anxiously.

Lando shifts in his seat, his hand twitching like he’s trying to move but can’t quite manage it. “You’re … bossy,” he mumbles, his accent thicker now.

“Yeah, well, you crashed your car, so you don’t get to complain.”

There’s a beat of silence, then he murmurs, “… Thanks for stopping.”

Something about the way he says it catches you off guard — soft, almost vulnerable. You swallow the lump in your throat and squeeze his arm gently.

“Don’t mention it, Lando.”

And then, finally, in the distance — a flash of red and blue lights.

***

The wail of sirens grows louder, slicing through the quiet night like a razor. Red and blue lights bounce off the buildings, streaking across shattered glass and twisted metal. Relief washes over you, making your knees feel a little shaky.

Finally.

Two ambulances come to a screeching halt. EMTs spill out, moving with practiced urgency. One of them, a tall woman with her hair yanked into a messy bun, jogs toward you.

“Are you hurt?” She asks, already looking you up and down for signs of injury.

You shake your head. “No, I’m fine — it’s the driver. He’s … he’s pretty out of it.” You glance back at Lando, slumped in his seat. “I think he hit his head. He’s not making much sense.”

The EMT follows your gaze, nodding sharply. “Okay, step back for me.” She waves another EMT over. “We’ve got one male, early twenties, possible head trauma.”

You move back as instructed, but not far — just enough to give them space to work while still close enough to watch. One of the EMTs wedges a tool into the doorframe to force it open wider, and the crunch of metal makes you wince.

“Hey, buddy,” the EMT says, leaning in toward Lando. “Can you hear me?”

Lando stirs slightly, his eyelids fluttering open. He mumbles something incomprehensible, and the EMT exchanges a look with his partner.

“Pupils look uneven,” the first EMT mutters, shining a small flashlight into Lando’s eyes. “Definitely concussed.”

The other EMT secures a neck brace around Lando’s head, locking it into place with quick, efficient movements. Lando groans at the pressure, his face twisted in confusion.

“We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?” The EMT says in a loud, clear voice. “Just stay still for me, mate. We’re gonna lift you.”

They maneuver him onto a backboard with a series of coordinated moves, careful to keep his neck stabilized. Lando lets out a soft groan but doesn’t resist — it’s like his body is on autopilot.

You cross your arms against the cold, biting your lower lip. They make it look so smooth, so clinical, but there’s something unsettling about watching someone get hauled out of a wreck like that, limp and helpless.

“Is he your boyfriend?” The EMT asks you, not looking up as they strap Lando to the board.

You blink, caught off guard. “What? No. I-I just saw the crash happen. I came over to help.”

The EMT nods once, focused on the task at hand. “All right. Appreciate you staying with him.”

They lift Lando, sliding the backboard onto a waiting gurney. He lets out a weak noise of discomfort, but his eyes remain half-lidded, barely clinging to consciousness.

As they wheel him toward the ambulance, you follow instinctively, your heart thrumming with worry. You can’t just leave now — not when he looks like that.

“Hey,” you call after them, your voice tight. “Can I … can I ride with him?”

One of the EMTs looks over his shoulder, frowning. “Are you family?”

“No. I just-“ You pause, unsure how to explain it. “I don’t feel right leaving him alone.”

The EMTs exchange glances. For a moment, it looks like they might refuse, but the woman in charge sighs and jerks her head toward the ambulance. “Fine. Get in. Just stay out of the way.”

“Thank you,” you say, relief flooding through you.

You climb into the back of the ambulance as they lift Lando’s gurney inside. The doors slam shut behind you, sealing you in with the hum of medical equipment and the faint smell of antiseptic.

The ambulance jerks into motion, the siren blaring overhead.

The EMT sitting across from you pulls on a pair of gloves, leaning over Lando. “Let’s see how we’re doing, champ.”

Lando’s eyes flicker, heavy and unfocused. The EMT checks his pulse, then takes a penlight and shines it directly into Lando’s pupils. He winces, groaning low in his throat.

“Sir, can you hear me?” The EMT asks loudly, as if trying to shake him awake with sound alone.

Lando blinks sluggishly, his brow furrowing. “… Yeah,” he mutters, barely audible. His accent makes the word sound more like yeh.

The EMT hums, jotting something down on a clipboard. “Good. Do you know where you are?”

Lando’s face twists in confusion. “Uh … car … crash?”

“That’s right. Do you know what day it is?”

Lando frowns, like the question is too complicated to process. “… Tuesday?” He guesses, though it sounds more like a question than an answer.

The EMT glances at you briefly, then back at Lando. “Close enough,” he mutters under his breath.

“Can you tell me your full name?”

“Lando Norris,” Lando slurs, then huffs, like just saying his own name took monumental effort.

“All right, Lando. You're doing okay, but you’ve probably got a concussion,” the EMT says, his tone calm but firm. “I need you to stay awake for me, yeah?”

Lando's eyelids droop again, dangerously close to closing. “M’tired,” he mumbles, his voice barely a whisper.

“I know you are, but you’ve gotta fight it. Stay with me, Lando.”

You lean forward, suddenly anxious. “Hey. Lando.” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but it gets his attention. His eyes flutter open, just barely.

“Stay awake, okay? Keep talking.”

He shifts sluggishly, his head rolling to the side. “‘Bout what?”

“Anything,” you say quickly, glancing at the EMT as if looking for backup. “Uh … tell me more about racing.”

Lando’s lips twitch, almost like a smile. “Fast,” he mumbles, and you can’t help but huff a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, I figured,” you say. “But, like … how fast?”

“Really fast,” he whispers, his voice trailing off into nothing. His eyes close again, and this time, they don’t reopen.

“Lando?” You reach out instinctively, your hand hovering over his arm. “Hey. Lando.”

The EMT leans in, tapping Lando's cheek with two fingers. “Come on, buddy. Wake up.”

Nothing. Lando’s breathing is steady but shallow, his head slack against the neck brace.

The EMT mutters a curse under his breath. “He’s out. Heart rate’s steady, but we’re not taking any chances.”

You feel a knot of anxiety tighten in your chest. “Is that bad?” You ask, your voice smaller than you'd like.

“It’s not good,” the EMT says bluntly. He grabs a stethoscope and checks Lando’s breathing again. “We’re almost there. Just gotta keep him stable.”

The ambulance sways as it takes a corner, and you clutch the edge of the bench to steady yourself. Your heart is pounding now, loud and fast in your ears.

You watch the EMT work, every movement precise and deliberate, but it still feels like time is dragging, like the ambulance isn’t moving fast enough.

The siren wails overhead, a sharp, urgent reminder of how serious this is.

You glance at Lando’s face — pale, slack, and too still — and something twists painfully in your chest. You don’t even know this guy, not really, but the thought of him not waking up feels … wrong.

“Hang in there, Lando,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

The ambulance jerks to a halt, and the EMT presses a button to radio the hospital. “ETA sixty seconds. Unconscious male, suspected head trauma. Prep trauma room two.”

Your stomach flips as the doors fly open, and two more EMTs appear, ready to unload.

The gurney jerks as they lift it, and you follow closely behind, stepping out into the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital bay. The cold air hits you again, but it barely registers.

The EMT glances over his shoulder at you as they wheel Lando inside. “This is where we leave you,” he says, not unkindly.

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. “Right.”

The gurney disappears through the sliding glass doors, and you stand there for a moment, unsure what to do next.

The night air feels heavier now, the adrenaline ebbing away, leaving behind a strange emptiness.

***

The waiting room is cold, with that sterile, over-sanitized smell that clings to every surface. You sit awkwardly in a plastic chair, arms crossed tightly over your chest. It’s eerily quiet, except for the occasional squeak of sneakers on tile and the low murmur of nurses passing through. A vending machine hums softly against the far wall.

You’ve lost track of how long it’s been since they wheeled Lando through those double doors. An hour? Two? Time feels slippery here, twisting and turning in on itself, every minute stretching out longer than the last. You try scrolling through your phone, but nothing holds your attention. The adrenaline has drained from your system, leaving you restless and uneasy.

It would’ve been easy to leave after they took him inside. After all, he’s a complete stranger. But the thought of him waking up alone, disoriented and confused in a hospital bed, doesn’t sit right with you. And so, you wait.

A nurse pokes her head out of a side door at one point, scanning the room. Your heart jumps, but she’s only calling for someone else — a patient’s relative who stands up with a relieved sigh. The room empties little by little, families reuniting with loved ones or filing out into the night.

You shift in your seat, rubbing your hands together to stave off the chill. You could leave right now, go home, crawl into bed. But somehow, you know you won’t — not until you know Lando is okay.

Finally, after what feels like forever, the door swings open again. This time, it’s a physician in pale blue scrubs, holding a clipboard. He looks around the room, squinting under the fluorescent lights.

“Is anyone here with the car crash patient?” He asks, voice low but carrying through the empty space.

You stand up before you even realize what you’re doing. “I … I’m here.”

The doctor’s eyes flick over to you, eyebrows raised. “You’re with him?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. I mean, sort of. I was there when it happened.”

The doctor approaches, glancing down at his clipboard. “He’s stable,” he says, and you feel some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “He has a pretty severe concussion, though. He lost consciousness on the way here, but we were able to wake him up a little while ago.”

You let out a slow breath. “That’s good, right?”

“Yes and no,” the doctor replies, shifting his weight. “It looks like he has post-traumatic amnesia. He doesn’t seem to know who he is — doesn’t even remember his own name.”

Your stomach twists uncomfortably. “Amnesia?”

The doctor nods. “It’s not uncommon with head injuries like his. In most cases, the memory loss is temporary. But it’s hard to say how long it will take for him to regain his memories — could be hours, days, or longer.”

You swallow, trying to process that. “He didn’t have any ID on him?”

“No wallet, no phone. Nothing to tell us who he is.” The doctor frowns. “Do you know his name?”

You feel a flicker of panic — you barely know anything about him. But you remember something from the ambulance, a faint, slurred sentence buried in the fog of the night. “His first name is Lando,” you say slowly. “He told the EMT that much. I-“ You press your fingers to your temples, frustrated with yourself. “He also said his last name, but I can’t remember it right now. It was … it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

The doctor gives you a sympathetic nod. “That’s all right. At least we have a starting point.” He flips a page on his clipboard. “Lando … okay.” He pauses, then looks at you with a curious expression. “Are you related to him?”

“No,” you say quickly. “I just … I saw the crash and rode with him in the ambulance.”

The doctor tilts his head, studying you for a moment. “It’s unusual,” he says slowly, “but since he doesn’t seem to have anyone else with him … we could make an exception and let you visit him.”

You blink, surprised by the offer. “You would? Even though I’m not family?”

The doctor nods. “Under the circumstances, yes. He’s confused, disoriented. It might help him to see a familiar face — well, at least someone who’s been around since the accident.”

You hesitate for a beat, then nod. “Yeah. I’ll visit him.”

The doctor gives you a small smile, then gestures toward the door. “Follow me.”

Your heart beats a little faster as you trail behind him through the sterile hallways, passing closed doors and curtained-off spaces. The farther you go, the quieter it gets, until the only sounds are the soft squeak of your shoes on the linoleum and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

Finally, the doctor stops in front of a room and gestures for you to go inside. “He’s still a bit groggy, but you can sit with him for a while.”

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, and push the door open.

The room is small, dimly lit by a single lamp on the wall. Lando lies in the bed, looking pale and disoriented, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. A bandage is wrapped around his head, and an IV drips steadily from a bag hooked to a pole beside the bed.

You step inside, and his gaze shifts toward you, though it’s clear he’s struggling to stay focused.

“Hey,” you say softly, pulling the chair closer to his bed. “How are you feeling?”

He blinks at you, his expression hazy with confusion. “I … I don’t know,” he mutters, his voice scratchy. “Where … where am I?”

“You’re in a hospital,” you explain gently. “You had a car accident.”

Lando frowns, his brow furrowing. “A car accident?”

“Yeah,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “It was pretty bad, but you’re going to be okay.”

He stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unfocused. “Do I … do I know you?”

You shake your head. “No, we just met — well, kind of. I was there when you crashed. I called for help and rode with you in the ambulance.”

Lando’s lips press together, as if he’s trying to make sense of your words. “Why?”

The question takes you by surprise. “Why what?”

“Why did you … stay?” He asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You hesitate, not entirely sure how to answer. “I don’t know,” you admit. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”

Lando gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes slipping shut for a moment. Then he opens them again, struggling to stay awake.

“You said my name is Lando?” He asks, his voice faint.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’s what you told me. Do you … remember anything else?”

Lando shakes his head slowly, frustration flickering across his face. “No,” he whispers. “Nothing.”

You offer him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay. It’ll come back to you. You just need to rest.”

He nods weakly, his eyelids drooping.

For a moment, the room is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the IV drip and the distant sounds of the hospital outside.

“Thank you,” Lando murmurs suddenly, his voice barely audible.

You blink, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For staying,” he whispers. “For not leaving me alone.”

You feel a strange warmth spread through your chest at his words, unexpected but not unwelcome.

“Of course,” you say softly. “I wasn’t going to leave you.”

Lando’s eyes close again, his breathing evening out as he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

You sit back in the chair, watching him for a moment longer, feeling oddly connected to this stranger — this man whose life, for reasons you can’t quite explain, has suddenly become intertwined with yours.

***

You wake up to the soft click of a door opening. For a moment, you’re disoriented — the sharp smell of antiseptic in the air and the hum of machines aren’t what you expect. Then it all comes rushing back: the crash, the ambulance, Lando.

You straighten in the uncomfortable hospital chair, your neck aching from the awkward position you slept in. A nurse in pale scrubs moves around the room quietly, checking Lando’s IV and jotting notes on her chart. She glances at you and offers a small smile.

“Good morning,” she says softly, like someone used to tiptoeing around the sick and injured.

You blink, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Morning. Is he …”

The nurse nods toward Lando. “Still sleeping. His vitals look stable, though.”

You glance at him. He’s shifted a little in his sleep, curled slightly on his side with the blanket pulled halfway up his chest. His face is peaceful, his breathing steady, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget the chaos of last night.

The nurse scribbles something else on her clipboard. “The doctor will be in soon to check on him. If he’s doing okay, we might start talking about discharge.”

You frown slightly. “Discharge? Already?”

The nurse gives a small shrug. “It’s common. Once someone is stable, there’s no reason to keep them here longer than necessary.”

Before you can respond, the door opens again, and the same physician from last night steps in, looking far more awake and put-together than you feel. He carries a folder tucked under one arm and offers a polite nod as he approaches Lando’s bed.

“Morning,” he says briskly, flipping through the papers. “Let’s see how our patient is doing.”

Lando stirs at the sound of voices, his brow furrowing slightly before his eyes flutter open. He blinks at the ceiling, clearly disoriented, and then his gaze shifts toward you.

“Hey,” you say softly, leaning forward. “How are you feeling?”

He squints at you, like he’s trying to place you in a dream that hasn’t fully faded. “I … I don’t know,” he mumbles. His voice is raspy, as if unused for too long. “Where …”

“The hospital,” you remind him gently. “You were in an accident. Do you remember?”

Lando’s expression crumples with frustration, and he shakes his head weakly. “No. I don’t remember anything.”

The doctor steps closer, setting the folder down on the bedside table. “It’s okay, Lando,” he says in a professional but kind tone. “You’ve had a serious concussion. Amnesia like this is not unusual. It may take some time for your memory to come back.”

Lando doesn’t respond. His hand rests on the blanket, fingers twitching slightly, as if he’s trying to grasp something just out of reach.

The physician clears his throat and flips through the imaging results. “We’ve run more tests, and everything looks good. No fractures, no swelling that we need to be concerned about. Medically speaking, you’re ready to be discharged.”

Lando stares at the doctor, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Discharged? But … I don’t even know who I am.”

The doctor sighs sympathetically. “I know it’s overwhelming, but there’s no medical reason to keep you here. Usually, when patients have amnesia, we recommend that they go home, rest, and be with family until their memory returns.”

Lando lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Except I don’t even know if I have family.”

The doctor exchanges a glance with you, clearly uncomfortable. “We tried contacting local authorities, but without ID, there’s not much we can do to locate anyone for you right now. In the meantime …” He trails off, glancing at his watch. “You’ll need to find somewhere safe to rest. Hospitals aren’t designed for long stays in cases like this.”

You open your mouth to say something, but no words come out at first. A knot twists in your stomach — Lando looks so lost, sitting there in the stiff hospital bed with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.

And then, without thinking, you blurt out, “He can come home with me.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, heavy and unexpected.

Both Lando and the doctor turn to stare at you, identical looks of confusion written across their faces.

“What?” Lando asks, his voice thick with disbelief.

You blink, as if hearing yourself for the first time. “I mean … if he has nowhere else to go,” you say quickly, your heart racing. “It doesn’t feel right just … leaving him like this.”

The doctor looks at you like you’ve just volunteered to adopt a stray animal off the street. “Are you sure about that?” He asks cautiously. “Taking care of someone with memory loss can be challenging.”

You nod before you can second-guess yourself. “I’m sure. I can help him get settled until … until he remembers something.”

Lando’s brow furrows as he tries to process what’s happening. “You’re serious? I can’t even remember my own name, and you’re just … offering to let me stay with you?”

You shrug, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal. “It’s not like I’m going to just let you wander the streets of New York with a concussion.”

Lando huffs a soft laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “You have no idea who I am. I could be a serial killer or something.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you feel like a serial killer?”

He pauses, blinking at the question. “No. I just feel … confused.”

“Then we’ll take our chances,” you say, standing a little straighter.

The doctor looks between the two of you, clearly torn. “All right,” he says finally, scribbling something on his clipboard. “We’ll need you to sign some forms for his release. And …” He glances at Lando. “You’ll need to take it easy for the next few days — no strenuous activities, no driving, and absolutely no drinking.”

Lando nods slowly, still looking stunned by the turn of events.

The doctor finishes writing and tears off a sheet of paper, handing it to you. “Here are his discharge instructions. Make sure he rests and drinks plenty of fluids. If there’s any change — headaches, confusion, anything — bring him back right away.”

You nod, taking the paper. “Got it.”

The doctor gives a final nod before stepping toward the door. “A nurse will be in soon to help with the paperwork. Good luck.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving you alone with Lando in the quiet room.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Lando breaks the silence first. “You’re really doing this?”

You glance at him, and for the first time, you realize how scared he must be — lost in a city he doesn’t remember, with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’m really doing this.”

Lando’s lips twitch, almost like he’s trying to smile but isn’t quite sure how. “You’re either very brave,” he mutters, “or very stupid.”

“Maybe a little of both,” you admit, and the corners of his mouth lift just slightly.

He looks down at the blanket covering his legs, running his fingers along the edge. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, standing up and smoothing out your wrinkled clothes. “Just … don’t make me regret it, okay?”

Lando glances up at you, his expression serious now. “I’ll try not to.”

There’s a knock at the door, and a nurse pokes her head in, holding a clipboard. “Ready to go?”

You nod, glancing at Lando. “Ready?”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for whatever comes next. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

And with that, the two of you step into the unknown together.

***

The subway car rattles along the tracks, a steady clunk-clunk that fills the silence between you and Lando. He’s seated beside you, his head tilted back against the cold metal pole, watching the city blur past through the dirty windows. His posture is relaxed — almost too relaxed — but you can tell it’s not comfort. It’s exhaustion, both physical and emotional. Every so often, he glances at the other passengers with the wide-eyed caution of someone dropped into an unfamiliar world.

“You okay?” You ask, nudging his arm gently with your elbow.

He turns toward you, slow and deliberate, like even small movements take effort. “I guess. Just feels … weird.” He rubs his temple, the faint crease of a headache forming between his brows. “Everything’s moving so fast, and I can’t tell if that’s the world or just my brain being scrambled.”

“Definitely the world.” You try to smile, hoping it’ll ease some of the weight he’s carrying. “New York doesn’t stop for anyone. You get used to it.”

Lando offers a weak chuckle, but the sound fades quickly. “You do this every day?”

You shrug. “Pretty much. You learn how to block out the noise after a while.”

He leans his head back again, eyes drifting shut as if the conversation itself takes more energy than he has to spare. You glance at him, wondering what’s going through his mind — if he’s terrified, disoriented, or just trying to keep it together for your sake. Maybe all three.

When the subway screeches to a stop at your station, you nudge him again. “This is us.”

Lando blinks awake, dragging himself upright as you both stand. He follows you off the train, into the chaotic swirl of the station. The noise, the movement, the fluorescent lights — none of it fazes you, but you can feel him stiffen beside you as if it’s too much all at once.

You make your way to the stairs, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, and Lando does his best to keep up. “This city is … a lot,” he mutters as you ascend to street level.

“Yeah.” You glance over your shoulder at him. “But it grows on you. Like a fungus.”

Lando snorts — an actual laugh this time, though it’s still edged with disbelief. “I think I’ll take your word for it.”

The two of you walk in silence for the few blocks to your apartment. It’s late morning by now, the streets bustling with people on errands or rushing to work. You pull your coat tighter against the breeze and glance at Lando, who’s walking beside you with his hands jammed deep into the pockets of the hospital-issued sweatpants.

When you finally reach your building, you unlock the front door and lead him up two flights of stairs. Your apartment isn’t much — a tiny one-bedroom with a narrow kitchen, mismatched furniture, and walls covered in posters and sticky notes. But it’s yours, and for now, it’ll be his too.

“Home sweet home,” you say, pushing the door open and stepping aside to let him in.

Lando hesitates in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the space. “This is where you live?” He asks, his tone curious rather than judgmental.

“Yep. Not exactly a palace, but it works.” You drop your keys on the counter and kick off your shoes, motioning for him to do the same. “Welcome to grad student life.”

He steps inside cautiously, as if the apartment might swallow him whole, and his eyes land on the piles of law books scattered across the coffee table, the kitchen counter, even the armrest of the couch. A legal pad covered in half-finished notes is open on the floor, surrounded by highlighters and empty coffee cups.

“It looks like a library threw up in here,” he says, eyebrows raised.

You let out a laugh, feeling a little self-conscious. “Yeah, sorry. It’s kind of … everywhere.”

He picks up one of the books from the table — Constitutional Law: Cases and Materials — and flips through the pages with an amused expression. “So … you’re a lawyer?”

“Not yet,” you correct, dropping your bag on the couch. “I’m still a student. Columbia Law.”

Lando sets the book down carefully, as if it might bite. “That sounds … intense.”

“It is.” You collapse onto the couch with a sigh, stretching your legs out. “It’s basically my whole life right now. Classes, studying, internships … sleep, if I’m lucky.”

Lando leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “You like it?”

You tilt your head, considering the question. “Yeah. I mean, it’s hard as hell, but I do. There’s something … satisfying about figuring things out, solving problems.”

He nods slowly, as if trying to imagine what that kind of life feels like. “So, you’re one of those people. The smart ones.”

You laugh. “I guess that depends on the day.”

Lando’s gaze drifts back to the books, his expression thoughtful. “And you’re just … letting me crash here. Even though you’ve got all this going on?”

You shrug, feeling a little awkward under his scrutiny. “It’s not a big deal.”

He gives you a look — one that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. “It’s kind of a big deal. I mean, I don’t even know who I am, and you brought me home.”

“Well, you didn’t seem like a serial killer.” You grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Plus, I’m pretty sure I could take you if it came down to it.”

Lando chuckles, the sound low and genuine this time. “Right. Because you’ve been training in MMA on the side.”

“Exactly.” You gesture to the couch. “That’s where you’ll sleep, by the way. Sorry it’s not a king-sized bed or anything.”

He glances at the couch, then back at you with a wry smile. “I’ve slept in worse places, I think.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think?”

He shrugs, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Memory loss, remember?”

“Right.” You laugh, shaking your head. “Guess we’ll both find out what you’re used to.”

Lando walks over to the couch and sinks into it experimentally, testing the cushions. “It’s not bad,” he says after a moment. “I’ll survive.”

“Good. Because I’m fresh out of five-star hotels.”

He leans back, resting his head against the cushion, and closes his eyes for a moment. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “For … all of this. I know it’s weird.”

You wave a hand dismissively. “It’s not that weird.”

Lando opens one eye, giving you a skeptical look. “It’s definitely weird.”

“Okay, maybe a little.” You grin. “But life’s weird sometimes. You just roll with it.”

He chuckles softly, his eyes drifting shut again. “You make it sound easy.”

You watch him for a moment, the way his breathing slows, the tension easing from his shoulders bit by bit. There’s something oddly comforting about having someone else here, even if that someone is a total stranger who just happens to have lost his memory.

“You hungry?” You ask, standing up and stretching. “I’ve got … well, probably just instant noodles, but it’s food.”

Lando cracks a smile without opening his eyes. “Instant noodles sound like a feast right now.”

“High standards, I see,” you tease, heading to the kitchen.

As you fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, you can’t help but glance back at him. He’s still stretched out on the couch, looking more at peace than he has since you met him.

And somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, it feels right.

***

Steam rises from the bowls of instant noodles, curling into the dim air of your apartment. The two of you sit side by side on the couch, knees almost touching, slurping quietly while some mindless local news plays in the background. It’s not much, but there’s something comforting about the simplicity of it. For the first time all day, things feel … normal.

Lando scoops a forkful of noodles, twirling them slowly, like even eating requires focus. “So, this is gourmet cuisine?” He teases, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey, these are the premium kind,” you shoot back, nudging him with your elbow. “I even added an egg. That’s high-level cooking.”

He chuckles, the sound soft but genuine, and for a moment you think maybe — just maybe — he’s settling in. But then the newscaster’s voice shifts into something more urgent, drawing both of your attention.

“… the United States Grand Prix is set to take place this weekend in Austin, Texas, with the world’s top drivers arriving to compete in what promises to be a thrilling event …”

The screen cuts to footage of race cars whizzing by, sleek and impossibly fast, engines roaring like angry beasts. Drivers in fireproof suits pose for cameras, and somewhere in the background, a McLaren car gleams under stadium lights.

You glance at Lando. He’s sitting perfectly still, bowl of noodles forgotten in his lap. His eyes are glued to the screen, unblinking, as if the images are stirring something just out of reach — a half-buried memory fighting to resurface.

“Lando?” You say softly.

He doesn’t respond, just stares at the television like it’s showing him the key to his past. His fingers tighten around the bowl, knuckles going white.

“Does that … mean anything to you?” You ask cautiously, setting your own bowl aside. “The race?”

Lando’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His brow furrows deeply, frustration flickering across his features. He shakes his head slowly, like trying to sift through fog.

“I … I don’t know,” he mutters. “It feels … familiar. Like I should know something about it.”

You lean closer, watching his face carefully. “Do you think it’s connected to you? Maybe that’s-“

“I don’t know!” Lando snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. He winces immediately, guilt flashing in his eyes. “Sorry. I just … it’s right there, you know? Like I’m supposed to know why this matters, but I can’t grab it.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, hoping to calm him down. “It’s not your fault.”

Lando drags a hand down his face, breathing hard through his nose. “It’s just … frustrating,” he mutters, voice cracking. “Why can’t I remember? Why can’t I remember anything?”

The sheer helplessness in his voice makes your heart ache. You can see him trying so hard to stay composed, but it’s slipping. He blinks rapidly, his jaw tight, as if he’s on the verge of tears and doing everything in his power not to let them fall.

You set your hand on his arm gently. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to force it.”

Lando shakes his head again, a bitter laugh escaping him. “It’s not okay. I don’t even know who I am. What kind of person forgets their whole life?”

“You’re not broken,” you tell him firmly. “You just had a really bad accident. Your brain’s protecting you, probably — it’ll come back when it’s ready.”

He looks at you, his eyes glossy, and for a moment he seems like a kid lost in a supermarket, scared and trying not to cry. “But what if it doesn’t?” His voice is small, filled with uncertainty. “What if I never remember?”

The vulnerability in his words catches you off guard. It’s strange, seeing someone like him — someone who carries himself like the world should make sense — crumble under the weight of something he can’t control.

You don’t know what to say. What can you say? You’re just a law student who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. But you can’t leave him in this. You won’t.

“It’ll come back,” you say softly. “And until it does, you’re not alone, okay?”

Lando presses his lips together, nodding slightly even though he doesn’t look convinced. He tilts his head back, blinking hard, as if sheer willpower alone can force the tears away. You see the frustration etched in every movement, the way he clenches his jaw and digs his fingers into his palms.

“Why does this feel so familiar?” He whispers, more to himself than to you. “That car … the race … it’s like I know it, but it’s just out of reach. It’s right there, but I can’t …”

You squeeze his arm, grounding him. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

Lando exhales shakily, dragging his hands through his messy curls. “I feel … useless. Like I should be doing something, but I don’t even know what.”

“Hey,” you say softly. “You’re not useless. You survived a crash that should’ve been a lot worse. That’s already pretty impressive.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah. Real impressive. Can’t even remember my own name.”

“You remembered some of it,” you remind him. “That’s a start.”

Lando looks at you, his expression hovering between gratitude and exhaustion. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. Take me in. Deal with … whatever this is.”

You shrug. “I wasn’t about to leave you on your own.”

He stares at you for a long moment, as if he’s trying to memorize your face — or maybe trying to understand why a stranger would care enough to help him. Finally, he nods, a small but genuine gesture.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “For everything.”

“Don’t mention it,” you reply, offering him a small smile. “We’ll take it one day at a time, okay? No pressure to remember everything all at once.”

Lando breathes out slowly, as if the weight of the moment is starting to lift, even if just a little. “Okay,” he whispers. “One day at a time.”

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the hum of the TV filling the space between you. On the screen, the sports segment wraps up, and the anchor shifts to another story — something about a mayoral race you couldn’t care less about. But Lando keeps glancing at the TV, his gaze flickering with something you can’t quite place.

You watch him carefully, wondering what’s going through his mind. Maybe there’s more he remembers, things he can’t quite articulate yet. Or maybe the images of the race just stirred something instinctual — a feeling rather than a memory.

“Do you think …” Lando starts, then stops himself, biting his lip. “Do you think I was supposed to be there? At the race?”

You consider his question carefully. “It’s possible. I mean … maybe. But it’s also possible that it just feels familiar because you love racing. Maybe you were a fan.”

Lando doesn’t look convinced. “It feels … bigger than that. Like it’s important.”

“Well,” you say gently, “if it’s really that important, I’m sure it’ll come back to you.”

He nods, though his expression remains troubled. “Yeah. I hope so.”

You reach for the remote and turn the volume down, hoping it’ll give him some peace. “For now, just try to rest, okay? We can’t solve everything tonight.”

Lando leans back against the couch cushions, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Right. One day at a time.”

You nod, settling back beside him. “Exactly.”

And for a moment — just a moment — the world feels a little quieter. A little more manageable. Neither of you knows what tomorrow will bring, but for now, you’re here. Together. And maybe, for tonight, that’s enough.

***

In Woking, the McLaren Technology Centre buzzes with the usual energy, but today, there’s a frantic undercurrent no one can quite contain. Engineers huddle over laptops, scrolling through telemetry and GPS data. Phones ring at an alarming frequency. It’s as though the entire organization holds its breath, waiting for a disaster they can’t fully comprehend but know is happening.

Zak Brown slams his phone down on the desk in his office, his jaw tight with frustration. “No answer. Nothing. It just goes to voicemail,” he says, pacing. His voice carries out into the open office space, drawing glances from staff nearby.

“Same here,” a voice pipes up from the other side of the room. Andrea Stella looks exhausted, cradling his phone against his ear. “No response to texts. No one at the hotel he was supposed to check into has seen him. And his phone’s not pinging anymore — it’s like it just went dark.”

Zak rakes a hand through his short, cropped hair, then exhales sharply. “We’re five days away from Austin. Five. Freaking. Days. And we’ve lost our damn driver.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with anxiety. The silence is punctuated only by the soft hum of computers and the occasional tap of keyboards. No one dares say what they’re all thinking: If Lando doesn’t show, they’re down a driver for one of the most critical races of the season.

Andrea leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He was in New York,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. “Why did he even go to New York? He was supposed to meet us in Austin straight away.”

Zak shrugs, his hands flying in frustration. “Lando said he wanted a couple of days to himself before the race. Some break or whatever. I figured — he works hard, let him have it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Apparently, the worst did happen.

Over by the giant wall of monitors tracking everything from car data to driver schedules, one of the comms coordinators speaks up. “We haven’t been able to track his car since yesterday. No activity. Not even location pings.”

Zak swears under his breath and turns toward Andrea. “We need to start contingency planning. This is serious. If he’s not in Austin in the next day or so, we’ve gotta be ready.”

Andrea doesn’t reply right away. His mind churns through endless scenarios, none of them promising. Do they scramble to find a reserve driver? Call Pato O’Ward or Ryo Hirakawa? That would be a media frenzy in itself. But that’s a worst-case option — first, they need to find Lando.

“Have we checked his family? Friends? Girlfriends?” Zak asks, rubbing his temples.

“We tried his parents,” Andrea replies with a sigh. “His mum thought he was already in Austin. She hasn’t heard from him in over 24 hours either.”

“Girlfriend?” Zak asks.

“He doesn’t have one.” Andrea’s tone is clipped, as if that fact only makes the situation more frustrating. “He’s not exactly the relationship type.”

Zak mutters another curse. “Christ. He’s alone, halfway across the world, and we have no idea where the hell he is.”

The weight of that statement sinks in. It’s not just that Lando isn’t answering his phone — it’s the growing realization that something might have gone terribly wrong.

***

In another corner of the office, the team’s director of communications, Sophie, types furiously into her laptop. Every time she hits send on an email, another response pings back: negative. Nothing. No one knows anything.

“Has anyone checked the airlines?” She calls out. “If he was flying through New York, maybe there’s a record of him checking in somewhere?”

“We’re working on it,” one of the logistics guys responds, flicking through tabs on his screen. “But it’s hard to get anything without specific flight details.”

Sophie sighs and looks over at Zak and Andrea, who are still pacing near the windows. “Do you want me to draft a public statement?” She asks tentatively. “Just in case?”

Zak freezes. “No. Absolutely not. The second the media gets wind of this, it’ll turn into a circus. We’ll have paparazzi crawling over every hotel and airport in New York. We can’t afford that distraction.”

“But if he doesn’t show soon,” Sophie presses, “we might not have a choice. People will notice if he’s missing from Austin.”

Andrea folds his arms, his expression grim. “We’ve got 48 hours, tops. After that, people will start asking questions.”

Zak rubs his face, exhaustion creeping into his every movement. “Goddamn it, Lando.”

There’s a collective silence as the weight of the situation settles over the room. No one says it out loud, but they’re all thinking the same thing: Something has gone terribly wrong.

Sophie speaks up again, her voice quieter now. “We could … call the local authorities in New York? Just to see if anything’s been reported. An accident or-”

“No.” Zak cuts her off sharply, though there’s no bite behind the word — just fear. He doesn’t want to think about the possibility of Lando being hurt. Or worse.

But Andrea is already nodding. “Do it,” he says to Sophie. “Just discreetly. Don’t mention his name. See if they’ve had any reports matching his description.”

Sophie hesitates, then nods and picks up her phone, already pulling up contact numbers.

Zak looks over at Andrea, his jaw tight. “If something’s happened to him …”

“We’ll find him,” Andrea says firmly, though even he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

Zak turns to the logistics guy. “Book me the next flight to New York. I’ll go myself if I have to.”

Andrea grabs Zak’s arm. “Wait. If you go running to New York, it’ll raise questions. We don’t want anyone finding out about this before we know what’s going on.”

Zak exhales sharply but nods. “You’re right.” He looks around the room, addressing everyone. “We keep this quiet. No leaks. No media.”

Everyone nods in unison, the weight of the unspoken agreement heavy in the air.

“Sophie,” Andrea says, turning back to her. “If the police don’t have anything … try the hospitals.”

“Already on it,” she replies, tapping at her phone.

Zak mutters under his breath, pacing again. “He better be okay.”

Andrea glances at the clock on the wall. Every second that ticks by feels heavier, more oppressive. The race in Austin is looming, and with each passing hour, their chance of finding Lando before everything unravels gets slimmer.

They have no idea what’s happened, no idea where Lando is, and no one to call for answers. All they can do is wait, and hope.

***

The morning sun streams through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over your cluttered apartment. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the faint sound of toast popping from the toaster. Lando sits across from you at the small kitchen table, his face scrunched in exaggerated misery. He’s been pouting for at least ten minutes now, stirring his cereal like it’s personally offended him.

“You’re seriously leaving me here? Alone?” His voice drips with disbelief, spoon clinking against the bowl. “What am I supposed to do? Stare at the wall? Die of boredom?”

You sigh, lifting your mug to your lips. “You’ll be fine. It’s just a few hours. I need to go to class.”

Lando leans forward, his elbows on the table, making no effort to hide his sulking. “You’re abandoning me.” He looks at you with those big, green eyes — slightly glassy from frustration, or maybe just sleepiness. “I thought we were, you know … friends now.”

“We are friends,” you say, setting your mug down with a small clink. “But friends don’t have to be attached at the hip.”

Lando lets out an exaggerated groan, dragging his hands down his face dramatically. “But what if I forget everything again? What if I walk out the door and just — poof — vanish into thin air?”

You narrow your eyes at him, half-amused. “I think you’ll manage to avoid disappearing for three hours.”

Lando drops his head onto the table with a thud. “I might die.”

“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous.”

He peeks up from where his cheek is squished against the table. “Just let me come with you.”

You pause mid-sip, the words hanging in the air. “To … class?”

“Yes.” He sits up straight, suddenly full of life again. “Take me with you. I won’t make a sound. I’ll just sit in the corner and … blend in. Like a plant.”

You arch a brow, incredulous. “You? Blending in?”

He places a hand over his chest, feigning insult. “I can totally blend in.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t think you’ve blended into anything a day in your life.”

“I’ll prove you wrong,” he declares with a grin, leaning back in his chair. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

You tilt your head, considering it for a moment. The idea is absurd, but it’s not like you haven’t already made enough bad decisions in the past 24 hours. What’s one more?

“You have to promise to be quiet,” you warn, pointing your spoon at him. “No interrupting. No talking to anyone. And definitely no causing a scene.”

Lando raises his hand solemnly, like a kid swearing an oath. “I pinky promise.”

You roll your eyes but extend your pinky anyway. He links his with yours, sealing the deal. His face lights up with the same kind of joy you’d expect from a kid on Christmas morning, and you can’t help but laugh.

“This is the dumbest idea,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing your backpack from the floor.

“You won’t regret it,” Lando says, practically bouncing in his seat.

But as you swing the backpack over your shoulder, something occurs to both of you at the same time.

Lando freezes mid-motion. “Uh … I don’t have any clothes.”

You blink, glancing down at the crumpled sweats he’s wearing — the same ones the hospital gave him. They’re wrinkled, a bit too big, and definitely not suitable for a law class at Columbia.

“Right,” you say slowly, realizing how ridiculous it would look if you showed up with him dressed like … well, that. “You need something better than hospital pajamas.”

Lando looks down at himself, then back at you. “This isn’t exactly suitable for blending in, huh?”

“Nope.” You chew the inside of your cheek, already running through the logistics. “There’s a department store a couple blocks away. If we leave now, we can stop there first.”

Lando grins, clearly pleased with how things are going. “See? Teamwork. This is why you keep me around.”

You scoff. “I didn’t exactly invite you to move in, remember?”

He shrugs, that boyish grin still plastered on his face. “Yet here we are.”

You shake your head, grabbing your keys. “Come on, plant boy. Let’s get you something halfway decent to wear.”

Lando hops up from his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me behind.”

***

The lecture hall hums with the quiet shuffle of notebooks, laptops, and tired law students. You’ve managed to slip in just before class starts, dragging Lando along like a reluctant sibling. After the last-minute stop at the clothing store, he’s now wearing a basic hoodie and dark jeans — simple enough to not attract too much attention. Or so you thought.

Lando’s sitting beside you, fidgeting with the cap of a pen. His leg bounces restlessly, and it hasn’t even been five minutes since the professor started his lecture on tort law.

You whisper sharply, “Stop moving.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he mutters back, spinning the pen between his fingers.

“Yes, you are.”

Lando lets out an exaggerated sigh but tries to stay still — at least for a full thirty seconds — before turning his attention back to the professor. As the professor drones on about duty of care, Lando tilts his head, brow furrowing in confusion.

“This guy sounds like he’s making stuff up,” he whispers under his breath.

You shoot him a warning look. “Shh.”

“No, really. What the hell is a reasonable person? Do they just pick some random dude off the street and ask what he’d do?”

You grit your teeth. “That’s not … just be quiet.”

Lando leans closer, clearly ignoring your plea. “You’d be a terrible lawyer if you tried that argument. ‘Your Honor, my client is a reasonable person.’ What even is that?” His accent makes the sarcasm hit a little harder, like he’s personally offended by the entire concept.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. This was a mistake. A huge, colossal mistake.

The professor is still speaking, explaining negligence, when Lando mumbles again, “So, wait — if someone slips on a wet floor, that’s someone else’s fault? Isn’t that just bad luck?”

“Lando-” you hiss through clenched teeth.

But he’s not done. “And what’s the point of signs if people still sue, anyway? I mean, if it says Wet Floor, what more do you want? A song and dance?”

Your face burns as a few students glance over, trying to suppress grins. You’re sinking lower in your seat, arms crossed tightly, praying to somehow blend into the furniture.

“Are you really paying for this?” Lando continues, oblivious to the daggers you’re glaring at him. “Because you should ask for a refund.”

A soft chuckle ripples from somewhere in the back of the room, and that’s the final straw.

The professor — an older man with wire-rimmed glasses and the tired patience of someone who’s been teaching far too long — pauses mid-sentence. He pushes his glasses up his nose and scans the room until his gaze lands squarely on you. And, unfortunately, Lando.

“Is there … something you’d like to share with the class, sir?”

You want to disappear. Melt into the floor. Be swallowed whole by the ground.

Lando, however, perks up like he’s just been invited to a dinner party. “Yeah, actually.” He leans back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back of it like he owns the place. “I just think it’s weird, this whole idea of liability for something that isn’t always in your control.”

A murmur of interest ripples through the class. Some students are amused, others just grateful for a break from the monotony of the lecture.

The professor narrows his eyes. “And you are?”

Lando flashes a charming grin. “Lando. Just visiting.”

The professor’s lips press into a thin line. “Well, Lando, this is a law class, not a debate club.”

“Isn’t law just debating with fancier words, though?” Lando shoots back, and a few students laugh outright.

You feel the blood drain from your face.

“Okay, that’s enough-” you start, but Lando is on a roll now.

“No, seriously. You’re saying someone can sue if they get hurt even if there was a warning? What’s next — someone sues a crack on the sidewalk because they tripped over it?”

More chuckles ripple through the room. The professor’s patience is clearly hanging by a thread. “That’s not exactly how the law works, young man.”

“Then explain it,” Lando challenges, leaning forward. “Because from where I’m sitting, this sounds like people just want excuses to blame someone else.”

The professor looks genuinely exasperated now. “If you’re not enrolled in this course, I’d advise you to refrain from further commentary.”

You shoot a hand out, slapping it firmly over Lando’s mouth before he can respond. His eyes go wide with surprise, muffled sounds of protest buzzing against your palm.

“I am so sorry, Professor,” you blurt, your face burning hotter by the second. “He’s — he’s not a student. I promise this won’t happen again.”

Lando tries to wriggle free, but you keep your hand firmly planted over his mouth as you yank him up by the arm. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor, and a few students snicker as you drag him toward the exit.

The professor clears his throat, adjusting his glasses. “Let’s continue, shall we?”

You pull Lando through the door and into the hallway, your heart pounding with mortification.

“What the hell was that?” You whisper-yell, spinning around to face him the second you’re out of earshot. “I told you to be quiet!”

Lando’s eyes sparkle mischievously above the edge of your hand, and before you can react, he presses his tongue against your palm.

“Ugh!” You recoil in disgust, jerking your hand away. “Did you just-”

“Did you really think you could keep me quiet that easily?” He grins, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“That is disgusting!” You rub your hand furiously against your jeans.

Lando chuckles, completely unbothered. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

You glare at him, feeling a mix of anger, embarrassment, and the faintest hint of amusement — though you’d die before admitting it.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

Lando shrugs, still grinning. “You knew what you were getting into when you brought me.”

“No, I absolutely did not.” You shake your head, exasperated. “Do you know how much trouble I could’ve gotten in?”

“But you didn’t,” he points out with a cheeky grin. “I saved the class from a really boring lecture. You should be thanking me.”

You let out a frustrated groan, turning on your heel to storm down the hallway. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Lando jogs to catch up with you, still laughing under his breath. “Don’t be mad. Admit it — you were kind of impressed.”

“I was not impressed,” you say flatly, pushing open the door to the stairwell.

“Maybe a little bit?” He teases, nudging your shoulder.

“Absolutely not.”

“Aw, come on. I thought we made a great team in there.”

You give him a withering look. “I’m seriously reconsidering this whole arrangement.”

But Lando just grins wider, falling into step beside you. “Nah, you love having me around.”

You roll your eyes as the two of you descend the stairs, already dreading the next conversation you’ll have to endure because of this.

Lando hums, clearly pleased with himself. “So … What’s next? Lunch? Another class? Maybe we try philosophy next. I have so many thoughts.”

You shoot him a look that could kill. “Do not push your luck.”

Lando just laughs, utterly unapologetic. And despite yourself, you feel the tiniest tug of a smile at the corner of your mouth.

***

The halal cart on the corner smells like heaven — charred lamb, grilled onions, and the sharp tang of white sauce hanging in the air. There’s already a small line, but you don’t mind. The break from your chaotic morning with Lando is much needed. He’s standing beside you, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, rocking on his heels like a restless kid waiting for candy.

“So … this is a New York classic?” Lando asks, glancing skeptically at the handwritten menu taped to the side of the cart.

“Yes,” you say with a little grin. “You’re about to experience lamb over rice with white sauce. It’s practically a rite of passage.”

“Doesn’t sound fancy,” he muses, nose scrunching slightly.

“It’s not. That’s the whole point.”

When it’s your turn, you order two lamb over rices and a couple of sodas, stepping to the side so the next person can order. Lando watches, intrigued as the cart guy flips sizzling meat on the griddle with quick, practiced movements.

“You come here a lot?” Lando asks.

You shrug. “Often enough. Cheap, fast, and good — you can’t beat it.”

He hums thoughtfully, watching the cart guy with curiosity. “And you’re paying for me, huh? You didn’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, handing over cash when the food is ready. The warm, foil-wrapped containers radiate delicious heat against your fingers.

As you hand Lando his food and the two of you walk toward the steps of the Columbia library, he hesitates. “Seriously, I feel bad about it. I should’ve been the one paying.”

You scoff, finding a spot on the wide stone stairs and sitting down. “Yeah, well, you don’t have a wallet. Or, you know, memories. So I think it’s okay.”

He sits beside you, the smell of lamb and garlic wafting between you. “Still.”

You grin, poking your plastic fork into your food. “Tell you what — when your memories come back, you can pay me back. Since you’ve got a McLaren, I’m guessing you can afford it.”

Lando snorts, shaking his head as he unwraps his container. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The two of you dig into your meals, the bustle of the city alive all around. Horns honk in the distance, pigeons coo at your feet, and students filter in and out of the library behind you. There’s something oddly peaceful about it. For the first time since this whole strange adventure started, things feel … easy.

Lando lets out a small noise of appreciation after a few bites. “Okay, this is actually good.”

“Told you.” You grin smugly, scooping more rice onto your fork. “Halal carts don’t miss.”

Lando points his fork at you. “I stand corrected. You New Yorkers know your street food.”

You laugh, taking a sip of your soda. “Damn right we do.”

For a while, the two of you eat in comfortable silence, watching the city move around you. Lando seems at ease, though every so often, you catch him staring into the distance like he’s trying to grab onto something just out of reach — memories that won’t quite click into place.

“How are you feeling?” You ask gently.

He shrugs, poking at his food with his fork. “I dunno. Fine, I guess. Just … frustrated.”

You nod. “It’ll come back. You just need time.”

Lando presses his lips together, looking down at the lamb and rice like it holds the answers to everything. “It’s weird, though. Like-“ He pauses, trying to find the words. “Like I know there’s something I should remember, but it’s just not there. You know?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I get it.”

He exhales, leaning back on his hands, his food momentarily forgotten. “It’s just hard not knowing. Who I am, what I do … where I fit.”

You glance at him, the vulnerability in his expression catching you off guard. For a guy who usually hides behind playful grins and cheeky remarks, it’s rare to see him this open, this honest.

“Hey,” you say, nudging his shoulder with yours. “You’re fitting just fine right here. No pressure to remember anything right now.”

He gives you a small, grateful smile. “Thanks.”

You finish the rest of your food in easy companionship, the city buzzing quietly around you. It feels surprisingly normal — two people sitting on the library steps, eating street food, and talking like old friends.

When the last bite of lamb is gone and the containers are crumpled into a nearby trash bin, you stretch your legs out with a sigh. “So, my classes are done for the day. What do you wanna do now?”

Lando perks up, a glimmer of excitement lighting his face. “Central Park. I’ve always wanted to see it.”

You arch a brow. “Always?”

He shrugs, grinning. “Well, maybe not always. But it sounds cool, right?”

You smile despite yourself. “It’s a big park, Lando. Hope you’ve got good walking shoes.”

Lando glances down at his new sneakers, wiggling his feet experimentally. “I’m ready.”

You laugh, standing and brushing crumbs off your lap. “Alright, let’s do it.”

With that, the two of you head toward the subway, blending into the rhythm of the city — just another pair of people wandering through the streets of New York, trying to figure things out one step at a time.

***

The two of you stand side by side, leaning over the railing at the penguin exhibit in the Central Park Zoo. A group of them waddles awkwardly around their little habitat, sliding on their bellies and plunging into the water with clumsy grace. Lando is completely captivated, his eyes wide and bright as if he’s seeing penguins for the first time.

“Look at that one,” he says, grinning as a particularly rotund penguin flops dramatically into the pool. “That’s me. That one right there.”

You laugh. “I can see the resemblance.”

Lando bumps his shoulder against yours, the cold October air carrying his playful energy. “If I don’t remember anything about myself, maybe I was secretly a penguin enthusiast.”

��Honestly, not the worst thing to be,” you say, smiling. “Could be worse.”

For a while, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm — watching the penguins dive and splash, swapping silly theories about what your hypothetical future careers as zoo employees might look like. The peace is nice, a soft pocket of calm in the buzz of New York.

And then it happens.

“OH MY GOD, it’s Lando Norris!”

The shout comes from somewhere behind you. At first, you don’t think it’s directed at either of you. But when you turn, a small group of teenage girls is staring directly at Lando with wide eyes, their phones already out and recording.

Lando looks at them, blinking in confusion. “Uh … hi?”

The girls rush over, bouncing with excitement. “We can’t believe it! You’re really here! In New York!”

Lando glances at you, bewildered, then back at the girls. “Uh … yeah?”

“Can we take a picture with you?” one of them asks breathlessly, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

Lando hesitates, clearly confused but not wanting to make a scene. “Sure?”

Before you can react, they surround him, taking selfies and giggling like it’s the best day of their lives. Lando flashes an awkward smile for each photo, looking like he’s trying to keep up but not fully understanding what’s happening.

You stand to the side, watching in stunned silence as this bizarre moment unfolds. Lando Norris. Why does that name sound so familiar?

“Thank you so much!” The girls squeal once the photo session ends. One of them waves as they walk away. “Good luck at the race!”

The girls disappear into the crowd, still giggling, leaving Lando standing next to you with a stunned expression. He blinks a couple of times, as if trying to make sense of what just happened.

“Well.” He turns to you, his confusion melting into a crooked grin. “I guess I’m famous.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your mind already working overtime. “Hold on.” Grabbing your phone, you quickly open the browser and type his name.

The results load instantly — articles, social media posts, fan pages. The screen fills with photos of Lando, all of them unmistakably him, usually grinning in front of race cars or holding trophies. There’s even a photo of him standing next to a sleek McLaren, looking impossibly proud.

You turn the screen toward him. “So … apparently, you’re a Formula 1 driver.”

Lando stares at the phone like it’s showing him a ghost. “Formula 1 …”

You scroll further down the page, reading headlines aloud. “‘Lando Norris: McLaren’s Rising Star.’ ‘Lando Norris on Racing, Pressure, and Fame.’ ‘The Young British Driver Taking Formula 1 by Storm.’” You glance at him. “Now the McLaren makes sense.”

Lando rubs the back of his neck, clearly overwhelmed. “I … I don’t remember any of this.”

You bite your lip, piecing things together. “Wait — right after the crash, when you were all out of it, you kept saying you were a race car driver. I thought you were just some rich kid talking nonsense.”

Lando blinks a few times, as if the memory is just out of reach. “I guess I wasn’t.”

The two of you fall into stunned silence, the realization hanging heavy in the air. It’s surreal. One minute, Lando was just some lost guy with no memory, and now — he’s apparently a professional race car driver with fans, fame, and a career you didn’t even know existed.

“This is insane,” you mutter, scrolling through the search results. “How does someone just … forget all of this?”

Lando is quiet beside you, staring at the screen like he’s trying to force the memories to come back through sheer willpower. Then, suddenly, his expression shifts — panic flashing in his eyes. “Wait. What did those girls say? Something about a race?”

You scroll back up to check the news alerts. “Yeah. The United States Grand Prix. It’s happening this weekend.”

Lando’s face pales. “This weekend?”

You nod, your heart starting to race along with his. “Yeah. In Austin.”

Panic settles over him like a weight. “I have a race. In a few days. And I still don’t remember anything.”

You place a hand on his arm, trying to steady him. “Hey, hey — breathe. We’ll figure this out, okay? You don’t have to remember everything right now.”

Lando lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “How am I supposed to race if I don’t even remember racing?”

You can see the fear in his eyes, the way he’s gripping the railing like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He’s not just scared — he’s terrified.

“One thing at a time,” you say gently. “First, we need to contact someone from your team. They’ve probably been looking for you.”

Lando gives a small, panicked laugh. “Great. That’ll be fun to explain — ‘Hi, sorry, I forgot who I was and ended up in New York.’“

You squeeze his arm reassuringly. “They’ll just be glad you’re okay.”

He looks at you, his expression softening slightly. “Thanks. For … you know, everything.”

You offer him a small smile. “Don’t mention it.”

But as the two of you stand there, the enormity of the situation settling between you, you know things are only going to get more complicated from here. Because Lando Norris isn’t just some random guy who lost his memory — he’s a professional athlete with a career that’s still waiting for him.

And somehow, you’ve become a part of the chaos.

***

The McLaren garage in Austin is buzzing like a kicked anthill. Mechanics are running diagnostics on car components, engineers are gathered around laptops, and team managers are huddled over plans, but there’s a thick tension under it all. They’re missing something — or someone — and every minute that passes without word from Lando tightens the knot of stress across the paddock.

In the team’s motorhome, the director of trackside operations, Mark, leans over a table, muttering something about flight records to a colleague. Then his phone buzzes.

“It’s Liz from Woking,” the other man says, reading the caller ID. “Should I-”

“Put it through.” Mark gestures impatiently. “Maybe she’s heard something.”

The line clicks, and Liz’s voice comes through, brisk and professional but with an undertone of hesitation. “Hey, Mark, we just got a call from someone claiming to know where Lando is.”

Mark freezes. Every eye in the room turns toward him. “What do you mean ‘claiming’?”

“They’re saying Lando is with them in New York,” Liz continues. “Should I patch them through to you?”

Mark’s heart jumps. “Do it. Now.”

The seconds feel like hours until there’s a mechanical click, and then-

“Hello?” Your voice crackles over the speaker, sounding cautious but steady. “Is this the McLaren team?”

Mark exchanges a sharp glance with one of the engineers before answering. “Yes. This is Mark, McLaren’s director of trackside operations. Who is this?”

You take a breath, clearly trying to keep your nerves in check. “I, uh, my name’s Y/N. I’m with Lando.”

There’s an audible shift in the room. Mark presses his palm to the table, leaning forward as though proximity to the phone will help him make sense of this. “With Lando? As in — he’s there with you, right now?”

“Yeah,” you say, and then your voice turns muffled for a second, like you’re whispering. “Lando, say hi.”

There’s a beat of silence, then a familiar voice chimes in, unsure but undeniably Lando’s.

“Hi.”

The tension in the room cracks wide open, releasing a mix of shock, disbelief, and relief. One of the engineers mouths, thank God. Mark pinches the bridge of his nose, a rush of adrenaline surging through him.

“Lando,” Mark says, his tone walking a tightrope between frustration and sheer relief, “what the hell is going on? Where have you been?”

“Uh …” Lando’s voice falters slightly. “I think I got into a bit of a … situation.”

“A situation?” Mark repeats, incredulous. “You’ve been missing for almost two days, mate. Do you know how close we were to filing a missing persons report?”

“Yeah, about that …” Lando trails off, and you jump in, clearly sensing he needs a lifeline.

“Look, we’re really sorry,” you say quickly. “He got into a car accident — he’s okay now,” you add hastily, “but it was bad enough that he, well … he doesn’t remember anything.”

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. Mark’s brain stumbles over the words. “What do you mean, he doesn’t remember anything?”

“Like, nothing,” Lando mutters, his voice low and frustrated. “I woke up with no memory. Didn’t even know my own name until Y/N told me what it was.”

Mark scrubs a hand over his face, trying to piece it all together. This makes no sense. “And you’re in New York right now?”

“Yes,” you confirm. “He crashed his car here. I found him and brought him to the hospital, and now we’re … um … back at my apartment.”

A pause stretches long and thin. The room in Austin feels too small, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone.

“Jesus Christ,” Mark mutters under his breath. “Okay. Listen carefully. We need your address. Now.”

You hesitate. “Why do you need it?”

“Because we’re sending someone to get him,” Mark says, not bothering to mask the urgency in his voice. “Lando has a race in less than four days. We need to bring him to Austin yesterday.”

There’s a shuffling noise on your end, and when Lando speaks again, his voice carries an edge of panic. “Wait — hold on, Mark. I don’t remember anything. I can’t race if I don’t even know who I am!”

Mark exhales slowly, softening his tone but not his resolve. “We’ll figure that part out, Lando. But right now, you need to get to Austin. The longer you stay where you are, the worse this gets.”

You cut in, sounding skeptical. “What exactly is the plan here? Because right now, it sounds like you’re asking him to show up for a race with no memory of … well, anything. That doesn’t seem safe.”

Mark drums his fingers on the table, frustration simmering just below the surface. “Look, we’ll handle it once he’s here. This is a controlled situation — we’ll have doctors on standby. But we can’t do anything if he’s stuck in New York.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, a stretch of silence thick with indecision.

“Lando?” Mark prompts, lowering his voice. “Are you okay with this? Do you trust us?”

Another shuffle on the line. “Yeah … I guess. But, Mark, seriously — what if I can’t do it? What if I screw everything up?”

“You won’t,” Mark says firmly, injecting confidence where Lando is clearly lacking. “We’ve got your back, mate. We’ll take it one step at a time. Just stay put, and we’ll sort the rest.”

Lando exhales audibly, like he’s trying to let go of some of the fear gripping him. “Okay.”

Mark straightens, sensing the conversation wrapping up. “Good. Now, give us the address, and sit tight.”

You’re quiet for a second, and then, after what sounds like a reluctant sigh, you rattle off your address. Mark scribbles it down, then repeats it to confirm.

“Got it,” he says. “Don’t move from that spot. Zak’s already on his way to pick you up.”

There’s an awkward shuffle, and then your voice returns, tinged with disbelief. “Wait — Zak? As in, the CEO? Your boss is coming here personally?”

“Yes,” Mark replies, dead serious. “And I strongly suggest you both be ready when he arrives.”

Lando groans, and you laugh softly, though there’s an undercurrent of nerves in it. “Well, this is officially the weirdest day of my life,” you mutter.

“Welcome to Formula 1,” Mark says dryly.

The call ends with a click, leaving Mark and the rest of the team in Austin scrambling to prepare. Meanwhile, back in New York, Lando leans back on your couch, his head in his hands, looking like a man who just agreed to something without fully understanding what.

You glance at him, arching an eyebrow. “So … Zak Brown is coming to my apartment?”

“Apparently.” Lando drops his hands and gives you a helpless look. “God, I feel like I’m in so much trouble.”

You snort, half-amused, half-terrified for him. “Yeah, you probably are.”

Lando groans again, flopping dramatically onto the cushions. “This is a disaster.”

You pat his knee in mock sympathy. “Better buckle up. Your life’s about to get a whole lot weirder.”

And with that, you both sit in the strange, buzzing silence — caught between the surreal chaos of what’s coming and the quiet, unexpected bond you’ve built in the middle of it.

***

It’s a little past noon when Zak Brown pulls up in a sleek black SUV outside your apartment building. You watch through the window as he steps out, all business — except for the concerned crease in his brow. Even from up here, you can tell he’s walking with purpose, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.

Lando stands by the door, peeking through the curtains with you, looking nervous. “What if he hates me?” He mutters, running a hand through his unruly curls.

You glance at him, taken aback. “Why would he hate you?”

Lando shrugs, fidgeting. “I don’t know … maybe because I crashed a car, disappeared for three days, and now I can’t even remember who he is?”

You snort softly, nudging him with your elbow. “Well, when you put it like that …”

There’s a knock on the door. Lando jumps a little, and you exchange a glance before you open it.

Zak is standing there, a commanding presence filling the small hallway. His gaze flickers over you for a moment before locking onto Lando. Relief floods his face, and without a word, he strides forward, wrapping Lando in a bear hug that lifts him a few inches off the ground.

“Thank God,” Zak mutters, voice gruff with emotion. “You had us scared half to death, kid.”

Lando stands there, arms awkwardly pinned to his sides, looking like he’s not sure what to do. Finally, he lifts one hand and pats Zak gingerly on the back, his eyes wide as he meets your amused gaze over Zak’s shoulder.

“Uh, hi?” Lando says, voice muffled against Zak’s chest.

Zak pulls back, his hands gripping Lando’s shoulders as he gives him a once-over. “You alright?” His tone is more businesslike now, eyes searching Lando’s face. “You look … fine, considering what we heard.”

Lando grimaces, glancing at you for backup. “I don’t really feel fine, to be honest. I can’t remember anything.”

Zak’s face tightens, but he quickly shifts his attention to you. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done,” he says, his voice warmer now. “If you hadn’t been there … well, I don’t even want to think about it.”

You wave it off, feeling a little awkward under the weight of his gratitude. “It’s no big deal. Really. I just did what anyone would’ve done.”

Zak raises an eyebrow. “I’m not so sure about that. You went above and beyond. We owe you.”

Lando fidgets next to you, his fingers tapping against his leg. “So … what now?”

Zak turns back to him, his expression softening. “Now, we get you back to Austin. You’ve got a race in a couple days, and we need to figure out what we’re dealing with here. Doctors, specialists … we’ll take care of you.”

Lando’s face falls, panic flitting across his features. He glances at you, then back at Zak. “Wait, what? You mean we’re leaving … now?”

Zak nods. “Yeah. We’ve got to get you back to the team as soon as possible.”

Lando looks back at you, his face pale. “But … I don’t want to go alone.”

Zak blinks, clearly not expecting that. “You won’t be alone. The whole team is there.”

Lando shakes his head, his voice tightening with anxiety. “No, I mean … I don’t know anyone. Except …” He trails off, looking at you again.

You meet his gaze, unsure of what he’s asking, and suddenly, you get it.

“No,” you say quickly, raising your hands in surrender. “I can’t — I have classes, and-”

“Can she come with us?” Lando blurts out, cutting you off.

Both you and Zak stare at him, equally surprised.

Zak is the first to recover, blinking as though trying to process the request. “You want her to come with us to Austin?”

Lando nods, his eyes pleading as he turns to you. “Please. I don’t-” He hesitates, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to go by myself. You’re the only person I feel like I know right now.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words get stuck in your throat. You’ve spent the last couple of days trying to help this guy, thinking he’d recover and everything would go back to normal. But now, with him looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, it feels like the ground’s been pulled out from under you instead.

Zak looks at you expectantly. “Well? What do you think?”

You stare at both of them, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on you. On one hand, this isn’t your problem. Lando has an entire team, an entire life waiting for him in Austin. He doesn’t need you tagging along. But on the other hand … the thought of leaving him now, when he’s so lost and vulnerable, feels wrong. You’ve been his lifeline — whether you wanted to be or not — and something inside you can’t shake the feeling that maybe he still needs you.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I guess I can watch my lectures online …”

Lando’s face lights up, and Zak claps his hands together. “That settles it, then,” he says, already moving toward the door. “Go pack a bag. We’ll head out as soon as you’re ready.”

You stand there for a second, still processing the fact that you just agreed to go to Austin with a guy you barely know, who also happens to be an amnesiac F1 driver. This was not how you saw your week going.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Lando quietly, once Zak steps outside to make a phone call.

Lando nods, his expression sincere. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s going on, but … I know I feel better when you’re around.”

Your heart stutters at that, a warmth spreading through your chest despite yourself. You nod and turn toward your bedroom, trying not to let him see how much that simple admission has affected you.

“Give me ten minutes,” you say over your shoulder.

Lando watches you disappear into your room, relief clear on his face. “Take your time.”

Ten minutes later, you’re standing at the door with a hastily packed duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Zak reappears, finishing a phone call, and gestures toward the SUV. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got a plane waiting.”

The ride to the airport is mostly quiet, though Lando keeps glancing at you every few minutes, like he’s still making sure you’re real and actually there. You catch him doing it once, and he quickly looks away, pretending to fiddle with his seatbelt.

Zak notices too, but doesn’t say anything, just tapping away on his phone, presumably giving updates to the team in Austin.

When you finally board the private jet, it hits you all over again how surreal this entire situation is. The plush leather seats, the quiet hum of the engine, the fact that you’re flying across the country with a Formula 1 team because their driver has amnesia and apparently needs you to hold his hand through it all. It’s like something out of a weird dream.

Lando sits next to you, his knee bumping yours every so often as the plane takes off. He doesn’t seem to notice, too busy staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts. You wonder what’s going through his head — how it must feel to have your entire life ripped away, every memory and experience erased, leaving you with nothing but confusion and panic.

You’re pulled from your thoughts when Zak leans over the seat, giving you both a small, tight smile. “We’ll be landing in Austin in a few hours. The team’s already been updated on the situation, so we’ll go straight to the hotel and get Lando checked by the doctors.”

Lando nods, but he still looks uneasy. You reach out and give his arm a gentle squeeze, trying to offer some comfort. “We’ll figure it out,” you say quietly.

He glances at you, his expression softening. “Thanks.”

Zak watches the two of you for a moment longer, then leans back, leaving you in a strange, charged silence as the plane continues its journey toward the unknown.

***

The jet lands with a smooth touch on the tarmac at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, and Zak is already up and moving before the wheels fully stop.

“Alright, let’s get moving,” he says briskly, shooting a glance back at Lando and you. His voice leaves no room for hesitation.

Lando is sitting rigidly in his seat, his fingers anxiously tapping against the armrest. As soon as the cabin door opens and the humid Texas air floods in, Zak gestures for both of you to follow. Lando shoots you a nervous glance before suddenly reaching for your hand, gripping it like a lifeline.

You raise your brows but don’t pull away. “Lando?”

“Don’t let go,” he whispers, his voice tight. “Please.”

The plea is quiet, almost childlike, and something about it tugs at your heart. You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m right here. Let’s go.”

Zak, halfway down the steps of the jet, turns impatiently. “Come on, you two!”

Lando pulls you along, practically dragging you after him. His steps are uneven, like he can’t decide whether to sprint away from everything or freeze in place. By the time you reach the black SUV waiting on the tarmac, Lando’s breathing is shallow, his grip on your hand almost too tight. You climb into the backseat with him, his knee bouncing anxiously as the driver pulls out toward the city.

When you arrive at the Hilton in downtown Austin, Zak wastes no time, herding you both through the polished lobby and straight to a large conference room on the second floor. The door swings open to reveal what looks like a pop-up medical center.

There are exam tables, diagnostic equipment, and at least half a dozen physicians and specialists, all dressed in clinical whites and branded team gear. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, and the hum of low conversations fills the space. Everyone is focused and efficient — like they’ve done this before, just not with a driver who can’t remember anything.

Lando stops dead in his tracks at the entrance, his hand still gripping yours. His eyes dart around the room, wide and glassy, like a deer in headlights.

Zak claps him on the shoulder. “Right, Lando. They’re just going to check you over, make sure everything is good before the race.”

Lando stares at him. “What race?” His voice is strained, barely above a whisper.

Zak’s smile is tight, his patience visibly thinning. “The Grand Prix. On Sunday. We’ve got three days to get you ready.”

Lando takes a step back, bumping into you. “How … how am I supposed to race?” He stammers, his voice cracking. “I don’t even remember what racing is. How do you expect me to get in a car and drive it? What if I crash? What if I-”

He’s spiraling, and you can feel it. His breathing is coming faster now, his grip on your hand becoming painfully tight.

“Lando,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. “Breathe, okay? Just breathe.”

But it’s like he can’t hear you. His chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid bursts, his other hand gripping the hem of his shirt so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters, shaking his head over and over again. “I don’t even know how to be me. Everyone’s acting like I’m supposed to just jump back into my life, but I-” He cuts off, his throat tightening.

Zak opens his mouth, likely to say something firm and pragmatic, but before he can, the door swings open again, and someone strides in.

“Lando?”

A young man in casual team gear stands at the door, blinking as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His brown hair is slightly tousled, and there’s a look of cautious relief in his eyes.

Lando stiffens beside you, his breath catching. He stares at the newcomer, recognition flickering in his eyes — not in the form of memory, but in the way his entire body seems to relax at the sight of him.

“Who-” Lando starts, his voice unsteady.

The young man steps forward, concern written all over his face. “It’s me. Oscar.”

Lando doesn’t move for a moment, frozen in place. Then, slowly, as if something instinctive clicks into place, he takes a step toward the other man.

“Oscar …” he murmurs, testing the name on his tongue.

Oscar closes the distance between them in two quick strides and pulls Lando into a tight, firm hug. And just like that, Lando melts into it. His whole body seems to deflate, the tension draining from his muscles as he leans into Oscar’s embrace.

“Fucking hell, mate,” Oscar mutters against his shoulder, giving him a hard squeeze. “We were all freaking out. You had us worried sick.”

Lando doesn’t say anything, just clings to Oscar like a lifeline, his face buried in the other man’s shoulder. It’s the first time you’ve seen him fully relax since the accident, and it takes you by surprise how much it affects you.

Zak clears his throat, and Oscar finally pulls back, though he keeps a steadying hand on Lando’s shoulder.

Lando wipes at his eyes quickly, like he’s embarrassed to have broken down in front of everyone. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I … I don’t remember you. But you feel … familiar.”

Oscar gives him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out, yeah? One step at a time.”

Lando nods, biting his lip, and you can tell he’s trying to keep it together.

Zak claps his hands. “Right, now that we’ve had our reunion, we need to get started. Oscar, you can stick around, but these guys need to run some tests.”

Oscar gives Lando’s shoulder one more squeeze before stepping aside to let the medical team take over. You start to follow, but Lando’s hand shoots out, grabbing yours again.

“Stay,” he whispers, his eyes pleading.

You nod, squeezing his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The next couple of hours are a blur of activity. Lando sits through blood tests, brain scans, vision checks, and reflex tests, all the while clinging to your hand like a lifeline. Every now and then, Oscar cracks a joke or nudges Lando with his elbow, trying to make him smile. And somehow, it works. You can see the flickers of trust between them — something unspoken and unbreakable, even if Lando doesn’t remember it yet.

When the doctors finally wrap up, Zak reappears, looking satisfied with the reports. “You’re good to go, Lando. Rest up tonight. You have free practice tomorrow.”

Lando’s face pales again. “Practice? For the race?”

Zak nods. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll be fine. It’ll come back to you once you’re in the car.”

Lando looks far from convinced, but Oscar slings an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll be with you the whole time, mate. We’ll take it slow, alright?”

Lando exhales, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

You give his hand one last squeeze before finally letting go, your heart heavy with the knowledge that Lando’s world is slowly pulling him back in — whether he’s ready or not.

***

Friday arrives under the blinding Texas sun, and the paddock at the Circuit of the Americas is alive with the hum of activity. The smell of hot asphalt, rubber, and gasoline fills the air, and everything seems to move at hyperspeed — mechanics adjusting tires, engineers tapping furiously on laptops, and cameras catching every moment of the weekend’s unfolding drama.

In the McLaren garage, Lando stands rooted in place, wide-eyed and tense, staring at the papaya-colored car being prepped for free practice. His race suit feels suffocatingly tight, and every instinct in his body is screaming at him to run.

“Mate, you’ve got this. It’ll come back to you,” Oscar says from beside him, squeezing Lando’s shoulder.

Lando swallows hard, feeling the sweat bead on his brow beneath the weight of his helmet in his hands. He glances at the car and then at Zak, who gives him an encouraging nod. Everyone around him looks so calm — like this is all normal, like this is exactly where he belongs.

But the thing is, he doesn’t remember if this is where he belongs. His stomach churns with fear, twisting tighter with each glance at the sleek machine waiting for him.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Lando mutters, just loud enough for you to hear. His voice is thin, almost lost beneath the noise of the garage. “What if I mess up? What if I crash? What if-”

“Lando.”

He turns, eyes full of panic, and you step closer, careful to keep your voice steady. “Breathe. Just … take a second. You don’t have to think about the race right now. Just the practice. One lap at a time. One corner at a time.”

He clenches his jaw, struggling to keep his composure. “But what if I forget what to do? I still don’t even remember who I am.”

“You’re Lando Norris,” you say firmly. “And I know you’ve got this. Maybe your brain doesn’t remember, but your body does.”

Lando’s lip twitches, caught between a nervous laugh and a scoff. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“Hey.” You nudge his shoulder with yours. “You said it yourself yesterday — racing must mean something to you. Your body knows what to do. You just have to trust it.”

He stares at you for a moment, lips parting slightly like he wants to argue, but something in your expression makes him pause. He takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay,” he whispers, though it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

Just then, one of the mechanics gestures toward the car. “It’s ready, mate. Time to hop in.”

Lando’s hands tremble slightly as he adjusts his helmet under his arm. Zak gives him an encouraging clap on the back, and Oscar leans in close. “I’ll be right there with you during practice. You’re not alone in this, okay?”

Lando nods, though his eyes are still clouded with uncertainty.

The mechanics pull back the steering wheel and lift it out of the cockpit, making room for him to slide in. Lando stares at the narrow seat, frozen for just a second too long, before your voice cuts through the haze of his fear.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Lando. Just be you.”

Something about those words seems to reach him. He sucks in a breath, gives you a tentative nod, and finally, slowly, lowers himself into the cockpit.

And just like that, something shifts.

The moment his body settles into the molded seat, his fingers finding the familiar feel of the wheel, it’s as if a switch is flipped inside him. His shoulders relax slightly, his hands seem to know exactly where to rest, and his feet instinctively press against the pedals like they belong there. He rolls his neck side to side, the movements fluid and natural — like he’s done it a thousand times before.

The mechanics lean in to fasten his harness and replace the wheel, and Lando doesn’t flinch, his attention shifting to the world through the narrow slit of his helmet. His hands tighten around the wheel, and without thinking, he taps one of the buttons to bring up a setting on the dash.

Zak notices the small motion and smiles. “There he is.”

Oscar leans down beside the cockpit and grins. “Told you, mate. It’s muscle memory. You’re already in the zone.”

Lando doesn’t reply, but you can see the faintest flicker of something like relief in his eyes. His breath evens out, and some of the tension in his posture melts away.

You step closer to the side of the car, giving him a thumbs-up. “See? Like riding a bike.”

He turns his head slightly toward you, the corners of his mouth twitching under the helmet. “Except a bike doesn’t go 300 kilometers an hour.”

“Details,” you say with a grin.

One of the engineers taps his headset. “Alright, Lando. Fire it up. We’ll do a systems check before you head out.”

Lando takes a deep breath, then hits the ignition button. The engine roars to life with a deafening growl, vibrating through the air and rattling the walls of the garage. You jump slightly at the sound, but Lando doesn’t even blink. His eyes are locked straight ahead, his grip on the wheel steady.

It’s like watching a different person — the nervous, unsure Lando from earlier fading into the background as something sharper, more focused, takes its place.

The mechanics give a few final nods, signaling everything is good to go. The team radio crackles to life in Lando’s ear.

“Alright, Lando. Systems look good. Let’s roll out and get some laps in. We’ll ease into it.”

Lando’s fingers tap lightly against the wheel, a gesture that feels almost unconscious. He glances over at you one last time, his eyes peeking through the visor.

“You’ve got this,” you tell him, your voice steady and sure. “Just drive.”

For the first time since you met him, Lando’s smile reaches his eyes. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s there — a glimpse of the person buried beneath the fear and confusion.

“Thanks,” he murmurs through the helmet, his voice crackling over the radio.

You step back as the mechanics lower the car off its jacks. The tires touch the ground with a solid thunk, and the sound of the engine revving fills the garage.

“Let’s do this,” Lando says, more to himself than anyone else. And with that, the car rolls forward, smooth and controlled, out of the garage and into the sunlight of the pit lane.

You stand at the edge of the garage, watching as the papaya car disappears around the corner, the roar of the engine fading into the distance. Your heart pounds in your chest, a strange mixture of pride and nerves settling in your stomach.

“He’ll be fine,” Zak says from beside you, watching the car with a knowing smile. “He always is.”

You exhale slowly, still gripping the edge of the garage wall. “I hope so.”

As Lando’s car speeds down the track for the first lap of free practice, a thought strikes you — he might not remember who he is right now, but in this moment, behind the wheel of that car, he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

And somehow, you know he’ll figure the rest out from there.

***

Saturday arrives with the buzz of excitement hanging thick in the air, the kind that only race weekends can bring. The Texas sun beats down mercilessly on the Circuit of the Americas, and the grandstands are packed, fans waving flags, faces painted with bright colors, and anticipation radiating from the crowd. The tension in the McLaren garage is almost palpable.

Lando sits in the cockpit of his car, visor down, hands relaxed but ready on the steering wheel as Q3 begins. The roar of engines fills the track as the remaining drivers fight for the top starting positions for the sprint race. It’s fast, intense, and unforgiving. There’s no room for hesitation here — only precision and instinct. And for the first time in days, Lando feels like himself again — or at least the closest version of it.

But there’s still a wall in his mind, blocking the memories of who he is beyond this moment, beyond the car. His hands know what to do. His feet know where to place pressure on the pedals. But his brain? It still feels like a stranger.

“Alright, Lando,” his engineer's voice crackles through the radio. “We’ve got time for two more flying laps. Let’s go get it, mate.”

“Copy that,” Lando replies, voice steady.

The tires squeal as he tears down the straight, the roar of the engine vibrating through every bone in his body. He weaves through the first sector like a painter brushing strokes across a canvas, flowing naturally from apex to apex. For those watching, Lando Norris looks like a man on fire — quick, precise, unrelenting. But inside his helmet, he’s still scrambling.

The team radios him updates as he pushes through his first timed lap, green and purple sectors lighting up on his dash. But something still feels off. There’s a pressure building in his chest, like an itch at the back of his mind that refuses to surface.

“Sector 2 looking great, Lando. Keep it together, and we’ve got a chance at pole.”

He doesn’t respond — can’t respond. The itch is growing stronger. A spark flares at the edges of his consciousness, like a door creaking open just a sliver. His grip tightens on the wheel as he flies through the penultimate corner.

And then, it happens.

The door in his mind swings open with the force of a tidal wave, flooding him with memory after memory. It’s overwhelming — flashes of moments, feelings, names, faces. The accident. The ambulance. You.

He remembers everything.

“Holy fuck!” Lando’s voice bursts through the radio, excitement crackling through every word. “I-I remember everything!”

There’s a stunned silence on the other end of the line before his engineer’s voice comes back, laced with disbelief. “Lando? You’re saying-”

“Yeah, yeah — everything!” Lando’s laugh is almost hysterical, pure joy and disbelief pouring out of him. “I know who I am. I know where I am. Oh my god, I can’t believe this!”

“Lando, that’s — well, fantastic, mate!” The engineer’s relief is obvious, but there’s no time to dwell. “Alright, focus. One more corner. Bring it home.”

And just like that, Lando snaps back into race mode. His hands feel lighter on the wheel, his body moves with an ease that’s almost poetic. He barrels down the final straight with precision, pushing the car to its limits.

The crowd erupts as he crosses the finish line.

“P1, Lando! P1!” His engineer shouts, barely able to contain his excitement. “You’ve put it on pole, mate!”

Lando lets out a whoop of joy, thumping the side of the steering wheel. “Let’s go!” He shouts, the exhilaration bubbling over. “Pole position, baby!”

The car rolls back into the pit lane, where the team is already waiting for him, cheering, clapping, and slapping the side of the car in celebration. Lando pulls himself out of the cockpit, yanking off his helmet and balaclava. His curls are a sweaty mess, his face flushed from the heat, but his grin is unstoppable.

He barely has a moment to catch his breath before you come rushing through the crowd toward him.

“You remembered?” You ask breathlessly, searching his face, your own eyes wide with disbelief and relief.

Lando laughs, nodding as he sweeps you into a hug without hesitation. “Yeah, I remembered!” He says, voice muffled into your hair. His arms are tight around you, grounding himself in the moment, as if letting go might make everything disappear again.

You let out a laugh, part relief, part disbelief. “That’s amazing, Lando!”

When he finally pulls back, there’s something softer in his expression — a gratitude so deep it’s hard to put into words. He stares at you for a moment, as if committing every detail of your face to memory.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Lando says, his voice dropping into something more serious, more heartfelt. “I — thank you. For everything.”

You shake your head, trying to wave off his words, but he grabs your hand, holding it tightly between his. “No, seriously. I may have forgotten a lot over the past week, but I’ll never forget you. I mean it.”

His eyes are bright and sincere, and the weight of his words settles warmly between the two of you.

“Well,” you say, trying to lighten the mood, “I guess you’ll have to pay me back now, huh? I did cover your food and clothes.”

Lando throws his head back and laughs — a real, genuine laugh that feels like sunshine after a storm. “Deal. I owe you big time.”

He squeezes your hand one last time before reluctantly letting go, the roar of the crowd still echoing around you. But in this moment, none of that matters.

All that matters is that Lando is back.

***

The McLaren motorhome is quieter than usual as the race weekend winds down. The buzz of victory and podium celebrations has shifted to a more subdued hum. Lando didn’t make the podium this time — P4 after a frustrating five-second penalty. You’re sitting on one of the couches in the corner, sipping a bottle of water while waiting for him to finish his media duties and post-race obligations.

The screen on the wall is playing highlights from the race, showing flashes of the battles on track, the post-race interviews, and the podium celebrations. You glance at it occasionally, but your mind is elsewhere. The last week has been a whirlwind — meeting Lando, the accident, taking him home, the amnesia, his memories flooding back during qualifying. And now, here you are in Austin, at a Formula 1 race, as if you somehow stumbled into an alternate reality.

When Lando finally walks in, his race suit unzipped down to his waist, hair still damp from sweat, he looks a mix of exhausted and relieved. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles — a real one, not the half-hearted, media-friendly smile you’d seen him wear earlier.

“Hey,” he says, dropping into the seat next to you. “Sorry that took forever.”

“It’s fine,” you shrug, returning the smile. “You’re the one who had to go talk to like fifty people after a penalty.”

Lando groans, leaning his head back against the couch. “Don’t remind me. I could’ve had a podium today.”

“You still did great,” you say sincerely. “Fourth is nothing to be disappointed about, especially with that penalty.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Lando mumbles, but his eyes flicker with something else — like he’s wrestling with his thoughts. He looks away for a second, then glances back at you, opening his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then closes it again.

You watch him for a moment, the silence stretching between you, comfortable but also heavy with something unspoken. Finally, you break it with a soft chuckle. “Well, I guess this is it, huh?”

Lando straightens slightly, turning to look at you, his brows knitting together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you gesture vaguely, “this is where we part ways. You’ve got your life back, and I’ve got … a mountain of reading for law school waiting for me.” You force a small smile, trying to make it lighthearted, but there’s an awkwardness to it.

Lando’s face falls, just for a moment, but it’s enough to make your heart twist. He rubs the back of his neck, looking down at his hands. “Yeah, I guess … I guess so.” He pauses, and when he looks back up, there’s something nervous in his eyes, something hesitant, like he’s not sure if he should say what he’s about to say. “But, uh … I’ve been thinking.”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“So, next weekend is the Mexican Grand Prix,” he says slowly, watching your reaction. “And I know you’ve got classes and everything, but …” He trails off, biting his lip, before blurting out, “I’d really love it if you could come.”

You blink, taken aback. “Mexico?”

“Yeah,” Lando says quickly, leaning forward, his hands gesturing as if he’s trying to convince you. “I mean, I’d cover all the travel expenses, of course. And I could get you a paddock pass again so you could hang out in the garage, watch the race from the best spot. It’d be fun.”

You tilt your head, pretending to think it over, though you can already feel your resolve crumbling. “Hmm, I don’t know. I have a lot of lectures to catch up on …”

Lando’s face falls, and he looks genuinely disappointed, his expression bordering on sad. “Oh, right, yeah, of course,” he mumbles, his voice dropping. “I totally get it. You’ve got your school stuff, and I don’t want to-”

“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, laughing softly. “I’ll come.”

His eyes light up immediately. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” you confirm, smiling at his excitement. “I mean, I can watch the lecture recordings online, and it’s not like I get an invitation to a Grand Prix every day.”

Lando’s smile grows, wide and almost boyish in its happiness. “You won’t regret it,” he promises, leaning back with a sigh of relief. “I swear, you’ll have the best time.”

“I’d better,” you tease. “You’re my tour guide, after all.”

Lando chuckles, his body visibly relaxing now that you’ve agreed. “Deal. I’ll make sure you get the full VIP treatment.” He glances at you, then adds with a smirk, “I might even throw in some lunch for good measure.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re really going all out, huh?”

“For you?” Lando grins, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “Of course.”

There’s a brief pause, the playful banter falling into a comfortable silence again, but this time it’s lighter, easier. Lando looks over at you, his expression softening. “I’m really glad you’re coming, though. It’s been a crazy week, and … I don’t know, it just feels better having you around.”

You glance down, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. “Yeah, it’s been a pretty wild week,” you agree quietly.

Lando shifts closer, his knee brushing against yours. “You’ve kind of become my good luck charm, you know.”

You snort. “Good luck? You didn’t even get a podium today.”

He laughs, throwing his head back. “Alright, alright, but still … I feel like everything’s better when you’re there.”

His voice drops slightly, and you look up, meeting his eyes. There’s a sincerity in his gaze, something deeper than just the playful banter that’s been passing between you. It catches you off guard, and for a second, you don’t know how to respond.

But then Lando breaks the tension with a crooked smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “So, what do you say? Ready for another adventure?”

You chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief. “I don’t know how I keep getting roped into these things.”

Lando smirks, standing up and offering his hand to you. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”

You roll your eyes, but take his hand anyway, letting him pull you to your feet. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

He grins, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you walk out of the motorhome together. “Oh, you totally would.”

***

The Mexican Grand Prix is nothing short of electric. The grandstands of the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez are packed with thousands of fans, waving flags, blowing horns, and chanting in unison. The energy in the paddock is unlike anything you’ve seen before, and you can feel it thrumming through your skin as you stand in the McLaren garage, nerves and excitement buzzing through you like static electricity.

Lando had qualified well, putting his car on the front row. And now, after nearly two hours of wheel-to-wheel racing, pit stops, and heart-pounding battles, the chequered flag waves, and Lando wins.

He wins.

The entire team explodes into chaos. Engineers jump from their monitors, hugging each other, cheering, and throwing their hands into the air. Zak claps so hard it sounds like thunder, while others shout and bang on the pit wall. In the garage, you scream, your voice lost in the roar of celebrations, barely able to believe what you’ve just witnessed.

“He did it!” One of the engineers shouts, wrapping you in a quick hug, making you laugh from the sheer joy of it all. The victory feels contagious, like every person in McLaren colors has won alongside Lando.

In parc fermé, the top three cars pull into their designated spots, their engines cooling with a metallic hiss. Lando’s McLaren rolls to a stop in P1, the bright papaya-colored car shimmering under the Mexican sun. As soon as the mechanics signal it’s safe, Lando jumps out, punching the air with both fists, his face stretched into the widest grin you’ve ever seen.

He rips off his helmet and balaclava, his messy curls sticking to his forehead with sweat. You can see the pure, unfiltered elation on his face — he’s won before, but this one feels special. Hard-fought. Hard-earned.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, Lando catches sight of you standing at the edge of the fenced-off area, just outside the celebrating team members. His eyes light up, his grin somehow growing even bigger. And then-

He’s moving toward you.

The crowd, the cameras, the team — all of it fades into the background as Lando beelines straight to you, like you’re the only person in the world he wants to share this moment with. He doesn’t think twice. His arms wrap around you, and before you can say a word, he kisses you.

It’s quick but intense — an explosion of happiness, adrenaline, and pure relief all at once. His lips crash against yours, and for a second, everything stops.

You freeze, wide-eyed, as your brain catches up to what’s happening. Lando Norris — Formula 1 driver who just won the Mexican Grand Prix — is kissing you.

And just as fast as it happened, it’s over.

Lando pulls back abruptly, eyes wide with realization, looking as if he’s just broken every unwritten rule. His face flushes as if he’s mortified, and he stammers, “Oh — oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t — I mean, I wasn’t thinking. I-“

You blink, still stunned, and then — laughter bubbles out of you, light and genuine. You can’t stop it.

“You idiot,” you manage between giggles, shaking your head.

Lando’s face is somewhere between sheepish and panicked, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find the right words to apologize. But before he can get another word out, you grab the front of his race suit, pull him back toward you, and kiss him again — this time with purpose.

His hands find your waist instinctively, pulling you closer. This kiss is slower, softer, but filled with the same electric energy. Around you, the world erupts — the cameras are flashing, the team is cheering, and the crowd in the stands is losing its mind — but none of it matters.

It’s just you and Lando.

When you finally pull back, both of you breathless, Lando stares at you like he can’t quite believe what just happened. “Does this mean I’m not in trouble?” He asks, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “You just won the race, Lando. I think you’re allowed a free pass.”

He leans his forehead against yours, still smiling, his breath coming in short bursts from the exertion of the race and the adrenaline coursing through him. “Best. Weekend. Ever.”

“You’re biased,” you tease, but your heart feels light, like it’s floating somewhere above the grandstands.

“I mean it,” Lando murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly over your waist. “And it’s only the beginning.”

Before you can respond, Zak’s booming voice cuts through the noise. “Hey, lovebirds! Save it for later — we’ve got a podium to attend!”

You both pull apart, faces flushed but smiling. Lando gives you one last look, a mixture of joy, disbelief, and something else — something you can’t quite put your finger on yet. Then, with a wink, he jogs off to be weighed, leaving you standing there, your heart hammering against your ribcage.

And, as you watch him climb onto the top step of the podium, spraying champagne over everyone, you realize that the whirlwind you’ve been caught in with Lando Norris isn’t slowing down anytime soon. And honestly? You’re okay with that.

2K notes · View notes

rafesteddy · 8 months ago

Text

“𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲” - 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭

+18 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻 𝓓𝓝𝓘

𝙳𝙸𝙻𝙵!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 × 𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙵!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒: 𝐒𝐮𝐛𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐃𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤 | 𝐎𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐦 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥

𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮𝔂𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓴𝓽𝓸𝓫𝓮𝓻 𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓴 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓮𝓮

𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙/𝖘𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖉𝖚𝖑𝖊

⚠️ warnings contain spoilers ⚠️

Older!Rafe, DILF!Rafe, pet names, kissing, praise, angst, soft!Rafe, swearing, smoking, drinking, unprotected p in v, oral (male receiving), cum tasting, spanking, choking, rough sex, degredation, rough oral, ownership kink, orgasm control, multiple orgasms

Thank you to my lovely beta reader @oceandriveab love you bae 💕🩷

Rafe’s POV:

"I love you, man. But, I'm home for one fuckin' week. Leave me alone. Yeah?"

"The Azimut deal is major, Cameron," my boss groans. “We really need you face-to-face in Italy.”

"I haven’t been home in a month. I’m gonna be gone for another few weeks," I chuckle in disbelief as I rub the sleep from my eyes; this fucker is tryin’ to pull even more of my time away. “Send, Top. I’m sure he’ll be able to land the deal. Alright?”

"We both know he won’t-"

"Not my fuckin’ problem," I cut him short as I drift into the driveway.

"Your loss. That’s a shit ton of money, man.”

"Yeah… Well, I got plenty of that. We done?" I taunt.

"Fuck. You’re killin’ me... See you in a week, Cameron. Give the best to y/n and the kids."

"Umm yeah... Gotta go," I sigh as I watch the scene play out in front of me. Jesus Christ. Problems already? This kid... Why is he me? Fuck. I'm gettin’ it back tenfold. I roll down my window, eavesdropping shamelessly, watching Harbor Thornton clamber the rest of the way out the window. Max leans toward her, cig dangling from his lip, no shirt on his muscular body, and a neck full of fresh hickeys.

"Tell him you went to Macy’s house, princess," he smirks, exhaling two streams of smoke through his nose. "I'll be right down. M'kay?"

"Don't take too long, Maxi. We're gonna be late."

Maxi? I can't help but snort out a sleepy snicker.

"Late for a party? We’re always late, Thornton. I just need to get my shit. Then, we can go to your house and get you dressed.”

”I can’t wait for you to see my costume, baby. Maybe you can take it off me later.”

”M’plannin’ on it.” He hooks his hand around the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her bleach-blonde hair.

"Maybe we can sneak into Piper’s parent’s room," she mumbles between sloppy kisses. Enough. Make it end. I open the truck door, slamming it shut. The two of them fall silent.

"Welp. Now or never," I gripe as I press the door open— Harbor lowers herself down the side of the house, clearly aware of my arrival as she does her best to hide. Like it matters, sweetheart... Your BMW is parked right outside the gate. "Have a nice day, Harbor," I sigh.

She looks around the house, giving me a guilty grin and a wave. "Uh-h... Hi, Mr. Cameron," she stammers. "You too." Harbor looks back at the window, no Max to be seen, quickly scampering to her car. An even thicker cloud of smoke pours out, wafting away. Jesus Christ, bud. I throw my head down, shuffling up toward the door, climbing up a few steps before grabbing the knob. There's a stir behind it already. My babies. Jerking it open, stepping through the threshold, a roar of joy following fast.

"Daddy!" Poppy shrieks at the top of her lungs. Her feet patter against the hardwood floor, Rory trailing close behind. I squat down to their level, waiting for them to round the corner. I meet their twinkling eyes, smiles doubling. They crash into my arms, crawling onto me to get closer. I hold them tight, taking in their smell. A wide smile sets on my lips as well.

"I missed you, two."

"Missed you, Daddy," Rory smiles. Poppy gives me an all-too-wet kiss on the cheek before nuzzling in again.

"I love you, Daddy," she whispers.

"I love you, princess. And I love you too, bud."

They leave as soon as they come, tearing back to the kitchen, leaving y/n standing in the doorframe, giving me a moment. She chuckles warmly, a beautiful smile playing on her perfect lips, giving me butterflies. Still. She walks my way, wrapping her arms around my neck. Picking her up in a hug, I pull her in tight. "Fuck. I missed my girl," I mumble against her skin, pressing a gentle kiss on the crook of her neck. "I love you, babydoll."

I set her down on the ground, not letting her leave my arms. Matching her gaze, I feel myself at peace again. "I love you too, baby," she whispers. Damn, I missed her voice. Cupping her soft cheek in my hands, I kiss her again, feeling her smile against my mouth.

"What?" I laugh lightly.

"You kinda smell like weed," she hums.

"That ain't me, honey."

"What?" She draws back, wide-eyed. "Max?"

"Mhmm..."

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head in frustration. "I said no weed," she whizzes. I blurt out a laugh, throwing my head back. Y/n slaps my chest, a little scowl setting on her pouty lips. "Rafe... He has ISS."

"ISS?"

"In-school suspension..."

"Oh shit. What'd I miss?" I breathe as I shut my eyes tightly. "Lay it on me, princess."

"Apparently, he sells weed."

"Why?" I whine. "It's not like he needs to..."

"He said we wouldn't buy him that truck he wanted? So, he's gonna buy his own."

"All’s I said was he had to wait ‘til his birthday or somethin’. He wants a fuckin’ Raptor, y/n. Shit starts at 80 G’s… Maybe get a job? Help me around the office? Do somethin’ besides jackin’ our boat, drinkin’ beers, and golfin’. Jesus fuck, that kid’s somethin’ else."

"Technically... he did get a job,” she breathes as she rests her palms on my chest, calming me down slightly.

"Technically... I guess," I huff, rolling my eyes away. "He is killin' me. Did you know Thornton was here?"

“Topper?”

“Harbor,” I correct her. Y/n's mouth falls open in disgust. "She was not... She didn’t come through the front.”

"Think they wanted some privacy, honey," you groan, shuddering in disgust, y/n echoing the same.

"Can you talk to him?" Y/n whispers, her tired eyes pleading with mine. "I thought I was doin' a good job, Rafe—Shit's fallin' through the cracks. I wasn’t even gonna do anything with the twins for Halloween… Just dress ‘em in one of Winnie and Max’s old costumes and pass out candy.”

“Winnie…” I smile, just thinkin’ about my pride and joy. “Where’s our girl at?” I ask as I look around the house, just the sound of the twins pattering feet left behind.

“You don’t wanna know,” Y/n sighs as she tugs her phone out of her back pocket, showing me a picture that has my eyes doubling.

“That’s Win?” I ask as I look down at my angel in next to nothin’, slamming my eyes shut in mental exhaustion. “What is she supposed to be?”

“Little Red Riding Hood?” Y/n sighs— the two of us silently coming to terms with the fact that our babies are anything but babies anymore.

“So, she’s gone then?”

“Just left with Jackson Mayb-”

“Don’t finish that sentence, pretty girl,” I mumble as I wrap my arms around her shoulders, pulling her in for comfort.

“It’s been a mess here, Rafe. I’m not doing a good job-”

"You." I stop her, pressing a rough kiss on her forehead. "You are doing an amazing job, y/n."

"Thank you," she whispers weakly. Y/n's attention gets ripped away, brows furrowing in irritation as she glances out the front window, watching Max lower himself from above. "Now? Please."

"Of course, honey." I give her one last kiss, turning toward the door, breaking out in a little trot, throwing the entry open. "Max!"

Max turns on his heels, looking back at me annoyedly, his mother's scowl and a button nose, the rest of him all me. "Rafe."

"Scuse me?" I challenge, making him shift his stance, crossing his arms over his tight white polo, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"I'm just kiddin'. Calm your tits,” he scoffs.

"Sure… I missed you. Weren't you gonna say 'hi' or anythin’?" He crushes the grass with his boat shoe, throwing his gaze to the ground to avoid eye contact. "Max?"

"Missed you too. Sorry... I just didn't want a lecture ‘bout Harbor-”

"Harbor?” I laugh tiredly. “The Thornton girl is the least of my worries. Why are you sellin', bud? You could get a job or help-"

"Rich comin' from you," he snips, cutting me off with a cruel laugh.

"What does that mean?"

"It's like the pot callin' the kettle black. You were literally a drug dealer. You dealt drugs, Dad."

"That shit was different ."

"That shit was worse," He sneers, turning back in the direction he was going. “M’sellin’ grass, not yayo. Fuckin’ hypocrit,” he yaps over his shoulder.

"Just get a normal job, Max. Like one with a W -2 ... Work with me-”

"Nah... 'Cause you don't get it,” he turns around, angry and quick.

"What don't I get?" I lift my voice, causing Max to return his stare to mine, looking back at me in disbelief.

"You’re never home. What’s there to do if you ain’t here? Huh?”

"Max-"

"What, Dad? Seriously... I'm gonna be late to pick her up. It’s Halloween. Give it a rest-”

"Cut the shit, Max," I mumble. "She's on the other side of the gate." He gives me a smirk, holding back a chuckle as he takes off his captain’s hat, running his fingers through his hair with a smug smile before putting it back on. "You two bein’ safe?" I ask gently.

"Not talkin' to you about that, old man."

"Holy shit," I puff, covering my eyes with my hands as I do my best not to lose my mind. "I'm your dad, Max. I worry about that shit."

"Of course we are. I'm not a stupid like-"

"Like me? Only me. Right?" I stop him before he can go any further, seeing the first look of remorse in his sights. "I know you weren't about to talk about your mom, Max." He throws his gaze to his feet again. "What would she say if she heard you talkin' like that?"

"She'd be upset," he mutters feebly. "Don't tell her I said that. I'm sorry."

"We just want you to be safe. Okay? It wasn't easy for your mom and me for a while. We just want your life to be easier. We aren't tryin' to ruin your life. And we can talk about the job tomorrow. I don’t wanna ruin your night. I'm sure we can figure out somethin' that doesn't involve you sellin' weed." He nods, giving me a soft smile. His mother's smile. Max turns around again, stepping away.

"I love you, bud."

"Love you too, dad. I'm glad you're home." There's no sarcasm in his tone, warming your heart.

"Oh, wait! Did you two need me to pick you up tonight?" I ask as he passes through the gate.

"The fuck do you think?" He cracks up, flicking me off with a smile.

Love you too, buddy. Turning around, I trudge up the driveway toward the house. Well... I don't know if I made it better or worse. But, that was somethin'.' I close my eyes, taking a deep, needed breath. The front door opens, and Y/n steps, strolling toward her SUV with the twins in hand. She opens the side, letting them climb in, walking back to the trunk.

Her dress sways with the fall breeze, heels strapped around her ankles. Wow. I’m struck with déjà vu. She wore a dress just like that on our first date. I couldn't keep my eyes off her. That face, that smile, her voice, her curves. She knew how to work 'em all.

Babygirl… Y/n reaches inside, the hem of her dress riding up her thighs. The slightest peak of her perfect fuckin' ass. A smile spreads across my lips. Y/n knows I'm watchin'... She knew it then, too. I need her... So fuckin' bad. It's been too long.

I walk toward her while she digs through the twins' travel bag, hastily taking hold of her hips, pressing myself against her ass, making her giggle. She winds up slowly, relaxing her back against my chest, looking up at me over her shoulder. "You're stunning. Fuck, you look so damn good, y/n," I rasp.

"Thank you, daddy. So do you."

"What are you doin’, ma?”

“Getting them costumes. I feel guilty, Rafe,” she sighs with embarrassment. “I can’t believe I didn’t. The older kids are a disaster; the house is a mess-”

“Don’t feel guilty, baby. The kids are fine. They’re just teenagers. Yeah? And you aren’t a maid. I can’t believe you’re keepin’ up with everything like you are. Get outta here, baby. Buy yourself a coffee, get us a bottle of wine for later, pick up the costumes. Let me handle these two. Unless you want me to go-”

“No!” She stops me fast, laughing at her rash reply. “No. I’d love to get out”.

“And, I’ll talk to the housekeeper about comin’ once a week. Oh, and Harbor… I’ll ask her to come over when I’m outta town so you can take a break. You deserve it.”

“You sure,” she asks apprehensively.

“‘Course I’m sure, pretty,” I croon as I cup her cheeks, pressing a kiss on her lips. “We’ll get these kids dressed up, walk around the neighborhood for a bit, put ‘em down, and have some time for ourselves.”

"That would be amazing." She turns her body into mine, arms wrapping around me, slipping into the back pockets of my slacks. "A night to ourselves. Huh?” She smiles at me coyly.

"Yeah… We’ll snag the good candy, bury a few glasses of wine, and have a good night…”

"I can’t wait, Rafey. I need you so bad."

"Well, shit," I chuckle lustfully. "You're readin' my mind."

"It's been too long." She leans in for a kiss as she squeezes my ass.

"I was just sayin' that, y/n." My hands weave through her hair, tugging slightly.

"You should feel how wet I am for you..."

"That so?" I slip my hand down, tracing slowly up her thigh, feeling her lace panties soaking wet.

"AHHH!" Poppy screeches, making you both jump, jolting the two of you out of your feral state.

"What the hell..." I grumble, making y/n laugh. "You good, princess?" Poppy smiles brightly from her car seat. Her blonde curls bounce as she nods 'yes.’

"She's been doin' that all week," y/n breathes.

"I'm sorry, baby. You're a patient woman," I hail as I pull her in for a hug. "Thank you."

“Anything for you, daddy.”

Shit. I rub my hand over my smile as she steps away, smacking her ass before she can get too far, chuckling to myself as I watch the recoil. So fuckin’ sexy. Y/n meets my gaze, giving me a little wink as she steps into the front seat. Yeah… That’s my girl.

“You two wanna go play on the trampoline?” I ask, offering up the only thing that’ll pull them out of the vehicle without tears. The two squeal with delight as I free them from their seats, climbing out of the car, running toward the back before I can even shut the doors. I stand in the drive, waving at y/n as she pulls out. She looks happier. Fuck, she just needed time to herself.

Hurry home, baby.

Reader’s POV:

You pour a coffee for Rafe and yourself, adding some Bailey’s to top it all off. It had been a long, tiring week with a never-ending list of tasks with him away. But he was finally home. Rafe leans down at eye-level with your daughter, fixing her little cat ears. He turns to your son, swathing the superhero cape around his shoulders before tying the perfect bow.

The twins giggle, bright smiles plastered all over their round faces as their favorite man dotes on them, the two sneaking in hugs and kisses when they can. Rafe reaches into the back pocket of his slacks, grabbing his phone, snapping picture after picture of the duo, looking back at them proudly.

The four of you step out into the night, hand-in-hand. You walk through your beautiful neighborhood, an unsaid contest between the kooks of who could outdo who, each one of the stately manors more done up than the last. Jack-o’-lanterns flicker on the entrances, spooky music swelling all around.

You look up at Rafe and smile. Even though it was decades ago, you couldn't help but see that same college boy you fell in love with; Rafe still rocking a backward cap, his crisp polo poking out of his cozy North Face jacket. He’s exchanged his jeans for khakis and his red SOLO cups for a travel mug. But the man only looks better with age. The glow of the streetlights highlights his strong jawline— grizzled with the perfect 5 o'clock shadow. His beautiful blue eyes follow the twins as they run freely from house to house. Rafe’s fit, he always has been, but the way his muscles move under his clothes has you dying to rip them all off.

He’s talking business, telling stories about some big deals he closed. You try your best to focus—you really do, but you get lost watching his perfect lips as he speaks, catching the little looks he steals between sips of coffee making your head spin.

Rafe was working so hard for your family: closing deals, making a name for himself, doing what he loves and still coming home being the husband and dad you could only dream of… He’s perfect. You'd drag him home right now if it wouldn't break the twins’ hearts.

Your kids run over, laughing and squealing with delight, opening their bags wide to show the two of you their treasures. Rafe kneels down, looking in the sack, asking them about their loot. “What’d you get? Show me, princess,” Rafe invites, his tone softening as she speaks to her. Your daughter reaches into the satchel and points her tiny finger at a few king-size candy bars. Rafe sneaks his hand in too, grabbing a Reese’s cup. Your daughter’s eyes widened in horror; Rafe signature scowl and glare cutting into her dad.

“Daddy!” She scolds, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Oh - Umm,” Rafe panics slightly as he stands up, towering over your daughter, looking down at her as he fumbles for his wallet. “I didn't steal it. Alright? Daddy was hungry, was all. How much do I owe you, sweetheart?”

“A dollar.”

“A dollar?” He gasps as he fights a wide smile. “You drive a hard bargain.” Rafe thumbs through his wallet, pulling out a dollar and one more as he catches Rory hoping for one too. “N’what do you have for me, buddy?” He questions as he crouches down, looking in the bag. Rory sticks out his tongue as he reaches inside the pouch, looking for something for Rafe, pulling out a taffy. Rafe scrunches his nose in disgust, contorting it into a smile before your son catches his eye again, making you laugh.

Fuck, he's killing me. You feel your cheeks warm up as he walks back to you, looking down at you with loving eyes. Your heart swells with devotion as he slips his hand into yours, feeling the warmth of his palm. He lifts your hand, kissing the top. But it’s not enough; Rafe pulls you in by the hand, kissing your lips instead. “I missed you, baby,” he mumbles against your kiss, his voice dropping slightly lower, sending chills across your body. He smiles against your mouth as you echo the same sentiment. “You look so sexy tonight,” he drawls, his southern accent bleeding through his compliment, his tone warm, and sticky sweet.

“You look so good, daddy,” you praise. Rafe groans against your lips, living in your words.

“It’s after bedtime. What do you say, baby?” He asks as his large hand falls down your body, pulling you in by your waist. “Let’s go home.”

Rafe’s eyes widen as he walks through the door. "No fuckin’ way," he praises as he drinks you in, taking in every inch of your frilly maid’s costume. His beautiful blue eyes fall to a lusty haze. “N’I said ‘you weren’t a maid, baby… You makin’ a liar outta me. Huh?” He asks as he twirls you under his finger.

Rafe’s rough hands slip under the hem of your lace stockings, following the little straps of your garter belt, clipped to your barely there panties, still hidden under the satin skirt. “Daddy’s gotta get you out of the house more… ‘Specially if you’re gonna come back with gifts like this. You’re spolin’ me. Fuck,” he groans drunkenly, looking down at you in awe. He takes you into his strong arms, tossing you playfully on the mattress.

Rafe mounts the bed fast, crushing you under his weight. His lips capture yours in a heated kiss."You taste good... You smell so fuckin' good, darlin'," he purrs as he buries his head in your neck, stroking his clothed cock against your throbbing pussy. "Damn. I missed this."

"I missed you, baby. C'mon... I need you inside of me," you pant in that pathetic tone that gets you anything you want.

"Jesus, y/n," he moans, chuckling sinfully.

"Why are you dressed, daddy?"

"Good question." He sucks off your bottom lip, tugging at it with his teeth. "Can I leave these on?" Rafe asks, snapping the garter belt around the fullness of your thighs with his big fingers. You smile and nod.

"Panties, too..." You add.

"Well shit," he breathes onto your lips, instantly gliding two thick fingers up your soaked cunt, making you suck in a breath. Rafe takes his digits between his lips. "You're dripping, y/n."

"Haven't stopped thinkin' about you since you left."

"Me either, y/n. You're so fuckin' sweet."

"Rafe..." You pout.

"Shit, baby... I forgot what a slut you were for me."

"How could you forget?" You giggle against his lips. "Clothes. Now."

"Mmm... Yes, Mrs. Cameron."

Rafe steps off the bed, tossing his shirt off his built body. You study him carefully as you slink to the edge of the bed. He grasps his belt in his hands, tugging the leather loose. "Let me?" You sigh as you rise, sky-high heels clicking against the wood floor.

Rafe’s eyes continue to roam your curves as you unfasten his top button, splaying his zipper, pulling his slacks down low. He grabs your chin, drawing you up. His blue eyes lock on yours; Rafe’s stare is hungry and deep. His grip is rough. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to let you know he's in control. This is what he wants... What he's craving at this moment, and you are more than happy to oblige.

"You're my good girl. Aren't you, y/n?" He groans, making you wetter.

"Yeah," you sigh.

"Tell me, y/n."

"I'm your good girl, Rafe."

"And you listen to me, and me alone. Don't you, baby girl?" He runs his thumb along your bottom lip, making your heart thump.

"Yes, daddy. Only you."

"Daddy? I love the way you say that, baby.” Rafe pushes you back on the bed. You sit on the plush mattress, looking up at him innocently as you toy with the elastic of his boxers. He gives you a little nod. You take your cue, pulling them off, following his thick cock to the tip, letting it spring free.

"Fuck, Rafe," you sigh, gripping him in your hands, precum glazed on his tip. You quickly swipe your tongue across his swollen head, swirling for good measure.

"Y/n..." He draws out your name as he towers over you, looking down at you with lust-blown eyes. Rafe drops down on one knee— his strong hand lifting your calf, sliding your spike heel off your foot, kissing your leg unhurriedly before working on the next. He's taking his time, savoring every inch of you before dropping the shoe to the floor. You inhale sharply as he hooks his hands around your legs, tugging you to the edge of the bed.

His calloused finger meets your knee, tracing slowly up your thigh. Your breathing starts to quicken, and your lips part. You look between your legs, watching your husband spread your thighs. "Rafe," you moan as he teases your entrance with the tip of his ringed finger.

"Y/n." He draws out your name, working it deep. "Who's pussy is this, baby?"

Fuck.

He dips in another finger, thrusting it in and out... in and out. Your eyes drift back up his body, watching his abs and arms flex with each thrust. Rafe’s eyes greet yours, the most beautiful blue; he lets your gaze linger on his a little longer. He doesn't punish you, rewarding you with a smirk and some pressure on your clit.

"Mmm... Yours," you whimper. "My pussy is yours, daddy."

"It is... Isn't it," he chuckles as you start to rock with him. Rafe drops to his knees, causing you to draw your legs wider. "Fuck. I could cum just lookin' at you, y/n." His tongue meets your pussy, licking a line to your clit, latching on for a momentary, releasing you with a pop. Your head falls back. An airy moan slips your lips. "Remember when we met? You were such a bad girl, y/n." He kisses his way up your stomach, past your ribcage, grabbing and pressing your breasts together. "No one could tell you what to do."

"But you..."

"That's right." Rafe grabs you roughly, pulling you from the bed and drawing you to your feet. His hands work up your body, weaving into your hair, pulling slightly.

"Get on the chair," he whispers against your lips.

"Yes, Rafey." You walk across the room, Rafe, meeting you fast. The man is on you before you can even reach it. His broad chest presses flush with your back, kissing your neck harshly. "Fuck, baby," you whine. He shoves you, causing you to fall forward. You grasp the back of the chair while his strong hands palm your ass under your slutty maid’s costume. Rafe grabs your thong, snapping it against your skin. His hands return to your body, working over your skin, slapping your ass, causing you to groan.

"First time you sucked my cock, we were at Tops place. Remember?” He spreads your ass and spanks you even harder, causing you to cry a little louder. “You were dressed like a Playboy bunny,” Rafe drawls as he grabs himself in his hands, stroking a few times as he takes you in. “You didn’t even take the ears off.”

“You remember?”

“Shit’s burned into my memory, baby,” he sighs as his large hand follows the length of your spine. "You look even better now, sweetheart."

"So do you, baby? We fucked the next night."

"Mhmm… Yeah, we fuckin’ did. Night one. You’re such a good mommy, baby. Who woulda thought you used to be such a whore back in the day. Huh?”

“Mmm… You bring out the slut in me, daddy. You always have.”

“Yeah, baby. That’s right.” Rafe seizes his dick by the base, tapping it against your ass with one hand, using the other to grope your skin."This fucking body, y/n," he moans as he presses his tip into your entrance. "It's just so damn perfect."

"Shit," you hiss as you feel a stretch.

"And these tits." He grabs the straps of your costume, brushing them off your shoulders, pulling it down past your tits. He reaches around, grabbing your breasts as he glides in a little deeper.

"This waist." His hands drift lower, mirroring his words, driving his cock in a little more. "These hips," he grunts, taking hold of them, bottoming you out, causing you to wail.

Rafe draws out slowly. "Baby, please," you sigh, craving more. He thrusts into you again. Your head falls forward. Rafe snaps his hips into you, setting a rapid pace. Skin, cracking skin. He spanks you— a prickling sting is left behind. "More, Daddy," you beg.

"I don't know, baby... Your ass is pretty red," he taunts. "You sure?"

"Yes. Fuck!"

"Atta girl." He slaps you roughly on the other side. You feel his hands wrapping around your throat, squeezing just enough that you can feel your pulse. The chill of his rings felt against your skin. Rafe rolls his hips into you, deliciously slow, using his grip as leverage to drive deeper.

His hands push higher, gathering your hair. He tugs your strands, causing you to rise, arching your back. He's unforgiving, pounding into you just like you were craving he would. "Fuck me, y/n," he demands.

"Yes," you moan, using the back of the chair to steady yourself as you fuck him back. Working Rafe in and out of your soaked cunt. You bounce and grind, rolling your hips as Rafe praises you. Your ass claps against his toned hips as you take every inch of his long dick, filling yourself to the brim. "Rafe!" You cry.

"Fuck, y/n. Let me hear you, sweetheart," he rasps.

You lose yourself, fluttering around his cock, gripping his wrists as he takes over, rutting into you quickly. "Fuck, Rafe! Just like that." Pitiful cries pass your lips as he proceeds to wreck you from behind. Rafe doesn't let up till he feels you relax around his cock, your head falling back on his chest as he rocks in and out.

"I missed you so fucking much, daddy," you whimper. Rafe kisses your shoulder gently, working his way up to your ear.

"I missed you more, baby. You're my girl, y/n. You know that? You always have been."

"I'm your girl, Rafe," you pant.

"Does my girl want more?"

"Never stop," you chuckle breathlessly.

"Anything for you, y/n." Rafe thrusts into you roughly, making you fall forward, gripping the chair as you expel a breath. He presses your head against the plush backrest, increasing his tempo. "Ugh... Do you hear that, y/n?" You try to nod. "Mmm... You're so damn wet." He turns you around, pulling you back into his arms. Your kisses are wild and deep as you cross the room to your bed. "Can you taste yourself, y/n?" He mumbles against your lips.

"Yes," you mewl.

"Can you ride me, baby?" He groans.

"Yes, daddy," you sigh blissfully. Rafe falls onto the bed. You slip away before he can grab you; Rafe chuckles darkly, twining his fingers behind his head.

"Couldn't get enough?"

"You're right, baby... I'm sweet," you laugh breathily against his cock, watching as goosebumps spread across his thighs.

You wrap your fingers around his length, licking your slick off, eyes burning into his. "Holy shit, baby," he moans, throwing his head deeper into the pillow. You flick your tongue across his slit, tasting the both of you together. Rafe's hand glides from your bangs to the top of your head, taking a tight hold. He presses you down on his cock, bobbing your head up and down to stroke his throbbing dick.

You can feel Rafe striking the back of your throat, tears pooling in your eyes. You flutter your lashes, feeling your tears run in two little rivers down your cheeks. "Ugh... You're so beautiful, baby," he grunts. His eyes roll back as you drop your hand, rubbing little circles against your clit, moans pouring from your lips between strokes. "Come'mere," he chuckles raspily."We gotta do that later... Please, baby. I need more of that."

Rafe grabs your hips, guiding you on top. You rise on your knees, grabbing Rafe's hand, sucking his fingers, cleaning, circling your tongue around his wedding band. He draws them down to your clit, rolling them gently. "All I could think about when I left the house was you, y/n. I couldn't wait to get home. You make me feel so fucking good, y/n." He gives you a sinful smile as his tongue skimming along his rosy bottom lip.

"You make me feel so good, baby," you breathe, slinking your frame hands up your frame, the skirt still pooled around your hips, boobs bouncing with every movement.

Rafe grips his thick cock in his fist. "All I could think about was seeing you naked, princess. Look at you now. Huh? Never thought I’d get to see you like this… So fuckin’ good to me. You know that?" He slides his tip through your silk, circling his head on your clit. You let out a breathy moan. Rafe's eyes roll back again. "Your little noises and this wet fuckin' pussy." He presses his tip in, and you feel the stretch. "Mmm... Grab the headboard, y/n." You grip it as Rafe takes hold of the small of your waist. He thrusts up into you roughly.

"Rafe!" You cry. He lets out a growl, thrusting into you a few more times for good measure. He relaxes on the bed, beckoning you with his stare. "I want you deep in my pussy, daddy," you sigh, sinking slowly, letting your cunt swallow up his big dick. He sucks a sharp breath, snatching your hips, holding you in place.

Clasping the headboard, you start to circle your curves, rolling and working yourself on his length. "Holy shit, honey," he moans. You can hear yourself—how wet you are for him. Rafe can hear it, too, giving you a little smirk. "Still so wet for me?"

"Sucking your cock always gets me wet, daddy. You know that."

"Fuck, baby."

You reach back, clutching his thighs, bouncing on the mattress, nail sinking into his skin. "Shit. You're deep, Rafe," you whimper.

"So fuckin' deep." You look between your thighs, watching his long cock slicked with you once more. Rafe can feel you tightening around him; he can see the look in your eye. "That's my girl," he rasps. "So fuckin' good for me. Can you wait, baby... Cum when I tell you?"

"Rafe..."

"I thought you listened to me, y/n? Can't you wait, mama?" He chuckles as he applies a little more pressure to your clit.

"Plea-" You stutter as your body quivers uncontrollably.

"Cum." You scream his name as you toss your head back. Your orgasm radiates through your body, making your toes curl, popping off your heels. Rafe continues to thrust as you fall apart. Your muscles tighten around his dick as he works at an insane pace. "Fuck, y/n... That feels so fuckin' good, baby," he moans. "So tight."

He throws you to your back, stepping off the bed, looping his arm under your thighs, pulling you exactly where he wants you, right on the border, before slinging a leg over his shoulder, your heels tumbling the rest of the way off onto the floor. Rafe tips into you, pressing a rough kiss on your lips as he starts to thrust again. His tongue reels with yours. The two of you, utterly exhausted, panting into your kiss.

"Almost there," he mumbles, fighting back his climax to get you on last time. He wraps his arm around your thigh, using that to drive himself deeper.

"S-Shit, Rafe," you stammer. As you feel him strike your g-spot, making your body tremble.

"Again?" He gives you a cocky smile, getting exactly what he wants. You nod rapidly as tears gather in your eyes, overstimulated.

"Can you cum for daddy?"

"Y-Yes. Yes. Shit," you stutter as you grab ahold of the edge of the bed, tossing your head back. Rafe grunts and moans as he thrusts sloppily. Tears fall from your eyes as you close them tightly, your climax claiming your body. A choked cry passes your lips, giving him all you can muster. You feel the warmth of his release, Rafe answering with your name on his lips.

Rafe mounts the bed, pressing a soft kiss against your mouth. His lips drift to your flushed cheeks, kissing away your tears. "I love you, baby. I love you so much," he respires as he holds you close.

"I love you. Never leave me again..." You sigh blissfully.

"I hate leavin' you. But, fuck, do I love comin' home to you, princess." Rafe chuckles as he plays with the costume around your hips, smiling against your lips. “Keep this on for a little while longer. Yeah?”

#my library ᝰ.ᐟ #rafe one shot 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹#kinktober event .𖥔 ݁ ˖🎃˚. ᵎᵎ #dilf!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #older!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #rafe smut #rafe #rafe cameron x reader #⋆.°🧸๋ྀི࣭⭑ daddy

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l1tw1ck · 6 months ago

Text

The Ferret and the Fox

Bottom!FTM!Omega!Ferret Draco x Top!AMAB!Alpha!Fox Reader

🪄 Word Count: 3k 🪄

Draco's suppressants decide to stop working in the middle of a lecture, forcing him to leave and rest in your office. Draco wasn't thinking straight when he willingly entered an alpha's territory and inadvertently tied himself to you permanently

AFAB Language Used | Hogwarts University AU | Event Request

CW: Non-Con, Brief Somnophilia, Teacher/Student (Draco is 20) Heat, Virginity Loss, Victim Blaming, Marking, Creampie, Fingering, Manipulation, Knotting

As you're teaching your class, you and the rest of your students begin to smell someone’s pheromones. Everyone seems to be looking at Draco Malfoy, who's very red. He must be in heat. You walk over to him and lean in close to him. “Malfoy, are you alright?”

‎

He jumps in surprise. He looks up at you with an adorable expression. His tail is curled up on his lap. “It looks like your heat started,” You speak to him softly. “Why don't you go rest in my office until class is over?” You should tell him to see the nurse but she's so far and he’d be safe from all the other alphas. And you might get a chance with him. Draco nods gently. You help him pack up his stuff and walk him to your office, not trusting anyone to let him go by himself.

‎

He sits down on the couch and takes off his coat to drape it over himself. You give him the blanket you often use during your free time to nap. “I’ll lock the door so no one can come in. If you get hungry or thirsty, you can use my water bottle and take whatever you like from my mini fridge.”

‎

“Okay…” He turns away from you. “Thanks.”

‎

You could barely hear him but you could tell what he said based on how embarrassed he seemed. You smile and leave the room. As soon as you do so, Draco kicks off his shoes and socks before properly laying down. It doesn't take long for him to fall asleep with his and your scent mixed together to comfort him. He won't say it out loud but you're his favorite teacher and the only person in Hogwarts that he truly feels safe around and trusts. While he doesn't have any romantic feelings for you, your scent is still very comforting.

‎

You walk into your office now that class is over. Since you don't have any more classes to teach today, you plan on taking him home. Most students take suppressants during the school year but when a student isn't able to do so for whatever reason, they take time off to go home since it’d be dangerous to be in their dorms. Draco shouldn't have any problems with taking suppressants but something obviously went wrong. You look at him sleeping on the couch, some of his clothes on the floor. You do a double take when you realize that he's only wearing underwear and his dress shirt. His clothes are conveniently placed in a way that allows you to see his light colored underwear soaked with slick, along with a small pool of it on the couch. You’ll never get over seeing an omega in heat.

It doesn't help that the room is completely filled with his scent. You should resist and take him home but he looks too tempting. All of the alpha teachers are able to control themselves when met with the strong smell of an omega but there's something different about Draco. Or, really, something different about you.

You're willingly giving in to your instincts this time. You could go and do the right thing but you don't want to and you never really planned to in the first place. You’ve been attracted to Draco since he started your class this year. You never thought you’d have the opportunity to fuck him and now that you do, you're not going to give it up. You unbuckle your belt and free your hard cock, leaving your pants on to make the clean up easier.

You move onto the couch and stare at Draco’s sleeping face with a small smile. You feel sort of bad doing this while he's asleep but it's not like you’ll be taking his virginity. He’s 20, he must've had his first and many others by now. Right? Who wouldn't want him? If you ignore his personality, he's irresistible. You shrug off your uncertainty and take off his underwear. You bring it to your face and smell it, your cock aching for him. You move it away and focus on the real thing.

Draco makes a cute noise in his sleep, his fluffy ears twitching. He's just too adorable. You look at his soaked pussy in awe and run your finger up it, causing him to shiver. You bring your finger to your lips and taste his slick. As you thought, he tastes amazing. His tail curls up in response to your touch.

You bite your bottom lip as you slowly inch your cock inside him. He’s tight but very slippery, it's not too hard to penetrate him. You moan at the feeling of being inside him. Nothing can compare to his pussy. You grin as an outline of your cock starts to appear on his stomach. You begin to slowly fuck into him. “God, you feel so good, baby.”

Draco moans. His eyes flutter open. “Huh..?” He blinks a few more times. “Stop! What are you doing?!” He feels like crying. You're so big, it hurts like hell.

“Shh, this is your fault, Malfoy. You shouldn't have let me keep you here. Your pheromones are all over the room, you practically forced me to fuck you.”

“No…I…”

“Isn't this better than having some random person fuck you? Or do you have a boyfriend?”

Draco shakes his head, tears rapidly falling down his cheeks. “This…this is my first time!”

You pause. You’ve never seen him cry before, it's hot. “Really?” You feel your heart pounding. “That's okay, I’ll take care of you from now on.” You resume your gentle thrusts.

Draco sobs. “Why…?”

“If you didn't want this to happen, you shouldn't have let me bring you here. You don't understand how tempting you looked when I saw you sleeping.” You brush his hair out of his face. “You looked so sexy ruining my couch with your slick.”

He looks really embarrassed. Your pheromones seem to be calming him down though. Plus being in heat is really helping to sedate him.

“So just relax, okay? You deserve this.”

Draco nods teary eyed. You hold onto his waist and start to fuck him at a rough pace. He squeals and moans in pleasure, face red from embarrassment. “That’s a good boy, taking me so well.” You purr. You lean into his ear. “Love your pussy so fucking much, sweetheart.” You trail down to his neck and lightly suck on his skin.

He squeaks. “Ah…[Name]~ I’m sorry..”

You pause for a brief moment then slow down. You're shocked that he apologized. Despite the major changes he went through in the past, he's still prideful. He's really different when he's in heat. “If you're sorry then let me mark you. Now that I’ve had a taste of you, it’d be cruel to not let me have you. Besides, I should also take responsibility.”

Draco sniffles. You should feel bad for taking advantage of his current state but you just can't. He's too cute for you to let go. “Okay..” He closes his eyes and moves his head to show you his neck.

You sink your teeth into his skin, immediately causing him to come. You lick up his blood and thrust harder. “You won't have to worry about anything from now on, sweetheart.” You come inside of him.

──────────────────

Draco wakes up in an unfamiliar room with aches all over his body. He remembers going into heat during class…then going into your office…

Draco brings his hand to his mouth in shock. Tears run down his cheeks as he slowly begins to remember everything. He was waiting to fall in love and now he's stuck with you.

“You're finally up.” You walk into the room, holding a hot cup of tea. “I made you lemon ginger, it’ll make you feel a bit better. Oh, I also gave you some medicine for your heat. You should be okay now, at least mentally.”

He looks at you scornfully. His eyes are watery and puffy. He doesn't understand how much that's turning you on. He takes the tea despite his anger.

“You’re angry, aren't you?” You ask, sitting down at the edge of the bed. “Why didn't you take your suppressants?”

“I– I did take them!” He shouts. “I don't know what happened!”

“Shh, it's okay, sweetheart.” You rub his thigh. “Sometimes, suppressants stop working. It's rare but you’ll have to change to a different medication.”

“Don't…please don't touch me.” He's shaking very badly.

“We’re bonded now, Draco. You remember, right?”

He sniffles. “Why…”

“You know why. You let that happen to yourself. I’m sure you were conscious enough to know why you shouldn't have done that.”

“I trusted you..”

“That was a mistake. You shouldn't trust an alpha to take care of an omega in heat. In any other circumstance, I wouldn't have done anything to you, but you willingly came into my office and filled it with your scent.” You take the tea from him and place it onto the nightstand, he's shaking so much you're worried he’ll spill it and burn himself. “You know alphas have a hard time resisting.”

Draco begins to cry again. He’s whimpering and trying hard not to choke on his own tears.

“It's okay. I’ll take care of you from now on. Anything you want, I’ll do it.” You caress his cheek, pushing his hair away from his face. He begins to sob vocally, letting out visceral cries of pain. “It’ll be okay, Draco.”

You let him cry for a while and urge him to drink some tea in between. He eventually calms down.

“What will I tell my mother?” He sighs, refusing to look at you.

“Don't worry about her. I’ll make sure she won't say anything, even if you move in.”

“Wh- move in?”

“If you want to. Since you're in the university now, it won't be an issue to move out and commute from here.”

“The school wouldn't allow me to live with you.”

“You're an adult, Draco. As long as we spin the story around a bit, they’ll even insist that we live together.” You smile. “We could say you came onto me and forced me to mark you. It’s not too far from the truth.”

He frowns. He doesn't know how to feel. He finally looks at you. His cheeks redden when he notices your boner. “You- have you been hard this entire time?!”

You chuckle. “Maybe. You're just so cute when you cry.”

He looks down at his hands. “...I don’t remember what it felt like..”

“You don't?”

“It just…I know that it hurt but…”

“Do you want me to show you?”

He nods softly. “I have to be with you from now on…” He's still a little affected by his heat.

“Alright.”

Draco looks up at you timidly, his ears folded down. He’s only wearing boxers now. Your tail is swishing from side to side.

“I’ve always liked you, you know?” You happily run your hands down his body. “You're just so pretty. When I saw you walk into my class…I couldn't stop thinking about you.”

Is that why you were so kind to him?

“You always kept to yourself…it made me want to take care of you. So when I smelled your scent…I was overwhelmed.” You bring one of your hands down to his underwear. “I should've tried harder to resist but you made it so difficult.”

He whimpers at the feeling of your fingers sliding up his clothed cunt. “So….you really…hnh-”

“I love you, Draco.”

He blushes. Even though he didn't choose you, you're the kind of person he was looking for. Someone who would love and take care of him. You smile as you notice the change in his demeanor. He's opening up to you.

“When you graduate, you won't have to worry about getting a job. You can just stay home and do whatever you like.” You remove his underwear. “You won't have to worry about anything.”

“Do…do I have to graduate?” He asks, looking at you solemnly. He's sick of Hogwarts. Even after everything that's happened, he doesn't have a single friend. Nobody trusts him or even tries to pretend they like him. Not even Harry and his friends really talk to him, they're too busy. If he doesn't have to get a job, why even bother going to that miserable place? Hogwarts used to feel more like home but after losing his friends and becoming isolated, it feels like a prison.

“Well..” You smile. “That’d make things easier.” You remove your shirt.

“I can stay here..” He feels dizzy from your scent. He triggered your alpha instincts and now you can't stop yourself from drowning him in your pheromones. “...Give you an heir..” He says almost mindlessly. You're from a long line of well respected wizards so he figures you’ll want someone to carry on that legacy.

“Draco.” Your cock is straining in your pants. “You can't say things like that to an alpha so casually.”

His tail curls. “‘M sorry..” He looks at you cutely. He's intimidated and turned on at the same time.

“It's okay, sweetheart.” You gently slide two fingers inside him. “You just have to take responsibility.”

Draco gulps, shivering with pleasure thanks to the size and roughness of your fingers. He's never been able to get off just by using his fingers but he probably could with yours.

“You're the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid my eyes on, Draco.” You look at him lovingly as you skillfully play with his pussy. “I wish our relationship started differently.”

He feels less hesitant hearing you say that. He truly believes it's his fault. “It's…it’s okay.” He looks at you with a slight smile.

“Maybe we could've had a slow burn. Where I’d help you out after class and you’d lean in a little too close…You’d blush and act like nothing happened..”

Draco starts to fantasize along with you.

“Then, some day, we'd finally go for it. My hand on your thigh, your soft lips on mine…I’d take it real slow for you.” You swarm him with loving kisses. “I’d give your pretty little tits lots of love.” You aim your kisses onto his chest. He whimpers.

“Then I’d finger you, just like this.” You start aiming for his weak points, causing adorable moans and squirms. He shudders with pleasure and grabs your arms for stability. He's gonna come.

Draco calls out your name, toes curling as he squirts. You bring your fingers to your mouth and lick them before moving your head in between his cunt and doing the same thing. He shudders with pleasure.

You pull away. “Are you ready?”

He nods softly. His eyes trail over to your crotch, watching intently as you pull your pants down. Just seeing your hard cock through your underwear is throwing him for a loop. He has to admit, he really likes it. Draco’s mouth hangs open when he finally sees your cock in his more sober state of mind. He knows alpha’s are beyond average but this is…

“I’ll be more gentle this time.” You say, rubbing your dick along his pussy and coating it with his wetness before slowly inching it inside him. It feels agonizingly slow for you but it feels great for Draco, which is all that matters. You interlock your hand with his. His face scrunches up cutely

“Don't– don't stop–” He moans. You're stretching him out well.

“How do you feel, baby?”

“Good– I feel good, sir~” He throws his head back and instinctively reaches for his t-cock, sliding back the hood and stroking himself gently as a dick shaped bump appears on his stomach. He looks great when he's getting fucked but there's something special about seeing him touch himself. It's hot.

You bottom out and pause. “Keep touching yourself like that for me, okay?” You gently knead his thighs.

Draco lets out a high pitched “Mhm~” as he raises his hips. He didn't think it'd ever feel this good to be so full. His eyelashes flutter beautifully as he comes again.

“Good boy.” You praise him.

He pulls his hand away and lays down, trying to catch his breath. “I…I wanna keep- keep going..”

“Are you sure?”

He nods. He's never been as sure as he is now. He's glad you didn't hold back in your office. If you didn't, he'd have no idea how amazing it feels to have you inside him, stretching him out like a new pair of boots. “I wanna feel it move..” He places his hand on his stomach. He has no clue how seductive he's being right now.

You start making short thrusts, getting him used to the feeling. “Feels okay?”

Draco nods. “‘s good-” He twitches. “You're so…so big…professor…I’m so full…”

“You like being full, baby?”

“Mhm~ I love it~” He bites his lip. There's no better tranquilizer than the combination of an alpha’s cock and pheromones. “Faster…”

You lift his legs up and roughly pound into him. “Like this?”

“Ye- yes–!” Draco moans. It looks like his heat is coming back in full swing. The medicine you gave him was pretty useless. “Ba- baby– I wanna have—” He gasps, having another orgasm.

“Don't worry, I’ll make sure to breed you properly tonight.”

His lips stretch into a wide grin. His moans get louder the longer you fuck him. His hair is a mess and his face is so, so red. You hope he remembers this time, although you're not opposed to showing him again. You cup his cheek and he leans in. His eyelids are just barely open. You’ve never felt so possessive of something or someone in your life. “Mine.” You lean into his neck and suck on the spot where you marked him.

Draco shivers. He feels hot and dizzy. All he can think is: “knot me” “breed me” “so big” “so good”

Your movements suddenly stutter as you feel your orgasm drawing closer. You thrust one last time before pumping him full of your seed. Draco comes again. You’re still hard.

You pull away from his neck and move him into a mating press. “One more, then I’ll knot you.” You promise, thrusting more roughly and sloppily than before. Draco wraps his arms around your back as his tail brushes against you. His head is pounding, the words “knot me” are on loop in his mind. He digs his nails into your skin.

“So deep~” He shudders, making his own markings on your back.

You're finally starting to really get affected by his pheromones. It was already pretty bad before but now, you don't feel like you're in control anymore. “‘M gonna knot you, Draco, breed you til you can't walk…fill you up with my seed..” You kiss him roughly, lightly biting on his bottom lip. Usually, it's not hard for you to go multiple rounds but there's something about Draco’s scent that’s making you more sensitive. Maybe it's because you're a pair.

“I’m coming, sweetheart-” You groan as Draco’s warm walls drag another orgasm out of you, a knot forms to keep it all inside.

Draco smiles drunkenly, grinding his hips. “I love you..”

“I love you too.”

#wicks🕯works #top male reader #male reader #ftm character #dom male reader #tw noncon #male reader smut #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x male reader #draco malfoy smut #afab character #dom reader #sub character #wicks🕯️events #omegaverse

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peachdues · 7 months ago

Text

caution: incredibly slutty use of birth control. MDNI.

Across the room comes the piercing, repetitive sound of an alarm.

You look to Sanemi in question, whimpering as the warm comfort of his body abruptly pulls away from you. The little cry of protest you make at the loss of his warmth tugs at his heart, but he’s got an obligation to see to. Jaw tight, Sanemi ignores the own ache he feels as he crosses the floor of the hotel room to rummage through your luggage, his cock painfully hard where it bounces against his abdomen.

It takes him only a second to find the small card lined with those tiny white pills. Quickly, he pops one free and holds it between his teeth, reaching to silence the alarm blaring on his discarded phone.

Pill wedged carefully between his teeth, Sanemi makes his way back to you and climbs onto the bed, knocking your legs apart with his knee.

He ignores your questioning look, too focused on the slightly swollen lips of your pussy, the glistening slickness of your own arousal mixed with his cum.

Fuck, he’ll never get enough of it.

Giving himself a firm pump, Sanemi lines his tip back up with your entrance and slides home once more. He resumes his pace with ease, fucking you as though he never stopped, while you writhe and moan beneath him.

“Hey,” he commands around the pill still perched between his teeth. The moment your eyes, hazy with pleasure, find his, Sanemi grabs your jaw. His fingers squish your cheeks as he surges toward you, closing his mouth roughly over yours.

Your lips part for him and Sanemi forces your birth control into your mouth, parting with one flick of his tongue against yours. He pulls back, his hands sliding under your ass, tilting your hips up as he settles in his knees.

Stunned, your mouth remains slightly open as you stare up at him, pupils blown wide.

“Swallow it.” Sanemi commands, forcing himself to hold your stare instead of letting his eyes fall to your breasts as they bounce with his movements. “Your birth control. Swallow it.”

When he does not see the telltale bob of your throat, Sanemi unlatches a hand from your ass and brings it to where your bodies are connected.

A graze of his nail of your clit makes you buck, but Sanemi slows his movements. “Swallow it.” He orders again, noting with some relish, the indignant scrunch of your eyebrows as he stops moving all together. “Do it, or else I won’t come in you.”

He’s dead serious and you know it. Still, the threat of him not filling you up the way he knows you need quickly turns your eyebrows up, your eyes widening with a plea.

Hastily, you swallow under Sanemi’s discerning eye. The moment the pill slides down your throat, you hold your tongue out for him, eager.

A pleased smirk settles on his lips and you clench around him. “That’s my girl,” he purrs, carefully drawing his hips back until only the tip of his cock remains inside you.

Sanemi’s hands anchor your hips. He rises slightly on his knees, bringing your lower half with him and pauses. A flick of his eyes to yours, and he slams forward, impaling you on the thick, full length of him.

what a whore.

#sanemi shinazugawa #sanemi x reader #sanemi shinazugawa x reader #kny x reader #kny sanemi #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #kny fanfic #kny smut #sanemi smut

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multi-fandom-imagine · 1 month ago

Note

I have a thought for epic. Before Telemachus went on his diplomatic mission, he was scrawny because he didn't have any warrior training. And his wife loved that about him. But hear me out. He comes back, after all the training from Athena and such and he is so much stronger and has more muscle and his wife is like "DAMN!!"

A/n: I love this 🤣 also like let me know if you want a smutty part 2 👀

You were one of the best things that happened to him, Telemachus. You saw him for who he was, not for being the son of Odysseus and now....now he was leaving you behind.

(Something he did not want to do)

Lip's quivering, you did your best to not pout as you grasped your husband's hands gently in yours as you gazed up at him. "Come back to me."

Telemachus smiled as he pressed his head against yours as he gave you a soft kiss. "Always."

It's been close to a year, a year without your sweet and gentle husband and now you've had gotten word he was finally returning home. You've always knew that Telemachus wasn’t a warrior when he’d gone.

Not yet.

Telemachus had always been gentle—long-limbed, a bit too lean, always more tongue-tied than bold, except when he spoke of justice. Or you.

You’d fallen for his soul, his smile and those beautiful eyes, not his sword arm. For the way he listened more than he spoke.

So when the guards called out—“A ship! The prince returns!”—you dropped the basket you were holding and without thinking you took off into a sprint.

You ran to the shore.

And stopped cold.

Because the man disembarking was not the same scrawny boy who left.

He was taller now, shoulders broad beneath a dark cloak, a glint of bronze beneath it where his armor clung. His arms—Gods, his arms—were no longer slender but strong, defined with muscle earned from battles and training alike. He walked like a lion now, not a hesitant deer. Confident. Controlled. Powerful.

And then he smiled...that same sweet smile.

Your Telemachus was still in there—that soft tilt of the mouth, the boyish warmth that bloomed behind storm-colored eyes.

“Wife,” he greeted lowly, voice deeper than you remembered, huskier with use.

You blinked once.

Twice.

“…Damn,” you whispered, breathless.

His brow arched in amused confusion. “What was that?”

“N-Nothing,” you stammered, cheeks flaring with heat as you suddenly remembered the many, many inappropriate thoughts now stampeding through your mind. “I just—I didn’t—gods, what did Athena feed you?”

That made him grin.

“You missed me, then?” he teased, stepping closer until his shadow fell over you, until you had to tilt your head just to keep eye contact.

You reached out, placing your hand on his chest—partly to confirm he was real, partly because by the gods, you wanted to feel those muscles beneath your palm. “You could say that.” Your mouth felt dry and you were at a loss for words now.

But when he dipped his head to kiss you, slow and warm and newly confident, you could barely remember what restraint meant.

“I have so many things to tell you,” he murmured against your lips.

“Mhm,” you breathed. “Later. Right now, we’re going inside. And you’re going to tell me with your arms and body and everything else.

He blinked.

Then he smirked.

“By the gods,” he chuckled, sweeping you up bridal-style without effort. “I’ve missed you.”

And if anyone asked why the palace doors slammed shut and didn’t open again until dawn…

Well. That was nobody’s business but yours

#drabbles #drabble #Telemachus #telemachus x reader #telemachus x you #Telemachus x y/n #epic #epic the musical #epic x reader #epic x you #epic x y/n #epic the musical x reader #telemachus epic the musical #Telemachus epic the musical x reader #etm #etm x reader #etm telemachus

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theonottsbxtch · 2 months ago

Text

OSCAR PIASTRI MASTERLIST

codes: ✦ angst

ONE SHOTS

✦ amnesia - ex!reader summary: it has been a while since oscar and his girlfriend broke up, but some days he wishes he could wake up with amnesia. he misses her, he misses them, he loves her, but she doesn't love him.

million dollar woman - millionaire!reader summary: she knew he was an f1 driver, he knew she did something in an office. money was never talked about, it just existed - what oscar didn't know was that she was arguably much richer than he is

forgotten birthday | gf!reader summary: she knew oscar had a busy schedule, but her boyfriend of so many years forgetting her birthday still hurt more than she cared to admit. unless, had he?

✦ courage | best friend!reader summary: in their small beat up town you had two options. get out or stay stuck in the same vicious cycle fell into - drugs, alcohol and partying. oscar knew what he wanted to do, her however, he wasn't too sure.

✦ haunted | catholic!oscar summary: ever since he left for univeristy, he stopped going to church. but when things got shit there is only one place you can go to. the pretty cathedral in the town centre called his name, or did it? was it the cathedral or was it the voice?

high school sweethearts | uni!oscar summary: step one, you must accept that i'm a little out my mind. she was the weird girl, insane even - no body liked her, but oscar did.

new years dream | uni!oscar x singer!reader summary: oscar couldn't count how long he'd spent loving his best friend, but she was her and he was him. there was no way she could love him. on a night out on new years he finds her, he sees her and he wishes the words didn't dry up on his tongue.

sports car | zak's daughter!reader summary: she wants him. she wants him and his sports car, and she doesn't care how scandlous it gets if she'll get a ride on him and the car

✦ silver spoon | gf!reader summary: she was raised in fear, never knowing whether the next words spewed at her would be words of love or hatred. he was raised with the light left on and words of praise. they say opposites attract, but not in every scenario.

✦ kiss of death | uni!oscar summary: each valentine's day she gets her heart broken, each valentines all oscar can do is watch. until this year, this year he swears he'll tell her.

✦ good luck babe | ex bestfriend!reader summary: he told her that her life would end up this way, he told her she wouldn't be happy and now all he can do is sit there and say i told you so.

timezone | ex!reader summary: oscar fucked up, he let the love of his life slip out of his hands and enough is enough. he needs her back.

a loyal heart | redcoat!oscar summary: following lando's story in redcoat, this follows oscar, a former soldier adrift in the quiet after war. burdened by loss and shaken faith, he finds unexpected solace in a sharp-tongued widow with wounds of her own. through rainstorms, shared silences, and slow-blooming trust, they learn that even the most weathered hearts can find home again.

something like love | driver!reader summary: she’s f1’s rising star. fierce, fast, and convinced she’s not made for love. oscar is the sarcastic softie who's been falling for her since day one. when one press conference cracks her walls, he makes it his mission to prove her wrong.

back to friends | childhood friend!reader summary: she'd always find a place in his bed, it was a fact. oscar was too weak of a man to confess, to tell her how much she shredded his heart everytime she left. but there was only so much he could do.

a sunday kind of love | wife!reader synopsis: sundays were race day, but not all of them were. some of them were time for oscar to enjoy time with his little family.

when the city falls | spidey!osc (featuring ls2) summary: three close friends drift apart when one disappears for two years and returns with wealth, ambition, and a dangerous invention. as his creation spirals out of control, the city teeters on the edge of destruction. in the chaos, hidden truths emerge, and one of them may be the only hope left to stop it.

SMAU

professor piastri? - teacher!reader summary: oscar has a partner? she's a teacher? how did that even happen

home race - trilangual!reader summary: oscar has a habit of claiming every race of his as his own, now that his girlfriend speaks so many languages and she's teaching him, surely he can add more right?

SERIES

secret sister smau - norris!reader summary: lando never wanted the world to know about his sister, for her safety and also because he knows how much of a menace she is. on her 21st birthday he makes a birthday post for her letting the world know she exists - what he doesn't prepare for is his teammate catching feelings.

part one | part two | part three - completed

✦ chicago | single mum!reader summary: he fell in love with chicago, she told him she was all alone, but she wasn't - that was the problem

part one | part two | part three | part four - completed

skyfall | spy!reader summary: the two of them work for two different associations, they run into eachother more times than they would like to, what happens when tensions start to clash

part one | part two | part three - completed

no time to die | spy!reader - sequel to skyfall

part one | part two | part three - completed

✦ free now | author!reader summary: she was an author with no inspiration and a deadline. he was a formula one driver looking for a break. when those two hearts cross, you'd think it would make a fairytale story

part one | part two - completed

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hencheri · 20 days ago

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▸ 18+ mdni.

| pairing. bf!anton x fem!reader

| warnings. noncon, misogyny, physical abuse, toxic relationship, loss of virginity, anton is really really mean legit overly mean im sorry.

based on this request. sorry for the long wait </3

seeing you laugh with that man, someone he doesn’t know and he’s never seen before, anton feels his stomach tying into knots. it hurts as he swallows, the lump in his throat refusing to go away. he watches from afar, his eyes following each one of your movements; your hand curling around his arm, fingers lingering too long for this conversation to be considered friendly. that’s not a friend, anton tells himself.

the words of his friends replay in his head. he wants to forget about them, ignore how brutal they sounded, how it made him question everything about you. he can’t help but wonder if eunseok wasn’t right, if the reason why you refuse to let him touch you is because you’re sleeping with someone else.

as he sees you so close to that guy with this pretty smile on your face he loves so much, the accusation of your infidelity only echoes louder in his head. he remembers wonbin’s mocking grin, agreeing with eunseok and adding salt to the wound by painting the horrible picture of you having sex with another man in anton’s head.

he told them to go fuck themselves before storming off and leaving eunseok’s apartment. he walked back home thinking his friends were just assholes, and it’s not so far from the thruth, but maybe they figured out what anton couldn’t.

he stays hidden until the guy leaves and he waits for you to get inside. when he pushes the door to your apartment open, you’re sitting at the dining table, slipping your shoes off, that same smile you offered to that stranger on your lips as you greet him.

anton only hums, quickly removing his jacket and getting his sneakers off as well. he’s silent, looking a little grumpy, glancing everywhere but at you. he walks into the kitchen that’s open to the dining table and you rise up from your seat, a frown on your face.

“you came back early,” you say, your voice soft as always, making it harder for anton to believe you could do such things to him. “it didn’t go well with the boys?” you ask and it bugs him how you read him so well.

he shrugs, “it’s whatever.”

“i’m sorry,” you pout, looking at anton with big eyes.

then the room falls silent.

his eyes land on you and you just look so sweet and small, like touching you would break you. you’re his, you’re his girlfriend. he can’t bring himself to imagine you with anyone else but him, can’t accept the idea of your virginity belonging to someone who isn’t him.

he closes the gap between you two and kisses you, his mouth immediately taking control of yours. you’re taken aback and stumble backwards, but he keeps you from falling, hands tightly gripping your hips. this kiss is nothing like the ones he usually gives you. it’s not a quick, soft peck on the lips, it’s the opposite—there’s teeth and tongues, groans and moans, grabby hands fumbling with your clothes.

anton wants to prove that eunseok and wonbin are wrong—tonight, you will let your boyfriend touch you, you will let him take you because you’re not fucking someone else behind his back.

his hands roam over your body with a lot of impatience, hungrily moving his mouth over yours and leaving no time for you to breathe. he has to catch up on all the times you refused him before, he needs you to give yourself up to him, needs to know you want him, too.

but just as he thinks you’re finally ready, you push him back and back away from him.

“anton,” you call his name breathily, your chest heaving up and down rapidly. you lightly shake your head and he understands you’re rejecting him again.

he decides to ignore you—maybe you need just a bit more convincing. anton pulls you back against him, leaning down and connecting his lips to your neck, kissing and biting. he feels your hands pushing his chest, he hears your noises of disapproval and he doesn’t stop, but then you use more force than expected, pushing anton off of you.

“what the fuck?” he says, sounding harsh and offended.

“anton, i’m sorry, but i’m not-”

you try to explain yourself to him, but your voice is only background noises to him. all that’s playing in his head right now are his friends’ words again.

‘gotta hit her, put her in her place’, wonbin had said. ‘when a bitch acts up, that’s all it takes to make her listen’, eunseok chimed in.

as anton looks at you, wet and shiny eyes on him, begging him to calm down, he simply goes mad. he lifts up his hand and your whole expression changes, fear passing through your eyes and for some twisted reason, it pleases him.

he backhands you across the face and your head flies to the side, mouth opening in shock, but you have no time to recover until he puts his hand around your neck, forcing you to look into his eyes.

“you fucking listen to me for once,” he spits out, an amount of anger you’ve never thought him capable to hold driving his actions. “i’m tired of you treating me like i’m a goddamn fool, denying me basic fucking needs just because you wanna act a prude.” his words come out like venom, like a punishment, hitting as hard as the slap he gave you.

you’re crying now, tears after tears falling on your cheeks, dipping down to your neck and pilling over anton’s fingers. he doesn’t care, though. it doesn’t compare to the constant rejection you made him go through, the humiliation he felt because of that, his friends’ mocking laughs directed at him.

and so he puts you in your place.

panties stuffed in your mouth so you can’t tell him what to do anymore, so you can’t cry and tell him no again. legs thrown over his shoulders, cunt swallowing his cock for the first time, pounding you into the mattress, no care for your nails digging into his back or muffled screams of his name. he doesn’t care like you never cared about his feelings.

“you let that guy fuck you, don’t you?” he grunts into your ear, his hand belonging around your throat, threatening to tighten at any moment. anton’s hips are relentless, using you like you’re just a hole, and that’s how he wants you to feel. dirty, soiled… well-fucked. “why else would you always reject me, huh? you’re just a fucking whore. great at pretending, i’ll give you that,” he scoffs.

it doesn’t matter if you don’t know what he’s talking about. it doesn’t matter either if he doesn’t make sense. anton has to make sure you never disrespect him like this ever again.

#im embarrassed mean is the only type of man i can write #[ ★ ] dark content #— ☆ starring riize #w/ anton !#riize x reader #riize smut #riize hard hours #anton x reader #anton smut

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menelausblues · 13 days ago

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is there a place i can go?

꒰ you're so used to hiding when it's hard, and xavier loves you too much to let you go. ꒱

𖥔 ݁ 1.5k. semi-canon. established relationship. depressed/anxious/avoidant reader/mc who's having a hard time with her stress and grief x understanding n tender boyfriend xavier. hurt/comfort. angst. some fluff at the end. ❀ ݁ this is for all my fellow anxious-avoidants trying their best not to let the horrors stop them from being loved.

mdni.

two days ago.

xavier ⋮ 2:01 pm. my bunny is missing. have you seen her?

yesterday.

xavier ⋮ 3:04 pm. pretty eyes. pretty smile. pretty laugh. light of my life. if seen, please give me a call. xavier ⋮ 3:38 pm. i’ve asked all the neighbors and they say they haven’t seen my bunny at all. can you help me find her? i think i’ll be sad if she doesn’t come home to me soon.

today.

xavier ⋮ 3:51 pm. it’s been days since i last saw or talked to you. xavier ⋮ 4:09 pm. i tried coming by your apartment but it seemed like you weren’t there. praying my bunny didn’t leave home for good. xavier ⋮ 4:11 pm. are you okay? i’m worried about you.

it feels like no one loves you, but you know it’s not true.

you don’t understand why you’re like this, why at the foundation of your heart is a hurt little girl shaking in fear and always in a hurry to hide from the world or disprove its intentions. nothing feels as safe as isolation but nothing feels as awful as loneliness. you’re safe from the potentiality of harm but there’s no one to turn to for joy. so you sit and sulk in the security of your separation. your world is filled with empty rooms and stretched sighs. the worst part is that it’s entirely your own fault. it feels like no one loves you. and it’s because you won’t let them even if they do. it’s not xavier’s fault that you’re avoiding him, but it is. this blooming fear and odd sensation of coming loss is all because lately he’s perceiving you all too closely. it’s getting to the point where he’s learning your habits so thoroughly, he’s able to anticipate your needs.

it terrifies you because unearned kindness from a lover or a friend has only ever been followed by some kind of violence. some kind of resounding loss that fills you with emptiness. the image of your grandma and caleb surrounds your mind from all sides; your heart fills itself with grief until it overflows. and now you don’t know if you can trust him. or rather, trust him to love you back and be allowed to stay. so you run. you slink into shadows to avoid the pain of being known ( and it is painful to feel elation you can’t control because one day it’ll reshape itself into a monster of sorrow that swallows you ). but the best and worst thing about xavier is that he doesn’t give up. he’s always been relentless in even his gentle and quiet pursuits. it starts with a soft knocking at your door. you haven’t left your apartment much in days aside to clear your trash and it’s the third time he’s come by. you know it’s him because a creature of habit in his own right, xavier knocks in the same pattern each time he comes. the only difference is the sense of urgency has disappeared. it’s become hesitant, fearful almost. you could probably choke on your guilt if you weren’t so pre-occupied with the tears lodged in your throat. because everything hurts even when it shouldn’t. “baby?” you hear him call from behind the door. you don’t answer but your heart screams inside itself.

i’m here i’m here i’m here! nothing feels good; nothing feels right! i think i need you! please please please!

you lie in bed covering your head with your pillows like a frightened child trying to drown out the sound of a raging storm, pathetic as can be in your desperate need to escape your own desires to be with him. your thoughts are in calamity, trapped somewhere between 'it’s not safe for me like this’ and ‘he’s the only thing that feels safe for me when i’m like this.’ truthfully, all you want is to tell him plainly that you’re struggling with your perception of yourself and him, but you can’t face him right now. not when your heart is up in the air like this, not when your eyes are puffy and red from the nonstop bouts of tears. not when you feel like you don’t deserve it. not when you feel like you haven’t felt enough shame for surviving to experience elation. silence falls but only momentarily before your phone vibrates beside you and the soft knocking continues.

xavier ⋮ 4:49 pm. i know you’re home. either something is wrong and you’re pushing me away or you’re severely injured. xavier ⋮ 4:52 pm. i think it’s the first thing because i saw you sneaking out of the building to take your trash out and you seemed physically well. please. i’m here. xavier ⋮ 5:00 pm. i’ll give you until 5:05 to open up on your own, but if you don’t, i have to come in and check on you okay? i just need to know you’re truly okay. if you need space, i need you to come tell me that please.

it’s a shame you never looked at your messages. maybe it would have been enough to get through to you. maybe his soft reassurance that he knows what’s happening and still wants the best for you would have been enough to drag you out of bed and send your feet padding across the floor in all fairness. but true to your avoidant nature, you keep yourself tucked away. “aha,” you hear his ever-velvet voice suddenly in the center of your room despite not feeling his presence at all. “i think i found my missing bunny.” your heart jolts in your chest, scrambling to clamber up your throat in the form of a relieved sob. your shoulders shake from the strength of it forcing its way out of you. with no hesitation, the addition of xavier’s weight causes your bed to dip as he crawls to be at your side. he doesn’t pull the quilts back or try to coax you out. he just holds you, pulls your blanketed form closer to his own. his arms tighten their hold. “if i had known it was this bad i would have come sooner. i’m sorry.” but you think maybe he shouldn’t be sorry. you should. because you’re the one who sees the world as a threat despite dedicating yourself to saving it. the contradiction of it all leaves you rivaling with a cognitive dissonance that feels impossible to resolve. “it’s not…it’s not you.” your voice cracks even as you whisper. “it’s me. it’s just me. it just…i can’t…all of it…” “shh,” he soothes. “you don’t have to explain yourself. it’s okay. right now, let’s just rest. isn’t that what you need? don’t worry about anything else.” it is. you need rest. comfort. love. the capacity to let yourself experience those things as they’re offered. and xavier. he’ll be there but you know he won’t force you to accept his love. it’ll be up to you to take what you need from him and have the strength to admit when you need even more. sniffling, you slowly poke your head out of your blankets, letting your pillows fall to the side and looking up to finally face him. that’s your act of courage today, to be met with his gentle, welcoming smile and not punish yourself for wanting to keep something close to you, for not wanting it stolen again. he kisses your forehead tenderly. “i knew my bunny would come home. i just had to be patient.” “i’m sorry.” “i’m not in need of apologies at the moment, but i’ll graciously accept approximately three days worth of missing kisses.” in the pale blue of his eyes, there’s not even a drop of malice, resentment, or contempt to be found. if anything, there’s relief and fondness there. the tears well up in your eyes all over again. tentatively, you lean forward and offer his supple lips a ginger kiss. “i really am sorry.” “don’t be. not today. let’s just rest. all the other things can come later. there’s no hurry. i’m here, okay?” and he is. sometimes his patience and grace is a mercy you can’t even offer to yourself. it’s hard to forgive yourself for causing so many problems for others. it’s hard to forgive yourself for even things you can’t control: losing everything you know, everything that was left from losing everything once already. warm tears fall and you don’t try to stop them or shield them from sight. “you are here. aren’t you?” it’s more of a soft reminder for you, for these thoughts that crowd your mind and make you feel like a ghost in your own life: invisible and haunting everything, the source of everyone’s mourning when you go missing inside yourself. xavier nods, leaning his forehead against your own. “and i plan to keep it that way. i want to; i have to. i love you. so…you don’t need to worry about being alone anymore.” it won’t be perfect, but you’ll try your hardest to remember.

#𖥨 ݁ fics ⋅#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace fluff #xavier x reader #xavier love and deepspace #love and deepspace xavier #xavier fluff #xavier #shen xinghui #shen xinghui x reader #lnds xavier #lnds x reader #lnds #lads angst #lnds angst #xavier angst #xavier lads

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hees-mine · 4 months ago

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The sex shop - L. Heeseung

Pairing: heeseung X reader!

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, condoms, lube, sex toys, dirty talk, masturbation, loss of virginity, multiple orgasms, cum eating, blow job, public masturbation, mentions of anal, nipple play, reader and hee are kinda pervy?

WC: 7k+

“Ugh,” heeseung groans, tossing and turning in his bed. It’s three in the morning, and he’s so hard he doesn’t know what to do. Even after jerking off ten minutes ago, he’s ready to go again.

It’s almost annoying how quickly he gets in the mood. Sometimes, he finds himself even having to take random breaks at school or pulling off into an empty parking lot to rub one out.

He’s got zero shame about it and also zero self-control. Whenever he gets hard, he’s cumming no matter the time of day.

Even at three am, he’s rolling on his back and dipping his palm into his gray sweats to start palming his cock.

“Hmm fuck” he closes his eyes, head tilting back as he rolls his palm around his tip with a gentle hiss.

He lifts his hips when just touching isn’t enough. “Shit,” he curses at the sight of the bulge. “I'm so fucking hard” he grabs his base pumping it up and down, his cock riddled with veins and warm to the touch.

He pushes his clothing down further to fondle his full balls, tugging on his sack softly as his toes curl in pleasure, his dick twitching with every tug.

When precum beads at the head, he uses the natural lube to coat his girthy shaft.

He bucks his hips fucking into his hand, wishing he was fucking a pussy instead.

It’d feel so much better than his hand, so much warmer, so much tighter, so much wetter. “God,” he shudders, rolling his palm around the head and then gripping his length tightly, rubbing up and down faster.

Quiet smacks fill his bedroom as his wet fist meets his base with repeated strokes.

He gulps harshly, hips weakly bucking into his hand. He grips his sheets, veins popping on the side of his neck as his body tingles with excitement. He’s so close.

He squeezes his eyes shut, whimpering as his hips lose their rhythm. He’s still trying his best to fuck his fist, but he can feel himself tiring out. After all, it is his third one in the past half hour.

Panting, he tried his best to keep pace, but alas, his hips faltered, his bicep burned with the amount of pressure he applied to his sensitive cock, and even his hand started to cramp as he desperately searched for sweet release.

“Fuck” he gives up, loosening his grip on his cock, throwing his head back into his pillows, sighing frustratedly.

After a few deep breaths, he starts again, slowly stroking his solid cock. He wished he had a toy to make this easier he was too used to the feeling of his right hand making it hard to cum as quickly as he’d like.

But an idea pops into his head. On his way home from work, he’s seen a sex shop not too far from his apartment. They always stayed open 24/7. He’s never really thought about going into one due to shame and embarrassment, but right now, he was too horny to feel anything other than the throbbing ache of his cock.

He slips out of bed, pulling his pants back around his waist. He throws on a black hoodie and puts his slippers on before grabbing his keys and sprinting out the door.

His heart races with excitement as he starts his car and drives a few miles down the road to his destination, one hand on the steering wheel, the other rubbing himself over his sweats, fuck; he needed to cum so freaking bad.

He parks in the lot, turning his key to the off position.

Big pink neon letters lit up the front of the store.

“The sex shop”

read full story here

#lee heeseung #heeseung smut #heeseung fluff #heeseung x reader #enhypen lee heeseung #lee heesung x reader #lee heesung smut #lee heeseung smut #enhypen hyung line #heeseung #enhypen heeseung smut #enhypen hard hours #enhypen heeseung #enhypen smut #enhypen fluff #enhypen fanfic #enhypen scenarios #enhypen

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prettybugsinbandages · 2 months ago

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Blot!reader pt. 7

Part 7 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

The entire cabin sat in suffocating silence, the air thick with grief, pressing down on everyone like a heavy blanket. Though each person reclined in the lounge with eyes closed and limbs still, it was only a performance—none of them could sleep. Not really. The loss was too sharp, too fresh. Everyone processed it differently, but one truth echoes in their hearts: the tragedy hadn't begun the night you died. It had taken root long before. By the time they truly knew you—truly loved you—you were already gone.

Yuuka took it especially hard. She had always seen you as family, someone irreplaceable, and yet, she hadn't been able to do anything to save you. She sat, hollow-eyed, looping over every memory in painful detail, desperately searching for a moment she'd missed—a sign. Was there a day you came home different? Later than usual? Quieter, colder? She tore herself apart wondering if she had ignored the moment your light began to dim.

Ace wrestled with a different torment. His guilt ran deep. He had known you from the very beginning, or at least, that's what he'd convinced himself. In truth, he saw you—passed by you—but never really looking until it was already too late. You were forgotten the moment you weren't in the room. The thought haunted him. He should have known you better. Should have seen the signs. Should have asked more questions. Lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, he kept repeating that same aching mantra: I should've done something. I knew them. I should've known.

You never spoke about the neglect you endured, not directly. But in the aftermath, the pieces fell into place. It became clear to those who mourned you that something had been very wrong. Whatever deal you'd made to rise so suddenly in the eyes of the world—whatever force had pulled you from the shadows into the spotlight—must have come with a price. And so they wondered, each in their own quiet despair: What final blow pushed you over the edge? Who, in their carelessness or cruelty, handed down your death sentence that night?

When you told them about the Blot—about everything you knew and everything you felt they needed to know—their responses were varied as they were heartfelt.

Kalim, Ace, and Yuuka held onto you with unwavering faith. They clung to the belief that you were still you, that the Blot didn't change who you truly were. They hoped, desperately, that it might fade, or be cured. That things could somehow return to normal.

But others—Vil, Leona—responded with wariness. They had seen what the Blot could do, had felt the darkness clawing at the edges of control. To them you were walking a dangerous line. They didn't say it outright, but the fear was there, unspoken but heavy: Had you been building this Blot inside you for months unnoticed? Were you already a ticking time bomb?

And the unthinkable loomed in their thoughts: If you were to overblot... if the darkness overtook you completely... would they even be able to stop it?

None of them could say it aloud, but the truth lingered in every glance exchanged, every tense silence.

None of them were sure if they could raise their pens against you.

Not if it came to that.

When the talk turned to the possibility of breaking the contract, of severing the tie that bound you to the Blot, the group was split even. They knew, perhaps more clearly than you did, that the Blot wasn't just a threat—it was also your lifeline. Whatever bargain had been struck, however dark, it was keeping you here. Keeping you alive.

Leona, ever pragmatic, offered to try. He mentioned his Unique Magic—how he'd broken so-called unbreakable deals before, even Azul's ironclad contracts. Nothing was truly unbreakable, he said.

And so, with quiet determination, he reached out and took your lifeless hand in his. The moment his fingers brushed the ring, the temperature plummeted. The metal, already ice-cold, turned searching. It burned your skin with such intensity that you cried out, jerking away. A small yelp—but it was enough. Enough to freeze everyone in place.

A warning.

That was the last attempt. They decided then and there—spoken or not—that they wouldn't try again.

Especially not if removing it meant risking your life.

It was unmistakable now; the Blot did not intend to be cast off. it had clung to you with possessive desperation, punishing even the suggestion of separation. It lashed out—not with fury, but with something: quieter. Sharper. Intentional.

Even in sleep, where you should have found escape, peace eluded you. Your dreams were restless landscapes of whispered arguments and echoing what-ifs, and always, always, you felt watched. The Blot's presence lingered like static in the air, wrapping around you—and them—with a warmth that was oppressive now. it pulsed with something old, something aware.

They felt it too. All of them.

This thing, this force that had given you life again, now seemed to loom like a second shadow. To you, it hummed softly—a low thrum that followed you into sleep. A presence. A heartbeat.

The ring itself pulsed faintly now, like something alive. At first, it was steady, a subtle rhythm you barely noticed. But tonight—tonight it was faster.

Uneven. Anxious.

Almost... afraid.

The world you found yourself in was a place that refused to stay still, a kaleidoscope of shifting shapes and colors, constantly rearranging itself. It couldn't decide what it wanted to be, but there were a few constants—persistent patterns, repeated hues and forms, that twisted in ways you couldn't make sense of.

Then, you hear it. A voice. Ortho? Malleus? Someone else?

The syllables stretch unnaturally long, each word mangling into the next. The rhythm of their speech is off, warped, the tone repeats your name—but something's wrong. Too many echoes. Too many wrong echoes. You blink, and the voices morph into your own, distorting, mocking, mourning. They plead with you in voices that sound like they belong to someone else, but their sharp edges make you flinch, as if they're cutting into you from within.

Are you dreaming? You can't tell. You're not sure of anything here.

You're not sure of yourself.

As you move through the space, you catch glimpses of your reflection—though it's never whole. Shattered glass splinters at your feet, distorting the image in jagged pieces. In broken fragments, you're not what you remember. You're something else. Your flesh is gone in places, hanging from exposed bone, rotting, decaying. Your neck is bent at an angle recognized as impossible and inside you, insects crawl—skittering through the hollow where your heart should be, where your life should still pulse.

The sight is too much. It's suffocating.

You can't bear to look any longer, but the reflection clings to you, mocking you with every step. You stumble backward, heart pounding, your body aching as if each moment is strenuous. Your legs are unsteady, as if the ground beneath you is not quite solid, and you twist around, turning on your heel.

You run.

But it's difficult.

Breathing is a struggle. The hollow ache in your lungs is a cruel reminder there is no air to pull in.

When you look down, the fragments of your reflection remain—clothing torn, tattered, beyond recognition, and the sight of your chest, cracked open like a broken shell, takes the last of your strength.

The world is wrong. Everything is wrong.

No wonder you can't breathe; you don't have lungs anymore.

The gravity of the place feels distorted, pulling in strange directions that you can't describe, warping the space around you. The world is devoid of color, but your eyes are assaulted by a dizzying array of hues—too many, too fast, too intense to comprehend. It's as if the colors exist beyond the spectrum you know, beyond the limits of your perception.

The Blot's voice—its presence—flooded your ears, your mind, seeping into every corner of your thoughts. It shuddered around you, writhing, as though the dream world itself couldn't hold its form any longer. It was a reflection of the Blot's own stress, its instability. Just as it's form trembled and shifted when thrown off, so too was the fabric of this space.

You could only assume that by being so deeply entangled with the Blot, you had somehow slipped into its mind—or maybe its world. It wasn't clear.

Words collided in the air—some soft, others shrill—whispers, shouts, incoherent fragments. It was like it was speaking from everywhere at once. But amidst the chaos, one voice pierced through the noise, Its tone raw and desperate. It screamed in your head.

"Why? Why are you doing this?" The Blot's voice cried.

Its panic was visceral—almost childlike, trembling between frustration and pleading.

It didn't understand.

"Why are you telling them? We were fine! We were together! You... you were so kind to me this morning before the hike..." It stuttered, its words stumbling in confusion, the longing sharp as it clung to your closeness from that morning.

It didn't understand.

You ran—but you didn't know for how long.

How long had you been hiding from the Blot? From the reflections that mocked you? From the rotting body that you could feel but not escape?

Every step felt like a step toward something other, something incomprehensible. You were a ghost, running from the dark surrounding you.

The collision—the crash—was deafening, shocking you back into clarity. The monolith before you splintered at your touch, shuddering and shifting. It was an immense crystal statue—though it was never still. It shifted, reformed, nearly a living creature in constant flux, impossible to make sense of. Was it a figure? A being? Or something that had once been but had long since lost its meaning?

The statue hummed, a deep, resonant sound like the tuning of a cosmic fork, vibrating through the air, through you. Its surface was smooth, glasslike, but etched with thousands of names, faces, forms—rewriting itself over and over again. It was as if the statue was an archive, trying desperately to preserve its own history, its purpose.

You wanted to reach out, to understand, but before you could touch it, the ground beneath you buckled. The wailing grew louder, sound warping and twisting until it seemed to come from every direction at once. The Blot's presence flared, its grip on you—on everything—shattering.

And then... it was gone.

And darkness swallowed you whole.

Static crackles across your tongue—acidic and sharp, like chewing electricity. You blink rapidly, over and over, your eyes straining against the suffocating nothingness that surrounds you. There's no darkness, no light. Just everything and nothing, layered over each other in a space that doesn't obey rules. A contradiction you can't comprehend.

Then—clarity.

A voice begins, soft and distant, like a recording warped by time. It's not speaking to you, not exactly. It's narrating. Telling a story that feels familiar in your bones, though your memory protests.

Long before time's tapestry unraveled into the mortal world, there existed the Angel of Faces, a being crafted by the divine will to be a mirror of mortal perception. The Creator designed them without a fixed form, a blank slate destined to reflect the countless faces imagined by mortalkind—a bridge. They were the Messenger of Truths, delivering divine revelations in guises familiar and comforting, ensuring mortals could bear the weight of celestial messages.

Images crack open before you—like shattered glass, jagged and glinting, tumbling one after another into focus. They don't move like real things—more like illustrations torn from pages of a storybook.

You see them—a being of indescribable beauty, ever shifting. Their form changes like water caught in starlight, their features never still. They descend from the sky, trailing light behind them, wearing faces borrowed from dreams and fantasies. As they meet mortals, they speak in soft tones and gentle smiles, becoming what people expect to see.

The scene carries the nostalgic warmth of fable, but something about it gnaws at the edges.

Mortals, however, are imperfect storytellers. Each encounter reshaped the Angel of Faces, adding new features, quirks, and expressions. Some saw them as a serene guardian; others envisioned a stern judge or a deceiving trickster. These conflicting descriptions layered upon the angel like masks, making their true self indistinguishable, even to themselves.

You watch the whispers spread—around campfires, across market stalls, through grand halls. People speak of the messenger, the celestial, the angel. You see them again, curled up in a fetal position with their wings cocooning them, their form folding and reshaping themselves as mortals impose identities upon them.

A healer. A warrior. A muse.

Each expectation a mold. Each opinion a new mask.

And though the angel's face remains serene, poised—graceful even—you notice it now. The flicker. The micro-twitch. A wince that doesn't belong. Pain—subtle but unmistakable—buried beneath the surface as they fracture to match fantasies of others.

Over the ages, this shifting identity became a curse. They could recall every face ever worn, every lie spoken to soothe mortal fears, yet no memory of an original self remained. In despair, they sought reassurance from the Creator, pleading for a singular, immutable form. But the Creator remained silent, bound by cosmic law to let mortals shape the angel's existence. They were the bridge between the divine and the flesh—the only way divinity could properly understand mortal and vice-versa.

Then, a throne.

Massive. Towering. Its presence dominates the space. The angel kneels before it, wings unfurled behind them—crushed and colorless, like a butterfly pinned beneath glass. Their head is bowed. You can't hear the words exchanged, but the feeling crashes over you like a wave.

Agony. Sorrow. Desperation. Pleading.

And beyond it all: silence.

A cold, heavy silence that presses into your ribs. The kind that follows disappointment from someone who once loved you. Or worse—pity.

You can feel the weight of the Creator's silence. Not anger. Not wrath. Just... regret. And it's so much heavier than anything else.

Resentment festered. If mortals could define them, why should they not seize control of that power? They abandoned truth, embracing deception. In time, they learned to wield their ever-changing faces as weapons: impersonating kings, prophets, and lovers, sowing discord with whispers of false promises. Their once-pure voice became a chorus of lies, harmonizing with the ambitions and fears of those they encountered.

Scenes follow in rapid succession, kaleidoscopic in nature and fragmented, but you know the angel is there—though their wings are gone, though their face is someone else's.

Then, ruin.

A king laughs on a golden throne, his kingdom shining.

A secret lover slips out of a bed in darkness.

An assassin vanishes into a crowd.

A prophet raises trembling hands before a weeping congregation.

None of them ever saw the angel beneath the face they wore. They never looked long enough, painfully unperceptive—or perhaps unaware.

The king's palace, turned to rubble.

The lover, now a wife—yet the old wife is miraculously absent.

The assassin's victims, nameless in a list.

The prophet's followers, bloodied and broken in their belief.

If no one knew what the angel truly was, then stories couldn't cage them. Rumors couldn't wound them—shape them. And so, they wore more faces. Hid deeper. Buried themselves beneath perception. And when they were wronged—betrayed—they sought retribution. Over and over again.

But the revenge never tasted sweet.

Only hollow.

Thus, the Angel of Faces fell—not through rebellion, but through erosion of identity. Cast from the heavens, they now wander the mortal and infernal realms, a living mask who changes with every glance. They are feared as a master manipulator, a thief of faces and fates, cursed never to be remembered as themselves.

Legends say if you meet someone whose face you forget the moment they turn away, you've crossed paths with the Angel of Faces or their vassals. Pray they haven't taken an interest in wearing your face next.

More faces, more identities flash by, countless and unclear. You can't see them distinctly, but the truth sinks in. You know now. You know who they are.

The Angel of Faces. A creature lost in masks, wandering through mortalkind, trying to feel whole.

A being warped and corrupted by their own nature.

No matter what name they claimed, no matter what role they played—no one ever saw them. Only what they were supposed to be. What others wanted.

A crown. A smile. A blade.

But never themselves.

The images fracture and collapse around you—but not into darkness. This time, they pull you in. Like pages of a book folding shut around you, dragging you into its chapters.

The sun is high, warm and golden, filtering through thick branches overhead. Shadows dapple your skin—real, textured, soft. The breeze smells of pine and something faintly sweet. It feels safe here. Familiar in a way that aches.

But you aren't alone.

Ahead of you, moving slowly through the trees, is a figure. They look like a hunter—simple clothes, dirt on their boots, a bow strapped across their back. It's a quiet disguise, inconspicuous. Something they've worn before, probably in times of mischief or survival.

You follow, but your steps make no sound. You don't rustle the leaves. You leave no footprints. It becomes quickly apparent you aren't really here. Just a silent observer.

The hunter reaches a clearing—a wide expanse of green, peaceful and untouched. At its center stands a single oak tree, massive and ancient, its roots twisting deep into the hill it rests upon. The sunlight catches on its leaves like gold.

You've never been here. Not in memory.

And yet—your chest hurts with recognition.

The ache isn't sudden. It's long, settled. Like a name you forgot but still miss. Like a song you can't hum, but remember how it made you feel.

You miss this place.

But you miss it the way a house misses laughter. The way empty arms remember who they used to hold.

You follow the hunter in silence as he steps into the embrace of the oak's shade, the heavy stillness of the clearing wrapping around him like a familiar blanket. He lowers himself onto the earth with a tired sort of grace, his limbs moving like someone who has worn exhaustion too long to notice it anymore.

You rest just opposite him, your back finding the warm bark. The sun flickers gently through the leaves above, dappling the ground in gold, and for a moment there's peace.

But then it begins crashing over you; a torrent of emotions strong enough to nearly sweep you away.

Regret.

Longing.

Fear.

And grief so ancient it's fossilized into the soul—grief that has learned how to survive by becoming quiet.

It coils in your gut like smoke, pressing against your ribs, too heavy, too consuming. It isn't yours—you know that—but it moves through your body like it belongs there.

It makes you want to rip yourself open just to see if the feelings bleed out. To see if they're real. To see something—anything—clear for once.

You try to drown it out—to focus on the soft hush of wind through leaves, the warmth of soil beneath you, the steady breathing of the man sitting across from you, against the other side of the tree. The quiet hum of the world moving around you. But then—

Footsteps.

Soft, but sure. Grass shifts. A twig snaps.

You tense. Your body doesn't move, but your mind begins to brace itself. You squeeze your eyes tighter, silently begging: Leave. Just walk on by.

But they don't.

They stop—right on the other side of the tree. A beat of silence.

And then—they sit.

Like they belong here.

Like they were always going to.

The bark dug into my spine. My shoulders stiffened, and I pressed harder against the tree, jaw tightening. Whoever they are, they've broken the rhythm of the moment, shattered the fragile stillness I've carved out for myself in this place.

I didn't want to look.

But I had to, didn't I?

Not out of curiosity, not out of fear, but because I felt myself compelled to know who would dare come here, to the one place I'm allowed to not be anyone.

I recall turning my head slowly, angling to peer through the crooked gap in the oak's wide trunk, through what now seemed like a portal to the heavens.

And you sat there quietly, knees drawn up to your chest, head resting in your arms and eyes closed like you belonged there. A mortal, nothing important, nothing special.

I remember shifting to my knees, the bark rough against my palms as I leaned forward, peering through oak's crooked hollow. The memory is soft around the edges, worn thin by time—but you were there, seated as though you belonged.

You must have known the whispers by then—the carefully cultivated reputation, the layers of distance I'd wrapped myself in like a cloak. I'd made myself a shadow, a storm behind furrowed brows and quick footsteps. The kind of presence no one dared to interrupt.

I rose slowly and deliberately, brushing the dirt from my knees with practiced indifference. I took a short walk around the tree, boots pressing quietly into the grass until I stood directly before you. Still, you didn't move. Didn't even glance up. As if my presence meant nothing.

Strange little thing.

Even without knowing the truth buried beneath this face—this shape—I'd made sure the mask was fearsome enough to ward off the curious.

Yet you sat there like you'd missed the message.

I braced my arm against the tree, leaning over you, letting my shadow stretch across your form like a storm rolling in. I remember thinking it would be enough. Surely, this would send you away.

Perhaps I'd grown a little too confident in the image I wore.

And yet, still—nothing.

You didn't move. You didn't cower. You looked at me, eventually, and blinked as though bored by the drama of my entrance. The sky behind you was warm with late summer light, and I remember hating how it caught the edges of your face, like a portrait too breathtaking to forget.

"This is my spot," I said—sharper than I meant to be. The words came out brittle, my tone edged with irritation I hadn't yet admitted was born from something deeper. "Are you a fool? Everyone in town knows not to bother me."

I'd come from a fruitless hunt that day. Old faces Old temples. A bad memory scraped raw by ruins once gilded in my name. And yet you met my bitterness not with fear, but with a half-lidded stare of quiet disbelief—as though I'd just asked something absurd.

Then, you asked me if I had put my name on the tree. On the hill. On the grass beneath our feet.

I had not.

Of course I hadn't.

"You don't seem all that intimidating," you said, head tilted, voice a touch too amused. There was a challenge in your eyes I hadn't seen in ages—cocky and warm like sunlit water that dares you to relax and step deeper.

"We can share."

I argued, of course. Drew lines in the dirt with stubborn words, even threatened you with a bow I never truly meant to raise. I told myself it was principle. Territory. A matter of pride.

But it wasn't.

And still—you stayed.

So I stayed, too.

And it became a game of attrition. A quiet war beneath that old oak tree. Day after day, seeing which of us would yield first. Who would grow tired of the silence. Who would falter.

And yet—

Somehow you slipped into the rhythm of my days. I never meant for it to happen. I never invited you into the quiet rituals I built to keep the world at bay. But time has a way of folding itself around people like you.

Before I realized it, my hours bent at the knee, reshaped by your presence beneath that oak. The days grew long with half-conversations spoken through the gap in the trunk, voices low, laughter occasionally catching on the wind like birdsong.

The mischief faded first—those little pranks, the constant games of pushing and posturing. They dissolved, quietly, as if they had never belonged between us. And in their place: stillness. Companionable silences. Glanced exchanged through the bark. A strange sort of truce that no one decaled.

Summer vanished. Slipped through the cracks like water. The tree grew bare and brittle, its crown stripped of leaves and clothed in frost. Snow came in thick, crystalline blankets, and for a while, I thought that would be the end of us.

Without the tree to claim—without a battleground—I thought you might forget. That I would forget.

So I returned to what this guise knew. I buried myself in the role of a hunter—sharp-eyed and silent. A ghost that moved through the forests and frozen paths. You vanished. Life moved on.

But gods, the winter had teeth that year.

It sunk into me in ways no season ever had before.

I missed you.

You, a mortal—one of the very creatures who had carved me hollow with stories and lies. And yet the ache of your absence bloomed in my chest, slow and unrelenting.

One day—without thinking, without deciding—I found myself beneath the tree again. My feet knew the way better than my heart did.

The air was cold enough to bite, frost curling at the edges of my sleeves, and I stood there like a fool in the snow—ready to accept the silence I'd earned.

But then—you were there.

Waiting.

Lashes kissed white with frost, hair tucked beneath your hood, the pale winter sky behind you like the canvas of a masterwork. You looked like something out of myth—something I might've made up just to keep the loneliness at bay.

"Why are you still here?" I asked. My voice was rough, choked with breath that bloomed white into the cold. The question burned in my throat, but I had to ask it anyway.

You looked up at me with that ridiculous smile—soft, knowing, a little smug—and it tore a laugh from me before I could stop it.

"I won. It's my spot now." you said, brushing snow from your clothes with exaggerated nonchalance.

And every instinct I'd once held sacred—against every philosophy I'd sworn by—I followed you.

I told myself it was curiosity—that I needed to understand. That a mortal like you, warm-eyed and strange, couldn't possibly be real. That something so unspoiled had to be a trick. A lie—like faerie food.

"Where are we going?" I asked, hands clasped neatly behind my back, trying to sound disinterested—detached.

You hummed, tugging your hood a little tighter against the wind.

"Your home," you said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I looked all over town when the cold came, but I couldn't find you.

Your voice wavered just slightly at the edges—the way it always did when something mattered more than you wanted to admit.

"You like to disappear," you added, gaze turned toward the path ahead. "But you can't hide from me."

Hiding?

Had I truly been doing that?

Avoiding the truth nestled deep in my chest—that I'd grown fond of you in ways I never intended? That I was no longer as indifferent as I'd have liked?

"Perhaps I had been." I murmured, more to myself than to you. My head dipped in a quiet concession, and I stepped ahead, reluctant but resolved, guiding you toward the place I called home.

Or rather... the place I'd borrowed.

The home had once belonged to a huntsman who drank himself to death, his loneliness thick enough to choke on. I'd slipped into the shape of him, claimed his bed, his hearth, his name. Mortals rarely question a presence that mimics familiarity well enough.

I've lived in countless homes—shacks, palaces, temples of crystal, and cities carved in marble. Each built around the face I wore at the time. But none of them ever fit right. Every roof felt too low, every bed too soft or stiff. They had pressed against me like ill-fitted skins. none could hold me—not the real me.

And yet... this one somehow, felt different.

You filled the space in a way I never could. Your voice, your laughter, even the way you sulked when the wind crept in under the door—it made the walls feel less like cages.

There were nights when I forgot what I was. Where I wasn't an angel buried under names and masks and vengeance—I was just something warm, watching you speak beside the crackling fire.

And then, as if we had blinked, winter was gone.

Melted into memory.

It struck me quietly one day beneath the old oak—that was the longest I'd kept an identity. The longest I'd stayed still without splintering a town or vanishing into the fog, without punishing someone for the weight of their perception.

That evening, you met me beneath the tree again, a satchel in hand and a grin tucked at the corners of your mouth. You'd saved for weeks, you said, pinched coin where you could, though I knew most of that money had come from me. Quiet gifts slipped into your pouch when you weren't looking. What use did I have for currency? I did not eat. I did not burn fuel. I had no need for comfort.

But you—you used it to buy a book.

And when you opened it, when your fingers brushed the yellowed pages, something shifted.

Because I recognized the words. I remembered them.

My stories. My tragedies. My sins—etched into ink by mouths that had never known me, retold by voices who feared and worshipped in equal measure.

And you were reading them. You knew.

My breath caught in my throat, unfamiliar and painful. That age-old instinct reared its head—run. Disappear. Start again.

I always ran when I was seen too clearly.

My hands trembled. My stomach churned with something not quite shame, not quite terror—a horrible ache. Familiar. Like home.

I stared at you, bracing for betrayal, or disgust, or fear—for the look that always followed.

But instead—

"I—I'm sorry." I heard myself say.

The words tumbled from my lips without permission, jagged and strange, like something living had crawled out from deep inside me.

A part of me recoiled in disgust. Apologizing? To a mortal? I'd never done that—not sincerely.

And still, I searched your face. Desperate. Panicked. Waiting for you to shatter the fragile world I'd built. To call me monster. To finally see me.

The sky spun above us. The forest pressed in. And I—

I felt stuck in my skin. I wanted to tear it off—to leave the hunter behind and vanish into mist, into shadow, into myth.

Because that's all I've ever known how to do.

It's all I've ever done.

Flee.

Run.

Hide.

But you only shook your head, quiet and steady, and gently pulled me down to sit beside you beneath the tree.

And then—like it was the simplest thing in the world—you spoke words I never imagined I'd be allowed to hear. Words I thought were forbidden to something like me.

"You have no name, no face, no anchor to the world... Do you want one? Should I give you one?"

Your hands were warm—foolishly so, impossibly so—and when they rose to cup my cheek, I leaned into them without protest. Without thought. Just instinct. Bone-deep exhaustion seeped from my limbs, and I slumped into your waiting shape like a story trying to remember how it was first told.

Centuries folded in on themselves inside me: Regret, violence, tenderness, exile, desperation. I carried them all, and suddenly, I was too tired to bear the weight alone.

"That is impossible, my dear," I murmured with the heavy certainty of someone who had begged one, long ago, and learned never to ask again. "Not even the Creator could grant me that."

But you simply hummed, a sound as light as wind through leaves, unburdened by the rules I'd spent lifetimes bound to.

"The Creator is governed by cosmic law, sure. But mortals...mortals were given free will. And they were given dominion over you, weren't they? So I ask again—what do you say?"

Those words hit something ancient and aching inside me—something that had never been named but always lingered, humming under my skin like a prayer I couldn't remember anymore. My lips parted before I could stop them.

"Yes," I breathed. "Yes, please."

And so it began.

We spent four months and eight days fashioning me like a myth retold by firelight.

You scratched categories into the dirt with a stick, had me toss pebbles with my eyes shut to choose hair, height, voice, eyes. We ran through fields and libraries and markets so I could feel what drew me, what felt like mine. We spoke for hours—about food, about stars, about what kind of kindness I might carry. We peeled back the layers and decided who I wanted to be when I wasn't forced to be anything at all.

And slowly, I became.

A name began to rise in me like spring after a cruel winter. A shape. A soul. A self.

And in that self, I found something terrifying:

So I wrote you little poems under moonlight, clumsy with feeling, desperate to condense eternity into twelve words. I slipped them into your books, between the recipes you collected and the strange ideas you left half-finished in the margins.

I had fallen in love with you.

And love—what a cruel thing.

What a luminous, sickening thing.

It turns every other feeling into a shadow.

It renders contentment into longing.

It corrodes reason and whispers delusion in a voice sweeter than truth.

Love is the death of logic, the ruin of kingdoms, the doom of angels.

And I needed it.

I needed it with an ache that made me stupid. Desperate. Mortal.

Because you were my Creator. You were the one who saw me not as myth or threat or shapeless horror, but as someone who could be.

I loved you the only way I knew how: endlessly.

I would have loved you until our veins braided like roots in the earth and our hearts beat the same rhythm beneath our ribs.

You made me real.

And without you, I had no reason to be anyone at all.

I never should have let you give me everything.

Never should have placed you in the path of what I was—what I've always been.

Because while the Creator could not command mortals, could not lace them with cosmic law or shape their choices—it could still ensure. It could correct. It could balance the scale.

And it did.

Because you crossed the line that wasn't meant to be drawn, let alone stepped over. And I stood at your side and let you.

A mortal, after all, was never meant to rewrite the purpose of one of its creations.

A defiance.

A devotion.

A crime.

I remember the night it happened as though it were carved into me. The details seared into the marrow of my being, relentless in their clarity. No matter how much time passes, that memory remains untouched by erosion.

To grant meaning where none was given—

To name what should have remained nameless—

That was a violation.

A defiance of divine structure.

An offense that demanded retribution.

We walked in silence, your hand cradled in mine. I had planned to tell you everything—about what I had done, what I had been, and what you'd done to my heart. I was ready to surrender the whole truth. But your hand was warm, your thumb brushing the backing of mine in small, thoughtless circles, and I found myself stalling to make the moment last just a bit longer.

My divine heart beat with a violence I'd never known—no battle or vengeance or miracle had ever stirred it like this. With you beside me, all of it—every war, every mark, every century—faded into background noise and it no longer seemed as loud in my head. You were more than grounding. You were anchoring.

You made me real.

You chattered about something that had happened earlier that day—some nonsense about a goat loose in town with two children clinging to its back like miniature bandits. The scene meant nothing to me, but your laughter rang like a melody I hadn't known I needed until I heard it. That sound—pure and unburdened—was rest. A kind of rest I'd never been allowed.

And the moonlight? It loved you as much as I did.

It bathed your skin like a blessing, caught in your hair, made your eyes gleam with mischief and warmth. I remember thinking the entire world looked like a backdrop created to cradle your beauty alone—just a stage where you moved freely and unknowingly beautiful.

You looked up at me, your expression full of unbearable joy you always managed to carry, even over the smallest things. It unsettled me, in a way. How could you be so happy in such a broken world? How could you carry such softness without it cutting you open?

And perhaps... perhaps that tiny shard of judgement—of not understanding you fully—is what made it worse. Perhaps that is what made it all the more tragic.

Because I hesitated.

I let the night go on too long.

I let myself fall too deeply into the illusion that maybe, just maybe, I could have all of this.

And in that hesitation I doomed you.

You.

Peace.

A name.

A future.

They moved through time because they existed outside of it.

And your lips—those soft, precious things that said the most wondrous things—had just begun to part with a question or a laugh or a breath, I'll never know. It was lost in the moment your eyes widened, a flash of something ancient behind them—recognition. A silent understanding that something had happened, something final, even if you didn't yet know what it was.

It pierced you like a key, not a weapon—unlocking soul from flesh, unthreading the stitches that kept you in this world. You crumpled, so softly, like a page torn from sacred text. And oh, how I wanted—how I needed—to have moved faster. To have noticed sooner. To have thrown myself behind you and taken it all.

Then came the executioner.

A blade plunged cleanly through your back—swift, silent, a perfect strike.

It didn't bleed you.

No, the blade wasn't meant to be tainted with blood. It was meant for undoing.

Instead, they were perfect. Silent. Unmovable.

The executioner was beautiful. All things from the divine realm are.

Beautiful in the way holy things are: absolute, motionless, terrifying.

They never opened their mouth. Never broke their gaze. But their presence split the sky inside me.

They were not cruel—not even angry.

That would have been easier.

And it was that stillness that shattered me.

I felt the weight of every sin, even the ones I hadn't known I'd committed—especially the one I'd inflicted on you. They pressed down on me until I couldn't breathe, couldn't move, as you sank to the forest floor like a puppet whose strings had been snipped with precision.

I looked in fury at them, searching for a sign of injustice I could fight back against, but there was nothing. Nothing but a slight nod—a movement so small it could have been the wind, and yet I felt it. A gesture I couldn't understand then, but now, maybe it was pity. Maybe it was a quiet apology. Because they are only summoned when a divine law has been broken so utterly that even the gods and angels must look away.

It wasn't your fault.

It was mine.

And yet they punished you all the same.

I collapsed beside your body, the earth rushing to meet me. The forest dulled around me, sounds folding into a high-pitched ring, like reality itself was recoiling at the sheer grief of the scene. I gathered you in my arms with trembling hands, and I knew it the moment I touched you—you were gone.

Not sleeping. Not wounded. Just... absent.

Your body was still whole. Still beautiful. The vessel I had admired, adored. But the soul within—that spark that laughed and argued and made me—it was nowhere to be found.

And I didn't know how to react. There was no emotion strong enough, no shape of grief that could express what tore through me.

My form betrayed me—unraveled into the divine shape you had never seen. The one I hated. Wings too large, body too incomprehensible, face too beautiful. My voice broke apart when I tried to speak, to demand why the Creator had taken you and not me. To beg for your return.

But no words came, and when I looked up, the executioner was already gone.

Just like you.

I was alone.

The woods—once warm, once soft—were suddenly hollow. The moonlight, once silver and loving, burned like acid on my skin. The whole world had turned against me.

And then I sensed it. Not just your absence, but your removal.

You weren't in this world. Not in the heavens. Not in the underworld. You had been taken—cast out into another realm entirely, one far beyond my reach. A place even somebody of my caliber couldn't go.

The Creator didn't just correct the error.

It hid the evidence.

You.

Gone.

I lost my face. My shape. My center.

Perhaps it was the carnal desire to be gone,

to undo myself,

to become nothing.

My form began to break.

That beautiful, temporary self you'd helped my build—it cracked and splintered until it was dust.

Until there was nothing left but darkness.

I don't remember what I did that night. Or the nights after. Or the years that followed.

What remained was a shifting blot of ink and shadow. A void. An echo.

And without you, even that felt too much.

Maybe decades. Maybe more.

But eventually, I started to hear whispers—of a shadow that moved like smoke. A shapeless thing that fed on grief and misery. A monster that haunted the edges of villages, stealing warmth and magic from the air.

And I understood.

Without you, without your name on my lips and your laugh in my chest, I had let myself be shaped by mortal fear and legend.

I was forced into a mold again.

I spent years searching for you—my heart, my breath, the axis upon which my very being once turned. I scoured every corner of the living realm, dared disturb the divine with my rotting body of misery, even descended into the underworlds where no light reaches. Always hoping—aching—that the feeling was wrong. That hollow emptiness where your presence should have been was a lie. That maybe I was only panicking.

But it was never a lie. You were gone.

And in that time... I don't know what I became.

Without you—my reason, my tether—I was a thing adrift. Disgusting in nature, I hid and only lashed out. I lived in echoes and shadows, unanchored and shapeless. A being wearing old regrets like skin. I can't remember the faces I wore, or the deeds I committed while searching. There are blank places in my memory, stained only with the knowledge that I must have hurt many in my desperation. I must have destroyed things, twisted fates, left ruin in my wake.

And may the divine forgive me—I would do it all again if it meant finding you.

But you are not here to forgive me.

Not yet.

So I wait.

I wait like a prayer made in flesh. I wait like an abandoned altar beneath a sky that no longer answers.

I wait for you to salvage me from this endless dark, to craft me again with warm hands and soft laughter. To call me into being like you did before.

I wait for my creator to return—not the One in the heavens, but you.

You, who named me. You, who gave me a face.

You, who made me someone.

Because I believe now, with all the fragile, fractured pieces of what remains of me, that the Creator—the Creator—was hasty. Rash in its punishment. Cruel in its corrections. It shattered us and called it balance, but it made a single, fateful mistake.

It forgot to scratch your name from the ledges buried deep within the grand library of all things that are, and were, and will be.

And all unnatural things, in time, return to how they belong.

Like a tide pulling the wayward back to shore.

Like a thread—cut too early—still tugging at the loom.

So I hoped.

Oh, I hoped with the kind of hope that burns and scalds.

With the kind of hope that only something eternal can endure.

The Weaver of Fates hated me, hated the way I slipped between threads, rearranged destinies like pages in a book, like a god with a pen too eager. But like all living things, even the divine, they grew curious. Even they hungered for something new—an unexpected turn in the story. And so, for each fate I promised to rewrite in their name, I was granted one meager decade within their library.

It took a long, long time.

Longer than most stars get.

And in that time I did everything.

Begging. Bartering. Lying. Challenging.

And there—

Amid endless shelves, beneath eternity's whirring lanterns, swathed in dust and starlight and silence—

I found you.

Your thread.

You.

Out of nowhere. Woven anew.

Subtle, but unmistakable.

I remember how I staggered. How the breath left me like a struck bell. How my trembling hands reached for the book that held your name like it was the only thing in the universe worth touching.

Because to me, it was—It is.

You were still out there. Alive again. Somewhen.

And the only thing left in me—after centuries of ruin, centuries of silence—was the desperate, carnal need to find you again.

My Savior.

You returned to the world through the smallest crack—a school and a fluke of magic, they called it. But I knew it was fate, twisting itself in impossible ways just to give me a second chance.

The world, however, is as cruel as it is careless. Your fate was once again marred by suffering—cut open by hands that saw you not as a soul, not as the brilliant, unshakable light I remembered, but as a vessel.

A means to an end. A thing to use.

The book said they'd grow to love you. That time would soften their edges, that eventually they'd see the truth of you and come to adore you. but now, my star—how could they not immediately fall to their knees before your purity? How could they ever lay a hand on your gentle spirit and think it anything less than sacred?

I couldn't allow it.

Not again.

Not after all you'd already endured because of me.

Come back to me, curl close to my side. Lay your head against my chest, feel my heart beating for you and you alone. Let it remind you that you're not alone anymore. That you're home, you're safe.

Please.

Please rest, my beloved.

Let me carry the weight for a while.

I felt it in the moment you stepped through again—the second your soul returned to this realm. The wind shifted. The light changed. The world, once fueled by my grief, suddenly shimmered with warmth and color.

And there you were.

So breathtaking, it almost hurt.

In that moment, I nearly ran to you, fell to my knees before you like a worshipper before their altar. I would have offered every piece of me right then—my hands, my heart, my every divine and ruined piece.

A different form, yes, but still you.

Your soul radiated through, unmissable, unmistakable. That light of yours—impossibly bright. Unyielding. Unchanged.

I wanted to pray to you, not the Creator.

And so, driven by that desperate ache, knowing what trials were written for you in the pages of fate, I made a choice.

Because only you had ever given me peace.

Only you made me real.

A hasty, selfish, loving choice.

Please forgive me.

I became your guardian.

Not by divine assignment—no, the heavens had long since turned from me. I was no longer an Angel, no longer anything at all in their eyes. A fallen thing. A memory.

Until I could earn back your love, until we could escape this wretched cycle together—somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. Somewhere the stars forgot. Hidden even from the Creator's gaze.

Shelter.

Protection.

A little more time.

I passed my gift to you—the same one that had once forced me to slip through the cracks of perception, to disappear and be ignored by even the divine. I made you forgettable. Your name, your face, your presence—reduced to a whisper in the minds of those around you.

No one could hold you long enough to break you again.

The night I found you in the snow, body broken and spirit dimmed, something inside of me that had been subtly blooming again tore.

But I was wrong.

I was so wrong.

My treasure—my heart, my only—shattered again, and I hadn't even seen it coming. You had become so invisible, so perfectly cloaked in my protection that even I could no longer feel the ache of your suffering until it was too late.

And still, even mangled, you begged to be seen.

To be known.

And perhaps—perhaps I had been cruel in my reverence. So intent on protecting you that I denied you the very thing you longed for: connection.

So I lifted it.

The concealment, the cloak, the silence. I peeled it back and let the world see you again.

And I watched you drown beneath the affection you so rightly deserved—both soft and overwhelming, subtle and blinding. Some of it pure. Some of it not.

Always waiting.

And I remained in the shadow, unseen. As always. Just your guardian.

Just the broken remnant of what you once loved.

Waiting.

For the day you remember me.

And love me again.

Sorry this one took so long.

Part eight

Hi?

While writing it I kinda got a little worried I was messing up. This is technically a twst fic but this entire 8k word chapter is almost only about the Blot. Which is my own character and I realized some of you might just want twst content?

btw the religious themes have no intentional connection to any real religions. It's my own thoughts, my own story. I hope it doesn't offend.

Did this cook?? I'm so anxious because I really got to write about what I really like and my own OC!

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