#metaphor for guidance

[theenglishnook]

PHAROS

The Pharos of Alexandria, an ancient lighthouse, inspired words like faro and symbolizes guidance and enlightenment. Built in 280 BCE, it remains a beacon of human ambition and ingenuity in history and culture.

IPA: /ˈfeɪ.rɒs/ or /ˈfæ.rɒs/ Definition: Historical: A pharos refers to an ancient lighthouse, most famously exemplified by the Lighthouse of Alexandria, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Metaphorical or Modern Usage: It is also used as a symbol of guidance, illumination, or inspiration, representing a beacon of hope or enlightenment. Etymology: The term pharos originates from…

[stagefoureddiediaz]

Ohhhh - Buck getting trapped in a collapsing building in 818 is going to be a parallel with Lev at the happiness convention isn’t it!

Buck figuring out what happiness is - what he’s been searching for - in the same way that Lev was.

It’s always the old men that come into Bucks life and then die that show him the way forward isn’t it - the universe is screaming at you Buck are you finally going to listen?!

[crunchyspaghetti]

Ok so I hate when people do the whole toxic positivity, empty encouragement thing of being like “[disability (in my case ADHD)] is a superpower!”, because like some people would just like to be able to brush off the discomfort of the legitimately disabling aspects of your disability.

However, can we talk about how superpowers/superhero origins stories are unironically some of the best disability allegories in media? In this essay I will-

[doctorcanon]

Basilio and Eupha low-key starving for their former sibling dynamics and just...bickering. not arguing. Not fighting but just kinda...bickering. I feel like Eupha's wonder would be good for Basilio and Eupha NEEDS situational awareness like water.

"I don't care how beautiful the bamboo flower was, miss Eupha, you ain't buyin' one..."

"but Basilio, she must feed her ailing children!"

"for the last time, the children weren't ailing, they were grown women stealing your wallet!"

[heycarrots]

My entire life, I thought I had straight hair.

You might ask, how do you NOT know your hair is wavy? Doesn’t it wave naturally?

It does, but only if allowed the opportunity and the encouragement to take its natural shape.

Growing up, if you were a girl, you got up early before school, showered, and then gave yourself an EXHAUSTING salon-level blowout every single morning. If you didn’t, if you let it *gasp* NOT be flat and shiny, you were considered dirty, unkempt, not feminine enough. The only exceptions being the CURLY folks, the female identifying goddesses who could NEVER ever be mistaken for straight-haired girls because their hair slingshots back into shape the moment any moisture hits it.

Over the years, I laid on more damage that society demanded, or so I believed. I bleached it to match my Marilyn aesthetic at the time. Platinum blonde, ramrod straight and then, ironically, hot rolled into submission to create the look of artificial pin curls.

All that bleach and all that heat, of course, destroyed the strength of my hair. It was brittle and, while it looked beautiful from the outside observer, I was losing a battle with it.

Growing up in South FL, the heat and humidity were my constant source of struggle. No matter what I did, how much I ironed my hair silky straight, it would fluff up like a chia pet within 15 minutes of going outside.

Looking at other girls around me who did not share this same struggle, I felt defeated. Why can’t my hair just lay flat? I mean, it LOOKS straight in the morning, I’ve always been able to shock it straight since childhood . . . What’s happening to my hair?

Well, motherhood happened. I was too tired to continue my battle with the blow dryer and flat iron every day, so I said fuck it, and just started letting it air dry.

At this point, my strands had been beaten down to the point where they were like, yeah . . . we’re not gonna lie flat and be cooperative, but we also don’t have the proteins and care required to spring back to life. So I got what could best be described as slightly bent frizz. I was very close to accepting this as just my lot in life when someone said, look at all that frizz! It looks like your hair is trying to curl.

My initial response was . . . No way! It’s definitely straight! It’s always been straight. I’ve worked really hard to assure it’s straight because, for me, the alternative was unattainable.

This kind soul turned me onto the curly hair method and assured me that If I put in the work to undo the damage I’d done to it over the course of my entire life, I would see significant change.

The day I finally accepted this was when schools shut down in Japan and I lost my job during the pandemic. I no longer had a reason to conform.

So, over the course of the next few months, I implemented the changes she had suggested and my hair improved dramatically! I won’t say it was always pretty . . . It was super awkward at first and I had to endure cold silent judgement when out and about in ULTRA conservative rural Japan, where any texture in your hair is equated with moral decay (not even exaggerating . . . try going to an onsen with a visible tattoo).

But now . . . my hair is thriving. As soon as water hits it in the shower, it clumps up and beings to curl. I haven’t straightened my hair myself in years.

If you’re thinking this sounds a bit like a metaphor, that’s because it is. Yes, this IS also the truth about my hair journey.

But just like my hair, I went through my entire life assuming I was straight. I’m married. I was married previously. I’ve had some very good relationships with men. I’ve had some REALLY bad relationships with men, but my relationships with my female friends have always felt a bit desperate, a showering of affection I tried to mentally attribute to my being on the spectrum.

Events in my life have recently caused some serious reflection . . . on female friendships I’ve had over the years that felt entirely one-sided, a longing for something deeper that just wasn’t reflected back at me. At a certain point, after losing my dearest friend to cancer in my early 20s, I shut down female friendships. They were too painful for me and I never understood why.

I am not straight. Never have been. I’m bisexual. This doesn’t change my relationship with my husband, any more than the fact that I appreciate most men would cause me to dart off after the nearest alternative. However, accepting this about myself has unlocked a sea of understanding about my past, about my role in those failed friendships, the expectations I was unknowingly placing on these girls which, because they were hidden, even from myself, they were destined to fall short of.

Over the course of the last month, I’ve been reeling with this paradigm shifting revelation and one thing I’ve come to understand is that I’m not my own type. I’m not drawn to girls who look like me (or at least look like I DID, with the pinup makeup and exhausting beauty routine). There’s nothing WRONG with that, but I’m not attracted to it because it holds no mystery for me. I know how hard they are working. I know the art and the artifice. Because I never looked at a woman as beautiful as Max and had FEELINGS, I assumed I had to be straight. If one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen makes me think *meh*, then I guess I must not be attracted to women.

But then, there are those women who simply do not give a fuck. Not a single one. And yet, they glow. They know no shame and have always known who they are and fight for the world as it should be, not as it is. And look at that! It appears I do have a type, after all. I guess you could say they are the Madis of this world, the Mirandas of this world.

To those women, thank you. I intend to approach life brackets emptied. Unredacted.

Love is love.

[theglasscat]

unfortunately a cascade of monster fucking at the emotional climax of a book where the protagonist constantly complains about her improperly worn corset amps my rating from 7/10 to 9/10

[senditcolton]

hello! i can’t believe i missed sleepover night 😔 but i hope you feel better than you did yesterday so you can thoroughly enjoy your weekend plans!!

i, too, love the little cloud - somehow they truly managed to represent the fluffy mess! just a little question about yourself and your art: i know you love a good songfic and i adore reading them even more but i wonder what else helps keep you inspired?

— ☁️

hello dear!

i absolutely adore any cartoon fluffy thing. my favorite are when people draw bunnies like little poof balls with ears!

as to what keeps me inspired (asides from songs but in a very similar vein) is anything that people create: books, movies, etc. some of the moodboard/edit creators on here inspire the heck out of me - i swear every time Tiff (@smileysvech) posts one of her moodboards, i have to stop myself from making a fic to accompany it.

i think i've seen this advice before but the more you immerse yourself in other peoples creativity, it will help fuel yours!!

[ikkaku-of-heart]

Goddess Verse: Aspects of Guidance

Ikkaku is a goddess of Light and Guidance, but the Guidance aspect actually comes in three forms.

Guiding the Lost to Safety: The most literal and physical aspect of her job. If you are lost in a maze, or the forest, or anywhere else and need to get home, pray to her and Ikkaku will show you the way. Oftentimes the guidance comes in small balls of light like yellow will-o-the-wisps, but she'll come herself to guide the especially scared, like children, or stubborn, like certain swordsmen.

Guiding the Lost to Inspiration: This is the reason inventors, artists, scholars, and just those who use their minds pray to Ikkaku. When one is at a loss for words or facing a creative block or cannot find the inspiration or information they seek, Ikkaku will lead them to it. She enjoys this aspect of her job the most as she gets to see people light up with happiness and create something wonderful with her help.

Guiding the Lost to Enlightenment: The most metaphorical aspect of her job and also the hardest. When a person's judgment is clouded, when they have a moral quandary to navigate, when a person is straying from the right path, she steps in to act as a moral compass. Ikkaku will often appear in person during moments like these to talk someone through their issue and hopefully lead them from going astray. She sadly knows she can't just tell them what is the right thing to do, as that won't make them a better person in the long run. But she'll listen, make suggestions, and do her best to make the other person, god or mortal, keep from falling into the darkness and performing wicked deeds. Sometimes she succeeds, others she fails, but she will always keep trying, because she believes that deep down, every lost soul lost in the darkness wishes to be led back to the light.

[one-paper-bag]

thinking about the insanity of this quote

Paul wrangling John

Brian Epstein made the Beatles PR conscious: he would say, ‘Don’t smoke on stage’ and things like that. I was very pleased that they stopped smoking on stage as I didn’t like it myself. He had no difficulty persuading Paul as he knew instinctively how a band should behave on stage, but John was a rebel and George could be difficult.

Bob Wooler, c/o Spencer Leigh, The Best of Fellas: The Story of Bob Wooler. (2002)

JOHN: The truth about the separation was she kicked me out . . . so I (laughter) was adrift at sea . . . and there was nobody to protect me from myself which is fine. I should be able to look after myself but I never had, and there was Epstein or Paul to cover up for me. I’m not putting Paul down and I’m not putting Brian down. They’d done a good job in containing my personality from not causing too much trouble.

Barbara Graustark, “The Real John Lennon.” Newsweek (September 1980)

JOHN (with mock horror): My “lost weekend”? It lasted for eighteen months. I was like an elephant in zoo, aware that it’s trapped but not able to get out. It’s an extension of the craziness that I’d been doing with the Beatles in Hamburg in Liverpool, but it had been covered up by the people surrounding us. So when I freaked out, there would be Paul or Epstein to say “What he really means is he’s just a normal boy from a normal family who likes to shear sheep.” And the machinery around us would take care of the business. By the time we got to America, we were old hands at it. But if you look back at the Beatles’ first national press coverage, it was because I sent a guy to the hospital for calling me a fag, saying I slept with Brian Epstein.

Barbara Graustark, “The Real John Lennon.” Newsweek (September 1980)

“But all the time Paul, and Brian Epstein we’re always trying to kill me from saying anything. But because I was in so much pain, I’d always get drunk or drugged, and I’d always say something that didn’t suit them. And so always, I would leave a piece of shit amongst the Beatles image. But all the time they tried to kill me and kill me and bring me down to be a Beatle, to be a nice boy, be a Beatle. But if you look from the career of the Beatles, the first national news the Beatles ever got in the English newspapers was when I nearly killed somebody at Paul’s party. So all the famous news the Beatles ever got besides being Go–angels, was when I did something terrible through being in so much pain. So they could never keep me down.”

Oct 1971 - John and Yoko interviewed during John’s 31st birthday celebration by reporter Takahiro Imura

"I constantly saw Lennon and McCartney together because Paul came along to see that I wasn't rude to John - who I can't say I got on with. Paul didn't want me to upset John."

Sir Joseph Lockwood - Northern Songs: The True Story of the Beatles Song Publishing Empire, Brian Southall, 2008

Sometimes, though, I certainly thought John was being a complete idiot. Even though I was younger, I would try to explain to him why he was being stupid and why something he’d done was so unlike him. I remember him saying things to me like, ‘You know, Paul, I worry about how people are gonna remember me when I die.’ Thoughts like that shocked me, and I’d reply, ‘Hold on; just hold it right there. People are going to think you were great, and you’ve already done enough work to demonstrate that.’ I often felt like I was his priest and would have to say, ‘My son, you’re great. Just don’t worry about that.’

Paul McCartney, in The Lyrics (2021).

It came as a welcome relief that John and Paul, along with Neil Aspinall, planned a quick trip to New York on May 11, where several press events had been scheduled to announce Apple Records in the States. Friends agreed that getting John away might do him a world of good; being alone, with just Paul to steady him, might have a calming influence. Paul was grappling with his own set of anxieties. “We wanted a grand launch,” Paul said, “but I had a strange feeling and was very nervous.” Drugs, he later admitted, may have been at the root of his problem

Bob Spitz, The Beatles: The Biography, 2005

“The setting is the Blue Angel and Paul McCartney is upstairs talking to some press people, while in the basement is John Lennon shooting his mouth off, well away with the drink or whatever. He said, “Hitler should have finished the job”, meaning that the gas ovens should have been more active than they were. His manager was Jewish and I prevailed upon him to be quiet because the press were upstairs, but he didn’t take any notice of me. I told Paul that John was shooting his mouth off and that the press must not get wind of it. ”

Bob Wooler, c/o Spencer Leigh, Best of the Beatles: The Sacking of Pete Best. (2015)

“The party was at Auntie Gin’s house in Huyton. By now, Paul could afford a marquee in the garden.This is inside the house, where my comedy group, Scaffold, are performing for the guests. John Gorman and Roger McGough are onstage, and I’m photographing reactions to the act. The jokes are going well with Paul, his girlfriend Jane Asher, and an old school chum, Ivan Vaughn, but John Lennon was so pissed he kept shouting, ‘That’s not funny’ (until Paul told him to ‘Shhh!,’ which he did)…” -

Mike McCartney

[After John pours a beer on Chris Montez' head and starts a brawl] Everyone settled down in their seats. Paul McCartney tried to make peace with Chris. Chris said, “Paul sat by me and said, ‘Come on, Chris, let’s be friends….’ “I said, ‘Paul, just get away from me, I don’t want nothing to do with you guys. You know, you pissed me off!” As for Lennon, Chris recalled, “John? I guess he was a wise guy. But I got the sense that, I shouldn’t say this, that he was jealous of who I was or what I did. I don’t know what his problem was, but I didn’t like it too much.”

THE TRUTH BEHIND THE BRAWL BETWEEN JOHN LENNON AND CHRIS MONTEZ IN 1963! EXCLUSIVE!

JOHN: I used to try to get George to rebel with me. I’d say to him, “Look, we don’t need these fuckin’ suits. Let’s chuck them out of the window.” My little rebellion was to have my tie loose with the top button of my shirt undone. Paul’d always come up to me and put it straight.

John

PAUL: There’s a story that I used to straighten John’s tie before we went on stage. That seems to have become a symbol of what my attitude was supposed to have been. I’ve never straightened anyone’s tie in my life, except perhaps affectionately.

The Times Profile of Paul McCartney – 1982

I spoke to Paul about this night many years later, and he confirmed that he and George had been shaken rigid when they found out we were up on the roof. They knew John was having a what you might call a bad trip. John didn’t go back to Weybridge that night; Paul took him home to his place, in nearby Cavendish Road. They were intensely close, remember, and Paul would do almost anything for John. So, once they were safe inside, Paul took a tablet of LSD for the first time, 'So I could get with John’ as he put it- be with him in his misery and fear.

George Martin, With a Little Help from My Friends: The Making of Sgt. Pepper

AW: Isn’t he? Well, you know, of all the people, he comes through a lot of stick. Or a lot of people think he comes through a lot of stick in my book. But that’s the way John behaved. He behaved really outrageously. And Paul used to pour the oil on the troubled waters, as it were. But of all the people, only John, out of all the Beatles, have said that my book is the only book that gives a true insight to what it was to be an early Beatle. I admire him for that.

All You Need Is Love – Peter Brown & Steven Gaines

“We were in a daydream till he came along. We had no idea what we were doing. Seeing our marching orders on paper made it all official. Brian was trying to clean our image up, but, at the same time, he didn’t want us suddenly looking square. He would tell us jeans were not particularly smart and could we possibly manage to wear proper trousers. He literally fuckin’ cleaned us up! There were great fights between him and me, over me not wanting to dress up, and he and Paul wanting me to dress up. In fact, he and Paul had some kind of collusion to keep me straight.

The Beatles Off the Record (Keith Badman)

“John Lennon was the first one out on the floor,” Jones recalled in an interview with Channel Bee. “And he looks up at me and he says [to the tune of It’s Not Unusual], ‘It’s not a unicorn it’s an elephant.’ “He said, ‘How you doing you Welsh p**f?’” the Welsh-born singer continued. “I said, ‘Come up here you Scouse p***k, I’ll show you!’”

Thankfully, Jones’ manager Gordon Mills and Lennon’s Beatles bandmate Paul McCartney were on hand to diffuse the situation. Mills quickly chipped in to tell Jones that was merely Lennon’s sense of humour.

According to the Liverpool Echo, Jones later revealed how McCartney had stepped in as well. “Paul McCartney said to me, ‘If John Lennon made fun of a song, it means he likes it, because he wouldn’t make a comment on it if it didn’t strike him,’” he said.

Tom Jones: Paul McCartney had to talk Delilah singer out of FIGHTING John Lennon

[niggadiffusion]

Generating Visual Poetry: Merging AI Art and Verse

Poetry has always been a multi-layered art form, crafting vivid pictures in the mind through carefully chosen words and rhythms. Over time, poets and visual artists have teamed up, blending text and images to enhance each other’s impact—think William Blake’s illuminated works or modern collaborations between poets and photographers. Today, AI image generators are pushing boundaries, reawakening…

[lifenconcepts]

Like I tree, I shall declare war upon those who try to break me and will fight back with resilience. I will heal all cuts I sustain and thrive in revenge for all who dare considered my downfall. And yet, the only time you will see me bare and strippen from my humanity, is when I am but ash settling on an unventilated ceiling, my corpse feeling the raging fire long after I’ve gone, and even as I am most vulnerable and destroyed mercilessly with an axe, my twigs will stab at your legs and splinters will dig into your skin. 

[ace-apple]

i really need to make an effort to actually understand whats going on in vast error.

[sinner-as-saint]

i'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre

Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader 

Run-through: In dire need of counsel and guidance, you find yourself in Father Charlie’s office each evening working hard to be the perfect daughter your rich and eccentric family wishes you to be. And Father Charlie has a very… hands on approach when it comes to leading one of his astray little lambs back onto the right path. 

Themes: dom!charlie mayhew, smut, impact play (spanking), degrading kink, slight age gap, aftercare, some fluff?

“Did those thoughts bother you again, sweet girl?” 

You tensed up at the sound of his voice, fingers nervously playing with one of the pink flowers on your sweater. You stood right next to his desk, with your back to him. And you heard his steady footsteps getting closer and closer until he stopped right behind you. 

Father Charlie always made your heart race a little faster. Not out of fear, no. It was just that… he was so handsome. And slightly older. And kind. And gentle. And sweet. 

He was stern, and passionate about things. He was like a burning flame. Warm, mildly unpredictable, and it could hurt if you weren’t careful. That’s where the nervousness came from. That unpredictability, that possibility of hurt. That not knowing. 

But most of all, he was crucial in guiding you back onto the right path. You hadn’t committed any major sins, but your thoughts had been troubling you lately. Dark, sinful thoughts. It doesn’t suit a nice girl like you to think like that, he’d said once when you first came to see him, but that’s why I’m here. I’ll help you. 

And so it was decided that a couple of times a week, you’d be in his office in the evenings, waiting for him to be done with his duties so he could give you his undivided attention and get you out of this mess. 

So for the past weeks, his office was where you spent most of your evenings. 

“Um,” Your voice trembled, “A little.” 

“Hmm,” A deep rumble sounded like it came from his chest. “We’ll have to work on that, as we always do.” He spoke, calmly. Priestly. Then his large hands came to rest upon your shoulders. Large, warm, and comforting hands. 

You felt him lean in, nuzzling the shell of your ear. You felt him inhale your scent. 

He exhaled, his hands giving your shoulders a firm but gentle rub. “Is that a new perfume?” 

You nodded and answered sheepishly, “My daddy got it for me from Paris when he went on a work trip.” 

“Ah,” He let out a soft chuckle, his hands massaging your shoulders in a way that had you wanting to let out a soft moan. “You are your daddy’s little girl, aren’t you? Hmm?” He teased, then suddenly switched to sounding stern again when he asked, “But does your father know? Does he know why you come here so often?” 

You sucked in a breath when he pulled you back into his chest. His body pressing into your back, and this time you couldn’t help the moan that escaped, not when you felt his bulge pressing into your lower back. “Father,” You gasped. “Please, you can’t tell him. You promised.” 

Father Charlie had been safekeeping your little secret from your family for weeks. When your parents asked him about your sessions, he told them that you were doing so well. That you were so obedient. So perfect. 

But it was all a lie. Truth was, you were still stuck inside that metaphorical maze – the one that was filled with sinful things, and the way out was not easy. 

His hands moved downward, from your shoulders, down your back, down your sides, and came to rest at your waist. He pressed you even more against him. “But do you see how bad you’re becoming? Sneaky, liar,” He began listing all your wrongdoings, “Deviant.” He scoffed. “Now you see why I’m obliged to punish you each time? Hmm, sweet girl?” He whispered right into your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your back. “Do you?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

He sighed, shoving his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent again before he said, “You know what to do, little lamb.” 

Then he let you go, giving you space to prepare for your ‘punishment’. You had done this many times before, it was necessary for you to learn, he’d said. So you knew the steps to take. You kept your shoes on and got out of your skirt, leggings, and sweater. Then removed your underwear and dropped all your clothes into a little pile at your feet. 

You then turned to face him, to look at him. He looked… tortured. Pouty mouth, lips parted as he breathed heavily. Sleeves of his black shirt rolled up till his elbows after a day’s work, and a hunger in his eyes as he walked over to you. You couldn’t look away from him. 

He stood in front of you and reached out to grab you at the back of your neck, tugging just a little to tilt your head back. He leaned in to rub the tip of his nose along your throat, lips brushing against your skin as he spoke, “Now tell me, what was it this time? Huh? What sinful thoughts did your brain conjure up?” 

You were completely as his mercy. And you had no choice but to be honest with him, “I’ve been having dreams. Last night was…,” You trailed off, your sentence ending in a breathless moan the moment he began nibbling and biting on your skin. “There was… there was a man, Father.” 

“Ah.” He pulled away and stared deep into your eyes with his fiery ones. “And? Did this man try to touch you again? Did you let him?” He asked in a lowered, stern voice, “Did you like it?” 

You blinked then did your best to nod. “I… I woke up, but–,” You cut yourself off. Breathing deeply when you felt his other hand sliding easily in between your legs, teasing your clit. 

“But what?” He demanded. “What happened? What did you do?” He sounded disappointed, but also like he couldn’t wait to hear what you had to say. 

You struggled to even form a coherent thought as you felt him touch you, his fingers sliding along your slit slowly. “I… I touched myself after I woke up from the dream.” You confessed. 

He clicked his tongue, clearly disappointed. “We talked about this, didn’t we? Good girls don’t do that.” He chided. “How did you do it? Hmm? Like this?” He looked down, loosening his grip on your neck so you could follow his movement, both of you now looking down at how his fingers touched and teased you until they were nice and wet. “Is this how you touched yourself?” 

It was downright dirty to just watch his fingers leisurely gliding in and out, stroking your sensitive parts. His fingers weren’t even inside you yet, but you were close to the edge already, feeling warm and tingly all over. You closed your eyes tightly and held back a moan as you answered, “Yes, Father. I’m sorry. I know I wasn’t supposed to.” 

“No,” He said, “You weren’t supposed to do that.” He sounded like he was whispering precious secrets to you. He held your stare, leaning in just so he was all you could see. The rest of the world didn’t exist here. “Because that’s my job. Isn’t it?” He pulled his fingers away and brought them up to your lips, sliding his wet fingers into your open mouth like he owned it. Your lips wrapped around his fingers, gently sucking on them as he spoke, “This little cunt belongs to me. And only I get to touch it. Wasn’t that the deal we made? Hmm?” He brushed his lips across your cheek, still sliding his fingers in and out of your wet mouth, “I keep your filthy little secrets from your family, and in return, you let me touch it, taste it, fuck it, whenever I please.” He added, “To punish you, of course. Wasn’t that our deal?” 

You nodded. 

He sighed, “You see? I try to instill discipline and obedience in you, but you defy me again and again.” He scoffed, “I don’t like having to punish you all the time. But you leave me no choice,” He pulled his fingers out of your mouth and pointed at his desk, “Bend over.” 

You turned around immediately and bent over the edge of his large desk. Your cheek pressing against the cold surface of the polished wood as your hands laid palm down on each side of your head. Your ass pressed against the front of his pants and you whimpered, feeling his thick, hard cock beneath the fabric, rubbing against your soft folds. 

You felt his hands on your body. “Look how pretty you are.” He placed his hands on each side of your waist and caressed your body, rubbing up and down along your sides, touching your ass but not touching you right where you needed him to yet. “It’s a shame you’re such a dirty, needy slut.” 

You gasped at his crude words, and bit your lip to keep yourself from moaning too loud as his touch made you feel all tingly and floaty. 

He scoffed before pinching your skin to make you gasp again, “Such an obedient little slut, aren’t you?” He finally trailed his fingers down in between your legs and lazily traced along your slit. “So wet and ready for me.” He chuckled, “Tell me, how many times do you fantasize about me while you touch yourself, hmm?” 

You closed your eyes and frowned in pleasure as he lazily finger-fucked you. “A lot… too many times,” You whined as he touched a sensitive spot inside you, “Please Father. You sounded just as desperate as you were.

“Oh.” He scoffed, as if that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “You filthy little slut.” 

You braced for the painful impact which you were certain was coming. You heard how he lifted his hand up in the air and brought it down to spank your ass. You yelped as his spank left behind pleasant tingles on your skin.

“Count.” He ordered impatiently. 

“One.” 

He did it again, allowing his hand to linger on your skin a little longer this time, caressing your skin where his hand landed. 

“Two.”

Again. 

“Three.” You said, almost moaning at how good it felt, and heard him chuckle.

“This never gets old.” He muttered and slid his hand further down, stroking your folds for a moment. “You’re so fucking wet. This gets you off, huh? Pain, being degraded, being treated like a whore,” He listed, “You like this, don’t you?” He chuckled. “Of course you do, you’re fucking dripping.” He lifted his hand and spanked you again.

“Four.” You sighed, in pleasure and pain. 

Again. “When will you learn, hmm?” 

“Five.” You whimpered as he struck your butt again. 

“See,” He spoke in that deep voice again, “Good girls don’t enjoy being spanked. But you’re far, far from being a good girl, aren’t you?” 

“Six.” It stung a little, but the kind that you wanted more of. “Please, Father,” You barely knew what you were begging for. 

He chuckled, sounding smug. “I know, I know.” 

“Seven.” 

Again. 

“Eight.” You gasped. 

He smacked your dripping core instead of your butt. Your whole body tingled. You were breathless. 

“Nine.” 

He grunted as he spanked you one last time. “There we go.” 

“Ten.” You moaned shamelessly this time. He had you all worked up, hot and bothered with just spanks. 

“What do we say?” 

You whined breathlessly, “Thank you, Father.” 

He let out a satisfied hum, his hands rubbing you all over as you waited again, since you couldn’t see him. You relied on your sense of hearing to determine where he was. “Don’t move.” His deep, steady voice ordered. 

You heard him undoing his pants, the sound of him lowering his zipper made you whimper as you pushed your ass against him even more. You felt his hands on your body again, he grabbed you on either side of your hips before spreading your legs apart and pressing the tip of his cock against your entrance. 

But he didn’t slide his cock inside of you yet. 

You waited, your heart racing as he spoke. “Remember, I’m doing this for you.” He sounded wild, his voice strained and raspy. “You know that, don’t you?” 

You tried to push back into him but he moved away, chuckling while you whined in desperation. “Yes, Father.” 

Pleased with your answer, he moaned under his breath as he pushed himself slowly inside of you, feeling your walls tight around him. You whimpered as he filled you up, stretching you as he went. 

“You see? This is how you will always be treated if you don’t mend your ways.” He struggled to talk just a little, gasping as he felt your walls clench around him. “This isn’t how good girls get treated. Bent over a desk like this,” He scoffed, “No, this is how little sluts like you get fucked.” 

He pulled out and thrust deep into you again, making you moan and gasp under him. He reached out and grabbed your wrists, pinning them down at your lower back as he started rocking into you. Using you like a toy. Slowly at first, then gradually building up his pace. 

“But you love this, don’t you? You love it so much you dream about it.” 

You whined as he fucked deep into you, your front bumping against the edge of the desk each time. “Yes,” You admitted, “Yes, Father.” You whimpered as he pounded harder into you at the sound of that confession. His pelvic bone smacking against your ass each time he thrust into you.

“Yeah? This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You sick, twisted girl. All you want is for a man to fuck you like the little slut you are,” He growled, tightening his grip on your wrists as he fucked you harder, feeling your walls getting tighter around him. He hissed again, “Like you’re just pussy to be used, huh?” 

You whined, “Please…” 

He slammed his cock harder into you, making your eyes water and your heart race so fast you felt like it might just escape your ribcage. He thrust so deep into you just then that it felt like you would simply come apart right there but then he pulled out and pulled you off the desk, turning you around so you faced him. He grabbed your chin roughly in his grip as he stared into your eyes. 

“Don’t you dare fucking come yet.” He threatened. 

Your lips parted as you gasped for air. He looked like he was trying very hard to maintain his composure. He cupped your face and kissed you savagely. Hard. Lips, teeth, tongue – all of it. And for a moment it felt like you might just come undone from his kiss alone. 

But then he pulled away from your swollen lip and spat into your mouth before he said, “Get on your knees. Now.” 

Your brain was still processing it all but your body obeyed immediately, falling perfectly on your knees in front of him. You watched him with a hunger in your teary eyes. 

You watched how he grabbed his cock at the base and guided his tip over to your already open, wet, warm mouth and said, “Suck.” 

You did. You opened your mouth wider as he slowly pushed himself deeper into your mouth. You took him in slowly until he hit the back of your throat. 

“That’s it, worship this fucking cock like you’ve always dreamt of doing, like the filthy little slut you are,” He hissed in pleasure, “And make it good for me.” 

You looked up and met his piercing eyes. He looked like a god as he looked down at you like you were in your rightful place, kneeling before him with his cock in your mouth. Pink lips parted as he hissed in pleasure. 

You gripped his thighs and worked extra hard on him, feeling his smooth skin along your tongue, tasting yourself and his precum as he groaned. You whimpered when he let out an unrestrained growl as you circle his tip with your tongue before sucking on it gently. 

He let out a carefree chuckle as he looked down at you, “I wonder where you learnt that from?” He asked, knowing damn well you couldn’t respond with his cock filling your mouth. Then he said, “Up.” 

You listened, even though you were a little disappointed you didn’t get to make him come in your mouth but you’d take whatever he’d give you, as usual. So you followed his instructions as he had you sit on the edge of the table this time before he stepped in between your legs, still staring into your eyes. 

Your arms wrapped around his neck as he leaned in to whisper against your mouth, “Still want more, don’t you? Hmm? You don’t care who gives it to you, you’re a happy girl as long as you’ve got some cock in you, huh?” He aligned his cock to your core again. He slipped inside you with ease, making you gasp at how good he felt as he began fucking you again. “We talked about this, didn’t we?” His calm words didn’t match the way he fucked you like an animal. He grabbed your thighs and pushed them further apart so he could fuck you deeper. “Good girls don’t think about cock and fucking all the time. But that’s all your filthy brain is filled with, isn’t it?” 

“Please…” You whimpered. 

He fucked deeper into you, pounding into you relentlessly as he moaned into the crook of your neck. “Your little cunt feels so good… so fucking tight for me,” He whispered against your skin and you barely heard him over the sound of sex echoing in his spacious office. “Only for me though, right? You don’t spread these legs for other men, do you?” He couldn’t help but laugh, “Of course you don’t. This is mine. You are mine.” He growled. 

“Yes, Father…” You whined as you felt yourself getting so close to the edge again as he pounded into you aggressively. You felt a tear slip out of the corner of your eye as you felt the pressure in between your legs getting too much to contain. 

He felt it too, as your walls clenched violently around him. “Fuck,” He growled into your ear, “Come for me, slut. Come all over this cock…” 

You didn’t hear the rest of what he said because you were long gone, well fucked and lust drunk, you came with a loud cry. He followed shortly after, coming undone while he was buried deep inside you, gripping your thighs so tightly that his fingers would surely leave a bruise behind as memory. 

As always. A little something for you to remember him by until you see him next. 

—

Father Charlie had some paperwork to oversee and some mails to reply to. But he didn’t want you gone just yet, so he helped you clean up, put your clothes back on, then he pulled you onto his lap as he sat on one of the couches in his office to get some work done. 

He did his thing, signed some papers, sorted them into files, replied to some emails, checked his socials, while you straddle his lap, resting your head on his shoulder and sighing each time he petted you or caressed your back, occasionally leaving kisses on your forehead. 

You mindlessly played with the buttons on his shirt, tracing imaginary shapes on his exposed forearm, breathing in his scent, finding comfort in his body heat. After the first ‘session’, he noted that you liked being held, at least until you came down from that high. 

And you were, gradually. Soon he’d drop you home and have a word with your family, and he’d tell them that you did good. He’d also tell them that you’d need some more sessions. And they would happily agree. 

Soon. Not now. 

“What is it?” He asked, after noticing that you’d been whining and rubbing your face against his warm neck like a kitten. “Want me to drop you home?” 

You shook your head quickly, “No.” You mumbled quietly. 

“Don’t just whine like a brat then,” He said, “Make yourself useful.” He pointed down at his crotch. “Keep it warm for me.”

You knew exactly what he wanted you to do. So you reached down and into his pants to pull out his cock. You lifted up just until you had room to align his cock to your entrance, and once done you sank down until he was buried deep inside you again. 

You whimpered as you shoved your face into the crook of his neck again, keeping his cock warm just like how he wanted you to. 

“That’s it,” He said. “Now stay still and do a good job, and maybe I’ll fuck you one more time before I drop you home. Yeah?” 

You whined in response, wanting nothing more than to move and make it feel good again. But you knew he’d reward you later if you behaved. 

He went back to his work, paying little attention to you. Only caressing you here and there, maybe a kiss on your shoulder, or a whispered word about how good you were doing, or he’d hiss and tell you to stop moving your hips. 

And you knew.

There was no getting better. There was no way you’d get back on the right path or whatever he’d promised your family. If there was hell to pay after this, you didn’t care. 

Because you knew. 

You knew you’d keep coming right back to him. Each day. Each time he’d want you to. Over and over again. 

Like a helpless moth to an all-consuming flame. 

—

a/n: yeah I have a problem, save me father charlie– 

[trashytracktales]

girl hi hi hi hi i am in love with your writing 😩😩

as someone who’s terrified by getting her driver license can i request boyfriend Lando giving you driving lessons and you know, good old soft dom lando giving you INSTRUCTIONS and praising you !! You know what i mean? 🥹🥹

and ofc throwing in a lil nice smut won’t be bad idk

Maybe this way i’ll feel inspired to finally get my license

(gorgeous gorgeous girls are obsessed with cars but scared to drive 🤩)

ily T!!

Fast learner | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── First of all, you got this, babe!! Getting your license can be scary, I remember being absolutely terrified. It definitely takes time and determination, but you can do it, I promise 🤞🏻 Also, so sorry it took me AGES, but I am struggling to finish my works lately *sad sounds idk*. I hope I did this one justice though. Fingers crossed and let me know when you get that license, queen. Enjoy 🤍✨

. ݁₊ ⊹ summary ──── Lando surprises his girlfriend with a gift she can’t say no to. Despite her fear, his guidance helps her gain confidence behind the wheel. But back home, the lessons continue in a much more intimate way, as Lando makes sure she knows just how good she is at following his instructions, both on and off the track.

. ݁₊ ⊹ pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

. ݁₊ ⊹ rating ──── explicit

. ݁₊ ⊹ category ──── F/M

. ݁₊ ⊹ warnings ──── 18+, driving anxiety, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, swearing, sexual metaphors & euphemisms, light choking, soft dom!Lando.

. ݁₊ ⊹ word count ──── 5.6k

. ݁₊ ⊹ date ──── Feb. 28, 2025

WHEN SHE OPENS her eyes, the first thing she notices is that his familiar heat is pressing on her from every direction. With Lando’s arm resting like a sluggish weight around her waist and his fingertips brushing the exposed flesh beneath the hem of his hoodie, which she had stolen before bed, she feels secure in the warmth they’ve created.

His nose is buried in the crook of her neck, and the second thing she notices is the quiet, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against her back, his steady breathing blending with the morning silence, and the delicate, smooth kisses he’s planting on her skin.

The girl shifts slightly, only for him to tighten his grip, pulling her closer; she smiles, understanding he is already awake.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asks Lando, his voice languid.

Her body is melting back into his embrace, Lando’s slightly aggressive curiosity making her giggle. “Nowhere.”

“Good,” he presses a tender kiss to her shoulder, then another, trailing his lips back up the curve of her neck. “Because it’s your birthday, and I get to hold you for as long as I want.”

She smiles again, her heart swelling at the way he always makes her feel like she is most important thing in the world.

“That’s exactly what you said when it was your birthday,” she reminds him. “And last Friday, when it was… just Friday.”

“Still applies, as you can see,” he speaks softly against her skin. “Happy birthday, my love.”

A mellow hum leaves her as she turns in his arms, finally opening her eyes to meet his. They’re still laced with sleep, heavy-lidded and warm, the early, weak sunlight filtering through the curtains and cascading all over his face. His hair is a mess, his cheek faintly creased from the pillow, but she thinks he’s never looked more beautiful than he does in the mornings. Mostly because no one but her knows that his eyes are incredibly clear when he opens them for the first time. Or that his hands, still asleep, do not grasp her with the same strength they do at night, but have a tenderness she knows she will never find anywhere else, except their own bed.

“Thank you, pretty boy,” she whispers, running a gentle finger over his jaw, then following the pillow marks up his cheek. Lightly, she cups his face, her thumb pressing on his dimple, making Lando grin.

He leans in to nuzzle his nose against hers before capturing her lips in a sleepy, lazy kiss. It’s the kind of kiss that lingers, tender and sweet, the kind that makes her toes curl under the blanket. His hand skims up her side, slipping beneath the hoodie, fingers brushing against warm skin as he pulls her impossibly closer.

When they part, he sighs contentedly, resting his forehead against hers. “Sorry for waking you up.”

She hums, “You can wake me up like this everyday.”

“Yeah?” Lando giggles. “I actually had half a mind to let you sleep in, but I got too excited.”

She laughs softly. “Excited for what?”

Instead of answering, Lando reaches over to the nightstand to grab a small, beautifully wrapped box. He holds it out to her, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Her brows knit together as she pushes herself up onto her elbows. For a second, she thinks he’s about to propose, but he looks way too relaxed for that, which makes her question everything she knows about her boyfriend.

“What did you do, Lando?” she asks. “I told you no gifts this year.”

He smirks, nudging the box toward her. “It is not a gift. Think of it as an... investment. Come on, just open it.”

She hesitates, much more suspicious now, casting Lando a tamed look before carefully removing the ribbon. The paper falls away, revealing a sleek black velvet box. Her heart picks up its pace as she flicks it open and finds out that inside, resting against the dark fabric, is a car key.

She blinks, confused.

The logo gleams up at her, adding to her state.

“Lan…” she stares at the key, then back at him, as if waiting for him to laugh and tell her it’s all a joke. “This is a car key.”

Lando nods, biting his lip to keep from bursting into laughter. “Your dream car’s key,” he corrects her.

Her stomach flips violently. “No way. No. Lando, no. Absolutely not,” she keeps saying, shaking her head. “That’s too much,” she adds, shoving the box toward him as if it burns to touch. “You did not buy me a car for my stupid birthday.”

Incapable to hold his laugh any further, Lando lets out a little giggle. His voice is light, but there’s nothing but sincerity in his expression when he speaks again, “It’s not stupid. I wanted to. I’ve been planning this for a while now.”

She gapes at him, her brain struggling to process. “You bought me a Porsche.”

He shrugs, reaching for her hand and intertwining his fingers with hers. “I bought you your Porsche. The exact one you’ve been obsessing since forever,” he leans in, brushing his lips over her knuckles. “Don’t make me beg you to accept it. You deserve it and I can afford it, so just—”

“It’s not about deserving, Lando,” her heart swells, but panic creeps in. “I appreciate you for doing this, but I don’t even have a driver’s license. And I’m definitely not ready to get it any time soon. So please, can you take it back?”

His facial expression turns mischievous, raising a finger in the air, “Oh, no. You are ready. Which brings us to the second part of your present,” he says, tapping her nose playfully before throwing the covers off and getting up. “Get a comfy pair of shoes on. We’ve got somewhere to be.”

She looks at him warily. “Where exactly?”

Lando smirks, stretching before tugging a hoodie over his head. “Driving lessons,” he says, pointing at himself, “With me.”

Her stomach drops. “Lando, no.”

“Lando, yes,” he winks, crossing the room to where she sits on the bed, still in shock. “Baby, I know you’re terrified, but I wanna show you it’s not as scary as you think. It’ll be fun, I promise. And if not, we can stop at any time.”

Her lips part, but no words come out, only a strangled noise that makes Lando chuckle. He crouches in front of her, taking her hands in his, looking up at her. Sometimes, she thinks that the way he does it is so annoying, because she can’t say no when he gives her those puppy eyes. She realizes, looking back at him, that chances are Lando is even more excited than she is, which makes her feel a little guilty.

“Look, it’s okay to be nervous,” he says gently, pressing a kiss to her palm, “But I’ll be right there with you.”

Her chest tightens — not from anxiety this time, but from the sheer love she feels for this man, and for the way he always knows how to push her while making her feel safe.

She ends up nodding and, with that, Lando pulls her into a lingering kiss, as if sealing the promise between them.

WHEN LANDO SAID driving lessons, she thought he meant a quiet, empty parking lot somewhere in the city. Or maybe a back road with little to no traffic. What she did not expect was an entire race track at their disposal.

It’s February, and the cold still bites through the air, the kind of chill that seeps into her bones despite the heat blasting inside the car. The sky is now a heavy shade of gray, fluffy clouds stretching endlessly above the open space of the Silverstone Circuit. The grandstands stand empty, ghostly in their silence, the wind whistling through the steel framework.

Her hands tighten into fists as she stares at the massive expanse of the track. She’s been here before, sure, but she’s never seen this place so devoid of people and so lifeless. What strikes her, though, is that it doesn’t even matter, because the circuit has the same beauty — perhaps even more alluring when it’s not animated by the roar of people and the deafening sound of engines. It’s almost haunting. She can’t shake the feeling that it’s the same place where world-class drivers push their limits at blinding speeds, where Lando himself has raced countless times. And just for tooday, it belongs entirely to them.

Her heart pounds harder in her chest as she’s turning to look at him, “You got me Silverstone for my first driving lesson?”

Lando smirks, shutting the engine off. “Had to pull some strings, no biggie.” He looks back at her, his eyes gleaming with excitement under the thick, long lashes. “I didn’t want anything to distract you or to feel any external pressure. Just us, and your car.”

Her car.

She still hasn’t fully processed it. She spent the entire two-hour drive here just staring at it, running her fingers over the pristine leather seat when Lando wasn’t looking, and tracing the sleek dashboard, memorizing every detail. It smells brand new, the engine purring under his control like a well-tamed beast. But now, as he opens his door and steps out, the reality of what comes next hits her, and panic creeps up her spine once again.

She grips the seatbelt tightly, her fingers going numb, as she watches Lando walk around the car. He looks so at ease, so effortlessly confident as he gestures for her to switch places. Meanwhile, she feels like she could throw up in T minus five seconds.

“Come on, baby,” he calls, grinning as he taps the roof of the car. “Time to make you a driver.”

Yes, that sounds good. And yes, she wants this. She really does. But the moment she steps out into the cold air and faces the car from the driver’s side, the same doubt settles deep in her chest. It’s not that she’s scared of driving — well, she is. But that’s not the only reason why she postoned getting her license for so long. The simple thought makes her stomach flip, because she knows that the second she puts foot in a car, so many things can go wrong, especially if you’re afraid.

Lando notices her hesitance immediately, and his playful grin softens as he steps closer. “Hey,” he says, tilting his head. “What’s bothering you, hm? Talk to me.”

The girl exhales shakily. “I’m not sure about this, Lando. I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Of course you can,” says Lando in a determined voice.

She looks at the car, then at the track ahead of them. “It’s...” her voice trails off, trying to come up with the best excuse and go back home to nestle between their warm sheets.

“It’s just tarmac, baby,” Lando’s tone is calm and reassuring. “It’s no different than any other road. Just bigger. Safer, actually.”

Her arms wrap around herself instinctively, bracing against the cold, but mostly against her own emotions. “What if I mess up?”

“Then you mess up,” he shrugs, “That’s what learning is, isn’t it?”

She knows he’s right, but the fear still lingers, coiling tight in her stomach. “And if I crash?”

“You won’t crash,” he answers with the same determination yet slightly amused, taking her by surprise, because Lando uses that voice only when he is sure of what he’s saying.

She scoffs, “Sure, how do you know that?”

Lando smiles, reaching for her hands, rubbing warmth into her fingers before bringing them up to his lips. “Because I am here.”

Ha.

She nods slowly, suddenly realizing that there’s no going back — not when Lando is so committed to show her a side of herself that even she’s not aware of. And the fact that he believes in her does something to her brain; it gives her a bit more confidence and courage. She’s seen Lando drive countless of times before. She watched him, his movements instinctive, so measured and smooth that it’s become second nature to him. Maybe she can try to replicate that to a certain degree.

For her own sake, she owes him that.

“Alright,” she manages to say, her voice much tamer than expected.

“That’s my girl,” he presses one last kiss to her knuckles before stepping back, gesturing to the driver’s seat. “Get in there.”

With a deep breath, she finally slides into the driver’s seat, and her entire body tense as she grips the steering wheel; it feels hard under her touch, yet delicate at the same time. Lando follows, settling into his place effortlessly, like this is just another normal day at the track for him.

“Okay,” Lando starts, his voice patient. “First, get comfortable. Adjust your seat, mirrors, whatever you need. Make sure you see everything and, most importantly, make sure you feel everything. All the points where your body makes contact with the car, yeah?” he watches her nodding, swallowing the lump in her throat, then adds, “There is no rush, so take your time. We’ve got plenty.”

Her movements are stiff and mechanical as she reaches for the seat adjustment; she can feel her pulse in her fingertips while she does it. Then, she places her hands on the steering wheel, feeling it firm under her grip, and she suddenly becomes hyper-aware of how tight her fingers become around it.

“Babe,” says Lando, noticing she’s still fighting on the inside. “Relax your hands. You don’t need to strangle it.”

She forces herself to loosen her grip, but her fingers still tremble slightly.

“That’s better,” Lando reaches over, placing a hand on her knee to ground her.

She inhales sharply, then exhales, trying to shake the nerves. Lando waits until she goes through everythig he’s just instructed her, without rushing or teasing at her hesitation. He’s just there, a constant presence that makes her feel more comfortable.

And then, “Think of it like when you’re on top,” he continues casually.

Her head whips toward him, eyes wide. “What?”

Lando’s expression changes, looking like he’s just mentally high-fived himself for the comparison. “When you’re on top, you’re in control,” he reminds her. “You set the pace. You decide how fast or slow you wanna go,” his fingers tighten on her thigh as he leans in slightly, his voice dipping lower. “The car will respond to everything you do. Try it. I’m here to guide you.”

“Lando.”

He keeps going, completely undeterred, “Baby, I know you know how to move. It’s all about finding that rhythm,” he says, his fingers tapping against her thigh for emphasis. “It’s literally the same thing. Smooth, steady, no sudden jerks. And when you’re ready to pick up speed…” Lando grins, his eyes darkening just slightly. “Well. You know what happens then.”

A laugh bursts from her chest, all the tension snapping like a rubber band. She slaps his arm away, her face heating at his ridiculous but so on-brand analogy. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he teases, laying back in his chair, “You’re finally breathing properly now.”

She blinks, realizing he’s right. The tightness in her chest has eased, her grip on the wheel no longer desperate. Her shoulders have dropped, her muscles loosening bit by bit. Lando sees the realization settling over her, content that he managed to put other images inside her head in order to make it easier to handle.

He chuckles, then gestures toward the track in front of them, “Alright, birthday girl. Ready to take me for a ride?”

She groans, covering her face with one hand. “You just can’t stop, can you?”

“Nope,” he says after a moment. “Foot on the brake.”

Instinctively, her foot finds the pedal, pressing down tentatively.

“Now, start the car.”

She swallows hard and reaches for the ignition button. The engine roars to life beneath her fingertips, smooth and powerful, vibrating through her entire body.

At the sound, Lando grins proudly. “There she is.” His hands go to rest on the armrest, his thumb brushing the fabric lightly. He watches carefully as she moves to adjust the mirrors with a focused look in her eyes. “Good,” he continues, his voice a soft command that she knows so well. “Now, keep the wheel steady, just like we talked about. Look ahead. Your eyes should be on the next corner, not the one you just passed.”

She nods, keeping her focus on the track.

“So, this car is rear-engined, which means most of the weight is at the back. That makes it a little trickier to handle if you throw it into a corner too fast. But,” Lando pauses, looking at her intently to assure her there’s nothings to be afraid of, “I’m here to make sure you drive it right.”

She scoffs nervously, “Is there a wrong way to drive it?”

“Plenty, actually. Relax your hold I said,” he instructs her again, “Baby, if it’s too tight, you won’t feel what the car is telling you.”

“Telling me?” she echoes, glancing at him with furrowed brows.

Lando nods, “Yeah. The car talks to you, just not with words. It tells you when it wants to rotate, when it has grip, when you need to be gentle or when you can push,” he says, gesturing toward the long straight. “Speaking of. Go on, give it some gas.”

Her heart jumps into her throat, but she listens, pressing down on the accelerator tentatively. The car responds instantly, surging forward with smooth, controlled aggression. She gasps, the force pressing her back against the seat, and Lando chuckles beside her.

“That’s it,” he praises. “A lot of power, hm?”

She lets out a breathy laugh, still nervous but slowly melting into the feeling of it all.

“Next, the corners,” Lando adds, eyes locked on the road as they approach one. “You want to brake before you turn, not while you’re turning. That’s how you keep it stable.”

She follows his words, pressing down on the brakes a little too early, but the car slows smoothly.

“Good,” he says, nodding approvingly. “Turn in,” he pauses, lips quirking into a smirk. “Like the way you move your hips when you ride me. Controlled, but with intention.”

Her foot nearly slips off the pedal. “Lando, stop that!” she squeaks, turning her head for a second, just to glare at him.

She feels the tires gripping the asphalt in a way that sends a thrill through her, despite the nerves still buzzing beneath the surface.

“I’m trying to speak your language,” he laughs, “Ease off the throttle and prepare to brake again,” Lando’s voice is smooth, “Yes, keep your foot light on the brake. Feel it?”

She does. While following his instructions, gently, she eases her foot off the gas, then applies just the right pressure to the brake, her heart racing with each turn. Lando watches her closely, but she can tell he’s holding back, not overloading her with instructions but guiding her just enough so she feels the car’s movements.

“Perfection,” he praises as she hits the apex of the corner, the car hugging the track with a controlled grace. “Accelerate again, gently. Let the car do the work for you. Don’t overthink it.”

She hesitates for a moment, her fingers adjusting their grip on the wheel, before she picks up speed, feeling the engine roaring beneath her. Despite the fear gnawing at her, there’s a strange thrill beginning to bubble inside, a sense of freedom she’s never felt before. She can feel the car responding to her, listening to her movements, exactly like Lando told her it will. Which makes her eager to go faster, to push.

But as she rounds another corner, a new wave of uncertainty floods her chest, and she glances over at her boyfriend again. “Lando, I don’t know…”

“You do,” Lando’s voice is almost a growl, “Bury your foot on the pedal. See what this car is capable of.”

Her pulse quickens, but there’s more excitement behind it now. With Lando’s words echoing in her mind, she takes a deep breath, presses her foot into the pedal, and feels the car surge beneath her. For a moment, he senses her hesitation, but then the car roars to life, and she feels the pull and the adrenaline racing through her veins. The acceleration is immediate and, before she knows it, the world outside blurs, the track stretching out before her like an endless ribbon.

To her surprise, she loves the feeling.

Next time he speaks, Lando’s words sound like a whisper over the roar of the engine, “That’s it, baby,” his eyes sparkle with approval, and she can hear the pride in his voice all over again. “You did it!”

THERE IS A faint smell of leftover takeout that lingers in the air, blending with the sweet vanilla of the birthday muffins he insisted on getting as dessert. There will be a cake and they’ll get to properly celebrate with her friends at the end of the week but, until then, her birthday was a success, topped with adrenaline and excitement, which she never thought she would ever enjoy.

Now, she stands by the full-length closet mirror, running a brush through her hair, the weight of the day settling into her body. It was terrifying yet thrilling in ways she hadn’t expected. What surprises her even more is her sudden desire to get back in the driver’s seat. She’s slowly realizing how addictive the feeling she experienced on the track is, and even though she knows that driving around the city won’t compare to what Lando offered her today, she feels — perhaps for the first time in her life — ready to take that step.

Lando moves behind her right after she puts the brush down, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his chest against her back.

“So, when can I drive again?” he hears her asking in a teasing voice, though there’s a genuine spark of nervousness behind it.

He smirks against the curve of her neck, lips barely brushing her skin. “You can give me another ride now, since you insist,” Lando suggests, his voice dripping with smugness.

She rolls her eyes and, twisting in his hold, she faces him, her hands sliding up his chest, fingertips tracing the contours of his collarbones. “Sounds good, but aren’t you afraid that too much control will get to my head?”

“Not at all.”

Lando steps forward, kissing her with enough force to show her that he means every word. His hands are now everywhere — on her hips, up and down her back, in her hair, then gripping her thighs as he lifts her effortlessly. She lets a surprised gasp into his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist as he presses her back against the mirror. It’s hard against her skin, a stark contrast to the softness rolling off him in waves.

Her fingers end up tangling in his soft curls, tugging just enough to make Lando groan, a sound she’s never learned how to properly react to, since it drives her wild every single time she hears it. He tastes like the vanilla from the muffin that they shared earlier, so sweet and sinful.

When he comes back to his senses, Lando brushes his nose against hers, his voice hushed but firm, “I’m so proud of you, you know that?” he asks in a whispered voice. “You’re gonna do great.”

A shiver runs down her spine, not just from his words but from the unwavering belief behind them. Lando has always been her greatest cheerleader, the one who never let her doubt herself, even when she wanted to.

Her exhale is soft as a baby’s breath, fueled by the praise that sets her skin ablaze. “Lando,” she whispers, wrapping her arms tighter around his neck.

He chuckles, the sound of it full of want. “Right here, baby. What do you need?”

She can’t use her words at the moment. Instead, she just presses herself closer to him, silently telling him what she needs. And Lando gets the message loud and clear. With a firm grip, he walks them toward the bed, her body flush against his.

Clothes come off in a frenzy: her shirt lifted over her head, his sweatpants kicked away, her underwear dragged down her thighs in a rush. His lips are on her skin the entire time, trailing fire along her collarbones, down the valley between her breasts and over the curve of her stomach.

When she’s bare beneath him, he pulls back, drinking her in.

“Want on top?” asks Lando, a little smirk hanging in the corner of his mouth.

The girl shakes her head, “You first,” she teases, already breathless.

He doesn’t answer, but runs a hand down his face before gripping her thighs and flipping her onto her stomach. She gasps as he positions himself behind her, big hands spreading across her waist. Lando’s fingers flex, gripping her like she belongs to him in ways neither of them can describe, but both agree on.

Gently, he presses a kiss to her shoulder blade, then another, before dragging his teeth along her heated skin. “Let me show you how high confidence can get you, baby.”

And then, he pushes inside.

A muffled moan spills from her lips, her back arching hard into him as he bottoms out, filling her completely. He presses his lips in a thin line at the feeling, at the way she welcomes him so perfectly, clenching around him like she was made for this. It’s hard to keep quiet, yet he wants to give himself the priviledge of being able to feel her like this a little longer.

“God, you feel so good,” he mumbles, his hands sliding up to her shoulders, fingers curling around them.

“Move then,” she orders, managing to get a chuckle out of him.

Lando’s thrusts are calculated at first, dragging along every sensitive spot inside her, pulling sounds out of her that go straight to his cock. But then he shifts, picking up speed, pounding into her with a precision that leaves her gasping further more.

Before she knows it, she’s drowning in all of it. The feeling of him, the way he takes control, and how patient he is with her.

“Lando,” she whines, voice muffled against the sheets.

“I know, baby,” he breathes, bending over her, pressing a hand to the pillow beside her head. “Just take it.”

He switches between teasing strokes and deep, hard thrusts, keeping her on edge, making her feel every inch of is length. The air around them is charged, filled with the scent of skin and something intoxicatingly sweet. Heat clings to them, heavy and thick, as if the room itself is suddenly caught in the same fever they are.

When he feels her tightening around him way too soon, Lando doesn’t hesitate to flip her onto her back again, eyes locked onto hers as he slides home once more. She whimpers at the quick change, at the way he goes so deep in this new position, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, pulling him even closer. Lando whimpers, dropping his forehead to hers, breath ragged against her lips.

“Look at you,” he can barely speak, “So. Good.”

She shivers at the praise, nails raking down his back, grounding herself in the heat of his skin. He watches her, pupils blown wide, drinking in every expression that flits across her face, from the parted lips and the way her brows knit together as pleasure overwhelms her, to the sheer need burning in her gaze. It’s almost too much for him, but the desire to see her crumbling for him like that is stronger.

The roll of his hips, every stretch, and every inch of him pressing into her it’s enough to send shudders through her body. He feels her everywhere: surrounding him, clinging to him like she’s planning to never let him go. And fuck, he never wants her to.

His hands roam her body, admiring every soft dip of her skin. One traces the swell of her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple before his lips follow, dragging warm, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, her neck, and anywhere he can reach. She tilts her head back, offering more of herself to him, and he groans against her skin, nipping at her pulse just to feel the way she gasps.

“Harder,” she breathes in such wrecked manner that sends a bolt of heat straight through him.

His body tenses for a split second before a sudden hunger flickers in his eyes. No hesitation. No teasing. Just a low, guttural curse as he grips her hips and thrusts into her with purpose, each snap of his hips punishing in the best way possible.

“That good for you?” he rasps, voice tight with control, but his pace says he’s barely holding on. She nods, but it’s not enough for him. Lando grips her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Let me hear you.”

“Yes,” she moans, voice breaking as he drives into her harder. “Yes, you feel so good, baby. Don’t stop...”

Lando finds the strength to smile at her, watching her slowly coming undone beneath him, her body arching, legs tightening around his waist. “Won’t,” he assures her, “You take it so well, it drives me crazy,” he groans, his hand sliding between them, fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling, teasing.

Her legs start trembling around his waist, and he knows she’s close. He can feel it in the way her body is betraying her, spasming around him, the way her breaths grow uneven, and how her hands tighten in his hair as if anchoring herself to him.

“Mhm,” he hums, his forehead pressed to hers. “Ready to come with me, love?”

She doesn’t have time to answer as she moans his name, a cry lost in their furtive kiss, just as her body tightens around him, pulling him over the edge right with her. His repetitive moans are maddening as he spills inside her, hips jerking, hands gripping her with a force that’s going to leave marks.

After that, he refuses to move. They just breathe, chests colliding against each other, bodies pressed so tightly together that it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

Then, Lando tilts his head, pressing another lazy kiss to her lips before whispering against them. “Best student I’ve ever had.”

She laughs, smacking his shoulder, but she doesn’t deny it.

A shiver rolls down Lando’s spine as he pulls out, his body thrumming with aftershocks, oversensitive but still craving her. His eyes flutter shut for a second at the feeling — she’s still so tight, greedily clenching around nothing, the evidence of their release slick between them, a mess they should deal with but won’t. Not yet.

His cock, still heavy and slick, rests between them, twitching slightly as he leans down to kiss her again. It’s slow, languid, an extension of the pleasure still simmering in the air between them. His lips move against hers with a practiced ease, his body pressing into her as if he’s trying to mold them into one.

Then, his hand finds her neck. He squeezes lightly, just enough to make her breath hitch; his smirk against her lips is pure sin.

“Get on top,” he orders, voice thick with something commanding. His hands find her hips again, thumbs stroking the heated skin there. “I want you to reproduce every single thing I explained to you at the circuit today. Show me what you learned,” he provokes her, eyes dark with challenge.

She bites the inside of her cheek, chest burning at the way he looks at her — his lips parted, eyes filled with lust —, fueling her desire to show off.

Slowly, she sinks down onto him, gasping at the way he stretches her as if he wasn’t inside her not even two minutes ago. She lifts herself before easing back down, soon finding a rhythm that makes him curse under his breath.

“Keep your grip firm,” Lando instructs, trailing his fingers up her spine. “Don’t be afraid to push a little harder.”

She presses her hands to his chest and moves faster, earning a deep, satisfied moan from him.

“Fuck,” Lando swears under his breath, eyes flickering between her face and the way she moves on top of him. “Such a fast learner.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[meowtifullycute]

Beacon Cross: Illuminating Paths, Guiding Souls!