#fuck a loro

[solocanzoninelleorecchie]

io mi fidavo di Te solo, litigavo per chi sono; gli giravo in faccia a chi mi dava l’aria di sfottere, fuck a loro.

[sincericida]

ANDREW GARFIELD

attends the Loro Piana event celebrating the annual Record Bale Award | February 1, 2024 in London, England.

[kseenefrega]

Ma tutte queste persone che odiano gli stati uniti d'America... Che cazzo ci fanno qui? Già qui, su un social che guarda il caso e proprio americano... Andate su tiktok! 💪🫣😁😁😁 Su' sù...

[kelvingemstone]

"how do you get to heaven? something terrible has to happen."

mad men, s6e1, the doorway/succession, s4e6, living+

[phjlavtia]

genitori ti diranno devi studiare perché non voglio che tu finisca a fare il lavoro fisicamente massacrante che faccio io e poi si incazzeranno con te e ti insulteranno perché non hai l'efficienza e la forza fisica e la resistenza di una ditta di traslochi e hai bisogno di stenderti ogni tanto e mangiare qualcosa per recuperare le forze

[the-evil-pizza]

God forgive me but i think some people deserve to get covid.

There i was minding my own fucking business (wheezing and dying because I'm sick and not because of my mask) and 2 fucking women, strangers to me and my health situation, saw me and fucking laughed in my face.

Snickering to themselves "it's even a p2 medical mask!"

Die

Anyway my mom, who differently from me does not give a single shit about people, looked at them and went "is there a fucking problem?"

[buscandoelparaiso]

e non dimentichiamo del fantastico gol di mancini, il più bello fin'ora (si scherza)

Oddio vero!! avevo rimosso dal trauma ahaha ma anche quello iconico dai.... in quella partita Gianluca aveva anche giocato anche bene per cui glielo perdoniamo... abbiamo comunque vinto ;) almeno non l'ha fatto ieri...................

[perdidit-vulpes]

....🧍‍♂️

[casinocarpediem]

• 𝐋𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐓𝐚𝐱𝐢 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫 •

~~~

𝐀 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐢𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐠𝐨 𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞.

~~~

• ── ⋆⋅♤♡♧◇⋅⋆ ── •

~ Trans! Dombottom! Jake Lockley / Masc! Subtop! Reader

~ implied cheating, degrading (reader receiving), p in v sex, no protection, reproductive coercion (as a harmless threat), car sex, semi public sex, the hat stays on during the deed...

~ mentioned pussy, clit, cock, cunt, folds, cervix and hole used to describe Jake Lockley's genitalia

• ── ⋆⋅♤♡♧◇⋅⋆ ── •

"We're gonna be seen..."

"Not if you keep grunting like that... habla más que un loro–" Jake growls, and you get the wind knocked out of you when he lowers himself down your cock with ease. Your body twitches when his wet heat practically pulls your dick in bit by bit and you can't help but jerk your hips up, causing him to gasp out and push you down with a scowl.

"You fucking pervert. Couldn't even wait huh? Let you eat this pussy out and now you're being greedy. You're being a greedy fucking good for nothing dildo, Principe. I expected better from you" He whispers out with raspiness evident in his voice. You can smell the smoke and whiskey off of his breath. Even more when you can taste it when he kisses you. Tongue dancing with your own, brushing against your teeth as if he wanted every part of it and to le. Fuck. You could only frown and whimper. His cunt swallowing you to all his heart's content.

"My girlfriend is waiting for me..." You let out. Almost choking with the saliva forming on your throat as you watch him go up and down your fat cock. Stretching him full. Jake almost feels sorry for you. Mentioning that stupid girlfriend of yours. It makes him so pissed. And his walls grip you so hard like he's just quietly begging you to cum in him without any barriers.

"Fuck that girlfriend of yours" Jake spits out. Gripping your face with his gloved hands. Slick dripping down as he rides your length. Covering your balls in his wetness, you're suddenly aware of how foggy the windows are becoming.

"Forget that girl, mi cielito... I'm here. I've got my got my cunt swallowing your dick, worshipping it the way it should be worshipped. Isn't that right?" You nod. How couldn't you? It was right, when you rode Jake's taxi more than once, an unexpected bond had grew between the two of you and ever since he's learnt that your girlfriend didn't want anything to do with you he might as well fill in that slot. Literally.

He gives you the luxury of grabbing his hips as he rides on, his own fingers feverishly rubbing his dick in an effort to come and he groans out, eyes rolling back for a minute. "Fuck it. If you don't believe me, maybe all it'll take is you getting me all knocked up, wouldn't it?"

Your eyes widen, your throat becomes dry. He wasn't gonna consider that really? No, he wouldn't. But your mind is a mush and tears form at your eyes as you shake your head and whimper no repeatedly. Yet your hips twitch upward, desperately wanting to cum. The idea was so appealing. Cum inside him and your life would be even more difficult as it already is. Cum inside him... his tight cunt. Bruised from his g spot to his cervix because of how well you stuffed him.

Jake wasn't being serious. But you feel so stupid right now. It's too hot. And his tongue intruding your mouth made things seem foggier.

"Fuck yes yes that's it... fuck... give it to me give it to me..." Jake grunts. On the verge of cumming as he holds you close to his body in a tight grip and kisses you hard. All teeth and tongue. God you could taste the tobacco off of him it was addictive. What was with this guy? So warm and harsh. You couldn't help but come back to him. He was so extreme. The only thrill that ever happened in your boring, and mundane life.

"You wanna come, principe? You wanna cum in this pussy? Knock me up like the only thing your good for is filling me up with your kids?" Jake says mockingly. Spreading his folds and forcing you to look down at his sopping cunt riding you, by pulling your hair, causing you to look at him. Look at him. He's so fucking insane it's gorgeous.

"Jake-... Jake I'm close fuckfuckfuck–" his hole squeezes you so tight you almost cry. You wanted him to let you come so badly it hurt every bone in your body to keep it all in. And you'd beg and beg and he'd shut you up by shoving his tongue down your throat until your face flushed ten times more and you gasped for air every minute. You're were going to burst any minute.

You swallowed thickly and moved your fingers. Thumb pressing gently against his clit as you circled it at the pace he preferred. Rubbing the wet cock and you shiver when he squeezes and gasps. But he doesn't stop you. He's basically riding you with newfound energy.

Jake sobs staring at you deep in the eyes. His gaze is dreamy, yet focused. Not containing the usual hardness it would have. The look that always made you convince that maybe he's not tbat bad and a guy like him could treat you right... what are the chances? "Cum for me please– please come inside... come on come onnn–..." he grunts. Humping your dick as it repeatedly breaches his cervix.

And you burst. Coming with a quiet gasp, mouth agape as your throw your head back against the backseat of the cab, hips thrusting up up up, and Jake squirts in tandem to you. Gushing all over the leather seat and gripping your shoulders like he had nothing left to hold on to. His hole was throbbing. And despite it being a rainy evening, cold as the devil, the taxi fogged up and it was incredibly hot.

The afterglow lasted for a while longer. With the two of you breathing like you've ran for miles. Jake looks down at himself. Lifting his body up with a soft grunt and you react, shivering with overstimulation.

He plops himself down on your thighs with his legs still spread. Stretching his cunt with both of his hands and watching your seed fall down into the taxi mats. You gulp at the sight. Fat blobs of your cum dripping out of his folds. You'd get hard again if you weren't so tired.

"You really like to see it huh..." Jake laughs. Still panting. His flat cap falling just a slight but he adjusts it quickly, covering his pretty curls that you wanted to see so badly. But the gears in your head started to grind back to life.

"Oh shit... you got plan B pills?" You ask him.

The taxi driver laughs "What? Of course I do... this is about what happened a few minutes ago wasn't it? Don't worry I won't pull a stunt like that, you know me"

Silence strikes the cab once again. You're looking at Jake while Jake himself seems lost in thought.

"... Same time tomorrow?"

Right. That's just... nevermind. You knew this would happen. He isn't looking for anything more. Neither are you. Back to reality it is.

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬.

[helyiios]

White button up

or, Benji’s really worried about his shirt.

Ethan was not panicking. He was not. He was perfectly fine, and he was running, because what’s the point of being Ethan fucking Hunt if you’re not, like, sprinting for your life on a regular basis, and he was perfectly relaxed.

[Hum,] Luther says in his ear, [we lost signal of B—]

“I KNOW !” he yells back, growing more and more upset, “I’m going towards his last known location. I still have amo, let’s just hope he’s still there.”

[Copy that.]

The worst part, he realises, is that he knows that Benji can handle getting roughed up a little. Wasn’t it the whole point of being an agent ? Getting your ass kicked on the regular ?

Doesn’t mean he likes to think about his friend in that position. He likes to think about him in many positions, but not this one.

He groans and keeps running, his gun kept by his side as he takes a sharp turn left, feeling the soles of his shoes screech on the pavement, and he almost loses his balance, and before he can start running again he hears some shouting at least two streets from where he was.

He picks up the pace, trotting towards the origin of the noise, and he does end up finding Benji—who was standing in front of a man, one hand raised defensively.

Technically, he should be jumping to his defence. Which is what he was just counting on doing, before catching the light glint of a sharp object held behind his friend’s back.

So instead, still hidden by a wall, he stands still and watches.

“I’m non-violent,” Benji nervously calls out to his attacker, hands still raised, “come on, there’s no need to resort to violence to solve this, is there ?”

“You and your friends blew up our headquarters and killed our boss,” the man seethes, visibly furious, “and you think you’re going to get out of it so easily ? Oh, I think the fuck not.”

“Well, technically I didn’t blow it up, it was my mate. If you really want to get specific, you’ll have to fight him. He doesn’t know how to, though…”

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but it’s not fucking funny ! Stop talking and come closer so I can fuck you up.”

“But I don’t want to,” Benji whines, his right hand still holding the sharp tool, “c’mon, please ?”

The other man snorts, his fighting stance unmoving despite his raised eyebrow.

“Are you seriously negotiating I let you go ? Man, you are not a good agent, aren’t you ?”

“It’s not that,” he moans, visibly upset, “it’s just…”

He sighs, running his free hand through his hair.

“This is tailored Loro Piana, and I don’t want to get it dirty.”

From his hiding spot, Ethan has to slap a hand on his mouth to keep silent. Was Benji seriously worried about his clothes ?

“Shut up !” his assailant finally roars, running towards the agent at full speed, “be a man and FIGHT !”

With a sharp move Benji slashes the guy’s face, using the element of surprise of the concealed knife to slam his cheek as powerfully as he could, sending him stammering a few steps back. Quickly he gets back into position, and he aims for the neck, eyes and skull first, surprisingly ending up with cutting the tip of the man’s nose, and he can’t help but grimace out of disgust at this, pulling away to avoid getting punched.

His next move isn’t so lucky, because the man is suddenly tackling him, and his head hits the pavement so hard he thinks he passes out for half a second, but before he gets the chance to fight back, there’s a strong jab at his jaw, and he furiously spits out a mouthful of blood.

Thankfully his knife is still tightly held in his hand, and without thinking he shoves the blade inside the other’s left eye, twisting and straining, pushing the man off him as he leaves the weapon there, hopping back a few metres away.

He looks down at himself and at the red stained crisp shirt, and he groans.

“Really ?!” he protests, spreading his arms disbelievingly, “do you know how expensive this is ?! You guys have no respect for textile !”

His attacker is still halfway on the ground, trying to pull the knife out without screeching in pain, and Benji can’t help but stare, his upper lip raised in absolute disgust, his arms crossed. He’s still at a safe distance from him.

“I’m getting really tired of having to fight back idiots who think it’s okay to go after the little tech guy, because oh, of course he’s going to go easy on us ! Well guess what,” he spits out, genuinely upset, “some of us also like the thrill of the field ! If you wanted to vanilla fight with shitty punches, just ask Luther ! I love the man, but he’s shit at hand to hand combat, okay ?! And honestly, like, did you think I didn’t expect at least one person to run after me ?! Do I look stupid to you ?!”

“You’re…a fucking…lunatic,” the other man difficultly chokes out, unable to get back up, blood pouring of out of his face. “Who the fuck…are you ?”

“And like, it’s almost insulting they only sent one guy after me. Like what, I couldn’t take more people on ? I’m not Ethan, but I’m not that helpless ! And I especially brought my knife so I could switch the mood a bit and not get it done too quick with a head shot, do you realise how disappointing this is ?! And you ruined my favourite shirt !”

The man seems to give up on him, because as soon as the knife is out of his eye, he collapses on his back, breathing heavily. He tracks Benji’s movement as he watches him walk back towards him, crouching by his side. The agent inspects him throughly, patting him in search of the disk they’d been after. He finds it in his left pant pocket.

“Don’t mind me,” Benji pouts, taking it out and putting it in the inside pocket of his coat, “no bad feelings, nothing personal, mate. Huh, does it hurt ?” he then casually asks, chin resting on the palm of him hand.

“…what ?”

“The whole eye thing. Did it hurt ?”

The other man closes his eyes, letting out a breathless laugh.

“Like a bitch.”

“That’s interesting.”

Benji gets back up, dusting his pants a little uselessly, grabbing his knife again and putting it back in his place.

“Great doing business with you.”

“Go fuck…yourself.”

“Jesus. So rude.”

Ethan, who’d been somewhere in between mesmerised and horrified, finally steps out, waving awkwardly at his field technician, almost shy.

“Huh, not interrupting anything, I hope ?” he asks sort of lamely, “are you alright ?”

Benji almost jumps out of his skin, clearly not expecting him. He manages to swallow down his helpless and high pitched yelp.

“Huh—yeah,” he says instead, slicking his hair back, “I was just finished. Do you want to, like, put a bullet in him ? I don’t have my gun on me.”

Ethan shrugs.

“He’ll die soon enough,” he decides.

His friend hums, not caring enough to contradict him.

“I got the disk, by the way.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw that. Congrats, Benj. And huh, sorry about your shirt.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame,” he sighs, shaking his head. “How did you find me ? I lost comms with you at least twenty minutes ago.”

“I kind of, just ran around,” Ethan admits. “This city isn’t really big.”

“Is it weird that I’m really craving bolognese right now ?”

“Dunno if there’s the required ingredients at the safehouse, but I could come up with something.”

“That’d be lovely.”

“Well,” the older man smiles, holding out his hand, “let’s head back.”

Benji grins, taking it gratefully.

“Yeah, let’s.”

[sincericida]

ANDREW GARFIELD

attends the Loro Piana event celebrating the annual Record Bale Award | February 1, 2024 in London, England.

[minzart]

disclaimer: I know we're still trying to pin point his name right "Roro Flammu, Loro Flamme" BUT GODDAMIT HIS NAME SOUND LIKE ROLA WICH IS FUCKING FUNNY FOR ME

[theferrarieffect]

soy lago

masterlist

lando x carlos (carlando)

summary: since carlos left for ferrari, lando has spent the last four seasons trying to move on. but then the world learns that carlos might end up anywhere next year, and lando dares to let himself hope...and puts some of those hopes down on paper.

warnings: plenty of ✨angst✨

soy lago

Sweaty, exhausted, and covered in stubborn pieces of green and yellow crepe clinging to the sticky champagne on his race suit, Lando does his very best to stand up straight, holding his P3 trophy with stiff arms. He doesn’t smile; it’s hard enough as it is remaining upright. Then he feels an arm around him. He knows its owner is clad in red—although once upon a time, he wore papaya orange. And the feeling of that arm is what lets him scrape together the will to put on some semblance of a smile as the cameras flash, capturing Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz, and Lando Norris in their podium photograph of the 2024 Australian Grand Prix.

Dear Carlos,

I’ve always been rubbish with words—hell, I showed a million people on Youtube that it took me three tries to spell “heights”, in English, no less. So it shouldn’t surprise you that, when they told me I needed to go on camera and speak Italian, I downloaded Duolingo and didn’t open another app for a week straight. Never mind that it was one single sentence. I could not mess this up.

Ai nostri amici della Scuderia Ferrari ed ai loro tifosi.

I could say it in my sleep.

And yet, when the camera started staring into my soul, I still managed to fuck it up. On the very first word. They asked me later, you know, if I wanted them to edit it out…but when I watched it again it seemed right somehow. Because the truth is, they could’ve asked me to say “to our friends at Scuderia Ferrari and the famous tifosi” in plain English, and it still would have been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say. So I figured it’d at least be honest.

When I joined F1 my rookie season, you had already raced for four. Two other teams. McLaren was not your whole past. At Melbourne, the season opener, I already knew by the way your eyes sparkled so hungrily talking to the press, that it would not be your future either. But for me, it was all I had, my precarious shot at making it in F1. I had something to prove.

So why was I so nervous when they stuck a camera in front of us to play that stupid game of ‘Would You Rather’? I can’t even rewatch that video now, because I already know I’ll cringe seeing myself slowly dismantling the sole of my shoe with my fingernails, hardly even able to make eye contact with you. You had a reputation of charming every teammate you got with—I won’t pretend like I didn’t scour the internet for every video you filmed with Max with Toro Rosso. You made Max Verstappen giggle like a little girl on video. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen to me.

But at the Chinese GP, after Kvyat crashed me out, you came up to me in the paddock. “Wanna go on a walk?” you asked. As if you’d seen me crying in the garage. There was a little lake, a pond really, near the track, and I don’t know how many laps we must have taken around it. What I do know is that you pointed to the water, told me that in Spanish, it’s called “el lago”. And that you stopped me from feeling like I didn’t belong, didn’t deserve to be in F1.

I had a lot of retirements that first season. And after each one, I knew I’d hear your voice, or see a text on my phone, or once, a little paper airplane in my driver’s room. Every time, the words were the same. And every time, I wanted it more. I just didn’t want to admit to myself that at some point, it became less about debriefing the race failures and more about the person I had an excuse to see off the track. Away from the cameras. Away from everybody else.

On the flight back to London, Lando scrolls through headline after headline, all pondering the next move for the triumphant Spaniard. Red Bull, Red Bull, Mercedes, Red Bull, Kick Sauber—Lando chuckles at that one—Red Bull, McLaren, Mercedes, Red Bull…

The speculation about McLaren is clearly a joke. And yet, it makes Lando’s breath catch in his throat…fuck, if Max Verstappen can DNF on Lap 2, give Ferrari a 1-2 podium with Lando in 3rd after the team told Oscar to give it up for him…clearly, crazier things have happened in F1.

The pandemic hurt, a lot. It’s all a blur now, logging onto my computer day after day, gaming with George and Alex and Charles to pass the time, refreshing Instagram in case you posted a story from Madrid. Until one day, the first day of May, the phone rang. You told me you were in Woking, that you were going to be at the MTC but you’d explain later. And then, those five magical words.

“Wanna go on a walk?”

Maybe we were all a little crazy during lockdown. Let’s just call it that. How else do you explain the fact that I spent twenty minutes picking a pair of jeans after spending four months in sweatpants, another twenty picking a shirt that wasn’t bright orange? What excuse do I have for dumping every beanie I owned onto my bed, cursing myself for shaving my hair off, even if it was to raise money for COVID? It was a miracle I made it to the MTC at all.

You were already outside by the time I skidded into the parking lot. The sun was low in the sky, not quite setting, turning the lake lavender, cotton candy, papaya. You faced the lake, just a dark silhouette against the colors. Suddenly, it felt hard to breathe. I just knew you were going to say something…big. I wanted to tell you so many things, how I’d been counting down the days until lockdown would be over, how not a day went by that I didn’t wonder what you were doing, how you had become someone that I could never be close enough to. You made me greedy.

I knew something was wrong when you saw me and smiled. It was happy…but not the smile I knew. This smile was tainted, as if someone had poured a single drop of vinegar into a glass of milk, and you could taste it starting to curdle just a bit.

“Lando,” you said. Another red flag. Normally, you drew out the “o” in my name in a tantalizing singsong. “My muppet friend, I have something to tell you. Something exciting.”

I wished time would stop right then. I didn’t want to hear what exciting thing you had to tell me. But no amount of wishing could stop what came next.

“Ferrari. They offered me a contract. Two years in their fastest car…I cannot believe it, my muppet friend. I will race for them in 2021.”

The sun hadn’t set yet, but there were stars in your eyes. Stars that I had seen since your—our—very first race with McLaren. Carlos Sainz, destined for champions, for greatness. There would not be room for slow cars, midfield teams; there would not be room for Lando Norris. And I knew this from day one. So why, looking at the stars that filled your eyes, did mine start to fill with tears?

I smiled in the hopes you’d think I was simply overcome with happiness on your behalf. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” you asked.

I had wanted so badly to find the words that would’ve made your journey all the way from Spain to see me worth it. But even if I had them, all of those words were useless now. And in the moment, I could only think of one thing.

“Soy lago,” I said. You furrowed your brows in confusion. “I am lake?” you laughed. “Your Spanish has always been terrible.”

Then I told you that my tears could fill the very lake we were looking at. Watched the realization dawn on your face. Heard you call after me as I ran back to my car, so you wouldn’t have to see any more of those tears.

In his room in the MTC, Lando sits, clicking his pen compulsively. Balls of crumpled-up paper surround him, ghosts of past attempts at penning a letter worthy of its reader. He curses his messy penmanship, curses his inability to spell anything remotely non-phonetic correctly. He resorts to writing in pencil, then painstakingly tracing each letter over with ink. By the time he’s finished, the sun has begun its descent towards the horizon. Just in time, he thinks.

Later, I texted you my congratulations, assured you how happy I was for you, how much you deserved it. I meant it. But maybe you sensed that something was up, because even when the new season started and we no longer shared a garage, you kept sending me texts after every race. Each one was the same: “Wanna go on a walk?”

I couldn’t tell you if it was an act of self-preservation, because of how badly it hurt to see you with Charles at Ferrari, or if I wanted to feel the twisted, bitter satisfaction from knowing that I got to reject you after you left me. Either way, the excuses were simple enough. Meetings with Mark. Last-minute training sessions at the gym. And my favorite—dinner with Danny Ric, my new Carlos Sainz.

Come to think of it, I never did end up getting dinner with Danny while we were teammates.

When I did show up, I’d make sure to tell you about how charismatic Danny was, how good the banter was, how hard we made each other laugh off-track. Only later did I realize that everything I was saying was what I would see in your C2 videos with Charles, which I followed with a level of manic compulsion that scared even me.

Eventually, the texts stopped coming. I thought I’d feel…relieved, or at least like I was moving on. And maybe I tried to tell myself I felt that way, but in reality, everything was just empty. I couldn’t have all of you, and I was so greedy that I chose rather to have none of you at all.

Lando searches his contacts for a name that doesn’t exist. Carlos Sainz: Not found, his phone tells him infuriatingly. With an exasperated sigh, he starts to swipe. And stops short, realizing that he had saved Carlos under Chili.

His thumb hovers uncertainly over the keyboard. He presses send.

Me Wanna go on a walk?

Time, teammates, and races passed, and as you got used to seeing yourself in red, I got used to being a Formula 1 driver, then a team leader as Oscar came in. I buried us deeper and deeper with each passing season and perfected the art of a casual hug on the podium, a cheerful clap on the back if we happened to pass each other on the paddock. I had only just come to terms with the realization that we would likely never be the same again when I woke up on the first day of February, 2024, to the news that Lewis would be taking your seat at Ferrari next year. Leaving the question of what color you would wear, if not red, open to every shade of the rainbow.

Then the dreams started.

When you came off a surgery hardly two weeks ago and snatched P1 at Melbourne, I dreamt that I walked into the motorhome, saw someone wearing a papaya cap with his back turned to me. And I knew it wasn’t Oscar, because those broad shoulders, the shock of hair that even a cap couldn’t contain, could only belong to a certain Spanish driver I knew so well, once upon a time.

You turned around, just like I knew you would. Smiled in a way I haven’t seen in four years. “Landooo…my muppet friend,” you crooned, drawing out the “o” the way you always used to do. You wrapped your arms around me…you always did have such strong arms.

“Chili. I should have done this long ago,” I told you, before the kiss…

A little gray bubble appears on the screen. Three dots, pulsing to the time of Lando’s pounding heart. Then:

Chili Can’t today 😞 dinner with Charles!! Celebrating that Ferrari podium 🥳🇮🇹

He stares at the messages. A minute passes, then two. He gently folds up the note, tucking it into his pocket as he stands and walks out of the MTC.

Lando looks out over the manmade lake in front of the building. The sunset reflected in it has uniformly turned it the exact shade of his hoodie. There will be no lavender, no cotton candy pink tonight.

He tugs the letter out of his pocket, unfolds it, and reads it one last time. A weary sigh. Carefully refolds it. A little airplane takes shape in Lando’s hands.

Four years of pushing you, thoughts of you, my feelings for you away, all gone with one headline. I hated myself for falling again so easily, but nobody can deny how addictive the feeling of hope is. Carlos, Chili, I had so many regrets, and maybe this is a sign that I should stop living with them from now on.

And if there’s one thing I regretted the most through all this, it’s not that I didn’t ask you to stay that evening at the MTC. It’s that I didn’t give you enough reason not to leave in the first place. Didn’t tell you what you meant to me when I could, didn’t try to make you see that there could be something here…something bigger maybe even than racing itself.

I don’t know if you’ll be wearing papaya, or navy, or (god forbid) highlighter green next year, but it doesn’t matter. I should have done this long ago, but that doesn’t matter either. All that matters is that you know how important you are, and have always been, to me. Know how the best podium celebrations and the fizziest champagne paled in comparison to the little blue bubbles of texts from you on my phone. Know that my trophies sit on a shelf collecting dust, but the paper airplane you made me never leaves my sight.

You are the stars in my eyes. In my wildest dreams, you’ll give me the chance to convince you that I can be that for you too. Teammates or not.

But until then…

In one fluid motion, he sends the plane sailing into the air, watches it catch the breeze until, robbed of its lift, it skims the surface of the lake, sending ripples emanating from where it first made contact with the water.

The plane bobs gently in the lake until it soaks up too much water to stay afloat. Lando watches it list gradually to the side, slowly disappearing from view as the paper disintegrates.

He turns and walks away from the lake.

Soy lago.

—Lando

part 2 here!

notes: saw carlos explain lando’s comment on carlos’ mclaren → ferrari announcement post back in 2020 and have been unwell since also, yes, the mclaren building (mtc) does have a lake and boy the sunset does do it a lot of favors… easter eggs: lando not being able to spell, the damned ferrari video (where lando actually did have to start over and it RUINED ME), Would You Rather

more fics here! thanks for reading as always :)

[abr]

I Mubaka e i Rashid comprano lauree e titoli per 10 Euro a casa loro, cosa potrà mai andare storto una volta arrivati in Italia con una "laurea" in medicina ed assunti come medici dal SSN?

La Sanità italiana, FUBAR - fucked up beyond all recognition.

da https://twitter.com/MarcoDabizzi/status/1714174257239060650

[angellayercake]

WIP Whenever

Instead of working on everything else I should be working on I have become obsessed with this idea and I can't think of anything else. So far too long ago @sweatandwoe tagged me in a WIP post so here we go.

Papa Nihil travels the USA with his three sons posing as a preacher to ingratiate themselves with rural Christian communities to sew discord and spread sin. One summer finds them staying with a family, helping them work their struggling farm in exchange for somewhere to stay.

I'm tagging @ghostchems, @ramblingoak, @da-rulah and @meowsaidmissy if you have any wips you would like to share (no pressure of course 💜 Little taster below the read more and the playlist can be found here because I really am in a hole with this fic 🙃

The clink of ice cubes and the gravel crushing under your feet would have given you away long before you had rounded the side of the barn if not for their argument. Well you suspect they are arguing, you can never be certain due to them always speaking Italian to each other. It was hard to tell what kind of conversation they were having most times, what with their loud voices and waving hands no matter what was going on. You pause just out of sight watching the glasses of lemonade your Mother had forced you to bring out to them as they worked in the afternoon heat begin to sweat. The condensation slid down the glass shallow pools collecting at the bases on the precariously balanced tray as you listened.  

‘In ogni caso, perché ti preoccupi dei sentimenti di tutte queste stupide ragazze?’ (Anyway, why do you care about the feelings of all these stupid girls?) The words while foreign sounded dismissive and rude as though this heated discussion was already well underway before your arrival. That was Mr Emeritus you were sure, he often took that tone when he was talking to his sons. 

‘Non chiamarli così!’ (Don't call them that!) Terzo. You push aside any thoughts about why you recognise his voice so easily. He sounds irritated, his voice clipped and angry even in his more melodic mother tongue. Interest now truly piqued, you wish not for the first time that you were more cultured, more intelligent so you could have learned another language and be able to follow the conversation. 

‘Prima la scoperai, prima potremo uscire da questa discarica.’ (The sooner you fuck her, the sooner we can get out of this dump.) The sneer in his voice is so obvious it almost makes you cringe like you are on the one on the receiving end but he is almost cut off by the intended recipient, if the scuffling sound you hear is Terzo lunging at his father as you suspect. 

‘Fermare! Smettetela tutti e due. Corrompere la gioventù cristiana non significa che dobbiamo lasciare dietro di noi una scia di cuori spezzati. Il suo modo funziona, devi fidarti di lui.’ (Stop! Stop it, both of you. Corrupting Christian youth does not mean we must leave a trail of broken hearts in our wake. His way works, you have to trust him.) While spoken loud enough to cut through the fight that was clearly about to break out, the even placating tone must belong to Primo, ever the mediator of the family you had noticed.

‘Non sono più gli anni Sessanta, vecchio mio. Ci vuole qualcosa di più che sussurrare sull'amore libero per aprire loro le gambe.’ (It's not the sixties anymore, old man. It takes more than whispering about free love to open their legs.) And that must be Secondo, his deeper voice was tinged with a droll note which could be directed at any one of his father or brothers, maybe even all three. You liked him the best so far even if his sardonic humour had almost gotten you in trouble already.

‘Ah, parli della troia e lei appare.’ (Ah, you talk about the bitch and she appears.) You round the corner just as your arms start to urgently complain about you standing there with your laden tray and just in time to witness the last of their cross words.

‘Vaffanculo!’ (Fuck you!) He spits at his father, stabbing his pitch fork into the soft dirt as if he is about to storm off but he stops short when he spots you. His expression is pinched, his brow furrowed enough for lines of frustration to form. He pushes his hair back from his face, smoothing it back into place as he schools his expression into a casual smile. He is good, probably the best you have seen squashing all his true feelings behind a mask but you can see the tension still in the corner of his eyes and the tightness of his smile. It isn’t your business though so you plaster a smile on your own face and announce the reason for your interruption.

 ‘Refreshments for the workers!’ You offer the tray to Mr Emeritus first, your Mother’s hosting rules so deeply ingrained now you wouldn’t dare to do otherwise. He takes a glass from you looking at the drink then you with an air of distaste that makes your skin prickle uncomfortably. ‘It’s lemonade sir, that Mama made fresh this morning.’ He takes a cautious sip before gesturing you away. 

‘Thanks to you and to your Mother, Signorina,’ Primo says, accepting his glass. Secondo takes his with a nod and pull of his lips that could be mistaken for a smile which you return in kind. Which leaves only the youngest Emeritus. He is watching you having settled into his casually relaxed demeanour leaning against his still stuck pitch fork. Something makes you pause until he gestures you towards him. 

‘I take it this one is for me, si?’ Your mouth inexplicably goes dry as you make your way towards him. Now your job is almost complete, you have the opportunity to take him in properly. A stubborn lock of his hair, despite his best efforts has fallen loose sticking to the sheen of sweat covering his brow, in fact his youthful face positively glows with perspiration so you hurry the last few steps towards him, needing to provide him with a means to ease his heat inspired discomfort. You avoid his eyes as he takes his glass, relieving you of your burden at last and you tuck the underside of the tray against your chest in a futile attempt to shield yourself from his piercing gaze. 

He barely hesitates bringing the glass to his full lips, tipping his head back, greedily drinking the cool refreshment. He finishes it quickly with a satisfied sigh and he hands the glass back to you, his fingers grazing yours as he makes the exchange. A drop escapes the corner of his mouth slipping off his chin before he can catch it. You can’t help but follow its progress down his neck and into his open shirt collar where it settles where his chest hair begins. For some reason you find yourself transfixed as the vivid image of you closing the distance between you and following its path with your mouth fills your mind. 

‘Thank you Canaria.’ His voice abruptly snaps you out of your trance with a gasp and you can feel your blood rushing into your cheeks as you register the impropriety of your thoughts. You realise all four of them are now watching you and you pray that they hadn’t noticed your momentary distraction. They had all finished their lemonade so you shakily collect their glasses worried that the tray will slip from your grip at any moment. With a final weak smile you make your escape. 

 ‘Ci vorrà una settimana prima che tu possa indossare le sue mutande.’ (It'll be a week before you're in her underwear.) You hear Mr Emeritus mutter as you leave but you don’t wait to hear anymore. You need to get a hold of yourself and to do that you need to be as far away from him as possible.  

[theemporium]

Ok but lestappen birthday month is wild (this got way longer and angstier than I anticipated)

I believe that Charles is one to spoil Max rotten on his birthday, have a chat with you about letting Max have total no veto unless he’s hurting you control for the night and the mascara and the lip gloss absolutely make a reappearance and Max is in complete bliss

so Max knows he has a little over two weeks to top that and he’s planning all kinds of stuff with the idea of letting Charles be the dom for the night, from making a reservation at the most delicious restaurant in Monaco down to ordering a pair of red leather assless chaps for himself that he once saw Charles looking at for a moment too long

the one thing he forgets to factor into his plan is you, so focused as he is on making himself appealing to Charles, to the point that when you ask him if he’s already made birthday dinner reservations he says yes without even thinking about the fact that he’s got a table for two

so when you come home on Charles’s birthday after work with a big bouquet of flowers and a bottle of expensive champagne and those new Air Max 1s that were impossible to get AND the sweater from Loro Piana that was sold out everywhere, ready to bake a cake and then step into the lingerie you bought for today, and the apartment is deadly quiet, you know something’s up

meanwhile, the boys have had a lovely afternoon - Max convinced Charles to put both phones on airplane mode because he had already talked to his mom and brothers and had plans with his friends on a different day - and, though Charles thinks it odd that you’re not here for the walk on the beach and the romantic dinner, he figures that surely you two have a plan

and, yeah, it’s weird that you also don’t show up when Max takes him out dancing after dinner, but by that point he’s drunk already and everything is blue eyes and big hands and plush lips anyway

so when they get home, Max resumes his ministrations immediately, pushing Charles up against the door and telling him that from here on out he’s in charge and his green eyes go dark like the ocean as they wind through the apartment to the bedroom, right past the champagne and the presents and the cake with the melted down 26 numeral candles that are still sitting on the kitchen table, and he goes to push Max down onto the bed when he hears a little whimper on impact

his heart cracks when he sees you waking up from where you had curled up on the bed in the little red lace number that he could see your nipples right through and looking at him bleary-eyed to say “Charlie? I wanted to say happy birthday before it’s over, baby, did I miss it? Why weren’t you picking up the phone? Did you guys at least have some of the cake? I made your favorite”

Max is immediately scrambling to hold you, bracing himself for the impact of having fucked up catastrophically, turning his face back up to Charles to see the expression melding sadness and anger and guilt as you slip out of his arms and mumble something about sleeping in the guest room and how they were in Singapore for your birthday anyway and couldn’t get the times right so they didn’t even call on the day

and as he follows you out of the room, Charles mumbles “happy birthday to me, fuckin thanks, Maxie”

I—

oh my god??? ouch??? babe, why are being angsty today?????🤠

no but max would feel so fucking guilty and just😭😭😭😭😭😭NO THIS IS SO SAD!!! POOR READER!!!!