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lando is the prince who's a little bit wild but he's a good kid and he does a lot of work for charity and he's amazing with children and he does those hospital visits and he gifts them legos
george is a rich tax evader who makes money off of other's misfortunes
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The witches finally let George leave when the checkered flag falls. Nearly two hours of burning sage and low humming and tuning forks waving around his head, trying to uncover the source of all of his rotten luck. George knew they wouldn't find it. He told them as much, too. They listened about as well as his engineers when he brought up the battery issues.
Most drivers with George's string of results start believing in the racing gods even harder, making vows and offerings to satisfy their capricious bloodlust. A means of exercising some semblance of control when results are taken out of their hands. After hours of circuitous engineering meetings and worthless reassurances, George is starting to doubt whether they exist at all. The gods haven't chosen their predestined winner, Mercedes have. Fate has nothing to do with it.
He can already feel his body tensing up as he considers the long walk back to the paddock, trudging through hoards of cameras and microphones shoved in his face, rabid journalists thinking if they ask the right question he'll finally break down and cry for them. And worse still, another team celebration without him and a debrief where no one will want to listen because he's bringing the mood down.
He's surprised to find Lando lounging in a leather armchair in the makeshift lobby of the medical center, shared with the occult division to give them more legitimacy.
"You alright?" George asks, not immediately seeing any sign of injury or distress.
"Yeah, fine," Lando says, sitting up straighter at George's voice. "My side mirror shattered for no reason. Sign of bad luck, apparently."
Lando dramatically rolls his eyes and George can't help but let out a chuckle, even though it makes his ribs ache.
"Always something, isn't it?"
"Always something," Lando concurs, tongue flicking to the inside corner of his mouth in a contemplative gesture George knows all too well. "Did they find anything this time?"
"No," George says with a sigh. "Reckon there isn't anything to find."
Lando hums sympathetically. He's had a front-row seat to most of George's struggles this season, some through convergent circumstances, some because he reached out and put himself there. Even after qualifying, George found himself extending a conciliatory handshake, even though he'd inherit the P3 position Lando beat him to. It was like there was an invisible thread connecting them that tugged the hardest in times of distress.
"Dinner after?" Lando offers. This bit has become a more regular occurrence, too. Finding comfort in each other's company. First, because Lando could best understand George's situation and was happy to let him vent. Then, for other reasons.
"Might be a late one with the team. Butβ¦"
"After," Lando says definitively. "I'll send you my info."
Lando stands and stretches his back with a low moan, stirring a sensation in George's gut other than the latent nausea of being suffocated by pungent herbs.
"You already saw the witches?" George asks as Lando starts towards the exit.
"Yeah, I was waiting for you, you muppet."
He tries to brush it off like it's nothing, burying his concern under brusque indifference. Even then, George can't help the way he instinctively reaches out, half a step closer and arm frozen midair in an aborted gesture before he realizes what he's doing. Mercifully, Lando takes pity on him and meets him halfway, tossing his arms over George's shoulders so he's forced to lean down into the hug and put his weight against Lando for support.
"Thanks," George mumbles into his neck, wholly insufficient for the reprieve he feels in Lando's presence, the thrum of soothing energy that pulses between each point of contact.
George can't be sure that it's a true magical bond tying them togetherβthere are more mundane explanations that are even more terrifying to consider. But if it is, he hopes the witches never find it.Β
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Even the years of max or lewis domination were more exciting than this because at least there was a real battle. Wdym the battery is zero so the driver can't do anything wtf is this sport. No one is even coming close to kimi's car or just explodes on the way so he's the default wdc ok great.
"max or lewis domination" and "real battle".. that makes no sense.
anyway. im not really upset about batteries in general (i couldn't care less how these cars work) but at least don't let the battery make the decision for when to deploy. in my professional opinion, the drivers should be able to control when to use the battery and when to charge it.
There are a lot of things Steve doesn't quite understand about Lando, but whatever he has going on with Jenson Button sits near the top of that list. It's mostly the way Lando won't talk about it, blushes and fumbles his way through every explanation he's ever needed to offer. Like the time in preseason he gave Steve two days off because he and Jenson locked themselves in a hotel room and didn't come up for air, or the late night after Vegas they never spoke about.
"Hello," Jenson says, walking over from where he's parked the golf cart. He's in chinos and an oversized polo Steve is almost certain he's worn to present on Sky. "I'm a bit early."
Steve makes a show of glancing down at his watch. "You're the first," he says, but of course Jenson knows that. He nods towards the tent. "He might be asleep."
Jenson's eyes soften and his lips curl into a fond smile. "Maybe I just let him rest," he says, voice dipping quieter.
Steve gives a half shake of the head. "I think he'd be rather put out," he says. "Slot after yours is open, you can stay if you have the time."
Jenson gives him a contemplative look. "Thanks," he says, and then he ducks inside the tent.
Steve places himself directly in front of the magnet strip holding the panels shut. It's not because it makes it marginally easier to hear the soft voices inside. It's the most strategically advantageous placement. Besides, Lando wanted him close.
"Hey, sweetheart." Jenson's voice is barely audible.
Steve can hear the mumble of Lando's reply, but not the words.
"Yeah," Jenson says. He sounds amused. "I was there all weekend. You're too fancy for me now."
A noise of protest from Lando, the sound of rustling.
"Uh-huh," Jenson says. "You're a world champion now."
"So're you," Lando says.
Jenson hums in agreement. "You're a champion forever," he says, voice tipping lower. "They can never take it from you."
There's silence. At least, there's no more talking. It takes a minute for Steve's ears to adjust to the almost staticky sound of lips connecting.
"You and Vale," Jenson murmurs. "Up on that balcony."
Lando giggles, and Steve finds himself smiling at the sound.
"You should've texted," Lando says. "I'd have made time."
Jenson doesn't reply, which Steve takes to mean his mouth is better occupied. There's an abrupt, high-pitched moan and then a chuckle, much deeper.
"Evil," Lando says.
"You love it," Jenson replies.
Then it's silent again, until the quiet is broken by another moan, low, pleasured, unmistakably Lando.
It's not the first time Steve has listened to Lando getting off, but it's the first time he's heard him exchange more than professional pleasantries with Jenson. As far as he can tell, it's a non-stop litany of praise. Jenson tells Lando how beautiful he is, and then, at Lando's grumble of protest, how handsome. He makes his way down Lando's body like a meditation. He comments on the muscles in his neck, filled out at nearly the mid-season point; his shoulders, broader, this year; his abs.
Steve doesn't realize he's waiting for whatever Jenson has to say about Lando's dick until he catches himself straining to hear.
The words don't come, but the moans of pleasure do.
"Jense," Lando says, more an exhalation than a word. "Oh fuck, yeah."
So it's Jenson on his knees for Lando, then. Steve would've bet that one wrong.
"Can youβ" Lando says. "Yeah." He sounds utterly self-satisfied.
The sound of Jenson's mouth on Lando's dick is blessedly covered by Lando's moans, slightly too much chest in them to be breathy.
"No, no," Lando says. "Come up here."
Jenson pulls off with a pop that feels intentionally loud. Steve feels a quick flash of annoyance, adjusts his stance outside the door. There's a bluetooth speaker, if volume becomes a concern.
"I thought this was whatever I want?" Jenson says. His tone is light, but there's a real question in it.
"I mean, yeah," Lando says. "But."
Steve stifles a snort. It's quintessentially Lando to sign himself up for an afternoon of free use and then try and engineer how exactly he's used.
"So lie back and take it," Jenson says, in a tone Steve doesn't think he's ever heard from him before.
"I want you to fuck me though," Lando says. Steve can picture the coquettish look that probably accompanies it, lip caught between his teeth, looking down his body at Jenson through his eyelashes. "S'been a minute."
"Trust me," Jenson says. "Yeah?"
A soft smacking of lips.
"Yeah," Lando says.
"Good boy."
Steve runs his tongue over his teeth and rolls out his shoulders.
the ai-ification of f1 has to be one of its worst ideas
drivers can make one small mistake and then have no idea how the ai will take that into account and change the energy deployment for their next lap. how are they supposed to fix mistakes if the algorithm is changing things unpredictably?
and how are we as viewers supposed to understand and compare driver performance if itβs sometimes coming down to ai decision making that not even the teams can identify?
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