lestappenologist

.✦ ݁˖ date ──── Feb. 16, 2026

.✦ ݁˖ a/n ──── This started out as a joke, exactly 20 days ago. I stopped laughing halfway through, and now I’m crying in 284 languages because I can’t believe it’s done. Let me know if you guys want more, because I have tons of ideas for this universe, including additional drivers and racing arcs (hihihi 😈).

PLAYLIST

BANKS, Begging For Thread

DOC RAVEN, My Ride Or Die

MC MAZZIE, Saka Saka Saka

POST MALONE, Wow.

JUICY J, Payback

SICKICK, Infected

TROYE SIVAN, Talk Me Down

And I can’t be running back and forth forever

between grief and high delight.

J.D. Salinger, from Franny and Zoey

📍 Los Angeles, California | 11:04 PM.

“YOU DON’T HAVE to come tonight,” says Lando without looking at her. Freshly out of the shower, he’s facing the dresser, rifling through a half-open drawer.

For almost a month now, the house on E. Kensington Road is quiet. No more people coming over, no more late night dinners in the spatious kitchen, and no more work in the garage. Except for the room he grew up in, everything else remained pretty much untouched. Rather fast, he’s shrunk inward, confined himself to new routines and old habits, because it’s easier to pretend he’s still sixteen and his older sister is just out late. In reality, it’s like everything drained out of the walls and never quite came back ever since Letty died.

Murdered. Lando’s sister was murdered.

Even though time moves in one direction, his mind keeps replaying the memory of the day he looked over her grave from above as if it just happened. His jaw clenches automatically, the unwanted images invading his mind, forcing himself to chase them away as quickly as possible. He has yet to find the perfect formula to make them disappear without coming back, because he cannot afford giving up hope that at one point in his life, perhaps, the fact that he has no family left will not hurt as much. Somewhere deep inside, Lando knows he’s doomed to search for it his whole life though, without succeeding, just like Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill, only for it to roll back down just before reaching the top.

Nonetheless, better than the alternative. Giving up would mean admitting defeat. Accepting a reality where his attempts are futile and he’s all alone.

Well, maybe not completely alone.

Raelyn leans against the doorframe, cautiously following his moves, like a lioness waiting to pounce on its prey. Ironically, not to tear him apart, but to protect him from other predators, from the world and, most importantly, from himself.

“I know,” she replies with a silent sigh. “You tell me every time. Besides,” the girl continues, “I wouldn’t let you have all the fun.”

Lando finally reaches for a clean shirt, the fabric dragging smoothly over his skin. The mirror in front of him catches the dark circles under his eyes and the tension carved into his jaw, showcasing a restless anger that never leaves his gaze anymore. It’s not the first time she’s felt so helpless that it’s turned into guilt. She wants to do more for him, way more than she already does because, just like Lando, Raelyn can’t afford to give up on hope that they will get to see better days. For now, she can only be a mere spectator to how he chooses to mourn, hence she notices everything. Especially the demons he fights so hard to keep hidden from the world. And that takes a lot from him. He somehow looks way older than he did a month ago: he’s more rigid and pale, the lines of his body sharper, his eyes hollow, as if their essence was knocked loose and never put back the right way, regardless of how hard she tries to.

In the course of it, neither of them knows when exactly she moved in, but that’s because there was no conversation about it. She stayed over the night after the funeral and didn’t leave again. He never asked her to. Never asked her to stay, either. Somewhere along the way, Raelyn became the glue that’s holding together something already cracked. They slept together through it all, and he let her in during the nights he couldn’t speak, or the nights he had so much to say. It happened gradually, every single day marking a new milestone: a new toothbrush in his bathroom, a make-up bag on the counter, a change of clothes, then another. Eventually, her presence in Lando’s life stopped feeling temporary, but they’re not sure when it became as permanent as it is.

Not that they need a clear answer, anyway. They’ve been dating since high-school, and moving in together would have happened, sooner or later.

He shrugs into his jacket next, dragging his fingers through his hair in order to tame the wild curls, still slightly damp from a shower he took too fast, like he was raicing the water.

“I also know,” the girl adds carefully, “That if I stay here, you’ll push it harder. Just to prove you don’t need anyone watching out for you. That you’ve got it.”

Lando turns at last, one eyebrow arching in her direction. “You think you’re watching out for me?” he asks, eyes going a shade darker as he fixes his gaze on her; she doesn’t feel threatened in the slightest, but there’s something vicious about the way grief sits on him lately, stripping him down to instinct and teeth.

Raelyn swallows, biting the inside of her cheek. “I think someone has to.”

“I watch out for myself, yeah?” he nods once, taking a few steps toward her, until he closes the space between them and she’s backed up against the wall. “For us.” Lando cages her in without touching her yet, bracing his palms on either side of Raelyn’s head. She has to tilt her chin up in order to maintain eye contact, and he’s so close that she can count the moles dusting his cheek and feel the heat rolling off him, a gentle scent of his body wash and clean skin invading her nostrils.

Only weeks ago, his face looked soft in any light, smile lines permanently etched at the corners of his mouth like proof he laughed often and easily. In such short time, joy has become a foreign language, the creases have smoothed out, his expression changing dramatically from innocence to sudden maturity. Sometimes she’s shooting stupid jokes at him on purpose, just to see if she can coax it back, to watch his lips twitch and eyes warm briefly before the weight settles again. It never lasts, but she’s satisfied that she still has this power.

She memorized every square inch of his face and, recently, she had to learn new features that the grief has brought in. Luckily, there are things it hasn’t taken yet, like the fullness of his mouth, even when it’s set in a hard line. Maybe, if she looks long enough, she can remember him back to himself.

“That’s not what I meant,” she says, hands clawing on either side of his jacket, fingers curling in the worn leather while she pulls him closer instead of pushing away.

His jaw flexes. “I know what you meant, and I’m telling you: I don’t need someone hovering like I’m about to fall apart,” Lando shrugs, tilting his head to the side. “I’m fine.”

“Am I hovering, Lando?” she challenges him, noticing a knowing smirk blooming in the corner of his mouth.

One of the many things he likes about her is that she doesn’t flinch. Ever. She cuts through his bullshit like a knife through butter. Puts him in his place without clearly defining the hierarchy of their relationship, if there is one to begin with. As for Rae, she conditioned herself to find meaning in things that are on the other side of happiness, because she understood from an early age that life is more than that. Right now, for instance, is about knowing exactly how close to the edge they are and stepping forward anyway; she can’t risk getting stuck.

“You are,” he replies, matter-of-factly. There is no accusation behind his voice, maybe just a suddle tinge of frustration. “And you don’t have to be, because I don’t need anyone to watch out for me,” Lando insists.

Raelyn is aware that the source of his shortcomings lies largely in the empty rooms, missing voices, and the fact that his entire family has been reduced to a full house of ghosts. Nevertheless, his words sting just as much.

“Not even me?” she whispers, eyes searching his face.

Lando exhales, forehead dropping until it nearly touches hers. “It’s not about you.”

She can feel his heartbeat under her palm when she presses it flat on his chest. “Lan, there’s no one else left here but me.”

His eye narrow, understanding there is no way he can fight the cruel truth. All he needs to do is take a quick look around to realize Raelyn is right, and it’s not that he’d be all alone without her that wrecks him, but the fact that she must know how much pain she can cause him, if that’s what she wanted to. Love means trusting she won’t.

“You push like that,” he teases quietly, lifting his hand to cup the side of her face, “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”

She holds his gaze without blinking. “With you?”

Lando shakes his head, eyes closing briefly. In spite of what she’s insinuating, he manages to smile a little and, before she can speak again, he presses his lips on hers, kissing her just like he always does: like he’s starving, with a possessive force that’s able to claim every inch of her mouth.

Raelyn melts into him, her tongue sweeping in to tangle with his. From her cheek, his hand drops to her waist, fingers splaying wide over the soft fabric of her black bodycon dress, then lower, gripping the exposed skin of her thigh. With a silky hum rumbling from his chest, Lando lifts her effortlessly off the floor and pushes her back against the wall behind, pinning her there.

A silent whimper escapes her lips right into his mouth, as needy as ever, dancing in circles on his tongue. Her legs snake his waist instinctively, thighs clamping tight around him, heels digging into the small of his back to wrench him close, then closer, until there is no physical space left. The friction of her core against his hardening cock sends an exciting jolt through him, and he takes the opportunity to savor it, grinding gently to tease both of them. Her arms loop around his neck, fingers burying into his curls, tugging with a desperation that matches his own. Then her hands slide down, nails scraping lightly over his skin until they grip the base of his neck, yanking Lando deeper into the kiss, as if she could simply fuse them together.

The kiss intensifies, turning wild and messy and sloppy. Tongues lick everywhere; hers tracing the seam of his lips before diving back in; his swirling against the roof of her mouth, tasting her greedily. He sucks at her bottom lip next, nipping only to hear her little gasp, then captures her tongue again, drawing her breath into his lungs like it’s the oxygen he can’t live without. His own comes out in ragged bursts, hot on her skin, possessive hold thightening even more, not wanting to give her the slightest occasion to break away.

One arm stays locked on her waist, supporting her weight without strain. The other hand roams lower, fumbling with the button of his jeans, the zipper rasping open in the charged air broken only by their heavy panting. The fabric parts, and he shoves it down enough to free his throbbing cock, the length springing out, already leaking from the tip. It’s embarrassing how quickly she can turn him on, but Lando lets her consume him in every possible way.

With Raelyn, every worry has a STOP button, and the buzz in his veins shifts smoothly back to a primal rhythm they both know so well. Impatiently, he rocks his hips forward, the head of his cock nudging against the soft lace of her panties, seeping her heat through the thin barrier. A groan tears from his throat into her mouth, and she ends up swallowing it with a satisfied moan.

“Fucking hell, Rae,” he speaks against her lips, fingers digging into her thigh to hitch her leg higher.

“You can fall apart, you know,” she begins, contemplatively, “That doesn’t mean you’re broken.”

“I am a little broken,” replies Lando, maybe a bit too quickly.

She arches into him, her body language screaming want with every cell, hips rolling to grind her clit on his length, chasing the sweet friction. In the moment, as her eagerness and impatient whimpers vibrate with him, Lando imagines that all that exists is her, dragging him from the edge of darkness back into the burning flames of life. Thus, in retrospect, it doesn’t matter whether he’s broken or not.

“You’re the same to me,” she exhales heavily, as if to emphasize her point.

Lando almost chokes on his next breath, losing his grip only to lower Rae back to her feet, but he doesn’t break the kiss. His mouth lingers on hers, tongues sliding in a messy dance at the same time his hands slide down her sides. Dexterous fingers hook into the waistband of her panties, peeling them off in one desperate motion, the lace leaving goosebumps all over her hips and thighs before pooling at her ankles. She kicks them aside without breaking contact, and once she’s exposed to him, Lando presses her clumsily into the wall again, the edge of the dresser digging into his hip. He manages to crowd her space, his freed cock bobbing heavy between them, brushing along her inner thigh. Rae’s palms curl around his biceps, fingers digging into the taut muscle there for support, feeling the flex as he repositions himself.

“All this time,” he mumbles impatiently, one hand wrapping around his shaft to guide the swollen head to her entrance, “And I still can’t get enough of you.”

“Promise?” she asks, voice cracking a little on the last syllable.

“Promise,” Lando exhales a shaky breath that fans over her cheek, slowly pushing forward.

Her walls part for him with ease, taking Lando in with a gush of wetness that lets him glide blissfully deep. She has to bite her lip at how good the homecoming feels like, eyes closing shut so she can fully focus on the way he splits her on his length. And the moment he starts moving, her inner muscles begin sucking at his cock like it’s second nature. Their heavy breathing fills the room, joining the guttural grunts that come out of Lando’s throat. The rhythm builds gradually, skin slapping on skin in echoing smacks that has her ass hitting the wall with each drive.

In the heat of it, Lando’s lips find the softness of her neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the column, biting lightly at the pulse point that beats wildly under his tongue.

“You really think I don’t need you?” he asks, frenzy evident in his voice. “How can I not? You were made for me, weren’t you?” Lando’s tone is laced with that soft-yet-aggressive edge, one of his hands dropping to her hip again to open her wider, allowing him to plunge deeper. “Fuck. Say yes, I wanna hear you.”

“Yes, baby,” agrees Rae in a high-pitched voice, the words coming out of her mouth like bullets, without being able to stop them. “I’m just scared because I sometimes feel like it’s a matter of time until you slip away” she admits, head falling back against the wall as she rocks her hips to meet him. “Faster. Please,” her voice breaks on the plea, fingers tangling in his curls once again, pulling at them to urge him on.

Processing her affirmation, Lando’s restraint snaps like a revved engine hitting redline. His pace increases with pure need, thrusts turning nearly punishing, hips snapping with a force that shakes her entire body.

“Not gonna happen,” he pants into the crook of her neck, breath breaking erratically against her skin. “With you for the long run, yeah?” his assures her, changing position so one hand braces beside her head, the other gripping her ass to angle her just right, his cock slamming home with every brutal drive.

The girl moans louder, all sounds mixing together into a cacophony that’s ricocheting off the walls. The pleasure is omnipresent, but it exponentially intensifies every time Lando cries out her name. He can’t stay silent even if he wanted to, not as he swells inside her with each thrust, his thick length pulsing, the ridged head dragging along her channel in ecstatic waves that shoot persistently from one body to the other. Her pussy flutters around him, the wetness coating his balls while they slap relentlessly with lewd sounds.

“Yeah,” her voice fades, gasping in time with her legs trembling around his waist. “Shit, I’m so close.”

At this point, Lando’s control is very limited and crumbles along with her failed attempts to speak without moaning. His movements become inconsistent, jaw working hard in order to prolong his own pleasure, while undoubtedly pushing Rae toward hers.

“Good girl, baby,” his voice is utterly wrecked, “Come on then, come on my cock,” he encourages her, the desperate grind of bodies seeking oblivion in each other. “You’re so fucking perfect, let me feel you.”

His thrusts are slowing a little, allowing himself the luxury of watching her face contort in bliss as the orgasm crashes over her. Her pussy spasms in repeated waves that suck at him without stopping, her moans turning into sweet cries that animate the bedroom. Satisfied, he grinds deep, circling his hips to elongate the sensation, feeling her wetness flood around him, coating his length and dripping down her thighs.

Only when she’s riding the peak, body shuddering in Lando’s arms, does he let go. His release hits hard and fast, praising spilling from his lips like a desperate prayer, his cock pulsing as hot spurts fill her to the brim. It’s messier than he expected, cum leaking out around where they’re joined, slicking his balls and inner thighs, the overflow dripping down as he keeps her pinned, with one palm firmly splayed on the wall for leverage and the other holding her steady through the aftershocks.

A few seconds later, he looks down at his girl with a yearning gaze that burns. For some reason, he gets the strange feeling that she’s something that should be out of his reach. Someone he shouldn’t have. Someone he doesn’t deserve. All at once, Lando realizes that her fears aren’t irrational; there were times when even he didn’t recognize himself, and only Rae knows what terrifying thoughts she didn’t share with him, just because she thought it was better not to.

The least he can do now is prove that no matter how many times the world might end around them, she won’t end up losing him.

Lando leans in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering as he speaks, “You have me, Rae. You’re my ride or die, don’t ever doubt that.”

The testimony is not limited to a simple promise made post-orgasm. Promises can be easily broken. The words carry a lot of weight, coming from Lando. It’s what his sister used to say about having that one person that’s yours only. Someone you can trust with your life, but also someone you would die with in a heartbeat. It means commitment that doesn’t break under pressure, not even when helplessness or fear claws at the edges of common sense, ripping it apart. He grew up watching that devotion shape the way Letty loved and the way she fought for the people she cared about. Treating it like a bravado would mean betrayal, especially knowing that she died believing loyalty was worth any cost. Even life itself.

Rae’s arms are still wrapped tight around Lando’s neck, thighs quivering still as he gently lowers her feet to the floor, supporting her weight until she’s steady enough on her own. Her body slides down his, his softening cock slipping free with a wet noise, more of their combined release smearing between them.

“Shit,” he exhales, “Are we okay?” asks Lando with a chuckle that barely leaves his throat, brushing a stray curl from her face.

For the first time in the past month, Raelyn can see vulnerability in his eyes, not just the endless void. She smiles, answering by rising on her toes to kiss him deeply; a silent declaration that they are more than okay, actually. He’s still in there, a little broken, but still hers.

“I’m coming with,” the girl presses a final kiss to his cheek before padding over to the dresser on unsteady legs to grab a fresh pair of panties.

THEY ROLL OFF Alameda Street an hour later, where the Arts District thins out into warehouse rows and dead-end stretches of chipped asphalt that no one takes responsibility for after midnight. Lando pulls in slowly, allowing the wheels to slide through the sea of people like skates on ice, letting the car announce itself through a dense, metallic purr. That makes him easy recognisable, and the shouts are then quick to follow.

His posture is loose yet nervous in an exciting way; the tone it’s always electric in places like this, and the atmosphere around sets his hands tingling with impatience already. When fast cars gather in one scene and people swarm around them like ants in their own colony, he knows he’s made it home. Not because he inherited someone else’s reputation, but because he grew up in this environment, seeking the thrill like some sort of addict.

The lot is pure chaos: lowriders bouncing on hydraulics; tattooed guys in tank tops chugging beers from glass bottles, foam occasionally spilling onto oil-stained ground because of how wildly they’re gesticulating; girls in ripped shorts climb onto hoods, dancing to the thump of hip-hop blasting from massive subwoofers strapped to truck beds; joints are passed around from hand to hand like basket balls, the skunky haze blending with the acrid bite of exhaust and rubber. This tiny bubble is a world onto itself, laughter punctuated by tons of curse words and jokes with just enough innuendo.

Above it all though, the sound of engines roaring is overwhelming. Lando eases the Skyline into a spot near the fence, killing his with a satisfied grin plastered on his face. The sudden quiet inside the car only amplifies the madness outside, and he can’t help but turn to look at Raelyn.

“Let’s make some money,” he says, leaning over the console to press a quick kiss on her lips.

She unbuckles her seatbelt quickly, pulling him back for more before he even has time to turn in his seat. “You’re enjoying this too much,” she points out soon after in a fake accusatory tone that Lando can’t argue with.

Still, “Don’t say it like it’s a bad thing.”

The night air carries a specific scent that Raelyn had never smelled anywhere else but at street races: sweaty men, spilled alcohol and canned energy drinks, hot metal, and motor oil. Lots of it. From where she stands, the strip stretches out like a vein, a long straight of abandoned roadway flanked by derelict warehouses and graffiti walls. In passing, she sees a guy in a bandana stumble from, most likely, too many shots of tequila, one of his arms slunging around a girl who grinds against him to the beat of the music. Over by a jacked-up Impale, a group passes around a blunt, the ember glowing in the space they share as they hype up a driver revving his turbo.

Lando’s hand finds hers once they weave through the throng, and for a moment she’s sure she can feel what he does every time he comes here: an escape.

They spot their crew somewhere near the improvised starting line. Raelyn sees Suki first, her long, glossy hair catching the light that comes from the street lights while she fiddles with the air filter on her Honda S2000, a bunch of tools scattered at her feet. Alex and George, the only mates left from the long-gone days of high-school, greet them with ear-to-ear smiles, cracking open fresh Monsters and ribbing each other about last week’s bust.

“Four, you late ass!” Suki calls out, straightening with a smile on her face at the same time she’s tilting a little to wipe the grease from her hands on her cargo pants. “What took you so long, dude?”

Lando chuckles, fighting the urge to flip her off as he pulls Rae closer to his side. “My lady,” he replies honestly, turning to look at the girl who’s a second away to go key his car for making her blush in front of their friends.

“Ignore him,” Raelyn chimes in, pinching her boyfriend’s bicep.

“Don’t worry, though,” continues Lando, “I wouldn’t miss watching you eat my dust for anything.”

Suki snorts, tossing a rag at him. “Rae, girl, tell this fool of yours to stop dreamin’. See this?” she says, tapping near the intake. “I retuned the throttle response and leaned out the air-fuel mix to sharpen the pickup. She’s breathing cleaner now, which, in simpler terms, means he’s got no chance against me tonight.”

Raelyn laughs, trying to ease the competitive tension that always simmers below the surface between them. “Play nice, you two. Save the trash talk for the line. And you,” she turns in Lando’s arms fully, throwing her hands around his neck, “You better pay more attention to that mouth, yeah?”

“Or else?” he provokes her, knowing well enough that or else she’s going to shut it for him.

And that’s what she does. Her chest presses against his, Lando’s arm tightening around her waist like an instant response. The kiss is more of a reminder that she can be assertive if the situation calls for it, so he’d better not step on her toes. Especially not when she’s wearing her favorite boots.

Their bickering flows easy after that, but it falters when several heads turn toward the same point of interest: a well-known matte black Dodge Charger that causes bodies to shift and scatter under the rich hum of its engine. Instinctively, Lando’s grasp on Raelyn’s waist tightens, jaw clenching involuntarily; just like that, the illusion of a drama-free night shatters under the sound of Dominic Toretto’s car door slamming shut.

A month ago, he would’ve clocked the big man the same way everyone else around him does, untouchable, above all. Maybe he did love Lando’s sister. Maybe he simply didn’t know how to show up for grief, preferring to do it alone. But nothing can excuse his absence when it mattered most. To Lando, the man that approaches their group now isn’t untouchable anymore. He’s human, just like everybody else, which makes him just as vulnerable. Just as flawed and exposed.

And a coward.

His worn jacket hangs open over his frame, moving with him as he closes the distance with characteristic patience, his heavy boots crunching over scattered gravel and discarded bottle caps. The overhead lights catch along the clean lines of his shaved head and the dark stretch of his T-shirt pulled tight across his frame, giving the impression that he owns the place, confident that no one’s going to stop him.

Whereas people’s eyes are glued to him, Suki’s gaze snaps past Dom, to another car that rolls off. To get better look at it, she hops up onto the hood of her car, shading her eyes against the flicker of the headlights. “Yo, Four,” she calls out, jabbing a finger toward a sleek, blacked-out Plymouth Barracuda, “Is that your sister’s old ride?”

Lando shifts his weight, already angled toward the edge of the crowd, because he would rather drag his girlfriend through it than face Dom, not trusting himself to stand in front of him without losing it. But in a fraction of a fraction, his blood starts boiling in his veins, confusion decorating his face.

“What?” he asks with an uncertain voice, mostly to himself, as his eyes lock onto the Barracuda.

The familiar lines of the body close around his throat like an invisible claw. It is, in fact, Letty’s car. The same one she’d poured her entire soul into, turbocharged and lowered. Relief punches through him and, for the shortest second, he’s as pathetic as imagining that she might step out of it. The next one, reality creeps back in, fueling him with anger so sudden it makes his hands curl into fists around Raelyn’s waist.

The car shouldn’t be here. Matter of fact, it shouldn’t exist anymore.

The raid on the Ortiz house and garage flashes in his mind like polaroid pictures thrown one by one on a table right in front of him: DEA agents swarming during the Braga investigation and badges dangling under floodlights, ripping apart their lives under the guise of justice. It makes him sick to his stomach; there was no justice. Letty’s car had been seized as evidence. Dragged away on a flatbed while she was still alive. After the case wrapped, it vanished into impound, ultimately auctioned off for pennies to some faceless bidder that was supposed to tear it apart for pieces.

Or so he’d thought.

Raelyn notices the change in Lando’s body language instantly; he’s gotten stiff beside her. Cold. First instinct is to cling to his torso, pressing her side against his like a shield, opposed to the storm brewing in his eyes. But everything stopped existing, except the scene in front of them. He can’t do anything else but stare while the mass of bodies shifts apart around the Barracuda, voices — now reduced to murmurs shooting from every direction in disbelief — rippling outward as heads keep turning.

The car looks brand new, glittering in the wash of artificial light, but no one needs to take a second look at it to recognize it’s Letty’s signature. By now, Lando’s face is completely drained of color, his hands ultimately falling at his sides.

Pushed by curiosity, or rather madness, he takes a step forward, but Rae reinforces her hold, just as pale as he is. And rightly so, this is just like seeing a ghost.

“Lan,” she speaks with worry, because she’s already deciphered the look on his face, one that just turned grief into rage. “Did you know about this?” the girl asks, careful to give the question a little room to sit bewteen them. It’s not the answer she’s after, but the pause. A tiny chance for Lando’s anger to stall long enough for him to breathe instead of react.

Still, he shakes his head, locking his jaw with such force that she can see the muscle twitch. “No…” he trails off, anchored in disbelief. “Fuck no. I thought it was gone. Scrapped or some shit,” the voice comes out drenched in sudden betrayal, eyes never leaving the car as it finally rolls to a stop.

Dom’s steps died out at a safe distance, arm crossed over his broad chest. Nothing gets through the mask of control he’s currently displaying, despite the fact that, much like Lando, his blood is currently boiling with rage. It’s Raelyn who catches the flicker in his brooding eyes and how subtly his shoulders square. The realization doesn’t surprise her in the slightest, though. Of course he knew. He must have, but decided to keep his mouth shut, probably figuring Lando would go nuclear on whoever had the balls to claim it. And, when the door swings open, the last piece of puzzle falls into place.

Marco Delano, the last idiot alive Lando would want behind Letty’s wheel. He grew up running the same streets as the Ortiz siblings, and their feud is old as time, a result of crossing lines that can’t be erased, envy and selfishness. Letty trusted him once, but she had a gift of seeing through people’s bullshit.

All his life, Marco wanted everything Lando had: his ability to make himself widely liked, the way he didn’t have to earn a seat at the table because he was born at it, his friends, his cars, even his girlfriend. Years ago, when Raelyn chose Lando, that happened to be his last straw. For a guy with a huge ego it was biblical humiliation, so he’s been silently waiting for the perfect moment to strike back. And now, the guy knows exactly what he’s doing, parading the car like a trophy, bragging in front of his best-friend-turned-lifelong-enemy, daring him to look at it without breaking.

As expected, Lando sees red, and Rae’s arms aren’t nearly enough to hold him back anymore.

“Lando, don’t,” she tries to stop him, but he wrenches free, stalking toward Dom with his fists still clenched at his sides.

Suki slides off the hood, coming to hold Raelyn from behind; a small gesture, designed to remind her that someone’s got her back in case things go terribly south.

“What the fuck is this?” Lando snarls, stopping inches from Dom. He’s shorter than the big man, but the anger makes him tower in the moment, his blue eyes blazing. “That’s why you’re here? You fucking knew and you didn’t say a word?”

“I heard about it, yeah,” says Dom, exhaling through his nose, occasionally glancing at the car he knows so well.

Lando squints. “And you didn’t think to tell me?” his voice is almost conversational now, which somehow makes it worse. “You simply let that piece of shit snatch it up like it was nothing?”

“I was gonna handle it.”

That earns a laugh from the youngest Ortiz, but he’s not amused in the slightest. “Handle it?” he points a finger at Dom’s chest, stopping short of contact, body trembling with the effort to hold back a swing. “Are you fucking serious right now? You were gonna handle my sister’s car like it’s some oil change appointment?”

Across the strip, Manny Cruz, known as Ledger, climbs onto the hood of a rusted Tacoma, holding a megaphone close to his mouth, “Alright, people. Before shit hits the fan, listen up!” the man shouts, his deep voice cracking through the air. “We go racing tonight, pink slips only,” he informs the people who are gatherig closer, already discussing among themselves whom to bet on. “You lose, I keep you title. You win, you take theirs. It’s that simple,” adds Ledger, hopping down and starting to walk through the racers with his palm out, collecting folded titles and money like a landlord collecting rent on the first of the month.

In the meantime, Lando doesn’t take his eyes off Dom. “I’m familiar with the fate of the things you care about,” he barks, clearly referring to his sister’s death. “You don’t get to do that anymore.”

“We’re still on the same team, kid,” says Dom with no inflexion in his voice. “I was gonna win it back. Bring it home.”

“You mean your garage?”

“That was family’s car.”

“My family’s car,” Lando corrects him in a heartbeat. “If you think I’m sitting this out while you play hero for my sake, you’re dead wrong, Toretto. I am going to bring it home, so you better stay out of my way.”

By the time Ledger gets to Marco, the guy leans against his freshly polished car with a smirk on his face. He doesn’t even glance around to check what other racers will compete tonight, because there’s only one he wants to beat. The way he sees it, he’s not gambling a car. Rather, he’s using it as a weapon, wagering on Lando’s weaknesses, on the reckless way he’s been driving since his sister died, and on the unshakeable belief that a broken man makes catastrophic errors the moment it gets personal. Finally beating the Ortiz would put Marco way up there, demonstrating once and for all in front of everybody that the name means absolutely nothing without Letty behind the wheel.

Keeping the same annoying grin intact, Marco stands back after dropping the title into Ledger’s hand, watching his rival turn on Dominic in public outrage, satisfied with the knowledge that he’s already turned family against itself before the engines even start.

“This is your fault,” hisses Lando, directing every ounce of indignation towards the man in front of him.

If the accusation affects him, Dom doesn’t let it show. “You don’t want to do this here, kid.”

“What I want is you out of my way,” Lando repeats, shaking his head. “You have the fucking nerve to show up here and tell me you knew that the scumbag had my car. You,” he almost chokes on the words that seem to pile up outside his mouth, “You have the fucking nerve to show up at all, one month after I buried the last member of my family. Where were you then? And where were you when she was murdered?” he keeps shooting, bullet after bullet striking Dom’s chest. “Where the fuck were you, man? Fixing cars in Panama?”

Although Dom exudes quiet command, a facial muscle twitches under his eye. “I took care of the motherfucker, didn’t I?” he pauses, going stiff at the memory. “Everything I did out there was for her, you know that.”

Lando’s face twists. “Alright then, where’s my sister? Row D, Section 4, East Lost Angeles Cemetery, plot 27,” he answers his own question, the exact location tumbling out like a missile. “You didn’t take care of shit, Dom,” says Lando at last. “You were too late then, and you are too late now, so stop walking around like you’re some sort of Good Samaritan.”

Dom’s jaw clenches, but his voice remains steady once he speaks again, “Like it or not, you’re family, Ortiz, not a stranger. And right now, you’re only untouchable because of what we, your sister and I, did in order to protect you,” he states, not in arrogance but naked truth. Where they live, loyalty is armor, nobody has to be lectured about it.

“How about this?” Lando smiles defiantly, leaning in so he makes sure he’s well heard. “Quit acting like I’m your responsibility. I never was, so you better learn to fuck off.”

“You were Letty’s,” Dom reminds him, a flicker of old pain surfacing behind his words. “And she was mine.”

“Fuck off,” Lando says again, louder, shrugging past the hand Dom extends once more in order to stop him. He pivots, storming through the gawking crowd, intentionally shouldering Marco Delano with brutal force. Marco reels, his laugh ending up choking into a grunt.

“Lando!” Rae yells after him one more time, but her voice is barely audible from a distance. Plus, Lando is too overcome with anger to hear anything other than the sound of his own vengeful thoughts anyway.

Blinded by it, he thrusts his own title into Ledger’s waiting palm. “I’m in,” he snarls decisively.

THERE IS NO room for errors on Alameda Street. This is a driver’s strip that demands speed, split-second decisions, and big balls. For more than half the night, Suki burned with impatience to get behind the wheel, but after the earlier drama, she knows better than to get involved in family blood. Plus, she’d rather not compete at all than to do so against the midfield. Like most racers here, she wants Four. Bullet. Toretto. The big names of street racing that could actually challenge her.

“Couple more things,” Ledger’s voice gets lost in the night as he crosses the street from one side to the other, “Jump the start, you’re out. Crash, you’re out.” He lowers the megaphone, pointing down the stretch of Alameda, where the streetlights flicker like they’re about to go out any minute now. “Drag race, quarter a mile ‘till the third intersection past the cold storage plant. You miss it,” he says, lifting the megaphone for the crowd to finish his sentence, you’re out, the words echo from every possible direction. “First to get back here wins. May the fastest motherfucker win.”

Minutes later, Lando’s jaw flexes in anticipation. He stands at the edge of the fray, his silhouette rigid against the chain-link fence. In order to keep himself from punching the concrete walls, he crossed his arms over his chest, wanting nothing more than to hold himself together. At least until his turn comes.

Raelyn sits nearby, avoiding to shower him in too much attention. That’s not what Lando needs right now. He just needs to know she’s there, which is always the case, and her hand brushing against his arm absent-mindedly is enough to remind him that.

His gaze is locked on the starting line, where Marco’s — Letty’s — Barracuda squats low. The supercharged V8 growls teasingly, minimal tweaks to the body keeping its lines familiar enough to taunt Lando. To add more to it, Marco leans out the window to flash a cocky grin, revving once to let the sound of the engine echo off the warehouses.

“Stupid idiot,” murmurs Lando.

Angel Morales alias Crow is right next to him. He finds himself into a gloss-blue Toyota Supra MK4, an iconic Japanese jewel, known for its aerodynamic design and the 3.0-liter 2JZ inline-six engine. The aftermarket modification is built for a relentless top-end speed that can swallow straights like Alameda whole, reaching performance within 4.6 seconds. The minimal decals give it a discreet yet striking appearance for those with eyes to see, Crow’s tattooed hands tapping nervously on the steering wheel.

Trying to capture as much information as possible, Lando chews on his bottom lip, a habit that Rae has teased him about ever since they met. His white Nissan Skyline GT-R R32 waits in the rotation. He put his blood, sweat, and tears into it, from reinforcing internals beneath the hood to a custom ECU tune sharpening its edge, and an all-wheel-drive system dialed for that perfect late bite of traction that launches without sacrificing the chase for top speed. The interior is stripped bare, designed for no distractions and less weight. It is the closest to perfection he has ever driven, and if he loses control, it won’t be the car’s fault.

Across the strip, Dom leans against his Charger with his arms folded across his chest. For Lando’s sake, he’s not competing tonight either, but that doesn’t mean he’s not prepared for the worst case scenario. Bottom line, they’ll get Letty’s car back at any cost.

The flag girl drops her arms and, for half a heartbeat, everybody holds their breath. One heartbeat later, the entire strip erupts, tires biting the asphalt, itching for it.

Lando shifts his weight nervously, feet planted wide like he’s preparing to brace for impact. He’s heard various voices mentioning earlier that Marco’s got a 500-horsepower Hemi under the hood, lightweight chassis tweaks, and sticky slicks for the quarter-mile. His Skyline is a corner-carver at heart, but in a dead sprint, doubt easily finds a way to gnaw deeper. Losing has never crossed his mind before, but losing here would mean capitulating the last piece of his family he can actually fight for.

Rae’s hand drops to curl around his bicep, squeezing gently.

The Supra edges ahead off the line, its lighter weight and clear-cut launch giving it the jump. Crow shifts gears with precision, the transmission whining through its ratios. Marco reacts, not that easily intimidated. The Barracuda surges, its massive torque overwhelming the Supra’s initial lead. By the 100-foot mark, the Plymouth’s nose draws even, exhaust spitting flames from tunes headers. Marco flirts with the throttle, keeping the rear end planted, the car’s wide stance devouring the strip. It pushes Crow to fight back, turbos screaming as he mashes the pedal, but ultimately, there’s no real competition here: Marco knows what he’s got his hands on, suspensions compressing under the G-forces.

He’s toying with it, Lando thinks, a chill racing down his spine. His stomach drops, figuring that Marco Delano came to perform and it’s just a matter of time until he does so, the nitrous bottle untouched, saving the blue flame for later.

Consistent with popular predictions, the Barracuda crosses the line first, clocks flashing a blistering 10.2-second quarter-mile. At last, Crow’s Supra coasts defeated to a stop, the man slamming the wheel in frustration.

Marco’s eyes find Lando’s once he steps out to cheers and backslaps. His smirk widens into challenge, rubbing salt into a wound that has been open for years. He gestures lazily toward his car, as if to say, yours is next.

The night drags on, two more races unfolding in rotation, shadowy figures in souped-up Civics and a Mustang trading pink slips in furious bursts of acceleration. Eventually, the lineup converges and Marco slinks to the starting line again.

Lando feels the inexorable draw that Raelyn makes sure to keep under control, eyes locking onto his with unshakable faith, piercing his fog of doubt. She closes the small space left between them, bringing a hand to cradle his jaw, her thumb brushing the firm edge packed with tension. On her toes, she leans in to meet his lips in a tender kiss, an anchoring gesture amid the chaos. It deepens quickly, cherry gloss combining with the salt of his skin. Lando’s palm settles at her waist and just as she eases back to give him a smile, he decides that he won’t lose anything ever again.

“Smoke him,” she says with finality.

Lando nods, the ghost of a smile cracking his facade while walking backwards towards his car. He drops into the bucket seat, strapping himself in. The twin-turbo inline-six rumbles to life once he twists the key, its vibrations coursing through the chassis and settling into his core. He blips the throttle once, then again, only to feel all the systems awakening, so he can finally roll it nose-to-nose with Marco’s at the starting line. Refusing to look anywhere else but ahead, Lando’s kuckles pale from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel. In record time, all his senses refine, causing him to hear everything, from the noise outside the car to his own heartbeat.

The flags raise again, and the moment they slash downward, each second seems to pass in slow motion.

ONE. The launch detonates in a haze of fury, and it isn’t clean. Lando slams the clutch, floors the throttle, the car rushing with impatience. The tires rebel against him, spinning wildly on the oil-slicked strip scarred around from the earlier battles. A thick smoke chokes the air with the sharp tang of scorched rubber, the car fishtailing as the ATTESA system fights to redistribute torque across all four wheels in the shortest time.

Marco’s Barracuda rockets uninhibited ahead, its engine propelling the heavy muscle car forward in a flash. Lando’s eyes widen in the cockpit, irritation spreading like ivy in his chest.

“Not now,” he spits under his breath, the rearview mirror framing Marco’s vanishing taillights.

TWO. The Skyline manages to scrape for purchase, the rear settling as the turbos begin to spool with a mounting whine that vibrates through the roll cage, but the deficit looms. Marco’s eyes shrink in the distance, and Lando has to close his briefly, sweat prickling his brow. His right foot modulates the throttle, drowning the crowd’s enthusiasm, the entire universe suddenly condensing into a singular point. He bangs into second gear, the transmission engaging with a mechanical snap; he’s gone by now, vision tunneling, any trace of fear and doubt remaining deeply rooted in the past.

THREE. Marco’s car cleaves the air, its broad hood dominating the lane. There are short bursts of flame spitting from the exhaust with every upshift, as if emphasizing his desperate need to choke Lando. But in Lando’s current state, he’s impossible to reach. It looks like he is able to urge the car onward through sheer will, even though his fingers ache around the wheel. The instant inertia hurls him back into the seat with a jolt of G-forces that compresses his spine. He’s not even blinking anymore as he calculates the chasm, twenty feet and closing, agonizingly slow. He pre-shifts into third, a surge of heat taking over any other kind of emotion that might surface.

FOUR. His rival toys with a nitrous feint, azure flickers dancing unused from the tailpipes, baiting the rhythm. Lando’s frustration crests, pulse hammering in his temple as he counters with the subtle pedal work, the Skyline’s sleeker profile and lighter curb weight beginning to assert itself on the straightaway. The speedometer blurs past 80 mph, wind shrieking through the vents like a banshee.

“Fucking fight me!” he wills the machine, the night sky blurring into a cinematic rush outside the windows.

FIVE. The Skyline creeps alongside between one breath and the next, with tires singing at 100 mph over the grooved pavement. Midway down the strip, Marco muscles into third, the V8’s torque cresting in a thunderous peak which Lando forsees, his foot dancing on the pedals to sustain boost without spin.

SIX. That’s when Marco finally commits to the nitrous, a violent hiss unleashing the oxide in a blaze of compressed outrage. Flames erupt in blue hues from the Barracuda’s rear, rocketing it ahead and widening the breach once more. Lando responds promptly, triggering his own system, the bottle venting with a sizzle that feeds the turbos pure fire.

SEVEN. The cars draw closer in a cacophony of noise, clouds of exhaust fumes merging into a thick veil beneath the lights. Lando’s instinct peaks there, encouraging him to tuck into the Barracuda’s slipstream, managing to steal efficiency from the turbulent air. Then darts left to claim clean flow. Marco fumbles a shift, the heavier chassis balking under the strain; Lando seizes it, holding redline before slamming fourth, the gear meshing perfectly thanks to his experience on the streets and, mostly, his sister’s driving lessons.

EIGHT. The 450-horsepower turbos are at full cry, the strip appearing like it’s going to vortex into oblivion. The Barracuda tries to counter aggressively, swerving to steal the lane, but Lando anticipates, easing off the throttle at the same time the tires object with a high-pitched keen yet adhering to the tacky surface.

NINE. Marco’s car weavers, its nitrous ebbing as the early rush melts away. Lando’s aero savvy and unflinching boost control propels him past, the front bumper inching clear.

TEN. Reality crashes back in the moment Lando’s Skyline arrives at the line first, its brakes flaring crimson-red against the night.

He spends the next ten seconds clutching the steering wheel tightly, pure ecstasy washing over him, while the cheers outside are so loud that they seem like they’re gonna break the windows. When he finally steps out of the car, he does it on steady legs and dilated pupils from the adrenaline haze, searching the sea of faces for hers.

After everything, Raelyn launches herself at him, legs wrapping around his waist as her arms lock behind his neck for support. She crashes her lips against his, tongues tangling in a kiss that has the power to kill the chaos around them. Lando’s hands grip her thighs, pulling her impossibly closer. They don’t break apart, not even when hurrahs and whistles erupt louder from the sidelines.

Rae’s fingers thread through his damp hair, tugging at it just to make him groan into her mouth. “That’s my racer boy!” she smiles against his lips, nipping at his bottom one.

It only makes him kiss her harder, one hand sliding up her back, in that same possessive way he does, no matter who’s watching.

Humbled once again, Marco lumbers to a stop in arrears. The moment shatters as the familiar voice infiltrates through, fully dripped in venom.

“Enjoy it while it lasts, Ortiz,” he says, fumbling in his pocket and hurling the keys on the ground, where they skitter across the gravel like discarded trash. “And let me tell you,” he adds, a devilish smirk blooming on his face, “Letty’s ghost in that ‘Cuda…” the boy trails off, pursing his lips before continuing, “Got me jerking off so fast.”

The entire area hushes in an instant, and the only sound in Lando’s ears is the sound of his blood rushing to his cheeks. He gently puts Rae back on her feet, then dives headfirst at Marco with an animalistic roar, slamming into him like a freight train. They crash to the asphalt in a tangle of limbs, the impact jarring Lando’s teeth as concrete bites into his elbows. He rears back and drives his fist into Marco’s face multiple times, knuckles splitting open on the ridge of his cheekbone, blood blooming hot from the gash. As a result, Marco’s head snaps sideways, a spray of bright red arcing under the neon glow of the street lamps. He doesn’t go down easy, though. Twisting like a viper, he hooks a leg around Lando’s and bucks hard, flipping them so he’s straddling Lando’s chest.

People are surging closer, gasps of surprise quickly turning to chanting: “Fight! Fight!” a woman’s voice shrieks in excitement, fists pumping the air, while others shout encouragements.

Marco’s weight pins Lando, his bloodied grin turning demonic as he cocks back and slams a punch into Lando’s jaw, the crack echoing like a gunshot and causing instant fireworks exploding behind Lando’s eyelids. Pain flares underneath his now bruised skin, copper flooding his mouth from a busted lip. It only makes him angrier, and he bolts upright, headbutting Marco square in the nose with a wet crunch, cartilage giving way under the force. More blood gushes from Marco’s nostrils, dripping onto Lando’s shirt as they roll again, grappling in a frenzy of years of repressed wrath.

Lando’s rage unleashes in every swing, his boot stomping down on Marco’s thigh while he claws at his shirt, tearing fabric and skin alike. Marco retaliates with a vicious uppercut to Lando’s ribs, the blow landing with a thud that steals his breath, cracking bone maybe, sending agony lancing through his side.

“That all you got, motherfucker?” Marco spits, blood flecking his teeth, but Lando’s already on him, kneeing his gut and following with a new wave of punches.

“Shut up!”

One glancing off Marco’s ear.

Another smashing into his eye, swelling it shut in seconds.

Then another, sending his head flying backwards.

They trade blows in the dirt, no more words, just grunts and the meaty sound of impact. Unmasked, Lando’s violence overflows through his fists like a dam breaking. It awakens painful memories for Dom who, after the initial shock, finally barrels in like a force of nature, his massive arms wrapping around Lando’s torso from behind.

“Enough, kid!” he thunders, muscles straining as he hauls him off Marco, prying them apart with sheer power despite Lando’s wild trashing.

“Get the fuck off me!” Lando protests. “I’m gonna fucking kill him!”

“That’s enough!” the man repeats, louder, throwing Lando at the side like he weights nothing, pointing at him before turning back to Delano. He pulls his unstable body back on his feet by the jacket, only one hand clawing at the bloody material. “You’re done here,” says Dom, infernal eyes piercing into his soul. “Walk away before I put your head into the asphalt.”

Lando looks like he could lunge again at any second, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. His eyes burn while darting around, scanning the ground. Every fiber of him buzzes with the leftover punch of adrenaline, like the storm hasn’t finished raging yet. Once he finds the keys to the Barracuda, he bends to snatch them, the metal biting cold into his skin, making him fist his palm around it until it hurts.

It only takes a glance at Raelyn, and she’s immediately by his side, worry etching fine lines around her eyes.

“Take my car and go home,” says Lando with an evident rasp in his voice.

Clenching her jaw, Rae doesn’t argue this time. She just nods, chewing on the inside of her cheek, refusing to look around and make eye contact with another person. As for Lando, he doesn’t wait for more. Sliding into Letty’s car, the engine starts purring smoothly beneath him, and he peels out, leaving the lot behind in a cloud of dust.

The city blurs past in shadowed alleys, but there’s no final destination this time. He presses the pedal harder, racing the wind, hoping the speed will do its thing and numb the ache. Unfortunately, even the fastest driver can’t outrun his own thoughts. He spends hours trying to, but when the sky finally hints at the pale edge of dawn, Lando turns onto the quiet suburban street, the driveway materializing in front of him in sweet familiarity. He kills the engine, allowing himself to just exist in his sister’s space without breaking all over again. Sitting there, he’s gripping the wheel until his hands cramp and the skin around his knuckles breaks anew, painting them in a brighter shade of red.

Another half hour stretches into what feels like eternity before he forces himself out.

Inside, the house is still, even if he already knows Rae is probably awake. Their bedroom door stands ajar, a silver of light coming from the lamp in the corner of the room, spilling into the hallway. She looks up from the edge of the bed as he enters, her eyes scanning Lando instinctively: his lip is busted open, bruises are glowing in faint purple shades along his jaw, and his clothes are streaked with blood, dirt and sweat. It hurts her to even look at the crimson crust at the corner of his eye, a shallow cut that Marco’s ring left behind.

Her heart shrinks to a painful knot in her chest, remembering that it’s only been a month of this. A whole month of holding him together while pieces of him, without a doubt, fractured. It’s physically impossible not to question herself, if this is what their life will look like from now on — a vicious circle of mourning the things that could’ve been.

It would be very easy for her to kick and scream, to demand why he keeps throwing himself into the fire, but she understands the why. For this reason, the what and the how long until no longer make any sense. Instead, she rises silently to brush past Lando in the narrow hallway. Her shoulder grazes his arm in a ghost of a contact that sends a jolt through both of them. But they both ignore it.

Just as serene, she rummages for the first aid kit in the bathroom, the plastic clattering against the sink. She allows her hands to shake for a few seconds before she steels them and by the time she’s back, Lando has stripped off his shirt, the dirty fabric discarded in a heap on the floor along with his jeans and jacket, where smoke clings to them still. He perches on the edge of the bed, the same spot where he found her, his bare torso marked with fresh welts and old scars from races that ended badly.

Although it’s the early morning, Raelyn switches the flip on in order to fully see him, the new wave of light flooding over the taut lines of his muscles, highlighting the tension coiled there.

“Move over,” she points at a chair, sounding detached of it all. “I don’t want all that mess in bed.”

Lando doesn’t complain. Sliding off the mattress, he settles into the chair by the window, watching Raelyn setting the kit on the windowsill with a small tap. He can feel the chemical scent the moment she uncaps the antiseptic, already anticipating its sting.

Stillness settles over them for the umpteenth time.

Raelyn starts with his face, tilting his chin up, vehemently refusing to meet his eyes. Despite the fact that she feels his gaze imploring her to look at him, even just once, she cannot do so without being overcome by the urge to punch him herself for the show he put on in front of everybody. She dabs the cotton swab at his busted lip first, the alcohol stinging enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth. At least for now, Rae considers that’s enough of a punishment. However, she doesn’t soften her touch.

Lando keeps his eyes on her, tracking the precise movement of her hands. It’s not the first time she’s patching him up, but this time around, the tension that hums between them is heated with something more brittle. Her breath comes shallow while she wipes away the dried blood from his chin, his skin turning warm under her touch.

The girl moves to his knuckles after that, a flash of surprise crossing her expression. The cuts are deeper than she expected, the flesh around torn and swollen. Skillful, a quality acquired as a result of the many times he had to fix Lando, Rae soaks a fresh cloth in saline, pressing it firmly against the wounds. The liquid trickles down his fingers, pink-tanged, dripping onto the towel she’s laid across his lap. Lando keeps wincing occasionally, his jaw working like he’s stopping himself every time he’s about to say something — to point out how cold and clinical she is, perhaps. But he chooses to swallow his words, thinking now is not the time.

Raelyn wishes she were stronger than that. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop her mind from racing at the speed of light. Powerless, she replays the fight over and over again, the anger in Lando’s eyes catching her attention every time. Marco shouldn’t be able to get under his skin anymore. Yet somehow he did, and he still won, in the end. At least on a mental level, considering that Lando is now battling new demons.

For all that, she can’t let Lando know how much it actually bothers her. If she lets emotion out, she’ll end up sobbing into his chest. Or worse: begging him to stop chasing ghosts. She can’t ask that of him. Not yet, anyway. So she stays cold, her touch efficient as she applies antibiotic ointment, the cool gel melting immediately on his heated skin.

Careful not to disturb her, Lando repositions himself, the chair creaking underneath. For the first time since he sat down, their eyes finally meet, gentle gaze colliding with the strain she’s hiding in hers. He itches to reach out, to pull her close and sit in silence together, just like they did times on end for the past month. Yet, he’s powerless too.

After she’s done with his eye, Raelyn sticks on a pink butterfly bandage, sealing the ring cut in a way that makes the corners of her mouth lift for the shortest moment.

“Come here?” Lando dares to speak, but the girl steps back instead.

She keeps avoiding him, focusing on packing away the supplies, her fingers lingering on the lid, like she can delay the inevitable confrontation forever.

Lando shifts again, rubbing a hand over his freshly bandaged knuckles. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, making an effort to bridge the chasm with levity in order to defuse the tension that surrounds them. “Did you see the other guy? He’s gonna be picking his teeth out of the gutter for a week.”

She freezes with her back to him, shoulders tensing more, ironically. His attempt of a joke lands flat, and Raelyn can’t acknowledge it even with a scoff. All she can think of is how utterly helpless she feels, not being able to absorb the rage that’s become his second skin. Without having much of a choice, frigidity settles in her even though she wants to bridge the gap, to meet him in this fractured life where any win still comes with a loss. Where entourages of gearheads and dealers orbit them like satelits in a doomed orbit.

Part of her aches to wrap him up and carry the weight of his vengeance so he doesn’t have to, while the other part screams at her to collapse. To let the tears finally break through and drown them both in the reality of it all.

“I saw him,” she replies in the end, eyes fixing on the floor where his boots lie kicked off, all caked in dirt. “And it makes me sick that you think this is funny. Any of it.”

Lando’s grin fades, his slightly healthier hand flexing. “Rae, come on. I’m trying to get to you, that’s all. It was bullshit, yeah, but I handled it. We’re good,” his words sound somewhat desperate, still clinging to the adrenaline.

The girl whips around, feeling her nails digging deeper into her palms. “You came home bleeding, Lando. Again. And I’m the one cleaning it up. Again,” her voice cracks on the last word, not loud but intense enough to give him chills. “How can we be good?”

He sits up straighter, wincing once more. “What do you want me to say, hm?” Lando’s eyes search hers, pleading.

Raelyn sinks onto the bed across from him, the space between them fogging with accusations that are waiting in line to be fired like arrows at a moving target. Her hands tremble in her lap, and she clenches them again, fighting the urge to reach out or push away entirely.

Paradoxically, both versions feel wrong.

“I know you miss her,” she whispers, not trusting her voice. “I miss her, too. But can’t you see this life is eating us alive?”

“Baby, hey,” his tone softens into insistence. The confusion on his face morphs into concern as he stands fully, his chest rising with a deeper breath. “What’s wrong?” asks Lando, figuring that whatever it is, it is much more than he thinks. He steps closer so he can drop to his knees in front of her, head lifting to see her tired eyes.

“What’s wrong,” she echoes thoughtfully, close to snapping while gesturing vaguely toward the window, toward the night that swallowed them whole hours ago. “What you did out there,” the girl continues, closing her eyes briefly, “That’s not… I haven’t seen you like that. Ever.”

Lando’s expression hardens, a flicker of defensiveness crossing his beaten up features. “Are you seriously worried about Delano? That piece of shit deserved it,” his words come out as if they don’t need justifying.

She analyzes his face, gaze sliding across the cuts, then the shadows beneath his eyes. “I’m not,” Raelyn shakes her head, “I’m worried about you.”

Next time he speaks, it seems like a reflex he’s clung to for weeks. “You shouldn’t. I’m fine.”

“Clearly,” her laugh is short. “You keep saying that. For a month now, you keep saying that. But I think this,” she cups his cheek in her palm, tracing her thumb across his busted lip, “This is far from fine. You kept it all inside, Lando, and now it’s going to come out in ways I’m not sure I can fix.”

“Fix me, you mean?” his eyes lock onto hers, demanding answers.

They’ve always been equals in their mess, no one fixing the other, just surviving the crash together. Now it feels more like an attack, impaling into the nerve of his grief, the same way Marco’s taunts still burn under his skin. He knows he shouldn’t turn everything into personal matters, but honor is the only thing he has left. He failed to be a protector when it mattered the most. It’s only fair he does everything in his power to be one from now on.

“No,” she dismisses his inquiry with a decisive tone, meeting his upward gaze even though her heart hammers like pistons overheating in her chest. “Ironically enough, it’s not just about you.”

Lando shakes his head, his jaw clenching. “Then what is it? You’ve been looking at me like I’m a thicking bomb since I walked in here,” his voice rises a notch, taking even himself by surprise.

Raelyn exhales, shifting her gaze back at the window. “I’m trying to save what we have left. Because I feel like you’re lying, and I’m not sure when we started doing that, but I don’t like it,” she admits.

“I don’t lie,” he affirms with finality.

“Keeping things for yourself or not saying the whole truth is just as bad,” the girl concedes, cracking open a fear that she’s tried to keep buried for the past couple of weeks: that without complete honesty, they’re just two people careening toward another crash. “You’re not fine, Lando. Downplaying it makes me believe you don’t trust me anymore.”

His eyes soften, hands peacefully landing on each side of her thighs. “Baby, I’m sorry if I scared you, alright? I’m sorry,” he repeats, blue eyes contemplating her face.

“If Dom wouldn’t have pulled you off him…” her words taper off, heavy with the horror of what she witnessed from the sidelines.

“You heard what he said, yeah? I couldn’t let that slide, you know how he is,” Lando frowns, disbelief sharpening his tone.

“That’s not an excuse,” counters Raelyn. “I saw the look on your face, Lando. I believed you when you said you’d kill him.”

Life as she used to know it flashes before her eyes in an instant: stolen moments in the garage, Lando’s high-pitched laugh, the way he’d pull her close after a close call, whispering promises. Suddenly, a jigsaw of moments is flooding her mind, refusing to stay in order: high-school Lando in her bedroom, scribbling schematics for his dream car in the margins of a notebook; late-night drives around the city; take-out dinners on the couch, her legs thrown over his, arguing about a silly TV show; his first race; his first race win; their first kiss when they were only 17. It’d be fascinating to observe how easily it all gets shadowed by a mistake he keeps repeating. If only it didn’t hurt so bad for making her question the man she’s shared her time with up until this point.

Lando’s expression pales under the bruises. “I—” he tries, but the protest dies, replaced by a haunted stare. In the moment, he can’t even admit that he said it just because of the adrenaline and anger. Hours later, he still feels the same way.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Raelyn finally breaks, tears welling up. She wipes at her face with the back of her hand once they spill over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks.

“Why are you even going there, Raelyn?” the full name slips out like a slap, and she freezes above him, her body going stiff at the unfamiliar formality. “You know everything is fucked up, and it’s going to stay that way, regardless of whether you interfere or not.”

“No, it doesn’t have to,” the girl insists, her hands moving to cover his.

His posture slumps, the exhaustion etching deeper lines around his mouth. “Look around, baby. You said it,” Lando reminds her, “There’s no one else here but us. We’ve got nothing else but each other, so let’s not lose ourselves too. Because if that happens, Rae… if I lose you…”

In his head, Lando knows that losing her isn’t an abstract thought. Of course it crossed his mind before, perhaps more often than he would like to admit. He’s already memorized the sound of grief. It’s like a hollow echo with no response, but Rae is the last place he feels safe, the last person who can pull him back. Without her, he has no reason to slow down. No reason to step off the gas at the last second.

Most people are terrified of pain, but that doesn’t scare him. It’s the certainty that he wouldn’t survive what he would become afterward that keeps him frozen in fear.

“Maybe that’s the problem,” she jumps on his unfinished sentence.

“What do you mean?” asks Lando, confusion knitting his brows, one hand reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear.

“This place,” explains Rae, cautious. “What if we leve for a while?” she asks, gauging his reaction, her heart pounding in the silence that follows.

Lando doesn’t dismiss it outright, but he does pause. “What do you mean?” he repeats a little softer. “Leave where?”

Running her hand gently through his tousled curls, Raelyn takes a small breath before asking, “How do you feel about Monaco?”

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☆ date ──── Nov. 25, 2025

☆ a/n ──── This was supposed to come out right after the race, but editing took longer than I expected. Anyway, you enjoy it, my pure angels, y’all won’t be pure for long 😇🤍 P.S. the two Oscar one-shots and the mirror fic I threatened you guys with are also on their way, *in Isack’s voice* don’t shout at me, okay? Thank you!

NEON LIGHTS ARE intermittently flickering across his reflection as Max stands in front of the mirror with his shoulders drawn tight, adjusting the collar of his black shirt. For the third time. Or fourth, he couldn’t say. The soft fabric fits well, his girlfriend just ironed it for him before disappearing behind the bathroom door, but he still tugs at it, jaw set in irritation.

He wouldn’t say he hates Vegas. It’s the noise that’s too loud, the colors that are too bright, and the people that are too fake. However, he also can’t deny the fact that winning in the City of Lights has its own magic. He would usually dismiss theatrics, but standing on the top step of the podium here carries a sort of weight that feels nice to carry.

Crossing the finish line first in Vegas is the loudest end to a race in the entire calendar, with the exception of Monza if a Ferrari driver wins. Managing that performance in a city built on spectacle, where luck and illusion rule, can make victory taste a little sweeter, even to a man who claims he doesn’t care for the show.

Although the exhaustion caught up to him, Max is still in good shape, but the adrenaline has been replaced by a strange urge to bail and go to sleep. And maybe by an invisible string that pulls his attention repeatedly toward the closed bathroom door.

Until it opens, causing his fingers to freeze in the middle of his movement.

“Need help?” her voice calls out, slightly amused at the thought that he might have spent solid minutes in front of the mirror.

She seems ready to leave, finally, wearing a leather mini skirt that delicately hugs her curves, forcing Max’s eyes to follow every sway of her hips as she walks. A pair of knee-high boots that leaves more than enough room for her skin to peek out. And a red blouse that sits off her shoulders, soft and airy, the sleeves feathering around her wrists. Her hair falls in glossy waves down her back, and her perfume is intoxicating, not in a way that leaves him breathless but lets him know she has entered the room before he even sees her.

When she realizes he’s staring, the girl does a playful spin. “So? Do I pass the inspection or…?”

Max turns fully to her. “Unlike the McLarens,” he smirks, managing to get a watch it look in return.

“Those poor boys,” she shakes her head, trying to mask a smile. “Come on,” she continues, “We’re already late.”

“Let’s stay in then,” he suggests, returning to fixing his collar.

“Max,” she warns softly, stepping closer to push his hands away. She somehow tames it by opening one more button on his shirt, brushing her thumbs across his newly revealed skin. It’s a simple, innocent gesture, but his body responds as it always does, leaning into her like the gravity is way too strong for him to ignore it.

“Hm,” he hums, looking down at her and pretending he’s thinking about it.

“We won’t be long,” she reminds him. “You know you won’t hear the end of it, if you don’t make an appearance.”

He shrugs. “They already saw me on the podium,” Max exhales, like the reality of leaving the hotel room physically pains him. He catches her hand, keeping it against his chest. “I’d rather spend the night here, with you.”

Her cheeks get warmer in a heartbeat. Heat curls through the air at the memory of ruining the sheets not even an hour ago, causing her thighs to press subtly together as if it doesn’t matter he said it matter-of-factly, her body just simply knows what to do before her mind does — with good reason. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, avoiding to meet his eyes, because she knows exactly what she’ll find painted all over his face: smugness. In industrial quantities.

Max can easily read her too, and the awareness alone sends another wave of heat up her neck this time, making her even less willing to give him the satisfaction he’s already savoring.

She brushes her thumb along his collarbone. “You’re making it hard for me to be the voice of reason right now.”

“Not my problem. It’s your fault,” Max points out, eyes dragging slowly over her outfit again. “For walking out like that.”

The girl tilts her chin, the corners of her mouth lifting into an innocent smile. “Do you really want me to change?”

His fingers skim her waist. “No.”

“Good. Because I was just being polite, anyway,” she teases.

THE ATMOSPHERE SWALLOWS them in the second they step inside, overwhelming their senses at once: loud music that makes their heart thrum in sync with the bass; crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like frozen fireworks, catching every shard of neon light that bounces off the walls; air heavy with the scent of spilled liquor, expensive cologne, and the unmistakable haze of weed drifting from the terrace.

The screens, strategically positioned all around, have the race highlights on loop, Max’s Turn 1 overtake replaying in bright flashes. Energy crackles everywhere, shouting, singing, and laughter, reminding them why Vegas doesn’t do it subtly.

Max’s hand rests on her lower back as they navigate past security, guiding her like he’s afraid she might be abducted by someone in the crowd if he lets go. Some cameras swing toward them when they start getting recognized — well, the moment the winner gets recognized — but the VIP wristbands mean the chaos thins quickly.

Reaching the private booth section that’s raised above the main floor, she spots Carmen first, then George, who has already adopted his familiar posture of a half-model, half-politician.

The Brit meets Max halfway with a dab and a shoulder bump, his drunken smile spreading across half his face. “Look who finally decided to show up,” he calls out over the music.

He rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth curls upward. “I had to take care of business first.”

George’s eyebrows arch with understanding, but next to him, Max’s girlfriend pinches his bicep, a silent behave wrapped in the light pressure of her fingers. Max winces, but only just, his bright smile telling her he absolutely did it on purpose and he’s not planning on apologizing.

“Where’s the kid?” Max continues, referring to his much younger teammate.

George shrugs, “Underage. Probably sleeping already. Though he sent me a selfie of him illegally drinking after he got his P3 trophy.”

They naturally fall into conversations about lap one chaos, tire deg issues, and something about the post-race inspections that has George gesturing with both hands.

Shy yet friendly, Carmen moves closer while pushing the boys aside, eyes trailing appreciatively over her silhouette. “I love your fit,” she says. “Red is definitely your color.”

The girl giggles. “Thank you! Don’t tell him that, though,” she points at Max, who’s claimed a seat a couple of chairs away from them.

“He doesn’t like it?” inquires Carmen, her eyebrows arching in surprise.

She shakes her head. “No, it’s enemy color. But Vegas lights are doing it a favor tonight, and he didn’t exactly complain.”

“Well,” Carmen nudges her gently. “Anyone with eyes can see that he’s obsessed with you no matter what color you wear.”

The girl blushes at her words, but she manages to keep her tone playful. “Good thing it’s mutual then.”

As if he senses being talked about, Max glances over mid-conversation and winks at her before he turns back to George, the softness of his smile lingering in his expression.

Carmen leans closer with a knowing smile. “Obsessed,” she repeats, extending her arm. “Let’s go dancing!”

Before she can protest, she’s being tugged off the VIP platform, down two steps, and into the sea of bodies moving in unison with the unique rhythm of the music. Max notices the abrupt change in his peripheral vision, turning to look in her direction, his expression shifting from relaxed to alert in half a second, posture straightening. He gestures with his hand as if to say, ‘where are you going?’, to which she responds with a reassuring smile over her shoulder. He is not entirely happy with it, but it’s a thought he can bear, knowing that she is not alone.

Soon enough, the DJ’s mix takes over. It has a heavy beat for the most part, but gives off a rushed yet seductive vibe that rattles the floor and makes the chandeliers tremble above. Light fractures everywhere the eyes can see: gold, neon green, purple, red, and electric blue. It makes the sweat shine along her hairline, her breath catching as the heat wraps around her like a second outfit.

“What are you drinking?” asks Carmen, pulling her toward the bar area of the dance floor.

“Whatever you’re having,” the girl replies louder in order to cover the music.

Carmen smiles, lifting four fingers at the bartender, and the shots appear immediately, salt and lime slices following.

She downs the first one, fire rolling down her throat, blooming hot in her chest. Her limbs loosen after the second shot, smile stretching without effort as she lets the music become the current that pulls her in.

The gravity of their drinks pulls the girls into each other’s orbit with an ease that feels sinful. Their bodies mirror each other, hips rolling to the beat as they twirl and brush close before pulling apart again. Carmen’s fingers trace her waist in a teasing pass, and she answers with a playful drag of her hand down the brunette’s arm, both exchanging wicked glances, confirming they know exactly what they’re doing.

To their boyfriends, more specifically.

Even without looking, she can feel the prickle of attention that’s now set on them, the weight of Max and George’s gazes sharpening from across the room.

Every time she looks up at the booth, her Max is already staring, fixing his eyes on hers in a manner that gives her butterflies. Except, not in her stomach. And it would be impossible not to. His focus is able to cut through the noise, the lights catching on the right angles of his face, casting him in alternating shadows. There’s darkness surrounding him that blends with molten gold, and the way he follows her moves sends waves of heat low in her body. Again and again.

He doesn’t do it on purpose, though. It’s not the kind of possessiveness that cages her but the kind that simply reminds her how good it feels to be completely dominated by him. Every slow movement of her body seems to challenge him, wanting to feel that power, jaw tightening like Max is actively fighting the urge to cross the room and pull her against him until there’s no physical space left between them. And knowing what thoughts must be running through his mind only spurs her on, making a shiver crawl deliciously down her spine.

She lets her eyes fall shut, allowing the music to wrap around her, lights pulsing behind her lids. For a moment, all she feels is gratitude, an emotion she’s not taking for granted, knowing how hard the chase is. But when her eyes snap open, the spot where Max stood is empty. She frowns in confusion, but then George pulls Carmen away at the same time she feels Max’s presence before she can even see him; a gentle heat radiating at her back, then a slow, far too intimate breath fanning across the back of her bare shoulder.

Her body tenses, back colliding with a firm chest. She doesn’t need to turn around. Her body knows his stillness, his scent, his touch. A hand slides along her hip, stopping just before her waist, not claiming, just making sure she feels him.

“Hi, baby,” the girl says into the air between them without turning.

Max leans in a bit in order to talk next to her ear. “You okay?” he asks, feeling her nodding in response. His chest moves lightly against her back. “I was watching,” he tells her like an explanation he doesn’t owe.

“I know,” she teases, leaning back just a little. “Have some shame, Verstappen.”

His hand tightens around her waist.

“No such thing when it comes to you. Having that much fun?” he continues in a low voice close to her ear, laced with that cheeky edge she knows too well.

She exhales heavily without meaning to, feeling the warm trace of alcohol on his breath, threaded through the familiar sharpness of his cologne. It’s a combination that signals her she’s about to deal with a very vocal Max, a playful version of him who won’t erase the smile off his face until his head hits the pillow tonight. The realization makes her shiver, because she already knows what kind of trouble he becomes when the edges of his reality soften. And standing that close to him, pressed to his chest in the dark gleam of the club, she can already feel he’s about to test not only her patience but every bit of her self-control.

“Yeah,” she finally replies. “Carmen knows how to party.”

“Ja, I saw that too. And you feelin’ good?” he chuckles, the sound vibrating in her ears.

“Perfect,” she agrees with a smile on her face.

“No,” Max shakes his head. “Down there,” he clarifies, his tone dropping lower. “How’s the feel? Still nice and full for me?”

Almost instantly, goosebumps are prickling across her skin like tiny sparks and, suddenly, her body lights up from head to toe, each nerve ending flickering like a Christmas tree strung with invisible lights. A deep red floods her cheeks, flush spreading like wildfire down her neck.

The plug now demands her attention, its presence a torturous reminder nestled deep. She succeeded at pushing the feeling aside the entire night, but now that he’s mentioned it, she can feel it throb with her quickening pulse.

Her breath catches in her throat in a soft hitch that makes her pussy clench involuntarily around the base, the sensation pulling a quick squeeze from her core.

She turns around in his arms, hands pressing against his chest to create a silver of space. And the illusion of authority. “Max,” she breathes, eyes narrowing up at him. “Don’t.”

He poses in fake confusion. “What?”

Pressing her lips in a thin line, the girl tries to hide her smile, “Don’t start. You’re on thin fucking ice already.”

His grin widens, unrepentant, as he pulls her closer into his space, one hand sliding up her back while they move with the music. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm. You promised you won’t bring it up until we get back,” she reminds him with a hint of irritation behind her voice; it’s amazing how fast he can get her all hot and bothered.

“I didn’t promise shit,” he counters. “I just said I wouldn’t pull it out, not that I won’t ask about it. And I’m just asking,” he explains, flashing her a wide smile. “How does it feel?”

She can’t get mad at that face when he looks like that, eyes sparkling with joy. But knowing the rules, she can try to play Max at his own game.

“It feels…” she begins, staring at him with fake annoyance while wrapping her arms around his neck so she can talk closer to his ear, “Wet.”

His hands fall a little lower than her waist at that, stopping right above her ass. “Ja? Dripping just from a bit of staring?”

“Anticipation for what’s coming,” she corrects him, playfully.

Max should know better, but it’s nearly impossible to dismiss her just like that. He can’t. Doesn’t want to.

Still, “You have no idea how much self-control I have right now, fighting the urge to throw you over my shoulder.”

“The counting doesn’t work anymore?” she teases, letting a laugh slip through her lips.

“I don’t know, let’s see,” agrees Max, turning her back around, his hand sliding under her skirt way too easily, fingertips brushing at the base of the plug through her panties. “Eén… twee… drie…” he starts counting in Dutch each teasing tap.

The girl gasps, her hands finding anchor in his free arm that keeps her linked to him.

“Yeah,” Max breathes out, resting his forehead on her shoulder where she can feel him smiling. “Counting doesn’t help now. Wanna leave?”

Leave. Too late for that thought. He set every single one of her nerves on fire like it was nothing, and she’s now too turned on to survive the ride back to the hotel.

“Can’t wait that long,” she manages, feeling her pulse spike.

Her fingers dig further into his bicep, half pleading, half testing him, familiarizing Max with the situation he had put her in. Willingly. Voluntarily. Consciously.

“Then let’s find a fucking corner,” he suggests, getting impatient by the second.

“Don’t be insane,” she tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a gasp. “There are cameras everywhere.”

His lips stretch into a smile once again. “Not in the restrooms.”

Max doesn’t give her the chance to protest, grabbing her hand and walking through the chaos. The moment they’re alone again, the flames are getting hotter.

For her, it’s a new feeling every time, no matter how many times he looked at her with desire in his eyes before. Her heart is hammering faster in her chest, her stomach flipping at the sheer audacity of being this close to him, exposed in the middle of Sin City, with the noise just outside the door. But somehow, the world has disappeared, leaving only the burn of Max’s gaze and the magnetic pull of their bodies colliding.

For him, it’s all the same. The same fire, the same need to have her and taste her before he goes crazy. Every inch of her pressed against him makes everything else irrelevant. The forbidden thrill of acting on desire this reckless yet hidden behind a locked door tugs at his senses, making him experiencing the moment more intensely. It’s in the faint scent of shots mixed with her perfume, the way her hands find his hair, and the quickening rhythm of her heart under his fingers.

Their lips meet with urgency, a kiss that’s able to devour time itself, leaving neither thinking about tomorrow. But Max finds himself stopping abruptly, the sudden halt making her stumble, looking at him with her lips parted, certain he’s about to kiss her again. It’s only a matter of time, like always. Right?

Instead, his glacial eyes lock onto hers, able to hold her in place without ever laying hands on her. Then, Max doesn’t hesitate to kneel in front of her, the gesture hiding absolute power behind it, despite the fact that it might not appear so.

Max’s breath fans hot against her exposed skin as he hooks his fingers into her panties to pull them down, looking her in the eyes and nowhere else. He’s careful to hold her while he places one of her thighs over his broad shoulder, the muscle of his arm flexing to keep her balanced. Her mini skirt bunches higher on her waist as a result, revealing the full curve of her ass and the way her shiny plug nestles there, leaving her vulnerable to his gaze.

The sight of the gleaming metal base, partially hidden by her swollen folds, sends a wave of inexplicable hunger through him. Saliva pools in his mouth, but he reins it in, determined to savor the view first. His thumbs press into the soft flesh of her labia, parting them slowly. The pink inner walls come into focus, slick with arousal that coats everything in a glossy layer of pure need. Her entrance quivers, a subtle contraction that draws his eyes like magnet, as if her body is silently pleading for penetration.

“Max,” she whines, his name echoing between the bare walls that surround them.

“Fuck, you’re such a mess,” he ignores her calling. “The prettiest mess I’ve ever seen.”

Patiently, he traces the edges of the plug with his fingertips, the simple touch eliciting a violent shiver from her in return, her entire frame locking up in anticipation, just like she’s told him earlier, muscles tensing from her calves to her shoulders. Unable to resist any longer, Max leans in, his tongue slipping out to drag a flat stroke along her slit. He laps at the mingled flavors, a tangy essence that mixed with the faint metallic hint coming from the plug, exploring every crease and fold with uncharacteristic calm.

Circling her clit, he draws in between his lips, suckling with gentle suction that builds a delicious pressure inside her. The nub swells under his attention, shuddering erratically as blood rushes to it, turning it from a hidden pearl to a throbbing beacon. He releases it with a soft pop, leaving it glistening and engorged, hypersensitive to the cool air. Shifting lower, his bony fingers return to the plug, easing her lips wider apart once again, only to expose how her hole grips the intruder. The way she clenches around it awakens the cock in his pants, straining for release, but he knows he’ll have to wait a bit longer until that.

Diving back in, he’s easily able to feel the little spasms of her cunt against his mouth. It weeps steadily now, juices trickling down to coat the base of the plug and drip onto his chin. A moan rips from her throat as she rocks her hips forward, seeking more friction, begging Max to do something about it. Anything. But he denies her the full drive she craves, focusing on her clit instead, flicking and swirling until she’s a mess of slickness, her arousal seeping around the metallic edge, making everything slippery and erotic.

He presses his face deeper, nose brushing the plug as his tongue delves into her folds, teasing the stretched entrance without mercy. One thigh trembles aroung his head, the other straining on tiptoes, but Max holds her steady, controlling the pace.

Always controlling the pace.

Her scent fills his senses, encouraging him to push her further, give her more, make her beg with every involuntary twitch.

Eventually, her need forces Max to finally yield to the urgency in her shaky body, so he closes his grip around the plug, easing it free from her with a lewd pop. The stretched ring of her hole clings to the tapering metal, reluctant to release it at first, and he watches mesmerized as her pussy lips part in response, the inner walls fluttering from the sudden shift in pressure. A fresh gush of her arousal with his own cum slicks his fingers, warm and viscous, coating them thoroughly as he reverses direction, sliding the plug back into her at the last moment. The intrusion forces her muscles to surrender, her body arching at the fullness that borders on overwhelming.

He pulls at it once more, slower this time, enjoying the way her hole gapes briefly before contracting again. “Taking it so fucking well,” he exhales, cheeks flushed pink with the need to keep playing with her like this, as if his life depends on it. “So beautiful,” muses Max.

Each shove is accompanied by squelches and slurps that echo in the air, mingling with the soft gasps escaping her lips. He angles it to rub against her sensitive spots, building the friction until her moans spill out unrestrained, her shame dissolving into pure desire.

“Max, please,” she insists.

But just as her hips buck wildly, chasing the peak that’s coiling tight in her core, Max halts. The plug remains buried deep, motionless, denying her the final push. He rises to his full height, her thigh slipping from his shoulder as he straightens, and without breaking eye contact, a smirk blooms on his face. Only then he pulls the plug free one last time, lifting the cool metal to pop it between his lips, and he sucks on it, thirsty, his tongue swirling to capture every trace of her flavor.

Her eyes widen at the bold display, but it doesn’t take away how utterly empty it left her.

In the meantime, Max’s fingers find their way back straight into exposed pussy, two at first, then three, humming in satisfaction at how easily she molds after him. The other hand clamps down on her hip, pinning her against the door behind her, ensuring she can’t squirm away from the onslaught. A deep groan vibrates around the plug in his mouth as he tastes her anew, the sound overly possessive — simply Max.

He pumps his fingers hard and fast, curling them to drag against her front wall, hitting that spot that makes fireworks burst behind her eyelids. Her back arches in return, spine bowing as her inner muscles tighten on his invading digits, fluttering in desperate rhythm.

Their gazes lock the entire time she approaches the edge again, which signals Max to withdraw his hand, leaving her clenching around emptiness. He wipes his slick fingers along her inner thigh, smearing her wetness there like a mark of ownership, the casual denial twisting the knife of frustration deeper than she thought was possible.

With a smirk, he removes the plug from his mouth, the surface now gleaming with his saliva as well, and tucks it into his pocket. Then he surges forward, capturing her mouth in a fierce, hungry kiss. His tongue invades her, claiming every inch in a twisted intimacy that leaves her reeling.

Unfortunately, the sexual frustration boils over, and she breaks it with a breathless snarl. “Fuck you,” she hisses, the words laced with equal parts anger and desperation.

Max chuckles darkly, “What’s that, baby?” he asks in an innocent voice. “Did you want to come that badly?”

The metallic clink of his belt buckle undoing fills the space, stealing whatever response she had prepared. The sound is followed by the rustle of fabric as he shoves his pants down, enough to pull his cock out. It springs free, thick and rigid, the head already beaded with precum that drips in a tantalizing strand.

“Hm,” she hums, “What a surprise, you’re a mess too,” the girl points out, sarcastically.

Her core aches at the sight, arousal trickling down her thighs despite the edging torment.

Max wraps his hand around his shaft, giving his cock a long stroke from base to tip, his thumb smearing the slickness over the sensitive crown while his stare bores into hers, challenging and heated.

Closing the distance in one small step, his free hand captures her chin, fingers firm as he tilts her face up. “And whose fault is that?”

Their lips meet again, softer this time but no less demanding, his tongue teasing hers in time with the way his cockhead nudges against her entrance, brushing through her folds, coating itself in her readiness. Then, with a controlled thrust, he drives inside her, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion.

“Yours,” he answers his own question. “Always yours.”

Relief washes over them both in a shared sigh, her walls enveloping him in a vice of heat and silk, clenching tight and perfect around his length as if made for this exact fit. He pauses there, fully sheathed, letting every sensation sink in before the inevitable pull of rhythm begins to take hold: the stretch, the fullness, the way her body is reshaping in real time.

The thrusts start with a fluid roll of his hips, the motion seamless thanks to the way the plug had kept her stretched and pliant, her body caving in completely to his invasion. He pins her firmly against the door, fingers digging into the soft flesh to anchor her, while his other arm hooks under her thigh, hoisting it higher to open her wider. Each drive forward sinks his cock deeper into her soaked heat, the velvety walls parting effortlessly around his girth, gripping him with a satisfying suction that pulls him in greedily. His free palm is roaming up her sides to cup her breasts through the material of her blouse, thumb circling her hardened nipple before pinching hard enough to draw a choked inhale, then trailing down to where they’re joined, his fingers brushing her clit in teasing circles that amplify every push.

The sounds he makes are music to her ears, deep grunts punctuating each slap of skin on skin, his breath hot and ragged next to her ear as he whispers filthy encouragements, “You feel so good like this,” rasps Max, the words vibrating through as he fucks her harder, the door creaking faintly under the force of his body driving into hers.

Her head lolls back against the solid surface, eyes fluttering shut while waves of overstimulation crash over her, every cell alight from the relentless pounding, the stretch of his cock filling her so completely it borders on too much. The shift gives him access, and he dips his head, plump lips pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of her neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point that runs wildly under his tongue.

She moans in agreement, the sound breathy and broken, but then he pulls back with a low grunt rumbling in his chest. “Look at me,” he orders softly.

Her eyes open on command, locking onto his intense gaze instantly. “Fuck, Max,” she cries out, the building orgasm coiling tighter in her belly, a hot pressure that makes her toes curl and her pussy clench rhythmically around his length. “Keep it like that. Don’t stop. Please.”

“So hot when you’re desperate for it,” he admits, the sincerity in his tone hitting her like a spark to dry tinder.

It pushes her further, and she urges him on, “Make me cum then.”

He accepts the direct dare without even processing it, his hips snapping forward with renewed desire, pistoning into her with brutal precision. The slapping sounds of their bodies colliding fill the room in wet smacks that mingle with her moans and his strained groans, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. He angles his thrusts to grind against her deepest spots, the head of his cock dragging over that sensitive ridge inside her with every withdrawal and slam.

“God, the way you squeeze me,” he praises through gritted teeth, his breath hitching as her walls flutter and tighten around him, milking him with involuntary spasms. “So sweet, so fucking tight. That’s how you make me lose it,” his words continue to spur her on, wrapping around her like a caress, and she feels him swell thicker inside her, the telltale twitch signaling his incoming release.

He cums first, a guttural whimper tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the root, hot spurts flooding her depths, coating her insides with thick ropes of his seed. The sensation tips her over the edge, causing her orgasm to rain in a white-hot rush, convulsing wildly around him, locking her muscles in blissful tremors.

Breathing heavily as their chests heave in unison, Max eases her down, his arms steadying her trembling legs until her feet touch the floor. He waits for her to stop trembling with the aftershocks, and then pulls out with a sharp hiss, the drag of his softening cock leaving her feeling achingly empty, a trickle of their combined cum seeping from her well-fucked pussy to drip warmly down her thigh.

She sighs in pleasure at the sensation, the loss and the lewd evidence of their passion making her knees buckle slightly, but he catches her, one hand lingering on her hip. Leaning in, Max presses a tender kiss to her forehead, a soft gesture after the storm. With efficient movements, he tucks his dick back into his pants, zipping up as he straightens.

“All good?” asks Max in a slightly concerned voice, eyes searching hers for any sign of discomfort.

She nods, managing a breathless laugh. “Viva Las Vegas!”

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