formula-jade

sideblog for my f1 fixation since it simply cannot be contained anymore

[formula-jade]

most are explicit, *18+ only please!*

Lando Norris

sky high

that papaya dress

some type of way

different kind of mile high

I want you to see how pretty you are

I wanna touch the sky (I want it all now)

sun and sea, sand and skin

hot ride

better than champagne

tell me what you like

Carlos Sainz

you know what I need, want you to see everything

sweetest victory

sometimes we can have nice things

this slice of paradise

just like that

beg

I'm just gonna keep on waiting underneath the mistletoe

Lewis Hamilton

top of the world

I can only feel that push and pull (bring me closer still)

panorama

lace and laissez

[i-like-sour-sweets]

Nortrell and Trundle Bed Ed on a hike

cr: pietra pilao on ig

[colapintoarchive]

[oooscarinooo]

FRANQUITO????

[monacobby]

is it in your way, king? do you need someone to hold it? (x)

[landosangel]

lovee these kinda pics 😩

also looking at the last pic it just shows once again how fucking big his hands are cuz that can looks huge in my hands, NOT IN HIS THO GOSH

[aheadattheapex]

Models should be grateful he chose driving fast cars as his career path

[monacobby]

can someone watch my fuckboy while i run errands? pull on his chains if he gets naughty

[landonorissian]

pinky up

[formula-jade]

tell me what you like

Summary: Lando knows—knows exactly what you like, knows exactly what drives you crazy, and he’s determined to pull out all the stops to push you to that point.

Warnings: nsfw (18+)

Word count: 2.8k+

You knew you’d made a mistake.

It’d been a simple one, a momentary lapse. You’d let your eyes linger a little too long, looked away from Lando a few seconds too late, and it’d been enough to practically show your hand when you couldn’t stop looking at his.

“What?” he said, unraveling from his pre-race stretch and contorting into a different one.

“Nothing, just looking,” you’d said, shrugging. Unbothered. Nonchalant.

Not nonchalant enough, though, because he grins, and you knew there would be no dropping it now. “Tell me.”

“Racesuit looks good this week,” you said, thinking up a quick excuse. Technically they were all the same fit even if some of the sponsors swapped out, but this one in particular did seem to cling to him slightly more at the waist where it was currently wrapped, or maybe he just filled it out better after not missing a beat in his exercise routine these last few busy weeks.

“Oh yeah, baby?” He fished out a resistance band you didn’t usually see him use during his pre-race routine and turned around so you could see the play of the muscles in his back and shoulders through the stretchy material of his fireproofs when he pulled on its length. “That’s all?”

When you didn’t respond, adequately distracted, he called over his shoulder, “Still just looking?”

“I like the fireproofs, too. Makes your arms look really… big,” you finished lamely, your brain going offline when he turned back around, dropped the band and stepped into your space, reaching out to grab the material of your dress and draw you into him with his hands on your waist and his thumbs digging into your hipbones.

“You like that?”

“Yeah.” Your arms automatically went to wind around his shoulders, never immune to him when you shared this close proximity, and you flattened your hands to smooth over them. “You’re not so bad here either.” 

His tongue flicked to the corner of his mouth, and you knew you were in for it. “What else?”

You’d rolled your eyes but like always, it was too easy to give into him. You mentally ran through the laundry list of his attributes you found most attractive, which shouldn’t have been surprising to either one of you that by this point, included almost all of them, so you decided to start with what was right in front of your face, skimming your eyes over the thick curve of his neck. “Here.”

Lando tilted his head to improve your view of it. “And?”

You slid your hands down to notch your fingers where his collarbones jutted out beneath the stretchy material. “Also this.”

“And?”

“Here.” You circled your fingers around the sleights of his wrists.

“And?” His voice dipped lower this time, and you knew this was straying into dangerous territory, but you kept indulging him anyway, wanting to give him anything it took to build up his confidence before he went out and got in the car.

You picked his hand up from where it had settled on your hip and extended yours to fit it up against the palm of his much larger one. “Like these too.”

None of these should have come as a surprise, not with the way you’re always eager for him to touch you and you can never help yourself when it comes to him either, never hesitant to tell him how good his hand looks spread across your stomach, or how much you like wrapping your fingers around his biceps as he fucks into you, but you knew he wanted to hear you say it.

He kept goading you on, and you continued till the last moment when there was a knock and the call came for him to head out to the grid.

“Aww, thanks, baby. That’s so nice of you.”

That was the last thing he said, eyes twinkling, before he’d been out the door.  

And that had created the present problem—that Lando knows, knows exactly what drives you crazy, and he’s now spent the last several hours pulling out all the stops to push you to that point.

You knew you were in for an afternoon of suffering the second he took to the pre-race interviews and talked about how he hoped for a good start and lifted his sleeves and scratched at what was almost certainly an imaginary itch on his forearm where you could see the indent of muscle there, and he didn’t stop even while the national anthem played, standing there looking stoic, but reaching up to rub at the back of his neck in a way you were pretty sure was actually him showing off the flex of his entire arm. 

Maybe anyone else would read the tells—how Lando fiddled with his racesuit undoing and refastening the Velcro there, smoothing over the neckline underneath, tugging it aside so you can see the indents of his collarbone—as nervous excitement to start from pole for the first time in a long while, but you recognized it for what it was, a continuation of the back-and-forth he started with you.

The race had been a brief respite, not that the show of dominance out on track had helped to dim things at all. You’d watched from the garage, hoping the camera wouldn’t catch the flush on your cheeks that you couldn’t seem to get to go away between the teasing and the heat despite the light, flowy sundress you wore, and you know it’s still there even when he pulls into parc fermé and jumps into the arms of the team.

A win is always exhilarating no matter the circumstances, but especially after so long, and you swear your heart skips a double beat when he takes off his helmet and picks back up with toying with you, making a big show to swallow down water, throat bobbing, when the camera pans to him again and pulling aside the neckline of his fireproofs to pour it down himself after.

Seeing him continue the little game plastered all over every screen at the circuit, and then into the cooldown room, and finally climbing up onto the top step of the podium only makes the flush spread the rest of the way down your chest and something clench far lower in your core.

There’s no hope of you calming down now either, not when he’s keeping up with the charade all the way through his post-race interviews, fumbling with his watch in front of the cameras while he makes his rounds in the media pen, being sure he puts his entire huge hand and the span of his wrist in the frame as he buckles it on again and readjusts the strap while he answers questions about upgrades and strategy.

You watch it all, shifting on the couch in McLaren’s thankfully airconditioned hospitality, feeling the ache grow between your legs. It gets no better when the feed switches over to the post-race press conference, and Lando won’t stop fiddling with the microphone with his long fingers, giving cheeky answers to questions about summer break with a matching grin, so you skip out on the rest of the celebrations and return to his driver’s room.

Maybe there will be just enough time to cool off before you have to fly back on the private jet in close confines with people who know both of you far too well by this point, people who will probably out of concern ask if you’re ill given your current state, and then you’ll have to feign symptoms because that’s less embarrassing than the reality of the situation, or suffer watching Lando, who knows the truth of it and is a terrible liar, cackle in the seat across from you.

The soothing silence only lasts so long, and then Lando’s barging through the door in the flesh, smirking.

“Got you something,” he singsongs, putting the hat from the podium right on your head and kissing you. He tastes like champagne tinged with salt—it’s an odd combination, but considering you’ve come to associate it with winning, you can’t get enough and hungrily kiss him back, immediately turning it deep and letting your tongue slide along his.

He’s hot, sweaty, soaked with champagne twice over, and you know he’s getting it all over your dress, but you don’t even care about any of that. His hands span your waist, and you move to wrap yourself around him.   

“Just a sec,” he says when you come up to catch your breath. He does a silly, stupid little dance for you while peeling off his racesuit, and you laugh watching the fireproofs stick to his skin as you help him out of them.  

“Wait here.” He throws a glance over his shoulder to make sure you’re staring at his ass while he walks away to the shower at the end of the hallway.

You have half a mind to follow and get in with him, but you know it’s all part of the game, so you content yourself with watching him through the translucent glass door, where he’s clearly still teasing you, soaping his hands and his arms and letting his hands draw down his chest.  

Lando’s in there no longer than two minutes, but it feels just as long as the two hours of the race that you’d spent on the edge of your seat as he comes out in a towel that hides absolutely nothing— definitely not his massive hard-on that’s practically holding it up—and when he pulls you in for a kiss, he presses the length of it up against you.

“Think this is right where we left off,” he murmurs, and you sink your hands into his hair in agreement. It’s gotten a little longer at the ends in the leadup to the break, and it gives you a better grip to tilt his head into an angle that’s even more satisfying.

“Big there too, hm?” Lando gives you a feral grin, leaning away even while he still rubs himself against you.

“Hmm,” you murmur, letting your fingertips skim down the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, and the faint line of hair that descends from there until you cup his cock.

It’s not a secret between you two or anyone else, for that matter, for better or for worse, but you know he can never get enough of the ego boost.

“Yeah?” he bucks up into your touch then pauses, making you clench around nothing already, desperate for more.

You moan, and he does it again, and this time you retaliate by stroking him through the thick, fluffy fabric.

“Yeah,” you finally agree, and he doesn’t waste any more time in giving you what you want.

He picks you up and carries you over to his massage table in a move so sudden it makes you squeal.  

“See, they do more than just look nice,” he says with a nod to the muscles of his arms.

“Very functional,” you say with what breath hasn’t left your lungs at his display of strength, and then it’s all gone completely in a huff as he settles himself between your legs at the edge and lays you back so you have no choice but to look up at him.

It’s a gorgeous view, really—stretches of tan skin, strong lines of his body he’s worked hard to build, the smattering of marks across it that you know by heart, that you never get tired of tracing across.

And then he drops the towel, kneels down on it, and looks up at you from between your legs, all curls tumbling over his forehead, blue-green eyes gone dark, and tongue flicking out to lick across his lips, and it gets even better.

Lando makes quick work of pushing your dress up out of the way and reaching up to slide off your underwear, and when the big pads of his fingers circle your clit, you can’t bite back the moan. You can feel yourself dripping already, and it would be almost embarrassing except for how he groans in response.  

“Thinking about me this whole time, yeah, baby?” he says with a smugness that almost makes you want to grab his curls and force his head down between your legs, and you probably would, if you weren’t so certain that he’d probably like that more than anything.

He goes on his own, though, and the first touch of his tongue is heavenly. Your hips jump, and he unravels to lay an arm across you to hold you down, and uses his other hand to hold you open, and on the next pass, his tongue dips into your core.

The heat of it leaves you shuddering, wet on wet, and you push out of mind the fact that somewhere there’s probably a debrief meeting waiting for him to start. There’s no use in rationalizing with him when he’s determined, when there’s something he wants, especially when that something is you.  

You know it’s strategic, that he chose this on purpose to put his broad shoulders and his back on display, so you let yourself enjoy it, dig your nails into his smooth skin still warm from the shower. He groans and shifts to swirl his tongue against your clit again, and at the same time he eases a finger into you, and when you immediately clench around that, he adds another.

Everything starts to become hotter, hazier, and you can feel the swirling, intangible pleasure starting to condense into something to chase, except then he pulls off just when you’re right on the edge, and you whine.

“Lando—”

“I got you,” he says, straightening up and wrapping your legs around him. He drags the length of his cock through your folds, making you even hotter, slicker, and before he shifts forward, he presses the tip hard against your clit, and you fight the urge to dig your heels into the indents of his lower back.

He’s true to his word though after that last little bit of teasing, pushing in and letting you flutter around him while you adjust. You can see him coiled with restraint while he’s careful to avoid forcing himself in too much too soon, pulling almost all the way out and sliding back in a little further each time, and both of you groan when he finally fucks all the way into you, hitting deep in your core, right where you’ve been craving him for hours.

It’s not that easy to kiss or touch him from this angle, but when you lean back on your elbows to look up at him, this view is a top-notch one too—his chest already covered in a light sheet of sweat again, the expanse of his hands spread across your thighs, the muscles in his stomach jumping when you squeeze around him.

He never lasts long when it’s like this—after a win, still high on the adrenaline, pleased with himself—but what he lacks for in endurance he makes up for in enthusiasm. The massage table you’ll never look at the same way again creaks beneath you when he picks up the pace, but you suppose he’d know its limits better than anyone, and besides, it feels too good to stop now, so you throw your head back and close your eyes, just letting yourself give into the rhythm, feel every inch of him.

Lando brings his hand down to fit between you, and with the increased pressure on your clit, the drag of his thick cock inside, and the way your back arches when he thrusts into you a bit harder, it’s all more than enough to set you over the edge, and you come so hard around him, against him, that it punches a gasp out of you, which draws out into a moan while he keeps fucking you through it.

It doesn’t take long for him to catch up, spilling into you, and you like the way he looks like this too—the entirety of his body gone slack, sated the way nothing else can make him—but you like most how it’s all for you.

He collapses forward onto you, and you giggle when your ear smushes right up against him so you can hear the beat of his heart.   

“Next time it’s your turn to tell me,” you say when he’s recovered enough to lift his head and kiss you, slow and leisurely this time.  

You trace his gaze as it runs over the same places it always lingers—from your eyes to the swell of your breasts, the flare of your hips, down to where you’re still stretched around him and he still hasn’t started to soften yet.  

He grins. “Good thing I have all summer break for that, then.”

[f1tf]

most beautiful elf ever (x)

[monacobby]

exactly where he wants to be (x)

[monacobby]

tongue thing (x)

[flurofujo]

LANDO’S JUMPING he was having a timmeeee

[monacobby]

that’s dj fuckboy to you (x)

[saycheeeese]

got nothing appropriate to say

[landonorissian]

@landickpics saw these pants and thought they should be in the archive hahah