⥠gracie / 18, she/her
⥠short fics, smuas, text aus, answered asks / masterlist
⥠most recent work / holy water
-> tags: gracieanswers (asks), gracieyaps (thoughts), gracie'spreviews (new works)
Every time i find out something new about brocedes i have to put my phone down because what exactly do you mean lewis wrote Nico an apology letter that toto had to read to him? What do you mean nico never told lewis he was retiring but lewis knew it was going to happen? what do you mean the only food nico could stomach on race weekends was the exact brand of cereal lewis told everyone they would eat together as kids? What do you mean nicoâs friends said his fights with lewis destroyed him? What do you mean when asked if theyâre friends nico said âwe are friends. Weâll always be friends.â And lewis said âwere not friends.â What do you mean nico said they have a âvery neutral relationship.â What do you mean lewis sends nicoâs kids gifts on Christmas? And nico joked that lewis is welcome to leave the gifts but he has to stay outside the door when he gives them??? What do you mean the commentators said and i quote âfriends, teammates, rivals, childhood buddies- anything but a lover.â What do you mean nico said that in his heart lewis is still his best friend? IM SICK OF THEM IM SICK IM SICK
happy first birthday to this blog friends!! thank you so much for making this my special little corner of tumblrâyou guys mean more to me than you will ever know!! dont wanna be sappy but i grew up wanting to write for a living and this blog has been the catalyst for me to begin some of my own original writing projects on the side! love ya forever and ever and ever xxx đ
or: charles leclerc is loved. by all. well, almost. you refuse to fall for it. despite the fact that he seems surprisingly, extremely, stupidly intent on winning your heart. fem!media!journalist! x charles leclerc
warnings: smut towards the end, soft!dominant!charles, reader being a little bit of a masochist, car sex obviously, this is my first time writing for cl16 so pls be gentle w me!! love you all a million times over!!
âĄ
roses.
hundreds of them. blood-red, dethorned, bunched into a bouquet the size of something ridiculous. obscene. (you let yourself think, for a singular moment, that the universe is playing some cruel trick on you. that it is just an illusion, water floating in desert air. but the universe loves to favor charles leclerc. everyone loves to favor charles leclerc.)
and why shouldn't they? he was, after all, monaco's golden boy. the quintessential picture of renaissance-beauty, a painting in a gilded frame. charles leclerc was easy to favor. easy to love. easy to... excuse.
at least he had the decency to deliver it straight to your office.
you drag the bouquet across the floor, petaled carnage grotesque against the grey linoleum, hurrying to wedge the whole spectacle into an unused corner. (even half-hidden from view, itâs impossible to ignore them. they fill the room. they fill your lungs. sweet, so sweet, so sweet of him, oh, god, he's got you caught.)
you sit. you stare. you curse. you work (abysmally). but your fingers still, useless on the keyboard when you spot the sharp white-gold corner of an accompanying card tucked neatly into the vase. it was erotic, the way it was making you slightly dizzy, hazy at the edges. the way you were tempted to make a million bad decisions, and all he'd done was send you flowers. flowers, for fuck's sake.
you brace yourself as you reach forward, plucking the cardstock out of the arrangement. the envelope is thick, expensiveâmidas' touch, golden and sure. you tear it open with your thumb, splitting the edge clean.
thinking of you, baby. always thinking of you. xxx. c.l.
there it was, right there, below the swooping script of your name. the fall. the blow. the sickening charm, an arrow to bone. charles leclerc, thinking of you. you wonder what he looked like, putting pen to paper. doe-lipped and soft, thinner than he is on the off-months of the season, hair long at the nape of his neck. effortless grace embodied in steady hands and steady eyes.
you exhale a short, ugly sound, catching sight of your reflection in the mirrored panel of your office door. (there is a heaviness to your gaze, a secret, special crevice of your heart coming aliveâ)
your hands won't stop shaking.
you had no choice but to return them. it was the moral thing to do, marching them straight back to their sender, where they belonged. that, of course, was your rationale buckling two pounds of roses into the passenger seat of your car and white-knuckling the fifteen minute drive to the paddock in seven-and-a-half.
it was weak, yes. but so were you.
it was a mistake, coming here. you realize this almost immediately. the bouquet is heavier now than it had been in the car, petals brushing against your chin, stems digging into the crook of your elbow. scanning your badge with your teeth had been embarrassment enoughâcarrying hundreds of red roses through the hospitality unit of scuderia ferrari was a corner of hell you were glad to be unacquainted with.
well, you had been. up until this point.
"you're here."
you flinch, nearly dropping the entire bouquet. a singular petal flutters out of the bunch, and you miserably follow the movement of it all the way to the floor, to the pair of shoes stepping into your line of sight, polished brown leather. familiar.
your throat closes up, sternum lifting with a shallow breath. (don't look up. don't. don't.)
a hand enters your field of vision, long fingers reaching for the fallen petal, cradling it between the thumb and forefinger as it disappears again. you swear you see it in your mind's eye, the expression on his face. the furrow of his brow, the soft downturn of his lips. you watch as he brushes a touch slowlyâso slowlyâacross the soft red surface, and a parallel shot of electricity goes down your spine, as though he was touching you. ridiculous. it was just a hand. just his hands. (oh, god, you wanted them on you.)
you look up, and there he is.
calm. comfortable. leaning lazily against the doorframe like he hadnât just orchestrated the most humiliating moment of your professional career. (there is a strip of light falling across one side of his face, catching the mahogany of the hair brushing his forehead, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his adam's apple bobs with a swallow under the open collar of his shirt.)
he is trying desperately not to smile.
"beautiful, no?" charles' gaze flicks to the bouquet in your arms. "ecuadorian. the altitude makes the color deeper." you could convince yourself you were talking about wine, or the weather, or anything other than the catastrophic embarrassment that was your life, if he wasn't beginning to close the distance between you, a hand outstretched as if to brush the stem closest to your cheekâ
no. no, no, no, no. "take them back." your voice is higher than you'd intended. "i don't want them."
his gaze fuses into something darker. "they are for you."
you scoff. "but iâ"
"they are," charles interjects, so slow you can count seconds between each word, "for you." he moves an inch closerânot enough to touch you, not quite, not yetâbut enough that the air between you goes suddenly thin. "a gift."
you make the mistake of inhaling a mouthful of his cologne. (lemon. bergamot. vetiver haunting the column of your throat.) "i thought i made it abundantly clear i don't want your gifts." the roses rustle faintly as you shift your grip. "i rejected the opera tickets."
"a shame."
"and the watch."
"i should have known you do not wear one."
"and the bottle of wine that cost more than my car."
charles' mouth twitches. "that, i do not know why you returned."
if you didn't know better, you could have sworn he enjoyed this, the idea of you standing in front of him, throwing stones, anger flared sharp enough to slice steel. you could have sworn he enjoyed it, the taste of your displeasure, the rampant heating of your cheeks, the way your breath goes slightly shallow with each exhale of air he drinks as his own. (but you know better, don't you?)
the man himself says nothing. you, however, do not.
"stop," you continue, "with the sending things to my office. the opera tickets. the watches. the wine. all of it. please. please. you have no shortage of female attention. you could walk out onto the street right now with these and i'm sure someoneâsomeoneâwill take them."
he is silent. still as a deer caught. which somehow makes it worse.
"i don't want it." your voice has gone desperate, buzzing. "so please." your arms ache as you extend them, thrusting the roses into his chest. "take them from me." there is but a bated breath of space between you, and for a single, beautiful second you think he's going to kiss you, teach you what exactly what it means to say no to him. (you would let him.)
but he doesn't. he reaches down and takes the bouquet from your arms, pointedly avoiding the exposed skin of your wrists, leaving your hands strangely empty in the wake of its absence. your skin singes under the weight of his almost-touch, burning brilliant and violent. for a moment neither of you speaks, much less dares to move. his voice is composed when he breaks the silence. "thank you. for bringing them back."
(oh, god. let me go. don't let me go. make this easy. don't make this easy, say something that makes me want to stay.) "you're... welcome."
yes, he lets you go. yes, he makes it easy. yes, you should be glad.
but you are decisively... not.
âĄ
distance, unfortunately, makes your heart grow fonder.
the paddock is humming with qualifying tension when you arrive, engine vibration ricocheting faintly beneath your feet. mechanics pass in tight clusters, smelling sharply of rubber and gasoline, arms streaked with the grease and carbon dust that accompanies a race weekend. somewhere a tire gun shrieks like an angry insect. you tell yourself you are fine. normal. safe. work is safe.
it becomes decidedly less safe very quickly.
because charles leclerc has just put his ferrari on the front row.
the swarm descends on him first.
someone calls his name from three different directions at once. another reporter elbows past you with an apologetic wince that is not particularly apologetic at all. there is a humming in the air, a ringing in your ears you're not entirely sure everyone else can hear. charles removes his helmet, unzips his race suit to his throat, and you'll never get used to it, the way the sweat beads on his eyelashes, runs down the column of his jaw. you want to lick it off of him. you want to kick yourself.
his gaze sweeps the crowd. (he was your job.) once. (he was nothing more to you.) twice. (you felt nothing.) then stops. on you.
your coworker swears softly under his breath, shifting the lens setting of his camera. then with no warning proceeds to shove you straight into the narrow opening the ferrari press officer has just carved out of the crowd.
you're close, now.
close enough to see the faint smudge of tire dust along the collar of charles' race suit, close enough to hear the sharpness of his breathing. close enough for every hair on your body to stand, for your entire spine to go bowstring-tight. there is a microphone thrust into your hand, the blinking of a camera sparking red in your peripheral vision.
you have suddenly forgotten how to speak.
and of course, of-fucking-course, charles leclerc has the audacity to smile at you. "hello."
your senses come back in waves. "iâyes. hello. youâ" you stop. reset. "charles. incredible qualifying lap today. the car looked very strong through sector two."
he tilts his head, and a rivulet of sweat slides down a strand of wet hair and lands on his shoulder. (look at it. don't look at it. look at him. don't look at him. do nothing. do everything.) "charles?" his voice is rough on his own name. "mr. leclerc, no?"
heat climbs violently up your neck. you are acutely aware that there are at least six other journalists standing within armâs reach of you. "would you... prefer i call you that?"
his expression goes slack. "no," he says, a moment of silence drifting between you. "call me by my name."
you swallow. professional. you are a professional. "right," you say faintly. "charles." it feels strange in your mouth. dangerous. "the lap looked incredibly strong through the middle sector," you continue, forcing your voice to steady. "was that where you felt the most comfortable with the balance of the car?"
"yes," he responds immediately. measured. calm. "i was confident with it." his gaze flicks briefly down to the microphone in your hand. "the car was⊠very responsive. easy to handle."
the words leave your mouth before you can bite them back: "but that depends on the handler, doesn't it?"
you have the terrible, sinking feeling you may have just said something deeply inappropriate on live paddock footage. but then charles laughs, the sound laying deep in his throat, a rushing exhale of breath, genuine and slightly shocked. it slides up your spine, makes home in the space between your shoulder blades. safe. comfortable. "i suppose so."
all you can do is stare at him, because charles leclerc is laughing, at you, with you, and you're utterly mystified by the shape of his mouth. you're tempted to drop the microphone, lift both hands to his face and trace the crescent moons of his smile lines.
(you should have kept the flowers.)
you're hunched over your coworker's desk hours later, fast-forwarding through hours of quali-footage as you watch (fine, rewatch) him answer your question with the saccharine grace he seems to carry in excessâcollected and warm, drenched in sweat and water, staring double-edged daggers into the distance.
no. not into the distance.
you realize all at once, sickeningly, forcefully, that charles did not look at the camera a single time.
he had been looking at you.
âĄ
your car won't start.
you stare at the dashboard as the hollow click of your keys turning on nothing echoes across the empty parking lot.
"oh, for fuck's sake." you slam your palm against the steering wheel. once. twice. (it doesn't make you feel any better.) the fluorescent lights painting the media center in an eerie shade of yellow buzz faintly overhead, and you force yourself to focus on the sound, on the rapid rise and fall of your shoulders.
"great," you mutter to absolutely no one. "perfect. fantastic."
you glance across the parking lot, already slipping your phone out of your purse to call a tow truck, when your eyes catch on the car parked three spaces down, shining molten in the dim light.
sleek. low. unmistakable ferrari red. (oh, no.)
"car trouble?"
your stomach drops. because you know that voice. you know it awake, in your sleep, in every dream you've had since qualifying. since he began this ridiculous affair. you steady your hands and duck out of your car, the leather of your heels catching on the asphalt. you stare at your knees, at the ragged hem of your skirt and the chipped polish on your toenails until he clears his throat, demands your attention with the sound.
(because he knows exactly how to get what he needs from you. because you always give it to him.)
his hair is damp. air-dried, as if he had just been in the shower, rinsing soap off the broad expanse of his shoulders, trailing a hand downward to palm the junction between hisâno. no. he adjusts the racing jacket slung loosely over his shoulder, sleeves of a light-colored button-up rolled to his elbows, entirely too calm for a man who has single-handedly ruined your entire week. beautiful. so beautiful you can hardly stand it, so beautiful it's making a home between your legs and in your heart, and oh, do you hate him for it.
your temper surges, all at once. "yes," you snap. "car trouble." you gesture wildly toward the hood. "not the only source of fucking trouble in my life lately, either."
his gaze softens.
just slightly.
you barrel forward anyway. "what do you have now?" (you realize, in the midst of your displeasure, that it would be wise to shut up before you got ahead of yourself.) "more flowers? wine? a plane ticket somewhere exotic? keys to a four-wheel drive that actually works? because honestly," you huff, not quite a laugh, "i wouldn't say no to that."
blissfully, charles is silent. rendered that way, you're sure. but then he loops his jacket around his frame, shuffling the fabric to hang on his forearm. "i left this here earlier," he says mildly. softly, as if trying not to startle you. "i came back to get it."
oh. oh, fuck.
your anger collapses so fast it nearly gives you whiplash. charles glances past you, staring at the side of your car with a burning intensity you assume he is sparing you. (you thank him. wordlessly, of course. you'd never give him the pleasure.) "it won't start?"
you shake your head, mortified. "i... don't know what's wrong. it was fine this morning."
charles shrugs. "it needs to be jump-started."
you stare at him. "you can't know that just by looking at it."
"and yet i do."
your pride flares, brief and useless. "are you offering?"
he shakes his head, lips twitching. "don't know how." (a lie, you think. but youâre too tired to fight it. maybe you want to lose. your vision spots white the longer you stare at him, a parallel effect to the roses, and the tickets, and the watch. and the scent of his skin, so close and yet so far. there is but an inch of space between you, an inch of your high-horsed restraint keeping you from doing something very, very stupid.)
"fine," you mutter, defeated. "iâll call a cab."
"i will drive you."
"what?" your voice comes out sharp. "no. i'll manage."
"please."
your knuckles whiten around the fabric of your skirt. you could say no. you could say you'll be fine on your own, that it's late, that you're sure he has somewhere to be, another woman to bed. but all you can find yourself thinking about are his hands, cradling the sticky wetness between your legs, his mouth, circling the planes of your stomach, the dip of your lower back. (how wonderful it would be, to have him shut you up. to have him know exactly what makes you tick. not that he wasn't already well aware.)
you shuffle forward, breath shallow, heart hammering against the cage of your ribs. "if you're sure."
charles hums as he reaches out and pulls the passenger seat door open, the soft click of the automatic lock keening in the silent haze of the night air. you hesitate a beat before sliding inside, the leather cool beneath your skin, and the entire world narrows to this exact moment, to the smell of his cologne so strong you nearly choke on it. (lemon, bergamot, sandalwood, clean and masculine, oh, he needed to do something about it before you lost your mindâ)
"is it cold?"
you startle, eyes snapping to his. heâs already reaching for the ignition, fingers brushing the keyless start with practiced ease, the soft thrum of the engine beneath your seat filling the silence. he glances over when you say nothing, brow raised. "in the car. is it cold?"
you blink, caught by the steady green of his gaze. your mouth opens, then closes. "it's hot."
wordlessly, he reaches forward, fingers brushing the dashboard as he turns the air conditioning dial towards himself. (provider, says the devil on your shoulder. let him take care of you. let him turn you dizzy and pliable, let him do whatever he wants to you, you know you want it, you know you do.) you shiver despite yourself, goosebumps rising across your skin.
"too much?" nothing is too much, you want to say, but you force yourself to swallow the knot in your throat, shaking your head. "it's fine."
he guides the car out of the parking lot, one-handed on the steering wheel, and you follow the movement of his other hand as it draws tight circles across his thigh. the city passes the windows in streaks of sodium light and shadow, buildings dissolving into quiet stretches of highway.
you do well, to start. you don't look at him. you tear your eyes from the curve of his wrist and fix it to the windshield, determination lining the taut furrow of your brow. but then he shifts his grip on the wheel as the road curves, the clean line of his forearm flexing faintly beside the center console, and your breath goes short.
"you are very quiet," he says at last, and you are almost glad for the distraction.
"i'm tired." you toy with a loose string at the crimped edge of your blouse, fighting to keep your voice from dipping into something softer. lower. "long day."
his answering hum curls low in his throat. "did something happen?"
why do you care? you want to ask. why do i matter to you? "my car broke down," is what you say instead, strained. "so, yes. something happened."
charles glances over, just briefly. the streetlights slide across his face in thin bands of gold, and the car drifts slightly before he corrects it, attention snapping back to the road. "you should have called."
you scoff. "for what? a ted talk on how to call a tow truck?"
"what would you have done had i not been there?" you realize faintly you've never truly seen charles angry. agitated, yes. frustrated, more so. but not angry. a tendon in his throat goes taut as he adjusts his grip on the wheel.
(you like this color on him. anger. jealousy simmering under a softly condescending tone. need me, it says. need me more than you need anyone else, i'll be so good to you, i promise.) a fleeting pulse in your navel sparks slow and steady and painful, rocketing through you. your skirt rides up just a fraction as you shift, the leather of the seat suddenly very warm against the back of your thighs. "i... would have called a friend."
"what friend."
"a friend."
"what. friend."
"charles," you snap, staring stubbornly at the empty road in front of you. the bright blue of your exit sign flares in the distance. the car lurches slightly as he presses down on the gas in response, and your spine coalesces with the seat. "are youâwhy the fuck do you care?"
"because," he grits out, a muscle jumping in his jaw, "you are you."
you feel something frantic and raw scale the length of your spine. "what is that supposed to mean?"
(his knuckles have gone bone-white on the steering wheel.) "you refuse my gifts. you barely let me look at you. when we are in the same room youâ" he exhales a sharp breath. "you would rather look at the ceiling. what it is about me, hmm? what makes you so angry, baby?"
(baby, he said. his baby.) you want to say something. anything. but the knot in your throat expands. grows heavy. you can barely speak around it. "iâ" your voice falters, because you are lying, and he knows it, and there is nothing you can do but brace yourself as the words leave your mouth. "i-i'm not angry."
"no?" charles swipes his tongue across his upper row of teeth, the sound ricocheting through the air, and your breathing goes instantly shallow. "that is what you are going with?"
you stare straight ahead, mold your back into the leather warming your skin. "yes."
"you are a terrible liar."
your fingers curl into your skirt. "you are soâ"
"what?" his voice doesnât rise. if anything, it drops half an octave, low and steady, almost soft. disappointed. wrong answer, bad girl, you're going to regret that. "i am so... what?"
you turn your head just in time to catch the speedometer ticking up, up, up, up in your periphery. "persistent. irritating. completely incapable of taking a fucking hintâ"
"try again."
"âand completely unaware that i might not want your attentionâ"
"might."
"âbecause a woman that doesn't want to take your pants offâ"
"you don't? really?"
"âis so fucking foreign to youâ"
"tell me you feel nothing."
you blink. "what?"
"tell me," he repeats, voice low, controlled in a way that makes your spine click into place. "that you feel nothing. and i will stop."
you donât look at him. you canât. the air between you stretches thin, taut, and you twist the fabric of your skirt into your palms, painfully aware of your own body, of your exit sign coming closer and closer and closer and closerâ"i feel nothing."
"tell me you've never thought about it," he says, a muscle ticking just beneath the skin of his neck. "saying yes. because i have. i think about it all the time."
you're opening your mouth to answer when the car surges forward, and oh, fuck, he was going a hundred miles per hour with one hand on the wheel and the other tight-fisting his pant leg. your stomach drops into your ankles. "charlesâ" your hand flies out, fingers wrapping around the center console, an inch from his wrist. "slow downâ"
"tell me you don't want me to touch you." i do, i do, i do.
"i doâ"
charles swerves. hard.
the wheel jerks sharply beneath his hands, car lurching across the empty lane beside him before he cuts it hard onto the shoulder. gravel spits beneath the tires as it shudders to a stop. your heart jumps violently into your throat. "charlesâ"
the engine is still running when he leans across the center console, one hand coming down to the latch of your seatbelt, the other undoing his own. the metal snaps loose with a sharp click. "charles," you say again, voice pitched worry-high, reaching for his forearm. there's no indication he can even hear your voice save for the way his jaw tightens. "what are youâ"
you don't finish your sentence, because all of a sudden he's kissing you, and you try to push him away, a startled jolt ripping through youâbut your hands donât hit his chest. no, they clutch the seam of his shirt, yanking the fabric towards you. closer, closer, closer, come closer. you hate it, the glistening line of saliva that stretches between your lips, the way his upper row of teeth knocks against yours, the jagged breath he exhales directly into your mouth.
(yes. you hate it very much.)
his entire body goes catatonic when you trail a palm past the buttons of his shirt to press a whisper-light touch to the junction of his jeans, feeling for the cold metal of his belt buckle. take it off, take it off, take it off, oh god, you want him in your mouth and you want it right now.
"l-let me go down on you," you gasp out when his mouth moves downward to the column of your neck, hands slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt. "please, let meâ"
charles hauls you off the seat, muscles coiling like a spring as he throws you back into the cramped backseat with a force that knocks the breath out of you. he swallows your answering yelp, confining you between the leather of the seat beneath and the heat of his palms sliding underneath your hair, gathering it at the nape of your neck with a sharp tug.
"i wanted to t-take you to dinner," he pants, finding find the waistband of your skirt and hiking it as high as it will go, your bare thighs flush against the cold leather of the backseat. slickness pools in the soft cotton under your skirt, a dark, wet patch growing in the grey center. "but all you want to do is fucking fight with me."
"youâdinnerâ?" your voice catches on the last word as he pulls your panties down in one swift motion, fabric stretched around the expanse of your thighs. a car flies by outside the window, and you follow the band of its headlights as they wash across charles' face, the way he's slipping his middle finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the pad. (put it on me, please, please, please.)
"yes," he breathes, the very sound of voice coiling your spine molten. "dinner." he's moving so suddenly, with such urgency, that you can barely distinguish yourself from him, where his touch ends and yours begins, what you're even reaching for. you only realize you've been dragging your nails down the side of his neck when he exhales a harsh sound, turning his head to the side for the red markings to catch the light.
"charlesâ" is all you can say before he's kissing you hand clutching at your jaw, forcing your mouth to open for him, make room for him, licking up at the roof of your mouth and the inside of your cheek. it's dirty, and undignified, and you keen at the roof of the car when you feel his finger, spit-slicked and soft, prodding at the sticky entrance of your cunt.
that's it. that's all the warning you get before a second finger is joining the first and he's going further, further, pressing against the natural resistance of your body.
"oh fuckâ" you get out just as charles drops his forehead to your shoulder, gritting out the sound of your name. you breath like thunder as he pushes that single inch further, testing your limits, then hooks his fingers up, like a key fitting into a lock, like he was always meant to be here, right here. you barely get your eyes open in time to catch the way his flutter shut, as though it was too much to look at the cherry-colored flush beginning to spread across your skin, to look at the way your lips tip open to the beat of his startled exhale.
"i-i'm sorry, fuck, i'm so sorry, babyâ" your field of vision goes blurry at the edges when he chokes on his words, as if your pleasure was just as much his own. "do youâdoes itâ?"
(it was objectively sweet, his insistence on being careful, on being soft and kind and gentle. you would have liked it, had it not been for the dull, white-hot sensation climbing up your spine, just out of reach, clamping down on your muscles, and god, you wish he'd just pin you down and take what he wants from youâ)
"justâ" your voice is rough to your own ears, slicing through the air. "just take it."
you're glad he doesn't ask for clarification, because you're not quite sure you'd have the words to give it to him. you find you don't need to speak at all as he clamps his hand over your entire jaw, tilting your head against the headrest, angling your spine upwards to reach down and take one of your nipples into his mouth.
you're surprised you have the energy to smack your hand against the window as hard as you do, because he's swirling his tongue so close to your heart you swear he can hear it kick up. you jolt like you've been electrocuted when his tongue moves to your side, to the sweat beaded underneath the curves of your chest.
you're saying something unintelligible under his palm: his name, perhaps, how much you want him, how much you've always wanted him. and you suspect he knows, judging by the way his fingers in your cunt contract and relax against that perfect spot, the one that makes your eyes roll back in your head.
(you don't realize the way your hand slams down hard against the button on the side door, window rolling open in response, until highway noise floods the inside of the car, meshing with the high exhale of your moan. pleasure burns hot and shapeless in the curve of your spine, and fuck, you're going to come, and it's going to be over, and he's going to take you home, just like he promisedâ)
"it won't be over," charles breathes out, and it is only then that you understand you'd said it out loud. he's dragging you higher, faster, stronger to the edge of the cliff, and you only have time to whisper his name into the space between you before you're clamping down on his fingers, vision going white at the corners, low light dancing across the spasming surface of your skin.
he doesn't give you more than a second to breathe before he's hauling your body upwards, his weight replacing yours on the seat, breath hot on the back of your neck as he pulls you over himâstraddling him backwards, the arch of your spine pressed to the heat of his chest.
"charles," you pant, voice sharp with urgency, "the window, close the windowâ"
you feel, rather than see, him shake his head as he presses his forehead to your spine and adjusts your hips right at the bulge of his jeans. "it is nice. cold."
"i don't like the cold," you say, belligerent, and his laugh accompanies the sound of his belt buckle hitting the mats beneath your feet.
"then it is a good thing i did not ask you what you like," he responds, and then he's lifting his hips and you with it, pulling his pants down to his ankles, and you only realize he's taken his boxers with it when you look down and realize you're staring at them.
"waitâ" you're starting to turn your head when charles' palm meets the side of your face, molding to the curve of your jaw and directing your gaze forward. "charles, waitâi wantâ" to see you, he doesn't let you say. to have you look at me like you always do, to have you watch me come on yourâ
"shh," he says, lifting your hands from where they've made home in the muscle of his thighs, forcing your fingers to wrap around the headrests of the seats in front of you. "i want it this way."
i want it this way. you have half a mind to scoff, tell him you don't care what he wants and how he wants it, tell him that you're just as much as an active participant as he is, but then he rolls his hips into yours once, just once, the tip of his cock sliding against the red-hot slickness of your cunt, and you find yourself unable to think entirely.
(he was right to brace your hands.)
"noâ" your spine folds over his knees, chest brushing his thigh. "no, charles, it won't fit like this, i swearâ"
"i'll go slow," is the only thing he says in response before he's wrapping an arm around your front, positioning your body where he wants it and slipping an inch closer. he fits himself along your spine, makes room for himself inside of you, and you choke on your own saliva.
"ohâ!" the stretch licks fire at your stomach, across your navel, rendering you near-mute. your hands curl into fists, halfway to denting the leather against them. (it comes again, that nagging urge at the back of your mind that's telling him to take it from you, force you the rest of the way down, make it hurt, bite down on your spine and draw blood.) "wait, charlesâ"
"too fast?" comes his answering breath, tongue running a line along the curve of your spine. he stops moving altogether when you don't respond, curling his torso forward to peer at the side of your face. (concerned, you realize. he's concerned about you.)
"no, justâ" you struggle with the phrasing for a second before the words leave your mouth in an embarrassed puff of air. "can youâcan you make it hurt?"
for a moment the only sound left in the car is your breathingâragged, unevenâand the distant rush of the highway bleeding in through the open window. (oh, you've done it now, haven't you?)
charles' hand tightens where it braces your hip. "hurt," he repeats, slow. testing the word on his tongue, testing your limits, testing how far he can take you before you snap.
your throat works around nothing. "yes."
his forehead presses to the space between your shoulders, breath hot and wet against your spine, and for a secondâjust a secondâyou think heâs going to pull away. tell you no, tell you to slow down, tell you he wonât, that he never will, that you pushed it too far. but he doesn't. he shifts so slowly every point of contact feels like fire on skin as his head dips lower, mouth brushing the curve of your shoulder.
you feel it immediately, the difference. his breath evens out against your skin, slower now, deeper, like heâs forcing it into control, like heâs pulling himself back just long enough to decide what to do with you.
"i was tryingâ" he punctuates his words with a slow roll of his hips, and you lean forward, trying to take him all the way, trying to get him to do something other than sit back and watch you struggle for it. "âto be good to you. nice."
"i don't want nice." (your desperation is making you easy.) "will you justâ"
"taking you to dinner. giving you beautiful things." you feel his hand slide up your back and bury itself into your hair, gathering it into his palm. anticipation slices through you fast enough to make you dizzy. "you did not want any of that, did you?"
"iâ" you consider lying to him. "i don't know, charles, please, moveâ"
"you just wanted me to fuck you. yes?"
you could have convinced yourself the evenness of his tone meant he was unaffected, that the way you were dripping straight onto his bare skin meant nothing to him. but then he flicks your side, open-palmed, and you're barely conscious enough to catch the slight shiver of his hands.
"yes?" he asks again. (he wants you to admit it. admit that you wanted him to fuck you, that this entire time all you wanted were his hands on youâ)
"yes," you breathe out, and that's all it takes. that's all it takes for him to tighten his grip in your hair and pull you toward him, arching your spine violently against his chest to slide his cock all the way inside with nothing but you to ease his way.
for a moment you're silent.
and then you're... not.
you don't even realize you're filling the car with noise until one of charles' hands comes up to your throat to search for where it vibrates beneath the thin skin there. he lodges his thumb up against it, trapping the sound at the source, and your shocked (silent) exhale is more of a sob than not, because oh, god, he's finally moving up into you, and all you can do it take it, take it, take it. it would give you a power trip, being on top, if he wasn't forcing you to yield to his will, if he wasn't molding you to his pleasure.
"fuckingâdirty." his voice is quiet in your ear, a low, even baritone that tightens your stomach. "dirty girl. fights with me just toâ" your high-pitched mewl interrupts him, and his cock twitches in responds. (he's so thick you can barely clench around it, barely make room for anything other than him.) "âbeg for it."
you dig your nails fervently into his forearm, and the hand at your throat loosens immediately. "i'm notâ" you choke out, but then charles thrusts upward, cutting you off, the apex of your pleasure so deep it hurts, hurts just like you wanted it to, debilitating and all-consuming. "oh my god." (you were proving him right.)
"i should have known." thrust. "should have fucked you when you came toâ" thrust. "âreturn the roses." you register faintly that he's still speaking to you, and you strain to hear it over the sound of your breath breaking, over the sound of his hips snapping against yours. his hand skims downward, thumb rounding tight circles around your clit until you're clawing at the muscle of his forearm. (oh, that's going to leave a mark, and you're proud of it, because you want him to remember it, you want him to remember you.)
"charlesâ" you don't turn your head, you can't, you won't, because if you look at him now you're going to come and there is a stupid, selfish corner in your mind that wants this to last forever. "i should haveâi wanted to keep them."
his hips stutter in time to your head dropping forward, hands clawing at nothing until they find the wrists of both his hands and yank them upward to cup your chest. he hisses behind you, pinching the hardened peaks of your nipples between his thumb and index finger. your entire body tightens, going hot and cold all at once, and it is cruel, the way he refuses to slow down, even as all of your muscles flex in his grip, even as you hook your ankles behind his calves and whine pitifully into the air.
you barely have the thought to drag his palm to your mouth before you're screaming into it, teeth closing around the fleshy center.
he chokes.
you feel it, the tightening, the coiling of his body like a spring about to snap. he's so close it hurts, so close he's drawing it out the same way you were at the sight of the end. "charles," you pant, breath hitching on the edge of something raw. your head tilts back, eyes flickering to his. "c-can i put my mouthâ?"
you donât finish, but he knows. he fucking knows.
he breaths a low curse before yanking you off him with a rough jerk that sends you stumbling sideways onto the seat beside him. the leather creaks beneath you, and you stare at the curves of his skin contract sharply under his shirt, the sweat beaded at the open collar. (he truly is beautiful. hauntingly. devastatingly.)
charles wraps a hand tight around himself, fucking up into it just once, and your body goes boneless at the idea that he is imitating you, how it feels to be inside of you. "come here," he murmurs, gasping your name into the space between you, and it is all the invitation you need. you lean down, lips wrapping around the head of his cock, and your eyes nearly roll back at the faint taste of yourself on him, the way he stretches the column of your throat, the way he does nothing to keep you from taking it deeper, harder, as far as you can possibly go.
"rightâthere," he rasps, voice breaking, "right there, right there, there you go, babyâ"
when he does come, salty taste of him filling your mouth, you drink him down.
like holy water.
âĄ
note: OMG. guys. im so sorry for whatever this is i feel like its not my best work BUT!! enjoy my 1 year anniversary present to you all!! i can't believe it's been a year since i started writing on this blogâi am so incredibly grateful to every single one of you guys you make my heart feel so sparkly!! LOVE FOREVER from gracie xxxx
not by a long shot?? holy shitttt insanely good wtf. I fear I will immediately need pt2 because girllll that was crazy goodđŠđŠ
HI NONNIE OMG im crying thank youu đ„č
it was my first time writing landoscar and it was so difficult to figure out how i wanted the dynamic to be but im SO GLAD it worked out!! (p.s. expect some more of them in the future hehe...)
22!!!! u always do it so well but I will never get tired of magical realism landoscar!!!
22. magical realism
this is such a self-indulgent ficlet. tell me if this is anything bc i have Ideas for this universe lol. set in 2023/2024 prompt list
Landoâs thing is physical touch, for better or for worse.
Most people donât make their languages public. Itâs a private matter, after all, meant for you and the people close to you. But not for him. No, no, no. Apparently when you develop at the same time as your rookie year in F1, your love language becomes a talking point in post-race debriefs.
It happened once, the whole âfainting because his body was aching for physical touchâ. Heâd miscalculated his buffer time when the session dragged on after multiple yellow and red flags. He was young, sure, but he wasnât clueless. It was just his luck that the cameras caught him at a bad time.
McLaren came under fire for not taking care of its drivers. It was absolutely horrifying, especially because it wasnât true at all. Jon and a few from his garage were briefed; they know that a side-hug or a shoulder tap goes a long way. His friends have direct access to his driverâs room. His dad travels as much as he can.
Landoâs teammate isâ was âCarlos. His language is physical touch, too, so he knows. He understands. Heâs the first to pinch Landoâs sides, to clasp his shoulders, to hug and hold and press their faces close together.
Through the ups and downs of Landoâs rookie year, Carlos was there to ground him. Lando likes to think he did the same for Carlos. Heâs not good with words, never has been, and every time he tried to express his gratitude, Carlos laughed and pulled him in for a hug.
The way Lando sees it, of all the love languages, physical touch is the greediest. Thereâs no substitute for it, no make-do. There simply is or there isnât.
Dating people with mismatched languages is difficult. Thatâs Life 101. Cross-compatibility isnât assured as well. Itâs safer, itâs best for everyone involved to keep to their lanes.
But itâs not the law. Itâs just the easiest path.
For a time, McLaren had that same thinking. He and Carlos worked well. He couldâve been happy not knowing anything else.
Okay, so thatâs unrealistic. Formula One is ever-changing. To find a solid place means youâre one of the greatsâ like Michael, like Lewis, like the great Charles Leclerc experiment.
Back in 2019, Lando only saw what was in front of him. Rookie year. Endless possibilities. Carlos. The future was far ahead. He lived in the present, he had to, or else he wouldnât be half as quick.
Then 2021 came. Danielâs another PT guy, very open and positive about it. He doesnât see it as a weakness, having to be touched every few hours or so, having your welfare depend on somebody else. Max says itâs because heâs never been unloved, and Max would know. Daniel and Max are one of the few registered Partners on the grid.
Carlos and Lando have thought about it, of course they have, but at the end of the day, itâs added paperwork on something they already do. They sleep in each otherâs rooms, in each otherâs spaces, breathing and living in unison.
Lando got fucking lucky. Imagine having Carlos as your first teammate. Imagine.
Danielâs good. Daniel was good. He and Lando were both PT, which was already something they had going for them. The carâs development was all over the place, but Lando and Daniel werenât. They had the same needs, the same wants. Danielâs limbs always spilled over Landoâs seatâ a certain kind of warmth Lando would describe as burning.
Around that time, Lando grew more comfortable in his life. Grew into being himself. He appreciated being alone more and more even if it meant remaining untouched.
The travels were long, the rest so little in between. Relationships fell through. Lando didnât mind. He had Daniel.
Then he didnât.
Oscar comes from a new generation of drivers whose love languages are âconfidentialâ. It's a cool thing, apparently. A social media movement, a cultural phenomenon. Love no matter the language.
Thatâs why his language wasnât disclosed to Lando when the contracts were finalized.
âBut he knows mine,â Lando pointed out. Howâs that fair?
âWe can assure you Mr. Piastriâs language wonât interfere with the teamâs daily affairs,â the lawyers assured him.
Translation: Oscar doesnât need Lando.
But Lando needs Oscar, frustrating as that may be.
In a pinch, teammates are your best bet. Theyâre always nearby, in the same boat as you are, even when youâre not in a boat but on a plane, but not exactly, because your flightâs been cancelled and youâre stuck in another damned airport with your body clock still in another continent.
That was the first time it happened.
Lando was tired, and so was everybody else. The managers were wrangling for flight seats, Lando was wrangling for his consciousness. He knew it was more than the lack of rest, more than another pointless weekend spent as a backmarker. Lando was exhausted.
He curled up on a random bench, vaguely aware Oscar was sitting on the other end. Someone had instructed the team to stick close in case seats opened up.
Lando wasâ
Doesnât matter now. Whatâs more important is what Oscar did.
Lando dozed off at some point. He was woken up by Oscarâs hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him.
âMate, come on,â Oscar said. His head blocked the light, a halo around him.
Lando blinked up at him, quiet.
Oscar laughed. âSleepyhead, letâs go.â
He pulled Lando up. Lando counted at least four points of contact.
He and Oscar, they werenâtâ
Doesnât matter.
âAre you okay?â Oscar asked. He was a breath closer than he usually was.
Lando nodded and hoped his face didnât betray anythingâ the churning, the melting, the grounding âhe was feeling.
Oscar tilted his head, confused. Without prompting, he touched Landoâs forehead with the back of his hand. âYouâre warm. Are you sick?â
âNo,â Lando managed out. âIâm fine. Didnât sleep well.â
Oscar retreated. âIf you say so.â
âI say so.â
This is the part that matters.
Instead of leaving Lando by himselfâ reeling, thinking, wanting âOscar held out his hands and touched Landoâs face. Thumbs across his cheeks, fingers on his chin. Small and shaking. Unsure.
âIs this okay?â Oscar asked. There was that soft, slow tilt of his voice.
Lando leaned into his touch, eyes closed. âYeah, it is.â
He heard Oscarâs smile, a small puff of air.
When Lando opened his eyes, Oscar was still in front of him.
Oscar opens his mouth once, twice, before finally saying, âNext time, just ask me.â
Lando didnât know he could.
When Jon and Kim called them over, Oscar stepped back and acted no differentâ as if he hadnât shifted Landoâs whole perspective a few degrees to the left.
Oscarâs smart, then and now. Lando was learning he was kind as well.
Landoâs parents raised him right. He was grateful, and heâd act like it, too.
Oscar must need something. Donât they all?
Afterwards, in the plane, Oscar chooses the seat beside Lando for the first time. Lando couldnât sleep, but he wasnât tired. All night, he thought, Whatâs your language? How can I say thank you in a way youâll understand?
holy shit your writing/style is genuinely life altering where did you get it from I've been reeling the entire day this is insane this is some of the best writing ive read like ever
OMG NONNIE STOP thank you so much you've got ME reeling
i've had THOUSANDS of inspirations, and i use ALL the media i consume as a springboard!! that's what's so beautiful about writing as an art form for meâinspiration (what i call my 'spark') can strike at any time in any place.
my heart did a lil âš when i saw this ask actually because words cannot describe how life altering YOU ARE for me. i would not be here if not for you!! kisses always from gracie!!
or: your neighbors are a strange pair. there's lando (golden boy, smile too wide, canines hiding something wicked). and there's oscar (too good to be true, too kind to be clean). they're only home december to february, but, god, do they make the most of it. to your expense. oscar piastri x lando norris x fem!neighbor!reader
warnings: neighbor!oscar and neighbor!lando being muppets, this is DISGUSTANGGGG voyeuristic bullshit, porn with plot because duh!!
âĄ
there is a special place in hell for oscar piastri and lando norris. and it's paved with spilled beer, sticky shot glasses, and a bass-heavy playlist that makes your overhead lamp shiver with each pulsating beat. (one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, god, when were they going to shut up?)
you'd tried it all at that point. high-end, noise-cancelling earbuds. white-noise apps. begging to sleep at your best friend's, or your ex's, or an overpriced hotel room on the other side of the island (a low moment, you admit). and fifteen desperate texts to your landlord later, righteous rage was coloring your insides less rational by the minute. (god, you would break your own lease if it meant those two inconsiderate idiots would get what was coming to them.)
what kind of normal neighbors threw parties on a tuesday night? what kind of normal neighbors kept a strict scheduleâdecember to february, blackout season, working nine months just to come home and ruin your remaining three? what kind of neighbors haunted your peace (in-person) when they weren't haunting the screen of your living-room television?
the answer? none. except these two.
(fuck it).
your feet hit the tile cold and sharp as you count the steps out of bed, across the hallway, up the echoing stairwell, breathless with exhaustion and a splinter of glee you havenât felt in weeks. (maybe you want a fight. maybe you want to be the problem, for once. it's only human.)
"some of us pay rent here," you rehearse, not-so under your breath. "some of us have actual jobs. some of us care whether or not our neighbors can sleep through the night.â
you take the stairs two at a time, a bead of sweat trickling down length of your spine. up close, the beat syncopates with your pulse, every floorboard humming under your bare feet, slinking up your calves. (only then, somewhere on the landing, do you realize you're not at all dressed for the confrontation you're about to instigate. of course.)
it's too late to turn back now. you raise your fist as you approach the door, swallowing the taste of marijuana smoke curling under the jamb, the clatter of a southern-english accent, sweat, and sugar, and suffocating heat. you pause. you could walk away, try again tomorrow, let your anger go gracelessly. (but all of a sudden the music gets impossibly louder, crashing through a fresh round of voracious laughter, and your patienceânever your strong suitâsnaps right in half.)
you knock. no, you pound. hard enough that it goes silent for half a second before resuming (if not doubling) in volume.
it takes fourteen seconds for someone to come to the door. you're raising your hand to knock again when it swings open, and there goes your dignity, because lando norris is standing in front of you, and he's smiling, and very, very drunk, and, oh, no.
he's shirtless, flushed a deep cherry-red, black training shorts riding halfway up his thighs. he pulls at them with his free hand as he throws a 'be back 'n a second' over his shoulder, pupils blown wide under blinding hallway light. you catch low-lit glimpses of drinks stacked on an entryway table before lando steps out, letting the door shut with a low clunk behind him. "hi, neighbor," he slurs, voice curling gentle and soft. "y'lost or somethin'?"
you open your mouth to say something, anything, but all you can do is inhale the scent of his sweat, the reek of gin splashing faintly under expensive cologne, and it should disgust you (it almost does), but your anger is tangled now, caught in something deep, and dark, and wrong. (you came here to yell at him, remember?)
"i've lived here longer than you," you bite out, and you swear lando's eyes drop to your mouth and stay there. "so no. i'm not lost."
"m'kay," lando chuckles, a low, warm thing that starts in his chest and spills down the hallway. "d'you wanna come in? 's that it?"
"no," you say, indignant, and his smile shifts, looser, an uptick in the curve of his mouth.
"wha's up, then?" he asks, hooking his thumb into the waistband of his shorts. his grip is tighter than you'd expect, knuckles turning white, as though he's holding himself back from reaching for you, resisting the urge to pull you in with himâ
"what's. up?" you snarl. "what's up is that it's four in the morning, and you're throwing a fucking rave! what's up is that the walls in this building are made of fucking paper and i have to listen to every fucking thingâ"
the door opens, interrupting you, and oscar steps out slow, hair touch-mussed, white t-shirt sticking translucent-thin to the dip of his collarbone, the sharp hinge of his shoulders. he doesn't say anything at first, standing there too tall, too comfortable, gaze scraping over you so thoroughly you resist the urge to cross your arms over your chest like a petulant child.
(it's surgical, his silence. you swear he's underneath your skin, storing your image for later review. you think about snapping at him to stop staring, but that would be admitting you feel seen when all you wanted was to be heard.)
"everything alright?" oscar finally asks, voice vibrating straight to the bone. you suddenly feel violently unsteady. lando doesnât move, and for a second you forget what you wanted to yell about. (for a second, the entire world goes deathly quiet.)
"no, actually, it's not," you snap. "unless you're about to tell all these people to get the fuck out, nothing is 'alright'."
oscar blinks, arms folding slow across his chest. "didn't think we were that loud."
your scoff is graceless. "you have got to be kidding me."
"i'm not."
"are you seriously telling me you don't hear it?"
"we don't."
"it's fucking loud."
"this could've been a text message," your rage burns so hot you almost hit him. though you doubt it would do much.
"fuck. off."
"gladly," he replies, expression something between surprise and amusement. "you're what's keeping us here."
you wish you had something to say to that. you really do.
but oscar moves, slow, cracking the door just enough to let the party spill out in tidal waves of laughter and thudding bass. thereâs the unmistakable crash of glass shattering hard on tile, the scrape of voices overlapping in drunken crescendos, and the sticky-sweet smell of spilled liquor and landoâs impossibly sharp cologne that drifts under the door and settles right smack in your diaphragm.
lando shifts off balance, and it's watching electricity, the way oscarâs hand slides up without missing a beat, palm coming to rest with such easy certainty against landoâs elbow that it makes something coil tight in your gut. (they fit together, in some secret way you've only just noticed.)
you blink, and the doorframe is suddenly closing on you, an acute end to the conversation. "i'm telling the landlord about this!" you snap, cutting through the lull between songs.
oscar throws a glance over his shoulder, mouth quirking upward. (you'd think he was beautiful, if he wasn't such an ass.) "cry to daddy, baby. go ahead."
you're halfway down the stairs when you realize he called you baby.
âĄ
it only gets worse from there.
you decide to start with mailing lists. harmless, really. except you sign both lando and oscar up for fifteen of them. each.
first, the alcoholism anonymous emails. ("struggling to stay sober? youâre not alone. join our virtual support meeting!") then, the porn addiction group emails. ("battle porn cravings with our scientifically-backed mindfulness exercises!") the spam is worse: "THE SECRET TRUTH BEHIND F1 DRIVERSâ UNBELIEVABLE FITNESS ROUTINEâCLICK TO FIND OUT!"
you think youâve got away with it. nights fall silent, merciful quiet pressing against your eardrums with an unnatural pressure. no thudding footsteps. no blaring music. (no reason to see them again.)
that is, until the magazines.
stacked like a brick wall on your doorstep, tied so sweetly that you let yourself believe, for half a heartbeat, that this is some kind of olive branch. an apology wrapped in glossy, fresh pages, slick covers of... official F1 magazines. (well, high-octane marketing that you donât care about but now absolutely cannot ignore.)
you untie the bow, flipping through the first with impatient flicks of your wrist. thereâs lando firstâturned away from the camera, low, golden light catching his cheekbones and the faint flush blooming just above the dark fabric of his racing suit. then oscar, skin in vivid color, helmet clutched in the space between his elbow and hip.
(you don't stop to excuse the slick heat ruining your best pair of pantiesâa mistake, certainly.)
you almost miss the note scrawled onto the top right of the last page:
pictures of me should help w/the porn addiction. make it worse, i mean. xxx lando
you did not get away with it. you do, however, up your game.
you think youâre clever about it. anonymous shipping. no gift receipt, no note, the billing address a throwaway email you havenât used since college. you order nineteen different protein powdersâwho even needs that many flavors?âto be shipped right to their door. the perfect play.
you track the order, refresh the delivery status twelve times an hour, and choke imagining oscar drinking the the mango sorbet flavor out of politeness and then sending you a legal notice. (very polite of him.)
the package lands at their door right before noon; by dinnertime, youâre yet again positive youâve won. (it's unnerving, the way youâre slightly disappointed.)
it doesn't last long.
at first, you think youâre hallucinating a beat, muffled and persistent, seeping through the walls that night, familiar enough for your shoulders to rise and fall with each measure. it's sweet caroline. playing loud enough to set your bathroom mirror twitching with every bass kick.
you don't mind it for the first ten minutes.
but you go from neutral to rage in the time it takes the chorus to repeat for the ninth time. the song loops, as if trying to drill a singular, awful message through your skull. (you were going to kill them. you debate calling the landlord. animal control. the goddamn police.)
instead, you climb onto your kitchen counter and pound your fist against the vent on the ceiling with as much force as you can muster.
the song only gets louder in response. the second hour of it, you're already planning your next move. by the fourth, you're curled up on the couch with your head planted in between the thick leather cushions, unable to hear yourself think.
by the time sweet caroline finally sputters outâan ugly, abrupt end to an ugly, abrupt punishmentâ youâre asleep, lyrics splintering like a broken record across your eyelids.
your saving grace? boxer briefs. in forest-green, aquamarine, navy blue. two pairs each. the catch? you order the absolute smallest size in stock, the ones that barely look made for humans, let alone someone even slightly well-endowed. you put their address in the shipping box, smirking like you can taste victory. (and god, thatâs enough to make your pulse jack up.)
hope these fit right. from, your neighbor.
it's magnificent until your buzzer goes off the next morning, slicing through your kitchen headache-sharp. you ignore it once, twice, but it doesn't stop, impending doom on your doorstep. (bad omen, bad, bad, bad, your brain suggests, before your hands even reach for the doorknob. this isnât a game anymore.)
when you finally crack the door, the hallway is empty save for a sleek, black box on your doormatâunmarked, glossy, obnoxious in the soft spill of hallway morning light.
your fingers slip on the lid as you hastily carry it inside, paper brushing against your skin like a tease.
a bra. delicate, impossible, nearly see-through. italian lace, if the quality was any indication. baby-pink embroidery, scalloped cups heavy with hand-stitched rosettesâyou trace a strap with your fingertip, just to prove it's real. matching panties underneath, same pale pink, nothing left to the imagination except the price tag (obscene, you notice, and in euros, which honestly makes it worse).
the cardâs slipped under the elastic, scrawled in a neat hand you recognize now.
hope these fit right, baby. â o.p.
oscar piastri just sent you lingerie. i see you, it said. come here and see me.
âĄ
they simply don't let up.
the parties multiply. a glitter bomb ends up from in their vent to yours (lando's idea, clearly). oscar smiles, polite as ever, when you mention his new underwear. somewhere, in the midst of rubber-banding their junk mail and replacing their tequila with water, you crack. (because it's valentine's day, and it's been two and a half months of their bullshit, and you're feeling especially, violently, completely single.)
you pick a dress (short). you wear a pair of heels that's been collecting dust since last june. you're halfway out the door (shallow breath, prickling nerves for a stranger) when you see it.
the black box. perched dead-center on your dresser. mocking you in the low lamp light, like it knows youâre full of shit.
you ignore it to fix the strap on your shoe, but your eyes dart back, magnetic as a car crash. god, itâs just underwear. (itâs lingerie. it's gorgeous. it's his. for you, for you, for you.)
you groan. turn away. then turn back. meander over to the dresser. (fuck it.) you snap the band off, peel back tissueâcursing under your breath when you almost tear it. the lace is softer than you remember as you slip it on underneath your dress, light as air. skin-like in all the right places.
you stare at yourself in the mirror, playing with the neckline of the dress. (low. too low. not low enough. you want everyone to see. you want to curl up and die.) you roll your eyes at your reflectionâhope these fit right, baby, you can hear oscar saying. my pretty baby.
(nope. nope. nope. not doing this right now.)
the hallwayâs already buzzing with weekend chatter as you lock your door behind you, pressing the elevator button at the end of the corridor with a breath that burns. (this is not about them. it isnât. itâs about needing something easy. a drink, a stranger, the pleasure of knowing you could want and be wanted and go home alone. or not.)
the elevator dings, and you catch his reflection in the mirrored panel inside before your own.
oscar.
(don't look at him. don't look at him. don't look at him.) you catch the flick of his eyes bouncing back and forth in your periphery as the doors closeâimpassive, as if he's categorizing groceries on a shelf beside you. the floors blink down to your leftâthirteen, twelve, ten, eight, six, four, two, oneâ
oscar slams the bright red 'emergency stop', jolting you both forward.
you blink. "oscar. what the fuck."
"don't go."
"iâwhat?"
"don't. go."
your laugh is brittle, barely-concealed offense. "i have a date."
his mouth sets as you stare at him, ironed-out lines of soft skin. not angry. not anything. "today?" (he still won't look at you.)
"yes, today," you snap. "obviously."
the silence is full, thick and sour. "it's cold out," is all he says. "you don't have a coat."
that stops you for half a second. thenâanger, hot and immediate, renders you nearly non-verbal. who the fuck are you to tell me what i have and don't have? you want to yell. who the fuck are you to tell me what i need?
"i don't need a coat," is what comes out. "let me out. godâ"
you move for the door, and he steps into your path, not close enough to touch, just... there. close enough to hold your gaze. close enough to catch the hitch in your breath. (come closer, go farther, go away, be here, do nothing, oh, god.)
"don't," he murmurs, and something rotten twists in your chest. "trust me."
"you'reâ" you inhale, schooling your tone. "you're a real piece of shit."
his expression goes blank. not annoyed. not offended. (flat, you realize.) he reaches past you and presses the emergency stop again, and the elevator sinks to the first floor, a clean dismissal.
you take two steps out then turn on your heels, ready to give him the final piece of your mind, to say something razor-blade sharp and stinging, something to pretend you didn't care what he thought of you, that you've never cared what he thought of youâ
when you catch your reflection in the mirrored panel. and with it, the pink lace of your bra beneath the neckline of your dress. (visible. obvious. his gift, on you, like you wanted him to look.)
but he doesn't spare you a glance as the doors slide shut.
oh.
âĄ
valentine's day comes and goes.
so do your neighbors.
mid-february hits hard and fast, and suddenly the apartment above yours is dark more often than not. no music bleeding through the vents at all hours of the night. no laughter and clinking beer bottles ricocheting down the stairwell. their door stays shut for weeks. their lights stay off so long you wonder if they've moved.
you tell yourself itâs a blessing. a needed vacancy.
(it should be.)
you sleep through the night for the first time in weeks, sans noise-cancelling earbuds and white-noise apps. your mornings are quieter (and you definitely don't spend minutes each morning staring at the vent above your kitchen counter wondering when you'll hear something again). the building settles back into something resembling... normal.
you donât get any mail that isnât yours. (which should be a good thing.)
you stop checking the hallway camera on your way home from work. you stop planning your next move at odd hours of the night. (which should be a relief, shouldn't it?)
you catch yourself pausing in the kitchen when a door slams somewhere down the hall, waiting for the tell-tale pair of footsteps, a chance to catch them in the act, to stop holding your breath. but nothing happens.
(you open and re-open the black box nearly a hundred times. you wake up at 3:30 in the morning with your heart in your throat. they're training, you tell yourself. this is their job. you wanted this, you wanted this, you wanted this.)
nothing happens. then everything happens.
1:37 am. monday. keys scrape on the floor above you. a door slams. suitcase wheels stutter across tile, thunk-whine, thunk-whine, the rhythm unmistakable and unwelcome. (welcome home.) you freeze, heart a tight fist in your ribs; irritation hits first. of course they couldnât be gone for good, they were back to disturb your peace, wreck your life, make you miserable.
then relief. sour, thick, slamming through you. you listen to the subdued laughter stuffed behind walls, and you stay stubbornly in bed, staring at the patch of light bleeding under your door from the hallway. (nope. not going. wonât give them the satisfaction.)
but the pattern returns.
at first, itâs subtle: a stray beat of music, dull and far, seeping through the drywall late tuesday. a clatter of glass bottles. laughterâtwo, maybe three voices, never more, but always too loud, always right above where your head hits the pillow. you clamber around at midnight searching for your noise-cancelling earbuds, falling asleep to remixes of god-awful pop songs.
but lando and oscar were never subtle.
friday night brings bass so heavy the lamp rattles on your nightstand, voices crashing over each other in slurred crescendo, liquor and something else headier threading the air. and god, you try to be angry. you roll onto your back, curse loud and colorfully at the ceiling. practice the way you'd uppercut both of them if given the opportunity. realize you wouldn't do half the damage you wanted to.
(you'll never admit that you missed the reason to go storming up there.)
you throw back the sheets, pad across the hallway past the elevator, up the echoing stairwell, and the closer you get, the louder it is. you can feel the bass in your teeth, in your collarbones, rattling up through the soles of your feet to your thighs. that familiar flush of nerves, rage rising. (or maybe just excitement. youâll never admit the difference.)
lando somehow opens the door before you knockânot shirtless, not wasted, just standing there in one of his old karting shirts, collar loose, curls still slightly damp from a midnight shower, eyes much too focused on you. he leans against the doorframe, mouth tilting (never quite a smile). "are yâlost again?"
your jaw sets, resisting the pull of his mouth, the dare in his voice. "youâre throwing another rave."
"could say that," he shrugs, glancing over your shoulder. "missed us?"
"no." (maybe? yes?)
"wanna join?"
you hesitate for a beat too long. "no."
his gaze flickers, obvious. "suit y'rself, then."
the music thrashes through your bones, inside louder than ever, laughter ricocheting from wall to wall. youâre about to turn, to tell him to shut it down, to tell him anything else so he won't leaveâwhen from the living room, clear and bored as anything:
"let her in, lan." (oh, oscar.)
lando shrugs, steps aside. "y'heard him."
you step in, ignoring the heat behind your cheeks, the flush crawling up your neck at the smoke and sugar and sweat and something warm swirling in the air, oscar leaning against the living room window, arms folded, face unreadable in the garish light. a handful of people you don't know gathered around the kitchen counter, backs pressed to the island, yelling over the music, laughing at jokes you don't understand.
oscar doesn't look at you when he cuts the speakers. "party's over."
lando's brows shoot up, half-delighted, half-annoyed. "bit early, mate," he murmurs, but he doesnât look surprisedâthat, more than anything, flips your stomach inside out.
oscar's gaze flicks up, across the room, over you, past you, then: "everyone out. now."
lando shepherds the crowd, clapping everyone on the back ("rain check, see y'next time"), dragging footsteps and half-mumbled complaints crossing the threshold, the scrape of coats off hooks, the last pair of heels clacking across the floor. the energy empties out in a seismic wave, and, more suddenly than it feels, it is silent.
the door clicks shut.
lando is standing behind youâclose enough that you feel his breath ghosting the back of your neck, more threat than comfort. you donât move. (wonât give either of them the satisfaction.)
you scoff, voice dry: âi thought that would take a lot more work.â
oscar is already watching you, eyes shadowed against the harsh overhead light. "how was your date?"
(fuck.)
you dig your nails into your palm. "itâfine. it was fine."
lando makes a low, amused sound, somewhere between a snort and a sigh that curls against the curve of your spine. you resist the urge to shiver. "tha's convincing," he chimes in.
"it's true," you snap, turning your head over your shoulder, and that was a mistake, because your breath catches in your throat the second your eyes meet landoâs. his gaze flickers, brows a touch raised, a challenge, a dare, a promise. (come here and see me. come here and see. come here.)
then, his breath just barely brushing your ear, he murmurs, "yâwanna go home?"
your heart stalls. because you should go home. you really should.
lando nudges again, quieter still. just for the two of you. "y'wanna stay?"
and you're not sure if you say yes, or you nod, but lando's mouth finds yours, an explosion of mint-chased cigarettes, and sloppy want, and when he chuckles, you feel the vibration of the shattered sound echo down your spine.
he's dragging your bottom lip between his teeth like he knows you wanted it (needed it), a thin line of spit stretching between his mouth and yours; heat burns your cheeks as his tongue darts out, licks the strand away, the corners of his eyes crinkling with that infuriating too-wide grin.
you've barely caught your breath when there's a hand curling around your stomach to spin you aroundâoscar. he's got one palm at the base of your spine, and the other anchoring itself at the hinge of landoâs jaw. his thumb traces slow over the mess you made, catching that slick string at the corner of landoâs mouth (cleaning up after you, messy girl, look at what you did).
lando's lashes flutter, running a full-body shudder, and you feel it where his hip is pressed to yours, everywhere youâre tangled together. (you feel it in your goddamn bones.)
oscar's hand slips south just as he kisses lando, almost gentle, except for the way it's not, except for the way watching their mouths share the same breath of air cracks something open deep in your stomach. lando's hands fist in oscar's shirt the same way they had in your hair, wounded need youâve never seen from himânot on tv, not at the door, not even when he kissed you.
it's reserved for oscar. you understand that now.
you donât realize youâre staring until oscar breaks the kiss with a soft, low soundâmore an exhale than anything elseâand shifts to press his mouth to yours.
not hard. not rushed. not sloppy, not hungry. purposeful, controlled. you hate him for it.
heâs correcting the angle, you realize. molding you soft, like you kissed lando all wrong and heâs showing you how it should be, what you should do. the hand at your back tightens, pulling you flush to his chest; the other lingers on landoâs jaw, thumb stroking absent circles there (to kiss both of you at once).
(and you don't hear lando whineâyou feel it.)
oscar pulls back just enough for you to see itâthe faint shine on his mouth from kissing lando first. it glistens when he drags his thumb across your lower lip, smearing the mix of you and him and lando into something you shouldnât want but do.
and you're getting ready to tell him off for it, but lando's mouth is on you, hot at the column of your throat, two months of restraint branded into a blind, hungry path for skin. (the blind leading the blind, you don't have any more control than he doesâ)
"easy, mate," oscar warns angling your face toward the wall with a kiss to your jaw, your cheek. "you'll spook her."
lando's exhale punches straight through your stomach. "s-sorry," he says, but he doesn't mean it. (he's been starved off of praise for years, and, fuck, this is what he looks like waiting for someone to give it to him.) his teeth scrape your pulse, forcing a breathy sound of surprise out of you before you can swallow it down. both his hands are franticâone fisting the fabric at your hip, the other tugging, tugging, tugging until the hem of your sleep shirt slips off your shoulder and pools at the crook of your arm.
(all of a sudden he's higher, fingers grazing the curve of your chest.)
he goes still.
"pretty," lando whispers, the words slurred with want, and you're not exactly sure who he's talking to. he noses at the exposed skin, kissing the skin like heâs thanking it. (thank you, thank you, thank you.) "c-can i take it off?" (he's talking to oscar. about undressing you. like you're not even there.)
oscar steals whatever sound was about to leave you, fondness in the lick he gives your upper row of teeth. it's predatory, but you want it, and you would feel ashamed if you could feel anything at all. "she doesn't seem to mind." he taps the side of your cheek as your eyes roll back, heat lining your cheekbones. "right?"
you barely get out a nod as lando's mouth trails lower, lips closing around the top swell of your breast as he's pulling your shirt down, down, downâ"ohâ"
oscar's breath brushes your ear when his hand clamps over lando's, halting the motion. (oh, you hate him now, the absolute piece of shit, making you wait, starving you of something he so evidently wants.) "let her take this off." he puppeteers lando's hand where it grips the hem of your shirt. "by the window."
your pulse trips. "theâwindow?"
both men go still, watching you. assessing. your gaze slams against lando's, his pupils blown black in the half-light, but he doesnât say a word. he just waits, knuckles white on your hip. (because that's what he does for oscar. waits.)
oscarâs thumb drags slow over your cheek, and you realize you've been quiet for too long. "you heard me. go on."
you want to tell him to fuck off, or at least to pull the blinds, but landoâs teeth are ghosting your skin, and youâre suddenly, unreasonably hot all over. the windowâs only a few steps away, but it might as well be miles with your shaky stance. you catch the streetlights flickering beyond, the golden spill of someone elseâs kitchen window. it's too early in the morning to catch passerbyes on the street, but the impossibility dwindles.
you half-turn, glancing over your shoulder. oscarâs watching you with that unreadable look from the elevator, a hand lingering alongside lando's hip. you donât know who you want to impress more. (danger, danger, danger, danger.)
you're curling your fingers under the hem of your shirt when oscar's voice lilts through the room.
"aren't you going to open the window?"
(you're going to kill him.) "oscar."
"yes."
you roll your eyesâtry for defiance, but your hands are trembling. "it'sâsomeone could see me."
"so?"
you suddenly find yourself unequipped to handle the english language. "so it'sâwrong. and... dirty. and iâ"
"âam both of those things." oscar finishes for you, and something hot curls low in your stomach. he nods to where your palm traces over the soft skin of your navel absently, a flash of electricity sparking in his tone. "finish what you started, baby."
"what i started?" you're surprised you've got the breath to spit the words out. still, you reach forward to unlatch the window, beginning to drag the fabric of your shirt over your head, slow enough for them to see, for the world to see, if they cared to look. the air bites at every inch of bare skin you reveal. "y-you put glitter bombs in my vent. and you sent me lingerie."
"which you wore," comes lando's voice as you drop your shirt to the floor. you hear the scrape of his breath catching behind you as you shiver dutifully in the cold february air, nipples pebbling almost immediately under the gaze of the world turning, the pairs of eyes staring fire into your spine.
"only becauseâ" you start to defend, but oscar interrupts, clicking his tongue.
"if you want to talk," he says, barely louder than the wind rattling the glass, "do it while taking off the rest."
you don't talk. but you do keep your eyes pointedly on the window latch, fingers fumbling at the waistband of your shorts.
"go slow" oscar murmurs as you rush, and you hate him for how gentle it sounds. how soft he's being with you. "make it pretty."
your face burns as you peel your shorts down, the fabric catching on your thighs, your underwear following behind it. you kick them away, bare feet against the cold floor, the chill biting up your legs, nowhere left to hide. the february air kisses between your legs, sharp and mean. (oh, that feels nice, doesn't it?)
oscar steps closer, his body a shadow at your back. "look," he says, voice honey-thick and terrible. "how many people can you see?"
you blink, eyes adjusting to the street below. it's a blur of streetlights and shifting shapes, the occasional glimmer of movement. at first, you want to lieâsay no one, say itâs emptyâbut thereâs laughter echoing up from the sidewalk, the far-off clatter of heels on wet pavement. you squint, heart pounding.
"n-none," you stammer, but it comes out pathetic.
oscar laughs, low and knowing. "look harder."
landoâs hand ghosts over your hip when your hands twitch by your sides. you swallow. thereâs a group spilling out of a taxi, a pair of friends weaving home, someone lighting a cigarette under the yellow haze of a street lamp. oscarâs hand comes to rest at the center of your chest, over your heart, fingers splayed. "how many?" he asks again, mouth at your temple. "how many people could look up and see you right now?"
(honesty burns.) "seven. orâeight."
"fuck," is lando's exhale, palm sliding higher, stomach to sternum, flicking over your peaked nipples. when did they get so close? where did they begin and you end?
"imagine if they looked up," oscar continues, lips brushing your ear. you barely hear him over the sound of your heart. "imagine if they saw you. what would they think, hmm?"
your knees nearly give out. you press your palms to the cold window, the city yawning open below, the air biting at your skin. you bite down on a breath, but it doesn't matter. landoâs hands have found your waist, lips dragging desperate down your shoulder. but then he sinks lower. and lower, and suddenly he's slinking a hand in between your thighs, spreading your legs. (he's on his knees in front of you and staring at your pussy like he wants to pray to it, and oh, god, he better do something about it soon.)
you must jolt forward into lando's hand, because oscar punches out a breath.
"dirty," he grits out, and you can feel the hard press of him behind you, the slow grind of denim against naked skin. "dirty fucking girl." and oh, his thumb reaches through to push ever so slightly at the entrance there, circling the slick gathered from the show you put on. "ever take it back here before?"
shame tangles in your throat. "n-no," you answer honestly, and lando's resounding moan vibrates through your lower half. "guys tried. in the past. but i-i'd let you." (you're saying just about anything to get either of them to do something, aren't you?)
oscar hums, rocking his hips up against you, just once. you nearly choke. "bet youâd let me do it right fucking now, wouldnât you?"
"yes," lando responds for you, and you're keenly aware of the way he's tonguing at the inside of your thigh, hot and desperate.
oscar's mouth meets your throat, and you stretch backward, hand stuttering into lando's hair. "would you? hmm?" his palm slides up your spine, curling at the back of your neck. "right here, where anyone could see you? would you let me justâ" he pauses, and you hear his belt buckle clink. "âfuck your tight litâ?"
it's lando who doesnât let him finish.
he moves forward, mouth catching on your cunt, and the noise that rips out of you is nothing short of obsceneâhalf-moan, half-curse, all deep, dark hunger. your forehead hits the cold glass, breath fogging up the view, and you know if anyone looked up theyâd see fucking everything, and humiliation courses through your blood.
lando leans his tongue flat, like heâs been waiting his whole life just to taste you, hands digging bruises into your hips, keeping you spread open for him, for oscar, for anyone who might be watching.
"there we go," oscar mutters, prideful. he leans in, mouth hot at your ear, hand sliding down, down, down, until his thumb is sliding through the slick mess landoâs making of you, pressing down, not enough to penetrate but just enough to feel your natural resistance give.
"oscâlandoâ" you gasp when the latter's hands lock around your hips, grinding your body across his open mouth, and you damn near break the window with how hard your hand slams against it.
oscarâs thumb drags lower, circling, teasing, and thenâfuckâthereâs a second finger joining the first, slick and slow and stretching you open. itâs too much and not enough, and he's not giving you any time to recover, but god, youâre already so close you can taste it. lando groans, tongue somehow dipping inside of you, and youâre a mess down his chin but you know he wants it just as much as you do.
"jesusây'hear that, baby?" oscar murmurs, clearly pleased, and only then does it occur to you how wet you actually are. you lock up, every muscle straining, right there, so closeâ
and then he pulls out.
you sob, hips jerking forward, and then you're coming around nothing, white light behind your eyes, knees stuttering against lando's shoulders as he suckles your clit into his mouth then releases it with a slow slip of his tongue, forehead drooping against your thigh. (you're opening your mouth to thank him when he kisses your hip, and you realize he already knows.)
"fuck you," you choke out, hands scrabbling for purchase. "fuck you to hell and fucking backâ"
oscar's two steps ahead of you. one second he's lining up, and the next the blunt head of his cock slides easy, too easy, through the mess between your cheeks, hot and heavy, pressed right where youâre aching for it, contracting around nothing.
you shiver when he kisses the back of your neck, smoothing the sweaty hair at your nape. you expect him to scold you, to say something mean back as he gathers your slick in his palm and covers his cock with it. but no.
"perfect girl, sweet girl, fucking takin' it so good, fight me if you want me to stop, put up a fight, prettyâ"
and then he's splitting you open so slowly you fold over, hands braced on lando's shoulders.
you squeeze your eyes shut as oscar punches out a choked breath ("tight fuckin' fitâ"), a painfully sharp shot of electricity going up your spine. you've barely got your eyes open before you're keening, nails dug deep into the crevices of lando's broad collar. and god, isn't the man himself a sight, jaw slack, cheeks cherry-red, fumbling with the waistband of his sweats.
he shoves them down his thighs just enough to free his cockâflushed dark, leaking in his fist. he doesnât even bother getting up, just sits back on his heels, hand working himself in time with the way oscarâs fucking you open. his hand tightens when you watch the flush creep up his chest, the way his stomach twitches when you moan.
(he likes the attention just as much as you do.)
oscar's breathing words into your neck, his voice deep, strangled brass, and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing. "did you miss us? hmm?" (nod.) "gonna let me fuck you like this all the time?" (nod.) "gonna let lando have a turn?" (nod, nod.)
lando whimpers like he can imagine it already, and you feel the sound like a live wire between your legs. you reach for him blindly, fingers tangling in his hair, dragging him up, and he goes willingly, cock still in his hand, mouth sealing over yours in a mess of tears and spit.
you kiss him the way oscar taught youâslow, controlled, all tongue and filthy want, and you taste yourself lingering in his mouth, slick and sharp and obscene. lando groans into it, hips rutting into his own fist.
"ohâ" he breathes, breaking away to pant against your jaw, "god, 'm gonna comeâ"
oscar shifts behind you and you yelp, breaking the kiss as he angles your back, pressing your shoulder blades so you lean down, chest nearly touching lando's. his hips are already high into his hand, cock throbbing within reach, and oscar thrusts so deep you see stars as he grits out, "put your mouth on him."
(you almost want to say no. just to see what he'd do. but there's a shine in lando's eyes, oh, god, he's crying for youâ)
your lips close around the tip just as his hips shudder up, unintentionally fucking your mouth. his hands fly to your hair, a half-syllable of your name leaving his lips as you close your lips tighter, a soft, possessive kiss in the swirl of your tongue. you barely get any warning before he's going ramrod straight, babbling, "shit, âm gonnaâ" and tumbling off the edge, release flooding your mouth.
you don't swallow. not immediately. not until oscar pulls you upright, presses you flush to his chest, and draws the hinge of your mouth open. "swallow," he says after what feels like hours, and you do, and he's kissing you, and oh, god you've never tasted anything better.
there's an ache in your navel, a desperate, sweet torment that buckles your knees and slackens your spine, and every single nerve ending sings when oscar's hand loops forward, fingers ghosting over your clit, a touch so light it shouldâve been too much. it would have been too much, had his cock not sunk in just that inch deeper, had it not been exactly what you needed.
"fuck, 'm gonnaâwaitâoscâ" your eyes roll back, because oh, god, you're going to come, and you can't believe you didn't do this that very first night, you can't believe you let so many months go by without knowing how shallow oscar's thrusts get when he's about to come, how he breathes your name into your spine and hunches forward as warmth splatters along your skin.
(you can't believe you went so long not knowing how it feels to come around his cock.)
you barely catch your breath before landoâs hands meet your hips, strong and sure and steady, catching your weight as you fold forward toward the open window.
oscar pulls out slow, and you wince as he eases away the discomfort, hands moving to the small of your back to trace the warmth of his release there.
"we're not done," he murmurs, enchanted with the way you arch up. "not by a long shot."
âĄ
note: I NEED HOLY WATER OMG. đ you all are INCREDIBLE i know this is longer than most of my works but i hope it serves as something new from me!! once again i apologize for my extended absencesâi should have a lil something else coming soon!! LOVE FROM GRACIE!!
âMaybe Iâm full of surprises, Norris.â âOh, you definitely are.â âŠ.. ACROSS THE COURT. coming on 2nd of JANUARY; friday. official moodboard.
